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- [00:02]
Celisia Stanton
You're listening to a Tenderfoot TV podcast.
- [00:09]
Payne Lindsey
Hey, Sal. Hank. What's going on? We haven't worked a case in years. I just bought my car at Carvana, and it was so easy.
- [00:16]
Celisia Stanton
Too easy.
- [00:17]
Payne Lindsey
Think something's up? You tell me. They got thousands of options, found a great car at a great price, and it got delivered the next day. It sounds like Carvana just makes it easy to buy your car.
- [00:30]
Celisia Stanton
Yeah, you're right.
- [00:31]
Payne Lindsey
Case closed.
- [00:32]
Celisia Stanton
Buy your car today on Carvana. Delivery fees may apply.
- [00:38]
Payne Lindsey
The pandemic upended everything. And it's odd how rarely we face it in detail. There have always been and continues to be mixed messages about COVID I'm 90%.
- [00:50]
Celisia Stanton
Confident that coronavirus came from Chinese officials.
- [00:53]
Payne Lindsey
Dismissing that the virus started in a Lab. But over 7 million lives have been lost. And all with no real accountability. Dr. Fauc, do you agree that there was a push to downplay the lab leak theory? Not on my part. This isn't about debating whether or not you should wear a mask or get a vaccine shot. It's about finding the truth. Everyone understood that a lab origin was a real possibility. My name is Payne Lindsey, and this is leaked. A deep dive to uncover answers about COVID 19 and explore the outbreaks that have forever shaped our modern world. It is a scientific arrogance to think we can control science. And there's no downside. There's a big downside that could destroy.
- [01:33]
Celisia Stanton
Destroy the world.
- [01:34]
Payne Lindsey
Listen for free on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
- [01:39]
Celisia Stanton
Hi, friends. I am so excited to share this new episode of True Crime with you. If you want to listen, ad free and get early access to all the episodes for this month's case, you can subscribe to Tenderfoot plus at tenderfootplus.com or on Apple Podcasts. It's also one of the best ways to support the show. Please be aware that today's episode contains descriptions of domestic violence and brief references to sexual assault. Please take care while listening. Kotzebue, Alaska, is the kind of place where the horizon feels endless. A town of nearly 3,000 people, perched above the Arctic Circle, surrounded by ocean and tundra and sky. It's remote, quiet and close knit. The kind of community where people grow up together, where last names carry history and where everyone seems to know everyone else's business. Which is why when something truly terrible happens there, it doesn't disappear into the background. People notice. They talk. They remember. On May 23, 2018, the sun never fully set. An arctic spring dusk that felt more Like a long, suspended evening. Police were called the property of Kasabue's mayor, Clement Richards Sr. A powerful man in a small town. Inside, they found 25 year old Jennifer Kirk. She was lying on a bed, blood across the room, A rifle near her feet. A gunshot wound under her chin. And dark marks were wrapped around her neck. The kind that tell a different story than the one investigators would latch onto. Jennifer was Alaska native, part of the indigenous Inupec community. A young mom, someone who moved to the world with deep ties to her community. She wasn't a stranger here. She was woven into this place. Which makes what happened next even harder to understand because less than 24 hours later, authorities closed the case. No press conference, no meaningful investigation, no acknowledgement of what anyone could see. Nothing about that scene made it look like what they called it. A suicide. When I first came across Jennifer's case, that decision stopped me cold. I wanted to understand how anyone could walk into a room like that and decide that it only told one story, the neat, convenient one. And I wanted to understand what it means that the mayor's son, Anthony Richards, the person closest to Jennifer, was at the scene while her death was being quietly written off. But this isn't just the story of a single night in 2018. It's a story about violence behind closed doors and the way that power operates in small towns. It's about a family who refused to to accept the version of events handed to them and the truth they've been fighting to bring into the light. This is the story of Jennifer Kirk. I'm Celisia Stanton, and you're listening to Truer Crime. Kotzebue sits on a thin ribbon of land where the Chukchi Sea meets the tundra. I live in Minnesota, but I've never been that far north. And for those of us who haven't, people say it's kind of hard to grasp what life there feels like. How the light stretches endlessly in the summer, or