Let's Be a True Crime Documentary

I'm the original soundtrack performed almost exclusively on the cello. I make the show "classy"

Are there reenactments in it? If so, I'm a reenactor.

I'm the feeling that it was filmed in the 80's even though it was made in 2020.

I'm the video of an interrogation.

I'm "that wasn't like."

"That wasn't like Suzie, to miss her yoga class ... "

"That wasn't like Yolanda, not to pick up Eddie from school ... "

"That wasn't like Roger, to blow off a meeting he had prepared for ... "

I'm prussic acid...

I'm the Actual Police Footage

I'm the small town where someone is murdered. No one ever thought it could happen here!

I am the childhood/family/graduation/birthday/wedding photos of the key people in the crime shown throughout the documentary.

I’m the dream home that was recently built.

R9 *birthday

I'm the first wife....it could have been me.

I’m the sad, tacky jewelry the killer kept as souvenirs.

I'm the sorority sisters new boyfriend...everyone knew there was something "off" with me. Do not go on any camping/cliff hikes with me. Let's have a picnic at the top of that waterfall overlooking a gigantic gorge...

I'm the smug but unexpected hot assistant DA who you all keep undressing with your eager pathetic eyes.

I'm the murderer. I'm going on and on about how I couldn't have killed my wife because I loved her so much. Most of you don't buy it.

I’m the cellar stairs.

I'm the missing wife's best friend/sister who KNEW WHAT HAPPENED RIGHT AWAY.

I'm the twink desperate to solve my mom's murder

I'm the emotional detective who talks about how "the case still haunts me".

I'm the newly-promoted detective who got assigned to the cold cases unit.

I'm Sharon, the missing woman. I'm 33, newly-divorced, and have three children under the age of ten. Yes, I like to party and stay out late (girls' nights out). But I would never, ever leave my children.

I am the Dark hidden secret! Ssshhhhhh

I’m the victim’s double life. Few knew about me.

I’m the heavily blurred out photo of the victim’s mutilated corpse. I am there just to frustrate the viewers.

I’m the purse that was left behind. And I am alarming.

I’m the murdered woman’s smile. I lit up the room!

I’m the maggots. Thanks to me forensics can figure out how long the hooker in this dumpster has been dead for.

I'm the overdone hair and make up on the women talking on camera. They are from Dirtstick, WV but have blow outs and a smoky eye thinking they are Real Housewives of Hooterville.

I’m the photo of dead mom, resplendent in purple hair and clothing, on the matching purple t-shirts worn by the family when they gather on her grave and release purple mylar balloons.

I'm Nancy Grace, with my exaggerated southern drawl and voice bordering somewhere between outrage and hysteria.

And I'm very concerned about how my overteased thinning hair looks on camera.

I'm the bawling frau.

I’m the gay best friend. The victim told me all about her marital problems during our lunch breaks spent at Panera. I have a bombshell to drop on the investigators.

I'm the fairytale romance that became a nightmare.

I’m hiker #1. I’m the one who noticed a mannequin at the bottom of the ravine and said, “Why would someone bring a mannequin all the way out here?”

I’m hiker #2. I reminded hiker #1 that Halloween was a couple of weeks ago. It was probably just some kids playing a prank.

I’m hiker #1 again. I agreed with hiker #2 but decided we should report it anyway, just in case some store was missing a mannequin.

I’m the massive blood stain on the floor boards hidden underneath the carpet. Nobody could have survived that of blood loss.

I'm the body farm the forensic team consulted.

I'm the luminol spray.

I'm the receipt from Home Depot that includes some alarming items, like a chainsaw and a case of bleach.

I'm the explanation of lividity, petechiae, liver temperature, and the significance of the hyoid bone; because people who watch these shows apparently have very short memories.

I'm the life insurance policy recently procured for the dead frau.

I’m the only victim who managed to escape. I am giving my interview for this film in disguise and under a pseudonym.

I'm the never ending multiple graphics of court documents and witnesses testimony peppered throughout. I am highlighted to passages that the producers want you to see. I'm thrown up on your screen for only a split second because if you actually paused the documentary to read me in my entirety, there'd be no reason to watch all seven episodes of this crap.

