31. Cathy Thomas & Becky Dowski | The Colonial Parkway Murders

By day, Virginia’s Colonial Parkway is a scenic, historic drive. By night, in 1986, it was a suffocating, pitch-black trap.

​In Episode 31 of Homocidal Tendency, Matt dives into the heartbreaking and brutal 1986 murders of Cathleen "Cathy" Thomas and Rebecca "Becky" Dowski.

As a same-sex couple navigating the rigid, hostile climate of the 1980s, Cathy and Becky sought refuge in the deep isolation of a Parkway lover's lane. Instead of a safe haven, they found a monster waiting in the dark.

​Their murders were the first strike in a terrifying reign of terror that became known as the Colonial Parkway Murders. 

For 40 years, the case remained one of the most infamous unsolved cold cases in Virginia history, plagued by dead ends and the hysteria of the Satanic Panic. But serial killers can't hide from modern science.

​Join us as we break down the forensic anomalies, the FBI profiler theories, and the massive 2026 genetic genealogy DNA breakthrough that finally identified the killer as Alan Wade Wilmer Sr. a local commercial fisherman who hid in plain sight.

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:11

There is a specific kind of darkness you only find out in the woods. It's October, nineteen eighty-six. If you're driving down the Colonial Parkway in Virginia at midnight, the world shrinks to just the glow of your dashboard and ten feet of pavement illuminated by your headlights. Beyond that, pitch black. The towering pines swallow the light. Out here, there are no street lamps. No cell phones to call for help. Just the trees, the winds coming off the York River, and the feeling that you are completely, utterly alone. In any other story, pulling a car down an isolated embankment in the middle of the night is the beginning of a classic horror movie. It's the setup for a slasher. But Kathy Thomas and Becky Dowski weren't looking for a thrill. They were looking for a refuge. In 1986, the real world was hostile towards two women in love. Society demanded that they hide, so they sought out the only place they could just be themselves, and listen to the radio, and hold each other without having to look over to their shoulders. They thought they were alone, but a monster was hunting in those woods. Someone patient, armed with a fillet knife, a nautical rope, and they were moving quietly in the shadows. Monster who would rip two vibrant lives away and fade back into the pines and evade justice for almost 40 years. Links to those accounts, the socials, are going to be in the show notes. And like I said, if you want to help the show grow, the best way you can do that is to leave a rating review on your favorite podcast platform. Whether you're listening on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or anywhere else, those reviews are incredibly important to me. Also, one last thing, make sure you hit that follow or subscribe button. That way you'll never miss an episode. We launch new content every Sunday, and following the show ensures you get that drop right into your feet. Alright, let's do it. Let's turn the dial back to the fall of 1986. To really get the horror of what happened out on the scenic bypass, you first have to understand who the darkness took from us. When you look at the victim photos in a coal case file, it's easy to reduce those people to just new victims. Black and white headshots frozen in time. But Kathleen Thomas, Kathy to her friends and family, refused to be reduced to anything, even in life. Kathy was the only daughter in a tight-knit Irish Catholic family of four kids from Massachusetts. Her older brother, Bill, who would go on to spend the next 40 years fighting for her justice, described her as stereotypically Irish, with bright red hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. She had a sweet, innocent face, but she backed it up with lightning fads to razor sharp wit. From the very beginning, Kathy was a force of nature. In high school, she was the kind of person who didn't just have one best friend, she was friends with everybody. She was deeply socially conscious and fiercely intelligent. She had a natural ear for language, excelling in French, but she also was a powerhouse athlete. She played forward on the basketball team and ran the 400 meter dash in track. But here's a story that tells you who exactly Kathy was. One day her high school track team needed someone to compete in shot put. Kathy didn't know how to do it, so she lugged a heavy ironball home in her gym bag, right up on the Olympic techniques, practiced in her yard until she mastered the form. And then she went back to school and actually won the event. That relentless determination defined her next major step. In 1977, Kathy entered the United States Naval Academy. The military academies had only opened their doors to women that year before. Kathy was part of the second integrated class of female cadets. She was literally walking a path almost no woman had walked before. But the Navy was family business. Her father and brother were both Academy graduates. And with Kathy's graduation in 1981, the Thomases became the first father, son, and daughter trio to graduate from the U.S. Naval Academy. It was not an easy path. It was the late 70s and early 80s. Sexism and harassment