Pursuit

by: S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 13

“I warned you never to come on my property again.” The woman standing at the door looked angry. It was late. She clutched the sweater around herself as though it were a vest designed to ward off evil spirits. “Did you come with a warrant this time? Don’t bother. Richard isn’t here. He hasn’t called. I don’t know where he is. And no, under no circumstances, can you speak with my children. I don’t care if you have the authority granted by –”

She faltered for the word and finally let the sentence dangle.

“I must speak with you – and your husband – in private. I don’t have a warrant. I’m not on that sort of a visit.”

He inwardly cringed at the word “visit” and wished he had chosen another word.

The woman took a step back. Tears immediately sprang into her eyes.

“Oh, my God. Won’t you… please come in?”

Certainty had overcome anger. Politeness replaced bitterness.

He knew the feelings.

Removing his hat, he stepped into the foyer.

“Wait here… if you will. I’ll just go get Leonard. And – put the children to bed.”

“I think that advisable.”

Flustered, heart beating too fast to catch her breath, Donna made a desultory wave of her hand.

“Or, would you rather wait in the living room?”

Living room.

    “I’ll wait here.”

He heard the tension in her voice as she ushered the boys into their bedrooms; detected the edges of panic as she called for her husband.

“What is it?” he called from another part of the house.

“Lieutenant Gerard is here. I need you.”

“What does he want?” came the growled, annoyed interrogative. “Did you tell him he’s not welcome here?”

“Something’s happened to Dick.”

“Oh. All right. I’ll be just a minute.”

He did not need to hear the word Hurry! to hear it.

She came back, nervously wringing her hands, this beloved champion and stout defender, though her armor be dented and lance batted to the ground. Three years ago she would have worn the same expression; would have knitted, then unknitted her hands in the same manner. That would have been while she waited for the phone call to tell her of the fait accompli: that the legal sentence of execution had been completed.

Watching her with cat’s eyes, reflecting either the orbs of a cunning predator or those of a familiar companion, the striking resemblance between brother and sister struck Gerard with powerful force. Although physically little alike, her with her red hair and freckles, he with his once prematurely-greying hair and tall, lean frame, there was a similarity of movement; the furtive, almost, but not quite defenseless movements of an animal trapped in a cage but determined to fight.

Fight, but not murder.

    The thought came to him and he shuddered.

I’d rather Captain Carpenter had sent someone else. The news I bear will sound vindictive or triumphant coming from me. I hunted him to the grave.

    Luke Carpenter would have understood Phillip Gerard’s thought. In fact, were it within his power, he would have encouraged it. Not that he wished to torture the Tafts; they, along with Helen Kimble, were the innocent victims in the evolving tragedy. Nor, even that he believed Richard Kimble was guilty; that salient fact he had dismissed long ago as being beyond his realm of influence. He thought it only fair to Gerard. As a human being and an officer of the law. In either order.

Finish what you started, Phil. There are consequences in life we are all responsible for. Your number just came up. Face the music because when it stops, you have to go on.

She tried a smile; the upturn of one corner of her mouth. He knew that expression well.

“He’s coming; my husband… Leonard. I’m sorry. He was in the shower.”

“No need to apologize. I’ll wait.”

I have all the time in the world. Now.

    “Would you like some… coffee?”

Politeness in the face of pending devastation. As though that could change the outcome, alter Fate. Try anything; bargain with the devil if that’s what it took. If she didn’t understand her motives, he did.

How to answer? Give her hope or dash her piteous attempt at bribing god?

“Yes. Thank you.”

Neither assurance not rebuff, he offered her five more minutes of time, aware that the threads of sand had already fallen through.

He felt her relief the way a change in atmospheric pressure brought on an electrical storm.

He should have refused, yet something inside him wished to stave off the thunder and lightning.

“Fine. I’ll just go make some. Please. Come into the living room. I’ll just be a moment.

One ‘please,’ two ‘just.’

    “Just” comprised the first four letters of justice.

One ‘living.’

    Three-to-one. Ironically, the odds were not in their favor.

He followed her and sat in the armchair, presuming the couple would prefer the couch for themselves. Where they could sit, side-by-side. For comfort, when the inevitable came crashing.

In that, he erred for when Leonard Taft came into the living room, hair wet from washing, the subtle scent of soup enveloping him, he did not sit. He remained standing.          

    “Lieutenant,” he greeted in a nondenominational tone.

“Mr. Taft,” he countered, rising to his feet. Neither made any attempt to shake hands.

“What brings you here?”

“I’d rather wait until your wife is present.”

I don’t want to have to say it twice.

    “Perhaps you had better tell me and I’ll break the news to her.”

“She may have questions.”

“Will it matter?”

“I can’t answer for her.”

“Is it bad news?”

This time, the officer opted not to reply, so they stood, ten paces apart, waiting for Gerard, as the challenged, to take the first shot.

They might have stood there forever on the so-called Field of Honor but when Donna returned with a tray holding three cups and saucers, a carafe, a sugar bowl and a small, crockery pitcher very similar to one he had in his own home, all bets were off.

The two men waited until she sat, then followed her example. She poured the coffee and asked the obligatory, “Do you take cream or sugar?” and he replied, “Just black” and accepted the cup. No one made any effort to drink. One ritual completed, another about to begin.

“Mrs. Taft, I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad news.”

Leonard was the first to react.

“You have the audacity of saying ‘sad’ when you hounded the poor man to –”

He left off the last word with the understanding he need not verbalize it.

Gerard turned to Donna.

“Your brother is dead.”

Although she had guessed, hearing it brought a short cry to her lips. It was a long moment before she composed herself but then her jaw jutted. So like her brother.

“How? Did you shoot him?”

In the back?

    “No. I received word this afternoon. He was in Vermont. Bennington. The police there notified me.”

