Emory murders: A community in crisis

Published 12:00 am Monday, January 25, 2016

Rains County Sheriff David Traylor, left, and lead investigator Richard Almon pose Tuesday, Nov. 24, 2015, in the courtroom in the county courthouse in downtown Emory. The duo are still at a loss to explain the grisly scene they were called out to in the early-morning hours of March 1, 2008, to find a gravely injured Terry Caffey and, later, the remains of his wife and two sons in the burned out remains of their rural Emory home. Andrew D. Brosig/Tyler Morning Telegraph

NOTE: This is the second of a three-day series of articles reflecting back on this 2008 incident.

EMORY – Veteran lawman Richard Almon spent most of his career enforcing the laws of Rains County.



He saw plenty of property thefts, stray cattle and domestic squabbles, but no case haunted his dreams like the early morning call about a pastor’s family trapped and dying inside a burning home.

“Getting called out to a scene like that, there’s no way to prepare for it,” he said. “It was a day you never forget.”

Pastor Terry Caffey managed to escape the March 1, 2008, inferno, but his wife, Penny, and two young sons, Matthew, 13, and Tyler, 8, did not.

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Wounded by gunfire, Caffey told authorities armed intruders attacked his family as they slept, naming his daughter Erin’s boyfriend, Charlie Wilkinson, 19, as a participant.

His account sparked a brief manhunt that resulted in the arrests and convictions of the family’s oldest child, Erin, 16, Wilkinson and two others.

Almost eight years later, the smallest details of the tragedy remain fresh in the memories of some first responders, who say their lives changed forever that night.

Some emergency workers said it feels as if no time has passed at all; others said memories of the horror are simply too painful to discuss.

For Almon, the case is something that always triggers a single thought: Why?

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he said. “We understand the crime, but why it occurred? I don’t think we’ll ever have that answer.”

The former sheriff’s investigator was among those summoned to the crime scene on County Road 2370 on behalf of the sheriff’s office early that morning, after Caffey reached his neighbor’s home and begged for help.

The 9-1-1 call ignited a flurry of calls for emergency assistance throughout the town, rousting sleepy first responders from slumber and sending them scrambling to lend a hand.

Emory volunteer firefighters rolled up on the crime scene to find flames rolling out of what remained of Caffey’s two-story wood home.

The metal roof collapsed, concealing the home’s contents beneath.

With heavy hearts, firefighters knew their role that night was more about containment and recovery than rescue.

Almon could see the angry glow of the fire long before he reached the site.

He traveled up the tree-lined road toward the house as searing flames consumed the structure and Caffey was being loaded onto an ambulance.

“It was horrifying,” Almon said. “The rest of his family was still in the house, and the house was fully engulfed in flames.”

But there was little anyone could do to help them.

Local authorities sought assistance from at least 10 local, state and federal agencies, including the federal bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms and Texas Rangers to name a few.

Based on Caffey’s eyewitness description of the attack, lawmen quickly located Wilkinson, 18; his hunting buddy, Charles Allen Waid, 20; and Waid’s girlfriend, Bobbi Johnson, 18.

Officers executing a search warrant at a nearby mobile home frequented by the suspects were also surprised to find a pajama-clad Erin nestled in a pile of clothing on the floor.

The girl was initially presumed to have died in the fire with her family.

Appearing dazed and disoriented, Erin told authorities two men dressed in black forced her to lie on the ground as the house was burning, and she woke up later at the mobile home.

Authorities treated her at first as a victim, until they interviewed the other three suspects and realized things just weren’t adding up.

The suspect trio discussed their roles in the slayings, and they all told similar stories, naming Erin as the mastermind.

“They told us everything,” Almon said recently. “I think the plan just spiraled out of control … they just got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

Erin, however, never owned up to allegations, telling authorities it was Wilkinson who helped plan the scheme to eliminate her parents’ interference in the relationship.

Authorities believe they know the motivation.

“I think he loved her,” Almon said of Wilkinson’s willingness to participate.

Money seemed to be the lure for Waid.

He needed cash, authorities said, and the Caffeys had a lockbox with a small amount of cash inside.

Waid expected to receive about $2,000, but the final takeaway was closer to a few hundred dollars, authorities said.

It took more than a week to gather and catalog the crime scene evidence, which included bloody clothing, weapons and Erin’s overnight travel bag, Almon said.

Years later, questions remain on how it came to this.

“The four, we never had dealings with them,” said Rains County Sheriff David Traylor. “This kind of came out of the blue.”

