By: Betsy J. Bennett
CHAPTER 12
Olivia placed her hands on the newspaper, as if the touch could bring her husband closer to her. Breathing deeply, she took a moment, closing her eyes. Exhaustion rolled through her. It had been a long week, and she hadn’t been sleeping well. With her love, she had hoped to cure him of his nightmares, and instead found that she had inherited them on the rare instances that she actually got to sleep.
Richard, she whispered, I hope you’re alright.
She touched the newspaper again, then dug through the pages, seeking the column Top of the Deck. She knew where it was. Many of her patients had already read it, had commented to her that this one was the best one yet, the most insightful into the life and love of the man she married.
Again she prayed that she had done the right thing, in sending Helen Kimble’s letter to Decker, in letting the newspaperman print it.
Maybe Richard would be annoyed. Maybe this letter was too personal to share. She shouldn’t have seen it, tucked hidden in his drawer, and Richard would never have offered it to her to read, of that she was certain.
Still, something had to be done.
Almost every day since Richard had been taken away, two or three of her patients would come to her and mentioned the rumors, the innuendos, the lies about Richard Kimble and his relationship with his first wife. These people knew Dr. Kimble, had been treated by him, were supporters, but there were many more in the neighborhood who would believe the lies spread by Joe Korl, out on bond now on child endangerment charges.
“Kimble beat his wife,” Korl said, “used her as a punching bag,” and other things, uglier things. Olivia had to put a stop to it. She never met Helen Kimble, but she loved Richard, knew him heart and soul.
Korl only knew how to hurt, as if the deeper he wounded people, the better he felt about himself. A social worker had been by that morning, asking about Dessi’s injuries, a little two-year-old princess with Down’s Syndrome, a loving child Korl abused, and Kimble reported. The man, clearly overworked and frustrated, was at least doing his due diligence, asking about the child, the father who didn’t see child abuse, only saw “teaching that idiot to mind.”
Olivia had proof. Pictures they had taken for the medical file, cigarette burns and broken bones, black and blue marks, that could have been, but weren’t, caused by an active child falling down stairs. She was glad to speak with the social worker, with the police who had also come around, as if in doing so she were supporting Dr. Kimble, somehow against the monster Joe Korl, who had no right to be around children. She would have mentioned the shit spread around her reception area, the attempted break-in of the med closet, but she had no proof. But she certainly had witnesses of those who heard him spread his ugly lies about Richard Kimble.
Olivia turned her attention back to the Friday evening newspaper column. She could almost hear Decker speaking the words he had written. He was her friend now too, one of the many from Richard she had adopted into her life. Decker had been in touch daily since Richard was taken to Wisconsin. He called, trying to make her smile, to know that she had support.
She put it off long enough. Olivia lowered her head and started to read. “Today’s ‘Top of the Deck’ is a little different,” she read, “as we hear from the person who knew Richard Kimble the best, his wife Helen.”
“So many ugly things have been written about Dr. Kimble over the past six years, how he abused his wife, how he was physically violent as a husband, how since Helen could not provide him with the child he wanted that he would find a way to cruelly set her aside while he sought a woman who could. None of those statements were true. Recently there has been a resurgence of these appalling rumors, specifically aimed to hurt Dr. Kimble and his second wife. They are being maliciously spread by a man with multiple warrants out for his arrest, who has an unreasonable hatred against Dr. Kimble, because Dr. Kimble reported him for child abuse against a beautiful two year old girl.
Over the past weeks, I’ve showcased people who were touched by Dr. Kimble’s kindness, courage and selflessness while he was on the run as a fugitive. Each of those people volunteered their stories, wanting the truth told about how he helped them, often saving their lives, sometimes at great peril to his own life. Dr. Kimble was an innocent man, accused of a horrendous crime and sentenced to death. He ran, not only with fear, but with the need to find the man responsible for his wife’s death, to clear his name so that he and his family could live without the stigma of that murder being attached to them.
But there is one person we haven’t heard from. Who knew Dr. Richard Kimble better than his wife, Helen? You will have her own words to show her frame of mind, the ways she was trying to heal her heart, her soul and most especially her marriage.
Helen Kimble maintained a habit of writing to her mother every week, long letters about the minutia of her life. Helen loved her husband. Here are her own words, written the day she before she was murdered. This letter offers insight into the fact she was looking into the possibility of adoption and describes clearly what she felt about her marriage. The date on the top corner of the letter is September 17th, 1961. Although it had been over a year since the hysterectomy and the wounds on her body had healed, the pain in her heart was still fresh, but she had hope to make her life better.
Read this, and then judge whether Richard Kimble is the monster one lunatic is painting him out to be.
