I lost the love of my life to crime. We need to learn murder isn’t entertainment

Perhaps it started with the O.J. Simpson case — or, as I prefer to call it, the Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman case. That distinction matters, because the victims and their families were erased in the spectacle. Despite the nation’s obsession with every gruesome detail, there was no "justice" for them. Victims’ families never receive the neat, cinematic ending the bloodthirsty public, so intent on devouring every "juicy" development, craves. 

The "happy ending" with a guilty verdict and life sentence is rare, the courtroom finale, the "closure" narrative that helps them sleep at night — none of that exists for us. We just want our loved ones back. And that will never happen. Every missed birthday, every holiday spent with an empty chair at the table, cuts just as deeply decades later as it did the very first year. The pain doesn’t soften simply because the killer was convicted. And when the accused walk free, which happens more often than most realize, the anguish is multiplied. 

Grief from murder is not a season of life — it is a permanent, open wound. It never heals. I would not wish it on anyone, not even those who consume it for sport on television, in podcasts, or on social media. 

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When the love of my life was murdered more than two decades ago, I was thrown into this reality. At first, reporters were everywhere, swarming for interviews, shoving microphones in my face, hungry for any morsel of drama. But when the investigation concluded, when the two brothers with long criminal records walked free and a third received a sweetheart plea deal, the cameras disappeared. No one cared to cover the injustice. 

I tried to scream it from the rooftops. I wanted the world to know two accused killers were walking free among them. But my story wasn’t the ending the public wanted, so it went ignored. The reporters packed up and left, chasing the next sensational headline. Meanwhile, I was left with a shattered life and no justice. That silence was as brutal as the murder itself. 

Now we have the Kohberger case. But again, I will not call it that. I will call it the case of Kaylee Goncalves, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Ethan Chapin — the four bright lives stolen in Moscow, Idaho. They deserve to be remembered by name, not as props in someone else’s story. 

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This time, the public did not get the spectacle they craved. There was no wall-to-wall televised trial, no months of salacious testimony, no chance for the killer to bask in attention and notoriety. Instead, the district attorney pursued a plea deal. I admit I was troubled at first that the families were not consulted before that decision was announced. But ultimately, it was the very best outcome for them. 

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No trial meant no opportunity for this monster to revel in the spotlight. No chance for a jury to get it wrong. No technical loophole for him to slip through. No endless appeals. No parole hearings, dragging the families back into the nightmare every few years. And those of us who have been through this know the truth: no matter how long the trial, the families would never have received the answers they so desperately wanted. People like him — soulless, evil beings — don’t give closure. They give torment. 

So, the case ended quietly, and for once, the public had to accept it. No drawn-out theater. No intimate details to feast on. Just the same empty questions the families face: What were their last words? Were they scared? Who did they call for? Did they suffer? These are the agonizing thoughts we live with, day after day, year after year, while the rest of the world moves on. 

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That is the cold, hard reality of murder. It is not a story arc. It is not a Netflix documentary. It is not entertainment. It is pure and unfiltered devastation. It is silence in the house where laughter once was. It is a parent burying a child. It is waking up every single day with the same punch in the gut that this person you loved is gone forever, that their final moments in life were filled with pain and fear and that you were not there to protect them. 

I hope the media, the public and the courts can finally recognize this. I hope they will respect the wishes of the Idaho victims’ families and seal the evidence and files and remember my words in future cases. There is no public benefit to dragging them through more pain. There is no justice in putting private horrors on display. There is only cruelty. 

Murder is not entertainment. It is not content to be consumed. It is the worst thing that can happen to a family, and it deserves to be treated with the gravity, dignity and respect that reality demands. For the sake of those of us living with it, for the sake of the victims who can no longer speak, let us never forget: their names, their stories, their humanity must come before the public’s appetite for spectacle.