THE FORGOTTEN SERIAL KILLER: EDWARD SURRATT

In this episode of Crimery, Tim Novotney tells the terrifying story of Edward Arthur Surratt, a little-known serial killer from Aliquippa, Pennsylvania, who terrorized Western Pennsylvania, Eastern Ohio, and beyond in 1977 and 1978.

Known in newspapers as the Highway Killer and the Shotgun Killer, Surratt stalked couples in their homes, attacked families while children slept nearby, abducted women who were never found, and left behind a trail of murders across multiple states. Decades later, from a prison cell in Florida, he began confessing.

This episode dives into the murders of William and Nancy Adams, Guy and Laura Mills, Joel Krueger, John Shelkons, David and Linda Hamilton, John Feeny, Ranee Gregor, Joseph and Katherine Weinman, Richard and Donna Hyde, Frank Zeigler, and others tied to one of the most disturbing cold case murder sprees in Pennsylvania history.

You’ll hear how Surratt’s confessions unfolded, why so many of these murders were never prosecuted, how Trooper Max DeLuca reopened the story, and why families are still waiting for answers nearly 50 years later.

If you’re into true crime, serial killer cases, Pennsylvania cold cases, unsolved murders, and long-form investigative storytelling, this is a case you won’t forget.

For more episodes, updates, and merch, visit crimery.show.

Edward Surratt, Edward Arthur Surratt, Highway Killer, Shotgun Killer, Aliquippa serial killer, Pennsylvania serial killer, Western Pennsylvania murders, Pennsylvania cold cases, unsolved Pennsylvania murders, Trooper Max DeLuca, Ranee Gregor, John Feeny, Nancy Adams, William Adams, Guy Mills, Laura Mills, Joel Krueger, John Shelkons, Joseph Weinman, Katherine Weinman, Richard Hyde, Donna Hyde, Frank Zeigler, Linda Hamilton, David Hamilton, Ohio cold cases, Florida prison confession, Crimery podcast, Tim Novotney

Transcript

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July 1st, 1978, Fulano Beach, Florida, a small barrier town on the Atlantic coast just north of St. Augustine. It's where retirees walk the beach in the morning and where vacation rentals line the coast. There's this modest house on a quiet street, and inside there's a family, a husband, a wife, and an 18-year-old daughter. In the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, they're all home. And a man breaks in and he's got a knife. He cuts the electrical cord off a lamp and hog ties the father, hands and feet behind his back, the way you'd tie up a calf at a rodeo. And then he attacks the women for hours. Eventually, the guy gets so drunk and so high that he just stops. He passes out right there on the bed. Now, while he was passed out, the father hogtied with the electrical cord around his wrist, works the knots loose, slides his hands free, gets up, as quiet as he can, and runs out the front door down the street to a neighbor. He pounds on the door and the Florida police arrive within minutes. They go inside the house and they find the man still asleep, the knife on the floor next to him. They cuff him, they carry him out, and they take him to St. John's County jail. What they don't know yet is who they just arrested. What they don't know is that this man was wanted in four different states for a string of murders so brutal and so calculated and so scattered that when a Pennsylvania detective finally got him in an interview room a few weeks later, the very first thing this man said before a single question was even asked was quote, which one do you want to know about? End quote. Now I'm gonna tell you all about this man who terrorized Western Pennsylvania for eight months, and who sold out the locks at every hardware store in the region for how crazy he was, who killed couples in their homes while their kids were sleeping in the rooms next door, and how almost 50 years later, this guy is still confessing from a prison cell in Florida. Hey Crimers, what's going on? It's Tim Novotny, three-time Emmy Award-winning documentary filmmaker, and welcome back to another episode of Crimery. And man, do I have an insane story for you today. But real quick before we jump in, if you haven't gotten the Crimery.show, go there. That's where we have all of our merchandise climbers, and it's the best way to support the show. Jennifer is heads down working on the next series, so this week's case, I got it. Alright, guys, this week's case I came across by accident. I was digging through Pennsylvania State Police press releases and I saw an announcement from 2021 about a serial killer in Florida who had just confessed to six more Pennsylvania murders. Like not five or four, but like six. And I had never even heard of this guy. And the more I read, the more I realized that almost nobody has ever heard of him. There's no Netflix documentary on him, there's no 2020 special, and there's no major podcast that tells this story from end to end. But that's about to change. This is one of the worst killers Pennsylvania has ever produced. Maybe the worst one ever. The newspapers in 1977 actually called this guy the highway killer, and some people called him the shotgun killer. The criminalologist called him one of the most prolific serial murderers in modern history. So how come we haven't heard of him? Well, you're about to hear his name right now. His name is Edward Arthur Surratt. And today we're gonna talk about where he came from, what he did to Western Pennsylvania for eight months, and how he stalked his victims like he was back in Vietnam. And then we're gonna get back to the question that has kept me up since I started researching all this. And when we're done, make sure to head on over to our Instagram and hit up our comment section on one of our posts and tell me what you think. Alright, guys, let's go. This is the first I've ever heard of it. In fact, it took me like five minutes to figure out how to pronounce the frickin' name of the place. Um, it's in Beaver County, western Pennsylvania. It's 30 miles northwest of Pittsburgh, right on the Ohio River. So the town was actually named after a Seneca woman, Queen Aliquippa. She was a real historical figure. Um, and she was the leader of her people in the 1700s, whatever that means, I just read that on her wiki. And apparently George Washington met with her in 1753 during a diplomatic mission. And I just, I don't know why I deep dove on this lady, but I did a little bit. And George Washington brought her gifts, a coat, a bottle of rum, and they sat down and they talked about the British, about the French, and about the future of the Ohio State Valley. So apparently she must have been pretty cool if George Washington wanted to talk to her. Queen Aliquippa never lived in the place that would carry her name though, but the Pittsburgh and Lake Erie Railroad picked that name for some reason in 1878 for a train station, and it just kind of stuck. The town itself sat as a like a sleeping farming village for decades, and the population in 1900 was extremely low with only 620 people. Then in 1905, the Jones and Laughlin Steel Company came into this town, and Jones and Laughlin, or JL, as everybody else called it in that area, was one of the biggest steel companies on the planet, not just in this area, but like on the planet. They bought up all of the land along the Ohio River. They demolished an island that used to be an amusement park, which is a real tragedy because I feel like America lost too many small amusement parks, and they filled a back channel of the river, and they built the largest integrated steel mill on Earth in this small town. It was seven miles long along the Ohio River. Furnaces, rowing mills, coke ovens, open hearths, steel coming off the line 24 hours a day, apparently. By the 1940s, this town of 620 people from the 1900s boomed to 27,000 people. 