True Crime’s Dirty Secret: Are We Learning, or Just Feeding the Machine?

The Allure of Blood, Ink, and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

You can’t swing a dead cat these days without hitting a true crime podcast, docuseries, or paperback with a blood-red cover. It’s everywhere—on your TV, in your earbuds, splashed across the front page, and whispered about in the digital back alleys where amateur sleuths trade theories over cold coffee and colder pizza. The genre’s not just alive; it’s sprinting, and the crowd’s chasing after it, hungry for more. I have written about this topic before. But to no avail, I don’t believe we’ve found the answer to today's question yet.

But after thirty years in the trenches—knocking on doors, staring down suspects, and watching families unravel in the wake of violence—I can’t help but wonder: Are we actually learning anything from this tidal wave of accurate crime content, or are we just picking at old wounds for the thrill of it? Let’s get our hands dirty and dig into the guts of the matter: Is true crime more about exploitation than information? Or is there still something worth salvaging from these stories about the worst things people do to each other?

Why We’re Drawn to the Darkness

People have always been fascinated by crime. Back in the day, folks would pack a lunch and head to the gallows for a public hanging. The details change, but the appetite remains the same. That’s as old as fear itself. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s the comfort of knowing the monster’s behind bars and you’re safe for another night. Maybe it’s just the hope that, by understanding chaos, we can keep it at bay.

True crime scratches that primal itch. It lets us peek behind the curtain, play detective from the safety of our living rooms. We want to know why people snap, how the cops cracked the case, and what warning signs we might have missed. There’s a sense of control in understanding the darkness, even if it’s just smoke and mirrors.

But there’s a line between curiosity and voyeurism, and lately, it feels like we’re crossing it more often than not.

The Business of Suffering: Who’s Cashing In?

Let’s not sugarcoat it—true crime is big business. There’s money in misery, and plenty of folks are cashing in. Streaming platforms crank out docuseries faster than you can say “unsolved,” and podcasts rake in ad dollars with every grisly detail. Book deals, speaking gigs, merch—if there’s a way to profit off pain, someone’s already got a business plan.

The ugly truth? The people at the center of these stories—the victims and their families—rarely see a dime. Their worst days become someone else’s payday. Their grief gets packaged, edited, and sold to the highest bidder. Sometimes, they don’t even get a heads-up before their lives are splashed across the screen.

Imagine mothers who can’t turn on the TV without seeing their child’s face frozen in time. I’ve watched families get hounded by reporters, strangers showing up at their door with questions and cameras. It’s not justice. It’s not closure. It’s just more pain.

The Illusion of Information: Are We Really Learning Anything?

Defenders of true crime will tell you it’s educational. They’ll say it raises awareness, helps solve cold cases, and gives a voice to the voiceless. I agree with that sentiment, and it’s why I provide context and content to my readers and listeners. I’ve seen cases cracked because someone recognized a detail from a documentary or remembered a face from a news segment. There’s value in shining a light on the dark corners. However, I don't think this is always true.

But let’s be honest—most of what passes for “information” in true crime is just recycled rumor and speculation. Shows cut corners for drama, or even to push a point of view or bias. Not showing it all. Podcasts gloss over facts to keep the story moving, and social media sleuths run wild with half-baked theories. The truth gets lost in the noise. Though the pain of the victims and the families never seems to get lost. It never seems to go away, despite a producer producing a show to tell the story.

Worse, the spotlight almost always lands on the killer. We learn their childhood traumas, their favorite foods, and their last words. The victims become footnotes, reduced to a name and a photo. The real lessons—about domestic violence, mental health, broken systems—get buried under the weight of sensationalism.

The Human Cost: Real People, Real Pain

Every story has a ripple effect. When you turn someone’s tragedy into entertainment, you don’t just hurt the people closest to the case. You shape how the rest of us see crime, justice, and each other.

