Ep. 81 | This Case Was Solved By The Internet | Tent Girl

Some murders are solved in days, and some are solved in months, but this one, this one took 30 years. And it began with a man who wasn't even looking for a body, and ended with another who couldn't stop thinking about one. And between them, a woman no one knew, a crime no one witnessed, and a silence that stretched across decades. This is the story of The Tent Girl. Crime, conspiracy, cults, serial killers, and murder. All things that I love to consume, and I know you do too, you sick, twisted, beautiful, intellectually-minded freak. And today, we are talking about a cold case that was helped solved by internet sleuths. So without further ado, let's unbuckle our seatbelts, go Mach 5 down the highway, slam on the brakes, and bust through this windshield into this cold case together. It was a cool spring morning in May 1968 when Wilbur Riddle set out along a rural stretch of U.S. Highway 25 near Georgetown, Kentucky. And Riddle, a well digger by trade, was scavenging the roadside for discarded glass insulators from telephone poles. But as he walked through the brush in the quiet Kentucky backwoods, he noticed an oddly-looking figure. He said, green canvas bundle lying just off the road. And curiosity got the better of him. So Riddle walked up and nudged the bundle tarp with his boot, accidentally sending it tumbling down a small embankment. But as it rolled, the wrapping unraveled slightly enough to reveal what was inside. And his heart jumped out of his chest, because the object was shaped like a human body. So Riddle froze in shock. And gathering his wits, he ran to the nearest gas station to call the authorities. And soon the Scott County Sheriff arrived at the scene, and together they approached the mysterious tarp. So with trembling hands, the Sheriff used a knife to cut open the canvas covering. And the sight underneath made them recoil in horror. Because inside the makeshift sack was a badly decomposed, unclothed body. And the body was curled in the fetal position, limbs stiff from rigor mortis. And in death, their posture looked as if they had been trying to escape from something. Just frozen in a final act of desperation. And the corpse appeared to be that of a young white girl. Age unknown at this point. And aside from the obvious effects of decay, nothing distinctive stood out about her appearance. So it was immediately clear to the Sheriff that this was no accident. The body had been deliberately concealed. And the heavy green canvas that enveloped the girl looked like the kind used for a tent, possibly. Tied tightly with a length of rope. And the victim, was unclothed except for one odd detail. A small shred of white cloth, resembling part of a baby's diaper or towel, clung to her shoulder. And investigators would later note other clues. Like the girl's eyes have long decomposed, her right hand was tightly clenched, and she had three broken fingernails. Suggesting she had desperately struggled while inside of the tarp, trying in vain to free herself. So the horrifying discovery on that quiet roadside instantly turned the area into a crime scene. And the authorities secured the site and carefully collected whatever evidence that they could. And the body was removed and sent for an autopsy. But the level of decomposition suggested she had been dead for many weeks. And there was also no immediate identifying documents or personal items with the remains. So for local law enforcement and community, an urgent question hung in the air. And it was, who was this young woman? And what terrible fate had befallen her? So news of the discovery spread quickly in Scott County. And by the time reporters began covering the story, they had given the unknown girl a nickname. And that was "Tent Girl." And the moniker stuck, inspired by the tent-like canvas in which she was found. And in an era long before instant internet updates, the bizarre name and the mystery behind it captured the public's attention. Because a small Kentucky town chillingly now had a whodunit on its hands. And a family somewhere had lost a daughter. Though, no one yet knew who she was, and no one was sure if she was dead or alive. So from the outset, investigators treated the case as a probable homicide. Because the way the victim was trussed up in a tarp and dumped by the highway pointed to foul play. And detectives from Scott County Sheriff's Office and the Kentucky State Police began working to identify the young woman. And they noted her physical characteristics. A petite female, estimated around 5 feet to 1 inch tall and 110 to 115 pounds, with reddish-brown hair. So because of her physical characteristics, her small stature and youthful-looking features, authorities initially guessed she was in her mid or late teens, perhaps 16 to 19 years old. And the medical examiner believed she had likely died several weeks before her discovery. And an early estimate placed her time of death around April of 1968. But with no ID on the body, the only name investigators could call her was the nickname already in the papers, which was "Tent Girl." So the autopsy and crime scene evidence gave investigators a few clues, but not nearly enough to solve the case outright. And the coroner could not pinpoint an exact cause of death from the decomposed remains. There were no bullet holes or obvious knife wounds. However, subtle signs suggested a violent end. And that was that bruising on the skull that they had found indicated a possible blow to the head. And the position of the body hinted that the girl might