THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 16, 1995 TAG: 9507160123
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SERIES: Inside the Witchduck Inn Murders
Part 1
Case No. 94-038721
SOURCE: By Mike Mather, Staff writer
LENGTH: Long : 533 lines
On a summer night in 1994, police entered the Witchduck Inn, a cozy blue-collar tavern, to find two people shot to death, two others dying.
One victim was the bar owner. Two were employees; the fourth was a customer.. There were no witnesses; the only survivor was the owner's four-year-old son, who had slept through the shooting. The cash register was empty, but the victims' wallets and the tip jars were untouched.
There was little trail to follow. All that was left was blood.
In Virginia Beach, homicides are high-profile cases. Worse, the Fourth of July weekend was just hours away. The city would be teeming with tourists. The papers and the TV news would be filled with stories of a psycho-killer on the loose.
Most murders are solved, sooner or later. The trick for the cops is to move quickly and relentlessly, before the trail runs cold, while the killers are still rattled and prone to mistakes.
Staff writer Mike Mather, an experienced police-beat reporter, had asked detectives to let him follow them through a murder investigation, from its frantic opening moments to the arrest and conviction of the killer. By simple coincidence, Mather walked into the worst crime in Virginia Beach history.
Police allowed Mather and photographer Lawrence Jackson total access to the investigation. The only restriction was that Mather could not write his story until the killer or killers were convicted.
Beginning today, and concluding tomorrow, Mather and Jackson detail how the Virginia Beach homicide detectives solved the mass murder at the Witchduck Inn.
A paramedic screams for help as he rips open a dying woman's white blouse and cuts through her beige bra.
Her heart has stopped. Blood seeps from her battered head.
On the floor next to her is a man in jeans and a red T-shirt. He, too, is dying.
Frantic rescue workers load the bodies onto stretchers and shove them toward one door, but the parade of paramedics and patients can't fit through. The awkward procession suddenly reverses like a locomotive diverted to a dead-end track. Then it rambles to another door, leaving a trail of dime-sized blood droplets.
Two other bodies will never make it to stretchers.
Homicide Detective Robert Sager shakes his head and sweeps his fingers through thinning brown hair. His crime scene is being trampled and there's nothing he can do.
The Rescue Squad's first priority is the living.
Sager's is the dead.
There are two of each at the quiet neighborhood bar on Pembroke Boulevard.
Within the hour, the living would die.
Four murders.
A quadruple homicide.
Despite its sprawling size and 423,000 residents, Virginia Beach is among the nation's safest places. Never have the city's murder detectives seen a triple homicide, much less a quadruple.
Under a looming pearl moon on this sticky summer night, the Police Department's Homicide Unit begins hunting a murderer who took four lives at the Witchduck Inn Restaurant and Lounge.
It's July 1. Just past midnight.
More than 30 hours will pass before Sager can sleep.
``We have between two and four dead,'' Sgt. John T. VanderHeiden, supervisor of the Homicide Unit, says to a detective who is just arriving.
Inside, Sager is standing near a pool of blood the consistency of molasses. Medical debris is strewn like candy wrappers in a movie theater.
``We're in deep s---,'' Sager says, mostly to himself.
He's been there before.
In more than nine years with the Homicide Unit, Sager has seen about 500 victims of homicide, suicide and unexplained death.
But never four at once, all shot in the head.
Of the 650 officers on the Virginia Beach Police Department, eight are homicide detectives.
Some, like Sager, have made their careers in Homicide. Others burn out after short stints, victims of the grinding, unpredictable schedule. Still others are forced out.
No officer faces more pressure, more scrutiny than a homicide detective. The most insignificant oversight can set a killer free.
Not many go free. Virginia Beach detectives book nine of every 10 killers.
Now they're tracking a killer who took four lives.
The bloody footprints of at least 14 rescue workers and police officers mottle the bar's carpet and white-tiled floor. Some may be the killer's, but Sager will never know.
There's a lot more Sager may never know. The killer left few clues, and the only survivor in the building is a 4-year-old boy who was sleeping in the bar's office.
``What is left here to tell me who did this?'' Sager asks, pacing from the bar to a cigarette-vending machine. ``The answer is nothing.''
Who did this? That's the bone of every murder investigation. At this moment, Sager doesn't care why or how. Just who.
