I've had some very strange and hard-to-believe experiences. But for those who know me in real life... that's just my life.
I was just this small-town Alabama girl with an organic following who was able to sort of claw my way up and carve out my own path, even if it was just a tiny bit compared to the giants of the true crime world.
Recently, I shared my story in a casual four-part series about how I got into true crime. Though I can come across as a bit gruff at times, it wasn't meant to be a résumé of my career or a chance to brag. It was simply my way of being more transparent after a five-year absence and sharing the experiences that shaped me, why I care about these stories, and the opportunities I had to research cases, write professionally, and help tell some of those stories on television.
Along the way, there were accomplishments, setbacks, and bitter disappointments. I never tried to be a celebrity, but I have always appreciated having my work acknowledged and seen. Working behind the scenes, researching cases, writing professionally, and appearing on television are all part of my story.
Looking back now, I realize that despite the difficulties of working in the true crime business—and despite losing my daughter to crime—I still have a voice, and my work still matters.
So, what's next?
Well, baby, I'm back.
Let's go back in time and revisit some of the unforgettable true crime cases, the movies based on true stories, the crimes that inspired them, and the stories you've probably never heard before.
Why I Got Into True Crime (Parts 1 & 2)
One of the things I wanted to talk about today was how I got into true crime. I thought that was an interesting topic to talk about today, so I could warm up the channel after such a long absence.
So why do people go down the rabbit hole of true crime? Usually, it's because something happened. Maybe something happened to someone close to you. Maybe it was that one case in your community that made you want to become a journalist or a reporter.
Some people tackle the subject of true crime in their crime books. There are crime authors like Anne Rule. Then you have prosecutors and attorneys like Nancy Grace and so many other people who get into it because they want to fight for justice.
For me, it wasn't so much about fighting for justice. It was about remembering the victim, telling his story or her story, and understanding how they became victims.
Some of you have read my pieces about victims over the years, and you've seen my content. At times, I've also explored why people kill, why they become murderers, and the circumstances that led to those events.
But let's go back to what led me here—what led me into true crime storytelling and true crime research.
Funeral Homes and My Childhood Curiosity
When I was thinking about doing this piece, I remembered that me talking about dead people and being interested in them goes all the way back to when I was a little girl.
I used to go to funeral homes.
My grandmother took me to funeral homes, and I would view the people. I know that sounds morbid, ridiculous, and probably even crazy, right?
But it was something I wanted to do.
My grandmother isn't around anymore, so I don't really remember how it all started. I do remember asking her if we could go inside. I kind of remember her looking at me and thinking, "Why? What for?"
But she took me in and satisfied my curious mind, I guess.
We used to go for walks.
Whenever I'd spend the night with my grandmother, we'd go to town. In Birmingham, that's what we called it—going to town.
We'd catch the bus, and sometimes we'd have to walk a block or so to the next bus stop before heading downtown. We'd shop at Parisians, Pizitz, and have breakfast at Woolco... Thinking back, it was actually Woolworth's where they had the old-fashioned diner. We'd have donuts, omelets, or whatever it was we ate. I don't remember.
As I was thinking about this story, I kept trying to remember which funeral home it was.
I still don't know.
But we would walk past it, and I must have asked her,
"Well, what is that?"
She must have said,
"Well, that's where the dead people are."
Then I must have asked,
"Can we go in?"
My grandmother wasn't really the type to do foolish things, so I think she was simply satisfying my curious mind.
Before long, it became a routine.
There were a few times when I saw people lying there, and it made me wonder what had happened to them.
Who were they?
You know, it was the first time I understood that life comes to an end—and sometimes abruptly.
I wanted to know their story.
I wanted to know what had happened to them.
We did that for a number of years, and when I think about how I got into true crime, I would say my interest started then.
By the time I was a teenager, there were a lot of cases in the news, and there was one in particular that caught my attention.
It was about a group of teenagers who had been involved in an accident. Their faces were plastered all over the nightly news. I think there were four or five of them.
I remember thinking they were about my age, and I really felt for them.
But I was also wondering who they were.
What was their backstory?
Why were they out that time of night?
I think we were around the same age, and I was just very curious about it.
I remember clipping newspaper articles and keeping them folded in my drawer.
My parents probably thought I was nuts.
They probably thought I was crazy because I always had an interest in things like that. I'm sure it seemed morbid.
But you know what?
You don't really know what your kids are interested in.
Sometimes it isn't anything bad.
Sometimes they're simply curious.
