
                         THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
                 Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SUNDAY, June 12, 1994                    TAG: 9406120058 
SECTION: FRONT                     PAGE: A1    EDITION: FINAL  
SOURCE: BY KERRY DEROCHI, STAFF WRITER 
DATELINE: 940612                                 LENGTH: ELIZABETH CITY

SLAYING ENDS FAMILY'S CYCLE OF TORMENT \

{LEAD} Throughout this spacious house, in rooms cluttered with unpacked boxes, on a countertop covered with picture frames and a child's Bible, there are reminders of Kelly.

An angel drawn in pencil inside a school notebook, the word ``mother'' scrawled beneath it. A favorite black dog, his muzzle grayed with age, tied to a pole in the back yard.

{REST} A 3-year-old boy whose stubby fingers jab at a coloring book while his high-pitched refrain tells of a loss he's too young to understand. ``. . . Kelly . . . Kelly . . . My Kelly.''

Here, in a house that was meant to be a fresh start, a chance at a new life, the past seems not far behind. In this house, Deborah Jackson and her family must come to terms with what happened.

Five months ago, Jackson's sister, Kelly Dale Camron, was found strangled on the floor of a motel room in Charleston, S.C. Her husband, Greg, has been charged with the murder.

A chief petty officer in the Navy, Greg Arnold Camron will be court-martialed June 21, accused of attacking Kelly in the early-morning hours of Jan. 31, then sitting on her back and choking her from behind.

Greg Camron, 31, confessed to police and has since apologized to Kelly's family, saying he snapped and does not remember what happened that night at the motel.

But those who know Kelly contend that the slaying ended a cycle of violence that had tormented the 28-year-old housewife and her three children, a cycle Kelly had documented in letters, medical reports and a rambling, haunting diary.

For Jackson, who now has custody of Kelly's children, the upcoming trial will be a public confirmation of the turmoil and guilt that have splintered her once closely-knit family. Faced with evidence that has seeped out in the months after the killing, she has arrived at a painful truth.

Despite the fights at holiday gatherings, the angry tears, the bitter words, no one had believed Kelly.

``We never saw the signs of abuse,'' Jackson said in a recent interview. ``Maybe I misread them. I don't know. All I know is she is gone and I will have to live the rest of my life knowing I did not believe her.''

Looking back, the clues were well-hidden, in a past marked by dramatic flourishes, deep depression and a violent, obsessive love.

Kelly, the third of four girls, was raised in a small town in East Texas at a time when marriages were supposed to last forever and women did not complain.

It was a strict upbringing tied to the teachings of a conservative Southern Baptist church. Her father, a construction worker, was a large, domineering man whose discipline was swift and strong.

Of the girls, Kelly, a slight child with a thin face and nose, and long, straight blond hair, was the most feminine. She wanted desperately to take dance lessons, to become a ballerina.

In high school, Kelly fell in love with a round-faced, burly boy named Greg Camron. They married before she graduated, when Kelly was 17 years old.

On the surface, the marriage was a happy one. Greg was loved by his in-laws for his good nature and easygoing personality. His nickname was ``pooh bear.''

One year after they were married, Kelly got pregnant and had a girl they named Brandy. A year later, a second daughter, Lacy, was born. Then, a son, Benjamin.

The family moved frequently, following Greg's career in the Navy. Kelly was a housewife, spending her days taking the girls to Brownies and dance lessons.

But somewhere between the recitals and the beauty pageants, in the middle of the deployments and the sudden moves, Kelly got sick.

She was hospitalized for the first time eight years ago in Charleston, S.C., where she was treated for depression for more than three weeks. When she was released, she began seeing a psychiatrist and taking anti-depressant drugs.

Nothing would quell the panic that choked her.

``Greg I really need and want you so much,'' Kelly wrote in an October 1991 letter while Greg was deployed. ``I can't help feel so resentful having the Navy and the world have you all the time. Everyone but me.''

Over the months, her grip on Greg grew tighter, her resentment of the Navy, stronger. Her tantrums came frequently and the couple fought loudly and often. She threw tirades when Greg had to work late, stealing his wallet and keeping all but the military ID.

