Tuesday, November 13, 2018
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Myra Hindley And Her Husband Shared a Similar Hobby

Myra Hindley

Myra Hindley is an English murderer who, with her Nazi-obsessed boyfriend Ian Brady, murdered five children in the 1960s. They were known as the Moor Murderers, because that is where they buried their victim’s remains.

Myra and Ian met in 1961 while working at Millward’s Merchandising in Gorton. Myra was quickly infatuated with him despite his love of Nazi books, and soon, the two would begin killing together.

On July 12, 1963 a 16-year-old girl named Pauline Reade disappeared en route to a dance in Manchester. On that day, Ian and Myra were on the hunt for a victim. Ian first suggested a young girl walking alone, but Myra recognized her as her mother’s neighbor and declined. Then, Ian spotted Reade. Myra knew Reade, too, as a friend of her little sister’s. Still, Myra pulled up alongside Reade in a van and asked if she’d help her look for a glove she’d lost on the Saddleworth Moor. Reade agreed, and Myra drove them both to the moor. Ian arrived on a motorcycle and, after being introduced as Myra’s boyfriend, offered to aid in the fictitious glove search. Myra would claim that Ian took Reade off on his own, sexually assaulted her and slit her throat with a knife. Only then, Myra claimed, did Ian take her to see Reade’s body. Ian, however, would claim that Myra helped him do all of those things. They buried Reade in the moor.

In November of 1963, Myra encountered 12-year-old John Kilbride at a market in Lancashire. She offered him a ride and a bottle of sherry, and the two departed. Once again, she and Ian asked Kilbride to help them look for a glove on the moor. Ian sexually assaulted and murdered Kilbride while Myra waited in the car. They then did the same thing with 12-year-old Keith Bennett in June of 1964, who Myra tricked into coming with her to help her load some boxes into a vehicle. In December of 1964, they tricked 10-year-old Lesley Ann Downey into coming home with them from a carnival. She was assaulted and murdered, then buried in the moor. Each partner would accuse the other of being the one who killed her. Their final victim was 17-year-old Edward Evans, who Ian befriended and invited over. Once at his home, Ian fatally beat with him an axe. This time, Ian had invited David Smith over to give him a hand. Smith was only 17, and was dating Myra’s little sister, Maureen. Smith had a criminal record and admired Ian, which perhaps gave Ian the impression he’d make a fine accomplice. However, after Smith witnessed Ian beating the teen to death, he confided in Maureen and the two went to the police.

In the home, police not only found Evans’ body, but also photos of a nude young girl, photos of the moor, and a tape recording of a screaming child. A child neighbor, who for some reason never became a victim of the couple, told authorities that she had gone with Myra and Ian to the moor many times. A search of the moor turned up the bodies of Kilbride and Downey.

The pair were convicted of the murders—Ian with three and Myra with two—and sentenced to prison. They would later confess to murdering Reade and Bennett as well, and though each would return to the moor to help police recover additional bodies, the body of Keith Bennett has never been found.

Myra died behind bars in 2002 at age 60. Ian remains in prison.

Sada Abe – Imperial Japan Desperately Needs to Know Why She Severed Her Lover’s Penis

What is a legend? When the culture’s telling of a story becomes more important than the story itself. Whether or not George Washington cut down a cherry tree or if Jesus is truly the son of God is irrelevant if a nation and a world religion rest on those beliefs. Likewise,a woman’s act of sexual violence in 1930s Japan so fascinated the public that she remains an object of curiosity today.

When police asked the reasonable question, “why did you cut off her lover’s cock,” Sada Abe said, “because I couldn’t take his head or body with me.” The explanation frustrated 1930s Japan with its morbid incompleteness. Though supplied with an answer, the question — “why did you cut off your lover’s cock” — remained.
The first details emerged during the man- and manhood hunt following the murder of Kichizo Ishida, a middle aged restaurant owner and Abe’s employer. Ishida was widely known as a lecherous man, and although he was married and she was romantically involved with a local businessman, he had taken an interest in her. Abe was connected to the crime when his dismembered corpse was found at the love motel they had been staying at for the previous week.

