Out Here in the Darkness

By Abra Stevens

Finalist - 2020 Eric M Hoffer Awards

Winner - 2019 Readers' Favorite - Non-fiction True Crime

On a sweltering summer night, an outcast, brutally tortured, was left to die in a field behind a Houston, Texas graveyard. Later, police discover another victim, but are the two related?

Written in cinematic nar

• Language: English
• Publisher: LNJ Publishing
• Release date: May 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543965766

Abra Stevens

Abra Stevens is a former complex litigation paralegal. In concurrence with her legal career, she spent two decades as a music journalist and as Senior Editor for several regional publications.

Book preview

Tuesday, August 6, 1985

THE NIGHT was now still as the boy lay on his back. The ground beneath him littered with pine needles and broken branches of summer’s demise. The grass, which encircled him, swayed in the slight breeze. Its blades, interwoven in separate stages of breath and decay, bent and rose in a melody of submission. The moon, flush only two days before, shadowed as it succumbed to the end of its cycle.

If he could see, the boy would have noticed the stars above his head, effervescent in the cloudless sky as they shone majestically before withering into nothingness. If he could feel anything other than pain, he would have felt the breeze as it whispered across his bared chest.

But the boy knew none of this.

He saw only opaque nonexistence behind his swollen eyes. His perceptions were internal. His mind capable only of what was developing within him. And yet, ascending to the top, like the froth on the beer he had drank before all of this began, the voice of his sputtering heartbeat emerged. Its pace coexisting with the dry hum pulsating in his ears.

As he listened, the two sounds broke apart, the chant of each flowing in a different direction. And in a layer which encased them, another sound rose. An off-key piece of a song he couldn’t quite place floated somewhere in the distance.

He tried to make sense of what had taken place. Of how he came to be here. Fading thoughts of betrayal ran through him as he labored to stay alive.

His breath snagged.

Fear sliced through his brain. His mind shivered into fragments, shards of thoughts scattering like a shower of hypodermic needles. Dried tears, entwined with the blood seeping from the wounds beaten into his head, stained his battered face.

Although the boy wanted to move, he could not.

His life essence wept into the earth, after the pipe had crashed again and again into his body, after the blade plunged over and over into his chest. His left eye brutalized by the abuse. His throat ravaged, his lips, torn and bloated, his gums savagely inflamed, displaying empty hollow sockets where his teeth had been.

But all this the boy could endure. If he could rise above the suffering, he would survive.

Hope arrived as a whisper and blanketed his misery. It flowed into a quiet awareness, a liberation from the blackness he could see coming to greet him. He steadied himself for a deep inhale.

The boy felt his ribs rise.

Then stall.

He tried to swallow the blood and excess saliva which had pooled in his mouth. Something was in his throat.

His eyes shot open.

But the boy was oblivious to this; he remained sightless as his mind concerned itself only with the assailant now lodged inside his trachea.

He began to sink.

His bones no longer felt the plot of earth on which he lay. Colors and sounds whisked by as the boy tried to lift his arms to stop his descent. Blood surged through his lungs. His pulse grew deafening, relentless, drowning out the sounds escaping him as he struggled to inhale. Faces swam in his mind. Friends from school, his siblings, his parents. Memories popping up in brisk progression as he slipped further away.

Downward.

Deeper into the blackness.

As his breathing moved in and out in a strand of stuttered hisses, a peculiar sensation overtook him. Its ambiance beckoning with the sensation of embracing a favorite childhood toy.

And silently, the boy let go.

Finding himself submerged inside this welcome cocoon of nothingness, the boy realized his suffering had dissolved. Here, in this new place, he could finally recognize the sounds coming from the darkness below.

There were only two.

The haunting words of Iron Maiden’s Number of the Beast and laughter—the melody surrounding him as his friends walked away.

And on the dried August grass of a sparsely inhabited field north of Houston, Texas, a body lay.

Author Note

The scenes and dialogue contained within were reconstructed from law enforcement records, District Attorney’s files, trial and hearing transcripts, audio recordings, news reports, and interviews conducted by the author.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. Any resemblance between the fictional names and those of actual living people is coincidental.

Part Three contains actual trial testimony; some witness names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individual and to ensure a consistent flow within the story.

