This Grindr User Has Been Accused Of Murdering Four Men He Met On The App

Look darlings, I’m ALL about those gay boy hookup apps. One of my favorite queer culture writers,Donny Meacham,has written a few powerful articlesin defense of the controversial app that I loved with every fiber of my 30-year-old being. This is not a shaming post. I hate shaming posts.

To be perfectly honest, as a lesbian,I’ve wished and prayed to the gay goddesses up above, to please (PLEASE!) give us sexually-charged dykes a Grindr of our own.

In fact, I’m all for people having as much sex as they desire. I hear people talk shit about the incessant hookups that occur in my lovely queer communityand when I hear an outsider sex-shame us, I’m fueled with nothing but relentless desire to tell them to piss off.

It’s no one’s business how much we hook up or the reasons behind WHY we hook up. If I’m having sex to fill an empty void or remedy a deep-rooted childhood trauma, that’s my business. As long as we’re safe, open and honest with our partners about our STD statuses, don’t comment on what we do between the sheets.

However, as I mentioned before, SAFETY should always be synonymous with SEX. And there are bad, terrible, awful, psychotic people out there who use our beloved hookup appsto bestow hatred and violence on our community.

There has been recent devastating news that the alleged east London serial killer, Stephen Port, 41, has been accused of murdering four men he met on Grindr and has been charged with attacking eight other victims. He has been accused of killing these four innocent men with high doses of GHB after inviting them back to his apartment.

According to this article in the Daily Mail, Port has been officially charged with,

Seven counts of rape, six counts of administering a substance with intent to overpower to allow sexual activity and four counts of assault by penetration.

The charges relate to another eight alleged victims said to have been attacked at Port’s flat between August 2011 and October 2015 after meeting on the gay dating site.

I’m not reporting on this horrible tragedy as a a scare tactic to keep young, attractive men from getting their rocks off on Grindr. I just want to raise awareness that there are some twisted people out there who take advantage of too many members of our gentle community. I’m tired of it.

So please, queer kittens, don’t just go home with anyone. Have a healthy guard up. Meet your hookups in public before you go home with them, don’t get wildly intoxicated, use protection and LISTEN TO YOUR GUT. Always listen to your precious gay instincts, for they are far wiser than you or I.

Sex is a powerful force and can drive us to make reckless life choices. But let’s just be sure to take a deep breath pre-hookup and remember that nothing is more important than our safety — no matter how seductive or tempting everything feels in the heat of the moment. It breaks my heart to think of this tragedy and the loss of these innocent men.

So in short: I love you all. Stay safe. Oh and wrap it up, babes. Always wrap it up. But you already knew that, huh? You don’t need some self-obsessed mascara lesbian to tell you that.

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They Looked Happy, But When She Rejected His Proposal, Things Turned Deadly

On Tuesday, October 25, Jason Eaton walked into Indiana’s Greensburg Police Department and told deputies that he had just murdered his girlfriend, Wendy Sabatini. The reason? She rejected his marriage proposal.

Sadly, cases like this aren’t exactly rare. Every day in the United States, as many as three women die at the hands of current or former male partners. There’s also been a rise in men killing women simply for rejecting them in one way or another, as Mic reported earlier this year. Incidences of women simply saying no to phone number requests have ended in unspeakable tragedy.

Gendered violence in the U.S. is clearly a major problem. The root cause is believed to stem from men’s false sense of power and control over women and their bodies. Until there is a major shift in how our culture views women, these tragic events will continue to occur.

By all accounts, 43-year-old Eaton and 44-year-old Sabatini were an average couple. They both enjoyed baseball, the outdoors, and spending time with family.

Read More: This Father Killed His 12-Year-Old Daughter For The Most Insane Reason

Clearly, Eaton was important to his girlfriend. On October 5, she shared this memory board she’d made with followers on Facebook. There’s two photos of Eaton at the top, but for her own reasons, she didn’t want to marry him.

In fact, on that tragic day when he entered her bedroom with an engagement ring in hand, she didn’t let him pop the big question. Before he could even get to it, she firmly said no.

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Eaton went to a nightstand, pulled out a gun, and fired one shot into the back of Sabatini’s head. She died instantly.

Later, when cops arrived, Sabatini’s son let them into the house. He’d been away during the murder and had no idea that his mom lay dead in her bedroom. Eaton has been charged with murder and awaits trial at Decatur County Jail.

Our hearts go out to this woman’s son, family, and friends. There is absolutely no reason for such a violent, senseless crime to ever happen. Hopefully, the perpetrator will go on to rot in prison.

Read More: Father Who Raped His 12-Year-Old Daughter Gets 60 Days In Jail And Probation

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, get help before it’s too late. To speak to a trained professional, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-3224 or click here to chat live.

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Ray Lewis Should Never Be Allowed To Talk About The Ray Rice Scandal Again (Video)

Ray Lewis is one of the most inspirational players to ever play the game of football. But as a sports analyst, he’s pissing people off more often than he is motivating them.

During an appearance on ESPN’s “Sunday NFL Countdown,” the former Baltimore Raven expressed his feelings for the entire Ray Rice scandal and dropped a pretty distasteful line about the whole situation.

There’s somethings that you can cover up and there’s somethings you can’t.

Pretty interesting use of words for a guy who was rumored to be a murder suspect back in 2000 and was convicted of obstruction of justice.

Of course, Lewis was only defending the good name of Ravens GM Ossie Newsom, who has received some flack for the handling of the case.

However, when it comes to providing objective and credible news on a Sunday before kickoff, I just don’t know if Ray Lewis is the right guy.

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Who Killed Lois Duncan’s Daughter?

Lois Arquette wrote successful teen thrillers like I Know What You Did Last Summer under the name Lois Duncan until 1989, when her daughter was murdered. What followed was a twisted tale, with a potential police cover-up, a seedy criminal network, uncanny coincidences, and psychics — and a mother still trying to find answers.

Illustration by Justine Zwiebel for BuzzFeed

One fall afternoon 17 years ago, Lois Arquette sat in a crowded theater on the North Carolina coast. Lois, who has a short blonde bowl cut and soft round features, watched as the ocean swelled and crashed over a craggy shoreline; an ominous Type O Negative cover of “Summer Breeze” filled the theater. As the movie ticked along, her excitement vanished. She watched, horrified, as a man was gored with an ice hook, blood squirting from his throat along the way.

