John Katzenbach - The Wrong Man

“You see, I’m a collector, not a dealer. And usually I merely trade and sell at authorized gun shows. Otherwise, I’d have to have a federal permit, you understand.”

She nodded. She recognized that the man was speaking in a sort of code, to skirt the law.

“Again, I’m appreciative,” she said.

“You see, a regular gun dealer has to fill out all sorts of paperwork for the Feds. And then there is the three-day waiting period. But a gun collector can swap and trade without those requirements. Of course, I’ve got to ask: You are not planning anything illegal with this weapon?”

“Of course not. It’s for protection. You can’t be safe enough these days. So, what do you have for me?”

The gun dealer moved to the back of his truck and opened the hatch. Inside there was a steel-sided suitcase with a combination lock, which he rapidly opened. On a bed of black Styrofoam there was an array of handguns. She stared down at them with little comprehension. “I’m not much of a gun person.”

Mr. Johnson nodded. “The forty-five and the nine-mill are probably way more than you need. It’s these two that you want to consider: the twenty-five automatic and the thirty-two revolver. The thirty-two short barrel is probably what you’re searching for. It’s more, ah, feminine-sized. Six shots in the cylinder. Just point and shoot. Very dependable, reliable, small, not heavy, anyone can handle it. Fits in a purse. A real popular gun with the ladies. Drawback is it doesn’t pack the biggest punch, you know? Bigger gun. Bigger payload. That’s not to say that a shot from a thirty-two won’t kill you. It will. But you see what I’m saying?”

“Of course. I think I’ll take the thirty-two.”

Mr. Johnson smiled. “Good selection. Now, I’m required by law to ask you whether you plan to take this gun out of state.”

“Of course not,” Catherine lied.

“Or transfer it to another person.”

Catherine didn’t even glance toward Ashley waiting in the car. “Absolutely not.”

“Nor do you intend to use the weapon for any illegal purpose?”

“Again, negative.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He stared at Catherine, then over at her car. “I already have your contact information. And I’ve got the serial numbers. If someone, like an ATF agent, were to come asking questions, you know they would find answers with me. I wouldn’t be pleased to provide them, but I would. Otherwise it would be me looking at doing some time. You understand what I’m saying? You got a husband you want to shoot, well, that’s your business. I’m just saying that-”

Catherine held up her hand. “My husband passed away some years ago. Please, Mr. Johnson, be reassured. This is merely protection for an older woman who lives alone in the countryside.”

He smiled. “Four hundred dollars. Cash. And I’ll throw in a box of extra shells. Find some place to practice. It can make all the difference in the world.”

He took the weapon and placed it in a cheap leather case. “That’s free,” he said and handed the gun to Catherine as she handed over the money.

“One other thing you might want to keep in mind. When you decide to pull that trigger,” he said slowly, lifting his own hands into a shooter’s position, “make sure you use both hands to steady yourself, assume a comfortable stance, take a deep breath, and then one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Empty it. All six. You decide to shoot something, or someone, Mrs. Frazier, well, there’s no such thing as going halfway, you know. It’s only in Hollywood that the good guy can shoot a gun out of some bad dude’s hand, or wing ’em in the shoulder. Not in real life. You make that choice, aim dead center in the chest and then make sure you don’t leave any questions behind. You want to shoot something? Then you kill it.”

Catherine nodded. “Words to live by.”

The assistant dean of the Art History Department only had a few moments, she told me. It was her regularly scheduled office hours, and there was usually a backlog of students outside her door. She grinned as she outlined the panoply of student excuses, complaints, inquiries, and criticisms that awaited her that day.

“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “what is it that has brought an actual adult to my door this day?”

I explained, in the vaguest terms I thought would manage to keep her talking, what I was interested in.

“Ashley?” she said. “Yes. I do remember her. A few years ago, no? A most curious case, that one.”

“How so?”

“Excellent undergraduate grades, a real artistic streak, a hard worker-she had an excellent part-time position at the museum-and then it all seemed to fall apart for her in a most dramatic fashion. I always suspected some sort of boy trouble. Usually that’s the case when promising young women suddenly go into a tailspin. In most cases, these sorts of problems can be solved with copious amounts of tissue for the tears, and several cups of hot tea. In her case, however, there was all sorts of talk, rumors mostly, throughout the department, about how she got fired from that job, and the integrity of her academic work. But I’m not comfortable speaking about these things without her authorization. In writing. You don’t by any chance have a document such as that with you, do you?”

“No.”

The dean shrugged, a small, wry smile on her lips. “I am limited then in what I can tell you.”

“Of course.” I got up to leave. “Still, thanks for your time.”

“Say,” the dean asked, “maybe you can tell me what happened to her? She seems to have dropped off our radar completely.”

I hesitated, not exactly sure how to answer her question. The pause caused the dean to look up in concern.

“Did something happen to her?” she asked, suddenly all jocularity vanishing from her tones. “I would hate to hear that.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say something did happen to her.”

Scott emerged slowly from his car, staring at the man he knew was O’Connell’s father. The father brandished the ax handle menacingly. Scott stepped back out of the weapon’s reach and took a deep breath, wondering why he oddly felt so calm. “I’m not sure you want to be threatening me with that, Mr. O’Connell.”

The older O’Connell twitched and grunted, “You’ve been up and down this neighborhood asking about me. So I’ll put it down when you tell me who you are.”

Scott fixed his eyes on the father’s. He narrowed his gaze, remained silent, poker-faced, until the man said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“I know you are. I’m just wondering what sort of answer you’re going to get.”

This confused O’Connell’s father. He stepped back, then forward again, lifting the ax handle as he repeated, “Who are you?”

Scott continued to stare, slowly looking O’Connell senior up and down, as if he had absolutely nothing to fear from the ax handle aimed at his head. The man’s build was both soft and hard-beer belly hanging over his stained jeans, thick, muscled arms sporting a variety of entwined tattoos. He wore only a black T-shirt with the Harley-Davidson logo above his jeans and boots, seemingly oblivious to the cold November air. His dark hair was streaked with gray, cropped close to his head. A tattoo with the name Lucy prominently displayed on his forearm was probably all that remained of his marriage, other than his son and the house. Scott thought the man had probably been drinking, but his words weren’t slurred, nor was his step unsteady. He had probably drunk just enough to loosen inhibitions and cloud his thinking, which, Scott hoped, was a good thing. He slowly folded his arms and shook his head at O’Connell, a motion to underscore the idea that he was in charge of the situation. “I could be more trouble than you’ve ever seen. And I mean the worst sort of trouble, Mr. O’Connell. The kind of trouble that has significant pain attached to it. On the other hand, I could also be a big help to you. That would be an opportunity to make some money. Which is it going to be?”