John Miller - The First Assassin

“We marched into Mexico City on September 14, 1847,” said Scott. “The country had become ours in just six months.”

“Yes,” said Molina, replying to Scott. “It would have been shortly after that. It was always presumed that this most brutal of mazorqueros was a deserter or a criminal who had decided to venture south rather than return home.”

“What happened to him after Rosas was deposed?” asked Seward.

“Again, I do not know for certain. But I have heard that after the fall of the Rosas regime, this man left Argentina and sought occasional employment from individuals who required special services-sinister services, if you will. I was given to understand that those who seek him must approach intermediaries in Cuba.”

“How can you be sure of all this?” asked Scott.

“I am sure of nothing. But you will recall the recent history of my region-the internal strife that has plagued my country, combined with the external pressures of British colonialism and American filibusters such as William Walker. We have lived through turbulent times. We have known dreadful violence. And we have suffered from the acts of men who murder for money. If the Mazorca you are worried about right now is the same man who operated in and around my country just a few years ago, then I am truly fearful for the safety of your leaders.”

“So our Mazorca is a professional killer-an assassin for hire,” said Rook.

“I believe that is a sound assumption. It is certainly an assumption that will prevent you from underestimating him. He is most dangerous when he is underestimated.”

Rook caught the eye of Scott, who quickly looked away. The general was chastened.

“Be warned,” said Molina, leaning forward in his chair in order to emphasize his point. “This man is a destroyer of lives. He will let nothing stand between himself and those whom he has marked for death.”

Beside the murky waters of Washington’s oozing canal, a woman leaned her back against a wall. Mazorca could see her only faintly in the dark. She held a small box in her arms, and her shoulders trembled. When she raised a sleeve to her face, Mazorca assumed that she had sneezed and was wiping her nose. But she continued to shake. Mazorca realized that she was crying. For several minutes, he watched her take turns between looking at the box and raising her head upward, toward the heavens.

Mazorca stood motionless in a doorway, about thirty feet from where she wept. Eventually the woman suppressed her tears and approached the edge of the canal. The stench rising from the canal was strong enough to repel anybody who did not have a good reason for being there.

The woman dropped to her knees and raised the box to her lips. Its top was open. She kissed whatever was inside. Then she set it down beside her and adjusted its contents. She appeared to pull out a small, rectangular object, flip it around, and set it back in. She fidgeted with the box for a few more seconds and then placed it in the water. For a moment it bobbed up and down and Mazorca thought it might sink. Yet it appeared to steady itself and began floating with the lazy current. By the time it had drifted in front of Mazorca, the woman was gone.

Propelled by curiosity, Mazorca approached the canal and looked at the box. Tucked inside, swaddled in a blanket, was a newborn baby. The child’s eyes were wide open, but it did not cry. At its feet, Mazorca saw the rectangular object that the woman had shifted: a brick. Actually there were two of them, and their grim purpose was apparent. It did not occur to Mazorca that he might reach into the water and pull the box out. As the baby meandered by, he felt nothing at all.

The child’s mother was obviously a whore, thought Mazorca. She did what whores so often do after giving birth, in their loneliness. The baby’s father might be a poor clerk or a rich senator. He had almost certainly vanished from the woman’s life long ago, just as suddenly as he had appeared, and he was not aware of what their brief encounter had created. Or what was now floating toward its doom.

Such was the way of things in Murder Bay, the seediest part of Washington. It slouched between the malodorous canal and the business district on Pennsylvania Avenue to the north, in a triangular section of the city between Ninth and Fifteenth streets. The streets were grimy and narrow, the buildings dilapidated, and the inhabitants dissolute. For all of its drawbacks, however, the area offered a concentration of amusements and diversions that could not be found anywhere else in the city: drinking saloons, gambling halls, and dens of ill repute.

Early on, Mazorca had learned to avoid the place. Although he was not above partaking of its vices, he wanted nothing to get in the way of his objective. Murder Bay posed too many risks: its cheap hotels weren’t safe, its alleyways were full of toughs and pickpockets, and its bars and bordellos were unwelcome distractions. Yet now he relied on the allure of its debauchery to help him reach his goal. Murder Bay was a magnet for certain types of men: young, far from home, unencumbered by the obligations of marriage and family. Soldiers were frequently all of these things at once. As day turned to night, they fell on Murder Bay in droves, intending to explore its decadent entertainments.

On this night, New York’s Seventh Regiment contributed heavily to their numbers. Its members came from the upper crust of their city-they were the sons of bankers and shippers. They had endured a long journey, marched past the White House, and settled into rooms at Willard’s and other fine hotels along Pennsylvania Avenue. In the morning, they were supposed to report to their new quarters in the House of Representatives, an empty chamber ever since the congressmen left town immediately following the presidential inauguration. Yet this evening was entirely theirs, and many of the New Yorkers were eager to pursue very particular forms of rest and relaxation.

Mazorca had watched them flock to Murder Bay. Some were loud braggarts who made no effort to hide their intentions. They boasted about their own prowess and the pleasures they planned to obtain. Others were less sure of themselves. Mazorca saw the guilt on their faces as they wandered about, battling their inhibitions as they contemplated entering establishments with names such as the Haystack, the Blue Goose, and Madam Wilton’s Private Residence for Ladies. Sooner or later, they all went inside.

The problem for Mazorca was that the soldiers traveled in packs. He suspected that their officers had warned them to stick together, like herds of animals that sought safety in numbers. It was good advice: Murder Bay was full of predators in search of prey. Most of them merely intended to separate the soldiers from their money. Occasionally, however, a denizen of this squalid district wanted something far worse. Murder Bay had not earned its nickname for nothing, and its victims were not always babes.

Outside the Winder Building, ten-year-old Zachariah Hoadly stood beside his father. He brushed aside his red hair, which kept falling in his face. He needed to visit a barbershop.

“You’re sure it’s him?” asked Isaac Hoadly, repeating a question he had posed perhaps a dozen times already.

“I’m pretty sure,” said the boy, sounding less than fully confident.

Isaac looked at the photograph. “And it’s because of the ear?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Zack, annoyed at his father’s doubts.

“And this is where they told you to come?”

“Uh-huh.”

Isaac was building up the nerve to go inside when a man in a blue uniform walked out the front door. “Excuse me,” said Isaac. “Can you help me?”

Colonel Rook halted in front of the Hoadlys. He looked tired and none too interested in helping anybody.