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- [00:01]
Carter Roy
Hi listeners, it's Carter. Before today's episode of Murder True Crime Stories, I want to tell you about another podcast I am hosting I know you'll love. Crime House and AE are teaming up on the podcast version of the famous true crime series, the first 48. Each week I'll take you inside a landmark homicide case. The interrogations, the dead ends, and the breakthroughs in the critical first 40, 48 hours. Listen to and follow the first 48 every Thursday on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music, or wherever you listen to podcasts. This is crime house. We put a lot of faith in small, everyday things. Near the top of the list is the knowledge that when we feel lousy and reach for some medicine, it's going to help. In the fall of 1982, in the suburbs of Chicago, that faith turned out to be misplaced. A 12 year old girl woke up with a cold, took something to feel better and was dead. Hours later, a young father swallowed a couple of pills for some aches and collapsed in his own home. When his brother and his brother's new wife took some pills from that same bottle, they collapsed too. Within days, seven people were dead. None of them had a rare illness. None of them took too much. They each swallowed the recommended dose of one of the most trusted medicines in America, Extra Strength Tylenol. What none of them knew was that someone had pulled those capsules apart, emptied them and packed them with cyanide. These weren't medical mysteries. They were murders. And whoever did it pulled it off by walking into ordinary stores, leaving poison on the shelves and strolling back out. More than four decades later. The killer has never been caught, but there's plenty of evidence, and it seems to point in all different directions. This is the case of the Tylenol murders. People's lives are like a story. There's a beginning, a middle and an end. But you don't always know which part you're on. Sometimes the final chapter arrives far too soon and we don't always get to know the real ending. I'm Carter Roy and this is True Crime Stories, a Crime House original powered by Pave Studios. New episodes come out every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, with Friday's episodes covering the cases that deserve a deeper look. Thank you for being part of the Crime House community. Please rate, review and follow the show and for early ad free access to every episode. Subscribe to Crime House. Plus you'll get part one and part two at the same time, plus exclusive bonus content. To join go to crimehouseplus.com or tap try free on the Murder True Crime Stories show page on Apple Podcasts. Welcome back to another episode of Murder Mystery Fridays, where I'm covering cases with questions that I can't get out of my head. The ones where the evidence points in multiple directions and every theory feels like a possibility. Remember, these episodes are also on YouTube with full video Today, I'm walking you through one of the most chilling unsolved cases in American history. In 1982, seven people in the Chicago area died after taking poisoned Tylenol. Investigators landed on not one, but two suspects, but to this day they can't agree on who actually did it or whether they were looking in the wrong places all along. All that and more coming up.
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- [06:06]
Carter Roy
New purchase necessary PGW Group void We're prohibited by law CTS and CS21 plus sponsored by Chumba Casino. September 29, 1982 was supposed to be a good day for adam Janus. The 27 year old postal worker had worked his way up from mail carrier to Supervisor Jason just a few years. He lived in Arlington Heights, a suburb on the edge of Chicago, in a modest home that meant everything to his family. The Januses were Polish immigrants. For them, that little house was the American dream. That morning, Adam wasn't feeling great. He picked his four year old daughter up from preschool and stopped at the store. On the way home. He grabbed a few things and because he was a little run down, he picked up a bottle of extra Strength Tylenol too. When he got home, he told his wife he was going to lie down. He went to the bathroom and took a couple of capsules. Moments later, he walked out, clutching his chest. Paramedics rushed him to the hospital. They thought Adam probably had a heart attack, even though that didn't make much sense. Adam was young and healthy, with no history of heart trouble. And yet by mid afternoon, Adam, the hospital's chief of Critical Care, Dr. Thomas Kim, had to deliver the news no one expected. Adam was dead. That afternoon, the family gathered at Adam's house to process the news together. Among them was Adam's younger brother, Stanley janus, who was 25. Stanley had just gotten married. He and his new wife, Teresa, who was only 20, had recently come back from their honeymoon. At some point that afternoon, both of them had a headache. So