transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] A nurse who murdered patients with unprescribed insulin injections. A sadistic killer whose murder was inspired by the hit TV show Dexter. These are just a couple of the dark true crime stories you'll hear each week on the Crime Hub Podcast. In each episode, I dive deep into new disturbing true crime stories, like the story of the religious cult Heaven's Gate, a group who convinced its followers to commit suicide in order to reach a level of existence above human. Disturbing true crime stories like these are what make the Crime Hub Podcast worth listening to. If you enjoy my horror stories, then you'll absolutely love my true crime stories. Go check it out today by searching Crime Hub in the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or Amazon Music. Be sure to click Follow to get notified every time a new episode is released.

Speaker 2:
[00:52] It's a nice day.

Speaker 1:
[00:55] The fresh air feels amazing on my face as I lean back into the passenger seat. The window is open and I trace the wind with my hand, letting it lift and fall, lift and fall as my wife drives us deep into the mountains. She always drives. At the start of our marriage, I thought it was because she loves driving, which I sort of think she does, in her own way of loving anything. But the reality is, she does it for the control. That's her true motivator, and not just with driving, but with everything in our lives. I can't blame her. It's that kind of control that turned her from a weekend blogger into a media empire dominatrix. And yes, dominatrix is the correct word, although she'd argue with me to the death about the term. To the death. Allison believes that she's assertive in a world dominated by tech bros and mansplainers. It doesn't matter that she ruffles more than feathers, that she's been known to burn bridges where bridges aren't even constructed, or wage wars just because she can. Go against my wife, and you get the scorched earth treatment. Trust me, been there, got scorched. It's why I planned to kill my wife this weekend. I don't hate her. I think I actually still love her. But I'm just tired of her domineering crap. Reaching over, I pat her leg and give her a warm smile. Her lips curl up in a matching smile, although maybe not quite as warm as mine. She keeps her eyes on the winding road that leads us to the cabin I rented for the weekend, a little couple's getaway. Time for us to relax and reconnect, with plenty of privacy so I can murder the hell out of the bitch. Sure, I am probably a bad person for this. Murdering your wife isn't exactly on the list of good husband attributes, but I simply can't take it anymore. I can't take her anymore. And divorce won't work. She'd get half of everything I own if I'm lucky. Knowing her and the lawyers she hires to vet her hit pieces and character attacks, I'd be mincemeat in seconds. Not that I don't have my own army of lawyers. When you acquire IP like I do, you have to get your hands dirty. And when I say acquire, I mean to rip from their creators' hands with extreme prejudice. And by hands dirty, I mean crushing them under my venture capital boot. Making sure they not only can't come after me later, but that they actually thank me for not doing worse. Something on your mind? Her eyes stay firmly on the road. She doesn't even bother to look at me, even though she somehow thinks there's something on my mind, if she only knew. Nope. All good, sweetheart. Just thinking how lovely it'll all be when we get to the cabin and have some peace and quiet all to ourselves. Allison doesn't reply. Well, not right away.

Speaker 3:
[04:01] Yes.

