The Serial Killer Podcast

In the gripping conclusion to the Bradley Robert Edwards / Claremont serial killer saga, police finally put a name and face to the man they had hunted for more than two decades. Follow the extraordinary DNA breakthrough that led to Edwards’ dramatic arrest, the disturbing secrets uncovered from his past, and the marathon trial that finally delivered justice for Jane Rimmer and Ciara Glennon. A chilling finale to one of Australia’s most notorious murder investigations.

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He attacked her from behind, one arm looping around her body while his right hand forced a cloth gag into her mouth, silencing her before she had time to understand what was happening. Davis, seated on a wheeled office chair, was terrified, certain in that moment that her life was in danger. Her attacker was tall and powerfully built, and he had come prepared, cable ties already sitting ready in his pocket. Pinning her arms to her sides, he began dragging the chair, with her still in it, backward toward the bathroom, saying nothing at all throughout the assault, his silence somehow more unsettling than any threat could have been.

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Victims were chosen opportunistically but matched specific fantasy criteria involving age, appearance, and physical build. Nothing was left to chance. He would prepare a specialized kit with tools, restraints, and tape, carrying it in his vehicle. The profile painted a solo operator; he was intelligent, strategic, lived within about five kilometers of Claremont, and was intimately familiar with its leafy streets and the remote, forested dump sites. He killed before disposing of the bodies, ensuring absolute control to the end.

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Police had at this time gained tunnel vision regarding a suspect named Lance Williams. He had volunteered, insisted actually, on being given a polygraph test. He supposedly failed this test as it showed anomalous scores after he was asked if he was a serial killer. Here I would like to pause for a brief moment, dear listener, and comment on something. Polygraph testing should, in my humble opinion, be banned from use by law enforcement. It is pure pseudo science, complete hogwash, bogus, humbug, unfiltered quackery that has probably caused immense suffering inflicted upon innocent men and women over the years. A polygraph test simply measures stress and anxiety in its subject. Blood pressure, sweat and heartrate. It does not, and I repeat, does not read the subject’s mind.

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The long-running investigation into the Claremont killings reaches its climax as advances in forensic technology finally yield a breakthrough. Detectives re-examine cold evidence from the attacks, uncovering a crucial DNA link that points to a seemingly ordinary local man—Bradley Robert Edwards—who had been hiding in plain sight for decades.

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He grabbed her and slammed her head against the brick wall repeatedly, at least six times by her account, while simultaneously attempting to tear her skirt from her body. She told the officers from 79 Division who took her statement that she had believed, with complete and terrifying certainty, that she was going to be raped or killed. She fought back with everything she had. The struggle was noticed by club bouncers, large men trained to watch the approaches to the venue, who came running and pulled the attacker off her before taking her inside to be consoled by friends. The man fled into the surrounding streets and was never found. 

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When she was close enough, he came out of the dark behind her with a violence that gave her no time to think or react; he drove her face-first into the grass with enough force to knock the breath from her body. Before she could scream, before she could roll or kick or run, he had flipped her onto her back, dropped his full weight onto her stomach, and shoved a cloth deep into her mouth. Then he wrenched her over again and bound her wrists behind her back, pulling the cords so tight they bit immediately into the skin.

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The crimes were escalating. In November 1968, he was caught peeping through a woman's bedroom window in the dead of night, and not just watching. He was caught pleasuring himself while spying on her, his violation of her privacy turning into something more sinister. In 1969, he broke into a Cincinnati beauty salon and stole twenty-one wigs worth over thirteen hundred dollars, a strange crime that seemed to speak to his desire to transform himself, to become someone else. In 1976, he and an accomplice broke into a couple's home in Daytona Beach, Florida. The couple had been spotted earlier on a boat carrying what appeared to be a large amount of cash. While his partner tied up the husband with electrical cable, Chandler dragged the wife into the bedroom, made her strip to her underwear, and slowly ran the barrel of his revolver across her stomach. A cold, calculated act of psychological torture.

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The killings began on the 15th of September 1986. The first victim was a 71-year-old woman whose name has never been officially released to the public, a decision perhaps made to protect the dignity of her grieving family in a conservative society. She was found the following morning in a field near Taean township in Hwaseong County. Her body lay face-up among the late-summer stubble of a harvested rice paddy, the stalks brittle and dry beneath her. Her clothing was torn and rearranged around her body in a way that suggested both violation and deliberate staging. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back with strips torn from her own garments. She had been sexually assaulted. She had been strangled. The ligature—a length of her own stocking—was still knotted around her throat when police finally arrived at the scene after a farmer discovered her at dawn

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A cryptic message hinted at a possible connection between the victims and a shadowy figure. The hunt intensified as the task force followed the trail of clues, navigating the intricate web woven by the perpetrator. Detective James Rodriguez's forensic expertise played a pivotal role. He uncovered a chilling pattern in the crime scenes, linking the intricate knots used to bind the victims

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Death by cyanide ingestion is one of the most rapid and merciless forms of poisoning, unfolding like a sudden cellular blackout that starves the body of energy even while oxygen floods the bloodstream. It is not the gentle, drifting unconsciousness of some toxins; it is a violent hijacking of the mitochondria—the power plants inside every cell—leading to histotoxic hypoxia, where tissues literally suffocate on a molecular level despite abundant oxygen.

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His hand came close to her face and she bit down into the thick flesh of his thumb with everything she had. She tasted blood; warm and metallic; and her jaw locked in a muscle spasm she could not control, her teeth sunk deep into him. They struggled in the dimness, an almost absurd tableau of a massive man trying to shake free from a woman less than half his size who had her teeth in him and would not let go. In desperation, he wound his free hand into her long hair and forced her head downward, bending her toward the concrete. She saw the front of a Volkswagen approaching through the blur of her failing vision, its headlights pale in the daylight, and then she lost consciousness.

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Jack the Ripper terrorized Whitechapel in the fall of 1888, killing at least five prostitutes—the canonical five: Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes, and Kelly. Brutal murders with throat cuts and surgical mutilations. Police received taunting letters, including the infamous “From Hell” with a piece of kidney, but the killer was never identified. He vanished as suddenly as he appeared. One of history’s greatest mysteries. Sleep well… if you can.

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They found her on the roof. Her car was parked perfectly between the lines, the doors locked, the keys gone. It was a ghost vehicle. Inside, her textbooks sat on the

seat, waiting for a student who was never coming back. There were no signs of a fight, no broken glass, no blood on the upholstery. The car was as clean as Karen’s

reputation. Forensic technicians took the car to the lab and went over it with a magnifying glass. They found nothing. No fingerprints that didn't belong to the family. No trace of a struggle. Whatever had happened to Karen Sprinker, it hadn't happened inside that steel frame. It had happened in the few yards between her car door and the entrance

to the store.

