Chapters
Shownotes Transcript
Just like tech creators want us to.
We all belong outside. We're drawn to nature, whether it's the recorded sounds of the ocean we doze off to or the succulents that adorn our homes. Nature makes all of our lives, well, better. Despite all this, we often go about our busy lives removed from it.
But the outdoors is closer than we realize. With AllTrails, you can discover trails nearby and explore confidently with offline maps and on-trail navigation. Download the free app today and make the most of your summer with AllTrails. Hey, Prime members. Are you tired of ads interfering with your favorite podcasts? Good news. With Amazon Music, you have access to the largest catalog of ad-free top podcasts.
♪♪
Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and how. Episode 225. I am your humble host, Thomas Rosland Weybergthu. And tonight we continue the tale of the killer cop, Gerard John Schaefer. A point of clarification.
The title of this series is "John Gerard Schaefer". When researching him, many sources list his name in that order. But upon closer study, the correct order is "Gerard John Schaefer", which to me sounds more cumbersome to say.
It's also not easy to ascertain how he preferred to be called. Some sources list "John", others "Gerard", and others again simply "GJ". To avoid confusion, I have changed the title to reflect the correct spelling. Last episode we explored Schaefer's childhood up until young adulthood. His veneer of respectability was beginning to crack,
showing itself first with his morbid fascination with defecation and capital punishment. Tonight we explore further how the once strapping young jock turned into a flabby killer cop. Enjoy.
This episode, like all other sagas told by me, would not be possible without my loyal Patreones. They are...
You are truly the backbone of the Serial Killer podcast. And without you, there would be no show. Thank you.
I am forever grateful for my elite TSK Producers Club, and I want to show you that your patronage is not given in vain. All TSK episodes will be available 100% ad-free to my TSK Producers Club on patreon.com slash the serial killer podcast. No generic ads, no ad reads, no jingles. I promise.
And of course, if you wish to donate $15 a month, that's only $7.50 per episode, you are more than welcome to join the ranks of the TSK Producers Club too. So don't miss out and join now. Wilton Manor PD took a gamble on Gerard Schaefer Jr. One year after a cursory application process, the ex-security guard found himself a rookie cop.
It wasn't like Schaefer oozed qualifications, but recruits were hard to come by, and the department could not afford to be picky. September 1971 saw him shuffled into Broward County's Police Academy, a chance for a fresh start. Schaefer, ever the charmer, seized the opportunity. The badge gleamed, a symbol of a new life.
It was enough to snag Teresa Dean, a cashier at Econoway. She couldn't help but be drawn to the imposing figure in his uniform, a beacon of stability amidst the counterculture storm. Six foot one, two hundred and five pounds, Schaefer couldn't blend into the background. Teresa, petite and mousy, found herself dwarfed by his presence.
Yet a spark ignited. His ruggedness. Her gentleness. An unlikely pairing, perhaps, but opposites attract. Schaefer wasn't a shining star. Average build. Average looks. Average ambition at best. But compared to the shaggy-haired, reefer-smoking hippies of the era, he was a fortress. To Teresa, he was security personified. A real man.
who knew what he wanted. Landing the police gig solidified his image. He popped the question, and a starry-eyed Teresa said yes. September 1971. The wedding bells chimed. Like all newlyweds, they waltz in a blissful haze, a future painted in sunshine. Police Academy kept Schaefer busy, leaving little time for Teresa.
but stolen weekends were spent chasing idyllic sunsets in south florida sanibel and captiva beckoned with pelicans diving for dinner and the faint strains of music wafting from the bubble room white sand cooled beneath their bare feet a fleeting moment before the harsh reality of work school
and the secrets Gerard John Schaeffer, Jr. so desperately tried to bury. Teresa regularly starched, pressed, and ironed her husband's workload. Her hands, sure and practiced, sculpted the uniform into a carapace of respectability. The city shield, a blind eye sewn tight. A wife's work, this. A silent prayer, pressed into every crease.
then the badge cold metal in her palm the weight of its expectation heavy polished to a cruel gleam a promise etched in silver a shield they thought a symbol writ large but teresa in her unknowing held a darker truth this was no mere shield it was a lure a glint in the dark a promise of safety that snared the unwary
A gun might keep its distance, a cold threat in the open, but the badge, ah, the badge was a wolf in sheep's clothing. It whispered trust, a shield held by a shepherd, and men, like sheep, were easily led. This knowledge, though, lay dormant in Teresa's heart, a seed yet to sprout. In her eyes, the badge remained a borrowed glory, a reflection of the good man she believed her husband to be.
