Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series (www.thechaseaustin.com). Between 1974 and 1978, Ted Bundy orchestrated a campaign of terror that stretched across the United States, luring a series of pretty, dark-haired women to gruesome deaths.
Described as handsome and charming, Ted didn't fit the bill of a conventional murderer. Until the end, Bundy remained arrogant and defiant, choosing to conduct his own defense in the trial.
Bundy was sent to the electric chair in 1989, whilst hundreds of people cheered his death outside the prison.
In this terrifying episode of Blood Trails by Chase Austin, we'll learn if Ted Bundy was 'Born To Kill?'
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Content Warning: This video contains discussions of death and sensitive social issues.
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Transcript
Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is the story of America's Most EVIL Serial Killer - Ted Bundy
Chapter 1: The Birth of a Shadow
The Elizabeth Lund Home for Unwed Mothers in Burlington, Vermont, was a place of quiet desperation. It was 1946, and the world was still picking up the pieces after the war. Inside the home, Louise Cowell, a 22-year-old woman with a secret, waited. Her belly swelled with a child she could not claim. The father? A mystery. A ghost. A man whose name she would never speak.
Louise’s parents, strict and traditional, had sent her here to hide the shame. When the baby was born—a boy with a shock of dark hair and piercing eyes—they made a decision. The truth would be buried. The boy would grow up believing his grandparents were his parents, and Louise, his older sister. A lie, carefully constructed, to protect the family’s reputation.
The boy was named Theodore Robert Cowell.
Ted’s early years were a haze of confusion. He was a quiet child, observant, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He called his mother “Louise” and his grandparents “Mom” and “Dad.” The half-truths hung in the air like a fog, thick and unspoken. He didn’t know who he was, only that something felt off. Something was missing.
When Ted was four, Louise took him to Tacoma, Washington, to start a new life. She married Johnny Bundy, a military cook with a kind heart and a simple mind. Johnny adopted Ted, and the boy became Theodore Robert Bundy. But the name change didn’t erase the questions. If anything, it deepened them.
Ted’s childhood was a patchwork of contradictions. On the surface, he was a normal kid—handsome, polite, with a knack for making adults smile. But beneath the surface, there was something darker. He was shy, awkward around other children, and prone to strange, unsettling behaviors. He would stare at people for too long, his gaze intense and unblinking. He would steal small things—trinkets, toys, things he didn’t need—just to see if he could get away with it.
In high school, Ted tried to fit in. He joined clubs, played sports, and even dated a few girls. But he was always on the outside looking in. The other kids teased him, called him names. He wasn’t a nerd, exactly, but he wasn’t one of them either. He was different, and they could sense it.
Then came the revelation.
One day, Ted stumbled upon his birth certificate. The truth hit him like a punch to the gut. Everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie. His mother wasn’t his sister. His grandparents weren’t his parents. The foundation of his identity crumbled, and with it, any sense of trust he had in the people around him.
The betrayal cut deep. Ted began to act out. He stole cars, broke into houses, and got into trouble with the law. He was smart enough to talk his way out of most situations, but the anger inside him was growing.
In 1966, Ted enrolled at the University of Washington in Seattle. It was a fresh start, a chance to reinvent himself. And for a while, it worked. He was charming, well-dressed, and ambitious. His professors thought he was brilliant. His classmates admired him. Women were drawn to his good looks and easy smile.
But Ted’s charm was a mask. Behind it, there was emptiness. A void that nothing could fill.
It was during this time that Ted met the woman who would change everything. She was beautiful, wealthy, and out of his league. He fell for her hard, convinced she was the key to his happiness. For over a year, they were inseparable. But then, she left him.
The rejection shattered Ted. He couldn’t understand why she would walk away from someone like him—someone who had so much potential, so much to offer. The anger he had been suppressing for years began to boil over.
Ted threw himself into politics, becoming a rising star in the Republican Party. He worked tirelessly, determined to prove himself. But no matter how much success he achieved, it wasn’t enough. The void inside him grew larger, darker.
And then, in early 1974, something snapped.
