Domestic Terror: The Hunt for Eric Rudolph | The Army of God and the New World Order | 3

It's mid-morning on December 30th, 1994. In Brookline, Massachusetts, John Salvey pulls into the parking lot a Planned Parenthood at 1031 Beacon Street. Anti-abortion activists call Beacon Abortion Row because there are three clinics on this three-mile stretch of road.
That's why 22-year-old John's here today. He gets out of the car, walks to the trunk, and grabs a black duffel bag to sling over his shoulder. He closes the trunk and starts walking deliberately towards the tall brownstone.

Inside, the clinic occupies the space of a four-bedroom apartment. John walks up the wide stairs and through the front door into the waiting room. It's full of people, maybe 40 in all, mostly patients along with a few staff members.

John doesn't acknowledge any of them as he approaches the reception desk. He just unzips his duffel bag and pulls out a.22 caliber semi-automatic rifle. He holds it up and before anyone has even noticed him, he starts firing indiscriminately around the room.

One of his bullets hits a medical assistant in the abdomen. Another strikes receptionist Shannon Loney in the neck. 25-year-old Shannon dies instantly.
Within the space of a few seconds, John has hit at least six people, but he doesn't stop to count his victims. Feeling like he's made his point, he turns and runs out the door, down the steps and back towards his car. He tosses the gun and his duffel bag onto the backseat, then slides behind the wheel and backs out of the space, ready to hit the next target on abortion row.

After leaving Planned Parenthood, John will drive the two miles down beacon to the preterm services clinic. He'll walk into the waiting room and ask receptionist Leanne Nichols to confirm the name of the facility. Then he'll pull out a hunting rifle and shoot 38-year-old Leanne at point blank range, killing her.

He'll proceed to fire on other people in the building, wounding a security guard who returns fire, forcing John to flee. After making a hasty getaway in his Audi, John will cut his hair to help him evade the police. Then he'll head to Virginia, some 1200 miles away, where he'll open fire at yet another abortion clinic the next day in Norfolk.

Luckily, everyone will survive this third attack and John will be arrested at the scene. The shooting spree will be condemned by people on both sides of the abortion debate. But not every militant anti-abortion activist will mourn this particular loss of life.
Some people feel that this is a war and that people on the opposing side deserve exactly what's coming to them.

We all know starting something new isn't just hard, it's absolutely terrifying. So much work goes into this thing that you're not entirely sure will work out. And it can be hard to make that leap of faith.

From Airship, I'm Jeremy Schwartz, and this is American Criminal.

Between July 1996 and February of 97, Eric Rudolph planted five bombs throughout Atlanta. The first was at a crowded public park during the Olympic Games. The blast left one woman dead and over a hundred others injured.

His following devices were at an abortion clinic and a lesbian bar. And it was through a combination of sheer luck and solid police work that no one was seriously injured. In the aftermath of his attacks, Eric retreated to his little corner of North Carolina to regroup.
In recent years, he'd watched from afar as several activists took action against what they believed was the murder of babies. These people used deadly force on those working or volunteering at abortion clinics. That made them heroes to Eric.

And plenty of them claim membership in the same group, believe the same conspiracy theories, wanted the same thing, the end of abortion. That made them soldiers in the same army. This is episode 3 in our five-part series on Eric Rudolph, the Army of God, and the New World Order.

It's the morning of July 29th, 1994, two years before Eric Rudolph bombs the Atlanta Olympics. At the Ladies Clinic in Pensacola, Florida, it's the start of a new day. The two-story building with its light blue exterior and covered porches looks more like a house than an abortion clinic.
Drivers on the busy street might not look twice at it, except that most days, there's at least one protester on the sidewalk, holding up a large banner and screaming at patients as they enter. Right now, though, the day hasn't even begun. The clinic is just opening up as 40-year-old Paul Hill approaches.

On any other morning, Paul would be getting ready to unfurl a sign calling for abortion care providers to be executed. Not today. Instead, Paul's partially concealed behind a tree, quietly watching the clinic's parking lot.

With his bulging forehead, a swoop of listless blonde hair, and deep lines around his thin lips, Paul has the bland sort of face you wouldn't think about twice if you passed him on the street. You'd never guess he was capable of murder. Behind his large gold rimmed glasses, Paul's eyes flip back and forth, watching for a familiar gray truck he's expecting to pull up any minute.

