Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime 9781626379138

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Fear, Justice & Modern True Crime

Fear, Justice & Modern True Crime

Dawn K. Cecil

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2020 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Suite 314, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com

and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. Gray’s Inn House, 127 Clerkenwell Road, London EC1 5DB

© 2020 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Cecil, Dawn K., author. Title: Fear, justice, and modern true crime / Dawn K. Cecil. Description: Boulder, Colorado : Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “Explores the impact of true crime stories on our perceptions of crime, our fears, and even the criminal justice system”— Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2020008494 (print) | LCCN 2020008495 (ebook) | ISBN 9781626379015 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781626379138 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: True crime stories—Social aspects. | Crime and the press—Social aspects. | Crime—Sociological aspects. | Crime—Public opinion. | Criminal justice, Administration of—Public opinion. Classification: LCC HV6168 .C43 2020 (print) | LCC HV6168 (ebook) | DDC 364.1—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008494 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020008495

British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Acknowledgments 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

vii

True-Crime Obsessions

1

The Serial Effect

13

Modern True Crime

Serial Killers and Notorious Murderers

Missing Persons and Unsolved Murders Wrongful-Conviction Narratives

Fear, Justice, and the Experience of Modern True Crime

Bibliography Index About the Book

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51

79

105

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161 177 181

v

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Alex Holzman and the two anonymous reviewers whose input helped me immensely. I also want to express my gratitude to my friend and colleague Julie Buckner Armstrong, whose encouragement helped me to step out of my comfort zone to develop the personal accounts included in this book. Finally, I cannot begin to thank Rick enough for his continued support, for understanding how diving deep into true crime personally affected me, and for encouraging my newfound obsession because “you can’t think about true crime while roller skating.”

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1 True-Crime Obsessions

for centuries, eventually transforming in recent times into what is considered by many to be a form of “lowbrow” entertainment depicting the salacious details of wives murdering husbands, men slaying the women they love, and serial killers living next door. Countless people engage with this “guilty pleasure,” filling their lives with tales of violence. Why are they drawn to nightmare-inducing entertainment? Does it make them feel that they have a better understanding of crime and justice? Does it provide some sort of comfort in a violence-filled world? This is the seductive phenomenon known as “true crime,” a nonfiction genre conveying the details of actual crimes and the actions of the offender, victim, and justice system. There was a time in my life when I was a devoted fan of true crime. In college, I switched my major from business to criminal justice and became fascinated by all things “criminal.” In the early 1990s, massproduced books about crime were popular, and I belonged to a mailorder club. Each month I would eagerly await the delivery of the newest true-crime book and devour the story. Even though I read these books twenty-five years ago, I had an instantaneous visual recollection of the covers as I searched the Amazon website for them. One book’s title, Jeffrey Dahmer: A Bizarre Journey into the Mind of America’s Most Tormented Serial Killer, is framed by blood dripping down onto a picture of a seemingly normal-looking man, a killer who ate his victims, and whose story is told by Joel Norris (1992). A bright-red rocking cradle in stark contrast to the black-as-night background with the bold-white title,

True-crime stories have existed in one form or another

1

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Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

Cradle to Grave: The Short Lives and Strange Deaths of Marybeth Tinning’s Nine Children, also catches my eye, as I remembered reading this story of a murdering mother, written by Joyce Egginton (1989). Each cover presented an invitation to a dark journey that I was more than willing to take all those years ago. Viewing these images, I am transported back in time, fondly remembering my college years. Another memory pops into my head—my two friends and I driving around Bloomington, Illinois, looking for 313 Carl Drive, where a woman and her three children were found murdered in their home in 1983. After reading Reasonable Doubt: A True Story of Lust and Murder in the American Heartland by Steve Vogel (1989), we were curious to see the scene of the crime. We drove around the unfamiliar streets of Bloomington—our college was in its sister city, Normal—then stopped at a pizza place to find the address on a map, and eventually pulled into a typical Midwestern subdivision. Could this neighborhood, filled with drabcolored split-story houses with yellowish light glowing through sheer curtains and cul-de-sac streets promising quietness and safety, really be home to a quadruple murder? The scene of the crime blended in, looking surprisingly normal. What else did we expect? It was just a house, after all, yet we were captivated. We were dark tourists driving through a central Illinois town, satisfied to have had a fleeting glimpse of a murder house. I now find myself wondering, what did we think we would get out of the experience, and why were we so fascinated by this local murder? I also wonder how many other people have taken a drive like ours. As I progressed through an academic career that focused on crime and justice, I no longer needed to indulge in true-crime stories; however, my interest was reignited in 2014 when This American Life (Glass 1995) aired the first episode of an affiliated podcast called Serial (Koenig and Snyder 2014). I popped in my earbuds to listen while taking a walk and turned up the volume to drown out the sound of passing cars. I was immediately drawn in by the narrative style of Sarah Koenig and by the mystery unfolding. She told the story of Hae Min Lee, who in 1999 was found murdered in Baltimore, a crime for which her exboyfriend, Adnan Syed, was convicted. I was attending the University of Maryland at the time of her murder and had spent three weeks riding along with the Baltimore City Police, collecting data to earn some extra money. Perhaps it was this connection to time and place that initially piqued my interest, but that is not what kept me listening. Koenig immediately established that what she was presenting was not a tradi-

True-Crime Obsessions

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tional murder tale; rather, she wanted to know whether Syed had received a fair trial and whether he had committed the crime for which he was serving life in prison. I eagerly awaited the release of each episode to see how the story would end, but unlike the definitive endings of the books I had read long ago, this ending was far from certain. It left me invested in the eventual outcome of the case and with a yearning to find more stories like it, but for reasons different from my past interest. Unlike the young student who read serial-killer and other murder stories out of fascination and a desire to understand why people kill others, I was looking at these narratives through a different lens—one that was analytical and justice seeking. After years of teaching classes on how the media represent crime and justice, I automatically began to assess the underlying messages of any new and interesting form of crime storytelling, as I might want to introduce it to my students. But my interest extended beyond planning what to teach the next semester. Instead, I began to consider what these types of stories could mean, not only for people’s understanding of the criminal justice system, but for justice itself. I have recently begun to see my former true-crime obsessed self in some of my students. In my class on theories of criminal behavior, they eagerly ask me if I watched the newest true-crime series to stream on Netflix. They seem to know more about Ted Bundy than the causes of crime we have covered in class, largely from watching Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (Berlinger 2019a) and other recent true-crime coverage of this infamous serial killer. These true representations of crime are becoming a part of their understanding of criminal behavior. Fascination with true-crime stories is not a new phenomenon; however, today’s media culture is one of instantaneous, around-theclock access to a plethora of narratives. These students can also log on to social media outlets such as Reddit, Websleuths.com, and other venues to chat about the details of their favorite true-crime stories, and can even become a part of an investigation. For some, modern true crime is not a passive genre; it is interactive. In the twenty-first century, true crime has evolved from a storytelling genre into an industry. There are books, movies, television series, podcasts, blogs, and perhaps most indicative, CrimeCon. According to its website, this event “brings the genre we love to life through immersive experiences, incredible guests, and nerdy deep-dives into tactics and cases. Add the world’s best true-crime podcasters and sprinkle in some surprise mystery and intrigue—and you’ve got CrimeCon weekend” (CrimeCon 2017). 1 It is true crime’s version of Comic-Con. In

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Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

2018, the Gaylord Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee, was home to the second annual gathering of the true-crime obsessed. People piled into rooms to listen to true-crime stories about murders and missing persons. They attended events meant to help them understand investigations and prosecutions. One session was advertised as a demonstration of interrogation techniques but morphed into an eyewitness experience. Hundreds of people who crammed into the ballroom witnessed a staged crime. Then some came forward to tell their version of events to the rest of the audience, and in the end, the video of the “crime” offered a powerful demonstration of the unreliability of eyewitness testimony. When not attending these panels, participants stood in line for selfies and autographs from Paul Holes, an investigator who worked on the recently solved Golden State Killer (GSK) case; Dianne Lake, a former member of the Manson family; and, perhaps most popular, Keith Morrison, the silver fox correspondent of Dateline. These fans quickly uploaded and tagged themselves on social media after capturing the moment on their phones. Some attendees came wearing dresses decorated with blackand-white photos of serial killers, or blood-splattered leggings, or Tshirts reading, “BUNDy GACy BERKOWITz DAHMER.” Others quickly swiped their credit cards to purchase a “BASICALLy A DETECTIVE” T-shirt and matching stemless wine glass or corresponding “My PARTNER IN CRIMECON→” tees. CrimeCon is the quintessential example of the modern obsession with true crime and shows clearly that the genre is no longer limited to the pages of a book. What does this fascination with true crime say about society? Beyond entertainment, what role does it play in people’s lives? How does it shape perceptions of crime and justice and people’s fears? Truecrime narratives can educate about crime and justice while simultaneously distorting perceptions. But it is evolving into something more. People are no longer content to simply consume these stories—now they interact with them, create their own narratives via easily accessible technology, and even become involved in investigating cold cases and possible miscarriages of justice. A different set of implications comes with this type of interactivity of which we may not yet be completely aware. What follows is a quest to understand how the truecrime genre is evolving, its underlying messages, and the impact of a multidimensional genre that focuses on violence, victimization, and miscarriages of justice. It demonstrates how technological and media advancements, cultural shifts, and people’s thirst for crime stories have combined to create an interactive genre centered on fear and justice that is impacting its fans as well as the justice system.

True-Crime Obsessions

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What Is True Crime? Defining true crime seems to be a simple task. Those who have written about the genre have used varying, albeit overlapping, definitions. There is a general agreement that to be classified as true crime, the narrative must capture the details of an actual criminal event. In True Crime: Observations on Violence and Modernity, Mark Seltzer (2007) puts it quite simply, “True crime is crime fact that looks like crime fiction” (2). In Toward a Theory of True Crime Narratives: A Textual Analysis, Ian Case Punnett (2018) writes that true crime “consists of nonfiction narratives of criminal events that actually happen” (22). For Jean Murley (2008), in The Rise of True Crime: 20th-Century Murder and American Popular Culture, murder narratives are synonymous with true crime, but her definition is adaptable to other types of criminal behavior. She states, “Very simply, a murder narrative is a story—the story of real events shaped by the teller and imbued with his or her values and beliefs about such events” (6). According to Punnett (2018, 3), “By definition, ‘true crime’ is an occasionally controversial multi-platform genre that is most often associated with murder narratives and shares some common ancestral heritage with journalism, but always has been driven by different impulses.” Inarguably, one of the primary driving forces behind true crime is entertainment. The facts of a real criminal event are packaged to accomplish this task (Biressi 2001). Although the exact techniques of presentation vary, reenactments, plot twists, and cliff-hangers enhance the entertainment value of the facts. Ultimately, the fictionalization or embellishment of certain aspects of the story is what distinguishes true crime from journalistic endeavors (Punnett 2018). By “connecting facts from the real world with a fictional-style narrative format, true crime stories naturally blur the line between news and entertainment” (Boling 2019). This melding of facts and entertainment is commonly referred to as “infotainment” (Cavender and Fishman 1998; Surette 2015). True-crime narratives convey the facts of a crime, which may be enhanced for the sake of entertainment by dramatization, reenactments, or other creative ways of reconstructing events to present them to the audience; therefore, it is a form of infotainment. There must, however, be a careful balance between fulfilling the twin desires to inform and to entertain. Once the creator takes too many liberties with the facts and the narrative moves closer to a fictional account based on a real event, it ceases to be true crime (Punnett 2018); but only creators really know how far from the truth they have taken the story. If they say it is factual, most of the audience will believe them.

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Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

Today’s diverse media landscape consists of a variety of crimerelated stories that fall along a continuum between fact and fiction (see Figure 1.1). Many of these representations have a connection to reality, but that does not automatically place them within the genre of true crime. First, there are those that draw inspiration from reality by offering a fictionalized version of actual events. A prime example is the Law and Order franchise, which aired its first show in the 1990s and quickly found its niche by promising stories “ripped from the headlines.” Savvy viewers can easily deduce which headline-making event inspired the episode. The disclaimer in the show’s credits serves to remind them that what they just saw was fictional and that the real events serve only as a creative springboard. Thus, while many stories presented on the various Law and Order programs are influenced by reality, they do not fit within the genre of true crime. They are crime dramas. Second, one must consider the placement of reality-based crime programs, such as Cops. This program and its copycats follow police officers on the job, presenting viewers with televised versions of ride-alongs with the police. People witness them responding to calls and making arrests. Daniel LaChance and Paul Kaplan (2019a, 2) label this type of programming “crimesploitation,” which “depicts individuals encountering the criminal justice system,” which the authors describe as not only exploitative but also reactionary (LaChance and Kaplan 2019b). It is a representation of reality, albeit a heavily edited one (Doyle 2003), which means some might think of it as true crime. Both reality-based crime programs and true crime can be classified as infotainment. According to Gray Cavender and Mark Fishman (1998, 12), “reality programming blends information and entertainment. It is about actual events and real people, but often it portrays them using reenactments that mix actors with real participants.” Figure 1.1 Continuum of Media Representations of Crime




   



       


   

   




 
  

True-Crime Obsessions

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True-crime storytelling also incorporates some of these tactics, but traditionally the criminal event is the star within this genre, and the system is the supporting actor. Reality-based crime programs put the system front and center, presenting little information about the offenders and even less about the victims; therefore, for the examination of the genre in this book, programs of this sort will not be counted as true-crime storytelling. True crime itself varies based on how much it emphasizes information and entertainment. Kees Brants and Peter Neijens’s (1998) infotainment scale is useful for uncovering where true-crime narratives fall along the continuum of infotainment. This scale is based on three factors—topic, style, and format. In 2002, Ray Surette and Charles Otto employed this scale to examine crime infotainment shows. According to Surette and Otto (2002), the topic refers to the type of story, with issue-based stories indicating informative programming and tales of people committing crime moving closer to entertainment. Regarding style in the programs they examined, the mood is connected to the person conducting the interviews. Professionals as opposed to personalities indicate more informative programming. The third element, format, refers to how the material is presented. Surette and Otto concluded that entertaining programs use music, graphics, and other techniques, whereas informational programming is businesslike. Borrowing from these concepts, one can think of true crime as falling into three subcategories. The more-informative narratives are hosted by professionals who focus on the facts without much thought for entertaining their audiences. At the other end of the spectrum are true-crime narratives that present dramatized versions of a real crime event. The facts of the case are recreated in their entirety using actors and a script. Most true crime, however, falls in between, providing a blending of information and entertainment. The facts of the cases are presented using various techniques, including reenactments, cliff-hangers, and music to keep the audience engaged and entertained. One must acknowledge that the genre is currently undergoing a transformation, which means that the traditional definitions of true crime will need to be expanded to encompass the newest types of narratives and experiences. Whereas true crime has traditionally been seen as a literary category focusing on tales of murder, it is “not a single, monolithic genre” (Biressi 2001, 2). As will be demonstrated, murder remains the core of modern true-crime storytelling, but not all stories follow a previously established structure of presenting solved cases. Furthermore, one can now find true-crime stories on a variety of criminal offenses, including sexual assault and white-collar crimes.

8

Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

The form in which these narratives are appearing is also evolving. Twentieth-century true-crime narratives were either textual (e.g., books) or visual (e.g., television series and documentary films). Recent technological advancements have resulted in alternative venues for this type of storytelling, including podcasting and streaming docuseries. Social media and events such as CrimeCon and the True Crime Podcast Festival have made it interactive. The content of modern true crime reflects its history, but the experience is quite different. The Potential Influence of True Crime True crime—by name—suggests authenticity and truth. The images and content incorporated in these narratives are likely to be taken at face value, the impact of which is undeniable. Today, however, there are far more true-crime stories than in the past, and technology allows people to access them around the clock. Add in the fact that people can interact with these stories on a multitude of platforms, and the potential impact of this new wave of true crime cannot be underestimated. Although these stories are created, in part, as a form of entertainment, real-life implications exist. These narratives can influence perceptions of crime, incite fear, and even change the course of justice. Social constructionist theories propose that people’s perceptions of social issues are influenced by both personal experiences and secondhand sources, including the people or institutions with which they interact. Sources outside personal experiences make up symbolic reality (Surette 2015). In postmodern society, the media have become a particularly influential source of information (Giddens 1990), especially for crime-related topics (Wright 1985). Most people never knew someone who was murdered, nor have they had direct experience with the criminal justice system; therefore, media images are one of the sources that can influence the way they think about crime and justice. Both fictional and nonfictional representations can influence these perceptions, but the reality of true crime holds more weight than fictional representations (Kooistra, Mahoney, and Westervelt 1998). Ultimately, what they learn about crime and justice from true crime will have a strong impact on their social construction of the crime problem and how the justice system works. Herein lies the problem—consumers of true crime are being exposed to a distorted picture of criminal behavior and justice. As with other depictions of crime in the media, violence, especially murder, is overrepresented in the true-crime genre. For purposes of

True-Crime Obsessions

9

entertainment, it is not even the run-of-the-mill types of homicides that are featured—intrigue, secrets, betrayal, and brutality are the hallmarks of entertaining murder stories. In the end, because the focus is on this type of violence, people’s perceptions of the crime problem are distorted, making them think it is more prevalent than it is. Misconceptions are not limited to the types of crime, but extend to who is likely to commit crime and who is being victimized. For example, there is a cultural fixation with dead and deadly women, not to mention a media obsession with conveying stories of missing white females. These stories are popular within the genre of true crime. Therefore, the types of crimes highlighted may induce a heightened sense of fear. According to Lisa KortButler and Kelley Sittner Hartshorn (2011), watching nonfictional crime programs increases fear of victimization in a way that fictional representations do not. True crime can also affect people’s perceptions of the criminal justice system. Some argue that traditional true crime, which focuses on solved cases, can reassure the audience that the criminal justice system is doing its job (Murley 2008; Buozis 2017). But it has also been found that watching true crime decreases confidence in the criminal justice system’s ability to solve the crime problem (Kort-Butler and Sittner Hartshorn 2011). Megan Boorsma (2017) believes that true crime may have a negative effect on how people view the criminal justice system, but thus far, research is limited. Via stories of exonerations and other miscarriages of justice, some of the newest forms of true crime may leave viewers questioning the ability of the system to achieve justice. Dissecting modern true crime can uncover the types of misconceptions perpetuated in this popular media form and provide a better understanding of how it may be influencing its consumers. Modern true crime can influence more than perceptions—it can potentially affect justice. Whereas most traditional true crime presents a definitive end to the story, newer versions search for alternative endings. Serial and other modern series have resulted in renewed interest in the featured cases and have had real-life legal implications (e.g., arrests and appeals), thereby bringing up questions about the role of this genre in the process of justice. In many of these instances, someone outside the criminal justice system has reinvestigated a case and influenced the course of justice. This aspect of true crime brings up questions regarding investigative tactics as well as the ethics of this type of citizen involvement. Consequently, modern true crime has the potential to give voice to the underrepresented, present a more complete look at the crime problem, and

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Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

teach people about the justice system. yet it can also continue to rely solely on preexisting stereotypes—that sensationalistic murders are commonplace, only white females go missing, and the bad guy is always caught. Here in Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime, I examine modern representations of the genre to understand the role these stories play in modern society, how the genre shapes perceptions, and its potential impact on justice. To accomplish this task, I examine both visual and audio forms of true-crime storytelling, with a focus on those produced in the United States and released in 2014 or later. To capture the main representations in true crime, I focus on the types of crime stories found most commonly in the current expression of the genre (e.g., murder and missing persons), using stories about other types of offenses (e.g., white-collar crime and sexual assault) as examples of the diversity that is developing. My analysis begins with Chapter 2, “The Serial Effect,” which provides a brief history of the genre, considers societal factors that shape the content and format of true crime, and concludes with an examination of Sarah Koenig’s investigation into Hae Min Lee’s murder and Adnan Syed’s conviction in the first season of Serial, as well as an assessment of its impact on justice and the development of true crime. Chapter 3, “Modern True Crime,” begins with an identification of the types of narratives popularized during the most recent wave of true-crime storytelling—episodic programming, deep dives, and media-generated investigations. This classification is followed by an analysis of episodic murder and missing-person stories. A clear majority of the true-crime programming, both televised and on podcasts, presents cases in a concise, fact-driven format. These narratives also have the clearest connection to twentieth-century televised true-crime programming. The repetitive images of murder and missing persons contained within episodic programming provide a foundation for other true-crime representations. After I establish baseline representations via episodic true-crime narratives, I move on to other formats in the following three chapters. This exploration begins in Chapter 4, “Serial Killers and Notorious Murderers.” Like the books popularized in the late twentieth century, these deep-dive narratives provide a detailed examination of a single case. Often focusing more on the offender and the crime than the victim, these narratives seek to provide an understanding of criminal behavior while simultaneously entertaining their audiences with the gruesome details of the crime. Modern true crime’s accessibility, as well as its place in history, has also allowed for different types of murder stories to emerge, which is demonstrated in this chapter. This discussion

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is followed by two chapters analyzing different types of media-generated investigations. Chapter 5, “Missing Persons and Unsolved Murders,” and Chapter 6, “Wrongful-Conviction Narratives,” both examine the details of an actual crime, but with the purpose of solving cold cases, finding missing persons, or proving that a miscarriage of justice has taken place. In some instances, the actions of the investigators become an integral part of the narrative; it is within this aspect of true crime that some of the most interesting and potentially controversial developments of the genre have taken place during the twenty-first century. My examination of modern true crime culminates in Chapter 7, “Fear, Justice, and the Experience of Modern True Crime,” which brings together underlying messages and ethical considerations and, finally, considers the role true crime plays in modern society. Before beginning this deep dive into modern true crime, it is important to note two things. First, the amount of new true-crime material that was released while I was researching this book was insurmountable. I made every attempt to keep up with the genre, but at times it was like trying to outrun a racehorse. The narratives included in this examination are a representation of the genre in its current state, but many more are available. Second, what started as a quest to understand fear and justice in modern true crime also became a personal journey. In some ways, the researcher became the subject. Some of my experiences are incorporated into the chapters, as these demonstrate the potential impact of this genre on individuals who overindulge on tales of murder, missing persons, and miscarriages of justice. I acknowledge that the experiences of one person are not representative of all individuals who engage with true crime, as there are many factors that influence how a text impacts its audience. These anecdotes are used for illustrative purposes and are independent of the analysis of true-crime narratives. Notes 1. The first CrimeCon was held in 2017 with 1,200 people attending, and since then it has more than tripled in size. The 2018 and 2019 events both sold out, with 3,000 and 4,000 attendees, respectively (CrimeCon 2018; CrimeCon 2019a). According to CrimeCon statistics, 82 percent of those who attend CrimeCon are female, the average age is forty, the average household income is $175,000, and the event is a popular venue for girls’ weekends and bachelorette parties (CrimeCon 2019a). Price of admission for the three-day event ranges from $199 to $1,499, depending on how early the attendee purchases tickets and the desired level of interaction and personalization (CrimeCon 2019b).

2 The Serial Effect

her house, goes to school, and by the end of the day has vanished. Weeks later, a man driving through Leakin Park in Baltimore pulls over to go to the bathroom in the woods and stumbles upon a body—it is that of eighteen-year-old Lee. As in many popular crime stories, suspicion is cast on someone close to her, in this case, Adnan Syed, her former boyfriend. Theirs was a story of young, but secretive, love. Both were children of immigrants, one Korean, the other Pakistani. Parental expectations prohibited each from dating, especially outside their own culture. After going to a school dance together, unbeknownst to their parents, they became a couple. Like many stories of young love, it was not long lasting. Lee then met someone new at work. She had only recently started dating him when she was killed, and he has an alibi. The police end up turning their attention to Syed. Their theory—Syed was angry over the breakup. He violated the expectations of his family, his religion, and his culture, stresses that culminated in his strangling Lee. The concluding assertion was that with the help of an acquaintance named Jay Wilds, Syed buried Lee’s body in the park. It was Wilds’s testimony that helped solidify a conviction after an initial mistrial, and Syed was sentenced to life in prison plus thirty years. On the surface, it appears to be a quintessential true-crime story: a girl is killed and her (ex)boyfriend is convicted of murder. Fast forward fourteen years and Lee’s murder and Syed’s conviction reemerge as a different kind of true-crime narrative, focusing on the possibility of a wrongful conviction. This is the story told to millions when the first serialized true-crime podcast, Serial, began airing on October 14, 2014. Its

On an ordinary day in January 1999, Hae Min Lee leaves

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Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime

style and content immediately captured people’s attention and sparked new developments in true-crime storytelling. It marks the birth of the modern era of true crime. A Brief History of True Crime Crime is a social construct. How we define it and what we think causes it changes over time, as well as cross-culturally. True-crime narratives reflect these differences. The specific types of crime featured, the underlying messages, and the form in which they are presented are shaped by culture and technology. These stories take on a specific structure and play a particular role at different points in time, yet popular narratives of the past influence modern ones, thus it is important to begin with a look at how true crime has evolved since its beginning.1 In one form or another, true crime has existed for centuries. Some of the earliest examples can be traced back to the fifteenth century, when the printing press was invented and crime reports emerged (Wiltenburg 2004). Between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, broadsheets, trial pamphlets, and execution sermons were considered early forerunners of modern-day true-crime stories (Biressi 2001; Burger 2016; Murley 2008). In the United States, execution sermons were particularly popular. Directed at the condemned, these sermons were an important part of the morbid entertainment offered to the townsfolk gathered to witness the government-sanctioned killings (Bosco 1978). These cautionary treatises focused on the “spiritual condition of the murderer,” demonstrating the slippery slope between smaller sins and larger transgressions (Murley 2008, 7). Many of these early accounts were laden with Christian rhetoric and demonstrated the inevitability of punishment (Biressi 2001). They reflected the moral and spiritual concerns of the time, which is a common theme throughout the development of the true-crime genre. Although religion became less visible over time, a related theme has stayed popular throughout the history of true crime. Even today, it is very common for these narratives to contain an underlying theme of evil, even when analysts try to explain the behavior through more tangible means, such as psychological diagnoses. As people’s anxieties changed, so too did the content of true-crime narratives; yet one thing remained consistent—a focus on murder. Very early on, nearly every tale featured this offense. As these stories evolved, more details about the perpetrators became commonplace. People wanted to know more about what makes someone take another

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human’s life, and extensive biographical sketches of the perpetrators became an integral part of true-crime storytelling (Murley 2008). Eventually this meant that the narratives lengthened and were forged into new formats, which became popular during the early twentieth century. After World War I, article-length murder stories were plentiful and were often compiled into book-length collections (Murley 2008). Every emerging form of entertainment at that time incorporated true-crime narratives, including magazines (e.g., True Detective), radio (e.g., Gang Busters), and television (e.g., The Court of Last Resort) (Fuhs 2018; Murley 2008; Razlogova 2006). But it is the development of true crime as a literary genre, with book-length coverage of a single case, that is the most significant change during the second half of the twentieth century. Although not the first novel to unveil the details of a single real-life criminal act, Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood (1966) serves as a turning point in the genre’s evolution. According to Yvonne Jewkes and Travis Linnemann (2018, 69), it “marks not only the birth of a genre but a change in the ways in which crime, law, and punishment appear in American popular culture.” The book became a best seller, and two years after publication, the film version was released, starring Robert Blake and Scott Wilson. In Cold Blood details the 1959 murder of four members of the Clutter family in Holcomb, Kansas. Capote’s interest in the case was ignited after reading a news brief on the murder. He became so captivated with the desire to understand this crime that he went to Kansas to gather information about the town, the murder, and the men convicted. He eventually formed a relationship with the killers, which allowed him to explore their lives in an attempt to explain why they committed this heinous crime. Despite its popularity and impact on the genre, In Cold Blood is not without its critics. According to Ian Punnett (2018, 87), this book is “an artistic character study of the killers as victims.” Capote thus presents a story that is meant to garner sympathy for the killers and to highlight the inhumanity of the death penalty (Punnett 2018). The main issue, however, is how much liberty Capote took with the facts. Punnett (2018, 88) concludes: “The contrived scenes, the invented, stylized dialogue, the lack of substantiating notes or documentation, and the extensive revisions limit In Cold Blood to being excellent crime fiction that is ‘based on a true story’ or an elegant, longer form of dime store ‘pulp fiction.’” But perhaps it is the embellishments that made In Cold Blood stand out in a long history of real-life murder stories. Capote filled in the details that were so often missing from its predecessors. Regardless of

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its level of accuracy, the book marks a transition in the genre. The format established by Capote continues to be utilized in the modern era of true crime. In Cold Blood was the first of some seminal true-crime books from that period, including Gerold Frank’s The Boston Strangler (1966) and Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter (1974). Although many credit Capote with changing the genre, Punnett believes that Bugliosi’s work “must get some credit for removing ‘rose colored glasses’ from the private eyes of true crime.” Its detailed examination of the investigation and prosecution, which included crime-scene photos and forensic accounts, “set the bar for all true crime books to follow” (Punnett 2018, 89). The effect of this early literary work was felt during the 1980s and 1990s, a time in which mass-produced true-crime books about domestic murders and serial killers flourished, marking its golden age. During this period, true-crime narratives “acquired a specific set of generic conventions, narrative techniques, and assumptions about audience, which its writers have adhered to, creating a coherent body of texts that narrate real murder and posit a consistent way of understanding it” (Murley 2008, 4). At the start, the author discloses the details of the murder(s), a discussion that is followed by an exploration of the killer’s background and, to a lesser extent, the victims (Murley 2008). Some authors personally corresponded with the perpetrator, allowing them to obtain significant biographical information and to examine their psychological makeup (Murley 2008). After this exploration of the crime and the offender, the focus shifts to justice by first conveying the details of the trial and ending with the imprisonment or execution of the killer(s) (Murley 2008). Over time, these elements became essential parts of nearly every true-crime narrative and are still incorporated today. During the golden age of true-crime books, true-crime television programming began to emerge with shows such as Unsolved Mysteries (Cosgrove and Meurer 1987) and America’s Most Wanted (Linder and Chao 1988). “Unlike magazines, books, or films, true crime on the small screen affords visual intimacy, as murder is literally brought into the home” (Murley 2008, 110). Murley cites Unsolved Mysteries as the first true-crime docuseries. This program consistently aired from 1987 to 1997 and has been revived several times. Originally narrated by Robert Stack, this show is known for investigating a variety of mysteries, including unsolved crimes. Reenactments were used to present the details of each case in hopes that those watching could help solve the mystery. A similar type of audience-involved show, America’s Most Wanted,

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began its twenty-five-season run the following year, focusing only on criminal cases. Inspired by the BBC’s Crimewatch and hosted by John Walsh, whose own son was abducted and murdered, this series introduced viewers to criminals on the run, using reenactments to present the details of their crimes. Both shows helped shape modern truecrime narratives and have themselves been revived during the current evolution of the genre. The Hunt with John Walsh 2 aired on CNN between 2014 and 2017, and in 2019, Netflix announced that it would be releasing new episodes of Unsolved Mysteries (Netflix 2019). Like the fixation with serial and domestic murders found in true-crime books, the focus of these TV programs was on specific types of criminal behavior, thereby ignoring more typical accounts. According to Murley (2008), sexual predators, home-invasion killers, killer con men, and domestic violence–related killings were overemphasized. Ultimately, these narratives presented murder as a white middle-class problem and ignored “the more ‘mundane’ reality that young, urban African American and Hispanic men kill and are killed in much greater numbers” (Murley 2008, 121). Although true crime has been developing for centuries, these changes during the late twentieth century were some of the most significant. True crime is shaped by societal factors; thus, it is beneficial to consider the context in which these changes took place. The late 1960s not only ushered in a new literary form of true crime, it was also a time of rising crime rates, especially violent crimes. Simultaneously, the nation became more conservative, and for the first time, crime became one of the main societal concerns. As rising crime rates, the media, and politicians contributed to a culture of fear, the public demanded that authority figures do something about the problem. Politicians, who did not want to appear “soft on crime,” responded by endorsing changes to the criminal justice system centered on a war on drugs and get-tough punishments. By the end of the twentieth century, unprecedented rates of incarceration became the hallmark of the American justice system. Simultaneously, technological advances, such as instantaneous satellite imagery, handheld video cameras, and surveillance equipment converged with the expansion of cable television (in number of programming hours and number of stations) to forever change the face of entertainment (Kooistra and Mahoney 1999; Surette and Otto 2002). This type of imagery fed the desires of an increasingly voyeuristic audience (Stark 1997; Surette 1995) and sparked the evolution of reality-based television programming. It is within this context that mass-produced true-crime books entered their golden age and crime-related infotainment emerged, which

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presents an interesting paradox. Violence was taking place at unprecedented rates and people were frightened; yet many were indulging in leisure-time activities revolving around the very thing with which they were concerned. If true-crime narratives contributed to their already heightened fears of senseless violence, why would people choose to read about the very thing that was causing anxiety? Murley (2008) offers two possible reasons. First, these narratives provided detailed background information on the offenders, often delving into the psychology of crime. By offering readers explanations that were sound and plausible, these stories could help them understand why these crimes were being committed. Second, these narratives were structured in a way that may have offset some of their fears. True-crime books focus on solved cases, thereby offering reassurance that even though violence is taking place, the system is effectively responding to the problem. While people were indulging in true-crime books and TV shows, unbeknownst to many, the tide was beginning to turn. The shift began in the mid-1990s, when national crime rates started to decrease, and by the end of the century, the crime drop was in full swing (Blumstein and Wallman 2000). It took some time for people to realize the changing nature of crime in the United States, but events such as the mass shooting at Columbine High School in 1999 and the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, ignited other anxieties. People became focused on gun control and homeland security. True-crime books and TV programs continued to be popular throughout the early part of the twenty-first century, but other forms of entertainment came to the forefront. True crime did not disappear but blended into the larger media landscape filled with crime dramas and reality television shows of all types. Crime, Justice, and the Media in the Twenty-First Century Since the turn of the century, there have been changes to crime, justice, and the media that have shaped the current state of true-crime storytelling. Although there have been some fluctuations in crime rates in the period from 2000 to 2020, they remain low, at levels not seen since the 1960s. However, people are still concerned about crime, though the focus is no longer solely on crime control via get-tough policies. Questions of justice and equality have become common. Changes to sentencing, prisons, and the death penalty in many states suggest a different climate. Get-tough rhetoric is being replaced with a discourse of

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reform (Cecil 2019). Public opinion polls further demonstrate this change, with 91 percent supporting criminal justice reform (ACLU 2017). The 2013 acquittal of George Zimmerman in the shooting death of unarmed Trayvon Martin led to the creation of #blacklivesmatter, and that was followed by the 2014 deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner at the hands of the police, inciting a fight for justice and equality. We now live in a world marked by hashtag movements, many of which speak to a desire to change our justice system and the way we respond to crime. People are also becoming more aware that in the nation’s quest to get tough on crime, innocent people have been punished. Since 1989, more than 2,000 people in the United States have been exonerated (National Registry of Exonerations n.d.-d), demonstrating that our justice system is fallible. Not only are crime-related issues different in the twenty-first century, so too are the media sources people turn to for information and entertainment. Recent advances in the true-crime genre coincide with the development and popularity of podcasting and subscription streaming services. Simultaneously, social media outlets expanded and cable television had to respond to a quickly changing media landscape. One of the most influential developments was the creation of podcasting, the seeds of which were planted in 2003 when a blogger began using audio (Berry 2015; Goldberg 2017). A year later, Ben Hemmersley, a journalist with the Guardian, coined the term podcast to describe “independent audio content on the Internet” (Berry 2015, 172). This form of entertainment started becoming more common in 2005, when Apple changed iTunes to allow users to download podcasts (Berry 2015). Now people can listen to these programs anywhere, at any time via several different platforms. Technological advances have also contributed to a growing number of podcast creators (Berry 2015). The equipment needed to record a podcast is easily accessible and can be affordable, opening the field to both professionals and amateurs. Edison Research (2017) classifies podcasting as “a growth medium,” with nearly 25 percent of Americans reporting listening to one podcast during the previous month and 15 percent listening to podcasts weekly. Perusing a podcast platform, one can find programs on an endless array of topics, including self-help, language, horror, news, and popular culture. True-crime stories have also been embraced by podcast creators. In a preliminary examination of true-crime podcasts produced in the United States before September 2017, I identified 131 different programs. These podcasts recap old crimes; talk about serial killers, missing persons, and cold cases; and reinvestigate closed cases to determine

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whether there has been a miscarriage of justice. These programs currently make up a significant portion of true-crime storytelling in the twenty-first century, but it is only since 2016 that this growth has occurred. Before 2015, there were only fifteen programs released, eight of which first aired in 2014. Fourteen podcasts emerged in 2015, followed by forty-four in 2016, and fifty-eight from January 1, 2017, to September 1, 2017 (Cecil 2017). As of 2020, a countless number of true-crime podcasts have emerged from all over the world, with new ones appearing monthly. Although enough people listen to podcasts to make that one of the primary mediums through which true-crime narratives are told, the number of people who listen to podcasts pales in comparison to other popular mediums featuring these stories. Edison Research (2017) found that 58 percent of Americans over the age of twelve have access to ondemand video subscription services and approximately 48 percent have reported using their service within the previous week. The leader of the streaming revolution is Netflix, which, according to Cory Barker and Myc Wiatrowski (2017, 2), has “fundamentally altered the ways in which we watch, discuss, and generally consume media.” Launched in 1997 as a mail service offering DVD purchases and rentals, Netflix evolved and added a subscription-only service for streaming video entertainment (McDonald and Smith-Rowsey 2016). During the first quarter of 2018, Netflix had 125 million subscribers worldwide (Fiegerman 2018). Much of the material streamed over the years was previously developed content, but Netflix now finances original programming, including documentary films and docuseries. According to Sudeep Sharma (2016), Netflix’s influence has changed documentary filmmaking. Viewer access to feature-length documentary films has traditionally been limited, but Netflix made it a core part of its lineup, allowing people ease of access. Sharma’s (2016) comments were made specifically in regard to documentary films, not series, but he did allow that the popularity of HBO’s The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst and NPR’s Serial would likely change the format of Netflix’s documentary offerings. Even as those words were being written, Netflix released Making a Murderer, a ten-episode docuseries, and quickly established itself as a source of in-depth true-crime stories. According to Josh Modell (2018, 2), since the debut of Making a Murderer, “Netflix has made the format a cornerstone of its original programming—bulding up a library that now includes critical and popular successes such as The Keepers and Wild Wild Country.” And Netflix has influenced others to do so as well. Barker and Wiatrowski (2017, 2) comment that “much of

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what Amazon or Hulu or even HBO has done in recent years has been in response to Netflix’s embrace of original and exclusive content.” Thus, an increasing number of true-crime narratives have appeared via other streaming services as well. Network and cable stations have also responded. Oxygen, which was previously known for airing reality programs, has become the newest network for true crime (Boboltz 2017). Although not their first dive into the genre, as Snapped has aired reenactments of the exploits of murderous women for more than twenty years, executives state that their newest offerings all focus on justice (Boboltz 2017). Other cable and network stations have also jumped on the true-crime bandwagon by airing docuseries and even dramatic reenactments of infamous cases (e.g., FX’s The People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story). Finally, even though 33 million people in the United States have “cut the cord,” meaning that they have canceled cable or satellite television services (Spangler 2018), they still have access to these programs. For example, fans of shows aired on Investigation Discovery can subscribe to a special streaming channel via Amazon Prime Video or rent the specific programs that they want to watch for a small fee. Podcasting and streaming services have changed not only how entertainment is delivered but also how people consume and interact with it. Access is now seemingly endless. With smartphones, tablets, laptops, and other electronic devices at our disposal, we can decide not only what we want to consume but also when, where, and how much. The current media culture and availability of true-crime narratives mean that people can binge on true crime all day, if that is what they desire. Ultimately, it has the potential to be one of the most influential sources of crime information for its die-hard fans. It is within this context that the retelling of the story of Hae Min Lee’s murder and Adnan Syed’s conviction emerges and helps reignite interest in true crime. Serial and the Changing Face of True Crime The modern-day equivalent of Capote’s In Cold Blood is Serial, a podcast created by Sarah Koenig, a contributor to NPR’s This American Life. Its popularity and influence has helped spark a transformation of the genre. Like Capote’s novel, this podcast presents a murder story, a portrayal that would not have been possible without the creator forming a bond with the person convicted of the crime, but the result is a very different type of true-crime narrative.

