Woman Vanished Dog Walking — 8 Years Later, Her Dog’s Tag Found Buried in Suspect’s Yard…

 

If you found a buried dog tag with a phone number, would you call it? Comment yes or no right now—because what happened next would shake an entire California suburb to its core.

It started with a landscaper’s shovel striking metal. He thought it was just an old sprinkler head, something forgotten beneath the soil. But when he brushed away the dirt, what he uncovered was a small, corroded dog tag, the letters faint but still legible: Bailey. On the back was a phone number. The tag had been buried eighteen inches deep—far too deep for a casual loss. It was spring of 2024. The house belonged to a man named Kenneth Morrison. The landscaper, curious and uneasy, wiped the tag clean and did what most people wouldn’t—he called the number.

A man answered. His voice was confused, then sharp, then utterly silent when the landscaper explained what he’d found. The man said quietly, “That’s impossible. That dog’s been missing eight years. And so has my wife.”

To understand what that meant, we need to go back to October 3, 2016.

Monday morning in Riverside, California. The Parker house sat on a quiet street where the lawns were always clipped short and the neighbors all waved. It was the kind of neighborhood that made people believe they were safe. Jennifer Parker, forty-two years old, mother, teacher’s aide, and known for her gentle smile, was up early as usual. The coffee machine sputtered softly on the counter. Outside, the air was cool and still, dew glittering on the grass.

She moved around the kitchen in yoga pants and a purple fleece jacket, her blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Her husband, Robert, was upstairs, running late as usual, thumping drawers and hangers. Their golden retriever, Bailey, sat by the front door, tail sweeping against the rug in expectation. This was their ritual—Jennifer and Bailey’s morning walk, two miles through the quiet grid of Oakmont Drive, down Maple Street, looping around the park, back home before seven-thirty.

At 6:47 a.m., Jennifer poured her coffee into a travel mug. “I’m taking Bailey out!” she called up the stairs.

“Back before I leave?” Robert’s voice echoed down.

“Twenty minutes,” she replied. “Same as always.”

She clipped the red nylon leash to Bailey’s collar—a cheerful bone-shaped tag dangling, catching the kitchen light as it jingled. The tag read Bailey on the front, and on the back, Jennifer’s cell number—just in case. They’d lived here six years. She knew every house, every car, every friendly face along their route.

At 7:03 a.m., neighbor Carol Mason saw her walk by and waved from the driveway. Jennifer smiled and waved back. Bailey tugged toward the yard where Carol’s cat often sat in the window, but Jennifer laughed and kept walking. It was an ordinary morning.

That was the last time anyone ever saw Jennifer Parker alive.

At 7:32, Robert came downstairs with his tie half-knotted, keys in hand. The house was quiet. He poured the last of the coffee, glanced out the window, expecting to see his wife and dog coming up the street. Nothing. He checked his watch. She was always back by now. He called her phone. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

He waited five more minutes, pacing the living room. Called again. No answer. By 7:45, his calm started to crack. Jennifer was punctual—predictable in the way only organized people can be. He grabbed his jacket and went out to look.

He drove the familiar route: down Oakmont, left on Maple, around the park. He expected to see her any second—a flash of purple fleece, Bailey’s golden coat. But the streets were empty.

Halfway home, something caught his eye. On the sidewalk, three blocks from their house, a glint of metal. He pulled over, heart pounding, and saw it: Jennifer’s phone lying face down, screen spiderwebbed with cracks. Next to it was Bailey’s red collar. The leash was still clipped to it, the tag missing.

Robert’s hands shook as he picked them up. The morning was still, birds chirping somewhere distant. He looked up and down the street. Every lawn was perfectly still, every window blank. It felt wrong—too quiet, too clean.

He dialed 911. His voice was tight but steady. “My wife went for a walk with our dog. She didn’t come home. I found her phone and the dog’s collar on the sidewalk. Something’s wrong.”

Within six minutes, two patrol cars arrived. The responding officers found Robert standing beside his car, holding the cracked phone and red collar like fragile evidence. They took statements, collected the items, and began canvassing the street.