how the wind coming off the ocean seems like it carries everyone's stories with it. Fewer than 3,000 people live there, which means you can't really disappear into the crowd. I imagine that people can't help but notice when you're struggling or when you're in love or when things at home aren't right. It's the kind of place Jennifer Kirk moved through her whole life. Jennifer grew up in Buckland, a village about 75 miles away, and her family was well known there. Her dad even once served as mayor. She was Inipik, a young Mom. Someone who split her time between Buckland and Kotzebue the way many families do, moving where work is or where support is. And eventually, part of her life. Settled in Kotzebue because of a relationship. Jennifer fell in love with a local man named Anthony Richards. And over the years, their lives became deeply intertwined. They had two children together, and they tried more than once to build something steady. And sometimes they did. But there were also long stretches where things were dark and difficult. Anthony came from a powerful family in town. His father, Clement Richards Sr. Had been elected borough mayor in 2015 after years on the City Council. His mother worked for the state's Department of Public Safety. In a community this small, that meant something. Their family home sat just steps from the police station and City Hall. It's this cluster of teal houses that the Richards own, where their adult sons kept listing their address well into their 20s and 30s. And sometimes Jennifer lived there, too. But life in that house wasn't always simple. According to ProPublica, mere weeks after Clemens Richards Sr. Was elected borough mayor, Jennifer went to the hospital with injuries. She told officers that Anthony punched her five times. Two years later, she told them that Anthony had strangled her till all she could see was inky darkness. Strangulation, especially, is one of the clearest signs that violence is escalating, that someone is in real danger. But even with those reports, the consequences for Anthony were minimal. A few misdemeanors, light sentences, cases handled quietly. And then life would continue as if nothing had happened at all. By the spring of 2018, Jennifer was trying to figure out what came next. She'd been staying in Buckland for a while, but back in Kotzebue, she still had a DUI to serve just three days in jail, but something she was likely dreading. When she'd made the trip back up to Kotzebue, Anthony pushed her to turn herself in right away. Jennifer, though, wanted to wait. It turned into yet another argument, added to years of strain between the two. And by then, even living in the Richards family home didn't seem like an option anymore. She knew she wasn't really wanted there. So when I Learned that on May 23, 2018, Jennifer was found dead inside one of the Bridgers family houses, and that her death was ruled a suicide within a single day, it gave me pause. Because by then, her history wasn't hidden. It wasn't vague. It had been visible for years. So the question I kept coming back to was this. How does a woman with this many warning signs end up dead? In a house full of people with this much power and have it all written off so quickly. To understand exactly what happened to Jennifer Kirk, though, we have to slow down and look closely at the night she died. So that's what I did. I read through her Death report, which ProPublica published, and slowly the shape of that evening began to come into focus. It was just after 6 o' clock when the call came in. A gunshot on the Richards property and in Kotzebue. This isn't the kind of call that echoes across miles of open land. It's next door. As one journalist told the Alaska Daily News, the distance between the mayor's house and the police station was like walking across a Walmart parking lot. When the reporting officer stepped inside the home, he found Anthony on the kitchen floor, blood on his hands, on his clothes, crying but not speaking, not making eye contact. According to ProPublica, he'd made his way there after cradling Jennifer in his arms. The officer moved past him and into the bedroom. That's where they found her. Jennifer was lying at the foot of the bed, her body curled slightly inward. A.22 caliber rifle rested awkwardly across her legs, the muzzle pointed up. Behind her and beneath her chin was a single bullet wound. Anthony was escorted outside to a patrol car so he wouldn't disturb the scene. And eventually, he did talk. He told police he'd been in the living room watching SpongeBob with the kids, that he and Jennifer had argued earlier about her DUI sentence, turning herself in, and whether she was welcome in the house at all. He said she went to lay down and that she was good at hiding her emotions. And then an hour later, he heard a pop. Something like a firecracker. He didn't try cpr. He didn't try to stop the bleeding. He told officers he panicked, that he couldn't find his phone, so he ran to a neighbor's house and asked them to call 911. Within minutes, police were back inside the bedroom, photographing the scene, collecting his clothes and bagging the rifle. And somewhere in the blur of that activity, before the autopsy, before the lab work, before anyone had time to see the strangeness of what they were looking at, the decision was made they would call this a suicide. Do you have $10,000 or more in credit card debt? Maybe you're even barely getting by by making minimum payments. 