Pursuit

by: S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 11

 

The minister rambled on. Few paid attention. When all was said and done, Edward Welles, landowner, cattle baron, financier and philanthropist would still be dead. His chapter had concluded. When all was said and done, the story continued with new characters: a wife and child. Only one of those interested Lieutenant Gerard. And she for no more than the first few pages.

The mourners left, leaving three standing alone. With a caviler wave of his hand, Gerard dismissed the elderly woman and the boy. They moved away without speaking. Approaching the widow, their eyes locked. A barrier of insurmountable strength arose, stating louder than words, no common ground here.

    You are the enemy.

    “Where did Richard Kimble go? Did he tell you where he was going? What his plans were?”

“You’re Lieutenant Gerard.”

A feeling akin to awe washed through him.

“So: he told you about me. Good. He thinks of me as often as I think of him.”

Words spoken: challenges offered and accepted.

A duel he was destined to lose.

“He’s innocent.”

“A jury convicted him.”

Juries can be wrong. I won’t tell you anything.

    You knew he was a murderer. Why did you decide to go away with him? Putting yourself and your child at risk?

    Because he cared; because he was kind and gentle. Because I fell in love with him.

You hardly knew him.

    Time enough, Lieutenant. Haven’t you ever fallen in love?

    Not like that.

    Then, I feel sorry for you.

    I’m not looking for your pity. I’m searching for a fugitive.

    And he’s looking for the man who murdered his wife.

    He told you a story. One, perhaps he believes. One he needs to believe. There is no such man. He’s a figment of a guilty mind.

    And you have a blameless one?

    My mind is not at issue. You aided and abetted a fugitive to escape.

    I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more. If he comes back… I would do anything for him. Give him a place to hide. Give him money. Give him…

    Yes, I know. Your love.

    You sound so sarcastic when you say that.

    Why shouldn’t I? He tricked you.

    Not tricked.

    Women are often used in such circumstances. He needed help. You provided it.

    A low sound of incredulity.

I begged him to take us with him. We would only have been a burden to a man on the run.

    A smirk of superiority.

Come now, Mrs. Welles. A solitary man stands out like a sore thumb. A man with a ‘wife’ and child is just a member of an ordinary family. You were cover for him.

    How evil your mind works.

    I’m just explaining it the way it is; how he would have looked at it.

    You don’t know him. You think you do, but you don’t. You’ve put him in a box, Lieutenant. One that houses all the killers and the criminals you’ve dealt with over the years. He’s not like them. When you finally unlock your mind, then you’ll understand.

    You mean, when he finds that one-armed man of his?

    When he finds him and he confesses.

    Do you imagine that’s even remotely possible? A killer confessing to a murder carrying the death sentence? Suppose you’re right: suppose there really is a one-armed man and out of all the haystacks in the world Richard Kimble stumbles on the right needle. What then?

    A flicker of uncertainty.

I don’t know.

    There’s only one answer: he turns himself in with this one-armed man in tow. He expects the police – he expects me to get the truth out of him. How likely is that? First, I have no power to hold his supposed criminal. And even if I did; even if I grilled him night and day, there’s no chance he would ever confess. Why should he? The murder has already been solved; it’s in the books. Case closed. No one is looking for him; no one believes Kimble’s story. He hasn’t a shred of evidence against him but his obviously self-serving testimony. This one-armed man has an alibi – which, need I point out, is three, nearly four years old. It can’t be proven but more importantly, it can’t be disproven. No D.A. is ever going to reopen a case without hard evidence.

    You have to find it.

    An eyebrow raised.

Me? I’m permitted to chase Richard Kimble because he’s a wanted man. A killer on the run. Who is going to sanction my time proving him innocent? No one, Mrs. Welles.

    You’ll do it… because it’s the right thing to do.

    I’m an officer of the law. I do what I’m told. I investigate unsolved murders. Not ones that are closed.

    His life is in your hands.

    A brief glance at his hands. Extended, palms open.

No, Mrs. Welles. He has no life, as you put it. He has only the expectation of a death sentence carried out. Once I catch him, my part is over.

    You think that?

    I know it.

    Then, you’re mistaken. You owe him.

    A sense of incredulity.

Why is that?

    Because you failed him, once. Maybe you tried; did your best. But it wasn’t good enough.

    He’s guilty.

    One day, you’ll eat those words.

    You fell in love with him. That twisted your sense of right and wrong. I don’t understand the attraction: how a grown woman could be so deceived. Keep that deception if you must. That puts you in his… box. Two deceived individuals. I feel sorry for you. Not for him.

   A terse movement of the head. Gloved hands clenched.

You don’t feel sorry for me. You feel sorry for yourself. Because you have no heart; no sentience. Because you’ve locked your mind into that box I described and you can’t get out. You know who I really have pity for? Your wife and your children. Because they’ve now become mere shadows in your existence. They don’t count, anymore. All you care about – that which drives whatever emotions you have – is Richard Kimble. You said a moment ago you were glad he thought of you as much as you think of him. That’s as much a death sentence for Gerard as the judge’s was for Kimble. Your world has turned upside-down. You have no more sense of normalcy. The phone rings and you jump. Another chance at – what? Redemption? The good cop who caught the bad man? What I wish for you – what’s your first name?

