I have spent the past few days in deepest melancholy, reflecting on my many personal inadequacies and failures and the fact that Rollo has not been caught yet. It has been almost a year. I swear to god I thought they would catch him that very night. Or at least before I went back to Ohio. They were certainly trying. But it has been almost a year and I am still waiting. I was imagining Rollo having the time of his life, going to bars, flirting with girls and so on, while I am at home waiting.
So I called the police this afternoon to find out where things stand. Nothing has really changed. That stupid DNA sample is still in the lab. Detective Austin said he expects the results back in June and then we can go from there. He added that the suspect in question is actually in jail right now for something else, which somewhat dims my vivid imaginings of Rollo partying and smoking weed and having the time of his life. Assuming this man really is Rollo. If he is, wonderful. If he isn’t, then I’m back to square one.
Last week I read a World War II diary by a guy named Emil Dorian. Here’s a quote from it that perfectly exemplifies my present mood: The fatigue I’ve gathered year after year and stored inside now heaves a muted cry of helplessness. Nothing but fatigue, rounding my shoulders, heavier than ever on this late autumn day with a useless sun, a world of unforgiving disasters. So many struggles and tragedies, so much sorrow and egotism in this dark, in this rotting century of hate.