New details emerged when Abe’s former lover, Goro Omiya, relayed to police that she had come to him after the murder in order to apologize and beg for his forgiveness. He assumed correctly that she was returning from a brief and shameful affair with Ishida, but did not learn of the gruesome horror of the crime until informed by the authorities.

With these clues, one could reasonably arrive at the simple reason she swiped his sausage: she wanted a souvenir of their happy time together. In the anthropological sense, she fetishized his penis. His penis was a fetish object, an outsized symbol which became more engorged with her fetishization than it ever was with blood. One wouldn’t have to look far for an analogy, as the gruesome manifestation of her desire for his dong of course paralleled the public’s prurient interest in her promiscuity.

The “Love Hotel” – A contemporary photograph of the site where Sada severed her lover’s penis

But alas, pre-war Japan was utterly ill equipped to contextualize her act of gender war. Women, so the belief was then (and remains in America today), did not enjoy sex. If women did at all, it was understood chiefly as an act of womanly devotion. As it happens, sex in a culture bound by this assumption is universally dull. The sex itself becomes a fetish of the devotion it is meant to represent.

The press assembled details of Abe’s upbringing to satisfy the public’s demand for understanding. Her life, although beset with regular tragedies, offered little satisfaction. As much is usually the case when one looks for answers in the wrong places, after all. A sketch emerged of a prostitute repeatedly victimized by employers and family. Yet all the while nothing could allow imagination to approach the breadth of a cicada’s wing closer to illumination.

Investigators tracked her to a hotel not far from the town where she had worked for Ishida. They descended upon her room in the middle of the night, where she did not resist. Apparently, she was entirely calm through the arrest. It was then they asked her the fateful question. She answer as such: “Because I couldn’t take his head or body with me. I wanted to take the part of him that brought back to me the most vivid memories.”

That much was true. But as with the rest of the story, the details of her taking her lover’s life offer nothing.

As the police already knew, the restaurant owner had found something attractive in her, and made this known to her. If nothing else, he represented an alternative to the sexless conservative society she knew. They absconded to the hotel, where they would be constant lovers, interrupting their affair only to sleep.

In a moment of passion, she grabbed his neck, and he found that the brush with oblivion was a wonderful and splendid effect. When he tried the same on her, she agreed. Erotic asphyxiation became a fixture of their lovemaking.

On the fourth night, in an act that I hope I have made clear is both perfectly natural and completely inexplicable, she left one night to pawn some clothes to buy a kitchen knife. The precedent of eroticized (perhaps even fetishized?) violence having been set, she came to tell her lover in the throes of passion of her plan of severing his genitals so that no other woman could have him. Like the man said, “just pillow talk, baby.”

The Woman Japan Cannot Forget – A 2004 Japanese erotic film based on Sada Abe’s story

It was the choking that killed him. A simple accident, their game taking a moment too far. As she later explained, she took a part of him — that part she loved most — to have something to remember him by. So, given the simple anatomical fact that his head was too large a thing to take with her, she took something she could fit in her pocket.

She carried the severed flesh with her for a week before she was found. In this time, she attempted to penetrate herself with the penis, consumed so she was by the rotting flesh as a symbol of her happy time.

Her arrest brought her no joy or fear. She asked for death, but was spared not from life as a spectacle. She was sentenced to prison for ten years for the murder by a judge who admitted he was titillated perhaps beyond competence by the courtroom drama. Cruelly, they released Sada on good behavior in six.

Karla Homolka Canadian and Deadly

Karla Homolka

Canadian murderer Karla Homolka was not executed for her crimes, nor is she behind bars for them. She was released in 2005, and as of this April, was living with her children under an assumed name in Montreal. But Karla is as bad as they come. She assisted her husband in the brutal rape and murder of three teenage girls in the early 90s, including that of her own little sister.

