I couldn’t speak to any of my family. It was like I’d been found guilty before I could be proved innocent’Losing a child is any mother’s worst nightmare, but how do you grieve when you’re being blamed for his death? When Sarah Rose discovered her 15-month-old son Kamran had been brutally murdered, she was immediately put under arrest. The days she spent in jail were terrifying and harrowing, but it was when she heard the results of the post-mortem that the truth hit her: her boyfriend, Nicholas, the man she’s loved and trusted, had beaten her little boy to death. Heartbroken, isolated and alone, she knew she’d have to fight to prove her innocence and put Nicholas behind bars.Tragic, moving, yet ultimately uplifting, this is story of a mother’s love and her battle for the truth.

    At 14, he was sent to the Luther Burbank School for Boys for possessing firearms and running away. There, Floyd found himself trapped by a system that sought to destroy his dignity rather than restore his character. From this point forward, Floyd would strive to become the most hardened, disciplined, professional bank robber ever. On one of the rare occasions he wasn't incarcerated, Floyd met Nancy, a golden-haired goddess, the love of his life. Given the choice between loving her and being the greatest bank robber in America, he chose Nancy without hesitation. But before he went straight, he just needed to pull off one last job ... Floyd Forsberg spent his time behind bars planning the biggest bank heist in history and longing for the simple love of his soul mate. When he robbed the First National Bank of Nevada in 197 4, he achieved his first goal. But with a million dollars of the bank's money in his hands and the FBI constantly on his tail, he would have to escape The Toughest Prison of All to achieve peace. “For years I’ve known Floyd Forsberg as a reliable source whose every news tip panned out. Now Forsberg has written the best personal indictment of America’s horrific prison system that I’ve read since Ted Conover’s 2000 classic, “Newjack: Guarding Sing Sing.” Forsberg’s plainspoken prose tells a soul-searching tale of survival and transformation that will touch readers from all walks of life. The angry young man determined to be the country’s best bank robber has emerged as the sage author of a life story that reads like a thriller and traces his daring escape from The Toughest Prison of All.” —Richard Read, two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, The Oregonian/Oregonlive “After 35 years in law enforcement, I have worked with many professional cops and encountered many professional thieves. Floyd Forsberg was one of the best career thieves around and created thousands of headaches for my peers. The Toughest Prison Of All is a great read with a twist ending that doesn’t happen very often. The insider view of crime taught me things that I had never considered. I’m already looking forward to his next book.” —Tom Allman, Sheriff-Coroner of Mendocino County (California) and co-author of Out There In The Woods “As a recently retired police sergeant, having served nearly 29 years, I can relate to Frosty’s desire to escape prison. Transporting many prisoners to jail, I was always well aware when the gates allowing our vehicle to enter would slam shut, the steel bars to the doors clanging hard and loud as they closed, locking us in with the prisoners and the sign on one prison wall saying, this is not a country club. I, too, couldn’t wait to leave. Forsberg will take you from the edge of your couch to a small prison cell to a life on the run and keeping you guessing every step of the way.” —Angelo LaManna “When I started reading this book two things became clear: Floyd Forsberg is a very likable guy; and after hearing about his childhood, it was clear he didn’t stand a chance to have a normal or easy life. Throughout the entire book I found myself rooting for Floyd to succeed or just to get out of his own way. The part I had the most trouble with was the behavior of the FBI. I think some of us have a hard enough time walking a straight line without people that are supposed to enforce our laws and set the example for the rest of society behaving in questionable and sometimes utterly illegal ways.

    The murders were similar enough that police considered them the result of one person and believed them to be the work of a serial killer. But as quickly as the murders began, the killings seemed to end. Detectives suspected the Spokane River Killer was either dead, incarcerated or had moved out of the area. Six years later, the bodies of murdered women once again began turning up all around the Spokane area. In 1999, Robert Lee Yates was arrested and police hoped they had finally found their killer. In 2000, he plead guilty to killing 11 women from the Spokane area between 1996 and 1998. During the investigation however, Yates was ruled out as a suspect in the 1990 slayings. DNA recovered from underneath the fingernails of the third victim was eventually identified as being from a man. But no match could be found. Their man was still on the loose. In 2009, DNA from a federal inmate was matched to the DNA recovered from underneath the fingernails of the third victim. The inmates fingerprint was also matched to a print recovered from a bottle of vaginal lubricant found in a dumpster along with the second victim’s discarded belongings. Police finally believed they had their man. But did they? The DNA match belonged to a female inmate.

