Fan-Fiction
Pursuit
By S.L. Kotar and J. E. Gessler
Chapter 4
“Phil, the captain wants to see you.”
“I’ll just bet he does.”
It had been a long night. It would prove to be a longer day.
He went into his supervisor’s office. It was 7:00 A.M.
“You’re here early,” he opened.
“And you’re here late. I understand you’ve been on the job all night.”
“Yes, sir. I have a murder on my hands.”
Captain Luke Carpenter knew Phil Gerard well. Ten years older, they had come up the ranks together. When he had been promoted to lieutenant, the younger man had been made detective. Carpenter earned his captain’s bars the same time Gerard made lieutenant. While they were not social friends, they held a mutual respect for one another which was, perhaps, more important.
“I was briefed about midnight. Dr. Kimble, it seems, is an important man. That’s the father: Dr. John Kimble. Your suspect is the son.”
The lieutenant evinced surprise.
“What makes you say Dr. Kimble, the younger, is a suspect?”
“I read it on your face.”
“I hope not.”
The captain inwardly shriveled. He shouldn’t have said that. Not only was it untrue, it was glib. His officer was not known for his sense of humor.
“What I meant was, the husband’s always the first suspected. What’s his alibi?”
“He hasn’t got one. At least nothing concrete. It’s… vague. He left the house, went driving, no one saw him. He saw a boy in a rowboat. Good luck with that. Claims he saw a one-armed man out in front of his house when he returned. That’s who he thinks killed his wife.”
“I take it you’ve thrown out a net? Put out an APB.”
“Of course.”
“How did he interview?”
Gerard’s mind was wandering.
“I haven’t found him.”
The “yet” was conspicuously lacking.
“The doctor. Kimble.”
“Hard to say. He put on a good show. Might be legitimate.”
“What’s your gut say? Do we hold him?”
“My gut, sir?”
Two mistakes in one brief conversation. Carpenter silently cursed himself.
“Police instincts. Don’t deny you have them. I’ve seen you at work.”
“Thank you, sir. My ‘gut’ isn’t telling me anything, yet. Hold him? I think not. I… doubt he’s a flight risk.”
“Hannity at the front desk tells me the newspapers have been calling all morning.”
“Yes, well, call them something back.”
The captain did a double take. The reply was atypical. Something was happening he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
“What I meant was, there’s going to be a lot of publicity over this.”
Gerard agreed.
“There certainly is. A brutal murder in an upper class neighborhood. Makes the blue bloods nervous.”
Carpenter’s eyes narrowed and for a moment he wondered who he was talking with.
“Do a quick wrap on this.”
“I’ll certainly do what I can.”
“Then, you think Kimble’s not a suspect?”
“I didn’t say that. I haven’t gotten all the facts. I’m not one to jump to conclusions. Do things by the book. That’s me.”
“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”
It was a test.
They were all being put through examinations.
“You know I can’t do that. I called Marie earlier. Told her I wouldn’t be home. If I have to, I’ll use the cot in the back room.”
“A tired man makes mistakes.”
Gerard might not have heard. Or, he dismissed the statement out of hand.
“I’ll speak with Kimble one more time. His lawyer has been here for an hour barking all over the place.”
“He has a lawyer?”
“All doctors have lawyers. Peter Simpson. He’s not a criminal lawyer. He’ll have to get one.” That sounded better. “Unless we find that one-armed man.”
“What was the doctor’s motive? Presuming he has one.”
“Arguing with his wife. About adoption. Apparently a well-known fact.”
“How did you determine that?”
“Dr. Kimble told me.”
“Oh. Nice to know he was so amenable.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Keep me informed.”
“I will. Is that all, sir?”
Carpenter waved him away.
7:30 A.M.
Issued an APB for any/all one-armed men found in the vicinity of Stafford with the usual exceptions
INTERVIEW #2: Dr. Richard Kimble
Interrogation Room
Dozing when I walked in. Jerked awake.
Do you want coffee?