But the truth, like a rust stain, would creep in, and the polished surface would reveal the monster it hid. The sun, a greasy smear on the horizon, bled heat into the Florida air. Labor Day hangover clung thick to Fort Lauderdale, a sickly sweet scent of suntan lotion and regret.
tourists like migrating birds were on the move again drawn by the siren song of cheap thrills and lukewarm water shopkeepers bleary-eyed from a summer of sluggish business stirred
dusting off their wares for the coming onslaught. Kids, shorn of summer freedom, were back in the sterile cages of schools. Traffic, a sluggish beast, began to stir, its metallic roar a counterpoint to the ceaseless murmur of the ocean polishing the city's golden coast. Life, on the surface, remained stubbornly normal.
No panic. That frantic dance of fear that gripped cities in the throes of a crisis choked the air. No crisis, they thought. No Son of Sam leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. No whispers of a stranger tightening his grip on a city's throat. This was the problem.
Papers remained free of the lurid tales, the grotesque details that usually heralded the arrival of a monster. No flickering TV screens, no twenty-four-hour news cycle addicted to the macabre. The Internet, a double-edged sword yet to be forged, kept information locked in tight compartments.
Investigations, if any, were conducted in hushed tones. A chief of police with a furrowed brow, a far cry from the media darling of future years. No city officials wowing to bring a faceless killer to justice. No nightly pronouncements assuring a terrified populace. There were no warnings, only a growing list of the missing.
From the late sixties, a slow, steady drip that turned into a torrent by 1972. Men, a smattering, but mostly women. Young, barely out of their teens, some mere children, vanished without a trace. Not entirely ignored, mind you. The Fort Lauderdale PD, along with their neighbors in the patchwork kilts of towns and counties, conducted searches.
eyes scanning the undergrowth for any sign, any clue. Even the sheriff's department and local police forces took their turns chasing ghosts. But as Schaefer, with his practiced cynicism, would mutter under his breath, nobody, no crime. And the rain laid a heart of the darkness. Many were already dead, their absences a chilling premonition of the horror to come.
Many more remained lost, their secrets buried with them. A testament to a crime so bizarre, so depraved, it would etch itself into the annals of American infamy. Missing persons, they weren't headline news. Not unless they either came from money or had a famous name. For the most part, they remained a footnote in the local rag.
tucked away between furniture sales and discount tirades. Imagine, if you will, dear listener, the fluorescent lights of the Adult Education Center on South Federal Highway as it cast a sterile glow on the mismatched assembly. Some, like Susan Place, clutched the dream of a diploma, a second chance.
Others, hollow-eyed and restless, sought the phantom promise of upward mobility. Then there were those like Gerard John Schaefer, who drifted through the periphery, drawn not by knowledge, but by a hunger far more primal. The initial connection was as mundane as it was chilling, a stolen glance across the crowded classroom.
a flicker of recognition in eyes that held a chilling emptiness susan with her cerulean gaze and a halo of blond hair was an anomaly in this world of shadows her slight frame marred by the legacy of a difficult birth held a fragility that resonated with schaefer's darkness for susan it was a chance encounter a flicker of human connection in a lonely existence
For Schaefer, it was the scent of prey, a vulnerability he could exploit. There was no grand seduction, no elaborate manipulation, just the practiced ease of a predator who knew exactly how to disarm his target. Susan's past, a tapestry woven with loneliness and veiled disability, offered a vulnerability Schaefer could exploit with practiced ease.
Her friends, a small loyal circle, held no barriers against a wolf in sheep's clothing. The darkness that resided in Schaefer was a master of disguise, a chilling absence where empathy should reside. This was not Schaefer's first descent into the abyss. He carried within him the weight of past sins, a chilling calculus that measured opportunity against risk.
Yet, in Susan's vulnerability, he saw a terrifying absence of risk. A perfect victim for the depravity that simmered beneath the surface. The details of their initial interactions remained shrouded in the fog of memory. Perhaps a shared cigarette break, a feigned interest in her studies.
