Some of you know that I have a long-running contest with my Texan friend Kathryn Montgomery over which state has the higher proportion of crazy people, Texas or South Carolina. Bragging rights shift back and forth with the regular emergence of new crackpots, demagogues and con artists, but I like to think that person-for-person, no state can really match the lunacy of South Carolina. Yes, there's Florida, but those area-man stories are just fleeting, unconnected episodes, usually ignited by Jim Beam or meth. Ours is an epic, sweeping, deep-seated derangement that spans generations. Craziness is as much a part of the fabric of South Carolina life as Sunday School and the electric chair.
And with that introduction: behold, the latest development in the epic saga of the Family Murdaugh. This is no ordinary murder mystery. It has multi-generational depravity, graft, embezzlement, substance abuse, an amateur hit man and a fake suicide scam worthy of a 1940s film noir. And if the story holds true to form, we're not even at intermission yet.