22. A Cop’s Promise

Previously On Ice Cold Case

I don't know. Blew my mind. I was glad to see him home, but now he's not the same. He's not the same person.

They all snitching. They mamas and daddies is snitching. Everybody snitching.

Duncan and Daryl’s been informants for years.

I think primarily it, it is because, uh, they, they get in trouble themselves and, and they're looking for a way to help their own current situation.

I don't snitch, I don't do. I've had all kinds of cases thrown at me.

Madison. I'm telling you, I feel like, and I've always felt this way.

That voice still sticks in my head.

I truly believe down in my heart that Spoon is the guy with the red shoestrings, the dirty fingernails, an the accent.

Part 0: Play Nice or Don’t Play At All

Let’s just get this out of the way – the long break. The elephant in the room. You’ve probably wondered if I just gave up. Honestly? I wondered that too. There were days when working on my dad’s case felt like trying to lift a car off my chest. Every lead came with a wave of grief, and every silence from law enforcement felt like a door slamming shut. There's the obvious challenge of trying to advocate for my dad in what feels like an echo chamber. But there's also the practical stuff: paying my bills, building my career, having a life my father would be proud of. All of that, plus the very real trauma of talking to new family members, incarcerated family members, elusive and untruthful family members. I felt like I was going to explode from balancing the logistics of producing this podcast, solving this case, and paying my fucking rent.

Beyond that, there’s the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department of it all, too. 

It’s no secret that police/victim relationships are complicated. Here’s the thing about families of murdered or missing victims – you’re expected to become an advocate, an investigator, and a publicist all at once. But you’re also expected to do it politely. You’re told to cooperate with police, but never criticize them. Be grateful for the scraps of communication they offer, and whatever you do, don’t make them uncomfortable. Fight for your loved one, but don’t ruffle too many feathers.  In other words: play nice.

And if you don’t? You risk being labeled “difficult.” “Emotional.” “Unhelpful.” The kind of family they can just ignore.

I had already crossed that line with the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department – and with the Prosecutor’s Office too. I called them out for their lack of transparency, for how they mishandled parts of the investigation. I don’t regret it. But eventually, I had to swallow my pride, go back to them, and ask for help. Because as much as I hate it, I need them. The trust you have to place in the police is at an all time high when you are dealing with a cold case because without them, there’s just very little that you can do. 

That’s when I heard from the Chief of Investigations – and it wasn’t exactly the response I was hoping for. They couldn’t get a hold of me… allegedly. Even though they have multiple contact methods. But the email ended with a promise:

“I will put you in contact with Lt. Doug Cruse, who has been reviewing the case.”

For a moment, I let myself have some hope. Maybe this was it – maybe someone was finally taking this seriously. It was their chance to prove their determination to solve J.C. McGhee’s murder.

Spoiler: that hope didn’t last very long.

Days passed. Then weeks. No call. No email. No Lt. Cruse. So I did what I always do when I’m tired of waiting – I took matters into my own hands. I found his contact info myself and reached out directly.

At the time, that’s when I hit pause on the show. Every time something big happens in this case – when there’s a new lead or even the possibility of progress – I either throw myself into the investigation or freeze completely. It’s this push and pull between action and paralysis. Hope and heartbreak. But eventually, after a lot of back and forth, I got Lt. Doug Cruse on the phone.

So I hit pause – but I also hit record. 

When you’re a civilian trying to get answers about a murder that’s been unsolved for over two decades, recording your conversations isn’t optional. It’s required – for transparency, accountability, and for the sake of my own investigation, to later review. I won’t remember every detail, so it’s crucial to be able to revisit these conversations.

And don’t worry, I didn’t subvert any laws while trying to get justice for my dad. I followed it to the letter: Ohio law says I can record with one party consent. I was in Austin, Texas at the time which protected my right to record with one party consent. Lt. Doug Cruse did not want me to use this call for “my little podcast”. 

And that’s too bad.

