by H. B. Berlow
She stopped there, started crying, her nose all clogged with tears and disgust. Her face buried in her hands and she kept crying. Noah himself had not seen such a deluge. I looked over at Dave. He was thinking the same thing as me.
“And then he ran off, left town, right after telling me.” Her voice was choked with fear and sadness and a touch of anger. “He told me. He told me everything and said if I ever told anyone me and my kids would be next.” She finally looked up with eyes red as hell and spewing the venom of a python. “He told me everything.”
She stood up and started pummeling me with her clubbed fists, as though I were him, Jeremy Collins, her husband, the evil that had lived with her and fathered her children. Dave started to take a step forward but I shook him off. I managed to grab her wrists and slow down her assault and look her in the eyes until she finally saw reality and the present. I slowly guided her back down, and her hands came together as though in prayer.
“Do you remember the girl’s name?” I heard myself speaking to a suspect, interrogating them for answers or clues. I allowed myself to forget for a moment she was as much a victim in this as well.
“No.”
Dave came alongside me trying to keep his voice low, knowing we were actively investigating a series of murders. From Mrs. Brayfield we had the name Kimberly. Figuring it was a father or brother we knew we would need her whole name.
“What do we do know, Baron?”
“I got someone at the Traveler who can help. And you better believe I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
We started to leave and something in me returned to being human again.
“Mrs. Collins, I think Dr. Brenz will be able to release the body soon, if you were wanting to make funeral arrangements.”
She looked up slowly, the eyes of a demon staring back at me.
“You can dump him in the river for all I give a damn.”
I was thinking it didn’t matter where on earth Jeremy Collins wound up. His final destination was Hell.
Chapter Eleven
Rain made me think of death. To Baron Witherspoon, the son of a farmer, it should have invoked thoughts of crops and harvest and the affirmation of Life. But to Eric Kimble, it brought back deep somber memories of mud and the foul stench of decay. At times I was a little Kimble covered up by a lot of Witherspoon. At times, I was neither, just an empty wandering shell, somehow aware of the truth and always denying it.
After trying to move quickly, I realized the rain was going to soak right through my clothes no matter what I did. I could have checked out a car but it was only five blocks to the Traveler building. Sandy Clevenger was waiting at the front door for me. She was short, barely five feet, with a shock of totally white hair and the kind of wrinkles reminding me of lines in an old tree that’s been cut down. There was, however, a shine in her eyes as though there were miles and miles of roads inside her and tales to be told. Right now, I needed one of those tales.
We sat down at a large desk in a back room, wide catalogs with hard covers bound with metal brads laid out before us. These were the old editions, the ones recording the history of a town where the participants of the Cherokee Strip Land Run first came in anticipation and greed. At first, my heart sank figuring this was going to be like looking through the court files in the Cowley County Courthouse in Winfield. Sandy took off her glasses and looked at me like my old teacher would when checking on the progress of my homework assignment.
“What are you looking for?”
“A girl named Kimberly. Assaulted, maybe murdered. It was about twelve years ago.”
Sandy’s eyes lit up like a coin-operated pin game.
“I remember that,” she blurted out and then started rummaging through the catalogs trying to find the exact one. “Sad, sad story.”
“I didn’t find anything in the files at the courthouse in Winfield.”
“No one was brought to trial for it.”
“Okay. But I didn’t find anything either in the Ark City files. Surely a murder would have been investigated.”
“One of the suspects had a brother on the force. Officer Robert Foster Collins.” It all made sense now. Seems everyone knew about the late Jeremy Collins except no one had the decency to say anything.
She kept licking the tips of her main finger and going through page after page, trying to find the exact edition which held the story she unfortunately had remembered.
She stopped suddenly, slapped her hand down hard on the page, and turned it toward me to read. A young girl who was involved in the picnic assault at Parkerfield had been found brutally raped and murdered just out of town along the banks of the Arkansas River. A sharp knife had been used to cut her. Bruises were found all over her body. Her name was Kimberly.
Kimberly Dixon.
Sandy reached for my wrist, apparently worried I was going to tumble over from faint. The scars in my face, each line, pulsed as though I had been struck by lightning. I could feel my eyes blinking rapidly, something like tears filling up. It was the shell exploding in back of me all over again. This time there was no one there to save me.
All these years Natalie held something hateful and ugly within her. All these years, a monster was growing like the child she would never have. Carl Bottomley, Thomas Sutton, and Jeremy Collins had wiped out the last shred of human decency Natalie Dixon ever had and turned her into a vengeful spirit. On top of that, the police in the form of Jeremy Collins’ brother had failed her.
I could have such a belief but only to myself. I could think she was innocent largely because I had fallen in love with her. My empathy allowed me to believe in her totally and completely. Then I felt a sick churning inside my stomach. I was a policeman and had to do what was right. Even when I had a chance to gun down Jake Hickey like a mad dog, I brought him in because I believed in justice and the law. It’s not the way I grew up but it’s what Baron Witherspoon would have wanted.
