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- [00:02]
Celisia Stanton
You're listening to a Tenderfoot TV podcast.
- [00:08]
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- [00:41]
Celisia Stanton
Jan Marsalek was a model of German corporate success. It seemed so damn simple for him. Also, it turned out a fraudster. Where does the money come from? That was something that I always was questioning myself. But what if I told you that was the least interesting thing about him? His secret office was less than 500 meters down the road.
- [01:03]
Molly Tibbetts
I often ask myself now, did I know the true Rian at all?
- [01:08]
Celisia Stanton
Certain things in my life since then have gone terribly wrong. I don't know if they followed me to my home.
- [01:15]
Molly Tibbetts
It looks like the ingredients of a really grand spy story because this ties.
- [01:20]
Celisia Stanton
Together the Cold War with the new one. Listen to Hot Money, Agent of Chaos wherever you get your podcasts. Hi friends. I am so excited to share this new episode of Truer 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@tenderfootplus.com or on Apple Apple Podcasts. And while you're at it, go check us out on Amazon. We're featured as a Best Podcast this week and a True Crime Editor's Pick. We couldn't be more grateful for all the love. Hi friends. Before we dive in, I just want to say thank you. Like, seriously, the response to the launch of the season has meant so much to me. Your messages, your shares, your encouragement. It really reminds me why I love making this show. I and why stories like the one we're telling this month matter. If you've been enjoying the new season and you want to support true crime, you know what to do. The best thing is to share it, listen to it, send it to a friend, post about it. Please leave us a review. These are simple things, but it really, really helps other people find the show and it keeps us doing this work. So that's all for now. Let's get into it. Please be aware that today's episode contained references to violence and racist rhetoric Please take care while listening. When we left off, Molly Tibbets had vanished, never returning from her nightly jog through her small town of Brooklyn, Iowa. Every trail police followed had somehow wound its way to a new dead end. The family was exhausted, and the town was on edge. And then a small, unremarkable moment cracked open the entire case. A Brooklyn police officer, on his drive home spotted a black Chevy Malibu near an off ramp. In retrospect, him noticing the car at all was a bit of a miracle. It would have been easy to overlook. There was nothing overly flashy about the car. It blended in. But it was the same make and model seen circling Molly on surveillance footage. And that sighting, accidental as it may have been, would change everything. Because in the hours that followed, the car and the man behind the wheel took center stage. What he had to say would unravel the mystery investigators had been chasing for weeks, leading officers to something no one wanted to find. But if you think that's where this story ends, you're wrong. Because for Molly's family, what police uncovered wasn't closure. It was the beginning of something else. Something crueler. More public, more violating.
- [04:14]
Molly Tibbetts
Molly Tippetts, an incredible young woman, is now permanently separated from her family.
- [04:24]
Celisia Stanton
Before they'd even had a chance to grieve, Molly's name was already being used, twisted, weaponized.
- [04:31]
Deputy Steve Kivi
Molly said, you need to leave me alone. I'm going to call the police.
- [04:35]
Celisia Stanton
There were death threats, people threatening to burn down our buildings.
- [04:38]
Molly Tibbetts
She comes out at one point and.
- [04:40]
Celisia Stanton
Says, this is definitely your killer. But I'm stuck here, guys. This is the story of a daughter, a crime, and the fight to keep her memory from being rewritten. This is the story of Molly Tibbetts, Part Two. I'm Celisia Stanton, and you're listening to Truer Crime. We pick up right where we left off. Deputy Steve Kivi, following a black Chevy Malibu through the streets of Brooklyn. A car with the same custom chrome mirrors and trim seen on the surveillance footage from the night Molly disappeared.
- [05:18]
Christian Behena Rivera
The vehicle turned west onto second street, and so I followed it. And then it turned north into an alley. And I lost sight of it for a second. But as I turned north into the alley, I saw that it was parked. So I parked in the alley. I got out, and the driver was already out of the vehicle. So I said, hey, can I talk to you for a second? And he turned around.
