Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 13

   Reaching the halfway point on Main Street, Gerard came to a crossroads. The bus terminal sat on one corner; on the other was the main building for the local newspaper. A notice in the window read, “Help Wanted. Printing press journeyman.” And beneath it, in smaller typeface, “Will train the right candidate.”

What better place for a man to read the incoming blurbs about one-armed men tearing up taverns or being caught for petty theft? More immediately, it offered what few other entry level positions did: respectability. For a doctor used to being one of the elite, that was one thing Gerard suspected Richard Kimble craved. No one had ever said survival after a fall from grace would be easy. At first, a job had meant no more than food and shelter and anything would do. Washing kennels, driving a hack, wearing a sandwich placard that advertised, “Eat at Joe’s” served to keep the spark of life lit, but it diminished the soul of an individual used to being admired.

Did Dr. Kimble ever recall the good old days when he hired a caddy for 18 holes of golf, dropped his Mercedes off at the dealership without a thought of what repairs might cost; rented a boat and a paid a guide to take him on a pleasure cruise? Did he ever imagine himself in any of those lowly positions? Gerard suspected he had not. Kimble hadn’t even been forced to work his summer vacations because his father paid the tuition for both his college and medical degree.

But Gerard needed more than idle speculation if he were to tarry in this town and thus abandon the hot trail he was following. He needed proof. If not that, he needed to find that which had been lurking in the back of his mind. And then, as though by miracle, he saw it. Just across the street. The St. Vincent de Paul thrift store. Where a fellow down on his luck could purchase a white shirt and a reasonably well-fitting suit jacket for under five dollars. Perhaps he might even find a shaving kit and a box of used but serviceable cans of shoe polish. Decently dressed, he might feel respectable enough to convince a pressman he was the right candidate for a journeyman’s job.

The visual aspects of such speculation would have been visible from the window seat of a bus. Kimble’s mind would have supplied the rest.

“He’s here,” the hunter spoke aloud.

Fortunately, there was no one close enough to overhear the remark. Not even a breath of wind to whisper in a running man’s ear that trouble was afoot.

Returning to the Flying A station, Gerard paid for the gas, then drove the Montana rental car into a parking space alongside the curb on Main Street, opposite the drug store. Having no fear it would be spotted for an out-of-state vehicle and was, therefore safe from suspicious eyes, he retrieved the photograph and went strolling down the sidewalk.

Senses alert, he glanced, tourist-style into shop windows, at times tarrying for a full thirty seconds before moving on. Dressed in business attire, he could have been mistaken for a man seeking an anniversary present for his wife, or merely passing the time before he was due back to work. Playing to his instincts, he even went into the bakery and purchased a jelly doughnut. Strolling out, bag in hand, he turned a corner, looked both ways, then opened the bag and offered the treat to a stray dog which wagged its tail at him. Petting the animal on the head, he watched it swallow the doughnut in two bites, then returned to the sidewalk.

Without tarrying, he crossed the street and reached the thrift store. Pulling open the door, he walked in. Using all senses, it was the sixth one he relied upon.

Something. Something….

    Seeking and then spotting the double rack of men’s clothing, he walked that way, silently appraising the offerings. T-shirts, polo shirts, and then a line of more formalwear. Counting twenty-three white shirts in various sizes was enough to confirm his suspicion several would have fit the doctor. On the next row over, he found sport jackets and business suits. There were fewer choices, but again, the options were there.

What else would he need?

    A pair of black socks, for the white ones Kimble presumably wore were inappropriate for a white collar job. And a belt. And a tie. Something conservative. All three items were readily available, if not desirable, for all the items Gerard inspected had previously been worn. A far cry from French-cuffs and silk socks.

Making a calculated decision, he walked to the check-out counter, politely allowed a woman with an armful of dresses to go ahead, then stepped up to the cashier.

“Good afternoon,” he politely began, taking out the photograph. “I wonder if you could tell me if this man has been in here today. He probably would have purchased a white shirt and a business suit along with several other articles of clothing.”

The woman, dressed in what could only have been purchased off the rack of the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store, smiled brightly.

“Yes, sir. He was in only a few hours ago. And that’s exactly what he bought. A shirt, coat, tie and belt. And a pair of slacks. The ones he was wearing were frayed at the cuffs. He made a joke about them. Saying they looked like fringe and people would think he was a hippy. A very nice man.”

