again and settled on an enormous oil painting hanging to my left.
“The Battle of Lake Erie,” Hershey said. “Turning point in the War of 1812.”
I studied the painting, observing a man with wavy, dark hair, his arm outstretched as he commanded a small boat of sailors in the heat of battle.
“Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry,” Hershey continued. “He’s the ‘Don’t give up the ship’ guy.”
“You don’t say.”
“He commanded the Lawrence in the battle. After the British more or less pounded it into oblivion, he got in a rowboat, traveled half a mile through the raging battle to the Niagara, fired that ship’s do-nothing captain, took control and let the Limeys have it. Unbelievable. They don’t build men like that anymore.”
“I guess not.”
“Afterward, he wrote that famous line to his commander: ‘We have met the enemy, and they are ours.’“
“Stirring.”
“Maybe. But I prefer Pogo’s version,” Hershey said.
“Which is?”
“We have met the enemy and he is us. Much more appropriate for this place.”
We stood a few more minutes, taking in the scene, neither of us talking. Then Hershey turned abruptly, headed down a set of stairs, and used a key to open a door. We stepped inside. “Pressroom,” he said, turning on the light and gesturing around the windowless room, consisting of cubicles down the middle and on either side—some empty, some with computer monitors and keyboards, some bulging with reports and books and stacks of paper. At the far end of the room sat a wooden table empty except for the ubiquitous blue Triple F binder. A sign above two TVs bolted to the opposite wall said, “No man’s life, liberty or property are safe while the legislature is in session.”
“So now you’ve seen it,” Hershey said. “The luxury penthouse of the media elite.”
“I always suspected it,” I said.
We retreated, crossed the hall, went through another door, descended a set of stairs past a green metal and glass elevator shaft, and arrived back at the Crypt level. I had paused to look at the commemorative gavel again when I heard a sound. I turned and was blinded by a flashlight.
“Put your hands up,” a voice squeaked. “Do it now.”
9
I WAS STARTING TO COMPLY, DESPITE THE fact the voice sounded like that of a young child or a very old woman, when I heard Hershey say, “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Ephraim?”
“Not with miscreants like you sneaking around.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, if I’m not mistaken. Kill the klieg light, will you? Want to introduce you to someone.”
After a moment the light winked off. I blinked, trying to get my bearings in the partial darkness. When I could see properly, I took in a small, elderly man in a tweed three-piece suit and thin brown tie staring back at me through wire-rimmed glasses. Nearly bald, face lined with age, slightly stooped. He was no Roman senator, but he looked as if he could have strode across the same hall a century ago without raising any eyebrows.
“Ephraim Badger, meet Woody Hayes,” Hershey said.
“It’s Andy,” I said, stepping forward and shaking his hand.
“I know who you are,” he said. “Question is, what are you doing with him, this time of night?” He nodded at Hershey.
“We’re boning up on legislation,” Hershey said.
Badger shook his head and made a clucking sound. “You know you’re not supposed to be here this late.”
“I was giving Andy a tour,” Hershey said. “And technically, you’re not supposed to be here either.”
“I work here.”
“You volunteer here, Ephraim. One of these days you need to learn the difference.”
“One of these days I’m not going to be able to cover for you,” Badger squeaked.
“Never going to happen.”
“I’m serious,” Badger said. “You’re running a big risk. Patrol catches you—.” He slid his finger across his throat.
“I don’t think they do that to trespassers anymore,” Hershey said. “Anyway, we were just leaving. How about you?”
“I’m waiting for you to leave.”
“You’re doing a fine job of it. Keep up the good work.”
“Get out,” Badger squeaked.
“Nice meeting you,” I said. In response, Badger frowned and turned the flashlight back on, directing it straight into our eyes.
“Who was that?” I said as we headed back to the garage.
“That was the world’s most dedicated Statehouse tour guide.”
“He gives tours this time of night?”
“At night he prowls. Tours he does during the day. Every day but Sunday, when he’s in church an hour or six.”
I looked around the garage as we walked, aware that the pillars studding the darkened space could be hiding any number of people wanting to do Hershey harm. Between the Clarmont, the tail we’d picked up on High, and the episode with Badger, I was starting to figure out that the list was long.
“What’s his story?”
“Former history teacher. Taught in Columbus public schools for something like forty years. Supposedly he retired on a Friday and starting volunteering here on a Monday.”
“Is he the one who taught you so much about this place?”
“One of them. Something I didn’t mention earlier was that most of this building was constructed with prison labor. They’d walk the inmates over from the state pen every day.”
“Bet the Teamsters loved that.”
“Good one,” Hershey said, rewarding me with a deep laugh. “Ephraim here claims to be the great-great-grandson of one of those inmates.”
“Is he?”
“No reason to doubt him.”
“Think he’ll turn you in?”
“For what? I’ve got a legitimate key card and a press pass to boot. People walk through the Statehouse all hours, especially this time of year.”
“Not all of them go up to the Cupola, I bet.”
“Point conceded.”
“So what about his ancestor. The one who helped build the Statehouse?”
“What about him?”
“What was he in prison for?”
“A terrible crime, supposedly.”
“Which was?”
Hershey grinned. “He killed a reporter.”
10
ANNE AND AMELIA WERE SITTING ON THE porch of a duplex on Crestview in the Clintonville neighborhood north of campus when I drove up the next morning. It was a nice part of town. It was a nice house. It had been painted recently, the windows looked new, and the gutters were as clean and shiny as freshly polished gunwales. Promising.
“The guy’s not here yet,” Amelia announced when I got out of my Honda Odyssey.
“The