Pieces of a Whole

by: Betsy J. Bennett

CHAPTER 10

The little black girl was spotlessly clean, her hair in two matching pig tails with pink ribbons. Spotlessly clean, except that her dress was covered in blood. Her dark brown eyes were wide, with fear, with pain. Kimble finished stitching, took time to wash his hands, then turned back to the mother, as afraid as the six-year old.

He positioned the sling so she wouldn’t be tempted to use the arm, the bandage very white against the deep black skin of her upper arm. He pulled the stool he had been using for the suturing, and sat again, facing the mother. “The gunshot was a through and through. It should heal cleanly. If it doesn’t, come back and see Dr. Olivetti.”

“She was on our lawn, playing jump rope.”

“Yeah.” Drive by shooting. Drug gangs fighting over turf. In this part of downtown Detroit, it was almost a daily occurrence. It was probable the girl’s brother or father or mother, for that matter, was the intended target, and bullets didn’t always hit where they were intended when shot through the window of a speeding car. She wasn’t the first innocent to come into his make-shift emergency room.

He dug through one on the drawers, came back with a lollipop he handed to the child. “In six weeks come back and Dr. Olivetti or I will take the stitches out. I don’t want you getting them wet if you can help it. No swimming.”

“We don’t live in no swimming pool community.”

He pulled the cellophane off a second lollipop, and plugged it into his own mouth. Now that he wasn’t suturing, he was aware of how long it was since he had last eaten. He offered a third to the mom, who shook her head, denying the treat. This clinic had limited medicine, almost no supplies, but for some reason a great stock of lollipops. “And if you know who is responsible for this, let the police handle it. I don’t want any of you creating any more violence.”

“Can’t promise that, Doc.”

Since the knife wounds, the patients had taken to calling him Doc although he kept insisting he had been hired in as an orderly. With the understanding that Olivia was watching him, and could lose her clinic if it were found he was practicing medicine without a license, he had started treating patients.

The mom, seven months pregnant, lifted the six-year-old as if she weighed nothing. “You take care. I don’t want to see you in here again until it’s time to remove the stitches. You understand me?”

“Yes, Doc.”

He checked his watch, a gift from Donna as he packed his bags to leave Indiana. As a physician, he needed a watch for taking pulses, for noting time of death. The people who came here were desperate, no reparable ER would have them. He hadn’t realized it had gotten so late, almost nine o’clock. The clinic was supposed to be open nine-to-five.

“Any more out there?” he asked around the lollipop as the Olivia popped her head in.

She removed her shoe, started rubbing her ankle. Seeing what she was doing, Richard took over the task, gently massaging her foot. “One more. Asked for you by name. Stinks of cop. We’ve tried to get him to go, told him you weren’t here, but he’s been waiting about two hours now. You want out the back door?”

“No. I’ll see him. Olivia, if I’m not back tomorrow—“

Her smile was radiant, to let him know she teased. “We haven’t much money for bail, but we’ll see what we can do, Doc.”

He locked his eyes with her for a long moment, while a hundred thoughts flashed though his mind, images and emotions too disjointed he didn’t even recognize them himself. Want was in there, as was need, and perhaps desperation, none of which he was willing to acknowledge. He shook his head, matched her tone. “I told you not to call me that. Turn the lights out and go home. After I see this policeman, I’m for home myself.”

She dropped her hand on his shoulder, then gently walked her fingers down his arm. “I’ll stay. You need a keeper.”

Odd, he was thinking exactly the same about her. He forced himself to ignore the effects of her touch even while he wondered why such a simple act should have his pulse racing. Exhausted, he got to his feet, stretched, arched his back, trying to work the stiffness out.

“Good day?” he asked, needing the reassurance. He’d been working since seven that morning, fourteen hours ago. Seven days a week. He really was getting too old for this, but working kept the majority of the nightmares at bay, and when he woke, he was too tired to remember any snatches of his dreams, real or imaginary. Well, if there were a prison cell in his near future, there might be a chance he could catch up on some badly needed sleep.

