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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 152. I am your Norwegian host, Tomas Rosland Weyberg Thun. Last episode ended with the summer of 1980.
and how Captain Weatherman would investigate a bizarre incident, one involving ropes, that would cause him to once again vividly recall the Donna Pounds case. This incident, and more, are what we are delving into tonight. Enjoy. As always, I want to publicly thank my elite TSK Producers Club. Their names are
Andrea, Boo, Brenda, Cassandra, Chris, Christy, Cody, Colleen, Corbin, Fawn, Gilly, James G., James H., James S.,
Jennifer, Juliet, Caitlin, Kathy, Kevin, Kylie, Libby, Lisa, Lisbeth, Marilyn, Meow, Mickey, Operation BP, Russell, Sabina, Samira, Scott, Skortnia, Shauna, Tony, Trent, and Val.
You are the backbone of the Serial Killer podcast, and without you, there would be no show. You have my deepest gratitude. 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.
As mentioned in the last episode, going forward, all TSK episodes will be available 100% ad-free to my TSK Producers Club on patreon.com slash theserialkillerpodcast. 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. Imagine, if you will, they are a listener. Missoula, Montana.
It is located along the Clark Fork River, near its confluence with the Bitterroot and Blackfoot Rivers in western Montana, and at the convergence of Foyth mountain ranges. Thus, it is often described as the hub of Foyth Valleys.
In 2019, the United States Census Bureau estimated the city's population at 75,516. Back in 1980, the population was 76,115, meaning that it has in many ways remained the same for over 40 years.
During the 1970s and 80s, the golden age of serial murder, Missoula's main source of revenue was from the lumber industry. In 1979, almost 40% of the county labor income still came from the wood and paper products sector.
The lumber industry was hit hard by the recession of the early 1980s, and that changed one very visible aspect of the county, smog. During the hot summer of 1980, the metropolitan area of Missoula would have been thick with smog coming from the lumber mills.
It could sometimes be so bad in those days that Missoulans sometimes needed to drive with headlights on during the day to navigate through the smog. This heavy smog and now several unsolved murders would perhaps have brought inhabitants to remember Missoula's original given name by French fur trappers, Porte de l'Enfer, translated as Gate of Hell.
In this depressing atmosphere, we witness a young woman named Denise Tate. Due to the oppressive summer heat, she has left all her windows open, as well as her front door ajar, in order to let a breeze pass through her trailer. She left her trailer in that condition as she went out on the town. She hoped her trailer wouldn't feel like a furnace upon her return, and she would be proven correct on that point.
Her trailer was comfortable enough later that evening, but that did not help Denise to calm down, because as she entered her bedroom, she noticed that someone had tied ropes on all her bedposts. The ropes were tied to the bedposts and looped around the frame. She suspected some of her friends was playing her a crude practical joke, but she wasn't sure.
Nerved, she still decided to wait until morning to contact the police and proceeded to untie all the ropes before slipping into bed for the night. Relax, dearly so. She did not get assaulted in the middle of the night. She slept peacefully, and when she awoke the next day, she contacted Captain Weatherman. He was dismayed to learn that she had casually disposed of the rope.
He didn't doubt the woman's story for a minute, but he was sorry to once again be without physical evidence. He listened to her explain how she had found the bedposts tied. He asked her to describe exactly where the ropes had been placed. On the bedposts, she told him, then looped around the frame. He understood.
It wasn't hard for him to envision what it had looked like, because he had seen ropes tied to a bed that exact same way. It was six years ago. That's how the murderer had done it in Donna Pounce's bedroom. The ropes had been tied to the posts and then laced around the bed frame itself.
From the highest level to the lowest, there were law enforcement officials who knew Wayne Nance to be strange, to have been a prime suspect in a sensational sex murder that involved binding with the ligatures of clothesline rope tied in a specific way. In the years since the grand jury had looked into Missoula's four unsolved homicides,
The stabbed body of a young girl had been dumped within the county's borders. Now, a young woman had found ropes tied to her bedposts when she came home alone. But, and I do not quite understand why, no one thought for very long about where Wayne Nance was hanging out in the summer of 1980.
