Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 14

If I can’t take him to the death house, then I must believe he’s innocent.

    The word “innocent” stuck in his throat.

Never blame the innocent for the transgressions of others.

    “No.” He spoke aloud in the privacy of the lavatory. He hoped to God there was no one to hear. “There was no one-armed man.”

He had looked. If there had been the shadow of a doubt; the least chance he could have missed the man, he could tilt his mind a little further to the right. But there wasn’t. Not a shred of evidence to indicate such a man ever existed. No neighbor had seen a prowler – with or without one arm – in the neighborhood. None of his informants had whispered of a one-armed man. There had been no reports of such an individual sneaking in from out of town. If Fred Johnson were as evil as Kimble depicted – and his photograph attested – some police station somewhere in Indiana or Illinois would have put out a warning. Be on the lookout. Nothing had come in.

There had been those out-of-state newspapers found in the boxcar, but that was hardly conclusive evidence.

And his name isn’t Fred Johnson, he bitterly corrected. Kimble made him up; found someone who looked like his imagination conjured, stole his name and went on a manhunt. There’s no sane reason why I should believe that man was anywhere near Stafford on the night of the murder.

He had argued that point with himself two-hundred and fifty times.

    No point whatsoever rehashing it in the bathroom of a TWA flight from Richard Kimble’s current home to one he had fled so long ago it taxed the memory to remember.

“He’s not innocent and he’s certainly not Marie’s bastard.”

That statement finally made him smile. Without realizing it, the tables had turned. Instead of his son, Kimble had become hers. The idea struck him as immensely funny and he chuckled aloud.

“I’ll have to tell her,” he said although he knew he wouldn’t and the thought deflated him.

What have I done to them? he asked, before thinking over his own thought. I shouldn’t have come back. I should have stayed and caught Kimble. He was there. Almost close enough to touch. Another few hours and he would have been mine. Yes, Captain Carpenter, under lock and key.

    I’m going back. I’ll take the next flight out to Montana. I found him once, I’ll find him again. I know him better than he knows himself.

    His stomach turned and he belched stale air.

Does that mean he knows me better than I know myself? What does he think of me? That I’m a devil out of hell? That all I want is to see him dead? That I have no mercy, no empathy? A pause and then, I wouldn’t blame him if he did. He’d be right. That’s what I am.

    And now you know, Dr. Kimble. I’m coming back for you. It’s all over.

    When he returned to his seat, his neighbor had pulled up the shade and was looking out. He thought he ought to say something to her but couldn’t think of any words. When the plane touched down, he stood and got her carry-on luggage down from the overhead rack. She stared at him as though she didn’t recognize his face.

Two strangers who passed in the night.

He hurried off the plane, eager to purchase a return ticket. Instead, he wove his way through the crowd who had come to meet the in-bound passengers and burst outside. He expected the air to be cool and found it uncomfortably warm and humid. Taking off his coat, he retrieved his car, tossed it on the passenger seat and drove to the police station.

He had a murderer to catch.

 

“Give me the details,” Gerard demanded as he walked into Detective Moreland’s office. The younger man, accompanied by two other officers looked up, shot a look of relief to his companions, then offered his superior the chair he had been sitting it. Gerard accepted the gesture, cleared away several superfluous items to open the desktop, ran a pencil through his fingers as though to get the feel of the situation, then settled in to hear what the men had to say.

“It started two days ago. A sixteen-year-old girl by the name of Angie Howard never came home from school. It wasn’t uncommon she was late because she often participated in extra-curricular activities: sports, the debating society, that sort of thing. But after it got late –”

“What is late?” he demanded, using the pencil as a pointer to finger the officer.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Was she a senior or a sophomore?”

“Sophomore.” Looking hungrily at the lieutenant the way a young cub stared at its parent waiting to be fed after the hunt, Gerard shook him off his unasked interrogative.

“I’ll explain when I’ve heard it all. Go on.”

“Her mother began calling Angie’s friends. They told her Angie had left about the same time they did, which was right after school: 2:40 P.M. That troubled her, so she called her husband. He came home from work and they drove to the school. When they couldn’t find her, they called the police.”

