MFM Minisode 509

Hello.

And welcome.

To my favorite murder. The mini-sode. That's right. We read you stories, you listen to them, and then maybe you write your own in for fun.

You know, it's like a casual agreement of content churning.

That you've never consented to. You want to go first?

Yeah. Okay.

My first one is called The Brazilian Boogeyman. Just starts. I was born and raised in Brasilia, Brazil's capital. I think I'm saying that right. I have a Brasilia story for you that has everything. A family massacre, a massive manhunt, the Brazilian wilderness, a guy who seemed to disappear into thin air, and because apparently we cannot have a Brazilian true crime story without some seasoning, rumors that he made a deal with the devil and was basically fucking magical. Wow.

In 2021, mid-COVID madness, the entire region was introduced to a man named Lazaro Barbosa. For about three weeks, it felt like the entire country was looking for him. In June 2021, Lizaru was accused of killing four members of a family at their rural property in an area about 40 minutes outside central Brasilia. He fled into the Sahado, the huge savanna-like wilderness surrounding Brasilia. The Sahado is dense scrub, tall grass, trees, rivers, rocky terrain... and enormous stretches of land where you can disappear if you know what you're doing.

And apparently, Lazarov knew exactly what he was doing. For 20 days, he stayed ahead of the police. More than 270 officers from different police and federal agencies were involved in the search. There were helicopters, drones, tracking dogs, roadblocks, and news crews following the whole thing. And somehow, this one guy kept getting away. He crossed rivers to throw off the dogs, moved between rural properties, stole cars, took people hostage, and allegedly committed additional crimes while he was on the run. Every time the police thought they had him surrounded, he disappeared again. And then something fascinating happened.

Lazarou stopped being just a dangerous fugitive. He became a legend. People in the area were terrified. and rumors started spreading that he had supernatural powers. Some people said he made a pact with the devils. Others claimed he could disappear into the woods, turn invisible, or somehow transform himself so police couldn't find him. Obviously, there was no evidence of any of this, but when you've got hundreds of police officers, helicopters, dogs, and drones looking for one guy, and he keeps disappearing into the Brazilian wilderness, reality starts to feel like folklore.

The media coverage was also insane. It became this bizarre national obsession. People were afraid to leave their homes. Rural families were locking themselves inside. Some people even left the area because they were so afraid he'd show up at their property. And then after 20 days, it finally ended. Lizarro was located in a city just outside Brasilia. He exchanged gunfire with police, was shot, and died. And just like that, the manhunt was over. The whole thing reminded me a little of Richard Ramirez, not because their crimes were the same, because they absolutely weren't, But because of what happened to the criminal's image, Richard Ramirez became almost mythical while he was still at large. The media turned

him into the Night Stalker and people became obsessed with where he was and when he would strike next. Lazaro became something similar in Brazil. He became bigger than the individual crimes. He became a boogeyman. And honestly, if you've ever been around Brasilia, you understand why the setting made this so terrifying. The Cejado is beautiful, but it's huge.

You can be relatively close to the city and suddenly feel like you're in the middle of nowhere. So the idea of someone dangerous disappearing into that landscape? Terrifying. Add Brazilian folklore, sensationalist television, social media, and three weeks of everyone asking, where the fuck is Lazaru? And suddenly you've got a true crime story that starts feeling like a campfire legend. Anyway, Brasilia says hi. SSDGM, Lorena. Like Lauren, but with a Latin rolled R and an A at the end. Lorena. Lorena. Lorena. Lorena.

Wow.

I know. I'd never heard of that.

Never heard of it. Also, sorry to say, never knew. Well, of course, never knew that Brasilia was the capital of Brazil.

No.

But then also that there was like this surrounding landscape.

Yeah.

That sounds amazing. Yeah. Oh, the insects, though.

Oh.

Oh, my God. And that really big Jesus. So big. Insects and Jesus everywhere. Insects and Jesus everywhere you look. Okay.

I think because of the international flavor of your first one, I'm going to use this one as my first one.

Okay.

The subject line of this email is, no sex, no raft, just a man and a rowboat. And it starts, Hello, gals, pals, and pets. I just listened to Karen's story about the sex raft, and your discussion about how terrifying the ocean is reminded me of a story from my home country. I'm from Finland, so apologies for any grammar mistakes. Please, you're writing an email in English. Could we do that in Finnish?

