July 16, 2025 • 53 mins
Two young girls. A quiet Indiana trail. A haunting video.
And the three chilling words:
“Guys… down the hill.”In this week’s ReWired episode, Dani takes the reigns and rips the veil off one of the most disturbing and heavily speculated true crime cases of our time — the Delphi Murders.
We know the names: Abby Williams and Libby German.
We’ve seen the sketch. We’ve heard the voice.
But have we really understood the story?🔥 In this immersive and brutally honest deep-dive, Dani dissects more than just the facts — we tear into the why, the how, and the hidden rot beneath the surface.
Because this case is not just about a killer hiding in the trees — it’s about a town grappling with silence, a justice system fumbling the flashlight, and a media machine feeding off suspense and speculation.🧠 What you'll explore this episode:
And the question isn’t just “Who did it?” —
…it’s “Why did everything else fail?”
And the three chilling words:
“Guys… down the hill.”In this week’s ReWired episode, Dani takes the reigns and rips the veil off one of the most disturbing and heavily speculated true crime cases of our time — the Delphi Murders.
We know the names: Abby Williams and Libby German.
We’ve seen the sketch. We’ve heard the voice.
But have we really understood the story?🔥 In this immersive and brutally honest deep-dive, Dani dissects more than just the facts — we tear into the why, the how, and the hidden rot beneath the surface.
Because this case is not just about a killer hiding in the trees — it’s about a town grappling with silence, a justice system fumbling the flashlight, and a media machine feeding off suspense and speculation.🧠 What you'll explore this episode:
- The emotional timeline of the crime – moment by moment, through Libby’s own courageous digital footprint
- The psychology of performative violence – what happens when killers want to be seen?
- The failures of transparency and control – why law enforcement's handling of this case lit a firestorm of online theories
- The dark echo chambers of internet sleuthing – and how the hunt for truth can sometimes bury it deeper
- The dangers of delayed justice – and the cost of waiting while a community quietly implodes
And the question isn’t just “Who did it?” —
…it’s “Why did everything else fail?”
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:08):
Hello, true crime lovers, Welcome back to the Guilty Files
True Crime Rewired, the podcast where we take one crime,
two perspectives, and create endless intrigue. I'm Danny, your guide
for the second act of this case, where we take
the hard facts from earlier this week and twist them
into something unexpected, daring, and just a little wicked. Think
(00:30):
of me as your pilot through the tangled web of
true crime, with the side of sass and a dash
of drama to keep you hooked. At the Guilty Files
True Crime Rewritten, we believe every crime has two sides
to the story, and every listener deserves the thrill of both.
So sit back, lean in, and let's rewrite the narrative.
(00:52):
Because true crime isn't just meant to be solved, It's
meant to be explored. Let's get started. Welcome to the
Guilty Files True Crime Rewired, where we don't just reopen
(01:15):
old case files, we cut through them like a scalpel.
I'm Danny, your host, your provocateur, your friendly neighborhood mindbender,
and today we're stepping back into one of the most
haunting double homicides in American true crime, the Delphi murders.
If you join my co host Brian Over on the
Guilty Files, uncovered earlier this week on Monday, then you
(01:37):
already know the chilling factual timeline of how two middle
school girls, Abigail Williams and Liberty German, were murdered on
a hiking trail in Delphi, Indiana in twenty seventeen. You
know about the cell phone video, you know about Bridge Guy.
But here on Rewired, we're asking something different, what really
(01:57):
happened and what did we miss? Let me be clear
right off the jump, what you're about to hear is hypothetical.
It's a dramatization, a thought experiment. We are not rewriting
the facts of the case. We are rewiring how we
process them. This is the kind of mental gymnastics I
(02:17):
used to run in the back of a patrol car
after a particularly messed up call, the kind you do
when you have a sociology degree, a psychology degree, and
five years of law enforcement trauma rattling around in your
skull like a loose bullet casing. Today, we explore nine
(02:38):
fictionalized threads inspired by the real case. Some of them
could have happened, others maybe not, but all of them
reveal something about our justice system, our society, and ourselves.
So buckle up now before we run wild with the
what ifs and the dear God, can you imagine snaros,
(03:00):
Let's pump the brakes and ground ourselves because we're not
in fantasy land just yet. Brian, our ever factual co
host and forensic fact dropper, already walked you through this
case step by step, over and uncovered. And if you
haven't listened to that, I'll forgive you, but only if
you promise to go back and get your homework done later.
(03:21):
That said, even here on Rewired, we don't play games
with the truth. We start with the facts, then we
break them open like a cold case file at three
am in a flickering interrogation room. So let's revisit what
really happened briefly, clearly, and without the sugarcoating, because what
(03:41):
happened to Libby and Abbey deserves to be remembered in
full clarity. It was President's Day, February thirteenth, twenty seventeen,
in Delphi, Indiana, the kind of sleepy little town that
barely makes a ripple on a map, but that day
the ripple turned into a tidal wave. Two best friends,
(04:03):
thirteen year old Abby Williams and fourteen year old Libby German,
did what teens do on a rare, warm winter day
with no school. They hit the trails, the Monon high
Bridge Trail to be exact, an old, rusty railroad bridge
turned instagram worthy hiking spot known more for its creaky
(04:25):
beauty than any real danger. They were dropped off by
Libby's sister, Kelsey, and planned to meet up with Libby's
dad later, but they never made it back. What followed
was a nightmare, and I mean the kind that sinks
into your bones. When they were reported missing later that day,
(04:46):
the whole town turned out. Hopes were high, maybe they
were just lost, maybe their phones had died. But the
next day everything shattered. Their bodies were found not far
from where they vanished, on private land, tucked away in
the woods, and what police uncovered at that scene was brutal.
(05:08):
We're talking staging, we're talking redressed bodies. We're talking full
blown horror film level depravity. And here's where things get
chillingly modern. Libby, in a move that still gives me goosebumps,
pulled out her phone. She recorded the man stalking them.
(05:28):
She recorded his voice. She documented her own murder in
progress like a fourteen year old damn hero. That recording
gave us the infamous bridge guy grainy video muted voice,
guys down the hill four words that became a national obsession.
But despite having a video of the killer, the case
(05:50):
stalled for years. It took five long years and one
misfiled tip finally surfacing to land on a suspect, Richard Allen,
a local Guy CVS employee, hiding in plain sight. And
when the arrest finally came, so did the confessions, more
than sixty of them. Some say reliable, others say unhinged.
(06:15):
Alan was convicted in twenty twenty four, sentenced to one
hundred thirty years. And yet even with the verdict, so
many of us are still sitting here asking did we
really get the whole truth? Was there more in the
woods that day? Was allan acting alone? Was justice truly served?
(06:35):
Or just dressed up real pretty and rolled out for
the courtroom. So, now that we've dusted off the facts,
sharpened our pencils, and reminded ourselves why this case still
haunts every true crime addict with a pulse, let's get weird.
We're going to push past the headlines and into the shadows.
(06:56):
We'll go through nine acts, musing how things might have
turned out differently. Each act explores a what if, a
hidden angle, or a buried possibility. These aren't just tangents.
They are psychological pressure points, sociological hot wires. They tell
us something about the world that produced this crime and
(07:17):
the one that responded to it. Because what really happened
is terrifying, but what might have happened, that's where it
gets disturbing. Let's rewire it. Let's start this off with
a little administrative horror story. Not the kind with ghosts
or shadows, but the kind with paperwork, misspelled names, misfiled tips,
(07:41):
the kind of thing that makes you scream you had
one job into the void. Welcome to Act one, the
lost tip. Picture this a municipal office in Carroll County, Indiana,
late September twenty twenty two. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The
walls are that classic government beige, like someone tried to
(08:03):
suck the joy out of drywall. There's the faint smell
of burnt coffee and ancient toner. Somewhere in the corner,
a printer whinds like it's crying for help and sitting
in the eye of this bleak little storm. Marla sixty
one years old, retired librarian, widow and part time volunteer
(08:25):
at the Sheriff's Department. Because she misses being useful. She
wears orthopedic shoes and a puffy vest that rustles when
she moves. Her reading glasses hang from a cord around
her neck, and her hands tremble slightly, not from age,
but from too much decalf and too many years of
(08:46):
being underestimated. Now here's what people don't know about Marla.
She's meticulous, methodical, a woman who filed every book in
her library, not just by Dewey decimal, but by into wit.
She didn't just organize shelves. She understood systems, human systems,
and systems She'll tell you, are only as good as
(09:09):
the people who use them, which is why when she
opened Box forty eight a from the Tip Archive, a
box supposedly cleared back in twenty seventeen, her stomach dropped.
It was a feeling she hadn't had since she found
her late husband's oxygen tank unplugged in the middle of
(09:30):
the night. That quiet, sinking something's wrong that older women
carry like a sixth sense. Inside the box was a
single intake sheet spelled wrong Alan Richard. It had been
flagged as a duplicate lead and logged incorrectly. Instead of
(09:51):
getting forwarded to detectives, it got rubber banded to a
stack of unrelated noise. The case file had been sitting
in the dark weight like a loaded gun with the
safety off. And this is where the story could have
ended had it not been for Marla's anxiety ridden curiosity
and librarian induced habit of checking twice. She didn't just
(10:15):
file the paperwork. She started asking questions. Why was this
name familiar? Why did she remember seeing it on the
pharmacy rotation? Why had nobody circled back to this guy?
She started compiling names, dates, shift logs from the Delphi cvs.