Her eyebrows furrowed.

“Strange, isn’t it, you were the one they called? Not the next of kin.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Leonard snapped, “Couldn’t they have sent someone else with the gladsome tidings?” but she waved him to silence.

“How did it happen?”

“A traffic accident. A woman and her son were crossing the street. A truck skidded on the ice. The driver would have struck them. Dr. Kimble witnessed the impending accident and rushed into the street. He pushed them to safety. The truck hit him. He died on the scene.”

“He died a hero.”

“Yes. You could say that.”

“He saved two lives.” She bit the inside of her lip. “He died as he lived: a good, honest man. A man who cared more about other people than he did himself. A man who was born to be a doctor; a man innocent of sin.”

Gerard let the opportunity to object pass. She continued as though his silence were irrelevant, which it was not. Leaning back on the couch, her expression grew reflective.

“My brother was a healer, Lieutenant. He fought disease the way other men went into battle. Always with the belief he could succeed. He cared so deeply. A child’s pain was his pain. ‘Trust me and I will make you well.’ Sometimes, faith is stronger than medicine. He knew that. He instilled a belief in the sanctity of life.” She caught her breath a moment before continuing. “Not that he failed to comprehend the inevitability of death. He understood that, too. But he was gentle. So gentle. I remember, once, when he came home after telling the parents of a critically ill child it was only a matter of hours. He held their hands; prayed with them. He wasn’t a minister, Lieutenant, but he saw their need for faith.

“‘Cry for what might have been,’ he said, ‘but I want you to believe God has a plan. I’m not saying either you or I understand it, but the path is there for us to take. Follow it. Let the love you have for your child sustain you. I won’t say strengthen you. But let that love give you the power to face another day. And the day after that. Let your bitterness fade. Look back in fondness rather than regret. Learn how to smile and laugh again, even if, at first, you have to manufacture those emotions. Do that for your child. Do if for each other. Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it allows you to survive, so when your time comes it will be right and proper. You’ll be ready for that final reunion.'”

Donna Taft smiled.

“Richard came home and he wept as he told me those words. I wept with him. It was like that, between us. We were two peas in a pod. As close as any brother and sister ever were. I love him and I will love him forever. I know his… soul, Mr. Gerard. You’ll forgive me a touch of bitterness when I tell you he shouldn’t have been in ‘Bennington’ when he died. You chased him there. You, who wouldn’t forget. You, who wouldn’t open your mind to the possibility of his innocence. You, who clung to the law as though it were some sort of sacred shield. That’s your fatal flaw. Something you’ll have to live with. When you die, will you be reconciled to the fact that duty was a more sacred calling than humanity? I don’t know and frankly, I don’t care. God put Richard in Bennington to save two lives and so he died the way he had lived. If that was the ‘plan,’ then I accept it. Now go and leave me alone to grieve.”

Gerard stood, stared at Leonard, hesitated, then cleared his throat.

“I’m leaving. But before I go, I have to address another matter. One… duty requires of me.”

“And what is that?” Taft demanded.

“The body will be taken back by train. The police here have no further…”

Taft got to his feet, fists clenched.

“You expect us to pay for the transportation?”

“No,” he quickly reassured him. “We’ll cover that. But I thought, perhaps… you would want to make the final arrangements. Have a funeral parlor accept the –”

“Don’t say it!” Donna cried and he quickly rephrased his thought.

“Yes, Lieutenant Gerard,” Taft sighed in anger. “We’ll make the arrangements.” His voice grew stringent. “We still have the plot we purchased so long ago. And now the law is finally satisfied. It will have the opportunity of seeing it filled. Good for you. Case closed.”

“I would have had it otherwise.”

“Yes. You’d rather have had him executed in proper, legal fashion. I bet it galls you that Richard died a hero. I bet it’ll eat at your guts from now until eternity. I don’t know why Donna told you that story. Your ears aren’t pure enough to hear it.”

Gerard tipped his head in Taft’s direction.

“If I may tell my superiors you will handle the affair, then I’ll take my leave.”

“Do so. And don’t ever come back. Enjoy the rest of your life, Gerard. Before you rot in hell.”

Donna stood and grasped her husband’s hand.

“Not now, Len. I don’t want to hear it. Dick wouldn’t want you to talk like that.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll see you to the door, Lieutenant.”

“I can find my own way out. Thank you. And Mrs. Taft – I truly am sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry you never caught the one-armed man.” The color faded from her cheeks. “You might keep looking, you know. Because he’s out there. Richard… left him for you to find. He’s your albatross, now. I have a very strong conviction you will find him. And when you do… I want you to weep. No more than that. Just weep.”

“Good night, Mrs. Taft.”

He let himself out.

Which was not the same thing as escaping.

For all practical purposes, Donna Taft had bestowed upon him a new pursuit.

Or, was it an old one?

 

“Why are you packing your good black suit?”

Gerard turned to his wife with a puzzled state.

“I’m going to identify a body and make arrangements for it to be transported back to Stafford. What would you have me wear?”

“Why do you have to identify him? The fingerprints did that better than your eyes could.”

“Not better.”

“What, then?”

“Just… differently.”

Hands on her hips, Marie Gerard tried to get past the invisible wall her husband had erected around himself.

“Ever since you got back from the Tafts you’ve been moping. You’re acting as though you’ve lost a friend, or… or a son, or something. Richard Kimble wasn’t any of those things. He was a man who killed his wife. He got away from you – I understand all that. It wasn’t your fault but you blame yourself. I understand that, too. God knows, I’ve lived with it all these years. But he’s dead, Phil. Dead and gone. Soon, he’ll be dead and buried.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“What I don’t understand is why you have to go. A body doesn’t need a chaperone. All it needs is a tag on its toe.” He flinched and she knew she had hurt him. “All right; that was cruel. But I’m not sorry he’s dead. I’m not even sorry his death made him a martyr, or maybe only a little so. He had nothing to look forward to but more pain and frustration. Have you ever once stopped to think about that? About his life on the run was like?”

