Pursuit

by: S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 9

A shadow hovered over his closed eyelids. He could tell because the bright, overhead light made the skin almost translucent. The man behind the eyelids froze, waiting his chance. One second. Two. Lull him into complacency and then strike.

Low-spoken words he could not make out. Speaking to another.

So: he’s not alone.

    No matter. I don’t care if he’s with a whole legion of hobgoblins. I’ll take them all in.

    And throw away the key.

    Translated into legal terms, the last fleeting through meant, “Pull the switch on the electric chair.”

Phillip Gerard would not have interpreted it that way and it was his mental wandering. If brought to his attention by convoluted images of judges and district attorneys, however, his sodden brain would have to reconsider.

And then discard it.

He was not the executioner. Nor would he have performed the task if ordered. There were some lines a man did not cross. If others did – and it was prescribed by law – that was their choice.

A third second.

Ready. Aim. Fire.

    In the figurative sense.

His hand shot out, the fingers of his left hand winding around the windpipe of the man leaning over him.

Got him! Hold tight.

    Hold on for dear life.

That was what he meant. It would not have been another’s interpretation.

The effort caught the man by surprise. He jerked back, gasped with his final opportunity to expel air, then began beating the arm. He might have been a child for all the effect it had.

Lieutenant Gerard had got his man.

“Stop that! Release him!” called the Voice of Authority. Or so it purported to be, but Gerard knew otherwise. Authoritative men did not raise their voices. They were calm, steady. Sure of their righteousness. Therefore, he did not obey.

You won’t get away from me this time.

    Somewhere in the recesses of his memory he remembered the train wreck. The details were fuzzy, convoluted. It had all happened so quickly. No matter. They had no relevance. What mattered was that his prisoner had escaped. On his watch. But he had him, now. Fingers around his throat.

Can’t let go. Not this time.

    A cascade of blows rained down from above. A blunt object – the traditional murder weapon of countless murder mysteries – struck his arm. Rather than cause him to release his grip, the pain – and the association – pleased him. While he had no desire to be on Agatha Christie’s Orient Express, it reassured him he was on the right track, although the pun escaped him. On multiple levels.

A force greater than, or equal to, a mighty locomotive, pulled his victim away, proving that not even a homicide detective’s will was stronger than an electric engine. He hissed in frustration, groped for the windpipe and found only emptiness.

“Kimble!”

The man called Kimble, who was not Kimble, slapped him across the face. It was an entirely unprofessional act; one borne of anger and fear.

“Wake up, you fool! Open your eyes.” The speaker’s voice was raspy, the shouted sentences nearly incomprehensible. Especially when the listener did not want to believe. Only one avowal would make the man in the hospital bed believe and the other – the one who nearly sacrificed his life on the convoluted Alter of Justice – finally found them.

Like Gerard’s prisoner, it was an accident of Fate that finally granted him a second chance at life.

“I am not Richard Kimble!”

Sweat soaked, bloodied, clad in an agony of pain open, unlike hospital gowns, in the front, realization came crashing.

The third analogy in three seconds: right track; escape; crash.

The police officer was more of a literary man than he thought.

Agatha Christie would be proud.

“Who are you?” he questioned, eyelids fluttering open.

“Your doctor.” The addendum, You damn bastard, clearly transmitted.

His escaped prisoner was also a physician. Of the two, Gerard would have shunned one for the other.

He understood conundrums.

“Oh.”

Normally a polite man, for he had been raised by first generation Americans who had been reared by English parents, he would have added, “I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t a liar, and that would have been a falsehood. Not when he had been called, in so many thoughts, a damn bastard.

“You’re in the hospital. You have a broken right arm. Too bad.”

He heard the sneer and smiled.

“I’m left-handed. Ambidextrous, actually, but the left is my predominant side.”

“You also have a very severe concussion.”

His smile widened. He knew the law. If he suffered from concussion, then he was not responsible for his actions.

“I was hallucinating.”

He also knew how to set up a defense.

The physician rubbed his throat. As Gerard’s eyesight cleared, he saw the ugly red welts where his fingers had tried to choke the life out of the man who wasn’t an escaped murderer.

Innocent as charged.

    A play on words.

His smile faded.

“Where is Richard Kimble? Has he been found?”

A second man stepped up. The one who had pulled the physician away. Captain Luke Carpenter.

“Hello, Phil,” he tried. His expression reflected concern. Gerard could not be sure it was over the fact the prisoner had escaped or that he had tried to strangle the white-coated man. Out of deference to his superior, he granted him the former.

“Has Richard Kimble been caught?” he reiterated.

“Not yet.”

Looking around the room, Gerard realized he had no concept of time. That, more than the pain in his arm and the pounding in his head, disconcerted him.

“What day is it? How long have I been here?”

“Two days; forty-eight hours.”