Whatever the catalyst, Schaefer had woven his web, and for Susan Place, the casual meeting at the Adult Education Center was the first chilling step towards a monstrous fate. Georgia Jessop was extremely empathetic and caring. Her spirit, a porous vessel that absorbed the world's woes. Her mother, a woman soon to be draped in the suffocating cloak of grief,
would later describe her to reporters as a girl who saw the world as an oyster and a rotten one at that. The Vietnam conflict, a festering wound on the national psyche, gnawed at her. In a way, Georgia mirrored the era's counterculture spirit, a nascent flower child in ill-fitting floral blouses and jeans haphazardly adorned with leather and cloth patches.
Like many who drifted the sun-drenched Fort Lauderdale Strip, Georgia adopted a moniker, Christo. The name, a street term for narcotics, was a cruel irony, considering her aversion to hard drugs. While marijuana smoke lingered on the breeze, Georgia's indulgence was more a product of peer pressure than any personal vice.
It was her effervescence, the sparkle in her eyes, that was the true origin of the nickname.
Hey Prime members, are you tired of ads interfering with your favorite podcasts? Good news! With Amazon Music, you have access to the largest catalog of ad-free top podcasts, included with your Prime membership. To start listening, download the Amazon Music app for free, or go to amazon.com slash ad-free podcasts. That's amazon.com slash ad-free podcasts to catch up on the latest episodes without the ads.
Millions of people have lost weight with personalized plans from Noom. Like Evan, who can't stand salads and still lost 50 pounds. Salads generally for most people are the easy button, right? For me, that wasn't an option. I never really was a salad guy. That's just not who I am. But Noom worked for me. Get your personalized plan today at Noom.com. Real Noom user compensated to provide their story. In four weeks, the typical Noom user can expect to lose one to two pounds per week. Individual results may vary.
This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. As a family man with three kids, I know firsthand how extremely difficult it is to make time for self-care. But it's good to have some things that are non-negotiable. For some, that could be a night out with the boys, chugging beers and having a laugh. For others, it might be an eating night.
For me, one non-negotiable activity is researching psychopathic serial killers and making this podcast. Even when we know what makes us happy, it's often near impossible to make time for it. But when you feel like you have no time for yourself, non-negotiables like therapy are more important than ever.
If you're thinking of starting therapy, give BetterHelp a try. It's entirely online, designed to be convenient, flexible, and suited to your schedule. Everyone needs someone to talk to, even psychopaths, even your humble host. Never skip therapy day with BetterHelp.
Visit BetterHelp.com slash Serial Killer today to get 10% off your first month. That's BetterHelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash Serial Killer.
Sixteen, but with a woman's physique that turned heads at school, Georgia wasn't lacking in male admirers. Yet she possessed a keen awareness of propriety, keeping them at safe distance while basking in their attention. Her thick brown hair, streaked with auburn highlights, would bounce in rhythm with her boundless energy as she charged out the door, eager to devour the day.
Her mother, blinded by love, so arose in bloom. Georgia, even as a child, possessed an openness, a naive trust in the inherent goodness of others, a characteristic that would ultimately prove to be her doing.
In the sterile, fluorescent purgatory of the Adult Education Center, Georgia Jessop sat, a B-minus enigma amidst a cast of GED hopefuls. School, a regimented world of detentions and pep rallies, had failed to hold her interest. Her father, George, blamed their constant relocations for this lack of school success.
The Jessop divorce, though amicable on the surface, had left a fissure in the foundation of Georgia's life. George and Shirley, her mother, maintained a facade of civility, dropping by each other's apartments for casserole dinners and strained conversations. Georgia, for all her teenage bravado, craved a stability the Place family, their next-door neighbors, seemed to possess.
But Georgia, a wisp of rebellion in a too-short skirt, bristled at any semblance of control. Independence, that pernicious teenage affliction, bloomed particularly vibrant in the freewheeling seventies. Dreams of a free spirit warred with the realities of a life on half allowance. Reprimands, like stale bread, were unnecessary evil.
Hitchhiking, a spectre that haunted both George and Shirley, was a siren song Georgia could not resist. With both parents tethered to demanding jobs, parental control existed in stolen moments, a flickering neon sign in the ever-present twilight of their fractured family. Georgia's teenage rebellion escalated from late nights to disappearing acts.
