Pursuit

by: S.L. Kotar and J.E. Gessler

Chapter 6

 

He had the papers before him. One of the three he had already dismissed as a viable suspect.

“Bring the first in,” he called.

A man shuffled in. By his looks he was close to 85 years old. His rap sheet said 64. Life on the streets was hard.

The man sat without being invited.

“What’s this all about?”

“Just routine. State your name for the record.”

“Joe Smith.”

“The one you were born with, please.”

“If you know, why ask?”

“Just routine.”

“George Peck.”

“Where were you on Monday night from 9 P.M. until midnight?”

“Drunk in an alley.”

“Where’d you get the money for the hooch?”

Peck absently scratched under his armpit. He reeked of urine. He wore no shoes.

“I panhandle on Grand Boulevard.”

“Yes, I thought I’d seen you before. How much did you make Monday?”

“Three dollars and twenty-six cents.”

“Not a bad take.”

The bum took the comment for an insult, which it wasn’t.

“Mondays is bad.  No one likes Mondays so they’re stingy. Fridays is my good day. And Saturdays ’cause the women are out shopping. They feel sorry for me. On accounta missin’ an arm. They figure I can’t work. Men think I’m a bum. Sunday’s is the worst.”

“Why is that?” the detective asked to keep him talking.

“Church day. You’d think that’d be a big day but with kids in the car goin’ or comin’ from church, the men roll up the windows. Got a smoke?”

Gerard removed a pack from his pocket and offered one. Peck put the cigarette between his lips and waited for Gerard to strike a match. He did not offer thanks.

Cigarettes didn’t grow on trees and cops were paid only slightly better than street beggars. Teachers bought scissors and glue and colored paper for their students, firemen carried teddy bears to give to kids who had just watched their house burn down and cops supplied smokes.

It was a perk of the job.

“Anyone see you in the alley?”

“The rats. But rats don’t testify.”

“No, but they occasionally squeal.”

“I didn’t see no one.”

“Who sold you the booze? I’m sure he’d remember you.”

“Liquor store on Olive Street.”

“Near where Olive crisscrosses Grand?”

“That’s the one.”

“Operated by Dan McGovern?”

“You stop by there, yourself, Lieutenant?”

“On business.”

“You ask him.”

“You can be certain I will.” He pushed the ashtray closer to the one-armed man. “Ever kill a woman?”

Peck stiffened in fright.

“Is that what this is all about?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, hell. Then, I got fifty witnesses to where I was Monday night. Honest to Christ.”

“You just stick around a while. Walk the line.”

“You got a witness?”

“If he ID’s you, fifty-times-fifty ‘witnesses’ won’t save you.” Looking over his shoulder, Gerard called. “I’m through with this one. Bring in the next.”

Two very different one-armed men exchanged places. The individual before him was middle-aged with close-cropped hair and a mustache. He wore a suit and tie and had a pair of reading glasses in the breast pocket of his suit. The right sleeve was neatly pinned up, over the elbow.

“Good morning,” he said, introducing himself. “My name is Stanley Fellows. How do you do?”

“Lieutenant Gerard,” the officer countered. “Thank you for coming in.” Glancing at the papers he had shuffled as the man entered, he asked, “You volunteered?”

“I read about the murder in the newspaper; the murder of the doctor’s wife. And the claim of a one-armed man being seen at the scene of the crime. I presumed you’d be looking for anyone who might fit that vague description, so I called the police station this morning and told them I was a one-armed man. Not the one-armed man, but I didn’t want a cloud of suspicion hanging over me. In academia, even that much can ruin a career.”

“I understand. You’re a college professor?”

“That’s right. At St. Martin’s. It’s a private institution.”

“I know of it. What do you teach there?”

“Introduction to Law.” He smiled without warmth. “Pre-law 101.”

“You’re a lawyer?”

“No. I’m an educator.”

“Want to tell me where you were on the night of September 17^th between 9 P.M. and midnight?”

“I was in my office working late.”

“Very commendable. Anyone see you?”

“Not during those hours. The janitor had come and gone around six.”

“Are you telling me you don’t have an alibi?”

Fellows raised an eyebrow.

“Do I need one?”

“Obviously.”

His demeanor darkened.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a one-armed man and I’m looking for a one-armed man. I presumed you understood that.”

“I already told you I wasn’t the one.”

“Yes, well, you know how those of us on the side of the law,” he emphasized, “tend to be…. What’s the word? Persnickety. We like details.”

“I told you. I’m not a lawyer.”

“So you did.” Gerard took off his reading glasses and set them on the desk. “Did you know the Kimbles, Mr. Fellows? Either professionally or socially?”