    A flinch and then an acquiescence.

Phillip.

    What I wish for you, Phillip Gerard, is to keep on running. The same I wish for Richard Kimble. If you catch him, then God damn you. But if he ‘catches’ you, then God bless him. For blessed are the righteous. No one ever said, ‘blessed are the hunters.’

    I’m sorry you feel that way.

    Monica Welles stepped back, breaking eye contact with Phillip Gerard and thus severing the silent communication that had passed between them in the blink of an eye. A smile curved her lips.

“If you see him before I do, give him my love. Tell him I will always have faith.”

“I may forget to do that.”

“Then, do something else for me.”

“What’s that?”

“When you go home and see your wife, tell her you love her: more than life, itself. Because that’s the way it’s supposed to be between husband and wife. See how she reacts. And then decide if your obsession is worth your soul.”

“It is, Mrs. Welles.”

“Good-bye, Phillip.”

“Invite me to the wedding.”

He shouldn’t have said that; it was unprofessional. Worse, it was an emotional response; a knife thrust into a defenseless woman. Men did not strike women. That made them the worst kind of villain. Despite his best intentions, red colored his cheeks.

Monica Welles left, having won the battle but not the war. She had failed to strike his heart. It had been her one chance to protect the fugitive. She would carry that loss with her for many, many years.

Phillip Gerard returned to Stafford, Indiana. He went directly home. He had been gone two days. He missed attending little Phil’s baseball game. The boy’s team had lost, 12-3. He hadn’t been there to assuage the hurt. Life, he decided, was filled with disappointment.

His wife had prepared meatloaf for dinner. It did not tax his mind to wonder why. Meatloaf kept in the refrigerator. It would taste the same tomorrow, or the next day. In case he missed his flight, whether accidentally or on purpose. They were all learning the hard way.

That night, after angrily crossing out the “At last!” he had written in his journal and adding the alias, he retreated into the shower. Standing before the misted mirror, he thought about telling Marie he loved her more than anything.

She was asleep – or pretending to be – when he came out. The statement was never issued.

Monica Welles won and never knew it.

 

July 2, 1964 2:05 P.M. – Thursday

Stafford, IND

Phone tap: Donna Taft

 

“I want permission to tap her telephone.”

“You want what?”

“Permission to tap her phone, sir.”

Although Luke Carpenter did not have to ask the identity of “her,” he was not, at the moment, predisposed to be generous.

“Whose telephone, and for what reason?”

“Donna Taft’s,” Gerard hurriedly offered, as though the quicker he got it out, the more readily he could have what he wanted.

“Why?”

“Because I… have a feeling her brother is going to call.”

“I’m surprised at you, Lieutenant. I’ve often heard you say policemen work on facts, not emotions.”

“Yes, sir. And that’s true. Emotion is the bane of our profession. I misspoke myself.”

“Then, rephrase your answer. Being cognizant you’ve already made one mistake. I’m not accustomed to hearing such from you.”

“I apologize for that. Tomorrow is the 4^th of July. Independence Day.”

“I know that. What does that have to do with Richard Kimble calling his sister?”

“I’ve… consulted the police psychiatrist.”

Carpenter was clearly surprised.

“Has he helped you?”

“Yes, sir. He’s given me some insights.”

“Told you to take a few days off? Put your mind on something other than –”

“Oh, no.” Gerard was quick to correct the misunderstanding. “Not for myself. I discussed the Kimble case with him. Opened my eyes to several important factors.”

Captain Carpenter was immediately disappointed. In consequence, his voice grew stern.

“You can’t get a wiretap without a court order.”

“That’s the point I was trying to make. You saw it, yourself. Tomorrow is a federal holiday. A time when people want to relax; spend time with their family. Barbeque in the back yard. That sort of –” The ranking officer steeled himself for the word “nonsense.” Fortunately, his subordinate chose another. “– celebration.”

“Something you should be considering.”

Gerard dismissed the statement out of hand.

“Kimble’s been on the run seven months. According to Dr. Levin, this is about the time the reality of his situation will start to sink in; hit home, if you will. He’s lonely, he’s scared and his situation looks bleak. He needs some sort of comfort; encouragement to keep his chin up. He’ll be remembering times past – the good times. What he’s missing out on.”

“I get the picture.”

“What does a man do when he’s homesick? He calls home. His sister is his one link to the past. I have a suspicion he’ll call her.”

“What about his father? Or his brother? You can’t go around asking a judge to issue wiretaps on half of Stafford.”

“I’ve considered that. His father’s elderly. A call from his son may unduly upset him. And from what I’ve observed, he’s not close to Ray. Even if he were, Ray is considerably younger; has less in common with him than his sister. No: he’ll call Donna. And when he does, I’ll have that call traced. Wherever he is, I can be there within a day; possibly less.”