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Her car was found parked in a rest area on the road leading up to the Santiam Pass just north of Albany, Oregon, and slightly east of the I-5. The red-and-white Rambler had no external damage, and it was locked. No blood. No sign of struggle. There were a few personal items belonging to Jan Whitney. There were no keys. In processing the Rambler, state police I.D. technicians lifted a good latent print from one of its hubcaps. With the technology available in 1968, a single latent print was worthless to detectives unless they had a suspect’s print to compare it to.

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He swung into an overgrown driveway and killed the engine beside a deserted farmhouse. Gray weathered siding, wind whistling through broken windows—no neighbours, no help for miles. Without a sound, Jerry hauled her out and started beating her. Fists hammered her face, her breasts. Blood filled her mouth, warm and metallic. She screamed anyway, knowing it probably wouldn't matter. He tore at her clothes, gasping that he wanted her naked so he could take pictures.

She fought—twisted, kicked, clawed for escape. Sunset was coming fast, and she knew if darkness fell without rescue, she'd never see morning. Her screams carried just far enough. A farm couple driving past heard them, wrenched their wheel, and pulled into the weed-choked yard. They spotted the old car, the big young man

looming over someone on the ground...

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His fetish expanded beyond footwear to encompass various forms of feminine undergarments and intimate apparel. He became fascinated with brassieres, panties, girdles, and the complex systems of garters and stockings that women used to maintain their appearance. Jerome developed an intense appreciation for the texture and feel of these soft fabrics, finding them almost as compelling as the high-heeled shoes that had initially captured his attention.

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He was breathing heavily, although it had taken so little effort to swing the length of two-by-four against her head and feel the satisfying impact when it hit. She had dropped like a stone, collapsing without a sound beyond the initial thud. He knelt beside her and checked to see if she was still breathing. He thought he detected a slight movement in her ribs. And then he placed both his hands around her neck and squeezed for a long time, feeling her life drain away beneath his fingers. Her neck was so frail;  he could feel little bones inside crushing under his hands, the cartilage giving way.

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Blake rested his hand on his service revolver, weighing the morality of gunning Boone down on the courthouse steps, when he heard the news. Boone didn’t have the cash. He possessed neither valuables sufficient to pawn nor property to offer a money lender. By the end of the day, during which he had performed some truly fantastic work, Mr. Bishop began questioning whether he would ever receive payment. Consequently, the other side of the judge’s punishment fell upon Boone. He would serve a month on a chain gang, performing hard labour for the city of Victoria. His wages would be offset against the debts owed to the Adelphi Saloon and Mr. Bishop.

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His first victim stood blind drunk, pissing on the side of the trading post. Boone simply strolled up behind him, placed the pistol barrel to his nape, and pulled the trigger.

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Burton tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his throat had clamped shut, parched and brittle as ancient parchment left too long in the sun. His voice only clawed its way back in a ragged, desperate croak the instant Boone pressed the knife down against the flesh of his right leg, just above the knee, and the first thin, crimson line of blood welled up, hot and sticky, tracing a lazy rivulet down the pale skin. Boone used that old Bowie for everything—carving kindling, gutting game, scraping hides—and its edge had gone so dull from endless abuse that it resembled a rusted sawblade more than a blade. He had to lean in with his full, heavy weight, all two hundred pounds of muscle and grit, to force the tip through the tough outer layer of Burton's skin, the metal grinding audibly against the resistance like a dull file on bone.

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A few of the abandoned men, their wills broken, staggered blindly after Boone and Burton once they finally realized the terrible deception. But in tragically little time, they were completely snow-blind and hopelessly lost, staggering aimlessly away from the faint path and each other as the relentless, creeping tendrils of hypothermia finally took hold of their core. Some paltry articles of their clothing would eventually be found near the trail once a spring thaw swept through the valley, but of their frozen, anonymous bodies, there was never any trace. Whether they were claimed by the brutal, indifferent cold, by a silent return of the vengeful Diggers, or by some starved, scavenging beast of the high mountains will forever remain a chilling mystery. Even their names have been tragically lost to the ravages of time, with only the vaguest, most unflattering descriptions of them surviving in the old, faded complaints filed by the victims who once sought their deaths.

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When the sun finally rose, he methodically availed himself of the dead's belongings, precisely as he always did, but for the first time, he could not bring himself to look directly at the body. Usually, he felt absolutely no sting of remorse or burning shame—he had successfully convinced himself that he was entirely immune to such weak human frailties—but now, a strange, heavy guilt sat like a cold stone deep in his gut. He had obscenely gorged himself in a terrifying, unholy communion that had lasted throughout the entire night, returning over and over to tear more flesh from the cooling corpse and fully sate his insatiable hunger. He had eaten until he was bloated, profoundly sickened, and deeply ashamed.

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She fought him off when she could, her arms straining against his weight, her breath hitching as she prayed for him to collapse into a drunken stupor. On good nights, he’d pass out mid-act, his body slumping onto her like a felled oak, his breath hot and sour against her neck. She would shove him aside, her muscles trembling, and crawl to the edge of the bed, curling into herself to escape the memory of his touch. On bad nights, she endured the full brutality of his lust, his fingers digging into her flesh, leaving crescent-shaped bruises that bloomed like dark flowers across her arms and thighs.

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He’d deliberately pick fights with men leaving the tavern, a predator stalking his prey. Experience had honed his dangerous edge; he was now a skilled brawler, a calculated bully, and stronger than any man had a right to be. The young women of the town, caught in the romantic fantasy of taming a wild man, were drawn to him. But at home, the attention he received was far less flattering. His father refused to speak to him, fearing his own rage, and his mother wept to see the man her son had become.

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The room fell silent, the other patrons—hard men with scarred hands and wary eyes—sensing the storm about to break.Dutch rose slowly, his shadow swallowing the light as he turned to face Boone. In his hand was a Bowie knife, its blade glinting like a sliver of moonlight. Boone, his revolver waving wildly, grinned—a crooked, feral slash that promised blood. The sight of Dutch, a mountain of a man, would have stopped most in their tracks, but Boone was no ordinary man.

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Within three hours of beginning the search, investigators found a three-ring notebook. Investigator Sachtleben later said of his findings, and I quote: “I also observed notebooks that contain what I recognize to be diagrams and notes that are consistent with the manufacture of destructive devices such as pipe bombs. Ten three-ring binders. These binders contain page after page of meticulous writings and sketches which I recognize to be diagrams of explosive devices. These diagrams depict cross-sections of pipes and electrical circuitry commonly used with boxes which could be used to contain, conceal and transport explosive devices. The notebooks also contain hand-written notes in Spanish and English which describe, in part, chemical compounds which can be used in various combinations to create explosive charges for use in explosive devices.

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The lead agent called out to Ted, asking for help with a property line. Ted, wary, peered from the doorway, his frame gaunt from years of isolation. The agent stepped closer,

explaining the map issue. As Ted leaned forward, the agent grabbed his right arm, yanking him from the cabin. Another agent swiftly cuffed his left, snapping on handcuffs. Ted struggled briefly, his boots scuffing the dirt, but he was no match for the trained men.