The sheriff said the young suspects weren’t known troublemakers in school or in the community.

Ms. Brown was a graduating senior; Waid had a child and a job; Wilkinson was a member of the Texas National Guard; Erin was a preacher’s kid.

“It was brought out that this was a dispute between the daughter and the family because she wasn’t allowed to see a boy she wanted to see,” the sheriff said. “It’s hard to imagine kids of that age doing something of this magnitude.”

Perhaps more horrifying was their behavior afterward, he said.

“The whole time they were here, they showed no remorse, no concern, no nothing,” Traylor said. “That was the first time I can remember anyone acting like that … we’ve never had to deal with a group like that.”

Almon said he’s still bothered by the killers’ reactions to being caught.

“We’ve dealt with sociopaths before, but not at that age,” he said. “They just didn’t seem to care.”

Almon is no longer with the agency, but still thinks about the case almost daily, especially upon seeing first responders and others associated with it.

“This case was the worst, most heinous crime to happen in a rural community like this,” he said. “I don’t know if the community has come to grips with it yet.”

LEANING ON FAITH

Pastor Todd McGahee’s eyes seem weary when he talks about the night in 2008 when his church lost four congregation members in an unspeakable act.

McGahee, then a relative newcomer to the ministry, was still growing into his position at the close-knit Miracle Faith Baptist Church when the Caffeys’ crisis unfolded.

Caffey was serving as the church’s youth pastor; his wife, Penny, was the church pianist.

Upon learning about the murders, McGahee and his wife, Rebecca, raced to the hospital where Caffey was being treated for his wounds.

The couple helped him shoulder the emotional anguish of the loss and then tried to regroup privately to comfort their own family and then the church congregation.

An exhausted McGahee had to face his church family the following morning and share a message of hope for brighter days.

He decided to ditch his prepared sermon and speak from the heart, allowing the words to flow naturally and unrehearsed.

It was a packed house.

The somber crowd huddled together, sharing tissues and hugs as they listened.

They were already missing Penny’s stirring piano solos.

McGahee’s expression today seems to take on a far away look when he recalls that difficult Sunday morning after the murders.

He said the sermon words just came to him that morning, as if he had practiced for weeks.

“I preach from the word of God,” he said. “I use His words, not mine … that Sunday, I preached that God is still God.”

McGahee reminded the audience that people are flawed and only God is perfect.

Bad things can happen anywhere, even in places like Emory, he said, adding, “We are living in a fallen world.”

Mrs. McGahee said it was the sermon of her husband’s career.

She recalled his strength, as he shouldered the grieving congregation.

“He wasn’t my husband then, he was my pastor,” she said, eyes suddenly glassy with emotion. “He gave me words of comfort.”

McGahee later would officiate the funeral for Penny and the boys, as well as comfort the hearts of his own family.

The McGahee children were close friends with the Caffey boys, and the couple worried about the effects of the hurt.

“I felt like my oldest had found a friend for life,” Mrs. McGahee said. “They really lost a lot.”

McGahee knew people would begin to heal with time, prayer and spiritual support, but he never suspected his own healing would be complicated by friendship.

“The most difficult part was going with Terry to see his daughter,” McGahee said. “I went because she was a member of the church. I was her pastor, too.”

What he saw in the girl concerned him.

She seemed cold, detached, unconcerned.

“It was like nothing had happened,” McGahee said. “That was so shocking … I knew there was nothing I could offer.”

He wrestled with how to help Caffey, who was unable to accept his daughter was as deeply involved as authorities said.

The congregation became unusually silent in the weeks after the murders, but McGahee did not.

Caffey was lifted up in prayer, as were the families of the victims and suspects.

 “We prayed for all four of them,” he said.

About two months after the murders, McGahee said the community seemed to be going on about life as if nothing had happened.

As a pastor, he hoped people would deal with the tragedy through faith in God, not avoidance.

Years later, the couple wonders if it’s possible to fully reconcile a hurt that is never acknowledged.

“Nobody really says anything,” said McGahee, who now is pastoring at a different church in the area.

A LIFE IN LIMBO

In the weeks and months after the murders, Caffey said he leaned on family and friends and tried to regroup.

He insisted on returning to the old home place, purchasing a small recreational vehicle and parking it near the spot where his family died.

Many thought the move might be too much for a devastated man to bear, and in many respects, they were right.

Some days found him digging through the wreckage of the house, searching for a trace of the home and family he loved – the children’s playthings, his wife’s kitchen implements.