I'm the kind of place where folks never locked their doors.

I'm the cop who is hot in the actual footage flashbacks but is now a suburban triple-chinned dad in the "today" footage.

I'm the surprise twist ending of each episode designed to make you binge watch me. I should have only been four episodes, but I have been dragged out to eight episodes because, you know,....Netflix.

I'm the clue that could break this case wide open. Sadly, I only lead to a dead end.

I'm "spirited," when what they really want to say is "raging cunt."

I’m the armchair frau detective binge watching from home.

I’m the killer. I murder teenage girls and rape their corpses. Because I’m hot, DLers will overlook my heinous crimes and start a thread about how much they want to fuck me.

I'm R49's feet.

I am the missing teen’s cellphone left at home. She would never go anywhere without me.

[quote]start a thread about how much they want me slap them in the face with my dick and fuck them

I'm this correction, because wanting to have sex with a convict is a bottom thing.

I'm the defense lawyer, arguing that just because a guy bought a chainsaw at Home Depot at 3am doesn't make him a murderer

I'm the NYU theater major with $100,000 student loan debt who finally landed a gig in the reenactment scenes.

I'm the bucket of lime.

I'm the snow shovel murder/suicide and I'm wondering why there's no documentary on me?? I'm worthy, you scummy motherfuckers!!

I'm the hubby secretly on Grindr who really needed to get rid of this nag of a wife.

I'm a victim who was an obnoxious, narcissistic asshole.

But I'll be described as having a "big personality" and "loved being the center of attention."

I'm the pretentious shot of the detective sitting at the bar with a shot and a beer in front of him staring off into space, while his disembodied voice is narrating.

I'm the hundreds of bankers' boxes in the cold case room, one of which holds a clue to the new murder.

I'm the key witnesses ... dead. Too much time has passed these prostitutes (now presumed dead) went missing.

I’m the defensive observation, “It was a different time…”

I'm one of the suspects who doesn't appear in it at all, thereby giving it away that I'm the one who did it and is currently in jail.

I'm the psycho POS in prison with no realistic chance of ever getting released. I need some attention, so I'm admitting to the murders of some of these missing women. I have murdered before, so, it seems possible. However, I then say I didn't murder these women, I was lying.

I'm the reenactment actors. I'm way better looking than the real people were. If I'm a female I'm described as a great beauty or irresistible to men when the real one is a fat suburban frau and nothing resembling a "beauty".

I'm the folk-y pop song playing in the background. I'm here to add a layer of profundity (I fail at that)

I'm the butch lady detective who still believes the husband is guilty despite DNA proving his innocence. I hate men and this one is going to pay!

I'm the parent of a murder victim who makes the comment about "how parents shouldn't have to bury their children".

I'm the college co-ed who made everyone feel loved. This means I regularly got drunk at frat parties and fucked all comers.

I'm the victim. I almost always would light up a room when I entered it.

I'm the two shoe boxes full of photos left on the cutting room floor because they only need the maximum of TWO photos of the victim growing up.

I'm aunt Diane. There's something wrong with me. The fact that nobody will ever know what really happened for certain is truly a crime.

I'm common sense. Aunt Diane was a pot-smoking alcoholic. One day, Diane got sick of it all and plowed herself and a van full of children into oncoming traffic, killing even more people.

I’m the shirt the victim would have given off their back.

I’m the neighbor who noticed an ungodly stench coming from the house on hot days but assumed it was a plumbing problem or a dead raccoon under the porch.

I’m the word Dramatization that appears on the screen during what even Stevie Wonder sees is a re-enactment of the actual crime.

I'm episode 8 of the Netflix docuseries. I am the final episode and I have no answers for you. The crime remains unsolved.

I’m the something that just. didn’t. seem. right.

I'm an independent true crime documentary. Years later you will find out that the people who made me have have some unusually close relationships with the accused, or with the family members of the accused. Maybe you'll realize that a good deal of the film is bullshit, but the creators will never be called on it. They already got their Netflix money.