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This is exactly right. Hello and welcome to my favorite murder, the mini soad, that's Karen, that's Georgia. Oh, I wanted to tell you guys that we're now putting we're now videoing this is the word, the hometown stories on Zoome that we're recording. We put a couple of our free on the website, my favorite murder, Dotcom, and then a bunch of them are on the fan cult. So make sure to check those out.
You can see what we see while we're recording these MINURSO Cragin and I've just rearranged my background. It's now my closet. So it's you might have a seizure. Yeah. If you like. I'll be the I'll be the litmus test. I don't have a seizure. It's going to be epilepsy safe. So take that hit colors and patterns and like a first apple epilepsy merinos.
Yes, absolutely out of it. Yeah.
I have to get I have to join that group. This is a hometown baby Jessica story. Hi, MFM. Every time my mom tells my birth story, it's actually largely the baby Jessica story. My mom went into labor shortly after she heard the news that baby Jessica got stuck in the well. Nearly her entire labor consisted of my mom making a deal with God that she would sustain the pain of childbirth if he would keep baby Jessica alive. Oh, lady, you're going to sustain the pain of childbirth.
Anyway, I hate to tell you, you're having a baby. An hour after baby Jessica was free, I was born. So on top of all the people that actually saved baby Jessica, my mom also likes to give herself a little thanks.
I love it. I remember getting a really bad ear infection when I was probably like six or seven and begging God that if you made it go away, I'd be a really good Catholic and it worked.
So you still have that ear infection then? That's hurts so bad to podcasts.
I wrote in another actually heroic story of my mother a couple years ago. And since I'm talking about her and it's almost Mother's Day, here it is again. See, this is that's the kind of persistence we're looking for. OK, one night in nineteen ninety two, my mom was half asleep and heard a noise from her bed. She could see into the dining room and a man climbing through the window before she could pick up the phone and call for help.
The stranger was on top of her, addressing her by name and telling her if she wasn't quiet, he would kill her three children. Two Oh my God. My mom being five, three and almost a hundred and ten pounds, didn't have a lot of options. So she started talking. She convinced him to murder her in the woods away from the house where her children wouldn't find her. He agreed. In the slow transition off of the bed, the phone fell off the hook.
The loud noise off the hook sound surprised him. And when he looked towards the noise, she pushed in his eyeball with her long nose. Acrylic nails only.
Yes, yes. The eye, his eyeball shava came and took that I.
I like to imagine because it was long an acrylic, it had a tiny painting of a sunset on it. She jammed it into his eye. The now one eyed intruder fled back out the door and into the woods, leaving zip ties, duct tape and a knife.
Soon after, she moved us to Southern California, a.k.a. as far away as she could. I slept through the whole thing and was only told years later when my mom was wine drunk on a school night.
Yeah, way to be my never caught. They never caught the man. But at the time my mom had just broken up with an abusive med school graduate who had almost broken her arm and had threatened multiple times that he would kill her. Maybe he didn't hire anyone to kill my mom, but it sure as hell seems like he did stay sexy. And if you think twice before going into a radiologist. Oh, my God.
Go, moms, go women x.
Oh, Annie. Whoa, shit, girl. That's horrifying.
That's I can't believe they couldn't find someone who's I was fucking punctured. Yeah. OK, that was fucked up. This one's called Pinnacle Lake Murder. Hi Karen in Georgia. I was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, just north of Seattle. My dad was a carpenter and built us a little weekend cabin on a lake in the foothills of Mount Pilchuck. It's best described as Sasquatch country. Well, that's right. It rains a ton. There are massive cedar trees and everything is covered in thick moss.
It's totally gorgeous. In 2006, I just graduated college and was spending a good amount of time that summer at our cabin. We used to stay up late around the campfire on the edge of the lake, telling ghost stories surrounded by the moss covered trees and the black forest. Beyond that same summer, just on the other side of a small mountain, a terrible violent crime occurred. An elementary school librarian and her daughter, who had graduated from the same university I had just a few years before I did, decided to hike up to Pinnacle Lake, a day hike at the base of the mountain.
Our cabin was near when they arrived at the trailhead. There were a few cars in the parking lot, not uncommon for that time of year. They started up the trail and that was the last time anyone saw them alive. Several. Hours later, another hiker found their bodies on the side of the trail. Reports were slim on details, but rumors travel fast in the northwest logging towns of the Cascades. The story we heard came from a hiker who had witnessed the scene around 2:00 p.m. There was loud noises that some hikers thought was thunder.
They were shotgun blasts. A couple of hundred yards up the trail in the bushes. The mother and daughter's bodies were found. Someone had shot both the women in the head at close range. And the scene was so gruesome they had to find their teeth among the carnage and send them to the forensics before they could be positively identified. There were no leads. There was no motive. There was no charges ever filed. The husband's father was cleared. And still to this day, they're searching for the murderer.
Oh, my God, this person is still out there. We tell a lot of spooky stories around the campfire, beside the lake, but this one is too real and way too close to home to be told after dark. Love the podcast, Charlie.
Yeah, that's so intense. Like, that's the one of the rarest kind of murders, right? Just a totally random stranger.
