Haunted
By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler
Chapter 15
“A hero. That’s what they’re calling you,” Captain Luke Carpenter announced to the man lying in a hospital bed, covered to the neck with a white sheet. With an IV in his right arm and a series of tubing running from his chest to a collection container hung at the foot of the bed, he smiled in pleasure at Gerard’s sour reaction.
“Nonsense. I did my duty. No more and no less.”
“That’s not what people are saying.” He opened the newspaper he was holding and displayed the front page two feet away from the patient’s face. “Police Hero Catches Assassin,” he read from the headline. “Shall I read the entire article to you?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll hear all about it. The mayor has already been in contact with the Chief. He wants to declare a ‘Lieutenant Phillip Gerard Day’ and give you the keys to the city.”
Compressing his lips, Gerard weakly waved away the idea.
Grimacing, this time from pain, he managed to articulate, “What about the girl?”
“Safe. The gunman had her tied up in his apartment.” Carpenter paused before adding, “There’s no question that he meant to kill her, as well. He was just biding his time. You saved her life, Phil.”
“How did you find the address?”
“He had some ID in his pocket. False, as it turns out. But the address was legit. Two officers went there and found her. She was pretty terrified but she’ll be all right. Congratulations. But tell me how in the world did you figure out where he’d be?”
Too weak to bother answering, Gerard merely moved the fingers of his right hand. As his eyelids drooped, he asked, “What was it all about?”
“You were right about that, too. We got his fingerprints from the coroner. Seems he has a long history of kidnapping and murder – was wanted in several states. Vowed to kill as many policemen as he could. God knows how many more he would have murdered if you hadn’t figured it out. And Phil,” he added after a long hesitation, “there’s something else. He was missing his right arm – above the elbow.”
He need not have waited for an answer for the man on the bed had fainted.
Lieutenant Phillip Gerard Day was held on a Monday, a month after the shooting. It had taken that long for the Man of Honor to be strong enough to attend. He sat in an open car at the head of a parade down Main Street, occasionally nodding to the crowd of people who lined both sides of the business district, waving enthusiastically as the convertible passed. The mayor made a speech on the steps of the courthouse before offering him an oversized key stamped “Stafford, IND.” The parents of Angie Howard presented him with a plaque denoting his heroism.
When the festivities were over, Captain Carpenter came up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“What do you say now, hero? Aren’t you glad I brought you back from Valley Bluffs?”
The question was a double-edged sword and consequently, Phillip Gerard did not answer it.
“Coming,” a woman’s voice called as the chimes of the doorbell faded. Footsteps alerted the visitor she was approaching the door, but not even their prior relationship prepared him for the expression on her face as she recognized him.
“What are you doing here? Did you come to see if Len and I and the boys were part of the throng of worshippers at your parade today?” Her lips sneered at him in derision. “You could have saved yourself the trouble, because you already know the answer.”
“That’s not why I came. I apologize for intruding because I promised I wouldn’t bother you, again. But this is important.”
Her complexion paled, making the freckles on her face stand out in stark contrast. After hesitating, she stepped back.
“Come in.” She led Gerard to the living room but did not invite him to sit, even though it was apparent he was unsteady on his feet. “What is it you have to say to me?”
“It may interest you to know that had I not been summoned back to handle the kidnapping and murder case, I would have captured your brother.” She stiffened but remained mute. “I trailed him from Great Falls to Valley Bluffs, Montana. I found the thrift store where he purchased a wardrobe. I identified the print shop where he had gotten a job. I would have captured him by morning.”
“Is that the good news or the bad news?” she tried, jaw jutting out in defiance.
“I just wanted you to know.”
“So I can tell my brother?”
“If you like.”
“He’ll be thrilled to hear it.”
“I imagine he may put a different interpretation to it. But that’s not why I’m here. The murderer I actually did catch – his name doesn’t matter. He used many names during his life. But there was one thing he couldn’t change. It wasn’t released to the newspapers.”
She swallowed nervously, suddenly awash in a flash of cold that swept through her body.
“What was it?”
“He was missing his right arm.”
Hand to her face, Donna let out a low moan.
“Please don’t tell me –”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a photograph.
“He had the same general build as the man Dr. Kimble described. He was… struck in the face by one of the bullets fired by the policemen who took him down, so a photograph from the morgue won’t help. But he had this cheap photo-booth image pasted onto his false ID. I suppose he needed it for some sort of job application. I made a copy.”
He handed it over and she accepted it, staring down at the face.
“Is this…?”
“I can’t be certain. It’s grainy and blurry. Maybe he was moving when it was taken. There’s only one man who can… properly identify him.”
“Dick,” she whispered. Wiping a tear from her cheek, she finally sought Gerard’s face. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“If I were in your place – and I’m not suggesting any such thing – I’d try and find some way to get it to him. If it’s this so-called Fred Johnson, he ought to know the man is dead.”
“Are you trying to break his heart?”
“I’m trying to dispel his false hope. Allowing him to keep searching is both cruel and pointless. If it isn’t his one-armed man, then he goes on. And I keep looking for him.”
“And if it is Fred Johnson? What do you expect?”
Gerard paused, then slowly shook his head.
“I expect nothing. Good day, Mrs. Taft. I’ll show myself out.”