If anyone had asked, his father George would have told them that Wayne was hanging around at the cabin bar. At the cabin bar, Nance was drinking beer and talking with a bouncer colleague of his named Rick Davis. Nance was good at bouncing. He pressed to the fore at the right moment, exerting just the needed amount of force, avoiding a scuffle.
On three or four occasions, Nance and Rick Davies had had their hands full. The incidents happened quickly, as they usually do, but they never found themselves dragged into a long fight, and that was the right way to do the job. Nance had always told Rick that he had a real fear of getting into it with somebody. He told Rick he could get real violent, and that he feared losing his temper.
Nance always did stand off in a corner, covering Rick, and while Nance insinuated that he was a tough guy, he never said it outright to Rick. Yet for some reason, Rick was aware that Nance wanted him to think he was tough. It didn't matter, though. Nance could handle himself well enough. Except, it seemed to Rick, when it came to women. I really want to do it with her.
Nance would say, with the braggadocio of a 12-year-old pumping up in front of his pals. Okay, Nance, end of conversation, Rick would say, knowing where Nance was coming from, not wanting to ply further. Nance made comments like that about a lot of women at the cabin bar.
When it came to actually flirting with the girls and correctly interpreting obvious hints given by those girls, he failed each and every time. He didn't, however, tell anyone, especially Rick, that he had been in some of the young women's houses. He had even made detailed diagrams of the interior layouts. Nance had even been inside the houses of some of the women whom Rick knew personally.
The proof of his illicit visitations was the secret hand-drawn floor plans he kept in his room at home. One evening, Rick was telling Nance about his ventures in Vietnam during the war there. One story was particularly gruesome. Rick detailed how North Vietnamese army soldiers had rushed his company's position and it had been a slaughterhouse.
One of the NVA soldiers had come straight for Rick, and Rick had shot the man in the face, causing his brains to splash out onto the gun pit. The brains had covered his boots and stuck to his soles. In total, 25 NVA soldiers had been killed during the assault. Most people would have been horrified by hearing such a graphic war story. Not Wayne Nance.
He laughed and wanted to know more of the gory detail. At the time, Rick figured this was just how Wayne Nance was, yet another facet to the otherness of his character. In February of 1982, Rick mentioned to Nance that a job was opening up. Maybe he should drop in and fill out an application.
Louise Leitner, Conlon's assistant manager, was looking for someone to work in the warehouse. She knew nothing of the suspicion that had once surrounded Nance, the teenager who was now 27 years old.
All she saw was a young man who had gone to local schools, had been in the Navy, had attended the university for a while, and who lived with his father. He came highly recommended by Rick Davis. Mr. Mace, the warehouse boss, who had come to know Nance through Nance's brother Bill, also vouched for him. So Nance was hired. It was a part-time position.
He would be paid $4 an hour, and he would help unload the three semi-tractor trailers that arrived each month from Conlin's South Dakota warehouse. By summer's end, after Rick quit his job at Conlin's, Nance took Rick's place. Now he was working full-time in the warehouse and making local deliveries in one of Conlin's trucks.
In time, Conlins would mean more than just a paycheck to Nance. Five mornings a week, he would get into his small brown pickup and head for work at Conlins, living behind the dismal environs of Minnesota Street, behind the wheel of a company truck
Delivering to any of Missoula's middle-class neighborhoods, the view through his windshield was uncannily suggestive of a scene right out of a TV commercial for a bygone era. There, on Crestline Street, or Strand, or Beckwith, as if encased and preserved against time, was the proverbial American ideal. Elderly couples stroll along quiet sidewalks.