Paul Bernardo just couldn’t find the right girl. He liked to beat women and was obsessed with the Bret Easton Ellis novel American Psycho, and as it turns out, not a lot of women are into that. But 23-year-old Paul’s luck changed when in 1987, he met 17-year-old Karla Homolka, who was, in fact, into that. Paul led a double life. To the police who would question him numerous times, he was a nice guy who couldn’t possibly be the notorious Scarborough Rapist. In reality, he was the Scarborough rapist, terrorizing the city of Scarborough and surrounding areas with a series of vicious attacks on well over a dozen young women and teens beginning in at least 1987, the same year he met Karla, but possibly earlier.

The wife of one of Paul’s friends told police that she believed Paul was the Scarborough rapist in 1990, but they chose to discount her and believe Paul. He submitted DNA samples for testing, but police did not test them. For one of Paul’s rapes, they arrested an innocent man, who sat in prison until Paul confessed to that crime several years later. You could say the cops really screwed this one up.

Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka
Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka

In 1990, shortly before Karla and Paul married, Paul was obsessed with Karla’s 15-year-old sister, Tammy. A normal woman would dump a man who expressed a desire for her teen sister, but not Karla. Instead, she stole Halothane, an anesthetic taken by inhaling it, from the pet clinic where she worked and used it to drug her sister. She and Paul videotaped themselves raping Tammy, but contrary to their plans, Tammy began to vomit and could not be revived. The pair redressed Tammy and put her in her own bed, then called the police. Her death was ruled an accident. It was determined that she’d simply choked on her own vomit after getting drunk, despite the fact that the Halothane-soaked cloth Karla pressed to her sister’s face left a suspicious chemical burn. Karla’s family was none the wiser.

In 1991, the pair did it again, this time to a teenage girl Karla had met while working at a pet shop. They drugged her, videotaped themselves raping her, and released her in the morning. The girl assumed she had just gotten too drunk, and even returned to Karla’s house for another hang, where the pair did it again. During the second incident, Karla placed a call to 911, then cancelled the ambulance shortly thereafter. Once again, no questions were asked.

In 1991, Paul came upon 14-year-old Leslie Mahaffy, who had been locked out of her home after missing her curfew. Paul kidnapped and blindfolded the girl, then took her to his home. He and Karla videotaped themselves torturing and raping her, but when her blindfold began to slip, the possibility she might be able to identify her captors emerged. Karla claims Paul strangled the girl, while Paul claims Karla killed her by injecting an air bubble into her bloodstream. They cut up her body, encasing each part in cement, and dumped her in a nearby lake. One of the cement blocks was found days later, and Mahaffy was identified by her dental records.

In April of 1992, Paul and Karla kidnapped 15-year-old Kristen French as she walked home from school on Good Friday by pretending they needed directions. They videotaped themselves torturing and raping her for three days, before killing her, then attending the Holmolka family Easter dinner as though nothing was amiss.

Though French’s parents called for a search for their daughter almost immediately after she was taken, police, once again, were idiots. See, Paul had stalked two sisters a month prior. One of the sisters saw Paul again as he was picking up some food. She followed him and provided police with a better description of his car, though could not provide his license plate. Police did not follow up, though if they had, they perhaps they would have found French alive. At that time, she was still captive in Karla and Paul’s home. Instead, French’s body was discovered in a ditch days later.

Tammy Homolka, Leslie Mahaffy, Kristen French.
Tammy Homolka, Leslie Mahaffy, Kristen French.

In May of 1992, Paul was questioned again and police once again decided he probably wasn’t their man. In December of 1992, they decided to actually test those samples they had acquired from him two years earlier. That same month, Paul beat Karla badly enough that her coworkers called her parents, who took her to a hospital. Karla tattled on Paul, saying he beat her. Finally, police matched Paul’s DNA to the Scarborough Rapist and it all began to unravel. Paul was sentenced to life in prison, and Karla, taking a plea deal and testifying against her husband, got a mere 12 years.

Like we said, Karla is out now and living under a false name. She has since married the brother of one of her lawyer’s, and has three children. It is possible she is using the alias Leanne Teale, a surname she and Paul chose in honor of Martin Thiel, a fictitious serial killer portrayed by Kevin Bacon in the 1988 film Criminal Law.

