We thought we carried a curse.  

A heavy silent sound that baked and burned upon adolescence. 

Had some mad magician tested fires with electric-marked effigies roaring, thrashing, leaping upon the air we breathed?  

Had we returned to ancient Egypt where Apep, the enemy of the sun, darkened our days with sorcery and spelled ourselves through slipshod slings of young souls? The slithering serpent’s curse sealed shut both nightmares and dreams.  

The class of 1988 headed into its senior year having already lost three classmates. Our mourning clothes hadn’t hung long in life’s closet before they were needed and pressed once again. Two different car accidents during two different years created a loss—a gap—in a cohesive whole. For one classmate, she lost her life riding as death’s blind passenger. It was a senseless country road collision. In another incident, two of our classmates couldn’t make a sharp turn. The S-curve, as it was called, seized and snugged shut these two consumed with substances that shake and squander decision making. 

 This was mere coincidence—right? They were an exception.  

Reckless teenagers at the wheel didn’t equate to a problem. A drug scourge didn’t exist then. Ohio, West Virginia, and Kentucky didn’t hold high honors for drug-related deaths…not just yet.  

Life was different at that time. 

So, the blanket of bad luck covered us like a thick river fog.  

Or was a dark thief waiting in the shadows for a more opportune time to pounce?  

The fall of 1987 introduced each resident in a small Ohio village to a new reality.  

Through harrowing reflection, I remember it as a smother of time. 

*** 

Yearbooks gather dust on life’s bookshelves. 

Crack them open and scale up the rafters of Time’s tombs. Smell pumpkin grins of reticence preserved in mirror-jar photographs on the pages. Old oceans rise as one’s eyes fill with the salt of years gone by.  

Like most high school chronicles, hard covers bookend page-filled memories of youth in action. On page fourteen, notice a big-haired, sequin-sparkling, white-gloved girl standing high atop a platform conducting melodiously maddened musicians. It is a blurred image that somehow made the final cut. As eyes scan right, see athletic boy, head cast downward, wearing jersey number fifty-four escorted across a football field. During senior night, he is flanked by parents. They display a protective childhood barrier.  

Flip through more pages. “Seniors and Future Plans” are depicted and outlined on pages seventeen through twenty-nine. I wonder how many accomplished these bare-laid plans advertised under each grinning face?  

Skim further along the pages of time. “Senior Superlatives” shining their radiance on page thirty-three memorialize the “best looking” and “class clowns” of the day. It stands as hyperbolic hype.  

Hugs. Laughter. Smiles fill the white space in memoriam of days gone by.  

It is a time capsule sitting silent upon the shelf. 

In the pages of an annual, photographers project what’s clearly seen, or half-seen of teenagers trapped somewhere in-between the land of the lens. 

The 1988 Pointer yearbook opens with a proclamation: “Kippy should have graduated with the Class of ’88. In loving memory of him, we dedicate this ‘Senior’ section as well as this book.” 

Burning bright, this reminder serves as arrow to thoughts of blood and lost dreams. 

***   

At the most southern point of Ohio flows a river. Next to this river, lies a village called South Point that was founded in 1798 by William “Ranger” Davidson. He built a cabin on a spot separating the old state of Virginia from the new commonwealth of Kentucky. In 1798, Davidson hoped this point would serve as a placement of proper defense against any renegade Indians roaming the territory.  

Rearrange those numbers to 1987, natives no longer stood as a concern for this small village, my hometown. The concern loomed much larger one late October night. 

During the late 1980’s, this region in the foothills of Appalachia, faced challenging times on multiple fronts. Rising energy costs, an extended economic recession, and the export of manufacturing operations overseas led to the closure of many facilities in the Lawrence County area. With the stench and fog of South Point Ethanol, the lone manufacturing plant that hovered overhead, this village offered little to its 3,800 residents. All that life presented were economic hardships. 