Momma,
We had another ugly fight last night. I’m so ashamed of myself. It was all my fault. I can’t get my head around my own actions. How I can be so cruel when I love him so much? Richard tried to be reasonable. You’re still grieving, he said, you’ll feel differently when the pain isn’t so fresh. I threw a dinner plate at him. It shattered against the back wall, scattering peas and carrots and pot roast with gravy all over the floor. He cleaned it up, all reasonable, which I’m sorry to say, only made me madder.
I know it’s been months, a long time, but time doesn’t seem to make my pain any less. If anything, I think I’m grieving more now. “Do you think I’ll forget?” I wailed back. “Do you think I can move past my son to some other woman’s unwanted child that easily?”
I know I hurt him by my words, and I know he wasn’t trying to make me forget, or even move on. He mentioned post-partum depression, said it was a real thing, a painful condition that many women experience. He was trying to be understanding.
I just want to cry. I just want my baby in my arms. Right now, and I know this confession is ugly, I only want to suffer and I want him to suffer. What I lost I can’t get back. I have so much pain. I can’t blame myself. I can’t blame God. I’ve always believed in a loving God. So, heaven help me, I blame Richard Kimble, a man who has only been loving and gentle with me.
I love him so much it hurts, but how could he love me? I’m so worthless now. I can’t give him the children he yearns for, the future we planned. I can’t even love him. He waited so patiently for me to heal physically. A C-section is major surgery, and as a doctor he understands a woman’s pain. But this, I think, what I am going through is far more than any normal male doctor could understand. He empathizes. How could I have married the only man alive who understands a woman’s needs, and how can I be so mean to him? I shouted so many things I wish I could take back.
I’ve asked a neighborhood couple to stop by tomorrow. Lloyd and his wife Betsy adopted a boy several years ago and they are so happy with him. I want to understand how they can love this child. I want to get another woman’s thoughts and another man’s.
I’m scheduled to work again tomorrow. It helps to keep my hands busy, and I’ve been so busy at work that for long minutes at a time I can forget my own troubles. Then after work, I’ve got a nice dinner planned. I’m going to dress up and wear the pearls he gave me for our fifth anniversary. Then we can speak with the Chandlers.
Maybe tomorrow night I can be nice to Richard again. Maybe tomorrow night we can heal the rift between us.
Livi sat at her desk and wiped her eyes. She’d read the letter before. She found it even when she swore she wouldn’t go back to his top dresser drawer and read what was obviously so private to him. When she finished reading it for the first time, and this ugliness about Richard abusing his wife kept appearing in the papers, she knew she had to get it to Decker. If anyone could stop this madness it was him and his column. And she hoped Richard would be home soon so they could talk, long into the night as they were wont to do, as he explained his perspective on what had been written in Decker’s column, and she apologized for reading his mail.
She wiped her eyes again, smiled. She’d doubt he’d get mad. No, he’d talk about Helen and their marriage and it would be healing.
Olivia folded the newspaper, placed it by her medical bag as she prepared to leave. It had been a long day, and had grown late. In November, night fell early, and the temperature was dropping, at least she suspected it was, by the unexpected chills she felt running down her spine.
She didn’t hear the window smash at the back of the clinic, didn’t hear the doorknob being forced open. It wasn’t until she looked up, noticed the intruder standing in the doorway of her office that she realized what had happened, what the sounds were that she had ignored.
Her eyes were fuzzy. She’d been crying, for Richard, for the pain he’d been through, and probably because her own hormones were in flux, this precious baby that with God’s grace she would raise with Richard in another eight months.
Olivia’s vision cleared, sharpened, fixated on the weapon he held as he pounded it against his own palm. “He ruined my life,” Korl said.
She was a doctor, understood insanity, even if she felt she was not qualified to diagnose it. She would do nothing to escalate this problem. “Sit, we can talk about it.”
“I don’t want to sit, and I’m not going to talk.” Spittle flew as he spoke and his words were liberally laced with expletives. This was a man who knew how to get leverage out of a good swear word. “I lost my job. They canned me today, you know why?”
Because you’re a lunatic? was what she thought, but she was smart enough not to add fuel to his torch by saying it aloud. “I’m sure you were a good worker.” She doubted anything of the kind. There were people who came into the clinic over the past few days complaining about Korl, about how he thought rules never applied to him, how he felt Dr. Kimble was the source of all his problems.
“I don’t care about that retarded baby,” baby not being the precise word he used. “Social services can have her. Let someone else deal with her. But my job—a man’s gotta earn a living.”
So he could spend his wages at bars and on street drugs. His pupils were dilated, his speech becoming slurred. Not a penny went to Dessi or his other children, or the people who tried to bring in food and clothing to help when they could.
Olivia sat behind the desk, her position of power. Normally she would raise her voice, point her finger. This was her clinic and she demanded obedience, but she was alone and it was after hours, and yes, the bikers watched the clinic, but there was a chance they were out, doing whatever they did late at night and hadn’t noticed she needed help. She couldn’t appear helpless in front of Korl, that would only feed his rage against those he perceived weaker than he was, but she could appear authoritative.