“Yes,” he said and could not tell from her expression where she was surprised or not; whether she believed him or the contrary.

“It’s better this way.”

“Why?” he asked to see what she would say. It had been a long time since they had an intimate conversation: even one that involved Richard Kimble.

“Because now you’re both free. And I’ll even say it: with dignity. He didn’t have to be dragged, kicking and screaming to the electric chair.”

He wouldn’t have done that, Gerard thought, too low to be picked up on any mental wavelength.

“And now you’re free to put him behind you. No more jumping when the phone rings; no more late night flights and desperate searches. I’ve seen what these last years have done to you, Phil. You’re a changed man. I… I want you back the way you were.”

Then, you’re bound to be disappointed, because there is no going back. I am what I have become.

    “I want our own freedom back. The opportunity to go on a private retreat together. The children want their father back.” She waited for him to speak and he remained mute. “This is another Halloween you’re going to miss. An important date in a child’s life. And you won’t be here for me, either. Just once I’d like to be able to count on you to answer the door, or take Frances out trick-or-treating. In so many ways I’ve been a single parent to them. It’s hard and I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“Of course you are. So, put that suit back in the closet and take out the old one. It still fits you and I had it dry-cleaned so it’s presentable.”

“Why is that so important to you?”

It was a test and Marie understood it as such.

“Because he’s dead, Phil. Because it’s unseemly for you to grieve for him. You hunted him like a dog. It’s too late for regrets, now.”

“Is that what you think? That I hunted him like a dog?”

“Didn’t you?”

“If that’s what you think, kindly explain to me why.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why are we having this discussion?”

“I’d like an answer. It’s important to me.” It was her turn to remain silent. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone; better than I know myself, perhaps. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Yes. I think you hunted him like a dog. I know what they say about you down at the station: that you’re obsessed. That’s not a good thing for your peers to think. You deserve better.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

It had come to this.

“I think your ego was bruised. I think you were angry.”

There was more to come.

“And?”

“I think you did everything possible to find that one-armed man. No one could have – would have done more. The trial was a disaster – in the end, it all hinged on you. You were the one who stated categorically in court that there was no one-armed man. That, in your opinion, Dr. Kimble made him up. The psychiatrist backed you up. He testified that guilty people often created fantasies to ease their guilty conscience.”

“Keep going.”

“‘Your’ Dr. Kimble never broke down. Never gave an inch. ‘I saw him. He was there. I don’t know why the police haven’t found him. I swear I never killed my wife!'” She paused for breath. He waited. “How could the jury do anything else but find him guilty? And so they did. He was guilty and therefore, you were innocent. A guilty verdict exonerated you. It was tacit agreement that you, as lead investigator, did everything humanly possible. The problem was, Phil – or, is –you don’t think of yourself as human.”

He tried a smile. She knew him too well to be deceived.

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know. The jury said he was guilty, therefore your self-image remained intact.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Ah, no,” she corrected, annoyed at his sarcasm. “You didn’t believe it. In your heart – and yes, Lieutenant, you do have one – you doubted. If it hadn’t been for that train wreck, you might eventually have convinced yourself otherwise. His escape changed everything. It gave you an excuse to put on your suit of armor. Not the good black one you’re going to wear, but the suit of shining armor. In your mind you became the White Knight. ‘Capture the fugitive.’ It was logical. It was your duty. The dedicated cop. You had the excuse you were looking for. It was no longer a matter of ‘I didn’t look hard enough.’ In your mind, it became, ‘He got away from me.’ There could be no doubt of that. Your pursuit allowed you to stop questioning. It worked for a while, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But not forever. You’ve spent too much time dwelling on him. Learning his idiosyncrasies; listening to what people – ordinary people – had to say about him. It didn’t match up. You never found that streak of temper that would have allowed Doctor Kimble to beat his wife to death. Yet, he was still adjudged guilty and you still had your job to do. What a terrible conundrum for you, Phil. I’d almost pity you, but I pity myself and the children more. If only you had let it go.”

“He’s guilty, Marie.”

“That’s why you’re packing your good black suit. To mourn a murderer.”

“I’m doing it out of respect. The man is dead. He saved two lives.”

Cry for what might have been, but I want you to believe God has a plan.    

Marie Gerard gave up.

“Come to bed, Phil. It’s late. Finish your packing in the morning. Wear whatever you want to. I don’t care.”

“I’ll be along in a minute. You lie down. I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”

How many times had she heard that before?

 

Does God really have a plan? Is that what this is all about? That you could be convicted and escape just so you’d be in Bennington at just the right moment to save two lives?

    Phillip Gerard, who believed and didn’t believe; who was and was not god, slumped in his chair. The den was dark. It matched his thoughts.

Whether it matched his soul or the soul of Dr. Kimble remained up in the air.

His fingers riffled the pages of his journal.

“He’s guilty,” he spoke aloud. “I did everything humanly possible to find that one-armed man. He simply wasn’t there. He doesn’t exist.”

We, the jury, find the defendant, Richard David Kimble, guilty of the first degree murder of Helen Anne Kimble, one human being.

 

Sept 20, 1960 9:00 A.M. – Tuesday

The arrest of Dr. Richard Kimble

A.M. briefing – Capt C; officers Staten, Ratok and Willingham

 

The notation was short. The memories were long.

 

“I want you to go armed, Lieutenant,” Captain Carpenter warned.

“I’m not in the habit of carrying a gun. Besides,” he argued. “A gun’s not his M.O.”

The ranking officer held his ground.

