Faces of Crime
It began with a knock. The young man from Qazigund, opened the door, saw a person in police uniform. Composed voice. Authority in posture. He stepped aside, unknowingly welcoming his own death. The uniform was fake. The man was a thief, and in a matter of minutes, he turned into a murderer. The would-be groom perished. A life ended.
This isn’t just a crime. It’s a theatre. Mask, role play, illusion, betrayal. A chilling reminder that the evil no longer waits in shadows; it walks confidently in daylight, wearing badges, carrying fake documents, speaking our language. Calm, calculated and cloaked in normalcy, these acts unsettle us because they break the unspoken contracts of everyday life: of safety, identity and trust.
This is the new age of crime. Not driven just by desperation or poverty, but by delight, delusion and a disturbing sense of imagination.
We live in times when crimes don’t just happen; they are crafted. Murders are no longer spontaneous bursts of rage; they are orchestrated operas of horror. Take for instance the cases of people being chopped into pieces. Once rare, this act has become a creepy pattern across the globe. From Delhi to Tokyo, perverts precisely mutilating their victims, storing body parts in freezers as if shelving guilt. These are not just murders; they are manifestations of madness mixed with method.
The questions arise. Why do such bizarre crimes occur? What switches off the basic circuitry of empathy? Psychologists often talk about moral disengagement, a mental blindfold that allows someone to dehumanize others. But the scale and strangeness of such crimes hint at something deeper. It’s an erosion of identity, purpose and restraint in the digital age.
In a world where attention is currency, even crime has adapted. Consider “performance murders” where criminals live-stream acts of violence. One infamous case involved a man who poisoned his friend on a live feed, lacing her drink slowly while laughing at viewer comments. One more posted a selfie beside the body of the person he just killed. His caption read: “He deserved it.” We are no longer simply dealing with criminals. We are dealing with broken egos hunting for sadist gratification, not escape.
Some crimes aren’t just wicked. They are patient. Planned. And deeply lonely. For instance, a killer who gruesomely turned victims into hamburger meat for sale, created a horrifying blend of cannibalism, deception and deranged thoughts.
And then, there are crimes that border on mocked normality and satire. In Delhi, a gang gained notoriety for greeting victims with a polite “Namaste” before robbing them at gunpoint. It was an uncanny mix of courtesy and crime that felt straight out of dark satire. There is also the story of a man who faked his own kidnapping for years to avoid alimony. It sounds ridiculous, until you realize these are not headlines from The Onion! They are real.
These weird acts reveal not just twisted minds, but a twisted world. The boundaries of legality, morality and sanity are not just being pushed, they are being dissolved.
So, what is truly driving this bizarre shift in the nature of crime? Part of the answer lies in narrative overload. We consume media at such volume, from thrillers, serial-killer podcasts to mystery dramas, that the lines blur. What was once “unimaginable” becomes familiar. What was once abhorred becomes palatable. Criminals today often imitate what they watch or stream.
Then there is the pandemic of disconnection. Loneliness, identity crises, online validation addiction and desensitization are breeding new criminals. Not just in slums and prisons, but everywhere.
And yet, amid this madness, the most dangerous crimes are not always the loudest. Financial swindlers, elderly abusers, scammers who rob not just money but dignity. These too are crimes. Quiet. Systematic. Ruinous.
What can society do? Certainly, penalty alone is no longer a deterrent. Rehabilitation needs reinvention. Media must rethink glorifying crime as entertainment. But more importantly, we must listen to our neighbours, to the silent cries of mental illness, to the behavioural red flags in our schools, our homes, our offices.
Crime is no longer what it used to be. It doesn’t wear a mask—it is the mask. And the scariest part is, sometimes, it doesn’t look like a criminal at all. It smiles. It greets. It pretends. It lives next door. And it knocks.
The only question is: Will we unbolt the door?