“What can I do for you?” There was a chance, a small hope, that he had come seeking drugs. These she would gladly hand over, then call the police.
“I’ve been thinking about Dr. Kimble,” he spat the name out, as if it coated his tongue with slime. “I read the paper today, about how loving he was to his first wife, and I decided hurting him was not the best way to hurt him. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No,” she said, but she did.
“I kill you, he loses a second wife. Do you think his hands will shake then?”
“Don’t hurt me. I’ve never done anything to hurt you.”
“You were there when he called the police on me. You didn’t stop him.”
“And I’m here every single time someone in your family needs a doctor, to help them with pain. If you don’t know this, if I go, there will be no doctor in this clinic.”
He held a weapon: it looked almost like a hammer, except its head was wider, heaver than any hammer she was familiar with. He pounded it once, twice, into his palm.
“Stand up. Come over here. You’ll get what you’ve got coming.”
“No. I’ll not be your victim but we can talk.” She kept her voice even, the tone calm. She wanted to scream, but she had been trained to control every situation with reason. There was a black rotary dial phone on the desk, but she knew instinctively if she lifted the receiver that she was a dead woman, that he would have no compunction against smashing her head in. Her eyes quickly scanned the familiar office. There was nothing she could use as a weapon, but she was a healer, had no idea what could be used to hurt.
Her breath came quickly, sharp pants, even as she tried to control her breathing. “I’m pregnant. I don’t want my baby hurt.”
She knew as soon as she spoke, it had been exactly the wrong thing to say. His grin was maniacal. “So, Dr. Kimble will lose his second child as well as his second wife.”
The hammer smashed down on the desk, loud, violent and she screamed as he circled the desk. The next time the hammer came down it was on her shoulder, breaking her clavicle, even as her right forearm shattered as it took the brunt of the attack.
Then as he raised his hand to strike her again, Korl was pulled back, away from her. She saw a fist slam into his face, hard and accurate. Blood splattered around her charts as his nose broke.
Olivia fell to the floor, cradling her arm, blinded by tears of fear and pain and what could be the loss of her dreams. She recognized the man who was attacking Korl, thought she did, through eyes stiff with her agony. “Richard!”
The men scrappled on the floor, fists flying, both out for blood. Richard wrapped his hands around Korl’s right hand, and the hammer went flying, hitting the wall three feet from either man. Kimble thought he’d go for it, was prepared, but instead, Korl pulled a knife out from the top of his boot. For a split second, Olivia saw the weapon flash. She wanted to scream, but there was no air in her lungs, and she knew anything she did now would distract Richard, and maybe cost him his life. As she moved, the shattered bones in her arm and shoulder caused her excruciating pain, and she sagged back against the wall, closed her eyes, tried to fight unconsciousness.
Korl held the knife tightly, and in the melee stabbed Kimble. She heard Kimble gasp, felt it as if the knife had wounded her.
Blood, so much blood. Looking under the desk, she saw it starting to pool, knew Kimble had been hurt, although she had no idea where he had been stabbed. She tried to move again, she was a physician, she needed to help, but was absolutely helpless.
The men rolled, crashing into the wall, away from the hammer and the wall she leaned against. She suspected the move was deliberate on Kimble’s part, still trying to protect her by keeping the monster as far from her as he could. She could still hear fists, hitting flesh, the occasional groan. She had no doubt Korl was an experienced barroom brawler, but then Kimble had some experience in fights.
Olivia tried to pull herself up to her feet, using the desk as leverage, aiming for anything to stop this madness, specifically the phone, but her shoulder was shattered, and any movement sent waves of pain rolling through her. She would have screamed, but didn’t want to distract her husband. One hand holding Korl off, Kimble reached out, blindly, seeking a weapon, any weapon to use against him.
Korl was straining to retrieve the knife while Kimble desperately tried to prevent him. He was having trouble breathing, wondered if the knife had clipped a lung. Korl wasn’t giving up. If anything, he fought dirtier, harder than he had originally. Kimble reached up, blindly seeking a weapon on Olivia’s desk. The woman was a menace, and only kept files there. Was it too much to ask that this one time she might have left a scalpel out?
Without realizing what he had, Richard grabbed the orange something, big and round as a bowling ball and about as heavy. He held it awkwardly, one-handed. It was heavy, slippery in his hands, because his hands were slick with his blood. As Korl struggled, lying on top of him, both his hands around Richard’s throat, Richard brought the make-shift weapon down on Korl’s skull one single time. He dropped it. It rolled toward the door and the main corridor of the clinic, landing on its side. For several long seconds, neither man moved, then Kimble, who was underneath, shoved Korl off him.
