Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:01):
Gone Cold podcasts may contain violent or graphic subject matter.
Listener discretion is advised. In the piny woods of East Texas,
the roads are quiet, so quiet you can hear yourself breathe.
These are roads where the only sound is the crunch
of gravel under your tires and the occasional whisper of
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wind through the trees. It was on one of these roads,
in the chill of a February morning, that a Rusk
County constable noticed a car sitting off to the side.
Nothing about it screamed trouble. The windows were up, it
was cold to the touch. It looked like it had
simply been left there, temporarily abandoned, perhaps as the result
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of engine trouble. But two days later that car would
no longer be just a car. It would be a
crime scene. Inside its trunk was the body of a
young man twenty years old. The questions how he ended
up in that trunk and how he ended up dead
have never been answered. This is the story of a
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life stolen, a family that felt ignored by the system,
and a case that's still waiting for justice. You're listening
to Gone Cold, Texas True Crime. I'm vincent and this
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is no justice, no peace. The murder of Travosky Johnson.
Travosky La Tres Johnson was born on September thirteenth, nineteen
eighty in Rusk County, Texas. By the year two thousand
and one, he was twenty years old and enrolled at
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Kilgore College. He'd recently been living with his mother's boyfriend
in Longview, but his license still listed Mount Enterprise, his
mother's home, as his permanent address. Travosky was soft spoken,
deeply trusting, and kept close to family. According to his mother,
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Sharon Bratton, he had a good heart, maybe too good,
she would later say. He trusted people he shouldn't have
people who might not have deserved that kind of trust.
The last confirmed sighting of Trevowsky alive was on Friday,
February twenty third, two thousand and one. No one knew
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it at the time, but that would be the last
day his family and friends would ever speak to him.
The next day, Saturday, February twenty fourth, a Rusk County
precinct for constable came across a car parked off County
Road thirty one sixty two, about eight miles west of
Mount Enterprise near LANEVU. It was Travowsky's nineteen eighty three
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Monte Carlow. The constable gave it a quick glance. Nothing
seemed out of place. He didn't see a reason to
investigate further. Later that same day, Travosky's girlfriend also went
out to check on the car. She'd heard it was
sitting abandoned, and knowing the car had a tendency to
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break down, she assumed Travasky had just run into more
car trouble. She rolled up the windows, locked the doors,
and left. At that point, nobody knew he was already dead.
Sunday morning came and Travosky still hadn't checked in with anyone.
Calls when unanswered, his phone had gone dark. Sharon Bratton
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and Marian Johnson, his mother and father, started to panic.
Their son had gone missing, and they knew it wasn't
like him. Relatives went out to check the car themselves.
They noticed the trunk had been tampered with pride opened
just about an inch, and through that inch they could
see what looked like a body. They immediately called the
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Rusk County Sheriff's office. A deputy was dispatched to the
scene and At around mid day on February twenty fifth,
investigators opened the trunk. There was no mistake. Travowsky Johnson
was inside dead. No one could say how long he'd
been there, but officials estimated his time of death was
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somewhere after midnight on Saturday and before six or seven
am on Sunday. Rusk County Sheriff James Stroud called in
the FBI's evidence team out of Dallas. They arrived that
night and worked into the early hours of Monday morning.
They photographed the scene, looked for fingerprints, bagged evidence, and
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removed Trevowsky's body from the trunk. There were no bullet wounds,
no stab wound, no rope marks, no signs of strangulation,
nothing at first glance to suggest how Trevowsky had died,
but Justice of the Piece seth Stein wasn't convinced it
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was natural, and neither was Sheriff Stroud. They ordered the
body sent to the Southwestern Institute of Forensic Sciences in
Dallas for a full autopsy and toxicology screening, but it
would be some time before those results came back. While
authorities waited, so did Trevowsky's family. Only they weren't waiting quietly,
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Sharon Bratton began voicing her concerns loudly and publicly. She
felt law enforcement wasn't doing enough. They weren't sharing information,
she said, and weren't treating her son's death with the
seriousness it deserved. They're acting like it's just another black
man dead. She said. She wasn't alone in her concern.
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Trevowsky's father, Marian Johnson, contacted the NAACP. They didn't make
a public statement, but behind the scenes, the gears were turning.
The parents claimed that potential witnesses were being ignored. One
relative said they saw a man with scratches on his
face and neck shortly after Travasky went missing. That man
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claimed his girlfriend had scratched him, but the family didn't
buy it, and they didn't think investigators followed up on
the lead. Another person reportedly approached Sharon Bratton at the
scene and asked, is that a body in the car?
Before anyone knew for sure, she said this woman had
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information for the police. The family said, investigators dismissed it.
