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Crime Junkie

I can't get enough of "Crime Junkie."

It's two women who pick lurid cases and then discuss the storylines. Real-world, true crime cases.

There aren't any gimmicks. The ladies aren't sipping wine, having digressions about their hometown, or attempting stand-up routines. They're extremely disciplined.

Podcasting seems to be a democratic field--perhaps *too* democratic. You don't need to impress funders. You don't need to reach a broad demographic. You just need to record yourself. This means that quality control tends to be fairly minimal.

I admire the "Crime Junkie" experts because they write a script, they stick to a tight thirty-five minutes, and they know how to tell a story. They can make your hair stand on end. Also, they pick enjoyably complex tales: the murder of Robert Wone, the baffling disappearance of Asha Degree.

Their most recent piece is a small work of art. It concerns a woman, Sneha Philip, I'd never heard about. Here's the story.

Sneha was a doctor living in lower Manhattan. She had been fired from a hospital for lateness, and her marriage and life seemed to be degenerating; she was staying out all night and perhaps struggling with alcoholism and with the idea of marital faithfulness. Things were at a point where, if she did not telephone her husband and did not return home for a full 24 hours, the husband would not really think the behavior was odd. Or so it seems.

One afternoon, Sneha phoned her mom, mentioned that she was interested in checking out Windows on the World, in one of the Twin Towers, for a future event, then went out to do some shopping. She was caught on a camera at Century 21; she had purchased lingerie, bed linens, and a few other items. Then she was never seen--with absolute certainty--again.

The twist in the story is that this Century 21 purchase happened on September 10, 2001. So it seems very likely that, the next day, on 9/11, Sneha, a trained doctor living downtown, ran out to help victims of the terrorist attack, and then perished (maybe from the impact of falling debris).

But the thing that Crime Junkie does so well: It throws possible wrenches in the story.

Sneha seems (maybe) to be seen on her apartment building's security camera in the early morning on 9/11--but if it's really Sneha, why isn't she carrying her shopping bags? Where did those bags go? And if she had left them with a friend, or lover, why didn't this person ever come forward and say, "Hey, Sneha was with me on 9/10"--? And what about the alarming online postcard from several months later? Posted to a site: an image of two falling towers, with an inscribed "secret": "Everyone who knew me before 9/11 believes that I am dead."

The really compelling theory is that Sneha did indeed die from falling rubble--but do you see how there's still that tantalizing mystery? How there's very often an item--a missing shopping bag, an erratic security camera--that invites the listener's mind to spin, and spin, and spin?

The two titular Crime Junkies seem to have surgical abilities: They dig deep into my brain and press all the buttons that will lead me to be obsessed for several hours. They know how to "haunt" me. And, again, their storytelling is un-showy: They say their lines with zest, and they write with impressive attention to detail, and that is all.

Crime Junkie recently appeared on a Rolling Stones BEST OF list. The cream tends to rise to the top.

If you haven't listened yet, I recommend an afternoon on a couch with your iPhone and some popcorn. Let that be my gift to you!

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