Transcript
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[Music]
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Today we're diving into the story of George Russell Jr., a guy who started as the class clown
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and ended as one of Bellevue's most unsettling figures. George was the kind of person who could
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charm his way through any crowd, blending in and gaining trust. But beneath the jokes and charm,
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there was darkness, simmering. One moment he's making everyone laugh. The next, he silently lurking
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beside someone's bed in the dead of night. This wasn't just a search for acceptance.
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George had a deeper, disturbing need for control. His friendly fixer role was a mask,
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hiding something far more chilling. Buckle up, because this story is darker and stranger than you'd
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expect. This is 10 Minute Murder.
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[Music]
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Florida, 1958. George Waterfield Russell, Sr., and his wife Joyce had their first child,
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George Russell Jr., and on paper it probably looked like a classic happy family was in the making.
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But reality had other plans. Not long after George Jr. was born, Joyce decided she needed a fresh start,
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a different kind of life. So she packed up, left her husband, and maybe surprisingly left her
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infant son with her mother while she went off to college. She'd be back, she assured herself,
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with a degree and a better future. And she did come back, only it wasn't with just a diploma,
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she'd picked up along the way. She'd returned with a new husband, a successful dentist,
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and a move to an upscale Washington neighborhood. For little George, though,
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it meant a life where he'd always been on the outside, part of his mother's life but never really
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at its center. The dentist husband had money, so they upgraded to the affluent Mercer Island,
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Washington. George, now reunited with his mother, found himself one of the few black faces in
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this wealthy, mostly white neighborhood. But Joyce's fresh start didn't exactly mean a fresh start
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for George. With her attention on the new daughter she'd had with her new husband, George often
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felt like an afterthought. Craving attention, George quickly became the loud, boisterous kid who could
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crack everyone up. In high school, he played the role of the class clown, charming his way throughout
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the day. But this was more than just teenage angst. It was George's way of coping with feeling out of
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place among his classmates. Kids from rich, white families who couldn't understand his reality.
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Beneath the jokes, he was struggling and coping methods took a dark turn.
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At first, George's rebellion was just typical teen stuff, skipping class, smoking pot,
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lifting stuff from school lockers. But his antics escalated. Soon, he was sneaking into people's homes
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while they slept, taking souvenirs like cash, jewelry, and in some disturbing cases,
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just standing over sleeping women to watch them. The local cops were stumped, guessing their
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mystery burglar might be getting some thrill out of violating homes. Meanwhile, George was
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becoming a regular at the police station, thanks to a truancy program that led him shadow cops
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instead of facing actual discipline. It wasn't long before the station became his second home.
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Back at home, George's family life was disintegrating. Joyce remarried, then promptly unmarried,
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yet again, moving on from both her husband and George. George's new stepmother, however,
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fascinated him, and not in a good way. He began sneaking into her room to watch her sleep
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until his behavior escalated, ultimately leading to him getting kicked out of the house.
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At 16, George bounced between family members' homes and friends' couches, wherever he could crash.
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This couch-surfing lifestyle stuck. By his 20s, George was the kind of guy who could charm for a
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free meal or place to stay without a second thought. His days were spent hanging around the police station,
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while his nights found him frequenting Bellevue's popular nightclubs, a duffel bag containing all of
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his worldly possessions and a stash of adult magazines in tow. George's charm earned him friends
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and favors. People let him borrow their cars, offer their couches, let him borrow anything he needed,
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yet he wasn't just there to network. George had a unique way of using his police connections to
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gain women's trust, and often this tactic worked. But when his advances fell flat, he'd take the
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rejection personally, even violently, before calming down and continuing his night. For the friends he
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kept, George's temper was a worrying quirk, for the women who crossed him, it was much worse.
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By the time he hit his 30s, George was still the likable vagabond-type character everyone knew.
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Sure he'd "borrow your car" and some valuables, but then he'd charm his way back in with a nice dinner,
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and maybe even a round of drinks. "It's cool, huh?" he'd say, but the surface charm couldn't contain
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what was festering underneath, and soon things took a dark turn. One night, after getting banned from
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a club were impersonating a cop, George snapped. Shortly afterward, 27-year-old Mary Ann Polarick
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went missing from a night club and was later found dead, beaten and posed near a dumpster,
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nude, with a pine cone placed in her hands. It was a grim scene, carefully arranged.