they reached for the bottle of Tylenol sitting in Adam's bathroom. The same bottle Adam had used a few hours earlier. A few minutes later, Stanley walked back into the room, said he didn't feel good, and collapsed. Then Teresa collapsed too. The same paramedics came back to the same house. This time a fire lieutenant named Chuck Kramer came with them. And right away something bothered him. He'd heard about Adam's call earlier that day, the one they'd written off as a heart attack. But the symptoms had never really fit. Now he was looking at two more healthy young people in the same house going down the exact same way. Whatever was happening here, it wasn't natural. Stanley and Teresa were rushed to the same hospital as Adam. When Dr. Kim saw them being wheeled in, he stopped cold. He couldn't explain how three Healthy people from one family could all be dying on the same day. So he did the only safe thing. He quarantined everyone who'd been near them. And the rest of the family, the medics, all of them. Until he could rule out something contagious. For the rest of the night, Adam and Stanley's brother Joe sat in a hospital room with another relative. Both of them frozen and afraid. They didn't know what had killed the others. They just knew it might be coming for them next. But Chuck Kramer didn't think this was a virus. He thought something was seriously wrong. And he knew someone who might be able to help. A public health nurse for Arlington Heights named Helen Jensen. While everyone was in quarantine, Helen went to the Janus home to look for anything out of place. She walked through the house. Everything looked normal. Jarred fruit, fresh flowers, pot of coffee. Nothing spoiled in the fridge. Then she went into the bathroom. She found that bottle of Tylenol with the receipt from earlier that day sitting right next to it. She counted the capsules. Six were missing. Two for Adam, two for Stanley, two for Teresa. The Tylenol was the one thing all three of them had touched. Helen was sure of it. But when she said so, an investigator from the medical examiner's office brushed it off. People took Tylenol every single day. It couldn't be that simple. Chuck Kramer thought she was right, though. And that night his fears seemed to be confirmed. A fellow fire lieutenant named Phil Cappotelli had heard about the Janus deaths on the radio. And he had something to tell Cross Kramer. That same morning, in a nearby suburb, there'd been another case just like it. A 12 year old girl named Mary Kellerman had woken up with a cold. Her parents kept her home from school and gave her a Tylenol to help her feel better. A few minutes later, her father heard a thump in the bathroom. He called her name and got no answer.
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Quince Advertiser 1
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- [11:20]
Carter Roy
He pushed the door open and found his little girl on the floor. Within a few hours, Mary was dead. That was the moment Chuck Kramer knew. He called the hospital and told them, there's something wrong with the Tylenol. But he had no idea how many others were about to fall victim to it. A 27 year old new mother named Mary Reiner had taken Tylenol while recovering from giving birth. A 31 year old woman named Mary McFarland had taken some for a headache at work. Both of them died the same way, the same day. By the night of September 29, the toll was staggering. Adam. Stanley, Mary Kellerman, Mary Reiner, and Mary McFarland were all dead. Teresa was on life support. And the doctors still didn't know what they were fighting. Like Chuck Kramer, Dr. Kim kept circling back to the Tylenol. But the active ingredient, acetaminophen, didn't cause symptoms like these. Then it hit him. What if the pills had been tampered with? What if there was something else inside them? He sent the victim's blood to a lab overnight. And even before the deputy chief medical examiner for Cook County, Dr. Edmund Donahue, ran the tests, he already had a theory. He knew that only one poison killed this fast, and it always left a clue behind. So he had an investigator open one of the victim's bottles and smell. Smelled like bitter almonds. The unmistakable mark of cyanide. The lab confirmed it. The capsules were packed with potassium cyanide, several times the amount it takes to kill a person. There was no longer any doubt these people had been poisoned. And once the story broke, the whole country panicked. An ordinary pain reliever, the kind sitting in medicine cabinets in millions of homes, that might be deadly. And nobody knew how many poison bottles were still out there. The FDA put out warnings. Stores cleared Tylenol off their shelves. Police rolled through neighborhoods with bullhorns, telling people to throw their bottles away. Johnson and Johnson, the company that made Tylenol, faced a brutal choice. A nationwide recall would cost a fortune and could sink one of their biggest products. But people were dying. They