Alabama 1999 Cold Case SOLVED — Two Teenagers Asked for Directions and Never Came Home

In primetime, ABC’s 20/20 will take a deep dive into one of the biggest cases here in the Wiregrass, the case of Coley McCraney. In April of last year, McCraney was found guilty on four counts of capital murder in the 1999 deaths of J.B. Beasley and Tracy Howlett. The teens were shot to death in the trunk of Beasley’s Mazda 929 on Herring Avenue in Ozark. They were found the next day.

 The case went cold for two decades until DNA evidence found on Beasley allegedly matching to Coley McCraney. He who was arrested in 2019, he is currently serving a life sentence in prison and is fighting for a new trial. >> Just before midnight on July 31st, 1999, two teenage best friends were trying to find their way home.

They weren’t running from anyone. They weren’t involved in drugs. They weren’t meeting strangers. At least there’s no confirmed evidence they were.  They were simply lost. One wrong turn placed them in a town they didn’t know. One stop for directions should have been the last inconvenience of the night.

 Instead, it became the beginning of one of Alabama’s most haunting unsolved murders. A case that would leave families waiting for answers  for nearly a quarter of a century. And when those answers finally came,  they didn’t arrive because someone confessed. They didn’t come from a lucky witness.

 They came from DNA that had been waiting untouched for years until science  finally caught up. But that’s only part of the story because before investigators identified the man eventually convicted in the case, countless hours were spent chasing false leads. Innocent people  found themselves under suspicion and a community lived beside a killer they didn’t know was there.

This is a story about how opportunity, circumstance,  and investigative limitations allowed a horrific crime to remain unsolved for decades.  Before we go any further, if this is your first time here, welcome to Crime of Opportunity. Every case on this channel is more than what happened. It’s about how it happened.

 What gaps, what blind spots, what institutional failures gave someone the window they needed to get away with the unthinkable. Hit subscribe and the notification bell so you don’t miss  the next one. Drop a comment below. Tell me where you’re watching from. And if you’ve heard about this case before, tell me what you knew going in.

 I want to hear from you. Here’s what we know for certain. On August 1st, 1999 in Ozark, Alabama, a black Mazda 929 sat parked along Herring Avenue all morning, undamaged, unlocked. Both girls’ wallets still on the seats, cash and jewelry untouched. An officer called it in.  A detective drove out.

 And for 6 hours, 6 full hours, nobody opened the trunk. When they finally did, 17-year-old J.B. Beasley and her best friend Tracy Hawlett were inside. Each had been shot once in the head. They had been there since roughly midnight, less than a mile from the payphone  where Tracy had called her mom and said they were on their way home.

The man who put them there lived about a mile from that very road. He was there when the news broke. He was there during the investigation. He was there 20 years later than the families were still waiting for answers. He went to church. He preached. He raised his kids. He walked free for two full decades, not because he was clever or careful, but because the system had no door to open until a grieving family in California, a case 2,000 miles away, and a genealogy website changed  everything.

Dothan, Alabama, is the kind of city that feels like it knows itself. Not small enough to feel forgotten, not large enough to feel anonymous. The Wiregrass region, that  stretch of southeastern Alabama where Dothan sits at the center, has its own rhythm. Tight communities,  people who’ve known each other for generations.

 The kind of place where a tragedy doesn’t just shake a family, it shakes  an entire region. J.B. Beasley was born on July 31st, 1982. By the summer of 1999, she was 17, a cheerleader at Northview High School. She’d been a junior honor society member back in middle school. The kind of person people describe as always moving, always doing something.

Her mother, Cheryl, rarely had reason to worry about her. J.B. was not the kind of girl who gave people reasons to worry. Tracey Hallett had come into J.B.’s life back in middle school, and the two had been nearly inseparable since. Tracey’s story carried a particular kind of weight from early on.

 Her father, Robert Hallett, had been a police officer, and he drowned in Lake Eufaula when Tracey was just 4 years old. The officers in the area never forgot it. They kept a quiet watch over her, the way people do when a colleague’s child loses  a parent too soon. Tracey’s mother, Carol, eventually remarried a man named Mike, who  raised Tracey as his own daughter without hesitation.