Sometimes that curiosity turns into a career, a hobby, or a lifelong passion.
Looking back now, I realize it's important to find out what your kids are curious about and nurture that curiosity in a healthy way, if possible.
But back to how I got into true crime.
As a teenager, I couldn't stop thinking about that story.
Everybody was talking about it.
What made the story so interesting—and so newsworthy—was that there had been some sort of mix-up involving the identities of the bodies.
There was only one survivor, and she eventually told her story. I think it took her a very long time to recover.
Looking back, I think my interest in true crime was beginning to deepen.
I kept clipping those newspaper articles and saving them for years.
My First Love's Murder
I would have to say the biggest thing that sort of set me down the road of true crime was the murder of my first love, who was murdered in broad daylight. He was living a lifestyle that I would say today was pretty risky.
Now, let me clarify something.
I say he was my first love because he was my first love, and I thought he was gorgeous. He was tall, dark-skinned, had full lips, and stood 6'4". My husband is 6'1", but this guy was 6'4" and had been a basketball player and a football player at one time.
I was madly in love with him. That drove my parents crazy. I mean, they were driven crazy over it because my first love was crazy cool but dangerous, and people really looked at him with fear.
I wasn't allowed to date him. I was not allowed to date anybody. I was a preacher's daughter, and I wasn't allowed to go out. So I had to sneak out of the house to see him.
Yeah, I was one of those kids.
I only had about 30 minutes to an hour to see him. I drove my parents absolutely crazy.
I really did.
Now that I'm a parent myself, I know what they were going through. But I was a kid, and I wanted to express myself. I was used to being in a religious environment and being very sheltered. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know more about life. I wanted to go out.
When I think back, I was never really supposed to have met him. He had been held back from graduating the year before, so when I entered my freshman year, I fell deeply in love with him the first time I saw him sitting on the bleachers. My close friend, who was a popular cheerleader at the time, introduced me to him.
She also died tragically a few short years later.
Back to my first love.
So, yes... his life ended.
And the curious thing about it was that I dreamed someone had shot him years earlier.
And I told him.
This is something I do not talk about. I've told a couple of people who know me in real life, but it's not something I talk about very often. I don't talk about it because it was just one of those things that sounds crazy.
It sounds woo-woo.
It sounds like I'm making it up.
I was about 15 or 16 when I told him, and I remember that day vividly. He was kind of reclined, leaning back, and I told him, "I dreamed someone shot you last night." Then I motioned with my hand what happened.
He was shocked.
I remember him sitting up on his arms and saying, "Don't tell me anything like that."
He said, "Don't tell me that, Shawty." That's what he called me. "Shorty"—but he pronounced it "Shawty," being from Chicago originally.
And I said, "Well, I did. That's what I dreamed. I dreamed it happened right up the street from your house."
And guess what?
It happened.
As I think back, it was about four years later. I was 16 when I told him this, and I was 16 the last time I saw him. He sort of distanced himself from me after that, most likely because it freaked him out.
I really didn't take it seriously at the time.
I'm not claiming to be some psychic person who knows everything. Clearly, I don't.
But I do have intuitive nudges and thoughts, and I have had dreams that did sort of come true.
Now, at 55, I really believe that if he had taken that as a warning, it probably could have saved his life.
When I knew him, he was not yet embarking on the dangerous lifestyle he would later live, years after he had distanced himself from me.
Sometimes I wonder if he remembered what I told him. Did he take it seriously, or did he just think I was some crazy person he needed to distance himself from?
Sometimes I think he believed I was just crazy.
But looking back, I believe it was clearly a warning that could have saved his life.
I consider him my first love. I don't know that he considered me one of his girlfriends. I don't think he did because, like I said, I wasn't allowed to go out with him.
I could only steal away moments with him.
By that time, he was dating freely. He was older than me, so he was able to do whatever he wanted. None of his friends, classmates, or schoolmates ever saw me with him or even saw me in the car with him, other than the times they dropped him off at the curb in front of my house when he came to see me in the middle of the night, or the times I'd sneak out of my bedroom window and walk to his house to see if I could find him when he didn't show up.
My lifestyle was not intertwined with his.
I really didn't know much about him. I had met his mother a couple of times and talked to her on the phone, but I didn't really know a lot about him other than the fact that I knew he was probably into things he shouldn't have been.
I would tell him, "Let's run away together."
I was one of those girls who wanted to help fix the guy. I wanted to help him. I'd say, "Let's pack our bags and run away together."
