How To Get Away With Murder - Part Four (Clean-Up & Escape)

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This is a hypothetical exploration into the possibility or impossibility of getting away with murder, which over four episodes covers motivation, methods, surveillance, research, eacape and clear-up, as well as the legal ramifications of planning a murder of a victim called Bob... who is fictional.

HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER - PART FOUR: UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT

Let’s pretend that I’ve committed a pre-meditated murder and the target was my old pal Bob. But don’t fret my friend, I’m sure you’ll get an invisible invite to the fictional funeral of this imaginary man.

Was his killing perfect? Yes. Did it look like natural? Of course. Was it a bloody death in which Bob was pumped full of helium and popped like a large lardy balloon, or fed bum-first into a wood-chipper as his minced-up entrails were spattered along a wall in Morse code which read “this was an accident, honest”? No, I killed him in the dullest way possible, by lacing his pizza with an untraceable poison which was only toxic to his body… a salad leaf. Will this murder be talked about? Will books be written about it? Will the ‘salad leaf killing’ of Bob become the latest hit podcast series which true-crime fans will endlessly drone on about even though it’s not actually that good? No, but then, that was the point.

As the hard part isn’t the murder, the real challenge is to get away with it. So, in this final part of this four-part series I shall attempt to ensure that I’m never suspected or arrested for the hypothetical murder of a fictional idiot called Bob… and soon, that cakey-Eva portrait will be all mine. Sigh!

My name is Michael, I am a murderer, and this is How To Get Away With Murder.

Part Four: Clean-Up & Escape.

Dear friends. I regret to inform you that last week, Bob died. Boo hoo! Boo hoo! He was forty years old but he didn’t look a day over sixty-eight. He leaves behind a dirty sofa, the washing up and a basket of unwashed underpants. He will be sorely missed by Iqbal ‘Luigi’ Singh, the owner of Pizza Schmucks who may have to hock his diamond encrusted pizza cutter and sell his pepperoni coloured Bentley as with Bob’s pizza app’ now silent, Luigi’s cash-cow has gone to the big abattoir in the sky… literally. Bob died “peacefully” (in inverted commas) doing what he loved best; dribbling, snoozing and slobbing about, gorping at brainless shite on his telly box, while scratching his arse, adjusting his dangle fruits and feeding an endless conveyor of pizza slices into his gob using that ‘very same hand’. Urgh!  His death was quick, natural and unremarkable, so much so that when the Police, Fire or Ambulance arrive, the main thing they will do is notify the next-of-kin, and not initiate a criminal investigation.

If I’m smart, no-one should ever know that this was a murder, but sadly some killers really aren’t that smart. In fact, when they are finally caught, it’s not the diligence of a detective which leads to their arrest, often it’s their own stupidity and arrogance which trips them up first. For example:

• Waltraud Wagner, an Austrian spree-killing nurse openly bragged about her murders whilst drinking in a restaurant and was overheard by a doctor who worked at the same hospital

• Charles Schmid “The Pied Piper of Tuscon” and Richard Biegenwald “The Thrill Killer” decided to treat their pals by showing them the corpses, their disgusted friends called the police
• Desperate to become notorious, Maury Travis sent a computer-generated map of his victims’ burial sites to reporters, only the file also directly led to the police to his home address
• Having flushed the hacked-up remains of three victims down his toilet, Dennis Nilsen notified his landlord that his drains were blocked and requested that a plumber investigate the cause
• Cheyenne Antoine strangled her best-friend Brittney to death using her own belt; the belt was found at the murder scene, and in a selfie taken by the victim and the killer just hours before the murder, Cheynenne was seen wearing that very same murder weapon around her waist
• Jodi Arias took photos of herself and her ex-boyfriend after she had stabbed him to death in the shower, only she left that camera and the photos on the washing machine of his house
• Randy Kraft, aka “The Scorecard Killer” was carting a freshly murdered corpse beside him in his car when he was stopped by a police officer on a routine traffic stop for performing an illegal lane change… and being a full three miles-an-hour over the speed limit
• And more bafflingly of all, LA gang member Anthony Garcia had evaded the Police for four years having murdered a liquor store owner, until he was arrested for a minor traffic violation.  When his mugshot was taken, Police noticed an elaborate tattoo on his chest – which was a very detailed depiction of the robbery and murder permanently inked onto his body for life

As a rule of thumb, if you want to get away with murder, don’t be a dickhead about it. Just act like it’s a boil on your bottom or an unsightly stain by your crotch and keep schtum. But even the best laid plans can go bad.