ran rampant at the academies, but Kathy refused to let it break her. She put her head down and excelled. It was the height of the Cold War, so Cassie decided to learn Russian. She became so fluent that she won an award for most improved Russian student at her graduation. She earned her butter bars as an ensign and was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia aboard the USS LY Sphere. She was a logistics officer, coordinating the movement of heavy cranes and torpedoes. Her evaluations were outstanding. Multiple sailors who served under her called her the best officer they ever had. She was even one of the first women in the Navy to become surface warfare officer qualified. She was brilliant and she was breaking glass ceilings. But the United States military in the 1980s had zero tolerance for who Kathy truly was. You see, Kathy was gay. During her service, she fell in love with a female shipmate. In that era, the military's exclusionary policies meant that being outed wouldn't just result in a discharge, it would mean the complete humiliation and destruction of a career that she had fought so hard to build. Faced with a system that forced her to hide and realizing the limited upward mobility for women in the Navy at the time, Kathy made a painful choice. After fulfilling her five-year commitment, she left the service. So she pivoted. By 1986, at 27 years old, she had transitioned into civilian life, working as a highly successful stockbroker in Virginia Beach. She was finally building a life where she could breathe, a life where she could safely be herself, a life that included a beautiful, creative, 21-year-old college student named Becky Dowski. Kathy Thomas spent her entire life proving she could survive and conquer any environment that she stepped into. If Kathy Thomas was a force of nature, Rebecca Dalsk was the quiet, steady warmth that balanced her out. Becky was just 21 years old, and she was a senior at the College of William and Mary, one of the most prestigious and historic universities in Virginia, located just a stone's throw from the Colonial Parkway. Originally from Homerglen, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, Becky was used to the noise and chaos of a big, loving family. She was one of seven children. Her family described her as the peacekeeper, the sweet, dependable daughter who always remembered birthdays, always checked in, and had a deep, quiet kindness that drew people to her. Unlike Kathy's intense military background, Becky's world was rooted in academia and creativity. She was a business management major, heavily focused on her studies, and she was pulling excellent grades. But she wasn't just textbooks and lectures. She was deeply creative, known for her love of music and gentle artistic spirit. She had a bright, infectious smile and a way of making the people around her feel completely seen and safe. And when Kathy and Becky met, the chemistry was immediate. To truly understand the tragedy of October 9th, you have to know what it meant to be in a queer relationship in 1986. Kathy and Becky met during the summer of that year. The Tidewater region of Virginia, encompassing Virginia Beach, Norfolk, and Williamsburg, had a quiet, underground queer community. You just didn't meet on apps, and you certainly didn't meet holding hands in public. You met through widespread networks, through trusted mutual friends, and at private gatherings where the curtains were closed. When Kathy and Becky found each other, the contrast between them was magnetic. Kathy, like we said, had spent years building a hardened shell to survive the Naval Academy and the military. She was pragmatic, protective, and driven. Becky, six years younger, brought a softness to Kathy's life. She was empathetic, deeply creative, and hadn't yet been worn down by the world like Kathy had. For Kathy, Becky was a breath of fresh air. For Becky, Kathy was a steady, immovable anchor. They fell for each other fast, but the reality of 1986 was suffocating. This was the height of the Reagan era. The AIDS epidemic was fueling massive national panic and rampant homophobia. For Kathy, working as a stockbroker after leaving the military that was actively purging gay sailors for being out wasn't just a social faux pas. It was a career descens. For Becky, a college senior relying on her family and the university system, exposure carried devastating risks. They couldn't just go to a movie and lean on each other's shoulders. They couldn't share a lingering look across a table at a crowded restaurant. The public world was a hostile environment, so they had to adapt. Like so many queer couples in the 80s, their safest space wasn't a building. It was Kathy's 1980 white Honda Civic. That little Honda wasn't just a car, it was the sanctuary. It was a mobile living room where the doors locked from the inside and the windows rolled up against the judgment of the world. When they drove out to the Colonial Parkway that Thursday night, parking at the Cheatham Annex Overlook, they weren't doing anything reckless. They were doing what they had to do. They parked facing the York River so they could talk about Becky's upcoming graduation. They could listen to music. They could actually be a couple. For a few hours, shielded by the darkness of the parkway, they