“Livi—“ Desperation rang though the word, and yes, a prayer. Please God…
“I’m alright. Richard, I’m alright.” She wouldn’t mention the broken bones, for there was clearly a possibility that her radius and ulna had also been shattered.
“Richard how badly are you hurt?” She couldn’t see him, the desk was between them, so she crawled, around the desk, awkwardly for her left hand cradled her right. She saw bodies, both still, not moving. She gasped, cried out. Kimble had his hand on Korl’s carotid, taking a pulse.
He didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her. “Livi, call an ambulance and get the police. We’re going to need the police.”
She looked around the office, pulled her med bag down blindly. It fell, hit her, and she whimpered. She started pulling out gauze. His shirt was soaked red. “Where are you hurt?”
“Call the police.” He pulled in a gasp of air, added, “please.”
She would do it. Knew she had to do it, but she needed to know how much damage the knife had done. “Later.”
Kimble shook his head, somehow he moved, was now kneeling over the body. His mouth open, tears dripping. “Korl?” she asked, when he didn’t respond to her question.
“Livi, he’s dead. I killed him.”
He looked at her and she’d never seen such desperation. “Livi, I murdered a man. I swore I would never take a life, never do anything to land in prison again.”
She wanted to hold him, help him, love him, but he was bleeding and her pain was so immense she doubted she had any more than a few more minutes of consciousness herself.
“Livi, I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. That idiot did.”
He wouldn’t let her near him, wouldn’t let her be soiled by the blood that was seeping so violently through the stab wound, so she grabbed the phone. That she could do. It was what he wanted. The operator answered the emergency line, and Olivia gave her information professionally, quickly, stating the need for an ambulance, for the police, that a man had died. She tried to hang up the phone, aiming for and missing the cradle.
“Richard, help me.”
“I’m here,” he said, holding her. He was bleeding heavier now, the result of moving. She would have put pressure on the wound, but neither of her arms were working.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“I’m here,” he said again, “I’m not going anywhere,” as if it were a promise he could not keep. He was here now, but there was a man dead by his hand, that he would not deny. He was here, but he wouldn’t be tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again. Although Michigan was the only state in the country that never had the death penalty, its exclusion being written into the constitution as the state was being formed, that didn’t exclude life imprisonment. Surviving life behind bars would not be easy. Before, when first sentenced, he didn’t know what to expect. Now he did.
Now, he did.
“Richard, I’m pregnant.”
He closed his eyes, held her tightly, around her waist, where it put no pressure on her shoulder or her arm. She had never felt so helpless in her life. “I need you to help me get through this. I don’t know what to do.”
“An ambulance should be coming. We’ll get you an ultrasound. You’ll be able to see your baby, that it’s ok.”
“We’ll be able to see it.”
“Yes,” he whispered in her hair. “We’ll be able to see it,” but he would see it only through pictures she could bring to him in an ugly visiting room, where he would remember a fly who desperately tried to escape, while he lived out years of his life behind bars. Overwhelmed with the thought, he dropped into unconsciousness.
He came to several hours later, wearing a hospital gown, in a hospital. He had no trouble recognizing the smell. He pulled in a deep breath, trying to take stock before he found his courage and opened his eyes. There was a police officer sitting in the room’s one chair, writing notes in a small notebook. Not Gerard, not Decker, not Donna and Len. But a policeman. He had no trouble recognizing that either.
“Olivia?” he asked. His mouth was dry. He could barely form the word. “Dr. Olivetti?”
The cop smiled, and it wasn’t a smirk, that Kimble had been looking for, had been expecting, but an honest smile. “I tried to call her Dr. Olivetti, and she threatened to take my appendix out through my nose. The name you’re looking for is Dr. Kimble, Dr. Kimble. And is it possible to take an appendix out through the nose?”
“No, but if there’s a way, Livi will find it.” He shut his eyes, remembered happier times, holding her, loving her. “It does sound painful.”
“That’s the conclusion I drew. I’m in no hurry to lose my appendix. I’m not sure I know what I need it for, but I’m going to hold onto mine if I can. And I’ll call her Dr. Kimble.”
The other Dr. Kimble who for years was called “The younger Dr. Kimble,” while he worked with his father, wondered if he was still the younger Dr. Kimble. He should have stolen a glance at her birth date as they signed their marriage certificate. “Olivia,” he said, ignoring surnames and the possible removal of an appendix, “how is she?”
“I’m not a doctor, so I really can’t give you the official line, that you’ll have to get from her doctor, but she made me swear under penalty of, well, you know, to say she was fine. I’ve got it written down here. Her clavicle is shattered. What’s a clavicle?”
“Shoulder bone,” Kimble said, pointing on his own body. His left side felt rather numb, and there was a huge bandage on his chest, but he did not smell fresh blood, nor did he feel any infection starting, and he had massive amounts of experience with infection.
“And her right ulna is broken. Arm bone,” the detective said, smiling as if he had just won Final Jeopardy. “She is not happy about the arm. Says how can she operate without her right arm?”