The film was showing at a massive multiplex, the kind where it’s easy to wander into the wrong theater, and Lois wondered if that’s what had happened. Her novel, upon which this movie was ostensibly set, took place in landlocked New Mexico. It contained no ice hooks, and certainly no scenes of death by ice hook. Still, the plot, at least initially, matched up: After a group of high school friends kill a man, they make a pact to never reveal their secret. Later, the most guilt-ridden of the group — played by Jennifer Love Hewitt — receives an eerie note: “I know what you did last summer.”

It was a surreal experience for Lois. Since 1966, she had been writing popular suspense novels under the pen name Lois Duncan — an innovator of “throat-clutching suspense,” as the author R.L. Stine described her, one who today has sold “hundreds of thousands” of books, by her own estimate. But she never expected I Know What You Did Last Summer to become a film, much less a $125 million-grossing, franchise-spawning Hollywood blockbuster. When the book was published 24 years before, Lois won no accolades. There were no calls from movie studios. When it was optioned in the mid-1990s, she’d almost forgotten it existed.

Lois wasn’t involved in the adaptation, and as she sat in the theater on opening night, she was astonished. She wrote books that were heart-pumping page-turners about the secret lives of young men and women, lives that were often ravaged by terrifying unknowns. But she helped pioneer a new genre, young adult suspense, because she didn’t want to do stories that were drenched in sex and violence — an almost mandatory component of adult thrillers.

I Know What You Did Last Summer was her first novel to be turned into a theatrically released feature. (Though it was not her last: 1971’s decidedly less pulpy Hotel for Dogs was released as a children’s film in 2009, while 1976’s Summer of Fear was a Wes Craven-directed made-for-TV movie starring Linda Blair and Killing Mr. Griffith became, kinda, Teaching Mrs. Tingle. Twilight author Stephenie Meyer is among the producers of a planned adaptation of 1974’s Down a Dark Hall.) Under normal circumstances, this might have been a high point in her career. It wasn’t.

For two decades, she had turned out a thriller nearly every other year; now, she was struggling to complete what would be her last, Gallow’s Hill, and her work was drifting further and further from what she was once known for. She wrote a book about experiments in extrasensory perception called Psychic Connections. She wrote a book about her photographer father’s trove of circus photos. There was a good reason the genre had become so difficult for her: the unsolved killing of her youngest daughter, Kaitlyn, in the summer of 1989. “I went weak after Kait’s murder,” Lois said. “How could I even think about creating a novel with a young woman in a life-threatening situation?”

At the time, Lois lived in Albuquerque, N.M., and, unable to write, she focused on Kait. She began by chronicling the grim day-to-day struggles of having a child die violently — of receiving the dreaded late-night phone call and the surreal news that her daughter was killed not in a car accident, as she first suspected, but in a bizarre, unexplained shooting just blocks from downtown.

The investigation into Kait’s murder soon fell apart, and Lois, teetering between grieving mother and dogged semipro sleuth, began hunting down clues — with the help of psychics and a private investigator — that the authorities seemed unwilling to pursue. This 25-year crusade led Lois to the seedier corners of Albuquerque, where, just as she might have done in a novel, she pieced together the hidden life of a complicated young woman.

To this day, Kait’s killing remains unsolved. Over those two decades, theories of Kait’s murder twisted in unimaginable ways, and, in Lois’ view, they spiraled into the darkest, most convoluted of mysteries.

“If you look far enough, there’s this thread,” said Lois, now 80. “It’s not necessarily a strong thread. It’s not a chain. The whole thing is like a cobweb.”

Photograph by Edward Linsmier for BuzzFeed

In March, when I visited Lois at her modest, two-bedroom condo on Florida’s Gulf Coast, she was warm, self-effacing, and charmingly ornery. After a three-hour interview in her large, vaulted living room, Lois asked what kind of cocktail I’d like. When I asked for a glass of water, she said, “Do you want that in a sippy cup?”

The Arquettes’ home is in a quiet, leafy development a few miles south of downtown Sarasota. Inside, reminders of Kait are scattered around the house: In one bedroom, there’s a gold-framed photo of her as a teenager lying on her side, smiling widely at the camera. In another, she’s a gap-toothed, wildly grinning child; beside this black-and-white image is one of Lois’ poems:

We gave our order. We asked for girls,

With frills and flounces and fluff and curls.

The first two came, and how sweet they were,

(All songs and giggles and kitten purr).

We sighed for the parents of little boys,

(All shouts and mischief and dirt and noise).

And prided ourselves on our peaceful state—

And then God smiled. And he sent us Kait.

Long before Kait was born, Lois was an aspiring writer growing up in Sarasota when it was just a lazy speck of a beach town. By the time she was 30, she had left for Duke University, dropped out, gotten married, and gotten divorced. She had two young daughters and a son who, in 1962, as a single mother, she dragged to Albuquerque. Lois had been writing novels for years — her first book, a teen romance called Love Song for Joyce, was published in 1957 under the name “Lois Kerry” — but she never earned enough to live on. That changed in New Mexico.

After being fired from a $200-a-month advertising job (“I wouldn’t sleep with the boss,” she said), Lois found herself in a magazine shop, determined to figure out how to break in as a writer. She bought 22 copies of 22 different confessionals — pulp magazines that published lurid, anonymous secrets that hinged on an easily replicated formula. “I sinned, suffered, got caught, and repented,” Lois explained. She regularly began exposing new, fictionalized sins. One week, she was a kleptomaniac who, at the grocery store, couldn’t help but stuff her purse with overpriced tins of smoked oysters. The next week, she was a mother so frustrated with her constantly interrupted love life that she accidentally killed her colicky infant with an overdose of paregoric. Her most popular story was headlined, “I WANTED TO HAVE AN AFFAIR WITH A TEEN-AGE BOY.”

It was a dark business, but Lois excelled. “I confessed to everything there was,” she said.

Lois with baby Kait, 1971. Courtesy of Lois Duncan

Lois’ early years were fraught with struggle. She moved every time the rent was raised, which typically meant annually. But the confession stories paid well enough that she bought a house and sent her daughters to ballet school. It was also her real education as a writer — she learned to develop scenes, characters, and plot — and she parlayed her experience into selling stories to women’s glossies and, eventually, a job teaching journalism at the University of New Mexico. With a novel called Ransom, she also helped establish an all but nonexistent fiction genre. In 1966, she married her now-husband, Don, a soft-spoken electrical engineer at Sandia National Laboratories, the facility that designed, tested, and assembled the country’s first nuclear weapons components. Don adopted Lois’ three children, and they had two more. Kait was the baby.