    It begins with the painstakingly assembled, never before told story of the murder of a Mongols Motorcycle Club member named Manuel Vincent "Hitman" Martin. Martin was shot off his motorcycle on the Glendale Freeway in Los Angeles about 2 a.m. on October 8, 2008. Initial reports alleged that Martin had been murdered by the Hells Angels and that he died as part of an ongoing, "furious feud" between the two groups. The truth behind the murder is much more interesting and disturbing than that. Martin died on the final day of a three-year-long, undercover investigation of the Mongols by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. The ATF called it "Operation Black Rain." Both Black Rain, and the federal prosecution that followed, were so cynically unfair and corrupt that some Mongols still believe that Martin was actually murdered by government agents. Together, the investigation and the prosecution probably cost $150 million. The initial press coverage of the case was manipulated by the ATF. News of the subsequent legal wrangling was virtually non-existent because the Department of Justice wanted to keep the case as secret as possible. Out Bad, draws on numerous public and confidential sources including numerous sources within the Mongols, the Hells Angels and the ATF to accurately reveal what really happened. Out Bad is a startling ride down a dark road nobody yet knows. Here's your ticket. Climb on. There ain't no seatbelt.

      Jennie Cyr disappeared in 1977. Jerilyn Towers vanished in 1982. Lynn Willette never came home on a night in 1994. Each woman had a relationship with James Hicks, who in 2000 confessed to murdering them, dismembering their bodies and burying the remains alongside rural roads in Aroostook County. This is their story. Trudy Irene Scee follows Hicks from the North Woods to west Texas, detailing three decades of evasion, investigation and prosecution. She interviews police officers and victims’ families—and meets Hicks at the state prison in Thomaston, where he remains remorseless as he lives out his days behind bars. Thoroughly researched and carefully documented, Tragedy in the North Woods is the definitive history of one of Maine's most ruthless killers.   Includes photos!

    Pistone infiltrated the mob and brought it down. Now, he brings his experience to a series of novels that takes readers deep inside a covert FBI operation.In Mobbed Up, Donnie Brasco takes on both the Russian and Italian mobs. But this time it's not his life on the line...it's his daughter's.

    Chronicles the terrifying murder of newlyweds Nancy and Richard Langert, who were shot to death in their basement in April, 1990, and the investigation that lead to the identity of their killer--a man they both knew well.

    Then she took her own little sister prisoner, stole her grandmother's money, and began a three-day orgy of sex and junk food. From the heinous crime itself to the sensational trial, here is the graphic and shocking account of one of the most bizarre killings ever committed in the state of New York.

    Drews unfolds the drama brilliantly, right through to the sentencing of the husband to a life in prison and even an afterword from the mistress apologizing years later. Sent to prison, the husband and mistress still can't let go and she becomes a prison bride.Readers are left to decide for themselves if it was murder, suicide, or manslaughter by neglect. Run at Destruction is lust, murder, and obsession delivered with the beat of a runner's heart, as the theme of running is woven throughout. The book grabs at a large cross-section of readers because everyone can relate to the desire and often disaster that comes with affairs.This is true-crime court drama and author Drews exposes the characters to such a depth that readers will feel like they are reading a novel, only, this really happened.

    After 10 years of marriage, Billy's breakdown forced him—and Alix—to face up to the truth of his tormented childhood. Unbeknown to Alix, Billy had been living with a terrible burden: he was ruthlessly and shockingly abused as a child, and he had carried the mental scars into adulthood. When it all became too much for him, Alix, his devoted and loving wife, stood by him and helped him to work through the pain and begin the healing.

    Names like Bundy, Gacy, and Gein come to mind, alongside the many other murderous people out there who've gained notoriety because of their evil. When you're envisioning the unthinkable and heinous acts that are carried out in this world, it's unlikely you imagine a youngster as being a perpetrator of evil.Killer children, although rare, do exist. The thought alone is terrifying; we see children as being vulnerable and pure, which makes it harder to comprehend them wanting to inflict pain and suffering on another being. The correlation of a child and unthinkable acts of murder is undeniably tricky to compute.The children in this book carried out acts of savage murder - even just typing that sentence feels wrong. Some of these murders are sexually motivated; some are carried out for revenge; others are part of an occult ritual. Regardless of the motivation for these children to commit unspeakable acts of cruelty, they are all disturbing.This book was written to give you some food for thought, to allow you to digest some of the heinous crimes committed by youngsters and consider why they'd carry out such horrific acts. This book will open up a world of questions, many of which I've likely pondered upon myself. While I do offer up my own opinion throughout this book, I do need to (as much as possible) stick to the facts to let you make your own mind up.With that in mind, let's delve into some of the despicably horrific murders that were carried out by children.