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During the first season of Serial,3 Koenig spent one year “trying to figure out where a high school kid was for an hour after school in 1999,” or more specifically, twenty-one minutes on the day his exgirlfriend was murdered (“The Alibi” 2014). This quest culminated in an immensely popular twelve-episode podcast investigating the case of Adnan Syed, who was convicted and sentenced to life in prison for the 1999 murder of Hae Min Lee. Using interviews, case files, and audio recordings of both police interviews and courtroom testimony, Koenig dissects the evidence used to convict Syed. During its first six months, Serial was downloaded 77.6 million times (O’Connell 2015) and has been called “the greatest podcast ever made” (Richman 2014). According to Stella Bruzzi (2016), “Serial’s effectiveness was that it married seriousness of investigative intent with Koenig’s engaging and intimate style; as listeners, we became involved in the events and how we felt about the evidence was genuinely important” (272). Throughout the series, Koenig engages listeners both intellectually and emotionally (Berry 2015). For podcasting in general, and the genre of true crime more specifically, Serial is considered by many to be a game changer. Not the Same Old Murder Story

Traditionally, true crime has been dominated by murder stories that depict a female victim and a known culprit, often her intimate partner, who has been caught or killed. The narratives attempt to dissect the social and psychological background of the killer, reenact the crime, and demonstrate the normalcy of violence (Murley 2008). This type of narrative often leaves true-crime fans feeling as if they have a deeper understanding of why a person commits this type of crime while being reassured that our system of justice is effective (Murley 2008). Serial adopts certain aspects from traditional true-crime storytelling while simultaneously flipping the script and creating a new subgenre. In the opening episode, “The Alibi” (2014), Koenig introduces listeners to Syed, gives an overview of the case, and discusses how she became involved. While at first it appears that she is setting out to tell the same old murder story, the stage is quickly set for something different. By the end of the episode, listeners are left questioning whether Syed’s defense attorney, Cristina Gutierrez, neglected to follow up with Asia McClain, an alibi witness whose testimony could have cleared Syed. Koenig sets out to locate and talk to McClain, but by the time she does, Syed’s motion for a new trial has been denied. The requisite ten-

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sion is established, and thus begins the journey into the lives of Adnan Syed and Hae Min Lee, her death, his trial, and the emergence of questions about whether justice has been achieved. As in traditional true-crime storytelling, listeners learn the background story of Lee, Syed, and their relationship. The details of the crime, investigation, and the trial are unveiled. Perhaps taking a page from popular true-crime narratives that focus on the psychological makeup of the killer, Koenig even considers whether Syed is a sociopath or a psychopath, or whether some other psychological issue can help explain the crime and his ability to hide the truth (“Rumors” 2014). If one were to consider only these elements, Serial would appear to be a typical true-crime story; however, upon closer inspection, the underlying intentions and techniques are very different, thereby making it unique in many ways. To begin with, the primary question underlying Serial’s narrative is whether justice has been served. Traditional true-crime stories do not seek to answer this question. They tell the story of what happened, but they do not question the ending. In Serial, however, Koenig tries to determine whether there has “been one victim or two” (Punnett 2018, 91). In doing so, she did not set out to prove Syed’s innocence; rather, Koenig questions the process and whether the evidence supports his conviction. The state’s case was primarily based on the testimony of one witness and cell phone records; no forensic evidence was tested, despite having been taken at the scene; and alibi witnesses were ignored. Koenig, who admits in the first episode that she is “not a detective, a private investigator, or even a crime reporter,” dives deep into the evidence with the help of Syed and others (“The Alibi” 2014). By looking at the evidence with this purpose, Serial does not reassure the audience that the system is effective and fair, but rather it brings up the possibility that the system is faulty—that innocent people can be convicted of crimes they did not commit, or at the very least, their due-process rights can be violated. By the end of the season, progress seems to be made, but many questions remain. It is the epitome of a cliff-hanger. Given the intention of the inquiry, Koenig, as a creator, becomes an integral part of the story. All types of true crime are shaped by the person crafting the narrative, but this influence is masked by words on a page or behind a camera lens. In Serial, Koenig establishes a personal connection with listeners via her narration. As Punnett (2018, 91) observes, “Koenig is fair, but her voice is never neutral.” Influenced by her journalistic background, Koenig provides a comprehensive overview of both sides of the story. After several episodes,

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she asks listeners whether the evidence is reliable and states: “Over the past few weeks, I’ve been holding up evidence here and there that looks bad for Adnan. Today, I’m just going to lay out the rest. Everything else that a person could reasonably add to the ‘Adnan is guilty’ side of the scale” (“The Case Against Adnan Syed” 2014). Although Koenig does not directly tell her listeners what to think, on occasion, she lets them in on her thoughts regarding the evidence she is examining. For example, in “The Case Against Adnan Syed” (2014), she states: “I see many problems with the state’s case. But then, I see many problems with Adnan’s story, too. And so I start to doubt him, I talk to him and talk to him, and I start to doubt my doubts. And then I worry that I’m a sucker that I do not know. That’s the cycle.” As the story comes to a close, listeners witness Koenig struggling with the facts and clearly wanting a definitive answer that she knows she will not attain. In the beginning of the final episode, Koenig tells them: “In case you haven’t noticed, my thoughts about Adnan’s case, about who is lying and why, have not been fixed over the course of this story” (“What We Know” 2014). And she does not hide her final opinion: “As a juror, I vote to acquit Adnan Syed. . . . Even if in my heart of hearts, I think Adnan killed Hae, I still have to acquit. That’s what the law requires of jurors. But I’m not a juror, so just as a human being walking down the street next week, what do I think? If you ask me to swear that Adnan Syed is innocent, I couldn’t do it. I nurse doubt . . . I mean most of the time, I think he didn’t do it” (“What We Know” 2014). Despite her not wanting to sway the thoughts of those listening to the podcast, it is likely that by voicing her opinions directly to the audience, she may have had more influence than intended. Given her background and investment in seeking justice, Koenig is probably seen by most listeners as a reliable narrator, thus making them more likely to take her side. Another unique aspect of Serial is the role that Syed plays in the creation of this narrative. The sources creators use shape the story that unfolds. Early in the history of true crime, people became interested in the offender, and the criminal’s biography became an essential part of the narrative. The authors gathered information on them but often had to rely on court and police records to fill in the details (Buozis 2017). In the end, the version presented is driven by the institutional sources, not by the offender. If Koenig had relied only on sources of this sort, we would not be questioning Syed’s conviction; rather, we would hear a story of secret love, cultural betrayal, and a teenage boy killing his ex-girlfriend. But that is not the story Koenig set out to tell. Given that Koenig inves-

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tigates whether there has been a wrongful conviction in Lee’s murder, typical institutional sources are limiting; therefore, she positions Syed as a co-investigator (Buozis 2017). It is his voice that is heard in every episode, which begins: “This is a Global Tel Link prepaid call from Adnan Syed, an inmate at a Maryland correctional facility.” This audio introduction not only shapes the narrative but also shapes how listeners view this man who is serving life in prison. Through his words, they get to know who he is (or at least what he is willing to share with the world), although this does not make him entirely comfortable. Syed does not want the world judging his case based on what people think of him. He states, “To be honest with you . . . I feel like I want to shoot myself if I hear someone else say, ‘I don’t think he did it cause you’re a nice guy, Adnan’ . . . I would love to hear someone say, ‘I don’t think you did it, because I looked at the case and it looks kind of flimsy’” (“The Case Against Adnan Syed” 2014). Despite Syed’s wishes, hearing directly from him personalizes the story and humanizes a man serving a life sentence for murder. Most often, media representations of prisoners serve to “other” and “demonize” them (Mason 2006). It is easy to not care about whether the system is just if the people are deserving of punishment in some way. Those who listen to Serial get to know Syed through his voice; normalcy is established through his stories, emotions, and doubts. By the end, they have even learned how this national attention has affected him. In “Rumors,” Koenig states: “I could tell that my story messed with his equilibrium . . . I come along, at Rabia [Chaudry]’s behest, not his, and yank this door wide open again to the outside world and all of its doubts about Adnan’s integrity, stirring up the most painful possible questions about whether he’s a monster.”4 But would a “monster” react this way? Or does he have everyone fooled? These are questions that Koenig asks during the series. All told, Koenig’s approach to the story of Lee’s murder and Syed’s conviction is a unique addition to the genre of true crime. Listeners travel with her on this journey to determine whether justice was achieved. Ultimately, Serial changed the way some people view true crime and ignited a renewed interest in the genre. The Impact of Serial

The impact of Serial can be divided into two categories: its influence on the course of justice in Syed’s case and its impact on true-crime storytelling. Given that this podcast brought a seemingly resolved case to the

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public to determine whether this was a just conviction, it opened the possibility of a different ending. In fact, it has had real-life implications and has influenced the course of justice. While Koenig was telling Syed’s story, many others were working on his appeals and seemed to be making progress. In March 2018, the Maryland Court of Special Appeals vacated his conviction and ordered a new trial. The court stated that Syed did not receive effective counsel due largely to his defense attorney’s failure to find alibi witness Asia McClain (Stack 2018). According to C. Justin Brown, Syed’s post-conviction attorney, they were unable to locate McClain prior to Serial. “He [Brown] said the podcast has been ‘enormously helpful in pursuing justice for his client’” (Stack 2018, 9). One year later, however, this decision was overturned by the Maryland Court of Appeals (Fortin 2019); therefore, the story continues. Serial is not the first true-crime narrative to spark interest in a seemingly resolved case and to be cited as influential in the eventual outcome. Errol Morris’s 1988 documentary, The Thin Blue Line, led to the acquittal of a death row inmate (Bruzzi 2016). In addition, documentary filmmakers Joe Berlinger and Barry Sinofsky set out to tell a story about teenage Satanists who killed three boys in West Memphis, Arkansas, but ended up with the Paradise Lost trilogy (Grow 2016). The first film convinced people that these boys were wrongfully convicted of this crime, and the other two films follow their quest for justice (Grow 2016). Without the filmmakers’ descending on the small town to tell the story of this crime, these men might still be in prison. Serial was, however, the first of its kind in this modern era of true crime. Podcasting allowed Koenig freedom in storytelling. She was not limited by the same constraints as documentary filmmakers. Its serialized nature allowed the story to unfold as the investigation was taking place, even without a definitive ending. The first season of Serial may still be a narrative without a definitive ending, but its impact extends beyond the case it covered. It has played a significant role in the development of true-crime storytelling. Serial’s coverage of Syed’s case resulted in the story being told by other true-crime creators. The popularity of Serial led to what Richard Berry (2015) refers to as “meta podcasts,” which are shows about Serial. Rabia Chaudry, whose request set Koenig on her journey, began her own podcast, Undisclosed (Chaudry, Miller, and Simpson 2015). Chaudry and her co-hosts continued to explore the evidence in seventeen original episodes that aired in 2015. The podcast has since taken on other cases and legal issues, but subsequent episodes have been released as new legal developments in Syed’s case have appeared. Finally, in

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2018, HBO announced that it was producing a documentary series following up on Serial (Lynch 2018). Producers promised that it would provide “‘new discoveries, as well as groundbreaking revelations that challenge the state’s case’” (Lynch 2018, 4). This four-part series, The Case Against Adnan Syed, aired in March 2019 (Berg 2019). It allows viewers to learn more about Hae Min Lee and the impact of her death on her family and friends; however, the primary focus remains the case against Syed and his fight for freedom. Whatever the ending of this story, it will likely have a place in popular culture via modern truecrime storytelling. Koenig’s work has also influenced others to tell their own truecrime stories. Both professionals and amateurs have since created their own podcasts, often citing Serial as an influential factor. Similar types of true-crime narratives have been developed into televised docuseries (e.g., Making a Murderer). Some have embraced old narratives, using modern media technology to share these stories, whereas others have taken advantage of these new sources on the quest to achieve justice. Considerations for Modern True Crime The popularity and real-life implications of Serial bring up several questions that will be considered throughout other chapters of this book. Writing for the Washington Post, Robert Gebelhoff (2016, 4) asks, “Is it problematic to let popular forces of the Internet tear apart cases more than a decade after convictions are settled in the courtroom?” Witch hunts can spread like wildfire on the internet, and even journalistic attempts are crafted into a plot. Koenig enlisted the help of many professionals in her investigation, and the results have thus far withstood jurisprudence. But is this same care taken in other modern true-crime narratives that seek to question justice or solve cold cases? We should also consider the implications for others who chose not to become involved in Serial. “Even while advocating for a reconsideration of Syed’s conviction, Koenig never abandons victim Hae Min Lee’s need for justice” (Punnett 2018, 91). Yet absent from Serial’s and most other true-crime coverage of the case is Lee’s family. They declined to be a part of Serial, but it is still affecting them. Whether they wanted it or not, the world is talking about the death of their daughter, and many are supporting the man they believe killed her. It was not until 2016 when Syed’s lawyer filed a motion for a new trial that Lee’s family made a public statement. As quoted in the New York Times, the family stated:

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“‘The events of this past week have reopened wounds few can imagine,’ the family said in a statement released by the office of the Maryland attorney general. ‘It remains hard to see so many run to defend someone who committed a horrible crime, who destroyed our family, who refuses to accept responsibility, when so few are willing to speak up for Hae’” (Southall 2016, 3). Serial and other sources are forcing the family to face the crime once again. But is there room for the voices of the victims in modern true crime? There is no question that Serial has had a major impact on the current state of true-crime storytelling—it was the first of its kind, presented in a new format, and it captured the attention of many worldwide. But other popular narratives appeared soon thereafter. Making a Murderer (Ricciardi and Demos 2015) and The Jinx (Jarecki 2015), both visual docuseries, have been cited by many as being as influential as Serial in the renewed popularity and development of the genre. These are just a few of the popular programs that are explored in this quest to understand modern true crime, its content, meaning, and implications. Notes 1. This section provides a brief overview of the historical development of the genre. For detailed histories, refer to the work of Anita Biressi (2001) and Jean Murley (2008). 2. CrimeCon 2018 featured a panel titled “Callahan Walsh: Behind the Scenes of America’s Most Wanted and CNN/HLN’s The Hunt with John Walsh.” This panel covered the disappearance and murder of Callahan Walsh’s brother, Adam, which went unsolved for twenty-seven years; his role with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children; and the two programs hosted by John Walsh, Callahan’s father. 3. Two additional seasons aired in 2016 and 2018. The second season follows the case of US Army Private First Class Bowe Bergdahl. Instead of following a single case in the third season, the creators spent a year in a courthouse, which allowed them to craft, yet again, a very different type of narrative. 4. Rabia Chaudry is a lawyer, and her brother, Saad, was Syed’s best friend in high school. She approached Koenig to look at the case after reading a newspaper article Koenig had previously written on Syed’s defense attorney. Chaudry provided Koenig with all the initial files used in the investigation.

3 Modern True Crime

the blindfold over my eyes encloses me in darkness. Sounds of the Florida Everglades serve as background noise. I hear, “The execution site must be carefully arranged for a speedy execution once the victim has arrived. There will be two sawhorses with a two-by-four between them. A noose is attached to the overhanging limb of a tree. Another rope to pull away the two-by-four, preferably by car.”1 These words echoing in my ears are those of a killer. Waves of anxiety fill my body, even though I am surrounded by dozens of others and we are safe, sitting in an air-conditioned room. We have chosen to attend Kimberlie Massnick’s sensory experience at CrimeCon 2018; in doing so, we have deliberately stepped into the shoes of seventeen-year-old Susan Place and sixteen-year-old Georgia Jessup, victims of Gerard John Schaefer, a sheriff’s deputy, convicted murderer, and suspected serial killer. According to the description in the event’s program, “hopefully, the Sensory Experience session is as close as you’ll ever get to understanding how the victims of a brutal murder may feel.” We learn about Schaefer’s life and crimes and, within a controlled environment, experience some of the initial terror his victims must have felt, minus the reality of an impending death. This event offers a unique way to experience a murder story, but it draws on elements popularized in traditional true-crime narratives. It feeds on people’s fascination with murderers, especially serial killers, and on their desire to understand this type of brutality. Uniquely, it asked us to pretend to be victims, and many were willing to do so.

My bound wrists are raised uncomfortably over my head,

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Most fans of the genre do not attend a true-crime event such as this one; instead, they connect to these stories via technology. They stream videos on their tablets, computers, and phones, or for those who have not cut the cable cord, they watch it on their televisions. Others listen to true-crime stories by playing podcasts while carrying on with their routine activities. Regardless of which way they choose to indulge in true crime, they have myriad choices. Within this sea of modern true crime, there is much variety—diverse types of stories, told from different points of view, with varying levels of expertise and underlying intentions. Modern true-crime stories appear in three main formats. Most visual and audio true-crime narratives are episodic. Episodic programs provide the details of several crimes over the course of a season, with most cases crafted to fit within a single episode. Most often, the producers of these programs dial in on a single crime type, usually featuring murders or missing persons. On occasion, especially in podcasting, there is divergence from this formula. For example, Crime Junkie covers murders, mysterious deaths, and missing persons, whereas the sometimes controversial Sword and Scale not only contains various types of murder, but also deals in sex crimes, mobsters, and heists. There are also programs that focus on other types of crimes, such as the podcast Swindled, which is an examination of “white-collar criminals, con artists, and corporate evil” (Swindled Podcast n.d.). Episodic programs are carryovers from the early developments of true-crime TV programming. Although they do not offer a unique take on crime storytelling, episodic programs such as these are influential in shaping people’s understanding of crime and justice. These are the images that become ingrained in the mind after sufficient repetition. Furthermore, the structure and trends established in these shows shape the other narratives that have become popular during the newest wave of true crime. Within this current evolution of the genre, other creators seem to have been influenced by the depth offered by books, documentaries, and investigative journalism, which shapes the narratives they create. The two remaining categories are not quick to tell the details of many crimes, concentrating instead on a single case, exposing each aspect over the course of many episodes and, on occasion, multiple seasons. The first type is the deep-dive narrative, which focuses on a single, typically solved, case. Most often featuring serial killers and notorious murderers, these programs attempt to dissect the most minute details of the perpetrator’s background, the crime, and the course of justice. The second type of longerform true-crime narrative is the media-generated investigation. These programs feature cases that are unsolved or whose endings are question-

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able. Rather than simply restating the facts of the case in the hope of jogging someone’s memory, the creators (or someone they are following) insert themselves into the story line by conducting their own investigation. These investigative actions are recorded and packaged as entertainment. Although some of these are done in an episodic fashion (e.g., Cold Justice), most unfold over multiple episodes (e.g., Serial) like deep-dive narratives. Both deep-dive and media-generated investigations have unique messages and implications, which will be addressed in subsequent chapters. The following section addresses episodic programming, the primary source of true-crime entertainment. Jealousy, Lust, and Greed: Episodic Murder Stories Media representations of crime are guided by the law of opposites—the least common crimes and offenders are the ones most often depicted (Surette 2015). Regardless of which type of media one examines, violence, especially murder, is at the core of its representation of crime. In reality, murder constitutes just over 1 percent of the crimes reported (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2017), yet we fixate on it and other acts of violence. The genre of true crime is no different. According to Jean Murley (2008, 44), “from its inception and formation as a distinct genre, true-crime literature has created a non-fiction American landscape of paranoia, random violent crime and roaming serial killers, of mortal threats to women and children from sociopathic husbands, serial rapists, and predatory child-killers.” Present-day narratives are influenced by those of the past; thus, it is not surprising that murder tales abound even in this modern era of true crime, and most are episodic in nature. An Enduring Classic: Dateline

Televised murder narratives are not new; however, in the recent development of the genre, there has been an expansion in the number of programs featuring this crime. Although many of these are newer developments, others are enduring classics, such as NBC’s Dateline. During the 1990s, newsmagazines became a popular form of television programming (Fox, Van Sickel, and Steiger 2007). Dateline is one such show that made its debut in 1992. Almost three decades later, it remains one of that channel’s most well-known and popular programs. Although not originally intended to be a representation of true crime, Dateline has evolved into something nearly indistinguishable from other

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narratives within the genre. When this newsmagazine program began airing, its correspondents, all journalists, covered a variety of issues, but just as in traditional journalism, “if it bleeds, it leads” proved to be profitable. Well before Investigation Discovery and Oxygen’s domination of televised murder programming, Dateline became the show to turn to for reallife murder mysteries. Despite a slightly different format consisting of a host and correspondents reporting on the stories, its representation of murder is indicative of more recent developments. Therefore, this section begins with an analysis of murder on Dateline over the course of a year. Fifty-four episodes of Dateline aired between September 2017 and September 2018, 80 percent of which presented a crime-related story. In these episodes, Lester Holt and the program’s correspondents introduce the audience to a crime and eventually, with the help of those involved with the case, unveil the who, what, when, where, and, if possible, why. Even though the featured crimes are already solved, the narrative is still full of twists and turns. Unless they are already familiar with the case, viewers are kept guessing until the end of the episode. An example of this format is “The Women and Dirty John” (2018), which covered a case popularized on the podcast Dirty John. It is a story of deception, violence, and death. The episode begins with a 911 call reporting a woman being stabbed. Viewers are likely to assume that it is her death that is the focus of the story. Stepping back in time, the episode presents the story of Debra, who is falling in love with John, a man she met online. He says he is a doctor, but her daughters, Terra and Jacqueline, do not believe him. As the audience learns more about the relationship and the suspicious things John does, the narrative is designed to steer them into thinking that he killed Jacqueline. Only Terra and Debra appear on camera, and when they talk about Jacqueline, it is in the past tense. Those who have not listened to the podcast are most likely shocked to find out that Terra is the woman who was being stabbed in the parking lot, but it is John who is dead. While he attacked Terra, stabbing her multiple times, she grabbed the knife and stabbed him in the eye. This killing was sensationalistic—the would-be killer becomes the victim. Although unique in many respects, this episode represents the sort of cases covered on Dateline. This self-defense killing is just one of thirty-six actual or suspected murders covered during that year of the program. After looking at these episodes, it becomes clear that Dateline primarily produces stories about white people killing one another for reasons of love, jealousy, or money. Even more specifically, these narratives are often centered on the murder of a woman. Of the thirty-five other featured killings, a woman was the

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victim (or one of the victims) in twenty-six of the cases, and twenty-two of these women were white. These are stories of women being killed by the men they love or have loved—husbands, boyfriends, and exes—or by others they know, including friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. In these episodes, Dateline uses narratives straight out of fictional representations of murder. There is a “femme fatale” who used her attractiveness to convince her shooting instructor to kill her husband (“The Night of the New Moon” 2018). Another episode features a pregnant woman living with her pastor and his wife, who disappears after the birth of her child. It is later revealed that she was a sister wife of the pastor, and he is the one who killed her (“Secrets on the Emerald Coast” 2018). The death of Diane McIver, whose husband, Tex, shot her from the backseat of an SUV while driving home one night, is featured in “Deadly Detour.” Was it an accident as he claimed, or did he kill her for money? The jury decided it was the latter (“Deadly Detour” 2018). There are also love triangles and murders for hire. These are not your run-of-the-mill murders. If it weren’t for the participation of those involved in the production of these episodes, one might think many of these are fictional depictions of people killing one another. These seemingly unbelievable cases create the types of stories that have helped Dateline remain popular for so long (see Box 3.1).

Box 3.1 The Dateline Obsession

Even after nearly thirty years on the air, Dateline remains a popular venue for true-crime storytelling. Based on viewership, this program finished the 2017–2018 broadcast year as the number-one newsmagazine, with an average of approximately 5 million viewers (Katz 2017). But even more are watching classic episodes since Dateline went into syndication in 2017 (Katz 2017). The popularity of Dateline transcends people simply watching the program. They are obsessed with it; they interact with it. Alice Bolin (2018) writes about her fascination with Dateline in her book Dead Girls: Essays on Surviving an American Obsession. She admits to obsessively watching the show on YouTube whenever she could pick up her neighbor’s Wi-Fi signal, “particularly those episodes hosted by Keith Morrison, a rakish, ghoulish Canadian journalist with a luxurious mane of white hair, who seems to take macabre pleasure in the stories of people continues

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Box 3.1 Continued

killing their spouses for insurance money, killing their lovers’ spouses, pushing their business partners off boats, or bludgeoning strangers while on meth benders” (Bolin 2018, 124). Bolin is not the only one drawn to Morrison and the other correspondents. As witnessed at CrimeCon 2018, attendees posed for selfies with Morrison and the others. In a scene reminiscent of a famous rock group taking the stage, the audience screamed and clapped when they were announced during the opening of their panel, “Dateline 26 Years: Don’t Watch Alone,” followed by a standing ovation at the end. These magnetic hosts are only part of their winning formula. It is their mixture of storytelling along with the cases they highlight that sustains the attention of the next generation of viewers. CrimeCon attendees learned firsthand what types of crimes make the best material for Dateline. The murder is not the key: it is the people and underlying story—especially if there are secrets. In particular, murders in small American towns provide interesting story lines, which is likely due to many thinking of these towns as quaint and safe; add the fact that most people are likely to know one another (or at least of one another) and you have the basis of an intriguing story. In the end, the more twists and turns that can be interjected into the narrative, the better, as linear stories do not keep viewers guessing. Despite its focus on extraordinary murders, Dateline has garnered a reputation for quality storytelling. All of the correspondents were local reporters before using their skills to report on murder for this program. At CrimeCon, they revealed that they do it for the victims. They feel that telling the stories is cathartic. And, when asked whether they ever feel sympathy for the killers—there is a unanimous response: “No.”

True-Crime Murder Series

During the twenty-first century, a variety of real-life murder shows have appeared on cable television and via streaming services. A significant number of these programs air on Investigation Discovery and Oxygen, including Someone You Thought You Knew, Evil Lives Here, American Monster, Fatal Vows, The Perfect Murder, Dying to Belong, Deadly Power, A Wedding and a Murder, Homicide for the Holidays, and many more. Most of the other televised murder series are not structured the

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same as Dateline, but they depict identical murder stories. In the end, the titles of these programs are different, but the stories are the same. Unlike Dateline, these shows do not have hosts or correspondents, although some use a narrator to connect the pieces. The story is told from the view of those involved with the case, most providing a victimcentric narrative.2 Family and friends of the victims, the detectives, prosecutors, and experts who worked the case contribute to the story. As it is being told from their point of view, the footage switches between the on-camera confessionals and other imagery. It is common to establish who the victim and offenders are through personal images and videos. When such sources are available, these programs use actual footage of interviews, interrogations, surveillance, and the trial, as well as news coverage of the case. Many of these series also rely on reenactments to depict the visuals of the crime and significant events leading up to the murder. These scenes are often blurry or dark, suggesting that they are giving an accurate representation of the people and events. The content of the story has also become formulaic. Viewers are given information about the victim before unveiling the details of his or her death. The rest of the narrative follows the steps of the investigators. Each major suspect is described, the evidence is discussed, and the killer is revealed. Like Dateline, they often steer viewers into thinking someone else did it before unveiling the true culprit. We Only Murder the Ones We Love

Televised programs such as these present a limited picture of murder. As seen throughout much of the history of true crime, there is an overwhelming emphasis on ultimate violations of trust—someone the victim knows and perhaps even loves is responsible for their untimely death. From the beginning, many murder stories focused on people who kill the ones they love, whether it is a seemingly doting mother who kills her child or an adoring husband who murders his wife. People have always been intrigued by stories like this. These tales are legendary, with some of them retold through the centuries, as with the Bible telling us of Cain murdering Abel. Stories of this sort became incorporated into true crime as early as the sixteenth century (Wiltenburg 2004). Karen Halttunen (1998) in Murder Most Foul: The Killer and the American Gothic Imagination traces the main origins of familial murder tales to the nineteenth century, a time when the modern family was developing. She writes, “The domestic-Gothic tales of murder quite literally brought the horror and the mystery home, showing readers that sometimes the moral monster

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was not an alien creature of the wicked world outside, but an intimate companion at the family fireside” (Halttunen 1998, 136). During this time in the nineteenth century, family life became more private, and the events leading up to murder were hidden, thereby making it interesting material for readers (Halttunen 1998). Centuries later, domestic murders continued to be at the heart of both true-crime books and reality television shows (Durham, Elrod, and Kinkade 1995; Murley 2008). This trend continues today with several programs devoted exclusively to murders of this sort. For example, Someone You Thought You Knew “tells the stories of murders that were orchestrated by a master manipulator, scheming right under everyone’s noses. These wolves in sheep’s clothing use deception as a weapon to try to get away with murder. The victims are killed by the people they loved, trusted, and thought they knew . . . but they didn’t know them at all” (Investigation Discovery n.d.). In this and other shows, husbands kill wives, wives kill husbands, children kill their parents, and friends kill one another. The primary motives for their crimes are simple. Rather than exploring the killer’s psyche or other underlying factors, greed, jealousy, and love are presented as the main reasons people kill. Wives kill husbands for insurance money, and disgruntled employees kill over monetary disputes. A woman seeks revenge against her ex-boyfriend by poisoning his mother and framing him. A love triangle proves deadly. These types of murder stories are told time and time again; they provide the kind of intrigue needed to draw in viewers. Dead and Deadly Women

Another observation that can be made from watching televised murder narratives is that there is a misrepresentation of both offenders and victims. Murder is a predominantly male crime. According to the homicide data collected by the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) (2016), almost 80 percent of known victims are male, as are almost 90 percent of offenders. Furthermore, more than half of known victims and offenders are black. Yet true-crime stories tend to present stories of whites killing and being killed, and they overemphasize women as both victims and offenders. For example, seven of the ten death-row murderers featured on I Am a Killer (Adams and Tipping 2018) were white, when 58 percent of those on death row are nonwhite (Death Penalty Information Center 2019). In A Wedding and a Murder (Rubenstein 2018), eight of the ten victims were white, each killed by someone of their own race. In addition, one-half of the victims were female, as were one-third of the

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killers. In each of these cases, whites and women are predominantly featured, a pattern that is repeated in most episodic murder programs popular in the current wave of true crime offerings. Women who kill are of particular fascination in the world of televised murder stories. Programs such as Snapped and Deadly Women focus exclusively on them, and other programs overrepresent their frequency. Snapped (Diaz-Grant 2004) is one of the longest-running truecrime programs on cable television. This show began airing a decade before the most recent wave of true-crime storytelling, and it remains a popular program even given more choices available. At the end of 2018, it aired its twenty-fourth season. Although some special episodes have diverged from featuring female offenders (e.g., Snapped: Notorious: The BTK Serial Killer), the program is best known for depicting tales of women who “snap” and kill someone. New episodes airing in 2018 presented viewers with mostly white women killing or arranging to have someone murdered, especially their current or former significant others. It repeats the basic plot of stories told about women who kill on other programs. Overall, episodic stories use a standardized formula to entertain viewers with the brutality of murder. The same types of cases are repeated over and over. According to cultivation theorists, repetitious imagery and messages are the most impactful (Morgan, Shanahan, and Signorielli 2008). In terms of murder, these episodic programs can contribute to the belief that these specific types of murder are the most common and that killing is rooted in individual responsibility (e.g., greed, lust, and jealousy) rather than influenced by underlying causes (e.g., abuse and environment). Stay Sexy, Don’t Get Murdered: My Favorite Murder and Other Podcasts

Whereas these visual murder stories have become formulaic, podcasting has embraced a variety of storytelling techniques to convey tales of murder to its audience. Family and friends are not usually involved with the creation of the podcasts featuring their loved one’s murder, but neither are investigators. Instead, the creators rely on secondhand sources (e.g., news stories and true-crime books).3 The internet allows them to access a wealth of information in an efficient manner. Once they have gathered enough information on a specific case, they use it to tell the story. Since there are not any reenactments or interviews, podcasters must rely on their ability to build an intriguing narrative. Examples of

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this type of programming include Strictly Homicide, Southern Fried True Crime, Killafornia Dreaming, and numerous others. Many of these are regional programs that attempt to bring lesser-known murder stories to the masses. Given that podcasters, especially independent creators, have more leeway, others have put twists on their storytelling. Some of these murder tales use comedy and personal stories; others feature the hosts drinking their favorite beer, wine, or cocktail as they relay the gory tales of people killing one another. Murder Road Trip, All Killa No Filla, Small Town Murder, Wine and Crime, Martinis and Murder, True Crime Brewery, and My Favorite Murder are just a few examples of this sort of podcast. My Favorite Murder has carved out a unique niche in true-crime storytelling, along with a cult-like following, and provides a good example of the changing nature of episodic murder stories. My Favorite Murder debuted in 2016 and is one of the top twentyfive downloaded podcasts on iTunes of all time (Hill 2018). Hosted by Karen Kilgariff, a comedian and TV writer, and Georgia Hardstark, a writer and host for the Cooking Channel, My Favorite Murder is a combination of personal and murder stories with a comedic twist and an underlying goal of empowering listeners to take charge of their own well-being. More than 180 full episodes have been released, including those taped on various stops along their live tours. In city after city, “murderinos”4 flock to the theater to catch a glimpse of the hosts talking about their favorite murders. In each episode, Kilgariff and Hardstark discuss personal issues before taking turns narrating a murder story of their choice. For example, “Made of Crystals” (2018) begins with Kilgariff and Hardstark talking about writing a book based on their podcast, as well as their attempts to take yoga classes. This lengthy introduction is followed by Hardstark unveiling the details of the Gainesville Ripper, Danny Rolling, who killed five female University of Florida students over the course of four days in 1990. Kilgariff then tells the story of the Lady of the Dunes, a woman whose body was found in 1974 at Race Point Dunes in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Despite exhuming her body several times for testing, her identity remains unknown. Like many other murder podcasts, the hosts rely on secondary sources to gather the details of the murders they share with their fans. They provide the facts of the case while interjecting personal opinions and reactions. As each detail of the murders and the subsequent reactions are exposed, the hosts find ways to relate it to other life experiences. For example, while Hardstark relates the details of the Gainesville Ripper case, she talks about the phone lines being jammed and parents not being able

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to get in touch with their children, at which point she comments: “This is why I don’t want kids. Just the thought of your kid being there and how fucking terrifying that would be . . . I just couldn’t handle it.” Kilgariff, on the other hand, finds herself wondering why they just did not leave campus and go home. And, after reporting that many students spent the night in big groups for protection, the hosts go on a tangent discussing how much fun it is to unexpectedly stay overnight with a group of friends. Although the hosts have done enough research to tell an entertaining story, listeners should not expect complete accuracy. The hosts have stated that “they refuse to feel beholden to every fact, exact date, or pronunciation” (Fitzpatrick 2017, par. 8). For example, when discussing the Gainesville Ripper case, Hardstark refers to Florida State University instead of the University of Florida (“Made of Crystals” 2018). Although this is perhaps a trivial detail, it demonstrates that entertainment and comedic interjections supersede factuality. As occurs in other murder narratives, the hosts of My Favorite Murder tend to focus on specific types of cases. An examination of ten random episodes of the podcast5 featuring twenty-one different cases revealed that half were tales of serial killers, mass shooters, and spree killers. In the other cases, most of the victims were white and female, with the offenders being white and male. Thus, even in a nonvisual form of storytelling, there is still a tendency to focus on violence by and against white people and to paint women and girls as the most likely to be victimized. In the case of My Favorite Murder, however, there appears to be a specific reason for selecting cases involving female victims. Fans of the show are familiar with the acronym SSDGM, which stands for Stay Sexy, Don’t Get Murdered. According to Molly Fitzpatrick (2017, 12), this tagline “crystalizes the podcasts’ overall emphasis on vigilance and self-defense.” The hosts attempt to empower listeners by providing survival and self-care tips (Fitzpatrick 2017; Marks 2017). And with their motto “fuck politeness,” listeners are “encouraged in no uncertain terms to fight back, protect themselves, and take control—and that it’s not their fault if they can’t” (Fitzpatrick 2017, par. 16). Thus, the cases they feature must fit their overall message. Other episodic murder podcasts are vehicles for the hosts to enact their love of true crime before a larger audience, along with their love of beer, wine, or whatever unique twist they can put on their show to draw in listeners. In many ways, podcasting offers diversity in episodic murder stories. Not all fit the same exact mold; however, at their core they are, in fact, not that different from murders presented on television.

