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Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and I am your Norwegian host, Thomas Weyborg Thu. Last week I ended part two in the Dean Corll saga by explaining how Wayne had killed what one of his victims called the devil, Corll himself.
So you, dear listener, might wonder what is left to tell of the evil Candyman of Houston. Well, quite a bit. In tonight's episode, I will explain in more detail some of the methods Dean Corll used to torture his victims. I do this not out of some ghoulish desire to revel in morbidity,
but because I want my listeners to understand the true horror of Dean Corll's actions. He didn't only rape and murder 28 boys. He tortured them in ways unimaginable by even the most speculative of Hollywood directors. Have you, for example, seen the torture porn horror flick Hostel by Eli Roth?
Well, Dean Corll would think the cult members in Hostel were mere amateurs compared to his depraved torture fetish. Also, in this final episode in the Corll saga, I will go into details as to how Corll might very well have killed far more boys than just 28.
The bonus content of the $10 plus club includes an expose into the Norwegian black metal artist, murderer and satanist Varg Viknes, a detailed look into the history of the death penalty around the world, a video movie review of the excellent film Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile,
and an American radio station interviewing your humble host. More bonus features are coming up, with a wide variety of interesting topics. If you have a specific topic you would like to hear me talk about, aside from serial killers, feel free to let me know on facebook.com slash the SK podcast.
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Dean Corll's residence at 2020 Lamar Drive in early August of 1973. Corll's body lies stiff and sticky and stark naked against one of the walls. There's blood smeared near the head on the wall. Corll has an obvious tan line and his arm is tucked under his chest.
At the same time, Elmer Wayne Henley sits outside talking to police. Back in the early 1970s, the term serial killer didn't exist.
It wasn't that police were unaware of repeat offenders. It was just that it was such a rare occurrence that no common term had been given to what was then lumped together with all manner of deviant criminal behavior, such as mass murder, rape, ghoulish ritual murder, and cult killings.
When detectives began interrogating Wayne about Coral, asking why Dean kept handcuffs, the plywood torture board, and the plastic sheet in the bedroom, Henley panicked. Had he not said anything, it is possible, although not likely, that the police would never have learned about the murders at all.
Instead, the young man, who for so long had collaborated with Coral in his murder, rape, and torture scheme, let slip that Coral had once bragged about killing boys and burying them in a storage shed. They immediately left to investigate, and when police arrived at Southwest Boat Storage, a dry land marina, the detectives opened the windowless stall number eleven.
And they started digging. They found the first body in a matter of minutes. As soon as the first shovel broke ground, a smell leapt out of the earth into their nostrils. The smell was familiar to some of the seasoned detectives. The smell is often encountered today, too. It is very distinctive.
Imagine having forgotten a pack of chicken wings in your refrigerator for a couple of weeks. When you open the cellophane wrapping, the smell of rotten meat is sweet and noxious. Now, multiply that smell by a factor of a hundred. Then, add the smell of human feces to the mix. It is the smell of decaying corpses.
That unbearable smell is what detectives in the seaside shed had to deal with back in 1973. Trying to get a smell out of his nose, 30-year-old detective Larry Earles chain-smoked cigarettes. But his hands were so filthy that someone else had to put them in his mouth. And before you stop and think that what harm a little bit of dirt can have on a cigarette...
I'm not talking about just dirt. His hands were covered in slime, feces, stomach content, blood and dirt. Not something anyone would want anywhere near their mouth. The police allowed the reporters to walk right up to Henley, who was standing outside the storage unit, and interview him.
A television reporter even filmed Henley using a radio phone to call his mother. You can actually look this up yourself on YouTube. He cried into the receiver, Mama! Mama! I killed Dean! Most of the reporters felt sorry for him.
Anne James, the newspaper Post police reporter, later wrote that she thought of him as a, and I quote, a kind of folk hero who had slain the dragon. That night, when the police sent out for fried chicken, she made sure Henley got his share. By the next day, however, Henley was admitting his involvement to the Pasadena police.
