Victim-Centered Advocacy
We created this shelf with the victim in mind. Most people can name three serial killers; they cannot name three victims. This shelf honors the victims with memory, advocacy, grief, persistence, and the moral refusal to let victims become merely case numbers.
Explore this shelf
Tap a related title to feature it.
Chapter One — The Name in the File: Dana Stidham
The first time I encountered Dana Stidham’s name, it did not come to me through a headline, a memorial post, or a grieving family’s plea for renewed attention, but through the quiet interior of a homicide file, where names are often reduced to investigative reference points and human lives are compressed into typed lines and procedural summaries. I had been seated for hours with the Melissa Witt investigative materials spread across the table in front of me, moving slowly through reports, timelines, lab findings, and comparative analyses, when I turned a page and noticed another victim listed as part of a prior cross-case review. The notation was brief and clinical, indicating that investigators had once examined whether a connection existed between Melissa’s murder and the disappearance and homicide of a young woman from Northwest Arkansas, and the conclusion beside the notation stated that no evidentiary link had been established and that the comparison had been closed. (More on Melissa Witt in Chapter Eight)
Even so, experience has taught me that names discovered in the margins of major case files are rarely insignificant, because investigators do not make cross-case comparisons casually, and when two murdered young women appear within the same analytical frame, even temporarily, it reveals the kinds of patterns and offender possibilities detectives were weighing at the time. Comparative elimination does not erase tragedy; it simply clarifies that there are multiple unresolved harms instead of one, and it leaves you with the uneasy awareness that while the cases may not connect to each other, the violence still connects to the same landscape. I wrote Dana’s name down in my notebook before I finished reading the page, not because I believed the cases were linked — the file was clear that they were not — but because I have learned that closed leads do not cancel open grief, and separate cases still deserve to be held with the same seriousness, the same refusal to let them dissolve into the background.
At that moment, Dana Stidham was simply another unsolved Arkansas victim whose story required careful, factual reconstruction, but advocacy work has a way of narrowing distance between research and reality, and what begins as a name on paper can become something far more personal without warning. In the months that followed, through nonprofit and service circles where advocacy, recovery work, and community leadership often overlap, I developed a friendship with Sammy Laney, a woman whose compassion and steady commitment to helping others was evident long before I knew anything about her family history. Our connection formed through shared mission rather than shared tragedy, which made what I later learned feel less like coincidence and more like convergence, because when I discovered that Sammy is Dana Stidham’s first cousin, the emotional distance between file notation and human loss collapsed in an instant. The case I had first encountered as an investigative cross-reference became something closer and heavier, and the realization did not feel incidental; it felt directional, as though the work itself had circled back and placed Dana’s name in front of me again, not as a footnote, but as a responsibility.
Dana Lanell Stidham was eighteen years old in the summer of 1989, newly graduated from Gravette High School and standing at that hopeful threshold where young adulthood begins to take shape through plans, applications, and practical next steps. She had been accepted to Northwest Arkansas Community College and was moving forward with the steady, grounded energy that those close to her described as characteristic of her nature. At the time, she was living in Centerton with her brother Larry and her cousin Kristy Smith, while still maintaining close and frequent visits with her parents, Lawrence and Georgia, in Hiwasse, reflecting the kind of tightly woven family structure where independence grows without severing connection.
On July 25, 1989, she spent part of the day at her parents’ home, helping with ordinary responsibilities and moving through the familiar rhythm of a summer afternoon. Her father was feeling ill, and she agreed to run a short grocery errand for him — a small act of care, a routine favor, the kind of trip no one remembers twice under normal circumstances. She left the house at approximately 2:45 in the afternoon for what should have been a quick four-mile drive to the Phillips grocery store in Bella Vista, and store register records later confirmed that she completed her purchase at 3:17 p.m., creating a timestamp that stands as the final verified marker of her movements while alive. A receipt found later inside her vehicle preserved that moment with indifferent precision, ink on paper marking the end of the known timeline.
Witnesses reported that she spoke briefly with an older man near the store entrance area, an interaction that did not raise alarm at the time and appeared ordinary to those who observed it. There was no recorded sign of distress, no visible struggle, nothing to distinguish that moment from thousands of other brief public exchanges that occur every day in grocery store doorways and parking lots, and that ordinariness is part of what makes it so unsettling to revisit. Somewhere between that completed purchase and the expected return home, her day — and her life — was violently interrupted.
Concern grew quickly when she failed to return within a reasonable timeframe, because Dana was known for her reliability and for communicating even small delays, and her unexplained absence did not fit her character. By that evening, her brother reached out for help, and a family friend who was also a sergeant with the Benton County Sheriff’s Office began the early response process, gathering descriptions and initiating a countywide alert so that patrol officers would be watching for her vehicle. Those first hours in a missing person case can be decisive, but they are also frequently marked by uncertainty, and Dana’s case began with urgency but very little actionable information, which is one of the cruelest combinations a family can endure.
The following morning brought the first major development when her gray 1984 Dodge Omni was located along Highway 71 near Wellington Road in Bella Vista, positioned on the shoulder in the southbound lane with a flat left rear tire, unlocked, with the keys still in the ignition. Inside, investigators found the grocery receipt confirming the previous afternoon’s purchase time. Detectives surveying the scene were immediately troubled by directional inconsistency, because both Dana and her parents lived in the opposite direction from where the car had been left, suggesting that something — or someone — had altered her route after she exited the store parking lot, and the totality of the scene suggested interruption rather than a voluntary stop.
A Bella Vista officer later reported that during the previous night, before the vehicle had been linked to a missing young woman, he had observed a pickup truck stopped behind the Omni with a man positioned near the rear tire, appearing to examine something mechanical. At the time, the observation did not trigger alarm, but in hindsight it became one of the most haunting near-intersections in the timeline, representing a moment when proximity to the offender may have occurred without recognition, a moment that reads like a warning nobody knew how to hear.
As investigators retraced Dana’s likely route, some of her personal belongings were discovered scattered along nearby roads, findings that suggested deliberate disposal rather than accidental loss, and shifted the working theory firmly toward abduction. Search efforts expanded to include law enforcement personnel, volunteers, friends, and community members who combed surrounding areas hoping to locate either Dana herself or additional trace evidence. Detectives conducted interviews across her known social and relational circles, including former romantic partners, verifying alibis and reconstructing movements, following standard elimination protocols while pursuing every viable lead, because in the early stage of an investigation the goal is not to confirm a single theory but to remove every false one until only the truth remains.
Nearly two months later, in mid-September, a hunter discovered skeletal remains in a wooded area of Bella Vista near a dry creek bed, but the discovery was not immediately reported, adding delay to an already devastating development. Investigators responded to the scene and began careful recovery procedures, and the remains were sent to the State Medical Examiner’s Office in Little Rock, where dental comparison confirmed Dana’s identity. The case was formally ruled a homicide, and because of the condition of the remains and the passage of time, officials did not publicly release the specific physiological cause of death, preserving forensic details for investigative integrity. Evidence at the scene included materials indicating restraint, including duct tape and lengths of tied twine, reinforcing the conclusion of criminal violence.
Dana was born in March 1971 and would now be in her fifties, a reality that forces the mind to imagine the decades she never experienced — the career she might have built, the relationships she might have formed, the ordinary milestones that were stolen before they could occur. Her disappearance and murder shocked her community, and the grief that followed settled deeply into the lives of those who loved her. Over the decades since, many central figures connected to the early investigation and family circle have passed away, including her parents and several original investigators, yet the case itself has not been closed. Cold case units continue to review the file, reassess evidence, and seek new leads through modern methods, maintaining its status as open and active.
What remains most striking is how memory has endured even where answers have not, because classmates, relatives, and family friends still speak of Dana not as a case but as a person — kind, dependable, warm-hearted — and they continue efforts to keep her name visible so that time does not succeed where violence failed in erasing her. Community advocates and relatives maintain awareness efforts so that population growth and generational turnover do not bury the story under unfamiliarity, and the passage of thirty-five years has changed the landscape but not the obligation.
When I think back to the moment I first saw Dana Stidham’s name in the Witt case file — a brief comparative entry concluding no connection — I understand now that while the crimes are not linked by offender, they are linked by duty, because every unsolved murder of a young woman (or of anyone) creates the same unfinished demand for truth. Discovering that my friend Sammy Laney is Dana Stidham’s first cousin did not alter the investigative facts, but it removed any remaining emotional distance, and with that nearness came certainty that telling Dana’s story fully, factually, and without dilution is not optional work. It is necessary . Chapter One
THE DISCOVERY
On January 13, 1995, the world, consumed by the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, eagerly awaited the results of a hearing that would determine if evidence challenging Detective Mark Fuhrman’s credibility would be admitted in the O.J. Simpson trial.
As I made my way along the winding roads leading to Fort Smith, Arkansas, I listened as the local radio station announced how prosecutors believed that O.J. dropped a glove as he attempted to sneak back to his mansion the night of the Simpson and Goldman murders. Judge Lance Ito was also expected to rule whether O.J. Simpson’s former wife would be required to appear in court.
The unspeakable events surrounding the murders proved to be sensational, dark and shocking. It was the perfect storm for a true crime addict. And I was hooked. At 21-years-old, I was already deep into my obsession. My fascination with murder mysteries gave me an adrenaline rush. The fix of the “who”, “what,” “when,” and “where” kept me reading every true crime novel I could get my hands on.
On this particular day, as my obsession kept me tuned in to the radio for the O.J. Simpson case, another announcement caught my attention. A body had been found in the Ozark National Forest and authorities were on the scene. They suspected the body could be that of 19-year-old Melissa Witt.
As my Nissan Altima crept along the two-lane highway of U.S. 71 that was at the time the main route between Fayetteville and Fort Smith, Arkansas, I gazed into the Boston Mountains and watched dark clouds roll in.
At the same time, a chill settled in across the Ozarks. The clouds opened up and unleashed torrents of furious rain on a remote and lonely crime scene. As it turns out, roughly 56 miles away in the Ozark National Forest, a beautiful landscape of trees and mountains had been hiding a terrible secret.
On January 13, 1995 at 9:40am, two animal trappers, about 15 miles north of Ozark, stumbled upon what they believed could be a mannequin lying face down in the woods about 30 feet off of the main road. The two men, avid outdoorsmen, had walked this very path the day before. There had been nothing there.
As they approached the strange mannequin lying in the woods, it became clear that what they found was something much more sinister. After 45 long days, the remote Forest Service Road 1551 in the Ozark National Forest had finally unearthed the unthinkable: the decomposing nude body of a young, white female.
Frantic, the pair immediately called the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. Upon receiving the news, Sheriff Kenneth Ross contacted Detective Sergeant Chris Boyd with the Fort Smith Police Department Major Crimes Unit.
Over 20 years later, as I sat to interview the now former Detective Boyd for a documentary I was producing on the Melissa Witt case, he could still vividly recall that cold and rainy morning.
“At the time, the police department was in the Sebastian County Courthouse and I distinctly recall walking through the basement to get to my office in the Detective Division. That’s when I received a phone call from Sheriff Ross.”
As the retired Detective described the phone call, his expression turned serious and somber. I’d seen this look before. It was the expression of a man haunted by the unsolved murder of an innocent young woman.
“Sheriff Ross told me on that call that he thought he had found the body of Melissa Witt. And knowing him like I did at the time, I figured he was probably right. I had him describe to me what he was seeing and what the body looked like. Once he gave me the description… well, I knew I had to rally the troops at that point. We needed crime scene techs and detectives at that scene immediately.”
As the former Detective described the events that unfolded the morning of Friday, January 13, 1995, my own memories flooded back. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the icy chill in the air. I remember the rain came down in heavy thuds, hard and fast, soaking my clothes as I ran. Another memory of me complaining to my coworkers about the miserable weather conditions on that day also replayed in my mind: “Why did what started as a beautiful day drastically turn out to be so tragic?” My words unknowingly foreshadowed events that would haunt me almost two decades later.
As Jay C. Rider entered the room, I nervously stood to greet him. As we shook hands, Rider asked if Melissa and I had been friends, an assumption others often make to explain my passion for finding justice for a girl I never knew.
“No sir. I never knew her. We had mutual friends, but we never met.” Rider eyed me skeptically, nodded and said, “I guess that makes two of us.” Rider’s tough demeanor fueled my anxiety.
“Tell me about January 13, 1995. The day you found Melissa Witt’s body.”
Rider described the day as normal, even for a Friday the 13th. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a superstitious guy. It was a normal day. It started off sunny—a perfect day. I decided to get some work done around the office. When the phone call came in from Sheriff Ross, as you can imagine, all hell broke loose. We all headed out to that crime scene. We feared the worst… that this body was Melissa Witt.”
News reports of the crime scene describe a lonely, remote logging road near Turner Bend just north of Ozark. I knew the location of Melissa’s body would reveal details about her killer.
“Can you tell me more about the location?” I asked.