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- [12:00]
Payne Lindsey
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- [12:34]
Celisia Stanton
According to ProPublica, just two days after Jennifer died, the story the police had settled on started to fall apart. That morning, the state medical examiner called the Kotzebue Police Department with an update. Jennifer's body showed clear signs of strangulation. Not old injuries, not ambiguous bruising, but the kind of marks that forensic pathologists recognize immediately. Dark bruises around her neck, petechia. Tiny burst blood vessels under the skin and around the eyes. The classic sign of pressure and lack of oxygen. And suddenly the neat narrative of a self inflicted gunshot wound no longer made any sense. Up until that point, Anthony Richards had insisted there was no violence that day, that he didn't notice any marks on Jennifer's neck. He told police the last time he'd hurt Jennifer was months earlier, back in October. But once the medical examiner weighed in, Anthony's story changed. According to the death report, Anthony now said that, okay, yeah, there had been a physical altercation the night Jennifer was shot. He said that the argument started over her DUI sentence. He said she didn't want to turn herself in yet, and that she was mad at him and that they'd both been drinking. He described Jennifer slapping him on both sides of his head. He said he grabbed her by the neck to hold her away, that he didn't know how hard he was squeezing when she kept trying to hit him. He said he shoved her twice, hard enough that she fell. And then, according to Anthony, things calmed down. He told officers that he asked Jennifer to go lie down in the bedroom and that that's what she did. He claimed he went back to the living room, turned on spongebob for the kids, and about an hour later was when he heard the pop of the gunshot. So why had he left all of this out of his original story? Well, he told officers he'd been trying to block out the day. But the fact is, this version of events, a sudden admission of strangling Jennifer that night was offered only after the autopsy forced him to acknowledge it, Only after the evidence was undeniable. And if you're hearing all of this and thinking that's a massive red flag, well, you're right, and it wasn't the only one. Because as you might remember, this wasn't the first time Anthony had strangled Jennifer. Remember that event In March of 2017, just a year before her death, where Jennifer reported that Anthony choked her until her vision began to shrink and she nearly passed out. Like I mentioned earlier, strangulation is one of the clearest predictors that intimate partner violence will turn lethal. And there is a painful irony in where this all happened. Alaska recognized this. Years ago, the state was one of the first to make non fatal strangulation a felony because it is such an unmistakable warning, a flare in the sky that says this could turn deadly. But that law didn't protect Jennifer. In 2017, despite the severity of the attack, prosecutors allowed Anthony to plead guilty to a single misdemeanor. And even the judge, Magistrate judge Aaron Michael, sounded alarmed by the leniency as he accepted the plea.
- [15:58]
Payne Lindsey
In talking about the gravity of the situation, what jumps out at me is there was an allegation of strangulation, and that's the reason this was charged as a felony case. And I hope you do understand that you are getting away from a felony conviction by taking this agreement, and that's a big benefit to you. Strangulation is a very serious thing, and it's recognized that way by the legislature. That's why these types of cases can be charged as felonies. The natural result of a punch or a kick or kind of your typical misdemeanor assault is a bruise or an injury, that sort of thing. The result of strangulation, if it's not stopped, if a person can't breathe, is death. And that's a serious thing. That wasn't the result, fortunately, but it's a dangerous thing because someone like you or I, you don't know when to let up and when it might be too late.
