The Dog Lady, The Killer She Loved, and Their Prison Break

There are two kinds of prisons. One is made of concrete and steel, guard towers, razor wire, a schedule that tells you when to eat, sleep, and stand. We follow the rules and keep our heads down because we are terrified of these places. But there's another prison, and it's harder to escape. It has no bars or guns. It looks like a ranch house in the suburbs, a steady job with the 401k, a marriage that died years ago. So you pass each other in the hallway like ghost. This is the invisible cage, the prison of being good. Toby Doar is the warden of her own cage. In 2006, she's 48, a mother, a grandmother, the kind of woman you trust with your keys. And one day, Toby decides to break out. She drives a van to the gate of a prison. She smiles at the guard, she waves, and in the back, inside a cardboard box, she breaks a killer out of prison, just so she can finally feel free. I'm Harvigianne, and this is Killer Stories. To understand why a woman like Toby Doar would throw her life away, you have to look closely at the life she's living. It's 2004, 11 Worth County, Kansas. The landscape is flat, gray, and endless. The wind never stops blowing. Toby works at the Lansing Correctional Facility. This place isn't just a jail. It's a fortress built in the 1860s. It looks like a medieval castle of red brick and limestone surrounded by motion sensors and electrified fencing. Inside, the air smells of industrial floor wax, unwashed bodies, and institutional food. It's a sensory assault. Toby's job gives her routine, legitimate access to multiple areas of the facility. She's trusted, familiar, and viewed as low risk. And in some ways, Toby can move through the prison with far less scrutiny than correctional officers or visitors, because Toby is the director of Sape Harbor. The prison's dog training charity. She oversees a program where inmates train rescue dogs working directly with the men to rehabilitate animals that society has given up on. Her role is designed to support rehabilitation. The concept of Sape Harbor is noble. Take stray dogs from the local kill shelter, dogs that are aggressive, broken, or abandoned, and bring them into the prison. Toby is the perfect face for Sape Harbor. She's safe, she's not threatening, she wears khakis and polo shirts, she has a soft midwestern voice. But if you look closer, Toby is barely holding it together. A few years earlier, she had been diagnosed with thyroid cancer. She went through the surgery and radiation. She confirmed her own mortality. And when she survived, when she came home, nothing changed. Toby's husband no longer looks at her. Their marriage is more like roommates than lovers. They sleep in the same bed, but there's an ocean of cold sheets between them. She feels like a ghost haunting her own house. She's the good wife, the good mother, but nobody asks her who she is. She's starving to feel something other than the numbness of a Tuesday afternoon in Kansas. Enter John Maynard, he's 27 years old, he's 6'4" with flaming red hair and eyes that seem to vibrate with intensity. John is in Lansing for a reason. In 1996, at the age of 17, John and a friend, carjacked a man named Donald England in Kansas. But it didn't just take the car. John shot him, point blank in the chest. He was sentenced to life in prison, he's dangerous. He is a convicted murderer who operated with a chilling lack of empathy. He didn't view other people as human beings, he viewed them as ponds in a game he was playing. And predators like Maynard are excellent mimics. They know exactly what you need to see. John signs up for the Save Harbor program. He becomes a dog handler. He sees Toby walking the yard. He sees the slump in her shoulder. He sees the sadness in her eyes. He sees the invisible cage she's living in. And he decides to pick the lock. Imagine setting your makeup, then forgetting it's even theirs. Meet new grippy setting mist from Mabelie, New York. Gel to mist technology locks in your look for up to 24 hours, with flexible all-day comfy grip. No tightness. No stickiness. No residue. Just plump. Dewey hydrated skin that still feels like your skin. Try new grippy setting mist from Mabelie, New York. Maybe it's Mabelie. Missing children, murder victims, unsolved homicides, breaking news, these are the cases that demand answers. I'm Nancy Grace. On Crime Stories, we go inside the courtroom, speak with investigators and top experts. We hear from victims and their families, and we bring you the latest on the cases that grip the nation and cases you may have never heard of. Please join