- [05:44]
Celisia Stanton
Deputy Kivi walked toward the driver, a young guy, probably in his 20s, with dark brown hair and eyes. The driver seemed to have heard what Kivi said, but he was definitely struggling to understand him. Ah. The deputy realized this guy didn't speak English. Luckily, an older man in a nearby yard overheard the conversation and walked over to help translate. The driver handed over his ID, a birth certificate. His name was Christian Behena Rivera, 24 years old. With the help of the newfound translator, Christian told officers he worked at a dairy farm nearby Yarraby Farm. He'd been an employee there for the past four years, according to Dateline. The conversation was brief, cordial. Christian didn't seem nervous. He'd said he'd heard about Molly's disappearance but didn't know anything about it. And honestly, that made sense. Molly's case was national news. Her face was everywhere. It would have been more suspicious if he hadn't heard of her. Before parting ways, Christian gave Deputy Kivi his phone number. The officer snapped a photo of both Christian and the Malibu and sent it to investigators, who confirmed his suspicions. The car was a perfect match to the one seen circling Molly on her run. He had no criminal record in Iowa, and investigators couldn't find any obvious connection to Molly. But there was one thing that stood out. Christian hadn't used his real name at work on the farm. People knew him as John Bud, and that was because Christian wasn't documented. Investigators later learned that he was from Mexico, had been living and working in the US for years, likely between 4 and 7, without legal status. That raised questions. But it wasn't violent. It wasn't a crime that explained what had happened to Molly. Not by itself. When investigators questioned workers at Yerraby Farm, no one had anything bad to say. According to Dateline, co workers described Christian as a decent, hard working guy, someone who kept to himself but showed up on time and put in long hours. Even after Molly's disappearance, nothing about him seemed off. But the car was a match, and investigators were confident he knew something, if not everything, about what had happened. And so, four days after Deputy Kitty first spotted the black shaving Malibu, Christian was brought in for questioning. A lot was hanging on this interview, and investigators knew they might only have one chance to get it right. According to Dateline, that meant pulling in Officer Pamela Rivera to help. It was a risky choice. Pamela wasn't a detective, and she'd never conducted a suspect interview before. But she was a woman and a Spanish speaker. Two characteristics investigators believed might lower Christian's guard. And so, even with limited experience, Pamela led the hours long interrogation. At first, Christian stuck to his story. He didn't know anything. He just seen the missing flyers maybe a bit of online chatter. That was all. But as the interview stretched on, Pamela kept pressing. She showed him stills from the surveillance footage, asked about the car, asked again and again until eventually Christian admitted that he had seen Molly that night. And not just seen her, noticed her, thought she was attractive. But still, he insisted he hadn't done anything, didn't know anything, not really. Pamela told him she didn't believe that. And slowly Christian's story began to shift. He was ready to come clean that day. He said he'd parked his car behind Molly while she was jogging. She didn't notice him at first. She was wearing headphones, but when she finally did, she threatened to call the police. That made him angry. They'd started arguing, and after that, he said, his memory became fuzzy. He told investigators he sometimes blacked out when he got really upset. He remembered fragments. A pair of headphones in his lap. A struggle, Blood. Molly's body in his truck. A cornfield. He couldn't or wouldn't say exactly what happened, but he knew where her body was and he could take them there.
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- [11:51]
Celisia Stanton
Whoa, wait.
- [11:51]
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- [11:52]
Celisia Stanton
Yeah, finance.
- [11:53]
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- [11:59]
Celisia Stanton
That's cool.
