My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 128

Episode Date: June 24, 2019

This week’s hometowns include a Ypsilanti Ripper connection and a drive-thru rescue.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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Welcome to the mini-soat. Oh, this is my favorite murder. We read stories you tell us on paper and typing. Yep, we just read them right back at you. We just read them, we act like we're doing something. It's just reading. It's fun for us. You hear a fucking true and co-add.

It's over. You know, it's easy. You know what's funny? Like, we always talk about we feel lucky and this is a dream come true. But literally my favorite thing in school, the only thing I ever really liked to do in school was read aloud in class. And now I get paid to do that. It's hard to do that.

Jobs, because you never get picked. You never get called on. No. Or they do paragraph. Each person takes a paragraph. You never get to shine, Karen. I mean, I would have to wait, you know, 49 to 59 other kids and sitting there going, are you really going to read it like that?

Yeah. That's not how you pronounce that. Goose that adjective or whatever. Who am I? Who am I to talk about not pronouncing shit, right? I can't believe you didn't pronounce wordchester that way. I went up in the attic and it was fun. Okay, go.

Oh, wait. On a forensic files I saw recently one of the talking head experts pronounced it addict. I love them. Up in the attic. They're my best friend. I was like, this game, I should record it for you. I wish you would. Okay.

The subject line of this is another Virginia hometown weirdo. Great. Hi, Karen, Georgia, Steven, Elvis, Mimi, Doddy, Frank, George, et cetera, et cetera. Wow. Yeah. First of all, I want to say thank you for helping me get through my last semester of college. No problem.

I had a super long commute and a lot of really tedious projects and listening to you guys really helped me get through my long days and nights. On graduation day, I listened to the podcast on my way to campus if that's a good measure of how obsessed I am with this show. That's awesome. Thank you. My hometown weirdo has some backstory. I'm from Sterling, Virginia, a few miles from where the butt slasher apparently operated.

And after hearing that particular mini-soat on my drive home one day and dying laughing over it, I immediately went and told my mom about it. But she had an even better story. They always do. She said that a few years ago in my town, there were a few incidents where a woman would wake up in the middle of the night and find a strange man just laying in bed next to her. What the fuck? After the woman understandably screamed and flipped her shit, the man would just jump

up out of the bed and run. This only happened two or three times, but he was dubbed the snuggler. Oh, guys. My mom's theory was that he was just a drunk guy that had walked into someone's house thinking it was his own and laying down in bed only to be woken up with someone screaming in his ear. Maybe one time. Maybe.

But I kind of doubt that it was that innocent. Yeah. I think he did end up getting caught, but I couldn't find very much information about him. Although while I was looking him up, I found articles about another more recent case of a man in Sterling who snuck into women's houses to touch them in the middle of the night. Definitely creepy and he didn't get a hilarious nickname, but he was caught only a few months ago, April 2019.

Despite this, and even though I laughed about it for a long time, I couldn't go to sleep for hours that night, laying awake in fear of the snuggler. Yeah. Well, that's it. Okay. And get snuggled, Sarah. Man, sleeping is such a vulnerable fucking thing. That's why you put the chair under the doorknob.

Then you take a piece of fishing wire and you string it across the doorway, invisible to it. Okay. And then you put cowbells on either side. And then you start a jam band. And then you invite fish into your room every night. Okay. This is called, co-worker lives in haunted Ypsilanti Ripper murder house.

Hello, beautiful Steven and my powerful women. Wow. All caps. I am freaking out. I've been waiting years to write in a story and my new co-worker, let's call her Allie, just shared something so wild I immediately had to tell you guys. The other day at work, she nonchalantly said, the sorority house I'm living in is kind of haunted.

I'm more of a Georgia when it comes to my belief in ghosts, but I immediately demanded her to tell me, me too. She asked if I had heard of the Michigan murders and quickly realized that she was referring to the Ypsilanti Ripper, John Norman Collins. She proceeded to tell me that her sorority house is the Ypsilanti Ripper's uncle's house. Oh, shit. If you read the Michigan murders, everyone, it's such a fucking good book. The Michigan murders by Edward Keyes.

It's old, but it's fucking like a great true crime book. Oh, good. It's just such a fucked up story. Do you have it? Yeah. I've been given to me when we were first dating and I was like, oh, hi. Will you marry me? Oh.

No, right? Yeah. Yeah. He doesn't like murder. Okay. I won't borrow that one then since it's a, it binds your love together. Yeah. I wish you would.

