Bernie Sanders and I stood at the end of the dock. Although the air was cool, the sky was cloudless and the sun was out. A perfect autumn day in Vermont. Most of the boats usually docked here were out on the water. A steady stream of out-of-state cars were rolling through town now. Some were driving slower than the speed limit so they could take in the leaves, while others were driving slower looking for parking for the fall festival, Champ Days. Most, presumably, hadn’t heard about the dead man who’d floated to the surface less than sixteen hours ago. “Drowning pancakes in syrup is one thing,” Bernie said. “But a person drowning in syrup? How does that happen?” I was just a congressional intern. Was the senator—my boss—really asking me to chime in on this? Sure, we were in my hometown, but Bernie and I had both read the same autopsy report on Mr. Fletcher, the victim. The medical examiner had laid out the facts, but the facts didn’t give us all the answers. Mr. Fletcher didn’t have anything else in his digestive tract besides maple syrup. No pancakes. No waffles. Not even a spoonful of granola. “You…