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 get inside the mind of a serial killer? Well now you can, by reading a rather mundane letter by a serial killer. This week is the turn of an American serial killer called Randy Kraft, also known as the Scorecard Killer, who murdered at least 16 vulnerable and even homeless young men between 1972 and 1983, mostly in Southern California, and is also believed to have raped and murdered up to 51 other boys and young men. He is currently incarcerated on death row at San Quentin State Prison. A man of no remorse.
This is a one-page typed letter, with a letter head at the top marked RANDY S KRAFT, Box E-38700, San Quentin State Prison, dated 1st Nov 2001, and it’s clearly a mail-out with a hand-written note at the bottom, as there no introduction or even a hello at the top, it simply begins like this. “I have been here at San Quentin since late 1989, and for most of that time, including now, I have been dirt poor since condemned prisoners in California are not allowed to work or have any business or income. (Yeah, it’s called prison Randy, you’re being punished for your crimes, but anyway, continue) I, like all others here, depend on the charity of people like you for money to buy simple necessities and food stuffs. Though not allowed to work, a prison store allows me to purchase $180 of such supplies per month. The State of California has determined that $180/month is a reasonable amount for a prisoner to spend. Since I have been here, I have rarely had $180 to spend. I have done without for long periods of time. This year to date, I have received a total of $237 in contributions, and some of that has been taken by San Quentin for fees and charges. I need you help (misspelled). San Quentin allows you to send me a money order or check, made out to Randy Kraft, for any amount and as often as you like. Include it in the same envelope with a regular letter. Please do not send cash or stamps. Money orders are processed fairly fast, while personal checks are held for several months by San Quentin until they clear the bank. Please, you say that your interest is friendly, and that you want to correspond in a friendly manner. I believe you. So please do what a friend would do in these circumstances. You can help. Please send a contribution“. Not signed off. At bottom, hand written: “John. Thanks for the letter. I hope to hear from you again. Randy” Gosh, I hope he was sent enough pocket money by John to buy some sweeties, as they’re clearly best buddies? I don’t think I’ll rest until I know. Eek.
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.
John Henry George Lee was born on the 15th November 1864 in the rural village of Abbotskerswell in Devon. As a working class boy who left school with no qualifications, John began his working life as a humble servant to Miss Emma Anne Whitehead Keyse, a spinster who lived alone an affluent home called ‘The Glen’ in the coastal hamlet of Babbacombe Bay, with her servants; sisters Jane & Eliza Neck, Elizabeth Harris the cook and the cook’s half brother John Henry George Lee.
Being a restless teenager - with no money, no life experience and eager to see the world - John enlisted in the Royal Navy, but almost as quickly as he’d left, he was invalided out owing to a leg injury and was returned back to Devon. Being broke, John tried his hand at being a footman, but was found guilty of stealing from his employer and was sentenced to two years hard labour. In 1884, aged 20, thanks to the kindness and generosity of his former employer – Emma Keyse – John Lee was taken back to the familiar surroundings of his job at ‘The Glen’ in Babbacombe Bay. Barely a few months later, on the morning of 15th November 1884, Miss Emma Keyse was found brutally murdered; her throat was slit from ear-to-ear with a kitchen knife, she had three deep puncture wounds to her head, and - in his attempt to hide his crime – her corpse had been set on fire. The Police had one suspect - John Henry George Lee – a convicted criminal, with an unexplained cut on his arm, who was the only male in the house. That was the evidence. There were no witnesses to her murder, no sightings of John, and he had the same alibi as everyone else in the house – he was asleep. He had no motive, no murder weapon, no blood stains and he hadn’t stolen anything. The evidence was slim, and as his legal defence became unstable as his lawyer started feeling ill (and later dying), and believing in his innocence, John stated "The reason I am so calm is that I trust in the Lord and he knows I am innocent". Only his prayers fell on deaf ears, as John Lee was found guilty of murder and was sentenced to be hung by the neck until he was dead. I appears that as much as he prayed, God had forgotten John Lee. Or had he? On the morning of 23rd February 1885 at Exeter Prison, a set of wooden gallows were transferred from the old infirmary into the coach house in preparation for the execution of 21 year old John Lee. As was his job, the executioner James Berry calculated John Lee’s weight and height, measured out a length of hemp rope appropriate to the necessary drop to break his neck, a slip-knot and a noose were tied at one end and James Berry tested the trapdoors of the gallows with a sack of grain in place of the prisoner. Everything worked perfectly. At the strike of the hour, as John Lee stood on the gallows with the hemp rope around his neck, as Berry pulled on the draw bar to open the trap doors, with a quick drop and a sudden stop, soon enough John Lee’s neck would be snapped and he would be dead… only it didn’t. John’s neck didn’t break. In fact, he didn’t even drop or move, as the trapdoors remained shut. James Berry pulled the draw bar again… nothing. Unsure what was wrong, John Lee was removed from the gallows, and as he watched from the side, the sack of grain once again took his place, only this time, the trapdoors spring open. With the problem solved and with his appointment with death imminent, John Lee was returned to the gallows, his head through the noose, and with a sharp tug of the draw bar… nothing. John Lee wasn’t dead and hadn’t moved an inch. Again he was removed from the gallows, again the draw bar was tugged, and again the sack of grain plummeted to the ground, on command, so again John Lee was returned to the gallows, his feet on the trapdoors, his head through the noose, his neck seconds away from being broken and his life being extinguished forever, and as James Berry yanked hard on the draw bar? Nothing. John Lee wouldn’t die. Being pushed aside by the executioner whose incompetence was obvious to all who watched impatiently as John Lee stood their ‘not dead’ and James Berry stamped up and down upon the trapdoors, trying to force them open with his body weight, his face red with fury, knowing full-well he wouldn’t be paid for a botched job. And yet, with John Lee having survived an execution three times, the medical officer refused to take part in this debacle, and with no medical officer on-sight, the execution was stopped. Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt later commuted John Lee’s sentence to a life sentence stating "It would shock the feeling of anyone if a man had twice to pay the pangs of imminent death". In 1907, 22 years after he had cheated death, John Lee was released from prison. When the gallows were inspected, it appeared that when it was moved from the old infirmary into the coach house, the draw bar had been slightly misaligned, meaning the hinges of the trapdoor were at best temperamental, and at worst useless, so (whether this was divine intervention) we shall never know, but then as John Lee himself said "The reason I am so calm is that I trust in the Lord and he knows I am innocent".