Her hands were in her jacket pockets, jammed in among the fifty thousand things she kept in there, as if to prevent herself from touching him again. “It was a good day, Richard. We’ll have another one tomorrow.”

Together he hoped she’d finish, but she didn’t, and he wouldn’t. He’d learned over the past four years not to hope, not to make plans for the next day. That never ended well. Hope, perhaps of all the things he’d lost over the last four years, that was the most painful.

He recognized the man sitting somewhat impatiently in the lobby immediately, and knew the staff was correct. He reeked of policeman. “Lieutenant.” Kimble held out his hand for a handshake. If he were to be arrested, at least he would try the friendly approach first.

Gerard stood, met his grasp firmly. “Dr. Kimble.”

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. I didn’t know until this second that you were here.”

“That’s not a problem, although,” here, because the look in Kimble’s eyes, Gerard tried to lighten his tone, made a deliberate effort to be non-threatening. “I was beginning to wonder if you had snuck out the back door.”

Richard’s answer was his fleeting half smile. “It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“You need help?” Olivia asked. She had moved silently in front of the receptionist’s desk, but he had known she was there. He could sense her with every nerve ending in his body. She had taken off her lab coat, had taken the time to run a brush through her shoulder length hair. She rarely wore it down.

Kimble stared at her, had no idea the hunger the look imparted, not to the intended, but to the policeman who missed nothing. “No, the lieutenant and I go way back. This is Gerard. He’s a friend.”

She stepped forward, offered her hand which Gerard responded with the same handshake he had offered Kimble.

“I’m sorry. I should have recognized you. I’ve certainly gone through the archives and read the papers. I met your son. He seems like a good kid.”

“He’s a great kid, although right now his mother has him grounded, probably for the rest of his life.”

She gave Gerard a long, weighing look, debated her options, clearly avoided looking at Richard for what she might see there. “At the risk of being indelicate, are you the one who shot him?”

“Shot him?” Gerard answered, “which time?”

Touché she thought and wondered about the other bullet wounds Kimble alluded to. “His shoulder wound.”

Gerard shook his head, locked eyes with her as if he met a worthy adversary. “No. That wasn’t me, but not for lack of trying.”

She plopped her hands on her hips, an aggressive stance in a woman who only knew how to heal. “Good, because he was shot in the back.”

Gerard’s look was quixotic, but he would be honest. “He has a habit of running. I’ve shot at him while his back was to me.”

“Richard, I think you need better friends.” She turned back to the policeman. “Ok, one more question. Did you ever apologize?”

Gerard hiked an eyebrow. “Apologize?”

“For hunting him day and night. You must know by now he was innocent.”

“I have nothing to apologize for. I wasn’t on the jury. That wasn’t my decision. I testified in the trial, and to this day I stand by all the things I said. I upheld the law. The jury found him guilty. As a police officer, it was my job to bring him to justice.”

She shifted, gave the impression she was about to move to get in his face, “But you didn’t bring him to justice. There was no justice. There was only obsession.”

“Good night, Olivia,” Richard said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He had been watching Gerard for a reaction to the second part of his statement, and the policeman nodded slightly in agreement.

“There’s nothing to worry about here,” Gerard insisted, “I won’t keep him long.”

“Before I go,” Olivia said her hand on the doorknob, “I almost forgot. There was a bat, some baseballs and a bunch of gloves here this morning. They’re gone now.”

“Why are you telling me?” Richard asked, but his smile this time was sincere.

“Aren’t you the one who bought them?”

His laugh was probably one of the most healing ones he’d ever experienced. “In front of the police lieutenant, I’m not admitting to anything.”

“They were here when I got in, and you were the only one in before me.”

“Imagine that. But I will state it is my opinion as a former pediatrician that the best way to keep children healthy is to let them play baseball.”

“Baseball?”

“Yes, my sister and her husband believe in soccer, and while I have nothing personal against soccer—“

“They don’t have a medical degree,” Gerard interrupted.

“Exactly,” Kimble answered finding himself on the unexpected place of agreeing with Gerard.