“I went to her home, Lieutenant,” Officer Ripley began in an eager, youthful voice. “I was in the house when the kidnappers called.”

“What was the address?”

“Eleven West Pointe Place.”

“Were you driving a black-and-white or an unmarked car?”

“A black-and-white.”

Gerard motioned for him to continue.

“Who answered the phone?”

“Mr. Howard. I could tell by the way his face when white that there was trouble, so I stepped closer to listen in.”

“Good. Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Young or old?”

“Middle-aged, I’d say. Not a young voice.”

“You’re sure? Think carefully.”

“Not a high schooler, I’m certain of that. Older; more… worldly.”

“All right.”

“He said, ‘I have your daughter –”

“Just a moment,” Gerard rapid-fired at him. “The first thing a kidnapper usually says is, ‘Don’t call the police.’ Did he say that?”

“No.” Again, the terse gesture to continue. “What I heard him say is, ‘I have your daughter. I want $8,000 in small bills delivered to the Catholic cemetery by 11 o’clock this evening. Have it in a soft-sided valise, not a briefcase. There’s a large tomb just past the entranceway. On the left. A tall one with an angel on top. The name on it is Brookings. Drop the valise there, turn around and go out the way you came in. Once we check to make sure the money’s all there we’ll let your daughter go somewhere in the cemetery. You’ll have to search for her.’ Those were the instructions as nearly as I can remember them.”

“The caller didn’t say who was to deliver the money?”

“No.”

“Who suggested an undercover policeman deliver it?”

“Captain Jason. It was one of his men. Peter Causeway.”

“In your opinion, was that wrong?” Ackley, the third officer interrupted.

“That’s standard procedure,” Gerard evenly explained. Then, with a tight compression of his lips, added, “Everyone knows that. How was Officer Causeway killed?”

“Shot from cover with a high-powered rifle when he opened the door to put out the money bag.”

“Where was he shot?”

“You mean, in the cemetery?” Moreland asked in surprise.

“Where in the body?”

“The chest. Killed him instantly.”

Gerard briefly closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry about that.” The others followed suit, each saying a silent prayer for the soul of their comrade. It was Gerard who broke the moment of silence. “Where was his back-up?”

“No one wanted to get too close. There was a car just outside the front entrance and one at the rear gate. There were several men from the kidnapping detail staked out in the property.”

“But the shooter got away? And no one saw him?”

“He got away. We never heard a car.”

“But he didn’t go out either way, sir.”

Gerard slowly shook his head.

“I know that cemetery well. There are a dozen dirt roads that run through it, some I doubt even the caretakers know about. They’re worn and overgrown but serviceable to someone who’s familiar with the area.”

“How do you know that?”

Gerard finally smiled.

“I’m a history buff. That cemetery was dedicated before the Civil War. There are quite a few historic graves there. I find them fascinating. But you have to walk into the valleys and around the creek bed to find them. There’s even one mausoleum built into one of the hills that dates from the earliest days of the settlement here. The door’s collapsed and you can slide your way inside. The name is Wigworm – a very famous local family. The patriarch was a publisher. He owned the original weekly newspaper.”

He paused as the occupation of the long-dead founder struck a chord. Richard Kimble had just earned and lost a job as a pressman. It was a coincidence that didn’t settle well but he repacked it in his memory as being inconsequential.

“There are seven bodies there, slid into separate chambers in the wall. One was broken into decades ago. You can’t read the names anymore, but I used paper and a pencil,” he added, holding up the one he still held, “and traced the lettering. Caroline Wigworm Hemphill. She was his daughter. I did some research on the family. I presume someone was looking for valuables.”

The three men under his eye shivered at the unpleasant thought as Gerard continued.

“That’s how the shooter got out. He knew his way around.”

“I wish you had been here, sir. We didn’t have much time but some of the men under Captain Jason did speak with the caretaker beforehand. He didn’t tell them about any side roads. I guess as you said, he didn’t know.”