Part 1: “I’ll Do My Best”

The new detective assigned to this case wasn’t the only development and getting in touch with him wasn’t the only challenge. Because while I was waiting for the department to make their next move, my inbox was filling up. Messages from family members. Anonymous tips. Old names resurfacing. And still, the mystery man known as Spoon – this ghost everyone swears exists but no one can seem to find – kept crawling back into my orbit. And then there’s Daryl Smith. Still behind bars. Still sparking enough rumors to make me wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

But even with all of those perpetual developments-that-aren’t-quite-developments, for the first time in a long time, I had something new – an actual detective, actually assigned to working my dad’s case. If you’ve been following this case, you know how rare that is. So, no, I won’t downplay it. This is a really big deal.

But here’s the thing about progress in this story – it’s never clean. Every inch forward comes with a dozen steps back, a dozen new walls to run into. And if you’ve made it this far, you’ve probably noticed how often I say sorry – sorry for the gaps between episodes, sorry for the cliffhangers, sorry for the lack of answers. I’m just gonna be really honest with you. I’m done apologizing because if you’re still here, you get it. You know this rollercoaster. You know that behind every “coming soon” is another closed door I’m trying to pry open. And one of these days, it’ll be worth it.

So let’s pick up where we left off and I’ll catch you up. 

When I heard that there was someone new assigned to the case, I was hopeful. Like, really hopeful. I thought maybe public pressure had finally worked. Maybe calling out the Sheriff’s Department, making noise online, being a thorn in their side – maybe it finally pushed them to act. I waited for a while to see if there would be any new developments on their end – new interviews, old witnesses revisited, maybe a trip back to the scene of the crime. And if I was really lucky, they would reveal evidence eligible to test for DNA. The benefit (and sad reality) of this case is everyone in this community is in the system, so DNA is more than likely going to match a source that they have in the database.

I held off on new episodes, thinking something was happening behind the scenes. I thought my plan was working – that the public pressure on the police had forced their hand and they were really going to give J.C. McGhee’s case a chance. That this was the moment things were going to change. But the thing about change in Belmont County is… if something feels too good to be true, it probably is. 

Detective Cruz.
Hi, this is Madison.
Hi, Madison. So the numbers coming up, that's when the number I called is Glen Holley. Is that?
Yeah, that's my mom.
Okay, all right, so, so I'm glad we could sit down and talk about this case. So we're going to talk to you first though about so I was advised you have a podcast.
Yeah.
I don't want to be on your podcast or get recorded or anything. So I was a little hesitant about calling you, because I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to be involved with that. Is that -
Okay?
Yeah, that's totally fine.
Okay? I mean, you got a right to do whatever you feel comfortable with, but I don't want to, you know, I just don't want to blend the waters at this point. If that makes any sense, I want to kind of, you know, work this case for you as a victim, you know what I mean, not as a, you know, doing an interview for the media?
Yeah? No, no, that makes sense. I mean, I'm a family member first.
Right? Yeah.

That one 39-minute phone call was the extent of it. Since then? I have barely heard from the Sheriff’s Department. Occasional emails – nothing more than polite requests for information I’ve already made public. They ask for updates, documents, names.. as if the past five years of my investigation didn’t happen. As if the hours of audio, the transcripts on my website, the literal case files that they wrote aren’t enough. Most of my initial information and interviews stemmed from the file that they gave me…

I’ve practically gift-wrapped their own investigation, with significant enhancements and ground-breaking information, and handed it back to them, and somehow, they’re still asking me to do more.

So I understand from talking to now, from talking to the prosecutor's office, they given you a lot of this documentation and stuff. Yeah, so what's your take on this case? Like, what do you do you have, and I haven't listened to your podcast, but do you have a theory on this case, or is there any avenues you would like us to pursue. 

It might seem small, just innocent emails asking me for whatever information I have. But it is information that I have made sure is as publicly available as possible. These episodes? They’re up wherever you get your podcasts. The transcripts? They are up on my website. The case files? Well Belmont County Sheriff’s Department wrote them, so they have that. What more from me could they possibly want? I’ve pretty much done years of their job for them and they still want more. I’ve even given them a list of names. 

