Murder at Ford's Theatre (3 page)

“Is it true?” Clarise asked. “There’s been a murder?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Johnson.

“It appears that way,” Klayman clarified. “You’ve been here all morning, ma’am?”

“Not all morning. I did arrive early.”

“Did you see Ms. Zarinski?”

“Zarinski? Nadia Zarinski?” Her face sagged; it was obvious she knew who the victim was, but equally apparent that she was shocked. “
She’s
been murdered here?”

“Why don’t we go over there and talk?” Klayman suggested, touching Clarise’s arm and guiding her toward an isolated seating section. As they went, Clarise said, “She works for my former husband, Senator Lerner.”

“I know, ma’am, I know,” said Klayman.

“There was the scan—the rumors. What was
she
doing here?”

“We’ll find that out, ma’am,” Klayman said, taking a seat next to her.

“I’m Bernard Crowley,” the heavyset man told Johnson, dabbing with a handkerchief at perspiration on his forehead.

“You work here?” Johnson asked.

“Yes. I’m the theatre’s controller.”

Johnson noted that Crowley’s eyes were moist. “You and Ms. Zarinski were pretty close.”

“Oh, no,” Crowley said quickly. “She—oh, my God. How could this happen?”

“We’ll talk over there,” Johnson said, pointing to the opposite side of the theatre from where Klayman and Clarise sat.

“Does Clarise know it was Nadia?”

“I believe so,” Johnson replied.

“She’ll be devastated.”

“She knew her well?”

“No. Knew of her. There was talk about her and Senator Bruce Lerner. That’s Clarise’s former husband. I told her to stay away.”

“Who?”

“Nadia. The victim. When I realized who she was, I told her in no uncertain terms that it was totally inappropriate for her to be here, considering the rumor and Clarise’s sensitivities.”

“You can tell me all about it, sir, over there.”

An hour later, the only people left upstairs in Ford’s Theatre were park rangers and two uniformed MPD officers, one of whom stood in the lobby to make sure no one not officially connected with the theatre could enter—tourist lectures and tours were cancelled for the remainder of the day. Outside, in Baptist Alley, another cop stood guard over the crime scene, which was bordered in yellow crime scene tape. It would remain that way until another evidence collection team had returned to complete its examination of the alley. The stage crew that had been present that morning were at police headquarters on Fourth Street, SW, giving formal statements; Clarise and Crowley had returned to their offices, promising to show up at headquarters later in the day.

Rick Klayman had wandered out of the alley to F Street, turning every few feet to look back at the rear of the theatre where Nadia Zarinski’s body had been found. He turned left and walked up F to the corner of Tenth Street, pausing in front of Honest Abe Souvenirs, which offered shirts, hats, posters, and myriad other items featuring Lincoln’s likeness. Klayman grinned. If Lincoln were alive and had a piece of all the action, he thought, he’d be a very rich man.

He went up Tenth and entered the theatre through the front doors. The uniformed officer greeted him and watched as Klayman slowly went downstairs to the Lincoln Museum, where artifacts were displayed in Plexiglas cases. The museum was cool and modern in contrast to the historically preserved theatre upstairs. It was peaceful being there without the usual knots of tourists wielding camcorders and snapping at their children not to touch things. He meandered past the cases, stopping only briefly to admire their familiar contents: a pair of the president’s boots, size 14, made by a boot maker in New York named Pater Kahler from tracings Lincoln had made of his own feet. There was Lincoln’s overcoat stained with blood, its sleeve torn off by souvenir seekers in 1876. There was a violin played on the night of the assassination, and dozens of Playbills filled another display.

Klayman went to a life-sized photo of Lincoln on a far wall and stood before it. Red footprints were painted into the floor; the purpose was to stand in those footprints and compare your height with that of the sixteenth president, who was six feet four inches tall. Klayman placed his shoes on the prints and looked up into Honest Abe’s face. “You were some big man,” he muttered, “both ways,” smiling and feeling shorter than his five-foot seven. “You going to help me with this one, boss?” he asked Lincoln.

He heard only the gentle whoosh of cooled air coming through a vent above his head.

Lincoln stared down at him. Did one eye move, a wink? Had a trace of a smile come and gone on his strong mouth?

“Thanks, Mr. President,” Klayman said, turning to head back to headquarters.

There was work to be done, and they’d barely started. But he felt inspired.

THREE

K
LAYMAN STOOD
NEXT
to Eric Ong in the ME’s autopsy room. The detective found the autopsy process inherently fascinating, something his partner, Mo, did not. But while Klayman didn’t have any problem watching Dr. Ong work on Nadia Zarinski as the body lay naked on his stainless steel table, he was distinctly uncomfortable calling a next of kin to break the news that a loved one was dead. Mo was good at that, his deep, resonant voice calming those on the receiving end of his call or personal visit.

