Pursuit
by: S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler
Chapter 5
9:00 A.M.
Let Dr. Kimble go without being charged. Nothing to charge him with at the moment. No physical evidence. “Neighbors arguing” isn’t enough.
He didn’t recognize the “one-armed man” from mug shots
“Lieutenant, where there’s smoke, there’s fire? Haven’t you heard that expression before?”
Staring into the eyes of the district attorney, Gerard found them cold. This was a new D.A., just elected. Not fresh out of law school, because he had an impressive track record. The last year and a half, he had managed to argue most of the major cases, winning all of them against what some considered “unbeatable odds” and “hot shot defense attorneys. Talk around the precinct predicted that come election time, he would challenge his boss, Tom Mulligan, for the top job and they were right.
Gerard liked Mulligan but he appreciated the successful conclusion of a criminal trial more.
Cops worked damned hard to gather evidence before bringing it to the district attorney’s office. They stood by their work and when the D.A. brought home a guilty verdict, it was a win for everyone. Including, as he occasionally reminded less like-minded individuals, society.
“Yes, sir. I’ve heard the expression.”
“Captain Carpenter says you might have held him for 48 hours. I don’t like to think of a murderer running around loose. Why didn’t you?”
He might have replied, “Captain Carpenter could have overruled me,” but didn’t. He would take responsibility for his own actions.
“Because he made what is, at the moment, a legitimate claim. He saw a one-armed man running from his house. Since, in the eyes of the law, he’s innocent until proven guilty, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Besides,” he argued, seeing that statement had not gone over well, “he has no criminal history. I checked, sir. Not even the proverbial parking ticket. For all intents and purposes, Dr. Kimble is a model citizen. I believe we need more than suspicion to hold him.”
“I don’t believe there was a one-armed man.” Mike Ballinger stepped closer, so the two men were within shoving distance of one another. For his part, Captain Carpenter backed away. He didn’t want any part of the case. If push came to shove, he had already decided to recuse himself from the investigation. Dr. Kimble treated all six of his grandchildren. That practically made him one of the family.
One year – the year Kimble joined his father’s practice, if he rightly recalled – the doctor had made a diagnosis contrary to what the elder Kimble had determined. Carpenter had heard them arguing in the exam room about the consequences of being wrong. In fairness, they hadn’t known he was there or they might not have raised their voices. Dr. Richard Kimble claimed the dog that had bitten his grandson, Johnny, was rabid; Dr. John Kimble dismissed the notion, citing the veterinarian’s record the animal had been vaccinated. The younger physician refused to back down and had made his case to the family.
“You don’t have time to wait,” he had warned. “It’s now or never.”
Because Luke Carpenter was a policeman, as if that gave him gifted insight, his daughter and son-in-law had left the decision to him.
“Are you sure?” he had asked the physician just out of pediatric fellowship. “Your father says the shots are torturous and especially dangerous for a boy so young. He’s certain the evidence points to the fact the dog ate something poisonous and that’s what made him foam at the mouth.”
If he lived to be one hundred, he would never forget the look in Dr. Richard Kimble’s eyes.
Absolutely, utterly stalwart.
“If he were my child, I would begin treatment immediately.”
The dog died two days later. The necropsy confirmed the diagnosis of rabies. Johnny survived the regimen of shots with only an ugly bite scar by which to remember the incident.
“A scar,” Dr. Kimble had told him on his last check-up, “is a sign of survival. You won. Tell your friends that and they’ll have new respect for you.”
Luke Carpenter’s wife had subsequently cut a picture of Dr. Kimble, taken at some medical convention, out of the newspaper and framed it. It hung beside a picture of the Pope.
“Since you know that expression,” Ballinger continued, facing Gerard, “I have another for you. When someone is murdered, eight times out of ten it’s committed by a family member.”
“I’m aware of that fact.”
“And still you let him go?”
“He isn’t ‘going’ far. Sir.”
Ballinger’s upper lip curled in a sneer.
“Kimble’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”
The lieutenant’s head jerked up.
“The lab report is in, then?”
“Just back. There were no other fingerprints.”
“The man lived in the house, sir. Of course his fingerprints were on the lamp. Were there any others?”
“Hers; the decedents,” the D.A. conceded.
