Notes: This story was inspired a little bit by this icon, a tiny bit by the premise of �Murder on the Campaign Express,� and a whole lotta bit by my sick and twisted mind.
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The intern sighed as she made her way through the twisting labyrinth of tunnels that wound its way beneath the White House. It was a dream job, a fantasy come true, really, and she knew that she was going to have to start at the bottom of the proverbial totem pole, but was it too much to ask to have an office at least in the same zip code as the West Wing?
Apparently so.
She shifted her box from one hip to another, and glanced again at the slip of paper in her hand. Strange...this hallway seemed to end at B560. There was no B570, as far as she could see. She frowned, pushing open the nearest door to her, hoping to find someone to ask directions of, but instead she found herself at the top of what looked like a long-abandoned stairwell. She hit the switch on the wall beside her and blinked as the fluorescent lights overhead flickered to life. Peering down the stairs, her eyes lit on the door at the far side of the room, and the metal plate beside it that proclaimed it to be B570.
�You have got to be kidding me,� she muttered under her breath, making her way carefully down the stairs, noting idly that for out of the way place, it seemed to have a lot of traffic, judging from the footprints that scuffed the dirt.
Reaching the door, she jiggled the handle, only to find it locked. �Figures,� she sighed, and dropped her box unceremoniously on the floor. She knelt down and rifled through her belongings, finally coming across a manila folder with the room number scrawled across it in barely legible handwriting. She dumped it upside down and fumbled to pick up the key that dropped out onto the cement floor. She slid it into the lock and turned it, and the door swung open with a dull creak. Hoisting her box back up into her arms, she was too distracted to notice the body until she tripped on it.
There was no one around to hear her when she screamed.
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�The problem with cases like this, Sawyer,� Detective Pemberton Rothschild grumbled as he peered idly at the wallet, �is motive. Times like these, motives are like opinions and assholes. Everyone�s got one.�
His deputy nodded absently, intent on lifting fingerprints from the railing. �How�s that, sir?�
His boss let out an inelegant snort as he waved the dead man�s ID in front of the younger cop�s face. �Name one person in this building that wouldn�t want this guy dead.� Sawyer shrugged. �That�s right. There isn�t one. Not a one. Everyone�s got their reasons, from the President to his staff to their assistants, right on down to the guy who delivers the muffins.�
Sawyer glanced up with raised eyebrows. �Fred, sir? Seemed harmless enough to me.�
�You haven�t been in this business long enough, boy. You run this beat for as long as I have, and you start to realize that it�s always the harmless-looking ones.� Rothschild nodded sagely. �Remember the Coffee House Poisonings last summer?� Sawyer nodded. �Turned out to be the little old lady who sprinkled the cinnamon on the cappuccinos. Harmless looking, sure. But underneath the granny glasses and the blue perm there lurked a cold-blooded killer. Innocuous little old Fred could very well turn out to be the White House Muffin Murderer. Never forget that.�
Sawyer nodded seriously. �Never, sir.� He paused a moment. �You say that everyone here wants this guy dead. Why?� The detective�s bushy eyebrows shot up as far as they could go, and he tossed the bagged wallet in his deputy�s direction. Sawyer caught it and glanced at the ID again, and looked up to see Rothschild looking at him expectantly. �I still don�t understand, sir,� he said. �What has this guy...this John Wells...what has he done to any of these people?�
The older man crossed the room to retrieve the bag. �Character assassination, my boy,� he said simply. �It�s all about character assassination.�
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�Honestly, Detective, I don�t mean to step on any toes here, but my staff has important work to be doing. Trust me when I tell you that the vetting process these people have been though would send your DC issue background checks through the ringer and back. Any homicidal maniacs have undoubtedly been successfully weeded out. So have you got any idea of when these interrogations are going to be over so my people can get back to work?�
�Mr. McGarry, I appreciate your position,� Detective Rothschild assured him, his eyes wandering around the office, resting meaningfully on the lamp on his side table, then on the model ship behind his desk, then on anything else in the room that could successfully deliver a heavy blow to the head. Leo, noting the direction of the detective�s glances, narrowly stifled the urge to roll his eyes.
