Murder at Ford's Theatre

by Margaret Truman

  “I knew you would, Bruce.”

  Lerner was suddenly aware of the smell of stale cigar smoke, and wiggled his nose against it. Had it infused his suit?

  He stood and reached across the desk, shook his fellow senator’s hand. “Keep looking as good as you do, Topper. I’ll be back in touch.”

  “You do that, Bruce. And give my best to that lovely lady who used to be Mrs. Lerner.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Sybers watched the long, lean Lerner open the door and disappear from view. He pushed a button on the phone, which brought an aide into the room.

  “How about a cigarette, honey,” he said, smiling. “Why not bring in a couple. And then leave me alone for an hour. I’ve got some phone calls to make and some thinkin’ to do.”

  She kept her smile to herself as she went to her desk and retrieved two king-size Tarryton cigarettes. Serious thinking to do? she mused. Nap time was more like it.

  FOURTEEN

  KLAYMAN AND JOHNSON spent the hours of late afternoon writing reports. At a few minutes before five, they climbed into Klayman’s unmarked car and drove the few blocks from headquarters to the Millennium Arts Center (MAC) at 651 I (Eye) Street, SW. The 150,000-square-foot redbrick building had been built in 1910 as Randall Junior High School, and functioned in that capacity until sold by the city in 2000 to a nonprofit group led by Washington arts impresario Bill Wooby, who began the daunting, expensive job of turning it into a true national arts center. In addition to artists’ studios and large exhibition spaces, MAC was used by a variety of local theatrical groups for rehearsals and set building, including Ford’s Theatre.

  “Right around the corner and I’ve never been,” Klayman said as he pulled up in front.

  “A perk of the job, huh?” Johnson commented. “You get to see things you never saw before.”

  “And not always things I want to see. You have the picture?”

  “Yeah.” Johnson held up a mug shot of Jeremiah Lerner he’d taken from the files before leaving. They’d read what was in Lerner’s folder and agreed that the kid came off as a foul ball, nothing major—yet—but they’d seen too many Jeremiah Lerners who’d progressed from being a nuisance to the community to eventually becoming a threat. His mug shot depicted a smug young man, the hint of a smile on his lips to make the point that being arrested, printed, and photographed wasn’t such a big deal. Or, to cover the fear he was feeling at the time.

  “Must be tough being a big shot U.S. senator and having a kid like this,” Johnson said, slipping the photo into his inside jacket pocket.

  “And a big shot mother,” Klayman said. “Maybe too much for the kid to live up to.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Freud.”

  “Your forty-five minutes is up. Pay on your way out. Come on, let’s see if he showed up for work today.”

  They climbed a short set of steps and walked through doors leading to a large, open space with white walls, a gleaming gray floor, and with artwork and sculptures lining both sides. The sounds of a cocktail party came from a doorway twenty feet to their right. A sign on an easel indicated an opening was in progress for two artists, Richard Dana and Judy Jashinsky.

  They started toward the party sounds when Johnson stopped to take in a large Impressionistic painting. “What do you figure that is?” he asked Klayman.

  “Looks like a head surrounded by birds to me.”

  “Hello.”

  They turned to face a slender, middle-aged man carrying a cocktail glass and wearing a purple shirt, and a wide tie from which the Mona Lisa smiled at them. “Are you here for the Dana-Jashinsky opening?”

  “No,” Johnson said. “Detectives Johnson and Klayman, Crimes Against Persons Unit, First District.” They showed their badges.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “We’re looking for someone who works here,” said Klayman. Johnson pulled the mug shot from his pocket.

  “Yes, I’ve seen him before. He doesn’t work for the arts center per se. He works for a contractor who does maintenance.”

  “Is he here today, Mr.—?”

  “Wooby. Bill Wooby. I’m the center’s director. He may be. I’ve been busy with the opening and party. Yes, I think he’s the one who’s been working in the garden café area.”

  “How do we get there?” Johnson asked.

  “By following me.”

  He led them to a door in the middle of the building that opened out onto a grassy courtyard in need of tender loving care.

  “As you can see, we’re in the process of converting the space into a café,” Wooby said.

