Ahead of the Press Publishing

Haunted

By : S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 5

Because he was home, because he was tired and because he never saw it coming, two balled fists struck him in the face. Reacting spontaneously, he raised his left hand to hit back when a familiar male voice warned, “Please don’t hit her. I’ll get her under control.”

Stepping back, Gerard took in the scene with a professional eye before stepping onto the stoop and waving Marie back. Before she could say a word, he closed the door on her, then sidestepped another vicious attack as Donna Taft struggled in her husband’s restraining arms.

“Monster! Monster! You’re the worst kind of devil!” she shrieked.

Shriveling under the bitter accusation more than the blows, he reached for her as she freed one arm from Leonard’s grasp.

“Don’t touch her.”

More accusatory than pleading this time, Leonard Taft’s own eyes blazed with the type of intensity only a brush with madness could elicit. Holding up his arms, Gerard glowered at the couple before speaking.

“What’s going on? Why are you here?”

Furiously reliving the past week in a matter of seconds, the sole rationale he could come up with was that the coffin had been empty. But that made no sense. Baring the possibility the police in Bennington had played a horrific Halloween trick on him, he had felt the dead weight inside. Not by sheer strength of lifting it but from the fact his mind had sensed the emptiness only death could elicit.

“You know!” Donna hissed, her face redder than her hair. “You did this to torture us. When I’m finished with you, your face won’t be fit for a wanted poster.”

Deducing he wasn’t going to get a cohesive explanation from her, Gerard turned his attention on Taft.

“Tell me. Quickly.”

Whether it was the tone of ingrained authority or the stirrings of doubt, Leonard controlled his temper long enough to speak. But it was only to prolong the agony.

“Don’t you know?” Receiving no answer, he repeated, “You really don’t know?”

“It wasn’t Dick!” his wife screamed.

If a near-death experience could be said to infect a man whose corporeal life did not hang in the balance, Gerard came as close to it as anyone alive.

“Are you telling me Richard Kimble wasn’t in that coffin?”

“Don’t play innocent with us. It doesn’t become you,” Donna pursued, in no way willing to believe his non-verbal denial. “You arranged this on purpose.”

“Why – would I?”

“You had our phone tapped. After you told us Dick was dead, you knew I’d try and get hold of him. To prove – or disprove what you said. But your little trick didn’t work because I don’t know where he is. So, I suffered for four days thinking he was dead. But even that wasn’t good enough for you. Even though you must have realized after the first day I wasn’t going to call him, you let me cry my heart out thinking it was true.”

“But to let us arrange for the casket to be picked up and to be there when it was opened,” Leonard continued. “That was cruelty of the highest order.” Still, Gerard did not speak, prompting him to continue. “Where did you go? I confirmed you left town. To the Bahamas for a little vacation while we made funeral arrangements for a man who wasn’t dead? You’re sick, Gerard. You’re worse than that. You’re deranged. And I’m going to have your badge for this – stunt – of yours.”

The same sort of calmness that settled over a man sitting in the electric chair waiting for the switch to be pulled settled over Phillip Gerard. He knew that was how the condemned felt because he had dreamed it so vividly.

If it had been a dream and not a sojourn to an alternate reality.

“I went to Bennington, Vermont, Mr. Taft. To pick up the body of Dr. Kimble and escort it home.”

Taft paled, nervously swallowed, then pursed his lips before speaking.

“Surely, you don’t expect us to believe that.” Again, silence from the police lieutenant. “Didn’t you look at the body? Are you telling us you identified the wrong man?”

“I never saw him. The casket was sealed when I got there.”

“Didn’t you ask to have it opened?”

Gerard averted his eyes. For a moment they fixed on the maple tree in his front yard. The leaves had withered and most of the branches were bare. Bits of dried grass from an abandoned squirrel’s nest twitched in the breeze. They reminded him of the way muscles spasmed when subjected to a lethal dose of electricity. His stomach soured.

“Fingerprints. They identified him through fingerprints.”

“What kind of idiots are they, that they made a mistake?”

“What kind of idiot are you?” Donna charged. “That you didn’t make sure?”

Because I thought I knew.

    Because I was too wrapped up in my own kind of mourning.

    Because, because, because.

Because it had all fallen into place too perfectly.

“Because I was a victim of my own imagination.”

Donna shot a finger in his direction.

“You wanted it to be true.”

Gerard did not know how to answer and so he didn’t. Stiffening his shoulders, he reached into his pants pocket to assure himself his keyring was still there.

“I’ll go with you. To the funeral parlor. To see for myself.”

“Don’t you think I know my own brother?”

“For my report.”

