cochrane, a detective in a short story i'm writing

cochrane, river

cochrane abhorred art. he could or could not think whatever he wanted about a piece of art. there was no real barometer, nothing but passing fancy. he needed to know more, know too much. motivation and direction came first. then as many details as he could ascertain, could absorb, until a whole and vibrant picture began to emerge, arc and trajectory and choice. he wasn’t willing to make the leap of faith that being an art lover seemed to require of him, to let go what he knew for what might be. he didn’t like the feeling he got, a lightness in the hands and feet, when he gave himself over to the idea of some thing being great. it was all important. and in that moment something in him felt ill and knew he was disregarding some insignificance that would mean much more to him in the end. as he studied the river’s edge, walking slowly from where the girl was found, his nose was filled with the smells of deep earth and soil and the rich mixture that fallen leaves release as they are displaced under foot. it was going to rain.