“That’s to be expected. No others?” he asked again because Ballinger had neglected to mention Mrs. Kimble’s.
“Smudges.”
“Smudges,” Gerard repeated, as if the word held significance. Ballinger didn’t bite.
“Are you pleading the case for the defense?”
“Hardly, sir.”
“I have motive and opportunity. You have forty-eight hours to find your one-armed man.”
“He’s not my one-armed man.”
“Kimble’s, then. If you don’t find him by then, I want your report on my desk: with a recommendation he be arrested. And I want you to believe it. You and Captain Carpenter. If you don’t believe it… I want proof why not. Is that clear?”
“I understand.”
Gerard started to leave when Ballinger held him back.
“I already have enough to prosecute. I want this doctor. He killed his wife. It was a brutal, senseless murder. You know that as well as I do.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
A second, no more.
“And you do it well. Remember: we’re a team.”
Phillip Gerard knew false praise when he heard it.
More importantly, he didn’t need it. The law sustained him.
Something the D.A. would never understand.
2:00 P.M.
Slept for two hours.
D.A. Mike Ballinger’s order: Arrest in 48 hours (unless evidence to the contrary): Sept 20 @
9:00 A.M.
Called by Sergeant Kidman: four one-armed men brought in for interrogation.
Reported two more on their way in (6)
The net I placed is working.
Sergeant Kidman stiffened as Gerard entered the room. The detective was what he and his partner called a “hard nose,” and sometimes when they were particularly riled, a “hard ass.” He was tough as nails and as far back as anyone remembered, no one had ever seen him smile. Which was not precisely true, but it served for department lore.
Gerard pushed hard. In truth, he pushed himself harder than anyone. Kidman was just thankful he and the team had located four one-armed men, with two more on the way.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Let me see them.”
Kidman took him to the room where the officer could appraise the four men from behind a two-way mirror.
“That one,” Gerard noted with contempt, “is missing his left arm.”
“I realize that, Lieutenant, but I thought…”
Gerard’s piercing eyes caught him, froze him.
“What did you think?”
The sergeant managed to break the eye lock and glanced down.
“Nothing, sir.”
“I mean it. I’m interested to know what you thought.”
“The witness might have been under stress. When people are caught unawares by something they often confuse right and left. I didn’t think it would hurt to let him see men with either a right or a left arm missing.”
“You’re absolutely right. Good job. In fact, put out word that we’re interested in interviewing all one-armed men. And put your reasoning in your report. Take credit for the idea. I’ll sign off on it and give it to Captain Carpenter, myself.”
The officer had hardly expected that.
It was something to tell the boys. But he didn’t think he would. It was the type of praise one kept to oneself, as if sharing would somehow spoil it.
Gerard missed the significance entirely. His mind had already gone on to the men he was assembling for a line-up.
Scanning them with a critical eye, he made a rapid determination. Although he had told Kidman he made a good point that might have carried with an ordinary witness, he didn’t think for one second Dr. Kimble had made a mistake. He saw what he said he saw. The doubt in the lieutenant’s mind was not the description but in its reality. A sane man who killed in a fit of passion needed some excuse to explain his action. If not to the police, then to himself.
It wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done it. I loved her. It was someone else.
The mind played mysterious tricks. If a man believed it hard enough, it became reality.
To him.
Which didn’t mean there hadn’t been a one-armed man. He just considered his mind more open to the possibility of imagination than Richard Kimble’s.
Time would prove one of them right.
Taking the description as gospel, Phillip Gerard appraised the four men. He dismissed the man with the left arm without further consideration. That left three. One was too tall: six foot four if he were an inch. The next was a Negro. The last had most of his right arm, missing only the hand and half a span to the elbow.
“All right. Feed them lunch if they haven’t eaten and then I’ll take their statements.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time the first man made his appearance at his door, Gerard had gone through their records. Not surprisingly, all four had been arrested at one time or other.
“Sit down.” The too-tall man took a chair, moved it back a foot and sat. “What’s your name?”
“Brad Dozier.”
“Where were you between nine o’clock and midnight last night?”
“I want a lawyer.”
Gerard did not bother lifting his eyes from the dossier.
“That’s fine. I can hold you forty-eight hours. Take him away,” he ordered to an unseen assistant.
Dozier recanted.
