Evidence of Things Seen: True Crime in an Age of Reckoning
Ed. by Sarah Weinman

The crimes:

“A Brutal Lynching: An Indifferent Police Force, a 34-Year Wait for Justice” by Wesley Lowery: the cold case murder of a Black man in Georgia is solved simply by following up reports of how one of the killers had been bragging about it for years.

“The Short Life of Toyin Salau and a Legacy Still at Work” by Samantha Schuyler: a Black activist is killed in Florida and the police don’t seem to care very much.

“‘No Choice but to Do It’: Why Women Go to Prison” by Justine Van Der Leun: some women may only be guilty of “acts of survival.”

“The Golden Age of White-Collar Crime” by Michael Hobbes: it’s never been a better time to be a corporate scofflaw.

“Picturesque California Conceals a Crisis of Missing Indigenous Women” by Brandi Morin: there’s a need for better reporting on and police investigation of MMIWG.

“How the Atlanta Spa Shootings – the Victims, the Survivors – Tell a Story of America” by May Jeong: pocket bios of the victims and survivors of the 2021 Atlanta spa shootings, who were mainly Asian immigrants.

“Who Owns Amanda Knox?” by Amanda Knox: after becoming an unwilling focus of the media as well as the Italian judicial system, Amanda Knox considers the alternate life of her celebrity.

“Tie a Tourniquet on Your Heart: Revisiting Edna Buchanan, America’s Greatest Police Reporter” by Diana Moskovitz: a Miami true crime writer turns out to have been more a person of her time than a pioneer.

“The True Crime Junkies and the Curious Case of a Missing Husband” by RF Jurjevics: a woman’s Facebook post about the disappearance of her husband triggers an Internet investigation that turns up a darker story.

“Has Reality Caught Up to the ‘Murder Police’?” by Lara Bazelon: the Baltimore homicide detectives who inspired David Simon’s creations Homicide: Life on the Streets and The Wire turn out to have had a less than stellar track record.

“Will You Ever Change?” by Amelia Schonbek: inside a program that pairs survivors of domestic violence with surrogate offenders for therapeutic dialogue.

“The Prisoner-Run Radio Station That’s Reaching Men on Death Row” by Keri Blakinger: a radio program is broadcast very locally out of a Texas prison.

“To the Son of the Victim” by Sophie Haigney: a reporter recalls her brief interaction with the son of a shooting victim.

The book:

Well, if that “age of reckoning” didn’t give it away then I’ll give it you in a word: this is an anthology of woke true crime.

I don’t mean that in a bad way. What editor Sarah Weinman has wanted to do (here and in her earlier anthology Unspeakable Acts, to which she considers this to be “a companion volume and an extension”) is to expand on the popular understanding of “true crime” to bring in less familiar elements and storylines. In particular, she sees this collection as “a testament to the discomfort we live in, and must continue to reckon with, in order to hold the true crime genre to higher ethical standards and goals.” Whew! That’s setting a high bar. Does the book deliver?

Things get off to a bad start. The Introduction is by Rabia Chaudry of the podcast Undisclosed, and she duly brings the killing of Hae Min Lee up, patting herself on the back for clearing Adnan Syed. This is a case that still divides people though, and I personally lean toward thinking that Syed was at the very least involved in Lee’s murder. Chaudry herself has also been the target of some fair criticism for her advocacy and I can’t say she’s a voice I trust very much. Her Introduction also wrong-footed me from the get-go: “The debate about whether the true crime genre, across all forms of media, does more harm than good in society is long-standing and contentious.”

A long-standing debate? Sure there have been critiques of true crime, but Chaudry’s evidence for a debate is pretty thin, or what the grounds of such a debate might be. A couple of sources are quoted for the claim that consuming true crime content is bad for us, but then these are quickly dismissed. A tone is set of looking for an argument, even when none is available.

