The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 by Craig Johnson Page B

the movies always get their man; you real cops must be falling down on the job.” He lowered the photographs, and I noticed Vonnie made no effort to look at them.
    “Personally, I never miss an episode of Dragnet .”
    She cocked her head, and the eyes narrowed. “It seems like a lot. It was Sheriff Connally here before you, wasn’t it?” She grinned and looked off toward the front door.
    “You know Lucian?”
    “Oh, I had a few run-ins with him back in my bad old days.” She laughed, flashing that canine tooth that sparkled like a Pepsodent commercial. “Some of my posse and I had absconded with a fifth of my father’s Irish whiskey and high-tailed it to the Skyline Drive-In in Durant.”
    Henry perked up. “I think I heard about that. Didn’t you and Susan Miller dance naked on the hood of that ’65 Mustang during Doctor Zhivago ?”
    She was turning just a little pink at the throat. “I was of a young and impressionable age.”
    “Hell, I would have been impressed too.” He stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and handed them to me. “Good luck.”
    Her smile went away. “You don’t think it was an accident?”
    “Not really.” Henry crossed behind me and opened the refrigerator door to pull out a pitcher I had never seen before, filled with a murky maroon liquid, ice cubes, and lemon and orange slices. I sat the envelope down on the counter and stared at it. “I’m hoping real hard that it is, but evidence is mounting that such is not the case.”
    “Why?”
    “Short-range weapon did the deed, no way you could sneak up on somebody out there. I’d hazard to guess that there aren’t many hunters looking to shoot pronghorn or mule deer with a 12 gauge. And there are some things that just don’t make sense.”
    He stirred the contents of the pitcher. “Powder burns.”
    She was following, but I figured I should explain the details. “When you shoot a shotgun at any range . . .” I paused and weighed the next question. “You know what a shotgun is?”
    Her eyes stayed steady to show no offense. “My father used to shoot skeet.”
    “Right. Well, this is looking like a rifled slug.”
    “Slug. Doesn’t sound pleasant.”
    “It’s not. Slugs basically convert shotguns into oversize rifles with enough power to crack automobile engine blocks.”
    “Why would somebody want to shoot somebody with something like that?”
    “Emphasis.”
    It rumbled in his chest, and I wondered about all the people who would consider it a good thing that the world was shed of Cody Pritchard. “Cody wasn’t exactly beloved by the . . .” I gave him a sidelong glance. “Indian community.”
    She placed a hand on the counter to get his attention. “It’s not Indian anymore, it’s Native American. Right, Bear?” She nodded for confirmation.
    He looked up and pursed his lips sagely. “That is right.” He turned his head toward me ever so slightly. “You must learn to be more responsive to Native American sensibilities.”
    Bastard. “The problem is the slug decreases the range of an already relatively short-range weapon.”
    “But wasn’t he shot in the back?”
    “Yep, but you’d still have to get close.”
    “Could he have been drunk or asleep?”
    “Drunk, certainly.” Henry wandered over to look at the blobs moving in the television. I had forgotten about the game. “Even with the complications of extensive tissue damage, his posture was likely erect. And since Henry was the last to serve him food and see him alive, I can take his word that Cody was at least capable of driving his truck and walking.”
    She turned her stool. “You saw him last?”
    He stared at the television screen, his arms crossed. “Do not ask me how I can tell, Walt, but I think your team is winning.”
    She turned back to look at me, then back to him again. “Bear, have I said something wrong?”
    “No, you did not say anything wrong . . . We will just say that I was the next to last person to see Mr.