“You already have you bag packed?”

Gerard missed the sarcasm.

“May I have your permission to put my request before a judge?”

Carpenter took the practical approach.

“Where are you going to find one at 2:00 P.M. the day before a national holiday? Be reasonable, Phil. Today is Thursday before the three-day weekend: Friday, the 3^rd; Saturday, the 4^th, and Sunday. No judge… in his right mind, is going to be in the office at this hour. What I suggest you do is stop at the grocery on the way home, buy a bag of briquettes, some hamburger and several boxes of sparklers for the kids. Marie can make potato salad and maybe a cake. Decorate it with red-white-and blue icing. Have a cook-out. Make a day of it. Make three days of it. You look tired. Relax with the family. That’s your reward,” he added as an afterthought, “for not killing your wife.”

Gerard smiled, assuming the captain meant to be amusing.

“My ‘reward’ will come when I’ve captured Richard Kimble.”

“Fine. You have my permission. You may tell the judge – who you’re not going to find – that it was Dr. Levin’s idea.”

“I’ve already ascertained Judge Thomas is on call. I have his contact information.”

“How in the world did you get that?”

Gerard stared at him in silent wonder.

“I identified myself to his secretary. I showed her my badge. Why shouldn’t she give it to me?”

A beat. Two, as Carpenter tried to control himself.

“Please tell me you’re not going to sit in the station for three days waiting for the phone to ring.”

“Of course not.”

Luke Carpenter knew an open-ended denial when he heard one.

 

It was a picture-perfect 4^th of July. Temperatures reached 84 degrees, the sky was blue without a hint of rain clouds, and the ants were biting. Like every other small and large town and city in the United States, people were celebrating the birth of their country. The VFW marched in proper parade order down Main Street in Stafford, Indiana, preceded by the local high school marching band playing patriotic music. Behind them was a troupe of horsemen, waving their white cowboy hats to the admiring throng. Women from various churches set up relief stations along the route, offering water and lemonade to those who hadn’t brought their own.

In the park by City Hall, the mayor made a speech, accompanied by the slight breeze occasioned by innumerable paper fans being waved across hot and sweaty faces. Bowling alleys offered two-for-one games, movie theatres featured heroic, celluloid World War II heroes defeating German enemies with valor, pathos and the obligatory splash of romance. Little league fields were filled with youngsters playing America’s pastime, transistor radios blared rock n’ roll music into the ears of teenagers and black, carbon-based “snakes,” set into motion by dads’ lighters, slithered across a hundred driveways.

When the wind shifted, the smell of lighter fluid comingled with the sulphur of a million caps fired from plastic guns and the scent of roasting hot dogs. Old Glory flew from every flag staff, or was displayed in shop windows and apartment buildings. People smiled, neighbors gathered, beer cans were popped with regularity and cheers rent the air. It was Independence Day, a long weekend and life was good.

For nearly everyone. Judge Thomas had not been pleased to receive a phone call from Lieutenant Gerard. It was a small community and even if the homicide detective hadn’t been given the moniker, “Kimble’s Kop,” more in jest than seriousness, he hoped, Thomas would have had some sort of a professional relationship with him. Knowing him, however, specifically from the Kimble case, or more particularly from the Kimble escape, he listened to the officer plead his case, stifling the urge to hang up the phone before he finished talking.

It wasn’t that Gerard presently a poorly constructed argument: in fact, Thomas was impressed by it. His annoyance stemmed from the fact Gerard was probably right in his assessment. And if Kimble did call and the call was traced, and if Gerard tracked him down and captured him, all within a three-day span, his fishing trip would be ruined. Everyone who was anyone in the law enforcement community would be summoned back, out-of-state press would congregate outside city hall and at least four hundred reporters would demand exclusive interviews.

That would add to the tragedy, for they wouldn’t be looking for statements or insights from judges, captains or lieutenants. They’d want the doctor’s story.

Eight months on the run. What was it like?

    Is your lawyer going to file a new appeal on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment?

    Who helped you along the way?

    How did you survive?

    What about the one-armed man? Did you ever find him?

    How much do you hate Lieutenant Gerard? He was the one who wouldn’t give up.

    Do you have any last words before they transport you back to Michigan City?

   

    Upon hearing her husband’s plans for the long weekend, Marie Gerard had taken the children to her parent’s house. Before she left, she made three dinners, covering them in Reynolds Wrap. One meal for Friday, Saturday and Sunday. He would have to see to his own breakfast and lunch. Packing the sparklers, snakes, caps and firecrackers he had purchased last week on the promise to “enjoy them as much as the children,” she stood in the empty living room and looked around. On the piano neither Phil, Jr. nor Frances had shown any interest in playing, sat a framed wedding picture. She wore white and he was dressed in his police uniform. They were both smiling. On impulse, she turned it around so only the stand was displayed. It was a childish gesture, yet she didn’t regret her action.