Soon after, his distraught father, who told detectives that his son also had something to say, escorted Brooks to the Houston Police Department. Henley showed the police the burial site at the Sam Rayburn Reservoir. Then he and Brooks took them to High Island. Besides an army of reporters watching the diggings at the beach,
There were bikini-clad girls and their boyfriends, along with young parents and children with plastic pails and shovels. At one point, a black chihuahua jumped in one of the graves and started barking. Over at NASA, Mercury astronaut Deke Slayton ordered a helicopter containing infrared equipment to fly over the beach to see if it could spot other bodies.
Some of the more recent victims were quickly identified. One of those found under the storage shed, Marty Jones, who had been tortured, raped and murdered in late July, turned out to be the cousin of homicide detective Carl Siebenischer, who happened to be on the scene. Here I need to pause just a bit, dear listener.
One aspect we almost never hear about in the media, and I am guilty of this myself, is the impact serial killers have on the police officers investigating their crimes. Police officers are very much human, and are affected by the horrors they witness. They might build up coping mechanisms, and often become somewhat jaded, but they are still affected.
Some more than others. One might say Dean Corll had 29 known kills, not just 28. Officer Siebenaicher was so devastated by the murder of his dear cousin and the record of horrors he witnessed unfold in the Corll case that he ended up taking his own life in 1977.
Many bodies that they dug out of the muddy filth were so decomposed that identification was only possible thanks to a social security card or driver's license found near their remains. Jimmy Glass's family was able to identify him only because his beloved leather jacket was next to his skeletal remains. Soon reporters were fanning out through the heights, knocking on doors.
Josephine Aguirre, a hairdresser who had spent the past year and a half burning a candle in hopes that her son, Frank, would come home, had already lost a son, Ronnie. In 1969, she had accidentally run him over in front of Helms Elementary. She was not sure what to say to the reporters about her latest loss.
So she broke down in muted sobs, unable to speak. The horror of her loss was, in my opinion, unimaginable, unless you have experienced it yourself. Luis Garcia, the father of Homer, who had attended a driver's education class with Henley, was just returning from South Texas, where he had buried his mother, who had suffered a debilitating stroke,
after hearing the news that her grandson was missing. Not long after Louise pulled into his driveway, a police officer arrived to tell him and his wife, Doris, that Homer's body was identified as one of Carl's victims. Doris could not sleep for days. She kept dreaming that her son had been buried alive and was trying to claw his way out.
Throughout the summer and into the fall, families huddled around open graves at Houston's cemeteries, burying their boys. Trying to beat back her despair, Betty Cobble, the mother of one of the victims, returned to her job delivering flowers, only to find herself providing arrangements at funerals for other victims.
Six months after Danny Yates' funeral, his parents moved to another part of Houston, hoping that a fresh start would ease their suffering. It didn't. Not long after they settled into their new home, they divorced. The Waldrop brothers' father, Everett, the construction worker, moved to Atlanta, which didn't help.
There he read Brooks' confession, which had been reprinted in a newspaper. Everett learned he had been working on a new apartment complex directly across the street from Carl's Place 1 apartment. Maybe he had them in the apartment when I went to work, Waldrop said to the Chronicle. Maybe they were being tortured right next door, and I didn't know it."
Some parents turned to pills or alcohol to cope with the pain. I'm a glass. Jimmy's mother spiraled out of control. Many, many times she'd see a teenager hitchhiking on the other side of the freeway and she'd shout, That's Jimmy. We've got to turn around. And to keep the peace, my dad would turn around every time, said the daughter, Willie Glass.
One day, Ima Glass got a gun and grabbed the younger sister, Pamela, and dragged her to a back bedroom. When the SWAT team arrived, she fired a shot into the floor and yelled, They're not going to steal Pamela from me like they did my Jimmy. Eventually, the police got the pistol away from her and took her to the Harris County Psychiatric Unit.