had to do something. So they pulled 31 million bottles off the market and tested more than 10 million capsules. Nothing like it had ever been done before. And the tests proved they had been right to worry. Investigators kept finding more poisoned bottles, tainted capsules that hadn't killed anyone yet. A task force formed almost overnight. Local cops, state police, and the FBI all in one room. And their first job was to answer one terrifying question. Where did the cyanide get in? If it happened at the factory, the whole country was in danger. So they traced the lot numbers on the poisoned bottles. The those numbers tell you where and when a batch was made. If every poisoned bottle traced back to one batch, one assembly line, then this was a manufacturing nightmare. And there could be tainted bottles in all 50 states. But that's not what they found. The bottles came from two different factories in two states. They'd never crossed paths in shipping, either. Which left only one answer. The bottles weren't poisoned at the factory or in a warehouse. They were poisoned right there in Chicago on the store shelves back in 1982. That was frighteningly easy. There was no plastic seal, no foil, no glued box, just a cap and a cotton ball. And the capsule's pulled apart into two halves so you could empty one out and refill it without leaving a trace. Whoever did this had been thorough. Investigators came to believe the killer bought Extra Strength Tylenol at six different stores around the Chicago area, packed the capsules with potassium cyanide, and calmly set the bottles back on the shelves for someone else to buy. No targets, no demands, at least not yet. Just poison left in the open for anyone to pick up. And there was still one more victim waiting to be found. Paula Prince was a 35 year old flight attendant for United Airlines. On the night of September 29th, on her way home from O', Hare, she picked up a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol at a Walgreens and took one capsule before bed. For the next two days, no one heard from her. Then on Friday, she missed her next flight. At that point, her family and friends were starting to worry, so her sister Carol went to check on her. She found Paula collapsed on the bathroom floor. When detectives arrived, the apartment was almost unnervingly tidy. There was no sign of a struggle in the bathroom. Cotton balls and cold cream sat out on the counter like Paula had been taking off her makeup when she fell. And on the bathroom counter, they found an open box of Tylenol and a receipt. When Paula bought it, she had no idea she was holding her own murder weapon. And whoever poisoned it was long gone. They doctored the capsules, set the bottle back on the shelf and walked out. Now investigators had to find a ghost.
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- [19:54]
Carter Roy
By October 1, 1982, investigators were staring at something they'd never seen before. Seven people were dead, all of them poisoned by cyanide laced Tylenol, and the bottles hadn't been tainted at a factory. Someone had done it on store shelves somewhere in the Chicago area. The problem was figuring out who would do something like this and why. That job fell mostly to an FBI agent named Roy Lane Jr. He had spent 12 years chasing crooked judges and mob bosses, so he knew that motive is everything, and that is not always obvious. Was this a disgruntled store employee? An angry customer? Was the killer after one specific person and hiding that one murder among a pile of strangers to throw everyone off? Or was it just random? And that last one was the scariest possibility of all. Because if the killer didn't know or care who picked up the bottles, then there was no pattern to find, no connection between the victims to pull on. Just a person who wanted to watch strangers die and walked into a store to make it happen. The task force chased every version of that question. They set up a tip line, and on the first day alone, they got 177 calls. Johnson and Johnson put up a hundred thousand dollar reward. In the end, there'd be around 6,000 tips to sort through. And this was 1982, so there were no shared databases and no search engines. Every name, every lead, every tip had to be chased down by hand, on paper. They got creative, too. Investigators went to the victims funerals and quietly watched the crowds on the off chance the killer might show up to see his work. If he was there, nobody spotted him, and none of it pointed anywhere. It didn't Help that the task force was at war with itself. When Paula Prince died, her case gave the Chicago Police Department a stake in the investigation. Two veteran Chicago detectives, Charlie Ford and Jimmy Gildea, joined the team. On paper, well, that's more manpower. In reality, it cracked the whole thing wide open. There was bad blood between the Chicago PD and the FBI going back years. The feds had recently helped put a group of corrupt Chicago cops behind bars. So