For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a sucker for a good mystery. And I’m not particularly monogamous about my curiosity. Who was Jack the Ripper? Are yeti real? What happened to the Roanoke Colony? Where do we go after we die? These questions don’t just pique my interest. They pull at me – mischievous little bits of misplaced history – promising that they can be found no matter how many years have passed if I only keep up the search.
In my mid-twenties, I developed insomnia, something I’ve come to believe is essential to any good amateur detective. Unless you’re a trust fund baby or Jon Ronson, it’s generally hard to justify theorizing about the Bermuda Triangle during daylight hours. But at 3 o’clock in the morning, when even the reality shows have tucked in for the night, puzzling over J. Edgar Hoover’s personal and confidential files isn’t a half-bad way to pass the time.
As you follow this blog, you’re going to start to notice that most of my favorite mysteries are linked to long dead people. That’s because I tend to think that mysteries aren’t born until the last person who could tell you the answer dies. Before that, you’re either dealing with a person who won’t give you the answer or a conspiracy. People who won’t give you the answer are best left alone, and my hair doesn’t respond well to tin foil hats, so conspiracies are kind of out.
And that leaves a good mystery.