The Megyn Kelly Show - The Beltway Snipers: The Invisible Killers — Ep. 1 | MK Confidential

Episode Date: August 18, 2026

This week, “MK Confidential” opens on a warm weekday evening in Wheaton, Maryland, an inner suburb just north of D.C. On October 2, 2002, a low, flat, pop sound breaks the evening buzz of errands outside a grocery store. Those nearby think of it as a blown-out tire or a falling pallet of goods. One man drops to the asphalt. James Martin, a fifty-five-year-old husband, father, and Vietnam veteran, bleeds out in a  parking lot. He will not be the last. Megyn Kelly traces the story of the victims, the snipers, and the investigators who will race to end their reign of terror that engulfs greater D.C. Five people in sixteen hours, each shot with a single round of .223, fired from the same rifle. The victims have nothing in common, save for the ground on which they stand, and a clear line of sight to wherever the shooter is lurking. Who would do this, and why? One year after 9/11, the natural thought is foreign terrorism; D.C. is certainly on the lookout. But as the killings continue, and the pressure to stop them mounts, two men are hiding in plain sight. And their motivation is much more straightforward: revenge. This is Episode 1 of The Beltway Snipers story. Lean: Discover why LEAN is becoming the choice for real weight‑loss results—shop now at https://TAKELEAN.com use code KELLY Home Title Lock: Go to https://hometitlelock.com/megynand use promo code MEGYN to get a FREE title history report and a FREE TRIAL of their Triple Lock Protection Follow The Megyn Kelly Show on all social platforms: YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/MegynKelly Twitter: https://Twitter.com/MegynKellyShow Instagram: https://Instagram.com/MegynKellyShow Facebook: https://Facebook.com/MegynKellyShow 
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It is Wednesday night 6 p.m., October 2, 2002, in the parking lot of a shopper's food warehouse on Randolph Road in Wheaton, Maryland, a comfortable inner suburb just north of Washington, D.C. It looks like every other grocery store lot in America at the end of a workday. Scattered cars and shopping carts, people loading kids and groceries, the autumn sky going dark over the storefronts. A gray pickup truck with an American flag on its antenna. pulls into the lot and parks. A man in a business suit and tie climbs out after a long day, a grocery list in his pocket. He's only stopping in for a minute. His name is James Martin.

He is 55, an analyst at the government's weather and ocean agency. He grew up poor in the Midwest, served in Vietnam, and now he has a house in the suburbs. His wife Billy teaches Sunday school. Together, they have an 11-year-old son named Ben. Martin mentors inner-city kids. Tonight, he is picking up sodas and snacks for his church youth group because this store has the best prices. He shuts the driver door and starts across the asphalt toward the sliding doors.

There is a muffled pop flat and far away with no crack to it the kind of noise a person might take for a truck tire blowing out a few streets over. James Martin falls where he says. stands. It happens in the blink of an eye. There is a small entry hole. One bullet goes into his back and tears out the front of his chest. He is dead almost before the sound finishes traveling. No one sees the shooter or the gun or even the direction where the shot came from. A few parking spaces away, a woman named Kimberly Sadelson is loading groceries into her Honda with her

five-year-old son beside her. She hears the boom, sees the man go down, and takes out her phone. She dials 911, still not totally sure what she's seeing. I'm at Stoppiceville warehouse on Randolph Road, and a man just fell in the parking lot. There was a loud noise, but we're not sure if he was shot. Across the road, a Montgomery County police officer named Alan Felson hears it too. He is in his unmarked cruiser and his summer uniform, black shorts and a polo shirt with police across the back. He's pulling out of the district station that happens to sit directly across the street. The sound does not quite register as a gunshot. It is missing the sharp crack of a firearm.

He looks toward the shopper's lot and sees nothing. No people running, no screaming. He wonders if someone dropped a loaded pallet over at the garden store. Then he swings the cruiser around and finds a parking lot full of people standing frozen in place. He calls out the window, happened? What's going on here? No one answers. And then out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man on the ground. He grabs his radio. Break, break, break, break, he says, to cut through the other traffic. I'm at Shopper's Food Warehouse on Randolph. I've got the sound of a shot, one down, one down. Felsen cuts through the crowd and kneels beside James Martin. Martin's shirt and suit coat are soaked through with blood. There is no pulse, and he is not breathing.