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 can you plead in court?
You may think, when a judge asks “how do you plead”, that as the defendant, you have just two options – guilty or not guilty? But you don’t. There are several options. The three main ones are: Guilty: by admitting your guilt you waive any rights and the trial can progress to sentencing without any evidence, witnesses or even the victim being called. Most lawyers would advise against a guilty plea unless it benefits yourself by offering a more favourable sentence. That said, you may be able to withdraw a guilty plea, at any time during the trial, as long as sentencing has not begun. Not Guilty: by admitting your innocence – even if you are guilty – this gives your legal defence time to examine and evaluate any new evidence which the prosecution may wish to present, and to mount a defence against it, so this is often the most common plea in criminal court. No Contest: by neither admitting your innocence or guilt with regards to the charges, the trial must proceed as if you have pleaded “not guilty”, but this is rarely an option lawyers suggest taking as (by pleading neither way) it can come with some serious consequences. And you can also, say nothing. Even in court, (although it is not advised by your lawyer) you do not have to plead at all. In fact, unless summoned, as a defendant you can choose to remain silent, and even fail to appear in court, but in most cases, silence or failing to appear will result in a guilty plea. I spend a lot of time in court, watching cases, and it’s amazing the amount of time a little scrote is brought before the judge, and when asked how he pleads, he shrugs and say “bovvered”. Baffling. But there are other pleas you can make: The Alford Plea: this is where the defendant proclaims their innocence to the charges but acknowledge that the evidence is sufficient to convict them should the case go to jury trial. Famous case of Henry Alford charged with first degree murder, pleaded innocent, even though he had confessed to a witness that he had committed the act, and yet had he pleaded guilty, he may have escaped the death penalty. A Conditional Plea: this is where the defendant pleads guilty to the offense, but specifically reserves the right to appeal certain aspects of the charges (eg: if the evidence was illegally obtained). And there’s the Insanity Plea: this is where the defendant admits their guilt of the charges but claims they were not responsible for their actions by reason of insanity or a lack of mental capacity. For an insanity plea to be accepted, mental health professionals on both sides will be called to give evidence on whether they agree that the defendant was “not of sound mind at the time of the crime” and did not understand the difference between “right” and “wrong”, commonly known as the McNaughton Rules, but only the jury can decide if he/she was guilty of the crime. The Insanity Plea is accepted in the UK, Canada, Australia and almost all states in the USA, accepted Idaho, Kansas, Montana and Utah, but Kansas does allow a guilty but insane verdict by a jury. Where-as in the Nordic countries; insanity is not allowed as a legal defence, therefore in Sweden (the perpetrator is fully accountable for their crimes), in Denmark & Norway (those declared insane are not punished for their crimes but are committed for psychological and mental treatment), and in Finland, any punishment can only be administered if the accused is compos mentis (of sound mind).
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.
Autopsies. What happens during an autopsy?