“In one of your reports you stated he was a champion skeet shooter. That means he knows how to handle firearms. He was also a medic in Korea. He may not have used a gun against the enemy but he went through basic training. I don’t want any slip-ups: especially if he turns rogue. You’re in charge. You set the example.”

“Yes, sir.”

Retrieving his pistol, one of two he owned, from a locked drawer in his desk, Gerard and Carpenter met the other three men on the detail. It became Gerard’s turn to speak.

“Our assignment this morning, as you’ve already aware, is to arrest a suspect on the charge of first degree murder. The suspect’s name is Richard Kimble. He’s staying at his sister’s house. Her name is Mrs. Taft. Besides her, there are two children under the age of five and a husband. I’ve had the house under surveillance and the husband has already left for work so he shouldn’t be a factor. Neither Kimble nor his sister are expecting us.”

He paused to make eye contact with his men.

“We will take two unmarked cars: Ratok and I will be in the lead car, Staten and Willingham will be in the second. Once parked outside the residence I will lead the way to the front door and knock. When it’s opened, I will either address Mrs. Taft and ask to speak with Dr. Kimble, or, if he comes to the door, I will inform him of the charge and arrest him. I will place handcuffs on the suspect and lead him back to the vehicle, Staten and Willingham on either side of him. Ratok, you go ahead of us and open the rear door. Once he is inside, I will sit beside him. While I don’t expect resistance, stay on your guard. I remind you, this is a murder suspect and he must be considered dangerous. Questions?”

“Armed and dangerous?”

“Unknown.”

“What if he runs for it?”

“We give chase. Staten to the left, Willingham to the right. I’ll take the direct route. Ratok, you stay behind with Mrs. Taft and the children. She is not to use the telephone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shall we shoot him to bring him down?” Staten asked in a deep, professional voice.

“Keep in mind we’re in a residential neighborhood where women and children are often outside on their lawns and in the streets. I advise extreme caution – unless he shoots first. In that case, act as judgment requires.”

They nodded agreement.

 

9:40 A.M.

Arrest of Dr. Kimble

Uncomplicated

 

The black police sedans rolled to a stop outside the Taft residence. Gerard disembarked first, waited for his men to form behind and slightly to either side, then walked, stiff-legged to the door. He noted a curtain rustle and knew their presence had been detected. He knocked and waited. Richard Kimble answered his summons. He appeared taller than Gerard remembered; thinner and considerably paler. His expression held no emotion. Behind him stood Donna Taft. In contrast, she appeared hostile and tense.

Without a word being spoken, Kimble met his adversary’s eyes, silently requested a moment, and turned to Donna.

“Sis, see to the boys. Keep them in their room.”

Her back stiffened.

“Dick, they’re here to arrest you.” She shook a fist at Gerard. “How can you?”

“Please, Donna. Do as I said.”

She hesitated, then quietly disappeared. That gave Gerard the impetus to speak.

“Dr. Kimble, I am arresting you on a charge of first degree murder. I’m asking that you come quietly.”

“I understand.”

“Hold up your arms.”

He did so and the officer carefully searched him for a weapon. Finding none, he removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and clicked them into place over the suspect’s wrists. Without a further word, Kimble was escorted to the car and placed in the back seat, Gerard following.

Everything had gone according to plan. Lieutenant Gerard’s plan. Dr. Kimble’s plan, if he had one, was never expressed.

 

11:00 A.M.

Interview with Tom Burnett (He had been waiting for me to get back from another task)

* Remind Marie not to discuss the Kimble case with Ada Burnett

 

“What do you mean, you charged him with first degree murder?” attorney Tom Burnett demanded in extreme agitation. “That means premeditation with malice aforethought. There’s no way you can hope to justify that charge before a judge.”

Gerard pushed back in his chair and stood. Although men of equal heights, the lieutenant seemed to tower over the lawyer.

“I don’t set the charge, Ton. That’s done by the district attorney. You know that as well as I do. He decides what he thinks he can get a conviction on and that’s what he goes for.”

Burnett backed off, but it was clear he was shaken.

“Surely, he must have asked your opinion.”

“I gave Captain Carpenter my reports, we discussed our options and he forwarded them to Ballinger. That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you.”

“But you recommended Dr. Kimble be charged with the crime?”
“The district attorney speaks for me. What he says I support. As does Captain Carpenter,” he added before Burnett could ask. “You understand the system.”

“System, be damned. Ballinger is ambitious. He smells a high-powered white-collar crime that’ll garner him headlines. He won’t be so smug when I defeat him in court. What do you say to that?”

“Nothing.”

A beat, then, “Is he going for the death sentence for Murder One? You can at least tell me that, can’t you?”

“I don’t know the answer and if I did, it wouldn’t be my place to say.”

“Don’t you care?”

Gerard arched an eyebrow in surprise.

“Care? What does that have to do with anything?”

“An innocent man going on trial for murder? Even if he’s acquitted, his life will be in tatters; his reputation in Stafford ruined. You know how people are. This is a tragedy in the making: compounding the death of Helen Kimble.”

“I investigated the case, I assembled the facts, I wrote the reports and I submitted them to my superior. What else would you have of me?”

“Find the real killer.”

“We’ve been through this before. I won’t discuss it again with you. It’s your job to defend him. You find him. I’m through looking.” A pause and then, “There is no one-armed man.”

Hands akimbo, Burnett snarled at his friend.

“Are you telling me if a one-armed man walked into the station right now and confessed, you wouldn’t believe him?”

“That’s not going to happen. I don’t speculate on the ridiculous.”

The attorney’s shoulders sagged.

“Please, Phil. For the sake of decency. Maybe you believe he’s guilty. But not premeditation. Not malice aforethought. Speak to Mike Ballinger. Try and convince him to go light.”

“Good-bye, Tom.” Gerard indicated the door. “Nice seeing you again. Don’t come back here while this case is open. It doesn’t look good. For either one of us.”