- [16:54]
Celisia Stanton
He said those words out loud on the record, and then Anthony walked away without a felony. A year later, Jennifer was dead. But the strangulation Wasn't the only red flag waiting at the scene of Jennifer's death. There were others, glaring ones that should have stopped any investigator in their tracks. One of the most interesting details was the gun. The.22 caliber rifle found across Jennifer's legs was measured by police from the tip of the barrel to the trigger. It was 27 and 18 inches long. Jennifer's arm, from shoulder to fingertip measured 26 and 16 inches long. The rifle was longer than her reach. A retired state firearm expert, someone who had spent years analyzing gun dust, told ProPublica that those measurements should have prompted a clear next step. You test it. You take someone with her build and see if they can physically use the weapon the way the story claims. But there was no proof that that ever happened. The police concluded it was possible, though they never explained how to the public. And the other basic steps you'd expect, those didn't happen either. Anthony Richards, the only adult in the house, the person who admitted to a violent fight with Jennifer that day, was never tested for gunshot residue. Jennifer's family told reporters that they assumed police had done it, only later to learn they hadn't. And so, one by one, the standard investigative markers you'd expect in a suspicious death started to fall away. Not because the evidence wasn't there, but because the investigation never pushed for it. And here's where all of this becomes even more disturbing. In Alaska, officers are trained to look for 10 red flags that help identify when a domestic violence homicide may have been staged as a suicide or accident. Former Kotzebue Police Chief Ed Ward later reviewed Jennifer's case and said all 10 of those red flags were present. Every single one a scene labeled a suicide or accident, a partner with a documented history of violence, prior strangulation, a relationship breaking apart, the victim found dead inside a home, the partner discovering the body and being the last person to see the victim alive, the partner controlling the crime scene, a body moved or altered in some way, and a victim who died far too young. It's the exact pattern Alaska trains officers to recognize. And yet none of it slowed the investigation down. Instead, the opposite happened. The Kotzebue Police Department closed Jennifer Kirk's case after a single day. One day, her mother later said they should have investigated a lot better, a lot more thorough before they said it was a suicide. And she's right. Because when you step back and look at the full picture, the strangulation, the changed story, the long gun, the lack of gunshot residue testing, the history of domestic violence. Red flags, all 10 indicators Alaska flags as warnings. It becomes impossible not to ask, how could all of this be overlooked? And Jennifer's family was stunned by how quickly police closed the case. They felt completely shut out. Not long before Jennifer's death, her mother, Dora Stocker, had chatted with her, and nothing seemed wrong then. In fact, they were making ordinary plans. Jennifer asked her mom to send down diapers, and they talked about trading favorite foods, beluga muktuk for fresh Buckland smelt. It didn't seem like some final goodbye. Jennifer's father, Timothy Gavin, agreed. We never seen that in her. No signs, nothing, he told reporters, incredulous at the suicide ruling. So it's hard to believe she did that to herself. As ProPublica later reported, Dora was heartbroken and angry that investigators wrapped up so fast, saying it's like they just rush and do whatever to get it over with. Instead of answers, the family encountered silence and red tape. According to an Anchorage Daily News podcast, Dora has still never seen her daughter's autopsy report. When she went to request it, she was denied access because her ID was expired, a bureaucratic hurdle that has kept crucial information out of her hands. Reporter Kyle Hopkins noted the bitter irony of it all. Police in her town drive around with expired tags on their vehicles. Yet an expired ID has prevented a grieving mother from obtaining her own child's autopsy records. And while the family pleaded for information, police never even interviewed Jennifer's mother. No officer ever asked Dora what Jennifer had said that day, nor have they provided the family with any audio or video from the investigation, if any exists at all. In the end, Jennifer's parents felt their concerns were ignored and their daughter's case was swept under the rug, left without the thorough investigation they desperately hoped for. When Dora said it felt like police just rush and do whatever to get it over