On the evening of July 20th, 2019, emergency services received a call from a quiet suburban street in St Clair, New South Wales. The woman on the line was twenty-five-year-old Jessica Camilleri — frantic, disoriented. When police arrived, they found a scene so violent… so surreal… that even the most seasoned officers were left shaken. The victim was Jessica’s mother, Rita Camilleri, a fifty-seven-year-old woman described by neighbours as kind, devoted, and endlessly patient. Her body was found inside the home. Her head — outside, on the front footpath. And standing nearby, covered in blood, still holding strands of her mother’s hair...was Jessica.
On a Friday in March, a quiet city became a crime scene. In less than twenty minutes, fifty-one people who had gone to pray were dead. Lives, families, routines — all cleaved in half. A livestreamed attack, a manifesto sent in advance, weapons modified and named like trophies. The killer had called himself a “regular white man.” This is the tragic account of the Christchurch Mosque Shootings. Christchurch, the largest city on New Zealand’s South Island, had long been known for its wide avenues, English-style gardens, and rivers threading through urban suburbs. In 2011, the city had been reshaped by a devastating earthquake, leaving scars that were still visible in patches of rebuilt infrastructure and partially vacant lots. The Al Noor Mosque sat in the suburb of Riccarton, a residential area interspersed with schools, small businesses, and community spaces. Its low-slung brick façade and modest minaret presented nothing threatening; the mosque blended into the surrounding streets, quiet and unassuming, bordered by leafy roads and modest homes. The Linwood Islamic Centre, located several kilometres east of Riccarton, occupied a similar suburban setting. The building was unpretentious, a simple hall with windows opening onto a modest lawn and parking area. Both sites were integrated into ordinary city streets, surrounded by daily life: parked cars, pedestrians, children walking home from school, and neighbours going about their routines. It was precisely this ordinariness that made them vulnerable — a reminder that terror often intrudes on the mundane and unsuspecting.
Whorouly is the kind of place that rarely makes the news. A quiet dot on the map in north-east Victoria, tucked between the vineyards of Milawa and the farming town of Myrtleford. The Ovens River winds its way past open paddocks, dairy herds graze under a big sky, and the streets are lined with weatherboard homes where everyone knows their neighbours. It’s a small town with one school, a general store, and a recreation reserve that serves as the beating heart of the community. Life moves slowly here, marked by the cycles of harvest and the familiar faces at the local footy club. But in January of 2016, that calm was shattered. In a place where unusual cars stand out and strangers are noticed, the disappearance of Karen Chetcuti rippled through Whorouly like a shockwave. What happened here would expose the darkest of human impulses, set against the backdrop of one of Victoria’s most unassuming country towns.
Darwin. Northern Territory. The 4th of June 2019. 5.39pm The city moved in its usual rhythm, even under the oppressive weight of the late afternoon humidity. The tropical heat clung to streets and buildings like a wet blanket. The scent of saltwater drifted from the harbour, mingling with the faint aroma of frangipani and tropical blooms. Palm trees lined the streets, swaying gently in a warm breeze that carried the distant hum of cicadas. Tourists shuffled back toward motels after long days exploring the waterfront, the markets, and the lush greenery of the botanical gardens. Some paused at street-side cafes for a final iced coffee, wiping sweat from their foreheads, unaware that the ordinary rhythm of the city was about to fracture. At the Palms Motel on Finniss Street, tucked among low-rise units and tropical foliage, that calm shattered in an instant. A deafening shotgun blast tore through the air, rattling windows and walls, a violent punctuation against the ordinary hum of city life. Guests screamed and scattered, pressed themselves against bathroom tiles, and crawled beneath beds, clutching whatever they could grab. Each blast ricocheted down narrow corridors, bouncing off walls, doors, and mirrors, creating a chaotic, terrifying symphony that seemed to stretch the moments into eternity. The gunman moved deliberately through the motel, a pump-action shotgun clutched firmly in his hands. His heavy boots thumped against the worn carpet, deliberate, steady. His voice cut through the panic, sharp and demanding: “Where’s Alex? Where the fuck is Alex?” Guests froze, faces pale with shock. Every hallway became a trap. Every doorway a potential threat. The air vibrated with fear, broken only by the echoing blasts and the frantic cries of those caught in the corridor. The ordinary calm of Darwin—a city usually defined by its laid-back, tropical ease—had been replaced with sudden, unpredictable terror.