So, what if Bob realised the Pizza Guy was me? What if he choked on the salad leaf? What if the tearing sound I heard was his sweaty blubbery bulk actually separating from the sofa, and being so shocked at the sight of him standing-upright – which was only possible as the calcified sweat down his back had formed a makeshift spinal brace and (although his leg muscles had withered like the two last chicken drumsticks in a party bucket) several decades worth of cola splashes had harden like seaside sticks of rock – as we wrestled to the death (with Bob angry but always keeping an eye on the telly as The World’s Craziest Celebrity Patio-Makeover Home-Video Accidents from Hell on Ice was on, and me, dodging drinks cups and urine pots, with one foot in an old spag’ bol’, another in a congealed bowl of custard and standing awkwardly, as being so close to my prized portrait of lovely Eva gently teasing me with a jammy mouthful of Battenberg, it is difficult to wrestle an angry sweaty man whilst you’ve got an erection), it was then that I accidentally slit his throat with a pizza cutter, and maybe kicked his bonce about the bedsit a bit, while playing keepie-uppie and using a lamp-shade as a basketball hoop?

Now, that didn’t happen, but if it did? How do you dispose of a brutally massacred corpse in a regular domestic house? If you listen to too much true-crime, you may think “oh that’s easy”, but it isn’t. The average house isn’t equipped with the tools for a full body disposal; we don’t all own axes, chainsaws, flame throwers, wood chippers and two hundred gallons of sulphuric acid, and if we did, the Police would see that as pre-meditation. So, let’s get realistic. Can you dispose of a body in a house? No.

• Unless you own a crematorium, you can’t fully incinerate a corpse in a conventional gas oven, as even though it takes ten hours to ruin a turkey, it’s till edible given enough cranberry sauce
• You could eat it, but as the average person contains 30 to 40 lbs of muscle and most people consume roughly 70 to 100 lbs of meat a year, a corpse would take you six months to eat
• You could put the flesh in a blender, but as they’re only designed for fruit and not muscle or sinew, its one horsepower motor would burn-out before you’ve minced half a forearm
• You could burn it on a bonfire, but burning bodies smell really bad and unless it’s Guy Fawkes night, a back-yard fire looks suspicious like you’re destroying tax records or pornography
• You can’t dissolve a body in acid, as the strongest acid most houses have is bleach, which only makes the skin a little whiter (like Bob’s worn Factor 50) or a little redder (like he hasn’t)
  
• That said, a car battery does contain two litres of sulphuric acid, but that’s barely enough to dissolve a jaw, although sugary drinks can dispose of the teeth within a week. Enjoy your coke.
• On the flipside, unless you own an old house or a time-machine, you can dissolve a body in an old tin, copper or ceramic bath, but not in a modern tub, as they’re made of hardened plastic
• Unless you were gifted a sausage-maker by ex-butcher, the best kitchen tools you can chop-up a body with is a meat knife, a potato grater or the garlic press you bought but never used
• Unless you’re a carpenter or gardener, the only tools you’ll own are a tiny hacksaw, a hammer, a mower, a leaf blower, a drill, an Alan key and a selection of screwdrivers which fit nothing
• You can’t flush a body down the loo, as most modern bogs get blocked when you unleash a big jobbie or use too many turd-wipes, so how will it be expected to cope with a bit of bicep?
• Don’t vacuum the body bits up, as the bag will look like a horror version of the Wizard of Oz
• Don’t bury it in the garden, especially as Bob only has a window-box
• Don’t bury him under the floorboards, especially if he lives in a top floor flat
• Don’t put his chopped-up bits out for the bin-men to collect, as you know how much they love to moan when you put garden leaves and twigs in the recycling bin
• And finally, don’t walk his corpse around town, like you’re making a piss-poor remake of the 1980’s comedy 'Weekend at Bernie’s as, let’s be honest, it had one joke and it was shit

In short, it’s almost impossible to fully dispose of an entire human body inside of a regular domestic house. Admit it, we’re barely equipped to cope with a blocked sink, a leaky tap, a duff socket, or a bit of a lump in the carpet, but thankfully, Bob died as I expected him to; he opened his gob, shovelled the pizza in and swallowed. To be honest, I could have slathered a grenade in curry sauce, or dipped his own head in whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles and he’d still have found a way to eat it.

As planned, Bob’s death looks natural; he will be found slumped on his sofa, in front of his telly, with an endless conveyor-belt of food being fed into the huge chomping hole in his face. There are no signs of injury, assault, interference or poison, so they will assume that he choked. But how do I ensure that his death definitely looks natural, and that the Police don’t suspect that someone else was involved?