The Arquette children grew up in a comfortable, upper-middle class life: a brick five-bedroom house with a big backyard on a quiet street in a safe section of the city. “Life was gentle,” recalled Kerry Arquette, Kait’s older sister. Albuquerque is a big and complicated place, though. Its 187 square miles are a five-hour drive from the Mexico border and encompass the state’s largest city, a place with one of the largest Air Force bases in the country and sizable populations of Pueblo and Navajo Native Americans, Latino immigrants, and Vietnamese refugees who landed in Albuquerque after the fall of Saigon.

The city can also be a dangerous place, one where drug trafficking and addiction have thrived, and where the myriad associated crimes have, said Mike Gallagher, a veteran investigative reporter with the Albuquerque Journal, produced “a deeply embedded criminal subclass that is multigenerational and almost impossible for police to root out.” In the 1980s and ‘90s, the city’s violent crime rates roughly equaled — and at times even exceeded — those of Phoenix and Houston, and even when I visited in February, city officials and editorial writers were debating which television show made the city look worse, Breaking Bad or Cops. (The Journal chose the former; politicians went with the latter.) Recalling a case in which a woman strangled another woman to death, then cut a baby out of the victim’s womb with a pair of car keys, Gallagher put it this way: “This is a really mean town. Shit goes on here that doesn’t make any sense.”

Not that Kait was known to associate with Albuquerque’s criminal class. To her oldest sister Robin Burkin, Kait had always been shy and bookish. She already knew her career path (doctor), and before graduating high school with honors, she was enrolled in classes at the University of New Mexico. But, Robin added, “She did have a side to her that I didn’t know much about.” Periodically, it would manifest in unsettling ways. Kait liked to pick up hitchhikers to acquire their hard-won travel stories, and when she was 16, the family’s mailbox began filling with letters from potential suitors. Lois never untangled the details, but she believed they were probably responses to a singles ad; years later, she would have an unnerving conversation with a prison inmate who claimed to be one of Kait’s correspondents. “She was a clean-cut kid who liked to take risks,” Lois said.

Photograph by Edward Linsmier for BuzzFeed

Pat Caristo slid her silver sedan into reverse and inched out of the driveway. It was a clear, warm Sunday afternoon earlier this year, and Caristo, who was a cop before she became a private investigator, had made this short drive to downtown Albuquerque many times over the last two decades. In front of us was a small duplex, the same kind of plain, adobe-style cube that seems to dominate large swaths of New Mexico, and that served as a starting point, 25 years ago, in the final moments of Kait Arquette’s life.

In the summer of 1989, Kait was in the beginning throes of those awkward, fleeting months between high school and everything that comes after: She had just graduated from Highland. She had moved into her first apartment, a studio that she shared with her boyfriend, and she’d gone from rollerskating waitress to bookstore clerk to manager at an import shop. On a Sunday night in July, the 16th, she was at a friend’s condo here having dinner (chicken and green beans), and watching a movie (Valley Girl). When Kait left for the night, she got in her ‘84 red Ford Tempo, backed out of the driveway, and drove one block south to Lomas Boulevard, a thoroughfare that bisects much of Albuquerque’s strip mall sprawl and, just east of the Rio Grande, merges with the mythic Route 66.

As Caristo and I drove south on 19th Street, she narrated Kait’s route. “She would make a left turn onto Lomas,” Caristo said. “It’s 11:00 on a Sunday night. There would be little traffic out here. It had been raining. Everything would be very similar.” We drove east past boxy, suburban-looking professional buildings and arrived, minutes later, in Albuquerque’s eerily quiet downtown, with its clay-colored bank buildings and empty parking lots, its fortress-like federal courthouse and police department. To the east, the Sandia Mountains rose like a dust storm. We crossed a set of railroad tracks and Caristo braked.

According to the Albuquerque Police Department, Caristo said, this was where it happened. Two bullets entered the driver’s side window, shattering the glass and puncturing Kait’s left temple and cheek.

Caristo started the engine and, as she punched the gas, the car drifted leftward across three lanes of traffic. “She is shot twice in the head,” Caristo said. “The car is traveling uncontrolled.” There are few other drivers on the road, and Caristo wanted to complete the reenactment, so she continued drifting across Lomas, into oncoming traffic, as Kait did, toward a used car lot. A driver slowed down and stared nervously.

Approximately 700 feet from where the shots were fired, Caristo parked diagonally in front of a wooden telephone pole. “Here’s where the car ends up,” Caristo said. She pointed to a small indentation. “See that mark? That’s Kait’s mark.”

Courtesy of Lois Duncan

After the shooting, Kait was rushed to the trauma unit at the University of New Mexico Hospital. She was in a coma and wrapped in so many bandages that she was all but unrecognizable. Lois Arquette was well-known in Albuquerque, and she had taught many in the city’s press corps, so there was intense media interest in the crime, which was also unusual. When hospital officials suggested that the Arquettes hold a press conference, they appeared ashen, sitting at a nearly bare table. Lois shared what little information they had. “From what we’ve been told, they think that a car drove up next to her car,” she said. The assailant fired, and Kait was struck.

Kait in the hospital. Courtesy of Lois Duncan / Via

Later that day, on July 17, Kait was pronounced brain-dead. Her siblings and parents filed into the hospital room and offered their good-byes. “When I placed my hand on her chest and felt it rise and fall to the steady rhythm of the respirator, it was hard to believe she wasn’t alive,” Lois later wrote. “‘Sleep well, my baby,’ I whispered. ‘Go with God.’”

The murder was treated as a tragedy for the city, and the police promised an all-hands approach. “We don’t care how much manpower it’s going to take — personnel, resources — we’re going to resolve it, bottom line,” the police chief, Sam Baca, told reporters during a press conference. His pledge was punctuated by a six-motorcycle escort at Kait’s funeral.

In the days after the killing, no murder weapon was found and no suspects were identified. Still, the young homicide detective investigating the murder, Steve Gallegos, turned up a few promising clues almost immediately. Back at the adobe condo, Kait’s friend told him that the night of the murder, Kait was furious with her boyfriend. This wasn’t unusual: The arguments had become so routine that just before she died, Kait may have been planning on ending their relationship.