When he would pause from the work and look down the long, bumpy road, things looked normal, as if Penny and the kids would pull up the driveway any minute.

In place of the house, however, there was an ugly scar on the land instead of a home.

Caffey hated nightfall the most. The nights passed slowly and there was little sleep.

He missed his wife and the comforting smells that drifted from her kitchen.

He missed the noises that boys made when they would play fight and tease one another.

When it became apparent his new norm was eating a microwaveable dinner alone in a quiet travel trailer, a despondent Caffey decided it was time for him to die, too.

He began plotting his suicide.

“I couldn’t stand to be alone,” he said.

Caffey returned to Miracle Faith church for a short time, but the memories of happier days were just too painful.

“I think it was just too difficult for him to come,” McGahee said. “That was where his family attended church, where Penny played the piano.”

Well-meaning people tried to help, but no one could ease his suffering and despair.

In particularly dark hours of his life, Caffey said he began questioning God.

Why him? Why his family?

He eventually mustered a return to prayer and work, accepting comfort from a work acquaintance he married about seven months after the murders.

The quick union apparently shocked some people, but Caffey said he was desperate to reclaim a sense of normalcy and a reason to see the dawn.

He started seeing a counselor, who encouraged him to journal about his thoughts and experiences.

Caffey began writing – haltingly at first – then with great intensity. The blank page became a source of solace, a quiet, unwavering pillar on which to lean on sleepless nights.

He poured his grief and agony onto the journal, questioning why he was selected to shoulder such an indescribable burden and how to forgive those who trespassed against him.

James Pence, a family friend and freelance writer, saw purpose in the writings.

He compelled Caffey to share the journal as a way to help people cope with adversity. Pence used the writing as the basis for a book about the events of the past year.

Caffey also resumed his work in the ministry, using the tragic experience as a way to connect with others who were suffering.

“A minister friend told me the best way to get through depression is to minister to others. It takes the focus off you,” he said. “I started sharing my story … I wanted something good to come out of this tragedy.”

LETTER OF THE LAW

As Caffey worked to navigate a new course in his life, Rains County District Attorney Robert Vititow was preparing to hold the culprits accountable.

The fact-finding Vititow started out his career in accounting, but took a liking to law while working on his master’s degree.

It’s satisfying work that comes with long hours and a seemingly endless flow of pending cases, he said.

Vititow said he doesn’t remember every detail about everything that crosses his desk, but there are exceptions.

The Caffey case is one of them.

“I’ve been here since ’99, and it was the most tragic case I’ve ever seen,” he said. “Any time something happens to young kids, it hits hard. It was a horrible case for any location, people made horrible decisions.”

Vititow knew the behind-the-scenes efforts for prosecuting a single capital murder case required hours of preparation.

Four cases could swamp the office and create an unnecessary backlog for everyone.

He summoned assistance from the Texas Attorney General’s Office. Working alongside veteran state prosecutor Lisa Tanner, the pair decided to seek the death penalty, but found Caffey offered little cooperation.

The anguished father didn’t want to risk the possibility his daughter could receive the death penalty, so he asked prosecutors to consider lesser punishments for all four.

Caffey said he believed allowing the four to serve out their sentences meant they might eventually repent of their sins.

His request frustrated state and local prosecutors.

“We didn’t seek the death penalty, because Mr. Caffey didn’t want it,” Vititow said.

After much discussion, prosecutors agreed that if a lesser sentence somehow lessened Caffey’s pain, they would support the request.

It also saved the county about $2 million in trial costs, Vititow added.

Wilkinson and Waid agreed to plead guilty to three counts of capital murder for carrying out the slayings. They are serving life sentences without parole, a sentence Caffey supports.

Ms. Johnson, who waited nearby during the killings, received 40 years and is eligible for parole in 2028.

Erin was given two life sentences, plus 25 years. She must serve at least 40 years before she is eligible for parole.

Vititow isn’t entirely satisfied about the idea of forgoing the death penalty for the four young accomplices, but he said it was appropriate to consider Caffey’s point of view.

“It’s just a sad, sad deal,” he said.

Sheriff Traylor agreed, saying he’s comfortable with the outcome.

Traylor said a death sentence would be a quick way out.

“I believe justice was done,” said Traylor. “They are going to live with it day by day … I guess you can say the good Lord was working with us to get this thing settled or taken care of. Now the kids, they will later take their business up with Him one of these days.”

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