by Brad Meltzer
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Tot asks.
“You asked about Lincoln and Booth. You didn’t ask about Guiteau,” Dale explains without a hint of apology. Though the truth is, we didn’t figure out Guiteau until Marshall mentioned the second murder.
Turning back toward the map cabinet, Dale reaches down toward the lowest drawer. As she tugs it open, it’s filled with assassin Charles Guiteau.
Literally.
43
A.J. tried the pastor’s hospital room first.
A nurse told him the pastor was downstairs. In the chapel.
A.J. nodded a quick thanks but didn’t bother to ask directions. Like most Secret Service agents, he knew the hospital well. George Washington University Hospital was where they operated on Dick Cheney while he was Vice President—and where President Wallace had his gallbladder out.
As for the chapel, A.J. knew it best of all, since it was there that Wallace—right before going under the anesthetic for his gallbladder surgery—signed away his power as leader of the free world and said a teary, just-in-case goodbye to his wife and kids. For the agents and few staffers there, it was a terrifying moment.
But as A.J. looked back on it, what he was doing now was far more dangerous.
Avoiding the elevators and sticking to the stairs, A.J. stayed out of sight until he reached the first floor. As always, he checked each sector of the long hallway, left to right, then up and down. A nurse with a rolling cart… a gift shop to buy flowers… and at the far end of the corridor: the only door in the whole hospital with blue-and-gold stained glass in it. Interfaith Chapel.
As he opened the door and craned his neck inside, there were two voices talking.
“… forget going to the games—just give me one good reason why anyone would root for the Orioles.”
Straight ahead, underneath a wide window that was covered with broad wooden horizontal blinds, a man and a woman faced each other, talking casually.
The woman sat on one of the room’s three cherry benches that was covered with beige padding. The man was in a wheelchair, dressed in a hospital gown, but wearing socks and slippers. He had a round face and a dimpled chin that reminded A.J. of an elf. And a nose that reminded him of a boxer. Pastor Frick.
“May I help you?” the woman asked in a calm voice tinged with a British accent. “I’m Chaplain Stoughton,” she said, though A.J. remembered her from the President’s surgery.
“I’m here for Pastor…” A.J. looked at the man in the wheelchair. “You must be Pastor Frick.”
“I am,” he said, surprising A.J. by standing up from the wheelchair. A.J. expected a quiet old man. This guy was a show-off, but in the warmest of ways.
“Pastor, please…” the female chaplain begged. “The doctors told you to take it easy.”
“I’m fine—they all know I’m fine. If I weren’t a man of God, they would’ve sent me home hours ago instead of making me stay overnight. They just don’t want God sending a lightning bolt through their windows.” He wasn’t old—maybe in his fifties—but his voice was lush, like a grandfather’s. As he grinned, A.J. again spotted the elfish twinkle in his pale blue eyes. But he also saw those old dents in his nose. A.J. knew: Dents like that can come from sports, or a car accident, or from people who fight—but they can also come from a dad who used to put a beating on someone’s mother. No doubt, this was a guy who liked righting wrongs.
“Let me guess: You’re another detective. A cop?” Frick asked.
“Secret Service,” A.J. replied, flashing his badge and approaching quickly. “If you’re in the middle of praying, I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, looking hard at the chaplain.
“I was just headed upstairs,” she said, walking toward the door.
“So the Secret Service,” Pastor Frick began as he lowered himself back to his seat in the wheelchair, gritting his teeth slightly. “I didn’t realize this had something to do with the President.”
A.J. forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The Service does lots of work that doesn’t deal with the President.”
The pastor nodded absently. He was still in shock. “Y’know the bullet went right through me. The doctor called it a… he said it was a miracle… a reward for all my service,” he said with a laugh.
A.J. didn’t laugh back.
“Anyway, for someone to sneak into our sanctuary…” The pastor took a deep breath, readjusting himself in his seat. “I want to help you catch who did this.”
“That’s our goal too. So. Your attacker. Did you happen to see what he looked like?”
“I saw his legs. And shiny shoes. I know it sounds nuts, but… I’m good with smells. His shoes were just polished.”
“What about his face? Did you see if he was wearing a mask?”
The pastor shook his head, clearly confused.
A.J. let out a small sigh of relief. If they wanted to keep this quiet—and away from the President—the last thing they needed was another witness.
“And you didn’t see him going out the window?” A.J. added, still reading Frick’s confusion. “After shooting you, the attacker escaped through the window.”
“I remember that!” the pastor blurted, as if he’d forgotten it until that moment. “I heard the window open! And he said something. He had a deep voice and he told me… He said what our church did was a blasphemy.”
“A blasphemy? And do you know what he was referring to?”
“No… Our church… We pride ourselves on being open to all.”
“And you didn’t see anything?”
“All I saw was the carpet. Once I got hit, I was—The pain was just—” He cut himself off. A.J. had seen it before. Especially with those who demand a lot from themselves. They kick themselves for not doing more. As A.J. knew, it was no different with Palmiotti, which was why A.J. was now dealing with this mess.
“Help me get out of this chair,” Pastor Frick blurted. “My rear end’s falling asleep.”