9,000 people alone worked at the Alaquipa works. And steel from Aliquippa actually went to the warships of World War II and the tanks that rolled across Europe and the skyscrapers that built Pittsburgh in New York. So this was a really big town at the time. This was a real American town. It was like Italian families, Polish families, Irish, Croatian, Greek, the kids of the European immigrants who came here for the work, and they pretty much just stayed there for the rest of their lives. But here's the thing about Alaquippa. It also had a nickname called Little Siberia. And I'm not sure why it got this nickname, so I had to look it up. And apparently that's what the wife of the governor of Pennsylvania called it in the 1930s because JL ran the town like a company state. They had their own private police force called the Coal and Iron Police, and these guys would terrorize anybody who tried to organize, anyone who tried to start a union, and anybody, quote, who stepped out of line, end quote. JL controlled the elections, they would actually truck in workers from the mill, even guys who weren't even citizens, to vote company lines. And they controlled the housing, they controlled the stores, and they controlled who came in and who went out. It was a tough town, a working town, a steel town. It was a pretty interesting place. And in the 1970s, the bottom fell out. The American steel industry like collapsed. Cheaper imports from Japan, outdated mills, bad management, the whole thing kind of fell apart. And in 1984, JL closed the Alaquipa works. In 1988, they demolished it. The whole seven-mile mill is gone, just gone. Everything is gone. Carted off as scrap. The town actually never recovered. And the population has been falling for over 90 years, from 27,000 in the 1930s and 40s down to about like 9,000 people total today. There's a lot of empty houses, boarded up storefronts, but the people who stayed in this town, they're pretty tough. Aliquippa produced incredible folks over the years. There's a composer called Henry Mancini, and he grew up there. That's what I found out. And this guy wrote Moon River and the Pink Panther theme. So da da da da da. That was that guy. So he was pretty much the most famous person I could find here. But also some NFL players came from here judges, doctors, engineers. Aliquipp raised good people, but Allaquippa also raised Edward Arthur Surratt. Edward Surratt was born in Aliquippa on August 8, 1941, and we're about to get into this guy. World War II had just started a few months earlier, and the mills in Aliquippa were running 24 hours a day, pumping out still for the war effort. His father was a guy named Arthur Surratt and he was a successful entrepreneur. He owned his own businesses and I guess he made pretty good money, so the family was pretty well off. They went to church every Sunday, and Edward played tenor saxophone in his high school band, and he was, by every account, like a normal middle-class Aliquippa kid from like a good home. And that doesn't track to what comes later, but it's the truth when he was a kid. He attended Alaquipa high school, got decent grades, played sports, played his sacks, made some friends. Um, by 17 years old though, this is where things start to fall apart. When he turned 17, Edward Surratt had his first arrest, disturbing the peace. And then after that was assault, and then a charge for hitting an Alaquipa police officer in the face and breaking his nose. So you can tell that he's starting to go off the lines here after he turned 17. And at 19, he attacked a man with a pipe and then moved out of the area. He got loitering charges, petty theft in California. He was arrested as a fugitive in Arizona, traffic violations in North Carolina. He basically just kind of went crazy after he left Aliquipa. He was traveling all over the place, causing havoc. And then in 1964, Edward Surratt joined the U.S. Army because he wanted to straighten himself out. He trained as a chaplain, yes, like a chaplain, the guy that was supposed to provide religious comfort for the soldiers, which I thought was pretty interesting considering all those crazy crimes that he just had. And his father then died the following year, and Edward took a hardship discharge. Uh then a year later, he enlisted in the Marines. And the Marines sent him to Vietnam and he fought in the Tet Offensive, the biggest, bloodiest battle of the Vietnam War. House-to-house fighting, hand-to-hand combat. It's the kind of warfare that like breaks people. Like this is what gives them PTSD. Now I'm going to tell you something Surrat told investigators later about his time in Vietnam because this explains a lot. He told an investigator about one night in particular, he was in a foxhole with his squad. It was pitch black. They all had a bad feeling. Something was off and they heard noises coming from beyond the razor wire. The Marines shot up flares because apparently they were freaking out. And in the light of the flares, they saw the Viet Cong soldiers swarming over the wire, coming straight at them, dozens of them. The Marines opened up, cut them down, piles of bodies were laying hung over the wires. And the other Viet Cong soldiers who did survive started using the dead bodies of their former soldiers to climb over the wires, stepping all over their fallen comrades just to get closer to the Americans. Now, one of these guys apparently threw a grenade into the foxhole. The grenade went off, and Edward Surrat's friend standing right next to him got blown up and lost his arm. Surratt's eardrums ruptured from the blast and shrap metal actually went into his chest. He came home with a purple heart. He earned it. He fought for this country and he bled for it. That's the real part. But when he came home, he came home different. And I know I mentioned PTSD before, but PTSD wasn't a recognized diagnosis in 1968, which I found out. And nobody had a name for what was happening to these guys when they got back from Vietnam. They got off the plane and they got spit on by the college kids, and they came home to families who didn't understand. So they started drinking and having nightmares, and some of them just like completely broke. But fortunately, Sir Rat got married. He moved in North Carolina, got a job as a long-haul truck driver, and in 1973, he was arrested in Virginia Beach, Virginia, for attempting to rape a 13-year-old boy. So this guy was clearly sick in the head. And he was convicted in March of 1974 and he was sent to state prison. So now he's off the streets. But less than four years later, he was paroled. And in January of 1977, Edward Surratt walked out of the Virginia prison, a free man. And then he went back to Aliquippa. Now I need you to understand what western Pennsylvania looked like in 1977. And it was actually much of this way through the 80s in these small towns in Pennsylvania, but this was not a place where people locked their doors. This is the country. There really isn't much around you. This is mill towns and farm towns and river towns where everybody knew like their neighbors, so there wasn't anything to be worried about. You left your keys in your truck, you left your back doors open, and you waved at your neighbors driving by, and you'd sit on your porch with a beer at the sunset. And that's how people lived. It was like this really laid-back community of people living in these small rural towns in Pennsylvania. But that actually all