Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [7]
“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 where Klayman and Clarise sat.
“Does Clarise know it was Nadia?”
“I believe so,” Johnson replied.
“She’ll be devastated.”
“She knew her well?”
“No. Knew of her. There was talk about her and Senator Bruce Lerner. That’s Clarise’s former husband. I told her to stay away.”
“Who?”
“Nadia. The victim. When I realized who she was, I told her in no uncertain terms that it was totally inappropriate for her to be here, considering the rumor and Clarise’s sensitivities.”
“You can tell me all about it, sir, over there.”
An hour later, the only people left upstairs in Ford’s Theatre were park rangers and two uniformed MPD officers, one of whom stood in the lobby to make sure no one not officially connected with the theatre could enter—tourist lectures and tours were cancelled for the remainder of the day. Outside, in Baptist Alley, another cop stood guard over the crime scene, which was bordered in yellow crime scene tape. It would remain that way until another evidence collection team had returned to complete its examination of the alley. The stage crew that had been present that morning were at police headquarters on Fourth Street, SW, giving formal statements; Clarise and Crowley had returned to their offices, promising to show up at headquarters later in the day.
Rick Klayman had wandered out of the alley to F Street, turning every few feet to look back at the rear of the theatre where Nadia Zarinski’s body had been found. He turned left and walked up F to the corner of Tenth Street, pausing in front of Honest Abe Souvenirs, which offered shirts, hats, posters, and myriad other items featuring Lincoln’s likeness. Klayman grinned. If Lincoln were alive and had a piece of all the action, he thought, he’d be a very rich man.
He went up Tenth and entered the theatre through the front doors. The uniformed officer greeted him and watched as Klayman slowly went downstairs to the Lincoln Museum, where artifacts were displayed in Plexiglas cases. The museum was cool and modern in contrast to the historically preserved theatre upstairs. It was peaceful being there without the usual knots of tourists wielding camcorders and snapping at their children not to touch things. He meandered past the