The south side of Dean Street, on the far left is Oxford Street, and on the far right is Shaftsbury Avenue
Welcome to the Murder Mile podcast, a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous (and often forgotten) murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE TWO
Episode Two: Double Murder at The Bus Stop Club is easily one of Soho's strangest murders, as what seemed to the Police like a simple double homicide, was anything but, and would typify how hard and short life can be as a Soho gangster.
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THE LOCATION
The brutal "double murder" which took place at The Bus Stop, the infamous "clip-joint" ran by Soho gangster Anthony Benedetta Mella (Tony Mella) and managed by Alfred Melvin is situated at 48 Dean Street, as seen by the blue dot on the map. Below is a shot of 48 Dean Street, encompassing in The French House and the corner of Romilly Street where the first "bloody incident" took place. The red dot in the location of the Denmark Place Fire from episode one.
DOWNLOAD this episode of Murder Mile Episode #2 - Double Murder at The Bus Stop Club.
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Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible). The music was written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
The next episode: The Bedfordbury Baby-Batterer (due Thursday 26th October 2017)
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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Full Transcript - Episode #2 Double Murder at The Bus Stop Club
INTRO: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London’s most notorious (and often forgotten) murder cases, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is a guided walk of one of Soho’s strangest murders, as what initially seemed to the Police like a simple double homicide was anything but, and to those who “made money from crime”, it would typify how fragile life can be as a gangster. Murder Mile contains vivid descriptions which may not be suitable for those of a sensitive disposition, as well as photos, videos and maps which accompany this series, so that no matter where you’re listening to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 2: Double Murder at the Bus Stop Club.
Today, I’m standing on the south side of Dean Street in Soho, W1, in London’s infamous West End. Measuring roughly one square mile and bordered by Oxford Street, Regents Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road, Soho is the cultural home of the West End, a district synonymous with artists, writers and musicians such as Charles Dickens, Karl Marx, Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, George Melly, The Beatles, The Who, Elton John, Queen, Eric Clapton, Brian Jones, Mozart and David Bowie to name but a few, as well as infamous clubs such as the Marquee Club, Ronny Scott’s, Billie’s, the Shim Sham Club, the Flamingo Club and the Whiskey-a-Go-Go… but – of course – what Soho is most infamous for…. is sex. Over the last two hundred years, Soho has been the beating heart of London’s seedy sex trade, to such an extent that by the early 1960’s (when this episode takes place) Soho was home to over three hundred strip-clubs, clip joints, gambling dens and brothels, meaning that on some it’s seedier streets, almost every door had a buzzer, a red-light and a handwritten sign pointing upstairs which simply read “models”. And having such a rollercoaster history of ever-changing fortunes, shifting from chic to slum and back again within the same century, Soho was the place to come for drugs, booze and sex. One such place in the early 1960’s was innocently called The Bus Stop. And although a period of modern gentrification (using builders, bulldozers, a sturdy set of sledge-hammers and a slew compulsory purchase orders) has attempted to eradicate Soho’s seedy history, the unsubtle hints are still dotted about here-and-there, featuring the last of the sex-shops, flesh-pots, porn theatres and suspiciously empty studio flats which are still rented-out by street-walkers and pimps working under a pseudonym and paying by the month, week, day and even by the hour. Today, Dean Street is a heavily sanitised version of its former self; as although it is still 536 metres long and 16 metres wide, being a quick cut-through from the once-glamorous shopping district of Oxford Street (now a mecca for tacky tourist shite) to Theatreland’s Shaftsbury Avenue, via the homosexual merriment of Old Compton Street, Dean Street is now covered by a swathe of trendy eateries, upmarket restaurants and hip juice-bars. As an adult’s playground, it’s actually rather pleasant… but, no matter how quick they build, how fast they paint and how hard they scrub, nothing will ever wash-away the memory of the Soho gangster who stained Dean Street red with blood. Although ominously perched between three infamous pubs; The French House which was once the unofficial headquarters of Charles de Gaulle and the French resistance during World War II, the Golden Lion where British serial killer Dennis Nilsen engaged some of his victims-to-be in an ill-advised drinking contest, and the Admiral Duncan where a deluded neo-fascist exploded a homemade nail-bomb, killing 3 people and injuring 70, 48 Dean Street looks like any other three-storey building built in the 1740’s… only it isn’t. Its history is a lot darker. Now housing Rosa’s Thai café on the ground-floor and the serviced offices of a public relations firm above, the walls have been whitewashed, erasing any hint of its bloody history; two violent deaths, in two different places, and all because… of one man – Tony Mella. Italian-born but raised in Croydon (South London), 37 year old Antonio Benedetta Mella, known locally as “Big Tony” was (as his name would suggest) tall, well-built and muscular, he sparred with the infamous enforcer for The Richardson Gang “Mad Frankie Fraser”, and was feared and respected. Although in his youth he was regarded as a half-decent boxer with some ability, he lacked the technique, courage and the aptitude to go professional. Deep-down, Tony Mella was nothing more than a dirty-fighter, who shunned the rules, shirked his morals and always hit below the belt. Inside the ring he was undisciplined, violent and dangerous, but outside, in Soho’s seedy streets which were seen as a battleground for any gangster - whether French, Turkish or Russian, Muslim, Catholic or Jew – who hoped to carve themselves a slice of The West End, Tony Mella was tough, rough and nasty, as well as easily one of the best and dirtiest street-fighters around. A skill which would always come in handy, as Tony Mella ruffled feathers and reneged on deals. Having risen through the ranks of Soho’s criminal underworld, Mella was a much-feared gangland figure whose primary business was hostess bars and clip-joints. Commonly known as “near beer” clubs, clip-joints are a grey area of the extortion racket, where customers are lured into a sleazy off-street sex-clubs, hidden in dark-lit basements, with the promise of nude girls, cold beers and maybe a “little something extra” with a lady. None of which would ever happen; the girls were clothed, the beer was weak and the only “little extra” the customer would get was an extortionate bill, an empty wallet and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to leave the premises