I'm enjoying this read, but finding myself annoyed by the author's naivete. She goes around with her subject to a the scene of one of his crimes, and then is dismayed to find herself becoming part of the story. She wonders about his motives, but never seeks the insight of a criminologist or a psychologist. She seems totally unaware that the criminal whose misdeeds she sanctions through her fawning, nonjudgemental curiosity is using her to justify his actions, both to himself and to the world. The pretty blonde finds him fascinating- how could this not stoke his ego, and reassure him that he's in the right?
In all, though I don't like to wish ill on anyone, I can't help thinking that her attitude would change if someone robbed her house- perhaps stole the only copy of her next book just before it went to the publisher- or picked her car clean off the street, never to be seen again. Her tone of amoral equivocation swoops nauseatingly close to that of the crook she's profiling, and essentially ignores the damage and violence he does to the hard work, to the dreams and passions, of others. In her drive to "get" his story- and, we may posit, to sell books and to aggrandize herself- she tacitly condones his destructive behavior. A closer knowledge of the empty feeling of the violated might make her less surprised at the anger his victims still express years after the fact.
But frankly, I doubt it. She's a grown woman with college-aged children and should know better. I will studiously avoid her "work" in future, and recommend that you, gentle reader, do the same. In the end, she proves to be no better a person than the criminal she's profiling, and I feel like a sucker for having thought better of her than that.