Money Crimes with Nicole Lapin - UNSOLVED: Julia Wallace 1

Episode Date: September 24, 2026

In January 1931, a mysterious phone call was left for insurance agent William Herbert Wallace at his chess club in Liverpool, England, summoning him to a meeting the following night at an address that, it turned out, did not exist. While Wallace wandered the city searching for the phantom street, his wife Julia was beaten to death in the front parlor of their modest home. Almost immediately, suspicion fell on Wallace himself, but the timing was maddeningly tight and the evidence stubbornly ambiguous. Had a killer lured him away to clear the house, or had Wallace engineered the whole thing as an elaborate alibi? In Part 1 of Murder: True Crime Stories, host Carter Roy introduces the quiet, unassuming couple at the heart of the mystery, the eerie phone call that set the night in motion, and a crime so precisely constructed it would baffle investigators from the very first hour.Follow Murder: True Crime Stories for Part 2 of this episode: https://pod.link/1745145932If you’re new here, don’t forget to follow Scams, Money, & Murder to never miss a case! To hear episodes ad-free, subscribe to Crime House+. Join at crimehouseplus.com or if you’re listening on Apple Podcasts, tap “Try Free” at the top of this show’s page. Scams, Money, & Murder is a Crime House Original Podcast, powered by PAVE Studios.🎧 Need More to Binge? Listen to other Crime House Originals Clues, Crimes Of Reddit, Crime House 24/7, Serial Killers & Murderous Minds, Murder True Crime Stories, and more wherever you get your podcasts!Follow me on SocialInstagram: @CrimehouseTikTok: @CrimehouseFacebook: @crimehousestudiosX: @crimehousemediaYouTube: @crimehousestudios

Hi everyone, it's Vanessa Richardson. Real quick before today's episode, I want to tell you about a show I host with Forensic Psychologist Dr. Tristan Engels. It's called Serial Killers and Murderous Minds. Every Monday and Thursday, we take you deep into the psychology of the most chilling murderers and uncover what drives them to kill. Follow serial killers and murderous minds, available wherever you listen to podcasts. This is Crime House.

Some people go through their whole lives. without ever making an enemy. They keep to themselves and they're kind to everyone around them. They don't gamble, they don't cheat, they don't cross the wrong person. And if something ever happened to them, you'd have a hard time naming a single person who'd want to hurt them. Julia Wallace was one of those people. She was 69 years old, a retired governess in Liverpool, England, living a small, settled life

with her husband she'd been married to for 16 years. She painted watercolors, she played the piano, she spoke French and spent her career taking care of children, which is exactly what makes what happened next so hard to explain. On a cold night in January, 1931, a stranger called Julia's husband and sent him chasing a business meeting that didn't exist. By the time he made him, he must, he made it back home, Julia was gone. So who was really on the other end of that phone call? And who would target a harmless older woman like Julia Wallace? People's lives are like a story. There's a beginning, a middle, and an end. But you don't always know which part you're on. And sometimes the final chapter arrives far too soon and we don't always get to know the real ending.

I'm Carter Roy, and this is murder, true crime stories, the Crime House original powered by Pave Studios. New episodes come out every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, with Friday's episodes covering the cases that deserve a deeper look. Thank you for being part of the crime house community. Please rate review and follow the show. And for early, add free access to every episode. Subscribe to Crimehouse Plus.

You get part one and part two at the same time, exclusive bonus content. To join, go to Crimehouseplus.com or tap try free on the Murder True Crime Stories show page on Apple Podcasts. This is the first of two episodes on the murder of Julia Wallace, one of the strangest unsolved cases in British history. Today, I'll introduce you to Julia and her husband, William. They look like an ordinary older couple

living a small, quiet life in a working-class corner of Liverpool. But that all changed on the night of January 20th, 1931. By the next morning, William had become one of the most talked-about men in England for all the wrong reasons. Next time, I'll walk you through the investigation and the trial that followed. It gripped the entire country and ended up making legal history, but it never solved the one question that has haunted this case for nearly 100 years. What's really happened to Julia Wallace?

All that and more coming up. If you'd met Julia Wallace in 1931, you would have assumed she came from money. She was soft-spoken and refined. Another kind of person who painted watercolors and hung them in her front room. She sang, played piano. know, and even spoke fluent French. But all of those things were learned, and Julia spent most of her life making sure nobody ever found out the truth. The real story is that she was born Julia Dennis in 1861, out in the North Yorkshire countryside into a big farming family.