Cast of Characters

The Group

Harold Jack Smith - Leader of the group.

Martin Marty Tosh - Jack’s best friend.

John-Michael Eddie Trimmer - Jack’s sidekick.

Michael Mike Cravey - Friend of Jack and Eddie.

Shannon Rivera - Girlfriend of Marty Tosh.

Fawn Anderson - Best friend of Shannon Rivera.

Harris County Sheriff’s Office (H.C.S.O.)

Max Cox - Detective, Homicide Division.

Mike Parinello - Detective, Homicide Division.

J.H. Najera - Deputy, Patrol.

Harris County Medical Examiner’s Office

Dr. Aurelio Espinola - Chief Deputy Medical Examiner.

Dr. Robert Jordan - Assistant Medical Examiner.

Ellis Means - Investigator.

Houston Police Department (H.P.D.)

Earl Musick - Sergeant. Detective assigned to Special Crimes Detail inside the Harris County District Attorney’s Office.

Dan McAnulty - Sergeant. Detective assigned to Special Crimes Detail inside the Harris County District Attorney’s Office.

Paul Motard - Sergeant. Detective in Homicide Division.

Steve Arrington - Sergeant. Detective in Homicide Division.

Steve Benavides - Patrol Division. Truant Officer.

Texas Rangers

Stan Oldham - Worked with H.C.S.O. and H.P.D. in the Medler investigation.

Harris County District Attorney’s Office

John B. Holmes, Jr. - Harris County District Attorney.

Don Stricklin - First Assistant District Attorney.

Jim L. Peacock - Assistant District Attorney.

Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office

Vincent Lamia - Lieutenant, Homicide.

Curt Snow - Acting Sergeant, Homicide.

George Heath - Detective, Homicide.

Bernard Wortmann - Detective, Homicide.

Defense Attorneys

Joe Cannon - Counsel for Jack Smith.

Roger Bridgewater - Counsel for Eddie Trimmer.

Mike Mapes - Counsel for Mike Cravey.

Jim Lavine - Counsel for Shannon Rivera.

Jack Zimmermann - Counsel for Shannon Rivera.

James Leitner- Counsel for Marty Tosh.

In order of appearance

Richard Morrison - Discovered body of Keith Medler.

Sarah Cravey - Mother of Mike Cravey.

Ty Cravey - Sister of Mike Cravey.

Gene Cravey - Father of Mike Cravey.

Jolene Smith - Mother of Jack Smith.

Eric Meadows - Friend of the group.

Jake Carlyle - Friend of Mike Cravey.

Hannah Golden - Friend of Keith Medler and Jack Smith.

Lily Mullin - Friend of Hannah Golden and Jack Smith.

Rick Norris - Friend and co-worker of Eddie Trimmer.

Candice Kingsley - Friend of Rick Norris.

Oliver Kerr - Mike Cravey’s best friend.

Amanda Kerr - Wife of Oliver Kerr.

Greg Hardy - Restaurant Manager

Lloyd Goodson - Co-worker of Ronald Monahan

Lucas Archer - Co-worker of Eddie Trimmer.

Matt Moore - Friend of Eddie Trimmer.

Alfred Montoya - Greenspoint mall security guard.

Julie Tosh - Mother of Marty Tosh.

Garrett Tosh - Cousin of Marty Tosh.

Ruth Swanson - Neighbor of Jack Smith.

Amelia Connor - Sister of Jack Smith.

Wayne Grant - Friend of Jack Smith.

Renee Drake - Met Shannon Rivera in Juvenile Detention.

PART ONE

Such thoughts were a hideous testimony to the world he had accepted; a world in which murder was easier than hope.

- Richard Matheson, I Am Legend

Chapter One

Positioned east of the primary artery into the city of Houston known as I-45, the field next to Resthaven Cemetery saw little human activity. Although a small bedroom community bordered it, this area belonged to the opossums, woodpeckers, and nighthawks which called the meadow and the dense cover of trees their home. In this sanctuary, blackberry and wild plum bushes grew in abundance and provided food for the cotton-tailed rabbits who dotted the scenery with their burrows.

