Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“So you think whoever broke in is ignoring the pieces from when Lincoln and Booth were dead…” Tot says.

“… and stealing the pieces from when they were alive ,” I point out.

Tot rolls his tongue inside his cheek. He’s not there yet. But he’s close. “Why, though?”

“Y’mean besides the fact that you have to be utterly insane to steal people’s body parts? Think of yesterday at the church,” I say, referring to all the work the killer put into re-creating Booth’s crime. “Maybe he’s not just copying Booth. Maybe… I don’t know… what if he wants Booth alive ?”

“Or wants to be like him,” Tot points out.

“Or be like all of them.”

As the words leave my lips, there’s a faint noise from outside the closet.

I stand up straight, turning at the sound.

Tot shoots me a look. He heard it too.

“That’s just our air conditioner,” Dale reassures us, adding a laugh. “It does that every time someone tells an old spooky story.”

It’s an easy joke designed to calm us down, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like there’s a snake coiled around my spine, slowly winding and climbing up my own vertebrae. It’s one thing to copy John Wilkes Booth, but to actually want to be that monster, or mimic him. I’m not sure what bothers me more: the thought of someone sick enough to even imagine such a thing… or the thought that that person might be Marshall.

“It’s the same with Guiteau,” Dale adds, referring to the assassin who shot President Garfield.

“Pardon?” Tot asks.

“What you said, about stealing pieces from when Booth and Lincoln were alive… Whoever stole it, they did the same with Guiteau.”

On my left, Tot again rolls his tongue inside his cheek. “You have Charles Guiteau’s body too.” He’s trying to act unsurprised. But I see the way he’s running his fingers down his bolo tie. He may’ve known about Lincoln—and Booth—but Tot had no clue that the body of President Garfield’s killer was also here.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Tot asks.

“You asked about Lincoln and Booth. You didn’t ask about Guiteau,” Dale explains without a hint of apology. Though the truth is, we didn’t figure out Guiteau until Marshall mentioned the second murder.

Turning back toward the map cabinet, Dale reaches down toward the lowest drawer. As she tugs it open, it’s filled with assassin Charles Guiteau.

Literally.

43

A.J. tried the pastor’s hospital room first.

A nurse told him the pastor was downstairs. In the chapel.

A.J. nodded a quick thanks but didn’t bother to ask directions. Like most Secret Service agents, he knew the hospital well. George Washington University Hospital was where they operated on Dick Cheney while he was Vice President—and where President Wallace had his gallbladder out.

As for the chapel, A.J. knew it best of all, since it was there that Wallace—right before going under the anesthetic for his gallbladder surgery—signed away his power as leader of the free world and said a teary, just-in-case goodbye to his wife and kids. For the agents and few staffers there, it was a terrifying moment.

But as A.J. looked back on it, what he was doing now was far more dangerous.

Avoiding the elevators and sticking to the stairs, A.J. stayed out of sight until he reached the first floor. As always, he checked each sector of the long hallway, left to right, then up and down. A nurse with a rolling cart… a gift shop to buy flowers… and at the far end of the corridor: the only door in the whole hospital with blue-and-gold stained glass in it. Interfaith Chapel.

As he opened the door and craned his neck inside, there were two voices talking.

“… forget going to the games—just give me one good reason why anyone would root for the Orioles.”

Straight ahead, underneath a wide window that was covered with broad wooden horizontal blinds, a man and a woman faced each other, talking casually.

The woman sat on one of the room’s three cherry benches that was covered with beige padding. The man was in a wheelchair, dressed in a hospital gown, but wearing socks and slippers. He had a round face and a dimpled chin that reminded A.J. of an elf. And a nose that reminded him of a boxer. Pastor Frick.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a calm voice tinged with a British accent. “I’m Chaplain Stoughton,” she said, though A.J. remembered her from the President’s surgery.

“I’m here for Pastor…” A.J. looked at the man in the wheelchair. “You must be Pastor Frick.”

“I am,” he said, surprising A.J. by standing up from the wheelchair. A.J. expected a quiet old man. This guy was a show-off, but in the warmest of ways.

“Pastor, please …” the female chaplain begged. “The doctors told you to take it easy.”

“I’m fine—they all know I’m fine. If I weren’t a man of God, they would’ve sent me home hours ago instead of making me stay overnight. They just don’t want God sending a lightning bolt through their windows.” He wasn’t old—maybe in his fifties—but his voice was lush, like a grandfather’s. As he grinned, A.J. again spotted the elfish twinkle in his pale blue eyes. But he also saw those old dents in his nose. A.J. knew: Dents like that can come from sports, or a car accident, or from people who fight—but they can also come from a dad who used to put a beating on someone’s mother. No doubt, this was a guy who liked righting wrongs.

“Let me guess: You’re another detective. A cop?” Frick asked.

“Secret Service,” A.J. replied, flashing his badge and approaching quickly. “If you’re in the middle of praying, I don’t want to interrupt,” he said, looking hard at the chaplain.

“I was just headed upstairs,” she said, walking toward the door.

“So the Secret Service,” Pastor Frick began as he lowered himself back to his seat in the wheelchair, gritting his teeth slightly. “I didn’t realize this had something to do with the President.”

A.J. forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The Service does lots of work that doesn’t deal with the President.”

The pastor nodded absently. He was still in shock. “Y’know the bullet went right through me. The doctor called it a… he said it was a miracle… a reward for all my service,” he said with a laugh.

A.J. didn’t laugh back.

“Anyway, for someone to sneak into our sanctuary…” The pastor took a deep breath, readjusting himself in his seat. “I want to help you catch who did this.”

“That’s our goal too. So. Your attacker. Did you happen to see what he looked like?”

“I saw his legs. And shiny shoes. I know it sounds nuts, but… I’m good with smells. His shoes were just polished.”

“What about his face? Did you see if he was wearing a mask?”

The pastor shook his head, clearly confused.

A.J. let out a small sigh of relief. If they wanted to keep this quiet—and away from the President—the last thing they needed was another witness.

“And you didn’t see him going out the window?” A.J. added, still reading Frick’s confusion. “After shooting you, the attacker escaped through the window.”

“I remember that!” the pastor blurted, as if he’d forgotten it until that moment. “I heard the window open! And he said something. He had a deep voice and he told me… He said what our church did was a blasphemy .”

“A blasphemy? And do you know what he was referring to?”

“No… Our church… We pride ourselves on being open to all.”

“And you didn’t see anything?”

“All I saw was the carpet. Once I got hit, I was—The pain was just—” He cut himself off. A.J. had seen it before. Especially with those who demand a lot from themselves. They kick themselves for not doing more. As A.J. knew, it was no different with Palmiotti, which was why A.J. was now dealing with this mess.