In the 1980s, Frank Farian was riding high as a successful German music producer, but he was bored. German pop was formulaic, dull, and very white. Frank had bigger dreams, American dreams. He wanted to create the music that would rival larger than life artists like Michael Jackson or Run DMC. So he assembled a hip hop duo, two once in a lifetime talents who were charismatic, full of sex appeal and phenomenal dancers. The only problem? One very important element was missing. But Frank knew just how to fix that. Wndy's new podcast, Blame It On The Fame, dives into one of pop music's greatest controversies. Millie Vanille set the world on fire. But when their adoring fans learned about the infamous lip-syncing, their downfall was swift and brutal. With exclusive interviews from frontman FAB Morvan and his producers, Farian and Ingrid Sigith, this podcast takes a fresh look at the exploitation of two young Black artists. Follow Blame It On The Fame, Millie Vanille on the WNDRI app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Blame It On The Fame early and ad-free right now by joining WNDYRI Plus.

A quick warning before we start. This show contains descriptions of sexual violence and murder. Listener discretion is advised.

Tell me about your first big break as a journalist.

Okay, well, it's 1975. I'm a college dropout. My dad has recently kicked me out of the house, and I'm an intern at this small newspaper in Connecticut, which means I get the pizza and the coffee I work weekends, and do anything I can to get my byline in the newspaper. Now, I love being in the newsroom. It's full of life. I mean, typewriters, police scanners, people shouting. And in the back of the newsroom, there's a closet with these newswire machines. And all day and all night, they pound out breaking news stories. And when there's an important story, bells ring. One or two for a minorly important story to maybe a dozen bells for, say, the invasion of a country or for big local news. So one day I'm in the newsroom and the bells start ringing like crazy. I rush over and watch as the machine prints out this story. A man has just confessed to the cops that he committed a series of rapes and murders, crimes they didn't even know existed. And he's a local man, the serial killer next door. Then it prints the guy's name. Wait a second. I know this guy.

And it makes me realize I came close to being a victim myself.

I was looking for a hitchhiker, potential rape victim.

This is my friend, the serial killer. I'm Steve Fishman. Since starting out at the Norwich Bulletin, that small Connecticut paper I've had a long journalism career, won awards, covered a lot of big dark stories. The serial killer Son of Sam opened up to me. So did the guy behind the biggest Ponzi scheme in history, Bernie Madoff. But this story about the serial killer I knew, the serial killer I became friendly with, was different. It was personal. And in a sense, it's where journalism began for me. This story has haunted me for years, for decades, really. Which is why for a long time, I resisted it. I didn't want to revisit this territory. I didn't want to think about the horror of the serial killer's crimes. But there was another reason I resisted. I'm afraid my younger self got this story wrong, and I haven't wanted to revisit that either until now. Episode One, Local Man. A US Senator destroyed by blackmail. He was not bound by the truth or by facts. The country's most outrageous political demagogue, ascending toward the peak of American power.

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All right, so take me back to the very beginning where this story starts.

Well, probably in my parents' basement in suburban New Jersey. I just dropped out of college. All those discussions about enlightenment poetry and whatever. It stopped feeling exciting to me. It certainly stopped feeling important. Anyway, dropping out was a thing in the '70s. Find yourself, remember? So at first, where I found myself was in my parents house, diligently trying to be a writer. My parents had this basement. It had small windows, so it was always gloomy. And they had this wet bar that they never used. It had a blue Formica countertop. And that's where I set up my office. Every day I write these short stories out by longhand. Ardent accounts, I don't know, teenage romance in the style of who was then my favorite writer, Hemingway. Listen, my parents were not enthusiastic about my current lifestyle choice. My father in particular, had no idea what the hell I was doing. He wore a suit every day. He worked in the city. He commuted to a skyscraper. And every now and then, he would thump down these stairs and he'd say to me, So when are you going to be done? When are you going to be published these short stories?

It was as if he was asking me, What the hell are you doing? I think he thought I was pulling a stunt. To him, I was avoiding being an adult. And then one day, he cracks.

What do you mean he cracks?

Well, it must have been a weekend. I remember he sat me down at our breakfast table. He's back by the sun, so he's got this fuzzy halo effect on him. And he tells me, I have to leave the house. I have to leave home. And then he starts to cry.

Wait, so he is telling you to leave the house, but that he's crying?

