Ward Lamon read the plans for the long route of the funeral train back to Springfield, Illinois, and realized it was a perfect cover for him to investigate the conspiracy against Lincoln which ended in his death. From Washington, to New York City, through the Midwest and finally to Illinois, surely he could find some clues. The body was now lying in state, and the train would soon be leaving. Lamon had to talk to Mrs. Lincoln again. His first attempt had ended in disaster, as she accused him as being part of Stanton’s cabal. Pendel met him at the door of the Executive Mansion and took him to her sitting room.
“How is Mrs. Lincoln today?” Lamon asked.
“Oh, she’s feeling much better,” Pendel replied. “I think she should be able to leave for home in a few weeks. Master Tad’s become a different person. He knows he has to be the man of the house now.”
“The last time I was here she thought I was in collaboration with—“
“You weren’t here before, Mr. Lamon,” Pendel interrupted him with a gentle smile. “Her memory of those first hours after the tragedy has mercifully faded.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
They stopped outside her door, and Pendel rapped lightly. “Mrs. Lincoln, Mr. Lamon is here to see you, ma’am.”
Opening the door, Mrs. Lincoln smiled. “Mr. Lamon, I’m so glad to see you. Where have you been?”
She took him by the hand and led him to a davenport as Pendel closed the door behind them. After they sat, Mrs. Lincoln leaned in. “You do know you were a great friend to my husband. And now you must be my friend.”
“Of course, ma’am. And I want to apologize for not being here. Mr. Stanton ordered me out of town. I think he knew if I had been here, the president would not have been shot.” Lamon knew what he said was a lie, but he also knew he had to gain her trust if he were ever to learn what really happened. “I know you and Mr. Lincoln were held captive in the basement for two years.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh thank God. Then you know I am not insane. No one believes me. Even Mr. Johnson.”
“Mr. Johnson is a good man. As soon as we can present him facts, he will take action against Mr. Stanton. Stanton lied to me when he said you and the President were being held for your own protection against death threats.”
“It was no such thing. He wanted to take over.” She paused. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. They’ll put me away.”
Lamon patted her hands. “You’re right. The nation must never know the truth. The country’s morale is so weak at this point, if the people learned that Mr. Stanton usurped power in the middle of the war they would give up and never believe in the republic again. We have to give Mr. Johnson the information to remove Mr. Stanton from power permanently.”
“I want him to suffer,” she whispered.
“Who else do you suppose knew? Someone I can persuade to talk?” Lamon asked.
“A private named Adam Christy took care of us. Fed us. Emptied our chamber pots.” Shaking her head, she added, “He looked so sad. I cried many nights for him. I don’t think he knew what he was getting into when this whole thing began. By the end he knew, though.”
“I met him a couple of times, but I couldn’t convince him into trusting me with the truth.”
“He was from Steubenville, Ohio, he said. Oh, Lord, I hope he made it home safely to his father. His mother died. That weighed heavily on his heart.”
“I haven’t seen him since the assassination.” He paused before adding, “But there was a puddle of blood on the basement floor. I saw it the next day—I mean, the butler just told me he saw it the next day.”
Nodding, she said, “They killed him, the poor soul.”
“Then there’s no witnesses left alive who might help us.”
“But there is,” she insisted. “Mr. Gabby. Gabby Zook. He was the addled janitor that spent the entire time with us in the basement. He was setting rattraps the day Mr. Stanton brought us down here. Mr. Stanton said he knew too much and had to stay with us.”
“Do you know where he might be now?”
“He should still be in the basement. I told him that night he could stay.”
“I was just in the basement,” Lamon said. “He’s not there.”
“He said he was from New York.” Mrs. Lincoln paused to look away and crinkled her forehead. “He had a sister named Cordie who worked at one of the hospitals. I don’t remember the name of it. But he did mention Miss Dorothea Dix was there. The sister died. Find Miss Dix and you’ll find Mr. Gabby.”
Lamon stood. “I’m on my way.”
She reached out to grab his arm. “Please, I know you can be blunt and rough, Mr. Lamon. That’s just your way, but you have to be gentle with Mr. Gabby. He’s awful nervous, like me.”
As Lamon trotted down the stairs he strained his memory for the name of the hospital where Dorothea Dix supervised the nurses. He had read about her many times in the newspapers which reported her courage, diligence and, yes, sometimes obstinacy in her efforts to mend the wounded soldiers. By the time he reached the first floor the name flashed across his mind—Armory Square Hospital, across the iron bridge and adjacent to the Smithsonian Museum. Before he reached the door, he heard a young voice behind him.