  The courtyard was empty. “I don’t see him,” Johnson said.

  “I’m not sure he was due here today,” the director said, sipping from his drink, “although I don’t keep track of such things. I have enough to do—”

  “Over there,” Johnson said, pointing to the far end of the quadrangle. Jeremiah Lerner was walking in their direction.

  “Hey, Jeremiah,” Johnson yelled.

  Lerner stopped and looked at them. He seemed unsure what to do, whether to approach or to turn. He turned and took rapid steps back toward the door he had come through. Looking over his shoulder, he saw them heading his way and broke into a run, disappearing through the door. Without a word, Klayman ran back into the building while Johnson continued after Lerner. Wooby followed Klayman inside.

  “Where can he go?” Klayman asked.

  “Anywhere,” Wooby said. “It’s a big place.”

  Klayman moved at a fast trot down the hall, looking left and right into artist studios and performance rooms, unsnapping the leather restraining tab on his holster beneath his armpit as he went. “Mo!” he shouted. “Mo, where are you?”

  He heard his partner’s voice from the recesses of the sprawling building and headed in that direction. Wooby, now minus his glass, was close on his heels. Klayman turned left down another long corridor, shouting Johnson’s name as he went. He stopped, causing Wooby to almost run into him. “How many floors?” Klayman asked.

  “Two, plus the attic.”

  They took off again and reached a staircase, which Klayman took three at a time. Johnson had gone upstairs from a different direction and was up there when Klayman and Wooby arrived.

  “You see him?” Klayman asked, drawing in air as fast as he could.

  “Yeah. I saw him come up here, but he had a big lead. The son of a bitch lost me. He’s fast.” Johnson emptied his lungs and placed hands on hips against pain.

  “What’s down this hall?” Klayman asked Wooby.

  “Storage space. Some unfinished studios. The stairs to the attic.”

  They moved toward the dark confines of the hallway’s end. Boxes were piled everywhere; contractor’s equipment created a maze they navigated until coming to an open door.

  “That’s supposed to be closed,” Wooby said.

  Klayman went to it and looked up. A long ladder ran vertically from where he stood to another floor.

  “The attic?”

  “Yes.”

  “You say this door is usually closed?”

  “Always.”

  Klayman looked back down the hall. There was no sign of anyone. He pulled his service revolver from its holster, stepped through the door and, slowly, deliberately began to climb the ladder, the weapon leading the way. When he reached the halfway point, he looked down at Johnson. “You coming, Mo?”

  Johnson began his ascent without answering.

  Klayman reached the top and carefully raised his head above the floor. Everything was silent. The attic’s darkness was penetrated only by shafts of light through skylights, and a small window to his left. Particles of dust hung in the skewered light. Why the dust? he wondered. What had caused it to rise from the floor?

  “What do you see, Ricky?” Johnson asked from directly below Klayman.

  “Dust.”

  “Dust?”

  Klayman covered the final rungs on the ladder and pulled himself up to a crouched posit
ion in the attic itself. Johnson’s head appeared. He started to say something, but Klayman put an index finger to his lips to silence him. He closed his eyes and strained as he listened. It wasn’t much of a sound, a slight rustle, a rubbing of something against something else. It came from across the attic, past large heating ducts that lowered the ceiling substantially, more boxes, old student desks and bookcases. A dozen blackboards were stacked side by side, inhibiting his sight line to where he was certain the sound had originated. He took a few steps to the side to allow Johnson to emerge through the floor’s opening. The taller detective had to crouch even more than Klayman because of the low ceiling and paraphernalia hanging from it.

  Klayman pointed to where he wanted them to go, then indicated with his hand that he would approach from the left, Johnson from the right. Johnson drew his weapon and moved away in the direction Klayman had signaled, while Klayman followed his own path. It was Johnson who first saw Jeremiah, just his head, pressed against a low brick wall that formed one of the attic’s corners. A steamer trunk shielded the rest of him from the detective.

