There is a walk I sometimes take when I am trying to make sense of all the bits and pieces that a police detective gathers in his pocket. I drive over to ivy-covered Harvard and stroll the Cambridge Common.
I walk slowly, taking a few minutes to sit a spell in each iron park bench. I relive those interviews and off-the-cuff remarks, searching for the words that were spoken and for the answers that were not given, and end up with the questions that should have been asked. I try to tie this with that, and especially to force together those things that seem so far apart. And when I have done all that, I do it again. Then I walk some more.
This afternoon, it appears to be couples' day on the Commons.
An old couple, I mean an old, old couple, walking hand in hand, supported by their canes wobbling in their outside hands. They make their round of the commons, faithfully, patiently, dutifully. They do this in the manner I am sure they lived their life. You simply do what needs to be done.
A young couple, collegians possibly, more likely grad students on the verge of successful careers, they pass by smartly in quick, well-measured steps. They are on-the-go, getting somewhere, and doing so side-by-side, partners in their life's venture.
There are two tattered souls sitting on the bench, probably just pennies from living on the street. She looks worn; he looks worn-out. They may have dreams that never came to be, but I rather think they had few dreams, just the comfort they provided each other to get through another day.
One last couple comes running in from Harvard Yard, playful grown-up children, still experimenting with young love. He's handsome and athletic she's much the same but in a more feminine way. They are beautiful, unscarred. They still have the freshness of innocence that keeps tomorrow coming on.
And I walk alone, wondering why those eyeglasses were in old man Flanagan's taxicab, wondering who provided the limo for Miss Yellow Roses that fateful night, wondering why the senator's wife was so intent on putting me on the trail of the neglected Mrs. brown, wondering why Blair seemed so guilty to me and why I still felt sorry for O'Hara. But most of all, I was wondering why everybody could have done it and yet I can't pin it on anybody. And this Galloway thing popping up once more, why? Why did Galloway make such a misstep about whose girlfriend Miss Yellow Roses was. Why was he so adamant about that? And I know Galloway ... who would never be so paranoid about me as to bring up all this dust with his old pal Flanagan.
I threw some pebbles into the pond and bought a bag of peanuts to feed the squirrels. Then I made a trip to Records and did a little research. And that is the size of it, I do as little research as possible. Sifting through records and books is like trying to live life without bourbon whiskey -- it can't be done, yet sometimes it must be done.