“I have to say when I arrived here there were about twenty kids playing in the street,” Gerard continued. “I’m not sure they had the rules down, but they were using the equipment. I would imagine in a day or two there will be some broken windows.”

“Yikes,” Olivia answered, “that’s all this neighborhood needs is more broken windows.”

“We’ve got to prevent that,” Kimble said. “If I ever get any free time, I’ll hit them some pop flies and teach them how to field.”

And that put an end to that line of conversation. With a scowl directed at both men, Olivia grabbed her purse and medical bag and shut the clinic door behind her. Richard kept his gaze locked on where she had been for long seconds after she had left with a naked desire Gerard felt palpable.

“You have another defender.”

Richard deflected the question. “I suppose Phil told you where I was?”

“No, Phil admitted he’d been to see you, and that you shoved him on a bus for home, then kept his mouth shut and wouldn’t give up your location. Seems Phil is of the opinion you’re terrified of me.”

“In the past, our reunions never went well.”

“No, I got the information from Donna. I think if she knew it was me calling, she wouldn’t have answered the phone. It took me a while to persuade her. She’s very loyal to you and she and I have never quite seen eye to eye.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I convinced her I only want to help.”

Kimble rotated his shoulder. The arthritis was acting up again. Pain radiated down his arm, around his back. “Help. Your definition?”

“Can I buy you dinner?”

“You want to buy me dinner?”

“Because I’m a bit peckish.”

Richard turned the waiting room lights off, locked the clinic door. Although there were streetlights, over the past decade or so they’d been vandalized and none of them worked, leaving the street dark, with shadows in the alleys and shop-corners, blacker still. Clouds hung low, and already heat lightening flashed, making the air feel electric. They’d have a summer storm soon, before it moved on and soaked the good Canadians of Winsor. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven. He’d learned to walk carefully. His car was parked at the curb, half way down the street, but he had no doubt that it was safe from vandals and those seeking a quick joy ride .

It was starting to feel familiar here. These were his people, where he wanted to make his home. He studied the lawman beside him and wondered if there was yet another dream that would never come to pass.

“They’re very protective of you here.”

Odd that their thoughts had been running parallel, but maybe not so unexpected at that. Over the years, Gerard had studied him, knew how he thought, what he liked. He doubted he had any secrets from the lieutenant. Kimble dug his hands in his pockets, stood still, hoped that Gerard will say what he had to say here in the dark. Ugliness was best in the dark corners, and although he had no idea what Gerard wanted, he had no doubt whatever he had to say would be painful.

“They hate to lose a good orderly. They’re not that easy to come by.”

Kimble started walking, needing movement, as if he could somehow outrun the ugliness. It didn’t occur to him at that moment that was exactly what he had been doing since a train wreck granted him a life-extension.

“You’re an orderly? Is that what you are?” Before Kimble could answer, he continued. “Do orderlies do surgery?”

“No.” He shrugged, self-depreciating. He might have to speak with Decker. Too much of his life, former and current was public fodder. “There’s a line. I know where it is. I’ve been across it a few times. If you’re here to arrest me for practicing medicine without a license, I’ll have to tell you I haven’t written a prescription and Dr. Olivetti oversees every single thing I do. Besides, I doubt there’s a person here who would testify against me.”

“I’m not here to arrest you.”

It had been a long day. His feet hurt. His back hurt, and he was working on a monster headache at the base of his neck that a good eighteen hours of sleep might help. He’d be lucky if he saw six hours. After Gerard left, he’d be lucky if he saw any.

“Good. This is hardly your jurisdiction. I figured if you wanted me, you would have brought in some of the local men.” Before Helen’s death, his dreams had been innocent. Now he didn’t have to be asleep to experience nightmares.

Ignoring the statement, Gerard thrust his chin out. It was a magnificent chin, and he often led with it. “I’ve got a hotel room about twenty miles from here. There was a restaurant associated with it. Although I don’t know what’s available, it looks like the only thing serving edible food in the area.”

“Fine.” Kimble shoved the clinic keys back in his pocket, pulled out his car keys. “I’ll meet you.” He wasn’t trying to be perverse, but although he called Gerard a friend, he still made him anxious.

