Murder by nature

The Abduction and Survival of Jessyca Mullenberg

• Jazmin Ramirez • Season 2 • Episode 6

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Welcome to Murder By Nature, where the darkness of true crime, unsolved disappearances, and chilling mysteries come to life. I’m your host, Jazmin Ramirez, and if you’re brave enough to join us, prepare for a journey into the unknown.

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The streets of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, were quiet, lined with cozy homes and the sounds of children playing in backyards. It was the kind of place where parents felt safe letting their kids ride their bikes until the streetlights flickered on. But in the fall of 1995, that sense of security was shattered. A girl vanished without a trace—one moment, she was there, a bright, imaginative 13-year-old with dreams of becoming a writer. The next, she was gone.

Her name was Jessyca Mullenberg.

Jessyca’s life had already seen its share of changes. After her parents divorced, she moved to Wausau, Wisconsin, with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers. She missed Eau Claire, missed the familiarity of her old neighborhood. But she still visited her father often, spending weekends with him in the house she once called home. It was during those visits that she met a man who would change the course of her life forever.

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Intro: "Welcome to Murder By Nature, where the darkness of true crime, unsolved disappearances, and chilling mysteries come to life. I’m your host, Jazmin Ramirez, and if you’re brave enough to join us, prepare for a journey into the unknown.


References:



The streets of Eau Claire, Wisconsin, were quiet, lined with cozy homes and the sounds of children playing in backyards. It was the kind of place where parents felt safe letting their kids ride their bikes until the streetlights flickered on. But in the fall of 1995, that sense of security was shattered. A girl vanished without a trace—one moment, she was there, a bright, imaginative 13-year-old with dreams of becoming a writer. The next, she was gone.

Her name was Jessyca Mullenberg.

From the time she could hold a pencil, Jessyca had been a storyteller. Writing was more than a hobby—it was a passion. She filled notebooks with stories, her mind constantly spinning new ideas. It was a gift that made her stand out, even at a young age. But as she would later learn, talent can sometimes attract the wrong kind of attention.

Jessyca’s life had already seen its share of changes. After her parents divorced, she moved to Wausau, Wisconsin, with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers. She missed Eau Claire, missed the familiarity of her old neighborhood. But she still visited her father often, spending weekends with him in the house she once called home. It was during those visits that she met a man who would change the course of her life forever.

The autumn air was crisp in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, when a new neighbor moved in next door to Jessyca’s father’s house. His name was Steven Oliver. At first, no one paid him much attention. He was just another man settling into the quiet neighborhood a schoolteacher’s aide, the kind of person you’d expect to be kind, patient, maybe even a little forgettable. He wasn’t loud or boastful. He wasn’t flashy. He blended in.

But soon, people began to notice that Oliver had a particular interest one that revolved around children. He worked as an English and writing tutor, conducting workshops and helping young students hone their skills. He spoke passionately about storytelling, about nurturing creativity, about the magic of turning imagination into words on a page. Parents saw a man devoted to education, someone who genuinely cared. 

And Jessyca She saw an opportunity. She had always loved writing, had always believed in the power of a good story. It was her escape, her passion, her way of understanding the world. So when Oliver took an interest in her work, she felt something rare—a kind of validation that every young artist craves. He didn’t just say she was talented; he made her believe it. He promised to help her publish her stories, to introduce her to people who could make that dream come true. To a 13-year-old girl, hungry for success, it was a dream come to life. Their conversations stretched long into the evenings, spilling from discussions about writing into something deeper. He asked about her life, her dreams, her struggles. He made her feel important in a way few adults ever had. But not everyone was taken in by his charm.

Let’s take a step back—everything might seem ordinary at first, but there’s a twist no one saw coming. What if I told you that Jessyca didn’t simply meet Steven Oliver on that chilly autumn day? Instead, their fateful encounter began much earlier, when she was just a simple third grader at her school. Back then, the days were filled with the innocent chatter of young minds and the promise of endless possibilities. Oliver wasn’t yet the man whose dark shadow would later define her existence. At that time, he was merely a teacher’s aide who volunteered after school, running a writing workshop that served as a creative sanctuary for eager students. It was a club where stories flowed as freely as the laughter of children, where every scribbled word was a step into a world of dreams and adventures. But even as the after-school club offers safe havens and creative adventures, a darker truth lurks beneath the surface. Jessyca finds that Oliver isn’t simply a kind mentor—he is obsessed with her. What begins in the innocent corridors of her elementary school soon transforms into something far more disturbing.

