John Miller - The First Assassin

Do you remember Lucius, my old manservant? I’m sorry to report he has recently suffered a terrible bout of something-it’s so hard to say what-and may not last the night. I will miss him so.

Sincerely,

Langston Bennett

When Bennett finished composing these words, he put down his pen and ran his fingers along the left-hand side of his desk. They paused about halfway across and then pulled on something. It was a hidden compartment. Among the items Bennett removed from the little drawer was a tiny brass key. He set it on the edge of the desk. Next he touched up the letter he had just written, addressed an envelope to Violet Grenier in Washington, and sealed the letter inside. In the morning, he would order a rider to take it to the postmaster.

Then he took the small key and unlocked a drawer to his right, on the front of the desk. He put the key back in its hidden compartment and opened the drawer he had just unlocked. He reached inside and pulled out a pistol. He turned it in his hand and admired its design. Then he opened the chamber to confirm that it was loaded.

About ten minutes later, everybody on the Bennett plantation heard a single shot echo through the night. It came from the vicinity of the shed.

SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1861

Mazorca had wanted to look inside the narrow brick house at 398 Sixteenth Street, but the pair of first-floor windows was too high off the ground and the shutters were closed anyway. If he had not known better, he might have assumed that the house was locked and abandoned, like so many others in Washington. But about an hour earlier he had watched its two occupants descend the steps and walk toward Lafayette Park. Mazorca then slipped into an alley about halfway down the block. A door in the back was locked, but a window next to it was not. Mazorca pulled himself through and began to inspect the three-story home.

Now that he was in, he wanted to look back out. He went to one of the tall windows on the front of the house, pushed the shutter slats open, and peeked through. A carriage rolled by on Sixteenth Street. Across the street sat St. John’s Church, a yellow building with Doric columns. He glanced to his right, across Lafayette Park. Mazorca knew that President Lincoln’s mansion lay within rifle range, at least for a very good marksman, but the angle from here was too severe to see much of it. It was not a good view.

Upstairs, he searched a library and several bedrooms. A curled-up cat slept on one of the beds. It looked surprised to see him, but not so alarmed that it failed to fall back asleep a few minutes later. Mazorca checked the view to the south from the windows on these top floors. As he expected, their lines of sight were no better.

In the library, stacks of correspondence indicated the woman living in the house was a prolific letter writer, or at least a person who received many letters in the mail. A large collection of maps suggested an interest in cartography, except that they were all local and many were marked. If there really was an interest, it was not academic.

Mazorca did not read any of the letters or study the maps. Instead he returned to the red-walled front parlor and sat down in the tete-a-tete, positioning himself in the part of the S-shaped couch that faced the doorway. The room did not let in much light with the shutters closed, so at first he just sat there. He did not want to turn on the gas lamp beside him.

Patience was a virtue in his line of work. The prospect of sitting in the parlor an hour or two did not bother him. He was only a few minutes into his wait, however, when he decided to reach for a pair of books resting on a table next to his seat. He had noticed them earlier, but their spines were turned away and he could not see their titles. Pulling them into his lap, he opened to their title pages: A Treatise on Field Fortifications by Dennis Hart Mahan and the first volume of Infantry Tactics by Winfield Scott.

He returned the Mahan book to its place and began to read the one by Scott. He hoped it might provide some insight into the mind of this legendary general, but the book was a dry text for military officers. Mazorca had an interest in these matters, however, and decided to pass the time with Scott’s thoughts on drills, maneuvers, and drum signals. He adjusted the book to catch what dim light came in from the shuttered window. As he flipped through its pages, however, his own thoughts kept drifting back to the question of why a woman-and one described to him as a socialite, no less-would choose to read the words of Mahan and Scott. It was a peculiar pursuit, even in these troubled times.

An hour later, Mazorca heard shoes scraping on steps outside the front door. He put the Scott book back on the table. A key scratched against a lock and found the keyhole. The door squeaked back on hinges that needed oiling. It let in a blinding light but was shut almost immediately. Mazorca could see clearly again in the shadowy room. Someone had entered. He watched her from just a few feet away. She was by herself and did not see him.

Grenier stood by the door and let her eyes adjust to the poor light. Mazorca could not tell when she first saw him. She did not jump in surprise or even flinch slightly. Instead, she just cocked her head to one side, trying to recognize the uninvited guest who sat cross-legged on her couch. Her composure was remarkable.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grenier.”

“Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met.”

“You’ve chosen an odd way to make my acquaintance, sir.”

“These are odd days, Mrs. Grenier.”

“And you appear to be an odd man. I would like to know what you’re doing in my house.”

Mazorca rose from his seat slowly. He did not want to appear threatening, even though Grenier seemed unusually difficult to startle. From a pocket on the inside of his coat, he removed an envelope and held it out. “This may answer your question,” he said.

She did not reach for it. She did not even look at it. Instead she simply stared at Mazorca as he stood with his arm outstretched. Then she took a couple of steps to his side. Her eyes roamed up and down. She noticed his ear but said nothing. She was taking his measure.

Grenier finally nodded at the envelope. “What is that?” she asked.

“A letter from a mutual friend.”

“I have so many friends. Which one is also yours?”

“Langston Bennett of South Carolina.”

Her eyebrows arched on hearing the name. She shifted her gaze from Mazorca to the envelope. “Langston Bennett is a great man,” she said. “I will read the letter.”

Grenier took the envelope and studied it. The flap was sealed shut. She opened the drawer to a small table and pulled out a letter knife. As she thrust it in a hole at one end of the envelope, she gave Mazorca a quick look. “Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning to where her visitor had been sitting. Then she ripped open the envelope, unfolded the letter, and started reading. Mazorca already knew what it said. Before leaving Charleston he had steamed open the envelope, read the undated contents, and then resealed it.

My dear Violet,

Some weeks ago I wrote to you about an important project, whose nature we need not mention here. The man bearing this letter will execute our plans. He is a stranger to Washington and may benefit from your intimate knowledge of it. Please provide him with whatever assistance he seeks, in the interest of our vital cause.

Yours most affectionately,

Langston

Below the signature, the bottom of the letter was sheared off. Grenier set it down and left the room. Mazorca heard her open and shut a drawer. She came back with a small piece of paper in her hand. One of its edges was ripped. She held it beside the letter from Bennett. They matched perfectly. Grenier smiled and placed both pieces of the letter into the envelope.