Pieces of a Whole

by: Betsy J. Bennett

CHAPTER 16

His stomach churned and he felt sick to his stomach, still he would see this through. Whether he could do this without committing cold blooded murder, remained to be seen. Kimble knocked on the door, waited until it opened.

Lloyd Chandler had been a friend. Helen and he would meet Chandler for bridge a couple of times a year, would occasionally catch a movie together. And Donna had told him that while he was in prison and running for his life, Chandler had been active with the boys of the town, teaching them to shoot, taking them on camping and fishing trips, acting as a community leader. And he still dined out on his war hero status.

Chandler had never lied to the police about that night. The police had not asked him his whereabouts, and he had never found the strains of courage to admit what he witnessed. The police had their killer. No need disrupting other good citizens with time-wasting questions.

Donna had told him she would love to shove a carving knife in his back. Not a violent man, Kimble could only agree, but would rather do it himself and save his sister from serving jail time.

It had been a few months since the exoneration, the last time Kimble had seen him. Donna had mentioned in passing that Betsy had left, gone back to her parents, taking their adopted son with her. The adopted son Helen had been so interested in, the night of the murder. Since then, Chandler had not once taken the neighborhood boys out fishing or shooting, had not been seen in the country club or at the high school games, where he had been known to be an ardent supporter. He had dug his own grave and was pouring dirt in around him. Kimble could only wish him luck with that endeavor.

“Richard, good to see you.”

There was no way he could respond the same. For a man with nightmares, this should be the source. “Lloyd, can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Chandler directed him to the living room. To say it was a disaster would be an understatement. Dirty dishes and dirty clothes were piled throughout the room, as well as empty take-out containers and empty bottles of beer and those of stronger intoxicants. Chandler himself looked like something dragged out from death’s door, with a heavy beard, from ignoring it, rather than deliberately growing it. There were traces of food spilled on his shirt, and his hair and clothing looked none too clean. His feet were bare.

He pulled a pile of magazines, junk mail and what appeared to be past due notices from a chair. “Sit. You want a beer?”

He wanted to strangle him with his own hands. “No.”

“Well, what can I do for you?”

Kimble looked at the chair, then remained standing. “I’ll get right to the point. I’m sure you don’t want to see me with the same degree of loathing I don’t want to see you. I’ve only got one question.”

“Why I didn’t come forward years ago? Well, let me tell you—“

Kimble ground his teeth. “No. I don’t care about that any more. Let that be on your conscience. It’s not on mine that you were willing to let me die in the electric chair for something you knew I didn’t do. I hope you live with the knowledge of the hell I went through every day of your life. Was it worth it to have me die to protect your cowardice? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. I really don’t want to know what you thought. We were friends once. You were welcomed in my home. Helen trusted you. No, I really have no time to wonder why you weasely coward didn’t testify, when in telling the truth, you could have been a hero.”

“Then what do you want?”

“You paid the bail to let Fred Johnson go free. I want to know why.”

His eyes darted around the room, checking for potential escape routes, perhaps, something Kimble could understand. “I thought if I killed him, I wouldn’t have nightmares that he would recognize me.”

“Kill him? Knowing that I needed him alive to confess? Knowing that my life was on the line, six years later you still only thought of yourself?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to live in fear.”

“I don’t? Maybe you are brain dead. What did you think I was doing on that train heading to Michigan City and the Death House? In handcuffs, after I’d spoken with a priest about last rites? Did you think I’d embrace the experience? No, don’t bother answering that, either.”

He went to the door, prepared to leave. There was nothing for him here but anger and resentment. “There had to be another reason. You didn’t want to face him. I know that for a fact. If you’d kept your mouth shut, no one ever would have known of your role in Helen’s murder.”

“I got a call. An anonymous call. The person, a man, said, Johnson was arrested in California and that I should pay bail.”

“So this person knew you had been at my home when Helen was murdered, that you were a witness.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it sounded stupid. I wasn’t about to pay his bail.”

“Then what happened?”

“A few days went by and I got another call. I had just walked in the door. I wondered if he were watching me. He said the same thing, to pay the bail.”

“Did you wonder why?”

“I thought I could put an end to it. That I wouldn’t have to worry about the one-armed man finding me. He wouldn’t want a witness.”

“But he was in jail. You were safe.”

“Yes. Anyway, so I ignored the second call. I’m not as stupid as I look.”

Kimble sincerely doubted that.

“And I got a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Gave me Fred Johnson’s name, the precinct where he was being held, the amount of the bail, and a bail bondsman to send the money to.”