“It was a logging road. More or less a single lane road, rough terrain, off the main gravel area. The road was mainly accessed by loggers clearing and cutting the national forest,” Rider explained, “Trappers, hunters, campers and sometimes local kids looking to party used that road. Believe it or not, the logging road ended—like a cul de sac—so it was a dead end. A remote, hopeless dead end.”
“What else do you remember about that day?” I asked.
“I will never forget that day,” Rider explained. “We started working the crime scene and the temperature dropped drastically. It started to rain—hard rain—rain that was actually coming in sideways. The wind was blowing hard and it was miserable. None of us had jackets or anything else because it had started off as such a perfect day. I remember finding a raincoat in my car and trying to find a shirt or something to change into so I could stay warm.”
Rider’s description of that fateful morning closely paralleled my own memories. But now it seemed that what we had witnessed was so much more than just a rainstorm. Instead, maybe we experienced the heavens releasing an unrelenting stream of tears for a girl we never knew.
The medical examiner’s report revealed that the official cause of death was “asphyxiation by strangulation.” Leaves and soil found in Melissa’s airway indicated she had been strangled face down and she had inhaled debris from the forest floor as she fought for her life.
Laboratory testing on the debris found in Melissa’s airway gave investigators an important clue: the debris was native to the Ozark National Forest. This told investigators that she had been killed at or near the location where her body was discovered. The medical examiner’s report also yielded another important clue: Melissa had non-fatal trauma on the side of her head that was believed to have been caused by a blow or a fall.
Armed with this information, investigators began to put together a profile of Melissa Witt’s killer. Two scenarios emerged: The killer was either a local or someone who frequented the area from out of state to hunt, hike, camp, or fish. Melissa’s body could have been disposed of in many places but her killer chose this remote location. A—n area so isolated that if you had never been there before, it would be almost impossible to find. A more detailed examination of the crime scene shocked investigators. Indentations behind a large headstone-like rock positioned between two small trees revealed that her body had initially been hidden there.
According to police records, Melissa’s decomposing body had visible marks where someone, presumably the killer, had grabbed hold of her in order to move her closer to the road.
“It would have been a gruesome task,” Jay C. Rider explained. “Think about it. Melissa’s body had been out in the elements for 45 days and was in advanced stages of decomposition. There was small animal activity on the body and the scene was… it was brutal. Whoever moved that body did it so it could be found more easily. Maybe so her mama could give her a proper burial. Regardless, the task was gruesome and we are still trying to figure out who moved her body and why.”
A strange phone call made to police a day or two prior to the discovery of Melissa’s body may have provided a different clue. The caller left a voice message at the Fort Smith Major Crimes unit one evening. On the voice message recording, a lady called and with a thick Southern accent could be heard saying, “Go ahead and tell them what you found.” There also was a younger male voice, also with a thick Southern accent who was reported saying, “No, I can’t,” and then the phone disconnected. Did the young man who was part of the mysterious phone call discover Melissa’s body in the woods and move it from behind the rock so she could be found? Was he scared he could be blamed for the murder? Sadly, we may never know. Despite extensive efforts to identify the people responsible for that phone call, their identity remains a mystery.
Now, decades after this heinous crime, as I sat with retired investigators decades after this heinous crime, they described additional clues found near Melissa’s body, such as cigarette butts and papers. What was even more puzzling were the items that were missing from the crime scene: Her clothing, purse, wallet, remaining gold hoop earring, and her beloved Mickey Mouse Watch. (Gold hoop earrings and Mickey Mouse watches were very common for teenagers in the ‘90s. I certainly had them, too.) Both retired Detectives Boyd and Rider seem to think that the killer kept Melissa’s watch for a very specific reason.
“A sociopath maybe wanted to keep it as a memento to represent the relationship they once had with Melissa,” explains Rider, “As a trophy of some sort.”
The discovery of Melissa’s body fueled an obsession in Rider to find justice for her at all costs.
I quickly began to recount the facts of the case for myself: Melissa was found nude near a headstone-like rock. She had been strangled and her clothes, shoes, and Mickey Mouse watch and jewelry were removed and have never been located.
Determined to learn more about the psychology of this type of killer and crime, I obsessively began to research homicidal strangulation. I discovered that in a high percentage of cases, the offender and the victim have a family or a romantic relationship. Seventy-five percent of strangulation victims are females, with the most frequent motives being rape, sexual jealousy, or personal rivalry. Research also suggests that females are predominantly the victims in homicidal strangulation because they are more likely to be the targets of sexual assaults.
Could this be why her body was found nude? Was she sexually assaulted? Unfortunately, we may never know for certain. According to the medical examiner’s report, it was impossible to determine if she had been raped.
I kept researching. I found that a high percentage of female victims in homicidal strangulation are murdered due to a quarrel in their relationship and/or due to unrehearsed violence applied by bare hands to put the victim at a physical disadvantage and render the victim incapable of resisting. In 86% of the strangulation cases the victim was found at the scene of the killing. In 22% percent of these cases, the victim was found outdoors. In 17% of these cases, the offender stole something from the victim. In 14% of all of these cases, the victim was first hit with a blunt instrument.
A cold chill went down my spine. Did Melissa know her killer?
I compared these facts to what I had learned about the gruesome murder:
1) According to the autopsy report, Melissa was hit in the head with a blunt instrument.
2) She was found strangled, outdoors, and she was naked—her clothing and personal belongings had been taken from her.
3) The remote location was familiar to her killer. Authorities believe he had been there before.
I began to look even closer at events that unfolded on the day Melissa disappeared. From all reports, the day started off routinely. She spent the first part of the morning with her mother, Mary Ann. The honor student headed to Westark Community College next. After that, she went to lunch with a friend and then off to her job as a dental assistant.
However, before she left that morning, Melissa had a minor disagreement with her mother. She had asked to borrow money, and Mary Ann, in an effort to teach her daughter money management, had told her no. Melissa and her mother were especially close. They shared the same beautiful smile, kind heart, and innocent outlook on life.
Before Mary Ann left for work that morning, she left a note for Melissa reminding her she would be bowling with her league that evening and offered to buy her a hamburger. She signed the note, “Love, Mom”
At five o’clock that night, after clocking out at her dental assistant job, Melissa discovered that her 1995 Mitsubishi Mirage wouldn’t start. After a few tries, she gave up and waited with a co-worker until a local businessman, later dubbed the Good Samaritan, gave her car a jump.
Police reports explain how Melissa’s dome light was left on by mistake, draining the car battery. Investigators tracked down the Good Samaritan and interviewed him multiple times before ultimately clearing him in the teenager’s disappearance and murder.
“People ask about the Good Samaritan all the time because those events leading up to Melissa’s abduction seem suspicious,” Rider explained. “The Good Samaritan does seem suspicious, until you realize how many times he was questioned.” He was cleared of any suspicion in Melissa’s murder.”
We know that, once Melissa’s car started, she went home to change out of her uniform. Those clothes were found crumpled on her bedroom floor. Mary Ann Witt was able to determine that her daughter had then donned a white V-neck sweater and jeans.
Melissa must have seen her mom’s note, because authorities believe she headed to Bowling World, arriving between 6:30pm and 7:00pm. She parked in the northwest corner of the lot, but she never made it inside. There were no cameras to record the events that unfolded in that parking lot that night. Witnesses would later tell police they heard a woman screaming, “Help me!”
Two decades later, as I poured over police files and news footage, my heart broke to learn that Mary Ann was haunted by the note she left for Melissa that fateful Thursday. In one interview she is quoted as saying, “I try not to think about how our lives would be different if I had not invited Melissa to Bowling World that night. There is no use thinking about it. I know she is gone. But my heart…. You know, as a mom… I sometimes wonder what if I had done something differently.”
At approximately 7:45pm, Melissa’s car keys were found in the parking lot and were turned in to the front desk of Bowling World. No one noticed the splatters of blood that were slowly drying on the metal keys.
Since Melissa never entered the bowling alley that night, her mother simply thought she had decided to go out with friends instead. Mary Ann went home expecting to see her daughter later that evening. Hours passed and Thursday slowly turned into Friday.
At nine o’clock on Friday morning, Mary Ann reported Melissa as a missing person. By Saturday, Melissa’s friends and family were passing out flyers, blanketing the River Valley with over 6,000 pleas for help in finding the missing teenager.
I lived in Northwest Arkansas and remember seeing the story of Melissa’s disappearance light up news channels. Her picture seemed to be everywhere. Curious, I reached out to my friends in the River Valley. It turns out they knew her. Their voices trembled as they shared their worst fears with me:
“Melissa would not just disappear like this.”
“Where could she be? This is not like Melissa at all.”
“I hope she’s okay. I am scared she’s been hurt.”
Christmas passed and the new year rang in but there was still no Melissa Witt.
For more than a month, I, like the rest of the community, sat on the edge of my seat questioning what had happened to the beautiful All American Girl. None of us expected the story to turn out the way it did.
A quote by the late Michelle McNamara, in her book I’ll be Gone in the Dark: One Woman’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer, resonates with me. She wrote, “He loses his power when we know his face.” These words sum up the rationale behind the countless hours I’ve spent investigating the Melissa Witt case. I want to see his face.
For over two decades the identity of Melissa’s killer has been hidden among the dense trees and thorny undergrowth rooted deeply in the uneven ground of a remote mountain top in the Ozark National Forest. I envision him, a shadow-like figure, dark and dreadful, his confidence anchored in the predictability of a murder case slowly growing cold. Chapter 1
Hello, My Name is Lauren
Picture this: It's early 2018, and I'm just minding my own business, maybe binging on too much Netflix. And, suddenly, a metaphorical door swings open—like in those cheesy motivational videos your aunt keeps sharing on Facebook. Except, spoiler alert: Instead of leading to self-discovery or a career in motivational speaking, it invites me into the chaotic world of true crime podcasting. Yes, me. A total amateur.
At first, I thought, “Wow, what a fun little distraction!” Who doesn’t want to delve into the dark corners of human nature? So there I am, diving headfirst into this domain without any training, degrees, or even a clue about audio editing. Just a burning curiosity and a fierce desire to share tales that are equal parts fascinating and disturbing.
Before I dive too far into this story, I need to introduce you to Ken—my knight in shining armor, though his armor is more paint-chipped than polished and his bravery was rooted in the sturdy reliability of a 1998 GMC Sierra pickup truck. Ken has been my unwavering co-host and partner in both my podcasting adventures and the rollercoaster of everyday life.
A chance encounter facilitated by a mutual friend cemented our friendship through shared laughter, effortless conversations, and buffalo chicken wings. At first glance, he was not what I deemed "my type"—he was older, composed, and inherently good-natured. As I reflected on my past romantic entanglements, a pattern emerged, one painted with the hues of heartbreak and mistreatment. Ken stood in stark contrast to the men of my past.
It took a couple of months, but eventually, I made the first move. Believe it or not, Ken is shy, despite what you may think after listening to our podcast! I got tired of waiting for him, so I just went for it, and I am glad I did! He’s stuck with me now.
Enough of the mushy stuff. I convinced Ken to start this true crime podcast with me. We named it Paradise After Dark. You’ll understand the name better as you keep reading. But seriously, how hard could it be? We would research a case and record ourselves talking about it. Pretty simple, right? I bought cheap gaming headphones on Amazon, downloaded a free audio mixer on my laptop, and we got started.
And, oh boy, did I quickly learn that my lack of podcasting credentials raised quite a few eyebrows. Friends probably wondered if I’d lost a bet or if I was experiencing some midlife crisis too soon. Meanwhile, I’m over here thriving on chaos, experimenting with sound bites, and learning about audio editing. What I thought was a podcast could often pass for a crime scene investigation—or at least that’s how my early recordings sounded.
But you know what? Every awkward moment and every editing mishap became a stepping stone. My passion for sharing these stories became my best guide. And while I couldn’t tell you a single thing about “proper” podcasting, I could tell stories that kept listeners on the edge of their seats (or at least awake during their daily commutes).
So here I am, an accidental podcaster, navigating this uncharted territory with way more enthusiasm than technical skill. And honestly? Who needs a textbook when you’ve got a unique fascination with the human psyche and an endless supply of riveting tales to share? Welcome to my world!
But let’s peel back the layers, because it turns out that behind every chilling episode is a world of research that would make a detective proud. Forget just sitting in front of the mic and rolling with it. This job is more like being on a never-ending treasure hunt, where the treasure is buried under mountains of police reports, witness statements, and, oh, let’s not forget, the charming array of YouTube videos and the dreaded Reddit threads discussing the very crimes that haunt my sleep.
Don’t get me wrong; I love diving into the twisted tales of true crime, but have you ever tried sifting through grim details for hours while trying not to lose your mind? Let’s say my laptop and my sanity are in a constant tug-of-war. I’d love to tell you that I was doing it for the love of storytelling, but, eventually, it felt more like a weird form of self-punishment.
But here’s the kicker: Through all the research, the sleepless nights, and the risk of permanent damage to my eyes and wrists, I carved out my niche in this chaotic world of podcasting. And I’ve got to admit it’s empowering. Even with all the hiccups and plot twists along the way, the belief in the stories and the connection with my audience fuels the fire.
