Frank Gust - The Rhein-Ruhr Ripper

and reveled in death. Eventually he would be caught, but his warnings about killing again, if ever released, rang loud across the country, and it sent chills down everyone's spines when they learned he may be released as early as twenty twenty six. This story forces a chilling question what happens when a self proclaimed killer insists he should never walk free. This is the story of Frank Gust, aka the Rhinerue Ripper.

a hard day. Now, the house was dim and calm, the kind of place where you know heavy truths should have echoed, should have actually hit home, but somehow the truth today never did. She was flipping over cards, and with one she paused. The death card had flipped over and was staring up at her. She laughed it off at first, the way people do when you know something feels a little heavy to acknowledge, and she began to

reshuffle the deck and now here. I have read some conflicting reports where potentially she shuffled, redealt the deck again and the death card came up a second time, but I was unable to confirm it. But there are reports that that possibly played out that way regardless, she was shuffling the deck, and across from her her son Frank watched quietly, and then in a cold voice, he just

simply said, I killed a woman. He said it so casually, just a fact that he just placed on the table, as if her mother was placing his mother, sorry, was placing cards on the table. No different now his mother, Dagmar blinked. She was confused. She knew her son was a little different. She waited for the punchline, like it was a joke, but there wasn't one, not even a smile, as if he were waiting for a reaction. He just simply he sat there. She shook her head and waved

her hand, told him, you're always telling such stories. But Frank, well, he didn't argue. He just nodded slightly, kind of agreeing, and stood up from the table and carried that truth back into whatever private world he lived in. Whoa, And that was it. What his mother didn't realize, what no one in his family realized or understood at the time,

was that Frank wasn't making anything up. This wasn't a joke, he wasn't confused, he wasn't being dramatic, And by the time he spoke those words, he had in fact already killed. He had been living a double life for years, in fact, slipping through shadows no one even thought to look into.

In the coming months, the press would give him the nickname the Ryan were a Ripper, a nod to Jack the Ripper, not because he copied the crimes, but because he seemed to take satisfaction in making sure his victims were found posed in ways that jolted the entire community. And decades later, long after he would eventually confess, long after investigators would finally piece together the truth, Germany would set a date on the calendar twenty twenty six, the

year that he might walk out of prison. But to understand how someone becomes this kind of monster, we need to go back, We need to start at the beginning. Frank Gust entered the world in May of nineteen sixty nine, May twenty fourth, in fact, in Oberhausen, Germany, it was an industrial region where life often felt heavier than the steel it produced. From the very first hours of his life,

the foundation was already cracked. His father was a chronic alcoholic who didn't bother showing up for the hospital where he was birthed until three days later.

out of their lives. She worked constantly to keep them afloat, leaving long stretches of time where Frank was left in the care of others, or at times even simply being left alone. For a brief period. His grandmother stepped in, though, offering some stability and affection as well, you know, things that were missing at home. But when her health declined, Dagmar had no choice but to place Frank in a full time nursery. The facility kept him fed, clothed, and supervised,

yet it lacked something essential warmth. The caretakers for context, They weren't exactly cruel, but they were distant. There wasn't hugging there. There wasn't soothing, something like something a child was already deprived of in this situation. Something that Frank was missing was that constant love. And now the cold

atmosphere left a mark that would never truly fade. By nineteen seventy three, Dagmar managed to pull together enough savings to move her small family into a modest but comfortable home. It should have been a fresh start, and for a short while it even felt like one. Frank especially loved quiet Sunday mornings. He would crawl into bed beside his mother, something he would later remember as one of the only

times he felt safe in school. Frank was small, thin, and emotionally fragile, exactly the type of child that bullies would seek out. Things continued to deteriorate around him, not just at school, though, but at home too. When Frank was eight, Dagmar began a relationship with a man, man who moved into the house and immediately asserted control. He believed emotions were weakness and discipline was the cure for everything.

