On a warm June afternoon in 1868, a 24-year-old woman accepted a glass of lemonade from her nurse at a Geneva boarding house. Within moments, her pupils dilated grotesquely, her heart pounded violently, and reality dissolved into nightmare. That glass of lemonade broke open one of Switzerland's most disturbing criminal cases.

SEASON & EPISODE CONTEXT

This is Episode 9 of Foul Play Season 36: "Serial Killers in History," examining murderers from ancient times through the early 1900s. This season explores 15 cases spanning centuries and continents, revealing how serial murder predates modern criminology by millennia.

THE CASE SUMMARY

Between 1865 and 1868, Marie Jeanneret worked as a private nurse in Geneva and surrounding areas of Switzerland, moving between respectable boarding houses and private hospitals. Everywhere she went, patients died under mysterious circumstances. Eleven-year-old children. Elderly widows. Entire families.

Her method was both calculated and cruel. She used cutting-edge poisons for the 1860s—plant alkaloids like atropine from belladonna and morphine from opium poppies. These substances were so difficult to detect in corpses that she might never have been caught. She offered candy she called "princesses" to children. She served sweetened water to friends. She predicted deaths days before they happened—not because she had medical insight, but because she knew exactly when the poison would finish its work.

When authorities finally exhumed the bodies in 1868, they found chemical signatures of murder in decomposing tissue. The trial revealed at least six confirmed murders and perhaps thirty attempted murders. But the verdict the jury reached would create one of criminal history's most profound paradoxes—her case helped abolish the death penalty in Geneva three years later.

THE VICTIMS

Marie Jeanneret's victims weren't random—they were people who trusted her completely during their most vulnerable moments:

Marie Grétillat, 61, hired Jeanneret for what should have been a minor illness. She died in February 1867 after weeks of escalating agony.

Sophie Juvet, 58, died in September 1867 at the Maison de Santé hospital where Jeanneret worked as a nurse.

Jenny-Julie Juvet, Sophie's daughter, was only 11 years old. She loved candy and trusted the nurse who brought her special bonbons called "princesses." Before she died in January 1868, she begged her family not to let the nurse near her anymore. They thought she was delirious. She wasn't—she knew.

Auguste Perrod (around 80), Louise-Marie Lenoir (72), Madame Hahn, Demoiselle Gay, Demoiselle Junod, Julie Bouvier, and Jacques Gros (Julie's father) all died under Jeanneret's care between 1867 and 1868.

KEY CASE DETAILS

THE METHOD: Jeanneret used belladonna (deadly nightshade) and morphine as her primary weapons. Belladonna poisoning produces distinctive symptoms: grotesquely dilated pupils, rapid heartbeat, extreme light sensitivity, terrifying hallucinations, and eventually seizures and respiratory failure. Morphine suppresses breathing until victims simply stop inhaling—the death looks peaceful but is actually suffocation.

As a nurse, she had legitimate access to these substances and professional cover for every action. She mixed poisons into sweet items—lemonade, sweetened water, candy—because sugar masks the bitter taste effectively. For some victims, she administered lower doses over time, creating slow declines that mimicked natural illness. For others, she used massive doses intended to kill quickly.

THE BREAKTHROUGH: The case broke open when Marie-Catherine Fritzgès, 24, survived a belladonna poisoning in June 1868. Her doctor recognized the symptoms immediately and contacted authorities. Police searched Jeanneret's rooms and found bottles of belladonna extract, containers of morphine, and detailed nursing notes documenting every symptom, decline, and death—inadvertently documenting her own crimes.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT & SOURCES

The 1860s represented a turning point in forensic medicine. Swiss medical examiners used groundbreaking techniques to test tissue samples for alkaloid compounds in exhumed bodies—finding chemical signatures consistent with belladonna and morphine poisoning. This case marked one of the first instances where forensic medicine played a crucial role in securing a conviction in Switzerland.

The trial opened in Geneva in late 1868 with overwhelming evidence: poisoned bodies, survivors' testimony, bottles of poison, and Jeanneret's own nursing notes. On November 19, 1868, the jury returned a stunning verdict—guilty on all counts, but they recommended clemency. Instead of execution, Jeanneret received life imprisonment with hard labor.

Three years later, in 1871, the Canton of Geneva abolished the death penalty. Jeanneret's case was cited as a key example—a jury had looked at overwhelming evidence of serial murder and chosen mercy over execution.

RESOURCES & FURTHER READING

Swiss criminal history archives maintain extensive records of the Jeanneret case, including original trial transcripts and forensic reports that revolutionized poison detection methods. The case remains a standard reference in medical ethics courses throughout Europe, illustrating the catastrophic consequences of betrayed medical trust.

The Geneva State Archives houses original court documents from the 1868 trial. Swiss forensic medicine institutes continue to study the case as a landmark example of early toxicology and the systematic safeguards developed in response to healthcare serial killers.

RELATED FOUL PLAY EPISODES

If you found this episode compelling, explore other Foul Play cases involving Victorian-era poisoners and medical professionals who betrayed their sacred trust. Season 36 examines serial killers throughout history, from ancient Rome through the early 1900s, revealing how murder predates modern criminology and how society responded to unimaginable crimes.

Each episode of Foul Play combines meticulous historical research with victim-centered storytelling, honoring those whose lives were taken while examining the criminals who took them.

THE LEGACY

Marie Jeanneret's crimes fundamentally transformed Switzerland's approach to medical safety and criminal investigation. The case exposed critical gaps in poison control, leading to strict measures including detailed record-keeping of sales and mandatory identification checks. Background checks for medical staff became more thorough, references were more carefully vetted, and supervision was enhanced throughout Europe.