I’m getting ahead of myself here. Allow me to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Lauren. I was born and raised in Naples, Florida. First, let's talk about Florida in general. It's the land of sunshine, shrieking cicadas, and the most bizarre news headlines known to humankind. Honestly, if there were a contest for the weirdest stories, I’m sure our little corner of paradise would win first place. "Florida Man" has practically turned into a cultural icon—who needs superheroes when you have someone wrestling an alligator while wearing nothing but flip-flops?
Growing up here, you learn to embrace the eccentricity. Who wouldn’t want to be a proud embodiment of the quirks and oddities that come with the territory? It's as if the state handed me a quirky edge and my driver's license, almost like some rite of passage. You know, “Congratulations! You can legally drive, and here’s a whole bucket of weirdness to go with it!”
And Naples. A little slice of paradise where the beaches are pristine, the sun shines bright, and the darkest secrets lurk just beneath the surface. You know, the kind of place where joggers wave cheerily at each other while sipping overpriced lattes, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding behind the facades of those luxurious mansions.
I became obsessed with uncovering the secrets beneath the surface of this seemingly perfect town. Here I was, revealing stories that would make your jaw drop. You’d think a place like Naples would be all beach days and high tea, but nope! There’s crime, scandal, and a healthy dose of drama lurking around every corner. It’s as if the town dared me to explore its underbelly, like some ironic treasure hunt.
Let’s talk about Port Royal, shall we? The neighborhood practically screams, “Look how fancy I am!” Beneath those elegant roofs and manicured lawns, there are some crazy stories. We’re talking about bombings, suspicious disappearances, and lives shattered by addiction—all swept neatly under the plush Persian rugs, of course. After all, we wouldn’t want to ruin anyone's brunch with the grisly details.
The cases of Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos highlight troubling failures within law enforcement. Both men disappeared in the early 2000s in North Naples after having encounters with Stephen Calkins, a Collier County Sheriff's Deputy.
Santos, involved in a minor car accident in 2003, was cited by Calkins. He was last seen being driven away in the officer's patrol car under dubious circumstances. Calkins claimed he dropped Santos off at a gas station, but no formal booking occurred, and Santos has not been heard from since.
Just months later, Terrance Williams faced a similar fate. After being illuminated by Calkins and pulling into the local cemetery parking lot, cemetery staff observed the officer patting Williams down and placing him in his vehicle. Like Santos, Williams was reportedly dropped off at a gas station; however, again no incident report was filed, and Williams has not been seen since. Calkins was later fired for providing conflicting information regarding both disappearances.
Despite national attention, a wrongful death lawsuit against Calkins lagged in meaningful results, culminating in a judge dismissing the appeal and making Williams' mother pay Calkins’ legal fees.
The question remains painfully obvious: Where are Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos, and how many more cases like theirs are buried beneath bureaucracy and indifference?
And then there’s the unforgettable tale of Stephen Benson, tobacco heir extraordinaire. Who could forget that delightful little family outing on July 9, 1985? A surprise pipe bomb in the family car adds a touch of drama to the typical butterflies and sunshine narrative. Just a little inheritance squabble gone awry—who hasn’t been there?
And speaking of mysterious circumstances, let’s discuss Robert Ludlum, the author who brought us Jason Bourne. Now that’s a plot twist! Did he spontaneously combust while sitting in his recliner in his high-rise apartment? Or was it a case of mixing too much drama with your cocktail, darling? His wife was in the kitchen preparing a fresh drink while the firemen doused her poor husband?
So, here I am—a proud product of Florida. Call me unconventional, call me ironic, call me whatever you want. I’ve learned that, sometimes, the things we can’t have, like a perfectly normal life, are exactly what we need to uncover the fascinating messiness of reality.
As a 12-year-old, I was captivated by shows like Forensic Files and books like Mind Hunter, written by the renowned John Douglas, which sparked my interest in criminal psychology. This has shaped my worldview, as I now see potential profiles and motives in every news story and crime scene. I see it as a puzzle waiting to be solved.
I’ve always loved reading books, so it’s no surprise that I’m now writing one. I started with R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series—nothing quite screams “I’m a budding horror aficionado” like a green book with a giant eyeball on the cover. We thought that was high literature back in fifth grade, didn’t we? From there, I graduated to the Fear Street series by R.L. Stine, which was essentially the same as Goosebumps but featured teenagers instead of children. I loved it.
And then, in my teen years, I jumped headfirst into the dark, twisting world of Stephen King. The "Master of Horror," they call him. But honestly, it's like calling an entire buffet “just food”—the man does so much more than scare you; he dives deep into the messy, delicious bits of human life with a sprinkle of supernatural chaos. Who knew you could get existential dread while battling a giant spider named "It," right? Sorry, spoiler alert!
But the scariest Stephen King book I have read to date is Mr. Mercedes. It isn’t about the supernatural; it's about a real person—an evil person. Evil exists in our world, and I have definitely discovered that.
Fast forward to today. My interests as a child didn’t just teach me about crime; it instilled confidence in my ability to analyze, empathize, and understand the complexities of human nature. And isn’t that a skill worth having? Whether you end up in law, criminology, or another field, your passion will always set you apart. That drive for more profound understanding makes you a potential profiler and a keen observer of life.
I honestly have no idea when or where Stephen King made this statement, but it’s always stuck with me: “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” I relate to this in so many ways. I think you will understand once you have read this book.
True crime isn’t merely a hobby for me; it’s woven into the very fabric of my identity. It became my lens, my intrigue, and, ultimately, my calling. Reflecting on my journey, the pivotal four years I spent as a military police officer in the Navy stand out vividly—each memory is a thread intricately tied to my understanding of humanity and morality.
As I donned my uniform each day, I witnessed things that tested every moral fiber within me. From tense military incidents to civilian disputes, each scenario left an indelible mark. The psychological depth I encountered taught me that crime is not simply an act; it’s a complex interplay of choices, circumstances, and the often-overlooked stories behind each individual involved.
Upon transitioning out of the service, I didn’t just hang up my badge; I took my experiences and channeled them into academia. I pursued a degree in paralegal studies, eager to bolster my understanding of the law—an extension of my experiences as a military police officer. This degree didn’t merely add a layer of sophistication to my narrative; it was integral in shaping my worldview.
Having worked closely with prosecutors and defense attorneys, I was granted a front-row seat to the great justice division. The prosecutors painted a world of black and white, where the rules were clear and often unforgiving. In contrast, the defense attorneys navigated the murky waters of “innocent until proven guilty,” prompting me to redefine my perception of right and wrong. This duality became more than just knowledge; it morphed into an intricate dance—a ballet of justice and humanity that I found utterly captivating.
Through these experiences, I understood that law is not a rigid script; it is a living, breathing entity. It reflects our society’s values, fears, and its myriad hypocrisies. I find this dance fascinating, a kaleidoscope of human experiences unfolding right before my eyes.
So here I am, armed with a wealth of knowledge and a passion that ignites my storytelling. As I recount chilling tales, I don’t just narrate, I dissect and analyze. I reveal the layers, exposing how the pieces fit together in a greater narrative. I am not just another voice amidst the clutter of true crime podcasts; I am a storyteller who has lived, seen, and dissected the very essence of this genre.
Ken and I knew we wanted to focus our podcast on Florida. Initially, we covered cases close to home, which inspired the show's name, Paradise After Dark. In the beginning, we didn’t limit ourselves to true crime; we also explored themes like ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries in the area. As I mentioned earlier, Florida has its quirks, ensuring we will never run out of content in these categories. We decided to kick off our first episode by discussing an urban legend from our own backyard—the legend of the squallies.
Let’s dive into this local legend from Golden Gate Estates, a rural neighborhood located in Naples, Florida. This area is known for its tight-knit working-class and middle-class families, but there’s a side that is definitely a bit more... mysterious.
Legend has it that deep in the woods surrounding this community, there’s a colony of peculiar little creatures called squallies. Imagine short, humanoid beings that sport pig-like snouts—it’s like something straight out of a storybook, right? These little guys have become part of the local folklore, and it’s said that around 40 to 50 of them still roam the woods to this day. But here’s the kicker: If they catch you, you might just end up as their dinner!
There are a couple of spine-chilling theories about how these squallies came to be. One story suggests they are the aftermath of a government experiment that went awry—think mad scientists and top-secret projects gone wrong, much like the premise of the popular Netflix series Stranger Things. The other theory is even wilder, claiming a nutty scientist created them all by himself and still protects them like some mad guardian out in the woods. Both stories agree on one thing: There is an old man who is just as crazy as they come, sitting like a guard dog over the territory where the squallies hang out. If you’re thinking about snooping around, be warned: He’s said to shoot on sight.
The area where these creatures are believed to be lurking is what folks around here call Naithlorendum Sanctuary. It’s a place that sounds enchanted but might hold chilling secrets instead. So, if you’re in Golden Gate Estates and feeling adventurous, think twice before stepping off the beaten path. The squallies might just be keeping a close eye on you!
Reflecting on the evolution of our podcast, I realize that each twist has not only shaped our narrative but also my worldview. As mentioned, initially, we focused on sensational true crime stories featuring notorious figures, ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries. However, as I delved deeper, I felt a growing responsibility to amplify the voices of those who had been silenced—families yearning for answers and friends holding on to hope amid despair.
This realization spurred a significant transition. We eventually shifted our focus exclusively to missing persons and unsolved crimes, shedding light on often-overlooked tragedies. This was more than a change in content; it was a commitment to fostering awareness and compassion. Our rebranding as Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved encapsulated our mission to invoke action and support.
The overwhelming audience response validated our path. Listeners connected with stories of love and loss, and I found renewed passion—an urge to champion the marginalized. Each episode became a tribute to resilience, a reminder that hope for answers always exists.
The journey transformed me. It morphed from simple storytelling into a deep exploration of humanity and truth. Behind every statistic is a life, a family, a story begging to be heard.
This is one of the concepts that pushed Ken and I to create The Florida Themis Project. Themis, as we call it, is a non-profit organization. Themis, the Greek goddess of wisdom, good counsel, and the interpreter of the other gods' will, is widely recognized as the goddess of justice. We support loved ones and victims of unsolved crimes by providing financial assistance for investigative tools, including DNA testing, carried out by law enforcement professionals and private entities to help resolve these cases. We also assist victims' families by facilitating awareness campaigns, which may include billboards, printed media, flyers, and podcast episodes.
Fun fact: Ken is the reason this book exists. It was the spring of 2023 when I was having an identity crisis of some sort. Who am I, and what am I even doing here? I found myself navigating the complexities of life, character, and purpose—a maze I now recognize as both a blessing and a curse. I am an empath, the type of person who feels deeply and constantly, a bleeding heart that pulses with the hopes and sadness of others. This duality has been my compass, guiding me toward a destiny I have yet to grasp fully.
For so long, I believed that success was synonymous with profit. My ambitions were fueled by the need to amass wealth, to conform to a narrative that equated financial gain with personal worth. Then I stumbled into the world of true crime, and everything shifted.
As Ken and I embarked on our podcasting journey with Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved, it offered us modest financial gains, but it also introduced us to an exhilarating, complex realm of storytelling that resonated with my soul. Although the financial rewards have been modest compared to what we had hoped for, what we have gained is far more immeasurable. We have forged friendships with talented individuals, traveled the world, and gathered an array of experiences that have brought color to our lives.
We had just gotten home after attending a live show featuring a couple of our podcast friends who have soared to great heights in this business. As I watched them bask in their success—crowds eagerly hanging on their every word—I felt not a trace of jealousy, only overwhelming pride. I have thrived in the warmth of their achievements, recognizing the common thread that connects us all: a passion for storytelling and the pursuit of truth.
But even amidst joy, a nagging insecurity found a foothold in my heart. What are we doing wrong? Why haven’t we sold out a live show? Will we truly make it in this industry? These concerns lingered, casting shadows on our journey, but I chose to reflect instead on what we had accomplished up to this point.
Ken provided a much-needed perspective: “You can’t confuse success with money,” he told me. It rang true. Ken reminded me that my path has been filled with incredible endeavors: multiple podcasts, extensive research, and hundreds of episodes that resonate with the voices of lives touched. I’ve fostered meaningful collaborations, traveled to conventions, and even taken the stage in Las Vegas to deliver a presentation. Those moments felt significant, far surpassing any dollar amount.
“I bet you could write a book about the Sims case,” Ken said. Ah, the Sims case. My great white whale. The murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims in Tallahassee, Florida, on October 22, 1966. It was one of those unthinkable incidents that have stuck with me over the years. I will share the entire story later in this book.
After meticulously reporting on the tragic murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims, I found myself ensnared by the intricate mystery surrounding their untimely deaths. Perhaps my involvement was personal—a close friend happens to share a birthday with one of the victims—adding an emotional layer to the case. Furthermore, the unsettling fact that I had engaged in multiple conversations with a primary suspect left me with an eerie feeling, making the whole situation even more consuming. Whatever the underlying reason may be, this perplexing case burrowed deep into my mind, persistently refusing to let go, compelling me to seek answers amidst the shadows.