The man sporting a pork-pie hat, the woman wearing a light sweater, perfect white picket fences, white banister-railed porches trimmed with hanging flowerpots, and all around a freshly cut and edged weedless lawn. This was to be Nanser's base of operations. In lieu of his position, he was often given the key to the houses on his route.
The residents there had no reason to suspect Conlin's employees doing anything untoward, and having a key meant the owners didn't have to stay at home to receive deliveries. And so it was. On Wednesday, the 27th of April, 1983, that something wicked Missoula way came. Janet Wicker
had come home from work to the cobblestone apartment, a new complex of townhouse-type dwellings nestled right in the bow of Hellgate Canyon, just east of Missoula proper, bounded by the old Route 10 that parallels Interstate 90 and the Clark Fork River. As she parked her car and made for the front door, it was already getting dark. She looked forward to seeing her husband,
who would be home soon. She unlocked the front door, and as she was stepping inside, reaching for the inside light switch, she was grabbed by a hand that came out of the door. The masked man who stood before her had been waiting inside. The first thing he said to her was that he wanted money. Janet screamed. The man hissed repeatedly at her to shut up, which she did not.
He punched her hard in the face, but she would not stop screaming. Finally, the man pulled out a knife and held it at her throat. Janet froze then. She listened as the man told her all he wanted was money, but he was going to take her upstairs, that she should cooperate. All he wanted was money. He kept saying it as he led his frightened prey up the stairs at knife point.
Maybe that's all he wanted. Janet wanted to think, as she obeyed. But Janet Wicker never got the answer to that question. Just as the masked man had gotten her upstairs, they both heard the front door open. Her husband was home. The man with the knife was gone in a flash.
dashing across the second-floor balcony and over the railing. When he hit the ground, he ran for the riverbank, racing eastward in the direction of East Missoula, which was approximately one-half mile away. Janet's husband called the police, but by the time they arrived, the suspect was long gone into the night. Janet had never seen the face of her attacker. Without a suspect or a lead, there would be no arrest.
Nance, who had made a hand-drawn map of the cobblestone apartments, showing the floor plan of the wicker's apartment and its proximity to other nearby apartments, had also carefully delineated an escape route in a series of tiny footprints that led down to the river. He saved it after the foiled attack, stuffing it into the treasure mound in his room in his father's house on Minnesota Avenue.
Though sheriff's deputies would not inquire at a time about it, they would later learn that many residents of the cobblestone apartments, including the wickers, had ordered furniture from Conlands and had had it delivered to their homes.
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Get a $0 delivery fee with your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 an order. Additional terms apply. Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. At Mint Mobile, we like to do the opposite of what Big Wireless does. They charge you a lot. We charge you a little. So naturally, when they announced they'd be raising their prices due to inflation, we decided to deflate our prices due to not hating you.
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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 serialkiller today to get 10% off your first month. That's BetterHelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash serialkiller. From the sweltering summer heat to the crisp autumn air, we find ourselves high above Missoula's bars and suburbs.
A bear hunter is frozen in his tracks, looking at an orb-shaped bone fragment. He knew it to be the top of a human skull. It rested at the bottom of a slope in the crease of a parched creek bed. Come spring, the clear mountain waters would return, running downhill to the Clark Fork River in the valley below.
But now, on this Monday afternoon in September, the man who tramped uphill through this rugged mountain terrain was on dry ground. He had been slowly ascending a logging road along a ridge that led up to the meager beginnings of Crystal Creek. His eyes were peeled to the ground. He had been scanning for any telltale sign that he was still on the trail of a wounded black bear.
looking for tracks or a blood drop, a broken branch, and at whatever fell within his tight-grid vision. When he had spotted the distinct rounded object that wasn't, he could tell, an ordinary water-polished rock in the stream bed. It was the Monday afternoon of the 9th of September, 1985.