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Standard Elements in Murder Narratives

Episodic murder narratives abound in the modern era of true crime. There are countless renditions of televised series and podcasts; titles and gimmicks may differ, but at their core, they are the same. They borrow elements from traditional murder stories—details of the crime are revealed and the background of the offender and the victim explored. Some take more time to understand the murderer, whereas those in which loved ones are involved are victim-centric. Murder is presented as an issue mainly for whites, and women are presented as being in danger as well as a threat. In the end, Hollywood-like narratives form the basis for true-crime fans’ understanding of murder. And, just as in the fictional representations, the crime is solved and the bad guy is caught. Consequently, these narratives feed fears and offer reassurance of justice being achieved. In reality, not all murder cases are solved. These cases have been incorporated into modern true crime as well. Unsolved Mysteries was an influential development in early true crime, but one cannot talk about cold-case narratives without acknowledging A&E’s Cold Case Files (Fleury 1999). This program exposed viewers to cold cases that were eventually solved. Born out of a previous series, Investigative Reports, five seasons of Cold Case Files aired between 1999 and 2006. Presumably due to the renewed interest in true-crime programming, it was revamped for a sixth season in 2017, along with the introduction of a podcast version. Bill Kurtis is the host of the televised series, and Brooke Gittings takes on this role for the podcast. Some podcast episodes use the audio from the classic series to form the narrative, though some others present new cases. Overall, although both formats of this program offer a twist on true-crime storytelling by featuring solved cold cases, the cases chosen are repetitive of other episodic crime series. Other shows on cold cases focus on those in which they are still searching for answers, such as TNT/Oxygen’s Cold Justice. Although episodic in nature, this show takes on the unique qualities of media-generated investigations; therefore, it will be addressed when looking at those narratives. Someone Knows Something: Episodic Missing-Person Programs

Unsolved Mysteries laid the groundwork for the proliferation of missingperson narratives in the modern era of true crime. Although not as common as programs about murder, both televised series and podcasts have

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embraced tales of people who have vanished without a trace. Most missing-person narratives are based on the premise of sharing information with the hope of triggering new leads. Despite these good intentions, these shows are still crafted to draw in audience members and keep them entertained. Televised Missing-Person Stories: Disappeared

The number of programs on television and streaming services about missing persons pales in comparison to those about murder, and many of them have been short-lived. For example, The First 48: Missing Persons (Schneiger and Sherman 2011) aired for only two seasons, with Last Seen Alive (McIntosh and Vanderwal 2014) and Gone (McCarthy 2017) each ending after one. Disappeared is the longest-running televised program focusing on missing persons. It began airing in 2009, several years before Serial sparked the newest true-crime craze. Structured much like the previously discussed murder programming, this approach uses interviews, video footage, photographs, and reenactments to craft each episode. For the family and friends involved, this program provides a platform for keeping the story alive, in hopes that one day they will find their loved one(s). Looking at one season of Disappeared provides insight into the types of missing-person cases popularized via modern true crime. Over the course of its ninth season, which aired in 2018, thirteen missingperson cases were covered. Similar to murder programming, there is an overemphasis on cases involving whites and females. Over 60 percent of the missing persons featured on the program were women or girls; yet males account for half of those who are reported missing. Similarly, 77 percent of the missing depicted were white, compared to approximately 61 percent of those who are reported missing (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018). Disappeared presents tales of people “vanishing into thin air” while engaged in routine activities. For example, Amy Bradley disappeared while on a cruise with her family (“Troubled Waters” 2018); Stephanie Crane was walking home from the bowling alley (“Into the Mist” 2018); Holly Cantrell left work for her lunch break (“In Broad Daylight” 2018); and Michael VanZandt was out with friends and went to find a bathroom (“Just out of Sight” 2018). In this type of case, there are no witnesses and very few, if any, clues that can be used to find them. Throughout the narratives, family members and investigators reveal all the leads and evidence used (or not used) in the attempt to find the

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missing person. Some cases are initially treated as purposeful disappearances, for example, with troubled teens running away, adults deciding to start new lives, and potential suicides never heard from again. In cases like this, law enforcement does not become actively involved. This often elicits questions from those closest to the missing person about whether the police took the case seriously. In the story’s attempt to make sense of these disappearances, different factors are explored. For example, in “Breaking Away” (2018), investigators question whether a mental illness might explain why Martin Roberts disappeared from a bus stop while away at college. A factor considered in the episodes where women went missing was human trafficking, presented in the cases of Amy Bradley (“Troubled Waters” 2018), Tyarra Williams (“The Vanishing Hour” 2018), and Ali Lowitzer (“Close to Home” 2018). Disappeared demonstrates the emotional roller coaster ride families experience when a loved one goes missing. The audience witnesses their initial frustration at the way law enforcement handles their cases. Hopes are raised when there is a “stunning new lead” (“Into the Mist” 2018), a “significant development” (“Just out of Sight” 2018), or an “intriguing clue” (“Last Stop” 2018) revealed; yet these revelations are proven to be inconclusive, misleading, and sometimes false. Each episode of Disappeared ends with a family member affirming that someone knows something; therefore, they are certain that one day they will find out what happened. Unlike similarly produced murder narratives, this type of program gives these families a platform and has the potential to stir up additional information, but only if the right person is watching. Most missing-person narratives follow a format similar to Disappeared, but there are some variations. For example, Last Seen Alive (McIntosh and Vanderwal 2014) follows private investigators helping families locate their missing person, and Gone (McCarthy 2017) features cases in which the person has been located. The short runs of both programs—one season each—suggest that diverging from the traditional format is not profitable to the creators; the real draw is in the mystery surrounding unsolved cases. Missing-Person Podcasts: The Vanished

Podcasts have also become a venue for missing-person stories. Some of these programs rely solely on secondhand information to recap the circumstances surrounding the person’s disappearance, and the hosts insert their opinions about the case (e.g., Southern Gone). Others enlist family

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members, friends, and law-enforcement officers who worked the case to tell their story, much like the televised series minus reenactments. The Vanished, which made its debut in 2016, is one of these podcasts. It is hosted by Marissa Jones, a former paralegal whose interest in missing persons began early in life when she heard stories about her great-grandfather’s disappearance in 1928 (WhatPods 2018). What began as a hobby, with the aim of telling missing-person stories that had not garnered much attention, is now her full-time job. According to Jones, her cases come directly from the families or missing-person organizations reaching out to her (WhatPods 2018). It can take her months to research the case before airing the episode, as it takes time to schedule interviews, file Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests, and get the information needed to offer comprehensive coverage of the case. Listening to, instead of watching, a missing-person story means that visual recognition of the person is not possible; therefore, to be truly helpful the podcaster must build a strong internet presence. The Vanished does this via the podcast’s website and presence on social media. Listeners can easily find photos of the missing, updates on the cases, and a list of those they should contact with information. During 2017, The Vanished aired forty-seven episodes, containing forty-two cases with fifty missing persons. As with the cases depicted on Disappeared, The Vanished overrepresents missing whites, though it does present a more accurate depiction of gender, with approximately half the episodes examined featuring males who have disappeared.6 I dug a little deeper into the format used and the cases featured on this podcast, randomly selecting ten episodes for analysis. Two featured cases involving parental abduction, which made the narrative differ slightly from the rest. In the presentation of such cases, the listener learns who took the children, but the family members are still unable to locate their loved ones. In both cases, the mother is the abductor, and it is suspected that their families helped them disappear. Other than that, these two cases could not be more different. After the abduction of William Jones-Gouchenour was aired, authorities located him (“Madeline Jones and William Jones-Gouchenour” 2017). In contrast, Louis Zaharias’s two children were abducted in 1987, and he is still searching for them (“Christopher and Lisa Mae Zaharias” 2017). The other cases examined are similar to those seen on Disappeared. People vanish while doing seemingly normal things. For example, Desmond Moore left home to meet friends at a restaurant (“Desmond Moore” 2017); Chip Campbell was last seen leaving a convenience store (“Chip Campbell” 2017); Daniel O’berg disappeared after leaving

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a grocery store (“Daniel O’berg” 2017); and Devin Bond and Billy Oliveira were last seen at their homes (“Devin Bond” 2017; “Billy Oliveira” 2017). Frustration with law enforcement is a common theme in these stories. Desmond Moore’s mother, Delaina, had to investigate his disappearance on her own, citing police corruption as the reason the main suspects have not been questioned (“Desmond Moore” 2017). Billy Oliveira suffered from mental health and drug issues, so when he went missing from his hometown on Maui, his disappearance was brushed off by law enforcement and ignored by the media. The family had to contact a private search-and-rescue organization to help (“Billy Oliveira” 2017). Dakota Lee Stump’s parents, whose son disappeared from Fort Hood, Texas, ran into roadblocks from both the military police and local law enforcement. Their case is unique in that Dakota’s body was found. The military attributed his death to a car accident, but according to the family, there are many unanswered questions and oddities that make them think the military police are covering up what really happened to their son (“Dakota Lee Stump” 2017). Within the context of the stories told on The Vanished, there are lessons about “worthy” versus “unworthy” victims. On the one hand, worthy victims are typically young children who have presumably been abducted by a stranger. On the other hand, unworthy victims are those whose disappearance is immediately cast as purposeful or indirectly caused by the actions of the person who went missing. Listeners learn that reputation has a lot to do with this classification by authorities. For example, when Chip Campbell went missing, the sheriff concluded that because he was a known methamphetamine user, disappearing is just something users do. Similarly, rumored drug use by Daniel O’berg affected how the police responded to his disappearance. In another case, Morgan Bauer moved across the country to live with people she met through Craigslist. When they kicked her out, she became a stripper, disappearing one night after going home with another dancer and her boyfriend (“Morgan Bauer” 2017). This and other rumors surrounding her disappearance have resulted in local law enforcement neglecting the case. In this type of case, the families fight to have anyone help find their missing loved ones. The Vanished, like Disappeared, provides them with a venue to plead for help in locating them. Standard Elements in Missing-Person Narratives

Whereas the essential elements of murder narratives were established during previous waves of the genre, missing-person narratives were not

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as popular as they are today. Although the seeds were planted by Unsolved Mysteries and other early programs, the essential elements have been solidified in the modern era. Programs such as Disappeared and The Vanished seek to provide information to their audience in hopes that someone will come forward and the whereabouts of the missing person will finally be known. In line with this goal, standard elements have been established within the narratives. In some form or another, missing-person narratives, such as those described above, include four basic parts to the story. The first element of a missing-person narrative is the missing person. Family members and any involved friends provide biographical information to give the audience a glimpse of who the missing person was; the amount of detail provided depends on the length of the narrative. On television, these descriptions are illustrated with photographs and family videos that highlight the best characteristics and favorite memories of that person, painting a positive picture and establishing the narrative as victim-centric. This technique not only provides context but also establishes an emotional connection between the audience and the missing person. The second element of the narrative is the disappearance. Family members and perhaps friends describe the events leading up to the realization that the person has gone missing. Overwhelmingly, these are described as “normal” days. Those being interviewed outline the hours since they last saw or spoke to the individual. Maybe the person left for school or work, or went to visit a friend, or did something else routine. The involved parties describe how they came to the realization that the person was missing and what they initially did to find them. At this point, they are not thinking that they might never see their loved one again, so they checked with others who knew the person, including friends, family, and co-workers; some drove around their neighborhood, checking their normal spots. Sometimes it takes hours to realize that something is not right; other times it takes days. For example, it took fourteen-year-old Ashley Summers’s family several days to realize she was missing, as they assumed that she was staying at a relative’s house (“Edge of Fourteen” 2018). Once the searchers have failed in their initial attempts to locate their missing loved one, they report the disappearance to the police. Their experience of reporting it to the authorities is the third element contained within typical missing-person narratives. The concerned family members describe what happened when they reported it to the police. If the missing person is a child, the police will often file the report and

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respond as soon as possible; however, in some cases the assumption is made that the person ran away, especially in the case of girls. Even when the family tries to convince the authorities otherwise, law enforcement is slow to respond once this thought is being considered. This type of reaction is common when adults go missing, because they are free to “walk away” from their lives. When possible, the narrative includes testimony from those who worked the case or to whom the disappearance was reported. They explain their involvement or lack thereof. The final element in most missing-person narratives is the search. Whether law enforcement is involved in the search or not, the family and friends of the missing person describe the search efforts and who became involved (e.g., volunteers from the community, search dogs, and law-enforcement agencies). They recap any major tips they have received since the disappearance, highlight mistakes that may have been made during the first couple of days that the person went missing, and disclose any other new information that has been obtained. It is at this point that the narrative may begin to question certain behaviors of the missing (e.g., substance use and dating habits) in an attempt to explain where the person might have gone and why. Since most missing-person narratives feature unresolved cases, the story ends with the most recent efforts related to the case and a plea for someone to come forward and help the searchers locate their loved ones. Overall, the purpose of this type of true-crime program is to locate those who are missing; therefore, it is victim-centric. It focuses on the victims and their lives as a way to inform the public. Involvement by law enforcement and attention from the media is, at times, critiqued. Regular consumers of missing-person narratives can become well versed in potential challenges faced by those who have had a loved one vanish into thin air. Lessons Learned from Episodic True-Crime Stories The foundation of today’s true-crime movement is provided by episodic programming. When you tune in to your favorite cable station, streaming service, or podcasting platform, you are likely to hear programs that follow this format; therefore, they have the potential to provide powerful messages in today’s binge-watching culture. Whether presenting tales of murder or the events leading up to mysterious disappearances, the repetitive nature of this imagery cultivates a limited view of crime, victimization, and justice while simultaneously providing fodder for fear.

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Although they represent real criminal events, the types of episodic true-crime programs discussed perpetuate several beliefs. The first is related to the frequency and causes of violence. Viewers of episodic true-crime programming are continually exposed to a loop of one violent act after another, especially murder. Carrying on a long-held tradition, these modern murder stories demonstrate time and time again that those closest to us are the most dangerous. Despite the fact that the frequency of murder is overemphasized, the victim-offender relationships presented on these programs are a reflection of reality. Between 1980 and 2016, 687,564 homicides were reported to the FBI, with an identified relationship between the victim and offender in approximately 59 percent of the instances. Among these cases, 57 percent were killed by an acquaintance, 22 percent by a stranger, and 21 percent by a family member (Puzzanchera, Chamberlin, and Kang 2018). Stranger killings are not completely ignored in episodic true crime; however, they are not as likely to be included unless the program focuses on serial killers. The narratives presented on these programs tell people that murder is primarily committed out of lust, greed, or jealousy, while other causal factors are ignored or underplayed. For example, women are presented as vengeful and deadly and do not present more tangent risk factors, or if they do, they are often dismissed. Research has demonstrated that a major factor related to women’s involvement with criminal behavior is abuse (Salisbury and van Voorhis 2009; Brennan et al. 2012; DeHart 2018). In some cases, it is sustained domestic violence that contributes to a woman killing her abuser, which is referred to as a reactive killing (Liem and Koenraadt 2018). Although these programs present many cases of women killing their significant others, the relationship between abuse and these types of intimate homicides is not adequately addressed. For example, during the twenty-third season of Snapped, five episodes contained stories of women killing their intimate partners and though abuse is mentioned, the conclusion reached in the episodes points to other causal factors. Take the case of Wanda Stanley, whose husband, John, was found dead on the floor of his SUV from a gunshot wound to the back of the head. Wanda had reported him missing five days before his body was found (“Wanda Stanley” 2018). Was it a robbery? A drug deal gone bad? Frequent viewers of this program are probably quick to assume it was Wanda who shot him. And in fact, she did plead guilty while the jury in her trial was deliberating. Researching the case, one finds reference to years of sustained abuse. “Stanley Alleges 19-Year Abusive Relationship”

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is the title of a newspaper article reporting on her trial (Rackley 2012). Wanda testified that her husband was trying to rape her the night she killed him in self-defense. Police and hospital records provided documentation of a history of abuse. This information is presented in the Snapped episode, setting up the possibility of selfdefense related to continued abuse. However, the narrative quickly changes. Evidence demonstrated that Wanda shot her husband from outside his vehicle, which is not consistent with self-defense. The motive? Money. This same pattern is seen in the other episodes containing discussions of abuse. Although there is some evidence of abuse in the case of the death of Curtis Bailey, Denise Frei’s commonlaw husband, it is revealed that she had previously made an attempt to kill him (“Denise Frei” 2018). Sonia Mitchell was having an affair (“Sonia Mitchell” 2018). Melissa Napier stated that her husband was physically and sexually abusing their daughter; however, the night of his death he found out she was hiding money problems from him. She later involved her daughter in the crime by asking her to give him a hug; with his back turned, she shot him (“Melissa Napier” 2018). Lastly, Ashley Schutt described abuse at the hands of her husband, whom she eventually admitted to killing. But there is speculation that she was the abusive one and that she committed the crime out of boredom and a desire for a new life (“Ashley Schutt” 2018). Only in Sonia Mitchell’s case is leniency granted to her during the sentencing stage based on her testimony of the abuse, thereby potentially legitimizing this as a cause of her behavior. Overall, though, individual responsibility (e.g., greed and jealousy) is highlighted, while more complicated causal factors are ignored. Focusing on the most obvious and potentially entertaining causes of violence is likely a result of the nature of this type of programming. While providing twists and turns, the story must still be concise and easy to wrap up within the time allotted for each episode. The second lesson running throughout episodic programming on murder and missing persons is the whiteness of crime and victimization. In real life, blacks represent one-half of those who have been murdered and over one-third of those who are reported missing (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2016; Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018). They are overrepresented as victims of these crimes, yet their stories are rarely told in true-crime programming. Instead, viewers are inundated with tales of white murders and white missing persons, a trend that will be explored throughout this book. The race of the victim has been found to be one of the “most important elements in the pres-

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entation of crime stories” (Dowler, Fleming, and Muzzatti 2006, 840). To find episodic crime stories about minorities, one must tune into TVOne, a cable station launched in 2004 aimed a reaching a “diverse audience of adult black viewers” (TVOne 2016). This channel’s executives have cultivated several episodic true-crime programs, including ATL Homicide, Fatal Attraction, and Find Our Missing. A third lesson provided by this type of true-crime programming is related to gender. Most homicide victims and offenders are male, as are half of those who are reported missing (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2016; Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018), yet episodic truecrime programs are obsessed with the victimization and disappearance of women, as well as deadly women. Most episodic programming overrepresents women and girls as offenders, victims, and the missing. In this respect, this genre is no different from other media representations. From missing white-girl syndrome, which will be examined in Chapter 5, to our cultural obsession with dead women, which Alice Bolin (2018) writes about in Dead Girls: Essays on Surviving an American Obsession, we are inundated with imagery presenting women in peril, as well as female outlaws. The fourth lesson found in episodic true-crime programming centers on the effectiveness of the justice system. The exact message, however, varies by type of programming. The episodic murder stories feature solved cases. Someone who only watched these programs might be left with the impression that the police are extremely effective crime fighters. In fact, about one-third of all homicide cases go unsolved (Braga and Dusseault 2018). Those cases without definitive endings are not incorporated into most of the murder programming included in this chapter; instead, they make up a separate type of true-crime narrative. This separation may influence people’s judgment on the solvability of homicide cases. Missing-person narratives, by contrast, most often focus on the cases in which the whereabouts of the person remain unknown and often contain criticisms of law enforcement. In this way, these narratives question the effectiveness of the justice system. The patterns and themes presented in shows such as Dateline, My Favorite Murderer, Disappeared, The Vanished, and copious others form a basis for how fans of the genre view crime, victimization, and justice, but they are only a part of the picture. The deep-dives and media-generated investigations examined in the subsequent chapters are likely to repeat similar messages, thereby continuing to reinforce similar beliefs about who commits crime and why, who is victimized, and whether the justice system is helping create a safer society.

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Notes 1. These may not be the exact words that were read at the event. Just as in truecrime offerings, the author has filled in the information after the fact. These are, however, actual words written by the killer. 2. Whereas most follow this formula, I Am a Killer (Adams and Tipping 2018) is an example of one that focuses on the offender. Over the course of ten episodes, viewers are exposed to ten different murderers, all sitting on death row. They tell their version of the events. In a review of the program, Chris Osterndorf (2018, par. 2) concludes that although different, this approach really does not offer anything new and rarely “dives below surface level.” 3. There are many programs that rely on the use of secondary stories to form their narratives. Although many podcasters cite their sources in the story or list them on the page for each episode, others do not. In 2019, the popular podcast Crime Junkie was called out by a journalist and the podcast community, including fans, for using plagiarized material. To make matters worse, the hosts removed the questionable episodes without explanation once they were called out for their actions (McNeal 2019). It is likely that this problem is pervasive and not limited to Crime Junkie. It just so happens that Crime Junkie is very popular, with more than 100,000 reviews and an unknown number of patrons on Patreon, which exposed the show to extra scrutiny. 4. Fans of My Favorite Murder have become known as “murderinos.” They host Meetup groups, organize pub crawls, interact on social media, and create arts and crafts based on the podcast. 5. Unlike televised series that are constrained by a limited amount of time over the course of a season, as well as slower production times, podcasts are not limited to number or length of episodes or lengthy production schedules. The result is that a single podcast can air significantly more episodes in a season than a standard television series. When analyzing podcasts containing a large number of episodes, randomly selected episodes were utilized in lieu of an entire season. 6. At the True Crime Podcast Festival in Chicago, I had the opportunity to ask Jones about the cases she features and why she thinks she does not get many requests to cover cases involving missing minorities. According to Jones, her audience is more than 90 percent white and more than 90 percent female. Given that people learn about her podcast via word of mouth, she thinks they are passing it along to people like themselves, but she still strives to tell diverse stories.

4 Serial Killers and Notorious Murderers

plagued by a rash of serial home invasions, rapes, and murders. The media reported on these crimes using various nicknames to connect the dots between the offenses—the Visalia Ransacker, the East Area Rapist, and the Original Night Stalker—not once suspecting that they were describing a single offender. Decades later, DNA technology connected the crimes and a new moniker was born—the Golden State Killer (GSK). Michelle McNamara coined this nickname in her book, I’ll Be Gone in the Dark: One Women’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer (2018), one of the latest in a long history of true-crime books featuring serial killers. These murderers are simultaneously our worst nightmare and a source of morbid fascination. People collect serialkiller memorabilia, wear clothing depicting their faces and names, and consume copious numbers of stories about these murderers. Ultimately, they seek to understand why, and in the case of the GSK, the mystery extended to who the person might be. McNamara’s book and Headline New’s (HLN) five-part series Unmasking a Killer (Carmona 2018) presented theories in the hope of providing answers to both questions. The story of the Golden State Killer was presented at CrimeCon in both 2017 and 2018. I attended one of the two GSK panels at the 2018 event. I sat in a large ballroom surrounded by people eagerly awaiting the start of “Golden State Killer: A Deep Dive.” The moderators, Paul Haynes and Billy Jensen, took the stage to a deafening round of applause. Haynes and Jensen were part of the team that helped finish McNamara’s book when she unexpectedly passed away, but the story

During the 1970s and 1980s, several California cities were

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had changed since its publication. For this panel, the hosts originally planned to explore GSK’s crimes and theories about his identity, but on April 24, 2018, less than one week before we gathered in this room to hear more about this serial killer, seventy-two-year-old Joseph James DeAngelo was arrested. What was going to be a typical serial-killer narrative was transformed by this significant development in the case— instead of fear and frustration, it was marked by relief and justice-related discussions. The hosts commented that true crime is often about “supervillains,” but there are also “superheroes.” The hero presented was Paul Holes, who worked the case for many years and had become the face of the investigation in modern true crime. A slide with a single word, CAUGHT, flashed on the screen as Holes took to the stage. He shared his experiences with the audience, walking everyone through the process of using familial DNA to identify possible suspects, the surveillance needed to get a discarded sample from DeAngelo, and finally the arrest. He was joined by survivors of GSK’s crimes, who, for the first time in decades, could express gratitude and relief instead of fear and frustration. It was a unique true-crime moment to witness. Stories like that of the Golden State Killer are sometimes captured in episodic true-crime programming, but people crave specifics unavailable from these short-form stories. Deep-dive narratives enable the creators to explore the details of a single case over several episodes. Although there are many different types of crimes covered in these explorations, murder continues to be the dominant theme, but not every kind of murder story is considered worthy of extended coverage. During this current wave of true-crime storytelling, serial-killer stories have jumped off the pages of the mass-produced books popularized in the 1980s and 1990s and are being presented via podcasts and docuseries. But these are not the only sort of deep-dive murder stories being produced. Notorious-murder cases, especially those that received extensive media coverage at the time of their occurrence, are being replayed in modern true crime. Although serial-killer narratives and notorious murder stories are in many ways different, both offer voyueristic and retrospective examinations of murder. The Most Prolific Killers of All Time: Serial-Killer Narratives Before the identity of the elusive serial killer was discovered, Unmasking a Killer (Carmona 2018) provided a deep dive into what was called the

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“most prolific serial killer in California history” (“Launching a Manhunt for the Golden State Killer” 2018). He was responsible for at least twelve murders between 1979 and 1986. Over the course of five episodes, viewers learn about his crimes, the investigations, and the various theories about his identity. Given that the case being presented was unsolved, the content is slightly different from the typical serial-killer narrative. Today’s criminal justice system has changed significantly since these crimes occurred; therefore, this context becomes an integral part of the narrative. From the development of 911 to rape kits, viewers learn a lot about the history of law enforcement and its handling of this kind of case. The details help viewers comprehend the difficulties of investigating crimes like these during that era. Even without knowing who committed these crimes, the profilers featured in Unmasking a Killer try to determine why he committed the crimes and his background characteristics. Mary Ellen O’Toole, a former profiler, states that “to understand the Golden State Killer, you have to go back to his beginnings” (“Inside the Killer’s Mind” 2018). Because they do not know who he is, the analysis is mostly conjecture based on previous experience, research, and evidence from the case. They discuss lack of family bonding, the possibility of an overprotective or dominating mother, or that he could have learned some of his paraphilic behavior from a parent (“Inside the Killer’s Mind” 2018). The narrative also covers many of the speculations made throughout the case. For example, based on specific pieces of evidence, the profilers theorize that the perpetrator may have been in the military or worked in law enforcement or in the medical field. Unmasking a Killer was a series without a definitive ending; however, the month it finished airing, DeAngelo was arrested. As theorized in the series, he was, at the time of some of his crimes, a police officer. Once he was in custody, the narrative changed. Shortly thereafter, new truecrime programs emerged trying to fill in the specifics about DeAngelo’s life and crimes, including the docuseries The Golden State Killer: It’s Not Over (Guidry-White 2018) and the podcast Man in the Window (St. John 2019). Modern true crime allows for the narrative to change course as soon as new events occur in the case. A story about a once-unknown killer can quickly be transformed into an exploration of the person once he or she has been identified. Serial Killers in Traditional True Crime

The story of the Golden State Killer is just one in a long line of serialkiller stories that have fascinated people for more than a century. Since

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the infamous Jack the Ripper made headlines in nineteenth-century London, there has been interest in what eventually became known as the serial killer. People are simultaneously horrified and fascinated by these murderers, and their stories have come to hold a prominent place in the history of true crime (Schmid 2005). Although this type of offender was featured in fictional and nonfictional media through much of the twentieth century, serial killers did not become a prominent feature of American popular culture until the latter part of the century. The growth in serial-killer stories coincided with the expansion of mass-produced truecrime books. David Schmid (2005) argues that in the 1980s, changes in the media helped transform serial killers into celebrities, eventually contributing to media-perpetuated myths about them. These stories were told in an “attempt to give face to the faceless predator criminal” (15). After a while, these killers were no longer faceless. Through their popularization, people became familiar with the stories of Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Aileen Wuornos, Gary Ridgway, and many others. They read about their childhoods and crimes, saw pictures of them at various points in their lives, and were given insight into the potential underlying issues that may explain their murderous ways. True-crime books and other representations of serial killers quickly established a formulaic narrative, one that is also incorporated into modern stories. The upshot is that one should fear and be on the alert for seemingly normal people who are actually extremely dangerous (Murley 2008). In contrast to the brutality of their crimes, they are presented— on the surface—as seemingly normal human beings. Serial killers are people you pass on the street, perhaps a coworker or even someone to whom you are related, but unbeknownst to you, there is something deadly lurking beneath the surface. This striking contrast is an integral part of these narratives. Serial-killer stories seek to provide an understanding of the origins of this behavior. To do so, they start at the beginning by examining childhood events, dissecting ordinary occurrences, and presenting them “as sinister premonitions of what is to come” (Schmid 2005, 177). “In this way, true-crime narratives imply that the apparent ordinariness of serial killers is, paradoxically, the most convincing sign of their evil, recasting their ordinariness as a ‘mask of sanity’ that hides the awful truth” (Schmid 2005, 177–178). Identifying childhood events that may have shaped them into the killer they eventually become allows “them to claim that the seeds of monstrosity have been lurking, though cunningly disguised, in the killer since childhood” (Schmid 2005, 206). The discussion is enhanced by identifying the psychological origins of this

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murderous behavior. Readers quickly became familiar with the characteristics of psychopaths and sociopaths as the authors attempt to explain the heinous crime (Murley 2008). Whether termed evil or psychopathic, the narratives tie the defective trait to familial characteristics and early childhood experiences. According to Murley (2008), in doing so, society is absolved and blame is placed on “bad” families. People continue to be fascinated by serial killers, and modern truecrime narratives attempt to fulfill their desire to learn about these “monsters.” Various programs and podcasts have been produced that delve into the lives of some of the most infamous serial killers. Some of these programs are episodic (e.g., Serial Killers and Serial Killer with Piers Morgan), though many attempt to provide a deep dive into the lives of these killers, such as Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (Berlinger 2019a), Stranglers (Helmich 2016), Atlanta Monster (Lindsey 2018a), Criminology (Ferguson and Morford 2017), BTK: A Killer Among Us (Hirschfield 2019), Kemper on Kemper: Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer (Watts 2018), Dahmer on Dahmer: A Serial Killer Speaks (Watts 2017), Bad Henry (Palmer 2018), and countless more. Many of these narratives are repeats of past portrayals. Overall, they are filled with gruesome spectacles, mysterious speculations, and, on occasion, a consideration of the legacy of these killers. The Quintessential Serial Killer: Ted Bundy

During the 1970s, Ted Bundy kidnapped, raped, and murdered at least thirty women. The Stranger Beside Me (1980) by Ann Rule and several other books devoted their pages to his story, and other books on the topic of serial killers often feature lengthy discussions of Bundy (Schmid, 2005). His story has also been featured in other forms of traditional true crime. According to Schmid (2005, 211), he is “the exemplary American serial killer, the individual most likely to come to mind when the term serial murder is used.” On the one hand, Bundy was handsome, white, heterosexual, smart, and ambitious. On the other hand, he raped and killed women, spreading his murderous acts across several states, often eluding capture, and when imprisoned by law enforcement, he escaped twice. His story has the qualities of a good fiction novel, but it is a true story. As the current resurgence of true crime was beginning, Justin Moyer (2015, par. 5) commented that “in an era when a mass killing seems to happen every week . . . Bundy’s notoriety may have faded somewhat.” Fast forward a couple of years and this statement is no longer valid—several modern renditions

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of his story have since emerged. Fortune magazine even published an article titled “Netflix’s Newest Breakout Star? Ted Bundy” (Raftery 2019), demonstrating that Bundy’s story has not faded and, in fact, is once again profitable. The third season of the podcast Criminology (Ferguson and Morford 2018) provides a good example of how Bundy’s story is typically presented in modern true crime. The hosts, Mike Ferguson and Mike Morford, trace Bundy’s life from childhood through execution. Searching for clues to understand his crimes, they dissect the details of his childhood. According to Schmid (2005), when attempting to uncover early childhood warning signs, most accounts of Bundy’s life highlight an event that took place when he was three years old. Bundy’s aunt woke up to find that he had put knives in her bed. This incident is still being incorporated into modern storytelling, including Criminology and other representations of Bundy’s life. After exploring his upbringing, Criminology covers his early arrests and escapes and provides the details of the murders in Florida that proved to be his last. The authors cover the trial, including audio from his testimony, and follow the story through Bundy’s execution at Florida State Prison. To develop this narrative, the creators rely on other sources of true crime, including books and documentaries. Their coverage of the case concludes with interviews with people who have written about this infamous serial killer. In the end, previous stories covering Bundy and his crimes are upcycled, not crafted into a new narrative but rather composed into a modern way of telling Bundy’s story. Bundy was executed in 1989, thus it is highly unlikely that there is anything new to add to his story; yet some programs purport to offer something different. Although not a deep dive, the series In Defense Of (“Ted Bundy” 2018) is an example of trying to tell it from a different angle by featuring his trial attorney. John Henry Browne, who already told his story in his book, The Devil’s Defender: My Odyssey Through American Criminal Justice from Ted Bundy to the Kandahar Massacre (2016), is the primary focus in this episode. This does allow viewers some insight into the interactions of Browne and Bundy, covering how Browne came to defend a serial killer, but In Defense Of “Ted Bundy” (2018) relies on the same tropes found in other serial-killer narratives. Describing his first meeting with Bundy, Browne comments, “Evil just entered my life. Pure evil” (“Ted Bundy” 2018). He discounts any effects of Bundy’s upbringing and deduces that he was born evil, a belief he did not have before meeting him in person. Browne also states that Bundy confessed to him that he killed more than 100 people, sug-

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gesting that there is more to Bundy’s story than we know, thereby feeding the lore about this serial killer. In the end, In Defense Of “Ted Bundy” presents the typical details of Bundy’s life and crimes, while highlighting Browne’s experiences and how defending this infamous serial killer affected him. Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (Berlinger 2019a) also promises a different take on one of the most infamous serial killers of all time, straight from his own mouth. Journalists Stephen Michaud and Hugh Aynesworth recorded hundreds of hours of tapes with Bundy, and clips from these conversations form the basis of Conversations with a Killer. This four-part series was directed by Joe Berlinger, of the Paradise Lost trilogy and Extremely Wicked, Strongly Evil and Vile (Berlinger 2019b), a biopic about Bundy released shortly after the docuseries. Before the series began streaming, Netflix warned potential viewers not to watch it alone (Rao 2019), suggesting that the story is even more horrifying when told by the killer himself. The reality, however, is that no story of Bundy can be truly original—even hearing Bundy talk about his crimes is not unique. Conversations with a Killer highlights issues with certain types of true-crime storytelling. It is sensationalistic and voyeuristic, and it does not add anything to our knowledge of crime and its causes or to a quest for justice. Lucy Mangan (2019) of The Guardian writes, “When your first thought is how much the murderer would have loved to see this day, you’ve got a problem” (par. 2). She describes the tapes as monologues, not conversations, in which Bundy paints an idyllic life, and when discussing the killings, he switches to the third person. Journalist Josh Dean comments that Bundy is “‘essentially masturbating in front of the camera because he knows it’s a performance’” (Quah 2019, par. 11). Mangan’s (2019, par. 6) most astute observation is that “everything Bundy could teach us, as a society, has long been absorbed into our fabric.” His story helped bring serial killers into our consciousness, and people learned that even seemingly normal, handsome strangers could be deadly. Bundy’s story is the quintessential serial-killer narrative, but other killers’ stories are being popularized via modern true crime. The expansion of true-crime outlets has resulted in more stories being told about these prolific killers. Those who were relatively unknown are now becoming popularized as a result of the various outlets now possible for tales about them. Many follow the typical narrative structure, though others are incorporating new tactics to draw people into the gruesome world of these murderers.

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The Mysterious Israel Keyes

On March 12, 2012, a man was arrested in Texas for using a debit card that belonged to Samantha Koenig, who had been murdered in Alaska the previous month. He used the card at an ATM with a camera, which recorded the car he was driving. Eventually, authorities tracked down the rented automobile and arrested thirty-four-year-old Israel Keyes. It would be a while before law-enforcement officials would realize they had a serial killer on their hands, and even longer before the public would learn his name. Soon after his arrest, Keyes was extradited to Alaska and made a deal that would protect his eleven-year-old daughter by concealing his identity. He agreed to reveal details of his crimes to authorities if they did not release his name to the public (“Negotiation” 2018). Before Keyes was found dead in his jail cell by suicide on December 2, 2012, he was interviewed for more than forty hours by Jeff Bell of the Anchorage Police Department and Special Agent Jolene Goeden of the FBI. After his death, his name, a time line of his suspected crimes, and several hours of the taped interviews were released to the public in hopes that someone would identify possible victims of Keyes. Releasing these tapes and other information has provided material for true-crime stories about this relatively unknown serial killer. Narratives about Keyes take on many characteristics found in other serial-killer stories, but there is also a lot that is unknown surrounding his crimes. We may never know for certain whether all of Bundy’s victims have been attributed to him, but the Keyes case is more mysterious, as people are trying to unravel how many people he killed, who they were, and where their bodies are hidden. Before his death, Keyes provided investigators with some details. He admitted to three murders— those of Samantha Koenig and Bill and Lorraine Currier—but they suspect he killed at least eleven. Keyes was so adept at hiding bodies that the remains of only one of his victims has been located (“This Is Israel Keyes” 2018). Trying to unravel the details of Keyes’s crimes is complicated by the fact that unlike most serial killers, he did not have a typical victim profile. He raped and killed men and women, young and old. Using kill kits he hid in several states, Keyes would abduct a victim from one state, murder that person in another, and dispose of the body in a third state. He would fly to one location and drive hundreds of miles before starting his hunt for a victim. And he often committed bank robberies, burglaries, and arson on his journey (Hallmark 2018). Investigators were unable to sort through his murderous quagmire, and now

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true-crime creators are attempting to do what trained investigators have been unable to accomplish. Unlike Bundy’s story, the tale of Israel Keyes is just entering the world of true crime. True Crime Bullsh**: The Story of Israel Keyes is one of the attempts to dive deep into Keyes’s life and crimes. Shortly after learning about Keyes, Josh Hallmark, the host and creator of the program, became obsessed. When he realized that Keyes’s story was relatively absent from the media, he decided to investigate it on his own. Hallmark filed as many Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) requests as he could afford, researched Keyes’s childhood and religious upbringing, and attempted to identify people who went missing in places Keyes was known to have visited (“This Is Israel Keyes” 2018). On the podcast’s website, Hallmark (2018), wrote: We knew who the killer was, but not his victims. I needed to know. I needed closure for those lost I’d never even known. But over the last three years, the deeper I got into the FBI files and hundreds of missing persons reports, the more compelled I became by the stories surrounding Israel. There was a connectivity between the people in his life, the lives he took, the lives lost all across the country. I started to see the true crime genre so differently. I became haunted by the faces of the missing, and their families, and their stories. I needed to find the humanity in this story. And so True Crime Bullsh** became as much about finding Israel’s missing victims as it did deconstructing True Crime and sharing the stories of those impacted by it. And how I lost myself in it.

Over the course of the first season’s eighteen episodes, listeners follow Hallmark on this journey. In the end, True Crime Bullsh** is more than a serial-killer narrative, but it is only this part of the story that is the focus of this discussion.1 The premier episode, “This Is Israel Keyes” (2018), opens with a recording of Keyes stating: “My concern . . . the problem is nowadays, uh, the more stuff my name is attached to, the more likely it is that somebody’s gonna try to do some kind of stupid, freaking TV special or you know, you know how it is nowadays, like with all this true-crime bullshit that people are obsessed with.” Listeners eventually learn that true crime is a part of Keyes’s story. He talks to investigators about watching serial-killer programs, calling BTK (Dennis Rader) a hack, while identifying the most with Bundy. Hallmark concludes, “He learned from their mistakes,” thereby suggesting that the media influenced Keyes and his career as a killer (“This Is Israel Keyes” 2018). In introducing the

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audience to Keyes, his tactics, diversions, and patterns are briefly covered. It is these things that Hallmark delves deeper into throughout other episodes. Clips from the interviews are carefully selected and intertwined with observations made by Hallmark and the occasional expert with whom he consults. For example, when the FBI searched Keyes’s computer, they found images of more than forty missing persons; a few of these people eventually get identified as or suspected to be victims of Keyes. Hallmark questions whether Keyes had a fetish with missing persons, and if so, whether this could help explain his murders. Hallmark includes a discussion with Katherine Ramsland, a forensic psychologist known for her work with BTK/Dennis Rader. Listeners learn that Keyes may have developed a paraphilia for missing persons, which could also explain why he meticulously hid the bodies. Knowing that their families would never know where they are may have provided Keyes with sexual satisfaction (“This Is Israel Keyes” 2018). Like previous serial-killer narratives, this one turns to psychology to try to understand Keyes’s behavior and contrasts this psychological abnormality with the normality of Keyes’s life. He was a family man, business owner, and productive member of his community (“Negotiation” 2018). This public persona was his mask of sanity, which allows for the typical comparison between normalcy and evil. At times, True Crime Bullsh** takes on characteristics of the mediagenerated investigations that are examined in Chapter 5. He uses the available evidence and the recordings of Keyes’s interviews to try to determine who his other victims may have been. Hallmark informs listeners of each piece of evidence and how it does or does not fit that missing-person case. He devotes entire episodes to quests to identify other victims and continues this exploration in the second season. It is a general belief that Keyes was an active serial killer between 2001 and 2012, with Samantha Koenig being his last victim. Hallmark flags statements made by Keyes in his interviews with authorities that suggest that the first of his deadly attacks took place before he entered the military in 1998 and that he may have killed someone in Texas before his arrest. For example, in “Suzy” (2019), Hallmark explores whether Suzy Lyall, who disappeared from Albany, New York, in 1998, could have been one of Keyes’s victims. Based on available information of where Keyes lived at that time, places he was known to go, and his overall pattern of behavior before a murder, one can understand why Hallmark and others believe that Lyall might have been one of Keyes’s victims. In the end, Keyes is really no different than any other serial killer who has been indoctrinated into the public consciousness via true-crime

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storytelling—we just know less about him. There is more mystery surrounding his exact crimes, which provides more fodder for true-crime creators to weave stories filled with mystery and speculation. The medium of podcasting allowed Hallmark the freedom to tell this story and to invite the audience to engage in the investigation. The underlying goal of stories about Keyes is justice. The killer is dead by his own hand, so the only way to achieve justice is to find his victims and provide the families with a semblance of closure. Trained investigators have been able to find only one body; therefore, it is unlikely that truecrime creators will fare any better. Despite Keyes’s death, narratives about him stoke the imagination and generate fear. Some listeners of True Crime Bullsh** participate in a Facebook group and use this forum to discuss the case and express their opinions. One participant wrote a post about going to the grocery store at night. Walking to her car, she began to panic because she did not have her keys in hand. She wrote: I mean I really thought IK [Israel Keyes] was going to come up behind me—I kept scanning the lot and looking for my keys. It wasn’t that I was afraid of just anyone—I was actually afraid of Keyes and yes, I know he’s been dead for six and a half years. It’s like IK has come to truly be my Boogeyman. He represents any and all would-be attackers to me now. Let’s just say I will not be shopping at night for a good long time. (emphasis in original, June 28, 2019)

Others recall instances in which they believe they may have crossed paths with Keyes, and some worry about what would have happened if they had. For example, in a post from August 9, 2019, a participant expressed worry over the fact that she lived in a town that Keyes was known to visit in 2001 and wonders what would have happened to her daughter had he targeted her for abduction and murder. These stories about Keyes are creating anxieties over things that never happened and making people fearful in their everyday lives. There may be other influences in the listeners’ backgrounds that help explain their intense reactions, but this “horror” story is impacting them. Given the newness of Keyes’s story and the fact that so much in unknown about his actual crimes, it is likely many other true-crime stories will be created to fill in the gaps. The intrigue is provided by the intense mystery surrounding this serial killer. But given the fact that he took his secrets with him on the day he committed suicide in his jail cell, it is highly unlikely that we will ever understand Keyes and his

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crimes. Instead, his story will be based on speculation and will continue to generate fear rather than justice. Serial Killer Legacies

Serial-killer narratives offer lessons in duality, contrasting the evilness of their actions with the normalcy of their daily lives and appearances. Nothing highlights this juxtaposition more than hearing from those closest to the killers. Part of the allure of Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me (1980) was that she was friends with Bundy. The two met before the world knew he was a serial killer, when they volunteered at a suicide hotline in Seattle (Moyer 2015). Many have written about Bundy, but Rule’s personal knowledge of him provided different insight. Modern true crime is introducing its fans to more serial killers from the perspective of those who knew these individuals. In some cases, they are a part of the narrative, and in others, they are controlling it, which provides a different type of serial-killer tale. From 1978 to 1991, Jeffrey Dahmer raped, murdered, and dismembered seventeen men and boys and was known for both necrophilia and cannibalism with his later victims. Dahmer on Dahmer: A Serial Killer Speaks (Watts 2017) contains footage of interviews Nancy Glass had with Dahmer before his death, allowing viewers to hear directly from the killer. Additional insight into Dahmer is provided by Lionel and Shari Dahmer, Jeffrey’s father and stepmother, who discuss how they viewed their son before and after his true identity was revealed. Shari describes him as a gentle and kind child. Once he started acting strangely, she thinks Lionel was too naïve to deal with him, almost suggesting that Lionel could have prevented his son from becoming a killer. To Lionel, Dahmer was normal. Once he learned about his son’s horrendous crimes, he attributed his behavior to not having a relationship with God. Shari and Lionel’s discussion reveals how conflicted the relatives of these killers can be. Shari commented that you love who the true human being was; for her, perhaps it was the gentle, kind child she remembers. Lionel, who bonded with his son again when Jeffrey was baptized while incarcerated, has forgiven him and believes that he is with God. Their view is very different from others who knew Dahmer, including a friend from school who believes Dahmer was simply evil. Dahmer on Dahmer allows its audience to see Dahmer through his own eyes, but also through the eyes of those closest to him. This personal insight is different than observations made by neighbors and experts, but the family’s perspective is only a small part of the narrative.