“Do you still have the letter?”

“The guy called a third time, to see if I was following through with his plans. He asked me to destroy the letter.”

“Did you? Did you destroy it?”

“No. I’ve still got it.”

“May I have it?”

“Wait here. I’ll see if I can find it.” There was some crashing and swearing coming from one of the back rooms, but he returned after a while with the letter, still in the original envelope. Kimble took it with his handkerchief.

“If it comes to anything, will you testify about everything you told me? It’s not much more than what you’ve already testified to in court. There might come a time when I need to have your statement about this.”

“Yes, of course. And Richard, I know you’re not willing to hear this, but I am sorry for my role in this.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

 

Gerard waited for him at the small diner. He had a pile of papers in front of him, and he looked confident, like he had so many times when he faced the fugitive Dr. Richard Kimble. “Find anything?” Gerard asked.

Kimble handed him the letter, still wrapped in his handkerchief. “Chandler had this. It’s how he knew to pay the bail money. In case you’re wondering, I was rather careful to keep my fingerprints off it.”

“You’re right. Your fingerprints on this and there goes all hope of reasonable doubt. I suppose even if it were signed, Reistling could argue you were willing to free Johnson so you could kill him, and fabricate a confession.”

“Twisted logic if ever there was any. I couldn’t shoot him. Even when it meant my life, I couldn’t shoot him.”

“I know, doctor. I was there.”

“I read it. The letter. It’s a smoking gun of sorts, if we could tie it to anyone.”

“There might be a way.”

“Really?”

“I’ll check this for fingerprints. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

“Are you ready for that?”

“I’ve got other things I’m working on. Based on your suggestions yesterday, I’ve pulled a list of twenty-two separate things that I’ve either not been able to close or that annoyed me at the time and I was forced to let them go, for one reason or another.”

“I’d apologize for monopolizing much of your time, but I’m not going to.”

“I don’t expect you to. If this is something other than a wild goose chase, both of us played into his hands. He would have had virtual free reign over Stafford for years.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not apologizing for that either. Is there anything I can help you with? I’m not a cop, and frankly both of us are only involved in this tangentially, but if you need help, I’m willing to give it to you.”

“Let’s see where this goes first. And I’ve got the names of your jurors, if you’re still interested.”

 

***

The house was small, compact, one story, with marigolds lining the walk from the street in a residential neighborhood just off of Stafford’s main business district. He parked the car, pulled the key from the ignition, then walked around the front of the vehicle to open the door for Donna.

He held her hand, helped her out. “You sure you want to do this, Richard?”

“I don’t see that I have much choice.”

He had never looked at the jurors as people, he had only seen them as a mass, a group that he expected to see through the lies and offer him a not-guilty verdict. Day after long day of his trial, he studied the witnesses, the DA’s mannerisms, and if he looked at the jurors at all, it was because his lawyer ordered him to make eye contact, to look them directly in the eyes, to proclaim his innocence. He wondered now if that were a fallacy, that a guilty man never looks the jurors in the eye, and that his lawyer said that because his defense was so weak.

This house belonged to one of the jurors, a woman, one he had been assured by the foreman had pleaded for his innocence. She had been a fourth grade teacher, and had quit almost immediately after the trial. Now she spent her time working in homeless shelters, in half-way houses, and teaching vacation bible school.

He had no doubt that she would remember him. His name was constantly in the papers. But he did not know how she would receive him, thus Kimble had begged the very pregnant Donna Taft to act as intermediary, to show he wasn’t about to murder a juror six years later in front of his sister.

“And you think this will help, Dick?” Donna asked.

“I have no idea. I only wanted to live, to have my name cleared. I didn’t think beyond that. But this is important.”

“We’re here. Knock on the door.”

He did. His rap was firm, sure, wished he felt that way about the next ten minutes.

The woman who answered held a child on her hips, obviously a grandchild, who had apparently gotten into what looked like chocolate icing. From head to toe.

“Hello, I’m—“

“Dr. Richard Kimble.”

“Yes. And this is my sister, Donna Taft.”

“Yes, Mrs. Taft. I remember you from the trial.”

“We have to apologize for bothering you,” Richard started when she cut him off for a second time.

“No need. Actually I was hoping I’d run into you one of these days, at the grocery or church. I’d like to explain my decision, especially now that it’s been proven you’re innocent. Won’t you come in?”

She set the three-year-old down. “Cupcakes,” she said. “I foolishly didn’t think to put them higher.”