“If only we had known,” she spoke to the silent couple no longer visible to the naked eye. “We could have invited Dr. Kimble to the wedding. He could have stood between us.”

If Phil were obsessed with the doctor, she had grown to hate him. It no longer mattered to her whether he was guilty or innocent. In her eyes, his crime was that he escaped.

Call your sister, she willed. You’re lonely. Talk to her a full half hour. Ash about her boys; how they’re doing in school. Have a ‘chat’ about how your father is getting on. Reminiscence about 4^th of July parties you had as children. Tell her again how you didn’t kill your wife.

    An idea struck her and she smiled. It was not a friendly expression, but rather the contrary.

Ask her for money, Dr. Kimble. Tell her you’re hungry; sleeping in the park. A hundred dollars will tide you over. Ask her for two hundred; five hundred. That way, she’ll have to ask her husband. She won’t have that much on hand. Put the phone down, Mrs. Taft. Go and look for him. They only need three minutes. Hang on the phone, Dr. Kimble; she’s coming back. She needs your address; tell her where you’re staying. Send it Western Union, care of Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; whatever alias you’re using. To be called for.

    With a cry of despair, Marie Gerard, who was not a fugitive but an outcast in her own home, turned and walked away. The children were waiting. They were going to have a good time.

That, she thought bitterly, is an order.

 

“How many hot dogs can you eat?” Leonard Taft called through the smoke of the simmering meat.

“I can eat twelve!” Billy bragged, boldly rubbing his stomach.

“Twelve seems like a lot.”

“I’m hungry enough to eat twenty!”

“What about you, sweetheart?” he called to Donna. Looking over her shoulder while spreading the oiled red-and-white checkered tablecloth over the picnic table, she flashed him a smile that was as friendly as it was loving.

“I think if you put on twelve and Billy eats two and David eats two, there’ll be plenty lft over for the dog.”

“I think you’re right,” he laughed.

He put eight onto the hot grill, listened to the sausages sizzle for a moment, then jumped as a red ball went whizzing past his ear. With a pretend growl of annoyance, he trotted after the missile, chasing it into the front yard. Stooping down to retrieve it, his eyes wandered across the street and through the back yard of their neighbor’s home. Ordinarily, the next street over would have been hidden from sight, but the Mathers across the street had just torn down their picket fence and were waiting for the new one to be delivered, leaving a gap large enough to see through. A black car was parked on the next street over. He knew it didn’t belong to the Mathers; Bob drove a blue station wagon.

Deciding someone must have invited company over for the holiday, he dismissed the car and tossed the ball back to his son. He was young and awkward but in time his arm might just develop into that which was commonly known as an “ace’s arm.” More than likely, a professional pitcher’s career wasn’t in the cards. But it was always fun to hope.

Returning to the grill, he flipped the hot dogs over, satisfied they had not gotten too dark in the interim. He was just about to place the buns on top to warm them when the phone rang.

Pushing back her red-auburn hair with one hand and straightening her skirt with the other, Donna took a step to the house.

“I’ll get it.”       

    A cold chill passed through Leonard Taft.

“Don’t answer it.”

She looked puzzled.

“Why not? It’s probably Dad. Wanting to wish us a happy holiday.”

“It’s not Dad.”

The grimness in his tone frightened her.

“Who is it, then?” she asked without questioning why he knew the identity of the caller.

“It’s Dick.”

She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Then, I have to answer it.”

“Look.”

Crossing to her, then guiding her to the side of the house where the view of the neighboring street was clear, he indicated the black car. Donna Taft gasped in horror.

“Gerard.”

“I don’t know who it is, but I have a bad feeling. That’s a radio car. Someone’s waiting for a message. They’ve tapped the phone, Donna.”

The telephone continued to ring.

“But, couldn’t I speak to him for just a minute? To hear his voice; to know he’s well? It’s been so long.”

“A minute’s not long enough to trace the call but it’s enough to confirm that Dick calls here. That’s all the grounds he needs to put us under surveillance; maybe even to permanently tap the line. Then, Dick will never be able to call.” As she struggled with the dilemma, he sharply demanded, “Is that what you want?”

“No. Of course not.”

They stood in grim silence, like statues. The ringing continued. Three times. Five. And then mercifully stopped. The caller hung up.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Leonard Taft noted that the black car had disappeared.

 

Chapter 12

 

July 6, 1964 10:00 A.M. – Monday

Interview with Donna Taft

 

There was more than one way to skin a cat.

Gerard stood on the front stoop and rang the doorbell. He had waited to call until ten o’clock to make sure Leonard Taft was gone to work. He wanted to catch her alone. He pushed it a second time before he heard the sound of footsteps coming from the rear of the house.

“Coming,” Donna called. The door pulled open just as she was saying, “Sorry. I was hanging out the wash –” Removing a clothespin from her mouth, she started to smile, then froze. “Oh. It’s you.” Her expression darkened.

“Expecting someone else?” he politely inquired.

“The mailman.”