without two broken legs. Would the customers pay-up? Oh yes. Would they complain to the Police? Oh no. And did the clip-joint break any liquor licencing laws? No, because their booze was so watered down, it was practically alcohol-free. In the West End alone, Tony Mella (who it is said “didn’t have an honest bone in his body”) owned over thirty clip-joints, as he skirted the law, making himself a very tidy profit, and never once giving a rat’s-ass and single thought for anyone else, but himself. One such clip-joint was owned by Tony Mella at 48 Dean Street, having procured the three-storey premises from its slightly scared owner using a fistful of notes, but mostly his fists. It was called The Grill Club, later renamed The Bus Stop, and comprised of a law-abiding café on the ground floor, a drinking den serviced by scantily clad ladies in the basement, and comfortable offices above for himself and (later) the club’s manager and his life-long friend, Alfred Melvin. As a word to describe Tony Mella, “selfish” was an understatement, “rude” was too kind and “deceitful” he’d probably deem as a compliment. As whether punters or pals, rivals or those he should really have respected, Mella would happily stiff anyone over a few pounds, stab them in the back over a dodgy deal and (having ruffled one too many feathers amongst Soho’s criminal fraternity) he had the scars to prove it. His body was a patchwork of slits, stabs and slashes from old unsettled scores as he humiliated his friends in desperate bid to prove he was the top dog. Across his face and chest, the fragments of a smashed whiskey bottle were still embedded having “stepped out of line” in the presence of London’s criminal king-pin Billy Hill. Across his back and wrists were six slashes by an unknown illicit booze peddler who he’d stiffed over a shipment. And having double-crossed the Soho conman and a much-lauded dwarf tag-team wrestler by the name of Fuzzy Kaye (whose real name was Royston Smith) over a complicated con involving coin-operated one-armed bandits, Mella demeaned his diminutive partner, spitting out a mouthful of spiteful curses and having slowly bent down to humiliate further his height-restricted pal amidst a bar full of their friends, he laughed in the little man’s face. Smith, being barely 4 foot 2 inches tall but a sturdily built tough-guy who could easily handle himself (in or out of the ring) slashed Mella across his bottom with a very sharp bayonet, scoring each buttock with long bloody lines like his arse was a noughts & crosses board. Tony Mella didn’t sit down for a week. And although big, brash and bull-headed, Tony Mella never learned his lesson. In July 1951, having “stepped out of line” once again and shown a severe lack of loyalty to crime-boss Billy Hill, Mella was paid a little visit by his old sparring partner “Mad Frankie Fraser”. Although just 5 foot and 5 inches tall, standing almost half a foot shorter than “Big Tony”, the aptly named “Mad Frankie Fraser” was working as the personal bodyguard to Billy Hill and was an associate of the Richardson Gang (arch rivals to the infamous Kray Twins), who during his lifetime would spend 42 years in prison for bank-robbery, murder and (his own personal speciality) torture. Pinning Mella to the floor of his flat in Old Street, “Mad Frankie Fraser” pulled out his trusty flick-knife, clicked open the four inch blade and set about hacking and slashing at Mella’s flesh like a man possessed. During the attack, Tony Mella had lost four pints of blood and a nice suit-to-boot. But he die? No, he could have, he should have, but he didn’t. “Mad Frankie Fraser” was a professional and besides this wasn’t a murder, this was a message, a blunt calling-card that said “cross over the line again and you’re dead”. After a few days in Whitechapel Hospital, his sliced-up torso held together by a few dozen stitches, Mella was out… but not before he’d claimed to the trashy tabloid newspapers that he’d been set upon by six rivals who’d held him down and had cut him over hundred times. Outside, he was desperate to be seen as a bad boy, a feared felon and a master gangster whose manor his rivals were eager to muscle in on, but inside… he was scared for his life. Tony Mella needed a bodyguard, he needed protection, and so he turned to the one man he knew could trust, an old pal from his boxing days at Mile End Arena – Alfred Melvin. Alfred Melvin, known simply as “Big Alf” to his friends was a gentle giant; six foot tall and half as wide, with a boxer’s broken face and a soft heart in hard frame; who could silence a room simply by walking in, who could settle a debt with a firm hand on a nervous shoulder and who could pacify a problem punter just by giving them a look; and yet “Big Alf” always had a smile, a whistle and a song, and what he couldn’t solve with his fists, he could overcome with his sheer size and his charm. Being more than a decade older than Tony Mella, Alfred Melvin’s boxing days were most definitely over; not only owing to far too many knocks to the head, cracks to the ribs and a waistline which could no longer be described as “fighting fit”, but with his heart no longer being into boxing, “Big Alf” had set himself up as a florist. And although a life with his beloved wife; surrounded roses, tulips and pansies was a far-cry from the exciting world of being semi-professional pugilist, it was safe, calm and (best of all) it paid the bills… for a while at least. But around the time that “Mad Frankie Fraser” was using Tony Mella’s chest as a cutting board, Big Alf’s floristry shop - situated just off the fashionably expensive King’s Road - was struggling financially, debts were racking up and he needed money fast. One week later, Alfred Melvin was hired as the personal bodyguard of Tony Mella; it was a job he would hate, a job he would resent, and a job he would live to regret. As with having failed to learn his lesson, and now feeling he’d got a hulking great friend to protect him, Mella continued being the bastard that he always was; sly, rude, crude and obnoxious, a discourteous man with no manners, morals or sense of respect… as all the while, the ever-loyal “Big Alf” was watching his back. Ten years later, by the end of the 1962, with money even tighter and his florists shop slowly going out of business, Alfred Melvin was still working to Tony Mella as his bodyguard, but also as the club’s manager and (so he thought) his partner. Having recently purchased the three-storey building at number 48 Dean Street, which he’d renamed The Bus Stop Club, it was entirely owned by Mella but the day-to-day running of Soho’s newest clip-joint was managed by Alfred Melvin. As a boss, “Big Alf” was a sweetie; polite, proud and punctual, with a swift sharp right-hook to any drunken punter who’d dare manhandle his dancing girls. Many of whom had come to London on the promise of a glittering career as a dancer or an actress, with the club merely as a seedy stepping-stone to seeing their name in lights on London’s West End, having been duped into giving a “personal audition” to Tony Mella on his second floor casting couch. Although illicit and being a business of dubious morals which skirted the law and dealt in deception, “Big Alf” ran the clip-joint like it was a family business; everyone was looked after, everyone was cared for and everyone was paid on time, even if the