On February 1, 1974, a 21-year-old student named Linda Ann Healy disappeared from her home in Seattle. Her bed was neatly made, but the sheets were stained with blood. She was gone, leaving behind no clues, no witnesses.
Over the next six months, more young women vanished. Donna Mason. Susan Rancourt. Roberta Parks. Brenda Ball. Georgeann Hawkins. All of them slim, attractive, with long, dark hair. All of them resembling the woman who had broken Ted’s heart.
The police were baffled. The disappearances seemed random, unconnected. But Ted knew better. He had found a way to fill the void.
And he wasn’t done yet.
Chapter 2: The Predator’s Playground
Lake Sammamish State Park was a postcard-perfect slice of Washington. On July 14, 1974, the sun blazed overhead, and the park was teeming with life. Families picnicked on the grass, children splashed in the lake, and couples strolled hand in hand. It was the kind of day that made people forget their troubles.
But trouble was already there, lurking in the crowd.
Ted Bundy moved through the park like a shadow, his eyes scanning the faces around him. He was dressed casually—khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a plaster cast on his left arm. He looked harmless, even approachable. That was the point.
He spotted her near the water’s edge. Janice Ott, 23, sitting alone on a towel, her long brown hair catching the sunlight. She was reading a book, oblivious to the danger closing in.
Ted approached her with a smile. “Hi there,” he said, his voice warm and friendly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I could really use some help.”
Janice looked up, startled but polite. “Oh, sure. What’s wrong?”
Ted gestured to his cast. “I’ve got this stupid injury, and I’m trying to get my canoe off the roof of my car. It’s just up in the parking lot. Do you think you could give me a hand?”
Janice hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Of course. No problem.”
She followed him to the parking lot, chatting amiably as they walked. Ted was charming, disarming. He made her laugh. By the time they reached his car—a tan Volkswagen Beetle—Janice had no reason to suspect anything was wrong.
But something was very wrong.
Ted opened the passenger door and gestured for her to get in. “I’ll just need you to hold the canoe steady while I untie it,” he said, his tone casual.
Janice climbed into the car without a second thought.
That was the last time anyone saw her alive.
Hours later, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, another young woman vanished. Denise Naslund, 19, had gone to the restroom and never returned. Her friends searched for her, growing more frantic by the minute. When they finally called the police, the officers found nothing but an eerie silence.
The park was in chaos. Parents gathered their children, couples clung to each other, and the once-bustling picnic areas emptied out. The police launched a massive search, combing through the woods and dragging the lake. But there was no trace of Janice or Denise.
It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
Ted watched it all from a distance, a faint smile playing on his lips. He had done it again. Two in one day. The thrill was intoxicating.
Back at his apartment, Ted carefully cleaned the car, erasing any evidence of what had happened. He was meticulous, methodical. He knew the police would be looking for him, but he wasn’t worried. He was smarter than they were.
And he was right.
The composite sketch of the suspect—a man named Ted with a broken arm and a Volkswagen—circulated in the media, but no one connected it to the charming, ambitious young man who worked at the suicide hotline. Ted’s friends and coworkers were shocked when they saw the sketch.
“That looks like Ted,” one of them said, laughing nervously. “But it can’t be him. He’s such a nice guy.”
Ted heard the whispers, saw the sideways glances, but he didn’t flinch. He played the part of the concerned citizen, even offering to help with the investigation.
“It’s just terrible,” he said, shaking his head. “I hope they catch the guy soon.”
But the guy they were looking for was standing right in front of them.
As the days turned into weeks, Ted’s confidence grew. He had outsmarted the police, outsmarted everyone. He was untouchable.
Or so he thought.
In September 1974, Ted moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, to study law at the University of Utah. It was a fresh start, a new hunting ground.
The disappearances began almost immediately.
Young women vanished from their homes, their schools, their neighborhoods. The pattern was the same—no struggle, no witnesses, no clues. The police were baffled, the community terrified.
But Ted wasn’t.
He was in control.
Until he wasn’t.
In November 1974, Ted made his first mistake. He tried to abduct a young woman named Carol DaRonch from a shopping mall. He told her he was a police officer and that someone had tried to break into her car.
