A devoted father goes on a test drive and vanishes.

10 minutes later, a millionaire heir becomes the prime suspect.

What police uncovered would expose a killer hiding behind wealth, power, and privilege.

I’m bringing you the disturbing true story of how privilege, greed, and pure evil collided on a quiet Ontario evening.

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You won’t want to miss a single detail of this one.

It’s a phenomenon we’ve seen time and time again in true crime.

The person who has everything yet craves something far more sinister.

Picture this.

Private islands, unlimited resources, a world where consequences simply evaporate for those at the top.

That’s the atmosphere surrounding Delan Millard.

a man born into aviation empire wealth who could have walked into any dealership and purchased 10 trucks without blinking.

But instead, he chose deception.

He chose violence.

And he chose Tim Bosma’s truck.

When Tim vanished after what should have been a routine test drive, that seemingly innocent transaction became clue number one in an investigation that would uncover something truly monstrous.

This isn’t just a story about a truck.

This is a story about how evil can wear a smile, how privilege can shield darkness, and how one ordinary evening can shatter countless lives forever.

Ontario, Canada.

Known for its sprawling natural beauty, tight-knit communities, and a reputation for safety.

The kind of place where neighbors wave to each other, where children play outside until the street lights come on, where doors are sometimes left unlocked because crime feels like something that happens somewhere else.

But in May of 2013, this serene landscape would become the backdrop for one of the most chilling crimes in Canadian history.

A crime so calculated, so cruel that it would send shock waves across the entire nation and force everyone to confront an uncomfortable truth.

Monsters don’t always lurk in the shadows.

Sometimes they hide in plain sight, protected by wealth, charm, and the assumption that people like them simply don’t do things like this.

At the center of it all was Delan Millard.

Born into extraordinary privilege, the Millard family owned Millard Air, a successful aviation company that had been built over generations.

This wasn’t new money trying to prove itself.

This was established wealth, the kind that comes with hangers full of aircraft, properties scattered across multiple locations, and the sort of financial cushion that makes most problems disappear with a phone call to the right lawyer or accountant.

Delan didn’t grow up on playgrounds.

He grew up in hangers around helicopters and private jets breathing in the smell of aviation fuel and machinery oil.

By the age of 14, he became the youngest licensed solo helicopter pilot in Canada.

Think about that for a moment.

While most teenagers were worried about passing their learner’s permit test to drive the family sedan to the mall, Delan Millard was piloting helicopters alone through Canadian airspace.

Impressive credentials on paper.

The kind of achievement that gets framed and hung on walls, that gets mentioned at dinner parties, that makes parents beam with pride.

But beneath the surface, something was deeply wrong.

Those who knew him, really knew him, described a dangerous cocktail of traits that should have raised alarm bells much earlier.

Entitlement, a complete lack of accountability, and an unsettling belief that rules simply didn’t apply to him.

Not the small rules, not the big ones, not any of them.

It was a toxic combination, the psychological equivalent of mixing chemicals that should never touch.

And like something rotting unseen in the walls of a beautiful house, it only festered with time, growing more dangerous, more unstable, more willing to cross lines that most people don’t even realize exist.

His childhood was marked by warning signs that, in retrospect, paint a disturbing picture.

There were incidents of cruelty, moments where the mask slipped and revealed something cold underneath.

But wealth has a way of smoothing over rough edges, of providing explanations and second chances, of making sure that uncomfortable questions don’t get asked too loudly.

Therapy can be arranged, schools can be changed, problems can be managed.

And so Delan moved through life accumulating privileges and possessions, but never the one thing that might have made a difference, genuine accountability.

Real consequences, the understanding that actions have weight and that nobody, regardless of their last name or their bank balance, gets to play by different rules.

By his 20s, Delan had developed a fascination with true crime.

Not the casual interest that many people have, the kind that leads to watching documentaries or reading the occasional book.

This was something different, something obsessive.

He consumed material about serial killers, about criminal methodologies, about how investigations worked, and how perpetrators got caught.

He studied it the way some people study for advanced degrees.

And disturbingly, he seemed less interested in the justice aspect and more intrigued by the technical details.

How did they do it? How did they almost get away with it? What mistakes led to their capture? He had relationships that began promisingly and ended badly.

One woman in particular would later become significant to this story.

Laura Babcock, young, vibrant, full of life and potential.

She and Delan had an on-again, off-again relationship that was complicated by his other romantic entanglements.

When Delan began dating another woman more seriously, Laura became what he apparently viewed as an inconvenience, a loose end, someone who knew too much, who might cause problems, who didn’t fit neatly into the life he wanted to project.

In July of 2012, Laura Babcock disappeared.

Her family reported her missing.

They pleaded for information.

They searched.

They hoped.

But Laura was gone.

And at the time, nobody connected her disappearance to the wealthy young man who had once claimed to care about her.

Now, let’s talk about Tim Bosma.

32 years old, a loving husband, a proud new father.

By all accounts, a genuinely good man living a quiet, honest life in rural Ontario.

Tim was the kind of person who made an effort, who showed up, who could be counted on.

He had married his high school sweetheart, Charlene, and together they had built a life that might not have been glamorous, but was filled with love and purpose.

They had recently welcomed their daughter into the world.

a beautiful little girl who represented everything they had worked for and hoped to build.

Tim was devoted to his family in the way that really matters, not through grand gestures or expensive gifts, but through presence, through reliability, through the daily choice to put them first.

He worked hard.

He was handy with tools and machinery, the kind of guy who could fix things around the house, who understood how engines worked, who took pride in maintaining what he owned.