We’ve all seen it in cop shows, we’re in a cold white morgue, a dead body lies on a slab, the cop comes in, the pathologist pulls back a plastic sheet, and wham, we see an obvious injury, and if you’re lucky you get to see some boobs, bush, bott-bott or (for the ladies) a wiggly bit of winkle. Admit it! I know you all pause those scenes in Silent Witness, and if anyone comes into the room you say “oh I just paused it whilst I was just making a cup of tea, that’s all, and I definitely wasn’t ogling the dead man’s rather delightful blue-veined piccolo, pink obo, or fleshy love-trumpet”. Unless – of course - it’s Tom Hardy, but he’ll never pop his lad out in the flicks as he’s a classy actor now. That said, he did, in that film Bronson, remember that? Where he was stark bollock naked for like half the film and (in that one scene) he shouted “lube me up”, which the prison guard did, with handfuls of Vaseline? What? Didn’t you know about that? That explains why you’re all sweaty. Look, if you ladies or gents weren’t aware that Tom Hardy is totally starkers in Bronson, feel free to go and download it on Netflix, we’ll wait for you, don’t worry. (Whistles). Hmm, they may be a while. I tell you what, we’ll carry on without them, they won’t be able to concentrate anyway. So, what is an autopsy? Also called a post-mortem examination or a necropsy, an autopsy can be either an external and/or an internal examination of a whole body, or just a single organ, to determine cause of death, whether by accident, homicide, suicide, negligence, infectious disease or natural event. Autopsies are also used to identify a person in times of natural or manmade disasters, and for research purposes. Autopsy derives from the Greek word autopsia: meaning "to see with one's own eyes". Does every death require an autopsy? No. Only if the manner of death is suspicious, unexpected, undetermined or could present a significant risk to public health, or has legal or financial ramifications. Autopsies can be requested by the health authority, police, hospital, coroner or the family themselves. What happens before an autopsy? This is a key step overlooked by TV shows, but the body has to be transported to the mortuary, and to ensure any vital evidence is preserved, the body is placed in a HRP (a human remains pouch, also known as a body bag). Conceived during World War One, originally this was a simple cotton cover, by the Vietnam war it had been replaced by a thick black rubber sack, but today HRP’s are thick sealed waterproof plastic bags, designed to retain even the smallest of remains (whether hair, blood, purge fluid, powder, dirt etc), and that’s the reason the bags are white. A new body bag is used for each person and they are completely sterile. Any body parts which are believed to hold significant evidence (whether fingers or feet) are also wrapped in paper sacks and are sealed and taped shut. The body is then tagged and catalogued to avoid confusion. The autopsy is split into two parts; an external and an internal examination, although the type of examination is entirely dependent on what the perceived death is. First is an external examination: Step #1 – the body is photographed before it is moved, creating a record of how it was received, the pathologist also notes down the position of the body, any clothing, visible scars or injuries. Step #2 – with the body still in the HRP, the body’s basic details are recorded; age, sex, race, weight, height, hair, skin and eye colour, tattoos, surgical scars, birth marks, etc. Step #3 – any unnatural residue (such as dirt, oil, paint) is collected from the surface of the body for examination, and an Ultraviolet light is used to check for any residue not visible to the naked eye. Step #4 – samples of hair, skin and blood are taken (if required) and – if needed – the body is radiographically imaged using an MRI, to see inside before a single incision has been made These four steps are done all whilst the body is still in the HRP, to ensure that any evidence is retained inside the white plastic bag. Only then can we reach… Step #5 – the body is removed from the HRP by the diener (also known as an APT - Anatomical Pathology Technician) and placed onto a sterile aluminium examination table. Here the body is undressed, cleaned, weighed, measured and prepared for an internal examination, if needed. Steps 1-4 are repeated, now that the body is out of the HRP, and the HRP itself is examined. Throughout the autopsy, the pathologist will verbally record each stage of the process, as well as writing notes on a pre-printed autopsy report and marking it on a diagram of the body… …and will probably have a good old ogle at their boobs, bush, bot-bot or bell-end. What pathologists don’t do (which TV shows love pretending that they do) is they don’t nibble on a kebab, puff on a ciggie, or swig a hot cup of Bovril, whilst slicing up a cadaver or examining a body, as the mortuary is a sterile environment, and any external factors are considered contamination… which could either destroy or compromise the evidence. If an internal examination is required, to make the torso easier to examine, a rubber brick called a "head block" is placed under the shoulders, this causes the neck to hyperflex, arching the spine backwards, which pushes the chest upward, making any incision easier. Bleeding is minimal or non-existent in most cases, as (with no heart to pump blood) gravity causes blood and other fluids to pool at the lowest part of the body and – if possible - no incisions are made which would be visible at an open-casket funeral. There are four different types of incisions made, depending on which organs need to be examined: #1 - a large and deep Y-shaped incision, starting at the top of each shoulder, running down the front of the chest and ending at the base of the breastbone (known as the sternum) #2 – a curved incision from the tips of each shoulder and down across the second ribs #3 – a single vertical incision from the base of the neck to the base of the sternum (one used on TV) #4 – a u-shaped incision from the tips of the shoulders down the sides of the chest Using a prosector (like a set of garden sheers), the pathologist will cut through the ribs to open the chest cavity, the sternum is removed and set aside for later, so the heart and lungs can be examined in situ for evidence of disease, injury or trauma. As the heart and lungs are our blood and oxygen supply - and without them we are dead - they are usually the first internal organs examined. Once this is complete, the other organs can be examined, but depending on the pathologists preferred style or requirement from the autopsy, the organs are either removed one by one in a slow systematic fashion, or en masse, in one large block, especially with infants or babies. Each organ is examined, weighed and tissue samples are taken in the form of several thin slices, which will neatly fit onto microscope slides. The major blood vessels are inspected for clotting, ruptures, swelling and infection, and the contents of the stomach are checked to determine a time of death, as certain foods digest at different rates. Bodily fluids may also be checked – such as urine, blood, vitreous gel from the eyes, or bile from the gallbladder — for drugs, infection, chemical composition or genetic factors. A toxicology report can be requested to determine what or if any drugs or poisons have been taken or ingested, but this is not always essential, and is limited to the most commonplace of toxins. As it is impossible to search for every type drug, poison or toxin, the pathologist can recommend a broad spectrum report, and/or a search for a few very specific poisons… but not everything. If an examination of the brain is required to determine meningitis, an incision is made from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to the other ear, the scalp is pulled away in two flaps; one over the face and one over the back of the neck. With the skull exposed, a cranial cut is made using a semi-circular saw, around the skull like a cap, which can neatly be removed, and the brain can be observed in situ. If required, the cranial nerves and spinal cord can be severed, and the brain removed. Once the autopsy is complete, the cap can be refitted, the scalp flaps can be pulled back into place and stitched, and the scar won’t be visible in an open casket. Any organs not required for examination are placed in plastic bags to prevent leakage, returned to the body, the lining of the body cavity is filled with cotton wool, or an absorbant material, and the body is sewn shut, in what is regarded as a “baseball stitch”. The body is then ready to be embalmed by a funeral director. There you go, you are now a fully-fledged pathologist and qualified to conduct your own autopsies. Well, you’re as qualified as any TV actor playing a pathologist. And just think, if Tom Hardy (steady ladies) if Tom Hardy dies in a TV drama, or film, I’m sure there would be a rush of you who are suddenly RADA trained actors and part-time morticians eager to pretend that you can determine his time of death, according to the smoothness of his chest, the smell of his armpits, the taste of his lips and (your own specific scientific method) the length of his willy.
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.
Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance of 79 Gloucester Road where John George Haigh murdered and dissolved the bodies of William, Donald and Amy McSwan in acid
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-NINE:
On Monday 2nd July 1945, British serial-killer John George Haigh lured the reclusive parents of his first victim and friend – William Donald McSwan – to his basement at 79 Gloucester Road to be murdered and their bodies disposed of in acid. But how did he do this, and why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of the murder basement at 79 Gloucester Road where the murder of William, Donald & Amy McSwan took place where the yellow dot and their home at 45 Claverton Street marked with a purple dot. Their home to the basement is 2.8 miles away, so (with no car) he had to lure them into his basement. To use the map, 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.
Two little videos for you to enjoy with this episode; on the left is Stanhope Mews West, the back entrance to 79 Gloucester Road (where Johnny lured Mac in, had the acid bottles delivered and came stumbling out when he almost gassed himself to death) and on the right is 45 Claverton Street in Pimlico where Donald & Amy McSwan lived (now demolished).
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. 
Left to right: a rare photo of Amy McSwan (sadly there are no photos of Donald), the invoice for the acids to dispose of Amy & Donald's bodies, the Power of Attorney of William Donald McSwan in favour of John George Haigh and the forged signature of William Donald McSwan by Johnny Haigh, in which instead of Donald he wrote "Ponald". He found this most amusing.
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 OF THE EPISODE: PART THREE OF SULPHURIC.
(Drain) Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the forty-gallon steel drum from tipping too far over, the thick black gloop slowly slid into the dark festering sewer, hidden behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road. As the smoking stew slopped up the rim, the acrid stench of acid stung the air and the last of the shapeless fatty goo oozed down into the drain - seeing no eyes, hair or skin, just a yellowy-green layer of ominous grease – this was all that remained of 33 year old William Donald McSwan. And with the manhole cover replaced, Mac was gone. Being the first of six (supposedly) perfect murders, although this baby-faced psychopath would soon bloom into one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers, in truth, as a murder virgin, Johnny had badly bungled his first slaying, but somehow – with his deathly cherry popped – he had got away with it. But as a convicted fraudster, experienced forger and a charming liar, the rest would be textbook. (Haigh) “I had known McSwan for some time, and on seeing his mother and father, I explained that he had gone off to avoid his ‘call-up’. I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him and posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh, explaining various details of the deposition of assets”, which included a company, four homes and seven bank accounts, worth a quarter of a million pounds today. Last seen on Saturday 9th September 1944, as a shy introverted recluse who hid in the shadows, Mac would be missed by nobody but his doting parents who would swallow an entirely plausible story that their only son - a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual, with so much to lose – would flee the city, leaving his only friend in charge of his affairs. It seemed logical; so strung-along by a sweet little man that Mac saw as a sibling and for fear of leading the Police to their terrified child, his timid parents kept up the pretence that their boy was away on business, all the while unwittingly aiding his murderer. And just as Johnny had done with his body, the cocky little killer would strip, dissolve and dispose of all Mac’s assets… until not a single trace of him would ever be found. (Interstitial*) Only Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name. On Tuesday 12th September 1944, with the trifling little matter of murder ticked-off his ‘to-do’ list and Mac’s sludgy remains slopping its way towards one of several sewage plants across the city - after a decent night’s nap, a solid breakfast and another quick peek at a rather-nifty dark-green Armstrong-Siddeley saloon he had his eye on in a nearby car showroom - Johnny set-about cleaning the basement. There was no real rush though; having rented the premises for three months he had barely used just a week, the landlord (Albert Marshall of Taylor Lovegrove & Co) was fully aware that any odd whiffs emanating from the floor below was due to Johnny undertaking “experimental work for a government contract”, and so with Mac only missing, the Police wouldn’t find this crime-scene until five years later. Being a filthy basement soiled by several previous tenants, Johnny’s clean-up would be (at best) a slap-dash affair; he swept a bit, moved some stuff and tipped a bucket of hot soapy water, but as he disliked hard work, he really wasn’t all that bothered, especially now that Mac’s money would soon be burning a hole in his pocket. Desperate to get the job done, Johnny had a scrap man destroy the steel drum, Canning & Co collected three empty bottles (a 6lb Winchester and two ten-gallon carboys) and seeing no reason to waste a £7 a month on a perfectly serviceable (but now seemingly pointless) place for a murder, Johnny sublet the dingy basement to Ronald A Fontana… a pleasant fellow who needed the storage space and was happy to be left a few odd and sods that Johnny really couldn’t be bothered to bin; you know, stuff, like pinball table legs, a length of lead-pipe and an old rusty axe. And so, eager to turn his tatty threads into a tailored suit, his sofa-surfing spree into a private room at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel and his scuffed shoes into a sports car - having treated himself to a slap-up dinner - the almost bankrupt Johnny Haigh assumed the identity of the wealthy Mac McSwan. In an era where the best security was a signature, becoming Mac would be no biggie. Besides, having swiped his ID, although dead, for Johnny’s scheme to work, he would only need Mac to exist on paper. Clutching the keys he had rifled from the corpse, Johnny helped himself to a few necessary knickknacks he had filched from Mac’s ground-floor flat at 22 Kempsford Gardens; a cheque book, a suitcase, some clothes, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, a surprisingly good suit and Mac’s Imperial typewriter. Not that this crime was as uncouth as a common burglary, or as petty as pilfering a fridge. Johnny wouldn’t stoop so low as to half-inch a few cheap trinkets to pawn off for a pound. No, these personal possessions had purpose… and besides, it was entirely coincidental that, on that same day, some low-life broke into Mac’s workshop - although quite what this hoodlum had nicked, may never be known. That aside, the banks and lawyers would be a push-over, a few stuffy old men easily duped by a legal letter and an ID, signed in an identical scrawl, but for his superior scheme to truly work, Johnny needed Mac’s parents to believe that their beloved son wasn’t dead… but that he had voluntarily disappeared. And yet, with a little bit of effort, a large dollop of knowledge, a few days spare and several pounds in his dwindling account, Donald & Amy McSwan swallowed it whole… and Johnny did most of it by post. But how did it work and why? Well, the McSwan’s weren’t all that different to his parents - The Haigh’s. Born in a staunchly Presbyterian house in Menstrie, a small rural village in the Scottish lowlands snuck between Edinburgh and Glasgow, Donald was the second youngest of seven siblings; to Christina, a devoted housewife and William, a ball-man (who tested the quality of whiskies) at the local Glenochil Distillery; a skilled profession for a strict teetotaller who was always punctual, steady and sober. As with The Haigh’s, Donald’s upbringing was dictated by two core beliefs; the family and serving God. So the rest of his early life, you can probably guess. Raised to be neat, clean and polite, just like his son, Donald was a slightly undersized boy with a long weary face and a thin weedy frame, all barely held together by the expression of a haunted boy who fear was forcing him to fold-in on himself, as (owing to an awkward birth) he walked with a stoop. And being just one in a family of nine; he never stood out, never felt loved and always hid in the shadows. Surviving many brutally bitter winters in an austere Victorian era where only the rich had nest-eggs to save them from the hard-times ahead, although the family were far from poor, their faith had taught them to spend frugally, live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away whatever they could. Graduating Menstrie Public School aged 13, young McSwan - who was Donald to his mum, never Don; “boy” to his dad, never “son”, and to his friends… well, he didn’t have any friends – eager to appease