“I’m sure he sounded that way. Thank you for the information.”

He had already moved away when she asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Perfectly. Good day.”

Dodging a car that ran the stop sign, he returned to the bus depot. Without pausing to look in, two, four, six, eight, ten steps took him across the road to the printing shop. Without realizing how hard his heart was pounding, Gerard went inside. A little bell over the door tinkled as he did so. Overhead, a single-bladed fan rotated slowly, adding little to the comfort of the stuffy environment. He waited by the counter until a man with ink-stained fingers appeared.

“Can I help you?” he inquired in a pleasant tone.

“I hope so.” Gerard reached into his pocket but this time he took out his badge. Opening the case, he made sure the operator had a good look at it before flipping it away and exchanging it with the photograph. “I’m looking for this man. Has he been in here today? Inquiring about a job, perhaps?”

The man swallowed nervously.

“I’m not sure.”

“Yes. You are. Need I remind you that withholding evidence from the police is a criminal offense? This man is wanted for murder in Indiana. He’s an interstate fugitive. I’ve tracked him here. Does that clear up your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Was he here?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he go? He’s not in the back, already working for you, is he?”
“No. I hired him, all right, but it messes up payroll if someone starts in the middle of the day. I told him to come back tomorrow.”

“At what time?”

“Seven A.M. Usually, we start earlier but since he was to be in training, I thought I’d begin him on projects that weren’t going out in tomorrow’s paper.”

“What name is he using?”

“Jim Kelly.”

“Did he fill out an application? Give you an address?”

“He said he was new in town and he’d fill one out tomorrow after he got settled.”

“And that didn’t sound peculiar to you?”

“He could read, he spoke intelligently and his hands were clean. He matched all my requirements.”

“Where would such a man go to rent a room?”

“I don’t know.”

Which, to Gerard, meant, I’ve told you all I’m going to.

    Dropping his eyes to stare at the photograph, he felt his ire rise.

“You could have only spoken to him for a few minutes. Just long enough,” he menacingly added, “to ascertain he could read, speak intelligently and had clean hands. Why is it, then, you’re protecting him? I’ve already told you he’s a convicted murderer.”

The man’s lips twitched in annoyance. Taking out a wrinkled, red and black handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped his brow.

“You said he was wanted. You didn’t say he was convicted.”

“My mistake for not spelling it out. He was convicted of killing his wife and sentenced to death. He escaped and has been on the run for three years. It’s my job to find and apprehend him and bring him to justice.” As his temper rose, so did his voice. “Do you have a wife? Supposing she was brutally murdered. Wouldn’t you want the man responsible brought to justice?”

“Yes. I would.”

“The woman this man killed had a mother and a father and a sister. How do you think they feel, knowing he’s at large? That justice has been thwarted?”

The man toyed with the cloth in his hands.

“He didn’t look like a murderer.”

“John Wilkes Booth was considered the most handsome man of his day. No one watching him act at Ford’s Theatre would have suspected him capable of murder. And yet, he shot Abraham Lincoln in cold blood. Looks-are-deceiving.”

“All right. I made a mistake.”

“Where would he go to rent a room? Inexpensively? Where they don’t ask any questions?”

“Look, I don’t know. He didn’t ask for a referral and I didn’t give one. OK?”
Gerard’s face expressed the sentiment it was far from OK.

“What’s your name?”

“Alex Littlejohn.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Littlejohn. Do not alert this man calling himself Jim Kelly. Don’t try and contact him. Don’t tip him off when he comes to work tomorrow. And don’t tell anyone of this conversation. The police are going to stake out this building and for the next twenty-four hours a plainclothesman is going to follow you wherever you go. Furthermore, within the next half hour I’ll have a court order to tap the phone in this building and the one in your home. Just to be certain you don’t suddenly remember where you directed him. Because if you’re caught aiding and abetting a fugitive, you’ll be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

Certain he had conveyed his message, Gerard turned and left. Anger swirling inside him, he scanned the street, saw no indication where the police station might be, then stopped a pedestrian who attempted to hurry past him.

“Where is the police station?”