One point Chaudry brings up is worth flagging though because it plays an important part in several of the stories to come. This is the critique that “monsters like Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer have left permanent marks in pop culture while their victims have been forgotten.” There’s nothing new in this observation and it’s been given a lot more play in the demand for new perspectives not just in true crime reporting but in every facet of our culture, perspectives that seek to tear down the celebrity of (typically white male) villains while prioritizing the stories of their victims.

This is a moral position to take, and also one that very much feeds off of the priority given to victims, however broadly defined, in our culture. Perhaps the most prominent recent example of this in the context of crime reporting was New Zealand prime minister Jacinda Ardern’s refusal to name the perpetrator of the Christchurch mosque shootings and her urging others to “speak the names of those who were lost rather than the name of the man who took them. He may have sought notoriety but we, in New Zealand, will give nothing – not even his name.” This is a directive heeded by May Jeong in her piece here on the Atlanta spa shootings where the killer (Robert Aaron Long) is only referred to as “the suspect” while the reporting itself is almost entirely given over to pocket bios of the people he killed.

This is not just a moral position to take – most killers are monsters and their victims innocent – but it’s also one that has a political argument behind it as well. Should the media broadcast or even make available the manifestoes of mass killers like Elliot Rodger, Anders Breivik, and Brenton Tarrant? A fair question. In a culture like ours, where celebrity is the coin of the realm, there’s something wrong about using one fame or notoriety to promote hate. At the same time . . . it is the coin of the realm. This is something everybody understands. Theodore Kaczynski by his own admission became the Unabomber because he knew it was the only way he could get people to pay attention to his manifesto.

That said, I don’t think true crime writers, or the genre in general, make heroes out of wrongdoers. But the matter of celebrity and what gets our attention leads to a further point. We read true crime because it deals with the exceptional: the pathologies of human nature and behaviour. We don’t read about serial killers because we admire them but to learn something about them, like what went into making them and how they can be identified. Meanwhile, what can be learned from their victims, who are all too often simply people who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time? It’s not that we don’t care about them, it’s just that they’re normal, and we’re not that interested in normality.

But while defensible on some levels, I think there are serious caveats to be entered when reading true crime that comes at us from the margins, as woke or victim-based.

In the first place, and I’ll use Jeong’s piece as the test case, it’s writing that has an agenda and it can strain too hard to score political points, occasionally becoming tendentious in the extreme. Here, for example, is a description of Long’s hometown:

Woodstock, Georgia, was Cherokee country before its original inhabitants, who had been in the area for 11,000 years, were displaced by white settlers around the mid-1700s. On May 28, 1830, President Andrew Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act, codifying into law the forcible removal of 15,000 Cherokee people from what is today their namesake county. The white settlers panned for gold in nearby rivers, purchased Black people as slaves, and opened chicken processing plants, still in operation nearly two centuries later.

Woodstock today enjoys a median family income of $76,191, and is almost 80 percent white. It is the hometown of at least two notable figures: Dean Rusk and Eugene Booth. Rusk, who later became secretary of state, was responsible for splitting the Korean peninsula in two using a foldout map from a copy of National Geographic. The line “made no sense economically or geographically,” he later admitted, but it allowed American occupying forces to take control of Seoul, a decision that would divide families for generations. Booth was a nuclear physicist and core member of the Manhattan Project, which led to the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan, killing as many as 250,000 civilians, according to some estimates. Woodstock is proud of their native sons, naming a middle school after Rusk.

What is the point of all this? Does Jeong not eat chicken? How personally responsible was Dean Rusk for the division of the Korean peninsula? Where was he supposed to draw the line on the map? Should Seoul have been given to North Korea? Was Booth wrong to work on the Manhattan Project? What does the dislocation of native tribes from Woodstock 200 years ago have to do with Long’s motives? Is it just meant to be taken as being all part, somehow, of the same racist, imperialist matrix?