 It was that kind of family, solid,  dependable, the kind that doesn’t expect the worst because it has no real reason to. On the evening of July 31st, 1999,  J.B.’s birthday, the two girls left Dothan together in JB’s black 1993  Mazda 929. The plan was simple, drive about 10 miles north to Headland for a birthday party, see their friends, head back home.

They never found the party. Somewhere along the way, a turn went wrong, and then another,  and before long, they were in Ozark, more than 20 miles off course, in a town they didn’t know well, past 11:30 at night. They pulled into a closed convenience store and Chevron station  called the Big Little Store on East Broad Street.

 A woman named Marilyn Merritt happened to be there with her daughter picking  up drinks. JB and Tracy got out and asked her for directions back to Highway  231. Merritt gave them clear, step-by-step instructions. She would later describe the girls to investigators as polite and neatly dressed, focused on exactly one thing, how late they were going to be when they got home.

Tracy walked to a payphone near the front of the building and called her mother. Carol picked up. Tracy’s voice was calm. She explained they’d gotten turned around, but a woman had given them the route back, and they were heading out now. Then she said four words  that Carol Roberts would carry with her every single day for the next 24 years.

Mom, I love you. Merritt was still in the lot when the Mazda pulled out, following her directions exactly. She watched the tail lights disappear down the road. And that was it.  No second call, no arrival. Both families awake by morning, waiting at doors that never opened. By 9:00 a.m.

 on August 1st,  both families had reported the girls missing to Dothan police. Around the same time, an Ozark patrol officer spotted a black Mazda 929 sitting along Herring Avenue, a quiet stretch of road less than a block from Dale County Hospital. The car was parked calmly, as if someone had simply left it there and gone inside somewhere.

No damage, no signs of a collision, no skid marks, just a car sitting still in the morning light. Ozark police ran the plates, Dothan registration. They called Dothan PD. A Dothan investigator was sent out to have the vehicle towed. The investigator stepped out and began a careful inspection of the Mazda. From the outside, nothing immediately suggested a violent crime.

 Through the windows, he could clearly see JB’s driver’s license resting on the dashboard. The girls’ wallets were still inside the car, along with their cash, credit cards, jewelry, and other personal belongings. Robbery didn’t appear to be the motive. One of the driver’s side windows had been left slightly open.

 The fuel tank was nearly empty, and dried mud coated much of the vehicle’s exterior, hinting that it had traveled over muddy roads before ending up on Herring Avenue. With no obvious reason to force entry, the investigator waited for the tow truck to arrive, unaware that the most important discovery was still hidden from view.

Six hours passed. Six hours during which officers walked around that car, looked through its windows, waited, talked, waited some more. It wasn’t until nearly 2:00 in the afternoon that the investigator found the trunk release lever inside the vehicle and pulled it. JB Beasley and Tracy Howlett were in the trunk.

 Each had been shot once in the head with a 9 mm handgun. One brass casing was recovered from JB Beasley’s abdomen. A second was never found. Based on how they were positioned,  Tracy first, JB placed on top of her, investigators concluded the girls had been placed there in sequence, not together. Both were fully clothed.

 Tracy’s arms were marked with scratches consistent with briars. Her brand new New Balance sneakers, bought just the week before, were thick with mud. Investigators also noticed that both teenagers were soaked from the knees down, consistent with having walked through wet grass, muddy ground, or another damp outdoor area.

 Yet the place where their car was found  told a different story. Herring Avenue was a paved, dry roadway, showing no signs that such conditions existed there. That contrast suggested an important possibility. The girls had likely been somewhere else before the car was abandoned, and Herring Avenue was not the location where the crime unfolded.

It was simply where the killer chose to leave them. Robbery was ruled out on the spot. Nothing of monetary value had been taken from the car or from either girl. The only item missing was  JB’s keychain, small, white, and black letter blocks spelling out the phrase “hard to get”. Investigators never found it.

 The initial autopsy found no signs of sexual assault and no alcohol or drugs in either girl’s system. That last point,  the sexual assault finding, would change within 2 months, and when it did, it changed everything. 2 months into the investigation,  the Alabama State Crime Lab returned findings that redirected the entire her  Biological evidence, semen, had been recovered from J.B.

 Beasley’s bra, her underwear, and on her skin. The initial autopsy reading had missed it, or the full picture wasn’t apparent until the lab completed its work. Either way, the conclusion from Dale County District Attorney David Emery was now unambiguous on the record. What happened to J.B. was sexual in nature, and finding the man responsible for that evidence  meant finding her killer.