According to Chief Deputy Don Morrison, that wasn't true. We've
followed every lead we were geting, he said. I don't
know what more we could do. But for the family
those assurances weren't enough. They wanted to know what was
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going on in the investigation. To add to the mystery,
Trevowsky's keys, class ring, and cell phone were gone. It's
unclear if there were any searches for these items around
the scene. Someone had removed a speaker box from the
trunk in order to fit the young man's body inside.
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It was also unaccounted for. By March two thousand and one,
the family's frustration had turned into action. A community group
called Concerned Henderson Slash Rusk County Citizens, led by executive
director Frank Diddo, joined the Johnson family to publicly criticize
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the investigation. Together, they planned press conferences and protest demonstrations.
On March twenty ninth, Sharon Bratton stood before reporters holding
a copy of her son's embalming report, which she obtained
from the funeral home. It detailed bruises to the left
and right sides of Trevowsky's torso, a bruise on his forehead,
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and visible hemorrhaging in his face. None of that was
ever disclosed by law enforcement. In another suspicious turn of events,
the family discovered that the last few numbers dialed on
Trevowsky's phone had been disconnected. We do not want this
to be another black homicide swept under the carpet. We
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want answers, We want justice, Sharon said. Frank Diddo drew
comparisons between this case and the killing of James Bird
Junior in nearby Jasper, a brutal hate crime. That reference
echoed deeply across East and Southeast Texas. The Sheriff's office
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insisted they had good reason not to publicly release information
about the bruising. Yes, the victim had bruises, Sheriff Stroud
later admitted, but we don't make that information public. That
would be something only a suspect would know. Even so,
that didn't slow the protests. In early April, the Johnson
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family and their supporters took their message to the streets
of Henderson, the Rusk County seat. They marched in front
of the Sheriff's office, the courthouse, and the Henderson Chamber
of Commerce. Protesters carried signs reading justice for Trevasky, equal
rights for all citizens, We deserve justice, No justice, no peace.
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Roughly fifteen demonstrators took part chanting and marching inside the
Sheriff's office. Chief Deputy Morrison was asked about the protest.
He said he understood the family's grief, but emphasized that
the cause of death was still unknown and without that
they could do nothing. Obviously, we know the basic facts,
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Morrison said, but until weekend determine the cause of death,
we are actually with our hands tied. Still, the protests continued,
and so did the silence from investigators. Travosky Johnson's family
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continued to wait for justice, or even a sign that
justice was near. April became May, more than two months
after the twenty year old's body was found. The autopsy
results had still not been released, and the longer the
silence stretched, the louder the family's protests became. On April
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twenty seventh, two on INAACP officials held a private meeting
with Trovowsky's parents. It had been two full months since
he was found, and they still had no explanation for
what had happened to him. A few months later, in
November two thousand and one, the Tyler Courier Times published
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a public letter penned by Sharon Bratton. She wanted the
community to know the case hadn't been solved despite what
some people might believe. I want to let them know
there will be justice and there will be peace, Sharon wrote.
If it takes the rest of my life, I will
find out what happened the early morning hours of February
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twenty fifth. In that letter, she stated that she had
hired private investigators out of Dallas to work alongside law enforcement.
She also announced a four thousand dollars reward for information
leading to the arrest and indictment of those responsible. And
Sharon made it clear her son's death was not natural,
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not accidental, not random. It took more than one person
to put him in that trunk, she said. It doesn't
matter if he was alive or not when he was
placed inside. It's still murder. For over two years, the
case dragged on. There were no arrests, no charges, no
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suspects named publicly. Then in August two thousand and three,
something changed. Sheriff James Stroud announced that an arrest had
been made. The suspect was Carbon D Logan, a thirty
eight year old man from DeBerry, Texas. According to the
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arrest Affidaephitt, filed by investigator Joseph heard. The breakthrough came
from a tipster, someone close to Logan. The tipster claimed
that Logan had confessed to killing Travowsky Johnson and placing
him in the trunk of the Monte Carlo. Not only that,
but also that Logan had taken him to the scene,
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showed him the car, and even tossed Trevowsky's belongings out
of the vehicle as they drove down the road. Why
had the tipster waited so long to come forward? He
told investigators that Logan had threatened to kill him, his girlfriend,
and her child if he ever spoke about it. Sharon
Bratton was at home the morning of the arrest when
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the phone rang. It was around eight thirty. She recalled.
He said, we made an arrest, and I started crying.
It was a cry of joy. After two and a
half years, the moment she'd fought so hard for had
finally come. She gave credit where she believed it was due.
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I misjudged them, she said, of the Rusk County Sheriff's Office.