As the years unfold and her family seeked a fresh start by moving to new Wisconsin towns, Oliver’s presence remained inescapable. With an unnerving persistence, he followed them from one town to the next, his shadow lingering no matter where they try to rebuild their lives. Then, in a calculated act of intrusion, he moved in directly across the street from her father’s house. It is as if every step of her journey, every hope for a peaceful new beginning, was being watched and controlled by a man whose fixation knows no bounds—a constant, unyielding reminder that the very person who once offered words of encouragement now harbors a dangerous obsession, one that will forever alter the course of her life.

At the same time, in an environment that should be a safe space for growth and expression, Jessyca faces a daily reality that undermines her confidence. From third grade through seventh, Steven Oliver, shifted from the role of mentor to that of someone who inflicts emotional harm. Instead of nurturing her love for writing, he repeatedly tells her that she is "stupid, useless, and ugly." These remarks, delivered casually yet deliberately, steadily erode her self-esteem. What might have been dismissed as occasional criticism becomes an ongoing pattern of verbal abuse. Each day, the weight of his words leaves her feeling isolated and unsure of her own worth, and the fear of further mistreatment—along with the unspoken threat that accompanies his harsh comments—forces her into a suffocating silence, even as her creative spirit longs desperately for encouragement and understanding.


Now from the beginning, Jessyca’s mother, Monica, felt an uneasiness settle in her bones whenever Oliver was near. There was something about him—something that didn’t sit right. It wasn’t obvious, nothing blatant. It was just… a feeling. A mother’s instinct. She watched the way he hovered, always finding an excuse to be around. The way his interest in Jessyca stretched beyond simple encouragement. The way he seemed to latch onto her, as though she were more than just another student in his workshops. Monica voiced her concerns, but what could she say? He hadn’t done anything wrong. That she knew of, see He was respected, trusted. No one else seemed alarmed, or knew the person he truly was. So she did what many parents do when they can’t quite put a name to their fear—she pushed the thoughts aside, told herself she was overreacting, that she was seeing danger where there was none. But she wasn’t. Because Oliver had spent years perfecting this act. Years crafting his disguise, earning trust, embedding himself into the fabric of communities just like this one.


For Jessyca the weight of Oliver’s presence was suffocating, but what lurked beneath the surface was far darker than anyone could have imagined. His grip over Jessyca wasn’t just psychological—it was physical, violent, and terrifying. Behind closed doors, his cruelty knew no bounds. He began sexually abusing her in his house  he would tell her that she had done something bad and order her into his kitchen. And if she didn't touch him the way he wanted, he'd hit her. Eventually he was forcing intercourse and oral sex on to her, sometimes twice a day. His abuse didnt start there, in order to not be caught he would punch her on the legs or back, or strike her with a broom. He terrorized her with threats of what he would do if she ever told anyone about this.  As Jessyca tried to resisted, he stabbed me in the stomach with the tip of a knife leaving her bleeding all over, but he refusing to take her to the hospital. Instead ordering her to bandage herself up and threatening that if anyone ever found out, he'd murder the entire family.


After that, she didn’t resist anymore. It wasn’t submission—it was survival. Every attempt to fight back had been met with swift, brutal consequences, and the threats weighed heavier than any physical wound. The fear of what he might do—to her, to her family—kept her locked in silence.  