Speaker 1:
[04:02] About that. I manage to keep the anger and disappointment out of my voice, but I let a little creep in so that she knows I'm somewhat upset. Too much, and she might suspect I have ulterior motives. I wouldn't put it past her, but the woman has a sixth sense when it comes to duplicity. About what? What's wrong? Nothing's wrong. Nothing is wrong, Michael. Don't go into panic mode immediately. I'm not panicking. I'm asking what is wrong. As in, what are you about to tell me that is going to ruin our weekend alone? Allison sighs. She shakes her head, and I can tell she's formulating what to say to me so that it has the most impact, but also paints her as the wronged one. You know how hard I have been working on the Mitchell story, right? That scoop we got from the Whistleblower last month? Oh, I know about it. It's all she talks about. During dinner and bed and the shower, when she's on the toilet. Mitchell, Mitchell, Mitchell. God, I'll be so happy when I never hear that name cross her lips again. Hell, I'll be happy when I hear nothing cross her lips. Right. The story about the sex-trafficking ring hidden in plain sight at that upstate golf club. That's the one. Her eyes narrow, and I worry that I've played it a little too ignorantly. Then she shakes her head, and I realize that her narrowed eyes were because she pities me and my lesser intellect. Yeah, well, we'll see just how smart she is when she's falling off a 200-foot cliff. Or instead, when she accidentally drowns in the hot tub. Or maybe she drinks too much wine, takes too many sleeping pills, and falls asleep in the claw-foot tub the unsweet bathroom boasts to have. Or I could just shoot the bitch. That works too. Yes, Michael, that's the one. I'm glad you have been paying attention. I pat her leg again. I try. It's hard to keep up with all your exploits. Exploits like Jurgen, her Austrian trainer, and from what I can tell, Thursday night lover. Like hell she's going to book club. Book club doesn't stink of smell-maxing douchebag and nasty sex. Or maybe it does, and I read the wrong books. Ah, baby, you'll be just as successful one day. How is that investment pitch for that indie movie studio going? Landed the deal yet? She knows I haven't. She knows that the deal is falling apart. She knows all of this. It can't help but plunge the knife into my guts and twist, while still keeping both hands on the steering wheel. Getting close. I'm sure they'll agree to our investment offer any day now. Of course they will, baby. We sit in silence for a few moments. I stare out at the fir trees streaming by. So what's this about the whistleblower and our weekend? Allison seems surprised that I remembered what she said only a few moments ago. Damn, she really does underestimate me at all costs, doesn't she? Ah, right. Well, the whistleblower insists on meeting me personally, but not in public or anywhere we could even possibly be recognized. Easy for them to be anonymous, but not so easy for me since my face is too well known. I doubt I could go to a Buc-ee's in the middle of Nebraska without someone pointing me out. Do they have Buc-ee's in Nebraska? How would I know? I've never stepped inside one of those places in my life. This coming from the woman who admittedly didn't have running water until she was five years old, or shoes until she was eight, and her best friends growing up were a king snake that lived under the family shack and a stuffed squirrel her grandpa bought her one day. Just a joke, hon. Just a joke. I know. The sharp defensiveness in her voice forces me to cover my mouth with a hand to conceal my smirk. I fake a yawn and stretch. Don't get sleepy now, baby. We have a full afternoon waiting for us. Yeah, because she took over the itinerary the second I mentioned booking us a trip. Gone are the relaxing times in the hammocks, quickly replaced by a short, in her words, ten mile hike up to some lookout. That's ten miles one way. Gone is the lazy boat ride out to the middle of the lake that the cabin sits above. That's been switched out for water skiing with a hired boat driver, so we can ski in tandem. Even though I have told her multiple times that I don't water ski and have no desire to learn, but it'll be so much fun, she insisted. So we'll bashing her head in with a fire poker. Although, like with a gun, I probably shouldn't do something so hard to cover up. The cleanup alone makes it an unworthy form of killing her, but one can fantasize. My huge breakfast of eggs and bacon and pancakes and mimosas is now yogurt and fruit bowls with organic granola sweetened with stevia, accompanied by herbal tea. Steaks on the grill are now baked fish in the oven with fingerling potatoes, not the massive bakers I'd planned for. Don't get me started on the complete lack of bourbon that we brought. Wouldn't want our fun time to be ruined by a hangover, she'd said. Yeah, well, wouldn't want your face to be ruined by a frying pan. Hmm, frying pan. I bet I could get away with that. Yeah, I could make that look like an accident somehow. Won't be a bother. Michael, are you even listening to me?

Speaker 3:
[09:45] Hmm? What?

