On the Hunt

Robert Stack had such an impeccible eeriness about him when he presented stories of missing suspects, paranormal activities, and abducted children alerts on "Unsolved Mysteries". And I loved him for it. That classic trench coat and authoritative voice made him seem all the more convincing as a man with the plan to solve these mysteries. I saw him as a sleuth who would sit outside the home of a suspect in an unmarked van, just waiting for the right instant to draw his gun and shot 'em dead. Of course, I knew the great Mr. Stack was just a talking head, in a get-up to make him seem that way. Still, I thought he was cool.

My television viewing habits had long surpassed Sesame Street and Mr. Wizard's World. I liked big kid shows. The more mysterious, the better. I lived for the mystery of life, the who's and why's of bad people, the possibility of UFOs or the surrealism of spirits interacting with the real world. But, as much as I enjoyed "Unsolved Mysteries", the shows UPDATEs proved disappointing. It was great for the family and the investigators that the little girl was found safe and sound. For me, it was a let down. Congratulations to the joyous mother, but sad for the viewer who liked everything shrouded in mystery.

It was during my intense fascination with Detective Stack that I evolved into my own gumshoe character. In my imaginary fantasy world, I was Fred Fickle, a bumbling detective with my own mysteries to solve. Only years later, would I learn "fickle" was another word for shy. But I was a shy kid, with very little friends...but I liked it that way. I enjoyed living in this fantasy world where I could create my own mysteries and solve them. However, I'd often find myself trapped, and would have to elude my captors to piece the clues together.

I'd get wrapped up beneath the fitted sheet on my mattress and it would cling to my body like a gigantic spider web, obviously spun by the minions of the diabolical villain. Bed sheets could also double as restraints. When I was feeling really adventurous, the floor of the bedroom was electrified or lava. I dare not touch it with my bare feet. The bad guys were never named, and I never saw them. It was Fred Fickle against whatever obstacles were in his way. The plots typically involved rescuing the daughter of a distinguished and very wealthy business man. My reward would be love, most certainly, upon finding her. Other times, plots involved a missing diamond or an important document.

Never would I, as Detective Fickle, ever come across an actual person. My sister and I would play "next door neighbors", a version of playing "house", but instead of husband and wife, we were neighbors. But I dare not share my mysterious fantasy world with anyone. It was all make believe. All in my mind. Yet, it was so vivid, so real to me. I could be anywhere in the world. The bedroom was an industrial wasteland. The back yard, a dark forest, full of snakes and monsters. The attic appeared as a dimly lit haunt for spirits and chain-rattling demons. The world was my oyster, and I wanted to discover it as only Fred Fickle could.

As an adult, I'm still fascinated by true crime. None of that scripted CSI or Law & Order stuff. I want to see how investigators piece together clues to get the bad guy, or identify the cause of a localized epidemic. Robert Stack isn't around any more. I've caught new episodes of "Unsolved Mysteries", which feature a different host, and are therefore not the same. I'd much rather watch Forensic Files, and have more recently discovered a whole 24-hour network devoted to true mystery shows. I read true crime novels.

I know I'll never be a real detective, but I do enjoy the psychology of it all. I'm endlessly entertained by why people do what they do. Motives are always interesting. Love triangles, deep-seated secrets, drug money...it's fun to solve along with the professionals.