�But,� Rothschild continued, �a man is� here he paused for heavy dramatic emphasis, �dead. And he was murdered right here in the White House. Surely that is no trivial concern.�
�Surely not,� Leo replied, matching the detective�s haughty tone. �And I welcome you to continue your investigation as you see fit...as long as it doesn�t interfere with the business we do here, which we like to refer to as running the country.� The detective�s deputy flinched a little under Leo�s glare as he continued. �Oh, and if you would consider letting my deputy, his assistant, the President�s body man, and our Communications Director out of custody, that might be a step in the right direction.�
Rothschild huffed into his moustache. �They�re suspects in an ongoing investigation, Mr. McGarry. Their fingerprints were all found inside the room, a room I�ve been assured no one in their right mind ever uses.�
�Well I never said any of them were in their right minds,� Leo muttered, but the detective continued without any sign that he had heard him.
�They all had ample opportunity to kill Mr. Wells, as no one would have seen them entering or exiting the room, and God knows each of them has motive.�
�Motive,� Leo scoffed. �What motive?�
�In order? Let�s see.� He flipped open a notebook and scanned through the pages. �Screaming at the Capitol and outrageous levels of UST, more UST, exterminators, and kidnapping his children. And that�s just for starters.�
Leo blinked. �Well, when you put it that way...� Then he shook his head. �Well never mind motive. It�s irrelevant, because none of them are killers. Anyhow, their motives are nothing. If anyone would want to kill John Wells, it would be��
�CJ Cregg? Yes, we�re off to see her next,� Rothschild assured him.
�I was going to say myself.�
There was a soft knock at the door, and Margaret�s head poked in. �Leo, you have��
He nodded at her. �Yes. I do. Thank you, Margaret.� He turned back to Rothschild. �Is that all?�
�Just one question,� the detective said. �Did you actually see Mr. Wells at any point during his visit to the White House?�
�I�ve never seen the man in my life,� Leo replied, turning his attention back to the reports scattered across his desk. �Margaret, show these men out.�
She ushered them out of the office, and paused at her desk to pick up a tray sitting there and offer it to them. �Cookie?� Rothschild shook his head impatiently, but Sawyer grabbed one from the plate and smiled briefly at her before hurrying after his boss.
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�I really don�t know what else I can tell you boys. I didn�t even see the man, and if I did, I�m pretty sure I�d remember killing him. I�ve got a pretty good memory, and I have Carol around to remember everything I don�t.� CJ paused and turned to the door. �Carol!� A few seconds passed, then the door cracked open and Carol�s head appeared. �I didn�t happen to, you know, kill anyone yesterday afternoon, did I?�
Carol paused as if deep in thought. �Well, you had the German ambassador�s wife at one, the two o�clock briefing, and then you had the meeting with the guys from the thing and then...nope. I think you were too busy yesterday to kill anyone.�
CJ smiled triumphantly. �Thank you Carol.� The assistant disappeared, and CJ turned her attention back to the detective. �Any other questions?�
He was staring intently at Gail�s fishbowl, which today contained a miniature copy of Agatha Christie�s Ten Little Indians. �That�s a fine fish you have there, Ms. Cregg.�
CJ blinked. �That�s Gail. She�s...� she paused. �It�s a long story. Why do you��
�You wouldn�t mind if I borrowed this, would you?� Rothschild asked, already motioning to Sawyer, who had produced a pair of gloves and two evidence bags seemingly out of nowhere.
�I...what? You want to borrow my fish?�
The detective shook his head impatiently. �No, no, you can keep the fish. And the...book. I just want the bowl. Interesting choice of decoration, by the way.�
�I...didn�t put it there,� she said, watching in complete bewilderment as Sawyer scooped Gail and the book into a small plastic bag and handed it to her, then went to work bagging the fishbowl.