money came from Alf’s own pocket, none of which he could afford. By January 1963, just a few short months since The Bus Stop’s launch, with the often-absent Tony Mella reneging on deals, shafting suppliers and syphoning off cash from this club to live the lavish lifestyle of a big-time gangster - and even though the club was in profit - “Big Alf” was £300 down (which is just shy of £5000 in today’s money). £300. Maybe that’s not a huge fortune, but for a man with a wife, kids, a house and a florists on the brink of bankruptcy, it was enough to cripple “Big Alf”. And yet, along with every other promise that Tony Mella made to his old friend and protector Alfred Melvin; the promise to pay him all the money back, the promise of a partnership in the business and the promise of a share of the club’s profits, and as much as big-hearted Alfred Melvin believed that he would, Tony Mella never kept his promises. On the evening of 28th January 1963, just before 11pm, on a quiet Monday night at The Bus Stop club, as barely a handful of punters watched a stripper lightly jiggle and wiggle her tassels, entirely unaware of the excessive bill they were about to be handed for the pleasure of a buying a dancer a woefully watered-down drink which was about as boozy as a breath-mint, the punters suddenly became distracted not by the girly action on-stage, but the un-manly action off-stage, as with voices raised, chests inflated and tempers flared, “Big Alf” bit-the-bullet and demanded his money. The club fell silent. And slowly, amidst the deafening silence in the seedy basement of 48 Dean Street, Tony Mella began to laugh. Not jokingly, not warmly, not even naturally, but sinisterly, savagely and spitefully, right back in his friend’s face. It was almost as if the last twelve years had never happened; being stitched with a bottle of whiskey by Billy Hill, being cross-crossed by Royston Smith the dwarf wrestler, and having his chest sliced apart by “Mad Frankie Fraser” and his trusty flick-knife. It was never repeated or recorded what Tony Mella said to Alfred Melvin that night, but by those who heard it, all agreed it was rude, spiteful and humiliating. It was classic Tony Mella; he goaded his friend, but knew he was too nice to fight, too smart to retort and too broke to quit. The last time Alfred Melvin was seen alive, was that evening, in his first-floor office at 48 Dean Street, at a little before 11:15pm. He was writing a letter. His resignation? You would hope so. But it wasn’t. When questioned by the Police, a waiter at the China Rose restaurant opposite The Bus Stop club confirmed that he’d heard lots of shouting and noise, following by four loud “pops”. Initially the Police suspected that this was an old style gangland killing as rival gangsters had tried to muscle in on Tony Mella’s patch, as (at that time) in Soho different gangs were engaged in a never ending series of turf wars. And whether you were a big-time dope-dealer with a handful of gambling dens, a stash of stolen shooters and sixty-five fillies fornicating in a flophouse, or were just a wet-eared wannabe on Wardour Street, you always risked being rubbed out by anyone, at any time, for any reason. As life for a Soho gangster was as messy as it was short. But this wasn’t a hit, and this wasn’t business, this was personal. At 11:15pm, on Monday 28th January 1963, through the front door of 48 Dean Street, Tony Mella burst, staggering into the street, having been shot three times in back; the first bullet punctured his lung, the second ripped through his stomach, his hand struggling to stem the blood flow, and the third bullet nicked a small hole in (what supposedly was) his heart. Antonio Benedetta Mella collapsed just shy of Romilly Street, barely twenty feet from the door, and died face down in the gutter, his last few pints of blood pumping into the street, staining it red. On the first floor of the club, the Police found Alfred Melvin in his office, sat upright in his armchair; a skillful single gunshot having entered under his chin and blasted a large hole through his head, blowing his brains up their newly decorated wall. At his feet lay a small calibre Browning pistol, with his fingerprints on the butt and trigger, and in his breast pocket, a freshly written note, to his beloved wife and now his widow, it simply read: “I’ve come into this world with nothing and I’m going out with nothing. This bastard Tony Mella has used me in every shape and form, I’ve been a drunken mug, he’s cashed in on my weakness”. And all… over £300. Supposedly, that evening, a police constable from West End Central ran into the station excitedly shouting “there’s a party in Soho tonight, Tony Mella’s dead”, as being so despised by both the Police and gangsters alike, Mella was not going to be missed, but the same couldn’t be said for “Big Alf”. A few days later, both men’s funerals were held; Tony Mella’s in Manor Park Cemetery and Alfred Melvin’s in Battersea, and as mourners struggled to find space to pay their last respects to big hearted Alf, the turnout to Tony Mella’s funeral (in comparison) was sparse. And yet, in a rare act of forgiveness, Tony’s wife sent a wreath to Melvin’s funeral and visa-versa. But before either of their husbands were even buried, Tony Mella’s patch had already been carved up by his rivals, as life went on in Soho’s seedy sex trade, and soon enough, Anthony Benedetta Mella – the self-proclaimed king of Soho… had been forgotten.
Sources:
#1 - Gangland by James Morton - link #2 - Find You Boxing Ancestor, history of Tony Mella - link #3 - Mad Frankie's Fraser's Underworld of Britain by James Morton & Frankie Fraser #4 - Murder Houses by Jan Bondeson #5 - Billy Hill: Godfather of London by Wensley Clarkson #6 - Pure Royal Holloway by Anna Whitwham - link As well as Getty Images, BBC Motion Capture Archive, National Archives at Kew, Mile End Stadium, National Newspapers Online, Jimmy Brazier, Arthur Shaw and Freddie Gough. Under the Creative Commons Agreement via Freesound.Org, the following sounds were used:
POSSIBLE AMENDMENT (01/09/17): Interestingly, Soho gangster Bert Rossi claims to have been one of the six men who inflicted the injuries to Tony Mella (which "Mad Frankie Fraser" claims was him) but as no-one was arrested for this assault, it's impossible to work out who is telling the truth , so without further evidence the episode remains as is - link
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Hmm, why's there a photo of swings? You'll see why
Anytime an infamous serial killer's childhood is mentioned, there are always four topics of conversation which are mentioned as "possible" clues to their terrifying future as a murderer - bed-wetting, animal abuse, arson and - of course - sustaining a serious head injury at an early age. Obviously, these aren't the only factors which create a serial killer, the most important one being abuse by a parent (whether physical, sexual, emotional, or often all three), but in this blog we'll just focus on serial killers who sustained a serious head injury whether by accident or by beatings from an abusive parents during their formative years, and whether their head injury caused a change in their personality, an isolation, or a lack of empathy with other people. That said, I'm not trying to justify their killings by suggesting it was entirely the fault of any brain injury.
