Conversation with Kristen Seavey
Murder, She Told
This is my final post related to my new book The Murder of Dorothy Milliken: Cold Case in Maine—an interview with true crime podcaster Kristen Seavey. Kristen’s PART TWO episode on Dorothy dropped yesterday, and it’s well worth your time.
While working on Dorothy’s story, Kristen and I had ongoing conversations about how often victims are misrepresented—or entirely overshadowed—in sensationalized accounts of murders and missing persons. We talked about the ethics of storytelling, the risks of exploitation, and what it means to center the voices of those who were truly impacted.
Those conversations helped shape the heart of this book: a narrative that gives voice to Dorothy, to her family and friends, to the people who loved her—not the person who took her life.
Before introducing Kristen, I want to share a quick exercise I did while researching coverage of some of America’s most notorious serial killers and their victims. In every case, there was an overwhelming focus on the perpetrator—I had to dig to find even the smallest scraps about the victims. Some you hear more about, others barely at all. I want to introduce you to three young women—Lynda, Cynthia, and Mary Ann. Women who had their whole lives ahead of them. Who had friends and family, hobbies, jobs, and dreams.
Lynda Ann Healy
1952–1974 (21)
Lynda grew up on Siskiyou Street in Northeast Portland, Oregon, before her family moved to the Newport Hills area of Bellevue when she was ten. A senior psychology major at the University of Washington, she also worked part-time as a radio ski announcer, known for her cheerful intro: “Good morning skiers, this is Lynda with your Cascade ski report.” Creative and outdoorsy, she took and displayed black-and-white scenic photographs. She loved both cats and dogs. Lynda was close with her younger siblings, Robert and Laura. Her parents enjoyed ballroom dancing and travel; her mother set up the Puyallup Fair with their first computer.
Cynthia Jean Hinds
1965–1982 (17)
Known to friends as “Cookie,” Cynthia attended Nathan Hale High School in Seattle but dropped out or was possibly expelled. She had an arrest record for theft, and sources conflict over whether she engaged in sex work. At the time of her death, she was living with her father, Robert Williams, and her younger brother, Terry. Her mother was Marilyn Marshall.
Mary Ann Pesce
1953–1972 (19)
Born in Bay Shore, New York, Mary Ann lived much of her life in Camarillo, California, with time spent abroad in Wiesbaden, Germany—where she may have learned to ski. She was described in multiple reports as a talented skier and had been on the debate team at Rio Mesa High School, graduating in 1971. At the time of her death, she was a freshman at Fresno State University. She had two brothers and two sisters. One brother enjoys photographing flowers. Her father, Vincent, was a Long Island native and a graduate of Cornell and Brown. Her mother, Lois (“Penny”), was from Pennsylvania and held a nursing degree. The couple met in an Oklahoma soda fountain after a football game and were married for 64 years.
CONVERSATION via EMAIL:
Kristen Seavey is the creator and host of the Murder, She Told podcast, and has been a credentialed victim's advocate through the National Advocate Credentialing Program (NACP) since 2021. She launched Murder, She Told with a mission to give a voice to families affected by violent crime and to raise public awareness of unsolved cases that often go unnoticed by traditional media. In addition to her podcasting work, she also collaborates with law enforcement and is currently partnered with the Kittery, ME police on a missing persons case from 1983. Originally from Maine, she now splits her time between her home state and NYC. You can listen to Murder, She Told on any podcast platform.
Why are people so fascinated by true crime?
The public’s fascination with true crime is nothing new. Long before Jack the Ripper, crime novellas were published not only to entertain but also to serve as moral parables—often warning young women about the dangers of certain lifestyles. The only real difference now is the internet, which offers a constant, never-ending stream of true crime content in every format imaginable. With accessibility comes popularity.
People are curious. We’re drawn to things we don’t fully understand—whether that’s the experience of fighting for your life, the enduring pain of a family still seeking justice, or the mindset of someone capable of committing heinous acts. There’s a human need to make sense of behavior that defies the moral code we believe holds a civilized society together.
Women, more often than not, are the targets of violence. Because of that, there’s a strange sense of safety some find in true crime stories—an idea that by paying attention to someone else’s tragedy, we might learn something that could one day protect us or someone we love. Now, I wouldn’t say that’s the most common reason people tune into their favorite true crime podcast, but I do think that heightened awareness is part of what draws many women to the genre.
How do you balance honesty, entertainment, and respecting victims and their families?
I think, ultimately, I have a responsibility to report the truth. That doesn’t mean airing everyone’s dirty laundry just because it’s factual—there’s a balance between honesty, respect, and sensitivity.
All people are flawed. To me, that’s what makes us human. I believe we connect more deeply with others when we acknowledge their struggles—the things they were working through. It’s what makes the world feel smaller and helps us feel less alone.
Some families may be sensitive about their loved one’s mental health challenges, substance use, or criminal history. I respect that. I work with families based on their comfort level and will withhold details I feel should remain private. Still, when I release an episode that offers an honest, nuanced portrait of someone, I often receive messages from listeners who are grateful because they saw themselves in the story. They felt understood.
When we relate to the person at the center of a case, we inherently care more—about them, about their families, and about what happened to them. That’s one of my biggest goals. I believe true crime can change. If we treat people as just content, they become another wild story or bingeable episode. But if we approach them as real human beings, their lives matter in a different way. And it’s easy to forget: these aren’t just stories. They were someone’s life.
