My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 140

Episode Date: September 16, 2019

This week’s hometowns include a kidnapping in Australia and some buried alive stories.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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Yeah. Great. Hello. And welcome to my favorite murder. The mini-soad. We read your shit to you. Are you ready to hear your own emails? It's mirror work, and it's time to do it.

Let's do it. Bretton, you've never heard this. We've emailed it in before. Yeah. Do you want me to go first? Sure. Okay. I'm not going to read you the subject line, it gives it away.

Okay. Hi, humans, pets, and mustaches. Hey, not bad. Love it. I got an I survived style hometown for you. I'll try to be brief. Don't. They're not brief, by the way.

Get ready. My mother-in-law will call her Judy. That's the name I use for all moms. Oh, that's right. Yeah. We'll call her Judy. Judy. It's the most interesting person I've ever met.

I don't have time for all her wild and wonderful tales, so I'll cut to it. She casually revealed this particular story with the opening line, did I ever tell you about the time I was kidnapped in Australia? Oh. No, you fucking did in ice-cream. So she poured us a glass of wine and told me. It was the 60s, Judy was an adventurous woman in her 20s, recently divorced, and spent her settlement on a trip to Australia, Natch.

She was walking along a road close to her home when a car pulled over and the driver asked for directions. She started to explain that she was new to the area and couldn't help when he pointed a gun at her and told her it was loaded and he would shoot her if she didn't get in. Oh, my God. She was so shocked in its 60s. She did what he asked and got into the back seat. Still pointing a handgun at her, the driver instructed Judy to cover herself with a pile

of blankets and proceeded to drive around for hours ranting about how awful women were and he was going to show them. He finally pulled over and told her to remove the blankets. They were parked in some secluded area in what looked like the bush, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Badass Judy had formulated a plan whilst he was ranting and decided to tell her kidnapper all about herself and her family to try to derail whatever he had planned, which is what you're supposed to do.

That's right. Judy was talking to her about himself and revealed his plan to kidnap, rape, and murder a woman. Oh, dear. She told him in no uncertain terms that he could not rape her yet because she was on her period. He looked grossed out and clearly knew nothing about the female anatomy as he was starting to ask how long they had to wait.

Judy calmly replied, oh, at least a week. Oh, my God. Apparently unaware, certain products are usually required during this time. Dude didn't realize anything was up and kept her in the car waiting for her mythical period to finish for two days. What? During this time, Judy kept him talking and finally convinced him it was best to let her go and she wouldn't report him.

She recovered her head in blankets and he drove off. After a few hours, he told Judy to get out. After promising him, she wouldn't report the kidnapping. Of course, as soon as he drove off, Judy went straight to the police, gave the description of the kidnapper his car, including number plate she memorized and all the information she had on him. Police picked him up within days and he was arrested. I don't know much about the trial or full sentence, parentheses too much wine by this

point in the story, but I do know that piece of shit went to prison for kidnapping an attempted rape. Judy is an incredibly strong and wonderful woman. Her stories are usually much happier and about wild things she got up to, often involving drink drugs and the London 70s music scene, holy shit. This story definitely earned her even more respect. The title of badass and explains why her hair went totally gray at 25, but at least it has a happy ending and she got us talking about our mutual love of true crime.

She loves your mantra, SSDGM, quipping, does faking a period count? Yes. I'm so fucking Lutely, Judy, that's what it says right there. Loved you all, especially the cats, stay sexing, fake a period if you get kidnapped, Emma. Oh my God, Emma, thanks for writing that in. Judy. Judy. What a badass.

You know, if you get raped by a man who says he doesn't like women, how about cut straight to the thing that people think is the grossest about women and say that that's what you're covered in? Oh, God. It's a really good plan. That's bananas. All right, this one is called, I'm going to give you the title because it doesn't give it away.