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The blast site was a slaughterhouse: blood on the walls, metal quills in the plaster, the air thick with the smell of explosives. Murray’s remains were barely recognizable, pieces collected in bags for analysis. The Unabomber’s early bombs left room for doubt—maim or kill? Sacramento settled it. Ted, the Unabomber, was out for blood,

targeting anyone pushing the boundaries of tech and biology. The feds combed the scene, bagging fragments of the box, tracing the filament tape, analyzing the typewriter font. The device was crude but deadly: aluminum pipe, nails, chemical triggers. No fingerprints, no fibers—just precision and hate. The CFA’s budget, its lobbying for logging, its fight against the Endangered Species Act—all made it a target.

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Smoke billowed through the house as Susan ran outside, shouting for help. Their elder daughter, alerted by her mother’s cries, also sought assistance. The blast came from a pipe bomb crafted by the Unabomber.Essex County Sheriff Armando Fontoura summoned the ATF, who sifted through the kitchen debris and identified parts consistent with the Unabomber’s previous devices. As always, the bomber used everyday items like nails, crafting handmade switches and polished wooden components. The 9½-by-7¼-by-2¼-inch white cardboard box was reinforced internally with additional cardboard and housed a handmade wooden container. Inside lay an aluminum pipe, no longer than 9½ inches, sealed with metal end plugs secured by two locking pins. The pipe contained an explosive blend of sodium chlorate and aluminum, triggered by four nine-volt batteries, a custom initiator, and a wooden-metal anti-open switch—the Unabomber’s hallmark. To heighten the device’s lethality, he included one-inch green paneling nails and double-edged razor blades.

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Ted grappled with his own contradictions: “As you know, I have no respect for law or morality. Why have I never committed any crime? (of course, I’m not talking about something like shooting a grouse out of season now and then. I mean felony type stuff—burglary, arson, murder, etc.) Lack of motive? Hardly. As you know, I have a good deal of anger in me and there are lots of people I’d like to hurt. Risk? In some cases, yes. But there are other cases in which I can figure out ways of doing naughty things so that the risk would be insignificant. I am forced to the humiliating confession that the reason I’ve never committed any crime is that I have been successfully brainwashed by society. On an intellectual level I have only contempt for authority, but on an animal level I have all too much respect for it. My training has been quite successful in this regard and the strength of my conditioned inhibitions is such that I don’t believe I could ever commit a serious crime. Knowing my attitude toward psychological manipulation of the individual by society, you can imagine how humiliating it is for me to admit to myself that I have been successfully manipulated.”

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The Unabomber’s evolution was chilling. His early bombs, crude concoctions of smokeless powder and match heads, were child’s play compared to this. The device that maimed Hauser was a three-quarter-inch-diameter pipe, sealed with metal bar stock plugs and secured with pins. Nail fragments, lead, and double-pointed tacks served as shrapnel, designed to maximize suffering. Six D-cell batteries, their casings stripped, powered a metal and wooden initiator inside the pipe, triggered by an improvised loop switch. The plastic file box was reinforced with a wooden frame, a testament to the bomber’s growing obsession with perfection.

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The homemade green cylindrical box perched atop a can on the floor was studded with dials and gauges, or so the instructor said later. Angelakos saw wires—loop switches attached to the sides running up each upright shaft of a wooden handle. This in turn was attached to the wooden box that rested on top of the gallon can. Angelakos reached out for it tentatively, and this slight movement was enough to stretch the wires. The bomber had incorporated into his device an ancillary component built to look like a piece of test or measurement equipment. In reality it was a piece of faux technology serving no function except that of exciting curiosity. The tension he unwittingly applied when he touched the device detonated an eight-and-a-half-inch-long, half-inch-wide galvanized pipe sealed on either end with threaded caps. 

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ATF experts analyzed the scattered remains: a nine-inch-long, one-inch-wide pipe encased in a wooden box, secured with nails, rubber bands, screws, epoxy, three-quarter-inch black plastic tape, and half-inch filament tape. The explosive was two types of smokeless powder packed in the pipe. The makeshift trigger resembled a child’s plaything: a nail tensed by several rubber bands. Opening the handcrafted wooden box released the nail, which struck match heads, igniting the powder. Curiously, one end of the pipe was closed with a wooden stopper. The device was built from scavenged materials—hand-forged nails, reclaimed screws, items others might discard. Thus, the Junkyard Bomber emerged.

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Griffin would put the blame for our environmental problems on excessive individual freedoms. Actually, most of the problems are direct or indirect results of the activities of large organizations; namely corporations and governments. It is these organizations, after all, that control the structure and development of society. Perhaps the most unfortunate thing that has ever happened to individual Liberty was its being used as an excuse for the misdeeds of huge corporations. Now the evils perpetrated by these highly collectivist organizations are blamed on individual liberty

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They are then escorted into the gas chamber, often under heavy security, and secured to a chair with restraints around their wrists, ankles, waist, and chest to prevent movement. A stethoscope or other monitoring device is typically attached to their chest, extending outside the chamber so a physician can listen for the cessation of heartbeat or breathing, which signals death. Once the convict is secured, the chamber is sealed shut, creating an airtight environment. The execution team, located in a separate control room, activates the mechanism to initiate the gas. In the classic cyanide gas method, a container of sulfuric acid is placed beneath the chair, and a lever is pulled or a switch flipped to drop cyanide pellets or crystals into the acid. This chemical reaction produces hydrogen cyanide gas, a colorless, odorless, and highly toxic substance that interferes with the body’s ability to use oxygen, binding to hemoglobin and preventing it from carrying oxygen to tissues and organs.

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Tsutomu Miyazaki liked to taunt the parents of his victims with chillingly silent phone calls or postcards containing gloating messages. He left a box on the doorstep of the parents of his first victim, four-year-old Mari Konno. Inside were fragments of charred bone, ten baby teeth and photographs of the clothes their daughter had been wearing the day she disappeared. Typed on a single piece of paper were the chilling words ‘Mari. Bones. Cremated. Investigate. Prove’. He was taunting those searching for him and shattering the lives of those left behind to mourn

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Mullin didn’t fit the killer mold. This clean-cut ex-flower-child looked more like he’d stumble over a peace rally than a murder scene. Cops might’ve sneered at hippies, but they didn’t peg them—or guys like Mullin—for bloody rampages. At first, his calm vibe seemed like he’d play ball. They figured prying answers out of him about that day’s madness would be a breeze. That illusion shattered fast. Mullin bolted up from his chair, barking “Silence!” like some deranged king. It actually worked—the detective froze long enough for Mullin to tilt his head and listen to whatever ghost was whispering in his ear. Inside, Mullin was a mess, a tangle of broken wires and crossed signals. He’d shown a itch to spill his guts before, like when he’d bent Father Henri Tomei’s ear, but it was a messy urge, full of knots. On some faint, flickering level of sense—if you could call it that—he knew he’d been caught with blood on his hands. Jail loomed, and he got that much.

