John Smith

I was targeted, premeditated, admitted to so terror.

I was targeted, premeditated, admitted to so terror.

I was targeted, premeditated, admitted to so terror.

Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to new episodes of Late Nights with Nexpo early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts.

Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to new episodes of Late Nights with Nexpo early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts.

This interrogation is going nowhere. The suspect is seated across from you, arms folded, head cocked in smug defiance. He thinks you have nothing on him, and in a way, he's right. So now you try something else, the only option you have left. You begin describing specific details about the crime, but none of what you're saying is from the case file.

This interrogation is going nowhere. The suspect is seated across from you, arms folded, head cocked in smug defiance. He thinks you have nothing on him, and in a way, he's right. So now you try something else, the only option you have left. You begin describing specific details about the crime, but none of what you're saying is from the case file.

This isn't the sort of evidence that police are able to obtain. You watch it happen in real time. The bravado drains from the suspect's face. His eyes widen. His breathing quickens. The expression on his face turns quizzical. What he wants to know is how. Because the details of the murder you're describing, no living person could possibly know. Saturday, August 8th, 1987.

This isn't the sort of evidence that police are able to obtain. You watch it happen in real time. The bravado drains from the suspect's face. His eyes widen. His breathing quickens. The expression on his face turns quizzical. What he wants to know is how. Because the details of the murder you're describing, no living person could possibly know. Saturday, August 8th, 1987.

In the small town of Belvedere, New Jersey, the late afternoon sun beats down. It's almost dinnertime, and it's still close to 90 degrees. Kids run through sprinklers in their backyards. The smell of hamburgers on a grill wants through the air. Inside the Belvedere Police Department, an old metal desk fan rattles. It's stuffy. It's one of those long, hot summer days that seems to have no end.

In the small town of Belvedere, New Jersey, the late afternoon sun beats down. It's almost dinnertime, and it's still close to 90 degrees. Kids run through sprinklers in their backyards. The smell of hamburgers on a grill wants through the air. Inside the Belvedere Police Department, an old metal desk fan rattles. It's stuffy. It's one of those long, hot summer days that seems to have no end.

It's then that the phone rings. Belvedere PD doesn't get many calls. The town is simply too small and too safe. And when they do, the calls are never like the one they get today. Dispatch answers. There's a male voice on the other end of the line. He's hysterical. It's hard to understand him at first, so dispatch tells him to take a deep breath. The man does so, and then says it's his girlfriend.

It's then that the phone rings. Belvedere PD doesn't get many calls. The town is simply too small and too safe. And when they do, the calls are never like the one they get today. Dispatch answers. There's a male voice on the other end of the line. He's hysterical. It's hard to understand him at first, so dispatch tells him to take a deep breath. The man does so, and then says it's his girlfriend.

Please come quick. He's found her in her apartment, and she's dead. Minutes later, Officer Kent Swigert arrives at the Blair House apartment complex in Belvedere. Like the rest of the town, it's quiet here, unassuming. Still, though, he prepares for the worst. He draws his service weapon and enters the first floor apartment in question.

Please come quick. He's found her in her apartment, and she's dead. Minutes later, Officer Kent Swigert arrives at the Blair House apartment complex in Belvedere. Like the rest of the town, it's quiet here, unassuming. Still, though, he prepares for the worst. He draws his service weapon and enters the first floor apartment in question.

Inside, the man who called the police, Paul McCarron, is standing alone in the living room. He appears shocked, dazed even. Swigert looks around and sees no one else. Nothing seems to be out of place. But when he moves to the apartment's bedroom, he makes a horrific discovery. Everywhere around him, there's blood. It's splattered on all four walls, as well as the ceiling.

Inside, the man who called the police, Paul McCarron, is standing alone in the living room. He appears shocked, dazed even. Swigert looks around and sees no one else. Nothing seems to be out of place. But when he moves to the apartment's bedroom, he makes a horrific discovery. Everywhere around him, there's blood. It's splattered on all four walls, as well as the ceiling.

It's pooled in dark patches on the floor, and a massive amount of blood blankets the body of a woman. She lies lifeless on the bed. She's face up. Her arms are tied behind her back with an extension cord. Her nightshirt is pulled around her head. With this much blood, Swigert assumes that she's been shot.

It's pooled in dark patches on the floor, and a massive amount of blood blankets the body of a woman. She lies lifeless on the bed. She's face up. Her arms are tied behind her back with an extension cord. Her nightshirt is pulled around her head. With this much blood, Swigert assumes that she's been shot.

But he's about to find out that what happened to this woman is even more barbaric than he can imagine. The woman is 42-year-old Elizabeth Cornish, a nurse and divorced mother of five adult daughters. She recently moved back to Belvedere to be closer to her family and had resided at the Blair House Apartments for about a year.