Perhaps most significantly, Jeanneret's case transformed public consciousness about the nature of evil. The idea that a healthcare professional could systematically murder patients while maintaining an appearance of respectability forced society to confront uncomfortable truths. The poisoner who took at least six lives became part of the movement that saved countless others from execution—the most paradoxical legacy imaginable.

ABOUT FOUL PLAY

Foul Play examines history's most compelling true crime cases with meticulous research and sophisticated storytelling. Hosts Shane Waters and Wendy Cee explore serial killers from ancient Rome through the early 1900s, focusing on victim-centered narratives that honor the dead rather than sensationalizing killers. Each episode combines atmospheric period detail with rigorous historical accuracy, transporting listeners to crimes that shaped criminal justice systems across centuries and continents.

CONNECT WITH FOUL PLAY

New episodes release every Tuesday at 5:00 AM EST. Follow Foul Play on social media for behind-the-scenes research, historical context, and episode updates. Visit our website for complete episode archives, source lists, and additional resources about the cases we cover.

CONTENT WARNING

This episode contains detailed descriptions of poisoning, murder of children, and medical betrayal. Listener discretion is advised. If you or someone you know needs support, resources are available through crisis helplines and mental health services.

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In 1826, fellow priests caring for an ailing Father Juan Severino Mallari made a horrifying discovery in his residence: bloodstained clothing belonging to dozens of missing parishioners. Over the next ten years, investigators would uncover fifty-seven murders committed by the parish priest of Magalang, Pampanga—a man who believed killing his congregants would break a curse afflicting his mother. Father Mallari's victims trusted him completely. They came to him for confession, for blessings, for spiritual guidance. And then they disappeared. What makes this case even more tragic is that Spanish colonial authorities meticulously documented Mallari's education and artwork, but never bothered to record a single name of the fifty-seven Filipinos he murdered. This is the story of colonial erasure, untreated mental illness, and a murderous priest.

This is Episode 7 of Season 36: Serial Killers in History, our ambitious exploration of forgotten murderers from ancient Rome through the early 20th century. This season examines how social inequality, colonial systems, and institutional failures enabled killers across continents and centuries. Juan Severino Mallari's case reveals the devastating intersection of Spanish colonial racism, primitive mental healthcare, and religious authority in early 19th-century Philippines. The next episode continues our journey through history's darkest moments with another case of power, isolation, and the victims erased from official records.

Historical Context & Background

Juan Severino Mallari was born in 1785 in San Nicolas, Pampanga, into a respected Kapampangan family with church benefactor status. He earned his philosophy degree around 1800, his theology degree in 1805 at San Carlos Seminary, and was ordained at the University of Santo Tomas in 1809 by Archbishop Juan Antonio Zulaybar. But being a Filipino priest in Spanish colonial Philippines meant systemic discrimination. From 1809 to 1812, Mallari served as coadjutor in multiple parishes, applying repeatedly for parish priest positions in Orani, Mariveles, Lubao, and as chaplain at the Port of Cavite. Spanish authorities rejected him every time—not for lack of qualifications, but due to colonial racism that viewed Filipino secular priests as inferior to Spanish friars. Finally, in 1812, he became parish priest of San Bartolome Parish in Magalang, the first Filipino to hold that position in all of Pampanga. In that isolated agricultural community, trusted completely by his parishioners, Father Mallari would commit fifty-seven murders over the next decade.

The Descent into Madness

Around 1816, four years after becoming parish priest, Mallari's mother fell gravely ill. He became convinced she was cursed—a belief that merged Catholic faith with pre-colonial Filipino traditions about mangkukulam (witches) who could cast deadly kulam (curses). Historical accounts describe Mallari experiencing severe hallucinations during Mass, stopping mid-sermon to converse with invisible figures. Spain had pioneered psychiatric treatment in Europe, and the Hospicio de San Jose psychiatric facility in Manila had been operational since 1811. But Mallari was in rural Pampanga, miles from Manila, and he was the parish priest—the highest religious authority in Magalang. No one recognized his psychotic delusions as treatable illness requiring intervention. When Mallari decided that killing the people he believed were witches would cure his mother, no one stopped him. His first victim likely came to confession in 1816. We don't know this person's name, age, or family situation—Spanish colonial records didn't consider such details worth documenting.

The Ten-Year Killing Spree

Over the next decade, Father Mallari murdered fifty-seven of his parishioners. He killed in the privacy of the parish house—people who came for spiritual guidance, to arrange marriages, to request baptisms. After each murder, he carefully folded the victim's bloodstained clothing and preserved it in his residence. This level of organization existing alongside complete psychotic delusion reveals the terrifying complexity of his mental state. His mother died December 4, 1825. The killings hadn't saved her. Everything had been for nothing. But Mallari didn't stop because of his mother's death—he stopped because sixteen days later, several families finally gathered courage to file a formal complaint with the gobernadorcillo (town mayor). Imagine the bravery required: Filipino families in 1825 Spanish colonial Philippines accusing the parish priest—the most powerful religious figure in their town. In February 1826, when Mallari fell ill and fellow priests came to care for him, they discovered the horrifying evidence: bloodstained belongings of dozens of missing parishioners, folded and stored in his residence. Word reached the constabulary. Townspeople gathered with torches. Ten years of disappearances converged on that moment.

Investigation, Trial & Execution

When Spanish authorities arrested Mallari in 1826, he confessed immediately—not with remorse, but with explanation. He detailed his mother's curse, identifying fifty-seven witches, explaining why their deaths would break the curse. The trial began later that year, drawing unprecedented attention across Spanish colonial territory. Prosecutors methodically presented bloodstained clothing, stolen items from victims' families, witness testimony about Mallari's erratic behavior during Mass. The defense attempted to portray him as a respected leader framed by jealous rivals, but couldn't explain the overwhelming physical evidence or Mallari's own detailed confession. He was convicted, but not executed immediately. Mallari spent fourteen years imprisoned—fourteen years between his 1826 arrest and his 1840 execution. The colonial legal system required multiple levels of review for an unprecedented case: a Filipino priest convicted of fifty-seven murders. Those victim families waited fourteen years for justice. Finally, in 1840, Juan Severino Mallari was hanged at Bagumbayan field (today Luneta Park in Manila). He was fifty-five years old, the first Filipino priest ever executed by Spanish colonial authorities. Thirty-two years later, three more Filipino priests—the GOMBURZA martyrs—would be executed for allegedly inspiring revolt, helping spark the Philippine Revolution.