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The blade sliced her open, her flesh separating with a cold precision, skin and fat sliding apart as if they’d been primed to rupture all along. Blood saturated everything—her dress, the grass, his hands, the knife—a predictable mess, though far worse was still to come. He set the knife aside and forced his fingers into the incision, pushing past the spasming muscle that gripped his wrist with the tautness of a worn elastic sheet. Inside, he grasped something solid yet rubbery, with a slight yield to it. He tugged hard, extracting the organ from the abdominal breach he’d carved, its odd, irregular shape further distorted by his clamping hold. It remained connected at both ends to the obscured tangle of organs still housed within her, serving as an initial point for further exploration. Two crude cuts with the knife detached it completely, and it began leaking at once—not blood, but a bitter, foul-smelling substance

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The police approached the Mullin family home, their knocks echoing like the tolling of a death knell through the silent house, surrounded by uncollected mail, a silent testament to absence. Imagining the worst, they prepared to breach this fortress of solitude, fearing Herb had taken his own life in some final, desperate act. As they made arrangements for a warrant, a neighbor emerged, a ghoul from normalcy, to explain that no amount of knocking would summon the Mullins, for they had escaped to the tropical paradise of Hawaii, oblivious to the storm brewing back home.

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Herb began experimenting with drugs, initially using marijuana to soothe his anxiety. However, he soon recognized its impact on his intellectual sharpness, which was crucial for his self-image as the "most likely to succeed." He switched to hallucinogens, particularly LSD, becoming so enamored with it that he inked a tattoo across his stomach advocating for its legalization.

While these drugs offered him new perspectives on reality, they also intensified his underlying mental health issues. Marijuana had already influenced his mood and stability, but LSD pushed him into deeper paranoia and persistent hallucinations. During this period, Herb's worldview began to crystallize, shaped by voices in his head that commanded him to act, often against his will, giving him a twisted sense of purpose.

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He had to offer Her blood, much like the ancient cultures did, recognizing Her under various guises of gods and goddesses but understanding that sacrifice was necessary to stave off Her wrath. Her anger, palpable even now, was seething beneath the earth's crust, knocking at the edges of his psyche. She was incensed at humanity's degeneration, furious at their shortcomings.

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When we dive into the dark saga of the Manson Family, the names Sharon Tate, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca often dominate the narrative. Yet, the shadow cast by Charles Manson and his followers extends into numerous other grim chapters, each involving real people with lives, dreams, and stories that were cut short. Let's take a closer look at these lesser-known victims, their lives, and the circumstances surrounding their tragic ends.

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Deciphering Charles Manson's words is always challenging, but this particular note is less obscure than his usual communications. "Gold" was his nickname for Nancy Pitman, one of his favored Family members, whom he had earlier called "Nancy" in the same message. In early 1970, Pitman was a regular visitor to the jailed defendants, acting on Manson's instructions.

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Through a combination of deception and coercion, they elicited a confession from Atkins, who admitted to holding Hinman while Beausoleil inflicted the fatal wounds. This confession proved to be a pivotal moment in the investigation, solidifying the link between the Manson Family and the gruesome murders.

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The streets of Oakland became their battlefield. In 1967, Huey Newton, the party's charismatic leader, spilled blood in a fatal confrontation with a police officer during a routine traffic stop. The following year, Eldridge Cleaver, the fiery Minister of Information, was embroiled in a shootout that left both himself and two cops wounded, and a young Panther dead. The violence spread to the sun-kissed streets of Los Angeles, where gun battles claimed the lives of four Panthers. By 1969, the Panthers had been involved in over a dozen shootouts with the police, some of which were brazen ambushes.

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Hinman was tortured over three days before he was killed. Beausoleil admitted to stabbing Hinman twice in the chest. The Manson family reportedly used Hinman’s blood to scribble the words “Political Piggy” on the wall after the murder, and also included a panther paw to try and pin the slaying on the Black Panthers. Beausoleil was sentenced to death for his role in Hinman’s murder, but the sentence was later commuted to life in prison.

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In this gripping episode we dive into the chilling saga of Charles Manson as we explore the final chapters of his life and the aftermath of his notorious actions. Uncover the unsettling details, complex personalities, and psychological forces that made Manson one of the most infamous figures in American history. Perfect for true crime enthusiasts, this episode will leave you both fascinated and unnerved. Don’t miss the chance to understand the dark allure of one of history’s most infamous criminals.

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Police burst into his bedroom and led him to the bloody bodies of Frokowski and Abigail Folger, lying on the lawn, and Steven Parent, slumped over the wheel of his car.

Police spared Garretson a sight even more horrible inside the house. Sharon Tate, eight-and-a-half months pregnant, had been stabbed repeatedly and was curled in a fetal position as if to protect her unborn son. Nearby, a bloody towel covered the head of hairdresser Jay Sebring, her former boyfriend, who had been stabbed and shot. The two were connected by a rope hung over a rafter and looped around their necks.

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In this 3rd series of Charles Manson we discuss the chilling court defense that portrayed Charles Manson not just as a killer, but as a master manipulator who twisted the minds of his followers. Through psychological coercion, LSD, and hypnotism, Manson turned innocent individuals into willing participants in acts of unspeakable violence. We explore shocking testimonies from former Family members, exposing the depth of control Manson had over his "Family." Discover how Manson’s sinister tactics blurred the lines between right and wrong, and ask yourself: How far can one man push the boundaries of the human mind? Tune in for a fascinating, disturbing look at the dark science of manipulation.

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In February 1951, sixteen-year-old Manson embarked on another escape, this time with two companions. Their stolen car crossed state lines, a federal offense, and a roadblock in Utah abruptly ended their journey. Manson was sent to the National Training School for Boys in Washington, D.C., beginning a long and troubled journey through the federal reformatory system.

His path led him from the National Training School to the Natural Bridge Honor Camp, where he was caught violently anally raping a young boy. Then he was sent to a federal reformatory in Virginia, where he kept raping young boys; and finally to Ohio, where a period of good behavior earned him early release in 1954, despite frequent concerns about his antisocial behavior and deep-seated trauma.

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Come with me to explore Charles Manson, the notorious Manson Family and their leader. It begins with the gruesome murders on August 8, 1969, at Sharon Tate’s home, detailing the backgrounds of the killers and their descent into violence under Manson’s influence. The episode sets the historical context of the late 1960s, highlighting the end of the hippie movement and the societal impact of the crimes. It promises a deep dive into one of history’s most infamous criminal cases, blending true crime storytelling with cultural analysis.

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Step into the shadows of Kansas City with our latest podcast episode, as we uncover the chilling saga of Lorenzo Gilyard, the Kansas City Strangler. For over 16 years, Gilyard’s reign of terror left a trail of fear and unanswered questions. How did this seemingly ordinary man evade capture for so long, and what drove him to commit such heinous acts? Join me as we delve into the investigation that finally brought him to justice, revealing the dark secrets and shocking twists behind one of America’s most notorious serial killers. 