She was never the same, and neither were the rest of the family. Not all victims of serial killers have visible scars off their wounds, and many of them live with the pain the killer has inflicted for the rest of their lives. Now, let's pause for a moment.
I have tried to find details as to what exactly happened to several of the known victims, other than the generic raped and murdered description. The problem with Coral's victims is that they are so many, and at the same time police were so overwhelmed by the scale of Coral's crimes that individual details are very difficult to find.
Also, it took a good while for the bodies of the boys to be found, and they were often so decomposed that details to anything other than the cause of death were difficult to ascertain. What I have found out is from the confessions by Brooks and Henley, as well as reports from the bodies that were in such a condition as to detail the abuse inflicted upon them.
Coral would always tie his victims up, rape them anally, and kill them. But sometimes, especially if he really enjoyed dominating and abusing a victim, the torture would escalate. One favorite method of Coral's was to meticulously pull out individual strings of pubic hair from his victims. This might not sound very sadistic,
But I dare you, dear listener, try to do it on yourself. You will quickly understand why this was indeed torture. While torturing a victim on his torture board, he would routinely take a long, thin glass rod and insert it into the urethra of his victim before snapping it off or crushing it inside the penis.
This would maim the penis completely, cause massive pain and bleeding, and probably result in the victim passing out from the pain. Coral would then wake the boy up, often brutally, before continuing the torture. When police discovered the torture room after Coral's death,
They found a series of broken glass rods littering the floor. Further proof this particular method was amongst Carl's favorites. As I have covered in episode two, one of the known victims had had his penis severed with a knife while alive. But this was not the worst that Dean Carl did.
According to Wayne Henley, one of Corll's victims upset him so much that Corll gnawed off the victim's genitals while locked onto the torture board. When police were finally brought to the boat shed, where Corll kept the remains of his victims, they found the penis and testicles in a plastic bag, adding to the horror of the scene that
Forensic researchers deduced from the size and type of wounds that the boy's genitals had been ripped off in one bite. Researchers believe this brutal torture occurred at the time Carl developed what is known as a water pocket in his scrotal sac. He may have been addressing his own genital pain with this particular anger-fueled violence.
It was not always the case that Corll's victims were strangled to death, even though this was the most common. Oftentimes, Corll either shot someone in the chest or had one of his teenage henchmen shoot a victim. The wounded victims were left to bleed out, sometimes as Corll continued to molest them. On one occasion, Wayne Henley accidentally shot a boy in the face, blowing off his jaw.
Rather than put the boy out of his misery, they made him bleed out in Dean's torture room. A similar fate was suffered by a boy who was accidentally shot in the chest, although he passed away much quicker than the boy who was shot in the face. But was it only 28 boys?
One of the bodies at High Island was identified as Jeffrey Conan, who had been a salutatorian at St. Thomas High School, a private Catholic school west of downtown Houston, before he enrolled at the University of Texas.
On the 1st of September, 1970, about three months before Brooks first saw Jimmy and Danny tied up in Coral's bed, the 18-year-old Conan had hitchhiked from Austin to Houston to see his girlfriend. He got a ride to the Galleria area, and the last time he was seen, he was hitchhiking again, looking for another ride to his girlfriend's place.
If Corll had been able to pull off that killing by himself, as well as the murders of Jimmy Glass and Danny Yates, it is not implausible that he had hunted on his own, way before enlisting the help of Brooks and Henley. From 1968 to 1970, a few thousand missing persons reports came into the juvenile division of the Houston Police Department.
It is almost a given that some of those kids were missing because they had run into the Candyman. The authorities did dig up the backyard of the Pasadena home where Carl was living, and they searched behind the old candy factory. But only a week after the first bodies were found, the authorities called off the excavations.
The Chambers County Sheriff, who oversaw the High Island dig-in, said, inexplicably, that he had decided to stop the searches until the Sheriff received definite information on the location of other graves. Apparently, he never considered that there could have been more bodies that Brooks and Henley did not know about. "'It always bothered me,' said Larry Earles, the young homicide detective.'