ended in 1977, September 19th, actually, Beaver Township, Ohio, just across the Pennsylvania state line, a 27-year-old apprentice electrician named David Hamilton is shot dead inside his own home. Now his 28-year-old wife Linda, who was a beautician and a waitress at a truck stop, she's missing. And she's gone. And she's actually to this date she's never been found. Eight days later, in 1977, on September 27th, in Marshall Township, Pennsylvania, a 28-year-old man named Frank Ziegler heads out for work in his milk tanker. Now Frank is a milk hauler and he goes to dairy's and he pumps tanks full of milk and he drives that milk to processing plant and then he comes home. One of the interesting things about Frank is Frank's a Vietnam veteran himself. He was in the Marine Corps, he's a sergeant, and just like Edward Surratt, he was in the same war, the same rank, and the same year that he came home. Frank had a wife, Karen, Karen Moore. They had met on a blind date and fallen hard for each other. In some of the reports that I read, Frank kept calling his wife his soulmate. And apparently she thought him as her soulmate. They had two boys and a girl, and they just signed bank papers to buy four more milk trucks because they wanted to start their own business, because this is what Frank has been doing, and they were chasing their dream of starting their own milk processing business. That morning, Frank went out on a milk run and he never came home. Around 11 in the morning, a police officer named Robert Amon gets a call. There's a body in a milk tanker on Warrendale Bain Road, and then he drives over. And I guess you guys could probably already figure out who that is based on what I just told you. But Officer Amon is brand new. This is his first homicide. He walks up to the tanker, the doors are locked, the windows are up, and there's blood coming out from under the driver's door, streaming down, and it's pulling up on the steps. Frank Ziegler is inside, shot twice in the head, his wallet was emptied, the Vietnam vet, the new dad, the husband who called Karen his soulmate. Three days later, on September 30th, in the same township, less than 10 miles from where Frank Ziegler died, a 30-year-old man named Joseph Weinman and his 29-year-old wife, Catherine, Joseph, by the way, is a paraplegic, a Vietnam vet as well, and he was shot in the war. Bullets actually severed his spine and took his legs. But Joseph Weinman had nothing breakable in his spirit. He worked, he drove a motor home, he swam, he traveled. His relatives said nothing could hold him down. He worked as a camera repairman out of his own home. He had two little boys, a two-year-old and a five-year-old, and Catherine was studying child psychology. She was known in the neighborhood for the homemade Halloween costumes that she made for her boys every single year. A normal young family living a normal life. But on September 30th, 1977, somebody breaks into their house. Joseph is on his gurney. The intruder hits him with what police would later believe was a five-pound sledgehammer, which was actually missing from Wyman's own garage. The first blow knocked Joseph unconscious. But Joseph regained consciousness. The paraplegic Vietnam vet, he saw what was happening. He knew there was a long gun in the house. He started crawling, trying to get to it, but he didn't make it. Whoever was in the house finished him with the sledgehammer. Then they found Catherine. They raped her, they beat her, they stabbed her multiple times with a steak knife from her own kitchen. Then they cut her throat and left her in the driveway in her socks. The Wyman boys, two and five years old, found their parents. By the end of September 1977, Officer Robert Amun had worked two homicides in Marshall Township, in a township where there had never been a homicide all year long, maybe even in years. He told a reporter later, quote, murders didn't happen in Marshall, end quote. Then it kept going. On October 22nd, 1977, a young couple on a date, a 17-year-old John Feeney, dropped out of school, worked as a busboy, mechanically inclined, he was artistic, he picked up his date, 15-year-old Renee Greger, just days shy of her 16th birthday. Pretty, petite, the oldest of four girls, a junior at Montor High School, manager of the girls' cross country team, and she also worked on the yearbook staff. Well, they drove out to a quiet lane near the Pittsburgh Airport in Finley Township. Like teenagers do, find a place to park, you know, find a place to talk, find a place to, you know, make out, a place to be alone. The next morning, police get a call. A van, engine still running on a dirt road near an old strip mining area. John Feeney is in the driver's seat, shotgun blast to the neck. The van is splattered with blood. The empty wallet on the seat next to him. Renee is gone. And the only trace of her is her blue suede jacket and her purse sitting in the van with John's empty wallet inside. Western Pennsylvania starts to lose their mind, as they should with all these murders. And within weeks, the Allegheny County Sheriff declares a state of emergency, and he says Western Pennsylvania residents are, quote, living in terror for their lives and the lives of their children, end quote. Hardware stores ran out of locks, out of bolts, out of chains. One gun dealer in the area sold 20 firearms in a single week. People stopped going out at night, they stopped answering their doors, and even the cops had to be careful. Detectives canvassing neighborhoods for leads started calling ahead before they knocked on doors. They had to tell folks, we're coming over. Like, we'll be in a brown sedan, we'll be wearing this, we'll arrive at this time. Because if they didn't, they'd get met at the door with a shotgun. This is what western Pennsylvania was like in October of 1977 now. A region of people pointing guns at the police by accident because they couldn't tell who was who. And the killer was nowhere. November 19th, 1977. It's a Saturday night in Falsonboro in Beaver County. A young couple named William and Nancy Adams, 31 and 29 years old, lived in a mobile home on Route 51 with their two kids, Wendy Joe, who's four, and Billy Jr. who's seven. Now it was Saturday night and they were in bed, but someone broke in, shot William in the chest with a shotgun in the master bedroom, and he died right there. And then they took Nancy, lifted her out of bed, or maybe she was already up, hearing the blast, maybe she was running, maybe she was screaming, we don't know, but they took her. Sunday morning, November 20th, the kids wake up. Four-year-old Wendy Joe and seven-year-old Billy Jr., they walk through the trailer. They find their dad in the bedroom in a pool of blood. Seven-year-old Billy Jr. walks through every room looking for his mom and he can't find her. He picks up the phone, he calls grandma and says, quote, I can't find mom, end quote. Grandma calls the police, and officers arrive, find William's body, shotgun wound to the chest, search the entire trailer. Nancy's purse is on the table, her car keys are right where she always left them. No signs of a robbery, drawers are not pulled out, and nothing is missing. Just a dead husband and a missing wife. Beaver County Deputy Coroner Harper Simpson told the press at the time, quote, the drawers were not even emptied. The trailer did not appear to have been ransacked, and Mrs. Adams' purse and keys were all there, end quote. He also added one word, quote, abducted, end quote. Wendy Joe and Billy Jr. got handed over to their grandparents, and they went home with the same grandma Billy Jr. had called, a four-year-old