Still, it didn’t seem likely that this was a lover’s quarrel turned fatal. Kait’s boyfriend was a handsome, slender Vietnamese man named Dung (pronounced Yoon) Nguyen. From the little that the Arquettes knew, Nguyen’s migration to the United States had been perilous: He was one of the so-called “boat people,” someone who fled Vietnam by sea after the Americans evacuated. He and Kait met at a coffeehouse a year and a half before, and though he was nearly a decade older than Kait, he didn’t look it, and Lois and Don welcomed him into their home. They spent holidays together. He called Lois “mom.” She took him to the dentist to have an abscessed tooth removed, and tended to him afterward. “He made Kait seem happy,” Lois said.

When Gallegos tracked Nguyen down for questioning, he told the detective that, on the night Kait was shot, he’d been at a bar with a couple of friends; afterward, they gave him a ride to Kait’s apartment. “I waited and waited for her,” Nguyen later told a local reporter. “But she never came home.”

The interview was conducted just hours after the shooting, so Gallegos tested Nguyen’s hands for gunshot residue. When he searched the apartment, he placed just one item into evidence: a small yellow piece of paper with a note that Nguyen said Kait had written him earlier in the day. “Hon, where are you,” the note read. “I know you’re still mad. I’m so sorry OK! I miss you today. I went to mom’s house to return these books. I’ll see ya. Love.”

The residue test came back negative, and Gallegos found no other evidence that implicated Nguyen, a conclusion reinforced by Kait’s brother Brett, who liked his sister’s boyfriend and who went to the police station and told Gallegos as much.

Five days after Kait’s murder, Nguyen was staying with a couple of friends in an Air Force dorm room. When the friends returned from a restaurant, they discovered him on a bunk bed in the corner, moaning. There was blood on the sheets and a 4-inch folding knife on the bed. Nguyen had stabbed himself in the stomach.

Top Row, From Left: I Know What You Did Last Summer (1973), Down a Dark Hall (1974), Summer of Fear (1976), Killing Mr. Griffin (1978), Daughters of Eve (1979), Stranger With My Face (1981).
Bottom Row, From Left: Linda Blair in the 1978 TV movie Stranger in Our House based on the book Summer of Fear, I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997), and Teaching Mrs. Tingle (1999), loosely based on Killing Mr. Griffin.

Nguyen recovered, and when Gallegos interviewed him one morning a week later, he said he’d been so distraught over Kait’s murder that he tried to commit suicide. “If he had not gotten into an argument with her she would not have been in that area of town or alone,” Gallegos later wrote. Yet Nguyen seemed to have a double life: There was the man that Lois had fed and cared for, and there was the one she heard about from Kait’s landlord, who said Kait had been so frightened of Nguyen and his friends that she asked to have the locks changed on her door.

From Kait’s friends, Lois heard that Nguyen had been involved in insurance fraud in Southern California. The scam is well-known now — a car accident is staged and victims pursue settlements afterward — but in 1989, insurance companies and law enforcement agencies were often unprepared. In the sleazier corners of Orange County’s burgeoning Vietnamese community, the scam had become a highly organized, multimillion-dollar criminal enterprise that involved dozens of unscrupulous lawyers, doctors, and, at the bottom of the chain, recent, often-down-on-their-luck immigrants who could earn hundreds of dollars per accident. The operators who controlled the crime rings could be ruthless, said Leslie Kim, editor of the John Cooke Fraud Report. “It was rule by terror,” she said. “That’s how so many of these groups work.”

Robin, Kait’s sister, wondered if his stabbing and Kait’s killing were connected in some other way. “I don’t think people usually stab themselves in the stomach to commit suicide,” said Robin. Her sister’s killing seemed too deliberate to be random.

Robin had always been skeptical of psychics, but when a friend recommended visiting a local named Betty Muench, she agreed. What she found was unexpected: a short-haired, middle-aged woman who conducted her work out of a modern, detached home office. “Betty was extraordinarily ordinary,” Robin said. “She wasn’t even friendly.” Muench channeled the dead through a kind of stream of consciousness that she called “automatic writing.” Her preferred means of communication was an electric typewriter, and for this case, she worked pro bono.

Robin was allowed to ask three questions, and after each, Muench blasted out an answer. When Robin asked if Nguyen or his friends had anything to do with Kait’s murder, Muench wrote, “The situation in which Dung now finds himself is born out of misunderstanding and confusion. It is not as if he will have been the one to do this, but he will seem to know who did it.”

Lois, however, wasn’t just skeptical of psychics, she believed they were con artists. But after Robin shared the transcript, there was no squaring her gut with her head. “Nothing to lose,” is how she described what happened next.

Lois, Don, and Robin drove to the same hospital where they had been just days before, and they found the private room where Nguyen was staying. He seemed groggy, perhaps from pain medication, but alert enough to tell Lois that he wanted to see her and no one else. He put his arms around her neck and thanked her for coming. “He said, ‘I didn’t kill her,’” Lois recalled. “I said, ‘I know you didn’t.’” Lois told him that he knew who did, and that he needed to decide whether he loved Kait enough to tell. He was silent for a moment. Then, Lois recalled, he said, “I know. I am deciding.”

Courtesy of Lois Duncan

The first thing Lois did was call the detective, Steve Gallegos. After Nguyen recovered, Gallegos asked him to come to the police station for an interview; he asked Lois to come too. “I asked Gallegos, ‘What do you want me to do?’” Lois recalled. “He said, ‘Do the same thing you did in the hospital.’” As they sat alone in an interview room, she presented Nguyen with a toy reindeer that he bought for Kait as a Christmas present. She told him how much Kait loved it, and what a sweet gift it was. And she repeated what she said a few days before — that he knew something, and that he needed to make a decision. This time he said nothing.

In Lois’ telling, it was around this point that the police investigation seemed to shift. She wasn’t sure what happened, but Gallegos’ interest in the troubling details that continued to surface vanished.

There was, for instance, the friend of Kait’s who said she received a startling phone call from Nguyen the night of the murder. “He’s screaming into the phone and he’s saying, ‘Kait dead!’” the friend told Caristo, the private investigator, in a recorded interview. The woman, who did not wish to be identified, had been closer to Kait than Nguyen, and she knew that Kait was upset about the insurance fraud; the couple had traveled to Orange County together when he participated in a staged accident. The friend thought there might be some connection, so she dialed the police and was shuffled to Gallegos. “He just blew me off,” she said. It was only later that she discovered the most striking detail of the experience: The police didn’t notify Nguyen of Kait’s murder until 3 a.m. — several hours after she had that panicked conversation with Nguyen.

