A Valentine’s Dance, A Stolen Life, and Nearly Half a Century of Waiting for Justice

February 17, 1974, started like any other Sunday evening for teenagers in Fort Worth, Texas. Carla Jan Walker, a 17-year-old cheerleader from nearby Benbrook with an infectious smile and dreams of becoming a nurse, slipped into a pink formal dress and prepared for the Valentine’s Day dance at Western Hills High School. Her boyfriend, Rodney Roy, picked her up that evening, and the young couple headed to the school gymnasium where crepe paper hearts hung from the ceiling and the sounds of 1970s pop music filled the air.​

They had no idea that this would be Carla’s last dance. That within hours, she would be torn from Rodney’s car in an act of violence so brutal it would haunt Fort Worth for nearly half a century. And that the man responsible would live freely among them for 46 years—raising a family, growing old, convinced he had gotten away with the perfect crime.​

He was wrong.

This is the story of how advanced DNA technology, a relentless cold case detective who helped catch the Golden State Killer, and a family who never stopped fighting finally brought justice to Carla Walker. It’s a story about the teenager whose life was stolen on Valentine’s Day weekend. About the boyfriend who carried survivor’s guilt for nearly five decades. About the siblings who grew up in the shadow of their sister’s unsolved murder. And about the ordinary-looking man who hid the darkest of secrets behind a facade of normalcy for longer than Carla ever got to live.​

But most of all, it’s about how evil may hide, but it can never truly escape. Not anymore. Not in the age of DNA.

The Last Night: A Valentine’s Dance Turns Into a Nightmare

The Western Hills High School Valentine’s Dance on February 16, 1974, was everything a teenage celebration should be. Carla Walker, a junior with dark hair and bright eyes, danced with her boyfriend Rodney in a gymnasium decorated with red and pink streamers. She was popular, involved in school activities, and known for her warm personality that drew people to her like a magnet. This was supposed to be a magical night—young love, music, and the promise of spring just weeks away.​

When the dance ended around midnight, Carla and Rodney weren’t ready for the evening to conclude. Like many teenagers, they decided to extend their date by stopping at the Ridglea Bowling Alley on Camp Bowie Boulevard. It wasn’t an unusual choice—the bowling alley was a popular hangout spot where young people gathered. They pulled into the parking lot around 12:30 a.m., planning to use the restrooms before heading home.​

Rodney parked the car in the dimly lit lot. Carla sat in the passenger seat, probably still talking about the dance, about school, about ordinary teenage things that felt important in that moment. Neither of them noticed the danger lurking in the shadows.

What happened next would be seared into Rodney Roy’s memory for the rest of his life.

Without warning, the passenger-side door was violently jerked open. A man’s hand reached in and grabbed Carla. Before either teenager could process what was happening, the attacker pointed a .22 caliber pistol at Rodney’s face and snarled, “I am going to kill you”.​

Rodney tried to fight back. He lunged toward the attacker, desperate to protect his girlfriend. The gunman responded by pistol-whipping Rodney repeatedly with brutal force. The first blow struck the back of Rodney’s head. Then another to his forehead. Blood poured down his face as he struggled to remain conscious, to do something, anything to save Carla.​​

“This happened so fast. This was so fluid that it’s like to me it was less than two minutes from start to finish and Carla was out of the car,” Rodney would testify 47 years later, his voice still heavy with the weight of that night.​

The attacker fired shots. Later investigation would reveal that Rodney was shot at multiple times, with bullets grazing his head—glancing wounds that by sheer luck didn’t penetrate his skull. But the pistol-whipping was devastating enough. Rodney collapsed, blood streaming from multiple head wounds, barely conscious.​

Through the haze of pain and confusion, Rodney heard Carla scream. He tried to get up, to reach for her, but darkness was closing in. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the sound of his girlfriend being dragged away into the night.