I want, I really want. You know, nobody deserves listen. I deal with a lot of cases where, you know, people feel lost. They feel you know, and there's no guarantees in life. But you listen, nobody deserves to be a victim. Nobody, you know. There's, you know, the only bad people are the people that did this, you know. So that's what our priorities are. Is anybody who's a victim in this county, whatever, whether it's something horrific or something minor. I mean, that's what we get paid to do. So that's what we do. We look into these crimes. So no guarantees, but we're going to do we're going to checklist. We're going to go through it and and I'll keep you updated, ok?

“I’ll do my best.” That’s what he said.

Maybe it’s just me, but when you’ve waited twenty-three years for justice, “I’ll do my best” starts to sound a lot like “don’t hold your breath.”

They told me we’d work together – that we’d share information, communicate openly, build a real path to closure. But once again, the promises stopped where the paperwork began. So fine. They didn’t keep up with their promise, but I’m keeping mine. I promised I’d do whatever it takes to solve this case and share everything I learn, no matter who it makes uncomfortable. So here’s everything since Lt. Doug Cruse came into the equation.

Part 2: Talking Behind Bars

At the end of February, the Department of Justice dropped a press release:

Daryl Smith was sentenced to 120 months in federal prison for the distribution of cocaine. Ten years. That’s a long time to be thrown back into the federal system – especially for someone who’s been orbiting my dad’s case for over two decades. His sentence factored in the cocaine base charges from Ohio County, plus his role in a trafficking operation that stretched from Las Vegas, Nevada to the Ohio Valley. It also accounted for his prior drug and assault convictions. After those ten years, he’ll still face three years of supervised release.

So, yeah – Daryl’s not going anywhere for a while. And ironically, that makes him easier to find. Because for once, I actually know exactly where he is. Daryl is locked up in a federal prison in West Virginia with a release date of February 22, 2033. God forbid it takes that long – but me and any other investigator has plenty of time for another sit down with Daryl.

The problem? The app I used before to message him doesn’t work there. Federal facilities use a different system – so once again, I’m thrown back into the bureaucratic maze. This time, it starts with a letter. In the federal system, Daryl has to add me to his approved visitor list. To do that, he mails me a form. I fill it out, mail it back, wait to be cleared, and eventually – maybe – I’ll be allowed to visit. But I won’t know if I’m approved for the list, only Daryl will be notified and then has to let me know.

Until then, I can send him letters. So here we go again. Step one: I’m officially writing snail mail to my prison pen pal and one-time primary suspect in my dad’s murder. My therapist is earning every cent of her hourly fee. 

It’s almost poetic – me, hunched over my desk, handwriting a letter to a man who might hold answers about my J.C. McGhee’s murder. And somewhere between addressing the envelope and licking the stamp, I caught myself thinking: how did I get here?

But here’s what’s almost laughable, emphasis on the almost – everything I’m doing, all these hoops I’m jumping through, could be done by the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department in an afternoon. As an investigator, they have access that I don’t have. And the prison where Daryl is housed? Exactly 126 miles from their office. That’s a one hour and fifty-five minute drive. Under two hours. They could literally grab coffee on the way. And yet here I am – a podcaster with paper and a roll of stamps – doing the legwork they’ve avoided for decades.

I even told Lt. Doug Cruse about Daryl. I made it clear he’s someone worth talking to because between Daryl and Omar, Daryl is the one who talks. Even if he’s lying, he’s at least talking.

You know, looking at what happened that day, I know Darrell Smith is a main suspect for you all, or was in the past, and I'm not sure exactly in the last few years, where you stand with him.

But Lt. Cruse had other plans.

So I went down to try to talk to Omar a while ago. Is he or do you live around here?
No, okay, so I know where he lives.
Okay, so it looks like an abandoned trailer. So when I went down there, there was a girl there, and she she seemed to be friend and friends with him, or knew him, or maybe living together with him. She, you know, and I gave her my card. And obviously I never. Heard from Omar. So we're actually planning on going. We want to talk to Omar again. Do you ever talk to him? Do you know him? I mean, are you friendly with him, or do you think he would be more cooperating with us if you talk to him first? Or what's your thoughts?

