Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Right! Let’s learn more about some infamous murderers, dspots and serial killers on a more social level. This week: music, what are their musical tastes?
So what’s so fascinating about the musical tastes of murderers? Surely, they all listen to either thrash metal (the choice of every angry, sweaty, smelly basement-dwelling leather-clad fan of tinned hotdogs and tinnitus), classical (the choice of uptight, sad, single, tweed-wearing, sacked Geography teachers who stink of bleach, Bovril and BO) and opera (the choice of all arseholes called Hubert). I’m guessing. Oh relax, the first album I ever owned was Touch Me! By ex-Page Three Girl Sam Fox. Go figure. (sing). Well, unlike in interviews where most murderers pretend to be candid but have actually pre-prepared their answers to make themselves seem deeper, smarter or nuttier, learning what they listened to can give you a better insight into their true-selves. Although, what their choice means, is up to you. So… Rose West of the infamous 25 Crowell Street murders, who is currently serving a life sentence at Low Newton Prison in Durham, having sadistically tortured and murdered ten young girls with her husband, including her own step-daughter, was raised listening to her dad’s personal favourites of Elvis Presly and Bill Haley, but she adored 1950’s crooner and later the BBC disc jockey Jimmy Young (whose had top ten hits with love songs like Chain Gang, Someone on your Mind and Too Young). Okay, I may have accidentally cherry-picked these song-titles. Fred West, her husband, who hung himself in prison before he could be found guilty of (at least) twelve murders with his wife, was a huge fan of black American country music star Charley Pride, who sang such heartfelt emotional ballads as “kiss an angel good morning”, “I’m so afraid of losing you again” and “I can’t believe you stopped loving me”. Dennis Nilsen dubbed “the kindly killer”; prior to strangling each of his young slim victims, and later fondling and defiling their slowly cooling corpses, used to get himself “in the mood” by listening to Tommy by The Who (which is oddly a rock opera about a sexually abused boy), Journey to the Centre of the Earth by prog-rock legend Rick Wakeman, Royal Philharmonic’s bastardisation of Bach called Hooked on Classics, and – his personal favourite - Frankenstein by The Edgar Winter Group. Many of these hits Nilsen would play on his own personal keyboard in HMP Full Sutton prison. Peter Sutcliffe, known as the “Yorkshire Ripper”, who murdered 13 women and attempted to kill seven others, loved a truly eclectic mix of music; as seen on the C90 cassettes he kept, many of which have since been sold to morbid collectors. Predictably he liked Mozart’s Requiem, he was a fan of Hot Chocolate, Bee Gees. The Eurythmics and Earth Wind and Fire; he loved reggae, with his favourites being “the first time I ever saw your face” by Marcia Griffiths, “please don’t make me cry” by UB40 and “wonderful world, beautiful people” by Jimmy Cliff and – strangely for a man with a real hatred for women – he loved Joan Baez (rhymes with wise) especially songs like “don’t think twice, it’s alright”, “all my trials” and “Joe Hill” (which he lists as “Joe you’re ten years dead”). Oddly, very little is known about Myra Hindley’s musical tastes prior to meeting Ian Brady, but upon dating him, she developed a shared love of Wagner (Hitler’s favourite), as well as a series of popular songs which Hindley & Brady used as a secret reference to their victims, such as; “Girl Don’t Come” by Sandie Shaw, “It’s All Over Now” by Joan Baez, “Legion’s Last Patrol” by Ken Thorne, “24 From Tulsa” by Gene Pitney and “It’s Over” by Roy Orbison. And yet, sadly for murderer Robert Maudsley (correct spelling is Mawdsley, for reference, don't worry everyone gets it wrong), who was horrifically abused as a child, went on to kill a child rapist and having murdered a fellow inmate – in a story which tabloid hacks cruelly dubbed him ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’ as they claimed he ate the prisoner’s brain, which was complete an utter bullshit (amongst anyone with an IQ above 6, the nickname stuck), sadly Robert Maudsley has spent 23 hours a day, every day, for the last 40 years in solitary confinement in a five metre by four metre bullet-proof cell in Wakefield Prison with a table and chair made from cardboard. And even though he loves classical music? He has never been allowed a radio, and hasn’t heard music since 1983. For our friends overseas, here’s a few for you; John Wayne Gacy, dubbed the “killer clown” loved Keep On Loving You and Take It On The Run by REO Speedwagon. Jeffrey Dahmer, the “Milwaukie cannibal” loved Black Sabbath’s Paranoid, The Wizard and Iron Man, and Charles Manson, the supremely dull news-whore and the former cult leader of Helter Skelter, claimed The Beatles’ White Album was a message to his followers about the upcoming race wars… and yaddy yaddy yah, etc, but he was a big fan of The Beach Boys, the Mammas & The Pappas and Neil Young. And, finally, what about military despots and dictators (and, before you ask, no a “dictator” is not a military maniac whose penis resembles a King Edward potato, although that could explain a lot) Adolf Hitler, we call know that the “Nazi Nutjob” was a huge fan of Wagner and apparently carried around a copy of Tristan und Isolde (Ih-solder) in his knapsack, but former Libyan dictator Colonel Gaddafi reportedly paid out millions of dollars for Nelly Furtado, Maria Carey, 50 Cent, Lionel Richie, Usher, Kanye West and Beyonce to personally perform for him and his family. Environmentally-friendly frontman and political flag-waver Sting was paid £1million to perform for the daughter of Uzbek president – Islam Karimov – who has been denounced for serious human rights violations, the massacre of protestors and – ironically – has a dreadful environmental record. Having has his ITunes account hacked, it was revealed that the favourite songs of Syria’s Bashar Al-Assad are I’m Sexy & I know It by the gold jock-strapped prancers LMFAO, I’m Too Sexy and Don’t Talk Just Kiss by the notoriously camp and openly homosexual songsters Right Said Fred, as well as Hurt by Leona Lewis, Look at Me Now by Chris Brown and A Tribute to Cliff Richard.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK 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 SEVENTY-SEVEN:
On Monday 28th February 1949, 39 year old John George Haigh; an amiable and smartly-dressed director of an engineering firm sat in interview room three of Chelsea Police Station, assisting the police with the disappearance of his friend Mrs Henrietta Durand-Deacon. And yet, in this interview, Johnny Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would brazenly confess to six perfect murders, knowing that without a body, the Police could do nothing.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of Chelsea Police Station on 2 Lucan Place marked with a red dot. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable. Sadly, as photo of Emily & Patrick are copyrighted, I can't post them here.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
SOURCES: This series was researched using the original declassified police files held at the National Archives, the Metropolitan Archives, the Wellcome Collection, the Crime Museum, etc. MUSIC:
SOUNDS:
TRANSCRIPT: SULPHURIC:1 JOHN GEORGE HAIGH (Serial Killer)
