My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 352Episode Date: October 9, 2023
I'm Candace DeLong and on my podcast Killer Psychie Daily, I share a quick 10-minute rundown every weekday on the motivations and behaviors of the criminal masterminds you hear about in the news. Hey, Prime Members, listen to the Amazon exclusive podcast Killer Psychie Daily in the Amazon music app. Download the app today. Hello! And welcome to my favorite murder! The mini-sode! Hey! Hi! Hey, notice this. Oh, wait, not this. It's-sode. Hey. Hi.
You know this, oh. You know this. It's time to listen to this. Yeah. I'll go first. You go first. Okay. Let's talk in weird voices the whole time.
Let's do it. This is called Motel Murder with a side of unrelated cats. Perfect. And I forget what this is about. Okay. Hi Karen and Georgia. My best friend Josephine. And then it says, Hi, Joe, if you're listening, this may be cut. Hey, got me into your podcast
years ago. And you guys have been an unrelenting hilarious source of entertainment, education, and inspiration ever since. Wow. Good job, Joe. Thank you. Ever since Maurice? You're not Joe. job Joe. Thank you. Ever since more recent? You're not Joe. I am too. Even more recently, when my 16 year old baby cat passed away, having adopted her from the streets in Vietnam, moved her with me to London and then to Singapore. Wow. She was a well-travel kiddie and I miss her so much and hearing how much you guys unashamedly love your furry babies gives me the strength to tell everyone who questions or looks at me funny when I tell them I'm devastated by the loss of my fatty to go and fuck themselves.
I mean, what human being monsters would in any way look at you sideways if you were like, I had a cat that was 16 years old that died. I feel like some people just don't get it, especially when it comes to cats. Like dogs, they can understand more, but if you've never known a cat and known how awesome they are, that makes me think those people are not on TikTok.
Because TikTok proves on a daily basis that cats are magical. Oh yeah, okay, we all know, we all know. And then it says, anyway, the murder. Oh yeah. I'm British and when I was 15, my mom took my brother, then 13, and me on a quote, dream vacation to your lovely country. It was the 90s. So of course, that meant Florida, which it turns out is not very lovely at all. I mean, there's parts that are nice. My mom was
a single parent and a teacher, so we didn't have much cash and decided to stay in a motel while in Orlando on the basis that we'd be out all day absorbing the culture of the IE, Disney. There was one double bed in the room, which my mom and I shared, and one caught bed by the window, which we made my brother sleep in.
Oh, God, the amount of cuts and motels I've slept in on trips with my dad and my siblings and I was a kid is like, yeah, that's why I have back pain now. It might be. It's gotta be. And also that kind of like, hey, for the first time, probably ever in our lives, let's all sleep in the same room. It's, oh, just the yelling.
Yeah, the room had a huge picture window. I eat the whole front wall was basically a window. The curtains, I believe you call them drapes, were paper thin and the strip lighting outside was aggressive. In the middle of the night, my brother jumps into our bed and shakes us away. He claimed to have seen the silhouette of a man appear in front of the window, He claimed to have seen the silhouette of a man appear in front of the window, raise one arm with a gun in it, and shoot another person, also in view. Oh. I, of course, told him to stop being a little prick, trying to get in the nice bed and to fuck off back to his cot where he belonged.
Two minutes later, however, there were sirens, and flashing blue and red lights, and shouting, my mom eventually wakes up, and the three of us sat there fucking terrified until it all calmed down and the sun came up. We opened the door with trepidation and my mom made me poke my head out and says, because I'm the quote the oldest. Mom, I think you may have miscalculated.
There was police tape everywhere. Blood spatter, cones, scary looking police officers with guns and general chaos. Oh, that little boy witnessed a murder right now. And they're from England where like guns don't happen. Oh, God. Yeah, and they didn't believe him. Right.
Go fuck off. They said fuck off. Yeah. We grabbed our stuff, got into the rental, and high-tailed it out of there. But five minutes down the road, my mom slams on the brakes and shouts, fuck, I left the passports and tickets in the safe. So we had to go back. And again, being, quote, the oldest, I was sent in to negotiate their retrieval. No! Fuckin' parents. Oh my god. I mean, it's kind of up to a point. It's like, yeah, go send
your oldest to do that. But like, yeah, go check and see if there's a crime scene outside. Totally. I think should be where the boundary lies. That's right. I agree. The adolescent that reception seemed entirely unmoved and referred me to one of the still attendant police officers. He mumbled something involving calling me,'am and this being a homicide scene investigation seemed to really want to tell me to fuck off, but overall I think was just so confused at being asked by a 15 year old British child if she could please have her family's passports back from the crime scene, he just got on and did it. We left Orlando pretty hastily after that and we never went back.