with, she wasn't exaggerating. That's exactly what it looked like. But why? That was the question I kept coming back to. And once you start looking at who holds power in this town and how that power has been used, a larger pattern starts to take shape. Here's the thing. I've been doing true crime long enough to know that no case happens in a vacuum. When you look closely at a place, its history, its politics, its silences, patterns emerge, connections appear that explain what might otherwise look like a one off failure. And it's exactly this kind of instinct that led journalist Kyle Hopkins to look deeper into Jennifer's case. And the more you learned about the Richards family, the former mayor, his sons, their criminal histories, the harder it became to see Jennifer's death as something separate from everything else happening around her. According to Kyle's reporting for ProPublica in the Anchorage Daily News, what started as one woman's suspicious death quickly opened into a much bigger story, one about power, protection, and who gets believed in a small Alaska town. But to really understand the Richards family, we have to start at the top with Clement Richards Sr. Former mayor of the Northwest Arctic Borough. By the time Jennifer Kirk was found dead, he'd spent nearly 20 years in public office, City council, vice mayor and then mayor. But long before the titles, Clements Sr. Had his own violent history. A decade before his political career took off, he faced felony domestic assault charges for attacking his wife, Annette. She was eight months pregnant at the time, according to statements collected at the scene. He hit her, kicked her in the stomach, dragged her by her hair. An officer wrote that when he arrived, Annette was bleeding profusely from her genital area. She was brought to the hospital and gave birth the next day to their son, Anthony Richards. Clements Sr. Ultimately pleaded no contest and spent six months in jail. Reading the report was horrifying, but this wasn't the first time Clement Sr. Had attacked his wife. Annette had filed an emergency restraining order against him the previous fall, saying she was afraid of him and had been living in a women's shelter. In the paperwork for the restraining order, Annette alleged that Clement Sr. Had thrown her down a flight of stairs, kicked her in the stomach and pulled her hair. But when Clement Sr. Ran for city council 10 years later, none of that came up. It wasn't reported in the news. Opponents didn't mention it. Even Kyle, who had covered Alaska politics for years, didn't know about the felony until deep into his investigation into Jennifer's death. And Clement Sr. Wasn't the only one in the family with a history of violence. All three of his sons, Clement Jr. Amos and Anthony, had a combined 31 criminal court cases between them. The charges ranged from DUIs to indecent exposure to trespassing. But the most alarming pattern was this. Twelve of those cases involved domestic violence, and five of those domestic violence charges were felonies. And yet none of the brothers ever received a felony domestic violence conviction. Most of the calls to police followed this terrifyingly familiar playbook. A girlfriend or a neighbor calls for help. Officers arrive to find bruises, marks around the neck, bloody nose. Sometimes the victim said she'd been dragged by her hair. Sometimes, like in Jennifer's case, strangled. In each instance, the son was arrested. And in nearly every case, prosecutors reduced the charges to low Level misdemeanors. No trials, just plea deals at quick change of plea hearings again and again. One example from 2013, Clement Jr. Was initially charged with domestic assault for punching a woman in the face. He later pled to a simple harassment charge, received a suspended sentence, and had the conviction wiped from the public record. It wasn't just one brother, though. It wasn't just one prosecutor. It was this pattern stretched across years, judges and. And courtrooms. And that pattern becomes even harder to ignore when you consider who the Richards family was. As ProPublica reported, seven of the 12 domestic violence cases were filed while Clement Sr. Held public office. His wife, Annette, worked for the Alaska State Troopers during that time, directly assisting prosecutors. The Richards were well known, well connected, and well respected in Kotzebue's political and legal circles. None of that automatically means that there was bias, but it does raise the question, who gets the benefit of the doubt in a small community and who doesn't? And then Kyle found a case that made those questions unavoidable. In 2014, Anthony Richards was charged with a felony sexual assault and attempted sexual assault. Here's Kyle describing audio he reviewed from Anthony's bail hearing.
