The Wrong Gun

47

Robert Vaulding’s face was grim. He looked around the courtroom at the spectators, the reporters, the jurors, the judge, and finally up at the elderly, white-haired woman he had just installed on the witness stand. She was smiling slightly and looked utterly serene and placid, giving the impression of being one of those elderly women who is totally sweet but also slightly dotty and scatterbrained. For a second it flashed on Vaulding, my god, am I doing the right thing? He took a deep breath, plunged ahead.

“Ms. Dreisson?” he began, remembering Steve Winslow’s admonition.

It was not his day.

Veronica held up her hand. “One moment, young man. Dreisson is my married name. Not my maiden name. My late husband, Arnold, was a Dreisson. I do not think that he would like to see his name become a Ms. I am Mrs. Dreisson, if you please.”

Vaulding took a breath, and seemed to roll his eyes heavenward for a split second before smiling and saying, “I stand corrected, Mrs. Dreisson.”

The newspaper reporters, frustrated at having called in instructions to hold the front page for a plea-bargain that had not materialized, scribbled gleefully. It was clear this little old lady would make a feisty witness.

“Tell me, Mrs. Dreisson,” Vaulding said, “what do you do?”

Veronica smiled. “I don’t do anything. I retired more than twenty years ago.”

“Yes, but you seem a quite active woman. Aside from any business or profession, is there any hobby or special interest that occupies your time?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And what would that be.”

“Guns.”

“I beg your pardon? Did you say guns?”

“Yes, I did, young man,” Veronica said. She added, “Do you have trouble hearing?”

That produced a laugh in the courtroom.

Vaulding never cracked a smile. “No, I do not,” he said. “But I wanted to be sure the jurors heard you. Your hobby is guns?”

“That’s right.”

“You collect guns?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You are still actively involved in doing this?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How many guns do you own?”

“Between two and three hundred.”

That produced a reaction in the courtroom. Judge Hendrick banged the gavel.

“Between two and three hundred? Of different makes and models?”

“Well, I should think so,” Veronica said. “It would certainly be silly to have two hundred of the same gun.”

“Then you are familiar with different types of firearms?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you consider yourself an expert?”

Veronica smiled. “I consider myself knowledgeable on the subject. In the past I’ve been employed as an expert.”

“In the past?”

“Yes.” Veronica squinted at him. “Let me see. Would that be before you were born?”

That question produced a roar of laughter. The reporters were eating Veronica Dreisson up. They couldn’t have asked for better copy.

Vaulding just stood and took it. “But you are knowledgeable on the subject of guns?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell me, have you ever had occasion to examine the guns of the defendant, Russ Timberlaine?”

“Yes, I have. Just last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, of course,” Veronica said. She cocked her head. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

“Yes, it is, Mrs. Dreisson, but it is necessary that we get these things in the record. Had you ever seen Mr. Timberlaine’s guns before last night?”

“As to that, I can’t recall.”

“Well, had you ever met Mr. Timberlaine?”

Veronica smiled. “That’s why I can’t recall. I must admit I have a better memory for guns than for faces.” She looked over at the defense table. “I sit here looking at him and the face is indeed familiar. And now he’s wearing a suit and has his hair pulled back off his face. I seem to recall a young man with long hair and a cowboy outfit. That is probably him. But I couldn’t swear to it.” She gestured to the witness stand. “And here I can only say what I can swear to, is that right?”

“Yes, it is.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, there you are.”

The remark got another laugh.

Vaulding took a breath, forged ahead. “You don’t know if you’ve seen the guns before, but you did see them last night?”

“That’s right.”

“How did that happen?”

“I went out to his mansion and looked at them.”

“Who took you there?”

“Mr. Taylor.”

“Would that be Mark Taylor of the Taylor Detective Agency?”

“That’s right.”

“He took you out there?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And who let you in?”

“A nice young man. I don’t recall his name, but he opened the door and went and got Miss Timberlaine.”

“That would be Carrie Timberlaine, Russ Timberlaine’s daughter?”

“That’s right.”

“She showed you Russ Timberlaine’s guns?”

“She tried to, but they were locked up.”

“Did she have a key?”

“No, she did not.”

“So you couldn’t see the guns?”

“No. She went and found the nice young man, and he came and unlocked the cases.”

“He had a key?”

“Yes, he did.”

“He showed you the guns?”

“That’s right.”

“Who was present when you examined the guns?”

“Mr. Taylor, Miss Timberlaine and the young man with the key.”

“That would be Martin Kessington?”

“If you say so. I don’t know his name.”

“At any rate, you examined the guns.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How many did you examine?’”

“I don’t know. Forty or fifty.”

“Was that all of them?”

“No, it was not.”

“Why did you stop?”

“The police arrived and made me stop.”

“I see. And did they ask you what you were doing?”

“Yes, they did.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Well,” Veronica said. “You have to understand I was rather upset. After all, they did make me stop my inspection.”

“I’m sure we can make allowances,” Vaulding said. “What did you say?”

“I told them it was none of their business.”

“You refused to answer their questions?”

“Of course I did. They had no right to ask.”

“You’re answering my questions.”

Veronica looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I’m in court,” she said. “I’m required to answer.”

Vaulding nodded grimly. “That you are, Mrs. Dreisson. Tell me, in those forty or fifty guns you examined, did you find anything that you considered significant?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was that?”

“At least five of the guns I examined were fakes.”

That answer produced a low rumble in the courtroom. People looked at each other.

