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Thread: The Serial Killer Thread

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    Elite Member BITTER's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Sylkyn View Post
    Randy was the "first" homosexual serial killer (or at least the first one anyone had heard of at the time). Albert Fish is the reason nightmares exist.
    I think Carl Panzram beat him to it.
    Good luck getting a cat to do anything let alone join in on your sexcapades. - Air Quotes

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    Elite Member Bluebonnet's Avatar
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    Thought this was a good place to put this article. It's a good article on the 8 nurses killed by Richard Speck in 1966.

    Long read but worth it.

    Rare photos, interviews honor memory of 8 nurses slain by Richard Speck

    Chicago Tribune
    By Rosemary Regina Sobol1 day ago

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    The eight nurses killed by Richard Speck on July 14, 1966, in Chicago. From top left are, Gloria Davy, Suzanne Farris, Merlita Gargullo, Mary Ann Jordan, Patricia Matusek, Valentina Pasion, Nina Jo Schmale, and Pamela Wilkening…


    CHICAGO — A couple of days after his basement flooded, John Schmale finally mustered the energy to head downstairs and investigate the damage.
    In the basement's dim overhead light, a big, brown cardboard box caught his eye, a box so soggy its bottom was ready to fall out. He lugged it upstairs. He opened it.
    Inside sat four square, off-white boxes labeled "Kodak," and on top of them lay a sheet of thin pink paper. He instantly recognized his mother's cursive handwriting.
    With a rush of excitement and a pang of dread, he read her penciled note: "Nina South Chicago Hospital."
    Nina. His little sister. One of eight young nurses killed in a Chicago townhouse on July 14, 1966, by a man who became notorious: Richard Speck.
    "I don't believe this," Schmale said to his wife on that day half a century later, gazing inside the box. "What do I have here?"
    What he had, in this mysterious box he had inherited when his father died, were four carousels of slides, many of them corroded, warped, moldy, ravaged by water and time. He unearthed his ancient 35 mm slide projector, marveled that the bulb still worked and began projecting images on a wall.
    There, next to his kitchen near the village of Mahomet, 140 miles south of Chicago, the lost women flickered back to life.
    Clicking from slide to slide, Schmale stepped into his sister's vanished world. It was a world of hair curlers, hair spray cans, ashtrays, manual typewriters, textbooks, sheath dresses, corsages, cluttered rooms, a place where young women laughed, hugged, studied, ate, teased each other's hair.
    He couldn't identify everyone he saw, but at the photo of the familiar woman in the familiar yellow two-piece bathing suit, he felt his heart clench.
    It hurt to see Nina in her yellow swimsuit — he thought back to the Life magazine photo after the murders that showed it hanging on a rod in her bedroom — but it also made him glad, glad to be reminded of who his sister was before death defined her.
    So much youth and beauty, so much wit and fun.
    For the past few years, Schmale, a friendly, white-haired man of 78, has searched for a way to honor exactly those aspects of his sister and her friends, a way that would emphasize not how they died but how they lived, that would focus on them more than on their killer.
    Finding those carousels of slides, in September 2015, may have been a fluke, but it felt like a providential sign. It reinforced his sense of mission and its urgency.
    "Time is moving on," he said one afternoon, sitting in his peaceful yard under the old, low-hanging trees. "The families are slowly disappearing."
    Murder made Richard Speck famous. Books, documentaries, countless news stories, a 2007 film called "Chicago Massacre: Richard Speck" were dedicated to the so-called crime of the century.
    Meanwhile, the women he murdered were relegated to the role of victims, their names largely forgotten except by the people who loved them and cannot forget.
    Many of those people have never spoken at length about what happened, not even to close family members. Many, like Schmale, have boxes of photos and mementos they've never opened.
    There's another kind of sealed box many of them have carried around as well. It's the psychological kind, full of memories and emotions, the kind Schmale means when he says: "Opening the box at first meant to me that I was going to reopen her death. And it turned out that it reopened her life."
    As the 50th anniversary of the murders approaches, that's what he wants for himself and the other families — to reopen the lives of the women whose names have been overshadowed by their killer's.
    Nina Jo Schmale
    Patricia Ann Matusek
    Pamela Lee Wilkening
    Mary Ann Jordan
    Suzanne Bridget Farris
    Valentina Pasion
    Merlita Gargullo
    Gloria Jean Davy
    This is a glimpse of who they were and how their deaths have marked the people who remain to remember them.

    Nina Jo Schmale
    Nina was 19 when she announced to her family, "I'm going to nursing school."
    It was the early 1960s, before the flowering of the women's liberation movement, an era when it wasn't assumed that women would leave the house to work, and those who did had few choices. Teacher. Secretary. Stewardess. Nurse.
    It took Nina a while to choose nurse. After graduating from Glenbard Township High School in Glen Ellyn in 1959, she worked as a secretary but didn't like it. She did, however, like her volunteer job at an elder care facility known as "the poor farm," and she made friends with her patients, even brought them Christmas presents.
    Her experience there whetted her interest in nursing. So did the fact that her brother, John, who was four years older, was studying to be a doctor.
    John and Nina grew up on an acre of land near suburban Wheaton, a remnant of the Schmale family farm. Their father was a cement finisher descended from Germans. Their mother, of English and Czech stock, stayed at home to take care of her children. John and Nina walked together to the one-room Queen Bee schoolhouse, carrying tin lunch pails.
    Years later, when Nina moved into the townhouse where she died, she installed an old "Schmale Rd" street sign in her bedroom.
    Growing up, Nina — pronounced "Nigh-nah" — was a good student, well-liked, quiet but with a sense of humor. She loved Elvis, cats and the color pink.
    "She wasn't the prom queen or the valedictorian," her brother recalled. "She was kind of your average good kid who was really dedicated to being a caregiver."
    By the time Nina entered nursing school, she was three or four years older than most of her classmates and worried that she was over the hill. But she came with a coveted distinction: She had a car, and not just any car, a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible in pale yellow "Colonial Cream," a gift from her father, who could barely afford it and who himself drove a run-down pickup truck.
    In one of the slides that her brother recovered from the basement, a young man crouches next to the Bel Air, washing the whitewalls, smiling for the camera. He was the man Nina planned to marry — but only after graduation.
    Marriage was prohibited for student nurses. So was pregnancy. Jewelry, makeup and nail polish were forbidden on duty. Nursing school, as one former student describes it, was like a cross between a convent and boot camp.
    The student nurses' white and pale-gray uniforms had to be strictly starched, their crisp white caps perfectly placed — a tough trick on bouffant hair. No scuffs were allowed on their white saddle shoes.
    During their first two years, all the nursing students were required to live in dorms attached to the hospital, but in their third and final year, in the hot Chicago summer of 1965, Nina and five others moved into one of the three townhouses the hospital rented on East 100th Street.
    It was small and nothing fancy: One bathroom and three bedrooms upstairs. Some bunk beds, some singles. The first floor consisted of a living room, a powder room and a kitchen.
    The close quarters helped turn most of the women into close friends, and for all their dedication and discipline, they loved pranks. In one of John Schmale's slides, Nina poses wearing nothing but a white towel and her nurse's cap, holding a hypodermic needle and pretending she's about to give one of her housemates a shot.
    The kitchen was the townhouse social hub, a place where Nina and her roommates congregated to eat, study and listen to the record player from the nearby living room.
    On one kitchen wall hung the only phone.
    The kitchen door opened onto a narrow alley where Nina parked her Bel Air and where a hospital shuttle picked up and delivered students. It was that door that a student nurse from a neighboring townhouse approached at 12:15 a.m. on July 14, in search of bread for a late-night sandwich.
    She rang the bell. No answer. She went home, not knowing that a little more than an hour earlier, a drifter with a knife, a gun and a history of violence had broken in and was holding her friends hostage upstairs. By the time he left, around 3:30 a.m., eight women were dead, some stabbed, some strangled, some both.
    When John Schmale talks about what happened that night, he uses the words "anger," "rage," "mourning."
    He also uses the word "waste."
    What a waste that Nina and her friends weren't able to give the world everything they had to give, or enjoy its pleasures. He wonders what it would have been like to grow old with a sister, his sister. What would Nina, who died at 24, look like today, at 74?
    He hates knowing that anyone who Googles the name "Nina Schmale" lands on the name "Richard Speck."
    That's why he and his wife established the Nina Jo Schmale Scholarship Fund at Wheaton College; Nina's name, and hers alone, is now attached to something good. It's why he wants a 50th anniversary commemoration that reclaims all the women's names, all their lives.
    He has found another way as well to hang on to his sister's hopeful spirit. On some summer days, because it gives him a warm feeling he can't entirely explain, he drives around, top down, in a car he bought a few years ago. It's a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible painted in Colonial Cream.