Then, there were the phone calls. As Lois was settling her daughter’s affairs, closing accounts and paying bills, she noticed three calls that had been made from Kait’s apartment. Each one was to Orange County, and they were placed on July 17, at the precise time that Kait was in the trauma unit dying. Nguyen had been at the hospital at the time of the calls too, so it wasn’t him. Lois delivered the bill to Gallegos. “I’d call him and say, ‘Were you able to find out?’ He said, ‘No, they’re unlisted numbers. The police can’t get unlisted numbers.’”

In the aftermath of the murder, the note collected from Kait’s apartment that she was presumed to have written had been important evidence: It proved that she and Nguyen had settled their argument. Yet when the Arquettes finally saw an original copy of the note, they were floored. Not only was its freewheeling cursive markedly different from Kait’s scrupulously crafted script — examples of which had been provided to the police department — but, even more shocking, there were misspellings and other errors that Kait wouldn’t have made. When the text of the note appeared in Gallegos’ report, it had been cleaned up: “I went to Nam house to retune these books” became “I went to mom’s house to return these books.”

Finally, Nguyen made several stunning admissions about the insurance fraud. In his initial encounters with the police, he said that he knew nothing about it. In fact, he did, and he later admitted to participating in two staged accidents, both of which were planned and paid for by a paralegal in Orange County. He lied because a friend and fellow fraudster told him to. The friend, it turned out, made the three mysterious phone calls from Kait’s apartment. Each one was to the staged accident-planning paralegal.

These admissions were made during an interview at Albuquerque’s central police station. For reasons that remain unclear, authorities didn’t seem particularly concerned; a deputy chief would later describe “claims concerning Vietnamese gang activity” as possibly “nothing more than smoke.” Gallegos, who conducted the interview with Nguyen, seemed sympathetic to his subject. At one point, he asked Nguyen why he thought Lois believed “the Vietnamese” were involved in Kait’s murder.

“She think we did something like that,” Nguyen replied.

“To your knowledge, there’s nothing that would say that anyone in California’s responsible for Kait’s death?”


“Are you sure?”


When the interview was over, Nguyen left the police station and, eventually, Albuquerque.

Lois was baffled. Were the police incompetent? Did they know something that they weren’t sharing? “We were having serious doubts about the communication that was going on there and what they were really doing,” Lois told me. In this swirl of desperation and confusion, of grief and increasing frustration, she went looking for answers elsewhere.

Robin had urged her mother to visit the psychic Betty Muench, and she reluctantly agreed. Lois found Muench seemed trustworthy; she didn’t advertise and she still refused payment. She also warned Lois to be cautious with any information she gleaned from their session, especially with the police. (“They’ll chalk you up as a crackpot,” Lois recalled her saying.) It helped that Muench’s plain features bore an uncanny resemblance to someone Lois already knew: a psychic detective she created in one of her books that had been published several years before. “I had the crazy feeling I had scripted the story of my own future,” Lois later wrote.

Lois wondered if there were other honest psychic detectives. She began asking around, and they all had strict policies about only working with law enforcement. To gain access, Lois secured an assignment on the subject for Woman’s Day and after each interview, she would mention her daughter. “They’d say, ‘I’m so sorry, is there anything I can do?’” Lois told me. “I’d say, ‘I don’t know. Is there?’” To help channel Kait, they wanted her belongings, so Lois began mailing remnants of her daughter’s life around the country: a pair of gold-rimmed seashell earrings, a purse, a wallet. They responded with possible clues about the murder and supposed messages from Kait that made Lois less convinced that all psychics were charlatans.

Sometimes, these clues led Lois to plan her own risky, crime-solving pursuits. When she got a tip that a “desert castle” may have played some role in the murder, for instance, she grabbed her camera, got in her car, and drove more than a dozen miles into the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. After parking on a dirt road and trudging up a rocky path, it was there, behind a locked gate, with a view of the sprawling city in the distance: the palatial mansion she was searching for.

Above, the police sketch based upon a psychic’s description; below, the cover of Duncan’s book Don’t Look Behind You.

As if she were a daring — or reckless — teen from one of her novels, Lois hopped the gate and walked through a courtyard. “When nobody appeared to confront me, I continued on under the archway and up the tiled stairs to the bronze-mounted doors of the main building,” she later wrote. She strolled the grounds, snapping photos and observing every detail. “I peered through the windows and saw that the residence was furnished, but there was a feeling of vacancy about it, with deck chairs blown over by the wind; scum in the swimming pool, and tumbleweeds lying in drifts among the marble statuary.”

In the end, Lois would walk away undetected, and without finding a thing that was linked to Kait’s murder.

Lois’ husband, Don, worried about how hard his wife was pushing. They had, after all, received anonymous threatening phone calls. “At the same time,” Don told me, “I knew she was invested in it, and I knew she could not stop doing this. I knew it was useless to make any attempt to dissuade her.”

Not all of Lois’ psychic endeavors were so dangerous. One of the mediums she worked with, a woman named Noreen Renier, collaborated with a police sketch artist. Lois sent her Kait’s sunglasses, lipstick, and several other items, and Renier sent back a head shot of a possible suspect. The man in the picture looked identical to another character Lois had created, a hit man named Mike Vamp in a book called Don’t Look Behind You. In the book, Vamp drove a Camaro in which he hunted the main female character, who had been modeled on Kait and wasn’t yet published at the time of her death.

Meanwhile, the Albuquerque Police Department had been conducting its own investigation, and two men had been charged with Kait’s murder. When the man fired the gun that killed her, the police said, he had been sitting in the passenger seat of a Camaro. His name was Miguel Garcia, but he went by Mike. In an interview with police, a friend offered his nickname: Vamp.

Lois Duncan displays the many binders of research she has done into the murder of her daughter, including psychic readings. Photograph by Edward Linsmier for Buzzfeed

Juvenal “Juve” Escobedo KOAT-TV / Via

The other man charged with Kait’s murder was Juvenal “Juve” Escobedo. They grew up together in Martineztown, a dusty grid of modest homes and empty lots sandwiched between downtown and Interstate 25. In the summer of 1989, Garcia and Escobedo were 18 and 21, respectively, and in the telling of detective Gallegos, the manner in which they killed Kait was the most horrific, fear-inspiring sort of a crime: a random act of psychopathic violence.