 But within this sleepy community, most residents lived a reticent existence—working, caring for their homes, and watching the plodding creep of barges glide up and down the river. Who knew that the slow pace of a small town could be upended like a capsizing river vessel?  

On the horizon, awaited a personal hardship for this pocket-sized community that would leave another kind of stench: injustice.  

If not for the odor of corn-fueled ethanol, most passers-by travelling Highway US 52 wouldn’t even notice this community nestled along the Ohio River. One grocery store, two gas stations, a small hardware store, a pharmacy and bank, plus multiple churches created the highlights of the town. Huntington, West Virginia, a few miles east stood as a more noticeable stopping point, offering plenty of restaurants and shopping.  

Here, in this Tristate area, folks saying “Howdya do” and “Thank ya much” echoed throughout these Appalachian foothills. Kids riding bikes, playing yard darts, or roller skating dotted the landscape. Parents didn’t worry about their children’s safety. Tossing up a casual hand and waving “hello” to strangers served as a friendly chain linking one to another.  

But one night tempered all that friendliness. In an instant, the chain cracked. The link broke. Life changed with Despair’s arrival upon the front porch in small town Ohio. 

On a late night, Apep, visited again. He slithered and cast his sinister spell.  

Community eyes shifted to the blazing red-and-blue police lights flashing at 1 a.m.  

In a sleeping apartment complex, blinding lights piercing through the blackest night awakened not only the residents of the 70-apartments but also sounded the alarm to other villagers. Injustice, disguised as Death, roused neighbors from the comfort and safety of bed on October 22nd.  

How is it that the backyard of my mind trembles with a wordless memory unwelcome in its stone-pebble-skip of rash behavior? 

 Sixteen stab wounds, two gunshots might explain.  

These injuries left an indelible mark on this stilled, lonesome community. Sixteen fatal points became the burden and weight of life. This site originally founded as Ranger Davidson’s point of proper defense suddenly became the site of a brutal murder. 

Tucked into the backyard of time, I cannot forget the shuddering news as it trembled its way to school. 

*** 

With the opening of the school door, I was greeted by an unusually heavy feeling. A wordless presence was on scene. No, it wasn’t a new student. Instead, walking into South Point High School, I noticed an eerily, haunting chill hovering in the air.  

“What’s happened?” I thought to myself. 

As I watched students file in one-by-one Thursday morning, October 23rd, I heard the clink of locker doors greet the foul pollution of silent awe. On most days, student lockers enclosing two sides of the cafeteria—formed a sort of protective barricade. It was a metal cocoon enveloping each young person. Today was not the day for protection. On this day, one locker would be missing its tenant. 

“What’s going on? Why is it so quiet?” My mind questioned. The cold, eerie feeling that crept up my spine kept my mouth shut. 

The normal chatting, laughing, and conversing of teenagers sat stilled. Only the clickety-clack of lockers and the shuffle of sneakers on freshly waxed floors indicated the presence of students.  

No banter. No smiles.  

Shock painted itself across faces. 750 silent students filed into the small high school. Gloom wrapped its noose around the hearts of each one. Like the usual river fog hanging its thick blanket across the region, the teary eyes of students illuminated a fog of death.  

As I dropped the day’s books on my usual table, I mouthed the words “why so quiet” to one of my friends. The response was not one I expected. 

Missing on this crisp autumn day was classmate Kevin “Kippy” Bellomy. The 17-year-old popular high school wrestler and former marching band member was found…murdered. Late in the night. At home in Apartment 39 of the Lawrence Village apartment complex.  

A hushed undertone of “Kippy’s dead” murmured slowly, softly throughout the cafeteria that morning. Like a moving tide of mournful birdsongs weeping a tearful tune, I heard: 

“Kippy’s dead.”  

“Kippy’s dead.” 

“Kippy was killed.”  

The mad high wanderings of thought echoed its hypnotic chant. Each student felt woven into its mysteriously tangled web.  

Who did this?  

Who wanted to harm Kippy?  

