Which is exactly what Walter did.
The sergeant responded to the request with a tight smile and a shake of the head. He was shorter than Walter, but wide. His stubby fingers looked like sausages on the bars. Walter glanced past the sergeant, watching Czolgosz. The boy remained on his bunk, taking in the scene between the two lawmen. His eyes were alert but without fear or hatred. He might be crazy, Walter decided instantly, but he was certainly not stupid.
You have only seconds to decide how to interrogate a prisoner, whether to be friendly or official, whether to flatter or intimidate. You must decide from that first eye contact, that first sizing up of a prisoner’s posture, his intelligence, his fear, his stubbornness. Did he want to talk or to remain silent? Once the choice of approach was made, there would be no opportunity to change tacks. Any attempt at alteration would alert the prisoner that he was witnessing a charade.
Walter decided to use the sergeant to help him establish himself with the prisoner. Instead of taking the man aside and reasoning with him before pulling rank, Walter simply said, “If you’re not out of this room in ten seconds, I’m going to get your chief to throw you out. And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to get the president to send a message. I’m here on his express order and he wants me to speak to this man alone. So shake your ass, friend.”
Czolgosz leaned forward, pulled up his knees, and grasped them with his hands. The sergeant had tightened his grip on the bar until his fingers were white, wishing it was Walter’s throat. Walter put his hands on his hips and stared the copper down. The corners of Czolgosz’s mouth had turned up slightly. The sergeant started to say something, then bit it off. He didn’t have the horses and they both knew it. With a flick of his left hand he hurled the ring with the cell keys at the middle of Walter’s chest, where Harry had jabbed him less than an hour before. But a Buffalo police sergeant was no Harry Swayne and Walter caught the key ring easily.
Both Walter and Czolgosz watched the sergeant stalk from the room.
Czolgosz didn’t change his position when Walter unlocked the door and entered the cell, except to move his head to follow Walter as he grabbed a rickety wooden chair by the back and placed it near the bunk. Czolgosz didn’t wrinkle his brow as Walter lowered himself down, the chair creaking at the weight. He seemed calm, at peace, prepared for what was to come. Up close, Czolgosz looked even more like a boy, although Walter had been told he was twenty-eight.
Walter by this time was certain of one thing. Here was someone who wanted to talk. Wanted to prove he was important. He just put two bullets in the president, but he needed to prove he was important.
“Well, Leon . . . ,” Walter began, pronouncing the name with Slavic stress.
“Leon,” the boy retorted, saying his name in Americanized form. “I ain’t no immigrant. I was born here.”
“Where?”
“Detroit.”
“I don’t know Detroit too well,” Walter lied. “What was it like?”
Czolgosz tilted his head sideways, drumming the fingers of his left hand once quickly on his knees, rat-a-tat. “Dunno. We moved when I was a kid.”
“Where?”
The boy’s eyes narrowed and he emitted a quick snort. “Whaddaya wanna do, write my life story?”
“Nope.” Walter shifted mood. “Just trying to figure out why someone would want to shoot the leader of his country.”
“He ain’t my leader. I done my duty.”
Walter nodded slowly, as if to digest the same answer the boy had given everyone who asked him. “Your duty to who?” he asked finally.
“To all them who go hungry whilst others make millions.”
“You think you’re going to change that by shooting the president?”
“I done my duty.”
“Any regrets? Still feel good about it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, didn’t you hear? The president is going to recover. Not much of a gun you used. One of the bullets didn’t even go through. He picked it out of his chest in the ambulance.”
Czolgosz scowled. “Live. Dead. Makes no difference. I done my duty.”
But it did make a difference.
“You did your duty even if the president survives?” Walter paused, rocking a bit in his chair. “Very well.”
“He don’t matter,” Czolgosz insisted. “It just matters that someone did something.”
Walter nodded. “I see. Yes. You mean matters to the people you did your duty to.”
Czolgosz blew out a breath, exasperated at trying to make a point to this dunce. “Yeah, whaddaya think I meant?”