No one had seen anything.

No one had heard a sound.

Detective Marcus Webb arrived at 8:47 a.m. A veteran of twenty-six years, he’d seen his share of missing persons—runaways, custody disputes, the occasional abduction. He knew the clock was already ticking. He crouched near where the collar was found, scanning the pavement, the trimmed hedges, the open yards.

The location was in front of 1247 Oakmont Drive—the home of a 68-year-old man named Kenneth Morrison. Retired postal worker, widower, lived alone with two black labs. The neighbors called him “dog guy.” He walked his dogs twice a day, volunteered at the local shelter, offered to dog-sit when people went on vacation. Harmless. Trusted.

Webb knocked on the door. After a long pause, it creaked open. Morrison stood there in a bathrobe, his silver hair messy, glasses slipping down his nose.

“Detective Webb, Riverside Police,” Webb said. “We’re investigating a missing person—Jennifer Parker. She walks her dog by here most mornings. Her phone and the dog’s collar were found on the sidewalk outside.”

Morrison frowned, blinking as if trying to wake up. “This morning? I didn’t hear anything. I got home around six, from my night shift. I sleep during the day.”

Webb studied him, reading every movement, every blink. “Mind if I take a quick look around your property?”

Morrison hesitated just a second too long, then stepped aside. “Of course. Anything to help.”

Webb walked through the yard. The grass was freshly watered, the air faintly smelling of fertilizer. Two labs barked from the fenced backyard. He peeked around, noting the shed, the side gate, the tools neatly hung on a pegboard inside the garage. Everything looked normal. Too normal.

He thanked Morrison and moved on. But something about the man’s calmness stuck in his mind.

By noon, the entire neighborhood was crawling with officers. They went door to door, collected home security footage, and built a map of Jennifer’s walk. Out of forty-three homes interviewed, six had cameras. None captured Jennifer.

Her route had blind spots—areas where the street curved or where the cameras didn’t reach. Somewhere in one of those blind spots, she and Bailey had vanished.

By evening, the case escalated. FBI was notified, drones were deployed, and K9 units arrived. The German Shepherds picked up Jennifer’s scent from her phone, following it down Oakmont. But then something strange happened.

Halfway to the park, the trail split.

One dog veered left, toward the park. Another pulled right, toward the houses. The handlers double-checked, confused. The two dogs were both trained, reliable, but they couldn’t agree. It was as if Jennifer had gone in two directions at once. Then, abruptly, both dogs lost the scent.

The search widened—through storm drains, dumpsters, wooded areas behind the park. They found nothing. No blood, no torn fabric, no sign of struggle. Jennifer and Bailey were simply gone.

By the third day, media swarmed the neighborhood. Helicopters buzzed overhead. The headline spread like wildfire: Riverside Woman and Dog Vanish Without a Trace.

Robert stood on his porch, surrounded by cameras, his voice breaking as he begged for information. “Please. If you’ve seen her—if you have her—let her come home. I just need to know she’s okay.”

Hundreds of tips poured in. Most were useless. A few were cruel. One man claimed to have seen a woman with a golden retriever near a rest stop forty miles north—but the footage showed nothing.

Detective Webb worked tirelessly, piecing fragments that never connected. He ruled out voluntary disappearance—Jennifer had no reason to run. No debts, no affairs, no secrets. She was simply a kind woman who walked her dog every morning and never made it back.

Behind closed doors, suspicion began to form a shape. Someone local. Someone who knew her route. Someone who could strike, quietly, in that narrow window between 6:50 and 7:20 a.m.

When the leads dried up, the Parker case went cold.

But eight years later, when a landscaper dug up a corroded dog tag with Bailey’s name—and a phone number that hadn’t changed since that morning—everything that had been buried with it began to surface again.

And for the first time, Detective Webb would learn that the truth had been waiting all along, just eighteen inches beneath the earth.