(10:36):
She printed out customer loyalty receipts like a woman possessed,
not because she fancied herself some vigilante Sherlock Holmes, but
because the system had let something slide. And when she
brought it to the attention of a junior investigator, he
told her we'll get to it eventually. Eventually. I've worked
in a department, where eventually means never and we'll look
(11:00):
into it means drop it and pray they forget. So
believe me when I say Marla's frustration was righteous. So
she did what any woman with good instincts and nothing
to lose would do. She made copies, Then she made
phone calls. Then she went to the press, and within
two weeks everything unraveled. Richard Allen the man recorded on
(11:23):
Libby Jerman's phone Bridge Guy, a local pharmacist, a face
they'd all seen, and no one had questioned until the
retired librarian cracked the spine on a dead file. Let's
talk about obsession, not the kind you see in true
crime tiktoks. This isn't aesthetic. This is the gnawing, gut
(11:45):
deep need to finish a puzzle you didn't ask to start.
People like Marla, they don't become obsessed because they're nosy.
They become obsessed because they notice, because their brains refuse
to let loose end go. And in this case, her
obsession saved the entire case from becoming a cold file
(12:07):
buried under bureaucracy. What this act reveals is damning. It's
not the evil that hides in the woods that scares me.
It's the failure that festers in fluorescent lit offices, the
quiet violence of a system that doesn't double check the
way we assign power to titles and authority to uniforms.
(12:30):
And forget that competence has nothing to do with a badge.
Ask any beat cop who's been hung out to dry
by a paper pushing captain more interested in politics than people.
Ask me, I've seen sloppy leadership cost us a real
time information botched Intel even lives this. This wasn't a
(12:51):
flaw in technology. It was a human error, one that
sat for five years and robbed two families of closure.
And let's not forget. Marla wasn't just a random savior.
She was grieving, lonely, carrying the quiet ache of a
long marriage that ended in silence. She wasn't chasing justice
(13:11):
for a reward. She was trying to fill a silence
inside herself. There's something deeply human in that. So the
next time someone rolls their eyes at a retiree who
triple checks your receipt at the grocery store, you thank her,
because one day she might just catch the thing that
everybody else missed And isn't that the real story here?
(13:33):
That justice didn't arrive in a cruiser with sirens. It
creaked open in a dusty filebox, flipped by trembling hands
and read through bifocals that saw what no one else could.
That's what I mean when I say the system didn't
catch Richard Allen. A woman with nothing left to prove
(13:53):
did so. Let that sink in. One misspelled name, one
misfiled form. One woman who noticed what could have been
solved in twenty seventeen got buried until twenty twenty two.
And if that's not a reason to question the trust
the system narrative, I don't know what is now. If
(14:15):
that was just the clerical error, you're not ready for
what's next. Let's go deeper, all right, Zoom out with
me for a second, Because what if this wasn't his
first rodeo? What if the monster was out practicing before
he finally struck. Yeah, let that chill run down your spine.
(14:36):
What if the murders of Abby and Libby weren't the
first time Richard Allen hunted the Delphi Trails. Welcome to
Act two. Bridge Guy's first attempt Picture It twenty fifteen,
A seventeen year old girl hiking alone. A man follows her.
(14:57):
She senses him, here's footsteps. She turned her phone camera
on just in case, but nothing happens. He stops leaves.
Speaker 2 (15:06):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. We'll be
right back.
Speaker 1 (15:09):
After these messages, she thinks she imagined it. Her parents
chalk it up to paranoia. But when the bridge guy
photo goes viral in twenty seventeen, her stomach drops. In
our fictionalized version, she's in therapy years later PTSD nightmares.
(15:30):
Her therapist encourages her to revisit the trail. She does
and finds something she dropped that day, a phone case.
It sparks a memory, a detail. The man wore a
blue car heart jacket, the same one Allan was arrested with.
What if the first attempt failed and no one believed her.
Our act to sociology check in is this there's a
(15:54):
pattern of ignoring women's early warnings in our culture, from
dismissed harassment claims to downplayed stalking reports. We have to
ask how many warnings do we overlook before it's too late?
And our act to psych insight is that trauma repression
is real and so is memory resurfacing under stress. This
(16:16):
angle explores how victims of near miss crimes often carry guilt, confusion,
or shame despite surviving. If only someone had listened to
that survivor. But we don't like messy stories. We like headlines.
We like closure until it's too late and someone else
ends up in the woods. Let's talk about proximity, about
(16:39):
how sometimes the person who was closest to the crime
scene isn't just a witness. They're a living, breathing breadcrumb
of something bigger. And in this case, that bread crumb
was a big sister. Welcome to Act three. The sister
who knew her name is Kelsey Jerman, and if you've
heard this case before, you know that name. She was
(17:03):
the last person to see Libby alive. The ride, the
drop off, the turnaround, the moment that echoes forever. But
here on rewired, we ask, what if that wasn't the
end of her involvement. What if the sister knew more
than even she realized. Let's imagine this version. It's twenty
(17:25):
twenty three years after Libby was taken. Delphi is still small,
still quiet, but the silence is sharper now every passing
truck feels like it's moving too fast. Every stranger's face
gets cataloged and side eyed, and every CVS receipt, Yeah
(17:46):
that too. Kelsey's working part time at Purdue and helping
her mom out with Aeron's. She avoids the bridge now,
won't even say the name out loud. But there's this day,
just a regular Tuesday. When she's picking up a prescription
for her roommate. She walks into the Delphi CVS and
it hits her like deja vus with a knife. The
(18:07):
man behind the counter mid forties, friendly, but something's off.
He's polite in that manufactured way, like someone trying to
imitate normal. And then he says, your last name's German, right,
You related to Liberty? Just the way he says it,
that name, flat, mechanical, like it's memorized. She nods stiffly,
(18:31):
doesn't even look up, just signs the receipt and walks
out like her legs are made of wet wood. Now
here's where it gets eerie. That night, she pulls out
an old journal, one of those grief notebooks her therapist suggested.
She flips through the early pages therapy speak, dreams, memories,
(18:51):
and there it is a journal entry from February twenty seventeen,
two days after the murders. She wrote down a dream
where Libby whispered, he was right behind you. At the time,
it meant nothing, symbolic pain, brain, grief, fog. But now
(19:14):
Kelsey remembers the man at CVS wasn't a stranger. She'd
seen him before, back then standing outside the pharmacy when
she picked up makeup wipes and Libby was waiting in
the car. You sure you girls are okay out here alone,
he asked. Not creepy, not aggressive, just present, just there.
It clicks like glass cracking. She wasn't just the last
(19:37):
to see Libby, she might have been the last to
see him too. Let's talk about trauma linked memory resurfacing.
This isn't Hollywood amnesia. It's not a Eureka moment. It's slow,
it's slippery. Trauma berries detail not because it wants to
protect us, but because the brain chooses survive over clarity.
(20:02):
That's biology, that's neuroscience. But years later, a scent, a voice,
a face, it can break the dam. And that's exactly
what might have happened to Kelsey. Now, let's layer in
societal guilt because in cases like these, we love heroes
or villains, but the in betweeners, the people who were
(20:24):
adjacent to tragedy, we don't know what to do with them,
so we ignore them, or worse, we pressure them to
carry the narrative. Kelsey became a symbol of strength. She
spoke at vigils, she rallied for justice. But what if
she was also shouldering a question no one dared to ask.
Did I see the killer and not realize it. That's
(20:48):
not a burden, that's a psychological landmine. Here's something else
the average listener might not know. In real life police procedure,
early interviews often lack follow up unless there's immediate evidence
to justify it. You don't interrogate the grieving sibling unless
(21:08):
you've got something solid. But maybe someone should have. Not
because she was guilty, but because she might have been
a witness and not even know it yet. And this
isn't me armchair quarterbacking. This is me telling you I've
seen good officers get tunnel vision, and I've seen great
officers waste opportunities because their superiors were more worried about
(21:29):
optics than outcomes. Kelsey didn't fail the case, the system
failed her memory. I mean, really, how many TV detectives
would have caught that detail and act one right? But
in the real world, we don't get flashbacks. We get grief,
we get silence, We get the CVS counter and a
(21:50):
man who maybe was rehearsing his alibi while handing you
your zertech. Kelsey's story is more than tragic proximity. She's
a state for all of us who've wondered if we
missed something, a look, a sound, a question we should
have asked but didn't. Her pain doesn't need to be mythologized,
(22:10):
it needs to be heard. So maybe the sister didn't
just give Libby a ride to the trail. Maybe without
knowing it, she drove straight past the devil and gave
him a nod on the way out. And that that's
a detail the official story never got around to. Let's
keep going because if you think that's uncomfortable, wait till
(22:32):
you hear what the confessions might have meant. All right,
it's time to stir the pot. Because if you've ever said, well,
he confessed, case closed, I've got a bridge to sell you,
or in this case, a railroad trestle. Welcome to act
for the confession that wasn't. Let's rewind to the moment.
Richard Allen starts confessing not once, not twice, but over
(22:56):
sixty times to his wife, his mom, the warden, inmates, psychologists,
anyone who'd listen. And sure, that sounds like guilt, right,
But what if I told you not all confessions are real.
Let's reframe the scene. Allan in solitary, withering, mentally, starved
(23:18):
for human contact, cut off from the rhythm of reality,
and then, somewhere in that isolation tank of the soul,
his mind starts blending memory with story, shame with suggestion,
reality with repetition. He starts owning what maybe he didn't
do because it gives the chaos in his head a script,
(23:41):
because believing he's the monster is less terrifying than believing
he's nothing at all. False confessions aren't just about coercive
interrogations and bright lights. They can bloom in the dark
when someone's been broken down by environment, guilt, trauma, or delusion.