Why her? That question lingered in the back of her mind, an echo she couldn’t escape. Psychologists say that predators have an instinct, an ability to spot vulnerability like a wolf picking out the weakest in a herd. Maybe Oliver had sensed it in her. Maybe he had always known. Because long before he came into her life, Jessyca had already been hurt. Already been broken.  She was just five years old when the first betrayal happened. The father of her dad’s girlfriend—a man who was supposed to be a caretaker, a guardian—became her first abuser. It started in the quiet of her bedroom, the shadows stretching long as he whispered instructions she didn’t understand but obeyed out of fear. He touched her. Made her touch him. Stole something from her that she hadn’t even known she had. Then came the second. A roommate of her father’s. Another man who saw in her not a child, but an opportunity. His demands were worse. Harsher. The things he forced upon her became a nightmare that played on repeat, night after night, until it became her reality.  By the time Oliver came along, Jessyca had already learned what it meant to be powerless. Maybe he could sense that. Maybe that’s why he chose her. Because she had already been silenced before. And now, once again, she was trapped in a world where no one could hear her scream.


The morning of September 16, 1995, felt like the start of something big. Jessyca was anxious but excited, the kind of nervous energy that comes with the possibility of dreams coming true. Oliver had promised her that today was the day—she was finally going to meet real publishers, people who could bring her writing to life.

She had spent the night at her father’s house, unaware that the promise of opportunity was nothing more than a carefully crafted lie. Oliver had spun the story so well, so convincingly, that no one questioned it. He had built trust over the years, embedded himself into their lives like a parasite, and now, with a simple offer, he had managed to get exactly what he wanted.

Jessyca climbed into his car, completely unaware that she was about to disappear.

The trip was supposed to be a short one—just a drive from Eau Claire to Madison, where the meeting was supposedly set to take place. But as the city faded behind them and the miles stretched into unfamiliar territory, something inside Jessyca shifted. The excitement dulled, giving way to an uneasy sense that something was wrong.

She asked him questions—where exactly was the meeting? Who were they seeing? Why did it feel like they had been driving for too long?

But Oliver was prepared. He had answers, smooth and effortless. The meeting had been rescheduled. They needed to take a detour. Just a little further, he assured her. Almost there.

Only, they weren’t almost there.

They weren’t going to Madison. They weren’t going to meet publishers.

Jessyca wasn’t going home.

The last thing Jessyca remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the hum of the road beneath the tires and the rhythmic passing of streetlights outside the car window. But when she woke, everything had changed.

Panic hit her like a tidal wave. Her hands were tied behind her back, her legs restrained with rope that looped beneath the seat. The reality of her situation crashed over her in an instant—she wasn’t just on a road trip anymore. She was trapped.

Oliver sat calmly in the driver’s seat, his hands steady on the wheel, his face unreadable. When she began to cry, to struggle, to beg, his voice cut through her fear like a blade.

“I’m taking you,” he said. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Terror strangled her. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t scream. He simply stated it as fact, as if her fate had already been decided, as if she had ceased to be a person the moment she stepped into that car.

As the car sped down the highway, her mind raced through every possible way to escape, every possible way to scream for help. But Oliver anticipated everything. Any time they stopped for gas, he warned her. If she made a sound, if she tried to run, if she did anything at all to alert someone—her family would pay the price.

The road stretched on endlessly, leading them farther and farther from home. They passed through unfamiliar cities, the landscape shifting, the hours bleeding together. Then, the car came to a stop—not in Madison, not anywhere near Wisconsin. They were in Kansas City.

Jessyca’s pulse hammered in her ears as Oliver pulled her from the car. The airport loomed ahead, its bright lights offering a fleeting moment of hope. Surely, someone would notice—a bound and terrified girl boarding a flight with a strange man? Someone had to see. Someone had to stop him.

But Oliver had thought of everything.

He pressed a knife against the small of her back as they walked, his grip firm, his tone casual as he whispered threats in her ear. “You make a sound, and I’ll kill you right here. You do as I say, or your family dies.”

And so, she did as he said.

They boarded the flight under false names—David and Cindy Johnson. No one questioned them. No one looked twice. To the world, they were just a father and his daughter, traveling together.

When they landed in Houston, Oliver wasted no time securing their next hideout. A Days Inn motel became Jessyca’s new prison, her identity erased by the lies he spun. He told the hotel manager that he was a grieving single father, that he had just lost his wife and son in a terrible car accident. His voice cracked with just enough sadness, his eyes carried just enough pain, and the manager believed him.

Not only did they give him a room, but they offered him a job as a painter, giving him access to under-construction rooms where no one would hear a young girl scream.