Speaker 1:
[09:47] I was telling you about the whistleblower, but you were obviously elsewhere. No, no. Go ahead. Sorry. I was just thinking about maybe skinny dipping at midnight. How's that sound? She finally glances over at me, and if looks could kill, then she slowly returns her attention to the road. Skinny dipping? You didn't hear a word I said. It's going to be hard to skinny dip while we have a guest. I may expose corporations and government conspiracies, but I'm not exposing my breasts to a stranger. Ah, crap. I really did miss something important. I gulp, knowing I'm about to get a face full of Allison rage. Okay, sorry. Can you start from the beginning? What's this about a guest? Allison's frustrated sigh could have filled the sails of a hundred ship armada. I said that the whistleblower wants to meet somewhere private. I heard that part. Oh, good for you. The other part is that this cabin is the only likely place that will work. So thank you for setting this all up. She thanks me while at the same time telling me that our couple's getaway now has a third wheel. Classic. How long are they staying? A weekend? There's bitterness in my voice. And it is 100% real. I don't care about our couple's weekend, of course, but I do care about how a third wheel really puts a wrench in my plans. They'll be staying until I can convince them to talk on the record. Once I have that, they can be on their way. Great. With your abilities, they'll be agreeing by lunchtime tomorrow. With any luck, it'll be by dessert tonight. I nod and smile. Yep. With any luck. We take a curve, and my breath catches in my throat. The view of the valley below is spectacular. Allison doesn't seem to notice. She hugs the road and accelerates into the next curve, leaving the view behind. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out. It's my assistant, Lucy. She also happens to be my co-conspirator. I can't plan to murder my wife all by myself. How can I? Picture this. It's late at night. 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That's shopify.com/dns. Allow me to ruin the mood for just a second. You know that store-bought coffee sitting in your kitchen? It was roasted months ago, and every day it gets a little more lifeless. NoSleep coffee is different. We use specialty-grade beans, roast them to order, and ship them out fast. So what hits your cup is bold, rich, and terrifyingly fresh. Stop settling for stale coffee. Head to nosleepcoffee.com and grab a bag roasted just days before it reaches your door. Be sure to use promo code NoSleep20 to get 20% off your first order. That's nosleepcoffee.com. Promo code NoSleep20. All items are in place, hidden perfectly in the spots we agreed on. It will be a complete surprise to her. It's our code. It sounds like I'm planning something romantic for Allison. When in reality, it's about the different weapons that Lucy has secreted around the cabin, so that I have plenty of options when opportunity arises. Yes, a gun is included in those items. Potential mess or not, I need to be prepared for all contingencies. Great. Thank you so much. I got you something special for all this hard work. It's a gift that is over and above our agreed upon compensation. You didn't have to do that. You are already being more than generous. It's my pleasure, but I can always take it back. Just don't look in your fridge until I get back, okay? My fridge? I watch the dots roll and wiggle, knowing that she'll figure it out. Wait, did you get me a cake from Wallifers? I grin. Lucy is a sharp one, that's for sure. Damn, you're good. Remind me never to play poker with you. And, yes, I got you that chocolate ganache cake you love. The one I ordered for your birthday last year. The dots roll and wiggle. Disappear, then roll and wiggle again. Good thing I'm getting that promotion and bump in pay, because I'm going to eat that entire cake when I get home, and I'll need the extra income to afford a new gym membership, lol. I give her an lol back. Even though I told her not to look, I knew she would look. I really do hope she does eat that whole cake. I'll worry less, knowing that the peanut oil I injected into the middle of the cake will do its trick. If she eats the whole thing, then all that oil goes in her, triggering anaphylactic shock from her severe peanut allergy. I'll hate to lose Lucy, but I am sure her parents will get a big, huge settlement when they sue the bakery for the wrongful death of their daughter. Who are you texting with? I'm Lucy. She's prepping for the presentation on Wednesday and had a question. She's not going to be there, is she? Who? Lucy? Beware. At the cabin. Why would she be at the cabin? Because you can barely get anything accomplished without her. Ouch. That dig hits a little too close to home, but I shrug it off. No, she's not going to be there. Allison nods, and we ride the rest of the way in silence. When we pull up to the cabin, which is really a two-story, 4,000-square-foot log house with all of the amenities, Allison actually smiles. Not bad. Looks better than the online pictures. They should fire whoever is in charge of the listing. It doesn't do the place credit. She's even more marveled by the interior. Not cheap, as she puts it. We unpack our luggage, and Allison chucks her phone. He'll be here in ten minutes, I frown. He? He who? The whistleblower, Michael. The whistleblower is a he? You didn't mention that. I am sure I did. And why does it matter? Unless you were hoping for a woman so you could have that threesome you've always wanted. What? I've never wanted a threesome. Allison rolls her eyes and walks away, headed into the kitchen. I turn to look out of the bay windows, taking in the view of the lake. I hear the wine opener whir to life behind me, followed by the distinct sound of a cork popping. Then Allison joins me by the window, a glass of white wine in her hand. I keep my cool, wondering if this bottle is the one that Lucy spiked. I need to see the label to be sure. Care for a sip? She offers me her glass. No, no, I'll get my own. Hmm, smells delicious. Allison eyes me, then takes a sip and nods.