When she was about 10, her mother died. Not long after, her father, a farmer named. named William George Dennis lost the farm. He started running an inn to keep food on the table, but by 1875, when Julia was 13, he was gone too. So before she'd even turned 14, Julia was an orphan with no money and no real future. And she had a few older brothers and sisters who were scattered around the country, but none of them could take her in. What Julia did have was talent and she used it to build herself a whole new life from scratch. She trained as a governess, which is basically a live-in private tutor for wealthy children. By her early 20s, Julia had landed a spot at a girls' school in London.

After that, she spent a few years bouncing between households in the region, teaching other people's kids' manners, music, and all the other subjects they'd be learning. in school, and she was really good at it. Julia had turned herself into exactly the kind of woman those families were looking for. She painted, she played piano, she read constantly, and she taught herself French until she spoke it beautifully. On her days off, she'd head out into the countryside around Harrogate's with a group of artsy friends and paint. Bit by bit, the innkeeper's daughter had made herself into a proper lady. But there was just one part of her story she couldn't fix,

so she rewrote it instead. Julia told people her father had been a vet, not a broke innkeeper. She said her mother was French, and she lied about her age. Knocking off a year here and a year there until on paper, well, she looked decades younger than she really was. Now, it's easy to judge her.

for that, but it's just as easy to understand it. Julia had clawed her way up from nothing, and the polished version of herself was the one that opened doors and paid the bills. So that's the version she stuck to. The man she'd eventually marry came from a similar place. William Herbert Wallace was born in 1878 in Millum, a small town in northwest England. He was the smart one in the family, with a real head for science and a soft spot for botany, but there was no money to keep him in school. So like most working-class boys back then, he left at 14 to go earn a paycheck. He got a five-year apprenticeship with a draper, learning to measure and cut cloth for a few shillings a week. But even then, William wasn't like the other shop boys. People remembered him as

bookish and a little intense, the type who'd rather talk about botany or chemistry than make small talk. So it makes sense that William was itching for something more than a shop counter. After his apprenticeship ended, he took a few different drapery jobs before joining a company that sold clothing and supplies to the British military and colonial officials overseas. That job was his ticket out. In 1902, when he was 24, Willowell, William was sent to the company's branch in Calcutta, India. It was a big swing for a young draper from a small English town.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long. A few years earlier, he developed a kidney disease that doctors could never really figure out or fix, and it kept landing him in the hospital, even out in India. His younger brother, Joseph, was living in China by then, and he suggested that William joined him. He figured the milder weather might help. William took his advice and moved to Shanghai,

taking a job as an advertising manager, but the medical issues still didn't go away. By 1907, William was pushing 30 and worn out. So he gave up on the whole overseas thing and sailed home to England, where surgeons in London took out his left kidney. Slowly, William recovered and got back on his feet. Around 1910, he landed a job in local politics working for the Liberal Party in Harrogate, a spa town in Yorkshire. The work itself was steady, but nothing special.

But Hargat gave William the most important thing in his life. It's where he met Julia Dennis. On paper, they didn't make much sense as a couple. He was quiet and brooding, all science and philosophy. she was polished and artsy, but something just clicked. They lived a few streets apart, and Julia was happy to sit and listen, while William chewed on the big questions that fascinated him. In fact, it was Julia who first handed him a book by the Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius,

and got him into the stoic philosophy he'd hold on to for the rest of his life. But there was one thing William never seemed to catch on to. Just how much older Julia was? When they got married on March 24th, 1914, he was 35. Julia was 52, though you'd never have known it. Now, that kind of age gap was almost unheard of back then. She was 17 years older than him, nearly old enough to be his mom. But she had so much energy and carried herself so well

that even the marriage register knocked years off her real age and nobody batted an eye. Did William ever find out the truth about her age or her childhood? We don't know. It doesn't seem like it mattered to him either way. By all accounts, the two of them were in love. But their timing was terrible. Just months after the wedding, World War I broke out. William was too old and too sick to get drafted, but the fighting put a freeze on elections all over Britain, and just like that, his political job was gone.

Well, that would be an issue for anyone, except now William also had a wife to support, because Julia had given up being a governess when they got married. Then William's father came through with a connection. There was a job open in Liverpool, the big booming port city on England's west. coast, collecting payments for the Prudential Assurance Company. So in 1915, William and Julia packed up and moved west, chasing one more fresh start. And this time, it looked like they'd finally found it. They rented a small house, settled into a quiet routine, and for once, William's luck seemed to hold. For years, that was pretty much their whole life, work, music, and each other.

