Deconstructing True Crime Literature 3031410459, 9783031410451

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CRIME FILES

Deconstructing True Crime Literature

Charlotte Barnes

Crime Files Series Editor

Clive Bloom Middlesex University London, UK

Since its invention in the nineteenth century, detective fiction has never been more popular. In novels, short stories and films, on the radio, on television and now in computer games, private detectives and psychopaths, poisoners and overworked cops, tommy gun gangsters and cocaine criminals are the very stuff of modern imagination, and their creators a mainstay of popular consciousness. Crime Files is a ground-breaking series offering scholars, students and discerning readers a comprehensive set of guides to the world of crime and detective fiction. Every aspect of crime writing, from detective fiction to the gangster movie, true-crime exposé, police procedural and post-colonial investigation, is explored through clear and informative texts offering comprehensive coverage and theoretical sophistication.

Charlotte Barnes

Deconstructing True Crime Literature

Charlotte Barnes University of Wolverhampton Wolverhampton, UK

ISSN 2947-8340     ISSN 2947-8359 (electronic) Crime Files ISBN 978-3-031-41044-4    ISBN 978-3-031-41045-1 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover credit: Monty Rakusen/ Getty Images This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

Nan and Grandad– Here it is, the “big academic book” I signed that contract for. Thank you, both, for having kept me company through so many hours.

Preface

In my standing as a crime fiction author, I have always been aware that I am working in a saturated genre. However, in recent years, I started to appreciate the extent to which the same sentiment could be expressed in relation to True Crime. The rise in popularity of these works can be charted across a timeline from biblical times, through to contemporary readerships. However, the details of this are something I will reserve for the monograph proper. For now, I will only acknowledge that this timeline, this rise, this popularity exists, and it is something I, as both a researcher and a searching-for-a-good-thrill reader, have become increasingly aware of. That said, it is too broad a statement to claim that the rise of True Crime alone was the genesis for this research project. The fundamentals of this work came together over a period of time, through a family of incidents. Firstly, I read Why We Love Serial Killers by Scott Bonn (2014)—a book I will discuss in more detail shortly—and discovered there was an interesting and troubling public fixation with violent offenders. This, too, dates back to biblical times, and Bonn’s (2014) work on the matter proved both insightful and provocative. It was something I carried forward with me after my doctoral studies; a book I always held close. Secondly, Netflix’s true-crime-mania occurred. A veritable cash cow, True Crime became Netflix’s crowning jewel when Making a Murderer (2015) rose to fame overnight. In the first instance, the series sparked public interest due to its contents. I found that, despite not having watched the series at the time, the details of it were still inescapable. They were often floated during conversations with peers who were primarily shocked vii

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that I had not watched the show myself and secondarily drawn to explain to me the inner workings of the case as they had been presented. In the second instance, the series received subsequent waves of interest when it was determined that there were inaccuracies in the real-life narrative and inaccuracies in the televised representation of that narrative. Far from stunting interest in the show, however, this only looked to cement its standing in the realm of public appeal. For me, this was a formative moment in establishing an interest in the inaccuracies of True Crime narration and the sliding scale of fiction-to-fact that this narration exists on. Thirdly, and finally, I read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood (2000). This is another text that will receive critical attention in the monograph that follows and so my comments here will remain limited. However, I can say with some certainty that as a layperson reader who went to the text anticipating True Crime of the highest standard—such is the book’s reputation among many—I was both shocked and disappointed to find that it read as a novel, with a narrative perspective and vantage point befitting of Capote’s fiction, rather than something that read as distinctly factual. These separate strands were brought together during years of reading and viewing both contemporary True Crime and texts—in a broad sense of the word—that are alleged to be “classics” of the genre. The reality that saw a great variety of these texts grouped under the same True Crime heading, lacking in nuance about the accuracies, falsities, and fictionalisation of the works, continued to be thought-provoking and, occasionally, even irksome. From this, Deconstructing True Crime Literature was formed. In a social landscape that consumes these materials at an increasing rate, a greater level of understanding is required to allow audiences to appreciate the fictive foundations of some works against the factual grounds of others. This is necessary, I feel, not only to enable a more conscientious consumption of materials, but to give those involved in these very real cases the very real respect and consideration they deserve.

Acknowledgements

Charlotte would like to extend her thanks to Allie Troyanos and the wider team at Palgrave Macmillan for their editorial support throughout this project. Alongside which, they showed me a great deal of kindness during a difficult time, and for that I am exceptionally grateful. I would also like to extend thanks to my colleagues Dr Robert Francis— thank you, Rob, for telling me it had legs to be an academic book—and to Dr Helen Davies, who generously provided what proved to be invaluable guidance on writing academic book proposals. Thanks must also go to Dr Daisy Black and Dr Aiden Byrne, for having shared in excitement when the peer review for this project was initially returned. D. Parker has my endless thanks, too, for having read this monograph cover to cover and provided limitless reassurances that it did, indeed, make sense, alongside Max for being the dearest friend and for reading snippets of this work via text messages throughout the process of my writing it. Thanks must also go to my family, who likely now know more about True Crime than they ever believed they could—and perhaps, more than they ever wanted to. Finally, Benji, thank you for having put up with my endless talks about True Crime and its travesties. You have co-authored so much of this project, and you continue to be the world’s greatest dog and peer reviewer.

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Contents

1 Introduction  1 Deconstructing True Crime: Subgenre Categories   4 Authenticity and Accuracy   5 Authorial Proximity   6 Author Gap   6 Conclusion   7 References   8 2 Time  of Death: The Early Era of True Crime  9 The Timeline of True Crime  11 True Crime for Contemporary Audiences  14 The Tautology of True Crime  17 The Likely Suspects: Looking Ahead in True Crime  18 References  20 3 Writing  the ‘I’ in True Crime 21 References  26 4 Vincent  Bugliosi’s Objectivity: Can We Side-­Step Bias in True Crime? 27 Naming the Thing  29 Reflection: Bugliosi on Literature  31 Naming the Thing  32 Third-Person Narration  32 xi

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First-Person Narration  36 Literary Techniques  40 Use of Footnotes  43 Authenticity, Accuracy, and Transparency  45 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity  48 References  50 5 The  Writer Inside Me: Does Ann Rule’s Proximity to the Serial Killer Celebrity Translate to a Reliable Retelling? 51 Framing the Thing  53 Reflection: Points of Comparison  56 Reflection: But I Trusted You, and Other True Cases   57 First-Person Narration  57 Grey Space  61 Literary Techniques  65 Capturing Voice  68 Authenticity and Accuracy  71 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity  74 References  76 6 Writing  True Crime from a Safe Distance 77 References  82 7 Truman  Capote’s World of Make-Believe: How Does Figurative Language and Creative License Distort Truth in In Cold Blood? 83 Reflection: On Reading In Cold Blood   85 Third-Person Narration  87 Establishing Voice(s)  91 Characterising the Killers  94 Dressing the Scene  98 Language Use 101 Quoted Materials 104 Authenticity and Accuracy 107 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity 108 References 110

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8 3500  Files and an Unfinished Script: Is Well-­Curated Research and Collaboration the Key to Truthful True Crime, Considered Through Michelle McNamara’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark?111 First-Person Narration 113 Third-Person Narration 117 Figurative Language 120 Contextualising the Crime 124 Research as Collaborative Practice 127 Authenticity and Accuracy 131 Reflection: On Reading and (Re)classifying I’ll Be Gone in the Dark  136 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity 137 References 139 9 Writing  Creative (True) Crime Narratives141 References 146 10 Manson’s  Girls Make a Comeback: How (C)overt Is the Influence of the Charles Manson Case on Emma Cline’s The Girls, and Should Readers Be Expected to Ignore the Connections?147 Not Naming the Thing 149 Reflection: What’s in a Name? 149 Not Naming the Thing 150 Inspired by Real Events 151 Characterisation 154 Russell’s Doctrine 158 The Murders 160 Reflection: Who Said That? 164 Language Use 165 Authenticity and Accuracy 166 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity 168 References 169 11 Narrative  Hybridity in True Crime: Is Maggie Nelson Integrating Poetry into the True Crime Genre?171 Reflection: On a Second Read 173

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Narrative Ownership and (Reappropriating) Authorial Intentions 174 Duo-I Narration 179 Intertextuality and Ekphrasis 183 Form and Content 187 Scripting the Victim 191 Authenticity and Accuracy 194 Conclusion: Authorial Proximity 196 References 198 12 Conclusion199 Narrative Styles 200 Language Styles 201 Research Styles 203 Closing Argument 205 References 207 Index209

About the Author

Charlotte Barnes  is Lecturer in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. With a research background in crime fiction, Charlotte has predominantly researched this area through practicebased means and as a result has authored some ten novels in this genre to date. Here, Charlotte explores representations of female violence and female psychopathy, interlinked with first-person narrative perspectives and the ways in which these strands can be connected to critique and contribute both to creative writing and gender studies. Additionally, Charlotte is a poet, essayist, and editor. She collaborates with a select number of other authors to experiment with poetic forms and consider the malleability of structure in creative writing. Charlotte is working on a new novel, belonging to the Domestic Noir genre, and taking tentative steps towards her second monograph that will focus again on True Crime.

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction

If one were to break the titling of True Crime down to its constituent parts, you would find two terms that are both at once easy and challenging to define. To begin with the easier of the two, many would agree on a blanket definition of crime as something that involves an illegal act according to the governing legal body where said act has taken place. Admittedly, there is slight changeability here. Geographical regions on a global scale will assess and subsequently punish crimes in different manners. Nevertheless, in instances of serious criminal endeavours—resulting in loss of or damage to human life, to name but one extreme example—the definition of what is criminal and what is not can be agreed upon by most. However, to define the truth in a singular expression is a much more ambitious undertaking. Blackburn (2017) posits that the truth is something that often conceals itself and that, while based on fact—or indeed, versions of fact—truth’s factuality is perhaps part of its problem. Blackburn (2017) asserts that this is due to a fact not having a fixed point, which is to say no fact is a ‘locatable structure’ but rather something that shifts according to experience, belief systems, and a great many other influential variables. Though a statement Blackburn (2017) makes with a measure of certainty is that ‘one thing we cannot do is pass verdict on something of which we have no experience at all’. While this still negates providing a singular definition of the idea of truth, then, it arguably offers a loose parameter around the concept as something we believe to be factual, due to our relationship to and/or experience of the subject. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_1

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With this in mind, then, when we compound these independent units— from opposite ends of a scale of complexity—perhaps it should be no surprise that we create something more expansive and, ultimately, inevitably, more difficult to define. True Crime no longer exists as a single genre of work but rather an all-expansive one, reaching across literature, television and cinema, podcasting—especially so since the advent of Serial (2014) which is coined by many as the starting line for True Crime in podcasting—and even into the realms of make-up tutorials. It is a genre that has seen significant amounts of hybridisation with many of the listed outlets collapsing together to create new forms. A notable example of this being make-up tutorials, video productions, and podcasting that have been brought together by single influencers such as Bailey Brooke Sarian (2019, 2021) and her Murder, Mystery & Makeup franchise, beginning with a YouTube channel that then advanced to a podcast series. Alongside this, True Crime has found bedfellows in the form of comedic commentary (True Crime Obsessed 2017) and even food consumption, through the conjoining of True Crime and Mukbang, a Korean practice whereby a commentator, Stephanie Soo being a celebrated example, narrates a story while consuming large amounts of food. Such are the shifting boundaries of this genre, then, that no single publication could adequately provide an exhaustive and accurate assessment of all facets of True Crime as a growing body of work. That is not the intention of this book. Instead, this publication aims to investigate the literary outlets of True Crime, to consider in some detail any existing genre definitions and parameters, and whether these, too, are an area in dire need of broadening and renewal. The discussion that follows will focus attention on seminal texts from the True Crime genre, alongside texts that challenge—or have the potential to challenge—what is currently believed to be True Crime, in a “traditional” sense, assuming such a thing truly exists. The texts under discussion are Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry (2015); The Stranger Beside Me by Ann Rule (1989); In Cold Blood by Truman Capote (2000); I’ll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara (2018); The Girls by Emma Cline (2017); and Jane: A Murder by Maggie Nelson (2005), supported further by The Red Parts: Autobiography of a Trial, also by Maggie Nelson (2017). Significantly, there are texts contained here that while considered seminal works, and therefore essential to the development of True Crime as a written genre, they also happen to have not

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received considerable critical or academic attention—neither at the time of their publication, nor in the years since. I am speaking here to the likes of Bugliosi (2015) and Rule (1989); the latter of whom was hugely instrumental in assisting not only with advancements made in True Crime in terms of refining the genre, but also in helping the genre to be recognised in mainstream media towers, such as international bestseller lists. Significantly, Rule had thirty-five New York Times bestsellers during her writing life, but there is still to date no formal academic attention given to her work—such is the trend of opting not to view True Crime through a critical lens and instead rank it as “easy” entertainment. Over the course of this monograph each book will be discussed in chapters independent from each other, though there are moments of connectivity, too, that show overlap of some kind between the books—as is to be expected. In each chapter, for each text, the monograph is divided into relevant subheadings that outline prevalent features within the writing. In these sections, critical attention and close analysis is provided to consider what these many features do for the text in question, in terms of shaping it both as a True Crime work and a nonfiction work, and indeed, whether there is any grey space appearing between these two genre points. The subheadings vary slightly between chapters. However, there are often the same or similar areas discussed, pertaining to literary qualities such as use of narrative viewpoint and perspective; utilisation of figurative language; use of research or quoted materials, which may sometimes be framed as discussions of voice; and characterisation techniques, typically when narrating other individuals directly involved with the case in question. Significantly, despite any minor differences that appear across the subheadings themselves, each chapter concludes with the same three-pronged approach: accuracy, authenticity, and proximity. The issue of authorial proximity is one that will be returned to frequently throughout the monograph. I posit that this is one of the ways in which a True Crime work can be “genred” differently insofar as its subgenre positioning. The specific details of these subgenres—that this monograph works to evidence a need for—are reiterated throughout in greater detail, too. However, a summary of them and several key terms and concepts are contained below to better frame the overall discussion that follows.

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Deconstructing True Crime: Subgenre Categories Across the monograph three distinct subgenres will be referred to, namely, Autobiographical; Reimagined; and Inspired by, or Fiction. Through close analysis of the works mentioned—all of which, I posit, fall into one of these subgenre categories—characteristics and conventions of these subgenres will be outlined, too, to evidence in practice how we might assess a work’s placement within (a deconstructed) True Crime. That said, it is pertinent to provide a brief overview of the parameters of these subgenres now, to better frame the upcoming considerations around them. Autobiographical, then, refers to works that are written by authors who have a first-person involvement in the mechanics of the case. Significantly, this does not necessarily refer to authors who inserted themselves into a case’s real-life narrative, for investigative purposes, so that they might write an account of the case at a later date. Instead, here, the author will be someone who was involved in the crime or its associated criminal proceedings, or someone who knew the criminal at the core of the case, allowing the author to write from an intimate and informed perspective in terms of their experiences, emotions, and knowledge of what happened. Though this will not provide a “definitive” narrative—for there is, as we have already considered, no singular or simplistic truth to be told—it will provide one told from a distinct and exclusive vantage point that allows for a unique telling. Following this, there will come discussions of Reimagined narratives. Here, an author will have inserted themselves into a case for investigative purposes or they will be writing from a temporal distance, ultimately meaning that research will have been necessary to facilitate their writing of a manuscript. The author will take a measure of creative license here, in terms of minor embellishments to the narrative. Though, should an author choose, these embellishments may be left absent from a work, too, instead allowing for a narrative that provides as authentic an overview of a case that an author, from this vantage point, is able to tell. In the interest of authorial integrity and authenticity, though, any changes made—here, I am referring to these minor embellishments noted above—should not be changes that will impact the accuracy or legitimacy of a work. Finally, attention will turn to the subgenre of Inspired by, or Fiction. While the issues of authenticity and authorial proximity may still be considered here, this subgenre predominantly refers to work wherein a significant measure of creative license is present. This creative license can refer to

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content, form, or, in some cases, an interplay of the two. Where an author has sourced information from will be considered here as well, as is the case with the other subgenres outlined, and how that information is disseminated will be considered in terms of how (dis)loyal it is to the original case. Given that some works beneath this heading are not openly affiliated with any one particular case or crime, there will be instances where the recognisability of a real-life narrative, in a “fictional” work, is considered as part of this subgenre, too. Given the breadth of True Crime as a singular genre, there is a real possibility that other subgenres will be determined, if critical attention is continued in this area. However, it will be these three alone that form the backbone of this early discussion.

Authenticity and Accuracy The terms authenticity and accuracy are employed widely throughout the monograph. As such, it seems pertinent to provide clarity of my own understanding of these terms, and therefore, too, their usage throughout this work. These two terms are typically coupled in their appearances. As a pair, then, authenticity and accuracy refer to the levels of verifiability in the information provided and utilised by the authors discussed herein. If the information contained within their respective works can be accounted for by attributed sources; supported further by additional sources; and has not been (widely) disputed by individuals directly involved with a case, to the extent that controversy has been caused, the works are thought to be authentic in their retellings of their own narratives. Likewise, accuracy can also be determined in this manner. It is essential, in a genre that pertains to “truth”-telling, that authors are transparent about their materials and, indeed, where these materials were sourced from. Though there are times throughout when an author will openly acknowledge, too, that some information cannot be definitively retold—either because there are contradicting narratives presented in the author’s resources or because a singular narrative cannot be found in supporting case files. This also, I suggest, speaks to authenticity and accuracy. This is due to an author’s willingness to admit points of doubt in their work, rather than to fill these areas with presupposition or embellishment. Thus, while transparency—as a point or area of analysis—is not used

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to the same degree in the following discussion(s), it is certainly something considered in conjunction with authenticity and accuracy throughout, wherever appropriate.

Authorial Proximity Authorial proximity is a term used throughout, through which I measure an author’s literal proximity to a case insofar as their involvement in the original incidents as they occurred. In the case of True Crime: Autobiographical, for example, one could fairly assume that authorial proximity might be minimal given that an author should—to fit into the parameters of this subgenre, that is—be writing from a place of personal involvement. This would present a different authorial proximity to an author who was writing from either an involvement gap or a temporal distance, therefore meaning their proximity can be assumed as being wider than that of someone who was involved with events as they were originally unfolding. Additionally, it should also be noted here—as I propose in the monograph, too—authorial proximity is something I believe can shift over the course of a work. Though this was not my original thinking on outlining the term, during preparations and research, it became apparent on reading several of these texts that an author’s vantage point can dramatically shift. Where relevant, then, any shifts in authorial proximity have been noted in the following chapters, and these shifts have also been integrated as an essential discussion point in the work(s) affected by them.

Author Gap In a consideration of broadside ballads and narration, Poláková (2022) asserts that multiple reports of a particular event will result in a ‘morphing’, wherein ‘aspects of the “facts” always change or disappear depending on the source’. Alongside this, there is an additional assertion made regarding how this sits alongside ‘collective memory’, which is something Poláková (2022) suggests will fade to become ‘place memory’: ‘a deliberately created recollection of a particular event, separated from it by a time gap’. In context, Poláková (2022) proposes that this allows narratives to be reinvented or revived on a regional or localised level, thereby providing “stories” that are somehow rooted to a particular geographical-temporal landscape. I posit, however, that we can borrow from this outlined concept to instead determine an author gap.

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The author gap consists of an interplay between author recollection and authorial proximity. The first element, then, refers to an author’s ability to (accurately) recollect details pertaining to the case. This may encompass a wide range of involvement levels, including whether they were involved with the real-life narratives or, for an additional example, whether they were alive at the time of the real-life incident and can therefore place it in their own living memories. Given that many authors of True Crime may work with primary research practices, their ability to recollect this information—details shared in interviews, trial proceedings, and other similar sources—can also be considered. Though of course, this will need to have been reported on by them in their work for it to be taken into account. Alongside which, how distant or recent these recollections are may also be considered. Meanwhile, the second strand of the author gap speaks to authorial proximity, as it has been outlined above. In pairing these elements—of recollection and proximity—to coin the author gap theory, an area is formed under which the accuracy and authenticity of a work can be assessed in greater detail, from varied vantage points. Resultantly, this means the work’s subgenre categorisation can be interrogated, and hopefully better determined, too.

Conclusion Throughout the monograph, then, arguments will be made pertaining to the categorisation of the works considered, to classify them all in a manner that speaks, in greater detail, to their positioning within True Crime. However, it is the underlying intention here that in categorising these works—and demonstrating the proposed subgenres in practice—a more nuanced approach may be taken to the ways in which True Crime as a written genre is critically considered and commercially branded. The social consequences of this should be reiterated here, too, given that there are wider considerations to be given, to areas that exist beyond the surface-­ level consumption of True Crime as a means for entertainment. These works relate to real-life criminal proceedings with victims, both living and deceased. Therefore, the necessity to treat these narratives with respect— both in terms of how the narratives are written and consumed—cannot be overstated. I propose this more nuanced approach to genre categorisation—that will, one hopes, raise awareness and understanding among consumers, too—is a step towards achieving this social shift.

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References Blackburn, Simon. 2017. Truth: Ideas in Profile. London: Profile Books Ltd. Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. Cline, Emma. 2017. The Girls. London: Vintage. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Nelson, Maggie. 2005. Jane: A Murder. California: Soft Skull Press. ———. 2017. The Red Parts: Autobiography of a Trial. London: Vintage. Poláková, Jana. 2022. Reality and Fiction in Broadside Ballads and Their Contemporary Reception: A Case Study. In Czech Broadside Ballads as Text, Art, Song in Popular Culture, c.1600  – 1900, ed. Patricia Fumerton, Pavel Kosek, Marie HanzelKová and Trans. Christopher James Hopkinson, Patricia Fumerton, 233–251. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere. Spotify. 2021. Murder, Mystery & Mayhem. https://open.spotify.com/show/615 iXBRDJi3MVoO4cC7Fmq?si=e9ee1177b9fb4085. Accessed 19 May 2023. ———. 2014. Serial. https://open.spotify.com/show/5wMPFS9B5V7gg6hZ3 UZ7hf?si=1b5a0fa25c9046a3. Accessed 19 May 2023. ———. 2017. True Crime Obsessed. https://open.spotify.com/show/7IcgcyLSm DUsNfpI3dEroP?si=9c46f652dc304245. Accessed 19 May 2023. YouTube. 2019. Murder, Mystery & Mayhem Channel. https://www.youtube. com/@BaileySarian. Accessed 19 May 2023.

CHAPTER 2

Time of Death: The Early Era of True Crime

While True Crime may appear to be a recent phenomenon, its historical positioning is not only observable but markedly pronounced. Understandably, contemporary audiences may have come to perceive the general interest in True Crime as a sign of the times and perhaps to a degree it is. However, it has certainly been a sign of the times for eras gone by, too, where the taste for True Crime has arguably been no less pronounced. Though admittedly, it may have appeared less pronounced given the limitations around the ways in which the genre was available—that is, through print media and, initially, not through many other channels besides this. In recent years, though, there has been a notable expansion seen in the ways in which we, as reading, listening, and viewing audiences, are now able to consume this media. I posit that it is likely a combination of interest and accessibility that accounts for this. Whatever the reader’s reason for approaching the genre, the ways in which True Crime is and can be enjoyed—for want of a better term—by modern-day audiences position the genre as something both topical and popular. This is a broad-­ sweeping statement that encapsulates interest in True Crime in its many forms, which, as has already been asserted in the Introduction, no single volume of study could account for. With True Crime literature in mind, though, there are notable points on a timeline that can be marked for the ways in which writing under this heading has moved, changed, and, indeed, been received, stretching back prior to the Victorian era.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_2

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This period of time is specifically named here given that many a reader could be excused for believing this era in particular marked a shift in True Crime writing. With an influence that is typically bound together with reports—both in terms of official media and (creative) nonfiction—pertaining to none other than Jack the Ripper, it was at one time believed s/ he was the first example of a criminal that caused sensationalist writing. Indeed, by the late Autumn of 1888, when Jack the Ripper had plagued London already for a number of months, there were as many as ‘one million newspapers with updated stories on the case [being] sold each day’ (Bonn 2014). Of course, this is especially noteworthy given the time period in discussion, where the daily production of such an amount of media is testimony alone for the ways in which this narrative and its developments were being consumed by people of the time. Incidentally, this only speaks to Great Britain. Beyond those borders, too, the Ripper was capturing the media’s imagination, and the interests of other international readers, in such a way that the appetency for crime was not only undeniable to scholars of the era but has repeatedly been investigated by many historians focusing on the cultural parameters and behaviours of that time as well. However, while the Ripper sensation may have marked that era as a turning point, there were noteworthy changes much earlier, too. These factors combined contribute to the overall timeline of advancements in both delivery and interest of True Crime as a (literary) genre. Prior to print media—which, again, pre-dates the media’s interest in Jack the Ripper, in cases such as the Ratcliff Highway murders—there were also murder ballads and similar oral narratives, alongside other forms of storytelling. These early works provide further evidence for crime as a preferred literary theme and, subsequently, as something of interest to audiences as well. Oral storytelling—which speaks to the folkloric code of True Crime narratives—as a bedfellow to True Crime evidences the generational impact of criminal behaviours (Punnett 2018). Furthermore, it shows the ways in which these (crime) narratives can be inherited—and often embellished—from one temporal-geographical-socio-cultural mouthpiece to another (Punnett 2018). In introducing both this oral tradition and the notion of True Crime as something that can filter through generations of readers, the early methods of genre advancement become at once clear and trackable. There was a significant shift from oral telling, for example, when print media became more accessible: copies of ballads were printed and distributed to read, rather than hear; ballads became broadsides;

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broadsides became books. Following this, ‘books’ became books as we now know them. These publications are now identifiable by their ‘gaudy covers, embellished with photographs of killers and their victims… [with] back-cover prose that seems almost to drip with blood’, among other trademark aesthetic qualities that are now inextricably bound up with True Crime as it exists on bestseller lists and amongst enthusiastic book club readers (Browder 2006). For a better understanding of where True Crime might be moving, then, and to better situate an argument for sub-dividing the genre, it is necessary to take a more comprehensive view of where the genre has already been. However, it should be noted again here that an all-inclusive overview of every True Crime media that Western audiences have known is too much of an undertaking for a single chapter, in a single publication. In the sections that follow, though, the lineage of oral to print media will be considered to form the bedrock of a larger discussion around the genre as it stands now and, indeed, how it may come to stand in the future.

The Timeline of True Crime The likes of murder ballads and other oral narratives have already been introduced above. However, it feels pertinent to establish working definitions of these terms as they will be used here, to situate them better in their social contexts, and to evidence what they were contributing to audiences of their time. With this in mind, then, attention can be given to these murder ballads as a means through which a murder might be retold to listeners before the teller returned to specific descriptive details of the crime scene itself (O’Brien 2000). O’Brien (2000) further suggests that these ballads could be ‘[c]haracterized by a voice which witnesses only after the fact… a murder mediated by the astonished testimonial voice of an anonymous narrator through details gleaned from official sources’. They were traditionally composite narratives that looked to add drama and sensation to crimes as they occurred, glorifying the incidents while also relying on official documentation as a reportorial source to inform them (O’Brien 2000). Significantly, across separate murder ballad narrations of the same crime there were still notable alterations made and versions ‘tended to differ somewhat in their details’ (Kane 1996). This looks to implicitly acknowledge the need both to reproduce these stories and, to an extent, make a competition of their construction, too, insofar as creating a ‘definitive’ narrative (Kane 1996).

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In a similar way to the building blocks of True Crime narration in a contemporary setting, each ballad appeared to function as a ‘legitimization of the preceding ones and as authorization for subsequent ones’ (Kane 1996). With this latter point in mind, it becomes apparent how these works were part of a growing and flourishing culture of early True Crime narration. Additionally, they were also demonstrative of the generational quality in the work. By this, I am referencing the narrative development scheme where each added to the content of an original, only to then be inherited, amended, and disseminated into later versions. Another noteworthy feature to mention here is the ways in which these works made characters of the real individuals involved, particularly as the ballads advanced through the years. This element of characterisation—something that has also been inherited by contemporary writing in the genre—eventually saw folkloric versions of an individual take up the place of a real individual or, rather, a real murderer. This folkloric figure—the Spring-­ heeled Jack phenomenon, as it would appear in the Victorian era—stood in place of where and how the real culprit existed in society. This, in conjunction with the snowball effect that can be noted where one ballad informs a generation of others, evidences the fictive qualities in ballad construction, despite the assertion that they were primarily formed by information made available in official reports and documents. A clear part of the murder or oral ballad’s appeal, I posit, is that the (written) narratives eventually became accessible to all social classes. The topic of murder and violence has never known social class, though, insofar as any pronounced interest. In fact, in the likes of Thomas De Quincey’s (2015) On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts, originally published in 1827, the appetites of the middle to upper classes are evidenced, and exploited, to critique the ways in which murder had become a spectator sport. In this short production, the social elite is shown not only to consume crime, but to rank the behaviours of murderers, too. An additional noteworthy feature of the text was the way in which De Quincey (2015) incorporated both real and fictional murderers into the spectatorship of his so-called murder club, where members were encouraged to grade crimes for entertainment value and ‘viewer’ satisfaction. De Quincey’s (2015) implicit allusion to the ways in which fiction and fact could collapse into each other here is a significant social foreshadowing; one that has evidently been carried through True Crime for years since. A final noteworthy element of De Quincey’s (2015) work is the interlinking of visual and textual artistry, wherein he was using print media to narrate the

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ways in which people were viewing murder narratives—through police investigations and, eventually, a very public hanging—only to make oral work of them again, by engaging in spoken dialogues about the incident and trials. Here, crime narratives are evidenced as being self-sustaining— similarly to the oral ballads, then, where one provided the foundations for another and so on. Only here, the cross-pollination happens through entirely different medias, demonstrating versatility even in the genre’s earliest days. Up to this point, though, oral ballads had arguably belonged to the lower classes of society. Meanwhile, the upper classes and their enthusiastic engagement with murder narratives as a social activity were tied to a more versatile consumption of murder ‘texts’ across varied forms. There would, however, inevitably come a time for a further levelling insofar as accessibility, with the advent of broadsides and broadsheets. While these print media productions did not necessarily replace oral murder ballads, they did provide an alternative means of documentation. Significantly, this was also one that could be passed among consumers without the need for a storyteller—or a lofty platform, available only to the richest viewers. Broadsides themselves were ‘often just one piece of paper… printed on one side only’, though they would eventually grow and interlink with other print medias of the time (Worsley 2014). In this era, shifting from nineteenth- into twentieth-century audiences, broadsides would be accompanied by the likes of Penny Bloods—‘a downmarket version of the Gothic novel’—and newsletters that were devoted to crime, such as the Hue and Cry, which would eventually be replaced by the Police Gazette (Worsley 2014). It is apparent through this brief summary of print medias alone, then, that this was a time of great advancement, not only in terms of print production but, more specifically, in how these murder narratives were being brought to larger audiences, too. These developments continued twofold again, evidenced through the emergence of ‘books’. In the first instance, there were the ‘“books”, consisting of more than one broadsheet folded together’ that printers were inclined towards producing for particularly famous criminal cases (Worsley 2014). Interestingly though, Worsley (2014) also narrates how ‘printers soon discovered they could sell “books” about old murders, too, at the time a new one occurred’, which not only shows advancements of the era, it is also indicative of behaviours that would be carried through to contemporary booksellers and publishers dealing in True Crime. Here, I am referring to the ways in which ‘topical’ crimes elicit multiple, unrelated publications, thereby capitalising on a

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public ‘buzz’ or interest. Significantly, this topicality is not restricted by crimes that happen to be occurring at that exact point in a given social setting, but rather, the anniversaries of crimes and/or criminal cases can elicit such an influx of publications, too. Speaking again to the emergence of book publications, there were also so-called Newgate Novels to capture the attentions of Victorian readers. These were works closely affiliated with the Newgate Calendar, which ‘started out simply as a list of the criminals who had been executed at Newgate’ (Worsley 2014). However, as publications continued and their popularity grew, later editions of the calendar inevitably became embellished. Initially, these embellishments consisted of authentic biographical information pertaining to criminals and additional information, too, relating to their crimes. There was also a notable visual element to these works, with ‘[c]rude woodcuts’ featured alongside the stories themselves, ‘illustrating the crime or the execution’ and evidencing again the interplay between different media forms of the time (British Library). Later, however, fiction would soon find its way into these works as well, leading to their eventual interlinking with so-called Newgate Novels. These novel publications were ‘set in the London underworld, in and about the world of Newgate prison’ and soon became associated with the likes of Charles Dickens (most notably it was a term used to describe Oliver Twist, much to the author’s dismay) (Worsley 2014; British Library). Even through this early advent of True Crime ‘books’, then, it becomes apparent how fact and fiction were beginning to blur insofar as the narratives around violent crimes in particular. This speaks, too, to Poláková’s (2022) assertion that ‘when read as historical records, fact and fiction can be hard to distinguish’, and when considered alongside this medley of narrative styles—ballads, to broadsides, to books—it is perhaps easier still to see why this might be, and might have been, the case.

True Crime for Contemporary Audiences Though this is only a potted history of the ways in which murder narratives have found their way to listeners and readers alike, it is clear to see how this contributed to foundations of a wider True Crime genre. In the genre as it exists now, there are distinct social, emotional, and intellectual elements at play that have roots evidenced in this short history, too, that are observable as the genre continues to advance and change forms.

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Insofar as any social element, True Crime works in a twofold sense. In the first instance, there is a comradery that forms between consumers of True Crime and this could, I suspect, be referred to as a style of True Crime culture, one that stems from shared consumption; recommendations for viewing, listening, or reading; and, disrespectful though it feels to suggest, the theory-swapping and the armchair detective components of True Crime that feeds a sociability element, too. In the second instance, this social element can be observed in how True Crime, both implicitly and explicitly, depending on the media type and means of communication, can provide a critique of socio-cultural structures, social institutions, and, indeed, the public’s place within these social systems. True Crime, particularly in contemporary works, has not shied from topics such as sexism, homophobia, and institutional racism. Through these weighted topics, the wider genre is able to hold a mirror up to elements of society and allow viewers to see them through a different lens. Meanwhile, the emotional and intellectual elements within True Crime are two areas that have received increased critical attention in recent years. Before turning to the emotional, it is worth considering the ways in which—insofar as the intellectual strand to these works—‘sensational cases have been coming much thicker and faster’, which critics have posited as a reason for ‘reserving judgement on which [ones] should be taken as classics’ and which should, perhaps, be taken only as a means of entertainment (Hitchcock 1994). Browder’s (2010) assertion that these books are not read for their gripping plots but rather ‘for their linear analyses of what went wrong’ speaks to the intellectualism of the genre, too. It becomes a means through which we, the reader, can observe defective behaviours, lapses in judgement, and other trademark human errors as they are narrated throughout the works. This can be understood on oscillating levels, then, between formal academic studies and layperson socio-cultural commentaries, making the intellectual aspect of the genre a varied one. However, insofar as the emotional elements, there is a less varied and more focused thematic field to be noted, dealing in feelings of fear, anxiety, and even horror. Significantly, True Crime books are believed to be ones ‘that facilitate a kind of trance state’ in a reading audience, a state ‘pricked with fear, because the existential knowledge of truth permeates the reading experience’ (Browder 2006). While agreeable to an extent, however, this is a comment that requires further interrogation. There is an interesting presupposition here that the truth—whatever that word may indeed refer

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to—is present in all True Crime narratives. Alternatively, though, the presupposition may be one held by reading audiences, rather than Browder herself, given the titling of the genre in question. Meaning “the truth” is carried into a reading of any True Crime text, at any time, by any audience, regardless of how fairly that truth may be reflected in the contents. With this in mind, then, that existentialism does indeed become an inevitability as we are encouraged to read these accounts as entirely factual— rather than fictual, a term defined by Foley (1979) as relating to a work ‘“in which the strands of imagination and reality are braided together”’ (quoted in Punnett 2018). It is possible that this interlinking of imagination and reality speaks so fluently, too, to the emotional elements of these works, alongside speaking to the inherent psychologies of reading audiences, forming another strand in this emotional-intellectual discussion of the genre. On this inherent psychology, I am here alluding to our fascination with the killer instincts as they are exhibited in humans and, complementary to this, our push-pull in making this an opportunity for voyeurism. In his work around this, Bonn (2014) has noted that our interest in the macabre of violence is something that stretches back to biblical times, when the serial killer first piqued an interest in then audiences. Since, it has become a means through which we feed an innate attraction towards fear and danger without ever truly putting ourselves in that danger, hence the voyeurism noted above. Bonn (2014) proposes several reasons for the public’s fixation with serial killers specifically, though I posit these ideas are ones that can be expanded to become more encompassing of other, non-violent (True Crime) narratives. Still, he suggests that by engaging with these texts, and other media representations, a viewer is provided with insights into “evil”, which speaks to an underlying need or want to understand the behaviour, on a human level. Thus, this inherent psychology element becomes apparent here as True Crime allows audiences to be at once armchair detectives and, even, armchair psychologists, too. Bonn (2014) also proposes that True Crime, and media representations of serial killers specifically, provides a means through which to support and even uphold the moral boundaries of society, by reinforcing the ‘good versus evil’ dichotomy. This polarisation is something that will be returned to at the close of this section. Admittedly, the multifaceted nature of True Crime insofar as the functions it does, or at least can, serve has likely always been present. Turning again to the likes of murder ballads, for example, it has been noted that

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these songs were designed ‘to foster immorality and to glorify crime’, while also addressing ‘the pervasive presence of crime itself’, endowing it with both entertainment value and a social purpose (O’Brien 2000). Now, though, with an increasing awareness of the genre—also in terms of entertainment and social function—contemporary attitudes and considerations are arguably more nuanced. Rightly so, given the increasing popularity of this genre across the board, too, insofar as different styles of media. Thus, while contemporary audiences may approach works of this kind with easy entertainment in mind, they are in fact forming part of a long-standing and, significantly, evolving canon of authors and audiences alike, contributing to something much more complex than a throwaway paperback genre.

The Tautology of True Crime Bonn (2014), in his discussion of the dichotomy of good and evil, proposes that this moral balancing falls victim to ‘circular reasoning’, meaning the moral codes embedded in each term, and to a degree to the many states that fall between these terms, are problematic because they cannot be falsified. In the wider discussion of this, then, an assertion is made that the employment of these terms in a social context is doubly problematic because not only can the claim not be falsified, but both of these terms are typically utilised, in the media, by individuals who are in positions of power. These people, who Bonn (2014) refers to as ‘the labelers’, ultimately make ‘claims that are not subject to meaningful debate or critique’, on account of the circular reasoning that forms them. Complementary to this, the labelers who hold positions of power—here, those with a mouthpiece in the media—will find that that very power ‘contributes to the legitimacy or acceptance of the label’ being used, here, either ‘good’ or, oftentimes in the case of murder and True Crime narratives, ‘evil’ (Bonn 2014). Bonn (2014) discusses this in terms of tautology: that self-proving statement, or a statement in which all of the constituent parts reinforce the truth of each other, providing either needless repetition or, in other cases, strategic reinforcement of the remark being made. On reading this, then, I found grounds on which to argue for a tautology of True Crime, wherein True Crime is a nonfiction genre; it is a nonfiction genre because it is True Crime. If True Crime persists in being a genre that lacks parameters, too, this tautology is one that will continually be implicitly reinforced as more works are produced, and “the truth” is used in fluid terms to frame narratives that may, in fact, be encouraged

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more by creative license than by authentic research. Browder (2010) provides support for this assertion with her acknowledgement that ‘[t]he label of “true” crime gives the material in these books the aura of fact—an air of authority’ [my emphasis]. It is this air of authority that I would like to underscore further, then, parallel to the remarks cited earlier from Bonn’s work. If media representations of serial killers are communicated by those in positions of power—for example, law enforcement officers—and this, consequently, reinforces the tautology of good and evil through their continued utilisation of these terms, does True Crime as a genre not exhibit a similar phenomenon? Through this so-called authority, and indeed, the assumptions made regarding the factuality of works under this heading, arguably those contributing to True Crime literature are doing so from a place of authorial authority. Their work—and indeed, any claims being made through their work—are perhaps less likely to be contested because of that authority, too. Thus, the employment of “fictive” narratives continues, making True Crime a genre that in many ways is not true—or least, not always—not that an audience is given the necessary tools to determine this for themselves.

The Likely Suspects: Looking Ahead in True Crime Admittedly, there has not only been a shift in where True Crime has emerged and, indeed, advanced from. There is also an observable shift insofar as where it is moving towards. Much like creative nonfiction as a genre in itself, True Crime’s conventions are notable more by their absence than by their specificity. In preparing research for this monograph, it became easier to define written True Crime in terms of its aesthetics than in terms of any set genre parameters that relate to its actual writing. It was mentioned earlier how the production quality of these books is inclined towards bloody font types, black and white mugshots, crime scene photographs that form entire inserts of the work, alongside various other notable characteristics that have been accurately documented by multiple critics writing on the genre. In terms of the set parameters around the writing proper, though, True Crime persists in being far-reaching as far as authors, content, proximity, and even style are concerned. That said, while there may be more True Crime publications now than at any other point in the genre’s history, there are, encouragingly, more critics working in the area, too.

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While the specifics of True Crime may not have been isolated in great detail yet, there is work being done that pertains to the narratives of the writing in a broader sense. The likes of Ian Case Punnett’s (2018) Toward a Theory of True Crime Narratives is an exceptional example of this, resulting in distinct categorisation codes that offer guidance on how, or indeed if, something can be titled as True Crime. Significantly, while there are a number of these codes suggested in the work, the most important of them all is the TEL code or teleology code. While allowances can be made for the shifting status of fact and fiction, the TEL code ultimately requires supporting evidence to show that a ‘story is moving toward truth’, without which, ‘no further investigation of its other elements would be necessary’ (Punnett 2018). Ultimately, then, the truth—though this may take time to prove, and it may even be disproven as continued work occurs— remains a fundamental part of the genre. This ties again with the earlier presupposition regarding the ways in which a reader will carry this truth into their experience of any True Crime work, too, thereby contributing to the overall impact of a narrative and its believability. However, there are undoubtedly True Crime publications where this fundamental element is not present—or rather, not wholly present. This persists in being problematic for many reasons, not least because of the inevitable dissemination of inaccurate materials to a reading audience, though this could be applied to listening and viewing audiences, too. Alongside this, in only partially employing the truth throughout a work there is an element of fictitiousness that makes it easier still for an audience to disassociate from the realities of what they are consuming, on account of it not being entirely nonfiction. This comes with a pronounced moral ambiguity that is only worsened still, when one considers it in conjunction with the very truthful fact that there are real victims at the hearts of these cases, living and deceased, alongside the victims’ families and associates. Commodifying these narratives in a way that bastardises them, rather than capturing them as accurately as an author is able to, is not only disrespectful, then, but also disingenuous. This is one of many components of True Crime culture that reinforces a need to deconstruct the genre. By developing subgenres that in some way indicate how much truth a work represents, some of the moral ambiguities in the genre can be eased, at least to some degree. It also makes the genre a more respectful one overall and one that looks to inform and educate its readers, rather than deceive them.

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References Bonn, Scott. 2014. Why We Love Serial Killers. New York: Skyhorse Publishing. British Library. N.D. The Newgate Calendar. https://www.bl.uk/collection-­ items/thenewgate-­calender. Accessed 04 May 2023. Browder, Laura. 2006. Dystopian Romance: True Crime and the Female Reader. The Journal of Popular Culture 39: 928–953. ———. 2010. True Crime. In The Cambridge Companion to American Crime Fiction, ed. Catherine Nickerson, 205–228. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. De Quincey, Thomas. 2015. On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts. London: Penguin Classics. Hitchock, James. 1994. Murder as One of the Liberal Arts. The American Scholar 63: 277–285. Kane, Stuart A. 1996. Wives with Knives: Early Modern Murder Ballads and the Transgressive Commodity. Criticism 38: 219–237. O’Brien, Ellen. 2000. “The Most Beautiful Murder”: The Transgressive Aesthetics of Murder in Victorian Street Ballads. Victorian Literature and Culture 28: 15–37. Poláková, Jana. 2022. Reality and Fiction in Broadside Ballads and Their Contemporary Reception: A Case Study. In Czech Broadside Ballads as Text, Art, Song in Popular Culture, c.1600  – 1900, ed. Patricia Fumerton, Pavel Kosek, Marie HanzelKová and Trans. Christopher James Hopkinson, Patricia Fumerton, 233–251. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Punnet, Ian Case. 2018. Towards a Theory of True Crime Narratives. New York: Routledge. Worsley, Lucy. 2014. A Very British Murder. London: BBC Books.

CHAPTER 3

Writing the ‘I’ in True Crime

Before writing this, I considered at length the wealth of information that already forms a circle around the ‘I’. That stands for fiction, nonfiction, and even poetry. Readers and academics alike are attracted to this topic as a ripe area of interrogation. The poetic ‘I’ may be the most talked about of them all. I picture these many ‘I’s, standing around a suitably smoky bar, packed with authors, where that very same poetic ‘I’ is boasting its poet’s ego—and deservedly so. A long time has been spent determining who the speaker is in poetry, and it plagues us today still. I write this not only as someone who has researched first-person speakers—in the Behind-­ the-­ Scenes preparation for this very book—but also as someone who writes across different genres and often knocks awkwardly into the question of whose voice I am writing in. Admittedly, this is a narratological feature that is harder to determine in poetry than in fiction. The fiction I write these days slots neatly into the (sub)genre of psychological thrillers. Though, on further reflection, it likely falls easier into domestic noir, given that nearly all of my novels are narrated by ‘defective’ women. That is not a term I use lightly, either, but given their propensity for deceptions and violence, I can confidently say in the first instance that yes, they are designed, psychologically, to have something ‘not quite right’ about them. Alongside this, in the second instance, I can confidently say these women are most definitely not me.

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_3

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Then there are the speakers in my poetry; a plurality that is very much deliberate. Rensch (2015) proposes that the beauty of the first-person speaker in poetry is that it allows for covert experimentation. A poet can explore distancing, for example, or change their voice with a greater regularity, on account of the work (typically) being so short in comparison to other forms. There have been occasions when I have stood in front of a room full of people, poem in hand, and said, ‘I don’t know who the speaker of this next piece is’. I have been sincere in that, too. It has never been intended as a means to make a poem more interesting but only to say, I do not know whose voice I am using to write this. That level of characterisation—to make the speaker a fully formed individual with their own mouthpiece—is not something that we entertain too much in poetry unless it is through that critic-formed lens of the poetic ‘I’. Something similar could be said of our critical interrogation of the ‘I’ in nonfiction— or, to narrow the funnel again, the ‘I’ in True Crime. It is not a prerequisite of nonfiction narration that the writing ‘I’ be present in a story. However, within certain subgenres of nonfiction, the ‘I’ becomes an inevitable feature of the narrative methodology employed by an author. There is a sliding scale—an image that is essentially a motif throughout this monograph—of the ‘I’ in nonfiction in terms of its presence; meaning where it exists, is writing and is written from. Academic and pseudo-academic publications, for example, will traditionally encourage the ‘I’—also known as the author—to take a considerable step back from the work. It is, or at least it was during my own time studying, one of the first things that you are taught in respect to academic writing: do not use the ‘I’. This advice dwindles somewhat the further up the pyramid you climb—as though spending years working in Higher Education somehow earns you a voice back. Nevertheless, though, the academic ‘I’ remains greyscale: another motif here. Then there are memoirs—where of course, the ‘I’ is the author again—and there are pilgrimages, research trips, exploratory narratives besides. More often than not, we believe—we assume—the ‘I’ within these narratives is the same ‘I’ that is writing. Arguably, I suppose, because in nonfiction who else would it be? Though it is a critically underrepresented genre, I posit that the same assumption(s) can be made of True Crime. We have come to assume that the ‘I’ speakers within these narratives have a direct involvement in their stories. How else could they tell them? Nonfiction, by its very naming, is something apart from that which is made up—by which I mean, fiction. In that sense, then, True Crime narratives that utilise the ‘I’ become

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believable twofold—owing to that tautology of True Crime mentioned earlier. In the first instance, they are nonfiction narratives, thereby endowing them with a distinct atmosphere of fact and reality. In the second instance, they are part of True Crime, where similarly to nonfiction, the fact—or rather, the truth—is right there, positioned in the name, staring down at us from the top of the bookshelf that heads up all of the ‘I’s. In the context of this genre, I have given a fair consideration to what this narrative positioning might do for a reader and, indeed, for a reading. If we approach nonfiction anticipating truth—regardless of the type of nonfiction—we are primed for the author of that text to feed us all manner of (mis)information. We are, inevitably, inclined to swallow that down in great chunks, only to regurgitate it to friends over coffee later in the day, where we comfortably adopt the air of the well-informed reader, because we believe we are carrying the truth. This is compounded by the nonfiction ‘I’ that creates an intimacy between author and text, as well as author and reader: we are being spoken to; someone is creating a connection with us. When an author causes a crack in the so-called fourth wall—a significant splinter in the plaster, through which a reader might peer through to see Behind-the-Scenes footage—this intimacy is further capitalised on, because then we really are being spoken to. This form of address creates the feeling of a dramatic aside, where the character—or in this instance, the nonfiction ‘I’—is taking us away from the text and saying, ‘Look here, there’s this thing you outta know’. When this is utilised in True Crime narration, the waters become further muddied. Incidentally, this is not a criticism against the nonfiction ‘I’ of True Crime breaking the fourth wall to address a reader. Some of the authors considered in this monograph do it exceptionally well, and they look to be conscientious in their use of the technique, too. Across the genre as a whole, though, the ways in which the nonfiction ‘I’ can become watercolour, too far out of focus for us to understand fully whose narrative we are reading, are plentiful. It happens, even, in some of the works here. Michelle McNamara’s (2018) I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is a book I recommend to people daily, so enamoured am I with the story-telling (a deliberate use of the term), with the structure, the research, and yes, the ‘I’. However, the ‘I’ of that work has not lived in the work itself—by which I mean, McNamara (2018) is writing from a place of research and therefore not a place of experience. This would, I suppose, be the point at which the waters begin to muddy or become greyscale.

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If we assume the nonfiction ‘I’ to be involved in a work—which is a reasonable assumption given these genre(s) that are grounded in principles of truth and fact, as established above—we are, effectively, assuming a close proximity. If we assume a close proximity, we assume authority, authenticity, and accuracy; my three favourite a-words throughout writing this book. If we assume this before knowing anything about the book proper, what does that do to our reading of it? I wonder whether one possibility is that, in cases of the nonfiction ‘I’ in True Crime, then, rather than the truth being an absolute that can be relied on, it instead becomes a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. After all, if someone believes something to be true, it is—up until the moment that they are presented with contradictory evidence. Though that is hardly a technical nor philosophical thesis on truth-making, it is, I hold, a relatively accurate one. Subsequently, then, if we are given a book that is nonfiction, it is taken from True Crime, it is written by a strong ‘I’ narrator, at what point are we to question the validity of the truth here? And why would we? Of course, McNamara (2018) does not try to disguise herself as a woman who was directly involved in the Golden State Killer’s reign. She does not take us by the hand and say, ‘See what happened to me in this time’. However, what she does do—with a great level of skill—is insert herself into the time-loop of that investigation, and she does so in a way that even though her ‘I’ may be apart at the beginning of the book, it is instead a part—an integral and valued one, too—by the end of it. That shift is something that will be considered in more detail during this author’s time beneath the proverbial microscope. For now, though, lest my ‘I’ run away with itself into a philosophical bunker, attention should be turned to the source texts that encouraged this introspection to begin with. Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry (2015) penned Helter Skelter as the definitive narrative for the Charles Manson case. Meanwhile, Ann Rule (1989) penned The Stranger Beside Me with the same authorial intention for the Ted Bundy narrative. Both books have been praised in these efforts over the years, too, evidencing a reign among True Crime readers that goes unchallenged by others—and believe me, reader, when I say there have been many others who have tried for one-upmanship against these works. While I am sure there are other discernible differences between these books and ones that might challenge them, the one readily available difference—as luck would have it—is their use of the nonfiction ‘I’.