“Very well.”

“Were you… fond of them?”

“No. I found them rather snobbish.”

“How did you meet them?”

“At the Country Club.”

“Your relationship was social, then.” Picking up a pen, he held it absently in his left hand. “And you didn’t get along. Do you have some reason to suppose Dr. Kimble made up the story of a one-armed man to implicate you – either specifically or indirectly – in the murder of his wife?”

“Yes.”

“It may interest you to know Dr. Kimble didn’t positively identify the man he saw near his house. Certainly not by name. Does that make you feel better?”

“No.”

“Would you have any reason to kill Helen Kimble?”

“I hardly knew her.”

“But you said she and the doctor were snobbish. That implies a certain familiarity.”

“I – beat him in a golf game once. He didn’t seem to like it. I took twenty dollars off him. He stormed away.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow, making no effort to hide his incredulity.

“You play golf? With one arm?”

“That was before my accident. Several years ago.”

“But you’ve seen them since? The Kimbles?”

“No. I stopped going to the club.”

“But now you think because you beat him at golf several years ago, Dr. Kimble remembered you – has he seen you since you lost your arm, by the way? – and called you to mind when he needed to point the finger at a suspect?”

“I’ve been told he holds a grudge.”

“You may very well be right. I haven’t heard that about him, but it bears investigation.” Gerard put the pen down and got to his feet. “I appreciate you coming downtown. I’d like you to come back today or tomorrow and stand in a line-up.”

“What for?”

“Identification purposes. It will give me a chance to watch the doctor’s face when he sees you. Criminals often give themselves away when they least expect it.” Without giving Fellows the opportunity of accepting or refusing that which wasn’t an invitation, the lieutenant walked him out. “You’ll be notified. Later today or tomorrow,” he reiterated.

The man left and Officer Billingsley brought in the last of the three. Like Peck, he was a man of the street.

“Sit down, please.”

The man did as he was ordered. Standing to his side, Gerard studied his face. Three days’ worth of beard grew on his cheeks. The suitcoat he wore, obviously of Goodwill fashion, was missing all its buttons. The fingers of his left hand were stained with what appeared to be tar or some other black substance.

“My name is Lieutenant Gerard. What’s yours?”

“Gene Riley.”

“Ever been arrested before, Mr. Riley?”

“Many times.”

“What for?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

Gerard surprised him by asking, “What does a fine fellow like you do, getting himself arrested for D&D?”

“Well you might ask. I drink too much.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a poet and I feel more creative when I’m in my cups.”

“If you have to be inebriated to feel creative, then you’re not really a poet. You’re a sot.”

“I keep telling myself that,” he pleasantly agreed. “It’s a disease, you know?”

“What is? Being a poet?”

Riley laughed.

“Are you a poet, yourself?”

“Not hardly. I’ve seen too much of the dark side of human nature to write odes on Grecian urns.”

The one-armed man turned to stare at him, and then softly quoted

“And, little town, thy streets for evermore

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolute, can e’er return.”

“I’m afraid I seldom see beauty in truth.”

“Ah, but truth in beauty?”

“Truth, I understand. Or, hope I do. That’s my job. To seek the truth.”

“Does it free you?”

“It frees the innocent and convicts the guilty.”

“Surely, there is beauty in that.”

“There is justice in that,” he corrected. “And justice is law, law being the cornerstone of civilization.”

“Then, you are a poet.”

“Where were you on Monday night?”

“The same place I am every night. At the ‘White Rat,’ reading my poems to anyone who will listen.”

“And then you pass the hat?”

The man shrugged.

“It’s a living. More honest than most.”

“A poor one.”

“Would you have me work in a bank and sell my soul for a few more pennies?”

“How did you lose your arm?”

“A jealous lover severed it.”

“Shall I put that down in your file?”

“No one ever asked me, before. Why did you? Is it pertinent?”

“Not particularly.”

“I had a tumor in my arm. The doctor amputated to save my life. I wish he hadn’t.”

“Amputated your arm or saved your life?”

“It made me a freak.”

“From what I understand, most poets are freaks.”

“Thank you for that.”

“Will the owner of the bar or any of the patrons vouch for your whereabouts on last Monday between nine and midnight?”

“Ah, the witching hour. Yes. Of course.”

“Is that where you can be found?”

“Will you require my services again?”

“For a line-up. Just routine. I’ll send a car.”

“What’s this one-armed man you’re looking for accused of doing?”

Gerard did not bother asking if he read the papers.

“Murder of a woman; a robbery gone wrong. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps not.”

“What else would it be?”

