In America they catch criminals by using their brains, here we rely on our feet, except we're always drop kicking the wrong suspects. In America they search for evidence, we have no need for that here, I can know who's guilty by simply staring into their eyes, except my own eyes have betrayed me time and time again, especially at the most crucial moment. Shit, shit, shit, it's so hard to tell. Documents do not lie, except when the information is not the answer we want, then it cannot be trusted. If I kick them hard enough, maybe they'll tell the truth, except when my own leg is taken from me. The hands, the answer lies on their hands, except,…

***this is an essay that revisits the ending of MEMORIES OF MURDER. it's all spoiler***

Each film about (or even loosely inspired by) a real unsolved crime is shrouded in its own mysteries, but all of them leave behind the same lingering question: Would they retain their full power if their respective crimes were eventually solved? Would “Zodiac” still be such a haunting police sketch of pathological obsession in a world where viewers could Google the killer’s identity in less time than it takes Robert Graysmith to crack even the easiest cypher? Probably. Would an uncannily effective studio thriller like “The Mothman Prophecies” still be eerie enough to punch above its weight class if the Mothman turned out to be…