“What have we got?” Klayman asked Ong, a slender, edgy man wearing round, oversized glasses tethered to his neck by a psychedelic blue-and-pink ribbon.

“Cause? Subdural and subarachnoid hemorrhages. Manner of death? Blow to the head with blunt, broad object. Definitely a homicide.”

“We didn’t find anything at the scene that was broad and blunt,” said Klayman. “No sign of her being dragged?”

“No. But I’d say she spent a little time on her knees before dying. See those scrapes on her knees?”

Klayman leaned over the table for a closer look at the victim’s legs.

“She might have gone down to her knees from the blow to her face. Whoever did it finished the job with the blow to the head.”

“Or she was pleading.”

Ong glanced at Klayman. “Yes, that’s possible, but there’s no way for me to determine that.”

They went to Ong’s small, crowded office, where they removed their blue hospital smocks. “Blood and tissue samples will tell us more, of course,” Ong said, placing the cassette tape onto which he’d recorded his running comments during the autopsy in an envelope, to be transcribed later. “Sexual activity. A better approximation of time of death.”

“If she did fall to her knees from the first blow, was the angle of the second blow consistent with someone standing over her?” Klayman asked.

Ong displayed a rare smile. “Maybe her attacker wasn’t standing over her, Detective. Maybe he was very short.”

“The strange case of the murdering midget. Sounds like a Holmes novel.” Klayman smiled, thanked the ME, and drove to district headquarters. Johnson was conferring with their boss, Herman Hathaway, a short, wiry man with slicked-back black hair and a silly looking tiny tuft of black whiskers on the point of his chin.

“Charlie Chan come up with anything exciting?” Hathaway asked Klayman as he entered the office and took a chair next to Johnson.

“Not much. Whoever did her hit her twice, once in the face, once on the head. Blunt, broad object. Time of death maybe between midnight and two.”

“The press is on it,” Hathaway said. “Got a call from Senator Lerner’s office. She was an intern there.”

“Got that already,” Klayman said.

“You also got the rumor that the senator might have gotten his jollies with his intern?” Hathaway asked.

“I heard something about that,” said Johnson.

“Damn rumors,” Klayman said. “Everything’s a rumor in this town, every intern a lay.”

“Sometimes they’re true,” said his boss. “You’ll check it, of course.”

“Of course.” Klayman turned to Johnson. “Did you reach her parents?”

“Yeah. They live in Florida.” He glanced down at his notebook. “Retired. Father taught at Purdue University in Indiana, agricultural science. Mother was a nurse. Deceased had one sister older, one brother younger.”

Johnson’s ability to elicit information while being the bearer of bad news always impressed Klayman. The few times he’d made such calls he’d gotten off as quickly as possible. But his partner didn’t squander the opportunity to find out things, and was invariably successful. Not only was that voice calming, it held you captive.

“They’re flying up tonight,” Johnson said. “Got them a room at the Channel Inn.”

“Our resident travel agent,” Hathaway said while picking up the ringing phone.

“Figured I’d help ’em out,” Johnson said. “Nice people.” The Channel Inn was on the Washington Channel, close to First District headquarters, first choice when housing out-of-towners in D.C. on police business.

“How’d the formal statements go?” Klayman asked.

“Okay,” Johnson replied. “Everybody claims an alibi, didn’t see her last night. One guy they mentioned is interesting, though.”

“Who’s that?”

Another peek at his notebook. “A Sydney Bancroft.”

“The old British actor.”

“You know him?”

“Not personally, but I’ve seen a few of his films. Why is
he
interesting?”

“He works at Ford’s Theatre, Rick. He was supposed to be there this morning for a meeting but never showed up. Ms. Emerson says he’s out of town. But one of the stagehands claims Bancroft was always sniffing around the deceased, making a nuisance of himself, you know, touching where he shouldn’t have, lewd comments, dirty old man kind of stuff.”

“And they say he might have had something to do with her murder?”

“No, only that he’s worth talking to.”

“Why didn’t he show up this morning?
Is
he out of town?”

“I called the number they gave me. No answer. His message on the machine sounds like he’s reciting Shakespeare or something.” Johnson’s attempt to mimic the message came out a mix of cockney and hip-hop; Klayman suppressed a smile.

“Well, ‘To be or not to be,’” Johnson said, laughing.

“You missed your calling,” Klayman said, standing and stretching.

Hathaway got off the phone and asked what was on their agenda for the rest of the day.

“We’ll check out where Ms. Zarinski lived,” Klayman answered. “See if we can rustle up some friends, boyfriends, enemies. By the way, what about our FBI undercover eyewitness, Mr. Partridge?”

Hathaway snickered. “He’s sleeping it off downstairs. When he sobers up you can have the pleasure of questioning him. Bring your gas masks.”