We did a few other road trips in the USA in subsequent years, including one where my mom made a stride around Pennsylvania for days trying to locate, quote, the omnis for no discernible reason. And in which our quick stop at a McDonald's and Albany coincided with a visit by jump-suited inmates, chain to police officers, apparently on a field trip from a local prison. Not a field trip. Come on, guys. But needless to say, Motels never featured again. Stay sexy and don't stay in Motels in Florida, Suzy. So you guys feel like your mom's vacation planning leaves a lot to be decided.
I just started to start for the omesh, just the general omesh in Pennsylvania. We've got a whole state, we've got to find these people and get up into their business, the thing that they love the most. They love when you get up and they're shit. From the creators of Even the Rich comes a new podcast called Even the Royals. Hosts Sprook and Erecia pull back the curtain on Royal family is past and present from all over the world. Even the Royals covers the stories you thought you knew, like Marie and Twinnett, was she actually the victim of a propaganda campaign that led to her eventual beheading, or Catherine D'Mettici,
who was assumed responsible for one of the most devastating massacres in French history, but in reality, she was a mother holding onto her dying dynasty. Royal status might seem bright and shiny, but it comes at a price. Your freedom, your privacy, and sometimes even your life. Follow Even the Royals on the Wondry app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Even the Royals exclusively an ad-free right now, only on Wondry Plus. to even the royals exclusively in ad-free right now, only on 1-3+. Okay, this one you know I had to pick it. The subject line is, repressed balloon launch memory. Oh dear. Oh yeah, for sure. Right? Yeah. Ladies, your voices have been keeping me company from many walks, gardening, and while coping, waiting at the airport for years. So I was surprised when I was having a normal Thursday walk
while listening to episode 383, entitled Why Pigeons. Why Pigeons? I remember that. When suddenly I had a flood of memories wash over me. The sensation was similar to returning to your childhood at home, slash town, slash school, decades later in life. The story was about the Cleveland balloon fest of 1986.
In your story, you discussed the infatuation with balloon launches in the country. It was then, I remembered, the annual balloon launches of Daniel's Farm School in Trumbull, Connecticut, circa 1982 to 1985. For some reason, each year in the spring, each student would get a postcard to fill out with their name and the name of the school. Ooh, this sounds familiar to me too. These cards were actually postcards
that were then attached to said balloons. Then with much anticipation, as the entire school assembled in the parking lot and fields, we would count down and release the balloons. Yes, everyone would cheer as the balloons lofted off into the atmosphere and out of sight. Now, if that wasn't exciting enough, the next few weeks were filled with anticipation as we waited to hear on morning announcements if any cards had been returned and just how far they had traveled. Some came from across town while others came from as far as Bridgeport or Monroe. Although I didn't know all the way from Monroe,
that's a miracle. Although I never had a postcard returned, I did in fact find one card in my own yard and proudly returned it to the school. I honestly have no idea what the point of the launches or why they stopped by the time I got into sixth grade in 1986, but I'm now guessing it could be related to the incident in Cleveland. Yeah, I think so. Thank you for unearthing this fun memory that has escaped me for nearly 30 years. Stay sexy and don't get murdered. Wendy Minneapolis. A good thing to do is to give random strangers child's full name and where you can find them,
the 3 p.m. every day. Maybe a light description, you know? And what their parents call them as a nickname so that if you want to swing by and pick them up, Jesus Christ. It's like the kind of thing we're now I'm thinking 30 years in the future, what will they be saying about the current time
where they're like, can you believe parents did that? Well, I think the thing is putting your kids face on social media, right? And like, yeah. And their name, any information about your kid. I think we're gonna be like, can you believe they fucking did that? Yeah, I think so too.
They might be doing it now, actually. They are, they're already doing it. Some, some. Okay. Right as your hometown about giving out children's information, Willie Nellie. Right as your hometown, if you have a weird 80s memory of being forced to do something by your school that now in retrospect you realize was highly unsafe and not well thought through. Yes, do that, please.
And wrote all of that out in the subject line. That's right. This is called K&G Haunt Me. Hello, MFM team. On episode 364, Georgia tells a story about how one night she was getting ready for bed in her home alone when her wireless speaker suddenly started blasting Elton John unprompted and how it scared the shit out of her. That is true.