I want to go home. Why am I being kept here?
Just routine.
Are you looking for the one-armed man?
Yes. Of course. We’ve thrown out a net. We’ll find him.
If he exists.
Tell me about this one-armed man. Have you ever seen him before?
No. Why would I? He’s some robber; some murderer.
It was all there. In black and white. His thoughts weren’t written down. Not in indelible ink.
Inscribed in invisible ink.
Only he could read them.
How good a liar is a medical man? When did you come up with this story of a one-armed man? While you were standing alone, watching a boy in a rowboat? While you were driving home? Did you ever really leave the house? Or did you kill her and sit in the chair staring at the body, wondering how you were going to explain it?
Why a one-armed man? Because they’re scarce as hen’s teeth? To sound authentic? Because you know I won’t find him and you think just because you have an explanation a jury will believe you? Just how much do you know about the legal system, Dr. Kimble? Have you ever been to court, before? Have you see a prosecutor rip into a witness? How strong’s your backbone?
“Describe him to me.”
“I already have.”
“Tell me, again.”
“It’s not a story.”
“A made-up story, you mean? I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Don’t try and second guess me.”
“Is my sister out there?”
A question the lieutenant wasn’t expecting.
“I don’t know. If she is, no one told me.”
I’m going to have to find out all about you, Dr. Kimble.
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d know.”
Why did you kill your wife?
But that was for the future. Or not.
How many one-armed men are there in Stafford, Indiana? Why would a man have only one arm? A war vet. I’ll have to check with the VFW. Car accident? Barroom brawl? Sliced with a knife? Cut through the bone? Cancer? Pared his fingernails too short?
“She’ll be worried.”
“What was that?”
“My sister. She’ll be worried. And Helen’s parents. I have to call them.”
So do I.
“There’ll be time for all that.” Tell him I’m sorry about his loss. “I’m sorry about your wife. It’s a terrible thing to have happen.”
“Thank you.” Richard Kimble started shaking. More tears. “I loved her.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“We wanted to have a family so badly. It isn’t fair.”
“Murder never is.”
“How do I go on?”
Time heals all wounds.
Gerard couldn’t bring himself to say it. Because it was trite. And because it was a lie. Time didn’t heal wounds. It covered them up. The same way dirt covered a coffin.
“Did this one-armed man have any distinguishing features? Scars? Tattoos?”
He could see the doctor trying to replay the scene in his mind. Phillip Gerard knew the man seated across from him would do that a thousand times. Ten thousand. Each time a little differently. The mind played tricks. It would never be the same twice. That’s why he needed it now. It would never be fresher.
“No. Not that I saw.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A jacket. I think. I was looking at his face. Staring into his eyes.”
“What color were they?”
It was already past tense.
“It was night. I don’t know.”
“But, you said you caught him in your headlights.”
“Yes, but…” A sob. “Brown. Blue. Startled.”
“Say again?”
“Startled.”
Stronger. Angrier. On firmer ground. He didn’t catch the eye color but there was no mistaking the emotion.
“Why would he be startled?”
“Because he wasn’t expecting anyone to drive up. It was late.”
“He must have seen your car from a distance. Coming up. That would have alerted him.”
“He wasn’t paying attention. He was running. Across the road. And suddenly, there I was.”
That’s not going to play to a jury.
“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?”
“Yes! Forever. I’ll see him in my nightmares.”
For the rest of your life.
“Long hair? Short? Wearing a hat?” What color?”
Firmer, now.
“Black. Maybe curly. A little bit. Not short; not a crewcut. Medium length. He looked evil. No hat,” he added as an afterthought.
“Startled and evil. That’s not much to go on.”
The voice louder, now. More desperate.
“He had one arm. How many men are there with one arm?”
The same question Gerard had asked himself.
They’d both find out.
“All right. I’ll need you to look at some mug shots before you can go.”
A sudden flash of hope.
“You have photographs of one-armed men?”
“Just some photographs. Of criminals. Men whose MO might indicate they’d kill a woman if they had to.”