His voice sounded wooden. While the statement was accurate, behind it hid an entire scenario of impending doom. Captain Carpenter would be furious. Worse, the police commissioner would report to the D.A. and together they would blame him for the mix-up. Not only had he failed, he had involved them in a public scandal. Rather than place the blame on the Bennington constabulary, they would come after him.

Ironically, he did not need a lesson in self-defense. He had been studying one for the past five years. Whatever excuse he attempted would have as little success as the man he had pursued for so long.

“We’ll meet you there. Come on, Donna.”

Wrapping his arms tenderly around her, Leonard Taft directed his wife back to the car.

“Just a minute.” They stopped cold as if fearing Gerard had the power to alter their new reality. “What mortuary?”

“Hendricks’s. On Sycamore.”

Without bothering to inform Marie where he was going, Gerald walked toward the garage. Watching them through a crack in the drawn curtains of the picture window, Mrs. Gerard waited until her husband had backed down the driveway, turned left and maneuvered the vehicle away before letting the drapery fall. Crossing to the chair where Phil had spread his black suitcoat, she picked it up and dropped it on the floor. There was no worry about it wrinkling; no concern how long the dry cleaners took to return it.

Richard Kimble was alive.

She did not have to think twice before answering the accusation, You wanted him to be dead.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

Phillip Gerard concentrated on driving. He did not want to think. When his brain rebelled, he gripped the steering wheel, put on the turn-signal, changed lanes without need; switched on the radio, went through several stations, turned it off. Scratched an itch on his hand he did not feel; sucked air through his front teeth. Tried to visualize little Phil’s Halloween costume; answered the door in his mind and faced the trick-or-treater.

Who do we have here? It was as clear as the nose on his face. An Indian chief.

That fit in the missing link.

The Tafts arrived before him. Parking behind them, he heard the slight pinging noise from the cooling engine as he passed their car. It reminded him of a heart slowing down in death. He wasn’t a doctor; he didn’t know about ventricular fibrillation.

Inside, the front parlor was cold. No one was about and the room had only one light to illuminate the large area. Arrangements of flowers were set to either side. He absently wondered who had paid for them.

The Tafts would have to be reimbursed.

Looking around in some confusion, he heard voices coming from the back. Following his ear, he passed several closed doors behind which, he presumed, were housed other caskets, before locating the room he sought. It was not a viewing chamber as he presumed, but a rear workroom.

Of course. The body would have to be prepared before it was laid out.

    His mind went back to the Indian chief. What he saw was a store-bought costume: a brown vest with fringe; red and blue “war paint” on both ruddy cheeks; a headdress adorned with what were probably dyed turkey or chicken feathers. When he was a boy, no one had “bought” Halloween costume. Mothers made them out of material on hand. He had gone once as a “gentleman,” wearing one of his father’s old white shirts, an “Old School tie” and a “smoking jacket,” which was actually a short-waisted pajama top. For an accruement he had appropriated one of his Dad’s smoking pipes. Finding that clutching it between his teeth made it difficult to announce, “Trick or treat!” he had shoved it into his pocket. Somewhere along the route it had fallen out. There had been a royal row about that.

He never again referred to himself as a gentleman, later substituting “policeman” as a more appropriate and accurate term. Although occasionally, he was an “Indiana cop,” which ranked somewhere between the two.

Instinctively holding his breath as he entered the room that smelled of preservatives and artist’s wax, he saw the Tafts standing with the mortician. A white sheet, stretched from head to toe, covered the body recently removed from the cooler. With a curt gesture, he indicated it be lowered. When the employee didn’t respond, he performed the act himself, drawing it to the nipple line.

Although he didn’t doubt Donna Taft’s word, one look confirmed her statement. The body lying on the stainless steel table was not Richard Kimble. Approximately the same age, with black hair and bearing a slight resemblance, it was easy to see why the “Vermont cops” had made the mistake. That did not explain the fingerprints they had matched to the corpse-hero but he suspected there would be some explanation.

Sloppy police work covered a multitude of sins.

Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he replaced the sheet over the face.

“This is not Richard Kimble.”

The mortician grimaced in annoyance.

“What am I supposed to do with it, then?”

“We’re not paying for any of this,” Taft stated but Gerard waved him off.

“Put it back for now. I’ll need official clearance. We’ll have to try and identify him. The body may need to be returned to Bennington. Someone from the department will be in touch.” Then, because Taft’s loud assertion had annoyed him, he turned to Donna. “Mrs. Taft, I’m very much afraid you’ve made a grave mistake.”

Wiping her eyes with a tissue, she questioned him with watery eyes.

“What is that?”

