by Warren Adler
“So who remembers the dude’s name?” Jefferson asked.
“The gun is in a museum and the killing is said to be responsible for the enactment of a law which created the Civil Service Commission.”
“Thanks for small favors,” Fiona said.
But the point of the exercise was to establish the similarities.
“Any doubts that the crime was a replication?” Fiona asked.
“Not in my mind,” Jefferson said. “Down to the bullets. No doubt at all.”
“Shall I proceed to McKinley?”
He searched their faces and when they had settled down, began:
“Leon Czolgosz.” He spelled the last name. “Pronounced Cholgosh. He was twenty-eight, five foot seven, weighed one hundred and forty pounds. Conceived in Poland. Born in America. Little education, a shy, nervous man. He got turned on to anarchy a few years before. Anarchy was the big scare of that period. Another kind of cult. Anyway, William McKinley was an immensely popular President. Also a Republican. For some reason, the Republicans attract more presidential assassins than the Democrats. Kennedy was the only Democrat of the four, McKinley was elected to his second term in nineteen hundred. Teddy Roosevelt was his Vice President . . . there I go again . . . tangents. The material is simply not linear. You could spend a lifetime on this stuff.
“Many have,” Fiona said, remembering her own recent obsession.
“McKinley was in Buffalo to attend the Pan American Exposition, a lavish spectacle. A few days before, on September second, Czolgosz bought a thirty-two caliber Ivor Johnson revolver decorated with an owl’s head on the grip. On the day of the assassination, it was announced that the President would shake hands for ten minutes in the Temple of Music on the exposition grounds. The public reception opened at four P.M. McKinley had just returned from Niagara Falls. Ironically, so did Czolgosz. The President was guarded by soldiers, police detectives and the Secret Service. Apparently, the Garfield and Lincoln assassinations had taught the government something about presidential protection, although subsequent events prove the adage that if a killer wants to kill, he will somehow find a way. Despite fifty guards, there was little Leon, gun drawn, confronting the President. It was a blazing hot day. He was wearing a neat gray suit, another undistinguished anonymous man lost in the crowd. He shuffled forward. A Secret Serviceman nudged him to move quicker. When he reached the President at about eight past four, he extended his left hand, the President his right. Czolgosz pushed the President’s hand away and fired. As he fired, the handkerchief went up in flames. Two bullets. The first ricocheted off the President’s breastbone, the other penetrated his huge midsection, hitting the stomach, the pancreas and a kidney and coming to rest in a back muscle. The man died a week later. He, too, would have lived, if it had happened today. McKinley, staggered and collapsing, found the strength to prevent the guards from hurting his assassin. There’s Christian charity for you.”
“Check again,” Jefferson said, looking at his notes. “Time and date. Two bullets. One of the gun possibilities mentioned in Hadley’s report. And the wounds?”
“Close enough,” Dr. Benton said. “Only more lethal.”
“Terrorist attack!” Fiona laughed. “What the hell. It was as good a ploy as any. Think of the fallout on that one. Who knows how many heads have rolled in Argentina? The man who did it must be hysterical at our stupidity.”
“We deserve the ridicule,” Dr. Benton said. “People who forget history are doomed to relive it.”
“Seems I’ve heard that before,” Fiona said.
“We’re cops. Not historians,” Jefferson said.
“And this man’s delusional system is, let’s face it, quite unique,” Dr. Benton said.
“How long did McKinley live?” Fiona asked.
“One week.”
“And the motive?”
“Czolgosz believed that the President, or any man, should not have more . . . this is his exact words . . . more service than any other man. In other words, we’re all equal.”
“Under God.”
“He was not into God,” Dr. Benton corrected. “He was frying other fish. Trying to sell the anarchist concept. They eloctrocuted him fifty-four days after the deed. A quick trial. A quick verdict. They had learned something from Guiteau. But they beefed up the concept of better protection of the President and we got Teddy Roosevelt. It also broke the back of the anarchist movement. They also got into more narrower psychiatric definitions. Czolgosz had had a nervous breakdown a few years before. They said it had made him a schizophrenic . . . he had said it was his duty to kill the President. Duty!” He shook his head. “Madness.”