Carol was skeptical but followed him to his car. When he tried to handcuff her, she fought back, kicking and screaming until she managed to escape.
Ted was furious. He had been so close, and she had ruined everything.
But Carol’s escape was just the beginning of his downfall.
The police now had a description of the suspect and a partial license plate number. They were closing in.
Ted knew he had to be more careful. But the urge to kill was too strong, too consuming.
He couldn’t stop.
And he didn’t want to.
Chapter 3: The Unraveling
Salt Lake City, Utah, November 1974. The air was crisp, the streets quiet. Ted Bundy drove his tan Volkswagen Beetle through the suburbs, his eyes scanning the sidewalks. He was looking for her—the next one.
She was walking alone, her long dark hair swaying with each step. Ted slowed the car, his heart racing. This was it.
He pulled over and rolled down the window. “Excuse me,” he called out, his voice calm and friendly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I’m lost. Could you help me with some directions?”
The woman hesitated, then approached the car. She leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face.
That’s when Ted saw it—the flicker of recognition.
She knew.
Panic surged through him. He slammed the car into gear and sped away, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, stunned.
Ted’s hands trembled on the steering wheel. He had been so close, but now the risk was too great. He needed to lay low, to regroup.
But the urge to kill was like a fire burning inside him, impossible to ignore.
A few days later, Ted struck again. This time, he was more careful. He chose a secluded area, a young woman walking alone. She never saw him coming.
But the police were watching.
On August 16, 1975, Ted’s luck ran out.
He was driving through a quiet neighborhood when he noticed a police car behind him. His stomach dropped. He tried to stay calm, to act normal, but his mind was racing.
The officer pulled him over.
“License and registration, please,” the officer said, his tone polite but firm.
Ted handed over the documents, his hands steady despite the fear gnawing at him.
The officer studied the license, then glanced at Ted. “Mind if I take a look inside your car?”
Ted’s heart skipped a beat. “Sure,” he said, forcing a smile.
The officer searched the car, his eyes narrowing as he found a pair of handcuffs, a crowbar, and a ski mask.
“What’s all this?” the officer asked, his tone hardening.
Ted’s mind raced. “I’m a law student,” he said quickly. “I use these for research. You know, for my studies.”
The officer wasn’t convinced. He called for backup, and within minutes, Ted was in handcuffs.
At the police station, Ted tried to talk his way out of it. He was charming, persuasive, but the evidence was damning.
Carol DaRonch, the woman who had escaped his abduction attempt, was brought in to identify him. She pointed to Ted without hesitation.
“That’s him,” she said, her voice steady. “That’s the man who tried to kidnap me.”
Ted’s stomach churned. He was trapped.
But even as he sat in his cell, Ted’s mind was working. He wasn’t done yet.
In June 1977, Ted was transferred to Colorado to face charges for the murder of Caryn Campbell, a young woman who had disappeared from a ski resort. The case was high-profile, and the media was watching.
Ted saw an opportunity.
He petitioned the court to allow him to represent himself. The judge agreed, and Ted was given access to the law library.
It was a mistake.
On June 7, 1977, Ted made his move.
He was in the law library, surrounded by books and legal documents. The guards were relaxed, confident that he wouldn’t try anything.
They were wrong.
Ted waited until the guards were distracted, then climbed out of a second-story window. He landed on the ground with a thud, his heart pounding.
He was free.
For the next eight days, Ted hid in the wilderness, surviving on stolen food and sheer willpower. He was a fugitive, but he felt invincible.
Then, on June 15, Ted was spotted in Aspen. He tried to steal a car, but the police were waiting.
This time, there was no escape.
Ted was arrested and returned to custody, but his story was far from over.
In 1979, Ted stood trial for the murders of two Florida State University students and the kidnapping and murder of 12-year-old Kimberly Leach. The case was a media circus, and Ted reveled in the attention.
He represented himself, cross-examining witnesses and delivering dramatic speeches. But his arrogance was his downfall.