But now, the air here was dank, poisoned—the memory of the ruthless carnage interlaced with the dirt and dead leaves on the ground. The body left behind, an affront to its serenity. When the sun slept, the night brought the calls of tree frogs and the long low trill of screech owls, each animal declaring their dominance of the land.

Still, the boy lay. Alone and undiscovered.

With daily temperatures in the upper 90s and the dew point close behind during the summer of 1985, people gathered indoors. As one day dripped into the next, the body decayed, and the boy’s features disappeared as the process of decomposition was accelerated by the heat and excessive humidity.

Richard Morrison, a married, 53-year-old cattleman had lived in the area for twenty-nine years. After spending much of his career in the high-stress environment of the oil and gas industry, he found raising cattle was relaxing. In 1982, Mr. Morrison leased fifty-five acres next to the cemetery for his cows to graze. The four-strand barbed wire which encompassed the acreage allowed his herd to roam in safety. Once a week, he toured the land to make sure the fence was unscathed, and his cows were secure and well nourished. Twice a month, he would sit atop his John Deere tractor and mow, keeping the entire meadow free of underbrush.

At 6:30 p.m. on August 14, 1985, Mr. Morrison arrived at his property and stopped at the entrance. Putting his truck into park, he got out and opened the lock on the heavy chain used to keep the gate closed. Leaving the chain hanging on the fence, he got back into his truck and drove to the barn at the back of the property which housed the hay he fed to his herd. As the keys dangled from the ignition, he abandoned his truck and began to walk.

While looking for his cows and taking a customary review of the fence lines, Morrison came upon a person sleeping in the shade of the longleaf pines. Not wanting to startle the stranger, he cautiously approached.

His mind stalled as he drew closer and realized this was not a person amid an enchanted summer nap. He recoiled as he took in the horror of what he saw. The putrid sight and a cloud of insects drove him scrambling back towards the barn. Morrison forgot his hungry cows and jumped in his truck and rushed to the office of the cemetery caretaker. Without bothering to ask for permission to use the phone, he dialed the emergency number for the Harris County Sheriff’s Office. Jolted by his discovery, he remained fixed to his seat as he waited for help to arrive.

The time was 7:08 pm.

When the ambulance appeared minutes later, Mr. Morrison took sluggish steps towards his truck, allowing the heaviness in his chest to pass before getting in and guiding the paramedics to his discovery. With a glance, the first responders knew there was nothing further to be done for this person. As Morrison tried to calm his nerves, the group waited for the police to arrive.

Deputy Jose Najera of the Harris County Sheriff’s Office was in his patrol car when he received a radio call of a body discovered. Arriving at the location at 7:16 p.m. Najera made notes about the corpse’s direction and positioning. He then used his car radio to contact dispatch and confirm a probable homicide at that location.

While Najera was taking preliminary information from Mr. Morrison, Max Cox was driving northward on I-45. He had worked in Homicide for the Harris County Sheriff’s Office for two years. With Houston’s rapidly increasing crime rate, Cox had received a crash course in murder and now had the experience of a small city investigator nearing retirement.

The slender twenty-nine-year-old detective had an exuberant personality punctuated by a smile that lit up a room and a meticulous approach to investigation. The combination proved to be an asset within the profession he chose.

A disembodied voice coming through the police radio hacked through the gentle hum of the passing roadway outside his closed windows. Informed of a homicide in a field east of I-45 and south of Greens Bayou, Cox replied he was close to that location and headed to the scene. When he arrived at Resthaven Cemetery, the headstones and mausoleums blurred in his peripheral vision as he weaved his car across the park-like setting. As he drove through the opened gate at the rear of the grounds, he was met by Deputy Najera who led him to the victim.

Cox sighed as he looked at the body lying in the grass—the scene illustrating the darkness of his job. He noticed the boy’s arms were bent at the elbows with the lower part of the arms and hands turned back towards the head. His eyes flicked to the boy’s feet and he saw they were pointed upward and slightly angled to the left, with a white rope tied around the ankles.

Unable to proceed further, he instructed Najera to contact the Medical Examiner’s office, crime scene technicians and to request a body car. Opening his car door, Cox leaned in and grabbed the microphone attached to the police radio. After he was connected to the Special Investigations Department, the detective recounted what he observed. Being told his partner Mike Parinello was in route, he dropped the mic on the front seat and shut the door.