“No remorse or contrition?” Fiona asked.
“None,” Dr. Benton said. “How could they have had that? They had resolved that question by relegating it to some force outside of themselves. I suppose that was also the delusion of Booth.”
“Yes. He thought God was commanding him . . . God again.”
“And Oswald?” Jefferson asked.
“Nobody will ever know. If Oswald is the killer.”
“You believe he wasn’t?”
“I’m not sure. Not one hundred percent certain.”
“The Garfield and McKinley killings were not without their own conspiracy theories.”
“Nor was Lincoln’s. It thrashed around for more than one hundred years.”
It was after midnight. Fiona made more coffee. Not one of them made a move to adjourn. Like her, they were too fascinated, too exhilarated. The man, the killer, had forced them into history. But why? That question, she knew, was at the heart of the matter. And the heart was surging, pumping. After pouring their coffee, Fiona lifted her cup and sipped, glancing at her notes. It was her turn now. A drop of coffee fell on the paper, dissolving a word.
“The Lincoln killing was, unlike the others, a conspiracy. A group, led by Booth, was also out to kill Vice President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State Seward,” she began. “But the others in the group were incompetents. Only John Wilkes Booth accomplished his purpose. Apparently Wilkes . . .” She paused. “They called him that, was a megalomaniacal figure, a brilliant actor with an obsessive wish to achieve everlasting fame by an act so outrageous that it would be forever engraved on the mind of man . . .” She laughed at her staginess
“Tell us when to applaud, woman,” Jefferson said.
“I got carried away.”
“We’re all carried away,” Dr. Benton said seriously.
“Anyway, Booth. I’d rather call him that. I don’t know him that well. He learned that the President was going to Ford’s Theater on the morning of April fourteenth, the day of the deed. He proceeded to the theater, checked out the presidential box. Boxes seven and eight. There was a partition in between that the management would remove. By some twist of fate, the lock was broken on the door that led to the box. With a gimlet, he made a hole in the wall to observe Lincoln’s exact position when the time would come. The play was Our American Cousin, a potboiler of the period. Booth knew every line, including the one that got the biggest laugh, and he planned to pull the trigger at the exact moment when the roar would fill the house.
“Moments before the laugh line was to be delivered, Booth walked up the stairs to the box. Then came another quirk of fate. The man who was supposed to guard Lincoln and sit outside the box in the corridor . . .” She looked up from her notes. “He was a cop. Washington police. Unfortunately for Lincoln, he was a drunk and when the play started, he left his post to go downstairs to a next door tavern for a drink. Ironically, who do you think was drinking at the bar at the same time?”
“I don’t believe it,” Jefferson said, shaking his head. He had been listening intently, like a schoolboy.
“Could Booth have known that the man was the President’s guard?” Dr. Benton asked.
“He could have, but there is no evidence to support it, at least not in the couple of accounts I’ve read. Think of this. If the guard was truly doing his job, he wo
uld have heard Booth come up the wooden stairs. He might, or should have, drawn his gun. Booth, although armed with two Colt revolvers, a large knife and his one-shot brass Derringer, would have had to stab the man, rather than attract attention by using a gun, an unlikely possibility if the man were alert.” She paused. A shiver began at the base of her spine. “Booth seemed to have willed the circumstances.”
“Coincidence, Fiona,” Dr. Benton said. “No need to go cosmic.”
“I’m sorry.” She wondered why she had apologized, but let it pass quickly. “Booth fired the shot at exactly 10:15, point blank behind Lincoln’s left ear. The ball lodged over his right eye. But the massive injury was enough to be fatal. He lived for ten hours.”
“And Booth?” Jefferson asked.
“They cornered him in a barn in Prince George’s County. He was allegedly shot by a man named Boston Corbett. But that was never proven. Fini. Like the Kennedy killing, the country went wild with conspiracy talk and investigation. All of the co-conspirators were hanged, although there was some question about the guilt of a Mrs. Surratt, in whose house the plan was allegedly hatched.”