``Who do I think did it?'' Sager asks. ``From this, I can't tell if he's white, black, young or whatever. Just an asshole.''
Beads of sweat ooze onto Sager's forehead. He wipes them away.
The bar's air conditioning has been shut off because the detectives don't want the bodies refrigerated. A corpse loses heat steadily and predictably. By taking the temperature of the liver, a medical examiner can narrow the time of death.
While the corpses cool, the bar warms.
Sager strips off his blue-striped tie.
He's facing a whodunit.
Murders come in essentially two extremes:
There's the ``smoking gun,'' where the evidence leads quickly to the killer, who is sometimes still at the crime scene when detectives show up.
Then there are whodunits - cases with little evidence and cold trails. The whodunit is a detective's worst nightmare. It can mean a string of 24-hour shifts.
Between those extremes lie the bulk of murder cases, solved with old-fashioned police work.
Of 1994's previous 20 murder cases, only one is still a whodunit.
That one, a drug killing with no known witnesses, is also Sager's.
It's the only blemish on the unit's otherwise perfect record for the year.
No lead detective has been named, but Sager stands a good chance of getting the assignment. There's supposed to be a rotation in the Homicide Unit, like a batting order. When it's a detective's turn, he's dished the next case.
It's VanderHeiden's job to adjust the rotation based on each detective's schedule and workload. If a detective is struggling with an earlier whodunit, he'll be bypassed when his turn comes again.
It isn't Sager's turn. But with four bodies and few clues, this case could land in the lap of a veteran detective, like Sager, who is studying the body of a man at the bar.
The man is wearing a tan-and-white striped shirt tucked into brown shorts. He is slumped on the bar next to a full mug of beer and two stacked Marlboro boxes. Except for the growing puddle of blood spreading from a hole where his right eye used to be, he looks like a napping drunk.
His right cheek rests on the green-tiled bar top. His remaining eye stares dully at the television. Nigeria is beating Greece 1-0 in World Cup competition.
His wire spectacles have been knocked crooked. The shattered glass of the right lens is on the floor behind him.
Near the glass, Sager looks for bullet casings. There are none.
``That worries me,'' he says.
Semiautomatic guns spit casings when fired. Revolvers don't. A recovered casing is a clue, a solid bit of evidence.
Each clue is a puzzle piece.
By itself, it is nothing. With other pieces, it is a picture.
Sometimes the puzzle snaps together cleanly, when a crime scene surrenders both a murder weapon and a murderer. Sometimes the puzzle is riddled with holes.
At the foot of the bar's electronic dart board is a white University of Virginia ball cap with a charred, ragged hole in the top right side. A foot away is the body of the cap's owner, the second victim left in the bar and presumably the establishment's owner.
It looks like the killer stuck the gun muzzle against the cap and fired into the victim's skull.
The blast blew his head apart.
The man is lying face-down at the base of the dart board, halfway into the bar's small kitchen. He's wearing a short-sleeved, blue-and-white striped shirt, tan shorts and leather loafers. One shoe has been knocked off.
The television roars. Nigeria scores a second goal.
``We now have three dead,'' VanderHeiden tells Sager. ``The one at Bayside is now dead.''
It's 12:57 a.m.
VanderHeiden's job duties include equal parts hand-holding, back-patting and butt-kicking. A former homicide detective himself, the 42-year-old sergeant is moustached, tanned and stocky, with thick brown hair divided on the left by a razor-straight part. For the next 24 sleepless hours, not a single hair will stray from its place.
VanderHeiden's cellular phone rings. The fourth victim has died at Sentara Norfolk General Hospital.
A quadruple homicide.
The timing couldn't have been worse. It's the Fourth of July weekend and the Oceanfront is waiting for a flood of tourists. Quadruple murders aren't good for tourism.
Capt. William Haden, head of the Detective Bureau, will assure the mayor that, yes, his men are doing all they can to solve this crime. At the moment, Sager wonders if that will be enough.
Sager walks to the rear of the bar, past two pool tables, to the men's room. He extends the pinky finger of his left hand and hooks the top of the gray door, carefully opening it. Inside, the sink is clean. No one has used it to wash away blood.
Rachel Keisel, a 27-year-old red-haired forensic services technician, arrives to photograph the scene.
