Reading Michelle McNamara’s book and then watching the subsequent HBO series has set my mind ablaze. First of all, both my wife and I are big fans of true crime. Second of all, there’s actually no second of all, we devour true crime in various formats (documentaries, tv news programs, books, podcasts, etc.). This has led me down a path of what I think is self discovery. My biggest takeaway whenever I consume true crime is a question: Why?
To put it another way: what is it about true crime that fascinates me to such a degree?
I cannot speak for everyone, not in great depth but I can say this: as a white man in America, I think it has something to do with guilt. It’s no secret that Americans are obsessed with true crime. Adding to that, specifically white America is obsessed with it. Adding a bit more, women in general (and again specifically white women) are drawn to tales of sordid reality. I think there are a few reasons. Speaking generally, white America is drawn to these stories because we are the most likely candidates for living lives of privilege. We understand, even if we don’t acknowledge it, that our privilege comes with a price. That price is the blood and forced struggle of minority Americans and the downtrodden. I for one am beginning to reckon with the awful history this country and our ancestors have created to make my life as easy as it is. I empathize and sympathize with those who are fighting back against the system, only asking for equality. It strikes me as terrifying, more than ever, that asking for equality and justice has caused such a rift in this country. But with the rift comes self-reflection. I suggest more people try this. It’s hard, I know — much easier to ignore the problem and carry on but carrying on has helped contribute to the misery of others. What white America has chosen to do is take those feelings of guilt and enabling and then exorcise them with true crime media. We say to ourselves: hey, at least this got squared away. Even when the crime in question is still unsolved, we look at the victims with pity, from our perch on high and say: these poor people, I wish I could help. Sometimes, people actually do help and sometimes the jolt of adrenaline we get from these true crime stories fades to nothing and we carry on. It is a way for us to organize this world into categories: Our lives and the horrible shit that happens to people who are not us.
As far as white women are concerned, I cannot directly speak for them but I do think I have a small amount of incite into the why of it all. I think white women are ALMOST as privileged as white men except white men will never willingly share their perch with anyone, not taken as a whole. The above statements ring mostly true for them but women also identify with the victims, which is an important distinction to make. Women in general live their lives automatically as a minority citizen, despite being in the majority. This just illustrates how dominating and demeaning the ruling class of men has always been and continues to be. Things are changing for the better but we should be much further down the path of progress than we currently stand. White women get more out of true crime than their male counterparts because they don’t consume these stories through a filter of pure pity and observation. Many women, far too many, have suffered at the hands of men and there is a camaraderie with the victims that permeates all.
This finally brings me to this week’s discussion on the brilliant mind of Michelle McNamara and her hunt for the Golden State Killer. For the record, this post is specifically about the HBO doc series that aired earlier this year.
The doc does a tremendous job conveying McNamara’s excellence as a writer. Her words come through like a loud speaker blaring morning announcements in school — you cannot escape their power. The doc somehow gives equal time to McNamara amidst her dogged pursuit of the truth, the survivors and victims of GSK/EAR’s attacks, and GSK/EAR himself. By the end of the series, and the tragic death of McNamara before the boogeyman was ever caught, we’re given even more to chew on. The doc is unafraid to dive in to McNamara’s obsessive nature in chasing the truth which led to a failed hubris with prescription drugs that ended in tragedy. This obviously ties in with our current opioid epidemic, so we’re getting four docs in one.
As each episode unfolds, we fall further down the rabbit hole on the trail of a serial killer and rapist. We become part of the hunt. We’re shown brilliant tidbits and ideas like McNamara’s thought to use genealogy sites like 23 and me in order to track and trace the dna in a different way. This was ultimately the successful method in catching GSK/EAR.
It’s in the bits sprinkled throughout the doc, chronicling the survivors, that separates this doc from most others in its genre. There is immense humanity here. In fact, as the doc wraps up, post McNamara’s death, the survivors come to the forefront. This gives us the a peak into their lives and shines a light on how a single, horrific incident can shatter a person’s life to unrepairable bits. But these survivors have more in common than simply being victims. They all, individually, possess an extraordinary amount of inner fortitude. They’ve suffered and some of them have struggled to form lasting romantic relationships in the wake of their attacks yet they are still here and still walking forward. It’s undeniably hopeful.
The last thing this doc shines a light on is GSK/EAR himself. This is a man who hid in the shadows his entire life. The title, I’ll Be Gone In The Dark, is taken from something he told to his victims. McNamara wrote about and threatened GSK/EAR with bringing him into the light.
And that is exactly what the doc does.
It brought this despicable motherfucker in the light for all to see.
We get so much detail on who he was. There are interviews with his family members who are catastrophically distraught by who their kin really was. To some, he was Uncle Joe, and that thought is fucking crazy. I was particularly struck by two stories the nephew told. The first was his recounting of what he was told about his mother’s rape at age seven — SEVEN. His Uncle Joe, his mother’s brother, was a witness. The second story was him recounting an event that happened to him. He woke up one night, as a child, to see a man in his bedroom, shrouded by a ski mask, watching him. He now realizes this was his Uncle Joe. Monsters as we learn of them in stories, aren’t real. Monsters help us to organize good and evil into categories. Monsters only exist wearing the skin of men. Shine a light on them and the illusion breaks, leaving in its wake nothing but a pathetic husk emulating a human being.
That’s all I have for this week. Next up is the HBO series, Perry Mason. Until then, love each other.
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