Although not meant as an accusation, Gerard flinched. He could have defended himself by saying it wasn’t his case and that he was out of town on another assignment, but didn’t. He presumed they knew that.

“What’s the latest?”

“The kidnappers want another three thousand dollars. To be delivered tomorrow night.”

“Where?”

“They haven’t told us, yet.”

Getting up, Gerard stepped away from the three men.

“Why do you keep saying ‘they’? What makes you think there’s more than one?”

“During the first phone call, the kidnapper said, ‘once we check the money.'”

“Why does an animal’s fur stand on end when its frightened?”

“To make itself bigger, sir,” Ackley supplied.

“Why would a kidnapper say ‘we’?”

Deducing the point, Ackley failed to concede it.

“I’m presuming, then. In a crime like this, there are usually multiple kidnappers.”

Gerard stiffened and if he had a ruff, it would have stood on end. Not to make himself appear bigger, but to emphasize his annoyance.

“Don’t presume. If something isn’t a fact, don’t use it to draw conclusions.” Once that criticism set in, he demanded, “Is the Howard family well off?”

“Reasonably so.”

“Enough that he had no trouble getting the $8,000?”

“He said he could cover it and he did, sir.”

As though he were lecturing a class at the police academy, the lieutenant asked, “What have you concluded from this?”
“A pretty straightforward kidnapping,” Ripley offered after some hesitation.

“I see. Was this, in your estimation, a random kidnapping?”

“No,” Detective Moreland stated. “A purposeful one.”

“Why the Howard family? You stated the father was reasonable well off but not wealthy. Why pick on him?” They had no answer. “Does he have any known enemies? Someone with a grudge, perhaps? What’s the motive for taking his daughter?”

“Money. Obviously.”

“Let’s discuss the money. Doesn’t $8,000 strike you as being an unusual amount?”

Instead of answering, Ackley asked, “Because it’s too low or too high?”

“Because it’s not a round number. By that, I mean, not one of the 5s: five thousand, ten thousand, fifteen, twenty thousand. You spoke of being straightforward. Eight-thousand goes against convention. And then he asked for $3,000 more. Another ‘odd’ figure. Making a total of $11,000. Nothing about those numbers strikes me as being routine.”

“What does it strike you as, sir?”

“A clue.” The three men unconsciously backed off at the bluntness of the reply. “What about the most obvious ‘mistake’: not warning the family to call the police.”

“If he had an associate watching the house, Lieutenant, he’d know it was too late for that because I drove up in a squad car.”

“That’s right. But how would the associate inform him? Is there a phone box directly across the street?”

“No. A walkie-talkie?”

“Were the houses in the immediate vicinity searched to see if a cohort had it under surveillance?”

A moment of silence before the confession, “Not that I know of.”

“We’ll come back to this. The victim was a sophomore; sixteen years old. The reason I asked was because an older child – a senior, for example – a junior or a senior – would be more mature. More likely to resist efforts to cajole or force her into a car.”

“Angie Howard was the intended victim.”

“We still haven’t determined why. Without a definite motive except, as you suggested, money, they could have chosen any child. The family home is on 11 West Pointe Place. That’s a newer, upper-class neighborhood. Without knowing, I’d guess there are perhaps a dozen children of high school age living there. He – or they – picked a tenth grader.”

“I don’t see your point, sir.”

“A child at an age more likely to follow an authority figure. Anyone younger or older might refuse, although for different reasons. He wanted a nice, clean pick-up.”

“So no one would notice? That’s clear, but –”

“That’s my point, Officer. It’s not clear. I’m putting together a picture by using what clues I’ve been given. As more facts become known, the picture changes to accommodate them. Before I paint my image for you, consider the location of the drop. The kidnapper called it the ‘Catholic cemetery.’ It has a name. Stafford Rural Cemetery. Why wasn’t he more specific?”

“That’s what the locals call it, indicating he’s a resident here?”

Gerard shook his head before moving on.