I never considered writing a book about the infamous Sims case, despite my years of dedicated research into its captivating and perplexing details. During my exploration of the case, I found myself drawn to a different medium: storytelling through a serialized podcast titled Massacre on Muriel Court. In this podcast, I meticulously unraveled the intricate layers of the case, guiding listeners through each episode with gripping narratives and insightful analysis. Although the podcast allowed for a deep dive into the events and characters involved, the concept of transforming my extensive research and rich storytelling into a book format continued to remain an elusive aspiration, just out of reach.
I strongly believe that this case has the potential to be solved; however, I harbor a deep fear that it may never truly achieve the closure it so rightfully deserves. A former prosecutor who worked closely on that case cautioned me, saying, “The only court this case will ever see at this point is the court of public opinion.” His words resonate deeply in my mind, compelling me to reflect on the situation. Yet, despite this weighty realization, I find myself repeatedly asking: What steps can I take to make a difference?
I considered writing a book on the Sims case and capturing the many stories I've encountered. Each case we’ve explored carries significance, painting a portrait of humanity filled with heartache, resilience, and hope. I’ve met individuals whose time with me extended beyond traditional storytelling; their words are engraved in my heart.
So why not take the time to write it all down? Document the invaluable lessons learned throughout the years, account for the shadows that have been tallied, the laughter that has been shared, and the tears that have been shed along the way? I envision a book that encompasses my entire journey—one that not only reflects my personal struggles and growth but also articulates my ultimate purpose. This book would stand as a heartfelt tribute to the countless cases I have encountered, capturing the essence of what it truly means to connect with people. It would delve into the depths of their pain, celebrate their victories, and convey the profound impact that these shared experiences have had on my life and the lives of others.
This book is my roadmap to exploring my quest for value and purpose in a world that often confuses worth with wealth. Ultimately, my true success lies not in financial outcomes but in the stories that endure—that I feel compelled to share with the friends, family, and loved ones I support. The world deserves to hear these stories, and I am ready to share them. Here begins my next chapter. Chapter 1 - “I’m on my way”
“The Last Words Spoken Echo in the Dark Forever”
~ Randy Hubbard
The calm rain I was watching from my patio when I started this book is nothing compared to what hit us in 1997. The greater Cincinnati area was hammered by torrential rainstorms that spring. I remember this because my childhood home, which my parents still live in, is less than one hundred feet from the Great Miami River. They had lived in that home for more than forty years, and it had never reached the house before. That March we spent about twenty-four to forty-eight hours moving furniture and watching the water rush through the basement as if the river had decided to take anything in its path. The Ohio River had risen to a record 64.7 feet and had taken over the streets of downtown Cincinnati. Many small towns along the river from Manchester, Ohio, to Louisville, Kentucky, were destroyed like the mythical city of Atlantis.
Maybe the raging river was foreshadowing the cold secrets it would carry later that year.
I had moved away from my hometown of Fairfield, Ohio, about five years earlier to build a life with my wonderful new bride in Kansas City, Kansas. We loved our time in Kansas, but we knew after our first daughter was born in 1996 it was time to return home to be with family. We found a perfect house for us in Burlington, Kentucky. We were back. Back to see the Cincinnati Reds flounder to a 76–86 third-place finish. Back to watch the Bengals miss the playoffs for the seventh year in a row. It was home, and we were so happy to be back.
That year, I started a new teaching position at Harrison High School. I was always proud of being innovative in my classroom. Doing something different to make the classroom more enjoyable for my students was always something I strived to accomplish. Heck, I even talked my principal into letting me take over an old industrial arts room and make a zoo. I guess you could call me the Tiger King of small rodents, reptiles, and birds. As I taught my biology class about the circulatory system and blood, using the relatively new idea of weaving in forensic science, I did not realize an event that would occur on December 10, 1997, would rejuvenate my passion for teaching and helping others after twenty years. It would be the catalyst to open my mind to the intrigue of true crime, new friendships, and professional connections, and, most of all, introduce me to a young woman I would never get to meet in person.
As Forrest Gump said, the 1990s “was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” It was the era of boy bands and the Harry Potter series. Y2K signified the world’s end in the year 2000, and music icon Prince wanted us all to “party like it was 1999.” On the world stage, the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, got his well-deserved sentence of death from the courts, while in that same month, the world lost a true princess with the awful death of Princess Diana. Here in the Cincinnati area, towns were starting to put the pieces back together from the damage caused by the rising rivers earlier that year. The city was actively trying to improve its highways. The city council even talked about building a light rail to move people along the I-71 corridor to improve business ventures. Now we know how government projects work. It is twenty-five years later, there is no light rail, and the I-71/I-75 roadwork seems to never end.
Despite the endless construction zone of doom, Cincinnati and the surrounding areas were really progressing back then to make this part of Ohio a place that would attract more people. Things seemed to be going well, but like all cities, big and small, there are always underlying stories of tragedy. On December 5, 1997, the Cincinnati Police Department was rocked by the sudden loss of Officers Ronald Jeter and Daniel Pope. An individual they were serving a warrant to ambushed the two highly decorated officers, killing them both with gunshot wounds to the head. This story hit hard on the emotions of this town that seemed to be changing its reputation as a rough place to be.
These were the stories crowding the front page of the newspapers, but what about those stories that were hidden in the small box on page one or in section B of the paper? The ones that didn’t seem to draw the same attention. One of those was that of a twenty-three-year-old young woman who had gone missing. On the front page of the Cincinnati Post on December 19, 1997, a small story found on the right side of the page showed a small picture of Alana “Laney” Gwinner with her beautiful smile. At the time, Laney had been missing for nine days with no leads or ideas about where she or her car could be. Her friends and family had been searching every place they could possibly think Laney might go. Hundreds of phone calls to anyone that may have a connection with her had been made. There was still no sign of her.
I noticed that the article wasn’t only about Laney. The article discussed other missing women, whom I later learned were considered deceased because of the time that had gone by since their disappearances. I felt a bit upset that the attention had been taken off Laney. I know that the author of that article was in no way trying to minimize Laney’s story, and I’m not sure why it upset me like it did, other than the fact that her story had now seemed to become personal for Evan and me. Don’t get me wrong, those other stories were extremely tragic in their own right and definitely deserved to have attention drawn to them. At the time, though, Laney was still out there, and finding her was at the top of the list for her family, friends, coworkers, and those who may have seen her that night.
December 9, 1997, was a normal day for Laney: get up early, prepare for work, and start the day like any other. According to her boss, she was a very conscientious, hard-working employee. Laney was always on time and ready to work. He said she would call before leaving home if she thought she was going to be late, even by one minute. This gained her great respect from her boss. These types of characteristics are often rewarded with a promotion, which is exactly what happened for Laney. Things were going well. Her life wasn’t always easy, but for the moment, it appeared as if the stars were aligning for her, at least in her professional life.
Like most of us, distractions occur during the workday. Laney was no different. The morning of December 8th started out with a simple email to a friend, Angie, saying, “What’s up?”
The work day continued, and Laney and Angie corresponded back and forth. Laney ended with telling Angie about having a confrontation with a female at her current boyfriend’s house over the weekend. Angie responded about her day and asked more about the weekend events. Laney expressed her need to study for her accounting exam coming up the next day. She ended the conversation with, “Give me a call later and I will fill you in on his reaction to the whole situation and try to get your input on it. I think Shad, Joy, and I are going to BW3’s tomorrow after my exam, wanna go? Call me.”
It should be noted that in 1997, cell phones were not the extra appendage most people have today. If you had a cell phone, it was considered to be a luxury or it was specifically used for work.
That being said, the conversation ended at the end of the workday, and both went on with their separate lives that evening. Tuesday morning, December 9th, began with a continuation of the conversation from the day before.
Laney wrote, “Nothing is up with Shad… He was out with Eric in Chicago all weekend. Eric said they had a blast, it was just like old times. We are just going to BW3’s to chow down on some wings!!! Maybe shoot a little pool. Sound Good? I have my exam tonight so I don’t know what time we are going.”
Unfortunately, Angie’s son was sick, and she did not want to leave him with anyone, so she had to explain to Laney that she most likely would not make it that evening. That would be the last exchange Angie would have with her beloved friend.
Laney’s day continued like normal. She knew that, at the end of the day, she would have to go take her exam. Like almost all students, she wasn’t that excited to take that test. Did she study enough? Was she prepared, or was this going to turn out badly? Her boss remembered that she left a little early that day to put in a last few minutes studying before the exam.
Laney had made plans with friends to meet at BW3’s near Forest Fair Mall later that evening to celebrate the end of classes. The idea was to meet there to have some dinner and then venture somewhere to play some pool. Laney was an avid pool player. Some might even say she was a bit of a sandbagger. She would act like she didn’t know how to play to lure someone, particularly a man, into a false sense of security, then proceed to kick their ass and take their money. This could be a good thing or it could be a bad thing, depending on who she was playing and how much she had taken from them. From stories I have heard about Laney, she wouldn’t back down from anyone. She may have been small, but she was tough. Playing pool against her could start a ruckus.
During the day leading up to dinner, unfortunately, some of her friends contacted her to let her know that they would not be able to attend the get together. That left only Laney and her friend Shad to go out that evening. They arrived at Bdub’s, as they called it, between eight and eight thirty p.m. They had a few drinks and downed those wings she liked so much. Between nine and nine thirty p.m., they arrived at the Gilmore Bowling Lanes in Fairfield, Ohio. It is not clear who decided to go there, because according to most people who knew her, she had never been to Gilmore Lanes until that night. How did they know that they could play pool there? Was it well known that Gilmore had pool tables? I guess we will never know the answer to that question, but that is where they ended up that night.
Gilmore Bowling Lanes has been in Fairfield for quite a long time. It actually used to go by the name of Coleman Lanes when I was a kid, but more than forty years later, it still looks almost exactly the same with only the name change. It’s kind of funny how some places seem to get trapped in time. Like almost all bowling alleys, there are lanes in the back of the building, and out front there is a bar. Most of the bars I’ve seen in these alleys are not places you would take a date to dinner, but they do have alcohol, which draws all kinds of people. Most of those bars draw the bowlers in there in between frames, and then a few may stop in after bowling to have a nightcap before heading home.
This night seemed different for some reason.
The bar that night was a hopping place with a combination of bowlers, local car salesmen, pool players, and a group of friends partaking in a weeknight drinking party, just for the hell of it. This tiny bar was kind of crowded, especially for a Tuesday night. According to some of the workers, who still work there today, the bar usually closed around eleven thirty p.m. on a weeknight, but that night they stayed open because there were many people still having a good time and, well, that meant they were making a little extra cash. The question is why did everyone stay late that evening? Could it have been that beautiful, twenty-three-year-old woman with the jeans that fit just right and the brilliant smile that lit up a room? Laney was only one of two or possibly three women in that bar that night. There may have been an older woman who was a bit of a regular and an eighteen-year-old who was hiding in the corner drinking beer with her friends hoping that the cops didn’t come in and catch her. The men were from different backgrounds and ages, and having a good time, but all must have noticed that beautiful girl playing pool. One person took a serious interest in the “hot girl” in the room.
As the night began to wind down, Laney had to go to the restroom, considering she’d had quite a few drinks while celebrating with Shad. Someone had stated they saw her stop by the payphone by the front door to make a call. It was later established that she did make a call to her current boyfriend to let him know, “I’m on my way.” There may have been a few other calls made before she made it to the restroom, but she eventually made it there and returned to the bar to quickly say her goodbyes.
She slipped out the door without most people, including Shad, seeing her leave.
Somewhere between twelve thirty a.m. and one a.m., Alana “Laney” Gwinner, now trapped in time, slipped out into the dark, cold December night.
The first time I encountered Dana Stidham’s name, it did not come to me through a headline, a memorial post, or a grieving family’s plea for renewed attention, but through the quiet interior of a homicide file, where names are often reduced to investigative reference points and human lives are compressed into typed lines and procedural summaries. I had been seated for hours with the Melissa Witt investigative materials spread across the table in front of me, moving slowly through reports, timelines, lab findings, and comparative analyses, when I turned a page and noticed another victim listed as part of a prior cross-case review. The notation was brief and clinical, indicating that investigators had once examined whether a connection existed between Melissa’s murder and the disappearance and homicide of a young woman from Northwest Arkansas, and the conclusion beside the notation stated that no evidentiary link had been established and that the comparison had been closed. (More on Melissa Witt in Chapter Eight)
Even so, experience has taught me that names discovered in the margins of major case files are rarely insignificant, because investigators do not make cross-case comparisons casually, and when two murdered young women appear within the same analytical frame, even temporarily, it reveals the kinds of patterns and offender possibilities detectives were weighing at the time. Comparative elimination does not erase tragedy; it simply clarifies that there are multiple unresolved harms instead of one, and it leaves you with the uneasy awareness that while the cases may not connect to each other, the violence still connects to the same landscape. I wrote Dana’s name down in my notebook before I finished reading the page, not because I believed the cases were linked — the file was clear that they were not — but because I have learned that closed leads do not cancel open grief, and separate cases still deserve to be held with the same seriousness, the same refusal to let them dissolve into the background.
