Ahead of the Press Publishing

Fan-Fiction

Pursuit

By S.L. Kotar and J. E. Gessler

Chapter 2

Lieutenant Phillip Gerard went home to Stafford, Indiana without the fugitive, Dr. Richard Kimble. The plane flight was interminable. He asked for a window seat and was given one on the outside aisle. He flew coach, which meant there were two seats to his left. They were occupied by a man and a woman. By the whispered conversation they held, the lieutenant surmised they were married. They were an attractive couple. Without knowing anything about them, a casual observer might have taken them for being well suited to one another. Closer observation would have dispelled that thought.

They quarreled all the way home. Bickered about money; he earned it, she spent it. He hated his job. She disliked staying at home. He spoke about being transferred to Baltimore. She said Baltimore was a grave.

How little she knew.

Dr. Richard Kimble and his wife had argued. Not about money. By all accounts, they had no financial difficulties. Nor had it come out at the trial that Helen Kimble, nee Waverly, a former registered nurse, was dissatisfied with her life as a stay-at-home spouse. She volunteered at a halfway house for men just out of prison. Help them find a job; readjust to life outside the barred cell doors. The irony was not lost on the jury.

She was a gardener of some repute. The yard was always well maintained. Other neighbors hired a service but Helen liked to be useful. Her home was her pride, one of the neighbors had testified. She grew geraniums. The neighbors admired the red flowers that always seemed to be in bloom although most would have preferred roses. Geraniums seemed out of place in the upper class row of two-story homes. Plebian, somehow. Apparently, Helen Kimble had never told anyone Richard’s story. She had kept it to herself.

What she had been unable to hide, however, was her hurt. The Kimbles had been expecting their first child in May. Married two years, the couple were overjoyed with the prospect of adding a baby to their happy home. He was a pediatrician, after all. Children were a part of his professional life. Seeing a boy tossing a baseball up in the air and catching it, he would always stop and throw a few grounders for him to field. Watching a girl push a buggy with a prize doll neatly tucked inside, he would invariably pause to compliment the “baby,” asking its name and praising its likeness to its “mother.”

On Halloween, the Kimbles gave out the best candy. And it was always said, with some wonder, that if a trick-or-treater had the audacity to ring their bell twice, neither Richard nor Helen would complain. At Thanksgiving after eating an early meal with Helen’s parents, they would go to the halfway house and serve turkey to the residents. Christmas time found them playing Santa and Mrs. Claus at the church party. Come 4^th of July, they hosted the best barbeque on the block and everyone was invited.

They were a perfect couple, it seemed. But hearing that in open court, under the auspices of a murder trial, it was hard to believe.

That testimony was given to counter other, less flattering statements.

“Once she lost the baby, everything changed. No one saw her anymore. She never went outside. The geraniums withered; weeds grew in the lawn. She abandoned her charity work. He never stopped to play ball or push a perambulator with a doll inside. Independence Day came and went but the Kimbles sent out no invitations for a party.

The prosecutor used that to set the stage for premeditation.

One tragedy begot another.

Murder was always a tragedy, even if the perpetrator were guilty.

One life was taken. Another was demanded.

By the time the plane landed, two hours overdue because they had been late taking off due to cloud cover over Baltimore, for all he knew, Phillip Gerard knew more than he cared to about the unnamed couple sitting beside him. If his office phone rang at nine o’clock the following morning, alerting him that a murder had been committed, his first thought would be one of them had done in the other. It didn’t matter who committed the crime. In his mind, it might be either.

His phone wouldn’t ring, however. Not tomorrow morning at 9:00. Couples quarreled but they seldom resorted to homicide. They lived together in an acrimonious relationship; they found love outside their vows. They divorced, bitterly fighting over which one got the dog. But they didn’t resort to violence. That was reserved for the most wicked of the lot.

Among whom Richard Kimble resided.

Although Gerard might have flashed his badge and been accorded first rights to disembark, he waited until the plane was nearly empty before making his move. He had no driving urge to go home. His wife already knew his mission had been a failure. He had called her from the airport.

“Been and gone,” he had said.

She sighed, not meaning for him to hear, but he heard it, anyway. Not with his ears but with that extra sense cops developed. The type a fugitive might describe as seeing something no one else did.

Lieutenant Gerard often wondered if Dr. Kimble knew him better than his wife. And knew that in a sense, he was right.

Pursuit did that to a man.

Know thy enemy.