A.J. helped him up and watched as Frick took a few steps around the room. He was moving slowly, but he was clearly strong. A pastor in a tough neighborhood has to be.
“You need to be careful,” A.J. warned. “Bullet wounds can take the life out of you.”
“That’s fine, but you have any idea how many congregants will stop believing in the Almighty if I’m not there tomorrow morning when they have their crisis? I’m not joking. As they say: Faith begins with self-interest.”
A.J. paused, then: “One more question, Pastor. Do you know the rector who runs St. John’s Church?”
44
The skeleton is in hundreds of pieces, yellow bones of every shape and size. But what catches my eye is the jelly jar that’s lying on its side in the corner of the drawer. Like the ones around us, it’s filled with a milky yellow fluid and a pale gray, spongy mass.
“Guiteau’s brain,” I say, still listening for any noises coming from down the hall.
“What makes you think that?” Dale laughs, lifting the jar and pointing to the handwritten sticker on it that says, What is left of brain of Guiteau.
“He’s not as famous as John Wilkes Booth, but he still killed a President,” Dale explains. “The jury found him guilty in little over an hour, and since the science back then said that you could actually see insanity in someone’s brain, after Guiteau was hanged, the doctors dissected every part of him, trying to prove it. The theory was that people were insane because of the degeneration of gray cells in their brain. They actually find the same thing today in people who are in asylums too long—and in their offspring too,” she says as Tot shoots me a look.
“You were saying, about the parts of Guiteau that were stolen…” I interrupt.
From her file folder, she pulls out a final color photocopy, this one of a flat piece of pale brown leather. It’s cracked and faded, like it’s been in the sun too long. At the center of it is a picture of…
The lines of the drawing are slightly muddy, and the colors are pale r
ed and blue, but there’s no mistaking the hand-drawn threepointed shield with the American flag on front. Gripping the top of it is an eagle with wide wings and a lowered head. Just like the eagle on the package of playing cards that Marshall had in his apartment.
“That’s not a canvas, is it?” I ask.
“Skin. It’s human skin,” Dale says.
The muddy lines. The pale blue-and-red coloring. It’s a tattoo.
“That’s what he stole?” Tot asks. “I didn’t know Guiteau had a tattoo, much less that they saved it.”
“What about the symbol?” I ask, staring at the eagle and the shield. I know it’s not the eagle from the Great Seal. That one has its head held high, holds the arrows and the olive branch, and came in around 1782. But this one—with its head down for the attack—is a pretty standard eagle from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century.
“You’ll see it on china, and as a decorative accent on some antiques. Even the Philadelphia Eagles football team used to use a similar one for its logo,” Dale offers. “But back during Guiteau’s time, this apparently was the emblem of some group.”
“What group?” I ask.
Dale purses her lips. “I hadn’t even heard of them until a colleague mentioned them after the robbery. They were called the Knights… the Knights in the…”
“The Knights of the Golden Circle,” Tot says coldly, still locked on the red-and-blue tattoo.
45
St. John’s? You mean the church down by the White House?” Pastor Frick asked, slowly walking in a small circle around the hospital chapel. “I’ve heard they run a nice service, but the truth is, we’re Methodist and they’re—”
“Turns out, the rector at St. John’s was found murdered last night,” A.J. interrupted. “It was on the local news this morning, but happened too late for the papers to pick it up.”
“M-My word… I had no… Oh.” The pastor’s pale round face grew even paler. He made his way back toward the wheelchair and held its pushbars to steady himself. “You think the same person who did that might have been the one who came after me?”
A.J. knew that was the question. Two churches… two pastors… two places filled with history. “Pastor Frick, does your church have any ties to Abraham Lincoln?”
The pastor looked thoughtful. “Lincoln was a Methodist. Back when he was President, he was actually a life member of our church.”
“So he spent time there?”
“Of course. A great deal of time. But none of that—In our neighborhood, we always have a few too many robberies and muggings. Nothing violent, thankfully. That’s part of the territory when you serve a less affluent population. But that doesn’t explain—”
“Sir, I saw that your regular pastor—Pastor Phelps—is away in New Zealand for over four months now,” A.J. said. “Any particular reason why he left?”
“He has family there. Why?”
“When I spoke to the staff at St. John’s, some of the staffers there said that in the weeks before their rector was killed, he took a lot of criticism for trying to update St. John’s, instituting a Date Night for singles and things like that.”
“Pastor Phelps used to give away fruit smoothies to bring people in. But that’s just part of running a modern church,” Frick agreed. “Though what makes you think that’s tied to Abraham Lincoln?”
“What about our current President?” A.J. asked. “Have you had any interactions with him?”
“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with President Wallace?”
“These are just standard questions, sir. That’s our job in the Service.”
The pastor blinked quickly, taking a seat in the wheelchair. “I’ve only met the President once, when he came for services.”
A.J. froze. Over the years, he knew there were dozens—maybe hundreds—of religious leaders, of every denomination, whom the President had said prayers with. But last year, after the Easter Egg Roll on the South Lawn, President Wallace had gone to services at St. John’s. And now it was clear that the President had also attended services with Pastor Frick. “Sir, can you please tell me everything that happened when you were with President Wallace?”