As always, this is not a comprehensive and complete list, there I will be updating it as and when information comes to light, but if you feel there are any cases that need to be added, please feel free to comment below, or tweet me @mmiletours. Enjoy reading. Mx
Glen Edward Rogers "The Cross Country Killer" – As a toddler, aged 1-2 years old, Rogers would sit and rock back and forth, continually banging his forehead against hard surfaces (such as walls, doors, floors) and yet never once cried, as it he had no emotions or feeling.
Richard Ramirez "The Night Stalker" – Aged two, Ramirez sustained a significant injury to his head when a dresser fell on top of him, causing a laceration which required 30 stitches, and aged five years old, he was knocked out by a swing in the park, this head injury caused him to suffer from epileptic seizures which remained until he was a teenager.
John Wayne Gacy "The Killer Clown" - Aged six, Gacy as beaten unconscious by his father wielding a broomstick, and aged eleven, he was struck in the head with a swing, which (although not diagnosed until he was sixteen) it resulted in his suffering from black-outs, which were exacerbated by his congenital heart arrhythmia. Read more.
Fred West "The Gloucester Road Murders" - Aged 17, West suffered a fractured skull in a motorbike accident, which left him unconscious for seven days. Two years later, aged 19, West groped a girl on a fire escape outside the Ledbury Youth Club, she punched him and he fell two floors. Both injuries caused him to blackout and frequently suffer from violent rages.
David Berkowitz "Son of Sam" - In 1960, six year old David Berkowitz ran into the road outside his childhood home, was struck by a car and suffered unspecified head injuries, although it is not known if this had any lasting affects. A few months later, he ran into a wall and again suffered from head injuries. And aged 8, he was hit on the head with pipe and received a four inch gash.
Albert Fish "The Werewolf of Wysteria" - At the age of seven years old, Fish fell from a cherry tree, which caused severe head trauma (exact injuries unspecified) which caused him to suffer from dizzy spells and severe headaches for the rest of his life.
Ed Gein "The Plainfield Butcher" - Gein came from an abusive family and would later claim that his violent alcoholic father would beat him about the head “so hard my ears would ring”. Read more about Ed Gein
Carlton Gary, aged eight years old, Gary (who suffered from ill-health owing to malnutrition) was knocked unconscious in a playground accident, although the exact details are unspecific.
Ian Brady "The Moors Murderer" - At the age of ten, Brady was playing with a balloon in the kitchen when he slipped on spilled water (as his adoptive mother was peeling potatoes) and broke his leg. Although there is no reference to a head injury, his leg healed and wouldn’t cause him any pain/injury, it is uncertain whether his affected his personality. Read more about Ian Brady
Gary Heidnek - aged six years old, Heidnek fell out of a tree whilst playing, and although his injuries are unspecified, the fall resulted in his skull being "oddly shaped", for which he was mercilessly teased by the other children.
Charles Whitman "The Texas Tower Sniper" - Although not injured in an accident, Whitman (who murdered 17 people and injured 31 in a shooting spree), during his autopsy he was found to have a "pecan-sized" tumour inside his brain.
Alexander Pichushkin "The Chessboard Killer" - Although initially he was a sociable child, Pichushkin's personality changed when he fell backwards off of a swing, which struck him in the forehead as it swung back, damaging his frontal cortex which can produce poor impulse regulation and aggression.
Robert Joe Long "The Classified Ad Rapist" - Suffered serious head injuries in his early years; aged five he was knocked unconscious when he fell from a swing. Aged six, he lost several teeth and suffered concussion when he crashed his bicycle headfirst into a parked car. Aged seven, he fell off a pony, concussed his head and suffered from dizzy fells and nausea for weeks.
Peter Sutcliffe "The Yorkshire Ripper" - Sutcliffe was born five days premature and was starved of oxygen at birth, which resulted in him being incubated for the first ten days, fighting for his life.
Arthur Shawcross "The Genesee River Killer" - Shawcross suffered two relatively serious head injuries during his early years; aged 16 years old he was hit in the head with a sports discus and aged 20 when he fell off a ladder, hitting his head and concussing himself.
Henry Lee Lucas "The Highway Stalker" - Lucas claims to have received numerous head injuries between the ages of five and ten, the most significant was when aged seven, his mother hit him across the back of his head using a two-by-four block of wood. This injury resulted in a three day coma and caused significant damage to the pre-frontal lobe of his brain.
Dennis Rader "The BTK Killer" - In his recently released biography Confession of a Serial Killer, he stated that as an infant, his mother had accidentally dropped him on his head, he had stopped breathing and had turned blue, but she did not taken him to a hospital.
Interestingly, after Ted Bundy's execution, his brain was removed during the autopsy and was x-rayed, but showed no evidence of injury or abnormality. It's worth noting, there was a fascinating piece in the Washington Post which claimed that serial killers and more likely to have suffered from a head trauma as a child, or even autism. Read the article here. Criminologist Dr Adrian Raine scanned the brains of 40+ convicted killers and compared them to "ordinary people" and he found that serial killers have lower activity in the pre-frontal area of the brain. “This is the area that controls aggression, concentration and regulates impulse control. Psychopaths also have shrunken amygdala – the seat of the brain that controls emotion, which explains their lack of empathy, remorse or guilt when they hurt others”
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Got a friend who's a nightmare to buy Christmas presents for? Do you have a certain special someone in your life who loves gifts which are out of the ordinary? Are they a big fan of true-crime, horror and history, but they've got every book/film that's ever been made? If shopping for them is "murder", then treat them to Murder Mile Walks gift vouchers.
Murder Mile Walks is a guided tour of Soho's (London) most infamous murder cases, featuring 12 murderers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 mysterious deaths, all in just two hours. Along with 126 FIVE STAR reviews, Murder Mile Walks has been awarded:
True-Crime Fans: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast is live and features 300+ untold, unsolved and (often) long-forgotten murder cases, all within one square mile. To listen to an episode or to subscribe to the podcast (it's all free), click here or PODCAST in the tab above. .
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
A panoramic view of Denmark Street (left to Charing Cross Road, right to St Giles' High Street)
Welcome to the Murder Mile podcast, a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous (and often forgotten) murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End.
EPISODE ONE
Episode One: The Denmark Place Fire is widely regarded as one of Britain's deadliest mass-murders (in terms of death-toll it was worse than the King's Cross Fire and even the Great Fire of London) and yet the true story of what happened on 16th August 1980 is largely forgotten.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via i-Tunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right).
