The Fifth Assassin Page 5

  “I know there’s something you’re not saying about this guy, Beecher. And I appreciate you trying to be proactive, but if Marshall’s our killer, he’s gonna be dangerous. You can’t just go knock on his front door.”

  I totally agree. “Who says we’re gonna knock?”

  PART II

  The Second Assassination

  “I thank you, doctor, but I am a dead man.”

  —President James Garfield, while being treated

  on the floor of the train station where the assassin,

  Charles Guiteau, shot him in the back

  He was the second President murdered in office.

  10

  July 2, 1881

  Washington, D.C.

  President Garfield was scheduled to be on the 9:30 a.m. train. Like most Presidents, he was running behind schedule. It was hot in Washington—every summer was always brutal in its own way—and on top of that, Garfield was exhausted. Though he’d spent barely four months in office, he already knew it was hard being President.

  And so he was making this train trip. His first stop would be at his alma mater, Williams College, to attend commencement. And then he was heading to northern New England for a well-earned vacation.

  He never made it out of the station.

  At 9:20, his carriage pulled up to the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad Depot at what is currently Constitution and 6th Street in downtown D.C. Behind him, in a second carriage, were his two sons, Harry and Jim.

  Realizing he had a few minutes, Garfield decided to stay in the carriage, catching up with his friend and secretary of state, James Blaine. During the election of 1880, both Blaine and Garfield were among the Republican nominees, but it was Garfield who was picked as the true compromise candidate—the man who would unite the various party factions.

  As they sat there in the carriage, Blaine was calm, playing with his cane and tossing it over and over in the air. At the time, the Secret Service wasn’t in charge of presidential protection yet. With his top hat and gray traveling suit, the President eventually stepped down from the carriage, leading his friend and family into the station.

  Inside, among the Cabinet members who were waiting to see him off was Robert Todd Lincoln, the eldest son of the first slain President.

  Entering the nearly empty station with a few minutes to spare, President James Garfield was calm. He was relaxed. And he had no idea that a slight five-foot-five-inch man named Charles Guiteau had arrived an hour earlier and was hiding in the washroom.

  Unlike John Wilkes Booth, Guiteau wasn’t an actor. He hadn’t prepared any final, memorable lines.

  Waiting for the President to pass, Guiteau was silent as the two-hundred-pound commander in chief marched through the station. Without a word, Guiteau rushed the President from behind, pulled out the small, snub-nosed British Bulldog pistol that he’d bought a month earlier, and fired at the President’s back.

  The first shot seemed to graze Garfield’s arm, so Guiteau stepped closer and fired again.

  That shot hit President Garfield in the back, above the waist. The President sank to the floor. His top hat was crushed, his gray traveling suit covered in blood.

  Still silent, the assassin Guiteau tucked his gun into his pocket and walked quickly to the exit. Outside, a D.C. cop heard the two shots. Racing to investigate, the officer yanked open the door just as Guiteau slammed into him. The officer didn’t let the flustered man pass.

  “I have a letter to send to General Sherman!” Guiteau blurted, speaking his first words. Within seconds, a ticket taker and depot watchman grabbed Guiteau from behind, tackling the man who had just shot the President.

  Inside, Garfield’s younger son, Jim, was bawling, the older son trying to comfort him. People were screaming, begging for a doctor as blood spread across the station floor.

  By noon that day, as the news of the shooting traveled, President Garfield, who just months earlier had been put in office as a result of political compromise, was suddenly a leader of enormous stature.

  The nation prayed that Garfield might live—and he did, though he never recovered. Dwindling from two hundred pounds down to a hundred and twenty, President Garfield died in bed two months later.

  At the time, some said God was judging the nation. Others said Guiteau was part of a grand, power-grabbing plot.

  The assassin Guiteau never hid the truth: He told them he was trying to prevent another civil war. No one believed him.

  But he was right—and he said it best: “God makes no blunders… He selects the right man every time for the right place; and in this He always successfully checkmates the Devil’s moves.”