Ford and Gildea felt like the FBI looked at them and saw criminals, not colleagues. The suburban officers didn't get along with the city detectives either. Everybody thought everybody else was either crooked or amateur. And pretty soon, they stopped sharing information. At one point, the FBI planted a newspaper story to try to lure the killer out. When one of the suburban officers read it, he could tell right away the story had been planted. But nobody had warned him. He confronted the agents, and they apologized, but the trust was already gone. Ford and Guildea got so fed up that after about a week, they packed up and went back to working the case from their own station in the city. All that infighting stalled everything. More than a week in, the task force still had no real lead. And then one landed in their laps. On October 5, Johnson and Johnson received a letter. It was neatly handwritten in capital letters. The author bragged that poisoning a bottle of Tylenol was easy. It cost them less than $50 and took only about 10 minutes. The letter said that if the company wanted it to stop, they had to wire $1 million to a specific bank account. It ended with a demand to, quote, stop the killing. What unsettled investigators wasn't just the demand. It was the tone. Whoever wrote it wasn't panicked or remorseful. They were almost casual about it, treating seven deaths like a business transaction. If this was the killer, they were someone who could talk about poisoning strangers the way most people talk about the weather. The letter went straight to Agent Lane, and he knew it was a huge break. He also knew it raised a dozen new questions, because the person who wrote the letter, the person who owned that bank account, and the actual killer weren't necessarily the same person. The account was easy to trace. It belonged to a man named Frederick McCahey. He had owned a travel agency that went out of business months before anyone died. Investigators brought him in, but the moment he started talking, they had a gut feeling he wasn't their guy. For starters, McCahey had an alibi, and his logic checked out. The letter was postmarked for from New York, and he'd been in Chicago on top of that, the bank account was already closed. And why would he tell J and J to send a million dollars somewhere he couldn't collect it? Detectives knew he wasn't the killer, but the person they were after might be connected to him. That's what caught their attention. Only a few of McCahey's former employees would have known that bank account number. And the envelope carried the company specific postage mark, which wasn't something just anyone could get. That pointed them to the agency's former bookkeeper, a woman named Nancy Richardson. When the company folded, her last paycheck bounced. She'd cashed it at a currency exchange and walked out with the money. But when the check turned out to be bad, the exchange came after her. Her for all of it. To investigators, that mattered for two reasons. As the bookkeeper, she was one of the few people who would have known that account number. And after losing her job, her pay, and now facing a lawsuit on top of it, she had every reason to want to make the company pay. But the bigger suspect was her husband, Robert Richardson. By every account, Robert was even angrier than his wife about the way the company had treated her. He'd had a public blow up with McCaughey and reportedly threatened to have him investigated. He rounded up the other former employees, filed complaints with the state labor Department, and argued the money they were owed should come straight out of McCaughey's own pocket. He lost. It was enough to move the Richardsons to the top of the list. So investigators tracked down the couple's address on the north side of Chicago and went to talk to them. When they got there, they found an empty apartment. It turned out no one had heard from the couple in over a month. The neighbors said that back in early September, weeks before anyone saw swallowed a poisoned pill, the Richardsons had announced they were packing up and moving to Texas. While the FBI's trail was going cold, Ford and Gildea caught a lead of their own. A Chicago bar owner named Marty Sinclair called the tip line. Two of his regulars were worried about a third, a man named Roger Arnold. Since his divorce, Arnold had been acting erratically, and at some point, he mentioned buying cyanide for a project. At first, nobody thought much of it, but after the murders, that conversation took on a whole new meaning. On October 11, the detectives got word that Arnold was at a bar, and they brought him in. Their strategy was to flatter him, to talk up the Tylenol killer as a kind of criminal mastermind and see if Arnold wanted to take credit he didn't bite, but two things he said stuck with the detectives. He admitted that he'd bought cyanide a while back. He said it was for a project and that he'd thrown it out since then. The second detail was his job. Arnold