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Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and how. Episode 228. I am your humble host, Tomas Roseland Weyborg Thule.
And tonight, I bring to you a true serial killer superstar. I went, dear listener, through my catalogue of killers, and to my surprise, I found that I had not covered this dark star. Well, it is time to remedy this. When we talk of serial killers, names that instantly pop up are Ted Bundy, Jack the Ripper, Edmund Kemper, and...
Joel Rifkin. That's right, none other than Joel the Ripper himself. A man so depraved, so devoid of humanity, that one can begin to question the nature of man when researching him and his acts. He is, perhaps, most famous for not just his many victims, at least nine, perhaps, as many as seventeen, or even more,
but for his eagerness to be interviewed. He talked at length of his crimes, and as such he comes across as somewhat of an East Coast version of Ed Kemper. Tonight we begin the tale of his life and crimes. Enjoy.
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Troopers Ruan and Spargeron, faces etched with the weariness of countless patrols, stared their squad car through the desolate expanse. A flicker of movement caught Ruan's eye. A rusted-out Mazda pickup, taillights black and dead, lumbering down the highway like a mechanical wraith.
They hit the cherries, a red scream in the pre-dawn quiet, but the truck kept going, a wild dog spooked by the approaching storm. The chase unfolded like a fever dream beneath the harsh, sodium glow of the streetlights. Sirens wailed, a chorus of mechanical howls echoing off the empty buildings, as more squad cars joined the pursuit, their flashing lights painting the asphalt a strobing red.
It was a ballet of violence, a predator and its prey locked in a deadly waltz at ninety miles an hour. The chase ended with a sickening crunch. The Mazda driver, cornered in a maze of deserted streets, slammed into a telephone pole at 3.36 a.m.,
He emerged from the wreckage, hands hanging limp at his sides, a mess of greasy hair, and a face obscured by a thick, white layer of noxema, a grotesque mask that would later send shivers down detectives' spines. His ID identified him as Joel Rifkin, 34, of East Meadow.
His explanation for the missing license plate was a flimsy lie, his eyes flickering with a manic fear that belied the supposed minor traffic stop. The answer to his panic lay rusting in the back of the truck. Drawn by a stench that hung heavy in the humid air, a trooper peeled back a blue tarp, revealing the source of the nightmare.
A woman's body, naked and already succumbing to the ravages of decomposition, lay sprawled in the bed. The smell of death, thick and cloying, was a physical presence in the pre-dawn darkness. Rifkin's bravado crumbled like cheap plaster. He mumbled a confession, flat and emotionless. A prostitute, picked up in the city. A struggle gone wrong.
He spoke of a lawyer, a formality in the face of the unspeakable horror before them. Booking was just the first act in a long grim play. Detectives swarmed Rifkin's house, a modest two-story dwelling nestled among the suburban sprawl. Inside, they found a shrine to his darkness, Rifkin's upstairs room a monument to depravity that defied comprehension.
Dozens of pieces of women's jewelry, glinting like accusing eyes under the harsh light. Photographs, snapshots of countless unsuspecting victims, their smiles frozen in horrifying innocence. A grotesque collection of women's belongings, each item a silent scream, a testament to a life extinguished.
A driver's license belonged to Mary DeLuca, found dead months earlier. Another to Jenny Soto, fished from the murky depths of the East River. Rifkin's reading material was a macabre mix. A tattered paperback detailing the exploits of the Green River Killer. News clippings chronicling the atrocities of Arthur Shawcross.
The stench hit them first in the cluttered garage. A wheelbarrow overflowed with the crimson tide, human blood, thick and viscous. A pair of women's panties lay discarded on the floor, a grotesque echo amongst the coils of rope and the rolled-up tarps.
A chainsaw, its metallic teeth glinting in the harsh light, stood upright against the wall, stained a rusty red with the remnants of its gristly work, human flesh. Neighbors, questioned later, spoke of strange odors emanating from the garage. They'd assumed it was insecticide, a tool of his landscaping business. A terrible misunderstanding.
A horrifying truth hidden in plain sight. It was the smell of death, and it would cling to Rifkin, a charnel-house stench that no amount of scrubbing could erase. Long after the source was gone, the memory of that night, heavy and suffocating, would linger in the nostrils of justice.
The stench would become a permanent fixture in the air, a constant reminder of the darkness that can fester beneath the most ordinary exteriors. But before we continue with the dark deeds done by Rifkin, let us wind back time. For in order to understand the man, we must look at his history.