Continue bel0w

 

 

If you found a buried dog tag with a phone number, would you call it? Comment yes or no right now because what happened next will shock you. A landscaper finds a dog’s ID tag buried in a backyard. Spring 2024, 18 in underground. The tag says Bailey with a phone number on back. He calls it. A man answers.

 Says that’s impossible. That dog’s been missing 8 years with my wife. Hit subscribe because this case is wild. This is how a dog’s ID tag solved a murder. Monday morning, October 3rd, 2016. The Parker House sits on a quiet street in Riverside, California. Inside, Jennifer Parker is making coffee. She’s 42 years old, dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing yoga pants and a purple fleece jacket. It’s 6:47 a.m.

Her husband, Robert, is upstairs getting ready for work. Their golden retriever, Bailey, is sitting by the front door, waiting. She knows the routine. Jennifer pours coffee into a travel mug, calls up the stairs that she’s taking Bailey out. Robert asks if she’ll be back before he leaves. 20 minutes, she says.

 Same as always. Jennifer clips the leash to Bayleyy’s collar. The collar is red nylon with a bone-shaped metal tag that jingles. The tag has Bailey’s name on the front, Jennifer’s cell phone number on the back, just in case. They’ve lived in this neighborhood for 6 years. Everyone knows everyone. It’s the kind of place where people leave garage doors open, where kids ride bikes unsupervised, where the biggest crime is someone not picking up after their dog.

Jennifer and Bailey walk this route every morning down Oakmont Drive, left on Maple Street, around the park, back home. 2 miles takes about 25 minutes. She’s done it hundreds of times. At 7:03 a.m., Jennifer’s neighbor, Carol, sees her walking past, waves from her driveway. Jennifer waves back.

 Bailey pulls toward Carol’s yard where their cat usually sits in the window. Jennifer keeps walking. That’s the last time anyone sees Jennifer Parker alive. At 7:32 a.m., Robert Parker comes downstairs, keys in hand, ready to leave for work. But Jennifer isn’t back yet. He looks out the front window. No sign of her on the street. He calls her cell phone.

 It rings and rings. Goes to voicemail. He’s not worried yet. Maybe she ran into a neighbor. Maybe Bailey found something interesting. He waits 5 more minutes, calls again. Still no answer. At 7:45, he’s starting to worry. Jennifer is never late. She’s the most punctual person he knows. He gets in his car, drives the route she always walks down Oakmont, left on Maple, around the park.

Nothing. No Jennifer, no Bailey. He circles back. That’s when he sees it. Jennifer’s phone on the sidewalk, three blocks from their house, face down on the concrete, screen cracked, and next to it, Bailey’s red collar, the leash still attached, the metal tag missing. Robert pulls over, gets out, picks up the phone, the collar, his hands are shaking. He looks around.

 The street is empty. Houses on both sides, neat lawns, quiet morning. Where is she? He calls 911. His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the fear underneath. My wife went for a walk with our dog. She didn’t come home. I found her phone and the dog’s collar on the sidewalk. Something’s wrong. The Riverside Police Department responds within 6 minutes.

 Two patrol officers arrive. They find Robert standing by his car, holding Jennifer’s phone and Bailey’s collar. The officers take statements, get a description of Jennifer, description of Bailey. They search the immediate area, knock on doors. Did anyone see anything? Hear anything? A dog barking? A woman yelling? Nobody saw anything unusual.

Nobody heard anything. It’s as if Jennifer and Bailey simply evaporated on a Monday morning on a quiet suburban street. Detective Marcus Webb arrives at 8:47 a.m. He’s 51 years old, 26 years with Riverside PD. He’s worked missing persons before. He knows that the first few hours are critical.

 He examines the scene. Jennifer’s phone and Bailey’s collar were found on the sidewalk in front of 1247 Oakmont Drive. The house belongs to Kenneth Morrison, age 68. Retired postal worker, lives alone, known in the neighborhood as the dog person. He walks his two labs every evening. Offers to dogsit for neighbors. Everyone trusts him.