The man, clearly startled by the question, and perhaps frightened by his attitude, shook his head and hurried away. Quickly realizing that method of interrogation would get him nowhere, Gerard crossed the street and entered the bus depot. No one was waiting and no clerk was behind the counter. Tense enough to begin shouting for help, Gerard forced himself to take in a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. Spinning on his heels, he crossed to a pay phone. Laminated behind the call box were local numbers, among them the police station. Inserting a dime into the coin slot, he dialed the number. It was answered on the second ring.

“This is Lieutenant Phillip Gerard, of the Stafford, Indiana, police force. I need to speak with the officer in charge.”

A moment later another voice spoke.

“Yes, Lieutenant Gerard. This is Detective Albert Ryder. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak with you on a matter of extreme emergency. Right now, I’m at a phone booth in the bus terminal. Can you tell me how to get to you?”

“I’ll have a black-and-white there in five minutes. Just stand outside.”

The officer was as good as his word and twenty minutes later Gerard had introduced himself and explained the case.

“Of course,” he concluded, “I was lying to the man at the print shop. I’m hardly likely to get a court order to tap his business and personal phones without concrete evidence, but often, I’ve found, a bluff works just as well.”

“I expect that’s true,” Ryder chuckled.

“I don’t suppose you could put a tail on Mr. Littlejohn? Make sure he doesn’t wander around for a while and then go to the hotel he recommended to Kimble.”

“You think he did that?”

“Of course I do. Just as I’m certain he’ll try and warn him if he can. Believe me, I’ve been through this type of situation more times than I care to remember. People who don’t know Kimble any better than to say ‘Hello,’ will risk everything to save him. It’s beyond comprehension.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

Gerard didn’t miss a beat as he deadpanned, “He has an honest face.”

“Good Lord. Really? Is that how they excuse their actions?”

“If I had a dime for every time I heard it, I’d be a rich man.”

“Let me see that photograph, again – the one you altered.” Gerard handed it over and Ryder studied it with a great deal of intensity before shaking his head and offering it back. “I don’t see it.”

Gerard gave him a tight-lipped, self-satisfied smile.

“That’s because we’ve policemen, trained in how to interpret faces, expressions, tones of voice. The common man – the man or woman on the street – doesn’t have that ability. They believe what they see and hear. Because he hasn’t killed someone in front of them, or because he speaks softly, they immediately believe he’s innocent.” After a pause, he added, “Too much television.”

Uniformed policemen began reporting in, prompting Ryder to indicate down the hall.

“We better go to my office where it’s more private.” Once there, he indicated the pot sitting on a hotplate. “Want some coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. May I use your phone? It’s about time I checked in.”

“Certainly.”

Ryder took the pot and went to make fresh joe as Gerard dialed “9” for an outside number, then the area code and number to the Stafford police station. On hearing his voice, the desk sergeant snapped, “Captain Carpenter wants to speak to you,” and the line was transferred. Before the lieutenant had a chance to begin, Carpenter roared.

“Where the blazes have you been, Gerard? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day. They told me at Great Falls you just missed Kimble and you left there early this morning. I expected to see you in my office, not calling long distance from God Knows Where!”

Caught completely off-guard, Gerard clenched his teeth a moment to control his temper before speaking. When he did, he sounded respectful but insistent.

“I’m in a town called Valley Bluffs. It’s on the road between Great Falls and Lewistown.”

Having no idea where either of those places were, Carpenter demanded in some confusion, “You’re driving back instead of flying?”

“No, sir. I found the police in Great Falls less than useful, so I did some investigating on my own. I discovered Kimble had taken the bus toward Lewistown. Since he was alerted the police were possibly aware of his presence in Great Falls, I naturally assumed he wouldn’t ride the bus all the way to Lewistown, but he’d get off at the first likely place he saw.”

“I don’t care what you think Kimble thought. You’re not a mind reader. I want you back here immediately. Where’s the nearest airport?”
“No, Captain, you don’t understand. I’ve found him.”

“Found him? You mean, you have him under lock and key?”

“No, but I’ve had two positive IDs from people who spoke to him. A woman at a thrift store and –”

“Yes, yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. And every time I’ve given you the latitude to pursue your investigation. But not this time, Phil. I want you home. Now. Tonight. Get on a plane and puddle-jump if you have to, but –”

Gerard’s world blackened into despair.