Second, does the erasure of the killer’s name make this a better piece of reporting? Does it add something by subtraction? It’s hard not to feel like we’re reading an ideologically cleansed version of the first draft of history here. And it’s the sort of policy that goes beyond true crime reporting. There are no Wikipedia pages, for example, for Elliot Rodger, Brenton Tarrant, or Robert Long but only for the 2014 Isla Vista Shootings, the Christchurch mosque killings, and the 2021 Atlanta spa shootings respectively. I think that must be part of the site’s editorial guideline. Is it justified? And finally there’s the fact that Jeong’s article on the shootings is 25 pages long, providing biographical sketches of six of the seven women killed and of the one man, an immigrant from Guatemala, who was injured but survived the attack. Jeong also has a couple of pages where she talks about her own Korean-American family. The one man who was killed, along with the other woman, have their names mentioned briefly in a single paragraph together. They were the only two white victims. This isn’t a full story or accounting then. But what kind of a story is it?

Third: I don’t think it should make a difference where the author is coming from. I prefer most true crime writing that adheres to traditional standards of objectivity, and (as I’ve said before) there are few things I despise more than the trend toward “true crime memoir.” But this sort of writing, which often plays up group identity, invites authors to stake their writing in their own experience. And so Jeong adds that section I mentioned on her own family’s American experience as Korean immigrants, and Mallika Rao does the same while writing on an Indian family in Texas.

I understand Rao’s point, that Texas cops don’t understand something that she does just “by virtue of being born to Hindus in Texas,” but how far can we take this? Rao mentions how the defence counsel for the mother accused of killing her child was going to call an expert witness to say that the defendant “had all the markings of a truth teller, a woman in grief.” But Rao doesn’t “need an expert to tell me that. I felt it just by watching her.” Because of some cultural fellow feeling? Superior empathy? Then only two pages later she takes the trial transcript to task for using the word Hindu instead of the correct Hindi to describe the language the accused was speaking in. “As I saw that repeated typo, I wondered if the error had been the court reporter’s or if it had been spoken by those in charge of Pallavi’s fate, in that courtroom. I wondered how much of any case is built and tried on fact and how much on feeling, instinct. No one in the court had been of Indian origin except the defendant and her husband.”

Is this an injustice? Are the only feelings and instincts that can be trusted those of individuals from the exact same cultural background or ethnic identity? Should all true crime writing become a form of memoir, a personal identification between the author and the victim (never, of course, the perpetrator of violence)?

And what if the roles are flipped from the usual script? How are we to handle the “True Crime Junkies” story, where the villain of the piece is a predatory woman who destroys the life of an innocent man? Should we say her name? Should we be more interested in telling his story? What would we learn from that?

So I did have some caveats. But this is a nice anthology with some good stories in it and some fine writing. I found the piece on white-collar crime, the one by Amanda Knox, and the True Crime Junkies story, to be particularly thought-provoking. And even Jeong’s take on the Atlanta killings was quite good, only needing six or so pages taken out of it. But in the final analysis I’m not sure the case was made for this being representative of true crime writing that’s setting “higher ethical standards” or even providing more truthful (fuller? more objective?) accounts. Instead, what it highlights is the fact that every piece of writing, of whatever genre, comes from a particular point of view, if not with a full-blown agenda.

Noted in passing:

The essay by Lara Bazelon on how the writer and show runner David Simon presented an airbrushed picture of the Baltimore police in his 1991 non-fiction book Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets (which in turn led to the NBC series Homicide: Life on the Streets and the HBO show The Wire) struck a familiar note with me. Simon had followed a group of Baltimore homicide detectives around for a year but hadn’t reported on any of their misdoings, a pattern of conduct that would lead to many ruined lives, overturned convictions, and tens of millions of dollars in judgments against the city.

Was this inevitable? A former head of the Baltimore Innocence Project calls the book “a cautionary tale for embedded journalism.” Simon’s collaborator Richard Price, in a foreword to a later edition of Homicide, asked “Are writers like us . . . who are in fact dependent in large part on the noblesse [what an odd choice of word] of the cops to see what we have to see, are we (oh shit . . . ) police buffs?”