Investigators ran the DNA profile through Alabama state  criminal database. No match. They submitted it to CODIS, the FBI’s national DNA index, which at that point held profiles from hundreds of thousands of convicted offenders and arrestees across the country. No match there, either. The man who left that sample had never been convicted of a crime, never arrested, never given any agency any reason to collect  his DNA.

His profile was clean, complete, and sitting in a lab pointing directly at him, and nobody  in any database on Earth knew who he was. And that’s what makes this case so frustrating. Detectives weren’t missing the most important piece of  evidence. They already had it. A high-quality DNA profile had been recovered from the crime scene,  and it was capable of identifying the person who left it.

 The problem was that no  one in the existing databases matched it. At the time, DNA databases  primarily contained profiles from people who had been arrested or convicted  of certain crimes. If the person responsible had never entered that system, the evidence had nowhere to lead investigators.

 So, year after year, the DNA remained unchanged in an evidence vault, silently holding the answer while waiting for technology and the investigation to finally catch up. Meanwhile, the investigation went into overdrive. More than 500 interviews, every block within a mile of Herring Avenue canvassed  on foot. DNA comparisons run on over 70 potential suspects, not one matched.

A reward fund climbed above $15,000 in local donations. Then Governor Don Siegelman added another 10,000 from state funds. The pressure on law enforcement was total. Find him. What came next was something investigators in cold cases learn to dread,  the false confession. About a month after the bodies were found, a 28-year-old part-time mechanic named  Johnny Berentime walked voluntarily into the Ozark Police Station and said he had information.

 Investigators sat him down and turned on the recorder. Over the next four hours, Berentime’s account changed  six times. The first version placed him spotting a suspicious truck near Herring Avenue. By the sixth version,  he was describing a tattooed stranger who climbed into the girls’ car, led them to Herring Avenue at gunpoint, and shot them while Berentime allegedly waited in a separate vehicle.

  He was arrested that day. Dothan thought it might finally be over.  But across all six versions, not one mentioned anything  sexual happening to JB. The semen evidence was the most critical piece of the entire case, and the man confessing to being present had no account of it whatsoever. The neighbor he named as the tattooed gunman had a  confirmed alibi, and when DNA results came back, both men were excluded completely.

  When Berentime appeared before a grand jury, the story collapsed entirely. He admitted he had invented everything motivated by the reward money. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen anything. The grand jury declined  to indict and the investigation was left in a worse position than before.  Months of resources spent running down a fabrication.

Other leads followed. Investigators also focused on a man who had reportedly been in the Herring Avenue area on the night of the murders. Soon afterward, he moved out of state and when questioned, he was unable to fully account for several hours of his whereabouts that evening.  Those circumstances made him a person of interest prompting detectives to travel to Michigan three separate times  to interview him and continue their investigation.

In the end, however, forensic testing told a different story.  His DNA did not match the biological evidence recovered in the case and he was eliminated as a suspect. A man from Mississippi who’d been staying in Ozark and disappeared after the crime was tracked down and swabbed, cleared. And then there was the security footage.

Investigators reviewed surveillance footage from the Big Little Store hoping it might reveal who crossed paths with the girls that night. Among the images was a small white pickup truck parked beside one of the fuel pumps while Tracy was using the payphone to call her mother. The truck never appeared to refuel  and no one was seen getting in or out during the recorded footage.

Detectives released the image to the public believing someone might recognize the vehicle or the person behind the wheel. If its driver saw anything important  that night, that information has never been confirmed. It simply vanished from the record. We’re about halfway through this case and I want to pause for a second.

 If you’ve been watching for a while without subscribing, this is the moment. Hit subscribe.  Not because I’m asking, but because the back half of this story is where everything changes and I don’t want you to miss how they finally got there. Also, drop a comment below. Does this case ring any bells? Did you follow this when it happened? Let me know.

Now, back to Ozark. For Carol Roberts, the case never went cold. Cold implies something that loses heat over time. Carol described to reporters that she hadn’t slept through a single full night since the summer of 1999. She would wake in the dark believing she could hear Tracy’s voice. She said the hardest days were never the anniversaries. It was the ordinary ones.

