Over seventeen years, he killed five people, repeatedly escaped custody, and became a figure of regional notoriety — a fugitive whose longevity in the field gave him an almost folkloric status that complicated public perception of his crimes. The comparison to Čaruga, a celebrated outlaw of an earlier era, reflected how media coverage framed his evasions and violence as something closer to defiance than criminality. That romanticization, unearned as it was, is itself part of what makes his case historically notable.

What distinguishes this case is the institutional dimension: a decorated law enforcement officer used two decades of professional authority and inside knowledge of criminal proceedings to systematically eliminate the witnesses standing between his son and conviction. The killing campaign unfolded with deliberate method — each victim had testified or was positioned to testify, and each death was staged or concealed to forestall investigation. That his own sons ultimately provided the testimony that undid him adds a grim internal logic to a case rooted entirely in family loyalty taken to lethal extremes.

His case became one of the most legally complex war crimes prosecutions of the late twentieth century, spanning decades, multiple continents, and competing identities. A Soviet prisoner of war who became a Trawniki-trained collaborator, he served at sites where mass killing was the explicit function — not incidental to operations, but the entire purpose. His 2011 conviction in Germany, based on accessory liability for the killings at Sobibór, set a significant legal precedent by establishing that service at an extermination camp was itself sufficient grounds for prosecution, regardless of direct evidence of individual acts.

What set this case apart was the deliberate targeting of a historic Black church during a Bible study — an act of racial terrorism embedded in a setting of trust and worship. The manifesto and photographs he left behind revealed an ideological framework he had developed and documented with intent, not impulse. The nine people killed at Emanuel AME Church in 2015 died in one of the oldest and most symbolically significant Black congregations in the American South.

What makes Lüdke's case historically significant is not only the scale of the crimes attributed to him, but the degree to which the Nazi justice system shaped — and arguably distorted — the record around him. Declared legally incompetent and subjected to medical experiments rather than trial, he died in a Vienna hospital at the hands of the state before any of the attributed killings were tested in court. Subsequent investigations have cast serious doubt on whether he committed all, or even most, of the 51 murders police assigned to him, raising questions about coerced confession and institutional convenience that remain unresolved.

His trajectory across two countries over less than two years — murders, rapes, kidnappings, and the killing of two gendarmes — earned him the rare designation of Public Enemy number one across three nations simultaneously. What distinguished Succo was the combination of his apparent rehabilitation in custody and the violence that followed his escape: a geology student at one institution, a fugitive responsible for multiple homicides at large across Europe the next. The case attracted enough cultural attention to inspire a play by Bernard-Marie Koltès, a book by journalist Pascale Froment, and a feature film — responses that themselves generated controversy over how his story was being framed.

Her attack on a San Diego elementary school in 1979 left two adults dead and nine others wounded, making her one of the earliest cases of a school shooting to receive wide public attention in the United States. The explanation she offered — that she didn't like Mondays — became notorious for its apparent indifference, and was later immortalized in a pop song that spread her name far beyond the confines of the criminal record.