At that moment, Dana Stidham was simply another unsolved Arkansas victim whose story required careful, factual reconstruction, but advocacy work has a way of narrowing distance between research and reality, and what begins as a name on paper can become something far more personal without warning. In the months that followed, through nonprofit and service circles where advocacy, recovery work, and community leadership often overlap, I developed a friendship with Sammy Laney, a woman whose compassion and steady commitment to helping others was evident long before I knew anything about her family history. Our connection formed through shared mission rather than shared tragedy, which made what I later learned feel less like coincidence and more like convergence, because when I discovered that Sammy is Dana Stidham’s first cousin, the emotional distance between file notation and human loss collapsed in an instant. The case I had first encountered as an investigative cross-reference became something closer and heavier, and the realization did not feel incidental; it felt directional, as though the work itself had circled back and placed Dana’s name in front of me again, not as a footnote, but as a responsibility.
Dana Lanell Stidham was eighteen years old in the summer of 1989, newly graduated from Gravette High School and standing at that hopeful threshold where young adulthood begins to take shape through plans, applications, and practical next steps. She had been accepted to Northwest Arkansas Community College and was moving forward with the steady, grounded energy that those close to her described as characteristic of her nature. At the time, she was living in Centerton with her brother Larry and her cousin Kristy Smith, while still maintaining close and frequent visits with her parents, Lawrence and Georgia, in Hiwasse, reflecting the kind of tightly woven family structure where independence grows without severing connection.
On July 25, 1989, she spent part of the day at her parents’ home, helping with ordinary responsibilities and moving through the familiar rhythm of a summer afternoon. Her father was feeling ill, and she agreed to run a short grocery errand for him — a small act of care, a routine favor, the kind of trip no one remembers twice under normal circumstances. She left the house at approximately 2:45 in the afternoon for what should have been a quick four-mile drive to the Phillips grocery store in Bella Vista, and store register records later confirmed that she completed her purchase at 3:17 p.m., creating a timestamp that stands as the final verified marker of her movements while alive. A receipt found later inside her vehicle preserved that moment with indifferent precision, ink on paper marking the end of the known timeline.
Witnesses reported that she spoke briefly with an older man near the store entrance area, an interaction that did not raise alarm at the time and appeared ordinary to those who observed it. There was no recorded sign of distress, no visible struggle, nothing to distinguish that moment from thousands of other brief public exchanges that occur every day in grocery store doorways and parking lots, and that ordinariness is part of what makes it so unsettling to revisit. Somewhere between that completed purchase and the expected return home, her day — and her life — was violently interrupted.
Concern grew quickly when she failed to return within a reasonable timeframe, because Dana was known for her reliability and for communicating even small delays, and her unexplained absence did not fit her character. By that evening, her brother reached out for help, and a family friend who was also a sergeant with the Benton County Sheriff’s Office began the early response process, gathering descriptions and initiating a countywide alert so that patrol officers would be watching for her vehicle. Those first hours in a missing person case can be decisive, but they are also frequently marked by uncertainty, and Dana’s case began with urgency but very little actionable information, which is one of the cruelest combinations a family can endure.
The following morning brought the first major development when her gray 1984 Dodge Omni was located along Highway 71 near Wellington Road in Bella Vista, positioned on the shoulder in the southbound lane with a flat left rear tire, unlocked, with the keys still in the ignition. Inside, investigators found the grocery receipt confirming the previous afternoon’s purchase time. Detectives surveying the scene were immediately troubled by directional inconsistency, because both Dana and her parents lived in the opposite direction from where the car had been left, suggesting that something — or someone — had altered her route after she exited the store parking lot, and the totality of the scene suggested interruption rather than a voluntary stop.
A Bella Vista officer later reported that during the previous night, before the vehicle had been linked to a missing young woman, he had observed a pickup truck stopped behind the Omni with a man positioned near the rear tire, appearing to examine something mechanical. At the time, the observation did not trigger alarm, but in hindsight it became one of the most haunting near-intersections in the timeline, representing a moment when proximity to the offender may have occurred without recognition, a moment that reads like a warning nobody knew how to hear.
As investigators retraced Dana’s likely route, some of her personal belongings were discovered scattered along nearby roads, findings that suggested deliberate disposal rather than accidental loss, and shifted the working theory firmly toward abduction. Search efforts expanded to include law enforcement personnel, volunteers, friends, and community members who combed surrounding areas hoping to locate either Dana herself or additional trace evidence. Detectives conducted interviews across her known social and relational circles, including former romantic partners, verifying alibis and reconstructing movements, following standard elimination protocols while pursuing every viable lead, because in the early stage of an investigation the goal is not to confirm a single theory but to remove every false one until only the truth remains.
Nearly two months later, in mid-September, a hunter discovered skeletal remains in a wooded area of Bella Vista near a dry creek bed, but the discovery was not immediately reported, adding delay to an already devastating development. Investigators responded to the scene and began careful recovery procedures, and the remains were sent to the State Medical Examiner’s Office in Little Rock, where dental comparison confirmed Dana’s identity. The case was formally ruled a homicide, and because of the condition of the remains and the passage of time, officials did not publicly release the specific physiological cause of death, preserving forensic details for investigative integrity. Evidence at the scene included materials indicating restraint, including duct tape and lengths of tied twine, reinforcing the conclusion of criminal violence.
Dana was born in March 1971 and would now be in her fifties, a reality that forces the mind to imagine the decades she never experienced — the career she might have built, the relationships she might have formed, the ordinary milestones that were stolen before they could occur. Her disappearance and murder shocked her community, and the grief that followed settled deeply into the lives of those who loved her. Over the decades since, many central figures connected to the early investigation and family circle have passed away, including her parents and several original investigators, yet the case itself has not been closed. Cold case units continue to review the file, reassess evidence, and seek new leads through modern methods, maintaining its status as open and active.
What remains most striking is how memory has endured even where answers have not, because classmates, relatives, and family friends still speak of Dana not as a case but as a person — kind, dependable, warm-hearted — and they continue efforts to keep her name visible so that time does not succeed where violence failed in erasing her. Community advocates and relatives maintain awareness efforts so that population growth and generational turnover do not bury the story under unfamiliarity, and the passage of thirty-five years has changed the landscape but not the obligation.
When I think back to the moment I first saw Dana Stidham’s name in the Witt case file — a brief comparative entry concluding no connection — I understand now that while the crimes are not linked by offender, they are linked by duty, because every unsolved murder of a young woman (or of anyone) creates the same unfinished demand for truth. Discovering that my friend Sammy Laney is Dana Stidham’s first cousin did not alter the investigative facts, but it removed any remaining emotional distance, and with that nearness came certainty that telling Dana’s story fully, factually, and without dilution is not optional work. It is necessary . Chapter One
THE DISCOVERY
On January 13, 1995, the world, consumed by the murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman, eagerly awaited the results of a hearing that would determine if evidence challenging Detective Mark Fuhrman’s credibility would be admitted in the O.J. Simpson trial.
As I made my way along the winding roads leading to Fort Smith, Arkansas, I listened as the local radio station announced how prosecutors believed that O.J. dropped a glove as he attempted to sneak back to his mansion the night of the Simpson and Goldman murders. Judge Lance Ito was also expected to rule whether O.J. Simpson’s former wife would be required to appear in court.
The unspeakable events surrounding the murders proved to be sensational, dark and shocking. It was the perfect storm for a true crime addict. And I was hooked. At 21-years-old, I was already deep into my obsession. My fascination with murder mysteries gave me an adrenaline rush. The fix of the “who”, “what,” “when,” and “where” kept me reading every true crime novel I could get my hands on.
On this particular day, as my obsession kept me tuned in to the radio for the O.J. Simpson case, another announcement caught my attention. A body had been found in the Ozark National Forest and authorities were on the scene. They suspected the body could be that of 19-year-old Melissa Witt.
As my Nissan Altima crept along the two-lane highway of U.S. 71 that was at the time the main route between Fayetteville and Fort Smith, Arkansas, I gazed into the Boston Mountains and watched dark clouds roll in.
At the same time, a chill settled in across the Ozarks. The clouds opened up and unleashed torrents of furious rain on a remote and lonely crime scene. As it turns out, roughly 56 miles away in the Ozark National Forest, a beautiful landscape of trees and mountains had been hiding a terrible secret.
On January 13, 1995 at 9:40am, two animal trappers, about 15 miles north of Ozark, stumbled upon what they believed could be a mannequin lying face down in the woods about 30 feet off of the main road. The two men, avid outdoorsmen, had walked this very path the day before. There had been nothing there.
As they approached the strange mannequin lying in the woods, it became clear that what they found was something much more sinister. After 45 long days, the remote Forest Service Road 1551 in the Ozark National Forest had finally unearthed the unthinkable: the decomposing nude body of a young, white female.
Frantic, the pair immediately called the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department. Upon receiving the news, Sheriff Kenneth Ross contacted Detective Sergeant Chris Boyd with the Fort Smith Police Department Major Crimes Unit.
Over 20 years later, as I sat to interview the now former Detective Boyd for a documentary I was producing on the Melissa Witt case, he could still vividly recall that cold and rainy morning.
“At the time, the police department was in the Sebastian County Courthouse and I distinctly recall walking through the basement to get to my office in the Detective Division. That’s when I received a phone call from Sheriff Ross.”
As the retired Detective described the phone call, his expression turned serious and somber. I’d seen this look before. It was the expression of a man haunted by the unsolved murder of an innocent young woman.
“Sheriff Ross told me on that call that he thought he had found the body of Melissa Witt. And knowing him like I did at the time, I figured he was probably right. I had him describe to me what he was seeing and what the body looked like. Once he gave me the description… well, I knew I had to rally the troops at that point. We needed crime scene techs and detectives at that scene immediately.”
As the former Detective described the events that unfolded the morning of Friday, January 13, 1995, my own memories flooded back. When I close my eyes, I can still feel the icy chill in the air. I remember the rain came down in heavy thuds, hard and fast, soaking my clothes as I ran. Another memory of me complaining to my coworkers about the miserable weather conditions on that day also replayed in my mind: “Why did what started as a beautiful day drastically turn out to be so tragic?” My words unknowingly foreshadowed events that would haunt me almost two decades later.
As Jay C. Rider entered the room, I nervously stood to greet him. As we shook hands, Rider asked if Melissa and I had been friends, an assumption others often make to explain my passion for finding justice for a girl I never knew.
“No sir. I never knew her. We had mutual friends, but we never met.” Rider eyed me skeptically, nodded and said, “I guess that makes two of us.” Rider’s tough demeanor fueled my anxiety.
“Tell me about January 13, 1995. The day you found Melissa Witt’s body.”
Rider described the day as normal, even for a Friday the 13th. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a superstitious guy. It was a normal day. It started off sunny—a perfect day. I decided to get some work done around the office. When the phone call came in from Sheriff Ross, as you can imagine, all hell broke loose. We all headed out to that crime scene. We feared the worst… that this body was Melissa Witt.”
News reports of the crime scene describe a lonely, remote logging road near Turner Bend just north of Ozark. I knew the location of Melissa’s body would reveal details about her killer.
“Can you tell me more about the location?” I asked.
“It was a logging road. More or less a single lane road, rough terrain, off the main gravel area. The road was mainly accessed by loggers clearing and cutting the national forest,” Rider explained, “Trappers, hunters, campers and sometimes local kids looking to party used that road. Believe it or not, the logging road ended—like a cul de sac—so it was a dead end. A remote, hopeless dead end.”
“What else do you remember about that day?” I asked.
“I will never forget that day,” Rider explained. “We started working the crime scene and the temperature dropped drastically. It started to rain—hard rain—rain that was actually coming in sideways. The wind was blowing hard and it was miserable. None of us had jackets or anything else because it had started off as such a perfect day. I remember finding a raincoat in my car and trying to find a shirt or something to change into so I could stay warm.”
Rider’s description of that fateful morning closely paralleled my own memories. But now it seemed that what we had witnessed was so much more than just a rainstorm. Instead, maybe we experienced the heavens releasing an unrelenting stream of tears for a girl we never knew.
The medical examiner’s report revealed that the official cause of death was “asphyxiation by strangulation.” Leaves and soil found in Melissa’s airway indicated she had been strangled face down and she had inhaled debris from the forest floor as she fought for her life.
Laboratory testing on the debris found in Melissa’s airway gave investigators an important clue: the debris was native to the Ozark National Forest. This told investigators that she had been killed at or near the location where her body was discovered. The medical examiner’s report also yielded another important clue: Melissa had non-fatal trauma on the side of her head that was believed to have been caused by a blow or a fall.
Armed with this information, investigators began to put together a profile of Melissa Witt’s killer. Two scenarios emerged: The killer was either a local or someone who frequented the area from out of state to hunt, hike, camp, or fish. Melissa’s body could have been disposed of in many places but her killer chose this remote location. A—n area so isolated that if you had never been there before, it would be almost impossible to find. A more detailed examination of the crime scene shocked investigators. Indentations behind a large headstone-like rock positioned between two small trees revealed that her body had initially been hidden there.