And in early May of 2013, Tim decided to sell his Dodge Ram pickup truck.

It was a nice truck, well-maintained, the sort of vehicle that holds its value because it’s been cared for properly.

But with a new baby in the house and changing family needs, it made sense to sell it and put the money toward other priorities.

Nothing unusual about that.

People sell vehicles every single day.

It’s such a routine transaction that we barely think about the mechanics of it anymore.

You post an ad online with some photos and a description.

You field inquiries from potential buyers.

You arrange a time for them to see the vehicle, maybe take it for a test drive.

And if everyone’s happy, you exchange keys for payment and move on with your life.

Tim posted the listing online the way millions of people do every day on Kijiji, a popular classifides website in Canada.

He included photos of the truck from multiple angles, listed its features and mileage, set a fair asking price.

Then he waited for responses.

He had no idea he was about to encounter pure evil.

He had no way of knowing that the seemingly normal transaction he was arranging would cost him everything because evil doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t show up wearing a sign.

It asks reasonable questions about engine specifications and fuel economy.

It agrees to meet at your home at a time that works for your schedule.

It sounds polite on the phone and friendly in text messages.

And that’s what makes it so dangerous.

May 6th, 2013.

A date that would be seared into the memories of everyone who loved Tim Bosma and eventually into the consciousness of an entire nation.

Tim gets a response to his ad.

Someone’s interested in the truck.

The inquiries come through text messages and phone calls.

The potential buyer asks questions that seem appropriate.

What’s the mileage? Has it been in any accidents? Is the price negotiable? All normal questions that any legitimate buyer might ask.

They arranged to meet that evening.

The buyer will come to Tim’s home, take a look at the truck, maybe take it for a test drive if everything looks good.

A routine transaction.

At least that’s what it should have been.

But the potential buyer is running late, very late, the sun sets, hours pass.

Tim had probably expected this to be done by early evening, wrapped up in time for dinner, in time to help with the baby’s bedtime routine.

But the messages keep coming with apologies and explanations.

Running behind.

Be there soon.

Just a little longer.

It’s approaching 9:00 at night, an unusually late time for a test drive, especially out in the countryside where Tim lived with Charlene and their infant daughter.

The kind of late where most people would reschedule, where the practical thing would be to say, “Let’s try again tomorrow when there’s better light and more reasonable hours.” But Tim wanted to sell the truck and the buyer seemed genuinely interested.

And sometimes you accommodate people’s schedules because that’s what you do when you’re trying to close a deal.

Then finally, two men arrive on foot.

27-year-old Delan Millard and his associate Mark Smitch.

They claim someone dropped them off, but the story doesn’t add up from the very first moment.

Tim’s home is in a rural area, the kind of place where properties are separated by fields and tree lines, where you don’t have sidewalks or street lights or any of the infrastructure of suburban development.

No sidewalks, no casual foot traffic, no reason for anyone to be wandering around on foot after dark.

You don’t just get dropped off out here without a clear plan for how you’re leaving.

Where did their ride go? How were they planning to get home if they didn’t buy the truck? Why wouldn’t they have driven their own vehicle to look at a vehicle they were supposedly interested in purchasing? Red flags everywhere.

But here’s the thing about red flags.

They’re much easier to see in hindsight than they are in the moment.

In the moment, when two seemingly normal guys are standing in your driveway expressing interest in buying your truck.

When you’ve already invested hours of your evening waiting for them.

When you’ve got a baby sleeping inside and a wife who’s probably wondering when this is going to be finished.

You make calculations.

You give people the benefit of the doubt.

You assume the best rather than the worst because that’s what most of us do most of the time and it works out fine most of the time.

And we never realize how lucky we were that our optimistic assumptions didn’t cost us everything.

Tim is a trusting person.

Good people often are.

They extend to others the same decency they themselves practice, assuming that weird circumstances have innocent explanations, that people’s stories are true until proven otherwise.

And there’s another concern gnawing at him, a practical worry that probably crossed his mind the moment these two men showed up on foot.

If he doesn’t accompany them on the test drive, what’s to stop them from simply stealing the truck? It’s a reasonable concern.

You’re about to hand over the keys to your vehicle to complete strangers.

You live in a rural area where a stolen vehicle could be miles away before you could even call the police.

The responsible thing, the smart thing, is to go along for the test drive.

That way, you maintain control.

You’re there to answer questions, to demonstrate features, to make sure your property isn’t being stolen.

So against what might have been his better judgment, against whatever small voice in his head might have been suggesting that something about this situation felt off, Tim Bosma gets into his own vehicle.

Delan slides behind the wheel, settling into the driver’s seat with the ease of someone who has driven many vehicles, who is comfortable with machinery and speed.

Tim takes the passenger seat, probably already mentally preparing his sales pitch, thinking about what features to highlight, what questions to answer.

Mark Smitch climbs into the back seat and if Tim registered that as unusual as one more thing that didn’t quite fit the pattern of a normal test drive, he didn’t act on it.

Maybe he thought it was just a friend along for the ride for a second opinion.

People do that sometimes.

And at approximately 9:00 at night, 9:00 on May 6th, 2013, they drive away into the darkness.

Charlene Bosma watches from the window as the tail lights of her husband’s truck disappear down the rural road.

She has no reason to worry yet.

This is just a test drive.

He’ll be back soon.

Maybe with good news that the truck is sold.

Maybe with the information that these buyers weren’t serious after all.

Either way, he’ll be back soon.

That’s what she tells herself.

That’s what she has every reason to believe.

But Tim Bosma would never be seen alive again.