Henley and Brooks told us that they thought there were more bodies, and there were other places where we wanted to dig, but we were told no. Bob Wright, the Executive Director of Marketing and Communications at Stephen F. Austin University in Nacogdoches,
who was a Houston radio reporter in 1973, says that he was told by a detective that once the body count surpassed the US mass murder record, the excavations were halted. As I mentioned in the intro to episode 2, Houston was a booming corporate town back in the early 70s. I do not like to speculate too much,
But it is not a stretch to at least consider that civic leaders might have wanted the search stopped because they were concerned about how high the count could go. Beating the record by just one or two bodies, after all, was a lot less humiliating than beating it by ten, or fifteen, or fifty.
Whoa, easy there. Yeah.
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The Vatican's daily newspaper, L'Osservatore Romano, published an editorial that said that the Houston killings belonged to the domain of the devil. And even Izvestia, the government newspaper of the Soviet Union, got in a shot at Houston, claiming that, quote-unquote, indifference and murderous bureaucracy were the reasons the killings had gone on for so long.
Furious, the city's domineering police chief, Herman Short, held a press conference in which he suggested that the boys were mere runaways whose parents didn't do their best to look after them. He angrily declared that reports of links among the victims and the killers were a myth created by the media. While he was at it, he took his own shot at Izvestia.
And I quote, I wonder what they'd like to write a little story about the number of people the government has killed over there, taking their property and annihilating them. End quote. Mayor Louis Welsh, in a show of just a kind of murderous bureaucracy claimed by Izvestia, defended the chief, bluntly declaring that, and I quote, the police can't be expected to know where a child is if his parents don't.
Fact is that Welsh simply didn't know what he was talking about. Though it was true that some of the boys had run away from home for brief periods, and others had gotten into minor trouble, none of them had gotten into serious trouble. Many were just like David Hillegist, straight arrow, all-American kids who rarely missed a day of school.
And it had indeed been the police's job to find out where they were once a missing person report had been filed. The one thing Chief Short did do, in a shameful misguided attempt to make sure such crimes didn't happen again, was to order his officers to raid the city's gay bars.
They thought we were all child molesters and killers, said Ray Hill, one of the city's first gay activists. Some residents, claiming they were afraid that other sex deviates, in quotation marks, might be operating in the neighborhood, circulated a petition asking the city council to impose a nightly curfew on juveniles, completely forgetting that
that almost all of Coral's abductions took place in broad daylight. In those years, of course, plenty of people tended to believe, falsely, that homosexuality was linked to pedophilia, but neither could begin to explain what Coral had done. It was a riddle how a smiling mama's boy transformed himself into what the Vatican itself called the devil.
Many theories have been put forward during the years. One prevalent theory is that Coral's reign of terror started and continued because Coral projected his own feelings of shame and depravity onto the boys he hunted, and he wanted to kill and punish those feelings. But this is just a theory.
As I have covered before in several episodes, psychopathy is real. Psychopaths do exist. They walk amongst us, and many of them feel extreme joy and pleasure from causing other people harm. It might be as simple as that. For weeks, the story of the murders stayed on the front pages of the Houston newspapers.
to great media fanfare, Coral's mother arrived from Colorado and announced that her son had to be innocent because he would not have buried bodies at the same boat stall he loaned out to friends of the family to store their furniture.
Then, the twelve grand jurors who indicted Henley and Brooks for murder issued an explosive report, criticizing the police and the district attorney, saying their investigation left unexplored, and I quote, "...the possible involvement of others and related criminal activities." End quote.
Some of the jurors were so outraged, they conducted their own investigations, driving around Houston, interviewing witnesses, and trying to find out where more bodies might be buried. Perhaps the only moment of sanity came during a pre-trial hearing for Henley, when his mother, Mary, ran across her neighbor Dorothy Hillegist, a reporter who witnessed the scene, wrote,
Each tried, at a choked smile and a politely blurted, "'Hello.' Formerly they addressed each other by last names." Until Mrs. Henley moved to East Texas thirteen years later, she stayed in the same house on 27th Street, and whenever Mrs. Hillegist would see her at the grocery store, the two women would continue to politely say, "'Hello.'