“Sure. See you Saturday night for cards?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ellie will be sorry to hear that.”

“Why?”

“She’s interested in the case.”

“One more reason not to go.” He tried a smile. “Besides, she cheats at cards.”

“Really?”

“Honest Injun.”

“Obviously, she doesn’t do it well if you picked it up.”

“I have an eye for such things.”

“They say you have an eye for fairness, too. Make sure you use both of them.”

Annoyed that he had left himself open for that, Gerard watched as his friend made his way slowly from the room. He had never heard it said he had an eye for fairness, although he considered that to be true. He also wished Mike Ballinger had gone after Murder Two. That was what he and Captain Carpenter had agreed upon. The D.A.’s charge had come as much of a surprise to him as it had to Kimble’s lawyer.

Having nothing to do for the next ten minutes or so, he wandered into Captain Carpenter’s outer office, stopping by his secretary.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” she greeted. She might have addressed him by his first name except for the glum expression on his face.

“The boss in?”

She looked over her shoulder, saw Carpenter as clearly as the detective, and called, “You in?”

The officer looked back through the open door, easily identified who was there and asked, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Gerard spoke for himself.

“Do I want to see you?”

“Probably not.”

Responding to the wave of his hand, Gerard entered, shutting the door behind him.

“Uh oh. That kind of a talk? Don’t answer. I know what you want.”

“What’s the answer?”

“He wants to see him get off? No jury’s going to convict on first degree.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I saw Tom Burnett go by. What did he want?”

“An answer to the same question I’m asking.”

“Why from you?”

“He wanted me to intervene.”

Carpenter walked to the window and stared outside. When he didn’t like what he saw, he turned back in disgust.

“I don’t like this case, Phil. I don’t like Ballinger and I have a feeling they’re going to assign Judge Iler to hear it.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I know. None of it tastes right.” He ground his teeth before adding, “Just because a man has no alibi doesn’t mean he committed the crime. He might, you know… have been smarter to keep his damn mouth shut. It’s easier to believe nothing than it is to tell a story that has the ring of falsehood about it. A boy in a boat no one can find; a one-armed man who disappeared off the face of the earth. He should have gotten a lawyer sooner.” Gerard stared out the window. “What about Tom Burnett, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, apparently having found something of interest the captain had failed to identify, for he kept his eyes directed outside.

“He’s not exactly Clarence Darrow.”

“They say he’s a whiz at fixing parking tickets,” Gerard tried.

“He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

“I suppose you could say that. I’ve known him some time. Never had any professional dealings with him.”

“Why didn’t Kimble go after one of the big boys? He can afford it.”

“I’m afraid he didn’t realize the seriousness of his situation.”

“Do you think he does, now?”

“No.”

“Jesus, Phil. I hope you’re wrong.”

“Who’s going to tell him?”

“You’re right. It’s not our business.”

The two men had nothing more to say to one another. Carpenter waited for Gerard to leave. When he finally got the hint, he nodded respectfully and started for the door.

“Phil?”

He stopped and turned back.

“Yes?”

“If I ever commit a crime, remind me to have a plausible alibi. Like, I was going over Niagara Falls in a barrel at the time it was committed. At midnight – when no one was watching. After I had just checked out of my hotel room.”

Gerard tried hard to make sense of the statement and failed.

“Why would you commit a crime?”

“It was a joke. Let it go.”

Gerard worked on the Captain’s word puzzle all the way home. He was not good at letting things go.

 

Chapter 14

 

Sept 21, 1960 10:15 A.M. – Wednesday

Mike Ballinger

Case for the defense. Why?

 

As a coldness stole over him in the deep, penetrating darkness of night, Gerard stared at his own writing, tightly scrawled over the pages of the journal now five years past. He wondered if it were actually that easy to flip through time, what he would have done differently.

No, he corrected himself. What I could have done differently.

    The answer to that was self-evident.

Nothing.

 

The pre-trial publicity was intense. Reporters hung around the police station, hoping for an interview with any police officer who would speak to them. None would and they were forced to settle for formal announcements that managed to say nothing in one hundred words or fewer. A week before jury selection was to begin Gerard’s photo appeared on page one of the Stafford Times. The caption read: The man behind the arrest of Dr. Richard Kimble. The article, little more elucidative, offered a thumbnail sketch of his background and years with the police force, mentioning two commendations he had received and the citation for bravery the mayor, several elections ago, had bestowed on him. Gerard was, the reporter declared, “The man on whom the prosecution rests.”

The following morning, D.A. Ballinger called him into his office. The newspaper sat on his desk.

“Have you seen this?” he began as an opener.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“Where did they get the photograph?”

“You can see for yourself it wasn’t posed. I imagine someone with a camera was waiting outside when I came in or left and took it then.”

“The article may be nice for your wife to cut out and frame but it’s inappropriate.”

“I’ll tell her to throw it out.”

Because he couldn’t tell whether or not the officer was kidding, Ballinger frowned.

“I think it best we go over your testimony.”

Although it was not unusual for counsel for the prosecution to review questions and answers with witnesses before calling them to the stand, this particular request irked Gerard.

“You already know what I have to say. I’ve put it in black and white. There’s nothing new to add.”

“Do you believe the defendant to be guilty?”

Because that was not the question he was expecting, Gerard paused a moment to consider.

“I was the arresting officer.”

“That doesn’t reflect your opinion, one way or the other.”

“Are you going to ask me these questions on the stand?” he finally demanded in a stern but respectful voice.

“Don’t be a fool. Of course not. As you say, I already know what’s in your reports. Your investigation is what I’m basing my arguments on. Point-by-point. But I want to know how convincing you’ll sound.”

This time, the D.A. hit a nerve.

“Captain Carpenter and I thoroughly discussed the case before he recommended Dr. Kimble be charged. I agreed with his assessment.”

