Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [45]
“Hands up, Lerner. Come on, we just want to talk to you,” Klayman said.
“We don’t have a lot of patience, Lerner,” said Johnson. “Don’t make us take you down.”
Lerner slowly stood, his hands still at his side.
“Up, up,” Klayman said, his voice tighter now. “Hands in the air.”
Jeremiah did as instructed.
“Now, walk toward me, nice and slow,” Johnson said. “Be a good boy. We don’t want to hurt you.”
Klayman pulled a set of cuffs from his belt while returning his revolver to its holster. Johnson, his weapon firmly engulfed in both hands, kept it trained on Lerner while Klayman prepared to cuff him.
“Hands behind your back,” Klayman said.
“What do you want with me?” Lerner asked.
“Behind your back, Jeremiah,” Klayman repeated, sounding as though he really meant it this time.
The young man, dressed in a U of Maryland sweatshirt, and jeans and scuffed brown deck shoes, started to comply. But as Klayman reached for his hands and as Johnson lowered his weapon and stepped closer, Lerner swung at Johnson, catching him in the cheek and sending him falling back into a pile of moldy gym mats. Klayman froze for a second as Lerner made for the opening in the floor and the ladder. Johnson flung himself on his stomach and grabbed Lerner’s ankle, but couldn’t hold on. Lerner was feetfirst through the hole and had gone down a few steps when Klayman reached him. He grabbed his thick, oily black hair and rammed his head against wood that framed the opening, then knocked his head in the opposite direction, banging that side of his face, too. Lerner lost his grip and footing on the ladder and slid down in a vertical free fall, his face and other parts of his body catching the ladder’s rungs, generating painful grunts and anguished cries. He landed in a heap at the feet of Wooby, the arts center’s director.
Klayman half fell, half scrambled down the ladder, maintaining enough control to avoid injury. Lerner was facedown, and Klayman rammed his knees into his back, jerked his hands behind, and snapped on the cuffs. Johnson arrived as his partner was pulling Lerner to his feet and pushing him against a wall. The big, heavy, black detective grabbed Lerner by the front of his sweatshirt and cocked his right hand. Klayman grabbed it.
“You are some dumb punk,” Johnson snarled. Jeremiah’s ring had cut Johnson’s cheek; a small rivulet of blood snaked down to his jawbone.
“I didn’t do nothing,” Lerner said.
“Shut up,” Klayman said.
“You beat me. You bastards beat me, and I didn’t do a damn thing.”
While Johnson continued pinning Lerner to the wall, Klayman brought his face close to the senator’s son and said, “You are under arrest for assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and a dozen other charges I’ll think of by the time we get to headquarters. And one of those charges, you moron, might be murder.”
“Murder? What are you, crazy? Man, you are crazy. Crazy!”
“You have the right to remain silent …”
They led him down the hall while an astonished Wooby trailed behind.
“What do you think I did, kill that chick over at the theatre?”
“Now, why would you even think of that, Jeremiah?” Johnson asked, holding his handkerchief to his wound and shoving Lerner in the back with the other.
“Would you mind taking him out another way?” Wooby asked. “We have this party going on and—”
“Sure,” Klayman said.
Wooby escorted them to their car, where Jeremiah was placed in the backseat.
“Sorry for the disruption,” Klayman said. “And thanks for your help.”
“Anytime, Detective. He’s Senator Lerner’s son?”
“Afraid so.”
“And Clarise Emerson’s son?”
“Yeah. Thanks again.”
“I’m going back inside and have a drink. A double.”
Wooby watched them drive away before returning to the opening party where dozens of people were milling about, enjoying drinks and hors d’oeuvres. He was on his way to the bar when the center’s assistant director, Georgi Deneau, intercepted him. With her was her nine-year-old grandson, Aaron, who’d been in the young audience of an exhibit, “Through the Eyes of Children.”
“Bill, where have you been?” Georgi said.
“I was, ah,