and a seven-year-old without a dad, and now without a mom. And the man who took them was somewhere out there driving away. Now on December 4th, 1977, in Moon Township, Pennsylvania, an elementary school principal named Richard Hyde, and he runs the Fern Hollow Elementary School. He's loved by the kids, he's loved by the teacher. He's the kind of guy who knew everyone's name at school and all the students' names. He was home that night with his wife, Donna. Donna was a beautician. She cuts hair right out of their home, works on the neighbors, who knows everybody. Richard's on the phone taking a call. He hears the sound of breaking glass. He gets up to investigate. Whoever's in the house hits him with a shotgun blast and kills him. Donna hears it, starts running out of the house into the night, trying to make it to her in-laws' house. They live nearby, and she runs. Police find her body the next day about two miles away, partially nude, bludgeoned to death. She was running for her in-laws, her mother and father, the two people closest to her in the world. She did not make it. The Hyde family had two daughters. The school where Richard was principal renamed it in his honor. The Fern Hollow Elementary School building today carries his name. Three weeks later, New Year's Eve, Breezewood, Pennsylvania. Fulton County, a tiny town in south central Pennsylvania. The town with the famous nickname, the Town of Motels, because Breezewood is where Pennsylvania Turnpike meets Interstate 70. It's a stop. Over town. Lots of gas stations, lots of motels, lots of trucks pulling off at night. Breezewood is also where 64-year-old Guy Mills lived with his 65-year-old wife Laura in a quiet house just off the highway, retired, living out their golden years, looking out for each other. But on December 31st, 1977, New Year's Eve, the whole country was getting ready to ring in 1978. Somebody knocked on the door of the Mills home. Guy Mills, 64 years old, answered. The man at the door came inside and shot Guy Mills with a shotgun and shot Lara Mills with a shotgun. Both of them dead, their home ransacked. About five miles away from the Mills home, near a town called McConnellsburg. There was a 36-year-old guy named Joel Krueger. He was driving home that night, New Year's Eve. He pulled his car over somewhere, maybe to rest, maybe to use a payphone, maybe because somebody flagged him down. Found the next morning sitting in his car shot dead. Three separate killings. Within a few miles on the same night, New Year's Eve, into New Year's Day. The Pennsylvania State Police lost it. Whoever was doing this was traveling, was mobile, was hitting multiple targets in the same night. The pattern was clear. The killer was preying on people in their homes and on people stopped along the highway. He was selecting older couples, Vietnam vets, random people in their cars, and by January 1st, 1978, the Pennsylvania State Police were running the largest manhunt the state had seen in decades. And on January 7th, six days after the New Year's Eve killings, he hit again, Baden, Pennsylvania, right next to Alquippa, across the Ohio River. A 56-year-old steelworker named John Shalcoons and his wife Catherine lived in a house in Baden. Their daughter was out for the night on a date and they were home alone. Somebody broke in, shot John with the shotgun, and killed him on the spot. They beat Catherine severely and left her for dead, but she survived. When the daughter came home from her date, she walked into a nightmare. Her father shot dead, her mother beaten and bleeding, and the house was ransacked. Catherine Shalcoons gave the police a description. She had seen the man's face. She had heard his voice. She told them what he looked like. Now here's something where you have to understand something the police were dealing with. Catherine Shalcoons described a white man. Edward Surratt is black. But this was the 1970s, before DNA, before security cameras were everywhere. Witnesses got descriptions wrong, especially in the dark, especially when they were beaten unconscious. And there was something else going on the police didn't know yet. Descriptions were conflicting across counties, across states. Sometimes the killer was tall, sometimes shorter, sometimes with a mustache, sometimes clean shaven, sometimes balding, sometimes with a full head of hair. Police were starting to wonder if they were chasing one man or if they were chasing several men. That's part of why this took so long to solve. The Pennsylvania State Police now had something to work with, a description. Even if it was wrong, they had a manhunt, they had pressure from every county. What they didn't have was a name. Yet. In April of 1978, investigators caught a lead. A car with a Pennsylvania license plate had been spotted near the Mills house in Breezewood around the time of the New Year's Eve killings. The plate came back to a man in Aliquippa, Edward Arthur Surrat, 36 years old Aliquippa native, Marine Corps Vietnam vet, Purple Heart, convicted in 1974 for attempting to rape a 13-year-old boy and then paroled in January of 1977. And this was right before the killing started. State police pulled him in and sat him down and started to ask him questions. And when they did, they started piecing together why the descriptions had been all over the map. Because Edward Surratt wore disguises. He had male patterned baldness, so he wore wigs. He'd grow out his facial hair and then shave it and then grow it out again and then shave it again. He looked different one week to the next. Police across multiple jurisdictions had been chasing different descriptions because the man that they were after was a different looking man every time he hit. That's part of why this took so long to solve. But Surratt, calm as ice, looked them in the eyes, said he had nothing to do with any of it, and they had no evidence, no witnesses who could place him, no physical proof, so they had to let him go. And Surratt walked out of the police station a free man, but not for long, because on June 1st, 1978, in West Columbia, South Carolina, a 66-year-old retired man named Luther Langford is beaten to death in his home with a baseball bat. His wife Nell, 58, is also beaten and raped. So badly she required, quote, major cranal surgery and a throat operation, and her jaw wired, end quote. She survived, and five days later, June 6, 1978, Edward Surratt is spotted in his hometown of Alaquipa, driving Luther Langford's stolen car. State troopers move in. Surratt sees them coming. He doesn't pull over. He runs. Seven troopers are now in a pursuit through the streets of Aliquippa, past the boarded up houses, past the closed-down storefronts, and straight into the JL Still Mill. The seven-mile-long Alequippa works, still operating in 1978, by the way, and it's massive, confusing, full of stacks and conveyors and rail yards and pipes and warehouses, the kind of place where a man could disappear in a heartbeat. And Surrat abandoned the car, took off on foot, into the maze. Seven troopers searched. They found nothing. He vanished. He had gone up. He had grown up in this town. He knew every alley, every shortcut, every place to hide. He used a still mill the way a fox uses a den. And the state police set up perimeters. They searched for hours. They searched into the night, but he got away. Edward Surratt was now wanted in four states: Pennsylvania, Ohio, South Carolina, and Virginia, where his parole officer wanted to talk. His face went out on the wire. Every police department from West Virginia to Florida had a description. Be on the lookout. Armed, dangerous, considered