When he sees the vehicle turn into the clinic's driveway, he emerges from his hiding spot, a shotgun in his hand. Drawing closer to the truck, he fires at the driver James Barrett. James, 74, is a retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, who volunteers as a clinic escort with his wife.

June is in the back seat, and she ducks down when the shooting starts. But Paul's focus is on the man in the passenger seat, 69-year-old Dr. John Britton. Paul fires into the truck, killing both men in a matter of seconds.

Then, his task complete, he puts his weapon on the ground and sits beside it to wait for police to arrive. Months later, Paul Hill will give a jailhouse interview, explaining his actions and reasoning. He'll claim that he was saving the fetuses that were scheduled to be aborted that day.

To some, Hill's logic is deeply flawed, a symptom of an unhinged mind and a religious zealotry that's gone too far. To Eric Rudolph, though, Paul Hill will be an inspiration, the kind of man Eric wants to be. On February 21st, 1997, the day of the other side lounge bombing, Eric mails nearly identical letters to four news organizations throughout Atlanta, Reuters and BC, the Atlanta Journal Constitution and a local CBS affiliate.

Each of the envelopes is addressed in block letters, and three of them are marked as containing a news tip. They declare right up top that the bombs in Sandy Springs and at the other side lounge were the work of the Army of God. The name of the group is underlined, just in case the reader needed help understanding the important part.

Okay, I'm going to get to the Army of God in a minute, but the rest of the letter is just as important. See, anyone can claim responsibility for a terrorist incident, but without evidence to prove that a person or group was involved, that claim doesn't hold a lot of weight. Eric knows this.

So, the letter includes specific details about each of the bombs, including what kind of dynamite they contain, the batteries used, and which ones involved ammunition cans and which were built in Tupperware containers. None of this information has been released to the public by this stage, so investigators know that whoever sent these letters must be behind the attacks. Unfortunately for them, Eric doesn't identify himself as the culprit, but he does offer a clear explanation for his actions.

He breaks it down, writing that the first bomb at Sandy Springs was aimed at the concept of abortion, and the second was intended to injure or kill agents of the federal government. He then calls the other side lounge a sodomite bar, and promises to target all homosexuals and people who, quote, push their agenda. But he doesn't stop there.

Eric also insists that there's a communist regime in New York, and promises that the Army of God will wage total war upon it. Just what New York has to do with Eric's anger, I can't say, and neither can he apparently because he moves on. The Sandy Springs Clinic Eric targeted was mostly empty the day he attacked, which he claims he knew.
The only people inside Northside Family Planning were cleaners, who he believes are fair game because of their complicity in the act of abortion. But he threatens that the next facility he targets might not be empty. He warns that anyone in or around reproductive health clinics could become targets of his retribution.

Then he signs off with the rallying cry, Death to the New World Order. So, a couple of things to talk about here. First, the New World Order.
That's a conspiracy theory about a secretive globalist cabal working to bring about an all-powerful totalitarian world government. Since the 1980s, it's been especially popular amongst right-wing anti-government ideologues. And given everything we know about Eric Rudolph, it's not surprising to see him referencing the New World Order theory in his writing.

It's also not surprising that he's claiming to be a member of the Army of God, which is an anti-abortion organization that, despite its name, isn't an army at all. The name Army of God first surfaced in 1982, when three men kidnapped a doctor and his wife, then firebombed two abortion clinics in Florida. The leader of that trio claimed he was receiving orders from God and the Archangel Michael.

In the 15 years since then, other violent anti-abortion activity has been attributed to people claiming membership in the army. But there doesn't seem to be any true organization among the group's members. It's just a bunch of anti-abortion zealots who share a belief that violence is justified if it prevents abortion.
Some of these individuals, like Paul Hill, believe that they receive instructions directly from God. Standalone violence isn't enough, though. Not according to everyone in the AOG.

Some of the group's members believe that the only way to stop the so-called evils of abortion and legalized homosexuality in the United States is through a bloody civil war. So that's the group Eric claimed membership to when he wrote those letters. Curiously, he chose to use we and our throughout the message to make it sound like his attacks were a group effort.

But a forensic psychiatrist sees right through that. After examining the letters, they write up a profile of a loner with paranoid tendencies and a hatred for the government. In their opinion, this wasn't the work of a group.

It was one person who just wants to hurt federal agents. Unfortunately, that profile doesn't help narrow down the search for the bomber. But the authorities feel like they're getting a better handle on the case.