According to police records, Melissa’s decomposing body had visible marks where someone, presumably the killer, had grabbed hold of her in order to move her closer to the road.
“It would have been a gruesome task,” Jay C. Rider explained. “Think about it. Melissa’s body had been out in the elements for 45 days and was in advanced stages of decomposition. There was small animal activity on the body and the scene was… it was brutal. Whoever moved that body did it so it could be found more easily. Maybe so her mama could give her a proper burial. Regardless, the task was gruesome and we are still trying to figure out who moved her body and why.”
A strange phone call made to police a day or two prior to the discovery of Melissa’s body may have provided a different clue. The caller left a voice message at the Fort Smith Major Crimes unit one evening. On the voice message recording, a lady called and with a thick Southern accent could be heard saying, “Go ahead and tell them what you found.” There also was a younger male voice, also with a thick Southern accent who was reported saying, “No, I can’t,” and then the phone disconnected. Did the young man who was part of the mysterious phone call discover Melissa’s body in the woods and move it from behind the rock so she could be found? Was he scared he could be blamed for the murder? Sadly, we may never know. Despite extensive efforts to identify the people responsible for that phone call, their identity remains a mystery.
Now, decades after this heinous crime, as I sat with retired investigators decades after this heinous crime, they described additional clues found near Melissa’s body, such as cigarette butts and papers. What was even more puzzling were the items that were missing from the crime scene: Her clothing, purse, wallet, remaining gold hoop earring, and her beloved Mickey Mouse Watch. (Gold hoop earrings and Mickey Mouse watches were very common for teenagers in the ‘90s. I certainly had them, too.) Both retired Detectives Boyd and Rider seem to think that the killer kept Melissa’s watch for a very specific reason.
“A sociopath maybe wanted to keep it as a memento to represent the relationship they once had with Melissa,” explains Rider, “As a trophy of some sort.”
The discovery of Melissa’s body fueled an obsession in Rider to find justice for her at all costs.
I quickly began to recount the facts of the case for myself: Melissa was found nude near a headstone-like rock. She had been strangled and her clothes, shoes, and Mickey Mouse watch and jewelry were removed and have never been located.
Determined to learn more about the psychology of this type of killer and crime, I obsessively began to research homicidal strangulation. I discovered that in a high percentage of cases, the offender and the victim have a family or a romantic relationship. Seventy-five percent of strangulation victims are females, with the most frequent motives being rape, sexual jealousy, or personal rivalry. Research also suggests that females are predominantly the victims in homicidal strangulation because they are more likely to be the targets of sexual assaults.
Could this be why her body was found nude? Was she sexually assaulted? Unfortunately, we may never know for certain. According to the medical examiner’s report, it was impossible to determine if she had been raped.
I kept researching. I found that a high percentage of female victims in homicidal strangulation are murdered due to a quarrel in their relationship and/or due to unrehearsed violence applied by bare hands to put the victim at a physical disadvantage and render the victim incapable of resisting. In 86% of the strangulation cases the victim was found at the scene of the killing. In 22% percent of these cases, the victim was found outdoors. In 17% of these cases, the offender stole something from the victim. In 14% of all of these cases, the victim was first hit with a blunt instrument.
A cold chill went down my spine. Did Melissa know her killer?
I compared these facts to what I had learned about the gruesome murder:
1) According to the autopsy report, Melissa was hit in the head with a blunt instrument.
2) She was found strangled, outdoors, and she was naked—her clothing and personal belongings had been taken from her.
3) The remote location was familiar to her killer. Authorities believe he had been there before.
I began to look even closer at events that unfolded on the day Melissa disappeared. From all reports, the day started off routinely. She spent the first part of the morning with her mother, Mary Ann. The honor student headed to Westark Community College next. After that, she went to lunch with a friend and then off to her job as a dental assistant.
However, before she left that morning, Melissa had a minor disagreement with her mother. She had asked to borrow money, and Mary Ann, in an effort to teach her daughter money management, had told her no. Melissa and her mother were especially close. They shared the same beautiful smile, kind heart, and innocent outlook on life.
Before Mary Ann left for work that morning, she left a note for Melissa reminding her she would be bowling with her league that evening and offered to buy her a hamburger. She signed the note, “Love, Mom”
At five o’clock that night, after clocking out at her dental assistant job, Melissa discovered that her 1995 Mitsubishi Mirage wouldn’t start. After a few tries, she gave up and waited with a co-worker until a local businessman, later dubbed the Good Samaritan, gave her car a jump.
Police reports explain how Melissa’s dome light was left on by mistake, draining the car battery. Investigators tracked down the Good Samaritan and interviewed him multiple times before ultimately clearing him in the teenager’s disappearance and murder.
“People ask about the Good Samaritan all the time because those events leading up to Melissa’s abduction seem suspicious,” Rider explained. “The Good Samaritan does seem suspicious, until you realize how many times he was questioned.” He was cleared of any suspicion in Melissa’s murder.”
We know that, once Melissa’s car started, she went home to change out of her uniform. Those clothes were found crumpled on her bedroom floor. Mary Ann Witt was able to determine that her daughter had then donned a white V-neck sweater and jeans.
Melissa must have seen her mom’s note, because authorities believe she headed to Bowling World, arriving between 6:30pm and 7:00pm. She parked in the northwest corner of the lot, but she never made it inside. There were no cameras to record the events that unfolded in that parking lot that night. Witnesses would later tell police they heard a woman screaming, “Help me!”
Two decades later, as I poured over police files and news footage, my heart broke to learn that Mary Ann was haunted by the note she left for Melissa that fateful Thursday. In one interview she is quoted as saying, “I try not to think about how our lives would be different if I had not invited Melissa to Bowling World that night. There is no use thinking about it. I know she is gone. But my heart…. You know, as a mom… I sometimes wonder what if I had done something differently.”
At approximately 7:45pm, Melissa’s car keys were found in the parking lot and were turned in to the front desk of Bowling World. No one noticed the splatters of blood that were slowly drying on the metal keys.
Since Melissa never entered the bowling alley that night, her mother simply thought she had decided to go out with friends instead. Mary Ann went home expecting to see her daughter later that evening. Hours passed and Thursday slowly turned into Friday.
At nine o’clock on Friday morning, Mary Ann reported Melissa as a missing person. By Saturday, Melissa’s friends and family were passing out flyers, blanketing the River Valley with over 6,000 pleas for help in finding the missing teenager.
I lived in Northwest Arkansas and remember seeing the story of Melissa’s disappearance light up news channels. Her picture seemed to be everywhere. Curious, I reached out to my friends in the River Valley. It turns out they knew her. Their voices trembled as they shared their worst fears with me:
“Melissa would not just disappear like this.”
“Where could she be? This is not like Melissa at all.”
“I hope she’s okay. I am scared she’s been hurt.”
Christmas passed and the new year rang in but there was still no Melissa Witt.
For more than a month, I, like the rest of the community, sat on the edge of my seat questioning what had happened to the beautiful All American Girl. None of us expected the story to turn out the way it did.
A quote by the late Michelle McNamara, in her book I’ll be Gone in the Dark: One Woman’s Obsessive Search for the Golden State Killer, resonates with me. She wrote, “He loses his power when we know his face.” These words sum up the rationale behind the countless hours I’ve spent investigating the Melissa Witt case. I want to see his face.
For over two decades the identity of Melissa’s killer has been hidden among the dense trees and thorny undergrowth rooted deeply in the uneven ground of a remote mountain top in the Ozark National Forest. I envision him, a shadow-like figure, dark and dreadful, his confidence anchored in the predictability of a murder case slowly growing cold. Chapter 1
Hello, My Name is Lauren
Picture this: It's early 2018, and I'm just minding my own business, maybe binging on too much Netflix. And, suddenly, a metaphorical door swings open—like in those cheesy motivational videos your aunt keeps sharing on Facebook. Except, spoiler alert: Instead of leading to self-discovery or a career in motivational speaking, it invites me into the chaotic world of true crime podcasting. Yes, me. A total amateur.
At first, I thought, “Wow, what a fun little distraction!” Who doesn’t want to delve into the dark corners of human nature? So there I am, diving headfirst into this domain without any training, degrees, or even a clue about audio editing. Just a burning curiosity and a fierce desire to share tales that are equal parts fascinating and disturbing.
Before I dive too far into this story, I need to introduce you to Ken—my knight in shining armor, though his armor is more paint-chipped than polished and his bravery was rooted in the sturdy reliability of a 1998 GMC Sierra pickup truck. Ken has been my unwavering co-host and partner in both my podcasting adventures and the rollercoaster of everyday life.
A chance encounter facilitated by a mutual friend cemented our friendship through shared laughter, effortless conversations, and buffalo chicken wings. At first glance, he was not what I deemed "my type"—he was older, composed, and inherently good-natured. As I reflected on my past romantic entanglements, a pattern emerged, one painted with the hues of heartbreak and mistreatment. Ken stood in stark contrast to the men of my past.
It took a couple of months, but eventually, I made the first move. Believe it or not, Ken is shy, despite what you may think after listening to our podcast! I got tired of waiting for him, so I just went for it, and I am glad I did! He’s stuck with me now.
Enough of the mushy stuff. I convinced Ken to start this true crime podcast with me. We named it Paradise After Dark. You’ll understand the name better as you keep reading. But seriously, how hard could it be? We would research a case and record ourselves talking about it. Pretty simple, right? I bought cheap gaming headphones on Amazon, downloaded a free audio mixer on my laptop, and we got started.
And, oh boy, did I quickly learn that my lack of podcasting credentials raised quite a few eyebrows. Friends probably wondered if I’d lost a bet or if I was experiencing some midlife crisis too soon. Meanwhile, I’m over here thriving on chaos, experimenting with sound bites, and learning about audio editing. What I thought was a podcast could often pass for a crime scene investigation—or at least that’s how my early recordings sounded.
But you know what? Every awkward moment and every editing mishap became a stepping stone. My passion for sharing these stories became my best guide. And while I couldn’t tell you a single thing about “proper” podcasting, I could tell stories that kept listeners on the edge of their seats (or at least awake during their daily commutes).
So here I am, an accidental podcaster, navigating this uncharted territory with way more enthusiasm than technical skill. And honestly? Who needs a textbook when you’ve got a unique fascination with the human psyche and an endless supply of riveting tales to share? Welcome to my world!
But let’s peel back the layers, because it turns out that behind every chilling episode is a world of research that would make a detective proud. Forget just sitting in front of the mic and rolling with it. This job is more like being on a never-ending treasure hunt, where the treasure is buried under mountains of police reports, witness statements, and, oh, let’s not forget, the charming array of YouTube videos and the dreaded Reddit threads discussing the very crimes that haunt my sleep.
Don’t get me wrong; I love diving into the twisted tales of true crime, but have you ever tried sifting through grim details for hours while trying not to lose your mind? Let’s say my laptop and my sanity are in a constant tug-of-war. I’d love to tell you that I was doing it for the love of storytelling, but, eventually, it felt more like a weird form of self-punishment.
But here’s the kicker: Through all the research, the sleepless nights, and the risk of permanent damage to my eyes and wrists, I carved out my niche in this chaotic world of podcasting. And I’ve got to admit it’s empowering. Even with all the hiccups and plot twists along the way, the belief in the stories and the connection with my audience fuels the fire.
I’m getting ahead of myself here. Allow me to introduce myself. Hi, my name is Lauren. I was born and raised in Naples, Florida. First, let's talk about Florida in general. It's the land of sunshine, shrieking cicadas, and the most bizarre news headlines known to humankind. Honestly, if there were a contest for the weirdest stories, I’m sure our little corner of paradise would win first place. "Florida Man" has practically turned into a cultural icon—who needs superheroes when you have someone wrestling an alligator while wearing nothing but flip-flops?
Growing up here, you learn to embrace the eccentricity. Who wouldn’t want to be a proud embodiment of the quirks and oddities that come with the territory? It's as if the state handed me a quirky edge and my driver's license, almost like some rite of passage. You know, “Congratulations! You can legally drive, and here’s a whole bucket of weirdness to go with it!”
And Naples. A little slice of paradise where the beaches are pristine, the sun shines bright, and the darkest secrets lurk just beneath the surface. You know, the kind of place where joggers wave cheerily at each other while sipping overpriced lattes, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding behind the facades of those luxurious mansions.
I became obsessed with uncovering the secrets beneath the surface of this seemingly perfect town. Here I was, revealing stories that would make your jaw drop. You’d think a place like Naples would be all beach days and high tea, but nope! There’s crime, scandal, and a healthy dose of drama lurking around every corner. It’s as if the town dared me to explore its underbelly, like some ironic treasure hunt.
