In the Mississippi Delta, there's a certain way you do things, weddings, people, have nothing

better to do than eat, drink, and be merry, mortgage their house, hawk the farm, do whatever

they can do to have the end all be all wedding.

Funerals, it should last big party, make it nice, you know, fried chicken, stuffed eggs,

the minute cheese, and the ride amount of whiskey.

Even the death itself, well for the most part, the nice way of dying and the old, the

traditional way of dying has kind of gone by the way sad little bit.

Yeah, about that, about 20 years ago, I got a phone call from my dad.

You were falling apart.

My grandmother was dead.

She was 85, but her death wasn't anything I could have ever prepared for.

You just could not accept the fact that she was dead.

She had always been so alive, and particularly the circumstances of her death.

Murder, blunt force trauma, likely with a brass candlestick, in her parlor, on Friday

the 13th.

And if this is sounding more like a southern Gothic game of clue than a real story, well, just

hang on.

I'm Larison Campbell.

I'm a journalist, and I've just spent the last year trying to find out why the person

who murdered my grandmother is probably walking around free, and learn what not knowing

has done to us.

So I've been back in my hometown, Greenville, Mississippi.

...