Speaker 3:
[17:50] It is.

Speaker 1:
[17:52] Her eyes stay on me for a bit longer, then she shifts to take in the lake. The pictures don't do justice to the view either. Nope. I go and check the wine bottle. No, it's not the one I had Lucy spike. That's still in the wine cooler on the kitchen counter. I pour a glass of the safe wine and return to Allison's side. We sip in silence. I sweep my gaze over the lake, tracking the ducks flying close to the water before they land in front of a dock on the far side, barely visible anymore. Then I watch them quickly paddle under the dock, gone into the shadows. Smart ducks.

Speaker 3:
[18:33] What?

Speaker 1:
[18:34] Oh, were you watching them too? Allison smirks. I can see it out of the corner of my eye. I was, but I was mostly watching the predator clocking them. She turns to me, sips her wine and smiles. I never miss a predator. I laugh and look over at her, suddenly nervous. What does she mean by that? Is she onto me? No, no, she can't be. I have been so careful. She doesn't suspect a thing, I'm sure of it. Never miss a predator? What are you talking about? The bald eagle circling the lake. It took off from its nest before you returned with your wine. The ducks got lucky that they reached the dock before the eagle could swoop down and pick one off.

Speaker 3:
[19:20] Eagle?

Speaker 1:
[19:21] I scan the lake and then see the brown and white dot flying lazy circles above the dock where the ducks are hiding. Oh, cool. I didn't know there were bald eagles around here, did you? Allison snorts and walks off, letting me know without words that yes, she knew bald eagles were in this area, and also that I am a stupid idiot for asking. Allison can say a lot with a snort. I can't wait to kill her. A text chimes and I instantly go for my phone in my pocket, but it's not me. Who's that? Allison doesn't answer, forcing me to turn away from the window and face her, just like she wants. Damn it. She doesn't look up from her phone as her thumbs type, type, type away. Allison, who is it? The whistleblower. He's taken the first turn. Should be here in five minutes, Tops. Well, it's a good thing he's getting here early. Maybe you can convince him to do whatever it is you want him to do, and then he can leave. So we still have the weekend together. Maybe make dessert, like you said in the car. Wouldn't that be nice? It sure would. Hard to murder your wife with a witness present. I'm going to go rinse off from the drive, change into something more comfortable. Allison frowns, looking me up and down. You're wearing jeans and a rugby shirt, Michael. How much more comfortable do you need to get? Sweats and a T-shirt more comfortable. Allison's frown deepens. Well, we have a guest? It's my turn to frown. Hardly a guest, sweetheart. Guests are invited. Without another word, I go to the stairs and head up to our bedroom. As soon as I close the door, I rush over to the bedside table and pull it away from the wall. My hand slaps at the dusty cobwebby back, but finds nothing. What the hell? I need to text Lucy. Hey, where is the party favor that goes pop? I wait for her response, but don't see any dots wiggling. Lucy, I need to know now. There should have been a pistol behind that bedside table. A small 22 that could easily be tossed into the lake, or wiped down and dropped outside after I heroically chase off our fictional attacker. I know, I know the mess, but as I said, I need to be prepared. And having a gun on me while some strange man is in the house feels prepared. But there's no gun, and Lucy isn't answering my texts. Shit, maybe she already got home and had herself a slice of death cake. Damn, she could be lying dead on her kitchen floor right now, with chocolatey foam dripping out of her mouth, dead as a doornail. Not that I know what a doornail is. I just heard it said in all those old noir movies I watched to prepare for how to kill Allison. You can learn a lot about murdering your spouse from those old movies, you know. I see another bedside table on Allison's side and hurry over to it just as I hear gravel crunching under tires. The damn whistleblower is here.

Speaker 3:
[22:31] Shit, shit, shit!

