Nobody’s buried in Washington’s Tomb, but they don’t let you go down there to see for yourself anymore. You know. Security.
“And why would you want to see it anyway?” asks the guard. “If you know it’s empty?” The guard’s hand wanders closer to her radio; Joliette decides not to push things.
“It was supposed to be built so everybody could see it,” she sighs, “but glass was harder to come by back then. Sorry, thanks.”
She rejoins the group and looks up at the Rotunda like a good tourist. Two floors down, Washington prowls a rectangle, tail high, eyes glowing.