Rothschild squinted at her. �Then who did?�
�You know, I�m not sure. It started around Christmastime a few years ago, and it�s just continued ever since. I come in every few days and there�s a new decoration in her bowl. I always figured...well I don�t know what I figured. It�s just become tradition I guess.�
Rothschild nodded sagely. �I see.� He motioned to Sawyer, who picked up the plastic-encased fishbowl and held it up in front of CJ for closer inspection. The detective pointed out a thick crust of dirt that layered the bottom corner of the bowl. �You know what that is?�
CJ squinted, then her eyes widened. �Is that��
�Blood,� Sawyer supplied helpfully. Rothschild nodded, motioned to the door, and sent Sawyer on his way with the tank. �Thank you for your time, Ms. Cregg,� he said, and followed his deputy out of the room, leaving CJ standing in the middle of the office, holding Gail in a bag, and feeling utterly dumsquizzled.
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�So. You know why we�re here.� Rothschild began.
�I have a vague idea.�
�Anything you�d like to tell me right off the bat here?� the detective asked. �I�m really not trying to make your life difficult, Mr. Ziegler, and if you tell me the truth, things will go much smoother for everyone involved.�
Toby nodded. �So you say.�
Rothschild stifled a sigh. Maybe he should have started with one of the others. �Ok, let�s start with this. Did you see John Wells at any point yesterday afternoon?�
Toby pretended to think. �One of those Hollywood types? In for the special tour for zillionaires who donate money to the Democratic party so they can look like they care about anything other than making a few more millions?�
�That�s the one.�
�Honestly, he could have jumped up on the desk in the Oval and started doing the tango in front of myself, the President, and half the press in the free world, and I probably still couldn�t tell him apart from any of the other Hollywood schmucks in that room.�
�So. That�s a no?� Toby mumbled something unintelligible, and Rothschild continued. �Because, see, your assistant Ginger seems to remember it differently. See if this rings a bell to you. According to Ginger, yesterday afternoon, during the tour, Mr. Wells seemed to get separated from the group. While they were all in the Oval Office, listening to�� he paused to rifle through his notes, �the history of...the California redwoods? Well, while they were listening to the President, at any rate, Mr. Wells was apparently having a rather animated conversation with you in your office. A few minutes later, the two of you disappeared in the direction of the...� more rifling �Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue, and Mr. Wells,� here he paused dramatically, �was never heard from again.�
Toby chuckled dryly. �I believe you missed your true calling in life,� he remarked. �You know, there�s a booming market for trashy fiction writers out there. Go now, and take advantage of it. Seriously. Go. Away. Now.�
�Ah, but you see,� the detective continued, leaning back a little in his chair, �I learned the tricks of that trade a long time ago. See every good writer�and every good detective�knows that you always keep something hidden up your sleeve. Know what�s up my sleeve right now, Mr. Ziegler?�
�Words could not express how little I care.�
�There were four sets of prints, not including those of the intern, taken from the staircase leading down to the room in which she discovered the body. Those of Joshua Lyman, Donnatella Moss, Charles Young, and yourself. But there was only one set of prints on both the outside and the inside of the door to that room. Three guesses as to who they belonged to.�
�Jimmy Hoffa?�
�You know, Mr. Ziegler, there was a time in my life when I would have found you to be a very funny man. That time has passed. I do not deal lightly with murder, and certainly not when it is committed in a place as sacred to our nation as the White House. I have better things to do with myself right now than listen to your evasions and your lies and your jokes, so I�ll leave you here to plot your revenge on me in peace.�
As he reached the door, Toby�s voice followed after him. �Vengeance isn�t Jewish.�
Rothschild paused, smiling thinly. �Well then. Thank God I�m Methodist.�
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�Look, I get that you�re trying to do a job here, but see, there�s this thing that we kind of need to get back to. It�s called governing, maybe you�ve heard of it, and it�s what people do when they work in the White House. I know it�s probably a concept that�s hard for you to get your mind around, seeing as how you live your cushy life down here with a nice shiny badge and an endless supply of donuts, but��
�Josh...�
�Oh, no, by all means, let him continue,� Rothschild said, aimlessly stroking his moustache. �I especially loved the part where the man who works in the White House just called the job of a DC cop �cushy.� That was entertainment, right there.�
Donna sighed and tossed a significant look in Josh�s direction. �It�s kind of been a long day,� she said with a hint of apology in her voice. �I mean, we�re all for you finding the killer, really. It�s just...you�re wasting your time with us. We don�t know anything. We didn�t even see the guy.�
�See now, that�s what I don�t get. This man is in for a high-level tour through the West Wing, and none of the senior staff even see him. Except maybe Toby Ziegler, but at the moment it�s only Ginger who�s saying he saw Wells, so who knows.�
�Ginger probably had too many of Margaret�s cookies,� Josh muttered, prompting a loud snort from Sawyer, who had been sitting all but forgotten in the corner of the room. The deputy, upon noticing the puzzled stares of the other three occupants, shrugged.