The minutes tick by, 10 minutes, 20, 30.

At what point does a test drive that’s running long become a test drive that’s wrong? Charlene tries calling Tim’s cell phone.

It goes to voicemail.

She tries again.

Still voicemail.

She tells herself there are innocent explanations.

Maybe they drove farther than expected.

Maybe his phone died.

Maybe he’s so focused on completing the sale that he’s not checking his phone.

But mothers have instincts, wives have instincts, and something feels wrong.

The kind of wrong that sits in your stomach like ice, that makes your hands shake when you try his number again.

That makes you walk to the window and stare down that empty road willing headlights to appear.

An hour passes, then another.

By the time the clock strikes 11, then midnight, Charlene knows with absolute certainty that something terrible has happened.

Tim wouldn’t do this.

He wouldn’t leave her worrying.

He wouldn’t stay out this late without calling, especially not with their baby daughter sleeping upstairs.

Especially not when he was supposed to be on a quick test drive and back home.

This isn’t a misunderstanding or a miscommunication.

This is wrong.

Deeply, terrifyingly wrong.

When Tim didn’t return home that night, Charlene contacted police.

Initially, there was probably some hesitation on the law enforcement side.

Adult men are allowed to be out late.

Sometimes there are innocent explanations.

Maybe there was a breakdown.

Maybe there was an accident and he’s at a hospital.

Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation that will emerge in a few hours and everyone will breathe a sigh of relief.

But Charlene insisted that this was not normal, that Tim would never do this, that something was desperately wrong.

And to their credit, the Hamilton Police Service listened.

They understood that this wasn’t a case of a spouse overreacting.

This was a legitimate emergency.

What began as a missing person case quickly evolved into something far more sinister.

Investigators started piecing together Tim’s last known movements, and the trail led directly back to that test drive.

They pulled the ad Tim had posted for his truck.

They started going through his phone records, his text messages, his emails.

They found the communications with the potential buyer.

They started tracing those communications trying to identify who had been texting Tim who had arranged to meet him that night and they put out a public appeal for information.

If you saw a black Dodge Ram pickup truck on the evening of May 6th, if you saw two men these descriptions, if you know anything at all, please come forward.

The response from the community was immediate and overwhelming.

People understood instinctively that this was a father, a husband, a neighbor, a good man who had simply tried to sell his truck and had vanished.

Search parties formed.

Volunteers comb through fields and wooded areas.

Charlene made emotional appeals on television, holding a photo of Tim, begging anyone with information to come forward, pleading for his safe return.

Their daughter, too young to understand, too innocent to know that her father was missing, became a symbol of everything at stake.

This wasn’t just about finding a missing person.

This was about returning a father to his child, a husband to his wife, a son to his parents.

Surveillance footage, phone records, and witness statements began painting a disturbing picture.

Investigators discovered that the phone number used to contact Tim was linked to a SIM card that had been purchased specifically for this purpose.

A burner phone, in other words, that’s not something an innocent buyer does.

That’s something someone does when they don’t want to be traced.

They found surveillance footage from various locations showing the Dodge Ram driving through the area that night.

And when they enhanced and analyzed that footage, they could make out figures in the vehicle.

Tim in the passenger seat, someone else driving, someone else in the back.

They started investigating everyone who had responded to Tim’s ad.

Most were easily cleared.

Legitimate potential buyers with alibis and no connection to the crime.

But one name kept coming up in ways that raised red flags.

Dylan Millard.

And when investigators dug into his background, they uncovered a pattern of troubling behavior, violence, and a belief that he was untouchable.

They discovered the aviation company, the family wealth, the properties scattered across Ontario.

They discovered his fascination with crime, his study of criminal methodology, and they discovered something else.

Delan Millard owned an industrial incinerator.

Let that sink in for a moment.

An industrial incinerator nicknamed the eliminator, capable of reaching temperatures high enough to cremate human remains.

Not the kind of thing most people own.

Not the kind of thing that has an innocent explanation when you’re being investigated in connection with a missing person.

The incinerator had been purchased from a farm equipment auction.

Delan had told people he was interested in developing a new business venture, something related to animal remains.

But investigators suspected a much darker purpose.

As they continued to investigate, they found connections between Delan and another missing person case.

Laura Babcock, the young woman who had disappeared nearly a year earlier, the woman who had been romantically involved with Delan.

The woman who had become inconvenient.

Investigators started looking at Delan’s phone records from around the time of Laura’s disappearance.

They found text messages between Delan and Mark Smitch that were chilling in their implications.

Messages about getting rid of a problem.

Messages about burning something.

Messages that suggested Laura Babcock’s disappearance was not a random tragedy, but a calculated murder.

But right now, in early May of 2013, the priority was finding Tim Bosma.

The investigation was moving quickly, but Tim had already been missing for days.

Days during which anything could have happened, during which evidence could have been destroyed, during which the trail could have gone cold.

Investigators knew they needed to move fast.

They needed warrants.

They needed to search Delon Millard’s properties.

They needed to examine that incinerator.

and they needed to do it all while building a case that would hold up in court following proper procedures, making sure nothing got thrown out on a technicality.

On May 10th, 2013, 4 days after Tim Bosma vanished, police executed search warrants at multiple locations connected to Delan Millard, his home, the hanger where the family business operated, a farm property in the rural community of Air, Ontario.

What they found at that farm property would confirm their worst fears and provide the evidence that would eventually bring Delan Miller to justice.

The incinerator, the eliminator, and inside it, burned bone fragments and human remains.

The forensic analysis would take time, but investigators already knew what they had found.