Frank Sunday mornings with his mother soon vanished. Overnight. His grandmother moved out, and his older brother eventually left as well, and the house grew quieter, colder, and more oppressive. Under his new stepfather's strict rule, Frank's childhood anxieties intensified. He began wetting the bed, withdrawing emotionally and avoiding confrontation because he knew punishment waited around every single corner. The home that should have felt safe while it became a place

where he tiptoed through his own life. Outside those walls, something even darker took hold. While escaping his home to spend time with his grandmother on the street and is where he often hung out, Frank met an older neighbor who seemed friendly at first, a sympathetic ear during a time when he desperately needed someone. However, the man wasn't exactly offering kindness. He had something else going on. See

he was an opportunist, and Frank became a victim. The neighbor's friendliness quickly turned into grooming, and within weeks he began sexually abusing Frank, taking advantage of a lonely and

emotionally neglected child who didn't understand what was happening. Now, that man eventually brought in other adults into the home too, and the abuse became something coordinated and repeated, with many of these individuals taking advantage of a child, a circle of predators, exploiting a boy who had no protection and no one to confide in.

he was that already. Okay, And with this which can be for sure, oh definitely. But with this animal situation we're about to discuss here, is it kind of I wrote it and I'll explain it. It really kind of starts to show that that flip side of the coin. You'll get it when I talk about it.

It was small, harmless, and entirely his. But when he brought it home, his father refused to let it stay. Frank tried to, you know, take it to his grandmother's, another place that he would go to, but she too dismissed it basically as being a filthy rodent and told him to get rid of it now. Instead of returning it or trying to hide it, Frank took the guinea pig outside. He pinned it down, and he smashed it

with a large stone, killing it instead. Now, what happened afterwards revealed the first undeniable sign of what he was becoming, or potentially what he already was. Instead of being broken, instead of being scared and torn over this and upset, he reached into this smashed dead animal's warm body and felt a rush, the sensation of the heat, the texture, the act itself. It did something to him. He didn't recoil, he didn't panic, He studied and reveled in the situation.

Later he admitted that it was the moment he realized he wanted more, a lot more.

The morgue became a place where no one judged him, no one hit him, and no one left him. The dead couldn't hurt him, and they couldn't stop him either. He even began breaking in at night, slipping through windows or doors he'd left prompt open during staff shifts. Sometimes the bodies were somewhat fresh, sometimes not. It didn't matter to him. What mattered was the ritual, the privacy, the stillness, and the complete lack of resistance. He didn't just touch

the bodies, he altered them. One night, he took a corpse apart, cutting it, repositioning it, and placing it in a way that would horrify the next person to walk into the morgue. He decapitated the body, laid the head by the entrance, and arranged the torso on a bench as if waiting to be discovered. And the next morning a grave digger opened the door and nearly collapsed from the shock of the site he found.

of something he had created. Okay, so outside the morgue, though his life had become a strange mix of isolation and secret gratification, he spent long afternoons wandering cemeteries too, just that calming silence was everything, and when the weather was mild enough, he would even sleep there, curled up between graves, surrounded by the one environment he felt something

close to peace. So it's clear that his abuse and upbringing certainly pushed him towards this, this life of you know, the graves, the morgues, the bodies, the silence, that sort of situation. But the connection I have yet to see is where he gets that and then enjoys visceral body massacres. Yeah, and the enjoyment of terrorizing other people.

warmth and even the weight of a human torso. So, in nineteen ninety two, under the guise of taking up hunting, Frank applied for a license. It wasn't dear or a small game he was interested in, though the moment the license was approved, he purchased a firearm, and any illusion of hunting as a hobby vanished. One afternoon, deep and wooded area, far from anyone who might intervene, Frank found exactly what he was waiting for. A lone horse grazing quietly.

He pulled up his rifle and pulled the trigger, shooting once, watching the horse collapse to the ground, and approaching the trembling body with calm, he knelt beside the horse, cut it open, and reached deep inside the still warm cavity. Later he described the experience as calming and almost peaceful, as though the warmth around him soothed something violent inside

his chest. It was another moment that changed him, and now he'd crossed that line with a large animal, the barrier between him and his ultimate fantasy, well, at this point it had all but vanished.

fantasy and reality had narrowed to a single choice. He didn't exactly know when it was going to happen or who it was going to be, but he knew the opportunity would eventually walk right into his path and one rainy day it did. That night, Catherine told Umps and Cross Paths with Frank gust and it didn't begin like the opening scene of a horror story. It was ordinary, damp and uneventful, an evening where people hurry home through

rain without giving anyone around them much thought. Catherine was twenty eight, a South African woman living in the Netherlands and traveling through Europe. She was smart, independent, and used to navigating unfamiliar places on her own. On a particular evening in nineteen ninety four, when she found herself stranded near a quiet stretch of rural road in Germany, she was hoping someone would give her a lift back towards town where she was staying, and when Frank pulled his

