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Dark Cast Network indie pods with a dark side.
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Hello and welcome to Tales of the dark Cast Network's
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Crypt Keeper. I'm your host, Jackie. Join me for this
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heart stopping episode of dark Tales from dark Cast. Please
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step forward into the crypt carefully, keep your hands to
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yourself or they could end up being someone else's. Don't
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touch anything and you might come out of this in
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one piece. I trust that everyone brought a change of clothes.
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You guys may get soiled before this is over. Let's
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begin our first story, shall.
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We ay true Crimers. I'm Hopper Daily, host of the
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Final Trace. Normally I tell a true crime story to
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my best friend Mackenzie. She's the one asking the questions
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you're probably asking at home, or the ones I never
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even thought of. But tonight, for this dark Cast original
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Halloween special, I'm going solo. The story I have for
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you today isn't an urban legend. It's the true story
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of the night Halloween changed forever. I'm your host, Hopper Daily,
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and this is the Final Trace of the Candy Man.
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Every Halloween parents whisper warning, blades and apples, needles and snickers,
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A stranger with a sweet smile and poison candy. Most
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of those fears are just urban legends, But in nineteen
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seventy four, on a cold October night in Texas, one
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of those legends came true. This is the story of
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the Halloween that turned into a nightmare, a story that
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haunted October thirty first for over half a century. Because
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sometimes the truth is darker than the myth. It's October
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thirty first, nineteen seventy four, Deer Park, Texas. Children dart
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from house to house, pillowcases and plastic pumpkins clutched in
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their hands, the sight of glowing jackal landards on every
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porch among them. Timothy O'Brien, eight years old, excited, dressed
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up his little sister Elizabeth, tagging along, Their father takes
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them door to door, joined by a neighbor and his
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two kids. At one darkened house, no one answers the door.
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The kids get bored and run ahead Timothy and Elizabeth's dad.
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He waits, but soon he catches up holding five long
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pixie sticks given to him from the occupant of the
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house that was slow to answer the door. He adds
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one to each child and the last one to a
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child passing by. They all add them to their candy
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hall and continue on with the night. Later back at home,
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Timothy is allowed one last treat before bed. He chooses
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the pixie stick. He struggles to get the powder out
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that had clumped together until his dad helps him out
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and loosens it. Moments after swallowing the powder, Timothy feels sick.
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He holds his stomach and begins to vomit. He cries out, Daddy,
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my stomach hurts before collapsing. By the time they reached
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the hospital, Timothy is gone. Tests showed that the pixie
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sticks were laced with cyanide, enough poison in just two
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inches to killed several adults. Panicky erupts, police scramble. Parents
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tore through trick or treat bags across Houston, terrified that
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their children had been given deadly candy. The press dubbed
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the mystery culprit the man who killed Halloween, because if
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one stranger was handing out poisoned candy, every kid was
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in danger. Investigators rushed to track the source. They questioned neighbors,
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retraced trick or treat routes, candy bags all sourced. They
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finally recovered the other Pixi sticks before any other child
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could eat them. But slowly the story began to shift.
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The evidence didn't point to a stranger lurking in the shadows.
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It pointed to someone much closer. All of the poison
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candy traced back to a single hand, and that hand
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belonged to Timothy's father, Ronald Clark O'Brien, thirty years old,
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an optician by trade, a deacon at the Second Baptist Church.
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Outwardly a steady family man, but beneath that polished exterior,
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his life was crumbling. The bills were piling up. He
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was drowning in debt, so desperate that he began quietly
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taking out life insurance policies on his children. Small amounts
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at first, but over time they grew. By the time
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Halloween rolled around in nineteen seventy four, the combined payout
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reached tens of thousands of dollars, worth well over half
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a million in today's money. To Ronald, those numbers gleamed
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like a lifeline, and on Halloween night, he convinced himself
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he'd found the perfect way out the chaos of trick
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or treating, the flood of candy, the faceless crowds. If
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something went wrong, if a child got sick or died,
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who would ever trace it back to him? That night,
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he slipped cyanide lace pixie sticks into the hands of children,
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one for his son Timothy, one for his daughter, two
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for his neighbor kids, and one to a ten year
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old he recognized from church. Meant scatter suspicion to make
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it look more like the work of a deranged stranger.