Yeah, you won. I'll get it for you. For my next birthday. That's right. This may seem unimportant at first, like, okay, cool, a relative, but this house is where his last murder took place. Oh, my God. John Norman Collins murdered Karen Byneman in his, ahem, police corporal uncle's basement

while he was house sitting. Oh, no. How fucked up is that? He cleaned up the evidence poorly. For example, he painted over a blood stain in the basement and left a bottle of ammonia just to prove he's the worst. Your fucking uncle is a police corporal. Are you kidding me with this shit?

This evidence is what led to his eventual arrest. Anyways, on to the hauntings. Ali told me that once in the middle of the night, she woke up and saw a weird figure in her room. She described it as the grim reaper, but all white, hovering at the end of her bed. When I asked what she did when she saw that, expecting her to be freaking out internally as I was hearing her story, she said, I turned on the fairy lights and went back to bed. That's actually kind of a good solution.

Yeah. Because it looks so twinkly and pretty. Yeah. You're in a Wes Anderson movie now. Nothing can go wrong. Hey, how about you rom-com your way out of this ghost situation? It's pretty. What if you fall in love with a ghost?

Oh, my God. That was amazing. Back to bed. I appreciate her candor. One of her roommates also claimed to see the figure that same night. She said that when guys have slept over at the house, they have nightmares of a girl being murdered. Other typical ghost things have happened too, like the oven turning on, pots and pans falling

off the shelves, lights randomly turning on, and light switches not working. And then it says, and this is such a fucking me thing, paranormal or faulty wiring. That's right. She told me how they have done many sage cleanses and even had a pastor come in to bless the house and expel, quote, bad energy. After thinking about it, I understand why she wasn't afraid of this ghostly figure. If it really was the spirit of Karen Byneman, who was a freshman EMU student at the time, I wouldn't be afraid of her either.

She was just a sweet baby angel who had her life cut short too soon by a total asshole. And then I'll cap. Sorry, this was so long. I love you all, dearly. Thank you for the joy you give me during times I felt alone, exo, exo, Stevie. Oh, Stevie. Stevie. Stevie.

Stevie. Can I just say, and I know both Stevie and Georgia are big ghost cynics. Stephen, how do you feel about ghosts? Oh, I definitely believe in ghosts. Yeah, I would guess that. Sweet. So two against two. Well, and the ghost, the ghost that's my friend doesn't believe in me, so it's two against

two. God damn it. All right. Well, I've got this alligator I'm about to throw at you and he believes in ghosts. That's from last week's episode. Oh, shit. Damn it. Let that out.

No, don't cut it out. We're recording two in a row so we can have a fucking vacation. Dang it. It's fine. This is what it's really like. This is a real deal. But I was going to say, you know, my ghost experience and my big old ghost story that I love to tell and some connected things are dreaming about it, dreaming about it before

you have the experience, having the experience and hearing dishes in the kitchen. Those were all things that happened in our house, too. So maybe the dishes are haunted. Maybe. We definitely didn't do dishes so we knew that it couldn't be us. Maybe you're a beauty and the beast. Maybe you live. Maybe thank you and fuck you.

I met you and Stephen. Subject line of this is I went to prom with a murderer. That's great. Nice. Hello, my best friends who don't know they're my best friends and also Stephen and Sweets fuzzy angel BBs. I'm going to jump right in. Years ago, my dad had a good friend Ronald and Ronald had a gorgeous son named Chad who

was a year older than me. I was in love with him starting in sixth grade and I finally managed to snag him freshman year. Yes. She put in three years of work on Chad. Good for you, honey. Chad was my first real boyfriend, lost my card to him in his neighbor's barn, no less. Where we live is super rural.

Itchy. That sounds itchy. Yeah. It's a little, you're going to get a rash and ticks. Not in the barn. No. No, no. Okay.

I don't know. I was so in love with him as much as my 14 year old heart could love. Well, that's a lot. It's kind of more than a 30 something year old heart can love. I think. Yes. I think you love less and less over the years. I agree.

This is the great fight that we as human beings have to fight. That's right. Please love like a 14 year old passionately, constantly on the verge of tears, a little bit hysterical. That's right. You go all fucking crazy. Go all in. Okay.

We're all fools in love. But not for the guy you're dating right now. He's a dick. No, no. God, that guy's the worst. Yeah. Don't worry about him. None of your friends like him.