Felsen is a former volunteer firefighter, so he pulls on latex gloves and starts chest compressions, and it is instantly a bloody business. A woman steps out of the crowd and asks if she can help. By pure chance, she is a friend of Felsons, a volunteer EMT named Marjorie Fisk, and she runs for the first aid bag she keeps in her car. A nurse appears out of the crowd and cuts open Martin's shirt. underneath there is blood everywhere and a hole in his chest. The three of them work on him on the pavement while his blood runs out across the lot.

The paramedics arrive and take over, and after a while, they stop too. They lay a sheet over James Martin, lying on his back in the soft light of the evening, with his shoes and his hands sticking out the edges. Marjorie Fisk steps back, shaken, and asks if she can go. No one can say where that shot came from. Officer Felson stands in the lot afterward and tries to make it add up, and he cannot make sense of it. A man walking across a parking lot, a gunshot. The man goes down with a wound clean through him. Martin still has his wallet. Nobody saw an argument, a getaway car, or anyone even holding a gun. No robbery, no carjacking. The only explanation that's a guy.

seems even remotely possible is an accident. Somewhere nearby, someone fires a rifle, the bullet travels farther than intended and by terrible chance it finds James Martin. What else could it have been? He has no idea. This is only the beginning. 40 minutes earlier in another shopping center, a few miles up the road, a bullet shattered the front window of a Michael's craft store, striking and illuminated number five hanging over one of the checkout lanes, almost seven feet in the air. No one was hit. At the time, it looked like vandalism, maybe a stray round from a gang gunfire or just random. Now at the Shopper's Food Warehouse on Randolph Road, Montgomery County's brand new police spokeswoman, Captain Nancy Dem, reaches her boss,

police chief Charles Moose on her phone. She has been on the job a matter of hours. I don't know what we have here, Demt tells him, but it is different from your regular homicide. The man on the ground seems nice and normal, ordinary government ID. He has not been robbed. Demm tells the chief that the shots had come from a distance, and she has already sent the forensic officers over to the Michael's craft store to find out whether these two shootings are connected. They are. That bullet through the craft store window was the first shot fired in a area shooting spree, no one yet knows has begun. James Martin is its first victim. The shots come barely a year after two planes came out of a clear September sky and hit the Twin Towers, and a third

hit the Pentagon. It has been just over a year since the anthrax letters that killed five, injured dozens, and frightened millions of Americans came through the mail. So when a man is shot dead in a grocery lot for no reason anyone can find, another natural worry is terrorism. And sure enough, what begins in this parking lot will terrorize 4 million people for three long weeks. It will empty gas stations, lock schoolhouse doors, and perch officers with rifles up on interstate overpasses. But it is not the kind of terror the country expects. It's not radical Islam. It's not al-Qaeda. There's no manifesto. They will later find out. It's two people in an old car. And James Martin lying dead on the asphalt at two minutes past 6 p.m. on an ordinary Wednesday

is only the beginning of the rampage near D.C. By the end of the next day, Thursday, five more people will be dead. I'm Megan Kelly, and this is M.K. Confidential. Everybody's talking about weight loss injections because the results can be so dramatic. They work by lowering blood sugar and reducing appetite. But what if you're looking to lose weight but are not interested in painful weekly injections, especially when you hear about some of those intense side effects? That's why doctors created a weight loss supplement called Lean. And the results could be remarkable.