Isolation doesn't just create silence, it can manufacture belief. In
(24:06):
Alan's case, the mind we're dealing with might not have
been processing guilt. It might have been producing it. That's
not a defense, that's a reality. And as someone who's
seen people say anything after forty eight sleepless hours in
a concrete box, I'll tell you right now, confession isn't
(24:26):
always confirmation. We love the cinematic scene where the killer
folds sobbing at the table, finally cracking under pressure, cue
the emotional music. But real procedure doesn't work like that,
and shouldn't hinge on someone's broken psyche handing us the
script we want to hear. Alan's legal team argues his
(24:48):
mental state deteriorated in custody, that he started confessing after
being held in prolonged isolation, that his reality fractured long
before trial. And if that's true, we have to ask
did he confess because he was guilty or because he
was lost. Here's the thing. Justice isn't just about catching
(25:09):
a killer. It's about knowing for sure that the right
person is behind bars. And if the cornerstone of your
case is a man muttering I did it in a
padded cell after months of mental collapse, then we might
not be solving crimes. We might just be scripting them.
Next up, Act five, the iPhone that spoke, Because if
(25:32):
you think that little piece of tech already told us everything.
Think again. Let's reimagine the timeline. It's early twenty twenty five.
Trial is wrapped, Richard Allen is behind bars, closure is
technically served. But a junior analyst at a private forensic lab,
let's call him Cruise, gets his hands on the full
(25:53):
forty three second video, not the clipped version the public saw,
not the jury friendly edit, all of it. Now, Cruz
is one of those hyper focused tech guys, a DHD
with a hard drive neurodivergent brilliance. He's been training AI
models to isolate micro frequencies in drone surveillance audio for
(26:16):
government contracts, and now he's applying that to Libby's file
for a personal side project. Because Cruz has a sister
about Libby's age, and this case it got under his skin.
He scrubs the audio frame by frame frequencies most ears
would miss. What he finds a whisper, not bridge guy's voice,
(26:37):
another one lighter, scared mail, half a word cut off.
He rewinds, slows the frame, zooms in, adjusts the lighting matrix,
and there reflected in the glass of Libby's phone screen
for half a second. Is a second silhouette behind the
trees behind him, two figures, not one. Here's where it
(27:00):
gets thorny. Our brain's love closure. We crave tidy endings,
villains and handcuffs. Good guys in court, one monster to blame,
But psychologically that simplicity is seductive not accurate. When we
latch onto a single suspect, we shut the door to complexity.
(27:20):
And maybe that's what happened here. Maybe the narrative of
Bridge Guy was so powerful, so terrifying, that no one
wanted to consider he might have had help from a
societal lens. This is where technology and trust collide. Libby's
phone became an artifact of truth. But truth is a
(27:41):
funny thing. It evolves. What was invisible to twenty seventeen
investigators might be unmistakable in twenty twenty five. The question
is do we have a system that wants to keep
evolving or one that locks the case file the moment
a jury says guilty. When institutions prize closure over truth,
(28:03):
innovation becomes the enemy of certainty. Let's be real. We
want to believe that justice is final, that once the
gavel drops, it's over. But what if Libby's phone wasn't
done talking. What if it's still screaming into the dark,
waiting for someone, anyone to hit enhance. And if there
was a second man in the woods that day, then
(28:25):
justice is still buffering. The phone spoke once, and we
heard it, but maybe we weren't ready to listen to
what else it was saying. Next up Act six, DNA
in the dirt, because what's buried at the crime scene
doesn't always stay dead. DNA is the shiny badge of
modern justice, the stuff courtroom dreams are made of. Let's
(28:50):
dig into the dirt literally. We fast forward to a
future where tech has leaped forward, clustered, regularly, interspaced, palindromic repeats,
mitochondrial tracing, AI driven touch DNA stuff that makes old
school forensics look like finger painting with a magnifying glass.
(29:11):
In this dramatized version, a new private firm reanalyzes fibers
from the girl's clothing pushed through enhanced DNA mapping not
available in twenty seventeen or even twenty twenty two. And
what they find isn't Richard Allen. It's a partial mitochondrial
match male unknown, not a contamination error. Too consistent and
(29:36):
not a random passerby either. The sequence pops up again
on the hem of Libby's hoodie and on the laces
of Abby's sneaker. Now here's the kicker. Allan never denies
being on the trail, but in this version, the new
DNA turns that confession theory inside out, because the science
is telling us someone else was there, someone who didn't
(30:01):
get caught, someone who never confessed.
Speaker 2 (30:05):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. We'll be
right back after these messages.
Speaker 1 (30:13):
Let's pause on how the human brain handles this kind
of disruption. When we're presented with new evidence that challenges
a belief we've already emotionally invested in, like a guilty verdict,
it causes cognitive dissonance, and our instinct isn't curiosity, it's defensiveness.
(30:33):
We double down on the original story even if it
no longer fits. That's not stupidity, that's psychology. It's protective, predictable,
and extremely dangerous in criminal justice because when science says, wait,
we missed something, we should lean in, not dig in.
(30:53):
This is also a system problem. We don't build criminal
investigations to evolve, We build them to conclude. Once a
conviction lands. The system is incentivized to stay closed, appeal
courts are jammed, labs are underfunded, and new science it's
treated like a threat, not a tool. So when something
as objective as DNA says you got it wrong or
(31:16):
at least incomplete, the legal machine doesn't always listen because
it doesn't want to. And here's where I get fired up.
In theory, justice is blind. In practice, she squints at
the lab report, shrugs and says, too late. But truth
doesn't care about your docket or your verdict. It sits
(31:38):
in the dirt, on the laces, in the fabric, waiting.
If the DNA is pointing at someone else, then the
story we've told ourselves about Delphi might not be wrong.
It might just be incomplete. Coming up Act seven, inside
(31:58):
the mind of a killer wife, because if the system
missed something this big, who else saw something and stayed silent?
They say, you always hurt the ones you love, But
what if you also hide from them? What if the
person you wake up next to for twenty years was
hiding a monster under the skin. Let's talk about Kathy Allen,
(32:23):
real woman, real wife, real life, shattered by what her
husband confessed to now. In the public story, Kathy is
presented as blindsided, shaken, a woman who believed the man
she married could never be the voice behind guys down
the hill. And maybe that's true, But in this dramatized version,
(32:46):
we look at what might have been going on behind
the scenes, because trust me, in my experience, wives know things,
maybe not the full picture, but something, something that itches
under the skin, that never quite fits. So here's how
it plays out. It's twenty twenty one summer, Indiana, air
(33:09):
thick enough to chew Cicada's buzzing like static. Kathy's folding
laundry in the quiet little house they've lived in for
fifteen years. Beige siding, cracked driveway, wind chimes that sound
like guilt. She opens Richard's dresser drawer and finds something
odd wedged between flannel shirts, a small wooden box. She's
(33:33):
never seen it before. Inside a bullet, a forty caliber round, unspent, clean,
heavy in her palm. Tucked underneath it, a folded slip
of paper with a line scrawled in his handwriting. The
bridge is quietest before two PM. Her stomach twists. She
(33:55):
doesn't confront him, not then, but she remembers back in
two thousand seventeen, the week of the murders, Richard came
home with mud on his boots. He said he'd gone
out to fish, but he didn't bring home a poll.
She remembers something else too. He took her car and
he never takes her car. For weeks, she pushed the
(34:18):
thoughts away, told herself it was nothing. But now the
news is buzzing, a leaked audio clip, a full video,
and the voice on the TV. It sounds like Richard,
too much like Richard. Here's what we know about spousal suspicion.
From a psychological standpoint, people don't jump to conclusions about
(34:39):
loved ones. The human brain protects attachment. We rationalize, normalize, minimize,
especially in women raised in conservative or traditional households, where
confrontation is discouraged and standing by your man is a
badge of honor. Cathy didn't lie to herself because she
(35:01):
was weak. She lied because believing the truth would have
burned her entire identity to the ground. In that kind
of denial, it's not cowardice, it's survival. This is where
sociology gives us context. Wives of violent men walk a
social tightrope. They're expected to either know everything or be
(35:23):
innocent victims. No middle ground, but that middle space it's real.
It's where women live with suspicion they can't prove. It's
where they battle between protecting their families and trusting their
own instincts. Kathy Allen wasn't a villain, she wasn't a saint.
She was a woman trying to keep her life intact
(35:45):
while the ground underneath her was rotting. And society doesn't
give women like her much room to be anything but silent.
I've interviewed women like Kathy. Some came forward, some didn't.
The one thing they all had in common. They saw something,
not always the act, but the darkness around it, the
(36:06):
weird mood, the cryptic behavior, the moment their husband came
home just slightly off, and they carry that with them
forever because the world either blames them or forgets them.
But here on Rewired, we don't forget. We interrogate the
in between. Maybe Kathy didn't pull the trigger, but she
(36:29):
pulled the thread, and once that thread unraveled, so did
everything else. Coming up next Act eight, the van that
changed everything. Because sometimes the most damning witness doesn't even
know what they saw. Sometimes the truth hides in plain sight.
