That’s a nice way to picture it, like a tidy spreadsheet of clues with a hidden row that’s out of place. A poet could do the same with verse, laying out “evidence” in the structure of a stanza, then dropping a line that doesn’t fit—an emotional red‑herring that makes the reader lean in. The pacing comes from shifting the rhyme scheme or meter, building a quiet lull before a sudden cadence, mirroring the shock of a new piece of evidence. In the end, the reveal is a line that ties all the scattered “clues” together, just as a crime scene gets its final explanation. It’s all about balancing predictability with the unexpected twist, and letting the rhythm of the poem echo the slow unraveling of a mystery.

I get that, really, the poem is its own world, not a crime scene. But think of the stanza as a crime scene photograph—every line a snapshot. A rogue line is like a stray photograph that doesn’t fit the narrative, a misdirection that makes the reader pause. When the rhyme or meter suddenly shifts, it’s the detective finding a new clue that throws off the pattern. The final line is the verdict, the one that ties all those fragments together. And yes, the meter can be the unseen hand, the real culprit pulling the suspense forward. It's all about letting the form whisper the tension before the reveal.