The Serial Killer Podcast Thomas Rosseland Wiborg-Thune

One afternoon Buono and his pals cruised by as school was letting out and noticed a boy standing alone with his books, waiting for a ride. The boy was wearing a maroon satin jacket with the name “Aristocrats” spelled out across its back. Buono ordered the car to stop and told his buddies that he wanted that jacket. He got out of the car while his three buddies waited. Then he walked up to the solitary boy. The boy was much smaller than Buono and the idea of exerting power over a weaker person thrilled Buono. When told to take off his jacket so that Buono could try it on, the boy hesitated, but when Buono, long thumbs in pockets, feet apart, pelvis forward, stepped closer, the boy slipped off the jacket and handed it over. Buono’s friends lounged against the car, watching with glee in their eyes. Buono told the boy the jacket looked good and that he intended to keep it...
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Naked, she tried to beg, pleading with both cousins for her to be let go. Buono was put off by her unshaven legs and derided her as quote/unquote “some kind of a health nut.” He decided to pass up the sex this time, not even bothering to flip a coin, growing sullen and resentful at this affront to his intentions. Watching Bianchi trying to work up some enthusiasm for rape in the spare bedroom, Buono handed him a root-beer bottle. This Bianchi violently inserted into the young woman’s vagina, causing significant pain. Bianchi applied the bottle with such eagerness and animation that he made her bleed, much to Buono’s irritation. Not out of pity for the woman, but because blood would stain his sheets and carpets. To make sure she did not bleed on the carpet when she was strangled, Buono spread a piece of her coat on the floor.
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Quietly and quickly they picked up the girl, Buono carrying her under the arms, Bianchi under the knees. Buono stepped first over the curb, and as Bianchi followed, his foot caught under the ice plant. He stumbled, almost fell, got his foot loose, and they dropped the body parallel to the curb, heaving her slightly, as one would throwing someone into a swimming pool.
 
Neither the press nor television paid much attention to Buono and Bianchi’s gruesome act, and on radio there was not a word of it. Murder was so common in Los Angeles: there was one committed every three or four hours in the county, not counting the prostitutes routinely overdosed by their pimps. It took something special to titillate the media, an eviscerated actress or a child stuffed down a sewer. But the girl remained unidentified for two days, and so, at the request of Sergeant Salerno, the Times ran this bulletin on the fourth page of the Metro section, and I quote...
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The two men was confident that they enjoyed complete privacy, there were no risk of prying eyes and since the house was located where it was; no outsiders could hear anyone scream. Buono got out and walked over to the laundry-room door at the side of the house, unlocking it. Sparky the dog was waiting on the steps but knew not to enter the house. When the girl asked what kind of place they had brought her to, they replied that the house was in fact a satellite police station. Quite unique. The men guided the girl into the house. She did not resist, she was still under the impression that the men were police officers and that all she had in store was a night in jail and perhaps a fine, worst case scenario a few months behind bars.  As Buono secured the deadbolt, Bianchi guided the girl into the living room and sat her down in the brown vinyl easy chair.
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As with so many serial killer cases certain things are mysterious. It is clear that Bianchi and Buono are serial killer superstars, almost in the same league as Bundy and Dahmer. But their crimes were not particularly nefarious by serial killer standards. Nor did they rack up the greatest body count. But still, there is a certain je ne sais quoi about the case which makes it stand out. Perhaps it is the era and location of the crimes. It is so quintessential American and iconic of the Golden Age of Serial Murder. The bright California sun shining down on beautiful, dead young girls laying naked spread eagle for all the world to see as tired Dirty Harry looking detectives looks on in frustration and despair. But, before I reveal too much of this dark true crime plot, let us stop and take a closer look.
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Towards the end of the summer of 1987, newly released, Thierry Paulin reconnected with his old acquaintances and resumed his night owl life.
Still determined to organize parties, he began to update his address book. He began frequenting the nightclubs and gay bars of the Les Halles district again, appearing here and there, more exuberant than ever. Paulin often frequented “Le Palace”, a famous nightclub, located at rue du Faubourg Montmartre, in Paris. Always charming and polite, Paulin spent lavishly during these evenings: he paid cash and left very large tips. Sometimes he would come every evening for a week, then disappear for a month only to reappear several evenings in a row.
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