Not so I could be his ride or die or help him with anything illegal.
No, quite the opposite.
I wanted him out of that dangerous lifestyle. I wanted to feed him, hug him, and love him. In my mind and heart, I believed that was enough to make him want to leave street life behind.
That was my way of thinking back then, at 15 and 16.
And yes, sneaking out of the house at night could have ended like a Lifetime movie. My actions put everyone in the house in danger. Looking back, I am remorseful for being that reckless back then.
I did not go to his funeral.
I didn't.
But I did go see him at the Lumzy Funeral Home in Bessemer, Alabama. That was the first time I had seen him in five years.
There he was.
I remember investigating and taking notes. I was asking how they had prepared him. I asked what injuries he had sustained. I was doing my own little investigation, putting the clues together.
They were very patient with me.
I believe I went on the morning of his funeral. I remember getting there as soon as they opened, and no one was there. I think everyone had come to see him the night before, so I'm pretty sure this was the morning of his services.
I had to go to work afterward.
So I decided to sit there for a while.
I just sat there and watched him.
Finally, after about an hour, one of the men came in and said,
"There's nothing you can do for him now.
You should go."
And I did.
I remember walking up to him and placing my hand on his chest.
Then I turned around and walked down the long hallway.
Right before I left, I turned around one last time... I looked back.
If I've been somewhere for a while and I want to remember the moment, I'll look back one last time before I leave.
I wanted that moment seared into my memory.
I know it's dramatic, but if you know me, then you know I really am this dramatic.
After that, we were devastated.
It was horrible.
And that's when I really started my own little investigation.
I looked up his best friend and called him. He remembered exactly who I was. My first love had introduced us once when his best friend visited the high school. We exchanged notes and talked about what had happened.
Then I met one of my first love's girlfriends at the time. I think there was more than one, but the one I talked to was a very nice lady. We talked about him and exchanged stories.
I started writing down details—what happened, when it happened—and eventually I went to court.
I found out who the defendant was, went to the arraignment, and actually got the chance to talk to the man accused of killing him.
Now, this is going to sound weird, and I still don't know how it happened.
I don't even know why he was out.
But it was arraignment day, and when I got there, he was standing in the hallway waiting.
Don't ask me why.
I honestly don't know why he wasn't under arrest.
I walked right up to him.
I asked,
"Why did you do that?
Why did you kill him?"
Like I was an investigator.
Like I was an interrogator.
He killed my first love during a visit to Alabama. I learned that he was from out West, as I recall.
The tall, thin, ruddy-colored guy just looked at me.
I still don't know how I knew it was him because I had never seen him before.
But I knew it was.
He looked at me and said,
"Who are you?
How do you know me?
How do you know who I am?"
It was awkward. I wasn't dressed like a reporter, so it probably freaked him out having this tiny, young woman he'd never seen before confronting him about her first love.
But I was taking all of it in.
I was a reporter.
I just didn't know it yet.
Everything was over by then. To be honest with you, I don't know if there was ever a trial. He may have pleaded guilty. I really don't know.
After that, I went to the medical examiner's office and pulled the file.
That was the first time I had ever done anything like that.
I wanted to read the report.
I wanted to see the autopsy photos.
I wanted to know how it happened.
When it happened.
What position was the body?
I'm doing all of this at 20 years old.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
I just knew I wanted answers.
I kept a folder on the case.
I showed my mom his death folder. She was horrified. She said, "Traciy, at least throw away the photos."
I did throw them away.
In my work, I prefer not to view autopsy photos.
But I remember as plain as day the way he was dressed and lying on the table with gunshot wounds to the body. Back in the early 1990s, I was able to obtain those photographs from the Jefferson County Coroner's Office without a subpoena.
As sorry as I felt that he was gunned down, the decision not to see him again was the best decision, and I knew that—even back then.
Eventually, I got over his death. It took me nearly a year.
Once I learned how to investigate that case, I started keeping files on two other Alabama cases as well.
After filming this episode, I learned that the man who ended my first love's life pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 20 years in prison. I was later told that he may have served about ten years, but I was never able to confirm that with the Alabama Department of Corrections.
Even after all these years, I'm still conflicted about whether I want to publish the real names.
I might decide to publish them someday, when I'm comfortable doing so, simply to document the story as accurately as I can.
To this day, he doesn't know who I am, and quite frankly, I don't want him to know my identity.
Anyway...
That's my story.
That's the moment I stopped simply reading about true crime and started investigating it myself.
This article is the written companion to my YouTube series