“A letter from your brother, perhaps?”

“What do you want?”

He smiled.

“The same thing you do. To see Richard Kimble again.”

“You make me sick.”

She started to slam the door in his face, but it bounced against the foot he had placed on the floorplate and inched back.

“Mrs. Taft, I know your brother called you on Saturday.”

“Did he?” She looked genuinely surprised. For an instant he believed her. Her eyes hardened. “What did he have to say?”

“He called again Sunday. So did I. No one answered the phone. Not on Saturday and not on Sunday. Why not?”

“We were out all day on the 4^th. The boys were playing in the yard and Len was grilling. Sunday,” she added with a defiant jut of her chin, “we go to church.”

“I gave it away, didn’t I? I parked where you could see me. Stupid mistake.”

“Yes,” she agreed, a grim expression of triumph lighting her stern features. “You gave it away.”

“You didn’t answer the phone because you were afraid the call would be traced and that information would be relayed to me.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought.”

“So, he does call here. I needed proof, you see. I didn’t get it over the holiday weekend but you’ve just admitted it.” He tipped his hat. “Thank you, Mrs. Taft. With that confirmation it’ll be easier for me next time. To get a court order for a wiretap.”

The color rose to her cheeks.

“You – you go away. I don’t want you on my property,” she cried in dismay. “You’re trespassing; you’re harassing me and my family.”

The detective might not have heard.

“What do you suppose, Mrs. Taft? That Dr. Kimble is lonely? That he wanted to hear a friendly voice? Maybe he wanted money. A Western Union check. Life can’t be easy for him. Working odd jobs; always on the move. No one to talk to – no one who could possibly understand. No one but you. And his father, of course. But he’s fragile; an old man. That puts the burden on your shoulders.”

“Why are you saying all this to me? I’m not listening!”

“Of course you are. I’m just repeating what you’ve said to yourself a dozen times. ‘Poor Dick. Life is so hard for him. I wish I could help. And you can, you know.”

“How is that?” she spat in bitterness. “By turning him in?”

“Seven months have gone by since he escaped. Already, he’s not the same man he was. He’s changed. Life on the run is hard. He’s forced to do things he would never have thought possible. Steal a wallet; roll a drunk. Maybe even break a store window and take something he can pawn.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I’m beginning to. I’ll know more as the days and the weeks drag on. The names he uses; the type of jobs he takes. Where he’s likely to go. Tell him, the next time you speak with him, that I have newspapers, too. I read them just as carefully as he does. He’s searching for a one-armed man and I’m searching for him. Eventually, out paths will cross. And I’ll get him.”

Her jaw quivered.

“Will they give you a medal of honor?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Why are you doing this? How can you be so heartless?”

“Because he murdered a woman, Mrs. Taft.”

“He’s innocent.”

“You keep on believing that. But the next time he calls – and the time after that – listen to his voice. Hear the hardness in it. A man does what he has to, to survive. One day you won’t recognize his voice at all. And then you’ll know.”

“Know-what?” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“That he’s committed armed robbery because he’s destitute; that he’s fled the scene of a traffic accident without trying to help because he knows the authorities have been called. That he’s killed a police officer trying to escape. Perhaps, you’ve already suspected something of the sort.”

“I don’t think like that.”

“Then, you had better start. I have. Because I know men, studied them. It’s part of my job. I’ve seen what desperation can do. It turns them into beasts. Survival becomes primal. The boy you grew up with; the man who studied medicine because he wanted to help the suffering of others is dead, Mrs. Taft. If you want to cherish the idea that someday he’ll find that phantom killer, that’s your prerogative. I can’t stop you. I just want you to keep in mind what privation and hopelessness does. Go to Indianapolis; meet him in Chicago. I can’t follow you everywhere. And when you do see him, look into his eyes. There will be guilt there. Guilt from all the petty crimes he’s committed; small transgressions that will eventually add up to major ones. And then ask yourself if ‘freedom’ is so precious that it’s worth any price.”

“We’re not talking about freedom, Lieutenant. We’re talking about his life.”

“Oh, I understand that. But, what’s life without honor and dignity? He made one grievous mistake. Now, he’s compounded that tenfold. In another six months, a year – if he lasts that long – it’ll be multiplied a thousand times. Do you want that for him? Does he really want that for himself?”

“What are you asking me to do? Turn him in?”

“I’m asking you to convince him to turn himself in. Pay the penalty before it’s too late.”

“You’re sick.”

He tipped his hat a second time.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Taft. The next time I come, I’ll have a warrant, so you won’t have to accuse me of trespassing.” He started to leave, then turned back. “I suggest next Sunday when you go to church and you’re not at home to answer his call, you ask God to forgive you. Because whatever crimes he commits along that long, lonely road of his, will weigh heavily on you.”

She slammed the door on his back.

From inside the house he could hear her weeping.