�They are pretty bad,� he offered.
Rothschild pointedly returned to the discussion at hand. �We�re getting off track here.�
�And the track was...?� Josh wondered.
�The crime.�
Josh and Donna exchanged glances before Josh drawled, �Crime, boy, I don�t know...� and caused Donna to burst into a fit of the giggles.
Rothschild quirked an eyebrow at them. �It�s...you know...a thing,� Josh explained lamely.
�I can see that,� he replied. �Look, let�s just cut right to the chase, ok? Your fingerprints were both found on the staircase leading down to the scene of the crime. That alone is incriminating enough. But this afternoon, the murder weapon was located, and the blood on the weapon was indeed a positive match to Mr. Wells. There were two clear sets of fingerprints on it. One of them belonged to CJ Cregg, but that is perfectly reasonable, as the object in question actually belonged to Ms. Cregg. The other set of prints was much more puzzling. Miss Moss, would you care to explain?�
She blinked. �I don�t...I mean, I...what was it?�
�A fishbowl, Miss Moss.�
Josh burst out laughing. �A fishbowl? Gail?�
�Gail indeed,� Rothschild confirmed, hoping that his moustache would hide the beginnings of a smile that were starting to twitch at the edges of his mouth. This truly was one of the most absurd cases he had ever worked in all his years on the force. But a man was still dead, and it was that sobering thought that allowed him to control his impulse to smile and return to his line of questioning.
�Is there an explanation forthcoming?�
Donna flushed a rather interesting shade of pink before answering. �Look, I didn�t kill anyone, if that�s what you�re thinking.�
�That is in fact exactly what I�m thinking,� Rothschild confirmed. �Maybe if you could confirm where you were yesterday afternoon around the time that Mr. Wells was killed...?�
�I was...with Josh.� The pause was almost imperceptible, but it was impossible to miss the way her face flushed a shade darker as she said it.
�Were you.�
�She was!� Josh jumped in. �We were...working.�
Rothschild nodded solemnly. �The funny thing is, I don�t believe I asked who you were with. I believe I asked where you were.�
�Look, yeah, we went down there��
�Josh!�
�No, Donna, seriously. They know we were there. We might as well tell the truth. We did go down there. But we didn�t kill anyone. Not Wells, not anybody. And certainly not with a fishbowl.� He smirked.
�Then why were you there?� the detective inquired.
�For��
�Files!� Donna jumped in, and the two men turned to gape at her. �There are...files. Down there. In these boxes. They�re from the Counsel�s office, and I needed some of them. So I...got Josh to come with me because...they�re heavy. We were there for files.�
�Files.� Rothschild repeated.
She nodded vigorously. �Yes. Files.�
He shrugged, then nodded, and rose from his chair. �Bullshit,� he remarked, and strode out of the room.
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�Look, I�ve got them already. It would be nice to have some eyewitness testimony, but I don�t need it. They�re going away for a very long time already with or without your help. It�s just that with if you do decide to help me in my investigation, you might be able to keep yourself from going with them.�
Charlie nodded, then stood and stretched. �Is that all?�
Rothschild cocked his head. �Excuse me?�
Charlie shrugged. �You have nothing on me. You have a couple of fingerprints on a banister that mean absolutely nothing. Detective, honestly, I have respect for what you�re trying to do here. My mother was a cop. I know the kind of work you do, and I admire that, I really do. But I�m the President�s body man, sir. There�s not a square inch of the White House that I haven�t been to at one time or another, and there are people in every corner of the building that can tell you that. Sure, I�ve been down into the Distribution Venue. I helped Ainsley Hayes clear her stuff out of there when she had that identity crisis and moved to Miami. I helped that other guy...the one who busted Hoynes...he looked a little like the guy from Friends...I can�t remember his name, but I helped him move his stuff in, and then out again in a matter of weeks. I�ve showed countless interns the way to that office, and then I�ve showed them another few times when they�ve gotten lost. I�m telling you. I�ve been down there. There are plenty of reasons why my fingerprints are on that railing, and not one of them has to do with the murder of John Wells. So if that�s all, I�m going back to the White House to get back to doing my job.�
With that, he turned and left. Rothschild didn�t try to stop him.