``Start here,'' Sager says, pointing to the room's left side, ``and just keep snapping.''
As the strobe of Keisel's camera lights up the bar, Michael Clagett and Denise Holsinger are rumbling in Holsinger's 1986 Nissan toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina.
It's 1:15 a.m.
Holsinger, in the passenger's seat, holds a .357-caliber Magnum revolver in her lap. She opens the cylinder and removes four spent casings. She wipes them with her ``Cheers'' T-shirt and tosses them out the window. They clink onto the shoulder of Battlefield Boulevard in Chesapeake.
Then, still using her shirt, she scrubs the gun.
She planned the crime while she and Clagett were having sex on Clagett's couch in his apartment, a one-minute walk from the Witchduck Inn.
The sex, and a greeting card, were presents for Clagett's 33rd birthday.
``We can do it,'' she told him then. ``We could be the next Bonnie and Clyde.''
For reasons he'll never fully understand, Clagett believed her.
Holsinger, a 29-year-old mother of three, had been fired from her waitressing job at the Witchduck Inn less than a month earlier amid accusations of stealing from the owner and drinking on the job. She told her friends she was taking time off. Even so, she often returned to drink beer and shoot pool.
Denise Rayne (pronounced Renee) Holsinger was born in Lexington, Mich., but grew up in Phoenix, where she graduated from Paradise Valley High School. She went to college in Tennessee but quit after a year.
She moved with her husband to Virginia Beach in February or March and began working at the Witchduck Inn soon after.
It was at the tavern in March when she first met Clagett, a member of the bar's billiards team.
Clagett is tall and thin, with long black hair that falls in frizzy clumps over his shoulders. Just below his left eye is an oval mole, which looks like a large, brown tear.
He was born in Galloway, Ohio, near Columbus. His mother was an accountant; his father, an alcoholic who died of liver disease when Clagett was 15.
The youngest of two children, Michael David Clagett began abusing alcohol and drugs at 12.
He dropped out of high school in the 10th grade to join the Navy, and he dropped out of the Navy when he went AWOL. He dropped out of a marriage in 1983, deserting his wife, Catherine. He dropped out of job after job, from cabinet-maker to house painter to scallop-boat hired hand. He once started his own painting company, but the business quickly folded.
He was tossed into prison for burglary but was let out after serving half his eight-year sentence. He violated parole and landed back in the Norfolk jail to serve the rest of the sentence. After his release, he pieced together a string of part-time jobs and moved from apartment to apartment, just ahead of his bills and roommates he ripped off.
Although Holsinger still lived with her estranged husband - they slept in separate bedrooms - she and Clagett had become lovers. He was one of her many.
Later, investigators started calling Holsinger ``The Spiderwoman.'' She weavedwebs around the men in her life.
She and Clagett supported their alcohol and drug binges by trading household valuables for pawn tickets and cash. In the past year, Clagett had pawned almost everything he owned. When his supply of valuables ran out, he stole from his roommates.
The pawning spree continued on the day of the murders.
Clagett and Holsinger loaded her car with scrounged-up property, including tools, stereo components, a generator, a set of encyclopedias and a Smith & Wesson .357-caliber Magnum revolver taken from Clagett's roommate. They drove to a pawn shop and sold everything but the gun.
Now, at 1:30 a.m., Clagett steers the car into the parking lot of the Nags Head Holiday Inn. Holsinger signs for the room and pays cash.
Holsinger sleeps.
Clagett can't.
Sager won't. No time for such luxuries.
It's 2 a.m.
Sager walks outside the bar and around the building to the rear office door. He passes a phalanx of television reporters and a group of police officers.
Among the officers is Donna Malcom, who went to the hospital with one of the victims and then returned to her assignment. She will spend the night guarding the alley behind the bar.
Sager enters the rear office and passes a refrigerator covered with paper crosses and hearts, obviously cut out by a child. Each shape bears a scrawled message. The top heart reads, ``I love you father and mother.''
In the bar, father is dead at Sager's feet.
VanderHeiden is figuring the assignments.
Sager, because he was one of the first detectives to arrive and because of his reputation for meticulously gathering evidence, is assigned to work the crime scene. The sergeant offers Sager help:
``Right now, Bobby, you have your choice of detectives. Do you want an inexperienced detective? Robbery? One of our guys?''