For the best part of an hour and a half, the two men sat opposite each other in a small dimly-lit room; they smoked, made small-talk, did the crossword and occasionally (as bouts of boredom took him) Johnny had a little snooze, as Albert kept him fed and watered with a steady supply of tea and toast. Earlier in the afternoon of Monday 28th February 1949, 39 year old John Haigh; a respected director of an engineering firm (who was Johnny to his pals and Sonny to his beloved parents) had once again volunteered his time to assist the Police following the disappearance of his good friend, co-tenant and prospective business partner, Mrs Henrietta Durand-Deacon, who he had reported missing. Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station was barely big enough for two men, let alone four, so being just eight foot square with no windows, a small table, four wooden chairs and only one door, as Chief Superintendent Thomas Barratt and Divisional Detective Inspector Shelley Symes had stepped away, Detective Inspector Albert Webb and Johnny Haigh passed the time, awaiting their return. Johnny was an unassuming little fellow; five foot eight and ten stone at a push with a weedy little body that a stiff breeze could easily blow over. Raised well; he was polite, calm and respectful. As a dapper middle-class gent’, he was fastidiously neat with shiny black shoes, a starched shirt and a smart brown suit, topped off with a red tie and socks as a bold flourish of colour. And although Johnny was just a few weeks from his fortieth birthday, he looked almost boyish; being blessed with a little round face, dimples in his cheeks, a neat side parting and a feeble little moustache, who spoke well and never swore, but always at a slightly feminine pitch, as if his voice had never broken. Yes, it’s fair to say that Johnny Haigh was a pleasant sort of chap, who was unassuming, unthreatening, amiable and easily forgettable… and although they couldn’t prove it, the Police suspected otherwise. Being locked in an airless box, a ticking clock, a numb bum and Webb saying nothing as years in the force had taught him the unsettling power of silence; at 7:15pm, Johnny piped-up (Haigh) “What are they doing now? Symes and Barrett I mean”. Webb bluntly uttered (Webb) “Well John, I don’t really know, but I should imagine they are working hard in order to get you hanged”. Unperturbed, Johnny asked “Hanged, what on earth for?”, falling into the trap which Webb had set (Webb) “Oh, you know very well that they only hang people for one reason in this country, don’t you John?”. And he did. Over the last five years, unassuming little Johnny Haigh had befriended six wealthy persons; the Swan family, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon; he had assumed their identities, inherited their estates, drained their assets and all six had mysteriously vanished, and almost no-one had noticed. And as a cocky impish grin spread across his boyish face and his eyes (like cold dark marbles) twinkled, Johnny smirked (Haigh) “You can’t prove I murdered anybody. You can’t prove a murder without a body”. As with a callous coolness, the little killer quipped “…you know those people that disappeared. They no longer exist. No trace of them will ever be found. If I told you the truth, you would not believe it”. And yet, right there, in Interview Room Three at Chelsea Police Station, John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers would brazenly confess to six perfect murders; the how, the where and the when, every single detail… but without a body, the Police could do nothing. (Whisper) Sulphuric. (Fizzes, tails off) John George Haigh was born on 27th April 1909, the only child of John & Emily Haigh, a mining engineer and a housewife; thirty seven years old, married for eleven and faithful right through their old age. Johnny’s entrance into the world was unremarkable. Born in the bedroom of a small terraced house at 22 King’s Road in Stamford (Lincolnshire), a respectable upper-working-class street for the skilled and educated in a prosperous mining community, although a little small, his birth was uneventful. As a baby, he was no bother at all; he slept well, ate well, played quietly, rarely cried and being blessed with no diseases, disabilities or deformities, his health was never an issue. In fact, as to be expected from a family with no history of drink or drugs, assaults or abuse, instability, insanity or incarceration, as a good boy who never had a tantrum, there were no significant events which troubled his early life. In 1910, the family moved to a larger home at 112 Ledger Lane in Outwood, north of Wakefield and for the rest of their lives, they suffered no period of unemployment, poverty, depression or separation. As a boy, John whole-heartedly adopted his parent’s beliefs by becoming a member of the protestant nonconformist sect, the Plymouth Brethren. A small puritanical group with a strict moral code, a dour formal dress and an unflinching politeness, who believed that The Bible was the word of God, so unless it is expressly stated, everything was forbidden; including Easter, Christmas and wearing crucifixes. So devout were the Plymouth Brethren, they shunned anything that distracts from the serving of God. Hence the Haigh household was always neat, clean but sparse, and with no radio, newspapers or books (except The Bible), they kept their minds pure, their hearts innocent and all sins at a distance. And to ensure this, hospitality was forbidden, friends were limited to those of their tiny congregation and John Snr built an eight foot wall around their back garden to shield them from any outside influences. It may seem severe, but Johnny embraced his faith which stayed with him for most of his life. To any outsiders, although the Haigh’s bristled with an unpleasant air of superiority – often being cold, aloof, distant and quite snooty - by living closer to The Bible, they never intended to offend anyone, all John & Emily ever wanted was to serve God and to do the best for their son. Aged seven, John went to Prep School. Being a little boy dressed in smart suits, shiny shoes and bow-ties, he was often bullied, but buoyed by his faith he brushed-off these insults without any emotion. Aged eleven, John won a prestigious scholarship to Wakefield Grammar; a Church of England school attached the Wakefield Cathedral, and although its teachings conflicted with their strict beliefs (having become an altar-boy, a chorister and an organist having learned the piano), his loving parents were so proud that they fully supported him throughout his education. And it served him well. During those awkward teenage years, Johnny remained an even-tempered boy, who didn’t shout, swear, smoke or drink, but had no issues with those who did. He didn’t fight, start fires, steal and had no sexual issues; in fact, although a late-bloomer, he later became celibate, fearing the rampant rise of sexual diseases and seeing women as more companions than conquests. He disliked loud noises, dark places and germs, and being an only child with very few friends, he had a puppy, who he adored. These principles laid down by his parents put him in good stead for the rest of his life. Although lonely, Johnny was a good talker and a keen listener. Although isolated, Johnny was a regular church-goer and an enthusiastic student at the school science club (who was fascinated by machinery and chemistry). But as a bright but easily bored boy, although he won prizes in Geography and Divinity, his grades were not great. So, for fear of upsetting his proud parents, and eager to please them, he forged his school master’s handwriting, creating glowing reports which fooled everyone. Upon graduation, Johnny failed to pass his school certificate. But John & Emily Haigh weren’t upset or disappointed; yes he had lied, but they had raised a good, decent and moral boy, of above average intelligence, who dressed well, spoke politely and dreamed of a career in engineering, and (no matter what path he chose in life) they knew that their little boy would always excel at his chosen profession. And yet, for the first twenty-seven years of his life, as decent human being, he had achieved a lot, but as one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers, John George Haigh had done nothing. (Interstitial *) * For interstitials, whisper “Sulphuric”, followed by fizzing. Twelve years and six deaths later, Johnny Haigh – the entrepreneur; who lived in a Kensington hotel, drove a red sports car, wore silk shorts under his sharp suits, and was a tad miffed at missing not only luncheon, but also tiffin, tea and now din-dins - sat in Interview Room Three of Chelsea Police Station; flanked by Barrett, Symes and Webb, three shabbily-dressed coppers whose hand-rolled tobacco, stale sweaty suits and cheap shop-bought aftershave was an insult to his more-refined sense of smell. And as Johnny candidly talked, the Police listened. (Haigh) “I have made some statements to you about the disappearance of Mrs Durand-Deacon. The truth is, we left the hotel together and she was inveigled by me into going to