Later that day, when Sheriff's deputies, led by Captain Weatherman, would climb to the shoulder of the ridge, they would find most of the rest of the skeleton. It belonged to a young woman. It appeared that she had been dumped on the side of the slope at least a year ago and maybe longer. One large leg bone, the femur, was found nearby, as were numerous bits and pieces of bone.
There was evidence of a lot of dental work, and that encouraged Captain Weatherman. The skull of this latest victim showed two bullet holes. She had been shot once in the back of the head and once in the temple. Two .32-caliber slugs were found at the site. A forensic examination of the skeleton would eventually tell Weatherman that this victim was smaller than Debbie Deercreek.
She was between 20 and 22 years old. Her height was probably 5 feet to 5 feet 2. Her weight was estimated at approximately 100 pounds. She had light brown hair and may have been of partial Asian descent. Forensic determinations suggested she may have been right-handed and she was definitely a smoker. Ballistics examination of the slugs were fairly conclusive.
They were Winchester Western silver tip bullets, which could have been fired from any of the following gun makes. Cheska, Walter, Llama, Star, Savage, or Astra. But Weatherman didn't have a weapon. All he had was another body of a murdered female. No clothing or personal items were found at the site. This woman had been shot, stripped, and left nude on the ground.
Animals may have disturbed the body, and a force of water would have washed the rounded skull down the riverbed. As the crow flies, this body was three miles southeast of the Bonner Dam, where Debbie Deer Creek had been found. What was more sobering to weathermen was the relative proximity not only to Debbie Deer Creek, but also to the beaver-tail hill-girl.
Captain Weatherman had only recently retired the mystery of the Beaver Tail Hill case, disposing of the facial reconstruction that had so badly deteriorated anyway. His persistence had paid off. Twice a year, he would dig out the file and send the dead girl's description out across the national network of police computers. In early 1984,
he had become aware of a massive effort in Washington state to track the so-called Green River Killer, who was suspected of having killed more than 40 women in a stabbing and strangulation spree that was estimated to have run from July of 1982 to March of 1984.
Most of the victims were prostitutes or runaways who would not be reported missing for weeks. In time, all but four of the Green River victims would be identified by the machinery of the Green River Task Force. But, more importantly to Weatherman, on the 6th of February, 1985, he hit a match.
Investigators in Washington didn't suspect that the beaver-tail hill girl was a victim of the Green River Killer, but at least they knew who she was. Her name was Devonna Nelson, a 15-year-old presumed runaway. Now, as the fall of 1985 was upon him, Weatherman knew what his next move would be.
He would call Dr. Charney in Fort Collins one more time and ask him to work with this new bullet-holed skull to produce a likeness that he would place on his bookshelf in the company of Debbie Deer Creek. He would name this one Chrissy Crystal Creek.
The Massoulian didn't make much of the Crystal Creek skeleton. A six-paragraph story that appeared on page 9 of the 17th of September edition was prepared by the Associated Press, not by a local staff reporter, even though the discovery of a single unidentified human skeleton was rare enough in Montana at the time.
In the whole state from 1981 to 1985, close to a dozen unidentified bodies in various stages of decomposition had been discovered. Only four remained unidentified and unsolved. One of those was found in Lewis and Clark County to the east. The remaining three were the ones found in Missoula County.
After the beaver-tail hill girl was identified, two remained, and their plastic reconstructed heads emitted blank stares from the bookshelf in Captain Weatherman's office, as if looking over his shoulder as he labored in vain to put a real name to their faces. The slight differences in M.O. notwithstanding, one victim was buried, the other dumped on the ground,
Weatherman was certain that the same person had killed both Debbie and Chrissy, and he was beginning to see that the beautiful Clark Fork River Valley had become an unknown killer's dumping ground. Mike Shook lounged on his new benchcraft sofa. He had kicked off his shoes after dinner and parked in front of the TV.
It was his habit to watch a little television or read for a while during this transitional time in the evening, when his wife Teresa was usually staring the children toward bed. Matt, a second grader, was already in bed. His mother usually sent him off to bed by 8 or 8.30 every night.