- [11:59]
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- [12:02]
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- [12:07]
Celisia Stanton
That's what they said. You can spend time trying to pronounce financing, or you can actually finance and buy your car. Today on Carvana financing, subject to credit approval. Additional terms and Conditions may apply. August 21, 2018. It had been over a month since since Molly Tibbetts disappeared. And that morning, police arrived at a cornfield just outside of Brooklyn, led there by Christian Behena Rivera. After hours of questioning, of shifting stories, of memory gaps and sudden clarity, he agreed to take them to her. It was a remote field, ordinary and quiet, corn stalks towering in every direction, dirt roads and silence. It didn't look like a place where anything terrible had happened, but it was buried beneath stalks and leaves. Police spotted a flash of color, a pair of bright running shoes. It was Molly. She was found face up, partially covered with corn leaves. Her body was badly decomposed, but her identity wasn't in question. She was still wearing some of the clothes she'd gone running in. The rest lay nearby. An autopsy would later confirm she'd been stabbed multiple times in the head, neck and chest, even in her hand. She'd tried to defend herself, but the wounds were deep, violent, fatal. According to Rolling Stone, when police called Laura Calderwood, Molly's mom, with the news, she didn't wait. She got in her car and drove straight to her own mother's house, a small farm just north of Brooklyn. Her mother had been one of the people holding onto hope for weeks. She believed that Molly would come home, that maybe she had been taken. But she was still alive. When Laura walked through the door, her mom offered her a cup of coffee, just like she always did. She had no idea what was coming. And then Laura told her. I have to tell you something, she said. They found Molly's remains this morning. Laura's mom screamed. Then she ran. She circled the kitchen table, sobbing and incoherent. While Laura tried to get her to sit down. It took three laps before she could calm her enough to talk. Six months later, Laura's mom would die. The family believes the grief consumed her, that losing Molly cracked something open inside her that never closed again. And honestly, I don't doubt it. Because as horrifying as it is to lose a child, a grandchild, there's something especially cruel about the moment when all the questions end. When the endless cycle of what ifs and maybes is replaced by cold, irrevocable fact. For over a month, Molly's family had been holding onto hope. Real hope. Not false optimism, but a deep belief that she could still be out there somewhere, that they might get her back, that this story might have a different ending. And then it didn't. When Molly was found, it ended the search. But it didn't bring peace. It just brought something heavier, more permanent. There were no more leads to chase, no more clues to follow, no more room for imagining the best case scenario. There was only the knowing, the brutal finality of it, the bright shoes and the dirt. That same day, Iowa Governor Kim Reynolds called Laura Calderwood. She cried on the phone with her, told her how sorry she was, how heartbroken. But then later that evening, Reynolds issued a statement. In it, she called Molly's death a broken system, tragedy called Christian a predator. Lore told the Washington Post it felt like whiplash. The private tears, the public posturing. And that was just the beginning. Because before Molly had even been buried, before her family had space to mourn, her name was already making headlines again. Not as Molly the daughter, Molly the runner, Molly the college student with the goofy selfies and Taylor Swift playlists, but as a symbol, a slogan, a talking point. And the people who loved her most would have to fight loudly, publicly, and repeatedly to take her story back. In the days after Molly was found, Brooklyn, Iowa, moved like a town underwater. Search parties gave way to prayer circles. Volunteers returned to the routines, unsure of what they'd been hoping to find or whether knowing was any better than not knowing. The Des Moines Register reported on a small town vigil. The quiet, prayerful stillness inside the church made it the eye of the storm. Outside, droves of cars and trucks had brought a swarm of chaos. Reporters, producers, camera operators, all eager for the scoop. After the service, friends of Molly shared stories, reminiscing on her beautiful singing voice, her running talent, her less graceful dancing and questionable driving skills. How surreal it all must have felt. Molly was gone. And now it felt like the whole world had eyes on Brooklyn. Soon after came the memorial, hundreds of people packed the gymnasium at the local high school, Molly's high school. According to Rolling Stone, Laura, her mom, stood in the receiving line for over three hours, shaking hands, hugging strangers, listening to people cry. It was the kind of grief that wraps itself around a whole town, a kind of shared mourning that felt sacred. But even before the day ended, a very different version of Molly's story was already taking shape. After the memorial, Laura went home and turned on the tv. As she changed out of her funeral attire, the news was playing in the background. And that's when she heard him. President Donald Trump. He was at a rally in West Virginia, speaking to a crowd.
- [18:34]
Molly Tibbetts
You heard about today with the illegal alien coming in very sadly from Mexico. And you saw what happened to that incredible, beautiful young woman. Should have never happened illegally in our country.
- [18:56]
Celisia Stanton
He didn't say Molly's name, not once. But everyone knew who he meant. He was referring to Christian Behena Rivera, the man accused of killing her, a man who had immigrated from Mexico. And suddenly, in front of a cheering crowd, Molly had become an example, a symbol, a talking point. Laura stood in her bedroom, stunned.
- [19:20]
Molly Tibbetts
We've had a huge impact, but the laws are so bad. The immigration laws are such a disgrace. We're getting them changed, but we have to get more Republicans. We have to get.