have been alive when confined in the tarp. So a state police officer at the scene speculated grimly about what had happened. Saying, quote, "We think the girl was rendered unconscious by a blow to the head, then tied up in the bag to die a slow death by asphyxiation." Unquote. And strands of fiber and traces of materials were collected from the scene. One being the obvious green canvas itself and also pieces of nylon rope used to tie the bundle and the scrap of white cloth identified as part of a baby's diaper or towel found on her body. And these items were sent to the FBI laboratory for analysis on the chance they could be traced to a manufacturer or a specific source. But unfortunately, the FBI reported that all the materials were generic and mass-produced. The canvas, rope, and cloth were too common to track down one single origin. So nothing in the bundle provided a smoking gun to the killer's identity. Or the girl's identity. Investigators next turned their efforts to just identifying Tent Girl herself. And they compiled her description and reached out far and wide. Local newspapers and radio stations announced the discovery and asked for the public's help in finding any missing girl who fit the profile. And in those first weeks and months, tips trickled in. But each lead led to frustration. But one promising tip came when police learned of a missing teenager from another state who seemed to match the description. Detectives looked into a 17-year-old girl named Debbie who had vanished around the same time. And she had similar features. And a trucker even reported giving a ride to a hitchhiking couple that could have been Debbie and a boy in Kentucky. So excited by the possibility, a Kentucky investigator tracked a lead all the way to Pennsylvania. Only to discover Debbie Crane alive and well. Living with her boyfriend. And never having set foot in Kentucky. So it was a relief for Debbie's family, obviously. But a dead end for the Tent Girl case. And another lead drew investigators' attention to Pennsylvania again a few months later when a 16-year-old named Candace Clothier, was found murdered and dumped in a canvas bag in April of 1968. And the eerie similarities to young women being found in a tied canvas prompted police chief Anthony Fergione from Pennsylvania to personally drive to Kentucky and just compare notes. And for a moment officers wondered if the two cases were connected by a roaming killer. But despite the near identical method of disposal, no definitive link could be established. And the Pennsylvania victim was eventually identified as Candace, and her murder remained its own mystery. So Kentucky authorities followed up on every rumor and report of missing girls. They checked missing persons files across multiple states, comparing fingerprints and dental records where they could. And at one point, an anonymous caller claimed Tent Girl was a runaway from Covington, Kentucky. But that lead, like the others, proved false when the supposedly missing girl was found alive and safe yet again. And detectives even received help from Master Detective Magazine, which was a national true crime publication. And in 1969, the magazine actually ran a feature story on the Tent Girl case, complete with an artist sketch of the victim's face and an appeal to readers for tips. The authorities were hopeful that somewhere a worried family might recognize her smile and come forward. And as one official later recounted, quote, if we could only identify the Tent Girl, I'm sure we would find whoever caused her death, unquote. And in that article, researchers highlighted one distinctive detail they had observed. And that was the dark gap of decay between the Tent Girl's two upper front teeth, which was a feature that might have been noticeable when she was alive. And indeed, sketcher Harold Musser intentionally made special notes of this, and it was a long shot, but they were desperate for a break. But despite these exhaustive efforts, Tent Girl's identity remained a riddle, and no family stepped up to claim her. In every promising tip eventually hit a dead end. So in 1971, local authorities made the compassionate decision to lay the young woman to rest rather than keep her remains in storage indefinitely. So in Georgetown Cemetery, a modest tombstone was erected, donated by a local company moved by the tragedy. And the stone was unlike any other in the graveyard, and it bore no true name, only the placeholder identity that had become famous in local lore. Tent Girl, found May 17th, 1968, on US Highway 25 North, died about April 26th to May 3rd, 1968. Age, about 16 to 19 years. Height, 5 feet 1 inch. Weight, 110 to 115 pounds. Reddish brown hair, unidentified. And underneath, a carved likeness of the unidentified girl's face, based on police sketch, gazed out blankly, as if still waiting for someone to recognize her. And the Tent Girl was now at rest, but not at peace, because her true name, her story, and her killer were all still mysteries buried with her. And for the detectives who worked the case, and for the community, it was a frustrating and heartbreaking conclusion. And by the early 1970s, the Tent Girl case had gone completely cold. With no clues to follow, the file was shelved among the ranks of unsolved murders. And in the decades that followed, the story of the unknown girl and the unidentified girl was never told. And in the decades that followed, the story of the unidentified girl and the Tent Canvas faded from national headlines, but it was never completely forgotten. Especially not in central Kentucky. And