By: Betsy J. Bennett
CHAPTER 8
“It’s called aiding and abetting an interstate fugitive and it’s a crime, a serious crime. If I told you I was wanted and stayed, and you didn’t turn me into the police, they could have had you arrested and sent to jail. It happened to one of the people I confided in. They gave him a two year sentence, just for helping me. Two years. Think of staying behind bars for two years. That changes a person, and afterwards, after you get out, you’d be a felon. Ella, jail isn’t fun, especially for a woman. I didn’t like lying. I had never lied in my life before the conviction. When I was here, eating at your table and helping your father, I tried to be honest. It’s how I was trained. But I could never forget that I was wanted, that the police could find me at any second, especially Sheriff Bailey, who recognized me from my life before. I couldn’t trust anyone with what I was going through.”
“We wouldn’t have turned you in.”
“I know that. You and Jacob and Kathy are honorable people. But I could not take advantage of you. Eventually someone would have let something slip, and Sheriff Bailey would have heard. He was suspicious enough about me at the time. And neither you or Kathy, or your father for that matter were that good at lying, and Gerard could sense a lie, and he’d have the truth out before you knew what happened.”
“I’m glad you didn’t do that horrible thing they accused you of,” Kathy said, returning. She hugged him tightly in her innocence that everything was all right now.
“So why are you here?” Jacob asked.
Gently, carefully, compassionately, Kimble moved out from Kathy’s embrace. “I don’t want to get you involved, and if you want, I’ll leave now—“
“Don’t be foolish.”
“Couple of things. First, I’d like to take you up on your offer to stay. I don’t know how long. I’ve got…something I don’t want to abandon. I don’t know if I can be any help to clearing Gerard’s name or finding the actual murderer, but if I can, I’d like to stay around until the situation gets straightened out.”
“You’re welcome to the room. I take it there’s more?”
“I need information.”
“Information?”
“I need to know anything you can tell me about the deputy, Whit Polamic.”
“Going to solve the crime?”
Kimble waved off Jacob’s offer of a warm-up on his coffee. “No, probably not. I don’t know anything about police work. Honestly, I spent years trying to outrun the police and I’ve been lucky avoiding road blocks, but that’s all I know about their procedures. Solving the crime I’m afraid I’ll have to leave to the experts. I’d like to get a feel for the victim, what he was like, and pick your brain, if you think anyone would have reason to kill him.”
“Come into the living room. We’ll talk over chess. Girls, time for bed.” He winked at Kimble, “we get up with the chickens around here.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Kimble waited while Jacob set up the chess game. “I’m rusty.”
“That I’ll never believe. Polamic was an ass. He wasn’t a deputy, I mean not specifically. He was deputized for the manhunt for you and Burmas, but he rarely worked at anything longer than a week or two.”
“Oh?”
“He was a braggart, always mouthing off about how great he was. He chased after Ella a while back, frightened her. For months she couldn’t drive into town alone. I had to threaten him to get him to leave her alone. It wasn’t my finest hour.”
“I thought he was older.”
Jacob shrugged, moved a black pawn. “Yes, late fifties, probably, early sixties, that’s another reason why I considered him slimy. Why he would sniff around my Ella when she was barely out of her teens sickened me. His reputation with women is poor to say the least. And trust me, what he wanted from Ella was not marriage. There’s talk he’d beat a man into a coma over a bar tab, or simply to ease his own boredom, and any dog that wandered onto his property were likely to never be seen again. If there was ever anything shady going on, you can bet he’d have a hand in it.”
“Nothing Bailey could haul him in for?”
“Sure, but from my point of view, it was far healthier to ignore him, and make sure I was with Ella when she went into town, than to try to get Polamic behind bars, because Bailey couldn’t keep him forever and if he couldn’t hurt Ella, there was always a chance he’d take his aggression out on Kathy, or even this flea bitten ole’ mutt here.”
“Anything else?” Kimble moved another chess piece, swiping an aggressive pawn off the board.
“Not much. As I said, generally I went out of my way to avoid him. Over the years I’d see him hanging around, outside the bar or the gas station, always looked like he need a shave, a bath and someone to take a switch to him.” Jacob studied the board, picked up a piece and moved it. “Other than when he was chasing Ella, I can’t say I ever paid much attention to him. He was the kind of guy that the more time you spent with him, the more you feel like you needed to run home and burn your clothes.”
Kimble moved a rook, already accepting the rhythm of the game. “Any run-ins with the law? They wouldn’t tell me anything at the sheriff’s office.”
Jacob rubbed his jaw, moved another pawn, considered this board, wondered why he thought chess fun, and if he should just knock his king over already. “Couple of drunk and disorderlys, usually resolved with the night spent in a cell, and let go in the morning. Every now and then there’d be a house break-in, not much taken but some food and whatever cash was laying around. I always thought it was Whit, but that’s just prejudice speaking because I never much liked him. I’m sure Bailey would have arrested him if there had been even the whisper of proof.”