They're now certain that the two most recent bombings are connected to the attack at the Atlanta Olympics. So certain that in September, about six months after the explosions at the other side lounge, the three separate investigations are merged into one task force under the supervision of the FBI. A couple of months later, the task force holds a press conference to show off mockups of the bombs used in each of the attacks, alongside photographs of the individual components.

The hope is that someone, somewhere, might recognize things they've seen in a friend or relative's garage or workshop. Things like hose clamps, gray duct tape, plastic containers, and masonry nails. Scattered on a workbench or in a garden shed, they'd seem harmless.
But they're all things Eric used to construct his bombs. At the same press conference, the task force offers $100,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the Atlanta bomber. But in the days that follow, few calls come into the hotline.

Once again, the investigators are left in limbo, scratching at the same pieces of evidence and the hope that something new will emerge. And holding their breath in case the bomber strikes again. Much as he did in the aftermath of the Centennial Park bombing, Eric Rudolph has been lying low since his attack on the other side lounge.

Though he'll later be referred to as a loner and isolationist, he still spends time with his family. In October, he takes a trip up the East Coast with his mother Patricia. Eric likes to check out Civil War battlefields.

In Washington, DC., they visit a couple of museums, then head north to New York City, where Eric's brother Jamie lives with his boyfriend. By all accounts, the visit is actually quite pleasant, which is surprising given the fact that Eric launched a violent attack on a lesbian bar only months ago.

The four of them see the sights, go out to dinner, and even watch a movie together in Jamie's living room. But that's the last any of Eric's relatives will see him for a while. At the end of the trip, Eric helps Pat move into her new home in Florida, then heads back to North Carolina.
He's got preparations to make. He returns to the trailer he's rented about five miles west of the town of Murphy. It only costs him a couple hundred bucks a month and gives him the privacy he needs to work on his devices.

When he's not performing odd jobs to put money in his pocket, Eric assembles and tests new components for his next bombs. He wants his next attack to go better than his previous ones. The Centennial Park bomb was, by his own admission, a catastrophe.
Innocent people with no ties to the government were hurt, and he failed to stop or even slow down the Olympic Games. Then no one had been killed by any of his next four devices. And the problem, he decides, is that he didn't have enough control over when the bombs exploded.
Rigging the detonators to timers had allowed Eric to be well clear of the scenes when the blasts happened. But that meant his secondary devices, the ones intended to do the most damage to federal agents, were rendered basically useless. He needed more control.

So as the days grow shorter, Eric spends his free time visiting hobby stores, craft suppliers, and good old radio shack for the parts he needs to rig a remote-controlled detonator. He shops at stores around Georgia and Alabama, not wanting to risk buying the parts he needs locally. Eventually, he finds the solution he's been looking for in the pieces from an RC airplane kit.

By December of 1997, he's ready to move ahead with his next attack. And in his twisted mind, it's not a moment too soon. The 24th anniversary of Roe v. Wade is coming up in January, and he wants to mark the occasion by eliminating as many abortion clinic employees as he can. But he thinks it's too risky to target Atlanta again. Investigators will be expecting that.
So instead, he looks west, eventually settling on Birmingham, Alabama. That's where his rage will break next. And this time, he's determined to kill.

It's the morning of January 29th, 1998. It's been almost a year since Eric Rudolph's most recent bomb. In the south side neighborhood of Birmingham, Alabama, 31-year-old Eric walks down a quiet street trying to look like a college student.

He's wearing aviator sunglasses and a long brown wig held in place by a blue knit hat. He's grown out a mustache, too. He's heading for the new woman all women healthcare facility, which is close by the University of Alabama campus.

Eric left his latest device at the clinic just last night. There's no security to speak of at the building besides a reinforced front door and a short white fence. The lawn in front of the building has some struggling plants dotted along the sidewalk, so Eric covered his 30-pound bomb and fake foliage he picked up at Walmart, then placed it beside the spindly shrubs.

The bomb's disguise is even less convincing than the one Eric's wearing, but he hopes it went unnoticed overnight. He's hoping the bomb will still be there when the clinic's doctor arrives. When he's about 100 feet from the clinic, the deep red awning over the front door comes into view and Eric's stomach drops.

There are two people standing beneath it and they're facing in the direction of his bomb. He's surveilled the new woman facility enough times to know that one of the people is a security guard and the other is a nurse, someone he thinks of as an abortionist. The woman, nurse Emily Lyons, is pointing something out to officer Robert Sanderson, an off-duty cop making extra money standing watch over the clinic.

