Parnell Hall - The Wrong Gun

“That doesn’t help.”

“I know it doesn’t help. But if you don’t mind the question, what the hell happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“With the gun and the bullet?”

“It’s the fatal bullet. It’s the fatal gun. A slight physical impossibility, but there you are.”

“Yeah. So what’s the explanation?”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“No, I’m trying to get your opinion on the problem. I have a feeling you could think your way out of anything, if you weren’t emotionally involved.”

“Thanks for your support.”

“Don’t mention it. Hey, you got a right to be pissed. Let’s get beyond it and figure out what the hell happened to you.”

“Hey,” Steve said. “You think I haven’t been trying to do that?”

“I’m sure you have. I just think you’re too emotionally involved to think straight.”

“And you feel that simply telling me that will enable me to do so?” Steve said sarcastically.

She shrugged. “No, but at this point things are so fucked up, I figure it couldn’t hurt.”

Steve shook his head. “You got me there. You’re absolutely right. There’s nothing I can do at this point that can make it any worse. There’s a certain consolation in that.”

He looked at Tracy and started laughing. So did she, and they were both laughing hysterically when Mark Taylor walked in the door.

“What the hell is this?” he said.

“Tracy found the silver lining,” Steve said.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“The case is now so totally fucked up, there’s absolutely nothing we could do that could make it any worse.”

“You could drag in the other gun,” Taylor said.

Steve looked at him, sobered up, snapped his fingers. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

Mark Taylor’s eyes widened in alarm. “Hey, hey, I was only kidding. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

“Right now, Mark, I don’t know what I might do.”

“Steve. I mean, think what you’re doing.”

Steve Winslow held up his hand. “Take it easy, Mark. I’m not doing anything right now. I’m just exploring possibilities. All we got left is possibilities.”

“It seems to me, all we got left is impossibilities,” Taylor said.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“And that bullet matchin’ up,” Taylor said. “I don’t know what gun you gave them-and I sure as hell don’t want to know-but think about it and the mind boggles. I mean, unless there’s another gun in this case I don’t know about-and there’re already way too many guns in this case-the gun you produced was either the gun Timberlaine kept locked in his safe-deposit box, or the gun you kept locked in the safe. In either case, neither gun could have done it. And yet one did.”

“Thank you for your assessment of the situation,” Steve said.

“Hey, I have to call ’em as I see ’em,” Taylor said. “Now, I know this makes problems for you, but doesn’t it make problems for Vaulding too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as far as he’s concerned, you gave him the gun from Timberlaine’s safe-deposit box. And Timberlaine’s been in jail since the murder. There’s no way he was out switching guns around. If you gave them the gun from Timberlaine’s safe-deposit box, how the hell can Vaulding claim that gun committed the murder? See what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do, Mark. Unfortunately, it doesn’t wash.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause Vaulding only has my word for it that that’s where that gun came from.” Steve raised his hand. “And never mind maybe I substituted a gun. Think like Vaulding. Assume I didn’t. Assume I’m giving him the gun he asked for, the gun Timberlaine had. Now, Timberlaine and I can claim that gun’s been in a safe-deposit box since well before the murder and I just got it out, but he’s only got our word for that. For all he knows, I could have told Timberlaine we had to produce the gun, and he could have said, ‘Oh, all right. After the murder I hid it in the shrubbery out behind my mansion. Go get it.’”

Mark Taylor’s eyes widened. “Son of a bitch.”

“See, Mark. Even without any substitution, Timberlaine can’t prove he put a gun in that safe-deposit box and I can’t prove I took one out. Which is too bad, ’cause if we could, the gun would theoretically have an alibi for the murder.”

“And the gun you gave him does,” Taylor said. “That’s the mind-fuck. We’re talking informally here, so I’m going to assume you gave him the gun from the safe. In fact, I know you gave him the gun from the safe, because Manning matched a bullet from it with the test bullet, RT-SUB. And that gun’s been in your safe since before the murder. You know and I know that gun wasn’t used for the murder. Unless someone got into your office and rifled the safe.”

“It’s been done before,” Tracy pointed out.

“Yeah, but not this time,” Steve said. “I mean, come on, give me a break. The murderer deduces that I have a gun in the safe. He breaks in and steals it, uses it to commit the murder. Now, never mind all the other duplicate guns he plants all over the place. The point is, after the murder, he breaks in again and replaces it in my safe.”

“Farfetched, but not impossible,” Taylor said.

“Oh, yeah? How does he know the gun’s there to begin with?*’

“Timberlaine could know, if he figured out you switched guns. Suppose he noticed the difference?”

“So he breaks in and steals it?”

“It’s possible.”

“Yeah, but how does he get it back in the safe after the murder? He’s been in jail ever since.”

“True,” Taylor said. “Well, he could have an accomplice.”

“Who, his daughter? Like father, like daughter, and the Timberlaines actually come from a long line of murdering safecrackers?”

Taylor frowned. “That does seem a bit much.”

“No shit.”

“So what’s the answer?” Taylor said. “What the hell did happen?”

Steve exhaled. “We’re getting dangerously close to Sherlock Holmes territory here.”

“What do you mean?”

“At least, I think it’s Holmes. You know the bit about once you’ve eliminated the impossible, what’s left, however improbable, has to be true? Or something to that effect.”

Taylor frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means there has to be an explanation for People’s Exhibit Six being the murder gun. Or, more precisely, there has to be an explanation for the fact the fatal bullet came from that gun.”

“Would it surprise you to hear I can’t come up with one?”

“No, it wouldn’t, Mark. What about your expert?”

“Who?”

“The gun collector. The woman. Is she here yet?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, she’s in my office. I was wondering if you’d want to see her.”

“I sure do.”

Veronica Dreisson was a bit of a surprise. A frail, emaciated, white-haired woman, she looked more like someone’s kindly but fragile great-grandmother than someone who dealt in guns, and try as he would, Steve Winslow could not imagine her holding one. When Mark Taylor had completed the introductions, Steve smiled and said, “So, you’re the gun expert?”

Veronica Dreisson’s eyes twinkled and her smile was mischievous. “You sound as if you didn’t believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you all right. I just want to make sure.”

“I’m not surprised. People often have trouble relating to an old lady gun expert.”

“Guilty as charged,” Steve said, “If I’m going to be hung for a sexist pig, it might as well be for just cause.”