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I will be the first to admit—and highlight in the relevant chapter—that there are some complications with Bugliosi’s (2015) work and its utilisation of ‘I’. I was midway through my first read when I wondered what of the book was Bugliosi and what was Gentry (2015). Now, after multiple (close) readings, I am no closer to knowing a definitive truth on that matter—assuming such a thing exists. There are collaborative practices at play among all writing teams, the intricacies of which largely go unknown among their readers. There are times, however, when the speaker of Helter Skelter refers to their co-author—again, something addressed in the relevant chapter—and there are times, too, when the ‘I’ speaks to things that, one reasonably assumes, only Bugliosi (2015) could know. The same can be said of Rule’s (1989) work, wherein a reader is given information that can only possibly be given by a nonfiction ‘I’ with close proximity to the narrative. Rule (1989) was living beside Bundy, working with him late into the evening, swapping phone calls with him when he was in prison. Her proximity, regardless of what formless watercolour we may attach to Bugliosi’s, simply cannot be disputed. Though, incidentally, that is not the same as saying her truth cannot be disputed; only to say that her version of the truth appears well-informed, differently (in)formed, to the ‘truth’ of someone writing from a distance. Likewise with Bugliosi (2015), regardless of the hand that steers the pen, then, the content of the work itself rings as conscientious, informed, and authentic. Yes, Helter Skelter denotes a timeline that can be verified, with ‘characters’ who can be identified, and events that are not only well known but also lived through by the author—or, if we are inclined towards a harsher tone, the co-author of the work at least (Bugliosi 2015). To conclude, then, it seems a fair assertion to press here that not only is the nonfiction ‘I’ in True Crime a multifaceted creature, but also an entirely complex and intriguing one with the weighty potential to influence someone’s entire reading of, and reading into, a text. The reason why this matters, though, is that the way in which we read these ‘truthful’ narratives has a wider, socio-cultural influence than the ways in which we may read a fiction text, before ironing out the pages, passing it to a friend and saying, ‘Here’s a good yarn for your beach trip’. Though I appreciate that some readers would take such a tone with a True Crime book, regardless of the author. Still though, the ways in which we read nonfiction/True Crime poses a largely cultural problem insofar as the way ‘truth’ becomes truth. In this vein, I encourage you to return to my layperson assertion of the formation of truth and the ways in which believing something until it

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is disputed is, effectively, knowing a ‘truth’. The authors in this section are sharing their truths—as they were lived, as they were documented, and, significantly, as they have since been substantiated by others. The postulations that precede this, then, are why the deconstruction of True Crime literature is a movement that is long overdue. While there are omnipresent narrators, narrator-characters, pseudo-involved speakers to consider—and believe me, their time will come—in this section there are only ‘I’s who are telling the truth(s) of what happened to them, and what they lived through, which to me, speaks to (True Crime) Autobiography in practice.

References Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Rensch, Katie. 2015. The Poet’s “I”: Distance Through First-Person. Cleaver Magazine. https://www.cleavermagazine.com/the-­poets-­i-­distance-­through-­ first-­person-­by-­katie-­rensch/. Accessed 04 May 2023. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere.

CHAPTER 4

Vincent Bugliosi’s Objectivity: Can We Side-­Step Bias in True Crime?

In 1960s America, Charles Manson sat at the helm of the so-called Manson family. Self-identified as a commune—though a cult, by any other name— this collective boasted tens of members all of whom subscribed to Manson’s radical teachings of disavowing the ego and the levelling of society between the rich and poor, among other social binary oppositions. The behaviour of this group, initially a nuisance to those they encountered, soon spiralled into something extremist, culminating in a series of violent murders. Under the orders of Manson, several members of the family targeted and attacked select individuals across two nights. In what has since been recorded as the Tate-LaBianca murders, the victims from those two events were Sharon Tate; Jay Seybring, Voytek Frykowski, Abigail Folger, Steven Parent, and from the second evening, Leno LaBianca and Rosemary LaBianca. Though not considered to be canonical murders insofar as the Tate-LaBianca timeline, family members were also credited with the deaths of Gary Hinman and Donald ‘Shorty’ Shea. Significantly, this is not an exhaustive list of Manson family victims, owing to the family’s continued misadventures in the years after Manson’s incarceration. Following this, Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry would eventually collaborate on Helter Skelter: The True Story of The Manson Murders (2015), first published in 1974. A predominantly first-person narration, the work details Bugliosi’s (2015) time as the lead prosecutor against Charles Manson and his associates for the above-listed crimes. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_4

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Compartmentalised into an eight-part structure, Bugliosi (2015) writes through an all-seeing perspective of the crimes themselves before moving into a narrative thread that details his direct involvement in both the pre-­ trial investigation(s) and the trial itself. Each listed part is marked with a time-specific annotation to denote the months, years, and often the specific days that formed a portion of Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative. Alongside this, in a somewhat novelistic fashion, Bugliosi (2015) also opted to include a Cast of Characters in the opening of the work. This cast is subdivided into law enforcement officials, Manson family members and their many aliases, and victims. A noteworthy element of Helter Skelter is the transparency with which Bugliosi (2015) provides biographical details of the many victims involved. However, alongside this, he is moved to provide his own biographical entry, too, at the point in the text at which his voice becomes more pronounced. With objectivity, Bugliosi (2015) furnishes a reader with professional details that include his many qualifications, his win-to-loss ratio in criminal trials, and his then-present occupation as a professor of law at a reputable university in the United States. Interestingly, while Bugliosi (2015) provides a brief mention of his consultancy and editorial work on televised legal dramas, he does not provide himself with any credit for creative endeavours. In this, I am alluding to the fact that Bugliosi (2015) not only did not see himself as an author at the time of writing Helter Skelter, but he would not view himself as an occupier of such a role years later either. On writing, the author explained: ‘I view myself primarily as a lawyer who has been writing about criminal cases’, which is indicative of the narrative vantage point from which he was recounting the Manson family’s crimes (Driskill 1981). Irrespective of Bugliosi’s (2015) authorial status, though, his proximity to the case leaves little area for dispute. While the first two parts of Helter Skelter are clearly influenced by police reports and witness testimony, to form the bulk of the retelling, from the time at which Bugliosi (2015) steps forward for his ‘very personal account’ of the Manson case, he becomes a pronounced ‘I’ in the work. Here, Bugliosi’s (2015) proximity to the story forms the basis of what readers likely assume is an intimate knowledge and understanding of the events. This chapter will interrogate that proximity through observations regarding Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative voice, use of language, and details pertaining to the accuracy and authenticity of information provided in his published work. Significantly, a reader may notice that throughout whenever Helter Skelter is named, Bugliosi (2015) is cited in the singular insofar as

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referencing an author. This was a difficult decision to make. However, given the use of ‘with’ rather than ‘and’, in how the authors are listed alongside and balanced against each other, and given, too, the fact that Bugliosi (2015) remains at the forefront of the narrative due to his direct involvement, a strategic decision was made to focus primarily on his role— hence, the decision regarding referencing, too. This is not to say that Gentry (2015) did not play a part; of course, he undoubtedly did. However, Gentry (2015) has not publicly commented on his role in drafting the book, nor has Bugliosi (2015) referred to this in his own interviews either. Thus, this was another contributing factor towards the way in which the references have been incorporated throughout the chapter and wider monograph when discussing this text.

Naming the Thing To frame this discussion, it feels pertinent again to draw attention to Vincent Bugliosi’s self-assessment as a lawyer alone and not an author (Driskill 1981). In conjunction with this, he explicitly stated, too, that he had ‘no aspirations to become a Miller or a Capote’ (Driskill 1981). Bugliosi’s (2015) assertion that he is a lawyer with minimal authorial aspirations is something echoed throughout Helter Skelter, through the implicit remarks regarding True Crime literature and crime literature, that Bugliosi looks to segregate his writing from. I propose that the definition(s) he implies here does not—or should not—alter the ways in which we view the text, that is, as a canonical work in True Crime. However, it warrants mention as it is something that can assist a reader in identifying the nuanced authorial intentions Bugliosi (2015) held when drafting the work. Far from aspiring to write a definitive case history, Bugliosi (2015) looks instead to have been writing from a place of sensemaking. This process, that allows an author to ascribe meaning to a set of experiences, is not uncommon in True Crime, where an author is often detailing unpleasant and inexplicable human behaviours. Thus, while Bugliosi (2015) may have implied a segregation between himself and other works of ‘literature’ in a broad sense, already there is an apparent overlap between Helter Skelter and works of a similar narrative style where human depravity is detailed, analysed, and understood, as far as anyone can ever understand. Irrespective of his intentions, then, Helter Skelter has become a praised work in True Crime literature; one that, albeit inadvertently perhaps, evidences the strength of writing from an involved ‘I’ (Bugliosi 2015).

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Early in the narrative Bugliosi (2015) makes reference to ‘literature’ that depicts ‘a murder scene’ as a kind of puzzle: ‘If one is patient and keeps trying, eventually all the pieces will fit’. Bugliosi (2015) proceeds to amend this comparison, theorising ‘[a] much better analogy would be two picture puzzles, or three, or more’. He narrates, too, that even with this intricate piecing together of multiple puzzle imagery, there will still be pieces that never fit the police’s narrative, evidence that does not conform or is simply never discovered—or indeed, discovered too late. Setting aside any interrogations of the accuracy of this, regarding criminal investigations, that is, the implied experience and knowledge—attributed explicitly to ‘[v]eteran policeman’ and implicitly to the author—speaks already to Bugliosi’s (2015) proximity to criminal proceedings. In denoting and then amending common narratives of murder investigations, as they are depicted in fiction, Bugliosi (2015) is evidencing his real-life knowledge of such matters, thereby making an early introduction to his understanding for the inner workings of such cases. He is also explicitly noting a difference, too, or rather a segregation. A delineation appears here between the dealings of fiction and those of real-life circumstances that Bugliosi (2015) (rightly) portrays as infinitely more complicated. In commenting on this, whether deliberately or not, the author is underscoring the ways in which readerships consume and, often misunderstand, murder narratives. It reads as significant that he would introduce this so early in the text, too, foreshadowing the complexities of the case to come. Another point of query can be raised around the use of the word ‘literature’ (Bugliosi 2015). I posit there is a significance in the author’s use of this term that is twofold. Bugliosi (2015) uses the word immediately before his comment regarding the narration of murder scenes. A reader is likely already aware that a narration of a murder scene is to come, in the pages following this. Thus, it would be possible to ascribe a self-referential element to this word usage, as though Bugliosi (2015) is aligning rather than segregating his work from literature. However, as the analogy develops, the implied meaning shifts to indicate Bugliosi (2015) is not defining his work as a literary text, but rather defining it in terms as something distinctly different to a literary text, that is, he is defining it only in terms of what it is not. It is most certainly not a murder narration that exists on a single puzzle board; though this is not something a reader can assert until they continue to move through the text. If nothing else, this implies the author’s relationship to murder narratives was a complicated one. This is especially true when coupled with

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Bugliosi’s (2015) notable lack of aspirations regarding any authorial standing or titling. Given that Helter Skelter was published after the True Crime boom of the 1960s—that many attribute to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood having been first published in 1965—one might even wonder whether Bugliosi (2015) was looking to set his work apart from the non-­ involved narratives, and indeed narrators, that were already appearing in the genre by this time. Interestingly, he is not the only author considered in this monograph who endeavoured to make this split from the genre either. The likes of Maggie Nelson—who purportedly dislikes the labelling of True Crime—and Emma Cline, whose work is branded as entirely fictional, regardless of the ‘truths’ that informed it, also side-step the genre categorisation (never mind any subgenre categorisation). Though this does not necessarily affect any reading of the text, it appears noteworthy still. Whether it denotes snobbery or insecurity cannot be stated for certain. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note this early trend of authors ‘othering’ their work from True Crime branding.

Reflection: Bugliosi on Literature This particular quote lived rent free in my head for days after I initially read it. I mentioned it to friends, fellow academics—probably complete strangers, too. It provoked great interrogation, in my mind, around how the author was defining literature in a broader sense. Alongside that, though, I wondered what the specific qualifying factors for the term were, as far as Bugliosi was concerned. The more I revisited this passage, the more I wondered, too, whether there was something self-defining or self-­ refining about it; whether indeed there was some antithetical practice at play here, insofar as defining something by saying what it is not. Regardless, it reads to me that Bugliosi (2015) is giving nod to a wider canon of murder narratives here and that somehow, too, he is separating himself from that with the implicit assertion that this, Helter Skelter, is not literature. Coupled with his assertions made regarding his authorial status, and his insistence that he is very much not a writer, I wondered, wonder, whether Helter Skelter to Bugliosi (2015) was an extended retelling of a True Crime narrative that somehow defied genre specifications. Or whether perhaps, he did not put such overt consideration into the matter, and only set out to tell an accurate retelling of a world-famous case, that he happened to take a feature role in.

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Naming the Thing In further support of this regarding what Helter Skelter is and is not in respect of genre classification, a later comment is made that does not speak to the text so much as to Bugliosi’s (2015) authorial standing. Given that this is something he openly defied in interviews, it is perhaps less surprising to find his subtle distancing technique, later in his own work, where he references ‘writers’ who discuss so-called motiveless crimes (Bugliosi 2015). Again, the author looks to be delineating between this work and ‘other’, himself and ‘other’, as far as textual or literary production matters. This does not hinder anyone’s reading of the text—or rather, I see no reason why it should. Though it does place both the text and its author in, or just beyond, a wider literary context. Throughout, these segregations between Helter Skelter and other bodies of work imply that Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative, and his writerly stature, may be alternative against traditional or anticipated murder narration, whether that be fiction or nonfiction.

Third-Person Narration While Helter Skelter is largely formed of objective narration—which will be noted in more detail shortly—the variance in narrative perspective warrants critical discussion (Bugliosi 2015). It is not until much later in the work that Bugliosi (2015) explicitly identifies himself as the author. This happens at the point at which he enters the timeline as the prosecutor taking over the advancing Charles Manson case. Until that point, the narrative perspective is very different to the intimate first-person narration that delivers the remainder of the book. As previously mentioned, the overall book structure is deconstructed into time-stamped parts that denote different incidents and developments in the Manson narrative. Parts 1 and 2 are narrated by what looks to be an omnipresent third-person narration that occasionally employs literary techniques more befitting of novelised works. However, this is not to say that the third-person narration is delivered with either outright subjectivity or objectivity insofar as introducing key characters, many of whom appear in these early parts. In fact, when the victims of the Tate homicide, for example, are introduced through this third-person narration, the tone is both formal and respectful, without any interjection of overt literary techniques. Though the narration does invoke pathos ahead of the victims’ biographies—‘the victims had lived, each had

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a past’—the contents of the biographies themselves are not overly embellished (Bugliosi 2015). Sharon Tate is described only as ‘a very beautiful girl’, without additional details being provided; though a reader does learn about her rise to stardom and her ‘bit parts’ on the fringes of Hollywood (Bugliosi 2015). Alongside this, the narration features Jay Sebring, originally ‘Thomas John Kummer, [born] in Detroit, Michigan’, who changed his name after moving to Hollywood, to something he felt better suited his image (Bugliosi 2015). Then there is Abigail Folger who, readers learn, wore a bright yellow dress to her coming-out party in December, 1961, which had been a highlight of that season’s social calendar (Bugliosi 2015). Alongside this, the final two victims, Voytek Frykowski and Steven Parent, are also established with personal but pertinent details. The biographical information provided gives a rounded view of these individuals as people, rather than victims of a crime. Though each biographical note culminates in a concise detailing of their cause of death, too, perhaps to re-root a reader in the realities of the crime or even perhaps as a mark of respect (Bugliosi 2015). Whatever the reasoning there, though, the overall authorial intention remains clear. The narrator was only concerned with establishing significant biographical information, rather than exercising creative license or manipulating a reader towards heightened feelings. In terms of the writing’s overall effect, it reads as though the only intention in these moments was to impart on a reader the absolute essentials of the human lives lost to the Manson case, rather than providing characterised or caricatured versions. Insofar as establishing this third-person narration in the first instance, though, it feels noteworthy that the book itself is launched by figurative language attributed to an othered voice entirely: ‘[Y]ou could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers’, ‘one of the killers would later say’ (Bugliosi 2015). Though interestingly, the specific killer in question is never revealed. Incidentally, this is a style of ambiguity that would not be employed at later points in the narration, where Bugliosi (2015) endeavours to be transparent about the source(s) of speech and information shared. Nevertheless, this usage establishes a precedent for figurative language throughout these opening moments and into the omnipresent narratorial voice, where the majority of this usage is to establish scene setting and/or the incidents taking place, rather than to overtly comment on any one individual or individuals involved. Later examples of creative telling in these early moments come in the form of swimming pools that are ‘shimmering blue-green’, ‘long, rambling… ostentatious’ properties, and ‘a

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sweeping panoramic view’ (Bugliosi 2015). It is noteworthy that there is a cinematic quality to the use of description here. The utilisation of especially visual elements—the use of colour, the allusions to the size of both properties and view—not only authenticate the narrative, by rooting it in this real-life physical landscape, but it further underscores the picture-­ perfect idealisation of the area(s) impacted by Manson’s crimes. In support of this, and to better contextualise the reach of the murders, figurative language is used again at a later point to compare the crimes to ‘the shock waves from an earthquake’ (Bugliosi 2015). This provides an implicit comment on not only the reach of the crimes but also the socio-cultural influence of them as something that permeates an entire landscape. Though it is also interesting that Bugliosi (2015) chose to compare these crimes in terms of an inevitable, natural occurrence. While, admittedly, they are not attributed with the force of an earthquake, the unpredictability of aftershocks is equally disturbing to any affected area. Thus, the extent to which these crimes continued to unsettle neighbourhoods is captured, through this figurative language again, as something both forceful and unavoidable. This said, there are also occasions when figurative language is used for less apparent reasons. While it still does not proffer or imply critical judgement on any characters, the narration of one room, featuring a ‘toy rabbit’ with ‘ears cocked as if quizzically surveying the scene’, is designed to make a reader pause—or at the very least, shift uncomfortably (Bugliosi 2015). One assumes this language use to be strategic insofar as underscoring an uncanniness within the scene. While the home—a stereotypically safe environment—has already been bastardised by this invasion and assault, the punctuation of this incident with a child’s toy draws attention to this perversion of what should be a safe space for a family. There is potential for this to have wider ties, too, to American socio-cultural beliefs of the time, insofar as the importance seen and the alleged assurance offered by becoming a homeowner. The pinnacle of social advancement, buying a home evidenced economic success for any individual. Thus, the dissolvement of that home—through a twisting of social and human behaviour alike— becomes symbolic of a greater loss. This cultural viewpoint regarding home ownership can be observed in other books used in this monograph, too, most notably Truman Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood, where again the distortion of the home as a safe, family space becomes tarnished by a violent crime.

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The significance of these noted details in conjunction with the third-­ person narration that delivers them is perhaps one that pertains to authorial proximity already. The omnipresent narrative voice is removed and therefore largely objective. Though there are times when attempts at manipulating a reader are present, too, most notably perhaps the toy rabbit analogy listed earlier. Alongside this, the scene setting endeavours may also steer a reader in respect of their idealisation of the landscape and the way in which this may worsen the killers’ bastardisation of it. However, beyond this subjectivity-objectivity balance, what is especially significant about the third-person narration, I posit, are the stylistic features and language techniques it is coupled with. While there are variations in how these elements appear across third- and first-person vantage points in the book, I hasten to add they are slight variations that do not disrupt a reading. Thus, despite these minor fluctuations in style, then, there is still a continuity to be noted in terms of authorial communication from one part of the work to the next, creating a notable cohesion. This continuity has the potential to aid a reader’s relationship to the author(s), too, thereby making for a more emotive and meaningful reading experience. One that may make a reader feel more inclined still to trust the narrative points shared, though this would require a more detailed series of investigations with readers to verify such a theory. To bridge between this topic and the next, then, now is an appropriate time to introduce a note on collaborative practice. Significantly, Helter Skelter is credited as having two authors: Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry (2015). However, throughout the work there is never a clear distinction made between these two authors insofar as who is contributing towards what portion of the narration. I had initially assumed, as a layperson reader prior to any critical consideration, that the third-person narration that opens the work may be the dominant area of collaborative writing. Though, given that the levels of objectivity, subjectivity, and language use do not shift dramatically from one narrative perspective to another—that being, from third to first—there is no evidence to support Gentry (2015) as the sole or even dominant contributor to these early parts of the story. Nor is there a great amount of evidence available regarding any duality of voice, assuming such a thing was negotiated between the two authors. In fact, the only evidence pertaining to the dual authorial input at all is extremely sporadic. Acknowledgement of their collaboration appears once in footnote form—‘George Harrison refused the authors permission’—and once in the main narration, significantly late in the

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work: ‘my co-author learned from a family member’ (Bugliosi 2015). Both of these function across two levels. Of course, they are contributing significant details to the wider narrative and that is, I suggest, their primary purpose. However, a secondary effect here is that the remarks reiterate the existence of two writing voices. While a reader is not necessarily encouraged to do anything with these reminders, there is a transparency here in Bugliosi’s (2015) quiet assertions that two people are present. This style of partnership in True Crime is something that will be returned to later in the monograph. Though interestingly, in the discussion of Michelle McNamara’s (2018) I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, the weighting of dominant author against sporadic contributor is much easier to discern, for reasons that will become apparent. Here though, there is a blurred line between authors that complicates the matter of accrediting either of them with propensities for specific stylistic or technical elements in the writing.

First-Person Narration Complementary to this, the ways in which Bugliosi’s (2015) explicit first-­ person narration is established in the work is especially noteworthy, too. Nearing the close of Part 2, shortly before Bugliosi’s (2015) open step into the narrative, there is a footnote appearance that marks the beginning of a more distinct authorial voice. There is potential to view this as a narrative intrusion from Bugliosi (2015), given that the footnote itself looks to pass judgement on a matter pertaining to the Manson investigation: ‘As will become all too apparent, in this instance “solved” was a misstatement if ever there was one’. Given Bugliosi’s (2015) later propensity for criticising the work—or perhaps, the investigative shortfalls—of the police involved in the Tate-LaBianca case(s), it would not be reaching to assume from the tone of this footnote that this was the first sign of Bugliosi’s narrative perspective entering the text in a more individualistic way. Though an additional point to note in relation to this utilisation of a footnote is that it differs from how footnotes had been used previously in the book. They had typically been employed as a way to add supporting information or information that may be helpful to a reader’s understanding of context; though the information is generally not significant enough to interrupt the main body of the work. Here, though, that application wavers in terms of the function served by the footnote—where it is commentary rather

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than content—and this lends support to a reading of the voice as notably different to elsewhere in the early parts of the book. It is shortly after this when an unmistakable authorial ‘I’ enters the story, thereby refashioning Bugliosi (2015) as a narrator-character very much present in the work. The close of Part 2 marks the beginning of this transition—‘I was already asleep, unaware’—but it is in Part 3 where this shift is fully realised (Bugliosi 2015). Bugliosi (2015) begins with a direct reference to ‘the reader’ which is an intriguing term, too, given the earlier remarks made that looked to segregate Helter Skelter from other literature—or rather, works that traditionally have an intended or imagined reader in mind. Here, it reads as though Bugliosi (2015) is working with a reader in mind, too, though he refrains from explicitly breaking the fourth wall in order to address them. Significantly, this technique—that of breaking the fourth wall—is employed later, though, when Bugliosi (2015) is discussing legal matters around the case. Specifically, Bugliosi (2015) refers to the sway of the jury and what the reader—referred to in a second-person address—would do in the face of the Manson evidence: ‘Put yourself in the jury box. Would you believe the prosecutor if he told you’. Here, the utilisation of a second-person pronoun is effective for multiple reasons. It draws a reader further into the narrative by seeking active involvement from them, hence the dissolvement of the fourth wall that would ordinarily separate a reader from such matters. In addition to this, though, it also speaks to the author’s frustration at this point—a rare moment of subjective, identifiable feeling—that he is tasked with proving an unlikely story (‘that a little runt out of Spahn Ranch sent some half dozen people… out to murder for him’) in order to secure a conviction in the case (Bugliosi 2015). This, incidentally, is a moment in the text where the narrative voice is, I posit, explicitly Bugliosi rather than a medley of two speakers, and it is an especially impactful moment, too, because of that. In support of this narrative shift to first person, Bugliosi (2015) acknowledges his role as ‘a newcomer’ and ‘intruder’, as part of his step into the narrative. He identifies a transitional process wherein he moves from being an ‘unseen background narrator’ to someone readying to provide ‘a very personal account’ of the Manson case (Bugliosi 2015). This is a distinctive feature for a number of reasons. To name one, Bugliosi’s (2015) use of a singular noun when referring to the early narrator of Parts 1 and 2, which sees him miss an opportunity to openly acknowledge the duality of authorship and, resultantly, the duality of narrative voice. Gentry

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(2015) could have been discussed here, thereby allowing Bugliosi (2015) an opportunity to underscore this shift from a narrative formed by two persons into a narrative more largely informed by a lone individual. For reasons that cannot be determined, only speculated on, Bugliosi (2015) opted to resist this opening and instead only move from third to first. There is a real possibility, given that it does not relate to the case nor influence the telling of it, that Bugliosi (2015) simply did not feel this was a relevant enough feature to include comment on, as it relates to writing craft rather than written content. An additional noteworthy element of this shift is when Bugliosi (2015) makes apologies to a reader before proposing that he formally introduce himself. He proceeds to do this in the same objective biographical style as that used to introduce the victims of the Tate-LaBianca killings (Bugliosi 2015). There is an interesting intimacy to be observed in this moment, that may again speak to the issue of authorial proximity. Bugliosi (2015) has already determined the reader is an ‘insider’ on the Charles Manson case from everything they have read up to this point in the work, given that exclusive details have been included in the manuscript. In addition, the use of the first-person plural pronoun—‘we’ll resume the narrative together’—closes the distance again, by aligning both reader and narrator-­ character and implying a shared journey (Bugliosi 2015). This near-­ comradery is capitalised on through the suggestion of introducing oneself; something typically reserved for daily interactions rather than textual ones. That said, there may be something literary in the communication of this introduction, insofar as technique: the shift in tone of address, the utilisation of differing personal pronouns, the direct reference to the reading audience, and the collective pronoun that aligns the narrator with them, too. While there is not an implication of anything fictive in this moment— meaning, it still reads as nonfiction rather than anything overtly creative— the employment of such varied stylistic features evidence the fact that Bugliosi (2015), despite his reservations regarding his positioning as an author, very much has an awareness of written craft. That said, the biographical sketch itself that follows is especially formal in tone. This may speak further to Bugliosi’s (2015) authenticity as a narrator that he is not portraying himself in a way that is any different to how other individuals, central to the plot, were established. Instead, the author relays information relating to academic and professional qualifications, relative success in court hearings, and his editorial involvement in media depictions of the law, relating primarily to courtroom dramas (Bugliosi 2015). Following

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this, he returns to a more intimate tone with the reader again, remarking: ‘it [the biographical note] tells nothing about how I feel’ (Bugliosi 2015). Following this, Bugliosi (2015) moves closer to and further away from the reader—through the positioning of his narrative voice—as the story progresses. There are times, too, when the author looks to pause the narrative entirely in order to include his own feelings and/or exposition on a matter (Bugliosi 2015). One such example of this came when discussing the distribution of death photos; something that Bugliosi (2015) vehemently refused to provide the defence team with, commenting: ‘I did not want the families of the victims to open a magazine and see the terrible butchery’. Not only does this pause and provide an aside, detailing what can be assumed as a moral stance on the matter at hand, but it also alludes, albeit tangentially, to some of the earlier comments made regarding murder narratives and the ways in which elements of a crime might be dramatised, overstated, or somehow misused. Insofar as expositional intrusions, there are several occasions where Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative invasions can be observed, the effects of which are double. In the first instance, the reader is given an opportunity, in these moments, to witness both Bugliosi’s (2015) authorial and legal integrity. Alongside this, these moments also add further credence to Bugliosi’s (2015) role as an authentic and transparent narrator. In respect to the legal element, one such example occurs in Bugliosi’s (2015) citing and explanation of People vs. Aranda, which he then explains in detail both for the benefit of the reader and for the wider narrative context of the case. Not only is this Bugliosi stepping outside of the work, thereby creating an expositional narrative intrusion, but it speaks again to his authenticity and to his apparent appreciation for detail and accuracy. Thus, to great effect Bugliosi’s (2015) first-person narration seeds him throughout as an informed and active participant in the story. The narrative is authenticated by this, too, in part because the reader is permitted to observe the story through the lens of someone involved, that allows them to assume an authority and authenticity in the speaker. In part, because this affirms and reaffirms the level of authorial proximity Bugliosi (2015) held to the case, as a reader also experiences what it was like for this narrative to unfold around the prosecutor-narrator-character.

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Literary Techniques Through earlier excerpts it was established that there are portions of the work that lean on literary techniques, such as figurative language and even hyperbole. It is significant to note that these are sparse throughout, with Bugliosi (2015) typically opting to uphold a level of objectivity through his telling, rather than a preference for rhetoric or influence. That said, there are moments, too, when the use of literary technique holds significance insofar as narrative detailing, and exemplars of this seem pertinent to this discussion. It was earlier stated that the use of these techniques across third- to first-person narration does not drastically vary, thereby indicating that even when the narrative vantage point is somewhat ambiguous—by which I mean, who is the driving force of the omnipresent narration in the opening of the book?—there is some consistency insofar as how literary techniques are employed. One of the most overt examples in the earlier part of the narrative comes through the third-person narration of Roman Polanski returning to the murder scene, where Sharon Tate and her associates were discovered. There is a near-cinematic quality to the way in which Polanski is described as ‘taken aback for a minute’ on observing this scene (Bugliosi 2015). He moved ‘here and there touching things as if he could conjure up the past’, before lingering outside the front door: ‘as lost and confused as if he had stepped onto one of his own sets’ (Bugliosi 2015). Here, the cinematic quality is overtly alluded to by this point of comparison, and connection, to Polanksi’s standing in the movie industry. However, insofar as its potential to influence a reading of the text, the most impactful element of this language is the way in which it implies an unreality or uncanniness to the crime scene—which, significantly, is not described in detail, nor in figurative terms. Far from employing rhetoric in these moments, then, the techniques used only serve to illustrate the reverberations of the crime—perhaps demonstrating the earlier earthquake analogy in practice—to underscore both the truth and tragedy of the case. Further examples can be noted later, too. However, given the extremeness of the case being retold, even when Bugliosi (2015) does rely on simile, metaphor, and the like, he is not doing so in a dramatic or even overstated manner. For example, in his writing on Susan Atkins—one of the killers involved in the Tate-LaBianca crimes—he does not necessarily exaggerate her persona but rather comments on how the jurors had looked upon the woman’s heart, during trial proceedings, and had ‘seen ice’

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(Bugliosi 2015). This is a comment that reads as reasonable, I propose, given the factual information that can be read around the character. In addition, the author relies heavily on techniques such as simile—‘[r]umours multiplied like bacteria’—to explain the growth rate of interest in the case (Bugliosi 2015). Simile is used again, albeit in a slightly more direct manner, when describing Manson himself. Again, the figurative language—‘It was like a magic button, which he would push at will’—is contextualised by factual information that demonstrates the strength of influence Manson looked to have over his so-called followers (Bugliosi 2015). This topic of influence is something Bugliosi (2015) has cause to narrate repeatedly throughout, given recurrent themes in the trial and case materials. Though, in addition to this mysticism or mind-control—that formed a central point of discussion in the case proper—Bugliosi (2015) also uses figurative language to consider Manson in a parental sense. One such example of this comes later in the narrative in regard to Manson’s alleged influence over his people, wherein Bugliosi (2015) comments: ‘Manson had severed their umbilical chords’. Significantly, not only does this cast Manson in a parental role while speaking to his strength of influence over his followers, but there is a complication to be observed in terms of gendering here, too. Manson becomes both mother and father. The implication of Manson as a parent might draw a reader to the notion of him as father-like, due to assumed gender-parent roles, which complements some of the (religious) sentiments he shared with the so-called family. However, the mention of an umbilical linking is distinctly feminine, too. In this sense, then, Bugliosi (2015) is using figurative language in a deliberate and meaningful manner, in such a way that it complements the all-­ encompassing role that Manson allegedly occupied for the family. This is, significantly, something supported on more than one occasion throughout the book through Bugliosi’s (2015) sampling of quoted materials as well. Admittedly, there are occasions towards the end of the narrative that see Bugliosi (2015) move towards a more impactful use of language techniques. When he comments on Manson’s ‘sick philosophy’, for example, and his ‘band of cold-blooded assassins’ who were willing participants in Manson’s plans (Bugliosi 2015). This, arguably, is the closest Bugliosi (2015) ventures into figurative language or creative excess as a means of authorial judgement. Throughout, he limits usage of such terms and techniques in favour of relaying the facts of the matter, a decision that again speaks to authenticity as much to proximity. In this, I am referring to the

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wealth of materials that Bugliosi (2015) had available for this telling—on account of his proximity to the case again—thereby negating the need to fabricate or embellish details in the interest of ‘improving’, or otherwise modifying, the Charles Manson narrative. In a point of comparison, or perhaps contrast, Bugliosi (2015) does evidence his understanding of how influential figurative language can be, shown by his closing statement in the legal proceedings. Here, he uses especially violent language—‘the Mephistophelan guru who raped and bastardized the minds of all those who gave themselves’—to contextualise Manson’s actions to the jury (Bugliosi 2015). This is compounded by religious imagery—‘the fires of hell at Sphan Ranch’—alongside visceral physical descriptions, too—‘rivers of gore’, ‘river of blood’, and ‘heartless, blood-thirsty robots’ (Bugliosi 2015). This is noteworthy for two reasons. Bugliosi (2015) has a clear understanding of and appreciation for rhetoric, evidenced by the way in which he uses these language techniques at a pivotal moment in the case when trying to exert a persuasive effect over those listening—here, the jury. Alongside this, an interesting inference can be made that while he uses these techniques at a point of influence in the case, he does not use these techniques in excess to exert the same level of persuasion over a reader. Far from trying to lead a reading audience, then, this again speaks to Bugliosi’s (2015) authorial intention simply to relay matters of the Manson narrative, rather than to re-dress the proceedings in attractive language and heightened sentiment. Beyond these stylistic features regarding descriptive detailing, it is also worth noting the other techniques at play that have an impact on the narrative telling. Here, I am speaking specifically to Bugliosi’s (2015) use of cataphoric referencing throughout. This is noted by linguists as a means for creating cohesion across a text, by referring forwards to something not yet mentioned in the narrative (Halliday and Hasan 2014). Bugliosi (2015) not only uses it for this purpose, but also as a means for establishing interest and, potentially, conflict in a reader, by seeding integral information that will later be capitalised on or explained as the story advances. Though the more pertinent reason for noting this technique is due to the potential it has for building tension in the narrative and for its cliff-hanger effect. For example, the inclusion of comments like ‘His loss would be small, however, compared to that of Hughes, who, just eight months later, would pay with his life’ evidence the above ideas in practice (Bugliosi 2015). The aforementioned cliff-hanger effect is apparent here given that

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this revolutionary remark is followed by a line break, after which the narrative continues in a different vein entirely, offering no clarity around Hughes’ imminent danger. Here, then, cataphoric referencing succeeds in building a discomfort for the reader wherein they must proceed through the narrative knowing that a central character—Hughes, mentioned, was one of the defence lawyers in the Manson case—will be removed from the story somehow. Complementary to this, Bugliosi (2015) also uses anaphoric referencing—this being the technique of referring back to something already alluded to—not exclusively to build cohesion but to underscore pertinent details. A striking example of this is Bugliosi’s (2015) explanation that if Manson were acquitted but his followers were found guilty, ‘it would be like a war crimes trial in which the flunkies were found guilty and Hitler went free’. The impact here is twofold again. In the first instance, the subtle comparison implied here that parallels Manson’s behaviour with the political brainwashing of one Adolf Hitler is dramatic enough to cause discomfort in a reader. In the second instance, this refers back to earlier accounts regarding Manson’s interest in Hitler and the ways in which he borrowed from the dictator’s philosophies—to use a term that may be too generous—to inform his own. Subtly, then, a reader is reminded of the influences that Manson drew on when drafting his socio-political agendas, as Bugliosi (2015) succeeds in aligning Manson with a dictatorial figure without explicitly branding him as such. Thus, this utilisation of intratextuality becomes a powerful technique in both building intrigue, for a reader, and building a wider field of connotative meaning and understanding around the Manson narrative.

Use of Footnotes One especially distinctive feature of Helter Skelter that warrants note here, too, is Bugliosi’s (2015) use of footnotes throughout. While they are commonplace in many True Crime narratives, allowing authorial asides and significant contextual information, Bugliosi’s (2015) use of them, while not excessive, is certainly a defining stylistic feature of the text. It was previously noted that Bugliosi (2015) made use of a singular footnote to share an authorial aside, or judgement, as quoted earlier. Generally, though, Bugliosi’s (2015) utilisation of this feature throughout enables him to provide additional and often verifiable information that supports a point in the main body of the narrative; another technique, then, employed

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with the express intention of authenticating the contents of the work. Additionally, there are occasions where footnotes are used to provide wider context on a narrated incident. One such example of this being when Bugliosi (2015) relays a trip that Aaron—his legal associate—was unable to make, that would have potentially furthered investigations in the case at the time. The footnote attached to this moment documents their shared role as ‘co-prosecutors, each of us having an equal say in its [the case’s] handling’ (Bugliosi 2015). Though Bugliosi (2015) also uses this footnote space to explain that Aaron—in a cataphoric reference, incidentally—‘would be yanked off the case, leaving me to go it alone’. This information at this point in the narrative is, arguably, non-essential. However, the inclusion of it enables a reader to build a better-informed understanding of the case and those handling it. Thus, while the information may not be essential, it undeniably contributes to a reader’s perception of the proceedings still. At a later point, Bugliosi (2015) uses a footnote to include details of something that was not known and, it transpired, something that would never be discovered, despite continued investigations; a reveal that lends credence to the author’s earlier remarks regarding the puzzle board analogy. Here, Bugliosi (2015) includes a footnote of considerable length to provide additional contextual information about the Esalen Institute; a place that had loose connections to both the Tate residence and to Charles Manson. The significance of this in the wider context of the case is that discovering a verifiable link between these three points would have established connective tissue between the cult leader and the eventual victims, tied together by the above-named institute. Regrettably, no such link was established. However, after explaining this in the bulk of the footnoted narration, Bugliosi (2015) admits: ‘I should perhaps note… I was unable to find a prior link’. The significance of this is twofold. Firstly, this footnote provides further evidence for the way in which Bugliosi (2015) employed this technique as a means for offering additional and supporting information beyond the main narrative. Secondarily, it also provides evidence—one of many footnotes that will—for Bugliosi’s (2015) authorial transparency regarding the lengths he went to insofar as conducting and being involved with investigations, and the transparency of obtained information, extending even to information the author was unable to find.

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Authenticity, Accuracy, and Transparency There have been occasions already wherein Bugliosi’s (2015) authenticity, accuracy, and transparency have been alluded to or in some instances, I feel, demonstrated. The articulation of evidence, that extends to evidence the author was unable to find, relates to these areas in a twofold manner. In the first instance, there is a notable transparency here insofar as what information the author had readily available for his writing. In the second instance, an additional point of credit should, I feel, be afforded to Bugliosi (2015) for resisting opportunity to embellish details during these moments; nor did he explain any narrative gaps with creative license either. While this latter point may seem a strange one on which to congratulate an author, particularly one working in a genre that claims to be truthtelling, in comparison to other approaches noted across seminal True Crime works, resisting an opportunity for creative license does, I feel, speak volumes on the integrity of any author. Accuracy and transparency are established early in the narrative, before Bugliosi’s (2015) intrusive first-person narration even begins. When the crimes themselves are being relayed to a reader, the omnipresent narrator notes ‘[t]here is some confusion as to exactly what happened to the calls’ (Bugliosi 2015). In conjunction, this is one of the earliest instances where footnoted information is utilised, too, to extend the assertion made in the main narration: ‘The confusion extends to the arrival times of the unit’ (Bugliosi 2015). These admissions do not necessarily strengthen, and they certainly do not dramatise either, the main body of the narrative. Instead, they provide only a better developed picture of the earliest moments in the police investigation in such a way that the panic—or rather, confusion—of the murder discovery is documented in a subtle way, and early precedents are established for police behaviours in the book (some of which are less than savoury throughout, which Bugliosi (2015) documents with transparency, too). Further subtleties regarding investigative practice and police presence are documented with a similar degree of transparency later in this opening. Bugliosi (2015), in reference to one of the first attending officers at the scene of the crime, notes: ‘He didn’t see, or later didn’t recall, any footprints, though there were a number’. While this does not offer any level of criticism against the police officer necessarily, it does evidence the ways in which the author is pairing different versions of the same narrative, to the effect of building a fuller—and, one assumes, more accurate or at the very

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least better informed—scenario. Likewise, a similar remark comes shortly after this when DeRosa, the officer-subject from the earlier example, enters a property to find a young man there. The narration informs a reader that the young man did not appear to have a weapon. However, ‘DeRosa would later explain, that he didn’t have a weapon nearby’ [my emphasis] (Bugliosi 2015). Again, then, these slight variances in the narrative are employed to show a scenario from more than one viewpoint and, in addition to that, to give voice to those directly involved, too—which, interestingly, at this time in the Manson narrative Bugliosi (2015) himself was not. Insofar as narrative verifiability, this is another area in which the author evidences his willingness for transparency. ‘As to what then happened, there are contrary versions’ being one such example of this, again taken from an early point in the work, thereby reinforcing Bugliosi’s (2015) set precedent for precision insofar as his retelling of documented information. This accountability and level of accuracy appear long into Bugliosi’s (2015) own, more direct presence, in the narrative. He is especially transparent with readers regarding information sourced from those so-called family members involved with the case. One example of this being when the narrative explores the information shared between Susan Atkins, a member of the so-called Manson family, Virginia Graham, and Ronnie Howard. The latter two women listed here were convicts who were incarcerated with Atkins, during which time she shared—though a better term to use may be boasted—information pertaining to the Tate-LaBianca murders: The Atkins-Graham-Howard conversations have been taken from LAPD’s taped interviews with Virginia Graham and Ronnie Howard; my interviews with both; their trial testimony; and my interview with Susan Atkins. There are, of course, minor variations in wording. Major discrepancies will be noted. (Bugliosi 2015)

Admittedly, one may feel inclined to query why ‘minor variations’ would appear at all in such transcriptions. Regrettably, this is a decision the author does not clarify for a reader. Though it is a standalone moment of doubt in the manuscript and so, I posit, Bugliosi (2015) should not be judged too harshly for the implication here. Alongside this, to pose a further suggestion on this point, it may perhaps simply be that rather than any issues of minor accuracies or variations, the author is instead dealing in information that has been collated from several sources—something he

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is transparent about—and is therefore insuring himself against minor discrepancies as they may arise in such a patchwork narratological approach. In further defence of this practice, too, the jigsaw puzzle narration that Bugliosi (2015) provides a reader with here would likely have been done in order to make better sense of what might otherwise prove to be a challenging narrative to follow, particularly given the many sources, and varying narrations, involved. Thus, throughout this collated narrative there will inevitably be points where small amendments are made for the sake of fluidity and sensemaking, as would be the case with any other piecemeal text. The pertinent point to address here, though, insofar as transparency and accuracy, is Bugliosi’s (2015) assertion that ‘major discrepancies’ across this retelling will be highlighted. Again, this speaks to an authorial intention to be both clear and genuine in terms of the information being provided, and indeed the source(s) of that information, too. In a continuance of this transparency, a later footnote remarks on the verification and attribution of information again. This time the narration is exploring the incident(s) of Ronnie Howard having tried to report to officials the information that was given to her by Susan Atkins, regarding the Tate-LaBianca case. Bugliosi (2015) attributes a telling of the events to Ronnie—‘according to Ronnie’—but in an attached footnote he asserts that neither of the correctional officers, dubbed Sergeant Broom and Lieutenant Johns, were available to comment on the matter: ‘therefore making it impossible to present their version of these events’. In accompaniment to this, Bugliosi (2015) also clarifies that, given that their version of the events could not be obtained, pseudonyms have been used for both officers, too. This moment of the text holds significance for two reasons. In the first instance, it again adds weight to the discussion regarding Bugliosi’s (2015) attempts at accuracy and transparency, evidenced through his attribution of events to a single speaker—here, Ronnie—and the assertion that, due to this singularity of speaker, there is a singularity insofar as the retold narrative, too, that is, it cannot be substantiated by multiple claimants or supporting witnesses. In the second instance, Bugliosi’s (2015) decision to use pseudonyms speaks to his integrity as both a lawyer—given that there is likely a legal element behind this decision—and as an author. This, and the other examples noted, lend support for a reading of him as a respectful author who writes in search of accuracy, given that he appears conscientious insofar as information that is being re-laid. There is an implication here, too, that Bugliosi (2015) was looking to avoid biased representations of events wherever possible. Though there are inevitably other moments

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throughout that speak to this, this moment, where he attempts to balance out Ronnie’s testimony—regardless of any success or failure in that— speaks, I feel, to the manner in which Bugliosi (2015) endeavoured to make his narrative one formed with fairness in mind. Though admittedly, the degree to which anything can be authenticated in a first-person narrative is, and should remain, open to interrogation. The relaying of any event gains an element of subjectivity because, as noted in the introduction to this monograph, the truth remains a subjective area of philosophical study, where no single narrative can ever speak to the entirety of a situation, but rather, the teller’s limited perceptions of that situation. However, the element of Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative style that does lend support to his authorial intentions, insofar as capturing the accuracy of an incident, is his propensity both to sample from and attempt to verify evidence. Arguably, authenticity within this narrative is also provided through the information that could not be authenticated by, for example, additional sources or official documentation. Even this provides a measure of authenticity, in the sense of informing a reader that, potentially, not everything is as it seems. This is arguably a level of transparency that True Crime literature has historically worked against, rather than towards.

Conclusion: Authorial Proximity Here, it is pertinent to reassert Poláková’s (2022) theory of the time gap that appears around and within recollected narratives. In borrowing from this, the author gap was formed as a working theory for my own approach to True Crime (literature) analysis. The author gap calls for a consideration of both author recollection and authorial proximity, to determine the ‘gap’ that may reasonably be observed between an author and their work. That said, the ways in which these details are communicated must also be considered, as I posit they may inform our reading of an author’s recollection, through the lenses of things such as accuracy, authenticity, and transparency, as they have been discussed here. Regarding Helter Skelter, then, an overview of Bugliosi’s (2015) narrative style, utilisation of literary techniques, and his employment of evidentiary sources is required. First, we can observe again how across both third- and first-person narration Bugliosi (2015) works to uphold a standardised level of objectivity wherein his personal critiques on the matter— of the Charles Manson case and accompanying narratives—remains minimal. Though there are times when Bugliosi (2015) uses techniques

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such as figurative language, for example, to explore the socio-cultural influence and spread of the case, and even at times, too, to narrate the behaviours of those involved—namely, Charles Manson, where Bugliosi becomes somewhat more emotionally involved at times—the author’s utilisation of techniques remains considerably minimal, particularly given the provocative case materials. Throughout, Bugliosi (2015) uses proper source materials to support his retelling of events, too, and these are attributed appropriately where possible. Significantly, where attribution of something is not possible, or indeed, verification of a supplied detail or details is not possible, Bugliosi (2015) notes this also, which speaks to his continued endeavours towards accuracy, and his mindfulness of transparency insofar as evidence. Bugliosi (2015) also relies on legal materials— that being laws, courtroom proceedings, and similar matters—which, coupled with the above attempts at accuracy and transparency, work further towards authenticating the overall narrative of the manuscript. While no assessment of any narrative can offer a definitive answer in regard to accuracy and, subsequently, authenticity, it seems a fair assessment to make that Bugliosi (2015), at the very least, writes with these areas in mind. Admittedly, some of the author’s attention to detail may also be attributed to his standing as a legal professional, which arguably influences the telling, given that Bugliosi (2015) was no doubt aware of matters such as libel, more so than an author writing with no legal experience or knowledge. Nevertheless, whether as an author or a prosecutor, it is clear from the evidence presented that concerted efforts were made to ensure the manuscript’s contents were an accurate and balanced retelling of the original case materials. Having considered Bugliosi’s (2015) written communication, his literal proximity to the original narrative—through being a prosecutor in the case, that is—will inevitably contribute towards the discussion of any author gap in the work, too. Bugliosi (2015) had both access to materials and essential input over how these materials were used, and he wrote from a position of insight that would not, or could not, be afforded to someone who did not have direct involvement in the incidents. It is essential to couple this proximity with a note on author recollection, too, to inform fully how the author gap can be assessed for this text-author pairing. Significantly, Bugliosi (2015) does not claim, at any point, to be writing from memory. There are not even minor moments of authorial asides or introspection that read as memoir, nor with an autobiographical tilt insofar as sharing intimate or personal life narratives from the time period in

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question. Additionally, Bugliosi’s (2015) official occupation within this narrative inevitably means there were great amounts of documentation available to him. I underscore this not as an indicator of accuracy within the writing, but rather as something that speaks to Bugliosi’s (2015) ability to recollect the incidents he is here narrating. One can fairly assume that any dependence on recollection—by which I mean pure memory alone, as one would use the word in an everyday sense—would have been minimal, given that the author’s professional status inevitably meant that much of the information contained within Helter Skelter would have, legally, needed to be accurately recorded in various note forms, much if not all of which would have been available to the author (Bugliosi 2015). Thus, Bugliosi’s (2015) recollection is not only a well-supported one, but one that most likely does not fall victim to (as many) natural lapses in memory that any writer, or indeed, non-writing individual, may exhibit throughout their lives. To that end, I posit the author gap in Bugliosi’s (2015) work, both in terms of his recollections and his proximity, to be minimal. These factors combined are enough to help in categorising the work, insofar as its positioning with the wider True Crime genre, as True Crime: Autobiographical, a subgenre that I suggest must exist, to properly reflect the research, consideration, and, ultimately, the authorial proximity that shapes any given True Crime work.

References Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. Driskill, Gail. 1981. Lawyer Who Wrote “Helter Skelter” Doesn’t Consider Himself an Author. https://eu.oklahoman.com/story/news/1981/11/10/lawyer-­ who-­wrote-­helter-­skelter-­doesnt-­consider-­himself-­an-­author/60363561007/. Accessed 05 May 2023. Halliday, M.A.K., and Ruqaiya Hasan. 2014. Cohesion in English. London: Routledge. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Poláková, Jana. 2022. Reality and Fiction in Broadside Ballads and Their Contemporary Reception: A Case Study. In Czech Broadside Ballads as Text, Art, Song in Popular Culture, c.1600  – 1900, ed. Patricia Fumerton, Pavel Kosek, Marie HanzelKová and Trans. Christopher James Hopkinson, Patricia Fumerton, 233–251. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.

CHAPTER 5

The Writer Inside Me: Does Ann Rule’s Proximity to the Serial Killer Celebrity Translate to a Reliable Retelling?