a serial killer. And while detectives searched Langford's stolen car for evidence, they found something. Inside the car, there were items that didn't belong to Arthur Langford or his wife. There were items that had been taken from a paraplegic Vietnam vet's home in Marshall Township, Pennsylvania. The Weinemans. That's how the dots started to connect. The car had Sarrat's fingerprints on the bat, and the bat was used to kill Arthur Langford. And inside the car were Joseph and Catherine Weinman's belongings, stolen the night they were murdered nine months earlier. He was their guy, but he was gone. For 25 days he drove south, down the Atlantic coast, living in motels, living in his car, living off whatever cash he had until July 1st when he pulled off the highway in Bolano Beach, Florida, and walked up to a stranger's house. Now I told you about this at the top of the story, but now you know who it was. July 1st, 1978, Bolano Beach, Florida. Edward Surratt breaks into a family's home. He hog ties the husband, attacks the mother and the 18-year-old daughter for hours, drinks, gets high, and falls asleep on the bed. The father works the electrical cords off his wrist, runs out the door, and pounds on a neighbor's house. Florida police arrive within minutes and they walk into the bedroom, and there he is, Edward Surratt asleep, the knife on the floor next to him. They didn't know who they had. They booked him into St. John's County jail on rape and burglary charges. Just another sicko they pulled off the street, took his fingerprints, standard procedure. Then somebody ran his prints through the FBI database, and the systems lit up. One it in Pennsylvania for serial murders, wanted in Ohio for serial murder, wanted in South Carolina for the Langford murder, wanted in Virginia on parole violations, the Florida cops looked at each other and realized we just caught the highway killer. Now September 1978 in Florida, the first trial. The Volano Beach home invasion, burglary, rape, threats of murder, and Surratt's defense was insanity. He testified about his time in Vietnam. The Tet offense, the foxhole, his friend's arm, the PTSD that had no name back then, and he said the killings and the rapes were the war catching up to him. The judge in the case noted something interesting. Surratt had filed his own legal brief in the case, and the judge said it showed, quote, superior intelligence, end quote. That comment mattered because everybody who got close to Edward Surratt over the next 50 years would say the same thing. He was smart, he was articulate, he could read, he could write, he could think, he could play the tenor saxophone. He spent two semesters in college. He was not a stupid man. He was a smart man who chose to do what he did. The jury didn't buy the insanity defense. And on September 20th, 1978, they convicted him on all counts. And October 27th, the sentencing. The judge gave him two life sentences plus 200 years. 200 years for one home invasion to make sure he would never walk free again. But that's not it. In the summer of 1979 in Lexington County, South Carolina, the trial for the murder of Luther Langford and the beating and the rape of Nell Langford. Nell Langford took the stand. The 58-year-old widow, beaten so badly her jaw had been wired shut, so badly she lost her teeth, so badly she had been left for dead. She had survived, she had to bury her husband, and now she had to look at the man who did it. She identified him. The jury convicted Surrat of the Langford murder and the assault of Nell. He got two more life sentences. Now let's stack that up for a second. Two life sentences in Florida plus 200 years, two life sentences in South Carolina, and now he was serving four life sentences and 200 years on top of that. But before the South Carolina trial, while he was sitting in a holding cell waiting to be transported, a Pennsylvania police detective named Captain Townsend flew down to talk to him because Pennsylvania still wanted him. For the Adams murders, for the Mills murders, for the Kruger murders, for the Shelkoon murders, for the Wyman murders, for the Frank Ziggler murder, and the Hyde murders, and the Feeney and George case. Captain Townsend sat down in the interview room across from Edward Surratt. Townsend opened up his folder, got out his pen, got ready to ask his first question. And before he could even open his mouth, Edward Surratt looked at him and said, quote, which one do you want to know about? End quote. Townsend didn't blink. He just said, quote, tell me about the Shalcoons, end quote. And Edward Surratt, sitting in a Florida holding cell, started talking. He admitted to shooting John Shalcoon in his Baden, Pennsylvania home on January 7th, 1978. Admitted to beating Catherine within an inch of her life. He told Townsend the layout of the house, what John was wearing, what Catherine looked like in bed, things only the killer would know. Townsend asked about the mill murders, about the Adams, about the Wymans, about Frank Zeigler. Surratt clammed up. He said maybe, said could be, said he might tell more later. Townsend pushed. Surratt went silent. Townsend went home with a confession to one murder and nothing else. In 1980, Beaver County, Pennsylvania prosecutors looked at the Shalcoons confession, and they made a decision. They were not going to prosecute. Edward Surratt was already serving four life sentences in 200 years. Bringing him to Pennsylvania for a trial would cost the county a fortune. The transportation, the security, the witnesses, the prosecution, the defense, the jury, and at the end, he'd just go back to Florida and serve the time he was already serving. There was no death penalty in Pennsylvania at the time, so even a conviction would just stack another life sentence. Beaver County dropped the charges and sent the file back to the evidence storage. For the Shalcoons family, the decision stung. They had a confession, they had a killer, and the system shrugged. Catherine Shalcoons, who survived the beating, lived her life, knowing who killed her husband, knowing he'd never face a Pennsylvania jury. The Wyman family, the Adams Kids, the Mills family, the Kruger family, the Hyde family, the Feeney family, Karen Moore and Frank Ziegler, Renee Greger's mother, all of them knew. The man who probably did this was sitting in a Florida prison, untouchable. The cases stayed open, but the manhunt was over. Edward Surratt was off the streets forever. But for those families, there was no closure, no verdict, no name in the courtroom, nothing. Eight years go by. 1985, Beaver County, Pennsylvania. Some hikers or some hunters out in Brady's Run Park, off the beaten path, up in the woods, find something on the ground. Bones. Police come out, forensics work the scene, dental records get pulled. The bones belong to Nancy Adams, the woman who was abducted from the mobile home in Falston on November 19, 1977, who was 29 years old, who left behind four-year-old Wendy Joe and seven-year-old Billy Jr. Eight years she had been in those woods, less than a few miles from where she was taken. Wendy Joe was now 12 and Billy Jr. was 15. They could finally bury their mother. Nobody was charged, there was no DNA, there was no proof, just bones in a park, and a circumstantial connection to Edward Surratt sitting in a Florida prison. Officially, the Adams case was still open. In 2007, after 29 years in prison, Edward Surratt opened his mouth again. But this time, it wasn't a Pennsylvania detective who got him to talk. It was a guy named Joe Matthews. Now Joe Matthews was a retired Miami Beach police homicide sergeant. 