True crime can breed fear and suspicion. It can reinforce stereotypes about who commits crimes and who gets victimized. It can make us numb to suffering, turning real pain into background noise. And it can give a platform to people who don’t deserve it—killers who crave attention, con artists who spin their own myths.

I’ve seen the fallout firsthand. Families retraumatized by careless reporting. Innocent people harassed by amateur detectives convinced they’ve cracked the case. Survivors forced to relive their worst moments every time a new show drops.

There’s a responsibility that comes with telling these stories. Too often, it gets lost in the chase for ratings and clicks. I started writing and producing true crime content for awareness, but I always try to keep an eye on that fine line between awareness and exploitation.

When True Crime Gets It Right

It’s not all bad. There are journalists, filmmakers, and writers who treat these stories with the care they deserve. They dig deep, ask hard questions, and put the focus where it belongs—on the victims, the failures of the system, the need for change.

Some of the best true crime work has led to real reform. Exposing wrongful convictions, shining a light on prosecutorial misconduct, and giving a voice to people who’ve been ignored for too long. When done right, true crime can be a tool for justice, not just entertainment.

But that takes time, effort, and a willingness to look past the easy answers. It means talking to the people who lived through it, not just the ones with the best soundbites. It means asking what we can learn, not just what will sell.

The Blurred Line: Audience and Accomplice

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: the audience is part of the equation. Every click, every download, every binge-watch sends a message. We shape what gets made by what we choose to consume.

If we reward the cheap, exploitative stuff—the shows that treat victims like props and pain like a punchline—we’ll get more of it. If we demand better stories that dig deeper, ask harder questions, and treat people with dignity, we might just get that, too.

It’s easy to point fingers at the producers, the networks, the podcasters. But we’re all in this together. The stories we tell, and the way we tell them, say something about who we are and what we value.

The Ethics of Storytelling: Walking the Line

As a writer, I wrestle with this every day. I’ve seen what happens when stories get twisted, when facts get bent to fit a narrative, when real people become characters in someone else’s drama. I’ve also seen the power of a well-told story to open eyes, change minds, and bring a measure of peace to people who’ve lost everything.

The line between informative and exploitative isn’t always clear. It’s easy to cross, and hard to come back from. But it’s a line worth paying attention to.

Before I write a word, I ask myself: Who benefits from this story? Who gets hurt? Am I adding something new, or just picking at old scars? Am I telling the truth, or just chasing a headline?

It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being honest, and about remembering that every case file, every mugshot, every headline is a real person’s life.

The Role of the Reader: You’re in the Story, Too

You don’t need a badge or a byline to make a difference. As a reader, a listener, a viewer, you have power. You can choose what stories you support, what questions you ask, what conversations you start.

If something feels off—if a show seems more interested in shock value than truth, if a podcast glosses over the pain of the people involved—trust your gut. Ask for better. Look for stories that dig deeper, that treat people with respect, that ask hard questions about why these things happen and what we can do to stop them.

And remember: behind every headline, there’s a family still picking up the pieces. Behind every case, there’s a community still trying to heal.

The Cost of Curiosity: What We Owe Each Other

True crime isn’t going anywhere. As long as there are questions to answer and stories to tell, people will keep tuning in. But we owe it to ourselves—and to the people at the heart of these stories—to do better.

We can’t pretend that true crime is always informative, or that it’s never exploitative. The truth is messier than that. It’s up to all of us—writers, producers, readers, viewers—to draw the line, to ask the hard questions, and to remember the real cost of curiosity.

So, the next time you press play, flip a page, or share a theory online, ask yourself: Am I learning something, or am I just feeding the machine? Am I honoring the people at the center of the story, or just using them for entertainment?

The answer might not be comfortable. But it’s worth thinking about. Because in the end, the stories we tell about crime say as much about us as they do about the people who commit it. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real mystery worth solving.

Remember, folks, every crime has a story. My mission. Tell it.

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