No, never. Oh, I could.

Well, sorry to speak for Georgia, but not even with Google Translate, could I? Then it says, We Finns are known for a little thing we call Sisu, which I've told you about that movie.

There's a movie called Sisu, S-I-S-U. Oh, yeah.

If you and Vince are ever bored, I tell you, it will be a rollicking romp that you will not regret watching.

Unbelievable movie.

And it's about this Finnish miner during World War II and the end of World War II. He's trying to stay away from the Nazis, that one. It's so good. But basically, you learn a little bit about what this person is about to start talking about in that movie. So it says, we Finns are known for a little something we call sisu, which basically means having an unreasonable amount of determination, grit, and resilience. And sometimes, apparently, using that determination to row across an entire fucking ocean. Enter Jari, a 53-year-old Finnish firefighter In 2023, Yari decided to row solo across the Atlantic Ocean in a rowboat. What? Because I guess running into burning buildings for a living wasn't enough excitement.

Oh, my God.

He rowed from the Canary Islands to Antigua. Then he made his way to Canada so he could row back across the Atlantic to Germany.

Oh, my God.

In total, he spent 178 days at sea. By the time he finished, he was malnourished and could barely stand upright because his body was... had gotten so used to being thrown around by ocean waves that walking on land was difficult. This made him a bit of a Finnish legend. So after finally recovering from spending nearly half a year alone in a rowboat, Jari had a very normal thought.

I should do that again. So in 2025, he set off on another solo expedition.

Jari, go to therapy. It's just words. You'll be fine. Like do a cold plunge, you know, every morning or something.

Eat some tinned fish and talk to another human being. So in 2025, he set off on another solo expedition, this time attempting to row from Cape Horn, Chile to Cape Town, South Africa. The trip was expected to take three to four months. And for 65 days, things were going relatively well until one Thursday night, his team back in Finland lost contact with him during a storm. Then a massive wave hit his boat and flipped the entire thing upside down. Thankfully, the boat was designed to flip back up by itself, which it did. Unfortunately, it also swallowed a massive amount of seawater. And that seawater got into the electrical system. And the electrical system, all caps, caught on fire. So just to recap. Yari is alone

in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean at night. His boat has flipped upside down, and now his rowboat is on fire. Pick a struggle, my guy. That's what it says. He managed to put out that fire, but his electrical system was destroyed. His boat went completely dark. He no longer could operate it properly, and his only satellite phone had about 10% battery left with no way to recharge it.

He managed to briefly contact his team in Finland, and they agreed... he would only turn the phone on once an hour to save the battery. Meanwhile, he was soaking wet, freezing, and getting dangerously close to hypothermia while his powerless little boat continued drifting farther away from the coordinates rescuers had been given. Eventually, he got word that a South African rescue boat was about two to three hours away, which is great, except it was the middle of the night, pitch black, and he was still drifting around the Atlantic Ocean. Finally, around 2.30 a.m., Yari saw the lights of the rescue boat.

They found him.

After being awake for nearly 48 hours, surviving a capsized boat, an electrical fire, freezing temperatures, and almost being lost in the Atlantic, Yari was finally pulled to safety. After thanking the South African crew for saving his life, he had one request.

A glass of whiskey. Honestly, fair. I would too.

Yari has since vowed that he will not attempt another ocean crossing, but he is Finnish and clearly has no interest in sitting still, so I personally would not put any money on that. Thanks for reading my story. Stay sexy and stay on dry land. Helena from Finland.

Guys.

Men.

I mean, dudes. Men, dudes. What's out there so bad?

What's out there that you think that's going to help you, that can't help you at your local library therapist's office, community gathering spot?

Okay, my next one's about cats. I'm not going to read you this subject, though. Hello, lovely ladies and fellow murderinos. About 25 years ago in Aberdeen, north of Scotland, I worked in an office from 9 to 5 and then in a bar from 6 to 11. Jesus. One evening while I was working behind the bar, my mom called to tell me that their cat, Sparky, affectionately known as Little Shit, had died. I was devastated. Sparky was a gorgeous, long-haired, black and white cat until he wasn't. He would rub his head against your hand until you gave him one pet too many, at which point he would attempt to remove your hand. with his furry flick knives. Hence, little shit.

