No Guilty Pleasure Here: Why Ethically Executed True Crime Has My Heart

This book wins for the grimmest title and creepiest cover around, but take those away and it loses none of its power—it’s simply one of the finest works of narrative crime journalism ever published. Writer Richard Lloyd Parry is a Tokyo-based British journalist who covered the disappearance of 21-year-old Lucie Blackman, a former flight attendant and hostess in the city’s Roppongi neighborhood, in real time. Parry’s commitment to representing Blackman’s full humanity is matched only by his dogged investigation into every other subtlety of the story, from the timeline, cultural nuances, and characters, to mizu shobai, Japan’s complicated female-companionship industry, as well as an intimate articulation of the policing and judicial obstacles at play. If that sounds dry, it isn’t: The villain (and crime) is as wicked as they come, and the narration, by the wonderful Simon Vance, is flawless. I wouldn’t hesitate to call it the In Cold Blood of the modern era.

Speaking of: There’s a reason In Cold Blood always crops up on lists like this—it’s handily among the first and best. I read it in high school, and in so doing, my little dormitory bedroom in Providence, RI, transformed into a Kansas farmhouse that let in unimaginable evil, then became a claustrophobic death-row cell block with the time ticking down. Decades later, I approached the Scott Brick-narrated audiobook with a bit more life experience, but equal wonder at its technical mastery. Perfectly paced, psychologically acute, and utterly exhaustive in its accumulation of detail, In Cold Blood is Proustian in its ability to conjure an entire worldview from the relentless probing of every aspect of its subject. We now know Capote was not as “immaculately factual” as he always maintained, but it’s fascinating to realize his attempt to remove himself entirely from the narrative failed—yet still produced a staggering work of art.

Most true-crime buffs love a good conspiracy, but the one David Grann reveals in Killers of the Flower Moon is one of the most chilling in American history. In the early 1920s, dozens of members of the Great Plains’ Osage tribe, who had struck it rich after oil was discovered on their reservation, were systematically murdered—when they weren’t outright robbed or deemed “incompetent” and deprived of their wealth by the federal government. Grann tells the story through the lens of Mollie Burkhart, a full-blooded Osage Indian whose three sisters and brother-in-law were killed one by one under suspicious circumstances; the resulting investigation tested the abilities of the newly formed FBI. The audiobook is narrated by three different performers, all the better to lend additional depth to such a nuanced history. But it is Grann’s command of the material—his exacting reporting, storytelling flair, and generous dose of humanity—that does justice to the atrocities therein.

Sometimes you approach true crime like a scientist, nobly plumbing the depths of human behavior or dispassionately weighing the evidence, and sometimes you just let its black wave of malevolence wash over you with a shudder. I listened to The Stranger Beside Me on a camping trip, with my kids snuggled in sleeping bags beside me. As they snoozed, I kept an ear out for bears and succumbed to the terror of knowing the great crime writer Ann Rule had worked alongside Ted Bundy purely by chance—had let him walk her to her car on dark nights, had exchanged letters with the killer, had drunk Chablis with him even after his first arrest (luckily for Rule, she was a few years older and didn’t part her hair down the middle). Part of the narrative thrill is Rule’s late-dawning discovery that her old chum is the very maniac she seeks, yet careful listeners may wonder just how much Rule truly suspected about Bundy in real time. Was it really such a shock when, presented with overwhelming evidence in court, she was literally sick with the realization? Or did she (consciously or not) look past the plain facts a little too long for enhanced dramatic effect? We’ll likely never know, but the incredible fates that collided to bring this book to fruition are, in the end, what elevate it from tabloid fare to true-crime classic. Whether you come to The Stranger Beside Me to untangle these complex questions or for its trusty dopamine rush, you’re guaranteed a queasy ride.

I’m a certified true-crime podcast addict (hi, murderinos!) and West Cork is my favorite listen this year. Not since Serial has a podcast had such access to the prime suspect, or immersed listeners so completely in its setting and characters. The 13-part series heads to the rugged coast of County Cork, Ireland to investigate the mysterious 1996 murder of the French woman Sophie Toscan du Plantier. Though never convicted, Ian Bailey was the prime suspect early on and was extensively investigated. In this groundbreaking series, Bailey opened up to reporters Jennifer Forde and Sam Bungey, who approach the subject with sensitivity and balance. “We were conscious to not go poking around in the story of this poor woman’s murder just to make something that was a titillating listen,” Forde says. Though they knew they might not solve the case in the telling, talking to the residents of West Cork gave them another purpose. “The case has been dogged by rumor and misinformation, and because there has never been a murder trial out in the open, there’s a lot of information that gets passed around behind closed doors. We felt there would be real value in speaking to as many people as possible—to get the information firsthand, let the key participants tell their sides of the stories, and then lay it out chronologically and give some order to it.” That approach, which favors what Forde calls the “bizarre truth” of the facts rather than gossip and speculation, helps bring clarity and sensitivity to an otherwise sensational story—and leaves it to listeners to form their own theories and opinions based on the facts at hand.

Michelle McNamara exemplified true-crime ethics long before her posthumous best seller gave her the wider recognition she deserved. In the mission statement of her blog, she wrote, “True Crime Diary is not interested in looking back at notorious criminals and saying, Wow. We’re interested in looking at unfolding cases and asking, Who?” That curiosity defined McNamara’s approach—no glorifier or gawker of violence, she came to the subject fueled by a deep desire for truth and justice. Armed with caffeine, a laptop, and the occasional gummy bear, she was a relentless amateur investigator who sometimes assisted law enforcement and a network of like-minded web sleuths. Her prime quarry was California’s Golden State Killer, an uncaught serial rapist and murderer who she gave a name, a partial profile, and a definitive history with I’ll Be Gone in the Dark. She died before the book was published, but her blend of compassion, insight, and accuracy has since hooked so many fans that I hope a much-needed break in the case isn’t far in our future. Editor’s note: On April 24, 2018, authorities arrested Joseph James DeAngelo, based on DNA evidence linked to the crimes of the Golden State Killer. Hear the inside story of the investigation from those closest to the case, including lead detective Paul Holes, in the Audible Original Evil Has a Name.

There are three fascinating audiobooks about Jeffrey MacDonald, the doctor and former Green Beret who was convicted of the brutal 1970 murders of his pregnant wife and two daughters. The first, Fatal Vision, is author Joe McGinniss’ contemporary account, which portrays MacDonald as a scheming psychopath who blamed the slayings on a hippie cult while having perpetrated the crimes himself. The more recent A Wilderness of Error, by the filmmaker Errol Morris, is a reexamination of the case that emerges sympathetic to MacDonald. But the most morally interesting is New Yorker writer Janet Malcolm’s The Journalist and the Murderer, a brilliant and outrageous response to Fatal Vision that tears down the ethics of McGinniss’ approach (he had deceptively ingratiated himself to MacDonald, allowing his subject to believe the book would be flattering in order to gain unprecedented access). The book’s iconic first line—“Every journalist who is not too stupid or full of himself to notice what is going on knows that what he does is morally indefensible”—kicks off the proceedings with a bang. When you’ve listened to enough true crime to get meta with it, this is the gold standard.