At the back of his sedan, Cox opened his trunk. Just in case the Crime Scene Investigators are tied up somewhere else, he thought as he opened his case and reviewed the contents: a few blank Crime and Latent Print lab forms, white and manila envelopes in assorted dimensions for evidence collection, plastic bags in varying sizes for the same, multiple pairs of disposable gloves, evidence tape, a roll of yellow crime scene tape, and a disposable 35mm camera.

With his kit in hand, Cox closed the trunk, walked over to Mr. Morrison and listened as the cattleman described how he had come upon such a grisly find.

While his thoughts raced, Morrison became distressed as his imagination sought what had befallen the person he found. He fumbled for words as he clasped his hands together, rubbing the top of one thumb with the other.

Sir, can I go on and head to the house?

Cox, who knew he wouldn’t be able to get any more out of the man while he was this upset, verified he had his contact details and allowed him to leave.

By 7:45 p.m., with the sun still affording sufficient light, I.D. Division I, Corporal Overstreet arrived and photographed the victim and the scene. As he looked through his camera lens, he noticed the shirt worn by the victim was rolled up to his chin as if someone had dragged him to his final resting place.

When Harris County Medical Examiner Investigator Ellis Means arrived at 8:05 p.m., he wrote his observations on a sheet of paper attached to a metal clipboard. The body was that of a male, fully dressed, with no jewelry, tattoos or identifying marks. Pulling on a pair of light blue latex gloves, he crouched down and examined the remains hoping to find identification—his effort resulting only in a single five-dollar bill crumpled in the right front pocket of the boy’s dark washed blue jeans.

Means gingerly lifted first the right and then the left hand of the victim. As the hands were clenched in death, the investigator turned them over to see if there was anything in the palms. Finding nothing, he placed each hand inside a brown paper bag, mindful of preserving any blood or tissue which may be on the surface of either side. He then motioned to the Houston Memorial Funeral Home attendants who had arrived with the hearse and assisted as the body was shifted to a nylon bag sitting open inches away. With a final look, Means zipped the pouch closed—the sound tearing through the silence, extinguishing the songs of the Nighthawks in the trees above his head.

Positioned at each end, the attendants lifted the bag onto a gurney. With the body secured with the attached belts, they maneuvered the steel cart across the land, the wheels spinning as they encountered small burrows in the earth. Collapsing the legs, they raised the gurney, slid it into the station wagon, and drove to the morgue.

When Detective Parinello arrived, he and Cox walked the area but found no more clues. As the victim’s identity remained unknown, the case was labeled, ‘Deadman Investigation’ when the pair returned to the office.

At the loading dock of the Harris County Morgue, the body car backed in and parked. When the rear door was opened, the boy was taken out on a stretcher whose legs popped up to bring the cot to full height. In the white tiled halls of the building, they made their way to the receiving area. The silence broken only by the sound of a squeaking left wheel.

In front of a double set of metal doors, a forensic technician greeted the attendants. With a brief glance at the black bag secured to the cart, he reviewed the paperwork. After an information card was affixed to the bag, the attendants followed the technician into a refrigerated room the size of a small airplane hangar. Although experienced, the driver couldn’t contain the tremble which passed through him as he saw all the other bodies lying in wait in the vast quarters.

Raising the boy from the stretcher, the men removed their hands when they saw the black nylon of the bag rest softly upon the apricot-colored pad affixed a top of the Medical Examiner’s gurney. When all protocol had been observed the technician followed the attendants out before turning off the light and closing the weighted door.

As the residents of Houston turned on the 10:00 p.m. news, a reporter read the Harris County Sheriff’s Office press release:

The decomposed body of a white male was found located in the pasture behind the Rest Haven Cemetery located at 13100blk of I-45 North. The body appears to have been dumped by unknown persons with no I.D. being found on the body. Investigation being conducted by the SIU office of the Harris County Sheriff’s Department. No additional information at this time.

For two days, the boy remained, encased within the bag, inside the chilled room of the Harris County Morgue—lingering.