Here’s a few possible suggestions which may work a treat:

• Imply he was savouring a session of ‘single man’s sexy time’ by sticking one of his hands down his pants, making him grin and (for shits and giggles) pausing the telly on old lady aerobics
• Dress him up like a crappy cowboy with a dodgy moustache, outstretch his arms and make-out that he died half way through an over-indulgent rendition of YMCA by the Village People
• Suggest he’s a doomsday occultist by giving him a tin foil hat, daubing his wall with today’s date and “tell the Queegon I’m coming home” in a silvery paint (as all aliens love 1970’s camp) and by removing any hint of a social life beyond rambling on an internet forums like a loon
• Alternatively, dress him like a Nazi or any big old racist and no-one will give a shit if he’s dead

To be honest, courtesy of some seriously (if entirely fictional) research and surveillance by himself, Bob’s ordinary clothing, his homelife and his lifestyle perfectly match his method of death, so nothing needs to be added… unless I wanted to dob someone else in for my crime. So, I could:

• Suggest he was whacked as a Mafia stool pigeon by placing his hands over his mouth, give him a stupid nickname, make him wear a t-shirt which reads “fuggedaboutit” and draw-up a list of crimes that he claims to have committed, but hasn’t, as gangsters are 100% A-Grade bullshit
• Imply it’s the work of a serial-killer by copying their method; whether a unique rope knot, a not-so-clever disguise, or by leaving behind a complimentary box of chocolates and a calling card which reads “dear Bob, it was nice to kill you, best wishes, Gary the Garrotter”
• Confuse the investigation by sending clever red-herrings from the alleged killer to the Police, like “I met Bob in 1982”, “I visited his home every day” and really subtle hints like “Bob lost me my job when I delivered a 12 inch pepperoni pizza instead of his usual 16 foot meat feast”
• Stall the investigation by setting-up your own inquiry, demanding answers and (better still) if the murder occurs during an election, a sleazy politician will jump to champion the case, only to then be charged with “historical crimes” themselves, and the whole case will be dropped
• Alert the tabloid press to a likely suspect; you don’t need to provide a single shred of evidence as readers have the IQ of a deformed boiled turnip, so as long as you have a photo of this ‘weirdo’ looking a bit shifty, that’ll seal the deal. Your honour, the court of public opinion rests
• Create a bullshit ‘Jack the Ripper’ style myth about it, as all facts will be lost forever the second that every mad-Jack McLoony comes-up with another ludicrous theory or myth to sell a book or draw attention to their pathetic little lives. I’m saying that Bob was killed by the masons
• And finally, consider bribing a policeman. I mean, they’re all honest, but occasionally (PCAG) “Ello ello ello, my name is Police Constable Arsenal… oh wait, hang on, scratch that. Erm call me Sergeant San Miguel Everton, and I resent the implication that any of the boys in blue can be bribed… but if you’re buying, mine’s a pint? Whoops some season tickets just fell into my pocket and I’ll need to confiscate those saucy photos you have of lovely Pippa Middleton. Grrr, it’s too dark in here, I think the light will be better to view them in… yeah, in the toilet”. Zzzzzip.

Or, I could blame anyone of his friends or neighbours by stealing their DNA. That may sound difficult, but it isn’t, as every day we leave traces of our DNA in hundreds of different places, as the average person touches 140 different objects every day. These can range from surfaces, handles, walls, doors, switches, clothes, transport and other people, not to mention the DNA that we all unconsciously leave behind in bathrooms, cafes, barbers, changing rooms, shoe shops, jewellery stores, doctors, hospitals or dentists, whether by touching, sneezing, coughing, brushing by, or simply breathing.

Think about this; The Golden State Killer was arrested using the DNA on a single disposable coffee cup, so I could easily scatter a half-eaten sandwich found in a bin, a smelly old sock left in a laundry or a manky ear-wax coated cotton bud at the scene to implicate someone else, but I won’t, as that would cause the police to investigate this as a murder, which is exactly what I don’t want them to do.

But what if I have left some DNA behind; maybe a hair, a print, or a long line of frothy dribble and a splatter of love-hummus by the cakey Eva porn? What should I do to hide my filthy Mickey man-muck?

