Murder at Ford's Theatre Page 27

  “Money? Oh, yes, she always seemed to have money, Rick, flashing it around. I often wondered about it.”

  Klayman came to the conclusion during dinner that Bancroft pretended to know a lot more about Nadia than he actually did. He’d seen that same tendency in other people he’d interviewed about crimes. For whatever reason, perhaps to inject interest into otherwise mundane lives, they offered testimony far beyond their actual knowledge, necessitating caution on a detective’s part in culling truth from fanciful thinking.

  “What about other young men working at the theatre?” Klayman asked over Bancroft’s dessert, and two coffees. “Any chance one of them had something against Nadia?”

  “I thought you had your man, as they say.”

  “Oh, we do, but that doesn’t mean we don’t keep looking, if only to come up with witnesses to use at trial.”

  “She died in Baptist Alley, where Booth’s horse was tethered,” Bancroft said absently, as though not hearing what Klayman had said. He became animated, and leaned into the table. “Are you aware, my intelligent and curious young man, that Booth had accomplices at the theatre who aided him in his escape—his getaway, as you would say?”

  “I’ve heard that,” Klayman said.

  “And John Wilkes Booth would have made a faster getaway had he not broken his leg leaping from the presidential box after putting a hole in Mr. Lincoln’s head.”

  Klayman looked away and adjusted himself in his seat. Bancroft’s description of the killing of Abraham Lincoln was almost joyful. He’d termed Booth’s murderous act “heroic.” It caused Klayman discomfort.

  “Come,” Bancroft said after Klayman had paid the bill. “We go to the theatre, where your lesson will continue.”

  “My lesson?” Rick asked, laughing.

  “Yes. Your lesson in how one great man was slain at the hand of another.”

  As they crossed Tenth Street, Klayman asked how Bancroft’s one-man show was shaping up.

  “Splendid, Rick, splendid. I am on the verge of obtaining significant financial backing. Unfortunately, money rules, even in the arts. The learned pate ducks to the golden fool.”

  “Translation?”

  “Even geniuses must toady to rich idiots. Timon of Athens. Of course, Shakespeare was a genius and rich. Pity I can’t say the same—about being rich.”

  “Neither can I,” Klayman said pleasantly as they entered the theatre, where a park ranger sat behind the tiny ticket window.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bancroft,” the ranger said.

  “Good evening.”

  The ranger came from his position to ask Klayman for identification.

  “A detective,” Bancroft said with authority.

  Klayman showed his badge.

  “Working late?” the ranger asked, returning to his perch.

  “A learning experience,” Bancroft said, “for my young but learned friend.”

  The theatre was empty. A few work lights illuminated the stage, and wall sconces provided minimal lighting for the rest of the house.

  Bancroft dropped his leather shoulder bag on a front-row seat and bounded up to the stage. Klayman watched with amusement as the aging actor walked left and right as though surveying his working surroundings. Rick sat in the front row. He was obviously about to be treated to a performance, perhaps a sneak preview of Bancroft’s one-man play.

  Bancroft went to the large electrical board and pulled levers, sending spotlights into action. “Let me set the scene,” he announced. “It is Friday, April fourteenth, eighteen sixty-five, Good Friday. Lee has surrendered the South, and there is a celebratory atmosphere in the city. The theatre is full, one thousand, six hundred and seventy-five festive theatregoers sitting everywhere, clogging the aisles, sitting on the floor, and lining the walls. But they aren’t all happy, Rick. Oh, no. Many had paid scalpers a bloody fortune for their tickets because it was rumored that the president and General Ulysses S. Grant, fresh from his victories in Virginia, and their spouses would attend that evening. Imagine, tickets that regularly cost seventy-five cents going for two-fifty. Scandalous!”

  Klayman found himself settling into his seat and enjoying what he was seeing and hearing. Much of what Bancroft was relating was familiar to him from his reading, but even those elements came to life when presented by this tragic-comic actor whose best days were long gone.

