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MAJOR DWIGHT BRYANT— WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, DECEMBER 24
Hope you know what you’re doing, Bryant,” said chief district court judge F. Roger Longmire when he signed the search warrant fifteen minutes later. “His daddy’s got a lot of influence up in that end of the county.”
“I know,” Dwight said. In addition to Richards and Denning, he had pulled McLamb off his search for more Wentworth enemies and radioed a couple of patrol cars to rendezvous with them a mile from the Johnson home.
“Maybe I’ll ride along with you,” said Sheriff Poole when Dwight briefed him on the situation. “If it goes down like you think, I’ll bring him back to Dobbs, see he gets his lawyer, and you can just go on home to Deborah and your boy.”
Bo almost never talked about his late wife, but something in his voice told Dwight that he still missed Marnie pretty badly and that Christmas was making it worse.
“Why don’t you come have Christmas with us at Mr. Kezzie’s tomorrow?” he said as they neared Cotton Grove. “You know there’s always room for another pair of legs under his table.”
“Aw now, I couldn’t do that,” Bo said. “Could I?”
“Sure you can. You just have to promise not to ask what the fruitcake’s been aged in.”
The sheriff chuckled. “Well, if you’re sure…?”
“I’m sure. Bring along your banjo, though. With the Knotts, you have to sing for your supper.”
When the small cavalcade of official vehicles pulled into the circular drive, Malcolm Johnson was outside on this mild winter day with a pair of branch loppers, cutting out some broken limbs from the dogwoods scattered across the front. Twigs and branches were piled in his garden cart. The middle garage door was up and they could see a white late-model Toyota inside.
“What’s happening, Dwight?” he called when his old teammate stepped down from his truck and Denning moved toward the garage with his video camera. Upon seeing the smaller man who emerged from the other side of the truck, he frowned. “Sheriff Poole?”
Although he and Dwight were the same age, Johnson’s hair had a little more gray and his Carolina sweatshirt and black chinos hung loosely on his tall frame as if he had recently lost weight.
“Sorry to do this, Malcolm,” Dwight said, “but we have a warrant to search your premises for a handgun. Also to impound your car if it has a dent on the left rear fender.”
“My gun?”
“The thirty-two you bought eight years ago.”
“Malcolm?” Sarah Johnson had appeared in the front doorway and looked out at them with troubled eyes.
“It’s okay, honey. Stay there.”
But she stepped out onto the porch. “Dwight? What’s going on?”
“Sarah, please,” Malcolm said, his voice anguished.
“Is it about Mallory? Did you find out who spiked her Coke?”
“I’m sorry,” Dwight said again. “We’re not here about that, Sarah. We’re here to get Malcolm’s gun.”
“His gun? But why?” She turned to her husband. “Malcolm, why do they want your gun?”
He held out his arm to her, but when she kept her distance, he dropped it as if in surrender.
“They think I shot the guys that killed Mallory. That is why y’all’re here, right, Dwight? You want to see if the bullets you found in those bastards came from my gun? Well, so what? They got what they deserved and—”
“Now hold on here a minute,” said the sheriff, stepping forward and waving his hand to silence Malcolm Johnson. “We’ve not asked you any questions and you might want to stop right there, son, and think if you want your lawyer here before you say anything else.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Sheriff. Sarah, honey, go call Pete Taylor and tell him—” He glanced at Dwight and Bo. “I guess I ought to tell him to meet us at the jail?”
Bo nodded.
“Better call my dad, too.”
“For God’s sake, Malcolm! What have you done?”
“Don’t worry about it, Sarah. Everything’s going to be all right. Just go call Pete and Dad, okay?”
Pale-faced, she went inside to do as he’d asked.
When she was gone, Johnson turned to them with urgency. “Please. This is going to be rough on her, coming on top of Mallory and all this mess with Charlie. Try not to upset her any more than you have to, okay? There’s no need to tear our house apart. The gun’s upstairs in our bedroom, in the nightstand on the left side of the bed.”
Dwight nodded to Richards, and as she entered the house, Denning walked up the drive from the garage. “There’s a scrape mark in the right place, Major, and it looks like the Higgins car left a little silver paint on that fender.”
Malcolm Johnson heard those words as if it were nothing to do with him. Well, the man did sell insurance, thought Dwight. He must have calculated the odds already. A father temporarily deranged by grief? Who guns down the men who probably were responsible for his daughter’s death? With all the evidence they had—and they would no doubt find more before it came to trial—a jury would have to find him guilty, but his attorney would have argued