In the timespan from 1974 through to 1978, the states of California, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Oregon, Utah, and Washington were tormented by a series of kidnappings, sexual assaults, and murders. The man under suspicion at the time of these attacks was an anonymous figure who adhered to the archetypal serial-killer-as-monster trope that many contemporary audiences will recognise. Though there were many witnesses who saw a man—lingering nearby, with facial hair, without facial hair, struggling with crutches or a plaster-casted arm—the defining details of the man in question remained elusive. It would not be until February 1978 that the killer behind these attacks was apprehended for a final time. This followed two previous apprehensions and two successful attempts at escape. Theodore Robert Bundy—more commonly known as Ted Bundy—succeeded in first fleeing police custody while unmonitored in a law library and, on a second occasion, having escaped through the duct system of the Glenwood Springs prison facility. Both of these escapes enabled Bundy to commit further murders. However, the precise number of victims is something still hotly contested among Bundy afficionados. Significantly, it was some time before Bundy was apprehended that Ann Rule—a True Crime writer already—signed a publishing contract for the book that would become The Stranger Beside Me, originally published in 1980. Additional significance must be given, too, to the fact that Ann Rule did not suspect, during the early months of her research, that her © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_5

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friend and associate Ted Bundy might be the very same man police were looking to capture. Resultantly, he was also the man that Rule (1989) was writing about, given that the book she was initially contracted to draft pertained to the murders and attacks that were taking place across the above-named states. That said, there is a point documented in the manuscript when Rule (1989)—though she voices guilt at admitting such a thing—did come to suspect her friend of being the ‘Ted’ authorities were searching for. She became one of several who would raise Bundy’s name with police. Though it would not be until much later in their investigations that Rule’s (1989) suggestion—and the same Ted Bundy link suggested by others, including his paramour at the time—would be considered. The Stranger Beside Me documents this narrative in chaptered form, beginning with the earliest attack (in 1974) through to Bundy’s eventual incarceration and sentencing (Rule 1989). Interestingly, though, Rule (1989) did not start with the chronological beginning of the Bundy arc—that being the earliest attack—but instead established her retelling in January 1978, following Bundy’s second escape from prison. Another noteworthy feature regarding the chronology of the work is both the Afterword, added to the 1986 edition of the book, and the 1989 update that followed this—after the book’s original release in 1980. Rule (1989), who believed ‘the Ted Bundy story was at last over’, found she was drawn back into the telling: firstly, by Ted’s correspondence with her; secondly, by his inevitable execution that came in 1989. Stylistically there are occasions when Rule (1989), similarly to Bugliosi (2015), adopts an all-seeing perspective on incidents she was not personally present for. That aside, though, The Stranger Beside Me is a narrative through which the reader is guided by an informed and ever-present narrator-­author in Rule (1989), who exists, understandably, as the ‘I’ within the work. Significantly, the work not only treads around the genre conventions of True Crime, but it inevitably poses as memoir, too. Rule’s (1989) life became inextricably bound in the telling of this story and the reason for that is, I posit, twofold. In the first instance, Rule (1989) provides autobiographical details throughout the work that evidence to a reader what her life was like independently of either Bundy or The Stranger Beside Me’s research. Examples of this include her changing career trajectory and her estranged husband’s cancer diagnosis, to name two, and these autobiographical asides will be addressed in greater detail throughout the chapter. Secondarily, details of Rule’s (1989) life were inevitably incorporated into this narrative due to her involvement with the killer.

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Their friendship is documented in fond and, one assumes, honest terms. Thus, given Rule’s (1989) contractual obligations to produce a manuscript discussing the aforementioned crimes, hers and Bundy’s relationship became a plot with an exceptional hook that reads, in many ways, as stranger than fiction.

Framing the Thing In a similar manner to other texts mentioned, and to be mentioned, the classification of The Stranger Beside Me is one that requires critical attention (Rule 1989). Though the book is framed by the too broad True Crime heading, there are undeniably other genre characteristics to be noted, some of which Rule (1989) takes a creative-critical approach in commenting on herself. This will be considered in more detail shortly. To begin, though, it seems pertinent to highlight the ways in which Rule (1989) establishes her narrative, using both personal notations—drawing from a memoir style—alongside other elements that read as distinctly fictive insofar as style and technique. This blending of narrative styles is, I posit, an implicit opening acknowledgement from Rule (1989) where she establishes the written parameters of the work and clarifies the composite narrative approaches and literary techniques she will draw from. Rule (1989) frames her early authorial intentions for the work, noting that initially the book was ‘to have been a crime reporter’s chronicling of a series of inexplicable murders’. Here, we observe Rule’s (1989) self-­ identification as a crime writer, thereby acknowledging her official capacity in approaching the work in the first instance. There is a formality to this early intention, too, by establishing the book as an assigned task in a workplace style setting. Whether this effect is deliberate or accidental, here Rule (1989) also succeeds in changing her authorial proximity to the narrative. By opening with this official capacity, she implicitly informs a reader that there was to be a distance between herself and her source material, highlighted through her work-based reasoning for approaching the case and any information associated with it. This is further capitalised on by Rule’s (1989) explanation that the work, initially, ‘was to have been detached’ and, indeed, something that stemmed entirely from a prolonged period of in-depth research. ‘My life, certainly would be no part of it’ she clarifies, too, which speaks both to authorial intentions and proximity in a single sentiment through a segregation of author from text (Rule 1989). Rule (1989), it reads, was to be a (safe) distance from her source materials,

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therefore making this a project she had little proximity to—again, speaking to the author gap introduced earlier—though she had been given authority to write about it. The question of who is able, or indeed authorised, to grant such authority to authors is something that warrants further interrogation, particularly in True Crime literature. Nevertheless, as asserted here, such authority was given through a work assignment and a series of contractual obligations. Following Rule’s (1989) self-imposed distancing, then, she soon reveals The Stranger Beside Me instead became ‘an intensely personal book’ that shares details of a ‘unique friendship’. The acknowledgement that the narrative somehow ‘transcended the facts’ of Rule’s (1989) research is something else that reads as thought-­ provoking, insofar as what this transcendence may have done for the proximity of her writing, but also to the accuracy and authenticity of it. Continuing from this through the Preface and into the main narrative, Rule (1989) continues to frame her story in such a way that she is both distanced from and drawn into the work. She identifies herself as a ‘professional writer’ who had been ‘handed the story of a lifetime’, which again strikes a note of expertise while speaking, too, to potential career aspirations held by the author (Rule 1989). Though this professionalism, and the partial distancing that appears as a result of it, is somewhat counteracted by the assertion: ‘Probably there is no other writer so privy to every facet of Ted’s story’ (Rule 1989). This again creates an ambiguity around the work and, indeed, Rule’s (1989) approach to it. Readers are invited to view her in the context of her official occupation—that of a writer-reporter who focuses on (true) crime narratives—though there is always an undercurrent that this is not Rule’s (1989) only function in the story. This is something we are reminded by in the above quotation, but also through supporting remarks wherein she brands Ted Bundy as ‘my friend’, which shifts proximity in a severe fashion again (Rule 1989). Significantly, the narrative voice employed throughout the Preface is markedly different to the one that awaits readers when the main narrative begins. Instead, in the opening chapter, the narration shifts into something more fictive in terms of written style. Though Rule (1989) utilises specific details in her opening sentence—‘the Trailways Bus Station in Tallahassee, Florida at dawn’—that reads as both detached and factual, she also dramatises this introduction to Ted or, as readers will learn of him in this moment, Chris Hagen, the moniker he had then adopted. Later, Rule (1989) asserts ‘it was glorious. Warm. The air smelled good’, which again builds this portion of the work more as a novelisation, particularly given

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that these are details Rule would not have been privy to. These are also details that could be read as having been attributed to ‘Chris’ and his perception of the moment, through a close third-person narration. Arguably, this is information that Ted may have relayed to the author at a later date, though there is no supporting evidence provided for that theory. Thus, this ultimately has the potential to compromise the authenticity and accuracy of these opening moments, given that there are details listed that cannot be attributed to a source. Alongside that, Rule (1989) also employs figurative language in these moments—‘Like a homing pigeon, he headed’—which again speaks to creative license, rather than formal distancing, especially given the analogy used. Though not the primary focus at this point, it feels pertinent to draw attention to this homing pigeon simile as it depicts Chris—or rather, Ted—as being inevitably drawn to a university campus. Admittedly, there are two potential interpretations for this, both weighted in their validity. The first reading is interlinked with Bundy’s evident thirst for knowledge and intellectual status. While this never culminated in the formal qualifications he sought, it was nevertheless an area he persisted in. With that in mind, his homing instincts that drew him to a university may allude to his academic aspirations. However, an alternative reading may be that Ted was particularly fond of targeting young, female university students; though admittedly, there were exceptions to this in his active years. The homing instinct, then, is as likely to be a reference to this quality as it is to his academic streak, although a reader may feel inclined to carry both readings into the text that follows. Returning to the earlier topic of distancing, again it is noteworthy that Rule (1989) herself does not make a direct appearance at this point in the narrative. By this I mean she does not utilise the ‘I’ perspective, which further complicates both the authenticity and proximity as it exists for, and in, this portion of the work, when compared against the tone established in the Preface. Instead, Rule (1989) employs a third-person narration for the journeys of Chris Hagen, and for explaining his surroundings, and the author continues this into the reveal of Hagen as Bundy that occurs midway through the chapter. Following this reveal, Rule (1989) reverts to using only the third-person pronoun, ‘he’—rather than an over-reliance on ‘Ted’ or even ‘my friend’—to refer to this recently named character. Admittedly, there is a possibility that the author was endeavouring to build Bundy as an independent character in the book—that is, independent from the author, rather than described in terms of his relationship to her. Though the characterisation and, resultantly, the lessening distance

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between the character and the omnipresent narrator, reads as distinctly fictional insofar as technique. In support of this latter remark, I am speaking, too, to the moments in which Rule (1989) moves into the thoughts of Bundy to relay that: ‘He felt only a bubbling elation and a vast sense of relief’. While these are fair assumptions—given the wider context where Bundy has just fled from incarceration, thus it seems reasonable to suggest these feelings—they are also assertions that are superimposed by the narrator onto the character, to give voice to something that cannot be known. Thus, through both the Preface and the opening chapter of The Stranger Beside Me, Rule (1989) establishes a precedent regarding the mixed narrative style of the work as a whole. Significantly, the potential ambiguities that might arise from this are something Rule (1989) herself acknowledges, referring explicitly to a ‘gray area’ that exists between herself and Bundy and, I posit, between herself and her narrative telling, too.

Reflection: Points of Comparison After reading The Stranger Beside Me, I wondered what Rule’s (1989) writing style might be like outside of a personal narrative, that is, one in which she has no direct involvement. In the Bundy narrative, she is inextricably—and understandably—bound into the plot herself and therefore is bound up in the telling of it, too. The ‘I’ is a central feature, which to me very nearly makes the work a critical-creative piece, particularly given Rule’s (1989) open interrogation of things, and her invitations to a reader to interrogate the work, too. Rule (1989) repeatedly queries her role in the story arc—as a researcher and writer, yes, but also as a friend and known associate of the accused (Bundy). Subsequently, the ‘gray area[s]’ that the author alludes to throughout the work are inevitable, as she is telling this account through a multifaceted lens—one that becomes more versatile still when we consider her strays into memoir (Rule 1989). It is noteworthy, too, I feel, that these moments that move us into memoir often do so to provide information that can be read as independent from the Bundy narrative. Instead, they function as something that provides a wider context for the author herself more so than anything related to Bundy’s own arc. The reader is taken into the author’s confidences in that respect and allowed a unique insight on the woman who lives beyond the confines of the text. My area of query was whether these intrusive moments—both the memoir and the pronounced ‘I’—were a stylistic feature that could be observed across Rule’s (1989) work, broadly, or whether

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it was only so pronounced here due to her proximity to The Stranger Beside Me’s narrative. While I didn’t anticipate finding it to the same degree, admittedly, I certainly expected that Rule would make something of an appearance—in an authorial and/or narratorial capacity—in her other works.

Reflection: But I Trusted You, and Other True Cases But I Trusted You, and Other True Cases is a collection of shorter nonfiction narratives written and compiled by Rule (2009). From the first story in this set the differences are apparent. Rule (2009) is not present in the opening story—as a narrating ‘I’, that is—until the penultimate page, and even then she only makes an appearance to speak to information that she’s unable to attest to: ‘Does Nick Callas write to Teresa while she is in prison? I honestly don’t know’. Prior to this Rule (2009) has employed a questioning technique throughout, though they have either been rhetorical or answered somehow by the narrative voice—rather than through active participants in the story itself. Insofar as her narrative methodology, Rule (2009) largely adheres to an omnipresent style of telling, tinged with the occasional note of judgement that filters through, though this very much stems from her narrative vantage point (i.e. information beyond the text that influences the telling of it). Another element of this I was surprised by was the distinct lack of figurative language. While there are times when Rule (2009) leans towards both sensational and/or cliché language use, none of this is used to an excessive degree, even though there were plot points that would have given themselves to it easily. This pairs relatively well with the style used in The Stranger Beside Me, where again there are instances of these technical features, but certainly not unreasonably so in terms of their frequency (Rule 1989).

First-Person Narration In further support of earlier remarks, it is worthwhile to consider the ways in which Rule (1989) employs her first-person narration throughout the work broadly. Given her personal involvement—with both case and suspect—the pronounced ‘I’ of the work is an inevitability. However, the ways in which Rule (1989) uses this to incorporate personal details that border on memoir—with authorial asides pertaining more to her life than

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to anything prevalent in the Bundy story—are worthy of critical consideration. One such example of this is when Rule (1989) explains that ‘[h]alf the time I was an everyday mother; the other half I was learning about homicide investigative techniques’. Significantly perhaps, Rule (1989) is again here alluding to a kind of grey space in terms of her positioning not only within the narrative but in the wider context of her daily life, too. Here, Rule (1989) both separates herself from the work—by marking herself as a mother—and incorporates herself into it, with a comment on her authenticity in the areas of crime, crime detection, and crime narration and/or reportorial work, too. Furthermore, as though drawing on a thematic field of motherhood, readers later learn that Rule (1989) ‘gave up the houseboat’ she owned because she did not want to be so distanced from her children, ‘not even during the daytime hours’. This again speaks to her personal positioning more so than her professional one, thereby allowing readers a view into Rule (1989) as an individual, rather than exclusively as an author or a reporter. A similar technique is utilised later in the work, too, when Rule (1989) expresses concerns to one Nick Mackie that failing to share her letters from Ted will result in her being (effectively) barred from the police department, insofar as access to stories and future research opportunities. While this concern speaks predominantly to a professional element of Rule’s (1989) life, her accompanying decision to explain what is happening in her life at that time again shifts this into a personal mode. ‘I told Nick that I had learned that my children’s father was dying, that it would only be a matter of weeks’ she confides, interestingly not through direct speech but through her personal narration instead (Rule 1989). In doing so, Rule (1989) is not only informing Mackie of her circumstances—in the timeline of the narrative—but she is taking a reader into her confidences, too, revealing something that could feasibly not have been featured in the text at all. This, then, alongside other techniques, assists in underscoring the first-person voice of the work, repeatedly highlighting, too, how Rule (1989) exists as a narrator-character rather than an omnipresent figure— despite how the book started. Beyond motherhood, though still linked to her family life, there is a further moment of intimacy created when Rule (1989) reveals to a reader that her brother committed suicide some years ago: ‘how guilty I’d felt because I hadn’t been able to save my own brother’s life’. This is interlinked with her recounting the experience of having received a suicidal letter from Bundy, while he was incarcerated. Nevertheless, this speaks

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again to Rule’s (1989) tendency to insert a pronounced ‘I’ into the book that emphasises her role as an active participant in the story while also revealing something more of her autobiography. In conjunction, there are further examples still that show this personal involvement outside of either her family life or her ties to Bundy. One such example is when she provides biographical information of a victim, but couples this with complementary autobiographical information, creating a thread between her own life and this narrative moment: ‘I’d lived there [Sacket Hall] myself when I attended one term at O.S.U back in the 1950s’ (Rule 1989). Rule’s (1989) insertion into the narrative here is almost an authorial aside, bearing no influence on the story itself. Instead, its sole function is to build a richer portrait of her as a narrator-character. In doing this, Rule (1989) humanises herself and reasserts her existence beyond this singular narrative space. Interestingly, the above-noted features—regarding the balance of crime narrative and autobiography—echo techniques adopted by Michelle McNamara (2018) in I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. This raises an opportunity to query this autobiographical tilt—that situates an author in something greater than their story—as something that may be commonly utilised across True Crime narratives with a first-person narrator. Though, interestingly again, this is not a technique that Vincent Bugliosi (2015) employed in Helter Skelter. Subsequently, then, this feature denotes one of many areas within True Crime narration that remains ripe for further investigation, to see how common this narratorial-autobiographical trend truly is. The roles that Rule (1989) occupies throughout her narratological approach here are many. The ‘character’ she constructs for herself is multifaceted, showing not only her past and her family life, but explanations and critiques of her career. What is also noteworthy in this area, though, is that her comments on her career surpass the timeline of the Bundy narrative, instead reaching back into the author’s past again to continue this seeding of autobiography, albeit this time through a professional lens. For example, Rule (1989) notes how years prior to the Bundy story, she had been ‘a typical housewife [and] a Brownie leader’, which again roots her in a personal, social context that pre-dates her writing life, but nevertheless contributes to the bedrock of it. In accompaniment to this, though, she is not relaying her career in terms of Bundy, but rather independently from him: ‘Now, I was off to Hollywood to write a movie’ (though she did so under FBI surveillance, due to her links to the ongoing Bundy

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investigation(s)) (Rule 1989). This extract serves two distinct functions. In the first instance, a reader is invited into a voyeuristic position—which readers of True Crime conventionally are—to observe shifts and changes in the narrator’s life as her career advances. In the second instance, it authenticates both Rule’s (1989) narrative authority and her authorial proximity. Insofar as narrative authority, it is possible to read this as an allusion to Rule’s (1989) professional standing and, indeed, to see her as someone more than qualified in her reportorial field. However, this, accompanied with the remark regarding the FBI’s involvement, again succeeds in outlining the way(s) in which Bundy was never especially far from her life, even when Rule (1989) was enjoying success elsewhere. Subsequently, in moments such as these where Rule (1989) is as much a character in her plot as she is the author of it, one might feel inclined to document Rule as narrator-protagonist, so pronounced is the involvement of her first-person speaker. Alongside her personal notations, there are moments in the text, too, where Rule’s (1989) narration speaks more explicitly to her professional-­ personal duality within the Bundy narrative. Early in the work she refers to her authorial beginnings insofar as True Crime narration, which she instead brands as ‘fact-detective stories’ (Rule 1989). This is a phrase that is used on another occasion in the work, too, cementing Rule’s (1989) assessment of the genre field that her work belongs to. In this first example, Rule (1989) speaks of her purpose in writing True Crime and comments on her aim to always remember the bereavement at the heart of a story, thereby shifting her focus to the victims, rather than evidencing any interest in the perpetrators of a crime. Meanwhile, in Rule’s (1989) second usage of this term, she is seen referring to her grey space in the wider context of the narrative—which will be returned to later. Interestingly though, and despite the ambiguities evidently experienced around her work at times, Rule (1989) also commented: ‘It was imperative that I continue to write fact-based detective stories’ [my emphasis]. Alongside this, she places an importance on upholding her relationship with police agencies for continued access to materials. Subsequently, then, Rule (1989) is again utilising a strong sense of personal positioning—incorporating the pronounced ‘I’ and, indeed, the personal intentions associated with it—but she is doing so through a professional lens, thereby combining varied roles into a single sentiment. A final noteworthy moment in Rule’s (1989) first-person narration comes in her retelling of when she began to suspect Bundy. Rule (1989)

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relays to a reader how she found herself repeatedly drawn to the composite drawing that had been issued—‘I saw a resemblance to someone I knew’— though she rebuffed these concerns as a side effect from ‘the hysteria of that long, terrible summer’. The more telling element of this moment, however, is when Rule (1989) introduces her personal feelings regarding the suspicions that stemmed from this alleged hysteria: ‘I felt guilty that a friend I’d known for three years should even come to mind’ [my emphasis]. Following this, she further brands Bundy as a ‘good friend’, thereby underscoring their relationship again (Rule 1989). The significance of this is threefold. In the first instance, Rule (1989) is revealing her personal feelings on the case as it was then. Her assertion that she, much like other members of society, felt swept up in the widespread concerns of the summer, not only in a professional context but in a wider, social one, too. In the second instance, Rule (1989) is again treading the line between her professional and personal involvement in the work, through her allusions to a (personal) relationship with Bundy. Here, though, she does not speak from a professional perspective but from a notably intimate one. In the third instance, this moment alone contributes significantly to the discussion of authorial proximity. Rule (1989) reminds a reader that she is not only writer-researcher in this project, but rather, an individual writing about a friend. In drawing further attention to this, Rule (1989) reiterates to a reading audience the personal element(s) present here and, in underscoring that, she also authenticates her authorial status insofar as whether she is indeed qualified—both in terms of her professionalism and her sources of information—to be writing about the case at all. There is perhaps even an implicit assertion that she is close enough to the story to be the one author capable of doing the telling; an idea that is strengthened by her assessment that she was writing this narrative ‘from a position that any author would envy’ (Rule 1989). Thus, Rule (1989) not only emphasises this relationship with Bundy but emphasises, as well, the telling ‘I’ that sits behind, between, and within the core narrative elements of the book’s plot.

Grey Space Earlier in this discussion it was made apparent how Rule (1989) voices a duality—the professional and the personal—throughout her work. However, there are significant moments wherein the intimacy of Rule’s (1989) first-person narration and her professional persona are so severely blurred, they warrant, I feel, closer inspection. It was referenced earlier,

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too, that Rule (1989) openly acknowledges the ambiguities of her relationship with Bundy and, consequently, her understanding of her authorial status in drafting The Stranger Beside Me. This speaks to the critical assessment that authors in True Crime ‘are often forced to occupy a position… that is complex and contradictory’, and arguably, Rule’s (1989) work is perhaps the most loyalist example of this that will be seen throughout this monograph (Browder, 2010). Regarding Bundy, at one telling moment in the text Rule (1989) comments: ‘I do not know what tied us [her and Bundy] together’. This alone is an intriguing moment insofar as authorial positioning. The implication that there is something untold, and, indeed, unknown, capitalises on the above note regarding ambiguities around Rule’s (1989) place within the narrative, both written and lived. Rule’s (1989) assertion that ‘[t]here is a vast, gray area’ in which her relationship with, and to, Bundy exists is the crux of the matter to be interrogated here. This—that I am referring to throughout as the grey space—is evidenced elsewhere in her writing. For a further example, we can observe Rule’s (1989) analogy of ‘walking the tightrope between Ted and the detectives’, where again the author occupies that same grey space. The duality of her role here not only complicates a reader’s perceptions but, by the author’s own admission, it complicates her personal feelings and conduct in this moment, too. Rule (1989) documents how she wanted to remain loyal to a friend but also loyal to her profession and colleagues—meaning, her associates in various police agencies—and she talks, too, of the wider dangers (to her career) should the latter of these relationships be compromised. In a sense, then, the narrative becomes one drawn towards introspection as Rule (1989) treads a line of moral ambiguities, while interrogating, openly in the text, the impact of her behaviours on her future writing self. A distinct strand of Rule’s (1989) writing self is her reportorial approach. Throughout, her eye for reportorial detail is especially evident during moments when she is relaying information relating to victims of a crime. Here, Rule (1989) clearly abides by her authorial intention, as noted earlier, to keep the victim and the loss of a life at the forefront of her work. For example, we can consider here the note on Donna, during which Rule (1989) adheres to the specific detailing of the ‘oval brown agate ring’ the victim was wearing, and even a specific brand of wristwatch. Though there are narrative embellishments prior to this—a topic that I will turn attention to shortly—there are, significantly, no adornments here that dress the narrative—or rather, dress the victim—in greater, more

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creative language than is required. This is a textual trend that appears later, too, when Rule (1989) is relaying the injuries inflicted on one Cheryl Thomas. In objective and clinical terms, it is narrated how ‘[h]er skull was fractured in five places’, ‘[h]er jaw was broken, her left shoulder dislocated’, and ‘[h]er eighth cranial nerve was damaged’ (Rule 1989). It can be noted that there is a distinct lack of figurative language, hyperbole, or any other such embellishments—though this was surely an opportunity for these techniques—and this is carried throughout Rule’s (1989) documentation of further injuries as well. That said, the creative is another strand of Rule’s (1989) writing persona that occasionally occupies the grey space of her work—alongside the personal and reportorial. As noted above, there are times when Rule (1989) provides bare details relating to an incident—or rather, to the outcome of an incident—but there are moments, too, when this is not entirely the case. In fact, there are times when Rule (1989) arguably writes more towards a tone of fictionalisation, or novelisation, in how incidents are communicated. This idea was introduced earlier in relation to Rule’s (1989) use of third-person narration—wherein she appeared to remove the ‘I’ entirely—to establish Bundy’s presence in the book. At other times, she takes further creative license when reimagining certain attacks that took place: ‘The man… had struck her, strangled her, torn at her like a rabid animal, and then ravished her with a bottle’ (Rule 1989). Here, Rule (1989) utilises the power of three, a well-known technique in creative writing, to underscore the level of injury inflicted. She also employs simile to contextualise the attack and to position the attacker in a dehumanised state, reducing him to something animalistic. It is noteworthy that Rule (1989) opted for a provocative verb choice in ‘ravished’, something typically associated with both sex and violence in its denotative meaning (Merriam-Webster). Subsequently, then, while adopting a tone of objectivity for the clinical detailing of injuries, the way in which the attack itself is narrated reads as less so. Instead, it is designed in such a way, in terms of literary technique, to capitalise on a feeling of discomfort for a reader. Beyond the narration of violence, Rule (1989) also exists within this grey space of factual-fiction when detailing other moments. For instance, the telling of how Ted once wrote to her ‘crouched on the floor with his back against the steel wall of his cell’, continued with a note on how he struggled to gain enough light from an outside fixture to see the page (Rule 1989). This reads as a narrative embellishment, then, providing information to a reader that Rule (1989) herself simply could not have

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had access to. Likewise, the same can be said of the narration of how a victim ‘glanced around the neat kitchen… and turned out the overhead light’ (Rule 1989). There is no note to attach this detailing to eye witness testimony, or any other similar source of information, which inevitably places it in the same grey space of narrative embellishment. Interestingly, though, while both instances of language techniques here imply creative input, they have distinctly different effects in terms of any potential influence on a reader. The latter description of the victim moving around her home only places her in the literal geographical landscape in which she was attacked, which is a relatively minor addition. However, the description of Bundy hunched over and alone in his poorly lit cell is one that is not only cinematic—reminiscent, I suggest, of iconic images showing incarcerated prisoners in Hollywood productions—but also one fringed with sympathy. While Rule (1989) does not directly call a reader to this feeling, she still constructs an image that portrays Bundy as someone in a vulnerable position, rather than someone deservedly imprisoned. The ambiguity around this is not only noteworthy insofar its influence on readers, though, but also as something that evidences Rule’s (1989) grey storytelling in terms of her authorial vantage point. Additionally, there are times when Rule (1989) herself acknowledges this book in the context of fiction. For example, when those present in the courtroom are imagined as ‘characters in a long, long book finally come alive’ and later, too, the reference to Bundy as ‘some invention, some fictional character I had once written about’ (Rule 1989). Beyond individual characterisations, Rule (1989) also positions the narrative in a fictional context when she suggests: ‘This is the stuff of which movies and television dramas are made’. In doing this, Rule (1989) creates and contributes towards the grey space by compromising a reader’s ability to view this work in the context of nonfiction. Though I do not think Rule’s (1989) utilisation of these techniques necessarily changes how the work should be categorised—in terms of a subgenre—these are nevertheless noteworthy features, insofar as how she provides a guiding hand for audiences. The fictionalisation—or rather, the parallels to fiction—is both thought-­ provoking and telling, when Rule (1989) aligns Bundy with anti-heroes from classic, decadent literature. Bundy becomes associated with both Dorian Gray and Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde; though, admittedly, in the case of the latter, Jekyll and Hyde is introduced as a point of contrast rather than comparison: ‘Ted is not a Jekyll-Hyde’ (Rule 1989). Nevertheless,

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these coalitions formed between Bundy—a nonfiction ‘character’—and celebrated characters from classic, Gothic literature not only position Bundy within a grey space insofar as who is he and how he exists, but it also implicitly acknowledges the status that exists around violent offenders. There is extensive research now around the ‘socially constructed monsters’ of crime narratives and the way in which the public can become ‘captivated by the stylized presentation of the criminals’ (Bonn 2014). Thus, in forming this semantic field of fictionalised characters, of which Bundy is a part, Rule (1989) is positioning him in the role of a celebrated bogeyman, which will inevitably influence a reader’s perception. Thus, while Rule (1989) alludes to a grey space insofar as her relationship to Bundy, her authorial place in the text, and her place(s) in associated social context(s), I posit that the grey space is formed of several more areas besides these. One of these areas being the space where fact and fiction are no longer distinct, for the purpose of communicating details the author would otherwise not have access to. Subsequently, then, Rule’s (1989) fusion of the reportorial—or the professional—alongside personal, and fictive, can be seen clearly here, and there are times, too, when this has the potential to confuse a reader’s perception of the wider narrative, insofar as its genre positioning. By this, I am referring to whether the text is memoir, autobiographical, or True Crime. Or indeed, whether it exists in a grey space of being all three simultaneously.

Literary Techniques Tangential to the discussion regarding Rule’s (1989) use of the fictive alongside narrative embellishments, it seems pertinent to note, too, the ways in which she utilises formal literary techniques throughout. There have been examples included already that exhibit Rule’s (1989) use of certain techniques, one of which being hyperbole, to underscore or dramatise a particular detail. An additional example of this can be found in the assertion that ‘Bundy had managed to elevate the status of county jail prisoner to that of visiting royalty’ (Rule 1989). The significance of this is twofold. In the first instance, Rule’s (1989) use of hyperbole highlights the way in which Bundy succeeded in charming those around him and, subsequently, heightened his importance even while incarcerated. This so-­ called charm is something alluded to at other points in the narrative, when Rule (1989) is relaying details of Bundy’s general persona (as someone

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who could easily charm others). In the second instance, this again speaks to several assertions made by the likes of Bonn (2014) regarding the status of the criminal and the ways in which they are made anew as celebrities. Though it is Bundy’s legal knowledge that contributes to his prison popularity, the implicit parallel established here shows him as a celebrated figure still, which speaks to the so-called celebrity culture that exists around violent offenders and serial killers. There is another especially deliberate use of figurative language later, too, when the narrative relays how Bundy’s ‘carefully constructed façade was cracking apart, falling away in shards’ (Rule 1989). Significantly, the utilisation of alliteration will draw a reader’s attention further into this moment. Alongside which, the repetition of the ‘c’ consonant compounds the idea of cracking, and it endows the sentence with a distinctively harsh sound quality. The image of something falling away, in shards no less, underscores this notion of something fracturing. Though it brings with it, too, connotations of glass and fragility, two things that may sit awkwardly alongside the subject of Bundy. In this same moment, Rule (1989) also notes that she spoke to Bundy on the phone during this near breakdown, and she comments on her perception that, in that moment, he was ready ‘to loosen a terrible burden from his soul’. This, too, has connotations that are worthy of dissection. To begin with, the verb choice implies that something had gripped or tightened around Bundy, hence, this contrasting notion of a loosening. Complementary to this, Rule’s (1989) use of ‘burden’ and ‘soul’ brings something religious to this moment, too. There is potential to read Rule (1989) as occupying a pastoral role even, which again contributes to her grey space within the text while also reiterating her (close) proximity to the subject. In the suggestion that Bundy was ready to unburden himself to Rule (1989), making this a confessional, this also makes Rule into both an authoritative and saviour figure at once. Significantly, this would not be the last time Bundy’s soul was referred to in the work either; though in the later instance, it is implied the offender is in fact beyond the point of being saved: ‘None of them could fill the hollow soul’ (Rule 1989). Interestingly, there are occasions when Rule (1989) employs a literary technique—such as simile, to be observed shortly—seemingly without any motivations. By this I mean the simile does not necessarily appear to be guiding the reader in any overt or deliberate way. Instead, the language is only building a better developed portrayal of a character, for instance,

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though this is generally only done for minor characters who occupy a short space in the work. Detective Norman M. Chapman, Jr, provides one example of this, with the author describing him as ‘a man with a voice like warm maple syrup’ (Rule 1989). Later, a reader learns of Judge Cowart as ‘a great St. Bernard of a man, jowls bulging over his judicial robes’, a comment that shows a coupling of metaphor and hyperbole bordering on the comedic (Rule 1989). It is worth noting, then, that not all examples of literary techniques in Rule’s (1989) writing show evidence of her deliberately swaying a reader towards a certain conclusion—though I posit there are examples of this, too. Instead, one assumes Rule (1989) is instead considering the ways in which language might allow for a more entertaining read, tying again to the earlier comment on narrative embellishment and fictionalisation. Though as observed elsewhere, there are times when Rule’s (1989) employment of these techniques is more deliberate. Beyond language, it is noteworthy how Rule (1989) employs certain structural manipulations— on a sentence level—to influence the impact of a moment. The narration of the Metro Justice Building press presence at the Bundy trial, for example, is heightened by the listing of ‘anchormen, anchorwomen, technicians, reporters–scores of them–watching, broadcasting, editing, splicing’ (Rule 1989). Though it is when this listing structure is used earlier in the text that the effect of it is notably more pronounced. When speaking of the victims, Rule (1989) takes the time to list them by their first names, which humanises them much more than a simple collective (‘victims’) might: ‘Lynda… Donna… Susan… Kathy… Brenda… Georgeann’. Alongside listing, the employment of ellipsis between each name is also significant, and indeed, multifaceted. Traditionally, the use of ellipsis denotes something missing within a text. Here, in the real-time narrative, Rule (1989) was unable to provide information on these women due to the case not having advanced enough for her to do so—hence, information was missing still. Additionally, the women’s bodies were yet to be found and in that sense the ellipsis becomes a technique weighted in symbolism, too. Finally, the ellipsis can be read as a means to communicate a literal passage of time, wherein a reader is forced to take a pause between each listed name. This not only helps to underscore the importance of the names themselves, but it sits in accordance with Rule’s (1989) authorial intention to emphasise, and remember, the human lives at the core of the narrative.

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Capturing Voice Though much of this discussion has been formed around Rule’s (1989) narrative and personal positioning within the text, it is noteworthy, too, that there are occasions where Rule endeavours to employ other voices beyond her own. This is typically achieved through moments of close third-person narration, where Rule (1989) positions herself within the perspective of a given character. The importance of this technique is twofold. In the first instance, this proximity to a character’s perspective— wherein the character becomes a mouthpiece for the presuppositions of the narrator—is something often found in omnipresent third-person narration. In that sense, then, Rule (1989) is again utilising a technique commonly found in fictive works. In the second instance, though, this technique may raise questions regarding authenticity and accuracy at certain moments. Throughout the work, Rule (1989) fails to attribute her writing to any evidentiary source materials. By this, I am alluding to the ways in which Bugliosi (2015), by example, often cited either interviews he had conducted, interviews coordinated by colleagues, or indeed, police transcripts that had been made available to him. Rule (1989) achieves the effect of capturing voice for a number of participants within her story arc—not least Bundy himself at times—but she does this without validating that material or attaching it to anything external to her writing. The earliest example of this is in the introduction to the character of Stephanie, who ‘wanted a husband who would fit into her world’ (Rule 1989). Significantly, this is not framed as a direct quotation nor as direct speech. Here, Rule (1989) presupposes Stephanie’s wants—one assumes from direct dealings with the woman, though again there is no evidence for this—and in doing so she moves away from her personal telling into a moment wherein the narrative positioning shifts to Stephanie’s view. At a later moment, when Rule (1989) does provide an example of reported speech for the character, it is sampled from a conversation that Rule would not have been privy to; namely, one that took place between Stephanie and her counsellor: ‘“I don’t think he loves me. It seems as though he just stopped loving me”’. In a continuation of this narrative thread—wherein we observe the ways in which Bundy distanced himself from Stephanie— Rule (1989) describes Bundy’s voice during a conversation with Stephanie as ‘flat [and] calm, as he said’. This, too, attests to an exchange that Rule (1989) would not have been acquainted with, and so this raises queries about the source(s) of these details. While the reported speech may be

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something that was relayed to Rule (1989) during interviews, for example, without evidence in support of this it becomes inevitable that the authenticity of these documented moments is queried, and they can be read instead as an exercise in the author only attempting to capture a voice. In further support, this would not be the only occasion that saw Rule (1989) fuse close third-person narration and direct speech without attributing a source. A later example comes from an exchange between Carol DaRonch and Bundy, where Rule (1989) presupposes: ‘She [Carol] was taken by surprise. It didn’t occur to her to wonder how the man with the moustache had found her… she assumed he must be a security guard’. Here, readers are shifted to the viewpoint of Carol through Rule’s (1989) use of presupposition and narrative telling. Verb choices—such as ‘assumed’—portray Carol as an active participant in this moment of the story, despite the fact that again there is no attribution to source material that verifies this assumption (Rule 1989). In accompaniment to this, Bundy’s voice is also captured here through direct speech, wherein he is attempting to lure Carol into trying to identify a man who was purportedly trying to break into her car: ‘“Perhaps you’ll recognize him if you see him”’ (Rule 1989). This incident is one that relates to a living victim— who managed to escape this scenario engineered by Bundy—so there is a distinct possibility that this information comes from the victim’s own perspective, as it was relayed to officials. Though this belief requires a measure of presupposition from the reader, given the lack of evidentiary material for it. Throughout, there are additional moments wherein Rule (1989) endeavours to capture the voice of an individual without the use of reported speech. In doing so, the delineation between character and narration is complicated as their thoughts or feelings become part of the telling. This is done for Bundy—‘God! Freedom was so sweet’—as well as less prevalent characters within the work (Rule 1989). One such example comes from Tallahassee police officer Henry Newkirk, for whom Rule (1989) narrates: ‘Oh God, he could actually see into her brain’. Admittedly, here, there is the presence of a third-person pronoun to account for, and this prevents the voice from shifting entirely away from Rule’s (1989) narratorial one. However, the expletive of ‘God’ that frames both of these moments reads as a voice distinct from Rule’s (1989) own, so at the very least there is a blurring of perspectives that takes place. Similarly, Rule (1989) also obscures the delineation between her own voice and that of

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another character when relaying a later incident, this time featuring David Lee, another police agency official. Here, the author-narrator voice becomes dubious—insofar as Rule’s (1989) distinct authorial ‘I’—to propose that Lee was ‘startled’, ‘puzzled’, and that he ‘couldn’t understand the black suicidal mood’ that had suddenly overtaken his detainee. These feelings—while entirely feasible in context—are ones that must be attributed to one of two outlets: either Lee was able to relay this information to Rule (1989) to inform her research or it was relayed to Rule via a source that she had access to (which again, there is no supporting evidence for). Failing in these options, an alternative is that this is Rule’s (1989) own creative license and presupposition, for the sake of narrative detailing. Significantly, while Rule (1989) captures voice as a means to enrich other scenes—that she may have had no direct part in—there are occasions, too, where voice is captured through reported speech that Rule can personally attest to. Early in the work she recounts her experience of sharing her life struggles with Bundy—‘In 1971 my life was not without problems’—which positions her, here, as an active participant in the narrative, showing elements of memoir and/or autobiography (Rule 1989). In conjunction with this, Rule (1989) proceeds to document reported speech both from herself—‘“What can I do?” I asked Ted’—and from Bundy— ‘“Are you sure he’s dying?” Ted responded’. The significance of this is twofold. In the first instance, this exchange authenticates Rule’s (1989) direct involvement in the narrative that she is retelling, thereby speaking to her authorial proximity, which appears close-knit here. In the second instance, there is a query perhaps to be raised regarding the time-lapse between this conversation taking place and this conversation being documented. Admittedly, given Rule’s (1989) close proximity to the moments, there is potential instead to read these exchanges, formed of reported speech, as something that denotes the essence of the exchanges that took place, rather than capturing them verbatim. Thus, while their authenticity can be queried to a degree—insofar as whether they are perfect recollections—there is undeniably a greater measure of authenticity here, when compared to other examples of capturing voice, given that Rule (1989) was an active party in the conversation as well as the documenter of it. Subsequently, this moment, and moments of a similar nature that underscore Rule’s (1989) involvement in the story, speaks again to the wider argument of this as a text that blurs genre definitions due to authorial positioning and proximity.

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Authenticity and Accuracy The areas of authenticity and accuracy are two that have been raised throughout this discussion already. However, a more focused discussion is required, too, to fully consider the ways in which Rule (1989) authenticates both the information she provides and her own personal involvement in the case. Previously it was considered how early in the text Rule (1989) aligns herself with her police agency colleagues—‘the other half [of the time] I was learning about homicide investigative techniques’— though alongside this implied alignment, Rule also makes a more overt claim that proposes: ‘In a sense I had become one of them again, I was privy to information’. This speaks both to authenticity and, of course, authorial proximity, given that Rule is positioning herself as an active participant here, not only in the writing and researching process but also, in a sense, in the detection process, too. Significantly, Rule’s (1989) phrasing of being ‘privy to information’ [my emphasis] may potentially capitalise on this authentication further, given that this phrase implies someone is informed about something that might remain a secret to others (Merriam-­ Webster). However, authenticity and overall accuracy is never more overtly explored than during Rule’s (1989) direct encounters with Bundy himself. In a later recollection of an occasion when Rule (1989) talked with Bundy for approximately five hours, we find one such example of this. In the interest of transparency, here, Rule (1989) clarifies for a reader: ‘My memory of that long conversation is just that… I didn’t bother to jot down notes’. Rule (1989) accompanies this with the assertion that this speaks to her belief of his innocence, at the time, evidencing that here she was talking with someone who she believed to be a friend—as indicated elsewhere in the narrative, too—rather than someone who held the potential to be a source of evidential materials. There is an evident self-critique occurring here, through Rule’s (1989) admission that she is recounting a memory rather than having transcribed something verbatim, which speaks, too, to the remark made earlier regarding Rule’s occasional use of direct speech. Self-critique aside, though, I posit the real significance of this admission is in fact twofold. In the first instance, Rule (1989) is exhibiting this aforementioned transparency regarding the authenticity and accuracy of her included materials, in her reference to recording them from memory. In the second instance, though, a reader must credit Rule (1989) for this implicit acknowledgement that this is not a word for word documentation of the conversation, therefore the accuracy can be queried. While the

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admission of writing from memory may force a reader to question the accuracy of the exchange, then, Rule’s (1989) own acknowledgement of it—as a potential problem, perhaps—works in some ways to counteract this first effect (that being, the questioning of her accuracy to begin with). Unlike some True Crime authors, Rule (1989) is not working to authenticate her narrative here but rather to acknowledge that, to some degree, she may not be able to authenticate it. That transparency alone affords her a status that is often not found in the wider genre that her work belongs to. In accompaniment to this, Rule (1989) not only welcomes a reader to query the accuracy of her writing, but she encourages an audience also to question materials provided by official sources. One especially potent example of this stems from a series of interviews that were held with Bundy and police officials. Here, Rule (1989) is referring to a conversation that took place after a tape recorder, in Bundy’s interview room, was turned off. The phrasing, ‘the conversation that is alleged to have taken place’ [my emphasis], is significant insofar as again creating a grey space, where Rule (1989) works to remind a reader than this is not a verbatim transcript and, therefore, it is only an allegation of a conversation rather than something that can be authenticated. In addition to that, across these two pages Rule (1989) uses either ‘alleged’ or ‘allegedly’ no fewer than three occasions, thereby underscoring her point implied in this first quotation. However, it is Rule’s (1989) later comment on authentication—and the accompanying idea of believability—that seals the strength of her argument: ‘One must decide whether to believe police detectives or Ted Bundy as to their authenticity’. Here, the ‘their’ she is referring to are statements that were claimed to have been made during a series of interviews (Rule 1989). Admittedly, on first reading this—without, perhaps, a critical eye— this felt like a bold remark for the author to include. However, on closer inspection, what Rule (1989) is in fact encouraging here is for her reading audience to interrogate the authenticity of materials for themselves, rather than have this done on their behalf by her as the author. Thus, Rule (1989) is again creating transparency insofar as reader perceptions, contributing again to her own authenticity as an objective author, too, despite the occasions—noted already—where her ‘I’ reads as distinctly subjective. Continuing from this, it is noteworthy, too, that Rule (1989) includes official documentation throughout this work, that contributes significantly to our reading of the narrative as both authentic and accurate. There is a demonstration of this early in the book when Rule (1989)

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includes direct quotations, not insubstantial in length either, taken from a personal statement written by Bundy. Alongside this, throughout Rule (1989) also includes personal correspondence from her letter exchanges with the offender, written during his time spent in prison. While there are earlier examples of these exchanges, this latter one seems particularly pertinent in the confines of this discussion. Here, Ted asserts that Rule (1989) has ‘seen fit to take advantage’ of their relationship in having written about him. The significance of this letter, I suggest, is twofold. In the first instance, the inclusion of official materials—not only this letter but the accompanying personal statement referenced above—authenticates the narrative insofar as Rule’s (1989) involvement, and indeed, her proximity, both to the case and its source materials. In the second instance, it invites a reader to interrogate whether Rule (1989) indeed has compromised her relationship with Bundy due to an overriding authorial intention to craft a good True Crime book. Significantly, too, this again alludes to the grey space that Rule (1989) created earlier in the narrative, only shown through the lens of Bundy rather than the author. Rule (1989) employs a measure of transparency—and a pronounced ‘I’—when she documents her first emotional reaction to this accusation. There is an intimacy created between author and reader through an admission of guilt: ‘What have I done to this poor man?’ (Rule 1989). Interestingly, too, even the italicisation holds a significance here, given that Rule (1989) is using this, one assumes, to denote her thoughts in an isolated moment, thereby shifting a reader from the narrative thread and into the author’s own conscious—or rather, perhaps, conscience. However, it is Rule’s (1989) later rationale in the sentences that follow that truly comment not only on her involvement in this narrative but also, to an extent, on authorly habits within True Crime: ‘I had never once lied to Ted. I had my book contract months before he was a suspect’. Insofar as how this speaks to the wider genre, Rule (1989) looks to be assuaging her guilt by reiterating firstly, her honesty and transparency during her dealings with Bundy—something, again, that not all True Crime authors can attest to—and reiterating, too, her authorial presence in the narrative, as something that outdates her knowledge of Bundy’s own involvement in it. Additionally, then, Rule (1989) continues in this vein, making further comments on Bundy’s active role in letter-writing and his personal decision to continue correspondence with the author, despite knowing that, inevitably, she would be authoring a book about him. Thus, this narrative discussion—one that looks in many ways to be

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taking place between author and (imagined) reader—speaks to authenticity again, wherein the author is not only striving for accuracy and openness insofar as the materials included, but also in terms of her purpose in having engaged with and explored these materials, concluding ‘I had written what I had to write’ (Rule 1989).

Conclusion: Authorial Proximity Here, again, it feels timely to borrow from the notion of the author gap, established in previous chapters. If, indeed, as I have proposed, this author gap is formed of both author recollection and author proximity, The Stranger Beside Me reads as an interesting composite of the two (Rule 1989). While admittedly, Rule (1989) does not always borrow from extensive source materials—nor does she cite materials in the manner Bugliosi (2015) might—there are still moments of authentication throughout, insofar as how letters, statements, and transcripts are employed. In accompaniment to this—as explored throughout this chapter—Rule (1989) also employs a level of transparency insofar as recollected materials, that is, those written from memory alone, as evidenced in her remarks regarding that particular conversation with Bundy. Additionally, given her direct involvement with the case—that I will turn attention to shortly— Rule (1989) is also in an appropriate position to be writing from a place of accuracy, too; though I of course appreciate this does not guarantee that accuracy is upheld. Nevertheless, Rule’s (1989) direct allusions to this throughout—wherein she looks to encourage a reader to interrogate her work—mark her as an author with notable integrity and one who is expressive and open regarding their intentions. It is appropriate, too, to note here that Rule (1989) was writing this book as the events were unfolding; evidenced by her acknowledgement that she had signed her contract for the book prior to knowing of Bundy’s involvement with the narrative. This also speaks to author recollections, and the recency of events retold, given that the manuscript may well be read as a real-time rendition of the Ted Bundy narrative. Insofar as authorial proximity, through analysing Rule’s (1989) utilisation of first-person narration, reportorial techniques, and her open acknowledgement of the so-called grey space, Rule’s involvement in the work becomes hard to dispute. The way in which she employs first-person narration is particularly important here, as Rule (1989) positions herself as an active ‘I’ within the work, something that is reinforced through her

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occasional divergences into memoir, insofar as style and information shared. Alongside this, Rule’s (1989) objectivity—while this does occasionally slip, I note—is largely upheld during the most trying moments of the narrative, such as, for example, when victims’ injuries are being relayed. Thus, Rule (1989) strikes a subjective-objective balance that implicitly alludes to her two-pronged involvement as an author: that of a reporter, researching a case; that of a person, writing a difficult story about a friend. Her proximity—arguably, perhaps, not to the case but certainly to Bundy—is further reinforced by statements such as ‘Ted wasn’t going to like him much’, which is said in relation to Judge Cowart (Rule 1989). This note of familiarity is seen elsewhere, too, in admissions such as: ‘it was a call I had expected for years’ and ‘Ted knew that I knew that he could tell me the terrible things bottled up in his mind’ (Rule 1989). Thus, while Rule (1989) may not exhibit evidentiary materials in the same manner as Bugliosi (2015), she is evidently writing, at times, from a deeply personal place and also telling a nuanced and distinct perspective of the individual at the core of the work; something that, Rule herself admits, is a thing many (True Crime) authors would be envious of. While the proposal of the author gap provides a framework on which to place questions of accuracy and proximity, I acknowledge again that there can never be a definitive answer as to whether a text is entirely accurate or not. Likewise, given the philosophical debates about perceptions of truth, there are further arguments to be made regarding what is accurate to one person as opposed to what may seem either accurate or inaccurate to another. Nevertheless, through the elements considered here, it seems a fair assertion that Rule’s (1989) work comes from a place of accuracy, wherein the author gap—and subsequently the author’s proximity to their materials and the case—is minimal. Rule’s (1989) direct involvement marks The Stranger Beside Me as a book told from a uniquely personal perspective, regardless of the circumstances under which Rule secured the contract for the work. Still, Rule (1989), much like Bugliosi (2015), had ready access to materials—despite not always attributing them, admittedly—and indeed, ready access to the person-subject at the core of her manuscript. Writing with a minimal author gap, then—both in terms of recollections and proximity—I propose that Rule (1989) has crafted a work not entirely dissimilar to Helter Skelter and that The Stranger Beside Me resultantly belongs to the same distinct subgenre of True Crime, that of, True Crime: Autobiographical (Bugliosi 2015).

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References Bonn, Scott. 2014. Why We Love Serial Killers. New York: Skyhorse Publishing. Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Browder, Laura. 2010. True Crime. In The Cambridge Companion to American Crime Fiction, ed. Catherine Nickerson, 205–228. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Merriam-Webster. N.D.  Privy to. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/privy%20to. Accessed 05 May 2023. Merriam-Webster. N.D.  Ravished. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/ravished. Accessed 05 May 2023. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere. ———. 2009. But I Trusted You, and Other True Cases. New York: Pocket Books.