Speaker 1:
[22:33] There's a window above the bedside table, and I ease the curtain back enough to see a bland sedan pull into the driveway and park just behind our car. Why the hell would he do that? There are like four other spaces to park in. Now he's blocking us in. Well, blocking me in, since Allison won't be going anywhere if I can help it. I let the curtain fall back and yank the bedside table away from the wall. I slap at the back. No gun! Damn it! Pushing the table back into place, I ease the curtain aside once more and see a tall man, good looking and great shape, get out of the sedan and go around to the trunk, where he pulls a carry-on bag out. I guess someone assumes he's staying over. I'm about to let my anger build when I suddenly feel ice cold. The man's light jacket shifts to the side and I get a clear view of the holster with a pistol in it under his arm. Oh crap! Why the hell is the whistleblower packing? Is he that scared someone is coming for him? Seems extreme to have a weapon in a shoulder holster. I'd have kept it in my carry-on bag if I were him. Yeah, well, at least he has a pistol. I can't seem to find mine. I text Lucy again. Damn it Lucy, answer me! A guest has arrived and I need that party favor! Still no wiggling dots, still no response. I shove my phone into my pocket and think for a second. I go back to the curtain and just catch sight of the whistleblower as he approaches the cabin's front door below. He suddenly glances up and I jerk back, hoping he didn't see me. Michael, are you coming down?