True crime will always be entertainment to some degree—that’s unavoidable. It’s my job to tell a compelling story. But I also have the power to shape how that story is told. I choose to lead with empathy and aim to cause the least amount of harm possible. You can’t have true crime without pain. But you can tell it with care.
How can we better support victims and survivors?
People often ask me how they can help—and many feel like sharing something on social media isn’t enough. But I’m here to tell you: it is enough. It is helpful.
I’ve worked with so many families who, in the early days of their case, begged the public to pay attention. They begged for shares on Facebook just to feel seen and supported. And every share mattered. Every post made them feel like someone cared. We live in such a connected world now that it almost doesn’t matter where you live. A cold case from Maine could be solved because someone in Utah shared a missing persons poster—people move, memories get jogged, and unexpected connections happen all the time.
It’s also worth considering what you choose to consume. Your likes, listens, and shares have value. You’re making choices about which creators you support, and it’s important to ask: Are they telling these stories with respect?
The creator might not be overtly blaming or mocking victims—but respect goes deeper than that. Ask yourself:
Does the creator lean into sensationalism or gory details?
Are they doing thorough research? Do they cite sources and give credit?
Are they centering the victim, or are they spending more time talking about themselves—or even the perpetrator?
Are they raising awareness and advocating for families, or simply retelling traumatic stories for entertainment?
Do they give back?
These are important questions. Bottom line: if this episode was about your parent, sibling, or best friend—would you be okay with the way the story is being told?
A lot of families are even creating their own content about their stories, which is great. By supporting creators who lead with empathy, respect, and advocacy, you are part of the change.
What motivated you to start the podcast Murder, She Told?
I started podcasting before the pandemic, back when I was living in New York City, and I immediately loved it. As a professional actor, it felt like a natural extension of my storytelling—another way to use my voice. But when the pandemic hit, everything I was working on shut down. Suddenly, I had months with nothing to do.
That summer, I began researching unsolved cases from central Maine—where I’m from—and was surprised by how little I actually knew about them. What shocked me even more was how little information existed online—sometimes just a blurb. That lack of coverage stayed with me.
As a true crime consumer, I often found myself wanting to know more about the victims—their lives, their circumstances. In so many of the stories I came across, the victim felt like little more than a bullet point in the narrative of their own death.
By the early fall, I had started developing a new podcast, one that would fill a gap I felt was missing in the true crime space. At the time, the “ethical true crime” movement hadn’t really taken off yet, but I knew I wanted to approach stories differently. I wanted to focus on the victims, work directly with families when possible, and shine a light on cases—especially in Maine and throughout New England—that weren’t getting national attention but desperately needed awareness.
I taught myself everything—editing, researching more effectively, and handling all the technical aspects behind the scenes. It became a full-circle creative process.
And once I remembered that Murder, She Wrote took place in a fictional Maine town, I had a moment of clarity: I was onto something. The rest is history.
What makes Murder, She Told? different from other true crime podcasts?
For starters, many of the cases I work on haven’t been featured on other podcasts.
There’s a lot of repetition in true crime. Many shows follow trends, focusing on cases that have already received significant media attention—ones with documentaries, in-depth articles, or a large online presence. But what about the cases the media overlooked? The ones that don’t have a “juicy story” people are obsessing over? The ones stuck in time?
Just because a case doesn’t have traction online doesn’t mean it’s not worth telling. In fact, that’s exactly why I feel compelled to tell it.
The heart of Murder, She Told is about shining a light on underreported cases—ones with little to no online presence, and often limited archival coverage. Our goal is to revive these stories and get people talking again.
The research that goes into the show goes far beyond what I typically share. We obtain records when possible, dig into archives and genealogy, and try to speak with people who were actually there. I strive for accuracy and always work to re-center the victim in their own story.
To be completely honest, this work is exhausting. It takes anywhere from 80 to over 100 hours to create a single documentary-style episode that breaks new ground on a case. But I believe it’s important work.
Murder, She Told is also about supporting families and survivors, and advocating for victims beyond the podcast. I want people to feel supported, heard, and safe with the MST team. It’s important to me to practice what I preach—and to help cultivate a community of helpers.
How do you process the emotional toll of covering violent crimes?
I have a pretty high threshold when it comes to holding space for others while working on their stories or researching violent crime. That, paired with being a bit of a workaholic, can definitely push me into burnout. I have to consciously remind myself to make time for fun.
I don’t have a tried-and-true method for processing everything. I just try to balance the heavy work by doing things that feel light—like watching bad reality TV (which I’ve surprisingly learned to appreciate), spending time with friends, or exploring someplace new.
Taking time away is hard, but it’s necessary. Because the truth is, I can’t support someone else’s trauma if I’m running on empty.
What makes a life well-lived?
I think it’s the people around us and the memories we make that give life meaning. Photos are often a cherished part of the stories I tell on Murder, She Told, and I especially love seeing those candid moments—when someone is simply being themselves.
Victims of violent crime are not defined by what happened to them. And the length of someone’s life doesn’t determine the value of the time they spent here. People are defined by how they chose to love, who they shared their time with, and what lit them up inside.
The things that get you out of bed in the morning, the things that make your heart feel full—those are the things that make a life well-lived. And no one—not even the person who took their life—can ever take that away.
Thank you for “tuning in” to my monthlong dive into true crime. The Murder of Dorothy Milliken: Cold Case in Maine is available at your local library, independent bookstore, and online. And, in the meantime, I highly recommend checking out Kristen’s podcast.