us at Crime Stories with Nancy Grace on Spotify or wherever you get your podcast. Do you often find yourself listening to things that are dark, eerie, or macabre in order to relax? Then join me over on the As The Raven Dreams podcast. New episodes several times a week, all of them chock full of the true, strange, and scary stories certain to help you sleep well, available on Spotify or anywhere else you choose to listen to your podcasts. A little over a year into the job training dogs, John approaches Toby about non-work matters. He'd ask her what's going on in your life, because you seem so upset. Later she'd tell business insider, "No one else had even asked me, including my husband, you know, how I was doing. I was really struggling with a lot of things." He asked her about her dreams. He asked her about her poetry. He treated this 48-year-old grandmother like she was the only technicolor object in a black and white world. For a woman who hadn't been touched emotionally or physically in a decade, this was heroin. They couldn't touch. The prison has cameras everywhere and guards everywhere, so they improvise. They use dogs as couriers. Toby brings in bags of dog treats. Inside the bags, tucked between the biscuits are notes. These aren't just scribbled messages, they are desperate confessions. John writes, "You are beautiful. They don't see you, but I see you." He writes, "I will protect you. We will be free." Toby takes the notes home. She reads them in her bathroom with a door locked. She smells the faint smell of dog food on the paper. And to her, it smells like hope. She starts to change. She loses weight. She begins wearing makeup to prison. Toby starts living for the 15 minutes a day. She gets to stand near John. One day, Toby comes to work straight from the hospital. She's been visiting her father who is dying of stage 4 bladder cancer. That's exactly the kind of morning that puts a spring in your step, you know? At this point, John is a regular in her program. They see each other every day, and he notices she looks shaken and asks, "What's wrong?" It's a small question. The kind people ask all the time, but timing matters, and by the end of this conversation, He'll be fine to herself. questioning her marriage in a way she can't just ignore. Over the next few months, Toby and John spend more and more time together. At first, they only had 15 minutes a day passing moments in the yard, but once John became part of her program, those minutes multiplied until they were spending hours together without anyone noticing. Which again, this is still prison. Eventually, John tells her he loves her. He tells her he wants to run away with her. And somehow, that doesn't sound as alarming as it should. Later, Toby will say she didn't question him. She wasn't thinking about the consequences. She was thinking about one thing. Finally, feeling chosen. In 2006, the fantasy turns into a plan. They decide to run. But the logistics are a nightmare. Lansing is a fortress. How do you smuggle a six-foot-four, 200-pound man out of a facility designed to keep El Chapo inside? You don't use a disguise. You can't tunnel your way out. You have to give far more creative. Toby would draw $40,000 from her retirement account, because nothing says fresh, dark, like emptying your 401k. She buys a used truck for $5,000. And she prepares the van that would carry John out of the prison, hidden inside a dog crate. John realizes he's too big to smuggle, so he decides to change the physics of his own body. He starts starving himself. He stops lifting weights. He drinks only water. In a matter of weeks, he drops 25 pounds. His muscle mass withers. His ribs begin to show through his skin. He gets a modeling contract that last part is not true. But he does start looking like a skeleton. He's preparing his body to be folded. Toby's job is to get the vehicle and the container. She uses the program's white Ford cargo van to smuggle John out. The guards see it every day. It might as well be part of the landscape. But Toby also has a second vehicle waiting. Days before the breakout, Toby quietly purchased a used pickup truck and stashed it at a storage facility nearby. The van is for the breakout. The truck is for the getaway. She also needs a hiding spot. So she finds two large cardboard boxes. Standard shipping boxes, nothing special. On the side of one, she writes in thick black marker. Save harbor, dog supplies. The plan is audacious in its stupidity. It relies entirely on the good girl camouflage. February 12, 2006, the day of the break. The weather is cold. The sky is that flat cans is