worked at a grocery warehouse chain that supplied stores all over the area. The same chain whose stores had sold some of the poison bottles. And that wasn't the only strange coincidence. It turned out Arnold's ex wife had spent time at a hospital. The same hospital where victim Mary Reiner had given birth just days before she died. Not only that, but Arnold reportedly worked alongside Mary's father. Despite all that, Arnold swore he wasn't involved. But when Ford and Gildea searched his home, they found beakers and vials, a book explaining how to make potassium cyanide, and two one way tickets to Thailand. They also found five guns. It still wasn't enough to charge him with murder, so they arrested him on a gun charge instead of two days later, on October 13th, Roger Arnold posted bond and walked out. That same night, hundreds of miles away in Kansas City, a police sergeant was winding down in front of his TV when two faces flashed on the screen. The couple the FBI was hunting, Robert and Nancy Richardson. The sergeant sat straight up. He recognized the man in that photo. He just knew him by a completely different name. If you've ever tried to find a psychiatrist, you know how frustrating it is to hear that there's a six month waiting list or that they don't take your insurance. It can make managing your mental health feel completely overwhelming. But Talk Iatry is changing that. 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- [32:56]
Carter Roy
Quinns.comcrimesof the moment a body is found, the clock starts ticking. 48 hours. That's how long detectives have before the trail begins to go cold. From A and E and Crime House this is the official podcast from the famous true crime series the first 48 step inside the cricket critical window. The interrogations, the dead ends and the breakthroughs that crack a case wide open. I'm Carter Roy. Each week I revisit a landmark homicide investigation with the depth you know and immersive long form storytelling built for your ears. Real detectives, real cases, real stakes. This is the First 48 new episode. Every Thursday, listen to and follow the First 48 on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music or wherever you listen to podcasts. On the night of October 13, 1982, Sergeant David Barton in Kansas City saw the FBI bulletin asking for information on Robert and Nancy Richardson. Barton recognized Robert immediately, but he was certain the FBI had his name wrong. So he picked up the phone and called the task force. He told them the man they were looking for wasn't Robert Richardson. His real name was James Lewis. The next day, Barton packed a suitcase full of files and flew to Chicago. He walked past the reporters out front, straight into the Task force's headquarters and opened it up on a table inside were mountains of documents, years of evidence he'd built against James Lewis. Because this wasn't the first time Lewis had slipped through his fingers. Here's what Barton knew. James Lewis was born in Memphis in 1946. His family was poor, and as a boy he was put up for adoption. As a teenager, he turned violent. At one point, he came after his adoptive parents with an axe. A judge sent him to a state psychiatric hospital instead of a jail. Later, he moved to Kansas City to go to college. He didn't finish. He dropped out more than once. But it was there, in the late 1960s, that he met a woman named Leanne. And the same woman the FBI was now hunting under the name Nancy Richardson. They married fast, and from the outside they looked like a normal couple building a normal life. They ran a tax business out of their home called Lewis and Lewis and had a daughter named Toni. Then, in 1974, everything changed. Toni was just five years old when she went in for surgery to fix a heart defect. Should have been routine, but the stitches in her heart gave way and she died. Losing her was devastating. But the Lewis's tried to move forward the only way they knew how, by burying themselves in work, keeping the business running and taking on new clients. One of those clients was a friendly 72 year old retiree named Raymond West. He was well liked in his neighborhood and he'd used the Lewis services for a few years. But in July 1978, Raymond told a friend that his taxman was hanging around too much and acting fishy. That was the last time anyone heard from Raymond. When Raymond was reported missing, the case landed on David Barton's desk. And it didn't take Barton long to find a thread worth pulling. Around the time Raymond vanished, a $5,000 check had come out of his bank account, made out to Lewis and Lewis. Lewis had an explanation ready. He was Raymond's accountant, and that was just the cost of the doing business. But Sergeant Barton wasn't buying it. In 1978, $5,000 was a small fortune. Over $25,500 today. No ordinary retiree pays that much to get his taxes done. And it turned out that Raymond had something worth taking. Tens of thousands of dollars in savings tucked away. Barton