car over, well, he didn't look dangerous. He looked like any other passing driver willing to help a traveler stuck in bad weather. Catherine climbed in his car, grateful for the ride, and the two of them made small talk while the wipers dragged across the windshield. From the outside, it could have been any casual interaction from strangers, but inside Frank's mind, the moment felt entirely different. Everything he'd imagined was finally within reach, and the rain, well, it

made it even easier. No witnesses or traffic, and no one to question why a stranger had pulled over. He drove her off the main route, turning down a smaller lane that cut through a wooded area. Now Catherine assumed he just knew a short cut or was avoiding a flooded road, and that's why he was driving this way. She didn't question it. At some point, Frank pulled the car over on a quiet stretch of forest road and

stepped out for an unknown reason. Then he claimed he dropped his keys outside and he was looking for them. Catherine joined him to help, bending towards the ground in search, and in that moment, when she was down into the dirt looking around for those keys, he drew his pistol and shot her from behind.

had practiced on animals and more corpses. It was all now real, and the thrill was everything he dreamed of. When he finished, he began staging her body. He severed her head and hands, scattering them in different parts of the woods. It wasn't just to hide her identity, though, as it is in many other cases. Frank wanted whoever it was who was going to find her to feel shaken, confused, horror,

all of it. And then he placed her torso where it would be noticed sooner rather than later, letting nature and chance do the rest, and it wouldn't take long for her to be found. In fact, Catherine's remains were discovered the very next day.

he became a little more talkative. The killing had given him the sensation he'd been chasing for years, but it also left him buzzing with a need to share it, almost like he wanted someone to pull the truth out of them, like he needed to brag about it.

killed a woman, she laughed it off. How else is someone supposed to react when their quiet, strange boyfriend calmly said, you know what, I'm a murderer.

she thought, part of some odd disturbing prank. He's going the extra mile to really sell this, And when the disbelief well didn't fade, Frank took her to the very place that he buried Catherine's severed hands.

a mannequin, or a prop or something. She went home shaken and unsure what exactly to believe or even to do, and instead of calling the police, she told a few friends what Frank had said, and they too shrugged it off. Frank was odd, sure, but a serial killer, no, impossible. They dismissed him the same way that she did, and they did nothing about it.

any sort of accident. His mother listened, confused and brushed it off, just like everyone else did so far. Frank was dramatic. Sometimes he told odd stories. Surely he didn't mean this literally. Frank had essentially waved a crimson red flag of blood in front of other people. He gave them details, he showed them evidence, He walked one to the actual crime scene and dug up body parts. But each time he reached out, people recoiled from the truth

and chose denial over action. No one filed a report, no one asked follow up questions. They simply went back to their lives, believing that the real monsters in the world were far away from them.

He looked settled, a man with a steady job, a husband, someone who blended into the rhythm of the working class life without attracting any sort of attention. Nothing about his domestic routine hinted at the violence brewing under the surface. If he came home withdrawn her irritable, people assumed it was work stress. We all go through that. When he claimed the basement of his house as his private space, no one questioned it either. Behind that closed door, his

fantasies would continue to evolve. That basement was his private world, the only space where the facade dropped. While his wife tended to their daughter upstairs, Frank dissected animals behind a locked door. He hunted at night, returned home with carcasses, and used the quiet hours to peel back the layers of fantasies that had been with him since childhood. The violence didn't fade after Catherine's murder. In fact, it's no surprise to say it only intensified instead. Being a husband

didn't steadi him. Being a father didn't anchor him. If anything, the contrast made the violence sharper and more necessary. By the mid nineties, the double life was fully formed. One Frank kissed his daughter good night, and the other began

driving through red light districts after dark. He didn't outwardly stalk anyone yet, but he was one and waiting, letting his mind fill in the details of the scenario he wanted to create, and he soon began spending more time near Essen's Central station, a busy hub where people came and went without leaving much of a footprint. Frank blended in easily.