``This was an emotionally sick woman who had three small children to care for,'' Jackson said. ``She couldn't deal with her own life day to day. She had everything to lose if he left. I think she thought hanging on to him, she could get through life financially and emotionally.''

In June 1992, the tension exploded in the family's small house in New London, Conn. It was a bitter fight. Kelly threw a drawer of silverware at Greg. Holding a knife, he threatened to kill her.

Kelly called the police, swore out assault warrants and obtained a protective order against Greg, according to court records.

The case was referred to the Navy Family Advocacy Program and determined to be ``at risk'' for future violence. Greg was referred by the Connecticut courts to obtain counseling on how to handle anger.

The couple reconciled, and, in 1993, they moved to Virginia Beach, renting a four-bedroom ranch house on East Bourne Drive.

The move brought Kelly close to her sister, Deborah Jackson, who lived off London Bridge Road. A third sister, Jennifer Hale, was also nearby.

It was the first time the three sisters, each of them Navy wives, had lived in the same area, but the rifts between them were wide. The fights between Greg and Kelly had worsened. It was embarrassing to be around them and too painful to watch.

``She would become livid, absolutely screaming over any little thing,'' Hale said in an interview. ``They pushed each other. I think they thought they could pull back from the edge. This one time, he couldn't.''

Jackson tried to tell Kelly to give her husband some space, to leave him alone. Each time she was met with a blank stare.

``You don't know the whole story,'' Kelly would reply. ``You just don't know.''

In March 1993, Kelly was again admitted to a hospital for depression. While there, she started a diary, writing of her love and her pain.

That summer, Greg told Kelly's sisters that he intended to get a divorce and take custody of the children. Both Hale and Jackson told him they'd testify on his behalf.

Early in January, Kelly confided in her next-door neighbor about the abuse that threatened her marriage.

``She told me how they would get into a fight and how he would hit her,'' said the neighbor, Michelle Boswell. ``He would knock her across the room; he blackened her eyes.

``No one here knew of the abuse. She said I was the only person she ever told.''

That night, Kelly told Boswell that the fighting had stopped and that Greg had gotten help. The move to Virginia Beach, to the house with a white picket fence, had been a fresh start for the couple. Their troubles were behind them, she'd said.

But on Jan. 10, 1994, Virginia Beach police were called to the Camron home to break up a fight. Greg was arrested and taken to jail. He was released, and the Navy sent him on temporary duty to Charleston.

On Jan. 13, Kelly went to Domestic Relations Court in Virginia Beach to obtain a protective order. In a sworn statement, she referred to the time her husband had thrown her to the floor against the bottom of the couch.

``He stated to me, `I could so easily break your neck right now,' '' Kelly wrote in the affidavit.

A few weeks later, Kelly called Greg in Charleston to tell him she wanted to see him, to make things right. He told her not to come. But Kelly was determined.

On Jan. 30, she went to the bank and withdrew $150 from her savings account, writing ``for the love of Greg'' in her checkbook. She used the money to buy a one-way ticket to Charleston. Boswell, her neighbor, took her to the airport.

``She had her mind set. She was going to go there and she was going to fix things,'' Boswell said. ``In her mind everything was going to get back to normal.''

Kelly climbed on the plane at 8 p.m. Eight hours later she was found dead on the carpet of a room at the Knight's Inn.

Greg, who had called 911, told police the couple had fought right after she arrived. He said he slapped his wife and then strangled her. He was taken into custody and held without bail in the brig at the Charleston Naval Weapons Station, South Annex.

At 11 a.m. Jan. 31, an agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service showed up at Jackson's home in Virginia Beach.

He told her Kelly was dead.

Jackson screamed.

The day passed in a blur. Jackson, who had two children of her own, took in Kelly's, struggling to find the words to explain what had happened, struggling to understand it herself.

Reality slowly woke her.

``We were all thinking he just blew up, he lost it,'' Jackson said. ``It was difficult to come to the realization that there was more to it. To come to that realization, we had to take some of that responsibility.''