“April fourteenth, ten-fifteen,” Jefferson said. He looked at his calendar watch. “Three fuckin’ days from now.”
“My God,” Dr. Benton said hoarsely.
“The question, gentlemen: Will the eggplant buy it?” Fiona said. “We can’t do it alone. Not now,” she mumbled into the silence.
27
HE looked uncomfortable in her apartment, his big chunky thighs crossed, a cigarette mashed between his thick black fingers. When he inhaled, his eyes bugged out and when he let out the smoke through his nostrils, the smoke clouds obscured his dark face. As she talked, he became restless, a mass of little movements: a tremor of the lip, a nervous twitch in the eye, a foot in a perpetual staccato movement.
Jefferson, too nervous to sit still, leaned against the wall. Dr. Benton sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair. They had tried to sleep for a few hours. Fiona, her mind on fire, her heart pumping wildly from excitement or too much caffeine, had merely lain supine in her bed, tracking possibilities. What kind of a man was doing this? Why? The questions crowded into her brain, like a terminal point in some imaginary railroad. Whoever he was, he had transcended the category. According to the textbooks there were two types of assassins. One who wanted to get caught and one who wanted to get away. The last was more impossible to catch, the first more lethal. The killer seemed to be a combination of both. She tried to picture him in her mind, but the composite would not hold.
Was he some nonentity like Guiteau, or Czolgosz or Oswald, or some golden boy, like Booth, greedy for more than providence could possibly deliver? An image flashed in her mind and disappeared, like a flickering light extinguished by a faint wind. Somewhere deep in her subconscious, she was searching for something. Something.
Despite the lack of sleep, she was not fatigued. And by the time the eggplant had arrived, her mental state was clear. Confronting the three of them, the eggplant was instantly wary. She didn’t give him any time for reflection, plunging right into the explanation.
During her presentation, he smoked a pack of cigarettes, a detail that she observed without missing a beat, hoping that the onslaught of pollution wouldn’t kill him off until he had heard the end of her spiel.
“That is the damndest story I ever heard,” he said when she had finished. He actually flashed a smile, which she interpreted as an uncommon sign of approval.
“That’s what we thought,” she said smugly.
“There is a bedrock of logic,” Dr. Benton said, obviously relieved at the chiefs reaction.
“It’s like a fucking movie,” the eggplant said.
“Maybe they’ll make one about it. Like The Sting,” Jefferson said, also relieved.
“Okay,” the eggplant said. “Let’s say it fits.”
“It fits,” Fiona said firmly. She remembered her obsession with the Kennedy killing. Dr. Benton’s discovery of the Garfield anniversary had led her to realize that she had been chasing a red herring. “It fits.”
“Hey,” the eggplant lifted his hands. “I’m not saying it doesn’t. What it leads to . . .,” their nods encouraged him to continue, “. . . is that this weirdo is going to waste some poor innocent bastard in a theater at ten-fifteen the day after tomorrow.”
“You got it,” Jefferson blurted. The eggplant shot him a withering glance.
“Ford’s Theater?”
“Maybe,” Fiona said. “I’ve been thinking about that. There are four legitimate theaters operating downtown. Actually, seven, if you count the Kennedy Center’s four auditoriums. You’ve got Warner’s, the National and Ford’s. There’s also smaller places.”
“Are you saying . . .”
“I’m just speculating.”
“I’m not as stupid as you think, FitzGerald. What you’re saying is that we’ve got to man all the theaters. Every fucking one. You know how much manpower I’ll need?”
“I know you’re going to have to go to the top.”
“Shit.”
“If we’re right, you’ll be the biggest thing in town.”
“Now I’m a potential hero.” His eyes darted over the three of them. “You think I don’t know what you think of me. The eggplant. The glory boy. The hot dog. You think it’s easy for me to do this job?” He lit still another cigarette. “I’m not saying there isn’t some ego in me. Hell, what’s a man worth without an ego?” He puffed out some smoke and looked at Fiona. “Or a woman for that matter?” She knew she had him hooked.
