Gosh. I don’t know. There are so many contenders.

But lately, after binge-watching an entirely unreasonable amount of BritBox, I’m noticing a pattern.

The female detective who is slightly off. Odd. Socially uncomfortable. Probably lives alone. Sees patterns no one else can see. Has an unconventional relationship with authority and possibly a cat she refuses to admit she loves.

Then there’s Nordic Noir.

The female detective who has clearly been hurt by life and is carrying the emotional weight of three generations on one shoulder. She drinks too much coffee, wears a coat the color of despair and looks like she hasn’t slept since 2014.

And, of course, the gruff male detective.

Divorced. Brooding. Emotionally constipated. Haunted by past mistakes.

Past mistakes.

Aren’t we all?

Apparently, to solve a murder, you must first have unresolved childhood trauma, a failed marriage, a drinking problem, questionable parenting skills and the facial expression of someone who has just discovered their mortgage rate.

And heaven forbid we ever meet a detective who is well-adjusted.

Imagine it:

“Why did you become a detective?”

“I enjoy puzzles, I have a supportive spouse, I sleep eight hours and I have excellent boundaries.”

Series cancelled after one episode.

Because apparently, nobody wants a psychologically healthy person solving murders.

We want our detectives damaged.

Preferably beautifully damaged.

And honestly?

I’m starting to think the real mystery is why everyone in these shows avoids therapy.