Sager wants one of his own guys - Paul Yoakam.
Tomorrow, VanderHeiden will officially assign Case No. 94-038721 to Yoakam.
A lanky 3-year homicide veteran with close-cropped thinning hair, Yoakam is regarded as a careful, methodical detective who painstakingly slogs through investigations.
While the credit for solving of a murder goes to all eight homicide detectives, the responsibility for an unsolved case falls to the lead detective alone.
Yoakam has two painful blots on his record.
On Feb. 18, 1991, the body of Michelle Dewitt Pore was found, strangled and stuffed in her car's trunk. On March 7, 1993, the body of Harleen Singh was found stuffed behind her car's front seats, shot.
Both cases are Yoakam's. Both are unsolved. Both hurt.
``The failures,'' Yoakam would say later, ``can tear you down.''
It's something a detective takes personally.
VanderHeiden also assigns Pat Tucker, a robbery detective and former homicide investigator, to help with the Witchduck Inn crime scene. Dozens of other detectives will be called to work the case.
Yoakam, Tucker, Sager and medical examiner Dr. N. Turner Gray plunge into the pockets of the man slumped on the bar. In his right rear pocket is a tattered leather wallet containing only a $5 bill and a 1993 pay stub from Richmond Concrete Co.
In his right front pocket is a house key and $1.34 in change.
The bullet has gone through the man's head and bulges under the scalp like an olive-sized pimple.
Sager and Gray empty the second victim's pockets. A driver's license confirms he is Lam Van Son, the bar owner. The owner's Taurus .38-caliber revolver is still snug in his right front pocket. There is no evidence he tried to use the gun.
Sager turns out the woman's purse and finds her driver's license. She is Karen Sue Rounds, 31, the waitress hired to replace Holsinger.
It's 2:20 a.m.
VanderHeiden and Sgt. Tony Zucaro, the robbery division supervisor, emerge from the bar's office with three blue folders containing employee records that show three workers had been fired recently.
Interesting, Sager thinks. It's a start.
Dr. Gray crouches above the coagulated blood where Rounds and a bar patron later identified as Abdelaziz Gren, 34, were shot. The doctor's latex-gloved hand swirls through the sticky blood until he finds a lump of metal - the bullet that tore through the woman's head.
Keisel records the find on film.
In all, the detectives find two bullets and the fragments of a third. Another bullet will be removed later from the head of the man on the bar stool.
Slowly, an unnerving scenario develops. It's now obvious three of the four were lying on the floor when they were shot in the back of the head
``It looks like they laid them down,'' Sager says flatly, ``and executed them.''
It's 3 a.m.
The dark parking lot is suddenly awash in white light as television crews scramble for the obligatory body-bag-on-a-stretcher shot.
Inside, Sager sketches the murder scene on a legal pad, using stick figures for victims.
Four killings - for the contents of a cash register on a Thursday night? What could the take be? Probably less than $1,000 Sager thinks.
Is robbery the real motive?
The victims weren't robbed. Round's purse, on a shelf just below the cash register, wasn't touched. Two tip jars, both stuffed with $1 and $5 bills, were left behind. A file cabinet in the rear office that contained most of the bar's money wasn't opened.
In fact, about $900 was left behind, the detectives later learn.
Only the cash register was stripped.
It doesn't make sense.
To clear this case, Yoakam and Sager will need help from the killer.
Taking a life is something most people can't keep secret. A murderer usually talks out of guilt, bravado or stupidity. Any of the three will do.
Maybe the killer spoke to someone before or after the crime.
Maybe a detective will find that person, or maybe that person will phone the detective bureau.
Maybe for the $1,000 reward.
``We cleared Novak,'' Tucker says to Sager, referring to another highly publicized case. ``We cleared Novak and Chabrol and Lake Placid. We'll clear this one.''
Tucker pauses, waiting for confirmation. Sager says nothing.
``You're not agreeing with me,'' Tucker prods.
``Without a phone call,'' Sager answers, ``this won't go down.''
As Sager laments, Michael Clagett and Denise Holsinger are driving back to Virginia Beach from the Holiday Inn in Nags Head.
Something is pulling the pair home. Maybe it is the same gravity that draws so many killers back to the site of their deeds. So strong is that pull that evidence technicians like Keisel routinely videotape the crowd that gathers near a murder scene.