“Which was?”
“In crimes where a wife is murdered, the husband is always the first suspect. He admitted to arguing with her; this was collaborated by neighbors. The night in question he fled the house, claiming to have driven around before stopping by the river back. There was no definitive evidence there to substantiate his presence at the date and time in question. He stated he saw a boy fishing from a rowboat. No trace of that boy has been found despite repeated inquiry by the police and pleas by the defense. After several hours during which time he ‘cooled down’ he drove home, nearly running into a one-armed man he saw leave the vicinity of the house. I personally conducted a search. I located seventeen one-armed men in total. Dr. Kimble and his attorney viewed them in various line-ups. According to Dr. Kimble, none of them were the man he saw.”

Gerard stopped talking and stared at the D.A. Ballinger stared back a moment, then crossed his arms and affected a casual pose.

“If you were… Dr. Kimble’s attorney, how would you defend him?”

“I wouldn’t.”

Ballinger did a double-take, dropping his arms.

“You wouldn’t defend him?”

“I wouldn’t speculate because I’m not his attorney.”

Controlling his temper, Ballinger tried again.

“I’m newly elected. You and I have yet to forge a relationship. You understand teamwork is vital to our success in prosecuting criminals.”

“Of course.”

“They say you have a sharp mind.” Gerard opted not to acknowledge the compliment. “I respect your opinion. I’d like to hear your thoughts on how the defense will approach the case.”

Underlying the request was a tacit order to speak. Because it was not in his nature to openly disobey, he gave the matter due consideration. While doing so, he took out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Ballinger who accepted it, then struck a match to light it. He did not light his from the same match but blew it out and struck another for his cigarette.

“The most obvious point to emphasize is the lack of motive. Men don’t kill their wives because they won’t agree to adopt a child. I would begin by arguing Dr. Kimble’s statement that he left the house to calm down was the only plausible explanation. As a physician, I would remind the jury he was used to handling situations that turn rapidly from unpleasant into a crisis. His training would dictate he step back, re-evaluate and wait for a more opportune time to renew the discussion.”

He drew on the cigarette, then switched it from his left hand to his right before continuing.

“Clearly, the existence – or lack thereof – of the one-armed man is critical. Here, the defense has some leeway. First, I would argue that it suspends belief an intelligent man would make up such a story that is… disprovable. There are dozens of better perpetrators to point the finger at. Why say he has one arm at all? If he were making it up, why not just say he saw a nondescript man running away and describe him in such a manner that the height, weight and facial features could be anyone? Once I had given credence to that point, I’d go after the police lieutenant in charge of the case.”

“That would be you.”

“Not if I’m the defense attorney.”

Ballinger scowled and stubbed out his cigarette, having failed to take a single drag.

“I stand corrected. Go on.”

“I’d grill him over and over, charging him with sloppy police work. I’d claim he – and by association, the entire police department – didn’t try hard enough to find the correct man. I’d name ten or fifteen ways the one-armed man could have slipped away from the dragnet. The more likely I make it sound, the more the jury is prone to believe me. I would call expert witnesses who would testify how simple it is for a robber – for I’d have to argue it was a robbery gone bad – to get away.”

Because he had already thought both the prosecution and defense out, Gerard’s task proved a matter of merely repeating his reasoning.

“The problem with that, of course, is that nothing was stolen. That’s explained by using the defendant’s statement he was driving down the street immediately after the murder took place. The actual killer heard the car, was fearful the driver was the husband returning home and didn’t want to be caught. Therefore, he runs out into the street. The timeline is tight but it makes sense. Once all that had been introduced, the most important factor becomes the character of the defendant. I would remind the jury he is a physician – a pediatrician. He’s dedicated his career to saving life, not taking it. I would call character witnesses – families and associates who have seen him under crisis. Have them testify they never saw him lose his temper; never lied; never failed to face the truth. Once I was sure I had carried that point, I’d conclude by saying if Dr. Kimble had killed his wife, his entire make-up as a man, as a doctor and as a loving husband would compel him to confess the truth. The fact he steadfastly maintains his innocence speaks for itself.”

“Would you put Kimble on the stand?”

“Of course. It’s a well-known fact juries tend to convict defendants who don’t speak for themselves. This is a circumstantial case: there are no eye-witnesses, no ballistic evidence; nothing that jumps out and points the finger at the defendant. In the end, he has to convince the jury he loved his wife, he actually saw a one-armed man and that he’s a grieving victim, not a murderer.”

“And in conclusion? Who does the jury believe?”

“I’m a defense lawyer, not a seer.”

“All right: you’re a homicide lieutenant. Who does the jury believe?”

“Whichever side is right.”

The credulity on Ballinger’s face was genuine. He had not gotten the answer he wanted.

“Thank you. I expect you to more than hold your own at trial.”

“You may count on me to tell the truth.”

Turning away, the D.A.’s face contorted into a leer.

“Like Richard Kimble?”

He did not receive an answer.

 

November 21, 1960 5:00 A.M. – Monday

Up early. The Kimble murder trial begins today. Opening statements, followed by the prosecution case. D.A. Mike Ballinger lead attorney; assistant Chad Dryfus. I am likely to be called today; report to court at 9:00 for a 10:00 start.

 

Jury selection took 2 days. I’m told it was uncomplicated (?) Why? Would have thought otherwise. Several out-of-stare reporters here. Big news: a doctor killing his wife.

Innocent until proven guilty. That’s the law. Ballinger confident. Talk around the station is that he expects to wrap things up quickly. Thanksgiving week. No court Thurs & Fri.

 

Why hadn’t Ballinger waited until the week after? What did he know no one else did?

    That facts proved him right did not settle any better now than it had then.