- [19:33]
Celisia Stanton
You didn't even mention her name, Laura later told Rolling Stone. Really, that girl, I'm just trying to finish up this day that no parent should ever have to go through. And now you're on television bringing her up and you can't mention her name. Within hours, the White House had posted a tweet quoting his statement with the name Molly Tibbets inserted in brackets, because, you know, he hadn't actually said it. Then came a video filmed in front of the White House.
- [20:02]
Molly Tibbetts
Molly Tibbets, an incredible young woman, is now permanently separated from her family. A person came in from Mexico illegally and killed her. We need the wall. We need our immigration laws changed. We need our border laws changed. We need Republicans to do it, because the Democrats aren't going to do it. This is one instance of many.
- [20:32]
Celisia Stanton
A few days later, the President's son published an op ed in the Des Moines Register where he railed against his political opponents and claimed Molly's death had exposed the true radical face of the Democrats and their open borders agenda. At the same time, former speaker of the House Newt Gingrich emailed Axios to make sure they planned to cover Molly's case. Republican politicians, he felt, should angle to make Molly Tibbets a household name by the midterms. And that part matters because all of this happened in 2018, a midterm election year. And that summer, the Trump administration was facing enormous backlash over its family separation policy. Thousands of children taken from their parents at the border, often with no clear plan to reunite them. The photos and stories had shocked the public. Even some conservatives were starting to speak out. But then Molly's story broke, and within days, it had been weaponized, transformed from a private tragedy into a public narrative with strategic value, one that could shift attention, redirect outrage, reinforce the argument that immigration was not just a crisis, but a threat. Trump and his allies weren't shy about it. They said the quiet part out loud. And for the people who loved Molly most, it felt like losing her all over again. Because they knew who she was. And this, to them, wasn't it. Molly grew up in a community where immigrant families had been drawn by the chance to build a better life. She was known for being friendly, inclusive and kind. Her family never claimed to speak for her, but they knew her values, and they knew she wouldn't have wanted her death used in this way. Laura told the Rolling Stone that this divisiveness and hatred was something that Molly would not have stood for, and that it was the opposite of who she was. So they spoke out. Her father, Rob Tibbets, wrote an op ed in the Des Moines Register just 10 days after she was found. In it, he asked politicians to stop. They have chosen to distort and corrupt Molly's tragic death to advance a cause she vehemently opposed. I encourage the debate on immigration, but do not appropriate Molly's soul in advancing views she believed were profoundly racist. He continued. Molly was my daughter and my best friend. She may not be able to speak for herself, but I can and will. Please leave us out of your debate. Allow us to grieve in privacy and with dignity. At long last, show some decency. He ended the piece to the message to the Latino community. The person who was accused of taking Molly's life is no more a reflection of the Hispanic community than white supremacists are of white people. To suggest otherwise is a lie. To the Hispanic community. My family stands with you. The pushback was powerful, but it wasn't universally accepted. Some conservative voices pushed back against the family's pleas. They questioned whether the Tibbets were seeing the situation clearly. Others ignored them entirely. And then the threats began, not toward Molly's family, but toward the people who lived and worked alongside Christian, toward the immigrant community who helped Work to keep Brooklyn running. According to the Washington Post, Yerraby farm, where Christian work began, receiving hundreds of threatening messages. The Lang family, who owned the farm, were flooded with calls. You should have known you're responsible. Latino employees locked their doors, stopped going into town. One longtime resident told the Washington Post he feared less for himself than for his children. A local teen recalled classmates whispering that she should go back to the border. Rumors of ICE raids swept through town. Some families considered leaving. And then came the robocalls. A white supremacist group had started circulating messages across Iowa.
- [24:30]
Deputy Steve Kivi
The body of 20 year old Molly Tibbets was found in a cornfield after she was stabbed to death by an invader from Mexico. A biological hybrid of the white and his savage Aztec ancestors who also chipped at Nice during their mastery sacrifices on top of pyramids they didn't fill. Some relatives of Molly Tibbets are deal pine that despite having been murdered by a non white savage intruder, she would still support the invasion of America by a brown horde currently at a staggering 58 million. But you know in your heart they are wrong. If after her life has now been brutally stolen from her, she could be brought back to life for just one moment and asked, what do you think now Molly Tibbets would say?
