By Kelly Jones and Josh Levin

In 1990, Rita Skimehorn thought someone was pranking her when Pizza Hut headquarters called and told her to pack for Moscow. The Illinois training manager became part of an audacious gambit: opening the first American sit-down restaurant in the USSR. PepsiCo traded submarines and warships for rubles to finance construction. Construction workers exchanged vodka for cement on highways. Highly educated Soviets—cashiers with banking degrees, kitchen workers with engineering PhDs—applied in droves for $5,000-a-month salaries that made them millionaires by Soviet standards. The salad bar baffled customers who couldn't believe they could help themselves; they built towering bowls using breadsticks as edible support columns. When communist hard-liners staged a coup in August 1991, manager Alex Antoniadi delivered 60 pizzas and 20 cases of Pepsi to Boris Yeltsin's supporters barricaded in parliament—broadcast worldwide on CNN. Four months later, the Soviet Union dissolved. By 1998, both Moscow locations had closed after someone walked in claiming to own the buildings. Mikhail Gorbachev defended his legacy in a 1997 Pizza Hut commercial that never aired in Russia, where he was widely hated.

by Jessica Lussenhop, ProPublica, and Andy Mannix, Minnesota Star Tribune, photography by Leila Navidi, Minnesota Star Tribune

The girl pleaded not to go. At her father's insistence, she entered an office building where two men waited: Clint Massie, who'd been sexually abusing her since kindergarten, and Daryl Bruckelmyer, a preacher from their Old Apostolic Lutheran Church. Massie asked forgiveness. The three men wept. Then they allowed him to hug her. "If she spoke of it again, she would be guilty of having an unforgiving heart and the sins would become hers," according to her later police testimony. For 20 years across two states, Massie abused children in church pews, under blankets with parents present, in backseats with other passengers. His abuse was such an open secret that mothers warned daughters to stay away. When victims confronted church leaders, they were pressured into forgiveness sessions that allowed Massie to continue. Preachers never reported him to police despite mandatory reporting laws. In 2020, an investigator explained those laws line-by-line to Bruckelmyer, who claimed not to understand. Massie wasn't charged until 2023—after the statute of limitations expired for many victims. He pleaded guilty to four felony counts and received 7½ years. Church leaders faced no consequences. Investigators now field calls from alleged victims nationwide.

By Jamie Thompson, Photographs by Caleb Alvarado

Ryan Borgwardt, 44, pushed his kayak into Wisconsin's Big Green Lake on August 11, 2024, to watch the Perseid meteor shower. He never came home. His wife called 911 at 5:24 a.m. Searchers found his overturned kayak, fishing rod, tackle box with his wallet still inside. For 53 days, expert Keith Cormican dragged sonar equipment across the lake's 236-foot depths, baffled by finding nothing. Then Canadian border authorities revealed they'd searched Ryan's name the day after he vanished. Investigators discovered Ryan had reported his passport "lost" in April, received a replacement in May, applied for a $375,000 life insurance policy in January, accumulated $80,000 in secret credit card debt, reversed his vasectomy, and been messaging a Russian woman named Katya: "I promise to you that I will love you for the rest of my life." He'd kayaked to the lake's center at midnight, flipped his boat, paddled ashore in a $20 child's raft, then biked 70 miles to catch a Greyhound to Toronto. Detectives persuaded him to return from Georgia. He served 89 days in jail for obstructing an officer—a misdemeanor. His deeply religious wife Emily filed for divorce but told reporters she'd consider reconciliation: "A sin is a sin."

By Jessica Pishko

The "Biggest Little Town in Tennessee" called a town meeting to discuss its entire identity crisis. Adamsville, population 2,000, is a shrine to Buford Pusser, the legendary sheriff immortalized in the 1973 hit Walking Tall, which grossed $60 million depicting him brutally beating criminals with a bat. The town features a Pusser museum, Pusser fairgrounds, a water tower with his image, and the Buford Pusser Highway. His fame rests on one tragic claim: mobsters ambushed and murdered his wife Pauline in 1967. This August, Tennessee investigators announced stunning findings after exhuming Pauline's body: Pusser probably shot her twice in the back of the head at home, dressed her corpse, planted evidence at a roadside, then shot himself in the jaw. Witnesses at the time suspected him; Pauline was allegedly preparing to leave, sneaking clothes out in two layers. Pusser killed at least two others, took bribes from bootleggers, loaned money at usurious rates. He died in 1974 driving 130 mph while intoxicated. At the town hall, residents defended preserving the myth: "The little guy can stand up. Corruption will eventually end." Trump-favorite sheriffs Joe Arpaio, David Clarke, and Mark Lamb have won the Buford Pusser award.

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Unexplainable by Vox Media: I have always enjoyed the reporting from the Unexplainable team, but I just finished some of their recent episodes that were some of their best.

Sound Barrier: 4 part series on the limits of hearing

Is Animal Grief Real: A look at animal behavior

Lost on the Road to Enlightenment: The dark side of meditation

Really hope you enjoyed the selection of stories today. I am always interested in hearing from you. If you have thoughts on how I can make this email even better, do not hesitate to reach out.

Brett

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