 

*********************************

 

Pausing after writing a long, run-on sentence, Gerard scowled, re-read the words, then crossed the entire line out with dark, Number 1 pencil. He was tired, it was late and he wanted to go home. Rubbing the taut muscles in his neck, he let his eyes roam the office. They settled on the wall calendar across the room. In contrast to the black and white of the police station, the bright, cheery photograph of several enormous orange pumpkins seemed out of place. The image had actually startled him as he turned the page from September to October, 1965.

That had been three weeks ago. It was now almost Halloween. The ostensive holiday came on a Saturday this year. That was the best day of the week for trick-or-treating. Friday, the kids got to wear costumes to school and after lunch, lessons were suspended and they played games until the dismissal bell rang. Then, the following morning they planned to be up early, begging to be let loose on the neighbors.

“It’s never too early to go out,” Phil, Jr. had already announced. He had his scheme already in place. After an early breakfast he’d put on his costume – a werewolf, complete with a rubber mask from Woolworth’s – and hit the streets. Three or four hours later, with his pillowcase stuffed with candy, he’d return home for lunch, inspect his haul and change his clothes.

He had purchased the second mask, this one the Creature from the Black Lagoon, with his own money after Marie tartly informed him, “One costume is enough.”

“But, Mom,” he had protested in that whiny voice pre-pubescent boys had, “that would spoil everything!” Withdrawing a dog-eared notebook from his pocket, he held it out for inspection. “I’m going to take notes on who gives out the best candy and hit them again! I can’t go back wearing the same costume or they’ll recognize me and send me away empty-handed. But if I’m dressed differently, I’ll get what I want. Once I’ve checked off all the good places, I’ll start on streets I haven’t been on, yet. This is gonna be the best Halloween, ever!”

“‘Going to be,’ not gonna,” Gerard had corrected, coming in on the tail end of the conversation. “And no, you’re not going to go out twice. Some of the fellows at the office were discussing this Saturday Halloween and they said no one permitted out thick-or-treating before 6 P.M.”

“And your father is going with you,” Marie added.

“No, he’s not. I’ve been out by myself before. He can take Franny.”

To cover his distaste of the idea, Gerard asked, “Has she decided on a costume, yet? Is it to be a princess, a cowgirl or a butterfly?”

“She wants to go as a nurse.”

For some particular reason he couldn’t place at the time, his daughter’s choice had disturbed him and he let the subject drop. Now, sitting at his desk ruminating about the costume, the answer became obvious.

Richard Kimble was a doctor and his wife had been a nurse. With a shiver, he wondered if it was too late to change her mind. Resting his hand on the phone, he almost picked it up, then let it go. Depriving Frances of her fantasy was cruel and… obsessive. She wouldn’t understand if he tried to explain he didn’t want her ending up like another nurse of his acquaintance.

Odd way to express that, he thought. I never knew Helen Kimble in life. It’s just that it seems… I know more about her than I do my own family.

    Birth date, death date and everything in between.

Everything but her thoughts on that last, fateful night. I’ve had his version a dozen times, but not a word from her lips. I know what she was wearing, what she had been drinking; I know how far the base of the lamp depressed her skull. I can identify the items scattered around her body. I can quote the autopsy report verbatim.

    Closing his eyes to prevent them from being drawn to the pumpkins, his lips pursed.

Nineteen-sixty. Her son would be five years old now. The perfect age to go trick-or-treating. What costume would he select? A doctor, like his father? Lawyer? Indian chief?

    The idea of policeman would never occur to the Kimbles.

What different worlds we come from, he mused. Would I trade places with him? The answer to that was simple. Not now.

    His musings were more prophetic than anticipated, for as he got up and started to cross the room to retrieve his coat, the phone rang. For more than a moment he debated letting it ring: the way Donna Taft had on that fateful afternoon two long 4^th of Julys ago. But such was not his nature. With a reluctant shrug he retraced his steps, picked up the handset and brought it to his ear.

“Lieutenant Gerard.”

“Lieutenant Phillip Gerard?”

“That’s correct. To whom and I speaking?”

“My name is Sheriff Lyman. I’m calling from Bennington, Vermont. You’re the police officer looking for Richard Kimble? The man wanted for murdering his wife?”

Gerard’s expression reflected no emotion. He had been down this road before.

“That’s right.”

“I have your man.”

Only the quickening of his pulse betrayed him.

“You have him? In custody? Or, you have a report of him called in from a little old lady from…” His mind went black and he couldn’t think of any towns in Vermont. When one finally came to him, he heaved a silent sigh of relief. “Montpelier? Who saw him while she was out walking her dog; or spotted him at the Post Office and had time to compare the man in line ahead of him with the wanted poster that has sixteen newer ones thumbtacked over it?”

Sheriff Lyman chuckled.

“I didn’t take you for a jokester.”

“I’m not,” came the taciturn response. “You have him in custody?” he repeated.

“I have him, but not exactly in custody.”

“I can’t come on the vague report of a third-party sighting. Not all the way to Vermont. I’m sorry but if you can’t give me something more substantial –”

“How about a set of fingerprints?”

Instantly alert, all thought of going home vanished.