Other times it's sitting in the backseat of a contractor
(36:53):
van buried in thirty seven gigabytes of dashcam footage no
one ever bothered to. Let's spin a what if one
that's more believable than you'd like to admit. We're back
on February thirteenth, twenty seventeen, Delphi, Indiana, and while Abby
and Libby are making their way across the Monon high Bridge,
(37:14):
a white van, work worn, dented, contractor decals peeling from
the heat, rumbles slowly down a gravel access road near
the trailhead. It's driven by a guy named Dean Miller,
mid forties local, just trying to wrap up a late
roof repair before the sun disappears. Dean's got a dash
cam installed by the company insurance compliance. He never thinks
(37:39):
about it. It records, it rolls, it forgets, and as
he glances out the passenger side window he sees something
two girls a man walking behind them. At the time,
he thinks that's weird, but brushes it off. He's late
for dinner, his wife's already called twice. He never connects
the dots, never watches the footage. The dash cam rolls
(38:02):
over the scene and then records birthday parties, deer crossings,
and tailgaters for the next eight years until one day,
March twenty twenty five, his teenage sons uploading go pro
footage from a camping trip, clears out the van's hard
drive and says, Dad, what's this. They watch the grainy clip, pause, rewind,
(38:26):
and there it is a timestamp two thirteen PM. Two
girls walking in the trees and a second figure, not
the one behind them, someone else in the brush flanking
the trail watching. They freeze the frame. Let's talk about
memory versus recorded truth. Eyewitness testimony is garbage. You heard
(38:50):
me garbage. The brain is terrible at precise recall, especially
under stress or distraction, but when we capture objective data
like dashcam footage, it bypasses the brain's protective edits Dean
saw something, but it was the technology that remembered it,
and when he realizes what he sat on the shame,
(39:13):
the horror, the guilt, its psychological ruin. This isn't just
I saw something weird once. This is I had the
missing puzzle piece and I threw it in the junk
drawer for eight years. Here's the part that really makes
me want to scream into a policy memo. When Dean
turns over the footage, the reaction isn't open arms its resistance.
(39:38):
Prosecutors say the trials over the narrative is complete. There's
no legal framework for reopening without a direct legal challenge. Translation,
the system doesn't want to revisit justice once it's already
printed the press release, and you wonder why people stop cooperating.
This is a classic example of instante tutional rigidity. The
(40:01):
law likes its cases clean and finite, but human life,
human crime, it's messy, evolving, and technology, especially now, is
going to outpace legal process every single time. What we
have here isn't a problem of evidence. It's a problem
of ego. When systems care more about preserving legitimacy than
(40:25):
pursuing truth, people like Dean become liabilities, not assets. I've
seen this happen in traffic cases, in assaults, in murder trials.
Someone comes forward with a new tip or footage and
instead of thank you, they get why didn't you come
forward sooner? Because we train people to fear the system,
(40:48):
not trust it. Dean didn't fail the case. The system
failed its ability to change course, and somewhere in that
footage is the second figure we were never supposed to see.
One van, one frame, one overlooked witness, and a justice
system that said, let's just leave that buried. But not here,
(41:13):
not on rewired. Coming up next Act nine, The Watcher
in the woods. Because sometimes the truth doesn't wear a badge.
Sometimes it sleeps under the trees. We've spent this episode
following threads digital psychological procedural. Now we end where it
all began, not in a courtroom, not on a phone,
(41:36):
but in the woods. He was never interviewed, He didn't
show up on any witness list, didn't post in any
Facebook groups, didn't light a candle at the vigil. But
he was there. In this dramatized version, we call him Elias,
late sixties gray beard, former rail worker turned recluse after
(41:57):
a work site injury left him disfigured and drifting. Elias
lives just outside Delphi, deep in the brush, tucked behind
the old switching yard. If you hiked the trails often enough,
you might have seen his camp, or maybe not. He
lives quiet, off the grid, watches the world from the
(42:18):
tree line and on February thirteenth, twenty seventeen. He saw something,
not the murders. He wasn't that close, but he saw
the girls. He saw him. He watched the man trail
them across the bridge, watched his posture, the way he
(42:39):
scanned the woods, not the trail, And just before they
disappeared down the hill, Elias caught a flash of something else,
another figure, a second man moving behind the brush, coordinated, silent.
Elias didn't come forward, not because he didn't care, but
because he'd tried that once years ago, in another town,
(43:02):
reported a drug deal, got roughed up by cops who
thought he was part of it, Lesson learned, so he
stayed quiet until the trial, until Alan's name was read
aloud in court, and Elias recognized it not from the news,
from the trail from that day, from the shape of
(43:23):
the man's walk, the way he turned his head like
he was checking for someone behind him, not the girls,
someone else. So Elias writes it down a long letter,
includes a hand drawn sketch. He's good with charcoal, delivers
it in a Manila envelope to the courthouse steps. But
(43:44):
no one responds. No one calls, because Elias in the
eyes of the system doesn't count. Let's talk about the
invisibility of marginalized witnesses. There's something called testimonial injustice in
social psychology, the idea that certain people's experiences are automatically
(44:05):
discounted because of who they are. Their credibility is filtered
through bias, homelessness, mental illness, age, poverty. Elias didn't lack memory,
he lacked status and sociologically, this is the cost of
a society that defines value by visibility. We elevate experts, influencers,
(44:29):
the loud, and the credentialed, but we ignore the people
closest to the ground, the ones who see without being seen.
What does it say about us that a man who
lives off grid in the woods, watching the world like
a ghost, had the clearest line of sight to the
crime and was dismissed. It says the system has blind spots,
(44:53):
and people like Elias live right inside them.
Speaker 2 (44:57):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. Will be
right back after these messages.
Speaker 1 (45:05):
I've talked to people like Elias. Hell, I've walked past
them on my old beat, sometimes stepping over them to
chase down a call. I didn't always look twice didn't
always listen, and maybe they noticed more than we ever
gave them credit for. So we end with a man
who saw and a system that refused to see him.
(45:27):
Because justice doesn't just depend on who speaks, It depends
on who gets heard. Invisible people see everything, but when
we write the story we leave them out. Maybe it's
time we started listening to the ones on the edges
of the page. And that that brings me to a
story I've never told on Mike, a story from my
(45:47):
patrol days in Atlanta, because, let me tell you, the
streets they've got their own version of Delphi, only nobody
puts it on the news. So let me take you back.
It's one forty seven am somewhere off Boulevard in southeast Atlanta,
near the edge of my beat. The call comes through
as a suspicious person, possibly mentally ill, behind the liquor store.
(46:13):
Classic throw away call. I'm alone. That's how most nights are.
Atlantic ped units don't have partners, just solo cars, a radio,
and a prayer. So I roll up quiet, headlights off engine,
low streets, empty stores dark, just the wind rattling some
broken blinds in a second story window. I round the
(46:36):
back of the building, past the loading dock, and there
he is a man in layers of mismatched clothing, long
gray coat looks like it used to be someone's church best,
blanket wrapped around his legs, perched on an overturned milk crate,
like a preacher with no congregation. He's rocking gently, talking
(46:57):
to no one. I step out, hand on my life light,
not my weapon. I know the drill. I've done this
call one hundred times. Usually ends with a name check,
maybe a ride to Grady Psyke, maybe just a warning.
But this one's different because the second I step closer,
the man stops rocking, looks up at me and says,
(47:18):
you're too late. The girl's already gone, just like that
cold quiet, like he's delivering a fact I should already know.
And for a second, my stomach turns because we didn't
say anything about a girl on the call. I ask
him what he means. He points past the fence, toward
(47:39):
the creek that cuts behind the back lot. Then he says,
the man with the shaky walk and the blue coat
he was here earlier, said he was hunting. Now on paper,
that means nothing but standing there in the dark with
the cicadas screaming in the liquor store, lights buzzing, and
(48:01):
this man not blinking. It hits different. I ask his name.
He tells me he doesn't have one, says names are
for people who still matter. I run him through GCIC.
No warrants, just a string of field contacts, mental health flags,
and public disturbance notes. Nothing actionable. I check the creek,
(48:23):
I check the lot. I don't find anything. No girl,
no signs of a struggle, just the kind of quiet
that makes you doubt your own instincts. I clear the call,
complete the field contact form, and drive off. But I
swear to you he knew something, And the way he
said hunting still lives in the back of my mind
(48:46):
like a half finished sentence. Now, let me be real
with you. That call never went anywhere, no follow up,
no report filed beyond the basics, because technically nothing happened.
But the way that man looked through me, the way
he described someone he should never have seen. It's the
(49:08):
same chill I felt reading about the second figure in Delphi,
the one nobody talks about, the one who never made
it into the sketch, and the man behind the liquor
store He's just like Alias, not crazy, not useless, just
invisible and invisible people they see everything. A few weeks
(49:29):
after developing a working relationship, the same man actually gave
me some highly valuable intel about a pimp I was
trying to press charges on for multiple assaults. So when
I say this case hit home for me, I don't
mean because I've seen something like it. I mean because
I've felt it. That's silence, that moment where something awful
(49:52):
already happened and all you're left with is a man
in the dark saying you're too late. Let's bring it home.
Let's talk about what we've learned and what still lingers
in the woods. Because after nine acts, countless what ifs,
and a trail of breadcrumbs that refuses to rot, there's
(50:13):
one final thing to say. So where does that leave us.
We've followed shadow trails through nine alternate doors. We've questioned timelines,
unraveled testimony, dug into silence, and dared to believe invisible
people might hold the loudest truths. And if you've made
(50:34):
it this far with me, then maybe you feel it too,
that gnawing sense that justice is never a straight path.
It loops it detours, it doubles back on itself, like
a bad alibi in the dark. Because justice isn't just
about catching the killer. It's about recognizing the systems, the silences,
(50:57):
the subplots, the human mess underneath the headline. This case,
Abby and Libby was never just about who did it.
It was about who we fail to hear, who we
rush to believe, and who we forget until it's too late.
Maybe the scariest thing isn't that monsters exist. It's that
(51:18):
we keep designing systems that help them disappear into plain sight.
