In a number of recent newsletters, I made a couple of references that I intended as tongue-in-cheek to being a 'suspect' in a murder case. Knowing that I’m far from expert in conveying tone through my writing, I’ve returned today to clarify those remarks and add some additional insight into my experience.
The moment in question happened back in January. It was exactly one week after a high-profile murder rocked Cambridge. The crime took place in Danehy Park just blocks from the hospice where I’ve volunteered for the past three years. My commute to the hospice has been very consistent in that time – I bike north through Porter Square, head west toward Danehy Park, and dock my borrowed bike at the Hubway station in the parking lot. I then walk along a short path between several baseball and softball fields to the other side of the park before navigating down a few side streets to the residence. As it happened, the murder took place on the same night of the week as my regular volunteer shift. According to reports I read about the case, the police thought the crime occurred sometime between thirty and forty-five minutes after when I usually walk through the park on my way to the hospice.
The next week, I did the same thing I always did – I rode the bike north, turned toward the park, and docked my bike. This time, I was met by two state police officers who were waiting in the parking lot. It seemed like I was stopped entirely at random, though I suppose I can’t be entirely sure. They said they wanted to learn more about how I used the park and asked if I had noticed anything unusual during my recent trips. I explained my routine in some detail but added that on the night of the murder I had actually skipped my shift due to having a basketball game in South Boston. Instead of going to the hospice, I’d gone to the library (to churn out stellar TOA posts like this one, of course) and then caught the #9 bus to the game.
I wasn’t surprised at all about being stopped. As mentioned above, I had read up about the investigation. I knew that the police were increasing patrols in the area and working with the public to gather any potential leads. If I had noticed someone walking through the park right around six o’clock every Wednesday night, I probably would have mentioned it to the police – the possibility that some local had pointed me out didn't escape me. And if the police had done some really intuitive investigation – like using Hubway records to find that I docked my bike at the same time and place each week – then hats off to them for following up on a deserved lead. Finally, if I were any outside observer and I heard about some guy who regularly walked through the park in the relevant timeframe that I did each week, then I would have expected the police follow up on the lead.
And yet, despite having put myself into someone else’s shoes and – I hope – seen the big picture with balance and perspective, I couldn't help but feel uneasy both during and after the conversation. It was reminiscent of how I felt years ago at a bus stop downtown after a police dog had sniffed around my backpack before being pulled along by its officer; apparently he was uninterested with having the dog investigate the backpacks held by the other waiting passengers. This unease lingered with me over the next few days as I waited for a phone call that never came. I still can’t quite put my finger on exactly what caused the feeling. My suspicion is that some part of my own explanation for the officers’ behavior felt incomplete to me and I filled in the missing pieces with a series of negative or suspicious interpretations. The real mystery, I suppose, was why I had been stopped, and despite my thorough reasoning I knew that my mood in the days after the conversation was being influenced only by the malicious possibilities that my churning mind was cooking up. I think its an example of a certain line of logic that comes naturally to most people whenever they feel something is being withheld from them – if the explanation isn’t so bad, then why am I not being told?
In a certain way, I benefited from this very line of logic with the officers – since what I had done on the night of the murder wasn't so bad, I told them everything. In fact, I enjoyed the entire conversation with the officers despite the suspicion that inevitably underscored the interaction. We realized at one point that we shared a common link to Woburn, it being both the site of their station and the same town I’d worked in for nearly six years. They asked me if I was related to one of the town’s star high school quarterbacks of the same name (I’m not). Eventually, they explained that the police had nothing regarding this case, that they were looking for any help from the public, and that I should get in touch if I thought I could help.
Soon enough, I was on my way to the hospice. I walked through the park on the same unlit path for what turned out to be the last time. A figure approached me in the dark. As we drew closer I adjusted my direction to step off the path and continued walking in the dirt. We made brief eye contact as we passed. I returned to the path and emerged from the darkened park onto the lit sidewalk. I wondered how late I was for my shift, and why I hadn’t seen anyone patrolling yet.