Miguel “Mike” Garcia aka Vamp KOAT-TV / Via

They had been out for a ride in Escobedo’s Camaro — Juve was driving — when they saw a blonde in a little red Ford. As an affidavit for an arrest warrant flatly described it, “Juve dared Michael Garcia to shoot at the female driver. Michael Garcia then pointed a revolver at the blonde female driver through his passenger window, which was open, and fired several shots.” A term that was getting more and more attention at the time was used to describe their crime: drive-by shooting.

When Escobedo and Garcia appeared in court — and on televisions across Albuquerque — they looked like scrawny kids who had sauntered into a body-building gym for the first time. Each was outfitted in a short-sleeve, pale blue jumpsuit. Escobedo had a wispy mustache and a mop of curls; Garcia’s face was framed by short, pressed-back black hair. Lois told a television reporter that she was hopeful, but shocked at the arrest. “I just simply couldn’t believe what I was hearing,” she said.

Yet the case was in trouble as soon as it began.

The friend who offered Garcia’s nickname also claimed to have been in the Camaro’s backseat the night of the shooting, and he told police about the revolver that killed Kait; he’d seen Garcia grab it from between a box spring and a mattress at his family’s home. Yet it turned out that the friend couldn’t have been in the backseat — he was incarcerated. When police found the revolver, it was missing a bushing and a spring. The gun was inoperable, and it had been that way for months. “The guy that wasn’t there chose that as the murder weapon,” recalled Gallagher, who uncovered the scandal for the Albuquerque Journal.

Less than two weeks later, the charges were dropped.

So the police took a different approach. Instead, detectives focused on neighbors who claimed to have heard Garcia talking about the crime, as well as another man who told a cop and jail guards, that he too witnessed the murder from the Camaro’s backseat. When a grand jury was convened, he backed off the claim and said the confession was coerced. He only made the statement, he said, after the detective interviewing him turned off a tape recorder and threatened him. “If you don’t want to cooperate,” the detective allegedly told him, “then I’ll just send you to prison and set you up [on] the death penalty.”

The grand jury didn’t believe it, and a month after the charges were dismissed, Escobedo and Garcia were indicted for first-degree murder. Garcia had remained in jail, but Escobedo, who had been freed, was nowhere to be found. More than a year passed, and he was like a ghost. One day Lois would hear Escobedo was in Albuquerque, the next, maybe he fled to Mexico. All along, the police said they were diligently searching for him. “We didn’t know who to believe,” Lois said.

Then, one Tuesday in the spring of 1991, nearly two years after Kait’s murder, the Arquettes were summoned by the district attorney, Robert Schwartz, a wiry man with a cartoonish, super-sized mustache and a balloon of gray-streaked hair. The charges, Schwartz told them, were being dismissed. He still believed that Kait was the victim of a random drive-by shooting and that Garcia and Escobedo were guilty. But some of the witnesses had started waffling; Schwartz believed they had been intimidated. “They became pretty much unusable,” he said. “The other problem was, the defense attorneys had gotten on to this Vietnamese connection. It has a much better motive than our case.”

But, he added, “The trailhead pretty much stops there.”

Photograph by Edward Linsmiser for BuzzFeed

None of it made sense. If the motive behind the “Vietnamese connection” was better, Lois wondered, why did it seem like Gallegos hadn’t bothered to look there? She knew better than to accept an intriguing psychic tip without corroborating evidence, but she still wondered about Escobedo and Garcia. Where had Juve gone, and why had he never been found? Did they have something to do with Kait’s murder, or were the stories of police coercion true?

It’s not as if the city of Albuquerque or its police department had a matchless reputation. Gallagher recalled how, in the 1980s, APD’s intelligence unit began tracking attorneys who sued the department, along with the reporters who scrutinized it. When the American Civil Liberties Union filed a lawsuit seeking the disclosure of the files, the police department burned them. Later, a police officer who dressed as a Japanese assassin was convicted of murder and bank robbery, and the mayor, along with a powerful state politician, were found to have participated in a kickback scheme during the construction of a courthouse. “I used to wake up every morning wondering if city hall had been sold,” Gallagher said.

Lois’ nonfiction account, Who Killed My Daughter?, published in 1992 under the name Lois Duncan, wove together the murder, the disturbing events that followed, and her struggle to make sense of it. She was deeply critical of how law enforcement handled the case, and the police department responded in kind. When a local reporter asked the deputy chief of investigations about the book, he shot back, “I don’t read fiction.”

On the national media blitz that followed the release of Who Killed My Daughter?, Lois appeared alongside the district attorney, Robert Schwartz, on Larry King Live for what was to be a sparring match between a prosecutor and the outraged mother of a murder victim. As Lois prepared in her hotel room, she was nerve-racked. Schwartz didn’t just perform in the courtroom; he had a side gig as a stand-up comic. She developed a debate strategy that hinged on one crucial fact: “I knew more about the case than he did,” she later wrote. “I vowed to myself that I was not going to continue to be cast as grief-crazed housewife creating monsters out of dust balls.” Then, a last-minute call from her husband about a psychic tip scrambled everything: Kait’s killers might turn on each other. Don’t alienate the police, Don warned her. Grudgingly, Lois vowed to appear as nonconfrontational as possible.

The seven-minute segment that followed was odd. Lois had prepared for a fight, and instead she delivered what sounded like a canned statement. Afterward, Lois recalled, Schwartz asked for an autograph.

Photograph by Edward Linsmier for BuzzFeed

A couple of years later, after the paperback edition of Who Killed My Daughter? was published, Pat Caristo, the private investigator, was watching television one day when she saw Lois on Sally Jessy Raphael. When the show’s phone number appeared, Caristo picked up the phone.

Caristo had spent most of her life in law enforcement, first as a police investigator in Philadelphia, then as a detective with the University of New Mexico’s police department, and, finally, with an organized crime commission convened by the governor. She eventually started her own private investigations business in Albuquerque and was hired by a lawyer drumming up business in a grim new market: the drive-by shooting-related personal injury claim. The Albuquerque police had always used that term to describe Kait’s killing, so the lawyer asked Caristo to dig into the case. This eventually led her to parse every detail of the crime scene. What she found was disturbing.