CHAPTER 6

Writing True Crime from a Safe Distance

Initially it was a concern that there might be less to discuss in this area. On the surface of it the heading refers to, one assumes, writing True Crime without being a part of it; ergo, maintaining a ‘safe distance’ from the incidents themselves. The concept of writing True Crime but upholding a safe distance reminded me much of Bonn’s (2014) work, cited elsewhere already. Why We Love Serial Killers: The Curious Appeal of the World’s Most Savage Murderers is a book that has occupied a room in my mind since its release (Bonn 2014). From the year of publication, I have fond memories of being a Doctoral Researcher and feeling a swell of academic admiration for Bonn’s (2014) work that posited feasible explanations for the insatiable public, and indeed cultural, appetites for crime and criminal reporting across media forms. It is nearly ten years since this publication but now, I posit, there are ways in which Bonn’s (2014) work can be extended; the parameters opened to include not only those who consume crime, as it were, but also those who narrate it, such as some—not all, significantly— of the authors contained within this research project. If the reason, or rather if one of the reasons, we consume criminal reports at the rate we do is because we are enamoured with the ‘safe’ proximity to the monster, as Bonn (2014) suggests, is this why authors are writing about crime from a ‘safe’ distance, too? Though it feels reductionist—for a genre with such pronounced socio-­ cultural implications and influence—it is worth remembering in this

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moment that True Crime, rightly or wrongly, is a form of entertainment. Whatever its media form—be that book, Netflix documentary, or make-up tutorial—there is a measure of entertainment to be taken from these narratives which is, one assumes, (one of the reasons) why so many people consume them. If, then, the grotesque of True Crime, the horror of seeing what humans are capable of, if that speaks to the phenomenon of ‘[s]cary entertainment’ broadly, and as something that ‘relieves you of your fears because you are never really in danger’, then it seems to me a fair assumption that this is one of three distinct reasons why an author might write about the grotesque: for exactly the same reason that someone might read about it (Bonn 2014). Incidentally, this reason itself is multifaceted and it can, I suggest, co-exist with, for example, Ann Rule’s frequently expressed desire to give voice to victims and raise social awareness (typically, though not always, regarding violence against women). There are other authors, too, for whom their motivations are multifaceted, more complex, and, most likely, prone to change as well. However, in answer to the reasoning behind writing True Crime when the author themselves has no place in the narrative, I believe this push-pull of horror, on a base human level, is one of the answers as to why. In conjunction with this, there is an additional explanation to explore regarding the ‘safe distance’ and the way in which it affords an author creative license. If one is disconnected from the crime, from the persons involved, and if indeed one is so inclined, there are ways in which this disconnect allows embellishments, false facts, and narrative ‘improvements’ in the interest of telling a story that will be more marketable and, inevitably then, more consumable, too. Of course, someone writing from a first-person, intimate ‘I’ perspective has the means for this creative license as well. However, as alluded to earlier in this discussion arc, in writing a first-person account of something the author is always telling their truth; this in itself circles a reading audience—or more likely, a critical one—back into debates regarding ‘the truth’ and whether there is such a definitive thing (the layperson answer is, I suggest, no). The reason behind mentioning this again is to underscore that it can be challenging to accuse an author of creative license when they are retelling a narrative as they remember it or as they remember experiencing, living it. Thus, True Crime writers authoring a book from this vantage point—that of the involved ‘I’—complicate accusations of creative license, in a way that is not quite the case for authors working at a distance.

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Meanwhile, the distanced narrator—the one writing with the victims outside of the room rather than peering over their shoulder—has the means to say they were writing to the best of their knowledge, they were writing from research, or—the infamous one—the simple plea that, ‘Of course things have been changed slightly for X, Y, Z reasons’. Though, significantly, ‘slightly’ is a relative term. Some of the best True Crime publications in the world have, in the interim years since their release, been criticised for simply being wrong in their central plot points—and while there may not be a definitive, singular truth in the world, if enough people accuse events of having been mislaid in a retelling, then there may well be something worth exploring in those accusations. What is particularly interesting about the authors and works that are to be discussed in the chapters that follow—Truman Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood and Michelle McNamara’s (2018) I’ll Be Gone in the Dark—is that they both create exceptions to the rules argued here. In the first instance, then, this argument regarding the ways in which the author writes from a ‘safe’ distance by not personally being involved in the crimes they are retelling is complicated by the fact that Capote (2000) was. Or perhaps it would be a fairer assessment to make that, although Capote (2000) was not initially involved in the crime nor its early investigations, after careful placement—bucking the ‘safe’ distance, in fact—he became involved. Though, significantly, this is not something you would know from his narrative telling. Capote (2000) upholds the same ‘safe’ distance through to the bitter end of In Cold Blood, even when sampling from interview materials, for example, that were presumably collected through primary means. Although this is assumptive, given that Capote (2000) did not see fit to formally cite where these materials were brought in from, which not only exhibits the creative license element of the work but, additionally, delineates this type of True Crime writing from that which was discussed in the preceding chapters. However, one of the difficulties in assessing Capote’s (2000) book is that it will never amount to more than postulation regarding whether he wrote certain things, in a certain way, due to a base human drive—the ‘safe’ distance theory—or whether his central, dare I say only, drive was to write an innovative narrative that he would have gone to any lengths to create. The reason this is mentioned here, then, is not to lampoon the author’s motivations but rather to query: Is In Cold Blood written in an omnipresent narrative voice to afford Capote (2000) a ‘safe’ distance from the events, or is it done as a stylistic feature to heighten the literary merit

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of the work and compound the novelistic feel that Capote was famously aiming for? Though of course, there is a third option to consider here which is that these two things can live in tandem. Arguably much in the same way, perhaps, that Rule (2009) might have been writing from her ‘safe’ distance when narrating a case she was not involved in, but still one she believed would speak on behalf of victims’ rights when published (admittedly, the motivations are varied in these examples but still, they demonstrate the theory). To further the paradox, then, it is noteworthy that there is a third reason, I posit, for the ‘safe’ distance approach to True Crime writing. It again speaks to safety, but in this sense that safety can be viewed in a much more literal manner. When an author is writing from a temporal and socio-­ cultural distance—rather than a distance that is only established through creative means—in writing from this literal distance, then, the ways in which an author can be disconnected from the case are many. This is essential not only insofar as creative authorship—by which I mean, it affords them a license with which they may feel inclined to take liberties— but there are additional, practical benefits to consider here, too. In addressing cold cases, for example, an author has more research at their disposal, given that the case has reached a stagnant state with a wealth of investigative materials attached. Although that material may lead to dead-­ ends, another way of viewing dead-ends for the creative (True Crime) writer is to see them as opportunities for postulations and theory-­making— and, if the author is a conscientious one, to discover avenues for further, primary research, too. To funnel this into a more specific discussion of Michelle McNamara’s (2018) positioning, then, throughout I’ll Be Gone in the Dark the author, more than once, expresses a passion for cold cases (one that is deep rooted in her teenage years). With that in mind, McNamara (2018) would never have been writing about a case in which she had direct involvement because her authorial intentions—to explore, uncover, and add to the narratives of cold cases—inevitably positions her a (‘safe’) distance from her writing sources or materials. Thus, both her distance and, as will shortly be suggested, her first-person narration are circumstantial due to her authorial methodologies. While another distinct variable, it is nevertheless one worth considering insofar as the partial, potential draw to True Crime and that is, somewhat famously, the desire to solve the mystery. McNamara (2018), by her own admission, took on a research practice that was borderline obsessive,

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allowing the EAR case—as it was originally known—to take over many areas of her life. While there may have been a desire to gain closure, for the wider case narrative, yes, but for the victims as well, there was, one assumes, a desire to crack the code of who the killer was, too. This literal ‘safe’ distance affords a writer these opportunities by offering them all of the clues that the original ‘players’—or rather, detectives—had at their disposal and saying, effectively, ‘Here, see what you can make of this’. For evidence of this in practice, one need only look at the canon—for I feel justified in claiming it is such a thing now—of Jack the Ripper works, many of which are framed as ‘the definitive answer to the case’. In fact, there are so many definitive answers now that one can only assume that the violence of Jack the Ripper was a collaborative effort across umpteen suspects all of whom ‘definitely did it’. The (un)solvability of a case, then, is a huge attraction for readers and writers, too, as they are certainly not immune to this call. Significantly—and herein lies the inevitable ‘safe’ distance—one cannot achieve any of this, realistically, with a case that is still unfolding. There needs to be a dislocation in time, an opening that a researcher-writer can peer through, even step through, look around the space and ask, ‘What didn’t they see?’ Building on that, while a researcher-writer’s ‘safety’ insofar as writing about cases that do not concern them is an inevitable feature of the process, so, too, are the varying ways in which these works are narrated. For example, there are times in McNamara’s (2018) book where there is a third person distancing. She relays incidents that took place years prior to the time of writing and here she occasionally steps into creative telling, too, though she largely looks to uphold a measure of objectivity in the ways in which she recounts the incidents pertaining to a crime. Outside of these literal steps back in a timeline, though, McNamara (2018) is very much present, very much involved in the story as it exists now. This is something that needs to be clearly segregated from as it was happening then, in terms of assessing where an author belongs in relation to a case and what their motivations might be for being there. Far from being more simplistic or straightforward than the nonfiction ‘I’, then, the so-called safe distance is another multifaceted means of narration, split between: the proximity to the grotesque that is shared with a reader; the freedom for creative license that is afforded by distance; and finally, somewhat paradoxically, the freedom to engineer closeness that is also afforded by this distance—though this final point is, as evidenced above, inextricably bound to the ways in which a ‘safe’ distance allows a

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researcher perspective, materials, and opportunity. The fact that this narrative methodology can be cracked in quite so many ways speaks to the growing versatility of True Crime as we move further away from that nonfiction ‘I’, which one could assert as being the loyalist narrative method available to the genre. Meanwhile, here, as a step ahead into more creative telling, there is evidence for the ways in which intentions, motivations, and freedom (or ‘safety’) allow a writer the right vantage point for a style of True Crime that is very much a Reimagined version of the story.

References Bonn, Scott. 2014. Why We Love Serial Killers. New York: Skyhorse Publishing. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Rule, Ann. 2009. But I Trusted You, and Other True Cases. New York: Pocket Books.

CHAPTER 7

Truman Capote’s World of Make-Believe: How Does Figurative Language and Creative License Distort Truth in In Cold Blood?

In 1959, Holcomb, Kansas was rocked by the violent murder of four of the area’s members: Herbert ‘Herb’ Clutter, Bonnie Clutter, Nancy Clutter, and Kenyon Clutter. On the evening of November 15, someone—at the time there was great dispute about the number of persons involved—entered the Clutter home through an unlocked door and attacked all four members in turn. Significantly, Herb Clutter’s throat was cut before a gunshot was administered to the head. Following this, Bonnie, Nancy, and Kenyon were all executed with a single gunshot wound to the head, too, and before leaving the killer, or killers, removed all shell casings from the attack, one assumes to minimise the remains of forensic evidence. It would later emerge that the killers—indeed, there were two perpetrators involved—were two ex-convicts who had orchestrated this invasion, after having received information regarding a substantial amount of cash that was allegedly kept on the property. While incarcerated, one of the aforementioned killers was told by one Floyd Wells—a former farmhand of Herb Clutter’s—that Herb was a wealthy man who kept a safe on his property, and this inspired the two individuals to take action. However, on discovering this to be false information—too late into their plans—the killers determined they would need to leave no witnesses to their attempted robbery. Though arguably, both men had entered the property with a mind to murder before this revelation was made, which is something they would later allude to during separate interviews. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_7

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In the interim period between the above crime(s) taking place and the killers being apprehended, Truman Capote reportedly read an account of the crime in a New York newspaper. He then journeyed to Holcomb and with assistance from Harper Lee, though the extent of her involvement has been contested over the years, Capote conducted interviews and wider research as the case progressed. In December of 1959, the killers—Perry Smith and Dick Hickock—were apprehended and later sentenced to death for their crimes against the Clutter family. Spanning this, Capote continued in his research endeavours, interviewing both murderers, law enforcement officials, and satellite individuals from the wider Holcomb community. This research, and a period of determined writing that followed, would culminate in a series of articles published by a reputable newspaper in the United States. However, this serialised narrative would soon be acquired by Random House, who intended to publish the work as long-form prose. From this, In Cold Blood was established—originally published in 1965—and it would soon become a seminal work in the wider True Crime canon, alongside providing a working illustration of Capote’s (2000) intention to establish a hybridisation of long-form storytelling. On this endeavour he famously remarked: ‘I got this idea of doing a really serious big work–it would be precisely like a novel, with a single difference: every word of it would be true from beginning to end. I called this, in my mind, a nonfiction novel’ (Capote quoted in Levine 1966). However, as attested to by the likes of Jack De Bellis (1979), Capote (2000) would make considerable alterations to the text, thereby contradicting his assertion that every word of the work was true in the first instance. Herein lies the core problem of In Cold Blood existing, still, as a definitive work in the True Crime genre (Capote 2000). Significantly, despite his personal involvement with the real-life plot, Capote (2000) delivers the story of In Cold Blood from an all-knowing vantage point instead. Written in third-person narration, Capote (2000) adopts a heterodiegetic narrative perspective thereby allowing him to disavow the ‘I’ of his writing and become an anonymised and uninvolved character in the book. The motivations for this are something that will be interrogated in more detail over the course of the chapter that follows. In addition to this, another noteworthy feature of the text is Capote’s (2000) varied shifts between the narrative of Holcomb in the aftermath of the Clutter tragedy, and the dealings of both Smith and Hickock during their time on the run. Here, Capote (2000) resists opportunity for objectivity and instead through an arsenal of literary techniques presents a work that

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reads more novel than nonfiction. This is compounded by the many editorial changes made between the serialisation and novelisation of the work, too, that provide grounds on which to query Capote’s (2000) initial, and revised, authorial motivations. Through this querying I will argue that, despite Capote’s (2000) proximity to the case materials, his delivery of a novelisation that relies so heavily on creative license may well eliminate In Cold Blood from the sphere of True Crime where more loyalist narratives exist, ultimately adding credence to a need to dismantle the genre into more accurate subdivisions of writing.

Reflection: On Reading In Cold Blood I am around ten pages into Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood when this wave of sadness hits me, because I know what’s coming. The All-American Dream shines through the opening chapters, where the Clutters are established—specifically, Herb Clutter—as a family that have made something of their lives. They have contributed to their community, made an honest living for themselves. Somehow, details that haven’t even been delivered yet already cast a beacon; this shadow thrown by the American dream is a honey-glazed promise, fresh in Capote’s (2000) thick and tailored prose. The book itself is so firmly rooted in cultural commentary and critique that I read knowing the narrative will take a turn and that the idealised setting Capote (2000) creates in his opening span of Holcomb is a space that will later be bastardised by a terrible crime. Not only is this bastardisation inevitable—one of the details Capote (2000) upheld; he did not save the Clutters from their fate—but it is worsened by these moments wherein Herb’s life is narrated in summary, delivering him as a character who had worked hard, raised a family, and could now be content with his innings in life. Herb Clutter’s early morning moments with Babe, the family’s tired workhorse, and his eventual walk along the river are a false floor that will be parted, soon, by four wraps from a shotgun; that Capote (2000) boldly portrays as an incident fit to end six lives altogether. The implication here that the killers themselves should be herded into the same category of tragedy as the victims proper is the first in many problematic assertions that Capote (2000) will make, though perhaps he thought his portrayal of the killers would induce enough sympathy in a reader to encourage them towards his way of thinking. Regardless of whether this intention is realised, Capote (2000) knew what he was doing when he wrote his cast of ‘main characters’, and I’m not only impressed but infuriated by this early and apparent manipulation of me as a reader.

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‘It’s brilliant,’ I call a friend to tell her. ‘And I’m furious about it.’ I return to this area of consideration, some short time on from my having read In Cold Blood cover to cover (Capote 2000). Still, the time between that completion and this annotation has done nothing to lessen the severity of my reaction to the work. I’ve isolated some of my objection down to the use of the word ‘novel’ in conjunction with ‘nonfiction’. The two terms, to me, form an oxymoron that I struggle with. I struggle, too, with the blanket acknowledgement and apparent acceptance of the fact that Capote (2000) fictionalised entire portions of the book; a reality that seems to have been forgiven, for the sake of having crafted something deemed literary by industry standards. Having read more around True Crime—both insofar as books belonging to the genre, and theory relating to it—I find it even more troubling that In Cold Blood is hailed as a turning point in this canon of work (Capote 2000). While admittedly Capote (2000) makes great effort to retell a crime in a gripping fashion, he does so in a manner that is in part fictitious, too, and whether the book identifies as True Crime or not—forgive the phrasing, that proposes a book has such autonomy—it is still bucking the genre conventions of nonfiction; a heading used to denote works that are not fiction, nor fictionalised. Unless, somehow, nonfiction and True Crime alike both exist on a precarious and sliding scale. Continued: Consider Helter Skelter as a point of comparison or difference to In Cold Blood (Bugliosi 2015; Capote 2000). Here, the objectivity of Helter Skelter is apparent from the opening moments of the work (Bugliosi 2015). There is minimal usage of features like figurative language, adverbs, and adjectives. Bugliosi (2015) openly admits, too, that there are certain incidents and details contained within the book that have differing or contradictory versions attached to them. While potentially problematic in terms of creating a single or definitive narrative of a crime, this at least speaks to the truth of the situation as it was recorded. Meanwhile, the more research I conduct into In Cold Blood, the more glaring inaccuracies there look to have been reported (Capote 2000). On a micro level, some participants—or ‘characters’—of the work claim that conversations and remarks have been drastically misrepresented by the author. This has either been done through ignoring or altering the context in which something was said or amending the direct speech of what was said. Given Jack De Bellis’ (1979) linguistic analysis of the serialised version of this work in comparison to the novelised version, these alleged inaccuracies to direct or reported speech are even more believable.

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Meanwhile, on a macro level, the amendment I find most objectionable is the death row admission of guilt and remorse that many parties have since gone on record to assert simply did not happen. The greyscale morality here is something worthy of interrogation. The Clutter family left behind two children—two siblings, to Nancy and Kenyon—who did not attend the execution but, nevertheless, through Capote’s (2000) work have an admission of remorse from a killer who, at another time entirely, is reported by Capote as having felt no remorse at all. The conflicting accounts here are not only disrespectful to the remaining family members but also widen the already open gap that exists between In Cold Blood and nonfiction (Capote 2000). Continued again: It has taken months to comfortably admit that yes, In Cold Blood is an exceptionally well-written novel (Capote 2000). Capote (2000) wields figurative language, cinematic stylistics, and a great amount of pathos throughout—even for his killers—thereby creating an emotive narrative with a satisfying, albeit tweaked, conclusion. This is a view that I can—and have had to—disentangle from my reading of the work as True Crime, or indeed, as a hybridisation of nonfiction and fiction. As a caveat to that sentiment, I do believe nonfiction and fiction have seen shifts in their boundaries in recent years. However, I do not believe In Cold Blood was the book, True Crime or not, that spurred this shift (Capote 2000). Though this discussion likely belongs to another monograph entirely.

Third-Person Narration While many authors throughout this research project show a preference— or, if not a preference, then certainly an inclination towards—first-person narration, throughout In Cold Blood Capote (2000) takes on a notably omnipresent role instead. Here, Capote (2000) removes any sense of the authorial or narratorial ‘I’—though there are times when the narrative is clearly expressing judgement, and sometimes even intruding—in favour of a third-person narrative perspective. Though admittedly, there are times, too, when this third-person perspective shifts into a close third-person narration, intermittently offering moments expressed as though through the eyes of a certain character. One such example of this being when Perry Smith—one of two killers present within the book—is reading a newspaper report that details the funeral(s) held for the Clutter family. After reading this newspaper account, the narration of the work reads: ‘A thousand people! Perry was impressed’ (Capote 2000). Significantly, in the moments

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after this we observe Perry wonder at the cost of the funeral, too. This not only holds a reader in the third-person perspective of Perry but, I posit, provides a telling comment on his character, that this would be a thought to cross his mind in place of anything resembling guilt or remorse when faced with this report. Though of course, it must be remembered, here, that this thought—and indeed, the lack of remorse—are not necessarily Perry’s thoughts at all, but rather Capote’s (2000), as expressed through a strategic third-person lens. This is something a reader is encouraged to keep in mind throughout the discussion of third-person narration, insofar as what Capote’s (2000) authorial involvement in In Cold Blood really was, regardless of the lack of an explicit narratorial presence. Significantly, the murderers’ presences within the work are not the only occasions where a shift into close third person is observable. In an earlier moment of the text, Capote (2000) provides a close-up narrative encounter with one Andy Erhart, a family friend of the Clutters. It is noteworthy that, in the first instance, Erhart is a literal mouthpiece within the text, where he is directly quoted in expressing his complimentary views of the Clutter family, particularly Herb, who he met at university. Though it is worth noting, too, that this quotation is not attributed to a particular encounter nor interview, which allows Capote (2000) himself to remain removed from the narrative insofar as an authorial ‘I’ presence. However, it is in the moments after this where the narrative shift occurs, moving into a close third-person perspective of the character: ‘But that life, and what he’d made of it—how could it happen? Erhart wondered’ (Capote 2000). There is arguably an element of presupposition here, then, wherein Capote (2000) gives voice to information—or rather, thoughts—that he cannot possibly have access to, but has inferred from, one assumes, conversation(s) that took place between himself and the subject, Erhart. In this narrative shift, though, there is not only evident creative license to be observed in Capote (2000) placing thoughts into a character’s mouth, but also through the character’s later expression, too. When watching a bonfire in this scene, Erhart ‘wonders’ further at the fate of the Clutters and ruminates on how their lives could be reduced to something so tragic and at such speed: ‘could overnight be reduced to this—smoke, thinning as it rose and was received by the big, annihilating sky?’ (Capote 2000). It is this moment where I posit Capote’s (2000) implementation of close third-person narration warrants closer inspection. While In Cold Blood stands in ambiguity regarding the fictionalisation at play throughout, it is noteworthy that here Capote (2000) is dramatising an emotional

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moment—one assumes as a means to capitalise on pathos—through hyperbolic natural imagery that the character seems unlikely to have expressed of their own volition. Rather then, it is arguably the creative license of close third-person narration that has allowed Capote (2000) to shift into Erhart’s narrative stream, in order to express this domineering image. An element of this that reads as additionally striking is the way in which Erhart’s literal voice has been established within the text—through the quote that precedes this moment—ahead of the close third-person narration. There is, I suggest, an argument to make here that Capote (2000) may have utilised direct, quoted materials in the first instance as a means to substantiate or legitimise the close third-person narration that followed it. Thus, this structuring may provide grounds for a reader to assume the description or embellishment as belonging to Erhart, as it follows something that appears to be written in his authentic, literal voice. Significantly, too, this would not be a singular example of this balancing, but rather one of several incidents wherein Capote (2000) blurs the line between what is quoted—what may have been expressed to him ‘off-­ screen’, as it were—and what is assumed or embellished by the omnipresent narrative voice. A later example of this balancing comes between the third-person narration and Marie, Alvin Dewey’s wife. In this moment, Marie observes profile pictures of the two murderers in the Clutter case. Though there is an element of direct speech here—‘“Who are they?” Marie asked’—there is also close third-person narration that benefits from a similar linguistic embellishment to that noted above (Capote 2000). In this example, Marie takes in Smith’s ‘arrogant face’ with its ‘peculiar refinement’ and comments, too, on how ‘she thought the eyes, with their moist, dreamy, expression, rather pretty’ [my emphasis] (Capote 2000). It is noteworthy, too, that this is one of many examples wherein the third-person narration focuses in some details on Smith’s eyes. This, I suggest, further underscores the unlikeliness of these thoughts belonging to Marie in their entirety—even if one allows for a benefit of doubt that posits this close third-person narration is formed in part by comments made, again ‘off-­ screen’, between Marie and the author. Meanwhile, when Marie’s close third-person narration turns to Hickock—the convict who is throughout described in less favourable terms—a reader learns that his eyes ‘reminded [her] of a childhood incident’ involving a bobcat caught in a trap (Capote 2000). Marie had, allegedly, entertained the idea of freeing the creature but its eyes, ‘radiant with pain and hatred, had drained her of pity and

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filled her with terror’ instead (Capote 2000). Of course, there is no way to attest to the existence of this memory. However, it is noteworthy—and arguably somewhat convenient—that Marie, or rather this characterised version of her, was able to draw from a memory that is not only provocative in terms of its contents, but additionally allows a comparison between Hickock and an animal that, if seen in the wild, should not be approached or touched. In a similar style to the previous Erhart example, then, Capote’s (2000) third-person narration is again (over)embellishing details that, in context, seem unlikely to belong to the characters to whom these details, or the expression of such details, have been attributed. Rather than address a third example of this within the text—though there are readily available ones—it feels pertinent to turn back, instead, to the ways in which Capote (2000) employs (close) third-person narration when constructing his murderers. In a later example of this, through the viewpoint of Perry, it reads: ‘Things hadn’t changed much… He was still (and wasn’t it incredible, a person of his intelligence, his talents?) an urchin dependent, so to say, on stolen coins?’ (Capote 2000). Again, then, the language use here is especially striking, particularly the somewhat Dickensian usage of ‘urchin’ that portrays Perry as childlike, and perhaps in need of care and support from his society (Capote 2000). However, alongside that, the area I would like to interrogate in closer detail here is Capote’s (2000) use of bracketed information as part of the narrative. Far from adding noteworthy information to the text, this bracketed information can be read, I posit, in one of two ways. The first potential reading is that Perry—albeit through a close third-person narrative—is here voicing an inflated sense of self or ego, evidencing a grand self-worth in marking himself as a man of both intellect and talent. As it was mentioned earlier, though, in the case of Marie, there is no way of corroborating whether this is creative license, on the part of the author, or whether this idea is formed, somehow, from information the author was given ‘off-screen’. The second potential reading that should be entertained, however, is that this is a partial slip in Capote’s (2000) third-person narration wherein the thoughts of the author himself become especially pronounced. As though offering an authorial aside, this bracketed information might be attributed to Capote (2000) entirely as his comment on the character, rather than the character’s self-perception. Of course, while there are grounds to argue against this, throughout In Cold Blood Capote (2000) narrates what has famously been noted as a preference for Perry over Hickock insofar as how the murderers are represented. Thus, I posit this as a lapse in Capote’s (2000)

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omnipresence where, far from reading close third-person narration, this may well be a first-person interlude. Throughout, then, there is an element of versatility in terms of how Capote (2000) utilises third-person narrative perspectives. However, the crux of this usage is the ways in which he employs this narrative style to make a mouthpiece of characters that not only moves the text along, but provides moments of rhetoric, emotion, and tension building that obscures a character’s views and instead incorporates the author’s, albeit in an implicit, covert manner.

Establishing Voice(s) Parallel to the area of third-person narration, it is worthwhile, too, to consider the ways in which Capote (2000) establishes voices across the text. This is another area where close inspection of the murderers proves fruitful, particularly insofar as the ways in which Capote (2000) narrates their views of each other. Perry and Dick’s relationship is portrayed as changeable and volatile throughout their shared arc, despite them having joined forces in the first instance for their crimes against the Clutters. Here, for example, we can observe the ways in which Capote (2000) adopts close third-person narration to express Dick’s views on Perry: ‘Dick was sick of him’ (Capote 2000). In this tirade Capote (2000), through Dick’s focus, comments not only on concrete elements of Perry’s character that are tiresome—such as his use of a harmonica—but also the more abstract and, incidentally, creatively communicated qualities that cause Dick anguish: ‘the weepy, womanly eyes, the nagging, whispering voice’. Tangential to this point, it can be observed here, as noted above, that Capote (2000) evidences a preoccupation with Perry’s eyes that arises through these close third-person interludes, and through different characters, over the course of the book. Soon after this, too, comes the remark: ‘Suspicious, self-­ righteous, spiteful, he [Perry] was like a wife that must be got rid of’ (Capote 2000). This extract is significant for a number of reasons. On the level of sentence structuring, Capote’s (2000) use of listing compounds Perry’s ‘negative’ qualities, making them appear as never-ending. Additionally, and on the note of literary technique, the use of sibilance draws the list out further while also endowing Dick’s voice—given that he is the articulator of these thoughts—with something snake-like, that has the potential to implicitly introduce imagery around his character, rather than the character of Perry. Finally, then, the comparison of Perry as a wife

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not only draws on homoerotic elements between the two killers but, arguably, places Perry in a degraded position. A reader is encouraged to remember temporal and social context here, given that Capote (2000) was writing during a time when women were considered to be lesser insofar as their social standing. This, coupled with the notion that in this role Perry is something that ‘must be got rid of’, further underscores Dick’s irritation with and distaste for his co-conspirator (Capote 2000). Through establishing voice in this way—wherein Dick appears to have a sincere dislike for Perry—Capote (2000) is also alluding to the power dynamic of the pair; again, this is compounded by the comparison of Perry to a wife figure. Nevertheless, in capturing Dick’s voice in such a way, Capote (2000) constructs him as being the more dominant and determined of the two. Significantly, there is no implication that Dick needs Perry for anything either, which is also telling in terms of their power roles in the narrative arc. Beyond Perry and Dick’s relationship, however, there are other voices captured, most notably that of Alvin Dewey. Admittedly, this example again treads into the realm of close third-person narration. However, for its pathos and indeed for its capturing of a character through narrated thoughts—or rather, through a character’s inner-voice—it feels pertinent to address under this subheading. During an interview setting later in the text, official police body Alvin Dewey ‘envisions’ the Clutter family during the home invasion that would eventually lead to their deaths (Capote 2000). Pathos here is capitalised on by paragraph structuring that sandwiches this moment, in Dewey’s voice, between quoted materials, which one could argue adds a level of authenticity to Dewey’s narrative, too, given that it looks to capture his real-time reaction(s) to these quoted materials. After this initial imagining, however, the narrative moves into a more explicit use of voice to document Dewey’s feelings on the mounting situation: ‘Herb couldn’t have suspected, or he would have fought. He was a gentle man but strong and no coward’ (Capote 2000). Here, then, the use of voice becomes more explicit through this character description by a character that implies both an intimacy and knowledge between Dewey and the Clutter family, most notably Herb. The use of italics is also noteworthy as it suggests an insistence on the matter, which further capitalises on Dewey’s voice in this moment, alongside his intimate knowledge of Herb. Though of course, it should also be noted that this is a much more subtle instance of Capote’s (2000) construction of voice than in the

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previous example. Still, I posit this speaks to the versatility of this technique—or rather, how this technique is utilised—throughout the work. Additionally, there are occasions, too, wherein Capote (2000) constructs voices—or perhaps, hypothetical voices—for relatively minor, but still essential characters. Ready examples of this come in the form of character witnesses involved in the Clutters’ murder trial, with the first example stemming from one Dr Jones. Here, the narration states: ‘had Dr Jones been allowed to speak further, here is what he would have testified’ (Capote 2000). The implication here is clear then: Dr Jones was not able to provide this additional testimony. However, the narration then details— in direct speech, no less—a testimony relating to the mental state and abilities of Richard ‘Dick’ Hickock as though shared by an expert witness. This is speculative voice-making at best that exhibits intrusive and influential narration from Capote (2000), despite being framed as a direct quote from someone else. There is no additional context provided to assert or to help a reader to ascertain where this information came from either; whether, indeed, Jones conveyed this information to the author in private or something in a similar vein. Thus, the conclusions that can be drawn regarding where this voice comes from are limited to assuming the creative license of Capote (2000), manifesting in such a way that he may dictate a reader’s understanding(s) and perception of a central figure in the book’s narrative. This speculation happens for a second time, regarding the same character witness, too, shortly after this first incident. Again, the omnipresent narrative voice postulates: ‘had Dr Jones been permitted discourse… he would have testified’ (Capote 2000). Following this, a statement is provided—framed, again, as though it is direct speech—that testifies to the mental state of Perry Smith, considering his levels of intelligence and eventually leading to a suggestion regarding his suffering from a severe, and previously undiagnosed, mental illness. Similarly, there are ambiguities again around this second statement insofar as its real source. While Capote (2000) makes reference to there having been some corroboration of this diagnosis from another healthcare professional, it is still challenging to ascertain the realities of these courtroom dealings—insofar as witness testimonies, at least—when pitted against the creative telling of the author. A final, and somewhat overt, utilisation of voice can be found in Capote’s (2000) retelling of the execution scene. Here, rather than establishing voice for one or more named characters, the author provides direct speech as it is said by several unnamed characters instead. Capote (2000)

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denotes back-and-forth dialogue between a reporter and other characters present in the minutes before one of the executions taking place. However, what makes this especially noteworthy is twofold. In the first instance, it is the use of direct speech at all—rather than close third-person narration or voice-making. In the second instance, it is the way in which Capote (2000) constructs rhythm in this scene, through his use of dialogue, in a way that reads as especially reminiscent of fictional narratives. There is a notable pace set here that reads as more appropriate for a novel, rather than a nonfiction work. The way in which this accelerates the tension of this scene is clear, from the manner in which the dialogue expands to fit the moments before the detail of Smith being ‘brought into the warehouse’, where his execution will take place (Capote 2000). While the use of voice here is not necessarily problematic—as I posit it may be in the aforementioned examples—it is noteworthy still in underscoring the author’s obvious awareness of the ways in which voice(s) can be utilised as a technique that strengthens other, key elements of the work. Thus, the establishment of voice stands as a strong feature within Capote’s (2000) craft. Though it is also a means through which the author can blur lines between factual and fictive, that speak, overall, to the potential problem of how this book is classified insofar as its nonfiction status.

Characterising the Killers Already there have been allusions made to the ways in which Capote (2000) introduces his killers, alongside the ways in which he embellishes them as characters, too. The incident above regarding the voice of Dick, and his thoughts on Perry, is one such example of this characterisation. The character of character description—a technique often utilised in fiction—of Perry here is especially striking for the ways in which he is made womanly, superstitious, and, though not outright stated, apparently quite irritating—at least to Dick. This is doubly effective in characterising the killers as not only does a reader receive a description of Perry through this—albeit one that reads as especially subjective—but a reader is also, through this description, exposed to the harsh temper of Dick, too, which is something Capote (2000) had alluded to previously in the timeline. Interestingly, though, when this earlier critique of Dick’s temper does appear, it is again communicated through a character by character description, this time allowing Perry to be the mouthpiece.

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In a doubly effective manner again, the close third-person narration through Perry—to be sampled from shortly—provides evidence for Perry’s own characterisation, too. Here, Perry is seen to lash out at Dick for the misinformation received from a fellow convict; the information that formed the basis of their plan to invade the Clutter home in the first instance. After raising this shortfall on Dick’s part insofar as having planned but not properly prepared for their shared crime, Perry wonders whether he has been ‘[a] bit below the belt’ in lashing out the way he did, but ultimately decides that ‘Dick deserved it’ (Capote 2000). The strength of character shown by Perry is, admittedly, not something that Capote (2000) readily leans on elsewhere throughout the book, where Perry is the notably weaker of the two murderers. However, here, Perry exhibits a strong awareness of the situation and, indeed, of his partner, whose confidence he describes as being ‘like a kite that needed reeling in’ (Capote 2000). This use of figurative language implies Dick’s confidence as something both changeable and arguably vulnerable to spiralling out of control, without a proper tethering, which is the part Perry looks to play in this scenario. In addition to what this encounter shows a reader of both men, there are further comments added through the close third-person narration that document Perry’s observations of Dick’s face, where ‘symptoms of fury’ were ‘rearranging [his] expression’ (Capote 2000). This fury, allegedly, manifested in a slackening of Dick’s ‘jaw, lips, the whole face’, and ‘saliva bubbles’ that began to appear at the side of his mouth (Capote 2000). Insofar as language use, again here Capote (2000) is characterising Dick through terms that suggest a distinct lack of control. However, here, rather than relying on genteel imagery—such as the case with the kite simile—Dick appears more animal-like. The use of ‘symptoms’ implies something either medically or physiologically wrong with the man (Capote 2000). Though it may be reaching, there is arguably a connotative thread here that ties this symptomatic physiological change in Dick to very early theories on criminology, where it was proposed that criminal inclinations were indeed something that could be observed in an individual by studying their appearance (Brookes 2023). Alongside this, the narration of spit forming, foaming even, at the sides of his mouth reads as distinctly reminiscent of a feral animal; again, a creature that is changeable and likely to spiral beyond control. This alone marks this as a significant incident in terms of how both killers are characterised. However, Capote (2000) does not pause his commentary there. The embellishment continues, still, through Capote’s

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(2000) close third-person narration that provides details of Perry thinking through the possibilities of a physical fight between himself and Dick. Here, Perry admits to his physical strengths—he ‘had arms that could squeeze the life out of a bear’—alongside his shortfalls—‘[h]e was short… his runty, damaged legs were unreliable’—in consideration for how well he is matched to his partner (Capote 2000). However, I posit that what is especially significant here is the narration: ‘Perry could defend himself’ (Capote 2000). This remark introduces the comments made regarding Perry’s physicality. The use of the term ‘defend’ reads as especially telling in this, though, given that it implicitly acknowledges the assumption that, if faced with a violent situation, Perry would not be the instigator of it but would only be a participant insofar as defending himself (Capote 2000). Ultimately, then, in the wider context of this encounter, Capote (2000) is again utilising his killers as mouthpieces for characterisation, wherein one is developing or contributing towards the image a reader is given of the other. Complementary to this, there are noteworthy moments much earlier in the text where—having not yet established a precedent for close third-­ person narration—Capote (2000) instead uses his omnipresent narratorial voice to characterise both killers, at the beginnings of their narrative arc. One relatively subtle moment of this occurs when, following reported speech from Perry, the narrative voice states that Perry’s own voice is ‘gentle and prim’, ‘soft’, and able to tailor each word of his sentence so that it is ‘ejected… like a smoke ring issuing from a parson’s mouth’ (Capote 2000). Here, Perry is described with a notable delicacy insofar as his spoken communication skills and that is compounded further by the figurative language that draws a parallel between this communication and something as fragile as a smoke ring, rather than a more concrete or tangible image. Alongside this, the allusion to a parson is especially significant, too, as it implicitly attaches religious connotations to Perry’s speech, as though imbuing something sacred in his remarks. For wider context, the reported speech attached to Perry prior to this is, ‘Because he [Dick] hates me’, a sentiment that alone has the potential to elicit pathos from a reading audience (Capote 2000). Incidentally, though, what Capote (2000) is setting a precedent for here is the idealised and gentle descriptions that, over the book, become strongly associated with Perry’s character. Evidence has already been provided for this in the above sentiment, too, where Perry is doubtful over his confrontation with Dick, for example, and unlikely to instigate violence himself, even though his role in this

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wider narrative is that of a murderer who assisted in the deaths of no fewer than four people. Parallel to this, the genteel descriptions of Perry look to be heightened still through the characterisation of Dick, who is oftentimes described as both a physically and mentally repellent character. In support of this remark, there is one especially pertinent example— again, taken from earlier in the text—in which Dick’s physical appearance is described in especially unpleasant language. In the first instance, a reader learns of the ‘inky gallery’ adorning Dick’s skin, and his general ‘physique’ is paired with this, too, though only in a passing mention rather than in detail (Capote 2000). After, however, Capote (2000) frames Dick’s face for a reader by comparing it to something ‘composed of mismatching parts’. It is noted, too, that it looked ‘as though his [Dick’s] head had been halved like an apple’ before being pieced back together, albeit ‘a fraction off centre’ (Capote 2000). Admittedly, Capote (2000) proceeds to note Dick’s features in less figurative terms after this, documenting that a car crash had led to permanent physical damage, most notably in Dick’s face. His face, a reader learns, had been left ‘tilted’ by the incident, with ‘aslant’ lips and eyes that were both out of balance in terms of their sizing and positioning (Capote 2000). This objectivity slips, though, when Capote’s (2000) narration strays into subjective telling, to propose something ‘serpentine’ about the appearance of Dick’s left eye specifically. Somehow, this one small feature of the killer’s expression is documented in rich language, to eventually propose ‘a bitter sediment at the bottom of his nature’; thus here, the deformity of one eye alone becomes, according to Capote (2000), evidential of Dick’s entire character. Subsequently, then, this is not only a short catalogue of evidence regarding the ways in which Capote (2000) characterised his killers, but the disparities that become apparent through these characterisation techniques, too. Historically, accusations have been made regarding Capote’s (2000) depictions of Perry and Dick and whether there is an observable favouritism—for Perry—to be noted throughout the book. While my own discussion is not exhaustive enough to posit a complete answer to that query, it nevertheless seems a fair assertion to make that this brief study regarding the killers’ characterisations would at least lend support to the favouritism argument. In the context of this research project, though, this provides a worthy discussion point related to authenticity and accuracy— that will be addressed in detail later—regarding whether or not Capote (2000) provided a balanced and fair representation of these men and their role(s) in his narrative.

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Dressing the Scene While Capote (2000) makes great efforts to develop his characters throughout the work, it is also pertinent to consider the ways in which he dresses the wider scenes, insofar as the landscape(s) where the narrative(s) is rooted. Significantly, Capote’s (2000) dressing of the landscape is one of the first strands of his writing that a reader will encounter when, at the opening of the work, he roots an audience in Holcomb, a place that ‘stands on the high wheat plains of western Kansas’, that is a ‘lonesome area’, too. In conjunction with this, Capote (2000) embellishes the landscape further with descriptions of Holcomb’s ‘aimless congregation[s] of buildings’ and its nightly noises that range from ‘the keening hysteria of coyotes’ through to ‘scuttling tumbleweed’. These opening descriptions are varied, though it must be noted that they do not provide evidence of figurative language used to the same extent that other literary features are within the text—for example, those characterisation techniques noted above. Here, Capote (2000) is evidently establishing an approachable landscape for a reader by employing clear images and easily recognisable noises that place Holcomb in the same familiar (literary) schema that readers may have in reserve from their encounters—whether real or fictionalised—of other smalltown American landscapes. After this, however, the descriptions of landscape become increasingly more focused, and indeed more specific in their level of detailing, too. A later example of this comes when Capote (2000) begins documenting the ‘grim information’ regarding the deaths of the Clutters and the ways it was being ‘announced from church pulpits, distributed over telephone wires, publicised’ by radio stations, among other outlets, which succeeds in compounding the earlier notions of Holcomb as a smalltown setting. This is eventually funnelled down into an overt mention of Hartman’s Café that Capote (2000) dresses with enough detail for a reader to imagine this small landscape, too: ‘[it] contains four roughly made tables and a lunch counter, could accommodate but a fraction of the frightened gossips, mostly male, who wished to gather there’. Interestingly, then, by pairing a concrete, tangible landscape—that of the café—with something abstract and therefore intangible—that being the gossip housed within it—Capote (2000) is again making significant comments about the setting in which the Clutter crime took place. This sentence alone exaggerates both the smallness of the diner and the magnitude of the worry sweeping through the town, albeit in a covert manner, particularly in comparison to some of

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the other narratorial intrusions that have already been noted. This pairing of concrete and abstract insofar as the town and public concern would be something returned to later by Capote (2000), though this time when narrating the setting of the Sheriff’s Office. For this setting, Capote (2000) again documents specific details that dress the scene as ‘three under-furnished, overcrowded rooms’ that occupy a space on ‘the third floor of the county courthouse’. Though this is paired with a notably more creative narrative regarding the atmosphere of the setting, that he comments was ‘almost sinister’ (Capote 2000). In conjunction with this, the narratorial voice proceeds to explain that ‘a quivering stillness’ had come to occupy the landscape, as a replacement for the ‘angry thrum’ of the weeks before (Capote 2000). Again, then, there is an interesting pairing to be noted insofar as the smalltown descriptions that are aligned, or perhaps exaggerated, by the feelings that are too large for the landscapes themselves. Prior to this moment, there is a noteworthy narration on Garden City as a landscape, too, where it is portrayed as a space in which ‘secrets are an unusual commodity’; the implication here being that for a town so small, secrets often do not remain secret for long (Capote 2000). This continues the back-and-forth trend of showing space and feeling, or physical and abstract, as bedfellows in Capote’s (2000) scene setting. Despite these moments wherein the scene is dressed in an objective, albeit emotionally stylised fashion, there are moments, too, where the narrative voice takes on a more overt, influential drive insofar as how a scene is depicted. One such example of this comes in the cinematic description of the Mojave Desert, where Dick and Perry are awaiting a charitable enough driver to give them a lift to their next destination. Here, through a close third person narrative that aligns a reader with Dick again, the highway is portrayed through especially emotive terms: ‘his eyes fixed upon the immaculate emptiness [of Route 66] as though the fervour of his gaze could force motorists to materialise’ (Capote 2000). This reads as an archetypal description of a relatively unpopulated American highway that again may draw on schemas that a reading audience has for such a landscape. However, the dramatisation of this—coupled with the earlier note that shows Perry, too, ‘sitting on a straw suitcase’ and ‘playing a harmonica’—is reminiscent of filmic adaptations wherein the convicts are endeavouring to escape, and taking an abandoned highway as their chosen route to freedom (Capote 2000). In that sense, then, Capote’s (2000) dressing of this scene—or perhaps, this moment—becomes doubly effective insofar

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as how it reads as fictive. In the first instance, he is portraying a vast landscape through a character’s eyes, without anything to substantiate the character’s view. Thus, this is most likely creative license on Capote’s (2000) part to capture what he believed Dick would have seen, and thought, rather than rooting the description in something evidential— such as, for example, quoted materials. In the second instance, the fictive element of this is capitalised on further by the parallelism between this written scene and similar scenes that would appear in visual art. In accompaniment to this distinct stylisation there is another moment that I posit fits under a similar heading. This comes much later in the text and sees Capote (2000) again narrate scenic details relating to Garden City. However, in this instance, he does so in such a way that it draws allusions to the killers themselves, too, despite their physical absence from the scene. Here, Capote (2000) narrates several geographical markers that route a reader in the centre of the city, including Main Street, two hotels, the corner point between Main Street and another road, before eventually, significantly, arriving at the courthouse. There is especially manipulative language use here that stems from Capote’s (2000) depiction of two tomcats who traverse along the distance narrated. Capote (2000) establishes these ‘thin, dirty strays’, notably ‘bony [and] methodical’, too, commenting on the ways in which they observe and hunt through the landscape. There is an implicit comparison that can be read here that these animals are parallel to the characters of Dick and Perry insofar as their hunting endeavours and the way they, too, have effectively moved through this city with their violent behaviours. Further evidence for this animal parallel can be provided by Capote’s (2000) intermittent use of figurative language throughout that, on occasions, describes the killers in animal terms. One such example of this being the suggestion that Perry demonstrated ‘the aura of an exiled animal’ that comes shortly after the tomcat narration (Capote 2000). Thus, this is not Capote (2000) singularly dressing a scene for a reader but rather re-dressing his heavily characterised killers, too, through the lens of these natural predators. It would be remiss to conclude a discussion of the scenes and settings throughout In Cold Blood without considering to some degree the way in which Capote (2000) dressed the murder scene—or rather, what would become the murder scene. Described in such a manner that it mirrors the American Dream afforded to the Clutter family in the initial introductions of their characters, their house itself is also described in grand terms that evidence their achievements and social mobility. ‘[T]he handsome white

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house’ is described as being situated ‘on an ample lawn of groomed Bermuda grass’ creating an exterior that is at once impressive and, as commented above, demonstrative of the Clutter’s achievements (Capote 2000). The interior is described in similarly impressive terms, with ‘varnished, resounding floors’, ‘an immense modernistic living-room couch’ and upholstery showing ‘glittery strands of silver metal’ (Capote 2000). Here, again, Capote (2000) is describing the Clutters’ home setting in terms that evidence their comfortable living, alongside their—or rather perhaps, Herb’s—work endeavours that have clearly culminated in a quiet and respectable life for the family at large. There are later occasions that are noteworthy in this vein, too, insofar as language use and the way in which it evidences both something of the scene and something of a character, when Capote (2000) comments on Nancy’s bedroom. Here, we learn that the teenager’s private space was ‘girlish, and as frothy as a ballerina’s tutu’ which not only portrays a highly feminine landscape but also implicitly acknowledges some of the youth and innocence of Nancy herself (Capote 2000). Throughout, Capote (2000) reiterates the presence of ‘pink’ on several occasions, underscoring these feminine elements, and he emphasises them further by adorning the scene with trinkets that position Nancy’s love interest, Bobby, in the space as well. For example, the plush animal that Bobby won for Nancy at a local fair and snapshots both of Bobby alone and of him on days out and special occasions with Nancy. Subsequently, then, Capote’s (2000) use of scene setting here and elsewhere becomes a doubly effective tool through which he is able to comment on both the geographical space as a literal landscape, but also on the occupants of that space on both a macro—meaning, the entire town—and indeed micro— meaning, individual characters—level.

Language Use It is seemingly without a hint of irony that Capote (2000) narrates: ‘Imagination… can open any door’ and ‘let terror walk right in’. The way in which he articulates a smalltown wherein most residents know each other, paired with the way in which he demonstrates, in the first instance, the ease with which violence permeates a landscape and, in the second instance, the reverberations of that violence, re-purpose the above quotation from a neatly expressed sentiment to something that reads more like a framing device for Capote’s (2000) authorial intentions. It has been

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demonstrated already that he made at least one of his killers into a mismatched figure with an intimidating physique. Meanwhile Perry, too, despite Capote’s (2000) efforts at softening the character, is shown as being physically strapping—enough to fight against his comrade, at least— and their pairing does, I posit, make for a narrative formed by elements of terror. Of course, this only acknowledges part of Capote’s (2000) above sentiment. The role that imagination plays throughout In Cold Blood will be addressed under later subheadings, during the discussion(s) of evidentiary materials and authenticity (Capote 2000). Up to this point in the chapter, there has already been evidence provided of Capote’s (2000) notably creative language. While there are occasions where the omnipresent third-person narration is objective, there are times, too, when this slips into a narrative that treads more towards fictive techniques, often communicated in such a way that it has potential to lead reaction(s) for a reading audience, too. It has been alluded to already how Capote (2000) narrated physical elements of both killers, not only using creative language but language with what looks to be deliberate effects in mind. Though there were also times when these depictions were softened somewhat. Take, for instance, the assertion that they were ‘[s]crubbed, combed, as tidy as two dudes setting off on a double date’ (Capote 2000). This simile minimises the threat and terror of the killers and instead positions them in a narrative framework that seems altogether more natural, and non-violent, for two young men in this social context. That said, another potential effect of this simile that is noteworthy is the implied strength of comradeship between the two men as well. In aligning them as two young men setting off anywhere together, Dick and Perry are depicted as a unit, which is, incidentally, how they are carried throughout the work. This is strengthened by their close observations of and notable reliance on each other—albeit depicted through Capote’s (2000) third-person narration—despite their mounting dislike of each other, too. However, there is one reveal—interestingly, a detail that was back-­ pocketed by Capote (2000) until much later in the text—that not only speaks to characterisation, or character representation, but to language use and narrative structuring, too. As though keeping this information until the moment when it could impart the greatest impact, it is many chapters into the work when Capote (2000) reveals Dick’s ‘sexual interest in female children’. This is something that, through the close third-person narration of Dick, is described as ‘a failing’, which is an evident use of understatement that worsens the admission further, given the implication here that

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Dick sees this only as a character shortfall but does not express anything akin to guilt over the matter (Capote 2000). Significantly, it is not until much later again when Capote (2000) samples from Dick’s own written communications—thereby providing an authentic first-person narration— and, during this, Dick does express guilt over his feelings towards young girls. In further support of this character reveal, though, Capote (2000) comments on an encounter Dick had with a young girl during which ‘[h]er hand, held by his, twitched like a fish on a hook’. This utilisation of simile again is an especially striking use of figurative language that creates a parallel between the young girl in this moment and something caught, or trapped, very much against its will. There is even potential to draw physical pain, or at least discomfort, implied by this simile. In addition to that, the passivity of the girl—her hand being held by his, rather than an alternative telling that might have only shown the pair holding hands— compounds Dick’s agency in this and covertly underscores his dominance over the female character. Following this, the narration continues to note how Dick recognised the expression of astoundment on the girl’s face because it was something he had seen during ‘earlier incidents in his career’ (Capote 2000). This word choice—‘career’—is especially provocative given that it implies a level of professionalism or even expertise in relation to Dick’s history of grooming young girls (Capote 2000). It is imperative to remember, however, that this is Capote’s (2000) narration of the matter and not something that was sampled from or supported by evidentiary materials; at least, that is how it appears through its representation in the text. The way in which Capote (2000) constructs this evidences a clear attempt at manipulation through placing Dick in a predatory role— one that he appears to express no ill feeling over initially, even though this is contradicted later—that acts as an additional counterbalance to the milder representations of Perry throughout. That said, there is also noteworthy language use to be found in the narration where Perry’s thoughts on the Clutter crime are documented. Significantly, this comes in the form of a first-person voice again as Perry’s thoughts on the murders are here shared through an extract of reported speech, during a conversation with one Donald Cullivan. Throughout this, Perry admits that his decision to murder the Clutters was an autonomous one—meaning, Dick in fact had little to no sway or influence. Though Perry posits, too, that he does not quite understand why he wanted to kill them at all, given that the fear of discovery—for having attempted a robbery, that is—was not a chief motivation behind the

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murders. However, around this straightforward first-person narration, Capote (2000) still finds space for narratorial embellishment through language use. For example, on the query of why Perry instigated the murders taking place, Capote (2000) portrays the killer as inspecting this topic like it was ‘a newly unearthed stone of surprising, unclassified colour’. While Perry’s postulations on the matter continue, so, too, do narratorial interludes, that show Perry holding this stone of an idea ‘to the light, and angling it now here, now there’ (Capote 2000). The significance of this language use is multifaceted. In the first instance, the image of Perry holding this unearthed stone places him in an explorational role; this compounds the levels of introspection that are voiced through his accompanying testimony, too. In the second instance, the description of this stone places Perry’s confessional narrative as something with a precious element. The notion of it as something recently excavated reads as appropriate, too, given that he is here documenting—or rather perhaps, admitting to— these thoughts and feelings for the first time. Additionally, the way in which Perry inspects this stone—or idea—under the light dramatises his introspective qualities and implies a need to see, and indeed understand, the idea on a deeper level than he has been able to prior to this moment. This language use is significant insofar as the ways in which Capote’s (2000) narratorial voice strays into creative telling, even when his third-­ person omnipresent placement comes second to someone else’s first-­ person account. Alongside that, though, it is interesting to study this language—wherein, it must be remembered, one character is ruminating on their decision to commit murder—in conjunction with the language use above, associated with Dick. Even when he is not directly describing the characters, then, Capote (2000) is still utilising language so that the figurative becomes a satellite element that helps to dress the killers in positive and negative implications.