29-year career, he had seen the worst of humanity. Drug lords, crooked cop, hitman, pedophiles. By 2007, Matthews was a TV personality. He did the criminal investigation segments on America's Most Wanted. He was about to become a national hero in true crime circles because he was working a case that would change his life, the Adam Walsh case. The 60-year-old Florida boy whose 1981 abduction and murder triggered the creation of the National Sex Offender Registry. Joe Matthews was the guy who finally got the evidence to nail the killer. But before Adam Walsh, Joe Matthews got a phone call from a friend, a police officer in Beaver Township, Ohio, the town where the Hamiltons died in September of 1977. The chief said, Joe, we have this serial killer in Florida. He's been our guy for 30 years. Nobody can crack him. Can you go talk to him? As a favor, Joe Matthews said yes. The chief gave him a list. 41 possible victims, names, dates, locations, across multiple states. Matthews went to the Florida prison. He sat down with Edward Surratt. And he did what Joe Matthews did. He talked. He didn't push, he didn't accuse, he didn't threaten, he just talked. About Aliquippa, about the cold weather up there, about Surratt's parents, about growing up in middle class, hours of conversation. Joe Matthews looking for Surratt's humanity, looking for a way in. Surratt warmed up, started telling stories. Surrat told Matthews that night in Vietnam, the foxhole, his friend's arm, the shrap metal. He told Matthews about the PTSD, about not feeling right, about not being able to distinguish right from wrong after the war. He said, quote, I felt nothing, I didn't care, and I never lost a second of sleep because life and death meant nothing to me, end quote. He also told Matthews something darker. He said when he killed people, he didn't think of it as killing. He thought of it as, quote, a mission, end quote. Like he was back in Vietnam. Joe Matthews was building a rapport, slowly getting Surrat to open up. Then he started asking about the names on the list. Surratt confessed to six murders. He admitted to shooting David Hamilton, the apprentice electrician in Beaver Township, Ohio, on September 19, 1977. He admitted to abducting his wife Linda. She would never be found. He admitted to shooting John Feeney, the 17-year-old kid in Finlay Township, October 22nd, 1977. Said John was sitting in the driver's seat of his van and he shot him through the window. He admitted to taking Renee Greger, the 15-year-old who was supposed to turn 16 a few days later. Surrat told Matthews that he put Renee Greger still live into the trunk of his car, and then he went to work a double shift at his trucking job. He came back hours later and the car was cold. Outside temperature was 39 degrees. Renee died in the trunk. Whether she died from the cold or carbon monoxide or from suffocation, he didn't know and he didn't say. He told Matthews that he worked at a slag dump in Aliquippa area, the kind of place where still mill's waste got piled up into mountains, and he knew the trucks would be coming the next morning to the dump with more slag. So he hid Renee Gregor's body right in the path of the next morning deliveries, and he covered her with enough slag to make her invisible. So when the trucks came in the next day, they piled fresh slag on top of her. Tons of it. Buried under industrial waste with nobody knowing. And then Joe Matthews asked something off the cuff. He said, Did Renee have any unusual characteristics? A scar, a birthmark, a tattoo, jewelry? Surratt said back, quote, what, you think I took a trophy? End quote. Matthew said, Did you? Surratt said, quote, no, that's how you get caught, end quote. But he did remember one thing about Renee. He said she was wearing a watch, shiny, new. Matthews relayed this to investigators, and investigators went to Renee Gregor's mother and asked her about the watch. Renee's mother said, the watch is in her gift box in her bedroom. I always kept it there. She walked them upstairs to the bedroom. She opened the gift box, empty. For 30 years, Renee's mother thought her daughter's watch was in that box and it had never been there. Edward Surratt had taken it the night he took her daughter. Matthews kept going down the list. Surratt confessed to two more Ohio killings. John and Mary Davis, a couple in their 60s, killed November 1977. Surratt would not confess to anything involving children. Joe Matthews crossed off three names from the list, including a five-year-old child. Surratt said no, he didn't kill kids. Matthews left Florida with six confessions. He went home, but here's the catch. Joe Matthews wasn't a Pennsylvania detective. He wasn't an Ohio detective. He was a retired Miami beach guy doing a favor. He had no jurisdiction. He had no DA. He had no prosecutor. Surratt said he wanted to transfer to a South Carolina prison where the conditions were easier. He thought he could negotiate. Florida considered the offer. The bodies of Linda Hamilton and Renee Greger would mean the world to those families after 30 years, but Florida had questions. How would they verify what Surratt was saying? What if he led them on a wild goose chase? What if he attacked someone during the transport? What if he escaped? What if his memory was fuzzy on details? The deal fell apart. Surratt stayed in Florida. The bodies stayed where they were. The Ohio DAs in Beaver Township closed their cases on the Hamiltons and the Davises because they had a confession. Officially, cleared, but there was no trial. The Pennsylvania families with the open cases got nothing. Surratt went silent again for 14 more years. Guys, this is crazy how many people this guy killed. Like it is super insane. I don't know if you were with me this whole time, but this guy had killed so many people. This is getting crazy. And in 2018, a Pennsylvania state police trooper named Max DeLuca picked up the phone. DeLuca was working a different case, not a 1970s case, something more recent. A homicide investigation that had a couple of dead ends. Somewhere in the chain of suspects, somewhere in the Trail of Leeds, the name Edward Sarat came up. DeLuca pulled the file. He read everything: the 1978 Townsend Confession, the 2007 Joe Matthews Confession, the open case files on the Adams family, the Mills murders, the Krueger murder, the Weyman murders, the Hyde murders, the Frank Ziegler murders, the Feeney and Greg case. He read them all. He saw what nobody else had been willing to see. Surratt was old, Surrat was sick, Surratt had nothing left to lose. And Surratt had a pattern. Every 15 to 20 years, he would open his mouth and give the cops something. He'd confess to a few. Then he'd shut down again, and the cycle would repeat. And DeLuca decided to break that cycle. He started writing letters to Edward Surratt at the Florida State Prison and then later at the Correctional Institute in Florida. DeLuca didn't push, he didn't threaten, he didn't promise anything. He just wrote. Like, here's a here's actually what he wrote in one letter. He said, Hey Ed, how are you doing in there? How's your health? Tell me about your time in Alaquippa. Tell me about the Marines. And Surratt wrote back a correspondence developed between an old serial killer in a Florida prison cell and a young Pennsylvania state trooper. Over three years, the letters went back and forth. The conversations got deeper, and Surrat started telling DeLuca things. Meanwhile, Beaver County District Attorney David Loiser knew the case. He knew Surratt. Loiser had asked a state cold case unit a few years ago before to get a DNA sample from Surratt to