Murder
A dilapidated theatre in downtown New York, 1923. A man lies on the stage; a bullet has punched a hole right through his head. From your seat, you meet the eyes of the other five in the auditorium. They're all alive, staring at you, staring back. You don't need to be able to read minds to know that most of them are thinking "Who killed Mr. Jig?". But if you could read minds, you'd know one of them is thinking
"It was me."