I know there were times they couldn't tell me anything,
but I want the African American community to know you
can trust the Rusk County Sheriff's department. She remarked that
the arrest had given her hope, not just for her
own family, but for her entire community. They now knew
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they could trust the justice system, but Sharon also acknowledged
that she didn't have closure. I have a little justice,
but I don't have closure, not right now. For six months,
the Johnson family believed they were on the road to justice.
Carbon D. Logan sat in the Rusk County jail on
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a one million dollar bond, charged with first degree murder.
The Sheriff's office told the press they had solid leads.
Investigators commented time had worked in their favor, witnesses were
finally talking, people were no longer afraid. But then, on
February twenty fourth, two thousand and four, one day before
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the third anniversary of Trevowsky Johnson's death, the case fell apart.
Logan was released. The murder charge was dropped not because
of exonerating evidence, not because new information cleared him. It
was dropped because of a technical, though necessary deadline in
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Texas law. Under the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure, prosecutors
have one hundred and eighty days to indict someone once
they've been arrested. If they failed to do so, the
case must be dismissed automatically. In Logan's case, the grand
jury didn't hear the case against him in time. According
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to Justice of the Piece Bob Richardson, the murder of
Travowsky Johnson had been sent to the grand jury three
times in September, November, and January. Each time it was
either delayed or passed over, and by February time had
run out. Richardson had no choice. He dismissed the charge
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without prejudice, meaning it could be refiled if new evidence emerged,
but the damage had been done. Sharon Bratton didn't hear
the news from the District attorney's office. She learned it
in a phone call from a reporter. I'm not only surprised,
she said, but I am deeply devastated. She said. She
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wasn't given any notice, no warning that the case was
in jeopardy. After years of fighting, marching, and pleading with
law enforcement, her Son's case had slipped through a legal loophole.
She wasn't the only one speaking out. Investigator Joseph Hurd,
who filed the original affidaephit, told the press that the
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investigation was still very much alive. I think the case
is going to be solved, he said. I'm a firm
believer that everything's going to come out. Even Sheriff Strap
said that Logan remained the prime suspect. The case was
never cold, the department insisted, just stalled. Investigators had hoped
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to gather more evidence quickly after Logan's arrest, but that
evidence didn't materialize in time, or apparently in the two
decades since. Of course, with no statute of limitations on murder,
the charge can be refiled at any time, but no
one would say when or if that might happen. Carbon Logan,
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for his part, denied everything. He told reporters that he
had been singled out because of a past conflict with
the Northeast Texas Drug Task Force and members of the
Sheriff's office. According to Logan, he and his brother had
been pressured to cooperate with the task Force or face retaliation.
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He claimed his brother's girlfriend had even been threatened with
losing heild if they didn't comply. I've done a lot
of things in my life I'm not proud of, Logan said,
but murder isn't one of them. I didn't kill this
man or anyone else. He also claimed he knew who
the tipster was. I know my brother was their informant,
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he said. But think about all I've said. I have
never killed anyone. Whether carbon Logan was investigated for elimination
is unclear. As of today, no one has ever been
convicted in connection with Trovowsky Johnson's death. His mother, Sharon Bratton,
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has continued to speak out for years. She has never
stopped advocating for answers, and while her public tone towards
the Sheriff's office has shifted over time from anger to
cautious respect to painful disappointment, her core message has never changed.
He didn't get into that trunk by himself. She still
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believes her son's death was a pre planned act, that
more than one person was involved, that fingerprints, cell phone records,
and physical evidence were overlooked or ignored. She still believes
Travosky deserves justice, and she still believes someone in Rusk
County knows the truth. If these individuals continue to walk free,
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she once said, then who will be their next victim.
It's been over two decades since Trevasky La Tres Johnson
was found dead in the trunk of his car on
a remote stretch of County Road thirty one sixty two,
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Two decades since his mother rolled down a dusty East
Texas road and looked inside that trunk. More than two
decades of grief, of frustration, of phone calls and press conferences,
of marching and waiting, of promises and silence. Twenty four years.
That's how long this case has gone unsolved. Almost two
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and a half decades of birthdays missed, of holidays without him,
of empty chairs at the table. Trevosky's name has been
adorned on an ornament that hung from a Christmas tree
at the Rusk County Courthouse, whispered in prayers, shouted at rallies,
but it has not been spoken in a courtroom. No arrest,
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no trial, no justice. Travasky was just twenty years old,
a student, a son, nephew, cousin, friend, and someone, maybe
more than one person, took his life quietly, brutally, and
then they disappeared. The bruises, the missing belongings, the cut wires,
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the phone numbers that no longer worked, the cause of death,
although not released, All of it points to something more
than a tragic accident and yet to this day, no
one has been held accountable. For many families of murder victims,
closure if it ever comes, doesn't come with a funeral.