Unlike some parents who resorted to the blunt instrument of corporal punishment, George and Shirley Jessop opted for a more modern approach: restriction. Grounding Georgia, they believed, would be a more effective deterrent than a belt buckle. But the strategy backfired. Georgia, fueled by a simmering resentment, became a ghost in her own home, vanishing for days at a time. Each disappearance left her mother a nervous wreck.
only to be soothed by a collect call from an unknown location. The Jessops prided themselves on open communication, but a dark secret festered beneath the surface. Georgia had fallen under the sway of a smooth-talking predator named Jerry Shepard. Shepard, a 26-year-old imposter whose real name was Gerard John Schaefer,
was a master manipulator he met georgia and her friend susan place at the adult education center preying on their vulnerabilities shepherd spun a web of elaborate lies
He claimed to be a worldly adventurer from Colorado, a student at the University of Colorado when not traversing the wilderness. Tall, well-traveled, and seemingly cultured, he was everything the girls craved, a stark contrast to the immature boys they encountered and the limitations of their own lives. Shepard, a chameleon by nature, never lingered long,
He dangled a tempting escape route, a trip to Mexico, a chance to shed their mundane realities. Susan, burdened by societal prejudice, yearned for a break, but worried about hurting her parents. Georgia, already grounded for a previous runaway stint, hesitated. Shepard, ever the calculated predator, even visited the Jessop home.
posing as someone searching for a crystal, he quickly corrected himself to Georgia upon seeing Georgia's suspicion. Shirley, present but unable to get a clear look, noted his imposing stature. The girls, initially hesitant, found themselves drawn to the allure of the unknown.
Shepard wasn't forceful, but his calm, persuasive voice and tales of exotic adventures chipped away at their resistance. His worldly experience, his apparent open-mindedness, these were qualities they desperately craved. He offered the illusion of someone to admire, someone who had seen it all.
Susan remained unconvinced, but Georgia's defiance escalated. The seeds of their tragic fate were being sown, disguised by the charm of a cunning conman. The 27th of September, 1972. A date etched in blood on the Florida calendar.
Georgia Jessop, a wisp of a girl with dreams far exceeding her sixteen years, vanished from her home. No struggle, no screams, just a blue suitcase packed with aspirations, her own clothes, a few pilfered treasures from her mother's closet, and a younger sister's forgotten dress, a silent plea for a peace of childhood amidst the coming storm.
Her departure was a macabre masquerade, jeans adorned with cartoon patches, an owl, the road-runner, a desperate attempt at youthful nonchalance. But the truth clung to her like the borrowed blue and white-striped blouse, a garment several sizes too large for her frame.
The spiked heels, a jarring counterpoint to the childish patches, a pathetic attempt to lengthen her shadow, to appear older, more desirable to the man who awaited her. The manipulator, Shepard, his motives as dark as the Florida swampland, needed no brute force. Georgia, a moth to a flickering flame, was easy prey.
her yearning for freedom untainted by judgment a siren song he readily play vulnerable too was susan place burdened by a world that offered little solace the promise of escape however fleeting was a balm for her wounded spirit this time
No desperate midnight flights, no tearful apologies. Susan, nearing the precipice of adulthood, planned a different kind of departure. A respectful goodbye, a whisper of a journey west, a celebration of independence on her approaching eighteenth birthday. A birthday she would never see.
In the sterile efficiency of a motel room, Gerard John Schaefer, alias Jerry Shepard, performed a ritual more akin to a serial killer preparing for the hunt than a man setting out on a date. Dressed with a predatory preening, he flitted between the mirror and his closet door, a silent scream trapped within him.
The ghost of his uniform, a symbol of the authority he so craved, hung heavy in the air. A bitter pang of longing twisted his gut. He was a man adrift, the power he craved stripped bare. But a dark satisfaction curdled within him. The uniform wasn't the man, irrationalized, pulling on a pair of straining tan slacks and a garish plaid shirt.
His reflection leered back, a fading echo of authority masked by a cheap fishing hat. No, the uniform was a crutch. He, Gerard slash Jerry, was the law.
a self-appointed arbiter of a twisted morality. Society, a festering wound, needed cleansing. He, the scalpel, would excise the wicked, especially those immoral women. Tonight's mission, a rendezvous with two vulnerable girls, was a twisted act of mercy, a brutal education in the harsh realities of his brand of law and order.
The miles stretched before him, a desolate canvas upon which he would paint his warped sense of justice. At twenty-six, his face, though clean-shaven, was etched with a darkness that belied his casual demeanor. His eyes, like murky pools, flickered with a predatory glint, reflecting the warped colors of his twisted ideology.
With practiced ease, he stowed his instruments of justice and the trunk of his beat-up Datsun. A final kiss to his unsuspecting wife, a chilling echo of normalcy before the storm. These girls, he would show them the error of their ways. They would learn his brand of obedience, his twisted definition of morality.