Crawley. Having taken her into the store-room at Leopold Road, whilst she was examining some paper for use as fingernails, I shot her in the back of the head. Following that, I removed her coat, jewellery and disposed of her. Oh, I should have said that in-between, I went round to a cafe for a cup of tea and scrambled egg”. Throughout, although he was polite, calm and controlled, his boyish face beamed with a cockiness, as being pleased-as-punch at his own superiority over the Police, he knew he could tell them everything, but - without a body - they could prove nothing. (Haigh) “Any more toast?” (Interstitial*). From his teens to his twenties, Johnny worked as a salesman at Shell Max, a sign company rep’ and as an insurance clerk where he learned the finer legal points of Hire Purchase agreements, but finding the long hours, hard graft and tiny wage unrewarding, his work record was described as “satisfactory”. And why wouldn’t it? As an easily-distracted dreamer with wide eyes and high hopes, his commute from his sparse, starchy and silent home to the bustling city of Leeds in the grip of the Roaring Twenties must have felt like the boy had entered a brave new world; a sensual orgy of dizzying delights, fizzing with fast cars, fine foods, gangster films, flapper girls and filthy Luca… everything he had been denied. But as a teetotal celibate, Johnny didn’t descend into debauchery, as his only vice was pride. Fuelled by middle-class aspirations; he dressed in smart suits (neat like his mother made but topped-off with a flash of red as a tiny act of rebellion), he bought a wireless radio (shocking, I know, but he didn’t besmirch his ears by listening to anything vulgar like jazz, only classical, which his father approved of), yes he secretly owned three cars - Ford 8, a Talbot Daracq and an Alpha Romeo – which he and his pals raced from Leeds to Scarborough; okay he dabbled a tad at the horse-track but only because he loved the thought of making oodles of cash without the hard graft; and yes, okay, although never charged, his dismissal from the sign company did coincide with the theft of a petty cash-box, which he apologised for and his father paid back all of the missing monies, so considering how his life had begun, surely these were nothing but little acts of indiscretion which were forgiven and forgotten? On 6th July 1934, a little later than most men, 27 year old Johnny Haigh married 23 year old Beatrice Hamer, a pretty blonde waitress he had met just a few months prior, who was smitten for his sweet-face and dazzled by his cheeky charm, but this wasn’t love… at least not for him. Johnny did feel love. After a quickie service at Bridlington Registry office; with no wedding bells, no bridesmaids, no cards, no confetti, no readings, no religion, one witness and no parents, Johnny & Beatrice Haigh moved into their own home in Leeds, but this wasn’t a marriage… at least not for him. Johnny didn’t do marriage. Although a pleasant companion, Beatrice was more of a convenience to free the boy from the austere shackles of his stifling parents, and although (as they always did) they forgave him, being burdened by responsibilities, his wife was now little more than an impediment to his dreams of prosperity. Scraping-by on a paltry £3 per week was no way for a budding entrepreneur to live. How on earth could Johnny be seen as a real go-getter when he never stayed in swanky hotels, rarely ate prime-rib steak, his suits were so last season, his blasted bank balance always bled-dry and he only owned three sports cars? No, this would not do, not by a long shot. On 28th June 1934, just one week before his wedding, having perfected the skill of forging a stranger’s handwriting and mastering the finer legal points of Hire Purchase agreements, in a simple scam where they resold rented cars on forged papers, Johnny and two cohorts defrauded the three insurance firms - Mercantile Union, Bowmaker Ltd and United Finance Company – out of £960, almost £60,000 today. In his eyes, it was a victimless crime. I mean, he wasn’t snatching old lady’s handbags, breaking into young mum’s homes or scaring the bejesus out of bank-tellers with dicky hearts. He didn’t use a gun, he used a pen, and let’s not forget, no-one was hurt and nobody died. So really? What harm was done? On 22nd November 1934 at Leeds Assizes, John George Haigh was found guilty of three counts of fraud with six similar counts taken into consideration and he was sentenced to fifteen months in prison. After six months, Beatrice gave birth to a baby girl who she named Pauline. But as a penniless single mother with a convict spouse who made no provisions for a wife and alleged child, so unable to cope, Pauline was put up for adoption. This wasn’t a family… at least not for him. Johnny didn’t do family. Life in prison was fine; the bedding was sub-par, the uniform was baggy and the food was far from filemignon, but Johnny made-do; by keeping his cell neat, his mind busy, his nose clean and devoting his time to prayer, education and silent reflection. And although an amiable little fellow whose charm made him an easily likable sort, Johnny wasn’t a low-life like the common criminals he had been banged-up with. No, his crimes had style, finesse and - just like him – they were superior in every way. His only remorse was for everything he had lost; his money, his suits, his cars and his reputation. On 8th December 1935, Johnny was released from prison. Having unburdened himself of a wife and child, he returned home to his loving parents; who would always support him through each test and trial, always forgave him for every sin and sentence, and always stood by him, even as – shamefully –their convict son was excommunicated from the Plymouth Brethren, and with his faith shattered, his heart stabbed and his pockets empty, John George Haigh had reached rock bottom. (Interstitial*) Throughout his full and rather frank confession in the stale smoky confines of Interview Room Three, as the self-confessed serial-killer spoke, Barrett, Symes & Webb listened intently. But never once did little Johnny Haigh stutter, flush or tremble, his voice never raised and his sweat never broke, as the only emotion he showed was a cocky little grin as he corrected the copper’s mistakes. Still it seemed odd, didn’t it? That a former member of the Plymouth Brethren would smoke Gauloises from something as ostentatious as an 18 carat gold cigarette box, that a fastidiously neat man would allow odd singe marks to sully the underside wrists of his tailored overcoat, and that such a slight and unassuming man could physically kill six people and leave no evidence with which to convict him. And yet, Haigh ploughed on: “Mrs Durand-Deacon no longer exists. She has disappeared completely and no trace of her can ever be found”, deliberately leaving a prolonged pause so Detective Inspector Webb could ask the obvious, (Webb) “Well, what has happened to her?”, his snort causing his little moustache to bristle, Haigh grinned (Haigh) “I destroyed her with acid. You will find the sludge, all that remains of her, at my storeroom in Leopold Road. Every trace has gone. And I did the same with the Henderson’s and the McSwan’s”. Which posed the Police with a real conundrum, if a body no longer exists, how can you prove a murder if the murdered are only missing? (Interstitial*). Post-prison, Johnny felt like a lost cause; he was too old to be living at home, to sinful to be welcomed back to the church, too solitary to be part of a criminal gang, and as a late-twenties unemployed ex-con dossing his elderly parent’s home in a small mining town in the North of England, now more than ever, he was further away from his dream. I mean, they didn’t even own a motorcar. In 1936, eager for a fresh start, Johnny moved to London. Dabbling in a few honest but ultimately unrewarding jobs including as clerk and chauffeur for a good-egg called William Donald McSwan Jnr, but hating the long hours, hard graft and tiny wage, once again, Johnny felt the lure of easy-money. On 24th November 1937, at Surrey Assizes, Haigh was convicted of seven counts of fraud having forged legal papers and falsely represented himself as a solicitor and stole £3200, almost £210,000 today, with a further twenty-two cases taken into consideration. His