The Anarchist (35 page)

WHEN Solomon and Geary came for Czolgosz they didn’t handcuff him. They climbed two flights of stairs to a room with only a wooden table and four chairs in the center. Solomon indicated that he should sit down, and then he went and stood next to Geary by the door.

“Another alienist?” Czolgosz asked.

Neither detective spoke at first; then Geary said, “No, better.”

They waited without speaking for perhaps five minutes. There were tall windows behind Czolgosz and he turned in his chair to watch the rain, the way it ran down the long wavy panes of glass. Even the light of such a gray overcast day felt warm compared to the darkness of his cell.

When the door opened, Chief Bull and District Attorney Penney came in first; they were followed by Motka, the girl from Big Maud’s, and another officer Czolgosz had seen before named Savin—he always seemed to be smoking a cigarette. Taking her gently by the upper arm, Savin guided Motka into the chair across the table from Czolgosz.

“I believe you two know each other?” he said, sitting at one end, while Penney sat at the other end. Chief Bull, as he usually did, remained standing; he went to the windows and stared out, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You recognize this man?” Penney said to Motka.

She stared at Czolgosz, frightened. Her hands were shaking. She was wearing a green dress beneath a long black wool coat with frayed cuffs. Her presence made both Geary and Solomon seem alert. Geary was particularly affected, and he stole fleeting glances, as though he feared being caught.

Czolgosz turned to Penney. “Even if she does, it doesn’t mean anything. She works in a whorehouse. Many men know her.”

“And we know you have accomplices,” Penney said. He nodded toward the other man at the table. “Captain Savin here suspects that she assisted you.”

“I told you—no accomplices,” Czolgosz said. He turned toward the windows and said, “So you make one up.” Chief Bull didn’t answer and continued to stare out at the rain.

“But, Leon,” Savin said. He was studying the long ash that had developed on his cigarette. “She has met with you, recently.” Savin considered Motka a moment. “Tell me, what was the nature of these meetings?”

“Nature?” she asked. “I do not understand this very well.”

Savin appeared satisfied as his finger tapped the cigarette,
causing the ash drop to the hardwood floor. “You entertain men in a bordello.” She only stared at him.

“That doesn’t make her an accomplice,” Czolgosz said.

“How many times?” Savin said. “How many times did he visit you?” She shook her head. “Did he use his name, Leon Czolgosz? Or perhaps Fred Nieman?” He took a drag on his cigarette. “And what did you do during these meetings, besides … entertain?”

“I saw her a few times,” Czolgosz said.

“Saw her?” Savin said. “You first went there with a man named Moses Hyde.”

Czolgosz looked at Motka, but she shook her head.

Savin continued. “But you went there on your own as well, according to Big Maud. Isn’t that so?” He leaned toward her. “How exactly did you assist him? Perhaps you are in contact with other anarchists? I’m sure they frequent establishments such as Big Maud’s. What services—other than the customary forms of entertainment—do you provide?” When he realized she didn’t understand, or was pretending not to understand, he said impatiently, “What did you
do
when he visited you at Big Maud’s?”

Motka glanced at Czolgosz as if to say that she could not hold out any longer, and then turning to Savin, she said, “Read.”

“Read?”
Savin said. “Read
what?”

“English. He teaches me to read better English.”

At the window, Chief Bull cleared his throat. “That’s true.” Everyone turned toward him, though he still continued to stare out at the rain. “It’s consistent with what he told one of the alienists.”

Seemingly disappointed, Savin dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and crushed it out with his shoe. There was only the sound of the rain against the windows. “I have learned something interesting, Leon,” Savin said, finally, without looking up from the floor. “We found Motka’s brother, Anton, on a barge in the canal—same barge as where a whore named Clementine was killed. You know what a marlin spike is, Leon?”

“A tool. For splicing rope.”

“Exactly. Someone drove a marlin spike into Anton’s skull.”

Czolgosz watched Motka, who stared straight ahead, her mouth trembling now.

Savin got up, his chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. “He was an accomplice, too?”

“No,” Czolgosz said. “I don’t know the man.”

“You do,” Savin said. “You were assisted by both of them, and by Klaus Bruener, who owns the barge. And perhaps his son, Josef, too.” Savin placed both hands on the table and leaned down toward Czolgosz. “And a man from Chicago. Herman Gimmel—a man we know has worked closely with Emma Goldman. They all helped you, didn’t they, Leon?”

There was no point in answering and Czolgosz looked away.

Savin straightened up and said, “But something went wrong because her brother was killed.”

The tears streamed from Motka’s eyes. Savin walked toward the door, which Solomon opened for him. When the door was closed behind Savin, everyone in the room was silent, until Penney said, “So what do we do with her?”

“I understand Savin purchased her,” Chief Bull said without looking away from the window. “It’s really up to him. Take her back to her cell.”

THE president’s funeral took place Thursday, in Canton. McKinley’s hearse was followed by a parade that included eight thousand of Ohio’s militia, along with members of the Masonic orders, Knights Templar, Odd Fellows, and the Grand Army of the Republic. President Roosevelt had declared that it would be a national day of mourning, and at the moment that the coffin was lowered into the ground in West Lawn Cemetery there was a five-minute period of silence throughout the country; telephone
service was suspended and factories shut down their machinery as millions of Americans stood with bowed heads.