“Then, there’s the high-powered rifle to consider. What is that type of weapon used for? As opposed to a handgun which is smaller, easier to carry and conceal and equally effective for its intended purpose at close range.”

“Hunting.”

“That’s right. Am I taking you farther afield from your straightforward kidnapping?”

“Yes, sir. But I don’t see your picture.”

Gerard held up his right hand, palm outward as if he were taking an oath. The pencil twitched in his left hand.

“If the kidnapper – and I’m leaning toward the believe there’s only one – set up his scene to make it look like a plain, run-of-the-mill kidnapping so we wouldn’t look too closely at his true motive.” The tension in the room stiffened as the three officers leaned forward, eager to hear the explanation.

“The caller didn’t order the family not to call the police because he wanted the police involved. Officer Causeway gave him no reason to shoot. The kidnapper fired at him because he was the actual target. The drop-off was only a ruse to get him there.”

Moreland groaned in dismay.

“Are you saying the kidnapping was nothing more than… a set-up to murder Peter Causeway?”

“Not Officer Causeway, specifically. Any policeman would do. And now he wants to kill another. That’s why he asked for more money – a trifling sum, by the way.” Gerard moved around the desk, the others following. “Consider: a high-powered weapon used to drill a hole through the chest of a man who gave him no reason to fire. That’s first degree murder: something your typical kidnapper hopes to avoid at all costs. A rendezvous in a ‘Catholic’ cemetery. Why call it that? It may be a stereotype, but cops are still associated with the Irish. Irish are more prone to be Catholic than any other religion. The lack of specific motive – why chose the Howard child when no obvious connection has been established? And the demand for odd sums of money. And a low-ball figure at that.” He paused to let his words sink in before completing his picture. “I think this murderer – and there’s no other word for it – wanted us to put it together just this way.”

“Why, sir?” Ripley whispered.

“As a challenge. To see who would dare answer it. To be the next notch on his gun handle.”

“If we look at it like that, Lieutenant, then we can’t possibly send another policeman in to deliver the rest of the ransom,” Detective Moreland stated with an edge to his voice.

“He’s right, sir,” Ripley interjected. “That would be suicide.”

“We could send the father,” Ackley tried. “That way, he wouldn’t shoot him.”

Tossing down the pencil, Gerard put his hands in his pockets and stared long and hard at them.

“You all know better than that. It’s our job to protect, not to put innocent civilians in danger. And I believe if we did that, the killer would shoot him, as well. Not because that was what he wanted but to further his goal.”

“Which is?”

“If I’m right, and recall, we’ve only put this together with clues I’ve chosen to arrange in a certain order, this individual has a burning hatred for the police. Mr. Howard’s death would be front page news and rightly so. We – all of us who carry a badge – would be condemned. Public outrage would demand an investigation. Not only would we be severely hampered in performance of our duties, the chief and probably all the officers involved in the decision would be cashiered, or more likely fired. That’s more than a few notices on his gun.”

“Then, what do we do, Lieutenant? We’re in an untenable situation.”

“We wait for the call to tell us where the next drop will be. We select an officer and do our level best to protect him.”

“What officer, sir?”

Gerard shrugged as though he were volunteering to go on a coffee-and-doughnut run.

“Me.” They shriveled from him. “I was called back to take charge of this case. It’s my responsibility.”

“And if you’re wrong, sir?”

“It doesn’t matter in any case. I was merely explaining the inconsistencies I saw. I’m still going in.”

Which ended the discussion. And explained why Captain Luke Carpenter called Lieutenant Phillip Gerard back.

Not to have him killed. To prevent another officer from suffering that fate.

 

“Hello, Marie?” he asked into the phone.

“Oh, my God, Phil, you’re back. I called the airport and they said your plane landed hours ago. Where have you been?”

“At the police station.”

After a moment’s hesitation she asked, “You caught him?”

The hope in her voice was almost more than he could bear.

“No.”

“Oh.” And then harder, “How much did you miss him by this time?”

“I didn’t miss him,” he replied with enough bitterness to make her cringe. “I had him – nearly. The net was around him and all I had to do was yank it shut.”