Eric's heart rate picks up as he watches 34-year-old Robert walk over to the bomb and kneel down beside it. Eric knows that it's now or never. He wants to kill the clinic's doctor just like Paul Hill did a few years back, but he'll settle for one of the nurses instead.

As for the security guard, Eric's belief is that he made his choice to defend the clinic and now he can face the consequences. Unzipping his backpack, he pulls out the remote detonator and flips the switch. The bomb explodes in a cloud of dust, concrete and shrapnel.

The force of the blast sends Robert flying through the air and crashing to the ground some 15 feet away. 41-year-old Emily is slammed back against the building then falls to the ground. Across the street, Eric's pushed backwards by the shock wave.

But even as he staggers from the force of his own handiwork, he knows he has to get out of here. Cops will be arriving any moment. Without sparing another thought for his two most recent victims, he turns on his heel and walks away as fast as he dares.

The last thing he wants to do is draw attention to himself. Neither Robert Sanderson or Emily Lyon should be working at the new woman all women clinic today. Robert's colleague on the force asked for someone to fill in and Robert put his hand up.

When the other guy's plans changed and he offered to take the shift back, Robert turned him down, said he was happy for an extra day's work. Emily's also filling in, covering for a nurse who recently gave birth. She's the one who spotted the bomb as Robert was walking her from her car to the front door, and she pointed it out to him.

Now, both of them are crumpled to the ground, covered in blood. Across the street, a nursing student from the nearby university was sitting in her car when the bomb exploded. She watched the blast throw Robert through the air.
As debris rains down, the student gets out of her car and sprints towards the clinic. She heads towards Robert. His injuries are absolutely horrific, the kind of things that would seem impossible to survive.

But as the student kneels down beside him, she notices Robert's chest moving up and down. She grabs a hold of his left hand and squeezes it tightly in her own. She knows that he won't live long, that there's nothing she can do to help, but she won't let him die alone.

The nursing student isn't the only bystander to run towards the clinic to help. People who heard the explosion from streets away rush towards the building, either eager to assist or just curious to know what happened. John Hicks is another student at the university and a trained EMT.
He's the first to reach Emily, lying motionless by the front door. He and another nurse cut Emily's sweatshirt from her body and take stock of her injuries. They're extensive, but she has a pulse and is still breathing.

She just might make it. As police and ambulances from the nearby hospital pull up in front of the clinic, John calls out to let them know that Emily's alive and that she needs help right now. Officers arrive on the scene and start ushering people back from the building.
After the Atlanta bombings, police departments have received warnings that any bomb blast could be followed by secondary explosions. But as the streets nearest the clinic bustle with activity and sirens, not everyone's heading towards the bomb site. Eric Rudolph, in his slapped ash disguise, is walking in the opposite direction, completely ignoring the commotion and panic on the street.

And that catches exactly the kind of attention he's hoping to avoid. Jermaine Hughes is an 18-year-old pre-med student at the University of Alabama. He heard the explosion a few seconds ago and is looking out the window of his dorm's laundry room when he spots Eric.
He's got a black backpack on, but it looks empty, which is strange. Jermaine thinks that if this guy was a student, that bag would have books in it, right? And why isn't he paying attention to what's going on around him?

When Eric crosses a park a few blocks away from the explosion, he starts walking faster. He's almost running, and Jermaine can feel it in his gut. Something is not right here.
Jermaine rushes outside to his car and starts driving in the direction he saw Eric walking. He catches up to him a minute or so later and follows at a safe distance, keeping a careful eye on this man with long brown hair and a dark hat. As Jermaine watches, Eric pulls a crumpled up plastic bag from his pocket and darts between two buildings vanishing from view.

Scared of losing the guy, Jermaine floors it, steering the car around to the other side of the block. Sure enough, Eric emerges from between the buildings, but he looks different now, his long hair is gone, so is the hat, and he's got large sunglasses on. Jermaine knows it's time to call 911, but this is 1998, and not every person just has a cell phone in their pocket.

He gets out of his car and asks some passersby to go and call the cops while he keeps an eye on Eric. But people just don't seem to believe him. So after wasting valuable minutes, Jermaine's lost sight of his quarry and figures he'll have to call it in himself.
He pulls into a McDonald's and convinces the manager to let him use the store's phone. But the call doesn't go well, with Jermaine frantically trying to describe what he's seen and the operator currently demanding a precise physical description. In the middle of the conversation though, Jermaine spots Eric again.

