Brianna Parkins on true crime podcasts: Who gets to tell the stories?

The advent of podcasts has given us a lot of things. The gift of overconfidence to lads who think they’re gas craic altogether and the world needs to know, for one. It’s also given us hours of great storytelling, brought attention to injustices and a man with a bag over his head educating us about mental health.

You can find almost any topic you have an enduring love of or a passing interest in, select the episode, pop your headphones on and go about mundane tasks while being entertained by a stranger chatting away in your ear.

Which is why it’s not abnormal for people to spend a relaxing afternoon folding laundry listening to the graphic details of a murder. Some even take the soothing sounds of true crime podcasts into the bath with them. A Pew Research Centre study from this year found more than one-third of US adults who say they listen to podcasts regularly listen to true crime podcasts.

One of the first big hitters of the podcast genre – Serial – is a true crime podcast about the 1999 killing of a high-school student and the trial of her ex-boyfriend. After the podcast and several legal proceedings later, the accused had his life sentence and conviction overturned, with hearings over reinstatement ongoing. The Australian’s The Teacher’s Pet is credited with bringing justice to the cold case of a missing mother. Last year, her husband was found guilty of killing her in 1982. However, the legal community remained critical of the podcast’s judicial impact, with one judge describing it as having a “less than balanced” approach to the story.

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It raised questions such as: what is the role of true crime content? Is it to “crack the case” open? Go over the details until new evidence is found? Is it to bring public attention to victims and their families who feel they have not received justice? Or is it just entertainment?

The rise of “amateur” true crime podcasts - ie those hosted by people who are not journalists - such as Like My Favourite Murder and Casefile saw ethical concerns begin to pop up. These types of podcasts usually didn’t do any extra reporting or speak to people involved, with details of the crime gleaned from previous reports, books and documentaries and discussed. The question became how would victims families feel having their loved ones’ last hours rehashed as a form of entertainment with sponsors ads in between? Who is allowed to make money from turning the worst thing that could ever happen to a human into “content”?

These questions are top of mind this week as two high-profile court cases concerning the violent killings of two Irish citizens dominate front pages. A quick search for Molly Martens, the former nanny who pleaded guilty to the voluntary manslaughter of her husband Jason Corbett this week, yielded a half a dozen podcasts and a magazine article titled “Molly Martens Corbett Isn’t Perfect. But Does That Mean She’s a Murderer?”

While the trial of Ashling Murphy’s accused murderer is the subject of daily podcasts covering court proceedings, there are countless articles and court reporter stand-ups on the nightly news.

Amateur true crime content creators have been accused of retraumatising communities and frustrating police efforts in order to document their own insensitive and often erratic sleuthing online. The Atlantic described Redditors descending on the University of Idaho after the murder of four students as “the gross spectacle of murder fandom”. Gabby Petito’s disappearance saw the murder of a young woman turn into a digital “who-dunnit” as creators filmed attempts to find her for internet clout. Earlier this year in England, Nicola Bulley’s family was taunted by conspiracy theorists before an investigation found no evidence of foul play in her tragic death.

Some would say there’s a line between true crime as entertainment and crime reporting. The latter is a simple matter of telling the public the facts of a case and court proceedings. But court journalists often write books after trial about a case they covered in depth and receive cash for it. There’s also the podcasts and documentaries and drama miniseries on which they consult. Shocking headlines with graphic or poignant details of crime are the bread and butter of the news business.

Journalists, myself included, have done death knocks or calls on grieving families, sat through trials in the same room, stood behind them in line to get coffee and then turned the most traumatic event of their lives into a cracking story that might get us nominated for an award. Sometimes you develop relationships with them and stay in contact because they wanted the world to know what happened to their loved one. Other times they abuse you outside court. Which I thought, given the circumstances, was fair enough.

Journalists to some extent are bound by professional and legal consequences for going outside the lines on a case. Being found in contempt of court, defaming someone or causing a mistrial can be sackable offences, so we’d like to think even those who would “sell their own mother” for a story have a vested interest in behaving decently. However, as the example of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler’s voicemail being hacked by the News of the World showed, journalists are capable of being just as unethical as a YouTuber in a shed with nothing to lose.

When I was 17 I realised I could become a journalist after reading about another 17-year-old girl who had been murdered by a man. The report had mistakes in it and I decided if the author could make it as a journalist, then so could I. I knew the report was wrong because the victim was my friend. They buried the story on a backpage. Another teenager from Western Sydney dead, it wasn’t considered shocking enough to be big news.

I can’t read the reports now or the judgment without being filled with rage. I suspect in the course of my career people have felt that way about the things I’ve written too. The questions of who gets to tell true crime stories and how to balance being sensitive to those left behind with the right to report matters on the public record remains. And they’ll only become knottier as true crime content evolves beyond newspaper bylines.