Casolaro had written extensively in creative forms, many poems and short stories, and a novel called The Ice King that was about mountain climbing. He collaborated on a film, “To Fly Without Wings.” A friend of his said, he wasn’t an investigative reporter—he was a poet.
There was some indication he was working on the Octopus book from a novelist’s point of view. That it wasn’t investigative, but fiction.
He liked the construct of fiction for explaining conspiracies, the weaving of fiction and truth to flesh out the story, make the edges smooth and round, eliminating inconsistencies and the random, realizing metaphors, making what could be called a juicy coherent story. A picture, a film, a consumable product. Fiction explaining the truth, even if that truth was essentially a fiction.
He knew that people might hate him for doing so, for making such a dangerous theory palpable, digestible to the masses. For perpetuating conspiracies as master plans designed to explain everything.
But the closer he got, the less he could count on fiction. Too close to the truth, he couldn’t dissociate, or maybe he was just a character in a larger fiction.