THE LOCATION
This episode is dedicated to those who died in the Denmark Place Fire; Sylvia Aguire, Alvaro Barrios, Pamela Bough, Beiddredin Bulati, Archibald O'Donnell Campbell, Leonard Carroll, Diana Coward, Clancy Dcedaran, Maria Dick, Peter Alan Dolan, Paul Fiorilo, Jose Franco, Carol Gorey, Maria Gumiel, Theresa Gumiel, Denise Henaghan, Christina Isherwood, Luz Mary Londono, Avril McDermot, Diana McIlvaney, Gloria Munoz, Anita Murray, Antonio Navaro, Bridget Norton, Julian Ortegon-Garces, Segg Putahu, William Ramsey, Alexander Reid, Juan Antonio Sagasta-Juldain, Edgar Smith, Carlos Alberto Soto, Robert Sirton, Eustace Ralph Taylor-Harding, Plutarco Alejandro Vargas Bernett,, Hernan Vargas, Beatrice Vargas-Corrales and Frederick Yule.
DOWNLOAD this episode of Murder Mile Episode #1 - The Denmark Place Fire.
You can also listen to the podcast live, by clicking PLAY on this embedded player above.
Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible). The music was written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name.
Next episode: Double Murder at The Bus Stop Club (due Sunday 15th October 2017).
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
As part of the Murder Mile Podcast - a true-crime podcast of the most infamous and often forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of London's West End - I shall also be uploading the full unedited transcript of the episode, which will contain all of the information, histories and backstories which I was unable to provide in the podcast episode owing to time-constraints.
You can DOWNLOAD episode #1 via i-tunes, by clicking download, and by clicking "subscribe", you'll receive the very latest episodes as they're released. Or listen to Episode #1 The Denmark Place Fire right now, by clicking the green PLAY button on the media player below. Full Transcript - Episode #1 The Denmark Place Fire
INTRO: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London’s most notorious (and often forgotten) murder cases, all set within one square mile of the West End.Today’s episode is a guided walk of one of Britain’s deadliest mass-murders, it’s a crime so horrific, it’s shocking that the perpetrator himself isn’t uttered in the same breath as Shipman, Brady or The Wests, and yet, almost forty years on, the culprit, the victims and even the story itself is almost entirely forgotten. The question you have to ask yourself is “why?” Murder Mile contains vivid descriptions which may not be suitable for those of a sensitive disposition, as well as photos, videos and maps which accompany this series, so that no matter where you’re listening to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 1: The Denmark Place Fire.
SCRIPT: Today, I am standing on Denmark Street, WC2; a stumpy little thoroughfare nestling in the borough of St Giles in the beating heart London’s bustling West End, just a stones-throw from Tottenham Court Road (to the north), Covent Garden (to the south) and Theatreland and Soho (to the west). Looking tatty, tired and a little unloved, Denmark Street consists of a mishmash of three and four storey buildings, cobbled together over four centuries, and yet almost all feature a wealth of music shops on the ground floor with office space and apartments above. Some of the buildings are listed, other are not, and a few have been abandoned, leaving behind an empty shell full of rat’s turds, dust, debris and distant memories. At just 270 feet long and 30 feet wide, Denmark Street is the type of street you could easily miss in a sprawling metropolis like London, situated (as it is) at the arse-end of the A40, with the grade 1 listed splendour of St Giles In Fields Church at one end, a simple set of traffic lights to Charring Cross Road at the other, under the looming menace of the Centre Point skyscraper and surrounded by the dull drone of demolition as the bulldozers and diggers of Crossrail level great swathes of the city. Before this street and its seedy little sister – Denmark Place - became synonymous with murder, Denmark Street dubbed “Tin Pan Alley” was once a mecca for aspiring musicians, such as The Kinks, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Small Faces and Jimi Hendrix, all who either lived, wrote or recorded here; the Sex Pistols lived above no6, Elton John wrote in Regent Sounds Studio at no4, and a young David Bowie slept in his camper van by night, as by day he soaked up the ambiance of London’s rock & roll utopia. What Carnaby Street was to the London fashion scene of the sixties and seventies, Denmark Street was to music. But by 1980, with the streets strewn with litter, squatters having moved in and much of its sparkle gone, Denmark Street would become infamous for something unsavoury… a murder, a mass-murder, so cruel, so callous and so deadly, it’s shocking that such a heinous crime is barely known. The story of one of London’s deadliest mass-murders has been reduced a whisper, its memory almost entirely forgotten and the last hint that this street holds a dark history is about to be erased… forever. In late 1970’s London, Cuban popular dance music known as Salsa was a little-known part of the underground music scene in Soho’s club land, made popular as South & Central American immigrants came to the city, on a one-to-three year visa, as part of the Department of Employment’s recruitment programme to fill British hotels with service staff on a minimum wage. One such man was Hernan Vargas, a twenty-six year old Columbian of slim-stature, who by day slogged his guts out in a menial job just to make-ends-meet, but by night, he lived for the music, he lived to dance and he lived to salsa. Nicknamed “El Flaco” (which means “skinny”), Hernan Vargas was the resident DJ at El Escondite (alias “The Hiding Place”); an illegally run nightclub ran by Lubin Reyes, which was hidden-from-view in a disused attic on Hanway Street, an unlit seedy little side-street between Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, until they were shut-down by the Police and promptly re-opened just one street away at 18 Denmark Place and renamed El Hueco (which aptly translates as “The Hole”). 18 Denmark Place, a former 19th century three-story coach-house and home of El Hueco, was owned by Victor Gonzalez, a shady businessman from Spain with a passion for gambling but a greater thirst for profit, who - like many of London’s illegal club owners, bolstered his illicit income by a fleet of hardly hygienic hotdog carts which flooded the city streets – it was operated under the radar of the Police, Fire Brigade and the local Council, flouting licencing laws, ignored gaming regulations and was devoid of fire alarms, sprinklers, extinguishers and a fully working fire-escape. But the dangers aside, for many El Hueco was a safe haven, a release; a chance to drink, chat and dance, and regardless of whether you were Columbian, Spanish, Jamaican, Irish or English; a waiter, a painter, dish-washer or a hotdog vendor, here you could be whoever you wanted to be. This was a private club for a very select group; with no sign on the walls and no bouncers on the door, if you wanted in, you rang the bell, you waited, and if your face, name and membership number fitted the bill, the key was tossed down, the door was opened