gray. Toby drives the van into the prison loading bay. I imagine this suburban grandmother's hands just shaking so hard they can barely grip the wheel. She leaves the engine running. She talks to the guards. She acts normal. Then the loading begins. Toby wheels the dolly into a blind spot near the kennel area. John is waiting. He's wearing civilian clothes to be smuggled in. He looks gone hungry. The box sits on the floor. Let's look at the dimensions, OK? 28 inches wide, 34 inches deep. Barely big enough for a CRT television. Certainly not big enough for a man. But John is ready. He sits on the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest. He ducks his head. He exhales all the air from his lungs to make his rib cage smaller. He folds himself like a human origami. His spine curves. His knees press into his eye sockets. Toby puts the flaps down. She takes the packing tape, rip, slide, smooth. She tapes him inside. She lifts the box onto the dolly. It weighs nearly 200 pounds. She wheels it to the van and somehow heaves it into the back. She throws some dolly dishes and bowls on the top to sell the lie. She gets into the driver's seat and turns the key. The engine roars to life. Now comes the gauntlet. Toby drives towards the exit. She has to pass through the final checkpoint. The guard at the gate is a man she knows, a man she had chatted with about the weather. The guard sits in the booth and Toby watches him. In the rear-view mirror, her mouth is dry. This is a moment where fear usually takes over. If he steps out, if he checks the manifest, it's over. But he doesn't. He doesn't ask her anything. He just sees Toby, the harmless dog lady. He raises the hand and a friendly wave and buzzes her out. Imagine setting your makeup. Then forgetting it's even theirs. No tightness, no stickiness, no residue. Just plump, dewy, hydrated skin that still feels like your skin. Maybe it's Mabelie. When you imagine a prison break, you imagine adrenaline and freedom. You picture a Thelma Louise driving off a cliff, hand in hand. But the reality of being a fugitive is much more boring and much sadder. Toby drives until they are clear of the county. And she pulls over on a dirt road. She cuts the tape, Maynard unfolds himself from the box he stiff and gasping for air. They ditch the van and get into the pickup truck. Toby had stashed. They drive south and end up in Alpine, Tennessee, where they rent a secluded cabin in the woods. Toby and John are free. They have the money Toby cashed out from her retirement account. They have the truck. They have each other. And that's it, guys. That's the end of the story. And it's happily ever after. Good night. Well, no. It's happily ever after for like five minutes. It isn't long before Toby door begins to understand something uncomfortable. The strongest part of their relationship is physical. Up until they're escaped, their connection have been emotional. Letters, long looks, big feelings with nowhere to go. But once they reach the cabin in Tennessee, alone off the grid and no longer pretending, they acted on the tension that had been building for months. For Toby, it was significant. Maynard is the first man she's kissed and slept with since her husband. At first, it feels like a honeymoon. He serenates her by the fire and runs bubble baths, which just to be clear is a bold move for a man on the run from the US marshals. They take day trips together, wearing wigs and playing house like a couple on vacation instead of fugitives featured on the evening news. But it doesn't take long for reality to catch up. The intimacy never deepens. It stalls. And over the course of just 12 days, it becomes clear this isn't a great love story. It's a temporary escape. One that was never built to last. Toby Doer and John Maynard aren't Bonnie and Clyde. They are a grandmother and a convict playing house. They do their shopping at Walmart. And the security footage from these trips is heartbreakingly mundane. Oh, there's John, a convicted murderer, pushing a shopping cart down the aisle. Oh, and there's Toby looking over her shoulder, checking a shopping list. They buy items that tell a sad story of domestic cosplay. Toby dies her hair brown. And John shaves his bright red hair down to the skin. They buy acoustic guitars. They think they will learn to play music together in the cabin. They buy PlayStation video games. They buy snacks, and then they wait it. They sit in their cabin and Tennessee watching the news. And Toby starts to realize the truth. She hasn't found freedom. She just traded one keeper for another. John changes the romantic poet