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This type of surface-level intimate knowledge is also provided in BTK: A Killer Among Us (Hirschfield 2019). This narrative retraces the murders, investigation, eventual capture, and conviction of Dennis Rader (aka BTK), a prominent member of the church and a family man. In the 1970s and 1980s, Rader murdered ten people and was known for corresponding with both the media and law enforcement. Typical comparisons between the normalcy of his life and appearance and his evil behavior are included and enhanced by the inclusion of his daughter, Kerri Rawson. During the first part of the docuseries, her identity is veiled by the description of “former resident,” although it is easy to guess who she might be by her statements. They drop the façade at the end of part one, and when the docuseries picks up again, she is now described as “daughter of BTK.” Rather than hiding her identity, she has chosen to talk about it to help others and has even written A Serial Killer’s Daughter: My Story of Faith, Love, and Overcoming (Rawson 2019). Viewers of BTK learn what her father was like from her point of view. Rawson says that they were a typical family and describes her father as her best friend. She reveals that her father always taught her to be fearful of strangers and careful of who she let into the house, instilling a fear of home invasion in her at a young age. She feels this fright when FBI agents knock on her door in 2005 and inform her of her father’s alter ego. Rawson describes the shock and aftermath of this discovery, and how she eventually forgives her father. As of 2012, they have been writing to one another. Despite providing interesting insight into Radar’s life, Rawson is once again only a small part of the narrative, making it a typical serial-killer tale. Lionel and Shari Dahmer and Kerri Rawson are part of someone else’s narrative; others are playing a larger role and even dictating the story that is being told. Another program with that format is The Clearing (Dean 2019), a podcast that explores the life and crimes of Edward Wayne Edwards, who is believed to have committed at least five murders (Quah 2019). Edwards’s murders were not known to authorities until 2009, when he was arrested, and since then, he has become a mythical monster. According to Nicholas Quah (2019, par. 4), “fueled by a culture in love with conspiracy and a willing media ecosystem, Edwards became a mythical figure that some believe was responsible for every major murder in America.” In particular, John A. Cameron, a former lawenforcement officer, has argued that Edwards killed nearly 100 people over a seventy-year period, including the Black Dahlia, JonBenét Ramsey, Teresa Halbach, and many other well-known murder victims (McDonellParry 2018a), a theory he outlined in It’s Me: Edward Wayne Edwards, the Serial Killer You Never Heard Of (Cameron 2014). Although it is

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likely that Edwards committed more crimes than he admitted to before his death in 2011, he is not the “boogeyman” Cameron and others have made him out to be. The Clearing is an attempt to disentangle fiction from fact (“Hunting Season” 2019). April Balascio, the eldest daughter of Edwards, is a part of The Clearing. Childhood memories brought on nagging suspicions about her father. After doing some research on the internet, she called the police and reported her theory, which eventually led to his arrest and his being labeled as a serial killer (“Hunting Season” 2019). After her father’s arrest, Balascio decided not to talk to the media—that is, not until Josh Dean reached out to her to write a magazine article about Edwards. By this time, she was tired of all the speculation and outlandish theories being presented by Cameron and others (Minutaglio 2019; Quah 2019; “Hunting Season” 2019). It soon became apparent to Dean that they had more than a 6,000-word magazine article, especially once they gained access to a box containing sixty cassette tapes that captured the life of Edwards in his own words (Quah 2019). Like recent true-crime stories of Bundy, Dahmer, and Keyes, listeners could get to know the killer by hearing him talk. The difference is that Edwards made these tapes himself, not knowing that someday the public would be listening to them, which contrasts with the other serial-killer tapes that were recorded by investigators or reporters. Well before he was labeled a serial killer, Edwards was a known criminal. In 1955, he escaped from jail, and while on the run committed a series of robberies that landed him on the FBI’s most-wanted list. He was eventually caught and served his sentence in Leavenworth. He was paroled in 1967, went on to write a book about being a reformed criminal, and worked as a motivational speaker (“Hunting Season” 2019). Balascio’s memories of her father are not pleasant. She states that he was emotionally and physically abusive and would often move the family unexpectedly during the middle of the night (Minutaglio 2019). She remembers him committing arson and theft in front of her and her siblings. She found herself wondering, “What if [my] dad was not just an abusive asshole?” (“Hunting Season” 2019). Balascio recalls her father taking her to a park where emergency vehicles were responding to a report of two dead bodies. This place was where Billy Lavaco and Judith Straub had been shot—a murder her father committed. She recalls her father being obsessed with murder, saving newspaper clippings and often inserting himself into on-going investigations (Minutaglio 2019). These are the things that prompted her to call the police. Now she is on a journey with Dean to try to uncover the crimes com-

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mitted by her father and to clear him of those he did not commit but others have attributed to him. The involvement of Balascio in the building of this narrative is described as unique and useful. Dean comments that she is a partner in that she helps in building the narrative and gaining access to information, but she is also a subject and a victim (Dickson 2019). This unique role of the daughter of a serial killer offers the promise of a different type of narrative. The most unique serial-killer narrative to be created thus far in this modern era of true crime is Happy Face (Moore and Pacheco 2018). In this podcast, Melissa Moore is on a quest to understand her legacy. She considers what her lineage means for her own children and is trying to build up the strength to confront her father, Keith Hunter Jesperson, who is also known as the Happy Face Killer. Jesperson murdered eight women and wrote letters to authorities and the media, always including a crudely drawn smiley face. He was eventually caught and is serving three consecutive life sentences. Moore wonders, “When you look like your father, and you share his intelligence and charisma, how do you know you’re not a psychopath too?” (Happy Face 2018). Lauren Bright Pacheco joins Moore on this journey. She serves as narrator and interviewer; there is a preestablished relationship between the two women, thereby making their conversations quite personal. Given that it is a serial-killer story, listeners will expect standard elements within the narrative, and they will not be disappointed. Moore dissects her father’s life, looking to explain why he became a serial killer. Jesperson is labeled a psychopath. Moore also wonders whether a twenty-five-foot fall during gym class might have damaged his frontal lobe, a type of brain injury that research has suggested is commonly found in killers of this type. She also questions whether her grandfather’s abusive treatment of him groomed him to be killer (“Keith” 2018). Listeners hear Jesperson’s own words as a narrator reads portions of his letters throughout the narrative. The exact nature of his murders is revealed, and listeners are left with a clear picture of who Jespersen is and the crimes he committed. What makes Happy Face a modern serial-killer narrative is Moore’s observations and quest for answers. She was sixteen when her father was arrested and deemed a serial killer. Until this revelation, he was her hero (“Childhood” 2018). She tries to disentangle the killer from the father she knew and loved. When her parents split up, she blamed her mother, but conversations with her mother reveal the truth, including two fires at their house and other suspicious life-threatening incidents, suggesting that Jesperson may have tried to kill his own wife (“Disruption” 2018).

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Moore recalls watching true crime with her father, commenting that she was looking for ways to protect herself, while he was probably looking for ways not to get caught. She even recalls him telling her that he could commit the perfect murder, outlining what he would and would not do (“Broken” 2018). After his crimes were revealed, the hero vanished and the cruel manipulation began. The year her father went to prison, sixteen-year-old Moore had an abortion. She wrote a letter to her father, confessing to him; he responded that she was just like him, a murderer, and should be incarcerated. It is this exchange that got her thinking about DNA and her legacy as the daughter of a serial killer (“Broken” 2018). But as a teenager, she was not equipped to answer these questions. Later in life she questions whether her inability to be open and feel compassion, something that contributed to the end of her marriage, is a sign of psychopathy, confirming that she is like her father (“Normalcy” 2018). This theme continues throughout several episodes, concluding with Moore receiving the results of a PET brain scan, which the neuroscientist James Fallon believes can be used to identify psychopaths (“Psychopathy” 2018). It is not until she finds out that her scan is negative that she finally seems to find some peace. In the end, Happy Face is a personal journey cloaked as a serialkiller narrative, but Moore provides powerful lessons about the legacy left behind by these killers. As she sees it, being the child of a serial killer is not something you grow out of; it is something you grow into (“Aftermath” 2018). It has shaped much of Moore’s life since she found out, but the wounds were inflicted long before this realization. There are many things in her life that she learned to love from her father. She got her passion for real estate from him. She talks about how she recently bought a fixer-upper and painted the interior walls gallery white. She recalls her father painting the walls of his farmhouse the same color, but this memory is no longer a happy one as she now knows that he painted to cover the blood splatter from one of his victims (“Aftermath” 2018). Pacheco observes that Moore is writing her own narrative now (“Aftermath” 2018), which she does with the help of Pacheco, her mother, the son of one of her father’s victims, and the experts she consulted during the creation of Happy Face. She now understands that her father’s actions are not a predetermination of her own behavior, and in the end, she decides that there is no need to confront the killer, as her father died the day she found out his true identity. Regardless of who controls the narrative, those stories about serial killers will always contain certain tropes, as the audience expects spe-

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cific details to be revealed. Yet when those closest to the killers are involved with the creation of the narrative, such as Balascio in The Clearing and Moore in Happy Face, there is potential to develop rich narratives that seek to break the mold of traditional serial-killer stories by examining their legacies. It is the development of new formats of true crime that makes space for these unique explorations. Themes in Modern Serial-Killer Narratives

In many ways, modern serial-killer narratives are replications of previous genre renditions. They present a retrospective examination of the life and crimes of the killer, one that is simultaneously informational and voyeuristic. Borrowing from other popular media representations, serialkiller stories present the duality of the lives of these murderers, who are shown to be seemingly normal humans who commit the most unthinkable acts. As explained in the episode “Serial Killers” from Inside the Criminal Mind (2017): “They may appear to be ordinary; your next-door neighbor. In reality, they are far from it. What they all have in common is an unquenchable thirst for murder; with a total lack of remorse, they are the embodiment of brutal inhumanity. They are serial killers.” This same message is sent throughout each modern deep dive into an individual serial killer’s life. Joseph James DeAngelo, who is suspected to be the Golden State Killer, worked in law enforcement for a while and raised a family; Israel Keyes was a business owner and a family man; and Dennis Radar was a father and a church deacon. These dualities continue to be a central theme that is unique to tales of serial killers. Like past narratives, modern serial-killer stories contain the theme of nature versus nurture, begging the question of whether serial killers are born or made. Inside the Criminal Mind’s “Serial Killers” (2017) featured Patrick J. Mullany, co-founder of the psychological profiling division in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He and others discuss factors commonly found among these killers, questioning whether it is nature or nurture, but ultimately concluding that it is both, in tandem with chance. This argument is presented in most modern serial-killer narratives, but most often the strongest message is that these killers are evil, which in many people’s minds, points to them being born that way. For example, Bad Henry (Palmer 2018) covered the case of Henry Louis Wallace, who murdered at least ten women. His story is not as well-known as some of the others. His victims were all black women, and it took law enforcement a long time to recognize the connections between their deaths. Although the narrative examines Wallace’s life to explain his crimes, in

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the end, it is a simple explanation that is offered—he is a monster. The narrator tells viewers that Wallace’s friends and acquaintances were “stunned by the monster in their midst,” and detective Garry McFadden comments, “This is a monster” (Palmer 2018). From Bundy and Dahmer to Keyes and Wallace, the common thread is that there are monsters living among us. To help viewers grasp the root cause of their monstrous ways, the narratives turn to psychological profilers who provide lessons on psychopathy. Less than 1 percent of homicides are committed by serial killers (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2005), yet their proliferation in modern true crime builds them to mythic proportions and may even contribute to the belief that there are more of them than ever. Stories like Bundy’s are repeated countless times, but in the search for new material true-crime creators are introducing fans to many unknown killers. Although it does not offer deep-dive narratives, Serial Killer with Piers Morgan (Cabb 2018) is one such attempt. Morgan interviews three men from prison. In “Mark Riebe” (2018), he asks, “Is this man one of America’s most prolific killers?” Riebe is serving a life sentence for the murder of Donna Callahan, but it is suspected that he has killed others. Morgan attempts to get an on-camera confession out of Riebe, who gets agitated, takes off the microphone, and begins to walk away. As he is leaving, Morgan yells, “Why don’t you sit here like a man and answer these questions. I’m not a 110-pound woman that you can kill . . . you did kill them. You killed them all” (“Mark Riebe” 2018). Similar tactics are employed in his confrontation of Lorenzo Gilyard and Alejandro Henriquez. These men may be serial killers, but not enough evidence has been gathered to convict them. Morgan uses this possibility to draw viewers in, promising to fulfill their desire to learn about this type of murderer. There are two emerging trends in modern serial-killer narratives: to hear the words of the killers and to hear from people related to them. Both tactics offer an intimacy not necessarily afforded in early renditions of these stories. Bundy’s story has been told countless times, but there is a draw to watching the video recordings contained in Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes (Berlinger 2019a). The audience can also listen to Dahmer, Kemper, Keyes, Edwards, Jesperson, and others via modern narratives. Fans also get to see them through the eyes of those closest to them—parents and children. Some of them remember their loved one fondly and have even forgiven them for these actions, whereas others cope by mourning the death of the person they once knew. These are all attempts to introduce new content and produce

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a unique serial-killer narrative that will attract an audience even if the story has already been told countless times. Notorious Murders: From Tabloid Justice to Modern True Crime Deep-dive narratives are not limited to serial killers. Modern true crime has embraced other murder cases with a tendency to focus on those already popularized through extensive media coverage; from the Clutter family to the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson, Ronald Goldman, Laci Peterson, and others, their stories are being revisited. One of the things these cases have in common is media sensationalism. All of them became national obsessions via media coverage. Capote’s novel introduced the nation to the Clutter family murders at a time when the news covered murder cases in a very different manner. Many of the other featured cases came about during the emergence of the twenty-four-hour news cycle. The 1990s ushered in a new media culture and significantly changed the way cases were aired and consumed. According to Robert Fox, Robert Van Sickel, and Thomas Steiger (2007, 1), “Americans began to repeatedly focus on lengthy, high-profile, often celebrity centered criminal and civil trials.” They refer to this time as the era of “tabloid justice,” during which the media focused “predominantly on the sensationalistic, personal, and lurid details of unusual and high profile trials and investigations” (Fox, Van Sickel, and Steiger 2007, 6). The development of cable television and around-the-clock news and entertainment contributed to this type of legal coverage. During this era, some of the most covered cases include the 1993 trail of the Menendez brothers, the 1995 criminal and 1997 civil trials of O. J. Simpson, the investigation into the murder of JonBenét Ramsey, and the 2004 trial of Scott Peterson (Fox, Van Sickel, and Steiger 2007). Each of these have found a place in modern true crime via deep dives into the murders, investigations, and trials, as well as a consideration of the impact of media coverage. Revisiting a True-Crime Classic

What is old is new again. Stories popularized in traditional true crime are being retold in modern forms. One such story is the Clutter family murders made famous by Truman Capote’s pivotal novel, In Cold Blood (1966). Given the tendency of any genre to recycle popular stories, it

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was only a matter of time before this murder was revisited. Cold Blooded: The Clutter Family Murders by Joe Berlinger (2017) is a fourpart docuseries that uses standard true-crime techniques to tell a different side of the story. Cold Blooded is not an attempt to reinvestigate the crime or tell the exact story presented by Capote. Instead, Berlinger sought to humanize the victims and correct inaccuracies presented by the novelist (McDonell-Parry 2018b). Part of the story is told from the viewpoint of those who knew the Clutters—family and friends, as well as the investigators. Through their on-camera interviews and memories, viewers get to know the victims in a way Capote did not invite his readers to do. In addition, they learn how these murders impacted the lives of those who knew them. Berlinger includes the story of how Capote, along with Harper Lee, descended on this small Kansas town to gather information for his book and the controversy surrounding the finished product. In many people’s eyes, Capote took advantage of the victims by focusing on the killers and painting them as victims in their own right. Although the convicted killers are still a part of this new narrative, much more attention is given to the victims, their family and friends, the town, and the investigators. For those already familiar with the murders via the infamous novel, Cold Blooded provides a more complete picture of the context of the crime and how this small American town was forever changed by the senseless act of violence and its place in the history of true-crime storytelling. For those unfamiliar with the story, it introduces them to the murders and to one of the most significant developments in twentiethcentury true-crime storytelling. Cold Blooded (Berlinger 2017) has transformed the original story, which was one of fear in the heartland, into one of justice; in this case, justice for the family and friends. By bringing the victims instead of the killers to the forefront and demonstrating the effects of true crime on this community, a different sense of justice is portrayed, but it is justice nonetheless. The Trial of the Century

On June 12, 1994, Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman were murdered. Attention quickly turned to O. J. Simpson, a seemingly allAmerican hero, National Football League player, actor, and Nicole’s ex-husband. On June 17, 1994, Simpson failed to self-surrender. That night, 95 million people tuned in to watch a white Ford Bronco, containing Simpson and being driven by Al Cowlings, leading police on a

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two-hour slow-speed chase (Criss 2019). This event marked the beginning of a national obsession and what would be referred to by many as the trial of the century. The nation remained captivated during the ninemonth trial, which was televised. On October 3, 1995, more than 51 million people tuned in to hear the verdict (Margulies 1995). Simpson was acquitted. This ruling did not bring an end to the media circus surrounding the case and all those involved. The families filed a wrongful death suit against Simpson, and in February 1997, the jury in that case ruled that he was responsible for their deaths, awarding compensatory damages (Ayres Jr. 1997). The press continued to follow Simpson, and eventually, the nation watched him go to prison in 2008 for robbery. True crime was surging during the 1990s, providing the perfect venue for telling the story of the murders of Brown Simpson and Goldman and its aftermath. Following the media circus surrounding the investigation and trial, several books were published and made-for-TV movies and documentaries were produced in the late 1990s. Interest in this murder story has been reignited during the most recent wave of true crime. The cable station FX aired a scripted drama of the story on The People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story (Murphy 2016). The Academy Award– winning documentary O.J.: Made in America (Edelman 2016) was released the same year, airing in five parts on ESPN. But it is a podcast that is tackling the murders of Brown Simpson and Goldman in a unique way. It is a representation of a modern murder narrative. In Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman (Glass 2019), Kim Goldman, who is Ron’s sister, and Nancy Glass explore the case from the viewpoint of a victim’s family member. Although her brother, along with Brown Simpson, was murdered more than two decades ago, Goldman’s grief lingers. Goldman and her father, along with many others, including the jury at the civil trial, believe that Simpson is the murderer. During this quest, she seeks to understand how the trial ended with an acquittal and is hoping to confront “the killer,” as she refers to Simpson, rarely using his name and only for the benefit of podcast listeners. The details behind the murder and its aftermath are unveiled early in the series, but then are revisited in pieces as Goldman talks to investigators, witnesses, jury members, and others involved in the case. What begins as a typical murder narrative is really an exploration of justice. It exposes listeners to the complexities of a criminal case. Goldman talks to Marcia Clark, Chris Darden, and Bill Hodgman, members of the prosecution team, in an attempt to understand why certain pieces of evidence were not used, and she questions them about their perceptions of the case built against the defendant. Clark believes that they did

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everything right, Darden does not agree, and Hodgman’s opinion lies someplace in the middle (“Objectively Bonkers” 2019; “Ready or Not” 2019). Goldman tries to include the judge, Lance Ito, but he does not want to talk about the case until after he retires. She talks to investigators and witnesses, including the infamous Kato Kaelin, and jurors. Each of these participants speaks freely to Goldman about their experiences, why they did what they did, and how the case affected them both then and now; it becomes clear that Goldman is not the only one haunted by the trial of the century. Goldman has several reasons for creating Confronting. One of her primary drives is to, as the title suggests, confront the man she believes killed her brother. She attempted to have this conversation while Simpson was in prison but was unable to do so. In the making of the podcast, Glass, who serves as executive producer, reached out to Simpson’s attorney, Malcolm LaVergne, to see if he or Simpson would talk to Goldman. The medium of podcasting allowed Goldman and Glass to incorporate the results of this interaction, despite it not being a planned part of the narrative. “Get Over It” was released on July 10, 2019. LaVergne is confrontational, attacks Goldman, and accuses her of profiting off victimization. The conversation is aired in its entirety in this episode of the podcast. In the end, Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman (Glass 2019) is not just a murder story—it is the personal journey of a woman trying to understand why justice has not been achieved in the death of her brother and to confront the man who killed him, which she does not end up doing. It is also a way for her to make sense of the process and to try to deal with the grief that continues to haunt her to this day, something with which many victims’ families struggle. This podcast also tackles larger issues related to this case, including domestic violence and spousal murder. Overall, the narrative provides a deep dive into both our criminal and civil systems of justice via the trial of the century, a case that exemplifies the era of tabloid justice. The Murder of Laci Peterson

Another case covered extensively by the media from crime through conviction was the murder of Laci Peterson. On December 24, 2002, in Modesto, California, Laci—who was eight months pregnant with her prenatal son, Conner—went missing. Months later their bodies are found in San Francisco Bay, and eventually her husband, Scott Peterson, is convicted of murder and sentenced to death. From beginning to

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end, the nation was captivated. Laci was what Nils Christie (2018) described as an ideal victim, which is “a person or a category of individuals who—when hit by crime—most readily are given the complete and legitimate status of being a victim” (12). Media outlets from around the United States descended on Modesto to report on her disappearance, Scott’s behavior, his mistress, and eventually, his arrest, trial, and conviction. This in-time reporting was followed by made-for-TV movies and books. Given the amount of attention this case received, one would think that the story had already been told to its fullest extent, long before the recent developments in the truecrime genre. Yet in 2017, fifteen years after Laci’s disappearance, the story was being presented by multiple media outlets, including 20/20’s “Truth and Lies: The Murder of Laci Peterson” (2017), HLN’s How It Really Happened with Harper Hill’s “Did Scott Peterson Murder Laci?” (2017), Snapped’s “Notorious: Scott Peterson” (2017), Dateline’s “The Laci Peterson Story” (2017), Investigation Discovery’s An American Murder Mystery: Scott Peterson (Short 2017) and A&E’s The Murder of Laci Peterson (Berry 2017). According to Garth Stapley (2017), there are several possible reasons for this renewed attention to the Peterson case, including Scott’s ongoing appeals, the fifteenth anniversary of Laci’s murder, and media competition over viewers. With the popularity of modern true-crime being in full swing in 2017, it is not surprising that this case provided material for so many true-crime narratives. It contains many elements considered essential to the genre: it is the story of a seemingly perfect couple, the disappearance and murder of a pretty, white, pregnant woman, an affair uncovered, and a husband not acting the way others think he should. It is also a story of justice being achieved; however, some narratives are questioning whether his conviction was the right ending. Whether a deep dive or an episodic program, the core elements of the narratives outlining the Peterson case are consistent across programs. Each includes a description of Laci, Scott, and their relationship, painting the picture of a young, happy couple about to have their first child, to be named Conner. On the day of her disappearance, Laci’s stepfather called 911 to report her missing; this audio is often included to connect the viewers to the day of the incident. The narrative continues with an overview of the search for Laci and the corresponding police investigation. The evidence that is eventually used to obtain an arrest warrant is unveiled, including the emergence of Scott’s mistress, Amber Frey. Part of this portion of the story includes audio recordings of phone calls Scott made to Frey. Several of these are highlighted, but it is one he made on

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New Year’s Eve that is presented as the most alarming. Claiming to be in Paris, Scott called Frey to wish her a happy new year; but he was really calling her from a candlelight vigil that was being held for Laci. The details of Scott’s arrest, along with his subsequent trial and conviction, are revealed. Finally, media coverage of the case is an integral part of these narratives. Information and participants are recycled across the shows, among them Beth Karas, an attorney and TV commentator; John Buehler, the detective who worked the case; and a couple of the jurors. Their prevalence in the program changes depending on the intent of the narrative. For example, How It Really Happened with Harper Hill “Did Scott Peterson Murder Laci?” (2017) is a two-part series in which neither Laci’s nor Scott’s families or friends participated. The story is told by police, lawyers, and legal analysts. The typical elements of the case are covered. It was not until the final three minutes of the program that the appeals were discussed and the question of whether Scott could have been wrongfully convicted was raised. The most comprehensive overview of this case was presented on The Murder of Laci Peterson (Berry 2017), a six-episode series that aired on A&E. It promises a deeper understanding due to Scott’s participation in the making of the series. In several telephone interviews from prison, he tells his side of the story. It quickly becomes clear that the story they are presenting is one of a faulty investigation hampered by confirmation bias, trial by media, and the possibility of a wrongful conviction. The overall claim is that Scott was tried by the media because he did not react properly when his pregnant wife vanished, and he had a girlfriend on the side (“Missing in Modesto” 2017). The second episode, “Media Frenzy” (2017), dissects the media coverage and considers how it may have impacted the case. Fingers are pointed at Nancy Grace and other correspondents, who also take part in the series to describe their coverage of the case. The story is told through a modern lens; it revisits evidence, but it does not add much to what has already been presented in true-crime offerings. The final episode, “Reasonable Doubt?” (2017), covers the appeals process and proposes alternative theories, including the possibility that either a group of burglars Laci confronted killed her or that she was one of several victims to have been murdered by a satanic cult. It also introduces viewers to the current trend of citizen sleuthing (see Chapter 5). Viewers learn about a group of people who met via discussion boards relating to the case and have since become involved in helping Peterson and his lawyers with the appeals. Despite presenting a case that was presumed to be solved, The Murder of Laci Peterson ends without resolution; Scott claims his

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innocence and is awaiting the court’s decision on his appeal, which can take several years. Deep dives into sensationalized murder cases have blossomed during this modern era of true crime. Other series have reintroduced the murder of JonBenét Ramsey, the conviction of Erik and Lyle Menendez in the murder of their parents, Pamela Smart’s conviction in the murder of her husband, and others. Like the other programs discussed, each of these were cases popularized by the media at the time of their occurrence, yet people are still intrigued many years later. Ramsey’s murder remains unsolved, some wonder if the Menendez brothers were unjustly convicted, and controversy has always surrounded Smart’s case, whose teenage lover and friends committed the murder. There are elements in each of these cases that provide intriguing material for new true-crime narratives even decades after their occurrence. Lessons Learned from Deep-Dive Narratives Murder stories remain at the heart of true-crime storytelling. Both episodic and deep-dive narratives have a penchant for gruesome tales of people killing one another. The episodic narratives discussed in Chapter 3 present tales of loved ones killing one another out of lust, jealousy, and greed. These explanations fit within the simple story line that must be constructed to fit within the predetermined arc and allotted time structure. Viewers witness a succession of murders. The repetitious nature of this imagery ingrains a sense of danger and, thus, fear. Deep-dive narratives can elicit the same type of fear by focusing on murders instead of other crimes, but the extended structure offers the opportunity to try to provide a deeper understanding of the causes and context of this type of violence while simultaneously exploring justice-related issues. The two most common types of deep-dive murder narratives home in on serial killers and sensationalized murders, but it is important to note that other types of deep-dive murder stories are being produced in this modern era of true crime. Many of these are newer cases that have some extraordinary characteristics that provides intriguing material from which to develop an engaging narrative. For example, Oxygen’s Unspeakable Crime: The Killing of Jessica Chambers (Berlinger 2018a) is a seven-episode examination of the 2014 murder of nineteen-year-old Jessica Chambers, who was set on fire and left to die. Despite witnesses testifying that she uttered the name “Eric” or “Derrick” at the scene before she died, Quinton Tellis has been tried twice for this crime. Ulti-

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mately, Unspeakable Crime is a tale of a young, pretty, white girl being brutally murdered, allegedly by a black male; it presents a story of violence, race, and justice in a Southern town. The Wonderland Murders (Pattin 2018), a podcast about a 1981 quadruple murder in Hollywood Hills, is another example. This story “involves a drug-fueled gang of criminals, a crazed crime kingpin—and the world’s most famous porn star on a downward and deadly spiral” (Stitcher 2018), which sounds a lot like a Hollywood blockbuster rather than an actual crime. Another podcast, Broken Hearts (Harman, Egan, and Smiley 2018), tells the story of two white moms who adopted six black children. In 2017, their van plummeted off a cliff, killing all. While the exact circumstances surrounding this fatal crash are unknown, the creators presume, as do others, that one of the mothers purposively drove her entire family to their death. The narrative focuses on the façade of normalcy versus an underlying suspicion of how these mothers were treating their children. One last example is the podcast Cold (Cawley 2018). In 2009, Susan Powell disappeared, and her body has never been found; however, authorities are certain that her husband, Josh, killed her. The podcast traces their relationship and how being members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints shaped it. Listeners learn about Susan’s father-in-law, who was in love with her. He often made inappropriate advances toward her and filmed her; he even wrote and recorded songs about his love for her. These factors combined to create an extraordinary murder story. What begins as a tragic tale ends even worse with Josh killing himself and his two sons in 2012. Cold is a voyeuristic tale with an extremely heartbreaking ending. None of these tales represent typical murders, yet they are representative of the types of cases that draw media attention and eventually become the basis of true-crime storytelling. Serial killers as well as sensationalized and extraordinary murders provide the most intriguing material for these deep-dive narratives. Regardless of what type of murder cases are featured, deep dives fall into two categories, each providing different lessons. The first type can be classified as voyeuristic. Watching Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and others talk about their lives and crimes offers little more than a spectacle of violence, which often frames the murderer as a morbid star. The audience can gain some insight into the victims’ lives as the narratives reflect on the person or people who were killed—but most are not tuning in to these stories to learn about the victims. They want to learn about the person who has taken someone else’s life. These narratives allow them to come face to face with these killers from the comfort of

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their own homes, reassured by the knowledge that these murderers are no longer a threat, as they are either dead or in prison. Viewers might gain some insight into why these murderous acts were committed, but there is generally a reliance on easily explainable factors. According to Schmid (2005, 176): “Serial killers are generally depicted in true crime as individualized monstrous psychopaths, whose crimes tell us little or nothing about the societies in which we live. True-crime narratives disconnect these individuals from the social fabric in order to present them as aberrations and freaks.” Modern serial-killer narratives incorporate the same lesson in story after story. Other voyeuristic murder stories offer this type of explanation or rely on those popularized in episodic programming. Overall, individual responsibility is emphasized, indicating that love, greed, and jealousy are the primary causes of murder. These are simple factors to which most people can relate. In the end, given the simplicity of the explanations, these narratives do not require much thought on the part of the audience, increasing their chances of escapism via deepdive murder stories. To some extent, murder stories are always voyeuristic, but some deep dives extend beyond the typical murder narrative structure. Deep explorations into these crimes allow for complexity. They are not constrained by time or structure; therefore, related issues can be included, and one might consider them to be issue-centered or even thought-provoking. An underlying theme or lesson comes to the surface as the case is being covered. In Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman, Goldman and Glass reveal the details of Nicole and Ron’s deaths, which is done to provide context to the rest of the story. They also address the effects of abuse and how domestic violence was handled by police in the 1990s, the privilege attached to being a celebrity, the complexity of criminal trials, and how civil cases differ from criminal cases. Happy Face addresses Jesperson, his upbringing, and his crimes, but it also considers the impact of being the child of a serial killer. Unmasking a Killer provides insight into the history of the criminal-justice system, including the development of 911 and rape kits; True Crime Bullsh** explores the ethics and impact of true crime. Fans most likely tune in to these types of narratives to hear about murderers, but the spectacle is accompanied by a look at the complexity of crime and justice. The audience may find themselves walking away from the experience more knowledgeable about these related issues. The availability of information combined with the available formats of modern true crime allow for the development of deep-dive narratives

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of all types. Murder is the central theme, but it is important to note that other types of crimes are being covered. Some docuseries and podcasts have examined cults, including Heaven’s Gate (Washington 2017), Wild Wild Country (Way and Way 2018), and Jonestown: Terror in the Jungle (Nicholson and Lopez 2018). Some have addressed sexual abuse and assault, such as Believed (Wells and Smith 2018) and She Says (Delia 2018). Both theft and white-collar crime are also being explored, including Last Seen’s (Horan 2018) examination of one of the largest art heists in history and a deep dive into Elizabeth Holmes and Theranos in The Dropout (Jarvis 2019). Regardless of the specific type of crime being covered, these programs typically offer detailed coverage of extraordinary cases. Most of these narratives air on the side of voyeurism; however, in some cases, they introduce their audience to crimes we do not always talk about (e.g., sexual abuse). In modern true crime, deep-dive narratives provide the details traditionally reserved for books or feature-length documentaries. These serialized stories have become an integral part of the genre, allowing people to binge on countless hours of true crime. As demonstrated, they present the details of the cases highlighted and, in some instances, explore related issues. As will be seen in the chapters to come, other creators have used this long-form storytelling to become actively engaged with the material in an attempt to change the narrative and provide a different ending. Notes 1. Listening to this podcast, one learns a lot about Hallmark as he poses interesting questions about the genre of true crime and reflects on how his investigation of Keyes has affected him personally. In the early episodes, he incorporates conversations with both fans and creators of true crime in an attempt to make sense of his own, and other people’s, interest in these stories.

5 Missing Persons and Unsolved Murders

in the air as we sit waiting for the next event to begin. Several people around me are carrying binders with pages marked by colorful tabs, filled with police reports, a transcript of a 911 call, a coroner’s report, and other documents. They eagerly discuss their theories with those around them. “911, what’s your emergency?” suddenly blares through the speakers, instantaneously dampening the chatter in the room. It is the moment we have been waiting for: an interactive event called the P.I. Experience has begun. Its premise is that exposing evidence to a crowd of people may lead to different insights into the death of Jonathan Michael Crews. In Coppell, Texas, on February 2, 2014, Brenda Lazaro made a frantic call to 911, reporting that her boyfriend, Crews, shot himself in front of her. The police, believing it was suicide, stopped investigating the case. But the Crews family is convinced that Lazaro is responsible, and the evidence supports this possibility. In 2016, they filed a wrongful death suit and in doing so, enlisted the help of Sheila Wysocki, a feisty private investigator who once solved a twenty-six-year-old cold case of her college roommate’s murder. The P.I. Experience at CrimeCon 2018 is her brainchild. It is an attempt to harness people’s interest in true crime into an investigative force. Many of the people who attended this event took their role as coinvestigators very seriously. We walk room to room with another private investigator assigned to escort a small group of attendees. We see a 3-D reenactment of the apartment, watch a video demonstrating recoil of the

It is late Friday night at CrimeCon 2018. There is a buzz

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weapon, review a mock crime scene along with enlargements of photos from the actual scene, and examine pictures and text messages sent by Lazaro. Several people in my group asked questions based on their analysis of the evidence, which we had access to in the weeks leading up to the event. They are like star students trying to impress the teacher by demonstrating that they have done their homework. This engagement continues as we reconvene in front of a panel made up of the Crews family, their lawyer, a doctor, and Wysocki. The desire to help find the answer that will prove Lazaro’s culpability permeates the room. In this instance, everyone attending this event is essentially a crime fighter and is simultaneously playing a role in a true-crime story. Citizen Sleuthing Over the years, popular media representations of crime fighting have taught viewers that the police are not the only ones who can solve crimes. From film noir’s private detectives to modern crime dramas’ incorporation of various citizen crime fighters (e.g., psychics, mathematicians, writers), they watch people outside the system help identify the culprit (Surette 2015). This same phenomenon is taking place in the real world. What was once solely the task of law enforcement and others trained in investigative skills has branched into the realm of amateur sleuths. The internet and digitized records have enabled people to take a part in crime fighting, and interested parties can conduct their own investigations into cold cases and attempt to find missing persons. For example, Websleuths, a web forum, enables people to discuss cases that they are interested in; some of those who are active use their research skills to investigate cases via the internet (Shenfeld 2018). According to Tricia Griffith, who runs this online forum, Websleuths is “a community that comes together and brings their knowledge and tries to do some good and solve a crime” (Shenfeld 2018, par. 4). As observed by Elizabeth Yardley and colleagues (2018, 82), “developments in computer hardware and software and innovations in network technologies have given the armchair detective (Soothill 1998) a new lease on life. Enabled by the digital, networked, interactive, and hypermediated characteristics of contemporary culture (Miller 2011), they can now join communities of like-minded people.” They take part in collective investigations that are often referred to as crowdsourcing (Gray and Benning 2019; Yardley, et al. 2018). This phenomenon has gained popularity in recent years, so much so that Gary Gray and Brigitte Benning

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(2019, 1) discuss what they term crowdsourcing criminology, which is “a field of scholarship that examines the ways in which online communities and other sources of media provide ordinary citizens with opportunities to participate in crowdsourced investigations.” Two common examples found in the crowdsourcing literature are the Vancouver Stanley Cup Riots of 2011 and the Boston Marathon bombings of 2013. In the former, a Facebook page was created for people to upload their photos and videos from that night. In this instance, crowdsourcing was used for problem solving, in that law enforcement purposely engaged the community via social media and used the information submitted to identify those who participated in the riots (Dunsby and Howes 2019). In the case of the Boston Marathon bombings, there was the official investigation by law enforcement and “a parallel investigation conducted by a growing movement of online sleuths, often referred to as cyber-vigilantes, or ‘digilantes’” (Nhan, Huey, and Broll 2017, 341). According to Johnny Nhan, Laura Huey, and Ryan Broll (2017, 341), “Since then digilantes have been playing a growing role in online and real-world investigations.” Although crowdsourcing can be a valuable tool in the investigation of cases, it is not without issues. Often, citizen sleuths have contentious relationships with law enforcement (Huey, Nhan, and Broll 2013) and have been known to falsely identify suspects, publicly naming and shaming them (Powell, Stratton, and Cameron 2017; Trottier 2017). Although often independent of true crime, crowdsourcing and amateur sleuthing have become intertwined with the genre in various ways. According to Yardley and colleagues (2018, 103), “Mainstream media producers appear to be tapping into the contemporary appetite for websleuthing, producing content that appeals to these audiences.” One example of how modern true crime is crowdsourcing investigations is The Murder Squad (Jensen and Holes 2019), a podcast that made its debut in 2019. Billy Jensen, an investigative journalist who has helped solve cases using social media, and Paul Holes, a former investigator best known for his involvement with the Golden State Killer case, co-host this program. In each episode, they enlist the help of listeners by giving them an assignment related to the featured case. For example, in the premier episode, the case of Bill Bradford is covered. Bradford was convicted of killing two women, but when law-enforcement officers searched his house, they found hundreds of photos. In 2006, fifty-four photos were released in the hope of identifying the women, and as a result many were identified (“The Other Victims of Bill Bradford” 2019). Jensen and Holes assign listeners the task of sharing photos of the remaining women in hopes that each one will eventually be recognized. In other cases, they also ask for

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help with identifying victims and offenders, filling in time lines, and locating other possible related cases. To minimize heroics and chances of civil liability, Jensen and Holes outline a code of conduct. They tell participants not to name suspects, not to reach out to family members, go undercover, or search through people’s garbage looking for DNA samples (Reilly 2019). How well listeners are abiding by these rules remains to be seen. But Holes’s vast experience within the justice system lends credibility to the work that he and Jensen are setting out to do in this podcast. And he is hopeful that it will do some good. In an interview for Fortune, he stated: “I think we’re going to get a lot more active, interested eyeballs versus people who are just passively watching.” (Reilly 2019, par. 15). In some ways this series is reminiscent of America’s Most Wanted or Unsolved Mysteries. The level and type of involvement they asked of their audience is an example of the types of interactions becoming common in modern true crime. Most citizen sleuthing within modern true crime, however, is not refereed by seasoned law enforcement. It is being conducted by those with little to no investigative or legal experience. They have gotten involved with unsolved murder and missing-person cases, but rather than doing it solely for altruistic reasons, they conduct and record it as infotainment. To find answers, these programs examine the details of a single case, often questioning the legitimacy of the original police work and following up on credible leads as well as speculations and rumors. While sharing some of the same characteristics as other true-crime stories, these media-generated investigations bring up questions regarding the role of true crime in crime fighting, as well as what responsibility the creators have when working outside the law to investigate missingperson cases and unsolved murders. Reinvestigating Missing-Person Cases Every year, hundreds of thousands of people are reported missing in the United States, and in most instances their whereabouts are eventually determined. In 2017, more than 650,000 missing-person records were entered into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC)—an electronic database used by law-enforcement agencies—and by the end of the year, approximately 87 percent of those records were cleared (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018). For those families, there is relief in knowing what happened to their loved ones, but others are left worrying and wondering. They may spend the rest of their lives searching. For

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some, modern true crime may provide assistance. As previously discussed, some programs give them a voice—they tell their stories in hopes that someone in the audience will know something. Others go a step further, actively investigating the disappearance and documenting the events as they unfold. This type of media-generated investigation has become popular during this era of true crime. Searching for Tara Grinstead

It was a Friday night in the fall of 2005. Tara Grinstead, a high school teacher and former beauty queen, went to a pageant and stopped at a friend’s house for a barbecue before heading home. On Monday morning, she did not show up for work, and people began to worry. They found her car and cell phone at her house, but there was no sign of Grinstead. Her whereabouts remained a mystery until renewed attention was brought to the case by the podcast Up and Vanished (Lindsey 2016). Payne Lindsey, a filmmaker and fan of true crime, and his team are the creators of several podcasts, including Atlanta Monster, Monster: The Zodiac Killer, and others, but his first dive into the genre was Up and Vanished, in which he investigated Grinstead’s disappearance. He told Rolling Stone that he wanted to put his storytelling ability to good use by attempting to solve a cold case (Locker 2017). Before donning his new persona as a “crime fighter,” Lindsey examined unsolved cases on the website of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation (GBI). Like many other true-crime storytellers, he selected a case involving the disappearance of a pretty white female (see Box 5.1). Lindsey spent eight months researching the case before releasing the first episode; however, it was not until after the podcast hit the airwaves that people in the small town of Ocilla, Georgia, began talking to him about Grinstead’s disappearance (Locker 2017).