“I was at a pool hall.”
“Where?”
“Pine and 13th Street.”
“Let’s hope for your sake the pool hall on 13th Street turns out to be lucky for you. Will anyone I can trust remember you?”
“Sure. The bartender knows me.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bill.” No answer. “What’s the charge?”
“Murder.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“It was a woman.”
“I’d never kill no woman.”
“I’m sure not.”
The words were meant to convey a total lack of belief.
“Bill Findley. I play pool there every Sunday.”
“Yesterday was Monday.”
“I play pool there every Monday,” he repeated in a monotone.
“We’ll check it out.”
“I stiffed him on my tab. He’ll remember.” More silence. “If he remembers I was there, do I get to go?”
“I need you for a line-up.”
“And I need you to go to hell.”
“Next.”
Brad Dozier was removed. The black man was brought in.
“Take a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
“What’s your name?”
“Santa Claus.”
“Address?”
“North Pole.”
“Where were you yesterday between nine o’clock and midnight?”
“What’s this all about?”
“I have a report here that you stole the collection plate at the Second Baptist Church.”
Dozier digested the statement carefully before speaking.
“Would it be better for me if I had?”
“That depends.”
“Why are you looking for a one-armed man?”
Since there was no point denying it, Gerard opted for the truth this time around.
“Murder.”
“I’m not Santa Claus and if there’s a Second Baptist Church anywhere in the city, I sure as hell stole the collection plate.”
“Where were you yesterday between nine and midnight?”
“At my old lady’s.”
“She’ll verify that, of course?”
“With her two kids. They went to bed before nine but I stayed the night.”
“And she’ll say you never left?”
“She will, but it’s also true.”
“Thank you.”
“You gonna hold me?”
“Just for a line-up.”
“And then?”
“You’ll be free to go.”
The man took a step back.
“You’re not looking for a black-skinned man?”
Gerard slowly shook his head. Dozier, who wasn’t Santa Claus, appreciated the honesty.
“Know any more like you? One-armed men, I mean.”
“We’re a fraternity no one likes to join.”
“Keep your eyes open. If you happen to… run across anyone like that, give me a call. I’d appreciate it.”
“I don’t do the Man no favors.”
“I did you one.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Gerard.”
“I gonna see your name in the papers?”
He shrugged.
“I’m afraid so.”
“You the one who ordered lunch for us?”
“It was the least I could do.”
“I didn’t eat it. ‘fraid it was poisoned.”
“That would be illegal.”
“You never do nuthing wrong in your life?”
“Tried not to. You’ll be released later this afternoon.” Raising his voice, he called, “Next.”
The suspect missing his left arm came next. Having exhausted his store of conversation, Gerard went through the questioning quickly. The only man he cared to examine came last.
“What’s your name?”
“T-i-m-m-o-n-d-s,” he spelled.
“You’ve been through the drill before?”
“No. I’ve been in the army.”
“Is that where you lost your arm?”
“That’s right.”
“How long ago was that?”
“WWII.”
“Where were you between nine and midnight last night?”
He would ask the same question to five hundred men if he had to. With precisely the same intonation. He never found routine police work boring. It was part of the job.
“I heard it on the news. I wasn’t anywhere near the neighborhood, I’m not a burglar and I have an alibi.”
“And I’m here to take your word for it,” he flatly replied.
“I lost my arm in the service of my country. Can you say the same?”
“Where were you between nine and midnight last night?”
“In the VA. Just got out this morning. You can check.”
“You can bet I will.”
“I want to be paid for my time here.”
“It’s called being a good citizen. Like jury duty,” he added with only a trace of sarcasm.
“Where were you in the Big One?”
“I’m not here to answer your questions and if you’d like to spend the next forty-eight hours here at county expense, that can be arranged.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You’re not a suspect. Yet.”
“I know my rights.”
“I’m sure you do. Take him away.”
The policeman standing outside the door stepped inside and directed Mr. Timmonds out of the room. Gerard pursed his lips. He would have them all checked out before Dr. Kimble arrived to view them.
And then he would let them go.
“Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
“Another one was just brought in. We haven’t had time to question him, yet. Looks like a mean one. You want to see him or shall we get the goods on him, first?”
“I’ll see him.”
