Wilkie nodded as though intrigued, which inspired Czolgosz to keep spouting off anarchist doctrine. He was mouthing someone else’s philosophy, and Nathaniel was certain he knew who it was.
He adjusted the knot on his tie, a signal to Wilkie that he needed to communicate something. Two minutes later they left the room, leaving Czolgosz still manacled to his chair.
“What is it?” Wilkie asked once they’d stepped into the hallway.
“Ask him about Emma Goldman. She runs an anarchist newspaper in Chicago, and he’s repeating direct quotes from her press. Find out if they know each other or if he’s ever worked for her newspaper. I think we can make a connection.”
Wilkie nodded, and they returned to the interrogation room. This time Wilkie unlocked one of Czolgosz’s hands so he could smoke a cigarette. The delicate dance to implicate Emma Goldman hit pay dirt soon after.
“Oh, I know her all right,” Czolgosz bragged. “She was glad to meet me and said I could be a soldier in her army.”
“Tell me more,” Wilkie said, and Czolgosz continued to boast about each encounter he’d had with the famed anarchist and professional rabble-rouser. It sounded as if he’d trailed her across the country to political speeches and rallies, tracking her down after each speech for another chance to bask in her fame.
Shame washed through Nathaniel, making it hard to hold his head up. This failure was going to haunt him for the rest of his life, but at least he could be sure everyone involved in this plot was captured. If Emma Goldman had inspired Leon Czolgosz to take three shots at the President of the United States, she must be made to answer for it.
Wilkie disagreed. “We can’t arrest her just because she’s met the gunman,” he growled.
They were walking back to the hotel after twelve hours of interrogation. It was dark and the streets were empty, but Nathaniel felt compelled to act. Guilt made him short-tempered and unable to think of anything beyond identifying everyone who’d played a role in the president’s shooting. Emma Goldman wasn’t the only anarchist Czolgosz had implicated. He’d referenced almost a dozen people he’d been consorting with,and most were well-known anarchists committed to the violent overthrow of the government.
Czolgosz was too simple to have carried this out on his own. It was possible that Goldman and her compatriots had already boarded a ship to flee the country, escaping responsibility for the violence they’d unleashed. Nathaniel wouldn’t let that happen.
“We need to round them all up,” he said. “I can’t turn the clock back and step in front of the bullets, but I can arrest the people who inspired that fool. I’ll present their heads on a platter to Mrs. McKinley.”
“And won’t that be a treat for her,” Wilkie said flatly.
“Shut up, Wilkie. I’ve studied anarchism, and I know how these people think. They represent chaos and violence. They have nothing to offer the world other than tearing down the accomplishments of decent, hardworking people.”
A part of him knew he sounded irrational, but he had to stay hard. He was hanging on to his sanity by a thread, and if he softened, he would break.
Caroline found the church service on Sunday morning a blessed oasis of peace after the chaos of the past two days. The pastor began with a prayer of thanksgiving for the president’s continuing recovery, and the mood inside the church was a combination of relief, hopeful expectation, and comradery.
Caroline knelt, sending up prayerful thanks as earnestly as she could. The president was on the mend, and Ida was weathering the storm better than expected. What an astounding blessing on both counts.
And yet, on the other side of the aisle, Nathaniel sat staring stonily ahead. This was the first time she’d seen him since the shooting, and something seemed off. He’d always been stern, but this was different. A layer of anger smoldered just beneath the surface, and it was worrisome. She stared at his flinty profilefor an unseemly length of time, hoping to catch his attention, but it didn’t work.
After the service, people lingered in the foyer and filled the churchyard. Many wanted to recount where they had been when it happened, while others sought a chance to rub shoulders with the dozens of high-ranking Washington officials who’d flocked to town. Vice President Roosevelt had arrived in Buffalo the day of the shooting, but now that the president was on the mend, George thought Mr. Roosevelt’s presence conveyed a morbid implication to the public. On George’s recommendation, the Roosevelts left the city to continue their vacation in upstate New York.
Meanwhile, the secretaries of Agriculture, the Treasury, and the War Department had all gathered and would soon begin paying calls on the president, who intended to carry out his duties from his sickbed. Newspapermen jostled for position, and photographers took pictures, but the only person Caroline wanted to see was Nathaniel.
She scanned the throngs of churchgoers so intently that she almost missed him, for he’d already escaped the crowd and was a block away, striding down the tree-lined street in haste.
“Nathaniel, wait!” she called, lifting her skirt to hurry down the sidewalk. There was no break in his stride as he kept walking, but she was at last able to close the distance between them.
“Wait,” she panted when she was only a few paces behind. She tugged at his elbow and forced him to slow down. “How are you doing?” she asked as she drew alongside him.
“Busy,” he replied. “I meet with a lawyer at noon to draft the federal arrest warrants. We’ll start rounding people up soon.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
There was no change in his expression as he kept striding ahead, talking without looking at her. “Wilkie is being difficult, but all I need is one judge. Justone judgewilling to sign those warrants. I’ll arrest them all—the anarchists, the publishers ofthe radical press, even the people who organized that rally in Cleveland. They’ve all got blood on their hands.”
This harsh, angry side of Nathaniel was alarming. She slid her hand down his arm and wrapped her fingers around his palm.
“But how areyoudoing?” she pressed.
“I’m fine. I’ll be better when Emma Goldman and the rest of her ilk are in jail.”
She stopped, still grasping his hand and making him stop as well. He kept staring straight ahead, so she positioned herself to look squarely into his face. They were alone, and no one could hear them.