“No! Please! I’m so close. I swear to you, this time I’m within inches of him.”

Carpenter’s voice maintained its steely edge.

“There’s been a kidnapping of a young girl and a related homicide. To prove their intent, the kidnappers killed the messenger her father sent with the ransom money. That,” he added in a stern voice, “was one of us.” A pause to let that grim news sink in before continuing, “They’ve threatened to kill her, too, if their demands aren’t met. Time is critical. I need you back here to take charge.”

The news crushed the spirit from Gerard’s soul. Thus, without spirit, he pleaded.

“Surely there are other detectives –”

“As capable as you?”

Honesty and a belief in himself prompted him to reply, “No, sir.”

“All right: then answer me this. And be careful what you say, because if I don’t like the answer, I’m going to break you. Is the life of a sixteen-year-old girl less important than capturing a man who’s been on the run three years and has never gotten so much as a parking ticket the entire time?”

It was all over.

“No.”

“Right. Get back here as soon as you can. Tomorrow morning at the latest. And you’d better sleep on the plane because you won’t get any here. Not until this is solved.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

He dropped the phone heavily on the receiver as Ryder reentered with the coffee. Seeing Gerard’s expression, he stopped cold.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to return to Stafford immediately. Can you direct me to the nearest airport?”

“There isn’t one here. The nearest one is at Lewistown.”

The irony was almost too much to bear.

“About Kimble –”

“We’ll do what we can. I promise you.”

“Thank you. I trust you will.”

“Do you want me to have one of my men drive you?”

“I have a rental car. I can return it at the airport.”

“Sorry, Gerard. You were so close.”

The closing line of a depressing play.

 

Sitting on the plane and relegated to the aisle seat because he was late making a reservation, Gerard had nothing better to do than think. Oddly enough, it was not an occupation he relished. Not under present circumstances.

He did not need a crystal ball to envision how events would transpire in Valley Bluffs. Even if Alfred Ryder was a competent officer, and he didn’t doubt it – far better than those he had met in Great Falls – Gerard was only too well aware that he was the impetus in the pursuit and capture of Richard Kimble. Without his mental energy urging the local police on, they would soon loose enthusiasm for the chase. Without realizing it, himself, Ryder had given the game away.

You were so close.

    In a sentence of four words, two of them were damning. “You,” as opposed to “we,” and “so close,” already conceding defeat. To add irony to insult, the fugitive would never know how very close he came to being apprehended.

There was no question in his mind that the pressman would get word to him somehow. Send a copy boy; drop into the drug store and tell his sister-in-law to send a message to whatever flophouse he had directed him to. Wrap a message around the leg of a pigeon and have it delivered by air. It didn’t matter what the message said: one word was enough.

Gerard.

Littlejohn had taken a good, long look at his badge. He’d remember the name. There was something about it; made it stand out in people’s minds. As a life-long cop, he was used to hearing it pronounced with derision by men and women from all walks of life.

Go to hell, Gerard.

    Haven’t you got anything better to do than harass me, Gerard?

    Just because Lieutenant Gerard is a police officer doesn’t mean his testimony bears any more weight than witnesses for the defense.

    You’re not a man on a mission, Gerard. You’re obsessed.

    Never in his life had he spoken to another person with such blatant disrespect. He had been raised to be polite in all instances. When he was younger he assumed the vile tones resulted from his profession because the guilty always looked down on those who caught them with their hand in the till or their fingerprints on the murder weapon. If such hatred had been directed solely by those on the wrong side of the law, he could accept it. But it wasn’t. People he interrogated in the course of an investigation took an immediate dislike to him. Grocery clerks effusive to customers ahead of him were surly to him as though they suspected him of shoplifting. Suspects resented him because they could find no chink in his armor. Even the officers under him seemed to harbor a latent suspicion he hid a dark side just waiting to emerge.

Even as a teen, he might have been labeled “Most likely to succeed” because of his intensity, but if there had been a ranking for “Most Popular,” he would have found himself near the bottom. Richard Kimble had an honest face and he had what? A mean face? A cruel face? He might have agreed with, “An intense face,” but that wasn’t what they saw.