“You… let him go?”
“No. Why would I do that?” he demanded in incredulity.

So you can keep on playing this game of yours. Which wasn’t fair and she regretted thinking it the moment it came to mind. There was a better answer. You don’t want to catch him until you figure out how you feel about him. You need to know in your heart whether he’s guilty or innocent because your worst nightmare is confronting him without that answer and being faced with the ultimate dilemma: to help him or hurt him when life or death hangs in the balance.

    Instead of verbalizing an answer to his question or her thoughts, Marie Gerard countered, “Why are you at the police station?” And then it all became clear and Richard Kimble disappeared from her mind. “Please don’t tell me you were summoned back to handle that girl’s kidnapping and the officer’s assassination.”

He appreciated the way she worded her statement and gave a brisk nod because the importance of it made him feel better. He was a cop putting everything on the line and she was a brave cop’s wife.

“That’s right.”

Closing her eyes, Marie held the phone away from her mouth in case she screamed. She didn’t want to add a shattered eardrum to his troubles.

In the silence, he presumed she was expressing her approval. Proving men and women were seldom on the same wavelength.

“I don’t know when I’ll be home. I just wanted you to know.”

Know what? Who’s coming up the sidewalk and for what purpose?

    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gerard, but your husband has been killed in the line of duty.”

    How would she reply? Like him, she needed to have her ducks in order, and her mind subconsciously reversed itself.

Who will catch Dr. Kimble, now?

    Her dead husband would approve the question, right down to the use of the fugitive’s title instead of his first name. He – her dead husband, not the living fugitive, always was a stickler for formality and the recognition of a man’s former or present worth.

“Be careful, won’t you?”

The handset was half way to the receiver when he heard her voice, but not the words.

“I love you, too,” he answered, guessing wrong. Although true, it was an automatic response. In his hurry, he forgot that he had tacitly promised to say that more often. Even if he wasn’t a demonstrative man.

The statement brought a tear to Marie’s eye. Before she wiped it away she was already wondering where the black dress all cop’s wives saved for “just in case” was, and if she ought to send it out to the dry clearer.

Straightening his tie, for he did not wish to appear disheveled, Gerard left his office where he had gone to make his call in private and joined the three men on his team.

“All right; let’s go to the Howard house. We want to be there when the killer calls.”

No longer “the kidnapper,” the mystery man deserved to be referred to as his newer and more ominous title. It was a far cry from “doctor.”

Gerard sat in the back with Detective Moreland. Ripley drove, Ackley in the front passenger seat. All were armed. Once there, they were shown into the parlor where Mr. and Mrs. Howard sat like cardboard cutouts. Introductions were made before Gerard sent Ackley out back and Ripley to the front of the house with orders to “Look sharp.”

“It’s just possible,” Gerard had briefed them on the way over, “our killer has his sights set on the house. If I’m right and money isn’t his motive, he’ll have four ‘unsuspecting’ policemen getting out of a car. A good marksman could pick us off without any trouble.”

He had snapped his fingers to emphasize the point.

No one fired at them as they disembarked. Nor were they shot as they walked up the sidewalk. It didn’t lessen the tension.

Nor did Mrs. Howard offer to make coffee.

Nothing was as it should be.

Gerard walked to the picture window and drew the curtain. On the count of ten he stepped to the side and peered out. He did not move again.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. Gerard turned and indicated Mr. Moreland answer it, then returned his attention to the outside. A police tape recorder had been set up to record the conversation. Moreland turned it on.

“Hello?” Moreland’s voice sounded shaky.

“You have the money?”

“Yes.”

“There’s an old abandoned Esso station on Baxter Road. The pumps have been taken out but there’s a cement platform where they used to be. Set the bag there and drive off.”

“I want to know if my daughter’s all right!” he cried in desperation. “Put her on the phone. Please.”

“She won’t be if I don’t get the money. Leave in thirty minutes.”

The call clicked dead. Moreland stopped the recording. Remaining where he was, Gerard was the first to speak.

“You have the bag?”

