At CrimeCon true crime obsessives come face-to-face with real loss

The clamour of the crowd is constant in a Las Vegas convention hall.

Podcasters rub shoulders with prosecutors, and attendees - wearing T-shirts emblazoned with slogans like "True Crime And Wine" or "I'm Only Here For An Alibi" - carry conference-provided bags stamped with "unsolved crime is a choice".

Amongst rows of booths, one woman stands apart, staring stoically ahead as people pass by pictures of her murdered daughter.

They are all here for CrimeCon, an annual gathering of true-crime enthusiasts, content creators, investigators, advocates, survivors and victims' relatives.

But for many - including stoic mom Dr Maggie Zingman - their reasons for being here are deeply personal.

In 2004, the trauma psychologist's daughter, Brittany Phillips, was murdered, and her case has never been solved.

Zingman has refused to give up her search for answers, making more than two-dozen trips across the country in a wrapped pink and purple vehicle loudly telling the world about her child's case. CrimeCon is one of her stops.

Zingman recognises the event's inherent contradictions, as it tries to build an audience - and turn a profit - from real-life tragedies.

"It's a balance," Zingman says. "I wouldn't get 8,000 people learning about my story if it wasn't here."

For more than a decade, America has been gripped by a true crime obsession. Experts point to game-changing podcasts like 2014's Serial and docuseries like The Jinx and Making a Murderer, which both came out in 2015, as early examples that helped fuel the craze.

And CrimeCon has grown alongside the true-crime genre. The inaugural event in 2017 drew just 800, but attendance jumped to 2,400 the following year, according to co-founder Kevin Balfe. This year, 6,500 people attended, with some paying more than $1,600 for a VIP experience.

But as the genre has grown, so has the criticism. Many note how much of the content has focused on the perpetrators - not the victims - of the crimes, and the inherent exploitation that comes from profiting from other people's misfortune.

It is a fine line to walk, and those who have been coming to CrimeCon for years say the event endeavours to do things right.

Wearing T-shirts proclaiming "Victim exploitation does not equal victim advocacy", the parents of Gabby Petito have their own booth to promote their foundation, which supports missing persons cases and domestic violence prevention. Their daughter made national headlines when she was murdered by her boyfriend during a cross-country van trip, sparking a nationwide manhunt.

"From the first year that we came here, we saw a lot of growth in terms of who's going to come," says Petito's father, Joe, who first attended in 2023, noting how groups like the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and the Black and Missing Foundation use CrimeCon to raise awareness for their advocacy.

The event, Petito says, does "a really good job of toeing the line... for pushing the advocacy side and not the exploitative side of victims and their families and loved ones".

According to event co-founder Balfe: "Over the years, we've had people who show up expecting this to be serial-killer this and that, and they just realise quickly this event's not for them.

"And we ultimately have curated an audience of people who, I think, really care."

Just steps from an arch welcoming attendees to CrimeCon 2026, there is a wall plastered with missing persons posters and a sign emblazoned with "8 Simple Rules for Being an ETHICAL True Crime Fanatic". About a five-minute walk away, though, there is a merch store selling CrimeCon-branded gifts, shot glasses and $80 sweatshirts. Employees bark in the hallways, urging attendees to sign up for next year or join the CrimeCon Cruise.

Some have really leaned into the theme. One woman wears skin-tight crime-scene-tape leggings, while a pair of best friends proudly show off their crime-scene-tape homemade bags - complete with blood-spatter fabric lining.

The overwhelmingly female crowd race to grab selfies with hosts and TV personalities, including Nancy Grace, here to offer up theories on Nancy Guthrie's disappearance. Others line up for meet-and-greets with the parents of Kaylee Goncalves, the University of Idaho student killed by Bryan Kohberger. Some have even paid extra to attend the Clue Awards, a ceremony to celebrate the best in true-crime content. This year's Crimefighter of the Year award goes to three Jeffrey Epstein survivors and their associated non-profit organisation.