In the Campbell Report (1996), written by Justice Archie G. Campbell, the investigation is criticized as a “systemic failure,” and points out numerous times Paul and Karla could have been stopped had police not been such epic fuck-ups. Here’s hoping you never run into Karla Homolka, Canada’s most infamous female killer.

Rosemary West Killed Her Own and Others

Rosemary West

A 62-year-old Rosemary West sits in her jail cell in England, tabloids reporting that she has feared her fellow inmates ever since a documentary aired on a jailhouse telly described the heinous crimes she committed with her husband in the 1970s. Rosemary West murdered at least 10 women and girls, including her own daughter, and buried their bodies beneath her so-called ‘house of horrors.’

Rosemary West was 15 years old when she met 27-year old Fred West at a bus stop in Gloucester in 1969. Rosemary, who had been abused by her father, quickly began a relationship with the much older man, and by 1970, gave birth to their first daughter, Heather. (It is speculated that Heather’s father may have been Rosemary’s own father.) Fred had two children from a previous marriage to a woman named Catherine Costello: his daughter Anne Marie, and his stepdaughter Charmaine. When Fred went off to jail for theft, a then 17-year-old Rosemary found herself overwhelmed with caring for three young daughters and murdered the eldest, 8-year-old Charmaine. She told anyone who inquired that Costello, Charmaine’s mother, had collected her and taken her to Scotland.

After Fred got out of jail, Costello did come to see about her children. Unable to tell her the same lie they’d told everyone else, they murdered her. Fred and Rosemary married in 1972, and the pair moved to 25 Cromwell Street. Rosemary earned money via sex work, which she did at the West home while Fred watched. One of her repeat clients, with Fred’s blessing, was her own abusive father.

The couple met a teenage girl named Caroline Owens as she was hitchhiking in the fall of 1972. They asked her if she would nanny for then. She agreed, but found the Wests rather strange and left. Not long after, the couple encountered Owens again and persuaded her to come with them. This time, they kidnapped her and took her back to their home, where they raped and tortured her. Owens escaped and reported the incident to the police, but the Wests were only slapped with a fine, leaving them free to escalate their deranged behavior.

Fred and Rosemary West (Image: Channel 5)
Fred and Rosemary West (Image: Channel 5)

From 1973 through 1979, the pair killed Lynda Gough, 19; Lucy Partington, 21; Juanita Mott, 18; Therese Siegenthaler, 21; Alison Chambers, 17; Shirley Robinson, 18; Carol Ann Cooper, 15; and Shirley Hubbard, 15. Each of them were buried on the property at 25 Cromwell, where no one would find them for several years. Some were lodgers of the Wests, some were orphans living in Gloucester children’s homes. Some simply vanished while going about their daily lives, never to be seen again.

Though Rosemary had suffered a childhood of abuse, she did nothing to stop her husband from abusing her own children. The Wests would go on to have a total of seven children, and for any baby girl born to these monsters, misery was soon to follow.  Fred sexually abused Anne Marie until she left home at age 15, then began abusing Heather. When Heather reported the abuse to a friend, the couple murdered her and buried her beneath their patio. After threatening their other children that the same fate would befall them should they ever reveal the truth about their parents, they purported that the 16-year-old had run away.

Fred then began to abuse yet another daughter. This daughter told a friend, and that friend told her mother, and this led to Fred being charged with rape. The children were removed from the home, which caused police to wonder what had happened to the couple’s other daughter, Heather. This led to them excavating the property, discovering not only the remains of Heather West, but all the other women as well.

Fred and Rosemary were charged with the 10 known murders, and Fred was charged with with two more that had occurred before he met Rosemary. Rather than face trial, Fred asphyxiated himself with a bedsheet in jail. Rosemary was sentenced to life, despite claiming that she somehow had no knowledge of the murders that had occurred in her own basement.

The Cromwell house was demolished in 1996 and replaced with a public pathway.

Genene Jones, Liked to Tap the Babies

15-month-old Chelsea McClellan, one of Jones' victims.

Work sucks, I know. You think I’m getting rich writing these blog posts? I work 40 hours paid, plus whatever free overtime they can squeeze out of me, in a office in Los Angeles. There’s not much money here, either, but at least in these banks of cubicles you can keep a couple tabs of Chrome open to abate the tedium of white collar poverty.

