Pitchfork Justice

Dawn brought a quiet, stately beauty to Washington D.C. this crisp spring day. There were no clouds to mirror any dreadfulness below. The aged monuments to our democracy stood out handsomely, even the grayed ones, against the light blue backdrop.

A lone gull flew treacherously close to the Washington Monument fighting a quick windy side draft. He recovered from the close encounter and his flight took him across the Reflecting Pool and on toward the Lincoln Memorial. He circled Abe's perch and headed back toward the pool, almost as an afterthought. Earlier something had caught his attention, perhaps an odor or bright color. Nevertheless he found his way to the steps of the Federal Reserve Building. He nervously hopped up a few stairs. He was getting closer to the object of his fancy when the clicking of high heels down below frightened him away.

An early arriving secretary was trekking the steps, busy with a cellphone conversation buried in her ear. When her eyes were even with the top step she abruptly stopped. Breakfast instructions for the children at home began to waver in her mind. Slow motion overtook her vision and her words. She began stammering. The brutal horror of what she was literally stumbling upon was a gut punch.

There, meeting her eyes to his, was the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. His orbs were frozen in a death glare. His severed head was skewered on the tines of a pitchfork. The handle had been shortened and supported in a block of marble. Occasionally a drop of thick blood would slink to the stone pallet, giving one last bit of life to this ritualistic trophy.

"Oh God! Oh, God! Jimmy, tell your father to come pick me up! I'll be out front of the building! Oh, God! Tell him, now! And hurry!" The secretary had turned and was racing down the steps. She hadn't noticed or cared that she had dropped her purse. When a heel broke, she skidded down a few steps on her rump, but it didn't stop her from dialing 911.