Chapter 4: The Mask Slips
The fluorescent lights of the courtroom buzzed faintly, casting a harsh glow over the packed gallery. Reporters scribbled furiously in their notebooks, cameras clicked, and the air was thick with tension. Ted Bundy sat at the defense table, his posture relaxed, his expression calm. He was representing himself, and he was loving every minute of it.
The prosecution had just called their star witness: Carol DaRonch.
Carol walked to the stand, her steps measured, her face pale but determined. She avoided looking at Ted, but she could feel his eyes on her, cold and calculating.
The prosecutor approached her gently. “Ms. DaRonch, can you tell the court what happened on November 8, 1974?”
Carol took a deep breath. “I was at the Fashion Place Mall in Murray, Utah. A man approached me and said he was a police officer. He told me someone had tried to break into my car and that I needed to come with him to file a report.”
“And did you go with him?”
“Yes,” Carol said, her voice trembling slightly. “He led me to his car—a Volkswagen Beetle. He opened the passenger door and told me to get in. That’s when I realized something was wrong.”
“What happened next?”
Carol’s hands clenched into fists. “He tried to handcuff me. I fought back. I kicked him, screamed, and managed to get out of the car. I ran to a nearby gas station and called the police.”
The prosecutor nodded solemnly. “Ms. DaRonch, do you see the man who tried to kidnap you in this courtroom today?”
Carol’s eyes finally met Ted’s. She pointed directly at him. “Yes. That’s him. That’s Ted Bundy.”
The gallery erupted in murmurs. Ted didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips.
When it was his turn to cross-examine Carol, Ted stood slowly, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate precision. He approached the witness stand, his demeanor calm, almost friendly.
“Ms. DaRonch,” he began, his voice smooth and measured, “you’ve identified me as the man who tried to kidnap you. But tell me, how sure are you? It was a stressful situation, wasn’t it? Could you have been mistaken?”
Carol’s jaw tightened. “I’m not mistaken. It was you.”
Ted tilted his head, his smile widening. “But you only saw me for a few minutes, under duress. Memory can be unreliable, can’t it?”
Carol’s voice rose. “I remember your face. I remember your voice. It was you.”
Ted’s smile didn’t waver. “No further questions.”
He returned to his seat, his confidence unshaken. But the damage was done. The jury had seen Carol’s unwavering certainty, and they had seen Ted’s arrogance.
The next day, the prosecution called Dr. Richard Souviron, a forensic odontologist. He took the stand, holding a series of photographs and dental molds.
“Dr. Souviron,” the prosecutor began, “can you explain to the jury what bite mark analysis is?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Souviron replied. “Bite mark analysis is a forensic technique used to match bite marks on a victim to the teeth of a suspect. Each person’s teeth are unique, much like fingerprints.”
The prosecutor handed him a photograph. “Dr. Souviron, can you tell us what this is?”
“This is a photograph of bite marks found on the body of Lisa Levy, one of the victims in the Chi Omega sorority house attack.”
“And what can you tell us about these bite marks?”
Dr. Souviron adjusted his glasses. “The bite marks were made by someone with very distinctive teeth. The upper front teeth are slightly crooked, and there’s a chip on one of the lower incisors.”
The prosecutor handed him another photograph. “And this?”
“This is a dental mold of Ted Bundy’s teeth.”
“Dr. Souviron, based on your analysis, do the bite marks on Lisa Levy’s body match Ted Bundy’s teeth?”
Dr. Souviron didn’t hesitate. “Yes. There is no doubt in my mind. The bite marks were made by Ted Bundy.”
The gallery erupted again. Ted’s smile faltered for the first time.
When it was his turn to cross-examine Dr. Souviron, Ted tried to poke holes in the testimony.
“Dr. Souviron,” he began, his tone skeptical, “bite mark analysis isn’t an exact science, is it? There’s room for error, correct?”
Dr. Souviron met his gaze evenly. “While no forensic technique is infallible, the match in this case is conclusive. The odds of someone else having the exact same dental characteristics are astronomically low.”
Ted’s jaw tightened. “No further questions.”
