AP and I were sitting in the garden of the Fort Greene Observatory, discussing the lack of a video declaration from the Boston Marathon bomber(s). I had bought us big cans of ‘Gansett beer. It came from New England.

“It was only one person,” I voiced my hunch. “He carried the two bombs in bags and dropped one and then the other.”

“Why four hours after the first runners?” AP had attended RISD. He had an analytical mind.

“Because it was too crowded. Someone walking with two bags would have attracted attention.”

“And it didn’t four hours later?” AP was a New Yorker.

“The cops were standing down. The spectators were friends and family. No one was paying attention to a forty year-old white male with two bags over his shoulder.” I knew my Boston, but didn’t say that the police were in a bar on Newbury Street. There isn’t anything more agreeable to any working man than getting paid to drink on the job.

“One man? Those bags were heavy.”

The FBI said they were constructed out of pressure cookers loaded with household chemicals and ball bearings.

“30-40 pounds each.” I carried heavier bags, while smashing knives this winter. “He dropped the first up the street and then the second, which he detonated first and then blew the second.”

“And you’re sticking with either a single bomber? The 42 year-old white guy from New Hampshire.”

“Missing a front tooth.”

“But not a Muslim.”

“A Muslim would have gone for a suicide mission, but there is another suspect.” I put down my beer. It was empty. Luckily I had bought us two each. “The descendant of a redcoat officer from the Battle of Concord. Those Brits have a long memory.”

“That’s the Irish in you speaking.” AP was familiar with my blood.

“Maybe you’re right, so my money stays on the white guy from New Hampshire.”

“With the missing front tooth.”

We clunked our ‘Gansett cans together.

I hope they catch the bastard.

Dead better than alive.

And that’s the Irish in me too.