passenger seat, and the car pulled away. He drove towards a quieter industrial zone, far from the bustle of the station and the patrol patterns of police. There were no witnesses or cameras, darkened side streets, and the low hum of passing freight trains. Once he stopped the car, the shift happened quickly. He reached for his weapon and shot her before she could ever react. The moment she slumped

against the seat, the familiar script took over. The necrophiliac compulsions and horror all unfolded in that car, and then he pulled her out, dragged her to a nearby clearing, and set to work. He mutilated her body in the same cold precision, working quietly and methodically, and when he was done, he positioned her remains, deliberately, arranging her in a way that was designed to force attention He wanted the scene to be found quickly, and he wanted the

horror to spread. Someone discovering the body was part of that ritual and part of his satisfaction, and by morning, a passerby stumbled upon the scene. Police officers arrived soon, and it didn't take long to notice the similarities between this murder and Catherine's. The brutality, the staging, the intentional

shock value. It all matched. While they were not prepared to declare a serial killer outright, the idea certainly lingered, and the investigators knew they weren't dealing with an impulsive, one time killer. It was too violent and too personal. Frank watched the news coverage the way other people might watch sports highlights of their favorite team, with quiet satisfaction.

The police were beginning to see a pattern, sure, but the pattern recognition meant nothing when the man responsible looked like everyone else and no one believed that he was a killer. Two years passed before he would kill again, but the pause didn't signal restraint. Frank had settled deeper into the illusion of normalcy. He went to work, came home, shared meals, and slept in sane bed as his wife.

Yet underneath that routine. This compulsion hadn't faded. In fact, he'd simply been waiting for the right moment when it would resurface once again. Her name was Sandra, a twenty six year old sex worker who operated around the same red light district where Savena had operated On most nights. Women worked the strip. They knew which clients were safe, They knew which were regulars, and which should be better off left alone. But like any other time in his life,

Frank didn't stand out as dangerous. Sandra approached his car, He offered payment, and she accepted. He drove them out of the city the way he did in the past, following familiar roads until the glow of the street lamps faded behind them, and this time, though he didn't rush, he wanted the build up. When he pulled over and turned off the ignition of the vehicle, he asked if she would agree to being tied up now. Sandra didn't flinch at the request, though some clients, well, they like

to use restraints. It's not exactly uncommon, really, and so what she did was negotiate a higher price, and Frank quickly agreed, knowing that he wouldn't be paying it.

a fantasy, not stepping into a trap. It was only when she was fully restrained to the tone shift Frank began talking with a strange calmness, describing to her what he wanted to do, what he really wanted to do, how he imagined opening her chest, and what he thought of beating heart might feel like in his hands.

talk him down. Terrified but still hoping that she could just, you know, get out of this situation if she stayed calm, and for a moment it seemed like he might just unravel completely. But whatever crack had opened closed again just as quickly. He removed the gun from her hands, cut the restraints, stepped back, as if he had suddenly decided

to just let her go, and she didn't hesitate. She bolted from the car, with her clothes torn, running barefoot towards the road, and she only got a few meters before Frank lifted the rifle and fired three shots, and Sandra collapsed dead.

Women avoided traveling alone at night patrols were increasing, and investigators privately admitted they were, in fact now dealing with a serial killer who showed no signs of slowing down. The brutality, staging, the way the victims were left to be found, all of it pointed towards a twisted spree. Frank meanwhile, returned home before dawn, cleaning himself up, and slipped back into the quiet rhythms of family life once again.

In fact, Sandra's murder should have been the point where Frank lost control, where you know, those cracks begin to show more and more, where someone grows bolder, they get sloppier, where someone close to him might spot something that didn't add up. But instead, life carried on with its usual rhythm. He still went to work, came home with his wife and daughter, still blended into everyday life so convincingly that no one questioned the long hours he spent alone or

you know, away at nights. Around this time, his wife's aunt, Girlinde, entered the picture more closely, i should say, Newly divorced and struggling with loneliness. She reached out to Frank and his wife for support. She'd always being close to them, especially their daughter, and the idea of having family nearby felt comforting. When she suggested that, you know what, they could stay for a while with her. It was family

pulling together during a difficult time. Frank agreed, and within days the three of them had settled into Gerlinda's home. The arrangement was temporary, but it created a sense of closeness was needed, and one Frank quietly used to his advantage. Shortly after they arrived, he laid down one condition he needed the basement. The basement was to be off limits. No one was to enter, no matter what. His explanation was vague, something about privacy, needing a personal space. But Girlnde, well,

she didn't question it. Neither did his wife. The basement became his sanctuary, and whatever he did down there remained hidden.

