Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [126]
As they were about to be ushered into the theatre by park rangers with special clearances, Rick Klayman, who’d come to the lobby to deliver a message to an officer, stopped them and said hello.
“Hello, Detective Klayman,” Mac said. “This is my wife, Annabel Reed-Smith.”
“Nice meeting you,” Klayman said. “All set to enjoy the show?”
“If we ever get inside,” Mac said.
“I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“I wasn’t referring to you,” Mac said. “Rule number one in Washington, D.C.—never attend an event when the president will be there, too.”
“He’s not coming,” Klayman said.
“Really? Why? I thought this was a yearly command performance.”
“It usually is, I guess, but there’s some last-minute crisis.” Klayman shrugged. “The vice president will be here, though.”
“Well, that’s one less person for you to protect. See you in my class Saturday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, sir. Oh, would it be possible for my partner, Moses Johnson, to attend with me? Just this once? I was telling him last night about the class and he said he’d enjoy it.”
“Sure. Happy to have him.”
They were shown their seats on the aisle, stage-right, halfway back from the orchestra pit and stage. As the house filled they were greeted by a number of people. When they found a moment of privacy, Mac asked in Annabel’s ear, “Will Clarise be welcoming the audience?”
“She’s supposed to,” she replied, “although judging from her state yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if she begged off.”
Mac glanced up at the empty box in which Abraham Lincoln had sat the night he was murdered by John Wilkes Booth. You couldn’t be in Ford’s Theatre without experiencing some feeling, some thoughts of that tragic night more than 130 years ago when America suffered its first presidential assassination.
The presidential box, of course, was empty, and had been since the assassination out of respect for the slain president—and because, in reality, it was a poor location from which to watch what was occurring on the stage. It had been faithfully re-created, replete with white lacy curtains framing two openings through which the box’s occupants could see two American flags draped over the balustrade, a large engraving of George Washington—there was no presidential seal at the time, and the more famous first president’s likeness was displayed rather than Lincoln’s, the sitting president—and a reproduction of the red rocking chair in which Lincoln had sat that fateful night; the original was on display in the Henry Ford Museum, in Dearborn, Michigan.
The building had suffered another day of infamy almost three decades after the assassination when the government gutted the theatre and turned it into an office building, three floors of which collapsed in 1893, killing twenty-two people. It wasn’t until 1965 that the property was again restored to a working theatre.
Petersen House, the boardinghouse across the street in which the president died at 7:22 the morning after he’d been shot, was also maintained as a National Historic Site by the National Park Service, another monument to the tragedy that had befallen the nation’s leader, and the nation itself—so much sad history to digest surrounding a man who, it was said, had been chosen by God to do unequaled work, “not only for America, but for all mankind.”
“IT’S ABOUT TO START,” Annabel said.
They directed their attention to the stage where final preparations were underway for the live telecast that would begin in a half hour. The vice president arrived and was escorted to her front-row seat by a knot of Secret Service. She turned to the crowd and waved, generating a round of applause. A few minutes later, with every seat occupied, Clarise walked from the wings to center stage and was handed a microphone.
“You have to give it to her,” Annabel whispered to her husband.
“The show must go on.”
Clarise flashed a wide smile and said, “Welcome, welcome, to all of you.” She looked at Dorothy Maloney. “And especially to you, Madam Vice President, my friend.” She took in the wider audience. “The