    Patricia Ann Matusek
    Often after a day of classes at Fenger High School, Pat Matusek walked to Roseland Community Hospital to see her cousin Tommy.
    She was 14. He was 15. He was dying.
    She'd bring him water, fluff his pillow, hold his hand, tell him that she loved him. On many of those days she walked home crying, yet it was her afternoons with Tommy that made her think she could be a nurse.
    Pat lived above Joe Matusek's Club, the tavern her father ran in the 10800 block of South Michigan Avenue. Next door was a funeral home, run by Arlene Baskys' dad. Between their second-floor apartments stretched a low, flat roof, and Pat and Arlene often ran across it to tap on each other's windows, looking for a playmate.
    Pat was born in 1945, the year World War II ended, to Joe and Bessie Matusek, both of Czech descent. In those postwar years, most residents of Chicago's Far South Side were white and working-class, still close to their immigrant roots.
    It was the kind of neighborhood where kids walked everywhere and went home for lunch, though Pat took sandwiches to school because her mother worked during the day while her father, who ran the bar at night, slept.
    In their tight-knit neighborhood, Pat and her friends stood on corners during the fall to help her dad sell peanuts for the Kiwanis Club. In winter they went sledding. Life, though not idyllic, felt safe.
    By the time Pat was 5, she had another best friend, also named Arlene — Arlene Kubasek — and through the years the three girls laughed a lot together.
    They laughed their way through Catholic elementary school and on through Fenger High, where Pat was on the Titanette pompom squad. They laughed as they sunbathed on the roof between the tavern and the funeral home, watching the people and the cars down on Michigan Avenue, which they called "The Ave."
    Pat and Arlene Kubasek could hardly stop laughing on the night, during their high school sophomore year, that they went to the drive-in with four other girls, then sat in the car eating popcorn and rolling their hair on giant curlers. On the way back, they got lost. Forty miles from home, when they spotted a gas station, they were reluctant to stop for directions because their curlers made them look like creatures from Mars.
    "Pat looks at us and says, 'Oh, for crying out loud!'" Kubasek recalled one day not long ago, sitting with her old friend Arlene Baskys. "She gets out of the car, slams the door and found out from the guy where we are and how to get home from there."
    That's how they remember Pat.
    "It hurt everyone down to your soul and your being and your bone," Kubasek said. "You didn't think you'd ever stop crying."
    Baskys says that for a while she slept with a flashlight or a knife, but eventually, determined not to raise her children in fear, went through five years of therapy to retrain her thinking.
    "I think I was successful," she said.
    Kubasek is 71, Baskys 68. Seeing them together, it's hard not to wonder what Pat would be like at their age.
    Would she still love water ballet? Be married, divorced, retired? She probably wouldn't still wear her hair in a perfect flip.
    Pat was 20 on the hot evening of Wednesday, July 13, 1966, when Arlene Kubasek dropped her off at the townhouse, well before curfew, which was 10:30 p.m. except for the two nights a week the women were allowed to stay out until 12:30 a.m.
    Do you want to come in for coffee? Pat asked.
    Kubasek said no. She was too hot. Too tired. They'd see each other Friday, go hang out on Rush Street on the Gold Coast. She waved and waited for Pat to go inside.
    The next morning, Pat's mother called Kubasek, worried. The radio said some nurses had been killed; the police wouldn't give out information. Had Pat gotten in OK the night before?
    Kubasek hurried to her car and drove to the townhouse. Police, cameras, gawkers were everywhere, and someone said something about "the bodies."
    She knew before she was officially told: Pat was dead.
    The Matuseks wanted Pat to be buried in the clothes she would have worn for her upcoming graduation, so on the day after the murders, Pat's sister, Betty Jo, asked Kubasek for a favor.
    Would Kubasek go with her to the townhouse to get Pat's nursing cap and uniform?
    Police escorted them inside.
    "It was terrible," Kubasek said, remembering what she saw. The police didn't rush them, but they left as fast as they could.
    Betty Jo had one more request. She wanted to do Pat's hair and makeup for the funeral. Would Kubasek help?
    "She wanted to make her sister look like her sister," Kubasek said, choking up on the word "sister."
    Together they helped prepare Pat's body for burial, at the funeral home run by Arlene Baskys' dad, next door to Joe Matusek's bar.
    Fifty years later, Pat Matusek's two best childhood friends are the primary custodians of her past.
    Her mother, Bessie, passed away in 2005. Her father, who had become a familiar figure on TV, with his cane or in his wheelchair as he protested the possibility of Richard Speck's parole, died in 1990 on Pat's birthday.
    Betty Jo, whose married name was Purvis, died in 2015. Though she rarely talked to her two children about what happened, she made sure her sister Pat lived on through her daughter, to whom she gave the name Patricia Ann.