So instead of following the one lead who’s willing to communicate, they’re going after the one who barely says a word. Because, of course, they are.

Part 3: Omar… Again

It’s been months, and I still haven’t heard a word about whether Lt. Doug Cruse ever actually went down to talk to Omar. But I have started hearing from Omar again —on Facebook. Maybe that's a coincidence. Maybe that’s not. The messages all start the same way:

“What’s good, fam?”

And for a second, I let myself think maybe this is his version of extending an olive branch. His hesitation with police is surely understandable – I get it – but at this point, you can’t claim you want to help while dodging every official channel. That’s not how this works.

Without any confirmation that the police have spoken to him, I’m stuck in this weird limbo. Do I engage? Do I ignore him? There are so many questions about that morning that only Omar can answer – and the biggest one is why, after all these years, he still won’t.

Then, a new thread of information appears.

A family member – someone who’s known Omar his entire life – reached out to me. To protect my new relationship with them and their own privacy, I’m keeping their identity out of this for now. But what they told me added a new layer to the story. 

They said Omar was never the same after the morning of July 11, 2002.

According to them, there’s a rumor that Omar was “given a mickey” – which is slang for slipped a drug to incapacitate him. So allegedly, he was slipped something. How they would have done that in the chaos of that morning, I don’t really know. But the theory goes that it’s why his memory is fragmented, why he acts so differently now.

If true, that must explain his confusion – but it doesn’t explain how someone allegedly drugged could bolt out of a house, run down the hill, and make it to a brake shop. If you’ve ever heard of a “mickey,” it’s basically a roofie. You don’t sprint your way out of one of those. You’re basically sedated.

Still, that rumor has taken on a life of its own – it’s the kind of story that tries to fill in gaps the investigation left open. There have always been conflicting testimonies about how smart Omar really was before all of this. Some people say Omar wasn’t sharp to begin with. Others swear he was clever, even strategic – that he’d done some college, and he wasn’t as naïve as he pretended to be.

But the rumor tries to explain why Omar could never really testify and also implies that one mickey completely changed his speech patterns for the rest of his life. Maybe “playing dumb” was his survival tactic. If so, it’s been working for twenty-plus years, to an extent

That doesn’t change what’s happening now. He’s still sending me nonsensical messages. The tone of the messages shift drastically every time – one minute, they’re aggressive, the next, they sound almost desperate to say something without ever saying anything at all. Some sort of drug-induced reduced competency theory makes sense, if only because I don’t have a better explanation for the messages he sends me. 

Regardless of his mental state, investigators are adamant that he is the person they need to talk to first. 

So right now what I want to do is talk to, I plan on going down to talk to try to try to being the emphasize that word, to go down to see Omar again on Friday. So I'd love to talk to him here, but I don't know if I could get him here. So I'm going to go down to his trailer on Friday. Is my plan.

Lt. Cruse explained that he went down to Omar’s trailer and left a card, but that Omar never called him. Shocking, right? Just a vibe check, but how often are you checking for cards in your front doors, and then, if you saw one there, how inclined would you be to call that person back? Now factor in everything you’ve just heard about the Omar moves through life. Is he someone who seems like he’d be on top of corresponding to a police card on his front porch? 

But I never got any confirmation that there was a follow up from Cruse. If business cards are how the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department is solving crimes, they should start employing AVON ladies. They at least make sure to come round twice. 

This all makes it seem like just when they are talking to me, J.C. McGhee’s case is a huge priority, and when they aren’t talking to me… it’s right back in the filing cabinet.

So Omar stays quiet, the police stay passive, and I keep asking questions no one seems ready to answer.