Back in Wisconsin, a nightmare was unfolding in real-time.

Jessyca’s mother, Monica, was just starting to settle into her evening when the phone rang. The moment she picked up and heard the panic in her ex-husband’s voice, her stomach twisted into a knot.

“Jessyca’s missing.”

The words barely registered at first. The room seemed to tilt, the air sucked from her lungs.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head as if denial could reverse time. “No, that’s not possible.”

But it was.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and primal, the kind that only a mother could understand—the sound of losing a child into the unknown. A grief so immediate, so overwhelming, that it felt like drowning.

Her mind raced, spiraling through every terrifying possibility. Was Jessyca safe? Was she cold? Was she alone? Was she being hurt?

And then came the worst thought of all:

Was she even still alive?

Most parents of missing children are left grappling with one agonizing question: Who took them?

But Monica and her ex-husband didn’t have to wonder.

They knew exactly who had taken their daughter.

Steven Oliver.

The trusted teacher’s aide. The mentor. The man who had embedded himself into Jessyca’s life for years, slowly, methodically, like a predator stalking its prey.

The man they had never truly trusted—but had never imagined would go this far.

Panic quickly turned to urgency. They had a name. They had a face. Now, they had to bring Jessyca home. But as the hours stretched into days, and the days blurred into weeks, one chilling truth became clear—Oliver had been planning this for a long, long time.

And he had no intention of letting Jessyca go.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks bled into months. And inside that cold, lifeless motel room, Jessyca Mullenberg ceased to exist. She became Cindy Johnson. Oliver made sure of it. He stripped her of her identity piece by piece—first her hair, lopping it off and dyeing it dark brown. Then her clothes, swapping them for baggy, shapeless garments that masked her figure. If she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. That was the point. She wasn’t Jessyca anymore. She was his. To the outside world, they were just another father and daughter trying to rebuild their lives after an unimaginable loss.

Meanwhile, Jessyca was kept out of sight, locked inside a condemned block of motel rooms that no one checked. Oliver made sure of that, too. If he left for work, he locked her inside. If she stepped out of line, he tied her to the bed or hit her. Her world shrank to the size of that room, the walls closing in tighter with every passing day.

At first, she fought. She believed her parents were looking for her. She believed she would be saved. But hope is a fragile thing. Oliver knew how to break it. At first, he just planted the idea—your family doesn’t love you. Then, he watered it—no one is looking for you. And eventually, the lie took root and spread until it consumed everything. She tried calling home once, desperate to hear a familiar voice. But every number was wrong. It took her a while to realize why. Oliver had tampered with the phone. A two might dial as a five. A seven might be a three. Every attempt led to nowhere, another dead end, another reason to believe what he had been telling her all along. She stopped trying. She stopped believing. Memories of her past faded, blurred, rewritten by Oliver’s words. He told her stories of a life she had never lived, fabricated memories of a childhood she never had. And after a while, she stopped questioning them.

Because when someone tells you the same thing over and over again—when every moment is a reminder that you are powerless, that you are alone—you stop fighting. You start believing. And that was the scariest part of all. 

Back in Wisconsin, Jessyca’s parents were not giving up, with the knowledge of who took their daughter it was fuel to be relentless in their search effort. They distributed over 15,000 missing person flyers across the country, hoping that someone, somewhere, would recognize Oliver and their daughter.

It happened late at night, long after Jessyca had stopped hoping for rescue.

Oliver was asleep in the bed beside her, his presence a suffocating weight even in unconsciousness. The motel room was silent except for the hum of the heater and the distant sound of traffic outside. Jessyca lay still, staring at the ceiling, trapped in a prison without bars.

She had no idea that, miles away, a woman was about to change everything.

Lillie Roy, a hotel worker, had just finished her shift when she flipped on the TV. America’s Most Wanted: Final Justice was on, its familiar theme music filling her small apartment. She wasn’t paying much attention—until a picture flashed across the screen.

A man.

His face was familiar. Too familiar.

The name Steven Oliver appeared beneath his mugshot, alongside the desperate plea from law enforcement: Have you seen this man?