thought Lewis knew about that money and wanted it for himself. Weeks later, Raymond's dismembered body was found hidden in the attic of his own home. James Lewis was charged with the murder and Barton had built a strong case. Canceled checks in Raymond's name, his tax returns, and a rope that matched the kind used at the scene of all tied back to Lewis. Something about the way Lewis handled himself stuck with Barton, too. When he questioned him, it was like Lewis was enjoying it, like the whole thing was a game and he was winning. But the case fell apart as the prosecutor prepared for trial. He hit two walls. Raymond's body had been too decomposed to pin down an exact cause of death and worse. When police first arrested Lewis, they'd never read him his rights, which made the whole arrest invalid. The charges were dropped, and no one was ever tried for the murder of Raymond West. But that wasn't the only thing Barton told the task force. The year before the Tylenol deaths, Lewis had been caught running a fraud scheme. He was using a former tax client's identity and a string of fake mailing addresses to rack up credit cards and drain money from the people who trusted him. And when investigators had searched his home, they found a book on poisons with Lewis's fingerprints on the page, explaining how much cyanide it takes to. To kill a person. But before they could act on any of it, Lewis disappeared. Then a year later, his face turned up on the evening news under the new name Robert Richardson. For the first time, the task force told the public they thought James Lewis might be the Tylenol killer. They couldn't charge him with the murder just yet, but they could go after him for the fraud and the extortion letter. The trouble was finding him. Lewis mailed taunting letters to the Chicago Tribune, the Department of justice, even President Reagan, all postmarked from New York, all denying he was the killer in them. He needled the investigators, insisting they had the wrong man and that the real Tylenol killer was still out there. For weeks, the trail went quiet. Lewis was somewhere in a city of millions, and the FBI couldn't find him. They blanketed New York with wanted posters and hoped someone would look twice. Someone did. On December 13, 1982, a worker at a New York public library noticed a man quietly copying down the addresses of major newspapers from a reference desk. Something about his face nagged at the librarian. He ducked into a back office, and there on the wall was an FBI wanted poster, the same face staring back at him. It was James Lewis. Agents moved in and took him without a fight. A judge set his bond at $5 million, and nobody was willing to pay it. In May 1983, he was convicted of the Kansas City mail fraud, and that October, a jury convicted him of attempted extortion. For the Johnson and Johnson letter. But through all of it, the FBI still couldn't prove the one thing that mattered most. That James Lewis had ever set foot in Chicago. When the poisonings happened, they tried. Agents combed through plane tickets and train records between New York and Chicago and came up empty. In one of his letters, Lewis had bragged about using his wife's old travel agency connections to book trips under fake names. That made investigators wonder if he'd quietly slipped into Chicago and back. While the FBI zeroed in on James Lewis, the other suspect was falling apart. Roger Arnold was never charged with the Tylenol murders, But word of his arrest got out, and it followed him everywhere. The papers called him a psychopath, and people vandalized his home. Eventually, all that pressure curdled into
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AllTrails Advertiser
and
- [42:39]
Carter Roy
it settled on one person. Marty Sinclair, the bar owner who turned him in. On the night of June 18, 1983, Arnold went looking for him and spotted a man leaving a bar who he was sure was Marty Sinclair. So Arnold walked up, pulled a gun, and shot him dead. Then he ran and threw the gun into the Chicago river. But it wasn't Marty Sinclair. It was a man named John Stanisha. A father, a complete stranger who just happened to look like Sinclair. The next day, after talking to a lawyer, a sober Arnold walked into a police station and turned himself in. And only the there, when a detective held up the dead man's driver's license, did Arnold understand what he'd actually done. He stared at the photo. A face he didn't recognize. A name he'd never heard. He'd killed the wrong man. Arnold was convicted of second degree murder and sentenced to 30 years. But detectives Ford and Gildea thought he still had a lot more murders to answer for. They were still convinced that Roger Arnold was the Tylenol killer, While the FBI was certain it was James Lewis. Charlie Ford accused the feds of having tunnel vision, of being so locked onto Lewis that they ignored everything else. The FBI didn't budge. Agent Lane's answer was that they had looked at other