The Baxter Trust

you,’ Steve said. He took the rolling pin back from the witness. “Now then, you and I have both handled the rolling pin. If you were to examine this rolling pin, could you develop the fingerprints on it and tell me which were yours and which were mine?”
    “Your Honor,” Dirkson said. “I object on the grounds that this is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”
    “I’m merely cross-examining him on his qualifications as a fingerprint expert,” Steve said.
    “Objection overruled.”
    “Yes. I could do that,” Steele said.
    “You could find my fingerprints?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you could find yours?”
    “Yes.”
    “On the rolling pin?”
    “Yes.”
    “And,” Steve said, “if I should produce a dead body whose head had been bashed in by that rolling pin, would you say that since your fingerprints were on it, you were guilty of the murder?”
    Dirkson lunged to his feet. “Your Honor! I object! This is the most—”
    Crandell’s gavel cut him off. “Objection sustained. The question is clearly improper.”
    Steve Winslow, having made his point, smiled at the jury. “No further questions,” he said. He went back to the defense table and sat down.
    Judge Crandell announced that it had reached the hour of noon recess. As the guard and matron converged on Sheila Benton, she was looking up at Steve with newfound respect.
    “You son of a bitch,” she murmured.

42.
    D IRKSON CAME OUT FIRING RIGHT after the noon recess. The morning had been a disaster for him—Winslow had scored points and swung the sympathy of the jury—but now it was his moment to shine. There was no way Winslow could know the surprises Dirkson had in store for him. It was time to let him have it with both barrels.
    Dirkson called Lieutenant Farron. He felt better just seeing him take the stand. After the bad impression made by the evasive Reginald Steele, Lieutenant Farron seemed to exude confidence.
    “Now, Lieutenant Farron,” Dirkson said. “Are you acquainted with the defendant, Sheila Benton?”
    “I am.”
    “When did you first meet her?”
    “On June sixth of this year.”
    “The day before the murder?”
    “That is correct.”
    “Would you explain the circumstances of that meeting?”
    “Yes. Miss Benton called the police and then came to the station. She first talked to Sergeant Stams, who brought her to my office.”
    “And what did she want?”
    “She claimed that she had received an anonymous letter and an anonymous phone call.”
    “And did she show you the anonymous letter?”
    “Yes, sir. She gave it to me.”
    “And could you describe the letter?”
    “It consisted of words cut from a newspaper and pasted on a sheet of paper to form a message.”
    “And do you recall the message?”
    “Yes, sir. It said: ‘I know all about you.’”
    “I hand you a letter and ask you if you have ever seen it before.”
    Lieutenant Farron took the letter and looked it over. “Yes, sir. That is the letter I referred to. The one the defendant gave me.”
    Dirkson took the letter back from Farron. “I ask that this letter be marked for identification as People’s Exhibit number three.”
    “No objection.”
    “So ordered.”
    Dirkson handed the letter to the clerk and turned back to Farron. “Now then, Lieutenant. Did you examine the envelope in which the letter was received?”
    Steve straightened in his chair. A warning light had come on. The envelope. Sheila hadn’t mentioned the envelope, and he hadn’t even asked.
    “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Farron said.
    “Can you describe the envelope?”
    “It was addressed to the defendant. The address had been typed. There was no return address.”
    “But the address of the defendant had been typed on a typewriter?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Steve leaned over to Sheila. “Is that true?” he whispered. “Was the envelope typed?”
    “Yes,” she whispered back. “Why? What’s the matter? Does it make a difference?”
    “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, just keep smiling and don’t let the jury see it makes any difference.”
    Steve kept smiling, but his world was collapsing. Does it make a difference? Well, just a little, he thought ironically. He knew typing was as distinctive as handwriting. Which meant they could prove which typewriter had typed the envelope. Which meant they could tie the letter to Greely.
    Dirkson had walked to the prosecution table and picked up an envelope. He crossed back to the witness.
    “I hand you an envelope and