The best true crime books that are literary keepers

I’ve read In Cold Blood at least twice, but I think three times is the actual count. The first time, I was in my early twenties, not yet a writer, and I remember being gobsmacked—love that word—by a single sentence.

I remember reading the sentence again. And again. It was a marvel to me how alive it was, and how it told me all I needed to know about a place to understand that place. Nothing happens here; move on, it said—“Like waters of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama in the shape of exceptional happenings had never stopped there.”

Larger-than-life characters can be a bear to write. They give so much, but you really have to rein them in, or they’ll look like clowns. And I know about characters. I’m from the South. I had a mother who used to wear a shower cap in the rain because, you know, she’d just had her hair done.

Reading Midnight in the Garden was like flipping through a family album. The guy with the one-winged housefly attached to a string? My family could match that. The guy who fake-walked a dog for years? Maybe that, too. This book is one of my favorites because author John Berendt, as if he were himself a Southern gentleman, graciously gives the characters a stage, allowing them to tell their own stories. Except for the elusive killer. Berendt keeps him wrapped in mystery. All deliciously Southern. All so familiar to me. 

The Professor and the Madman (The Surgeon of Crawthorne in the UK) is true crime through the side door. It tells the story of the creation of the Oxford English Dictionary and the crucial role a murderer played in it. That juxtaposition alone is pure gold.

The book is exhaustively researched but doesn’t read like it, which I deeply respect. The writing is so lovely, so eloquent. I want to dress up when I read Simon Winchester, and put out the good china.

This is the story of a man and his lover who kill the man’s wife in London, then try to escape on a ship to Canada disguised as father and son. Awkward, but doable, unless you have the misfortune of timing your transatlantic cruise with the advent of radio communication.

Thanks to the new "wireless" technology, this couple was unwittingly trapped the moment they stepped aboard. I felt like a bird, hovering above, espying them leaving their quarters to go to dinner, then flapping my wings like mad to get over to the captain and listen in as he reports their movements to authorities on shore. Absolutely captivating.

Oswald’s Tale is a book I’d like to read again. I was born the year after JFK was shot, but the tragedy hung over my family in such a way that each of my older siblings had a portrait of the dead president folded into their baby books.

Mailer depicts someone rootless and restless, hungry and in a hurry to make his mark. Oswald in Russia was the most disturbing to me. I spent nearly two decades in the former Soviet bloc and other so-called developing democracies. Time and again, I ran across aimless Americans who had set up camp abroad, just to be someplace “other.” In search of an identity. They were unsettled and uncomfortably eccentric. I could have run into any number of Oswalds during that long stretch of my life.