I just finished reading
Mystic River, and it turns out, I was wrong about who the murderer is. Totally wrong. I handed my nose over to Dennis Lehane and he lead me all over the place by it. Doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the experience. But it reinforced a feeling I've had over the past couple of days, as the tape of Lucia Whelan's 911 call has been released, and as she had her press conference today: we never know the whole truth about anything.
Consider the facts. Whelan made the call on behalf of an elderly neighbor. She did not mention race in the call. She was clear and explicit about what she observed, as well as the possible ambiguities in this situation. Not only did a huge number of commentators, many of them with very prominent platforms, not know any of these facts before they used those platforms to vilify Whelan a racist, but they did not know, and did not consider, the possibility that any of these facts existed.
It's easy to go with the convenient story, in literature and in life.
It's easy for Jimmy Marcus to decide, that because Dave Boyle had blood on his clothes, and because he lied about why he had blood on his clothes, that Dave killed Jimmy's daughter Katie. It doesn't seem logical that he would be wrong, it seems totally illogical that there would be another murder in that same area, in that same night. But just because it's hard to fathom doesn't make it untrue. It's easy for people who know nothing about the situation, and know nothing about Lucia Whelan, and assume the worst about people, to assume that the part of the story that involves her is about racial profiling. But just because it an easy narrative doesn't make it true. There is
always more to be known. And people suffer when we decide we don't need to know it, or forget that there is more.