Quoted Materials Capote’s (2000) use of quoted materials throughout In Cold Blood is a vast area for dispute, which will be addressed in full under the authenticity and accuracy subheading. However, it is worth considering in greater detail how quoted materials are indeed integrated throughout the text, so that we may posit suggestions as to the effect Capote (2000) was striving to achieve by having used them. Earlier it was noted that Capote (2000) provides quoted materials that run on for some length, evidencing

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first-person testimonials from both killers, included at latter stages in the book. However, there are earlier examples than this to consider, too, that integrate what appear to be quoted extracts or, at the very least, phrases. That said, there is little attribution provided insofar as the sources of these quotes to confirm where the information or reported speech was sampled from. Early instances of this involve both killers again that demonstrate Capote’s (2000) initial technique(s) used for incorporating their voices into the narrative. An especially striking example of this comes through their potted history, when Dick is purportedly telling, one assumes, Capote (2000), what life was like for himself and for Perry when they first began to collude regarding the Clutter robbery-turned-murder. These soundbites of information—often only a word or phrase at a time—are distributed throughout these moments where, through the narratorial voice still working on an omnipresent level, we observe a retelling of Dick and Perry filling up with gas and engaging in idle chatter with a station attendant. Imbedded within this, there are moments where Capote (2000) moves into the close third-person narrative again to give voice, or rather thought, to Dick, who is given the line ‘he’d thought Perry “a good guy”’, if a bit ‘stuck on himself’. Thus, this provides one of many examples wherein we are led to believe the narratorial voice is capturing core elements of Dick’s own testimony—again, one assumes, testimony that must have been shared with the author at some time—through this close narration of his thinking. This is something that is continued throughout this stretch of the work, too, leading to the eventual reveal that ‘Dick became convinced that Perry was that rarity, “a natural killer”’ (Capote 2000). In the context of the wider narrative, this is a bold assertion to make, particularly in the framing moments of the story before an audience has been allowed to fully observe either of the killers or form their own impressions of them. However, despite the potential influence of this, it must be acknowledged, too, that again there is no context provided at all for the circumstances under which Dick allegedly made this comment or other comments alluded to here. Nor is there information to provide the surrounding narrative of this remark in terms of a sentence-level context either. By this I mean to play the devil’s advocate and posit: What if the wider sentence were, ‘I struggled to see Perry as a natural killer’? Of course, there is no supporting evidence for this, and therefore, it is troublesome conjecture on my authorial part that much could be fairly argued. However, alongside that, in the interest of balance, it could be argued

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again that there is no supporting evidence that Capote (2000) has provided a fair context either, insofar as when the original remark was made or the circumstances of it being said. There is a notably similar incident to this later in the text, where again Capote (2000) integrates reported speech—or reported phrases—into a close third-person narration of Dick. Here, we learn that ‘there was, in Dick’s opinion, “something wrong” with Little Perry’ (Capote 2000). The framing of this as opinion openly attributes the remark to Dick, then, but again there is no wider context for when this was said. Alongside which, there is a query to be raised around Capote’s (2000) use of ‘Little Perry’. The capitalisation of this makes a full name of the ‘little’ remark, though what this is referring to—Perry’s influence, his stature, his age— remains unclarified (Capote 2000). All one can be certain of is that this comment was not attributed to Dick in the same reported manner as the comment preceding it. Additionally, as this portion of the narrative continues, there is something noteworthy, too, about the ways in which Capote (2000) explains ‘that temper of his’, meaning Perry’s, though this specific comment is narratorial, rather than allocated speech (from Dick). Following this, Dick is reported as having said that Perry’s temper could escalate ‘quicker than ten drunk Indians’, coupled with the later assertion that ‘[h]e might be ready to kill you, but you’d never know it’, after which it reads ‘Dick once said’ (Capote 2000). While Capote (2000) is following something akin to a proper procedure, insofar as appropriating these remarks to Dick, the lack of context around their being said remains problematic. This is an issue that becomes particularly pronounced when compared to the ways in which other authors in this monograph have attributed speech in their work. Consider Bugliosi (2015)—who was consistently explicit in citing materials—and McNamara (2018), to come, who documented conversations that took place between herself and a subject, which authenticates their presence in her work. Capote’s (2000) lack of attribution unavoidably causes doubt in terms of how seriously some of these remarks, particularly the more inflammatory ones, can be taken and that is especially problematic for the ‘nonfiction’ element of Capote’s (2000) intentions for the book. It is significant that there are other instances of reported speech, or reported phrases, throughout the book, and this was not a stylistic feature limited to the killers alone. One such example appeared earlier, when it was documented what Marie Dewey reportedly thought, and then said, the first time she saw pictures of the killers. Following this, the narration

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includes the dialogue: ‘Think of those eyes. Coming towards you… I wish you hadn’t shown me’ (Capote 2000). While Marie’s reaction is admittedly an appropriate and reasonable one—and there is, admittedly again, a very real possibility that this might have been a reaction she shared at the time— the documentation of it as reported speech claims an accuracy that Capote (2000) could not have been privy to, on account of simply not having been present. This is interlinking with much literary criticism around the book, penned by those who both praise and condemn the ways in which Capote (2000) used ‘quoted’ materials. This is despite the fact that ‘numerous interviews were conducted entirely without aid of recorders or pencils’ and, of course, Marie Dewey’s reported speech here is not even narrated as something garnered from an interview, but rather something the omnipresent narratorial presence only claims happened (De Bellis 1979).

Authenticity and Accuracy The authenticity and accuracy of In Cold Blood are both widely contested and controversial areas (Capote 2000). Garrett (1996) and other critics have written extensively on these matters, with Garrett himself positing that the matter of accuracy in the work was ‘not strictly relevant’. This is said even though Garrett (1996) also acknowledges that individuals who were present at the eventual execution (in the book) ‘recalled the details… differently’ to how Capote (2000) narrated them. Significantly, too, Garrett (1996) notes that these differing versions of events extended to the last words said by each condemned man, which I would posit is a significant amendment for any author to make, particularly in a publication branded as ‘nonfiction’. Alongside this discrepancy, Garrett (1996) also notes that individuals portrayed in the work not only looked different to how Capote (2000) narrated them, but they also disputed having said many of the things Capote claimed they did, too, coupled with a general misrepresentation of ‘things neither he nor anyone else could have known’. However, Garrett (1996) proposes this is weighted out fairly by the fact that the story is written well and the narrative a gripping one. Incidentally, this is an idea shared by other critics in this area, too, though it is also an area disputed by many. An especially interesting discussion around accuracy in In Cold Blood was posited by De Bellis (1979), cited earlier (Capote 2000). In his work, De Bellis (1979) performed a linguistic analysis that considered the differences between the original narrative as it was serialised, against the

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manuscript that was eventually published. In this analysis, De Bellis (1979) noted as many as 5000 changes between the two versions of the story. Significantly, too, some of these changes were made regarding things that appeared in ‘“official records”’, which raises a pressing point about how this information was changed at all, the logical inference being that they were incorrect in the first instance or, somewhat illogically one might argue, they were amended to something incorrect in the revisions (De Bellis 1979). In support of his own argument, De Bellis (1979) draws on the work of another literary analyst, one Philip Tompkins, who isolated four key errors within In Cold Blood, one of which was the death row plea for sympathy allegedly made by Perry which witnesses have famously claimed did not happen (Capote 2000). Throughout the years, not only this but additional details across the plot have been contested, by literary theorists with a keen eye and by those who in fact had a starring role within the work and who, subsequently, could attest to the truth and fiction in Capote’s (2000) rendering of events. Despite In Cold Blood’s standing as a seminal True Crime work, then, it seems a pressing point to make that perhaps, when designing the blueprint for his innovative ‘nonfiction novel’, Capote (2000) erred more towards the fictive elements than the nonfiction, leading to a dubiously ‘loyal’ version of the events. Thus, while this makes for a notably shorter discussion regarding authenticity and accuracy than may be noted elsewhere, pertaining to other texts, it becomes challenging to argue either for or against Capote (2000), given that in this case, it has already been so famously decided, disputed, and decided on again. To add my personal views on the matter would only be to contribute to a body of work that already posits Capote’s (2000) narration, and embellishment, as problematic. I believe this to be especially true as I, too, am of the opinion that the True element of True Crime, that gives ‘the aura of fact [and] an air of authority’ to works within the genre, is something that should unquestionably be upheld by authors (Browder 2010).

Conclusion: Authorial Proximity If, as proposed elsewhere in the monograph, the author gap is formed of both author recollection and author proximity, then those are the measures of judgement that will be applied again here. Similarly to authenticity and accuracy, though, recollection and proximity become hard to consider on account of much of the information around them—for

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instance, the time between research and writing; writing and editing; Capote’s (2000) real draw or motivations in having approached the case; and so on—being so widely contested already that, I posit, there is almost little new to say on the matters. In the first instance, as it has been evidenced, the area of recollection for Capote (2000) is not entirely dissimilar to Rule’s (1989) grey space, insofar as there being ambiguities and questions around the role of the author-as-researcher—or, in Capote’s case, perhaps that should be the role of the editor, given that his reportorial style was subject to rigorous (self)editing from serialisation to book. On that note already, though, De Bellis (1979) commented that much of Capote’s (2000) notes were made mentally alone rather than through tangible, evidencable materials. Subsequently, it can be inferred from this that Capote (2000) must have been relying on recollection, supported by secondary materials such as official records and the like, which only worsens the matter of, firstly, how many edits were made across the work and, secondly, the overall accuracy and, indeed, authenticity to be found. In the second instance, and on the topic of author proximity, there is an easy, initial response to this that posits, in short form, that Capote (2000) did not have an authentic close proximity to this case. Given that Capote’s (2000) approach to the work was largely self-serving due to his loudly proclaimed intention to coin an entire new genre—that of the ‘nonfiction novel’—he was not drawn to the Clutters’ narrative for the same reason(s) that drew other authors, cited elsewhere, to their own works. Of course, that is not to say every True Crime writer must approach a case with the intention of having minimal proximity to the materials nor of capturing the narrative of an incident for entirely moralistic reasons alone. However, I posit that authors in this genre also should not approach cases, nor indeed case materials, with the intention of characterising the best and worst individuals, and novelising the satellite information around them, in the interest of furthering one’s authorial standing in the literary community. Admittedly, though, this feels a scathing review of Capote (2000) insofar as his authorial intentions and, in this context, his author proximity, too. So, to lend support or justification to what may appear as an especially judgemental tone, it is perhaps worth citing one of many famous moments where Capote (2000)—after ignoring telegrams and requests for prison visits from both Dick and Perry in the days before their executions—was overheard at a dinner party as having said, ‘“it [In Cold Blood] can’t be published until they’re executed, so I can hardly wait”’ (Browder 2010). Again, I do not propose that every True Crime author needs to

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work to lessen their proximity to a case. In fact, I believe that good reportorial practice and an ethically sound approach to research can help to counteract an author working at a distance from their materials. However, given the complexities regarding the recollection of details, varied queries that can be raised around authenticity and accuracy, and Capote’s (2000) reportedly blasé attitude to the very real individuals, both alive and deceased, at the core of the Clutter narrative, it makes it difficult to assess In Cold Blood as having anything less than a substantial author gap, that ultimately compromises the classification of its genre. Added to this, too, that we have not even mentioned, as part of this conclusion, the many fictive techniques at play throughout, including Capote’s (2000) penchant for close third-person narration and figurative language, which not only complicate the telling of the work, but also the believability of the voice(s) through which the work is communicated. To conclude, then, it seems only right—both insofar as a wider, writing context but also in terms of the social responsibility of True Crime and the way(s) in which it should endeavour to respect those real-life individuals at its core—that the genre classification of In Cold Blood shifts (Capote 2000). This will move it beyond the realm of True Crime as a singular concept, and certainly beyond Capote’s (2000) own ‘nonfiction novel’, to instead sit under the heading of True Crime: Reimagined.

References Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Brooks, Elisabeth. 2023. Cesare Lombroso: Theory of Crime, Criminal Man, and Atavism. Simply Psychology. https://www.simplypsychology.org/lombroso-­ theory-­of-­crime-­criminal-­man-­and-­atavism.html. Accessed 08 May 2023. Browder, Laura. 2010. True Crime. In The Cambridge Companion to American Crime Fiction, ed. Catherine Nickerson, 205–228. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. De Bellis, Jack. 1979. Visions and Revisions: Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood”. Journal of Modern Literature 7: 519–536. Garrett, George. 1996. Then and Now: “In Cold Blood” Revisited. The Virginia Quarterly Review 72: 467–474. Levine, Paul. 1966. Review: Reality and Fiction. The Hudson Review 19: 135–138. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere.

CHAPTER 8

3500 Files and an Unfinished Script: Is Well-­ Curated Research and Collaboration the Key to Truthful True Crime, Considered Through Michelle McNamara’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark?

Between the years of 1974 and 1986, separate areas of California were harried by a series of violent crimes. The attacks took place across San Joaquin Valley, Sacramento, Stockton, Modesto, and Contra Costa County. Beginning with burglaries, the behaviour soon escalated to sexual assaults and eventually murder. Occurring in flurries, it was initially assumed that these attacks—across different geographical points—were the work of separate individuals. However, it was later determined that a single hand was engineering the crimes. During this period, and into police investigations, the offender was dubbed a series of media monikers including the Visalia Ransacker, the East Area Rapist, the Night Stalker, and later, the Original Night Stalker, owing to the Night Stalker moniker having previously been used to refer to the work of a different perpetrator, one Richard Ramirez, who was not involved with this series of events. Though considerable efforts were made, the individual at the helm of these crimes—later identified as one Joseph James DeAngelo—went undetected for a considerable time. It would be years later, still, when a determined writer christened the anonymous offender with the name the Golden State Killer. Throughout continued investigations, renewed public interest and eventual involvement from the Federal Bureau of © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_8

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Investigation (FBI), DeAngelo, who was finally caught in 2018, would exist under the alias afforded to him by the above-mentioned author. Significantly, Michelle McNamara (2018) evidenced an enthusiasm for True Crime ahead of advancing with a manuscript that would eventually become I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, a book with the provocative subtitle: One woman’s obsessive search for the Golden State Killer. Prior to this, McNamara had established and single-handedly contributed towards her True Crime blog, True Crime Diary, with a pronounced interest in exploring not serial killers and their behaviours, but rather cold cases instead. McNamara’s general interest in this area brought her to the case of the East Area Rapist, as he was then known, which she researched extensively to produce an article for Los Angeles magazine in 2013. After this, McNamara (2018) then secured a book deal that would enable her to write at length about the case. The result of this is a compartmentalised narrative arc that divides the crimes into their geographical and time-­specific landscapes, with the years and areas documented in the Contents page of the book. In support of this, there is an annotated map that details the attacks of the East Area Rapist, though this was not extended to plot the attacks that were later attributed to the same individual. Similarly, in the same novelistic fashion as Bugliosi (2015), McNamara (2018) also utilises a Cast of Characters that denotes investigators and victims, with the latter being subdivided into victims of sexual assault and murder for transparency. Given that McNamara (2018) was distanced from the case insofar as time and geographical proximity, her authorial proximity to the original crimes can be queried. However, her extensive research, involvement in subsequent investigations, and the later accreditation she received as a contributing factor to the killer’s eventual apprehension all have the potential to shift her proximity, and even her authority, in her documentation of this case. In addition to this, the narrative perspective that McNamara (2018) utilises also holds significance here. Throughout, she employs a first-person narration that borrows stylistically from memoir, too, as the author regales a reader with details of her personal life as the arc develops. However, these two strands of genre—that being True Crime and Memoir—become inextricably bound as many of McNamara’s (2018) asides denote the ways in which her daily life became absorbed and/or influenced by her research into and documentation of the Golden State Killer.

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Finally, the collaborative elements of McNamara’s (2018) work—as much before her death as after—contributes an additional complicating thread to this narrative. McNamara (2018) is transparent regarding her research methods and the ways in which information was swapped between herself and other enthusiasts who were researching the case, alongside extensive information that she gathered through official channels, such as police reports, witness testimonials, and the like, marking the first collaborative feature(s) of the book. Additionally, though, McNamara’s (2018) untimely passing before completion of the manuscript forced another collaborative strand to appear, as her spouse and associates worked to ensure the project reached completion. This ultimately resulted in another narrative vantage point appearing for the climactic portion of the work—that of Paul Haynes and Billy Jensen—which is an element that must also be considered.

First-Person Narration The authorial ‘I’ is something that has been alluded to throughout already, though most commonly associated with the first named subgenre of True Crime that this monograph proposes. However, McNamara (2018) makes interesting use of first-person narration, producing a narrative that is at once objective and intimate, revealing details of the author’s personal life—and the reasons for her pursuit of this case—that offer contextualisation of her placement in the narrative. It seems pertinent to note, then, that although this is paired with Truman Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood insofar as (sub)genre classification, the reasons behind McNamara’s (2018) re-classification are markedly different to those that determined Capote’s. A clear distinction across these works is this utilisation of first-­ person narration, which was notably absent from In Cold Blood (Capote 2000). Through this, McNamara (2018)—in a similar manner to other authors discussed—constructs a dual-role for herself where she is both individual and writer-researcher. She pairs these elements together with conviction throughout that helps to establish familiarity with her reading audience—something capitalised on by her occasional breaking of the fourth wall—strengthened further by the ways in which readers become privy to details of both the author’s personal and professional life. This duality is seeded as early as McNamara’s (2018) Prologue wherein she explains to a reader that her ‘interest in crime has personal roots’. It is documented here that McNamara (2018), as a teenager, lived next door

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to the scene of a violent crime ‘that sparked a fascination with cold cases’. Even the language used here to explain this reads as significant, given that the notion of being fascinated with or by anything, but particularly True Crime, reads as complementary to the ‘morbid fixation’ often associated with darker genres of work. While seemingly odd, perhaps, on the face expression of it, this is a feeling that many readers of True Crime will recognise from their own consumption(s) of similar works, thereby creating a kinship between author and reader(s) from this moment. In this vein, McNamara (2018) claims that over the years, with the assistance of the Internet, her early fascinations were able to advance and become ‘an active pursuit’ of information instead. As posited earlier, this can be read as a contextualisation of the author’s positioning within the genre, though I propose it could also be read as a justification of that position. Here, in alluding to a long-standing history with and interest of True Crime, she is implicitly speaking to her qualifications in crafting a text such as I’ll Be Gone in the Dark (McNamara 2018). Furthermore, this professional placement—and indeed, these implied qualifications—is covertly explored again through the admission: ‘He didn’t have a catchy name until I coined one’ [my emphasis] (McNamara 2018). Thus, from early in the narration it becomes observable that McNamara (2018) is writing from a place of expertise, that frames the wider plot due to follow. Incidentally, the former of these quotes is evidential of the ways in which McNamara (2018) occupies a dual space, too—that of the personal and professional at once. Meanwhile, the second speaks exclusively to her professional and authorial standing. Across both, then, a reader can already observe a delineation between McNamara’s (2018) uses of the plural writing ‘I’. Later examples support this further, with a notable demonstration being when McNamara (2018) confides in a reader that she feels an ‘unease’ in attending Hollywood film premieres, something she relegates under a heading of ‘“must be nice”’ to have such a problem. What is especially telling in the narration here, though, is less her acknowledgement of her privileged social standing and more the comment that follows wherein she asks of a reader, ‘bear with me’ (McNamara 2018). This supports the intimacy noted earlier—between author and reader—that McNamara (2018) continues to weave throughout the work as a whole. Less so about her professional standing, here she is instead confiding what is undoubtedly a personal detail—a personal anxiety, perhaps—as a means to build a rapport with her audience. Additionally, this direct request for something from a reader speaks to McNamara’s (2018) intermittent usage of

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breaking the fourth wall—that being the formal, delineated space that segregates reader or viewer from art or artist. This capitalises further on the author-reader relationship—note, too, how significantly early in this work this occurs—and sets a precedent for later uses of this device that better connects an audience with McNamara’s (2018) ‘I’. Incidentally, there is an especially explicit example of McNamara (2018) using a second-­ person pronoun later, too, to position the reader inside a set scenario, relating to the case—‘You sit up in bed for a startled moment’—and this also speaks the closeness, with her audience, that the author strives for. Elsewhere, the first-person narration—this explicit ‘I’, that is—appears again in order to form another connection. Significantly, though, on this occasion it is not between author and reader but between author and another character (Terry): ‘I know little about him aside from the recent discovery that the same night in August 1984 changed both our lives’ (McNamara 2018). This is an intriguing example of interlinking through which McNamara (2018) attempts to find connective tissue between her ‘I’ and another character, evidently involved in the wider case narrative; though one who, at this point, readers still know little about. The potential impact this may have over authorial proximity is interesting, too, given that it looks to be an effort to lessen the gap between the author and the case, despite there being no organic connection. The fact that the ‘I’ here veers into a memoir style of writing shortly after this moment—‘We lived in a drafty three-story Victorian’—is significant as well (McNamara 2018). This not only heightens the intimacy between author and readers, but it places the author—albeit in a somewhat loose fashion—in a similar temporal and social historical context to when and where the killer was operating, thereby testing the boundaries of that authorial proximity again. The eventual interlinking of ‘I’ and ‘he’—or rather, author and killer— is another feature that can be repeatedly observed throughout, and one that implicitly speaks to McNamara’s (2018) involvement with the case. An especially striking point of connectivity in this area—that speaks to a use of figurative language, too—is when McNamara (2018) compares a researcher’s obsession with a subject to that scenario wherein an individual finds themselves talking compulsively of an ex; that is, until you ‘catch yourself, and stop to emphasize that the ex in question is, of course, a worthless piece of shit’. The significance of this is twofold. In the first instance, there is a great level of implied intimacy here between researcher

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and offender—and indeed, detective and offender, given that this comparison takes place during a conversation with one Paul Holes, who is part of an official policing body. In the second instance, McNamara (2018) is speaking to something of which there is a universal understanding—by which I mean, that difficulty in getting over a romantic partner—and therefore drawing on a recognised narrative script. Thus, she is providing a framework on which this situation—of her hunting a killer—can be placed, that will allow a reading audience a greater level of understanding in the matter, too. Insofar as McNamara’s (2018) use of the ‘I’ here, it reads as another moment of personal unveiling wherein she is covertly admitting to details—or rather, experiences—of a private nature. Interestingly, too, this likening allows her to critique the killer—note, ‘a worthless piece of shit’—without outright stating what she thinks of him, given that this is said under the guise of referring to an ex. To conclude, one of the most overt and, I posit, most impactful moments in McNamara’s (2018) first-person narrative comes where there is a collapse in the duality of it, which largely eradicates any distinction between the author-researcher role and the personal. While other examples may straddle this line, it is during a moment when McNamara (2018) is discussing her wedding anniversary that the personal and professional meet in a significant collision. She notes that for two years in a row her wedding anniversary gift from her partner has been, in some way, related to the East Area Rapist; the original moniker used for the killer that McNamara (2018) was researching. Following this, though, is the narration wherein she refers to this as evidence for the ways in which ‘he’s come to dominate’ her life; ‘he’ being the East Area Rapist (McNamara 2018). An author-to-reader confession that is compounded by: ‘I’ve forgotten to get Patton [her spouse] so much as a card’ (McNamara 2018). Here, then, we can observe the ways in which the personal and the professional do not always occupy separate spaces in McNamara’s (2018) ‘I’. Rather, in a similar way to the likes of Rule (1989), this author also exhibits a grey space wherein the distinction between who she is and what she is researching become difficult to disentangle. That said, there is great evidence throughout to demonstrate the ways in which, despite this authorial ‘I’, McNamara (2018) can step back from the narrative, to allow an alternative narration—and style of telling—to filter through into the plot of the work.

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Third-Person Narration Developing her narrative styles in near-tandem to each other, then, after the initial introduction to McNamara’s (2018) ‘I’ in the Prologue of the work, the narrative shifts into a third-person perspective. This is McNamara’s (2018) preferred style of narrative delivery in these opening chapters where the thrust of the writing looks to be scene setting and establishing a physical landscape on which to plot the development of the East Area Rapist—into becoming the Golden State Killer. One such example of this stems from her close third-person narration of Drew, brother of David, who was the partner of a victim of the East Area Rapist. Drew, acting as a mouthpiece for McNamara (2018), admires houses—‘The house seemed impressively grown up to Drew’—and acknowledges his feelings of ‘jealousy’, ‘prickling [at] him’ against the sight of these houses. Here, then, there is evidence of McNamara’s (2018) use of creative license wherein she is superimposing observations and feelings alike onto a core character in the early arc of the narrative. By implementing this close third-person narration, McNamara (2018) is able to build not only a portrait of Drew as a person—shown as someone who felt ‘lacking by comparison’ against his brother—but also establishes both Manuela and David, too, the victim and her partner in this earlier attack. Throughout these moments there are further embellishments to support the close third person of McNamara’s (2018) style, while showing her utilisation of figurative language for emotional impact. For example, the way in which Drew, in the seconds before starting the ignition of his car, ‘froze, seized up, as if on the brink of a sneeze’ (McNamara 2018). Again, then, McNamara (2018) is employing a similar kind of universality as that used before—with reference to the nightmare ex-partner that one compulsively talks of—albeit communicated through a much less dramatic image: the sneeze. This works not only as a feeling a reader will recognise, but also as one that implies a compulsive, involuntarily bodily shift. Thus, it is not only impactful insofar as communicating the emotion itself—as a surge of something—but also the unstoppable force of it. Elsewhere, nearby to this, McNamara (2018) narrates the reactions and behaviours of one Horst Rohrbeck, Manuela’s father, too. Here, emotion is given a similar force denoted in that example above, this time through metaphors such as: ‘His rage was a projectile splintering in real time’ (McNamara 2018). Interestingly, there is a discernible shift here from

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close third person, where the narratorial voice reads as distinctly more omnipresent. McNamara (2018) does, however, shift back towards the viewpoint of Horst shortly after, evidencing an ebb and flow to her narratorial intrusions and, perhaps, a narratorial proximity of sorts insofar as her closeness to characters. Consider, ‘It was impossible not to hit rewind and imagine’ which does not appear to be third-person omnipresent narration, not instructional nor encouraging to a reader, but rather a close third-person denotation of Horst returning to the scene, and reimagining the many ways incidents may have advanced for his daughter during the attack (McNamara 2018). While these early moments establish a precedent for third-person narration, the later blend of (close) third person that is pieced together with a tone borrowed from more traditional reportage appears as noteworthy, too. When narrating the experiences of Fiona and Phillip—two later victims of the East Area Rapist—McNamara (2018) pairs these two narratorial approaches to explain the couples’ shock at finding this known attacker in their home, while also detailing specifics of the killer’s appearance through her reportage. An interesting comparison is drawn here, as part of this recounting of the attack, through: ‘The feeling was surreal, as if a larger-than-life movie character… emerged… and began talking to you’ (McNamara 2018). This close third-person narration is striking for two reasons. In the first instance, it echoes sentiments expressed by the likes of Bonn (2014) insofar as serial killer celebrity culture, which looks to be what McNamara (2018) was explicitly acknowledging through this language use. In the second instance, it carries the question of where this narration originated from: was this something communicated to McNamara (2018) during interviews (with the police)? Did she read this style of language through transcripts? Or is this entirely creative license that, through close third-person narration, allows McNamara (2018) to mirror her own awe of the killer? None of these readings are problematic, incidentally, and it perhaps would not need such a degree of interrogation if it were not such a striking comparison between killer and film star. However, given this parallel, one is arguably justified in wondering whether this close third-person narration accurately captures the individual, and indeed, the wider public perception of the killer at the time, or whether this narration is being filtered through a discernibly contemporary lens— or indeed, both! Then, in accompaniment to this, we can observe the more reportorial narrative voice that is paired to document the ‘two-cell flashlight in his left hand’ and ‘what looked like a .45 pistol in his right’

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(McNamara 2018). The level of specificity here implies an authenticity on McNamara’s (2018) part that speaks, too, to her wider role as a researcher-­ writer. With the level of detailing even positing which hands the items were held in, coupled with the notable lack of linguistic embellishment here, too, it creates a credibility to the work, with the underlying implication being that this, here, is an author who has conducted their research. That said, while the concise detailing may be continued throughout— ‘Fiona was five two, 110 pounds’—there are moments, too, that allow for creative license still (McNamara 2018). Such examples being the close third-person narration of Fiona in the moments where McNamara (2018) documents images that allegedly flashed through the woman’s mind, coupled with her introspection on the killer’s breathing: ‘She almost hoped he was faking, because if he wasn’t, he sounded seriously unhinged’. Subsequently, then, McNamara (2018) finds an intriguing balance between the factual and the fictive through these exampled moments, achieved, at least in part, through the duality of (close) third-person and reportorial tones. This echoes, in some ways, the duality of roles expressed through her first-person narration, too. Finally, there is one more significant moment of a narratorial shift I feel should be addressed here. Though it was difficult to know whether it was best placed under this subheading, the one that precedes this, or indeed, a later one entirely, such is the variance of technique. In what follows, McNamara (2018) has shifted back again to a first-person narration. However, it is not her first-person perspective being expressed, but rather that of the killer: ‘I am both nowhere and everywhere. You may not think you have something in common with your neighbour, but you do: me’ (McNamara 2018). This continues several sentences further and gives voice to the East Area Rapist as someone who is both aware and proud of the threat they impose on society. Interestingly, the killer also—through McNamara’s (2018) narration, of course—refers to himself as ‘the barely spotted presence’. This not only capitalises on his potential for menace within the narrative but also, in a covert way, begins the process of dehumanising him, given that he is a presence here, akin to spectre, but certainly not merely human. It is challenging to categorise this narrative moment, given that it is not first person in the strictest of senses—in line with the previous section’s discussion, at least—but there is a significantly greater intimacy established through this first-person blurring than McNamara (2018) might have achieved had she only voiced this cocksureness through a close third-person perspective instead. Of further interest

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here, too, is that during these moments she is evidently not only giving voice to the killer but also, I posit, to her own frustrations by this point in her research. Take, in support of that, the fact that this is followed by a paragraph that begins: ‘I left Sacramento in a bad mood’ (McNamara 2018). McNamara’s (2018) shift back into her own first-person narratorial voice is unmistakeable here, without her needing an additional indicator for it; so familiar is a reader with both her tone and her movements by this point in the book.

Figurative Language Throughout already it has been evidenced that McNamara (2018) was partial to the employment of figurative language. She applies these techniques as much to describing herself, interestingly, as she does to describing ‘characters’ within the book and the wider narrative, too. An especially striking example of this is the hyperbole: ‘There’s a scream permanently lodged in my throat now’ (McNamara 2018). The impact of this is harrowing, portraying the picture of a researcher-writer so entrenched in their project that they carry it with them, formed as a foundational feeling of, one assumes, terror, wherever they go. It underscores McNamara’s (2018) emotional attachment to and involvement with the case, too, which speaks to her authorial proximity in a distinct way. Though the examples of figurative language are considerably varied throughout the work, it is worth turning attention firstly, to the ways in which these techniques are used in relation to individuals. Then secondly, to the ways in which they are used about the wider case narrative. In this first instance, then, the introductory narrative through which a reader observes Drew, as mentioned earlier, provides ample material. It was noted above how creative license married with character development, insofar as the ways in which a reader learns of Drew’s reaction to the attack on Manuela; here, I am referring to the sneeze analogy. In this same passage of the work, though, we are introduced to Manuela herself who is established through figurative terms. Though it must be noted that McNamara (2018) is evidently striving for an authorial balance here, as her embellishment of (physical) details could certainly not be described as excessive. Still, alongside the verbal picture portrayal of Manuela, who was ‘slim and pretty, with prominent cheekbones’, we learn, too, that ‘she favoured turtlenecks and kept her arms folded in against her body, as if anticipating a fight’ (McNamara 2018). This telling remark can be read in two

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alternative ways: Manuela is either a defensive or an offensive character. Though given the context, it appears more likely that she—a woman not wanting to draw attention to her figure, especially—should be read here as defensive. The mention of violence, or implied violence through this reference to a fight, is intriguing, though, as it seeds in the physical confrontation that will inevitably arise for the character. Shortly after this, as the case around Manuela’s death unfolds, McNamara (2018) also introduces one Jim White, who at the time was a Criminalist liaising with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Here, McNamara (2018) introduces White by establishing a wider context for the role of Criminalists who, she posits, are there to act as ‘human scanners’. The language use here is of course not intended to be taken in a literal manner, but rather to digitise the wealth of knowledge and skill held in the heads of these experts. To posit them as a scanner, then, relates to some of the physicality of their work—evidenced, too, by the ways in which we learn of these individuals as ones who move through a scene in a deliberate and methodical manner. However, this also implies an automatic action, that speaks not only to the professionalism of, here, White, but also to the level of practical ability held by these individuals. Following this initial introduction to White’s role within the case, then, McNamara (2018) compounds this sentiment not through language, necessarily, but certainly through technique. She lists the endless supplies that White brought with him to the crime scene—‘seals, measuring tapes, swabs’— and adds to this further through the formula of short sentences, all of which open with a male pronoun and verb: ‘He collected… He swabbed… He stood’ (McNamara 2018). The repetition is especially impactful here as it again underscores White’s importance and role within the scene of the crime. It also, significantly, provides great amounts of character description—insofar as a meticulous nature, a good eye for detail, evidently great amounts of patience—while also framing the role of criminalists within this larger narrative, from an early stage, too. This stylised listing can be observed elsewhere, though not in relation to a character but rather scenic representations instead. In the first instance, this appears in the book in relation to things discernible by sight: ‘The things they see: Headlights in an empty field… A man in a white shirt… A flashlight beam’ which is coupled by auditory elements shortly after: ‘Dogs barking. Heavy footsteps… Someone cutting through the window screen’ (McNamara 2018). This reads as notably fictive insofar as style, despite the fact that McNamara’s (2018) use of linguistic embellishments is minimal

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throughout both passages. The listing structure compounds these details, though, offering a series of snapshots—in both visual and sound form—to build the landscape of attack(s). The impact of this is further heightened by McNamara’s (2018) decision to punctuate each entry of her list with a full stop, rather than a comma or semi-colon, which contributes a greater abruptness to each detail. Elsewhere, there are other expressions of figurative language worthy of critical consideration. An especially striking example of this comes when McNamara (2018) portrays ‘[t]he creek’ as a ‘Huckleberry Finn dream of moss-covered rocks and rope swings’, which has a twofold significance. In the first instance, this is a clear implementation of figurative language to portray a landscape that is both idyllic and, in some ways, less than savoury: see, ‘delinquents’ cigarette butts shrouded by a canopy of trees’, for example (McNamara 2018). In the second instance, there is an interesting and unexpected intertextual linking occurring here, through the reference to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain, originally published in 1884 (2018). There are grounds on which to query how deliberate this decision was, given that McNamara (2018) was drawing from a narrative that discusses several characters who, alongside making reprehensible life decisions, are also trying to free themselves from the binds of society— albeit, not to the same heinous extreme as the villain of McNamara’s work. Intertextuality is something alluded to throughout this monograph, in relation to other core texts of the discussion. It is interesting, then, to see it arise here, in relation to firstly a work of fiction, and secondly a work containing such potentially provocative subject matters. On a geographical level, McNamara (2018) also employs figurative language as a means to communicate how the crimes of the East Area Rapist were mapped: taking ‘on a contagion like feel, a search for victim zero’. Here, the implication that the East Area Rapist brought with him a type of bacteria that could sweep through a society is both provocative and unsettling; not least because it implies the threat as something at once unseen, and therefore, something that can move without anyone’s conscious awareness of it. This interlinks with other ideas regarding the attacker wherein he is described as an unknown entity; one that cannot be traced. This field of descriptions complements each other, then, creating cohesion across the work and ultimately building a richer picture of the killer. Additionally, the implication of a ‘victim zero’ suggests that there is a remedy, of sorts, to be found if the police could only find the source of the ‘infection’—which is to say, the point at which the killer became active,

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where he may have made mistakes rather than acting out the perfected script of attack that he came to inflict (McNamara 2018). At a later point when considering the killer, McNamara (2018) adopts something that reads as somewhat technical again, when she refers to the process of ‘[d]eciphering the code’ that will crack a case like this one. The mention of code(s) and the means to decipher such things reads as especially methodological, which I posit complements the above language use regarding the search for ‘victim zero’ as well (McNamara 2018). However, the way in which McNamara (2018) pairs this with the use of metaphor is especially interesting. She refers to this process—the thrill of cracking the code, that is—as the equivalent of ‘the turnstile click in the roller-coaster line’ (McNamara 2018). There is an evident thrill being communicated here, then, and again McNamara (2018) succeeds in capturing this through a point of comparison that has a measure of universality to it; by which I mean, whether readers have experienced a roller-coaster first-hand or not, the reference point is likely still to be a familiar one. A later point of comparison drawn—‘I’d felt as if I was hurtling down the street with nothing in my way, like catching a series of green lights’—echoes this universality, too (McNamara 2018). Hence, this universality or relatability could be argued as a literary trend in the work, which speaks, I posit, to McNamara’s (2018) authorial intention to find ways in which to connect author-and-­ reader and, indeed, reader-and-text. To end, it is worthwhile to shift attention to McNamara’s (2018) use of dehumanisation as a pronounced technique in the work. While this was mentioned earlier—in relation to McNamara’s (2018) assertion that the killer was an unknown, non-human presence, communicated through her first-person narration of him—there are more explicit examples to be considered. In the first instance, due attention should be given to the comparative language in: ‘The blindfolded victim… in the dark develops the feral senses of a savannah animal’ (McNamara 2018). There is an interplay of the senses here that alludes to the reality that robbing an individual of one sense leads another to be heightened. However, what is distinctive about this point is the implementation of an animalistic comparison wherein the victim is reduced to a base, ‘feral’ level of function (McNamara 2018). In denotative terms, feral is typically used to refer to an untamed or otherwise wild beast, which may afford the victim with a more pronounced physical status than they would likely have had in the situation (Merriam-Webster). Nevertheless, there is a notable reduction taking place here, then, from human to something less. This is, incidentally, a

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shift that happens for the killer as well: see, ‘him settling in next to her, an animal waiting patiently for its half-dying quarry’ (McNamara 2018). Admittedly, the killer’s representation is distinctly more threatening. While the victims are reduced to feral and inactive (through their being blindfolded), the killer instead becomes a crouched predator, a point of comparison that only serves to dramatise the distinction between these subjects. Thus, while McNamara (2018) often employs figurative language in a conscientious way—and in a manner that typically contextualises narrative details for a reader—it can be deduced that while using this set of literary techniques, McNamara is also apparently aware of their potential emotional effects on a reader, hence their deliberate construction at the most strategic of moments.

Contextualising the Crime One of the distinctive features of I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is the temporal space between the crimes taking place and the author researching and documenting them (McNamara 2018). While this is an authorial proximity issue—one that will be returned to later—it also calls for a consideration of how McNamara (2018) acknowledges and writes into those different (time) contexts and how she communicates them effectively. There are times throughout when, as though justifying her space within the narrative, McNamara (2018) alludes to her long-standing presence within True Crime work and documentation. Through comments such as ‘[v]iolent men unknown to me have occupied my mind all my adult life’, McNamara (2018) authenticates her authorial positioning as someone qualified to speak on crimes from different time contexts; added to more so given that her relationship to the genre is a life-long one rather than an interest that is isolated to this case alone. Significantly, at an earlier point in the book’s narrative arc, McNamara (2018) had recognised already that violent crimes had been a preoccupation for her since her teens, owing to a murder having taken place in her neighbourhood. Thus, we learn some wider context again for her positioning in this narrative and her motivations for exploring it, alongside which McNamara (2018) also acknowledges a morbid fascination with cold cases that has encouraged her pursuit. McNamara’s wildly popular True Crime blog, True Crime Diary, is further evidence of this. It is, I posit, this history of research and indeed this (pre)occupation with violent men that allows McNamara (2018) such an eye for authentic detailing in

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her later work. The ways in which McNamara (2018) places crimes—and the breakthroughs in investigative procedures—in an appropriate but accessible time context is aided by this detailing, too. There are interesting examples of this (time) contextualisation, particularly when McNamara (2018) is exploring early investigative procedures in the case. For instance: ‘The first generation of DNA technology compared to current technique is like the difference between a Commodore 64 computer and a smartphone’ (McNamara 2018). Here, McNamara (2018) is using comparative language that is both informative and relevant. In comparing DNA technology—a topic that many layperson readers will know little to nothing of, in terms of the technical elements involved—to a classic computer system and a smartphone, McNamara (2018) is not only commenting on elements of the case but she is doing so in terms that are likely more accessible for a reader, than merely providing a scientific explanation of DNA procedures. Additionally, the use of the classic computer feels especially relevant here, insofar as supporting the temporal context of the crimes. The Golden State Killer, as he would come to be known through McNamara’s (2018) work, was active from the 1970s through to the 1980s. Meanwhile, the Commodore 64 computer system was initially released in the early 1980s. Thus, McNamara (2018) is finding a neat connective thread through the many elements present here, while also implicitly acknowledging something, one can assume, about the age of her ideal or imagined reader as well; someone who can have context built for them through a time-sensitive but appropriate cultural reference. Interestingly, though, this would be the first of two occasions wherein McNamara (2018) used comparative language to explain advancements in DNA technology; though in this second example, her terms are less computer led. Instead, when discussing Larry Pool’s response to DNA technology and its changes, McNamara (2018) documents the man’s reaction in terms of real estate: ‘as if he’d spent the last couple of years in a small, familiar room only to discover that it was an annexe to a warehouse’. Once again here, using comparative language, a reader is exposed through comprehensible terms to the changes that were being made to case procedure during the time. Here, I posit, the analogy may even be more effective than the previously sampled one given that McNamara (2018) is providing a reader with something physically measurable—in imagined square footage, let us say—on which they too can begin to understand the changes that were occurring. Though of course, there would be occasions in the book, too, when McNamara (2018) would describe things relating to case

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procedure—like DNA science(s) again, for example—without the use of comparative terms, but she still makes an effort on these occasions to make her language accessible: ‘DNA consists of four repeating units’. There is a potential duality to be read in this second example of contextualisation. While McNamara (2018) is making a comment regarding DNA advancements and technologies, there are grounds, I posit, on which to query whether she is implying anything about police officials— and their knowledge base(s)—in this moment, too. Admittedly, throughout the book McNamara (2018) is not overly critical of policework. In a way that starkly contrasts with Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter, it appears there was no reason that McNamara (2018) could see to point out fault in investigative practices at the time. However, there are occasions where— for want of a better expression—the growing monotony of cold cases, and indeed, the monotony of finding little evidence for live cases, is something else that McNamara (2018) explores through contextual referencing. Here, I am referring to two particular quotes that evidence the perceived banality of policework expressed by some of the satellite officers involved at the time of the attacks. The first instance comes from an extract time-­ stamped in the year 2000 that shows Pool still working on the cold cases related to the Golden State Killer: ‘“Guy’s dead,” they’d [fellow officers] tell Pool flatly, as if repeating a basketball score from last night’s game’ (McNamara 2018). There is, I propose, no criticism to be read here. However, in terms of how this speaks to the area of contextualising the crime, perhaps a fairer assessment would be that this is an interesting remark made to frame both cold cases and violent crimes as a general and, unfortunately, every day thing faced by officers. The flat tone narrated is especially telling as it implies little emotion in the delivery, and in comparing this remark to a basketball score it becomes two things: firstly, throwaway news; secondly, something that will soon be replaced by the score of a more recent game. Another creative expression for the banality of violent crime comes from McNamara’s (2018) narration that ‘Police reports read like stories told by robots’. For wider context regarding the quote itself, McNamara (2018) says this broadly of police reports rather than any set reports in particular. I posit that this quote can be interpreted in one of two ways. This may either be a comment on the banality of crime reporting for those involved in its official documentation or it is a comment on the professionalism that allows these individuals to document their work without embellishment or emotion. Whichever of these readings is preferred, there

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is still an element of comparative writing again here that gives a reader some contextual framing for the materials that McNamara (2018) had access to. Admittedly, there is a stark contrast between this remark and some of the specific case details presented shortly after this. Still, this framing context is a powerful one for placing official crime reportage—in the sense of police documentation—into a context that aids a reader in understanding the distinct lack of emotion in a case’s original write-up. Tangential to which, too, it is worth noting the potential for humour here given that, despite their allegedly robotic narration, police reports could feasibly be considered as the original true crime narration of any story. The fact that they are free from embellishments, in fact, speaks to their reliability and authenticity, in a way that often cannot be matched in actual True Crime works. There is likely more to say on this point, though it is likely, too, that that is a comment better explored beyond the realms of this project. Subsequently, then, while her efforts range in terms of their subtlety, McNamara (2018) is evidently using comparative language throughout as a means to not only build context around her case-telling—the term ‘story-telling’ does not sit quite right here—but also to build this context in a way that holds relevancy to a reader. This conscientious approach is one of the distinctive features of McNamara’s (2018) authorial practice that marks her as one of the expert tellers featured in this monograph.

Research as Collaborative Practice By the close of the Prologue, McNamara (2018) has already alluded both to the compulsivity and to the collaborative practice involved in her approach to writing I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. The extent of this research is acknowledged in the titling of this chapter, through allusion to the extensive documentation that was uncovered about the case, found in McNamara’s (2018) possession after her passing. Though significantly, this author-researcher was by no means the only individual who was researching the Golden State Killer with a level of compulsivity. McNamara (2018) was certainly not hesitant in acknowledging these other people either, as a unified collective, and crediting specific individuals where appropriate for their assistance with her work throughout her manuscript. In the first instance we learn of these ‘fanatics’, that McNamara (2018) speaks of with a fondness, through the comment: ‘The hunt to find the Golden State Killer, spanning four decades, felt less like a relay race than a

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group of fanatics tethered together climbing an impossible mountain’. There are two reasons that make this remark especially noteworthy. In the first instance, the potential to read this as McNamara (2018) proposing everything in her True Crime writing career can be linked to her writing about the Golden State Killer; theorised due to the specific time reference. Admittedly, she may be speaking in a broader sense, too; perhaps meaning, the police, other researchers, other so-called fanatics had been involved in this hunt for four decades. In which case, perhaps the reading of this timestamp is twofold: it can be read as I have initially noted above, wherein McNamara (2018) is proposing that her entire career has culminated in the hunt for this one killer; or perhaps it is not her hunt, as first proposed, but rather their hunt. Shortly after this she makes a comment in relation to the ‘old guys’ involved in the case who ‘insisted’ she go on with her work (McNamara 2018). This not only speaks to the collaborative element insofar as research but, in relation to this note on decades, I propose that McNamara (2018) frames this as a comment on time-spent-­ researching that is as much an inherited thing as the research materials themselves. Then, attention can be turned again to her use of ‘fanatics’, the denotative meaning for which—for context—reads as: ‘a person who is extremely enthusiastic about and devoted to some interest or activity’ (Merriam-­Webster). Admittedly, there is a definition for derogatory usage, too, though I believe it is a fair assumption that this does not speak to McNamara’s (2018) employment of the term. Quite the opposite, in fact, she looks to adopt it as a means for establishing comradery across a group of similarly minded associates, supported further by the image of them literally being tied together through their work. The final part of this quotation warrants attention, too, given that two meanings can be inferred from it. Firstly, here, we can observe the implied meaning that, if tied together by support, shared interests, and so on, those like-minded ‘fanatics’ can overcome an immeasurable object. There is a reading here, then, that teamwork—or rather collaborative practice—is the means through which even the most insurmountable obstacles—or cold cases—can indeed be cracked. Secondly, from this analogy we can determine the size and scale that McNamara (2018) imagined for the Golden State Killer hunt, where he is not merely an intense research challenge, but something that is mentally and physically taxing alike in terms of the energy required for ‘climbing’ through his case history. Thus, this one quote takes on a multifaceted significance insofar as how it both acknowledges the collaborative element(s) of McNamara’s (2018) research, while also encapsulating

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some of her personal feelings towards it, expressed through her perception(s) of the impossibility of the task. Though of course, when a reader eventually learns of the author’s 3500 digitised files, ‘dozens of notebooks, legal pads, the scraps of paper… thousands of digitized police reports’, ‘[a]nd the thirty-seven boxes of files’, this greatly contextualises the concept of the insurmountable task as alluded to in the mountain climb analogy (McNamara 2018). What is especially interesting about the reveal of these research materials, however, is how they are introduced into the plot of the wider book. It is not until much later—after the absolute tragedy of McNamara (2018) passing away without seeing the culmination of her work—that the sheer volume of research materials is qualified and, where possible, quantified. This reveal is made by, significantly, Paul Haynes and Billy Jensen, two collaborators who McNamara (2018) had worked with throughout her time spent researching the book, and the two who would eventually ‘complete’ the manuscript as well as it could be done after McNamara’s death. Ultimately, then, the reveal for the full extent of McNamara’s (2018) collaborative practice is itself done through collaborative means—Haynes and Jensen being the ones to quantify her work, that is—which feels like poetic license of some kind, whereby practice and content complement each other. Prior to this, though, at a much earlier point in the manuscript, McNamara (2018) herself addresses the collaborative practice behind her research, through a narration of underground exchanges and prohibited materials. McNamara (2018) comments how she ‘came into possession of a flash drive’, for example, without positing anything more specific insofar as the source of the materials. This takes on an added significance, too, when one considers the sheer wealth of materials contained on aforementioned drive, which McNamara (2018) estimated to be ‘four thousand pages of digitized old police reports’. McNamara (2018) does explain, however, that the trade was one of an old style; by which I mean, it reads as befitting of a black and white noir film, where ‘neither party really trusts the other and so, arms extended and eyes locked, we agree to simultaneously release our goods for the other to grab’. What is interesting here, then, is the acknowledgement that across her research practices, there were some collaborations that McNamara (2018) felt markedly less certain about than others—though there is no doubt that these were still collaborations, evidenced by the way in which McNamara freely gave away her own materials, too, taking from her stock to add to someone else’s and vice versa. There is something illicit about the way in which the

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information is traded, though, and while the above comment in respect to noir styling was written with a somewhat jovial tone, there is still something distinctly underhand communicated through the description of this exchange. That said, while McNamara (2018) does not attempt to quantify the number of times such an exchange took place during her work, she does comment that she ‘received more than one e-mail with the subject line “quid pro quo”’. While McNamara (2018) may comment after this that she and these people all shared the same belief that they would single-­ handedly crack the case(s) of the Golden State Killer, the mutual benefit of these exchanges, I would argue, makes them as companionable and as they are reciprocal. Besides which, while McNamara (2018) may imply here a divorce between herself and other researchers, she at no point retracts her earlier remark about tethering, climbing mountains, and shared fanatism; a remark that feels, to a degree, supported more so by this retelling of a True Crime trade. Further to these collaborations evidenced between McNamara (2018) and other researchers, it is worth acknowledging the ways in which she makes a collaborator of her reader(s) throughout, too. One such example of this comes when McNamara (2018) is talking about the inevitable fallout caused by murder, which she describes as ‘a supreme blankness’. As this description unfolds, she encapsulates her readers into the process of grief—grief on a societal level as well as those grieving on a personal one— by her use of collectives: ‘We watch as he’s led, shackled and sweaty’ [my emphasis] (McNamara 2018). There is a twofold significance here. In the first instance, this evidences the way in which McNamara (2018) aligns herself with a reader through a deliberate use of a collective pronoun. In this, McNamara (2018) not only makes a collaborator of her reader, then, but she also reiterates her own social existence beyond the narrative of this book, wherein she, too, is exposed to these murder narratives, swept up in them, and watching on for them, in the same way she posits her readers are. Here, reader and author are both like-for-like in terms of their positioning to crime. In the second instance, in the above quote in particular, there is an implicit acknowledgement being made regarding the voyeuristic nature of crime—or rather, True Crime—and the ways in which ‘we’ will watch a case advance until it has arrived at a socially acceptable climax, that typically being the capturing of a criminal, a court trial, and an eventual sentencing (which is again referenced by McNamara (2018) in an extension of the above quote where she comments on a ‘brightly lit courtroom’ and the rap of a gavel).