They had found Tim Bosma, or what was left of him after Delan Millard had tried to erase all evidence of his murder.

The cruelty of it was almost incomprehensible.

To kill someone.

To burn their body in an incinerator.

To try to reduce a human being to ash as if they had never existed.

As if Tim Bosma was just a problem to be eliminated.

An obstacle to be removed.

Something with no more value or significance than trash to be incinerated.

Dylan Millard was arrested and charged with first-degree murder.

Mark Smitch was also arrested and charged.

And as investigators continued to dig, as they analyzed phone records and text messages and physical evidence, the full scope of what had happened that night began to emerge.

This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong.

This wasn’t a spur-ofthe- moment crime of opportunity.

This was a premeditated murder.

Delan Millard had set out that night with the specific intention of killing someone and stealing their truck.

He had brought Mark Smitch along as an accomplice.

He had used a burner phone to avoid detection.

And he had arranged to meet Tim Bosma in a rural location where there would be fewer witnesses, less traffic, more opportunity to act without being observed.

The evidence suggested that shortly after the test drive began, while Tim sat in the passenger seat of his own vehicle, he was shot, murdered in cold blood.

Delan and Mark then drove the truck to the farm property, transferred Tim’s body to the incinerator and burned it.

They cleaned the truck.

They made plans to sell it or use it for parts.

Tim Bosma’s life, everything he was and everything he could have been, was reduced to something these men saw as an inconvenience to be disposed of.

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The news of Tim’s death devastated his family and shocked the community.

The man who had simply been trying to sell his truck, who had welcome strangers into his home and his vehicle out of ordinary decency and trust, had been murdered for it.

The randomness of it was terrifying.

It could have been anyone.

Any father trying to sell a vehicle.

Any person extending basic trust to what appeared to be legitimate buyers.

Tim Bosma didn’t die because he did something wrong.

He died because Delan Millard wanted his truck and saw murder as an acceptable way to get it.

As the investigation continued, more disturbing details emerged.

Investigators discovered that this wasn’t even the first time Delan had done this.

Before Tim Bosma, there had been another attempt, another person advertising a vehicle for sale.

Another test drive arranged, but something had gone wrong with that attempt.

Maybe the timing hadn’t worked out.

Maybe there had been too many witnesses.

Maybe the victim had been more suspicious or less accommodating.

Whatever the reason, Delan had walked away from that first attempt and then just days later had contacted Tim Bosma.

The premeditation was chilling.

This wasn’t a spontaneous decision.

This was a plan that Delan had been working on, refining, preparing to execute.

He had researched how to acquire a vehicle through theft and murder.

He had purchased an incinerator specifically designed to destroy evidence.

He had recruited an accomplice.

He had created a methodology.

And when his first attempt failed, he simply tried again.

The question that haunted everyone was why Dan Miller didn’t need Tim Bosma’s truck.

He had money.

He could buy any vehicle he wanted.

He could walk into a dealership and drive away in a brand new truck without even making a dent in his bank account.

So why why go through the elaborate planning and the horrific violence of murder when the object could be acquired legally with minimal effort? The answer, investigators believed, was that for Dylan Millard, it was never about the truck.

It was about the act itself, the planning, the execution, the sense of power that came from taking what he wanted, how he wanted, without regard for rules or consequences or the value of human life.

He had studied serial killers.

He had absorbed their methodologies.

And at some point, he had decided to put that knowledge into practice.

Tim Bosma’s truck was just an excuse, a justification for committing murder.

What Delan really wanted was the experience of killing.

The truck was incidental.

This psychological profile aligned with what investigators were learning about the Laura Babcock case.

As they built the case against Delan for Tim’s murder, they simultaneously built the case for Laura’s murder.

They found text messages between Delan and Mark Smitch from 2012 that were explicit in their content.

Messages about killing Laura.

Messages about using the incinerator.

Messages that joked about what they had done that showed no remorse.

No recognition that they had taken a human life.

Laura Babcock had been 23 years old when she disappeared.

She had her whole life ahead of her.

She had struggled with some personal issues, had been working on getting her life together, had been trying to figure out her path forward, and she had trusted the wrong person.

She had been involved with Delan Millard, had thought there might be a future there, had believed his promises and his affection.

But when she became inconvenient, when she didn’t fit into his plans anymore, when she knew too much or asked too many questions or simply existed in a way that complicated his life, he killed her.

murdered her, burned her body in the same incinerator that would later be used for Tim Bosma.

The evidence against Delan Millard was overwhelming.

Phone records, text messages, surveillance footage, witness testimony, physical evidence from the incinerator, forensic analysis.

The trail was so clear, so well doumented that there was no room for reasonable doubt.

And yet Delan maintained his innocence.

He hired expensive lawyers.

He prepared for trial.

He acted as if he could talk his way out of this, as if wealth and privilege would protect him one more time, as if the rules that applied to everyone else somehow didn’t apply to him.

The trial became a national event.

Media coverage was constant.

Every day brought new revelations, new pieces of evidence, new testimony that illustrated the depth of Delan Millard’s depravity.

Charlene Bosma attended every day of the trial, sitting in the courtroom, facing the man who had murdered her husband, demanding justice not just for Tim, but for their daughter, who would grow up without a father.

The prosecution laid out a horrifying narrative.

This wasn’t Delan’s first kill, they argued.

Laura Babcock had been murdered in July of 2012.

Tim Bosma in May of 2013.

And there was evidence suggesting Delan might have been planning more.

They found writings, plans, fantasies about committing additional murders.