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The morning of Thursday, October 3rd is cool with a nice breeze. It's rush hour in Washington, D.C., and the roads into the Capitol are already jammed. 103.5 WTOP radio. Traffic and weather together on the 8th. 66 westbound from Falls Church out to Gainesville. It's crazy talk, I tell you, crazy. Kettleworth Avenue southbound. We had an accident earlier this morning at Pennsylvania Avenue. For about 90 minutes, the region has no idea that anything unusual,

is underway. At 7.41 a.m. in the White Flint area of Rockville, Maryland, a landscaper named James Buchanan, who everyone calls Sunny, is mowing a small patch of grass behind a car dealership. He is 39 years old. He is the son of a retired Montgomery County policeman, and he has a fiancé. Buchanan recently moved his landscaping business across the river into Virginia, but he still comes back to Maryland once a week to mow the Fitzgerald Auto Mall as a favor to its owner. He is pushing a green lawn boy mower with a cloth catcher, his back to the road. He stops for a sip of water. And then over the noise of the mower and the traffic, there is a single, loud crack. A block away, a man named Rick Tiner is driving to work with his wife. Tiner saw combat in Vietnam,

and he knows that sound. That was a rifle shot, he tells her. In the dealership lot, the mechanics look up to see Sonny Buchanan staggering toward them, clutching his chest and gasping. Behind him, the mower is still running, rolling on across the grass with no one to steer it. Buchanan makes it a couple hundred feet,

then goes down on his face. A parts manager named Jim King gets on the line to 911 and tells the dispatcher the only thing that makes any sense to him. This guy's lung or did something, man. It chopped him up. He's bleeding real bad.

He's down and out. There is nothing wrong with the mower. Buchanan is rushed to the trauma unit at Suburban Hospital, where a surgeon named Jim Roby is waiting. Buchanan's heart has already stopped, so Roby works fast, opening his chest with a 16-inch cut and cranking the ribs apart to get to the heart. He finds a heart that is practically empty,

of blood and a chest cavity drained nearly dry. He bled more than anyone I have ever seen, one of the medics later says. Roby has been told, this is some sort of freak lawnmower accident and finding nothing he can fix, he sows the man back up, believing it. Then a nurse standing by asks the question

that will change the morning. Jim, she says, do you think this could be a gunshot wound? They roll Buchanan over and there it is. A hole in his back, smaller than the head of a pen. By now, a police officer at the hospital has grown suspicious. She called her supervisor. Her supervisor calls major crimes. And word reaches the office of the county state's attorney where a veteran prosecutor hears the story of the landscaper and his lawnmower and thinks, no, the lawnmower did not do that.

31 minutes after Buchanan is shot, about six miles away, a taxi driver named Premkimar Wallacher pulls into a mobile gas station to fill his tank. He needs gas, he also wants some gum and lottery tickets. The station in Aspen Hill, Maryland is a half block from the Michael's Crafts Store where the front window got shot out the previous day. He is 54 from Pune, India, and he drives for a company called presidential cab. He usually starts his shift around noon. This morning he clocked in early so he could get off early and get home to his wife and kids for the afternoon. He attends a seventh-day Adventist Church and has been married to his wife for 25 years. The sign on the roof of his cab reads, of all things, call 911. That is his cab company's number, you dial 911 taxi to order a ride.

He is standing at the gas pump when the shot comes. At the next pump island, a doctor named Caroline Namrow, who has just dropped her older children at school and still has her two-year-old buckled in the back of her van. Here's the bang. She looks up to see Wallacher walking toward her with a startled look on his face. Call an ambulance, he says. Then he collapses beside her van, leaving a long smear of his blood

down the side of her passenger door. Namro grabs her phone and calls 911. Oh, my God. Ma'am, listen to me. What is wrong? A man is being killed in front of me. How is he being killed in front of you? I can't know.

Namro gets down on the concrete and does what she can, starting chest compressions, then mouth-to-mouth. Wallacher is bleeding heavily from his side, the blood pooling on the ground. It started over there. I went over there, and the guy's laying on the ground, blood all over the side of the van. He's laying on the ground, gasping for air. And the ladies, she's standing there shaking. She was trying to help him. In the middle of her rescue efforts, the victim vomits.

His airway closes, and Dr. Namrow cannot clear it. Kremkimar Wallacher dies at the pump. At 837, 25 minutes later, a 34-year-old woman named Sarah Ramos is sitting on a bench outside a post office beside the leisure world retirement community. She was a law student once back in El Salvador. Now she cleans houses to keep the family afloat. She came to America with her husband, a college teacher there, and their little boy.

