When I arrived at my office building this morning, the next block South was covered by numerous police cars surrounding a large, centrally located big blue van parked perpendicular to the direction of normal traffic flow. Police were out in force, all intently focused away from my direction of travel. I noted with surprise that none of them paid any attention whatsoever to me as I turned downhill immediately in front of them to the entry to my building’s parking garage. I had expected to be waved away by some supercilious cop, but not a single one of them paid me the slightest attention as I turned in front of the yellow crime scene tape strung across the street.
Frankly, I was pleased to discover that I could enter my garage, since, from afar, it had appeared that I might be turned away before reaching my objective. I confess that pleasant relief in my success was my overriding emotion, not speculation about the doings in front of me.
Through news reports, I have since learned that a suspected explosive device was found and detonated by the Seattle Police Department. The reports even show a bomb robot traveling in and out of a building’s columns, something I completely missed from my street-level perspective. It is still unclear as I write what that device might have been or what its purpose was. Speculation abounds on the news, but hard fact remains elusive. That is likely to remain the state of affairs until officials deem it appropriate to release further information.
At 4:30 AM, there aren’t a lot of people on the streets of Seattle, but what folks there are all seemed to be in attendance this morning. Numerous TV station vans dominated the street, but when I got to my office and checked the websites of local television stations they offered nothing in explanation. So, I contented myself with looking out the window of my neighbor’s office 20 floors above the scene, only to discover that the view from this perspective differed not one bit from that at street level. With that, I shrugged and went to my office to conduct my morning routine.
When I left the office at 5:30 to go to my morning’s workout, the street was simply empty. By contrast to the earlier cacophony of flashing red and blue lights, fluttering yellow tape, and intent, massive official concentration toward some unseen danger not apparent to me, the scene was Kafkaesquely normal: no tape reflecting street lamp light while flapping in the breeze; no massive accumulation of police cars; no precariously parked big blue van with its tail gate lowered to the pavement; no scurrying robot moving in and out of the columns that front the neighboring building. Nothing other than the ever-present busses that ply their trade at such an hour, and remote-broadcast vans populated with bored technicians winding cable in anticipation of departure, their reporters not in evidence and probably drinking stale coffee from a thermos or fresh coffee from the few Starbucks outlets open at that hour.
For me, the only thing noticeable was the smell of the salt air off Elliott Bay. There was nothing left to add the spice of excitement to the morning’s breeze. So, I took a deep breath of the salt air, registered the amazing lack of everything that had been, and went about my business.
I confess to an aversion to being a spectator at events such as this. I see no reason to interrupt the police when they are so intensely engaged. Any questions I might have would not only fail to assist them in their activities, and might well prove to be more than a distraction. I know for a fact that any attempt at interruption at such scenes would not be well received, and the best I might expect would be to be told to move on or stay back. Since I assume the police are professionals, I stay out of their way and await the news reports. And since I know this news will be endlessly recycled throughout the day – first as tenuous fact and increasingly as filler as the 24 hour news day wears monotonously on – I am assured of learning whatever there is to know whenever it is I might decide to refocus upon the morning’s disappearing crime scene.
I am always irritated by the massive slow downs that occur on the freeways caused by the mere presence of a police vehicle. Slow downs occur at everything from routine traffic stops to serious accidents. Why a traffic stop should elicit anything other than relief that some poor schnook is getting a ticket rather than me is wholly beyond my comprehension. Gawking at a serious accident is not only in poor taste, but may well interfere in attempts to assist the injured. Accordingly, I assume people slow down purely from their prurient interest, and I prefer not to demonstrate my personal deviant behavior in such a way.
I appear to be in a minority when it comes to such things, but, quite frankly, I found far more interest in the mysterious cleansing of a hyper-active crime scene in one short hour than in what the police might have been doing there in the first place. How did all those people so quickly put to rest the palpable, official intensity that caused them not to notice my passing? And where did they go when they, their cars, the robot, and the big blue van left, and how many hours will they devote to writing reports speculating officially about who did what and why they did it?
I certainly know where to find the news media’s speculation about the “what-might-have-been” element of the matter, but I would much rather be a fly on the wall listening to the rest of the official process play out – the part undramatized by flashing lights, yellow crime scene tape, busy robots, and big blue vans; the part that seeks explanations.
Meanwhile, I content myself by wondering how a scene of such intensity turned so quickly into the routine of city busses at their daily chore, and knowing that I am probably the only person at this moment mentally enjoying the theme from “The Twilight Zone“. If only Rod Serling might now appear, my wonder would be complete.