confidence was high, his scheme was clever and his crime was brazen, but his mistake wasn’t greed but speed, as on the letterhead he had misspelled the town of Guildford. Johnny was sentenced to four years in Wandsworth Prison Wealth was within a finger-tip’s touch, yes being banged-up was a minor set-back but, once again, his near perfect plan was scuppered by those unpredictable irritants - people – as whatever he stole, they would always want it back. But how could he make sure they would never notice the missing monies? Released on licence on the 13th August 1940, the 31 year old repeat-offender returned to London only to see a ravaged smoking city; its blackened crumbling buildings silhouetted by a red fiery sea as if he had entered the bowels of hell, as night-after-night his whole world was bombed by the Luftwaffe. Businesses were destroyed, homes were smashed, lives were decimated, and as a ragged and hungry Haigh slept in flea-infested doss-house, the strict conditions of his early release was like walking a legal tight-rope. Ex-con Johnny had to go straight, as one little slip and he was back in the slammer. Only, like Leeds as a boy, although London was truly a den of debauchery, still being a teetotal celibate with dreams of becoming an entrepreneur, even at wartime, it was a city of extremes; with blackouts, bomb-craters and Bentleys; furs, famine and finger-food, destitution, decadence and death. And with his half-way house at the back of The Ritz, that was like waving cheese under a snoozing mouse’s nose. As part of his parole, Johnny did his bit for the war-effort being conscripted as a fire-watcher, alerting the fire-brigade to any art-treasures at risk of destruction by The Blitz. Again, the hours were long, the work - as he protected masterpieces worth a mint - and all for a paltry wage, And like most citizens, his war-time experience was not without its horrors. In a regular letter to his parents, Johnny wrote: “On one occasion, while on fire-watching duty, I was talking to a Red Cross nurse at a warden’s post. The sirens shrieked, bombs dropped and the nurse and I moved off to our places of duty. Suddenly, in a moment of premonition, I knew that a bomb would fall close by, so I dodged into a doorway and awaited the inevitable crash. It came with a horrifying shriek, and as I staggered up, bruised and bewildered, a head rolled against my foot. The nurse who but a few moment before had been gay and full of life, high ideals and a sense of duty, had in one instant been swept into eternity”. But as shocking as it was, the reality was this… in war-time sometimes people just disappeared. Johnny did his damnedest to go straight and to make his parents proud-as-punch. On and off for four years, he worked as a clerk for his old pal William McSwan (whose kindness always saw him through) and did odd-jobs for a solid chap called Allan Stephens, a mechanical engineer and owner of the Union Road Tool and Garage Company in Crawley; working at his workshop, clearing out his store-room and living in his family home with his wife Evelyn and his daughter Barbara. Johnny had landed on his feet. Except putting-up, getting-by and making-do was never Johnny’s style… …so on 11th June 1941, he was sentenced to twenty-one months hard labour. But not for a cunningly superior scam having embezzled an impossible fortune, ripped from the mega-rich, having faultlessly defrauded the insured using a litany of faultless forgeries. No. Strapped for cash, Johnny had illegally flogged-off an old fridge, five bunk-beds and sixty yards of cloth. And in prison once again, most galling of all - because of these crimes - he had been branded… a “petty” criminal. On 17th September 1943, he was released on licence and went back to square one. Or so it seemed. (Haigh) “When I first discovered there were easier ways to make a living, I did not ask myself whether I was doing right or wrong. That seemed to be irrelevant. I merely said ‘this is what I wish to do’. And as a means lay within my power, that was what I decided… if you’re going to go wrong, go wrong in a big way. Go after women – rich old women who like a bit of flattery. That’s your market”. By his release, Haigh had spent six of his thirty-four years in several prisons, including Wandsworth, Dartmoor, Chelmsford and Lincoln. (Haigh): “Lincoln. The worst prison I have ever known is Lincoln. I resented it most bitterly and made up my mind that after this there would be no more inside for me”. But unlike the petty pilferers and common-criminals who frittered the endless hours, days and weeks by pinching snout, blagging sweets and smuggling smokes in a stash of old socks, Johnny dreamed big. As his cell-mate in Chelmsford later stated “he said he’d aim at half a million quid before he’d quit, but everyone just took it as a joke”. Another bunk-buddy stated “he kept gabbing on about this ‘corpus delicti', so that’s what we nicknamed him”. ‘Corpus delicti’, an 18th century English law, also known as the ‘bloodless murder law’ states that “without a body, there can be no crime”. Oddly Johnny had stumbled across it in the prison library, but around these two little words, his masterplan was born. The problem was it’s almost impossible to make a body completely disappear. (Interstitial* - End) Prisoner Haigh was an unassuming little fellow; petite, polite and polished who devoted his time inside to being an altar-boy and organist in the chapel, he starched his shirts, he made his bed and – always with a please and a thank you - Johnny was charm personified. So being a bright but easily bored boy, who once excelled in the school science club, he was given a much-lauded job in the prison workshop. When he wasn’t spending long hours cutting fresh tin into prison cutlery, zinc-plating the handles onto kitchen pans and cleaning rusted iron with sulphuric acid, which stripped his soft skin to a red raw mess and stung his nose with noxious choking odours – that aside – the workshop was the perfect place to fill his endless hours as his restless hands and curious mind fixed, fiddled and tinkered. Here his entrepreneurial spirit truly flourished, and yet, never once did he make, mould or even invent a single thing to make his fortune. No, but it was here that he devised the final piece of his grand plan. By 1944, John George Haigh was back on the streets; a small thin ex-con with a weedy frame, a boyish face, a feminine voice, a charming smile and a truly ludicrous dream to become rich without actually working; only he had no money, no home, no skills and he knew almost no-one. For the first twenty-seven years of his life, unassuming little Johnny Haigh was little more than a lost boy eager to please his parents. Over the next eight years, he was nothing but a failed petty fraudster who (at every turn) had lost everything. He didn’t drink, smoke or swear, he wasn’t violent or sadistic. But between 1944 and 1949, he would befriend six wealthy persons; the Swan family, the Henderson’s and Mrs Durand-Deacon; and – with near perfect precision - he would assume their identities, inherit their estates, drain their assets and all six victims would mysteriously vanish, leaving no trace with which to convict him. John George Haigh would become one of Britain’s most infamous serial killers… …and it all began with a dead mouse. (Interstitial* fizzing to fade out) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile, that was part one of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the second part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are - Jayne Heath and Miss Marston (aka Sandra) – with (as always) a big thank you to everyone who has taken the time to like, share, comment and review this small independent podcast. It’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
The Murder Mile Threadless Store
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
This week is the turn of William George Bonin, one of several US serial murderers who were known as the Freeway Killer. Between 1979 and 1980, Bonin raped, tortured and murdered at least 21 boys and young men whose bodies he dumped along the freeway in southern California. He was convicted of 14 murders and after 14 years on Death Row, he was executed by lethal injection at San Quentin State Prison in 1996.