Genene Jones, a licensed vocational nurse in the late 70s and early 80s, I figure hated her job, too. She must have, considering what she did to pass the time: inject babies with chemicals and then see what happens.

See, Jones liked “life and death situations,” and the thrill of having a child’s life in her hands was about the only excitement she had in her career. Her first patient at Bexar County Hospital in San Antonio, Texas, an infant who died suddenly of a bacterial infection, apparently had some wild effect on her. She was intoxicated by the rush of trying to save somebody’s life against desperate odds.

Before you go trying to pigeonhole her as some kind of maniac, keep in mind that they’re still churning out new episodes of General Hospital even though it started in 1963. If you think modern life lacks excitement, imagine being a woman in the year 1980 in San Antonio, Texas. At least now we have murder blogs to keep the closet psychopaths who represent my readership from cutting their toes off for kicks. Medical drama is all Jones had.

At first, Jones just asked to be assigned the sickest patients. But, being part of that generation that accepted that life is what you make it, she didn’t wait for fickle fate to give her a child on the brink of death. She made her own fate. By injecting babies with whatever toxic chemicals she had access to.

Bexar County was trying to figure out what to do about the huge number of newborns that were dying before they made it out of the hospital. They didn’t much care why, but saw it principally as a legal issue. And that’s just like middle management, isn’t it? A few dozen dead babies, and the suits first thought is, “what if we get sued?”

Their plan was to fire every last LVN and replace them with registered nurses. Again, it’s something you can see in every shift supervisor and foreman since the construction of the pyramids at Giza: when there’s a problem, pass the blame to those at the bottom. Shockingly, there is evidence that Bexar County had sufficient evidence to tie the deaths to Jones, but insisted on simply firing all LVNs to avoid the possibility of being held liable.

It worked in the sense that they got Jones out of the hospital, along with countless other nurses who had the misfortune of working alongside her. But Jones promptly got another position at pediatric clinic in Kerrville, not far from San Antonio, where she continued her deadly pursuit of high-pressure medical drama.

Because the Kerrville clinic had no pediatric ICU, and because it was a smaller facility, Jones had to be more careful to avoid detection. Nonetheless, her new employer’s noticed a vial of succinylcholine, a drug used to induce paralysis, had been opened and diluted to hide the fact some of the drug had been stolen. This was used to deduce that Chelsea McClellan, a 15-month-old that died inexplicably under Jones’ care, was in fact victim to her need for excitement.

You are a absolute NOTHING in the baby killing world until you get an NBC made-for-TV movie. That’s how you know you matter at all. Until you get that, you are scum, you are shit, and you might as well have saved those babies, we care so little about you

Jones was convicted in 1985 of the murder of McClellan and an infant by the name of Rolando Jones, who she had being given charge of at Bexar County. Because she was already to be given the maximum possible sentence, the state of Texas did not pursue the matter further. All told, as many as several dozen infants and children died to from her thrill seeking behavior, although she probably risked the lives of many more than that.

Pictured: Victim, not the perpetrator

If she was bored at work, she’s probably more bored in prison, where the only way to pass the time is to count the minutes until you’re outside again. Good news for Jones, she’s scheduled for mandatory release in 2018. So, on behalf of CaseyAnthony.com, allow us to say, welcome back, Genene, and try to have some fun once in a while

Magdalena Solís, Blood Sex Magic

You can kill all the locals in the name of Christ you like, the fact remains the only religions that stick are the ones based on the geography. From the destructive Ganges sprung the eternal Hindu pantheon, from the fickle Nile did the Egyptians imagine their cruel and wild gods. In Japan, first Buddhism and now Christianity swept through, calling themselves the official religion, but thousand-year-old Shinto shrines are still standing, honoring whatever river or mountain they’ve decided is sacred. In California, we can’t conceive a Christ that isn’t basically a proto-surfer dude, himself an archetype echoing the chilled-out Tongva that were slaughtered by meaner Spaniards. A genocide cannot crush a land’s religion when the culture is sewn into the dirt.