the Tent Girl even took on a haunting folklore status, sometimes told as a ghost story in the dark. But no matter how many years went by, Wilbur Riddle could not escape the memory of that day in 1968. And he reportedly told the tale of discovering Tent Girl many times over the years, almost as if unburdening himself of a horrific story. And he even kept a close eye on the story of the unidentified girl. And he even kept a copy of the 1969 Master Detective magazine article about the case and would show it to people, determined people would remember this poor unnamed girl. It just stirred something deep in those who had tried to solve it. Quote, this case has bothered me more than anything that has happened in my 12 years as sheriff. Unquote. The former Scott County Sheriff admitted to the magazine back then. And they took some consolation in the fact that they had at least given Tent Girl a dignified burial. But there was an unfinished feeling. As her gravestone's epitaph, unidentified, silently testified, the case remained unresolved. And every so often, a possible lead would surface and briefly rekindle hope, only to fizzle out. So over the years, a few families of long-missing young women wondered if Tent Girl might be their lost daughter or sister. But tentative inquiries never came up with anything useful. And any missing persons cases outside the initial estimated age range or time frame were just as unfortunate. And so, the case remained unresolved. And every so often, a case of unresolved cases was found to be a problem. And without modern DNA databases or centralized records, connecting the dots between states was impossible in that era specifically. So as Todd Matthews, a name of great importance that we'll discuss shortly, noted, during those decades, quote, Chicago didn't know what was happening in Detroit. They weren't sharing information. Unquote. Because each police department had its own dusty binders of runaways and Jane Doe. But no one realized that the key to Tent Girl's identity might lie in a missing persons report filed far, far away. And so, the Tent Girl remained an unsolved mystery, frozen in time. And her grave became a somber landmark in Georgetown. It was as if an entire life had been condensed to a few vague lines on a tombstone. And the original investigators had retired or moved on. And new technologies, like forensic DNA typing, were still in their infancy and had not yet been applied to cold cases like this. And her grave remained an unsolved mystery, frozen in time. And it would have stayed that way forever had it not been for an unexpected spark of interest from an unlikely source. A young man with a relentless imagination. So the stage was set for one of the most remarkable second acts in cold case investigation history. And Tent Girl's story was far from over. So in 1987, nearly two decades after Tent Girl's body was found, the mystery found its way into the ears of a 17-year-old named Todd Matthews. And Todd lived in living in Tennessee, a small town not too far from the Kentucky state line. And he was a thoughtful kid known for his empathy and curiosity. And Todd had grown up with a sensitivity to loss. His two of his own siblings had died in infancy and were buried in little marked graves that his family visited often. And perhaps because of that, Todd understood the ache of a life taken too soon and the importance of remembering those who are gone. And he never could stand the idea of someone being forgotten or mistreated. So that October, as Halloween approached, Todd began dating a local girl named Lori Riddle. And Lori happened to be the daughter of none other than Wilbur Riddle, the man who had discovered Tent Girl's remains all those years ago. And on Halloween evening, Todd and Lori sat together swapping ghost stories and local legends. And Lori mentioned the strangest, scariest true story she knew, the tale of the Tent Girl. And she recounted how her father had stumbled on a dead body wrapped in a tent canvas when she was just a baby. Not the girl in the tent, but the guy's daughter. The daughter was the baby. Sorry if I said that weird. But the story had everything. An unsolved murder, a nameless victim, a frustrated sheriff who pleaded for a reader to help solve the case, etc. And Todd was transfixed. And as he later described it, it was, quote, fascination. Instant fascination, unquote. And Lori even invited Todd over to meet her dad, showed him the old Master Detective magazine article, the one he kept from all those years ago. And the haunting image of the Tent Girl and the idea of a young woman without a name struck a chord deep within him. Quote, this girl's got a mother. She's got a daddy. She could have a husband. We've got to find out who this girl is, unquote. Wilbur told Todd, remembering the thought that had nagged him for years. And Todd agreed wholeheartedly. And at that moment, the teenager made a quiet vow that he would give Tent Girl her name back someday. And it felt like fate that the story had landed in his lap. But Todd had no idea that this obsession would come to dominate the next decade of his life. So Todd's quest began in the late 1980s, using the only tools available at the time, which was physical trips and searches, telephone calls, and boundless determination. And he started by absorbing every detail from the old case files and newspaper clippings he could get. And he visited the Scott County offices and local newspapers. And he visited the local libraries, requesting any public records of the Tent Girl case. And he even drove to