In the summer of 1984, I was a newly married Navy wife away from my home in Texas for the first time in my life (I didn’t count the frequent family trips to Mexico during my childhood). Away from my parents’ ever mindful care, I felt free and unencumbered by restraints of any kind. My husband, Michael, was at sea more often than he was home, and I had a car all to myself. I drove to the beach on Saturdays, alone. I drove around in the evenings and got to know the city, alone. I went to the movies, alone. And through all this, I was never, ever afraid.
The August 1984 murder of young Tammy Welch was a watershed day for young 19-year-old me. Tammy and her family lived in the same apartment complex that Michael and I had just moved into. Tammy’s murder changed my view of good and evil, of youthful positivity and the loss of innocence. The day before Tammy was murdered, I believed wholeheartedly in the basic goodness of humanity enough that I slept with my bedroom window open whenever I wanted. I often forgot to lock the door of my apartment and, although I knew it was an unwise move, I wasn’t afraid of anything bad ever happening to me. Michael and I had arrived in Jacksonville, Florida in late June and during those first 60 days I had met only the nicest people and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the residents of our apartment complex were friendly, fun-loving, swim-happy people. There were many fellow Navy wives to get to know as well.
After Tammy’s murder, I learned what it felt like to be truly afraid. Suddenly, I was haunted by that large empty field covered with weeds as tall as me located just steps away from my front door. It was now a sinister and frightening thing to look at. Anybody could walk out of those weeds and make their way into my apartment. The news that Tammy’s murderer was still at large made me feel even more anxious and fearful. That killer could be in those weeds. My family and my husband were far away from me, and I felt completely alone.