    Pamela Lee Wilkening

    A few days before she died, Pam called her mother to say she couldn't come visit that weekend. Her graduation from nursing school was less than a month away, exams were coming up and she needed to stay at her townhouse in the city to study.
    She never spoke to her mother again.
    In the townhouse's unofficial sorority, Pam was the quiet one. Unlike several of her housemates, she wasn't likely to be caught on camera dressing up in a cat costume, joking around in the kitchen, dancing.
    A photo that appeared in Life magazine after the murders shows her sitting with three of her housemates. They're smiling and wearing regular clothes. She's in her nurse's uniform, gazing down. The image suggests who she was, serious and slightly removed from the fun.
    Pam had been quiet, studious and decisive since she was a girl in south suburban Lansing. Her family — her father, John, a pipe fitter; her mother, Lena, a homemaker born in Germany; and her only sibling, Jack — lived in a small, one-story brick Cape Cod on Commercial Avenue. It was a close-knit community where almost no one locked their doors.
    Her childhood resume wasn't flashy. Brownie. Girl Scout. High school nursing club. At Thornton Fractional South High School, she attended almost every basketball and football game with her closest girlfriends, but she didn't play sports. She worked part time at a bakery.
    Once, remarking on her diligence and steady temperament, her brother told her she'd make a good military nurse.
    Nursing school exposed Pam and her classmates to life's wide range of joy and trouble. By the time they were in their third year, they had helped deliver babies, treated sick children, watched people die.
    As part of their psychiatric rotation, they dealt with mentally disturbed patients. During one of Pam's shifts, a patient slugged her. She hit her head against a brick wall and suffered a slight concussion.
    She returned to nursing, undeterred.
    Among Pam's favorite pleasures was watching Jack, who was seven years older, race cars. On a June day in 1966, when she was 20, she went to one of his races, and afterward waved goodbye.
    "See you next week," he said.
    The next time he saw her, her body was on a gurney behind a window in the coroner's office.
    Jack Wilkening is 79 now, retired from his job as a Standard Oil cashier. When he agreed to talk about his sister, he asked to meet at the Lansing Public Library, which used to be the Indiana Avenue School where he and Pam attended first through fifth grades.
    When he recalls the terrible summer of 1966, much of what he remembers is conspicuously small.
    Politicians delivering food to the wake. The time he spent unpacking the food. Repacking it. A funeral parlor jammed with mourners. Losing his parking spot as he carted all that food here and there.
    And the mail. He'll never forget the cards and letters that flooded in from strangers all over the world.
    "The mailman would bring them in boxes," he said.
    His mother filed them away neatly, along with the pictures and newspaper clippings.
    For years, Pam's name, along with those of her housemates, was in the paper two or three times a week, or so it seemed to Jack, and always attached to the name of the man who killed her.
    News item: Richard Speck sentenced. News item: Speck's death sentence reversed. News item: Another Speck parole hearing at Stateville Correctional Center. News item: Richard Speck dies in prison, of a heart attack, the day before his 50th birthday.
    Speck's death came as a relief to Wilkening and to the families of the other women he killed. No more parole hearings, no more fear that he might be released.
    And yet news of Speck continued to haunt them.
    In 1996, five years after he died, a video surfaced of Speck in prison, doing drugs and engaging in lewd acts with other prisoners. After it was aired on TV, Wilkening obtained a copy of the video. He watched it once and hurled it into a corner.
    Wilkening has had a full life, but he doesn't pretend the pain is gone or that his life ever returned to a true version of normal. He thinks of his sister every day. He thinks about the family she might have had, wishes she could have met his two sons and daughter and eight grandchildren.
    "I just would have liked her to see the kids," he said, and he cried.

    Mary Ann Jordan

    Mary Ann Jordan grew up hearing her father's tales of her Irish grandmother, Grace.
    In the early 1900s, Grace Jordan was a high-ranking surgical nurse at the University of Michigan, and the stories of her accomplishments made Mary Ann think she could be a nurse too.
    Grace Jordan wasn't the only family member to stir Mary Ann's interest in nursing. There was also Billy.
    Mary Ann was the fourth of the six kids of Philip and Mary Jordan. Billy was the youngest, born with Down syndrome. From early childhood, she connected with him in a unique way, and he was why she wanted to specialize in pediatric nursing.
    "She was great with him," recalled their sister, Susan Jordan Morin. "Always very playful and very compassionate. Billy loved her tremendously."
    If you asked Mary Ann where she was from, she'd give a classic South Side answer, naming not her neighborhood but her parish, Our Lady of Peace.
    She loved swimming, ice skating and softball. She played baseball in the alley, badminton across the back fences. She roller-skated in the basement of the family's three-bedroom bungalow.
    It was the kind of childhood that half a century later people look back on and call simpler, innocent, a time when city kids were raised to be independent and unafraid.
    But life wasn't all play. Mary Ann had family responsibilities. At age 10, she walked her sister Susan to her first day of kindergarten. When her father was at work and her mother was taking care of the house and Billy, she took Susan along while she ran family errands on 79th Street, where the shopkeepers knew her name.
    During the summers she accompanied Billy to nearby Rainbow Beach, splashed with him in the water, hugged him a lot, made him laugh, a boisterous laugh he copied from her.
    An impressive and brazen mimic, Mary Ann made everyone around her laugh.
    Mary Ann brought her Irish humor, her sense of duty and her talent for friendship to nursing school and to the townhouse on East 100th Street.
    On a trip to Florida with her classmates not long before she died, she sent a postcard home to report that immediately after their plane landed, they had gone to Mass.
    In one photo that captures her impish side, she's tucked in bed with a housemate, the covers pulled to her chin, her hair in a shower cap.
    By July of 1966, however, Mary Ann, 20, had moved out of the townhouse and back into the family bungalow. She was home on the night of July 13, when her brother Phil stopped by.
    Phil was engaged to one of Mary Ann's classmates, Suzanne Farris, who still lived in the townhouse, and Suzanne was with him that evening.
    Come spend the night at the townhouse, Suzanne suggested to Mary Ann. They could talk about the wedding. And so, shortly after 12:15, Mary Ann and Suzanne climbed the stairs to Suzanne's bedroom. Richard Speck was waiting.
    When Susan Jordan Morin, who now lives in Chicago's suburbs, thinks back to the day her family heard the news, her mind lands on a vivid memory of Billy. Billy, the spirited boy who rarely spoke more than two words at a time, blurted three: "Mary Ann's dead!"
    Billy died at 42, with Susan as his caretaker.
    Jordan Morin, who was 15 when Mary Ann died, has never before spoken publicly about her sister's death, and she doesn't talk easily about it now. Only one of her siblings, a brother, is still alive. Her brother Phil, who lost both his sister and his fiancee on that July night, died at 64.
    For her to discuss an event she calls "still unbelievable" is an act of faith, one she commits only because she'd like the world to pause and think about Mary Ann and her friends.
    "Let people know who they were," she said. "What wonderful people they were."
    Here's an image she holds on to, one her father captured on a Super 8 movie camera:
    A sunny Easter morning. Susan is 3. Mary Ann is 8. They're walking home from church, dressed in matching blue coats and hats and black patent leather shoes, each clutching an Easter basket. They are young and together and happy.

