by catt dahman
“About Abraham Lincoln? What about him?”
“Just how he said that everyone was fooled and no one needed to know about it until he was ready to tell. He was really excited.”
“It was a lively debate? Can you tell me who was adding to the deliberation and who was merely observing? First and last names?”
“Mr. Hoyt, Percy Sawyer, Frank Delrina, and Patty Springsteen were debating. I was listening somewhat, and so was Thom Harris, Naomi Hathcock, Bobby Andrews, and Lizzy Baxter.”
Virgil wrote each name onto his pad. “And any staff?”
“I think Nurse Curtis was in and out of the room, but she wasn’t there long. And she made motions with her hand to hurry it along.”
“What was the debate, aside from the obvious? Was there an argument?”
Edward Knight frowned, staring at his lap and scratching his arm again. “Someone said something about everyone who was related to some person was doomed. I remember the word. Doomed. Someone mentioned the weird word you wrote down, that I spelled, and then it was quiet again. Then, someone said something about descendants, and then one started again about the reasons for the war, and that was all.”
“And you said Mr. Hoyt commented later?”
“Yeah. He was muttering after the conversation died, which it did fast because they were arguing, and Nurse Curtis scowled and said she would let Nurse Brighton know about the fussing. Everyone knows that means to settle down,” he said as he chuckled.
“Yes, it does,” Dr. Redding added.
“Does this look like a fiber?” Mr. Knight held his arm out to Lynn Redding.
“Hmmm. No, I think that’s a bit of skin,” she said as she looked over his arm carefully and then continued, “You seem all clear for now.”
“Thanks. Good news then.”
“Thank you for helping, Mr. Knight. I may have more questions, if that is okay?”
“If you wish. Mostly people want to talk about my problem with little boys or about my fibers. Whatever you want…I’m stuck here, so come and find me any time.”
Virgil and Redding walked away, speaking quietly.
Virgil didn’t share his excitement over having found clues but instead remarked, “I don’t care for him, Lynn. That’s inexcusable that he abused children.”
“I agree. It’s a terrible crime, and luckily, he’ll never be free.”
“And the rest…his delusions are so strange. How can he think there are strings and fibers coming from his skin to the extent he claws away body parts?”
Lynn Redding blinked and said, “Oh, I forgot you wouldn’t know.”
“Know what?”
She shivered and said, “His body actually produces fibers, whether that was first or a manifestation of his illness, we don’t know. It’s a new and rare illness, a fiber disorder, we call it, but somewhat of a delusion. What I am saying is that his body produces sudden tiny hairs that grow rapidly, causing itching.”
“That’s creepy,” Virgil said, “the more I learn, the more I find I don’t know.”
“And that is why doctors of the mind are so fascinated with this field. There is always something new to find.”
Chapter Eight: A Killer
“Virgil, I left those folders in your room.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kenshaw.”
“Have you formed any theories? I don’t mean to rush you….”
Virgil smiled and replied, “I know you’re anxious and curious to see this solved. I would be. I have a few clues and have eliminated most suspects, actually. You are clear.”
“I am? Well, I never knew I was a possible suspect. Imagine that.”
“It’s not personal, Doctor. I couldn’t eliminate very many at first, but think I have a suspect list now and am getting closer to the motive. Donte was helpful in suggesting I look for the killer before deciding on a motive, and it has helped me a great deal. That said: I saw Donte is on duty. Could I ask for him to be relieved and for him to be assigned to me for a little while?”
Walter Kenshaw nodded and agreed, “Of course, if that will help. I can do that at once. Curiosity again…in what manner do you need him?”
“He’s very smart, that one, and clever. He is also very enamored of himself; he has absolutely no grandiose ideas of himself, and that makes him perfect to see outside of himself. He notices things that most miss. You’ve got a wonderful staff, as you know.”
“I do know,” Kenshaw said, “I’ll send Donte at once, and, Sheriff, I can share this: Donte has told me he enjoys working with you and finds you very interesting.”
“Am I a suspect?” Dr. Redding asked.
Virgil found himself smiling again and replied, “I have eliminated you, as well. Potentially. Now, I could be on the wrong track and may have to add you both back later.”
“Fair enough,” Redding laughed.
Virgil gave them a wave, walked down the hall, and went into his room. For a few minutes while waiting on Donte to join him, Virgil sat in thought, relaxing and staring at the ceiling. If his trail were right, he had a list of ten suspects, which was at least a good start. Nine were patients, and that did present a problem.
“Sir? I knocked twice.” Donte peeked into the room.
“I apologize. I was thinking. Donte, before I go on with my research, I have to ask this: could the murders have been committed by anyone truly insane? Was he not cleverly committed?”
“I don’t think they’re exclusive things, being clever and insane.”
Virgil nodded. “So noted. I think that’s why I asked for your help. You keep me from chasing my own tail.”
Both men laughed.
Dr. Kenshaw provided a history of Fordham in the first folder. Virgil skimmed the beginning, reading a new interesting fact aloud as he read. Built in 1903, the hospital had always catered to the wealthy criminally insane, having housed a few well-known people. It was remodeled in 1920 and again in 1950 with more modern facilities, new pipes, additions, and luxuries. The swimming pool, sports area, and offices were redone.
