Ro-bi's a good copper; his theories are based on fact, on evidence. And, as far as he can see, it's the only theory that fits the facts. No ordinary person could have saved Hu Malori from the tower of the natural history museum, not the way Ro-bi saw it at least- Hathaway's fingers closing around Malori's wrist just a moment after the man had fallen from reach, then bobbed a fraction of an inch against the force of gravity.
The evidence mounts. It would explain Hathaway's extensive trove of esoterica, his habit of declamation. In Ro-bi's sergeant's voice even the most banal quotation sounds like an ancient koan. It would explain the young man's sexual hang-ups, though Ro-bi doesn't mean to know about that. It would explain his apparent lack of any stable, long term relationships, and the uncharacteristic delight he takes in his lavender socks, an elicit pop of color. It would even explain the terrible haircut he'd worn when Ro-bi had first met him, rough shorn and far too short.
No braid of course, they would have taken that.
Like most theories, Ro-bi's raises more questions than it answers. Questions like, 'How does a devoted Jedi padawan become a death-stick smoking copper on Ox-4D, a small planet known mainly for its university?'
Ro-bi's never been quite sure how he feels about the Jedi. They could push his buttons a bit, swooping in in the name of international law enforcement, when anyone could see they'd never done an honest day's police work in their lives. But by and large he figured they had their patch and he had his- they were welcome to all their mumbo-jumbo if it suited them. But now, now when he sees them walking about the quads, or gathered around their temples, russet robed figures in twos and threes, all he can think is, what did you do to him?