Georgetown Cemetery to stand at Tent Girl's grave in person, staring at the enigmatic headstone for inspiration. And the sight just moved him deeply. And Todd imagined her real family somewhere, not even knowing they should be visiting this grave. Quote, my brother and sister passed away as infants. We visited their graves, but Tent Girl's siblings, her parents, and her children couldn't visit her grave because they didn't know where she was. Unquote. Just absolutely heartbreaking. So this thought fueled his resolve. And in those early years, Todd worked methodically, though he was very much an amateur sleuth learning as he went. And he contacted the Scott County Sheriff's Office and coroner, introducing himself and explaining his interest in the cold case. And at first, some officials were understandably skeptical of a teenaged outsider poking around a decades-old investigation. Nobody was really taking him very seriously. But Todd persisted politely, asking questions and sharing any small observations he made. And Todd had a rather significant insight from re-examining the evidence notes. And he learned about the scrap of white cloth found on Tent Girl's shoulder, which the FBI lab had identified as a piece of baby's diaper. And to Todd, this detail practically leapt off the page because it implied something the original investigators hadn't fully considered. And that was, if this young woman had a baby's diaper with her, could it mean she was a mother? Perhaps she was older than the assumed 16 to 19 range. So this was a very logical hypothesis. Maybe Tent Girl wasn't a runaway teen after all, but a young mother who had a child. And that would widen the pool of potential identities. So Todd actually wrote letters to the authorities sharing this theory and even suggesting they consider exhuming the remains to look for signs of childbirth, such as, examining the pelvic bones, urging them to question the original assumptions. But unfortunately, his letters did not result in any immediate action, because from the official's perspective, a full exhumation based on a hunch from a civilian was not a high priority. And Todd received polite but dismissive responses, if any at all. But despite these setbacks, Todd's obsession only grew, and he spent countless evenings poring over what scarce documents he had, and he made long-distance phone calls to anyone who might offer a clue, and sometimes tracking down retired officers or journalists who had covered the case at the time. And each small breadcrumb he gathered was carefully filed in this growing Tent Girl folder. And his now-girlfriend and later wife, Lori, watched as Todd's interest turned into an all-consuming mission. And he would lie awake at night thinking about the unknown girl, running scenarios through his head. And often, Tent Girl even invaded his dreams. And Todd began actually sleepwalking from the stress, muttering about clues in the At times, she felt he was spending, quote, too much time with a dead girl, unquote, and not enough time with the living. So the young couple argued frequently over his obsession, and Todd's own conscience also weighed on him, but he couldn't let it go. Quote, I felt as guilty as if I were the one responsible, unquote. He later said of his inability to identify the tint girl, and he also said, I was tortured by it. So for 10 long years, Todd chipped away at the tint girl mystery with only marginal progress. And by 1997, he had amassed a binder of scribbled notes, contacts, and dead-end leads. And to any outsider, it might have looked like a futile endeavor, a decade of chasing ghosts with nothing to show. But Todd's timing was about to collide with a revolution in information technology, because the world was on the cusp of a new era. One that would finally give this determined amateur. detective the break he needed. So in the early 1990s, a new tool began to emerge that promised to shrink the world and connect people in ways never before possible. And that was, say it with me, the internet. And Todd immediately recognized its potential for his investigation. And in 1992, he saw then-Senator and fellow Tennessean Al Gore on TV talking about this information superhighway and realized that if he could get online, distance would no longer be possible. And that the internet would not be a barrier in searching for the tint girl's identity. But at the time, however, going online wasn't as simple as it is today. Shout out to my peeps who were on the internet in the 90s. That was rough. Because first of all, Todd didn't own a computer and very few people in Livingston did. So determined, he saved up money from his low-wage factory job for months and eventually purchased a secondhand desktop PC. But teaching himself how to use it was another challenge. Because early internet access involved a lot of work. He had to dial up modems that screeched and buzzed painfully slow connections and text-based bulletin boards that were far from user-friendly. You know, the sound that goes. *makes noises* He just made all kinds of noises. You've got mail. So every minute online tied up the phone line and every search or page load crawled at a snail's pace. Nevertheless, to Todd, it was like discovering a secret weapon. He suddenly had a way to scour missing persons information, not just in Kentucky or Tennessee, but across the entire country and even the world. Because now he didn't have to rely solely on police to compare notes. He could do some digging himself from his own home. So Todd began exploring early missing persons websites and genealogy