The Unnamed Fifty-Seven

Father Juan Severino Mallari's life is extensively recorded. Spanish colonial documents detail his birth in San Nicolas, his family's church benefactor status, his philosophy degree (circa 1800), theology degree (1805), ordination (1809), every parish appointment, every rejected job application. Examples of his calligraphy—ornate ecclesiastical documents—survive in historical archives. The Spanish system found Mallari worth documenting in extraordinary detail. The fifty-seven Filipinos he murdered? Not one name recorded. Not one age. Not one occupation. Not one family detail. Were they farmers? Merchants? Young? Old? Parents leaving behind children? We don't know. Spanish authorities didn't care. This isn't accident—it's colonial violence manifesting as bureaucratic erasure. The Spanish system existed to extract wealth and maintain control. Individual Filipino lives didn't serve Spanish interests, so they weren't recorded. Somewhere in Pampanga, descendants of those fifty-seven victims exist. People who grew up hearing family stories about a great-great-grandparent who vanished mysteriously in the 1820s, inheriting trauma without closure. Those descendants deserve to know their family member's death mattered, that their ancestor's life had value, that we haven't forgotten them even if we can't name them.

Resources & Further Reading

The National Archives of the Philippines in Manila maintain limited records from Spanish colonial Pampanga, though documentation of crimes against Filipino civilians remains incomplete. The University of Santo Tomas archives preserve ecclesiastical records from the period, including ordination documentation for Filipino priests like Mallari. Historical studies of Spanish colonial mental healthcare reveal the stark disparity between psychiatric facilities available in Manila (like the Hospicio de San Jose, operational from 1811) and the complete absence of mental health resources in rural provinces. Research into the principalía class structure and Spanish colonial racism illuminates how systemic discrimination created the conditions for Mallari's prolonged killing spree. Philippine Revolution history provides context for understanding how cases like Mallari's—and the later GOMBURZA executions—contributed to growing Filipino resistance against colonial rule.

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In February 1842, a dingo unearthed a shallow grave near Ironstone Bridge, revealing the decomposing body of an Irish immi

Kearns Landregan was twenty-seven years old when he died on a dusty colonial road seven miles from Berrima. An Irish immigrant who'd traveled halfway around the world seeking opportunity in Australia, Landregan worked as a carrier—hard labor that required strength, reliability, and trust. On February 19th, 1842, he was driving his cart to market when he accepted what seemed like innocent companionship from a fellow traveler. He had no way of knowing that the man walking beside him had already murdered at least eight people. Among Lynch's victims was thirteen-year-old Mary Macnamara, a child who watched her entire family die before being assaulted and killed herself. There was Thomas Smith, a skilled plowman respected for his agricultural expertise. And there was an unnamed Aboriginal boy whose murder was barely recorded in colonial documents—a child whose name we'll never know but whose life mattered just as much.

Why This Case Matters

John Lynch's killing spree across colonial New South Wales exposed the brutal vulnerabilities of frontier justice and the systematic devaluation of certain lives in 1840s Australia. His 1836 acquittal for Thomas Smith's murder—despite clear evidence—taught him he could kill with impunity in a justice system stretched impossibly thin across vast wilderness. The case reveals how colonial authorities treated crimes differently based on victims' race and social status: a white child's murder shocked the colony, while an Aboriginal boy's death warranted barely a sentence in court records. The 2019 memorial plaque installed at All Saints Anglican Church in Sutton Forest represents a crucial shift toward victim-centered historical narrative, finally naming those whose stories were nearly lost to history.

Content Warning

This episode contains descriptions of violence against children and references to sexual assault. Listener discretion advised.

Key Case Details

Lynch's methodical approach to murder began after his 1836 acquittal emboldened him. Operating along isolated bush tracks in the Razorback Range, he targeted travelers with money or goods, striking them from behind with a tomahawk before stealing their possessions and assuming their identities.

Timeline & Investigation:

• March 1836: Thomas Smith murdered at Oldbury Farm; Lynch tried and acquitted
• 1836-1837: Multiple murders in Razorback Range (exact count unknown)
• November 1841: Mulligan family massacre (four victims including 13-year-old Mary)
• February 19, 1842: Kearns Landregan murdered near Ironstone Bridge
• February 21, 1842: Lynch arrested after Landregan's body discovered by Hugh Tinney

Resolution: Chief Constable James Chapman's investigation connected Lynch to Landregan's distinctive felt hat, which Lynch had been wearing openly around Berrima. Excavation of the Mulligan property revealed four shallow graves. Lynch confessed to all murders during questioning, showing no remorse. He was tried, convicted of Landregan's murder, and hanged at Berrima Jail on April 22nd, 1842 at age 29.

Historical Context & Sources

This episode draws on colonial court records from the 1842 Supreme Court trial proceedings in Sydney, contemporary newspaper accounts from the Sydney Morning Herald, and historical research from the Berrima District Historical and Family History Society. The case documentation reveals the challenges of frontier policing in 1840s New South Wales, where vast distances and limited communication made coordinating murder investigations exceptionally difficult. Sergeant James Wilson's creation of a primitive geographic profile to track disappearances along the Berrima-Campbelltown Road represented early criminal investigative innovation. The 2019 memorial plaque commemorating Lynch's victims by name marks an important shift toward victim-centered historical narrative, particularly significant in finally acknowledging the unnamed Aboriginal child whose murder colonial authorities barely recorded.