Detective Web knocks on Morrison’s door. No answer. He knocks again. Finally, the door opens. Kenneth Morrison stands there in a bathrobe. Gray hair, glasses, looks like someone’s grandfather. Webb identifies himself, explains that a woman and her dog went missing this morning.

 Her phone and the dog’s collar were found in front of Morrison’s house. Did he see or hear anything unusual? Morrison seems genuinely surprised. Says he was asleep until just now. Works night shift security at a warehouse. Gets home at 6:00 a.m. Goes straight to bed. Didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. Webb asks if he can look around the property.

 Morrison hesitates, then says, “Of course. Anything to help?” Webb walks around the house, checks the backyard, the side gates. Everything looks normal. Morrison’s two labs are in the backyard. They bark when Webb approaches the fence. Webb thanks Morrison, takes his contact information, moves on to the next house. Over the next 6 hours, police canvas the entire neighborhood.

 They interview 43 residents, review security camera footage from six homes. None of the cameras captured Jennifer or Bailey on their morning walk. The route she took had blind spots, areas where no cameras pointed. Jennifer had walked into one of those blind spots and vanished. By evening, the case has escalated. FBI is notified.

 Amber Alert isn’t applicable because there’s no child involved, but the case is treated with the same urgency. Jennifer Parker is a low-risk victim. Happily married, no financial problems, no secret life, no reason to disappear, which means something happened to her. K9 units arrive. German Shepherds trained in human tracking.

 They pick up Jennifer’s scent from her phone track it down the sidewalk. The dogs move purposefully, following a trail. They reach the spot where Jennifer’s phone was found. Then the trail splits. One dog goes left toward the park. Another goes right toward the residential area. The handlers are confused. The scent goes in two different directions.

 As if Jennifer walked both ways simultaneously. Then the dogs lose the scent entirely. They circle, sniff, can’t find it again. The trail just ends. Search teams spread out. They comb through the park, the nearby green belt, storm drains, dumpsters. construction sites, every place someone could hide a body. They find nothing.

 No sign of Jennifer, no sign of Bailey, no blood, no torn clothing, no evidence of a struggle. It’s as if they walked off the face of the earth. By the third day, the media has picked up the story. Missing woman and dog vanish during morning walk. Jennifer’s photo is everywhere. News helicopters fly over the neighborhood. Reporters interview neighbors.

 Everyone says the same thing. This is a safe neighborhood. Things like this don’t happen here. Robert Parker makes a tearful appeal on television. Please, if you have Jennifer, let her come home. If you know anything, call the police. Just let me know she’s okay. The tip line receives hundreds of calls. Most are well-meaning but useless.

 Some are from psychics claiming they know where Jennifer is. Some are cruel hoaxes. None lead anywhere. Detective Web focuses on the most likely scenarios. Stranger abduction is rare but possible. The timing suggests someone was waiting. Someone who knew Jennifer’s routine. Someone who knew she walked the same route every morning.

Webb pulls a list of sex offenders in the area. 14 registered within a 5m radius. He and his team interview all of them, verify their whereabouts on October 3rd. All have alibis. None have any connection to Jennifer. Webb expands the search, looks at recent paroleies. Anyone with a history of violence against women.

 He finds a name that stands out. Derek Lindon, age 34, parrolled 6 months ago after serving 8 years for assault. The assault was against a woman he met while she was walking her dog. He attacked her in broad daylight, tried to drag her into his van. She fought him off. He was caught, served his time. Now he’s out, and he lives four blocks from where Jennifer vanished.

 Webb brings Derek Lyndon in for questioning. Lyndon sits across from him in the interrogation room. He’s thin, nervous, fidgeting with his hands. Webb asks where he was on the morning of October 3rd. Lyndon says he was home alone. No witnesses, no alibi. Webb leans forward. A woman disappeared that morning.

 Four blocks from your apartment. You have a history of attacking women walking dogs. You see why we’re talking to you? Lyndon’s eyes go wide. He shakes his head. No. He says, “I didn’t do anything. I’ve been clean since I got out. I haven’t even looked at anyone. Webb doesn’t believe him. The timeline fits. The location fits. The victim profile fits.