from the prison yard to his fetishes. In his place is a board, dangerous 25-year-old criminal, who is stuck in the woods with a woman 20 years his senior. He becomes moody and controlling. He spends all day playing games. video games and drinking beer. He starts looking at Toby, not with love, but with annoyance. She was his getaway driver. Her job is done. Now she's just there. Toby has blown up her life. Her marriage is destroyed. She's humiliated her children and she's become the most wanted woman in America. Her face is on CNN. Her reputation is dog food. Sorry. That was too easy. And for what? To watch a murderer play Madden in a shack in Tennessee, Toby looks at John and she realizes the manipulation is over. The spell is broken. She realizes that the invisible cage she hated so much was actually safety. And she's thrown the key away. She wants to go home, but there's no home left to go to. The law always catches up. It just takes time. On February 24, 2006, 12 days after the escape, the US marshals find them. They're driving on Interstate 75 in Tennessee near Chattanooga. A federal agent spots the pickup truck. He checks the plates and radios it in. The lights come on behind them. Blue and red flashing in their rear view mirror. Toby looks at John. She sees the shift in his eyes. The wolf is back. He doesn't pull over. He floors the accelerator. The engine roars. The truck surges forward. 80 miles per hour, 90 miles per hour, 100 miles per hour. They are weaving through traffic dodging semi-trucks, driving on the shoulder. Toby sits in the passenger seat. She doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She just watches this pedometer climb. She watches. The trees blur into green streaks. She realizes this is the only way it could end. There is no happily ever after for a story that starts in a cardboard box. John tries to take an exit ramp at high speed and he loses control. The truck soars the tires screaming against the asphalt. It leaves the road and hits a tree with the force of a bomb going off. The truck flips and it lands on its side. Dust and smoke fills the air. Then the sirens. The police swarm the wreck. US marshals with the salt rifle. Stay troopers with shotguns. They shout. Show me your hands. Show me your hands. And they expect a shootout. They expect John to come out firing. But John is pinned. His legs are crushed by the dashboard. He is trapped in the wreckage of his own escape. And Toby, she's bruised. She's bleeding from a cut on her head, but she's alive. She crawls out of the broken window and drags herself onto the grass. She stands up. She looks at the guns, pointed at her chest. She looks at the men shouting orders. She doesn't run. And she doesn't fight. She raises her hands over her head. And for the first time in days, she feels peace. The running is over. The lie is over. In the dashcam footage, you can see her face. She doesn't look terrified. She looks relieved. John Maynard is sent back to prison. They add 10 years to his life sentence. In August 25, 2024, the story ends exactly how it began. John Maynard dies in a prison cell at the age of 45. Toby Dorr is arrested and she's charged with aiding an escape and harboring a fugitive. She pleads guilty and is sentenced to 27 months in federal prison. She serves her time, but here's a twist. The one thing nobody expected. When reporters asked Toby about her time in prison, she just said it was a nightmare. She doesn't say it was hell. No. She said it was a sanctuary. I think about it. For the first time in 48 years, she didn't have to be a wife. She didn't have to be a mother. She didn't have to be the person who runs a charity. She didn't have to be good. She just had to be Toby. She reads books. She wrote poetry. She made friends who didn't judge her because they're all wearing the same jumpsuit. She realized that the prison wall was wearing keeping her in. They were keeping the expectations of the world out. We spend our whole lives afraid of cages. We run from them. We build our lives to avoid them. Toby Doer proved that sometimes the only way to find yourself is to let the door lock behind you. She broke a man out of prison in a cardboard box, but the truth is maybe she was just trying to find a way in. Thanks for tuning in to Killer Stories, a Spotify podcast. New episodes release on Mondays. If you liked today's story and want to learn more, we drop some of our favorite sources in the episode description. Until next time, I'm Harvey G. N. Stay safe out there. Hi, you've reached the tell me a ghost story hotline and this October the line doesn't stop ringing.