from showing Clementine around the building, to Orlando offering to let us in the SCIF, to spilling the coffee and finding the book hidden below the chair.
He never interrupts. Forever an archivist, he knows the value of collecting information first. By the time we turn onto Constitution Avenue, I hit the big finale with the parts about Orlando’s death, the suddenly missing videotape, and every other detail I can think of, from Dallas’s lurking, to Khazei’s passive-aggressive threat to make me look like the murderer. But as the powder blue Mustang growls and claws through D.C.’s slushy streets, Tot’s only reaction is:
“You shouldn’t’ve told me any of this.”
“What?”
“You need to be smart, Beecher. And you’re not being smart.”
“What’re you talking about? I am being smart. I’m getting help.”
“That’s fine. But look at the full picture you’re now in the middle of: Of everything that’s happened, there’s only one detail—just one—that can’t be argued with.”
“Besides that I’m screwed?”
“The book, Beecher. Where’d you find that book?” he asks, pointing to the dictionary.
“In the chair.”
“Yes! It was hidden in the chair. Y’understand what I’m saying? You may not know if it was hidden by the President, or for the President, or by or for his Secret Service agents or some other party we don’t even know of—but the act of hiding and finding something, that’s a two-party agreement. One hider and one finder. So to hide the book in that SCIF… to even get in that room…”
“You think it’s someone from our staff,” I say.
“Maybe from our staff… maybe from Security… but it’s gotta be someone in our building,” Tot says as we stop at a red light. “I mean, if you’re hiding something, would you ever pick a room unless you had the key?”
Up ahead, the Washington Monument is on my right. But I’m far more focused on my left, at the wide green lawn that leads back, back, back to the beautiful mansion with the wide, curved balcony. The White House. From here, it looks miniature, but you can already see the specks of tourists lingering and snapping photos at the black metal gates.
“Beecher, don’t think what you’re thinking.”
I stay silent, eyes still on the home of Orson Wallace.
“That’s not who you’re fighting, Beecher. This isn’t you against the President of the United States.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sure I do. If it were, the paramedics would be carrying you under the sheet by now.”
I shake my head. “That’s only because they don’t know I have their book.”
For the first time, Tot’s silent.
As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, as he pulls past our building—a huge neoclassical granite archives that fills over two city blocks on our right—I ignore the fifty-foot-high columns and instead stare at the two smaller limestone statues that flank the front doors. There are four statues in total, representing the Future, the Past, Heritage, and Guardianship. Tot knows better than I do which is which, but there’s no mistaking the carved old man holding a scroll and a closed book on the right. Engraved at the base it says, “Study the Past.”
I open the Washington dictionary and again read the words. Exitus acta probat.
“Think about it, Tot, of all the people in the building yesterday, I can account for everyone being where they were—Orlando… Dallas… Rina… even Khazei—everyone except for President Wallace, who just happened to pick the exact day, at the exact time of death, to stop by for his visit.”
“Actually, he’s not the only one.”
“What’re you talking about?”
He looks my way, turning far enough that I can see his good eye. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Who?”
“The girl. The high school crush you’re all gushy about.”
“Clemmi?”
“ Clemmi? No, no, no, don’t do pet names. You barely know this girl two days.”
“I’ve known her since seventh
He never interrupts. Forever an archivist, he knows the value of collecting information first. By the time we turn onto Constitution Avenue, I hit the big finale with the parts about Orlando’s death, the suddenly missing videotape, and every other detail I can think of, from Dallas’s lurking, to Khazei’s passive-aggressive threat to make me look like the murderer. But as the powder blue Mustang growls and claws through D.C.’s slushy streets, Tot’s only reaction is:
“You shouldn’t’ve told me any of this.”
“What?”
“You need to be smart, Beecher. And you’re not being smart.”
“What’re you talking about? I am being smart. I’m getting help.”
“That’s fine. But look at the full picture you’re now in the middle of: Of everything that’s happened, there’s only one detail—just one—that can’t be argued with.”
“Besides that I’m screwed?”
“The book, Beecher. Where’d you find that book?” he asks, pointing to the dictionary.
“In the chair.”
“Yes! It was hidden in the chair. Y’understand what I’m saying? You may not know if it was hidden by the President, or for the President, or by or for his Secret Service agents or some other party we don’t even know of—but the act of hiding and finding something, that’s a two-party agreement. One hider and one finder. So to hide the book in that SCIF… to even get in that room…”
“You think it’s someone from our staff,” I say.
“Maybe from our staff… maybe from Security… but it’s gotta be someone in our building,” Tot says as we stop at a red light. “I mean, if you’re hiding something, would you ever pick a room unless you had the key?”
Up ahead, the Washington Monument is on my right. But I’m far more focused on my left, at the wide green lawn that leads back, back, back to the beautiful mansion with the wide, curved balcony. The White House. From here, it looks miniature, but you can already see the specks of tourists lingering and snapping photos at the black metal gates.
“Beecher, don’t think what you’re thinking.”
I stay silent, eyes still on the home of Orson Wallace.
“That’s not who you’re fighting, Beecher. This isn’t you against the President of the United States.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sure I do. If it were, the paramedics would be carrying you under the sheet by now.”
I shake my head. “That’s only because they don’t know I have their book.”
For the first time, Tot’s silent.
As we turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, as he pulls past our building—a huge neoclassical granite archives that fills over two city blocks on our right—I ignore the fifty-foot-high columns and instead stare at the two smaller limestone statues that flank the front doors. There are four statues in total, representing the Future, the Past, Heritage, and Guardianship. Tot knows better than I do which is which, but there’s no mistaking the carved old man holding a scroll and a closed book on the right. Engraved at the base it says, “Study the Past.”
I open the Washington dictionary and again read the words. Exitus acta probat.
“Think about it, Tot, of all the people in the building yesterday, I can account for everyone being where they were—Orlando… Dallas… Rina… even Khazei—everyone except for President Wallace, who just happened to pick the exact day, at the exact time of death, to stop by for his visit.”
“Actually, he’s not the only one.”
“What’re you talking about?”
He looks my way, turning far enough that I can see his good eye. “Tell me about the girl.”
“Who?”
“The girl. The high school crush you’re all gushy about.”
“Clemmi?”
“ Clemmi? No, no, no, don’t do pet names. You barely know this girl two days.”
“I’ve known her since seventh
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