Box 5.1 Missing White Females

The prominence of missing white females in the media has garnered its own moniker—missing white woman/girl syndrome. Research on coverage of missing-person cases in the news indicates that not every missing-person case is considered worthy of equal media attention. Missing-person cases covered extensively by the media tend to involve continues

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pretty, white females. Although half of missing children are boys and half are minorities, mainstream media sources focus on missing white children, especially girls (Min and Feaster 2010). Michelle Jeanis and Ráchael Powers (2017) found that younger, white, female victims were covered in a larger number of articles and were more likely to receive national media attention. Even more specifically, Leigh Moscowitz and Spring-Serenity Duvall (2011) found the most media coverage is seen in cases in which middle- or upper-class white girls are abducted from their home by a male stranger. Disproportionate attention to certain types of victims creates common misperceptions about who is likely to vanish, but it also means that those who do not fit the narrative are presented as less worthy. Research on media coverage of missing-person cases indicates that there is not only an overwhelming focus on stories about missing white women but that differences exist in the amount and content of the coverage. A study by Mia Moody, Bruce Dorries, and Harriet Blackwell (2009) is particularly insightful concerning how missing women are covered based on their race. In this study, the researchers compared media coverage of four missing-person cases, in which two were white women and two were black women. An extremely small percentage (1.2 percent) of news transcripts located for this study provided information on the disappearance of the black women. Regardless of race, there is a tendency to frame missing women through a patriarchal lens; stories covering their disappearance emphasize their roles as mothers, wives, and daughters, and include descriptions of their physical attributes (Moody, Dorries, and Blackwell 2009). But there are also differences based on the race of the missing woman. According to Moody and colleagues (2009, 14), “White women, in particular, were framed as sweet, valued loved ones placed on a pedestal by their family and community members.” These characteristics were not included in the stories covering the disappearance of black women; instead, the journalists often asked family and friends questions about the lack of media coverage on the case. Overall, their findings indicate that there is “a clear bias that favors young, attractive white women, almost to the exclusion of black women” (Moody, Dorries, and Blackwell 2009, 16). Although this research exclusively pertains to news coverage, modern true crime is following in the footsteps of its journalistic counterpart.

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Up and Vanished begins much like other missing-person narratives. The first episode, “Cold as Alaska” (2016), describes Grinstead, recounts the events leading up to the discovery of her disappearance, and covers when it was reported to the police—all within the first two minutes. The voice of the narrator, combined with the background music, makes this opening sequence intense and haunting. The remaining twenty-two minutes provide more detail about these elements and interject information not typically included in missing-person narratives. Departing from the typical structure, Lindsey explains how he became involved with this case and how he met Maurice Godwin, an investigator who worked for Grinstead’s family between 2006 and 2009. Godwin helps establish the facts of the case and provides an assessment of how well the GBI investigated Grinstead’s disappearance, which he rates as a three out of ten. This poor performance sets the stage for the investigation that is unveiled throughout this season of Up and Vanished. Blaming inadequate actions by law enforcement is a theme commonly found in missing-person narratives; however, in Up and Vanished, Lindsey and his team go a step further by retracing the actions of law enforcement and searching for new clues. Much of this investigation is done on their own, with the help of experts they have hired. For example, when they receive a tip to search under a house that was destroyed by a fire, they go to the property to collect evidence (“Snapdragon Road” 2016). They fill three bags, claiming to have found bones, women’s underwear, and white chalky material that might have been quicklime, a substance that can be used to decompose bodies. They also bring in cadaver dogs to search the area. Many of the leads they follow do not turn up anything of significance, but on occasion, when they think they may have a new clue, they involve law enforcement. For example, they turn over the bags from the house to be examined by the state crime lab. On another occasion, they start receiving messages with clues from a Facebook account assigned to “George Harrison.” They inform the GBI, which questions the person with the account, only to find out that he does not know anything about Grinstead’s disappearance. Not only does Lindsey follow leads on little more than speculation, but some of his actions require law enforcement to respond, thereby expending their resources on fabricated clues and on people seeking attention via involvement with the podcast. Typical missing-person narratives are emotional and, at times, hopeful. Big breaks are revealed and family and friends express their grief and frustration when these do not lead them any closer to finding

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answers. Overall, however, these narratives are straightforward and, for the most part, not meant to manipulate the audience; after all, they watch the program knowing that the person has probably not been found. Up and Vanished, by contrast, uses Lindsey’s filmmaking experience to present a different kind of missing-person story. The narrative and the structure of the episodes, including the voice of the narrator, sound effects, and music, emotionally manipulate listeners and employ tactics to make them tune in to the next episode. Those who become emotionally involved with the story are now invested and committed to seeing it through to the end. In general, true crime has an underlying theme of fear (Murley 2008). Simply telling the stories of people who have been murdered or have vanished into thin air can make the audience fearful of victimization. They may wonder: Could this happen to me or someone I love? While embodying this element of true crime, Up and Vanished is more deliberate in its creation of fear. A feeling of danger, which is threaded throughout the series, is initially brought to the listeners’ attention in the first episode when Godwin cautions Lindsey not to go to Ocilla alone to investigate. This warning establishes fear and adds to the mystery surrounding Grinstead’s disappearance. As the investigation continues, those involved receive threats, warning them against continuing their work on the case (“In the Box” 2016; “The Black Truck” 2016). These words of caution may leave listeners wondering what is going on in this small town and what kinds of people are involved with Grinstead’s disappearance. Each of these warnings is made particularly foreboding by the music and sound effects that accompany the narrative. Like a good horror film, these aspects increase the audience’s physical reaction, creating anxiety and anticipation. The first of many new pieces of information is dropped in the first episode. These new bits of seemingly credible evidence provide listeners with hope that Lindsey’s investigation might solve the case. These potentially case-breaking pieces of information are usually revealed toward the end of an episode, thereby requiring listeners to wait to find out the exact details and what it means for the investigation. In “Cold as Alaska” (2016), this break in the case comes from Lindsey talking to his grandmother, who lives near Ocilla and has a friend who saw Grinstead the last day she was seen. In this conversation, it is revealed that Grinstead was going to see a former student, someone whom no one had mentioned during previous investigations. This new information is the first of many clues that take Lindsey down what he refers to as “rabbit holes.” It is when he follows these leads that he walks a fine

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line between fact-telling and speculation. However, Lindsey himself does not see it this way. He told Rolling Stone, “‘I was always very objective. I didn’t want to point a finger at anybody’” (Locker 2017, par. 6). Yet throughout the series, Lindsey does not shy away from making accusations, often using full names. In “Suicide” (2016), Lindsey tells the audience there are several people who have acted suspiciously, so “I’m going to present all the facts, and if doing so makes someone look guilty, by all means, please come clear your name.” Lindsey places responsibility on these people to “prove their innocence” rather than using evidence to demonstrate that they are guilty. Despite looking at others, most of the focus is on Grinstead’s ex-boyfriend, Marcus Harper. Even though the police cleared Harper as a suspect, Lindsey and his team spend a significant amount of energy trying to find evidence that he had something to do with Grinstead’s disappearance. They dissect their relationship and breakup, consider Harper’s reputation, and use several tactics to check his alibi, which they label “convenient” (“The Alibi” 2016). When reinvestigating a missing-person case, they not only look at potential suspects but also dissect aspects of the missing person’s life in the hope of finding clues to the disappearance. Rumors regarding Grinstead’s behavior were a theme in Up and Vanished. The podcast begins like a typical missing-person story, and Grinstead is presented in a positive manner. She is painted as an all-American woman. The narrator informs listeners: “Tara Grinstead was a thirty-year-old beauty queen and local high school teacher living in the small town of Ocilla, Georgia. She was a gorgeous brunette with a striking smile and someone students and peers looked up to” (“Cold as Alaska” 2016). She is a beauty queen, a teacher, and described as kind; however, the narrative eventually begins to paint a different picture of Grinstead. Reading emails that she sent after her breakup with Harper, listeners learn that she was extremely upset. In fact, the email, and other testimony, may leave the audience wondering whether she was emotionally unstable and whether she might have harmed herself. More attention, however, is spent on Grinstead’s relationships with others. Godwin describes Grinstead as being “very free with men” (“White Rabbits” 2016). There are rumors that she had sexual relationships with former students (“White Rabbits” 2016) and that she may have been having an affair with a married police officer from another town (“Phineas Gage” 2016). In Oxygen’s one-night special Up and Vanished (Lindsey 2018b), this theme is continued. The series narrator reported, “According to the GBI, Tara’s case was complicated because she was

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involved in several romantic relationships at the time she disappeared.” In this series, the sometimes controversial Nancy Grace works to correct this image of Grinstead. She tells Lindsey that though the media and others painted Grinstead as sexually promiscuous, she was just a normal young, single woman who was dating. These references to Grinstead’s relationships with men, however, serve as a cautionary tale. There is an underlying suggestion that her relationships with these men are what caused her disappearance, thereby placing partial blame on the victim. While Lindsey was conducting his media-generated investigation for Up and Vanished, the GBI received a telephone tip, which eventually led to Ryan Duke being charged with Grinstead’s murder and Bo Dukes with conspiracy. Additional episodes of Up and Vanished were released, but the focus shifted from the victim to examination of the alleged offenders. In 2018, this exploration continued in the one-night special on Oxygen, which set out to take a closer look at the suspects to determine who was telling the truth. Lindsey and his team were not convinced that Duke committed the murder. The narrative presents a tale of “haves versus have-nots.” Duke comes from a poor family and has struggled with drug use. He met Dukes in high school, the very school where Grinstead worked. Dukes has had run-ins with the law and lied to the GBI during the investigation, but he comes from a wealthy and powerful family. Lindsey wonders if he set up Duke. The hypothesis that Dukes is responsible and Duke is the fall guy is supported through interviews with various townspeople (Lindsey 2018b). Like the podcast, breaking developments are not revealed until near the end of the special. Rumors abound that five people were involved in Grinstead’s death and the subsequent cover-up, which included burning her body in the pecan orchard owned by Dukes’s family. Many of those rumored to be involved come from influential families; therefore, political clout most likely impacted the investigation. At the end of the televised special, Lindsey concludes that Duke may not be innocent, but he is not guilty of the crime with which he is being charged. What role did Lindsey’s media-generated investigation into Grinstead’s death play in the outcome of the case? Commenting on these developments made in this seemingly cold case, the GBI stated that the media played a “‘significant role in this investigation’” (Locker 2017, par. 1). Tierney Bricker (2018, par. 3), reporting for E! News, gives Lindsey all the credit by writing, “Yes, a curious arm-chair-detectiveturned-millennial-podcaster cracked the case.” Lindsey told Rolling Stone that during his investigation of the case he never came across the

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names of those arrested (Locker 2017). Yet he still takes some credit for these developments. In the television special, he stated, “My investigation rocked this small town.” And it did uncover dark secrets and got people talking (Lindsey 2018b). As Lindsey put it, “I think the podcast helped create an environment for the truth to come out” (Lindsey 2018b). In this case, it was the renewed media attention, not any new evidence uncovered by Lindsey and his team, that contributed to these arrests. But at what cost? This season of Up and Vanished demonstrates the power of these types of investigations; however, it is also an example of the issues that arise when attempting to solve a case for infotainment purposes. In the end, renewed interest in the case may have contributed to developments, but it was law enforcement that gathered the evidence used to convict Dukes, who was found guilty in March 2019 (Stevens 2019).1 Lindsey continued his citizen sleuthing in the second season of Up and Vanished. Aired in 2018, this season was, in many ways, a replica of the first—another small town filled with secrets and danger, and another young, pretty woman, Kristal Anne Reisinger, vanishing without a trace. The themes are reminiscent of the first season, although there have not been any major developments. Searching for Other Missing Women

Payne Lindsey is not the only, nor the first, person to use these techniques to create a true-crime narrative. Prior to Lindsey, there was James Renner and his obsession with the disappearance of twenty-oneyear-old Maura Murray. On February 9, 2004, Murray emailed her teachers and work supervisor to say that she had to leave because of a family emergency. She packed her belongings and went on her way. That evening in Woodsville, New Hampshire, her car ran into a snowbank. A passerby stopped and offered help, but Murray declined, stating that she had called AAA. Because it was the middle of winter, the concerned motorist still notified the police. By the time they arrived, Murray had vanished. The search for her goes unresolved. Fifteen years later, the quest for answers continues and has become an integral part of modern true crime. When Murray went missing, her case did not come to the attention of national media outlets, but now one would be hard pressed to find a true-crime fan who does not know her name and is not familiar with the circumstances surrounding her disappearance. According to Michelle Dean (2016, 4), “Murray was young, white, and attractive, attributes

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that tend to drive a lot of interest in missing-person cases. And there is something haunting about the way she vanished—how, just as she seemed to want to check out of her life, it actually happened.” James Renner, a former journalist, started his investigation with some internet sleuthing and soon became obsessed with the case. He conveys this story in his book True Crime Addict: How I Lost Myself in the Mysterious Disappearance of Maura Murray (Renner 2016). In a review of the book for the New Yorker, Dean (2016, par. 5) describes it as “a strange beast—one that embodies every problem that arises when online obsessives are infected with delusions of detective grandeur.” Much of Dean’s (2016) critique of Renner’s tactics can be applied to Lindsey as well. First, Renner appears to embrace any tips he receives, which means that innocent people are implicated. In addition, if someone refuses to talk to him, he calls them out as having something to hide. Even Murray’s father, Fred, who did not want the book published, was cast as a person of interest (Dean 2016). Ultimately, Renner walks a fine line between trying to be an investigative journalist and harassing people. Dean comments that people like Renner rarely solve cases, instead, “they are drawn to the most dramatic possibilities and ignore more tedious solutions” (Dean 2016, par. 14). When others cover this case, they refer to Renner as the main expert, and he often takes part in the series. Full-length investigations of Murray’s disappearance have been produced for other programs, including the podcast Missing Maura Murray (Pilleri and Reenstierna 2015), Finding Maura Murray: A Documentary Series About Obsession (Pilleri and Reenstierna 2018b), and a season of Oxygen’s The Disappearance Of. In the end, an enormous amount of time and effort has been devoted to this case, yet no one knows what happened to Murray on that winter’s night in 2004. Similar focus and tactics can be found in Oxygen’s The Disappearance Of. As of mid-2019, five different cases have been covered in this series: The Disappearance of Natalee Holloway (Dicks and Dunning 2017), The Disappearance of Maura Murray (Slutsky 2017), The Disappearance of Crystal Rogers (Alcock 2018), The Disappearance of Phoenix Coldon (Atlas 2018), and The Disappearance of Susan Cox Powell (Day 2019). The main premise of this series is to reinvestigate the circumstances under which these women vanished. In The Disappearance of Natalee Holloway, viewers follow David Holloway’s quest to search out answers to his daughter’s disappearance since a new informant came forward (Dicks and Dunning 2017). The other seasons of The Disappearance Of feature a female journalist rein-

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vestigating the case with the help of a former law-enforcement officer, who is male. The cameras follow them as they retrace the steps of the police and search for new clues that will help them find the missing person. Like Up and Vanished, on the surface the producers seem wellintentioned, but their goal is really viewership, no matter the cost. They weave suspense and fear into the narrative to keep their audience engaged. Near the end of the third episode of The Disappearance of Crystal Rogers, cadaver dogs are shown searching an area, and two of them end up signaling that there are human remains in one spot (“Cold and Calculating” 2018). Viewers are led to believe that they may have uncovered new evidence, but to find out whether this is the case, they have to wait for the next episode. In the end, this new lead does not provide any answers. The search and the clues are overdramatized, especially since this narrative is not unfolding in real time—instead, it is constructed to entertain. As Dean (2016, par. 14) commented on the work of James Renner, there is a tendency to look at “the most dramatic possibilities.” In the case of Crystal Rogers, the participants attempt to connect her murder to others in the town (a mother and daughter killed in their home; a police officer killed in an ambush on his way home; and the murder of Rogers’s father while he was investigating her disappearance). After looking extensively at Rogers’s boyfriend, these investigators speculate that local law enforcement could be corrupt. They also consider whether the “Cornbread Mafia” and its connection to drugs had something to do with her disappearance. Throughout each of these presentations, various suspects are targeted based on little more than speculation or their unwillingness to talk. Even those closest to the missing person, some of whom are willing participants in the making of these shows, are not safe from accusations. Did Maura Murray’s father have something to do with her disappearance? Did Phoenix Coldon’s mother, Goldia, drive her away with her strict upbringing? Natalee Holloway’s mother, Beth, did not participate in the making of the show about her daughter, but she was still not safe from the producer’s tactics. She filed a lawsuit against the producer, alleging that “the show was ‘not real time or legitimate investigation into new leads,’ as the program claimed to be, but a ‘pre-planned farce’” (Swenson 2018, 4). They tricked her into giving DNA to be used in testing remains that had been found, but she was not told it was for a television show. They never even revealed the results to her; instead, she found out when the program aired (Swenson 2018). Several other media-generated investigations into missing persons exist, especially in podcasting. Ottavia Zappala examines the 2001

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disappearance of seventeen-year-old Alissa Turney in the podcast Missing Alissa (Zappala 2017), a quest she undertakes with the help of Turney’s sister, Sarah.2 Melinda Esquibel, a filmmaker, amateur investigator, and former classmate of Tara Calico, who disappeared in 1988, investigates this case in the podcast VANISHED: The Tara Calico Investigation (Esquibel 2017). Podcasting is not limited to investigative journalists. It offers ordinary people the opportunity to examine cases they care about. For example, Shaun Gurd, the host of Unconcluded (Gurd 2017) is an elementary schoolteacher, who along with his friend, Scott Jamison, decided to create a podcast centering on the 2006 disappearance of Jennifer Kesse. Equipped with a $100 microphone and no investigative or podcasting experience, they created the series (Jervis 2017). Each of these individuals is investing significant time and effort into their quest for answers and simultaneously providing true-crime fans with hours of entertainment. As already mentioned, the media has long been obsessed with missing white women, and this tradition is being carried on in modern true crime. Although the intention of these creators is to help find the missing person, the narratives are formulated for entertainment, thereby continuing the long tradition of misrepresenting missing persons cases and sending a message that distinguishes which victims we should care about. Independently produced programs, podcasts in particular, are trying to break this trend. One such program is The Fall Line (Norton and Hargrove 2017), born out of a college course taught by Laurah Norton, who was concerned about the media’s laser focus on missing white women (personal communication, May 5, 2018). In 1990, Jeannette and Dannette Millbrook, black twin sisters, went missing in Augusta, Georgia, and their disappearance went nearly unreported by the media. Norton stated that when she did an internet search of this case, there were three hits (personal communication, May 5, 2018). Working with the Millbrook family, she and Brooke Hargrove developed the first season of The Fall Line. The story that unfolds highlights the incompetence of law enforcement in the handling of this missing-person case, suggesting that race had a lot to do with the way authorities responded to reports of this disappearance. The mistakes hampered the search and may be why the whereabouts of the Millbrook twins are still unknown. In subsequent seasons of the podcast, Norton and Hargrove continue their exploration of cases involving missing or murdered minorities from the Southeast. Other lesser-known podcasts are attempting to tell similar stories but are struggling to be recognized in the vast sea of stories on missing white females.

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Unsolved Murders: Searching for the Culprit Media-generated investigations within true crime are not limited to missing persons. Unsolved murders, which have become known as “cold cases” in the media, have also been incorporated into this type of true-crime storytelling. The exact number of unsolved murders is not known, as there is no comprehensive national database, but it has been estimated that about 40 percent of homicides remain unsolved (Walton 2017). Like missing-person narratives, true crime often tells stories of unsolved murders in hopes that someone out there knows something, but we also see both professionals and amateurs putting on their detective hats and recording the steps they take to solve the crime. One program that takes on the investigation of cold cases is TNT/Oxygen’s Cold Justice (Wolf 2013). Despite being an episodic style of programming, it takes on the qualities of media-generated investigations. The main face of this program is Kelly Siegler, a former prosecutor, who, along with a team of investigators, seeks to help families find the answers they need to finally have some sort of resolution. Over the course of four seasons, the team revisited sixty-five cases, which led to thirty-seven arrests and eighteen convictions (Rudolph 2018). Siegler and her team only become involved with cases in which the family, as well as local law enforcement and the district attorney, are willing to work with them (Turchiano 2017). These cases are usually from smaller jurisdictions that do not have cold-case units; therefore, their help is wanted. In each episode, Siegler and her co-investigators recap the case, meet with local law enforcement and the family, and then work the clues themselves. The team begins by breaking down the case with local law enforcement, sketching out details of the main suspects and theories on a white board, visually mapping out the case for viewers. They conduct interviews, usually within the large black SUV that they drive around town. With the person sitting in the front passenger seat, they capture the interview on an inward-facing dashboard camera. By the end of the episode, Siegler creates a case file that is presented to law enforcement. If there is enough evidence, local law enforcement takes it to the district attorney. In some cases, the decision is made to prosecute the main suspect based on Siegler’s work, whereas in others the findings are just not enough for prosecution. The professional background of Siegler and her team, along with the fact that they work with local law enforcement, increases the likelihood that the rule of law is being followed. Siegler and her colleagues

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are trying to build a legitimate case that the district attorney can use. Yet filming their actions for entertainment brings with it risks. The footage seen by the audience is limited. Like other reality-based programs (e.g., Cops) much more goes on behind the scenes than viewers are privy to in the final aired product. In each episode, names of and information about the main suspects are released. Often, as a result of their investigation, the team can rule out one or more suspects; however, at the end of many episodes, suspicion is cast on the remaining suspect whether there is enough evidence to support this contention or not. One such person filed a lawsuit against both the police and the program’s producer for defamation, arguing that the episode left the impression that he was the killer (Yankova 2014). Although Cold Justice follows the traditional episodic model of true-crime television programming, other modern narratives are borrowed from deep dives by covering the cases over the course of several episodes. Some simply offer a retelling of the story; however, the trend has been to document a reinvestigation of the case. “What the Hell Did I Do? Killed Them All, of Course.”

An early, albeit unique, example of unsolved murders in modern true crime is The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst (Jarecki 2015). Andrew Jarecki first explored Robert Durst’s life in a fictionalized film, which prompted Durst himself to seek out Jarecki for an interview. He sat down for many hours of filming and provided the documentarian with boxes of information. Although Durst was a willing participant in the making of this documentary, the result was not what he expected. The Jinx is a true-crime story, one that ultimately contributed to his arrest for murder. The mystery Jarecki sought to unravel in The Jinx is the role Durst played in the deaths of his neighbor, Morris Black, his wife, Kathleen Durst, and his friend Susan Berman. What unfolds is a hybrid true-crime narrative. It appears on its surface to be a deep-dive exploration, but it is in fact a media-generated investigation. The Jinx unfolds over the course of six episodes that explore the disappearances and deaths of Black, Durst, and Berman. Most of the narrative relies on “talking heads, reenactments and archival footage” (Sacco 2016, 9). Durst himself plays a major role via on-camera interviews. In this part of the series, Jarecki appears to be no different from a journalist interviewing a subject, allowing Durst to tell his version of events. The final episode changes pace, morphing from a simple deep dive into the mystery to a media-generated investigation.

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In “Chapter 6: What the Hell Did I Do?” (2015), the focus is on Berman’s murder. Two significant events take place over the course of this final episode. The first centers on a handwriting comparison. The police received an anonymous letter indicating that a body was located at an address in Beverly Hills, with “Beverly” misspelled. The documentarians come across another letter written by Durst and sent to Berman in Beverly Hills. The address has the same misspelling, and according to analysis of the writing, it was written by the same person. On camera, Jarecki shows both specimens to various people involved in the investigation over the years. Viewers can see them connect the pieces and wonder whether over the course of making this docuseries, Jarecki has finally located evidence that Durst is responsible for Berman’s death. Following this jaw-dropping break, much of the footage is of Jarecki and his team planning another interview with Durst, in which they will confront him. During this time, Durst goes from being painted as a willing participant to a reluctant one. And Jarecki goes from respecting, even liking, Durst to being fearful of him and his potential reaction to the confrontation that is about to take place. When they finally sit down for the interview, Jarecki shows Durst the two letters, getting him to admit he wrote the one to Berman. It is at the end of this interaction that the second event unfolds. Durst leaves the room to go to the bathroom, but his microphone is still on. No video is available, but the soundtrack is still incorporated into the docuseries. Amid the sounds of paper towels, water running, a belt unbuckling and buckling, and random bodily noises, the following disconnected rambling is captured: “There it is. You’re caught. You’re right of course. But, you can’t imagine. Arrest him. I don’t know what’s in the house. Oh, I want this. What a disaster. He was right. I was wrong . . . I’m having difficulty with the question. What the hell did I do? Killed them all, of course” (emphasis added; “Chapter 6: What the Hell Did I Do?” 2015). The screen fades to black, and the credits roll. Durst was arrested shortly after the episode aired, despite the filmmakers having ceased filming two years earlier. Daniel Sacco (2016, 10) calls the timing of the arrest suspicious, because it “invites questioning of whether Andrew Jarecki had maintained an ethically appropriate distance from the ongoing investigation.” The filmmakers claimed that the audio was not found for two years, because it was not associated with any usable footage (Young 2019). As of 2020, Durst is sitting in jail awaiting his trial for the 2000 death of Susan Berman, having admitted to writing the letter indicating the location of the body (Sanchez and Meeks 2020). But now, the “confession” that was the catalyst for his

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arrest is under scrutiny, as are the ethics of the documentarians. According to David Folkenflik, media critic for NPR, the transcripts, which have been released for the impending trial, reveal that Durst’s remarks were edited out of context and spliced together (Young 2019). The Jinx and the purported actions of the documentarians point to another potential issue when those outside of law enforcement become involved with the quest for justice. On the one hand, the audience puts its trust in the creators, especially when watching representations of true stories; therefore, many are likely to believe in the legitimacy of the facts being presented. On the other hand, the creators want to make certain their audience enjoys the final product. In the instance of unsolved cases, enjoyment—or at least satisfaction—is achieved when the mystery is solved or the bad guy is busted. Perhaps in this case, the desire to provide a resolution superseded the need to present the audio as actually documented. In a sea of true-crime storytelling, The Jinx stands out because of this proclamation. But now the filmmakers may be learning that the end does not always justify the means. More Dead Women, More Citizen Sleuthing

On September 20, 2004, twenty-two-year-old Rebekah Gould drops Casey, her sometimes boyfriend, off at work, stops at a convenience store, buys a breakfast sandwich, and returns to Casey’s trailer, where she is supposed to pack up her belongings before picking up her sister and driving back to Fayetteville, Arkansas, where they are attending college. Gould never shows up to collect her sister. They find her car, phone, wallet, and dog at the trailer, along with a blood-soaked mattress and other indications of a deadly altercation. The search for Gould begins. One week later, her body is found alongside the highway, hidden in the bushes. The police investigate; rumors abound. Casey is quickly cleared by the police, who are certain that another guy named Chris killed her in a meth-fueled attack when she refused his sexual advances, but fourteen years later, no arrests have been made. The murder of Gould is covered in the podcast Hell and Gone (Townsend 2018). Catherine Townsend, a reporter and private investigator, descends on the small towns of Mountain View and Melbourne, Arkansas, to achieve “justice for Rebekah” (“14 Years Gone” 2018). What begins as an investigation turns into an obsession, which is also personal. Townsend’s family lives in Mountain View and her sister went to school with Gould’s sister. Because the Arkansas State Police will not share their evidence with her, she takes it upon herself to work

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the case. Over the course of eight episodes, listeners learn about Gould’s murder and follow Townsend on her investigation, as she questions lawenforcement tactics and uses social media to connect to those who might know something about Gould’s death. Townsend is assisted in her investigation by two members of her own team, along with Larry Gould, Rebekah’s father, and George Jared, a local reporter who covered Gould’s murder. Townsend attempts to enlist cooperation from local law enforcement but is met with resistance. She turns to others who can help her understand the evidence, including a neurologist, a forensic entomologist, an expert on vultures, and even the owner of a local pianorepair shop, as it is suspected that she was killed with the leg of a piano. While presenting the case, this podcast employs many narrative qualities used by Payne Lindsey in Up and Vanished. The series opens with fear. Driving down “a desolate stretch” of highway, Townsend states “sometimes bad things happen when no one is around to hear you scream” (“14 Years Gone” 2018). This theme is carried throughout the series. People she interviews are hesitant to talk, because they fear the murderer or the police. In some cases, she disguises their voices or simply tells listeners what they told her. She herself fears what might happen because she is sticking her nose into the goings-on of this small Arkansas town. She opens “People Seem to Die Around Her” (2018), with the following: I had a conversation with dad last night and he is leaving . . . so, he took me aside, told me, he said, here is the .38; he’s got a loaded .38 and, um, another gun and then he’s got, he’s like Dirty Harry lives here. He’s got his Dirty Harry gun. There are three fully loaded weapons sitting there and I had a plan if anyone came to the house and came up the stairs. We know they know where we live.

Townsend is clearly conveying to listeners that even her father, a sheriff’s deputy, thinks that she put herself in danger by taking on this investigation. Townsend describes the main suspect, Chris, as “scary” and “sinister” and comments that “he’ll fuck you up in a second” (“Dead in the Water” 2018). The tension builds when Townsend and the team finally locate him, ambushing him for an interview, but they leave with a different view. “This is the guy that everybody has been saying is like . . . this evil, whatever. His eyes were all tearing up. I thought he was going to cry” (“You Could Get a Good Swing” 2018). Like Up and Vanished, the victim is depicted in two ways. The series begins with Townsend stating, “Rebekah was beautiful, popular, and full of life.” (“14 Years Gone” 2018). She is described as blonde with a

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dazzling white smile. Her sister, Danielle, comments, “She didn’t deserve what happened to her . . . she was a good person” (“14 Years Gone” 2018). Later, Townsend states, “Rebekah was the girl that men wanted and women wanted to be” (“People Seem to Die Around Her” 2018). Although most comments about Gould are positive, this picture of perfection begins to fade with discussions of drug use and multiple boyfriends. Was she killed because she owed a drug dealer money? Was she seeing her ex-boyfriend, Justin, while dating Casey? There is an underlying cautionary tale, suggesting that her behavior might explain her death. Larry Gould welcomes Townsend’s investigation into his daughter’s murder. He is frustrated with the way the police initially investigated the case and even more so that they will not release information to him so he can hire experts to help. This roadblock has prompted him to petition the Arkansas legislature to support Rebekah’s Law, which would allow access to police files in unsolved cases after a certain time (“We’re Not Stopping” 2018). Townsend begins her investigation by trying to differentiate fact from fiction, as rumors run rampant in this small town. She does name suspects, but unlike Lindsey, she does not use last names, offering some anonymity. In reality, a quick search on the internet is likely to yield an exact identity. She begins by dissecting the theory long held by the police—that Chris did it and called on a friend, JB, to help him clean up. She eventually dismisses this theory and moves on to another suspect, Jennifer, who was dating an ex-boyfriend of Rebekah’s and was pregnant with his child. Was her death the result of a love triangle? Townsend observes, “Jennifer was hormonal and pregnant with Justin’s baby—jealousy starts to look like a real potential motive” (“People Seem to Die Around Her” 2018). But this theory is short-lived. Instead, Townsend and company turn their attention to the only person cleared by the police—Casey. According to the police, Casey has an airtight alibi, but this does not stop Townsend from investigating him as the primary suspect. Two factors convince her that Casey may be responsible for Gould’s death. First, when Gould went missing, Casey was one of the only people close to her who did not take part in the search. It is common to analyze the actions of those close to the victim and assume culpability when they do not act the way we expect. Second, he is not willing to talk to her, which Townsend refers to as a “glowing red flag”—after all, “if he has nothing to hide, he should be willing to talk about it” (“No Comment” 2018). She, like others, puts the responsibility on those involved to come forward to prove their innocence rather than collecting evidence that they are guilty. Townsend describes Casey as an enigma (“No Comment” 2018). Danielle, Rebekah’s sister, refers to him as a “psycho care bear”

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(“14 Years Gone” 2018) and describes him as “obsessed” and “controlling” (“No Comment” 2018). In “Two Sides to Every Suspect” (2018), Townsend asks whether Casey was loving or controlling, as those they have interviewed have alluded to both when describing his relationship with Gould. Casey finally answers Townsend’s request to talk, with a resounding no. Shortly thereafter, at least in the sequence of the narrative, a potential witness comes forward stating that Casey told him on multiple occasions that he killed Gould and threw the weapon into the river. Has Townsend finally found evidence that will solve this case? According to the district attorney, who wants “proof beyond a reasonable doubt,” she has not (“We’re Not Stopping” 2018), but she has stirred the pot. The Arkansas State Police begin working the case again and have assigned it to a new investigator. The Jinx and Hell and Gone are examples of two very different media-generated investigations searching for answers in unsolved murders, but there are many others as well. The level at which the creator intervenes in the investigation varies. Some take a new look at the evidence and talk to those involved, whereas others dive headfirst and insert themselves into the case. These would-be crime fighters all seem to pick similar types of cases. Like the media-generated investigations into missing persons, there is a tendency to fixate on specific types of victims— the standard murdered white women and girls. The Keepers (White 2017) follows two former students of Sister Cathy Cesnik, who was founded murdered in 1969.3 The podcast Who Killed Amy Mihaljevic? (Huffman 2018) follows Bill Huffman, an investigative journalist, as he revisits the 1989 murder of ten-year-old Amy Mihaljevic. In Knock Knock (Jones 2018), Jason Jones, the grandson of murder victim Betty Jones, attempts to solve her and Kathryn Crigler’s slaying on Labor Day in 1990. Simultaneously, police kept working the case, and through modern DNA testing, they were able to identify and arrest a suspect (Miller 2018). There is a movement afoot seeking to use podcasting and other means to solve cold cases, yet only certain types of cases are deemed worthy of these efforts. Lessons Learned from Media-Generated Investigations Modern true crime is attempting to harness its power to help bring resolution to unresolved cases. These media-generated investigations demonstrate the complexity of true crime. Traditionally thought of as

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lowbrow entertainment featuring voyeuristic murder stories, this specific category demonstrates a different role of the genre. Although there is no denying that the genre still seeks to entertain, the underlying intent to solve crimes is what distinguishes it from traditional narratives. However, using the media in this way is a slippery slope. There are both good and bad examples of how to best achieve this goal. Alienating law enforcement and taking on these investigations without the knowledge of the families involved is the dark side of this type of media-based investigation, as is allowing entertainment value to supersede the investigative qualities. Unfortunately, narratives using these tactics are some of the most popular. Nonetheless, some creators are carefully crafting their stories, working with law enforcement and families to bring awareness to the case in the hope of finding answers. The quest for justice is their overarching intention. Although the underlying intent of this type of true crime is different, as in episodic programming on murder and missing persons, these narratives contain valuable lessons about crime, victimization, and justice. In “Bad Girls and Gone Girls: Why the Media Tired of ‘Missing White Women,’” Paul Farhi (2015) argues that since the media frenzy surrounding the 2005 disappearance of Natalee Holloway, missing white girls are no longer the media obsession that they once were. He argues that both our culture and the media have changed, so the material is no longer compelling and the audience has grown tired of these stories. Farhi’s observations do not apply to modern true crime, which has embraced missing and dead white women as the focus of many of its stories. The media-generated investigations examined throughout this chapter have focused almost exclusively on missing white females. People go out of their way, spending extra time and resources, to find women like Tara Grinstead, Maura Murray, Crystal Rogers, and others. This trend extends to the media-generated investigations into unsolved murders. Susan Berman, Rebekah Gould, Sister Cathy Cesnik, and Amy Mihaljevic are just a few of the murdered white females featured in this type of modern true crime. Even in this newer type of narrative, the same patterns are being repeated, sending the message that pretty, white females are the most worthy of extra media attention and, in this case, additional investigation into their death or disappearance. In 2018, Oxygen acknowledged the need to tell stories of missing black women and featured the case of Phoenix Coldon on The Disappearance Of. In the weeks leading up to the airing of the series, commericals on the channel essentially called out the media for their laser focus on missing white females. The Disappearance of Phoenix Coldon (Atlas 2018) was

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their attempt to rectify this situation. On the surface, it seemed similar to the others in the franchise; however, the other stories were depicted in five to six epsiodes, whereas Coldon’s was told in only two. And like the news coverage of missing black women, a significant portion of the narrative was devoted to why the media did not cover her case, a conversation that was absent from the other seasons of the series. In the end, Oxygen’s attempt to draw attention to missing minority women appeared to be little more than a marketing ploy. When the series returned the following season, it examined the disappearance of Susan Cox Powell, another white woman. Whereas traditional true crime focuses on the effectiveness of the justice system and presents those in law enforcement as superheroes of sorts, these media-generated investigations into unsolved murders and missing persons send critical messages. The narratives themselves contain people, usually family members, criticizing the actions of the police during the investigation. They highlight instances of disappearances being immediately labeled as willful actions not deserving investigation, failure to talk to witnesses, and botched evidence collection. If the police are not effective crime fighters, then who are we to turn to when someone we love has been murdered or has disappeared? These narratives promote extralegal investigations and citizen sleuthing. Some of these investigations do rely, at least in part, on former law enforcement members turned private investigators. But in general, the audience learns that armed with a computer and some recording equipment, and the ability to complete an FOIA request, any one of us can become investigators, and possibly heroes. Although some of these true-crime investigators have uncovered new information that might be useful and have contributed to solved cases, law enforcement is weary of the overall trend. For example, in a case of two murdered teens from Indiana, the police asked the public to stop using social media after numerous people falsely accused someone based on a composite sketch (Reilly 2019). In a genuine effort to help the families and investigators, misinformation was spread, creating problems for those working the case. These media-generated narratives also bring up questions about investigative tactics, as well as the creation of the story that is presented. There is a fine line between being an investigative journalist and harassing people (Dean 2016). By naming and pointing fingers at potential suspects, as well as dredging up the past of people who have been cleared by law enforcement, the creators of some of these programs are walking that line. At the first annual True Crime Podcast Festival, one panel specifically addressed the ethics of amateur investigations. During the

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question-and-answer portion, I had the opportunity to ask the panelists about their rules for naming suspects. Laurah Norton, of The Fall Line, said that they do not identify suspects by name. One exception was made at the request of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. The person was deceased and they were hoping to get additional leads by releasing his name in a public forum. Other podcasters on the panel seemed to shy away from using full names unless they had already been listed as a suspect by other sources. The most complicated response came from Sarah Turney, who had just started her own podcast the day before the festival. Turney’s sister is the subject of her first season, as she also is in the podcast Missing Alissa (Zappala 2017). Sarah is convinced that her father murdered her sister and is comfortable making this accusation publicly. To many, this seemed acceptable, but at that moment, she began to question whether it really is any different than another person naming a suspect. The code that these creators follow is not uniform. In the end, some (none of whom were on the ethics panel) may argue that the end justifies the means, yet they also put themselves at risk of being named in lawsuits if they are too careless with how they talk about people in their quest to find missing persons and solve cold cases. Because these are cases without answers, the information presented is critical. The evidence that is included and the way the story is framed can have real-life implications for the case (Dean 2016). It is important to acknowledge that fans are not necessarily being given the entire story. To entertain, which is part of the intention of true crime, the narratives must be engaging and intriguing. The creators have the freedom to create the story that they want. They can leave out details that do not fit their story lines, can overdramatize insignificant leads, or, as in the case of The Jinx, can use material out of context. In these instances, the narrative structure supersedes complete coverage of the case. Although in some cases the creators are purposely excluding information, in others there is a chance that these amateur sleuths could be guilty of confirmation bias. Once they have a theory, they might only follow the clues that corroborate their ideas. It is also important to note that some creators have legitimate reasons for not revealing all that they have uncovered. The Fall Line’s Norton told the audience at the True Crime Podcast Festival that they held back information because they decided to turn it over to the GBI. She now finds herself questioning whether that was the right decision. It has been more than two years, and the GBI has not followed up on the information. She now wonders if it would have been better to release it and create public pressure for the GBI to react.

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Media-generated investigations are about justice. The creators or the people they are following are attempting to help solve the crimes and bring resolution to those involved. For many, their intentions are good. At CrimeCon 2018, a large portion of panelists and attendees appeared to be sincerely interested in finding ways to help families achieve justice. People who attended the P.I. Experience continued to be involved for over a year following the event in 2018. They shared their theories on the social media group and planned to attend the trial in the wrongful death suit. Now, additional crowd-solving events are being held, including CrowdSolve by the creators of CrimeCon. Unfortunately, most of these cases will remain unsolved even with the help of true-crime storytelling and crowd sleuthing. Furthermore, while working toward justice in these individual cases, these media-generated investigations isolate each event, disconnecting it from any systemic issues that may have contributed to the case going cold in the first place. Despite the focus on justice, some narratives continue to rely on standard true-crime tropes, especially fear—fear of being murdered; fear of someone you love going missing. This is enhanced when creators highlight potentially frightening instances to hook the audience. They show that they might be putting themselves in danger by investigating these crimes. Digging into unsolved murders or missing persons cases without adequate training might involve some danger, but in the instances discussed throughout this chapter, fear appears to be more of a plot device than a consequence of any real threat against the person investigating the crime. In these cases, entertainment supersedes the dissemination of information in the hope of achieving justice. Ultimately, media-generated investigations are distant relatives of some of the earliest true-crime television programming, including Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted. The goal of these shows is to solve a case, but Robert Stack and John Walsh never inserted themselves into the investigation. Their sole purpose was to share information and call on viewers to turn over any leads. Today’s media culture is different. It allows for nearly anyone with a desire to help to use not only the internet and other sources to investigate the case, but to record the story so that it can be heard by others; in turn, audience members may aid in the investigation or step forward with information. These offerings highlight flaws in the justice system and, via their tactics, some of them suggest that citizen justice is more effective and, in some cases, that the end justifies the means. Many are well intentioned and are using modern technology to get information disseminated and to help families. And in some instances, they are successful—cold cases have been solved

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through their work. The reality is that these media-generated investigations, citizen sleuthing, and crowd investigating are in their infancy. They are becoming an integral part of modern true crime, but the longterm implications remain to be seen. Notes 1. As of March 2020, Ryan Duke’s trial was still pending. 2. Sarah Turney has since started her own podcast, Voices for Justice. The first season focuses on her sister’s disappearance. 3. Cesnik’s death is the driving force behind Gemma Hoskins’s and Abbie Fitzgerald Schaub’s actions and appears to be the premise of the series; however, much more is unveiled. According to Nicholson, The Keepers “quickly reveals itself to be much bigger, and more far-reaching, than that, exposing decades of child abuse within institutions across Baltimore, from the church to the police force, and distressingly, the extent to which they colluded in silencing the victims and covering up such horrific crimes” (Nicholson 2017, par. 2). It is the investigation into abuse and the cover-up that ends up taking precedence over Cesnik’s murder, but as suggested by the narrative, the two are likely connected.