    Standing in the nearly empty plane, Phillip Gerard closed his eyes.

Yes, Dr. Kimble, I want you to know me. I want you to believe in your bones I’ll never give up. Look into a mirror and see my reflection. Stare over your shoulder and see me in the distance. Curl up at night and feel my shadow hovering over you. Catch sight of a shooting star racing through the sky and think it’s a bad omen. I’m out there, somewhere. In your darkest hour, you’re never alone.

    I am death personified.

    “Is there something?” the stewardess asked. She was young and attractive. Breaking from his reverie, the policeman envisioned her on a morgue slab, eyes blackened from the violence which had killed her.

“I’m tired,” he said.

“Me, too.”

She tried a smile, either as a sign of shared weariness or in an attempt to convince herself a good night’s sleep would cure what ailed her.

He had forgotten what a good night’s sleep meant.

The only consolation he had was knowing Richard Kimble felt the same way.

Homicide detectives and fugitives gave up sleep for Lent.

God realized their sacrifice didn’t end at Easter but was meant for all eternity.

He had left his car in short-term parking. That indicated two things: he hadn’t expected to be gone long, and the extra fee would have to come out of his own pocket. The department wouldn’t appreciate reimbursing him for an extravagance. Captain Carpenter wasn’t happy about the cost of airfare, either; or his paid time away from the office, but he had accepted the loss as part of his own penance. Richard Kimble had escaped on his watch, if not his precinct.

They were all guilty as charged.

The public was a hard taskmaster with a memory longer than that of an elephant.

Gerard had left the driver side window open a crack. It had apparently rained during the short time he had been gone. The seat was wet. He reached for his handkerchief, forgetting he had wrapped it around the saucer with the glazed geranium. The local cops hadn’t wanted it. They retrieved fingerprints from the window. The sergeant who had originally called him, assuring him the flophouse was staked and that Kimble was inside, gave him permission to take it. As a trophy, he had said.

Gerard had not understood the reference.

Richard Kimble had escaped before the stakeout had ever been placed.

In his report, he would cite the sergeant for negligence.

Inserting the key into the ignition, he waited for the engine to catch, then pulled out the headlight knob and initiated the wiper blades. Swish-swish; swish-swish. Enough was enough. He turned them off. It had stopped raining. He hoped they had a torrent in Baltimore and wondered if the sergeant would end up hating him more than the reverse. But that wasn’t fair. Not to himself.

I don’t hate him, he decided. I merely despise him for his incompetence. He let a convicted killer get away. He has no reason to hate me. I’m merely doing my job. If he had done his, things would be different. The law would be satisfied.

    He did not realize he was also the personification of the law. Or that “just doing his job” covered a multitude of sins.

Neglect of family.

Abrogation of a personal life.

The substitution of nightmares for dreams.

The short-term parking cost him $2.50. The same amount he imagined Richard Kimble ate in Hershey bars to redeem a saucer with green stamps. He would have to “eat” the fee, while Kimble abandoned his gift.

Two losses did not make a right.

Driving home, he hit every red light along the route. Being a policeman, he might have gone through them, merely showing his badge if he happened to be stopped. But that was not his way. If Kingdom Come had a red light before the Pearly Gates, he would wait it out before applying for entrance. It was not in his nature to take advantage of rights not specifically outlined by the police manual. Or any other, for that matter. He was just a man, after all. Doing his job. Nothing special, at all.

The porch light was left on for him although the house was dark. As she had so many times before, Marie had gone to bed ahead of him. Cop wives learned soon enough not to wait up. Not unless they liked watching the late-late show. Or dozing on the couch. Many nights he never came home at all. Not philandering like some men, but examining the remains of human bodies. Grim stories could always wait until morning.

Their two children were undoubtedly asleep, too. The boy and girl had different rooms, one painted blue, the other pink. Those had been his wife, Marie’s, color choices. “They’re traditional,” she said, “and tradition is the backbone of any culture.” He countered, “The law is more commonly – and more rightly – held to be the foundation of an enduring civilization.” She had surprised him by arguing. “The law isn’t always right. People pass bad laws and they make mistakes.” Her introspection had surprised him and he had been tempted to agree, but a nagging doubt in the back of his mind prompted him to answer, “You’re right, of course, but by law, I meant justice.” Hands on her hips, she had come back at him, “Are they the same thing?” to which he had stiffly replied, “That is a distinction for philosophers to debate. I obey the law and expect it conveys justice.”