and you were in. The night of Saturday 16th August 1980 was no exception, as - after another tedious game of cat & mouse between the council and Victor Gonzalez - Lubin Reyes was informed that once again his club night would be shut-down by the Police on Monday morning, and so blessed with two days grace, El Hueco would host a farewell party. With the rulebook thrown out the window, the drinks flowed and the clubbers grooved as Hernan “Skinny” Vargas spun hot Salsa tunes from his decks, but safety was the last thing on everyone’s mind, as this night was going to be a night to remember. By 2am, after a long hot summer where the temperatures had soared into the low 30’s, over one hundred and fifty drinkers, dancers and gamblers had crammed into the first and second floor of 18 Denmark Place; the air was thick with smoke, the walls were soaked with sweat and even the drinks were warm to the touch. Unfortunately, one man’s temperature was getting a little too hot. John Thompson, a 42 year old resident of Morning Lane in Hackney was a semi-regular guest at the gambling club, with prior convictions for drug-dealing, arson and petty-theft, Thompson went by the nicknames of “The Gypsy” (having been born into a travelling community in Scotland) and “Punch” (owing to fiery temper, drunken rages and being a little too handy with his fists). By 3am, Thompson had drank himself into a drunken stupor, yet again having blown a sizeable chunk of money playing poker and ploughing coins into the slot-machine, and now he was looking for someone to blame. As per usual, Jose Franco (the manager of the venue) bore the brunt of Thompson’s abuse, receiving both barrels in the form of fists, fury and racial slurs, and therefore (rightly) Thompson was forcibly ejected off the premises, thrown out into the dingy darkness of Denmark Place, as the fiery Scotsman’s temper was taken out on every wall, door and dustbin as he staggered out of the tiny alley, until finally… he was gone. And so, with a cheer, a giggle and a round of applause, the farewell party continued. But twenty minutes later, Thompson returned and he wanted revenge. Having taken a return trip to the nearest service-station in Camden, Thompson staggered out of a black cab on St Giles’ High Street, into the claustrophobic blackness of Denmark Place and drunkenly stumbled the final two-hundred feet to number 18. Thompson was witnessed moments later, crouching down in a doorway, but with no working street lamps, no neon signs and no lights on, this clandestine little cut-through (so cramped that even the moonlight couldn’t illuminate it) was the perfect spot for a murder. Dismissed as just another drunk, the witness failed to see the rage on Thompson’s face, failed to hear the anger in his voice and failed to spot the ominous bulge in his jacket, as above him, the music pumped, making his blood boil. Inside, the party was in full swing; the night was hot, the air was thick and (to keep the party secret) the windows were shut; but Jose Franco kept the cool drinks flowing, Hernan “Skinny” Vargas kept Salsa tracks spinning (with a mix from his own personal collection that he kept in the attic) and Eduardo Trujillo toasted the last days of his best friend Elizabeth Mercado, having booked her airline tickets to take her back home to Columbia. Outside, having blocked the only entrance or exit to both clubs, Thompson opened his jacket, pulled out a black metal can, and poured through the letterbox two gallons of petrol. Inside the club, no-one noticed the temperature rise. No-one heard the crackle of fire as the flames licked up the wooden walls. And no-one smelled the chocking smoke above the thick aroma of tobacco and sweaty bodies. At a little after 3:30am, Lubin Reyes heard a bang; not a big bang, but enough of a bang to be heard over the music, and asked “Did you hear that?” but no-one was sure so he went out to check. What greeted him was an inferno, the entire central stairwell was engulfed in flames as fire licked up the tinder-dry walls, making the security doors too hot to touch, let alone open. Another bang shook the stairwell, then another, and another, as the ground-floor erupted with a series of explosions, as (having converted the concrete-floored space into a parking bay) it housed almost thirty hotdog vendor’s trolleys, each packing two 13kg bottles of highly flammable propane. Seeing the flames fill the ground-floor and quickly envelop the two further floors, John Thompson fled. Not to call for the fire brigade, not to call for an ambulance, not to get any help at all, but to run. To run away from the fiery hell that he had created out of anger and petty spite, leaving over one hundred and fifty innocent people trapped inside a burning building, their screams still ringing in his ears as many were burned alive. The Soho Fire Brigade based at 126 Shaftsbury Avenue (barely a 1/3 mile away) were alerted to the blaze just a few minutes later. Six fire-engines screamed down Charing Cross Road and turning right into Denmark Street, only to be confronted by a scene which shocked even seasoned professionals. At first, with the street being so ominously quiet, the fire brigade thought that they’d been sent to the wrong address, and they had. They also thought that maybe this was a hoax, but at no 21 Denmark Street (the building which 18 Denmark Place backed onto) they could see smoke seeping through the shuttered windows… and beyond that, they could hear screaming. When David Parre, a firefighter from the Soho Brigade’s Green Watch approached the ground floor of 21 Denmark Street (formerly home to Rhodes Music Store), he was greeted by a sight which has haunted him forever, as trapped inside the store was a frantic man, wielding an electric guitar like it was an axe, desperately trying to smash the security grille on the window to escape. It took the firefighters four minutes to break through the double-thickness, triple bolted, steal-lined security door at the front of Rhodes Music Store, but they were too late. As having escaped the horrifying inferno in El Hueco, the desperate man died of asphyxiation, just a few feet from safety. But it wasn’t until the Soho Fire Brigade arrived on Denmark Place (the alley at the rear), that they saw the full horror of the scene. Divisional Fire Officer Roy Baldwin later stated “as we arrived on Denmark Place, the whole building was ablaze, people were ripping wooden shutters off the windows, they were smashing glass with their bare hands, people were throwing themselves from the second and third floor, out into the alley below, their clothes still on fire, smashing their bones”. With the alley being barely 10 feet wide, and blocked by bollards, none of the six fire-engines could enter Denmark Place, so the fire-fighters had to tackle the blaze by hand, aiming heavy hoses at the inferno, as bodies rained down and a humid wind whipped up the alley, fanning the flames further. With solid walls made from oak timbers, the floors of thick wooden beams and every side lined with plasterboard (even the wrought-iron fire-escape was covered in plywood), it took almost three hours to extinguish the fire, and a further six before the building was safe to enter, as the fire consumed a lethal mix of petrol, alcohol and