Keith Morrison

Her name was Victoria Richardson.

She said she was in her car with three other people that night, listening to music near the northwest corner of the parking lot.

This is within a few minutes of the shooting.

And yet he told you he didn't see anybody.

That's correct.

Strange, especially given Jennings' willingness to help and his remarkable memory that he would somehow forget this crucial encounter.

So that sets off some kind of alarm in your head.

Detective Longshore wondered what else Jennings had not remembered.

But nothing could have prepared him for this from the talkative Mr. Jennings.

And he wasn't exactly wrong.

But it was infuriating.

No murder weapon, no eyewitness to contradict the talkative guard.

Longshore didn't have the evidence to go after Jennings, and he certainly couldn't go public with his detective hunches.

It doesn't work that way.

But maybe he didn't have to.

The rumors about Jennings were getting around, but also soon offers of a speedier kind of justice.

That's Pat O'Keefe, desperate to find her daughter's killer.

She recorded a public service announcement for local TV.

Husband Mike standing solemnly behind her, hand on a shoulder.

By no means all they did.