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Similarly, McNamara (2018) draws her reader in a second time, later, through the use of a second-person pronoun that forces them to become a participant in the narrative. In a hypothetical scenario, albeit inspired by very real-life events, McNamara (2018) puts the reader in the position: ‘But then you hear a scream and you decide it’s some teenagers playing around… You sit up in bed for a startled moment’. Though not in a research capacity, the reader still becomes an active party to the narrative at this point, as McNamara (2018) requires considered involvement from them both in terms of a mental and emotional reaction to her postulation. Subsequently, though the reader is not a collaborator insofar as research, there is again a connectivity between author and reader taking place that evidences an established relationship between the two—or at least, it evidences that McNamara (2018) perceives them to have a relationship, hence her request that they step into her narrative arc, if only for a moment. Across I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, then, collaboration takes many forms, and while this technique of drawing a reader in is something utilised in other works throughout the monograph, its weighted significance here, I posit, comes at least in part from the fact that this work in its entirety is so hinged on collaborative practices (McNamara 2018). Admittedly, there are times when McNamara (2018) veers into creative license, and other named pitfalls of True Crime. However, if one of the key pitfalls of the work is that there are inherent problems regarding accuracy, research, authenticity of sources and other, similar areas, McNamara’s (2018) collaborative efforts may look to posit answers to some of these age-old issues.

Authenticity and Accuracy Though definitive answers regarding accuracy and authenticity in relation to True Crime are sometimes as greyscale as the writing itself, there are nevertheless moments throughout McNamara’s (2018) work where her authorial intention towards accuracy is apparent. The author’s dedication to the genre she is writing into is clear, too, and noted sporadically throughout through the confessional and memoir elements. One especially noteworthy example being the admission: ‘The part of the brain reserved for sports statistics or desert recipes… is, for me, a gallery of harrowing aftermaths’ (McNamara 2018). While this in itself is not evidence of accuracy, of course, there is nevertheless something here that lends support to McNamara’s (2018) overall authenticity, and dedication, as an author working in this genre. Admittedly, the quote itself warrants further

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unpicking to evidence this fully. In the first instance, this comment frames McNamara’s (2018) work in True Crime—or to be more specific, cold cases—as something that has a much wider wing-span than this case alone, therefore evidencing a true, authentic interest, rather than something that will only last for the lifetime of a single project. To draw parallels between McNamara (2018) and the author who shares this chapter with her, then, her interest surely extends beyond a self-imposed literary challenge to coin the conventions or parameters of a new writing genre, that is, Truman Capote’s (2000) attempts at the ‘nonfiction novel’. In the second instance, the way in which McNamara (2018) draws comparisons here between True Crime and other listed interests, ones that are notably more ‘normal’ as conventional interests go, could be read in one of two ways. She is either speaking to a wider True Crime culture wherein these things are indeed being normalised as an area of interest; though a full interrogation of this would likely require a separate research project, the postulation here certainly holds merit, I feel, given this broadening genre. The alternative reading may be that McNamara (2018) is not necessarily trying to normalise True Crime in a wider cultural sense, but rather, trying to underscore how normal it is to her, and in her writing-research life. Whichever reading is correct—though others may be valid, too—there is certainly an element of authenticity to be drawn from this regarding McNamara (2018) as an author, and her evident, deep-rooted enthusiasm for her work. I would suggest this makes a sound framework, too, on which to judge the ways in which she both researched I’ll Be Gone in the Dark and then proceeded to write it, with authenticity and observable accuracy (McNamara 2018). A clear point of accuracy and authenticity that is returned to throughout is the way in which McNamara (2018) punctuates her work with evidential remarks, that provide additional context for a reader. One of the earliest examples of this comes when McNamara (2018) notes: ‘Most violent criminals are impulsive, disorganized, and easily caught’. Here, then, the author is utilising real-world, psychologically sound content to provide her readers with the underpinnings to better understand the narrative that will follow. This style of writing is peppered throughout, with further moments explaining to a reader that ‘[i]t’s common to assume that a murder involving overkill means there was a relationship between offender and victim, an unleashing of pent-up rage’ (McNamara 2018). This example is especially interesting for an additional reason, though, because this not only demonstrates McNamara’s (2018) authorial intention to provide

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socio-cultural beliefs and sound theories, to contextualise her work while enriching her readers’ awareness, but the footnote that accompanies this— ‘Michelle’s understanding concerning the use of overkill in these cases had shifted somewhat’—evidences McNamara’s own evolving level(s) of understanding, too, providing indication for the ways in which she continued to study these areas while researching-writing. Significantly, the ‘intrusion’ of this remark, albeit through the means of a footnote, speaks to the topic of collaboration again as well and the ways in which other voices have been enveloped around McNamara’s (2018) own. Further to this, there are moments that extend this technique to comment less on violent offenders and the general knowledge around them, to instead comment on the means to catch such criminals. This, McNamara (2018) does in a way that is both informed and accessible. This has a doubled effect within the text, evidencing her understanding of police procedures while explaining it in such a way as to offer (expanded) context for an audience to draw on throughout their reading, too. Earlier it was commented on how McNamara (2018) used accessible points of comparison to contextualise DNA techniques; I am referring to her analogy regarding the Commodore 64 and a smartphone. However, there are times when she explores such matters without the use of comparative analogies, instead relying on clear, informed writing: ‘A brief, nontechnical explanation of DNA typing might be helpful’ (McNamara 2018). Insofar as accuracy, too, McNamara (2018) may not provide a comprehensive overview of every detail relating to DNA typing, not least because she was not qualified to, but she wrote the information she could attest to. Alongside which, it was only the information that was necessary for providing a wider context (further evidenced by the lack of embellishment and also that this explanation does not run on for pages at a time but rather treads on the side of brevity). McNamara’s (2018) less-is-more approach in these manners implies both accuracy and authenticity because she is offering only what a reader needs, rather than information the author simply wants to include. In addition to this, there are also moments of transparency insofar as source materials, verifiability, and, therefore, accuracy, that are noteworthy. During her discussion of Debbi and Cheri Domingo, for example, McNamara (2018) makes extensive use of seemingly official materials—by which I am referring to interview transcripts and the like—to piece together portions of the narrative surrounding Cheri’s death, at the hands of the Golden State Killer. The author refers to an interview held between

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a police official and one Roger Domingo and as part of documenting that information McNamara (2018) observes: ‘Midinterview he [Roger] switches pronouns from “we” to “she”. Cheri liked to dance. She liked to “party”. It’s unclear where the quotations are Roger’s or the interviewer’s’. This moment of uncertainty on the part of the author here is noteworthy in itself. The documentation of the pronoun shift denotes a significant moment in the interview, and in observing such a detail McNamara (2018) has implicitly acknowledged, too, a shift in the relationship between Cheri and Roger; something established here and supported throughout other comments in this narrative moment. However, I posit, the real measure of transparency—and therefore authenticity—to be underscored here is McNamara’s (2018) willingness to admit that there are elements of this that cannot be substantiated, and she is covertly welcoming a reader, too, to take that into consideration during their reading. In the same narrative passage, albeit later in the recount, there is another moment that speaks to this transparency and authenticity when McNamara (2018) comments: ‘Ellen [Cheri’s friend] and Debbi have different memories of what exactly was said next’. While this may muddy a singular accuracy of this moment, something that it does successfully do is evidence the authorial integrity that forms part of McNamara’s (2018) writing practice. Again, this works as evidence for the ways in which the author is able to acknowledge grey spaces throughout her writing and, in raising these with a reader, too, she is only forming a stronger bedrock to make I’ll Be Gone in the Dark a more believable—dare I posit, even, more trustworthy—narration (McNamara 2018). Incidentally, this style of open communication with a reader regarding materials reads as reminiscent of Bugliosi (2015) and, to a degree, Rule (1989), both of whom sampled from materials in support of their intimate retellings and both of whom worked hard to ensure accuracy with those materials wherever possible. The fact that McNamara (2018) looks to employ this same measure of accuracy and authenticity, while commendable, particularly in the confines of True Crime, it is also a complication insofar as (re)classifying her book in the revised subgenre framework. Though this is something to be discussed elsewhere, and in more detail, it is worth acknowledging here, I feel, to provide my own measure of transparency. While accuracy can be difficult thing to ascertain in any nonfiction writing, there are still moments wherein accuracy becomes absolute. This, I posit, is something that happens when unabridged materials are placed into a manuscript, such is the case with McNamara’s (2018) included

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conversation—one of many conversations—that took place with Paul Holes. Later in the book, then, the main narrative is cut through with an Editor’s Note that informs a reader: ‘This section features selections from the audio transcript from the trip to Davis’ (McNamara 2018). This refers to one of many trips taken between McNamara (2018) and Holes, who grew closer over the course of McNamara’s research, making them true collaborators on certain parts of the project. That aside, though, it is the unedited extracts from their conversation that marks a real moment of accuracy here, where it appears a fair assumption to make that nothing of the work has been changed ahead of its inclusion—hence the use of ‘transcript’. Admittedly, it must also be acknowledged that, while this is a moment of accuracy, it is not one expressed by McNamara (2018), only one involving her. Here, I am referring to the fact that, one assumes, the inclusion of this extract was an editorial rather an authorial decision, presumably made after the author’s passing. However, given that I propose I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is at least in part a collaborative work, I would be inclined to argue the worth of this moment—and the authenticity it contributes on a wider scale—holds weight still, regardless of whose insertion it was (McNamara 2018). Building from that, then, the final discussion point of this subheading is also formed around a quote not by the author but about her. The Afterword of I’ll Be Gone in the Dark is written by Patton Oswalt, McNamara’s (2018) widower, and here he discusses his wife’s work—and her preoccupation with cold cases—in a loving and informed manner. He speaks of her devotion to the cause and he comments, too, that: ‘She wrote about facts she could confirm in a novelistic way’ (McNamara 2018). Insofar as accuracy, then, the significance of this quote is twofold. To work backwards in the first instance, an underscore should be drawn under Oswalt’s use of ‘novelistic’ (McNamara 2018). While this does not hinder accuracy or authenticity, necessarily, it would be remiss not to acknowledge that there are fictive techniques at work in McNamara’s (2018) writing. However, throughout this project I have come to observe already that this novelistic element of True Crime narration is something that exists on a sliding scale. McNamara’s (2018) positioning on that— insofar as her use of literary techniques—is not so pronounced that it counteracts the ‘Mother Lode’ (as she referred to it) of research that contributed to the book. In the second instance, further emphasis needs to be drawn under Oswalt’s assertion that McNamara (2018) only used information she could verify. This frames the entirety of this discussion area,

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then, given that Oswalt is speaking from a place of deep familiarity with both McNamara (2018) as a person and, more importantly in this context, as a writer-researcher, too. Admittedly, there are grounds to dispute this insofar as spousal bias. However, given the evidence presented prior to this, I would be inclined to propose that Oswalt’s assertion regarding his wife’s use and verification of alleged facts does not single-handedly evidence authenticity and accuracy throughout the book; though it certainly lends a neat final support to it.

Reflection: On Reading and (Re)classifying I’ll Be Gone in the Dark There was a point during my reading of I’ll Be Gone in the Dark—I can’t remember how far through I was, I would guess around 200 pages though it may have been more—when I felt this deep sadness wash over me (McNamara 2018). Admittedly, there were times prior to this when sadness had very much been there: the case is, after all, truly hideous. The thought of this individual’s reign lasting quite so long, impacting so many people; it weighs heavy on a reader, which speaks, too, I suppose, to McNamara’s (2018) skill in the telling. But in this instance, I am speaking to the very specific sadness of realising that at some point, some point soon, I can remember thinking, Michelle’s narrative is going to cut out. I didn’t yet know for certain—it being my first reading—whether that would actually happen. I knew the book had been ‘finished’ by someone else, but I didn’t know what their approach to completing the manuscript was: whether they would attempt to capture McNamara’s (2018) voice or only integrate their own. I think part of me assumed the former; largely because this has been my experience where other manuscripts have been finished on behalf of the author, after their passing. However, having read the book more than once now, I find that I’m always pleased with the approach that was taken. The reasoning for that is twofold, I think. To begin with, it’s a soft relief to me that McNamara’s (2018) voice isn’t going to be picked apart and linguistically analysed so someone can find the markers they would need to (try to) replicate it. It’s distinctive, as is this entire book, and I was glad that it was allowed to breathe as such; I think I felt that on a multifaceted level, as reader, researcher, and (creative) writer, too. The second reason behind this soft relief is that there’s something so beautifully appropriate that after all of the relationships that were

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established, all of the black-and-white movie deals that went down in the interest of trading information, that there was one final relationship—one final mark of McNamara’s (2018) willingness and ability to collaborate, for the sake of telling a true story—and for me, reading as I was this first time around as a layperson reader, something about that truly spoke to me. It’s something that has stirred a lot of reflection since this research project began, too. A second thing to cause a stirring has been my consideration of where McNamara’s (2018) work exists insofar as the revised subgenres I am proposing throughout. The more I wrote, have written, about the work, the less inclined I’ve felt to pair it with Truman Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood. However—and this is quite a however—I truly do not see it belonging to the same subgenre category as the likes of Helter Skelter and The Stranger Beside Me (Bugliosi 2015; Rule 1989). McNamara (2018) may create intimacy with her work and with the case that she narrates here, but that intimacy, and that connection, is fabricated—albeit in an ethical way. Still, the connection is not an organic one in the same sense as that held by some of her authorial peers here and that remains the determining factor insofar as genre classification. What I will admit, however, is that even when a genre is cracked open and the subgenres scraped out, there are still—and I now believe will always be—nuances and exceptions and, to borrow from a term leaned on heavily throughout this work, there will still be grey spaces to consider, too. It may be fairer, then, to imagine subgenres as a spectrum and, in this instance, to see that spectrum punctuated with truth, authenticity, proximity, and so forth. McNamara (2018) and Capote (2000) may sit on the same spectrum, then, but the space between them is a vast desert, barren of all life, with a harmonica interlude forming a background OST.

Conclusion: Authorial Proximity In considering I’ll Be Gone in the Dark in line with the author gap, wherein author recollection and authorial proximity must both be considered, the gap is, in theory, easy to assess in this case (McNamara 2018). McNamara (2018) is not writing from her memory of crimes having taken place, though she does look to exhibit more general memories that can be applied to the temporal context of the crimes and the society/ies in which they occurred. Insofar as authorial proximity this is, again in theory, substantial in distance given that McNamara (2018) was not involved in the

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crimes nor the detection, nor even the original reportage of them. However, I propose that I’ll Be Gone in the Dark requires a more nuanced approach insofar as accurately assessing both the overall author gap and, indeed, McNamara’s (2018) positioning on a scale of proximity. This is owing to the unexpected elements throughout the work that come to complicate her standing in the case. Admittedly, it can be observed throughout that McNamara (2018) treads into literary writing through her use of figurative language, hyperbole, and shifting narrative perspectives. Significantly, in the case of the latter, this is done expressly to elicit pathos and sometimes even horror from her reading audience, which evidences the way in which the author is utilising stylistics and language in a deliberate and conscious manner. However, tandem to this, there is also McNamara’s (2018) use of materials to consider, the level of transparency around her usage of those materials—which looks to be reasonable in itself—alongside, too, the collaborative practice that formed the work, which prevents it from being a ‘traditional’ True Crime book anyway—assuming a ‘traditional’ work exists. Alongside these threads, I propose a further idea to consider: McNamara’s (2018) proximity shifts over the course of her book. This was an idea alluded to in the introduction of this chapter and, after presenting the above discussion especially, I believe it is an idea worth returning to. Traditionally, authorial proximity—in the context of this research project—was a phrase assigned with a clear meaning: How close was the author to their topic? In the case of McNamara (2018), the answer was, I thought, an easy one to determine: she was not close to it, therefore her authorial proximity was substantial in distance. Following a second read of the work, though, I feel this assertion becomes disrespectful insofar as the work that was undertaken to ensure accuracy, authenticity, and a reasonable measure of truth, too, across McNamara’s (2018) project. In Part 3 of the book, following the author’s death, it is revealed that ‘Michelle had cultivated relationships with investigators both active and retired that evolved into open exchanges of information’ (McNamara 2018). Her collaborators also propose that McNamara (2018) became an ‘honorary investigator’ of sorts throughout researching and writing the book. Subsequently, it seems a fair argument to make that the overall author gap, as it is applied to McNamara (2018) here, moves from being distanced—in the first instance—through to nominal. There is a distance in proximity there still, of that there is no contestation to be made. However, when positioned alongside the likes of Capote (2000) it reads as improper to propose that

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I’ll Be Gone in the Dark and indeed McNamara (2018) exhibit the same authorial proximity in their case-text-author combination, as that of a book that relies as heavily on fabrication as Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood appears to. As such, McNamara’s (2018) authorial proximity exists as a token to denote that no, she does not share the same minimal author gap as the likes of Bugliosi (2015) and Rule (1989). However, she undoubtedly belongs closer to her work than Capote (2000), despite sharing a subgenre classification with him. To conclude, then, and on the note of that subgenre, I posit that I’ll Be Gone in the Dark belongs to this class for several reasons (McNamara 2018). The utilisation of literary techniques, the initial authorial proximity, and, indeed, the shift of it, too, which repositions the author in the book’s narrative arc; McNamara’s (2018) many collaborations denoted throughout; Part Three, which was unavoidably formed from two different narrative voices to McNamara’s own—the list is plentiful. Now, while I do not propose McNamara’s (2018) work is anywhere transgressive or experimental enough to be shifted into a category for hybrid works, I do hold that the many moving parts of this book—and its distinct lack of one linear narrative belonging to a single, involved voice—relegate it to the category of True Crime: Reimagined, where McNamara’s authenticity and creativity can both be credited.

References1 Bonn, Scott. 2014. Why We Love Serial Killers. New York: Skyhorse Publishing. Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Merriam-Webster. N.D.  Fanatic. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/fanatic. Accessed 08 May 2023. Merriam-Webster. N.D.  Feral. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/ feral. Accessed 08 May 2023. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere. Twain, Mark. 2018. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. London: Arcturus Publishing Limited.

1  Note: At the time of writing, the website address for Michelle McNamara’s ‘True Crime Diary’ was no longer active. Hence, it is not formally cited here. In the interest of clarity, though, the URL was as follows: www.truecrimediary.com.

CHAPTER 9

Writing Creative (True) Crime Narratives

There are grounds on which to argue this is merely an extension of the ‘safe’ distance posited earlier. Perhaps authors that sit comfortably beneath the catch-all heading of ‘Some of this is inspired by real life events’ are merely stepping (far enough) away from the realities of their work in order that they might have the freedom to fictionalise without scrutiny. This must be especially true of the works that establish themselves with a disclaimer of ‘Based on true events’ without ever clarifying what those true events are: no case details are provided, no victims of violent crimes are named. Effectively, all that disclaimer is acknowledging is that the events you are about to see, or read, or listen to, happened to someone—and statistically, to a greater or lesser extent, there is something of that in all crime narratives particularly, I would suggest. Though the crimes themselves may be farfetched, and sometimes, too, the motives for those crimes, life—or rather, a life of crime—is far too strange and greyscale a thing for there not to be slips between fact and fiction, regardless of the intentions a creator has for a text. In conjunction with that, there are times when life gifts a writer with something so wonderfully, hideously bizarre—I have vivid memories here of reading about Ed Kemper for the first time while writing my debut novel—that not using some of life’s materials may feel more of a travesty, regardless of any associated ambiguities. Admittedly, though, there is a moral greyscale, one worth acknowledging here, insofar as those texts that do openly affiliate themselves with real

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life without providing a further window into that reality. Many times, in fact, the window looks to be cracked open by that disclaimer only to reveal a brick wall outside, showing nothing of what a reader, viewer, or listener may like or even need to know about the source materials behind a work. This assumes an entitlement on behalf of the viewer, and ordinarily I would not extend such liberties; though there are times when allowances should be made, too, in the interest of transparency and authorial integrity. I propose again, in conjunction with that, that naturally, there are figments of real life in fiction, particularly crime fiction, and I do not think every piece of inspiration must be cited at the back of a novel, for instance. Drawing from my own experiences of creative writing, there are, I am sure, moments in every book where I might be able to say, ‘See, this part here, I got this idea after I read this’. However, given that I boast no affiliation with real life—quite the opposite, in fact, through my publisher’s disclaimer inserted at the start of each work—it becomes unnecessary for me to cite those moments. Building from that, I posit there is a delineation required, then, between the books that are very loosely and occasionally borrowing from something the author read somewhere once, against the books that are heavily borrowing from narrative arcs that are easily recognisable as real-life ones or, parallel to that, the narratives mentioned above that align themselves with real-life events without clarity or clarification regarding what those events are. Imagine if, for example, my disclaimers were altered to read: parts of this manuscript are based on real-life events. Where of course, the implicit meaning here is something rather more drastic: parts of this narrative are based on real instances of crime, enacted by real people, that have affected real people. Does that change anything of the ethics in the creativity? Does this not become a space of moral ambiguity instead? Arguably, this line of discussion shifts again when one considers the ways in which an author might use their own real-life events for their creative practice. There is still some moral ambiguity to be noted here, incidentally, because these events do not exist in a vacuum insofar as the people they leave a mark on. There are cases where an author may write about a crime that impacted them, such is their right, but not necessarily document how it impacted their entire family (as a plucked from thin air example). There are conscientious ways of doing this though. For example, Rule (1989) refers at length, throughout The Stranger Beside Me, to a long-time paramour of Ted Bundy’s. Rule (1989) notes down her time with this woman, how they talked, how she, like Rule, felt constantly

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conflicted about her role in the Bundy narrative. It was not until a much later addition, in a much later edition, that Rule (1989) clarified the woman readers had known here was in fact living her life under an entirely different name. Rule (1989) had agreed upon a pseudonym and had agreed, too, not to reveal that a pseudonym was being used. It was only when the woman wrote and published her own story—thereby doing away with the anonymity she had fought so hard to preserve—that Rule (1989) followed suit, with another revised edition of her book. Considering these creative ambiguities in relation to the final two texts of this monograph, though, provide greater complexities still. Having mentioned Rule’s prose above, perhaps that is a tangential gate through which to side-step into Emma Cline’s (2017) prose work, The Girls. To slip into reader response mode for a moment, it feels significant to recount an early experience of reading this book. It was suggested to me as a ‘retelling of the Manson murders’; I recall a friend using those exact terms. Now, if reader response theory creates a space in which a reader can contribute their own meaning to a text and thereby seal its completion, independently from the intentions of the author, then this work is still a novel about the Manson murders—such has been my readings of it. There are grounds on which to argue bias in the reading, then, given that I approached the book with this historical incident in mind. Therefore, more or less so, my reading of it, as a narrative inextricably bound to Manson, was tainted as such from the beginning. However, that did not become a complicating factor until I discovered Emma Cline’s (2017) own views in interviews, both written and recorded, where she looked to be expressing the opposite to my reading—hence, tension. While Roland Barthes (1977) has his merits, this is not intended to be a space wherein the death of the author is interrogated. There are some who will read the above and say, ‘Yes, it is absolutely proper to change one’s reading of a text on learning the author’s intentions’, and paradoxically those who will say, ‘No, the author has given up their claim here’. Above all that, the part of this which I posit does warrant interrogation is the ways in which Cline (2017) has evidently been inspired by real-life events in the craft of her work, without the culmination of that work being in any way affiliated with these events. In sources referenced here, in the relevant chapter, documents are readily available to read where the author claims she was inspired by the Manson case but that she also researched, extensively, around other cult organisations of that time. It becomes an additional grey space, then—as if there were not already enough of them

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throughout True Crime—where one might feel inclined to ask, ‘Do I only recognise this as the Manson case because, of all the cult organisations the author researched, the Manson Family is the most famous and/or the only one I am familiar with?’ It is a duo-interpretation with no definitive response, though it is certainly something to keep in mind. That said, throughout the critical analysis—contained, here, in the following chapter—it becomes apparent that the points of contact between The Girls and the Manson narrative are many (Cline 2017). Despite the book’s utilisation of the catch-all disclaimer that states any similarities to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental. To eradicate any doubt: I am not disputing this. Though there are times when the real-life influences here are so patently obvious, that for readers above a certain age—of which I include myself—tying this work to the Manson Family is an inevitability, regardless of the author’s intentions. Significantly, too, a cursory glance through the many reviews of the book would suggest that it is far from one or two readers who feel this way, but rather, a great many of us. This does not necessarily call for a total genre re-categorisation of the book that makes it entirely distinct from its fictional brethren. Though it does, I propose, provide grounds on which to create a duo-classification, in the same way that another book might be both poetry and memoir; True Crime and memoir. This, then, may be fiction, or it may be True Crime: Inspired By, or Fiction. This genre hybridisation provides a tangential move now, into a text that not only muddies the waters of fiction, fact, and narrative retellings, but complicates that further by incorporating genre classifications to the medley, too. Maggie Nelson’s (2005) work has often defied ‘easy’ classification but when considering Jane: A murder in the wider context of this True Crime discussion, there were many theoretical rabbit holes down which a reader and/or critic may tumble. It should be noted here, as referenced earlier in the monograph, too, that the concept of crime poetry, or even True Crime poetry, is not entirely innovative (though the form of Nelson’s (2005) work very much is). Elsewhere it was cited that murder ballads form part of True Crime’s genetic make-up and history. Meanwhile, though not dealing in crimes of a true nature admittedly, the likes of Robert Browning and Christina Rossetti were contributing their own crime narratives, through pronounced first-person speakers, in the form of dramatic monologues— which is, for clarity, in fact a praised style of poetry. Though I suppose this leads to a rather obvious distinction from Nelson’s (2005) work, which is not just poetry by any means, and it is related to a real-life crime.

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The question of Nelson’s (2005) proximity to the crime, and the creative license this entitles her with, is something that can be found interrogated in her chapter proper. Here, though, under this rather broad heading of when a writer is and is not using fact to form their fiction, and more pertinently, perhaps, when a writer is and is not citing such a thing, Nelson (2005) becomes an interesting case study. It is apparent from early in the work that Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’ exists within this narrative arc, which is to say she has her place in the story. Subsequently, then, she more or less has a measure of authority to write about it; though this does re-introduce the earlier question of the ethical ambiguities this may provoke insofar as other people involved in the wider case. These other people—in the case of Nelson (2005) being her grandfather, mother, sister, and Jane’s lover, Phil—are featured in the work and, in many cases, are written as an ‘I’. Nelson (2005) is forming these individuals into mouthpieces and gifting them—to use what some may posit is a generous term—a language presence in her book. Though there is no way of knowing whether indeed these people were in the room, metaphorically speaking, or lingering at a safe distance in the doorway as Nelson wrote. Alongside this, Nelson (2005) not only fashions multiple first-person speakers for the work, but she also utilises: omnipresent, third-person narration; fictionalisation; surrealist imaginings; intertextuality; erasure. In fact, in my notes on the many forms and voices that can be highlighted throughout Nelson’s (2005) creation, I also found I had written the following: Is Nelson’s entire book the ultimate demonstration of form mimicking content, where no single style of expression, insofar as the writing, is quite enough alone to capture the complexities of effectively living in a True Crime narrative?

There is much to be said, then, for the varied ways in which both books listed here employ real-life narratives as a means for crafting fictional, or in part fictional, ones. Admittedly, both authors are manipulating these realities to different degrees and also to meet different ends. Still though, they express the ways in which True Crime can be absorbed into greater bodies of work than merely its own, and highlight, too, the hybridisation that awaits the genre throughout the literary world, rather than simply through other forms of media, where hybridisation already looks to have taken root. Here, writers have been slower to take up the mantle—or perhaps

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they have only opted to tread more carefully, slow and steady with the ways in which ‘truth’ can be used. Whatever the reasonings, they are beginning to push the boundaries of where True Crime ends and begins and how it can be collapsed in terms of its contents. Alongside which, the extent to which authors need to be explicit in their use(s) of True Crime is something else shown to be collapsed, or indeed collapsing, existing now as a small origami structure at the back of the room, outside which those involved in the real-life crime await a read of what the writer has done. This small influence will continue to manifest in different styles of writing, of that much I am sure. However, this does not negate the need for a more nuanced approach to the ways in which we acknowledge this type of writing—where True Crime meets Inspired By, or indeed Fiction— nor does it negate a need for continued, broader discussions around how True Crime is seeded into so-called works of fiction as well.

References Barthes, Roland. 1977. Image, Music, Text. London: Fontana Press. Cline, Emma. 2017. The Girls. London: Vintage. Nelson, Maggie. 2005. Jane: A Murder. California: Soft Skull Press. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere.

CHAPTER 10

Manson’s Girls Make a Comeback: How (C)overt Is the Influence of the Charles Manson Case on Emma Cline’s The Girls, and Should Readers Be Expected to Ignore the Connections?

The Girls by Emma Cline, first published in 2016, was the author’s debut release; a Bildungsroman novel rooted in a turbulent and troubling narrative framework. A dual-narrative timeline, the work occupies both America as it existed in a 1969 social landscape and now, the present-day, where the narrative voice at the helm of the story is struggling to marry her teenage indiscretions with the life she has grown into. Told through the mouthpiece of Evie Boyd, the narrative arc of the work sees the protagonist-­ narrator (of the 1969 timeline) attracted to a wayward existence outside that of her family home. Evie’s father has recently left her and her mother and taken up residence with a new and younger partner. Meanwhile, Evie’s mother has adopted the somewhat stereotypical role of searching for oneself that so often follows the abandoned housewife according to trope. Between these parental figures, and on the cusp of a teenage awakening in her own life, Evie repels the comfort of home in favour of forming attachments to a group of young women who look to be living a glamorous and idealised existence, as teenage Evie sees it. These same women soon adopt Evie in their communal home that exists on an abandoned movie ranch, under the leadership of an aspiring musician named Russell. Russell

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frequently engages in sexual intercourse with all women present, alongside preaching radical views regarding the state of society and the extreme measures that would be required to fix its problems. Another crowning element of Russell’s character is his desire to become a professional musician which he believes is something that will come to fruition through calling upon favours he perceives to be owed by music industry professionals. It is when these favours fail to take root that Russell engineers the brutal murders of several victims, with plans that are implemented by the instructed members of his commune family. The present-day narration complements this by demonstrating the spectre of Evie’s involvement, insofar as the eventual loneliness and loss felt by her throughout her life in the aftermath of Russell’s murder scheme. If a reader were familiar with the Charles Manson case, outlined earlier in this very monograph, the points of similarity between that narrative and the one noted above may be glaring. I will discuss these at length throughout the chapter that follows to query: the ways in which Cline (2017) has borrowed from the Manson narrative; the nuanced implementation of case-specific details; and finally, why the connective tissue between this fiction and the Manson reality are not made more explicit in the packaging of Cline’s final novel product. In this final point, I am alluding to the somewhat objectionable side-stepping of any affiliation insofar as the blurb of the novel, that neglects to outline Cline’s (2017) use of the Manson case as research material or as a source of inspiration for her narrative. The publisher’s assertion that the book is indeed a work of fiction becomes a complicating factor, admittedly, insofar as reading The Girls as a revised or re-interpreted Charles Manson-inspired work (Cline 2017). Though this entire area of discussion raises challenging points regarding how much, or even if, authors are (morally) obligated to be quite so transparent insofar as outlining their inspirations and source materials. Nevertheless, the points of connectivity through explicit and implicit details alike cannot be overlooked in a critical reading of Cline’s (2017) writing. Subsequently, when influences are borrowed from to such a degree—despite contributing towards an allegedly fictive result—the question of where a complete novelisation sits on the genre spectrum of True Crime must be raised and interrogated.

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Not Naming the Thing It feels pertinent to establish this discussion with a level of transparency regarding The Girls and its placement in this wider research project (Cline 2017). The Girls was and remains marketed as a work of fiction (Cline 2017). Significantly, this work boasted the same disclaimer as many others under the heading of fiction or commercial fiction, that openly states: ‘Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental’ (Vintage disclaimer quoted from Cline 2017). I am not disputing The Girls as a narrative that has been constructed and decorated from Cline’s (2017) imagination. There are details within the narrative arc of the story that do not pertain to any specific real-life elements of a historical narrative; by which I mean, there are distinct differences between this work and the real-life story of the Charles Manson murders. However, there are striking similarities, too, and it is these elements of the work that I feel are worthy of note. The reason for this being that regardless of whether a work belongs to the True Crime heading insofar as its contents, when True Crime influences are especially overt—as I will propose they are throughout The Girls—it seems to me that this speaks to moral ambiguities still, and indeed, to a wider discussion around transparency and genre deconstruction, regardless of whether a work is marketed as fiction (Cline 2017).

Reflection: What’s in a Name? When I was texting a friend to outline yet more similarities between The Girls and the Charles Manson case—something I had started to do with such startling regularity that some may have referred to it as a hobby—he replied to ask whether they, meaning the publisher, were playing fast and loose with the copyright disclaimer (Cline 2017). Somehow, this was the first time I had even thought to look for the disclaimer, but when I went searching there it was. On and off since, I have grappled with the phrasing of this statement—that being the disclaimer sampled above—and wondered whether there is something I had missed—or, paradoxically, whether on reading The Girls at a time when I was also consuming significant amounts of True Crime, including Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter, whether I went looking and accidentally found too much (Cline 2017). Though reviews have assured me that I am certainly not alone in having

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observed these similarities between the real-life narrative of the Manson case, and Cline’s (2017) fictional work on a 1960s commune based in California, led by an aspiring musician-cum-cult leader-cum-inspirational life guru. The Guardian’s review of the book boasts the grabbing tagline ‘the Charles Manson “family” reimagined’, meanwhile similar sentiments are expressed by The Washington Post, The New Yorker, and popular culture website Flavorwire (Ditum 2016; Charles 2016; Wood 2016; Sturgeon 2016).

Not Naming the Thing The Paris Review published an interview with Cline (2017) and, in their introductory framing of the article, they posited The Girls is a book ‘loosely based on the Manson murders’, describing it as a novel still, while also explaining it as a book that ‘circles around the blunt facts of Manson’s crimes’ (Love 2016). During this interview, Love (2016) directly addresses the in-depth research that Cline (2017) undertook into Charles Manson, his so-called family and their crimes, that contributed to her crafting The Girls. However, the interviewer then uses this to establish a question that relates not to Manson at all, but to the research into other areas that Cline (2017) had done in support of the cult narrative thread of the work. Here, Cline admits that her research into cults and communes was indeed extensive, but when writing the book proper, she did not begin the venture in search of ‘an assailable historical truth’ (Love 2016). Cline (2017) proposes, then, that rather than trying to recreate a specific incident from a specific era, she instead wanted to recreate the tone, mood, and feeling of an era, in a broader and freer sense throughout her novel. Interestingly, one area that this does lend support to is a wider discussion regarding authorial intentions, and indeed what Cline’s (2017) may have been in her writing. Given that the author has expressly stated she did not wish to recapture the events or crime relating to one specific cult—the Charles Manson family, that is—it is improper to try to amend those authorial intentions, due to the perceptions of a reader, or indeed, of a wider readership in total. That said, in Roland Barthes’ (1977) seminal work, ‘The Death of the Author’, the theorist argued that an author’s intentions—alongside any information pertaining to the biography of the author, too—cannot and should not be considered by a reading audience, insofar as extrapolating or determining meaning within a text. To that end, then, while Cline’s (2017) authorial intentions as outlined in the

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above interview provides a kind of context into the author’s aims, this is, some literary theorists would argue, a context that is not needed when it comes to a reader making sense or determining meaning for that very same text. Subsequently, while we cannot amend Cline’s (2017) intentions, then, nor indeed can we re-categorise the entire classification of The Girls as a work of fiction—not that I mean to suggest we should, either— what we can do is consider this work through a critical lens in conjunction with more traditionally framed True Crime publications, to consider whether the work might occupy a duality of genre: both fiction, and True Crime: Inspired by, or Fiction.

Inspired by Real Events While The Girls may be an amalgamation of research into real-life incidents and the author’s own imagination, a pertinent place to begin the analysis of this text looks to be to consider the areas of Cline’s (2017) narrative where the real-life inspiration is especially pronounced. Admittedly, these areas of similarity—meaning, what looks to resemble real-life, at least to a degree—are something that will be returned to throughout this discussion, considered through the lens of narrative construction, characterisation, and language use. For now, though, there are general points of connectivity to consider that form the bedrock of The Girls’ eventual narrative, and indeed, this overall discussion (Cline 2017). In the first instance, the scene setting of the novel is something that warrants consideration. At an early point in the narrative, it is documented through the mouthpiece of Evie Boyd—the narrator-protagonist of the work—that ‘he [Dan, an associate of the character] talked about the ranch with that same sporadic goof’ (Cline 2017). This is the earliest mention of the ranch, though the eventual descriptions pertaining to this landscape build a rich portrait of a commune setting, wherein the property is a convenient backdrop to the reprehensible actions of the characters housed there. Still, here, the ranch is established as a key landscape for the narrative, communicated in an understated way, too, without drawing overt attention to the reference. Therefore, Cline (2017) is allowing a slow accumulation of detailing that prevents revealing too much, too soon, to a reader. This gradual seeding of pertinent information is something Cline (2017) undertakes often throughout these opening pages in the work, where a reader is provided with the essential building blocks required for a fuller picture of ranch life, and the ranch’s occupants. Coupled with this

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is Cline’s (2017) later reference to another geographical marker that bears cultural significance in her historical timeframe, that being 1960s America. Cline (2017)—or rather, Evie—narrates an area known as The Haight, which she comments was ‘populated with white-garbed Process members’. This comment is noteworthy for two reasons. In the first instance, there is direct connectivity here between Cline’s (2017) work and the known narrative of Charles Manson and his family’s development. To return to Helter Skelter, Bugliosi (2015) asserts: ‘It was there, in the Haight-Ashbury section, that spring, that the Family was born’. Thus again, Cline (2017) is framing the early landscape of the work with areas— both general in the case of a ranch space and specific in the case of The Haight—that are affiliated with Charles Manson. Alongside this, another detail that is worthy of note is Cline’s (2017) reference to ‘Process members’. This is, one assumes, a reference to the so-called Process Church of the Final Judgement, a well-established extremist religious movement that occupied certain areas of America in the 1960s. The significance here unfolds for two reasons again, then. In the first instance to demonstrate how Cline (2017) is borrowing from known historical fact to structure her fictional narrative. In the second instance, because some True Crime historians posit that Manson was affiliated with this cult, too, and in fact borrowed from their teachings—alongside sampling from various other extremist movements—to inform his own philosophical doctrine that would set the foundations of his ‘family’. Outside of scene setting, there is evidence to suggest that Cline (2017) was inspired by real-life events in other areas, too, one of which being the media reportage and audience consumption of violent crimes. There is broad connectivity between this element of the novel and real life, wherein Cline (2017) makes sweeping observations about the general True Crime culture that occupies our present-day socio-cultural structures. One such example comes early in the novel when Evie alludes to individuals who looked to establish ‘a veneer of scholarship’ while they ‘jostled for ownership’ of the murder narrative she was a part of (Cline 2017). This is a multi-levelled critique wherein Cline (2017) is alluding to the many ways in which True Crime narratives come to function as a cultural space, occupied by many and under many guises. Evie continues with: ‘All of the scraps seemed important… the station the radio was tuned to in Mitch’s kitchen, the number and depth of stab wounds’ (Cline 2017). Here, Cline (2017) is using effective literary techniques both to continue in her critique of True Crime culture and to establish intrigue for her later narrative

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events, through this cataphoric referencing that alludes both to a crime scene and a violent crime. The cultural critique occurs through her pairing of a seemingly innocuous detail—the radio station—with an especially violent one—the number of stab wounds. In pairing these, Cline (2017) denotes the extremities of True Crime interests, but also the normalisation of them. Later in the narrative, however, Cline (2017) turns her attention from general afficionados to more specific outlets: the media. Following the murders, then, Evie recalls how one particular journalist ‘reported six victims… Then the number was amended to four’ (Cline 2017). Though it is the narration that immediately follows this that adds a particular weight to this moment, wherein Evie reveals this reporter ‘was the first to claim the presence of hoods and nooses and Satanic symbols’ too (Cline 2017). Significantly, this later rumour is introduced by this reporter due to the killers having painted symbols—albeit non-occultist symbols—on the walls at the crime scene in question. To clarify the significance of this insofar as real-life connectivity, during the early weeks of reports relating to the Tate-LaBianca murders, as they would come to be known, there was initially confusion around whether hoods were present in the crime scene as a means for covering a victim’s body; it was later revealed that this was not the case. Likewise, the ways in which Sharon Tate and others were loosely bound with rope also became mistranslated by media officials with several outlets narrating the utilisation of nooses as part of the fatal attacks. On the presence of occultist symbols, this is one of the better-known accusations that was introduced by the media regarding the presence of something written or painted in blood at the real-life crime scenes. However, the imagery left behind was not symbols—though there is connectivity here that we will return to later—but rather key words pertaining to Manson’s murderous manifesto that killers were instructed to leave behind. Here, admittedly, there are already subtle differences appearing insofar as Cline’s (2017) narration and that of real life. However, there is also early evidence to establish a linking between the two, wherein Evie’s narrative recollections sit easily alongside the story of Manson as many layperson readers will likely know it. Something that may hold additional significance, though, is Cline’s (2017) use of only certain similarities, many of which relate to very specific details of the case that only True Crime enthusiasts may be fully aware of. Thus, the better a reader knows the original case, the greater the similarities between it and Cline’s (2017)

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work, which may regrettably veer towards being a self-fulfilling prophecy, in terms of how readers can approach the text. Subsequently, while these early reflections indicate there are key differences in the narrative, they indicate, too, that Cline (2017) borrowed heavily from real-life stimuli in order to shape what has since been determined as a fictional work. The general case details—such as the location of events and particulars of the crime, as evidenced above—are only two areas where this trend of intermingling fact and fiction become apparent, though, with another key element of the novel being Cline’s (2017) characterisation of her central cast.

Characterisation An influential strand of the real-life Manson narrative is the ties he held to the music industry—or rather, his perceived ties. Manson famously boasted to his so-called family that both Terry Melcher and Dennis Wilson were orchestrating a recording contract for him, for his solo musical endeavours. The recording contract(s) fell through, however, leaving Manson embittered towards both of the above-named individuals and the wider music industry business. Prior to the recording contract having fallen through, though, there are reports that suggest Manson and Wilson shared a comradery of sorts, wherein Wilson was of some financial support to the wider family. In addition to this, some of these reports suggest, too, that Wilson was paid in kind by the Manson Girls, as they are often dubbed, insofar as sexual favours and general affection. This is something heavily drawn on throughout The Girls, most notably through Cline’s (2017) character of Mitch. Evie recalls that though she had failed to recognise Mitch’s name when the girls (of the ranch) had first mentioned him, she had ‘heard of his band… seen them on TV, playing in the hot lights of a studio set’ (Cline 2017). Here, the band is unnamed, though in the wider narrative context one may find an interlinking between this fictionalised representation, and with The Beach Boys band, of which Dennis Wilson was a co-founder. Furthermore, there is a later note on Evie’s retelling where it is voiced—by the character of Donna—that ‘Mitch did a recording session with Russell’, the character of Russell here being the cult leader, who will be discussed at length in a later portion of this analysis (Cline 2017). For now, though, it is noteworthy that Manson is known to have done trial recordings—though there were occasions, too, where recording sessions were scheduled for him, only for industry

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representatives to cancel at the last minute—where he purportedly impressed those figureheads present. It should be noted, too, that this level of interest in Manson’s music was something communicated by the man himself, rather than being a set of claims that any of the involved individuals—such as Wilson and Melcher, though there were others— could positively attest to. Nevertheless, Manson’s self-perceived talent and the perceptions he held regarding how other people had responded to that talent is something else echoed in Cline’s (2017) work, in the early establishment of Russell and Mitch: ‘Russell blew his [Mitch’s] mind’, according, again, to the character of Donna. In further support of this, the representation of Mitch (as a Dennis Wilson type of figure) is continued later into Cline’s (2017) narrative. Evie informs a reader of the ways in which Russell ‘sought the famous and semifamous’ as a means for gaining access to resources: ‘whose cars he could borrow and houses he could live in’ (Cline 2017). Again, this resonates with the known facts of Manson’s behaviours regarding his treatment of music officials, alongside his noted intimidation tactics, something he resorted to when it appeared that a recording contract may in fact not be delivered on. Similarly, Russell also relates to Mitch this way, ‘hounding [him] for weeks about the supposed record deal’ (Cline 2017). Thus, Mitch as a music industry figurehead and his changing, eventually volatile relationship with Russell runs parallel to many key incidents that were documented about the real-life Manson and his endeavours to secure musical success. Given the titling of the novel, it is imperative, too, to consider the representation of the girls throughout the work. Cline commented during an interview: ‘I’m interested in this moment on the cusp of adulthood… and what it means to be a girl in the world’, positing this is the point in any real-life narrative where we begin to observe how women and girls are treated as part of the real world (quoted in Love 2016). Subsequently, this was a significant influence in Cline’s (2017) work, and the communication of the above themes were, one assumes, something that ultimately informed her authorial intentions in drafting the book. The representation of the girls, then, is both covert and overt insofar as how they echo real-life affiliations with the Manson story. An overt demonstration of this comes in the naming of Suzanne, which could be read as a subtle allusion to Susan Atkins, better known by her family moniker of Sadie Mae Glutz. Atkins was a high-ranking member of Manson’s family, wielding a significant influence over the other girls present while also acting as a direct aid, insofar as carrying out the orders and wishes of Manson. Atkins was also

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present across all of the Tate-LaBianca killings, and she was instrumental, too, in key testimony that was eventually provided by her cellmates who she reportedly boasted details of the murders to. The Suzanne of the novel occupies a similar high-ranking space in the family, something that is foreshadowed by her introduction to the work when Evie notes: ‘That day in the park was the first time I saw Suzanne and the others’ (Cline 2017). Here, Suzanne is the only named figure among the family of girls and young women, thereby marking her as somehow distinct already, in her immediate entry to the novel. Her status is built upon, too, when readers observe the other girls actively seeking permission from Suzanne before carrying out an action. A notable example of this being Evie’s acceptance into the family fold at all, that looks to be approved first by Suzanne, before graduating Evie to the next stage of acceptance that must be granted by the leader, Russell. Suzanne, much like Atkins, is also a central character in the murders themselves. She leaves a ‘craggy heart’ on Mitch’s wall in the aftermath of the crimes, too, as a calling card of sorts (Cline 2017). Significantly again, as this detail is revealed at a very early stage in the narrative, it can be read as foreshadowing Suzanne’s eventual importance in the family, as well as being a cataphoric reference to what will happen later in the narrative arc. While this mirroring looks to be an especially apparent echo of the Manson case, there are ways in which the girls were characterised—inspired by—in more subtle ways. One such example of this being the routine held by the girls of Russell’s cult to frequently dumpster dive in search of food. This particular detail is seeded throughout, with the girls carrying out this endeavour on more than one occasion. A particularly memorable depiction of it, however, comes when Donna is noted as appearing ‘avid as an animal’ as she lifts her clothing away from her body, thereby freeing her up to ‘dig deep’ for food (Cline 2017). Evie notes, too, how the character subject here was ‘happy to muck about in the trash’, suggesting a girl who is content and accepting of her role within the family hierarchy (Cline 2017). This reads as an additional example of a real-life influence that may only be fully perceived and/or appreciated by those who are privy to the Manson case in some detail, and therefore know that this was an encouraged behaviour, by Manson, for the girls and women living at the ranch. In addition, it was noted earlier that the characterisation of Russell as the cult’s figurehead also warranted attention. Russell’s entry into The Girls narrative is framed by the girls themselves, most notably Donna who, when talking to Evie, explains: ‘“He’s not like anyone else… It’s like a

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natural high, being around him. Like the sun or something”’ (Cline 2017). Cline (2017) frames Russell in natural imagery again shortly after this, too, when Evie remarks on the girls’ tendency to discuss Russell’s power and influence in the world ‘as though it were as widely acknowledged as the moon’s tidal pull or the earth’s orbit’. Here, then, Cline’s (2017) use of figurative language establishes Russell as a natural force within the context of the narrative, as though exerting a power that is at once all-encompassing and, significantly, inevitable or unstoppable. Alongside these forceful allusions, Russell is also framed in Christ-like terms, which again speaks to the standing of Manson as it was among his real-life family, with many members asserting that Manson was a born-­ again Jesus Christ—a view that Manson himself also endorsed and encouraged. Here, Russell is framed as a person with spiritual or religious dominance, too, as someone who can both commune with animals and heal the physical ills of a person with only his hands: he is able to ‘pull the rot out of you as cleanly as a tumor’ (Cline 2017). Thus, Cline (2017) has already established Russell’s dominance within the text before he has made a physical entry into it, which again mirrors the reported pull that Manson exerted over those around him. Interestingly, when physical descriptors are introduced for Russell, they are minimal and somewhat understated in comparison to the physicality of other characters integrated before this— most notably the physical descriptions of the girls. This perhaps speaks to Cline’s (2017) authorial intention that this be a narrative focused more on these girls than anything else. Nevertheless, when Russell does arrive, we learn that he ‘looked young’ on approach, though Evie soon determines ‘he was at least a decade older than Suzanne’, who readers have already been informed is only nineteen (Cline 2017). There are subtle symmetries again here between Russell and Manson, with the former being at least, one assumes, in his late twenties to early thirties; meanwhile, Manson was thirty-five when the Tate-LaBianca murders took place. That symmetry aside, there is arguably not enough physical detail provided of Russell in this introductory moment for a reader to determine how much—or indeed, if he even does—resemble Manson. We only learn of his bare feet, dirt, and shirt, and little else insofar as his appearance. Though we do learn, in this moment, that the girls react to him as though engaging in some kind of ‘ritual’ and that the group ‘surged and twitched like a Greek chorus’ at the sight of his raised hands and greeting, again evidencing Russell’s influence over the family members (Cline 2017). While there are loose threads, then, that provide a fictional and biographical interlinking

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between Russell and Manson, the similarities are never more pronounced than when considering the religious-philosophical doctrines that are developed and deployed by both leaders.