And if that doesn't keep you up at night, you
weren't really listening. But hey, we're not done yet, not
by a long shot. Come back Friday for the Guilty
Files Revisited, where Brian and I go toe to toe
and are co hosted takedown of this case. We'll compare notes,
(51:39):
challenge each other's theories, and break down what this story
really means for the victims, the system, and for us.
It's opinionated, it's punchy, it's personal, and trust me, you
don't want to miss it until then. I'm Danny, your
detective of doubt, your tour guide through the fog and
(52:01):
your favorite slightly unstable truth junkie. This was the Guilty Files,
True Crime rewired, where we don't just ask what happened,
we ask what did we miss? Stay sharp, stay skeptical,
and if you see a man behind a liquor store
whispering prophecy into the dark, pull over and listen. See
(52:23):
you Friday. Good Night,
Hello, true crime lovers, Welcome back to the Guilty Files
True Crime Rewired, the podcast where we take one crime,
two perspectives, and create endless intrigue. I'm Danny, your guide
for the second act of this case, where we take
the hard facts from earlier this week and twist them
into something unexpected, daring, and just a little wicked. Think
(00:30):
of me as your pilot through the tangled web of
true crime, with the side of sass and a dash
of drama to keep you hooked. At the Guilty Files
True Crime Rewritten, we believe every crime has two sides
to the story, and every listener deserves the thrill of both.
So sit back, lean in, and let's rewrite the narrative.
(00:52):
Because true crime isn't just meant to be solved, It's
meant to be explored. Let's get started. Welcome to the
Guilty Files True Crime Rewired, where we don't just reopen
(01:15):
old case files, we cut through them like a scalpel.
I'm Danny, your host, your provocateur, your friendly neighborhood mindbender,
and today we're stepping back into one of the most
haunting double homicides in American true crime, the Delphi murders.
If you join my co host Brian Over on the
Guilty Files, uncovered earlier this week on Monday, then you
(01:37):
already know the chilling factual timeline of how two middle
school girls, Abigail Williams and Liberty German, were murdered on
a hiking trail in Delphi, Indiana in twenty seventeen. You
know about the cell phone video, you know about Bridge Guy.
But here on Rewired, we're asking something different, what really
(01:57):
happened and what did we miss? Let me be clear
right off the jump, what you're about to hear is hypothetical.
It's a dramatization, a thought experiment. We are not rewriting
the facts of the case. We are rewiring how we
process them. This is the kind of mental gymnastics I
(02:17):
used to run in the back of a patrol car
after a particularly messed up call, the kind you do
when you have a sociology degree, a psychology degree, and
five years of law enforcement trauma rattling around in your
skull like a loose bullet casing. Today, we explore nine
(02:38):
fictionalized threads inspired by the real case. Some of them
could have happened, others maybe not, but all of them
reveal something about our justice system, our society, and ourselves.
So buckle up now before we run wild with the
what ifs and the dear God, can you imagine snaros,
(03:00):
Let's pump the brakes and ground ourselves because we're not
in fantasy land just yet. Brian, our ever factual co
host and forensic fact dropper, already walked you through this
case step by step, over and uncovered. And if you
haven't listened to that, I'll forgive you, but only if
you promise to go back and get your homework done later.
(03:21):
That said, even here on Rewired, we don't play games
with the truth. We start with the facts, then we
break them open like a cold case file at three
am in a flickering interrogation room. So let's revisit what
really happened briefly, clearly, and without the sugarcoating, because what
(03:41):
happened to Libby and Abbey deserves to be remembered in
full clarity. It was President's Day, February thirteenth, twenty seventeen,
in Delphi, Indiana, the kind of sleepy little town that
barely makes a ripple on a map, but that day
the ripple turned into a tidal wave. Two best friends,
(04:03):
thirteen year old Abby Williams and fourteen year old Libby German,
did what teens do on a rare, warm winter day
with no school. They hit the trails, the Monon high
Bridge Trail to be exact, an old, rusty railroad bridge
turned instagram worthy hiking spot known more for its creaky
(04:25):
beauty than any real danger. They were dropped off by
Libby's sister, Kelsey, and planned to meet up with Libby's
dad later, but they never made it back. What followed
was a nightmare, and I mean the kind that sinks
into your bones. When they were reported missing later that day,
(04:46):
the whole town turned out. Hopes were high, maybe they
were just lost, maybe their phones had died. But the
next day everything shattered. Their bodies were found not far
from where they vanished, on private land, tucked away in
the woods, and what police uncovered at that scene was brutal.
(05:08):
We're talking staging, we're talking redressed bodies. We're talking full
blown horror film level depravity. And here's where things get
chillingly modern. Libby, in a move that still gives me goosebumps,
pulled out her phone. She recorded the man stalking them.
(05:28):
She recorded his voice. She documented her own murder in
progress like a fourteen year old damn hero. That recording
gave us the infamous bridge guy grainy video muted voice,
guys down the hill four words that became a national obsession.
But despite having a video of the killer, the case
(05:50):
stalled for years. It took five long years and one
misfiled tip finally surfacing to land on a suspect, Richard Allen,
a local Guy CVS employee, hiding in plain sight. And
when the arrest finally came, so did the confessions, more
than sixty of them. Some say reliable, others say unhinged.
(06:15):
Alan was convicted in twenty twenty four, sentenced to one
hundred thirty years. And yet even with the verdict, so
many of us are still sitting here asking did we
really get the whole truth? Was there more in the
woods that day? Was allan acting alone? Was justice truly served?
(06:35):
Or just dressed up real pretty and rolled out for
the courtroom. So, now that we've dusted off the facts,
sharpened our pencils, and reminded ourselves why this case still
haunts every true crime addict with a pulse, let's get weird.
We're going to push past the headlines and into the shadows.
(06:56):
We'll go through nine acts, musing how things might have
turned out differently. Each act explores a what if, a
hidden angle, or a buried possibility. These aren't just tangents.
They are psychological pressure points, sociological hot wires. They tell
us something about the world that produced this crime and
(07:17):
the one that responded to it. Because what really happened
is terrifying, but what might have happened, that's where it
gets disturbing. Let's rewire it. Let's start this off with
a little administrative horror story. Not the kind with ghosts
or shadows, but the kind with paperwork, misspelled names, misfiled tips,
(07:41):
the kind of thing that makes you scream you had
one job into the void. Welcome to Act one, the
lost tip. Picture this a municipal office in Carroll County, Indiana,
late September twenty twenty two. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The
walls are that classic government beige, like someone tried to
(08:03):
suck the joy out of drywall. There's the faint smell
of burnt coffee and ancient toner. Somewhere in the corner,
a printer whinds like it's crying for help and sitting
in the eye of this bleak little storm. Marla sixty
one years old, retired librarian, widow and part time volunteer
(08:25):
at the Sheriff's Department. Because she misses being useful. She
wears orthopedic shoes and a puffy vest that rustles when
she moves. Her reading glasses hang from a cord around
her neck, and her hands tremble slightly, not from age,
but from too much decalf and too many years of
(08:46):
being underestimated. Now here's what people don't know about Marla.
She's meticulous, methodical, a woman who filed every book in
her library, not just by Dewey decimal, but by into wit.
She didn't just organize shelves. She understood systems, human systems,
and systems She'll tell you, are only as good as
(09:09):
the people who use them, which is why when she
opened Box forty eight a from the Tip Archive, a
box supposedly cleared back in twenty seventeen, her stomach dropped.
It was a feeling she hadn't had since she found
her late husband's oxygen tank unplugged in the middle of
(09:30):
the night. That quiet, sinking something's wrong that older women
carry like a sixth sense. Inside the box was a
single intake sheet spelled wrong Alan Richard. It had been
flagged as a duplicate lead and logged incorrectly. Instead of
(09:51):
getting forwarded to detectives, it got rubber banded to a
stack of unrelated noise. The case file had been sitting
in the dark weight like a loaded gun with the
safety off. And this is where the story could have
ended had it not been for Marla's anxiety ridden curiosity
and librarian induced habit of checking twice. She didn't just
(10:15):
file the paperwork. She started asking questions. Why was this
name familiar? Why did she remember seeing it on the
pharmacy rotation? Why had nobody circled back to this guy?
She started compiling names, dates, shift logs from the Delphi cvs.
(10:36):
She printed out customer loyalty receipts like a woman possessed,
not because she fancied herself some vigilante Sherlock Holmes, but
because the system had let something slide. And when she
brought it to the attention of a junior investigator, he
told her we'll get to it eventually. Eventually. I've worked
in a department, where eventually means never and we'll look
(11:00):
into it means drop it and pray they forget. So
believe me when I say Marla's frustration was righteous. So
she did what any woman with good instincts and nothing
to lose would do. She made copies, Then she made
phone calls. Then she went to the press, and within
two weeks everything unraveled. Richard Allen the man recorded on
(11:23):
Libby Jerman's phone Bridge Guy, a local pharmacist, a face
they'd all seen, and no one had questioned until the
retired librarian cracked the spine on a dead file. Let's
talk about obsession, not the kind you see in true
crime tiktoks. This isn't aesthetic. This is the gnawing, gut
(11:45):
deep need to finish a puzzle you didn't ask to start.
People like Marla, they don't become obsessed because they're nosy.
They become obsessed because they notice, because their brains refuse
to let loose end go. And in this case, her
obsession saved the entire case from becoming a cold file
(12:07):
buried under bureaucracy. What this act reveals is damning. It's
not the evil that hides in the woods that scares me.
It's the failure that festers in fluorescent lit offices, the
quiet violence of a system that doesn't double check the
way we assign power to titles and authority to uniforms.
(12:30):
And forget that competence has nothing to do with a badge.
Ask any beat cop who's been hung out to dry
by a paper pushing captain more interested in politics than people.