As each student soon learned, another chant had pierced through that black and once peaceful early Thursday morning. It came carrying heavier pain and sorrow: the sound of Kippy’s mother screaming, “My baby, my baby!” 

It was the wail of a mother’s horrific shock. A ringing tumult of pain and confusion. 

Until that night of October 22, 1987, South Point existed as just another scant village along the flowing river. Sixteen stab wounds and two gunshots fired in the face of a beloved classmate changed this sleepy, small-scale community to one bearing the heavy cloak of shock and despair. 

Finding the killer became a priority. 

This heinous crime deserved reparation.   

Would compensation come to a mother who found her boy’s murdered body in the family’s apartment? Why would anyone take the life of a loved classmate, son, and brother? Why were we robbed of another friend?  

As all soon discovered, the number of wounds and shots were no mere accident. More sinister stirrings had played out in Apartment 39. 

Finding the killer who changed the face of a close-knit community was just the beginning of a new stench pervading the residents.  

It was a harrowing of time.  

*** 

“I think he bled to death,” claimed Sheriff Daniel Hieronimus as he spoke to local reporters who with swift, sure-footing surrounded the apartment complex.  

Small town reporters hunger for moments like this. The crowd of running feet, of the curious, form a tight circle around tragedies. They probe, they gawk, they question, they interrupt investigations and the solemnity of death. 

“This is one of the worst I’ve ever seen,” added County Prosecutor Richard Meyers when prompted to speak of the homicide after a cursory assessment of Kippy’s body.  

Would justice ever be served? Would sixteen stab wounds and two gunshots ever receive recompense?  

Atonement is an interesting concept in a fog-laden, riverside community.  

*** 

Words. Tears. Hugs.  

The flood of grief flowed along the great river. Through the small village it wound its murky way. For the funeral, the weather acted in contrast to this mood.  

During a final goodbye, folks linked in unison with the hopes that justice would rise above the pain. 

On a sunny, warm October day, only words, tears, and hugs enveloped the vast crowd of students, loved ones, and community members. Kippy was laid to rest in Highland Memorial Gardens. The cemetery, overlooking the area where he lived, became a new point of defense for all those lives touched by the blonde-haired, 5-foot-2-inch boy, who wrestled in the 112-pound weight class. Instead of heading into the Navy to become a submariner, as Kippy originally planned, he was now interred on a hill: his permanently assigned post. 

After reading the 23rd Psalm, youth pastor, Reverend David Messenger, reminded the crowd of perhaps 600 people that our classmate would forever be remembered as “a good friend, loyal, easy to get along with, hard-working,” young man. I would remember him for different reasons. As a fellow band member, I would remember Kippy as the fun-loving, jokester who took the band director’s emotional outbursts in stride.  

This wrestler, who also played the trumpet, never seemed to mind the tantrums and meltdowns of a temperamental teacher who tried to wrangle hormonal teenagers during marching season. It’s as if the wrestler in him, didn’t need to fight to come out on top. Instead, the sharp-witted comedian quietly quipped jokes as the band director stormed off in a daily huff to his office. 

 It was difficult to remain serious when Kippy was around. His wisecracks kept everyone laughing to the point of tears. 

 Now, tears fell for a different reason. 

In small towns, funerals remind residents of life’s brevity. The convergence of multitudes among the flower-laden caskets either brings folks closer or creates more distance. As life’s turbulence weeps from outraged eyes, gentle grief waters the seeds of time. Redemption creates a bed of heat at the headstone of shadow clouds, whispering names and dates into lonely sod and green grass.  

On this crisp, fall day, a forty-five-minute funeral service with a procession that led into town and around the high school was all that remained of this seventeen-year-old’s life. Six pallbearers who carried a coffin with the name “Kippy” spelled out in a floral arrangement on top, served as the final view of all those living souls linked to a young man whose plans were much larger than this goodbye service.  

Atonement can be elusive in small town America. 