Russell’s Doctrine It has already been alluded to above that Russell occupied a Christ-like space for his followers. Some of the followers’ thinking on this matter is established before Russell’s physical introduction to the text, too, through their suggestions that, in crafting the ranch as their communal home, Russell was establishing a new way of life entirely: ‘teaching them [the family] how to discover a path to truth, how to free their real selves’ (Cline 2017). There is a suggestion shortly after this as well, that Russell has ‘helped’ Guy—another close aid of the cult leader, who happens to resemble the real-life character of Charles ‘Tex’ Watson—to re-learn human emotions, which is another skill attributed to Russell throughout: ‘“Russel helped him. Taught him how to love”’ (Cline 2017). An additional strand in Russell’s standing as a religious figure—and perhaps a dictatorial one— is the ways in which he intended to reshape society’s moral coding. It is noted that, as part of ranch culture, individuals are encouraged to disengage from black and white morality: ‘you’d see there was no such thing as right and wrong’ (Cline 2017). This was a significant element of Manson’s doctrine, too, that he distributed to followers both during their time with him at the ranch and, significantly, throughout his trial. In this latter setting, there was more than one occasion when Manson boasted to a courtroom that he could not be tried by society’s standards of right and wrong because they either did not exist or were fundamentally flawed; both ideals were shared by Manson at different points throughout the court hearings. Alongside this, Russell also appears as an activist for social reform, established through his teachings on the wider world and his alleged intentions to somehow make good the problems of society: ‘We were… starting a new kind of society… we were in service of a deeper love’ (Cline 2017). This ethos for societal improvement, or re-establishment, is something that reads as an echo again of Manson’s own philosophy. The Manson family were, according to Charles Manson, destined to rebuild society from the ground up, which was a fundamental drive in Helter Skelter—or rather, the black versus white war that Manson felt empowered to instigate. He famously boasted to followers that they would restart their lives in the desert, isolated from the existing problems of society. Here, they

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would be free to restart society entirely once the Helter Skelter war had played out. This information, much of which is detailed at length in Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter, was documented throughout the Manson trial hearing(s), too, so it exists in public record now, as a manifesto inextricably bound up with the crimes. While much of this introduction to Russell’s doctrine relies on themes of love, restoration, and personal and/or social development, there is a marked shift that soon takes place. This moves his ‘religious’ teachings into a place of manipulation, sexual and emotional abuse, and dictatorial behaviours, many of which echo Manson’s real-life teachings, too. On seeing Russell for the first time, Evie theorises that most, if not all, of the girls at the ranch looked to be sexually enamoured by him and, she determines, they were likely having sexual intercourse with him, too: ‘I knew Helen had sex with this man. Suzanne did, too. I experimented with that thought’ (Cline 2017). These polyamorous relations soon take a sinister turn, though, when Evie notes that much of Russell’s behaviour with the girls is formed to create ‘a series of ritual tests’, fine-tuned by the leader’s understanding and awareness of ‘female sadness’ (Cline 2017). Evie also documents the many small points of physical contact made by the leader, towards herself, and brands them as ‘[l]ittle ways of breaking down boundaries’, ahead of relaying her first sexual encounter with him (Cline 2017). This, while designed by Russell to appear gentle and consensual, to any adult reader would likely read as laden with manipulation, amounting to an abuse that the teenage-narrator-Evie was not emotionally advanced enough to understand. These uncomfortable sexual exploits are the first of many mirror images against Manson’s own behaviours with the girls, who were repeatedly sexually abused and sexually harvested—distributed out to any male visitor who Manson either wanted to impress or wanted to elicit a favour from—over a period of years in most cases. Further to this, Russell’s teachings on childrearing and parenthood are also markedly similar to Manson’s own. Throughout Evie’s time at the ranch she comments on the ways in which children were allowed to run loose, seemingly without any specific parent—or, more significantly perhaps, mother—to turn to. During a conversation with Suzanne, it is revealed ‘“Russell doesn’t want us to get too attached to the kids. Especially if they’re ours”’ (Cline 2017). This disentanglement between parent and child is another iconic detail sampled from Manson’s own teachings, given that at Spahn Ranch children were encouraged to run free without a singular parent, in much the same way that Nico—a child figure in The

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Girls—is taught to do (Cline 2017). Manson’s reasoning for this was that overly involved parents would lead to inherited ills. Put another way, he theorised parents were wont to pass on their own hang-ups or insecurities to their children, which saw many of society’s flaws passed on generationally. Readers can observe this theorisation through Russell, too, when Suzanne echoes his teaching: ‘“We don’t get to fuck them up’” because children are not the automatic property of their parents (Cline 2017). On a larger scale, Russell also taught his followers that the key to their personal freedom was their disentanglement from society entirely, which could be facilitated if only they would throw away everything belonging to them. Put simply, Suzanne informs Evie that ‘“It’s ego’” that holds people back in the world (Cline 2017). This disavowing of the ego was an inherent part of Manson’s teachings that formed the bedrock of much of his philosophical doctrine. Again, this was something he shared with followers at the ranch and throughout court proceedings, as documented in Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter. Though these thoughts on ego have been documented through other outlets, too, most notably perhaps in Manson’s own lyrics, that have become widely available through various online sources in the years since his incarceration and death. One distinct example of this being a lyric that denotes: ‘Look out ego is a too much thing’ (YouTube 2012). However, perhaps the most notable connectivity between Russell and Manson was their means for communicating this doctrine on a larger scale again. In reference to their techniques for bringing their respective messages to the world, both leaders, fictional and otherwise, thought extreme acts of violence that would somehow disturb society would be the key to instigating change—or at the very least, instigating a war within society that would eventually lead to change. Though of course, neither Russell nor Manson would ‘even have to lift a finger’ to see this violence wrought (Cline 2017).

The Murders The Tate-LaBianca murders are documented as crimes that shook their society and rightly so. The violence inflicted during these attacks was extreme, and the behaviours of the killers, insofar as their treatment of the surrounding crime scenes, was also brutal. This violence and the ills inflicted on the murder scenes are mirror-imaged in much of Cline’s (2017) work. Though significantly, there are notable differences between

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this fiction and real life that will be documented here, too. To begin though, and to provide wider context, it is noteworthy that in The Girls’ narrative the violence was directed at Mitch, the music executive who Russell believed to have let him down in not securing a recording contract for him (Cline 2017). Russell, much like Manson, does not physically involve himself in the criminal endeavours, but rather, he instructs his followers to carry out the attacks instead: ‘Suzanne and the others were his familiars, loosed out into the world’ (Cline 2017). Suzanne, then—the character who I posit exists in place of Atkins from the real-life narrative— is a central figure in the killings, much as Atkins was during the time of the Tate-LaBianca attacks. Interestingly, though, Evie herself is removed from this violence, thereby upholding her standing as a narrator-protagonist that encourages pathos from a reading audience. The murders as they are depicted in The Girls function in a similar way to the points noted in characterisation, insofar as Cline’s (2017) seeding of both covert and overt details from the original case. There are, admittedly, some details used throughout that form distinct parallels with Manson’s crimes as source material; though again there are some finer points, too, that may only be recognisable to those who are deeply familiar with the case, which I will also outline. Some of these details have already been alluded to throughout, namely, the heart that Suzanne instructs another family member to leave on the wall of the property. This echoes the messages that were left behind by Manson’s followers, that were also written in the blood of the victims. Alongside this, further overt connectivity exists in moments such as the entry route to the crime scene, wherein the killers—in both fictional and real-life narratives—parked a car nearby before sneaking onto the property in question. The way in which ‘[t]hey brought everyone to the living room of the main house’ also echoes the ways in which Manson’s followers endeavoured to herd their victims into different spaces, most notably at Cielo Drive, where the Tate murder(s) unfolded (Cline 2017). The narration of Guy’s behaviour is a distinct example of connectivity, too, where violence is explicitly narrated by Cline (2017): ‘Slamming the knife in with such a force that the handle had splintered’. While uncomfortable to read, this level of aggression is not only striking insofar as narrative impact, but also for the ways in which it again echoes the details of the Manson case. Here, murderers were noted to have lost themselves in their acts of violence which led to such extreme force being used, with many victims receiving far more stab wounds (significantly) than was required to kill them.

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Further overt similarities can be noted in the victims themselves. While Cline (2017) does not utilise a pregnant character in her work—Sharon Tate was eight months pregnant when the Manson killings occurred—she does employ a mother and child character set, which capitalises on the emotional impact in these moments. The mother character, Linda, is cast as being a former paramour of Mitch’s; though they are no longer together when the murders take place, we learn they were still close friends. Symmetry here can be found with the relationship shared by Sharon Tate and Jay Sebring, the latter of whom was also a victim of the Manson family. Tate and Sebring had been lovers previously. However, after their relationship broke down they succeeded in remaining close friends, hence his presence at Cielo Drive on the night of the attacks. Here, though, more covert similarities can be noted in respect of character construction. Linda, Mitch’s ex-girlfriend, is noted as being twenty-six when the murders occurred. Tate was also twenty-six at the time of the Manson murders. Even the name Linda can be endowed with some significance given that it was Linda Kasabian who would eventually turn against the Manson family and become the star witness in Bugliosi’s case against them. Additionally, a central facet of Linda’s motivation for doing this was that she had been deprived of an adequate relationship with her child, due to Manson’s ethos regarding parenthood and associated entanglements. After a prolonged period of time under these conditions, she wanted freedom from those teachings so that she might have a more organic relationship with her daughter. Significantly, in Cline’s (2017) narrative, too, it is the character Roos who becomes star witness in the case against Russell’s family, with a key motivator for this being her desire to remove her son, Nico, from the ranch and develop a more organic motherly bond with him away from Russell’s influence. These similarities extend beyond central characters, too, to the likes of the caretaker figure. Evie makes reference to ‘[t]he caretaker who lived at the back of the house’, someone who she encounters on her visit to Mitch’s home and realises, later, was also involved in the family’s killing spree (Cline 2017). In the real-life narration, the caretaker figure from Cielo Drive, one William Garretson, played a central role, too. While he was not a victim of the attacks insofar as the violence enacted, he was still present on the property—in his own compartmentalised dwelling away from the main house—and he was also initially a suspect in the murders, given that police did not believe his claim that he was on the property but had failed to hear any of the disruption caused by the incidents.

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Interestingly, Cline’s (2017) caretaker was—or rather, would have been— an eyewitness to place Russell at Mitch’s property, during the leader’s earlier visit where he intended to employ intimidation tactics, again regarding the record deal. Though the eyewitness character wavers from fiction to real life here, then, there is a minor interlinking to be noted through this presence of the caretaker. Alongside which, in the weeks before the Manson murders took place there was another individual working at Cielo Drive who could later attest to having seen Manson there prior to the attacks—just once. Thus, while the mirroring is not exact, there are still moments wherein the two narratives can be brought together to overlap. A final parallel that can be drawn to the murder arc of The Girls is not about the crimes themselves, but rather about their eventual discovery (Cline 2017). Though in the real-life Manson case there were many factors that led to the identification and incarceration of key members of the so-called family, there is also a well-documented series of incidents recounting how investigators obtained essential supporting information in this case, too: most notably, through Susan Atkins. Atkins revealed her knowledge and involvement of the murders to more than one cellmate during her time in prison. This information was then relayed, through the convicts—Virginia Graham and Ronnie Howard—to official representatives. This detail is similarly echoed throughout The Girls to explain the eventual identification and capture of Russell and his associates (Cline 2017). The name of the character has admittedly been changed, but still it is noted by Evie that it was Helen ‘who ended up talking’, because ‘she couldn’t help bragging to a cell mate’ (Cline 2017). Cline (2017) even refers to ‘reward money’ being a motivator for the cellmate that Helen spoke to, which further mirrors the reward money that had been made available by this point in the Manson narrative, the time at which Graham and Howard entered it. For all of the apparent similarities between fiction and real life here, though, it is also pertinent to note the distinct differences between Cline’s (2017) narrative and the real-life events that I posit her work is, at least in part, based upon. Evie makes allusions to the physical state of the caretaker at the crime scene—‘the coiled casing of his guts exposed to the air’— which implies an attempt at disembowelling or some similar activity (Cline 2017). There is no evidence to suggest that similar attempts were made by the Manson family, to achieve such an effect as part of their crimes. Likewise, the description of the mother, Linda, is overstated, benefiting from hyperbole that shows her ‘soaked with gore’ (Cline 2017). Cline

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(2017) does not extend her narration of the details here to offer a wider context on this character’s death, making it impractical to draw parallels between her and her real-life counterpart of Tate. The most noteworthy difference between the two narrations, however, stems from Cline’s (2017) use of a child victim: ‘The boy so disfigured the police weren’t sure of his gender’. The significance here is twofold. In the first instance, there was not a child victim present at the real-life Manson killings, unless a reader feels inclined to note Tate’s unborn child as an additional victim of the attack (there are cases for and against this argument, but I will not personally offer a comment on the matter). In the second instance, Manson was steadfastly against involving children in his violent endeavours. Though it was never openly interrogated in line with his teachings, there are accounts that suggest when looking for a household to attack (nearby to the LaBianca neighbourhood), Manson would be deterred by evidence to suggest there were children present; again, something documented in Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter. Thus, while Cline (2017) borrows from real-life happenings in both explicit and implicit ways, and she also seeds in fine-tuned details that a reader may only notice if they were to actively search for them—significantly, for example, I have said nothing, here, of the glasses that fall from a character’s face in the attack made by Russell’s family, and the unclaimed pair of spectacles that were found at the Tate residence after the Manson murders—it cannot and should not be overlooked that she endeavoured to establish key differences between the fictionalised and factual incidents, too.

Reflection: Who Said That? Midway through dissecting The Girls in search of significant narrative details to note, it strikes me how much Cline (2017) relies on reported rather than direct speech when relaying elements of Russell’s doctrine. The girls become a conduit or mouthpiece for his views in several pivotal moments within the text, meaning these views are attributed as much to them as they are to Russell. This feels parallel to the ways in which Bugliosi (2015) searched for evidence of Charles Manson’s ‘domination’ over his followers, frequently looking for speech and behaviour patterns that might help to indicate their behaviours were not entirely their own, but rather, ones that had been determined for them by their self-identified leader. It reads to me as though Cline (2017) is implicitly acknowledging this, here, in the girls’ articulation of Russell’s views.

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Language Use Throughout The Girls, Cline (2017) utilises a plethora of language techniques to good effect. The style of prose is at once crisp and entertaining, contributing towards a rich depiction of both 1960s and contemporary socio-cultural structures and landscapes. To that end, I posit there is minimal need, here, to turn attention to the specific mechanics of Cline’s (2017) language use throughout the novel. In part because I feel it would not necessarily contribute to the fundamentals of this overall analysis. In part, too, because I feel that the status of The Girls as a novel negates the need to discuss how—for there is no doubt about if—Cline (2017) has guided readers towards pathos, discomfort, disgust, and the like, as part of this discussion around True Crime narration. It is the job of good working fiction to obtain these feelings and more for an audience. Meanwhile, good working True Crime narratives, I feel, should be bound to a more loyalist telling, that can—and perhaps arguably, should—place restraints around the ways in which authors utilise language and literary techniques, to either guide or misguide audiences into certain judgements. However, with this said, while I will not interrogate the specifics of language use here, there is still an element of Cline’s (2017) writing that does warrant critical attention: that being her employment of speech patterns. In their work on reported speech, Spronck and Nikitina (2019) posit a working definition of the feature as follows: ‘Reported speech is a representation of an utterance as spoken by some other speaker, or by the current speaker at a speech moment other than the current speech moment’. Significantly, in their continued work around this both theorists posit there are limitations to this definition. However, for the purposes of this discussion, the above provides an adequate framework for the noteworthy features within Cline’s (2017) writing, regarding speech patterns. On a closer reading of The Girls, it becomes clear that—while Russell does, inevitably, voice much of his doctrine himself—the girls are wont to relay Russell’s teachings through acts of reported speech (Cline 2017). During at least three occasions, though there are likely more, one of the female followers from Russell’s ranch employs the phrase ‘Russell told us’, coupled by ‘That’s how he said it’ (Cline 2017). There is a weighted significance in this phrasing, I feel, that could lead a critical reader to a number of conclusions. In the first instance, as I have posited above, this may be Cline (2017) implicitly acknowledging, and echoing, the ways in which the so-called Manson girls were purportedly dominated by Manson, to the

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extent that the term ‘brain-washed’ was even employed to explain their speech patterns and behaviours. This inclination towards reported speech acts may be Cline’s (2017) attempt at echoing this through Russell, thereby increasing the levels of similarities between this fictionalised cult leader and the real-life individual that inspired, or informed, his depiction. Russell’s girls, like Manson’s, are in a state of submission under the leadership of Russell, and these parroted philosophies are to some degree indicative of the extent to which he holds dominion over them and their thought processes. However, there is an alternative reading to counter this. In minimising Russell’s speech acts, and instead allowing the girls to function as a mouthpiece on his behalf, Cline (2017) may be endeavouring to shift the reader’s focus regarding the characters that are given more or less attention. In endowing the girls with these speech acts, they are moved closer to the forefront of the narrative telling, which, as noted elsewhere, sits in accordance with Cline’s (2017) authorial intentions in writing the book: to tell a story about the girls, about womanhood, and about navigating space. Thus, reported speech prevents Russell from dominating these scenes— though his views are being shared—where it is typically a moment of comradery and closeness being explored between two or more female characters, or, in one instance, a moment of solo narration from Evie. Though admittedly, this does not speak directly to matters of authorial proximity and authenticity, it seems pertinent to note techniques that provide evidence towards Cline’s (2017) authorial intentions, and evidence, too, for the relative success regarding how these intentions have been communicated, in this case stylistically, throughout the work.

Authenticity and Accuracy At various points throughout this critical analysis already there has been evidence provided that might form a case for Cline’s (2017) inclination towards both authenticity and accuracy, insofar as capturing elements of the Manson narrative in her work. That said, the very use of the term ‘authenticity’ requires a shift in denotative positioning here to better frame these final remarks. Merriam-Webster defines ‘authentic’ as: in the first instance ‘conforming to an original so as to reproduce essential features’; in the second instance ‘not false or imitation: real, actual’. Subsequently, then, The Girls both is and is not authentic, given that Cline (2017) does reproduce the essential features of something—the cult, the girls, the

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leader, the philosophy and indeed, the murders—but she does not do so in a way that negates imitation or false information. In fact, while I have posited throughout that there is a significant overlap between the fictive and the factual in Cline’s (2017) work, there is a considerable amount of original material there, too. These elements of the work clearly stem from research pertaining to events beyond the Manson family and/or material from the author’s own imagination and craft. In addition to this, there are also elements that do not speak to accuracy insofar as the Manson narrative either, and instead evidence the author’s own imagination at work in extending and amending details to fit the desired structure of her original narrative and plot. Though of course, this line of enquiry is complicated by the author’s explicit admission that it was not her intention to write a strict retelling of any one single True Crime narrative, including in that a retelling of the Charles Manson narrative: ‘to me all the details and the actual facts of the Manson murders, or any kind of murder, are interesting as like, a jumping off point, but I didn’t want to have to be a slave to the facts’ (YouTube N.D.). With this in mind, then, The Girls cannot fairly be held to the same standards as the other literary works considered in this monograph, given that it occupies a less than conventional genre space (Cline 2017). It is apparent that the Manson history was of influence here—which is an assertion I do not think the author has explicitly denied at any point. However, given that the authorial intention behind this work was not to recreate that narrative in a loyalist sense, the only measure of authenticity and accuracy can come from whether Cline (2017) has accurately captured ‘cult life’—for want of a better term—with accuracy and authentic detailing instead, and I posit that she certainly has. The Girls is a troubling, informed, and impactful narrative that discusses a young woman’s place in a volatile world (Cline 2017). Through Evie, readers can observe the complexities of having grown up in a society in a severe state of flux, and this applies as much to goings-on outside of the cult—consider Evie’s parents having recently separated, her mother’s journey to find herself outside of marriage, and so on—as it does to the happenings on the ranch. Thus, The Girls’ authenticity and accuracy is perhaps best judged by removing it from the True Crime discussion—albeit on a temporary basis—to assess it as a (near) fiction that accurately captures a young woman’s experience into adulthood, and the ways in which the ghost of girlhood can echo out into the following years of a life (Cline 2017).

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Conclusion: Authorial Proximity At various points throughout this monograph I have employed use of the term author gap, to consider first, author recollection and, second, author proximity. Though in the case of The Girls, again the strict denotative meaning of a phrase does not seem to suit the work in an altogether appropriate way (Cline 2017). A simplistic assessment of the matter would be to assert that given that Cline (2017) is writing as a fiction author, informed largely by research—whether that means borrowing from the living memories of direct sources or borrowing instead from a wealth of secondary material that is readily available around the topic—the test of author proximity is null, which is to say her proximity is as distant as it can be, in the confines of this discussion. Throughout the above analysis it has been made clear, I feel, that Cline (2017) borrowed heavily from the Manson narrative to inform her own. However, she makes no assertion that she is retelling this real-world story when discussing The Girls in her own words (Cline 2017). Due to that, the issue of authorial proximity shifts in terms of appropriateness—into something altogether less fair as a bar for judgement—given that it ultimately means judging Cline (2017) against her proximity to a case she has boasted no affiliation with to begin with. Alongside which, the question of author recollection is distinctly null, too, as it again requires judging Cline (2017) against a case that her work is not inextricably bound to. In this I mean, one would be asking what Cline (2017) can and cannot attest to in terms of her living memory or any personal experiences relating to the wider Manson narrative. However, given that The Girls does not exist in a vacuum insofar as connecting to one singular True Crime case, according to testimony from the author, this again becomes an unreasonable bar to hold Cline (2017) accountable against. However, given certain contents, and even elements of intertextuality employed at moments, too—consider, for example, Cline’s (2017) reference to the ‘tome written [about the murders] by the lead prosecutor, gross with specifics’, which reads as a clear acknowledgement to Bugliosi’s (2015) Helter Skelter—Cline has inevitably made a watercolour delineation of where The Girls belongs in terms of genre classification, when considered in relation to True Crime. Thus, regardless of authorial proximity or matters of recollection, Cline’s (2017) crafting of a narrative that reads as markedly similar to an existing, True Crime story—particularly, and

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significantly, one with living victims still—is evidentiary in itself of why a more nuanced approach to genre classifications is required, and why True Crime: Inspired by, or Fiction, is an appropriate classification to cater to this need.

References Barthes, Roland. 1977. Image, Music, Text. London: Fontana Press. Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Charles, Ron. 2016. ‘The Girls,’ by Emma Cline: Charles Manson, Reimagined. The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/ books/the-­girls-­by-­emma-­cline-­a-­masterly-­tale-­of-­youth-­and-­the-­allure-­of-­ the-­m ansons/2016/05/31/5afe2e60-­2 119-­1 1e6-­9 e7f-­5 7890b612299_ story.html. Accessed 08 May 2023. Cline, Emma. 2017. The Girls. London: Vintage. Ditum, Sarah. 2016. The Girls by Emma Cline Review  – The Charles Manson ‘Family’ Reimagined. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/ books/2016/jun/08/the-­g irls-­b y-­e mma-­c line-­r eview-­c harles-­m anson. Accessed 08 May 2023. Love, Caitlin. 2016. Beauty, Truth, and The Girls: An Interview with Emma Cline. The Paris Review. https://www.theparisreview.org/ blog/2016/07/19/beauty-­t ruth-­a nd-­t he-­g irls-­a n-­i nterview-­w ith-­e mma-­ cline/. Accessed 08 May 2023. Merriam-Webster. N.D. Authentic. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/authenticity. Accessed 08 May 2023. Spronck, Stef, and Tatiana Nikitina. 2019. Reported Speech Forms a Dedicated Syntactic Domain. Linguistic Typology 23: 119–159. Sturgeon, Jonathon. 2016. Accessory to a Crime? Emma Cline’s ‘The Girls’ Recasts the Cult Murder Story. https://www.flavorwire.com/579308/ accessory-­to-­a -­crime-­e mma-­clines-­t he-­girls-­r ecasts-­the-­c ult-­murder-­story. Accessed 08 May 2023. Wood, James. 2016. Making the Cut. The New Yorker. https://www.newyorker. com/magazine/2016/06/06/the-girlsby-emma-cline. Accessed 24 August 2023. YouTube. 2012. Charles Manson Old Ego Is a Too Much Thing (With Lyrics). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyFV3Oz1lpA. Accessed 08 May 2023. ———. N.D. Emma Cline Talks About The Girls. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=-l_ZDJJ6-yw. Accessed 08 May 2023.

CHAPTER 11

Narrative Hybridity in True Crime: Is Maggie Nelson Integrating Poetry into the True Crime Genre?

Between 1967 and 1969, a series of approximately seven murders took place. In a procession of incidents that would eventually be attributed to The Michigan Murderer—though he would exist under other monikers, too, including Ypsilanta Ripper, so-called due to the geography of the attacks—several young women, between the ages of 13 and 21, were abducted, sexually assaulted, mutilated, and murdered. The case was a troubling one for those in the related areas, though it was also a comparatively short-lived undertaking with a suspect—one John Norman Chapman—being arrested a week after the final murder had taken place. In 1970, Chapman was sentenced to life imprisonment for this final murder alone. Significantly, while he was believed to be the perpetrator behind the other murders in this series, he was never put on trial for them and subsequently never received punishment. Thus, no definitive answers nor justice could be afforded to the living victims of these crimes—namely, the surviving members of the girls’ and women’s families. The third murder that Chapman was believed by many to be responsible for was that of Jane Louise Mixer. The attack took place in March 1969 and resulted in Jane receiving a fatal gunshot wound to the head. She was not sexually assaulted. However, there were enough similarities between Jane’s death and the deaths of Mary Terese Fleszar and Joan Schell—the first two victims—for investigating authorities to assume a connection. © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1_11

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In excess of thirty years later, Jane’s murder led Maggie Nelson (2005) to author her experimental work, Jane: A murder. A plot that is deconstructed into constituent parts, each element of the work forms a narrative thread and, as Nelson (2005) progresses through her story, there comes to be elements of interconnectivity that bond these separate elements. One narrative thread is predominantly interested in the retrospective narrative of Jane’s life, beginning with notations on her childhood and progressing through to adulthood and her eventual death. Meanwhile, a thread that runs complementary to this is Nelson’s (2005) own explorations into the case, her aunt’s death, and the ways in which the spectre of this incident has haunted her family. Inevitably this family involvement forms an additional narrative strand to consider, too, wherein Nelson (2005) affords focalisation, oftentimes through close third-person narration, of her family’s views and emotions regarding Jane’s death, and the unknowability that exists—or rather, existed—around her murderer. Nelson’s (2005) intermittent utilisation of distinct literary techniques— including altering narrative viewpoints, erasure and ekphrasis, and a recurrent motif of wholeness—afford her an extensive arsenal of tools with which to explore subject areas including, but not limited to, grief, loss, identity, and womanhood. On a larger scale of interrogation, Nelson (2005) also uses the narrative of Jane: A murder—and indeed, the narrative voice of Jane—to query the voyeuristic nature of True Crime and the ways in which narrative ownership becomes ambiguous insofar as the acquisition of victims’ stories. Significantly, Nelson’s (2005) own narrative techniques—that borrow from and inevitably blur the voice of her aunt through the reappropriation of her diaries and journal entries—contributes to this discussion, too, albeit through the author’s creative-critical practice, rather than a strict critical commentary. The utilisation of diaries and journal entries is a distinct stylistic feature of the work that allows Nelson (2005) to form a mouthpiece for herself, her aunt, and indeed her wider family. Inevitably, though, alongside the anomalous structural framework of Jane: A murder, another noteworthy element for investigation is Nelson’s (2005) proximity to the core narrative(s). She delivers much of the plot through a first-person perspective, even when writing from the narrative vantage point of Jane. However, the availability and employment of source materials—including first-person accounts formed from Jane’s writing, alongside True Crime coverage of the case, and witness testimonies—coupled with this proximity lend a great authenticity to Nelson’s (2005) revision of her aunt’s life.

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It is also of note that a more traditional exploration of Jane’s life and death would come later, with the eventual publication of The Red Parts: Autobiography of a trial that was first released in 2007 (Nelson 2017). This follow-up work lends to easier categorisation, despite occupying the tenuous space between True Crime and memoir, and it will be discussed in brief to support the above-named areas of discussion.

Reflection: On a Second Read While note-making for Jane: A murder, I decided to reread the book in as close to a single sitting as I could manage (Nelson 2005). Due to time constraints, it was closer to a three-sitting read. Regardless, I found I was struck and drawn in by the distinct narrative threads of the work. This was/is made more interesting due to a couple of additional factors. Firstly, Nelson’s (2005) use of first-person perspectives—plural—throughout, yet while maintaining the use and presence of an ‘I’, she does so in a way wherein the ‘I’ is not always Nelson (2005) but sometimes Jane herself— or rather, the character of Jane (which ties with a note made, in my annotations, regarding the reappropriation of Jane’s diaries and, subsequently, any authorial intentions she may have had for those private works). I wonder whether this complements the fluidity of the narrative—this duo-I— that prevents an intrusive third-person pronoun from encroaching on the intimacy. Interestingly, though, this intimacy has the potential to be multifaceted between Nelson (2005) and reader; Jane and reader; and Nelson and Jane. Significantly, Nelson (2005) also exerts her own distinct narrative presence—that is, her personal ‘I’—even in pieces where she does not/need not exist. An example of this being her use of possessive terms— where Barb abruptly becomes ‘my mother’ [my emphasis]—that reminds a reader of her authorial presence and place within the wider narrative (Nelson 2005). (Alongside the ‘I’ of Jane and Nelson (2005), there is also the ‘I’ of Phil to account for, though his presence is minimal). Secondly, then, another interesting narrative element that became apparent on a fresh reading was the ways in which Nelson (2005) occasionally looks to be utilising a call and response structure in the work. This typically takes place between a journal entry (written by Jane but repurposed by Nelson (2005)) and one of Nelson’s original works, thereby demonstrating and strengthening, too, the duo-I of the book. Though it is not a narratological feature necessarily, another element that became more apparent on this read was Nelson’s (2005) use of

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ekphrasis. She engages with the photographs provided by Phil (Jane’s partner) and produces a literary response that endeavours to capture the essence of the images. These responses are, I suggest, both autobiographical—given that Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’, when present here, is obviously speaking in the present day—and artistic, through the ways in which she tries to accurately relay an image to a reader using words alone. It is interesting that Phil’s voice is captured here, too, through reported speech—but only in the first of three pieces. Meanwhile, Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’ is present across all of them.

Narrative Ownership and (Reappropriating) Authorial Intentions In what appears as a personal disclaimer to the work, Nelson (2005) begins the narrative of Jane: A murder with a note to the reader that clarifies: ‘I have taken the liberty of altering the appearance of Jane’s writing’ In the latter part of this statement, too, Nelson (2005) posits ‘although this is a “true story”, I make no claim for the factual accuracy of its representations’. Significantly, the quotation marks evidenced here—‘“true story”’— are indeed Nelson’s (2005) own, and they force a question very early in this narrative journey regarding the representation of truth in the work; though of course, this is a much larger area of query that could be extended broadly across nonfiction writing. In quoting this, though, there is potential to read this as an implicit acknowledgement from the author regarding the versatility and malleability of truth as a concept, but also as something that can manifest in multifaceted ways when we are considering its placement in artistic practice. Admittedly, an eye for detail and a clear appreciation for accuracy are two core elements of Nelson’s (2005) writing here—which is something that will be considered in more detail shortly— but that only serves to make this an even more intriguing, framing clause for the story, ahead of it fully unfolding. There is a question to pose here, too, about the potential effect this statement may have on a reader before they have even engaged with the text. Again, in framing the work with this clause, one might query whether a reader is more or less inclined to read this narrative as truth—or rather, read this as something rooted in nonfiction at least—and what pre/misconceptions a reader may carry into the text, because of this opening remark.

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Whether or not this disclaimer influences a reading or not, there are certainly moments throughout the work wherein Nelson (2005) is guiding a reader towards questioning what is truth, what is remembered, and indeed, what is owned, insofar as narratives that claim to represent particular events. One of the earliest examples of this comes from a piece that begins, ‘According to family lore’ (Nelson 2005). Lore, then—something commonly defined as traditional knowledge, or even knowledge that comes from long-standing studious endeavours—implies this is information that is inextricably bound together with Nelson’s (2005) family history (Merriam-Webster). There is an implicit acknowledgment here, too, that the information may predate anyone’s living memory of the story, which is something Nelson (2005) alludes to later in the piece. After relaying the specific folkloric incident, Nelson (2005) posits that—knowing the participants, her grandparents, as she does, thereby drawing from her authorial proximity—it is in fact unlikely that these individuals would have behaved how this long-standing story claims they did. In a critical-creative interrogation of this assertion, though, Nelson (2005) concludes this work with a poignant and, in the confines of this research project, a very topical question, too, that queries: ‘But questions remain. What was the story from’. This is an especially significant moment wherein the concept of both narrative ownership and indeed narrative origins can be questioned on a larger scale. It is likely a fair assessment to make that many people can recite a family narrative that outdates living memory, as something that was most probably passed down generationally for anecdotal purposes. However, here, Nelson (2005) is endeavouring to marry this long-standing narrative tradition—of passing down family stories—with a wider (socially acquired) narrative, that of Jane’s murder, and the ways in which the story of that has been altered through and by different sources. To add a further significance to this moment, this family lore is never explained nor attributed to a single source, insofar as a relative who might recall its origins. Arguably then, Nelson (2005) is drawing from her opening disclaimer already in narrating something to a reader that the author cannot comfortably attest to be true, due to her authorial proximity (to her grandparents), but that the author has nevertheless been told did happen. Furthermore, there is a wider conversation to be had in relation to this quote, perhaps, wherein we can raise a question of how—in this case, family lore, though it applies equally to other areas of narrative construction—in the absence of something that is a verifiable truth, creative license is not only available to the author of a text or story, but rather, broadly

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speaking, to anyone else who might have access to that story; in this instance, other members of the author’s family. On a wider scale, this speaks to the dissemination of misinformation that I propose is attached to some—significantly, not all—True Crime narratives, and the ways in which this allows readers to become ‘experts’ on a (retold) case where misinformation may have been included. This ultimately alludes again to the call for a more nuanced genre approach, such as that posited throughout this research project. Continuing on the topic of narrative ownership, and how this might be determined, there is another significant moment shortly after that documented above that is also worth considering. Here, Nelson (2005) relays the experience of finding documents relating to Jane—specifically, journals and diary entries—filed away in her mother’s office. Nelson (2005) recalls how she ensured that no one was home before sneaking into her mother’s office again with the intention to: ‘Xerox all of it, then carefully place / the original back where it belongs’. Again, this is an incident hinged on the concept of ownership—or rather perhaps, belonging. Nelson’s (2005) care in verifying whether anyone else was home speaks to the secrecy of this act and implies, perhaps, something underhand in her acquisition of these narratives. On a wider scale again, this speaks to the general acquisition of True Crime narratives, or rather narrative details, with many famous examples of work within this genre stemming from equally precarious beginnings as this one reported here; consider, in this vein, some of the accusations made against Truman Capote’s (2000) In Cold Blood, for example. Incidentally, it is perhaps pertinent to note here that while I am drawing parallels between Nelson’s (2005) work and True Crime work in a broader sense, Jane: A murder is categorised as ‘Poetry’—according to the back cover of the publication—rather than True Crime or even Autobiography. The significance of this is twofold. In the first instance, there is some symmetry here in how Nelson (2005) is aligning her work— and, implicitly, herself as an author, that is, one who does not write True Crime—and the way in which Bugliosi (2015) viewed himself, as someone who happened to write about criminal cases but also as someone who was by no means a (True Crime) writer. One might query whether this is a case of personal, authorial preferences or whether indeed there is something about the notion of contributing to the True Crime genre that is off-­ putting or somehow unsavoury to these authors. Interestingly, though this is said through inference rather than due to any overt admissions by

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the author, the same area of interrogation could be raised around Emma Cline’s (2017) The Girls, in terms of genre placement. In the second instance, this also speaks in a manner to the query posited in the very titling of this chapter, insofar as how Nelson’s (2005) work is contributing to narrative hybridity—or even a narrative grey space, to borrow from the suggestions made within Rule’s (1989) work—in combining so many techniques, styles, and, ultimately, genre characteristics. Although it is a less overt allusion to narrative ownership, there is a noteworthy encounter between Nelson (2005) and Phil wherein the author comments: ‘He wants to know… [w]hy I would want to take private things and put them into the world’. It is difficult to discern, though, whether Phil is alluding to these narrative details as private to Nelson (2005) or indeed, private to Jane, given that this follows a reported line of enquiry wherein Phil queries, too, why Nelson wants to write about her aunt at all. There is no way to know for certain, of course, whose privacy Phil is alluding to here. Nevertheless, there is an implicit suggestion either way that Nelson (2005) is taking a narrative that should be hidden, or in some way shielded, and sharing it (too) openly with potential or imagined readers. The fact that Phil is narrated by the author as ‘wary’ further shows his uncertainness in the face of this proposed project (Nelson 2005). Still though, Jane’s paramour decides to share something personal of himself here and in doing so, he, too, breaches his own privacy to add to this growing story. The ownership element in this encounter is twofold. In the first instance, there is the intriguing ambiguity regarding whose privacy is being compromised in Nelson’s (2005) telling of Jane’s story, as noted above. In the second instance, Phil’s sharing of personal information—‘he says he wants to give me the contents of a safety-deposit box… that he kept sealed for thirty years’—underscores the concept of narrative ownership, given that a reader here observes Phil, the rightful owner of the box’s contents, willingly give away the narrative elements that Nelson (2005) subsequently finds within this box. In some ways, this can be read as an exchange of narrative ownership; though Nelson (2005) is of course still attributing these details to Phil rather than reappropriating them as her own. Significantly, this speaks to her authenticity as an author here, too, given this open attribution of source materials; though this is something that will be returned to in more detail later. For now, it feels pertinent to turn attention to a less transactional exchange of narrative ownership and consider instead reappropriating narratives and, through that process, reappropriating authorial intentions.

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There is a question to be raised, I feel, around the reappropriation of authorial intentions insofar as how Nelson (2005) utilises Jane’s journals. Admittedly, this is an inference made insofar as Jane’s authorial intentions in the first instance. However, it seems a reasonable assumption to make that, during the crafting of those journal and diary entries, Jane’s authorial intent did not hinge on sense- or meaning-making for an imagined reader—as it might for an author of a text that will, inevitably, be made public. Given their nature—journal and diary entries typically denote a personal and private outpouring of feelings and thoughts—one assumes Jane did not necessarily consider the possibility that these materials may some day form the creative basis for a work of True Crime or indeed Poetry. Nelson (2017) herself speaks to this point, albeit in her later work, The Red Parts: Autobiography of a trial, which can be read as a kind of sequel to Jane: A murder. Here, though, Nelson (2017) writes in a more conventional prose befitting of a memoir or indeed autobiography; though, interestingly, the publisher (Vintage) has positioned this book as ‘Memoir/True Crime’ (according to the back cover). In this narrative, Nelson (2017) relays how, when researching and writing the first of these books, she would lie awake at the end of her working day and (re)consider the violence she had encountered; that inflicted on the women uncovered in her research. Though of all this narrated violence, the most thought-­ provoking entry here is Nelson’s (2017) admission that ‘[s]ometimes, most horribly, [violence] done by me’ was the thought she could not shake. The implication here being that in researching and writing about these murders, these women, Nelson (2017) is somehow inflicting a twice violence on them, in reprising their narratives. In a similar vein to this, in this second publication still, Nelson (2017) recalls a conversation with a CBS producer during which she explained that she tried to use Jane’s journals in such a way that her aunt might finally have her own voice, within and beyond the narrative of her murder. However, Nelson (2017) also (transparently) admits to the ways in which she ‘selected the words I wanted, chopped them up, and rearranged them to suit my needs’ [my emphasis]. Here, then, there is a frank acknowledgement from the author that the narrative(s) of Jane’s journals were, indeed, reappropriated for the purpose of crafting a creative work. In accompaniment to this, Nelson (2017) brands the practice as ‘[p]oetic license’, thereby aligning her work with a greater area—creative license—often found in creative writing practice.

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There is a weighted significance to this reappropriation. On the one hand, a reader may feel inclined to query the moral ambiguities of such a practice. On the other, though, this is a case in which authenticity, transparency, and proximity must be considered, in the interest of asserting a fair, final judgement on the moral conduct of the text—or rather, the author who shaped it. Nelson (2005) is writing from a place of inherited experiences, by which I am alluding to her mother’s personal involvement in her aunt’s narrative, and the ways in which that narrative has haunted subsequent generations of the same family—namely, here, Nelson as the author and her sister who is referenced throughout. Alongside this, through the research conducted, Nelson (2005) has further changed her proximity to the narrative—or rather perhaps, to the case proper—by reviewing old materials and (informally) interviewing those involved, such as her mother and Phil. Both of these activities allowed her to (re)insert herself into the narrative in a different way to how she may have occupied it as a child, through to young adult, through to adult. Ultimately, then, while the reappropriation of narratives—and the inevitable shift in authorial intentions this can cause—may raise problems, Nelson’s (2005) varied approach both to research and craft mean this is not as simple an issue to discuss here as it may be for other works within True Crime. Furthermore, it is noteworthy, too, that—according to Nelson’s (2005) own authorial intentions—part of the reason she was drawn towards Jane’s own journal and diary narratives at all was in the interest of ensuring that Jane’s authentic voice was captured.

Duo-I Narration As evidenced earlier, Nelson’s (2005) authorial intentions were in part formed by a hope that she might capture something of Jane’s voice through the use of her journals. Throughout, Nelson (2005) strategically employs a pronounced ‘I’ that refers to herself and her authorial positioning within the narrative, and indeed within the research practices behind the narrative, too. However, alongside this, she also utilises a separate, distinct ‘I’ that makes Jane into a first-person speaker. In the work, this is typically achieved through re-representation of a journal entry. Significantly, this technique—and the resultant first-person speaker (Jane) that arises from it—is something that introduces the book, too. While Nelson’s (2005) voice is introduced through her initial disclaimer, the first poetic speaker we hear is in fact Jane herself through Nelson’s (2005) re-shaping

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of an undated journal entry. Here, Nelson (2005) begins with a ‘Dear’ form of address, which can be read in one of two ways. Either this is, indeed, a proper form of address such as one might find at the start of a letter, thereby framing the type of document Nelson (2005) wants a reader to perceive this as. Alternatively, this is done to establish an immediate familiarity and/or intimacy between the speaker and a reader, wherein this ‘Dear’ can be read as an affectionate term (Nelson 2005). Either of these desired outcomes would undoubtedly contribute towards the emotional impact felt by a reader as the narrative arc progresses, such is their immediate bond with Jane. This, and other such examples, contribute to what I am referring to as a duo-I narration, wherein a reader is expected to shift between the two core narrative voices, inferring from context, tone, and through Nelson’s (2005) attribution of sources, too— she denotes when materials have been taken from a journal by evidencing this in the top right of the page—which speaker we are reading from, and therefore which time period, too, given that the narrative of the work occupies two distinct temporal spaces. Insofar as capturing Jane’s own voice, there are some moments, I posit, where this is more effective than others. One such example being ‘(1966)’ (it is noteworthy that there are multiple works within the collection that are titled in the same manner, that being their date). Significantly, as well as being titled by its date, this is a piece again framed by the top right acknowledgement that the words come from Jane’s journal. To further contextualise this, it must be commented on that there are times in which Nelson’s (2005) fabrication of Jane’s voice is better established than others, and to my reading eye, this is one such occasion. There are admittedly some moments in ‘Jane’s narration’ that have the potential to leave a reader more confused than informed; though that may have been the author’s intention. In this piece, though, which is featured early in the book, Jane is captured in both clear and emotive ways. Nelson (2005) portrays her aunt as a young woman searching for her place in the world, querying, ‘Will I be a teacher? Will I go to France?’ These disparate possibilities succeed in evidencing the potential Jane had at this time in her life, and the options that were very much available to her in terms of advancing academically, professionally and, beyond that, in exploring the world further, too. These possibilities, however, are paired with occasional dips into self-doubt in the stanzas that follow—‘I’m not sure I’ve a good mind’—that, rather than countering this early optimism, instead only succeed in structuring Jane—or this characterised version of her—in a better

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rounded and believable way (Nelson 2005). Through this, Jane becomes a versatile and complex character, something she herself posits a desire to be throughout this text: ‘I want so much–to be versatile’ (Nelson 2005). Significantly, too, this establishes a gauge for Jane’s behaviour going forwards, as there are sweeping changes in emotion that happen throughout. Though of course, given that these texts are formed from journal and diary entries—typically emotional works, through their very definitions— any uninhibited outpourings of feeling and thought in the poems are inevitable in many ways, too. Regardless of how Nelson (2005) did or did not manipulate the text(s) to suit any wider narratorial needs, an emotional impact is, I posit, inherent in the style of source materials she was working with. Interestingly, though, while Nelson (2005) is evidently writing towards (what she hopes) is a level of authenticity insofar as Jane’s voice, she is doing so through non-linear means in terms of sampling from Jane’s materials. In the above example, then, we are in a version of Jane that stems from a 1966 journal, whereas at a later point in the book—in terms of its construction and pagination—we are catapulted back, through a poem formed from another diary entry, to a version of Jane from 1960. Admittedly, this speaks to Nelson’s (2005) transparency as an author in a sense that she is not concealing the real-life timeline(s) that have formed Jane’s voice as we now read it. Though of course, it raises questions insofar as character development over the narrative arc of the book, given that Jane’s development is happening through materials taken out of their natural and original sequencing. The crux of this discussion, however, may be the ways in which this has the potential to impact the believability and function of Jane’s narrative voice. I argue that, given that Nelson (2005) is upholding a measure of consistency in the ‘I’ belonging to Jane, the duo-I narration in its entirety is not compromised. Again one assumes that on sampling these materials Nelson (2005) chose examples of Jane’s ‘I’ that she, as the re-crafter of these works, felt she could work with in an effective manner. Thus, while the raw materials themselves may be non-­ linear, the resultant works appear to represent a consistency to Jane’s voice that transcends the timestamps of the original writing—though credit here must of course be afforded to Nelson (2005), too, as the engineer of this. Paired with Jane’s clear presence, then, established through this ‘I’ and careful development of voice, Nelson (2005) is also as much a presence within this text. Through works sampled earlier, it is clear that Nelson (2005) occupies a space here. I return again to her encounter with Phil, as

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narrated in ‘The Box’, wherein Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’ occupies a distinct temporal and even geographical narrative space that is detached from Jane’s own. She situates us in Brooklyn, though alongside this she takes a reader up her stairway and into her office space, reiterating intimacy in a twofold manner: ‘I climb my stairs, sit down at my desk, and slowly examine his gifts’ (Nelson 2005). In the first instance, a reader is here being welcomed into a personal area, where Nelson’s (2005) work and potentially her living—though it is not fully clarified whether this is based at home or on a campus—will unfold. In the second instance, in narrating literal movements in the moments before opening the box that Phil has provided, the reader, too, is taken on this journey of anticipation wherein we uncover the contents of the box at the same time as Nelson (2005). While this is perhaps not entirely the case, given that Nelson (2005) is writing from a retrospective narrative viewpoint, her utilisation of present tense—‘I climb my stairs’—distorts the writing timeline and instead convincingly captures the narrative timeline of the box reveal instead. Significantly, though, perhaps one of the most striking elements of this duo-I narrative perspective comes when Nelson (2005) appears to utilise a call and response structure, as noted in the above reflection, across two pieces of work. Here, the first work—typically written in Jane’s ‘I’—will posit something that the second work—written in Nelson’s (2005) own ‘I’—will answer to, with an intriguing example of this coming from ‘(April 15, 1960)’ and ‘Spitfire’. In the first of these works, Jane’s voice describes the experiences of having reread a selection of her journal entries and she expresses remorse for some of the details contained therein, most notably comments relating to her parents. The poem boasts one particularly memorable line, too, in the postulation: ‘Perhaps I must blow off steam in the process of becoming a woman’ (Nelson 2005). As though answering this idea voiced in Jane’s narrative, Nelson (2005) proceeds to relay how she and Emily, her sister, resisted in asking questions about Jane during their childhoods but how, interestingly, their mother once volunteered the information: ‘She was a spitfire… She obeyed for years, then started to talk back’ [Nelson’s use of italics]. Thus, Jane’s narrative voice prior to this can almost be read as evidential (inspirational) material for Nelson’s (2005) new and original work that follows. There is apparent connective tissue between the two which not only cements a bond insofar as their shared, or complementary, contents, but also in the voices used to express such contents. This interlinking is an especially thought-provoking feature of the

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duo-I narrative as a whole, wherein the voices are not constructed with a grey space but rather a clear, delineation between them, allowing both narrators their time apart but also, it seems, their time together.

Intertextuality and Ekphrasis On the topic of interlinking, it is noteworthy that Nelson (2005) does not only form bonds between the narrative voices, but also between the completed work and indeed other texts that have been of influence to it. The journal and diary usage evidences Nelson’s (2005) use of intertextuality, wherein one text—Nelson’s work—very clearly has a relationship with another or with others—namely, Jane’s journals and diaries. In the most basic sense, then, this adheres to commonly held definitions regarding intertextuality as a literary device, and Nelson (2005) clearly utilises it to good effect in the interest of establishing an entire narrative arc for her work (The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms 2008). That said, beyond this more obvious usage, the other ways in which Nelson (2005) utilises this device across her work are varied. ‘First Photos’—which is both a demonstration of intertextuality and ekphrasis, the latter of which I will turn attention to shortly—considers the ways in which Jane’s murder exists in other textual narratives and how readily available these are/were to the author during her research (Nelson 2005). Here, Nelson (2005) narrates how she arrives at the New  York Public Library and ‘ask[s] a librarian / where I might find information / about an old murder’. Then, in the following stanza, we read as Nelson (2005) awaits ‘dark blue spools / of the Detroit News’ to be sent to her. Thus, Nelson (2005) is creating broad intertextual links here by alluding to the ways in which her aunt’s murder—and perhaps, murder in a more general sense, given that the librarian asks whether or not Nelson (2005) is researching a ‘famous murder’—is documented through varied sources. Significantly, too, within Jane: A murder this is not the only occasion when Nelson (2005) explicitly states the name of an influential text, thereby aligning herself—or in some cases, distancing herself—with an external body of work. On several occasions Nelson (2005) makes reference to the Ann Arbor News in her text, with one interesting example of this being featured in ‘Headlines’. Here, Nelson (2005) looks to be critiquing the ways in which violent crime is featured in the media, by adopting italics and capitalisation when she relays: ‘SLAYING SUSPECT HELD’. In addition to this, she also includes elements from letters that were sent to the paper, during the

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same or similar time periods to when her aunt’s murder took place. Nelson (2005) strategically samples from these letters although there is no assertion as to whether these textual interludes have been amended or altered in the same way as Jane’s own texts have been. It should be noted, too, that there are other media sources (Michigan Daily) named as part of this textual connectivity, thereby extending this field of work to encompass more than just a select few outlets. This was a technique evidenced in The Red Parts: Autobiography of a trial, too, demonstrating a continued intertextual linking across Nelson’s (2017) works. Furthermore, alongside the intertextuality established with these reportorial channels, Nelson (2005) also looks to take considerable inspiration from The Michigan Murders by Edward Keyes (2010). In her first reference to this, Nelson (2005) describes the book as ‘a “true crime” account in which the names have been changed’. This True Crime publication documents and retells details pertaining to several murders of young women that took place in the Michigan area. It was initially believed that (a) all of these murders were being committed by the same individual and (b) that Nelson’s (2005) aunt, Jane, was likely one of the victims (though this was later disputed, as Nelson (2017) records in her work towards finding the real killer). The use of quotation marks around the purported genre of this text speaks volumes, though its significance may be interpreted in two distinct ways. In the first instance, this speaks to Nelson’s (2005) well-documented dislike of, and even disdain for, the True Crime genre, insofar as unsavoury, ten-a-penny paperbacks that are produced, often containing misinformation, too (Cooke 2017). In the second instance, though, this may speak to Nelson’s (2005) authorial proximity, given that one might assume her use of quotation marks is an implicit judgement against a text that pertains to express the truth of the murders, that Nelson herself is both closer to and better informed about. In a later comment on this same book, Nelson (2005) outright states it is a publication that ‘sickens’ her, not least for its grossly insensitive subtitle: ‘The Most Barbaric Sex Crimes of the Century!’ This is, interestingly, featured in a text that is titled ‘Aside’, as though to imply Nelson (2005) is pausing the main narrative trajectory to add this authorial notation. In many ways, she may be taking a reader further into her confidences in the process of this, too. Alongside the provoking title of Nelson’s (2005) piece, however, there is an especially impactful final stanza to be considered that reads: ‘Somehow I need to make it clear: / none of these details belongs to me’. The significance of this is multifaceted. There is a level of

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transparency here, wherein Nelson (2005) is upholding her authorial integrity by highlighting what does and does not belong to her, insofar as textual attribution. However, I suspect this final couplet in fact has less to do with authorial transparency and more to do with the author’s need to disentangle herself from the True Crime publication that she so evidently dislikes. What is especially interesting here, though, is that intertextuality is oftentimes used to establish a relationship between two or more texts; thus, it brings the works closer to each other. However, through this, Nelson (2005) is creating a push-pull dynamic wherein she is both closer to and, subsequently, then pushing away from the book in question. One may even argue that she is endeavouring to do this on an entire genre level, by speaking of those gross and sensationalistic True Crime productions that evidence the inherent problems of the genre. Nevertheless, this remains a powerful moment within Jane: A murder insofar as textual connections, intertextuality, and authorial proximity, given that some of Nelson’s (2005) objections may well be validated by the fact that she is writing from a deeply personal place, authenticated further by her inherited involvement with the case. To conclude on this note, it is pertinent to state given that this chapter is very much framed by a query regarding narrative hybridity in Nelson’s (2005) work, how the author here looks to be using a traditional literary device (intertextuality) in a less than traditional manner. Thus, the discussion of the ways in which Nelson (2005) works in hybrid spaces—whether that space be the True Crime genre or not—may well exist elsewhere from a content level, into a technical level, too. Similarly, as a means for creating connectivity between different sources, I propose there is also evidence of ekphrasis throughout Nelson’s (2005) work. There is a commonly held definition that posits ekphrasis as the production of a verbal or written piece of (art)work, inspired by another non-written piece of work (The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms 2008). There are grounds to argue, then, that the ways in which some of Nelson’s (2005) finished works engage with, and borrow from, photographic material adheres to this definition. There was a slight reference to this earlier in the chapter. However, the evidence for this literary approach is most pronounced in the short series of poems titled ‘Phil’s Photos’. Nelson (2005) opens with an interlinking again, through Jane’s own writings and the images Nelson is now in possession of. ‘Where Jane’s journals end / these photos begin’, Nelson (2005) explains, as though proposing a bridge across the written and non-written in terms of creative outputs.

