by Mike Walk
I’ve recently come to a very important realization about myself, one that shakes me to my core and may explain why people slowly back away from me at social functions:
I am a hardcore Columbo fan.
Yes, that Columbo. The rumpled, glass-eyed detective who looks like he lives in his car and eats cigars for breakfast. The man who solves every case by harassing the murderer until they either confess or throw themselves into a volcano. I am obsessed with this show, and I am not alone. There are dozens of us. Possibly tens of us.
For the uninitiated (i.e., people under 70), Columbo was a detective show from the '70s, starring Peter Falk as a seemingly harmless, slightly confused homicide detective with the fashion sense of a scarecrow. He mumbles, stammers, scratches his head, and pretends to forget things — and then absolutely destroys smug murderers with the same energy your grandmother uses to annihilate store clerks who won't accept expired coupons.
Each episode is essentially the same plot:
1. A person in a turtleneck murders someone.
2. Columbo arrives looking like he just fell out of a Goodwill donation bin.
3. He asks them “just one more thing” 94 times.
4. The murderer eventually gives up and begs for prison to make the questioning stop.
Why do I love this? Because in a world where crime shows are filled with sexy forensic anthropologists using quantum lasers to analyze eyelash particles, Columbo is just a guy in a raincoat with an upsetting amount of free time. And also, because every episode features the world’s worst criminal. These people do NOT want to get away with murder. They’re practically begging to be caught. One guy literally left his monogrammed golf ball at the scene of the crime. Another tried to convince Columbo that the victim “accidentally fell into a meat grinder while sleepwalking.”
And Columbo? He lets them hang themselves. Slowly. With patience only rivaled by spiders and DMV employees.
Being a Columbo fan means you no longer watch murder mysteries to guess who did it. No, no. That’s amateur hour. You already know who did it — the guy drinking brandy and wearing an ascot in Act 1. The fun is watching Columbo psychologically dismantle them like a friendly, trench-coated raccoon who gets into your garbage and then explains exactly how you’re going to die.
But the real joy is the performance. Peter Falk doesn't just play Columbo. He is Columbo. The squint. The scratchy voice. The wife who may or may not exist (we never meet her — she’s like the Bigfoot of network television). Columbo’s whole vibe is “deranged uncle at Thanksgiving who won’t leave until he figures out who took the last deviled egg.” You don't watch Columbo episodes. You live inside them. And also question your fashion choices afterward.
Now, being a Columbo fan in today’s world is not easy. People expect you to watch trendy shows like Succession or The Bear. But I’d rather spend my night watching a 1972 guest star in bell-bottoms get slowly gaslit by a man who looks like he sleeps in the alley behind a Goodwill. And I stand by that.
So yes, I’m a Columbo fan. I’ve seen every episode. Twice. I can quote lines. I own a raincoat. I once used the phrase “just one more thing” while confronting my cat about a hairball. I don’t even care. Judge me all you want — just make sure your alibi is airtight.
Because I will find the flaw.
And so will Columbo.
Eventually.
Probably after lunch.
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