*** 

Who snuffed out the life of our beloved classmate? Who widened the gap and forever marred our senior class with tragedy? The curse of death’s dark thief struck again.  

No car accident could be blamed this time for the loss of another peer. No, this time an evening spent watching TV would lead to inevitable downfall. Who knew that a knock on the door would end up in dread paradox? 

Dust off court documents dated three decades ago, one sees the journey of lost time, lost life, and bloodshed. Like the pages of a yearbook, the photographic lens of these documents capture the violence hidden in the mouths of the few who travelled their telling tales down time. 

Speaking through a polygraph examination, a voice shined a sliver of light into that black night. Former classmate, Paul Scarberry, began to tell his truth six days after Kippy bled to death. His account started on Wednesday, October 21st. 

 At approximately 2:00 p.m., Paul met up with his buddies, Rock Nichol and Tony Dailey.  As unemployed 20-year olds, the guys were wheelin’ and dealin’ with one another that day. A couple of minor purchases were made by Paul and Rock from Tony before they all three drove across the river into Kentucky to purchase a twelve-pack of beer. According to Paul, the three drank all the beer at his house and then parted ways—Paul and Rock left together while Tony went on his own way. The two guys drove around looking for women as they continued to drink more beer. He also attested to taking one valium that same day. But didn’t see his friend, Tony, until 10:30 that night.  

Confusion loves to ride the waves of alcohol and valium. Serious risks seem to hide between these two forces. Confusion can also arrive with a knock. It creates quite the conundrum.  

Paul claimed he was passed out asleep when Tony woke him up knocking on his trailer window. 

“Come out and drink some beer and vodka with me, Paul,” whispered Tony that dark night. 

“Naw, I’m not coming out.”  

And with that statement, Tony left. And an admitted intoxicated Paul fell back to sleep. 

Intoxicated dreams move and weave in reckless rhythms all their own. Fatal farewells fan the silent flames of night when sleeping alone. 

Then, the knocking returned.  

It was 12:50 a.m. Paul claimed Tony knocked on his window once again.  

“Let me in, Paul. I need to come in for a minute.” 

This time, death’s knock awakened Paul’s mother. He had to let him in.  

When Tony came into his room, he faced a new reality. Was it a confused reality?  

Alcohol and valium paint interesting pictures when collaborating together.  

A shaken, rattled Tony sported blood on his jacket, knees, and hands. 

 “I killed somebody, Paul. I killed a boy, a seventeen-year-old boy,” confessed Tony as he waved around a double-edged boot knife. “I know you probably don’t trust me right now.” 

“I do, man,” Paul replied. “I trust you,” 

The waves of alcohol and valium tend to flood the shore of friendship with trust. 

“I’ve got the boy’s car. What should I do with it?” questioned an anxious Tony. “Please, don’t tell anybody about this.” 

Secrets seem to sail ashore when blood-fast-flows slam shut the teeming skies. If kept hidden, secrets burn a witness’s eyes.  

With the promise of keeping quiet, Paul handed Tony a change of clothes, a fatigue jacket, a pair of tennis shoes, and sweat pants.  

How easy a murderer’s attire can change to MacGregor shorts and a sleeveless shirt. But, can a murderer’s heart ever change?  

As Tony washed up in the bathroom, Paul promised he would get rid of the bloody clothes sometime the next day. After twenty to twenty-five minutes, Tony left in the murdered victim’s car. 

How does one murder and then drive off behind the wheel of evidence? What a dark celebration it is to drive away delirious with Death as chauffeur.  

*** 

Back in Apartment 39 of the Lawrence Village Apartments, mother Susan Bellomy—along with her friend—arrived home shortly before 1 a.m. She walked in the door and found her son lying face-down in a pool of blood on the living room floor. Dressed only in a pair of grey cut-off shorts, several stab wounds were visible on his back.  

Awakened by the screams of “My baby, my baby,” a neighbor scrambled to call an ambulance.  