Let’s talk about Port Royal, shall we? The neighborhood practically screams, “Look how fancy I am!” Beneath those elegant roofs and manicured lawns, there are some crazy stories. We’re talking about bombings, suspicious disappearances, and lives shattered by addiction—all swept neatly under the plush Persian rugs, of course. After all, we wouldn’t want to ruin anyone's brunch with the grisly details.
The cases of Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos highlight troubling failures within law enforcement. Both men disappeared in the early 2000s in North Naples after having encounters with Stephen Calkins, a Collier County Sheriff's Deputy.
Santos, involved in a minor car accident in 2003, was cited by Calkins. He was last seen being driven away in the officer's patrol car under dubious circumstances. Calkins claimed he dropped Santos off at a gas station, but no formal booking occurred, and Santos has not been heard from since.
Just months later, Terrance Williams faced a similar fate. After being illuminated by Calkins and pulling into the local cemetery parking lot, cemetery staff observed the officer patting Williams down and placing him in his vehicle. Like Santos, Williams was reportedly dropped off at a gas station; however, again no incident report was filed, and Williams has not been seen since. Calkins was later fired for providing conflicting information regarding both disappearances.
Despite national attention, a wrongful death lawsuit against Calkins lagged in meaningful results, culminating in a judge dismissing the appeal and making Williams' mother pay Calkins’ legal fees.
The question remains painfully obvious: Where are Terrance Williams and Felipe Santos, and how many more cases like theirs are buried beneath bureaucracy and indifference?
And then there’s the unforgettable tale of Stephen Benson, tobacco heir extraordinaire. Who could forget that delightful little family outing on July 9, 1985? A surprise pipe bomb in the family car adds a touch of drama to the typical butterflies and sunshine narrative. Just a little inheritance squabble gone awry—who hasn’t been there?
And speaking of mysterious circumstances, let’s discuss Robert Ludlum, the author who brought us Jason Bourne. Now that’s a plot twist! Did he spontaneously combust while sitting in his recliner in his high-rise apartment? Or was it a case of mixing too much drama with your cocktail, darling? His wife was in the kitchen preparing a fresh drink while the firemen doused her poor husband?
So, here I am—a proud product of Florida. Call me unconventional, call me ironic, call me whatever you want. I’ve learned that, sometimes, the things we can’t have, like a perfectly normal life, are exactly what we need to uncover the fascinating messiness of reality.
As a 12-year-old, I was captivated by shows like Forensic Files and books like Mind Hunter, written by the renowned John Douglas, which sparked my interest in criminal psychology. This has shaped my worldview, as I now see potential profiles and motives in every news story and crime scene. I see it as a puzzle waiting to be solved.
I’ve always loved reading books, so it’s no surprise that I’m now writing one. I started with R.L. Stine’s Goosebumps series—nothing quite screams “I’m a budding horror aficionado” like a green book with a giant eyeball on the cover. We thought that was high literature back in fifth grade, didn’t we? From there, I graduated to the Fear Street series by R.L. Stine, which was essentially the same as Goosebumps but featured teenagers instead of children. I loved it.
And then, in my teen years, I jumped headfirst into the dark, twisting world of Stephen King. The "Master of Horror," they call him. But honestly, it's like calling an entire buffet “just food”—the man does so much more than scare you; he dives deep into the messy, delicious bits of human life with a sprinkle of supernatural chaos. Who knew you could get existential dread while battling a giant spider named "It," right? Sorry, spoiler alert!
But the scariest Stephen King book I have read to date is Mr. Mercedes. It isn’t about the supernatural; it's about a real person—an evil person. Evil exists in our world, and I have definitely discovered that.
Fast forward to today. My interests as a child didn’t just teach me about crime; it instilled confidence in my ability to analyze, empathize, and understand the complexities of human nature. And isn’t that a skill worth having? Whether you end up in law, criminology, or another field, your passion will always set you apart. That drive for more profound understanding makes you a potential profiler and a keen observer of life.
I honestly have no idea when or where Stephen King made this statement, but it’s always stuck with me: “Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” I relate to this in so many ways. I think you will understand once you have read this book.
True crime isn’t merely a hobby for me; it’s woven into the very fabric of my identity. It became my lens, my intrigue, and, ultimately, my calling. Reflecting on my journey, the pivotal four years I spent as a military police officer in the Navy stand out vividly—each memory is a thread intricately tied to my understanding of humanity and morality.
As I donned my uniform each day, I witnessed things that tested every moral fiber within me. From tense military incidents to civilian disputes, each scenario left an indelible mark. The psychological depth I encountered taught me that crime is not simply an act; it’s a complex interplay of choices, circumstances, and the often-overlooked stories behind each individual involved.
Upon transitioning out of the service, I didn’t just hang up my badge; I took my experiences and channeled them into academia. I pursued a degree in paralegal studies, eager to bolster my understanding of the law—an extension of my experiences as a military police officer. This degree didn’t merely add a layer of sophistication to my narrative; it was integral in shaping my worldview.
Having worked closely with prosecutors and defense attorneys, I was granted a front-row seat to the great justice division. The prosecutors painted a world of black and white, where the rules were clear and often unforgiving. In contrast, the defense attorneys navigated the murky waters of “innocent until proven guilty,” prompting me to redefine my perception of right and wrong. This duality became more than just knowledge; it morphed into an intricate dance—a ballet of justice and humanity that I found utterly captivating.
Through these experiences, I understood that law is not a rigid script; it is a living, breathing entity. It reflects our society’s values, fears, and its myriad hypocrisies. I find this dance fascinating, a kaleidoscope of human experiences unfolding right before my eyes.
So here I am, armed with a wealth of knowledge and a passion that ignites my storytelling. As I recount chilling tales, I don’t just narrate, I dissect and analyze. I reveal the layers, exposing how the pieces fit together in a greater narrative. I am not just another voice amidst the clutter of true crime podcasts; I am a storyteller who has lived, seen, and dissected the very essence of this genre.
Ken and I knew we wanted to focus our podcast on Florida. Initially, we covered cases close to home, which inspired the show's name, Paradise After Dark. In the beginning, we didn’t limit ourselves to true crime; we also explored themes like ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries in the area. As I mentioned earlier, Florida has its quirks, ensuring we will never run out of content in these categories. We decided to kick off our first episode by discussing an urban legend from our own backyard—the legend of the squallies.
Let’s dive into this local legend from Golden Gate Estates, a rural neighborhood located in Naples, Florida. This area is known for its tight-knit working-class and middle-class families, but there’s a side that is definitely a bit more... mysterious.
Legend has it that deep in the woods surrounding this community, there’s a colony of peculiar little creatures called squallies. Imagine short, humanoid beings that sport pig-like snouts—it’s like something straight out of a storybook, right? These little guys have become part of the local folklore, and it’s said that around 40 to 50 of them still roam the woods to this day. But here’s the kicker: If they catch you, you might just end up as their dinner!
There are a couple of spine-chilling theories about how these squallies came to be. One story suggests they are the aftermath of a government experiment that went awry—think mad scientists and top-secret projects gone wrong, much like the premise of the popular Netflix series Stranger Things. The other theory is even wilder, claiming a nutty scientist created them all by himself and still protects them like some mad guardian out in the woods. Both stories agree on one thing: There is an old man who is just as crazy as they come, sitting like a guard dog over the territory where the squallies hang out. If you’re thinking about snooping around, be warned: He’s said to shoot on sight.
The area where these creatures are believed to be lurking is what folks around here call Naithlorendum Sanctuary. It’s a place that sounds enchanted but might hold chilling secrets instead. So, if you’re in Golden Gate Estates and feeling adventurous, think twice before stepping off the beaten path. The squallies might just be keeping a close eye on you!
Reflecting on the evolution of our podcast, I realize that each twist has not only shaped our narrative but also my worldview. As mentioned, initially, we focused on sensational true crime stories featuring notorious figures, ghosts, urban legends, and unsolved mysteries. However, as I delved deeper, I felt a growing responsibility to amplify the voices of those who had been silenced—families yearning for answers and friends holding on to hope amid despair.
This realization spurred a significant transition. We eventually shifted our focus exclusively to missing persons and unsolved crimes, shedding light on often-overlooked tragedies. This was more than a change in content; it was a commitment to fostering awareness and compassion. Our rebranding as Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved encapsulated our mission to invoke action and support.
The overwhelming audience response validated our path. Listeners connected with stories of love and loss, and I found renewed passion—an urge to champion the marginalized. Each episode became a tribute to resilience, a reminder that hope for answers always exists.
The journey transformed me. It morphed from simple storytelling into a deep exploration of humanity and truth. Behind every statistic is a life, a family, a story begging to be heard.
This is one of the concepts that pushed Ken and I to create The Florida Themis Project. Themis, as we call it, is a non-profit organization. Themis, the Greek goddess of wisdom, good counsel, and the interpreter of the other gods' will, is widely recognized as the goddess of justice. We support loved ones and victims of unsolved crimes by providing financial assistance for investigative tools, including DNA testing, carried out by law enforcement professionals and private entities to help resolve these cases. We also assist victims' families by facilitating awareness campaigns, which may include billboards, printed media, flyers, and podcast episodes.
Fun fact: Ken is the reason this book exists. It was the spring of 2023 when I was having an identity crisis of some sort. Who am I, and what am I even doing here? I found myself navigating the complexities of life, character, and purpose—a maze I now recognize as both a blessing and a curse. I am an empath, the type of person who feels deeply and constantly, a bleeding heart that pulses with the hopes and sadness of others. This duality has been my compass, guiding me toward a destiny I have yet to grasp fully.
For so long, I believed that success was synonymous with profit. My ambitions were fueled by the need to amass wealth, to conform to a narrative that equated financial gain with personal worth. Then I stumbled into the world of true crime, and everything shifted.
As Ken and I embarked on our podcasting journey with Paradise After Dark: Missing & Unsolved, it offered us modest financial gains, but it also introduced us to an exhilarating, complex realm of storytelling that resonated with my soul. Although the financial rewards have been modest compared to what we had hoped for, what we have gained is far more immeasurable. We have forged friendships with talented individuals, traveled the world, and gathered an array of experiences that have brought color to our lives.
We had just gotten home after attending a live show featuring a couple of our podcast friends who have soared to great heights in this business. As I watched them bask in their success—crowds eagerly hanging on their every word—I felt not a trace of jealousy, only overwhelming pride. I have thrived in the warmth of their achievements, recognizing the common thread that connects us all: a passion for storytelling and the pursuit of truth.
But even amidst joy, a nagging insecurity found a foothold in my heart. What are we doing wrong? Why haven’t we sold out a live show? Will we truly make it in this industry? These concerns lingered, casting shadows on our journey, but I chose to reflect instead on what we had accomplished up to this point.
Ken provided a much-needed perspective: “You can’t confuse success with money,” he told me. It rang true. Ken reminded me that my path has been filled with incredible endeavors: multiple podcasts, extensive research, and hundreds of episodes that resonate with the voices of lives touched. I’ve fostered meaningful collaborations, traveled to conventions, and even taken the stage in Las Vegas to deliver a presentation. Those moments felt significant, far surpassing any dollar amount.
“I bet you could write a book about the Sims case,” Ken said. Ah, the Sims case. My great white whale. The murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims in Tallahassee, Florida, on October 22, 1966. It was one of those unthinkable incidents that have stuck with me over the years. I will share the entire story later in this book.
After meticulously reporting on the tragic murders of Robert, Helen, and Joy Sims, I found myself ensnared by the intricate mystery surrounding their untimely deaths. Perhaps my involvement was personal—a close friend happens to share a birthday with one of the victims—adding an emotional layer to the case. Furthermore, the unsettling fact that I had engaged in multiple conversations with a primary suspect left me with an eerie feeling, making the whole situation even more consuming. Whatever the underlying reason may be, this perplexing case burrowed deep into my mind, persistently refusing to let go, compelling me to seek answers amidst the shadows.
I never considered writing a book about the infamous Sims case, despite my years of dedicated research into its captivating and perplexing details. During my exploration of the case, I found myself drawn to a different medium: storytelling through a serialized podcast titled Massacre on Muriel Court. In this podcast, I meticulously unraveled the intricate layers of the case, guiding listeners through each episode with gripping narratives and insightful analysis. Although the podcast allowed for a deep dive into the events and characters involved, the concept of transforming my extensive research and rich storytelling into a book format continued to remain an elusive aspiration, just out of reach.
I strongly believe that this case has the potential to be solved; however, I harbor a deep fear that it may never truly achieve the closure it so rightfully deserves. A former prosecutor who worked closely on that case cautioned me, saying, “The only court this case will ever see at this point is the court of public opinion.” His words resonate deeply in my mind, compelling me to reflect on the situation. Yet, despite this weighty realization, I find myself repeatedly asking: What steps can I take to make a difference?
I considered writing a book on the Sims case and capturing the many stories I've encountered. Each case we’ve explored carries significance, painting a portrait of humanity filled with heartache, resilience, and hope. I’ve met individuals whose time with me extended beyond traditional storytelling; their words are engraved in my heart.