I think Price is letting writers off easy by calling them fans in such a case. As journalists covering war zones have been pointing out for decades now (Robert Fisk was one of the most outspoken), being “embedded” with the military puts one in a hopelessly compromised position. Indeed, the whole point of embedded journalism, and I think the term was first used with regard to media covering the first Gulf War, was for the army, and the state more broadly, to control news coverage. What nobody (or at least nobody working for the military) wanted was “another Vietnam.” The army wasn’t letting reporters be embedded for altruistic reasons but rather as a way of co-opting their voices and controlling the coverage.

The reason this had a particularly familiar note to me though has regard to a different context. As I’ve written on at length in other posts (please see here, here, and here), reporters and biographers writing about living figures who are given special or exclusive access to their subjects are always compromised. Access comes with strings attached. If you’re going to write about the armed forces, or the Baltimore police, or some celebrity, no matter how minor, and they let you follow them around or give you an interview, it’s because they are looking to shape the narrative and are expecting you to follow their ground rules. It’s a symbiotic relationship, with the writers as parasites that are only allowed to function if they perform some useful task for the host.

Takeaways:

Perspective matters when it comes to the writing of true crime, and changing things up does add a lot to our understanding of matters relating to the criminal justice system. However, not all that a different point of view adds is helpful or instructive, and it’s also the case that sometimes something can be lost.

True Crime Files

The Forever Witness: How DNA and Genealogy Solved a Cold Case Double Murder
By Edward Humes

The crime:

In 1987 a pair of young Canadians, Jay Cook and Tanya Van Cuylenborg, were killed on a trip to Seattle to pick up a furnace part. Over thirty years later William Earl Talbott II was convicted for their murder, having been caught by the new science of genetic genealogy.

The book:

This is a great book, both for how well Edward Humes tells the story – offering different perspectives into the killing and subsequent investigation – and for the importance of what it tells us about modern forensics.

The basic elements of the crime weren’t exceptional. Jay and Tanya were a normal couple whose only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That place being the state of Washington, a.k.a. Ann Rule country. “In the 1970s and 1980s (and continuing through the 1990s), Seattle and the Pacific Northwest had become home to an extraordinary number of serial killers, rapists, and killers.” Among the lowlights we find names like Ted Bundy, Gary Addison Taylor, Gary Ridgway, and Robert Lee Yates. I’m not sure why this should be. Humes says that “from a practical standpoint, the region served as a predator’s ideal habitat” because Seattle “was a big city . . . surrounded by . . . extensive woodlands and wild areas.” But I don’t think the urban or natural environment has much if any influence on the creation of a serial killer. And Talbott was, somewhat surprisingly, not a conventional killer. A moody child who tortured animals and then escalated to extreme and methodically planned violence, you would have thought he’d go on to a bloody criminal career. But apparently Jay and Tanya were a singular outburst.

In any event, Seattle wasn’t the place to be visiting in 1987. But Jay and Tanya’s fate, like most such tragedies, was the product of contingency:

so many other factors contributed to what happened, so many seemingly inconsequential events and decisions. They all had to occur just so and in precise sequence, like a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of the planets, without which Tanya and Jay’s trip wold have concluded uneventfully and there would have been no BOLO [a “be on the lookout” advisory], no manhunt, no case at all. First there had to be a broken furnace on Vancouver Island. Then a usually reliable Canadian heating supply company had to fall through, and a Seattle supplier had to have just the right vintage furnace and parts. There had to be a customer who needed that installation before the weekend and a business partner who could not make that happen. Jay had to have just lost a job so he had time to go to Seattle, and Tanya’s best friend had to be sick so she could not come and provide strength in numbers. The travelers had to reject a simple, foolproof route in favor of a complicated scenic course where a wrong turn was practically inevitable. Jay and Tanya had to arrive in Bremerton hours late, yet in time for the last ferry to Seattle. Omit or change any one of these links in the chain of events, and the couple from Vancouver Island would never have reached the same spot at the same time as a stranger determined to do evil.

