John Miller - The First Assassin

The image astonished him: the picture was a little fuzzy, but there was no mistaking it. Mazorca had never allowed a photograph of himself to be taken before. Where could this one possibly have come from? He had absolutely no idea.

“Where did you get this?” he asked. There was urgency in his voice.

“A sergeant handed it to me, just a few minutes ago.”

Mazorca remembered Springfield’s encounter with the chaplain, outside Madam Russell’s Bake Oven.

“He had a handful of them,” said the chaplain. “He was distributing copies to the women of this quarter, hoping that one of them might recognize the person in it. I didn’t really want one. He practically forced me to take it.”

“How many did he have?”

“I don’t know-quite a few.”

Mazorca looked at the picture again but remained mystified as to its origins. He appeared to be standing outside. But where? And when?

“Could be anybody, I suppose,” said the chaplain.

Mazorca glared at him. Up above, the clouds moved in front of the moon. Darkness descended on the alley again.

“Just keep the coat,” said the chaplain. “You can have the picture as well. I have a little money too.”

He thrust a hand into his pants pocket. As he did, Mazorca struck, slashing the knife across the chaplain’s throat. Blood spewed out, and Mazorca hopped out of the way as the chaplain collapsed.

He put on the chaplain’s coat and hat and stuffed the picture into the pocket from which it had come. He thought about removing the chaplain’s pants, but he decided not to bother. They were close enough in appearance to the ones he was wearing. He did, however, pick up the cross and the Bible. The dead man’s neck was still seeping blood as Mazorca left the alley.

At the edge of the canal, Mazorca hurled the cross into the water. It splashed and sank. Then he tossed the Bible. It splashed and dipped below the surface before coming back up. Its dark cover was difficult to spot, but Mazorca thought he saw it begin to float away with the current.

Mazorca walked in the opposite direction. He needed to go into hiding, away from the eyes of people who had seen his photograph. He could not possibly check into a hotel-that would be the first place Rook and his men would have distributed pictures. Murder Bay was covered too. He could not even safely occupy a room in a whorehouse. There was always the safe house. Was it too risky? Or was it the best option among a set of worse alternatives?

There would be no escape this time. Rook would see to that. He was not interested in observing Mazorca from afar or trying to tail him anywhere. He wanted him killed or captured as quickly as possible. And if Mazorca was in the row house at 1745 N Street, one of those two things would happen in just a few minutes.

The house belonged to Robert Fowler. After Zack Hoadly had identified it, a lieutenant had looked up the address in the city’s ownership records. Rook remembered Fowler as the man who had crossed the Long Bridge into Virginia with an overstuffed wagon on the day the news of Fort Sumter’s fall had reached Washington. He knew that Fowler was a Southerner and a secessionist, but he was not sure that meant anything. To Mazorca, the Fowler residence might have represented nothing more than an abandoned building.

Everything rode on the accuracy of Zack’s report. Could the account of a ten-year-old boy be trusted? Boys could have powerful imaginations. Yet Rook was convinced that Zack had bumped into somebody outside the front door of 1745 N Street-and the possibility that it was a chance encounter with Mazorca was his only genuine lead. Rook was determined to pursue it.

The brown-brick row house was three stories tall. It was not a mansion, but it was large-Fowler was clearly a man of some means. Several large windows lined its front. It did not appear as though anybody was inside. Mazorca, of course, would have wanted it that way.

The colonel had assembled two dozen men. They quickly took position around the building. A handful went around to the rear. Several others positioned themselves on N Street, where they would make sure Mazorca could not leave through one of the windows. The rest marched with Rook to the front door.

Rook gave the knob a cursory twist, but it held tight. He gestured to a burly private. The man raised an ax and slammed it into the lock. Two more hits and the door cracked open. Anybody inside the house would now be on alert. Rook rushed in with his troops. They fanned through the building, charging up the stairs and racing in and out of rooms. They swiftly reached the conclusion Rook had feared: the house was empty.

Had Zack led them to the wrong house? Rook did not think so. The boy had been certain about the location.

Starting on the ground floor, Rook walked through the entire house, searching for clues. He did not find anything of special interest until he entered a bedroom on the third floor. Clothes littered the bed. Several drawers rested near the headboard, turned upside down. They had been removed from a dresser along the wall.

A closet door was shut. Rook approached and pulled it open. On the floor he saw it: the dress and the ball of bloody clothes. The boy had in fact seen Mazorca and had led Rook to the right house. Once again, however, he was too late. Mazorca was gone.

FRIDAY, APRIL 26, 1861

When Mazorca opened his eyes, the dawn sky overhead was turning to a clear blue. The clouds from the previous night had disappeared almost completely, thanks to a cool breeze that must have pushed them away. It promised to be a very nice day-bright, brisk, and full of possibility.

Pain ripped through Mazorca’s body as he sat up. He had known it would happen: sleeping on a hard granite surface, without a pillow or a blanket, had guaranteed the aching result. It diminished as he stretched and yawned. He stood and looked down at the city from his bird’s-eye vantage point.

The night might have brought much worse than temporary discomfort. After leaving the crumpled body of the chaplain, Mazorca had walked swiftly along the canal, hiking up the collar of the coat and pulling down the brim of the hat-anything to hide his disfigured ear. There was no way he could remain in Murder Bay. It was probably dangerous to go anywhere in the city.

He briefly considered going back to the Fowler house but decided against it. They had found him at Tabard’s, and they might find him there. Unsure of his destination and driven by an overwhelming desire simply to get away, Mazorca had set off to the east.

At Seventh Street, the canal came within half a block of Pennsylvania Avenue. The lights from Brown’s Hotel and the National Hotel were exactly what Mazorca wanted to avoid. They were like those lighthouses Lincoln had described in their brief meeting-a warning for navigators to stay away. To his right, a small bridge crossed the canal. It led to the Mall and away from the buildings and people of downtown. Mazorca took it, and in a moment he found himself in a large open space of grass, shrubs, and pathways. In front of him loomed a structure that looked like a castle from the days of knights. This was the Smithsonian Institution, a red building that appeared out of its rightful place and time. One of its windows glowed. Someone was inside, poring over the museum’s collections. Was there one person or several? Mazorca watched the window for several minutes. But he never received an answer. Given all that had happened, he was in no mood to take a chance.

The Mall itself was empty. As he passed the Smithsonian and continued to the west, Mazorca wondered about curling up beneath a row of bushes. But this would make little sense-if he was going to sleep outside, he would be better off leaving the city entirely. Although the Mall was deserted at night, it might very easily attract people in the morning.