It's not him or her. Okay. Chad was really popular and athletic, played basketball and baseball and was adored by all teachers. As I was a weird chubby hippie goth girl, I felt like I'd won the boyfriend lottery. I loved spending weekends with his family, watching cartoons with his little brother going fishing, eating his mom's grilled cheese sandwiches and stealing weed from his dad's dad.

Yeah. That is a goth hippie girl's dream life. They were a completely sweet, normal, all-American family. The only problem I ever went to was with Chad. I bought a very beautiful ivory gown. That doesn't sound very goth. Stripper heels to match, had my hair, nails and makeup done, the works. He comes to pick me up in khakis and a black and gray sweater, vest over a white t-shirt.

Noted. What the actual fuck? I was so upset, but he said his parents couldn't afford to rent a tux. Aw. Yeah, now we all feel bad. Yeah, sorry. Which would have been nice to know beforehand. Good point.

But anyway, we went, danced, made out, had a great night. Around a month or so later, Chad dumped me. I was devastated and bawled my eyes out, threatened self-harm, the whole nine yards. Teenage. Right. You could not pay me to be a teenager again. No, it's absolutely the worst. It's the worst.

It's an assault on all your senses, especially your emotions, which are not a sense. As I say it, I know I'm up. He came over to give me my things from his house back a few weeks later, and when he asked if we could still be friends, I punched him dead in the mouth. Yeah. I mean, he doesn't sound like he deserved it, but also like, that's a cute hippie guy. Cute, but then also, yeah, don't do it. Tone it down a little.

Yeah. Go high. When they go low, you go high. She did. She punched him in the face. Instead of the nuts. He's straight. Okay.

He left angry and bleeding. I also cut his Letterman's jacket into a million pieces and mailed the shreds back to him a little at a time. Oh my God. I was so dramatic. She's fucking, she's teaching a course. She's taking the hurt, and she's making an art project, and then forcing him to look at it.

Performance art. Yeah. Learn it, Chad. Performance art through the mail. That's right. Cut to tennis years and a million garbage guys later. My dad calls me on Sunday, Saturday morning while I'm driving to ask if I've seen the front page of the paper.

I hadn't, and he said, go get one ASAP. I whip into the gas station and run to the newspaper stand. There's Chad's picture accompanied by an article detailing the murder of his best friend that he committed. Oh my God. Seems he'd really gotten into drugs after high school and strung out on math, offed his butt over some drug money. The body wasn't found for over a month and had to be ID'd by a distinctive tattoo the

guy had. I was in shock, but not really. Boy, do I know how to pick them. Anyway, thanks you guys for making me feel less alone and isolated in my weirdness. Y'all are the best. Stay sexy and don't go to prom with a guy wearing a sweater vest, Amber. Okay, here's the thing. Amber, I think his life went down the tubes when he lost you.

That's right. Or his Letterman jacket. Maybe that's all he cared about. That's where all his power was contained. That's right. It could be. But don't blame yourself. You're not wrong.

No. Catch some shit up. And also, you know what? Re-approach. Yeah. Now the next time you go to date, somebody say, what about this person is Chad like? Right. And if it's more than five things, you can't go out with that person.

This third question you'd be asking your date is, do you own a tuxedo? Yes. And that's it. And that's how you know. And if they, if the answers no, say, can you afford to rent a tuxedo? Right. Right. I can afford it for you.

And are you willing to wear a tuxedo t-shirt? They're funny. That's great. And they get the job done. Oh, I got my fucking nephew a tuxedo t-shirt to wear at my wedding. Micah? Yeah. Did he love it?

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Hello everyone. It's this called a hometown birthday present. Hello everyone. I am so excited to finally buck up and write this hometown to you. My older sister's birthday is June 13th, so I am writing this in honor of her birthday. Happy birthday, Courtney. Love ya. That's it.

No. Stop using our podcast to wish Courtney a happy birthday. Courtney's like, I don't even listen. And how do you know, Courtney? Yes, you do. Courtney, you love this podcast. Stop it. My favorite.

N-E-Y. Okay. We grew up hearing absolutely bonkers stories from our dad as a foster child on a strawberry farm in the 50s, a Navy veteran, ex firefighter, an ex EMT, and construction worker in Buffalo, New York. Hopefully not all at once. He's seen it all. Yeah.