“And to others in your movement as well, I suppose.”
Czolgosz jerked back. His fingers tightened on his knees. “Whaddaya mean? Who are you anyway? You ain’t no Buffalo dick.”
“Anarchists,” Walter replied, ignoring the questions. “You said when you were arrested you were an anarchist. I just figured it would matter to them too.” Walter shrugged. “But you don’t have to talk about what you believe in if you don’t want to.”
“What about you?” Czolgosz asked suddenly. “You come from a rich family and you’re doing the plutes’ work for them?”
“I was raised in an orphanage. I ran away when I was fourteen.”
“No bull?”
“No bull.”
“Why’d you run?”
“To get away from the priest.” Why did he admit that? But he neglected to add that he had smashed a bottle against the side of Father Timothy’s head as a parting gift.
Czolgosz eyed Walter for a moment, deciding whether to pursue the matter.
“So how come you decided to work for the rich?”
“The president isn’t rich, Leon. He never made much money.”
“Yeah, but them’s around him are plenty rich.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read. Whaddaya think, I can’t? I probably read more n’ you.”
“Probably. Read a lot of anarchist stuff?”
“Sure. How’d you think I learned what I learned?”
Walter changed direction suddenly. “So who did you meet when you got here? To Buffalo, I mean.”
Czolgosz’s hands tightened on his knees. Not much and just for a second, but he saw that Walter noticed. “Nobody. And I’m done now.”
Walter nodded. “All right. Can I get you anything?”
“Whaddaya mean?” Czolgosz eyed Walter with suspicion.
Walter let his hands drop between his legs. “I don’t approve of what you did, Leon,” he said softly. “I won’t pretend that I do. But you’re going to the penitentiary for a long time. Maybe twenty years. Maybe forever. I don’t expect things will go too well for you in there. I don’t see the harm in you being a little more comfortable in the meantime.”
Czolgosz pressed his lips together. Walter could hear his breathing coming in shallow bursts. For the first time, the boy looked afraid. He had figured to kill McKinley and die for it; a hero to the cause. Prison obviously scared him more than hanging. Probably should too.
“Could you get me a book?” Czolgosz asked after a few moments. “From my room?”
“Sure. “Which book.”
“Looking Backward.”
“Edward Bellamy.”
Czolgosz nodded. “Yeah. I read it eight times already. Great book. You read it yet?”
“Sure. Hasn’t everyone?”
“Whaddaya think?”
“I liked it. I hope the future is like he said.” Actually, Walter thought the book was a load of tripe—all that nonsense about people living together in harmony. People fought for what they wanted. Always had, always will.
“So you’ll get it for me?”
“I said I would. Tell me where to find it.”
“It’s in the top drawer of the bureau in my room. If the coppers didn’t take it.” Czolgosz gave Walter the address of his rooming house.
“I don’t think you have to worry about any of those guys . . .�
�� Walter flicked a thumb toward the door he came in. “I can’t figure any of them stealing a book.”
Czolgosz smiled tightly. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Walter nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He started to the cell door, then turned back. “Is that what made you do this, Leon? The book?”
Czolgosz shook his head. “Course not. No book’s gonna make someone do his duty.”
“Other people might.”
Czolgosz started to respond but thought better of it.
As he passed out of the cell block, Walter tossed the key ring back to the sergeant who glared at him with undisguised hatred.
8
Walter looked to collect Harry for the trip to Czolgosz’s room, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. Walter checked the bathroom, a vile stinking affair that, only after he emerged, he discovered was for visitors. The desk sergeant happily admitted that the coppers had their own on the second floor. Walter checked that one as well, but no Harry. He returned to the desk. The desk sergeant repeated his paper-shuffling charade, refusing to acknowledge Walter’s presence.
“I’m looking for the guy I came in with,” Walter said finally.
“I’m sure I don’t know who you mean . . . sir,” the sergeant replied in a monotone, with exaggerated slowness. “Do you wish to fill a missing persons report?”