Birthdays that came and went. Holidays with a chair that stayed empty. Mornings that were quiet in the wrong way. Mike Roberts, the man who had raised Tracy  since she was small, who had never called her anything but his own daughter, attended every briefing,  every press conference, every hearing where new information might surface.

Year after year, there was  never anything new to report. He went anyway. Sheryl Bergoon carried the same weight for JB, though she carried it more privately. The absence pressed down just as constantly. The case was featured nationally on America’s Most Wanted in August 2000. Tips came in from across the country.

Nothing produced  a match. Seven years later, it was profiled on a different show, Haunting Evidence,  in an episode called Wire Grass Murders, which aired in August 2007. More attention, no name. Dothan grew and changed around the story. A new generation of kids grew up in the wiregrass who knew J.B.

 and Tracy only as names on a memorial. The crosses on Herring Avenue weathered in the Alabama humidity year after year, 20 years of summer heat and winter rain. The DNA profile sat in the lab unchanged, perfect, a complete genetic signature attached to a man no database had ever seen. Then in April 2018, a case out of Sacramento cracked something open that nobody in law enforcement had fully anticipated.

Joseph James DeAngelo, a former police officer who had committed at least 13 murders and dozens of sexual assaults across California during the 1970s and 1980s, was arrested at his home after decades of living quietly  in a suburban neighborhood. >> [snorts] >> He had no matching DNA profile in CODIS.

Traditional investigation had never produced his name. What produced it was something entirely new. Investigators uploaded the crime scene DNA from the California cases to GEDmatch, a public genealogy website where millions of ordinary people had voluntarily submitted their own genetic profiles to trace their family ancestry.

The search didn’t return DeAngelo. It returned his distant relatives, second cousins, third cousins, people who shared fragments of his DNA without knowing he existed as a suspect. From those partial overlaps, investigators built family trees, working backward through generations, narrowing branch by branch until DeAngelo’s name emerged as the only fit.

He had been living in plain sight the entire  time. The system simply hadn’t had a way to see him. Ozark Police Chief Marlos Walker followed the DeAngelo arrest with an intensity that went beyond professional interest. He was thinking about a specific evidence file in his own department.

 A semen sample from  a 17-year-old’s clothing collected in 1999 matched to no one in 20 years  of database checks. Two families still waiting. A case with no door left to open.  Walker contacted Parabon NanoLabs, a forensic genealogy firm based in Virginia that had worked  on the DeAngelo case.

 He sent them the 1999 crime scene DNA and asked them to do the same thing. Run it through GEDmatch, find partial family matches in Alabama, build the trees, narrow it down. Parabon ran the analysis. The results came back as a list of Alabama families whose genetic markers overlapped with the crime scene sample. Marlos Walker reviewed the list.

 One name stopped him. He didn’t recognize it from any tip that had come in over 20 years of investigation.  He recognized it from growing up in the same town. The man on Parabon’s list was 45 years old, born and raised in the Ozark Dothan area, a graduate of Carroll High School, class of 1992, library club president, athlete,  military veteran.

After his service, he became a long-haul truck driver working for a company out of Troy, Alabama, a job that put him on the road for stretches at a time and brought him back to the Ozark area regularly. He had started preaching at some point along the way.  By 2013, he had founded his own non-profit ministry called Spirit and Truth Lifeline Ministries.

He had married a woman named Janette. They had two children. He had no criminal record, not an arrest, not a charge, not a citation that would have ever put his DNA into any database anywhere. And he lived approximately 1 mile from Herring Avenue. His name was Coley Lewis McRaney. 500 interviews, over 70 DNA comparisons, television appeals, reward  money, two separate national broadcasts, 20 years of investigative work,  and this man’s name had never surfaced once. Not as a tip, not as a passing

suggestion,  not in any form. People who knew him in Ozark and Dothan would have described him as a decent man, a church man, a neighbor you waved to without thinking twice. That ordinariness, that complete absence of any reason to look his way, had been his protection the entire time. The system only holds DNA from people who’ve been through the system.

 He never had been. That’s the opportunity this case is built on. Not cleverness, not a careful cover-up, just the simple accident of never having been caught for anything before, and a justice system that had no mechanism to reach him because of it. Walker made a careful choice about how to approach the contact.

 He didn’t call McRaney in as a suspect, he called him as a community member, someone who grew up in the same area, who might be able to help narrow the search toward a killer. Walker told him directly, “You’re not a suspect. I just  need a DNA sample to help us get closer to whoever did this. Janette McCraney came with her husband.

