There are places in the South that are supposed to be…
A hound dog sleeping on a front porch.
The greasy spoon where the waitress calls everyone “Sugar.”
The familiar drug-store counter where the druggist always has time for you.
That describes the Warrington Pharmacy. After all, he had been there since before most people could remember. Woodrow Moulton wasn’t just a pharmacist in West Pensacola…he was THE pharmacist. Mr. Moulton was the gold standard. He’d been there since the 1930s, watching generations grow up, get married, and bring their own children in for cough syrup or school physicals. Sometimes, just talking to him made a customer feel better. He was the kind of man who knew who needed medicine… and who needed a little time to pay for it.
That was how it was supposed to be…
Grab a glass of sweet tea and pull up a chair on the porch. Tonight we’re talking about a story that still sits heavy in the hearts of folks who grew up on the West Side of Pensacola. It’s the kind of tale where the sweet and the bitter mix together like sugar and lemon — the warmth of a neighborhood pharmacy, the courage of an everyday man, and the cold shadow of a career criminal who brought big trouble to a small corner of our town.
The pharmacy sat on Barrancas Avenue like a friendly neighbor — big windows, a soda fountain vibe in earlier days, and that little bell over the door that jingled every time someone walked in. It was the kind of place where folks felt safe.
On June 7, 1978, a little after 8 in the evening, the front door opened and bell rang. Marvin Johnson didn’t look scary, but he didn’t look friendly either. He didn’t look like an escaped convict from Tennessee who had robbed many pharmacies before…but he was. He and his loosely organized crew – some whispered the Dixie Mafia – had been hitting drugstores across the Southeast, feeding their drug habits with cash and narcotics. This time, he wanted both. He pulled his pistol and made his demands. Moulton — a 56-year-old man who had spent his life helping people — didn’t freeze. He was anything but a coward. He gathered some of the requested items while quietly reaching for the .38 revolver he kept behind the counter for protection.
What happened next was fast, chaotic, and heartbreaking.
Moulton opened fire. Johnson returned fire. Shots rang out inside the store. Gary Summitt, a young clerk and University of West Florida student who was there that night, witnessed the gun battle from terrifyingly close range. Moulton, fighting for his life and his livelihood, emptied his revolver. Johnson was hit in the hip but kept shooting.
When Moulton ran out of ammunition and raised his hands in surrender, Johnson walked up close, looked him in the eye, and whispered in his ear. Then he fired the fatal shot into Moulton’s chest at point-blank range.
The killer fled, leaving cash scattered on the floor and a community shattered.
The Manhunt and Capture
He moved on—out of Warrington, across the same roads that connect towns all along the Gulf Coast. These were roads that don’t ask many questions. Roads that have always made it easy to come and go. Roads that a man can take and be anonymous. After all he was a man with a past that didn’t begin in Pensacola…and didn’t end there either.
Johnson didn’t get far. A few weeks later, he was involved in a serious car wreck on Interstate 65 near Atmore, Alabama. Suffering fractures and cuts, he was taken to a hospital where authorities — acting on a tip and a National Crime Information Center hit — identified the Tennessee escapee wanted for murder in Pensacola.
The arrest came with heavy security. Lawmen already knew Johnson was dangerous. He had a long record, multiple prior escapes, and ran with a crew that specialized in exactly this kind of crime. Escambia County wasn’t taking chances. Extra shifts, armed guards, and heightened alert became the norm. There was evidence that placed Johnson in the story.
And then… there were the edges…
Where he had been before. Who he may have known. What else he carried with him when he walked through that door. It was Nothing you could write down in a report.
Nothing that made it into the official record.
Questions that stayed… just outside of it.
Inside the Escambia County Jail
Years later, I heard from some who had worked inside the Escambia County jail, who remembered that time a little differently. They didn’t talk about evidence. They talked about the feeling – the extra shifts, the heightened awareness. There was a sense – quiet, but real—that this wasn’t just another inmate.
Not because of what had been proven – nothing had been proven yet. But because of what might exist beyond that…what might happen.
In the end, no one came, and nothing happened. But sometimes… what people prepare for tells you as much as what actually takes place.
The Trial and the Override
The trial in late 1978 was tense. Heavy security surrounded the Escambia County Judicial Center. Gary Summitt’s testimony was powerful and emotional. Johnson took the stand in his own defense and repeatedly took the Fifth, refusing to answer basic questions. The jury convicted him of first-degree murder and armed robbery.
In a dramatic moment that still sparks discussion today, the jury recommended life in prison. But Circuit Judge William Frye III overrode that recommendation and sentenced Johnson to death in the electric chair. It was one of the first such overrides in the area under Florida’s new death penalty law.
Johnson would spend the next two decades on death row, filing appeals, living through four stays of execution, attempting another escape (complete with a homemade soap gun and knife), and maintaining his innocence. He ultimately died of natural causes (heart issues) in 1999 without ever being executed. The Moulton family finally got peace.
The Deeper Shadows
The Moulton murder wasn’t just one random act of violence. It happened in the middle of a wave of pharmacy robberies carried out by mobile crews — the kind of loosely organized, drug-driven operators that folks in law enforcement sometimes referred to as part of the Dixie Mafia world. These weren’t the pinstripe-suited gangsters of New York or Chicago. These were homegrown Southern predators who used the same backroads their grandfathers once ran moonshine on.
Woodrow Moulton stood up to that world with the courage of an ordinary man who refused to be a victim. His stand, and the community’s grief, still echo in Pensacola.
A Final Sip
Mr. Moulton is buried in Bayview Cemetery. His pharmacy is long gone, but the memory of the man who ran it with kindness and quiet strength remains. Every time we drive past where it once stood, or hear an old-timer talk about “Mr. Woodrow,” we’re reminded that real heroes often wear white coats and keep a .38 behind the counter — not because they want trouble, but because they refuse to let it win.
Stories like this are why we tell them. Not to glorify the darkness, but to remember the light that fights back.
What do you remember about Warrington Pharmacy or stories from that era? Drop a comment below — I read every one, and sometimes the best details come from folks who lived it.
Until next time, keep your tea sweet, your doors locked after dark, and your eyes open.
Your host at Sweet Tea Murders
Michael Earl Simmons
Michael Earl Simmons is a retired Pensacola Police Sergeant, former homicide detective, and recognized historian of crime in Northwest Florida. He is the creator of Sweet Tea Murders, where Southern history meets the darker side of human nature.
Like the articles? Join us monthly in downtown Pensacola for the Sweet Tea Murders LIVE event, a storytelling experience in a venue in historic downtown Pensacola. Each month, Michael Earl Simmons presents one or two fantastic old murders – some forgotten – that have been stored away in the dusty files. You won’t be disappointed. See you there!