Jacob watched Kimble’s move, then he picked up a piece, set it down in the same spot while he reconsidered strategy. “Bailey gave him a gun when he deputized him. I wouldn’t have trusted him with anything more deadly than a bottle opener. And as far as I can remember, he was nowhere around when Burmas was killed. Of course I was worried about Kathy then, and not watching the deputies.”
“Anyone he hung around with?”
“Couple of guys who loiter around at the bar. All ner’do’wells, and I’m certain not one of them can hold a job past the first paycheck.”
“Jacob, if for no other reason, I’m glad I was able to come back to see you. You were a good friend when I needed a friend.”
“You were a hard worker when I needed a hard worker, although I’d imagine nothing that your average doctor would do.”
“I couldn’t be picky, and if the truth is known, I like working with my hands. I’d like to stay. In the morning I’ll help with chores, since I doubt any of Polamic’s friends are early risers. Then I’ll see if I can find them.”
Jacob moved another piece. Thought pleasant thoughts about his strategy for a good two seconds, until Kimble moved his piece. “Good. Now do you think I should write in to Matt Decker?”
“For heaven’s sake, why?”
Jacob moved, captured a prize, Kimble’s knight. “You did save Kathy’s life.”
“I don’t suppose you realize she was in danger because of me?”
“I’ll never believe that.”
Kimble rolled his eyes, and moved his bishop deep into enemy territory.
After studying the board, Jacob groaned and tipped his king.
***
The next morning, Kimble was back in town. He found few people willing to talk to him about Whit Polamic, for although there was no evidence against Gerard, they were a town who sided with their own. This was a town that liked their guns, and from his opinion, any one of them could have shot Polamic over an argument over a twenty cent tip.
Two days later Kimble walked into the courtroom. He was uncomfortable, but at least consoled himself that he wasn’t at the defendant’s table. The DA called it a preliminary hearing, but Kimble recognized the signs. This was a kangaroo court and this small town was out for blood.
The judge hadn’t arrived yet, so seeing he had a few minutes before the court was to come to into session, Kimble ignored the backbiting comments from the gallery and went up to his friend. Gerard’s features were stern, clearly annoyed, but he was in enough control of his emotions, that Kimble suspected no one but himself noticed, still the lawman’s eyes were bloodshot, and his breathing ragged.
“You doing ok?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” the lawman quipped back.
Kimble kept his hands in his pockets, fighting the impulse to put his fingers on Gerard’s forehead to check his temperature. He looked like he was fighting a fever. “Not sleeping?” Kimble asked instead.
“How can I with this hanging over me?”
“I meant, because of your cold,” the doctor clarified. “Are you taking anything for it?”
“No. I didn’t ask. They wouldn’t have given me anything had I done so.”
Kimble nodded, certain that was the truth.
“I feel like hell. Can’t breathe, can’t think, and I feel like my lungs are worthless. I’m sure it’s stress.”
Not much Kimble could say to that even as he suspected more than stress was at play here. He couldn’t even say things were bound to get improve. They both knew better than that.
“I don’t trust my lawyer.”
Kimble nodded, agreeing. The kid had done nothing yet to engender confidence.
“I know this is just a pre-trial hearing, but I’ve made a decision. I’m going to testify,” Gerard said, rubbing his wrists. He had entered the room wearing handcuffs. “I’m innocent. They’ll believe me.”
“Yeah, because that strategy worked so well for me,” Kimble said dryly.
“Yes, but I’m innocent,” Gerard insisted. Keeping a completely straight face, Kimble let the remark go.
“I don’t think you should testify.”
“Now you’re giving legal advice?”
Kimble shrugged, decided his advice couldn’t be much worse than anything Gerard’s lawyer had told him. “I’ve been through this process a time or two. I know what I’m talking about. What did your lawyer say?”
“Not to testify, but I think he’s sixteen, and that he passed the bar yesterday.”
“You can ask for another lawyer. It might be in your best interest to do so, but in this case, I think he’s right. Don’t testify. They’ll twist your words around. And Lieutenant, ballistics in this town is irrefutable evidence. It’s going to be hard for a jury to accept your word over what they will perceive as irrefutable science.”
“Ballistics isn’t one-hundred percent accurate. The science isn’t there. It is impossible to say with complete certainty that a gun fired a specific bullet.”
“Make sure your lawyer brings that up. Have the documentation to prove it.”
Gerard opened his mouth, shut it, apparently not willing to say what he had been thinking. Instead he asked: “How did you get so smart about the law?”
“Believe it or not, I spent two years in jail. I had a lot of time to read. They didn’t have any medical texts, at least not anything not twenty to thirty years out of date, and while I did read some fiction, I was facing a death row conviction, and I wanted to at least understand the terminology they were throwing at me. The prison library had a fabulous law section.”
“All prisoners swear they’re innocent.”