“I came by cab.”

“I’ll call you another one.”

“Dr. Kimble—“

The pain freshened. For years he only wanted to survive, now Richard realized he would wither without his career, without his medical license to define him. Medicine was more than what he learned, what he practiced. These past few days with Olivia had reinforced it was his heart and soul. He had learned to lie, but maybe the exoneration came with a price tag. He wasn’t sure he could deviate from the truth any longer.

“No. I told you I can’t legally practice medicine anymore. Although one of these days I’m going to find the time to get it reinstated.” He had written to the medical boards of Indiana several times, asking to know if the license was still valid, if he could somehow reactivate it. Donna had insisted immediately after the exoneration, and lately it had become imperative that he know. He had not heard back.

Well, maybe he could still lie. He found no comfort in the thought.

Richard adjusted the collar of his jacket, zipped it. “If I have to, I’ll run. Now, do you want to tell me what you’re doing in the Motor City?”

“Over dinner. If they’re still serving. It’s getting late.”

“Come with me,” Kimble said, leading him to his car. “How is your leg?”

“My leg?” Beside him, Gerard moved competently.  “Oh, the bullet wound.”

“Yes. You limped when you came to see me in Stafford. Nothing significant. You don’t seem to be in pain now.”

“It kept me out of work for four weeks. I drove myself crazy. If I ever thought spending some down time at home was relaxing, I’ve changed my mind. Then when I was allowed back they put me on modified duty while I went through physical therapy. I’m almost back to normal. I have to say when I was recovering from the surgery and driving Marie crazy, I thought of you a lot. How many times were you shot?”

He shrugged again. It was a mannerism he was going to have to break himself of, but the action definitely reminded him to taking a bullet. “Too many. Half a dozen, I’d guess. And other than the shoulder wound, I removed all the bullets myself.”

“And ran, for hours, if not days, while bleeding.”

“Yes. I wasn’t allowed the luxury–sorry, I’m not going there. All I had to do was to consider what would happen to me if I stopped, to give me strength to keep moving.”

“And yours, do they bother you?”

“Shoulder does. I’ve learned to live with it.”

“Why Detroit?” Gerard asked as he sat in the passenger seat. Kimble’s car was painstakingly spotless, not an ounce of dust, no crumpled take-out containers, no maps haphazardly folded from any one of a dozen random states. He remembered Richard’s statement that he continually wiped his fingerprints down. Gerard could easily believe this was a survival tactic he hadn’t broken yet.

Richard drove competently, through streets mainly deserted, filled with abandoned houses, boarded up, and yes, dozens of shattered windows. These were places a transient or perhaps a fugitive, would be comfortable hiding. There were a few businesses thriving, topless bars, collision repair shops, liquor stores. Street lights were few and far between. Detroit in the late ‘60’s was a town with no foreseeable future.

“No particular reason, well, first I stopped in Chicago to see Decker.”

“I read the article, the original one and the one this past Friday that Phil gave him and of course the one on the puppies.”

“No good deed goes unpunished, and all that.”

“All of them were complimentary.”

“I’d rather obscurity.”

“I think you lost that option a long time ago. Still I was pleased to read Phil’s take. We’ve spoken of it, of course we have, but I was surprised at how much he held back from me that he was willing to share with Decker.”

Kimble nodded, thought of courage of a young man who would rather face a convicted murderer than be alone in the dark, although perhaps that had been a ruse, for Phil knew if he stayed with the car and waited for his father that Richard Kimble would get away with murder. If Phil forced him to take him along, maybe he could leave clues, waylay him long enough for the posse to catch up.

“Everyone who comes to the clinic has read them too. They’ve got a local soap opera.”

“He did a good job with it. It looks like Decker is giving up the idea of a book. Every Friday, for as long as he can, he’s going to print something in the Top of the Deck, from what he calls the Kimble Files, about people you helped.”

“I owed him.” Kimble chewed on the statement, decided to add, “And it will be a short run.”

“You’d be surprised. I’m going to speak to him myself, about the moonshiners and how you saved my life, and about the storm when I was injured.”