Kimble coughed, tried to pull saliva up from under his tongue. Noticing the problem, the policeman, who still hadn’t identified himself, poured ice water, found a straw, let Kimble drink deeply and thankfully. Odd, how sometimes the simplest things, a drink of water, for example, can be so important.
The cop put the plastic cup aside after Kimble nodded he’d had enough and returned to his seat.
“If it’s set properly, six weeks in a cast, and she’ll be operating again. She might need some physical therapy, we’ll only know after the cast is removed. We’ll—“
“We’ll?”
He thought of a man, dead by his actions and he thought of endless, hopeless days in a small locked cell, the lack of freedom, the whims of cruel guards, fearing death and wishing for it simultaneously. He met the policeman’s gaze, as he tried to still the nausea twirling within. It was likely the water he just finished drinking had been a mistake.
He felt his unencumbered wrists, the last illusion of freedom. “I misspoke. I said we’ll know, I meant she’ll know.” Although he wasn’t wearing handcuffs, there was a cop in his room who couldn’t be ignored. “And the baby?”
The smile was bright, open and sincere. “She’ll tell you this herself, but I am ordered to say strong and doing fine.”
Kimble smiled, his first honest emotion, other than terror, since waking. “Looks like your appendix is going to remain where it is.”
“That’s certainly a relief. You know I thought I saw you once, a few years back.”
Kimble laid back against the pillow, stared at the ceiling. The thoughts were not doing well for his stomach contents. “You did?”
“Most Wanted and all that. I considered what it would do to my career if I caught Richard Kimble.”
And what it would have done to my life, but Kimble wouldn’t add that.
He rubbed his chin, felt the familiar need to run, even when he wanted to confess. Needed to confess. “Pretty much every police officer in the country felt the same way.”
If the detective was watching Kimble’s self-torture, he didn’t mention it, but then Gerard wouldn’t have either. He wanted Kimble off-centered, uncomfortable, wanted to come at him from all angles, including emotional, to get the confession, which by his own admission, would make his career.
“I was thinking it wasn’t that much of a stretch that you’d come to Detroit from Indiana, so yeah, I thought it was you. The guy ran. I chased him a couple of blocks. Up close he didn’t look that much like you, but he had more than enough open warrants to make the chase valid. He’s doing thirty-five to life now, in case you’re interested. I didn’t have to mention I was after the escaped convict Richard Kimble. I have more than enough open cases on my desk as it is, without hunting someone who was probably never in my jurisdiction. But it was a good collar, and a lot of people are safe who wouldn’t be, if I hadn’t caught him.”
“In case you’re wondering, I’d never been to Detroit before a year ago. For the most part, I stayed south and west.”
“Good to know. There’s plenty of people here far too trigger happy, if you ask me.”
“Yes.” There were many ways to die. “And me?” There was nothing to see on the ceiling, and he had to know, so Kimble turned his head, studied hospital room. It was a four bed room, the other beds occupied, but all he could see of them was the curtains keeping them separate from him, wrapped, perhaps, in their own misery.
“You?” The detective tapped his pen on the small notebook, but kept it closed. He did not need to check anything. “Stab wound. I don’t know anything more than that. No doctors have spoken to me about it, so you’ll have to get your information from them.”
“No, not my medical condition, my future…freedom.”
The detective was experienced, probably in his late forties, early fifties, his hair cut razor short, certainly tending toward gray, his large ears standing out proudly from his head. And undoubtedly wearing a police issue weapon, carrying handcuffs, that he could employ at any second. “Again, that’s something I know nothing about.”
Kimble swallowed, said something he swore he’d never say. “I killed a man.”
The detective looked up. His eyes were brown, had that experienced policeman look, that indicated not a lot got by him. “Is that a confession?”
The man wasn’t Gerard, he looked nothing like Gerard, but for six years Kimble had nightmares about this exact conversation, sometimes in dreams confessing to the murder just to have the questioning over with. There were times Kimble wondered if he confessed, would the judge have gone easier on him? Would he be able to get some sleep?
He considered cost. It didn’t take him long, less than a heartbeat, he imagined. For years, all Gerard wanted was a confession, told him he would feel better if he confessed. He’d be able to control the nightmares if he confessed. He’d be able to face the consequences if he confessed. “Yes. If you want it to be. I’ll tell you what happened, but I killed him. Korl. I killed Korl.” He cupped his right hand, psychologically felt the weight of the weapon, felt the shock to his body, his soul, as the block made contact with Korl’s head.
“I’ll write that down.”
Kimble’s stomach twisted. He wondered if he would throw up, and how he would manage, when what was obviously delicate stitches holding him together. Still, he’d escaped a hospital with a bullet wound. Living through this stab wound couldn’t be much worse.
“I hope Livi didn’t lie to you and say she killed him?”
