The Lincoln Deception by David O. Stewart Page A

eliminate the impossible and see what’s left? It’s impossible that Booth did this all by himself. What’s left is that someone helped him, maybe even got him to do it in the first place.”
    Was that what Mrs. Surratt did with Mr. Bingham, spilled secrets that might lead back to the men behind the assassination? Fraser couldn’t be sure. This was all guessing. He didn’t mind guessing. Medical diagnosis was often guessing, but that was guessing he was used to, and you found out pretty soon whether your guess was right. Patients got better or they didn’t. This kind of guessing was different. Fraser didn’t know how to test the ideas he and Cook were talking about. How could they evaluate their guesses? Who knew enough to tell them they were right or wrong? And if there was someone who knew, why would he talk to Fraser and Cook about it?
    Fraser’s mind had kept cycling back to the writer, Townsend. It seemed like that man, too, was obsessed with the Lincoln conspiracy. He wrote about it over and over, once in a novel. Could it be that Townsend didn’t accept the lone-madman theory that he himself had peddled? When Mr. Bingham died, Townsend sent a long condolence letter, so Fraser knew the writer felt something toward Mr. Bingham. Perhaps, out of loyalty to Mr. Bingham, Townsend would hear them out; maybe he could help them deduce Mr. Bingham’s secret.
    In May, the women of Harrison County fell into an uncharacteristically fallow period, while the rest of the populace enjoyed a spate of health. Fraser resolved to seize the moment to visit Townsend over the Memorial Day holiday. It would take most of a day to get there and another to get back, so he planned to be away for up to five days. Dr. Marcotte in Steubenville would take emergency cases while he was away. When Fraser mentioned the trip to Cook, there was no way to stop the ex-ballplayer from coming along. “You need me to figure this thing out,” Cook had said. Fraser tended to agree, but he hadn’t anticipated what it was like to travel with a Negro, especially one like Cook.
    â€œYou know what we’ve been missing?” Cook demanded, oblivious to the other passengers. Fraser said no in a soft voice. He hoped his example would lead Cook to speak quietly. It didn’t. “We’ve been missing that whole business about shooting Booth.”
    Fraser raised an eyebrow.
    â€œDidn’t it strike you funny,” Cook said, “Booth goes and gets himself killed before anyone can ask him a single question? And that sergeant who shot him—what’s his name, Hartford?”
    â€œBoston. Boston Corbett.”
    â€œYeah, right. Wasn’t any officer told him to go and shoot Booth. Wasn’t any order to shoot. I’m telling you, Booth’s standing in a barn that’s on fire, soldiers all around. Man ain’t going nowhere except maybe straight to hell or out of that barn with his hands up. No need to shoot. But old Boston, he just up and plugs him, does it on his own.” Cook shook his head. “I tell you what, it don’t add up.”
    â€œActually,” Fraser said, “that’s always bothered me. That silenced Booth forever. Nothing he left behind revealed very much.”
    â€œIf someone arranged for him to get shot, they surely could clean up whatever Booth left behind. What happened to that Sergeant Boston? Was he some glory-seeker, trying to do something he could cash in on?”
    â€œNever did cash in on it. Actually, he went crazy. Mr. Bingham had a newspaper story about him years later, living in a cave out in Kansas or somewhere. Don’t know what’s happened with him since.”
    â€œSend a crazy man to kill an assassin. That’s smart. Who’s gonna believe anything the crazy man says?” Cook paused. “Another thing. Did you notice how bad that woman’s lawyers were, the ones for Mrs. Surratt?” Fraser shook