“A little chocolate never hurt anyone,” Kimble said.

“So speaks the pediatrician,” Donna added.

“Are you coming back to work?” Emma Egan asked.

“In Michigan. I don’t feel comfortable in Stafford any longer.”

“If I am responsible for any of that, please know you have my apology.”

“Thank you, that’s very gratifying to know,” Donna said.

“But not necessary. No one is blaming you for anything. I’m sure you did everything to the best of your ability.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“I tried. I tried during deliberations to let them know the prosecution was full of bull shit, excuse my language.”

“Actually,” Donna said, laughing, “both of us felt the same.”

“Sit. Let me get a washcloth, then we can talk, although I don’t know what I can say or do to help now, at this late date. The exoneration is complete, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

In a few moments she’d washed the baby down, and had clean clothes on her. “There’s that’s better.” She shoved a pacifier into the child’s mouth, then cradeling her, sat in a rocking chair. The baby’s eyes started drooping almost immediately. “I’m sorry you won’t be practicing in Stafford any longer. I never took my children to you, but I’ve been asking around over the years, and the talk was you and your father were the best, no doubt.”

“We tried.”

“Some mothers at play group said they’d still be willing to take their children to you, even with a murder conviction.”

He shook his head in disbelief. People never ceased to amaze him. “I would have liked to see how that would have worked out.”

“Now how can I help you?”

“We don’t really know what we’re looking for, and there might be nothing to this, and if so, we’ll apologize again for disturbing you, but was there anything about the time of deliberations that you felt was a little off?”

“Was there anything—“ Donna started.

“No. I know exactly what you mean. And actually, I have been debating if I had enough to write to the Chicago paper and Mike Decker.”

“What do you have?”

“Deliberations were going on for I don’t know five days?”

“The verdict came in after six.”

“All right then, six days. It was early in the morning. We hadn’t been sequestered, but we had been told not to speak with anyone. I’m sure those instructions were proper.”

“As far as we know,” Kimble answered.

“Tensions were high, and I thought higher than they should be. Then Bosworth, isn’t that a pretentious name? then Bosworth Zimeski who was the jury foreman said we have to have a guilty verdict.”

“Had?” Kimble sounded strangled.

“Had. It seemed like an odd statement, especially as soon as he said it, he looked all well, confused, or guilty. I thought he definitely looked guilty. He took the three of us who wanted acquittal aside, and muttered something to the effect that there was more to this case than guilt or innocence for a single murder.”

“He implied I was guilty of multiple crimes?”

“You know, I never really got the impression with that statement he was talking about you. He might have been, but it wouldn’t have done him any good. I never once thought you guilty of one crime, let alone any others that the prosecution hadn’t bothered to dig up.”

Donna shifted on the couch, trying to find a comfortable place to sit. “Ok, what were your impressions?”

“I think someone got to him.”

“Got to him?” Kimble asked.

“Had spoken to him, told him it was worth his life to bring in a guilty verdict.”

Donna grimaced, rubbed her stomach. “You have any proof?”

“Only what I witnessed. It was lunch break and they’d brought in food, sandwiches, some kind of jello. Not a green vegetable in the bunch. The guard, I don’t know if he had another title, but I thought of him as a guard, disappeared. Then the judge showed up.”

Kimble’s mouth dropped open. “Judge Reistling?”

“Yes. He said he had proof you were guilty that couldn’t be brought out in court, and that it was our job as good citizens to bring in a guilty verdict as soon as possible. The other two caved, so, I’m sorry to say, did I.”

“Would you be willing to tell this to Lieutenant Gerard?”

“Gerard? I thought he was in on it, whatever ‘it’ is. He certainly worked hard enough to prove your guilt.”

“No. He only wants justice served. If he thought I’d been guilty, it’s because of the facts he’d unearthed. He doesn’t believe I’m guilty any longer.”

“Sure, I’ll speak to him. It’s not as if I’ve got anywhere I need to be.”

“And would you testify to everything you told us? If there’s a grand jury or a trial?”

“Absolutely. The judge and Bosworth made me cave once. I’m not going to do that again.”

“Would you mind if I used your phone? I’d like to call Lieutenant Gerard.”

“Not a problem, right through there, in the kitchen.”

“And Dick?” Donna asked, obviously in some kind of distress.

“Yes?”

“When you get through talking to Gerard, would you call Len and tell us to meet us at the hospital?”

“The hospital?”

“Yes. I need a ride. I’m afraid we’re going to have a baby today.”

Link to Chapter 17