The sequence of events that led police to Kait’s red Ford was brief — probably less than two minutes. It began at about 11 p.m. the night Kait was killed, with a plainclothes detective who had been busily ferrying witnesses to the police station on another case. He was nearly done for the night when he saw Kait’s car. Her body was slumped over, so as he drove by, he didn’t see it. Instead, he thought there had been an accident, so he drove on and radioed dispatch to see if anything had been reported. There was nothing, so he turned around and, eventually, discovered Kait. Already, potentially critical evidence had vanished from the scene.

When the detective initially drove by, he saw more than one car next to the wooden telephone pole. After calling dispatch and making the U-turn, only Kait’s car remained. A man who lived around the corner from the scene would later tell police that after hearing what sounded like gunshots, he peeked out his front window and saw a Volkswagen bug zipping away from the scene. But the detective didn’t see this; there were no late-night high-speed chases through downtown Albuquerque. Instead, the detective found a man standing near Kait’s car. “He happened to be passing by,” the detective later explained in a deposition.

The man was Paul Apodaca. At the time, he was in his early twenties, but he was already accumulating an alarming criminal history. Throughout the ’80s, he was charged with committing multiple violent attacks against women, including robbery and beating a young girl with a baseball bat. In one case in 1990, he fired a .22-caliber pistol from the window of his car at a transgender person walking down the street, striking the victim in the back. Apodaca’s car was a Volkswagen bug. A few years after that, a strange and terrifying headline appeared in the Journal: “MAN RAPES STEPSISTER TO GET INTO PRISON.” Apodaca’s younger brother had been convicted of murder, it turned out, and Paul wanted to protect him while he was behind bars. So he raped a 14-year-old relative, and was sentenced to nine to 20 years in prison.

At the scene of Kait’s murder, Apodaca’s contact information was taken. Then he left. When Caristo discovered this, she was astonished. Standard procedure would have required police to run Apodaca’s name, she said. Officers would have seen that a few months before Kait’s murder, he had been found on the side of University Boulevard with a nearly empty bottle of Jim Beam, a 12-pack of Budweiser, and two .22 pistols. Apodaca and an uncle had been there shooting; at what, precisely, is not specified in a police report. “All they had to do was call his name into APD records,” Caristo said. “That’s investigation 101.”

When Caristo saw Lois on Sally Jessy Raphael, she didn’t hear Apodaca’s name once. So she dialed the hotline. “They knew nothing of it,” Caristo said.

One day in October 1995, not long after the Arquettes hired Caristo, she found Apodaca at the Bernalillo County Detention Center, where he was being held for the rape conviction. When they sat down in an empty visitor’s room, Caristo was surprised by what she encountered: He was mild-mannered, clean-cut, and, at least initially, candid. He told Caristo about that July night in 1989: He’d been on the way to a friend’s house when he saw Kait’s car on the side of the road, so he pulled over. The detective arrived moments later, and the men approached the car together. “Then I asked him, ‘Who was with you?’” Caristo said. Apodaca’s pleasant demeanor seemed to vanish. “Who said anybody was with me?” Caristo recalled him saying.

This was, of course, a crucial question. A Volkswagen had been spotted leaving the area immediately after the shots were heard. Was it Apodaca’s? The colors didn’t match: He told Caristo that his was orange, while the witness described one that was gray. Still, to Caristo, this was a coincidence worth investigating, because if it was his, and it had been driven away, someone else was behind the wheel.

As Caristo deconstructed the crime scene investigation, Apodaca was just one piece in a rapidly expanding puzzle. She discovered, for instance, that no bullets or shells were ever recovered from the crime scene, and that only a few fragments were found in Kait’s body. Had somebody cleaned them up or had they been missed? The forensic pathologist who examined Kait suggested that the two bullets that killed her were fired from a small-caliber pistol, yet when Caristo examined photos of Kait’s car, she noticed a large bullet hole in the car’s driver-side door that appeared to have come from at least a .38.

Finally, when she interviewed the first two cops to arrive at the scene — the plainclothes detective and a uniformed officer — they provided starkly conflicting accounts of those first moments: The detective said it was the officer who collected Apodaca’s information. The officer said it was the detective. Apodaca, meanwhile, said there was no uniformed officer even there. “From this moment, we don’t know what happened,” Caristo said. “There is not one, literally, one confirmed fact.” Caristo assembled her analysis into a 75-page document and delivered it to the Albuquerque Police Department. She never heard back.

The questions she raised, though, took the case in entirely new and alarming directions, and spawned all manner of grassy knoll-like speculation. Was there a relationship between Apodaca, the “Vietnamese connection,” and Escobedo and Garcia? Had the crime scene been derailed by incompetence or by a cover-up? Had Kait stumbled onto something even more sinister than insurance fraud?

Courtesy of Lois Duncan

In the years after Who Killed My Daughter? was published, Lois appeared on several supernatural-oriented television shows to discuss her psychic experiences. She worried these would diminish her credibility with authorities, but since the shows were popular, she thought they would ultimately help solve Kait’s murder. “I hope you don’t say we’re psyc

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These Are Canada’s Most Famous Killers — What They Did To People Is Disgusting

By most estimations, the United States is the serial killing capital of the world. However, every once in a while, we get eclipsed by a regional rival. In this case, it’s Canada.
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Back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, a pair of serial killers rocked the nation. Their crimes were so shocking, in fact, that after their arrests, there was a media blackout to prevent jury bias.

Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo met in 1987 when Paul was 23 and Karla was just 17. Despite the age difference, the two immediately found comfort in each other’s psychopathic tendencies.

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Bernardo had a long history of abuse and sexual deviancy, while Homolka was by most accounts a model teenager. According to police records, the former was responsible for, or at least suspected of, 19 molestation cases in the Toronto area.

Despite their difference in background, they turned out to be a perfect match. Unlike his previous partners, Homolka encouraged Bernardo to indulge in his sadistic fantasies.

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The two hit it off and quickly became seriously involved, despite Bernardo’s regular verbal and physical abuse of Homolka.

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While the pair went on to commit at least three murders, the most disturbing killing was that of the woman’s younger sister, Tammy.

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As Bernardo spent more time with the Homolka family, he became enamored with young Tammy. It got to the point where his partner (who was still living with her parents at the time) would sneak into Tammy’s room after she was asleep and open the window for Bernardo. He would then climb in and masturbate next to the sleeping girl.

