While eating lunch with co-workers at a local cafe in Randleman, NC, my aunt, Iona Richardson West, was shot and killed by a drunken, crazed man. The shooter who was only ever known to me by his nickname, "Red", was tried, convicted and sentenced to a ridiculously few years in the state penitentiary. At the time of the incident I was less than three years old - he was a free man before I turned fourteen.

Some twenty-five years later while vacationing in an extraordinarily crowded Fourth of July Week in Myrtle Beach, SC, my wife and her parents decided to shop in a particular store. I preferred to sit on a bench just outside the entrance and wait. I joined an elderly gentleman who apparently also preferred to wait outside the store. Striking up a conversation with him I soon learned that he was from North Carolina. As I told him that my mother and her family were from Asheboro, North Carolina I went on to name off my several aunts, uncles, and my grandparents.

To my genuine surprise and amazement this gentleman indicated that he knew the people I had named, saying at one point that he even knew where two of them used to live! He asked if my mother lived in Rock Hill, SC. I said "No, my mother lived in Greenwood, SC, but she indeed had a sister who lived in Rock Hill." He replied "I've been to your house before." "How's that", I said.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw my relatives leaving the store and getting into our car, so I stood us to leave; but before walking away the man said "I was involved in the 'Iona thing'." Thinking that I had happened upon someone who might well have been a friend of my Aunt Iona I stood still and asked him if he had been a ambulance driver, or something, at the shooting. He softly said, "No… I did the shooting."

Words simply failed me at that moment! Do I express my familial anger? Do I sit down and ask him questions? Do I spit in his face and shake him by the shoulders? Do I curse and accuse? But, words would not come to my lips. My mind and body were awash with conflicting emotions. In the end I simply turned and walked away in stunned silence.

In the following years I've often remarked to my wife that had I hired a team of detectives to find this man in the throng of folks at Myrtle Beach I'm sure they would have failed. And, then I add an aside: "In light of the odds against our chance meeting and my discovering his identity I really should buy a lottery ticket!

Iona B West