compare to the evidence from a black female victim. Surratt had denied involvement. The DNA came back and he was telling the truth on that one. But Loiser wanted to close Surratt's known cases, the ones where his guilt was absolute. So when DeLuca came to Loiser, what he had been building, Loiser offered the only thing he had to offer, a written promise not to prosecute Surratt for any of the murders, immunity in exchange for the truth. Loiser later said, quote, there was an opportunity, so we jumped at it, end quote. And by March of 2020, DeLuca felt it was time. He flew down to Florida to the correctional facility. He sat across from Edward Surrat, who is now 78 years old, frail, aging, with nothing left. DeLuca opened up his folder and pulled out a list. William and Nancy Adams, Guy and Lara Mills, Joel Krueger, John Shelkoons. He read them off one by one, slowly. He looked at Surratt and he asked the question, Did you do it? And Edward Surrat looked at trooper Max DeLuca and he said, Yes. He confessed to all six. He gave details that had never been released to the public. Things only the killer could know. The layout of the rooms, the position of the bodies, what he took, what he left, the route he drove away. He admitted to abducting Nancy Adams from the mobile home, putting her in his car, driving her to Brady's Run Park, the same park where her bones surfaced eight years later. DeLuca asked about the Allegheny County cases, the Wyman's, the Hydes, the Frank Ziegler murders. Surratt didn't confess to those, but he said something. He told DeLuca, quote, he told DeLuca, quote, he felt bad about Mr. Wyman having been a Vietnam vet, end quote. He felt bad about killing a paraplegic war hero with a sledgehammer and then raping and killing his wife in the driveway while their two little boys slept inside. He felt bad? Like that's this guy is an absolute scumbag. DeLuca tried pushing for more, but Surratt wouldn't go any further. So DeLuca asked the most important question, the one that mattered to the families across all four states. How many were there? Edward Surratt looked at him and said, quote, I'm not going to give you a number, end quote. But then he said something he discussed, quote, five to seven other Pennsylvania killings, end quote, with other investigators over the years. Five to seven more? DeLuca asked where. Surratt wouldn't say. DeLuca thanked him, closed his folder, and walked out of the Florida prison. Drove to the airport, flew back to Pennsylvania, and officially closed four separate Pennsylvania State Police homicide cases. The Adams murders, the Mills murders, the Kruger murder, the Shell Coons murder, solved by confession 42 to 43 years after they happened. On June 2nd, 2021, because this is still going on, guys, like this has been going on a long time. The Pennsylvania police would hold a press conference. Lieutenant Colonel Scott Price stands at the podium. He's the deputy commissioner of the operations for the entire Pennsylvania State Police, the number two cop in the state, actually, and he announces that after a multi-year investigation, with the cooperation of an inmate at the Florida State Prison, the Pennsylvania State Police are officially closing four cold case murders from 1977 and 1978. And he names the victims. William Adams, 31, Falston, killed November 19, 1977. Nancy Adams, 29, wife of William, abducted and killed November 19, 1977. Guy Mills, 64, Breezewood, killed December 31, 1977. Laura Mills, 65, wife of Guy, killed December 31, 1977. Joel Kruger, 36, found dead near McConnellsburg, January 1, 1978. John Shalcoons, 56, Baden, killed January 7, 1978. The killer, Edward Arthur Surratt, 79 years old, currently serving four life sentences in Florida. Lieutenant Colonel Price, quote, PSP investigators never stop seeking justice for the victims of these terrible crimes in their families. We hope that the confessions of the announcement today will help bring some semblance of closure to the victims' loved ones. End quote. The DAs of Beaver County, Bedford County, Fulton County, they all confirmed. They will not be prosecuting Edward Surratt. The Shalcoons family gets a phone call. John's son speaks to a local television station and he says, quote, this wasn't some big weight off me, but it's still good to hear he finally fessed up to it. End quote. That's the entire reckoning. After 43 years, a son of a murder victim saying, It's good to hear he finally fessed up to it. So you might be asking, where is the courtroom moment in this episode? And there isn't one, and that's the point. There has never been a Pennsylvania trial for Edward Surratt for any of the murders he committed to in the state of Pennsylvania. He was convicted in Florida for the home invasion, two life sentences plus 200 years. He was convicted in South Carolina for the Luther Langford and two more life sentences. But for William Adams, Nancy Adams, Guy Mills, Lara Mills, Joe Kruger, John Shell Koons, the Hydes, the Wymans, the Frank Zeigler, John Feeney, Renee Greger, the Hamiltons, the Davises, possibly more. There has been no trial, no verdict, and no sentencing. The Beaver County DA in 1980 looked at the Shell Koons confessions and said, it's not worth it. And the Ohio DAs in 2007 looked at the Hamiltons, Davis, Feeney, and Gregor confessions and said, not worth it. The Pennsylvania DAs in 2021 looked at the six fresh confessions, a half century of pain, and said, not worth it. Crimers, the math is the same every time. He's already in prison. Bringing him here would cost a fortune. We can't add to his sentence, and why bother? The math of murder in this country sometimes works out to why bother? So where does it stand? Edward Surratt is currently 84 years old. He's still incarcerated in a Florida prison. As of the last update, he is in a correctional institution in Lowell, Florida. He will die in prison. That part is a guarantee. He has confessed to 12 separate murders across Pennsylvania, Ohio, and South Carolina. He has been convicted of one murder, the Langford murder in South Carolina, and that's it. Eleven of his confessed murders have never resulted in a conviction. Pennsylvania State Police still believe he's responsible for at least 19 more unsolved murders from 1977 and 1978. Investigators and criminologists put the suspect total much higher, possibly into the dozens. This guy, I don't even understand, I've never even heard of him before, but he is a prolific serial killer. Three women, their bodies, just so you are aware, have never been recovered. Nancy Adams' bones were found in Brady's Bruns Park eight years after she was taken, and her kids got to bury her, but those other women, they'll never find them. But Linda Hamilton, the 28-year-old beautician working as a truck stop waitress, taken from her Beaver Township home on September 19, 1977, she's never been found. Surratt told Joe Matthews, quote, she'll never be found, end quote. And Renee Gregor, 15-year-old, the high school junior, the yearbook staffer, the girl who was just days from her 16th birthday. According to Edward Surratt, she is buried under tons of slag at a former dump site somewhere in Aliquippa area where 50 years of additional industrial waste had been piled on top of her. She is, for all intents and purposes, gone. Allegheny County District Attorney Steven Zappala is still considering whether to offer Surratt immunity for Frank Zeigler, Wyman, and the Hyde murders to get the final confessions. Allegheny County police believe Surratt is the sole suspect in those cases, but without an immunity deal, he won't talk. And he's 84, so time's kind of