Carey Marcella McClintock

by Stan McClintock

It was the middle of August when I received a package from Carey’s uncle Ed.  Upon opening the package I discovered a book with the following words written inside the front cover.  “I pray that THE SHACK will stir your heart as it did mine. After you’ve read it let’s talk. Ed”

As I began to read I soon learned that this was a story of profound sadness that would eventually lead to hope.   I found myself crying as I read of “Missy’s” brutal murder and of her father’s “Mack’s” unspeakable grief.   The back cover offers the following words,

I can’t help but wonder if this book was meant to bring me hope. Was GOD, through Ed, seeking to prepare me for what was going to happen to Carey?  I really don’t know but I hope it is so.

Over eight years ago, August 8, 2000, my wife Brenda learned of her son Christopher’s brutal murder in Nashville, TN. I couldn’t imagine the sadness and utter despair that she felt. I tried my best to feel what she felt but learned I couldn’t.

August 31, 2008 came and went with my having no sense that something terribly wrong was taking place.  When Carey made the decision to run away to avoid serving what she felt would be a long prison sentence in her upcoming Drug Conspiracy trial I had mixed feelings.  On the one hand I hoped she could find a new life, free of drugs, and free of harmful relationships.   She asked me what I would do if faced with a long prison sentence and all I could offer was I didn’t know.   I told her she would have a long life after leaving prison and that we would help her get a college degree while incarcerated.   Her response was that she couldn’t surrender what she felt were the best years of her life to spend in prison.   Before she left I told her that she was leaving the very people that loved her unconditionally, her family. I warned that if anyone else did anything for her they would want something from her in return.   I added that she would never again be able to trust anyone.

I received a phone call mid-morning on September 17, 2008.   I was working on the computer and glanced over at the caller ID showing a call from the City of El Paso.   Not knowing anyone in El Paso I continued to work.   After a few minutes I thought…“El Paso, isn’t that on the border with Mexico?”   I picked up the phone and listened to “I’m trying to reach Mr. McClintock. I have information regarding Carey Marcella McClintock. Would you please call me?”   I immediately called and a detective in the El Paso Police Department answered.   He asked if I knew Carey Marcella McClintock and I responded of course, Carey’s my daughter.  Without waiting for a reply I asked if Carey had been arrested and was in jail.   After a period of silence he began “I’m sorry but I have bad news about your daughter”.   My heart stopped….my whole world stopped.   He began again “Carey was murdered in Juarez on August 31 and we need to have you come to identify her body.”   I remember screaming “How do you know it’s Carey?” He informed me that the coroner in Juarez had forwarded fingerprints and that there was a 99% match.   My mind immediately raced forward to they weren’t 100% sure.   I remember crying out “Why would anyone want to harm Carey? She couldn’t hurt anyone.   There must be a mistake.”   He continued  “You need to call the American Consulate in Juarez to make arrangements for your visit”.  I know we talked for a few more minutes but my shock wouldn’t allow me to hear much less remember what was said.

I remember calling my wife at work and screaming “They called and said Carey is dead.   Someone murdered her in Juarez.   Please come home.”

Over three months have gone by since I learned of my precious daughter’s death.  Therapists that specialize in grief say that you know you’re getting better when your first thought in the morning and your last thought at night isn’t about your loss.  Perhaps in time this will be true.   I’ve learned to cry with a smile on my face.   I’ve learned to engage in conversations by offering preprogrammed responses while protecting secret thoughts of my daughter.   I’ve learned to say her name often as a means of somehow keeping her in the present.  I’m also sure that I have much more to learn.

The following simple poem reflects for me the truth of the moment. Perhaps it does the same for those of you who knew and loved Carey.