He Who Remains Classified took note of the diminished content in the Wangert reports. Uninteresting drivel. Something must have happened to the Indy source. She must have lost her inside channels. He picked up the phone to order a replacement. Instead he made a drastic choice. Time to close the Wangert file.
It had to be done. Circumstances demanded a bold move. An unexpected revival of his political prospects forced his hand. Powerful people within the system urged him to enter the field. By virtue of being ‘last man standing’ among the Old Guard, and aided by his craggy, statesman-like bearing, he was receiving more attention from the professionals who assured him that the health issue could be easily smoothed over and that a tip-top campaign would be carefully packaged such that all he needed to do was show up. They didn’t know about the Wangerts. None of the big players knew about the Wangerts. And it was time to make sure that nobody ever did.
Gazing down at Anthony in the park on a rainy afternoon, He Who Remains Classified briefly pondered the possibility that it was all a non-issue. If he and the Wangerts could just establish a frank, open, amicable relationship, nobody would care. Except for one big problem. The gay problem. It was a deal-breaker. The party bigwigs would blow a gasket about his kid being a poofer. He could at least go with the tried-and-true agency method for dealing with problematic evidence—destroy it. Erase it.
He Who Remains Classified reached under his desk and turned on his shredder, ten times more powerful than any of the old machines. He uncapped the Scotch bottle and gulped until his hands stopped trembling. He slowly, wistfully fed the yellowing contents of the enormous Wangert file into the shredder. One last time he savored a report on the 1964 holiday dinner with the boys dressed up like elves. One last time he stared at the photograph of Mary sunning on the patio.