“Second degree murder.”

“What does that mean?”

“The taking of a life with intent to kill, but not premeditated.”

“I’m sorry.”

He caught Gerard off guard.

“Sorry for whom?”

“Not the woman. Her troubles are over. For you.”

“Why me?”

“Because now you’ve been brought into it. Do they haunt you? The murders you’ve investigated?”

He had no right to ask the question and Gerard had no obligation to answer it.

“Yes.”

“This one is going to haunt you a long time.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you said, ‘perhaps.'”

“I also said, ‘perhaps not.’ I’m neither judge nor jury.”

“You will be.”

Gerard motioned with his hand. Officer Billingsley, who had been standing by the half open door stepped in and removed the suspect.

Three one-armed men. One he had dismissed as a suspect before ever speaking with any of them.

He had chosen the wrong one.

It did not bode well for the rest of the day. Or the investigation.

Or Richard Kimble.

 

Noon

Interviewed three more one-armed men.

Will schedule Dr. Kimble to come in later today, pending developments (more additions to the line-up)

 

ONE-ARMED MEN

 

• George Peck (8/19): drunk in an alley. Panhandles on Grand; alibi: liquor store on Olive; Dan McGovern
• Stanley Fellows: college prof (“pre-law 101.” Not a lawyer) St. Martin’s. Volunteered to come in. *check his story. Claims he knows the Kimbles and thinks maybe the dr set him up. An odd duck.
• Gene Riley: poet. Alibi: “White Rat” tavern reading his poems. Prophet?

Leaving to interview Helen Kimble’s parents. 25 Longview Terrace, Fairgreen, IND

Although Fairgreen was not in his jurisdiction, Gerard had a decent idea what the community looked like: primarily middle class with the usual scattering of upper middle class homes and the requisite number of neighborhoods on the way down. Using a map as his guide, he found 25 Longview Terrace without incident, discovering it to be a two-story house with a well-manicured lawn and mature trees, indicating it had been built in the late 1920s or early 30’s. Considering Helen Kimble nee Waverly was three years younger than her husband, this, then, was probably the only home she knew until she married.

Parking along the side of the street, he walked up the path, noting a black wreath had been placed on the door, indicating those inside were in deep mourning. Steeling himself for the inevitable grief and accusations he was bound to encounter, he rang the doorbell, considering it more professional than knocking. A tall man the policeman guessed to be in his late 50s answered the door.

“I’m sorry,” he began, nodding at the wreath. “We’re not receiving.”

Gerard reached into his coat and removed the small black case which held his badge. He offered it for inspection.

“Police. I’m sorry to bother you at such a time, but I’m investigating your daughter’s death and I need to ask you some questions.”

“Oh. Come in, by all means. I apologize if I seemed rude. It’s just that –”

“Perfectly understandable,” the detective interrupted. “My name is Lieutenant Gerard.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Ed Waverly, Helen’s father.” His voice broke and he looked away until he controlled himself. “I don’t know if there’s a word for a grieving parent, like there is for a husband. A widower. How is Dick? I haven’t been able to get him on the telephone.”

“As well as can be expected, I imagine. He’s staying with his sister, Mrs. Taft.”

“Oh. I see. Of course he would be.” The man worked hard at retrieving her name. “Donna,” he came to at last. “We met her at the wedding, of course. Nice people, she and her husband.”

“Leonard,” Gerard supplied.

“Yes. I believe we’ve been to their house once or twice. My wife and daughter and I really should have gotten to know them better but it’s a bit of a drive to Stafford, you know, and somehow… our schedules always seemed to conflict. She came – Donna came,” he awkwardly corrected, “for Helen’s baby shower. They had one at their house, too. My wife and daughter went. I suppose they had a nice time.”

“It must have been a terrible shock, Helen losing the baby like that. And then not being able to have another child.”

“It was a nightmare. Please come into the living room and sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I won’t take up much of your time. I wonder if you could fill me in on some of the details about your daughter’s relationship with Dr. Kimble.”

He smiled, trying to remember the good times.

“She met him at the hospital. She was a nurse there. They seemed to have hit it off pretty fast. Before we knew what was happening, she brought him home and he asked me for her hand. My wife and I thought it was sudden but you know how young people are. Impetuous. Well, when you’re in love, what does it matter? They were married in Stafford and left on their honeymoon when he received his call-up. You can imagine how surprised we all were, he being a doctor with a pediatric internship and residency ahead of him. We thought he’d be spared. They usually are, you know, but with the Korean War going on I guess they took just about everybody.”

He offered Gerard a cigarette from a porcelain box on the coffee table which he refused. Both met sat opposite each other.