“Mr. Lamon, are you going to catch the man who killed Papa?”
When he turned he saw Tad standing in the hallway, very still and straight, his face devoid of the impishness Lamon saw in him when they last talked, when the imposters lived upstairs. He walked to the boy and patted him on his shoulder.
“I’ll do the best I can, Tad,” he said with a soothing smile. “Do you remember the last time we spoke? You talked about a secret.”
“Somebody told. That’s why Papa got shot.”
“Who do you think told? Private Christy?”
“Oh no, he was nice to me. He took me to the basement one night when I was sick and I wanted to see my real mama and papa. I haven’t seen him since Papa died. I think whoever killed Papa killed him too.”
“The people who pretended to be your parents, did you ever learn their real names?” Lamon crouched to be on Tad’s level so he could look in his eyes.
“No, it was part of the secret.” Tad looked around them and then leaned into Lamon’s ear. “I don’t think Papa’s life was ever in danger, I mean, from anyone out there. I think Mr. Stanton made that part up. I think he was the danger. I think he had Papa killed.”
Reaching out, Lamon hugged Tad. “I think you’re right,” he whispered, “but don’t tell anyone else that. I don’t want anything to happen to you and your mama.”
“I know. So it’s all up to you, Mr. Lamon.”
Tad’s words echoed in his head as he walked away from the Executive Mansion and down the street to the iron bridge across the slough and to Armory Square Hospital. It was up to him, and he could not let Tad or the nation down. When he entered the hospital door, he looked around for Miss Dix, and he spotted her in a far corner, wagging her finger at a nurse whose head hung in reproof. He waited until she finished with the woman and approached her with an introduction.
“I know who you are, Mr. Lamon,” Miss Dix interrupted. “What do you want? I have soldiers needing attention.”
“Do you know a Gabby Zook?”
“Of course, I do,” she replied. “The poor man has very serious mental problems. I couldn’t help him here so I sent him to Brooklyn, New York, with a friend of mine.”
“Who is your friend?”
“Mr. Lamon! That is private information.” She raised an eyebrow. “You have no right to inquire about matters that don’t concern you.”
Lamon stepped forward, hoping his height and bulk would intimidate Miss Dix who was quite short and thin. His maneuver did not work.
“And you take two steps back right this instant! You will not use your size to force information out of me, Mr. Lamon!”
Retreating, Lamon decided to use a different tactic and smiled sheepishly. “I apologize for my brusque manner, Miss Dix, but I am very upset by the death of my dear friend, the president.”
“As we all are.” She continued to eye him with suspicion.
“I am trying to find the man responsible.”
“The newspapers said that actor did it—what was his name? Booth.”
“He may have been the man who pulled the trigger, but I am looking for the man who was responsible. That’s why I’m looking for Mr. Zook. I understand he might have some information about the conspiracy.”
“I told you, Mr. Lamon, Mr. Zook is insane. He came into the hospital the night of the assassination dripping wet from the rain, ranting about being held captive in the Executive Mansion basement.”
“Did he mention a Private Adam Christy?”
Again her eyebrow arched. “And what of it? I knew Private Christy. He was enamored of one of our nurses but she died of pneumonia, as did Mr. Zook’s sister Cordie. What does any of this have to do with the assassination of Mr. Lincoln?”
Realizing he was not going to convince her of any plot he did not bother to mention the role Secretary of War Stanton may have played. He tried smiling again. “You’re probably right.” Sighing, he added, “I hope Mr. Zook will be all right. In his mental state, being all alone in a large city like Brooklyn, why anything could happen to him.”
“I told you Mr. Whitman would take care of him.” Miss Dix gasped as she put her hand to her mouth.
“Thank you. You should know, Miss Dix, you mustn’t believe the reports you have read about me in the newspapers. I am not as terrible as you might surmise from the reports. As I mustn’t make rash judgments about you from the newspaper stories.”
Her hand slowly dropped from her face, which began to soften. “As a matter of fact, I do remembering reading how you often slept on the floor outside the President’s bedroom to protect him.” A smile crept across her thin lips. “Do you really believe Mr. Zook’s crazy stories?”
“I won’t know for sure until I talk to him myself.” Lamon held his breath, hoping she would begin to trust him.
“You might have heard of Mr. Whitman. He’s a poet, though personally I don’t care for his verse. He is a good and kind man. Walt Whitman. You will find him at his family’s home on North Portland Avenue in Brooklyn.”