Chapter Two

After a busy morning, the afternoon of August 16, 1985, began as each working one before it for Dr. Aurelio Espinola as he prepared to conduct an autopsy. This time, on an unknown male brought in two days before. The Harris County’s Deputy Chief Medical Examiner, a small statured man with a broad nose and full lips, read over the notes Investigator Means made at the scene. His eyes, whimsical and warm, drifted closed as he reflected on his childhood. Dr. Espinola winced as he felt the flash of the anger he held as a little boy towards the medical community.

Growing up poor in Panama, when two of his brothers became ill, the family had no money for medical care. As he watched his siblings decline and then succumb to death, he vowed not to let another go through the same loss merely because they were indigent. Originally intending to become a lawyer to change how the impoverished were treated in society, the young Aurelio found himself drawn to medicine. When he moved to America, he worked diligently to finish his studies.

Graduating from medical school, the new physician was fascinated by forensics. He viewed a Medical Examiner as a guardian of the community and felt if he became one too, he could help others in their darkest hours. Invigorated by his realization, he knew the emptiness, inside him since the deaths of his brothers, would be lessened if he could speak for those who no longer had the ability. For the dead couldn’t share their stories or name the person who had ended their life—their families left behind to wonder. So, he concentrated on clinical and forensic pathology and eventually obtained board certification in each.

The rhythm of a gurney being wheeled into the room broke the spell the past had cast upon him. Watching as the body passed, Dr. Espinola’s brown eyes, usually glistening with happiness, softened as he unconsciously rubbed a thumb across them. Picking up his glasses from the desk, he walked over to the sink and washed his hands. After pulling disposable plastic gloves from the container on the wall and sliding them on, he smiled a good afternoon to his assistant. The lines, just beginning around his eyes, made the greeting even more welcoming.

Walking over to the gurney, Dr. Espinola opened the bag. As the metal zipper was drawn downward, an odor filled the room. The bouquet, stinging and soupy, blended with the antiseptic air of the autopsy theater, slathering a palpable crust across each pore of exposed skin. Swaddling every strand of hair. Seeping into the fibers of the scrubs worn by the M.E. and his assistant.

With each shallow breath, Espinola’s skin constricted, and his mind fought to remember the fragrance of the living. But he knew it was futile, the cologne of death oppressed all else. Its scent reminiscent of memories: His grandmother’s house mingled with the stench of boiled cabbage on her stove, scrambled with the perfume of a field of lilies, and accented by the singe of burning rubber. A permeating layer added the essence of raw meat left forgotten in a hot car after a hasty trip to the grocery store. Though in death’s fragrance he could sense a whiff of being in the woods after a heavy rain, the decay became pallid and angular as it floated inside his mouth before finally depositing the taste of aged vomit on his tongue when the scents converged.

Dr. Espinola unconsciously swallowed the burn the aroma left behind as it tattooed its presence with each inhale. He pushed the red record button on his small tape recorder and watched as his assistant rolled the gurney to the x-ray machine and clicked off images.

Bringing the gurney to where the M.E. was standing, the assistant, dressed in pale green scrubs, picked up the camera and took pictures of the boy inside the bag.

Dr. Espinola meticulously noted the clothing: dark blue jeans with the hem of the legs tucked underneath, a blue t-shirt, beige and brown cowboy boots, blue striped white socks, and the rope binding the boy’s legs together. After traces of dirt, leaves, and other materials were collected from the body, he took hair samples and then examined the boy’s hands encased in brown paper bags.

Once freed from the wrapping, he saw the boy’s fingernails were absent, and his fingers had become flat and without substance. While his assistant rolled each finger across an ink pad before pressing it onto a white card, Dr. Espinola knew there was not much hope these prints would lead to a successful identification as the boy’s skin had slogged off in the days since he had died.

Lifting the body and pulling the bag free, Espinola’s thoughts shifted to who this boy had been and how fate had led him here. Using a large pair of medical scissors, he removed the rope and the boy’s clothing and handed each item to his assistant to be placed within its own evidence collection bag.

As he focused on the body before him, he tilted his head to the side and slightly nodded in anticipation of hearing what this boy had to say. In his six years as a Forensic Pathologist with Harris County, Dr. Espinola had performed over five thousand autopsies, but it never became routine. The enthusiasm he held as a young medical student to listen to his patient and learn all he could, still surged through him.

Of course, he thought, the dead can’t talk.