This is what I honestly think, 100% truthful with you, is, do I think it's going to be easy to solve? No, do I think it's hard? Yes, and it might, you know, never get solved. But it doesn't mean there's no such thing as a waste of our time. You know, this is what we get paid to do. And your father was a victim in Belmont County, and so we'll always put effort into victims of Belmont County, you know. So there's some of the things that I told you we plan on doing. Maybe they won't pan out, you know, it you we might send this stuff to the lab, and even your lab and nothing be evidentiary in it, you know. And it doesn't mean it was a waste of time. It was just, you know, avenues we need to explore now that we have more technology. And we might talk to Omar Friday, and he might tell us the same thing he sold you, but we might talk to him on Friday and he tells us something new.

Part 4: Just Call Rico

There’s a third person I urged Lt. Doug Cruse to talk to as he starts diving into this case. He’s infamous in this case, and in the town – Rico McGhee.

Rico isn’t just another name in my dad’s orbit – he’s the connective tissue. He knows the players, the timelines, the secrets. He’s been around nearly every person tied to this case in some way or another. And about a year ago, he told me something I can’t unhear.

He said he knows who killed my dad. But he wouldn’t say who – not over the phone.

It's like certain shit I can't even talk about right now as far as, you know, especially on the cell phone because they listen to everything I'm saying on this phone right now. All this shit being recorded and you know what I'm saying? Shit like that. You know what I mean?

At the time, I knew meeting him in person would have to wait – until he was released, or at least moved somewhere that allowed visits. So for the time being, we talked through the prison app and on the phone. Those conversations were never simple. Rico has layers – charm, deflection, truth mixed with performance. But underneath it all, I know he knows something.

I used the app to try to contact him again, pleading my case for him to give me whatever information he has so that I can finish this – not tomorrow, not someday – now. Because this story has dragged on long enough.

No response yet. But his silence doesn’t always mean “no.” Sometimes it just means he’s waiting for the right time to say “yes.” He’s strategic. I haven’t lost hope on Rico McGhee yet.

Our first conversation still gave me a strange sense of calm, left me feeling surprisingly optimistic. He was guarded, but there was something in his voice – a confidence, like he was sitting on the truth, like he liked knowing something that no one else does. I felt a weird comfort in knowing that information exists and is seemingly within reach. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like this case might actually have an ending and maybe, in a truly messed up way or in a family way or something, maybe Rico has my back? Maybe someone can help me. 

There’s a voice in my head that won’t shut up – I know Rico is the key. Whatever he’s heard, whatever he’s hiding, whoever he’s protecting… he’s the hinge this whole thing turns on.

So when I think about what the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department could be doing right now – it’s so obvious. Start with Rico.

He’s not hard to find. Or, at least, he shouldn’t be. Because technically, Rico is – or was – in custody. He should be sitting in a cell somewhere in Ohio or West Virginia. But trying to actually locate him? That’s where things always get strange.

He should be in the system somewhere. But finding an inmate number or what prison he’s being held in or what his charges even are… is frustratingly difficult. He feels protected. And that’s what gets me.

Because I’m out here, a civilian, trying to trace a man through public records, while law enforcement – people with actual access to these systems – can’t seem to find him either. Or worse, won’t.

It’s possible Rico’s not getting my messages because he’s no longer where I think he is. But the app still shows them as “delivered.” Which means someone is on the other end. When I tried to send messages to Daryl, it clearly says the messages can’t be delivered because that inmate has been released from that prison. Rico’s messages don’t say that. It’s all very mysterious.

Depending on what he’s charged with, it might not matter – a man serving life has no incentive to talk. No deal to cut. No reason to cooperate. But if he truly knows what happened to my dad – if he’s been holding on to that information for over twenty years – then every day he stays silent is another day justice dies a little more. And yet, when I ask the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department whether they’ve reached out to Rico, they don’t have much to say. No confirmation. No updates. No plan. They just haven’t prioritized his information. So maybe it’s time that becomes the focus.

Part 5: Open and Active

The one phrase the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department loves to remind me of – maybe their favorite line of all time – is that my dad’s case is “open and active.” Which is really just polite code for “we don’t have to tell you shit.” But what does that really mean?