- [27:43]
Payne Lindsey
This was one of the most serious cases that this son, this particular son, Anthony Richard, had ever been charged with. It was felony sexual assault. You know, he was facing, frankly, like, rape charges. Right. And if you're convicted on those charges, you're going to jail for years in prison. And so it was a really serious case. But what was really compelling in that hearing was to hear the victim tell the judge, hey, I'm afraid of this person. I'm afraid of seeing him in town. If anything, could you please increase his bail? You know, she was adamant that she did not want his bail lowered.
- [28:14]
Celisia Stanton
But in the end, the victim's pleas didn't matter. State Superior Court Judge Paul Roatman decided to lower the bail from $7,500 to a mere $2,500. And Rotman's reasoning? Well, he said it on tape.
- [28:31]
Payne Lindsey
I know Ms. Richards from when she used to work for the troopers. She has a lot of experience with these types of cases and knows what these are like. Mr. Richards has been part of City council. If you're not now, I don't know if you are now. So he's been a part of the local community, and they're going to be fine. Third parties, I think.
- [28:52]
Celisia Stanton
Yep, you heard that right. That's Judge Roatman saying on record that the victim's pleas ultimately weren't persuasive. Because he knew Anthony's parents, that Annette had worked for the troopers, that Clement Sr. Had served on city council, and because he trusted them, he believed they'd make fine third parties to supervise their son. It was the kind of moment that in any other context, you'd assume must be a misunderstanding. Except it wasn't. And as Kyle noted, it went directly against the Alaska Judicial Code of Conduct, which states that judges shall not allow family, social, political or other relationships to influence the judge's judgment. Anthony eventually pled to a single misdemeanor indecent exposure charge. The felonies disappeared. He never had to register as a sex offender, and the victim, the one who begged the judge not to let him out, never got the protection she asked for. Here's Judge Rotman explaining his ruling to Anthony.
- [29:53]
Payne Lindsey
Well, to say that you dodged a bullet is probably an understatement on this one. These are pretty serious charges, and I understand the evidentiary issues that that were presented, but had those not been there and it had been less complicated, you know, you were facing some really serious charges that involve a lot of jail time. You understand that? Of course.
- [30:14]
Celisia Stanton
Yes.
- [30:15]
Payne Lindsey
Okay.
- [30:16]
Celisia Stanton
Kyle found it all very strange and deeply concerning, but court cases can be complicated. Decisions can be nuanced. It didn't look good, but it is possible that there's a reasonable explanation as to why Anthony's case played out how it did. Anthony reached out to Judge Roatman with a list of questions, looking for answers about his relationship to Annette, his decision in Anthony's case, and the comments he made during the bail and change of plea hearings. A court system spokesperson replied, saying they couldn't answer any questions. Judicial officers, they wrote, cannot and do not comment on their cases in order to maintain the integrity of their decisions and to ensure that for fairness reasons, their thinking is reflected solely in the official court record without extraneous commentary. So we don't know everything about why these cases unfolded the way that they did. But we do know how it ended. With another Richards son walking free. Four years later, Jennifer Kirk was found dead. And Anthony Richards was the one who reported it. On paper, it had all the elements of a headline story. A young mother found under suspicious circumstances, a family with a documented history of violence and a death on the mayor's own property. But Jennifer's story didn't make the news at all. Her death was handled quietly and then quietly forgotten. But three months after Jennifer died, another Kotzebue case did make national headlines. 