Read Online Privileged to Kill by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online

his chest on his hands. “I stopped for a few days…it was three days…at Thomas Lawton’s place east of Button, Utah. Lawton’s Wagon Works, is what he calls it. He makes all kinds of wagons. Repairs old ones. That sort of thing.”
    “What did you do for him?”
    “He was building a new corral. He said his tractor was broke down and so he couldn’t use the posthole digger. I dug holes.” Crocker smiled and held up his right hand, pointing to the remains of what might have been a blister under his ring finger joint.
    “For three days?”
    “Well, we did a lot of talking, ma’am. He knows about all there is to know about old wagons, and I had lots of questions. It’s fascinating.”
    “When was the last time you talked with your sister?”
    A flicker of regret stabbed across his rough features. “I told you about her? I know I gave her name to that young officer.”
    “You told us you had a sister in Anaheim.”
    He nodded. “I don’t call her much. Me and her don’t see eye to eye on most things. I tell her that yes, maybe someday I’d like to settle in one spot, maybe have my own post office box number.” He grinned. “That always makes her mad. You talk to her and you’ll see what I mean.” He traced the grain of the table with a stubby fingernail. “I like to keep a journal of things. Places I’ve been, folks I’ve met. I write down just about everything and then I send it all to her. I’ve asked her to keep my records for me. Someday, maybe, I’d kind of like to see them all together.” He smiled again. “See what all those years and all those miles look like in one place.”
    “So she has this diary of yours?” I asked.
    “Yes, sir. At least I asked her to keep it. She said she would. You can read that and see just exactly where I’ve been, and who I’ve seen over the years.” The silence returned, and after a moment Crocker added, “And that’s why it’s so stupid, that fib I told you. You want to know about me, you just read that journal.”
    “We’ll do that.”
    “I gave that young police officer my sister’s name and address.”
    I nodded.
    “Do you have any police record, Mr. Crocker?” Estelle asked. It wouldn’t take long for the National Crime Information Center to spit out whatever it had on Wesley Crocker, but it was always interesting to hear a person’s own version of scrapes with the law.
    “No, ma’am. Never.”
    “If we ask you to stay available for a few days, do you have somewhere to stay? Other than the park or the football field?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Mr. Crocker,” I said, “you understand that you may be an important witness to events that happened last night?” He nodded. “The county will pay for a room at the MotorCourt Inn over by the interstate interchange. We’d like you to stay there.”
    Crocker waved a hand. “No need to spend that kind of money. My little room down the hall here is just fine.” He grinned. “You might leave the door ajar. That would make it a bit more homey.”
    “We really can’t do that,” I started to say, thinking of the myriad reasons why the sheriff’s department couldn’t become a civilian R. V. park. Estelle stood up.
    “Call it protective custody,” she said. “It might be better if he stays here. We don’t know who else saw him at the football field.”
    Wesley Crocker looked skeptical. “Oh, now, there isn’t anyone who’d care much about me,” he said.
    “You have too much faith in your fellow man,” I muttered.
    “Yes, sir. But I don’t mean to be any trouble.”
    “I’m sure,” I said.
    “You’re thinking of assigning Pasquale to him?” Estelle said, but it was one of those rare occasions when she hadn’t read my mind correctly.
    “No,” I said. “I’ve got other plans for Officer Pasquale.”

8
    Button, Utah, was a tiny place along the banks of the Dirty Devil River. I had never been there and didn’t plan to go, but I pictured half a dozen buildings languishing in