He's walking down the street right outside the restaurant. He excitedly tells the operator that he's looking at the guy right now and starts trying to describe him. Now, another customer overhears all of this going on.

From his closer vantage point, Jeff Tickle can make out more details. So he starts calling them out to Jermaine. Eric's changed his outfit, but he's carrying the same backpack as before.
And his mustache is unmistakable. As Jermaine stays on the line with the operator, Jeff picks up his coffee and rushes outside to follow Eric, who turns onto a narrow trail in the woods. Jeff drives around to the other side of the small wooded area, figuring he'll spot Eric when he emerges from the trees.

He drives along a few streets in the neighborhood, scanning for a man with a black backpack, but he can't see him. Just when he's about to give up, there he is. Eric's standing at the back of a gray Nissan pickup, loading something into the camper shell.

Jeff writes the truck's license plate number on his coffee cup, then follows as Eric starts driving away. By this point, 18-year-old Jermaine has met with police officers at McDonald's, who are now making the search of the woods. Jermaine gets in his car to look for Eric on his own, and sees Jeff tailing the gray pickup.

He pulls alongside the truck and looks over at the driver, confirming that it's the same guy he's been following. He manages to write down the license plate number as well, before he and Jeff both lose Eric in Birmingham's rush hour traffic. As Eric drives away from the city, he's struggling to keep the rising panic at bay.

He'd noticed Jermaine watching him, and he can't shake the feeling that he's been made. He drives down an old logging road near Springville, about 30 miles from Birmingham. He gets out of the truck, soaks his wig and his clothes in gasoline, then lights them on fire.

With some of the evidence turning to ash on the gravel at his feet, Eric pulls out a bar of soap and a razor and shaves off his mustache. Feeling more at ease now that he's less recognizable, Eric gets back onto the road and heads north to his trailer in Murphy. It's about a 200-mile drive and the entire journey Eric vacillates, trying to decide whether or not he was spotted back in Birmingham.

He doesn't know whether he should be worried or if he's just being paranoid. But by the time Eric's made it back home, both the Alabama State Police and the Birmingham PD have alerted officers that they should be looking out for the gray Nissan pickup. They already know that the truck's registered in Eric's name, and they have a good description of him.
They even have a recent address, so even if they don't spot him on the roads, it's only a matter of time before they catch up to him in person. Or so they think.

It's a little before 6 p.m. on January 30th, 1998, the day after Eric Rudolph bombed the new woman all-women clinic in Birmingham. In Murphy, North Carolina, Eric spent the last 36 hours in a low-grade panic. He heard on the radio that the security guard from the clinic was an off-duty cop, which he knows will only make the authorities more determined to find him.

He was so freaked out yesterday that he spent the night in the woods, hiding out in case the cop showed up at his trailer. He kept busy, though. For months now, he's been preparing barrels of food and essential supplies he can someday use if he needs to go on the land.

He brought several of those barrels out to the Fires Creek Wilderness area, about a 15-mile drive from his home. In the dark of night, he lugged the contents of his barrels into the woods, using a backpack to carry individual loads before moving the empty barrels themselves. He felt prepared to hide out for months if he had to.

But after a mostly sleepless night, Eric decided to go back to his trailer. The radio had been blaring nonstop news about yesterday's bombing, but there was no mention of any leads. He figured that if they were on to him, he'd have heard about it.
Now, as the short winter day winds down, Eric pulls his truck up beside his front door. He's just been to the video store. He needed something to distract himself.

He heads inside and starts the movie, then moves to the kitchen to start making dinner. He keeps the radio on, though, just in case. He's barely put the pot on the stove when he hears it.
Another news bulletin. He draws closer to the stereo to listen. There's something new this time.
Investigators are looking for a man driving a gray pickup. Eric immediately abandons what he's doing and starts rushing through his trailer, gathering anything he can think of. This is it.

It's only a matter of time before they're here. They might already be on their way. Well, he thinks if they're coming to find him, he's not going to make it easy.
In the aftermath of the Birmingham bomb, investigators set up a perimeter around the building to keep people safe from any secondary blasts. When it was clear that there wasn't another bomb nearby, agents from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, the ATF, moved in to examine the scene. It was a stomach-churning sight.