Well this brought back a memory from a night when I thought my husband was going to attempt murder. I'm an attorney who has to get up at a stupid early hour to get to work on time. My husband does not have this requirement and therefore goes to bed after I'm asleep most nights. Well, one night I had gone to sleep with my headphones in, listening to the dulcet tones of who knows which of your episodes. The murder doesn't bother me. I enjoy your voices. They are comforting after many years of listening. Thanks. Catch my husband getting into bed about two hours after me. Suddenly, there are voices coming from our living room at an alarming volume. It is as if two people are having a conversation at a scream volume in the next room.
That's exactly what happened to me, but Elton John. Oh. Understandably, my husband leaves out of bed and starts looking for a weapon and shorts simultaneously, while our dogs start hairling at the sudden noise. Meanwhile, I stop drooling and just look at him and say, it's just Karen and Georgia in a drunk Karen voice, because I'm still mostly asleep as I wander into the living room to see our wireless speaker
somehow had come on and was now playing the episode I had been listening to in my headphones. That's weird. It happens to me all the time. I'll take my headphones out and it'll start playing on my phone, like out loud on my phone. Oh, right. You know what I mean?
Where it's just like still. It's maybe the next thing in the list of your Bluetooth list or something. Exactly. Technology. I mean, my husband and dogs were seriously freaked out, but we laughed about it the next day. Thought this might have used some of you. SSDGM, Christine E. S. Choir, she heard. That happened to me when I first moved into this house that I
live in now. It has an alarm system that a very quiet almost whispering British lady every time I opened the front door would go, front door open. But whisper love. Yeah, I have that too. And the first time it happened, it felt like somewhat immediately my mind told me that someone was hiding around the corner and whispering it because of the way her voice. Oh, chills. It was so awful.
And then then I was like, wait, why would you whisper something about a door? That's not scary. And then I was like, OK, this is normal. If I had had the kind of life where I had up until this point had alarm systems, this would be standard practice. But no, I get it. But no.
OK. The subject line of this email is trashed, trashed, dead, and a boat. Hello, friends. I've been thinking about writing this story for a while now, but anxiety, my FT job, my kids, and procrastination seem to take precedence, but here I go. I grew up in Southern California in a smallish lake city in the inland empire. Hmm. The salt and sea. When I was between the ages of eight and ten, my dad bought a speed boat from a quote unquote friend. In true trash dad fashion, he did not verify the reliability of his acquisition and instead
took myself, my friend, and one of his adult male friends on the boat for the day. They had a cooler full of Budweiser with a few sodas, but no snacks, sunscreen, or clean water because... Oh my god, dude. What the fuck? Who does it bring snacks with children? No snacks, no fucking water. No water.
Oh my god. I mean... It's sunscreen. Wild. Like, this has to be the 80s. Hold on. Because we didn't need those things in the 90s. So close enough that it's kind of getting by, but still.
Not for long. You can't be a boat dad and not bring water and a bag of checks, Max, please. Totally. And even Hawaiian tropic oil, something to protect you from the fucking SPF-5. Max, Max, please. Totally. And even Hawaiian-tropic oil, like something to protect you from the fucking SPF five.
Yeah, anything. Okay, so it says, we probably got onto the water after lunch, and we were having a good old time while dad and his friend drank, and my friend and I thought we were the coolest girls around. Fast forward a few hours, and the boat breaks down in the middle of the lake.
As this was the time before cell phones, and God forbid they have a CB radio, we floated aimlessly for hours. As the sun set behind the mountains, it was replaced by a cold breeze and impending darkness. The hours ticked by and we girls got very chilly, super hungry and a little nervous as the lake took on the appearance of a black hole in the middle of the city. Eventually a police helicopter began to fly over the lake using its spotlight. This prompted my dad to finally tell us to put on our life jackets. 12 hours later.
They've never. Yeah, because the cops are coming. Yep. My friend and I were ecstatic and jumping and dancing as the spotlight swept over our craft. We knew a police boat would soon be on its way to Toast ashore. We were wrong. A while later, we saw a very small light floating toward us, and a man and a small fishing boat pulled up to our vessel and informed us that the police boat that they had sent out began to sink and had to turn back. So he answered the search and rescue call to
retrieve us from the middle of the lake. We got back to shore sometime between 11 and 12 that night and I never went on a boat with my dad again. Thank you for narrating my commute, data entry and my jogs as I cackel maniacally to myself since you two gals are hilarious. Stay sexy and don't get on that boat. April, she heard. Thank you, April. Oh my God, that is a true trash dad story. I feel like her dad had so much positive,
like he was just like nothing can grow. We finally have a boat. This is the greatest. Take the girl as on an adventure. It's going to be great. We'll be so excited and satisfied by our adventure, we won't need food or clean water or SPF. Oh my, we'll just go for it.