He was blindsided, something he had not seen coming. “Why?”

“Why? You don’t think I have a conscience?”

He offered the lawman his smile, to show no ill will. “If you want to know the truth…”

“You saved my life several times, when each time, it would have been easier for you if you hadn’t. I want that acknowledged. There are still people,” many of them wearing badges in Stafford, “who still assume some residual guilt about you.”

“I’ve run into a bunch of those. Still, Lieutenant, you don’t have to do that.”

This time it was Gerard’s turn to shrug. Although for years, Kimble could not see it, Gerard was an honorable man. “It’s not much repayment.”

“I don’t need any repayment from you.”

“All right, to ease my conscience, and to get Phil off my back. So as soon as you left the Indiana you went to see Decker?”

Kimble flicked on the left turn signal, executed the turn exactly, his face alternately turning green until the signal turned itself off. “Yes. There was an aiding and abetting charge. I did that to him.”

“He seems rather proud of it now.”

“Yes. I can’t figure him out. Going to jail didn’t bother him, but I felt he deserved an interview. And Donna insisted I speak with someone.”

“She probably meant a psychologist,” Gerard said with a straight face.

Kimble laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. But I figured the press wasn’t going to give up staking out her house or hunting for me until they understood about the exoneration. I wanted to prove there was a one-armed man. I hadn’t been making that up… and there was another reason.”

“Yes?”

He didn’t want to run. He liked where he was, the people he worked with, the people who came to the clinic and he was able to help. “I figure there are probably a couple hundred small town sheriff offices which still have my picture featured prominently. I wanted another national exposure to try and get some peace of mind that perhaps I could travel into those backwater towns again without worrying about being shot on sight.”

“Good idea.”

“Especially since I was given the “Get out of Dodge” speech the moment I left the Tafts.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Two plain clothes policemen politely escorted me to Illinois, seemed to hint it was in my best interest not to return to the great state of Indiana, not that I’m in any hurry to get back.”

“Who were they? Did you recognize them?”

He slowed down for a stop sign, rolled through it. The traffic was non-existent, and the sidewalks were empty. He doubted Detroiters went to bed early. Whatever they were up to, they did it in another part of town, or in the dark. “In all honesty, and I’m fairly sure this isn’t a compliment, the only police officer I recognize on sight is you.”

“This isn’t right. I’ll look into it. There should be no reason for you to be run out of town. The exoneration was complete.”

“Don’t waste your time, although I’m somewhat relieved you were not behind it.”

“I’m not. You’re innocent, and as far as I’m concerned, welcomed anywhere in the country.”

Welcomed. He’d been welcomed by strangers over the years, to share small pieces of their lives while he lived in fear. He was welcomed here now. Small town sheriffs be damned. “I live in Michigan now. I took half a day and got a Michigan driver’s license and registered the car.”

“I hope you’re happy here. I really do.”

He let half a mile go by before he spoke again. “Honestly, Lieutenant, I’m not sure I know what happiness is anymore, but I’ve got work I like with people I respect. And the people in the neighborhood respect me too. It’s enough for now.”

“So, after you left Decker, where did you go? I’m just making idle conversation, in case you’re wondering. This isn’t an interrogation.”

Was there a difference with Gerard between the two? Kimble smiled, decided to answer the question. “Since it wasn’t as painful to speak to Decker as I feared, I looked up someone else who helped me, back then, to offer thanks, see how she was doing.”

“Who?”

His smile this time was a bit wider, more sincere. “Is there a statute of limitations on aiding and abetting?”

“I am no longer interested in you.”

“The fact that you’re here speaks differently.”

“No longer interested in hunting down those who helped you.” Gerard sat perfectly still. He was a man who never learned to fidget. Perhaps it was a personal technique he had acquired over years of stakeouts.

“Fine. In case you don’t know and missed that stop, I’ll keep her name to myself.”  It wouldn’t make much difference, she wouldn’t be adding to Decker’s column. He had spoken at Sister Veronica’s funeral.

“You can trust me.”

Link to Chapter 11