  Johnson saw out of the corner of his eye that Klayman was now coming up behind Lerner. Johnson’s heart pounded, his throat was dry. Was the kid armed? Were they going to end up in a shootout in the attic of an arts center, with a happy cocktail party going on downstairs? Spare me. His legs ached from the position he was in, and he felt a sudden need to go to the bathroom. That was reality, he thought. Show that side of being a cop in all the dumb TV shows and movies, having to pee while waiting to get your head blown off.

  “Hey, Lerner.”

  Klayman’s voice broke the silence, and snapped Johnson’s senses into even more heightened alert. Lerner swung his head around to see who’d said it.

  “Detectives, Lerner. We’re armed. You can’t go anywhere, so stand up nice and slow and raise your hands high.”

  The detectives watched as Lerner debated whether to obey.

  “Don’t be a jerk, Lerner,” Johnson said. The second voice brought Lerner to a half-standing position.

  “Hands up, Lerner. Come on, we just want to talk to you,” Klayman said.

  “We don’t have a lot of patience, Lerner,” said Johnson. “Don’t make us take you down.”

  Lerner slowly stood, his hands still at his side.

  “Up, up,” Klayman said, his voice tighter now. “Hands in the air.”

  Jeremiah did as instructed.

  “Now, walk toward me, nice and slow,” Johnson said. “Be a good boy. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Klayman pulled a set of cuffs from his belt while returning his revolver to its holster. Johnson, his weapon firmly engulfed in both hands, kept it trained on Lerner while Klayman prepared to cuff him.

  “Hands behind your back,” Klayman said.

  “What do you want with me?” Lerner asked.

  “Behind your back, Jeremiah,” Klayman repeated, sounding as though he really meant it this time.

  The young man, dressed in a U of Maryland sweatshirt, and jeans and scuffed brown deck shoes, started to comply. But as Klayman reached for his hands and as Johnson lowered his weapon and stepped closer, Lerner swung at Johnson, catching him in the cheek and sending him falling back into a pile of moldy gym mats. Klayman froze for a second as Lerner made for the opening in the floor and the ladder. Johnson flung himself on his stomach and grabbed Lerner’s ankle, but couldn’t hold on. Lerner was feetfirst through the hole and had gone down a few steps when Klayman reached him. He grabbed his thick, oily black hair and rammed his head against wood that framed the opening, then knocked his head in the opposite direction, banging that side of his face, too. Lerner lost his grip and footing on the ladder and slid down in a vertical free fall, his face and other parts of his body catching the ladder’s rungs, generating painful grunts and anguished cries. He landed in a heap at the feet of Wooby, the arts center’s director.

  Klayman half fell, half scrambled down the ladder, maintaining enough control to avoid injury. Lerner was facedown, and Klayman rammed his knees into his back, jerked his hands behind, and snapped on the cuffs. Johnson arrived as his partner was pulling Lerner to his feet and pushing him against a wall. The big, heavy, black detective grabbed Lerner by the front of his sweatshirt and cocked his right hand. Klayman grabbed it.

  “You are some dumb punk,” Johnson snarled. Jeremiah’s ring had cut Johnson’s cheek; a small rivulet of blood snaked down to his jawbone.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Lerner said.

  “Shut up,” Klayman said.

  “You beat me. You bastards beat me, and I didn’t do a damn thing.”

  While Johnson continued pinning Lerner to the wall, Klayman brought his face close to the senator’s son and said, “You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and a dozen other charges I’ll think of by the time we get to headquarters. And one of those charges, you moron, might be murder.”

  “Murder? What are you, crazy? Man, you are crazy. Crazy!”

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  They led him down the hall while an astonished Wooby trailed behind.

  “What do you think I did, kill that chick over at the theatre?”

  “Now, why would you even think of that, Jeremiah?” Johnson asked, holding his handkerchief to his wound and shoving Lerner in the back with the other.

  “Would you mind taking him out another way?” Wooby asked. “We have this party going on and—”

  “Sure,” Klayman said.

  Wooby escorted them to their car, where Jeremiah was placed in the backseat.

  “Sorry for the disruption,” Klayman said. “And thanks for your help.”

  “Anytime, Detective. He’s Senator Lerner’s son?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “And Clarise Emerson’s son?”

