‘The murders stopped for two years,’ Johnny said. ‘Where was Frank Dodd then? Was he in town?’
Bannerman turned toward him, and now the tired amusement had left his face and he only looked hard. Hard and angry. ‘I don’t want to hear any more about this. You were
right the first time – you’re nothing but a fake. Well, you got your press coverage, but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to you malign a good officer, a man
I…
‘A man you think of as your son,’ Johnny said quietly. Bannerman’s lips thinned, and a lot of the color that had risen in his cheeks during their time outside now faded out of his face. He looked like a man who has been punched low. Then it passed and his face was expressionless.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. ‘Get one of your reporter friends to give you a ride home. You can hold a press conference on your way. But I swear to God, I swear to holy God that if you mention Frank Dodd’s name, I’ll come for you and I’ll break your back. Understood?’
‘Sure, my buddies from the press!’ Johnny shouted at him suddenly. ‘That’s right! Didn’t you see me answering all their questions? Posing for their pictures and making sure they got my good side?. Making sure they spelled my name right?’
Bannerman looked startled, then hard again. ‘Lower your voice.’
‘No, I’ll be goddamned if I will!’ Johnny said, and his voice rose even higher in pitch and volume. ‘I think you forgot who called who! I’ll refresh your recollection for you. It was you, calling me. That’s how eager I was to get over here!’
‘That doesn’t mean you…..
Johnny walked over to Bannerman, pointing his index finger like a pistol. He was several inches shorter and probably eighty pounds lighter, but Bannerman backed up a step – as he had done on the common. Johnny’s cheeks had flushed a dull red. His lips were drawn back slightly from his teeth.
‘No, you’re right, you calling me doesn’t mean shit in a tin bucket,’ he said. ‘But you don’t want it to be Dodd, do you? It can be somebody else, then we’ll at least look into it, but it can’t be good old Frank Dodd. Because Frank’s upstanding, Frank takes care of his mother, Frank looks up to good old Sheriff George Bannerman, oh, Frank’s bloody Christ down from the cross except when he’s raping and strangling old ladies and little girls, and it could have been your daughter, Bannerman, don’t you understand it could have been your own
Bannerman hit him. At the last moment he pulled the punch, but it was still hard enough to knock Johnny backward; he stumbled over the leg of a chair and then sprawled on the floor. Blood trickled from his cheek where Bannerman’s Police Academy ring had grazed him.
‘You had that coming,’ Bannerman said, but there was no real conviction in his voice. It occurred to him that for the first time in his life he had hit a cripple – or the next thing to a cripple.
Johnny’s head felt light and full of bells. His voice seemed to belong to someone else, a radio announcer or a B-movie actor. ‘You ought to get down on your knees and thank God that he really didn’t leave any clues, because you would have overlooked them, feeling like you do about Dodd. And then you could have held yourself responsible in Mary Kate Hendrasen’s death, as an accessory.
‘That is nothing but a damnable lie,’ Bannerman said slowly and clearly. ‘I’d arrest my own brother if he was the guy doing this. Get up off the floor. I’m sorry I hit you.
He helped Johnny to his feet and looked at the scrape on his cheek.
‘I’ll get the first-aid kit and put some iodine on that.’
‘Forget it,’ Johnny said. The anger had left his voice. ‘I guess I kind of sprang it on you, didn’t I?’
‘I’m telling you, it can’t be Frank. You’re not a publicity hound, okay. I was wrong about that. Heat of the moment, okay? But your vibes or your astral plane or whatever it is sure gave you a bum steer this time.’