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After a brief encounter, she followed him to a grimy rented room where they had sex. What transpired next is a chilling portrait of violence. When Rifkin was nearing climax, he clasped his hands around the poor woman’s throat and squeezed the life out of her as he ejaculated inside her. To him, it was the ultimate power trip, his fantasy of total domination come to life. When he rolled off her corpse, he started the work of disposing her lifeless body.

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In March 1989, Rifkin made a life-altering decision to kill, targeting a young woman named Susie from Manhattan’s East Village. This episode unravels the events that led to this horrifying crime. Rifkin, fueled by disappointment and rage, brutally attacked Susie with a heavy artillery shell before finally ending her life. Despite her fierce will to survive, Susie's struggle was ultimately in vain. Tune in to hear the harrowing details of this crime and gain insight into the mind of a notorious killer. This is one episode you won't want to miss.

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The stench hit them first in the cluttered garage. A wheelbarrow overflowed with a crimson tide – human blood, thick and viscous. A pair of women’s panties lay discarded on the floor, a grotesque echo amongst the coils of rope and the rolled-up tarps. A chainsaw, its metallic teeth glinting in the harsh light, stood upright against the wall, stained a rusty red with the remnants of its grisly work. Neighbors, questioned later, spoke of strange odors emanating from the garage – they’d assumed it was insecticide, a tool of his landscaping business. A terrible misunderstanding, a horrifying truth hidden in plain sight.

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In this gripping episode of The Serial Killer Podcast we dive into the chilling tale of Gerard John Schaefer, a former police officer turned serial killer. The episode uncovers the gruesome details of Schaefer's crimes, his trial, and his eventual demise. It also explores the shocking revelations from Schaefer's own writings, which some believe to be confessions. This episode is a must-listen for true crime enthusiasts, offering a deep dive into the mind of a killer and the justice system that sought to hold him accountable. Tune in for an unforgettable journey into the heart of darkness.

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The torture the girls were subjected to have been difficult to ascertain. The details probably fit with Schafer’s own writings, detailed in previous episodes in this series. One can only hope that Georgia lost consciousness, due to fear or intoxication, and that Susan, perhaps, had an epileptic episode and that in either case they would not have known what atrocities would befall them. But it is more likely that she was screaming as Georgia was tortured...

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The 27th of September, 1972. A date etched in blood on the Florida calendar. Georgia Jessup, a wisp of a girl with dreams far exceeding her sixteen years, vanished from her home. No struggle, no screams, just a blue suitcase packed with aspirations – her own clothes, a few pilfered treasures from her mother's closet, and a younger sister's forgotten dress, a silent plea for a piece of childhood amidst the coming storm.

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He took pleasure in the kill, not the bounty it provided. Songbirds, their sweet melodies silenced with a single, brutal crack. Land crabs, scuttled across the sand only to meet a leaden demise. These were the trophies John craved, not sustenance, but the chilling dominion over life and death. The boy who once played by the canal now held the power to extinguish the spark of life in living creatures, a darkness blooming beneath the veneer of a good student and budding athlete.

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Fair warning, the content is graphic and disturbing. I quote: “She was expecting dinner but instead was driven down a deserted road. She was asked to get out of the car and submitted to a frisk search. Then the handcuffs were locked around her wrists and the blindfold placed over her eyes. She was then led away into the dark to the place of execution. She was assisted in mounting the laddar and sat down on the top of it. The hangmans noose was placed over her head after a pillow case was dropped over her face in a hood arrangement. She sat there very composed and ladylike while I adjusted the rope. She obviously had no inclination of what was about to happen.

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She worked the gag from her mouth and began to chew on the knot. The rope left little coarse hairs in her mouth which ground into her gums as she chewed, and it tasted like car oil. Her legs were also tightly bound with rope around her knees. She tried desperately to work her legs free but to no avail. The attempt seemed only to cut the blood flow to her feet, making them numb and, consequently, making it difficult to keep a firm footing on the root. Finally she turned around and fell against the branch where the other end of the rope was tied on. The rope was looser from chewing on it, and she could untie it with her hand behind her back. She undid the knot herself, and then got all the ropes off. It didn’t take very long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes. But she still had the handcuffs on. She picked up the ropes that moments before had held her captive and ran, keeping low.

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In the subterfuge of this turbulent environment, a prolific monster operated right under the noses of law enforcement, preying on victims from the city’s most vulnerable population demographic.

On the 2nd of February, 2009, Christine Ross was walking her dog Rucca through the morning shadows of Paradise, her West Mesa subdivision community, when the hound caught a scent. Within a minute, he'd dug up a large bone and proudly presented it. Disturbed, Christine texted a picture of the fossil to her sister, who was a nurse. It looked like a human femur bone, her sister replied. Police investigators arrived on the scene and discovered the remains of multiple human bodies buried across 100 acres of barren land.

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Only two souls managed to escape the deadly clutches of the Briley brothers, this time Linwood and Anthony, to tell their tale: William and Virginia Bucher. Now, both have passed on, their stories echoing in the grave. Unless the shadows of the past decide to part and reveal hitherto unknown survivors or witnesses, the blood-curdling events that transpired on the night of the 12th of March, 1979, stand as the gruesome overture to a seven-month symphony of horror.

The modus operandi of these ruthless killers was as cold as it was random. Linwood, the elder of the two, sauntered up to the quaint, tightly packed home of the Buchers, nestled in the heart of Lafayette Avenue, and rapped his knuckles against the front door in a parody of normalcy. William Bucher, in a later account, revealed his initial assumption that it was the paperboy, come to collect his due, which rendered him unguarded enough to open the door. As the portal swung open, he found himself staring not at the familiar face of the paperboy, but at the strange and unsettling countenance of a complete unknown.

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Imagine if you will, dear listener, an anonymous-looking apartment house on Barton Avenue, Richmond, state of Virginia. It hadn't been opened for three baking-hot days. Opening the door, the seasoned investigators were blasted with a wave of heat and rot. The smell was like a wall, or more apt; a tsunami of death hitting them square in the face as they entered. They had experienced this before, for some of the investigators it was part and parcel of the job. But they had not seen a crime scene like this; with snakes slithering on the floor, stained with old blood from the floor. The investigators got out fast and called for animal-control officers to subdue and remove the snakes. Later, after this was done, it had to be admitted the killers knew something, however minimal, about psychological warfare. Releasing from their confinement Harvey Wilkerson's pet snakes had been nothing short of successfully annoying, and potentially dangerous to anyone entering the crime scene. They were also very well capable of damaging and/or obscuring crucial evidence.

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Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria was a Georgian, like Stalin, who called him ‘my Himmler’. Involved in revolutionary activities from his teens and head of the secret police in Georgia in his twenties, he supervised the ruthless 1930s purges in the region and arrived in Moscow in 1938 as deputy to Nikolai Yezhov, aka ‘the blood-thirsty dwarf’, head of the Soviet secret police. He soon succeeded Yezhov, who was shot on Stalin’s orders, apparently at Beria’s prompting. Beria, who went on to run the Soviet network of slave-labour camps, was notorious for his sadistic enjoyment of torture and his taste for beating, raping and murdering young women and girls. Bald and bespectacled, by the time of Stalin’s death in 1953 he was one of the most hated men in the country.