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Not long after, 35-year-old Carol Bethey also disappeared. She was later discovered in her bed,
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beaten with her skull shattered, her body posed provocatively in red heels, and her shotgun,
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a former security measure inserted inside her. The horror of her death was amplified by the fact
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that her daughter had reportedly seen someone lurking with a flashlight that night. A few weeks later,
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another woman, Andrea Randi Levine, was found in a similar state. Blood spattered her room,
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her body mutilated by over 200 knife wounds. She'd been staged in a grotesque display,
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a copy of "More Joy of Sex," clutched in her left hand, an intimate toy stuffed down her throat.
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Just like before, items were taken from each scene. Rings and keepsakes that George would later give
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as gifts, tokens that eventually led the police right to him. George's downfall came when he gifted
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Randi's ring to a woman, telling her it was a Canadian street vendor's trinket. Seaman,
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fibers, and hair tied him to the scenes of all three murders, with some evidence even found in
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a friend's truck he'd borrowed. Washington's first serial murder trial was a gruesome affair.
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Testimonies from George's friends painted a clear picture of his twisted mind. He'd saved newspaper
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clippings about his victims, called them "Skanky Sluts," and bragged about how the cops would never catch him.
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It took the jury 22 hours to deliberate before they returned a guilty verdict on three counts
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of first-degree murder. George Russell Jr. received two life sentences plus 28 years. The final
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chapter for a kid who'd once wanted to make everyone laugh. And so George Russell Jr.'s story closes,
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though it's hard to say there's any satisfaction in it. From the start, his life seemed like one
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long dominoed chain of mischances and twisted choices. It was a boy left behind, not once but repeatedly,
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looking for love in all the wrong places, then in all the wrong ways, and finally in ways that
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worked, from simply sad, to terrifyingly sinister. All his charm and bravado traits that kept him a
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float in school hallways and nightclubs couldn't cover the fact that at his core, George had become a
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man living a lie. What's disturbing is how many people welcomed George into their lives, seeing him as
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the funny, charismatic wanderer who just needed a hand. A couch here, a car there, maybe a coffee and a
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chat. People liked George, or at least thought they liked George, but in those quiet moments, in those
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tense rejections from women who weren't impressed by his borrowed cop status or his relentless charisma,
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George's veneer would crack. The anger beneath would boil over, often needing a friend to calm down
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before he could shrug it off and move on to the next conquest. But moving on meant something different
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for George. His strange fascination with people's bedrooms, his bizarre enjoyment of lurking over
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the beds of sleeping women and his collection of trophies hinted at something far darker.
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People may have joked about George's quirks or his wayward lifestyle, but no one seemed to grasp
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the depth of his fixation, not until it was far too late. Now George spends his days in prison,
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a permanent pause in a life that craved attention, sought approval, and eventually twisted into something
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unrecognizable. His story, in a way, is a warning of how unresolved pain, unchecked anger,
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and endless manipulation can spiral into something monstrous. You almost wonder if, in a different world,
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things might have gone differently for him. If a teacher, a friend, or his mother had truly seen him,
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maybe they could have helped break the cycle of abandonment and rejection that fueled his desperation.
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But that's not the world George lived in, and he didn't choose redemption when he had the chance,
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and steady chose a path that left a string of lives shattered, families broken, and an entire
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community traumatized. For all his clever lines, smooth talking ways, and bravado, he ended up exactly
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where his choices led him. Alone, confined, no one left to charm, and all the lies laid bare.
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There's no happy ending here, no neatly tied up resolution. George Russell Jr. is a man who fell so far
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off course that there was no way back. The boy who just wanted his mother's love became a man
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who left an irreversible mark of horror. Now, for the rest of his days, he faces a real reflection,
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a lifetime away from the clubs, the classrooms, and the people who thought they knew him,
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and that's all that's left. The quiet, unflinching weights of all that he's done,
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and the cold, hard reality that he can't charm his way out of this one.
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That's 10-minute murder for today. Brief, unbindable, true crime. I'm Joe the host, and thank you for
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taking the time to listen. I'm sorry, I've just bit my tongue. I don't know. If I've ever done that in
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my life, just talking. And sure, I could stop this and rerecord it. But then I wouldn't have this for
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history. This wouldn't be on the history books of Joe. The first time you ever bit your tongue while
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just talking, not even eating something. Man, it's bleeding too, by the way. Someone please tell me,
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is it just me that's done this or have you done that? I've bitten my tongue before while eating,
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but just talking, have you done that before? Man, hey, if you're a new listener, make sure you hit
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subscribe wherever you like to listen to podcasts, connect with me on social media links or in the
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show notes, or you can go to 10minutemurder.com. If you want to send me an email, let me know I'm not the
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only one that bites the tongue while just simply talking like a dummy. Joe, my email address is Joe
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at 10minutemurder.com. And that's going to do it. I'm going to go find something to make this stop
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leading. Thank you so much for listening.