Hometown story. Oh, I see. Hello to my favorite crime podcast babes. Oh, that's it. Thanks so much. I'll share a lighthearted but anxiety real story. As much as I'd like to think that I'm a strong, badass lady, I'm a total baby when my partner is out of town.

Hi. Oh, you wrote into your own podcast? That works weird. I often opt to crash with friends and leave my cats to cuddle themselves because I have such bad anxiety when it comes to sleeping alone. I fucking get it. But since I may quote grown up, I forced myself to sleep on my own occasionally when in said situation.

Well, my most recent stay at home alone was the worst. I fell asleep just fine, but I was woken up around 4 a.m. to what I convinced myself was the sound of someone trying to open the front door. I stayed frozen in bed until I eventually decided to call my partner who talked me down to a rational level of fear. It was probably just the wind, he said, and I started to relax again. Fast forward five minutes. I hear what is very obviously someone walking just outside my bedroom window naked and petrified.

I grab the ninja stars. Yes, ninja stars. But naked in bed? Yeah. No. Along with my cats. I just picture that part in the jerk where he covers his front and back with the dogs. And proceed to lock us all up in the bathroom.

I call the non-emergency line because I'm a moron. That's okay, honey. Yeah, I think it's smart. Yeah. And explained everything. A few minutes later, I guess they're not so busy at 4 a.m. I noticed patrol lights and decided safe to leave the bathroom. I hear some people talking, so I get closer to my bedroom window to eavesdrop.

Turns out that my neighbor, whose front door is outside my bedroom window, was just having a smoke after a night out, and then it all caps. It was a Wednesday. But I digress. The police left, and I then received a call from the police to let me know, always clear, but they'd patrol the neighborhood for a bit. Moral of the story is follow your fucking gut, even if it might just be your neighbor. Also wear clothes to bed.

Thank you. And then she or he doesn't sign it, anything, or they. But you know what? That's very true. They handled that perfectly. You don't call 911 for it's something that you're not that sure of, and maybe you're late because you give them a chance to go. You're safe already.

First of all, you're in the bathroom locked up. Sure. And then you don't, then they're not mad at you if it's not that thing. They're like, hey, look, we're here. That's what they're there to do. But if you really are scared and you do think there's someone inside, call 911, call emergency services. But clearly, I think that person is more in control of their anxiety than maybe they

even know. I agree. Because they made great decisions, and it did work out, you know, obviously the police want you to feel safe in your house. She saved the cats. He, she, or they saved the cats. That's right. And I appreciate that.

Really good team thinking. Just yeah, get some pajamas and you're set, and hey, what's up with those ninja stars? If you're a ninja, you don't have to worry about anything. No. Yeah. That's the, the, it'd be cool if a ninja with really bad anxiety was writing in. Look, I'm trained. I can kill people with my fingertips.

I'm writing this in the dark right now. I can't, but it's, but it's because I'm about to kill somebody else, but I also have anxiety. The anxious ninja, that's the new cartoon coming to you. It's real. Let's face it. Yeah. Okay. Again, this subject line gives it away.

So we'll just start with, hello, let's jump in. My maternal grandfather was a marine who retired after Korea and became a detective in my hometown back in the seventies. I'm so in. If this was a TV show, I would binge it. You, if this guy were single, you would marry him. If, if you were single, I would marry him. Wait.

No, I'm sorry. Yes. He was a short Italian man who cooked like a champ. I'm so in. Oh my God. Fun fact, his grandmother was Jack London's personal chef. Wow. He was just a plus, but was also obviously into true crime.

Growing up, my sisters and I would go over to our grandparents' house and while my grandma watched QVC and chain smoked, we would sit and listen to the police scanner with him as he cooked for us. Everything about this from QVC to your grandparents smoking indoors sounds fucking a police scanner. This is my dream childhood. It's the best. No wonder we love non-solved mysteries and watched forensic files all the time. My mom was worried about us for a while there.