his domineering father who was never drunk just disappointed, he earned a living at the distillery. But being swamped by three burly brothers, as a quiet bookish boy and the runt-of-the-litter who had learned to type and to take shorthand, instead of a tough sweaty manual job, Donald became a clerk. Throughout his life, Donald feared his father and as an unmarried man being denied his independence, although he had never set foot out of Menstrie, let-alone to the nearby cities of Edinburgh or Glasgow; in 1908, aged 30, holding all he owned, Donald fled his home, his county and his country, travelling 475 miles south to Tunbridge Wells in Kent. Had he fled any further, he’d have drowned in the sea. Whatever had caused this rift is unknown; he missed his family, he grieved their deaths and he longed to be loved, but – so deep was the pain – that Donald never spoke or wrote to his parents ever again. That year, Donald became the secretary at the Tunbridge Wells Spa Hotel; here he found work, a wage, a purpose and a place to stay… as well as falling for the woman he would love until his dying day. Amy Beatrice Paige was a waitress. Just like Donald; she was slight, quiet and neat; a painfully shy Presbyterian who spoke in a tiny whisper, stood with a timid stance and always avoided eye-contact, but was forced into unsuitable work to earn a modest wage for a large fractured family. And yet, with Donald as her manager, she found love, support, strength and someone who made her feel safe. Donald & Amy were a very decent couple, moral but modest, fiercely loyal but easily forgettable; they never kissed in public and yet always held each other’s hand, they never wore bright colours except for a little flower he popped in her lapel, and – as two recluses - they said and did very little, but were always happiest together in their own home, away from the dangers of strangers. In October 1910, Donald & Amy fell pregnant. It was a blissfully jubilant time for the two solitary lovers who (one day) dreamed of becoming a family, but conceived by mistake and born-out-of-wedlock, that month, Donald & Amy hastily became The McSwan’s, having married in secret. On 12th May 1911, William Donald McSwan was born; a small but healthy boy who (as their only child) was always loved and hugged; given everything and denied nothing, raised well but never spoiled, being different he was never forced to be anything but himself, and – no matter what – The McSwan’s would do anything to protect their beloved boy… whether he was alive, dead, or (allegedly) in hiding. And yet, it was their lives which shaped the future of Mac McSwan… for better and for worse. In December 1915, with World War One raging, just as it would for his son a quarter-of-a-century later, 36 year old Donald was conscripted to fight with the 6th Royal Fusiliers on the French Frontline. As a small, weak, terrified pacifist with a stoop, whose religion forbade him to kill and who cried every night that he didn’t see his wife and baby, it’s nothing short of a miracle that (being little more than cannon-fodder) Donald survived more than two years in the trenches. But in February 1918, his luck ran out. Blasted by a mortar shell, his only physical injury was small scar over his right eye, but the bloody war had taken its toll on Donald, and for the rest of his life, traumatised and plagued by night terrors, his right-hand would perpetually-shake with an involuntary tremor, a sad souvenir of the (so-called) Great War. Demobbed in July 1918, although he was hailed as a hero and given two medals, Donald swore that (from this day onward) he and his family would never be apart, ever again. For the next twenty-five years, Donald, Amy and William McSwan spoke daily, were parted rarely and always wrote… …but all that changed the day they met Johnny Haigh. His subterfuge was simple… (Haigh) “I explained to them that Mac had gone off to avoid his call-up”, a dilemma Donald understood which was why he supported his son’s decision to do whatever he could do to avoid the draft. “I wrote a number of letters purporting to be from him”; the typed one’s matched his typewriter, the signature was a perfect match and the handwriting on the postcards mirrored his style, tone and grammar. And having “posted them in Glasgow and Edinburgh”, the two nearest cities to Donald’s hometown, he explained the “various details of the deposition of assets” which were to be left to his old pal Johnny. The retired recluses reassured by their boy’s words that he was fine, well and would be home soon… …unaware that he was already dead and dissolved. As per his letters, on the 18th September 1944, one week after the murder, Donald arrived at his son’s office to inform the workshop’s owner (Herbert Woodman) that Mac was “out of town, on business, indefinitely”. On 5th October, Donald paid his son’s rent at 22 Kempsford Gardens, ended the tenancy and removed his boy’s belongings, noting the items that Mac must have taken with him; a cheque book, a suitcase, a nice pen, a few handwritten letters, his best suit and his Imperial typewriter. The McSwan’s totally believed this logical ruse that their beloved son had vanished by choice, was laying low and for fear of alerting the Police to his whereabouts, they never reported him missing. All the while giving his killer ample time to destroy any evidence, assume his identity and steal his assets. Johnny’s plan to murder for money was perfect… sort of. The McSwan’s were so like The Haigh’s, two devoted parents - neat, shy and reclusive - who would do anything to protect their boy, but as Mac’s life collapsed, as much as he trusted his old pal, Johnny was too arrogant to see his fatal mistake - Mac liked Johnny as a brother… but he wasn’t family. On 5th November 1943, just as ex-con Johnny was seeking his first victim having been released from Lincoln Prison, with the war draft looming closer, Mac did what many serviceman and civilians in war-time did and visited his bank - the Belgravia branch of Lloyds - where he signed a Power of Attorney granting financial control of his affairs to the only people he trusted without question – his