Joel entered the world in the dead of winter, the 20th of January, 1959. A mewling thing deposited into the sterile chaos of a New York lying-in hospital. The product of a fleeting encounter, a chance coupling between a callow college boy and a girl barely out of her teens, neither of whom had the stomach for the consequences.
unwanted, an afterthought in the grand scheme of their separate lives. So, he was cast out, surrendered to the impersonal machinery of the state. Three weeks old, a bundle of whimpers and unknowing fear. He was deposited on the doorstep of another life. Benjamin Rifkin
A man weathered by years of quiet desperation, and his wife, Jean, a woman whose youthful dreams had curdled into a quiet suburban existence, took him in. Charity, perhaps, or a flicker of something deeper, a yearning for a fresh start lodged within their childless home.
three years later the echo of that yearning brought another child a girl this time a cooing girdling counterpoint to the growing boy east meadow long island a tidy sprawl of identical houses and manicured lawns a haven for those seeking refuge from the urban chaos
It would be his world for most of his life, a stage upon which the drama of his existence would unfold. The Rifkins, a decent, unassuming couple, raised their children with a quiet normalcy. No reports of raised voices or shattered dinnerware marred the facade of their suburban idyll. Money wasn't a big issue.
Benjamin's steady hand at his accounting job ensured a comfortable life, far removed from the gnawing anxieties of poverty. Yet within the boy a darkness bloomed, a seed taking root in the fertile soil of his isolation. From the moment he stepped through the schoolhouse doors, his life became a gauntlet of relentless torment.
Other children, with their cruel instincts honed to a razor's edge, sensed the difference in him. He was a solitary figure, an awkward frame cloaked in ill-fitting clothes, his oversized glasses magnifying the vulnerability in his eyes, an easy target, a canvas upon which they could scrawl their own brand of cruelty.
The taunts began, a relentless chorus that echoed in the sterile hallways and spilled out onto the playground. He became the repository for their collective malice, a punching bag for their inchoate rage. He retreated further into himself, a silent, observant creature, his loneliness a palpable weight that pressed down on him with each passing day.
School for young Rifkin was a brutal corollary to the world he'd entered. Though possessed of a mind that flickered with a certain brightness—an IQ that nudged one hundred and twenty-eight, they would tell him later—his thoughts were tangled, snagged on unseen barbs. Words on the page danced and blurred, their meaning lost in a fog he couldn't pierce.
A malady, they would eventually say. A twist in the wiring they couldn't quite mend. A learning disability. A fancy term for the frustration that gnawed at him. A constant reminder of his own inadequacy. But the true torment wasn't the frustration that simmered within. It was the cruelty that festered without. They called him Joel the Turtle.
a moniker born of malice and keen observation. His gait, an awkward lope, a posture that seemed to hunch him perpetually towards the ground, earned him their scorn. He was slow, an easy mark, a creature forever out of step with the pack. Sports, a world of camaraderie and competition, were a closed book to him. No team would have him,
their laughter echoing in the sterile locker rooms as they picked their sides leaving him a solitary figure adrift in a sea of jocks theirs wasn't mere teasing the barbs not flung with the careless cruelty of children it was a relentless assault a campaign waged with a cold and calculating brutality
He had done nothing to earn their ire, no transgression that sparked their malice. He was simply there, an easy target, a canvas upon which they could scrawl their own brand of darkness. Prags, born of a twisted imagination, became a daily ritual, his books and lunch a constant casualty of their sadism.
The taunts, a relentless chorus that echoed in the sterile hallways, morphed into something more physical. Shoves that sent him sprawling. A fist connecting with soft flesh. He became a creature of fear. The school a labyrinth of potential threats. The haven of his home offered scrant solace. The outside world, the supposed sanctuary of his neighborhood, held its own terrors.
He couldn't step outside without a specter of attack looming large. A verbal jab, a shove that sent him sprawling into the dirt. His world, once vast and full of possibility, shrunk to the confines of his own room. The only place where the torment ceased, if only for a fleeting moment.
East Meadow High, a monument to adolescent cruelty disguised in a veneer of red brick and manicured lawns, became Rifkin's new purgatory. His grades, already a source of simmering tension within the Rifkin household, plummeted fast.