It was a blessing, they knew, because the two younger children showed no such inclination. Luke, who was still too young for kindergarten, was a night owl, and Megan, who was two and a half, was still up on this Thursday night. They were preoccupied in play and supposedly helping their mother, who was busy in the kitchen baking cookie dough ornaments.
Teresa planned to decorate the Christmas tree, which they didn't have yet, with these fancy sugar cookies. Tomorrow would be Friday the 13th, only 12 days before Christmas. She was so excited about celebrating the family's first Christmas in their own house. The cookies had just been shoved into the oven when the knock came at the door.
Mike started, and Teresa was just as puzzled, in the fleeting moment of time, that both Mike and Teresa paused to wonder who could be at the door. Little Luke made one of those quick four-year-old moves. He was already at the front door, and he was opening it. A man pressed himself inside, standing at a threshold, wide-eyed behind his glasses.
The intruder announced, theatrically, that he was Conan the Barbarian. He exclaimed that he wanted money and then proceeded to shoot Teresa in the leg just above the ankle. The mother of three bravely ushered the children behind her and managed to stand up, leaning on the kitchen tabletop. In front of her, her husband Mike was shielding his family as best he could.
The intruder, none other than Wayne Nance, was living out a fantasy, calling himself Conan the Barbarian. Most likely, he tried to hold Mike at bay, trying to convince him that all he wanted was money, that he wouldn't harm anyone if they complied, that he had to tie them up,
Whoever started it, whether Mike in his stocking feet grabbed the brass candle holder first or in self-defense, does not matter. There was some kind of struggle, and it was clear that Nance had prevailed. He managed to get Mike's arms and legs tied. Then he pulled his knife and stabbed Mike Shook in the chest. Mike fell into a sidelong heap, face down on the floor,
Dying, Teresa may have gone for the first available weapon, a tennis racket, because it ended up with the candlestick on the floor next to Mike. Both Luke and Megan witnessed the fight between Nance and their mother after they had watched as their father was tied up and stabbed. Matt was still fast asleep in his bedroom down the hall.
As Mike lay in a spreading pool of blood and Teresa's attack with the tennis racket brushed aside, Nance took her at gunpoint into the master bedroom. Luke was put in the bedroom where his brother lay asleep and Megan was placed in her crib, which was still right next to her parents' bed. Nance then forced Teresa onto the bed, face up.
He tied her arms and legs to its four corners and, with Megan watching from the crib, proceeded to fulfill a fantasy he had been harboring for a long time. When Teresa would be found, a pillow rested over her face. Her pants would be pulled up but unzipped. She would be clothed above the waist in the tightly knit sweater she was wearing that night.
A bathroom towel would have been placed over a large gash in her leg, near the ankle. Sheriff's deputies would find her bra and panties on the floor. They would show evidence of having been cut off her body with a sharp instrument in such a way as to allow their removal without undoing the ligatures on her wrists and ankles. She was fatally stabbed in the chest.
An autopsy would later establish that she had been raped. The same forensic examination would reveal the nature of the gaping wound at her ankle. The perpetrator had fired a .22 caliber bullet into her leg and then tried to recover the slug with a knife, creating a wedge-shaped hole as he rooted the blade in the flesh and bone. Investigators knew it was a .22 slug
because Nance failed to retrieve the bullet. Maybe he began to grow anxious about how much time he was taking. What is believed is that it was about ten o'clock when he abruptly left the house. Mike and Teresa were dead. Matt and Luke were in their bedroom, and Megan was in her crib, in the same room with her dead mother.
A neighbor who had stepped outside to grab an armful of firewood about that time saw a pair of headlights leaving the Shook's driveway. Later, possibly as much as two hours later, Wayne returned to the scene. Again, no one saw any headlights approach.