He wasn’t just a man who had killed twice.

He was a serial killer in the making.

Someone who had discovered he enjoyed murder and was planning to continue.

The defense tried various strategies.

They tried to shift blame to Mark Smith.

They tried to argue that the evidence was circumstantial.

They tried to poke holes in the prosecution’s timeline, but none of it worked.

The evidence was too strong.

The pattern was too clear.

The jury saw through every attempt at deflection and obfiscation.

Mark Smitch, for his part, also went to trial.

His defense was slightly different.

He admitted to being involved, but tried to minimize his role, tried to paint Delan as the mastermind and himself as a reluctant participant who got in over his head.

But the text messages told a different story.

They showed someone who was enthusiastic about the crimes, who participated willingly, who joked about murder, and showed no empathy for the victims.

Mark Smitch was no reluctant participant.

He was an active, willing accomplice.

The testimony during the trial was brutal.

Forensic experts explained how they had analyzed the remains from the incinerator, how they had identified bone fragments, how they had determined cause of death.

Ballistics experts testified about the gun that was used, tracing its ownership, and explaining how it matched the wound evidence.

Digital forensics experts walked the jury through thousands of text messages, emails, and phone records that documented the planning and execution of the murders.

And then there were the victim impact statements.

Laura Babcock’s mother took the stand and spoke about her daughter, about the vibrant young woman she had been, about the hopes and dreams that had been stolen from her, about the years of not knowing what had happened, of hoping against hope that Laura might somehow still be alive, of the devastating confirmation that she had been murdered and her body destroyed.

The pain in her voice was palpable.

The loss was immeasurable.

Charlene Bosma’s victim impact statement was equally powerful.

She spoke directly to Dylan Millard and Mark Smitch, forcing them to look at her, forcing them to hear about the man they had killed.

She talked about Tim, about what kind of husband he was, what kind of father, what kind of friend.

She talked about their daughter growing up without him, about the milestones he would miss, about the hole in their lives that could never be filled.

She talked about the fear and the anguish of that first night when Tim didn’t come home.

About the desperate hope that somehow he was okay, about the horror of learning he had been murdered.

About the additional horror of learning his body had been burned, denied even the dignity of a proper burial.

The courtroom was silent except for her voice.

Jurors wept.

Even the judge appeared moved.

And Delan Millard sat there showing no emotion, no remorse, no acknowledgement that he had destroyed lives.

His lack of reaction was almost as chilling as his crimes.

Here was a man who felt nothing for what he had done.

No guilt, no regret, nothing.

In November of 2016, Delan Millard was convicted of first-degree murder in the deaths of both Tim Bosma and Laura Babcock.

Mark Smith was also convicted of first-degree murder in Tim Bosma’s death and later in Laura Babcock’s death as well.

The verdicts were met with relief and something approaching satisfaction, though nothing could truly bring justice because nothing could bring Tim and Laura back.

But at least there was accountability.

At least these men would never harm anyone else.

Delan Millard was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole for 75 years.

Think about that.

75 years.

He was 27 at the time of Tim’s murder.

He would be over 100 years old before he could even apply for parole.

Effectively, it was a life sentence with no hope of release.

The judge made it clear in his sentencing remarks that this was appropriate given the calculated nature of the crimes, the multiple victims, and the complete absence of remorse.

Mark Smitch received the same sentence.

Life with no possibility of parole for 75 years.

Both men would spend the rest of their lives in prison, and rightfully so.

These were not crimes of passion or desperation.

These were not situations where someone made a terrible mistake in a moment of weakness.

These were planned, premeditated murders committed for no reason other than the perpetrator’s desire to kill.

But the story doesn’t quite end there.

Because in March of 2018, Delan Millard was charged with yet another murder, the death of his own father, Wayne Millard, which had occurred in November of 2012 and had initially been ruled a suicide.

Wayne Millard had been found dead of a gunshot wound to the eye.

At the time, investigators had concluded he had taken his own life.

But as they dug deeper into Delan’s history, as they examined the timeline and the evidence, they began to suspect that Wayne Millard hadn’t committed suicide.

He had been murdered by his own son.

The motive appeared to be financial.

Delan wanted control of the family business and the family money.

Wayne was in the way, so Delan killed him and staged it to look like a suicide.

The same gun used to kill Wayne Millard was later used to kill Tim Bosma.

The ballistics matched and when investigators re-examined the scene and the evidence from Wayne’s death with the knowledge of what Delan was capable of, the suicide ruling fell apart.

In September of 2018, Delan Millard was convicted of first-degree murder in the death of his father.

Another life sentence, another confirmation that this was a man who killed without hesitation, without remorse, even when the victim was his own father.

The depth of his depravity seemed to have no bottom.

So, let’s take stock of what we know.

Delan Millard murdered at least three people.

His father, Wayne, in November 2012.

Laura Babcock in July 2012, actually before his father, though he was charged for that crime later, and Tim Bosma in May 2013.

Three confirmed murders.

And investigators believe there may have been others, victims who haven’t been identified, crimes that haven’t been solved.

When someone displays this level of comfort with murder, this level of planning and execution, it’s unlikely these are their only victims.

The impact of these crimes rippled out far beyond the immediate victims and their families.

The community of Hamilton, Ontario, where Tim Bosma lived, was changed forever.

People became more cautious.

Parents had conversations with their children about the dangers of meeting strangers from online ads.

People started bringing friends along to vehicle sales, meeting in public places, taking precautions that had previously seemed unnecessary.

The innocence and trust that characterized rural Ontario took a hit.