That night Mrs. McKinley took her dinner in her bedroom. The evening was cool but Dr. Rixey sat alone on the porch and smoked a cigar as the light faded in the western sky. He was distinctly aware of not being on the East Coast, where he had spent much of his life. The horizon in Ohio in some way reminded him of when he had been at sea, and how the sun would set on that hard blue edge of ocean.

A carriage pulled up in front of the house. As a man in a black wool overcoat got out and came up the front walk, Rixey went to the top of the steps. The man was slightly older, perhaps sixty, and his graying beard was trimmed into a pointed goatee. He removed his hat.

“Dr. Rixey, I’m Leonard Cousins, with the State Department. You may not recall, but we have met at several functions in Washington.”

“Yes, of course,” Rixey said. He didn’t remember the man. “Are you here to see Mrs. McKinley? Because I’m afraid she has retired for the evening.”

“No, Doctor, I came to discuss a matter with you, if you have the time?”

“Certainly.” Rixey indicated that they could sit at the far end of the porch. It was nearly dark and lamps from the living-room windows cast soft oblongs of light across the floor. Rixey took a chair with his back to the house so he could see Cousins’s face in the light. “Cigar, Mr. Cousins?”

“No, thank you, Doctor.”

“If you’d like, I can have someone prepare you something to drink.”

“No, really, I’m fine.” Cousins leaned forward slightly. “Doctor, I’ve been sent out to Illinois, and on the way it was requested that I stop and see you.”

“By whom?”

The question seemed to perturb Cousins. “Well, the
government—people in the State Department. They—we understand how difficult all this has been for you, and, well, we want you to know that your efforts are not unappreciated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cousins. You’re very kind to deliver such a sentiment in person.”

“The physicians who cared for the president will be compensated, of course,” Cousins said. “There is a plan to submit to Congress a bill that would allow appropriate remuneration for their services.”

“That is all well and good,” Rixey said. “Many of the other doctors traveled great distances to be in Buffalo, and certainly they had to cancel other appointments and obligations. But there’s no need for me to be a part of that—I already receive a sufficient stipend as personal physician to the McKinleys. So I really must insist—”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, your duties recently went well beyond any normal—”

“Well I do insist. I was only doing my duty.”

“Yes, we assumed that you would feel that way,” Cousins said. He tugged on the point of his beard. “So, Doctor, we were wondering if—well, I don’t quite know how to put this, really—but we were wondering if we might not provide you with a unique opportunity. As a means of showing our appreciation, that is.”

“It’s really not necessary, but thank you.”

Rixey almost expected Cousins to get up and make his departure. Instead, he leaned forward until he was on the edge of his seat. He glanced toward the house, as though to make sure no one might be near the windows listening. “Doctor, I’ve never had to convey such a thing to anyone before, and it’s rather delicate. I just hope that what I’m about to say is taken in the spirit that it’s offered.”

“Of course, Mr. Cousins.”

“In the morning I’m continuing by train on to Chicago,
where I have some business to conduct, and then I will go down to Springfield, Illinois,” Cousins said. His voice now dropped to a whisper and it was quite formal, as though he were making a statement for the record. “I’m going there because next week the coffin of President Lincoln is going to be moved to what we anticipate to be his final resting place.” He paused as though to give Rixey the time to appreciate the significance of such an event. “At that time, the president’s casket will be opened briefly and the remains viewed by a select few. We would like to offer you the opportunity to be a member of that party, if you wish.”

Rixey took the cigar from his mouth and whispered, “My God.”

Cousins sat back in his chair. “We thought the only appropriate way to make such an offer was by doing so in person.”

“My God,” Rixey said again. Then he crushed out his cigar in the ashtray on the table next to his chair. “I had no idea that this …”

Out in the street the carriage horse shook its head, causing its harness to jingle.

Rixey got to his feet, and Cousins did also. “I …” Rixey wasn’t sure he could go on, but then he cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Cousins, I appreciate your stopping on your journey to speak with me personally, but I must decline.”

Cousins now seemed annoyed, even insulted. “We merely thought it was the rarest of opportunities. They asked me to come here on my way to Chicago.”

“Don’t you understand? I just buried one president, a man I deeply, deeply revered. To go off to look upon the face of—it’s unconscionable.”

“Well, then, I’ll be on my way. I’ll tell them that you were otherwise engaged—”

“Mr. Cousins, you can tell them it’s unconscionable.”

Cousins gazed at him a moment, then put on his hat, and with a nod of the head he walked down the porch to the stairs.

Rixey went to the railing and watched the man climb into his carriage, which then moved down the street, the horse’s hooves clopping loudly in the evening air. Suddenly it overcame him—as though the events of the past few weeks had finally reached him all at once. Leaning over, he placed both hands on the railing and sobbed uncontrollably, but as quietly as possible so as not to disturb anyone in the house.

HYDE spent a couple of days on the canal, asking if anyone had seen Klaus Bruener or his son, Josef. Most canawlers had heard about the police raid on the
Glockenspiel
and the man found killed with a marlin spike. But fear brings reticence. Nobody had much to say because they’d all heard what happened to that fake limey huckster. Quimby had been found hanging from a warehouse rafter, a one-way train ticket to Denver in his pocket, and the head of seagull stuffed in his mouth.