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a set of open double doors, with a strip of yellow police tape across them, that he suddenly slows down.
    To bring us in here, he’s breaking the rules. Breaking the law. Luckily, he knows that some things are more important.
    “Promise you’ll be fast,” he begs as I lift the police tape and rush inside. The ceiling rises, revealing ornate balconies, the wide dome, and the stained glass windows that fill the Church of the Presidents with a kaleidoscope of morning light. The room stretches back with half a football field worth of pews, but it’s the familiar church smell of rose candles, old books, and stale air that takes me back to childhood and fills me with memories of my own dead father.
    “They think the killer started here,” Hayden says, leading us up the aisle. On both sides of us, on the armrest of each pew, a small gold plate identifies donors. Every pew is spoken for, except for the one that’s about a third of the way from the altar: Pew 54. The gold pew plate reads simply,
The President’s Pew
.
    “I’m surprised the President doesn’t sit in the front row,” Tot says.
    “Blame James Madison,” Hayden explains. “When he was President, they gave him first dibs on one of the pews, but he said, ‘Pick one for me.’ So they put him as a person of the people. Right in the middle, like everyone else.”
    “And President Wallace abides by that?” I ask.
    “He’s only been here once. Some leaders worship more than others. But even Presidents want to be a part of history.” As he says the words, he points inside the pew. On the floor, there are four kneelers with needlepoint cushions for people to pray on. Each cushion has a different name in bright gold letters:
George W. Bush. Barack Obama. Leland Manning
. And an ancient one—the very first one from two hundred years ago—that says
James Madison
.
    “Where’s the one for President Wallace?”
    “You only get it when you leave office,” Hayden says, still anxious to keep us moving as he strides toward the back of the room. In every pew are more kneelers. Ronald Reagan. Woodrow Wilson.Bill Clinton. Harry Truman. At one point in time, every single one of them came into this room and bent a knee to God. It should be humbling. But as I picture our current President—and the power he threatened to level against me—I don’t even want to think about it.
    As we reach the very last row, the last two pews are roped off by more police tape, where the killer took his first shot at the rector. More placards with little arrows on them mark the blood spatter along the pews and wood floor. This time, though, I know the pew we’re looking at—the one that’s more famous than all the others combined.
    The Lincoln Pew.
    It’s the last pew, the very last row. Back in the 1860s, Lincoln used to walk across the street from the White House, sneak into this pew in the back, and then disappear before the church service was over. The gold plaque on the wall reads:
He was always alone
.
    “So the killer shot at the rector from this pew?” Tot asks.
    Hayden says something, but I don’t hear it. I study the pew… the wooden bench… the hardwood floor. But the closer I look… Something’s not right.
    “Okay, you’ve seen the pew. Now can we go?” Hayden begs.
    I don’t move.
    “Beecher, what’s wrong?” Tot asks. “You see something?”
    I don’t answer.
    Next to me, Tot rolls the pen he’s still holding against the tip of his beard. Following my sightline, his good eye scrolls along the bench, up to the stained glass window that hangs above it, then over to the back wall of the church, which is flush with the back of the pew. He still doesn’t see it.
    “We need to go,” Hayden says. “The detectives made me call all our employees. They said everyone had to stay home, so if they find you here…”
    “Hayden, I need two minutes,” I tell him.
    “You said you’d be quick!” Hayden says to Tot.
    “
Hayden
,” I bark, raising my voice