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Brandishing a menacing knife, he binds the child securely with rope he brought with him. After the child is tied up, he cuts away the boy´s clothes so that he lies completely naked under the sun. Smiling, the serial killer’s mask falls away and he quickly masturbates over the now crying boy. According to Garavito, he made a quote/unquote "pact with the devil" and Satanic rituals were also incorporated, the boy and others were apparent blood sacrifices.

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A darker facet of his childhood, less publicly disclosed but equally crucial in understanding this individual, was the sexual abuse he reportedly endured. The precise details of the abuse that Garavito endured are, understandably, scant and thinly documented. What is recognized, however, is that the sexual violence perpetrated against him was reportedly recurrent, beginning from an eerily young age, involved multiple perpetrators and often occurred within his family's crumbling walls.

Among the alleged abusers were some of Garavito's own relatives, neighbors, and even supposed friends within the community. The abusers exploited the vulnerability of Garavito's circumstances, his family's economic challenges, and their lack of protective measures.

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Buono returned to his office and told Cindy Hudspeth that it was time to close up his shop now but that he could give her some job openings if she would come into the house. She was grateful for his help. Once she sat down in the brown vinyl easy chair, her hours were numbered. Bianchi kept her occupied with small talk while Buono fetched the gag, tape, and cord. When she said that she lived in an apartment at 800 East Garfield Avenue, Bianchi said that that was quite a coincidence. He had lived right across the street last year. Bianchi won the coin toss this time. But before raping her, he agreed to Buono’s suggestion that they tie her arms and legs to the legs of the bed. The spread-eagled sacrifice appealed to both of them. They used her for nearly two hours. At Buono’s urging, Bianchi did the actual strangling. After she was dead and they were dressed, they agreed that her car was a problem. They would have to get rid of it as well as Cindy’s corpse.

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Small bruises showed around her breasts. And then, examining her more closely, Grogan noticed something that made him think at first that he was looking at the body of a drug addict: puncture marks on the inner arms. But there were only two puncture marks, none of the usual scars and needle tracks of the addict. The rectal bleeding and the absence on the body of any obvious signs of a dissipated, druggy existence suggested to Grogan that she might have been tortured before, during, or after the killing, maybe all three. He stepped back and looked about. He noticed no footprints or disturbances of any kind on the ground around her, and the body showed no signs of having been dragged.

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He tried pulling back on her throat with his forearm first, then used a rag Buono handed him. Even though handcuffed, she managed to kick Buono in the head, so he held down her legs, draped over the back of the front seat, with his free hand until Bianchi had finished the job. When she was limp, Bianchi surreptitiously removed a large turquoise ring from her left hand and slipped it into his pocket. He thought it would make a nice present for his girlfriend. Then Buono drove to a spot on Forest Lawn Drive, below the Oakwood Apartments he had once lived in. They dumped Yolanda Washington’s body beside the road, near a rockpile and the entrance to the graveyard, across the way from a Warner Brothers set depicting a peaceful New England village.

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One afternoon Buono and his pals cruised by as school was letting out and noticed a boy standing alone with his books, waiting for a ride. The boy was wearing a maroon satin jacket with the name “Aristocrats” spelled out across its back. Buono ordered the car to stop and told his buddies that he wanted that jacket. He got out of the car while his three buddies waited. Then he walked up to the solitary boy. The boy was much smaller than Buono and the idea of exerting power over a weaker person thrilled Buono. When told to take off his jacket so that Buono could try it on, the boy hesitated, but when Buono, long thumbs in pockets, feet apart, pelvis forward, stepped closer, the boy slipped off the jacket and handed it over. Buono’s friends lounged against the car, watching with glee in their eyes. Buono told the boy the jacket looked good and that he intended to keep it...

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Naked, she tried to beg, pleading with both cousins for her to be let go. Buono was put off by her unshaven legs and derided her as quote/unquote “some kind of a health nut.” He decided to pass up the sex this time, not even bothering to flip a coin, growing sullen and resentful at this affront to his intentions. Watching Bianchi trying to work up some enthusiasm for rape in the spare bedroom, Buono handed him a root-beer bottle. This Bianchi violently inserted into the young woman’s vagina, causing significant pain. Bianchi applied the bottle with such eagerness and animation that he made her bleed, much to Buono’s irritation. Not out of pity for the woman, but because blood would stain his sheets and carpets. To make sure she did not bleed on the carpet when she was strangled, Buono spread a piece of her coat on the floor.

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Quietly and quickly they picked up the girl, Buono carrying her under the arms, Bianchi under the knees. Buono stepped first over the curb, and as Bianchi followed, his foot caught under the ice plant. He stumbled, almost fell, got his foot loose, and they dropped the body parallel to the curb, heaving her slightly, as one would throwing someone into a swimming pool.

Neither the press nor television paid much attention to Buono and Bianchi’s gruesome act, and on radio there was not a word of it. Murder was so common in Los Angeles: there was one committed every three or four hours in the county, not counting the prostitutes routinely overdosed by their pimps. It took something special to titillate the media, an eviscerated actress or a child stuffed down a sewer. But the girl remained unidentified for two days, and so, at the request of Sergeant Salerno, the Times ran this bulletin on the fourth page of the Metro section, and I quote...

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The two men was confident that they enjoyed complete privacy, there were no risk of prying eyes and since the house was located where it was; no outsiders could hear anyone scream. Buono got out and walked over to the laundry-room door at the side of the house, unlocking it. Sparky the dog was waiting on the steps but knew not to enter the house. When the girl asked what kind of place they had brought her to, they replied that the house was in fact a satellite police station. Quite unique. The men guided the girl into the house. She did not resist, she was still under the impression that the men were police officers and that all she had in store was a night in jail and perhaps a fine, worst case scenario a few months behind bars.  As Buono secured the deadbolt, Bianchi guided the girl into the living room and sat her down in the brown vinyl easy chair.

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As with so many serial killer cases certain things are mysterious. It is clear that Bianchi and Buono are serial killer superstars, almost in the same league as Bundy and Dahmer. But their crimes were not particularly nefarious by serial killer standards. Nor did they rack up the greatest body count. But still, there is a certain je ne sais quoi about the case which makes it stand out. Perhaps it is the era and location of the crimes. It is so quintessential American and iconic of the Golden Age of Serial Murder. The bright California sun shining down on beautiful, dead young girls laying naked spread eagle for all the world to see as tired Dirty Harry looking detectives looks on in frustration and despair. But, before I reveal too much of this dark true crime plot, let us stop and take a closer look.

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Towards the end of the summer of 1987, newly released, Thierry Paulin reconnected with his old acquaintances and resumed his night owl life.