“Helen went with him to San Diego and they spent a few days together before he went off for basic training. He went to Korea as a corpsman. If he had been a real doctor, he would have gone in as an officer.”

“Yes. I realize that.” Crossing his legs, he offered the picture of a man at ease with his job. “Did the war change him, would you say?”

Ed Waverly frowned.

“That’s an odd question.”

“But a fair one, you’ll agree. War tends to effect men differently. I wondered how Dr. Kimble assimilated his experiences. Did Helen mention anything like that to you? That he wasn’t the man she married when he came back? I understand he had combat experience treating a number of grievously wounded soldiers. And put himself at risk on numerous occasions.”

“And almost got himself killed for doing so,” Waverly stated in growing annoyance. “In my book any man that goes to war is a hero. War is a nightmare; not the way you see it depicted in the movies. Does it change a man? I suppose it does. But not in bad ways. When he came back, Dick Kimble was more gentle than ever. He talked about saving lives, not taking them. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I want to hear the truth. If that’s the way you feel, then that’s what I want to hear.”

“Why are you here, Lieutenant? You’re acting as though Dick is some sort of a suspect and I know that can’t be right. He loved my daughter. Loved her,” he stressed.

“Did he, Ed?” came a voice from the kitchen.

Looking distressed, Waverly turned in her direction. Although he did not invite her, she walked resolutely into the living room.

“This is my wife, Edith. Edith, this is Lieutenant Gerard. From the Stafford police. He came to ask us some questions about Helen.”

Gerard politely rose to his feet.

“Mrs. Waverly.”

“You didn’t come to ask questions about Helen, did you, Lieutenant? You really want to know about Richard.” She spoke the name as though it stung her tongue to pronounce the syllables. “Whether he loved her; whether he could have killed her. Didn’t you?”

It was a difficult question to back down from.

“I came for general information.”

“Then, I’ll tell you. Yes, I think he could have killed my daughter. I think she was afraid of him.”

“Edith, please,” her husband begged. “You’re upset. You don’t know what you’re saying. Keep your thoughts to yourself,” he added in unmistakable warning.

“Why should I? My life is ruined. My daughter murdered. What am I supposed to think?” She directed her gaze on Gerard. “Helen was the love of my life. My first born. She was perfect in every way. She should have lived a long and happy life, but instead –” Emotions choked her and Ed guided her into a chair.

“You’ve said enough. The policeman doesn’t want to hear any more.”

“Actually, I do. Go on, Mrs. Waverly. You said Helen was afraid of Dr. Kimble?”

“He was so angry with her. He wanted children and she couldn’t give him any. How do you suppose that made her feel? He had a temper and he made it clear it was going to be his way. Adoption was all he talked about.” Her eyes narrowed in anger. “What woman wants to nurture another woman’s child? She called me almost every night. Weeping. She wept, Ed. You didn’t hear her. You didn’t want to listen. But I did. She was afraid of what he’d do.”

“Watch your tongue.” He turned to Gerard, his expression one of tortured anxiety. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s in mourning. This has come as a terrible blow to us. You can’t believe what she’s saying. Anger makes a person say thigs they don’t mean.”

“It also prompts them to tell the truth. What was Helen afraid of, Mrs. Waverly?”

“That he’d throw her away like trash. That he’d kill her.”

“My God, don’t say that!” Waverly cried. “He’d never have hurt her. He was a gentle man.”

“He couldn’t divorce her. How would that look? Doctors can’t afford scandal and even in this modern day and age divorce is a dirty word. And she wouldn’t consent to adopt. What choice did that leave him?”

A voice from the stairs arrested them all.

“I think you had better leave, now.”

Gerard looked up to see a young woman standing there, face taut from controlling her emotions, belied by red-rimmed eyes.

“You are Terry? Helen’s sister?”

“Yes. I live here, too, and my father and I wish you to go. My mother is distraught. Helen was… her life. Now she has nothing and she must have someone to blame. I knew Dr. Kimble better than she. My father’s right: he’s a gentle, loving man. He loved Helen. I don’t know why you’re here, but if you think for one moment Richard could have harmed her, you’re wrong.”

“I appreciate your consideration.” Turning to the Waverlys, he dipped his head. “I’ll be going. I’m sorry if I sharpened your grief, but I hope you understand we all want to clear this matter up. I can’t bring your daughter back to life, but I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to bring her killer to justice. Even if it hits close to home.”

“Arrest him! Arrest him and make him pay! He took my Helen away from me.”

Gerard departed with Mrs. Waverly’s words echoing in his brain.

Link to Chapter 7