And it did not go the way they hoped. Her husband could not find work teaching and grew depressed. This morning she took the bus and is waiting on the bench for the woman whose house she is going to clean. She is reading her head down, her purse beside her. She never sees the car at the far edge of the land. lot. A single rifle bullet enters the top of her skull and exits the back of her neck and carries on through the restaurant window behind her. Her book is still open in her lap when it fills with blood. At 9.58 a.m., an hour and 21 minutes later, a 25-year-old woman named Lori Ann Lewis Rivera,

a nanny who moved to Maryland from Idaho, is at a shell station in Kensington cleaning out her employer's minivan. She is a large, gentle young woman whose blonde hair is so pale, it looks nearly white. She has just switched on the vacuum to suck up Cheerios off the floorboard when the bullet hits her in the back. Like a bomb? Yeah, but it wasn't a bomb. I mean, it's like that kind of noise. Like a gunshot, maybe? A firefighter runs over from a station across the street and starts CPR on Lorraine. A county police officer pulls up, then a second one, Richard Grapes, and Grapes goes to his car for a 12-gauge shotgun and a heavy ballistic

shield, and he kneels down with it between the open lot and the people bent over the dying woman, because by now, they understand. Whoever is doing this is still out there somewhere, and he could be lining up the rescuers next. The detective who takes the Kensington scene is Terry Ryan out of Montgomery County major crimes. With an incident involving a young woman in her 20s, a mother. Miss Rivera was vacuuming her van, which was parked just beyond here, at a coin vacuum that's still here.

Mr. Rivera, Lurian's husband was contacted. He came to the scene. I had to notify him of his wife's death. I could just see the emotion. I mean, he was grieving himself. He said, what do I tell my kid? Lurianne is taken to suburban hospital to Dr. Roby's team, the second one of these shooting victims they have seen before 10 this morning.

This time they know what they are looking for. This wound is in the exact same place as with Sunny Buchanan. The man mowing the lawn, Roby says. Someone is just picking people off. Roby has already called his wife and told her to get off the streets. AI can clone your voice, forge your signature, even create. fake documents that fool experts. And criminals are using these tools right now to potentially steal from you.

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a van. Count James Martin from Shopper's parking lot the night before, and it is five dead in 16 hours. They do not line up. Two white men, a white woman, an Indian man, a Salvadoran woman. Different ages, different jobs, different corners of the same suburban county. The only thing the five of them have in common is that each was for one second exposed, standing still out in the open. And no one ever sees who does it. There's no muzzle flash anyone can point to, no figure running, no figure running, no

A window rolled down. Each shot comes from somewhere out past the edge of the lot, a tree line, a passing car, and by the time anyone looks, there is nothing there at all. The detective who was assigned to the James Martin killing, the first murder in this spree, Patrick McNerney, is home when his sister, a local TV news editor, calls to say there has been a shooting at a gas station up the road. Anything odd about it? he asks her. People heard aloud. bang, she says, he is already heading out the door. At suburban hospital, a major crimes corporal named Jean Curtis has the second victim, Sunny Buchanan's body unzipped from its bag, and he does not need a medical examiner to tell him what he's looking at. This kind of wound, he tells the

doctors, goes in small and comes out big. How many of these are we going to have, he thinks? Maybe the next one will be a cop. By now, the police are chasing the cases faster than they can work them. The detectives still writing up James Martin's death at the Wheaton Shoppers parking lot from last night get the calls from Rockville, then Aspen Hill, then Kensington, a fresh body every half hour, all inside a few square miles. At the hospitals, the same trauma teams that took Buchanan and Wallacher in the morning are bracing for the next body, and it is not over. Around 9 o'clock p.m., two people are loading a car outside a restaurant. called the Tropicana on Georgia Avenue just inside Washington, D.C., a few blocks below the Maryland line.