Not all open cases are cold, but all cold cases are technically open. A case is open until it’s solved. An open case is a case that hasn’t been concluded. Once there is a verdict and legal proceedings have concluded, a case is no longer open. But a cold case? That just means all initial leads have been exhausted and there is no new evidence to explore. It’s law enforcement purgatory.

So when they say my dad’s case is “open,” what they really mean is it’s open on paper. Because if this is what “active” looks like, I’d hate to see what “inactive” means. And that label – “open and active” – doesn't help me. It hurts me. As long as it’s considered open, they can withhold everything – the records, the reports, the files, even the evidence.

Listen, I'm not. Don't think that I, in any way, have any kind of ill will between you and your podcast. Because I think that, you know, if my family was murdered, and 23 years have gone by, and you know you're trying to get answers, and I commend that I do. I just don't want to blur the lines, because you do get, you know, for every in a podcast, sometimes, for every good lead you get, you get 150 bad leads. And, you know, and I just don't want to, I don't what is, what I'm afraid of. I don't want to have a conversation with you, and then our entire conversation is now on your podcast, you know, I don't want that, you know, I don't authorize you to record me. I don't want to be on your podcast, and I don't want it to hinder the investigation, because we don't want to tip our hand to people, you know? Because here's the thing, for every person that's that's listening to your podcast that wants to help you, the person who did this might be listening to your podcast too, and we don't want them to know what you know, what our strategy is, or what our plans are, or what our to do list is.

You’d think, at this point, anyone who actually wanted to help solve these kinds of cases – journalists, podcasters, independent investigators, me – would be welcomed with open arms by police departments across the country.

Nope.

Even after decades of investigative journalism and entire industries have been built around cold case media, collaboration is still treated like a threat. It’s like they’d rather a case stay unsolved than share credit.

When I first started this podcast, I naively thought that if I just told the story loudly enough, someone would finally listen. To an extent – it worked. Because when outlets like People Magazine, Teen Vogue, and CBS started calling the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department for comment, they suddenly found themselves on defense.

Imagine this: You’ve let a murder go unsolved for more than twenty years. Then, one morning, your office phone starts ringing – national outlets, reporters, producers – all asking the same question: “What’s going on with the J.C. McGhee case?” I’d feel a little panicked too. Maybe even embarrassed.

But instead of taking that embarrassment and turning it into motivation, they did what bureaucracies do best: they spun it. They decided to run their own PR campaign. And then I came across something that really drove it home – a story in Lede News about what the Belmont County Sheriff’s Department says they’re prioritizing these days.

In a Lede News Article published on April 24, 2025, titled, “Revisiting Cold Cases in Belmont County – Part 2,” Chief Detective Ryan Allar spoke about re-investigating J.C. McGhee’s case. The following statements are from that article. 
“So, what we’re doing now is digging up everything we can on the youngest cold case we have in Belmont County, and that’s the J.C. McGhee from 2002,” Allar reported. “We’ve started examining the file from the very beginning, and we’ll continue to the end, and we’ve already contacted the investigators who worked the case back then. They’re all retired, but they’ve agreed to meet with us so they can give us their opinions on the case.”
“It will be interesting to see what they thought back then, and what we can do now with the technology that’s been developed since. We’ll be able to look at everything through modern eyes, and I guarantee you those investigators haven’t stopped thinking about the case,” he said. “There have been so many advancements in the last couple of decades, especially with how they can examine evidence these days as compared to back in 2002.
“The crime lab tech is insane these days, and that’s why we’re in contact with the State of Ohio’s crime lab about the evidence in the McGhee case, and the same will be true with the other cold cases we get to work,” he explained. “We’re excited because we want to solve what we can for the families of the victims.”

This article came out right as they were emailing me again – asking for everything I’ve got. All my notes. My files. My interviews. My transcripts. Everything I’ve poured my life into for five years.