Stranger murder in the middle of the day. More with person is not alone. You have people around. You're there with somebody else.
It's like, yeah, the illusion of safety, the person you want to catch the most because that person is clearly deranged. I mean, who would do such a thing horrible. Yeah. The subject line of this one is my ex-girlfriend witnessed someone disposing of a body. Hello. Oh, let's jump right in. During my freshman year of college, my girlfriend at the time and I were sharing stories about our mutual love of true crime. Obviously, I asked her if she had any hometown murders and boy, did she deliver.
Jorgy grew up in America, but she lived in Dublin, Ireland, from ages five to 12. She and her mom lived in an apartment facing right across from Dublin's Royal Canal. One day it's going to start sounding familiar to you. One day, while taking a walk alongside the canal, she saw two young women throwing a suitcase into the murky water and thought nothing of it because people threw trash into the canal all the time. They went on with their day.
A couple weeks later, however, the sounds of blaring sirens and police activity late at night woke them up quickly running to the window to see what was going on. George and her mom saw the police pull a very damp and heavy suitcase out of the water. The very next day, they found out that inside of the suitcase was part of the body of a brutally murdered man. Two sisters called the Scissor Sisters by the media decided to kill their mother's boyfriend by smashing his head in with a hammer and then stabbing him 27 times.
The sisters then dismembered his body and disposed of it in the Royal Canal over several trips. Once George and her mom heard the news break on the radio, they put together that it was the sisters that they had seen throwing the suitcase into the canal. Since the sisters had already been caught by the authorities, they kept him to themselves and eventually moved back to America. A couple of years later, sexy and don't dispose of a body in broad daylight with love.
Yeah, I remember you doing that story. It was crazy.
Yeah. And it was like there were such a busy area. That whole story is so disturbing because didn't they bury the head in the park somewhere? Yes. And then they kept going and digging it up because they were paranoid. And it's it's really it's people gone over the edge. Just horrifying. Yeah. Yeah. This one's called Brussel Sprouts and it just starts.
Hey, a couple of days ago, I was walking past my next door neighbors door in my apartment and I got mildly annoyed, annoyed because I smelled cooking brussel sprouts. My murder brain briefly thought dead body when I first smelled the bad odor. But I convinced myself that I was being crazy, mostly because my fiance always tells me I listen to too much murder stuff, whatever. He doesn't get it. I get you. Fast forward to today. I walk past my neighbor's door towards the laundry room and what do you know?
More Brussels sprouts, a lot more rotten Brussels sprouts, dead body.
No, don't be crazy. But also welfare check. So I did what any of murder people would do and submitted an emergency maintenance request to do a welfare check on the resident in Apartment 214. I chuckled as I submitted it because I couldn't tell if I was a concerned neighbor or a sociopath. That's for an hour and I head into the hall to go switch my laundry. I'd already forgotten about the Brussels sprouts. My jaw basically dropped as I was met with four police officers, two corners, a gurney and a body bag hanging outside of room 214.
Oh, I must have audibly gasp because they all turn and met me, met eyes with me. I pretended to scurry back into my apartment, but I poked my head out and eavesdropped, obviously, until one cop noticed my whole head hanging out of the door. I apologized and told them I was interested in the process. Quote, At this point, I'm pretty sure just I just love your process.
I just want to at this point, I'm pretty sure they think the chick next door with the Eyeborgs and hot pink cat pajama shorts is an actual murderer. Turns out it wasn't a cruciferous vegetable. My middle aged neighbor had passed away of natural causes and had been decomposing next door for approximately five days.
I can only think of the PTSD, I second Hanbali, second handedly instilled in my maintenance guy, sorry Brad, stay sexy and trust your sniffer, Amy Brussel sprouts also.
I like that. She was like, I'm either a concerned neighbor or a sociopath, but your sociopath is never in it because you're you're afraid for someone, right? If that's something you can judge yourself for being nosy or something like that.
But it's more like still concerned your concerned neighbor or you have an active imagination, which I, I mean, would you still did something which is it's not like you weren't smelling anything and you're like, let's get into this apartment.
There is good reason. Yeah. In 2012, a 72 year old man named Samuel Little was charged with three Los Angeles murders dating back to the 1980s.
So we finally got to where we were going. The crowd at Liverpool were the only one appeal.
But since then, it's become clear he is the most prolific serial killer in the United States has ever seen, 93 victims, 19 states. Samuel Little has become infamous, but his victims, some of whom remain unidentified, are stuck in the shadows. It's time for that to change.
My experience in working with some of the victims families is that he was dead wrong. They were missed. They were very loved and their families were hurting.
The Fall Line presents a special limited series. The victims of Samuel Little will cover both solved and unsolved Southeastern cases and tell you how you can help the victims. Still waiting for justice, featuring rare interrogation tape, FBI interviews and in depth detail. This is a series you won't want to miss. Episodes begin on September 16th from Exactly Right Network. Find us on Stitcher Apple podcast or wherever you listen. Here's my last one, my hometown, a.k.a. swordfish dinner and a death on the dance floor hugging this story is one of my all time favorites recounted to me so many times in my childhood.