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�Do you think she�s ok in there?� Donna asked worriedly, peering into the vase.
�She�ll be fine,� said Margaret from her place in the corner.
�She survived having her home used as a deadly weapon, with her still in it,� added CJ. �I think she can handle living in a vase for a day or two.�
Gail blinked at the women and puffed out her cheeks.
Josh rolled his eyes at Donna from across the room. �Leave the poor fish alone,� he said, and patted the couch cushion beside him. �Come sit down, I�m sure he�ll get here soon.� She gave Gail one last worried glance, and then crossed the room to slump onto the couch between Josh and Toby.
�Ah, the conquering convicts return,� declared a voice from the doorway, and Donna reluctantly hauled herself to her feet again, followed by the men. The President waved impatiently at them to sit back down, and they did as he made his way around the desk to commandeer CJ�s chair. Charlie wandered in behind him and leaned against the wall beside the door to Josh�s office.
�What are you doing here, sir?� Carol asked from beside Margaret.
�Well, I hear that Sherlock thinks he�s got it,� Bartlet replied with a smile. �It sounds like it�s going to be a hell of a show. Plus, I wanted to be here when the culprit gets dragged off to jail to see who wins the pool. I�ve got my ten bucks on you, Josh.�
�Thank you, sir. I now feel completely secure in telling you that my money�s on you.�
�You shouldn�t, you know. Ron�s right outside the door, and he�d most likely be perfectly willing to kick your ass for me if I asked him to.�
�Right now, sir?� Ron Butterfield�s voice drifted into CJ�s office from the hallway.
�It�s a little crowded in here now, Ron. Maybe later,� Bartlet suggested, then lifted his eyes to the doorway. �And it�s about to get a bit more crowded.�
�All right, make room, people,� Leo said as he made his way into the room to stand by the windows. Pemberton Rothschild entered after him, with Sawyer following at his heels. Sawyer leaned on the edge of the couch as a hush fell over the room, and Rothschild made his way into the center of the floor.
�So, Detective,� said the President, leaning back in CJ�s chair. �Whodunit?�
�Well, sir, as much as I�d love to point to the culprit and have him dragged off immediately, it�s just not that simple. The fact is that this crime was not committed by any person in this room.�
�You mean to tell me that all this was for��
�Now just a second, Mr. McGarry. Please, allow me to finish. This was not a simple crime, to be committed by a single person. No, this was an elaborate scheme, one which required precision and deliberate execution.� His eyes darted to the vase, and a faint smile appeared beneath his moustache. �This was a crime that required all ten little Indians.�
It was Bartlet who interrupted this time. �Well, Detective, I�m no genius at math�oh, wait, actually I am. But it doesn�t take one to figure out that there are nine of us in this room, not counting yourself and your deputy, of course.�
Rothschild nodded towards the President, and slowly counted off on his fingers. �Yourself, Mr. McGarry, Mr. Young, Mr. Ziegler, Miss Moss, Mr. Lyman, Ms. Cregg, Carol, Margaret...and Gail.�
Half a dozen pairs of eyes gaped blankly at Rothschild. Three others turned to stare at the fish.
�You see,� the detective explained, �it all began with Gail. Or, if you prefer, with the wife of the German ambassador.
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�CJ pays Carol to remember the things she can�t remember herself, the little things that are far too trivial for the Press Secretary to be worrying about at any given moment. So yesterday morning, when Carol looked over the schedule for the day and discovered that the German ambassador�s wife was meeting with CJ after lunch, she immediately went into the office to remove Gail. You see, one of the trivial details that Carol is paid to remember is the fact that the German ambassador�s wife has a deathly fear of fish in all sizes and forms. They give her panic attacks.