“The child was alive when they told me to call,” cried a shaken, upset neighbor, Mrs. Lewis.  

During the confusion, Kippy took his last breath. His mother watched him exit the world through one final exhalation. It served as life’s expiration. 

With a trail of blood leading from living room to kitchen, a neighbor recounted the scene as “bloody, bloody, bloody.” Other neighbors spread word that the murder scene resembled something out of Helter Skelter.  

The crowd of running feet and the curious who stand around and stare at tragic incidents like to share such grisly details. It is the telling of such tales that river run small towns like a fixed flood.  

After the last exhalation, all that remained of this beloved classmate and friend were wide wounds that waited and ached to tell their own tale. 

Dr. William Triest, who performed the autopsy, concluded that a total of sixteen knife lacerations were found on Kippy’s body. Eleven lesions were on the back area. Two were on the upper left arm. Two on the left facial cheek. One punctured the left side of the neck area. While two .22 caliber gunshot wounds were found on his head. In the coroner’s opinion, death resulted from two fatal knife wounds—one that penetrated Kippy’s heart. One that penetrated a lung.  

Death dams breathing when piercing the heart of life.  

How could the beckoning of Fate fell its victim with a neighborly visit?  

According to investigators at the crime scene, Kippy was first shot in the temple when he answered a knock at his front door. Sheriff Hieronimus believed Kippy grappled with his assailant. But the murderer picked up a knife from a nearby kitchen drawer. Stabbed him over-and-over again.  

Sixteen times.  

The trail of blood shared its sad song along hall walls, the living room, and across the kitchen floor. A large butcher knife bore red stains on the blade and handle. Someone attempted to clean the evidence. It had been tossed into one of the kitchen drawers.  

Cleaning the filthy witness of murder in the heat of the moment is never an easy task. Again, secrets need seeing. They cannot sit silently still.  

The knife, along with a clump of hair found beside Kippy’s body, seeded the terror and told the tale. 

“The massive loss of blood made Bellomy too weak to resist,” stated the Sheriff. Then the murderer shot him in the face.  

Could alcohol and drugs be the murderer?  

Hillbilly justice works in interesting ways. Sometimes it removes a hidden veil—shedding light on dark guilt. 

A few hours later, Tony was stopped and arrested for driving Kippy’s 1978 Pontiac Sunbird into West Virginia. Two days later, this former schoolmate, Tony Daily, at age 20, stood accused and charged with aggravated murder. He was Kippy’s “friend” who lived a mere three doors away in the same complex. 

Backstabbers often don the disguise of friendship to get what they want. They seem to arrive with a paradoxical knock. It serves as a warning that a soul can be smothered by the waves of close association.  

*** 

In March of 1988, the defendant, faced with mounting evidence and the possibility of life in prison, pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of voluntary manslaughter. This abruptly ended his trial for the murder of Kippy.  

In a plea deal, Tony chose a sentence of ten to twenty-five years in the state reformatory rather than risk a life sentence. The polygraph examination combined with the admission by Paul, who threw Tony’s blood-stained clothes off the Sixth Street Bridge in Huntington, WV, sealed the deal. When asked in a court document whether he had any competent evidence to prove his innocence, Tony offered a perfunctory, “No.” 

To this day, the Ohio River holds the primary evidence of clothes, a gun, and the knife used to snuff out the life of Kippy. It is a closed vault that refuses to surrender the evidence of death’s dark thief. 

In the end, Tony served a total of seventeen years in Pickaway Correctional Institute. The only motive ever concluded for the brutal murder centers around Kippy’s car. An intoxicated and wasted Tony got into an argument with Kippy when he refused Tony’s request to borrow his car. After this short-lived argument on the night of Oct. 22nd, Tony returned to his apartment, retrieved a gun, and killed Bellomy. Known as possessing a bad temper, a lust for fighting, and for his drug and alcohol use, Tony’s reputation of bad behavior added to the evidence stacked against him. 