Walter wanted to reach up and grab the wisenheimer and drag him over his desk, but he held his temper. “Look, pal, we’re all just trying to do a job here. So tell me what I want to know, or I’ll have Mark Hanna ask for me.”
“I believe the gentleman said he was off to check on something. Although I suspect he slipped around the corner for a pint.”
“Did he happen to mention where he was going afterward?”
The sergeant finally looked up. “No. But he ain’t real welcome here. Like you.”
Harry, in truth, would not have favored these clowns with details. Thinking unpleasant thoughts about the Buffalo police, Walter headed alone to McCraig’s rooming house. Czolgosz had told the police who arrested him that he had arrived in Buffalo five days before. He seemed to have walked in a random direction from the railroad terminal and chosen the first rooming house he could find with a vacancy. The exposition was drawing large crowds, so he was fortunate to arrive at Mrs. McCraig’s just as one of her boarders was leaving to return home on a family emergency. The widow found the slight, well-mannered, soft-spoken young man at her door to be an ideal replacement and had rented him a room on the spot for the Exposition rate of $1 per week, only twice her usual charge. During his stay, Czolgosz had come and gone at regular hours, had no visitors, and, other than the fair, she had been unaware of any unusual destination on the young man’s agenda.
Walter found the copy of Looking Backward precisely where Czolgosz had said it would be. From the looks of the room, the police had created quite a mess during their search, but, no surprise, they had not been especially thorough. Walter proceeded to look through Czolgosz’s possessions with care. Czolgosz had a change of collar, underwear, and socks, but otherwise was wearing all he brought with him in the small burlap satchel with a faded wooden handle that had been thrown in the corner. The coppers had not impounded any cartridges, nor were there any in the room. Czolgosz had therefore come with one revolver and five rounds. Other than Looking Backward, the only other reading material was a Buffalo Evening News from two days previous and two brochures extolling the thrills of the Exposition. No other indication of how Czolgosz spent his five days was to be found, not even a matchbox.
Walter stopped to speak with Mrs. McCraig on the way out. She was a widow of about sixty, a small, thin, sparrow-like woman with white hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes were brown and crisp behind wire-framed glasses, and her jaw line was as sharp and chiseled as a woman’s half her age. She stood very straight. Walter wondered if he was looking at a precursor of Lucinda. Or at least of Lucinda if Harry did not succeed in marrying her off.
“Did he ever ask you for anything?” Walter inquired, more solicitous than he normally would be and realizing it was guilt. “He was new in town, after all. Directions maybe? To a tavern? Even on how to get to the fair?”
“No, only the library.”
“He asked you about the library?”
“He was a studious young man. Like I told the other detectives. He couldn’t spend all his time at the fair.”
“I see. Were the other detectives interested? Did they go to the library, do you know?”
“I doubt it. Not after the way they laughed when I told them.” She lowered her voice to a growl. “‘We ain’t interested in what he read, ma’am.’”
Walter laughed. “That’s quite good, Mrs. McCraig. I hope you won’t imitate me that well.”
The old woman giggled and suddenly Walter saw her thirty years younger. “Oh no, Mr. George. I would never. And besides, you don’t sound like that at all.”
Walter felt himself begin to go red. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “So which library did Czolgosz go to? Could you give me directions?”
The walk to the library was less than ten minutes, but ten minutes was apparently too much of an imposition for the Buffalo dicks.
Walter paused inside the door. He remembered when he was on his own—after St. Margaret’s—the library was the one place he could spend an entire day. Miss Stefano had spotted him right away; tall, skinny, and haunted. She sat him at a table, recommended books, and even gave him food to eat. She was warm and round and miserably childless. Walter had often wondered in those days if his real mother—the one he could not remember no matter how hard he tried—was anything like this. Whether she ached for having been forced by crushing poverty or illness or some other justifiable reason to give up her son. Did she cry herself to sleep each night? Had she secretly inquired of the sisters of his progress and well-being? Would she, at some point in his life, magically reappear and beg his forgiveness?