Many attendees come for the "intrigue," says Ruth-Ann Labrecque, 52, who travelled from Maine for her sixth Crime Con with her aunt, Roberta Randall, 67. They had both been introduced to true crime as children by Labrecque's grandmother - Randall's mother - and are lining up Friday morning for early entry to the merch store after already spending an estimated $3,000 each on the trip.

Aside from the mystery elements and curiosity, however, many are drawn to the genre and event by a real concern with safety, says Brandi Barrett Elkins, 53, of Idaho.

"You want to learn what happened so you'll know how to recognise it," says Elkins, who was also introduced to crime by her mother at an early age. "I know for a fact if somebody came up to me with a broken arm and asked me to help them load a sailboat, aka Ted Bundy, I would be like: 'Mmmm, sorry dude.'"

Illinois teacher Amy Dixon agrees, wondering if her own fascination stems from "trying to make sure I know all the things I could do in case it ever happens to me".

A mother of three who's also devised a CSI summer camp for students, she notes "it can happen anywhere".

Dixon spent about $1,200 (£904) on her "platinum" badge, nabbing it at a discount - this is her third Crime Con, and she's upgraded each time.

Her husband accompanied her to Vegas, where he's playing poker while she attends the convention - there are very few male attendees among the crowd. One is 71-year-old Texan Jim McConnell, accompanying his youth-pastor wife, Susan.

"She's got me watching 20/20 and Dateline," McConnell says. "I didn't know half the people here, but... once I heard them, it's just amazing. I really enjoyed it."

Susan McConnell has wanted to attend CrimeCon for several years. She's drawn not just by fascination with the genre, but also by the chance it gives her to bring attention to a local case. She and other friends in Texas have spent time poring over the cold case killing of Missy Bevers, who was murdered in a church not far from McConnell's home, and a photo of Bevers graces her T-shirt.

"I was hoping to talk to some of the podcasters about her case," says McConnell. "I'm glad that she's getting some more exposure."

For Indiana father Greg Wallace, his first CrimeCon is both exhausting and inspiring. His 23-year-old daughter vanished nearly eight years ago, and he looks shell-shocked on the first full day of the convention.

"I struggle with PTSD since she went missing, and just the bigger crowds and all the noise... it's really pushed me to my limits," he says, his daughter Brittany's portrait encircled by a heart shape of sunflowers on his shirt. "But I'm really glad I did it, because, you know, I've got her name out there globally now, and that just gives me more hope."

There are undeniably "celebrities" at CrimeCon, and that hierarchy extends to victim families, too - Zingman has witnessed it firsthand.

At the second CrimeCon she attended, in Nashville, she says she had some "uncomfortable feelings" as people passed her by for the families of more famous victims.

"I'd see them mouth, 'Who is that?'" Zingman recalls. "And I was like: I don't know if I can handle this, because it is very commercial."

Since then, though, she says she's "learned to not take it personally" while appreciating the platform it offers for her daughter's story.

She is appreciates how CrimeCon has evolved to focus more on the victims and their families.

Kristi and Steve Goncalves, at their first CrimeCon, fall into the "celebrity" category, with some attendees agonising over what to say to them during scheduled meet and greets.

The parents have been "flooded with love" and already are considering attending next year with a booth for their Murder Has a Name foundation, which they created in honour of their daughter to raise money for DNA testing.

"You can't beat the people that are here," Kristi says. "The media people that are here, the citizens that are here, the true crime families."

One first-time attendee, sexual-assault survivor and speaker Nicole Earnest-Payte, thinks that CrimeCon gets a bad reputation because its name is similar to Comic Con, the annual sci-fi and super-hero juggernaut.

"They think, 'Oh, this is just a bunch of people that are obsessed with murder that come there,'" says the 56-year-old Californian, who waited 27 years for justice after being attacked in her home by the infamous NorCal rapist. "And I don't think that's what this is."

Instead, she sees it as a place "where people can walk away learning something about human behaviour, the complexity of humans, how crimes are investigated".

"That's really the key to making sure this doesn't veer into something gross," she says.

"It's really important for fans to understand that these are real human beings, real lives, real parents, real children, real spouses whose lives have been completely destroyed."

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