diary / by Edward Mullany


According to this book I've been reading, about a homicide that occurred in a town that doesn't seem, from what I can find out about it, to be known, historically, for anything other than the crime in question, a detective who worked on the case for many years, but who has been unable to identify and apprehend a suspect who can be arraigned and tried in court, continues to work on it, on his own, even though he has retired from the police department and has moved with his wife to a beachfront community in a different state, where, he told the journalist who interviewed him as part of her research for the book, the weather agrees with him and there are opportunities to relax, but where, as well, he’s begun to feel depressed for the first time in his life, a circumstance he attributes to the fact that the victim for whom he’s wanted to find justice has, to this day, gone without it, though lately he's become conscious, he said, of how such a concept must be more important to him, and to those who loved the victim, than it could be to the victim herself, who clearly cannot want anything, anymore, at least not in the way that he, or her family, can want something, assuming there's a way she can want anything at all, though whenever he does become conscious of this, he added, he reminds himself that such concerns are not for him to ponder, and that they do nothing to further the investigation.