Scraps of Robert Sanderson's uniform were scattered around, dangling from the fence, stuck in the clinic ceiling. As for the building itself, what was once a red awning over the front door was now a shredded mess. There were nails from the bomb imbedded in the metal door frame and still more nails inside the clinic.
They shattered the windows, spraying the front of the building and leaving gouges in the painted bricks. If anyone had been inside the clinic's waiting room, they probably would have been shot through with shrapnel, like Emily Lyons was. As it stands, though, Robert was the only fatality.

Emily was seriously wounded, but she'll survive. As they took in the grizzly site, the ATF agents gathered soil samples, as well as any pieces of the bomb they could find. Early on, it seemed likely that this was the handiwork of the same bomber who already struck Atlanta three times, and investigators want evidence to confirm that suspicion.

Meanwhile, the FBI started chasing down the owner of the Gray Nissan Pickup, witnesses saw Eric driving soon after the blast. The address on file was an apartment in Asheville, North Carolina. An agent, Jim Russell, was sent to speak to Eric if he was there.
He wasn't, but it wasn't a total bust. The apartment in question used to be rented by Eric's mother, Patricia. She moved out a while back, but her landlord had an emergency contact number on file.
It was for her daughter, Maura, Eric's big sister. Her husband, Keith, answered the phone and agreed to speak with Agent Russell about his brother-in-law. Keith didn't really hold anything back.

He was not at all surprised to hear that the feds were looking for Eric. The guy had always struck him as kind of odd. He was a loner who only worked when he needed to and otherwise kept pretty isolated.
He'd sometimes show up at Keith and Maura's front door unannounced, but would never tell anyone where he lived or how to contact him. By this stage, Agent Russell had been joined by Tom Fry, an agent with the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation. After talking to other people in the town who've known Eric over the years, Russell and Fry were getting a clearer picture of the man they were hunting.
And he was fitting neatly into the profile of someone who might build and plant bombs. For starters, he wouldn't tell his family where he lived, and a background check didn't offer any recent addresses on file. People he went to high school with said he wouldn't sign their yearbooks because he didn't want to leave handwriting samples behind.

And he was a guy who spent his teenage years honing wilderness skills as he deepened his hatred for the federal government. So not only did Eric seem potentially dangerous, he could probably quickly and easily disappear if he wanted to. That meant time was of the essence.
They had to find Eric before he knew they were after him. Luckily for the investigators, Eric wasn't able to eliminate all traces of himself from the world. A utility company in Cherokee County eventually came through for the feds towards the end of the day.

They had a physical address for Eric, a trailer parked on Caney Creek Road and Murphy, about 100 miles away from Asheville. With an address in hand, agents Russell and Frye headed out. It was time to get their man.
It's right around 7 p.m. on January 30th. Jim Russell is suited in SWAT gear, flat on his stomach outside Eric Rudolph's trailer. Beside him is an ATF agent also wearing his SWAT gear.

Tom Frye and the local sheriff are both waiting a couple hundred feet away. It's Jim's job to clear the trailer before they move in. But up close, it's not looking promising.
The lights are on inside, but there's no truck parked anywhere nearby. And the front door is wide open. It's clear that Eric isn't home, and wherever he went, he left in a hurry.

Jim stands up and looks around the valley they're in. He knows that the woods around here are thick, steep and seemingly endless. If someone like Eric Rudolph uses them to hide, there's no telling how long the search could last.

Days, if they're lucky. And if Eric Rudolph's prepared enough, he could stay hidden for years.

From Airship, this is episode 3 in our series on Eric Rudolph. On the next episode, Eric makes his escape into the Appalachian wilderness, as all eyes turn to North Carolina and the hunt for a homegrown terrorist.

We use many different sources while preparing this episode. A couple we can recommend are Lone Wolf by Marianne Vollers, and the documentary feature, Soldiers in the Army of God, by Mark Levin and Daphne Pinkerson. We also read Eric Rudolph's autobiography, but we would not go so far as to recommend anyone else do the same.

This episode may contain reenactments or dramatized details. And while in some cases, we can't know exactly what happened, all our dramatizations are based on historical research. American Criminal is a co-production of Airship and Evergreen podcasts.

It's hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Jeremy Schwartz. Audio editing and sound design by Sean Ruhl-Hoffman, music by Thrum. This episode is written and researched by Joel Callan, managing producer, Emily Burke.
Executive producers are Joel Callan and Lindsey Graham.