“You have his fingerprints but you don’t have him in jail?”

“Oh, I have him, all right. Just not in jail.”

“Where-is-he?”

“In the morgue.”

Gerard had expected it; anticipated it. One day he knew the call would come: either Richard Kimble would be held behind bars and he’d be summoned to come and get him, or he’d be informed by local authorities he had been shot while trying to escape. Feeling his stomach muscles tighten, he maneuvered the short cord enough to permit him to sit. The chair hinges creaked as he settled down. For some odd reason it reminded him of a bell.

Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for you.

    A small corner of Phillip Gerard’s soul died.

“How did it happen?”

His voice sounded foreign; distant. If he hadn’t known better he would not have recognized it.

“Traffic accident.”

Not shot while trying to escape.

    There was a peculiar comfort in that realization. He didn’t want to think of him as being gunned down in the street.

“Explain, please.”

Politeness in the face of death.

“The weather’s bad up here, Lieutenant. Early snow squall. Happens, sometimes. A woman and her child were crossing the street. The little boy slipped and fell; she stopped where she was to help him. A truck skidded on the icy pavement. This stranger was just getting off work, saw the tragedy unfolding. He dropped his lunch pail and made a mad dash into the street – pushed them to safety. But he didn’t have time to save himself. The oncoming car caught him square in the chest. Ran him over. A clerk in one of the shops called an ambulance. DOA.”

Gerard’s throat constricted.

“Go on.”

“Since the body wasn’t carrying any ID we ran a check on his fingerprints. Routine. Imagine our surprise when they came back positive.”

Nothing to the surprise I’m experiencing.

    “I see.”

    “Your boy died a hero, Lieutenant.”

Why do you call him ‘my boy’? I have a boy. He’s home setting the table for dinner. Or, getting his costume ready for Halloween.

    He asked himself that question; even came up with a retort, but didn’t bother verbalizing it to the sheriff. Dr. Richard Kimble was not “his boy.” The age difference between him and “Richard” was too close. 1918:1927. He couldn’t even be his bastard.

Gerard had never thought about the age difference before. Of all the things he had considered, comparing himself to the doctor had not been one of them; much less appraising a father-son relationship.

He’s not my boy.

    Except, in a very real sense, he was.

Not in flesh and blood.

Adopted.

The word caught him cold. Tears came to his eyes.

Adoption.

What Kimble and his wife had been arguing about the night she died.

It’s all over. ‘My boy’ died a hero.

    He was glad. The end had been predetermined from the start. There would be no second train ride; no more chance of accident. No handcuffs. No last cigarettes. The result was the same but the getting there had changed.

A life for a life.

    Richard Kimble had redeemed himself. If not in the eyes of the law, he had balanced the scales of morality.

I wonder if he thought about that as he lay dying on that cold, unfamiliar Vermont street?

    He dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter to Dr. Kimble, now. The fact it mattered a great deal to the man “obsessed with his capture” was more than he could account for.

“All right. I’m coming.”

“Thought you would.”

The sheriff sounded cheery. Gerard decided he did not like the man. One life had been taken; another’s diminished. There was nothing in which to be pleased.

What do I do, now? Now that it’s over?

    Thoughts for another time.

He was not looking forward to the airplane flight. Too much time to think.

I have to go home and pack.

    The old Gerard was pleased. That sounded cold. Logical. Professional.

The new Gerard was lost in time and space.

 

“What do you want to go for?” Captain Carpenter demanded, his voice reflecting a pique Gerard had not expected.

“It’s my duty.”

“To bring back a corpse?”

“To put closure to it, then.”

“The fingerprints did that.” Carpenter, hands behind his back, paced away. He went once around the desk before coming to a stop further away from his officer than he had before. “I see you’re taking this news badly, Phil. If you tell me now you thought him innocent, I’ll retire tomorrow and we’re through with one another. Professionally and socially.”

The fact the Carpenter and Gerard families had never been close on a personal level only underscored the captain’s ire.

Gerard stared at him a long beat before answering.

“I hardly think now is the time or place to discuss Dr. Kimble’s guilt or innocence. That was decided for us. I am dedicated to supporting the… system.”

“And juries make mistakes.” A hand went to his head as he felt a headache coming on. Eye strain, Carpenter told himself. From seeing a man I knew in a different light. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation, Phil.”

“I believed him guilty.”

The stiff-backed man he addressed noted the past-tense.

“He got to you, didn’t he?”

The strain showed on Gerard’s face. The bags under his eyes were darker; the crow’s feet at the corners deeper. He looked as though he hadn’t slept well – in six years.

“I still can’t believe his one-armed man slipped through my fingers all those years ago. I did everything humanly possible to find him. He simply did not exist. I therefore have to believe Dr. Kimble made him up.”

“Because if he didn’t, you were responsible for his conviction.”

The figurative shot struck Phillip Gerard dead center. Not between the eyes but in the heart. However, he knew a slap in the face when he staggered back from one.