The magnitude of missing time struck with horror.

“He’s been on the run that long and he hasn’t been captured? Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

“The local authorities. They’re doing all they can.”

“I doubt it.”

The captain misunderstood.

“You’re right, of course. A number of them have been assigned to investigate the train wreck. Terrible thing. Three people died; a man and two women. Scores were injured. Some were badly burned. There was a question whether one of them was your boy. He was brought in heavily bandaged. Fit the general description. He was wearing Kimble’s coat. We’re waiting on the fingerprint analysis to come back. The lab man was only able to get a partial.”

Gerard closed his eyes, making a vain attempt to quell his rising ire.

“It’s not him.”

“We have every hope it is.”

“He found a victim that resembled him and dressed the body. Clever. Very clever. That put off the manhunt by forty-eight hours. Lesson learned.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t underestimate him.”

“They are looking, Phil. With what staff they have.” “Phil’s” left arm twitched. He heaved a sigh and then smiled. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking, Captain. The irony of it all. Richard Kimble reported seeing a one-armed man.” He indicated the cast on his arm. “I’m now a one-armed man. Wrong arm, of course. I’ve just become the mirror-image of Dr. Kimble’s fantasy.”

Luke Carpenter wondered at the effect of the concussion his officer sustained.

“It’s no longer your concern.”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it is.”

“You’ll be in the hospital for a month. That’s what the doctor says.”

Gerard looked past his superior. The doctor had disappeared.

“I’ll sign myself out.”

Carpenter frowned. He didn’t like the implication.

“The police surgeon will be here to see you. He’ll have the final say on what you do and when you return to duty.”

“I want to see him today.”

“Your wife is outside. I think she has priority. Don’t you?”

“A month is out of the question. Richard Kimble could be half way across the country by then.”

“I’ll send her in. Be nice, Phil,” he added as he turned away.

Lieutenant Gerard had no idea what prompted that warning shot.

 

And he still didn’t, two years later.

Captain Carpenter watched the man standing in front of the translucent map of the United States and joined him.

“I’m thinking of retiring soon, Phil. I’d like you to take the test for captain.”

“Replace you, you mean? That’s unthinkable.”

“But I am thinking it. And you should be, too.”

“I can’t see myself as a captain, Luke. Too much…”

“Deskwork?”

“To be honest, yes. I’m not a pencil-pusher, I’m a –”

“– hunter?” Carpenter completed for him.

“I was going to say ‘investigator.’ I like to go out into the field. Get my hands dirty, so to speak.”

“Calling me a pencil-pusher just misses being a compliment, you know.”

Gerard uncharacteristically rested his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“If you took it as an insult, I apologize. You’ve done a wonderful job here. You’ve assembled an elite team of –”

“Investigators?” Carpenter finished with a smile.

“Yes. We do good work. Discipline is tight and morale has never been higher. I’m proud to work for you.”

Appreciating the closeness, the captain nevertheless moved away. Gerard casually lowered his arm.

“A man likes to leave a legacy and your words mean a lot to me.” Turning his back, he stepped away from the map. It had always bothered him. Right from the start. Not that it wasn’t a good idea; clever, in fact. And it had been constructed without using department funds. That was always a plus because the Kimble case had cost a great deal of money.

Had cost. Is costing, he corrected himself. His superiors had never been pleased with the manpower and the overtime spent attempting to confirm a suspect’s alibi, much less the money that came out of General Funds to cover the follow-up.

Wherever Kimble is, he’s out of our jurisdiction. Let some other police department capture him. Eventually, they will. In this day and age no one remains at large for long. Plaster his picture on every precinct and post office in the country. Get him on the “Most Wanted” list. Involve the FBI. He’s an interstate fugitive, after all. Once he crossed the state line, he fell into their hands.

    Carpenter might have been tempted to do just that, but for Gerard. The man simply wouldn’t let it go. He hadn’t lied when he told his officer the other men on the force thought him crazy. “Crazy,” of course, was not the word they used to describe Gerard’s hunt for Richard Kimble. He became known around the department as the police lieutenant obsessed with his capture.

“Obsessed” was not a good word. It implied discipline was loose and morale was low. The fact Phil Gerard had just stated the opposite did not bode well. It placed him at odds with his fellow cops. That had been noted on the captain’s last semi-annual review.

Two years is enough, Luke, the acting deputy police commissioner had advised him. Hal Ziegler had served in that capacity for years. In a small town like Stafford, all the ranks between captain and police commissioner were consolidated into DPC. The “acting” affixed to the title meant the community police board had never officially confirmed him. Although they had promised to “get around to it,” the subject was commonly believed to have more to do with salary and pension benefits than time.

What Hal Ziegler actually desired was to shed both the “acting” and the “deputy” and step into the role of PC: police commissioner. That was his aim but it was also his weakness.