  John Wilkes Booth had done his job as the Knight of Spades. And now the Knight of Diamonds had completed his task.

  11

  Today

  Washington, D.C.

  Today was a perfect day to kill a President.

  The Knight knew it as he stood in the cold on the corner of 16th and P Streets, ignoring the passing cars of early commuters and staring at the wooden double doors of his newest destination, the massive Neo-Gothic castle known as Foundry United Methodist Church. This would go better than the mess last night at St. John’s.

  Without a doubt, he could’ve waited—could’ve pushed it back a day… but now… with Beecher already involved… No. History had already been written. It couldn’t be changed.

  President Garfield was shot at exactly 9:25 a.m.

  The Knight glanced down at his watch. Less than an hour to go.

  That’s how it was written.

  That’s how it had to end.

  Diagonally across the street, a lanky black man in a puffy black-and-red winter coat approached the huge 1904 granite building with its limestone trim and wood-framed windows. At the front door, he pulled out a set of keys. Church custodian, right on time.

  Twirling a sucking candy around his tongue, the Knight watched as the custodian disappeared through the right-hand door just like he did every morning. It’d take him at least ten minutes to enter the PIN code, shut off the alarm, and walk through the building, turning on the lights. Otherwise, Foundry Church was now open.

  Walking calmly across the street, the Knight couldn’t help but appreciate his current location. By definition, a foundry is a factory for casting metal, which is exactly what Henry Foxall was doing when he built cannons and guns for the U.S. government in the early 1800s. But it wasn’t until the War of 1812 that Foxall had his moment with God. As the British were burning the White House, the rumor was that their next target was Foxall’s munitions factory. So Foxall made a vow that day: If God would spare his operations, Foxall would build something in God’s honor.

  That night, a violent thunderstorm appeared from nowhere, stopping the British from advancing any farther. Two years later, Foundry Church was born.

  Over the years, it became the place where FDR took Winston Churchill for Christmas services in 1941, and later it was the Methodist home for Bill Clinton when he was President. But to this day, its greatest role was as the true church of Abraham Lincoln.

  Since St. John’s was right across the street from the White House, Lincoln used to duck into it for quick prayers. But it was the Foundry, straight up 16th Street, one mile from the White House, where Lincoln became an official church director.

  The Knight liked that. God’s message couldn’t be clearer.

  Climbing the concrete steps outside, the Knight reached for the front door, but as he gave it a tug, a burning bolt of pain seized his right shoulder. His newest tattoo was still sensitive, and unlike the small spade and the JWB initials, for John Wilkes Booth, that was on the web of his hand, the marking on his shoulder—the one worn by the second Knight, the assassin Charles Guiteau—was far more complex: the shield, plus the fabled bird… and of course the red diamond. It took hours, and over thirty needles, to reproduce the mark.

  But again, that’s how it was written. That’s how it had to end.

  Inside the church, he cl
imbed another short set of steps and made a quick left, scanning the empty desks and cubicles in the narrow church office that sat behind a long wall of glass. The custodian was still on the far right side of the building, opening the chapel.

  The Knight knew this place even better than St. John’s. And this time, he wouldn’t be limited to a one-shot revolver. In his right pocket, he felt the British Bulldog pistol. It had a white ivory inlaid grip and five bullets in its chamber.

  Back in 1881, on the day Guiteau bought his gun, the owner of the shop told him that he could save money if he bought the same pistol without the white ivory handle. Guiteau wouldn’t hear of it. He knew that when the act was done, this was a gun that would be on display. The elegant inlaid grip was the only choice.

  From there, Guiteau left nothing to chance, spending nearly a month trailing President Garfield and learning his schedule. He even followed Garfield to church, peering through the window to see if he could shoot him in his pew.

  Today, the Knight was no different. In less than an hour, history would be made. He’d put in the time. And bought the antique gun. And paid for the specially made inlaid handle. Most important, he’d mastered every detail of Foundry Church, from the building’s layout to every employee in it.