This letter was written to an unidentified friend, on 9th February 1994, 12 years after his trial and two years before his death, in which he whinges about his injured shoulder, his art work, his money, and (on the second page, which I don’t have) possibly a rant about how huge mobile phones in the 1990’s are, how the one he has is the size of a breeze block, how he can no longer sit down, how his liver hits redial any time he sneezes and how he hates the way he has to spend nine hours a day standing by a power socket with the charger cord sticking out of his arse... I’m guessing. “Dear (REDACTED) I received your letter dated January 31st this evening. Yes, I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you. I was beginning to think that you hadn't received my last letter and was about to write again. I'm relieved to hear that you did indeed receive my last letter. (Wow! This is gripping stuff, isn’t it? Someone call Mr Spielberg, I think we’ve found his next movie) I've had to cut down on the weight lifting. For some reason my arm and shoulder wasn't getting any better, in fact, (this is nothing to do with the fact that he’s single, feeling a bit lonely and has forearms like Popeye the Sailor, but anyway) I was about to see the doctor a week ago last Monday and he told by to give-up weight lifting all together. He told me that I had tendinitis and that it would clear up after a while and that it took different lengths of time for each individual. I received an order from a guy for my second book of short stories (here he’s making reference to his book - Doing Time: Stories from the Mind of a Death Row Prisoner, available via Amazon) and got it out to him last week. (Hopefully he sent the book by post and not ass-mail). That's the only thing I had to do recently (apart from disinfect anything anyone else in the prison has touched). I haven't any orders for Art except one from Baton Rouge. It was a 10" x 5” drawing (again, let’s hoping he’s sending that by regular post, cos if it’s in a wooden frame, that would bring tears to the eyes). I never do a book or drawing before I’ve receive the money. I've had some problems in the past where someone told me they wanted a drawing or a book and then changed their mind only to leave me holding onto it. It took me over 1 1/2 years to get the three drawings back, and then I had to take then to Small Claims Court before they complied. (You see William, the legal system has its benefits). So I made it a policy to receive order and the money before doing a specific item. Once I receive the money for an item I do up the project as quickly as possible, usually that means immediately. (That’s if his fingers aren’t smelly, brown and gloopy). . Regards. Bill”.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Ever wanted to read a rather mundane letter written by an infamous serial killer to get a great insight into who they really were? Well, you're in luck. This week, it’s the turn of Myra Hindley, one half of the infamous Moors Murderers with Ian Brady, who raped, tortured and murdered five children, and buried their bodies in shallow graves, denying their grieving parents any peace, resolution, answers or even a proper burial. Having shown no regret nor remorse, The Moors Murderers have since the early 1960’s been regarded as two of the vilest and most hated people in Britain… and they remain so, for good reason.
So, it seems almost ironic that we read a card, with a very twee William Morris design featuring a lovely landscape of flowers and mosses, sent by Myra Hindley from HMP Highpoint Prison to an unidentified friend called Mark, on 15th February 1999, where she laments the Christmas’ of the past. If you own an incredibly small violin, be prepared to play it. “Dear Mark. I did hope to write to you now before to thank you for your kind card and thoughtful gift sent just before Christmas. Unfortunately I had a prolonged bout of gastro-enteritus (also known as “the squits, the plops and the shits”) which left me feeling tired and lethargic, and I’m now attempting to catch up with neglected correspondence. (Hopefully, she remembered to wash her hands). Christmas seems like a century ago, but it wasn’t bad, three of us spent it together – with very little worth watching on TV but we watched a few videos and the food was nicer than usual. (Ah that’s nice) I remember years and years ago in Holloway Prison, how we were half-starved for about three months before Christmas whilst the kitchen officer saved up for Christmas meals – which were lavish (ooh), and thus so much was wasted and thrown away – we could have fed the pensioners for miles around – and we were half-starved for weeks afterwards because he over spent his budget! (Or, maybe they could have sent it to… oh I dunno, an orphanage? You know? As a nice gesture). I hope Rachel yourself are both as well as you can be. I always remember you and your family in my prayers, and asked to be remembered in yours. (Yup, I’m sure it’s number one on God’s to do list – pray for Myra Hindley). My former priest – Bert White – is due to return from a visit to India. I had a postcard from his last week, telling me that because of the recent spate of extremists (oh, you know, those bad people who kill the innocent) he’s taken to wearing a turban. Once again, thank you for your gift, which was much appreciated (hopefully it was a detailed map of Saddleworth Moor, a marker pen and five self-addressed envelopes addressed to her victim’s families, but I doubt it). When you feel like it, drop me a line and tell me how you are doing, and meanwhile I send you my best wishes as always. Myra”. Ah, poor Myra, she’s had so many awful Christmas in prison. I hope you remember that when you’re next tucking into your turkey, scoffing down spuds and pilling into the Christmas pud’? And before you ask, yes, that was sarcasm. A lot of it.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
How'd do you fancy reading a rather mundane letter written by Peter Sutcliffe, also known as The Yorkshire Ripper? Well, you;re in luck.
Peter Sutcliffe was convicted of brutally murdering thirteen women and attempting to murder seven others in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s in Leeds and Bradford in the North of England, and so horrific were their injuries that he was dubbed the “Yorkshire Ripper”. Being declared insane, Sutcliffe was (and currently still is) housed at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison on an indeterminate sentence, and this letter was written by Sutcliffe to Sandra Lester, a friend, model, escort girl, part-time stripper and a supposed confidante, who later sold his story to the papers. They started writing in 1993, but the love letters stopped when he asked her to marry him and she said no. The letter is dated 9th June 1998, it is handwritten with very curly handwriting, and with a sticker of a palm tree on the top of letter. Sutcliffe loves using excessive grammar. “Dear Sandy. Hi!! How are you today? I hope this letter finds you happy and in the best of health (small kiss). I received your nice wee letter okay “with the butterfly stickers”, it’s such a bright and cheery letter so thanks for that. I hope you’re right about what you said about something changing for the better (as there’s something in the air, etc). …. (pages missing)… pleased its happened at long last. As you say, dad will be in touch when he’s got himself sorted out! Did I mention that I’d had a nice visit from Maria last Saturday? She was telling me all about her holiday! She really enjoyed herself and brought me loads of postcards back etc!! (smiley face) She said the weather was very hot all the time and she’d obviously caught the sun so she was looking very well. She said she’d been staying in London for a few days before making her way back home! Anyway take care 4 now cos you’re in my thoughts. I send you all my love and GR8 big caring HUGS!!!. Love Pete. X x x x x x x x Next up is an interesting letter written by Sutcliffe to his friend Chris on 2015, again pages missing, but it ends like this… “Yes! I have heard of (Ian) Brady’s book - The Gates of Janus - and I’d been told ages ago that there’s a bit about me in it, but I’m not interested in reading it myself Chris? Ha! No I didn’t know they sent Keith Richards to The Scrubbs. Yeah, Charles Bronson also spent time here at Broadmoor, until he caused a lot of damage to the roof. His previous name was Mickey Peterson by the way! There’s a DVD out called Bronson and it’s been on telly over here a few times! He was known for taking hostages etc! He’s a pretty good artist thought, I’ve seen quite a few of his sketches!! (smiley face) Well it’s almost time for my usual 9:30pm phone-call Chris, so I’ll try to finish off this letter and get it into the post-box ready for the early morning collection tomorrow. Well my good and dear friend, take care of yourself for now you hear!! (smiley face) Best wishes and regards as always. Your pal Pete. X Oddly, in a later letter, it’s clear that Chris recounted the entire contents of a phone conversation between himself and Peter Sutcliffe to tabloid newspaper the News of the World, including a crappy joke Sutcliffe had made, which he was most displeased about (sad face) five exclamation marks.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The Murder Mile Threadless Store
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. The music featured in this episode includes:
SOURCES:
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms. This week’s question is how much do every day items cost in prison?