She sat beside him during the whole conversation and encouraged him to cooperate. Why wouldn’t she? 20 years of marriage, two children, a shared ministry, nothing in any of it had given her a single reason to hesitate. McCraney agreed. An officer swabbed the inside of his cheek. He sat still and patient through the whole thing with the ease of a man who genuinely believed he had nothing to worry about.

What McCraney  didn’t know, sitting in that chair with his wife beside him, calm, cooperative, was that Parabon’s genealogical analysis had already narrowed to him  before that meeting was ever scheduled. The swab was confirmation, not  investigation. The lab results were unambiguous.

 The DNA taken from Coley McCraney’s cheek  matched the DNA found on JB Beasley’s clothing 20 years earlier. Not a partial match, not a probable match, identical. When investigators confronted him with the results, McCraney’s response was complete denial. He had never met either girl.

 He had nothing to do with what happened to them. He was not in Ozark that night. On March 15th, 2019, Coley Lewis McCraney was arrested and charged with four counts of capital murder and one count of rape. He was 45 years old. The reaction that moved through Dothan and Ozark after the arrest was not the uncomplicated relief that people tend to imagine when a cold case breaks.

 It was heavier than that. A preacher, a father, a man people had exchanged small talk with at gas stations and grocery stores, sat near at church functions, passed on roads they all shared. For more than two decades, the person investigators were trying to identify had been living less than a mile from where the victim’s car was abandoned.

All that time, while the family searched for answers, the truth was closer than anyone imagined. Prosecutors expected the case to reach trial in 2020, but the COVID-19 pandemic brought court proceedings across the country to a standstill. The delay stretched on  for nearly 3 years. Finally, in April 2023, almost 24 years after JB Beasley and Tracy Hollett disappeared, the long-awaited trial began in Dale County with Judge William Fillmore presiding.

McRaney chose to testify in his own defense. In any capital case, that’s a significant gamble because it opens the defendant to cross-examination with no buffer. And the version of events McRaney offered on the stand bore no resemblance to what he had told investigators in 2019. The complete denial was gone. In its place was a new account.

 McRaney now claimed he had first met JB at the Wiregrass Commons Mall in Dothan a couple of months before the murders. She had given her name as Jennifer. They exchanged numbers. They made a plan to meet in Ozark on the night of July 31st. According to his testimony, his vehicle happened to break down near the gas station that night.

 Alternator trouble, he said. And when he spotted JB and Tracy at the payphone, they offered him to give her a ride to where his  truck was parked nearby. He and JB, he claimed, had consensual sex in the cab of his truck. The girls then drove him home around 1:45 in the morning, and that was the last he saw of them. When prosecutors asked why he had categorically denied knowing either girl in 2019, McCraney said he didn’t want Janette to find out.

The prosecution took the testimony apart piece by piece. There was no evidence of any prior contact between JB and McCraney.  No call record, no text, no witness, no mall security footage, no account from anyone who might have seen them before that night. Marilyn Merritt testified about the girls at that gas station parking lot.

She described two teenagers who were lost, running late, and focused on getting home to their parents. Nothing in their behavior that night suggested they were meeting anyone. Tracy’s call to Carol confirmed the same.  They were heading home. Alabama Attorney General Steve Marshall handled the cross-examination himself.

He walked McCraney through his own timeline,  roughly 45 minutes by McCraney’s account, during which he claimed to have gotten into a vehicle with a girl he’d met once, driven to his truck, had sex, and been dropped back at his home. Marshall looked at him and said simply, “Happened pretty fast,  didn’t it?” Then came Janette.

The prosecution compelled her testimony. The same woman who had driven to the police station with her husband in 2019 and encouraged him to cooperate, who had built 20 years of marriage and a life and a family around this man without a single reason to question him, she was now seated in the witness box under oath, before a jury deciding whether her husband would spend the rest of his life in prison.

Jeanette testified that on the night of July 31st, 1999, Coley McCraney had left the house around 10:00. Their normal routine had him back by 11:30. He did not return until 12:45 in the morning. His explanation to her, a broken-down car at a gas station. The same gas station where two girls had stood at a  payphone and called home for the last time.