Perhaps because Talbott was such an oddity and the murders a one-off, and perhaps because of the unfortunate series of accidents leading up the killings, the case remained cold for a very long time. But then came what Humes refers to as the third revolution in DNA profiling: snapshot DNA phenotyping (generating an image of a suspect based on their DNA) and even more significantly genetic genealogy.

Humes provides a good backgrounder on the history of the science behind genetic genealogy. Basically it means identifying a source of DNA by using vast online genealogy databases. Previously, using DNA “fingerprinting,” you could only match DNA found at a crime scene with the individual who shared the exact DNA – that is to say, the very person the police were looking for. If that individual’s DNA wasn’t already on file somewhere as a previous offender, you were out of luck. With genetic genealogy investigators could drill down to virtually any individual by way of their family DNA. It wasn’t even that hard. What was originally thought impossible turned out to be simple. It took CeCe Moore, the DNA detective on this case, only a couple of hours sitting on her couch at home with her laptop to identify Talbott, an individual with no prior record.

It all sounds like science-fiction. When combined with the snapshot image generator it’s even a bit like Minority Report. But there’s no denying it’s effectiveness. What concerned people was the potential for misuse in such a technology. Who had the right to such information? What could they do with it?

I’ve always had two responses to these concerns. In the first place, the toothpaste is out of the tube. Now that we have the technology available, we’re going to use it. Or at least somebody’s going to use it. And how and why did things get to this point? Not because of governmental overreach but because we voluntarily gave up all this information. I’ve never understood why people complain about the government invading our privacy when we’ve been more than willing to let private companies invade it even more. I’ve gone on about this before, and had made notes to say more on the subject here, but at the end of the book Humes himself says it better and he’s worth quoting at length because this is important:

Focusing on law-enforcement use of DNA databases as a major threat to privacy is like regulating matches in order to address the problem of rampant wildfires. Attention is being misplaced – or diverted from – much larger potential threats to privacy and democracy.

While we obsess on what the police are up to when ferreting out a few names and emails from public genetic databases, millions of Americans are blithely uploading their complete genomic information to largely unregulated private profit-making companies who monetize customers’ precious, extremely valuable DNA in a multitude of ways, including highly lucrative biomedical research. And, rather incredibly, the DNA donors are paying these companies to do it.

More than forty million people had taken a consumer DNA test by the end of 2021. That’s nearly double the number reached in 2018. What the police can access in their searches is nothing compared to the vast information these millions of customers are giving to the private companies. It may go out the door as just a tube of spit in the mail, but to these companies, your spit is liquid gold from which your most sensitive, private self and secrets can be extracted: Are you prone to heart disease? Cancer? Alzheimer’s? Mental illness? Depression? Do you have children with more than one spouse? Are you adopted? Are you related to a criminal?

People are giving away the keys to stuff even they may not know about themselves to profit-making companies who answer only to their shareholders. And the information you turn over to these corporations also informs them about your children and your parents and your other close relations – everyone who shares your DNA. You might as well send them your diary, your checkbook ledger, and your tax returns. But all the critics want to talk about is what the police are going to do with those names and emails they extract while hunting for serial killers.

It would only take one Enron of DNA, in an otherwise respectable industry – or one well-lace database hack of companies whose vulnerability has already been demonstrated – to cause more damage than anything imagined by those who worry about cops using genetic genealogy. What would the data be worth to an insurance company looking to deny coverage? To companies looking to screen their potential hires? To lenders and underwriters who make millions for every fraction of 1 percent of risk they can avoid? What would sensitive private information be worth to political operatives, domestic and foreign spies, to those who would blackmail leaders or manipulate and game an election? And the DNA doesn’t have to be from the person being coerced. Malefactors can get to them through a cousin. Or an aunt. Or a child.