People realized that evil could show up on their doorstep wearing a friendly smile and asking reasonable questions.

For the Bosma family, life was divided into before and after.

Before May 6th, 2013, they were a young family with their whole future ahead of them.

After, they were a family learning to navigate grief, learning to exist with a Tim-shaped hole in their lives.

Charlene has shown extraordinary strength and grace.

She has kept Tim’s memory alive.

She has raised their daughter to know what kind of man her father was.

She has advocated for changes in how online sales are conducted, pushing for more safety measures, more awareness, more protection for people engaging in what should be simple, safe transactions.

The Babcock family endured years of not knowing what happened to Laura.

Years of hoping she might be found alive before finally receiving the devastating confirmation that she had been murdered.

The relief of knowing what happened was mixed with the horror of how it happened with the knowledge that Laura’s final moments were ones of terror and pain that her body had been destroyed in an attempt to erase her existence.

and Wayne Millard’s family, complicated as their situation was, had to grapple with the truth that the son they had raised, the young man they had tried to help and support, had murdered his own father for money and control.

The betrayal of that, the psychological weight of it, is almost incomprehensible.

This case also raised broader questions about wealth and privilege and accountability.

How did Dan Millard get to his late 20s with apparently no consequences for his behavior? How many warning signs were ignored or explained away because of his family status? How many times did money smooth over problems that should have been addressed? We’ll never know for certain, but the pattern is clear.

Delan grew up believing rules didn’t apply to him, and for most of his life, he was right.

Rules didn’t apply to him until suddenly they did.

until he committed crimes so serious, so well doumented, so impossible to explain away that not even wealth could protect him.

The investigators who worked this case deserve enormous credit.

They followed the evidence methodically.

They built cases that were prosecution proof.

They made sure that every piece of evidence was properly collected, properly documented, properly presented.

They knew they were dealing with someone who had resources, who would hire the best lawyers, who would fight every charge.

So, they were meticulous.

And their meticulousness paid off with convictions that will keep Dan Millard and Mark Smith behind bars for the rest of their lives.

The prosecutors who tried these cases also showed remarkable skill and dedication.

They had to present complex evidence in ways that jurors could understand.

They had to walk juries through thousands of text messages and phone records.

They had to explain forensic evidence and ballistics and digital forensics.

They had to bring Laura Babcock and Tim Bosma to life for jurors who had never met them.

Making sure the jury understood that these weren’t just victims.

They were people.

People with families and friends and futures that were stolen from them.

And the juries themselves showed courage.

They sat through weeks of testimony.

They looked at disturbing evidence.

They heard about terrible things.

And then they deliberated carefully and returned verdicts that reflected the evidence and the law.

They didn’t let wealth or privilege cloud their judgment.

They saw the truth of what Delan Millard and Mark Smith had done and they held them accountable.

Tim Bosma’s story has become a cautionary tale, a reminder that we live in a world where danger can come from unexpected places.

But it’s also a story about a community coming together, about the power of persistence in seeking justice, about the importance of believing victims families when they say something is wrong.

Charlene Bosma knew immediately that something was wrong when Tim didn’t come home.

And the police listened to her.

They took her seriously.

They acted quickly and while they couldn’t save Tim, they could and did bring his killers to justice.

Laura Babcock’s story is a reminder that the most dangerous place for many people is in their personal relationships.

That people who claim to care about you can sometimes be the ones who pose the greatest threat.

Laura trusted Delan.

She had feelings for him.

She believed there might be a future there.

And he killed her because she became inconvenient.

Her story is also a reminder to never give up on missing person’s cases, to keep pushing for answers, to keep demanding that investigations continue, even when trails seem to go cold.

Wayne Millard’s story is perhaps the most tragic in terms of betrayal.

To be killed by your own child, the person you raised and supported and tried to help is a betrayal that cuts to the core of what family is supposed to mean.

And the fact that his death was initially mclassified as suicide meant that Delan got away with that murder for years, free to kill again, free to continue his pattern of violence.

The psychological profile of Delan Millard that emerged during the trials and investigations is consistent with psychopathy.

The lack of empathy, the superficial charm, the sense of grandiosity, the complete absence of remorse, the ability to lie convincingly, the tendency to view people as objects to be used or discarded, the fascination with violence, the need for stimulation and novelty.

All of these are markers of psychopathy, and Delan displayed all of them.

But here’s what’s important to understand.

Not everyone with psychopathic traits becomes a murderer.

Most don’t.

What made Dylan dangerous was the combination of psychopathy with opportunity, with wealth that insulated him from consequences, with a family system that apparently didn’t or couldn’t intervene effectively, with access to resources like the incinerator that facilitated his crimes.

remove some of those factors and maybe, just maybe, Delan’s dark fantasies would have remained fantasies.

That’s not an excuse.

It’s not meant to minimize his responsibility for his choices.

Delan Millard is exactly where he belongs, in prison for the rest of his life.

But it is worth thinking about from a prevention standpoint.

How do we identify people who are heading down this path? How do we intervene? How do we create systems where wealth and privilege don’t shield people from accountability for harmful behavior? These are questions that every society needs to grapple with.

The technology aspect of this case is also worth considering.

Delan used online classifides to find his victims.

He used burner phones to avoid detection.

He used text messaging to coordinate with his accomplice.

technology was integral to how he planned and executed these crimes.

And while we can’t uninvent the internet or go back to a pre-digital age, we can think about how to make these platforms safer.

Many classified sites now have safety tips for sellers.

They recommend meeting in public places, bringing a friend, letting someone know where you’re going and when you expect to return.

