The Serial Killer Podcast

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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