Welcome to another edition of Time Sucks Short Sucks. I'm Dan Cummins, and today I will be sharing the story of Mary Bell.

Who would you least like to run into in a darkened alley? When you think of merciless, bloodthirsty killers,

I imagine certain archetypes tend to pop up in your mind, a grown male, perhaps a sadistic serial killer type, prowling neighborhoods looking

for windows of unsuspecting victims to climb in and torment, some Richard Ramirez

knight-stalker kind of monster, or maybe a muscular contract killer, like the Iceman,

Richard Kuklinski. Someone who's been in the game a long time, murdered over and over again for money,

a dead-eyed, unsympathetic professional who ceased to think of his fellow humans as anything

but blood and guts to be disposed of.

These are the people we might cross to the other side of the street to avoid.

But, as we know from what we've talked about for many years, inner psychopathy does not always equate to the scariest physical appearance.

Sometimes it's truly the people you least expect.

The charming family man, the elderly widow, the misguided teenager, or even a little 10-year-old girl who has just discovered that she likes to watch people die.

Words and ideas can change the world.

I hated her, but I wanted to love my mother.

I have a dream.

I'll plead not guilty right now.

Your only chance is to leave with us.

According to author Gidda Serony, who wrote the case of Mary Bell, Newcastle-upon-Tyne

shares the curious characteristic of many of Britain's industrial cities of looking empty, even when the streets are full, poor even in relatively affluent times, gray even in brightest sunshine. Lying 275 miles north of London,

with the population of about 340,000 when Mary was a child, it wasn't the most fun or glamorous

place to grow up, but it did have amenities, like a number of good schools and hospitals,

a university of repute, a famous medical school, a progressive

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