Thus, the state changed the original indictment of aggravated murder to voluntary manslaughter. It stood as an amended charge that could not amend the loss of life. In the judgment entry, the Court inquired if the defendant had any words to say to the charge imposed against him: “the defendant had nothing to say.”  

With the flurry of a scrawled signature admitting guilt, Tony’s bloody, filthy witness of murder was washed from his hands as the state reformatory doors closed upon him.  

*** 

Still a pocket-sized community, not much has changed in South Point. Most of the small businesses have closed their doors due to larger ones squeezing them out. Unable to compete with Walmart or large petroleum monopolies such as Marathon Oil, the stores and independently-owned gas stations have left, but the village still operates with churches and a grocery store serving as the backbone. Small houses, trailers, and apartments have increased slightly with the population remaining steadfastly around 3,900 residents. The recent development of an industrial park creates hopes for survival as a few small industries have opened shop.  

Now, weeds cling tight around the sketch of Kippy’s senior photograph on his grave marker. A visitor standing nearby can overlook the skeletal remains of the former ethanol plant whose stench once alerted anyone coming close to this small community in 1987.  

Upon the parole of Tony Dailey in 2004, the foul fragrance returned. Living with family members a few miles up the road from the brutal murder he committed, Tony’s life marches on. With children, a job, and a Facebook account, his life continues like the malodor of the once corn-fueled ethanol plant.  

It bodes the question: does the judicial system favor the guilty over the victim and the victim’s family? 

Sixteen stab wounds and two gunshots staunched the flow of one life, while another continued on his way. A vicious, brutal attack that spilled the heartbeat of Apartment 39 sits as nested, sooted silence while spirits suffer at the count. 

And still the defendant has nothing to say.  

*** 

Before the thirtieth class reunion, I pulled the Pointer yearbook off the shelf. After blowing off the dust, I opened to a picture of Kippy’s collage hanging from the fine arts classroom wall. The collage captured images of a typically rowdy male’s teen years: swimsuit models, various alcoholic beverages, a “born to party” sign, cigarettes, disciplinary referral cards, and Ozzy Osbourne. These images spoke the story that Kippy embraced the air of life with wings that roared, beated, and leapt upon the universe itself. He dove fast, swam full force into each day’s waters. 

As I looked closer, I drew insight that delved deeper than the surface images reflected. With a dream looking beyond high school, a military ad proclaimed “The Navy Sails on Rough Seas.” When he created this collage, who knew how rough the seas would swell? His ship sailed sooner than any of us expected.  

And then, at the bottom of this poster board artwork I reflected on the printed statement, “Because without the right tools, you can’t get ahead.” He possessed tools. He had the friends, the goals, the ability to outshine others. But he failed to know that sometimes one must be cautious and take preemptive action. Not every knock at the door should be trusted nor elicit a response. 

It lingers as a life lesson of loss in empty hands.  

At the thirtieth reunion, I watched a crowd of 48-year-olds grow quiet and reflective when the DJ played our class song, Eddie Money’s “My Friends, My Friends.” Men removed their hats and tears welled in our group’s eyes. The song reminded us, “My friends, my friends / Never got together again but / I love my friends.” Gathered together, we stood inextricably linked by the tragic loss of our beloved friend.  

In silence, we contemplated, “My memories are happy / And my memories are sad / But I love to take my pictures out.” So many classmates gone too soon. Lives cut short by the swell of time’s currents. Desires and dreams hidden in the hearts of few, our small party thirty years later shook heads in sadness as a reckoning of time spelled itself.  

With wonder, we realized, “It’s always true / Me and my friends were dreamers / Dreamin’ all we do.” Thirty years ago, we were just kids…dreaming.  

Back then, it was a smother of time.  

*** 

As I close the pages and return the yearbook to the shelf, I consider how it will gather dust once again. Memories get stored away like fine china on pristine display in the cabinet. Anyone can look at them. But we can no longer touch the once too precious moments of time. The gifts of Fate most secret in essence sit silently still—frozen. The porcelain cracks display destinies indelible, hair-line fine, and remarkably rare.  

