Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [113]
“Mr. Bancroft not leaving with you?” he asked.
“I guess not.”
“Glad to see you nailed the guy who killed the girl, even if it is Ms. Emerson’s kid. I feel sorry for her.”
“Yeah, I do, too. Good night.”
“Working late, Mr. Bancroft,” the park ranger said when Bancroft came to the lobby a few minutes later.
“The festival is coming up in three days. Frankly, I’m not sure I should have accepted the offer to direct the bloody thing. Well, too late now. Cheerio.”
The ranger shook his head and laughed when Bancroft was gone. He’d heard all the complaints about the aging, eccentric British actor from others at the theatre. He wasn’t directing anything, just getting in the way. He picked up the magazine he’d been perusing before eavesdropping on the impromptu performance inside, and resumed reading. Another long, uneventful night ahead of him, and six years to the pension. Oh, well, other people had it worse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“HOW WAS DINNER?”
“Great. You should have joined us. The Swamp Thing was first-rate.”
“The what?”
“At B. Smith’s. Shrimp and crawfish flavored with mustard, and collard greens. Funny name, but tastes good. How about you? Bancroft admit he killed her?”
“No, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. He’d get off on an insanity plea. He’s nuts.”
“It took you this long to figure that out?”
“I didn’t realize I was talking to the great American psychiatrist, Dr. Moses Johnson. When I say he’s nuts—hardly a clinical term—I mean he’s pathetic, a sad man. He turned me into his audience, re-created the Lincoln assassination for me, called me his pupil, acted out a history lesson.”
“The Swamp Thing is sounding better every minute. So you’re satisfied he didn’t do the deed.”
“I wouldn’t say that. How’d the lineup turn out? You talk to Hathaway?”
“Yeah. The old drunk nailed Jeremiah right out of the blocks. No hesitation. Herman says you’re wasting your time chasing other suspects.”
“I hate to disagree with our leader, but—”
“Hey, Ricky, you don’t have to convince me. Save it for Herman. By the way, you should be happy. We’re pulling duty at Ford’s Theatre Thursday night for that TV show.”
While security for the president and vice president and their families was the responsibility of the Secret Service, their efforts were routinely augmented by local law enforcement whenever they appeared outside the confines of their official residences and workplaces. Johnson and Klayman had been assigned to such duty on other occasions in the past, working closely with the Secret Service, the FBI, and other organizations.
“Know what still bothers me most?” Klayman asked.
“What?”
“Lerner’s mother. She claimed she didn’t know the victim was hanging around her theatre, but that’s not what Bancroft says. Crowley, the controller, too.”
“Forget it,” Johnson said. “Like I said about the senator, Ms. Emerson doesn’t strike me as the type to be beating some girl’s brains out.”
“Maybe she had somebody do it for her. Ever think of that?”
Johnson didn’t say what was on his mind at the moment, that his young partner had fallen into the trap Johnson had seen with other young detectives: a belief that they could single-handedly solve every murder in town and save the world in the process. With a felony crime index in D.C. more than four times the national average, and 250 murders a year, to go with assaults, rapes, and other crimes against persons, you didn’t have time to be a white knight. Nor was it your decision as a detective to determine guilt or innocence. You developed what leads and evidence you could, turned it over to the courts, and moved on to the next case.
Klayman didn’t express his inner thoughts, either, to his veteran partner. He’d testified in a number of murder cases on which he’d worked, and had seen it firsthand—shrewd defense lawyers claiming a rush to judgment on the part of the police, zeroing in almost immediately on a suspect to the