propane. Inside, everything was black, and dark, and wet. The air was thick with black acrid smoke, the smell of petrol stung your nostrils and hot melted plastic dripped from the ceiling. The ferocity of the fire was so intense that it bent floors and buckled doors, but the true horror of the inferno was yet to greet the fire-fighters, as they approached the bar where over one hundred and fifty terrified patrons had panicked, unable to escape the flames of El Hueco. The layout of the bar was described in court as “a death-trap”; “lethal”; the room was long and narrow, tightly packed with long wooden benches, with just a single entrance or exit at one end of the bar, which – when crammed full of sweaty bodies to the point where you could hardly breathe (let alone move) under the best of circumstances – it was impossible to escape. And on this night, El Hueco’s farewell party, it was unusually busy. Fire Officer Baldwin described the charred aftermath of the barroom: he said “I have never seen bodies packed together like that before. The fire must have spread too quickly. People were still sitting at tables, they were slumped at the bar, many still had drinks in their hands. Of the survivors, people talked of screaming, of skin peeling off faces, of trying to get out, but finding the doors locked. Inside, nobody stood a chance”. Green Watch’s fire-brigade photographer Alan Freeman described the horror as “…it was as if the bodies were dominoes that had been pushed over…” and as panic enveloped the room, as the terrified punters rushed to escape, they were forced “to climb over bodies three deep". Some died where they sat, some died where they stood and others died huddled together in the corner, as amongst the indecipherable charred blackness of the bar, the only evidence of life… were skulls. It took four pathologists and three dentists two months to identify the bodies. Celebrating her final night in London before her return flight to Columbia, Elizabeth Mercado and her friend Eduardo Trujillo escaped the blaze, suffering broken bones and second degree burns as they leapt from a second-story window. They were two of the twenty-three people who were confirmed as wounded and escaped with their lives. Thirty-seven people died in the Denmark Place fire; fourteen women, twenty-three men and one unborn baby. The rest of the party’s revellers simply vanished into the night; too traumatised by the horror to give witness testimony, too terrified by the blaze to seek medical help, and too scared of the repercussions by the authorities given their dubious immigration status. Those who died in the Denmark Place fire were; Sylvia Aguire, Alvaro Barrios, Pamela Bough, Beiddredin Bulati, Archibald O'Donnell Campbell, Leonard Carroll, Diana Coward, Clancy Dcedaran, Maria Dick, Peter Alan Dolan, Paul Fiorilo, Jose Franco, Carol Gorey, Maria Gumiel, Theresa Gumiel, Denise Henaghan, Christina Isherwood, Luz Mary Londono, Avril McDermot, Diana McIlvaney, Gloria Munoz, Anita Murray, Antonio Navaro, Bridget Norton, Julian Ortegon-Garces, Segg Putahu, William Ramsey, Alexander Reid, Juan Antonio Sagasta-Juldain, Edgar Smith, Carlos Alberto Soto, Robert Sirton, Eustace Ralph Taylor-Harding, Plutarco Alejandro Vargas Bernett, Hernan Vargas, Beatrice Vargas-Corrales and Frederick Yule. Of those who died; Harnan “Skinny” Vargas, the resident DJ at El Hueco died trying to save his prized collection of vinyl records which he’d stored in the attic; Jose Franco, the bar manager who’d escorted John Thompson off the premises died trying to escort people to safety, and (one of the youngest victims) 17 year old Alex Reid died, having heroically re-entered the burning building to rescue a pregnant woman. Neither survived. Victor Gonzalez (the owner of 18 Denmark Place) and Lubin Reyes (the club promoter for El Hueco) both survived the fire, neither men were charged, and shortly afterward both men disappeared With the exception of the Times, the Observer and the Glasgow Herald, very few newspapers followed the story, choosing instead to focus on the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper, where-as those who did, wrongly assumed it was a dispute between drug dealers, a grudge attack involving South American politics, or it was part of a gangland feud between two rival groups of hotdog vendors. Having been identified by the service-station manager and the black-cab driver, John “The Gypsy” Thompson was arrested just two days later. He appeared at Bow Street Magistrates Court on 29th August 1980 where he pleaded “not guilty” to the charge of murder. At his trial, Thompson’s defence was that he was “drunk”, and then proceeded to blame Jose Franco, the deceased bar manager at El Hueco, for “over-charging” his for “a drink”. Thompson was found guilty of a specimen charge (multiple acts of varying levels of criminality) on 7th May 1981 with one charge of 1st degree arson, one (unrelated) charge of 2nd degree arson, one charge of manslaughter (having mistakenly caused the death of his friend who was inside club and died in the fire) and thirty-six counts of murder. But after the abolition of the Death Penalty in 1965, Thompson was given the harshest sentence the British legal system could give him – life imprisonment. That’s thirty years. Not even one year for each of his victims. The Denmark Place fire is widely regarded “one of the deadliest blazes in London since the Blitz of World War Two”, and yet – unlike the King’s Cross fire (with 31 people dead) and the Great Fire of London (just 6 people dead) – those who died at 18 Denmark Place have almost been forgotten. There is no plaque on the wall, no memorial above the door, and (as of today) the building is now entirely demolished. John “The Gypsy” Thompson, the 42 year old petty thief, convicted drug-dealer and (now) widely considered “one of Britain’s worst mass-murderers” was eligible for parole in May 2011… but following a long-battle with lung cancer, he died alone, in a prison hospital, on the 16th August 2008 – coincidentally on the 28th anniversary of the Denmark Place Fire.
Sources:
#1 - Salsa For People Who Probably Shouldn't by Matt Rendall - link #2 - London Fire Brigade Press Release - link #3 - London's Disasters by John Whittington - link #4 - London's Forgotten Disasters in Londonist - link #5 - Wikipedia page on Denmark Place Fire - link #6 - News report - www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBQkfnd6JgYlink As well as National Newspaper Archive and the British Library, Old Bailey online, Westminster Coroner's Court, National Archives at Kew, Freda Bright, Damian Gallagher and other sources who which to remain nameless. Under the Creative Commons Agreement via Freesound.Org, the following sounds were used:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
It's odd that almost every religion has a vow which decrees "thou shalt not kill"; a pretty bog-standard easy-to-follow rule which at least 99.99999% of the people on this planet manage to keep to on a daily basis, even if some of us are atheists - and yet a recent study has shown that "people of faith" are more likely to be murderers than atheists - so does religion does play a big part in the life of many serial killers and murderers? Let's take a peek at who has what faith.
