Just a Mystery!

Who did it?
What’s crawling on the ceiling?
Where are my car keys?
How many cookies are too many?
When will this Antique Roadshow marathon be over?

All the mysteries of life hang over us and creep into our lives nearly everyday, and when they do, they make us ask questions like the ones above.
Could that be one of the reasons we are so fascinated by the “whodunit” books, movies, and those damn reality shows that pick apart all the true-life crimes and reveal the psychopathic killer at the very end?
I think everyone probably has a secret wish to solve mysteries. If others can’t figure it out, maybe you’re the one person that can. It’s that inner sleuth which lurks inside so many of us.
Murder mysteries have always intrigued me. With all our new technology, the advances in DNA testing, and the whole field of forensics, it’s becoming easier to get the facts and evidence on so many crimes, and we all look to people like Dexter (you know, the serial killing forensics officer) to answer those annoying questions about the single hair or drop of sweat left at the scene.
In so many novels and television shows, crime scene investigators will walk into a crime scene and tear everything apart, finding fingerprints, nail clippings, blood splatter, hair fibers, cigarette butts, and pretty much everything else that falls into the category of “clue”. You can commit what you think is the perfect crime and still get caught because you had to pee, and stupidly wrote your name in the snow a mile away from the actual scene. (DNA match to the residue from the sneeze over the murder weapon.)
No crime is perfect.
Today’s novels and shows make us realize and appreciate all the work Agatha Christie’s characters did when it came to solving the impossible crime. Everyday, we become Hercule Poirot (with or without the accent), Miss Marple, or the Beresfords (Tommy and Tuppence). Purists (and occasional violin fans) become Sherlock Holmes when approaching a mysterious event.
Example: You’re in an elevator, it’s crowded, and something foul circulates through the air as you are heading up to the 32nd floor. You gaze around the elevator and find yourself analyzing your fellow passengers.
Could it be the tall guy in the sweatsuit with his headphones playing loud enough for almost everyone in the tiny space to hear, and not realizing he had done it? Or maybe it was the mousy woman with her nose buried in a book. She looks very uptight and stressed, and you can detect the scent of coffee, with extra French vanilla cream. Perhaps being surrounded by so many people has over stressed her, with gaseous results? Or maybe it was the guy with the inner voice—the one narrating this scene?
Yeah, I’m sorry, it was me! Darn burritos.

Read the entire article in the March 2023 issue of InD'Tale magazine.

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