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But behind the mask of Halloween, the real monster wasn't
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in the shadows. He was standing in plain sight, a
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father who gambled his own child's life for money. The
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only reason that no one else died was chance. One
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boy fell asleep with a pixie stick unopened beside him.
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Another couldn't get past the staple that Ronald had used
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to reseal it. In the end, fate, not Ronald's mercy,
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kept the body count from rising. A twist of luck,
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a quirk of timing, and four children who never knew
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how close death had come crawling into their Halloween night.
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Ronald was arrested days later. At trial, prosecutors laid it
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all out, the debts, the insurance, the plan. The jury
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took less than an hour to convict him of capital
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murder in nineteen seventy five, Ronald Clark O'Brien was sentenced
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to death. Nearly a decade later, on March thirty first,
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nineteen eighty four, his sentence was carried out. He was
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strapped to the gurney, a needle in his arm, the
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sterile hum of the machines replacing the chaos he had
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once unleashed. Outside the prison that night, crowds of people
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gathered in the night air, their voices cutting through the darkness.
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They weren't there to mourn, They weren't there to pray.
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As the poison flowed into his veins, they shouted into
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the Texas night, trick or treat. Ronald Clark O'Brien will
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always be remembered as the Candyman, the father who poisoned Halloween.
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His crime became a legend, the fuel for whispered warnings
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passed from parent to child every October, candy bags dumped
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onto kitchen tables, wrappers inspected under the glow of a porchlight,
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fear that the Boogeyman was out there slipping poison into sweets.
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But the truth is far darker than the legend, because
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there was no faceless stranger lurking in the night. The monster.
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He wasn't hiding in the shadows. He was standing in
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the doorway, holding his son's hand. For more haunting true
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crime stories that linger in the shadows, follow us on
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Instagram and TikTok at the Final Trace podcast. Find us
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wherever you stream your podcast, and remember, not all secrets
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stay buried.
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Hello and welcome to Day by Day True Crime Stories,
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the podcast where we explore a different crime or justice
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milestone from this day in history. I'm your host ConA Gallagher,
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and today is October thirty first. On this day in
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nineteen eighty two, it was Halloween night in south central Indiana,
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just north of Seymour. Two men left a small house together.
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The next morning, one man one about his normal life.
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The other, twenty four year old Clifford Smith, was gone.
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Days later, his wife filed a missing person's report. A
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month later, two trappers found his body floating in a
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backwater pool off of the White River. For more than
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forty years, the case sat unsolved while rumors floated around
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bars and living rooms across Jackson County. That is until
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a new detective picked up the old file, reopened the
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story and finally gave the Smith family the answers they'd
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waited decades to hear. Today we're talking about the disappearance
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and murder of Clifford Smith and the answers that took
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over four decades to find. Let's get started late on
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October thirtieth, nineteen eighty two. It was Halloween weekend in Seymour, Indiana,
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a small industrial town where everyone seemed to know everyone else.
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That night, a few friends had gathered at a modest
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house on East thirteenth Street for a few drinks and
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a casual weekend get together. Among the people drifting in
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and out that night were Cliff Smith, who was just
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twenty four years old, and his brother in law, Ronald
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jaff Anderson. As the night wound down, Anderson reportedly went
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to go fetch something. Witnesses would later tell police that
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they saw him retrieve a shotgun loaded right there in
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the house, and then walk outside with Cliff. It was
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close to midnight when the two men got into a
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car and drove off, and that was the last time
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anyone saw Cliff Smith alive. By morning, there was no
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sign of him. Sunday came and went, Halloween passed, Cliff's
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wife waited, though, thinking maybe that he'd gone off with
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friends or needed time to cool down after some argument
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that no one quite remembered. But as the days stretched
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on and the silence deepened, her worry gave way to
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full blown panic. On November fourth, nineteen eighty two, she
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went to the Jackson County Sheriff's office and filed a
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missing person's report. Deputies started canvassing, checking the gravel roads
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north of town, knocking on doors and writing down the
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names of everyone who'd been at that East thirteenth Street
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house that night, but no one was talking, not about
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the shotgun or about Cliff leaving with Ronald Anderson. Those
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statements would take decades to make their way to police
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because witnesses were clamming up. There wasn't really anywhere for
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the case to go at that point.
