Gould lived in this house, 65 miles northwest of Chicago, for close to 50 years, almost as long as his jagged-jawed cop has been chasing criminals through the comics pages. Then you can watch him push away from the drawing board to stretch the back that pained him so much during the last 10 years of his life that almost every night he forsook his upstairs bed for a recliner in the downstairs den. You can hear him laughing as he inks into existence another preposterous predicament of another preposterous villain. With only the smallest imaginative leap, you can stand in the small, panelled study and see Dick Tracy`s cigar-chomping creator hunched with his pen over an adventure of America`s premier detective. Though it has been a year since Gould died, being in his house almost convinces you that he has merely gone out for a long game of golf.
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