- [25:20]
Celisia Stanton
Kill them all. Over 800 calls made their way to the phone lines of Brooklyn residents, a shocking number in a town of just 1,500. Community leaders pleaded for calm and unity. One local Latino advocate said, this takes us back to lynchings, to blaming an entire community. Latino organizers canceled heritage festivals. Students at the high school reported racist bullying. One teen reported receiving threats, 10 texts from mostly anonymous numbers. Even people who'd known each other for years began to pull back, whisper, assume. It was as if the town that had once been united to search for Molly had fractured almost overnight. And all because people far from Brooklyn, people with platforms and agendas, decided that Molly's face was more useful than her truth. Because this was never really about Molly. It was about a country in search of a villain. A country willing to turn a girl's death into a slogan. And that kind of narrative theft of your daughter, of your grief, of your memory of who she was. It's a second kind of violence, a quieter one, but no less painful.
- [26:45]
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- [27:15]
Celisia Stanton
It's Wednesday. Adams, I see you're trying to distract yourself from your own banar fat. That may help. Here's a recording thing made of my latest root Canal.
- [27:37]
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- [27:45]
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- [28:20]
Celisia Stanton
While that narrative was playing out in public, another story was unfolding much closer to the Tibbetts family. The trial of Christian Behena Rivera. After months of investigation, police believed they had their man. But now they had to convince a jury. And early on, the case hit a major snag. When Christian was first questioned, they'd read him his Miranda rights incorrectly. They left out the line that says, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. It's one of the most critical pieces of the warning, and it wasn't there. Eventually, his rights were re read properly, but only after he'd taken them to Molly's body. Christian's attorneys argued that everything he said before that moment should be thrown out, and the state agreed. Any statements Christian made to investigators before 5:50am when he led them to Molly's body were inadmissible. It was a huge mistake, one that could have jeopardized the entire case. Luckily, the prosecution did have other evidence connecting Christian to Molly's murder. Surveillance footage of the customized Chevy Malibu circling Molly on her run. And then there was forensic evidence, too. Blood found in the trunk of Christian's car matched Molly. And all of this was paired with Christian's shorter confession in the cornfield after his Miranda rights were properly delivered. As for the defense, Christian's story had changed. He rescinded the confession he'd originally made to investigators and was now weaving a new tale. According to ABC News, Christian took the stand and claimed that on the night of Molly's disappearance, he was kidnapped. He said he was home showering when two armed men broke in, that they forced him to drive them through Brooklyn, that they spotted Molly jogging, circled her several times, and made Christian stop. That one of them got out. That when he returned they opened the trunk, they drove to a cornfield, and that before disappearing down the road, the men threatened to hurt his ex girlfriend if he ever spoke up. He said that when he looked in the trunk, Molly was there, that he carried her body into the cornfield, that he didn't call police, not because he was guilty but because he was scared. It was a story that was wildly different from anything he'd said before, and in the end, the jury didn't believe it. By the time Christian Behena Rivera was convicted, Molly's family had already lived through the worst kind of grief and the worst kind of spectacle. The press, the politics, the performative mourning, and then the silence. But justice, real justice, was never the end of the story. Because this story isn't just about punishment. It's about care, about community, about who we become when everything falls apart. And in the Tibbetts family, that looked like what happened one week after Molly's funeral. As Laura Calderwood told the Washington Post, she and her son Scott were sitting at home. Molly's absence was glaring, the sadness all consuming. Scott was staring down at his phone. Then he looked up and asked, mom, can we adopt Ulysses? Ulysses was a kid from school, a friend of Scott's. Laura told him no, not because she didn't care, but because adopt wasn't the right word. I can't adopt Ulysses, she said. But if he needs a place to live so he can finish his senior year, of course he can live with us. Laura cleared out the guest room, the one overflowing with flowers, with condolence cards and gifts, the one that had held their grief. Into that room moved a boy named ulysses Felix Sandoval, 17 years old, a senior, a BGM high, a football player, a friend of Scott's. Everyone called him Uli. Brooklyn, Iowa, was the only town Uli had ever known. His parents were Mexican immigrants who worked