forums, any place where people might post about lost loved ones. So he became a regular on dial-up bulletin board systems, or BBS, devoted to unsolved crimes and cold cases, trading messages with other amateurs. Sleuths and at night he would sit in the glow of the computer screen in his small home and the tombstone photo of the 10 girl pinned above for motivation. So with dogged patience, he typed in query after query, sifting through what little online data existed at the time. And early search engines were primitive and much information wasn't online yet. But still, he managed to find lists of Jane Doe's and lists of missing women and cross-referenced them. And often the details were scant. A name, a physical description, a date of disappearance, et cetera. And most entries led nowhere. But Todd combed through them one by one. And in 1997, Todd took a bold step to expand his search. And he created a website devoted entirely to the 10 girl case and registering a domain on the early web wasn't common for private individuals then. But he managed to set up 10 girl dot com, a simple homepage where he recounted the story and posted the known details of the Jane Doe, and he included the sketch of her face, the description from her gravestone and an appeal for anyone with information to contact him directly. So it was essentially a one man missing person poster broadcast to a new digital highway. And Todd's 10 girl site received a trickle of visitors and a few curious true crime enthusiast emailed him theories or encouragement. But initially nothing that actually helped identify her. But even so, the site served as a beacon ensuring that the 10 girls case would not slip into oblivion. And it connected Todd with a newly growing community of online sleuths who were beginning to band together over similar mysteries. And by 1998, technology had advanced slightly and more people were coming online. And Todd upgraded his efforts by participating in early online classifieds and message boards dedicated to genealogy and missing persons. And one such site allowed users to post missing person inquiries like the public bulletin board. So Todd would log on late at night and navigate through these boards and he would scroll through list after list of names and descriptions fighting off sleep as midnight passed and each entry he saw, he'd mentally check against 10 girls profile and it was tedious, draining work. But Todd was relentless. As we can see, it's been 10 years now. Guy is committed. And on some nights he reviewed hundreds of postings. Quote, I had already looked at maybe 400 descriptions, unquote, he later said of one such marathon session. And most were just disappointments. Yet he would press on, driven by the conviction that somewhere out there in some dusty database or family message board, someone had been looking for a girl who matched the tent girl and Todd's dedication did not go unnoticed at home. Laurie, now his wife, often had to practically drag him away from his computer to get some sleep and the case continued to cause friction between them. There were nights she would beg him to come to bed only to find him at the computer, still clicking through webpages in the early hours of the morning, Todd just couldn't help it. And every time he considered giving up, he thought of that lonely grave in Georgetown and the promise he made. So in those days, there was no template for what he was doing. And the term cyber sleuth didn't even exist yet. Todd was just venturing into uncharted territory, pioneering an approach to cold cases that law enforcement hadn't fully embraced and wouldn't have for another decade at least. And all he had was intuition, persistence and this new thing called the Internet. And more and more data was appearing online. And in the back of his mind, Todd believed the right clue had to surface if he just cast a wide enough net. So late one January night in 1998, Todd sat at his computer fighting off never ending drowsiness as he performed yet another search. And by this point, it had become his routine stay up through the night combing through missing persons postings on various websites. But on this particular night, he was browsing a site known for its classified ads and personal notices, a place where people could post messages seeking lost relatives or friends. And Todd's eyes skimmed line after line and he was exhausted. And after hours of fruitless searching, everything was starting to blur together. But then just as he was about to call quits, three words, quickly jumped off the screen at him. And those words were Lexington 1967 missing. And Todd's heart skipped a beat and he clicked on the post suddenly wide awake. And the message was from a woman named Rosemary Westbrook of Arkansas. And it was a plea for help finding her missing sister. And Todd read intently, adrenaline building with each sentence. Quote, My sister, Barbara, has been missing from our family since the latter part of 1967. She has brown hair, brown eyes, is about five feet, two inches tall and was last seen in the Lexington, Kentucky area. If you have any information, please contact me at the address posted. Unquote. Todd could hardly believe what he was reading. The physical description was nearly identical to the Tent Girls stats etched on the gravestone. And the location, Lexington, was about 15 miles from where Tent Girls body had been found, a very plausible match. And crucially, the timing overlapped. Barbara went missing in late 1967 and Tent Girls body was discovered in May of 1968. So Todd had long suspected that