It’s painful when your credit card is hacked. But you can cancel it and get a new one. Once your genome is hacked, there’s no undoing it. It’s the only one you’ve got.

There is much here that needs to be flagged. What the police can access in their searches is nothing compared to the vast information these millions of customers are giving to the private companies. People are giving away the keys to stuff even they may not know about themselves to profit-making companies who answer only to their shareholders. You might as well send them your diary, your checkbook ledger, and your tax returns. Once your genome is hacked, there’s no undoing it.

The possibilities for using these new tools to catch bad guys are endless. But the downside is also unimaginable.

Noted in passing:

Humes mentions at one point that the series finale of Roots was watched by 71 percent of households in the country. This struck me as being very high. I found a list of the most watched television broadcasts in history and the numbers quoted were all for the number of viewers. Apparently the Apollo 11 Moon landing was the most watched broadcast ever (around 125-150 million viewers), which I can believe. The next eight shows on the list were all Super Bowls, then Richard Nixon’s resignation speech. The top primetime program was the series finale of M*A*S*H. The series finale of Roots came in tied for sixteenth with The Day After.

But, as I said, these rankings are all for number of viewers, not percentage of households. If you’re talking about that latter figure, 71 percent is incredible. Given the splintering of the audience today and the fact that streaming viewing has largely taken over from television it’s a number we’re not likely to see again.

Takeaways:

In the twenty-first century, we’re all just part of the database.

True Crime Files

 

The Best American Crime Reporting 2007
Guest Editor: Linda Fairstein

The crimes:

“The Loved Ones” by Tom Junod: were the operators of a New Orleans nursing home that didn’t evacuate before Hurricane Katrina struck guilty of negligence? Or did they care too much?

“The Inside Job” by Neil Swidey: the owner of a construction and landscaping business hires an accountant from a temp agency who proceeds to embezzle millions from him, largely without him even being aware of it.

“The Talented Dr. Krist” by Steve Fennessy: the perpetrator of a ghastly kidnapping does his time and even becomes a doctor, but can’t help getting into trouble.

“The Case of the Killer Priest” by Sean Flynn: a priest in Toledo is charged with having killed a nun a quarter-century earlier.

“Double Blind” by Matthew Teague: British efforts to infiltrate the IRA are so successful the double agents don’t even know whose side everyone is on.

“The School” by C. J. Chivers: an account of the Beslan school massacre in North Ossetia, as experienced by various survivors.

“A Kiss Before Dying” by Pamela Colloff: a high school football player in Texas kills his ex-girlfriend by shooting her in the head with a shotgun and throwing her body in a stock pond, apparently all in accordance with her wishes. He is acquitted at trial.

“The Devil in David Berkowitz” by Steve Fishman: the Son of Sam killer finds God in prison, or so he says.

“The Man Who Loves Books Too Much” by Allison Hoover Bartlett: a swindler steals rare books from second-hand bookshops across the U.S. He’s caught, but remains largely unrepentant.

“Dirty Old Women” by Ariel Levy: female teachers have affairs with underage male students.

“Who Killed Ellen Andross?” by Dan P. Lee: a pair of high-profile medical examiners face off in the murder trial of a husband accused of killing his wife.

“Fatal Connection” by David Bernstein: a Chicago escort is murdered not by one of her clients but by her financial adviser.

“Last Seen on September 10” by Mark Fass: a woman living in Lower Manhattan goes missing the day before the attack on the World Trade Center. Her family think she died in the bombing but others have their doubts.

“My Roommate, the Diamond Thief” by Brian Boucher: a man rents out the bedroom in his one-bedroom apartment to a mysterious fellow who turns out to be a jewel thief on the run.

“The Monster of Florence” by Douglas Preston: an American writer living for a while in Florence befriends an Italian journalist and they start looking into the case of a serial killer who terrorized the area years earlier. This gets them both into trouble with the authorities.

