Monday, September 27, 2004 – 8:12 a.m.Washington, D.C.
The DOJ building was already awake when Evan arrived. The lights were too bright for the hour, the kind that flattened everything beneath them. Someone down the hall burned coffee again; the smell crept in and lingered longer than it should have.
The elevators let him off one floor early. He didn't bother correcting it. He took the stairs, hand brushing the railing, shoes scuffing once on concrete.
At his desk, he logged in, adjusted the chair, and set his briefcase down more carefully than necessary. The folder from Friday was where he'd left it, edges slightly bent. He opened it and picked up where he'd stopped—dates that didn't align, names that appeared once and never again, a timeline that almost worked if you didn't look too closely.
It was good work. He knew that. Clean. Dependable.
Still, his attention drifted. Not far—just enough to notice the clock, the hum behind the walls, the sense that he was circling something instead of moving toward it.
He kept going anyway.
By midmorning, his inbox chimed.
FBI – Applicant Processing DivisionSubject: Special Agent Application – Phase I Scheduling
He read the email once. Then again.
A date. A location. Instructions written in neutral, procedural language. Bring identification. Arrive early. Expect several hours.
He let the screen dim before touching the mouse again.
Evan printed the email and folded it once, then again. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat and left it there.
It moved with him through the building for most of the week, creased further each time he sat, stood, adjusted. By Friday, the edges were soft.
Work stayed slow. Reports trickled in. A trafficking case out of Baltimore stalled over jurisdiction. A financial crimes file landed on his desk by mistake and stayed there an extra day before anyone noticed. Evan fixed what he could, passed along what he couldn't, and went home each night with the same unsettled sense that he was always arriving just after the moment where speed would have mattered.
Monday, October 4, 2004 – 7:43 a.m.FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building
Evan arrived early. He told himself it was habit, but the truth was simpler: being late made his chest tighten in a way he didn't like.
The lobby was already in motion. Agents moved in pairs or alone, suits brushing past windbreakers, conversations clipped and unfinished. Phones rang somewhere deeper in the building. Elevators opened and closed in quick succession.
No one lingered.
He checked in, followed the posted directions, and let himself be carried along by the current of people who already knew where they were going. Two agents passed mid-argument about jurisdiction. Another walked briskly while dictating notes into a recorder, barely breaking stride.
He adjusted his pace without realizing it, lengthening his stride to match the current moving past him.
By the time he reached the floor listed in the email, the hallway was crowded with movement. Doors opening and closing. Someone laughing sharply before disappearing into an office. A cart of files rolling past, pushed by someone who looked like they hadn't slept enough but didn't slow down.
He found the interview room and stopped just outside.
Checked his watch.
Seven minutes early.
He sat by the waiting chairs so he wouldn't block the hallway, eyes following the steady movement around him.
The interview room was smaller than he'd expected. A table, three chairs, and a clock ticking above the door. Nothing else.
Two agents sat across from him. Mid-career. Composed. One took notes by hand. The other watched him—not aggressively, but with steady attention.
They began exactly on time.
"Tell us why you applied," the note-taker said.
Evan answered without rushing. His work at the DOJ. The kind of cases he supported. How often he saw investigations reach his desk after the most critical decisions had already been made.
"I want to be closer to the work," he said. "Earlier in the process."
The second agent nodded. "You understand this isn't a transfer."
"Yes."
"It's a full restart. Background review. Training. Field placement."
"Yes."
The pen moved.
"How do you handle situations where you don't have enough information?" the note-taker asked.
Evan paused. "I document what I don't know," he said. "Then I work with what's available until more comes in."
No reaction. Just writing.
"Have you ever been wrong on a case?" the other agent asked.
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"I adjusted," Evan said. Then, after a beat, "And I made sure I understood why."
The note-taker glanced up briefly, then back down.
They asked about pressure. About working in teams. About following direction even when he disagreed.
"I'm not always the fastest to speak," Evan said at one point. "But I'm consistent. And I don't ignore input."
The observing agent leaned back slightly. "Some analysts struggle when cases involve victims they can't help directly. How do you deal with that?"
This time, Evan didn't answer right away.
"I don't think you deal with it once," he said. "I think you keep showing up and do the work that's in front of you."
That earned a small nod.
The psychological evaluation came later. A different room. Softer lighting. No clock.
The psychologist spoke calmly, without prompting.
"Describe how you approach problem-solving."
"I break things down," Evan said. "I look for what repeats."
"And when things don't repeat?"
"I wait," he said. "Or I ask for more context."
She nodded.
"Do you ever feel disconnected from the subject matter?"
Evan considered the question. "Sometimes," he said. "I notice it later than other people might."
"And how do you account for that?"
"I check my work," he said. "And I listen when someone else reacts first."
That seemed to satisfy her.
The physical assessment was last. Measurements. Baselines. Confirmation he met the standard. Evan did not stand out.
When he stepped outside, the afternoon had cooled. Traffic idled at the curb. Voices overlapped. Someone laughed nearby, then moved on.
Later that evening, Evan stopped by the bookstore on Connecticut Avenue instead of going home.
The bell over the door rang softly. The place smelled of old paper and floor cleaner, the kind that never quite faded.
From behind the counter, Grayson looked up glasses slipping down his nose, sleeves rolled up like he'd never seen the point of putting them back.
"Well," Grayson said, "either the city finally ran out of problems, or you're late."
Evan set his coat over the back of a chair. "Still plenty of problems."
"Good," Grayson said. "Keeps me in business." He nodded toward the small table near the back, where a chessboard waited. "You playing, or are you just here to intimidate the furniture again?"
Evan sat.
They played without hurry. Grayson talked while he moved—about a delivery that showed up missing two books, about a customer who tried to argue that a paperback counted as 'lightly used' after it had been dropped in a bathtub. Evan listened, answered when needed, moved his pieces carefully.
After a few minutes, Grayson squinted at the board. "You're distracted."
Evan looked down. "I don't think so."
"That's what distracted people say," Grayson replied. "Right before they lose a rook."
Evan shifted his piece. It wasn't his best move.
Grayson smiled. "There it is."
"I had an interview today," Evan said.
Grayson raised his eyebrows. "Well, look at that. Took them long enough."
"It was just an interview."
"Everything important starts as 'just' something," Grayson said. "Tea. Arguments. Wars."
They played on.
A few moves later, Grayson leaned back in his chair. "You know," he said, "you only make mistakes like that when you're already halfway somewhere else."
Evan didn't argue. "I'll adjust."
"You usually do," Grayson said. "Eventually."
The game ended the way most of them did. Grayson won. He began resetting the pieces without ceremony.
As Evan stood, Grayson said, lightly, "Whatever you're thinking about—don't try to solve it all at once. Ruins the board."
Evan nodded.
Outside, the air had cooled. The street had settled into evening—fewer cars, slower footsteps.
He walked home without stopping.
That night, he didn't replay the interview. He didn't map outcomes or rehearse answers.
He set his watch on the desk. Turned out the light.