After everything the two of them had been through, quiet was exactly what they wanted. Sadly, it wouldn't last. What of everything you learned in history class was only half the story. I'm Dr. Hrini-Bot. I started as a clinical pharmacist, and somewhere along the way,

I became obsessed with the mysteries that history never fully solved. That's exactly why I create a hidden history, a Rewind Studios' original podcast powered by Pave Studios. Every Monday, I go where history touches the unknown. Vanished civilizations, doomsday prophecies, paranormal phenomena, and events that science still can't fully explain. I'll give you historical context.

I'll break down the science. I'll even interrogate the supernatural. I treat these moments like open case files, not miss, not superstition, just incomplete explanations waiting for a closer look. And I'll ask the question, what if this happened today? Listen to and follow Hidden History, available now wherever you get your podcasts. By 1931, Liverpool had become one of the biggest port cities in the British Empire,

full of crowded docks and shipping money. But William and Julia Wallace hadn't changed much in the 16 years they'd lived there. Back in 1915, they'd rented a small house at 29 Wolverton Street in a working country. class part of town called Enfield. Over a decade later, that's still where they lived, away from the hustle and bustle of the ports. William walked the same insurance route for the prudential, week in and week out, collecting small payments from working families and bringing the cash back to his office every Friday. In his spare time, he finally got to dig into the stuff he'd never had money for as a kid. He turned the back bedroom into a little home chemistry,

lab. He played chess twice a week at the Central Chess Club, which met at the city cafe on North John Street downtown. And every now and then, he'd give a chemistry lecture at a local technical college. Julia's world was smaller, and it revolved around the house. She painted and played piano, and in the evenings, the two of them made music together. William even picked up the violin so he could play along on what they called their music. musical evenings. Other nights, they just sit and listen to radio plays together. Their tastes lined up. Julia loved color and landscapes, and William looked at everything like the naturalist he was. When he wasn't at work, he was almost always with her, and when his kidney disease

flared up and knocked him into bed for weeks, Julia was the one who nursed him through it. The two of them didn't really need anyone else. Outside of William's chess nights and his lectures, they kept to a tiny circle of people, and they liked it that way. The neighbor saw them as a quiet, devoted couple who mostly kept to themselves. William was reserved, and his bosses thought of him as a solid, hardworking guy. Julia was shy, but she could charm a room when she wanted to. They had no kids, they weren't big on entertaining, and they seemed to want nothing more than each other.

Years later, William would describe those Liverpool years as a stretch of perfect happiness and harmony. For 16 years, that quiet life held. And it might have held for 16 more if it weren't for a phone call on the evening of January 19, 1931. That Monday night, Julia was feeling a little under the weather. William's chess club met on Monday nights, and he had a lot. tournament match on the schedule, he told Julia he was happy to skip it, but she said she was fine and shewed him out the door. When he got to the cafe around 7.45, one of his club buddies told him there was a message waiting. Earlier that night, at around 7.15, a man had called the cafe asking

for Wallace, and William wasn't there yet, so the club captain, a guy named Samuel Beatty, took the message for him. The caller gave his name as R. M. Qualtrough. He said he wanted to talk about an insurance policy and asked William to come see him the next evening at 7.30 at an address in the south of the city. 25 Men Love Gardens East. William didn't recognize the name or the address. Picking up a client this way, cold out of nowhere, was a little unusual. But it wasn't unheard of. Well, he figured Qualtrov was a friend of a friend he couldn't quite place. Someone who knew he hung around the cafe.

He asked the other guys at the club that night, but nobody recognized the name Qualtrough either. Still, a new client meant a commission, and he could use the money. So he copied the address into his notebook, played his tournament game, and figured, yeah, he'd make the trip the next evening. The next day, Tuesday, January 20th, started out completely normal. William worked as usual hours and came home for dinner at around 6 p.m. It was the kind of unremarkable Tuesday the Wallace's had lived through a thousand times.

A little later, the milk showed up. The boy delivering it was named Alan Close, and he handed the empty bottles back to Julia at the door somewhere between 630 and 6.45. Right around then, William headed out to meet Qualtrough. Menloved Gardens was a few miles away in the south of Liverpool, so he hopped a series of trams across the city, asking a conductor for directions and switching cars along the way, and that's where the night started to go sideways.