The woman is named Gail Howard, and she owns the place. She is walking the night's receipts out to her car. The man is Carl Largey, one of her employees, and he is out in the lot with a cigarette keeping an eye on things. It's very dark, the nearest streetlight is flickering on and off. The morning's killings have been on every television in the region all day. Gail Howard is wary of crossing the open lot. Parked on the side street near them is an old dark car with tinted windows. Its back end turned toward Georgia Avenue. They notice it and think nothing of it.

Then there is a loud, boom. It could be a blown tire or a car backfiring. Out on Georgia Avenue, a city bus screeches to a stop. Carl tells Gail it was either the bus or a gunshot, loud but strangely muffled. A few seconds later, the old dark car slides away, down Kalmia Street with its lights off. Look at the idiot with his lights off, Carl says.

They finish loading up, and Gail gets in her own car and drives home. Carl stays behind. Within minutes, the corner is lit up with police lights and an ambulance and word travels that a man is dead. Five minutes later, Gail's phone rings. It's Carl. Guess what he says. says, it was a gunshot. That night's killing crosses the district line. A block away on the southeast

corner of Georgia Avenue and Kalmia Road, a 72-year-old man is lying on the pavement. His name is Pascal Charleau. He left Haiti for America many years ago. He is a carpenter, a man who can build anything. He and his disabled wife share a row home with lawn chairs and potted plants on the front porch. and out back he keeps a garden of tomatoes and bell peppers. He loves to walk, but tonight he has taken the bus home. He gets off and is standing under a streetlight waiting to cross to his house. Pascal is gazing up at the stars, and he raises his right hand toward his chin when the bullet comes. It goes through his palm and blows a two-inch hole in his hand

before it punches into his chest below the left collarbone. It shatters his collarbone and ribs. tearing open veins and arteries. Pascal Charleau goes down on the corner. 72 years of life, and it ends like this. He is the sixth person killed in a little over 24 hours. The man handling all of this is the chief of the Montgomery County, Maryland Police, a career officer named Charles Moose.

He is 49. He originally wanted to become a lawyer, got sidetracked and decided to give the police Department or try. Before he knew it, he started climbing the ranks, getting decorations and a doctorate along the way. He is a big proponent of active listening, but he also battles a white-hot temper, and there are stories about it. He's gone to anger management counseling. By the end of that first day, Moose is looking at six people shot dead across Montgomery County and the district. No motive, no suspect, no witness who can describe a shooter. Not even a bullet or a shell casing his investigators can recover in one piece. Assistant Chief of Police Deirdre Walker would later tell

the Discovery Channel that it seemed to be an impossible task. We had no physical description. We had no good eyewitnesses. How do you draw up a plan to find a ghost? Moose drives himself down to the mobile station crime scene, where, where Prem Kumar Wallacher died. But instead of pulling in, he tucks his car into a mall lot across the street, gets out and stands there watching. He wants to see the situation from a distance.

Standing there in the sun, a thought settles on Moose that he cannot shake. That the man who did this could be out here right now, close by, watching him back. By then, investigators are convinced the shootings are connected. That is the worst possible news for a public already terrorized by anthrax in 9-11. Moose says as much to the press.

Here he is on Fox 5 on October 3, 2002. We strongly feel that all of these are connected. Certainly, the weaponry seems to be very similar, not a lot of evidence. There's no indication at this point that these individuals know each other. There's no indication that any of these individuals had any kind of conflict with anyone. It is a string of murders growing into a public emergency because it means there is no way to guess who comes next. It comes down to one thing only, where you happen to be standing when the trigger is pulled. The law enforcement response builds fast because it has to.

Within a day, the case has outgrown the Montgomery County Police and the big agencies pour in. The FBI, the ATF, the Maryland State Police, the Secret Service, a task force forms around Chief Moose, and grows until it fills whole buildings. They wire in banks of telephones and open a tip line, and the tips come in by the thousands. Every one of them run down. Before long, it is the largest manhunt of its kind that the country has seen.