"'My mom did her best to forgive,' recalled the hilligist's youngest son, Stanley, who ended up working for a Houston oilfield services company. "'But I'll never forget getting out early one day from high school, and I came home and found her with all the photos and all the newspaper stories spread out. "'She was screaming, "'Why, God, why?' end quote.'
Years passed before many parents were able to clean out their sons' rooms, keeping only such souvenirs as a penmanship award, a report card with straight A's, a layaway receipt for a bicycle, or a crayon drawing of a mother's smiling face. When friends would come to visit, the parents tried to talk fondly about their sons, but they inevitably ended up saying such things as, "'If only I'd picked him up from school that day.'"
Or if I hadn't said anything about him needing a haircut. Or, perhaps even more heartbreakingly, if I had just given him one last hug. Whenever Henley or Brooks would apply for parole, saying that he was no longer the misguided teenager he had once been, the parents were forced to relive the murders as they wrote letters to the state parole board, detailing the torture their sons had endured.
In 1997, they were devastated to learn that a local art gallery would be showing a collection of paintings that Henley had done in prison, ranging from landscapes to a pencil drawing of the model Kate Moss. Some parents and family members stood outside the gallery on opening night, holding signs that read, "'Hang Henley, not his art.'"
Despite the protests, twenty-one of the twenty-three paintings quickly sold. "'I know people will always think that I'm evil,' Henley said from his prison cell. "'But I know it's not true. I know I'm not useless. I know I've become someone my mom would be proud of.' For a moment, according to the interviewer, he fiddled with his reading glasses.
Do you realize I hadn't even gotten my driver's license? And there I was, out committing murders with Dean, just because I wanted to please him. End quote. Nevertheless, Henley and Brooks do not have to be reminded that their murder spree continues to destroy lives.
In 2008, Henley's one-time buddy Tim Kerley, who survived Corll's torture board, gave his one and only interview to a Houston television station. I have two choices, Kerley said about that night in August 1973. Either I accept it and move on, or I kill myself. According to a close relative, Kerley spiraled downward after the interview.
drinking heavily and suffering from his own form of post-traumatic shock. In March 2009, Carolee died in South America, reportedly from a heart attack. Meanwhile, many parents of the murdered boys remain frozen in time, still unable to understand what happened to their sons. Some of the parents are now in nursing homes, their minds starting to slip away.
Which is maybe a blessing, considering all that they've suffered, said Deborah Aguirre, whose mother, Josephine, had Alzheimer's disease. Yet, when I've mentioned my brother's names in front of her, she started to cry. Over in southwest Houston, the Garcias, 80-year-old Luis and 77-year-old Doris, continue to live in their same home, with a faded photo of Homer on the wall.
and on sundays they still put on their best clothes and visit his grave setting down fresh flowers while staring at the words on his marker which read the day they took you part of us went with you and in the hates there is mrs scott when her neighbour mrs
Died in her home at the age of 88, Mrs. Scott told her younger son, Jeff, who had moved back in with his mother to look after her, that she could be the last parent left in the neighborhood who had lost a son to Coral. Although she was unable to attend Mrs. Hillegist's funeral, held at the same Catholic church in the Heights where David's had been,
She heard that the priest had told the mourners that despite the many good things Mrs. Hillegist had done over the years, she would always be remembered as a, quote-unquote, a woman of sorrows. Mrs. Scott said to Jeff, There are days when that's what life feels like, just sorrow. The Dean Correll case wasn't over even in the 21st century.
After doing DNA tests with a colleague at a forensic institute, a private investigator discovered that a body stored in a different area of the refrigeration unit it had been found on High Island in 1983 and labelled as archaeological remains was actually another Houston boy who had been murdered by Corll, which upped the known number of his victims to 28.
