Thursday, November 5, 2015

Val, the Ripper

Mom loves True Crime. 

Not the books, but the TV shows and specials, and the live court sessions.  She’s hooked, especially now, with all the 24/7 digital trauma hosted by the most creative and familiar Masters of Mayhem who have become caricatures of their own making.

The True Crime hosts are more often than not, journalists. Yet, they are far more than just journalists. They are storytellers who turn an ordinary life into distinct importance, narrating the less-than-rich-and-famous real-life drama, if oft buried on page 6 of newspaper, from the first sugary glance between predator and prey to the slice of the bloody knife and the cashing in of the life insurance. True Crime actors -- some of the finest acting on television these days – give good face and perky awareness and breathe interest into tired, uneventful lives, and dwell in houses a bit more polished. A good True Crime show allows for circumstantial evidence to be presented, take us where we want to go, presents the expressions we demand to see, and allow us to hate the right people. Of course, any True Crime show worth its luminol spray has professionally arranged ethereal background music that adds its own drama and tells us when a lie is about to be spoken and when all hope is lost.

Mom is hooked!

She likes it all, and she likes the mystery. When Pop has long fallen to La-La Land, Mom is busy collecting the evidence as it’s presented, holds her judgment as best as anyone could under the circumstances, and tries to figure out the real motive despite the cunning editing and false leads. Yet, more than anything, I think Mom likes to shake her fist and throw her taunts at “the idiot” who thought he or she was the cleverest killer of all humanity.

How can that be? You got caught, you Idiot!

Last week, Mom looked at me point blank and said, “I know the perfect murder watching all of my True Crime shows. Let me tell you!”

“A little strange, Ma.”

“No, really. I know how to get it done. Number one: Don’t tell anybody what you are going to do. These idiots, they never keep their big mouths shut. They always tell. Don’t do it! Don’t tell nobody nothing. Am I right? Number two: Wear three layers of clothing – not your own; somebody else’s. And gloves and whatever protection that will make it harder to shed your DNA. Just takes a little, you know. And burn the clothes. Burn everything, and make sure it is all burned to ashes –all of it. Those idiots always leave something behind. Don’t leave the scene unless you know for sure.”

“Okay. What’s number three? By the way, this is incredibly disturb–“

“Number three: Don’t kill by an instrument- poison is best. Never cut into the body. Blood leaves all kinds of traces – even just a spot. And for god sake, don’t cut up the body into little pieces. Can you imagine how hard it would be to not leave any pieces behind? You’ve just made your chances of disposing a hundred times harder.”

“But… What do you do with the body, then?”

“Oh. I’d wrap it up in someone else’s sheet, toss it in the car, and dump it far into the woods – for miles and miles – so the body rots. A deep hole would be best, and the deepest hole you can dig. And it can’t be in a woods near where you committed the murder. Farther away from the crime scene, the better.”

And – always make sure you cover your alibi. Go into a crowd, or where someone sees you go in, but not see you leave. Make sure someone remembers you – talk to someone or make conversation. And it’s important that you return to that same scene after you have disposed of the body, and slip back in unnoticed.”

“So, you don’t think you would slip and tell Papa?”

“No. He’d turn me in as fast as he could. He wouldn’t want to 'go down' with me.”

Hooked, I tell ya.


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