Sometimes, the killer is in the crowd.
Soon, Clagett and Holsinger will return to the crime scene. They will talk face-to-face with a detective. Then they will simply walk away.
It is 4 a.m.
Robbery just doesn't make any sense,'' says Lt. Dan Kappers, the murder scene's ranking officer. ``You just don't assassinate four people like that.''
The detectives and supervisors step outside to talk.
``It looks like a robbery, yeah,'' VanderHeiden says. ``But look at the tip jars. And all the victims had money.
``What you have,'' VanderHeiden continues, ``is essentially two different crimes. The first is a robbery, which was done very poorly. The second is the homicides, which were done very well. Does that make sense?
``It could be that the robbery was done to cover up the homicides,'' VanderHeiden adds.
If that's the case, then the killer probably knows at least one of the victims.
Detectives learn early that a person's family and friends are more deadly than strangers.
The Homicide Unit's files are filled with unbelievable brutalities family members have unleashed upon one another. A son who paid an ex-con to slash apart his mother for the inheritance. An unstable husband who strangled his wife and then chauffeured the corpse for days in the family car. A Navy wife who watched while her lover hacked her husband.
For that reason, murder investigations center on those close to the victim, then gradually widen, like the ripples that spread from a pebble dropped in a lake.
Detectives who were sent to check leads and interview the victims' families and friends begin returning.
A sketchy list of suspects takes shape.
On the list:
The fired employees.
A man who has been making unsuccessful passes at the day bartender.
A former business partner who had a falling out with the bar owner.
A new patron who bragged about being an ex-con.
A known drug dealer who recently applied for a job as a cook.
The ex-con and the drug dealer interest VanderHeiden most.
VanderHeiden asks a Special Investigative Division sergeant to drop an informant into the dealer's house. Maybe the informant will spot drugs and give the police probable cause for a search warrant.
``Let's get him arrested and get a gun off him,'' VanderHeiden says.
The SID sergeant puts the plan in motion.
Throughout the morning, the detectives chew on cold Hardee's sausage biscuits and interview people who walk up to the yellow crime-scene tape.
Among them is a tall, thin man with an unshaven face and long, black hair that falls in frizzy clumps over his knobby shoulders.
Michael Clagett.
A few hours earlier - at 4 a.m. - Clagett and Holsinger returned to his nearby townhouse from Nags Head. At 5:30 a.m., they watched the early morning live news broadcasts on WTKR.
``No witnesses,'' Holsinger noted.
It's 9:40 a.m.
Clagett walks through the Witchduck Inn parking lot. The scraggly stranger catches the attention of Detective John Orr.
Clagett tells Orr he's played pool in the bar, but hasn't been there in a week. Orr scribbles notes on a legal pad.
Clagett leaves, but returns to the crime scene just after 1 p.m. This time with Holsinger.
Holsinger, standing with Clagett, digs a hole she'll later fall into. Later, she'll deny knowing Clagett. But Orr has joined their names in his notes.
Holsinger sobs and tells Orr she can't believe what happened. She knew two of the victims, she says. She asks the detective if he knows any counselors because she might need one.
She also asks what the police know so far, but the detective can't tell her.
Police still know next to nothing. But they keep that to themselves.
Holsinger and Clagett leave. Orr senses something strange about the thin 29-year-old woman.
She's overreacting.
It's 2 p.m.
The detectives now know the crime happened sometime between 11:30 p.m. and midnight.
The bar's cash register last recorded a sale at 11:16 p.m. The detectives found two sailors who left the bar at 11:30 p.m. Nothing then was amiss.
The frantic 911 call was made at 11:59 p.m. Police arrived at 12:05 a.m.
Dr. Leah Bush, a Norfolk medical examiner, has also determined the victims' causes of death, although it's no secret.
Detective Gene Eller, who went to the Norfolk crime lab for the autopsies, relays Bush's findings.
The face of the man on the stool - Wendel G. ``J.R.'' Parrish Jr., 32, the bar's cook and handyman - is full of stippling. Stippling results when a gun is fired point-blank at a person, peppering the flesh with telltale soot and burns.
That means Parrish was shot staring into a gun barrel no more than 24 inches from his nose.
