As Dog Is My Witness Read Online Free PDF

him own one.”
    “He doesn’t own the gun they found?” In Justin’s
room, the police had discovered an antique gun, described as a
single-shot de-ringer replica of the handgun John Wilkes Booth used
on Abraham Lincoln. Apparently, he hadn’t tried to hide it—it was
sitting right there on his desk. Ballistic tests confirmed it as
the weapon used to kill Michael Huston.
    “No, it wasn’t registered to him. I frankly was
shocked when they told me they’d found it there, and I thought the
police had planted the gun in Justin’s room. But Justin said it was
his.”
    The murder had been four days earlier, so the room
was no longer considered a crime scene, although a few tiny
remnants of yellow police tape dotted the doorjamb. Crime scene
investigators had been through and taken anything they considered
of interest, so I didn’t expect to find any evidence that Justin
was or wasn’t involved in the killing. I sat on the edge of his
single bed and looked at his mother.
    “What led the police to Justin in the first place?” I
asked.
    “I guess it was the gun,” Mary said. “Once they found
out what kind of gun it was, they started looking for area
enthusiasts. It didn’t seem to take long. They were here with a
search warrant two days ago.”
    “Mary, I’m going to have to ask some questions that
aren’t easy to answer. I want you to know, I have a son with
Asperger’s, and I understand, okay? If I’m going to find out what
happened, you have to tell me everything.”
    Mary Fowler looked me straight in the eye, and even
if her gaze was a little teary, it was unwavering. “Whatever you
need to know, Aaron.”
    “Has Justin ever been . . . 
aggressive with people? Kids in school when he was little, maybe
with girls when he was in high school or college, just because he
didn’t understand?”
    “You mean, is he violent?” Mary didn’t need the
jargon, and was telling me so.
    “Yes.”
    “He . . .  got into a few fights when
he was a boy, but you know these kids, Aaron. He always lost. His
impulse control isn’t great, but he did learn that getting beaten
up didn’t get him much.”
    I didn’t like the way this was going. “Do you think
that might have fueled his interest in guns?” I asked.
    Mary hadn’t considered that idea before. Her eyes
widened a bit, and she leaned lightly against the dresser.
    But before she had a chance to answer, a loud sound
from the driveway interrupted us. It was the unmistakable cacophony
of a very large motorcycle. That noise ended, thankfully, and
another, less piston-driven one, began in the kitchen, just to our
left on the other side of the hallway. Someone was walking in
through the side door.
    Actually, “walking” is understating it. “Barreling”
would be more descriptive. Young, in his late teens or early 20s,
the large person entered the house as if he were Superman and this
was one of those paper maché walls they were always setting up for
him to burst through, when there was a perfectly good door maybe
four feet to the side. Long hair flopped over his forehead and a
sense of absolute purpose burned in his eyes. “Ma!” he yelled. Then
he saw us standing in Justin’s room, and advanced on us like Patton
on . . .  wherever Patton advanced on. I was an
English major, not a history major.
    “Where have they got him, Ma? When’s he getting out?”
The young man looked me up and down, which doesn’t take long, and
didn’t like what he saw. “Who’s this guy?”
    “Kevin, this is Aaron Tucker. He’s investigating the
case and trying to help Justin. Aaron, this is my younger son,
Kevin.”
    I reached out a hand, but Kevin was still suspicious,
and I ended up looking like I had just finished a round of curling,
hand extended with nothing to show for it.
    “Investigating? Are you a private eye or
something?”
    “No, I’m a freelance writer, and I’m working for Snapdragon Magazine, but . . . 
    “A reporter? No press, Ma! We don’t