�So Gail, with all the lack of ceremony a goldfish typically receives, was relegated to the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue. Ah, please, Mr. Young, no interruptions. I know what you�re about to ask, and it puzzled Sawyer and I too, for quite a while. But you see, the reason Carol did not leave any fingerprints in the room was that her hands were otherwise occupied. She kicked the door at the top of the stairs to open it, and the door to the office below was open.
�Let me repeat that. The door to the office in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue was open yesterday morning.
�So Carol placed Gail on the desk in there and hurried back to her office to finish preparing for the morning briefing. CJ didn�t notice the fish was gone, and the German ambassador�s wife came and went without a single hint of a panic attack. Afternoon rolled around, and a group of Hollywood magnates who had generously donated to the party were led in on the grand tour of the West Wing, towards the final goal of the photo op in the Oval Office.
�But it was in this phase of the tour that things began to go bad for John Wells, and it was entirely your fault, Mr. President. After the pictures had been taken, you began to talk about California. And then you talked some more. And then, instead of stopping, you talked a little more. And John Wells, with his notably short attention span, began to get bored. Watch one of his shows sometime, Mr. President. A week cannot go by without an outbreak of smallpox, or a tank, or a heart attack. He is a man who is easily bored, and�no disrespect intended, sir�he was bored by you.
�Now the main entrance of the Oval was choked with his fellow media execs, and anyhow it was not convenient to him. He was standing off to the right side of your desk, sir, and it was only too easy for him to slip out unnoticed through Leo McGarry�s office. Now why, you would ask, was Leo not in his office? Well he would have been, at that hour, on any other given day. But yesterday, Margaret had made cookies, and she had called Leo out to try one.
�Thanks to Margaret�s cookies, Mr. Wells escaped entirely undetected. He was noticed by the Secret Service, of course, but he was wearing an appropriate badge, and I�m sure they thought nothing of seeing him wander off on his own personal walking tour of the West Wing. Things may have gone as he planned, had he not encountered Toby Ziegler.
�You know, I believe you, Toby, when you say you never would have recognized Mr. Wells. Wasn�t it fortunate, then, that he immediately walked up to you and introduced himself to you by name? I�m sure he expected to impress you by telling you who he was. But instead, the poor man inspired your wrath. I don�t blame you, honestly, for wanting to take revenge on the man. But you should have listened to your own advice, Mr. Ziegler. Vengeance, after all, is not Jewish.
�I don�t know how you managed to contact Josh Lyman and his assistant. Maybe you led Wells by his side of the bullpen as you made your way towards the basement. Maybe you called him when Wells was inevitably distracted for a moment. In any case, the method of your contact is utterly irrelevant. Somehow, the message was conveyed. Josh was to meet you in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Center. I don�t know whether you intended for him to bring Donna with him, but as it seems virtually impossible to separate the two of them, I�m sure you factored her in.
�It was Donna who ultimately struck the killing blow, undoubtedly as retribution for Gaza, or perhaps for the years of unresolved sexual tension. It doesn�t really matter why she did it, in the end. She had plenty of reasons, as did you all. She and Josh, perhaps horrified by what they had done, perhaps just wanting to flee the scene of the crime, headed back up the stairs while Toby stayed to lock the door behind him.
�It was then that Charlie opened the door and burst onto the staircase. You see, Charlie had been under strict orders from CJ for years, as had the rest of the staff. Never, never, never, let Josh and Donna go off on their own together. So when he had spotted them hurrying off towards the basement, he had no choice but to follow. He waited outside the door at the top of the stairs for some time, praying for them to emerge with some legitimate excuse, but when too much time had passed, he knew he had to act, and he opened the door.
�Somehow, he didn�t see Toby down below. All he saw was Josh and Donna alone in a dark basement room together, and he came to the only conclusion he knew how to. He rushed the two of them back up the stairs and to their respective desks, begging them to never do that again, at least not in the White House where he had to deal with it. Toby, meanwhile, stuffed the key into a manila envelope and passed it off to Donna, who labeled it with the room number, and handed it off to Ginger, who then gave it to the intern early this morning.