6 Wrongful-Conviction Narratives

was forever changed. Everything appeared normal at 10:00 a.m. when Sam Jones went to work at Tardy Furniture. Upon entering the showroom, he made a gruesome discovery—Bertha Tardy, Robert Golden, Carmen Rigby, and Derrick “Bobo” Stewart had all been shot. After investigating the case, authorities charged Curtis Flowers. He went to trial in October 1997, was found guilty, and was sentenced to death. Many true-crime stories would end at this point, knowing that someone has been held accountable, but the murders and Flowers’s conviction are just a part of a story that has continued for more than twenty years. The events that follow have made their way into modern true crime, providing a shocking lesson on small-town American justice. Three years after Flowers was convicted, he won on appeal. The Mississippi Supreme Court overturned his conviction because of prosecutorial misconduct (American Public Media 2018a). The prosecutor, Doug Evans, decided to take Flowers to trial again for the murders. The results were the same—Flowers was deemed guilty, sentenced to death, and his conviction overturned for prosecutorial misconduct. In total, Evans has prosecuted Flowers six times for these murders, and the possibility of a seventh trial looms. In 2019, the US Supreme Court reversed and remanded the case, citing the following: “The trial court at Curtis Flowers’ sixth murder trial committed clear error in concluding that the state’s peremptory strike of a particular black prospective juror was not motivated in substantial part by discriminatory intent” (Supreme Court of the United States 2019). Prior to this decision, the podcast In

On July 16, 1996, the small town of Winona, Mississippi,

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the Dark (Baran 2018), delved deep into the case and brought Flowers’s experiences with the justice system to light. Like Serial, this podcast is an example of a wrongful-conviction narrative in which an investigative reporter, Madeleine Baran, and her team attempt to uncover new information to help Flowers win his freedom. Wrongful-Conviction Narratives in True Crime Traditionally, the genre of true crime has relied on cases with definitive endings—the culprit has been identified and justice has been achieved. These narratives demonstrate to their audience that crime exists and the justice system is equipped to react to it efficiently, effectively, and accurately. Upon closer inspection of the genre, there are other narratives in which justice is questioned. Some of these stories ask their audience to decide whether the right person was held accountable for the crime; others seek to determine whether the justice system itself crossed clearly established lines of jurisprudence to hold someone accountable for the crime. And still others provide proven examples of injustices that have since been rectified through exonerations and other remedies. Through these types of true-crime stories, fans witness a flawed system of justice and see how difficult it is to fix a mistake once it has been made. Wrongful-conviction narratives are not unique to the modern wave of true crime. One of the earliest examples of this type of storytelling is The Court of Last Resort, which began in the magazine Argosy. Between 1948 and 1958, Erle Stanley Gardner—the creator of Perry Mason, a legal drama popular in the late 1950s and 1960s—wrote a column about convicted persons (Schulz 2016). With a team of experts, including a private detective, a former warden, a homicide expert, and a handwriting analyst, he investigated and wrote his column on dozens of cases. Some of the people Gardner featured were exonerated, partly because of Gardner’s work (Schulz 2016). The column was eventually picked up by NBC, which aired twenty-six episodes between 1957 and 1958 (Fuhs 2018; Schulz 2016). The series sought to present short investigative documentaries highlighting wrongful convictions. According to Kristen Fuhs (2018, 180), The Court of Last Resort “suggests a historical impulse toward mobilizing a mass audience through reality-based television for the purpose of social and legal reform.” There was hope that sharing these stories with the viewing audience would bring the issue into the “national consciousness and encourage wider public involvement” and transform viewers into “active crusaders for justice” (Fuhs 2018, 181). Unfortu-

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nately, programming decisions, such as the use of reenactments, affected the outcome. Despite not becoming the impactful show it was envisioned to be, Fuhs (2018, 195) concludes that The Court of Last Resort set “a clear precedent for more contemporary programs that have mined media’s potential to shape audience perceptions about the need for greater civic responsibility around the politically and ethically fraught issue of wrongful conviction” (Fuhs 2018, 195). Decades later, wrongful-conviction narratives appeared in documentary films. In a quest to tell interesting crime stories, some documentarians uncovered questionable convictions. Their attention to these cases helped change the course of justice. The two most-often-cited examples are Errol Morris’s (1988) The Thin Blue Line and Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky’s (1996) Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills. In The Thin Blue Line, Morris reexamined the 1976 murder of police officer Robert W. Wood, a crime for which Randall Dale Adams was convicted and sentenced to death. New information uncovered while making the film contributed to authorities reopening the case, and a year later, Adams was deemed innocent and released (Heller-Nicholas 2012). When making this film, Morris informally reopened the case by approaching it as a documentarian and an investigator. The narrative “asks the spectator to act as a new jury and to reach a decision about Adams’ guilt based on the information presented” (Heller-Nicholas 2012, 109). This technique is similar to what Sarah Koenig does when examining Adnan Syed’s conviction for the murder of Hae Min Lee in Serial (Koenig and Snyder 2014). Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills (Berlinger and Sinofsky 1996) focuses on the murder of three eight-year-old boys, Steve Branch, Michael Moore, and Christopher Byers, whose bodies were found along a creek bed in West Memphis, Arkansas, on May 6, 1993. Three teenagers, Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin, and Jessie Misskelley Jr., were charged and convicted. The documentary “suggests that the state of Arkansas wrongly convicted these three boys primarily because they were seen as satanic outsiders in a deeply Christian community” (Aguayo 2013, 234). Following the release of the film, an online movement developed, people gathered in Arkansas to protest, and various celebreties began advocating for the boys’ innocence. According to Angela Aguayo (2013, 235), “an agitating media public fuelled the motor of social change.” The filmmakers continued to follow the story in Paradise Lost 2: Revelations (Berlinger and Sinofsky 2000) and Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory (Berlinger and Sinofsky 2011). Eventually, Echols, Baldwin, and

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Misskelley were freed from prison through an Alford plea, and the search for the true culprit(s) continues.1 Although the convicted remain legally responsible for the murders and the real killer (or killers) remains unknown, these films helped move a step closer to achieving justice. Documentaries such as The Thin Blue Line and the Paradise Lost trilogy demonstrate the power of storytelling in helping correct system-based wrongs. This tradition is carried on in modern true crime, not only by Serial but also via other podcasts and docuseries. An Era of Exonerations Systemic failures come to light in a variety of ways. Recent headlines have featured police shootings, people languishing away in jail because they cannot afford bail, and exonerations. According to the National Registry of Exonerations (2019), nearly 2,500 people have been exonerated since 1989, with more than 21,725 years lost to incarceration. Records were established in 2015 and 2016, with 315 people exonerated between those two years (National Registry of Exonerations 2016b; National Registry of Exonerations 2017). The press took notice of this trend, as evidenced by headlines such as “A Record Number of Wrongfully Convicted People Were Exonerated in 2015” (Mencimer 2016), “Record Number of False Convictions Overturned in 2015” (McPhate 2016), and “The Wrongly Convicted: Why More Falsely Accused People Are Being Exonerated Today Than Ever Before” (Barone 2017). These are the miscarriages of justice that have been proven, but there are many others convicted who are fighting to clear their names. The exact number of wrongfully convicted individuals currently in the system is difficult to determine. One of the most recent estimates is that 6 percent of prisoners fit this classification, with the percentage ranging significantly by crime type with rape being the highest at 40 percent (Loeffler, Hyatt, and Ridgeway 2019). With an estimated 1.5 million people in prison (Bronson and Carson 2019), that could mean up to 90,000 innocent people are incarcerated in the United States. Modern true crime has embraced stories of those who have been exonerated and those who are fighting to prove their innocence. By focusing on individual cases, true-crime stories provide context to the statistics that make headlines. To tell these stories, the creators have adopted each of the three formats of modern true-crime storytelling. The episodic style is most often used to convey stories of those who have already been exonerated and, in some cases, to demonstrate the

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possibility of a wrongful conviction (e.g., The Confession Tapes). Deepdive narratives often feature cases in the midst of their post-conviction fights. These stories recap the facts of the case but do not attempt to dig up new evidence to support the legal battle. Lastly, some true-crime storytellers strive to be like Morris, Berlinger, Sinofsky, and Koenig. They present the case as well as evidence that they have uncovered from their own investigations in the hope of being able to prove that a miscarriage of justice has taken place and to incite social and/or legal movement to help those who have been wrongfully convicted get a new trial, gain their freedom, and clear their names. Each type of narrative is structured differently, but in the end each conveys powerful messages about justice, and, in a unique way, fear. Justice Achieved: Voices of the Exonerated It was a seemingly normal day for nineteen-year-old Steven Barnes; little did he know that his life would be forever changed by a U-turn. The police found the body of sixteen-year-old Kimberly Simon, who had been sexually assaulted and murdered, near a dirt road in upstate New York. They had set up a roadblock in town to ask people if they knew anything about Simon’s death, and Barnes had driven through it earlier in the day. The first time he went through, the police showed him Simon’s picture and asked whether he had seen her; he had not. Later that day as he approached the roadblock again, he remembered that he wanted to buy a six-pack of beer before heading home, so he pulled through a parking lot and began driving in the direction from which he came. A sheriff’s deputy witnessed his U-turn. Assuming he turned around to avoid the police, the deputy pulled him over for questioning and thus began Barnes’s more than twenty-year fight to clear his name (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). His encounter with the justice system is just one of the many stories shared with true-crime fans in programs featuring exoneration narratives. The path to exoneration is long. The process that people go through to prove their innocence and obtain freedom can teach us a lot about the justice system and its impact on people’s lives. Through exoneration narratives, the audience learns details about the crime and the victim(s), but the focus is on the person convicted and the process of justice. The events that lead to both conviction and exoneration are unveiled. These narratives present the stories of men and women who faced an uphill battle against the justice system and have won, in some sense of the

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word. Stories of the exonerated are most often presented in an episodic fashion, with the exoneree taking center stage. With the help of a host, the falsely convicted tell their stories and are often accompanied by one of their innocence advocates (e.g., an attorney or reporter) who provides further insight into their battle for justice. These stories are mostly found in podcasts, including Wrongful Conviction with Jason Flom and Actual Innocence. Steven Barnes shared his story on the sixth season of Wrongful Conviction with Jason Flom (Flom 2016). Flom is a record executive and a founding board member of the Innocence Project, an agency that seeks to help those who may have been falsely convicted (Revolver Podcasts n.d.). Over the course of seven seasons, Wrongful Conviction has aired many exoneration stories, as well as featured guests who are working on justice reform. During the sixth season of the podcast, which aired in 2018, ten stories featuring eleven exonerees aired. Some of these cases are well known, such as those of Yusef Salaam and Raymond Santana, members of the Central Park Five, 2 but most are lesser-known stories like that of Steven Barnes, who shared his saga on “A Crime Against Humanity, an Epic Struggle for Survival, and Two Decades of Devastating Loneliness: The Unimaginable Story of Steven Barnes” (2018). On Wrongful Conviction, Barnes explains that three days after the deputy pulled him over, he was called to the station for questioning. He went, feeling assured that he would be fine because he did not have anything to do with the murder. Barnes was questioned for twelve hours, during which his requests for water, a phone call, and a lawyer were ignored. His car was searched, photographs were taken of him, he was given a polygraph test, and then he was released. Six months later, Barnes was asked to give blood and hair samples. Again, because he had nothing to hide, he complied. For the next three years, the police followed and harassed him. On March 25, 1988, there was a knock at the door—it was the police officers who had interrogated him. Witnesses had come forward and implicated him, so he was arrested. Barnes shared the details of the events that unfolded between this arrest and his conviction. Guided by Flom, he compares the evidence used to convict him to that which supported his innocence. Barnes had an alibi, to whose validity more than forty people testified. There was no physical evidence at the crime scene that could be tied to Barnes, and his tire tracks did not match those found at the scene. Yet he was convicted based on the testimony of a “jailhouse rat,” who received less time on a pending charge, and junk science. Despite taking place three decades

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earlier, Barnes is emotional as he describes the guilty verdict being read. He was sentenced to twenty-five years to life for murder, rape, and sodomy, and eight days later was transferred to Attica State Prison, one of the most notorious prisons in the country. It would be nearly twenty years before he was exonerated (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). Life in prison and his fight for freedom were not easy. Barnes tells listeners that he was beaten by correctional officers and had to fight other inmates to protect himself. Meanwhile, his appeals were denied and his attorney unexpectedly died. Barnes felt like he should give up, but his family provided support, and with that, hope. His journey toward freedom begins when both he and his mother learn about the Innocence Project on a televised talk show (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). Barnes then wrote to the agency and, in 1993, the Innocence Project took his case. Three years later, they won the right to conduct DNA testing; however, the testing available at that time was not sophisticated and the results were inconclusive (Innocence Project n.d.-c). The Innocence Project reopened his case in 2007 and was granted the right to conduct advanced DNA testing, and this time the results showed that his DNA did not match any samples taken from the crime scene (Innocence Project n.d.-c). On the podcast, Barnes becomes emotional again as he describes the four days between finding out he had finally proven his innocence and his release (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). It is clear that even ten years after being exonerated, he is deeply affected by his experiences with the criminal justice system. Barnes’s story is a good representation of cases featured on Wrongful Conviction with Jason Flom (Flom 2016). In the sixth season of the podcast, all the exonerated were males, most of whom were convicted of murder. Through the tireless efforts of their attorneys, innocence advocates, and others, those convictions have been cleared. Most often these were cases in which there was official misconduct, perjury, and mistaken witness identifications, representing some of the more common factors contributing to wrongful convictions. Unlike other episodic true-crime programming, which focuses on white victims and offenders, these narratives feature minority exonerees. In season six of Wrongful Conviction, ten of the eleven exonerated were black or Hispanic, which is an overrepresentation of minorities in the population of exonerees. According to the National Registry of Exonerations (2019), 61 percent of exonerees are black or Hispanic. The cases featured on Actual Innocence (Gittings 2016) are similar, and sometimes the same. Although this podcast is no longer producing new episodes, during its three seasons it presented many exoneration

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stories. According to the podcast’s website, Actual Innocence sought to “spread awareness of wrongful conviction and empower the exonerated individuals that share their stories as a role for advocacy” (Borrowed Equipment Podcasts n.d.). During its last season, De’Marchoe Carpenter, who was exonerated after spending twenty-two years in prison, joined Brooke Gittings as a co-host, providing insight the other hosts could not provide. Exoneration stories expose people to a flawed justice system by personalizing the issues. The audience hears directly from those affected by these miscarriages of justice. While talking about the challenges they have faced even after being exonerated, many of the falsely convicted also acknowledge the impact on the victims’ families. The errors made in the name of holding someone accountable for the crime prevented the families from finding the true culprit. These tales of exoneration offer insight into successful quests for justice. Other true-crime stories expose the audience to those still fighting to clear their names and win their freedom. Seeking Justice: Building Wrongful-Conviction Cases Through True-Crime Narratives Although thousands of people have been exonerated, many more are either actively fighting for their freedom or hoping to find someone willing to help them with this battle. In Serial (Koenig and Snyder 2014), Sarah Koenig did that for Adnan Syed at the request of Rabia Chaudry. The wheels of justice began to turn again in what once appeared to be a stagnant case. As of 2020, Syed’s fight is still ongoing and continues to be witnessed by fans of true crime. Syed is just one of many people behind bars undertaking the appellate process, and thus many other convictions are being presented via true crime in the hope of helping prove that the system got it wrong. The creators of these narratives are in some ways like Payne Lindsey, Catherine Townsend, and others discussed in Chapter 5. They put on their detective hats, doing both legal and extralegal research, consulting with experts and witnesses to reexamine the case; however, they do so with a different intent—to find the evidence needed to prove that a wrongful conviction has taken place. However, even big revelations often remain only a part of the true-crime story, and they fail to have meaningful impact on the case. The content of these wrongful-conviction narratives is not entirely unique. Most, if not all, of the featured cases involve murder, thus ele-

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ments standard to murder narratives are typically used to set the stage for the true intent of the story. The creators quickly establish who the victim was, how he or she was killed, and who was deemed responsible for the death. In comparison to many other types of true-crime narratives, the victim is a small part of this story. Instead, the person convicted of the crime takes center stage, along with a dissection of the investigation and trial as the program’s creators attempt to highlight the critical flaws in the case. Although Serial was the first of its kind in this modern wave of true crime, it was Making a Murderer that reached a broader audience and helped solidify this type of media-generated quest for justice. Fighting for Steven Avery and Brendan Dassey

In a small town in Wisconsin on Halloween 2005, twenty-five-year-old Teresa Halbach disappears. Police later find her car in the Avery Salvage Yard. What unfolds is a story seemingly off the pages of a bestselling novel. Steven Avery, a man previously exonerated for a wrongful conviction, and his nephew, Brendan Dassey, are convicted of her murder; however, not everyone believes that they are responsible for Halbach’s death. Their story has become a cornerstone of the modern true-crime genre via the popular Netflix docuseries Making a Murderer (Ricciardi and Demos 2015). All episodes of the first season of Making a Murderer were released at the same time, providing binge watchers with more than ten hours outlining the Halbach murder, which took place in Manitowoc County, Wisconsin. The series focuses on the murder and the investigation that resulted in Avery and Dassey’s convictions. The filmmakers build a narrative to support the contention that Avery and Dassey’s convictions were not justified. Evidence is presented to paint the picture that Avery was framed by the police and Dassey was coerced into confessing. The framing of Avery primarily centers on a vial of his blood that appeared to have been tampered with, suggesting that it was used to put his DNA in Halbach’s car. The filmmakers also propose that Andrew Colbron, a Manitowoc County sheriff’s deputy, planted Halbach’s car in the salvage yard and its key in Avery’s bedroom.3 While being presented with this conspiracy theory, viewers watch Dassey’s interviews with the police. Sixteen years old at the time and learning-disabled, Dassey is not represented by an attorney and appears to be coached into providing details implicating both himself and his uncle. These videos raise red flags over how he was treated during official questioning, potentially leaving viewers convinced that they have witnessed a false confession.

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Whereas Serial was created with the intention of allowing audience members to come to their own conclusion on whether Syed was wrongfully convicted, Making a Murderer is masterfully crafted to convince viewers that a sinister miscarriage of justice has taken place. The footage used in the first season of the docuseries was whittled down from over 700 hours of film and edited to manipulate viewers emotionally into believing the filmmakers’ version of the events (Dickey 2016). Articles have been written about the information excluded from the series, such as “‘Making a Murderer’ Left Out Disturbing Details of Steven Avery’s Past” (Jeltsen 2016) and “Here’s What Was Left Out of Making a Murderer” (Grossman 2016). Penny Beerntsen, the victim in Avery’s original wrongful-conviction case, remarked that she did not participate in the series because when the filmmakers approached her, she was left with the impression that they had already made up their minds that Avery was innocent (Schulz 2016). According to Kathryn Schulz’s (2016, par. 16) review of the series, “The documentary consistently leads its viewers to the conclusion that Avery was framed by the Manitowoc County Sheriff’s Department, and it contains striking elisions that bolster that theory.” The filmmakers leave out important details and evidence and fail to answer basic questions about Halbach’s murder, such as when, where, and how it occurred (Schulz 2016). Schulz classifies it not as investigative journalism but as “highbrow vigilante justice,” especially given the fact that many of those involved have faced threats by those who watched the series and sided with Avery and Dassey (Schulz 2016, par. 19). Despite the criticisms surrounding this series, the first season of Making a Murderer in 2015 has had real-life implications for both the true-crime genre and Avery’s and Dassey’s appeals. Paul Tassi (2016), a writer for Forbes, argues that this series was Netflix’s most significant to date. He writes that whereas their other original series target specific segments of their audience, Making a Murderer “seems to have consumed its viewer base from top to bottom” (par. 3). During the first thirty-five days of its availability, over 19 million watched this docuseries (Lynch 2016). Since then, true crime has become one of the most popular genres on Netflix (Truffaut-Wong 2017). The series impacted more than just the programming decisions made by television executives. The first season of Making a Murderer incited public outrage aimed at the police and prosecutors involved with the case. Some active viewers sought to achieve justice by signing two petitions on Change.org and the White House’s website, both seeking pardons (Reed 2016). The Change.org petition to “Free Steven Avery”

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was started by Michael Seyedian (2016, par. 1), who wrote that he was “outraged with the injustices which have been allowed to compound and left unchecked in the case of Steven Avery of Manitowoc County in Wisconsin, U.S.A. Avery’s unconstitutional mistreatment at the hands of corrupt local law enforcement is completely unacceptable and is an abomination of due process.” The petition urged President Barack Obama to pardon Avery and hold Manitowoc County officials criminally responsible for their actions. When the petition closed, it had accumulated nearly 537,000 supporters (Seyedian 2016). In the president’s response, the problems with the request are clearly outlined in that it is not within the jurisdiction of his office to pardon state-level offenses (We the People Team 2016). As people signed online petitions making invalid requests, expressed their outrage on social media, and verbally attacked those involved, the legal work to try to overturn Avery’s and Dassey’s convictions continued. Much of this effort was completed between summer 2016 and summer 2018 and was filmed for the second season of Making a Murderer (Ricciardi and Demos 2018). Three primary story lines are presented in the ten episodes that make up the follow-up season. The main one follows Kathleen Zellner, Avery’s post-conviction attorney, as she goes through the evidence used to convict her client. In doing so, she outlines the Brady violations and other reasons for seeking an appeal. Throughout this process, she casts suspicion on others. She begins by pointing her finger at Ryan Hillegas because he acted suspiciously during the investigation, but she soon turns her attention to members of the Dassey family. Zellner first casts blame on Dassey’s brother, Bobby and then targets his stepfather, Scott Tadych. These last two accusations cause strife in the family, as seen by conversations included in the series. In a review of the season, Sonia Saraiya (2018, par. 13) writes about the implications of these accusations: “A family is unraveling; a case has been exploited and muddied.” Attempting to bring doubt in a court of law by casting suspicion on others is a tactic used in criminal courts; however, in these instances, as in the mediagenerated investigations discussed in the previous chapter, these individuals are being called out publicly. These accusations are now enshrined within a popular narrative that will be watched by countless numbers of people for years to come. The second story line follows Dassey’s post-conviction team through the appeals process, which goes all the way to petitioning the Supreme Court. Dassey is represented by Laura Nirider and Steven Drizin, both from the Center on Wrongful Convictions of Youth at Northwestern

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Pritzker School of Law. Viewers hear directly from them as they work the case and try to prove that Dassey’s constitutional rights have been violated. A federal judge overturned Dassey’s conviction; however, in 2018, the Supreme Court refused to hear his case, and Dassey remains in prison (Ricciardi and Demos 2018). The final, subtler theme, which is seen in both seasons of the program, is to show how this process has affected the families of Avery and Dassey. Given that the focus is on the process of justice, the victim is not at the heart of the story. Zellner talks about the importance of achieving justice for Halbach, but she is lost in this series. In the early episodes of the second season, a college friend of Halbach is featured, but this story line is quickly forgotten as the narrative shifts to the question of justice for those convicted of her murder. Viewers learn more about how this process has affected the families of Avery and Dassey; in the end, they are all painted as victims of small-town justice. Fans tuned in for the ten-plus hours of the second season of Making a Murderer, but reviewers were critical of it, questioning its utility and tactics. Saraiya (2018) opens by stating that the follow-up season did a disservice to those involved, as well as to its viewers. “The show examines its own circus from a seemingly remote angle—unaware, apparently, of the fact the Making a Murderer itself helped create this environment” (Saraiya 2018, par. 4). Saraiya notes that Zellner herself presents a spectacle, scenes filled with “questionable lie-detector tests, grisly reenactments, and endless back-and-forth about the viscosity of Teresa Halbach’s blood and the quality of the charred human remains found around the crime scene,” played for viewers of the series to watch (Saraiya 2018, par. 6). These visual reenactments of forensic evidence are reminiscent of fictional crime dramas, such as CSI. Whereas crimescene reconstruction is used in criminal cases, the scenes within Making a Murderer seem reenacted solely to provide a visualization for the narrative, to make it more entertaining than just showing an expert discussing the evidence. Making a Murderer brought renewed attention to the case and can perhaps help explain why Zellner took Avery’s case. She did not take on Avery’s appellate case until after the first season aired. The website for her legal practice, Law Offices of Kathleen T. Zellner, has many links to stories written about the second season of Making a Murderer and her work on the case, as well as a button to donate money to help fund Avery’s legal defense (Law Offices of Kathleen T. Zellner n.d.). Avery’s legal battle continues. In February 2019, Avery received notice that the Wisconsin Court of Appeals is allowing bone-related evidence to be

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included in the record. This decision sends the case back to the circuit court, which can grant a new trial or even overturn Avery’s conviction (Kaminsky 2019). Whatever the decision is, viewers may be able to witness the process in a third season of Making a Murderer (Wynne 2019). Making a Murderer and Serial were both released early in the most recent surge of true-crime storytelling. Using slightly different tactics, both question the legitimacy of criminal convictions and hope to achieve justice for the convicted. Both series have had significant amounts of press coverage, bringing the issues to the attention of those who did not invest their time in these wrongful-conviction narratives. Since these two series were released, many other docuseries and podcasts have been created around potential miscarriages of justice. The Story of Curtis Flowers

An extraordinary miscarriage of justice is highlighted on In the Dark, a podcast developed by American Public Media, featuring the work of Madeleine Baran, an investigative reporter, and her team. The second season features the wrongful-conviction saga of Curtis Flowers. Baran and her team moved to Mississippi for a year to investigate this case (Larson 2018).4 In a review for the New Yorker, Sarah Larson (2018, par. 5) comments that Baran scrutinizes the entire case and “so far, she’s smashed it to smithereens.” By the end of the season, new information was brought to light and used in the most recent appeal, in which Flowers’s conviction was reversed for the sixth time. In the Dark introduces listeners to the town of Winona, Mississippi, its landscape and past, as this context is critical to the case. This town is marred by a segregationist history and Jim Crow–era practices and is haunted by the memories of Emmett Till and the countless victims of violence lodged against people fighting for equal rights. Although many believe racial injustices ended with the civil rights movement, it was alive and well in Winona in 1996 when four murders took place at Tardy Furniture (“July 16, 1996” 2018), the details of which were described earlier in this chapter. Racial injustice forms the backbone of a justice system that would allow a black man to be put on trial six different times for the same crime by the same white prosecutor, Doug Evans, who repeatedly used his preemptive strikes to prohibit black citizens from serving on the jury. As a sense of place is being established, the murders and the events leading up to the decision to charge Flowers are described. Within hours, investigators homed in on Flowers. Their theory was that Flowers was

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angry after being fired from Tardy Furniture and that Bertha Tardy would not give him his $82 paycheck (“Why Curtis?” 2018). Much of the narrative focuses on dissecting the case against Flowers. According to Baran, the prosecution’s case rests on three things: the route, the gun, and the confessions (“The Route” 2018). After introducing listeners to the crime in the first episode, she examines each of these pieces in individual episodes. In “The Route” (2018), Baran compares where Flowers states he was that morning to the alleged route through town, to and from Tardy Furniture, that was presented by the prosecution and supported by eyewitnesses. When Baran examines their testimony and interviews them, inconsistences become apparent. Doubt is already building as to whether Flowers really committed this horrific crime. This episode is followed by “The Gun” (2018), which offers an exploration into the forensic evidence used to convict Flowers. Although the murder weapon has never been located, it has been identified as a .380-caliber handgun. Coincidentally, Doyle Simpson, Flowers’s stepuncle, reported that his .380 was stolen from the glovebox of his car the morning of the murders. With no hard evidence, investigators deduced that Flowers walked to Simpson’s workplace and stole the gun from his car before heading to Tardy Furniture to commit the murders. Listeners are given a shocking lesson on the forensic evidence that is used to convict Flowers. This aspect of the case rests on a report comparing two bullets: one from a piece of wood behind Simpson’s mother’s house, where Simpson says he and others would go to shoot their guns, and the other found in a mattress at Tardy Furniture weeks after the murders. David Balash, a witness for the prosecution, examined the two bullets and concluded that he was 100 percent certain that they both matched Simpson’s weapon—a gun that they do not have in their possession. Baran consulted with an expert who clarified what the process should entail and stated that no conclusion can ever be made with 100 percent certainty. She excused Balash’s initial testimony in the 1990s but admonished him for continuing to make these statements as recently as 2010. Baran talked briefly to Balash, who was unwavering in his assessment. If called to the stand in a seventh trial, he said he would provide the same testimony. Ultimately, this ballistic evidence would now be classified as “junk science,” which is one of the main factors cited in wrongful-conviction cases (Innocence Project n.d.-b). The final piece of evidence, on which Baran and her colleagues make significant strides, focuses on the people to whom Flowers allegedly confessed. This inquiry begins in “The Confessions” (2018), which

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examines the three people who testified that Flowers directly admitted his involvement with the crime to them; their stories, however, are plagued with inconsistencies. One of the biggest breaks revealed on In the Dark is when Baran and her team examine Odell “Cookie” Hallmon, who testified in four of Flowers’s trials. The first time he testified for the defense, but then he switched sides. In a video deposition, he reported that Flowers confessed to him while they were in prison together. His testimony is the only direct piece of evidence the prosecution has; the rest is circumstantial (American Public Media 2018b). Why Hallmon turned from being a witness for the defense to one for the prosecution is a mystery the team seeks to unravel. In “Privilege” (2018), Baran and her team attempt to determine whether Hallmon was given any special treatment in exchange for his testimony, which those involved vehemently deny. The team sets out to establish a time line of Hallmon’s criminal history, documenting arrests, convictions, punishments, and dropped charges. Given the number of law-enforcement agencies under Evan’s jurisdiction and the lack of electronic records dating back to Hallmon’s entry into the justice system at the age of twelve, this task is challenging. They had to dig through file boxes kept in an old jail, which no longer has electricity, and call many other agencies asking them to locate their files. They do not say how long this research took them, but they gathered 1,000 pages of documentation, which is then used to piece together Hallmon’s encounters with the justice system (“Privilege” 2018). Around the time that Hallmon came forward reporting Flowers’s confession, he had been arrested on multiple occasions for several serious crimes. Most of these charges were dismissed following the interview in which he states he lied when he previously testified on behalf of Flowers and that Flowers had confessed his crimes to him. There is no clear evidence that a deal was made; however, it suggests that it is a plausible explanation. For some true-crime storytellers, this evidence may have been enough to build an interesting story, suggesting a wrongful conviction, but these are investigative reporters, and they did not stop digging. Hallmon is currently serving three life sentences at Mississippi State Penitentiary for killing his ex-girlfriend, her mother, and another man, as well as trying to kill his own son. His law-breaking ways continue from his prison cell. Having acquired a cell phone, Hallmon remains in contact with the outside world, often sending people friend requests via Facebook. Baran and her team use this accessibility to their advantage; they send him a friend request, which he accepts (“Punishment” 2018). After realizing that they will not pay him or write a book

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about him, Hallmon still agrees to talk. It is during their conversations with him, over his contraband cell phone, that Hallmon admits to making up the accounts used by the prosecution. The only direct evidence against Flowers has been recanted, albeit through nontraditional means. Whether this information has an impact on the case is dependent on Flowers’s legal team and other decision makers in the justice system. But some of this evidence might not have been uncovered had it not been for Baran and her team investigating the story for In the Dark. What makes In the Dark different from some other modern truecrime storytelling is that these revelations are not built up for drama. Furthermore, there is much more to this podcast than reporting on the details of the crime and the quest for justice. It is also a deep dive into the history, law, politics, and other factors that have allowed this miscarriage of justice to continue for more than two decades. Late in the season, In the Dark walks listeners through each of the trials against Flowers. They learn the reason higher courts have reversed and remanded the case several times. Evans has repeatedly struck potential jurors based on their race, and at times, the higher courts have taken notice. They also learn that remanding the case for a possible retrial is the only “punishment” for the prosecutor’s actions—no matter how many times he repeats this pattern of behavior. In “The D.A.” (2018), Baran and her team discuss the research they have done regarding jury selection and race under Evans’s run as the district attorney. They scan 100,000 pages of court documents from eight different courthouses, create a database, run statistical analyses, and demonstrate that blacks are four times more likely than whites in that county to be struck from the jury. For them, it is not enough to say Evans has been discriminatory; they offer substantive proof to back up their statements. Unlike many other wrongful-conviction narratives, Flowers himself does not have a voice in this story. His attorneys have advised against it for fear that it might negatively affect his case. Instead, we hear Flowers’s story from his family. Baran spent a lot of time with Curtis’s parents, Lola and Archie Flowers, who until Lola’s death in June 2018 visited their son in prison twice a month (American Public Media 2018b). Baran goes to backyard barbecues with the family and to choir practice with Archie, for a choir that Curtis used to sing in as well. Listeners get to know Flowers through the memories his family and friends share. These stories provide a connection to this man who has been in prison for more than two decades. The second season of In the Dark ended after eleven episodes with “The End” (2018), in which possible outcomes of the case are explored.

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Like Serial and Making a Murderer, this season of In the Dark does not have a definitive ending. Updates have been released as they are happening, and four additional episodes follow the case as it is heard before the US Supreme Court. Baran and her team have already done the groundwork and established relationships in Winona, Mississippi; therefore, it is likely that they will continue to follow the story of Curtis Flowers to either his freedom or his execution. Other Wrongful-Conviction Narratives

Serial, Making a Murderer, and In the Dark are extraordinary examples of wrongful-conviction narratives. Most creators do not devote as much time to a single case. Whether televised or found on a podcast platform, most of these programs explore multiple cases. The Innocent Man (Anderson and Riggs 2018), The Last Defense (Crowell and Amani 2018), Wrong Man (Berlinger 2018b), Undisclosed (Chaudry, Miller, and Simpson 2015), and Breakdown (Rankin 2015) all cover stories of possible miscarriages of justice. Given the subject matter, there are similarities; however, the creators all examine these cases from different perspectives. Two of the programs are created by lawyers, one by investigative journalists, one by a documentarian already famous for telling a wrongful-conviction tale, and the last is spearheaded by actress Viola Davis. Each one shares a quest for justice, but the backgrounds of the creators shape the story presented to the audience. Like In the Dark, Breakdown is a podcast created by journalists. It is a production of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution (AJC) and spearheaded by Bill Rankin, AJC’s senior legal affairs writer (Atlanta Journal-Constitution n.d.). A different case is featured each season with different intentions, and thus far two seasons have presented wrongful-conviction narratives. Season one examined Justin Chapman’s conviction for the murder of his elderly neighbor when he allegedly set his own duplex on fire (Atlanta Journal-Constitution 2015). During the fourth season, Rankin and his team question the legitimacy of Devonia Inman’s conviction for a murder in southern Georgia (Atlanta JournalConstitution 2017). The eight episodes of Breakdown featuring Chapman’s case follow the typical wrongful-conviction format. Listeners learn about the area, the crime, and the people involved. Rankin and his team, along with Chapman’s attorneys (both past and present), go through the evidence used in the trial, identify errors made in the case, gradually building a convincing argument that Chapman has, in fact, been wrongfully convicted.

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Before this season of Breakdown even aired, Chapman’s convictions had been vacated and a new trial ordered. The following year, this decision was upheld by the Georgia Supreme Court (“A New Trial or a New Life?” 2015). This season of Breakdown ends with Chapman free on bail, awaiting a decision from the prosecutor. Listeners wonder whether he will be tried again. A year later, they find out in a special follow-up episode that the charges against Chapman were dropped (“After a Year’s Wait, a Concluding Decision” 2016). He joins the ever-growing list of exonerees. Inman, whose case was featured in the fourth season, is still fighting for his freedom, and his story is also being told on the podcast Murderville, GA (Segura and Smith 2019). Joe Berlinger, known for his case-breaking coverage of the West Memphis murders in the Paradise Lost trilogy, in some ways approaches wrongful-conviction stories like these reporters; however, the medium affects the way the narrative is presented. Berlinger’s most recent dive into possible wrongful convictions is Wrong Man (Berlinger 2018b), which aired on the cable television channel Starz. Three cases are examined over the course of six episodes, including Curtis Flowers’s case. The other two cases are those of Evaristo Salas and Christopher Tapp. Salas was fourteen when he was tried as an adult for murder and was convicted based on witness misidentification and testimony from an informant. Tapp was interrogated over the course of three weeks before “confessing” to the crime. He was convicted of rape and murder, despite forensic evidence that had been gathered but never tested. Tapp’s story is different from the others in that it was partially resolved when presented on Wrong Man. During his appeals process, DNA from the scene is finally tested and it did not match. Upon hearing these results, the prosecutor offered him a deal—they would let him serve the rest of the sentence on probation, but the convictions would remain. Tapp refused this deal, preferring to continue to fight for his exoneration. The prosecutor then offered to dismiss the rape charge with prejudice and the murder conviction would remain but with credit for time served. Wanting freedom and not thinking he would be given this option again, Tapp accepted (“Christopher Tapp: Flawed Freedom” 2018), leaving him innocent and free but still with a conviction on his record. After the series aired, Tapp’s murder conviction was vacated, fully exonerating him of the crimes for which he was wrongfully convicted (Innocence Project 2019). When presenting these cases, Wrong Man takes on characteristics of a media-generated investigation and like Making a Murderer finds visual ways to represent its examination to the audience. For example, when digging into the Salas case, a forensic criminologist is hired to recreate

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the crime scene to determine the height of the person who shot the victim. The creators also located an informant, who recants his testimony. In the end, they present their evidence to an attorney who decides to take the case for post-conviction relief based on new evidence (“Evaristo Salas: The Letter” 2018; “Evaristo Salas: The Informant” 2018). The Last Defense, which aired on network television, offers two emotionally driven stories of death-row inmates fighting for their lives. Although informative, it is the least investigative and analytical of the series. Each episode informs viewers, “Today in America there are nearly 3,000 people on death row. Every year, on average, five of them are found innocent. We know the system can get it wrong, but for some there may be a chance to get it right” (Crowell and Amani 2018). Deep-dive storytelling techniques are used to demonstrate that Darlie Routier and Julius Jones are likely victims of a faulty system of justice and their lives depend on these mistakes being rectified. Routier, whose case is covered in the first four episodes, was convicted for the murder of one of her sons, after both of them were killed in an alleged home invasion. She sits on death row in Texas. The remaining episodes focus on Jones, who is African American and sits on Oklahoma’s death row for the murder of Paul Howell, a church deacon and well-liked member of the white community. Routier’s actions after the murder of her sons were minutely examined, deemed inappropriate, and used as evidence to convict her. They question why she played Gangster’s Paradise by Coolio at their funeral and why she had a birthday party at her son Devon’s gravesite. This gathering was captured on film by a news crew and played nine times by the jury during deliberation (“Darlie Routier: The Fight” 2018). Jones’s case was tried by one of the “deadliest” prosecutors in the country, known for his ability to win capital cases. Jones had an alibi, but the jury convicted him based, in part, on the word of a jailhouse snitch. This same person testified against Paris Powell in a case that wrongly landed him on death row as well. Unlike Jones, the injustice against Powell has been corrected, and he is one of several death-row exonerees from Oklahoma who had been tried by Bob Macy (“Julius Jones: The Trial” 2018). Although the narrative walks viewers through several flaws in both cases, in the end, The Last Defense seems to rest on DNA testing. Both Routier and Jones are waiting for the results of tests that could help prove their innocence. The final two examples of wrongful-conviction narratives come, at least in part, from the perspective of those in the legal profession. In 2006, famed legal novelist John Grisham published his only nonfiction book to date, The Innocent Man: Murder and Injustice in a Small Town.