He sunk back in the chair.
“I’m so tired. Can’t I go home and look at them tomorrow? Or the next day?” Hands to his head, he leaned forward in an attitude of dejection. “I have… things to do. I have no idea… arrangements to make. I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t even know where to start. Call a funeral parlor, I suppose.” A thought occurred to him and he looked back up, the weariness starkly outlined on his face.
Gerard had seen such tiredness before. Black circles under the eyes. The sagging flesh. The wan complexion, all exacerbated by a lack of sleep and the unfamiliarity of the cold, sterile proceedings. Together or singly, they indicated neither guilt nor innocence to his dispassionate mind.
“Now,” he said. He might have been trying to be kind. “Don’t you want to help in the identification and apprehension of the killer? The longer we wait, the slimmer the chances become of finding him.”
“Yes. I want to help.”
“You didn’t exactly give me a description I can take to the bank.”
Kimble began to shake.
“I can’t think straight. I want to… go home. Can’t I go home?”
“I think not.” Less Kindly. “I hesitate to remind you it’s a crime scene. We’ll finish there eventually, but not now. Leave no stone unturned. You understand.”
“But…” The confusion was obvious. “Where will I go?”
“You said you have a sister. Does she live here in town? Or, what about your father’s place? I’m sure he can accommodate you.” A pause, carefully calculated, before, “What about your wife’s relatives? Parents? Siblings? Could they take you in, short term?”
“They live… out of town. In Fairgreen.”
“All right. Your sister, then. What’s her name?”
“Donna. Donna Taft.”
“She’s married, then.”
“Yes. To Leonard Taft. They have two boys.”
“Why don’t I take you to look at the mug shots and then I’ll go see if she’s here. I’ll tell her you’ll just be a while. She’ll understand.”
“All right.”
A reluctant concession.
8:30 A.M.
Took the dr. to look at mug shots
Went searching for Donna Taft (sister)
She had been waiting at the precinct for hours. Said she heard it on the news.
Who leaked the name to the press? Check into it. Put him on report. Not proper procedure
He saw her standing by the cigarette machine. She was clutching a handbag, her fingers nervously winding and unwinding around the handle. The family resemblance was strong. Although she was short, with straight auburn hair that reached to her shoulders, she had the Kimble jaw; and the eyes. Although she wasn’t looking at him, he knew they would be dark and intense.
A family of strong emotions.
Backbone.
She was alone. No husband; no father.
No wife’s relatives.
They live out of town.
“Mrs. Taft?”
She turned so quickly he knew she had sensed his presence.
“Yes? I’m Donna Taft.”
“Lieutenant Phillip Gerard.”
“Where’s Dick? Where’s my brother? Why are you holding him? I want to see him.”
Suspicion confirmed.
“He’s looking at some police photographs. Another hour. That’s all.”
“And then you’ll release him?”
“Release” is an odd word.
“He’s not under arrest.”
“The man back there –” She waved her arm in a vague indication of direction. “He told me my brother was being held.”
Gerard’s lips compressed in annoyance.
“Who told you that?”
“Some man. I don’t know.”
Tension was mounting. She was fighting for control.
“It doesn’t matter. Are you alone, Mrs. Taft?”
“My husband stayed home with the boys. He wanted to come.”
“I see. And Dr. Kimble’s father?”
Actually, your father, too.
He should have phrased it differently.
“I called him. He hadn’t heard. I told him to stay at home by the telephone. Shall I ask him to come down?”
“No need for that, now. Is there a Mrs. Kimble? His wife?”
“Our mother died some years ago.”
Putting the pieces together.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“I saw you standing by the machine.”
“Oh.” She tried a smile. “I was looking at my reflection in the glass. You know: checking my hair.”
What he knew was that she was lying.
She was wondering if “Dick” needed cigarettes. If she should buy some for him. Because he’s “being held.”
Good to know she can lie on her feet.
Why she would lie remained an open question.
What does she suspect? More to the point, what does she know?