Speaker 3:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 1:
[25:10] There's a tone in Allison's voice that I don't like at all. Instantly, my defenses come up. She's hiding something, I can tell. Then a thought hits me. Allison immediately thought to use this cabin trip to her advantage by inviting the whistleblower here. But what if it's all bullshit? What if the guy down there isn't a whistleblower at all? The image of that shoulder holster pops into my head. Oh shit, he's not a whistleblower, he's a goddamn hitman! Allison is going to have me killed! I spin in a circle, panicking. Yeah, she's totally going to have me killed, I know it! She'll make it look like someone broke in and killed me! I bet she will even have the guy wing her or shoot her in the leg to move suspicion off of her! She can say that it was a random dude or that he was hired by one of her enemies, or even hired to kill the whistleblower who conveniently never showed up! Oh man, I am dead, dead, dead, dead. I need a weapon. Getting my shit together, I slip into the ensuite bathroom and hurry to the sink. Crouching down, I open the cabinet under the sink and reach up, hoping to find another of the hidden weapons. But there isn't one. I slap my hand around again, then pull out my phone and shine the flashlight into the cabinet, searching every inch for the large hunting knife I told Lucy to stash there. Nothing, just some bottles of cleaning supplies and extra soap. There's a loud knock behind me, and I scream, dropping my phone as I fall back on my ass. Jesus Michael, relax. I was just coming up to tell you our guest has arrived. She looks from me to the open cabinet. What are you doing? Nothing, just making sure we have enough toilet paper. Her eyes move to a tasteful wicker basket on the back of the commode, filled with rolls of extra TP. Weren't you going to rinse off and change? Changed my mind. You're right, I'm comfy enough. Okay, well, whatever you are doing, finish it up and come downstairs. Don't be rude to our guest. Yeah, sure, no problem, be right down. She gives the TP basket a second look, shakes her head, then turns and walks away. I let out a breath and scrambled to my feet. Then I head out of the bathroom and over to the walk-in closet. Yanking the door open too hard, I nearly put a dent in the wall from the handle. I stop, center myself, and then move carefully into the closet. Going up on my toes, my hand feeling along the top shelf, searching for the stun baton I told Lucy to put there. Back and forth I go, my hand blindly searching every inch of that shelf. What the hell? There is nothing up there except for extra blankets and pillows. I am about to go find a stool and double check, but Allison shouts from downstairs. Michael, we have company! Oh man, I am dead. The second I walk down there, that guy is going to pull that pistol, put it to my forehead and pull the trigger, splattering my brains across some very nice hardwood furniture. Maybe I'll get to see that wonderful view before I have my head blown off. No, I can't think this way. I brought Allison up here so I can kill her, not the other way around. I am the predator, me! But the three weapons that were supposed to be stashed here are not here. I check my phone again, but Lucy is still ghosting me. We're dead. I keep forgetting that part. I did inject peanut oil into her cake after all. Okay, new plan. I look around, hoping to see a weapon I can use. Then my eyes fall on an old set of golf clubs tucked into the corner of the walk-in closet. There's a bucket of balls next to it, probably so guests can drive balls off the deck and out into the lake. It actually sounds like fun, but I'm going to need one of the clubs for a much different game. A deadly game. Plucking a wood out of the bag, I weigh it in my hands. Nah, woods are usually hollow in the head, and I need something solid. I put the wood back and grab an iron instead. It's a two iron, and the shaft is much too long. I need something short I can grip, like a baseball bat. So I toss the two back in, and find a nine iron instead. I'm not much of a golfer, but I bet I can get a hole in one of their heads pretty easily with this baby. I laugh at my little joke, hold the iron behind my back and leave the bedroom, headed for the stairs. Voices drift up from below when I reach the landing. Allison laughs as I descend to the ground floor. Stop. You are too kind. No, it's true. I read your website from top to bottom every day. Best news on the internet, I say. Well, I appreciate that. They have their backs to me, each sitting on a stool at the Kitchen Island, wine glasses in hand as they face the lake. Good. This is perfect. The Hitman won't see me coming. And I know that's what he is. I feel it in my bones. He's no whistleblower. Oh no, he's a hired gun that I bet my wife has probably used before. She is ruthless like that. A couple of years ago, one of her media rivals was run over by an Uber. I still think she planned that. It would be just like her to take out a rival with a ride share. Taking slow, careful steps, I make sure the stairs don't squeak. When I reach the ground floor, I pause and wait. Neither has noticed me. I can do this. I can save myself. Then I realize just how perfect this is. I get to kill the Hitman, then kill Allison. Blame it on the Hitman, and I'll be in the clear. It's self-defense. The perfect crime just fell into my lap. Taking a deep breath, I lift the iron over my head and rush at the Hitman, bringing it down as hard as I can onto his head. Except Allison shifts on her stool, seeing me at the last second and screams, causing the Hitman to turn just enough that the golf club glances off his cheek and slams into his shoulder. The man cries out and collapses onto the floor. He goes for his pistol, but I swing again and hit his wrist. The crack of bones echoes through the cabin, as the gun skitters across the hardwood, lost under the grand leather couch. I raise the club once more, ready to bash the Hitman's head in. Michael, you idiot, stop! Why? So your hired gun has another chance to try to kill me? Nice try, sweetheart. But this weekend is about me taking you out. You don't get the upper hand this time. Allison shakes her head and smiles. Then she sits back down on her stool and picks up her wine glass, just as the cabin's front door bursts open and a swarm of police officers come rushing in, guns drawn. Put the golf club down now, put it down! I stand here. The club's still over my head, a bleeding and moaning man at my feet. I glance down and see something interesting. The man has a badge clipped to his belt. My eyes go to Allison, who is smiling so hard I think her cheeks will split apart. I'm sorry, Michael. What was that about you taking me out this weekend? Drop the damn golf club and get on your knees! The barrels of the officer's pistol stares at me like accusatory black eyes. My head nods, my chin falling to my chest as I drop the golf club and comply. My knees hit the hardwood, and a dozen blue uniforms swarm me. I swivel my head and look up at Allison as I'm being cuffed. When did you know? Lucy called me and told me everything. She was worried you'd try to kill her, too, to tie up loose ends. I'd never do that! Allison laughs. They already have the cake, Michael. She sighs so exaggeratedly that I can't help but roll my eyes. You never could execute, Michael. It's just so sad. I deserve better, don't you think? I'm yanked up onto my feet by my arms and dragged out of the cabin to a waiting cruiser. My wife follows, still with that glass of wine in her hand. I look back and see her leaning against the doorframe, her shit-eating grin the largest I've ever seen her wear, and that woman can fill out a shit-eating grin. Giving me a perfunctory wave, she then pulls out her phone and starts texting. I bet she's going to tell that Austrian trainer to come join her up here now that I'm out of the picture. Man, I really did blow this, and from the start apparently. As I'm driven away from the cabin, I realize that being arrested isn't the shitty part of all of this. It's that my wife is right. Again. But, hey, I hear you can arrange spousal murders from inside prison if you know the right people. I'll have to look into that for sure. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.