    Suzanne Bridget Farris

    John Farris carries a photo of his sister Suzie in his wallet.
    He pulled it out recently as he talked for the first time publicly about the sister he lost when he was 15.
    It's a typical 1950s school photograph, small, black-and-white, cropped with pinking shears, showing Suzie at about 10, wearing what looks like her Brownie uniform.
    He keeps the photo in a plastic pouch, tucked next to the prayer card from her funeral.
    The Farris family lived in a quiet, tree-lined Far South Side neighborhood called Fair Elms. Their father, John, had attended seminary, changed his mind about the priesthood and married a young woman, Mary, who had grown up three blocks from him.
    In the family's two-bedroom Cape Cod home, Suzie and her older sister, Marilyn, shared a bedroom. John had his own. Their parents slept on a hide-a-bed in the living room.
    When Farris thinks about growing up with Suzie, he thinks about the kitchen. In that small room, with its linoleum floor and overhead light, Suzie taught him how to make a grilled cheese sandwich and how, if you mixed sour cream and dry onion soup mix, presto, you had French onion dip.
    The kitchen is where he and Suzie shared lunch, usually made by their dad, who worked afternoons while their mother worked days. It's where Suzie taught him, as a 10-year-old, to play solitaire.
    "You know," he said, "older sisters take care of you and I always felt taken care of. You're afraid in life, and here's someone who is comforting you."
    The kitchen was also home to the family cookie jar, a white canister that said "Cooky" on the front, a detail he retains because "Cooky" was his father's nickname for Suzie.
    He remembers that after she died, when the mourners came, their father wept and moaned, "Cooky, Cooky, Cooky."
    Suzie was the kind of girl people might call pretty, perky, popular. She liked clothes, and since the family didn't have a lot of money, she made her own.
    An average student at Aquinas High School, she was turned down by Loyola University, so after graduation she took a job as a file clerk for Peoples Gas. With her salary, she paid tuition for college night classes downtown, after which she commuted home to 111th Street and Avenue E.
    "Long days," said her brother.
    Eventually she enrolled in nursing school, and though it wasn't a field she had dreamed of as a girl, she had a knack. She displayed uncommon ease with the dying and never balked at the mess that came with tending to the human body.
    "She did well with other people in situations that you're not necessarily in control of," Farris said, "which I think is a good skill for nursing."
    The last time John Farris saw Suzie, 21, he had just come home from a track meet, carrying his victory medals, and she was visiting with her boyfriend, Phil.
    John Farris liked his sister's boyfriend. Phil taught public school, had a sailboat and was nice to him, the kid brother. Suzie was lucky.
    "She found the thing she loved doing, she meets a guy that she says 'yes' to about being married," he said. "Life is looking good for Suzie."
    Phil was also the brother of one of Suzie's classmates, Mary Ann Jordan, who had lived in the townhouse for a while, then moved back home. Mary Ann was at the Jordan bungalow on the night of July 13, 1966, when Phil and Suzie stopped by.
    Come spend the night, Suzie suggested. They could talk about the wedding.
    They were the last women to arrive at the townhouse that night.
    For years, whenever July 14 comes around, John Farris has found himself depressed for a week before and after.
    He's still searching for the words to explain to his three children who his sister was, what happened to her. He has never discussed it with them in depth or with his sister Marilyn, who has moved away from Chicago.
    How do you talk about something so terrible? With whom? On what occasion?
    A few years ago, he ran into an old family friend and she told him a story he'd never heard, about how when she was in high school and couldn't afford a prom dress, Suzie made her one.
    To be reminded of his sister's kindness, to be able to speak with someone about her in that way, gave him rare comfort.
    These days, Farris is retired from his job as an administrative services manager at the Metropolitan Water Reclamation District of Chicago. He plays a lot of solitaire.
    He has made sure that his niece, who is the keeper of the old family cookie jar, knows why she can't get rid of it.

    Valentina Pasion

    In May 1966, Valentina Pasion boarded an airplane in the Philippines, headed for Chicago.
    Tina, as her family called her, had graduated the year before among the top 10 nursing students in her class at Manila Central University. She promptly planned a trip to the United States, but passport problems twice forced her to postpone.
    One of her sisters would later say the delay may have been a sign that "God didn't want her to leave."
    Tina was part of the wave of Filipina exchange nurses who came to the United States in that era to learn new things, make friends and, most of all, to work.
    The United States needed nurses, and Filipinas helped relieve the shortage. Eight thousand miles from home, they could earn decent money and many, like Tina, sent much of it back to their families.
    Chicago was chilly, with a trace of snow, on May 9, 1966, when Tina's plane landed — hardly the steamy weather she had known in Jones, a town 240 miles from Manila, where she grew up with five siblings.
    On that Monday, she was taken to a townhouse on East 100th Street rented by her new employer, South Chicago Community Hospital. There she joined two other Filipina exchange nurses, Merlita Gargullo and Corazon Amurao, who had arrived a few days earlier.
    The American student nurses and the exchange nurses never grew close, but from the outset they were friendly. Shortly after the Filipina women arrived, the Chicago women threw them a welcome party, and over the next few weeks helped them learn their way around the city.
    Through the end of spring and on into summer, Tina and her Filipina friends were sometimes spotted walking to a nearby shopping center, and they took occasional field trips, but they spent a lot of their nonworking time in the townhouse, frequently writing letters home.
    According to a 1966 Life magazine story, Tina often mentioned money in her letters.
    "If I send you money, you will be able to fix the house," she said in one.
    She also wrote about Chicago's weather, which she described in one letter as "really terrible."
    "But work is easier than in the Philippine Islands," she continued, "only the patients are as big as water buffalo."
    Another time, according to a different news account, Tina wrote her sister saying she wished she could live in Chicago forever.
    The Filipina women often ate dinner together at the townhouse kitchen table, sometimes joined by other exchange nurses. Tina was known as a good cook. Life magazine cited her "pancit," made of noodles and vegetables with pork.
    Tina, 23, shared a bedroom with three of the American nurses, while Cora and Merlita shared another. All of the bedrooms were upstairs, and none had a phone.
    On the night of July 13, 1966, she was in bed when a commotion erupted. There was a man with a gun in the house. Before long, she, Merlita and Cora were huddled in a small bedroom closet, holding the door shut. After several minutes, they heard a female voice urging them to come out.
    "He is not going to harm you," the voice said.
    They opened the door. Only Cora would survive.
    "I really don't know how to break the news of Tina's death to our parents," one of her sisters sobbed when word reached the Philippines. Another sister wired the news to their father in their hometown.
    In recent months, John Schmale has tried, with no luck, to find friends and relatives of Tina and Merlita, hoping to connect with them for the 50th anniversary commemoration. A Chicago Tribune freelancer in the Philippines had no success either, and reported that the Philippine Nurses Association in Manila had no contact information for their families.
    But 50 years ago, the murders were perhaps as shocking in the Philippines as they were in Chicago. Catherine Ceniza Choy, a professor at the University of California at Berkeley, writes about the three exchange nurses extensively in "Empire of Care," her history of Filipino nurses in the United States. She teaches her students about them and what they meant in both countries.
    "For Filipinos and Filipino Americans who came of age during the 1960s," she said in a recent email, "I think Gargullo and Pasion are remembered as nurses who encountered American violence and tragedy, and Amurao is remembered as the nurse who used her wits to survive."

