Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [44]
“Two, plus the attic.”
They took off again and reached a staircase, which Klayman took three at a time. Johnson had gone upstairs from a different direction and was up there when Klayman and Wooby arrived.
“You see him?” Klayman asked, drawing in air as fast as he could.
“Yeah. I saw him come up here, but he had a big lead. The son of a bitch lost me. He’s fast.” Johnson emptied his lungs and placed hands on hips against pain.
“What’s down this hall?” Klayman asked Wooby.
“Storage space. Some unfinished studios. The stairs to the attic.”
They moved toward the dark confines of the hallway’s end. Boxes were piled everywhere; contractor’s equipment created a maze they navigated until coming to an open door.
“That’s supposed to be closed,” Wooby said.
Klayman went to it and looked up. A long ladder ran vertically from where he stood to another floor.
“The attic?”
“Yes.”
“You say this door is usually closed?”
“Always.”
Klayman looked back down the hall. There was no sign of anyone. He pulled his service revolver from its holster, stepped through the door and, slowly, deliberately began to climb the ladder, the weapon leading the way. When he reached the halfway point, he looked down at Johnson. “You coming, Mo?”
Johnson began his ascent without answering.
Klayman reached the top and carefully raised his head above the floor. Everything was silent. The attic’s darkness was penetrated only by shafts of light through skylights, and a small window to his left. Particles of dust hung in the skewered light. Why the dust? he wondered. What had caused it to rise from the floor?
“What do you see, Ricky?” Johnson asked from directly below Klayman.
“Dust.”
“Dust?”
Klayman covered the final rungs on the ladder and pulled himself up to a crouched position in the attic itself. Johnson’s head appeared. He started to say something, but Klayman put an index finger to his lips to silence him. He closed his eyes and strained as he listened. It wasn’t much of a sound, a slight rustle, a rubbing of something against something else. It came from across the attic, past large heating ducts that lowered the ceiling substantially, more boxes, old student desks and bookcases. A dozen blackboards were stacked side by side, inhibiting his sight line to where he was certain the sound had originated. He took a few steps to the side to allow Johnson to emerge through the floor’s opening. The taller detective had to crouch even more than Klayman because of the low ceiling and paraphernalia hanging from it.
Klayman pointed to where he wanted them to go, then indicated with his hand that he would approach from the left, Johnson from the right. Johnson drew his weapon and moved away in the direction Klayman had signaled, while Klayman followed his own path. It was Johnson who first saw Jeremiah, just his head, pressed against a low brick wall that formed one of the attic’s corners. A steamer trunk shielded the rest of him from the detective.
Johnson saw out of the corner of his eye that Klayman was now coming up behind Lerner. Johnson’s heart pounded, his throat was dry. Was the kid armed? Were they going to end up in a shootout in the attic of an arts center, with a happy cocktail party going on downstairs? Spare me. His legs ached from the position he was in, and he felt a sudden need to go to the bathroom. That was reality, he thought. Show that side of being a cop in all the dumb TV shows and movies, having to pee while waiting to get your head blown off.
“Hey, Lerner.”
Klayman’s voice broke the silence, and snapped Johnson’s senses into even more heightened alert. Lerner swung his head around to see who’d said it.
“Detectives, Lerner. We’re armed. You can’t go anywhere, so stand up nice and slow and raise your hands high.”
The detectives watched as Lerner debated whether to obey.
“Don’t be a jerk, Lerner,” Johnson said. The second voice brought Lerner to a half-standing position.