These seem like common sense precautions, but before Tim Bosma’s murder, many people didn’t think they were necessary.

Tim’s case specifically led to the creation of safe exchange zones in many police station parking lots across Canada and the United States.

These are designated areas, often under video surveillance, where people can meet to complete transactions from online sales.

The presence of police nearby and the surveillance cameras make these locations much safer than meeting at someone’s home or in an isolated location.

It’s a small change, but it’s one that could save lives.

The case also highlighted the importance of trusting your instincts.

Tim had reasons to be suspicious.

The buyers showed up very late.

They arrived on foot in a rural area.

Their story about how they got there didn’t make sense.

There were red flags.

But Tim, being a good person who wanted to believe the best of others, who wanted to complete the sale, who didn’t want to be rude or accusatory, ignored those instincts.

And it cost him his life.

The lesson isn’t that we should be paranoid or assume everyone is dangerous.

The lesson is that when something feels off, when your gut is telling you something is wrong, it’s okay to listen to that.

It’s okay to reschedule.

It’s okay to say no.

It’s okay to prioritize your safety over closing a deal or being polite.

For Charlene Bosma, the years since Tim’s murder have been a journey of grief and healing and advocacy.

She has spoken publicly about her experience, not because she wants attention, but because she wants Tim’s death to mean something.

She wants other people to be more careful.

She wants other families to be spared the horror that her family went through.

She has shown remarkable strength in the face of unimaginable loss.

And her daughter is growing up knowing that her father was a good man who was taken from them by evil people, but also that her mother is a strong woman who refused to let that evil have the final word.

The community support that surrounded the Bosma family during the investigation and trial was remarkable.

Thousands of people followed the case.

Thousands attended vigils and memorials.

Thousands contributed to funds to support the family.

In a time when it’s easy to feel like we’re all isolated, like nobody cares about anyone else, the response to Tim Bosma’s murder showed that communities still come together, that people still care, that when something terrible happens, we don’t just shrug and move on.

We rally.

We support.

We demand justice.

The legal system worked in this case.

It doesn’t always.

There are too many cases where killers go free on technicalities, where evidence is mishandled, where investigations are botched, where justice is denied.

But in the cases of Tim Bosma, Laura Babcock, and Wayne Millard, the system worked.

The police investigated thoroughly.

The prosecutors built strong cases.

The juries deliberated carefully.

The judges imposed appropriate sentences and Delan Millard and Mark Smith will spend the rest of their lives in prison.

That’s not a perfect outcome because nothing can bring the victims back, but it’s the best outcome that was possible given the circumstances.

One of the most chilling aspects of this case is how close Delan came to getting away with it.

If Tim’s truck hadn’t had that particular listing online at that particular time, Delon would have targeted someone else.

If that someone else had been less trusting, had been more suspicious, had refused the late night test drive, Delan might have simply moved on to another target.

If investigators hadn’t been as thorough, hadn’t connected the dots between Tim’s murder and Laura’s disappearance, hadn’t found the incinerator, Delan might still be free.

The line between him being in prison and him being out there somewhere, potentially killing more people, was frighteningly thin.

Think about the randomness of it.

Tim Bosma was targeted not because of anything he did, not because of who he was, not because he had some connection to Delan Millard.

He was targeted because he had a truck for sale and he lived in a rural area and Delan decided he was an easy target.

That’s it.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong truck ad.

The randomness is terrifying because it means it really could have been anyone.

Any of us who has ever sold something online, who has ever welcomed a stranger to look at an item, who has ever extended basic trust in a transaction, could have been in Tim’s position.

But we can’t live our lives in fear.

We can’t assume everyone is dangerous.

We can’t stop engaging with the world.

What we can do is be smart, be cautious, trust our instincts, take basic precautions, and maybe most importantly, we can remember cases like this not to make us paranoid, but to make us thoughtful about risk and safety.

The families of the victims have shown remarkable resilience.

They could have been consumed by bitterness and anger and the desire for revenge.

And who could blame them if they were? but instead they channeled their grief into advocacy, into making sure other families don’t experience what they experienced.

They participated in the trials even though it meant reliving the worst moments of their lives.

They spoke publicly even though it meant exposing their pain.

They did this not for themselves but for others.

That’s a kind of courage that deserves recognition.

The media coverage of this case was extensive and largely responsible.

There were thousands of articles, countless news broadcasts, documentaries, and podcasts.

The public interest was enormous.

And while there were some outlets that crossed lines, that sensationalized unnecessarily, that focused on salacious details rather than the human tragedy, most of the coverage was respectful and informative.

It kept the case in the public eye.

It kept pressure on investigators and prosecutors.

It made sure that Tim Bosma and Laura Babcock weren’t forgotten, that they were remembered as real people, not just statistics.

This case also became a teaching tool for law enforcement.

The investigation techniques used, the way evidence was collected and preserved, the coordination between different police services, all of it has been studied and used to train other investigators.

The successful prosecution, despite the challenges of dealing with a wealthy defendant who could afford top legal representation, has been analyzed in legal circles.

The case has contributed to the body of knowledge about how to investigate and prosecute complex murder cases.

For Mark Smitch, there’s a separate tragedy in how he ended up where he did.

By all accounts, he wasn’t born a killer.

He had a difficult childhood, struggled with addiction, made bad choices, but at some point he fell under Delan Millard’s influence.

And whether he would have committed murder without that influence is an open question.

The text messages suggest he was a willing participant, someone who enjoyed what they did.

But they also suggest someone who might have been manipulated, who might have been in over his head.

Not that this excuses his actions.