In October of 1991, I was just a baby and my grandpa was working a murder case. Some farmer's wife has had disappeared. Apparently the farmer had been bragging to folks at the bar about how the police would never catch him. Oh, genius. Smart guy. Well, that pissed grandpa off and he eventually discovered the decapitated remains of the wife.

Fast forward to grandpa going to the perpetrator's home to arrest him and my grandpa had a massive heart attack on the guy's front porch. What? After trying to arrest this wife killer, the deputies are also having to perform CPR on my grandpa who flatlined. What the fuck? He was put on life support and a medically induced coma for three months. The doctors woke him up on Christmas Day and the first words out of his mouth were, I need

a nap. I love you. Wife killer was arrested though. Another quick story. My mom took her mother's brand new convertible Mustang out for a joyride and crashed it when she was 16 and guess who was the first cop on the scene? Yep. Her dad, my grandpa.

Stay sexy and don't decapitate and brag about it. Take care of your heart health and never steal your mother's car. Much love. Sue's. Sue's. Oh, P.S. I'm a teacher and my students painted a mustache on a rock once and I forced them to name it Steven.

Sue's sounds like the most fun party to talk to at a party. I know. Yeah. It's a great family. Great job. Awesome. Okay. This one's called haunted house story, light hearted.

Sweet. This is perfect. We're in fall at this point. There's lots of haunting stories. There is. This is good. Yeah. I just finished, wait, sorry, it says, hello ladies, non-ladies and animals.

Perfectly. I just finished the episode, Sprankers, which reminded me of a terrifying haunted house experience. I'm sorry. This is as funny as the day it happened to us. And we put an exclamation mark on it. It's called Sprankers. You have to say Sprankers. Sprankers.

I have a corrections corner, so this isn't it. Okay. Okay. I just finished the episode. Is it not Sprankers? It's Sprankers. I'll tell you next episode. Okay.

I just, let me repeat what I said. Great. I just finished the episode. Sprankers. Sprankers. Which reminded me of a terrifying haunted house experience. South West Minneapolis is well-known for the soap factory, which hosts a haunted house in its basement each October.

Eight years ago, my then-boyfriend slash now-husband and I went with another couple on what was supposed to be a casual double date. Fucking couples' dates, man. The haunted house started with a self-guided walk through a complete darkness in which we found our way by following a rope. That's cool. Then there were a few jumpy parts, the creepy guy chasing us on stilts. That's the worst thing I've ever heard.

But he can't, that wouldn't be scary. He can get further along. Fucking come at you. But he can get further along. Faster. He would just fucking push that stilt over. That's the end. Dittu.

Goodbye. Okay. Well, what about an interactive family dinner with an alcoholic father holding a gun? Oh my God. That's fucked. Whoever made that haunted house had some fucking issues. They were just drawing deep from the well of their own fear catalog. Charlie, what's the scariest thing you've ever experienced?

My fucking dad. Near the end of the haunted house, I was directed to face a wall. I was unblindfolded and taken away from my friends. Nope. After being pushed into a new room, I felt my body being turned around and I was laid flat on my back. A woman removed my blindfold just fast enough so I could see a solid, wooden door close in front of my face.

Yes, ladies. I was in a coffin. Oh no. I completely froze and kept repeating over and over to myself. It's not real. It's not real. I simultaneously heard the other woman. You can leave that in when I fuck up words like, Stephen goes to note the time and I'm

just like, no. It takes me three chances to say simultaneously left. Leave it in. I simultaneously heard the other woman from my double date screaming, help. Where are my friends? After we all got out of our coffins, my boyfriend informed me that after a few seconds in his coffin, he realized he wasn't alone. There was a woman waiting in the coffin who whispered in his ear, let's play a game.

No. And then put a rope around his neck. Needless to say, we have not been back to any haunted house since. Quick shout out to my murdering mom, Lori, who introduced me to Stephen King when I was way too young. Next to my murdering of mother-in-law, Julie, when we were first introduced, she said, you're from Wisconsin. They have the best serial killers.