  “Lincoln loved the theatre, particularly opera, and had seen John Wilkes Booth perform in The Marble Heart. He was also a lover of Shakespeare, Rick, being especially fond of Macbeth. Lincoln was rather like Macbeth, wasn’t he? A tragic figure in his own right.

  “The play had started, a dreadfully pedestrian British work, Our American Cousin, starring Laura Keene, America’s so-called leading lady. She was to receive a portion of the proceeds that night, not bad for a mediocre actress. The public’s taste must never be trusted. Are you with me, Rick?”

  “Yes, I am,” Klayman responded from where he sat.

  “Good.”

  Bancroft was becoming increasingly antic on stage, pacing its entirety as he replayed the night of the assassination.

  “Booth, clever devil that he was, had no trouble prowling this theatre that day. He was known, and revered by everyone. That afternoon, he’d gone up to the presidential box and, using a penknife, cut a hole into which to wedge something against the outer door behind the presidential box to keep others from interrupting his plan.”

  Klayman knew that whenever Lincoln attended performances at Ford’s Theatre, two small upper boxes to the audience’s right were made larger by removing a partition between them. Each box had its own door, both of which opened into a tiny vestibule. Booth’s plan was to gain entry to that vestibule, wedge the door shut, and wait for a particular line in the play that invariably generated loud laughter from the audience. A peephole just above the doorknob afforded him visual confirmation that the president was in his rocking chair, and allowed him to hear the action on the stage in anticipation of the famous line.

  “The president and his party were late,” Bancroft continued. “The play had been on for an hour when they arrived. Laura Keene saw the president moving through the Dress Circle up there.” He pointed to the balcony jutting out over the rear of the theatre. “She motions to the orchestra leader—he stops what the orchestra has been doing and they launch into ‘Hail to the Chief’—Lincoln, his wife, and Major Henry Reed Rathbone and his fiancée, Clara Harris, reach the box and take their seats.” Bancroft now crouched onstage. “The time is getting close, Rick. President Lincoln takes his wife’s hand, which she shakes off, concerned that it would be too—too public a display of affection. A hard woman, Mary Lincoln.”

  Bancroft was moving about the stage like a man possessed. He went to the door leading to Baptist Alley and opened it.

  “Booth is here, Rick, when the play resumes. His steed waits outside to whisk him away. He asks a stagehand if he can cross behind the scenes to the side where the presidential box is, but is told he can’t. He’s not deterred. He opens a trapdoor leading down to a basement beneath the stage, goes down the steps, and feels his way along the dark underground passageway, the sounds on the stage above reverberating in his ears, reaches the other side, and comes up through a second trapdoor.”

  Bancroft ran across the stage to position himself beneath the presidential box. He motioned for Klayman to join him. The detective, transfixed by the bizarre performance unfolding onstage, got up and went to where Bancroft stood.

  “Come with me,” Bancroft said, leading Klayman down into the orchestra and up a staircase to the Dress Circle. “Booth moves easily through the throng. He’s recognized; he’s almost as famous as the president. A woman comments that John Wilkes is the handsomest man she’s ever seen, which he was. So handsome, so dashing.”

  They went to a narrow hallway leading directly to the presidential box. A red velvet rope hanging from two stanchions barred their way.

  “This is off-limits to the public,” Klayman said
.

  “But we are not the public, Rick. You are an officer of the law with every right to be here, and I am an important part of this theatre.”

  Bancroft moved the rope and led Klayman to the door leading to the vestibule. He opened it and stepped back for Klayman to enter.

  “See, Rick, see how he carved the wood to allow him to wedge the door shut behind him with a piece of a wooden music stand he carried upstairs with him?”

  They stepped up to a Plexiglas partition that had been installed in place of the door to the box. The door itself was displayed in the basement museum.

  “Alas, we won’t be able to enter the box,” Bancroft said. “But imagine what Booth was feeling as he approached, his forty-four caliber, single-shot Derringer concealed beneath his clothing.” He pulled an imaginary weapon from his waistband and pointed his index finger at Klayman. “Who’s here to protect the president of the United States?” He waited for a response. “Come now, Rick, you certainly know that part of the story.”