Kimble decided to ignore that one, too.
***
The witness settled in the chair, took time to look around the packed courtroom. He was a small man, and soft, but a man who also knew the benefit of hard work. He looked out of place, almost in shock, but most people, testifying for the first time felt the same. “Please state your name for the record.”
“Oliver Nelson Corman.”
The district attorney, Donald Abernathy, approached the witness. He had a friendly demeanor, looked like the man you’d love to invite to Thanksgiving dinner in a few more weeks, a man who would keep this town honorable. “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Corman?”
Corman sat forward, spoke clearly. He made eye contact with Kimble for a few long moments before turning away, whether in disgust or regret, even he was not certain.
“I run Corman’s General Store. I have for thirty-five years. It’s been in the family. Before I took over, my father ran the store, and I was the stock boy, learning the business from the ground up, since I was able to walk.”
“Good. Good. Because it’s that general store I want to talk about. You sell newspapers at your store?”
He nodded, his head bobbing up and down before realizing a verbal response was necessary. He looked to the judge, smiled. The judge, Kimble decided, was not a man to invite to Thanksgiving dinner, but then his thoughts on judges were hardly complementary.
“Yes. My store is the only place in town where you can get the newspaper. You can drive to Sterrin or south to Lockheart, both places carry the paper, but the closest place is my store.”
Abernathy patted his belly, as if he had eaten well of the fat of the hog. “Yet on Friday May 19th, 1967, there were no newspapers to buy. Several people came into the store looking for the paper and you had none to give them.”
Corman smiled, and it was fleeting. He looked again at the judge before turning to face the DA, as if determining whether a lie now would be in his best interest. “I don’t know about that. I always sell the papers when they come in. I couldn’t keep getting the papers if I didn’t sell them,” he added, as if the statement would help distract from his evasion.
The DA smiled, look friendly, a favored grandfather, however, perhaps a grandfather who could stab you in the back. “Should I return Sheriff Bailey back to the stand? I’m sure he’ll testify that when he first entered the store on that date there were no newspapers available.”
Corman breathed through his mouth, the sound gasping, even from where Kimble sat in the back. “All right, I put the papers aside that day.”
Abernathy leaned against the witness box, moving in too close for comfort. “You actually hid them behind the counter, didn’t you?”
Corman sat back, as far as the chair allowed. He swallowed, nodded again. “That’s correct.”
“So why didn’t you sell them?”
“I don’t have to sell them if I don’t want. There’s no law that states I have to sell the papers,” the timbre of his voice had risen, was higher than when he first started testifying.
“You had a reason not to sell the papers, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to sell them.”
“Why not? You’re not on trial here, Mr. Corman, I’m trying to get some background into evidence that I’m going to need later in the trial. I can assure you you did nothing wrong.”
“I did nothing wrong,” he answered, crossing his arms and looking smug.
“So why didn’t you sell the papers?”
“There was a picture on the front page. I recognized the man. They said he was a fugitive, that he killed his wife, and that there was a $10,000 reward for his capture.”
Abernathy moved away from the witness, approached the jury box, with shoes so new they squeaked. “And you wanted that money for yourself.”
“What I did wasn’t illegal. I called the newspaper in Stafford, Indiana and told them the man they were looking for went by the name Dave Livingston, and that I knew where he was. That money should have been mine.”
“And because of your call, Lieutenant Gerard came.”
His head bobbed again. “I assume so. Mr. Pierce, the man I spoke to at the Chronicle, said Gerard would come and he did.”
“But you never got the money.”
“They never caught Dr. Kimble.”
“Why do you think that was?”
He hesitated a bit, thinking, when thinking obviously wasn’t his strong suit. “He got away. I don’t know how. Every man in the county who could be deputized was sworn in. Every farm, every field, every house was searched.” Feeling comfortable with his testimony, Corman continued. “There was a second murderer in town at the time, but I wasn’t interested in him. The reward was on Kimble.”
“You thought if Sheriff Bailey found out about Kimble from the newspaper, you wouldn’t get your reward.”
He swallowed, took his time in answering. “That’s true.”
“But you had no trouble speaking with Lieutenant Gerard.”
“He had come from Indiana. He showed me his badge. He said he had been hunting Kimble for years. He said the money would be mine.”
“Did he look happy when he said that?”
“Happy?”
“Lieutenant Gerard, did he look happy that you would get the $10,000?”
Corman shifted, looked around the courtroom, caught sight of Kimble and blanched, color draining from his face. “I don’t know. How would I know what he wanted? He wanted Kimble caught.”
“Did he?”
“Did he what?” His voice was unnaturally high.
“Did he want Kimble caught?”
“He said he did. He told me he did. If Kimble got caught, the money would have been mine.”
“And Kimble got away.”
Corman hung his head, a man who had paradise in the form of $10,000 almost in his grasp, and it eluded him. “Kimble got away.”