But for this Medical Examiner, his patients didn’t need words, he heard them just the same.

Dr. Espinola peered into the face of this unidentified boy. Bruised and blackened areas spread across the nose, left eye area, forehead, and mouth. Both the upper and lower jaw shattered yet still held in unison at an odd angle—the boy’s lips frozen in a muted scream. Long eyelashes, which once conveyed his deepest emotions, now fluttered with the movement of larvae weaving through them as they continued their meal. The boy’s eyes, which once took in the wonders of life, now gone.

Speaking into the microphone, the M.E. noted the many lacerations, abrasions, and stab wounds covering the boy’s body.

"A full thickness laceration of the left side of the upper lip, measuring 1 inch in length. A similar laceration is present on the lower lip at midline, measuring 1 inch in length. There are defects over the left side of the neck consistent with cuts and two similar superficial defects consistent with stab wounds over the left anterior lower chest.

Moving back to the boy’s face, Dr. Espinola continued:

A dark discoloration is on the right side of the forehead and the left side of the face which extends into the temple and around the left eye and bridge of the nose. There are underlying fractures of the upper and lower jaw with fracture and looseness and absence of upper front teeth.

With all superficial evidence collected, the surface examination was concluded, and the gurney was moved to a large sink and tilted slightly. The assistant took the metal expandable faucet in his hand. With his other hand, he turned on the water. Lost in his thoughts of how someone could do this much damage to another person, the assistant carefully sprayed water on the boy and used an antiseptic soap to clean what remained of his dark brown hair.

Dr. Espinola watched as his assistant moved to the scale to measure and weigh the boy and he mentally accounted for the loss of body weight which occurred during the second stage of the decomposition process as he turned to the next step of his examination.

When the boy’s body settled on the metal table affixed to the floor, a hard block was placed under his back, and blood samples were collected. Dr. Espinola was handed a scalpel and made a Y incision, opening the body to view its organs. Although he was disappointed to find most had been lost to enzymes released during decomposition or to insect activity that took place during the time spent outdoors, he found the larynx and vocal cords were autolyzed, or self-digested, with two teeth in the trachea and a black material consistent with blood in the throat.

Still bent over the boy, he studied the empty tooth sockets. His gaze moved from the boy’s mouth to the teeth, taken from his throat, now held in the Medical Examiner’s gloved hand. Each tooth has a precise location where it fits in the mouth. As the clock ticked the minutes by, the doctor patiently tried to place each tooth into various sockets until he had a match. He stepped back as his assistant photographed each correct placement, the buzzing of the camera and pop of the flash bringing him closer to a determination.

With the autopsy complete, Dr. Espinola threaded a surgical needle and employing a baseball stitch, sewed the Y incision closed. As he used a dampened cotton pad to wipe the thick cords of the sutures, he concluded this boy had died choking on his teeth. While the question of who the boy was weighed heavily on him, the M.E. removed his gloves and watched as the morgue attendant unfolded a crisp white sheet, freshly bleached and starched, and placed it on a stretcher. With a final glance, he walked towards his office wrestling with the sadness at the cruelty of the teenager’s death.

The assistant took his place on the other side of the body and helped the attendant lift the boy back onto the gurney. Each took a corner of the sheet and crossing the body, handed it to the other, the process repeated until the boy was enshrouded. As the attendant knotted the two ends of the sheet, the assistant walked over to the boy’s exposed feet and tied the string attached to a manila card around his big toe. While he wheeled the gurney back into the refrigeration room, the attendant cleaned the autopsy table.

Now wrapped within a cotton embrace, the boy was returned to the dark room where he waited for someone to know his name.

Chapter Three

North of Downtown and eight miles from Intercontinental Airport is a seven square mile area known as Greenspoint. The architect had envisioned this neighborhood, a blend of business and residential units, as a luxurious alternative to residing Downtown, where people could live and work in a suburban paradise outside of the fast-paced city. Oil and gas companies quickly bought land and began construction.

Situated off I-45 North, Greenspoint Mall, the heart of the area, spans close to twenty-five acres of land and boasts one million square feet of space. At the time it opened in 1976, it was the largest indoor shopping center in Houston. With a park-like setting complete with sculptures by contemporary artists, soaring fountains and living full-sized trees planted in flowerbeds throughout, Greenspoint Mall had a rustic appeal lacking in the concrete city of Houston.

