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The train station is, for once, very nearly empty.
The Balladeer blames no one for staying away. The blood staining the tiles at his feet is only just starting to dry, fast coagulating in the heat of a Washington summer. He keeps well clear of it; that smell is impossible to get out of your head, much less your shoes. It won't go away entirely until they tear this building down, but that's decades away now.
"You're still here?" Guiteau was already hauled off by the police, but that hardly keeps him from coming back if he likes. He looks bright and pleased with himself, grinning beneath his beard as the Balladeer glances his way. "You're going to miss the main event, man!"
"I would never." He actually means it. Guiteau is his favorite by miles; his particular brand of crazy just makes him overly-friendly most of the time, and that's easy to handle. "But this isn't done yet."
He waves a hand at the few people left. Souvenir seekers. Scavengers. They trail after every assassination, looking to claim a piece of history - a holy relic, almost. The blood of a martyr, because no matter who he was before, the President always becomes a hero in dying. Funny how he's the only one here who sees that.
He understands what drives them to clutch for scraps of bloodied fabric, or bits of debris, but it's all just a bit ghoulish. He knows the story of each one as he watches it taken - they'll mostly end up lost. Forgotten.
"Oh, look at this." He moves to lean over a man scrabbling at the floor with a pocket knife. Behind him, he can hear Guiteau follow. "He's going to give that to the President's son. Because who doesn't need a linoleum tile stained with their father's blood?"
"It'll be in a museum someday!" Guiteau proclaims, though he hasn't the faintest idea about it. He's actually right this time, but the Balladeer does not encourage him, merely raises an eyebrow. "And I'll have you know I took great pains to spare his family the sight of it. I would hate to distress his poor wife, just because she had the ill luck to marry a scoundrel - I am a thoughtful man."
The Balladeer turns away. "You are a gem, Charlie."
"Well!" Guiteau draws himself up; if he didn't know better, the Balladeer would think he'd learned to detect sarcasm. "I'm going to go run through my speech one last time. Try not to be late!" And then he's gone.
The tile is up now, and before the man can tuck it away, the Balladeer leans forward to pluck it from his hands. It doesn't matter what he does; he can't change history, and time parts easily around him as he stands and studies it. Such a small thing. It fits right in his palm. Lucretia Garfield is going to cry for days when she sees it in her son's room.
The Balladeer draws his arm back, throws the tile as hard as he can, and listens to it clatter down onto the train tracks. It changes nothing. But it does make him feel just slightly better, and isn't that all anyone can ask?