“I think you’ve been on the job too long, Luke. You’re tired; burned out. The man I knew six years ago would never have said that to me. He would fully comprehend that I was only one of many officers on the Kimble case. Yes, I was in charge of it, but I’m dependent on those under me to do the leg work. Even those policemen outside my jurisdiction. We scoured the area within a hundred miles – far more than the supposed killer could have traveled within the time frame we were looking at. We didn’t find him.”

Gerard crossed to the Halloween-themed wall calendar and stared at the two pumpkins front and center. Somehow, in the intervening hours, minutes and seconds that had elapsed since the phone call, they had changed. Instead of happy plump gourds posing for their photograph used to inspire children and adults alike to anticipate the upcoming October holiday – which wasn’t actually a legitimate holiday to begin with – banks were still open and the mail delivered – they appeared rotten on the vine.

No one had taken them home; no large hands had taken the family carving knife and slid around their tops, opening it up for the removal of the ten million, forty-seven thousand and eleven seeds. No discussion had taken place over which side offered the best opportunity for carving; the face most likely to scare or amuse.

What do you say, son? Big, triangular eyes? A grinning mouth with three square teeth? That’s traditional. Or would you prefer round eyes and an oval mouth. That indicates surprise. What about slanted eyes and fangs on either side of the mouth? An evil genius. Or, a clown face? We could try one of those although I’m not sure how to go about it?

    These pumpkins were now the only ones left in the field. All the others – their lesser companions – were gone, the land bare and desolate behind them. Why had these two, attached at the umbilical vine, been left to rot? Because they were more expensive than the rest? Paid for by the pound, they would have cost a frugal parent ten cents times fifty. Five whole dollars. A smaller one would only cost twenty cents; thirty tops.

Perhaps they had been too heavy. Neither one would have fit in the back seat of a sedan. Or, even pass through the rear gate of a station wagon. By becoming the biggest and the best pumpkins in the field and the darling of the farmer’s eye, they had outgrown their usefulness. Instead of triangles and ovals, they sported irregularly-shaped splotches of black rot. Sides had caved in and the thick and vibrant stems, once pulsating with life, had shriveled, revelations of death in the womb.

A tragedy of immense proportions had come to the pumpkin patch and there was no one left to mourn. Even their ostensible father, the farmer, had left them for the squirrels or the birds to peck on and deface. Instead of centerpieces, they had become scarecrows destined to be plowed under in the spring. There, new seeds would be sown, new lives engendered by the soil and the sun and the rain, with no thought to the old.

It was the cycle of life and death, meant, in its own way, to be cruel.

“Who’s going to pay to have the body shipped back?”

Startled at the sound of the voice, for he had been listening to another’s, Gerard snapped out of his reverie.

“What was that?”

“Why should the Stafford police department have to pay for transportation of the body? He didn’t die here, after all. When you go – and I suppose I’ll have to let you –”

“For the last time,” Gerard quietly interrupted.

“Make sure you stress the fact it’s up to – where was he?”

“Bennington. Vermont.”

“What the hell was he doing all the way up there? In the winter, no less.”

“It’s fall.”

Gerard was not feeling obliging.

“Winter, fall. He had no business being so far away from –”

“Home?”

“I don’t appreciate that, Phil. I’ve been more than generous with you.”

Carpenter was genuinely annoyed. He had started the conversation as a means of shaking his lieutenant out of the doldrums, but it had turned an ugly corner and his temper had gotten the better of him. He didn’t blame Gerard for not finding the one-armed man. No one could have. What was, was. What was, was meant to be. He had resolved that question years ago. He didn’t control fate. That belonged in the hands of a higher power. They were all actors on a stage. What he blamed him for was this terrible depression he seemed to have sunken into. It was Halloween and he wanted to go home.

It was late and he wanted to retire.

He was old and wasn’t feeling well.

It was enough the case had been closed.

“If they won’t pay for it, I suppose we’ll have to. Get the proper papers while you’re up there and contract the railroad. They ship coffins. Call the office with the ETA and there’ll be a meat wagon waiting.”

“Morgue wagon.”

One. Two. Three. Four.

    Counting did not assuage his temper.

“His.” It might have been either Carpenter or Gerard going up the numerical scale.

“You had better notify the family.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The avowal was as much truth as falsehood. The idea had not occurred to him. And if it had, he would have done so when he returned.

“They have a right to know. I suppose,” the captain thoughtfully added in a tone that sounded on the low side of smug, “they still have the burial plot they bought all those years ago.”

“I’d rather wait.”

“I think not. Once you ID the body, it belongs to the family. Let them pay for the morgue wagon. Let them select the funeral home.”

Parlor.

    Another correction. Even in death, words mattered. Or, especially so. The lieutenant had never been a wordsmith, before.

Home is for the hunted.

    Richard Kimble’s home was now with the angels.

Phillip Gerard knew enough of hell on Earth to believe God forgave all sins.

Even his.

“His” being an all-inclusive word.

Link to Chapter 12