As the trial progressed, the evidence against Ted piled up. Witnesses placed him near the scenes of the crimes. Fibers from his car matched those found on the victims. And then there were the bite marks—undeniable, damning.
But Ted wasn’t ready to give up.
In his closing argument, he stood before the jury, his voice dripping with charm and confidence.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “the prosecution has presented a compelling story. But that’s all it is—a story. They want you to believe that I, Ted Bundy, am a monster. But I’m not. I’m just a man—a man who has been wrongfully accused.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “The evidence against me is circumstantial at best. The bite marks? They could belong to anyone. The fibers? Easily contaminated. And the witnesses? They’re mistaken. I’m innocent, and I trust that you’ll see the truth.”
The jury didn’t buy it.
After just seven hours of deliberation, they returned with a verdict: guilty.
Ted was sentenced to death.
Ted’s mask slipped completely as the judge sentenced him to death. His calm demeanor shattered, replaced by a cold, seething rage.
But even as he was led away in handcuffs, Ted knew this wasn’t the end.
He had one last card to play.
And he was determined to play it.
Chapter 5: The Final Confession
Florida State Prison, January 1989. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and damp earth. Inside the prison walls, the atmosphere was electric. Ted Bundy’s execution was just days away, and the world was watching.
Ted sat in his cell, his mind racing. He had spent the last decade on death row, manipulating the system, filing appeal after appeal, and basking in the media attention. But now, time was running out.
He had one last chance to control the narrative.
The door to his cell clanged open, and a guard stepped inside. “Bundy, you’ve got a visitor.”
Ted looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Who is it?”
“Dr. James Dobson,” the guard replied. “He’s a psychologist. Says he wants to talk to you.”
Ted’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Send him in.”
Dr. Dobson entered the cell, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. He had spent years studying serial killers, but Ted Bundy was in a league of his own.
“Mr. Bundy,” Dobson began, “thank you for agreeing to speak with me.”
Ted leaned back on his cot, his demeanor relaxed. “Call me Ted. And don’t thank me yet. You might regret this conversation.”
Dobson pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’ve read a lot about you, Ted. Your crimes, your trials, your escapes. But there’s one thing I still don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“Why?” Dobson asked, his voice steady. “Why did you do it?”
Ted’s smile faded, and for a moment, he looked almost human. “Why does anyone do anything? Because they want to. Because they can.”
Dobson leaned forward. “But there has to be more to it than that. What drove you? What made you… like this?”
Ted’s eyes darkened. “You want to know the truth? Fine. I’ll tell you.”
He began to speak, his voice low and measured. He talked about his childhood, the lies, the confusion. He talked about the rejection, the anger, the emptiness.
“I didn’t start out wanting to kill,” Ted said. “I just wanted to feel something. Anything. And when I did… it was like a drug. I couldn’t stop.”
Dobson listened intently, his pen poised over his notebook. “And the women? Why them?”
Ted’s expression hardened. “They were… objects. Tools. I used them to fill the void. But it was never enough. I always needed more.”
Dobson hesitated, then asked the question that had been weighing on him. “Do you feel any remorse? For the lives you took? For the pain you caused?”
Ted’s eyes met his, cold and unflinching. “Remorse? No. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel anything.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
Dobson left the cell, his mind reeling. He had gotten what he came for—a glimpse into the mind of a monster. But it wasn’t the closure he had hoped for.
Ted, meanwhile, sat alone in his cell, his thoughts turning to the inevitable.
On January 24, 1989, the day of his execution, Ted was calm. He ate his last meal—a rare steak, eggs, hash browns, and toast—and dressed in a suit and tie.
As he was led to the electric chair, he looked out at the witnesses gathered in the room. His eyes met those of his mother, Louise, who had always believed in his innocence.
“I’m sorry,” he mouthed silently.
Then he turned to the others, his expression cold and defiant.
“I’d like you to give my love to my family and friends,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m sure I’ll see them again.”
The guards strapped him into the chair, their hands trembling slightly. Ted’s heart pounded in his chest, but he didn’t show it.
The warden stepped forward. “Do you have any last words, Mr. Bundy?”