 For 3 days, Derek Lyndon is the prime suspect. Police search his apartment, his car, his storage unit. They pull his phone records, his computer. They interview his parole officer, his employer, everyone he’s had contact with since his release. And they find nothing. No evidence connecting him to Jennifer. No dog hair in his car. No trace of Bailey.

No searches on his computer related to the case. His parole officer confirms he’s been compliant. Showed up to all his appointments, passed all his drug tests. His employer confirms he was at work from 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. on October 3rd. He couldn’t have taken Jennifer. He would have had to hide her somewhere before going to work.

 But where? Police search every location connected to him, every place he’s been since his release. They find nothing. On day five, Lyndon’s public defender provides security camera footage from a 7-Eleven 3 blocks from his apartment. The footage shows Lyndon buying coffee at 6:52 a.m. on October 3rd. The timestamp is clear.

 He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing when he left his apartment. At 7:14 a.m. He’s back on the same camera buying a newspaper. The timing doesn’t work. Jennifer was last seen at 7:03 a.m. Her phone was found at 7:32 a.m. If Lyndon was at the 7-Eleven at 7:14, he couldn’t have abducted her. The store is in the opposite direction from where Jennifer vanished.

 He couldn’t have made it there in 11 minutes. Not with a struggling woman and a 60 lb dog. Webb releases Lyndon. He’s not the guy, which means they’re back to square one. As the investigation drags on, the family’s desperation grows. Robert puts up a $10,000 reward for information. He organizes search parties, prints flyers, plasters Jennifer’s photo all over the city.

 He keeps Jennifer’s cell phone number active, pays the bill every month, just in case she tries to call just in case someone finds her phone and calls to return it. He can’t let go of that last connection. Jennifer’s parents fly in from Oregon. They’re devastated. Their daughter is gone. Their granddaughter, who was a golden retriever, is gone.

 No answers, no closure, just an empty space where Jennifer used to be. By December, the case goes cold. The active search is called off. The FBI moves on to other cases. Detective Web keeps the file open, but there’s nothing new to investigate. Every lead has been chased. Every theory explored. Jennifer Parker and Bailey have simply vanished.

 For Robert, time stops on October 3rd, 2016. He goes to work, comes home to an empty house, walks the route Jennifer used to walk, hoping to see something the police missed. He never does. Every Monday morning, he looks out the front window at 6:47 a.m. The time Jennifer would have left with Bailey. The street is always empty. Years pass.

The neighborhood changes. People move away. New families move in. The story of the missing woman becomes neighborhood legend. A cautionary tale. Don’t walk alone. Pay attention to your surroundings. The house at 1247 Oakmont Drive, where Jennifer’s phone was found, where Kenneth Morrison lived, goes up for sale in 2018.

Morrison tells his realtor he’s moving to Florida, wants to be closer to his daughter. The house sells quickly. A young couple, firsttime buyers. They have big plans for renovations. In March 2024, they hire a landscaping company. The old backyard is overgrown, needs a complete overhaul. The landscaper, a man named Tony Reyes, starts by clearing the old bushes along the back fence.

 He’s digging out roots when his shovel hits something metal. He assumes it’s old irrigation equipment. Maybe a sprinkler head. He digs around it, pulls it out. It’s not a sprinkler. It’s a dog tag. Bone-haped, stainless steel, covered in dirt and oxidation. He wipes it clean. The engraving is still readable. Bailey. He flips it over.

There’s a phone number. Tony thinks it’s strange. A buried dog tag. Maybe the previous owner’s dog died and they buried it here. But the tag looks old. Really old. Like it’s been in the ground for years. He pulls out his phone, calls the number. Maybe someone’s looking for a lost dog.

 Maybe they’ll want the tag back. The phone rings. A man answers. Tony explains he found a dog tag. The man asks where. Tony gives the address. There’s a long silence. Then the man says that’s impossible. The dog has been missing for 8 years with his wife. Tony doesn’t understand. The man’s voice breaks. He says his name is Robert Parker.

