Murder at Ford's Theatre Read Free Page B

Memorial, the soaring figure of a seated, serene Lincoln peering down on the millions of tourists who visited his shrine, the small children racing up and down the steps, citizens paying homage to the man who’d freed the slaves. Others simply enjoyed the view across the Reflecting Pool, inspired by Versailles and the Taj Mahal, to the Washington Monument and beyond to the Capitol.
    Mo Johnson had never had a particular interest in Lincoln history—until he’d teamed up with the bookish Klayman. One day, after reading an account of the design, building, and dedication of the Lincoln Memorial on Memorial Day 1922, he asked Klayman—as they were eating sandwiches on the steps—“Did you know, Rick, that when it was dedicated, the president of Tuskegee Institute—he was black, you know—they wouldn’t let him sit with the other speakers—he was supposed to speak—and made him sit across the street with the rest of the black folk?” Anger edged his voice.
    “I know,” Klayman replied. “Ironic, huh?”
    “That’s all you have to say?”
    “What do you want me to say? It was wrong. If Lincoln had been there, he would have denounced it. I denounce it. Okay?”
    “Okay.” After a thoughtful pause, Johnson asked, “Do you think your people had it worse? You know, the Holocaust. Slavery. Who had it worse?”
    Klayman stood, brushed off the seat of his pants, crumpled his brown bag, and said, “I think everybody got screwed, Mo. Everybody.”
    Their discussion was interrupted by a call on the police radio Johnson carried. It wasn’t the first discussion they’d had about race, nor would it be the last. Johnson liked talking about it; Klayman didn’t, concerned that no matter what he might say, Johnson would never fully accept that his white partner, Jewish at that, didn’t harbor some deeply buried prejudice.
     
    “H EY, R ICK, ”
Johnson called, interrupting Klayman’s momentary reverie on the stage. Their attention turned to the door leading to the Ford’s Theatre Society offices.
    “I can’t believe this,” Clarise Emerson announced loudly as she strode into the theatre, accompanied by two officers; another man, whale-like and balding, wearing a white shirt, red tie, and red suspenders, tried to keep pace with her.
    Johnson stood and held out his badge. “You’re the—?”
    “Clarise Emerson,” she said curtly.
    Klayman, who’d come down into the house, offered his badge, too. “Detective Klayman, Crimes Against Persons Unit, Ms. Emerson.” He was well aware who she was from photographs in the Style section of the
Post,
and from having attended productions at which she spoke.
    “Is it true?” Clarise asked. “There’s been a murder?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” said Johnson.
    “It appears that way,” Klayman clarified. “You’ve been here all morning, ma’am?”
    “Not all morning. I did arrive early.”
    “Did you see Ms. Zarinski?”
    “Zarinski? Nadia Zarinski?” Her face sagged; it was obvious she knew who the victim was, but equally apparent that she was shocked. “
She’s
been murdered here?”
    “Why don’t we go over there and talk?” Klayman suggested, touching Clarise’s arm and guiding her toward an isolated seating section. As they went, Clarise said, “She works for my former husband, Senator Lerner.”
    “I know, ma’am, I know,” said Klayman.
    “There was the scan—the rumors. What was
she
doing here?”
    “We’ll find that out, ma’am,” Klayman said, taking a seat next to her.
    “I’m Bernard Crowley,” the heavyset man told Johnson, dabbing with a handkerchief at perspiration on his forehead.
    “You work here?” Johnson asked.
    “Yes. I’m the theatre’s controller.”
    Johnson noted that Crowley’s eyes were moist. “You and Ms. Zarinski were pretty close.”
    “Oh, no,” Crowley said quickly. “She—oh, my God. How could this happen?”
    “We’ll talk over there,” Johnson said, pointing to the opposite side of the theatre from