Lillie’s stomach dropped. She had seen him. He was here. Right there, in the Days Inn, painting walls and moving through the halls as if he belonged. And the girl in the picture—her face had changed, her hair was different, but there was something about her eyes.

Lillie grabbed the phone with trembling fingers. She dialed the number on the screen.

“I know where he is.”

Around 2 a.m., Jessyca startled awake to the sound of pounding at the door.

Before she could even sit up, the door crashed open.

Bright beams of light flooded the room. Heavy boots pounded against the floor. She heard a scuffle, a deep voice shouting orders. Oliver barely had time to react before he was shoved against the wall, his face pressed into the peeling motel wallpaper.

Jessyca shrank back against the mattress, shaking. She didn’t understand what was happening.

Then, a man knelt in front of her, his voice firm but kind.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Jessyca opened her mouth, but the answer was automatic. Programmed.

“Cindy Johnson.”

The agent shook his head. “No,” he said gently. “Your name is Jessyca.”

She blinked.

The name didn’t feel right. It didn’t belong to her.

She turned to Oliver, her lifeline, her captor—the only person who had spoken to her for months.

But Oliver wasn’t looking at her. He was handcuffed, being dragged away. He wouldn’t save her now.

“Jessyca,” the agent repeated.

And then, he pulled out a photograph.

The moment she saw it, something deep inside her cracked open.

A woman’s face. Soft, warm eyes, filled with something she hadn’t seen in so long—love. A man beside her, his smile familiar in a way that made her chest ache. Other photos followed—her bedroom, her childhood home, memories she had forgotten, stolen from her one piece at a time.

Her breath hitched.

She knew these people.

She knew these places.

A sob tore from her throat as reality hit her all at once.

She wasn’t Cindy Johnson.

She was Jessyca Mullenberg.

She had a home.

She had a family.

And they had never stopped looking for her.

The agents worked tirelessly to break through the fog in Jessyca’s mind. From the moment they rescued her, they asked question after question, showing her photographs, repeating her real name, trying to help her remember the life that had been stolen from her. But the memories felt distant, blurred by months of manipulation and fear.

She sat in the FBI office, numb, as the hours stretched on. The world outside felt unreal—too bright, too loud, too different from the dark motel room she had come to accept as her entire existence.

And then, the moment came.

The doors to the airport terminal slid open, and through the crowd of officers and flashing cameras, Jessyca saw her.

Her mother.

It was like something inside her snapped back into place.

She didn’t need anyone to tell her what to do—her feet were already moving before she could think, before she could breathe. She ran.

Her mother’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her in, holding her like she would never let go again. Jessyca felt the warmth, the safety, the love that had been stripped from her for so long. It was real. She was real.

One hundred and five days. That’s how long it had been since Oliver had taken her.

Now, she was home.

Around them, reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, voices blended into a chaotic blur. None of it mattered.

An agent leaned in and whispered something that sent a shiver down Jessyca’s spine.

“At this moment,” he said, “you’re one of only thirteen missing children in the entire country to be found alive.”

Thirteen.

Out of thousands.

Jessyca held onto her mother tighter, realizing just how close she had come to being lost forever.

But she wasn’t lost anymore.

She had been found.

When the FBI stormed the Houston Days Inn and arrested Oliver, they wasted no time combing through the evidence in the room where Jessyca had been held captive. Among the items collected were articles of clothing and bed sheets—stained with what was suspected to be semen. These were sent to FBI headquarters for forensic analysis, a crucial piece of the puzzle that would ultimately seal Oliver’s fate.

By January 31, 1996, Oliver was officially indicted on charges of kidnapping and violating the Mann Act, which prohibits the transport of individuals across state lines for illegal sexual activity. A week later, an attorney was appointed to represent him, and a trial date was set for June 17.

But the legal battle was far from straightforward.

As the weeks ticked by, the prosecution and defense tangled over key forensic evidence. The government had notified Oliver’s defense team that it intended to introduce lab results and expert testimony regarding the motel room garments. But there was a problem—the tests were still incomplete.

Then, in a sudden twist, the court moved the trial up to June 3. This threw both sides into a frenzy. Without the final test results, the government requested a delay. The defense, suspecting it would be better off without hard forensic evidence in play, opposed the request. The judge compromised, pushing the trial slightly to June 10, then again to June 24, allowing just enough time for forensic testing.