They would learn, even if it meant their demise. The Florida sun, a merciless tyrant, beat down on Henderson Holly. Sweat beaded on his brow, mirroring the condensation clinging to his cold beer can. He wasn't collecting aluminum for the ecological brownie points. It was recession survival.
Each flattened can a chinking promise of a few meager dollars. The air, thick with the decaying tang of the sea, held a different kind of weight today. It pressed down on Holly's chest, a premonition clawing at the edges of his consciousness. He waddled deeper into the undergrowth, his weathered face obscured by the dappled sunlight flickering through the leaves.
The sandy earth, a grotesque marriage of sea-spray and crushed fossils, yielded little in the way of his aluminum bounty. Frustration gnawed at him, a bitter counterpoint to the oppressive heat. As he strayed further from the dirt road, a flash of blue and white caught his eye. A bush beer can, he thought, relief washing over him momentarily. But this can wouldn't be added to his meager collection.
It was clothing, discarded, carelessly strewn about like the remnants of some macabre picnic. Intrigue piqued suspicion. A black high heel, a soiled white panty, a pink blouse, the castaways of an unsettling narrative. These weren't the careless discards of teenagers. A chilling sense of wrongness wormed its way into Holly's gut.
The clothes were stained, not with spilled beer, but with something far more sinister. Brown flies buzzed around the damp outline where the garments had pressed into the earth, a gruesome testament to what had transpired here. A gaping hole in the ground, freshly disturbed, spoke of a crude burial, perhaps interrupted. The stench, acrid and clawing, intensified.
Holly scoffed, attributing it to the nearby nuclear plant, a convenient scapegoat for the creeping dread that coiled in his stomach. He swatted away a swarm of mosquitoes and flies, his gaze drawn to the base of a gnarled tree. Something was off, an unnatural arrangement of branches. As he approached, a primal fear prickled his skin.
The sight that greeted him was a monstrous tableau, enough to curdle his blood and turn his stomach sour. A human torso, bent forward and twisted back around, as if the spine had been smashed or severed, was bound to the tree trunk. The head, a terrifying absence, fueled the growing horror.
Scars marred the tree trunk near the clawing hands, a silent testament to a desperate struggle for freedom. One arm was missing, the remaining hand still bound with a cruel reminder, a knotted rope. Holly stumbled back, nausea rising in his throat. He tried to call out to his son, but his voice was a strangled gasp trapped in his chest.
his eyes darted around searching for escape for anything but this macabre scene a glint of metal caught his eye in the shallow grave a hand protruded clutching a piece of clothing panic surged through him he was in a monstrous necropolis each footstep a potential desecration
Hi, this is Jonathan Fields, host of The Good Life Project, where each week I talk to listeners about investing in their future by increasing their own vitality. But when it comes to those financial goals, whether it be saving for a home renovation, growing your child's college fund or travel, life can make it difficult to stay the course. By working with a dedicated Merrill advisor, you get a personalized plan and a clear path forward. Having the bull at your back helps your whole financial life move with you. So when your plans change, Merrill's with you every step of the way.
Go to ml.com slash bullish to learn more. Merrill, a Bank of America company. What would you like the power to do? Investing involves risk. Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith, Inc., registered broker-dealer, registered investment advisor, member SIPC. Need new glasses or want a fresh new style? Warby Parker has you covered. Glasses start at just $95, including anti-reflective, scratch-resistant prescription lenses that block 100% of UV rays.
As dawn broke over the seven seas, the pirates of the Crimson Galleon set sail for adventure.
But there was one problem. Paperwork. Mountains of it. Filing, invoices, you name it. This work ain't fit for a pilot. Luckily, their captain had an idea. She used the smart buying tools on Amazon Business so they could work more efficiently and get back to doing what they do best. I know, right? Amazon Business. Your partner for smart business buying.
As his gaze swept across the clearing, a horrifying realization dawned. There were two of them, two bodies, both headless, their spines severed in a grotesque parody of anatomy. One, clad in blue jeans, bore a chilling familiarity, an emblem patch, weathered but recognizable, an owl and a cartoon blur of the roadrunner.
A scream, raw and primal, erupted from Holly's throat. He had stumbled upon a hunter's ground, and the trophies were beyond human comprehension. And with that, we come to the end of part four, covering the saga of the killer cop Schaefer. Next episode will continue his saga, so as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned. ♪