 His wife Jennifer disappeared in 2016. While walking their dog, the dog’s name was Bailey. They vanished on Oakmont Drive, right in front of 1247, the address where Tony is standing. Robert asks if Tony can meet him. Bring the tag. Tony says yes. An hour later, Robert Parker stands in the backyard of 1247 Oakmont Drive for the first time. He hasn’t been on this property since the day Jennifer vanished.

 Police searched it back then, found nothing. But now, standing here holding Bailey’s ID tag, oxidized and dirt stained, he knows Jennifer was here. Bailey was here. This is where they disappeared. Tony shows him where he found the tag. 18 in underground near the back fence. Robert calls Detective Web. Webb is retired now, but he remembers the Parker case.

 It’s one of the ones that haunted him. He tells Robert to call the current detective on duty. Do not touch anything else. This is a crime scene. Within 2 hours, the backyard of 1247 Oakmont Drive is cordoned off with yellow tape. The new homeowners are shocked. They had no idea. The previous owner seems so nice, quiet, kept to himself.

 Riverside PD brings in cadaavver dogs. German shepherds trained to detect human remains. The dogs work the yard systematically. Near the back fence where the tag was found, one dog sits down. The signal that she’s detected something. The handlers mark the spot. An excavation team arrives. They don’t use shovels. They use hand treels and brushes, treating it like an archaeological site.

 12 in down, they find bones. Not human. Canine. the skeleton of a large dog. The remains are carefully removed, sent to a veterinary forensic specialist. Within a day, the specialist confirms the skeleton is consistent with a golden retriever. Age approximately 4 to 6 years. No obvious trauma to the bones. Cause of death, but the location is clear.

 Bailey was buried in Kenneth Morrison’s backyard, which means Kenneth Morrison lied. He told police he didn’t see or hear anything that morning, but Jennifer and Bailey were in his yard. The search continues. If Bailey is buried here, where is Jennifer? Ground penetrating radar is brought in. The technology can detect disturbances in soil areas where digging occurred.

 The radar operator moves slowly across the yard. The equipment shows a large anomaly near the northwest corner under the old tool shed. The shed is carefully dismantled. The ground beneath shows clear signs of disturbance. Excavation begins. 3 ft down. They find human remains. The medical examiner arrives. Dr. Sarah Chen has been with the county for 18 years.

She’s seen a lot, but this case hits differently. She knows the story. Everyone in Riverside knows the story. The woman who vanished while walking her dog. Dr. Chen supervises the careful removal of the remains. They’re well preserved. The soil composition and depth protected them from the elements.

 The remains are transported to the medical examiner’s office for analysis. Dental records confirm what everyone already knows. The remains are Jennifer Parker. She’s been in Kenneth Morrison’s backyard for 8 years, buried under his tool shed, while he lived his life. While he told neighbors how terrible it was that poor Jennifer disappeared, while he moved to Florida and left her behind.

Kenneth Morrison is located in Clearwater, Florida. He’s 76 now, living in a retirement community. Detective Maria Santos from Riverside PD flies out with an arrest warrant. Morrison opens his door in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He looks at the badge at Detective Santos’s face and he knows. He doesn’t ask why she’s there. He just nods.

Lets her in. Sits down in his living room and puts his head in his hands. Santos reads him his rights, asks if he wants a lawyer. Morrison shakes his head, says he’s been waiting for this for 8 years. He’s been waiting. He starts talking. On the morning of October 3rd, 2016, Morrison was in his front yard.

 He just gotten home from his night shift. He was tired, ready for bed. That’s when he saw Jennifer walking Bailey like she did every morning. Bailey saw him pulled toward his yard. Jennifer let her. Bailey came up to the fence. Morrison petted her. Jennifer asked how his dogs were doing.

 They made small talk, normal neighbor conversation. Then Bailey squeezed under a gap in the gate. Morrison’s gate wasn’t latched properly. Bailey got into his backyard. Jennifer followed, apologizing, saying she’d grab Bailey and get out of his way. Morrison told her it was fine. He’d help. They both went into the backyard.