at Yerraby Farms. It was the same farm where Christian had worked, the same farm where Yuli's mom used to cook for Christian, where his dad helped him become a good farmhand. At one point, Christian had even dated Yuli's cousin. They'd had a daughter together. They were close, closer than most people in town knew. So when Christian was arrested, Yuli's family panicked not because they knew he was guilty, but because it hurt them, too, and because they knew what people might think. The press descended on the farm. Reporters dug into the workers lives. Awful racist calls made their way to Yuli's family's phone line. Yuli tried desperately to get his parents to stay, argued that the vitriol was coming from outsiders, not people in Brooklyn. That if they waited it out, things would go back to normal. But the fear became too much, and Yuli's parents made the call. It wasn't safe anymore. The day Scott had asked Laura about adopting Yuli, he'd gotten a text that read, I got home to a basically empty house except for my mom. My parents are moving up to Illinois. I don't know what's going to happen. Scott texted back quickly, live here. We've got an extra room. Yuli arrived with everything he owned. A duffel bag of clothes, a few video games, his phone. One he used to call his parents every night. Laura remembers how quiet he was at first, how carefully he moved. Always polite, always asking permission. A guest in the house of a girl whose death had upended his world, too. There's a moment I read about in a Washington Post article that I couldn't get out of my head. An ordinary night. Laura and Yuli sitting down for dinner, the TV on. In the background, a news anchor's voice cut through the silence. We simply cannot tolerate the continued invasion of this country. But Laura and Yuli didn't turn it off. They didn't talk about it either. Instead, they ate and talk about basketball, about the upcoming season. The moment is small, but striking. Two humans at the dinner table, both dealing with the weight of their own pain. But still, life goes on. It feels so unlikely, them together, sharing a meal. Yet there they were, saying so little but, you know, holding so much, using what they had left to make something different but still beautiful. Over time, Yuli told Laura about Christian, that he was funny, generous, that he'd worked hard, sent money back to Mexico to help his parents build a house. Laura didn't know what to say. She didn't want to hear it. But she listened. She listened when Yuli told her how his mom used to cook for Christian. She listened when he said he used to call Yuli's cousin mi princessa hermosa. And reading all of this, I wondered if Yuli ever said out loud that none of them had seen it coming. Maybe he didn't have to. Maybe Laura already knew. Then one morning, Laura got a text from Yuli. Are you working today? She was, she told him so. He didn't explain, though, just said, that's fine. Don't worry about it. She didn't think much of it at the time, until later, when the call came in. Yuli had been hurt at basketball practice. His ankle might be broken. He might miss the whole season. Laura's first feeling wasn't frustration or even alarm. It was something else. Worry, yes, but also something quieter and quicker. Basketball wasn't just a sport for Yuli. It was part of what kept him in Brooklyn, part of what made staying feel possible. She texted him again. You must want something for dinner. Uli texted back. Could I have some Mexican? A burrito steak? She drove to a nearby restaurant, picked it up, brought it home, felt, for the first time in a long time, useful. She had three children for a reason, she told the Washington Post. And now, in a small way, she'd said she was trying to fill that void. Because by then, so much had been taken. Molly's story, her memory, her meaning. People had twisted it into something she wouldn't have recognized. But Laura hadn't forgotten who her daughter was, she believed. No, she knew that Molly would have wanted her to open that door, to make space for the boy who lost his home, to choose care over fear. As Laura said later in an interview with ABC News, I knew I did the right thing. And I saw it from the day he moved in. And I see it every day. Yuli, polite, grieving, caught between worlds, deserved safety, deserved care, deserved the chance to finish high school in the only town he'd ever known. And in giving him that chance, Laura didn't just offer comfort. She reclaimed something. Maybe not peace, but purpose. Molly was killed in 2018, but even as recently as 2024, Trump's team has continued to invoke her name. When Rolling Stone reached out for comment for a piece they were doing with Laura, the Trump campaign didn't respond directly. Instead, a spokesperson for the Republican National Committee issued a statement. President Trump is fighting to ensure that no other family has to endure the tragedy of losing a child at the hands of an illegal immigrant. Only he will secure our border to honor the memory of victims like Molly Tibbets. Honor. That word stuck with me, because what does it really mean to honor someone to say their name on stage or to carry forward the way they move