To whom it may concern:
My name is Louis. Here I sit; in this tiny room; at this small wooden night table; amongst the shadows that hide between the spaces of light and my sanity; trying to write. Here I sit; staring, for the last time out a porthole of a window into a world of whose pleasures I will no longer experience. It is so quiet. If not for the faint pattering of rain droplets upon the pane of glass, I fear that I will surely go insane. If I am not already. Sunken, am I, in my mind's misery. Doomed to either to run, to hide; or to lie in a lonesome grave of which I will suffer eternally. Yet I write. I write the truth. For it must be told. By night's end you shall either find me handing this paper to you, or dangling above it from a rope that now rests under the floor board.
No matter which outcome I should arrive at before dawn, this must be told.
I am Louis Weichmann; that is the name of what is left of the conscience in this decrepit form. So appropriately, I say, I was Louis Weichmann. Now, I do not even feel human. For I took part in a plot of not only deceit and death but of mutiny and treason. A plot to tear apart the government of the United States of America did I hold a part. A plot to murder the President, Vice President, Secretary of State and General of the Armed Forces. Though I took no physical action to achieve these goals, my very silence condemns my soul to where I belong, beneath the greater depths of Hell. Had I alerted the proper authorities, Mr. Lincoln might still be alive. Cowardly...