He actually responded to little shit, which I found hilarious. I sat behind the bar and shed a little tear, desperately trying to hide my face so nobody would notice. Unfortunately, I didn't fool the regular customers who were very concerned because I really wasn't much of a crier back then. 25 years later and menopausal, I can confirm that things have changed considerably. Anyway, My mom told me they had found Sparky at the bottom of the garden. They assumed he had been knocked over or hit by a car because the main road running through the village ran alongside their house. We always had cats growing up, and whenever one died, my dad would bury them in the garden.

My parents, Mary and Alan, would then go to the garden center, C-E-N-T-R-E. Of course. And buy a rope to send to me. And by a rosebush to mark the grave. So my dad dug a hole, put Sparky directly into the earth, no blanket, no box, because apparently my dad had very firm views about feline funerals, and called my mom outside to say goodbye. She didn't want to go, but dad insisted. Come on, come and say goodbye to him.

So she went out into the garden. Sparky was curled up in the earth, and according to my mom, looked exactly like he was sleeping. She went back into the house, sat in the conservatory, crying, and pretended to read her book. Oh, someone's got a conservatory. Oh, I know. Pinky, yeah. Play the violin. Why not you? Dad told her he was going to have a shower, and then they could drive to the garden center and choose a rose for Sparky.

My mom was sitting in the conservatory when she heard Dad walk down the hallway, and then she heard, all caps, Jesus, Mary, Mother, and Fuck, followed by Mary, Mary. Oh, I wish I could hear her in the accent. I know what this is. Do you do? I think I do. Mom came running. She got to their bedroom, and there, lying on the bed, fast asleep, was Sparky. They just stared at him. Then they stared at each other. Then back at the cat. Eventually, my dad whispered, if that's Sparky, who's in the ground?

My mom called, Sparky. The cat opened his eyes, looked at her, had a stretch, and went back to sleep. Basically, his expression said, stop bothering me. I'm trying to sleep. At this point, my parents went running back into the garden and there still lying in the hole was the exact same cat. Identical. The same long black and white fur, same size, everything. What the actual fuck? Whose cat was this? God.

Is that what you thought it was?

Yes. Okay.

I thought the cat was going to come back to life. That was what I initially thought.

Yeah, like dig its way out of a hole. I kind of thought it would be covered in dirt. It looks like it was sleeping, right?

They started asking the neighbors if anyone knew of another black and white cat in the area, but nobody did. Unable to find the owner, my parents decided to continue with the burial. They went to the garden center, bought a beautiful rose, and planted it over the grave. Problem solved. Except two or three days later, there was a knock at the door. Standing there was a young couple from around the corner asking if my mom and dad had seen their missing black and white cat. My parents invited them in and explained the entire bizarre situation. Then they introduced them to Sparky. The couple took one look at him and immediately understood the confusion. But unfortunately, they wanted their cat back. So my dad had to go back

into the garden, all caps, dig the cat up again.

No.

And hand it back to them. Remember, dad didn't believe in burying animals in blankets or boxes. So this poor cat was pulled directly out of the earth. My dad handed the cat to its owners while trying to brush the soil off him. Apparently, the look on their faces was one of pure horror. No, I'm sorry. You don't get to have a look on your face. No. Leave the cat alone. I'd be happy that someone cared enough about a strange cat. Yes. And I'd come and look every year on the anniversary. And I'd go, I'd be like, that was so nice of you. Thank you.

And as I walk out the door, I pick up Sparky and just take him with us. I'll take this one instead.

Same diff. Meanwhile, back at the bar, it took me about 10 minutes to explain to everyone why I had gone from crying over the death of a beloved cat to absolutely pissing myself laughing. And honestly, I couldn't stop because the mental image of my dad calmly digging up somebody else's dead cat and then handing it back to them while sweeping the dirt off it still makes me giggle 25 years later. Sparky lived on completely unfazed by the whole experience and somewhere, presumably, another family had their own black and white little shit. SSD GM, Angie. That's a great story.

I mean, basically, same thing where we had this old cat and my mom drugged the cat. She got drugs from work and then drugged the cat because the cat had like seizures and all this weird shit and was clearly not okay. But my mom was very close to this cat because Laura and I had left at the same time. So she was like, That was her empty nest friend. And so she drugs the cat and she's crying, feels bad that she has to do it, but is putting the cat out.

Of her misery.

