An Unhealthy Obsession?

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Hello!


I recently started listening to the popular podcast My Favorite Murder. Several times in the first few episodes, the hosts joke about people possibly finding the concept of a 'favorite murder' strange, or a general obsession interest in true crime a bit odd (or downright disturbing). This topic is something I've thought a lot about: What does an interest in true crime and/or crime fiction say about a person? And what does it say when that interest is paired with comedy?


My interest in true crime started in grammar school when I first heard about Jack the Ripper. My mother didn't think true crime was an appropriate interest for a young lady, and periodically throughout my life, I've see that expression on people's faces when the topic comes up. I've also had people make comments when I read certain of my flash pieces at open mics, and tell me I 'should read less horror.' I've even seen my fellow crime writers accused of being 'sick' because of the contents of their books--including a review that claimed the author of a novel that included a child-molester villain "should be put on a registry."


It's macabre subject matter, to be sure. But does it signal something unhealthy? Something sick and twisted?


I'd argue it signals the exact opposite. I can't speak for everyone, of course. But I know in my case, as a psychologist with a fascination for human behavior, my interest in true crime and crime fiction comes from two places: one, a desire to understand what goes wrong in the human psyche that creates people who commit such atrocities, and two, a deep-seated need to see such people brought to justice.


In fact, there's nothing that irks my soul more than unsolved murders. I completely understand the obsession that caused Michelle McNamara to work late into the night for years trying to catch the Golden State Killer, and I've spent far too many hours of my life poring over such cases coming up with theories someone might have missed. Part of why I write crime fiction is I get huge satisfaction from bringing killers to justice in my books, something that fails to happen all too often in real life. In essence, I think those of us who have these interests are trying to gain some measure of control, or at least understanding, of the uncontrollable and the horrific.


Maybe you're thinking: But surely it's odd to have a 'favorite' murder? And surely laughing during such subject matter--about people who've been viciously murdered--is wrong? Doesn't a podcast that combines humor with such things cross a line?


I can see how some people might consider laughing at such things distasteful, or even disrespectful. But while the notion of 'gallows humor' isn't new, its psychology is widely misunderstood. Laughter is a part of the human condition that helps us cope with things we otherwise couldn't--laughing at horrific acts gives us a measure of power over how those acts impact us. In the words of this article (an excellent read, by the way), humor is a weapon, a shield, and a psychological salve. The article quotes Antonin Obrdlik as saying 'Gallows humor is an index of strength or morale on the part of oppressed people.' I don't think it's a coincidence that my two favorite true-crime-slash-comedy podcasts (Wine & Crime and My Favorite Murder) are hosted by women: the victims of such crimes are overwhelmingly women and self-protection is a constant part of every woman's day. But I also think it's fair to say that everyone is oppressed to some degree by the specter of violent crime that hangs over society.


Of course, I'm probably preaching to the choir here--if you're reading this, you're most likely a fan of true crime or crime fiction. But, if so, I'm also sure you've had people give you that look and say "how can you read stuff like that?" or "I can't watch those things, they'd give me nightmares." There's nothing wrong with that approach: avoidance is a perfectly healthy psychological mechanism for dealing with dark realities, and one that works very well for many, many people. But the way true-crime and crime-fiction fans deal with those dark realities is perfectly healthy, too.


And in some cases, our way of coping even helps bring criminals to justice.


Thanks for reading,

Michelle

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Murder & Mayhem: Exhibit A

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Hello!


Time for this week's Murder & Mayhem recommendation: Exhibit A, a Netflix true-crime documentary.

Exhibit A is an intriguing twist on true crime shows--it's kinda like the flip side of Forensics Files. Each episode examines a type of forensic evidence and, through a target case, questions to what degree we can really trust that evidence.


By now most people have heard of the CSI Effect: the expectation juries have that all cases should have conclusive scientific forensic evidence, particularly DNA. Failing that, the juries will refuse to convict. Exhibit A looks at the other side of this coin: the assumption that evidence is more conclusive than it really is.


No evidence, not even DNA, is a clear-cut slam-dunk; it all involves interpretation, statistical analysis, and human error. Recently hair and fiber analyses have come under attack, and before that, bite-mark analyses were cast into doubt. My particular pet peeve is this arena is "touch DNA." At first glimpse, touch DNA seems like a godsend for identifying perpetrators--all you need is a few skin cells. But it's far more complicated than it seems on the surface (I talk about this very briefly in The Dancing Girls).


Part of understanding what a DNA profile means is knowing where the sample came from, and what type of sample it is. For example, if you get a DNA profile from a victim's underwear, it makes a huge difference whether that DNA comes from semen, blood, or epithelial cells. If there's visible semen or blood on the underwear, you can be fairly certain the sample came from someone who was in the physical presence of the victim. But even that doesn't tell  you for certain you have your perpetrator. Say the victim had relations with her boyfriend before being attacked later in the day; in that case, assuming the semen came from a rapist would be a huge error.


The problem becomes more complex if we're looking at sweat or saliva, and far more complex when we move into epithelial cells (the source of touch DNA). For example, researchers testing new underwear directly out of their original packaging have found DNA profiles, most likely from the factory workers who made or packaged the underwear. So if a victim's underwear gives a DNA profile from epithelial cells, it's difficult (or impossible) to tell where that profile actually originated.
And that's just one issue among many with touch DNA. Exhibit A has an episode that goes into another potential problem with the tiny sample sizes touch DNA often involves.


Does that mean we can't trust touch DNA, or other types of evidence? Not at all. But we do need to understand what we can really take away from any source of evidence, and weight it accordingly when people's lives are at stake. Exhibit A puts these issues squarely out on the table for consideration.


Have you seen Exhibit A? What did you think?


Big hugs,
M. xoxo

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