Fan-Fiction
Pursuit
By S.L. Kotar and J. E. Gessler
Chapter 3
September 17, 1960 – Monday
Late call (10:30 PM) to a home at 5252 Corteen Place. Phoned in by husband. Richard K-i-m-b-l-e. A doctor. At the scene when I arrived (11:00 PM) Appeared distraught. Identified his wife as the victim. Left him in squad car while I went to appraise the scene. Woman, late 20’s, clothed in an evening dress and heels. Discovered on the floor in the living room. Blood in her hair; appears to have been struck on the head by a lamp, also found on the floor. Sent to the lab for fingerprints. Photographer taking photos. Appears to be a bruise on her left cheek. From a hard slap or a blow by a hand.
Body doesn’t appear to have been touched once it fell. Wedding ring and sizeable diamond engagement ring on the 4th finger, left hand. Wearing a necklace – pearl. Probably real; bracelet. Probably gold. Have them assessed.
Not robbery.
Check the doctor’s finances.
Walked around. Rest of the house appears untouched. No obvious signs of forced entry but several windows open on the lower level. Expensive items in the living room. Ordered an accounting. Plenty of small items (knickknacks…) that could be pawned.
Upstairs: master bedroom. Bed made but dressing chair overturned. Domestic argument?? Consistent with bruise on face. Decanter: Scotch. Nearly empty. One crystal glass on floor, not two. Check victim’s blood level. No alcohol smell on doctor’s breath.
Closet doors closed; nothing inside appears touched. Bathroom neat.
Rest of the upper level unremarkable.
11:30 PM.
Went outside to speak with the husband. Now sitting quietly in squad car. Appears in shock. Ordered him taken down to HQ. No place to interview him here.
Sept 18 – Tuesday – Midnight
Doctor now more alert. Eyes red-rimmed. Brought him coffee. Smoking.
Rubbing his eyes, Gerard leaned back in the chair. He no more needed to be reminded of his overwrought mind than he did about that fateful night. It came back to him with the clarity of a crystal ball. Or, more accurately, it replayed in his mind, for the fact was, it had never left him.
“What to start from the beginning and tell me all about it, Mr. Kimble?”
The “mister” was a test. To see how observant the man was. How sensitive to status and protocol.
“Yes,” he agreed, taking a drag on the cigarette before waving his hand, a gesture the lieutenant interpreted as resignation. “We had had an argument.”
Two things clicked: the man passed up on the chance to correct his title and he started his statement with a truth. Not one every man in his position would.
“Go ahead. Just keep talking. I’m here to listen.”
The doctor’s shoulders curled inward.
“We argued a lot. Ever since…” He turned away, presenting his profile. “The baby was stillborn. It was a boy,” he added in a matter-of-fact tone. “Helen had been so sure it was going to be a boy.”
If he assumed the officer would comment he was mistaken.
“Our first. And our last, as it turned out. There were complications. No one is exactly sure what happened. There had been a fetal heartbeat at her last check-up. Everything seemed fine. We expected the baby to be born in the first week of May. It wasn’t. The days dragged on. Helen started getting apprehensive but I tried to reassure her. You never can tell about first babies. They come when they come. We hadn’t miscounted. It was just late.”
Gerard’s face remained immobile. It, he thought, picking up on the word. Is that how doctors think? “It” instead of “he” or “she”? “It” because the Kimbles didn’t know the sex at the time, or “it” because it had died and he couldn’t face giving it personalization?
“After two weeks passed without any signs of labor, the doctor decided to do a caesarian. I think… I don’t know. They were becoming alarmed. So was I. I might have…” His hand dropped against the table. Ashes from the cigarette flew into his coffee cup. “Delivered it earlier,” he finished on a stronger note. And then, that resignation. “What does it matter? What was done was done.”
“The baby was stillborn,” Gerard prompted.
“Worse than that. They left it to me to tell her. Because I was a doctor, I suppose. Or, maybe because I was the husband. I’ve delivered a lot of babies in my day.” His head snapped up. Make no mistake. “I’m not primarily an OB-GYN; I’m a pediatrician. But I’m occasionally called upon to do that work. We all go through labor and delivery training. My time was a little more hectic than most.”
