There are essentially two ways to become an expert criminal investigator. Undertake the necessary training and master your craft or ravenously consume every true-crime podcast like you were Jeffrey Dahmer ordering off the kids menu.
Kristie took the latter path and soon became obsessed within an audio world of gruesome crime. She was tearing through new podcasts like they were John Wayne Gacy’s floorboards and it wasn’t long until she had deputised herself a fully blown detective.
Of course, the closest thing to a crime that Kristie had ever committed was throwing a gender reveal party for her new cat, Mr Holmes. Of course, that was more of a tragedy than a crime and the only real victim was her self respect.
In her defence, after a string of awful Tinder dates she did learn a thing or two about the trajectory of bodily fluids; and similarly, after her love cave felt itchier than an eczema sufferer using the 2 dollar shop washing powder she knew a thing or two about detecting when a man had told lies.
To up the ante, Kristie started throwing murder parties where she would invite the rest of her Murdashians over to discuss the latest podcast and laugh at how fucking stupid the police and forensic experts where. The police were blinder than a masturbating bat and Kristie and the gals were the real pros.
It wasn’t long before Kristie was dragging her delusional bullshit over the carpet of her work life. One day, she had returned from lunch to notice a crime scene in the kitchenette. Someone had left it dirtier than a salad tosser’s mo and Kristie was on the scene.
She took photos of the coffee-splatter pattern; it couldn’t be too different from the gush of blood from a knife attack. Similarly, she bailed up coworkers around the office to find out who left the microwave looking like it had run over a tuna mornay IED in Af-rank-istan.
HR naturally became involved when Kristie was caught taking a photo of a coffee stain on the side of a suspects cup. It also became fucking weird when she kept trying to get close enough to people to detect the tell-tale scent of fish breath.
It wasn’t just the waft of guilt she was after, oh no, she was far more intruiged in HOW her suspects answered her questions about tupperware and reheating techniques. After all, she was a human lie detector because she owned a device that could stream podcasts.
The powers to be had shut her down, but that wasn’t going to stop her presenting her findings to Mr Holmes that evening. She’ll bide her time and after way too many vinos at the next office Christmas party she will let the guilty parties know she is going to expose them like a camel toe at a yoga session.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?