“No. We frown on that kind of false confession. She did say she wanted to, to save you going back to prison, but she didn’t want her baby born behind bars.”
“Livi already had her arm and shoulder broken by then. She would have been physically incapable of killing Korl.”
“She said that too. Can you tell me what you remember, Dr. Kimble?”
After taking a deep breath, and thinking of an eight-by-six foot cell, Kimble slowly went through step-by-step what happened. “I’d been on a train all day. It’s a long trip back from Wisconsin.”
His thoughts hadn’t been pleasant. Sitting beside Gerard all day on a train, how could they be? He remembered Gerard’s small, thoughtful acts of kindness, both on the original trip to the Death House that had ended abruptly with a trainwreck, and a second, longer trip from California on the trail of a one-armed murderer. But those thoughts were quickly overshadowed by nightmares of a death row conviction, the banging of a gavel, the hopelessness of appeals.
May God have mercy on your soul.
Terrifying to think that after all his avowals of innocence, now he had taken a man’s life and truly was a murderer. Kimble swallowed bile, decided to hang himself with his confession.
“There had been a layover in Chicago before I could catch a train here. I took a taxi from the depot. I only wanted to see Olivia. I had no other plans. I was arrested during my wedding reception, and it was a few days before the charges were dropped. In case you’re wondering, I’m not wanted in Wisconsin.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I thought of calling her, but I didn’t. I had no idea how long the train ride would take. I have had mixed luck with trains, didn’t want to push my luck or make her worry. When I came in, the clinic was dark. The door had been locked, but I had a key. If worse came to worse, I could call her at home from the clinic, have her come pick me up. And, there are people I know in the neighborhood. I might have been able to get a ride. When I found the clinic dark, I was surprised. I know Livi. It was unlikely for any number of reasons that she was home. She doesn’t spend a lot of time at home. Then I heard her voice. It sounded like she was begging. I ran for her office, the light was on. I couldn’t see who was there, only that he had a hammer. It wasn’t a claw hammer, it looked more like a small sledge hammer.”
The detective shrugged, met Kimble’s gaze. “It’s called a lump hammer, used for light demolition work.”
“Of course you’ve seen it.”
“Yes. His fingerprints were all over it. In case you’re wondering, yours weren’t.”
“I didn’t touch it.” No, he hadn’t. The round thing, that was another story.
“I was unarmed. I reached him, pulled him back just moments after he had lifted the hammer and slammed Livi’s shoulder. In case you don’t know, he was going to hit her again. I saw him raise that weapon. If he had hit her skull, she would be dead.”
Through it all the detective wrote in his little book, occasionally asking questions, or going back over a point, exactly as Gerard would have done, when faced with a confession.
“We started fighting. He was crazed. I think at one point I might have broken his nose. I don’t know. It was an ugly fight. He wasn’t holding back anything. We were grappling on the floor, and he had me in a choke hold. I’ve bruises if you want to see them.”
“We’ve got pictures.”
“You do?”
“Standard procedure in a death we’re investigating.”
“There was a…something…on Livi’s desk. I don’t know what it was. Some kind of cinderblock. It might have had ears. I’d never seen it before.”
“Ceramic.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t a cinderblock, although I agree with you, that’s what it felt like. It was a ceramic piggy bank.”
“Piggy bank?”
“About twenty pounds.”
Kimble nodded, wondered if the murder weapon made a difference. This couldn’t be premeditated. But then the last murder conviction hadn’t been either. “That’s what it felt like to me.”
“That, by the way, was an exaggeration. It couldn’t have weighed more than two. But it was solid. Mrs. Belkin said you got it for a wedding gift.”
“Wedding gift?”
“Dr. Kimble, the other Dr. Kimble, apparently adored it.”
“Mrs. Belkin?”
“The nurse.” The detective checked his notebook, although he really didn’t have to. “Margaret Belkin RN.”
“Maggi has a last name?”
The detective stopped writing long enough to have a chuckle. “They must have you on some really nice painkillers.”
“Probably. I never saw any wedding gifts.”
“Both Mrs. Belkin and Dr. Kimble confirm that. But it was a piggy bank. You can trust me on that.”
“Like no piggy bank I’d ever touched before.”
“Do you want to go on with your narrative?”
“Narrative? I thought it was a confession.”
“Doesn’t really matter at this point. I have all I need to tie this up. Just figured I’d get your version before I left.”
“I picked it up. The piggy bank. You said Olivia liked it? I may have to talk to her about her taste in wedding gifts.”
“It’s my opinion, and yes, I am married, to let the bride have what she wants. Makes the rest of your life a lot easier. Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him. I only wanted to stop him from hurting Olivia. She’s a doctor. She heals. She’s never hurt a person in her life.”
“I know Dr. Olivetti.”