  Klayman smiled and nodded. “He was supposed to be guarded by a member of the D.C. police force, a John Parker. Parker was here outside the box that night, but disappeared once the show started. The only person between Booth and Lincoln was the president’s personal valet, Charles Forbes.”

  “Well done, Rick, well done. Booth comes here and hands Forbes his calling card. Forbes recognizes the famous John Wilkes Booth, of course. Booth says he has a message to deliver to the president, and Forbes ushers him into the vestibule. Once here, Booth wedges the outer door closed and views the president through the peephole. And he presses his ear against the hole and listens to the play being performed, waiting for that fateful line. Do you remember what it is, Rick?”

  “Not precisely.”

  Bancroft straightened and intoned, “‘Do you know the manners of good society, huh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap.’”

  Bancroft’s face lit up, his eyes widened. “Do you hear it, Rick, the uproarious laughter at that line? Perfect! Booth enters the box and—” He pressed his index finger against Klayman’s head and said loudly, “‘Boom! You’re dead, Mr. President.’”

  Klayman stepped away from Bancroft. A cold sweat had formed on Klayman’s brow and upper lip, and his stomach churned. Bancroft was staring at him, a maniacal smile on his pinched face. He was sweating profusely, causing his makeup to streak.

  “It was so simple, Rick,” the actor said. “Were it not for that Plexiglas panel, I would leap from the box as Booth did, tangling my feet in the infernal bunting and breaking my leg on the stage in front of thousands witnessing the most memorable performance of my career.”

  They returned downstairs. Klayman stayed by the seat he’d been in when Bancroft’s theatrical re-creation had begun. The actor wasn’t finished. He went to the stage, faced the empty house, raised his hands, and shouted, “Sic semper tyrannis!”

  Thus always unto tyrants!

  Lincoln had been Julius Caesar, the tyrant, and Booth saw himself as Brutus, killing the tyrant.

  “I have to be going,” Klayman said when Bancroft came down from the stage.

  “Yes, of course. Did you enjoy your little lesson?”

  “I, ah—it was an interesting evening.”

  “Cheerio, Rick. You’ve been a very good audience, indeed. And thank you for a lovely dinner. We must break bread again together soon.”

  As Klayman turned and started up the aisle, the park ranger quickly moved away from where he’d been eavesdropping on the action. By the time Klayman reached the lobby, the ranger was again seated in the ticket booth.

  “Mr. Bancroft not leaving with you?” he asked.

  “I guess not.”

  “Glad to see you nailed the guy who killed the girl, even if it is Ms. Emerson’s kid. I feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah, I do, too. Good night.”

  “Working late, Mr. Bancroft,” the park ranger said when Bancroft came to the lobby a few minutes later.

  “The festival is coming up in three days. Frankly, I’m not sure I should have accepted the offer to direct the bloody thing. Well, too late now. Cheerio.”

  The ranger shook his head and laughed when Bancroft was gone. He’d heard all the complaints about the aging, eccentric British actor from others at the theatre. He wasn’t directing anything, just getting in the way. He picked up the magazine he’d been perusing before eavesdropping on the impromptu performance inside, and resumed reading. Another long, uneventful night ahead of him, and six years to the pension. Oh, well, other people had it worse.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “HOW WAS DINNER?”

  “Great. You should have joined us. The Swamp Thing was first-rate.”

  “The what?”

  “At B. Smith’s. Shrimp and crawfish flavored with mustard, and collard greens. Funny name, but tastes good. How about you? Bancroft admit he killed her?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. He’d get off on an insanity plea. He’s nuts.”

  “It took you this long to figure that out?”

  “I didn’t realize I was talking to the great American psychiatrist, Dr. Moses Johnson. When I say he’s nuts—hardly a clinical term—I mean he’s pathetic, a sad man. He turned me into his audience, re-created the Lincoln assassination for me, called me his pupil, acted out a history lesson.”