 

Although it was November, 1960, and the outside temperature barely reached 45º the heat in the courtroom was turned to high and the room was uncomfortably stuffy. The spectator seats were filled to overflowing and those who had come early were already anxious. Men wiped their brows with linen handkerchiefs, while women used paper fans to stir the air.

Sitting in the first row behind the prosecution table, Gerard turned expectantly as the prisoner was brought in through a side door. A guard stood to one side and directed him across the room to the left where Tom Burnett sat. The defendant wore a dark blue suit with a tie of a lighter shade, highlighted by two white slanted lines. The officer absently wondered if Donna Taft had selected the wardrobe for her brother. She would have shied away from the more formal black as too depressing.

Black represented death.

Craning his neck for a better view, he watched as Kimble shook his lawyer’s hand and the guard stepped away. He appeared pale in the harsh overhead lighting, a reflection of the situation as much as having been deprived sunlight for the past two months. As he pulled down the cuff of his white business shirt, Gerard noted Kimble was not wearing a watch. Either Donna had forgotten to pack one or the security detail had forbidden he wear one. Defendants were typically allowed some latitude in personal attire, but this case was different.

A physician was charged with murder. The topic had played well in the news.

There had never been any discussion about a change of venue.

Finished with his cuff, Kimble turned his head to the right and for a fraction of a second the defendant and the charging officer’s eyes met. Held. Communicated – what?

Why me? on one side. Why didn’t you find the one-armed man?

    I did everything I could on the other. Because he doesn’t exist.

    Or, perhaps, they communicated nothing more than, Let this be over. I want to be free.

    Freedom being in the eye of the beholder.

And then it was over. Kimble turned further, started behind him to where Donna and Leonard Taft were sitting. She caught his gaze and smiled. Bravely. Nodded her head.

It’s going to be all right. You’re going to get through this and then I’m going to take you home. Bake you some brownies; with walnuts. Remember how you loved them when we were children? I have Mom’s recipe. She always said brownies could make anything better.

    A half smile. Here and gone.

Like a memory.

Like hope.

Dr. John Kimble sat to his daughter’s left. He wore a black suit. He hadn’t gotten the memo. His hands were folded. Even from a distance Gerard could see the distended veins and the swollen knuckles. Arthritis. Exacerbated by tension. He looked old and tired. The policeman absently wondered who was on-call for him, tending his practice, while he was away. And how soon, if ever, he would go back to work.

With or without a partner.

And wondered why he cared. It was not the thought of an arresting officer.

The truth will out.

    He was on the side of the prosecution. If Dr. Kimble were adjudged not guilty, all hell would break loose. Ballinger would have sullied his escutcheon. He would need a scapegoat. Gerard, who was ambidextrous, could write that man’s name with either hand. And spell it without a second thought.

G-e-r-a-r-d.

I believe he’s guilty because I conducted a fair and thorough investigation.

    He remembered what he had written in his journal.

    I wouldn’t do anything different.

    Court was called to order. Everyone stood. Judge Iler made his appearance. After brief opening remarks, the defendant was asked to state his plea to the charge of murder in the first degree.

“Not guilty,” Tom Burnett stated for Dr. Kimble.

Let the best man win.

    If only it were that simple.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is the contention of the State that on the 17^th of September, 1960, the defendant, Richard David Kimble did willfully, and with malice aforethought, strike his lawfully wedded wife, Helen Anne Kimble, a defenseless woman, with the base of a living room lamp, and smash her skull, inflicting a fatal blow. This criminal act, as cruel and evil as any that may be perpetrated by one person on another, is made more heinous by the fact this physician – this man of healing – had sworn an oath to protect the sanctity of life.

“‘With purity and with holiness I will pass my life and practice my art; into whatever houses I enter, I will go into them for the benefit of the sick, and I will abstain from every voluntary act of mischief and corruption.'”

Ballinger paused, ran his eyes over the jurors, solemnly nodded and continued.

“‘While I continue to keep this Oath unviolated, may it be granted to me to enjoy life and the practice of this art, respected by all men, in all times. But should I trespass and violate this Oath, may the reverse be my lot.’

“What I have quoted from, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is excerpts from the Hippocratic Oath, preserved and revered by practitioners of the healing art since 300 years before Christ. Richard Kimble took that Oath and yet, he maliciously abandoned those sacred words, striking down the woman he professed to love by another sacred Oath: the Rites of Holy Matrimony. A woman still grieving from the tragic loss of her stillborn child. A woman, as the Grace of God would have it, who suffered the additional loss of bearing any further children.”

The district attorney began pacing in front of the twelve people who would decide the fate of the man he was calling out as a cold-blooded killer.

“The State contends and will prove that the defendant, Doctor Richard Kimble, became so obsessed with the idea of having children that he forced his views of adoption on his wife without regard to her raw and tender emotions. When she failed to respond favorably to his demands, the couple argued: loudly. So loudly and in such distress that Mrs. Kimble’s cries were hear by neighbors living houses away. These neighbors will testify that these arguments were not isolated incidents but regular occurrences, so that they feared for Helen’s safety. As well they should have, for when the idea of having his own way became so overwhelming, her husband plotted her death as the only means of relieving himself of this now-barren woman.

“On the night in question, fully aware and perhaps aiding her desires, Dr. Kimble saw that she was so intoxicated she could not defend herself and then, after another of their heated arguments, coldly and with a complete awareness of what he was doing, used the heavy base of a lamp to strike her dead. With that part of his nefarious scheme completed, he got in his car and drove away, leaving her dead body to grow cold on the floor of what had been, only moments before, their home. He drove to a secluded area – already with the idea of the ‘alibi’ he was going to use – that of a boy fishing – a boy even the most diligent efforts of both the defense and the prosecution have failed to locate – waited an appropriate amount of time smoking cigarette after cigarette, he alleges, although no trace of these were found – and then drove ‘home.'”