Foul Play Credits

Foul Play is hosted by Shane Waters and Wendy Cee. Research and writing by the Foul Play production team. For more historical true crime stories from the Victorian era and beyond, subscribe to Foul Play wherever you listen to podcasts.

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In colonial India, travelers befriend strangers on the road, sharing meals and stories, unaware these companions will be.

Episode 5 of 15 | Season 36: Serial Killers in History 

Thug Behram's 40-year reign of terror across colonial India reveals the most prolific serial killer ever documented, whose ritualistic methods would help shape modern criminal investigation.

For decades, travelers crossing India's dusty plains vanished without a trace. Merchants carrying goods between cities, pilgrims journeying to sacred sites, families relocating to new villages—all disappeared along the same well-worn trade routes. These weren't random robberies gone wrong. They were calculated murders carried out by the Thuggee cult, a secret brotherhood that moved invisibly through Indian society. Among these killers, none was more prolific than Thug Behram. Over forty years spanning the late 1700s through 1840, he personally strangled 125 victims and witnessed the deaths of hundreds more. The travelers he befriended never suspected the friendly companion sharing their campfire would become their executioner. Behram's victims came from all walks of colonial India's diverse population—traders transporting silk and spices, civil servants traveling between British outposts, farmers returning from market with their earnings. Each trusted their fellow travelers, never imagining the smiling faces around the evening fire belonged to trained killers who had perfected their craft over generations.

The Thuggee case represents one of the most significant developments in the history of criminal investigation. Thug Behram's eventual capture and confession in 1840 provided unprecedented insight into organized crime, leading directly to the creation of systematic investigation methods still used today. His case forced British colonial authorities to develop one of the world's first criminal intelligence units, led by William Henry Sleeman, who pioneered techniques like informant networks, detailed record-keeping, and pattern analysis. The investigation would ultimately dismantle a criminal organization that had operated for centuries, leading to the arrest of thousands of Thuggee members across India. The methods developed to catch Behram became the blueprint for modern law enforcement approaches to organized crime. His confessions also revealed the disturbing psychology of ritualistic killing, where murder was justified through religious devotion to the goddess Kali. The Criminal Tribes Act of 1871, though controversial, grew directly from lessons learned during the Thuggee investigations. Today, Behram remains the most prolific documented serial killer in history, his case a stark reminder of how belief systems can be twisted to justify systematic violence.

Born in the late 1700s near Jabalpur in central India, Thug Behram learned the art of murder as a child. The Thuggee tradition passed from father to son, and Behram's family had practiced the cult's deadly rituals for generations. Beginning around age ten, he studied the intricate system of hand signals, code words, and deception techniques that allowed Thuggee gangs to operate in plain sight. The cult's primary weapon was the rumāl—a ceremonial silk handkerchief with a heavy silver medallion sewn into one corner. This simple cloth became a lethal instrument in trained hands. When Behram gave the signal—often an innocuous phrase like "bring tobacco"—his gang struck with ruthless efficiency. The rumāl tightened around the victim's throat while accomplices pinned their arms and legs. Death came swiftly and silently. The Thuggee believed they performed sacred work for Kali, conducting elaborate rituals before and after each killing. Victims were buried face down to prevent their spirits from rising in anger, and offerings were made at hidden shrines along the trade routes.

As Behram matured, he assembled his own gang of more than fifty specialists—scouts who identified wealthy targets, infiltrators who gained victims' trust, grave diggers who disposed of bodies, and stranglers who performed the actual killings. His organizational genius lay in compartmentalization; each member knew only their specific role, making it nearly impossible for captured Thuggee to reveal the full network. For forty years, Behram moved freely through colonial India, maintaining homes and businesses that gave him the appearance of a respectable merchant. Behind this façade, he kept meticulous records of victims and stolen goods, treating murder with the same systematic precision a clerk might apply to bookkeeping. This discipline made him virtually untouchable until William Henry Sleeman launched his groundbreaking investigation. Using patient intelligence gathering, Sleeman mapped the Thuggee network across India, tracking family connections and recording every detail gleaned from informants. When Behram's lieutenants finally betrayed him in 1840, Sleeman's men arrested him near Jabalpur. In custody, Behram provided detailed confessions that shocked even hardened colonial officers. He admitted to personally strangling 125 victims while being present at approximately 931 additional murders. His matter-of-fact descriptions of ritualistic killings revealed the chilling psychology of a man who viewed mass murder as religious duty rather than crime.

Following his confessions, Behram was executed by hanging in 1840 in Jabalpur. His detailed testimonies before execution proved invaluable in Sleeman's broader campaign to dismantle the remaining Thuggee networks. Through information provided by Behram and other captured Thuggee members who turned informant, hundreds of active cult members were identified and arrested, effectively breaking the organization's backbone. The case occurred during a pivotal period in colonial India's history. The British East India Company struggled to maintain control over vast territories where indigenous criminal organizations operated with impunity. The Thuggee had existed for centuries, some historians suggesting their origins dated back to the 13th century or earlier. They justified their actions through a distorted interpretation of Hindu mythology, claiming Kali demanded blood sacrifice through ritual strangulation. This religious framework allowed Thuggee members to live as ordinary citizens between expeditions, maintaining families and legitimate businesses while periodically joining organized murder sprees. Victims were chosen according to strict guidelines—women were generally spared, as were holy men, craftsmen, and travelers during specific religious festivals. The cult's longevity stemmed from this social invisibility combined with elaborate systems of secrecy and mutual protection.