suspects. But the evidence kept leading back to Lewis. And you go where the evidence goes. To this day, people still argue about whether he was right. And soon the man at the heart of that argument would make a move no one expected. James Lewis would offer to help solve the case himself. By 1984, James Lewis was in prison for extortion. Roger Arnold was in prison for murder. And the FBI was convinced Lewis had poisoned the Tylenol. They just couldn't prove it. Then Lewis reached out to agent Roy Lane with an offer. He wanted to help solve the Tylenol murders. Lane saw right through it. He figured Lewis enjoyed the attention and wanted to steer the investigation away from himself. So Lane decided to play along, hoping he could draw out a confession instead. Over a series of meetings, Lane and a prosecutor named Jeremy Margolis asked Lewis how the killer might have pulled it off. In response, Lewis drew them seven pages of detailed sketches. Different ways someone could have poisoned the capsules they were was something deeply unsettling about watching him lay out exactly how the murders he denied committing might have been done. But what Lane was really hoping for was something investigators called a psychotic leak. The idea was that if Lewis was the killer, and they pressed on exactly the right nerve, he might slip and let loose a detail only the mercy murderer could know. It never came. The sketches weren't a confession, and nothing Lewis said was enough to charge him for the fraud and the extortion together. Lewis was sentenced to 20 years, but he served about 13 years and was released. In 1995, he and Leanne moved to Massachusetts, where he reinvented himself again as a web designer and even a self published novelist. But trouble had a way of finding him. In 2004, he was charged with kidnapping and assaulting a woman. There he sat in jail for about three years waiting for trial until the woman decided not to testify and the charges fell apart. Meanwhile, the Tylenol case went quiet. The task force broke up, the tips stopped trickling in, and for years, the murders sat exactly where they'd stalled, with seven people dead, two suspects, and no one ever charged. Eventually, the trail went cold. And it might have stayed that way if it weren't for a detective who just couldn't let it go. In 2007, around the 25th anniversary of the murders, A fresh wave of tips came in, and investigators opened the case back up. A second task force was created, and one of the original agents, Roy Lane, came out of retirement to help lead it. Two and a half decades on, Lane was still fixed on the same man, James Lewis. He knew the one thing Lewis could never resist was his own ego. So he had another agent go undercover as an author, writing a book about the case. Over more than 60 meetings, the agent coaxed Lewis memories out of him. Every conversation recorded on video while other agents quietly tailed him. And this time, Lane caught something. For years, Lewis had always said it took him three days to write that extortion letter. New technology finally let investigators read the smudged postmark on the envelope. It was stamped October 1, Lane pulled out a calendar counting back three days from the October 1 postmark put the letter's start on September 29, the very day the first victims died before the public had connected those deaths to Tylenol at all. For Lane, that detail sealed the deal. He thought there was no way Lewis could have written about the poisoned capsules that early. Unless he was the one who did it. When he confronted Lewis about it, Lewis squirmed and admitted Lane had a point. It was enough to move things forward. On February 4, 2009, agents raided Lewis home and hauled out boxes of files and his computer. But a raid isn't a case. When prosecutors in the counties where the victims had died weighed it all, they realized they had a mountain of circumstantial evidence and not one piece of hard proof. They wouldn't risk it in front of a jury. And once Lewis realized the friendly author had been a setup, he went silent for good. But there was one thing the investigators had that the original task force never didna. They pulled genetic material off the poisoned bottles and ran it against both suspects. Lewis gave samples, and in 2010, they exhumed Roger Arnold, who had since died, to test him, too. Neither one matched. After everything. The Kansas City murder, the poison handbook, the extortion letter, the basement full of chemicals. The one piece of hard physical evidence pulled off the murder weapon pointed to neither man. It didn't clear them exactly, and the killer could have worn gloves or handled the bottles without leaving a trace. But it didn't convict them either. After decades of chasing these two, the science came back, and it didn't lead anywhere. Just like that, the case went cold again. Then, in 2022, the FBI's case against Lewis resurfaced. Reporters at the Chicago Tribune got hold of around 50 pages of circumstantial