A grim, sarcastic expression crossed Ballinger’s face as he turned to stare into the gallery before continuing with his dramatic finish.

“As he neared his ‘home,’ he claims, he saw a one-armed man running from the house. A one-armed man, ladies and gentlemen. Imagine that.” He paused to allow a slight twittering from the spectators, smiling at their reaction to the incredulous charge. “A one-armed man whom we, as his judges, are supposed to believe, picked up an unwieldy floor lamp and dexterously smashed the heavy base against Helen Kimble’s head. Not very credulous.”

Taking time to catch his breath, Ballinger brought him his closing remarks.

“I ask you, as twelve reasonable people, to listen to the witnesses, give your full attention to the details as they mount, one-by-one against the defendant, and then confer among yourselves, bringing back a verdict of guilty in the first degree. In that way, and in only that way, will this physician-murderer be brought to justice and his innocent, loving, defenseless wife be granted a true and honest verdict against the man who so cruelly and violently ended her existence. Thank you.”

 

8:30 P.M.

Day 1 of the trial over.

Evening news declared Ballinger “masterful.” His opening remarks were

nothing more than we discussed.

I should have been a lawyer.

 

Called to testify: High stakes. Burnett pounded away at me in cross. Thought

he sounded desperate. Ballinger says I’m his entire case. I hope not.

There were only two sets of prints (K’s & HK’s) on the lamp

(murder weapon). Smudges became a big issue. Even a one-handed

burglar knows enough to wear gloves. A glove.

 

DA made a big case out of the fact nothing had been stolen. If

robbery was the motive, why didn’t he take anything? Burnett was

weak on cross. On re-direct, DA asked, “Which hand does a one-armed

man wear his watch on?” Got a laugh. No objection from defense.

 

Outside, on the street, a car horn honked. Gerard looked up from his journal and glanced toward the window.

It’s late. People are trying to sleep. What’s so urgent someone has to blast their horn?

    Because an idea was jumping around in his brain and he did not wish to bring it to fruition, he got up and crossed into the living room. Drawing back the curtain covering the picture window, he scanned Maple Avenue. There were no cars on the street and no one loitered on the sidewalk.

Frowning, his eyes went to the street lamp on the corner. Its yellow rays illuminated the street sign. He read the words “Maple Avenue” on the horizontal bar and “Oak Court” on the lettered directional bar fastened above it at a right angle. His lips pursed.

A year ago, or perhaps longer, a Chicago columnist named Mike Decker had written a story on Richard Kimble. He called it an “exclusive,” and so it had been. He slanted it in the escaped murderer’s favor. Another in a long line of men – and women – who had chosen to believe the jury made a grievous mistake. Decker had been more vitriolic in his defense than most, directing his ire at Gerard. Normally, such trash didn’t bother him, but the concluding paragraph had stuck in his mind.

“For those with an eye toward the ironic, and a taste for the iconic television series The Twilight Zone, it’s worth mentioning that ‘the monsters live on Maple Street,’ and so does the police lieutenant who has chased the fugitive to hell and back. Actually, Phillip Gerard lives on ‘Maple Avenue,’ but that’s close enough, don’t you think?”

    He had received two dozen letters after that, addressed to, “The Monster on Maple Street, Stafford, IND.” Even without a house number, the post office had delivered them. He would have chosen to ignore them, but Marie lodged a complaint. “It wasn’t fair,” she explained. “You’re not a monster and they should have returned them to sender.” The fact only one had a return address and that had been postmarked, “Stafford, IND,” had not swayed her argument.

The postmaster had ignored her complaint.

Annoyed at himself for getting up, Gerard returned to his den. The journal lay open where he left it. No reason it shouldn’t be.

I ought to burn it.

    An errant thought that reminded him of what really had gotten on his nerves. A line in the journal he had written five years ago.

“I hope not.”

I hope I’m not Burnett’s only hope. I’m on the wrong side.

    Hope that the defense lawyer could break him down. Hope he could get him to confess he had been careless; that he had let the one-armed man slip through his fingers.

Errant hope.

    Why had he hoped there was something else? Some piece of evidence that would prove Kimble innocent of the charge? It wasn’t his job to hope. He was a policeman, not a minister. He worked on facts, not faith.

If a man had facts, he didn’t need hope.

Let the jury reach a verdict. Then, I’ll have my answer.

    I obey the law.

    I’m not a monster.

    I had no personal stake in the outcome. I investigated the case, I put the facts together, I drew a conclusion: there was enough circumstantial evidence to bring the charge of murder forth and make an arrest. That’s my job. It’s for others to reach a final verdict; to justify or dismiss my opinion.

    From outside, the car horn beeped a second time. His fist clenched.

Richard Kimble had motive, means and opportunity.

It had been a crime of passion; a sudden, irrepressible urge to strike out at someone, anyone. To stop the arguing. To adopt or not to adopt. To put an end to the discussion.

    He had done that.

Phillip Gerard believed Richard Kimble regretted his impulsive action. He believed that were the doctor to relive the scene, he would never strike out in violence. He would walk out, go for a drive. Stand by the river and watch a boy fishing from a rowboat. Smoke half a pack of cigarettes and throw the butts in the water and then, when his anger subsided, he would drive home. There would be no one-armed man because the need no longer existed. Helen would meet him at the door; her make-up would be smeared and her dress wrinkled but she would be alive. One way or another, the couple would reach a conclusion; get on with their lives. Re-fashion the meaning of happiness; redefine “family,” if that’s what it took.

He’s committed the one murder he’s ever likely to commit.

    There was no rewriting the past. What was done, was done.

No second chances.

Richard Kimble was dead. He had died on some unknown street in Bennington, Vermont, saving the life of a mother and her son. Something he hadn’t been able to do for his own wife and child.

His dues had been paid.

The man obsessed with his capture hoped that was enough.

For both of them.