On Sydney’s Lower North Shore lies the suburb of Mosman. Tree-lined streets wind between Federation homes and waterfront apartments. From the headlands, you can see across the harbour to the city skyline. It is a suburb known for quiet affluence. Professionals, retirees, and young families share the same streets. Neighbours greet each other at the shops, children walk safely to school, and the elderly often live independently in well-kept homes and apartments. By the late 1980s, Mosman was a picture of suburban stability. To many, it was one of the safest places in Sydney. Crime was something that happened elsewhere. But beneath this polished surface, fear was about to take hold. Elderly women, living alone in what they believed were secure communities, would soon find themselves the targets of a ruthless predator. The streets of Mosman would never look the same again.
On June 21st, 2005, the body of Kristy Scholes was discovered in the bedroom of her grandparents’ home in West Dubbo, New South Wales. She was twenty-four years old, living with her partner and young daughter. Police quickly determined that she had been strangled, and the circumstances of her death were immediately alarming. The home showed no signs of forced entry, and nothing appeared to have been stolen, suggesting that the perpetrator had a familiarity with the house or its occupants. Kristy’s partner had been absent at the time, leaving questions about who could have accessed the property and how the crime had been committed without interruption. The shock of the discovery rippled through the Dubbo community. Neighbours and friends struggled to reconcile the violence of the act with the normalcy of suburban life. For investigators, the case presented immediate challenges. They needed to consider not just potential intruders or opportunistic offenders, but also those who had pre-existing connections to the family. Given the nature of the crime, attention quickly turned to individuals known to the household—family members, close friends, or acquaintances—anyone with the means and opportunity to commit such an act. The investigation required careful examination of relationships, movements, and behavioural patterns. Earlier that year, on January 4th, 2005, another member of the extended family, Lateesha Nolan, had disappeared under circumstances that were, at the time, equally confounding. Lateesha was also twenty-four and a mother of four children. She had been last seen leaving her home in Dubbo to run errands, and when she did not return, immediate concern arose among her family. Within hours, relatives began contacting authorities, describing her sudden absence and the unusual nature of her disappearance. As the investigation unfolded, the community watched closely. Rumours circulated, sightings were reported and discounted, and the tension in Dubbo grew. Two women, both young, both connected to the same family network, were either missing or dead. The reasons for their suffering were unknown, and the question of who could have committed such acts—and why—loomed over every lead, every interview, and every search. It was the beginning of an investigation that would stretch for years, involve multiple law enforcement agencies, and eventually expose the extraordinary lengths one man would go to evade capture.
The 13th of June 2016, a quiet disappearance would soon ripple into a national tragedy. At first, there was nothing to suggest anything sinister. It was just another ordinary Monday. The sky over Perth’s southern suburbs was its usual soft grey. School children made their way to class. Cars trickled through the streets of suburban Wellard. And a young man named Aaron Pajich-Sweetman went about his day. But Aaron would not return home. What followed would pull back the curtain on something deeply disturbing. A world hidden just beneath the surface—lurking behind suburban fences and ordinary smiles. A fantasy brought to life with chilling precision. A betrayal by those meant to be friends. And a house hiding secrets no one could have imagined.
A crime so brutal, so deeply out of place with the town’s quiet character, would unfold—forever altering the way locals looked at their community, and how outsiders viewed the Darling Downs. The town that had once prided itself on its safety and simplicity found itself at the centre of one of Queensland’s most chilling and confounding murder investigations. In the space of a few days, Pittsworth would go from pastoral calm to the front page of newspapers across the state.
In the still hours before dawn, on a quiet suburban street in Cairns, a young woman was found slumped on a bus stop bench—unconscious, bleeding, and barely alive. Her injuries were brutal. Her attacker had vanished without a trace. No witnesses. No weapon. Just one chilling clue: a brief, anonymous phone call made from a nearby pay phone... and then silence.
April 28th, 1996. A day of horror, of unspeakable violence, and of tragedy that reshaped a nation. But the story of Port Arthur’s darkest day did not begin with the first shot. It began decades earlier, in the mind of a man whose life would spiral into infamy.
It began with a routine call to a 24-hour electrician. An apartment had lost power. The tenant said there was an issue with the oven. When the electrician arrived, he noticed a strong, unpleasant smell coming from the unit — a smell that was impossible to ignore. It was the first clear sign that something inside was very wrong. What started as a simple maintenance call quickly became the catalyst for a police investigation — and the discovery of a crime that would shock the community.