10 year old Ashley Johnson Barr vanished from a playground. And according to ProPublica Mayor Clemence Richards Sr. Quickly became one of the public faces of the search. Hundreds of volunteers combed the tundra and shoreline looking for her. Eight days after she went missing, Ashley's body was found by a volunteer just outside of town. Kotzebue didn't have a dedicated homicide investigator, so state troopers and federal agents stepped in. They analyzed cell phone data, surveillance footage, DNA and search warrants. And soon they identified Ashley's killer, a man named Peter Wilson. And he's now serving a life sentence. As ProPublica reported, Ashley's case became an example of what it looks like when law enforcement acts urgently and uses every resource at its disposal. Shortly afterward, Alaska hired its first full time missing and murdered indigenous people investigator. It felt like a shift, a promise that the state was finally ready to protect indigenous women and girls. But that's why Jennifer's case weighed on me. Her death had warning signs all over it. Bruises around her neck, inconsistencies at the scene, a boyfriend with a violent history. And yet no one called a press conference. No one brought in outside help. No one even looked twice. And then I learned something that made the weight of her story land differently. Almost two years after Jennifer died in March of 2020, Kotzebue police were sent back to that same cluster of teal houses. The same lot, the same address where Jennifer drew her last breath. And there on that lot, they found another young Alaska Native woman. This time it was 30 year old Susanna Susu Norton. She hadn't been shot. She hadn't left a note. She had been beaten and strangled. The medical examiner called it a homicide. And suddenly, Jennifer's death, the questions, the inconsistencies, the red flags, all of it took on a new and chilling meaning. Because what are the odds that two women would die on the same property tied to the same family in such violent circumstances? And what does it say that neither case has ever led to a single charge? That's next time on Truer Crime. Before we wrap, I want us to sit with something that's easy to turn into numbers but hard to hold as truth. The violence Jennifer Kirk lived through didn't just appear out of nowhere. And it didn't end with her. A study from the National Institute of Justice found that more than four in five American Indian and Alaska Native women will experience violence in their lifetime. More than half of all Native people have experienced intimate partner violence. And two in three have faced psychological aggression from a partner. Statistics like that can start to blur if we let them. But behind every one of these statistics is someone's daughter, someone's friend, someone who deserves safety and compassion. That's why I want to point you toward the Strongheart's Native Helpline. It's a 24.7culturally grounded resource created for Native American and Alaska Native survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Advocates understand the histories, the communities, the realities that shape Indigenous people's lives, and they show up with safety, planning, support, education and connections to local resources. And they do that without judgment. If you or someone you love needs support, you can call or text at 1-844-7 Native 1-844-762-8483 or chat online at strongheartshelpline.org and if you're in a place to help sustain this work, their website also has resources to learn more and find out ways to donate. As always, you can keep up with Truer Crime on Instagram, x threads and blueskyruercrimepod and subscribe to our newsletter@truerocrime.substack.com if you want to follow along with me personally, I'm on Instagram and TikTok. Alicia Stanton and I also write a weekly newsletter, Sincerely Celicia, where I share recommendations, reflections and the occasional long essay about politics and culture. You can read and subscribe at the Sincerely. A full list of resources and action items from today's episode is available@truercrimepodcast.com. True Crime is created, hosted and written by me, Celisia Stanton, and is a production of Tenderfoot TV in association with Odyssey. Additional writing, research and production by Olivia Hussingfeld. Executive producers are myself, Donald Albright and Payne Lindsay. Editing by Liam Luxon, artwork by Station 16, original music by Jay Ragsdale and makeup and vanity set mix by Dayton Cole. Thank you to Oren Rosenbaum and the team at uta, the Nord Group, and the team at Odyssey. For more podcasts like Truer Crime, search Tenderfoot TV on your favorite podcast app or visit us@Tenderfoot TV. Thanks for listening. Thanks so much for listening to this episode of True Crime. If you want an ad free version of the show plus early access to every episode for this month's episode case and tons of other great Tenderfoot podcasts. You can subscribe to Tenderfoot plus at tenderfootplus.com or on Apple Podcasts. It's a small way to support the work and it makes a big difference. If you're an H Vac technician and a call comes in, Grainger knows that you need a partner that helps you find the right product fast and hassle free. 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