He directed her to a seat and took the chair beside her. A look of angst crossed her face.
“Something upsetting you?” he asked, picking up on the fleeting expression.
“It’s just that… this waiting room. It reminded me of a hospital. When Dick and I were waiting for the doctor to come out and tell us the good news.”
He didn’t follow her logic.
“Good news?”
“A girl or a boy.” She tried a smile. “Helen was hoping for a boy. I was hoping for a girl.”
“Why was that?”
“I already have two boys. As the aunt and babysitter-elect, I wanted the chance to dress a little girl up in all those fancy clothes.” When he didn’t respond, Donna inquired, “Do you have children, Lieutenant?”
“A son. Phillip, Junior. My wife named him,” he added for no particular reason and inwardly chastised himself. “And a daughter.”
Why did I tell her that?
She offered him a friendly smile.
“You see what I mean? So many boys. Every family needs a girl. To spoil, I guess. Do you spoil your daughter?”
“No.”
The answer put an end to the diversion.
“Would you rather I took you into my office?”
“No. This is fine.”
That, too was a lie, but he didn’t act on it.
“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this sad chapter in your brother’s life.”
“Of course. We all appreciate that. We want the murderer caught.”
“Even if you don’t like the answer?”
Her face hardened. No doubt whose side she was on. Which answered all the questions he had to ask.
I won’t get the truth out of her.
“I already know the answer.”
“You do?”
“Some horrible man. Some… stranger. A thief.”
Interesting.
“How much do you know about what happened?”
Donna Taft’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you implying? That Dick confided in me he was going to murder his wife? What kind of a detective are you? I only know what I heard on the radio broadcast.”
“You haven’t spoken to your brother? He didn’t call you, perhaps, after finding the body?”
She shivered.
“That’s a harsh was to put it. Finding the body.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I sound unsympathetic. It’s the job.”
“I’m not sure I can. Helen was a wonderful woman. She was welcomed into our family with open arms.”
“But, things changed, didn’t they? After she lost the baby.”
Donna’s fingers tightened around the straps of her pocketbook.
“She didn’t lose the baby, Lieutenant. It was an act of God. One we may not understand, but it was out of our hands. Anyone’s hands.”
“Yes. I see. That’s one way of looking at it. How did you brother view it?”
“As any man would. He was devastated.”
“So devastated that he and his wife fought constantly over the loss? That doesn’t sound very compassionate.”
“How dare you? Dick wanted children; a house full of them. Not only for his sake – for Helen’s too. He believed that was the right thing. For him and for Helen. We all did. She would have come around.”
“And yet she didn’t show any signs of ‘coming around,’ did she? He’s already told me that’s what they were arguing about last night.”
Her voice became hard and steely.
“Why are you asking me these questions? Why aren’t you out on the streets looking for the real killer?”
“I have men doing just that.”
“You weren’t listening. I asked why you weren’t out there.”
“Rest assured. I will be.”
“Now. Instead of wasting your time asking me foolish questions about my brother.” She drew in a deep breath, held it a long beat, then slowly released it. “You think my brother killed his wife, don’t you? What kind of sick mind do you have, Lieutenant Gerard?”
Good. She remembered my name.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Then, God help you because you’re wrong.”
“I have no stake in this, other than to catch the proper killer, Mrs. Taft.”
“I don’t want to speak with you any longer, Lieutenant. And neither does my brother. He needs a lawyer.”
“That’s for him to say.”
“I’m speaking for him. I saw Mr. Simpson out there. He’s not a criminal lawyer, but will he do? To get Dr. Kimble out of here?”
“Yes. He’ll do.”
“Then, excuse me. I’m going to speak with him and see what can be done.”
She stood and Gerald followed suit.
“We’ll have a chance for another conversation, Mrs. Taft. When you’ve recovered your equilibrium.”
“For your information, Lieutenant, I’ve never lost it. Good bye.”
He watched her leave with the odd sensation they would have many such confrontations.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
Link to Chapter 5