The book:

Like all the entries I’ve read in this (now sadly defunct) series, it’s great. I didn’t think there was a bad story. Levy didn’t do much with her quick look at teachers-in-heat, and Boucher’s piece is also a bit light, but they’re also the two shortest stories and still manage to be interesting and fun.

On the other end of the scale, C. J. Chivers on the Beslan school massacre is the longest piece and still feels as though it needed more room. It really should have been a book, complete with photos and maps, as it’s basically a collage of first-person accounts (or “a museum of words,” as Chivers puts it) and isn’t always easy to follow. Meanwhile, the fact that at least two of the stories included here – the ones by Bartlett and Preston – were later turned into successful books gives you some idea of the quality of the material.

I don’t go into such an anthology expecting much in the way of continuity in terms of the subject matter, so I was surprised to find a strong recurring theme. Perhaps guest editor Linda Fairstein had a predilection for a particular kind of crime story. However it came about, a lot of the stories deal with a betrayal by individuals in a position of trust.

We begin with the operators of a nursing home who put their residents at risk as a hurricane bears down on New Orleans. Next up an accountant embezzles funds from her employer. Then we have a bad doctor and a killer priest. Also we’ll have teachers having sex with their students and a financial advisor who steals money from his client before killing her. And finally the Italian police in “The Monster of Florence” demonstrate not so much ignorance and corruption (though there was probably some of that) as provide evidence that they’re not the kind of people you’d want to put in a position of authority.

A lot of this is a sort of sub-set of a message that a lot of true crime writing carries: that you can’t trust anyone. Put another way, “if delusion is our enemy, it equally may be said that trust is no friend of clear-thinking” (this is from the Introduction by the series editors). Or, as Duncan says of the treacherous thane of Cawdor:

There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.

Indeed there is no art, as Duncan is about to find out by putting his trust in Macbeth. He’s learned nothing. That said, we learn from books as much as example and experience, which is one of the things that I think gives true crime real value. If not an art, there’s a skill to reading people that we can always get better at. It begins with realizing that there’s no one deserving of “an absolute trust.”

Noted in passing:

In my notes on Kathryn Casey’s She Wanted It All I talked about some of the stupid ways that not-very-bright criminals find to blow their ill-gotten money. I thought of that again reading about Angela Platt bilking her boss for millions and then spending it on not just a new house, a big-screem TV, and time-shares in Florida and the Bahamas but also “the kind of bizarre crap you’d expect to find if you could journey through Christopher Walken’s brain”:

A hot rod fashioned into a green monster with teeth the size of fence pickets. A 1931 Plymouth with the faces of Bonnie and Clyde and lots of bullet holes painted on it, bearing the Rhode Island license plate UMISED. Collections of rare guns and wretched movies. Talking trees inspired by The Wizard of Oz.

OK, I’m not sure what this has to do with Christopher Walken, and I have a small collection of wretched movies myself, but this sounds pretty bad. And there was more! Platt also had a life-sized statue of Al Capone wearing a white suit and chomping on a cigar. For her brother’s wedding she hired the entire Riverdance touring troupe (at a cost of over a quarter million dollars) and Burt Bacharach (nearly $400,000) to perform. Given that her boss hardly even noticed the money she was siphoning off to pay for all this, I really had to laugh.

I’d forgotten how David Berkowitz had been caught. A woman had seen his car being ticketed on the night of one of the killings and reported it. When police investigated they turned up a lot of suspicious information relating to Berkowitz, and when they tracked down the car (Berkowitz hadn’t changed his plates) they found he’d left a gun lying unconcealed in the back seat.

It’s interesting how these routine traffic violations have played a role in catching famous bad guys. Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, was caught because an officer noticed that his car had false plates. Timothy McVeigh was only stopped while leaving Oklahoma City because he hadn’t attached plates to the vehicle he was driving. It’s the little things that trip you up.

Takeaways:

While not everyone is a potential killer, it’s a safe bet that nobody is exactly what they seem to be. In any event, you should always question people in positions of trust and authority unless you know they’ve earned it. They rarely have.

True Crime Files