And the cat walks outside and goes in a circle and lays down and my mom cries and goes inside and has a moment. And then like an hour later, the cat jumps up on the fucking couch and as if nothing happened.

So she didn't kill the cat. She didn't kill it. She didn't give him.

It basically got enough drugs to kind of like take a long nap and be like drugged out on the lawn.

Your mom's just going through it the whole time. Fully mourning. Oh, my God. And the cat's like, what's up? Thanks for that. Can I get another hit? Yeah, for real. Oh, my God. Okay, here's my next one.

The subject line of this is corded phone catastrophe. So there's so many people. I have no idea what that would even could possibly mean. It says, hi, Karen in Georgia. It was 1993, around 3 p.m., when I got home from the burning hot hellscape that was my Southern California high school. I went straight to our yellow refrigerator. That's the one we had, mustard yellow. Grabbed a liter bottle of bright orange crush and poured myself a glass. Thirst quenched, I walked around the counter to make a phone call.

We had the typical late 70s ranch house with an oversized U-shaped countertop open to the family room on one side, so you could pull up a bunch of vinyl bar stools and never actually have to dine in your dining room. The phone was on the outside wall closest to the living room with a fairly long cord, just long enough that it could stretch across the kitchen. I dialed my friend and started talking about whatever we talked about at 15, and then in parentheses it says, probably boys and drugs, and began to pace around the kitchen. As I paced, I began to circle back around the counter and somehow smacked the liter bottle of closed orange-crushed off the counter, and onto the kitchen floor. You probably assumed this would

be no big deal since it was closed, but you would be wrong. In fact, it would have been better if I had left the cap off, which honestly is more like me. Instead, somehow, the plastic bottle cracked, but just enough in and around the right place so that the bottle spun around in circles on the floor while a jet stream of orange crush coated the ceiling, walls, cabinets, counters, appliances, and me.

Ugh.

I was in so much shock that my teenage brain didn't even entertain the thought of trying to pick up the bottle or put something on top of it to stop the spraying. There was not a crevice in that kitchen that was left untouched.

It's just, that's like a car accident, like a minor car accident. It's never going to be the same again.

Yes.

Like it's just a little fucked for the rest of its life. It's just always going to be sticky and a little orange crushy.

Yeah. I did the typical teenager thing and cleaned in quotations, but I don't think I got past the floor and countertops. Before my mom came home and I left to change out of my orange sprayed clothes. She was already on a ladder cleaning off the ceiling when I came back. And I snuck out of the house to avoid helping.

Clean up the rest. This is why. No kids. No children.

Ever.

Horrible things.

Because I was a teenager and teenagers can be pretty selfish assholes.

Yeah, you know what? That's self-awareness. I respect it. It's very true. Yeah, and it's true.

But also, I just love there's households where you just had the kind of mom that's up on the ladder like, oh, I'll be back for dinner. Do you know how you'd be destroyed emotionally, financially, and reputationally if you did something like that in our house?

Same. Janet, you think she'd fucking be cool with that? With you walking away? For one fucking... She'd say, I'm leaving to get a drink, and by the time I get back, this better be fucking cleaned up. For real.

Which is, she's not wrong. It's not wrong. Now the countdown is on. I wonder if that's why I'm so obsessed with games and stuff like that.

Oh. Let's do it before mom beats the shit out of me. Yeah, you have 15 minutes.

Okay. They go on to say, I now have two teenagers of my own, and although neither of them has managed to spray soda all over the house, which they.

Don't drink it anymore. Right. These young.

people, I'm always like, hey, you want a Diet Coke? And they're like, no, I'll have water. I'll have water from my bottle, please.

Okay. They want reverse osmosis water, please, with electrolytes. That's right.

So neither of them has managed to spray soda all over the house, but I do feel like my experience... helped me somewhat keep my cool when one of my sweet baby angels went to fill the bathtub and instead of waiting and watching it fill up, decided they had enough time to go play video games. No. I'm not sure how long the tub ran for, but it flooded the bathroom so bad that the water ran out of the bathroom onto our second story landing down the stairs and even through the bathroom floor. through the ceiling, or it dripped down into the dining room below. No.

That is structural damage and, like, mold toxicity.

Fuck. Luckily, our house was 106 years old, drafty, full of cracks, and built mostly out of redwood, so it dried out surprisingly well.

Oh, my God.

I mean.

I did, however, get to clean up that mess myself. What goes around comes around.