On Feb. 3, Kelly's body was flown from Charleston to a funeral home in Virginia Beach. That night, Greg called from the Charleston brig. He was crying.

``He said how sorry he was, that he didn't remember doing it,'' Jackson said. ``He said he'd snapped. He had had all he could take.''

Two days later, Jackson took the children back to their home on East Bourne Drive, to collect toys and clothes.

Once there, Lacy, 9, raced through the house. She said she was looking for her mother's pink diary; she had to find it.

``Daddy wasn't supposed to see it,'' she said.

Minutes later, she found the diary in a bag on a chair in the living room.

That's when Jackson knew. Inside the bag was Kelly's story.

There were fliers from a battered women's shelter giving advice on how to get out of abusive relationships and copies of the court records where Kelly had filed to get custody of the children.

A doctor's note from 1993 cited two domestic incidents ``where Kelly was thrown onto her left side.'' A second chart was dated Jan. 12, after the Virginia Beach fight. It referred to a bruise on Kelly's shoulder.

Jackson found a 1992 Girl Scout calendar, its white pages covered with violent scrawls in black and blue ink:

Greg didn't call from barracks, silent treatment.

Asthma attack, emergency room. Thanks, Greg.

No justice, he wins. I lose.

There was a note Greg once sent with flowers, where he had written, ``Kelly, I know in the past I've done you very wrong. Last night was one of them, but I lashed out and I can't take it back. But I ask for your forgiveness. Love Greg.''

Then, there was the diary.

In it, Kelly had written of her resentment toward Greg - for the time he broke her favorite mug, the nights he pretended to sleep when she came to bed.

She'd written of the violence in simple terms. She resented him for ``trying to choke her and throwing her to the floor, for almost breaking her arm and threatening'' her with a knife.

The words chilled Jackson.

A few nights later, she lay in bed, comforting Lacy, who couldn't sleep. Both were weeping.

Jackson told her she wished she had known.

Lacy grew quiet.

``Sometimes you have to see it, to believe it,'' she said.

In the weeks that followed, Jackson saw what had been her sister's life.

The children told her about the times they heard their mother pleading for ``Daddy to stop.'' They talked about a fight at Christmas when Greg threw Kelly into the tree.

On March 3, the day Kelly was supposed to be in court to try to win custody of her children, Jackson appeared before a judge to explain what had happened. She was awarded permanent custody.

Two months later she flew to Charleston to make sure Greg was not allowed out of the brig. She testified of threats Greg reportedly had made to Kelly and the children. The judge in the case ordered Greg held until trial.

On Memorial Day weekend, Jackson and her husband, David, moved to the house in Elizabeth City, trying to give their new family the beginning they desperately wanted.

They hoped the house, built more than 75 years ago on a quiet street in the heart of this small town, would someday, somehow give them solace. Sitting in wicker furniture on a wide front porch, they think it will.

On a recent morning, the children perched on a picnic table in the wood-paneled kitchen, sifting through photographs of Kelly. There was a shot of her sitting in front of the church in Longview, Texas, where she was baptized, had a wedding and was buried.

There was Kelly on a horse, posing on top of a car, cavorting with her best friends in high school and holding her daughters, all dressed in their Easter best.

At one end of the table sat Benjamin, 3, holding a tablet filled with dinosaurs and reciting their names - tyrannosaurus . . . brontosaurus.

``My Kelly came to see me last night,'' he said, suddenly, in a matter-of-fact voice that seemed to echo forever in the stiff silence that followed.

``I'm going to go see Greg soon,'' he said, his hazel eyes fixed to the tablet's white pages.

``Kelly's going to take me.''

Throughout this spacious house, in rooms cluttered with unpacked boxes, on a countertop covered with picture frames and a child's Bible, there are reminders of Kelly.

An angel drawn in pencil inside a school notebook, the word ``mother'' scrawled beneath it. A favorite black dog, his muzzle grayed with age, tied to a pole in the back yard.

A 3-year-old boy whose stubby fingers jab at a coloring book while his high-pitched refrain tells of a loss he's too young to understand. ``. . . Kelly . . . Kelly . . . My Kelly.''