    Merlita Gargullo

    No one in her village had ever gone to America.
    Merlita grew up on the island of Mindoro. In that land of bananas, rice and coconut, she helped raise eight younger siblings, swam in the river and was good enough in school to be admitted to the nursing program at Arellano University in the big city of Manila.
    In the spring of 1966, she stepped into an airplane bound for Chicago. On board was another exchange nurse, Corazon Amurao, whom she had met a month or so earlier. The two were destined to be roommates in a townhouse on Chicago's South Side.
    According to news accounts published at the time, Merlita, 23, was quiet, shy, hardworking, efficient, pretty and blessed with a rich singing voice. In the townhouse, she was known to sing while doing the dishes or the laundry.
    At South Chicago Community Hospital she earned $350 a month, much of which she sent back to the Philippines, and, like the other exchange nurses, she wrote a lot of letters. Shortly before she died, she wrote a friend about a trip to Wisconsin.
    "Well," she wrote, "it was a fine, dizzying, exciting and wonderful weekend, but I still believe there is no place like home."
    In the bedroom she shared with Cora Amurao, Merlita slept on the bottom bunk. That's where she was on the night of July 13, 1966, when someone knocked at the bedroom door.
    Cora — the first of the residents to see Richard Speck that night, and the only one to survive — unlocked it.
    A lanky man in dark clothes, with slicked-back hair and marks on his face, was standing there with a small black revolver in his right hand. He had pried open the screen of a first-floor window, reached inside for the back-door handle and slipped into the house.
    A few days later, 8,000 miles from their native land, Merlita Gargullo and Valentina Pasion were memorialized at a Mass led by Archbishop John Cody. No immediate relatives were there.
    When their bodies were flown back to Manila, however, more than 100 people — relatives and friends — waited in the rain to watch their caskets unloaded from an airliner and hefted into funeral coaches.
    Among the mourners standing in the drizzle was an older, bareheaded man from Mindoro. Merlita's father.

    Gloria Jean Davy

    Shoulders back, no crying.
    On Aug. 7, 1966, when Lori Davy, 11, walked across the stage to accept her sister's diploma, her father's orders were fresh in her mind.
    Everywhere she looked she saw starched white uniforms, starched white caps, the meticulously dressed 1966 graduating class of South Chicago Community Hospital School of Nursing.
    Minus six.
    A camera caught the moment: a pretty girl in a plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar, reaching, with white gloves, for the document her sister had worked so hard to earn.
    What the camera couldn't catch were the girl's thoughts, the confusion she felt at the spectacle of all these other graduates. Why were they here, and her sister wasn't?
    The camera also catches the misery on those women's faces.
    Lori didn't cry. She walked off the stage, shoulders back, carrying a diploma dated July 14, 1966. The day of her sister's death had been recorded as her graduation day.
    Gloria Davy was the second of six siblings, born in the same hospital where she eventually studied nursing, raised not far from the townhouse where she died. Her father, Charles, was a former Marine who expected as much from his five daughters as he did from his son.
    "It was almost like he had five boys," said Lori Davy Sivek, who is now 61 and teaches eighth-grade science and technology in a Houston suburb.
    In Lori's words, Gloria was driven, independent, intelligent, headstrong, poised, creative and snippy when she didn't like what you were doing.
    She started college as an English major at Northern Illinois University, then switched to nursing. In 1965 she became president of the Student Nurses Association of Illinois.
    The townhouse Gloria shared with the other student nurses was often a mess, so she sometimes paid her little sister a dollar or two to clean. Lori would ride her bike over, do the dishes, pick up the clothes scattered around the living room. Being in the world of the older girls felt cool.
    One summer night in 1966, when her father, who worked for a steel company, was in Pittsburgh on business, Lori and her two younger sisters crowded into their parents' bed. They were excited. Not only had they been allowed a slumber party with their mother, but their big sister who was about to graduate from nursing school was coming home for good the next day.
    As they snuggled, the phone rang in the nearby den. It was Gloria, 22, calling from the townhouse to say that her fiance had just dropped her off.
    "I'm in," said Gloria, who phoned her mother every night to say she was back and safe. "I'm home."
    It was Wednesday, July 13, shortly after 11 p.m. Richard Speck was already upstairs.
    The next time Lori heard the phone ring, it was morning. Her dad was on the line. He'd turned on the TV news in Pennsylvania.
    Not long afterward, Arline Davy, sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, made an announcement to her daughters.
    "Gloria's been murdered," Lori remembers her saying. "A lot of people will be here shortly. Girls, we need to clean the house."
    Before long, the Davy home was packed with people, and every room, it seemed, was packed with roses, so many roses the scent made Lori sick.
    After that day, Arline Davy was different. Always a quiet woman, she grew quieter.
    "We kind of lost her," Lori said. "She was not the same person. He killed more than eight people."
    At her father's urging, Lori considered becoming a nurse, but she finally told him that she couldn't, she was just too emotional for the job. After she married and had three children, she told her kids that Aunt Gloria had died in a car crash. She perpetuated the ruse until the day her daughter, then in high school, was watching a TV show about Speck, the women he murdered and the families left behind.
    "Did I just see Grandpa on the television?" her daughter asked. Lori realized it was time to tell the truth.
    In the Davy family, according to Lori, grieving openly for Gloria was considered weakness, especially by her father, the military man. Only recently, since John Schmale got in touch with her about a 50th anniversary commemoration for the women, has Lori let herself believe that it's OK to remember, OK to cry.
    Like Schmale, she talks about opening the box of her sister's life, and now that it's open she thinks, "Wow, wow, this was my sister. Look at her. I want you to look at her eyes."
    Gloria's brother and three of her sisters are still alive. One went into nursing. Lori has come to believe that Gloria's death prepared her to handle anything, and to see, in some useful ways, the possibility of death in everything.
    Their mother eventually forgave Richard Speck and urged her children to do the same.
    "Don't hate," she told them. If you live your life in hatred and anger, you'll lose more than Gloria.
    Lori tries to live by her mother's words.
    But she still can't stand the smell of roses.