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Readers learn the story of Ron Williamson, a former Major League Baseball player who returns home to Ada, Oklahoma, where he is unemployed and struggling with drug and mental health issues. During this time, he and Dennis Fritz are charged with and convicted of the rape and murder of Debra Sue Carter. Williamson was sentenced to death and Fritz to life in prison. Twelve years later, they are both exonerated. Williamson’s story is at the center of Grisham’s book, which went on to be not only a top New York Times best seller but also a six-part Netflix docuseries. Netflix’s The Innocent Man (Anderson and Riggs 2018) offers viewers a look at crime and justice in Ada, Oklahoma, with Williamson and Fritz being only a part of the narrative. Two interconnected tales are presented in this docuseries—one a proven miscarriage of justice, the other a possible one. After introducing viewers to the small town of Ada, filled with farms and churches, the dark side is revealed. The details of the murders of Debra Sue Carter and Denice Haraway, separate incidents that took place two years apart, are covered. Viewers learn about Carter’s murder and the wrongful convictions of Williamson and Fritz and their subsequent exoneration. Interspersed are the details behind the convictions of Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot for Haraway’s murder. The underlying question is whether these men were also victims of a faulty justice system. Ward, whose interviews from prison are featured throughout the series, states that he has been in prison for thirty-three years for a crime he did not commit. The Innocent Man uses elements found in standard murder stories, but at its heart, it is trying to present information to convince viewers that Ward and Fontenot are victims of the same small-town justice that resulted in Williamson’s and Fritz’s wrongful convictions. Both cases involved false confessions in which those convicted state that they were asked to describe a dream. The same prosecutor and investigators were involved in these cases. And the same jailhouse snitch testified against the defendants in the trials for both Carter’s and Haraway’s murder. They also inform viewers about inconsistencies between the confessions and the evidence. Ward and Fontenot were charged, tried, and convicted before Haraway’s body was found. Based on their “confessions,” they were convicted of stabbing Haraway to death. Her body was found five months after the trial ended. The autopsy determined the cause of death was a gunshot. Upon inspection, it becomes clear that nearly every detail provided during the “confessions” that contributed to their convictions was inaccurate. The Innocent Man goes beyond looking at false confessions. It digs into the history of Ada and its justice system to try to understand how

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it is possible to have at least two, if not more, wrongful convictions in a quintessential small American town. This quest for understanding is a major theme in the final episode. After providing evidence suggesting that a wrongful conviction resulted from the actions of law enforcement and the prosecution, Grisham, who appears on camera throughout the series, observes that hiding evidence is not something we expect the police to do, but it does happen (“Snow Storm” 2018). But why? Grisham makes the following statement: In small towns like Ada, the prosecutors and the police are under enormous pressure. Winning means justice. Winning means everything and along the way if the truth gets blurred or forgotten or twisted or manipulated, that’s too bad and that’s how we get wrongful convictions. That’s how you get Ron Williamson and Dennis Fritz, Tommy Ward and Karl Fontenot, and that’s what happens so often in criminal prosecutions. It’s all about winning. (“Snow Storm” 2018)

These law-enforcement officials are not presented as acting maliciously, but they are in some ways presented as cowardly. As stated by Stacy Shelton, a reporter in Ada: “I don’t think these are people that are evil. I don’t think that these are people that started out to frame someone, but somewhere along the way they had to know that two plus two equals four and in this case, it was coming up three or two or one. It wasn’t adding up and when you get that far down the road you got two choices, save face or do the right thing. And, doing the right thing is a lot harder” (“Snow Storm” 2018). The theme presented is that the justice system is only as good as the people who are working in it. As demonstrated in The Innocent Man and other wrongful-conviction narratives, once those initial mistakes are made, the ironclad nature of the rules established by the legal system itself makes it difficult, if not impossible, to right those wrongs. While demonstrating this conundrum to viewers, no solution is offered. For all viewers know, this issue is unique to Ada, Oklahoma. But if they watch other wrongful-conviction stories, they may notice a pattern emerging. Although The Innocent Man blends an emotionally driven narrative with some legal analysis, Undisclosed relies exclusively on the latter. This podcast is hosted by three attorneys, Rabia Chaudry, Colin Miller, and Susan Simpson, and “investigates wrongful convictions, and the US criminal justice system, by taking a closer look at the perpetration of a crime, its investigation, the trial, and ultimate verdict . . . and finding new evidence that never made it to court” (Undisclosed Podcast n.d.).

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Because of the legal expertise of Chaudry, Miller, and Simpson, in comparison with other wrongful-conviction stories, theirs offer more nuanced details of legal statutes and the evidence used to convict the person whose story is featured. Undisclosed began in 2015 with an analysis of Adnan Syed’s case and has since featured twelve more cases. The State v. Pamela Lanier is one such case, which was presented over the course of four episodes that aired in 2018. Lanier was convicted for the murder of her fourth husband, Dorian, and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. On November 19, 1997, after months of illness, Dorian had a seizure and later died at the hospital. The autopsy report concluded that he died from arsenic poisoning. Undisclosed offers a detailed analysis of the evidence used to convict Lanier. Before introducing listeners to the details of the case, Colin Miller explains the doctrine of chances, an evidentiary rule that is at the heart of the case against Lanier. Established in a 1915 case, the doctrine of chances “is the principle that allows evidence of the same unusual thing recurring in a person’s life to be admitted despite the absence of proof of the defendant’s wrongdoing” (“Doctrine of Chances” 2018). For Lanier, it was the fact that her third husband, who had drowned in 1991, had gone to the doctor before that to find out about some unknown illness. This and other evidence was used to convict Lanier. Through the four Undisclosed episodes, listeners hear from Lanier, from her family and friends, and from Dorian’s friends. Some experts are also interviewed by the hosts. During the trial, Lanier is painted as behaving suspiciously and being uncaring—as a woman who refused to take her ailing husband to the doctor or to let people see him. Yet there is also evidence that many people did see him and that although he protested, she was able to get him to go to the doctor six times. The narrative unveils the fact that Dorian, a turkey farmer, often self-medicated, at times using the same medicine he gave the turkeys. Many people witnessed him drinking out of the medicated water hose used for the animals. In the final episode, “Arsenic and Old Lace” (2018), several different experts consulted during the making of the podcast come to the conclusion that it is highly likely that the arsenic poisoning that caused Dorian’s death was inflicted by the 3-Nitro he used for the turkeys and ingested himself. At the time of Lanier’s original trial, the type of research cited on 3-Nitro had not yet been conducted; therefore, there was a belief that it was not harmful. Chaudry, Miller, and Simpson conclude their focus on the State v. Pamela Lanier case by outlining how this evidence can be used as a basis for an appeal.5

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Wrongful-conviction narratives question the process of justice in hopes of proving that a miscarriage has taken place. The expertise of the creators can shape the narratives. Those with legal backgrounds are much more analytical, considering the nuances of the law and judicial processes in an attempt to help the convicted. The material they present has a greater chance of being used to change the course of justice, when compared with those programs designed to inform the public in a more standard true-crime narrative style. Yet people are more apt to be drawn to the latter because of the entertainment qualities instilled in the story line. Regardless of the exact nature of the program, each of these demonstrates the complicated nature of justice. Lessons Learned from Wrongful-Conviction Narratives and Exoneration Stories Wrongful-conviction narratives demonstrate the evolution of true crime during the twenty-first century. Although these narratives are not completely new, what was once a rarity is now a subgenre of true-crime storytelling. These narratives, whether presented via exoneration stories or those trying to prove a person’s innocence, highlight miscarriages of justice caused by false confessions, questionable police work, unreliable witnesses, junk science, win-at-all-costs prosecutors, and ineffective defense counsel. This type of true crime has emerged in full force as many are questioning the actions of some representatives of the justice system, including officers who shot unarmed citizens, judges who earned money for sending juveniles to detention centers, and defense attorneys who allowed their clients, who are typically poor, to languish in jail during unreasonably long pretrial periods. Although some may not characterize these narratives as true crime, these stories are marketed alongside more traditional tales, making them nearly indistinguishable from one another. True crime has always reflected crime and justice of the era in which it is being developed. These miscarriages of justice reflect the society from which the newest wave of true crime has emerged. Explaining crime is not the focus of wrongful-conviction narratives, but it is nonetheless a crime that caused the justice system to contribute to someone being unjustly convicted. Like other true-crime stories, there is an overwhelming focus on murder. Two-thirds of the exoneration narratives and all the deep-dive explorations into possible wrongful convictions examined in this chapter were related to this offense. Murder cases account for 38 percent of recorded exonerations—the largest

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category for a single crime—but people are unjustly convicted for all types of offenses (National Registry of Exonerations 2019). Throughout the history of true crime, murder has been the central theme; therefore, it is not surprising that this subgenre carries on that tradition. People convicted of this crime can be sentenced to life in prison or receive a death sentence; rectifying these wrongs in essence saves a life. Some of those featured, such as Julius Jones on The Last Defense, are dangerously close to being given an execution date, increasing the immediacy of the quest for justice. Since 1973, 166 people sentenced to die have been exonerated (Death Penalty Information Center 2019). Jones’s attorneys are tirelessly working toward adding their client to this list, and perhaps the renewed attention brought on by The Last Defense will help them in that mission. Crime-related stories typically contain an underlying theme of good versus bad. Representatives of the justice system are the “good guys” who keep us safe from the “bad guys” by fighting crime, making arrests, and ensuring that people are punished. We see this popularized in true-crime murder narratives. Most focus on solved cases, demonstrating that the system has done its job and caught the killer; however, as seen in these quests for justice, not all cases are clear-cut. During the late twentieth century, crime stories of all types were laden with crime-control messaging (Surette 2015). From Dirty Harry to Law and Order and many others, these representations teach people that the end justifies the means, and rules can be bent, even broken, in the name of keeping the public safe. Any televised crime drama depicts police officers employing questionable tactics to elicit confessions and turn the culprit over to the prosecutor. These tactics make for great drama and entertainment. In contrast to the crime-control message is that of due process, which puts legal rules, regulations, and the rights of the accused at the forefront. This message is less likely to be presented in popular representations of crime (Surette 2015). Wrongful-conviction narratives show the real-life implications of favoring crime control over due process. These are stories of egregious miscarriages of justice, and by demonstrating these errors to the audience, the creators are sending strong messages in support of due process, reminding us that the rules are in place to protect us from the “bad guys.” But these villains are different from those presented in traditional true crime. The actions of the police, the prosecution, and, in some instances, the defense are scrutinized and, at times, demonized. Did law enforcement in Manitowoc County, Wisconsin, plant evidence to set up Steven Avery? Did a bloodthirsty prosecutor in Oklahoma knowingly use a tainted jailhouse snitch to

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ensure Julius Jones’s conviction and death sentence? Did the same set of investigators and prosecutors wrongfully convict four different people in Ada, Oklahoma? These are the types of questions brought up in wrongful-conviction narratives. There are many factors that contribute to the wrong person being held accountable for a crime, including mistaken witness identification, false confessions, official misconduct, perjury, inadequate legal defense, and false or misleading forensic evidence. According to the National Registry of Exonerations (2019), the most common factors involved in overturning a case are perjury or false accusations and official misconduct, seen in 58 and 54 percent of the cases, respectively. True-crime narratives present both cases, but they tend to focus on the actions of individual representatives of the justice system, telling the audience that their actions are the primary reasons for these injustices. Justice is at the heart of these stories. An injustice has been perpetrated via the wrongful conviction of an innocent person. If that can be corrected, justice will be achieved. In doing so, this form of storytelling introduces us to justice crusaders. These are attorneys and investigators who are working against the odds to prove that the system has made an error. They are the “good guys” in these true-crime narratives. They go through heroic feats to try to right this wrong. Some fight for years to help someone prove their innocence, and many times they remain unsuccessful. Although the creators of these wrongful-conviction narratives are also working toward the same goal of achieving justice, one might consider them to be a sidekick to the hero. They are using their expertise, medium, and possibly resources to support the actions of the justice crusaders. In some cases they are able to uncover information that could potentially help clear the person’s name, as with Baran and her team in the case of Curtis Flowers; however, it is the job of those working the appellate case to turn it into something useful and present it to the court for consideration. Wrongful-conviction narratives have the potential to teach their audience about flaws inherent in the justice system. But the impact of these stories is affected by the types of cases presented and how the story is told. Any crime-related entertainment features the extraordinary— the least common events are highlighted the most often. As has been demonstrated throughout many of the chapters here, true crime is no different. The creators often select unique cases to feature—after all, the unexpected and unusual make the best entertainment. Wrongfulconviction narratives might have another reason for relying on cases like this, as these extreme examples of injustice can shock people into

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acknowledging that there is an issue; however, in doing so, more typical instances are overshadowed. A related issue is that most of these narratives treat each case as an isolated event. The audience focuses on a single miscarriage of justice rather than tying it to larger issues. Writing about Making a Murderer, Schulz (2016, par. 28) comments that the filmmakers “are more concerned with vindicating wronged individuals than with fixing the system that wronged them.” Stories such as this one generate an attachment to a specific case and jurisdiction. Law-enforcement officers and others involved in that case are presented as culpable, while systemic issues that may also contribute to these faulty convictions are ignored. The audience reacts by logging on to Change.org to develop and sign petitions directed at that case, or people use social media to express their disgust with the injustice, sometimes directly targeting those involved. Although these activists may feel that their actions will make a difference, they are not demanding the systemic changes that are needed to reduce the chances of these errors occurring in the first place. Some wrongful-conviction narratives attempt to consider the factors involved in these miscarriages of justice. They look beyond the individual actors and dissect the history and law that not only allows for these things to happen but also makes them difficult to correct. Undisclosed, Innocent Man, and In the Dark each attempt to provide their audience with some sort of explanation. Undisclosed dissects the law, Innocent Man considers the history of small-town justice, and In the Dark scrutinizes the history of the Jim Crow South and the effects that continue to plague the justice system. Each is still presented somewhat in isolation, but these narratives are more explanatory than many others. Like other forms of true crime, wrongful-conviction narratives contain an undercurrent of fear, though of a different kind. They invoke distrust of the people who work in the criminal justice system, and fear that even an innocent person can end up in prison, and that this can happen to anyone—including you. Time and time again they present the audience with ordinary people who know they are innocent but trust the system enough to comply and, for some, this decision is life changing. In Wrongful Conviction with Jason Flom, the host tells listeners that they should call an attorney the second the police calls them to the station. At this point, they cease being your allies and you need to protect yourself (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). In a time during which some people are already extra cautious about the actions of law enforcement, these stories potentially contribute to an additional layer of mistrust.

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Adding to that fear is that many of these stories highlight the most glaring flaw in the system—the inability to rectify these mistakes once they have been made. Our system is meant to protect the innocent, but these narratives demonstrate that innocence is not always important; holding someone accountable is the primary goal. If innocent and convicted, it can take a significant number of years to reverse this decision. On average, an exoneree will spend nine years behind bars, but some will be incarcerated for decades (National Registry of Exonerations n.d.-c). Whether one year or thirty, the damage has been done. Prison changes people—decades of incarceration, even once exonerated, has lasting effects. According to the Innocence Project (Innocence Project n.d.-a, par. 1): “Deprived for years of family and friends and the ability to establish oneself professionally, the nightmare does not end upon release. With no money, housing, transportation, health services or insurance, and a criminal record that is rarely cleared despite innocence, the punishment lingers long after innocence has been proven.” As listeners learn from Steven Barnes, once you are exonerated, you receive no help, not even the little aid afforded to parolees (“A Crime Against Humanity” 2018). Compensation laws are not uniform across the states, and fifteen states do not allow for any compensatory awards to those who have been exonerated (Innocence Project n.d.-a). These unfortunates struggle with the after-effects of their encounter with the justice system for many years. These types of true-crime stories emerged nearly three decades into what has been called the “innocence era,” which, according to Barry Scheck (2017, 709), was “triggered by the advent of post-conviction DNA testing.” A more recent development of this era is the creation of Conviction Integrity Units (CIUs) in several jurisdictions across the United States. A CIU “is a division of a prosecutorial office that works to prevent, identify and correct false convictions” (National Registry of Exonerations 2016a, 1). In 2002, Santa Clara County, California, became the first to establish one of these units, followed by Dallas County, Texas, in 2007. Between 2011 and 2015, the number of CIUs increased fourfold to twenty-four nationally, and in 2020 there are fiftynine (National Registry of Exonerations n.d.-a). Although the exact role of true crime in this increase is not known, the growth of these units has coincided with the publication of more wrongful-conviction and exoneration narratives. These narratives bring these issues to light and can contribute to what Kelli Boling (2019, 170) refers to as “a back-door approach to reform.” The audience becomes educated on the subject,

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which in turn may influence whom they elect and the legislation they support. It might translate into other actions as well. For example, since the story of the Central Park Five was told in the dramatized series When They See Us, the Innocence Project at the University of Colorado School of Law has experienced an increase in donations. Between May 31, 2019, and July 1, 2019, 162 people donated nearly $12,000, compared with a total of $1,100 in donations in the five months before the release of the Netflix series (McGhee 2019). Wrongful-conviction narratives and stories about the exonerated are an important part of the modern wave of true crime. Although these specific tales constitute a large portion of those bringing up justice-related questions, it is important to acknowledge that other types of issues are being presented. Time: The Kalief Browder Story (Furst 2017) highlights problems with pretrial detention through the life and death of Kalief Browder. Browder spent three years in Rikers Island as a juvenile pretrial detainee, where he was subjected to abuse and solitary confinement. Charges were eventually dropped, but the experience forever changed Browder, who ended up taking his own life. Free Meek (Altema 2019) conveys the story of Meek Mills, a rapper who was caught in a cycle of punishment and probation revocations for more than a decade. In a time of numerous shootings of unarmed black men, it is not surprising that their stories are being told alongside other more traditional true-crime tales. Rest in Power: The Trayvon Martin Story (Furst and Willoughby 2018) examines the shooting of unarmed Martin and the trial of George Zimmerman. The podcast, 74 Seconds (Minnesota Public Radio 2017) introduced listeners to the details surrounding the shooting death of Philando Castile, and provided coverage of the trial of Officer Jeronimo Yanez, who was acquitted for the act. Another officer-involved shooting is examined in 16 Shots (WBEZ 2018), which covered the death of Laquan McDonald and the trial of Officer Jason Van Dyke. Modern true crime is providing a venue for these stories of injustice. The creators are strategically taking advantage of the popularity of this medium to present stories that are relevant to our times. The content of these narratives is a critical part of the conversation on crime and justice in the United States. However, most of these programs have not garnered the attention of true-crime fans the way that the story of Steven Avery and Brendan Dassey, two white men potentially set up by the police in Wisconsin, has. Media representations of crime typically present a system that is effective and infallible. When the rules are skirted, it is in the name of justice, making these actions excusable. Modern true crime is introducing

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its audience to another side of justice. These narratives demonstrate that mistakes are made, injustices are sometimes seen as a part of doing business, and the damage that is done is sometimes irreversible. Most of the stories discussed throughout this chapter, as well as those presenting other miscarriages of justice, have a common thread—the victims of these injustices are overwhelmingly persons of color. Whereas much of true crime focuses on white offenders and victims, these justice-related narratives break that mold, serving to not only challenge traditional definitions of true crime but also the face of those involved. Notes 1. The West Memphis Three were released under unusual circumstances. Their case was not overturned; they were not exonerated. Rather, they accepted an Alford plea, “which allows defendants to assert their innocence while conceding that the state has enough evidence to convict them” (Innocence Project 2011). The case continues to provide fodder for true-crime storytelling. The documentary West of Memphis (Berg 2012) explored the case by focusing on Terry Hobbs, Steven Branch’s stepfather, as the main suspect. Numerous podcasts have also delved into the mystery of who killed the boys. Perhaps most notable is the case’s coverage by Bob Ruff (2017) in the fifth season of Truth and Justice. Over the course of thirty-three main episodes, he dives into the details of the case. According to Gilligan (2018, par. 23), Ruff teased his listeners “with a vague mention of the possibility of some new developments.” These developments are never revealed by him or through any other venue. The search for the culprits continues, and true-crime storytellers continue to tell the tale. 2. The story of the Central Park Five has been covered in other true-crime narratives as well. In 2012, the critically acclaimed documentary The Central Park Five (Burns, Burns, and McMahon 2012) covered the case. But it is the dramatic portrayal of their story that is making headlines as quality true-crime storytelling. When They See Us (DuVernay 2019) is a four-part dramatized series streaming on Netflix. According to Emily Nussbaum (2019, par. 1), TV critic for the New Yorker, When They See Us “portrays a racist justice system and an equally hellish penal system, as well as media that amplified the lies that put the boys in prison.” Ava DuVernay’s motivation was not to reinvestigate the crime, but “rather, it is to delineate five individuals whose identities were erased and rewritten before they’d even had the chance to finish eighth grade” (Gilbert 2019, par. 2). The result has been impactful. It became Netflix’s most-watched show every day for two weeks (Kirkland 2019). Public outrage against the prosecutor-in-the-case-turned-author, Linda Fairstein, has ensued, with people boycotting her books and her literary agent breaking their contract (Harris 2019). This wrongful-conviction narrative has finally helped this story reach the national consciousness and, subsequently, the men known as “The Central Park Five” have transformed into “The Exonerated Five” (Bruney 2019). It took a dramatic reenactment of their story to get a nation to change the way people viewed these men, the victims of an unjust system. It demonstrates the power of a wrongful-conviction story, but it remains to be seen whether this translates in the minds of viewers to the larger issues of injustice.

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3. In December 2018, Colburn filed a defamation suit against Netflix and the filmmakers, Moira Demos and Laura Ricciardi. The suit alleges that material was both omitted and distorted to make him look like he planted this evidence (Keegan 2019). 4. The first Peabody Award–winning season featured the unsolved childabduction case of Jacob Wetterling, in which Baran and her team analyze law enforcement’s response and how the case influenced the way cases like this are handled (American Public Media n.d.). During their investigation, separate from the work of the podcasters, an arrest was made. 5. I conducted an internet search to locate any updates in Lanier’s appeals, but I found nothing. The only recent information about Lanier was an obituary published in January 2019.

7 Fear, Justice, and the Experience of Modern True Crime

val was held in Chicago, bringing together both creators and listeners. The main room was filled with dozens of podcasters who came from all over the United States and Canada, and as far away as Sweden. Fans went table to table collecting stickers and pins, taking selfies with or getting autographs from some of their favorite voices of true crime. I stopped at a table scattered with black-and-white postcards, a maple leaf–adorned ball cap, and a pen topped with a moose. A tall darkhaired man with glasses was standing next to it. He introduced himself as Robin Warder, the host of the Canadian podcast The Trail Went Cold. I admitted to Warder that I had never listened to his show, which he described as being like Unsolved Mysteries. I asked him why he decided to start his own podcast. Warder told me of his love of the popular truecrime TV show and how he created a YouTube program in which he dressed up like Robert Stack and presented unsolved cases. When podcasting came along, it afforded him a different venue, so he continued to pay tribute to Unsolved Mysteries minus the costume. On the other side of the room, I visited a table attended by Paris Brown, who looked like a cross between a pinup girl and a midcentury housewife. She was promoting her show, Class A Felons, B-Films, CCups. Brown, a doctoral student from California, told me that the idea for her podcast was born after a night out with friends at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, where the Black Dahlia was sighted shortly before her murder. She wanted to tell stories about lesser-known crimes from that period of history. We talked briefly about Truman Capote before I moved

On July 13, 2019, the inaugural True Crime Podcast Festi-

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on to visit other tables, watching both fans and podcasters, chatting with them about their love of true crime, and collecting my stickers. That day I was an ethnographer observing and interacting with a culture obsessed with murder and missing persons and, in some cases, justice. Attending this festival devoted to a segment of the genre revealed a lot about the true-crime community, as well as the effect an immersion into the genre can have on a person. After leaving the main room, I attended a live podcast reading, an experience I did not take advantage of in 2018 while attending CrimeCon. For this event, the hosts of two different programs took turns telling a murder story. I am not sure what I expected when I took my seat and waited for it to start, but soon after it began, a wave of unease rushed over me. I looked around the room, which was filled with mostly women who ranged in age from their early twenties to their sixties, and perhaps older. Many were there with a friend, family member, or significant other, sharing their love of true crime. Up front, parked close to the stage, I eyed an elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair. She was accompanied by someone whom I presumed to be her granddaughter, who wheeled her room to room for the events of the day, both of them equally engrossed in the material. These strangers were my companions on this part of my true-crime journey. I wondered what brought them to this room to hear this story, but I did not get the chance to ask, as the reading had already begun. One host asked questions of the audience and rewarded their correct answers with pieces of candy that were hurled at them from the stage. It felt like a game show, with the winners being the people who know the most about murder and how it is investigated. People sat smiling and, at times, laughing at comments made by the hosts, who attempted to bring some humor to this dark tale. At one point, some of the audience audibly groaned when it was revealed that the murderer had sodomized his victim after killing her. I began to wonder, why was this room filled with people listening to the horrific details of another woman being murdered by someone close to her and happily answering questions in hopes of earning a sweet reward? This story was not about an unsolved crime or a quest for justice; it was not asking anything of the audience other than to let the words travel through their ears, eventually settling into their brains. It was a story of a young, single mother being murdered by her half-brother, who had sexually abused her when she was a child. No one seemed truly shocked by these events, except for the postmortem sexual activity perpetuated by her murderer. At this point, I no longer felt simple unease, I was nauseous. A good ethnographer would have stayed the course and tried to dissect the rest of the event. But I am a criminologist

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who has spent more than two years on a true-crime exploration filled with violence, especially targeted toward women. I had hit my threshold, so I gathered my belongings and left the room. In 2014, when I listened to Serial on my walks, little did I know that I would jump down the true-crime rabbit hole and that my immersion would impact me in this manner. As previously discussed, in my younger years, I was a fan of the genre, and I am now nearly two decades into a career as a criminology professor; therefore, the personal effect of listening to and watching countless hours of true crime took me by surprise. There were times when I was inexplicably sad or anxious, which demonstrated the impact of this work on my mood. I also noticed that I changed some of my behavior and began to worry about different things. When attending CrimeCon, I had a room on the first floor, down a long, seemingly deserted hallway. As I went back to my room at night, my heart would race and I would walk as fast as possible, and once in my room, I had to check to make certain there were no intruders. While in Chicago for the True Crime Podcast Festival, a town I grew up in, I was extra aware of my surroundings and who was approaching me as I walked Michigan Avenue at night, despite the fact that it was bustling with other pedestrians. I was concerned that my significant other might vanish without a trace or be murdered while he was out of town on a business trip. These responses and actions were out of the norm for me. The content of modern true crime had wormed its way into my psyche, generating a level of fear and anxiety regarding victimization with which I do not normally struggle. In an article for the Huffington Post titled “This Is Your Brain on True Crime: There May Be Psychological Reasons These Accounts Are So Compelling,” Paige Smith (2018) notes: “Prolonged exposure to true crime stories affects your body negatively . . . because your stress levels spike when you’re watching or reading it” (par. 23). She reflects on her own experience: “Suffice it to say, I was hooked. What was once a healthy fascination morphed quickly into an obsession—and I paid the price in nightmares and anxiety, two conditions I’d never previously experienced” (Smith 2018, par. 3). Reading this article, I knew I was not alone, but I was approaching these narratives as a criminologist, not as a casual fan. Even with my knowledge of criminal behavior, it negatively affected me. My quest to understand how true crime is evolving, its underlying messages, and the impact of a multidimensional genre that focuses on violence, victimization, and miscarriages of justice had nearly come to an end. While on this journey, I witnessed the spectacle of murder after murder. I ingested countless serial-killer stories, tales of murdering and murdered women, egregious miscarriages of justice, and other accounts

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of crime. On the surface, this seems no different than twenty-five years ago, when I would curl up with a true-crime book, staying up far too late reading about Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, and countless others. So why did it have such a different effect on me? Modern true crime is a more complex and diverse entity than in the past and plays a unique role in society. Some of the narratives have an underlying goal of achieving justice. They also offer the chance for victims and their families to take control of the narratives and to use them to bring attention to unresolved cases. Even with these changes, the genre is still rooted in fear, which feeds anxieties about crime and victimization. And, for some people, it has become an invasive and painful medium that re-traumatizes them for the sake of entertainment. Ultimately, the formats in which these narratives are presented, and the way people interact with modern true crime, create an experience that is vastly different than that of previous renditions of the genre. The Experience of Modern True Crime Before considering the overall messages contained within modern truecrime narratives, it is important to identify the ways in which the experience varies from the past. These stories are being generated and consumed in a very different media culture than true-crime books and the earliest versions of related television programming popularized in the late twentieth century. The modern true-crime experience is marked by bingeing, engagement, and intimacy. The twenty-first century brought with it Netflix, Hulu, and other streaming video services that considerably changed the way people consume entertainment. Seemingly endless choices can be accessed instantaneously. “Netflix and chill” encapsulates the experience of staying home to watch countless hours of programming. We think of bingeing as consuming too much of something, typically alcohol or food, in a short period of time; it is considered an unhealthy or even dangerous behavior. Now the term binge-watching is being used to describe what is a hobby to some: spending hours viewing their favorite programs. Binge-watching has generally been defined as watching several, if not all, episodes of a show in a single sitting (Snider 2016; Baker 2017; Flayelle, Maurage, and Billieux 2017). Although the definitions specify “watching,” it is also possible to “binge listen” to podcasts. Narratives that in the past may have taken weeks or months to consume can now be completed in a single sitting. And the number of series available means that a person

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can not only binge a single show but can also go on a true-crime bender, so to speak, consuming program after program. The research on binge-watching is relatively new; however, there is an agreement that it can have a psychological effect (Snider 2016). Maèva Flayelle, Pierre Maurage, and Joel Billieux (2017) found that people generally participate in this behavior to be entertained, as a form of escapism, and as a social activity. They concluded that binge-watching puts participants in a positive emotional state. But other research indicates that this impact depends on what type of program is being watched; after all, bingeing on kale yields a very different effect than bingeing on ice cream. According to Zachary Snider (2016, 121), “binge-watching a cognitively and psychologically complex series . . . is exhausting and can negatively affect one’s otherwise healthy mental stasis.” Most of the literature on this phenomenon focuses on fictional programming and does not deal specifically with true crime, but of course it is possible to ingest hour upon hour of true-crime. Immersion in a world of serial killers and other murderers for extended periods of time is likely to have a negative impact on the consumers, although the exact effect is dependent on the viewers, their experiences, and their reasons for watching. When binge-watching, after selecting a narrative, viewers can choose to focus intently on the imagery and allow themselves minimal distraction, or they can engage with the presentation passively, allowing it to become the soundtrack of their daily lives. It is common for viewers to multitask with Netflix or a podcast playing in the background, not interacting fully with the program content. Bingeing true-crime narratives while giving full attention to the details of the story is going to have a different impact than passively allowing the programs to become background noise as people clean, work out, and accomplish the mundane tasks that fill their days. Past renditions of the genre required a certain level of attention. The words on the page had to be read; the show that is on only once a week had to be watched without distractions (or recorded on a VHS tape for later viewing). Today’s media culture allows us the choice of engagement or passive involvement or a little of both, depending on our interest. The results are going to be different, depending on the choice that is made. Giving your undivided attention to these narratives means that the content has an increased chance of settling into your consciousness, thus impacting your perceptions more fully. As demonstrated throughout this book, engaging with true crime can mean more than actively watching or listening to these programs; some fans take their commitment further. Some join groups on Facebook to connect with the creators and other fans, dissect the narratives they have

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consumed, and even become involved in investigating crimes in their free time. Some attend true-crime Meetup groups, pub crawls, CrimeCon, and other events that allow them to connect in person and learn more about the genre that so enthralls them. The true-crime obsessed can recognize others like themselves via SSDGM (Stay Sexy, Don’t Get Murdered) tattoos and T-shirts advertising their favorite shows. Modern true crime has created a community. Some of these members are fixated on gruesome tales of serial killers and other murderers; others are seeking a way to deal with their own trauma; and still others are trying to help victims of crime and miscarriage of justice. Regardless of their motivations, modern true crime allows people to bond over violence, victimization, and justice. The exact number of people who engage in these ways is not known, but recent research provides some insight. Kelli Boling and Kevin Hull (2018) surveyed true-crime podcast listeners about their engagement. In their sample, they found that 17 percent reported engaging often, and 49 percent sometimes. Furthermore, they noted that females were more likely to become involved than males. Of the listeners who engaged, 63 percent reported joining online communities specific to true-crime podcasts, and 49 percent reported using Reddit. Facebook is the main online community they are joining, as most true-crime podcasts have their own page and private groups for their truly devoted fans. The number of people involved with the Facebook community varies considerably for some of the programs previously discussed. The page for My Favorite Murder has more than 375,000 fans, with several private groups of varying sizes that fans can join. Andrea Marks (2017, par. 5) notes that “murder is not instinctively soothing subject matter, but for many listeners the podcast has opened the door to a virtual support group.” Facebook provides them easy access to that support. In comparison, In the Dark has 15,000 likes on its page and a small group for those who donate to the show, with approximately 850 members. The Vanished has 45,000 likes, and 22,000 people who belong to the case discussion group. In contrast, True Crime Bullsh** has only a private group with 1,500 members. These are just a few examples of the number of fans engaging with true crime outside of watching or listening to it. This interaction on social media exemplifies the modern experience, but so too does the number of people willing to pay for and travel to true-crime events. In 2018, 3,500 people attended CrimeCon (Nanos 2019). The popularity of this event has contributed to the development of other such conventions. In 2019, there was the inaugural True Crime Podcast Festival and CrowdSolve, as well as the second year of Death Becomes Us:

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A True Crime Festival. In October 2020, fans will set sail on the firstever CrimeCruise, departing from Miami. People appear to be more than willing to spend money and vacation time to interact with the genre they love and with others who share their same interest in true crime. One factor that might be fueling the urge to become engaged with true crime is the intimacy of the genre. In her analysis of twentiethcentury true crime, Jean Murley (2008) observed an intimacy afforded by small-screen entertainment. Sitting comfortably on the couch, lights dimmed, viewers have few distractions; the line between the viewer and the murder fades. Depending on how people chose to consume it, modern true crime affords even more intimacy than past renditions, and with it a different type of connection. Podcasting has been described as “a peculiarly intimate medium” with a “slow build” and a “sensual atmosphere,” overall creating an immersive experience (Mead 2018, par. 20). Many people listen to these programs through their headphones, and a soothing voice whispers the story in their ears. In Serial, a listener’s connection to Syed’s story is enhanced by hearing Koenig narrate it. When she shares her opinions, it can make listeners feel like a friend is having a casual conversation with them. Listening to the hosts of My Favorite Murder chat with one another about their lives and challenges as they narrate murderous tales provides a personal connection. Many view them as confidants with whom they can share their own struggles about addiction and mental health, as well as their fears of victimization. Observing fans as they interacted with podcast hosts at the True Crime Podcast Festival was different than seeing their interactions with the hosts of Dateline and other true-crime television personalities at CrimeCon. There was one fan at the festival who seemed to have bonded with the hosts of several programs. They called her by name and greeted her like an old friend. Later I saw some of her postings on the true-crime podcast Facebook group, in which she brought up the issue of plagiarism and praised several hosts who make certain to give proper credit to the sources they use. She was a first-line defender of their integrity. If she did not feel a connection, she might not have spoken up. The nature of the podcasting industry invites this type of relationship. Research on podcasting has demonstrated that compared to other mediums, there is a unique relationship between those who produce true-crime podcasts and those who listen to them (Boling 2019; Bouzis 2017; Spinelli and Dann 2019). Fans tune in to their programs and support the creators by providing ratings on podcast platforms, and in exchange the podcasters make themselves accessible via social media and meet and talk to fans at events. If you become a patron of the show,

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you might get even more individualized attention, as well as develop a sense of being a contributor because your donations support the program. For example, True Crime Bullsh** has a Patreon page.1 Patrons can select to give as little as $2 a month, but the amount given is an indication of the commitment to the show. Each level of giving has its own set of perks: “Supporters,” those who give $2 a month, get a shout-out on social media, whereas a “Hero” who gives $20 a month receives a handwritten thank you note with stickers, a copy of one FOIA request filed by Hallmark in his investigation of Keyes, an on-air thank you, and a thirtyminute Skype happy hour with the host (Hallmark n.d.). The audiencecreator relationship that develops is very different. The creators need the support of their fans because unlike the televised docuseries, many of them do not have investors. They have created a more intimate, personalized experience that increases the chance that their listeners will feel a connection and be willing to offer their monetary support or, at the very least, a positive rating. Overall, the way in which fans of modern true crime consume and interact with the narratives provides a different experience than in the past. It is more concentrated and more personal; therefore, the impact is more intense. This makes the messages about crime and justice contained within these narratives even more critical to understand. Distorted Images of Modern True Crime As noted at the beginning of this quest to understand modern true crime, media representations can affect people’s perceptions. For some, they serve as some of the most influential sources of information on crimerelated issues. Not all imagery, however, will be equally impactful; imagery that pruports to be factual, such as true crime, will be more persuasive than fictionalized imagery. Given the amount of true-crime programming that is currently available, it could, in fact, be becoming one of the most significant media sources for its fan base. So, what are consumers of the genre learning about crime and justice? This deep dive into modern narratives uncovered several trends. In general, despite advancements and changes to the genre, many distortions of the past are being repeated. Given that true crime “consists of nonfiction narratives of criminal events that actually happen” (Punnett 2018, 22), the programs examined throughout this book provide a reflection of real-world crime and justice. But as noted by Mark Seltzer (2007, 2), “true crime is crime fact that looks like crime fiction.” Therefore, the events are reinterpreted to satiate the tar-

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get audience, which has certain expectations. The result is that the reflection presented is a distorted one. As if looking in a fun-house mirror, certain aspects are accentuated while others are minimized; part of the image is clear, and part is fuzzy. These alterations contribute to misunderstandings about crime and justice and feed anxieties about victimization. The main distortion comes from the types of crime most often featured in these narratives. Murley (2008, 44) notes that from the beginning, true-crime literature “created a nonfiction American landscape of paranoia and danger, random violent crime and roaming serial killers, of mortal threats to women and children from sociopathic husbands, serial rapists, and predatory child-killers.” In its modern form, the genre incorporates stories of theft, white-collar crime, and domestic violence, but in general, Murley’s observations still ring true. Murder remains at the heart of the genre—even in narratives examining potential miscarriages of justice, the tale, more often than not, begins with someone being killed. From serial killers targeting strangers to people killing those they know and perhaps once cared about, murder after murder is presented, and people continue to tune in to hear the details of these lives being taken. If you turn on Investigation Discovery or Oxygen at any time of day, chances are that a murder narrative will be playing. Thus, the first lesson fans may take away from modern true crime is that homicide is one of the main crimes committed, when, in fact, it is not. The overexaggeration of this crime is exacerbated by the tendency to tell murder stories from various points in history. True crime is not like the news. The creators are not beholden to the timeliness of the event. Newsworthiness in this way is different from “true-crime-worthiness.” When newer cases are unavailable, creators, especially those who rely on secondary sources, can feature murders from any point in time. Although audience members are given the date of the murder and are therefore cognizant of when it occurred, it is likely filed in their mind with the other murders they are inundated with if they regularly consume true crime. The perception is cultivated that not only is murder one of the most common crimes, but there is also the potential to believe that it is on the rise, even though crime statistics demonstrate its relative rarity and that it has been decreasing for many years (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2019). Misrepresentations exist not only in the emphasis on murder but also in how it is explained. If people are tuning in to these tales to understand violence, then true crime leaves them with a simplistic view, which is not unique to the most recent murder tales. Murley (2008) observes that the genre “places great value on individual responsibility for action, and that the genre valorizes personal accountability, integrity, and agency” (153).

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As a consequence, murder is treated as being disconnected from social forces. Crime is often more complex than people are apt to believe. Underlying issues, such as poverty, abuse, and systemic inequalities, may provide a better understanding of violence, but these factors continue to be ignored in most true-crime stories. Episodic and deep-dive narratives present crimes committed out of lust, greed, and jealousy. If a more complex issue is addressed, such as in the case of abuse and women who kill, the impact of that factor is downplayed or treated as an excuse rather than a potential cause. True crime reserves the most detailed explanations for a very specific type of offender—the serial killer. Experts dissect the killer’s background to offer an explanation, which is typically rooted in psychology and, more specifically, psychopathy. In 1995, Alexis Durham III, Preston Elrod, and Patrick T. Kinkade concluded: “Exposure to true crime homicide cases results in a mistaken understanding of the homicide problem, as well as misinformed judgments regarding the steps that ought to be taken to address the problem” (151). More than two decades later, this same pattern is being repeated. Modern true crime also accentuates certain characteristics of both victims and offenders. As seen in episodic and deep-dive programming, as well as in media-generated investigations, whites are overwhelmingly presented as offenders and victims. True crime is not unique in its tendency to focus on whites. Research on news coverage of homicide cases indicates that an important determinant of whether a murder will be reported by the news media is race, that of both the offender and the victim. In general, cases in which the victim is white are more likely to be covered (Dowler 2004; Entman 1992; Johnstone, Hawkins, and Michener 1994; Lundman 2003; Wellman 2018). The reality is that blacks constitute 13 percent of the US population but make up 51 percent of homicide victims (Violence Policy Center 2018). Yet their stories are underrepresented on typical true-crime outlets. Instead, one must seek out specialty programs, such as those on TVOne, to hear about these victims. Not representing diverse experiences, however, creates a misunderstanding of the crime problem. Ashley Duchemin (2017) specifically critizes My Favorite Murder for failing to address minority victims, as well as those from the LGBTQ community, but her observations are applicable to many other modern true-crime narrratives. She writes: “They are the instruments that allow society to depict us as the ‘underprivileged’ victims of gang violence, drugs, prostitution, and poverty, rather than innocent lives taken by cold-blooded murderers” (par. 6). In general, our media sends specific messages that construct lines between worthy and unworthy victims, often centered on race and ethnicity. White victims of mass shootings are presented differently than minority victims of inner-city gun violence.