Yeah, it's confusing. It was confusing then. It confuses me now. I have this reaction like, he's crying, so I got to comfort him? It's all right, dad. I understand. I'll go pack a few things. I think the idea for him of tossing me out of my childhood home must have seemed sadistic, which in a way it was. But he had this idea that at 19 years I should be on my way to taking on responsibilities. So my dad hustles me into the car and drives me, I think it was like 15 minutes away, and says basically, All right, here you are, and dumps me on the sidewalk. And in my memory, he just leaves me on the sidewalk to hitchhike. And the truth I was okay with that. Frankly, I hated being in that basement. I knew I had to get out of that dungeon. I had needed to leave college, and now I needed to leave the suburbs. I mean, if I was going to write anything, I needed to find something to write about. So there I am on the side of that road. I stick out my thumb. You have to remember that back then, it's like 1975, it's It's just not such a big deal to hitchhike.

It's a way to get around, especially if you don't have a car, which I didn't. I start getting rides, and soon I land that internship at that daily newspaper in Norwich, Connecticut. I figured, Hey, Hemingway had been a journalist, too. At that newspaper is where the course of my directionless life changes. Forever. I mean, I will never forget the first time I walked into this newspaper. It's like eight o'clock at night. The town is totally dead. But I walk into the papers office, which is on the second floor, and the place is lit up like a ballpark. So remember, this is back before everyone is on the internet. People still trust journalists. Newspapers are booming. I mean, I could hear it. All the clatter of typing and yelling. It was really vibrant. It was really alive. And then I sit down with the managing editor in his little office. By the way, it seemed really old to me at the time, though he was 28. The managing editor seems confused. I'm not really sure he knew that the paper had an internship program. So he ignores me. He sits across the desk, goes about his business, and gets on the phone with one of his cop buddies, because I think this guy really wanted to be a cop more than a journalist.

As I'm sitting there, he's got this cop on the line, and he's holding forth, and they're having a grand old time. Then I overhear the cop who's on the other end of the line, reveal the name of a dead person so that the paper can include it before deadline. Now this editor, my future boss, stands up and yells across the newsroom to the reporter who's covering homicides. Do you have the name of that dead guy yet? And then he turns to me and his face breaks into a wicked smile. As I would later find out, the boss loved drama. He loved competition. He loved journalism, and he loved journalism prizes. I took it all in. This did not feel like college. It felt like there were stakes, there were deadlines, there were dead bodies. And so I'm thinking, this is going to be fun. So now I fall into the routine of the newspaper, and also I keep itch-hiking. Sometimes the rides are great. You would get these mothers who would have their children in the back seat or young hippies in minibusses who would offer me drugs and also dreams of changing my life, like buying a van and painting it purple and driving across America.

And then there were other kinds of rides. One time, a couple of guys took me to the end of a dirt road. Right before they steal my backpack, one of them says to me, Don't you know you shouldn't hitchhike? Maybe I'm willfully oblivious, but I figure I've been lucky enough. I'm going to keep hitchhiking. One weekend, it must have been around the fall of 1975. I'd just turned 20, and I need to get back to Norwich from Boston, where I'd been visiting a friend. So here I am again on the side of the road, thumb out and waiting for a ride. Do you remember the moment when the car picked you up? So I was on the side of the road, and there's a LeSabre. The car, in my memory, It's a green. A Sedan, a nice enough car, pulled up, and I was just really happy. But there's this guy, nice enough. He had a a bit of a draw. He seemed to be my size, red, orange hair. He probably was 10, 15 years older than me at the time. I tell him I'm going to Norwich, and I'm lucky. He says he's from Norwich, and he knows a shortcut.

Nice guy. Tells me his nickname is red like his hair. So he seemed a little bit like a stranger, but not like strange, but a stranger. And we fell in a conversation about, so where are you from? What do you do? And he says, Well, I'm an electrician, but I'm trying to get on my feet. I said, Yeah, it's not easy always. He said, Well, I just came out of prison. So that's both like a conversation stopper. And now I'm thinking, Well, this could be a story, feature. A guy just coming out of prison, reintegration into society. Now I'm trying to draw him out about it. And would you be open to doing a story about it? And he said, Sure. Yeah, sure. I mean, he's a guy who's articulate, he's friendly, he's open. 15, 20 minutes go by and we're getting to my destination. I jocke down his contact information. The car stops. I reach for the door handle and it doesn't open. The handle just doesn't work. I turn quickly to see what the hell is going on, and I feel panic taking over.

The following interview is being videotaped. I'm the Dade County Public Safety Department, Miami, Dade County, Florida. And sir, would you identify yourself? My name is Raleigh. I'm proud to be 30.

In 1976, a man in Florida tells a cop he has a confession to make.

Arriving in Miami, I proceeded to do certain things that I considered to be necessary in the crime that I planned to commit. I was looking for a hitchhiker, potential victim.