True. Stay sexy and don't go to a haunted house on a double date, Danny, with an eye. Oh my God, that stressed me out so bad because, and I know we've talked about this before and I've said this before, but any haunted house situation, seasonal, not real, is set up. Those are just actors. You have to trust that the person in the coffin with you is okay enough that they would want to do that for seasonal work and yet still know that they aren't allowed to harm you.

I mean, isn't it weird to be, what if the person who you're trapping for fun and play in a coffin has some fucking claustrophobia issues and starts beating the shit out of these? Punches you, yes. 100%. Or has an issue with, I don't know, a rope around their neck. Or has a knife in their pocket. Yeah.

Anything could happen. No. I'll stay home and pass out candy. I was already in the drama department. I don't need that kind of interaction with people who want to whisper creepy shit in you. Also, there must have been a warning of some kind. Yes. Or like a thing you had to sign away to be like, I know this is okay.

I can't even imagine the behavior that I would be exhibiting if I had to walk through the dark following a rope and that was the beginning of it. No. I'd go home. It's the same thing like getting on a roller coaster. I don't want to, I'm not even going to wait in line. Yeah. Why do it?

Wait in line for like the worst experience of my life. Okay. Sorry. This isn't about me. No, no, no. I mean, I'm just, I'm still there. Are you sweating? I mean, because I don't like the idea that it's in a basement of a soap factory.

Yeah. I don't know what that means. I don't know where you're going. It just means it's the creepiest place they could find outside of Minneapolis. I think you made up the basement. No, you're right. Yeah. Because the second you said it, I was like, oh no, it's all cold and lower than the ground.

I never had a basement, so they don't really scare me. I have one now, but it's fine. Get in there. Okay. Okay. It's just full of cat litter boxes. So it's pretty terrifying. Looking for a better cooking routine?

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That's up to 20 free meals plus free shipping on your first box when you go to hellofresh.ca slash murder20 and use code murder20. Goodbye. Goodbye. That makes a person a murderer. Are they born to kill or are they made to kill? I'm Candace DeLong and on my new podcast Killer Psyche Daily, I share a quick 10-minute rundown every weekday on the motivations and behaviors of the criminal masterminds, psychopaths,

and cold-blooded killers you hear about in the news. I have decades of experience as a psychiatric nurse, FBI agent, and criminal profiler. On Killer Psyche Daily, I'll give you insight into cases like Ryan Grantham and the newly arrested Stockton Serial Killer. I'll also bring on expert guests to dive deeper into the details, share what it's like to work with a behavioral assessment unit at Quantico, answer some killer trivia, and even host virtual Q&As where I'll answer your burning questions. Hey Prime members, listen to the Amazon Music Exclusive Podcast Killer Psyche Daily in the

Amazon Music app. Download the app today. Okay, again, gives it away. So we just start. Okay. Dear Karen, Georgia, Steven, and Pets, a classic. After listening to this week's episode about being buried alive, I was reminded of a story my great aunt once told me about my great uncle.

A lot of people have buried alive stories. Yeah, they do. It's good. In the 1930s, my great uncle worked for a local funeral home. His job was to pick up the bodies and transport them to the funeral home. In this particular story, the old man died at home, was pronounced dead by the coroner, and my uncle was sent to get his body. About 20 minutes into the drive back to the funeral home, my great uncle decided to have

a cigarette. That is when he heard a voice from the back say, how about you light one of those for me too? What? My great uncle slammed on the brakes, looked in the back, and the corpse that he had just picked up was now sitting up and talking to him. He continued, so you're gonna light me up a smoke or not. My great uncle, who I'm sure was incredibly shaken, lit the man a cigarette, drove back

to the funeral home with a now very alive man in tow, turned in his keys, and quit. Apparently, the man had a very weak pulse, and this was not the first time or the last time he'd be accidentally pronounced dead. Stay sexy and always make sure the guy is really dead before taking him to the funeral home. Ashton. And then it says, it's spelled ashtine, but in parentheses it says pronounced ashton. My mom was clearly on drugs and couldn't spell when naming me.

