Baseless speculation in absence of fact is a beautiful thing, the hallmark of a professional. But let's quit beating around the bush and say what really happened, shall we? Clearly the airplane was hit by an angry meteorite full of toxic pixie dust and ingested a sulphur-crested ring-necked southern reticulated nut scratcher up the Fetzer valve, and suffered a catastrophic inverse recombobulation of the third and sixth ball bearings. Only then did the pilot, distraught over the loss of his stuffed ocelot, Harry, on a bowling green filled with drunken gentleman all coincidentally called by the given the name of Charles, throw caution to the wind and shoved the stick hard into the panel, intent on chasing a rare butterfly as it landed on a blooming emerald philodendron. The result was a foregone conclusion.

Obvious, really.

Or suicide. Or a thrown valve. Or a failed crankshaft. Or a manifold failure. Or...let's guess all day, like true professionals do: ones with decades of insight and experience, using nothing but pure speculation instead of fact, and then repeat it ad infinitum until the truth can't be anything but. Only, no matter what, we shall call it suicide. Hopefully, when it's our turn to go, someone will likewise do right by us, too.