46
It didn’t take long for Marshall to find the small silver beacon.
He knew it had to be there. It was the only way to explain how Beecher tracked him to the restaurant in Georgetown. Sure enough, after a few minutes of searching the passenger seat and the floor mats, there it was, tucked into the plastic well of the passenger-side door.
From the tiny size of the beacon, Marshall knew this was certainly as good as anything the government had. Maybe even better, which wasn’t a surprise. Years ago, the CIA and NSA had the best research and development shops, producing the smallest and most impressive toys. These days, it was the private sector that led the way, doing the R&D themselves, then selling it at top dollar to the government. For better or worse, industry was no longer about keeping the world safe—they cared about making money. So for tech this good, whoever Beecher was working with, they knew exactly what they were doing.
Marshall made a mental note. He knew what he was doing too. And now that it was dark, it was all so much easier. Still, he had to admit, despite all his planning, even he was surprised by the rush of emotions that came with seeing Beecher.
Following the same path he took two weeks ago, Marshall stuck to the service road and eyed the gray concrete behemoth at the center of Walter Reed. At the front of the building was a wide U-shaped driveway that held two cars: an old white Honda with an Elliot in the Morning radio show bumper sticker, and a pristine 1966 Mustang.
Checking over his shoulder one last time, Marshall approached the passenger side of the Mustang, then got down on one knee like he was tying his shoe. Beecher had already done enough damage. Now it was time to return the favor.
47
That’s them. The Knights of the Golden Circle. You’ve heard of them?” Dale asks, revealing just how little she knows Tot.
“We have a few of their items in the Archives,” Tot replies, holding the photocopy to his nose and studying the strange eagle tattoo. “I know them from there.”
He’s not the only one. Back during the Civil War, groups like the Knights were popping up in every direction, providing outlets for all the anger running rampant in the country. But unlike the Freemasons or other secret societies, who were focused on longtime traditions, the Knights of the Golden Circle wanted something far more hateful: for the Union to end so they could run their own slave-based society. Their goal was to create a true, physical “golden circle”—with Mexico and the Caribbean—to build a private part of the country where slavery would continue.
The Knights supposedly had two famous members: Jesse James. And John Wilkes Booth.
“So this tattoo,” Tot says, pointing to the top right corner of the photocopied skin. “Any idea what this stands for?”
Dale and I both lean in. Just above the eagle, in the corner, there’s another tattoo—a smaller one, of a knife—a dagger, really—that’s drawn 3-D style so it looks like it’s stabbing into the skin. What Tot’s pointing at is the tiny red item on the hilt of the dagger.
A red diamond.
“You guys know better than I would,” Dale says. “Maybe Guiteau liked playing cards.”
“Maybe so,” Tot says, handing me the photocopy.
As I look for myself, Tot drills me with a long stare. I have no idea if John Wilkes Booth really was a member of the Knights. But no matter the answer, one thing seems unarguable: Over two hundred years ago, the only reason Booth got into Ford’s Theatre was by showing a mysterious card to Lincoln’s valet. Last night, after the rector was murdered at St. John’s, the police found Marshall carrying a deck of cards—with this exact eagle on the package—that was missing the ace of spades. And now, as I study the cracked beige skin of the killer who hunted President Garfield, I’m seeing that Charles Guiteau clearly had a tattoo of a dagger with a red diamond on
it.
Two presidential killers. Two suits of playing cards.
For a moment, I tell myself to focus on the present and what we know: that there’s a copycat killer who’s imitating old assassins and slaughtering religious leaders. But if John Wilkes Booth had the ace of spades. And Charles Guiteau had the ace of diamonds. Either we just stumbled onto a hell of a coincidence…
… or throughout decades of history, two of the world’s most ruthless hunters were not just organized, not just linked together—they might’ve actually been working for the same cause.
48
Oh, please. Now you’re just rewriting history,” Tot says a bit too angrily as he tugs the steering wheel and the Mustang rumbles and bounces back onto 16th Street.
“What’re you talking about?” I ask as Walter Reed fades behind us. “You’ve seen what we’ve found: the mysterious card at Ford’s Theatre, plus the missing ace of spades, and now this ace of diamonds…”
“No, Beecher, what we found is someone killing pastors and imitating the most famous presidential killers. Which is twisted enough. What you’re saying now is, even though every history book on this planet says otherwise, that somehow all these killers were what? Plotting together over the course of a hundred and fifty years?”
“How long’s the Culper Ring been around, Tot? Two hundred years? Two hundred and fifty? You’re telling me George Washington can create that, but that the Knights of the Golden Circle—”
“The Knights of the Golden Circle were a bunch of racists from the Civil War…”
“… who suddenly disappeared just as John Wilkes Booth put a bullet in the back of Lincoln’s head!”
“I know how it played out, Beecher, and I know that every conspiracy nut in the world likes to say that the Knights’ real motives went underground with them, but I’m telling you: The Knights of the Golden Circle don’t exist today.”
“How do you know that?”