Eight days  of testimony. On April 26th, 2023, the jury returned its verdict.  Guilty on all four counts of capital murder and guilty of rape.  The sentencing recommendation, life without parole. The state had pursued the death penalty. The jury chose the alternative, a cell with no exit for the rest of Coley McCraney’s natural life.

Judge Fillmore sentenced  accordingly. The courtroom fell quiet as the guilty verdict was delivered.  Carol Roberts remained still, almost as if the weight of 24 years had settled over her in that instant.  Later, she described feeling stunned that the day had finally arrived when someone was being held accountable for her daughter’s death.

Sheryl Bergoon could no longer contain her emotions, leaning forward as she cried openly  in court. Mike Roberts was in the front row that day. He had been in the front row for 24  years. Every briefing, every press conference, every time anyone said there might be something new. He had raised Tracy as his own daughter since she was small and had kept showing up year after year when there was nothing new to show up for.

He held on long enough to hear that jury say the word guilty. Less than a year after the verdict, Mike Roberts passed away at the age of 74. He had stood beside his family through every development in the case and lived long enough to see the man convicted of his daughter’s murder held accountable in court. Even after the conviction, however, McCraney continued  to deny any involvement.

 Speaking to ABC News from the William E. Donaldson Correctional Facility in Bessemer, Alabama, he insisted he was innocent and said others could judge him however they wished. That claim stands in contrast to the evidence  presented at trial. Prosecutors relied heavily on the DNA profile recovered from J.B. Beasley’s clothing in 1999, evidence preserved for more than 20 decades until advances in forensic genealogy led investigators to the man a jury ultimately found  guilty.

Today, this investigation is widely recognized for the role forensic genealogy played in finally identifying  a suspect and rightly so. But the real question is why that breakthrough had to wait so long. At Crime of Opportunity, we don’t just  look at how cases are solved. We examine the circumstances, missed opportunities, and investigative  limitations that allowed them to remain unsolved for years.

Coley McCraney did not evade detection because he was sophisticated. He didn’t burn evidence  or flee the country or systematically mislead investigators at every turn. He walked free because the entire architecture of DNA-based criminal identification in 1999 and for the next 20 years was built on one assumption that killers have prior records.

 That if you commit a crime, you’ve likely committed something before  and that prior arrest or conviction would put your DNA in CODIS. If that assumption holds, the system works. If it doesn’t  hold, if the person responsible has no prior record, then you can have perfect DNA evidence confirmed and preserved pointing directly at a specific human being on Earth and the system looks right past him for 20 years.

That’s not a failure of one investigator or one department.  That’s a structural blind spot. And Coley’s proximity to the scene, his ordinary life in the community, his complete absence from any prior record, all of it turned that blind spot into an open window. He didn’t create the opportunity.

 He fit it perfectly. Forensic genealogy changed that equation by running a crime scene profile through a public ancestry database and tracing outward through partial matches in family trees, investigators can now reach people who have never been through the system themselves as long as a relative has voluntarily submitted their DNA somewhere online.

It’s not foolproof and it raises genuine questions about privacy and consent that are still being debated. But in cases like this one, it’s the only reason an answer ever arrived at all. On the evening of July 31st, 1999,  JB Beasley turned 17. She and her best friend got in a car to go celebrate.

They missed a turn. They ended up at a closed gas station in an unfamiliar town, asked a stranger for directions, and called home to say they were on their way.  Tracy said four words to her mother before she hung up. Mom, I love you. With fresh directions in hand, the girls drove away from the convenience store and headed toward the highway.

Marilyn Merritt remained in the parking lot watching as the Mazda disappeared into the darkness.  It was the last confirmed time anyone saw JB Beasley and Tracy Hallett alive. JB’s keychain, the one with the small letter blocks that spelled out hard to get,  was never found.

 24 years later, it’s still missing. Two crosses have stood on Herring Avenue since 1999. They’re still there.  If this story made an impact on you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. What part of the investigation surprised you the most? Were you familiar with this case before today, or is this the first time you’ve heard about it? And don’t forget to tell me where you’re watching from.

 I always enjoy seeing how far these stories reach. If you enjoy thoughtful, well-researched true crime that looks beyond the headlines, take a moment to like this video and subscribe to Crime of Opportunity. There are many more cases to explore, stories where a single missed clue, a chance encounter, or a flaw in the system changed lives forever.

  I’ll see you in the next one.