After pallbearers deposited Lincoln’s body in an Oak Hill Cemetery mausoleum outside Springfield, Lamon did not linger with the rest of the crowd. He knew his time was limited. The detective must piece together the final pieces of the enigma that surrounded the incredible abduction of power in the White House. Lamon did not even allow himself to be tempted to spend a few days home in Danville with his wife and daughter. He feared if he spent a few days with them he would never want to leave.
On his way back to Washington City Lamon decided to stop over in Steubenville, Ohio. His carpetbag in hand, Lamon walked down the street still sodden from recent rains. A two-story clapboard hotel caught his attention, and he checked in.
“Know of a Christy family in town?” Lamon kept his eyes down on the registry.
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Wilson Christy runs the most respectable boarding house in town. I went to school with his son Adam.”
Lamon’s face shot up. “Is that so?”
“We went off to war about the same time. I served with Gen. Grant in the west. Only been home a couple of weeks. I never did right know who Adam served under. Terrible shame he died at Bull Run.”
“Yes, a terrible shame.”
“You know the family, Mr.—“the clerk glanced at the registry—“Mr. Lamon?”
“I knew the boy from his days in Washington City,” he murmured. “Wanted to extend my condolences to his family. After I wash up I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“It’s just Mr. Christy now. His wife died right before the war started. His grandparents are gone. Only Mr. Christy running the place now.”
“Could you direct me to his boardinghouse?”
“Of course, sir. Head on down Main Street and go left at the crossroads with Maple Street. Third house on the right.”
An hour later Lamon stepped up on the broad porch and knocked at the door. A balding man with spectacles answered. He was wiping his hands on a thin dishtowel.
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” His voice seemed pleasantly high pitched though colored by a shadow of sadness.
“Mr. Wilson Christy?” Lamon asked, removing his hat.
“Yes, sir?”
“My name is Ward Lamon. I work for the government. Mr. Lincoln was a personal friend of mine from the old days back in Illinois. I wanted to pay my respects. I knew your son while he served in Washington City.”
“You knew my Adam?” he said in breathless anticipation. His eyes fluttered. His mouth seemed not to know whether to smile or frown. “Would you care to take a rocker?” He pointed to a pair of chairs on the covered porch.
“Yes, sir. That would be mighty kind.”
The two men sat in the heat of the late afternoon. Christy started to stand.
“Care for a glass of lemonade? I’ve got some made in the kitchen.”
“No, sir. Please sit and relax. I’m perfectly content as I am.”
Christy sat, rubbed his hands with the towel once more before folding it and placing it on his knee. “Please tell me, Mr. Lamon, did he seem happy? Was he getting on with everybody?”
Lamon looked out across the street before replying. “Yes, he was well,” he lied.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he mumbled, leaning back in the chair. His face scrunched. “I still don’t understand how he came to be at Bull Run. I was sure he would have stayed in the capital city. I had assurances that he was going to be safe in the Executive Mansion and eventually get a commission. Adam always wanted to be an officer in the Army.”
“Assurances from whom?” Lamon tried to remain detached, but he found the statement intriguing.
“Secretary of War Stanton. You know he came from here. He and his mother lived in this very boardinghouse when my father ran it. Ed had an awful infatuation with my sister. Of course, she died of typhoid. I wrote him early in ’62 about getting Adam a position in the Army. He wrote back and said he had a decent job for him, working for the President himself. He said if the boy did well, he could get a commission right away. The next thing I knew I got this telegram from the War Department saying he had died at the second battle at Bull Run. I wrote several letters to Edwin asking for details but never got a reply.” He paused. “Of course, he’s a busy man so I suspect he never had time….” Christy’s voice trailed off as he wiped his eyes with the towel. “I know it ain’t fittin’ for a man to carry on so but—“
“You’ve lost a son. You’ve every right.” Lamon’s hand went up to his mouth to cover it and the small smile that had unconsciously blossomed there.
“Did Mr. Stanton ever tell you the nature of this special assignment?”
Christy shook his head. “No, but I imagined it was pretty darned important.”
Lamon took a moment to lean forward. “Mr. Christy, does Mr. Stanton have a reason to hate you?”
“Why, no. Why would you ask?”
Lamon thought his words spilled out of his mouth a bit too quickly, too glibly. “Mr. Christy, your son did not die in battle at Bull Run. He died of a bullet wound in the basement of the Executive Mansion the same night President Lincoln was assassinated. The President had lived in the basement for the past two and a half years, and your son was his guard.
“Stanton is responsible for all this. Why would he pick out your son for this horrible fate if he did not hate you?”
“Well, I suppose I do know of something, but it was so many years ago. I didn’t think a grown man could hold such a grudge.” Christy looked at Lamon.
“I told you Mr. Stanton had a fondness for my sister before she died of typhoid. He came home from his job at the bookstore for lunch one day, and my sister served him his meal. That evening she came down sick and died. Being typhoid, we got her in the ground as soon as possible. When Ed came home that night he asked where she was, and we told him she was dead. He didn’t believe it. I heard him stirring in his room after midnight, and I saw him going out the door. I followed him. Ed got a shovel from the shed and headed for the cemetery where he proceeded to dig up my sister’s coffin. I waited until he lifted her up and caressed her head.”
“That was a dangerous thing to do,” Lamon interrupted. “Holding a body consumed with typhoid. He could have contracted the disease too.”
Christy smiled sadly and shook his head. “You forget. Ed loved my sister Judith with all his heart. He didn’t care if he caught typhoid and died. I suppose he was stronger than anyone thought. If he could survive asthma he could survive anything.”
“I’m sorry,” Lamon said. “I interrupted you. What happened next in the graveyard?”
“Oh.” He shook his head and looked off, as though to collect his thoughts. “Then I stepped forward and said, ‘So you have to dig dead girls up to have someone to love?’ Or something like that I don’t quite remember exactly. Anyway, he dropped her and ran back into the night, and I reburied poor Judith.
“He tried to pick a fight with me the next day, but Ed, bless his heart, was always so small, I just laughed at him.” Christy’s face darkened after he finished his story.
“Well, I suppose I should move along,” Lamon said, standing and extending his hand to the private’s father.
“Yes, thank you.” Christy shook his head and, trying to find a smile, shook Lamon’s hand.