He's seen enough hometown stories to go around. Well, it certainly wasn't healthy for us to hear all of them starting as literal toddlers. At least we always learned to, quote, check our exits and to carry a pocket knife. And then parentheses, you never know when you're going to have cheesecake. And then she said, dad jokes for life. Yes. Dad jokes. I will never forget the moment I learned to look both ways when I crossed the street.

He showed me what happens when you don't using a horrific image from his EMT training book. Oh no. Dad. Dad. My dad is quite a partier back in his teenage years in the late 70s, hasn't totally eased up yet. This is a story where I really think his check your exits catchphrase came from long before

he became a firefighter. He was at a house party with some friends when two dudes they didn't know showed up. The guys were harassing the girls. And so my dad and his buddies kicked the guys out. Little did they know, the guys hid out in the staircase at the apartment house. The party winds down and everyone goes to sleep. At some point, my dad is in the bathroom when he smells and sees smoke coming under the front door.

But they are up at least on the third floor of the house. He tries to kick out the tiny window in the bathroom but to no avail. He then gets out of the bathroom and rouses the rest of his friends. They all get into the living room which has a large window. Him and his buddies bust out the window and tell everyone they need to jump out. The fire was in the only staircase of the house. Oh shit. There was no getting out.

The girls go first and I think one of them may have broken her leg in the jump. All the people at the party jumped out safely. Or so they thought. My dad thought everyone else had left the party but one guy had actually fallen asleep in the stairwell. No. He did not wake up in time and died in the fire. So sad.

Horrifying. Turns out the guys who had been kicked out were so mad about it that they set the fire and retaliation. Then it says, what the fuck? Find a new party you fucking evil losers. I agree. Yeah. It's hard to imagine how this trauma piled on the many other traumas my dad has experienced.

Still working on that, hey, maybe you should talk with a therapist angle. Good luck with that. Good luck. Start by getting a subscription to Psychology Today. It's a good hint and they'll start to learn some shit. Stay sexy and always carry a pocket knife for those unexpected cheesecake moments. Emma and happy birthday, Courtney. Did she ride to the gas?

Emma. Your sister's a brat. Emma, you nailed it. No, I mean Courtney. Your sister Emma's a brat. Here's what I love. Check your exits. It's so smart.

It really is. It's like spatial awareness. It's like know what you're going into, but that's the thing about, and I got that from of course, Jim The Fireman too, is that thing of if you go in, you have to be able to get out a different way. Right. There has to be two ways to get in and out of a place and because someone was just telling me this.

Wait, please stop me if this was you and I talking to each other. Maybe. I'm so scared right now. It won't be that. But it was the thing of if something happens and you're in a space like, say you go to see a show and like a band is playing and something happens and everyone will run toward the place they came in from. Oh, no, this is not me and I'm fucking learning some.

Yeah. That's why I'm repeating it. Sorry to whoever said this to me. But basically, I feel like it was Kara Klank or someone like that. But basically that everyone will remember where they came in from and go that way. You find the other exit and go the way people aren't going so you don't get trampled or like caught in a group of people. Right.

Yeah. Who said that to me? I bet it was Kara Klank. I'm going to give her full credit, but I've been listening to so many podcasts lately that I'm having that thing of like my friends and it's like, no, it's not your friends. We do it too, you guys. Yeah. They don't know you.

Okay. This one's lighthearted. Okay. Georgia, Karen, Steven, Jay and Furry friends. I also have a random story that I was reminded of when you read Female Colby's Garden State Killer story a while back. While this happened to my sister, she is not a true crime lover, so I get to steal her story and tell it to you.

That's right. When my sister was about 12 or 13, my mom and dad let her stay home alone for the first time. She was with one of her friends in our big, scary suburban house when they looked outside and saw a man trying to get into the window with a screwdriver. Needless to say, they freaked out, grabbed the phone, ran to the laundry room, which is the room without windows. Yeah.

Very smart. Instead of calling 911, she called my mom and dad on their early 90s car phone. They called the cops and immediately started back home. During the attempted break-in, my sister saw a van that was mysteriously parked in our driveway and relayed this information to the cops. The police found this van and brought him back to the house to be identified. After my sister and her friend, I did the guy- How scary that they're like, here he is again, everyone.

Yeah. Oh my gosh. You'd think, but after my sister and her friend, I did the guy as the would-be burglar, the cops started smiling, holding back laughter. This man was not the Golden State. She said Garden State Killer before, but Golden State Killer here. Yeah. She means Golden State Killer.