Good stuff. Very six feet under. God, I haven't watched that in so long. It's so good. It's so good. I want the kitchen in that TV show. I want to live in that kitchen. Okay, this last one's called Buried Alive Story.

Oh, great. Happy ending. That's an exclamation mark, and then here's maybe the greatest introduction, what's it called, when they say, you know, like first line, uh, yeah, hello, Karen's teeth. Hello. Are those the bottom ones too? Not yet. Oh, they look good.

Oh, man. I thought they were fake. Okay. Hello, Karen's teeth. Hello. I work at a historic site, and part of my job is to acquire interesting historical objects that people can touch, smell, listen to, and inspect. It's really good for older visitors to reminisce, anyone with sensory impairments, and just generally

for telling fascinating local history stories. And then it says, I love my job. Right now I'm getting objects for our Halloween sessions, and I've just acquired a coffin bell. So imagine my excitement listening to your latest episode when Georgia started talking about stories of people being buried alive and safety coffins. The reason I wanted the coffin bell for my job was so I could share with the visitors one of my favorite stories from my hometown, well, home county, but close enough. Here's how it goes.

The place is Lurgen County, Arma, Ireland. Great. And she put it phonetically for me. That's, I mean, Arma. It's the least anyone can do for us. Truly. The year is 1695, and Marjorie McCall has caught a fever and died. Her family mourns and buries her in Shank Hill graveyard.

While the grave is still fresh in the middle of the night, grave robbers dig up the coffin and try to steal jewelry from Marjorie's body. They attempt to steal a ring from her finger, but it wouldn't budge, so they decide to cut off the finger. You guessed it. The cutting starts, and Marjorie wakes up. The grave robbers promptly, promptly shit their... The grave robbers promptly shit some 17th century bricks and run off.

Marjorie gets out of her grave and walks home. Her family is gathered around the fire when they hear a knock at the door. The story goes that Mr. McCall said to his children, if your mother were still alive, I swear that was her knock, but in Ireland speak. So you do it. If your mother was... Oh, if your mother was still alive, I swear I was with her. Perfect.

It's said he opened the door and fainted, and his hair went white overnight. Apparently everyone got over it eventually because Marjorie lived on for years and even had another child. Shit. When Marjorie died for real, she was buried in the same shankill graveyard again, and her grave reeds, Marjorie McCall, lived once, buried twice. You can still go see it today. Yes.

Can't wait to see you in Dublin. Stay sexy and check that woman is actually dead before you start slicing at her fingers, Lisa. God, Marjorie McCall owes those grave robbers a huge debt. Truly. Because Jesus Christ. Yeah. It turns out crime does pay.

You fucking save lives. When you get buried, make sure that you tell your family, put on all my bracelets. All my jewelry. All my rings. Seven pairs of earrings. Those expensive Bakelite wristbands and shit, everything. I want bracelets up to my armpits. Put every dress on me that I own.

Bury me in a piano case so that I won't dug back up. Send us your stories. I think that haunted house stories are great. Just getting into fall and Halloween and shit. Send us your trick-or-treating stories of scary shit that happened. Yes. We want any... That's a great idea.

Halloween stories, Halloween theme stories, any of that we would love. Let's do it for two full months. Spooky. Spooky Halloween. Spooky Halloween. That's where my old roommate, Chrissy Ward, who I think we got it on a card and then she would just say it all the time. Spooky Halloween.

We remember. The Squad Gord seasons, guys. Send us your stories. That's right. That's right. Get into it. Be part of the Squad Gord and let's talk about Halloween now for the next 60 days. My favorite murder at Gmail or you can go to our website, My Favorite Murder and just

submit there. Yep. And stay sexy. And don't get murdered. Goodbye. Goodbye. You. You.

Elvis, want a cookie? Yeah. Let's play a game.