“I’m not saying it’s without risks,” she said.
“Suppose we’re all wet? Suppose we’re just victims of a hyperactive imagination?”
Fiona noted the sudden use of the collective pronoun. He must have noticed it as well.
“If it works, there’s more than enough credit to go around. I mean it, woman,” the eggplant said. It was, she was sure, a major effort at sincerity. “Hell, you guys did the job. But remember who gave you the authorization.”
She let it pass, knowing he was still working it out in his mind.
“But if we blow it, I’ll be the department asshole of the decade.”
She smiled, wanting to tell him that he had already acquired that title. Jefferson turned away to mask his own amusement.
“They better not try to take it away from us,” the eggplant said, standing up. “It’s our baby.
“And no press,” Fiona said. “Not until we get him. Any leak now could scare him away.” She wondered suddenly why the killer had gone out of chronological sequence. Perhaps he had meant to throw them off the track from the beginning. The Kennedy replication had been a test, she decided. Maybe he does want to get caught? She kept the speculation to herself.
“What kind of a man do you think he is?” Dr. Benton asked.
“He’s obviously smart,” Fiona said. “And he’s studied the subject matter. A history buff. He also knows guns. Maybe he’s even a collector.”
“A brass Derringer would be hard to come by,” Dr. Benton pointed out. “Maybe he’ll use another kind.”
“Not him,” Fiona said.
“How the hell did you get on this track, FitzGerald?” the eggplant asked.
“God knows.”
The flame in her mind sputtered to life again. Remington?
The events of inaugural eve returned, an oblique memory, filtered through the prism of her new knowledge. It had set off cataclysmic events in her life as well. A sliver of fear lodged in her gut, and the memories of her Catholic childhood rushed into her consciousness. God, the ubiquitous being! Was He also watching, listening, feeling, touching, seeing? God had no secrets. God knew. She shivered, unable to contain the enormity of her fear.
She could not wait for them to leave. When they did, finally, she reached for the phone. His voice was calm, unctuous.
“I have to see you today,” she told him. He showed no surprise, the charm unflagging. There was a
kind of serenity about his response. For some reason, nevertheless, her idea of him whirled around in the vortex of coincidence, drawing a strange heat. Guns. History. Perhaps his knowledge held the key to a locked door in her mind. She was certain there were things he knew, special things. His museumlike displays were a living testimonial to his interests and . . . She deliberately slowed down her thoughts. It’s running away with you, she told herself, struggling for calm . . . His political frustrations. His Senate defeat. Oswald’s bullet had aborted Remington’s political life as well. What sets off a delusional system? she asked herself, as she applied makeup to her pallid face. New paths seemed to have developed in her thoughts. Thwarted ambition? The idea made her stomach queasy. She knew about that. Hadn’t Bruce taught her something about that? Thinking of Bruce angered her. Politics was only a symptom. Ambition was the real disease. Perhaps Remington might offer some insight into that as well.
“Come at four,” he said. “Cocktails.”
She was at Remington’s front door promptly. His Spanish maid opened it, offering a wide gold-speckled smile. She nodded recognition.
“Un momento. A moment. Mr. Remington will be right with you.”
She had never been in the house without large groups of people, and her inspection of Remington’s displays had been cursory, except for what was in his Rustic Room, the cases of guns. Her eyes searched now, screening out the profusion of scrimshaw, marine decorations, antiques, concentrating instead on what was absorbing her.
One thing was certain. Most of the autographs, photos, books and memorabilia displayed his passionate interest in the Presidency. Before, she had noticed only his obsessive interest in Kennedy. She could understand that now.
She thumbed through a catalogue, noting the preponderance of material about Kennedy, Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley. She stemmed the tide of speculation. Assassinated Presidents, if one were collecting, were certainly a special lure. Yet other Presidents, as the catalogue illustrated, were favored as well. Jackson, the two Roosevelts, Truman and Ford.