The investigator then received an intriguing tip from two Houston freelance writers, Barbara Gibson and Deborah Finney, who publish their stories at an online site and are so obsessed with the killings that they've approached the owner of Coral's old storage shed to ask him if they can dig even deeper than the police did.
The women told Derek that they believed that the medical examiner's office had used the wrong missing person report in 1973 to identify the remains of Michael Bolch, one of the two Bolch brothers who were abducted and murdered on separate dates, and that he could very well have been misidentified.
After doing more DNA tests, private investigator Derek realized they were right. Since the parents were both dead, she was forced to call the siblings of the brothers to give them the news. As stories about Derek's work appeared in the local media, more families began contacting her, some from as far away as California and Florida.
a family called from north texas telling her that their son hitchhiking to houston was last seen in dallas getting into a white van mitzi pearsall a thirty-nine year old mother from the houston suburb of cypress
told Derek she was only a year old when her sixteen-year-old brother, Rodney, disappeared from the English Oaks Apartments, located on Gessner, near Interstate 10, one of Carl's old stomping grounds. Her family had an all-too-familiar story. Her grieving father, she said, had gone into rages and blamed himself up until the day he died.
and her mother had slipped into a depression from which she still hadn't recovered. Derek became even more driven to help these families. After reading the file on Mark Scott, she especially wanted to do what she could for Mrs. Scott. There had always been questions about what had happened to Mark's body after he was murdered. In 1973,
Officials with the medical examiner's office had told the Scotts that they believed Mark had been buried at High Island, but they weren't sure where his remains were. Desperate to find his son, Walter Scott had driven to High Island almost every day with a shovel so he could dig into the sand and pray for something to guide me, as he said.
In 1994, more than two decades after the murders, the medical examiner's office presented the Scotts with remains that they said they believed were marks based on early versions of DNA identification. Although the family had the remains cremated and placed in the family columbarium at the Chapel of the Chimes at Brookside Memorial Park,
They were still not convinced they had been given the right boy. Fortunately, the medical examiner's office had kept a single bone from the remains that had been given to the Scotts. When she visited Mrs. Scott and Jeff, Derek said that because DNA technology was now so advanced, she would be able to let them know if Mark was in their columbarium.
All she had to do was to get a DNA sample from one of them and compare it with a new sample she had taken from the bone. "'I think this might give you some peace of mind,' Derek said to Mrs. Scott, who nodded and replied, "'I would like to know.' Derek swabbed Jeff's cheek and returned to her office, where she sent the DNA to a laboratory at the University of North Texas to be processed."
Derek received the results, and she returned to the Scotts' home and asked Mrs. Scott and Jeff to sit down. In what she would later describe as one of the saddest moments of her career, she told them that the DNA from Jeff's swab didn't match the DNA that came from the bone. The conclusion was inescapable. Mark was somewhere else.
Derek said that his remains were probably still at High Island. She paused and added that because the beach had been underwater since Hurricane Ike, there was a good chance Mark would never be found. Mrs. Scott said nothing. Nearly forty years later, the grief was still so intense and so bottomless that she looked as if she could not take another breath.
Then she said, "'If we've got someone else's son, I want his real family to have him.' For a few seconds, Derek held Mrs. Scott's hand. Attempting to console his mother, Jeff told her, "'Maybe the ocean will uncover him, and someone will find him floating in the water. Or maybe he'll wash up to shore, and we can give him a proper burial. All I'd like to know, before I die—'
"'is where that man put my son,' Mrs. Scott later said. "'I want to know where my mark has gone. "'Now, dear listener, I have covered many, many tales of serial murder. "'Usually I manage to keep a professional distance to the horrors I learn. "'But when I read of Mrs. Scott and her missing son, I got choked up. "'Her story is so sad and so typical.'
Of our serial killers' victims are not limited to their body count, but the countless lives devastated in the wake of their devilry.
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