    Cora Amurao Atienza, the survivor

    Wits. Courage. Fate.
    Whatever confluence of forces saved her, Cora Amurao made it through the night alive.
    "You are surprised I survived?" she reportedly told friends a few days after the murders. "But I come from the place where they make balisong. Why should you be surprised?"
    Cora came from Batangas, a province south of Manila known for its volcano, its beaches and the balisong, a traditional folding pocket knife in which the blade can be concealed.
    Her village was small (200 people) and her family was large (eight kids). A native Tagalog speaker, she began learning English in first grade.
    After graduating from Far Eastern University in Manila, she worked for a couple of years as a staff nurse, then applied for work in the United States. She accepted an assignment at South Chicago Community Hospital and landed at O'Hare airport on May 1, 1966.
    Life in the new country must have brought surprises, but it was hardly dramatic. She worked at the hospital from 7 a.m. until 3:30 p.m. Like the other Filipina nurses, she sent money home.
    Wednesday, July 13, began as an ordinary day. She worked her regular shift. Rode the hospital shuttle back to the townhouse. Ate an early supper with Merlita and Tina. Took a nap. Washed clothes in the bathroom sink, hung them to dry in the basement. Sat down to write letters. She was homesick.
    Around 10:30 p.m., she went upstairs to bed, in the high bunk in the room she shared with Merlita. Half an hour later, she heard four knocks at the bedroom door.
    "The knocking was done in a normal manner," she would later testify.
    At the door stood a tall stranger with a pockmarked face and a gun.
    Richard Speck has been described as a drifter, a loner, a high school dropout, a sociopath, a heavy drinker, a violent man who could be charming. He had never met the women he was about to kill.
    Why he did what he did in the next few hours will never be known. What he did, however, is known, because Cora, a 4-foot-10 nurse from the land of the concealed knife, escaped his sight at one point and hid under one bed, then another, until he was gone.
    It was around dawn when she made her way to an upstairs window. From the transcript of Speck's trial:
    Q: How long did you scream, in a sitting position, with the window open?
    A. I screamed there for about five minutes and nothing.
    Q. What did you do then?
    A. Then I jump off to the ledge.
    Q. You climbed down to the ledge on 100th Street?
    A. Yes.
    Q. What did you do on the ledge?
    A. Then I screamed for help. I screamed for about 20 minutes.
    Despite fears that Cora, in one doctor's words, would "lapse into a psychosis" and never be able to discuss the murders, she testified boldly at Speck's trial. Asked if she recognized the killer, she stepped off the stand and pointed:
    "This is the man."
    Since then she has rarely spoken to the media, though in a 1970 court hearing she described her fear of the night, of being alone, of a knock on a door.
    Cora has gone on to have a life that appears normal.
    After the trial, she went home to the Philippines, got a job as a nurse and was elected to the town council in her hometown of San Luis. She married Alberto Atienza, and then, with her husband, a lawyer, moved back to the United States. According to a news account at the time, she thought it was a safer place to raise a family.
    For many years she worked as a nurse at Georgetown University Hospital in Washington, D.C. Now 73, she has two children and several grandchildren.
    Although she declined to be interviewed for this story, she has exchanged emails recently with John Schmale. She told him she had never forgotten his sister Nina's kindness and that she still misses her.

    Remembrance

    After the murders, the nursing students in the nearby townhouses moved back into the dorms connected to the hospital.
    They shoved their beds edge to edge in a single room and lay there at night listening to the newly hired security guard's shoes click along the hallway tiles.
    One of them was Tammy Siouchoff.
    "It was just awful," Siouchoff said. "Awful, awful. We were just totally out of our minds."
    Siouchoff was the student who, on the night of the murders, rang the back doorbell of her friends' townhouse, in search of bread, then left when no one answered. Later she learned that Speck, responding to the bell, had forced two of his hostages downstairs, a gun at their backs. One of them, Corazon Amurao, steered him to the front door. Finding no one there, he marched them back upstairs.
    To this day, Siouchoff is convinced that Amurao recognized the difference between the front doorbell and the back one, and deliberately led Speck to the wrong door. Amurao, she believes, saved her life.
    In the years that followed, Siouchoff, 70, distanced herself from everything and everyone involved with that awful night. She never spoke in detail about what happened, not even to her husband.
    Then one day last fall, she found a voicemail from John Schmale.
    "It was him," she said. Sitting in her Naperville home, she sobbed. "Coming back from the past."
    Like others Schmale has contacted, she was wary at first of resurrecting the past, but she has felt some relief in it.
    She laughs to see the pictures Schmale found, like the one of her and Nina dressed up like cats. She has looked at the Facebook page Schmale started as part of the commemoration for the nurses, a place for trading stories and photos, though she doesn't linger. Grief will always be tangled in that youthful happiness.
    Fifty years is a long time.
    It may be difficult for those who weren't alive half a century ago to understand how profoundly Speck's crime shook the city, how far the ripples ran through time and space.
    On July 15, 1966, the Chicago Tribune's front page reported the news with the headline "Search for Mass Slayer." Just below, in smaller type, was the news that six policemen had been shot during riots on the West Side.
    Today the townhouses on East 100th Street are still standing and occupied, though no longer by student nurses. The old hospital is now called Advocate Trinity. Two officials at the Consulate General of the Philippines in Chicago, when asked recently about the Filipina nurses, weren't familiar with the crime.
    Fifty years is also a short time.
    For the people who loved the women who died, their deaths remain vivid. So do their lives.
    Their lives are what John Schmale wants the world to see, and he can't help but believe that's what his mother wanted too.
    Dorothy Schmale died five years after her daughter did, her death hastened by heartbreak.
    But before she was gone, she placed four carousels of slides neatly in a box. She wrote her daughter's name, Nina, on a piece of pink paper. She closed the box, surely hoping that one day it would be opened.
    http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/crime/rare-photos-interviews-honor-memory-of-8-nurses-slain-by-richard-speck/ar-BBsuN6q?ocid=sf
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    Quote Originally Posted by Sylkyn;3458674[QUOTE
    Randy was the "first" homosexual serial killer (or at least the first one anyone had heard of at the time).
    Sadly, there are idiots who think that only straight white guys are killers. And are shocked when you inform them that some are gay, a woman, or black.