Vaulding frowned. “Fakes? What do you mean?”

Veronica looked at him. “You don’t know what the word fake means?”

“Yes, but in terms of a gun. What do you mean, a fake gun? A gun is either a gun or it isn’t.”

Veronica looked at him. “Come, come, young man. I mean they were not the guns they were supposed to be. The guns are rare and valuable. They are particular guns. They have a history of ownership that increases their value. When I say these guns are fakes, what I mean is, that in all these cases a rare and valuable gun had been taken and a cheap imitation of the same make and model had been left in its place.”

“I see. You say five of these guns were fakes?”

“At least five. That’s the best I could tell. You must understand, it was late, I’m old, and my eyesight is not what it used to be. And I did not have any equipment with me. But there were at least five I was sure of.”

“Five substituted guns?”

“That’s right.”

Vaulding’s smile was skeptical. “Come, come, Mrs. Dreisson. Do you mean to tell me that, never having seen them before, you were able to examine fifty guns in the space of what? — half an hour? — and pronounce forty-five of them genuine and five spurious?”

Veronica stuck out her chin and narrowed her eyes. “You do have trouble hearing, don’t you? I just got through telling you the best I could tell was that at least five of the guns were fake. That doesn’t mean I pronounced forty-five guns genuine. If you asked me, I did see genuine guns, but as to how many, I certainly could not say. But, if you’ll pardon me, what does it matter? I would think you would be more concerned with the five guns proven to be false.”

Vaulding opened his mouth, started to say something, thought better of it and closed it again. That action produced a laugh in the courtroom. Judge Hendrick banged the gavel.

“All right,” Vaulding said. “Let’s talk about the guns that were false. When you examined the guns, did any of the people present point those guns out to you?”

“The fake guns, you mean?”

“Yes, of course.”

“No, they did not.”

“Did you point them out to them?”

“No, of course not. I don’t do things piecemeal. I had no intention of saying anything whatsoever until I completed my examination.” She raised her chin. “Which I was not permitted to do.”

“I see. And who asked you to make this examination? Who sent you out to the Timberlaine mansion?”

“Why, Mr. Winslow.”

“Mr. Timberlaine’s attorney, Steve Winslow?”

“That’s right.”

“He hired you?”

“Hired is the wrong word. I am no longer a professional. As I told you, I retired long ago. He did not hire me. He asked me if I would go out there and I agreed to.”

“But it was Steve Winslow, the attorney for the defense, who asked you to go out there and look at the guns?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you did so?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You went out there, examined the guns, and found five of them to be fake.”

“That’s right.”

“So the reason you went out to the Timberlaine mansion was to see if there were any fake guns in his collection?”

Veronica’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “No, I did not.”

Vaulding frowned. “You did not?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, I knew that when you started asking questions.”

That sally produced a roar of laughter. Vaulding stood, took it, and when it subsided, said, “Tell me, Mrs. Dreisson, why did you go out to Timberlaine’s mansion, if not to examine his gun collection?”

“Oh, it was to examine his gun collection. That was a part of it. I just wasn’t looking for any fake guns. That was a sort of bonus.”

“But you were looking for something?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Could you tell us what that was?”

“Certainly. One moment, young man.”

Veronica Dreisson snapped open her purse. She fumbled inside a few moments, took out and held up a small metallic object.

“You see this?” she said, holding it up between her thumb and forefinger and extending it for Vaulding to see.

Vaulding looked, saw what she was holding was a metal tube about two and a half inches long and about half an inch in diameter. “What’s that?” he asked.

“I guess you’re not familiar with guns,” Veronica said. “But then, this is something only an expert would know. For your information, young man, this is an adapter. It is used to take a bullet fired from one gun and allow a person to shoot it from another. In this case, the adapter is just the size to allow a.45-caliber spent bullet to be repacked in a shell casing, fitted into the adapter and refired from the barrel of a shotgun. The bullet, of course, would retain only the markings from the original gun.” Veronica shrugged. “Which is of course the whole point.”

Vaulding blinked. “A shotgun?”

“Yes, of course. I would imagine the murderer used one from Mr. Timberlaine’s collection. There were several in the room. And a shotgun is such an awkward weapon-to conceal, I mean-why run the risk of being seen going in or out with it?”

Vaulding stared at her. “What are you saying?”

Veronica cocked her head. “You have the wrong gun. For the murder weapon, I mean. The real murder weapon is most likely still hanging on Mr. Timberlaine’s wall. I’m afraid the police overlooked it. Not their fault, really. They weren’t looking for a shotgun, you see.”

There came the sound of a commotion in the courtroom.

Vaulding turned his head just in time to see one of his witnesses, Melvin Burdett, practically climbing over people in an attempt to push his way into the aisle.

“Officer, stop that man!” Vaulding yelled.

But the court officer was not quick enough. Before he could reach him, Melvin Burdett broke free. But, instead of making for the door, Burdett suddenly wheeled around, swung his fist in a surprisingly swift uppercut and decked Henry Crumbly, who was headed up the aisle. Crumbly went down in a heap just as the court officer grabbed and held Burdett.

On the other side of the courtroom, another man slid unobtrusively from his seat and headed for the door. But despite the sensational disruption of Crumbly and Burdett, the courtroom was not too crowded for his departure to go unnoticed.

“Oh, look,” Veronica Dreisson said. She pointed at the retreating figure, cocked her head, smiled and said sweetly but distinctly, “Why, there’s the nice young man who showed me the guns.”