I’ve sometimes thought that it would be great to see a show devoted to an ingenious detective who only solves decidedly minor mysteries, but with all the gravity and dedication normally reserved for homicide investigations. In this show, a missing stapler might occasion a full forensic analysis of the surrounding desk, exhaustive analysis of fingerprints, and all-night interrogations.
In part, I just love absurdity, but I also conceived of the show as a kind of response to the incredible preponderance of foul play in the world of prime-time TV. Murder is so frequent on TV, so deeply baked in to multiple genres, that it seems almost preposterous to me that shows don’t regularly address the unlikelihood of it all.
I had never seen Murder, She Wrote until this week, but from what I can tell, the show is the acme of the near-ubiquity of murder on television, as lots and lots of people have already noticed. The sheer number of murders in Cabot Cove, Maine — the tiny town that Jessica Fletcher calls home — is enormous, and to watch the show on anything but a completely incredulous level, you need to accept the fantastical statistical anomaly that is the town’s murder rate.