He got off near Menlove Avenue and went hunting for 25 Menlove Gardens east, except there was no Menlove Gardens East. There was a north, a south, and a west, but no east at all. William spent a good 45 minutes on this. He knocked on a door at Menloved Gardens West to ask around, and nobody named Qualtrough live there. He stopped strangers on the street. He even flagged down a passing cop.

But they all told him the same thing. the address he was looking for wasn't real. Finally, William gave up. Either somebody had played a weird joke on him, or he'd written the house number down wrong. By the way, well, there was no meeting and no qualtrough. He headed home. William got back to Wolverton Street around 8.45.

But he couldn't get inside. He tried the front door. It wouldn't open. He knocked. called out for Julia and got no answer. He went around the back door, and that one wouldn't open either. He kept calling for her. Still nothing. By now he'd spent an hour chasing a client who didn't exist, and here he was locked out of his own house. So he walked a few doors down the back alley to his neighbors, a couple named John in Florence Johnston. The Johnstons had heard the knocking

and came out to see what was going on. William asked if they'd heard. heard anything strange that night. They said no. He told them both his doors were stuck, and John told him to just try the back one again. So William did. And this time, it opened. The Johnstons waited out in the yard while William went in. Through the windows, they watched him move through the house, lighting the gas lamps. They could hear him calling Julia's name. then a minute or two later, William came running back out, yelling at the top of his lungs, he blurted out that Julia was dead. The Johnstons hurried in after him.

In the front parlor, Julia was lying on the floor near the fireplace, and one look told them everything. She'd been beaten. There was blood across the floor and up the wall behind her. and there was one detail right out in the open that didn't fit. Talked half under Julius' shoulder was a man's raincoat, the kind of people back then called a Macintosh. It had no business being on the floor and nobody could explain what it was doing there. The three of them backed out of the room and that's when they noticed something in the kitchen.

A cabinet had been pried open, the one where William kept his cash box. Wednesday was William's payday, so on a Tuesday night, the box should have held close to a full week's earnings. Instead, it was light, only about four pounds, and now even that was gone. Upstairs, William kept the family's real savings. He ran up to check, and that money hadn't been touched. Whoever did this had cleaned out the little cash box in the kitchen and left the real money sitting right there. While John Johnston went to get the police, William sat down at the kitchen table. He'd held it together those first few minutes.

Now it all caught up with him, and he broke down twice before help arrived. Florence stayed with him in the kitchen trying to keep him steady while they waited. Within the hour, the little house on Wolverton Street was full of officers. On paper, this should have been a pretty easy crime to figure out. A woman was dead and money was missing. The obvious answer was a robbery gone wrong. But almost nothing at the scene fit that story. And the more the police looked, the weirder it got,

especially when they learned about the phone call. Someone had called the cafe the night before, asked for William Wallace by name, and sent him across the city the next evening to an address that didn't exist. Whoever killed Julia, it was starting to look like they'd planned the whole thing and that they'd wanted William far away from the house when they did it.

The question was, why? The police closed my sister's case in 2019. Last month, her killer commented on my post. On Reddit, true crime doesn't come from journalists, it comes from the victims, the witnesses, and sometimes the suspects themselves. People post the things they'd never say, out loud, anonymous, unfiltered, and completely real.

And every Tuesday, on crimes of Reddit, we read them out loud. I'm Sabrina Deanna Roga from two girls, one ghost. And I'm Alexis Linkletter from the first degree. Each week, one of us brings the most unhinged, true crime stories the internet has to offer. And the other goes in completely blind. No prep, no spoilers, reacting in real time, same as you. And then we swap. And we pull every thread until the whole twisted picture comes into view.

It's dark. It's messy. And the scariest part is that these are real stories, posted by real people. New episodes drop every Tuesday. Listen to and follow Crimes of Reddit, available now wherever you get your podcasts. On the night of January 20th, 1931, the little house at 29 Wolverton Street filled up with police. Inside, 69-year-old Julia Wallace lay beaten to death in the front parlor. Her husband, 52-year-old William, had found her after getting home from a meeting that turned out to be a total hoax. Liverpool was a big city, with a fairly modern police force for the time. The first officers got there within the hour, and a police doctor confirmed Julia was dead. Before long, the pathologist on the case, Professor John McFall of Liverpool University

showed up to examine the body. Then, in the early morning hours, Julia was taken to the morgue. Now the only thing left to do was look for evidence. William had already explained that the raincoat that had been partially tucked under her shoulder was his. He said it was normally hanging up on the stand in the hallway. And beyond that, the detectives did what they could with the forensic techniques that were available in 1931. They dusted for fingerprints. They went over the house inch by inch.

