The True Cost

BY SOPHIE GROMOWSKY PRINT CO EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Click open any streaming platform today, and you’ll find yourself faced with an assortment of grisly posters bearing macabre titles, advertising TV shows, documentaries, movies and podcasts based on real-life accounts of murder kidnapping and assault.

In today’s pop culture, true crime is all the rage, captivating the public through its in-depth examinations and detailed retellings of actual crimes and the accounts of real people involved in the cases. 55% of Sion students report that they are consumers of true crime media, according to a poll of 100.

However, true crime is not just another form of trivial entertainment – it’s the real stories of real people who are victims of real tragedies. As the genre has become increasingly popular, its impact on victims, their families and society’s perception of crime has proven to be extremely damaging.

In its basic premise, true crime is exploitative. The entire genre is based upon creators capitalizing off of the lives, or more often the deaths, of actual people in order to gain fame and generate profit. Currently the business is lucrative.

In 2019, the true crime podcast “My Favorite Murder” was the second-highest earning podcast of the year according to Forbes, with its hosts Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark pocketing $7.5 million each. But even the show’s name highlights the gross insensitivity of the genre’s nature – does its 35 million monthly listeners really think that it’s appropriate to have a “favorite murder”? And if they do, what does that say about society?

Shows like “My Favorite Murder” have altered the way that audiences perceive and respond to crime. As the genre has gained wider acceptance an entertainment form, regard for the sensitivity of the subject matter has significantly decreased, resulting in a fanbase that views actual crimes as little more than content for the newest episodes of their favorite podcasts or docuseries.

Social media platforms are the perfect forums for observing the continuously blurring line between true crime content that is produced for entertainment purposes and actual real-time coverage of crimes.

Since last November, as Idaho police have been actively investigating the stabbing murders of four University of Idaho students, a separate examination of the case has been unfolding within the online true crime community.

Users who fancy themselves amateur sleuths have spent the past two months circulating their own theories about the murders on TikTok, their allegations based mostly on internet hearsay and dissection of the limited evidence made public by the police.

While the findings of these online detectives often lack any veritable truth and are little more than conspiracy theories, they have had considerable impacts on the lives of those they accuse.

In December, University of Idaho professor Rebecca Scofield filed a defamation lawsuit against a TikTok creator who made over 40 videos accusing her of orchestrating the quadruple murder, according to NBC. In her statement, Scofield claimed that the accusations had significantly damaged her reputation and created safety issues for herself and her family.

In addition to desensitizing grave subject matter, the types