Tent Girl might have died earlier than April 1968 and that the original time of death estimate was actually off. So here was a missing sister whose disappearance lined up almost perfectly with that intuition. And the only initially puzzling detail was Barbara's age because Barbara was 24 years old and Tent Girl was thought to be a teenager. But Todd's diaper clue had already led him to suspect that the victim could indeed have been in her 20s and possibly a young mom. And Barbara and Hackman Taylor's profile fit in every way that mattered. Todd's hands trembled on the keyboard. And in that electrifying moment, Todd knew this was it and he leapt up from his chair so fast he almost knocked it over, running to the bedroom where Lori was asleep and shook her awake, exclaiming, quote, "Lori, wake up. I found her." And Lori opened her eyes in confusion as Todd, literally jumping up and down, tried to explain that he had discovered a missing persons post that matched Tent Girl. So after years of enduring his late night searches and obsession, Lori didn't fully understand what he was talking about in that groggy moment. But Todd was already racing back to the computer to figure out his next steps. So without wasting a minute, Todd saved Rosemary's contact information and drafted an email to her. Rosemary, who was only 10 years old when her sister vanished, had grown up not knowing Barbara's fate. And for her and her family, Barbara's disappearance had been a wound open for 30 years. And Rosemary replied, and soon the two were in direct contact. And Todd shared everything he knew about the unidentified tent girl. And Rosemary shared everything she knew about her sister Barbara. And the puzzle pieces fell rapidly into place. And when Rosemary described Barbara's appearance and circumstances to Todd, the alignment with tent girl's case was undeniable. Because both women were short, small-framed brunettes, both had ties to Lexington area, both vanished in late 1967, and Rosemary confirmed something that gave Todd goosebumps. Barbara's baby daughter had been left behind. Tent girl had a piece of a baby's diaper on her, likely from caring for an infant. And Todd could see the tragic picture merging. By all indications, tent girl and Barbara were one and the same person. So the next hurdle was to convince law enforcement and medical authorities to act on this information. And Todd knew he needed official scientific verification. So he contacted the Kentucky State Medical Examiner's office and relayed the potential match between the tent girl case and Rosemary's missing sister. And initially, officials were skeptical, because for nearly 30 years, countless false leads had come and gone. But Todd now had something those earlier leads lacked: a living family member, Rosemary, and a clear trail of evidence linking a specific missing person to Jane Doe. So after some persistence, Todd succeeded in getting the attention of Dr. Emily Craig, a forensic anthropologist with the state medical examiner's team. And in collaboration with the Scott County authorities, plans were made to exhume tent girl's remains and conduct a DNA test to confirm the identity. And this was the moment everything had been building toward. So on March 2, 1998, investigators and forensic experts gathered at the Georgetown Cemetery. And the grave of tent girl was carefully opened, her casket brought to the surface after nearly three decades underground. So a sample of bone and tooth was taken from the remains and sent to the state laboratory in Frankfort, Kentucky. And Rosemary provided a cheek swab for a comparison. And then came the waiting. His DNA analysis at the time was not instantaneous, and it took a few weeks to extract and compare the genetic material. So Todd, Rosemary, and all involved just held their breath for weeks. But in their hearts, they already knew. And as Todd had felt in that fateful moment online, everything fit. It felt almost as if Barbara's spirit had guided Rosemary to post that online ad at just the right time and guided Todd to find it. So in April of 1998, the Kentucky State medical examiner's office and the Scott County Sheriff received the lab results that would end a 30-year-old mystery. The DNA comparison was conclusive. The unidentified tent girl and Barbara Ann Hackman-Taylor were the same person. And the tent girl finally had her real name back. And for local residents who remember the long unsolved case, this news was nothing short of incredible. Because after decades of referring to the Jane Doe by a nickname, authorities could finally speak her real name. And the identification made headlines across Kentucky and beyond. And the tent girl's tragic story now had a face and a history attached to it. And Barbara's backstory slowly emerged through information provided by her surviving family. So Barbara was born on September 12th, 1943, and grew up in the Midwestern state of Illinois. And in her 20s, Barbara was described as a "petite young woman with a friendly smile." And at some point in the mid-1960s, she married George Earl Taylor, who worked as a traveling carnival employee. And because of George's job, the couple moved around a lot. And by 1967, they were living in Lexington, Kentucky. And Barbara had an infant daughter, only eight months old in late 1967. And she was also a stepmother to George's older daughter from a previous marriage, a seven-year-old named Bonnie. And Barbara was working at a local restaurant in Lexington to help make ends meet. And her family back in Illinois did not even know she had settled in