In British prisons, money and the loaning or borrowing of personal items is strictly forbidden, this is to limit the number of disputes over debts, and although some basic essentials are paid for by the state (clothing, food, bedding and some toiletries), prisoners do have a mandatory cell wage of £5 per week, plus an allowance of between £4 and £25 per week, depending on their category, behaviour, duties and how hard they work. Inside most prisons there is a canteen and a shop, where prisoners can buy additional legitimate items using their weekly allowance, and (in Scotland at least) they’re surprisingly cheap, which has caused a bit of a rumpus up north (“we’re allll doomed!”). For example; a can of Pringles is 50p cheaper, HobNob biscuits 40p cheaper, Pot Noodle 25p cheaper, a pack of 10 Lambert & Butler cigarettes 75p cheaper, oh yes all the essentials, and that staple of the Scottish diet (no not fruit – obviously, not Tennant’s Super Strength Lager on toast, not heroin-infused haggis or deep-fried whiskey-flavoured Klootie pudding – although that does sound smashing) no, it’s Scotland’s favourite breakfast, Scott’s Porage Oats which you can buy in the prison shop for 5p cheaper than in Tesco’s. Okay, look, as I’m half Scottish, I’ll only apologise for half of that joke… although (hands-up) that accent was unforgivable. So what about the things the shop can’t provide for a prisoner’s needs? What about contraband? Cigarettes: Convicted prisoners are allowed to keep up to 62.5 grams of tobacco or 80 cigarettes, which seems fair enough, but as cigarettes are in high demand and can be easily traded for contraband items, this has created a black market where a single cigarette has been sold for £20 and a small pouch of tobacco for £200, especially since the 2007 Smoking Ban when some prisons went smoke-free. In the last few years, the prison system has spent £100,000 on vape kits to try to resolve this problem. Mobile Phones: Illegal in prison, and yet, in 2017, over 15000 handsets and Sim cards were confiscated in UK prisons. Sim cards (the size of your fingernail and as thin as a credit card) can easily be smuggled in and with prisoners only allowed to make landline phone calls (all of which are screened), texts are forbidden and access to the internet is strictly limited, Sim cards which are cheap and even free on the outside, can be traded for £30, £50 and £100 inside. There are even tiny mobile phones, such as a the GTstar Mini BM50, which is entirely made from plastic so it’s not picked up by prison scanners, it’s as small as your finger (for obvious reasons - coughs), and on the outside they sell for £15, but inside, trade for between £200-300 a-piece, some phone up to £1000. The upside: you get to make unlimited calls, the downside is #1 if found your sentence can be increased, #2 you’re phone smells like another man’s ass, and #3, imagine the poor bloke who had to smuggle in the phone’s charger. Youch. Drugs: The Prison Officers Association estimates the value of the drug market inside UK prisons at £100m a year with a whopping 189 kilos of drugs confiscated in UK prisons in 2017. So lucrative is the prison black market, with many drugs selling for ten times their street value inside, that ex-convicts actually get themselves re-arrested for minor offences, so they can be returned to prison, having first concealed contraband “about-their-person”, and by person, I mean up their bum-bum, foo-foo or down their foreskin. Eek. I guess that’s why some drugs are often referred to as “the good shit”. These drugs include: Spice: a synthetic psychoactive chemical cocktail which is dubbed the zombie drug because it turns the user temporarily into a motionless drooling zombie, which they take to help pass the time. It costs just £3 on the outside, but is sold at 33 times the price inside, almost £100, and as it’s highly addictive, ex-convicts (whose prison allowance can be as low as just £20 a month) can make £3000 in one day having smuggled just 28 ounces of Spice into the prison. The same goes with other drugs. Cocaine: depending on the quality, sells for £40 to £100 a gram on the outside, but £400 to £1000 inside. Heroin is roughly £100 a gram outside, but £1000 to £1500 on the inside, all of which are low-quality, having been cut and mix with baking powder, washing powder, shredded carpet and battery acid. Cannabis: On average it is £150 an ounce outside, but when broken down into separate baggies, an ounce brought inside for £800 can earn the prisoner £2800. And failing that, there always alcohol or homemade hooch, an illegal drink which can be made from fruit and vegetable peel, sugar, syrup and crumbled bread (to act as the yeast); it’s pretty foul, it can be very pungent and as it needs a cool dark place to ferment, that is why it is often referred to as “toilet wine”. Ewww. The rule of thumb inside prison seems to be, anything from the shop will be cheap but boring and anything that is contraband will stink like it’s been shoved up a man’s plop-pipe – which it has. So, when I’m next in prison, I think I’m smuggle in some hand sanitiser, some moist bottom wipes and a large can of air-freshener.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
what differentiates a murderer, a mass murderer, a serial killer and a spree killer?
Before we begin, I must state, these definitions are highly contested among legal professionals and law enforcement alike, so they are very prone to change, manipulation and disagreement. So, a murderer; Murder is a form of criminal homicide involving the unlawful killing of another person with premeditation (a plan to kill), their actions have criminal intent and (by minimum definition) they will have intentionally murdered at least one person. That’s a murderer. Next is a spree-killer; a spree killer is a person or a group who commits two or more murders over a short period of time (normally over less than a month), in multiple locations and with almost no “cooling off period” between the murders. So The Blackout Ripper, who murdered four women, in four different locations, over consecutive four days is a perfect example. A mass-murderer is a person or a group who commits several murders (the FBI states this as “four or more”) which occur either simultaneously or over a relatively short period of time, and in a single location or within close proximity, and (like a spree-killer) there is no “cooling off period”. Mass murders can be committed a group or a single person, and are usually (but not always) attributed to cults, fascists, terrorists, acts of genocide and mass-shootings, with some form of persecution acting as a catalyst. A good example is the mass-shooting at Columbine High School. A serial killer is more often a person who acts alone (although this is not always the case) who commits three or more murders, usually for personal gratification, over a period of more than a month and includes a “cooling off period” between each murder. Now, three or more is a vague definition, as the FBI defines a serial killing as “a series of two or more murders”, and yet other law enforcement authorities define it as at least four murders. Perfect examples would be the Yorkshire Ripper, Dennis Nilsen, etc. There. I hope that makes a little more sense. And if you’re a murderer who has been unfairly labelled a serial killer or mass-murderer when you’re quite clearly a spree-killer, there will be a helpline number for you to call.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
What’s the best way to clean up after a murder?