Ask me, I've seen sloppy leadership cost us a real
time information botched Intel even lives this. This wasn't a
(12:51):
flaw in technology. It was a human error, one that
sat for five years and robbed two families of closure.
And let's not forget. Marla wasn't just a random savior.
She was grieving, lonely, carrying the quiet ache of a
long marriage that ended in silence. She wasn't chasing justice
(13:11):
for a reward. She was trying to fill a silence
inside herself. There's something deeply human in that. So the
next time someone rolls their eyes at a retiree who
triple checks your receipt at the grocery store, you thank her,
because one day she might just catch the thing that
everybody else missed And isn't that the real story here?
(13:33):
That justice didn't arrive in a cruiser with sirens. It
creaked open in a dusty filebox, flipped by trembling hands
and read through bifocals that saw what no one else could.
That's what I mean when I say the system didn't
catch Richard Allen. A woman with nothing left to prove
(13:53):
did so. Let that sink in. One misspelled name, one
misfiled form. One woman who noticed what could have been
solved in twenty seventeen got buried until twenty twenty two.
And if that's not a reason to question the trust
the system narrative, I don't know what is now. If
(14:15):
that was just the clerical error, you're not ready for
what's next. Let's go deeper, all right, Zoom out with
me for a second, Because what if this wasn't his
first rodeo? What if the monster was out practicing before
he finally struck. Yeah, let that chill run down your spine.
(14:36):
What if the murders of Abby and Libby weren't the
first time Richard Allen hunted the Delphi Trails. Welcome to
Act two. Bridge Guy's first attempt Picture It twenty fifteen,
A seventeen year old girl hiking alone. A man follows her.
(14:57):
She senses him, here's footsteps. She turned her phone camera
on just in case, but nothing happens. He stops leaves.
Speaker 2 (15:06):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. We'll be
right back.
Speaker 1 (15:09):
After these messages, she thinks she imagined it. Her parents
chalk it up to paranoia. But when the bridge guy
photo goes viral in twenty seventeen, her stomach drops. In
our fictionalized version, she's in therapy years later PTSD nightmares.
(15:30):
Her therapist encourages her to revisit the trail. She does
and finds something she dropped that day, a phone case.
It sparks a memory, a detail. The man wore a
blue car heart jacket, the same one Allan was arrested with.
What if the first attempt failed and no one believed her.
Our act to sociology check in is this there's a
(15:54):
pattern of ignoring women's early warnings in our culture, from
dismissed harassment claims to downplayed stalking reports. We have to
ask how many warnings do we overlook before it's too late?
And our act to psych insight is that trauma repression
is real and so is memory resurfacing under stress. This
(16:16):
angle explores how victims of near miss crimes often carry guilt, confusion,
or shame despite surviving. If only someone had listened to
that survivor. But we don't like messy stories. We like headlines.
We like closure until it's too late and someone else
ends up in the woods. Let's talk about proximity, about
(16:39):
how sometimes the person who was closest to the crime
scene isn't just a witness. They're a living, breathing breadcrumb
of something bigger. And in this case, that bread crumb
was a big sister. Welcome to Act three. The sister
who knew her name is Kelsey Jerman, and if you've
heard this case before, you know that name. She was
(17:03):
the last person to see Libby alive. The ride, the
drop off, the turnaround, the moment that echoes forever. But
here on rewired, we ask, what if that wasn't the
end of her involvement. What if the sister knew more
than even she realized. Let's imagine this version. It's twenty
(17:25):
twenty three years after Libby was taken. Delphi is still small,
still quiet, but the silence is sharper now every passing
truck feels like it's moving too fast. Every stranger's face
gets cataloged and side eyed, and every CVS receipt, Yeah
(17:46):
that too. Kelsey's working part time at Purdue and helping
her mom out with Aeron's. She avoids the bridge now,
won't even say the name out loud. But there's this day,
just a regular Tuesday. When she's picking up a prescription
for her roommate. She walks into the Delphi CVS and
it hits her like deja vus with a knife. The
(18:07):
man behind the counter mid forties, friendly, but something's off.
He's polite in that manufactured way, like someone trying to
imitate normal. And then he says, your last name's German, right,
You related to Liberty? Just the way he says it,
that name, flat, mechanical, like it's memorized. She nods stiffly,
(18:31):
doesn't even look up, just signs the receipt and walks
out like her legs are made of wet wood. Now
here's where it gets eerie. That night, she pulls out
an old journal, one of those grief notebooks her therapist suggested.
She flips through the early pages therapy speak, dreams, memories,
(18:51):
and there it is a journal entry from February twenty seventeen,
two days after the murders. She wrote down a dream
where Libby whispered, he was right behind you. At the time,
it meant nothing, symbolic pain, brain, grief, fog. But now
(19:14):
Kelsey remembers the man at CVS wasn't a stranger. She'd
seen him before, back then standing outside the pharmacy when
she picked up makeup wipes and Libby was waiting in
the car. You sure you girls are okay out here alone,
he asked. Not creepy, not aggressive, just present, just there.
It clicks like glass cracking. She wasn't just the last
(19:37):
to see Libby, she might have been the last to
see him too. Let's talk about trauma linked memory resurfacing.
This isn't Hollywood amnesia. It's not a Eureka moment. It's slow,
it's slippery. Trauma berries detail not because it wants to
protect us, but because the brain chooses survive over clarity.
(20:02):
That's biology, that's neuroscience. But years later, a scent, a voice,
a face, it can break the dam. And that's exactly
what might have happened to Kelsey. Now, let's layer in
societal guilt because in cases like these, we love heroes
or villains, but the in betweeners, the people who were
(20:24):
adjacent to tragedy, we don't know what to do with them,
so we ignore them, or worse, we pressure them to
carry the narrative. Kelsey became a symbol of strength. She
spoke at vigils, she rallied for justice. But what if
she was also shouldering a question no one dared to ask.
Did I see the killer and not realize it. That's
(20:48):
not a burden, that's a psychological landmine. Here's something else
the average listener might not know. In real life police procedure,
early interviews often lack follow up unless there's immediate evidence
to justify it. You don't interrogate the grieving sibling unless
(21:08):
you've got something solid. But maybe someone should have. Not
because she was guilty, but because she might have been
a witness and not even know it yet. And this
isn't me armchair quarterbacking. This is me telling you I've
seen good officers get tunnel vision, and I've seen great
officers waste opportunities because their superiors were more worried about
(21:29):
optics than outcomes. Kelsey didn't fail the case, the system
failed her memory. I mean, really, how many TV detectives
would have caught that detail and act one right? But
in the real world, we don't get flashbacks. We get grief,
we get silence, We get the CVS counter and a
(21:50):
man who maybe was rehearsing his alibi while handing you
your zertech. Kelsey's story is more than tragic proximity. She's
a state for all of us who've wondered if we
missed something, a look, a sound, a question we should
have asked but didn't. Her pain doesn't need to be mythologized,
(22:10):
it needs to be heard. So maybe the sister didn't
just give Libby a ride to the trail. Maybe without
knowing it, she drove straight past the devil and gave
him a nod on the way out. And that that's
a detail the official story never got around to. Let's
keep going because if you think that's uncomfortable, wait till
(22:32):
you hear what the confessions might have meant. All right,
it's time to stir the pot. Because if you've ever said, well,
he confessed, case closed, I've got a bridge to sell you,
or in this case, a railroad trestle. Welcome to act
for the confession that wasn't. Let's rewind to the moment.
Richard Allen starts confessing not once, not twice, but over
(22:56):
sixty times to his wife, his mom, the warden, inmates, psychologists,
anyone who'd listen. And sure, that sounds like guilt, right,
But what if I told you not all confessions are real.
Let's reframe the scene. Allan in solitary, withering, mentally, starved
(23:18):
for human contact, cut off from the rhythm of reality,
and then, somewhere in that isolation tank of the soul,
his mind starts blending memory with story, shame with suggestion,
reality with repetition. He starts owning what maybe he didn't
do because it gives the chaos in his head a script,
(23:41):
because believing he's the monster is less terrifying than believing
he's nothing at all. False confessions aren't just about coercive
interrogations and bright lights. They can bloom in the dark
when someone's been broken down by environment, guilt, trauma, or delusion.
Isolation doesn't just create silence, it can manufacture belief. In
(24:06):
Alan's case, the mind we're dealing with might not have
been processing guilt. It might have been producing it. That's
not a defense, that's a reality. And as someone who's
seen people say anything after forty eight sleepless hours in
a concrete box, I'll tell you right now, confession isn't
(24:26):
always confirmation. We love the cinematic scene where the killer
folds sobbing at the table, finally cracking under pressure, cue
the emotional music. But real procedure doesn't work like that,
and shouldn't hinge on someone's broken psyche handing us the
script we want to hear. Alan's legal team argues his
(24:48):
mental state deteriorated in custody, that he started confessing after
being held in prolonged isolation, that his reality fractured long
before trial. And if that's true, we have to ask
did he confess because he was guilty or because he
was lost. Here's the thing. Justice isn't just about catching
(25:09):
a killer. It's about knowing for sure that the right
person is behind bars. And if the cornerstone of your
case is a man muttering I did it in a
padded cell after months of mental collapse, then we might
not be solving crimes. We might just be scripting them.
Next up, Act five, the iPhone that spoke, Because if
(25:32):
you think that little piece of tech already told us everything.
Think again. Let's reimagine the timeline. It's early twenty twenty five.
