‘The ultimate human dramas’: Why we’re drawn to crime stories
Is crime really more lurid in the Lone Star State, or does it just seem that way?
Who killed the pregnant woman with a shotgun blast — her teen neighbor or her cheating football-coach husband? And what, exactly, would drive a woman to stab her boyfriend with a blue suede stiletto heel?
On Wednesday, two Texas crime chroniclers will discuss some of the of strangest, most unforgettable cases they’ve covered. Brian Rogers, a licensed attorney and the Houston Chronicle’s legal affairs writer, will share the stage with true-crime writer Kathryn Casey.
Casey, who lives in Harris County, is the author of 10 truecrime books — most recently “Possessed: The Infamous Texas Stiletto Murder,” about a bizarre killing in Houston. Here, she discusses why we care about these real-life horror stories.
Each morning, I walk through a park surrounded by well-maintained houses, beds of summer flowers spilling out color, and I wonder what goes on behind the blank windows. They stare back at me, unremarkable yet intriguing, resolutely hiding all that unfolds inside.
We assume that the individuals behind those windows, no matter how different their circumstances, are much like us, that they share our basic values, and that no matter what the provocation, unless forced to protect themselves or another, none would ever turn to violence. It is impossible to envision ourselves — or most other people — taking a life over unrequited love, for revenge, greed or convenience, and never for pleasure.
Then, every once in a while, we read our morning newspapers, turn on the television or log onto the Internet, and the curtains are drawn back, a door opens somewhere in the nation or the world. Casey Anthony is accused of suffocating her toddler in Florida. Drew Peterson is questioned about his missing wife in Illinois. An angelic look on her face, Jodi Arias sings a Christmas carol in an Arizona jail, awaiting trial for slaying her ex-boyfriend.
For months, even years, the murders are front-page news. We talk about them over lunch with friends, click onto breaking bulletins during a pause from our work. Why do these cases latch onto our public consciousness?
Because they are the ultimate human dramas, and the most terrifying horror stories.
Well-written fiction can portray the human condition; it can speculate about what men and women are capable of. But these cases actually happened. These events took place. The victims woke up on their final mornings most likely not understanding what danger awaited them. Not a mythical goblin reaching out from under a bed or an apparition in the shadows, Ted Bundy was a handsome former law student in a Volkswagen Beetle who looked remarkably like a good friend or the nice young husband next door.
Such tragedies speak to us about the human condition, not as we wish it were but as we know — and fear — it too often exists. They challenge us to acknowledge the dark side of humanity, to admit that evil flourishes not in some far-off land but in posh high-rise condos and quiet homes on suburban cul-de-sacs. True crime fascinates us because it’s true.
As the cases unfold, the investigations have the twists and turns of well-plotted mysteries, keeping us guessing at each new revelation, hiding secrets that aren’t made public until sensational trials. We are riveted by the minute details of the lives of those involved. We identify with the families who cry out for answers. We embrace the victims, claiming them as our own. Always there is hope that when a resolution comes, there will be a righting of a terrible wrong, one that delivers a sense of satisfaction that justice has been served, and the world is as it should be.
Then we return to our own lives, until the next morning, or the next week, or the next month, when newspapers slap down on our driveways, the headline shouting that, again, a door has opened. And we willingly go inside.