Historical understanding of the Thuggee relies heavily on British colonial records, particularly William Henry Sleeman's extensive documentation. His writings, including "Rambles and Recollections of an Indian Official" and "Report on the Depredations Committed by the Thug Gangs," provide detailed accounts of Thuggee practices and the investigation that brought them down. Thug Behram's own confessions, recorded by British authorities in 1840, offer rare first-person testimony about the cult's inner workings. Modern scholarship, including works by historians examining colonial India and organized crime, continues to analyze the Thuggee phenomenon. The British Library maintains extensive archives of East India Company records documenting the investigations. Academic journals have published numerous papers examining both the historical reality of the Thuggee and the ways British colonial narratives shaped public perception of the cult. Kim A. Wagner's "Thuggee: Banditry and the British in Early Nineteenth-Century India" provides critical analysis of how colonial authorities understood and portrayed organized crime. The case remains significant in criminology studies as an early example of systematic investigation defeating organized criminal networks.

Resources & Further Reading: 

• For those interested in learning more about the Thuggee cult and colonial India's criminal history: The British Library maintains extensive East India Company archives documenting William Henry Sleeman's investigations and Thuggee court proceedings 
• "Thuggee: Banditry and the British in Early Nineteenth-Century India" by Kim A. Wagner examines colonial perspectives on organized crime 
• "The Strangled Traveler: Colonial Imaginings and the Thugs of India" by Martine van Woerkens explores the historical and cultural context 
• Academic journals in criminology and South Asian studies regularly publish research on the Thuggee phenomenon and its impact on modern policing methods

New episodes every Tuesday at 5 AM EST.

Part of the Myths & Malice podcast network

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This week we step into the shadows with a very special bonus episode. Shane sits down with paranormal investigator, author, and TV star Amy Bruni (Ghost Hunters, Kindred Spirits, Haunted Road).

Amy shares chilling stories of hauntings rooted in real tragedies—from childhood encounters with “Mr. Green Jeans” to cases where skepticism gave way to the unexplained. Together, Shane and Amy explore the intersection of crime, history, and the paranormal—and why treating the dead with dignity is as important as uncovering the truth.

If you’re near Indiana, you can hear even more stories live:

📅 October 7 at 7 PM — Amy Bruni appears at the Eagles Theatre in Wabash, Indiana.

🎟️ Get tickets here

Can’t make it to Wabash? Amy is touring the U.S.—find her upcoming events here.

Learn more about Amy at amybruni.com.

Our Sponsors:
* Check out Secret Nature and use my code SHANE for a great deal: https://secretnature.com


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In the olive groves of 18th-century Portugal, a caretaker discovered a shallow grave containing an infant's body with

Episode 4 of 15 | Season 36: Serial Killers in History

The investigation into Luísa de Jesus begins, revealing a systematic pattern of infant murders that would expose fatal flaws in Portugal's child welfare system and lead to her execution as the nation's first documented female serial killer.

The Victims: Portugal's Abandoned Infants

In 1772, desperate poverty gripped Portugal under King Joseph I's reign. Across Coimbra, destitute mothers with no means to feed their newborns turned to the Casa da Rota—the foundling wheel system—hoping charitable institutions would save their babies' lives. These infants, called "expostos" or "exposed ones," were placed anonymously in rotating wooden cylinders built into orphanage walls. A bell would ring, alerting caretakers inside that another abandoned child needed their care. The system was born of compassion, designed to prevent infanticide by offering mothers a safe alternative. For each child taken in, caregivers received a modest stipend of 600 réis, a cradle, and cloth—enough support to raise an infant in theory. In practice, hundreds of babies overwhelmed Coimbra's understaffed facilities each year. These were Portugal's most vulnerable citizens: newborns abandoned by mothers with no other choice, babies born into poverty or out of wedlock, innocent lives dependent on a system that promised protection but delivered catastrophic negligence.

Why This Case Changed Portugal Forever

The case of Luísa de Jesus represents a devastating failure of 18th-century child welfare institutions and a pivotal moment in Portuguese legal history. Her systematic exploitation of the foundling wheel exposed how easily vulnerable populations could be preyed upon when oversight mechanisms collapsed. The discovery of 33 murdered infants shocked a nation and forced Portugal to confront uncomfortable truths about how it protected—or failed to protect—its abandoned children. This case directly led to sweeping reforms of Portugal's child welfare system, including the landmark 1783 decree by Queen Maria I mandating that all towns establish properly supervised foundling hospitals. Luísa's execution on July 1, 1772, made her the last woman ever executed in Portugal, cementing her place in both criminal and legal history. The case remains a stark reminder that society's most vulnerable members require active protection, not passive charity, and that systematic failures create opportunities for monsters to operate in plain sight.

The Investigation and Discovery

On the morning of April 1, 1772, Angelica Maria, a caretaker from Coimbra's foundling home, walked through olive groves at Monte Arroio when she discovered recently disturbed earth. Kneeling to investigate, she unearthed the shallow grave of an infant with strangulation marks still visible around its delicate neck. Authorities quickly traced the dead child back to Luísa de Jesus, a 23-year-old delivery worker who had officially "adopted" the baby just days earlier.

When interrogated on April 6, Luísa coldly confessed to murdering three infants. But investigators suspected far worse. A search of her modest home in Figueira de Lorvão revealed a makeshift graveyard—eighteen tiny bodies buried beneath the floor and hidden in corners. Some had been dismembered, their remains stored in clay pots under straw. Excavations at Monte Arroio uncovered thirteen more infant corpses, bringing the confirmed death toll to 33 babies.

Records showed Luísa had officially adopted 34 children from Coimbra's foundling wheel over several years, collecting the 600 réis stipend for each. She had provided false addresses and fictitious adopting families, exploiting a system with virtually no follow-up procedures. The foundling wheel workers, Margarida Joaquina and Leocádia Maria da Conceição, were arrested for criminal negligence—they had handed over dozens of infants without verifying the children's destinations. Both were released in October 1772 after public shaming, their careers destroyed but lives spared.