parents. Everything; from his bank accounts, to his stocks, shares and his company, everything but his homes. Again, Johnny had made another fatal mistake… only this one was obvious. Just like his own parents, and to some extent Mac himself, Donald & Amy lived a very frugal life in a small, sparsely furnished top-floor flat in a less desirable part of town, rented weekly for just £1, and – as a solitary couple who didn’t own a car, didn’t socialise or go on holiday – they scraped by on a meagre pension of 22 shillings a week. To Johnny, they looked like they didn’t have two farthings to rub together, but to Donald & Amy, they had everything – their family, their faith and their fortune. Technically, Mac didn’t have a single penny or asset to his name… but his family did. They always had. As their faith had taught them to live sparsely, waste nothing and squirrel away their nest-eggs, all three McSwan’s jointly owned and rented-out the four homes in Beckenham, Wimbledon and Raynes Park, so with total control over their son’s assets; as much as Johnny’s letters lied, it was all for nothing. Johnny’s bank account was empty… …of his last £26; the basement had cost seven quid, the acids three and with a few shillings for sundries like letterheads, business cards and his victim’s last meal, in total Mac’s murder had cost him a tenner, and although (anticipating a rather wonderful windfall) he had slightly prematurely toasted his success with a teeny little spending-spree of a few suits from Hawkes of Saville Row, exquisite din-dins at The Punch Bowl Club, good seats for classical concertos at the Albert Hall, a few big bets on the gee-gee’s and doggies over at the White City Stadium, and several decent snoozes on soft linen sheets at the upmarket Onslow Court Hotel for the princely sum of £5 a week (plus 10% service charge, obviously), but what irked him the most was the endless expensive of chugging back-and-forth from London to Edinburgh to Glasgow to post a few forged letters from the McSwan’s dead son… …a now-needless charade, which - having cruelly teased him with a taste of ‘the good life’ and left a nifty little Armstrong-Siddley saloon stuck in the showroom - this whole grand plan had bled him dry. On 12th January 1945, aided by a stolen chequebook, a forged signature and a devious little dollop of duping Mac’s dad, Johnny syphoned-off monies from one of Mac’s accounts, a scam he would repeat on 3rd February and 8th March, draining £210 (almost £8300 today). Admittedly, this was a pitiful little sum which would tide him over for a bit, but it wasn’t a quarter of a million, which was rightfully his. If only there was a way to make Donald & Amy McSwan vanish completely? Hmm. (Interstitial*) (Haigh) “I had known the McSwan’s for several years. I took them to the basement, disposing of them in the same way as their son”. As before, he made it sound so simple, so precise and so superior, but with no plan to become a serial-killer and believing that he was made-for-life having offed a big mark like Mac, with all of the tools of his murderous deeds either destroyed or disposed of, Johnny would have to start from scratch. And although he was no longer a murder virgin, where-as the first of his six (supposedly) perfect murders was laughably inept, the second and third would be totally absurd. It’s safe to say that Johnny Haigh hadn’t learned his lessons… Having leased the basement at 79 Gloucester Road to Ronald Fontana, his perfect execution site was gone. So being unwilling to totally give it up, on 22nd January 1945, the two men agreed to split it; Ronald had the front-room for his storage and (separated by a thin wall and a single door) Johnny had the back rooms for his murders. Still, at least he had sole access to the drain, so that was something. On 10th February, Johnny ordered a Winchester of hydrochloric and three ten-gallon carboys of sulphuric from Canning & Co at a cost of £4 pounds 12 shillings and 4 pence, but with his funds dry, the cheque bounced, so the usually swift delivery of the bottles were delayed by a further two weeks, and Johnny’s company - Union Group Engineering - had a black-mark placed against their name. Having scrapped the drum and needing two, Johnny borrowed a set of old, rusty and warped but (hopefully) watertight 40 gallon steel drums off a builder’s merchant. Having almost scorched his hands and suffocated on the fumes, this time he would wear protection; only being too cheap to buy, too lazy to borrow and too superior to steal, he made-do with an old tatty trench-coat, a pair of leather gloves and a makeshift gas-mask made from cardboard and string. Again, having forgotten how impossible it was for a 150lb man to decant a 165lb carboy into four foot high steel drum, which took two men to lift, once again he opted to slop the lethal liquid in by bucket. And yes, as before, he failed to purchase (possibly) the most important thing – a murder weapon – so instead, the same shoddy crap he left lying around would have to suffice; a pinball table leg, a length of lead pipe or an old hand-axe, whatever… I mean, it had worked fine last time… hadn’t it? With the preparations for the double-murder of the McSwan’s done and dusted, now all Johnny had to do was to lure this frail old couple into his lair, just as he had done with their son, but (once again) he had overlooked one small detail which would prove to be his biggest mistake… …Mac McSwan liked Johnny, he trusted him, but Donald & Amy did not. Over the next four months, Johnny struggled to speak to (let alone see) the McSwan’s. As two shy and reclusive homebodies - who rarely went out, invited nobody in and mostly communicated by letter, sometimes by phone and once-in-a-blue-moon on the communal doorstep at 45 Claverton Street, all within earshot of a busybody landlady and two nosey tenants - even if he could lure them out (which he couldn’t), be invited in (which he wasn’t), or break-in (which he couldn’t) to murder them in their own home? Without a car, or any transport, how would he cart two dead bodies from a top-floor flat in Pimlico to his basement, three miles away in South Kensington? What