Strangers

- or a lot - but in fact they're both intact."
        "Actually," Father Wycazik said, staring at the slugs in his hand, "I meant were they underweight for.38s? Malformed ammunition, factory mistakes? Or were they the right size?"
        "Oh, the right size. No doubt of that."
        "Big enough to do plenty of damage, terrible damage," Father Wycazik said thoughtfully. "The gun?"
        From a larger envelope, Aimes produced the revolver with which Winton Tolk was shot. "A snubnose Smith and Wesson.38 Chief's Special."
        "You've examined it, test-fired it?"
        "Yes. Standard procedure."
        "No indication that anything's wrong with it? Specifically, is the bore poorly machined or is there some other anomaly that'd result in the bullet leaving the muzzle at a much slower velocity than it should?"
        "That's a peculiar question, Father. The answer is no. It's a fine Chief's Special, up to the usual high standards of Smith and Wesson."
        Putting the two expended bullets back into the small envelope from which he had seen Aimes take them, Father Wycazik said, "What about the cartridges these bullets came from? Is there any chance they were filled with too little powder, that they carried an inadequate charge?"
        The SID man blinked. "I gather one thing you're trying to find out is why two.38s in the chest didn't do more damage."
        Stefan Wycazik nodded but offered no elaboration. "Were there any unexpended cartridges in the revolver?"
        "A couple. Plus spare ammunition in one of the gunman's jacket pockets - another dozen."
        "Did you cut open any of the unexpended shells to see if maybe they carried an inadequate charge?"
        "No reason to," Murphy Aimes said.
        "Would it be possible for you to check one of them now?"
        "Possible. But why? Father, what in the world is this all about?"
        Stefan sighed. "I know this is an imposition, Dr. Aimes, and it behooves me to repay your kindness with an explanation. But I can't. Not yet. Priests, like physicians and attorneys, must sometimes respect confidences, keep secrets. But if I'm ever at liberty to reveal what lies behind my curiosity, you'll be the first to know."
        Aimes stared and Stefan met his eyes forthrightly. Finally the SID man opened another envelope. This contained the unexpended cartridges from the dead gunman's.38 Chiefs Special. "Wait here."
        In twenty minutes, Aimes returned with a white enamel lab tray in which were two dissected.38 Special cartridges. Using a pencil as a pointer, he commented on the disassembled elements. "This is the case head in which the primer assembly is seated. The firing pin strikes here. This opening on the other side of the case head is the flashhole that leads from the primer packet to the powder compartment. There's no problem with this, no manufacturing errors. At the other end of the cartridge, you've got a lead semiwadcutter bullet with a copper gascheck crimped onto its base to retard bore leading. The tiny cannelures around the bullet are packed with grease to ease its passage through the barrel. Nothing out of order here, either. And in between the case head and the bullet is the powder compartment - or it's sometimes called the combustion chamber - out of which I've taken this small pile of gray, flaky material. This is nitrocellulose, a highly combustible material; it's ignited by the spark that comes through the flashhole from the primer; it explodes, ejecting the bullet from the cartridge. As you can see, there's enough nitrocellulose to fill the powder chamber. Just to be sure, I opened another round." Aimes pointed the pencil at the second disassembled cartridge. "There was nothing wrong with this, either. The gunman was using well-made, reliable, Remington ammunition. Officer Tolk was just a lucky man, Father, a very lucky man."
        
        New York, New York.
        Jack Twist spent Christmas in the sanitarium room with Jenny, his wife of thirteen years. Being with her on holidays was especially grim. But being anywhere else, leaving her alone, would have been grimmer.
        Although Jenny had spent almost two-thirds of their marriage in a coma, the years of lost communion had not diminished Jack's love for her. More than eight years had passed since she had smiled at him or spoken his name or been able to return his kisses, but in his heart, at least, time was stopped, and she was still the