The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer Read Free Book Online Page B

now a man is dead—and since it was my name that was found in Marshall’s pocket, I’m now tied to whatever the hell is really going on here.
    “I know there’s something you’re not saying about this guy, Beecher. And I appreciate you trying to be proactive, but if Marshall’s our killer, he’s gonna be dangerous. You can’t just go knock on his front door.”
    I totally agree. “Who says we’re gonna knock?”

 
    “I thank you, doctor, but I am a dead man.”
    —President James Garfield, while being treated
on the floor of the train station where the assassin,
Charles Guiteau, shot him in the back
    He was the second President murdered in office.

10
    July 2, 1881
    Washington, D.C.
    P resident Garfield was scheduled to be on the 9:30 a.m. train. Like most Presidents, he was running behind schedule. It was hot in Washington—every summer was always brutal in its own way—and on top of that, Garfield was exhausted. Though he’d spent barely four months in office, he already knew it was hard being President.
    And so he was making this train trip. His first stop would be at his alma mater, Williams College, to attend commencement. And then he was heading to northern New England for a well-earned vacation.
    He never made it out of the station.
    At 9:20, his carriage pulled up to the Baltimore & Potomac Railroad Depot at what is currently Constitution and 6th Street in downtown D.C. Behind him, in a second carriage, were his two sons, Harry and Jim.
    Realizing he had a few minutes, Garfield decided to stay in the carriage, catching up with his friend and secretary of state, James Blaine. During the election of 1880, both Blaine and Garfield were among the Republican nominees, but it was Garfield who was picked as the true compromise candidate—the man who would unite the various party factions.
    As they sat there in the carriage, Blaine was calm, playing with his cane and tossing it over and over in the air. At the time, theSecret Service wasn’t in charge of presidential protection yet. With his top hat and gray traveling suit, the President eventually stepped down from the carriage, leading his friend and family into the station.
    Inside, among the Cabinet members who were waiting to see him off was Robert Todd Lincoln, the eldest son of the first slain President.
    Entering the nearly empty station with a few minutes to spare, President James Garfield was calm. He was relaxed. And he had no idea that a slight five-foot-five-inch man named Charles Guiteau had arrived an hour earlier and was hiding in the washroom.
    Unlike John Wilkes Booth, Guiteau wasn’t an actor. He hadn’t prepared any final, memorable lines.
    Waiting for the President to pass, Guiteau was silent as the two-hundred-pound commander in chief marched through the station. Without a word, Guiteau rushed the President from behind, pulled out the small, snub-nosed British Bulldog pistol that he’d bought a month earlier, and fired at the President’s back.
    The first shot seemed to graze Garfield’s arm, so Guiteau stepped closer and fired again.
    That shot hit President Garfield in the back, above the waist. The President sank to the floor. His top hat was crushed, his gray traveling suit covered in blood.
    Still silent, the assassin Guiteau tucked his gun into his pocket and walked quickly to the exit. Outside, a D.C. cop heard the two shots. Racing to investigate, the officer yanked open the door just as Guiteau slammed into him. The officer didn’t let the flustered man pass.
    “I have a letter to send to General Sherman!” Guiteau blurted, speaking his first words. Within seconds, a ticket taker and depot watchman grabbed Guiteau from behind, tackling the man who had just shot the President.
    Inside, Garfield’s younger son, Jim, was bawling, the older son trying to comfort him. People were screaming, begging for a doctor as blood spread across the station floor.
    By noon that day, as the news of the shooting traveled, President