In the late 18th century, no man in Edinburgh seemed more respectable than William Brodie. By day, he was a successful cabinetmaker, a member of the city council, and a deacon of the Incorporation of Wrights and Masons, one of the most prestigious tradesmen's guilds in Scotland. But by night, Brodie led a secret life as a burglar and thief, moving through the dark streets of the city with the same keys and skills that had earned him the trust of its wealthiest citizens.

His extraordinary double life eventually ended at the gallows. A century later, Brodie’s life inspired one of literature's most famous tales of dual identity: Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

On November 9, 1963, two investigators from France’s Central Office for Counterfeit Currency Control (OCRFM) arrived at the post office on Rue Turgot in Paris’s 9th arrondissement. Five days earlier, a customer had purchased 1,000 francs’ worth of Treasury bonds there using a stack of crisp 100-franc notes bearing the portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte. At first glance, nothing seemed unusual. The notes looked authentic, felt authentic, and even carried convincing watermarks. But they were counterfeit.

A 'Bonaparte' 100 Franc notes that Ceslaw Bojarski forged. Credit: Wikimedia Commons

When Leslie Buck was discovered dead in her home in 2002, Mystic, Connecticut, went into shock. What had happened to the grade school teacher and who had wanted her to die? For journalist Brenna Ehrlich, this one was personal; Buck had been her teacher in grade one. In her latest for Rolling Stone, Ehrlich returns to Mystic to learn more about who Leslie Buck was and why she was murdered.

And Anna Greene, my second-grade teacher, told me about the poems she found in Leslie’s desk after she died — that she read at the funeral. There’s one about the kids who are different, “who don’t fit,” who “dance to a different drum.” For some reason, that hit me harder than police reports or autopsies. More than the horrors that true-crime often focuses on. I still can’t read it without crying. Maybe because I definitely was one of those kids, or maybe it’s just because it shows that she truly saw her students — all of them. Or maybe it’s a much-needed reminder that Leslie Buck isn’t a story, a case to be solved. She was a person. And she deserves to be remembered.

In this edition: loving a killer; GRASE under fire; the marvelous mundane; Texas on two wheels; and the man who would be T. rex king.

When Steven Judy was executed for rape and murder in 1981, he was little more to the public than a monster. To Traci and Randy Carr, he was something else: a hero and a protector. After all, he was their foster brother. For The Guardian, Masha Hamilton—who covered the Judy trial as a young reporter more than 45 years ago—returns to Indiana to meet the Carrs, and to take the measure of the hole rent in their lives by Judy’s actions and disappearance.

Her mother has begun appearing again in her sleep: Mary holding her, comforting. Almost as if speaking aloud what had been buried for decades had called her mother back.

“Everyone hated Steve, and we were told we should too,” Traci says. “For a long time, I thought we did something wrong, and I was ashamed. People treated us like we had raised a murderer. It’s still how people remember us. I don’t think Mom ever got to grieve properly. I don’t think any of us did.”

The boundary between historical documentation and morbid fascination is thinner than most people care to admit. While law enforcement agencies often work to preserve the dignity of sites where tragedies occurred, public curiosity frequently draws visitors to the locations of infamous crimes. From quiet suburban homes where cult murders unfolded to remote roads where legendary […]

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