So why not take the time to write it all down? Document the invaluable lessons learned throughout the years, account for the shadows that have been tallied, the laughter that has been shared, and the tears that have been shed along the way? I envision a book that encompasses my entire journey—one that not only reflects my personal struggles and growth but also articulates my ultimate purpose. This book would stand as a heartfelt tribute to the countless cases I have encountered, capturing the essence of what it truly means to connect with people. It would delve into the depths of their pain, celebrate their victories, and convey the profound impact that these shared experiences have had on my life and the lives of others.
This book is my roadmap to exploring my quest for value and purpose in a world that often confuses worth with wealth. Ultimately, my true success lies not in financial outcomes but in the stories that endure—that I feel compelled to share with the friends, family, and loved ones I support. The world deserves to hear these stories, and I am ready to share them. Here begins my next chapter. Chapter 1 - “I’m on my way”
“The Last Words Spoken Echo in the Dark Forever”
~ Randy Hubbard
The calm rain I was watching from my patio when I started this book is nothing compared to what hit us in 1997. The greater Cincinnati area was hammered by torrential rainstorms that spring. I remember this because my childhood home, which my parents still live in, is less than one hundred feet from the Great Miami River. They had lived in that home for more than forty years, and it had never reached the house before. That March we spent about twenty-four to forty-eight hours moving furniture and watching the water rush through the basement as if the river had decided to take anything in its path. The Ohio River had risen to a record 64.7 feet and had taken over the streets of downtown Cincinnati. Many small towns along the river from Manchester, Ohio, to Louisville, Kentucky, were destroyed like the mythical city of Atlantis.
Maybe the raging river was foreshadowing the cold secrets it would carry later that year.
I had moved away from my hometown of Fairfield, Ohio, about five years earlier to build a life with my wonderful new bride in Kansas City, Kansas. We loved our time in Kansas, but we knew after our first daughter was born in 1996 it was time to return home to be with family. We found a perfect house for us in Burlington, Kentucky. We were back. Back to see the Cincinnati Reds flounder to a 76–86 third-place finish. Back to watch the Bengals miss the playoffs for the seventh year in a row. It was home, and we were so happy to be back.
That year, I started a new teaching position at Harrison High School. I was always proud of being innovative in my classroom. Doing something different to make the classroom more enjoyable for my students was always something I strived to accomplish. Heck, I even talked my principal into letting me take over an old industrial arts room and make a zoo. I guess you could call me the Tiger King of small rodents, reptiles, and birds. As I taught my biology class about the circulatory system and blood, using the relatively new idea of weaving in forensic science, I did not realize an event that would occur on December 10, 1997, would rejuvenate my passion for teaching and helping others after twenty years. It would be the catalyst to open my mind to the intrigue of true crime, new friendships, and professional connections, and, most of all, introduce me to a young woman I would never get to meet in person.
As Forrest Gump said, the 1990s “was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get.” It was the era of boy bands and the Harry Potter series. Y2K signified the world’s end in the year 2000, and music icon Prince wanted us all to “party like it was 1999.” On the world stage, the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, got his well-deserved sentence of death from the courts, while in that same month, the world lost a true princess with the awful death of Princess Diana. Here in the Cincinnati area, towns were starting to put the pieces back together from the damage caused by the rising rivers earlier that year. The city was actively trying to improve its highways. The city council even talked about building a light rail to move people along the I-71 corridor to improve business ventures. Now we know how government projects work. It is twenty-five years later, there is no light rail, and the I-71/I-75 roadwork seems to never end.
Despite the endless construction zone of doom, Cincinnati and the surrounding areas were really progressing back then to make this part of Ohio a place that would attract more people. Things seemed to be going well, but like all cities, big and small, there are always underlying stories of tragedy. On December 5, 1997, the Cincinnati Police Department was rocked by the sudden loss of Officers Ronald Jeter and Daniel Pope. An individual they were serving a warrant to ambushed the two highly decorated officers, killing them both with gunshot wounds to the head. This story hit hard on the emotions of this town that seemed to be changing its reputation as a rough place to be.
These were the stories crowding the front page of the newspapers, but what about those stories that were hidden in the small box on page one or in section B of the paper? The ones that didn’t seem to draw the same attention. One of those was that of a twenty-three-year-old young woman who had gone missing. On the front page of the Cincinnati Post on December 19, 1997, a small story found on the right side of the page showed a small picture of Alana “Laney” Gwinner with her beautiful smile. At the time, Laney had been missing for nine days with no leads or ideas about where she or her car could be. Her friends and family had been searching every place they could possibly think Laney might go. Hundreds of phone calls to anyone that may have a connection with her had been made. There was still no sign of her.
I noticed that the article wasn’t only about Laney. The article discussed other missing women, whom I later learned were considered deceased because of the time that had gone by since their disappearances. I felt a bit upset that the attention had been taken off Laney. I know that the author of that article was in no way trying to minimize Laney’s story, and I’m not sure why it upset me like it did, other than the fact that her story had now seemed to become personal for Evan and me. Don’t get me wrong, those other stories were extremely tragic in their own right and definitely deserved to have attention drawn to them. At the time, though, Laney was still out there, and finding her was at the top of the list for her family, friends, coworkers, and those who may have seen her that night.
December 9, 1997, was a normal day for Laney: get up early, prepare for work, and start the day like any other. According to her boss, she was a very conscientious, hard-working employee. Laney was always on time and ready to work. He said she would call before leaving home if she thought she was going to be late, even by one minute. This gained her great respect from her boss. These types of characteristics are often rewarded with a promotion, which is exactly what happened for Laney. Things were going well. Her life wasn’t always easy, but for the moment, it appeared as if the stars were aligning for her, at least in her professional life.
Like most of us, distractions occur during the workday. Laney was no different. The morning of December 8th started out with a simple email to a friend, Angie, saying, “What’s up?”
The work day continued, and Laney and Angie corresponded back and forth. Laney ended with telling Angie about having a confrontation with a female at her current boyfriend’s house over the weekend. Angie responded about her day and asked more about the weekend events. Laney expressed her need to study for her accounting exam coming up the next day. She ended the conversation with, “Give me a call later and I will fill you in on his reaction to the whole situation and try to get your input on it. I think Shad, Joy, and I are going to BW3’s tomorrow after my exam, wanna go? Call me.”
It should be noted that in 1997, cell phones were not the extra appendage most people have today. If you had a cell phone, it was considered to be a luxury or it was specifically used for work.
That being said, the conversation ended at the end of the workday, and both went on with their separate lives that evening. Tuesday morning, December 9th, began with a continuation of the conversation from the day before.
Laney wrote, “Nothing is up with Shad… He was out with Eric in Chicago all weekend. Eric said they had a blast, it was just like old times. We are just going to BW3’s to chow down on some wings!!! Maybe shoot a little pool. Sound Good? I have my exam tonight so I don’t know what time we are going.”
Unfortunately, Angie’s son was sick, and she did not want to leave him with anyone, so she had to explain to Laney that she most likely would not make it that evening. That would be the last exchange Angie would have with her beloved friend.
Laney’s day continued like normal. She knew that, at the end of the day, she would have to go take her exam. Like almost all students, she wasn’t that excited to take that test. Did she study enough? Was she prepared, or was this going to turn out badly? Her boss remembered that she left a little early that day to put in a last few minutes studying before the exam.
Laney had made plans with friends to meet at BW3’s near Forest Fair Mall later that evening to celebrate the end of classes. The idea was to meet there to have some dinner and then venture somewhere to play some pool. Laney was an avid pool player. Some might even say she was a bit of a sandbagger. She would act like she didn’t know how to play to lure someone, particularly a man, into a false sense of security, then proceed to kick their ass and take their money. This could be a good thing or it could be a bad thing, depending on who she was playing and how much she had taken from them. From stories I have heard about Laney, she wouldn’t back down from anyone. She may have been small, but she was tough. Playing pool against her could start a ruckus.
During the day leading up to dinner, unfortunately, some of her friends contacted her to let her know that they would not be able to attend the get together. That left only Laney and her friend Shad to go out that evening. They arrived at Bdub’s, as they called it, between eight and eight thirty p.m. They had a few drinks and downed those wings she liked so much. Between nine and nine thirty p.m., they arrived at the Gilmore Bowling Lanes in Fairfield, Ohio. It is not clear who decided to go there, because according to most people who knew her, she had never been to Gilmore Lanes until that night. How did they know that they could play pool there? Was it well known that Gilmore had pool tables? I guess we will never know the answer to that question, but that is where they ended up that night.
Gilmore Bowling Lanes has been in Fairfield for quite a long time. It actually used to go by the name of Coleman Lanes when I was a kid, but more than forty years later, it still looks almost exactly the same with only the name change. It’s kind of funny how some places seem to get trapped in time. Like almost all bowling alleys, there are lanes in the back of the building, and out front there is a bar. Most of the bars I’ve seen in these alleys are not places you would take a date to dinner, but they do have alcohol, which draws all kinds of people. Most of those bars draw the bowlers in there in between frames, and then a few may stop in after bowling to have a nightcap before heading home.
This night seemed different for some reason.
The bar that night was a hopping place with a combination of bowlers, local car salesmen, pool players, and a group of friends partaking in a weeknight drinking party, just for the hell of it. This tiny bar was kind of crowded, especially for a Tuesday night. According to some of the workers, who still work there today, the bar usually closed around eleven thirty p.m. on a weeknight, but that night they stayed open because there were many people still having a good time and, well, that meant they were making a little extra cash. The question is why did everyone stay late that evening? Could it have been that beautiful, twenty-three-year-old woman with the jeans that fit just right and the brilliant smile that lit up a room? Laney was only one of two or possibly three women in that bar that night. There may have been an older woman who was a bit of a regular and an eighteen-year-old who was hiding in the corner drinking beer with her friends hoping that the cops didn’t come in and catch her. The men were from different backgrounds and ages, and having a good time, but all must have noticed that beautiful girl playing pool. One person took a serious interest in the “hot girl” in the room.
As the night began to wind down, Laney had to go to the restroom, considering she’d had quite a few drinks while celebrating with Shad. Someone had stated they saw her stop by the payphone by the front door to make a call. It was later established that she did make a call to her current boyfriend to let him know, “I’m on my way.” There may have been a few other calls made before she made it to the restroom, but she eventually made it there and returned to the bar to quickly say her goodbyes.
She slipped out the door without most people, including Shad, seeing her leave.
Somewhere between twelve thirty a.m. and one a.m., Alana “Laney” Gwinner, now trapped in time, slipped out into the dark, cold December night.
Featured on this shelf
The Lost Girls of Arkansas (Paperback)
Some stories disappear long before they are ever solved.
A missing woman becomes a faded headline. A murdered girl becomes a file stored in a box somewhere inside a courthouse basement. Families learn to live between hope and grief while communities slowly stop asking questions. Over time, silence settles in where outrage once existed.
The Lost Girls of Arkansas confronts that silence head-on.
In this powerful investigative work, award-winning author, journalist, and victims’ advocate LaDonna Humphrey examines missing persons cases and unsolved murders that continue to haunt Arkansas decades later. Through deeply researched storytelling, firsthand investigative work, and a victim-centered approach, Humphrey explores the lives behind the cases — not as statistics or sensational headlines, but as daughters, sisters, mothers, and human beings whose stories deserve far more attention than they received.
Set against the backdrop of rural highways, isolated communities, river towns, and dense Arkansas forests, the book traces the lingering impact of unresolved violence across generations. It examines how poverty, addiction, indifference, institutional failure, media disparities, and social stigma often shaped which victims received urgency and which were quietly forgotten. In many cases, the investigations stalled long before the pain did.
Rather than glorifying violence, The Lost Girls of Arkansas focuses on the emotional and societal aftermath when justice never comes. Families fracture beneath unanswered questions. Witnesses carry secrets for decades. Entire communities adapt to fear, rumor, and uncertainty while predators sometimes remain hidden in plain sight.
Humphrey brings both investigative rigor and emotional depth to these cases, challenging readers to look beyond the surface of true crime and confront the broader realities surrounding unsolved violence in overlooked places. The result is a haunting and deeply human examination of memory, loss, justice, and the enduring fight to make sure victims are not erased by time.
LaDonna Humphrey is an award-winning author, investigative journalist, filmmaker, and nationally recognized advocate for victims of crime. She is the co-founder of All the Lost Girls and host of investigative podcasts focused on missing persons, cold cases, and justice reform. Her work has earned recognition for its ethical approach, relentless research, and commitment to giving voice to victims and families too often ignored.
Every name matters. Every story counts. Some cases should never be forgotten. LaDonna Humphrey is currently working on additional investigative volumes including The Lost Girls of Alaska, The Lost Girls of Oklahoma, and The Lost Girls of Washington. To suggest a case, share information, or learn more about her investigative work, visit LaDonnaHumphrey.com.
$19.95
Why we chose this
The Lost Girls of Arkansas is close to our hearts because it purposefully brings the names of the victims into our thoughts and memories. Most of these missing and murdered victims have not found justice. They are not tied up in a neat package, with a killer, a motive, and a conviction. But the messy ones are the ones that need our memory and love even more.