True-crime media often comes in one of two flavors: defendant-centric or victim-centric. When the focus is on those accused of a crime, procedural aspects of the case are spotlighted. Was evidence illegally obtained? Was there bias among witnesses? Was the defense attorney ineffective? There’s usually a tried-and-tested menu of legal processes and pitfalls to choose from.

The victim-centric offerings are less paint by numbers, though. Most of that is because, when done correctly, this version of true crime recenters the people who were subjected to the crime, not just the criminal process. In People Magazine Investigates: Surviving a Serial Killer, a docuseries on HBO Max, the survivors are the story.

A refusal to romanticize

Ultimately, that is where the series succeeds. One episode features interviews of three men who escaped John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer also known as the “Killer Clown.” David Bolton, Patrick Dati and Tony Antonucci tell tragic but sometimes harrowing accounts of one-on-one encounters with Gacy that subjected them to varying degrees of criminal acts.

All the while, Surviving a Serial Killer never falters from its focus: the victims.

Why is that noteworthy? True crime as a genre is oversaturated. In a world with seemingly endless options, many production teams look for an angle that will help them stand out from the crowd. With newer offerings such as Netflix’s Monster: The Ed Gein Story dramatizing serial killers, the decision to maintain focus on the victims instead of the person who victimized them is telling.

After all, victim-centric true crime is not new. It is not necessarily exciting. Nevertheless, the subgenre has a valuable place in that overarching category of media because of the role it plays in educating viewers on the lasting impact an encounter with evil can leave on the human psyche.

The lasting effects of survival

Janine Rubinstein, who acts as a host of sorts and quasi-narrator, explains that People produced this series to “give a voice to the survivors.” While that is likely not the magazine’s only motive, it does a fair job of giving the interviewees room to breathe. Each survivor interviewed details the plethora of ways in which Gacy’s criminal acts changed their lives.

First, Bolton explains how he met the murderer when Gacy was a teenage counselor at the camp he attended as an 8-year-old. He describes in explicit detail how Gacy orally sodomized him. After Gacy also threatens to end his life if Bolton discloses the crime, Bolton learns that his mother gave Gacy their home address in case he wanted to visit while in town. Bolton relates how he lived in fear for the rest of his younger years. Nevertheless, he never told a soul about what had occurred.

I enjoyed People’s decision to interweave Gacy’s life events as a method of moving the narrative along. We hear about his marriage, children and separate conviction for sodomy with a different victim in a straightforward way that simply delivers the facts without giving too much credence to the criminal. His defense attorney, Sam Amirante, explains how Gacy was a dichotomy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Still, the segment is quick enough that it doesn’t cast any more ambivalence on him than necessary to move the story forward in time.

Which then leads to Dati. The audience hears how Gacy attacked him as a boy alone in a bathroom stall. Although Dati was able to cause enough raucous to make himself a difficult target, based on the chronology of when the attack occurred, it’s fair to say he escaped being Gacy’s second murder victim.

Antonucci, who, as a 15-year-old, helped Gacy with some remodeling work, accounts an interesting juxtaposition: He was a teenager when Gacy attacked him, not a child.

Each of the three seems to struggle with similar lasting effects. Each one has been changed by their encounter with a monster and subsequent realization of just who that monster was. All of them share the same sentiment to a certain degree: “Why was I the one who survived?”

Nevertheless, here they are, retelling their accounts decades later. And the choice brings up fascinating questions: Do the survivors embrace their victimhood? Do they approve of the fact that true-crime media prioritizes their pain? Or is it something else?

Celebrating survivors or profiting from pain?

A recent article from the BBC shines some light on the inherent conflict of monetizing trauma.

CrimeCon is in its 10th year, with the annual event growing from only 800 attendees in its inaugural iteration to over 6,500 guests this past May. The event has evolved into a meeting ground for everyone connected to the genre: the fans who consume it, the creators who produce it and, occasionally, even the people whose stories inspire it.

According to the BBC, CrimeCon presents a dichotomy of private enterprise and pain. There, intermixed with vendors “selling CrimeCon-branded gifts, shot glasses and $80 sweatshirts,” along with visitors “proudly show[ing] off their crime-scene-tape homemade bags—complete with blood-spatter fabric lining,” you’ll also find family members of victims—some well-known, and others hoping to spread word to anyone who will listen about their deceased or missing loved one.

Although most of the people interviewed for the BBC story noted how the event has become more of an educational endeavor centered around raising awareness, at least one quote discussed how the community of fans must focus on the real humans who have been traumatized, so that the event “doesn’t veer into something gross.” It’s a fair point, considering that some fans spend thousands of dollars to attend.

Which brings us back to the question at hand: Has true crime become exploitative? I’ve asked this before regarding certain series’ decisions to focus on more vulnerable populations for content. But I also have to acknowledge that events like CrimeCon show there’s obviously a large contingent of fans and creators who value the pedagogical aspect of the media, as well. But is that really the focal point?

After all, it’s likely a very rare occasion that an executive green-lights a true-crime documentary solely because they think it will educate the masses. There’s almost always a bottom line to consider.

The final verdict?

The episode never approaches analyzing Gacy as a protagonist. He’s relegated to a plot device that serves no other objective than to promote the production’s purpose: giving a voice to his survivors—the ones whose lives are forever changed by their proximity to perversion. It’s less interested in cinematic sadism than trauma-tinged testimony.

And whether it means to or not, the series asks incredibly important questions about true-crime culture: Are we educating? Or are we packaging emotional pain for entertainment purposes? The uncomfortable answer is probably both.

Adam Banner

Adam R. Banner is the founder and lead attorney of the Oklahoma Legal Group, a criminal defense law firm in Oklahoma City. His practice focuses solely on state and federal criminal defense. He represents the accused against allegations of sex crimes, violent crimes, drug crimes and white-collar crimes.

The study of law isn’t for everyone, yet its practice and procedure seem to permeate pop culture at an increasing rate. This column is about the intersection of law and pop culture in an attempt to separate the real from the ridiculous.