But instead of becoming his victim, I became his confidante, one of the people closest to him, as he recounted and was tried for his horrific crimes. From Orbit Media and Sony Music Entertainment, listen to My Friend, the Serial Killer. Subscribe on Apple podcast to binge all episodes now or listen weekly wherever you get your podcast. We're going to come back to that ride. But first, I need to introduce you to a guy in Miami.

My name is Ed O'Donnell. I'm an attorney.

Now it's June 1976. Ed O'Donnell is a prosecutor in Miami, Florida, where something strange is about to happen in a courtroom.

The case started as a rape case. He got basically caught in the air.

So the alleged rapist is awaiting his bond hearing to see if he'll get bail. Before the hearing starts, the suspect motions to an officer in the courtroom, and the officer in uniform walks over Clearly annoyed. Is this important, he says. The suspect replies, Is murder important?

He started wanting to talk to the uniform guy about murders. And uniform are just that. They don't take statements. They contacted homicide.

The suspect is brought from the bond hearing to a couple of homicide detectives.

And they came to me and told me that this guy wants to confess to these murders. And I said, Well, let them confess. You never know. People confess to things they didn't do. But let's find out.

The detectives give the guy a notepad. On it, he writes four names of people, two boys, a girl, and a young woman. The detectives don't recognize any of these names. The suspect tells the cops to go check missing Missing Persons. One of these detectives, this guy named Charlie Zatrapalik, heads over to the missing person's desk. He starts with the two boys the suspect mentioned.

I said, I'm looking for two kids. They're I said, You got anything like that?

One of the detectives had to be sitting there.

He goes, Yeah. He says, I got a case like that. He said, We thought they ran away.

I said, I don't think they did. Okay, consider this scene for a moment. Here's a suspect caught in the act of rape who now wants to voluntarily confess to being a serial killer. The murders he wants to claim are not active cases. They're not even cold cases. No one knew these were murders to solve until he starts talking.

Following interview is being videotaped at the Dade County Public Safety Department, located at 1320 Northwest 14th Street, Miami, Dade County, Florida, Room 518 on June 17, 1976, starting at approximately 08:00 PM.

They brought the suspect to a TV studio they have at the police station. It's typically used to record training sessions, but they've decided to use it to film these confessions. They will be one of the first ever videotaped murder confessions in US history. And much of this tape has never been heard before. The suspect goes willingly without his lawyer.

And, sir, would you identify yourself? My name is Robert F. Carr III.

On the video, the two homicide detectives face the suspect, Robert F. Carr III. They're just a couple of feet apart. Remember, it's the '70s. One cop looks maud with a mustache in banks, Beatles style. The suspect is chain smoking. There's a clock on the wall showing the time and date of the recording. Behind the suspect is a blackboard, as if it's a classroom. The two detectives call the suspect by his first name, Bob, like their pals.

Should you talk me anything which you say, can and will be introduced into evidence in I'm sorry to get you. You understand that, Bob? Do you want an attorney to represent you at this time or any time during questioning, your entouled is such constant. You understand that? That's fine. So he was obviously advised of his rights and told that no promises could be made to him. Anything he told us, and we made it real explicit. We're going to find out whether all this is true. When he unloaded, I'll tell you that. They'd ask the questions, he'd answer them, and then he'd go, You missed this, or he'd give you more. I've never seen anything like it. And 40 years later, whatever it is, I've never seen anything like it since. And I've done a a lot of homicide work.

On the tape, one detective asks Bob a question.

Bob, calling your attention to March 1976. You have an occasion to be in the Dade County area? Yes, that's how it does. That's not good. As near as I can figure, I arrived in the Dade County area in Miami on March 25th from Connecticut. And upon arriving in Miami, I proceeded to do certain things that I considered to be necessary in the crime that I planned to commit. What When you came back, did you plan on committing when you came back? I was already kidnapped and raped. I knew that I was going to take a trip. I knew that I was going to Mississippi on this trip. I proceeded to make a list of what items I thought I would need in order to make this trip. Every time I thought of something, I got it on a piece of paper.

He's making a shopping list.

I knew that the knife that was... That the size of it would break in somebody. It had to be chrome, so that it would show it in damn white. I needed rope, gasoline, can goods, paper towels. And first on this list of items was, Disconnect the door handle on the right-hand side of the car.

The door handle disconnected on purpose I was looking for a hitchhiker, potential rape.

Many victims had grabbed the door handle. That seems to be a natural reaction for everybody. That's the first thought. Grab the door handle and try to get out. The minute the door handle doesn't work, they freeze. They don't know what to do next.

I didn't know what to do when it was me in that seat. So there I am in Connecticut, hitchhiking, about to get out of that green sedan And I'm grabbing the door handle, but nothing happens. It doesn't catch. And I freeze.

What are you thinking in this moment?