Howard walked over to the couch and took a gym bad from behind it. He started for the door but Gerard stepped in his way.

“I’ll go.”

If the father intended to argue, the tone of finality changed his mind. He handed over the ransom money.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” Moreland cried. “You don’t have the keys to the car. Ripley has them.”

Gerard smiled.

“I won’t need them. Unless I miss my guess, he’s out there. Twenty minutes: just enough time for a man watching the house to get to a pay phone and make the call.” He checked his watch. “Twenty minutes to get back and ten minutes to set himself.”

“Then, you’ll be a walking target.”

His face remained immobile.

“The house across the street is for sale. That’s where he’s going to fire from. He probably picked the door at the back. Go, now. I want Ackley here to cover me. You and Ripley go down the street – that way,” he indicated. “Cross over and go around the back. Watch for him to return. If I’m lucky, you’ll get him before he gets me. That’s the plan.”

“You want one of us to try and get inside?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid it may be booby-trapped. Not a bomb but some sort of marker that’ll tell him we’ve breached his security. Then, he doesn’t go in and he knows we’re onto him.”

“He’ll probably be carrying a revolver; and have the rifle upstairs,” the detective protested. “That will be enough to convict hm.”

“It won’t be the same rifle he used to murder Officer Causeway. He’ll claim he was just going into the house to… get out of the sun. He’ll have a dozen witnesses for the time of the first shooting.”

“If we see him first, shall we fire?”

“We can’t do that. Because we’re not sure. What if it turned out to be a boy waiting for his girlfriend to show up so they can sneak inside and fool around?”

“You’ll be a dead duck,” Moreland observed.

My ducks are in order.

    He wouldn’t have been surprised to know his wife had the same thought.

Moreland disappeared to carry out his orders. Those inside the house neither heard nor saw the policemen take their appointed places. At twenty-eight minutes past the half hour, Gerard turned to the Howards.

“Go in a back room. If you hear shooting, don’t come out. Call the police and an ambulance.”

“Thank you for doing this for us,” Mrs. Howard whispered.

They were the only words Gerard had heard her utter.

He had nothing to say in return. His concentration was already taking him outside where he was working on a response for a dozen potential actions. One included being killed by the first shot.

Thoughts put into automatic drive, the lieutenant opened the front door and stepped onto the stoop without hesitation. The delay of even a second might alert the kidnapper the police were aware of his presence and send him into hiding. Until enough time had passed when he felt safe enough to kidnap another child.

One foot forward and then another. Gerard was in the process of taking the third step when alarm bells in the back of his head exploded. Acting on sheer instinct, he dove to his left a split second before a projectile went zinging past. Hitting the ground, he immediately went into a shoulder roll, did a full three-sixty and came up on his feet. Stumbling from the impact of a bullet, he didn’t bother looking toward the house across the street but instead made a lopsided dash toward a low hedge that afforded cover if not protection. A rain of bullets followed his progress. Officer Ackley, in place behind Gerard, fired at the upper story window while the sound of splintering wood advised them Moreland and Ripley had battered down the back door.

A volley of shots filled the preternaturally silent neighborhood as Ackley, running in a crouch, joined his commanding officer. Face streaked with sweat from the exertion as well as the tension, Ackley rapidly appraised him, gasped in horror at the crimson blood staining Gerard’s chest, then dropped a hand on him.

“How bad is it?”
“Never mind me! Give me your gun. I’ll cover you. Get across the street and see if Moreland and Ripley need help. Go!”

Taking the weapon in his right hand, for his left was shaking, Gerard positioned himself to offer fire should the gunman reappear at the window. No shots were forthcoming, however, and as Ackley made it safely across, a voice from the second story rang out.

“All clear! All clear!”

Heaving a sigh of relief, Gerard stood, found himself suddenly light-headed and dropped to one knee. When the feeling didn’t pass, he shook his head and willed himself to stand. That was as far as he got, however, as blackness closed in and he dropped like a felled tree.

Or, more fairly, he fell like a wounded warrior.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 15