Mexico is no different. Despite those same Spaniards slaughtering the fascist Aztec warlords of Central America, the gospel is preached by the land itself. The Mexican flag testifies that a religion of the earth cannot be silenced by mere genocide. It bears an eagle atop a cactus with a snake in its mouth, which is built into the founding myth of what today is Mexico City.

Magdalena Solís, a Mexican prostitute, knew something of her homeland’s religion, when she was enlisted to play the part of Coatlicue, an Aztec goddess who wore a skirt made of snakes and gave birth to the moon and stars. The performance was produced in by two idiotic brothers Santos and Cayetano Hernandez, and for an audience was the dirt-poor village of Yerba Buena, who from late 1962 to early 1963 had the small community convinced they were agents of pagan gods who would lift them out of their misery.

Magdelana Solís. How could anyone doubt this was the face of an Aztec god?

The credulousness of Yerba Buena’s illiterate townsfolk is staggering. When the Hernandez brothers arrived, they were taken seriously despite first making the mistake of promising the favor of Inca gods, a claim weakened by the fact that the Incas civilization existed thousands of miles away in Peru. Yet they were believed, and for months built a cult without anyone challenging their divinity.

The Hernandez brothers met Eleazar Solís, Magdalena’s brother and pimp, who suggested using his sister in their scheme because of her natural talent for theatricality. It turned out to be a profitable relationship, with Magdalena suggesting a grand entrance for her new worshipers. She had the brothers bring the cultists to a cave near Yerba Buena, where she emerged from a cloud of smoke, representing her interdimensional debut.

The peasants accepted unquestioningly the manifestation of Coatlicue just as easily as they accepted the switching from Inca to Aztec gods. But where the brothers exploited their followers for money and the simple pleasure of being worshiped, Solís enlisted them in sexual slavery. This is what makes her nearly unique in the history of madwomen. Her crimes were one of the few perpetrated by a woman in the interest of sexual gratification.

Yerba Buena, the town from which Solís helped recruit members for their cult

Solís held orgies of immense proportions with her worshipers, demanding they show piety by submitting to her sexual will. Cultists fucked for her amusement, all the while being ordered to pleasure her as well. Somewhere in this carnivale in the caves near Yerba Buena, the flesh-spent zealots started to wonder when the prosperity the Hernandez brothers promised would come.

When two acolytes voiced these concerns, Solís answered with that old time religion, in the style of the mean and stupid Aztec warlords before her. The two, whose names have been lost to history, were subjected to utter brutality. Cultists too fearful to announce their doubts were forced to take part in the lynching of the dissenters.

Over a period of six weeks, at least eight people were beaten, mutilated, and killed by the cult at her order. Solís, ever with a talent for staging, had the blood drained of unbelievers, which she drank in a cocktail mixed with marijuana and peyote. These acts of psychedelic vampirism were shared with those she favored, with the subsequent drug-addled episodes likely bolstering her claims of divinity.

It was at this time that their ritualistic murders were stumbled upon by a teenager named Sebastian Guerrero. From behind a rock, he witnessed the terrifying heights the cult’s antics had reached. He watched Solís cut the still-beating heart from the chest of one of her victims, squeezing blood into the chalice which she claimed gave her immortality.

Young Guerrero ran the distance of about half a marathon to Villa Gran, the nearest town with a police station, where he breathlessly told the story of what he had seen. The credulousness of the Yerba Buena villagers was only matched by the incredulousness of the police at Villa Gran, who laughed at his claims of blood-drinking sex cults. As is always the case, those in power match the earnest gullibility of those without with their knee-jerk refusal to believe in anything.

The next morning, an investigator named Luis Martinez gave the boy a ride back Yerba Buena, and one wishes to have been present for the moment doubt was shattered by bearing witness. Their exact fate is unknown, except that at some point that day Martinez and Guerrero were abducted by Solís’ cult and sacrificed for the glory of their Aztec gods. When Martinez failed to return, the Villa Gran police department began to believe Guerrero’s story. The must have, considering that they called upon the Mexican army to help investigate.