He tried a smile; a half-smile. Gerard interpreted it as a nervous gesture.
“I didn’t handle delivering the news very well. Helen was so excited. When she came out of anesthesia I suppose she thought it had only been a few minutes instead of hours. None of the nurses had come in. They didn’t want to be the one. They were waiting for me to break the bad news. It wasn’t easy.”
A tear came to his eye and he wiped it away. Not from self-consciousness. Because it had been four months and he thought he was over it.
“No baby, Helen. The baby was stillborn. I don’t remember exactly what I said. She was in denial but seeing the look on my face she said we could have another. That’s when I had to tell her we couldn’t. That they had removed her uterus during the operation. How do you tell a woman that? There’s no easy way.”
“I’m sorry.”
And he was.
It was also the right thing to say. To keep the doctor talking.
I’m not your enemy.
He didn’t know what the future would bring.
Kimble shivered. The room wasn’t cold.
“That’s when the arguing started. Or, soon after,” he corrected. “All right, we couldn’t have any children of our own. But it wasn’t the end of the world. We could adopt. Maybe I approached the subject too soon, but Helen jumped all over me. ‘I could never love another woman’s child,’ she said. I kept at it. Did all the research. An infant, a toddler, a two-year-old. It didn’t matter to me. Boy or girl. The more I talked about it, the more she resisted. ‘It’s not like going to the pound and picking out a puppy,’ she said. ‘A woman wants her own flesh and blood.’ ‘Well, so does a father,’ I said. ‘But we can’t, so let’s consider the options.'”
“So, that’s what you fought about.”
A statement, not a question.
“Yes. Over and over and over. Our arguments got progressively worse. Everyone on the block knew the Kimbles were fighting. I begged her to go to counseling; to let someone else try and explain how it worked. Her maternal instincts would take over. We talked to a couple who had adopted a baby. To prove how happy we could be. She wouldn’t listen.”
His cigarette had burned to the end. He crushed the butt in the ashtray, then drank the coffee. It was cold and had ashes over the top. He didn’t notice.
“What about tonight?”
It was no longer “tonight,” it was “tomorrow,” but to say that would only confuse the issue.
Keep it simple.
“Tonight,” Dr. Kimble said, dragging out the word. “Tonight was bad. The worst. We were dressed to go out. I thought maybe getting out of the house, going to a party would cheer her up. Remind her there was still a world out there. I got to go to work; she was stuck at home. I thought maybe the walls were closing in. She surprised me by agreeing, but when it came time to leave she started in, again. ‘I’m not going.’ That’s what she said. ‘You’re just trying to make me forget I’m not a woman anymore; just half a woman. Everyone knows. They’ll stare at me. They’ll pity me and then they’ll all take your side. They’ll tell me to adopt. I tell you, I’ll never agree, Richard. Never! Never, never!'”
His head fell.
“Did you ever discuss divorce? Surely, it couldn’t be very pleasant for you.”
The head came up. The eyes flashed.
“How can you say that? I loved her. Love her,” he corrected although he had been right the first time. “I didn’t want a divorce. I wanted a child.”
“I had to ask.”
Kimble’s expression transmitted he thought otherwise.
“I felt time would heal all wounds. But she was so angry, so… adamant. It took me back. I guess I snapped.”
“How do you mean?”
He missed the obvious insinuation.
“I lost my temper. I had planned on a nice evening and there she was, throwing everything in my face, again. I was tired, I was frustrated and I’d had it. I needed to get away. So that’s what I did. I walked out. Let her screaming hysterically on the bed.”
“Had she been drinking?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he cried, shoving the empty coffee cup away. “She had been drinking ever since she came home from the hospital. Not much at first, then progressively more and more. To forget…. To kill the pain. That’s why people drink too much.”
“Had you been drinking?”
“No. We were going out. I had to drive.”
There was a trace of vexation in his voice. A flash of temper.
We’re getting to it.
“So, you left.” Kimble nodded. “Where did you go?”
“I just drove. I had nowhere in mind. I just wanted to get away.”
“I need to know where you went.”
The doctor caught his eye.
“Why? What difference does it make?”
“For my report.”