By May 31, the physical evidence was available for independent testing, and on June 3, the government’s lab reports were turned over to the defense. With little time left, the defense rushed to conduct its own tests. But when trial commenced on June 24, Oliver’s attorneys were still waiting for their expert’s analysis.

The prosecution moved forward, presenting damning testimony from Jessyca herself, her mother, a witness from the motel, and two forensic experts. The results were indisputable: DNA and serological tests confirmed that the semen on Jessyca’s underwear belonged to Oliver, backing her harrowing account of sexual abuse.

Two days into the trial, on June 26, the defense finally received preliminary results from its independent lab. But there was no salvation for Oliver—their findings aligned with the prosecution’s. The only argument left was a weak attempt to spin the DNA evidence, claiming the semen stains were not the result of intercourse. The jury wasn’t convinced. Oliver was found guilty on both counts. At sentencing, the judge took into account the immense psychological trauma inflicted on Jessyca. Two levels were added to his sentence for the lasting pain he had caused her. Then, another five levels were added for the sheer number of times he had assaulted her. But in a final decision, the judge made a slight concession—lowering the level by two so that Oliver would receive a fixed prison term rather than life. The final sentence: 40 years (480 months) for kidnapping. 10 years (120 months) for violating the Mann Act, served concurrently.

For Jessyca, justice had been served. Oliver would never hurt her—or anyone else—again. After high school, Jessyca refused to let her past define her. She enrolled at the University of Wisconsin-Stout, majoring in psychology with minors in criminal justice-law enforcement and sociology. Many doubted that a kidnapped girl, burdened by trauma, would finish high school—let alone graduate from college. But the more people doubted her, the more determined she became. Last year, she walked across the stage with honors, proving them all wrong.

The scars Oliver left weren’t just emotional—they were physical, too. He had hit her so many times that her facial bones never fully developed, leading to ten jaw surgeries in a single year. The pain didn’t stop there. She was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a disorder so crippling that some days, she could barely walk. The long-lasting effects of her trauma manifested in post-traumatic stress disorder, forcing her to relive the horrors of her past. Certain triggers still haunted her—planes made her uneasy because she was forced onto one the day she was taken. The smell of coffee turned her stomach because it had always lingered on Oliver’s breath.

For a time, Jessyca accepted violence as normal. It seeped into her relationships, trapping her once again in an abusive cycle. But she found the strength to break free, rebuilding herself piece by piece and learning that she would never again tolerate being yelled at, hit, or degraded.

Trusting others remained difficult, but she hadn’t given up on love. She met her boyfriend, Curt, at the bowling center where they both worked. What began as friendship grew into something real over two years. There were still walls between them, but she was learning to let him in, one step at a time.

Most of all, Jessyca refused to let Oliver win.

Determined to turn her suffering into a force for change, she began speaking at schools, sharing her story to educate children and parents about the warning signs of physical and sexual abuse. She hoped that by raising awareness, she could prevent others from enduring the same horrors she had.

In a speech at a school in 2017, she opened up about the difficult reality of being abused from a young age, a truth she had carried with her for so long. Her words were raw and powerful—a testament to her resilience and her unwavering mission to help others recognize abuse before it was too late.

Her future wasn’t set in stone, but one thing was certain—she would spend the rest of her life fighting to make sure no other child endured what she had. Whether through advocacy, foster care work, or counseling survivors, she was determined to do everything in her power to prevent another child from becoming a victim.

Steven Oliver release date is set for 2046, ensuring that he remains behind bars—far from any opportunity to harm another child.



Outro: "And that brings us to the end of another unsettling tale. As always, thank you for listening to Murder By Nature. If you’ve enjoyed tonight’s episode, leave us a rating and review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you’re listening from—and be sure to return this Thursday for a brand new story that will keep you up at night.

Until then, I’m Jazmin Ramirez, reminding you to stay vigilant. Stay safe, and remember… don’t get murdered, and for the love of all things dark, don’t become the murderer. You’ve been warned, you beautiful, haunted souls.




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