Trial is wrapped, Richard Allen is behind bars, closure is
technically served. But a junior analyst at a private forensic lab,
let's call him Cruise, gets his hands on the full
(25:53):
forty three second video, not the clipped version the public saw,
not the jury friendly edit, all of it. Now, Cruz
is one of those hyper focused tech guys, a DHD
with a hard drive neurodivergent brilliance. He's been training AI
models to isolate micro frequencies in drone surveillance audio for
(26:16):
government contracts, and now he's applying that to Libby's file
for a personal side project. Because Cruz has a sister
about Libby's age, and this case it got under his skin.
He scrubs the audio frame by frame frequencies most ears
would miss. What he finds a whisper, not bridge guy's voice,
(26:37):
another one lighter, scared mail, half a word cut off.
He rewinds, slows the frame, zooms in, adjusts the lighting matrix,
and there reflected in the glass of Libby's phone screen
for half a second. Is a second silhouette behind the
trees behind him, two figures, not one. Here's where it
(27:00):
gets thorny. Our brain's love closure. We crave tidy endings,
villains and handcuffs. Good guys in court, one monster to blame,
But psychologically that simplicity is seductive not accurate. When we
latch onto a single suspect, we shut the door to complexity.
(27:20):
And maybe that's what happened here. Maybe the narrative of
Bridge Guy was so powerful, so terrifying, that no one
wanted to consider he might have had help from a
societal lens. This is where technology and trust collide. Libby's
phone became an artifact of truth. But truth is a
(27:41):
funny thing. It evolves. What was invisible to twenty seventeen
investigators might be unmistakable in twenty twenty five. The question
is do we have a system that wants to keep
evolving or one that locks the case file the moment
a jury says guilty. When institutions prize closure over truth,
(28:03):
innovation becomes the enemy of certainty. Let's be real. We
want to believe that justice is final, that once the
gavel drops, it's over. But what if Libby's phone wasn't
done talking. What if it's still screaming into the dark,
waiting for someone, anyone to hit enhance. And if there
was a second man in the woods that day, then
(28:25):
justice is still buffering. The phone spoke once, and we
heard it, but maybe we weren't ready to listen to
what else it was saying. Next up Act six, DNA
in the dirt, because what's buried at the crime scene
doesn't always stay dead. DNA is the shiny badge of
modern justice, the stuff courtroom dreams are made of. Let's
(28:50):
dig into the dirt literally. We fast forward to a
future where tech has leaped forward, clustered, regularly, interspaced, palindromic repeats,
mitochondrial tracing, AI driven touch DNA stuff that makes old
school forensics look like finger painting with a magnifying glass.
(29:11):
In this dramatized version, a new private firm reanalyzes fibers
from the girl's clothing pushed through enhanced DNA mapping not
available in twenty seventeen or even twenty twenty two. And
what they find isn't Richard Allen. It's a partial mitochondrial
match male unknown, not a contamination error. Too consistent and
(29:36):
not a random passerby either. The sequence pops up again
on the hem of Libby's hoodie and on the laces
of Abby's sneaker. Now here's the kicker. Allan never denies
being on the trail, but in this version, the new
DNA turns that confession theory inside out, because the science
is telling us someone else was there, someone who didn't
(30:01):
get caught, someone who never confessed.
Speaker 2 (30:05):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. We'll be
right back after these messages.
Speaker 1 (30:13):
Let's pause on how the human brain handles this kind
of disruption. When we're presented with new evidence that challenges
a belief we've already emotionally invested in, like a guilty verdict,
it causes cognitive dissonance, and our instinct isn't curiosity, it's defensiveness.
(30:33):
We double down on the original story even if it
no longer fits. That's not stupidity, that's psychology. It's protective, predictable,
and extremely dangerous in criminal justice because when science says, wait,
we missed something, we should lean in, not dig in.
(30:53):
This is also a system problem. We don't build criminal
investigations to evolve, We build them to conclude. Once a
conviction lands. The system is incentivized to stay closed, appeal
courts are jammed, labs are underfunded, and new science it's
treated like a threat, not a tool. So when something
as objective as DNA says you got it wrong or
(31:16):
at least incomplete, the legal machine doesn't always listen because
it doesn't want to. And here's where I get fired up.
In theory, justice is blind. In practice, she squints at
the lab report, shrugs and says, too late. But truth
doesn't care about your docket or your verdict. It sits
(31:38):
in the dirt, on the laces, in the fabric, waiting.
If the DNA is pointing at someone else, then the
story we've told ourselves about Delphi might not be wrong.
It might just be incomplete. Coming up Act seven, inside
(31:58):
the mind of a killer wife, because if the system
missed something this big, who else saw something and stayed silent?
They say, you always hurt the ones you love, But
what if you also hide from them? What if the
person you wake up next to for twenty years was
hiding a monster under the skin. Let's talk about Kathy Allen,
(32:23):
real woman, real wife, real life, shattered by what her
husband confessed to now. In the public story, Kathy is
presented as blindsided, shaken, a woman who believed the man
she married could never be the voice behind guys down
the hill. And maybe that's true, But in this dramatized version,
(32:46):
we look at what might have been going on behind
the scenes, because trust me, in my experience, wives know things,
maybe not the full picture, but something, something that itches
under the skin, that never quite fits. So here's how
it plays out. It's twenty twenty one summer, Indiana, air
(33:09):
thick enough to chew Cicada's buzzing like static. Kathy's folding
laundry in the quiet little house they've lived in for
fifteen years. Beige siding, cracked driveway, wind chimes that sound
like guilt. She opens Richard's dresser drawer and finds something
odd wedged between flannel shirts, a small wooden box. She's
(33:33):
never seen it before. Inside a bullet, a forty caliber round, unspent, clean,
heavy in her palm. Tucked underneath it, a folded slip
of paper with a line scrawled in his handwriting. The
bridge is quietest before two PM. Her stomach twists. She
(33:55):
doesn't confront him, not then, but she remembers back in
two thousand seventeen, the week of the murders, Richard came
home with mud on his boots. He said he'd gone
out to fish, but he didn't bring home a poll.
She remembers something else too. He took her car and
he never takes her car. For weeks, she pushed the
(34:18):
thoughts away, told herself it was nothing. But now the
news is buzzing, a leaked audio clip, a full video,
and the voice on the TV. It sounds like Richard,
too much like Richard. Here's what we know about spousal suspicion.
From a psychological standpoint, people don't jump to conclusions about
(34:39):
loved ones. The human brain protects attachment. We rationalize, normalize, minimize,
especially in women raised in conservative or traditional households, where
confrontation is discouraged and standing by your man is a
badge of honor. Cathy didn't lie to herself because she
(35:01):
was weak. She lied because believing the truth would have
burned her entire identity to the ground. In that kind
of denial, it's not cowardice, it's survival. This is where
sociology gives us context. Wives of violent men walk a
social tightrope. They're expected to either know everything or be
(35:23):
innocent victims. No middle ground, but that middle space it's real.
It's where women live with suspicion they can't prove. It's
where they battle between protecting their families and trusting their
own instincts. Kathy Allen wasn't a villain, she wasn't a saint.
She was a woman trying to keep her life intact
(35:45):
while the ground underneath her was rotting. And society doesn't
give women like her much room to be anything but silent.
I've interviewed women like Kathy. Some came forward, some didn't.
The one thing they all had in common. They saw something,
not always the act, but the darkness around it, the
(36:06):
weird mood, the cryptic behavior, the moment their husband came
home just slightly off, and they carry that with them
forever because the world either blames them or forgets them.
But here on Rewired, we don't forget. We interrogate the
in between. Maybe Kathy didn't pull the trigger, but she
(36:29):
pulled the thread, and once that thread unraveled, so did
everything else. Coming up next Act eight, the van that
changed everything. Because sometimes the most damning witness doesn't even
know what they saw. Sometimes the truth hides in plain sight.
Other times it's sitting in the backseat of a contractor
(36:53):
van buried in thirty seven gigabytes of dashcam footage no
one ever bothered to. Let's spin a what if one
that's more believable than you'd like to admit. We're back
on February thirteenth, twenty seventeen, Delphi, Indiana, and while Abby
and Libby are making their way across the Monon high Bridge,
(37:14):
a white van, work worn, dented, contractor decals peeling from
the heat, rumbles slowly down a gravel access road near
the trailhead. It's driven by a guy named Dean Miller,
mid forties local, just trying to wrap up a late
roof repair before the sun disappears. Dean's got a dash
cam installed by the company insurance compliance. He never thinks
(37:39):
about it. It records, it rolls, it forgets, and as
he glances out the passenger side window he sees something
two girls a man walking behind them. At the time,
he thinks that's weird, but brushes it off. He's late
for dinner, his wife's already called twice. He never connects
the dots, never watches the footage. The dash cam rolls
(38:02):
over the scene and then records birthday parties, deer crossings,
and tailgaters for the next eight years until one day,
March twenty twenty five, his teenage sons uploading go pro
footage from a camping trip, clears out the van's hard
drive and says, Dad, what's this. They watch the grainy clip, pause, rewind,
(38:26):
and there it is a timestamp two thirteen PM. Two
girls walking in the trees and a second figure, not
the one behind them, someone else in the brush flanking
the trail watching. They freeze the frame. Let's talk about
memory versus recorded truth. Eyewitness testimony is garbage. You heard
(38:50):
me garbage. The brain is terrible at precise recall, especially
under stress or distraction, but when we capture objective data
like dashcam footage, it bypasses the brain's protective edits Dean
saw something, but it was the technology that remembered it,
and when he realizes what he sat on the shame,
(39:13):
the horror, the guilt, its psychological ruin. This isn't just
I saw something weird once. This is I had the
missing puzzle piece and I threw it in the junk
drawer for eight years. Here's the part that really makes
me want to scream into a policy memo. When Dean
turns over the footage, the reaction isn't open arms its resistance.