was he to do, charter a bus? No, Johnny was well and truly stuck. And then it got worse. Unable to afford the extortionate train fare to Scotland, Johnny had to stop writing the letters. When Ronald Fontana moved-out, for safety’s sake, Johnny had to use his last penny to take-up the full lease on the basement. And being broke, like a hobo with nowhere to go, he was forced to bunk-down in the dark dingy basement, asleep on an old mattress, surrounded by two steel drums gathering dust. And then, it got even worse. On Monday 30th April 1945, with Hitler dead, the war over and conscription to-be abolished, as people cheered in the streets that their loved one’s would soon be coming home, as Mac had been missing for nine months and silent for three, the McSwan’s began to ask the question - where was our boy? And then, his whole plan collapsed. On Wednesday 6th June, Albert Marshall (estate agent at Taylor Lovegrove & Co, one floor above) gave Johnny one month’s notice to vacate the basement. With no money left, to time to waste and no other options, it was now or never. But how do you lure two shy recluses out of their home? (Interstitial*) On the evening of Monday 2nd July, (Haigh) “I took separately to the basement, the father Donald and the mother Amy, disposing of them in exactly the same way as the son”. As a frail elderly couple – one a petite lady with a tiny whisper, a timid stance and a little a flower in her lapel, and the other, an awkward battle-scarred veteran with a haunted face, a painful stoop and a perpetually trembling hand – were easy kills. Coshed, hog-tied and drowned in sulphuric acid, as the twin drums shook, boiled and the dirty fizzing stew stripped their hands, feet and faces to the bone, Johnny stirred the deathly brew, his trench-coat, leather gloves and makeshift gas-mask doing the job. And although we know they both died that day, it’s still uncertain whether they were dead, alive or dying, as side-by-side, he dissolved their bodies in acid, but being an uncaring sort of chap, it’s possible. Two days later, all that remained was a black acrid gloop. Glug after glug, as little Johnny Haigh wrestled to stop the steel drums from tipping too far over, and the hot gooey residue of the elderly recluses slid into the dark festering sewer, behind the locked back-door in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road - after nine long months of patiently waiting, praying and hoping – finally, Donald & Amy McSwan… were reunited with their boy. (Drain. End) As per his tenancy, on 6th July 1945, Johnny vacated the premises; he had the empty carboys collected and (should they ever be needed) the drums relocated to Allan Stephen’s yard at 2 Leopold Road. Eleven days later, rightly assuming the banks and lawyers to be a push-over, ‘Turner, MacFarlane, MacKintosh & Co’, a firm of Glasgow solicitors were asked to draw up a Power of Attorney for William Donald McSwan, Donald McSwan and Amy Beatrice McSwan assigning full control of their assets to John George Haigh. ID was produced, all three signatures matched and having checked the documents (Haigh) “the solicitor would (and did) confirm they were legal, because in his eyes, they were”. Selling-off the business, their homes and all stocks, savings, shares and war-bonds, although he didn’t steal every last penny that the McSwan family had ever earned - not for the want of trying - in total, from these three murders, Johnny’s pocket would be flush with enough cash to last a lifetime. With his bank balance brimming, his belly full of fine foods and his suits stylish once again, as a dapper sophisticated bachelor - who was finally living the life he deserved… and had earned - Johnny became a permanent resident in Room 404 of the exclusive Onslow Court Hotel, outside of which he parked his brand-new, rather nifty, Armstrong Siddeley saloon – and now, his dream was complete. Johnny Haigh was a wealthy middle-class man, living a lavish life in an affluent part of town. Yes, to get it, he had slaughtered three people, plundered their assets, dissolved their corpses and poured the sludge into the sewer, but as no-one had reported them missing? Where was the problem? In the end, it took very little effort to lure the McSwan’s into his lair. In fact, it was simple. Johnny had made many mistakes in his first three murders, the biggest being to assume that he knew his victims better than they knew themselves, and although the Haigh’s were similar to the McSwan’s in many ways, by watching them, Johnny knew that they all had one fatal flaw which he didn’t – love. As two doting parents who would do anything to protect their boy, having swallowed an entirely plausible story that their only son (a shamed petty criminal, an absconded parolee, a conscription deserter and a secret homosexual) was missing, after three months of silence, when Johnny showed them proof of life in the basement of 79 Gloucester Road, they only saw what they wanted to see; the handwriting was a match, the date was recent, the postmark was local and the loving words on the postcard reassured his worried parents that their boy was fine, well and would be home soon. By the summer 1945, having made enough money to last a lifetime, the killing spree of John George Haigh, one of Britain’s most infamous serial-killers should have come to an end… but it didn’t. (Interstitial*) OUTRO: Friends. Thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. That was part three of Sulphuric; the true story of John George Haigh, with the fourth part of six continuing next week. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are – Tracey Lawrence, Cindi Ortiz, Kim Cook, Stephanie Enns and Jennifer Venn – with a special thank-you to Kaz Every and Jason Abercrombie, the wonderful admins on the Murder Mile Discussion Group in FaceBook. As well, as always, to everyone who has liked, shared, commented and reviewed this small independent podcast. 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.
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
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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