Marie had told him, once. They had had an argument over something or other and she had asked, “Do you know what your problem is, Phil?” and he had been foolish enough to reply, “No. I don’t. Tell me.”

     “You’re inflexible.”

That had come as a shock. Of all the words she might have chosen, he wouldn’t have come up with that one on his own. Inflexible? No, he couldn’t agree. Steadfast. Stalwart. Determined. Even, “by the book.” But not inflexible. That implied a fixation of thought and deed. A closed mind.

That’s not fair, Marie,” he silently argued with her in his mind as the hills and roads and hamlets and cities far below skimmed past without his seeing them. I’m impartial to the point when a fact has been proven. Once a truth has been established, to argue it is counterproductive. It flies in the face of logic. We know the world is round. To state otherwise is to deny reality.

    The stewardess came by and he ordered a scotch without looking at her. If she thought him rude, that was her mistake. He simply didn’t want to see the expression on her face. She brought him the drink, turned down the seat tray, placed a paper napkin on it, set the glass in the shallow circular depression and slipped away. He took a drink. It had no flavor. For all of him, it might have been water. For $1.50 a glass. Something else he’d have to pay for out of his own pocket.

How much does she really know me? My own wife. How much do my children know me? What do they think of their father?

    He expected their respect, but more than that, he hoped they loved him. Yet, in his heart he wasn’t sure. He had never known how to put that to the test. Odd, to wonder that now, 30,000 feet above the round Earth.

Perhaps I don’t say, ‘I love you’ often enough. But I’m not a demonstrative man.

    A poor excuse and he shivered. He did love them. Deeply and passionately.

I support them. I go to work every day so we have money for the better things in life. We have a home and a car and food on the table. I go over their homework. I never forget a birthday or an anniversary.

    It was something Marie said. On another occasion.

He’s not your son.

    Not referring to Phil, Junior. There had never been any question of that.

She had meant Richard Kimble.

It was a damning accusation.

Easy enough to counter, I don’t love Richard Kimble. I don’t look at him that way.

    He’s a convicted murderer. He escaped on my watch. I’m responsible for any harm he might do.

    But Captain Carpenter had countered that argument.

    “Is the life of a sixteen-year-old girl less important than capturing a man who’s been on the run three years and has never gotten so much as a parking ticket the entire time?”

The answer was as obvious as it was obscure.

Do I really believe Kimble is a threat to others?

    The ice in the plastic glass clinked as it melted. He turned to look out the window. The woman sitting beside him had lowered the shade.

He had asked himself that question a thousand times. The answer had changed over the years. Yes, to no.

But that doesn’t excuse the fact he has killed. Taken a human life.

    Was there room to doubt?
The answer to that had changed, too.

Not changed, he pursued the argument. Moved a little to one side.

    But not enough to make a difference. It’s my job to bring him in.

    “Will you take him back to the death house? Sit beside him on the train? Handcuffed, right wrist to left? Offer him a last cigarette?”

No one asked that question but he heard it as clearly as though the stewardess had come back to demand an answer while she removed the glass and set back the tray.

He shuddered and put out a hand to hold the glass in place. The woman beside him moved closer to the window and pulled her coat more tightly around her shoulders.

The plane, he supposed to save his sanity, is cold.

    He was cold, too, but only inside.

He had asked himself that question five hundred times.

Will you take him back to the death house?

And had made a 180-degree turn.

No. Never. Not on your life.

    Or was that a bad joke?

Not on whose life? Kimble’s? Or his?

One doesn’t escort one’s son to the electric chair.

“He’s not my son.”

The woman beside him turned and said, “Excuse me. I didn’t understand what you said.”

He jumped, startled at being addressed by a living person.

“I beg your pardon. I was… mumbling to myself.”

She surprised him more by patting his hand.

“He can be your son if you want him to be. Remember that. It may make it easier. Never blame the innocent for the transgressions of others.”

She had misunderstood and was trying to be kind. Such emotion felt alien to him. He didn’t know how to respond.

“Thank you.”

Unbuckling his seat belt, he got up on wobbly legs and walked, swaying like a drunken sailor, to the restroom. Lifting up the lid of the toilet seat, he got on his knees and vomited.

It had been a long time since he had been in an attitude of prayer.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 14