I'm not sure I'm thinking at all. But if I'm thinking, I'm thinking, what the hell is going on and what is going to happen? Except that this guy seems nice. We had a nice conversation. He's from the same town where I live. And so for a moment, I'm on the edge of panic. But before it escalates, this nice guy interrupts. He's almost apologetic. He says, Oh, sorry, there's something wrong with the door handle. I got to get it fixed. It's warm out and the car window is open. I reach my arm out and open it from outside. I shout goodbye and then hustle along. I pushed that really weird moment out of my mind, and I start thinking, I need a feature story for the week. This guy told me he was in a rehab program for Xcons. He'd gotten a job at a gas station, and I think that might be a story. A local man trying to reintegrate into society after prison. When I get back to the newsroom, I track down the supervisor of this rehab program, and the supervisor gets on the phone and he says, Do you know what this guy did to get into jail?

I realized, I don't. I had I didn't ask him. I'm still an inexperienced journalist. You wouldn't want to know, he says. In other words, no story. Kind of amazing to me now that I didn't push to find out what crime could be so awful that this supervisor would veto an interview. So that was it. And then you had that gray metal desk, and I pulled out a bottom drawer, and I slipped his name and number into a folder and put his name on the tab of the folder. Robert car and forgot about it. Months go by and I start getting assignments, everything from high school football games to a highly competitive local Easter egg hunt. I know how that sounds, but I will tell you that I felt like I was in the thick of it and I was having a blast. Still, really looking to make a splash. Back then, as I think about it now, I was pretty full of myself. I'm pretty eager for the rest of the world to see how important I was or going to be. And that noisy little newsroom felt like the place where I was going to prove myself.

Looking back, I realized I was very ambitious and may be blinded by my ambition. I think that explains what happens next. The news flash comes across the wire, the one with the bells ringing like crazy. The one that reports on the local man arrested for a series of rapes and murders. I'm standing in front of the wire machine in my tie. The newspaper had a strict dress code. I can read the story as the teletype is spitting it out, and I start to get more details. It says the man captured his victim's hitchhiking, and then it prints his name, and I shiver. Robert F. Carr III. I go back to my filing cabinet and I pull out the contact info I'd stuffed in there months before. It matches. And suddenly I realized I'd taken a ride with a serial killer, a serial killer who got his victims hitchhiking, who had trapped them with a disconnected door handle. I had sat in that seat, had a friendly conversation with him, and then I had tried to open that door handle, just like his victims must have done. And for a moment, my mind is back there in that car with what I now know to be a serial killer and I can feel the panic rise in my stomach.

But then my thoughts turn elsewhere because I'm thinking, this could be the break that I've been looking for. This It could be a big story. And if I landed, it could win awards. And you know what? My dad would understand awards. And so me, ambitious 20-year-old me who, duck kidnapping or worse, is thrilled. What a break for my career. I'd met a local man who was a confessed serial killer, and I I have his phone number. I dial the number. A woman answers. I tell her, I'm calling from the Norwich Bulletin. And I say, Mrs. Carr? She says, Yes. And I say, I have to come over and see you. That's next time on My Friend, the Serial Killer. Unlock all episodes of Smokescreen, my friend, The Serial Killer, ad-free right now by subscribing to the Binge podcast channel. Not only will you immediately unlock all episodes of this show, but you'll get binge access to an entire network of other great true crime and investigative podcasts, all of them ad-free. Plus, on the first of every month, subscribers get a binge drop of a brand new series. That's all episodes all at once. Unlock your listening now by clicking subscribe at the top of the Smokescreen show page in Apple Podcasts or visit getthebing.

Com to get access wherever you get your podcasts. My friend, The Serial Killer, is a production of Orbit Media in Association with RIME. Creator and host, that's me, Steve Fishman. Our Senior Producer is Dan Bobkoff. Our Associate Producer and Production Coordinator is Austin Smith. Editorial Consulting by Annie Avilés. Fact Check, Katherine Newhand. Our mixer and Sound Designer is Scott Summerville. From Sony Music Entertainment, our executive producers are Jonathan Hirsch and Katherine St. Louis. Additional reporting by Daniel Bates, Ben Führerherd, Andy T. Bow, and Francisco Alvarado. Special thanks to Cassie Epps at Otis Library in Norwich, Connecticut. Sit back, relax, and sink into the comfort of a new sofa at Easy Living Furniture Sofa Sale. Luxurious designs, unbeatable prices, and endless comfort awake you. Sofa sale now on at Easy Living Furniture. Find your local store online at easylivingfurniture. Ie. Mirro, mirror on the wall, easy living has it all. Easy Living Furniture. Luxury furnishings, affordable luxury.