Today, we’ll be looking at how to effectively clean up blood, vomit, urine, faeces and semen, all key indicators which can link a perpetrator to a crime scene, or any night out in Newcastle. So, firstly, how can you superficially clean-up a murder scene so it’ll pass a visual investigation? Number #1 – Urine. Urine can contain cells which contain traces of DNA, occasionally blood and other characteristics useful for toxicology, chemical analysis and identification, and although it has a distinct odour, as urine is almost 100% water, it can be removed with the use of hot water and a household detergent. Number #2 – Faeces. Faeces can tell investigator many different details about the victim (as mentioned in Mini Mile #7) such as how, where, when and what they last ate, what drugs, alcohol or poisons are in their system, what disease they have, and even their mood at the time of their last meal, and although faeces also contains hydrochloric acid (from the stomach bile which destroys DNA), faeces also contains blood and skin from the bowel, intestines and anus, which are not destroyed. So, to remove faeces stains; if it is solid, it’s best to let it air-dry, pick it up and clean the area as you would with wee-wee, or if it’s not solid, treat it like vomit. Number #3: Vomit. Again, this contains hydrochloric acid, but also skin, blood and mucus from the digestive tract and mouth, so DNA can be present. Hospital cleaners advise sprinkling on baking soda, leaving it to dry and scraping off the excess vomit. Then mix one tablespoon of detergent, white vinegar and two cups of warm water and blot the stain until it is completely absorbed. Then sponge the area with cold water to remove the detergent/vinegar solution. Number #4: Blood. As any lady knows full well, if you get blood on your clothes, you never wash it out with hot water, or warm water, but cold water, as cold water helps the blood cells rehydrate. It’s also best to remove the stain while it’s still wet. And as with vomit, blood can be removed by sprinkling it with salt, letting the crystals absorb the blood and once it’s dry, you can hoover up the blood soaked crystals and blot the area until it’s dry. Obviously, when I say “hoover the area”, that’s a British colloquialism meaning to vacuum, and not hold J Edgar Hoover by the feet and make him lick it up. Although, I’m sure he would have done a great job. Number #5: Semen. Not something you want left at a scene, as although it is smaller in quantity (apparently), contains less harmless acids (unless you drink a lot of Pepsi), and it is an entire library of information for investigators and a DNA profile can be taken from it years and even decades later, semen is tricky to remove even at a high temperature, and after several washes it can remain, so I’m told. So a solution of hot water and strong bleach or detergent is needed, but bleach itself does leave a very obvious stain… which we’ll get into shortly, so stay-tuned you sex-pests. But this is all just superficial cleaning. It’ll pass a visual inspection, but – as you’ll know if you’ve listened to Mini Mile #1 - nothing more advanced, like Luminol. So where are the problems? Speed: you have to get to a stain quickly before it dries, if it’s still in a liquid form and contains higher levels of water, it’s easier to remove, but as its water content dries, it’s harder to erase. Water: when water is used to clean up a stain, if you leave it too long and don’t softly blot the area till it is completely dried, the water will leave a very clear stain, which (to an investigator) is as obvious as blood and shows that a clean-up has taken place. Bleaches: There’s two kinds in most home products; chlorine bleach and oxygen bleach. Chlorine bleaches can visually remove blood but Luminol will still show up the haemoglobin in the blood, even after several washes using chlorine bleach. Whereas an oxygen bleach uses a hydrogen peroxide, so after a few hours of soaking, it completely destroys the haemoglobin and can no longer be detected. But as with blood, the use of bleaches are evident, so although the DNA no longer exists, a clean-up is obvious as it leaves very visible marks and discolours any materials and even skin. Acids: hydrochloric, nitric and sulphuric pretty much destroy everything, whether DNA, skin, blood, semen, almost anything, but large quantities of acid are hard to come by (for the average person), its purchase leaves a trail and (again) it leaves a big stain. And finally, fire: Fires are easy to start, they require very little experience and it can destroy everything, but it is very obvious, and modern fire investigation skills can easily determine the difference between an arson and an accident, by the presence of accelerants, etc. One interesting way that investigators can determine if a fire was the work of an arsonist and who they were, is by searching the neighbouring bushes for human poo, as because serial arsonists get sexually excited by the sight of things burning, this causes them to need to poo.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards 2018, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian's Podcast of the Week and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Killing sprees, how long do most serial killers last?
To work this out, I’ve chosen 50 serial-killers, spree-killers and murderers, at random, from the UK, US and other countries. These dates cover their first confirmed victim to the last and (where possible) the dates are specific, but often they are vague. I’m go through them in an alphabetical order, covering their names, a brief description, the dates, duration and what age they were during the murder. This is a biggie, so strap in: #1 - Aileen Wuornos (the US serial killer and abused sex-worker), she lasted just shy of one year, from 30th November 1989 to 19th November 1990, and was 33-34 years old. #2 - Albert DeSalvo (the Boston Strangler) – lasted from 14th June 1962 to 4th January 1964, 1 year 7 months and was 31-33 years old. #3 - Albert Fish (child-killer, cannibal and sadistic paedophile), 11th July 1924 to 3rd June 1928 or 15th December 1932**, murders which are disputed), lasted either 3 years 11 months or 8 years 5 months and was 54-58/62 years old. #4 - Anthony Hardy, the sadistic and twisted Camden Ripper from Old London Town (“cor blimey gavna”), December 2000 to December 2002, exactly two years, he was 49-51 years old. #5 - Beverley Allitt, dubbed The Angel of Death, but only because most journalists are too lazy to come up with a new nickname for any serial or spree killer who was once a nurse, this nickname was also given to Richard Angelo, Charles Cullen, Kristen Gilbert, Donald Harvey, Miyuki Ishikawa, SS officer Joseph Mengler, Colin Norris, Robledo Puch and Jane Toppan, she lasted from 21st February 1991 to 22nd April 1991, that’s two months, and was 22 years old. #6 - Colin Ireland, dubbed the Gay Slayer, who lasted only three months, from 8th March 1993 to 12 June 1993, but at the time of the killings, he was on the cusp of being 40. The big 40. #7 - Cynthia Coffman, 2 months from October to November 1986 when she was 24 years old. #8 - David Berkowitz “Son