April 11, 2022. The Sydney Royal Easter Show was alive with colour and energy, pulsing with the sound of laughter, music, and the buzz of excited conversation. The evening air was thick with the smell of hot chips, donuts, and sizzling meats drifting from food stalls. Fluorescent lights from carnival rides flickered against the dusk sky, casting streaks of pink, blue, and yellow over the crowds that moved steadily through the showgrounds like a tide. Families meandered through the showbag pavilions, arms heavy with glossy plastic bags filled with treats and toys, while wide-eyed children tugged at their parents' sleeves, begging to visit one more attraction before bedtime. No one could have imagined that within that crowd—beneath the flickering lights and beside the laughter—something unimaginably dark was about to unfold.
7:00 AM, November 18, 1994. The first light of dawn stretched across the horizon, bathing Collaroy Plateau, a northern suburb of Sydney, in a soft golden glow. A crisp breeze carried the scent of the ocean up from the cliffs, rustling the leaves of towering gum trees that lined the quiet suburban streets. The houses, their windows still dark, stood in neat rows, their driveways empty save for the occasional parked car. Birds stirred in the treetops, their morning calls breaking the hush that settled over the neighborhood. A lone jogger padded along the footpath, their breaths rhythmic, their mind lost in the familiar routine of their early run. The sound of their sneakers tapping against the pavement was the only disturbance in an otherwise undisturbed street. The jogger spotted a taxi, sitting idle by the roadside. At first, it seemed unremarkable—just another vehicle left overnight. But as the jogger approached, something felt wrong. The car’s engine was silent, yet it hadn't been abandoned. A man, who appeared to be the driver, sat slumped in the front seat, unmoving.
In December of 2012, Michelle Reynolds and her friend Wayne Jones would find themselves in the sunny city of Coffs Harbour. Michelle and Wayne like many others who visit the city, were on a holiday to enjoy some downtime. But in a motel on the south side of town, their beachside getaway would soon turn in to a gruesome tragedy.
On the 13th June, 2014, just after 5am. Scott Collingwood on a morning walk, not far from his home, made a disturbing discovery. At the base of an external set of stairs to a second floor apartment, lying on the ground was 25 year old, Michael Phillip Martin. Michael was bound at the hands and feet and blindfolded with gaffer tape, struggling to move and calling out for help. Scott quickly approached him and removed the tape. No longer bound there came an emotional plea from Michael... 'my Dad’s up there! they got my dad! I think he’s dead'
On the 8th of September, 2013, at approximately 2.30am, Jean Redmond stirred from her sleep to the sound of shuffling coming from the room of her flat mate. As she listened closely, she could hear faint scratching, similar to the scratching of chalk on a board. This scratching was soon followed by a thump, then a mumbling which became what sounded like snoring except it was different from the usual sound of snoring that she was used to hearing. It seemed louder. Jean had previous woken up when her flatmate Morgan Huxley had entered his room around an hour earlier. She had assumed he had gone to sleep and she tried to do the same. But now this strange series of noises had stirred her. After around 5 minutes the irregular snoring had not stopped. Jean got out of bed and made her way to the nearby room to investigate. The scene waiting for her only metres from where she had been sleeping would be horrific.
Dearne Louise Nonnenmacher was born on the 4th January 1972. In 1990 she was eighteen and living with her family and working as trainee chef at the Robin Hood Hotel. She had shared with family her dreams for the future and looked forward to the day she could work as a chef on a cruise liner. On Christmas day of 1990, like many families, the Nonnenmacher family gathered together to celebrate with a Christmas lunch. Little did her family know that this would be the last time they would see their beloved Dearne. By boxing day, Dearne's family had not heard from her and made repeated attempts to reach out. Feeling uneasy about her sudden disappearance and lack of contact they soon reported her missing at the Orange Police Station. ..
The Nowra Bodies in the Barrels On the 29th of January 2006, Peter Dalton and his wife were cycling along a track through the Tomerong State Forest, not far from the township of Nowra. During their ride they had noticed burning smell that grew stronger and stronger. As they drew nearer to a clearing in the forest they could see the source of the smoke. The flames had died down but two barrels were smoldering and black smoke rose from within them. Sponsor: shipstation .com Promo code: FTC
Maz
Loving all the new content. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Kim Beattie
Amazing extended trailer!
Kerryn Miles
omg so excited have left you in my podcast library in the hope u would return
Michael Brodie
I was walking up Queen Street at the exact time. Half way between Little Collins and Bourke Streets, a policeman grabbed me, pushed me behind a parked car and advised me of the shooting and to not move.
Noofook Nazarak
Giant insects