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But then, at about.
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Eight pm on December one, nineteen eighty two, two animal
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trackers working a low, swampy stretch off the White River
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made a horrifying discovery in a shallow flood prone byou.
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They saw something pale floating in the water. When they
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realized what it was, they called state police troopers and
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a coroner waited in under flashlights. The body was dressed
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in blue jeans, a black T shirt, and brown boots.
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In one pocket they found a wallet and an ID card.
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It belonged to Clifford Smith. The body was partially decomposed
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and the top portion of his head was gone. An
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autopsy later found numerous pieces of buckshot and ruled the
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cause of death to be a shotgun wound to the head.
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Local newspapers reported what little they knew. Clifford had last
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been seen on Halloween, his wife had reported him missing
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five days later, and now a month after that, he'd
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been found dead in a backwater just north of Seymour.
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Detectives mapped out the narrow, muddy lane leading from the
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road to the water, marking tire tracks, footprints, anything that
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might still linger in the soft ground. They believed that
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the killer knew the area, and the remote dump site
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wasn't random. That suspicion only deepened as they traced the
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evidence back toward town and to the small house on
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East thirteenth Street, where Clifford had last been seen alive.
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Over the next several months, investigators interviewed witnesses, gathered physical evidence,
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and followed every lead that they could, But like so
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many small town murder cases in the early age, this
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one just hit a wall. There were rumors about a
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fight about money, about a gun, but no one gave
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them anything solid enough to take to a prosecutor, so
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the trail went cold. As years turned into decades, the
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case was passed from one detective to another. Boxes of
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reports and evidence moved from shelves to storage rooms, and
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for over forty years that was the end of the story.
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Then in September twenty fifteen, a veteran detective named Sergeant
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Kip Maine from the Indiana State Police pulled the case
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file off the shelf. Inside were the original nineteen eighty
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two reports, yellow pages, typed on old forms, black and
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white photographs of the recovery site, in a list of
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every interview that had been done that fall. He started reading,
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and then he started over. Unlike the DNA driven cold
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cases that make headlines, this one wasn't solved by new science.
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It was solved by patience and persistence. Maine reinterviewed witnesses,
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He tracked down surviving family members. He compared every statement
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from nineteen eighty two to what people remembered. More than
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thirty years later, one by one, inconsistencies fell away, and
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this time the picture began to come into focus. A
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house on East thirteenth Street, a loaded shotgun, two men
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leaving together, and one gun quietly returned later that night,
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and it all pointed back to Ronald Jack Anderson. By
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twenty twenty three, investigators believed that they finally had enough
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evidence to prove who killed Cliff Smith. On October thirty first,
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twenty twenty three, forty one years to the day after
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Cliff Smith was killed, the Indiana State Police announced that
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they had and arrest. Detectives took sixty one year old
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Ronald Jack Anderson into custody in his home in Seymour
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and charged him with murder. The details hit hard in
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the small town. Not only had Cliffsmith been denied justice
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for over four decades, but the man accused of killing
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him was his own brother in law. Over the next
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year and a half, the case worked its way through
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the courts. In April twenty twenty five, after months of negotiation,
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Anderson pleaded guilty to voluntary manslaughter as part of the deal.
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The original murder charge was dismissed. A month later, in
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May twenty twenty five, a judge sentenced him to eighteen
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years in prison. For the prosecution, it wasn't about revenge,
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it was about recognition. After four decades, they could finally
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say what happened to Clifford Smith and who was responsible.
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The story that began on a riverbank in nineteen two
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ended in a courtroom more than forty years later. But
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at its heart, this is the story of a twenty
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four year old man who never made it home from
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a Halloween party, and of all of the people who
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never stopped looking for justice. But sometimes justice takes years,
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sometimes it takes lifetimes. But on another Halloween, forty one