This time capsule sitting on the shelf becomes the residue and lost echo of one tragic year. 

In addition, the court documents dated from thirty years ago also gather dust. They, along with Kippy’s family, bear witness to the tragedy in Apartment 39. A sketch artist’s depiction of the stab wounds on Kippy’s body still whispers the truth. That the stabbing loss of one life does not equate to freedom for another. As the coroner attested in 1987, two particular wounds—one in the heart and in the lung—served as the fatal blows for my friend.  

So the evidence remains: the murder in Apartment 39 lives on as a terrifying tale that pierces the heart. That takes one’s breath away.  

*** 

Today, my classmates from this small community stand as a placement of proper defense against any renegade thief who tries to rob us of our memories. Entombed in our living hearts beats the life force for Kippy and others who reside in their deep sleep.  

The act of being, doing, living, breathing, changing, seeing, touching, and growing helps our friends and loved ones stand immortal.  

Through us, they still thrive.  

Through us, they still live.  

No drug, no accident, no disease, no answering of the door will ever shut the vault of their lives. From out our eyes, the sad rains may flow. But a life unbound, a spirit set free stays warm within the sun wherein it has flown.  

Justice might be fickle.  

Our memories are not.  

At the most southern point of Ohio, the mighty river still flows…  

Atonement is a slippery slope in small town America. It lingers like sidewalk cracks in the recesses of a heart and looms just above the cloud line—still out of reach, striding the stream of far-off voices.  

These redemptive whispers are a rogue breeze stirred up by reckless, impatient gusts across the green of years.  

Still wafting along the winds of time…  

Reminding us of its indelible sting. 

Key Sources 

"Cleanup and Industrial Revitalization in the Tri-State Region." EPA. Environmental Protection  
Agency, n.d. Web. 03 Nov. 2016.  

“Dailey Out on Parole; Family of Victim Upset.” The Ironton Tribune. 24 January 2004. N.p. 
Web. 24 Jan. 2004. 

Eddie Money. “My Friends, My Friends.” Columbia Records, 1982. 

"History of the Village of South Point." History. N.p., n.d. Web. 03 Nov. 2016.  

McMiller, James. “Man Charged in Kippy’s Killing.” The Herald-Dispatch [Huntington] Oct. 
1987: A1. The Herald-Dispatch. Print. 

McMiller, James. "Teen Murdered; Motive Still Unclear." The Herald-Dispatch [Huntington] 24 
Oct. 1987: A1. The Herald-Dispatch. Print.  

Ross, Jim. “Dailey Pleads Guilty to Lesser Charge.” The Herald-Dispatch [Huntington] 10 
March 1988: A1. The Herald-Dispatch. Print.  

Ross, Jim. “Family and Friends Bid ‘Kippy’ Farewell.” The Herald-Dispatch [Huntington] 24 
Oct. 1987: A1. The Herald-Dispatch. Print.  

Wollenhaupt, Gary. “Murder’s Motive Remains Mystery.” The Ironton Tribune. 1987: N.p. Print. 

Wollenhaupt, Gary. “Sheriff Expects Arrest Today in Brutal Murder.” The Ironton Tribune. Oct. 1987: 1. Print. 

Traci Musick-Shaffer is a contributing writer for InflammatoryBowelDisease.net and an English teacher. She lives in the foothills of Appalachia and loves to write essays on topics she contemplates while hiking around Shaffer farms. She received a BA from Marshall University in Huntington, WV, and a MA in English and Creative Writing from SNHU. She prefers her log cabin country living and spending time with her husband, David, and border collie, Molly. Follow her @ www.musicknotes.com or on Twitter https://twitter.com/MusickTraci . Her book, Spiritual Lessons Learned from a Year of Struggle, is also available through many venues, including Amazon.