Time has stood still for the boy, but not for the man. The little boy would be 50, 51 years old if he were alive today, but in Bill Kelly’s mind he is still a child. It’s the one thing the old man needs to take care of before it’s too late. It’s the thing they have yet to resolve, the one thing they still haven’t made right. Still searching for that thing-that one thing. Color four-by-sixes of them today, in white slacks and baseball hats, thicker around the middle and a little worse for wear but still alive and kicking. Black-and-white pictures of them in the ’50s, young and purposeful and efficient-looking in high-waisted pants and short ties. And here are snapshots of the old man himself, and of his police department colleagues, through the years. Here are copies of newspaper clippings from the 1950s, ’60s, ’70s and so forth, the past bleeding into the present. Here are photos of the battered boy laid out on a metal gurney, nude but for a white handkerchief draped over his groin for modesty’s sake.
Here are fading aerial photographs of the farms and woodlands surrounding the crime scene, taken with his own Speedgraphic camera. Here is the typewritten autopsy report, dated February the 25th, 1957. But first he leafs through the white binder in his lap, turning its plastic pages with a patient hand.
An old man sits on an aqua couch in a pink room.
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