“I believed the body was that of your brother. If you had just gone ahead with the funeral, the Kimble case would have been closed. But, you wanted your revenge on me. I hope you enjoyed it because now we’re all back where we started. Richard Kimble is still very much alive. And he remains a fugitive from justice. I’m still after him.”

She gasped in horror as the truth of his words sunk in. Crying in shock, she fell back against her husband.

“Oh, dear God. No.”

“I’m afraid so.” Turning on his heels, he called over his shoulder, “Good evening.”

Turn-around, he thought, is fair play.

    It was poor consolation for the hell they had been through.

 

Phillip Gerard was correct on all counts. Captain Carpenter was furious his lieutenant had been sent on a wild goose chase, but it was the D.A. who cut to the chase. Calling Gerard into his office, he stood before the expensive, highly polished desk with the glass top to prevent the wood from being scratched and demanded, “What the hell were you thinking, not demanding to see the body?”

“They were police officers, sir. They confirmed the identity through fingerprints and the similarity was close.”

“Since when are you such a trusting soul?”

The question stung his pride, as it was meant to. Yet, he had had twenty-four hours to prepare an answer against the charge he knew was coming. Stiffening his back, he jutted out his jaw in defiance.

“Actually, I think it turned out rather well.”

Face flushing in indignation, the district attorney with political aspirations picked up a folded newspaper and waved it at the detective in the same manner an irate man might threaten a puppy that had wet the carpet.

“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?” Spreading it out with both hands, he tapped the headline with his thumb. It read, in bold, sixty-point type, “Wrong Body.”

“Yes. I read it.”

“Then, how is it you have the audacity to stand in front of me and say, ‘I think it turned out rather well’?”

“If you’ll consider it calmly for a moment, you’ll see it my way.”

“And that is?”

“For over two years Dr. Kimble and I have been playing mind games. He’s trying to make me believe there’s a one-armed man out there who killed his wife. I’m trying to wear him down; catch him in a mistake. Never let him rest. Believe me when I tell you that’s a very powerful threat. Richard Kimble came within a hair’s breadth of putting me off his track. His sister realizes that lost opportunity and now, thanks to that article, he does – or will – know it, too. Can you possibly imagine how devastating that is to a man on the run?”

“No.”

“Well, I can. Nothing breaks the spirit quite as effectively as shattered hope. I didn’t get him this time, but now he has to doubt himself and his chances of success. To come so close and then fail – makes a man despondent. Careless. I’ll find him. Sooner or later, the game will end. We both realize that, now.”

“I think this Kimble case has gone to your head; it’s deranged you.” Before he could take a breath, he suddenly demanded, “Why are you smiling?”

“The way you’re holding the newspaper. It makes me think of another time and another man.”

Slamming down the newspaper, the D.A. knocked a pen from the marble holder prominently displayed on the desk. If it had been a lead soldier, the symbolism couldn’t have been more acute.

“Are you going to tell me who I remind you of?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Do so, so I may share the joke.”

“The date was November 3, 1948 and the newspaper was the Chicago Tribune.” He paused long enough to give Ballinger a chance to make the identification for himself. When he didn’t, Gerard did it for him. “The headline declared, ‘Dewey Defeats Truman.'”

“That’s insubordinate.”

“I said I wasn’t going to elaborate. You ordered me to.”

Stunned by the revelation, Ballinger floundered for a reply before stuttering, “I’m T-Truman?”

    “No, sir. You’re Dewey.”

“I – I haven’t lost an election.”

“We were looking into the future.”

“Get out! If I never see you again, it’ll be too soon.” The lieutenant had his hand on the door knob before the D.A. spoke again. “Gerard, Luke Carpenter has spoken to me about you taking the exam for a captaincy. Don’t bother.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s exactly what I told him.”

The district attorney’s curses escorted him out.

 

October 31, 1965 – Sunday  (Halloween)

The envelope mailed to me by the Bennington police was discovered under a sheaf of out-of-state newspapers that I hadn’t gone through. The fingerprints of the dead man were enclosed. I had them examined by our own expert. He said they belonged to Richard Kimble.

 

The body in the coffin was not that of Richard Kimble. Of that, I am positive. I asked for an explanation and the expert (Joseph Riley) had none, other than to suggest Kimble had been picked up in Bennington on some other charge and fingerprinted. Somehow, the real prints had been mismarked as belonging to the man in the morgue.

 

I don’t believe that.

 

Removing his black-framed reading glasses, Gerard leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Pressing deep into the sockets, he placed his concentration into the temporary relief the massage afforded him.

The phone rang in the living room at the same time the doorbell jangled.

“Phil, will you get the door? The candy is in a basket on the stand. One piece per child. Don’t be overly generous; it’s still early and if we run out, we’ll have to turn off the porch light and get our windows soaped.”