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Visit betterhelp.com slash serialkiller today to get 10% off your first month. That's betterhelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash serialkiller. His father, a man burdened by the weight of unfulfilled dreams, saw his son's struggles as a personal affront, his voice a rasp of disappointment echoing through the sterile living room.
why can't you do anything right joel the words hung heavy in the air constant reminder of his perceived inadequacies his mother jeanne a woman adrift in a sea of suburban ennui remained oblivious to the storm raging within her son she saw only a quiet introverted boy content with his solitude a stark contrast to the boisterous laughter of his peers
Rivkin, already a target, became a beacon in the sea of adolescent malice. His very appearance, an unwitting caricature of the nerd archetype, high water pants revealing too much white sock, oversized glasses magnifying the fear in his eyes, screamed vulnerability.
one tormentor years later would refer to him as an abuse unit a creature whose mere presence seemed to inspire cruelty he yearned for acceptance a flicker of camaraderie in the desolate landscape of his high school existence
He joined the track team, a desperate attempt to forge a connection, only to be met with a new epithet, Lardass, a cruel reminder of his physical awkwardness. His head was repeatedly shoved into toilets, a daily ritual of humiliation, his clothes a constant casualty of their sadism.
But Rivkin, with a naivete born of desperation, clung to the hope of redemption. He tried a different tactic, appeasement. He invited his tormentors into his own home, offering beer and the flickering glow of the television as a peace offering. They came, of course, not for companionship, but for the sheer amusement of witnessing his pathetic attempts at inclusion.
The camera, entrusted to him for the yearbook staff, vanished, another casualty in their relentless campaign. Yet he persisted, fueled by a delusional optimism. He slaved over the yearbook, a monument to a life he desperately craved, only to be excluded from the celebratory gathering that marked its completion.
graduation in nineteen seventy seven arrived as a bittersweet release he emerged from the halls of east meadow high clutching a diploma that held the weight of a thousand humiliations yet harboring a fragile hope college
A fresh start, a chance to reinvent himself, to shed the skin of Jol the Turtle and emerge, at last, as someone worthy of acceptance. It was a hope, however, that would soon be dashed upon the unforgiving rocks of reality. Rivkin dreamt of girls, the way a starving man craved a banquet.
He yearned for whispered secrets, stolen glances across the crowded cafeteria, the shy fumbling for a hand in the flickering light of a movie theater. But the bullies, those ever-present shadows, cast a long and grotesque leer over his attempts. His first foray into the perilous landscape of dating was a clumsy, egg-splattered disaster.
A girl, her name lost to the fog of memory, had agreed to a movie, a flickering escape into the world of on-screen romance. But the track team, those sadistic jerks who thrived on the misery of others, had other plans. They trapped him in the echoing gym, the stale air thick with the scent of sweat and humiliation.
Eggs, a barrage of yolk and white, rained down on him, the stench clinging to his clothes like a second skin. He fled, tears blurring his vision, a whimpering mess who had to call his father to extract him from his self-inflicted purgatory. The second attempt wasn't much better. This time, a tentative spark had ignited, a shy smile exchanged in the hallway.
they snuck out a stolen moment under the cloak of twilight their destination a greasy spoon-pizza parlor on the edge of town but the specter of his tormentors loomed large spotted through the grimy window they became the harbingers of another humiliation a chase unfolded a desperate scramble down littered streets laughter echoing in their wake they found refuge
in the hushed embrace of the local library the scent of old paper and forgotten stories a temporary balm to his wounded pride but the damage was done the date understandably shaken retreated leaving rifkin alone with the ghosts of his shattered dreams
By the time he reached Nassau Community College, a squat, uninspiring building on Long Island, romance was a distant, almost mythical concept. College life, as depicted in movies and television, held the promise of liberation, a chance to reinvent himself. But
The reality was a monotonous blur of lectures and textbooks. He found himself drawn to the familiar comfort of his room, skipping classes with an alarming regularity. The spark of curiosity, once a flickering ember within him, had been snuffed out by the relentless cruelty of his high school years. By the end of the first year, the weight of missed classes and unlearned material bore down on him.
He had managed to scrape through a single course, a solitary accomplishment, dwarfed by the vast emptiness of his academic record. He was adrift, a rudderless ship in a sea of indifference, and the future stretched before him, a desolate landscape devoid of hope. Rifkin, adrift in the post-adolescent doldrums, decided that change of scenery was in order.
Fall of 1978 found him matriculating at SUNY Brockport, a beige-brick outpost perched on the fringes of Rochester. Here, amidst the burgeoning flock of premeds and aspiring social workers, bloomed a fledgling photography club. Rifkin, ever the social wallflower, found himself drawn to the click and vur of developing cameras.
A world of controlled chaos, far removed from the emotional maelstrom of his own life. And then, a breakthrough. A girl, a name lost to the annals of time, saw something beneath the surface of Rifkin's perpetual melancholia. A flicker of something artistic. Sensitive. Depressive, for sure. The girl confided in her friends, but undeniably sweet.
Alas, the bloom quickly wilted. Rivkin, a man perpetually shrouded in a fog of self-doubt, couldn't sustain the charade. The darkness, a constant companion, cast a long shadow, chilling the nascent romance. Sweet, she would sigh, the word dripping with a honeyed sympathy that only amplified his sense of inadequacy, but so sad all the time.