The mall housed many upscale stores of the time, such as Lord and Taylor and Foley’s. But the arcade, Aladdin’s Castle, and the General Cinema were the primary draws for families, with the latter hosting Darth Vader, R2D2 and Chewbacca at the 1977 premiere of the Star Wars movie. But, by 1981, with the collapse of the oil and gas industry and the economy taking a downturn, the criminals converged, and violent crime planted its flag in the center of the neighborhood.

Besides the overburdened police departments of the time, the Greenspoint area was split between two law enforcement units. The portions included within the city were served by the Houston Police Department, while the rest, unincorporated, fell under the jurisdiction of the Harris County Sheriff’s Office. With average police response times of fourteen minutes for emergency calls, the criminals heralded Greenspoint as their own, strutting through the streets at all hours. The area’s youth were left to conclude one shouldn’t waste their time in school, just do and take what you want. The residents lived in fear. From the criminals. From their children.

By the mid-Eighties, the upscale shoppers had gone away, and Greenspoint Mall had descended into a favorite hangout for kids skipping school. A few of the local teenagers had beat up hot rods, hand-me-downs from their parents or older siblings, enhanced through high school auto shop classes. But, a more significant number walked everywhere they wanted to go, covering as much as twenty miles a day. And Greenspoint Mall was the perfect meeting place.

Though the stores closed at 9 p.m., kids still congregated in the food court or the parking lot long after that. With the music store, Sound Warehouse, located just in front of the mall, and the area’s many restaurants and game rooms, teens had unlimited choices of where to squander their time. But the central attraction remained Aladdin’s Castle, just inside the mall’s north entrance. Close to the Montgomery Wards, the arcade became a haven for bored teenagers. Video games like Galaga, Tetris and Dragon’s Lair and a pocket full of tokens ensured an action-packed day.

When Dennis Keith Medler leased Unit 1511 at The Oaks apartments on March 12, 1985, he liked the proximity to the mall, less than a mile away. Recently moving from San Diego where he was stationed while in the Marines, he found the unit on the third floor of the sprawling wooden complex a perfect compromise. Although the apartment was close to his family who lived in Spring, the thirteen-mile distance between the two afforded the carless teen the freedom to explore life ungoverned by parents or military officers.

By May, the nineteen-year-old was spending most of his time at Greenspoint Mall.

Though Keith stood out among others as an altruistic cheerful teen, this wasn’t immediately noticed. His camouflaged vest, however, was, as he wore it every chance he got. The pleasantly handsome 5’11" teenager, with eyes the color of coffee beans, was wearing his favorite vest when he was introduced to nineteen-year-old Mike Cravey.

The two boys differed in many ways. While Keith took care of his mahogany colored hair in almost religious fervor, Mike, with waves of shoulder length sun-kissed locks, was unbothered as it wisped across his commanding forehead. Its style descriptive of his attitude. Ruggedly alluring, with chiseled features and wintery blue eyes, Mike appeared to be only held back by his shyness—reflected through his soft-spoken Southern voice.

Keith preferred safer pursuits whereas Mike, wild and increasingly thoughtless, was always up for fun. The former Marine imagined a greater future, though he was struggling to find the starting point, while Mike saw none. Finding himself nearing the brink of futility, Keith was determined to rise past it—if he could only figure out how. Mike, well versed in failure and despair, had simply given up.

Despite their approaches towards life, the two formed a comfortable acquaintance. Either hanging out in the game room or smoking pot at someone’s apartment, they talked about superficial things. The kinds of things all teens speak of: music, cars, and girls. At their age, the relationship never became one of considerable depth.

Unusually even-tempered, Keith had flashes of vocalized self-pity and defeat. In these moments, his eyes dimmed as he told stories of his short service. Desperately trying to appear worldly yet struggling with decisions he had made in his young life, he showed cracks of insecurity and doubt. Tightly wound and unapologetic, Mike grew weary at what he perceived as Keith’s passive-aggressive moods.

As the two spent hours together, Keith’s feelings of isolation manifested in more frequent complaints. Brushing aside Keith’s need to fit in, his