Edgar Stiles.

Your goodness killed you, Edgar.

Not saying you’re perfect. No. No man is (except Jack).

You were kind of snippy to Carrie. If you had taken her seriously, she might not have died. You might not have died. Lots and lots of people might not have died.

But it was clear that that moment of pique weighed on you, Edgar.

When she didn’t return, you knew something was wrong.

You knew you had to find her. Because that’s the kind of guy you are.

You’re a man with a lisp. With a weight problem. With an inappropriate crush on his co-worker.

A good man.

So you went to find Carrie, and oh dear, did you find her. Garroted in the wheezing control room. Where you had sent her. In your snit.

Of course, if Lynn McGill hadn’t been a posturing loser with a cokehead sister with bad taste in men, neither of you would’ve died. Or if the president hadn’t been such a whiny ineffectual pushover with a tendency to issue directives like “get it fixed, their deaths are on your conscience,” Lynn might not have been as messed up as he was. And really, if the terrorists had just stayed at home, none of us would have any problems at all.

But that’s not how things work around CTU. You should know this by now. But you’re too good.

So in your guilt over sending Carrie to her death, in your insistence on finding her, you missed the window of opportunity to get into the air-sealed conference room.

Goodbye, Edgar. And take comfort in the fact that you will not have to witness firsthand Jack beating the crap out of Barry, Kim’s new Therapist/Boyfriend/He of the Terrible Facial Hair/Sleazecase/Former Teen Star C. Thomas Howell.