SSDGM and don't buy vinyl bar stools when you live in a hot climate, A.

Okay, here's what we need. I love this. Send us the fucked up thing that you did as a kid that made you think when your kid did something fucked up, you couldn't get that mad at them.

Yes.

Like the payback you got from your kid because of what you did to your parents.

Yes. Yes.

That's a great one. Okay. My favorite murder at Gmail. Send us the... And we'll call it grandma's revenge. I told you so. Speaking of, I have a grand... My last story is a grandma story.

Oh, nice.

Grandma Jackie Robinson story. Ooh. Hi, Karen and Georgia. My grandma lived in a small town in Wisconsin in the 40s and 50s. Jackie Robinson was playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers when she was in high school. In August 1952, just before her junior year, she heard that he would be playing a game in Chicago. Lucky for her, her best friend's dad worked for the railroad at the time and was able to help get the girls to Chicago via train ride to watch him play. After a long day of travel, the girls got to their seats in the stadium just as the teams were warming up. Grandma grabbed her camera, walked down the railing, yelled, Hi, Jackie!

And he turned and smiled at them.

Oh!

He held a throwing pose for her to be able to snap a photo of him. She said it was by far one of the best memories of her youth. I loved hearing her tell people this story with such youthful joy, like she was right back there in the stadium every time she told it. Coincidentally, my grandma's name was also Jackie. It was the perfect combination. After she passed away a few years ago, my uncle had the photo professionally retouched and printed on canvas. including a school photo of grandma and a copy of Jackie Robinson's rookie card for my mom. He titled the photo, Jackie by Jackie.

It says, see attached photo of the canvas and original, which I'll show you in a second. Grandma was notorious for writing on her photos, but there's something cozy about seeing her handwriting. Grandparents are such treasures slash treasures, and I hope you enjoyed this little story about mine. S-S-D-G-M, Renee.

And then it says, PS, shout out to my bestie, Kate, a day one listener who introduced me to MFM. We saw you in Chicago and watching you pull a hot dog out of your dress pocket and tossing it into the audience was one of the highlights of my life. Spoiler teaser, spoiler teaser for the upcoming show. You guys will know. And so let me show you this photos.

We'll put it on social media, but you can see him like posing like he's about to throw the ball. He's like, here, is this what you want? Aww. I know, isn't it cute? Yes. God, that's so funny.

It's like I was picturing the famous picture of him that's very close up. No, yeah. Grandma Jackie got like the full scene of them all warming up on the field.

Isn't it cute? It's so good.

I know.

Okay. You got one more? Yeah. I got one more for you.

And the subject line of this email, just to change the direction one more time, is toddler con woman.

Sick.

You asked for scam artist con stories, and my parents love to talk about how I was a toddler con woman. And then in parentheses, it says con girl, con child, question mark.

Okay.

So my dad was a lawyer with a small practice, and my mom was his office manager. She would bring me to work with her daily, since what was the boss.

Going to say?

My mom used to put baby me in one of those walkers that you can sit in and walk around in as.

It had wheels. Remember those? Little tippy toes?

I had free reign of not only the law office, but the whole building. For some reason, they'd open the door and let me wander around when I got home.

No. Just like down the stairs, out the door. Is it also like down the stairs?

The baby's like holding itself back, trying not to fall. But it's just like the things that I think you and I have such reservations about raising children. Yeah. It seems like most people have never cared about any of that.

You and I are the only people who have thought of these things. The people who are never having children are like, wait, maybe you shouldn't do that with children.

I don't know if you should let your toddler go door to door.

I don't know. What would I know? Okay. So it said.

Thankfully, all the other building tenants knew me, and I quickly learned that the other office employees would give me.

Candy or snacks. Yeah, they would.

I would go office to office making grabby hands at the various candy bowls, and everyone would give me a piece of candy. At some point, I think my mom told them to stop giving me candy because the supply dried up, but I was undeterred. My mom's favorite part of this story is that I would make my way to the building's vending machine on the first floor.

Her office was on the second. Jesus. She got down there. Take the elevator down or what?

I would wait by the elevators until someone was going down and ride along.

I'm sorry. If I saw a baby getting in an elevator with me. I would never stop screaming. I wouldn't be like, what floor? I would be like, get the fuck out of here. Punt that baby out of there.