Leaving the ledger open, Gerard left his den and made his way to the door. Opening it, he was greeted by two cheery voices.

“Trick-or-treat. Give us something good to eat!”

He stared at the two boys. For a fraction of a second he thought they were the Taft children and almost slammed the door in their faces. One was dressed as a policeman with a patrolman’s cap and a bright tin badge; the other was clothed in a black-and-white, horizontally-striped shirt and wore a plastic ball-and-chain around his right ankle.

Without having the heart to ask, “Who have we here?” for fear of hearing the answer, he held out the candy basket.

“Take as much as you want.”

“Oh boy! Three Musketeers! The people next door are giving out popcorn.”

“You don’t like popcorn?”

“Three pieces, each. What kind of a treat is that?”

“I hope you didn’t soap their windows.”

“Nah,” the smaller protested as though the “trick” were beneath his dignity. “We let the air out of their tires.”

The statement eliminated them as Bobby and Billy Taft. Even at their tender ages, neither would have confessed as much to him.

Taking a handful of the 5-cent candy bars, they shoved the treats into their sacks and ran down the sidewalk.

“Phil –”

“Yes, I know. I shouldn’t have let them take so many –”

Turning around with the expectation of being chastised, he stopped as he took in her expression.

“There’s a man on the phone. He asked to speak with you.”

“Who is it?”

“He said his name is Richard Kimble,” she replied in a voice filled with dread. “It can’t be him. Can it?”

Instead of answering, Gerard went to the phone she had set down on the stand by the couch. Picking it up as if it were a life preserver, he demanded in a husky voice, “Kimble, where are you?”

The voice on the end started to reply from habit, then cut itself off.

“Gerard?”

“Yes, yes, this is he.”

“This is Richard Kimble.” The familiar voice fumbled over the name as if the man were not used to repeating it.

“Dr. Kimble,” Gerard repeated with more familiarity.

“I’m calling to tell you not to torture my family. What you did to my sister was cruel. More cruel than I would have expected, even from you.” Having gotten that much out, he hurried on. “You have the right to come after me, but she hasn’t done anything wrong. Let her alone.” The voice took on a sense of urgency. “I’m asking you. Please.”

“She said she didn’t know how to reach you.”

“I read it in the newspaper.”

“I thought you might have.”

“When I called her, she was hysterical. Weeping. Telling her I was dead, just to get her to telephone me so you could trace the call. And then allowing her to view the body of a dead man, thinking it was me. That was – unjust.” He waited a beat before adding, “I don’t tell her where I am. You can believe that.”

Gerard forgave what may or may not have been a lie.

Realizing his hand was shaking, he transferred the receiver to his left ear. Mind swirling, he asked, “How did you get my home number?”

“You made it unlisted after the train wreck because, I presume, you got too many crank calls. But you didn’t change the number. Donna went to the library and checked through old directories. It was there. Don’t hold that against her.”

“No. No. I won’t.” Catching Marie out of the corner of his eye, he motioned her away. She disappeared into the shadows. “Dr. Kimble, I want you to believe me. It wasn’t a trick. I was informed you were dead and I believed it. I went all the way to –” He stopped and changed his mind before revealing where he had gone. “Think what you will of me, but I never meant to hurt her. We were both fooled.”

A long pause and then, fearful he was going to terminate the call, Gerard nearly shouted, “Kimble!”

A hesitation, then, “Yes?”

“All right: don’t tell me where you are. This call isn’t being traced. Let’s make a deal. I won’t bother your sister again if you tell me one thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“Yes or no. One honest answer.”

“If I can.”

“Were you in Bennington, Vermont within the past month?”

“No.”

Gerard closed his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. I just needed to know.”

For my sanity.

    “Is that all?”

“We have a deal.”

The phone went dead. Without any rational explanation, Gerard put his finger on the hook and depressing it, thus terminating the call. In a second, silence was replaced by a loud buzzing noise. He held the handset a moment longer then replaced on the cradle. Marie came up and put a hand on his arm.

“Was that really Richard Kimble?”

“Yes.”

“What in the world did he want?”

“To tell me he wasn’t a ghost.”

She didn’t understand him.

That night, long after his own children had come home with pillowcases full of candy and the porch light had safely been turned off, Phillip Gerard roamed the empty rooms of his house. As he crossed near the front door, he inadvertently kicked a small object on the floor. Bending down to examine it, he discovered it to be a piece of candy that had fallen from the basket.

A Three Musketeer’s bar.

Not, in this case, named for Athos, Porthos and Aramis, but for a trio of others.

Gerard, Kimble and a possibly imagined man with one arm.

Link to HAUNTED Chapter 6