Kentucky. And they actually believe she might be living in Florida around that time. But in December of 1967, Barbara vanished. And she was 24 years old at the time and seemingly had everything to live for. But she also appeared to be in an unhappy marriage. And according to Barbara's family, her husband George claimed that one day Barbara simply up and left him for another man. And he said she had run off, abandoning her baby and stepdaughter. And this explanation struck the Hackman family as very out of character. But they were young and lived far away. And they didn't know what to believe at the time. And George never reported Barbara missing to the police. How convenient for George. And it wasn't until some time later that one of Barbara's sisters filed a missing persons report in Florida, hoping authorities there might look for her, since Florida was the last place Barbara had lived before marrying George. But tragically, that report didn't help. And Barbara's disappearance stayed in obscurity while, unbeknownst to everyone else who loved her, her body lay in the Kentucky cemetery under a pseudonym. So now, in the spring of 1998, Barbara's siblings finally learned what had happened. And the revelation was met with a mixture of heartbreak and relief. Heartbreak because the family's worst fears were confirmed. Barbara had been dead for all these years. Murdered in a horrific manner. But also relief and closure because the agonizing uncertainty was over. Quote, "It's been so long. It's just like finally we can, like the song, exhale." Unquote. Rosemary told reporters, expressing the release of decades of pent-up grief. So at last, they could properly mourn Barbara, knowing where she was and that she hadn't simply chosen to abandon them. So the Hackman family thanked the Scott County Sheriff's Office and, above all, they thanked Todd for refusing to let the case die. And also a standing ovation for Lori, Todd's wife, who stuck around with her. She was the only one who was allowed to leave. She was the only one who was allowed to leave with him after all those years, because that's a lot as well. And she and Todd had never met in person until after the identification, actually. But they forged an immediate bond through this journey. And law enforcement officials were quick to acknowledge that this identification would have not been possible without Todd's extraordinary efforts. And the Scott County Sheriff at the time, John Walters, publicly praised Todd for providing the critical lead. And it was a rare instance of a private citizen solving a cold case that professionals alone could not. And Todd, for his part, was humble about his role. And he said he wasn't seeking fame or reward. "I had no idea that I'd be talking about her 20 years later," he remarked in an interview years afterward. "I thought it would be long forgotten." All he wanted was to give a name to the girl who had been denied one. And with Barbara's identity confirmed, preparations were made to update her grave and honor her memory properly. And at Georgetown Cemetery, a new gravestone was installed, at Barbara's burial site, placed just below the original stone. And the update marker bore the name "Barbara Ann Hackman." And it also listed her nickname, "Tent Girl," and the corrected dates of her birth and death as best they could be approximated. So the once anonymous victim was anonymous no more. And for Todd and the Hackman family, this was a time of closure and reflection. And Todd and Rosemary had solved the identification, but a new question now loomed: "Who killed Barbara and why?" The case was not over. It had shifted from who is "Tent Girl" to who was responsible for her death. So with Barbara identified at long last, the focus of law enforcement shifted to investigating the circumstances of her death as a homicide case. Because technically, a murder investigation had been open since 1968, but without an identity or leads, it had been dormant. But now, the detectives could finally connect some dots, and the prime suspect quickly came into sharp focus. And that was George Earl Taylor, Barbara's husband, who had been the last person known to see her alive. So from the start, George's behavior in 1967 had raised red flags. First of all, he never reported Barbara missing. Red flag number one. And he told relatives a dubious story that she had abandoned her family for another man. And to police, this sounded like a classic cover story. By claiming Barbara ran off, George likely hoped to prevent anyone from looking for her, buying time to conceal what had allegedly happened. So investigators dug into George's background and timeline. And George was a carnival worker, as we know. A job that often required traveling from town to town. And he would have had easy access to heavy canvas, like the one Barbara was found in. Because those tents were often used in camping and in carnivals. And in late 1967, the couple was staying in the Lexington area. And it appears that at some point around early December, Barbara either attempted to leave the marriage, or confronted George about their relationship. And perhaps there was an argument. Possibly over infidelity or finances. Or perhaps an instance of abuse that escalated tragically. But we can't know the exact details of the fateful encounter. Only two people were there, and one of them ended up in a grave. But the forensic evidence told part of the story. Barbara had likely been struck on the head, then bound in a canvas and left to suffocate. And the three broken fingernails on her hand suggested she woke