We come here to bury The Killing, not to praise it.

Actually, if we're being totally honest, we come here to lock The Killing in the trunk of a campaign vehicle, send the show rolling slowly into a lake, unaware of its muffled cries as it tries to claw its way to the freedom of a third season. Maybe we'll even force it to wear oversize, soggy sweaters, shoot it in the spine, and tearfully demand it reenter the mayoral race after a recovery period that would make Lazarus exhausted, or dispatch it on repeated wild-goose chases to an Indian casino run by seeming thugs with no regard for mainland law enforcement.