'In a former life,' she tells the present-day detectives in the interrogation room, 'I used to exhaust myself navigating crude men who thought they were clever.' She, at least, has been able to move on. True Detective, however, has not. The show has been exceptionally clever in establishing and then removing a false sense of security, especially on a structural level: It was a show about a murder that happened in 1995, until it wasn't; it was a show told in flashback by characters who made it to the present unharmed, only now it isn't that, either. But it's still a show about men and the bodies of women, either dead or desecrated or both. In '95, Cohle and Hart pull a dead boy out of Reggie Ledoux's backwoods abattoir, and Shea Whigham's ruined preacher recalls finding pictures of naked children, apparently of both genders, tucked into an obscure volume in an ecclesiastical library. The brutalized boys, however, never materialize. They'd just muddy the waters.