    By the time Corbitt was appointed chief of police, he'd also moved up the Outfit's ranks and was living the high life of a respected mobster.Corbitt's luck turned when he was indicted on charges of racketeering and conspiracy to commit murder. Although there was a mob contract on his life and he was facing a 20–year jail sentence, he refused to testify against organised crime figures under the witness protection programme, maintaining instead the Mafioso's code of silence – until his release from prison.Now Corbitt breaks that silence, holding back nothing–including the account of his personal involvement in the brutal murder of the wife of Chicago mob attorney Alan Masters.Corbitt bares his soul, confessing in graphic – sometimes horrific – detail a life lived as both saint and sinner, a life that moved back and forth between the conflicting worlds of the police officer and the gangster with ease.

    The twisted true story of murderous madman Hayward Bissell, who led a bloody rampage down an Alabama highway - with the mutilated body of his pregnant girlfriend at his side.

    No-one never put no handcuffs on me.’I put down my pen. Somehow, I don’t think this is going to be the level of interview for which I need to make notes. ‘You actually don’t need to be handcuffed to be under arrest,’ I say.‘Yeah, I do. Right, Sonia?’Sonia nods emphatically. ‘You do need it, me Ma said so.’In an attempt to steer the interview back on track, I look down at PC Cansat’s statement. ‘Look, it says here, “I then said to Shimona O’Milligan, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of assault and criminal damage.’ I cautioned her to which she replied, ‘Whatever’.” Does that ring any bells?’Shimona titters. Then she gets serious again. ‘Does he say he handcuffed me, though? Cos he’s a liar.’‘No, he says he arrested you.’‘Well, I wasn’t listening.’‘This may surprise you,’ I say, ‘but you can be arrested even if you aren’t listening.’‘No, you can’t. Not if you’re inside a house. I know the law.’If there is one thing I like more than a gobby teenager, it is a gobby teenager who knows the law.‘Shimona, you are going to have to take my word for the fact that you were brought here under arrest and you are still under arrest now. Let’s move on.’‘Whatever.’"Diary of an On-Call Girl was serialised on BBC Radio 4 and is currently in TV development with scripts being written by the writer of the hit TV comedy Rev.

     As a child, I was known as "Jessica Pelley." When I was nine, I went to a sleepover at a friend's house for the weekend. While I was away, my entire family was murdered. I would spend the next 30 years fighting, crawling, and clawing my way through the darkness. This wasn't just a national news headline, a cold case, or a true crime show. It was my family. And my life. I was the broken little girl left behind to tell this story. I am now "Jessi," in the pages of this unapologetic memoir, set free. *** JESSI - APRIL 29, 2016 April 29, 1989. A date I cannot forget. Numbers forever seared deep into my soul. It was 27 years ago, today. Jesus. Get a grip, Jessi. They’re just numbers. They don’t mean anything. You’re giving them power over you, again. That’s what I tell myself. But the numbers—those damn numbers—they haunt me. They always will. I cannot escape them. Not now. Not ever. For most people, dates are just numbers on a calendar. No big deal. Random markers of time affixed to the top left corner of small, white squares on a page to depict days filled with choices, chances, and opportunities. At least that’s what they are for the normal people. But I’m no longer one of them. For me, they serve as numeric reminders of the girl I used to be. A tragedy that would irrevocably and mercilessly alter the life of a little girl wearing dark blue jeans, canvas lace-up sneakers, and a white tee shirt, accessorized by prominent coke bottle glasses, her hair hanging in a messy bob. Her life would be forever dismantled. Gone. The moment they told me the words. The ones that I will never forget. At that moment, my life froze and shattered into pieces, splintering like bits of broken glass, dropping down onto the ground around me, like the remnants of a cracked windshield, falling fast before the spinning mind and broken heart of a wide-eyed little girl. Life, as I knew it, was over in that moment. What happened on April 29, 1989, has scarred me forever. A day that started out normally, before it became ensnared in marred memories, tucked between folds of tragedy and darkness. The lingering memories cut straight to the core of the hollow girl left behind. The darkness delivers itself to me, every year, on schedule. Steadily. Greedily. On the 29th day of April. Relentless. Haunting. It taunts the pieces of me that remain. Every single year. I try to lift myself out of the darkness. I tell myself the numbers shouldn’t matter. Not after 27 years have passed. Jessi, It’s just another day. You can do anything you want with it. Don’t slip into the darkness. But not even the voice in my head believes those lies I tell myself. Year after year, my happiness recoils, my thoughts run to a dark place filled with foggy memories and a void that swallows me whole. The door of despair opens and I’m trapped: alone, numb to the bone, emotionally deplete, void of all reality, space, and time. I hate the helplessness as I slip further into that dark place. A place that, long ago, was filled with light. A place where three little girls would sing happy songs, pick flowers, hold hands while skipping through tall blades of grass, and sit down at the dining room table, where they would bow their heads to pray before plates filled with food, in a home filled with laughter. Then it hits me—the life-defining, self-inflicted images of horror—of their final moments—dragging me deep into the darkness.