 That’s when Bailey found something she shouldn’t have. Morrison had been growing marijuana in his backyard. Not a lot, just a few plants for personal use, but it was illegal. And Bailey went straight to it. Started digging around the plants. Jennifer saw them. She laughed, said she didn’t care. It wasn’t her business. But Morrison panicked.

 He was on probation for a DUI from 2 years earlier. If anyone found out about the plants, he’d go to jail. He couldn’t go to jail. He just couldn’t. Morrison says Jennifer started to leave, but he was terrified she’d tell someone. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He just wanted her to stop, to listen. He grabbed her arm. She pulled away. He grabbed harder. She fell.

 Hit her head on the concrete patio. There was blood. So much blood. She wasn’t moving. Bailey started barking. Morrison panicked more. He checked for a pulse. There was none. She was dead. It happened so fast. One minute they were neighbors having a conversation. The next minute she was dead in his backyard. He didn’t know what to do.

 He pulled her behind the tool shed. Then he took Bayleyy’s collar off, the collar with the tag that had Jennifer’s phone number. If someone found the dog, they’d call that number. They’d ask questions. He couldn’t have questions. He removed the collar. And then he says, voice breaking, he couldn’t let Bailey leave.

The dog had seen everything, would lead people back to his yard. He took Bailey into his garage, gave her a bowl of food laced with sleeping pills meant for his own dogs. Bailey ate it, went to sleep, never woke up. Morrison put Bayleyy’s collar and Jennifer’s phone out on the sidewalk, made it look like an abduction happened there, not in his yard.

 Then he went to bed like nothing happened. He woke up that afternoon to police knocking on his door. He told them he’d been asleep, hadn’t seen or heard anything, and they believed him. That night, after everyone left, he buried Jennifer under his tool shed, poured concrete over the spot, buried Bailey separately.

 He kept the tag, meant to throw it away, but he couldn’t. It felt wrong, so he buried it by the fence where Bailey had squeezed through. Where this all started, Kenneth Morrison is extradited to California, charged with seconddegree murder, concealment of remains, filing a false police report, and cruelty to animals.

 He pleads guilty to all charges. In June 2024, he’s sentenced. Robert Parker is in the courtroom. He’s 54 now, 8 years older than when Jennifer vanished. He looks older than that. 8 years of not knowing, of hoping, of keeping her phone number active just in case. He’s allowed to speak before sentencing. He stands, looks at Morrison, says Jennifer was walking their dog. That’s all.

 Walking their dog, and you killed her because you were afraid. Because you had a few marijuana plants. Because you panicked. You buried her. You buried Bailey. You let me think for eight years that Jennifer ran away or was kidnapped or was dead somewhere I’d never find her. I kept her phone number. I called it sometimes just to hear her voicemail.

Just to hear her voice. You took that from me. You took 8 years of closure. You took my wife. You took our dog for marijuana. Morrison doesn’t respond. Judge Martin Chen looks at him with disgust. says Morrison had eight years to come forward, eight years to give the Parker family closure. He chose his freedom over their peace.

 He chose to let them suffer. Kenneth Morrison is sentenced to 25 years to life. He’ll be over a hundred before he’s eligible for parole. Robert has Jennifer’s remains cremated, buried in a cemetery near their home. Bailey’s ashes are buried with her in the same earn together again. The neighborhood holds a memorial.

 People who remember Jennifer, who remember seeing her walk Bailey every morning, there’s a bench now in the park where she used to walk. A plaque reads Jennifer Parker and Bailey remembered always. Robert returns to the park sometimes, sits on the bench, and remembers the life they had. Before October 3rd, 2016, before a morning walk ended in a backyard, before 8 years of waiting, Kenneth Morrison sits in his cell and lives with what he did.

 Over a few marijuana plants, over panic, over a choice to hide instead of help. Jennifer Parker was 42 when she died. She loved her dog. She loved her morning walks. She loved her husband. She died for nothing except Kenneth Morrison’s fear.