OK, my last one is called Not Fair, Little Kid Story. Hi, friends. After my parents divorced in 1979, my mom changed her last name back to her maiden name, then went back to change the names of me and my siblings. I was the youngest of three, and I was probably two or three years old. We kids were restless waiting for our case to be called,
and our mom finally gave us some change to go get some soda downstairs from the courtroom. Well, my big sister got to hit the call button for the elevator, and my big brother got to hit the floor number button, and I didn't get to hit any buttons. So what button is most accessible to the shortest person in the elevator? I know. Karen, you're raising your hand. Fire alarm.
That's right. The big red emergency button. The building was evacuated. Oh, first responders showed up and checked the building. And after about an hour, we all got to go back inside. My siblings ratted me out. I fucking like two or three year old. They ratted out.
Of course they did. Well, they just wanted to make sure that the mom knew it wasn't them. Exactly. And I got a stern talking to from a fireman about how serious it is to hit that button. And then it says, the parentheses, my mom did not get a stern talking to
about letting little kids wander halls of a courthouse. It's right. Good point. And then we all went back into the courtroom where amazingly our case was next on the docket. Stay sexy and respect the big red button Maggie Sheeher. I mean, that's a great way to learn about the big red button. No.
Boop. Like I see her watching them go boop, boop. And she was like, well, boop. You don't get one. And you can absolutely hear the one sibling presses a button, the other sibling, and then it's like, when do I get a prince a button? It's a shut up baby, stop whining. Your whole fucking life is the youngest.
This email, this email is truly divine. Oh my God. The subject line is, I was a jury duty tramp and it just gets right into it. So the first time I had jury duty many, many years ago, I was not selected, but when they were choosing the alternates, they asked us each. If we knew any reason that would disqualify us, dang, I was nervous.
When it was my turn to stand up and answer, I had to say yes, and that it was personal. Well, that wasn't good enough. I had to go up to the bench along with both attorneys and state my reason. Well, I was very quote unquote popular back then, and I had had quote unquote relations with two of the members that had already been seated on the journey. Oh, shit. I hope it's a small town or something. The two lawyers could
barely contain their laughter and the judges mouth-thropped open and she said, wow, Mr. dot, dot, dot, thank you for your candor. You may go back to your seat. Minutes later I was dismissed. I don't think I told anyone what happened at the time, but now I tell it whatever anyone mentions jury duty as I am proud of my slutty past and would do it all again. Hell yeah. Hell yeah. I've since served on a couple of juries and while the days are long and a lot of time boring,
I've enjoyed the process and it's nice to do my part. Efectionately yours, Jake. Jake. I love you Jake. I love you so much Jake. Hi, bud. Hi, bud. All around. Hi, Jake. Jake. I love you, Jake. I love you so much, Jake. I love you so much, Jake. All around, hi-fi.
It is so fucking funny to decide you're disqualified because you slept with two people. Do you think the two people knew each other or like both knew or didn't they probably didn't know? Or he was maybe thinking like that eventually they'd have to go into that jury room and all have a big conversation Right
Either way, I think he played it absolutely perfectly I'm so what if it didn't disqualify you though. I'm actually a little surprised, but that makes sense I mean it would make sense if it was a smaller town or city or whatever where it's like Oh, let's not get into this business. Right. Right. Let's maybe like, sit your ass down Jake. Well thank you for sending in your hometowns or just listening to them and please send your hometown if you feel like it to my favorite murder of Gmail whatever it may be. Yes we're so grateful to be able to share these personal stories that you share them with us and that we get to share them with all of our other murdering outfriends.
Stay sexy. And don't get murdered! Goodbye! Elvis, do you want a cookie? This has been an exactly right production. Our senior producer is Alejandra Keck, our editor's Aristotle Acevedo. This episode was mixed by Leonis Kulachi, email your hometowns to my favorite murder at gmail.com and follow us on Instagram and Facebook at my favorite murder and on Twitter at my fave
murder. Goodbye! survey at Wendry.com slash survey.