Still determined to organize parties, he began to update his address book. He began frequenting the nightclubs and gay bars of the Les Halles district again, appearing here and there, more exuberant than ever. Paulin often frequented “Le Palace”, a famous nightclub, located at rue du Faubourg Montmartre, in Paris. Always charming and polite, Paulin spent lavishly during these evenings: he paid cash and left very large tips. Sometimes he would come every evening for a week, then disappear for a month only to reappear several evenings in a row.

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She had been beaten to death after being gagged and bound with electric wire. The death dated back to Saturday, but was only discovered two days later, thanks to children who came to take a private lesson with the old lady. The apartment was ransacked. The killer or killers had shown incredible savagery: the poor woman had her nose and jaw fractured, and a scarf was half strangling her. The autopsy revealed that she had had all the ribs on her right side broken.

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Rasmine looked down at the infant and first clutched it to herself, but then hesitantly held it out to Dagmar, who immediately accepted it. Dagmar held the child close to her body, rolled the swaddling aside, and the most adorable baby boy revealed himself. The child slept safely and soundly. Dagmar could feel the warm breath against her fingers and let the tip of her finger brush across his cheek, mostly because she felt that Rasmine was watching her intently. Apparently, Rasmine liked what she saw, because she relaxed her body, and Dagmar felt approved.

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Dagmar eagerly agreed and in the middle of the night, they snuck up to the neighboring farm and Dagmar dropped the infant through an open window. She heard a thud as the baby landed on the floor, but no more sounds came. She left and returned to her husband who smiled lovingly at her. Luckily, the baby had not been injured or killed from the fall through the window. The farmer couple discovered the boy the next morning and the woman, who was pregnant and had lots of milk, nursed the child immediately. As the sun rose in the sky the couple called the police. Soon the child was taken to hospital to be checked for any illness or leads as to who the parents were.

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She bent down and grabbed it. It was lighter than she remembered. With slightly shaking hands, she opened it and looked down at the small corpse, which stared back with empty, lifeless eyes. Reflexively she turned her face away. She still didn't like looking dead babies in the eyes, but she quickly got control of herself and fixed her gaze on the baby’s chest instead. So quiet and calm it was, not a sound came from its small, pale lips. Dagmar smiled blissfully as she lifted the infant to her. She held it close to her body as she moved back to the living room. With confident steps she approached the roaring stove again. She knelt down once more and opened the middle shutter. Laboriously and with some difficulty she managed to push the lifeless body through the hole and was finally able to close the door again. Dagmar got up and stood completely still in front of the stove. Almost devoutly, she held out her hands and accepted the warmth that spread from the hot metal to her cold fingers. Her eyes were still fixed on the flames she could see through the shutter, and a small smile curled her lips. That's how easy it was. The stove was a good servant in her fight for survival, in the fight to erase all traces.

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For many months and years, the tide ran with Fred Shipman. These were perfect crimes: apparently motiveless, with victims whose deaths, although a shock to those around them, were not questioned, committed by a murderer who had access to the means of killing and who was, because of his position and because of his own reputation as a particularly caring doctor, above suspicion. But there were in Hyde a few people who began to notice that there was a scourge at the heart of their close-knit community, that a terrible sequence of events was in train. These people are the heroes of this story, because without them it is possible that Dr Fred Shipman could still be at large, still be administering his unique brand of care in the community. It is partly thanks to them, and their watchfulness, that Fred Shipman was imprisoned: they may not, as individuals, have been able to stop his killing spree, but they made vital contributions to the build-up of evidence against him. John Shaw is a giant of a man, big in stature and big of heart. He retired at the age of sixty-four in the summer of 1999, but for more than eleven years he was a taxi driver in Hyde.

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There was another cluster of killings around Christmas 1987, with three deaths in December and another two in the first half of January. In February 1988 the death rate was cranked up to four murders within a week. There was then a gap of seven months without a killing, possibly

because the four in one week had caused one of the other members of the staff at Donneybrook to comment. But he was back in business by the end of the year, again killing two elderly people in the run up to Christmas, just before they were each about to go to their families for the festive season. In 1989 he killed twelve patients. For the first time, he killed a patient in his own examination room.

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Prepare to visit your humble host’s home country of Norway for some truly depraved and horrible violence. Tonight, we take on none other than Scandinavia’s most infamous killer of all time. I am of course talking about none other than Anders Behring Breivik, the Norwegian 22nd of July lone wolf terrorist and mass murderer. And this is The Serial Killer Podcast’s story of who he was, what he did and how. This is going to be a much longer episode than you are used to hearing on The Serial Killer Podcast.

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The death of Mrs Lyons echoes in many ways the death of Shipman’s mother, Vera, twelve years earlier, a death he re-enacted many times over the ensuing years. He now had the blueprint for successful, undetected murder, and he would follow it closely for the next twenty-three years. Although far from the majority of his future murders would be clear cases of euthanasia. Nobody knows whether Shipman was using his eventual drug of choice for murder, diamorphine, or whether he was, at this stage, using the supplies of pethidine he was illegally obtaining to support his own habit. The Shipman Inquiry...

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There were many inconsistencies in Shipman’s behaviour and recording of the death. He said the patient had been in a coma for forty-five to fifty minutes, yet no nursing staff were called. He said that he had attended to Mr Brewster for the last eighteen hours of his illness, yet the patient had still been at home nine hours earlier. He said the patient had deteriorated in the ambulance en route to hospital, yet this had not been noted when Mr Brewster was admitted, by the family, the nursing staff or by Shipman himself in his admission notes. The family had not been called, which they probably would have been had Mr Brewster been in a coma. Shipman specifically recorded the phrase ‘no need to report to coroner’ despite the fact that there was a ruling by the local coroner that all deaths within twenty-four hours of admission to hospital should be reported. All of these inconsistencies, coupled with the fact that Shipman was again present at the death, and the time of death was in the evening, led to the conclusion that this death was a murder.

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At the beginning of the investigation it was assumed that Shipman began his murderous activities in general practice in Todmorden and later in Hyde. A few inquiries were carried out initially by the Shipman Inquiry into his time as a hospital doctor, particularly after the relative of a patient who died in his care at Pontefract came forward. But there appeared to be no obvious evidence of any crime in the hospital, other than his own abuse of drugs in the six months prior to him leaving. It was initially a fair presumption that he was not killing, bearing in mind it is much harder for a doctor in a hospital to be alone with a patient than it is in general practice, and it would also be harder for him to obtain controlled drugs. However...

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The common denominator for Fred and Primrose was that they were both lonely and sexually frustrated, and the secret glances between them on the top deck of the Wetherby bus, interpreted so easily as falling in love, were founded on a recognition of their own need in each other. Within a few months of arriving in Leeds, Fred had acquired the status he craved: he had a girlfriend. They were extremely attracted to each other and very much enjoyed each others company. Neither of them had any sexual experience, so they tentatively started exploring each other. They were intensely happy, high on first love, proud of sexual success, and as confused as many others at the time about just how much of the new freedom to enjoy. Not knowing the rules of how far to go, not daring to buy condoms, they had unprotected sex, and Primrose, to the astonishment of everyone who knew her, became pregnant.