The words echoed in the cavernous halls of his psyche, a stark reminder of the war raging within. Academics, once a flickering ember of ambition, sputtered and died. Textbooks became mausoleums of unopened knowledge. Lectures, a monotonous drone that failed to pierce the fog of his despair. He drifted through his days like a ghost haunting the eyewit halls.
His attendance spotty at best. The dream of a degree, a passport to a brighter future, dissolved into dust. By 1980, defeat clung to him like a rumpled polyester leisure suit. He slunk back to the familiar, albeit suffocating embrace of his parents' suburban split-level.
Nassau Community College, a monument to his past failures, beckoned once more. This time, however, the charade proved even more unsustainable. The graveyard of skipped classes grew into a sprawling necropolis. Apathy, a thick suffocating fog, choked any remaining vestiges of academic ambition. 1984 saw the inevitable curtain fall.
He left Nassau, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Another unfulfilled promise clinging to his back like a shadow. The world of work offered no solace. Jobs, a kaleidoscope of menial tasks, stocking shelves at Kmart, flipping burgers at Wendy's, came and went with alarming regularity.
He was a spectre of unreliability, his personal hygiene a testament to the inner turmoil. The simplest tasks seemed to confound him, leading one exasperated manager to mutter under his breath that Rifkin couldn't count change to save his life. Dreams, however, flickered stubbornly in the recesses of his mind.
he yearned to be a bard a weaver of words that would capture the essence of the human condition a chronicler of the urban wasteland he envisioned himself as a writer of renault his name etched in the pantheon of literary giants
But the stories that flowed from his pen, like ink bleeding from a festering wound, were dark and disturbing, reflections of the abyss that yawned within him. And, of course, with him having severe dyslexia, the pages were filled with errors, and he barely managed to string two sentences together that made sense.
Horticulture and photography, one's passions that offered a glimmer of light, remained unfulfilled. The vibrant world of flora and fauna, the ability to capture fleeting moments in time, these were skills that eluded him, forever out of reach. His life became a nomadic existence, punctuated by returns to the haven, or perhaps the prison,
of his parents' home. Each failed job, each broken promise, chipped away at his already fragile spirits. Then, in 1986, a cruel blow. Benjamin Rifkin, his father, a man already burdened by emphysema, received a diagnosis that sent a fresh wave of despair crashing over the household: prostate cancer. The once vibrant man
became a wraith, consumed by chronic pain. In February 1987, Benjamin made a chilling decision. He chose to end his suffering, overdosing on barbiturates. He lingered in a coma for four days before passing away. At the funeral, Rifkin delivered a eulogy that brought tears to Mourner's eyes. But the eulogy wasn't just for his father.
it was a lament for a life half lived a future filled with uncertainty and a darkness that threatened to consume him whole fall arrived crisp and brittle rifkin adrift on a sea of his own anxieties found himself deposited on the sterile shores of the state college of technology
Horticulture, the cultivation of life from the dead earth, held a morbid fascination for him. He enrolled in a two-year program, a desperate grasp for something tangible, something that might bloom in the wasteland of his existence.
and bloomy did for a time he surprised even himself with a fierce dedication the books yielding their secrets with a grudging respect straight a's stark black marks on a white page a testament to a flicker of unexpected discipline
This, in turn, led him to an internship at Planting Fields, a sprawling arbor region nestled amongst the monied enclaves of Oyster Bay. An honor, they had called it. Rifkin, for once, felt a sliver of something akin to pride pierce the calloused shell of his self-loathing.
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As dawn broke over the seven seas, the pirates of the Crimson Galleon set sail for adventure.
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a girl hair the color of bleached wheat a smile that could coax a bloom from the most barren stone he was drawn to her with the thirst of a man who has just crossed the sahara he would follow her a shadow in her wake his gaze a silent plea for recognition
dates, the very word of foreign concept remained a whispered fantasy in the labyrinthine corridors of his mind. He convinced himself of a clandestine affair, a romance blooming in the fertile soil of his delusions. But reality, a harsh mistress, shattered his fragile construct. Her indifference, a palpable weight in the air, drove him to the precipice.
Frustration, a venomous serpent coiling around his insides, reached a fever pitch. The fragile façade he had constructed crumbled, leaving him exposed and raw. A creature teetering on the brink. The seeds of violence, long dormant, began to sprout in the fertile darkness within.
And with that, we come to the end of part one in the saga of Joel the Ripper Rifkin. Next episode I will bring to you part two. So, as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned.
