Tuesday, June 8, 2010

True Crime.

I've always been a fan of the true crime genre. There's something sort of trashy and lurid about it, it's sort of a secret, guilty pleasure. But there is definitely something about the psychology of it that appeals the most. Just wondering what it is that snaps in some people, and considering what it must have been like for the victims, whatever the crime may have been.
In the news today is a story about van der Sloot, the kid that's been connected to the disappearance of Natalee Holloway in Aruba. He's been arrested for killing a Peruvian girl. Apparently he openly confessed to this killing. I feel so terrible for Natalee's parents. What kind of torment is it to have absolutely no closure to your daughter's presumed death? To know nothing for sure, to be tortured with the glimmer of thought that must exist thinking, "it's probably impossible, but what if? what if she's still alive somewhere?" How horrific, and how terrible that this fellow has made repeated "confessions" to the family, just to back off of them later. He's told authorities over four different versions of Holloway's death, each quite different. It's got to be a thrill to add to the pain and suffering of the family. Some sort of sadistic urges and attention need fulfilled.
My favorite thing to read about in this genre has always been serial killers. There's none better than John Douglas to read. The guy really designed profiling, and created the Quantico department. The books he's written are a wonderful blend of the crime itself, the context, the psychology of the people involved, the profiling aspect and investigation story, as well as his own psychology and effect that he and the case had on one another. He's not hurting for self-confidence, this guy, but he's not a pompous asshole either. I saw him at a book reading once, and got to meet him afterwards. I went to the event with my mom. Precious trait in common for mother and daughter team, a love of murder and mayhem.

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