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The Generation Why Podcast released its first episode in 2012 and pioneered the true crime genre in the podcasting world. Now, in a special, 4-part series, The Generation Why podcast unravels the story of Kalief Browder. A young boy who was falsely accused of stealing a backpack and held without bail at Rikers Island for 3 years. He endured consistent abuse by prison staff and inmates, and was held in solitary confinement for more than seven hundred consecutive days. This is a story about a young life unfairly caught in the middle of the (in)justice system.

Listen to this 4-part series on Kalief’s story by following Generation Why wherever you get your podcasts: Wondery.fm/SKP_GenWhyMini

Hey Prime Members, you can listen to Generation Why ad-free on Amazon Music. Download the Amazon Music app today.

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Her death was discovered when, on Wednesday the 24 th of June. She had failed to turn up at Werneth House to help with the lunches. When telephone calls to her home went unanswered the caretaker from the pensioners’ centre in Lord Derby Road, John Green, and one of the volunteers, Ronald Pickford, went to the house and, failing to get a reply to their knock, let themselves in through a door they were surprised to find unlocked. In the living room they discovered Mrs Grundy, fully clothed, curled up on the sofa as if asleep. She looked peaceful, but had a grey complexion. Mr Pickford knew that Shipman was her GP, and knew his number. When the doctor arrived about ten minutes later he told John Green that he had seen Mrs Grundy earlier that morning but ‘only for a talk’. He said she must have been well enough to get dressed, as when he saw her she was in her night clothes. He carried out what the police described as a ‘cursory examination’ of the body and told the two men she had had a quote/unquote ‘a cardiac arrest’.

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Pee Wee pulled her head away from him and turned towards the little girl and started to undress her. This is when Doreen tried valiantly to defend her child. She clawed and screamed and kicked. It was little use as she had no weapons and Pee Wee had a hammer. He hit Doreen over and over and over again over the head with the hammer until the young woman lay dead. The little two year old probably could not comprehend what had happened, but she probably knew the bad man had hurt her mother very badly. As she screamed and cried for her dead mother, Pee Wee then...

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The girl was by now terrified and pleaded with him to let her go. Pee Wee didn’t respond, but after a short drive, stopped the car and got out. He went around the car and dragged the by now screaming girl out and at knifepoint told her to strip, which she did. Then he forced her to perform oral sex on him, before violently raping her both vaginally and anally. Just before climaxing, he pulled out and stabbed his dagger into her rectum and sliced the girl open through her vagina. The shock and pain was unimaginable and blood was bursting out in huge quantities. He kept her lying down and as she was howling in pain and fear, he bit off her left nipple and spat it out. He masturbated over her as she lay whimpering, spasming and bloody beneath him and after he ejaculated; he stomped hard on her pelvic bone so that it broke.

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Not a superstar, but a killer who surpasses the depravity and body count of more famous serial killer superstars such as Ted Bundy and BTK. Tonight’s killer was a born and bred American,

living and operating in the great state of South Carolina. During his life of crime, tonight’s subject tortured and murdered at least 9 human beings, but are suspected of killing as many as

100. I am of course talking about none other than Donald Pee Wee, aka The Meanest Man in America.

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As with most psychopathic serial killers, the urge to kill and mutilate grew inside him as time went by. He kept it at bay by furiously masturbating to the memory of both being raped and taking bloody revenge. But, at a certain point the memories simply did not cut it. He neeed a fresh kill, he needed release. And so it was, that on the morning of Saturday, the 31st of March 31, 1962, William MacDonald purchased another long-bladed, razor-sharp sheath knife from Mick Simmons sports store. He packed it in his bag with his raincoat and a plastic bag. His heart was pounding from excitement, he felt powerful again as he went on the prowl.

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A homicidal maniac was prowling the streets. The killer would attack unsuspecting victims in dark alleys and other places out of view of streetlamps and violently stab them to death. Then he would mutilate the corpse in abhorrent ways. Like so many other serial killers, this one preyed on the weak and defenseless. Homeless and down and out men were being targeted and no one could figure out why. The killer left each victim with a calling card, and a signature. Each body left in his wake had their genitals removed.

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Dear listeners, there are quite a bit of minutia regarding the interrogation of Robert Pickton after his arrest. To be honest with you, it is a bit tedious. Suffice to say that the detectives, mainly detective Don Adam, used all the technniques in the book to get Pickton to talk. It was not easy. The police were impressed with Pickton’s ability to go hours upon hours without food, water or going to the toilet. He just sat relaxed in his chair and never really answered the questions and statements put towards him. This went on for over eleven hours. During this time, Pickton went far in insinuating that he was responsible for several murders, but he never flat out admitted to it. As stated in earlier episodes, Pickton was not stupid.

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The smell was ripe with decomposing food, dirt and mold. They got to the back of the trailer where there wasn’t even a proper bed. Only some sleeping bags and plastic tarp on the floor. Robert Pickton gave Sandra four $20 bills and the pair got naked. Sandra got on all fours and Pickton had sex with her for 5 minutes before ejaculating inside the condom she had made him put on. Afterwards she asked to used the toilet, which he allowed. Once locked inside the toilet, she immediately tried to shoot up more drugs to get rid of the feeling of disgust she felt after having had sex with the foul smelling, dirty and severely ugly man who called himself Willie. This time, however, she was unable to find a suitable vein and couldn’t get high. Annoyed she emerged after about ten minutes and asked to use the telephone. As she was bending over the phone, dialling Stu in order to inform him that she was on the way back with money, she sensed Pickton looming right behind her.

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The women who vanished from the Downtown Eastside in 1995 were not the community’s only victims that year; they were just the ones whose fate was not known. People were finally talking about a serial killer hunting for victims in the Downtown Eastside when, in August 1995, the battered body of thirty-year-old Tracy Olajide was found in a wooded area near the Agassiz Mountains, about fifty kilometres east of Vancouver. Tammy Pipe’s body was found three weeks later, on the 6th of September, about nine kilometres from the site where Olajide’s body had been dumped. The third victim in this group, found by a hunter near Mission, was Victoria Younker, thirty-five. Each was a prostitute from the Downtown Eastside, each was an addict, and all three had been living in the Vernon Rooms hotel at the intersection of Hastings and Vernon.

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This is a serial killer case so twisted it could easily have been ripped straight from the classic horror film Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Our subject is somewhat infamous in the West, especially in Canada, but for some reason has not reached the levels of infamy as the darkest serial killer superstars. This strikes me as rather odd considering that not only did our subject murder far more innocent people than most serial killers, at least 26, but the method of murder and setting for the murders are extremely bizarre and revolting. I am of course talking about none other than Robert William Willie Pickton, the Pigfarm Killer.

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