Frank listened as she spoke, and he began describing parts of his own past too, not the sanitized versions that he would tell most people, but the darker ones that he had mentioned before. At first, she didn't understand what he was saying, the cruelty to animals, the more break ins, the violence that he claimed to be committing. It sounded impossible, and when he began describing the murders in detail, she dismissed it as morbid fantasies or disturbing attempts at humor,

just like anyone else had did before. However, he didn't stop talking, and the more that she pushed back on the topic, the more serious he became, and eventually she came to realize he wasn't joking. Something shifted in her expression, a flicker of fear, disbelief maybe, whatever it was, Frank read it instantly, and in that moment his internal balance changed. After that Girlnde disappeared within days.

in her stomach like a stone. Everyone else dismissed it. His girlfriend, everyone, even she herself, had chosen not to believe something so unthinkable. But now his wife's aunt, Gerlinda, had vanished, and the timing gnawed at her. She didn't go to police, though she couldn't bring herself to not to cross that line. But she did something she hadn't done before. She told a trusted friend exactly what Frank

had once confessed to her. She told her about the day the tarot cards, and then about how Girlinde had vanished, and how the coincidence it no longer felt like a coincidence. Thankfully, the friend didn't dismiss her, She didn't laugh or wave it off like every single other person had so far. Instead, she went straight to the police.

said they wanted a DNA sample. It was a small request, standard procedure, nothing to worry about if he's innocent, right, But Frank said no. He didn't hesitate either, it was just a flat out refusal. And then he added a sentence that froze them where they stood, saying, quote, you don't need my DNA. I'm the man you're looking for.

was just a matter of fact to him. When officers entered the basement at Gerlundy's home for the first time, everything fell into place. The walls were lined with animal hides, carefully scraped and preserved. Tools were laid out on tables, a collection of knives, saws, restraints, tapes, and even components of beginnings of homemade explosives. The scene was well, it was organized, methodical. It was the private studio of a man who'd spent years refining his violence in secrecy. What

they didn't find was Girlinde. Her disappearance remained the one piece Frank never fully explained. He hinted many times at what he had done, and investigators believed that she was dismembered and discarded across multiple locations, but her remains were never recovered.

essen station, the hitchhiker, the staging dismemberment. He listed dates, locations, movements, and tools with clarity that made it obvious he had reheard first these events in his mind over and over. He wasn't boasting, though, he was just spilling it all, like pressure had built up and it was simply time to let it out. One investigator slid crime scene photos across the table, asking him to confirm which images of

remains and body parts matched which victim. Frank nodded without emotion, naming each woman quietly and matching photos of each part to a person so matter of factly, Even though the authorities had struggled for years to identify some of them, he knew.

but that was the one topic he danced around. He didn't deny harming her, he didn't deny disposing of her, but he never offered specifics, not where she was, not what happened, not whether there was a struggle or anything. It was as though he considered that different as we were discussing, maybe more of a private story, who knows,

but he had no intention of sharing it. Regardless, with all of this, before they even had time to carry the evidence out of that basement, investigators knew for certain they had finally unmasked the killer. But the mystery was no longer who he was. It was why he decided to confess so openly, and when asked, Frank gave a very simple answer, quote, no one ever believed me before I told them, all of them, but they laughed or ignored me. You're the first people who listened. In that moment,

police realized he hadn't just suddenly confessed to this. He'd been dropping confessions for years. This wasn't something out of the blue. It wasn't a surprise, something that no one could have predicted. People knew, but the problem was not a single one of them had taken him seriously. Now at least someone finally had. The trial for Frank gust began in September of the year two thousand and By the time he entered the courtroom, the case against him

was overwhelming, to say the least. The confessions alone were enough to secure conviction, but the physical evidence taken from the basement, DNA matches, from crime scenes, all of it aligned with his own chilling account. There was no loopholes to exploit and no arguments that could soften what he had done. Even his own lawyers, well, they seemed to understand that the proceedings were little more than a formality.