“We can’t have that lieutenant flying all over the country wasting tax dollars. For God’s sakes, he flies more than Governor Branigin.”

The fact Governor Branigin had only been in office since January did not mitigate the charge.

“I realize that, sir. But Kimble’s escape is a black eye on the department. People accuse us of being… country hicks.”

“He escaped after a train wreck. No cop – not even one from New York or L.A. – could have anticipated a damn train wreck.”

“I realize that, sir. But if we don’t make every effort to recapture him, it looks as though we set a convicted murderer free to roam the country without lifting a finger. How would it look if he kills another woman? Then, we won’t be hicks, Hal, we’ll be co-conspirators.”

“Hardly that.”

“My point is, we’re lucky to have an officer who’s so dedicated to his job he won’t let it go. His respect for the law is an asset, not a detriment.”

“No one likes this ‘respect for the law’ of his. I’ve heard…”

He let the sentence dangle, prompting Carpenter to suspect the DPC had heard less than he implied. The fact it was true, however, was a warning.

“I keep him in check. He only goes when there’s substantial evidence Kimble has been spotted. More than that, only when there’s a legitimate chance of nabbing him.”
Ziegler flinched. “Nabbing” was not a word he would have chosen. He suspected the captain had only used it to separate them. Carpenter was a life-long policeman; Ziegler was a politician with connections. Not enough, apparently, to have “acting” and “deputy” removed from his title but enough to collect a hefty paycheck and be invited to the capital on state occasions and represent law enforcement at banquets and special legislative sessions.

“Just see to it he captures than damn doctor.”

“That’s the plan. One, I’m sure Governor Branigin appreciates. He’s a Democrat; he ran on a platform of law and order.”

Branigin was the third governor serving Indiana since the original murder. Harold Handley, a Republican, had been the state’s chief officer in 1960. He had never had the opportunity of commuting the convicted man’s sentence to life. In January, 1961, Matthew E. Welsh took the oath of office and served until January, 1965. It was he who had refused clemency. Most people thought he would have shown mercy, considering the fact Kimble had been convicted solely on circumstantial evidence. But he was known to be tight with the D.A. and had moved him into his cabinet as a legal advisor in 1964. That explained that.

Luke Carpenter defended Phillip Gerard because he respected him. Which did not say he always thought him right.

Or that he wasn’t obsessed.

 

Another sleepless night.

Phillip Gerard’s hand flipped the pages of his journal, eyes squinted in the dimness.

 

January 3, 1964 4:00 PM. – Friday

Call rec’d from Reno. Report of RK seen in a casino playing cards.

Spoke with the deputy. Description vague – 6′ grey hair, girl on his arm. Well dressed

Lost $200. Asked why he thought it was Kimble. “He had a guilty look about him.”

Ordered him to compare the face to the wanted poster.

 

7:30 PM. Waited in the office for the return call (3 hr difference) 4:30 local time

False alarm.

Right.

 

Underneath it, another entry.

 

Feb 1, 1964 1:32 PM. Upstate NY – Saturday

Local police called: man called to report RK sighting. Came to the door asking to shovel driveway for $2.00. Stated he recognized him from the poster hanging in the Post Office.

Officer investigated. Man with the shovel gone. Officer showed the WP to neighbors. Three locals on the same street remember the man with the shovel. Woman paid him $2 to shovel her driveway. Stated he did a poor job.

• Would Kimble be in upstate NY in the winter? Probably not
• Would Kimble do a “poor job”? No
• Positive ID? Doubtful

He remembered those early days as though they had been yesterday. So many false hopes. Some, like the call from Reno, were obviously a waste of time. At that point, Kimble had been on the run two months. The location fit but not the description.

Everyone wanted to be a hero. Catch the man on the run. Get their name and photograph in the newspapers.

The FBI Bureau in Indianapolis had issued the wanted poster under Title 18, U.S. Code, Section 1073: Unlawful flight to avoid confinement for murder.

“To avoid confinement for murder” was a euphemism. Kimble was running to avoid the electric chair. Not every state had the death penalty. Indiana was one of them.

Wisconsin was another.

Idle thought.

The Stafford police department had sent out teletypes with the additional information that if the fugitive was identified, captured or in some way incapacitated, local authorities were to contact Lt. Phillip Gerard. He was the authority on the case. The addendum had been both a blessing and a curse. Most reputable law enforcement officers picked up the phone and called. Whether or not they had legitimate information on Richard Kimble’s whereabouts, he added their data to his journal. That was the positive. The downside turned out to be when the locals wanted the glory for themselves. In that case, they went on the hunt alone. The success of those errors in judgment were also chronicled in the pages of his notebook. That he hadn’t inscribed his opinion of such wanton neglect of duty was testimony to his steadfast resolve not to clutter his notes with personal animosity.