Suddenly, when the press started sniffing around, now they want a partnership. Now they’re interested. They have a golden opportunity to do their jobs – to reexamine a case they’ve ignored for decades – and instead, they’re asking me to hand over my homework. I even offered to find a DNA testing facility myself and to pay for it out of pocket. But to test something, you need evidence to test. And no one can tell me if any evidence even exists.

So we're working on on that and resubmitting some things to the lab, because, you know, technologies have changed, but we have to get permission from the lab to do that. What do you have that like? Do you what physical evidence would you be testing? Just whatever they took at the initial time of the crime, just, just whatever they're willing to accept? So -
because I have a lab that can test more than probably they're they're a privately owned lab, but they're in Texas, and they take DNA from all over the country, and they've solved cases. I can send you articles about their lab, but they've solved like, Jane Doe, John Doe, cases all over the country with, like, very minimal DNA.
Yeah. Some are familiar with some of those places, and obviously we're willing to go down that path for sure. But let's see what our lab because you obviously, you're talking 23 years of advancement in technology, you know, which is astronomical. So I'm waiting for a call back from the supervisor at the lab, so let's see what they say, and then we'll obviously go down that avenue as well.

Publicly, they say they’re “committed” and “invested” in solving my dad’s murder. Privately, I’m sitting in a holding pattern – no updates,  no answers. They tell me the case is open and active. But I’m the only one actually acting.

Part 6: Better Late Than Never

So while I feel like I am at a standstill with the police, I’m not exactly staying put. I’m still sitting by my phone – waiting for updates, for anything really, that shows me they are doing something to solve this case. The only communication I get now? Emails asking me what I know, which, by the way, is all publicly available.

But I am still gathering information, acquiring resources, finding places that I can send evidence, but I am watching their movements. What I’m asking for is pretty simple and has been clearly stated: 

Will they reinterview witnesses who previously refused to talk?

Will they test any untested evidence using modern forensics?

Will they openly communicate with me and the public – or continue to operate under secrecy?

Will they document everything – log every decision, revisit their past investigation?

Will they uphold accountability if they revisit old leads that were mishandled or ignored?

Because none of these are theoretical in this case. They’re the real questions that have haunted this case for decades – and they deserve real answers.

You’d think that after all this time, any sign of movement would feel like relief. And part of me is relieved – hearing them say they’re “ready to dive in” does make me hopeful. But the other part of me – the part that’s been here since day one – knows better. They think they should get a round of applause because in one interview they say that they want to do something. I want this to end with handcuffs and a courtroom. So let’s make that happen.

“Better late than never” isn’t a victory cry. It’s a warning. I’m not celebrating. I’m not satisfied. I’m cautiously hopeful. Because yes – for the first time in decades, someone’s finally looking. But this can’t just be a PR moment, or a quote for the paper, or another checkbox in their annual report. This has to be the beginning of doing justice – not just performing it.

If the new detective is serious, they’ll know there’s no hiding now – Not from me, not from the public, not from the truth. And I’ll be right here, watching and reporting on every single step. The exposé starts now.

Next Time on Ice Cold Case

True that. You can go a long way in this country killin’ black folk. Young males especially. Misdemeanor homicides.

Like I said, man, 97 percent of that town work for the federal government. 

A lot of law enforcement agencies pay confidential informants. FBI informants are paid upwards of $20 million a year.

Credits

Thanks for listening to Ice Cold Case a Yes! Podcast
Recorded in Los Angeles at Spotify Studios
This episode was written, hosted, produced, and edited by Madison McGhee
Produced, copy edited, and additional research by Opheli Garcia Lawler
Sound engineering and sound design by Eric Reyes
Graphic design by AJ Christianson

All outside sources are linked in the show notes.

A video version of this episode is available on our YouTube Channel and a transcript is available at icecoldcase.com
To submit any tips or information please email us at icecoldcasepodcast.com

Additional Sources

https://ledenews.com/revisiting-cold-cases-in-belmont-county-part-1/

https://ledenews.com/revisiting-cold-cases-in-belmont-county-part-2/