• Don’t disguise any smells with bleach, joss-sticks, perfumes or scented candles, as it’ll look like I’ve been having a romantic night-in and possibly some sexy-time with Bob’s corpse
• Don’t dab at my man-spillage with a wet cloth, as the second I make a single tiny clean spot in Bob’s shit-tip, it’ll stick out like a dollop of bird crap on the bonnet of a brand-new black BMW
• Don’t set fire to the flat as arson is for arseholes, unless you disguise it as a ballsed up BBQ by placing by Bob; a litre of fuel, a bundle of sticks and a little sausage perched on a fork

These are all terrible ideas, but they are the most obvious ways that murderers try to clean-up a crime scene. Each one could erase the evidence but they all point to the involvement of a third-party. But there are a few ways to eradicate any viable DNA at a crime scene without you even being there, or anywhere near, and they all involve time, air and – inevitably – the human-factor:

• #1 – Bob’s bedsit is such a sugary health hazard that every time you breath in you ingest 2000 calories, so simply open the window and let the rats, flies and maggots enjoy their feast. Yum
• #2 – After he’s dead, anonymously call for an ambulance; that way the Police, paramedics and fire bridge (there to cut him off from his sticky sofa) will trample everywhere erasing the lot
• #3 – Put a sign-up outside of his bedsit which reads ‘Free Stuff’, and like a swarm of tracksuit-wearing locusts, his neighbours will nick everything… probably even Bob. Problem solved
• #4 – Fill the bedsit with batteries, wires, gas cannisters and copies of Conspiracy Nut Monthly, then call the bomb squad, and if it looks lethal enough, they’ll blow everything sky-high
• Or #5 –you can just wait for the usual band of dickheads who see a crime-scene, ignore the Police tape and argue with the exasperated officer by whinging “why are you Pigs always such fascists, all I want to do is take a few selfies with the corpse. I’ve got 62 followers you know”

You can always trust other people to be complete arseholes, and let’s be honest, if an arsehole leaves his DNA at a crime-scene and is arrested for my crime, that’s a bonus to civilised society, right?

Right! Bob is dead, his death looks natural and his bedsit doesn’t look like a crime-scene. Yay! Well done me. So, now that all done-and-dusted, when should I call the Police? When?! Never! Here is a simple list of idiotic things which trip up almost every serial killer and murderer all the bloody time.

• Don’t call the Police to tell them “I’ve found a body”, as if I do, I might as well walk into Police HQ dragging Bob’s corpse behind me whilst wearing a t-shirt which reads ‘Suspect #1’
• Don’t send bereavement flowers to his family, as they may be allergic to pollen, they might not like flowers and… oh, more importantly, they may not be aware that Bob’s dead. Spoilers!
• Don’t wail outside of Bob’s bedsit sobbing copiously “Why? Why? Why did it have to be Bob, he was so young and beautiful, he had so much to live for”, because as we all know, he didn’t. Bob was about as beloved and healthy as a cinema hotdog, but at least he contained meat
• Don’t put up ‘missing’ posters, as he’s not missing, it looks suspicious and he’s not a cat
• Don’t film or photograph Bob’s murder, as he is not very photogenic, I often ruin every shot by leaving a finger to linger over the lens, and… you know… it’s irrefutable evidence dickhead
• Don’t celebrate Bob’s death; don’t buy a cake, candles or champagne, I can raise a little toast to myself in private, that’s fine, but don’t organise a street-party with fireworks blasting across the city sky and spelling out “Bob is as dead as brown bread and I done it. Woo hoo!”
• Don’t got on a spending spree, or in my case, drooling over Eva while rubbing madeira sponge into my fat naked body like I’m a bald pasty version of Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal
• Don’t go on a talk show and pretend to be the “real victim of this tragedy” on the very day that I’ve conveniently published a book called ‘Bob’s Murder and How I Got Away With It’
• If the Police ask me to go a press conference, say no, as I’ll know I’m their number one suspect
• Don’t move away the day after the murder, claiming I have an allergy to death
• Don’t taunt the Police with clues to my identity… only to look shocked when I’m arrested

And most importantly of all, (sobbing) and this is too painful to say… don’t keep any souvenirs.

That means no heads, no hands, no teeth and no trinkets. Don’t nick a celebratory cheese sarnie from the fridge if I feel a bit peckish or try on his Batman underpants (as where-as once they seemed cheesy, now they’ve got a kitsch value), as everything I steal will lead directly back to me, as the culprit.

So, as much as I want to, need to, and every ounce of my soul wants me to steal it, I have to leave behind the sultry cakey fresco of the lovely Hollywood siren Eva Green devouring a mini Battenberg in a way which makes me wish I had died and was reincarnated as a cake. Sigh! This is a waiting game, but if I’m patient, it may pay-off. My hope is that his legal guardians will either sell off, auction or bin his personal possessions, and then ‘cakey-Eva’ is legally mine. ALL MINE! But until then, I must weep.