Parts of the hospital were expanded as rooms were made larger. Someone had the foresight to retain the original furniture, so it was packed away as was a huge donation of furnishing, fabrics, books, art, silver and crystal vases, statues, and other knick-knacks. As asked, there was a copied list of the donation added to the folder.
“How long have you worked here, Donte?”
“Ten years.”
“Good. When you were here, when you began, I mean…what was the décor like?”
“Ugly. Everything was tan, brown, or grey. The furniture was modern and cold. I felt it was depressing and had no personality, you know what I mean? It was bland.”
“And two years ago, there was another remodel?”
“Yes. It was a mess with securing rooms while other rooms were painted, wainscoting and crown molding were replaced, and all the stuff was brought out from the top floor, and decorators were refurbishing every room in softer colors and antiques. Dr. Kenshaw’s desk was made in the early 1800s and was from England.”
“I see a huge list of items that were donated. Were all of the items used or are some still up stairs?”
Donte frowned and said, “This is a huge place, but it seems to me the designers didn’t find a place for everything. I saw the crates and boxes in storage. I remember this statue…life-sized…and it wasn’t used in any rooms because it was a nude of Venus. They didn’t think having that here, where some have been sexually abused or have abused others, was a smart idea. I can’t say what else wasn’t used, but I am sure there must be a lot of things up there from the original decorations and from the donation.”
“Very good. Did you meet the donor, or was it from an estate?”
“It was from an estate. I don’t know whose it was.”
Virgil continued to read the file about the donations and said, “Jacob Harris was evidently appreciative of the care his mother received when she was here after killing at least two of her own c
hildren, and she died in 1943. Please make a note to Dr. Becket that I want to see her file.”
“Okay, Sheriff, you have me thinking all over the place. What would that donation have to do with the recent murders?”
Virgil laughed hard, leaving Donte to stare at him with a confused expression.
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry. It’s funny because you told me to stop working on a motive and find the killer first. You said then I could find the motive. That’s why I’m laughing because you told me to approach the case this way.”
Donte laughed, too.
“I’m working on the motive right now.”
Donte stopped laughing and again, looked perplexed, “But you said…well, you said you’d find the motive after you knew who the killer was.”
Virgil nodded, his face flummoxed.
“So? I’m confused. You said you’d figure out the killer first….”
“I have. Donte, I know who killed those four people.”
Chapter Nine: History Lessons
Henry Reed Rathbone was born and raised by his mother for a time after his father, a wealthy businessman died, leaving them extremely wealthy. In a few years, she met and married a man who proved to be a good stepfather to Henry; the man had four children from his earlier marriage. He was a widower when he met Henry’s mother and eventually became a senator.
Henry Rathbone fought as a Union soldier and was at the Battle of Antietam under General Burnside and the Battle of Fredericksburg. Commissioned as a captain at once, he went on to be promoted to major.
Right after the American Civil War, he became engaged to his stepsister Clara who was three years older than he was and whom he had loved ever since they became a blended family. Each parent wasn’t supportive or happy with the idea of each child marrying the other child, but neither protested.
Henry Reed studied law in New York and practiced law for several years.
He might never have been particularly noted in history except that Henry’s mother was dear friends with Mary Todd Lincoln, the wife of the President of the United States. Although Henry and Clara were younger than the Lincolns, they frequently attended dinners, parties, and plays together.
The night of April 14, 1865, the Lincolns invited Ulysses S. Grant and his wife Julia to see a play at Ford’s Theatre. They politely declined because Grant had business to attend to in another city. Several other couples declined the invitation as well for various reasons. It was almost an omen that no one wished to go out that evening, and the President wasn’t enthusiastic about going either. For several weeks, he had been pale, listless, and melancholy; he thought seeing the play and getting out with another couple might be just what he needed to cheer him up, but it wasn’t his idea to go.
Henry and Clara were thrilled to go out with the Lincolns, who were both witty and excellent company. It was expected to be a fun evening.
In the theatre box, the President sat in a comfortable rocker, Mary Todd Lincoln sat in a chair beside him, Clara sat to her right, and Henry sat on a little sofa right behind his fiancé. The curtains and the damask fabric covering the furnishings were deep red. The box was a comfortable place where they had a good view and could relax.
The play was Our American Cousin.
During Act III, scene two, a single line in the play was the cue: "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal — you sockdologizing old man-trap." It was one of the funniest lines of the play, and the audience burst into laughter. “Sockdologizing” was the actual one word that an assassin waited for.
John Wilkes Booth, an actor, sneaked into the presidential theatre box and fired his derringer as the audience erupted with loud laughter. For a few seconds, no one in the box knew Abraham Lincoln had been shot. Rathbone, quick to protect the President and the women, leaped up and attacked Booth, but Booth had a Bowie knife and cut Rathbone’s arm from the shoulder down to his elbow, nicking the bone, and severing an artery. He stabbed Rathbone several more time, but they were less serious wounds in his arms, chest, and shoulders.