Eventually, Walter began to spend a good part of every day at the library, the scruffy, gangly urchin with a pile of books in front of him. Miss Stefano had offered more than once to take him in, or at least to let him sleep at her apartment in the tenement on Rivington Street, but he always refused. Trust would simply not extend that far.
The Buffalo library looked a lot like the one on Hester Street. Or at least it conjured up the same feelings of familiarity. Walter wondered how many of the operatives in the service could go into a library and find out anything? Not many, other than Wilkie. To most of them, reading anything other than official reports was considered an affectation. Even Harry, and Harry was one of the slickest men in the division.
Walter sized up the staff behind the desk and knew at once whom to approach—the severe looking woman with the regal bearing, dressed in a gray, high-necked frock with black trim. She was reed-thin, did not seem to have a figure at all; her hair, like Mrs. McCraig’s, was pulled back in a bun, and she wore a wedding ring. Not every librarian was a spinster. But mostly, she exuded superiority. She would pride herself on knowing more than anyone else and, with the right kind of prodding and a bit of misdirection, be happy to flaunt that knowledge. The trick was to know in advance which approach would prime the pump. Walter needed to establish whether the woman was sympathetic to Czolgosz or antipathetic to know how to pose his questions.
When he got to the desk, he placed the copy of Looking Backward on the counter top and smiled shyly. The woman with the bun walked over, making it a point to turn her attention to the book to demonstrate she was impervious to Walter’s charm.
“Not ours,” she said after a glance, gesturing with a flick of her index finger and turning to leave.
“Yes, ma’am, I know,” Walter said. “This is mine. I was looking for something else. Do you have the work of writers who aren’t American?”
“You mean like Shakespeare?” the librarian asked in a tone that implied she was talking to an unschooled dolt.
“Actually, I was looking for a co
py of Proudhon’s What is Property? Translated, of course. I don’t read French.”
“Proudhon? The anarchist?” The librarian’s eyes narrowed like a gunfighter’s. Word that the president’s assailant was an anarchist was, by this time, common knowledge. Walter had his answer.
“Do you have it?”
“I can’t help you,” the woman said coldly and turned on her heel to leave.
“Just a minute, ma’am,” Walter called after her, shifting to his official tone.
The woman turned back, still glaring, until Walter said softly. “I’m with the United States Secret Service Division. I’m investigating the shooting of the president.”
The librarian drew back her head, like she was trying to avoid a jab. “So what do you want with Proudhon? You can prove what you say, can’t you?”
Walter withdrew his badge from his vest pocket and let the woman examine it. She ran her fingers over the embossed image of the star and the eagle before handing it back to Walter.
“So you were testing me?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. . . . but I had to be certain of your . . . point of view before I asked.”
“Mrs. Haverstraw. Now that you are certain, ask.”
“The man who shot the president . . .”
“Czolgosz.” She also pronounced the name correctly.
“He was in here. Probably more than once.”
The woman could not have been more mortified if Walter had asked for a Japanese pillow book. “In here? In my . . . in a library? Why would he do that?” Then she coughed softly and turned to the side where a boy of about twelve was waiting patiently at the desk. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Walter replied, dropping his voice to a whisper. The boy was small and fair, dressed in shabby shirt and knickers that, while not new, showed no obvious signs of age or mending. He looked nothing and everything like Walter had at that age.
The boy asked a question and the woman patiently shook her head. “I’m sorry. Richard Carvel is out. If you write your name on a piece of paper, I’ll hold it for you when it comes back.” Mrs. Haverstraw turned back to Walter. “All the boys want to read Winston Churchill. All that derring-do. I wish they would read books with a little more substance, but how can one compete with adventure? Richard Carvel has sold two million copies.” Mrs. Haverstraw heaved a sigh at the injustice of popular fiction. “You know,” she went on, “there is a young writer in Great Britain named Winston Churchill. It must be terrible to be burdened with same name as a genuine literary icon. It will probably haunt the poor fellow for his rest of his life.”
Assassin of Shadows Page 5