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It doesn't come with a news article or even a
suspect in custody. It comes with answers, with facts, with
the truth. For Sharon Bratton, that closure never came. In
the years that followed the dismissal of charges against carbon Logan,
she remained a relentless voice in Rusk County. She never
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stopped calling out what she saw as indifference. She didn't
soften her words when it came to the justice system,
and she refused to let her son's memory be buried
along with the unanswered questions surrounding his death. I just
want to know what happened, she once told her order,
just tell me how my baby died. The autopsy report
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was eventually completed and handed over to the District Attorney's office,
but it was never released publicly. Sharon said she saw it.
She didn't want to talk about the details, but said
it proved her son didn't die by accident, and yet
no one was ever charged again, no new suspects were named.
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As for carbon Logan, his name had come up early
in the investigation, suspected of taking part in the abhorrent
crime since almost the beginning, Mount Enterprise, Laneville, Henderson. These
are small towns in East Texas, places where almost everyone
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knows everyone else and history runs deep. Some perhaps blamed fear.
Others probably didn't want to believe that someone among them
was capable of such a crime. Others blamed racism. Racial
divisions in the community, though often unspoken, still cut sharp lines.
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Sharon Bratton and Frank Diddo repeatedly pointed out what they
saw as unequal treatment. They compared the delays in Trevowsky's
case with other high profile investigations involving white victims, and
they weren't quiet about it. At one protest, a sign
read equal rights for all citizens, another we deserve justice.
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Frank Ditto said it plainly, we are not isolationists. We
represent a large portion of feeling and thinking in the community.
The implication was clear to many folks. This wasn't just
about one unsolved murder. It was about a pattern, a long,
painful pattern of black families being told to wait, of
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being ignored, of being left behind, and Travosky's case became
a symbol of that no justice, no peace. Travosky Johnson's
case drew only moderate media attention, from the Tyler Morning
Telegraph to the Longview News Journal. Headlines did follow most developments,
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from the days after Travosky's body was found to the
protests and the setbacks. When logan was released in two
thousand and four, the case made the front page, and
so did Sharon Bratton's reaction. I'm devastated, she told reporters.
I thought they were going to get justice for my son.
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The media also highlighted the failures of the grand jury process.
The case was sent to the panel three times, and
each time it was either delayed or dismissed, presumably for
the lack of evidence. And that's not the grand jury's problem.
Prosecutors apparently didn't have the evidence to bring it to them.
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They never said why. It wasn't heard, but Bob Richardson,
the Justice of the Peace who signed the dismissal, said
his hands were tied, a common saying in Rusk County.
If something else comes up, they could refile, he said,
But nothing else ever came up. It was the last
time Trevowsky's murder saw print. There were no anniversary stories,
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certainly no updates in the case. Ultimately, the media failed him.
Even now, the mystery lingers. Why was Travowsky in the trunk,
Why did someone take his cell phone, his credit card,
his class ring, Why were the phone numbers he dialed
last all disconnected? And why after an arrest and confession,
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at least according to the tipster, did no one ever
face a jury. There were still whispers in the community,
people who claimed to know more than they let on.
Some said Trevowsky was involved in something he shouldn't have been.
Perhaps they whispered about a girl, a fight, a drug
deal gone bad, whatever the case. There were names passed around,
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stories swapped, but no one apparently would say anything on
the record, and of course, no one stepped forward to
claim responsibility. One thing seemed clear. Someone always knows something.
Sharon Bratton believed three people were involved, that it was planned,
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that it was personal. But belief isn't proof, and in
the justice system that's what matters most. Travosky Johnson's death
didn't just shake a family, It stirred a county. In
the fight for justice, Trevowsky's mother became more than a
grieving parent. She became a symbol of a community that
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refused to let a case go cold. Her persistence earned
her respect from both allies and skeptics. Her determination never wavered.
She promised her son that she would find out what
happened to him, and she meant it. There's a kind
of pain that comes from not knowing, from not knowing
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how your child died, from not knowing who was responsible,
from not knowing whether anyone will ever pay for what
was done. That pain has lived inside Sharon Bratton for
over twenty four years now. Someone took her son's life.
They took it quietly, efficiently, without apparently leaving behind a
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single obvious clue. The bruises, the missing items, the broken trunk,
the disconnected numbers are all parts of a story, a
story in which the final chapter remains unwritten. Justice is
supposed to be blind, but it's not supposed to be silent.
For Trevowsky's family, the silence is the heart part. They
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still wait, and maybe someday they'll stop waiting. Maybe someday
someone will finally talk. If you have any information about
the murder of Trevowsky La Tree's Johnson, please contact the
Rusk County Sheriff's office at nine oh three six five
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seven three five eight one. If you'd like to join
gon Cold's mission to shine a light on unsolved homicides
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(28:46):
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