through the world. None of us know the people will become in tragedy. And not all families have responded the way Molly's did. According to the Washington Post, some grieving parents turned their pain into activism or politics or revenge. One mother said the loss of her son made her a Republican. Another father said he wouldn't rest until he found the trash who killed my kid. And I think it's important to acknowledge those differences, because this story, Molly's story, has been politicized so many times over. And yet at its core, it's not just about policies or headlines. It's about pain, about people, about families that will never be made whole again. It's a reminder to move with empathy, to speak carefully, to tell stories in ways that still leave space for the ones living them. Because Molly's family has always been clear. This wasn't the story she would have wanted. They've asked again and again and again for her name not to be used to stoke fear. And instead they're offered something else, a different kind of legacy. In his op ed for the Des Moines Register, Molly's father, Rob Tibbetts, wrote, we have the opportunity now to take heed of the lessons that Molly taught. Humanity, fairness and courage. For most of the summer, the search for Molly brought this nation together like no other pursuit. There was a common national will that transcended opinion, race, gender and geography. Let's not lose sight of that miracle. Let's not lose sight of Molly. Let's build bridges, not walls. Her aunt Kim echoed that, too. She told Rolling Stone, there's a fundamental choice between fear and hope. And I want to walk in the light. You can't do that while holding hate in your heart. And I think that is what Molly would want. She would not want us to wallow in anger. She would want us to enjoy our lives as much as we could and lead with love. And then there's Laura. Every night she's home, she still walks down the hall to turn on the light in Molly's room, just like she did when Molly was alive, just like she did when her daughter stayed up late reading. Anne Frank's diary was one of her favorites. Laura says that Molly's room will always be her room, even now. Even still, she told Rolling Stone that her daughter had a great 20 years. And she believes full heartedly that if Molly had been told her murder would spare other future victims, that there wouldn't have been a choice to make. She would make that deal in a heartbeat, as hard as that is to hear and, you know, even harder to reconcile. I've told enough of these stories to understand what Laura meant. Because justice isn't always a verdict. Sometimes it's a guest room cleared of flowers, a dinner shared across silence, a burrito from a small town Mexican restaurant, a bedroom light turned on before bed and off again later. Just the way she liked it. This, I've come to believe, is what it looks like to reclaim a daughter story not through punishment, but through love. Hey, before you tap away, I want to take a second to spotlight an organization doing really important work. After everything we talked about today, it's clear that justice isn't just what happens in a courtroom. It's about how we show up for one another, how we protect the vulnerable, how we respond when entire communities get turned into scapegoats. So this week's action item is about care and solidarity. The Iowa Migrant Movement for Justice, or mmj, is an immigrant led organization working across the state to support and empower immigrant and refugee communities in places just like Brooklyn. They provide high quality legal services, help families navigate the immigration system and organize for long term structural change. Their work is about safety, it's about dignity, and it's about making Iowa a place where everyone, regardless of where they are born, can belong. If you want to donate, get involved or just learn more, head to www.iowamj.org. as always, you can find a full list of today's sources and action items@truercrimepodcast.com and if you want to keep in touch between episodes, Truer Crime is on Instagram and xrewercrimepod. You can also find me on Instagram and TikTok, Alicia Stanton, and through my weekly newsletter, SincerelyCelecia@sincerelycelecia.substack.com True Crime is created, hosted and written by me, Celicia Stanton and is a production of Tenderfoot TV in association with Odyssey. Additional writing, research and production by Olivia Husenfeld. 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 Nordic Group and the team at Odyssey. For more podcasts like True Crime, search Tenderfoot TV on your favorite podcast app or visit us@Tenderfoot TV. Thanks for listening.
- [45:03]
Eric Garcia
In March 2017, police in Ketchikan, Alaska got a worried call and I haven't.
- [45:08]
Celisia Stanton
Heard from them, so I'm getting worried.
- [45:10]
Eric Garcia
It was about a beloved surgeon, one of just two in town named Eric Garcia. When police officers arrived to check on the doctor, they found him dead on a couch.
- [45:21]
Celisia Stanton
Is it a suicide? Is it a murder? What is it?
- [45:24]
Eric Garcia
From ABC Audio and 2020 Cold Blooded Mystery in Alaska is out. Now listen wherever you get your podcasts.