The Wrong Gun

“Not at all,” Manning said.

“You do have a match?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Well, if you’re certain, why would you be comparing the bullet with another gun and looking for a match?”

“Well,” Manning said. “As to that…” He hesitated, pursed his lips.

Steve Winslow smiled. “Am I to assume you compared the fatal bullet with a test bullet fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Three, before you compared it with a bullet fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Four.”

Manning took a breath. “Yes. That is correct.”

Steve Winslow’s smile widened into a grin. “Gee, Mr. Manning,” he said. “Let me be sure I understand your testimony. The police first came to you with a gun. The gun found next to the body. The gun, People’s Exhibit Three. And you tried to match it up with the fatal bullet. When you couldn’t get a match, they said, ‘Try this one,’ and gave you another gun, People’s Exhibit Four, the gun taken from Timberlaine’s bedside table, and asked you to try to match that up.”

“As I said before,” Manning said, “I have no personal knowledge as to where those guns came from.”

“All you know is the cops gave you one gun, and when that wouldn’t match with the fatal bullet they gave you another?”

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“Perhaps it is. Tell me, did you take pictures of the test bullet fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Three, on the comparison microscope?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You took pictures showing that bullet in alignment with the fatal bullet on the comparison microscope?”

“Now, that’s misleading,” Manning said. “I did take pictures of the two bullets in those positions. But they are not in alignment. They are aligned in as much as it was possible to do so from the class characteristics. But there is no way they could be in alignment, because they were not fired from the same gun.”

“I understand your contention, Mr. Manning,” Steve said. “But the fact is, you took the photos?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And this was done before you examined bullets from the gun, People’s Exhibit Four?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manning.” Steve turned to the judge. “Your Honor, at this time I would like to suspend my cross-examination until such time as the witness shall have brought into court photographs of the fatal bullet shown on the comparison microscope with the test bullet fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Four.

“At this time, I also ask that the witness be instructed to bring into court any photographs he has taken showing the comparison of the fatal bullet with test bullets fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Three.”

“I object, Your Honor,” Vaulding said.

Judge Hendrick held up his hand. “Overruled. You may object to the introduction of these photographs, but this witness is going to bring them.

“Mr. Manning, you are temporarily excused from the stand. You are directed to return here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and bring with you any and all photographs you have taken comparing the fatal bullet to bullets fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Four, to bullets fired from the gun, People’s Exhibit Three, and any other bullets to which you may have compared it.

“Mr. Vaulding. Mr. Winslow. We will go into the individual merits of such evidence at that time. But for the time being, the witness is excused.

“Mr. Vaulding, do you have another witness available to call?”

“I will momentarily, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Court will stand in recess for half an hour.”

32

Mark Taylor caught up with Steve and Tracy in the corridor on their way back into court.

“Vaulding’s gonna drop a bombshell,” Taylor said.

“I know that,” Steve said.

“Oh, yeah?” Taylor said. “Then why am I getting it like it’s a hot tip?”

“What’s your source?”

“That reporter. He got the tip. Vaulding put out the word during recess to expect fireworks when court reconvenes.”

“I know that too,” Steve said. “It’s what Tracy and I were just talking about. I did a number on the ballistics expert. Which ordinarily would have been great. Except for the bit about roughing up the gun barrel. That’s where he turns around and kicks us in the teeth. But it’s no surprise, it’s just what we were expecting.”

“Yeah, well the word is the shit’s hitting the fan. And how does that add up? The press already has the scoop on the file. You know he’s gonna club you with it. The press knows he’s gonna club you with it. What’s the big deal?”

“There’s one possibility, Mark, and it’s just what we were discussing.”

“What’s that?”

“Timberlaine swears he found the file in his room. He has no idea how it got there. If that’s true, the worst Vaulding can do is call the cop who served the warrant and show the file was found in his room. Big deal. It’s incriminating, but old hat. No, the kick in the teeth, the hold-the-phone bombshell, is if Timberlaine is lying about finding the file in his room. And, instead of the cop who served the warrant, Vaulding’s next witness is some shopkeeper who will testify Timberlaine bought the file.”

“Oh, shit,” Taylor said.

“Right,” Tracy said. “Or maybe even asked him to recommend what to use to rough up a gun barrel.”

“Oh, come on,” Taylor said. “He couldn’t be that dumb.”

“Yeah,” Steve said dryly.

They pushed their way into the courtroom. Whatever word Vaulding had put out, people must have believed him, because the place was packed. Mark and Tracy couldn’t get their usual seats and wound up standing in the back.

Steve pushed his way through the crowd up to the defense table, where court officers had already brought in Timberlaine.

“What’s this all about?” he demanded as Steve sat down.

“I was hoping you could tell me. Vaulding’s got some sort of surprise. I don’t know what it is.”

“Hell.”

“You said it. You sure you told me everything about the file?”

“Sure. What else is there to tell?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Nothing. I found it in my room, I don’t know where it came from.”

“Great,” Steve said.

The jury was led in. Judge Hendrick took his place on the bench. When they were all in position, Vaulding made a star’s entrance, walking in from the back of the courtroom, pushing his way through the reporters and photographers gathered there. He strode up to the prosecution table and stood there, almost striking a pose.

Judge Hendrick regarded him with some irritation. “Well, call your next witness,” he said.

“Call Frederick Henson,” Vaulding said.

A middle-aged man with a sad-eyed, droopy sort of face made his way to the witness stand.

Confirming Steve Winslow’s worst fears. Not a cop. A shopkeeper.

As Henson passed by the defense table, Steve heard a sharp intake of breath. He turned to see that