How I approach the media's role in a high-profile case
Writing crime fiction set against a media circus requires a careful look at how journalists actually behave when the cameras roll. My Thorkild Aske novels follow a damaged investigator navigating cases that attract national attention, and the press is rarely a background detail. It becomes a presence that shapes timelines, leaks evidence, and turns suspects into celebrities almost overnight. Readers across different markets tell me that this dynamic feels familiar, even when the setting is far from their own cities. Learn more about Thorkild Aske.
In Australia, where a single high-profile arrest in Sydney or Melbourne can dominate the evening bulletins on ABC and Channel Seven within the hour, the interplay feels particularly pointed. Australian defamation law, suppression orders, and the fierce competition between News Corp Australia and Nine Entertainment create a distinctive news landscape that I try to honour even when the story sits on the other side of the world.
The news cycle as a narrative engine
A high-profile case generates a rhythm of its own. Press conferences happen at set hours, online exclusives drop at midnight, and talk radio fills the gaps with speculation. I map that rhythm before I write a single scene, because characters in the plot cannot ignore it. An investigator might wait to release a statement until the morning papers; a suspect might learn of their own arrest from a breaking news alert.
When I am plotting a sequence, I borrow the structure of the Australian evening news. Sydney's 6pm bulletin is a cultural touchstone, and the way stations in Melbourne pivot from the Melbourne Cup to a murder trial has always struck me as a useful dramatic tool. By mirroring that cadence, the chapters feel urgent, as if the reader is hearing the same headlines the characters do.
When the cameras arrive at the scene
Visual media changes behaviour in ways that written journalism does not. A camera crew parked outside a flat in Brisbane or Perth forces witnesses to choose their words. I have spent time observing how reporters contort their questions to keep a subject on camera, and that choreography makes its way into my prose. The lens has its own gravity.
In Adelaide, the courts operate under some of the strictest contempt laws in the country, and I use those constraints to test my characters. A detective who wants to talk but cannot. A journalist who knows the story but cannot print it. The tension between what the public wants to know and what the law permits is, for me, more compelling than any chase scene.
Pressure on investigators and suspects
Police spokespeople in Australia are trained to say very little, and that reticence shapes my writing. I give my investigators the same tight discipline, then watch what happens when they break it. A single off-the-record comment to a friendly reporter can unravel a case. A leaked photograph from a crime scene in Parramatta can prejudice a jury pool before the trial begins.
For suspects, the pressure is even worse. A person of interest in a case that trends on X, formerly Twitter, will face a different kind of trial long before they see the inside of one. I write those scenes with the awareness that Australian readers have seen real names destroyed by online pile-ons, and that the fiction needs to feel plausible rather than melodramatic.
The court of public opinion
Commentary has migrated from letters pages to comment threads, and the volume is deafening. I keep an eye on how stories evolve on platforms like Reddit and TikTok to capture the texture of modern outrage. The mob has a tone, a vocabulary, and a half-life of roughly forty-eight hours before it moves on.
That ephemeral quality matters in a plot. A character who is a monster on Monday can be a folk hero by Thursday. In Hobart or Darwin, where local stories might briefly trend nationally, the swing can feel even more abrupt. I use that instability to keep my readers off balance, just as the characters are.
Comparing how different outlets cover cases
Not every newsroom operates the same way, and the differences matter when I am constructing a scene. A tabloid reporter chasing a quote works from a different playbook than a producer at the ABC, and both differ from a freelance blogger with a Substack and a Ring doorbell.
| Outlet type | Speed | Tone | Editorial gatekeeping | Typical access |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Tabloid newspaper | Hours to one day | Loud, speculative, emotional | Minimal, fast turnaround | Paparazzi, doorstep interviews, unnamed sources |
| Public broadcaster | Same day digital, longer for broadcast | Measured, contextual, cautious | Heavy fact-checking, legal review | Formal requests, press conferences, court reporting |
| Broadsheet | 12 to 24 hours for print, faster online | Analytical, restrained, sourced | Heavy copy editing, legal review | Press conferences, leaked documents, sit-down interviews |
| Online-only outlet | Minutes | Variable, often polarised | Minimal, sometimes a single editor | User-generated content, social media scraping, leaks |
The differences shape which version of the story reaches the public first. Readers who want to see how this plays out in a sustained narrative can find the books at https://heinebakkeid.com/thorkild-aske.
Research methods and ethical lines
I read court reports, watch old press conferences, and follow journalists on social media to learn their habits. The Australian Press Council publishes decisions that I find useful, because they reveal where newsrooms draw ethical lines. Defamation cases that reach the Federal Court in Melbourne give me a sense of how a courtroom weighs a story against a person's reputation.
For my own work, I try to write the press as a force that is neither villain nor saviour. Reporters in the Thorkild Aske books are often flawed, occasionally corrupt, occasionally heroic. That ambiguity mirrors what I see from Canberra to Cairns, where the trade is messy and the stakes are real.
I borrow techniques from unexpected places to build these scenes, including a thoughtful guide on selecting the best brushes for hand lettering, which reminded me that the right instrument shapes the final product as much as the hand that holds it.
The next time you pick up a Thorkild Aske novel, count how many press scenes appear in the first three chapters. Then watch an evening bulletin in your own city and see how many of those rhythms you recognise in the first ten minutes.