So I thought I'd share it with an audience who would appreciate it almost as much as I do. I grew up in an Italian Australian house, and as a child, my parents would often feel obliged to attend a whole lot of community events. And what usually got them there was the food. One such event was the Petchey Pecci. Yeah, well, it's spelt like Joe Pesci and I assume that fish. Is that a fish. Yeah. PSC one such event was the Pecci Spota Night, a.k.a. Swordfish Night, an occasion mainly celebrated by fishing communities praising their bountiful hull.
I wasn't at this particular event, but I've heard about the night so many times I can recounted in my sleep. This celebration started with the traditional carrying of the whole swordfish around the event, all while everyone clapped for a solid 20 minute, Oh my God, I want to be there.
So I want to go so bad. I would clap for a big old swordfish for more than 20 minutes.
When you go to temple and they at one point they carry the Torah around and everyone like kisses it or touches it like that. It's sort sort of fish.
Is the Torah of the Italian community.
OK, well, they waited for their swordfish dinner. They did other Italian things, such as doing the tarantella, a very energetic and celebratory dance full of jumping and shouting. A really big older man sitting at the next table joined in with the dancing and revelry while my parents watched in amazement that a man of that description could exert himself like that without having a heart attack. Unfortunately, my parents spoke too soon. Oh my God.
He collapsed and died on the dance floor. Paramedics made their way through the hall to take the man in, you guessed it, a body bag. After he was gone, my parents told their friends that they understandably had lost their appetite and were leaving to their friend's shock before the purse.
I got back the next day. The other couple told my parents that after they also left, but before dessert. Dearest Petto, out of respect, of course. Anyway, that's my hometown story. Thank you for the community of weirdos you've created and you're open dialogue around mental health. Stay sexy and don't stay for the swordfish.
Emily, they didn't stay with the dessert, though. I honestly like if, if, if and when I go dancing in an Italian sort of fish dinner party is the way to go.
Your final moments are clapping for a swordfish and then dancing the tarantella. Goodbye, state me. Let us go this way and I want you all to stay for dessert because that's what I would do. No, I wouldn't.
Yes, maybe I would probably stay for dessert and use my death as an excuse to drink a ton. Oh, so sad. Oh, I'm so, you know, traumatized.
Whatever. Aaron would have wanted it this way. Karimova I got Japanese.
OK, this is my last one. My mom kept a bank robbers jacket. Lighthearted dear Karen and Georgia Steven and furry companions. My sister Wendy and I have been saying for almost a year now that we need to sit down and write this out for you. And finally, I did. So here goes when my mom was a young teenager, she says she was probably about fifteen, making this around nineteen seventy two in San Pedro, California. Her dad, my grandfather, pop by to me when a brand new Ford Mustang convertible in a contest at the local shopping center.
Hell, yeah. Yeah. Having two daughters still in school, a sports car didn't exactly make sense for their family, so he accepted the prize in the form of a station wagon instead. But the dad thing to do, I love it. One day, sometime after papa went out to where he had parked to where he had parked at a store in Torrance, California, only to find that the car was missing, it turns out it had been stolen.
He reported stolen and the police told him he'd probably never to see it again. But after a few days, the police actually found it because the car thieves were caught after robbing a bank. There was a shootout exclamation mark when the police called papa to come get his stuff out of the car and file a lawsuit, his insurance. He found there were actual bullet holes in the car. Oh, my God. The police and papa went through the car and among his things found a jacket, which they returned to my teenage mom.
But it wasn't my mom's jacket. It wasn't her sister's jacket either. They quickly deduced that this jacket had been left behind by one of the bank robbers. The police didn't want it as evidence or anything. So my mom being the OG murderer, you know, that she was kept the jacket or to school and everywhere, showing it off to all her friends for the next few years. How do you think it was 1972? So probably a brown corduroy corduroy blazer.
She called it her bankrobber jacket, even though it was made for a larger person, a man's jacket, and used. She thought it was very cool, which it is, and to this day is still very psyched about having gotten to keep it and wear a piece of an actual crime. We don't know what happened to the jacket, but it was likely lost in the fairly tragic to our mom and aunt incident where my.
Grandma told someone to clear the junk out of their garage and hundreds of precious memories were either taken or hauled to the dump.
Hmm. Still, the story makes for a fun little anecdote. SSD, GM Nicollet plus Wendy and mom, Michelle.
Wow, that's so good. I want a picture of her mom in 1972 in high school wearing that fucking men's oversized jacket.
You know what it made me think of? Two is in the 80s, we would get Blazer's at the thrift store and roll up the sleeves and be like a men's dark polyester blazer. Yes, but you'd wear it as your own jacket, but it would come down to, like, right above your knee and you'd have a little, like, baby doll dress on.
So it was like, I'm a little baby, but I'm a badass.
But I stole someone's jagged. Love it. I love it.
Send us your stories at my favorite murder at GML or on our website. Keep sending these. Keep washing your hands.
Keep staying home, keep staying sexy and keep don't getting murdered by Elvis. You want a cookie?