The first six months had been a nightmare. Numerous calls; as many dead ends. Not one single positive sighting. Richard Kimble, it seemed, had disappeared off the face of the earth.

“He’s gone to Mexico, Phil,” Captain Carpenter had lectured him one day in March. Gerard had been out of the office when the call came; there had been a scramble to find a translator before the officer on the other end put another man on the phone. His English had been halting but he managed to make himself understood. “El fugitivo” had been found. He was working at a clinic, calling himself a medical doctor.

Carpenter had gotten the number; Gerard had called them back.

“Hold him. I’m coming down.”

“Not without confirmation, you’re not,” his superior had warned. “They can hold him and send his fingerprints back here. If they match, then you can go. But there will be extradition papers. Mexico is a foreign country. Red tape. Wait and see.”

He had relayed the message and waited. No fingerprints ever arrived. When he called a week later, no one admitted to making the phone call. There was no gringo working at any clinic. They were mistaken.

That had been a bad day. Everyone at the office avoided him. They didn’t want their head snapped off. But it had been a lesson learned. That night after the supper plates had been washed and put away, Gerard had held a one-way discussion with his wife.

“Mexico,” he thoughtfully began. “What do you think? Richard Kimble in Mexico.”

Knowing beforehand his question was rhetorical, Marie hadn’t bothered to reply.

“That’s something I hadn’t considered. Mexico. Canada. South America. He could lose himself overseas in a hundred different countries.”

She went to put the children to bed. When she returned she found him in exactly the same attitude, his expression unchanged. She described it to herself as something between contemplative and puzzled. Seeing her, he resumed his soliloquy.

“Everything depends on his state of mind. Does he really believe a one-armed man killed his wife? If he doesn’t, of course, then there’s nothing stopping him from adopting an assumed identity and leaving the country.”

“He’ll need a passport,” she tried, more for the sake of having something to say than any belief in aiding his mental musings. He surprised her, therefore, by responding.

“Anyone can get a forged passport. Florida; New York; California. Buy one in any back room. The more you spend the better they are, of course. All he has to do is work for a month, save his money, ask around. Eventually, he’ll find out where to buy one. He’s living on the streets, don’t forget. Picking up street savvy. That’s another thing I’ll have to take into consideration. He’s not a respected, well-to-do physician anymore. He’ll have to live by his hands and his wits. Truck driver; farm laborer; babysitter,” he added in disgust, hearing a wail from one of the bedrooms. “Do you know what one of the witnesses testified to at trial? He has an honest face.” His nose crinkled in annoyance. “As if that were a valid observation.”

“I think he does.”

Lost in thought, Gerard stared blankly at her.

“Does what?”

“Have an honest face.”

“Who?”

“Richard Kimble. Don’t you?”

“I suppose Jack the Ripper had an honest face, too. That’s why he was able to lure so many women to their deaths.”

She let it go.

“If he’s a truck driver, he’ll need a driver’s license.”

“Maybe he’s learned how to pick pockets.”

“Then, you think that was really him? In Mexico?”

His reply was longer in coming.

“No.”

“Would you be able to extradite him from Mexico?”

“Eventually.”

“Then, you think it was him.”

His fingers rapped on the table.

“I wanted to think so. But I never really believed it.”

“Why not?”

Marie had the sinking feeling she would have this conversation many more times before it was all over.

“Because I think he really has convinced himself there was a one-armed man.”

“What difference does that make?”

Leaning back in the chair, his eyes finally focused on her.

“Imagine yourself a one-armed man. You’ve just murdered a woman. Your luck is running high; the police pin the crime on the husband. You’ve gotten away Scott free. All well and good. But then the man who took the rap for your crime escapes. You know he saw you: can identify you. You also reason that if he ever wants to clear his name, he has to find you. That nothing on this earth – except getting caught – will prevent him from searching. What do you do?”

“Run.”

“All right. You run. You’re running and Kimble’s running but you have one big advantage over him. The police aren’t looking for you: they’re looking for your pursuer. You can walk down any street in any state and no one gives you a second glance. But Kimble can’t. His face is on every police station and post office wall. He isn’t safe anywhere – except outside the country.”

“So, I stay in the United States.”

“That’s right. You want the police to do your dirty work for you.”

“Phil, the odds on Richard Kimble finding that man is one in a million; a needle in a haystack. I don’t think I’d take that chance.”

That peaked his curiosity.

“Really?”

“He’s facing execution. If he gets caught he’s a dead man. No, I think I’d just as soon go to Brazil or Europe somewhere and make a new life.”

His hand flattened on the table.

“Then, let’s hope he doesn’t think like you.”

I hope, she thought. I hope the murderer with the honest face stays right here in the U.S. because otherwise, you’ll be the one on the run while Richard Kimble turns into Jack Spratt and eats all the fat.

    She had forgotten the exact rhythm but that was close enough.

Link to Chapter 10