On Monday it was the shock and horror of the act itself. The two bombs shattered the joy and triumph at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. It killed three and ripped the limbs from more than just a few. By Tuesday there was that terrible numbness that always follows such barbaric acts. There was that grotesque sense of violation and a pall of sadness. The adrenaline was gone, the storm had blown through, and all that was left was to clean up the wreckage and wonder who and why.
Then the photos hit TV and computer screens. Two guys wearing different colored ball caps. They were young fellows with dark hair and blurry faces strolling through the crowd near the finish line, seemingly calm, but with purpose. They didn't look agitated, but they were definitely going somewhere.
On Thursday it began to fall apart for them. Apparently there had been a planned campaign of sustained terror, but they had badly underestimated the police and FBI. Now their mugs were all over the place and it was just a matter of time before their names were too. Because they had been so sure of themselves there was no contingency for a quick getaway. It suddenly dawned on them they were, in the truest since of the word, fucked. Panic set in.
That night they killed a Massachusetts Institute of Technology campus policeman named Sean Collier. He didn't even have time to get out of his car. Why they did it is still unclear. It probably wasn't just for fun, although that remains a possibility. After all, what is one cop after you've killed three and wounded 176, many of them gravely. No, most likely he drove past and glanced over at them. Perhaps he stopped to get a better look. No matter what the case they weren't taking any chances. Officer Collier was shot multiple times.
Things had spun out of control with breathtaking speed. Not only were they loaded down with bombs of various sizes, but they were on foot, they had been identified. and they had just guaranteed themselves that hundreds of police were headed their way.
They car jacked a civilian at gun point. They made sure to tell him they were the guys. They grabbed his ATM card and it took them three attempts to get $800 out of his account. They let their victim go without harming him, knowing he'd tell police they were the world famous Boston Marathon Bombers.
The game was, as Sherlock said, afoot. So was the chase that ended in Watertown, MA which is west of Cambridge. The older of the two, Tamerlan Tsarnaev was killed on the street during a wild firefight. Police claimed he had a bomb strapped to his chest. They also said when his younger brother, Dzhokhar made a break for it in the jacked SUV he ran his body over.
What followed was nearly 24 hours of painstaking, grueling, footwork by an army of police and federal officials as the search for Dzhokhar Tsarnaev dragged on. Watertown and the rest of the Boston metro area went into a complete lock down.
The rumors flew fast and furious as cable news talking heads tried to keep track of what was going on. Reports of other bombs being found, of one, or two accomplices on a train that had been stopped and surrounded in Connecticut, of the suspect himself trapped in a Watertown home were blurted out and then abandoned. Network "analysts" speculated on terrorist connections, Chechen separatists, Islamic fundamentalists, police negotiating tactics and the price of rice in China; anything to fill the time and keep people tuned in. In Maryland, an uncle of the two ranted about them being, "losers." Their father was tracked down in Russia and and he began babbling gibberish about how Tamerlan was a three time U.S. boxing champion and famous. He claimed his younger son, 19 year old Dzhokar was in his second year of medical school. The truth is the older Tsarnaev was a golden glove boxer, but hardly a U.S. champion, although he is certainly famous now. Dzhokar was attending a branch of the University of Massachusetts, but his grades were less than spectacular.
You knew things had gone surreal when the president of Chechnya issued a statement blaming the whole macabre circus on the United States. Around the same time, proving that stupidity and cruelty go hand in hand, a republican state lawmaker in Arkansas tweeted, "I wonder how many Boston liberals spent the night cowering in their homes wishing they had an AR-15 with a hi-capacity (sic) magazine."
Well it is over for now. Dzhokar Tsarnaev was dragged wounded out of a boat stored in a Watertown back yard last night. He is in serious condition at Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital as I type.
The obvious question--why--hangs in the air like fog on a damp still night. What happened to set him and his brother off? At what point did it occur to them that all of this deadly bullshit was a good idea?
If they can keep him alive hopefully authorities will find out, although reports are circulating that as he was being transported to the hospital Dzhokar Tsarnaev was incoherent. It may well be he has tripped over the edge and entered a deep impenetrable place where he'll never be found. The only thing really certain is that, as an Oklahoma bail bondsman once said of Tim McVeigh, "That boy needs a lawyer more than anyone I've ever seen."
Ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, the end came quickly and we can all breathe easy for a while. At least until it happens again. And it will. That is something you can be assured of. We are a nation of soft targets. What makes us great also makes us vulnerable and there are a whole lot of people out there who hate our guts. And the terrible truth is that each and every one of them knows how to make bombs.
So, until next time enjoy the ball game, America. Just don't forget that beer sales stop at the end of the 7th inning. Oh, and you might as well leave the back pack at home. There is no way you're getting into the stadium with it. Trust me on that.
sic vita est
4-20-13
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