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In the first of these pieces, titled ‘Motel’, Nelson (2005) looks to capture both Jane and Phil, retelling how Jane was dressed in ‘long underwear’, ‘tucking in / the sheets of a double bed’. Meanwhile, though not pictured, Phil is very much made into an active presence in this piece, where his voice is captured through a narration of the image. Notice, however, the use of ‘voice’ here rather than speech, as direct speech is not featured. Instead, Nelson (2005) utilises italicisation as a means for denoting speech throughout, rather than overtly framing anything with the more traditional speech marks—which may be another point to consider, on a wider scale, in terms of authenticity and accuracy. By which I mean, did the author deliberately avoid direct speech so that she might also avoid the implications of accuracy that come with this feature? In the two pieces following this, Phil’s presence slowly fades. ‘Wisconsin’ shows him on-screen as it were, with Jane, communicated through biographical information (Nelson 2005). Meanwhile, ‘Silver Lake’ removes him nearly entirely, relegating him only to the role of a shadow in ‘the lower left corner’, thereby allowing focus to fall on Jane as the main subject of the image—or rather, poem (Nelson 2005). In the first of these two pieces, Nelson (2005) endeavours to capture a sense of the image itself through her descriptions of Jane’s clothing: ‘Here she is in a navy pea coat’. Though this is accompanied by attempts at scene setting, too: ‘She stands in front of a dark building’ (Nelson 2005). Nelson (2005) does not overembellish here insofar as the amount of information provided. Nevertheless, there are enough details provided for a reader to understand the essence of the image—a young woman, dressed in certain attire, and so on—thus creating an ekphrastic link between the original photograph and Nelson’s (2005) re-imagining, or re-interpretation, of it. Similarly, in the second of these pieces, Nelson (2005) again works to capture a strong sense of the image by showing Jane’s clothing—‘a two-piece swim- / suit, navy blue’—and Jane’s positioning, in reference to the lake that gives the work its title: ‘She’s sitting / on a pink blanket’. What is especially interesting about this second piece, however, is Nelson’s (2005) intrusion into the narrative insofar as how she employs her authorial ‘I’: ‘And I love it, / this lush, fuzzy sliver’. It was commented on earlier that Nelson (2005) occasionally inserts herself into narrative snapshots where she does not necessarily need to be present. However, here, her insertion into the narrative is not only an interesting technical feature, but also an effective one in terms of its potential to reassert the bond shared between her and Jane. This is done both loosely through inherited family lore, to borrow Nelson’s

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(2005) own phrase, but also through the interconnectivity of their shared, first-person narratives that, while largely separate, have here been allowed to merge in a single space. Though it pertains more to a later subheading, it seems pertinent to mention here, too, Nelson’s (2005) various allusions to True Crime culture as it is found in television and films. While it may not fall under the heading of intertextuality in a traditional sense, owing to the fact that Nelson (2005) does not isolate named examples, it is nevertheless still apparent that she is drawing inspiration from a recognised body of cinematic works, in pieces such as ‘In The Movie Version’. This allows Nelson (2005) to offer a critique on the (sexualised) representations of both female victims and researchers. Thus, there is an interlinking happening here again between the written text, as Nelson (2005) has produced it, and another work or works, albeit unnamed, that is or are non-written, that is, the filmic or cinematic.

Form and Content Jane: A murder is a notoriously difficult text to define, owing in part to its hybridity (Nelson 2005). While categorised as ‘Poetry’, it is clearly a work that utilises prose, too. Take, for example, Nelson’s (2005) documentation of her time spent with Phil, written in full sentences and traditional paragraphs rather than stanzas. In addition to that, the elements of the work that could quite easily be branded as memoir or autobiographical again speak to the work as one more readily categorised in terms of fusion rather than singular genres; a suggestion that, incidentally, echoes many of the comments made about Rule’s (1989) The Stranger Beside Me. However, in returning attention to the poetic elements of the book, there are moments wherein the form and content, and indeed the relationship between these two things, warrant greater critical attention. The first especially striking example of this comes in ‘The Gap’ (Nelson 2005). In the latter stages of this poem, three stanzas appear as particularly noteworthy, for Nelson’s (2005) strategic use of short line structures, impactful line breaks, and figurative language. The piece introduces a juxtaposition of light and dark through the notion of ‘a gap so black / it could eat / an entire sun’ (Nelson 2005). Significantly, in using the term ‘gap’ here Nelson (2005) is not only creating a contrast between light and dark but also a known and an unknown. Here, the gap is an unnamed and therefore unknown entity relating to the finer details of her aunt’s

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death—that is, the actions that were enacted on her when she and the murderer were alone—and the magnitude of this unknown is emphasised by the implicit comparison that this is something bigger than the sun. Though significantly, too, this idea of consumption—or rather, eating—is also impactful, portraying this unknown thing, perhaps, as an entity that feeds off others, sunlight included. In addition to that, the use of ‘trace’ in this piece—the unknown as something that could eat the sun without leaving a trace, that is—also feels noteworthy for two distinct reasons (Nelson 2005). In the first instance, it underscores the magnitude of this unknown thing, that could potentially leave nothing of the sun behind in its wake. In the second instance, though, there is potential to read this from a more forensic perspective wherein ‘trace’ holds the double-meaning of a murderer not leaving behind trace contact; or even, a murderer disappearing without a trace, which is particularly poignant given the length of time that Jane’s murder remained unsolved and/or under query (Nelson 2005). Alongside this content, the pathos of the poem is capitalised on further by Nelson’s (2005) structuring and use of line breaks. The short lines themselves give the work a laboured feel, which complements the troubling content of the piece as a whole. On a micro level, though, it is worthy of consideration how Nelson (2005) constructs her stanzas in such a way that they hold compartmentalised meanings, alongside their wider meanings in the context of the poem. Take, for example, ‘between Jane / and her murderer / is a gap so black’ (Nelson 2005). The sentence that forms this stanza begins in the stanza preceding it and ends on the stanza that follows. Yet, in isolating these lines through strategic structuring, Nelson (2005) is drawing attention to this black unknown that exists between Jane and the man who murdered her by allowing them to sit, physically distinct, on the page. Significantly, the line breaks here allow Jane and her murderer to exist in the same stanza but not on the same lines, which speaks to a respectful partition between victim and killer. To add to that, the stanza in which Nelson (2005) explains the unknown blackness as something that could eat the sun also benefits from strategic structuring again when Nelson (2005) notes ‘it’ could perform this act ‘without leaving’. This line break, after ‘leaving’, also marks the end of the stanza, and admittedly Nelson (2005) could have placed a full stop here to conclude both stanza and sentence in one and still have it hold meaning. However, through this line break, she is forcing a reader to pause on the notion of the black space swallowing an entire sun but still being there, still existing. Further to that, the fact that the sentence continues beyond

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this stanza is also significant, particularly because the sentence drops into ‘a trace’, in the stanza that follows, and that is when Nelson (2005) chooses to insert a full stop. Here, content mirrors form given that Nelson (2005) is referring only to a trace of something and that image is compartmentalised to exist as fragmented, segregated from the sentence it belongs to. A later instance of form and content complementing each other comes in ‘Mail Order’, a piece that allows Nelson (2005) to compartmentalise various elements of Jane’s death, the murderer’s actions, and even Nelson’s (2005) complex interests in both. Through figurative language an imagined corridor is constructed within the piece, and from here the author posits: ‘This corridor exists / to separate murder’ (Nelson 2005). Following this, there is not only a line break but a stanza break before the narration continues with: ‘from murderer’ (Nelson 2005). Significantly, Nelson (2005) is here using poetic structure to construct a literal space between the two things being addressed in her language. This change in vantage point, as documented in the piece, allows Nelson’s (2005) perspective on her interests to change as well, evidenced in: ‘From here I see / it is Jane’s murder’. Again, this is followed not only by a line break but a stanza break, too, which compartmentalises Jane’s murder—literally, insofar as form and on-the-page representation—from the reference to ‘[h]is crimes’ that helps to conclude the piece (Nelson 2005). Nelson’s (2005) use of structuring again allows her to form observable gaps between things she would rather see held in isolation from each other. In addition to this, the use of possession throughout this piece is telling, too. This is not only evident in the way that Jane’s murder/the act of the murderer are held apart through structuring, but through the implicit suggestion that they are two things to be viewed independently from each other, rather than two elements that are inextricably bound. Though arguably, there is a causal relationship between these two things—Jane’s murder only occurred due to the actions of the man who killed her, that is—the use of possession could perhaps be read as an attempt to give Jane a sense of ownership in her death. There is a wider comment being made here, too, I posit, regarding a victim’s assumed passivity in their own murder narratives, and the ways in which those narratives can—and even should— be given back to a victim, rather than having the story rest entirely on the murderer’s involvement. Finally, the abruptness of the final line here is telling, too: ‘His crimes do not’ (Nelson 2005). Structurally this ends the entire piece and is, interestingly, another sentiment held in isolation from

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everything else. This reads as a moment in which Nelson (2005) is able to explicitly express her authorial interests, and perhaps to a degree, her intentions, too, insofar as why she is approaching this narrative. Later again the relationship between form and content becomes apparent through ‘Repeatedly’, wherein Nelson (2005) documents her imagined, repeated return to a dismembered female figure. There is a wider interrogation to be had around this piece in particular, which I will consider shortly. However, on a note regarding structure, there is an especially interesting moment here wherein Nelson (2005) is again utilising both line and stanza breaks to dismantle sentiments within the poem. Towards the close of the work the poetic voice—that we assume is Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’—documents: ‘Eventually I alone manage to get all her parts’. This is an image left to hang before the concluding stanza of the work that follows. In creating this pause, though, Nelson (2005) is drawing attention to the deconstructed woman and underscoring, too, the idea that Nelson’s researcher-writer endeavours are a solo activity, in the context of this project at least, hence her reference to her status of being ‘alone’. Interestingly, too, this line itself is not a complete part given that, despite the line and stanza break, the sentence itself spills into the following verse. In this conclusion, though, Nelson (2005) uses strategic line breaks again, this time to ensure an impactful ending. After narrating that she has managed to get these many parts ‘into a wooden chest’—an interesting image that reinforces this notion of collecting spilled parts of a whole into a containable form—she concludes: ‘I make a bloody mess’ (Nelson 2005). This concluding line, on the level of sentence structuring, in fact begins on the line before it. However, in breaking this sentence to sit across two, Nelson (2005) is again implicitly alluding to the ideas of deconstruction and breakages as documented throughout the whole piece. Additionally, in keeping this line, and indeed the sentiment of the line, in isolation from the rest of the work, she is forcing a reader to pause and entertain the very reality that these research endeavours—that allow Nelson (2005) to form a whole ‘Jane’ through the book—are not easy but rather, something that causes the author great distress at times, too. On a wider narratological level, another element that seems especially noteworthy about this piece is the implicit acknowledgement on the practice of crafting a True Crime narrative at all; though it is likely Nelson (2005) would object to her work being branded as such. Still though, this constant deconstruction and reconstruction of a victim to enable to something full, recognisable, and therefore readable speaks to the practice of

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writing work in this and similar genres. Furthermore, an additional weight can be noted in this piece given that Nelson (2005) is the one collecting the parts and, on the one level, this can be read as a moment of critical-­ creative commentary wherein she is alluding to her own authorial practices. However, there is potential to read an additional significance here, too, in the fact that Nelson (2005) in this dream narrative has observed an unnamed male inflict violence on a woman and then refuse to take responsibility for it. In the context of Jane’s murder, both in real life and in Nelson’s (2005) rendering of it, this reads as an especially impactful scenario to share with a reader, that again underscores not traditional practices in True Crime necessarily, but certainly commonly observed narratives within the genre, that is, that of the unnamed or unknown male posing a physical threat to the female victim. Significantly, and to conclude, this again speaks to authorial proximity throughout the work. Though this is documented as a dream narrative, there is an implied proximity to be noted in, firstly, the implicit allusion to the idea that this topic is something so consuming to the author, that even her unconscious, resting mind cannot move away from it. Secondly, then, she is also implicitly acknowledging her intentions to form a whole woman from Jane, and this speaks to Nelson’s (2005) central involvement in the narrative as the collector of parts that might succeed in forming something singular and recognisable—whatever that may be for Nelson and, by extension perhaps, even her family.

Scripting the Victim Borrowing from some of the ideas noted under the previous subheading, I feel inclined to underscore this concept of wholeness—or indeed, of the author attempting to form something whole—and the ways in which this works in the style of a literary motif throughout. ‘Repeatedly’, as posited above, is one such example wherein Nelson (2005) is drawing a reader’s attention to the concept of a woman—though significantly, unnamed, this could be read as Jane or even all women in fact—who has been deconstructed or compartmentalised, and needs for those pieces to be gathered in order that she might form a whole again. Though interestingly, even when alluding to this idea of the woman’s whole form, her composite parts are still only enough to fill ‘a wooden chest’ (Nelson 2005). During an earlier point in the narrative arc, Nelson (2005) again makes reference to Jane in terms of wholeness—‘when Jane disappeared, / she

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disappeared whole’—which compounds the idea of her leaving without a trace, or to allude to an earlier idea, without trace contact being left behind. What is doubly interesting here, though, is that while Nelson (2005) may posit that Jane disappeared in her entirety, this full narrative clearly looks at the ways in which Jane is still very much present, both in Nelson’s life and in the lives of her family. Take, for example, the wider work that the above quotation comes from, ‘The Call’, wherein Nelson’s (2005) mother is returning to the memory of Jane having made an emergency phone call. This, and other distinct memories, clearly haunt members of Nelson’s (2005) family, which in some ways looks to imply that though Jane disappeared, there was still something—perhaps some parts, even—that were very much left behind. Continuing with this notion of wholeness again, there is one such occasion when Nelson (2005) makes reference to this through one of Jane’s repurposed journal entries. In a piece titled ‘(1966)’, Nelson (2005) alludes to: ‘The whole person you are’. The reason for drawing attention to this repeated word, and the associations that stem from it, is that another interesting element of Jane: A murder is the ways in which Jane, as the victim but also as a woman, appears scripted (Nelson 2005). There is a further significance, too, given that some individual pieces within the collection not only look to construct Jane—as a woman, victim, character—but also look to critique wider narratives around victimhood, and the ways in which women are designed by their societies. ‘The Script’ is an emotive and troubling expression of this, through which Nelson (2005) is not positioning Jane in a compromising narrative arc but, instead, herself. Here, Nelson’s (2005) ‘I’ suffers through various violences against her body—‘The script then calls for me to have a huge accident’—and the ways in which she is expected to, or even allowed to, recover from such a thing. Nelson’s (2005) closing assertion—an idea inherited from those around her, who have assured her ‘this is all part of a larger plan’—is noteworthy, too, given its denotation of the idea that a woman might suffer these violences against the body, recover, and then find herself in a ‘starring role’ again, as though these injustices are a prerequisite for being an adult woman in today’s society. Incidentally, this phrasing—for being an adult woman—is deliberate on my part, too, given that this extract opens at a point in which Nelson (2005) is still a child. Thus, not only is this emotional, painful disruption something that allows Nelson (2005) an eventual ‘starring role’, but there is potential to read the

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work as a critique on the scripted transition(s) between childhood and womanhood, that many women, in some form, have to move through. Coupled with this, it is pertinent to turn attention here to a work that was referenced earlier—‘In The Movie Version’—as something that complements this scripting (Nelson 2005). Throughout this piece, Nelson (2005) is making overt comments regarding the ‘chic, smart, and ambitious’ women who occupy the space of ‘victim’ in scripted narratives; albeit fictional narratives, here. The plot of this work runs a reader through various archetypal scenes that a woman might be placed within, when dealing with a story arc that involves violent crime(s). She relays the ways in which this woman is forced to occupy an othered space, living in a new town as an outsider while those who are more familiar with the landscape persist in judging her with a note of suspicion. Nelson (2005) documents, too, how she—as the woman-victim of this piece—does not know that the killer she is searching for is close behind her, therefore alluding to the forced intimacy that is often read between killer and (intended) victim. When Nelson’s (2005) back is turned the killer strikes and succeeds in capturing her ‘into a truck’ and then, inevitably, ‘in[to] a dark cellar’. Here, Nelson (2005) is ‘forced to play the cello / in a sexy black outfit’, which can be read as an overt allusion to the sexualisation that is, unfortunately, bound to victimisation and is often found in narratives of violent crime. Admittedly, there is something nearly comedic in Nelson’s (2005) pastiche as it reads here. However, in the wider context of the book, it is more troubling than anything else. Though of course, Nelson (2005)—as the archetypal, scripted victim in this narrative—succeeds in overthrowing the killer, even though she is given no additional support in doing so; a wider comment, perhaps, on the general lack of socio-cultural support systems that exist, insofar as intervening with violence against women. In conclusion, the author manages to feign the appearance of being happy and having recovered; even though she will be ‘forever haunted’ by the incidents that have unfolded (Nelson 2005). This, then, is the most overt expression within Jane: A murder to consider the scripted element of victimhood, and it takes on a greater significance, too, that it does not involve Jane herself (Nelson 2005). This, as a standalone piece, holds the potential to blur authorial proximity given that the narrative of the book, which is meant to revolve around the violence enacted against Jane, now reads as a crime enacted against the author, too, albeit in a notably fictive manner. Whether the narrative is fictitious or not, though, Nelson’s (2005) comments on the commercial viability of victimhood, and the ways in which it

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can be—and indeed, has been—tailored are significant here, not only on a narratological level, but in terms of a social critique, too. This does not necessarily influence Jane’s standing as a victim. Though it does place Nelson’s (2005) work in the realm of a much wider, social conversation that needs to take place regarding the treatment and representation of victims, which on a micro level, too, potentially speaks to the authorial intentions Nelson held in approaching Jane’s narrative at all.

Authenticity and Accuracy Jane: A murder contains two works both entitled ‘Figment’ (Nelson 2005). These pieces are positioned back-to-back in the collection and, I propose, they make a strong framework on which to consider Nelson’s (2005) authenticity and accuracy throughout her writing. In the first of these works, Nelson (2005) recalls explaining to her grandfather—Jane’s father—that she is going to write a book about Jane. He asks, then, ‘What will it be, a figment / of your imagination?’ In the second of these works, the author begins: ‘I invent her, then’ (Nelson 2005). The significance of these pieces is twofold. In the first instance, by having these works so early in the narrative of the book, Nelson (2005) is again alluding to the idea that there may, in fact, be fictions within her narrative, something that complements the opening disclaimer where she implied such, too. Subsequently, by integrating a second voice here, the author is implicitly acknowledging a wider assumption—by which I mean, a belief and understanding that extends beyond her own—that there will be something fabricated in the work, evidenced by the suggestion made by her grandfather. In the second instance, one might read this as an acknowledgement of the fact that there is an unknowability to Jane; something that is again twofold. The first element of this unknowability exists due to the fact that, at the time of Nelson’s (2005) writing, the ‘solved’ status of Jane’s murder remained ambiguous. The second element, though, may be the fact that Jane herself is unknown on account of her life having been cut short by a violent crime. Here then, Nelson’s (2005) grandfather may be alluding to elements of Jane that are unknown because they were never allowed to occur in real life. Alongside these readings, it is perhaps worth commenting, too, on the possibility that Nelson’s (2005) grandfather is also referring to Nelson’s status as an author. It could be read that her grandfather is implying a natural authorial inclination towards fiction; something that may, culturally speaking, be expected of writers.

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In accompaniment to this, there are several moments throughout that allude to the fictive in relation both to Jane’s personal life narrative and to the narrative surrounding her death. The first of these was alluded to earlier, in Nelson’s (2005) reference to ‘family lore’. A second, similar, reference is made later when Nelson (2005) comments on ‘myths [that] have been juggled about’, too. Thus, while Nelson (2005) is not overtly admitting to fabrications, she is nevertheless acknowledging throughout that there may, inevitably, be some. Though significantly, as evidenced by these two examples, she is alluding, too, to the fact that these fictive elements of Jane are areas in which other people have contributed to the narrative, highlighting that it is not Nelson (2005) alone who is at work in shaping Jane’s story. This balance of personal embellishment and external contributions is one that Nelson (2005) frequently relies on to shape the arc of the book. In another instance of twin titled works, both of Nelson’s (2005) pieces labelled ‘Conversation’ speak to this trend. In the first, she documents a conversation with her mother regarding the man suspected of murdering Jane. Here, Nelson (2005) outright asks her mother whether she believes John Collins was the man responsible for Jane’s death and then proceeds to document her mother’s answer in italicised dialogue; adopting the same stylistic representation as in the earlier example, regarding her grandfather, making these words explicitly different from her own narrative voice insofar as their page representation. Alongside this documented conversation, though, Nelson (2005) inserts a fabricated conversation between herself and the man in question, that being John Collins. She frames this work with ‘I imagine us talking’, and from here she adopts a casual, familiar tone through her fictionalised conversation with the man (Nelson 2005). Though interestingly here, too, she chooses to italicise dialogue both ‘said’ by herself and by the imagined Collins. I sample from these examples in particular, then, to evidence the ways in which Nelson (2005) is hybridising even her levels of accuracy and authenticity, insofar as balancing the real and the imagined throughout a work dealing with an entirely true story. Arguably, it is her authorial proximity—that will be discussed shortly—that allows for this. Nelson’s (2005) intimate involvement with the narrative places her in a better, or perhaps a more appropriate, position to speculate on elements of it that have no factual grounding. By this I mean, her creative license can extend to these postulations and queries that are, one may argue, a natural part of an individual’s processing of a violent incident, particularly one with such evident

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reverberations throughout a family, over an extended period of time. Significantly, though, Nelson (2005) is evidently working towards a place of authenticity by including these different voices throughout the work. The inclusion, for example, of her mother’s thoughts, alongside those of her grandfather and Phil are, in many ways, the equivalent of witness testimonies, and other official documentation(s), comparable versions of which have been seen in other texts throughout this monograph. Here, then, these varied voices not only authenticate the narrative but also contribute towards Nelson’s (2005) level of accuracy, as there are others— those individuals noted above—who can not only testify to elements of Jane’s narrative but also contribute towards it. This may even mark the work as a collaborative one to a degree, which again speaks to Nelson’s (2005) hybridised approach to the telling. Authenticity and accuracy are shifting terms here as Nelson (2005) is documenting a case that she both was and was not involved with, given her temporal distance from the crime and the fact that, in many ways, the violence of the incident speaks to generational trauma, rather than a first-­ hand experience of it. Add to this Nelson’s (2005) own family connection, though, and the above terms have the potential to shift again. Nevertheless, from the research endeavours evidenced here—throughout Nelson (2005) not only documents conversations, but also materials used and research trips taken—it is clear that one of Nelson’s many authorial intentions was to write to a great degree of accuracy—or at least, a degree of accuracy that could be feasibly achieved, given the existing ambiguities around Jane’s death. The interweaving of lore, myth and fictionalisations may blur levels of accuracy, though it is noteworthy that Nelson (2005) is transparent regarding her use of these elements, too. Thus, authenticity and accuracy may become areas in which Nelson (2005) persists in hybridising her narrative, but it is clear from a close reading of the text that she is endeavouring to capture a true portrait of Jane—or at the very least again, a composite portrait formed as much by those who knew Jane as by Nelson herself.

Conclusion: Authorial Proximity To conclude in a manner not dissimilar to the conclusion(s) reached during the close reading of Emma Cline’s (2017) The Girls, the author gap— as it was originally defined in the early chapters of this monograph—looks to require amendment here. If not amendment, then at least an

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acknowledgement that the author gap must be considered in a way that acknowledges the extenuating circumstances of Nelson’s (2005) narrative. Here, I am alluding to the fact that a simplistic view of Nelson (2005) as an author recounting information regarding a violent crime that impacted her family, would, one assumes, lead many to the conclusion that her authorial proximity is minimal. In a similar way to those early works discussed within this project, Nelson (2005) is speaking of a subject that she has (near) direct involvement with and, subsequently, her closeness and indeed her intimacy with it cannot and should not, I feel, be underestimated. However, this apparent proximity is something that must be combined, too, according to the author gap theory, with the area of author recollection. Throughout, Nelson (2005) is not writing from a place wherein she remembers Jane or even remembers the crime taking place. Rather, she is writing from her recollection of Jane’s absence, not her presence. It is only through the narratives of others—namely, her mother, grandfather, Phil, and some dubious True Crime publications—that a narrative of Jane’s death can be formed. Besides which, even with these contributing narratorial threads, there are areas in which living memory gives way to something less certain—‘My mother admits / her memory on this point / is far from clear’—and that must also be considered insofar as accuracy, authenticity, and inevitably, the author gap, given that it could be argued we are not judging Nelson’s (2005) proximity and recollections alone here, but rather those of the other voices featured in the work, too. That said—and herein lies an additional strand in the extenuating circumstances—the involvement of Jane’s own voice, through Nelson’s (2005) utilisation of journals and diary entries, albeit in the interest of creative expression, may also complicate matters insofar as determining where this book sits in the author gap and therefore, too, where it sits insofar as genre classification. Admittedly, this element—that could be branded as either collaboration or a hybridisation—does strengthen a larger discussion taking place now, about the versatility of True Crime narratives; though it does complicate the author gap to a degree. Nevertheless, Jane’s authorial intentions, insofar as her untouched journal entries, cannot be attested to, and it seems unlikely that Nelson (2005) herself would be able to assert a definitive answer to this either. With this in mind, it may be worth disentangling Jane’s narratorial voice for the sake of judging, alone, Nelson’s (2005) authorial one. This, I posit, allows us to assess the author

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gap of the work as, while not quite minimal—due to the lack of personal recollections—certainly not of a significant size either. However, it is the hybridisation of form, structure, and even voice(s) that ultimately seals a final decision regarding the work’s genre classification. Nelson’s versatility of style seems far too broad to consider in the same vein as more traditional prose works. Alongside this, there are clear elements of imagination and fabrication throughout, too, that complicate a definitive factual status. To that end, I posit Jane: A murder as a complex form of True Crime that very much sits within the genre boundaries of True Crime: Inspired by, or Fiction, where Nelson’s (2005) creativity and her levels of accuracy may properly be accounted for.

References Baldick, Chris. 2008. The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. New York: Oxford University Press. Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. Cline, Emma. 2017. The Girls. London: Vintage. Cooke, Rachel. 2017. Interview  – Maggie Nelson: ‘There is no catharsis… the stories we tell ourselves don’t heal us’. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/may/21/argonauts-­m aggie-­n elson-­t he-­r ed-­p arts-­ interview-­rachel-­cooke. Accessed 09 May 2023. Keyes, Edward. 2010. The Michigan Murders. Michigan: University of Michigan Press. Merriam-Webster. N.D.  Lore. https://www.merriam-­webster.com/dictionary/ lore. Accessed 09 May 2023. Nelson, Maggie. 2005. Jane: A Murder. California: Soft Skull Press. ———. 2017. The Red Parts: Autobiography of a Trial. London: Vintage. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere.

CHAPTER 12

Conclusion

The authorial intentions behind the craft of this monograph were many and varied. In the first instance, I hoped it would encourage more academic discussion around True Crime as a literary genre. This would contrast against its existing status as a genre that has succeeded in flying well beneath the radar of critical discussion, despite its pronounced cultural role and its growing following among contemporary audiences. In the second instance, I hoped the work might encourage a more conscientious consumerism around True Crime. While it always has been, and evidently remains, a genre produced for entertainment value, and its diversification across genre forms make it easier still to consume these titles in a somewhat throwaway manner, there is—or at least, there claims to be—truth at the core of these works. It is a truth that involves more people than those who write, edit, produce, record—the list continues—the resultant works, to involve the people who lived the narratives in real time, as they unfolded. This is why, then, throughout the body of this monograph I have tried to find a balance between these two areas—critical discussion and consumerism—so that they both might provide support for my call that we deconstruct the genre and inspect its workings. The monograph itself has been subdivided into chapters that study my chosen, primary texts in critical detail. This has been achieved through a utilisation of considered subheadings, too, that reflect technical and stylistic features of the works. This has been done in such a way that

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subheadings ultimately speak to the larger discussion of genre re-categorisation. Admittedly, there were areas of dissimilarities across the core texts here, and resultantly there were variations in subheadings from one chapter to the next as well. For example, Maggie Nelson’s (2005) interlinking of form and content could not be applied to authors such as Truman Capote (2000), who takes a traditional approach in writing long-form prose narration. Meanwhile, the ways in which Emma Cline’s (2017) work has been studied here—considering the covert and overt integration of real life—could not be paralleled to the likes of Ann Rule (1989), who narrates real life in a transparent manner to situate herself and her reader at an appropriate vantage point for her lived narrative. Nevertheless, despite these occasional points of distance, there were points of contact throughout the works, too.

Narrative Styles Across these works it was made clear that both first- and third-person narrative perspectives can be successfully utilised in True Crime writing. Interestingly, though, while this may have ties to the concept of authorial proximity in the earliest chapters—pertaining to Vincent Bugliosi (2015) and Ann Rule (1989)—by the second portion of the book this relationship was complicated by both Truman Capote (2000) and Michelle McNamara (2018). Bugliosi (2015) and Rule (1989), appropriately so, adopt a first-person narrative perspective that allows them to tell narratives through their lived vantage points, implicitly reminding an audience, too, that they were active participants in these incidents. Meanwhile, Capote (2000)—who inserted himself into the Clutter family case for research and eventually writing—instead chose to remove himself and adopt a third-­ person omnipresent perspective. While this distorts the relationship between authorial proximity and narrative perspectives—which is to say, an author who is directly involved with a case could feasibly provide their narrative entirely through the first person—this does provide greater evidence towards In Cold Blood’s re-classification of genre (Capote 2000). I suggest this, too, given that the contents of the work have been significantly reimagined from their original form, to allow Capote (2000) creative license in their telling. Similarly, McNamara (2018) lends intriguing talking points to this idea of proximity and a narrative vantage point by retelling a narrative that she had no direct involvement in, initially at least, through an intimate first-person voice. Admittedly, though, there are

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shifts that occur here, both in terms of McNamara’s (2018) proximity— which I posit changes over the course of her work—and in terms of her utilisation of narrative perspective. This, while intimate and first person for the majority of the book, is notably more objective and third person led, too, when she is relaying evidence and specific details of the crimes. In the subgenre that permits the greatest amount of creative license across the three proposed categories, Emma Cline (2017) and Maggie Nelson (2005) create a polarisation of narrative perspectives. Cline’s (2017) is arguably the simpler of the two, told through a single, first-­ person perspective that, while subject to shifts in time, is not subject to any changes in voice. In stark opposition to this, Nelson (2005) also employs a first-person narration but one that shifts between author-narrator and subject-narrator, as she moves between giving voice to her own narration and that of Jane, the deceased relative at the core of the work. Further to this, Nelson (2005) also adopts a third-person perspective at times. Here, then, despite the author sitting within the narrative—insofar as proximity—there is still no linear pattern that can be followed as to how narrative perspective is utilised. It is, inevitably, an area of True Crime that sees great amounts of variability and, indeed, malleability. Thus, while it cannot be definitively stated that close author proximity equates to first-­ person narration, there is an observable trend here where first-person telling can at least be isolated as a preference held by authors, when relaying a narrative to which they are closely involved. Subsequently, this area of critique can be held as one that helps in a determination of the subgenre classification of True Crime works.

Language Styles This subheading can also be divided further. In the first instance to consider the objectivity or subjectivity of narrative tone throughout a work. In the second instance to consider an author’s utilisation of literary techniques and figurative language. To consider this first strand, then, there is a notable variety not only across texts but also within the singular texts themselves. With the exception of Vincent Bugliosi (2015)—though even here there are occasional slips wherein the author’s own thoughts and feelings on a matter appear, typically communicated through a footnote—the other authors shift between subjective and objective in their narrative telling. Additionally, Emma Cline (2017) should be marked as an exception, too, given that she

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is not overtly critiquing the details of a case in the same manner that her peers are. That said, the way in which she constructs a narrative tailored to show the vulnerability and innocence of The Girls—without explicitly labelling her girls as being affiliated with Charles Manson—could, I posit, be read as a subjective telling, exploring how a young woman might find herself drawn into dangerous and unsettled social situations (Cline 2017). This aside, the remaining authors of the work present a much more straightforward approach to the balance of subjectivity and objectivity. Their language use—and ultimately, their tone—oscillates between the above named points, as they endeavour to capture their complete narratives. Ann Rule (1989), Michelle McNamara (2018), and Maggie Nelson (2005)—all writing from the nonfiction ‘I’ to a degree—incorporate subjective elements through their intimate vantage points, where all three authors have overtly inserted themselves into their works—though this is arguably an inevitability for Rule (1989) and Nelson (2005). Due to this first-person narration, and therefore the intimacy of the telling, subjectivity is, I argue, another inevitability, particularly given that all three authors integrate elements of memoir into their work. However, while this subjectivity is apparent, the employment of a more objective tone is observable throughout, too. Admittedly, Rule (1989), McNamara (2018), and Nelson (2005) adopt objectivity to differing degrees. Nelson’s (2005) narrative hybridity may complicate the delivery of objectively told information; though she does include, and is explicit in her use of, factual, primary research, and she endeavours to relay this in a neutral tone at times, particularly in comparison to other areas in her work. Meanwhile, Rule (1989) and McNamara (2018) move between the subjective and objective in a more traditional sense where, beyond their personal feelings and involvement, they are able to relay information pertaining to attacks, victims, and case development, without proffering overt commentary or manipulative language use. Note, here, how these authors have been set apart from Truman Capote (2000), whose balance of objectivity and subjectivity is an intriguing one, not least because he is utilising a third-person perspective. Rather than making overt comments, though, Capote (2000) occupies his all-knowing space while providing a subjective commentary through his language use, which is notably guiding and even manipulative at times. One explicit example of this being the ways in which he described both killers—one in notably more sympathetic terms than the other, as highlighted—and how this may lead a reader’s perception. Alongside this, there are moments

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when the voice of the narration can be questioned, due to occasional yet overt interruptions that may be the voice of Capote (2000), though this is never clarified. To this end, then, it becomes more challenging to determine Capote’s (2000) employment of the objective versus subjective, when the narration is so informed by traditions of fiction rather nonfiction. To continue in the second strand of language use, it is pertinent to assess the ways in the other authors have utilised figurative language and literary techniques in their work, too. Cline (2017) and Nelson (2005)— as is arguably expected of their proposed subgenre—are creative in their language styles, offering both prose and poetry, respectively, that is as pleasurable to read for enjoyment as it is for close analysis. Both employ hyperbole, metaphor, simile, meanwhile Nelson, too, employs techniques such as erasure, ekphrasis, and intertextuality throughout, as a means to integrate other voices into the narrative. Their peers utilise figurative language, and similar techniques, in support of their narrative delivery as well. It is noteworthy, I propose, that all texts employed creative language use to some degree. Vincent Bugliosi (2015) arguably uses it the least across the works, though there were similes and metaphors present throughout still. Meanwhile, Rule (1989), McNamara (2018), and Capote (2000)—the latter of whom has already been considered—use these styles to varying degrees. Rule (1989) and McNamara (2018) use a noteworthy amount of these techniques; however, their language use is often to contextualise something rather than to overtly dramatise or overstate a detail, making for a distinctive usage in the wider context of this discussion and, indeed, True Crime writing. Subsequently, then, it is observable that these literary qualities are present to varying degrees across all works considered in this monograph. While one may fairly argue that literary styles and language techniques will be more pronounced in the Inspired by, or Fiction subgenre of True Crime—supported by the reasons noted above and further throughout the monograph proper—the accompanying subgenres will utilise these techniques to different degrees and, significantly, with different authorial intentions in mind.

Research Styles Given the burden of proof that has been seeded throughout this discussion, insofar as how authors are upholding accuracy and authenticity, it seems appropriate to draw together a comment on the authors’ research

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styles in this conclusion as well. Significantly, here, there are varying degrees of openness again with some authors being incredibly transparent about their research and source materials, while others fail to make note of them within the work at all. To move through the texts, we may begin with the likes of Vincent Bugliosi (2015) and Ann Rule (1989), both of whom are explicit regarding the sources of their information. In the former of these, interviews are cited, transcripts are referenced, and primary research practices are alluded to as well. While Rule (1989) may adopt a different style in delivery to her noted peer, there is nevertheless still an attribution of materials—interviews, conversations, and memory—even if they are not formally cited. In further support of this, when the authors are unable to provide an accurate citation for their work—or indeed, to substantiate elements of their work for any reasons—they are explicit in this, too, stating openly that there are differing or contradictory versions of the narrative that readers should be aware of. Similarly, Michelle McNamara (2018) adopts this approach in relaying information and clarifying when information is simply not available or cannot be stated with the same level(s) of certainty as seen elsewhere. In contrast—despite sitting beneath the same subgenre heading—Capote (2000) is less transparent with his implementation of research. Though throughout he includes many direct quotations, not least those given to the killers themselves, he seldom cites nor explains where this information is quoted from; whether it is first-person experience and primary research or, indeed, whether he is borrowing from other, secondary sources to make a composite dialogue. With this in mind, then, there is a reasonable level of doubt attached to some of Capote’s (2000) work, compounded, too, by other elements—such as the factual inaccuracies and editorial amendments—that have been cited elsewhere in this monograph. For the final two authors, some allowance must be made for the ways in which practice-based creative research manifests. Through interviews— wherein she is the subject, rather than interviewer—Emma Cline (2017) has explicitly commented on the research she broadly conducted into cult family structures from relevant time periods, alongside extensive research into the Charles Manson Family and the accompanying case narrative. The evidence of this research can be found only in the quality of Cline’s (2017) work, and any assessment of this will inevitably be subjective and

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determined in accordance with a reader’s own enjoyment of the novel and, indeed, their existing knowledge of relevant topics that support the novel. Meanwhile, Maggie Nelson (2005)—despite her creative approach to retelling a narrative—is relatively explicit in her utilisation of research materials. Though they may be incorporated into the text in somewhat inventive or distinct ways, she still cites supporting books and newspaper articles, alongside which she includes details of her primary research practices, too—such as her interviews with Phil. In this area, then, Nelson (2005) demonstrates the ways in which practice-based creative research can still clarify, for a reader, the authenticity and accuracy of materials used, which is, I posit, a significant contribution to broader areas of creative writing study. Significantly, one might conclude here that somehow—either through traditional citations or through the quality of the (creative) writing— research can and should be evidenced, in as explicit a manner as the author can feasibly manage within the parameters of their subgenre. The cost of not achieving this can, perhaps, be evidenced by the great controversy around Truman Capote’s (2000) work in the interim years since its publication. While I do not mean to suggest this is single-handedly due to his utilisation of research materials, it does feel justifiable to suggest this as a contributing factor. Ultimately then, regardless of subgenre, an author’s research—and their evidencing of that research—remains essential across True Crime.

Closing Argument The changeability in the above variables succeeds in demonstrating one clear assertion: True Crime as a written genre is one that holds great promise for versality, invention, and literary style. Though there has, historically, been doubt around this, the development of the genre over a prolonged period evidences that this is a body of work that should be taken more seriously in critical and commercial readings alike. However, across this monograph it has also become challenging, too, to isolate set parameters for how True Crime as a singular concept, or indeed a singular genre, can be defined. The boundaries of the works are likely to shift, dependent on perspective, writing style, research approach, and many of the other factors that have been touched upon across this study. Ultimately,

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then, the only steady determinants for whether something belongs under the heading of True Crime, I posit, is to consider the areas of authenticity, accuracy, and proximity as they relate to individual works. The author gap, as outlined in the Introduction and returned to throughout, may offer a supporting tool in this assessment. It seems pertinent, in support of this, to return to the earliest point of this monograph wherein the tautology of True Crime was proposed. In a genre that is hinged on ‘truth’—no matter the changeability of that concept—and under a wider genre heading that is defined in terms of what it is not—nonfiction—it is imperative that works are judged by the ways in which they incorporate truth as part of their narrative telling. An author’s authority to do this—determined by their research practices, employment of that research, and their proximity to case materials—is an essential consideration, too, hence the interlinking of authenticity, accuracy, and proximity as core elements of True Crime subgenres. Alongside this sits the consideration of where these works then fall insofar as subgenre headings, that forms the spine of this monograph. In considering the above named elements, as a means to determine how ‘truth’ful a True Crime narrative may be, publishers, editors, and other industry gatekeepers will be better informed and, ultimately, better positioned to steer works towards appropriate subgenre categories. These will be classifications that not only accurately reflect the publications themselves, but also better inform the readers of the authenticity and accuracy—or sometimes, the lack thereof—in the works they are consuming. The wider social benefits of this cannot be overlooked either, as something with the potential to improve the respect afforded to victims, victims’ families, and others involved in the real-life narratives being documented across the True Crime genre. To conclude, then, and in accompaniment to my authorial intentions already outlined, I hope the discussions that have occurred throughout this monograph have evidenced the literary technique, research, and craft that composites True Crime narration. This, I hope, too, will provide further support not only for the deconstruction of the genre into more accurate subgenres—which I maintain is an essential step in (re)structuring the genre in its entirety—but also provide support for why now is the time to turn critical attention to True Crime literature and afford it, at last, with the academic consideration it deserves.

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References Bugliosi, Vincent with Gentry, Curt. 2015. Helter Skelter. London: Arrow Books. Capote, Truman. 2000. In Cold Blood. London: Penguin Classics. Cline, Emma. 2017. The Girls. London: Vintage. McNamara, Michelle. 2018. I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. London: Faber & Faber Ltd. Nelson, Maggie. 2005. Jane: A Murder. California: Soft Skull Press. Rule, Ann. 1989. The Stranger Beside Me. London: Sphere.

Index

A Accuracy, 3–7, 24, 28, 30, 39, 45–50, 54, 55, 68, 71–75, 97, 104, 107–108, 110, 131–136, 138, 166–167, 174, 186, 194–198, 203, 205, 206 Authenticity, 3–5, 7, 24, 28, 38, 39, 41, 45, 48, 49, 54, 55, 58, 68–72, 74, 92, 97, 102, 104, 107, 108, 110, 119, 127, 131–135, 137–139, 166, 167, 172, 177, 179, 181, 186, 194–197, 203, 205, 206 Author gap, 6, 7, 48–50, 54, 74, 75, 108, 110, 137, 138, 168, 196, 197, 206 Authorial proximity, 6, 50, 112, 115, 137, 138, 168, 175, 200 Author proximity, 109, 168, 201 Autobiographical, 4, 6, 50, 75

B Ballads, 6, 10–14, 16, 144 Biographical, 14, 28, 33, 38, 59, 157, 186 Broadside, 6, 10 Bugliosi, Vincent, 2, 24, 27, 29, 35, 59, 200, 201, 203, 204 C Capote, Truman, viii, 2, 31, 34, 79, 84, 113, 132, 137, 176, 200, 202, 205 Characterisation, 3, 12, 22, 55, 94–98, 102, 151, 154, 156, 161 Cinematic, 34, 40, 64, 87, 99, 187 Cline, Emma, 2, 31, 143, 147, 177, 196, 200, 201, 204 Collaboration, 35, 131, 133, 197 Collaborative, 25, 35, 81, 113, 127–131, 135, 138, 196 Collaborative practices, 25, 131

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 C. Barnes, Deconstructing True Crime Literature, Crime Files, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-41045-1

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INDEX

Creative license, 4, 18, 33, 45, 55, 63, 70, 78, 79, 81, 85, 88, 90, 93, 100, 117, 118, 120, 131, 145, 175, 178, 195, 200, 201 Creative writing, 63, 142, 178, 205 E Ekphrasis, 172, 174, 183–187, 203 Entertainment, 3, 7, 12, 15, 17, 78, 199 Erasure, 145, 172, 203 F Fact, viii, 1, 11, 12, 14, 17, 19, 23, 24, 28, 29, 32, 35, 38, 51, 60, 63, 65, 66, 69, 71, 72, 79, 81, 82, 86, 103, 107, 108, 110, 115, 120, 121, 127, 128, 131, 134, 135, 141–145, 152, 154, 155, 167, 175, 177, 179, 185, 187, 188, 190, 191, 194–197 Fictionalisation, viii, 63, 64, 67, 88, 145 Fictive, viii, 12, 18, 38, 53, 54, 65, 68, 94, 100, 102, 108, 110, 119, 121, 135, 148, 167, 193, 195 Figurative language, 3, 33, 34, 40–42, 49, 55, 57, 63, 66, 86, 87, 95, 96, 98, 100, 103, 110, 115, 117, 120, 122, 124, 138, 157, 187, 189, 201, 203 First-person narration, 27, 32, 36, 39, 40, 45, 48, 57, 60, 61, 74, 80, 87, 103, 104, 112, 113, 115, 119, 123, 201, 202 First-person narrative, 48, 116, 200

G Genre, vii, viii, 2, 3, 5, 7, 9–19, 21–24, 31, 32, 45, 50, 52, 53, 60, 65, 70, 72, 73, 77, 82, 84–86, 108–110, 112–114, 124, 131, 137, 144, 145, 148, 149, 151, 167, 168, 176, 184, 185, 191, 197–200, 205, 206 Gentry, Curt, 2, 24, 27, 35 The Girls, 2, 143, 144, 147–151, 154, 156, 159–161, 163–168, 177, 196, 202 Grey space, 3, 58, 60, 62–66, 72–74, 109, 116, 143, 177, 183 H Helter Skelter, 2, 24, 25, 27–29, 31, 32, 35, 37, 43, 48, 50, 59, 75, 86, 126, 137, 149, 152, 158, 160, 164, 168 Hybridisation, 2, 84, 87, 144, 145, 197, 198 Hyperbole, 40, 63, 65, 67, 120, 138, 163, 203 I I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, 2, 23, 36, 59, 79, 80, 112, 114, 124, 127, 131, 132, 134–137, 139 In Cold Blood, viii, 2, 31, 34, 79, 84–88, 90, 100, 102, 104, 107, 109, 110, 113, 137, 139, 176, 200 Inspired by, or Fiction, 4, 151, 169, 198, 203 Intertextuality, 122, 183–187

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L Language use, 34, 35, 57, 90, 95, 100–103, 118, 121, 123, 151, 165, 202, 203 Literary techniques, 32, 40, 48, 53, 65, 67, 84, 124, 135, 139, 152, 165, 172, 201, 203

O Objective, 32, 35, 38, 63, 72, 75, 99, 102, 113, 201–203 Objectivity, 28, 32, 35, 40, 48, 63, 75, 81, 84, 86, 97, 201, 202 Ownership, 34, 152, 172, 174–179, 189

M McNamara, Michelle, 2, 23, 36, 59, 79, 80, 112, 200, 202, 204 Media, 3, 9–18, 38, 77, 78, 111, 145, 152, 153, 183 Memoir, 49, 52, 53, 56, 57, 65, 70, 75, 112, 115, 131, 144, 173, 178, 187, 202 Metaphor, 40, 67, 123, 203

P Podcast, 2 Poetry, 21, 22, 144, 203 Police reports, 28, 113, 126, 129 Print media, 10, 11 Proximity, 3, 4, 6, 7, 18, 24, 25, 28, 30, 35, 38, 39, 41, 48–50, 53–55, 57, 60, 61, 66, 68, 70, 71, 73–75, 77, 81, 85, 108–110, 112, 115, 118, 120, 124, 137–139, 145, 166, 168–169, 172, 175, 179, 184, 185, 191, 193, 195–198, 200, 201, 206

N Narrative perspective, viii, 32, 35, 36, 84, 87, 112, 182, 200, 201 Narrative vantage point, 28, 40, 57, 113, 172, 200 Narratorial, 33, 57, 59, 69, 87, 96, 99, 104–107, 118, 119, 181, 197 Narratorial voice, 33, 96, 99, 104, 105, 118, 120, 197 Nelson, Maggie, 2, 31, 144, 172, 200–202, 205 Newgate, 14 Newspapers, 10 Nonfiction, 3, 10, 17–19, 21–25, 32, 38, 57, 64, 65, 81, 84–87, 94, 106–110, 132, 134, 174, 202, 203, 206 Novelisation, 54, 63, 85, 148

Q Quoted materials, 3, 41, 89, 92, 100, 104 R Reader response, 143 Reappropriation, 172, 173, 178, 179 Reimagined, 4, 82, 110, 139 Representations, 16, 18, 47, 103, 121, 174, 187 Research materials, 128, 129, 205 Research practices, 7, 129, 179, 204–206 Rule, Ann, 2, 24, 51, 78, 200, 202, 204

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S Second person, 37, 115, 131 Simile, 40, 55, 63, 66, 95, 102, 103, 203 Social responsibility, 110 The Stranger Beside Me, 2, 24, 51–54, 56, 57, 62, 74, 75, 137, 142, 187 Structure, 1, 23, 28, 32, 67, 122, 146, 152, 167, 173, 182, 189, 190, 198 Subgenre, 3, 4, 6, 7, 31, 50, 64, 75, 134, 137, 139, 201, 203–206 Subjective, 37, 48, 72, 75, 94, 97, 201, 202, 204 Subjectivity, 32, 35, 48, 201, 202 T Tautology of True Crime, 17, 23, 206 Third person narration, 32, 33, 35, 40, 55, 63, 68, 69, 84, 87–92, 94–96, 102, 106, 110, 117, 118, 145 Transparency, 5, 28, 36, 44–49, 71–74, 112, 133, 134, 138, 142, 149, 179, 181, 185

True Crime culture, 15, 19, 132, 152, 187 True Crime poetry, 144 Truth, 1, 4, 5, 15, 17, 19, 23–26, 40, 45, 48, 75, 78, 79, 86, 108, 137, 138, 146, 150, 158, 174, 175, 184, 199, 206 V Violent crimes, 14, 111, 124, 126, 141, 152 Voice, 3, 11, 21, 22, 28, 33, 35–37, 39, 46, 54, 56–58, 67–70, 78, 79, 88, 91–94, 96, 99, 103, 105, 110, 118, 119, 136, 139, 147, 165, 172, 174, 178–182, 186, 190, 194, 195, 197, 198, 200, 201, 203 W Witness testimony, 28, 64 Y YouTube, 2