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Missing white women and girls receive national media attention while there is an epidemic of missing and murdered indigenous women, in addition to other missing minorities whose stories are underplayed or completely ignored. A significant portion of the stories consumed by fans of modern true crime continue this perception of the whiteness of crime and victimization and, in doing so, send strong messages about what types of victims are worth caring about. The representation of females as both victims and offenders is another aberration presented in the mirror of true crime. Fans witness countless stories of missing and murdered girls and women, even though males constitute most homicide victims and half of those reported missing (Federal Bureau of Investigation 2016; Federal Bureau of Investigation 2018). This fixation on female victims is likely due in part to women and girls being considered ideal victims (Christie 2018); however, upon closer examination of the narratives, it becomes clear that not every female victim is painted as ideal. Many of these stories contain cautionary tales, which, according to Sarah Moore (2014), send messages about the appropriateness of the victim’s behavior and make a connection to actual or potential victimization. There are three key elements that make up a cautionary tale: it centers on “women’s susceptibility to victimhood”; the crime is presented as “at least partly the consequence of the victim’s negligence”; and the likelihood of the crime taking place is overemphasized (Moore 2014, 123– 124). Together, these aspects of the story offer a warning that girls and women need to watch their behavior. According to Moore (2014, 125), “the cautionary tale offers moral instruction and enjoins the reader or viewer to heed advice or suffer the consequences.” Although Moore did not discuss the genre of true crime, she commented that these stories are found primarily in media targeted at females. It is a well-established fact that most consumers of true-crime stories are female (Monroe 2019; Murley 2008; Peterson 2019), and they too are being sent warnings through the genre’s fixation on the victimization of women and girls. Narratives, especially deep dives and media-generated investigations, dissect their lives, shining light on elements that might be considered inappropriate and thus, risky. In Tara Grinstead’s case, they focus on possible relationships with former students and an affair with a married man. For Jessica Chambers, they discuss potential drug use and the circumstance that this pretty, blonde white woman was having sex with a black man. Rebekah Gould may have owed someone money for drugs and had allegedly been having sex with an old boyfriend, who had a new pregnant girlfriend. The involvement of these women with men and drugs becomes the focal point. Rather than addressing the main causes

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related to women’s victimization, these cultural warnings related to appropriateness of behavior are ingrained, thereby supporting the victimblaming narrative already popularized in our culture. While warning women to watch their behavior, true crime is simultaneously teaching fans to be wary of their murderous ways. Previous research indicated that in true-crime books, deadly women are represented three times more often than official statistics indicate (Durham, Elrod, and Kinkade 1995). Modern true crime is no different. Shows like Snapped, Deadly Women, and even the podcast Female Criminals (Richardson and Nye 2018) present story after story of violent, deadly women. Female Criminals examines “the psychology, motivations, and atrocities of female felons” (“Female Criminals” n.d.). Given this description, one might expect a more accurate representation of female offenders, but it presents its listeners with the cocaine grandmother, a drug lord who is said to have had many people killed; killer nurses, including Kristen Gilbert and Genene Jones; female assassins; and Tracey Wigginton, who was deemed the lesbian vampire killer (“Female Criminals” n.d.). Each of these stories, though true, is not an accurate reflection of most women’s involvement with crime. Women are far less likely than men to commit crimes of violence, yet there is a media obsession with these acts. Fans would rather hear about women poisoning their loved ones than the reality of women committing crimes related to their histories of abuse, drug involvement, and poverty. This representation is not exclusive to true crime; it is pervasive in most media representation of female offenders. True crime is a form of infotainment and by virtue of that presents the extraordinary: serial killers, women who kill, unexpected betrayals that result in familial murders, and mysterious disappearances. Justiceseeking stories popularized in the modern wave of true crime also highlight some of the most shocking miscarriages of justice. Making a Murderer presents the possibility of one man being wrongfully convicted for the second time in his life. The Innocent Man depicts the possibility of four wrongful convictions in one town. In the Dark shares the story of Curtis Flowers, who has been tried six different times by the same prosecutor. These egregious instances exist and are potentially impactful because they are shocking and can be used to engage the audience. The details allow for the development of intriguing narratives, but they do not represent the systemic errors that lead to false convictions. The genre, however, is still evolving, and the nature of podcasting allows for flexibility in storytelling. For example, when the third season of Serial was released in 2018, listeners were given access to a different type of narrative. Koenig and her team spent one year in a courthouse in Cleve-

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land, Ohio. “Not for one extraordinary case; instead, Serial wanted to tackle the whole criminal justice system. To do that we figured we’d need to look at something different: ordinary cases” (“About Season 3” 2018). The court allowed them to record throughout the courthouse, thereby enabling them to capture the mundane. By doing so, they highlight more routine justice-related issues. For example, the first episode, “A Bar Fight Walks into the Justice Center” (2018), tells the story of a woman named Anna. In a bar, someone grabbed her butt, and a scuffle among bar patrons ensued. As she was trying to defend herself, she accidentally hit a police officer who came in to break up the fight. Anna was the only person arrested. What followed was a long and expensive interaction with the justice system for someone who began as the victim. From both a pedagogical and a reform viewpoint, this season of Serial is critical to people’s understanding of the justice system. Yet it has not drawn the attention and outrage generated by Adnan Syed’s case, perhaps demonstrating that the ordinary is not what people are interested in when tuning in to true crime. Because true crime is created in large part to entertain, the factual details must be crafted to meet that goal. The least common and extraordinary instances provide the most interesting and provocative material for the genre, thereby presenting representational, yet distorted, images of real-world crime. True crime as voyeuristic infotainment selects these instances to provide the details needed to create an engaging story that feeds people’s desire to make sense of violence while being amused. True crime as investigative, issue-based storytelling selects cases like this to shock the audience with the hope of inciting action. Either way, the result is a distorted, socially constructed view of crime and justice. Overall, modern true crime presents tales of murder, missing persons, and miscarriages of justice. It continues to feed the perception that crime is solely the result of individual responsibility and that, for the most part, the system is effectively responding to it. When cases of injustice do occur, it is because of a few bad apples rather than systemic failure. This attitude is not new: most of these messages were ingrained in previous renditions of the true-crime genre. But these distortions and their impact on perceptions of crime are only part of the picture. These narratives are affecting the lives of fans and creators, as well as victims and their families, and they play a unique role in the quest for justice. The Impact of True Crime: Fear and Anxiety My recent experiences with true crime resulted in increased fear and anxiety. The content of the stories, combined with the amount I was

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consuming and the way I was interacting with the material, had a profound impact on my mental state. At the True Crime Podcast Festival in Chicago, I attended a panel titled “Taking It Personally,” on which podcasters discussed how this type of storytelling affected them. Some spoke of being targets of internet trolls or having threats made against them because they were working on certain stories, but much of the conversation gravitated toward what it does to them as individuals to dive deep into the lives of violent offenders and how they cope with it. Many of these storytellers sift through police reports, crime scene photos, and other documents to craft their narratives. Whereas big production companies have teams of people to help with this task, creators of independent podcasts do these things on their own, and at times, it has a negative impact on their well-being. Josh Hallmark, host of True Crime Bullsh**, spent three years researching serial killer Israel Keyes. He put it quite bluntly when he said, “It fucked me up on a fundamental level.” To create the podcast, he had to listen to many more hours of Keyes’s interviews than are included for listeners and look at files obtained through his FOIA requests, reading the details of Keyes’s crimes. The personal impact of this journey is also incorporated into early episodes of his series. Erica Kelley, the host of Southern Fried True Crime, creates narratives about solved cases using secondary sources, thus she rarely has direct contact with victims or their families. She spoke about the impact of these interactions when they do take place, which she described as rewarding, but also emotionally draining and depressing. When the panelists discussed what impacted them the most, there was consensus that stories in which children are victimized are the hardest to deal with, so many opt not to cover these cases. These individuals have made a conscious decision to tell these stories, but that does not make them immune from being impacted by the content. Like my journey, extended exposure at times yields negative results for these true-crime storytellers. If true crime affects those who curate it, then avid consumers are likely having similar experiences. True crime’s fixation on murder, as well as its use of scary situations as plot devices, can easily feed these feelings. Research has shown that exposure to violence on television is associated with increased perceptions of risk of victimization and fear (Custers and Van den Bulck 2013; Romer, Jamieson, and Aday 2003). More specifically, the mediated fear model “assumes that television exposure may influence real-world perceptions about crime, which may in turn affect levels of worry” (Custers et al. 2017, 641). Television viewing generates the perception of being at risk of victimization and not being able to control crime, and that crime is typically serious (Clusters

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and Van den Bulk 2013; Custers et al. 2017)—all of which can feed feelings of being unsafe. Women in general tend to have higher fear of victimization than men, despite their lower chance of being the victim of most crimes. When this thought is reinforced in the media these women consume, their fear is likely to increase (Custers et al. 2017). Within the genre of true crime, each presentation tells a tale of victimization: of someone being murdered, or taken, or being the target of unjust practices by those who are supposed to uphold the law. Women are overwhelmingly presented as the victims in these tales, and given that they also constitute most of the audience, their anxiety about possible victimization and fear is easily exacerbated. When people think that they are at risk for victimization and fearful of crime, they are more likely to take on self-protective behaviors and restrict their actions (Custers et al. 2017; Ferraro 1995; Miethe 1995; Wilcox, Jordan, and Pritchard 2007). Although anecdotal in nature, comments made in Facebook groups support the contention that true crime is increasing fear and anxiety, as well as awareness and avoidance behaviors. As shown in Chapter 4, some who are listening to True Crime Bullsh** are frightened of Israel Keyes, who has been dead since 2012, and some take extra precautions to remain safe. A post from this group made on September 29, 2019, further demonstrates this point. A woman wrote about seeing a red truck in the road while she was jogging. She suspected that the man inside was watching her, so she took photos of the vehicle and called her husband. She noted: “He may have been doing something completely harmless, but my level of awareness while running has defintely increased tenfold since listening to true crime podcasts.” She followed this statement with a list of the things she now does to protect herself while running (e.g., carries a personal alarm and pepper spray). These types of posts are common on true-crime Facebook groups and are a part of the conversations participants have at true-crime events. Standing in the merchandise line at CrimeCon, I overheard the young woman behind me telling her companion that she loves true crime because it teaches her what to do if she is attacked. Ironically, just like the woman and the red truck, it is likely that her consumption of true crime has stirred the need to find ways to protect herself. There are many factors that can shape how true crime impacts those who engage with it. Everyone comes from different backgrounds and experiences and, thus, has different tolerance levels. But if true crime is likely to generate fear and anxiety, then for many, too much of it is probably not healthy. The exact impact, however, will be affected by the role true-crime narratives play in each person’s life and in society.

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The Role of Modern True Crime: Entertainment and Beyond

True-crime narratives on murders, missing persons, and quests for justice are an industry. There are many different choices for those who are interested. Its reach has extended beyond the typical influence of programming, and it has become ingrained in our culture in a multitude of ways. In general, the part it plays in society is multidimensional. When researching this, I distinguished three main roles of modern true crime: satisfying fans’ needs; addressing questions of justice; and providing victims and their families with a voice. Satisfying the Needs of the True-Crime Obsessed

Uses and gratification theory indicates that people have certain objectives, goals, and motives when selecting media to consume, favoring narratives that fulfill their needs (Rubin 1994). Why are people choosing true crime? What needs are being met by these tales of violence, victimization, and justice? For some, true crime is simply entertaining. In a culture where binge-watching is a hobby, the current state of true crime presents a plethora of options to keep such consumers amused. These narratives are styled to capture their attention, compelling them to watch hour after hour. Whether solved or not, cases are presented with enough twists and turns to keep the audience guessing until the end. Even more journalistic attempts, such as In the Dark, employ cliffhangers and other methods to keep listeners engaged (“The Ethical True Crime Podcast: How to Make One, What Not to Do” 2019). However, if true crime were only satisfying people’s need to be entertained, we would not be witnessing its continued expansion and evolution, thereby suggesting that fans are getting something more from the genre. CrimeCon 2018 provided some insight with its theme: “What’s Your Motive?” People were invited to write their motive for attending on yellow sticky notes and to post them for all to read. By the end of the weekend, the board in the main hall was covered and displayed a variety of reasons. Some were there to meet their favorite true-crime celebrities, with the names Nancy Grace and Keith Morrison appearing countless times; others indicated that they were there to make their wives or girlfriends happy. The self-scribed notes also indicated: “Fascination” “I’m obsessed!” “To understand the why!” “Justice”

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“I’m going to solve a cold case!” “To not get caught” “To find my sister” “Justice for Abby and Libby.”

For many, the reasons are likely multifaceted and more complicated than can be summarized on a three-by-three-inch slip of paper. Yet these notes suggested that people engage with true crime for many different reasons. Why people are drawn to these dark tales has always been in question. During the modern wave of true crime, several possibilities have been suggested, with much of the speculation focusing on female fans because they compose an overwhelming majority of true-crime consumers. Boling and Hull (2018) found that women are drawn to true crime because it is a form of escapism. They also suggest that these tales satisfy voyeuristic tendencies. Paige Smith (2018) hypothesizes that people are drawn to true crime because they want to understand why they are afraid and how to survive if attacked; the latter concern is one of the most commonly cited reasons given for the lure of true crime for female fans (Vicary and Fraley 2010; Stewart 2017). Allison Stewart (2017) observes that My Favorite Murder “regularly dispenses lessons in murder avoidance: Be aware of your surroundings. Pepper spray first, ask questions later. Nothing good ever happens to women alone in a forest. It’s okay to not be nice to the creepy guy at the bar” (par. 11). But what we do not know is whether fans are fearful and thus turn to true crime to learn these things or whether the genre makes them scared, thereby convincing them that they must take these precautions. Several true-crime podcasts infuse humor into their tales of murder and other vicitmization. According to Amanda Hess (2018), “for women, humor has emerged as an easy coping mechanism for relentlessly being told by popular culture that they’re probably going to be raped and murdered by a stranger, as ludicrous as that is” (par. 2). Others have also suggested that true crime can be a way for people to cope. In a commentary piece for the New York Times titled “I Survived Domestic Violence. Now I’m Drawn to True Crime Podcasts,” Jes Skolnik (2017, par. 2) notes: “People who have survived trauma are often attentively drawn to true crime . . . because they help us reflect on the violence we’ve experienced and put it into context.” Each of these explanations suggests that women are getting something practical from these stories. Rachel Monroe (2019) sees it differently. In Savage Appetites: Four True Stories of Women, Crime, and Obsession, she writes:

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By presuming that women’s dark thoughts were merely pragmatic, those thoughts are drained of their menace. True crime wasn’t something we women at CrimeCon were consuming begrudgingly, for our own good. We found pleasure in these bleak accounts of kidnappings and assaults and torture chambers . . . A different, more alarming hypothesis was the one I tended to prefer: perhaps we liked creepy stories because something creepy was in us. (5)

Similarly, Bill Thomas, whose sister was murdered, observed while attending CrimeCon in 2019, “I think there’s an obsession with the dark and our darkest impulses. People like to stand up and look over the edge of that precipice” (Peterson 2019, par. 7). In the end, true crime is providing different things to different people. In its current state, it can fulfill the desire to be entertained, to understand violence, and to learn defense tactics. It can also be a coping mechanism, allowing people to help others, and even fulfilling the need for dark tales. Seeking Justice

True crime has always had an underlying theme of justice. Books convey stories of solved cases, demonstrating that justice has been achieved. Television programming has asked its audience to consider wrongful convictions (e.g., The Court of Last Resort), to help bring resolution to cold cases (e.g., Unsolved Mysteries), or to locate known culprits so they can be held accountable (e.g., America’s Most Wanted). But traditionally, these types of narratives were rarities. Today, justice-related quests and themes constitute a larger segment of the genre. As demonstrated in Chapters 5 and 6, creators and fans alike have become actively engaged in the search for justice. Individual cases are dissected in an attempt to solve them or to prove that miscarriages of justice have taken place. At times, creators call on their audience to help, but whereas Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted urged viewers to call in tips, the culture in which these requests are currently being made encourages citizen sleuthing. In these instances, ordinary citizens can feel as if they are helping achieve justice. Some quests for justice have moved the needle in individual cases. Serial helped locate Asia McClain, an alibi witness in Syed’s case. In the Dark uncovered evidence that was used in Curtis Flowers’s most recent appeals. Epsiodes from both of these podcasts have been cited in court (Boling 2019). Fans of The Fall Line helped fund a billboard seeking information on the missing Millbrook twins, which might help bring resolution to this unsolved and underreported case. Even Up and Vanished stirred conversations that provided answers in the disappear-

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ance of Tara Grinstead. But those involved with the genre cannot forget that in the end, justice is the job of the system, and a line must be maintained between actual justice and “true-crime justice.” True-crime fans and its creators must take on this task responsibly so as to help rather than hinder the process. Many creators are cognizant of this need. They have established working relationships with law enforcement and carefully consider the potential impact of information before releasing it publicly on their programs. The current wave of justice-related stories has emerged during a time in which many are questioning the actions of the system. Inherent within these narratives are issues related to injustice and inequality. Beginning with Serial and Making a Murderer, “Many newer true-crime texts take as their central narrative thrust ‘the prosecution of the prosecution,’ or a deconstruction of the logic, evidence, and context of the convictions of the accused” (Buozis 2017, 257). By critically analyzing these cases, creators like Koenig introduce the audience to inequities in the criminal justice system (Buozis 2017). This same statement can be made about other programs discussed in this book, including The Innocent Man, Breakdown, and Undisclosed. It has previously been noted that true crime can have a negative impact on how people view the justice system by decreasing their confidence in it (Boorsma 2017; Kort-Butler and Sittner Hartshorn 2011). While this is possible, it can also provide insight that can potentially spur listeners to demand change. Writing for the Washington Post, Robert Gebelhoff (2016) argues that shows like these can have a “postive impact on how ordinary Americans—the people who sit on juries and elect local prosecutors and judges—view criminal trials” (par. 7). These narratives demonstrate the complexity of the system and of achieving justice. In doing so, they might counteract messages popularized by fictional crime dramas, which have taught generations of viewers that “there’s always enough forensic evidence . . . to quickly identify and effectively identify the killer” (Gebelhoff 2016, par. 9). Gebelhoff continues: “We might slowly be building up a generation whose primary introduction to criminal justice is bingeing on hours worth of podcasts and Netflix episodes that explain legal standards and parse through evidence ad nauseam” (par. 10). It is possible that people will soon be discussing a “Serial effect” instead of the “CSI effect” as a way to demonstrate how modern true crime has impacted the system. While trying to achieve justice through true-crime storytelling, some creators provide information needed to generate important conversations about injustice and inequality. But many fail to equip their audience with the tools needed to help make effective changes. Instead, some fans react by slandering those involved on social media and creating or signing

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ineffective online petitions. It is not the job of the creators to impart this knowledge on their audience, but if true crime is going to play this role in modern society, then it is important to connect the story to ideas for reform, which can easily be accomplished in their narratives or on their social media platforms. Although these themes are becoming more common, most fans do not seem to engage with conversations about injustice and inequalities the way they do with unsolved mysteries. Why are so many willing to help solve cold cases but do not seem interested in demanding changes to correct injustices and systemic errors? Is it the intrigue of cold cases? Could it be the lure of being seen as a “hero” by helping to bring justice to a specific case? Or is it because they can directly witness the impact of the help they provide in individual cases? Or is it something deeper? The people represented in unsolved cases are mirror images of the audience— white and female. Minorities are disproportionately impacted by practices that increase the chances of a miscarriage of justice, and their stories are reflected in that aspect of the genre. Do these differences create a distancing effect, making the audience less likely to become engaged with those quests for justice? Giving Voice to the Victims

Victims are a part of any crime story, yet, traditionally, the focus of true crime has been on the perpetrator. Modern true crime is presenting its audience with more victim-centric narratives. The genre is giving voice to the victims and their families. For some, true crime can be cathartic and bring hope. They can talk about the loss of their loved ones and keep attention on the case in the hope of achieving some sort of resolution. Others are taking control of the narrative to tell the story they want. But not all experiences with true crime are positive. Ultimately, the genre plays a precarious role in the lives of crime victims and their families. Inviting victims’ families to tell their stories is not a new development. Traditionally, they were asked to provide details on the life and death of their loved one, aided by investigators involved in the case. The problem lies in the formulaic nature of these programs. Producers use only the parts that fit their narrative structure, allowing them to create the story they want, not necessarily the one the family wants. There are many examples of this practice in modern true crime, but as seen throughout this book, the genre has provided unique opportunities for those involved to shape the story. For example, The Murder in My Family “tells the effects of murder from the perspective of the family members of the victims and shows how they, too, are victims in this

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terrible crime” (The Murder in My Family 2018). Each episode begins with a recap of the murder, but much of it is a chance for the guests to tell their story, guided by Mike Morford’s questions. On The Vanished, Marissa Jones also invites family members or friends on her program to tell their stories in a way that is not marred by reenactments and sensationalized story lines. In a similar vein, exoneration and wrongfulconviction narratives allow victims of injustice to be heard. Adnan Syed, Steven Barnes, and many others are given the opportunity to describe their experiences with the justice system. Voices that are typically hushed are being given a platform to share their stories via modern true-crime narratives. The accessibility of podcasting has also allowed victims to generate their own narratives. For example, in Life After Linc (2018), Roxanne Lewis-Randall, with the help of Dana D’Angelo, tells the heart-wrenching and raw story of her child’s murder; the trial of her boyfriend of one year, Bert Franklin; and how she has dealt with this loss. Because Lewis-Randall has generated the story herself, it offers a more personal look at what it is like to lose a loved one. Other examples of victimgenerated narratives, include Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman and even Happy Face. In each of these instances, the genre is providing a venue for the victims to become the center of the narrative, and even control the story that is presented. This experience may be cathartic. It may offer them a chance to keep the memory of their loved one alive and to keep focus on the case. It might also offer other victims and their families support by demonstrating that they are not alone. For other victims, however, true crime’s attention to their stories is a continuing source of pain. Some creators craft their programs without contacting the victims and instead rely solely on secondhand information, but not all handle this task responsibly. Mike Boudet, the host of Sword and Scale, played a 911 recording of a young boy watching his father stalk and eventually kill his mother. He released the boy’s name and address during the episode. The boy, who is now an adult, and his family heard about the show, dredging up a traumatic event from the past (Houpt 2018). Regardless of how the story is handled, if those involved hear about it or have people contacting them because of the renewed attention, it is like experiencing the trauma all over again. Perhaps it is this consideration that led Tim Pilleri and Lance Reenstierna, the creators of Missing Maura Murray, to post an apology to the family on their website. They wrote: As we prepare to enter year four of this podcast, we realize we were not adequately prepared for what it would become. To be

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transparent, it’s embarrassing for us to reflect on the fact that we never consulted the family about even the title of the podcast. That’s just one example of our naivety [sic]. Looking back at the early episodes are especially cringeworthy. Only with help of Helena Dwyer Murray were we able to gain more perspective and feel the weight of the project we were doing. We would like to issue a formal apology to Fred Murray and his entire family for anything we said due to our initial ignorance. Our parents raised us better [than] to have behaved in such a manner. (Pilleri and Reenstierna 2018a)

In a rush to tell interesting stories, some hosts dive in head-first without considering the potential impact on those involved. As the genre, and especially the medium of podcasting, has continued to develop, more conversations about ethical true-crime storytelling are emerging, including a consideration of this issue. In some instances, the families have been invited to join the conversation but have chosen not to be involved. For example, Hae Min Lee’s family has been reliving the events since the murder was brought back into the spotlight via Koenig’s quest for justice in Serial. They made the choice not to take part in the podcast because they believe justice was achieved when Syed was convicted. But they have felt the impact of the renewed attention on the case. Simon Houpt (2018), in “Our Addiction to True Crime Has a Human Cost,” reported that someone claiming to be Lee’s brother posted the following in a Reddit forum related to the show: TO ME [IT IS] REAL LIFE.

. . . To you listeners, another murder mystery, crime drama, another episode of CSI. You weren’t there to see your mom crying every night, having a heartattack when she got the new[s] that the body was found, and going to court almost everyday for a year seeing your mom weeping, crying and fainting. You don’t know what we went through. Especially to those who are demanding our family response and having a meetup . . . you guys are disgusting. Shame on you. I pray that you don’t have to go through what we went through and have your story blasted to 5mil listeners. (par. 4)

The relatives must relive their trauma as a result of the invasiveness of the modern true-crime genre in which boundaries do not seem to exist. The relationship between survivors and true crime is like the one they have with the news media. Ashley Wellman (2018) explored the relationship between media and cold-case homicide survivors. Most described their interactions with the media as negative. For example, in several cases, the news media used booking photos of the victim instead of personal photographs and did not always spell their names correctly. Positive

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experiences came about when they had interactions with journalists who were respectful and compassionate, which was an experience described by only families of upper-class, white female victims. Despite negative interactions, they still believe that media attention is the best way to bring resolution and is therefore worth the pain (Wellman 2018). The chance of negative interactions is heightened in a genre that relies on intriguing narratives and reenactments and that encourages audience engagement. For example, Goldia and Lawrence Coldon participated in the making of The Disappearance of Phoenix Coldon, yet as the narrative unfolds, viewers watch Goldia’s frustration with the experience. The producers anger Goldia when they dissect Phoenix’s behavior, suggesting that she was living a double life. Viewers hear her tell the cameras, “I won’t let you vilify my daughter” (“Where Is She?” 2018). Bill Thomas, whose sister was one of the victims of the Colonial Parkway murders, came across an article about the murders that contained graphic crime-scene photos, spurring him to take on a more active role in how the media were covering these murders. When Investigation Discovery covered the unsolved case on Dark Minds, he was horrified by the reenactments which he described as “cheesy and painfully gruesome” (Peterson 2019, par. 22). Events such as CrimeCon offer a different opportunity for victims’ families to engage with true crime. Washington Post journalist Britt Peterson attended CrimeCon 2019 with Thomas. Thomas views events such as CrimeCon as a chance to network and keep attention on the case in the hope of pressuring the FBI to keep working it. According to Peterson (2019, par. 11), “despite all the opportunities it offers, the true-crime boom—and CrimeCon itself—has put Thomas and other victims’ relatives in some awkward positions.” Fans of the genre can sometimes forget that these are real people, not characters in a story, and that the families are affected by their loss and are not there to entertain or comfort them. Modern true crime is fulfilling various needs of its fans, while seeking justice and spurring conversations about injustice and inequalities. In addition, it is providing victims and their families with a platform to keep the memories of their loved ones alive, to share their experiences, and, in unsolved cases, to bring light to the case in the hope of finally achieving a resolution. However, in doing so, the genre is often voyeuristic and intrusive. Modern True Crime Centuries ago, no one could have predicted that the sermons they gathered to hear before watching an execution would evolve into a profitable

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industry made up of books, television programs, podcasts, events, and merchandise, allowing fans to proclaim their love of true crime. On the surface, modern true crime appears to be a very distant cousin, but it retains elements reflective of its heritage—murder, fear, justice, and even lessons in morality remain at the heart of true crime. But instead of gathering in the town square to watch an execution, interested parties virtually engage with one another on social media or share glasses of wine as they attend CrimeCon and other events. At the beginning of this quest to understand modern true crime, I observed that traditional definitions may need to be expanded to encompass the newest types of narratives and experiences. True crime is still marked by nonfiction tales about crime that are embellished or structured for entertainment. It is the quintessential example of modern infotainment. Some of the newer stories are more complex and more diverse. The genre now includes experiences that offer its audience intrigue, as well as opportunities for engagement. Citizen sleuthing is independent of true crime, but it has become intertwined with the genre, with the investigation becoming the narrative. Lastly, true crime no longer just tells its audience justice is always achieved. It demonstrates that the system is fallible, that cases go unsolved, and that mistakes are made, resulting in miscarriages of justice that need to be rectified. In the end, real life loss and tragedy are at the heart of true crime, and that presents ethical considerations. The genre takes the worst moments in people’s lives and asks them to relive them, whether they want to or not. As a result, many stories are little more than voyeuristic tales highlighting the life and crimes of a killer, which has been an accepted form of entertainment for a long time. But is it ethical to be entertained by other people’s pain and for people to profit from it? In addition, an assumption often made is that those featured in the narratives are willing participants. In this world dominated by social media and easily accessible information, some feel entitled to search them out, invading their privacy, and potentially exacerbating their pain or, in the case of potential suspects, publicly humiliating them as a form of vigilante justice. There is also a movement in the modern wave of the genre to go beyond sensationalistic tales of people being murdered and to tell stories centered on solving cold cases, locating missing persons, and fixing miscarriages of justice. However, in doing so, some have employed questionable practices in an effort to be sure to thrill their audience. The newest forms of true crime exploded overnight, with little time to think about the ethics behind this type of storytelling, as well as the actions

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and events now associated with it. Those not well versed in guidelines of responsible reporting or criminal investigation jumped on the bandwagon. Equipped with a computer, FOIA requests, and recording equipment, they became hybrid citizen sleuths/investigative reporters. More attention needs to be paid to their reasons for jumping into these stories and to whether their tactics are beneficial or harmful to those involved. In an opinion piece for the Washington Post, Sarah Weinman (2019) considers the overall ethics of true crime, aruging that it might not be possible to create and consume it “in a purely ethical fashion.” She comments: “But when we center the lives of the victims and their families rather than obsessing over the quirks of killers and accept the costs of being more sensitive to victims’ pain than we are thrilled by murderers’ transgressions, true-crime stories can make a small contribution to making the world a more just, more empathetic place” (Weinman 2019, par. 10). A segment of the genre is devoted to just that. There are many true crime creators who take this part of their quest seriously and consider the impact they are having on the lives of those involved. They have conversations about the ethics of their actions and grapple with what material they should present to the public and what information they should turn over to the authorities. They allow victims’ families to share their stories without forcing the story to fit a predeveloped narrative. They seek to educate their audience and incite reform (Boling 2019). In addition, they expose their audience to egregious miscarriages of justice and humanize the issue. They are true-crime justice crusaders, and they practice ethical storytelling with the aim of achieving justice and helping families find answers. This examination of modern true crime has offered insight into the meaning and potential impact of this popular genre, yet there are still many unanswered questions that future research can address. True-crime narratives should be analyzed to uncover additional messages about crime and justice with specific attention given to those examining other types of criminal behavior. Do narratives focusing on white-collar and corporate crimes contain similar messages about fear, justice, and individual responsibility? Do stories about sexual assaults come from a feminist perspective, or do they rely on cautionary tales found in other true-crime stories? Do narratives about offenders and victims of color recycle themes found in mainstream true-crime narratives, or do they offer lessons about inequality and justice? Future research should also examine how this interactive and intimate genre is impacting not only those who consume it but also those involved in the stories, the creators, and the criminal justice system. Anecdotal evidence suggests both positive and

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negative outcomes from modern true crime, but additional research is needed to have a complete understanding of the impact of this wave of true-crime storytelling. In 2014, Sarah Koenig launched her quest to find out where a high school boy was for twenty-one minutes after school on a day in 1999. As part of this effort, she asked her audience to look at the evidence and process used to convict Adnan Syed. That brought to light potential issues in that particular case, but its impact was far greater than that. Serial inspired others to ask similar questions in their true-crime tales— to look deeper at missing-persons cases and unsolved murders and to tell the stories of others who have been subjected to a miscarriage of justice. In the end, the specific true-crime narratives a person chooses to indulge in and how they interact with it will combine with their personal experiences to shape their perceptions of crime and justice. The general effect of true crime remains the same—it results in people feeling more knowledgable about criminal behavior and being reassured that the justice system is effectively fighting crime and keeping them safe. Some true-crime fans will also experience heightened fear of vicitmization and learn protective and avoidance behaviors that they can incorporate into their own lives. Some also might be impacted by the “Serial effect.” They may consume the types of true-crime narratives that leave them concerned about miscarriages of justice and willing to fight for those whose stories are highlighted in these narratives, as well as for victims and their families. This information may impact the people they elect or how they look at the cases when they are called to serve on a jury. Perhaps it will inspire some to become justice crusaders themselves, working to help people and to try to reform a fractured system of justice that at times overemphasizes the win over the truth. And for many fans of true crime, Serial and shows like it will have served as the initial catalyst for changing the way they view crime and justice. Notes 1. Patreon is a crowdfunding platform. Monthly donations are made to creators of all types. Podcasts in general are the second-largest category on Patreon, with those from the genre of true crime being one of the top categories (Dudley 2019). Subscribers to a show’s Patreon are often given early access to commercial-free, new episodes and sometimes to exclusive episodes. The monthly donations supporters make help podcasters earn money, which can decrease their reliance on advertisers. According to Dudley (2019, par. 14), “the creator feels valued and the members feel like they’re part of an exclusive club with inside access and benefits that no one else has.”

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Index

Actual Innocence, 110, 111–112 America’s Most Wanted, 16, 28, 103 Avery, Steven, 113, 128, 132. See also Making a Murderer Avoidance behaviors, 149, 160 Berlinger, Joe, 26, 70, 107, 122 Binge-watching, 138–139 Breakdown, 121–122, 153 Broken Hearts, 76 BTK. See Rader, Dennis Bugliosi, Vincent, 16 Bundy, Ted, 55–57, 62. See also Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes

Capote, Truman. See In Cold Blood and Cold Blooded: The Clutter Family Murders Cautionary tale, 88, 98, 145, 159 Central Park Five, 110, 132, 133 Chaudry, Rabia, 25, 26, 112; See also Undisclosed Citizen sleuthing, 74, 80–82, 101, 152 CIU. See Conviction integrity unit Class A Felons, B-Films, C-Cups, 135 The Clearing, 63–65, 67 Cold, 76 Cold Blooded: The Clutter Family Murders, 70 Cold Case Files, 40 Cold Justice, 40, 93–94

Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman, 71–72, 77, 155 Conversations with a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes, 3, 55, 57, 68 Conviction integrity unit (CIU), 131 The Court of Last Resort, 15, 106–107, 152 CrimeCon: about, 3, 11, 140; attendees, 103, 151–152, 157; 2018 event, 4, 28, 29, 34, 51–52, 79–80, 150–151 Crime control model, 128–129 Crime Junkie, 30, 50 Criminology, 56 Crowdsourcing, 80–81 Cultivation theory, 37, 46, 143 Cult narratives, 78

Dahmer, Jeffrey. See Dahmer on Dahmer: A Serial Killer Speaks Dahmer on Dahmer: A Serial Killer Speaks, 62 Dassey, Brendan, 113, 132. See also Making a Murderer Dateline, 31–34 DeAngelo, Joseph James. See Golden State Killer Digilantes, 81 Dirty John, 32 The Disappearance Of, 90–91, 100–101, 157 Disappeared, 41–42, 43, 44, 45, 49 Due process model, 128

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Index

Durst, Robert. See The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst Evil, 14, 54–55, 56, 67–68 Exonerations, 19, 108, 127–128, 131; media representations, 109–112

The Fall Line, 92, 102, 152 Fear, 9, 18, 61, 130–131, 147–149; plot device, 86, 91, 97, 103. See also Mediated fear model Female Criminals, 146 Flowers, Curtis, 105–106; See also In the Dark Frank, Gerold, 16 Free Meek, 132

Gender, 32–33, 39, 49, 145. See also Missing white females; Women who kill Golden State Killer, 51–52, 53, 67. See also Unmasking a Killer Grinstead, Tara, 83, 145. See also Up & Vanished Grisham, John, 123–124, 125 Halbach, Teresa, 63, 113. See also Making a Murderer Happy Face, 65–67, 77, 155 Hell and Gone, 96–99 Helter Skelter. See Bugliosi, Vincent Holes, Paul, 52; See also The Murder Squad

In Cold Blood, 15–16, 21, 69 In Defense Of, 56–57 In the Dark, 117–121, 130, 146, 150, 152; Facebook, 140 Infotainment, 5–7, 89, 146–147, 158 The Innocent Man, 121, 124–125, 146, 153 Investigation Discovery, 21, 34, 143, 157

Jarecki, Andrew. See The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst Jensen, Billy, 51, 81–82. See also The Murder Squad The Jinx: The Life and Deaths of Robert Durst, 20, 28, 94–96, 102

The Keepers, 20, 99, 104 Keyes, Israel, 58–59. See also True Crime Bullsh** Knock Knock, 99 Koenig, Sarah. See Serial

The Last Defense, 121, 123, 128 Law enforcement: depiction, 49, 101, 125, 130; relationship with true crime, 100, 153 Lee, Hae Min, 2, 13, 27; family, 27–28, 156. See also Serial Life After Linc, 155 Lindsey, Payne, 83. See also Up & Vanished

Making a Murderer, 20, 113–117, 130, 146, 153 Media trials, 69 Mediated fear model, 148 Missing Alyssa, 92, 102 Missing Maura Murray, 90, 155 Missing persons of color, 145; Coldon, Phoenix, 100–101; Millbrook Twins, 92, 152 Missing white girl syndrome, 49, 83–84, 92, 100 The Murder in My Family, 154–155 The Murder of Laci Peterson, 74–75 The Murder Squad, 81–82 Murderville, GA, 122 Murray, Maura, 89–90 My Favorite Murder, 38–39, 144; fans, 50, 140 Oxygen Network, 21, 34, 100–101, 143 Paradise Lost trilogy, 26, 107–108 Peterson, Laci, 72–75 Peterson, Scott, 69, 72–75 Podcasts, 19–20, 141–142 Psychopathy, 55, 66, 68, 77, 144

Race, 36, 39, 48–49, 92, 144–145; wrongful convictions, 111, 133. See also Missing persons of color; Missing white girl syndrome Rader, Dennis, 59, 60, 63 Reality-based television, 6–7, 17, 94, 106 Renner, James, 89–90, 91 Rest in Power: The Trayvon Martin Story, 132 Rule, Ann, 55, 62

Self-protective behaviors, 149, 160 Serial, 2, 13–14, 146–147; effect, 153, 160; impact, 9, 20, 25–28, 152, 156 Serial killers, 55–59, 76–77 74 Seconds, 132

Index Sexual assault narratives, 78 Simpson, O. J., 69, 70–72. See also Confronting: O.J. Simpson with Kim Goldman Sinofsky, Bruce. See Paradise Lost trilogy 16 Shots, 132 Snapped, 21, 37, 47–48, 146 Social constructionism, 8, 14 Streaming video services, 20–21, 138 Swindled, 30 Sword & Scale, 30, 155 Syed, Adnan, 2, 13, 26, 112; true crime, 27, 126. See also Serial

Tabloid justice, 69 The Thin Blue Line, 26, 107, 108 Time: The Kalief Browder Story, 132 The Trail Went Cold, 135 True crime: definition, 5, 7–8, 158; female fans 140, 145, history, 14–18, 53–55; modern narrative types, 30–31 True Crime Bullsh**, 59–61, 77; Facebook, 140; impact, 61, 148, 149; Patreon, 142 True Crime Podcast Festival, 101–102, 135–136, 140, 148 Unconcluded, 92 Undisclosed, 26, 121, 125–126, 130, 150

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Unmasking a Killer, 51, 52–53, 77 Unsolved Mysteries, 16–17, 103 Unspeakable Crime: The Killing of Jessica Chambers, 75–76 Up & Vanished, 83, 85–89, 97, 152–153 Uses and gratification theory, 150

The Vanished, 42–44, 45, 49, 140, 155 VANISHED: The Tara Calico Investigation, 92 Victim blaming. See cautionary tales Victim-centric narratives, 40, 45, 46, 154– 155 Victims: ideal, 73, 145; impact of true crime, 27–28, 155–157; worthy vs. unworthy, 44, 145 West Memphis Three, 133. See also Paradise Lost trilogy When They See Us, 132, 133 White collar crime narratives, 78 Who Killed Amy Mihaljevic?, 99, 106 Wrongful Conviction with Jason Flom, 110–111, 130 Wrong Man, 121, 122–123 Women who kill, 37, 144–146 The Wonderland Murders, 76 Wysocki, Sheila, 79

About the Book

crime and the justice system. But what began primarily as a literary genre focusing on murder has evolved. From docuseries and podcasts to Facebook groups and events such as CrimeCon, modern true crime has become diverse, complex, and interactive. In Fear, Justice, and Modern True Crime, Dawn Cecil examines the genre to uncover the messages it conveys. Modern true crime, Cecil argues, has the potential to inform people about crime-related issues and the criminal justice system—but it can also reinforce popular stereotypes. Her work deftly unpacks the impact of true crime stories on our perceptions, our fears, and even the process of justice.

For centuries, people have been drawn to true stories of

Dawn K. Cecil is associate professor of criminology at the University

of South Florida, St. Petersburg. She is author of Prison Life in Popular Culture: From the “Big House” to “Orange Is the New Black.”

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