The name of their first born, a son, had occasioned another slight rift between husband and wife. Attaching “Junior” to his father’s full name had not been Gerard’s choice. In fact, he had protested against it. “He’s not a little me,” he stated with verve. “I don’t want a carbon copy; I’m hoping for a sentient, thoughtful child who will make his own way in the world, based upon the foundation of justice for all.” The last was a reference to their former argument: one he had not expected Marie to remember.

Whether she did or didn’t, they came to an agreement on the name Roger George Gerard, but when it came time for the birth certificate to be filled out, the mother’s wishes held sway and Marie had inscribed “Phillip Herbert Gerard, Junior,” on the line. They argued over it, later. Couples did that. No marriage was a perfect one. Sometimes, fate threw you a curve. People had tempers. They wanted their own way. He had lost.

But I didn’t hit her over the head with a lamp.

    He was more tired than he thought. Cops were supposed to leave their troubles at the office.

That was an insider’s joke.

Their daughter had come two years later. When informed it was “his turn” to name the baby, he had suggested either Elizabeth or Victoria, after Great Britain’s two most famous queens. Gerard’s paternal grandparents had immigrated from England. Although making him a second generation American, he recalled with pleasure the stories Grandpa told of owning a tobacco shop in London’s East End, creating in him a life-long fascination.

Contrary to her promise, and perhaps annoyed she had delivered a girl, forcing the family to move into a larger home with three bedrooms they could ill afford, Marie had bestowed the name Frances on the new arrival. Since he had no particular feeling about the name Frances one way or the other, he had gracefully accepted his wife’s choice.

There was no point going into the bedroom and waking Marie. Once he started tossing and turning she would never get back to sleep. She wasn’t a nurse in her pre-marriage days and she didn’t volunteer at a halfway house. She planted roses one year and they withered and died the next. She wasn’t Helen Kimble.

She was still alive.

Stop it!

    He poured himself a drink. Scotch and water. The ice cube tray sat on the counter in the kitchen. Someone had neglected to refill it. That meant no ice for his liquor. He didn’t drink much. Only on nights like this. When he came home emptyhanded.

Glass in hand, he wandering around the living room in the dark. He knew every nook and cranny by heart. He ought to. He had paced the enclosed space often enough.

It was late. He thought he might turn on the TV set and catch the Early Bird movie but he didn’t. Whatever they were showing, he had already seen. Cops watched a lot of cinema in their careers.

Watching it more and enjoying it less.

    A play on a cigarette ad.

He knew very little about playing. He never had time to toss grounders to Phil, Jr. and Frances never seemed interested in company when she wheeled her doll up and down the street in a baby carriage. Nor did he did not know the names of the neighborhood children. One didn’t like to become too familiar with the innocent faces he might encounter as roadkill or victims of domestic violence.

Crossing into his den, he shut the door before turning on the desk lamp. Since he couldn’t sleep, he thought he might write his report. Have it ready for Captain Carpenter in the morning. At 9:00 AM, whether his phone rang or not.

He had a typewriter but the keys made noise when striking the page and he didn’t want to take the chance of disturbing the household. He started with pen and paper, wrote several lines then abandoned the effort. His mind was too restless. He knew what he wanted to do. What he always did at times like this.

Unlocking the top left drawer, he stared at the journal before removing it from the secure confines. He hadn’t started it for anyone to read, least of all himself. He began it to put the facts down because the Kimble case had haunted him from the beginning. It was an old trick; one taught him by a detective on his way out. Not dying: retiring, although they amounted to very nearly the same thing.

“On the long nights when you’re afraid to go to sleep because the nightmares haunt you, write it down.”

“Write what down?” he had asked because he was young and uninitiated.

“It. Whatever ‘it’ is. A grocery list. The batting average of the Cubs. The clues that don’t make any sense. Words of the witnesses; statements of the accused. Not in any order; just as they come to you.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

He had bought a journal; the kind with a green cover used by accountants. It had taken him awhile to find the right one. Most had green lines and columns. He needed blank pages. A diary would have served the purpose but he didn’t like the idea of committing thoughts to one. That was too personal. A thing lonely women did. Not a cop. Men kept journals.

He started it once, by putting in the date at the top of the page. That was as far as he got. He just never saw the need. Until that call: about a woman being murdered on Corteen Avenue. He had kept it up ever since and re-read it on nights like this.

The long nights when nothing made any sense.

Link to Chapter 3