Luísa confessed to 28 murders but was convicted on all 33 counts. On July 1, 1772, she faced one of the most brutal executions in Portuguese history. Bound with rope, she was paraded through Coimbra's streets while a magistrate proclaimed her crimes to horrified crowds. Red-hot tongs burned her flesh before her hands were severed. She died by garrote, and her body was burned to ashes, scattered so "there will never be a memory of such a Monster again." She was 23 years old.

Historical Context and the Foundling Wheel System

Eighteenth-century Portugal's relationship with child abandonment was both pragmatic and tragic. The foundling wheel system spread across Catholic Europe as a response to rampant infanticide—desperate mothers who couldn't feed their babies often killed them rather than watch them starve. The wheels offered anonymous surrender, a compassionate alternative that saved some lives while creating new vulnerabilities.

Portugal's wheels operated with minimal oversight. Caregivers like Luísa collected stipends with no requirement to prove the children survived. Hundreds of babies entered the system annually in cities like Coimbra, far exceeding institutional capacity. Mortality rates were already catastrophic—historians estimate half of all foundlings died within their first year from disease, malnutrition, or neglect, even in legitimate placements.

This case draws from multiple historical sources: court records preserved in Coimbra's archives document Luísa's confession and trial proceedings. Period newspapers reported the shocking discovery and subsequent execution with sensational detail. Modern historian Maria Antónia Lopes's research into Portuguese foundling systems provides crucial context for understanding how systematic failures enabled Luísa's crimes. The Casa dos Expostos of Coimbra's administrative records reveal the staggering volume of abandoned infants and the minimal verification procedures that allowed Luísa to operate undetected for years. Her case remains a foundational study in Portuguese criminology and child welfare history.

Resources & Further Reading

For those interested in learning more about 18th-century Portuguese child welfare and the foundling wheel system:

• The National Archives of Portugal house complete trial records and court documents from the 1772 case
• Maria Antónia Lopes's scholarly work on Portuguese foundling systems and historical child welfare practices
• The Santa Casa de Misericórdia museums in Coimbra and Lisbon maintain exhibits on foundling wheel history and social welfare institutions
• "Baby Hatch" historical research documenting foundling wheels across Catholic Europe from medieval times through the 19th century

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What drives a man from Scottish grace to Caribbean bloodshed, turning sun-drenched hills into a killing field, cloaking murdero

Episode 3 of 6 | Season 36: Serial Killers in History

Lewis Hutchinson's reign of terror from Edinburgh Castle in colonial Jamaica reveals how one man's twisted hospitality became a death trap for unsuspecting travelers in 1768.

In 1768, Lewis Hutchinson was a well-respected Scottish planter living atop a strategic hill in St. Anne Parish, Jamaica. Edinburgh Castle, as he named his estate, overlooked the main road connecting Spanish Town to the northern coast—a route regularly traveled by wealthy merchants, plantation owners, and ordinary colonists. To his neighbors, Hutchinson appeared the model of colonial success: educated, prosperous, and charming. Behind his genial hospitality, however, lurked a calculating predator who would become Jamaica's first documented serial killer. Hutchinson didn't kill for profit alone—he savored the hunt, collecting his victims' belongings like trophies and displaying them throughout his home as macabre mementos of murder.

The Mad Master case represents a crucial turning point in Caribbean colonial justice. Hutchinson's ability to continue killing for years despite mounting suspicions exposed catastrophic failures in the colonial law enforcement system, particularly regarding missing persons from lower social classes. His crimes forced British authorities to establish new protocols for investigating disappearances and coordinating efforts across parish boundaries throughout the Caribbean colonies. The case also revealed how a person of means and social standing could literally get away with murder in a society deeply divided by class and race. Today, Hutchinson's story serves as a chilling reminder of how privilege and isolation can shield even the most heinous criminals—and how vulnerable travelers were in the lawless reaches of colonial territories.

Lewis Hutchinson arrived in Jamaica during the mid-1760s with respectable credentials and enough capital to purchase Edinburgh Castle, a strategic property overlooking the winding mountain road through St. Anne Parish. He quickly established himself among the planter class, hosting elaborate dinners and presenting himself as a model colonist. But Hutchinson had transformed his home into a killing ground. He modified the house with disguised gunports and constructed underground chambers ostensibly for storage—spaces that would later serve as dungeons for victims he chose to torture before killing.

His method was brutally efficient: Hutchinson would invite weary travelers to rest at Edinburgh Castle, offering refreshment and shelter. Some he shot from his battlements as they passed on the road below, their bodies tumbling into ravines. Others accepted his hospitality only to be imprisoned in his underground cells, shackled and tortured before being murdered. One survivor, John Callendar, later testified about the horror of those dungeons—the dampness, the rats, the screams of other prisoners echoing off stone walls. Hutchinson disposed of bodies in a nearby cave system, creating what locals would later call "Hutchinson's Hole."

The investigation began slowly. Colonial authorities initially dismissed reports of missing travelers, assuming they had simply moved on or fallen victim to common robbery. But as disappearances mounted—and whispers spread among enslaved workers forced to witness Hutchinson's crimes—pressure grew to investigate. When searchers finally examined Edinburgh Castle, they discovered a chamber of horrors: victims' clothing displayed like hunting trophies, jewelry from murdered travelers, and the entrance to the cave containing dozens of skeletal remains. Hutchinson fled toward Port Royal, attempting to board a ship to Scotland, but was recognized and arrested before he could escape.

His trial at Spanish Town lasted four days and captivated the island. John Callendar's testimony provided devastating firsthand evidence of Hutchinson's methods. Thirty witnesses identified belongings of missing loved ones found at Edinburgh Castle. The exhumed bones from Hutchinson's cave—evidence of at least forty-three murders—were laid before the court. Throughout the proceedings, Hutchinson maintained an unsettling calm, even smirking when confronted with evidence of his victims. When asked about the remains, he reportedly drawled, "Travelers should be more careful where they choose to rest." The jury quickly convicted him, and he was sentenced to death by hanging.