didn't have to look over their shoulders. They felt safe. But that was the fatal illusion of the parkway. The darkness that hid them from the judgment of society also hid them from the eyes of the police. It isolated them. As they sat in the warmth of the Honda, looking out over the black water, they had no idea their sanctuary was about to become a trap. They had no idea that a man who knew how to hunt, how to tie nautical knots, and how to use a razor-sharp fillet knife was watching them from the tree line. Society forced them into the shadows. And the monster was already waiting there. For three days, the world outside the parkway carried on, completely oblivious to what happened in the dark. Friday, October 10th, they came and went. Kathy didn't show up for her work at the brokerage firm in Virginia Beach. That was the first alarm bell. Kathy Thomas did not just skip work without calling. And meanwhile, up in Williamsburg, Becky's roommates realized that her bed hadn't been slept in. Panic set in, and phone calls were made. Friends were questioned, but the answers were all the same. No one had seen them since Thursday night. By Sunday, October 12th, Columbus Day weekend, the weather was crisp and the parkway was busy with tourists taking scenic autumn drives. That morning, a pedestrian was walking along the gravel pull-off known as the Cheetham Annex Overlook. It's a secluded spot, heavily surrounded by dense woods, with a steep embankment that drops off towards the York River. As the pedestrian looked down the ravine through the thick brush, they saw something unnatural breaking up the landscape. It was the white roof of a 1980s Honda Civic. It had been driven off the edge, plunging down the embankment until it became wedged in the dense trees and undergrowth, completely invisible from the paved road above. So the pedestrian flagged down a passing National Park ranger. As the ranger slid down the steep embankment to check the vehicle, the first thing that hit him wasn't a visual. It was the smell. The heavy, acrid stench of diesel fuel hung in the crisp bottom air. When he reached the car, he found the driver's side window rolled halfway down. He shined his flashlight into the shadowy interior, and the nightmare of the Colonial Parkway officially began. Because the brutality of the scene is exactly why it belongs in the darkest chapters of true crime history. Both women were dead. Becky Dowski was found in the backseat. Kathy Thomas was found stuffed into the rear hatchback cargo area. They were both fully clothed. The violence inflicted on them was staggering. They had both been strangled, their necks showing deep, dark rope burns. But the official cause of death for both women was a massive laceration to the neck. Their throats had been slashed so deeply, with the blades so sharp, it was nearly a decapitation. Kathy's hands were covered in severe defensive wounds. Her fingers were sliced to the bone. She had fought her attacker with everything she had, fighting for her life and fighting for Becky. In the struggle, clumps of Kathy's hair had been ripped from her scalp and also tangled in her hair. Investigators found a piece of rope tied in a very specific, complex nautical knot. When investigators secured the scene, the forensic anomalies started stacking up, painting a terrifying picture of the person who did this. First, the motive. Their purses were still sitting in the car. Cash and credit cards were completely untouched. Both women were wearing their jewelry, so robbery was definitely rolled out. Furthermore, autopsies would confirm that there were zero signs of sexual assault. The killer hadn't come for money, and they hadn't come for an asexual assault. He came purely to hunt and kill. Second was the staging. The driver's seat of the Honda was pushed as far back as it would go. Kathy was only five foot four. She couldn't have reached the pedals from that position. The killer had driven the car to the edge and pushed it over the embankment. And the keys were missing from the ignition, and they've never been found. Finally, that smell. The killer had doused the interior of the car and the victims in diesel fuel, attempting to burn the evidence. But he made a crucial mistake. Diesel fuel isn't like gasoline. It doesn't ignore with just a match. It requires a compression wick. So the fuel had simply smoldered, melting the plastic on the dashboard before burning itself out. Perfectly preserving the crime scene. Investigators were left staring at Ahonda, raking of diesel fuel with a nautical knot left behind. The clues were screaming at them. A waterman, a fisherman, someone local to the rivers. But despite leaving a literal roadmap to his identity, the phantom of the parkway vanished back into the woods, leaving two devastated families in a terrified community in his wake. Because the parkway is technically a national historical park, it falls under federal jurisdiction. That meant the local police had to hand the reins over to the FBI. And the Bureau brought in their behavioral science unit to look at the Honda Civic, the bodies, and the dense woods surrounding the overlook. And what they found was a puzzle of contradictions. First there was the blood, or rather the lack of it. Given the extreme trauma of their injuries, specifically the