Ted’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Just… give my love to the world.”
The switch was flipped, and the room filled with the hum of electricity. Ted’s body convulsed, his muscles tightening, his breath catching in his throat.
And then, it was over.
Ted Bundy was dead.
The world breathed a sigh of relief, but the question remained:
Was Ted Bundy born to kill, or was he made?
The answer, perhaps, lies somewhere in the shadows of his twisted mind—a mind that will forever remain a mystery.
And so, the story of Ted Bundy ends, not with a bang, but with a whisper. A whisper that echoes through the years, a reminder of the darkness that lurks within us all.
Chapter 6: The Aftermath
The news of Ted Bundy’s execution spread like wildfire. Headlines screamed across newspapers, and television anchors somberly announced the end of one of America’s most notorious serial killers. For many, it was a moment of closure. For others, it was a grim reminder of the lives lost and the questions left unanswered.
In a small house in Tacoma, Washington, Louise Bundy sat alone, clutching a photograph of her son. Her hands trembled as she traced the edges of the picture, her heart heavy with grief and guilt. She had always believed in Ted’s innocence, even when the evidence stacked against him was insurmountable. Now, with his death, she was forced to confront the truth she had buried for so long.
“I failed him,” she whispered to the empty room. “I failed my son.”
Across the country, the families of Ted’s victims grappled with their own emotions. For some, his death brought a sense of justice. For others, it reopened old wounds.
Carol DaRonch, the woman who had escaped Ted’s clutches, sat in her living room, staring at the television screen. She felt no joy, no relief—only a deep, aching sadness.
“It’s over,” she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. “But it doesn’t bring them back.”
In Tallahassee, Florida, the survivors of the Chi Omega sorority house attack gathered together. They had formed an unbreakable bond in the years since that horrific night, supporting each other through the trauma and the trials.
“He’s gone,” one of them said, her voice trembling. “But we’re still here. We survived.”
The others nodded, their eyes filled with tears. They had endured the unimaginable, and they had come out stronger.
Meanwhile, in the offices of the FBI, agents pored over the files of Ted Bundy’s crimes. Despite his death, there were still unanswered questions—missing victims, unsolved cases, and the lingering fear that there might be others like him out there.
“We need to learn from this,” one agent said, his voice grim. “We need to understand what makes someone like Bundy tick so we can stop the next one before it’s too late.”
But understanding Ted Bundy was no easy task.
In the weeks following his execution, psychologists and criminologists analyzed his life, his crimes, and his final confession. They debated the age-old question: nature or nurture?
“Bundy was a product of his environment,” one expert argued. “The lies, the rejection, the trauma—it all shaped him into the monster he became.”
“No,” another countered. “There was something inherently wrong with him from the start. He was born with a predisposition to violence.”
The debate raged on, but no one could say for sure.
For Anne Rule, the true crime author who had once worked alongside Ted at a suicide hotline, his death was a personal reckoning. She had known him as a charming, intelligent young man—a far cry from the monster he would later become.
“I still can’t believe it,” she wrote in her journal. “How could someone I knew, someone I trusted, do such horrible things?”
She spent the next few years writing a book about Ted, trying to make sense of the man she thought she knew. But even as she put pen to paper, she realized that some questions would never have answers.
In the end, Ted Bundy’s legacy was one of fear, pain, and loss. But it was also a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit.
The survivors of his crimes went on to live their lives, finding strength in each other and in the knowledge that they had faced the darkness and emerged victorious.
The families of his victims found solace in their memories, honoring the lives of their loved ones and refusing to let Ted’s actions define them.
And the world moved on, forever changed by the horrors Ted Bundy had wrought but determined to learn from the past and build a better future.
As the years passed, Ted’s name became synonymous with evil, a cautionary tale for generations to come.
But for those who had known him, who had loved him, who had survived him, his death was not the end.
It was the beginning of healing.
And so, the story of Ted Bundy fades into history, a dark chapter in the annals of true crime.
And that's the story that has the whole world shocked beyond belief.
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My name is Chase Austin and this is Blood Trails.
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