Kimble stopped, rubbed his eyes, thought of prison cells and of a fly so exhausted with appeals going nowhere, that death was preferable.
No. Death was never preferable. That fly would have lived if it could. Wanted to live. The buzzing was indicative of that.
“I want you to know when I picked the thing up, I didn’t do it deliberately. I was only thinking of surviving then, was looking for anything to stop him. Anything. I never meant to kill him.”
The detective wrote for a few seconds longer, smiled, as if satisfied with a good day’s work, then he stood, reached down, pulled on a heavy winter coat. He made some random comment that although it was only mid-November, some Arctic blast coming in from Canada had decided to freeze Michigan and if this is what fall was like he really had no interest in winter. Kimble had had the same conversation in Wisconsin. Probably those in upstate New York and along the Eastern seaboard were saying it, too.
“I guess that does it for me.”
Kimble rubbed his wrists. He knew the feel of handcuffs, was preparing himself for their return. The pain from his stab wound was minor compared to the pain from his memories, from anticipation. “Does it?”
“I’ve got to get this typed up for my captain, then I’m going home. Be nice to be home in time for dinner for a change.”
“You never read me my rights.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
Maybe the detective was missing the bigger picture here, had completely forgotten the reason why he was here. “Then I am not under arrest?”
“No. Whatever gave you that idea?”
Where could he start the list?
“A man is dead.”
“Dr. Kimble, I know your experience with the criminal justice system has not been pleasant, but we, in law enforcement, try desperately hard not to make those mistakes often. It is my opinion, and my captain’s opinion, and the DA’s opinion, and if I may take some liberty to extrapolate to the future, everyone who reads that Friday article in the newspaper, that you acted in self-defense. There will be no charges filed. I’m certainly not going to recommend any. Not for second degree murder or assault or any other crime. Dr. Kimble, the other Dr. Kimble, would have been murdered. Korl made his intentions clear to three other people that he intended to kill her to hurt you. That’s why we got to the clinic so fast. My partner and I were already on our way when the call came in.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Actually, the other Dr. Kimble probably has no clear remembrance of when we arrived either. She was in shock, kept shouting, “He didn’t kill his wife.” I assume she meant you.”
“Yes, and I didn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. I read the paper.”
“Decker?”
“That too. No, the articles a few months back about your exoneration. And I can see you don’t remember me, but I’ve had my son in the clinic a few times. He’s got asthma. He’s not doing well. You’ve seen him. Downtown needs a doctor, doctors actually. There’s not a lot I can afford on a policeman’s salary, but your clinic, you both do good work there.”
“Korl is dead.”
He straightened the coat’s collar, searched his pocket for gloves. “That’s on us as much as it is on you. He was under medical evaluation for a psyche exam when he escaped. He was going to be arraigned for assault and child endangerment and a list of about a dozen other crimes. Korl shouldn’t have been able to get away.”
Kimble smiled, said, “Tell me about it,” when it was obvious to both men he wasn’t talking about Korl.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Kimble. No charges this time. Self-defense. I’ve already spoken with the DA. He hasn’t been a patient of the Doctors Kimble, so no chance of complicity there, but we discussed this, and there will be no charges.”
Kimble waited, thought of the word exoneration, repeated “I’m free,” and with a dry throat said, “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry you and your wife had to go through that. But Korl’s death, don’t think anything about it.”
The detective left, and Kimble shut his eyes, repeating his mantra, hoping to get his blood pressure down. He didn’t feel relief, which he expected. He felt too numb, body and soul.
He heard someone enter the room, the sound of shoes on the linoleum, that had him awake in a second, half anticipating the policeman, who still hadn’t identified himself had returned, this time with backup and handcuffs. Drawn guns. Maybe bloodhounds.
“Dr. Olivetti,” Kimble said, recognizing Olivia’s father. He would have stood, held out his hand, showed respect, but he could barely move, body or soul. This second exoneration felt no more real than the first had, and for an entirely different reason. This time he was guilty.
“May I sit?” Olivetti asked. He was dressed in the height of fashion, down to the cashmere overcoat, that spoke of casual acceptance of wealth Kimble could no longer conceive of. Still, there was a time when Kimble himself had owned a cashmere overcoat.
“Of course.”
He was a handsome man, moved easily, secure in his position. Many surgeons developed a god complex, so used to their every wish being obeyed, to having your life, literally, in their hands, but when they met before, Olivetti had been supportive, had given Kimble the one thing he desperately needed, a chance to get his medical license reinstated. Livi spoke of her parents kindly, but he knew she never felt obligated to go see them with any regularity. They hadn’t come to the wedding, and she’d been shattered.
Olivetti kept his features straight, emotionless, a lesson from med school. When speaking to patients don’t ever let your personal emotions show. The straight face, the firm deportment didn’t bode well for Kimble.
“I’ve been in with Livi.”
