I remember seeing my first dead body when I was about 12 years old. It was in the early 80s, and my parents were watching the evening news. The broadcast was covering the shooting of a mobster in New York City. A female street reporter stood at a distance from the crime scene, delivering her report. As she spoke, the cameraman slowly panned to the right and zoomed in on the body. A man lay on his back, covered from his knees, up and over his head with a white sheet. His feet sat still, slightly apart. I can see the dirty tan soles of his polished shoes. His neatly pressed slacks were bunched up enough to expose his dark socks. His car door remained open; a haunting detail that suggested how suddenly his life ended.
Since that day, I have been fascinated by true crime, particularly cases involving murderers. Whether it’s serial killers, mass murderers, random or crimes of passion, I have always been drawn to understanding what drives someone to take another person’s life. The psychology behind such acts baffles me—how does one cross that irreversible line? I know it’s a morbid curiosity, but I’ve never been able to shake the need to understand the details behind these violent acts.
Perhaps it stems from that first shocking exposure to death, or maybe it’s just a deep-seated desire to make sense of the senseless. Either way, true crime continues to captivate me, leaving me both horrified and intrigued by the darkest corners of human nature.