This case emerged from extensive historical sources preserved in Jamaican colonial records. The Spanish Town courthouse archives contain complete trial transcripts from 1773, including John Callendar's testimony and the identification of victims' belongings by their families. Contemporary newspapers like The Jamaica Mercury provided detailed coverage of both the investigation and trial. The National Library of Jamaica houses correspondence between colonial officials discussing the case's impact on law enforcement protocols. Modern historian James Robertson's work on Caribbean crime provides valuable context about how Hutchinson's crimes exposed systemic failures in colonial justice. The ruins of Edinburgh Castle in St. Anne Parish remain accessible to visitors, with the cave system still visible—though local authorities have sealed the entrance for safety.

Resources & Further Reading:

For those interested in learning more about colonial Caribbean crime and Jamaica's dark history:

• The National Library of Jamaica in Kingston maintains extensive archives of colonial court records, including the complete Hutchinson trial transcripts
• The Dead Yard: Tales of Modern Jamaica by Ian Thomson explores the island's criminal history from colonial times to present
• The Jamaica National Heritage Trust preserves historical sites including information about Edinburgh Castle ruins
• The University of the West Indies hosts the Caribbean History Archives with primary source materials on colonial crime and justice

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In the glittering court of Louis XIV's France, where opulence and intrigue walked hand in hand, one woman built a criminal empire that would

Episode 2 of 6 | Season 36: Serial Killers in History

Catherine Monvoisin's poisoning network spreads through the French aristocracy as her connections to the royal court deepen, implicating some of the most powerful figures in France.

Catherine Monvoisin began as Catherine Dyer, born in 1640 to a humble family on the outskirts of Paris. With little formal education but a natural aptitude for herbalism and folk medicine, she married Antoine Monvoisin, a jeweler whose business fell into ruin. As debt mounted, Catherine discovered she possessed something far more valuable than her husband's failing trade: an understanding of human desperation. She started as a fortune teller and midwife in the Villeneuve quarter, offering hope to clients who would pay handsomely for glimpses into their futures. Her charisma and discretion quickly attracted wealthy Parisians seeking solutions to problems they couldn't solve through conventional means. What made Catherine memorable wasn't just her accuracy in predictions—it was her willingness to provide tangible solutions, no matter how dark, to her clients' most desperate desires.

The case of La Voisin represents a watershed moment in French criminal history, marking the last great witch trial in France and fundamentally transforming the justice system. Her criminal enterprise exposed the intersection of superstition, organized crime, and aristocratic corruption at the highest levels of French society. The scandal, known as the Affair of the Poisons, forced Louis XIV to establish the Chambre Ardente, a special court that would try 442 suspects over three years and sentence 36 people to death. The case revealed how deeply rooted corruption had become within French aristocratic circles and led to lasting reforms in law enforcement, including increased surveillance of fortune tellers and new regulations controlling dangerous substances. Perhaps most significantly, La Voisin's trial marked the beginning of France's transition from superstition-based justice to rational investigation, helping usher the nation toward the Age of Enlightenment.

Catherine's transformation from fortune teller to serial poisoner was gradual but calculated. By the late 1670s, she had built a sophisticated criminal network operating from her lavish establishment in Paris. Her home featured elegant furnishings and private consultation rooms where nobles could discreetly arrange everything from love potions to murder. She employed astrologers, alchemists, and renegade priests, each contributing specialized skills to her expanding enterprise. Her most notorious services were the black masses—elaborate ceremonies combining Catholic ritual with occult practices, performed in secret locations outside Paris. These theatrical events attracted powerful clients who believed they could achieve anything from romantic conquest to political advancement through supernatural means. Among her most influential clients was Madame de Montespan, the official mistress of King Louis XIV himself. Their partnership began in 1667 when Montespan, fearing her waning influence over the King, sought Catherine's services. The rituals performed for Montespan were particularly blasphemous, involving twisted versions of Catholic mass performed over her body as a human altar, with claims that infant sacrifices occurred during these ceremonies.

La Voisin's criminal empire finally collapsed in 1679 when one of her associates was arrested for poisoning. Under interrogation, this associate revealed the extent of Catherine's network, leading to her arrest in March 1679. King Louis XIV established the Chambre Ardente specifically to prosecute poisoning cases emerging from this scandal. During her trial, Catherine showed neither remorse nor hesitation in describing her crimes, frankly stating that she provided services people desperately wanted. She implicated numerous prominent figures in French society, shocking the court with detailed accounts of ceremonies involving desecrated communion hosts and murder. The proceedings became so scandalous that Louis XIV ordered certain testimonies sealed, particularly those involving Madame de Montespan. On February 22, 1680, Catherine Monvoisin was executed at the Place de Grève in Paris before thousands of spectators. She remained defiant to the end, refusing last rites and cursing the priest who attempted to offer spiritual comfort. As flames engulfed her, witnesses reported she died without uttering a single cry of pain, maintaining her characteristic composure even in death.

This case draws from extensive historical sources documenting one of French history's most sensational trials. Court records from the Chambre Ardente provide detailed testimony transcripts, while contemporary accounts from French newspapers chronicle public reaction to the scandal. Seventeenth-century France's relationship with poison and witchcraft was complex—arsenic and other deadly substances were readily available from apothecaries with minimal regulation, making Catherine's trade frighteningly accessible. The aristocracy's willingness to engage with fortune tellers and participate in blasphemous ceremonies reveals the tension between Catholic orthodoxy and persistent folk beliefs in French society. Modern historians like Anne Somerset have extensively documented the Affair of the Poisons, providing crucial context for understanding how these crimes were perceived by contemporary society. The scandal permanently altered Louis XIV's relationship with his court, making him increasingly reclusive and preferring the controlled environment of Versailles over Paris's more unpredictable social circles.