He made choices.

He participated in murders.

He deserves the sentence he received.

But there’s a cautionary tale there too about the power of influence, about how one person’s evil can draw in others.

The physical evidence in this case was crucial.

The incinerator, the gun, the phone records, the text messages, the surveillance footage.

All of it combined to create an overwhelming case.

But what if Delan had been smarter about covering his tracks? What if he destroyed the gun? What if he disposed of the incinerator? What if he’d been more careful about his digital communications? The case might have been much harder to prosecute.

The lesson for investigators is the importance of finding and preserving every piece of evidence, no matter how small.

The lesson for potential criminals, if there is one, is that in the digital age, it’s almost impossible to commit a crime without leaving some trace.

There’s always evidence, always a trail.

The psychological toll on everyone involved in this case, from the investigators to the prosecutors to the families to the jury members, was enormous.

Imagine sitting through weeks of testimony about murder and incineration.

Imagine looking at evidence photos.

Imagine hearing the victim impact statements.

Several jurors reportedly sought counseling after the trials.

Investigators who worked the case for years carried the weight of it.

These are human beings processing horrible information, witnessing the depths of human depravity, and trying to maintain their own psychological health while doing their jobs.

As we approach the conclusion of this story, it’s worth reflecting on what we’ve learned.

Evil exists.

It’s not an abstract concept or a metaphor.

There are people in this world who will hurt others without remorse, who will kill for trivial reasons or for the simple pleasure of it.

Delan Millard is one of those people.

But evil rarely wins in the long run.

Justice may be slow, may be imperfect, may not undo the harm that’s been done, but it does come.

Dylan Millard is in prison.

Mark Smitch is in prison.

They will never hurt anyone else.

We’ve learned that wealth and privilege can delay accountability, but they can’t prevent it forever.

Delan Millard thought he was untouchable.

He thought his family name, his money, his charm would protect him.

And for a while, they did.

But eventually, the evidence was too strong, the crimes too serious, the determination of investigators and prosecutors too persistent.

Money couldn’t buy his way out of life sentences.

We’ve learned about the importance of listening to families when they say something is wrong.

Charlene Bosma knew immediately that Tim’s disappearance wasn’t normal.

If police had dismissed her concerns, if they had waited the typical 24 or 48 hours before taking a missing person report seriously, crucial evidence might have been lost.

But they listened.

They acted.

And while it didn’t save Tim, it did lead to justice.

We’ve learned about community resilience.

The way Hamilton rallied around the Bosma family.

The way volunteers searched for Tim.

The way people showed up at the trial to support the victim’s families.

The way the story spread across Canada and people who had never met Tim Bosma grieved for him and his family.

That’s the power of community, the power of shared humanity, the recognition that when something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us.

Tim Bosma’s daughter will grow up knowing that her father was a good man.

She’ll know what happened to him.

She’ll know about the trial and the convictions.

But more importantly, she’ll know about the love her parents shared.

She’ll know about the kind of person her father was.

She’ll know that thousands of people, strangers who never met her father, cared enough to follow the case and demand justice.

That won’t replace having her father in her life.

Nothing can do that.

But it’s something.

Laura Babcock’s family finally has answers.

After years of not knowing, years of hoping against hope, years of the worst kind of uncertainty, they know what happened.

They know she didn’t just walk away from her life.

They know she was murdered.

And they know her killer is in prison.

Again, it’s not the outcome they wanted.

What they wanted was for Laura to come home.

But knowing is better than not knowing.

Being able to grieve with certainty is better than existing in limbo.

The Millard family has had to grapple with the reality that one of their own committed these terrible crimes.

That’s a burden that will never fully lift.

Wayne Millard is dead, murdered by his own son.

Other family members have to carry the Millard name knowing what Dan did.

They have to process the reality that someone they knew, someone they were related to was capable of these horrors.

That’s a different kind of victimization and it deserves compassion.

This is Cold Case Crime Lab and this has been the story of Delan Millard, Tim Bosma, Laura Babcock, and Wayne Millard.

A story of privilege and evil, of ordinary people encountering extraordinary malice, of a justice system that eventually worked even when it was tested by wealth and high-priced lawyers.

A story that reminds us to be careful, to trust our instincts, to cherish the people we love, because we never know when they might be taken from us.

If this case affected you the way it affected me, if Tim’s story resonated with you, if you believe in keeping these victims memories alive and making sure their deaths weren’t in vain, then please hit that subscribe button, leave a like, and share this video.

Tim Bosma, Laura Babcock, and Wayne Millard deserve to be remembered.

Their stories deserve to be told.

And by spreading awareness, by talking about these cases, by learning from them, we honor their memories.

And maybe, just maybe, we help prevent the next tragedy.

Drop a comment and let me know what case cold case crime lab should investigate next.

I read every comment and your input matters.

This community is built on our shared commitment to justice, to truth, to remembering the victims, and holding the perpetrators accountable.

Thank you for staying with me through this difficult story.

Thank you for caring enough to listen and thank you for being part of a community that believes these stories matter.

Until next time, stay safe, stay aware, and never forget that evil doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it shows up at your door asking about a truck.

Sometimes it wears a smile and sounds reasonable.

Sometimes it’s the last thing you’d expect.

But when communities come together, when investigators do their jobs, when prosecutors fight for justice, and when juries take their responsibilities seriously, evil can be stopped.

Delan Millard thought he was untouchable.

He was wrong.

Justice came for him, and it will come for others like him.

That’s what we fight for.

That’s why these stories matter.

This is Cold Case Crime Lab signing off.