Kimble had learned the lesson too. He wanted to close his eyes, scream, beg. He’d been stabled. Now he would see if he would be shattered. Maybe Olivia sent her father because she wouldn’t want to see him again. He had blood on his hands. This was not something he could ignore. How could she? Livi. Had he ever loved her more than he did at that second?
“How is she? I haven’t seen her yet.” He hoped his voice didn’t quiver, that his features remained stable.
Olivetti settled himself in the chair by the bed, allowed a small grin to surface, a father with a father’s pride, then, not a surgeon faced him. “Spitting mad, which means she’s fine. She is not accepting the broken arm at all.”
Kimble grinned, couldn’t have prevented the reaction if he’d tried. He could see her so clearly. “No, she wouldn’t. She’d see it as an imperfection in herself, that she has to be perfect at all times.”
“Yes. But she’s human, and it will heal. A cracked skull would have been a bit more problematic.”
“That’s what I see when I close my eyes. That idiot killing her.” There was a cry in his voice, as much for what didn’t happen as what did.
“Olivia is fine because of your actions.”
A man is dead.
“If I’d been there earlier, maybe she wouldn’t have been hurt at all.”
“Could you have been there any earlier?”
“I don’t know. No. I was hunting another murderer.”
“Get him?”
“Yes.” Gerard was back with his family, a man who never did anything wrong, except perhaps follow the law too blindly. Corman was arrested, undoubtedly in a small cell dreaming of $10,000 and how it slipped through his fingers. Kimble had come to an understanding with Ella, promised to write Kathy, so she better learn to read. Wished the chicken farm well. All in all, although the timing proved painful, the trip had been productive.
“I owe you an apology.”
Kimble’s shoulder throbbed in time with his pulse, was rapidly becoming painful. He was used to going without pain meds, used to hurting, body and soul. “You do?”
“Yes. This doesn’t come easy for me. I don’t often make rash decisions about people I just meet, especially in light of Olivia singing your praises, although that might have been part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Olivia was so certain you could turn water into wine, that I wanted to show her you were as human as the rest of us.”
Kimble closed his eyes, worked on controlling his breathing, slow steady breaths to control the panic. Maybe this time he wouldn’t survive. He’d reached a limit, some invisible pain threshold which only exacerbated the pain from his shoulder wound. What good would it be not to be charged with murder if Olivia didn’t love him anymore? Didn’t want him in her life, even as a lowly janitor?
“It’s hard for a doctor to consider him- or her-self human.”
“That’s certainly true. And I heard you left the med program without your degree. I thought you got scared or couldn’t handle the pressure, or had forgotten too much, any number of reasons why former doctors do not get recertified.”
He opened his eyes, saw a hospital room, no different than a thousand others he’d been in as a physician and had no idea how this conversation had taken this unexpected detour. “No, I wanted that certification, and I am grateful for your part in making it possible. There’s a chance I wouldn’t be able to practice medicine yet, if you hadn’t gotten me into that program.”
“And you left.” The words were dropped flat. They weren’t necessarily accusatory, but that is how Kimble read them.
He tried to shift, felt the fresh stab of pain. Livi would yell if he pulled the stitches out, then she would yell again that she wouldn’t be capable of doing the sewing herself. “Whatever you think, it wasn’t an easy decision. I wasn’t sure Olivia would want me back if I were only mopping her floors, and I had already decided I couldn’t live without her. But there was a murderer, the person who paid Fred Johnson to kill my wife. He’d arranged to have other people killed too, I didn’t know that at the time. I couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t let him get away with his crimes. The police weren’t looking. They were happy with my conviction for years, then when they got Johnson, they felt the case was closed again. I couldn’t live with myself if I did nothing and he murdered again.”
Olivetti ignored the last statement as inconsequencal. “You could have called someone, taken five minutes and then gone back to the program. The police would believe you.”
“No.” He shook his head, remembered a time not long ago. “Stafford police still use my name to frighten children in the dark. Maybe one detective would believe me, but no one else. They wouldn’t have taken my statement, wouldn’t believe me that this pillar of the community was behind Helen’s murder. I had to see it through.”
“And when you went back to Ann Arbor?” Olivetti asked, mentioning the med school.
“I was willing to beg, to get on my knees, but that wasn’t necessary. The med school said my work was exemplary, they gave me my medical license, even though I didn’t finish the course.” His transient smile appeared, as he recalled the day.
“So now you’re free.”
“Yes.” I’m free, he whispered, his mantra, and he added another: I’m a doctor. The third, I’m married, would have to wait until he spoke with Olivia.
“Of course, it never should have been taken from you to begin with.”
“Still, I thank you,” Kimble said.
“And I thank you. You saved Olivia’s life.”
“She’s my wife. I couldn’t…can’t… live without her.”
And when Dr. Olivetti left, Kimble lay in the bed, stitched together with cat gut, and considered himself a killer.