    A lot don't even know Dahmer was gay.

    I call them, potential victims.

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    Elite Member witchcurlgirl's Avatar
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    I'm confused as to why Kraft was considered the first...


    Fritz Haarman, Juan Corona, Dean Corll, I'm sure there were a few more that were known before Kraft.
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    Elite Member ConstanceSpry's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by stef View Post
    those who fascinate me the most are ted bundy and jeffrey dahmer. because casually meeting them you never would've guessed they'd do the things they did. if you watch interviews with charles manson or aileen wuornos you can see the crazy/sick from miles away. with these two, not so much.
    I worked with a lady who volunteered for a suicide hotline in Seattle with Ted Bundy. Said he was a doll, very considerate, used to walk her to her car when her shift was over and was a total gentleman. Nothing seemed off about him at all.
    'I had to get rid of the kid. The cat was allergic.'

  6. #51
    Elite Member MohandasKGanja's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by ConstanceSpry View Post
    I worked with a lady who volunteered for a suicide hotline in Seattle with Ted Bundy. Said he was a doll, very considerate, used to walk her to her car when her shift was over and was a total gentleman. Nothing seemed off about him at all.
    Did he ever attack anyone who wasn't an anonymous/random victim? It seems like if he knew you or had a connection to you, you would be safe because he knew that would get him caught, right?
    holly likes this.

  7. #52
    Elite Member ShimmeringGlow's Avatar
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    I must have missed the Dateline and 48 Hours episodes about him....



    These Are the Black Women Allegedly Killed by an LA Serial Killer Called the Grim Sleeper

    By Aaron Morrison May 02, 2016
    LIKE MIC ON FACEBOOK:


    As the Black Lives Matter social justice movement became part of a national conversation around police brutality in communities of color, the champions of another cause sought to call out violence against black women and girls. "Say Her Name," which might ring a bell in the context of Sandra Bland's death in July, is a grassroots campaign that calls special attention to violence inflicted on black women at the hands of police, or violence against them that is ignored by authorities, media outlets and the public.

    But activists in Los Angeles have spent nearly a quarter century publicizing names of mostly poor black women allegedly killed by the so-called "Grim Sleeper." Lonnie David Franklin Jr., charged in 2010 by the Los Angeles County district with the murders of nine black women and a 15-year-old girl over the span of 22 years, drew national attention Monday as closing arguments began in two months of testimony, the Associated Press reported.

    The Black Coalition Fighting Back Serial Murders, a group formed around the Grim Sleeper case, kept Franklin's alleged victims' names alive through persistent media advocacy. A representative for the coalition did not immediately respond to a request for comment on Monday.

    Lonnie David Franklin, Jr. appears in a Los Angeles court in 2010, after his arrest in the alleged murders of nine women and a 15-year-old girl.Source: Al Seib/APMargaret Prescod, a founder of the coalition, told National Public Radio that local authorities never warned women in the community about any serial killer. At one point, as Prescod sought information about the murders, an official responded: 'Why are you concerned about it? He's only killing hookers,'" she said.

    Prescod added that there would have been a national uproar and swifter justice if the murders had occurred in a more affluent, whiter part of Los Angeles County. "And we knew it had to do with the race of the victims, and that they were impoverished in a community that not that many people cared about," she said.

    As the Los Angeles killing spree seemed to subside, a man named Anthony Sowell was found guilty of raping and killing 11 black women in Cleveland between 2007 and 2009. Late media coverage of Sowell's case and his victims helped to unearth several law enforcement missteps in how the case was handled.

    More broadly, activists have also pointed to the violence against women that leaves lasting trauma because of the actions and inaction of law enforcement. In December, an Oklahoma City jury convicted former police Officer Daniel Holtzclaw in a 36-count rape case. He was ultimately found guilty of sexually assaulting eight black women, but the national media were slow to pick up the story of Holtzclaw's sexual assaults that occurred over multiple years.

    It's Prescod and others who want the following names of Franklin's Los Angeles victims to be a reminder of the human cost of silence, inaction or indifference among law enforcement and the public



    For a list of his victims and how they were discovered....


    https://mic.com/articles/142419/thes...ial#.ojOD5s5AY

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    Quote Originally Posted by MohandasKGanja View Post
    Did he ever attack anyone who wasn't an anonymous/random victim? It seems like if he knew you or had a connection to you, you would be safe because he knew that would get him caught, right?
    Only Lynda Ann Healy. Not that it's known for sure if he knew her. But it's the best possibility.

    They both shared a class and both cashed checks at the same Safeway around the same time. Not too long before her murder.

    He most likely stalked her for awhile to gain information about her. To make sure it went down the way he wanted it to.
    Last edited by joebob; May 3rd, 2016 at 04:29 PM.

  9. #54
    Elite Member ConstanceSpry's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by MohandasKGanja View Post
    Did he ever attack anyone who wasn't an anonymous/random victim? It seems like if he knew you or had a connection to you, you would be safe because he knew that would get him caught, right?
    Yes, AFAIK, he only attacked women he didn't have a close personal connection to. So she probably wasn't in any danger. But it was still so creepy to hear someone who actually knew him talk about him. She said all the "girls" who worked with him just loved him, he was so handsome and nice. Brrrr.
    'I had to get rid of the kid. The cat was allergic.'

  10. #55
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    An interesting serial killer who isn't well remembered today is the Axeman of New Orleans. He was active in and around New Orleans in 1918-1919 (some sources say as early as 1911, but this is disputed). Like the Night Stalker, he broke into houses and killed people in their beds. Like the Zodiac and Son of Sam, he sent creepy letters to newspapers. And like Jack the Ripper and the Manson Family, he wrote on walls. He seemed to have a particular hatred for, of all things, Italian grocery store owners. His usual MO was to chisel his way through a door panel, slip in, and attack his victims, often using weapons he found in the house.

    May 22, 1918 - Grocery store owner Joseph Maggio and his wife Catherine are attacked in their sleep. The killer used a straight razor to cut their throats, almost severing Catherine's head. and then bludgeoned them with an axe. Joseph was still alive when his brothers Jake and Andrew, who lived in an adjoining apartment, discovered the bodies. Both brothers were drunk that night, but Jake woke up around 4am after hearing a loud groaning noise. (Presumably, that was Joseph.) Andrew was initially a suspect, because the razor belonged to him, but was later cleared. About a block away from the Maggio's store/residence, the following message was found chalked on a wall:

    Mrs. Maggio will sit up tonight just like Mrs. Toney.
    This possibly refers to three sets of axe murders, also Italian grocers, in 1911. These murders aren't well documented, and may be largely folklore, but one of the men may have been named Tony. At the time, the first set of murders were believed to be Mafia related, because the victims refused to pay protection money. Folklore or not, they were still well known in the Italian immigrant community of New Orleans in 1918.

