Steinberg: Northbrook murder close to home but not to heart

Follow @neilsteinbergI live in a village. As villages often do, Northbrook has its own set of quaint local traditions, like the annual pancake breakfast at the Village Presbyterian Church. When the boys were younger we’d never miss one — they have raffles, puppet shows and the Boy Scouts put on a display of knots, a tent and a canoe. One year we used a device to twirl strands of hemp into rope, an important scouting skill, apparently.

So my wife and I go Saturday, to the 61st installment of what has been deemed a “pancake festival,” I assume, because now you can have seconds. We do not particularly want pancakes, but do like to support the community — the breakfast benefits Northbrook’s various holiday celebrations through the year.

We’re there, gobbling flapjacks. Sandy Frum, the village president, is pouring coffee. She moseys over, sits down and we chat. She has just been to New Zealand. I steer her toward a more local topic: that new building being constructed on Shermer; what is going to go in it? Another paint store? We’ve already got two. No, she says, another real estate office.

I consider asking her about the murder. On Dec. 7 a lawyer, Jigar K. Patel, was strangled in his office, not a block from my house. The police assured the public there is nothing to fear but didn’t arrest anybody. Which seemed ominous. If they know who did it, why not arrest the guy? If they don’t know, how can they be certain we’re safe? Maybe a maniac is stalking Northbrook.

She would know what the true story is on that.

But bringing up the subject seemed, oh, confrontational. It was a Saturday. The pancake breakfast. Whoops, pancake festival. Nice of Sandy to stop and chat. No need to punish her for it.

Follow @neilsteinbergTwo days later, I’m passing our brick-and-ivy Village Hall when I notice four TV trucks parked out front. My finely honed reporter’s instinct tells me something’s up. I pop in and ask what’s up.

A suspect has been named in Patel’s killing: John Panaligan, 50, of Aurora. He’s on the lam.

As a guy who ponders events a thousand years ago or on the other side of the world, it seems high time to wonder why I’d let a recent murder a few dozen yards from my house go unremarked upon for three months. What am I afraid of?

Several solid reasons leap to mind:

1) With the daily slaughter in the city, which I am mum about because I can’t think of anything to say other than, “It’s bad,” it would be awkward to suddenly sit up and notice this one crime just because it occurred where I live.

2) If you’re removed enough from a crime, you’re able to indulge in sarcasm. My immediate reaction to news was: “Now I’m living in Gotham City.”

A callous thought? Or just human? People are geniuses at rationalizing the suffering of others, but that’s no reason to stand up and volunteer myself as the poster boy for heartlessness. Just the thought of philosophizing over the crime made me wince because the victim was real and left a real widow and children. Bet they wouldn’t appreciate their tragedy becoming a sardonic riff.

The “Gotham City” crack is a bleat of privilege. Because it’s safe in my little village, still, so safe that one murder doesn’t shake our equanimity.

3) The bottom line is that even though I pass the building every day, the death didn’t register emotionally. Not really. I didn’t know the guy. I didn’t even know the office he’d been in. I’d gaze up at the windows of the various learning centers and dentists offices in the building and wonder, “Which was it?”

We learn about these terrible things, and feel we should feel more afflicted than we actually do. But it’s a blessing to be unaffected by tragedy, and insincere to gin up a show of outrage that isn’t heartfelt. It’s like wishing to be a better person. You can wish all you want. But at the end of the day, you have to be the person you are.

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