A moment later a burly man with dark hair, dark eyes and missing a right arm above the elbow, was delivered. For a moment, the officer’s heart caught and he wondered if this were the one.
“Sit down,” he offered. The invitation was not meant to be polite.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Then, you shall have one. But I’d appreciate a few details first. For the record. Surely, you can understand that and won’t mind complying?”
“Gimme a smoke.”
Gerard took a pack from his pocket, tapped it on the table until a cigarette came up, then offered it. The one-armed man grabbed it, shoved it in his mouth and reached for a book of matches on the table. Although the officer offered his lighter, the man flipped back the cover, plucked out a match, dexterously struck it and held it to the tip of the cigarette. Drawing in a mouthful of smoke, he watched the match burn down to his fingertips before tossing it on the floor.
“There’s an ashtray on the table.”
“So what? This ain’t the Ritz.”
“What would you know about the Ritz?”
The man sneered.
“More’n you. Least I’ve been in through the back window. The doorman sees your type coming and suddenly he ain’t got no tables available.”
“It may interest you to know not everyone thinks as you do. About police.”
“Everyone I know does. That’s good enough. I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then, what am I doing here?”
“A little bird told me you had something to confess.”
The statement was so outlandish it took the man a moment to guffaw.
“Ain’t that rich.”
“I like to entertain as well as ask questions,” Gerard delivered with a straight face. “What’s your name?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
The man leaned forward.
“Why is that?”
“So I can hold you until the fingerprints come back. You know how long these things take. May be days. You having only one arm, it could be a week, or more.”
“I wanna get out.”
“I’m sure you do. But a man without a name? Tisk tisk,” he mocked, finding his temper rising for no good reason. “No lawyer will take the case of a man who refuses to give his name. And just try that on a bail bondsman. You may be here some while.”
“I need to take a leak.”
“Go over there and urinate in the corner. You won’t be the first.”
“Yeah, right. An’ then you got me on public exposure.”
“I gave you permission.”
“If there were a room full of cops, no one’d a heard you.”
“You’ve been around.”
“So what?”
“First degree murder comes with the death penalty all bundled up with a bright blue ribbon. A confession now will save you from looking like a poodle when they strap you into the electric chair.”
“I didn’t kill no one.”
“The D.A. has authorized me to make a deal. One time shot. It won’t be repeated. He’s new to the job. Likes people to know he stands for law and order.” He snapped his fingers. “He doesn’t see any sense having the good people of Indiana house, clothe and feed you for the next… thirty years. Waste of taxpayer’s money.”
“So? I don’t pay taxes.”
But he was listening.
“He’ll go for extenuating circumstances if I say so. I’m listening.”
“I didn’t kill no one.”
“Times a wastin’.”
“Who was it got killed?”
“That’s not part of the game.”
“I just came into town on a freight. Don’t know no one. It was this other guy.”
“Who would that be?”
“He hopped on when I jumped off.”
“What did he look like?”
“Mean.”
“Like you, you mean?”
“Meaner.”
“Was he one-armed?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one was he missing?”
The man moved his stump.
“Right.”
“And I assume you exchanged pleasantries? Got his name? Compared murders?”
“We exchanged places.”
“You’re the one I want. And now I have you.”
“I just got off a freight, I tell you. I haven’t had time to murder anyone.”
“But you would, if you could?”
The question was put nicely, as though they were friends having a fireside chat.
The man shrugged.
“It was him.”
“I’m trying to picture you with a bright blue ribbon around your neck.” He wrinkled his nose. “It smells, you know. Burning flesh.”
“Johnson,” he spat.
“Johnson,” Gerard agreed, seeming disinterested.
“I didn’t do it.”
“Take him away,” he called. “Put him with the others. That all?”
“So far.”
“I’m going to get some coffee. Send a car for Dr. Kimble. I want him down here.”
Now.
If they had found the one-armed man there was no point keeping the good doctor in suspense. And if they hadn’t, then the odds were that he wasn’t a good doctor and deserved everything he got.
“And by the way. Put out word to the surrounding communities. I want all trains coming from Stafford stopped and checked. Priority One. Make sure it gets out statewide. The local police are to pay particular attention to any one-armed men found in or near train yards.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I have to, I’ll go to their location. Stress that. It might make them more… attentive.”
The officer grabbed Johnson by his left arm.