deep lacerations to the throats, the interior of the Honda should have been soaked. It wasn't. This told the FBI that the women were likely overpowered and murdered outside the vehicle, or even at an entirely different location, before the killer brought them back, stuffed their bodies into the car, and pushed it over the edge. The FBI had to figure out how a killer managed to overpower two athletic, intelligent women, one of whom was a highly trained formal naval officer. This led to three primary theories that would dominate the investigation for decades. Theory number one was it was a hate crime. The sheer brutality of the murders, the overkills, suggested a deep personal rage. In 1986, violence against the queer community was a terrifying reality. Did someone from the underground bar scene follow them? Or more disturbingly, did someone from Kathy's Navy days track her down? I mean, the military was aggressively purging gay service members at the time. The FBI interviewed Navy personnel and investigated local anti-gay groups looking for a stalker. But the deeper the duck, the more they realized the killer likely didn't even know Kathy or Becky at all. Theory number two was the authority figure. Kathy Thomas was cautious. She was protective of Becky. She wouldn't have just rolled her window down for a stranger in the middle of the pitch black woods. But the driver's side window was found rolled halfway down. How do you get a cautious naval officer to roll her window down at midnight? Maybe you show her a badge. Investigators strongly theorized that a killer used a spotlight, flashlight, or dashboard light, or a uniform to impersonate a park ranger or police officers. It was the only logical explanation that they could come up with, allowing the killer to get close enough to pull a weapon and take control of the situation before Kathy had a chance to fight back. But it was theory number three that actually matched the physical evidence. The FBI called it the Waterman theory. Look at what the killer left behind. He tried to burn the car with diesel fuel. You don't put diesel fuel in a 1980s Honda Civic, but you do use it to fuel commercial fishing boats and tractors. And the rope tangled in Kathy's hair was tied in a complex, specialized nautical knot, the kind of knot you only know by muscle memory if you work on the water. Finally, the weapon. The clean, incredibly deep cuts to their throat weren't made by a standard hunting knife. The medical examiner believed they were made by a razor-sharp, thin-bladed fillet knife. The profile was practically screaming at the FBI. You're looking for a local fisherman, someone who knows the York River, someone comfortable with a fillet knife and nautical rope. The FBI knew exactly what kind of man they were looking for. They interviewed hundreds of people. They polygraphed local watermen who lived and worked along the rivers bordering the parkway. But in 1986, forensic DNA testing as we know it did not exist. They could collect the physical evidence, they could lift the biological samples left at the scene, but they couldn't run it through a database. They were completely reliant on fine. A witness or securing a confession, and the killer wasn't talking, but the investigation hit a brick wall, and Kathy and Becky's families were left with agonizing silence, and the monster of the parkway vanished back into the dark, waiting for his next victims. For almost exactly a year, the brutal murders of Kathy and Becky were treated as an isolated nightmare, a horrific anomaly. The community mourned, the FBI chased down dead leads, and the Tidewater region tried to move on. People convinced themselves that whatever monster had crawled out of the York River that night had crawled back into the dark, never to return. But serial killers don't just stop. And in the fall of 1987, the monster of the parkway proved that Kathy and Becky weren't just an anomaly, they were just the beginning. What happened over the next three years would paralyze the state of Virginia. It became known as the Colonial Parkway murders, a reign of terror that transformed every isolated road and Lover's Lane into a hunting ground. So here's how the panic unfolded. On September 19th, 1987, eleven months after Kathy and Becky were killed, a 21-year-old man named David Knobling and a 14-year-old girl named Robin Edwards went missing. They had left an arcade earlier that night and drove out to their Ragged Island Wildlife Refuge, a secluded marshland parking area just across the James River. Two days later, police found David's Blackford Ranger truck. It was parked, the radio was still playing, the windshield wipers were on, and the driver's side window was rolled partially down exactly like Kathy's Honda. But David and Robin weren't inside the truck. A couple days later, a jogger found their bodies washed up along the shoreline of the James River. Unlike Kathy and Becky, they had not been killed with a knife. They had been shot execution style and the back of the head. The MO had changed, but the victimology was identical. A couple in a vehicle, parked in a secluded lover's lane area near the water, ambushed in the dark. By the spring of 1988, the public was terrified. The newspapers were screaming about a serial killer. Teenagers were warned to stay out of