“L
INCOLN WAS A GOOD LAWYER
before he became president.”

Mackensie Smith perched on the edge of his desk and took in the faces of the nineteen third-year law students seated in his class in George Washington University’s law building. It was the first session of a new course he’d lobbied to add to the law school curriculum, Lincoln the Lawyer, and he was enthusiastic about teaching it. Smith had been a top Washington criminal attorney until a drunk driver slaughtered his first wife and only child on the Beltway, prompting him to close up his criminal law practice and gravitate to the less violent, although sometimes treacherous, world of academia. He’d been a Lincoln buff since high school, compliments of a history teacher who always managed to weave a Lincoln story into any phase of American history being taught. It was during law school that Smith gravitated to reading not about President Lincoln but Lincoln as a young lawyer in Illinois. While Lincoln’s law experiences didn’t have direct relevance to other courses Smith taught to fledgling attorneys—although he had been involved in some precedent-setting cases, particularly in the area of municipal law—it was Honest Abe’s attitudes about justice and the pursuit of it that Smith found compelling.

The young men and women sitting before him were the cream of the law school’s crop, and Smith was flattered they’d chosen this new course as one of their few electives. He chalked it up to the subject matter. But truth was, most of them had opted for the course in order to be in another of Mac Smith’s classes. Modesty precluded his acknowledging, even to himself, that he was a favorite professor among the student body.

“I wonder how many of you would have gone through what Abe Lincoln went through to become a lawyer,” Smith began.

“He was self-taught, wasn’t he?” a student said.

“Correct.”

“Which was probably easier than going through three years of law school,” said another, adding a laugh to couch the statement for Smith’s sake.

“Think so?” Smith asked pleasantly. “I think not. Lincoln was driven to study law in his spare time by a devotion to justice, decency, and equality. He didn’t have any money, and worked menial jobs like clerking in a store to support himself. He read constantly. There were no study guides to help him, no formalized textbooks, no lucrative job in some Wall Street law firm to motivate him.”

“No brilliant law professors to mentor him,” someone said.

“How nice of you to recognize that, Mr. Gormley,” Smith said, mock-seriously. “My point is, Lincoln wanted to become a lawyer for what it would allow him to do for the common man. How many of you does that apply to?”

A dozen hands immediately shot up, followed by most of the rest.

“Your demonstration of altruism is heartwarming,” Smith said. “Lincoln was encouraged to study law by Justice of the Peace Bowling Green, and started by reading—and memorizing—every page of
Blackstone’s Commentaries.
Know how he memorized it? He wrote every page from the book on pads to help him fix the words in his mind. He did that twice, and then rewrote every page in his own words. That’s dedication, wouldn’t you agree?”

There were no arguments.

Fifty minutes later, as the class was about to leave, Smith announced, “I’d like each of you to spend a few hours at Ford’s Theatre before we meet again next Tuesday. How many of you have been there?”

Three hands were raised.

“Take in one of the park ranger’s lectures while you’re there. Examine the displays in the museum. It’s in the basement. We’ll talk about it next time.”

“What does his assassination have to do with his having been a lawyer? Or theatre?”

Smith stared at the questioner, smiled, shook his head, and didn’t answer.
He’ll make a good trial lawyer,
he thought.
Question everything, accept nothing.

He added to his thought,
and an insufferable dinner companion.

Smith packed his briefcase and headed for the faculty lounge, where he was due to meet with the law school’s dean about a problem student. He entered the large room furnished with polished tufted leather couches and husky oak tables, spotted the dean sitting in a far corner, and joined him.

“How did your first class go, Mac?”

“Fine. If I can get them to view the law the way Lincoln did, it’ll be a success.”

“Tragic what happened at Ford’s Theatre this morning, wasn’t it?”

“What happened?”

The dean gave him a capsule version of events as reported on the radio: Young intern from Senator Lerner’s office, and theatre aficionado—brutally murdered in the alley behind the theatre.

“Leads?”

“None that I heard. Typical all-news radio station report. We, the listeners, with our twenty-second attention spans, are told by an announcer speaking into a speech compression machine all we need to know—or can comprehend.”

Smith grinned. The dean’s patience with all things modern was inelastic. No song written after 1945 was worthy of recording, no piece of art failing to accurately depict pastoral scenes or the human form worthy of hanging. His hard-nosed view of the way things should be was tempered by a brilliant legal mind, a fervent commitment to turning out good lawyers, and surprising political and diplomatic skills when it came to navigating the roiling waters of a large educational institution. Smith would miss him; the dean was a year from retirement.

“Well, that is tragic news. I’m going there after I leave you.”

“Board of Governors meeting?”

“No. I’m meeting Annabel—I think. Maybe after what’s happened she’ll have left. Clarise Emerson is coming for dinner tonight. That might be scuttled, too. Now, what about our recalcitrant student?”