As always, this is not a fully comprehensive list and I will be updating it as-and-when new data comes to light, but if you have any "accurate" information (with a link to a proven source), feel free to leave it in the comments section below. Thank you and enjoy. Mx
No known religion: Albert DeSalvo, Arthur Shawcross, Beverley Allitt, Colin Ireland, Derrick Bird, Donald Neilson, Paul Bernardo, Kenneth Bianchi, Richard Chase, Ray & Faye Copeland, Charles Cullen, Dorothea Puente, Kristen Gilbert, Larry Eyler, Henry Lee Lucas, Fred West, George Joseph Smith, Glen Edward Rogers, Graham Young, Ian Brady, Jeremy Bamber, Joanna Dennehy, John Childs, John Straffen, Kenneth Erskine, Michael Lupo, Michael Ryan, Orville Lynn Majors, Patrick MacKay, Peter Bryan, Randall Woodfield, Ray Fernandez & Martha Beck, Raymond Morris, Robert Black, Robert Maudsley, Rose West, Stephen Akinmurele, Stephen Griffiths, Stephen Port, Steve Wright, Steven Grieveson, Ted Kaczynski and Trevor Hardy. Important: this does not mean they didn't have a religion, just that (as of yet) I have been unable to find evidence that religion played an "important" part of their life/upbringing etc.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
An introductory episode of Murder Mile is available via i-Tunes
Sunday 1st October 2017, the Murder Mile true-crime podcast launches, featuring 300+ infamous and long-forgotten murder cases, all set within one square mile in London's West End.
Murder Mile is a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk combined, the idea being that, as you listen to each episode, absorbing vivid descriptions of the locations, victims and murderers, all whilst enjoying the realistic sounds of the street itself. Therefore, even if you've never been to London's West End (or ever intend to visit), you'll feel like you're actually there at the murder location, as with each episode there's also an accompanying blog full of videos, photos, links and even an interactive murder map showing where each murder is. If you're bored with listening the same old tired stories being rehashed for the billionth time, then the Murder Mile true-crime podcast is perfect for you, as many of these murder cases have either gone unreported, misreported, almost forgotten or lost to the midst of time, the evidence of which I am personally researching using reliable sources, first-person testimony, court transcripts and many painstaking hours trawling through the National Archives and uncovering new evidence. You'll hear fresh, dark and unusual true stories for the first time, because (even as a avid crime researcher and tour guide of London murder locations) I'm hearing them for the first time too.
If you want to hear a very brief (4 minute) introduction to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast, click the green PLAY button on the media player below.
Subscribe to the Murder Mile True-Crime Podcast via i-tunes, by clicking SUBSCRIBE
Or you can follow us on Facebook and Twitter for the latest updates, or to learn more about the Murder Mile true-crime podcast, the host and the upcoming episodes, click here.
The Murder Mile true-crime podcast is researched, written and performed by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult with No Name. The piece of music used in the introduction above is from their latest album 'Heir of the Dog' and is called 'Winsome, Lose Some'.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Legal Notice: This is NOT a serial killers child... probably
If you've read my blogs before, you know that I love to delve deep into the minutiae of the every day lives of serial killers and mass-murderers, to work out what makes them so different from the average person, but also how similar we all are, such as their weight, height, birth order, diets, favourite drinks, height, IQ, star signs, lunar cycles, dates of birth, reasons for killing, music and nicknames, to name but a few.
This week I shall be delving into lives of 85 infamous serial killers and mass-murderers from the UK and USA and drawing up a list of which had biological children prior to or during their murders, and which were entirely childless, many of whom were married or in relationships. As always, these blogs are updated with new information as and when it comes to light, therefore these lists are not fully comprehensive, but if you have any new details, please tweet me at @mmiletours
Serial-killer & Murderers with Children:
Entirely Childless Serial Killers & Murderers: David Berkowitz, Edmund Kemper, Jeffrey Dahmer, Joel Rifkin, Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, John Reginald Christie, Ian Brady, Myra Hindley, Dennis Nilsen, Joanna Dennehy, Robert Black, Graham Young, Michael Lupo, Stephen Port, Rodney Alcala, Ted Kaczynski, Robert “Willie” Pickton, Ronald Dominique, Larry Eyler, Randall Woodfield, Donald Henry Gaskins, Dean Arnold Corll, Lee Boyd Malvo, Orville Lynn Majors, Herbert Mullin, Arthur Shawcross, Paul Bernardo, Ray Fernandez & Martha Beck, Doug Clark, Kenneth Bianchi, Richard Chase, Henry Lee Lucas, Patrick MacKay, Robert Maudsley, Colin Ireland, Kenneth Erskine, Steven Grieveson, Stephen Griffiths, Trevor Hardy, Robert Napper, George Joseph Smith, Peter Manuel, Beverley Allitt, Steve Wright, John Straffen, Peter Bryan, David Copeland, Michael Ryan, Stephen Akinmurele and John Bodkin Adams. Please note: some of these serial-killers / murderers may have had step-children or their partners may have had children, but I am only counting biological children.
That's a pretty substantial list of adults, who were of biological age to have children, but never did, whether this is because they found it hard to remain in a "loving" relationship (owing to their mental, physical or emotional peculiarities), it is hard to tell.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
A lot is known about many of the world's most notorious serial killers, but often we overlook the people who knew these murderers on a day-to-day basis and understood them on a level which none of us could ever understand, they are their lovers. Whether a wife, husband, girl/boyfriend or ex', these people give an invaluable insight into the mind of a serial killer.
So, who were these people who dated, got engaged to, married and (hopefully) divorced from some of the world's most infamous serial killers? Which killers were single? And, who were these twisted people who actually married a known serial killer... AFTER they were arrested for murder? As always, this is not a comprehensive list and it will be updated over time. Please note: as gay married has only recently been legalised in the UK/USA, any gay serial killers (who weren't a marriage prior to this change in the law, I've had to put in the single category, as this blog is about being "married" to a serial killer. Don't blame me! Blame politicians and their inability to realise that the times have changed.
Married (before/during) Murders:
Married (after) Murders/Crimes
Killers Couples
Single / Dated Only: (or unmarried owing to a lack of equal rights for gay couples)
If you "enjoyed" this blog post, why not take a peek at; Serial Killers & Murderers Who Were Never Caught, London's Deadliest & Often Forgotten Disasters, Are More Serial KIllers Born During a Full Moon, Killer's Birthdays / Star Signs, Serial Killers Who Were On TV, Celebrities Who Have Killed, London's Railway of Death, Serial Killers as Kids and the World's Weirdest Death Rituals
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten quirky & unusual things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
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