    June 27, 1918 - Grocery store owner Louis Besumer and his mistress Harriet Lowe are attacked in their sleep with an axe. Both sustained skull fractures, but survived the initial attack, although Lowe died three weeks later from her injuries. She originally stated her attacker was a light skinned black man, but later believed Besumer was responsible for the attack, Besumer claimed to have no memory. Louis Oubicon, a casual employee at Besumer's store was arrested (despute zero evidence, largely because he was black) and later acquitted.

    August 5, 1918 - Mrs. Edward Schneider (I can't find her first name), nine months pregnant, was bludgeoned by an axe while taking a nap in the early evening at her home. She suffered skull and facial fractures, and lost most of her teeth, but recovered and gave birth to a healthy daughter a week later. All she remembered was seeing a dark figure swinging an axe down at her. The Schneiders were neither Italian, nor involved in the grocery business.

    August 10, 1918 - Pauline and Mary Bruno awoke to a loud commotion in their home. Pauline Bruno saw a figure at the end of her bed, whom she described as dark skinned and stocky, wearing a hat that covered most of his face. The man fled the house. Pauline and Mary discovered their elderly uncle, Joseph Romano, dying from head wounds in his bedroom. As in the previous murders, a door panel had been chiseled out, and a bloody axe belonging to the family was found in the yard. Joseph Romano was not a grocer, he was a barber. (Like Andrew Maggio, brother of one of the first victims.)

    After the Romano murder, New Orleans went a little crazy, with people reporting chisels and axes found near their doors, and turning in their neighbors as possible suspects.

    March 10, 1919 - Grocer Charles Cortimiglia, his wife Rose, and two-year old daughter Mary were attacked with an axe while they slept. Charles and Rose survived, Mary did not. Charles had fought with his attacker, whom he described as a white man. Rose accused their neighbors (and business rivals) Iorlando Jordano and his son Frank, although Iorlando, at 69 years old and in poor health, and Frank, weighing over 300lbs, were considered physically unable of fitting through the chiseled out door panel. Nevertheless, they were tried and convicted, and Frank was sentenced to death. A year after the trial, Rose recnated her testimony, admitting she lied to get back at the family's business rivals, and both men were released from jail.

    March 13, 1919 - The following letter was recieved by the New Orleans Times-Picayune:

    Hell, March 13, 1919


    Esteemed Mortal:


    They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.


    When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.


    If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.


    Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.


    Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:


    I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.


    Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.


    The Axeman
    If the city hadn't been driven into a frenzy before, it was now. Sales of gramophones and jazz records went through the roof, and every band in the area was hired to play somewhere on March 19th. No one was killed by the Axeman that night.

    August 10, 1919 - Grocer Steve Boca is bludgeoned in his sleep. He survived, with no memory of the attack. The door to his house had been chiseled, as in the previous attacks, and an axe was missing from the home.

    September 3, 1919 - Sarah Laumann, who lived alone, was attacked in her sleep. She sustained skull fractured, and like Mrs. Schneider, many of her teeth were knocked out. Sarah survived, with no memory of the night. A door panel was removed, and a bloody axe was found in the yard.

    October 27, 1919 - Grocer Mike Pepitone was murdered in his sleep. His wife and six children were unharmed, and unlike the rest of the attacks, his wife reported interrupting two intruders as they attacked her husband. Mrs Pepitone was also recorded as behaving strangely calm for someone who'd walked in on an axe murder. The Pepitone murder is usually included on the Axemen's list, despite her testimony, because a door panel was chiseled out, and an axe found nearby.

    In 1920, in Los Angeles, a woman who may have been Esther Pepitone may have shot and killed a man named Joseph Momfre, whom she claimed murdered her husband. There aren't any court or police records surviving about the death of Joseph Momfre, however, a man named Frank Mumphrey, who was known to use the alias Leon Joseph Mumfre or Momfre, had a criminal record, and was known to be in New Orleans during 1918 and 1919. Mumphrey/Momfre had been in prison between 1911 and 1918, and again in 1919, from about the time of the last Axeman murder, until 1920. There are no records of him after 1920.

  11. #56
    Elite Member OrangeSlice's Avatar
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    This is insane:

    Kemper endeared himself to his psychiatrists by being a model prisoner and — due to his intelligence and astute nature[22] — was even trained by the staff to administer psychiatric tests to other prisoners,[23] with his psychiatrist commenting, "He was a very good worker and this is not typical of a sociopath. He really took pride in his work".[23] Kemper later admitted that being able to understand how these tests functioned allowed him to manipulate his psychiatrists, and also said that he learned a lot from the many sex offenders to whom he administrated tests; for example, he learned that it was important to kill witnesses after a rape.[23]
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    Kemper is by far the smartest and possibly the most evil in some ways.

    He can really convince people that he is normal in interviews. Even if it's obvious he has a detached view of his murders. Or the fact that he doesn't take full responsibility for it. He has mommy issues coming out of his ass.

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    Hell, March 13, 1919


    Esteemed Mortal:


    They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.


    When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.


    If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.


    Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.


    Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:


    I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.


    Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.


    The Axeman


    That letter is so nuts. I looked this guy up when I was watching American Horror: Witches Coven which took place in New Orleans. Before that, I never heard of the guy. Every house in town was probably rockin some jazz at 12:15am on that Tuesday night.
    "His suits are cheaply made because he makes them in other countries, taking jobs away from good, hard-working Americans."...Bevy Smith on Donald Trump

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    I've always found some of them and their ability to manipulate interesting.

    Anyone ever watch Ted Bundy's interview with James Dobson the day before he was executed? Dobson is a fucking idiot. lol

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    Quote Originally Posted by Sylkyn View Post
    I am a serial killer "nut". I have been reading about them since I was like 10 years old. I still read everything I can find about them. I have no idea why I find them so fascinating, but I do! To me, the most horrendous and interesting killers are Randy Kraft and Albert Fish. Wanna stay awake at night for about 2 months? Google those bitches. They make Ted, John and just about everybody else look tedious.

    Randy was the "first" homosexual serial killer (or at least the first one anyone had heard of at the time). Albert Fish is the reason nightmares exist.
    I feel like my educational channel, ID, has let me down! I had never heard of either of these men. It's probably a good thing that I haven't heard of them, because damn they were evil, but I wish there was a channel that had in-depth documentaries about homicidal maniacs from years gone by. I can never find anything to watch.....

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