the woods. But on April 9th, 20-year-old Richard Keith Call and 18-year-old Cassandra Haley went on their first date. They went to a college buddy. They left together and drove to the York River State Park, a heavily wooded, isolated area directly connected to the waters of the parkway. The next morning, Keith's red 1982 Toyota Selica was found abandoned at the park. The scene inside the car was chilling. Almost all their clothes were folded neatly in the backseat. Keith's wallet was on the dashboard, but Keith and Cassander were gone. To this day, their bodies have never been found. They vanished into the ether, leaving behind only the haunting image of an empty, fog-covered car. The final known strike breaks the established geographic pattern, proving the killer was growing bolder. In September 1989, 21-year-old Daniel Lauer and 18-year-old Anna Marie Phelps were driving a gold Chevy Nova towards Virginia Beach. They didn't park at a secluded wildlife refuge or a dark overlook. Their car was found abandoned at a busy I-64 rest stop in New Kent County, just west of Williamsburg, and the keys were still in the initial. For multiple weeks, volunteers scoured the woods. Finally, on October 19th, hunters found the heavily decomposed bodies on a logging road about a mile from the rest stop. The killer had left them covered with Daniel's own electric blanket. Because of the elements, the exact cause of death was difficult to determine, but investigators found what looked like knife marks on the bones. Four couples. Eight young people. Between 1986 and 1989, this killer paralyzed the Virginia coastline. The psychological toll in the community was massive. Drive-in theaters emptied out. High schoolers stopped parking on dirt roads. But the most terrifying shift was how people began to view the police. Because the killer was able to take control of two people at the same time without a chaotic struggle, that authority figure theory became accepted truth. The public firmly believed a road cop or park ranger was pulling these kids over. For years, women in the Tidewater area were told that if a police cruiser flashed its lights at them on a dark road, they should refuse to pull over until they reached a well-lit gas station. The predator wasn't just in the shadows. The community believed he was hiding in plain sight behind a batch. When a serial killer stops killing, the panic doesn't just vanish, it calcifies. It turns into a low-grade constant anxiety that never really leaves the community. As the 80s bled into the 90s and the 90s turned into the 2000s, the leads dried up. The massive FBI task forces were scaled back. The Colonial Parkway murders went cold. The physical evidence, the nautical knot from Kathy's hair, the items retrieved from the Honda Civic, the biological samples collected from other crime scenes. They were packed into carbo boxes and locked inside the temperature control freezers at the FBI's headquarters in Quantico. For the general public, the case became a ghost story, a local legend. But for the families of the victims, the the silence was agonizing. The FBI may have scaled back, but the families never stopped fighting. And at the absolute center of that fight was Kathy Thomas' older brother, Bill Thomas. Bill Thomas comes from the same fiercely determined Navy family as Kathy, and he refused to let his sister's murder be relegated to the archives. As the decades dragged on, Bill transformed his grief into a relentless, calculated campaign for justice. When the traditional news cycles moved on, he didn't give up. He adapted. He co-founded the official Colonial Parkway Murders Facebook page. He partnered with researcher Kristen Dilley to launch the Mind Over Murder podcast, creating a permanent loud platform to keep the victims' names in the public ear. He became the de facto spokesperson for all the Parkway families, organizing press conferences, speaking at troop crime conventions, and keeping the pressure squarely on the FBI and the Virginia State Police. Bill's advocacy wasn't just keeping the memory alive, it was highly tactical. As the 2010s rolled around, forensic science experienced a massive revolution. Genetic genealogy. This was the exact technology that pulled the Golden State killer out of the shadows in 2018. Bill Thomas knew that the biological evidence locked in the Quantico files was the key. He and the other families began a relentless public and private push, demanding that the FBI submit the decades-old DNA profiles to advanced genealogical testing. They navigated bureaucratic red tape, pushed through agonizing delays, and refused to take no as an answer. Because they knew the monster was hiding in the DNA, and they knew they just needed the science to catch up. And finally, like we said, it did. For nearly 40 years, the killer thought he had gotten away with it. He thought the silence of the woods would protect him forever. But science has a way of resurrecting the dead to point a finger at the guilty. In early 2024, the FBI had called a press conference. The genetic genealogy had yielded a hit. They had matched DNA from the 1987 murders of David Nobling and Robin Edwards to a suspect. And then the other shoe dropped. In January 2026, Bill Thomas and his family were called into a private meeting with the FBI. Forty