When the elevator door opened in the lobby, my colleagues and I saw a man sitting, bleeding, surrounded by police.
We stared in silence as police yelled at us to get back upstairs. The elevator door quietly closed, and we returned to our fifth-floor office.
Up there, we hadn’t heard Floyd Corkins’ gunshot that hit our security guard, Leo Johnson—just the sudden rush and wail of police cars and ambulances filling our D.C. street.
Even after the scene in the lobby, it didn’t occur to us that the bleeding man was Leo, or that something had happened inside our own building.