up and regained consciousness while trapped, trying desperately to claw her way out. And this harrowing scenario points strongly toward George as the perpetrator. And it's unlikely a stranger would have left the victim alive and restrained in such a manner. That kind of slow death pointed to someone with a personal connection. Possibly punishing or silencing her. So law enforcement in 1998 openly labeled George Taylor as the main suspect in Barbara's murder. But by then, however, George himself was beyond the reach of justice because that piece of shit died of cancer in October of 1987 at the age of 54. The police couldn't get him, but Carmer sure did. If he did it. If he did it. And this meant that authorities could not question him or bring charges. So it was frustrating. The man, widely believed to have gotten away with murder, had effectively escaped an earthly consequence. The Kentucky authorities announced that while the identity of Tent Girl was resolved, the homicide case remained officially unsolved because no one had been charged or tried in court. Unofficially, though, investigators in Barbara's family felt that they knew the truth. And Todd also believed George was indeed responsible. Supporting his belief were additional pieces of circumstantial evidence revealed by the family. For instance, Barbara's stepdaughter, Bonnie, later revealed that George was the one who killed Barbara. And that's when they found out that George was the one who killed Barbara. And that's when they found out that her father recounted that she was seven years old in 1967 and remembered her stepmother, Barbara, suddenly being gone. And George had told little Bonnie that her stepmom had run away and wasn't coming back. And Bonnie recalled that her father seemed unemotional about Barbara's disappearance and quickly moved on with life, raising the baby daughter alone or with help from others. And for a husband whose wife suddenly ran off, George showed remarkably little concern or effort to find her. And indeed, no one else in Barbara's life believed she would willingly abandon her infant child. And that was perhaps the most damning indication that foul play had occurred. Because it was unimaginable to them that she would just disappear voluntarily and never contact her family again. And investigators in 1998 tried to piece together George's movements and actions around the time of Barbara's disappearance. Unfortunately, given the and some potential witnesses were deceased or just impossible to find. But what they could confirm was that George did not have an alibi for late 1967 that could be verified. And after Barbara vanished, he left Lexington with the children and continued working in carnivals in other states. And he never remarried before his death. And there were whispers among extended family that George had a violent streak, nothing that was documented in public records, but enough to make Barbara's relatives retrospectively suspect he might have harmed her. But still, with the suspect dead, the case was effectively at a dead end, legally. And the Scott County Sheriff's Office eventually closed the act of investigation, noting that the likely perpetrator would never face trial. And for Barbara's family, this was of course bittersweet. They finally knew what had happened to their beloved Barbara, but they would never see justice served in the courtroom. There would be no confession, no chance for George to reveal any last details or motive. But in a symbolic gesture, the Hackman family chose to omit the name Taylor from Barbara's new gravestone, instead honoring her maiden name, which I think is so incredible. Valid and sweet. And they did not want the name of a man who likely killed her to mark her resting place in any way. And on the new marker, she is engraved simply as Barbara Ann Hackman, or Bobby, beloved sister and daughter with the year 1967 and the date of her death. It was the one way the family could quietly repudiate George and acknowledge what they believed, that Barbara was not truly a Taylor in the end, but forever a Hackman, one of their own. And the detective work of Todd and his family, which I think is a very important part of the story, is a very important part of the story, is a very important part of the story, is a very important part of the story. Todd and the willingness of the modern authorities to revisit the case brought resolution where none seemed possible. As one law enforcement official noted, this case was unique, possibly the only instance where the victim was identified 30 years later to efforts of the son-in-law of the man who found the body. Just like the most serendipitous, crazy, it's just, when I read, first read the story, I was just perplexed. Like there's some inner workings of the world that are not just about the world. And it's, uh, it came to a beautiful conclusion, as beautiful as of a conclusion as it could. Obviously a death is horrible, but for all these people to come together in the way that they did, I think it is, it's the best conclusion that we could have gotten. And while we can't change the tragic ending of Barbara's life, we can ensure her memory lives on named, known, and honored. And she is tent girl no longer, and the world now knows who she is. And in that knowledge, there is a measure of peace. And with that, that is the end of the tent girl case or Barbara's case. Let's say that. Let me know what other cases you would like me to deep dive into. I always read the comments and until then I will see your beautiful face. All right, stay safe out there. Bye.