The answer seemed to satisfy.
Tell me something I can verify; give me the name of a witness. Or two. And then it’s all over. You’ll have done your part.
“I took the side roads. I didn’t want to see anyone and I didn’t want anyone to see me. I just wanted to be alone. To calm down.”
“Uh huh.”
The newly bestowed widower took that as the impetus to continue.
“I drove for about half an hour. I came out at the river. There was a sort of a turn-in there. I guess where other people stopped to stare down into the water. I sat in the car for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, then I got out. I stood on the embankment. It was steep. I considered going down but I was dressed…”
“To go out. Yes, I know. So, you didn’t go down. Do you remember any cars passing you while you sat? Someone, perhaps, who might have been curious what you were doing there? Maybe slowed down to see if you were necking with your girl?”
Kimble’s expression changed as he finally realized where the officer was going.
“I don’t remember any cars going by. It was late. I was off the beaten track.” His voice tightened. “But I saw a boy in a rowboat. Or some sort of small boat. He was standing up. Fishing.”
“A boy? Out that late? Fishing?”
This time, the accusation stung.
“Yes. It was late. I don’t know why he was out there. But I saw him.”
“All right. Take it easy. Did he see you? Look up? Catch your eye? Did you wave to him, maybe? Say something? ‘How’s the fishing?’ Anything like that?”
“He didn’t look up and I didn’t say anything.” A pause, then, “But surely you can find him. He’ll tell you he was there.”
“You’d be surprised what people don’t admit to.”
Kimble’s hand went into his jacket. Although Gerard knew he had been searched, he stiffened. Instinct. That’s how cops stayed alive. Out came the pack of cigarettes. He flipped one up and took it. Using his own matchbook, Gerard struck a light for him.
No thank-you passed between them.
In retrospect, the man doing the remembering knew it had started. The suspicion.
On both sides.
The enmity that would carry them – no, bind them – for all eternity. Or until it was finally settled. One way or the other.
“You can keep talking.” Kimble inhaled, watching the red embers at the tip of the cigarette. That prompted the investigator to ask, “Did you smoke while you were standing by the river? Leave a pile of butts we can find?”
“I threw them down the embankment. Into the water. I heard them hiss as they hit.”
“That’s not going to help you very much.”
Kimble’s fist hit the table. The ashtray jumped.
“I saw him!” he cried.
“Saw who?”
It was all so clear to one of them.
“The murderer! It must have been him.”
“I’m not following you.”
“I was almost home. He ran out in front of me. In front of our house. A one-armed man.”
“A one-armed man?”
Gerard’s tone was unemotional. Non-judgmental.
“Yes! That’s it, don’t you see? A one-armed man. I caught him in the headlights. I think I startled him as much as he startled me. I almost hit him. He was running – not looking where he was going. He froze in the road. We stared at one another. He… frightened me.”
“You were afraid of him?”
“Not of him. I was frightened because he was running from the direction of the house.”
Gerard made note. The first time it was, “our house,” the second, “the house.”
“A one-armed man. Which arm was missing?”
“The right one. Above the elbow. Hardly more than a stump left.”
“I’ll look for him.”
“Yes! Yes. A one-armed man. And suddenly I was afraid. Sick afraid. I drove into the driveway, ran to the house.”
He halted, took in a breath as if he were back there. His eyes widened in horror.
“Was the front door open?”
“Yes. I went into the living room and saw her.” His voice caught and suddenly he became overwhelmed with grief. His face contorted and his eyes misted over. “Lying on the floor. My God, my God, lying on the floor. I couldn’t believe it. Not… Helen. Not my love.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to her. Dropped to my knees. I… touched her. My hand came away covered in blood. From a head wound. I thought…. I thought…. No. I knew she was dead.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Why? Why was she dead? It couldn’t be. Not like that. Not… dead when we had our whole lives ahead of us.” He groaned, a long, heart-full cry of confusion and misery and anger. “Not dead when I had left her alone. Not when I had abandoned her. It wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be.”
He wept softly.
Lieutenant Phillip Gerard knew he wasn’t going to get his confession. Not tonight, which was actually tomorrow.
Not ever.
Link to Chapter 4