  On his left, as he reached the end of the hallway, the Knight peered into the office suite, eyeing his eventual destination—the private office of the new pastor, who everyone knew came in at exactly 9 a.m.

  On his right, he shoved open the door to the men’s room and made his way to the back stall, which had a sign reading Out of Order on it. He had put the sign there two days ago. Lifting the tank cover off the toilet, he pulled out the plastic bag that held a white plaster mask—a duplicate of the death mask made from Abraham Lincoln’s face, but with eyeholes cut into it—that he’d hidden during the dry run.

  A glance at his watch told him he was right on time. In sync with his predecessor. In sync with God’s plans.

  At 9:25, the next lamb—perhaps the most vital lamb—would take his fall.

  Until then, the Knight would do exactly what the assassin Guiteau did when he was in the train station waiting to put a bullet in President Garfield.

  Kneeling down on one knee, the Knight reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round tin and a horsehair brush that was about the size of a chalkboard eraser. With a twist of the metal tin, the bitter chemical smell of shoe polish filled the air. Dipping the brush into the tin, he dabbed a swirl of black shoe polish onto his loafers. Small circles… then brush, he reminded himself. Small circles… then brush.

  It was no different with the Knights.

  Small circles were the strongest circles.

  12

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  Washington, D.C.

  Nico didn’t like the new building.

  “Nico, you’re gonna love the new building,” the heavy male nurse named Rupert Baird called out. “It’s beautiful, right?”

  Walking through the gravel parking lot, Nico didn’t answer. He preferred the old building—the redbrick John Howard Pavilion—which for decades had housed the most dangerous of the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.

  Today, the John Howard Pavilion was being closed, and all of its patients were being moved to the brand-new facility that had been built directly next door.

  “Wait till you see inside,” Rupert said. “New rooms… new TVs… a relaxation garden… You’re gonna think you’re at a damn hotel.”

  Nico glanced up at the modern building. It was squat in shape and had only three floors, and from the flat shine on the windows, Nico could tell they were high-impact glass, maybe even bulletproof.

  “I don’t like it either,” added the dead First Lady, whom he killed a decade ago.

  Nico nodded at her, but didn’t reply. He knew what the nurses thought about him talking to his old victims.

  “All your stuff, it’s being transferred as we speak,” Rupert added, leading him around the side of the building, near the loading dock that said, New Patient Intake—Ambulance Parking Only.

  Nico knew why Rupert was being so nice. Just like he knew why they were entering through the loading dock instead of the main lobby. With all the VIPs and reporters who were watching during the grand opening, the last thing the hospital needed was to have their most famous patient—the man who, a decade ago, tried to kill the President—making a scene during his transfer.

  “It smells different than the old building,” Nico said as they climbed the concrete steps that ran up to the loading dock.

  “That’s kinda the point,” Rupert said, approaching a high-tech keypad and swiping his ID. There was a loud ca-chunk as the double doors popped open, swinging toward them and revealing a brand-new U-shaped desk at the front of the still-empty Intake Office. The desk and the surrounding chairs were still covered in plastic. As they reached the hospital’s main hallway, there wasn’t a staffer in sight.

  “You should ask to see your room,” the dead First Lady said.

  “I’d like to see my room now.”

  “You will, Nico. But first they want you in—”

  “You’re not listening. I want to see my room,” he growled. To make the point, Nico stopped in the hallway, refusing to move.

  “Nico, I am so not in the mood for your nuttiness today. They’re waiting for us in TLC,” Rupert said, raising his voice as he referred to the Therapeutic Learning Center.

  Nico still wouldn’t budge.

  Rupert grabbed him by the biceps. “Can you for once not be a pain in my rear?” Tightening his grip, he added, “Y’know how many of us got fired to pay for this building? We used to have orderlies running the juice cart. Now I gotta do all that, plus haul you to TLC, plus—!”

  “You need to let go of me,” Nico warned in a calm voice.