There was nothing they could do. Frank walked into that courtroom and he offered the same quiet expression that he maintained during his arrest. What unsettled observers most was the absence of emotion, no remorse or theatrics, just a man sitting almost comfortably in the space where his violence had finally been acknowledged. Psychiatrists testified in the early trial, and

their conclusions were stark. Frank was a sexual sadist with necrophilia tendencies so deeply rooted that treatment offered little hope of change. One expert described his compulsions as chronically anchored, meaning they weren't impulses that he could outgrow or suppress long term. Another stated plainly that he posed quote an ongoing and extreme risk to society end quote, with a psychological profile that made rehabilitation nearly impossible. Now, Frank didn't

attempt to dispute any of this either. In fact, when given a chance to address the court, he didn't apologize. He didn't express guilt. Instead, he made a request. He asked for the death penalty. Unfortunately for him, though Germany had abolished capital punishment decades earlier, long before he was even born, but Frank still asked for it. He told the court that being alive was dangerous.

struggled to summarize the case in neat headlines. Some focused on the comparison to Jack the Ripper, others with his necrophilia confessions, and a few on his request for his own execution inside the prison system. While Frank briefly agreed to therapy, he lasted six months before abruptly quitting. His explanation was as flat as everything else. He said therapy wouldn't change him, and he didn't want people wasting resources

on someone who wasn't fixable. After the sentencing, Frank was transferred to j VA Whirl, a high security prison known for housing some of Germany's most dangerous offenders. His marriage unsurprisingly collapsed after the weight of the truth, with his wife cutting off contact, divorcing him, and left to rebuild a life outside the shadow of what he had done.

For most people, that would have marked the end of any intimate connection, but Frank found one of those people who were willing to connect with a killer in prison, someone willing to write him, and over time those letters shifted into something resembling a relationship, and eventually he remarried from behind bars. It was a strange continuation of the double life that he maintained for years, a man capable

of playing partner and monster at the same time. Then, in twenty twenty came a decision that's done the public and members of law enforcement. Despite everything he said about himself, despite his refusal to participate in treatment, and despite the violent nature of his crimes, Frank was granted escort day release. Oh no, under German law, even high risk inmates maybe granted short supervised trips outside prison walls as part of

a gradual reintegration process. For someone like Frank, those crimes involved sexual sadism, necrophilia, and mutilation, and it felt unthinkable to let someone like that out for even a day.

was part of a process, not a reward. They're not rewarding him, They're doing what needs to happen.

had changed. Still, the calendar continues to move forward. Under German sentencing law, even life imprisonment includes a point at which parole can be considered, and Frank has reached that threshold years ago already, which means the debate over his potential release is not hypothetical anymore. His official release date is listed as potentially being twenty twenty six, depending on evaluations with officials, and no confirmation has been made publicly

about whether parole will be granted or not. What is known is this, The applications exist, reviews have been conducted, and evaluations are ongoing behind closed doors. Even now, decades after his arrest, the story of Frank Guss doesn't rest quietly. In fact, it, with the approach of the new year, is only gaining a louder voice now with a monster

such as him. Investigators have of course mapped his childhood, psychologists dissected his compulsions, and journalists traced every step of his crimes, and still the core of his brutality and impulses remain unreachable and a mystery. We don't know how he got to become what he is. And most interesting of all, he didn't hide behind excuses. He didn't claim that he was innocent. He didn't even attempt to have the pretense of rehabilitation on his side. Instead, he described himself,

plainly and factually for what he is. He too, knows that he's a monster, and he's not pretending otherwise. That certainly is what unsettles people most about his potential release as it draws near. It's the awareness that even he believes nothing in him can change. Cases like this force society to confront a question that is, while it has no comfortable answer. Is every offender capable of rehabilitation or are some people simply too dangerous to ever risk setting free.

Frank has stated therapy is pointless, and more than once that if he ever walks out of prison, he would kill again. It's rare for a criminal to speak so directly about their own danger, and rareer still for the possibility of release to appear on the horizon. Anyways. That is why his name sparks so much fear. It isn't because people have forgotten what he did. It's because they remember all too well, and because that threat of that he once posed it has never been convincingly shut away.

He's still a threat to the public. Whether he is ultimately granted freedom or kept behind bars is a decision that is in the hands of courts, psychiatrists, and parole boards. But for those who followed the case, and for those who lived through the years of the rhine Ruer Ripper and while he was still out there, one thought remains long after the details have faded. Some warnings aren't spoken

to frighten others. They're spoken simply because they're true. And Frank Gerst more than anyone, has made it clear exactly who he is. And that's the story of the Rhine or Ripper.

Can everyone be rehabilitated? And that sort of questioning is right now in the hands in this case of the law of psychiatrists, of the courts, the parole boards, everyone, they're trying to evaluate that now, whether they evaluate it to the truest extent of reality and the facts, or if they're simply going to go through and say, well, step ABCD and now he gets released and that's that and they don't do their job or do diligence. I guess we'll find out.

You will hurt again.