Behind closed doors, he taped his descent into madness—hours of confessions, rants, and rituals—before sending a deadly package to Björk and filming his own end.
The Year Obsession Turned Deadly
The year was 1996. Björk, the Icelandic singer with a voice like liquid electricity, was soaring. That summer alone, she landed two UK Official Indie Chart number-one hits. A third would soon follow. Her eccentric style, raw sound, and fearlessness made her a cult phenomenon far beyond the mainstream.
Thousands adored her. Millions listened. But in a small, dark apartment in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, one fan’s love began to metastasize into something else entirely.
Ricardo López was 21. Quiet. Withdrawn. And obsessively devoted to Björk—not in the way that buys albums or posters, but in the way that rewrites reality. He didn’t just want to know her. He wanted to be inside her life, to mold it. When she dated someone else, he decided to rewrite her story. By ending his own.
The Tapes He Left Behind
The final video Ricardo López ever recorded is 57 minutes long. It starts quietly—a man in a flannel shirt fiddling with the camera focus, his face gaunt and tight. On the table: a VHS tape, a suicide note, and a revolver. He breathes heavily. Lights flicker. There’s no performance. Just unraveling.
But that final video is only one piece of a much longer story.
López recorded over 18 hours of camcorder diaries in the weeks leading up to his death. Each tape is a slow, eerie descent into delusion. He documents everything: the building of the bomb, his daily routines, his fear of failure, his imagined spiritual link with Björk. He often films in silence, staring into the camera. Other times, he sobs or breaks into furious, whispered rants.
One tape shows him naked, covered in sweat, pacing. Another features him sitting motionless for minutes before finally muttering, “I love you, Björk. Please don’t hate me.”
There are long stretches where he talks about his acne, his weight, the way he feels invisible in public. He describes masturbation fantasies about her, then immediately spirals into guilt.
In one of the most haunting clips, he says: “I want to fuse with her. My soul and hers. That’s the only thing that will ever complete me.” He laughs quietly, then covers his face. “But now… I’m going to become a stain on her life.”
The Rise of a Private Obsession
López was no superfan. He was something else—someone who turned isolation into a religion. He studied Björk obsessively through taped interviews, magazine clippings, and televised concerts. He believed she was speaking to him through her lyrics. He dissected her every smile. In his journal, he described feeling “an energy connection” between their souls.
But when he learned she was dating Goldie, a Black British electronic musician, López broke. Not only had she chosen another man—she had, in his words, “polluted her blood.” His racism was overt, venomous, and tied to his belief that Björk had spiritually betrayed him.
That moment, he later said on camera, was the day he began building the bomb.
Delusions in a Diary
His handwritten journals totaled more than 800 pages. They contained violent fantasies, stick-figure sketches of murder scenarios, and disturbingly detailed bomb schematics. He wrote love letters to her—some tender, most vulgar, all unread.
In the tapes, he refers to his plan as “spiritual terrorism.” He wanted her to suffer, yes, but more importantly, he wanted her to know it came from him. That she had “pushed him over the edge.”
“I want the world to know that this was love,” he says in one of the last tapes. “It’s not hatred. It’s purification.”
A Final Act
After mailing the bomb, López entered what he called the “final phase.” He shaved his head. Painted his face with war paint—green and red—and began lighting candles around his apartment. Björk’s music plays in the background, mostly from her album Post.
In the final video, he paces, chants softly to himself, then suddenly stops. “This is for you,” he says. He grabs the revolver, places it in his mouth, and fires.
Discovery and Aftermath
For four days, his body rotted in silence. Neighbors had complained of a rancid smell. When police arrived, they found his apartment reeking of death. The walls were covered in rant-filled graffiti. The camera was still on. The gun had fallen to the floor. A note on the wall read: “The 8mm videos are documentation of a crime, terrorist matter. The recipient should be alerted.”
Police quickly uncovered the tapes and called the FBI. They watched in disbelief. Then they called Scotland Yard. Thanks to their warning, the package was intercepted at a London post office. The bomb was safely detonated.
Björk’s Response
When Björk learned what had happened, she reportedly broke down in tears. She canceled media appearances. Left London with her son.
She later issued a statement: “I hope that now he can find peace.”
In interviews years later, she described the experience as “deeply shocking,” not just because her life had been targeted, but because someone’s pain had become so entangled with hers.
“I felt violated,” she said. “And very sad. That someone felt that lost.”
The Internet’s Morbid Memory
López’s tapes still circulate online. Reddit threads trade clips. True crime YouTubers dissect his psyche. Some clips have been removed for violating terms of service—others remain.
One of the most viewed shows López whispering, “Goodbye, Björk,” as he lights a candle and raises the gun. There’s a strange, soft calm in his voice. Then the sound cuts sharply. A gunshot. The camera goes still.
A Chilling Legacy
He wasn’t famous. He wasn’t powerful. But Ricardo López made himself unforgettable—not through greatness, but through catastrophe.
There were signs. The isolation. The journals. The unraveling. But no one saw him until it was too late.
In the age of parasocial relationships, where fans can obsess from behind screens, López has become an uncomfortable warning. A reminder that loneliness, untreated, can turn into something unspeakable.
Björk survived. The bomb never reached her. But his final act did. And like Christine Chubbuck, like Budd Dwyer, Ricardo López left behind a tape that still haunts anyone who sees it.
If you or someone you know is thinking about suicide, help is available. In the U.S., call or text 988, or chat at 988lifeline.org. In the U.K., contact Samaritans at 116 123 — you matter, and your story isn’t over.
