So here's how I went through this. It's not the best but it's what I could do. I knew I couldn't make one story out of everything. It's too much for me. Instead I did it like Rashomon, the movie. I made a list of questions I had, then I got answers from the people who should know. I was just one of those people.
In Rashomon the husband is dead and has to speak through someone else. I had to do a lot of that here. My father is gone so I took bits from his papers and emails. But also no one wanted to talk about this. It didn't work like Spotlight or Woodward and Bernstein in the Watergate movie, where you tell them you'll publish their story without them if they don't speak up, and this is their chance.
When they wouldn't answer I spoke for them, like the medium or witch-doctor who speaks for the dead man. I gave them the best shot I could. I made their best case for them, like I was their lawyer. I wasn't satisfied until I made their case better than they could. David wants to be a lawyer and he helped me.
Then I got questions from people who read early versions of this, and included their questions. I almost quit when I read their questions. They aren't even trying, I thought, so why should I? But Mr Cionte saw a new question in that. Why do people latch so quickly onto wrong stories, and which wrong stories? What do they want that pushes truth so far down their list? Wouldn't that be good to know, for an investigative journalist?
I'm in here too, as one of the people giving answers, but I go first with what I know at the start, and then I go again last, after everybody, and try to add things up, with what I know now and what I still wonder. David cross-examines me in case I try to get by with the easiest answer, the kind of answer no one could possibly disagree with, or else claim more than I know. So at the end I'm also like the judge in Rashomon, or whoever is taking all their testimony. I saw that in one of my father's emails. He said one day I would be the final judge in my case, the final appeal, when everyone had forgotten they ever pretended to know.