Thousands of officers from dozens of agencies and still, day after day, nothing. Helicopters crisscross the county overhead. When a shooting comes in, police flip on their lights and sirens, throw up. up roadblocks and stop cars for miles, and time after time come up with nothing in the way of clues. The officers who work at take it personally because it is terrorizing the neighborhoods where they live, where their families live. It affects our families the same as everybody else,

and we all swore an earth oath to protect the citizens of Maryland, and by God, that's what we were going to do, no matter if it killed us to do it. And for a major American city, the seat of the federal government, this changes how that city does life day to day. Gas stations hang tarps and bed sheets between the gas pumps and the road so a driver can fill the tank behind a curtain. People pump gas crouched down, ducking below the roofline of their cars. Schools pull the shades and cancel recess. The high school football games and the track meets are called off, and the local soccer league cancels its practices. Shoppers cross crossed the lot to their cars at a fast, weaving walk because someone has decided that a zigzagging target is harder to hit, and no one can prove them wrong.

Children are walked from the school bus to the door in clusters while the teachers surround them and scan the tree lines. Ministers rewrite their Sunday sermons, the malls empty out, and along the roads where people were shot, the shops watch their customers disappear. They were just picking people at random. out there where they could get to you, you were gone. What the person or people who did this have done without demanding a single thing is make the most ordinary acts of the day. Buying groceries, filling the gas tank, waiting for a bus, walking a child into school, feel dangerous.

The public looks to authority for answers. The Montgomery County Police have some but not many. Chief Moose begins holding nightly press briefings. How many dead? Who were they and where? But the crucial questions, why and why them, cannot yet be answered. The chief reflects on this years later to the team behind real stories. The worst thing about the case was that all of the victims were chosen at random.

So consequently, everyone in the community felt like a potential target. The man behind the rifle becomes no. known as the sniper, and he haunts every shadow in and around D.C. Investigators, the public, and the media all make the same fundamental assumption that steers them down the wrong path from the start. Snipers typically work alone, out of practicality and generally personality. This sniper, they will eventually learn, is not one man, but two. And this is also not the first time they have killed together. Their story begins long before the Maryland parking lots on the other side of the country.

At the start of 2002, a 41-year-old army veteran named John Allen Muhammad lives in the suburbs of Tacoma, Washington. A Jamaican teenager named Leboid Malvo lives with him. Muhammad has spent nearly two decades in uniform becoming an expert marksman with the M-16 during his service in the army. Malvo has zero military experience. He is a slight 5-foot-5-17-year-old who speaks with a Caribbean accent. They regard and refer to each other as father and son, both directly and to anyone who asks. Muhammad met the boy in the Caribbean a few years ago, took him in when he had nobody. How exactly that happened is its own story, but that's for the next episode.

Muhammad has a nickname for the teenager, which only the two of them know. His little sniper. Malvo wears it proudly, even sporting a black t-shirt with the word sniper printed across the front. Muhammad trains Malvo to shoot a rifle in a friend's backyard. They use a Bushmaster XM-15, an AR-15 style rifle

chambered in 223. It's a semi-automatic civilian version of the M-16 that Muhammad used in the army. Muhammad walks the rifle out of a Tacoma gun store stolen. The store assumed it had been sold and did not realize for three months that the rifle was actually stolen. Muhammad and Malvo practiced firing round after round into a tree stump. That's actually where the killings start. Washington State, not near Washington, D.C., and we'll go through the names and the stories this week.

The shootings are scattered across different cities, different police departments, different case files. It is not until they reach the nation's capital that the crimes become so close and frequent that authorities are able to connect them. Before it is over, John Muhammad and Leboid Malvo will be tied to some 15 killings around the country. Ten of the dead will fall here in these three weeks around Washington, D.C. A year after 9-11, Americans are still on the lookout for terror. By the night of October 2, 2002, the next terror attack is already in motion. But it is not in the sky, and it is not in the mail. It is out on the road in an old sedan that nobody thinks to stop. Next time on MK Confidential, how the sniper duo came to be. Before he was one half of America's most

feared sniper team, how the man who became John Allen Muhammad lost his own children and and raised a lonely boy from Jamaica to be his little sniper.