I walked out of the Traveler building, letting the rain come down and hoping it would wash me clean. I knew it never would. Maybe it would just wash me away.
It was important to find Natalie, to bring her in, to protect her, to help her. Beth was the first person I thought of. But as I ran toward her home, I couldn’t figure out what to say, how to say it. My appearance alone would alarm her. Right then, finding Natalie was all that mattered.
It wasn’t my intention to be knocking so hard on their front door. I was growing deaf from the torrents of rain, and I couldn’t hear myself speak or walk. Beth opened the door; Frank was in the foyer just behind her.
“Sorry to bother you but I’m looking for your cousin.” The polite tone of voice did not match the rain-soaked derelict on the front porch looking more like the town drunk asking politely for whiskey.
“Natalie?”
“Yes.” My response was too quick, partially shouting over the rain which was falling harder. Frank stepped forward toward Beth, touched her elbow. She reached out an arm toward me.
“Baron, why don’t you come in out of the rain?”
“I’ve got to find Natalie.”
For the first time in her life, Beth looked at me as though I were a stranger. If she had any doubts about me after I had come back from the war, if she thought I was acting strange when a gangster was in our midst, she overlooked those differences. Now, I was a bedlamite, nothing as profound as St. John the Baptist, but a madman suffering delusions. It was the thought that triggered a memory of a conversation.
I didn’t mean to laugh when Natalie mentioned the book of Amos in the Old Testament. I was thinking of the Amos and Andy show on the radio. I had never heard of it from the Bible. Apparently a minor prophet. She often quoted scripture even though she didn’t profess to be religious. Out of the blue during one discussion she quoted Amos 5:24.
But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.
We had gone fishing together. Jeremy Collins was found by the river. Natalie would meander
along the banks of the Arkansas River. From the waters we had come and to the waters we would go.
I knew where to find her.
Chapter Twelve
There was something about the Arkansas River which could always draw Natalie like a prodigal child returning to the place she called home. It might have been the ebb and flow of time or the course life takes. I had discovered she was very learned on various topics but her comments seemed to be sifted through the clouds. Perhaps she was no longer connected to this earth, this time and place. Or maybe she hadn’t been for a long time. It took a great deal of effort to maintain my own identity over the course of sixteen years. At first, I was ashamed of who I had been and uncertain how people might actually respond to Eric Kimble. After a while, I was neither Kimble nor Witherspoon even though I kept waking up each and every day. There was no telling why Natalie had given in to despair rather than reaching out for help. I couldn’t judge knowing what I had been through. All I could do was try to save her, try to save the love I was sure we had.
I had no reason to believe she would be down by the river or anywhere else for that matter. Her mission had been fulfilled. The three men who raped and murdered her sister were dead: beaten, stabbed, and emasculated. The offending part had been removed. Yet I couldn’t imagine where she would go, what kind of life she could go back to, or what her life had actually been all these years. The one favorite fishing spot was all that was left. It was a reminder of a simpler and quieter time for her.
The rain viciously pummeled the ground. Streets turned to mud like something out of an old Western town. Puddles gathered like miniature lakes, tadpoles in place of fish. I wore no hat or overcoat. I was no longer concerned about how wet I was because there was nothing I could do to stop it. My baptism was taking place. It might not have been enough to wash away all my sins.
The ground was treacherous but I continued to run in desperation, barely able to breathe, falling down twice, scraping my arm, letting blood and mud mingle, terrifying me with a reminder of a little piece of hell I once occupied. It was the war all over again. The wind picked up and my face grew numb from the cold. Droplets were constant on my eye lashes, making everything appear as if it were underwater.
The river had risen quite a bit, perhaps three feet or more. I saw her on the other side wearing a white dress, almost like it was a wedding gown. Unfortunately, as it was completely soaked, it no longer held its elegance. Her hair, which was typically constrained with bobby pins, was dangling and stringy, plastered to the side of her face. She walked, almost drifted along, seemingly carried by a cloud. However, one hand pressed firmly against her thigh, holding something, grasping it, not wanting to let it go.
“No one did anything about them,” she said, her voice raised above the pounding of the rain. “They took her away from me. Used her and dumped her like garbage. She was such a beautiful little girl.” She looked directly at me, her eyes fixed on mine. “What makes men do something so ghastly?”
I shook my head, not having any answers, only wanting to help ease her pain. The river rushed rapidly. I took a small step forward. She raised her hand from her side and I saw the knife. It was long, like a filet knife.
My heart skipped a beat. I felt something sharp stick in my throat. I wanted to speak but I couldn’t. Even if I could, I didn’t know what to say.
“They’re gone now,” she recited as though it were a Bible verse. “They’re gone.”
In one sudden, swift move, the filet knife was dragged firmly across her throat. Blood spurted and ran down her dress. The hand holding the knife dropped heavy and limp to her side and her fingers released the weapon. A faint ding echoed, like a distant church bell, as the knife hit the river rocks. Like a balloon that had been burst, Natalie crumpled, fell into the river, the splash echoing like a cannon, and she floated angrily away. A deep pain like a dagger pierced my chest. I shuddered, not from the cold, but from the empty feeling of loss. I dropped to my knees as though I were in prayer. I had never done that before. I knew I would never do it again.
