Saturday, April 14, 2012

Could I Be A Crime Scene Investigator?

One of the Murder & Mayhem events yesterday included having the organizers set up a fake crime scene that we went into as groups to investigate. We saw drops of blood on the ground, bloody shoeprints, a body with a bullethole, drugs on the table, shell casings, overturned chairs, and a few other clues as to what happened. But guess what? I couldn't figure out what happened at all.

I wasn't sure if the victim was shot through the back or the chest. I saw bloody footprints leading toward the body, but none away from the body. None of the drugs had been taken, though the victim's pockets were turned inside out. I saw a shell casing near the front door, away from the bedroom where the majority of the blood was. The scene didn't make sense to me at all. I like to think that's a good thing; I am just not familiar with crime scenes so don't have the knowledge to understand what I was looking at.

Which reminded me of the many times I've looked around the wreck of my house and wondered what detectives would deduce if my house were suddenly scrutinized as a crime scene? I think they'd be stumped. Would the newspapers spread across the floor be considered a clue? Or would they view it as the mess it really is? Would they recognize the true crime behind the sticky fingerprints on the refrigerator door handle -- the mess itself, or the rebellion from a mother who refuses to clean it up? I think it would be hard for them to figure out the chaos in my house, which falls somewhere between hoarder and someone who will find anything, and I mean ANYTHING other than housework to do.
And yet -  I can tell when things have been disturbed. I have that 'Mom radar' that lets me see the new trail of evidential mess that my children have left behind: I said not to cook, yet I see toast sweat and a dirty knife in the sink. I said not to go in my closet, but now a shirt has been hung with the buttons hanging the opposite way. I said not to go outside, but there are shoes tumbled by the door.

I may not have figured out what happened to the body on the bed in the fake room at the conference, but I can figure out what my children have been up to. It makes me a master detective of sorts. Or maybe I'm just lucky that my children aren't as crafty as criminals.

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