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One day before Christmas in 1990, Homolka decided she was going to give her boyfriend Tammy’s virginity as a Christmas present.

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She stole a sedative from the vet’s office where she worked and dosed Tammy with it. When she was unconscious, the pair took her to the basement where Bernardo proceeded to rape her. During the act, Tammy began to choke on her own vomit. Bernardo stopped and Homolka called the paramedics. When they arrived, there was nothing they could do for Tammy and she died. Strangely enough, no foul play was suspected.

Not long after, the couple married. They would go on to repeat the same scenario as they practiced on Tammy with at least three other girls.

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Finally, in 1993, the law caught up to them. A DNA sample from an earlier rape had landed Bernardo under 24-hour surveillance. It was only a matter of time until he was arrested.

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During the trial, he was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in prison. In exchange for her testimony, Homolka pled guilty to manslaughter charges. She was released from prison in 2005.

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(via Bizarreapedia)

That is utterly disgusting. The fact that she was even allowed to plead to lesser charges makes no sense at all. It’s kind of crazy that two people this sick even exist, but here we are.

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This Many Americans Would Kill Someone For $1 Billion

With the Powerball jackpot reaching historic highs, many of us may find ourselves saying, I would kill for that kind of money.

But would you actually kill? Because for $1 billion, a full 6percent of Americans would.

Polling site surveyed 1,000 people to see what morals theyd be willing to disregard for large sums of cash, and the results were pretty shocking.

For $1,000, 15 percent of people would shoplift or illegally bet on a sporting event. Thirteen people about 1percent of the respondents said a $1,000payday would be enough to commit murder.

For $100,000, one in 10would be willing to prostitute themselves or steal a purse; for $ 1 million, 10percent of respondents would star in a porno. One million dollars is also enough to convince 10percent of people to become a drug mule or commit a crime like armed robbery or arson.

As mentioned above, 6percent of Americans would murder for $1 billion, while 15 percent would fake their own death for $100 million.

Overall, male respondents tended to have fewer morals than female respondents and were four times more likely to commit murder for money than women.

That said, the percentage of people willing to perform questionable (or illegal) acts increased as the payout increased big surprise.

Moral of this story? There are none because, apparently, we don’t have morals.

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Sexting Father Who Left Infant Son To Die In Hot Car Indicted For Multiple Murder Charges


The Georgia dad accused of killing his 22-month-old son, Cooper, by leaving him in a hot car last June has been indicted on a series of murder charges by a grand jury.

Malice murder, felony murder and cruelty to children are just a few of the charges 33-year-old Justin Ross Harris faces.

Cooper died inside an SUV parked outside Home Depot on June 18 when temperatures reached 90 degrees in Atlanta.

The precise amount of time the child spent in the car before his death was not disclosed.

Harris told investigators that he was supposed to drop his son off at daycare but forgot about the boy until after he left work seven hours later.

But prosecutors discovered that Harris had returned to his car at least once that day and had even researched how to kill a child in a hot car on the Internet.

Harris was also sexting with six women, suggesting that he wanted out of his life as a husband and father.

The indictment said that Harris acted “with malice aforethought” and caused the boy “cruel and excessive physical pain.”

Harris’ family and friends, however, only had kind words to say about him.

His brother, Randy, a police sergeant in Alabama, said in July,

He was a loving father, he loved his son very much. We went on family vacations together. He was a good dad.

Harris’ wife, Leanna Harris, believes her husband is innocent as well and merely made a careless mistake, despite the evidence he had returned to his car and the suggestive contact with other women.

At Cooper’s funeral, she said,

Ross is a wonderful daddy and leader for our household. Cooper meant the world to him.

One of the women with whom Harris exchanged texts was under 18, so he has additionally been charged with sexual exploitation of a minor and two counts of dissemination of harmful material to minors because he sent her explicit photos and asked her to do the same.

Cobb County District Attorney Vic Reynolds said in a press release that his office is currently debating whether to seek the death penalty, a decision expected to be made within the coming weeks.

Harris will face life in prison if convicted on any one of the murder charges.

via NBC

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This Footage From A Shooting Will Leave You On The Edge Of Your Seat

Judging from the news, you would think that most crimes that are worthy of the silver screen tend to stay there. For the most part, that’s true…unless you’re dealing with daring criminals who just so happen to have the right people in their pockets.

When that’s the case, you get shootings like the one that happened in Dublin, Ireland, last Friday.

Over the weekend, the Regency Hotel was the scene of a horrific shooting that could’ve been pulled straight out of a gangster film.

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It all went down in the hotel lobby, which was serving as a weigh-in station for an upcoming boxing match at the time.

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Shortly after the shooting began, witnesses reported that a total of six gunmen walked into the lobby and opened fire. Several of the gunmen were dressed as SWAT officers, and others were disguised as women. Rather than firing wildly into the crowd, however, the men went after a specific target — drug dealer David Byrne.

The gunmen fled after killing Byrne and wounding two of his associates. Later that weekend, police learned that the shooting was the result of a dispute between the dealer and the Continuity Irish Republican Army.

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While police are still looking for suspects, a video that was taken during the shooting recently surfaced. This could shed more light on the situation.

(via The Daily Mail)

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the Continuity IRA has vowed to hold more attacks for what they see as a series of injustices committed by rival gangs. Needless to say, people in Dublin are terrified.

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This 19-Year-Old College Student Was Found Dead In A River In Rome

Mystery surrounds the death of an American student whose body has been found in the Tiber River in Rome today.

Beau Solomon, 19, from Wisconsin, went missing in the Italian city three days ago — and detectives have not ruled out murder.

He was due to start a study abroad program at John Cabot University which has a campus near the river where Solomon was found.

Beau’s family have paid tribute. His brother told the New York Daily News,

He was full of life.We may never get over this. But we hope that he’s in a better place.

He also told NBC News that in the days after Beau went missing the family contacted his credit card company and discovered more than one thousand dollars had been charged to his card inMilan.

Tributes have been posted on Twitter by friends and strangers:

The last time he was seen was at around 1 am local time on Friday as he left a bar in the city. His roommate contacted the university after he became worried that Beau didn’t show up at orientation the next morning, according to a statement released by John Cabot University.

Initial reports say Solomon suffered head injuries and blood was found on his shirt.His body was taken away for an autopsy.

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