of Sam” and a psychotic Doctor Doolittle, lasted 1 year 7 months between 24th December 1975 to 31st July 1977, when he was 22-24 years old. #9 - Dennis Nilsen, his killing spree of 15 to 16 victims and 8 or 9 who got away, lasted 4 years 1 month between 30th December 1978 (almost happy new year) to 26th January 1983 when he was 33-37 years old. #10 -Dennis Rader, also known as BTK lasted 15th January 1974 to 19th January 1991, 17 years, between the ages of 29-45 years old. #11 - Donald Neilson, robber and murderer known as The Black Panther” lasted 11 months from February 1974 to 14th January 1975, he was 37-38 years old. #12 - Dorothea Puente, 6 years estimated, 1982 to 1988, inc prison, 53-59 years old #13 - Ed Gein, graverobber, taxidermist and murderer, possibly 5 years, 1947 to 1952 (41-46 years old) #14 - Edmund Kemper, 8 years 8 months (inc prison), 27th August 1964 to 20th April 1973 (15-24 years) #15 - Faye Copeland, possibly three years from 1986 to 1989, aged 72-75 years old #16 - Fred West, Gloucester’s favourite plasterer, 19 years 11 months (inc prison) from July 1967 to June 1987* (26-47 years old) with his wife Rose #17 - George Joseph Smith, “Brides in the Bath” – roughly 2 years, 1912 to 1914 (40-42 years old) #18 - Graham Young, The Teacup Poisoner, 8 years 10/11 months inc prison, 21st April 1962 to February/March 1971 (14-23 years old) #19 - H H Holmes, Chicago’s infamous “World’ Fair Killer”, he lasted 7 years 11 months, August 1886 to July 1894 (25-33 years old). #20 - Harold Shipman – charged with 15 confirmed deaths, 257 suspected, Police still investigating up to 450, hard to prove as being the doctor he signed the death certificates and had many of the bodies cremated, he lasted from 1975 to 1998, at least 23 years, aged 29-52 years old. #21 - Henri Desire Landru, the Ladykiller with the natty moustache, 4 years, January 1915 to 15th January 1919 (45-49 years old) #22 - Ian Brady. Moors Murder, 2 years 3 months, from 12th July 1963 to 6th October 1965 (25-27) #23 - Janie Lou Gibbs, poisoner, 2 years (est) 1966 to 1967 (34-35 years old) #24 - Jeffrey Dahmer, the Milwaukee Cannibal, 13 years 1 month, 18th June 1978 to 19th July 1991 (18-31 years old) #25 - Joel Rifkin, aka Joel the Ripper, roughly 4 years from 1989 to 1993 (30-34 years old), currently sentenced to 203 years in prison. #26 - John George Haigh, “The Acid Bath Murderer”, 4 years 6 months, 6th September 1944 to 18th February 1949 (34-39 years old) #27 - John Reginald Christie, necrophile, serial killer, 9 years 7 months, from 24th August 1943 to 6th March 1953 (44-53 years old) #28 - John Wayne Gacy, killer clown and KFC manager, 6 years 11 months, 3rd January 1972 to 11th December 1978 (29-36 years old) #29 - Kenneth Erskine, the Stockwell Strangler, 3 months, 9th April 1986 to 28th July 1986 (22/23) #30 - Kristen Gilbert, another Angel of Death, 7 years inc prison, 1989 to 1996* (22-29 years old) #31 - Levi Bellfield, Bus Stop Killer, 2 years 5 months, 21st March 2002 to 19th August 2004 (33-34) #32 - Michael Lupo, the Wolfman, 5 years-ish, in the mid 1980’s (30-35-ish years old) #33 - Myra Hindley, the other Moors Murderer, 2 years 3 months, 12th July 1963 to 6th October 1965 (19-23 years old) #34 - Patrick MacKay, 1 year 1 month, February 1974 to March 1975 est (21-22 years old) #35 - Peter Manuel, The Beast of Birkinshaw, 2 years, 2nd January 1956 to 1st January 1958 (29-31) #36 - Peter Sutcliffe, The Yorkshire Ripper, 5 years 1 month, 30th October 1975 to 17th November 1980 (29-34 years old) #37 - Peter Tobin, possibly the unsolved Bible John killer, 15 years 7 months** (still suspected of many more murders), from 10th February 1991 to 26th September 2006** (44-60 years old) #38 - Richard Ramirez, The Nightstalker, 1 year 4 months, 10th April 1984 to 24th August 1985 (24-25) #39 - Robert Black, Scottish serial-killer and paedophile, 5 years 7 months, 12th August 1981 to 26th March 1986 (34-38 years old) #40 - Robert Mawdsley, dubbed Hannibal the Cannibal by tabloid hacks who can never be arsed to do their research properly, he lasted four years, inc prison, 1974 to 1978* (21-25 years old) #41 - Robert Napper; 1 year 4 months, 15th July 1992 to November 1993 (26-27 years old) #42 - Rodney Alcala; the Dating Game Killer, 8 years est, 12th June 1971 to 1979** (27-36 years old) #43 - Rose West, 15 years 11 months, June 1971 to May 1987 (18-33 years old) #44 - Stephen Griffiths, the self-styled Crossbow Cannibal only he didn’t own a crossbow and wasn’t a cannibal (twat), 11 months from 22nd June 2009 to 21st May 2010 (cusp and turn of 40 years old) #45 - Stephen Port. Grindr Killer, 1 year 3 months** (known so far), 19th June 2014 to September 2015** (cusp of 40 years old) #46 - Steve Wright (not that one), Suffolk Strangler, five weeks, 30th October 2006 to 9th December 2006 (48 years) #47 - Steven Grieveson, The Sunderland Strangler, 3 years 9 months, 26th May 1990 to 25th February 1994 (19-23 years old) #48 - Ted Bundy, the crazy lady’s favourite, 4 years, 1st February 1974 to 9th February 1978 (28-31 years old, cusp and turn of 30) #49 - Ted Kaczynski, Unabomber, his title looks like he bombed co-star of Worzel Gummage Una Stubbs, 15 years 11 months, 25th May 1978 to 24th April 1994 (36-52 years old) #50 - Trevor Hardy, The Beast of Manchester, “mad furrit, alright ah kid”, 1 year 9 months from 31st December 1974 (again, happy new year) to 8th March 1976 (29-31 years old, cusp of 30) So, let’s break it down, who were the shortest? These are the spree-killers, Steve Wright (six weeks), Beverley Allitt and Cynthia Coffman (2 months), Colin Ireland and Kenneth Erskine (3 months). With the longest, excluding those who were incarcerated being Jeffrey Dahmer (13 years 1 month), Ted Kaczynski (15 years 11 months), Fred & Rose West (15 years 11 months exc Fred’s prison time) and everyone’s favourite doctor - Harold Shipman – 23 years (estimated, could be longer). As expected, most serial killers last a year to two years and those figures tail off the longer their spree continues. Although, the average across the board, says female serial killers last 8 and 11 years, only 2 years for men, I guess us guys finish too early? IT’s a common problem. But interestingly, although the bulk of those serial killers committed their crimes in their twenties, with some into their thirties, six committed their first murder in their teens; Graham Young (14), Edmund Kemper (15), Jeffrey Dahmer (18), Rose West (18), Myra Hindley (19) and Steven Grieveson (19), with only three in their fifties; Dorothea Puente, Albert Fish and Harold Shipman, only two, the couple Faye & Ray Copeland in their 70’s, but quite a few on the cusp or the turn of a significant birthday, usually 20th, 30th or 40th birthday; these were Trevor Hardy, Peter Manuel, Steven Grieveson, Stephen Port and Anthony Hardy.
If you found this interesting? Check out the Mini Mile episodes of the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast, or click on the link below to listen to an episode.
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”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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