They even ripped out the bathroom plumbing to see if anything had washed up in there. But everything they found just made the case more confusing. For starters, there were no real signs of a break-in. Both doors had bad locks that tended to stick, which explained why William couldn't get in. Still, nothing looked forced. There were no usable fingerprints anywhere. Not on the cash box, not on the doors. Fingerprinting was still pretty new in 1931, but,

The police used what they had, and it gave them nothing. And then there was the blood, which made no sense at all. There was a ton of it in the parlor, and almost none anywhere else. Well, there's just one small drop in the bathroom, but no wet towels and no sign the killer had cleaned up. A beating that brutal would have left the attacker absolutely soaked, and yet whoever ever did it seems to have just walked out into the night without washing off. The McIntosh under Julia's body and part of her skirt were scorched like they'd brushed against the nearby fireplace during a struggle and except for that one pride open cabinet in the kitchen, the house hadn't been

ransacked. No drawers yanked out, no rooms torn apart, no sign anyone had searched the place. and none of the clues that a burglar in a hurry usually leaves behind. For all the violence in that one room, the rest of the house was almost untouched. None of it added up to anything the detectives could explain. The guy who had to make sense of all this was Superintendent Hubert Moore, the detective in charge of the case. Moore took one look at the missing cash and figured the robbery was staged. only a few pounds gone, the real money upstairs untouched, no forced entry, to him, all that pointed one way.

Julia hadn't been jumped by some burglar. She'd let her killer in herself. And Julie was not the type to open her door to a stranger after dark. So to more, that meant the killer was almost certainly someone she knew and trusted. At that point, Moore decided to cast a wide net. His men knocked on doors all over the neighborhood. They hit the local pubs, train stations, and social clubs, hoping somebody had seen a man covered in blood in the hours after the murder. They even put out a public appeal, asking anyone who'd spotted a blood-stained man or a dumped bloody bundle of clothes to come forward.

Nobody had. If the killer had run through the streets of Anfield soaked in Julia's blood, no one had seen it. Moore also had his men interview just about everyone that Wallace's new. Friends, relatives, Williams' coworkers, anybody who might give them a motive or a name. Most of it came back the same. They were a dull, devoted couple without any enemies. To narrow things down, the police needed to know exactly he, how Julia died and what she'd been killed with. Now that job fell to the pathologist John McFall.

His post-mortem found that Julia had been hit in the head about 11 times. One heavy blow after another, hard enough to crack her skull and send blood spraying up the parlor wall. It was savage, way more violence than any robbery would ever need. There were no defraining. offensive wounds on her hands or arms, which meant she probably never saw it coming, that the first blow landed before she could even react. As for the time of death, a 1931 medicine couldn't really pin it down. McFall first put it at around 8 p.m., then later moved it to before 6 p.m., so early it clashed with the witnesses who'd seen Julia alive after 6.30. The weapon was another dead end. The police couldn't find one anywhere at the scene. So they brought in the one person who

knew the house almost as well as the Wallace's did. Her name was Sarah Jane Draper. She was the woman who came in to clean the Wallace's home every few weeks. On January 21st, the day after the murder, detectives walked Mrs. Draper through the house to see if she noticed anything missing. Almost right away, she did. Two things were gone. A small poker from the kitchen and a heavy iron bar about a foot long that she used to clean under the fireplace. And she was certain the iron bar had been there the last time she cleaned a couple of weeks earlier. The police searched the house again but couldn't find either one. And when McFal heard the description of the iron bar, he agreed that it could have easily made the wounds that killed just.

Julia, it was almost certainly the murder weapon. Step back, and the whole thing started to look impossible. If this had been a robbery, why leave the real money upstairs and grab a few pounds from a cash box? And if it was personal, who on earth had a grudge against a retired governess who painted watercolors and kept to herself? There was no weapon, no fingerprints, no trail of blood out of the house, no witness, and no motive. Every solid lead just ran straight into a wall.