I would have the strangest reaction. I'd think, um, you can't come in here.

No babies in the elevator. You don't go to this school. You can't sit with us. Okay. God, that's crazy.

I would then stand next to the vending machine and wait for a poor sap to walk by. When someone approached, I would tap on the vending machine, quiver my lip, and tears would fill my eyes.

I would say, Coca.

While tapping pathetically i guess people would fall for it because they would insert coins and buy me a coke yeah they often open the can for me which i would happily accept and toddle off what if.

You were high and that happened you're just like.

Did i hallucinate a baby yeah did i baby did i buy a baby a coke or am i the baby One time it was a client of my dad's, so he followed me as I went to the elevator. I rode up with him, and I accompanied him to the office. When he got into a meeting with my dad, he told him that he'd bought me a Coke, and my dad was very exasperated, as that day, it had been the third one that day that someone had got for me.

I don't know. Maybe supervise the fucking baby. Or just put a fucking note on the fucking vending machine if there's a baby trying to make you... Yeah, no Cokes for this baby. No Cokes for babies, please. How about you shut that baby into the conference room?

Right. That's a full round of mini racetrack for a baby.

Absolutely.

Of course, when I'd show back up at the office holding the can, they'd take it away from me.

I never cried.

I just shrugged it off and went back to con some other person out of a Coke.

And this is in bold.

Eventually, they put up a sign saying, don't buy the baby a Coke.

I wish I had a picture of that. That's so good. Don't buy the baby a Coke. Get her diet only. That's what they should have. Diet or nothing.

Because, you know, then you think about it where you're like, there's some babies that look older and they're toddlers, but you're like, oh, is that a four-year-old or whatever?

Right. Then there's some babies that look younger.

What if it looked like a six-month-old baby, but it's like, Coke?

So scary.

And then this is the next paragraph. After it says, don't buy the baby a Coke, it says, people still would, though. And then it said, now we're in the kind of questioning philosophical part of the email. Why was I left to wander an office building? Why was I left to wander an office building by myself? I guess it was the 90s. My con-toddler days are over, and I grew up to be a law-abiding citizen. Nowadays, my toddler hasn't had to perfect any sort of routine because my parents are her biggest suckers.

Yes.

The ultimate scam, which is the loosey-goosey parents in the 90s are now the greatest grandparents in the 2020s.

Oh, no.

Thanks for being a bright spot to my weeks. I listened a lot during my daughter's extended NICU stay as you brought me a lot of comfort.

Oh, so scary. Oh my God.

She has ridden in the car and we often listen together, though I screen episodes now beforehand and don't listen to the darker slash violent ones with her.

Thank you. That's good. Yes. Good parenting.

Look at you parenting out of nowhere. It says, when I start the car, I'll ask her, do you want music or talking? And oftentimes she says, talking. And if I put on a different podcast, she'll say, no, I want to listen to the ladies. Yes.

Tell her to leave a review. We need it. Ask her if she's interested in the fan cult. Yes, I love that. She wants to listen to the ladies. The baby likes us. I'm going to get that baby a Coke. Anyway, that's probably not a good idea either. Oh, well, sincerely, Katie. Katie. What was the baby's name? We don't know. The new baby. Hi, new baby. Hi, new baby. We love you.

Hi, baby old enough to be able to make requests on the car. Now the babies are calling the shots from the backseat.

That's right.

Before you were left to scam for cane sugar.

What a time. Send us your email, whatever it may be. My favorite word at Gmail, obviously, anything.

This was more like a hang with Katie, where Katie was just kind of like, hey, here's a memory I have from being a child.

And I loved it. One of the best.

Yeah.

We loved it. Good job. Good job, everyone. Thank you for listening. Thank you all kindly. And stay sexy. And don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Goodbye. Elvis, do you want a cookie? This has been an Exactly Right production. Our managing producer is Molly Smith. Our consulting producer is Kate Schellenbach. Our creative lead is Allison Agosti.

Our associate producer is Tessa Hughes and our editor is Aristotle Acevedo.

This episode was mixed by Liana Squalacci.

Email your hometowns to myfavoritemurder at gmail.com and follow the show on Instagram at myfavoritemurder.

Listen to My Favorite Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Or watch new episodes every week on Netflix. Search for My Favorite Murder, add us to your list, and hit the double thumbs up button. Goodbye.

MFM Minisode 509

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