I reported finding Natalie’s body but left out any of the circumstances. Initially, Beth thought I figured her cousin might be in danger and the reason why I acted so crazed. However, it wasn’t long before she just stopped speaking to me. Did she know all along? I couldn’t tell. Female cousins are close and share many secrets, although I couldn’t believe Beth would accept this knowledge without it bothering her in some way. The wall of gentility we had shared was shattered like a soap bubble. It was now the cruelty of the world standing like a brick building between us. She knew now the darkness of the world, of my world, and the knowledge changed everything.
Weeks passed with no further killings. I made it appear as though I were still researching, trying to formulate any new ideas, and present something to the chief. He made the executive decision to call the case inactive and advised me to continue on with other pending business. Our small town could not abide such killings and needed to move on to whatever future we were to have. Most of the cases were minor burglaries or drunk and disorderly calls. It didn’t matter to me.
For a brief period of time, someone special had entered my life. Maybe I allowed her in or maybe she belonged there. The part of me that craved justice was in conflict with the law officer. What Natalie had done, if she had actually done it, was wrong and as foul and heinous as the crimes perpetrated against her beloved sister. The world, however, was not a lesser place with the loss of Bottomley, Sutton, and Collins. It might have even been safer.
It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. Natalie’s memory was secure with me. Her name would never be tarnished by the truth.
Part Two
The Brotherhood
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes it can be difficult to gauge the passage of time. I suppose if you’re a true farm boy you can tell. I wondered how long it had been since I had been in Chicago. Or France. Or how long since Natalie died. The first two seemed like a lifetime ago. The last, I realized, was only three years.
It is obvious cops can’t keep a secret. After Mrs. McGuire passed away, her sister, Miss Banister, inherited ownership of the rooming house and continued to maintain it, largely because she didn’t want to see anyone displaced. She also quietly mentioned she was glad to leave the big city (Wichita) and the demands of her single adult daughter. She soon became known to all as an inveterate baker, having offered some of her cakes and pies to Dixie at Daisy Mae’s. However, when I saw Dave Morton suspiciously leave by a back door my brow furrowed.
When I got to the municipal building on Friday, the front lobby was quiet, empty, just the desk sergeant with his head buried in a pile of paper. He was usually alert, giving everyone who passed through the doors the once over. There was a silence like a morgue. The squad room doors were closed which was unusual. As I opened them, a loud and boisterous chorus of “Happy Birthday!” attacked me like a gust of wind on the plains. On the table was a very large cake, exquisitely decorated, another magnificent creation from Miss Banister, considering not a one of them could bake a cupcake.
I didn’t think much about turning forty, except to acknowledge I was a twenty year veteran of the Great War. It might have seemed unnecessary to remind myself I was Baron Witherspoon and not Eric Kimble, and my birthday was today April 1, 1938 and not June 25 as I had remembered it. Even after all this time, I was of two minds, but now, at least, of one world. And consequently one birthday.
Chief Richardson came out from his office as the celebration became its noisiest. I thought at first he might come off as the school principal advising the boys they were out of line. Instead, a warm smile filled his face, a rarity for him. He shook my hand firmly, made a casual comment about my being a valued officer, took a sip of punch, and then retired back into his office. Unlike Chief Taylor who was forced to retire when they discovered a still on his property, Chief Richardson was a more by-the-book type of commander who focused on procedure and protocol. For him to
show his human side was certainly appreciated.
Lee Jones had two pieces of cake on his plate. He shoveled it into his mouth so fast he could pass for a magician performing a disappearing act.
“You think that’s fair?” I asked him of his double indulgence.
“I’m having Jay’s piece.”
“But he doesn’t work here anymore.”
“He’d have wanted me to have it.” Lee smiled.
Jay Davis was so excited about the murder investigation he figured nothing like it would ever happen again in Ark City. He applied for a position with the Wichita Police Department. Chief Richardson wrote him a strong recommendation. He was on his way to becoming Dick Tracy, at least in his own mind.
While there were plenty of grinning and smiling faces, mostly covered in frosting, a somber Dave Morton came over to me nonchalantly with a teletype printout in his hand. It made me fear the worst.
“Just got a report Martin Childers was killed in a car accident in Tulsa.” As is typical, Dave was very matter-of-fact. We certainly didn’t care much for the president of Kanotex, the largest oil refinery in the area, but we certainly didn’t wish him any harm.
“Any details?”
“Single car. Nothing else indicated.”
Something like this would not have warranted anything more than a passing comment at a later time. Dave squinted in thought.
“And?”
“Well, it seemed like Hallett got him pushed out at Kanotex.”
“Was it Hallett or…?” Former Councilman Hallett had a lot of pull in his day, but we suspected the Mob was making a push into other states. Just as before, we couldn’t prove anything. “Let’s see who takes over the refinery and what their attitude is. That’ll tell us something.” I needed to break up the heavy mood. “Have a piece of cake.”
