Provided you think of moments in centuries, true crime is definitely having one. Our (read: humanity's) infatuation and obsession with murder, death, and the people responsible spans lifetimes, while the analysis around it rose in the 19th century thanks to advances in forensics, psychology, and even the media.

Not to mention the names. Courtesy of killers like H.H. Holmes and Jack the Ripper, murder became as much a source of entertainment as it did a tragedy as the 1800s and 1900s progressed, particularly as the public reveled in gruesome details via sensationalized news reports. And that laid the groundwork for a system that dictated our relationship with true crime up until recently. Because now, true crime isn't so much the subject of trashy late-night shows, nor is it splashed across the pages of tabloids—now, it's a cultural currency.

True crime once existed in the dark corners of pop culture. Up until the late 2000s, it seemed taboo to spend time deep diving into cold cases, particularly since most of them were introduced via series like City Confidential or Forensic Files (which were dramatic as they were factual). Ultimately, to harbour an affinity for true crime connoted a dark side or zest for the morbid, and it didn't help that any/all crime-centric shows aired after dark on channels not everybody had access to. Even Unsolved Mysteries—a long-running network series—maintained a pronounced degree of pulpy sensationalism. Thanks to the chilling voice of Robert Stack, even the most harmless stories seemed like the stuff of nightmares. My own childhood fear was that Stack was hiding in my bathroom, preparing to speak as I was falling asleep.

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But the new millennium brought a reclamation of true crime by legitimizing it as a form of prestige entertainment. The internet (and particularly social media) created a space for discourse about books like Jeff Gunn's Manson and classics like Ann Rule's The Stranger Beside Me, while 2007 gave us Zodiac, the slow-burning and underrated drama by David Fincher. Even television stepped up with (fictional) series like True Detective that offered a smarter and more compelling take on serial killers, which existed in sharp contrast to series like Criminal Minds which favoured violence for the sake of shocking and traumatizing viewers (and, at least in its early seasons, Mandy Patinkin).

The most memorable true crime series in recent years haven't given us any closure at all.

Which served as the foundation for what true crime has become now: a bankable and interesting extension of pop culture, and a far cry from its lowbrow beginnings. But that said, what makes the evolution of true crime worth talking about isn't so much the way more prestigious outlets have been offering it a platform. Rather, it's the way tragedy has been used as to highlight the scariest aspects of human nature—especially since the most memorable true crime series in recent years haven't given us any closure at all.

While Making a Murderer focused on a corrupt police force as much as it did convicted killer Steven Avery, the docu-series wrapped with the realization that the murder of Teresa Halbach had a ripple effect on the community founded on the ostracization of its poorer inhabitants. Casting Jonbenet did something similar; using actors to reenact the circumstances surrounding Jonbenet Ramsey's 1996 death, it centered more on the notion of perspective and subjectivity of truth instead of who actually killed her. Even Serial's first season started by trying to uncover the mystery of who killed Hae Min Lee, but the podcast quickly morphed into a closer look at the mindset incarcerated Adnan Syed whose guilt was still a mystery upon conclusion.

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CBC's Someone Knows Something and Missing and Murdered: Who Killed Alberta Williams? took the same route, using the disappearance and murder of the podcasts' victims to shed light on the systemic realities that led to their end. And Netflix's upcoming series, The Keepers (premiering this month), promises to do the same, as the murder of Sister Catherine Cesnik serves to expose the undercurrent of sexual abuse that allegedly defines Baltimore's Catholic diocese.

Now, true crime isn't just about murder—it's about what murder is an extension of, which is where our fascination with true crime obviously began. We have always wanted to know the answer to a mystery—who did it—but most importantly, we've wanted to understand why. And not just because "why" allows for the privilege of closure, but because backstories and explanations give us the illusion that we can figure everything out; that we're in control of other people, or of judicial systems, or of corrupt police forces; that we can prevent tragedy by learning about enough for them.

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And for us to parlay true crime into this brand of bankable discourse, it needed to exist in the cold light of day. Watching nighttime murder documentaries defined by bad acting and background music made death seem sensational and soapy. And it served to make us feel like we were on the outside looking in. Alternately, true crime today urges us to follow along and draw our own conclusions—which tend to be that most cases offer no conclusions at all.

Ironically, where series of yore concluded their investigations in a tidy 60-minute window, true crime in 2017 uses tragedy to paint a bigger and more realistic portrait of the way the world works. In real life, cold cases mount in understaffed offices, while one death tends to expose the truths and secrets of communities, cities, and subcultures. In real life, guilt and innocence hinge on lawyers, juries, and the reputation of the accused, as the victim is also put on trial in an attempt to hurt or or help a particular argument. In real life, murder doesn't resemble a game of Clue—a question of who did it and with what and where; it's a question of why it happened, why it will likely happened again, and what it says about us that we don't know how to stop it.

And honestly, that's a conversation I'm only willing to have in the daytime. And particularly not with anyone who sounds like Robert Stack.

Anne T. Donahue Anne T Donahue is a writer and person originally from Cambridge, Ontario, and is the author of the essay collection, Nobody Cares.

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