Molly Conger

In December of 2016, after the first full year, he wrote to her saying it was their anniversary, telling her, I intend to be with you for life.

The letters just kept coming, reminding her that he was watching her outside her home, that he waited for her at the post office almost every day, and sending her postcards containing her own personal information, like her license plate number and information about her family. Just so she knew he had it too.

The letters just kept coming, reminding her that he was watching her outside her home, that he waited for her at the post office almost every day, and sending her postcards containing her own personal information, like her license plate number and information about her family. Just so she knew he had it too.

The letters just kept coming, reminding her that he was watching her outside her home, that he waited for her at the post office almost every day, and sending her postcards containing her own personal information, like her license plate number and information about her family. Just so she knew he had it too.

He continued writing to Ellen and both of her daughters, calling them racial slurs, sluts, whores, threatening to report them for assorted imaginary crimes like tax fraud and drug dealing, and always remembering to write them on their birthdays. Investigators were stumped. They knew the letter writer was the man from the post office parking lot.

He continued writing to Ellen and both of her daughters, calling them racial slurs, sluts, whores, threatening to report them for assorted imaginary crimes like tax fraud and drug dealing, and always remembering to write them on their birthdays. Investigators were stumped. They knew the letter writer was the man from the post office parking lot.

He continued writing to Ellen and both of her daughters, calling them racial slurs, sluts, whores, threatening to report them for assorted imaginary crimes like tax fraud and drug dealing, and always remembering to write them on their birthdays. Investigators were stumped. They knew the letter writer was the man from the post office parking lot.

He said as much in his letters, but Ellen didn't recognize him. She had only a vague description of his vehicle and she didn't get the license plate. Why would she have thought she needed to? Postcards were always wiped clean of prints. They were perfectly generic, United States Postal Service issued materials that he always bought in small quantities and paid cash.

He said as much in his letters, but Ellen didn't recognize him. She had only a vague description of his vehicle and she didn't get the license plate. Why would she have thought she needed to? Postcards were always wiped clean of prints. They were perfectly generic, United States Postal Service issued materials that he always bought in small quantities and paid cash.

He said as much in his letters, but Ellen didn't recognize him. She had only a vague description of his vehicle and she didn't get the license plate. Why would she have thought she needed to? Postcards were always wiped clean of prints. They were perfectly generic, United States Postal Service issued materials that he always bought in small quantities and paid cash.

He may truly have tormented this woman until one of them died if he hadn't done what he's always done. More crime. And here's that beginning of the end. It's not the end, but I told you this story that began outside of a bank in New Jersey in 1962 would start its final chapter outside of a bank in Idaho 56 years later. On October 13th, 2018, Frank got into another argument in a parking lot.

He may truly have tormented this woman until one of them died if he hadn't done what he's always done. More crime. And here's that beginning of the end. It's not the end, but I told you this story that began outside of a bank in New Jersey in 1962 would start its final chapter outside of a bank in Idaho 56 years later. On October 13th, 2018, Frank got into another argument in a parking lot.

He may truly have tormented this woman until one of them died if he hadn't done what he's always done. More crime. And here's that beginning of the end. It's not the end, but I told you this story that began outside of a bank in New Jersey in 1962 would start its final chapter outside of a bank in Idaho 56 years later. On October 13th, 2018, Frank got into another argument in a parking lot.

These victims, too, are only identified by their initials in the court records, so I'm going to call them Liam and Denise. They were in their car outside the Wells Fargo in Garden City, Idaho. Frank honked at them. There was, again, some kind of verbal altercation. Maybe they gave him the finger or shouted. Who knows? You know, this is the kind of thing that happens every day.

These victims, too, are only identified by their initials in the court records, so I'm going to call them Liam and Denise. They were in their car outside the Wells Fargo in Garden City, Idaho. Frank honked at them. There was, again, some kind of verbal altercation. Maybe they gave him the finger or shouted. Who knows? You know, this is the kind of thing that happens every day.

These victims, too, are only identified by their initials in the court records, so I'm going to call them Liam and Denise. They were in their car outside the Wells Fargo in Garden City, Idaho. Frank honked at them. There was, again, some kind of verbal altercation. Maybe they gave him the finger or shouted. Who knows? You know, this is the kind of thing that happens every day.

You know, you don't pull forward fast enough. The guy behind you honks. You tell him to fuck off. Nobody's being their best selves. But life goes on. But not for Frank. Frank can't take it. He stabbed a guy in the guts for splashing him in 1975. So, two weeks after Liam and Denise experience this angry driver at the bank, they start getting postcards.

You know, you don't pull forward fast enough. The guy behind you honks. You tell him to fuck off. Nobody's being their best selves. But life goes on. But not for Frank. Frank can't take it. He stabbed a guy in the guts for splashing him in 1975. So, two weeks after Liam and Denise experience this angry driver at the bank, they start getting postcards.

You know, you don't pull forward fast enough. The guy behind you honks. You tell him to fuck off. Nobody's being their best selves. But life goes on. But not for Frank. Frank can't take it. He stabbed a guy in the guts for splashing him in 1975. So, two weeks after Liam and Denise experience this angry driver at the bank, they start getting postcards.

Like Ellen and her family, this family too starts hearing that their neighbors and nearby schools are getting postcards that pretend to be from the state sex offender registry, alerting people that Liam is a pedophile. He's not. And specifically, the postcards say that he sodomized a nine-year-old boy. That is a very specific and very gross detail to recycle from one victim to the next, right?