years after Kathy and Becky were brutally murdered in the dark, the authorities looked at them across the table, and they finally had a name for the family. When the FBI finally gave the families a name, it wasn't a shadowy masturbine. It wasn't a rogue park ranger or an off-duty cop. It was a local commercial fisherman named Alan Wade William Sr. To the people who bought oysters and clams from him, he was just Al or Pokey. He was a waterman from Lancaster County who lived a transient, rugged life. When he wasn't running a small local side hustle called Better Tree Service, he was out on the water. In fact, during the late 1980s, Wilmer practically lived on a custom-built wooden fishing boat named the Denny Wade. He docked it at various marinas along the Tidewater coastaline area, giving him direct, unmonitored access to the exact waterways that ran parallel to the Colonial Parkway. And on land, he drove a distinctive beat-up blue 1966 Dodge Fargo pickup truck with a personalized license plate Emra. So beat them raw. And Wilmer wasn't a ghost to law enforcement. He was hiding in plain sight. After Kathy and Becky were found in 1986, the FBI specifically profiled a killer that was a waterman due to the nautical knot left in Kathy's hair and the diesel bolt fuel used to try and burn the Honda. And the FBI actually interviewed Wilmer back in the 1980s. They sat him down in the chair, they hooked him up to a polygraph, and he he passed. He walked right out the door and he he kept hunting. But as the FBI dug into his background decades later, a chilling pattern emerged. Wilmer had a reputation. There were multiple reports from the 1980s of a man driving a blue pickup truck who was actively harassing young women and couples parked on the dark at secluded scratches of the parkway. It's reported he would sometimes flash lights to simulate law enforcement, exploiting that exact authority figure theory the FBI had suspected all along. He knew how to use the dark to his advantage, and he knew how to force people to roll their windows down. But how did they finally catch him? The irony is that Wilmore beat the system during his life. He died in 2017 at the age of 63 from natural causes. Because he lived completely off the grid and had no felony convictions on his record, his DNA was never entered into CODIS, the National Criminal Database. But when he died, his body was in such a state of decomposition that the state had to take his DNA just to legally identify his remains. That sample set in a file for years. Meanwhile, genetic genealogy was rapidly advancing. In 2023, investigators finally secured the funding and technology to run the biological evidence from the 80s crime scenes against modern databases. And then, like we said, the matches started coming back in. First, in January 2024, they announced that his DNA conclusively matched the evidence found at the murders of David and Robin. And then, as well as a separate murder in 1989 of Teresa Lynn's Spa Hall. And then, like we said, in January 26, the final agonizing piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Advanced testing conclusively linked Wilmer's DNA to the brutal 1986 murders of Kathy and Becky. Thanks to the relentless fight of families like the Thomases, Wilmer's name has been stripped of its anonymity. He will forever be remembered not as a waterman, but as the coward who hunted in the dark. They become a cautionary tale, a ghost story told to keep teenagers out of the woods. But Kathy Thomas and Becky Dowski were not ghost stories. There were two brilliant, vibrant women who were navigating a world that demanded they mask themselves, they make themselves small. Kathy had already survived the intense, often hostile environment of the 1970s, eighties Naval Academy. She was a trailblazer, and Becky was a talented, deeply kind college senior with a beautiful life waiting for her. They shouldn't have had to hide in the dark just to hold hands. They shouldn't have had to drive to an isolated, pitch black river blank just to have a conversation without the weight of society judging them. The only crime was trying to carve out a tiny safe sanctuary in a world that wasn't ready for them. Alan Wade Wilmere Sr. stole their futures. He took Kathy's drive and Becky's warmth, and for a long time, it felt like he stole the truth. But he didn't win. He couldn't erase them. Thanks to the relentless four-decade fight by families who refused to stay quiet, and the undeniable power of modern science, the truth was finally dragged into the light. We know his name. We know exactly who he was. So when you think of the Colonial Parkway, don't think of the monster in the woods. Think of Kathy, think of Becky. Think of the two women who loved each other and who deserved so much better than the darkness they found. And that's gonna do it for this episode of Homicidal Tendency. If you want to see the photos of Kathy and Becky, as well as the visual layouts for this case, head over to Blue Sky on Instagram and the other major socials. The links are in the show notes. If you haven't already, please drop a rating and review on your favorite podcast app. It's the absolute best way to help us keep shining a spylight into the dark. I'm Matt. Keep your doors locked, stay out of the shadows, and I'll see you next time.