Police theorized that Wayne had spent a great deal of time after he had killed Mike and Teresa, rummaging through drawers, pilfering personal effects. He grabbed a 12-inch plaster statue of a bugling elk, which he had found in the living room loft. In the couple's bedroom, he spotted something he could not resist. A handmade, stag-handled hunting knife with a tanned leather sheath. He took it, too.
He found Mike's collection of silver dollars and he pocketed them. Sometime during his return visit, as Wayne zipped through the house, Luke ventured out of his room and watched from the hallway. He saw the man, who called himself Conan, who said he only wanted money, move the wooden-legged, vinyl-upholstered kitchen bar stools under the stairwell in the living room.
He saw him stuff magazines under the seats of the upturned chairs and light a match to them. Luke scrambled back to his room. In all the fire-building frenzy, an electric clock in the kitchen had become unplugged. The stopped hands of the clock would later designate the presumed time of the start of the fire, approximately midnight.
As the lime green and blue flames colored so by the tint of the magazine ink licked at the finished wood on the stair treads, Wayne was finally ready to leave. When he closed the front door behind him, he shut it tight. Mike and Teresa were dead.
And, as the foam and nougat-hide chairs burned, setting the house ablaze, Matt, Luke, and Megan would soon be dead too. It is doubtful that Wayne realized that the fumes that emanated from his torch-murder job were a lethal cyanide gas, enough to kill even without the flames.
Without a doubt, he did not realize that by shutting the door so tightly, he had cut off the air supply for his fire. The chairs smoldered most of the night, but never ignited the house, because Mike had built the place to be virtually airtight. Matt was a hard sleeper. He had slept through it all, including the single gunshot. But the high pitch of the smoke alarm woke him.
Luke was there with him. Matt knew what he had to do. Remembering what the fireman had told him in school during a class demonstration about fire safety, Matt took charge. First, he and Luke tried to open a window. After they could not budge it from the sill, Matt remembered that it was important to get down on the floor because the smoke, being warmer, was rising.
So he and Luke, now feeling tired, laid down on the bedroom floor. Megan was in her crib. The fire on the stairs smoldered a while longer, then died out. The fire in the family's wood stove, the only source of heat, would in time burn out and the room temperature would begin to drop. The house filled with cyanide gas that could not escape.
Outside, on this clear, starlit night, it was near zero degrees. The children were falling into unconsciousness and would be hypothermic soon. Megan, who was exposed to more of the toxic smoke, was falling into a coma. Being a newly minted father myself,
I must admit that I felt deep hatred and anger towards Wayne Nance after learning that he had left three very young children to die a horrible death by either burning or choking to death from the fire. It was thus with joy that I learned that even though the children were unconscious, they were saved in the nick of time by a friend of the Shooks named Greg Lakes.
He had been planning to visit the Shooks with his four-year-old son Jesse. When he arrived at the Shook residence, he understood something was very wrong after he noticed the Shooks' car in the driveway and all the lights being on, but no one was answering the door. When he tried the door, it swung open, and immediately he smelled the acrid smoke and gas inside. Greg is a true hero.
To great danger to himself, he entered the house and found first the bodies of Mike, then Teresa in the master bedroom. Then he found the children and carried them all outside. Then he called 911. The children all survived.
I don't know.
Until your ultimate demise. What if we just say forever? Okay. $25 a month forever. Get unlimited talk, text, and data for just $25 a month with Boost Mobile forever. After 30 gigabytes, customers may experience slower speeds. Customers will pay $25 a month as long as they remain active on the Boost Unlimited plan. 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. And with that...
We come to the end of part four in my expose on Wayne Nance. Next episode, number 153 in number, will feature part five in the Missoula Maulers saga. So, as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned. Finally, I wish to thank you, dear listener, for listening.
If you like this podcast, you can support it by donating on patreon.com slash theserialkillarpodcast, by leaving a review on Apple Podcasts, facebook.com slash theskpodcast, or by posting on the subreddit theskpodcast. Thank you. Good night, and good luck.
