I've had murder on my mind for the last couple of days. A woman, seemingly cut down in the prime of her life, laid dead and naked on a bluff on the outskirts of LA. She died of blunt trama to the head, her murderer striking her head in the dead of night with what looked like a pipe. The only witness was an ominous full moon.
I know this because I watched her murder, only briefly, before LA homicide's newest member, detective Cole Phelps, was assigned the case: The Red Lipstick Murder. Phelps may be new to the murder beat, but his skills of detection are unparalleled, both at the crime scene and when interrogating persons of interest.
Sure, it was odd to see him put his hands all over the body, twisting it and analyzing it for clues: a bruise here; a missing wedding ring there; a nearby size 8 man's boot print. Modern detective shows have taught us that touching any evidence is a big no-no, but in 1947, it was the norm -- at least, LA Noire says as much. After stomping around the scene of this gruesome murder, Phelps walks away with a lighter from the Bamba Club and a cause of murder. Odd, since I could've just told him how she died, if only he asked me.
LA Noire (PAX East 2011)
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