  “The Swamp Thing is sounding better every minute. So you’re satisfied he didn’t do the deed.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. How’d the lineup turn out? You talk to Hathaway?”

  “Yeah. The old drunk nailed Jeremiah right out of the blocks. No hesitation. Herman says you’re wasting your time chasing other suspects.”

  “I hate to disagree with our leader, but—”

  “Hey, Ricky, you don’t have to convince me. Save it for Herman. By the way, you should be happy. We’re pulling duty at Ford’s Theatre Thursday night for that TV show.”

  While security for the president and vice president and their families was the responsibility of the Secret Service, their efforts were routinely augmented by local law enforcement whenever they appeared outside the confines of their official residences and workplaces. Johnson and Klayman had been assigned to such duty on other occasions in the past, working closely with the Secret Service, the FBI, and other organizations.

  “Know what still bothers me most?” Klayman asked.

  “What?”

  “Lerner’s mother. She claimed she didn’t know the victim was hanging around her theatre, but that’s not what Bancroft says. Crowley, the controller, too.”

  “Forget it,” Johnson said. “Like I said about the senator, Ms. Emerson doesn’t strike me as the type to be beating some girl’s brains out.”

  “Maybe she had somebody do it for her. Ever think of that?”

  Johnson didn’t say what was on his mind at the moment, that his young partner had fallen into the trap Johnson had seen with other young detectives: a belief that they could single-handedly solve every murder in town and save the world in the process. With a felony crime index in D.C. more than four times the national average, and 250 murders a year, to go with assaults, rapes, and other crimes against persons, you didn’t have time to be a white knight. Nor was it your decision as a detective to determine guilt or innocence. You developed what leads and evidence you could, turned it over to the courts, and moved on to the next case.

  Klayman didn’t express his inner thoughts, either, to his veteran partner. He’d testified in a number of murder cases on which he’d worked, and had seen it firsthand—shrewd defense lawyers claiming a rush to judgment on the part of the police, zeroing in almost immediately on a suspect to the exclusion of others. Isn’t that what had happened with Jeremiah Lerner? he reasoned. The questioning of Senator Lerner had never happened, nor had anyone followed up with Clarise Emerson, the boy’s mother. Employees of Ford’s Theatre had given their original statements, and that was that. Once they knew J
eremiah had dated Nadia despite his denials—and because of those denials—and his shoe print had been found in the alley, it was case-closed. Add to that the fact that Jeremiah Lerner was easy to hate. And now, a lineup ID by an alcoholic homeless man reinforced the belief that they had their man. It was all too quick and easy.

  “See you in the morning?” Klayman asked.

  “Sure. Hathaway’s putting us on that drug rubout that went down yesterday in Southeast.”

  Klayman didn’t voice his displeasure at being assigned to another case. He was an MPD soldier, not a general. He took orders, didn’t give them. But there would be other days off, and other nights to pursue the truth in Nadia Zarinski’s murder.

  “Glad you enjoyed the Swamp Thing, Mo. I had pasta. It was delicious.”

  “You’re all meat and potatoes, Rick. Bye.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  CLARISE WAS DRAINED of energy and emotion as she walked through the door of her home, locked the door behind her, dropped her bag and shed her shoes in the foyer, and walked numbly into the living room. Monday was the housekeeper’s night off. Although Clarise welcomed the solitude, the live-in maid’s absence cast a cold, empty pall over the house as though no one had ever lived there, an empty shell without the smell or heat of another human being. She looked at the furniture, and the drapes, down at the carpet and up to a chandelier. What were those things? They silently surrounded her, mute, inanimate witnesses to the hollowness she felt.

  She fell on a couch and stared up at the ceiling. She’d dreaded the press conference but had managed to get through it. She resented her former husband’s aristocratic, staunch stance at the microphone, in charge and cocksure, the practiced inflection of his voice honed by thousands of speeches over the course of his political career. She was aware of Annabel’s presence but realized asking her to be there had wasted her friend’s time. No distant moral support could have helped ease her fears and anxiety, nor her anger at having been placed in such an untenable position.