Some Moore went back to the one thread that felt different from all the rest. The phone call. The Moore started with Samuel Beattie, the chess club captain who'd taken Qualtrov's message. Beattie described the caller as gruff and sure of himself. He didn't think the guy had been disguising his voice, though that would have been tough to tell over a crackly 1931 phone line. line. Moore asked him point blank, could the voice have been William Wallace's? Biddy was sure it wasn't. He said he hadn't recognized the caller at all. So Moore went to the phone company,

and that's when he finally got a little bit of luck. Back then, calls didn't just connect on their own. You'd talk to a telephone operator who sat at a big switchboard and physically plugged your line through to whoever you were calling. And the operators kept to written records of every call for billing purposes. As luck would have it, Qualtrov's call had hit a snag. His first try failed on some technical glitch, and he had to flag down an operator to get his coins back before trying again. That little hiccup is the whole reason this call was so well documented.

From those records, the police learned two things. First, Qualtrov had called at 7.15, on the evening of the 19th, and second, they knew exactly where he'd called from. A public phone box out in Anfield, about 400 yards from William Wallace's own front door. It had been used right around the time William would have been heading out for chess. There was one more wrinkle, and it came down to who heard what. The two telephone operators who'd put the call through remembered an ordinary, unhurried voice. But that isn't how it sounded inside the cafe.

Beattie, who knew William, heard a gruff, confident voice that he didn't recognize. And the waitress who first answered thought the caller sounded like an elderly man. To more, that gap meant something. If Qualtrough knew Beattie, he would have had a little. reason to disguise his voice to sound older or rougher than he really was. But with the operators, total strangers, who'd never recognize him anyway, he could just talk normally. Same man, to different performances, depending on who was listening. To Moore, everything pointed in the same direction. This was no random killing. Whoever murdered Julia knew the Wallace's inside and out.

They knew William's name and where to reach him. They knew he collected insurance money on his rounds and kept it at home. They knew his chest nights well enough to leave a message at the cafe and knew enough about his life to send him clear across the city on one very specific night. That took planning. And it took somebody who knew the shape of William. William's whole life. But there was a giant hole in that theory, and more couldn't fill it. Nobody could name a single person who wanted Julia Wallace dead. Her wallet and her valuables were still in the house. She hadn't been sexually assaulted, and she barely even left home. This was the kind of case that crime writers would obsess over for decades, and they were drawn to it

for the exact same reason the police were stuck on it. The murder of Julia Wallace made no sense at all. And so with no other suspect who fit, the investigation started circling the one man who was closest of all. It was grim logic, but it was logic. If this wasn't the work of a stranger or an enemy with an axe to grind, then you were left with the tiny handful of people in the, inside Julia's little world.

And nobody had been closer to her or knew her days better than her own husband. When detectives asked around about William and most people describe the same mild, private, hardworking man the neighbors knew. But a few of his coworkers told a different story. They said that under that quiet surface,

William was colder than he let on and bitter about the life his illness had cost him. They hinted that he was the kind of man who had a lot more going on than anyone realized. That's when the police started to wonder if they'd been looking in all the wrong places. They took stock of what they knew. They had a murder scene with evidence that didn't add up, a phone call that came from William's own neighborhood, and a wife who had no obvious enemies.

Maybe the reason no suspect had emerged was because there was only ever one. William Wallace. Thanks so much for listening. I'm Carter Roy, and this is Murder, True Crime Stories. Come back next time for part two on the murder of Julia Wallace and all the people it affected. Murder True Crime Stories is a Crime House original powered by Page Studios. Here at Crime House, we want to thank each and every one of you for your support. If you like what you heard today, reach out on social media at Crime House on TikTok and Instagram.

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To join, go to CrimehousePlus.com, or if you listen on Apple Podcasts, tap Try Free at the top of the Murder True Crime Stories page. We'll be back on Thursday. Murder True Crime Stories is hosted by me, Carter Roy, and is a Crimehouse original powered by Pave Studios. This episode was brought to life by... the Murder True Crime Stories team. Max Cutler, Ron Shapiro, Alex Benadon, Natalie Britsowski, Lori Marinelli, Sarah Camp,

Terrell Wells, Nicolette Tavallero, Mara de la Rosa, Claire Swartzlander, and Russell Nash. Thank you for listening. Thanks for listening to this episode from Crime House. If you're looking for another show to check out, listen to serial killers and murderous minds. Every Monday and Thursday, Dr. Tristan Engel and myself, dig into the most chilling murders and uncover what drives them to kill. Follow serial killers and murderous minds available wherever you listen to podcasts.