I’ve always been a fan of true crime. Whether it’s because of my ma’s influence or my own natural predilections for the macabre, I’ve long been drawn to tales of serial killers and criminal fiends; their psychologies unraveled in gristly mental vivisections that mirror the sadistic dismemberments perpetrated during their own crimes. However, last year I descended rapidly and deeply into the genre and read over sixty different true crime books. I refuse to believe that I just went ahead and read ...