�The intern found the body, and we have now come full circle.�
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Everyone turned as the sound of slow sardonic clapping echoed through the door to Josh�s office. They glanced around at one another, silently counting, but the room was still full of two cops, nine suspects, and a fish. They all turned as one to look back at the door.
�That was a hell of a story,� came an all too familiar but completely unexpected voice from the adjacent office. Then the door opened. �Too bad it�s complete and utter crap.�
Nine jaws came simultaneously unhinged, and one set of goldfish eyes bulged to dangerous proportions.
�Sam?!�
He grinned somewhat sheepishly and waved a little before deciding that he looked like a complete and utter dork and stopped waving. �Hi.�
�What are you�� �How�� �But you�re��
�...Sam?!�
�Yeah, I came back. It�s not, you know, permanent or anything. I�m...on a mission.�
Josh choked back a laugh. �A mission? What are you, James Bond?�
Sam frowned. �You don�t think I could be James Bond?�
Rothschild had finally had enough of being upstaged. He huffed impressively into his moustache, then turned to the younger man and demanded, �what do you mean, �complete and utter crap�?�
Sam shrugged. �Well, it is. I mean, some parts of it are right. You got the part about Carol down pretty well. And you were right about Toby. I mean, you know, some of it. But most of it...well, like I said. Crap.� His face broke into a grin. �You really think Donna would kill somebody? Donna?�
Rothschild spluttered ineffectually for a few seconds, then burst out with, �then how did her fingerprints get on the murder weapon?�
She flushed. �Well, you know the decorations?�
CJ gaped at her. �That�s you?�
Donna shrugged. �I thought it would be cute.�
Rothschild blinked rapidly in her direction, then turned back to Sam. �Well, then what did happen?�
�I�m glad you asked,� Sam replied with a smile. �Let�s start at the beginning...
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�First of all, the whole thing about Carol and the fish was dead on. The only part you missed was the part where I was actually in the room when she brought Gail down there. But I don�t blame you for missing that. Carol even missed that. See, I was biding my time down there. It was easy enough for me to get into the White House, of course. But the waiting was what killed me.
�I wouldn�t doubt that your interpretation of what happened in the Oval Office was pretty accurate too. I wasn�t in there, but knowing the President (hello, sir, by the way), and knowing what I do about Wells, there�s very little to dispute there.
�It�s after that when your analysis breaks down. You see, you should really learn better than to believe Toby. The man is a fantastic liar when he wants to be. You should see the guy�s poker face. Anyways, he sure as hell knew exactly who Wells was, and he was probably thrilled that he didn�t have to use the elaborate scheme we had cooked up to get the guy on his own.
�He had the easy part. All he had to do was lead Wells to the office in the Distribution Venue and then lock him in there with me. It was my job to clock him with the fishbowl. All was going according to plan, right up until the point where Toby let me out and locked the door behind me.
�That was when Josh and Donna decided to come in and, needless to say they didn�t see us, but...well, let�s just say that when Charlie found them, they were doing exactly what he thought they were doing.�
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Sam had to stop then, because the whoops and catcalls that filled the room were just too good to talk over, and anyway he wanted to take a minute to enjoy the matching shade of brilliant red that the two of them were turning. When the commotion finally died down, it was CJ who turned to Sam and asked the question they all were waiting to have answered.
�Why you, Sam? What could you possibly have against Wells?�
He raised his eyebrows in her direction. �I�ve been on the Hill, CJ, not dead. You think I haven�t seen what he�s done to you guys over the past few years? None of you are yourselves anymore. You�re...caricatures of the people you once were. You�re cartoons. I couldn�t take it anymore. Something had to be done.�
�And here you came to save the day,� she mocked, but it was with a smile.
He grinned back. �Well, that wasn�t actually the only reason...�
�Oh?�
�Yeah, see, a while back, I got this call from a guy, said he had a business proposition for me.�
�And this...this was the business?� asked Donna.
�It was.� He grinned inanely, until someone had to speak up.
�So?� growled Leo finally. �Who was he?�
�Well, I never met him in person, just over the phone.�
�Sam...� began Bartlet in a warning tone.
�All right, all right,� Sam said, holding up his hands in self defense.
�He said his name was Aaron. Aaron Sorkin.