evidence the bureau had compiled, and it included a possible motive. Remember Lewis's daughter, Toni, who died when the stitches in her heart gave way? Those stitches were made by a company called Ethicon, and Ethicon is a subsidiary of of Johnson and Johnson, the maker of Tylenol. The theory was that James Lewis blamed Johnson and Johnson for his daughter's death, and the poisonings were his revenge. It's a chilling idea, but it's still just a theory. There's no proof Lewis even knew who made those stitches. And as the Tribune itself put it, there's still no physical evidence linking Lewis to the murders. In the end, prosecutors decided they couldn't charge him through all of it. The decades, the interviews, the renewed investigations. James Lewis never wavered. He admitted to writing the extortion letter, but he said he only did it to embarrass his wife's old employer and never intended to collect a dime. As for the murders, he denied them to the very end. In his final interviews, he was calm, almost untouchable. He said he understood why people suspected him and insisted they had the wrong man. And then time ran out. On July 9, July 2023, James Lewis was found dead in his home in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was 76. His death was ruled natural. Roger Arnold had died years before him. With both suspects gone, no one will ever stand trial for the Tylenol murders. In a case like this, it's tempting to first focus on the suspects, the aliases, the taunting letters, the sketches. But that's not really what this story is about. The story is about seven people who reach for something ordinary on an ordinary day. It's about the reason every bottle of medicine you buy now comes sealed in foil and plastic inside a glued box. That seal exists because of them. The next time you peel one back, it's worth remembering why it's there. Within months, Johnson and Johnson rolled out Tamper Evident packaging and the rest of the industry followed. Congress passed a federal anti tampering law. The easy to open capsules that made the poisoning possible were eventually phased out for solid caplets. Helen Jensen, the nurse who first connected the deaths to the Tylenol, once said, the country lost our innocence. In 1982, he used to pull something off a shelf and never think twice. Afterwards, that trust was gone. For the families, the wound never closed. Joe Janis lost two brothers and his sister in law in a single day. His daughter Monica was a child back then. She says she still can't look at a bottle of Tylenol without going back to the worst day of her family's life. Decades later, the case is still open. And those families are still caught in the cruelest kind of limbo, Certain that their loved ones were murdered, but never told by whom. So I'll end with their names. Mary Kellerman, who is 12. Adam Janus, his brother Stanley. Stanley's wife Teresa, 20 years old and newly married. Mary McFarland, Mary Reiner, a brand new mother. And Paula Prince. Maybe someday we'll learn who did this to them. Until then, the people who love them are left with the hardest task. Making peace without answers. Thanks so much for listening. I'm Carter Roy and this is Murder True Crime stories. Come back next time for the story of a new murder and all the people it affected. True Crime Stories is a Crime House original powered by Pave Studios. Here at Crime House, we want to thank each and every one of you for your support. If you like what you heard today, reach out on social media, Rimehouse on TikTok and Instagram. Don't forget to rate, review and follow True Crime Stories wherever you get your podcasts. Your feedback truly makes a difference. And to enhance your Murder True Crime Stories listening experience, subscribe to Crime House plus on Apple Podcasts. You'll get both parts of every story dropped on Tuesday completely ad free. No waiting for part two plus ad free and early access to every show across Crime House and bonus episodes every month. To join, go to crimehouseplus.com or if you listen on Apple Podcasts, tap try free at the top of the Murder True Crime Stories page. We'll be back on Tuesday. True Crime Stories is hosted by me, Carter Roy and is a Crime House original powered by Pave Studios. This episode was brought to life by the Murder True Crime Stories team. Max Cutler, Ron Shapiro, Alex Benidon, Natalie Pertovsky, Alyssa Fox, Cassidy Dylan and Russell Nash. Thank you for listening. Hi listeners, it's Carter. Before today's episode of Murder True Crime Stories, I want to tell you about another podcast I am hosting I know you'll love. Crime House and AE are teaming up on on the podcast version of the famous true crime series the First 48. Each week I'll take you inside a landmark homicide case, the interrogations, the dead ends, and the breakthroughs in the critical first 48 hours. Listen to and follow the first 48 every Thursday on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music or wherever you listen to podcasts.