But what if I am suspect number one? What should I do? Here’s my top tips for when Police Constable Arsenal Guinness drains the last can, finishes his hand-shandy and gets down to some work… for once:

• #1 – don’t deny knowing Bob, because (as previously discussed) Bob & I have a long provable history together and - like most morons who commit murder - we also have matching tattoos
• #2 - don’t mutter “no comment” to all of the Police’s questions, as although I legally can, I’ll look as guilty as if I’d said “I didn’t do it, officer” having then tapped my nose and winked
• #3 – don’t ask the Sergeant “what’s for dinner chief” or “can you pick-up my pillow, it’s hypo-allergenic”, as if I look as if I’m bedding in for the long-haul, they know they’ve got their man
• #4 – don’t ask them to retake my mugshot as I try to perfect my ’bad-boy’ look and grumble about how it’s a piss-poor cover-shot for my biography and if they can call in David Bailey
• #5 – don’t give them a P O Box number, so when I’m banged up, lots of loony ladies can send me love-letters, in which they complain that they ‘never seem to date anyone nice’ - a mystery

I mean the list goes on, but as a rule of thumb, don’t be a dick about it. We’ve seen enough true-crime shows to know that if you’re sitting in a police station, wearing a rapey grey tracksuit, with a stupid tattoo which reads ‘Killa 4 Life’, a look on your face which warrants a slap and muttering “no comment” to questions like “what’s your name” and “would you like a cup of tea”, you’re clearly as guilty as sin. Where-as if co-operative, seemingly truthful and not ‘acting like a tit’, you’ll probably be released.

If I am arrested and charged with Bob’s murder, luckily the conviction rate for murder in England and Wales is pretty low. According to the Office of National Statistics, of the 712 homicides in 2018, only 163 suspects were charged, with an average conviction rate of between 17 and 33%, and even before the cases went to court, 3% of all suspects had either died or committed suicide, and post-trial, 79% of suspects were found guilty, 14% were acquitted and 4% were convicted of a lesser offence.

But how many of these were well-researched pre-meditated murders for very worthwhile cause like some cakey-Eva porn, rather than some bloke gave me a bit of a funny look? Probably none.
So, let us return to where we began, with one big question - how possible or impossible is it to commit and get away with perfect murder? We all assume (having consumed one too many true-crime shows which cherry-pick a few scant details of a six-year investigation and boil them down into a handy-half-hour chunk) that killing is a bit of a doddle. But for the average person like me or you, it wouldn’t be.

Mentally we’d be a mess, physically we’d shake like a leaf and psychologically we’d be broken for life. Throughout every step of the planning, the research and the execution, we would stall, fumble, panic and even though I have the perfect alibi to aid my escape – that being a fat bald man in his mid-forties, I’m entirely invisible to women, most men but thankfully not dogs– I’d either have given-up, got bored, handed myself in, or been arrested for looking suspicious before I’ve even entered Bob’s bedsit.

So, to conclude, unless you are a criminal mastermind, a remorseless killer, a fictional character, or the kind of arrogant self-obsessed douch-bag who doesn’t understand that every problem is solvable, every solution is negotiable and every positive action takes vastly more effort than a negative action - if you’re willing to put in the time to try and make it work - it’ll be better for everyone.

Getting away with anything illegal (let alone a murder) is next-to-impossible, so why bother? Why waste the few years or decades you have left on this Earth fuming over something unimportant, when you could savour a simple life, being happy with what you do have, content with what you don’t have, and – best of all – that no-one (including myself, yourself or Bob) will end up dead. (Bob) “Hello, my name is Bob, I am Mike’s fictional friend who is ‘very-much-alive’, and I approve this message”.

Oh, and if anyone is on the look-out for a rather lovely, non-dribble coated, man-hummus-free, cakey portrait of Hollywood sex-bomb Eva Green clutching a range of Mr Kipling’s finest cakes (swoon), then apparently they sell them on eBay for £10. I know! Who knew? Next time, I’ll do my research first.

Thanks for listening folks. Tatty-bye.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Part Four and the final part of How To get Away With Murder. Next week, your regular Murder Mile episodes will return.

A big thank you to my new Patreon Supporters who are Tony Inglis, Sarah London and Kicha Blackstone, I thank you all muchly. I hope you entered the very exclusive competition on Patreon and they you are now the proud owners of a very exclusive Murder Mile key-ring. Ooh. Plus a thank you to everyone who leaves lovely comments when you download the freebies (like ringtones, quizzes and ebooks) in the Murder Mile merch shop – there’s a link in the show notes. I read them all and they are all very much appreciated. Up next is Extra Mile.

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.


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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", 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.