“Think maybe this is the one?”
“That would be a nice thought, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled.
It was without warmth.
When he was on the hunt he found little, if anything, amusing.
On second thought, if “Johnson” was the one, then he had just sent any number of local police on a wild goose chase. It wasn’t amusing but he smiled, anyway.
4:30 P.M.
Kimble arrived in a state of high excitement
Has been staying at his sister’s (Donna Taft). She and her husband (Leonard) arrived separately by private car. (67 Oak Ridge Dr. Stafford – 555-7692) He seems less emotional. Will talk with Leonard Taft later for b.g.
*Get the address of Helen Kimble’s family. What do they think?
“You’ll be looking at five men. I want you to take your time. Don’t be hasty. Think about who you saw last night. Get an image firmly in your mind. What often happens is that an eyewitness sees someone who may look like the person they saw and they get carried away by emotion. They implicate the wrong person because they want the nightmare over with. Don’t fall into that trap.”
Richard Kimble hitched his shoulders. The fingers of his right hand moved in unison.
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“Worse,” Gerard continued, “they let what they see taint their memory. Number Two in the lineup comes out with a limp. That sticks in your memory and tomorrow you ‘remember’ the man you saw had a limp. Or a scar. Or facial hair. It happens all the time. Don’t press. Don’t try and make it all go away in one fell swoop. If you do and that man turns out to have an alibi, you’ll look like a liar. Do I make myself clear?”
“I’m nervous.”
“It’s all right to be nervous. This is all new to you. It’s not all right to make a mistake.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“Take a deep breath.” He waited until the order was complied with. “Bring them out.”
Five men shuffled out, moving from left to right. All appeared surely.
None of them looked “startled.”
A word Phillip Gerard would never forget.
Richard Kimble shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes moved with the men. Five seconds. Ten. Six “at rest” heartbeats.
“The man I saw isn’t there.”
“Don’t be hasty. Take your time.”
“I don’t have to. Thank you, but he’s not one of them.”
“Do you want me to have them turn so you can see them in profile?”
“I never saw his profile. I stared at him full in the face.” And then more quietly, “He’s not there.”
Gerard activated the intercom.
“Let them go.” Five down. How many more one-armed men will walk across that platform? Another five? Ten? What will it take?
To find him or to convince a jury he never existed?
“Thank you for coming down here, Dr. Kimble.”
Kimble stared at the empty stage a long beat before turning to the lieutenant. His eyes were not startled. They had an expression of despair.
“No. Thank you, Lieutenant Gerard.”
“For what?”
The answer appeared self-evident.
“For looking.”
“It’s part of my job.”
“I appreciate it.”
“We’ll find more, don’t you worry.”
A half smile.
“Would it be all right if I worried, anyway?”
I would, if I were you.
“We’re doing all we can.”
“I’m staying at my sister’s.” Realizing that information was already known, he appeared confused. “But you know that. I’m not thinking very clearly, I guess.”
Gerard’s head tilted to the left.
“But, you’re thinking clearly enough that you’re sure you didn’t recognize any of those one-armed men?”
“Yes.”
Dot the “i’s,” cross the “t’s.”
“I’ll see you again, soon.”
Within forty-eight hours.
“Good-bye.”
Sept 19, 1960 1:00 A.M.
Came home and slept for several hours
Just called the office: 3 more one-armed men located. Will interview in A.M.
5:00 A.M.
At the office.
Reviewing notes on the 3 one-armed men picked up during the night. One taken from the RR yards.
On a separate page he had begun the list that he would memorize and learn to recite the way other men repeated the Lord’s Prayer.
ONE-ARMED MEN
- Brad Dozier (8/18): Pool Hall Pine and 13th. Alibi checks
- Willie Maclin (8/18): AKA “Santa Claus”. Negro. Doesn’t fit description
- Davis (8/18): Left arm missing. Doesn’t fit description
- Gregory Timmonds (8/18): Lost his arm in the war. At the VA. Alibi checks
- Artie Johnson (8/18): Came in off the rails. No alibi.
Line-up 9/18. R.K. stated categorically none of them are the man he saw. All 5 released.
Preliminary report submitted to Capt Carpenter
Phillip Gerard wondered if this was the beginning of the end.
Link to Chapter 6