Driving himself home which he had promised Marie he wouldn’t do because he hadn’t been cleared by the police surgeon to get behind the wheel, he found a dozen cars parked along the curb in front of and across the street. Steeling himself for what he hoped he wouldn’t have to face, he inched up the sidewalk. The door opened from the inside and a group of happy people emerged.
“Congratulations, Phil,” Mike Doster called, hand extended.
“Our hero,” his wife Diane seconded. “It’s about time one of Stafford’s finest was rewarded for his service above and beyond the call of duty.”
Ushering him inside, the rest of the party gathered round, each waiting for his hand to shake, or for the opportunity to slap him on the back. Without flinching, although the blows, well-intended, caused excruciating pain from the unhealed chest wound, he smiled and nodded his gratitude. Dodging a collection of brightly colored red, yellow and blue helium balloons, he followed the gathering into the dining room where a large three-tier cake served as the centerpiece.
“Thank you,” he mumbled in embarrassment, “but –”
“But, nothing,” Detective Moreland interrupted. Holding out his arms as a signal to join him, Officers Ripley and Ackley came forward.
“It’s an honor to serve with you, Lieutenant.”
“It was a group effort –”
This time, he was interrupted by his daughter.
“Come this way, Dad,” Frances announced. “We have something to show you.”
Following her into the hall, he noted a large bed sheet had been pinned to one of the walls. Phil, Junior, as proud as any boy could be, took down the tacks, revealing a large picture frame holding the front page of the newspaper boasting the headline, “Police Hero Catches Assassin.” Beside it was the key to the city, suspended on a purple ribbon alongside the framed commendation from the Howard family.
“You’re the best, Dad,” he whispered as his father stepped closer to admire the handiwork. “Every kid in school came up and shook my hand today. Half of them said they wanted to grow up to be a policeman just like you.”
Wiping away a tear, he grasped the boy on the shoulder, then motioned for Frances to join them. Marie, who had the family camera ready, snapped the photograph, destined to be another addition to the Wall of Honor.
“This… none of this was necessary,” Gerard tried but no one paid him any heed. Realizing the battle was lost, he allowed them to escort him back to the dining room. Famously poor at making speeches, he mumbled a second “Thank you,” then cut the cake. Marie added scoops of ice cream to the plates and the Gerard family celebrated a sentinel event that served as the perfect ending to an incredible day.
The letter came a month later. Just as the last time, it bore a return address. Gerard found it waiting for him on the kitchen table when he got home from work. Marie watched him pick it up and study the envelope before speaking.
“I had every intention of throwing it out,” she finally offered.
Raising an eyebrow, he asked, “Why?”
“Because whenever she writes, it’s always bad news.” He made no attempt to answer. “Do you know what’s inside?”
“No.” Which was only partially true. “Why should I?”
He lied badly.
“Are you going to open it?”
“Not now.”
Which meant he wanted to read it in private. In his den. In the dark. What she didn’t know was whether her husband would share the contents with her. Richard Kimble lurked in the dark corners of his life. Just as he hid from the law, the law hid from her.
Marie went to bed early. She did not sleep. Sleeping alone made her feel like a widow.
Phillip Gerard retreated to his home office and shut the door. He drew the curtains and removed his journal from the desk drawer. Opening it to the last entry, he reread the few sentences.
August 30, 1966 – Tuesday
Montana
Moving from Shelby to Great Falls to Valley Bluffs
Jim Kelly
Thrift store; print shop
There was no mention of his heroics in the discovery and death of the kidnapper and cop killer.
Its place in the chronology of Richard Kimble was insignificant.
Falling into what might have been described as a trance, the man obsessed with his capture did not move again until the hands of the clock silently swept past midnight. As though triggering a primeveal instinct, Gerard’s head snapped up. Taking a letter opener from the top drawer, he sliced the top of the envelope and removed the paper inside. It was a page taken from a notepad. The type people hung on the refrigerator with a magnet for jotting down grocery lists. In the lower right-hand corner was the generic image of a bouquet of flowers. Rather than assume it conveyed a message, he passed it off as being less than fine stationary and more than a scrap torn from a school three-ring binder.
The hand-written words were neatly inscribed in the Palmer style. They looked remarkably similar to the handwriting of her brother. There was no salutation.
“Dick says it isn’t Fred Johnson. He wanted me to thank you for your concern so I pass that along without including mine. He also asked that you mail the copy of “Lord Jim” he left in his luggage back to the lending library in Shelby. I’m enclosing $1 for the postage to be certain we don’t owe you anything.”
There was no dollar in the envelope. He presumed in her distress in writing the note she had forgotten to place it inside. If and when she realized her mistake, he knew a second letter would be forthcoming.
Turning the paper over in his hand, he realized she had scribbled something on the back. This penmanship was hurried as though she had debated writing it and then had given in to her bitterness.
“If you had put as much effort into finding and capturing the real murderer of Helen Kimble as you did the ‘cop killer,’ you might have been my hero, as well. D.T.”
Without obvious signs of emotion, Gerard replaced the note in the envelope and tucked it into the back of his journal.
When he had replaced it away in the drawer and locked it, he opened a second drawer and took out his checkbook. Writing with a firm hand slanted to the left, he inscribed the check to the Shelby Lending Library, adding on the memo line, “To replace ‘Lord Jim.'”
Phillip Gerard was not a man given to collecting trophies. He wanted to keep the book to read.
It would make him feel closer to Dr. Kimble.
Which was, in any case, a double-edged sword.
The End
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