running out. The 1996 flood wiped out potential evidence in the Allegheny County, possible DNA, possible fingerprints, possible connections that could have linked the cases without needing a confession, but it's all gone. Stored in a basement that took on water. And there are still cases out there nobody has connected him to. The Pittsburgh press in 1977 estimated 27 unsolved Western PA and Eastern Ohio murders that fit his pattern. Surratt has confessed to 12 of them. There are 15 cases the investigators have never closed, and they probably belong to him. Karen Moore, the woman who was married to Frank Ziegler, the Vietnam vet mil caller, the man who kept telling her that she was his soulmate, she's alive. She's 66 years old. She had to raise her three kids without him, and she remarried, but she's never gotten over Frank. She told the Pittsburgh Post Gazette in 2021, quote, what Edward Surratt took off of me is, we were supposed to grow old and watch our grandkids grow, end quote. And then she said something I haven't been able to get out of my mind. She said, quote, I won't get my closure until he dies. I don't think I'll have my justice until he takes his last breath, end quote. And that's where she is. 47 years after Frank's death, still waiting for an 84-year-old serial killer in a Florida prison cell to stop breathing. That's her closure. The funeral of a man who killed her husband. So here's my take on all this, alright? Here we are, and this is what I could tell you what I think. Edward Arthur Surratt is one of the worst serial killers in Pennsylvania's history, and almost nobody knows his name. I have never heard of this guy until I started researching this, and I was raised in Northeast Pennsylvania. We should all know this. So why don't we? Why isn't there a Netflix documentary on this guy? Why isn't there a 2020 special on it? Why isn't there a major podcast that's covered him from top to bottom? And I'll tell you why I don't think they covered him. Because his story has no ending. Most serial killers we know about, they have a story arc. They get caught, convicted, sentenced, death row, executed. Their case gets closed with a bow on top. The families get their day in court, the networks make their show. The case becomes part of American mythology. Bundy, Gacy, BTK, Edward Surratt's story has no bow. He confessed in 1978, they didn't prosecute. He confessed in 2007, they didn't prosecute. He confessed in 2021, they didn't prosecute. Every time he opens his mouth, the system shrugs. Every time, the families of the victims have to relive their trauma without a courtroom, without a verdict, without a sentence to read in their local paper. The Adams kids, Wendy Joe, and Billy Jr., they got a phone call in 2021 from the Pennsylvania State Police telling them that after 44 years, the man who killed your dad and abducted your mom has confessed. So what did they get? A phone call. Karen Moore and Frank Zeigler, widow, hasn't gotten that phone call because Allegheny County hasn't signed an immunity deal yet. Now here's what gets me about this case. Specifically, when Edward Surratt sat across from Captain Townsend in the Florida holding cell in 1978, and the very first words out of his mouth were, which one do you want to know about? That tells you something. He had so many, he literally couldn't remember them all. He needed the cops to pick one before he could organize his thoughts. And here's the part that should make every cold case investigator in the country sit up. Edward Surratt was a Marine, a Vietnam combat veteran, a man who told Joe Matthews that when he killed people, he thought of it as a mission, a mission like in Vietnam. Joe Matthews, knowing exactly what he meant, suspected Surratt stalked his victims, did reconnaissance, picked his targets, planned escape routes, like a soldier doing recon in the jungle. Surratt sought ranch-style houses with glass doors leading into the kitchens or living rooms. He picked late at night, but not too late. Husband watching TV in his shorts and underwear, wife in the kitchen or in the bathroom, walk in, shotgun the husband, rape the wife, kill her, take her if he wanted, walk out. The Mills, the Adams, the Hydes, the Wymans, the Hamilton, the Davis's, the Shalcoons, the same pattern, different houses, different states, same mission. He was hunting these families. The way he was trained to hunt the Viet Cong. That's what they made with that war. When they put a kid from Aliquippa with a chaplain background and a music kid saxophone into a foxhole in the Teta fence, and his friend's arm gets blown off and he came home different. That's what got made. That doesn't excuse what he did. There are plenty of Vietnam vets that came home and never hurt anybody. Police Chief Robert Payne in Inglewood, Police Chief Robert Payne in Edgewood, Pennsylvania said it. He served the same time as Surratt. He came back and he didn't kill anyone. So Vietnam doesn't make you a serial killer, but it tells you something about the kind of evil we're talking about. Methodical, trained, tactical, patient. He hunted his victims, he picked them, and he wasn't blowing up. He was operating. And that's what scares me about the unsolved cases. Edward Surratt confessed to 12 murders. The Pittsburgh Press estimated 27 fit the pattern. That's 15 missing. Meanwhile, the trooper Max DeLuca, he'd discuss five to seven more Pennsylvania killings with other investigators. Five to seven guys. Not the 12 he confessed. Not cases anyone has charged him with. Five to seven other Pennsylvania killings. Where are they? Are they in Allegheny County, where the 1996 flood wiped out all the evidence? Are they in Bedford County? Are they in Fayette County? Are they in Westmoreland County? Are they buried in the truck routes between Alequippa and Charlotte? Where Surratt drove for a living? Somewhere, tonight, in a Pennsylvania State Police Cold Case unit, has the answer. They just haven't asked the question. As of the last update I could find, the Frank Ziegler murder, the Wyman murder, the Hyde murder are still officially open. Frank Zygler was a Marine, just like Surrat. Same rank, sergeant. They both went to Vietnam. They both came home in 1968 to western Pennsylvania. One of them came home and married Karen Moore and worked as a mill caller. And the other one came home and killed him for his wallet. The Vietnam vet brotherhood should mean something. Karen Moore is still alive, still waiting for an 84-year-old man to die. Or maybe to open his mouth one more time. And that's it, guys, on this one. If you're still here, thank you. It's just crazy how many people this guy killed. And if I stood here and read them all, it would just take forever. Head on over, guys, to Crimary.show. Uh find us on Instagram and leave a comment on one of our posts. I want to know what you think. Are there more victims out there that nobody has connected to Surrat yet? If you live in western Pennsylvania or eastern Ohio, if your family had a relative go missing or get murdered between 1977 and 1978, I want to hear from you. Find me on Instagram, send me a message. Because if anybody is still alive who knows somebody from that time whose case has never been solved, there might be a man in a Florida prison cell who has the answers. Guys, once again, Crimary.show merch is on the site, and I'm still trying to figure out Patreon. Just getting these episodes recorded is hard enough and doing all the research for them, but I'm going to keep trying to produce these as much as I can. Who knows, guys? I'm Tim Novani. This is Crimary, and I'll catch you in the next episode.