She meant Golden, yeah. There could definitely be a New Jersey killer. Oh, there's absolutely a Garden State Killer. I don't know. If there isn't, kill him. I don't know. I hope that was okay. There's gotta be, yeah.

The man was not the Golden State Killer, nor was he trying to break into the house. Instead, he worked for the awning company my parents hired to install and remove the window awnings every year. He was simply removing them, packing them for storage, and moving on about his day. Oh, that worked. I bet this happens in a lot though. Yes. You should not be like, hey, I'm going to be doing this right now.

Or how about your 90s parents with their awesome car phone, let a 12-year-old know that maybe there's going to be a guy swinging by. Can you let a 12-year-old know? How about you let a 12-year-old know? I think it was a few more years before my sister was comfortable enough to stay home alone. Oh my gosh. No, you're so safe.

Stay sexy and don't call the cops on maintenance men, Aaron. I'm a giddy. I'm going to blame this guy that he did not going to be like, hey, I'm going to be fucking around by your window right now. True. But I would feel like if you see a van in the driveway. Right. They're not going to park in the driveway, or they are.

Who the guy breaking in? Yeah. Well, but I mean, don't you think if you work for an awning company, there was like Joe's awning company on the side of that van in some way? What a great cover. There's no such thing as an awning company. Everybody relax. It's the awning man.

You know, he comes every year because we're rich and have a fucking cell phone in our car. Okay. These people. Getting your awnings removed? What the hell? What is that? He just hoes them off every couple of years, right?

Awnings. Who has awnings? Okay. Awnings. This one's called Drive Through Stories. Hello, and welcome to my letter. I'm sorry. That's my number one.

Absolutely. That's my current number one. I've been driving for a couple of years during high school and college. Most of the time spent taking orders and payment at the first, at the quote, the first window. Yeah. Sadly, most of the stories involved coffee, obsessed seniors and creepy dudes grabbing at me. But here are two gems.

One, once while my manager was speaking to me about something at the drive through window, her whole demeanor changed as she noticed something going on in the line of cars. In the car behind the one at my window, some dirt bag was punching the crap out of his girlfriend in the passenger seat. Well, I stood there in shock. My bad ass manager leaned down to the driver at my window, calmly told him what would just happen, and asked him to stay parked in the drive through until the police arrived. Yes.

This particular drive through lane went between the store and embankment, so he would have been trapped in. Yes. He agreed. She called the police who were right around the corner and the guy was arrested. Hell yes. I never found out what happened to the woman in the car, but I think about her a lot and I hope we did her some good that day.

That's great. Number two. The same drive through window. My middle school best friend's piece of shit ex stepdad once drove through offering me all caps an ounce of weed a week. If I would agree, all caps, not to testify about the time I found the Polaroid picture of his dick and balls, spelled dick and balls, dick and balls. He'd hidden in her room for her to find a what you're like, you're at the drive through.

Let's count the problems. Like, you know, it's a great day because fucking Big Macs are two for five. Yeah. That's the best. And it smells like fries all the time. That's right. You're fucking, ugh. That's.

And offers you an ounce of weed a week, like for life, I guess. But also, sorry, what comedy realm does that dad come from where it's like, this is a great idea? It's not comedy, dude. It's true. I'm a pervert. And I'm disgusting. And I'm fucking.

Lunatic photographer. Child molester. Photographer. It's a photographer. It's the artist in him. That's right. And then she says, probably the only time I've turned down weed in my life, y'all. Girl.

Unfortunately, I do know the unsatisfying conclusion to the story. Statute of limitations. Fuck statute of limitations. Okay. Thank you both so much for bearing your souls every week and making me feel like a normal person. If you ever send out a request for substitute teacher stories, I'll be sure to write in about the time a teacher accidentally left a porno for me to show to her class.

What? Ann. Ann. Ann. You nailed it. Ann. Substitute teacher stories. Let's hear it.

So good. I bet they're fucking weird. Yes. The weirder the better. If you were ever a substitute teacher thrown into some incredible crime drama, we want to hear about it. Crime. Creepy shit.

Send them to myfavoritemurder at gmail or go to myfavoritemurder.com. You can submit them there and check out our radical website. And thank you for trying. Thank you for writing these in. Thank you for creating such wonderful content for us to read to you. Yeah, we appreciate it. Stay sexy. And don't get murdered.

Goodbye. Elvis, do you want a cookie? Yeah, thank you.