  “Yeah. Thanks again.”

  “I’m going back inside and have a drink. A double.”

  Wooby watched them drive away before returning to the opening party where dozens of people were milling about, enjoying drinks and hors d’oeuvres. He was on his way to the bar when the center’s assistant director, Georgi Deneau, intercepted him. With her was her nine-year-old grandson, Aaron, who’d been in the young audience of an exhibit, “Through the Eyes of Children.”

  “Bill, where have you been?” Georgi said.

  “I was, ah, showing some people around the center.”

  “I’m glad you’re back. Clarise Emerson just arrived.” She nodded toward a corner of the room, where Clarise chatted with other guests. Wooby went to her.

  “Hello, Bill,” Clarise said. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thanks,” Wooby said. “So is the next head of the NEA.”

  “Anything new here at the center?” she asked. “Besides this wonderful party and exhibition?”

  “Anything new? Nothing a hefty grant from the NEA wouldn’t fix. No, nothing new, Clarise. Would you excuse me? I think I have a date with a bottle of scotch.”

  FIFTEEN

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Bancroft.”

  Morris, the doorman at Bancroft’s apartment building, opened the door to G Street for the aging actor and took note of how he was dressed. Bancroft was seldom seen in the same outfit, nor was he partial to conventional clothing. It was obvious to the doorman, and to others who knew Bancroft, that he costumed himself daily rather than simply dressed, which provided a show of sorts, and a mirror into what life-role Bancroft was playing on any given day. He wore a pinched-waist blue double-breasted pinstripe jacket with a floppy red handkerchief bulging from its breast pocket, white slacks in need of pressing, tan loafers sans socks, a white shirt with a high collar, and a blue-and-green ascot. Pancake makeup had been applied with a heavy hand.

  “Good afternoon, Morris,” Bancroft replied, the words rolling off his tongue, each syllable enunciated. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is, Mr. Bancroft.”

  Bancroft suddenly squared h
imself to face the doorman, hands on his hips, his face set in exaggerated anger. “Good God, Morris, how many times must I tell you to call me Sydney? Mr. Bancroft makes me sound so dreadfully old.”

  Morris laughed. “Goes with the job, Mr.—Sydney—referring to tenants by their last names from age three up. Polite, you know.”

  Bancroft inhaled as though to say that he had no choice but to accept the logic of it all. “A taxi, please.”

  Morris went to the corner, where he hailed a passing cab driven by someone of obvious Middle Eastern origins. Bancroft’s face mirrored his dismay at the vehicle and its driver. He said, “My kingdom for a London taxi, Morris. ‘The London taxi is a relic for which my zeal is evangelic . . . It’s designed for people wearing hats, and not for racing on Bonneville Flats . . . A man can get out, or a lady in . . . when you sit, your knees don’t bump your chin . . .’”

  The doorman had heard Bancroft recite Ogden Nash’s ode to London taxis countless times, but listened as though it were the first.

  “‘The driver so deep in the past is sunk that he’ll help you with your bags and trunk . . . . Indeed, he is such a fuddy-duddy that he calls you Sir instead of Buddy.’”

  The driver blew his horn and shouted something in Arabic, undoubtedly to the effect that he didn’t have all day to sit idly while some crazy man on the sidewalk recited poetry.

  “Hold your bloody horses,” Bancroft said, going to the taxi and entering through the door held open by Morris. “E and Eleventh Streets, Northwest,” he told the driver. “And drive sanely, you bloody wog. I am in no rush.”

  Nor was he in a rush to tip when they pulled up in front of the Harrington Hotel, around the corner from Ford’s Theatre. He added ten cents to the fare, admonishing the driver to learn better manners in the future if he wished to benefit from living in a civilized society, slammed the door, and entered Harry’s Bar. A bartender, wearing a red polo shirt with HARRY’S SALOON written on it in white, announced to others at the bar, “Hey, look who’s here, Richard Burton.”

  “Don’t insult me by mistaking me for that second-rate actor,” said Bancroft. “And be quick with the shandy. I am absolutely parched.”