Blood flew all over the women as the men struggled. Clara’s white satin dress became drenched in scarlet gore.
Henry Rathbone tried again to subdue Booth but was pushed aside as the assassin jumped from the box, yelling, “Sic semper tyrannis.” He escaped, limping.
Only then did Mary Todd Lincoln, helping Clara care for Henry, realize her husband had been shot in the back of his head, leaving with a nickel-sized wound, right behind his ear, and her screams went from shrill to hysterical bursts. Clara joined in, calling for help which promptly arrived. Just before he passed out, the President whispered to Henry Rathbone.
According to witnesses, Rathbone went pale.
Across the street was a home, and it was there the President was taken. The doctors attending him knew the President couldn’t survive being moved for surgery. If they moved him, he would bleed to death within minutes. If they kept him still, they were, at least, not doing more harm.
Rathbone also fell unconscious from blood loss. He was allowed to leave and return home later in the morning.
Nine hours was the time before the President died from his wound. Twelve days was the time Booth remained at large before being caught by the Union army. He was fatally shot immediately by an officer named Boston Corbett, who died sometime later in an asylum, diagnosed as having delusional mania, and raving about strange creatures and people who were not whom they seemed to be.
Virgil looked up from reading and said, “Interesting that everyone involved seems to have met tragic ends, some in mental institutions, no less.
Mrs. Lincoln lived to be sixty-three, but she was never the same. Her son, Robert, lived close, and after he and his Negro friend finally were unable to watch her well enough to prevent injuries or even her death if she tried, Robert committed her but lived close enough so he could visit every other day. He stayed devoted. She was declared delusional and suicidal. What a shame.”
“She never stopped mourning her husband?”
“And Rathbone?” Donte asked since he was engrossed in the story. Virgil made history interesting; Virgil wanted to read more books as soon as he could.
Virgil pointed at Donte and said, “It gets very interesting now.”
“It already is.”
“Henry Rathbone and Clara were married, and he was appointed Consul in Germany by President Chester A. Arthur as a favor because Rathbone was so depressed and often angry that he couldn’t continue in his law career. He was coming loose in his mind. They had three children: two boys and a girl. Blah Blah…this is of no use.” Virgil set the book aside, read titles, browsed, and set two more books onto a pile. He found a new book and began to read more closely.
Before the Rathbones went to Germany, Henry was depressed and blamed himself for not saving President Lincoln. At times, he raved and claimed that the President whispered a terrible secret before he fell unconscious, that he could not stand knowing the clandestine information, and that he didn’t know what to do. He refused to tell his wife.
When Clara asked Mary Todd Lincoln about the whispered words, the former First Lady went pale but said her husband had asked Rathbone to care for her and her family and to keep them all safe.
Being sent to Germany was partly for Rathbone’s career but also because doctors in Germany used warm spas and therapies for the mind. It didn’t work, and Henry became obsessed with the belief that Clara was cheating on him and planned to leave and take the children away. He often went into fits of rage between bouts of inconsolable depression.
Clara’s dress, the one that was covered in Rathbone’s and Lincoln’s blood, was kept in a closet that Rathbone frequently looked at. He forbade the dress to be touched. He would stare at it for a half hour sometimes.
During this time, he also commissioned a project in the United States that was of an utmost secret and tremendously peculiar. He and a man he hired for a job wrote letter
s back and forth each week, and the Rathbones kept a tight watch on the project; it cost a great deal of money, but in time, it was completed.
One day, in Hanover, Germany, Henry Reed Rathbone walked into his wife Clara’s bedroom where she was with their children. In a rage, he went on and on about the assassination, terrifying Clara. He raised a small gun and shot Clara in her head, killing her. Taking out a knife, he then stabbed himself in the chest and arm, opening the scar on his left arm that Booth inflicted. He had meant to kill the children as well, but in re-enacting the assassination, he had wounded himself too badly and collapsed with tremendous blood loss.
But once more, he didn’t die.
At first, he said an intruder must have attacked them, but then he admitted he killed his wife and stabbed himself. The experts in Germany examined him, but he was not convicted, only diagnosed with acute depression and delusions and declared insane.
More than that, the doctors decided that Rathbone had been quite insane for many years. They thought it came upon him right before the assassination or was brought on instantly in a mere second during Booth’s attack.
“He was committed to a hospital for the criminally insane, Donte. In the following years, he often said a strange word that the Germans didn’t understand. Melajun was as close as they could figure it out, but the word made no sense.”
“How strange.”
“There is not a lot about the time he was there and before he died years later, but in this book,” he took another from his stack and asked, “you recall that Naomi Hathcock claimed she heard her brother, Jep, speaking in the library? It wasn’t Jep, of course. It was Mr. Hoyt reading in the aisle and coming to a partial conclusion. He had to return and check his facts. This book has been handled recently.”
“What did Mr. Hoyt say? It was a jumble of nonsense, right?”
“It sounded like it was: ‘It was her child. Merry. It was wrath born. He made a record. Anyone would go insane. No one shall ever know about this. My love for gin.’ I think it was really, ‘It was her child’ which I take to be referring to Mary Todd Lincoln.”