  “Or what?” Rupert challenged, making sure Nico got a good look at the small electronic device—like a miniature walkie-talkie—that Rupert held in his left hand.

  Nico had heard rumors that the new building would have those. To be used during patient transfers. It was called a “man-down system.” If a staffer dropped it, or their body went horizontal, an alarm would ring through the building, while the hallway’s cameras would immediately zoom in within twenty feet of the device.

  Nico checked both ends of the hallway. Brand-new cameras—encased in unbreakable glass cubes—on each side.

  Nico stayed silent. Two years ago, he would’ve jammed his thumbs in Rupert’s eye sockets and pressed hard enough to hear the pop in his brain. But Nico’s therapies… all the drugs… He was a new man now. A cured man, is what the doctors called him. Cured. With a soft exhale, Nico unclenched his shoulders. Even the dead First Lady didn’t argue.

  Smiling and still holding Nico’s biceps, Rupert steered him up the—

  “What do you think you’re doing!?” a southern voice shouted behind them.

  Following the sound, Rupert and Nico spun to find a tall man with tight curly black hair and a fine gray wool suit. Around here, only doctors wore suits. And among those doctors, only this one wore a vintage 1950s King Kong tie.

  “Rupert, you have half a second to get your hands off him!” Dr. Michael Gosling barked.

  “Sir, you don’t understand,” Rupert pleaded, letting go of Nico’s bicep. “I was just taking him to TLC—”

  Gosling’s hand shot out, gripping Rupert by his own bicep and tugging him aside, just out of Nico’s earshot. “Was he putting himself or anyone else in danger?” Gosling challenged in a tense, low voice.

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s always the point. We have rules here, Rupert—and first among them is, don’t put your hands on the patients… especially the ones who’re making actual progress.” Turning to Nico, Gosling forced a smile and added, “You okay, Nico?”

  “I want to go to my room.”

  Rupert could barely keep from rolling his eyes. Every doctor was careful with Nico, but Gosling was one of th
e few who built a career on it. A decade ago, Gosling had been the junior member on Nico’s team—and the doctor credited with persuading Nico to stop plucking his eyelashes and using them to form tiny crosses that only he could see.

  These days, Gosling was one of the hospital’s top administrators, in charge of not just the new facility’s operations but also making sure it opened without incident. And though Gosling insisted that his vintage movie ties were a way to seem accessible to the patients, everyone knew that he preferred the King Kong tie over the others. That’s how he saw himself: King Kong. The biggest of them all.

  “Take him to his room, then you can go to TLC,” Gosling told Rupert.

  “I want my calendar, and my book too,” Nico said, his voice back to its usual steady monotone.

  “We’ll get those both to you,” Gosling promised.

  “He will,” the dead First Lady said. “He means it.”

  Nico’s chocolate brown eyes, set so close together, stayed locked on Dr. Gosling.

  “Keep up the beautiful progress,” Gosling added, patting Nico on the back and heading up the hallway.

  “You’re supposed to take me to my room now,” Nico told Rupert.

  “I heard him,” Rupert said as he led Nico toward the elevators.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need!” Dr. Gosling called out.

  Nico looked down at his watch. 9:25 a.m. The exact time Charles Guiteau shot President Garfield.

  Nico’s lips curved into a thin smile. After all these years, he would finally have everything he needed.

  13

  Three minutes earlier

  Foundry Church

  Pastor Kenneth Frick wore a little digital monitor on his left shoe that counted his steps. Two hundred and twelve steps for him to get dressed, comb his sandy blond hair, and mix his Cheerios with blueberry yogurt in the morning. Twenty-three steps to get from his kitchen to the front door of his small Capitol Hill townhouse. Then the full 1,958 steps that it took him to walk the three miles from Capitol Hill to the front door of Foundry Church every morning. Unlike St. John’s, the site of last night’s attack, across the street from the White House, Foundry Church was in a struggling neighborhood, not one most people walk to.