Resources & Further Reading:

For those interested in learning more about the Affair of the Poisons and 17th century French criminal history:

• The Bibliothèque Nationale de France (National Library of France) houses original court documents from the Chambre Ardente trials
• "The Affair of the Poisons: Murder, Infanticide, and Satanism at the Court of Louis XIV" by Anne Somerset provides comprehensive analysis of the scandal
• The Musée de la Police in Paris maintains exhibits on famous French criminal cases including La Voisin
• The Archives Nationales (National Archives of France) preserve complete trial records and royal decrees related to the poisoning affair

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In the shadowy corners of the Roman Empire, a woman named Locusta perfected the art of murder, becoming history's first documented

Season & Episode Context:

Episode 1 of 15 | Season 36: Serial Killers in History

Journey back to the 1st century AD, where we meet Locusta of Gaul—the poisoner who terrorized Rome's elite and changed criminal history forever. This season explores lesser-known serial killers spanning centuries and continents.

The Woman Behind the Poison

Locusta of Gaul was born around 20 AD in the Roman province of Gaul, a region renowned for its knowledge of herbs and natural medicines. As a young woman, she made her way to Rome and quickly established herself as an expert in creating potions and toxins. Unlike common criminals, Locusta approached murder as a refined science, maintaining detailed records of her experiments and testing compounds on slaves and animals to perfect her deadly recipes. She wasn't simply a poisoner—she was a methodical killer who built a thriving business selling her services to Rome's wealthy elite. Her reputation grew so formidable that she eventually trained others in her craft, establishing what historians consider the first school of professional poisoners. Those who knew of her work whispered her name in fear, recognizing that any suspicious death in Rome might bear her signature.

Why This Case Changed History

Locusta's crimes fundamentally reshaped how the Roman Empire approached criminal justice and public safety. Her systematic approach to murder—combined with her connections to the Imperial Court—forced authorities to confront the reality of organized, repeated killing for the first time in documented history. Following her execution in 68 AD, the Roman Senate passed the Lexi Sicarius ad Veneficis, the first comprehensive poison control legislation in recorded history. These groundbreaking reforms established formal protocols for investigating suspicious deaths, required merchants to maintain detailed records of toxic substance sales, and created harsh penalties for those who manufactured or distributed poisons. The investigation techniques developed in response to Locusta's activities laid the foundation for modern forensic toxicology and systematic criminal investigation methods that influence law enforcement to this day.

The Reign of Terror

Locusta's criminal career reached its peak when she caught the attention of Agrippina, the ambitious wife of Emperor Claudius. In 54 AD, Agrippina commissioned Locusta to create a poison that would eliminate Claudius and clear the path for Agrippina's son Nero to claim the throne. Locusta prepared a toxin that mimicked natural illness, delivering it through a dish of mushrooms—the Emperor's favorite food. When Claudius died after consuming the poisoned meal, few suspected murder, exactly as planned. Her success earned her an even more dangerous assignment: eliminating Britannicus, Claudius's legitimate son and Nero's rival for power. At a banquet, Locusta administered poison that killed the young prince within minutes, though witnesses described his death as a seizure. With Nero now Emperor, Locusta became virtually untouchable, operating openly from a luxurious villa and maintaining a client list that included senators, governors, and wealthy merchants. She employed her deadly talents so frequently that paranoia gripped Rome's upper classes—dinner parties became tense affairs, food tasters were hired at unprecedented rates, and the price of antidotes skyrocketed. Her network of trained poisoners operated throughout the Empire, creating a climate of fear that persisted for years.

Historical Context and Legacy

Ancient Rome's relationship with poison was paradoxically casual despite its deadly potential. Toxic substances were readily available from merchants and apothecaries with virtually no regulation or oversight. Locusta exploited this lax system to build her empire of death, demonstrating how easily dangerous materials could be weaponized by those with knowledge and malicious intent. When Nero died by suicide in 68 AD, Locusta's protection vanished overnight. The new Emperor Galba ordered her immediate arrest and public execution, determined to make an example of the woman who had terrorized Roman society for decades. Historical accounts suggest she was paraded through Rome's streets in chains before being subjected to prolonged torture and eventual death—some sources claim she was forced to consume one of her own poisons, while others describe her being thrown to wild animals in the arena. The reforms sparked by her crimes influenced not only Roman law but medieval European legal systems and, by extension, modern approaches to regulating dangerous substances and investigating systematic murder. Locusta's case forced authorities to grapple with questions that remain relevant today: How do we identify patterns in seemingly unrelated deaths? How do we protect society from those who kill methodically and repeatedly?

Resources & Further Reading

For those interested in learning more about ancient Roman crime and the development of criminal investigation:

• The British Museum maintains extensive collections on Roman social history, including exhibits on crime and punishment in the ancient world
• "The Poison King: The Life and Legend of Mithradates" by Adrienne Mayor explores ancient poison use and political assassination in the Roman era
• The Metropolitan Museum of Art's Roman collection includes artifacts from the Imperial period that provide context for understanding Roman society
• Academic journals such as "The Journal of Roman Studies" regularly publish research on Roman criminal justice and social history

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In the final episode of our series on Charles and Jennifer Chia, we examine the known evidence and unanswered questions that continue to surround their tragic case. With insight from retired detectives Allan Fox and Ron Dreher, we revisit the timeline, key suspects, and overlooked details from the original 1989 investigation. From a mysterious ransom call to a suspicious shovel found near the burial site, every piece of information could be vital. If you remember anything—no matter how small—please come forward. This is a haunting, unsolved murder of two children that still cries out for justice.

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