Authorities captured Solís and her brother in a farm near Yerba Buena. As far the Hernandez brothers, police killed one, and the other had been murdered by a cultist hoping to become a priest of the cult himself. In the following investigation, eight bodies were found, though it is believed that as many as 45 were killed by the masochistic sex cult.

The faith of the poor always comes as a surprise to those in power, who couldn’t believe that anybody would so desperately need to believe in something so obviously ridiculous. But illiteracy alone cannot explain the faith Yerba Buena’s peasants had in the unlikely tales of forgotten gods they heard from ordinary criminals. It was their poverty that believed they must murder on behalf of Solís, so much they desired their tales of Aztec gods bringing plenty. Their sexual subjugation was so easy to extract because Solís appealed to the one authority the pagan’s knew absolute, that of the mountains themselves.

Winnie “Ruth” Judd, the Trunk Murderess

Evil geniuses are things of fiction. Real killers are like all of us: basic incompetents who only survive by moving in groups big enough to weather the consequences of our mutual, constant, and ridiculous errors.


Take Winnie “Ruth” Judd, a.k.a. the Trunk Murderess. If she had a friend left in the world, she wouldn’t have taken a train from Phoenix to Los Angeles with two trunks stuffed with corpses. But she didn’t have a friend left in the world, because she had shot them both dead earlier that week.

Her motive is a matter of public record: it was over a man. Her plan, however, remains a mystery. After she murdered her two roommates Agnes Anne LeRoi and Hedvig Samuelson in October of 1931, she stuffed their bodies in trunks. Agnes was too big to fit in the luggage Ruth owned, so she did the sensible thing and cut her body in pieces. One wonders at what point while bone-sawing through her former romantic rival did she ask herself, “what’s my next move?”

Folds down for easy storage

Like many fools before her, she decided to head west to Los Angeles, where her brother lived. Ruth, a small woman of 5’2″” who probably needed help from the Phoenix Union Station staff moving her ghoulish cargo, was lucky that her shocking stupidity was matched by the common incompetence of the general human race. It was only when she got to Los Angeles that a curious railway employee by the name of Arthur Anderson thought to ask what she was keeping in her stinking trunks which leaked dead blood and pus stewed by desert heat.

His first guess was contraband deer meat. I don’t know what Depression era circumstances led this guy to guess venison, but I’m inclined to give him credit where credit is due. He was, after all, the first person to ask about the smell of rotting remains through 350 miles of cactus country.

Ruth told our friend Arthur that she would open the trunk to reveal it was legal deer meat the moment she got the key from her brother, who was indeed waiting to pick her up at Union Station in Los Angeles. But Ruth, the clever lass, didn’t show him the contents of the trunk. Instead, she put her luggage inside her brothers car, and simply got in. In a moment of inspiration that seems to elude the rest of the actors in this tale, Arthur had the sense to take down her brother’s license plate as he watched the car drive away.

As it happened, his thoughtfulness wasn’t necessary, because Ruth left the trunks at her brother’s house before she disappeared. The brother, likely annoyed to begin with at being forced to store the trunks, finally called the police when he wondered what was leaking from her luggage. She turned herself in at a funeral home a week later, presumably educating herself on what on earth people do with corpses.

If there’s one lesson in all this, it’s that we shouldn’t fear the Hannibal Lecters or Zodiac Killers who taunt authorities as they elude capture, because just as dangerous is an ordinary imbecile with a motive and a revolver. And if we’ll allow a second lesson, it’s that you won’t get very far without some help from your friends. Ruth made it clear across the American Southwest, but that’s only because she had her friends with her in the trunks that made her the Trunk Murderess.

Willa Blanc, She Cleaned House

It’s been said that it’s a shame that only people to win the lottery are people who buy lottery tickets in the first place. When new millionaires blow threw their windfall in a tornado of cocaine, fast cars, and prostitutes, we say, “oh, I would never do that.” Which is true, but you’d never spend a third of your paycheck on scratch-off lottery tickets, you timid spendthrift, and as a result will never win those millions.

