In the Name of the Children

If you are interested in a true crime book, this is probably not for you. This is an autobiography—a strange one. Even when the author is talking about someone's murder, there are so many I-statements...So. Many. I. Statements.
Plus so many inappropriate actions. As a former therapist, I cringed many times. Befriending victims. Bringing victims and victims' families into his family. Giving victims' family members information about the crime that he did not have permission to do so, in his family's hotel's room.
Then, after all this: the final chapter is a recap of the entire book from a more intense version of his viewpoint: more ME and I. I was so stressed, I solved these crimes, I have a lot of pets...I read this book because I wanted to learn about, with respect, crimes that have occurred, how they had been solved (or not), and to honor how the victims had suffered. As I type this, I am listening to the last chapter and the author is describing in detail about how he had knee surgery. It is taking all of my willpower to finish this last chapter—sheer stubbornness.
As a therapist who worked with children and adolescents in dire situations, who understands compassion fatigue and secondary traumatization, I am still deeply put off—disgusted—by this author's navel gazing, by his making others' suffering about him. Example: he claims that nurses say that everything he comes out of anesthesia, they tell him he screamed a certain murder victim's name, all these years later. Poor FBI agent. That child died friendless and alone, terrified, sexually violated by the only people he spent time with. But by all means, it's about you.
Never mind, I am not finishing this last chapter. I can't.