(39:38):
Prosecutors say the trials over the narrative is complete. There's
no legal framework for reopening without a direct legal challenge. Translation,
the system doesn't want to revisit justice once it's already
printed the press release, and you wonder why people stop cooperating.
This is a classic example of instante tutional rigidity. The
(40:01):
law likes its cases clean and finite, but human life,
human crime, it's messy, evolving, and technology, especially now, is
going to outpace legal process every single time. What we
have here isn't a problem of evidence. It's a problem
of ego. When systems care more about preserving legitimacy than
(40:25):
pursuing truth, people like Dean become liabilities, not assets. I've
seen this happen in traffic cases, in assaults, in murder trials.
Someone comes forward with a new tip or footage and
instead of thank you, they get why didn't you come
forward sooner? Because we train people to fear the system,
(40:48):
not trust it. Dean didn't fail the case. The system
failed its ability to change course, and somewhere in that
footage is the second figure we were never supposed to see.
One van, one frame, one overlooked witness, and a justice
system that said, let's just leave that buried. But not here,
(41:13):
not on rewired. Coming up next Act nine, The Watcher
in the woods. Because sometimes the truth doesn't wear a badge.
Sometimes it sleeps under the trees. We've spent this episode
following threads digital psychological procedural. Now we end where it
all began, not in a courtroom, not on a phone,
(41:36):
but in the woods. He was never interviewed, He didn't
show up on any witness list, didn't post in any
Facebook groups, didn't light a candle at the vigil. But
he was there. In this dramatized version, we call him Elias,
late sixties gray beard, former rail worker turned recluse after
(41:57):
a work site injury left him disfigured and drifting. Elias
lives just outside Delphi, deep in the brush, tucked behind
the old switching yard. If you hiked the trails often enough,
you might have seen his camp, or maybe not. He
lives quiet, off the grid, watches the world from the
(42:18):
tree line and on February thirteenth, twenty seventeen. He saw something,
not the murders. He wasn't that close, but he saw
the girls. He saw him. He watched the man trail
them across the bridge, watched his posture, the way he
(42:39):
scanned the woods, not the trail, And just before they
disappeared down the hill, Elias caught a flash of something else,
another figure, a second man moving behind the brush, coordinated, silent.
Elias didn't come forward, not because he didn't care, but
because he'd tried that once years ago, in another town,
(43:02):
reported a drug deal, got roughed up by cops who
thought he was part of it, Lesson learned, so he
stayed quiet until the trial, until Alan's name was read
aloud in court, and Elias recognized it not from the news,
from the trail from that day, from the shape of
(43:23):
the man's walk, the way he turned his head like
he was checking for someone behind him, not the girls,
someone else. So Elias writes it down a long letter,
includes a hand drawn sketch. He's good with charcoal, delivers
it in a Manila envelope to the courthouse steps. But
(43:44):
no one responds. No one calls, because Elias in the
eyes of the system doesn't count. Let's talk about the
invisibility of marginalized witnesses. There's something called testimonial injustice in
social psychology, the idea that certain people's experiences are automatically
(44:05):
discounted because of who they are. Their credibility is filtered
through bias, homelessness, mental illness, age, poverty. Elias didn't lack memory,
he lacked status and sociologically, this is the cost of
a society that defines value by visibility. We elevate experts, influencers,
(44:29):
the loud, and the credentialed, but we ignore the people
closest to the ground, the ones who see without being seen.
What does it say about us that a man who
lives off grid in the woods, watching the world like
a ghost, had the clearest line of sight to the
crime and was dismissed. It says the system has blind spots,
(44:53):
and people like Elias live right inside them.
Speaker 2 (44:57):
Stay tuned for more of the guilty files. Will be
right back after these messages.
Speaker 1 (45:05):
I've talked to people like Elias. Hell, I've walked past
them on my old beat, sometimes stepping over them to
chase down a call. I didn't always look twice didn't
always listen, and maybe they noticed more than we ever
gave them credit for. So we end with a man
who saw and a system that refused to see him.
(45:27):
Because justice doesn't just depend on who speaks, It depends
on who gets heard. Invisible people see everything, but when
we write the story we leave them out. Maybe it's
time we started listening to the ones on the edges
of the page. And that that brings me to a
story I've never told on Mike, a story from my
(45:47):
patrol days in Atlanta, because, let me tell you, the
streets they've got their own version of Delphi, only nobody
puts it on the news. So let me take you back.
It's one forty seven am somewhere off Boulevard in southeast Atlanta,
near the edge of my beat. The call comes through
as a suspicious person, possibly mentally ill, behind the liquor store.
(46:13):
Classic throw away call. I'm alone. That's how most nights are.
Atlantic ped units don't have partners, just solo cars, a radio,
and a prayer. So I roll up quiet, headlights off engine,
low streets, empty stores dark, just the wind rattling some
broken blinds in a second story window. I round the
(46:36):
back of the building, past the loading dock, and there
he is a man in layers of mismatched clothing, long
gray coat looks like it used to be someone's church best,
blanket wrapped around his legs, perched on an overturned milk crate,
like a preacher with no congregation. He's rocking gently, talking
(46:57):
to no one. I step out, hand on my life light,
not my weapon. I know the drill. I've done this
call one hundred times. Usually ends with a name check,
maybe a ride to Grady Psyke, maybe just a warning.
But this one's different because the second I step closer,
the man stops rocking, looks up at me and says,
(47:18):
you're too late. The girl's already gone, just like that
cold quiet, like he's delivering a fact I should already know.
And for a second, my stomach turns because we didn't
say anything about a girl on the call. I ask
him what he means. He points past the fence, toward
(47:39):
the creek that cuts behind the back lot. Then he says,
the man with the shaky walk and the blue coat
he was here earlier, said he was hunting. Now on paper,
that means nothing but standing there in the dark with
the cicadas screaming in the liquor store, lights buzzing, and
(48:01):
this man not blinking. It hits different. I ask his name.
He tells me he doesn't have one, says names are
for people who still matter. I run him through GCIC.
No warrants, just a string of field contacts, mental health flags,
and public disturbance notes. Nothing actionable. I check the creek,
(48:23):
I check the lot. I don't find anything. No girl,
no signs of a struggle, just the kind of quiet
that makes you doubt your own instincts. I clear the call,
complete the field contact form, and drive off. But I
swear to you he knew something, And the way he
said hunting still lives in the back of my mind
(48:46):
like a half finished sentence. Now, let me be real
with you. That call never went anywhere, no follow up,
no report filed beyond the basics, because technically nothing happened.
But the way that man looked through me, the way
he described someone he should never have seen. It's the
(49:08):
same chill I felt reading about the second figure in Delphi,
the one nobody talks about, the one who never made
it into the sketch, and the man behind the liquor
store He's just like Alias, not crazy, not useless, just
invisible and invisible people they see everything. A few weeks
(49:29):
after developing a working relationship, the same man actually gave
me some highly valuable intel about a pimp I was
trying to press charges on for multiple assaults. So when
I say this case hit home for me, I don't
mean because I've seen something like it. I mean because
I've felt it. That's silence, that moment where something awful
(49:52):
already happened and all you're left with is a man
in the dark saying you're too late. Let's bring it home.
Let's talk about what we've learned and what still lingers
in the woods. Because after nine acts, countless what ifs,
and a trail of breadcrumbs that refuses to rot, there's
(50:13):
one final thing to say. So where does that leave us.
We've followed shadow trails through nine alternate doors. We've questioned timelines,
unraveled testimony, dug into silence, and dared to believe invisible
people might hold the loudest truths. And if you've made
(50:34):
it this far with me, then maybe you feel it too,
that gnawing sense that justice is never a straight path.
It loops it detours, it doubles back on itself, like
a bad alibi in the dark. Because justice isn't just
about catching the killer. It's about recognizing the systems, the silences,
(50:57):
the subplots, the human mess underneath the headline. This case,
Abby and Libby was never just about who did it.
It was about who we fail to hear, who we
rush to believe, and who we forget until it's too late.
Maybe the scariest thing isn't that monsters exist. It's that
(51:18):
we keep designing systems that help them disappear into plain sight.
And if that doesn't keep you up at night, you
weren't really listening. But hey, we're not done yet, not
by a long shot. Come back Friday for the Guilty
Files Revisited, where Brian and I go toe to toe
and are co hosted takedown of this case. We'll compare notes,
(51:39):
challenge each other's theories, and break down what this story
really means for the victims, the system, and for us.
It's opinionated, it's punchy, it's personal, and trust me, you
don't want to miss it until then. I'm Danny, your
detective of doubt, your tour guide through the fog and
(52:01):
your favorite slightly unstable truth junkie. This was the Guilty Files,
True Crime rewired, where we don't just ask what happened,
we ask what did we miss? Stay sharp, stay skeptical,
and if you see a man behind a liquor store
whispering prophecy into the dark, pull over and listen. See
(52:23):
you Friday. Good Night,
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Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
New Heights with Jason & Travis Kelce
Football’s funniest family duo — Jason Kelce of the Philadelphia Eagles and Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs — team up to provide next-level access to life in the league as it unfolds. The two brothers and Super Bowl champions drop weekly insights about the weekly slate of games and share their INSIDE perspectives on trending NFL news and sports headlines. They also endlessly rag on each other as brothers do, chat the latest in pop culture and welcome some very popular and well-known friends to chat with them. Check out new episodes every Wednesday. Follow New Heights on the Wondery App, YouTube or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to new episodes early and ad-free, and get exclusive content on Wondery+. Join Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. And join our new membership for a unique fan experience by going to the New Heights YouTube channel now!