Blanc briefly before pleading guilty to murder, wearing Versace sunglasses bought with her victim’s cash

Willa Blanc didn’t play the lottery, but was a maid for a reclusive millionaire. Her charge was Walter Sartory, a retired scientist who his entire life struggled with paranoid delusions. “He believed the CIA trained ants to spy on him,” writes the Los Angeles Times. He avoided all social interaction, and was living off millions he skimmed off the stock market making day trades. He now lived alone, and saw few people with the exception of Blanc, who ironically he placed some trust in. Which is to say, he was an easy mark.

Blanc did the sensible thing, and killed the guy for his money February of 2009.

Walter Sartory, the mild mannered nuclear scientist

It started with some mild bank fraud. Blanc forged documents to give herself power of attorney and take huge sums of money from Sartory. Which, as far as I’m concerned, shouldn’t even be considered a crime.

Here was a 50 year old woman, hopelessly poor, with no hope of her predicament changing anywhere in sight. Fifty is a rough age to be poor at. Ten years younger, and there’s still some remote chance of changing your fate. Ten years older, you can see the specter of death peaking over the horizon, the great equalizer coming to remove you from the misery of being everyday broke. Blanc took the money because the other option was unendurable to pretty much anybody alive.

Things started to get worse when Sartory started communicating to relatives that he suspected Blanc was robbing him. But they had learned to not take him particularly seriously, after his assertion the government trained insects to watch him.

Blanc knew it was only a matter of time before the family would investigate, so she took the inexplicable step of kidnapping him the day before her shift. To make matters worse, she decided to get her adult son involved in the proceedings, who helped transport him back to her house in Union.

They might have benefited from a plan. Sadly, they had none. They just let Sartory rot in their basement, tied to a chair. He must have stunk terribly by the time he died a week later, covered in his own shit and piss. Blanc kept a clean home, but one wondered if his decaying body attracted ants, which he would surely recognize as government agents.

She burned the house to the ground, probably just as interested in cleaning up the mess as getting rid of evidence. The police caught up with her when they finally checked in at the Sartory home when nobody had heard from him in a week. When they found her, she was driving a red corvette and wearing designer clothes.

The media told the story like one of Aesop’s fables. Sartory was the ant, prudently invested his earnings. Blanc, who was lazy (the fact she was black seldom overtly mentioned in reports, but you can find the nerve it struck in the comment sections), was like the grasshopper. That narrative falls apart when you learn he made most of his money day trading in a period of about a year, and that he raised his capital by doing research used in nuclear weapons. The government had trained an ant, and it was him.

Blanc’s lawyer tells her, “you are absolutely garbage at getting away with murder. This could have been a slam dunk. Try to be better.”

After a brief trial, Blanc was sentenced to life without parole. Which is to say, her life hasn’t changed much since going to prison.

I Might Go Away for A While (Maybe)

When life gives you lemons sometimes you need to add vodka and make kamikozzees. Haha. I’m doing better than ever before if you don’t count seventh and eighth grade. But with work and hobbies and also being available for texts I don’t have much time to get on here anymore. Which sucks because I know people count on it because very few people online aren’t clear anymore. Also, when I originally did this my friend who is a real doctor said it would not only be good for me, it would be also beneficial. I’ve had offers to sell my site and I could use the money. It sure would stop all the shouting. I’ll know soon. I wish I could give everyone out there I know who speaks English a big hug. I guess that technology does not exist yet. For now, turning lemons into crackers! -Case.

Holy Moly Its 2015

I know I’m late but I think it’s still the 12 days of christmas so its not yet the new year official. I remember really clearly 2011 and when we turned the year to 2004 also. I don’t know if those were great years or really bad years but I bet somebody from the outside could figure that out. I can’t ask my Mexican who looks into the future for me because she asked me to pay her in advance which got me very angry and then her tooth fell out. I think this will be the best year ever. I just did my death pool with the girls I work with. I put in Theresa who thought she could steal my the guy I was about to let be my boyfriend. I don’t really want her to die, but if she does, I get tons of points because she’s still in fake college plus the baby.

As always my wish is for peace on earth and goodwill. This world needs more love and less fighting. Make love not war. Just kidding. LOL. Do both. Crackers!

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