It may also mean Parrish knew the killer and faced him, confident he wouldn't pull the trigger. Parrish was wrong.
Lam Van Son, the bar owner, has a back-to-front contact wound, Eller says. The rest have close-range, back-to-front wounds.
Questions flood the room.
Was the man on the bar stool shot first, or last? The order is important because it may give detectives more information about the killer.
Each detective has a different theory.
The theories are tested in a bizarre pantomime. Detectives shoot each other with imaginary bullets fired from their fingers. The pretend victims contort and twist and flop onto their crowded desks, trying to re-enact what must have happened to the man shot on the bar stool.
``I think he was shot first,'' one says.
``If they shot him first, why would the rest of them lie down on the floor instead of running?'' another asks.
``Maybe he was shot because he wouldn't get down,'' a third adds.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. A thousand maybes.
Maybe a lone gunman was brazen enough to face an armed bar owner and three others with only six rounds.
Maybe there were two or more killers.
The only conclusion reached is that all the victims met death without struggling.
It's 3 p.m.
The detectives ride the elevator to the basement of police headquarters. They file into room G-34 to join a hastily assembled think tank of 50 local and regional police officers and government agents.
Yoakam isn't among them.
He's been dispatched to the Peninsula to follow up a phone tip. A man earlier called the detective bureau with information that could be related to the quadruple homicide. The hand-scrawled phone message makes its way to Yoakam too late. The caller has left for work on the Peninsula.
Yoakam can't wait for the caller to return home. He has to find him now.
Haden and VanderHeiden dispense 25-page packets to each person in the basement room. The pages are filled with the criminal histories of each suspect, crude sketches of the crime scene and a police artist's rendering of a bar patron they want to find.
After an hour, the meeting breaks without yielding substantial leads.
The Virginia Beach detectives stay as VanderHeiden makes the assignments.
``Who has been up more than 24 hours?'' VanderHeiden asks. ``Anyone? Raise your hands.''
``They can't,'' a voice says from the back of the room.
Exhaustion is saturating them like a flu virus.
VanderHeiden sends Sager back to the crime scene with two fresh detectives and a promise: a replacement by 7 p.m.
He meets Keisel at the crime scene.
It's 6:05 p.m.
Outside the bar, someone has laid two white carnations and two red roses.
The unsigned card with the flowers reads: ``In loving memory of L.V., J.R., Aziz and Karen.''
For 13 hours, Super-Glue vapor has filled the sealed building. When the vapor contacts the moisture of a fingerprint, it turns to faint white powder.
Wearing orange-colored glasses, Keisel sweeps an intense blue light along the walls, chairs, tables and bar. Once-invisible fingerprints now leap off every surface.
She and two other technicians collect 13 usable prints.
None will ever be identified.
Now, it's 7 p.m.
VanderHeiden pages Sager at the Witchduck Inn.
``Your relief is not coming, Bobby,'' VanderHeiden says. ``Because we are actively pursuing a suspect.'' ILLUSTRATION: Staff photos by Lawrence Jackson
12:50 a.m. July 1, 1994. Outside the Witchduck Inn in Virginia
Beach, police have roped off the area and started their
investigation.
Photos
The victims: Gren, Parrish, Rounds, Son
Staff photos by Lawrence Jackson
2:35 p.m. July 1, 1994.Officer Richard J. Gallagher, detectives
Bobby Sager (back to camera) Joel Davis and Pat Tucker meet for a
quick exchange of information. Immediately after the murders,
detectives and police canvass the neighborhood for leads and report
back to Sager or VanderHeiden/
3 a.m. July 1, 1994. Forensics specialists gather cigarrette butts
from the only full ashtray at the bar for possible DNA
identification.
1:30 a.m. July 1, 1994. Detective Bobby Sager walks through the
murder scene in the Witchduck Inn.
10:30 a.m. July 1, 1994. Hannah Ford and Jim Ascher arrive at the
scene the next morning. Ascher had been at the bar the night of the
killings and has just broken the news to his friend.
2:15 p.m. July 1, 1994. Detective Paul Yoakam, Lt. Dan Kappers,
detectives Shawn Hoffman, John Orr, Bobby Sager and Gene Eller
discuss possible murder scenarios at the Virginia Beach detective
bureau.
KEYWORDS: MURDER HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION SHOOTING by CNB