When Rodney came to—he didn’t know if it had been seconds or minutes—Carla was gone. The passenger door hung open. Blood covered the interior of the car. His head throbbed with agonizing pain, and his vision was blurred.​​

He stumbled out of the car, calling Carla’s name. No response. Just the empty parking lot and the distant lights of the bowling alley. Panicked and disoriented, Rodney managed to make it to a nearby convenience store where someone called for help.​

At 2:01 a.m. on February 17, 1974, Fort Worth Police Officers Weaver and Barksdale received a call about a shooting and possible kidnapping at 3400 Ramona—the Ridglea Bowling Alley. When they arrived, they found Rodney being treated by paramedics. His injuries were severe—a gash on the back center of his head, a slice in the front left area of his scalp, blood soaking his clothes and hair.​

Carla’s mother had already been notified. She arrived at the scene, frantic, as officers examined the crime scene. Inside Rodney’s car, they found disturbing evidence: blood spatter, signs of a violent struggle, and a .22 caliber magazine clip that had apparently been dropped by the attacker during the assault.​

Rodney was transported to John Peter Smith Hospital where doctors documented his injuries—injuries that would leave him with both physical scars and a psychological burden he would carry for the rest of his life. As he was being treated, he gave police what details he could remember: a man had appeared out of nowhere, had grabbed Carla, had beaten him and shot at him. But it had all happened so fast, in such confusion and violence, that he couldn’t provide a detailed description of the attacker.​

Somewhere out there in the darkness of Fort Worth, a predator had Carla Walker. And the clock was ticking.

Three Days of Horror: The Search and the Grim Discovery

For three agonizing days, Carla Walker’s family lived in the special kind of hell reserved for those whose loved ones vanish without a trace. Hope and dread waged war in their hearts with every passing hour. Carla’s mother clutched photographs of her daughter, showing them to anyone who might have seen something. Her father joined search parties that combed through fields and vacant lots. Her younger brother Jim, just 12 years old, watched his parents unravel with worry, unable to comprehend how his sister could simply disappear.​

The Fort Worth Police Department launched an immediate investigation. They interviewed Rodney multiple times, processed the crime scene at the bowling alley, and sent out alerts to surrounding jurisdictions. The .22 caliber magazine clip found in Rodney’s car was sent for analysis. Officers canvassed the area, asking questions, looking for witnesses. Someone must have seen something. A car speeding away. A man forcing a girl into a vehicle. Something.

But leads were scarce. This was 1974—an era before surveillance cameras on every corner, before cell phone tracking, before amber alerts and instant mass communication. Finding someone who’d been taken into the night was infinitely harder than it would be today.

On February 20, 1974, three days after Carla was abducted, the worst prayers were answered.​

A rancher discovered a body in a culvert on a rural road approximately 30 minutes south of Fort Worth, near Benbrook Lake. The location was isolated—the kind of place where someone could dispose of evidence without fear of being observed. It was exactly the type of spot a killer would choose.​

The body was that of Carla Jan Walker.

The autopsy revealed details so disturbing that they would haunt investigators for decades. Carla had not been killed immediately after her abduction. Instead, she had been held captive for approximately two days—48 hours of unimaginable terror. During that time, she had been repeatedly sexually assaulted. She had been tortured. Toxicology reports showed that she had been injected with morphine.​

The cause of death was strangulation. Someone had wrapped their hands around this 17-year-old girl’s throat and squeezed the life out of her.​

Medical examiners collected evidence from Carla’s body, including DNA samples from her attacker. This evidence was carefully preserved and stored—standard protocol even in 1974, though the technology to analyze DNA wouldn’t exist for more than a decade. Officers photographed injuries, documented every finding, and prepared a comprehensive forensic report.

The evidence told a story of prolonged suffering. Carla Walker had spent her final hours in the hands of a monster. She had been beaten, violated, drugged, and ultimately killed. And somewhere, her murderer was out there, likely already working to establish an alibi, to blend back into normal society, to pretend he was just an ordinary person.

The funeral was held days later. Seventeen years old—that’s all Carla got. No graduation. No prom. No wedding. No children. No career as a nurse, which had been her dream. Just a pink formal dress, one last dance, and then darkness.

“There were really dark times watching the pain my mom went through,” Jim Walker would say 46 years later, still emotional about those days. He was only 12 when his sister was murdered—young enough that the tragedy would color his entire childhood, but old enough to remember every detail of his family’s anguish.​

The Investigation: So Close, Yet So Far

 

In the days and weeks following Carla’s murder, Fort Worth detectives worked the case with the intensity that such brutal crimes demand. They had physical evidence: the .22 caliber magazine clip found at the abduction scene, biological samples from Carla’s body, and Rodney’s description of the attack. They had a timeline. They had a crime scene. What they needed was a suspect.​

The magazine clip became a crucial lead. Firearms experts determined it was designed for a .22 caliber pistol. In 1974 Fort Worth, that meant potentially thousands of guns—.22 caliber pistols were common, affordable, and widely owned. But it was a start.

Detectives began the painstaking work of interviewing people in the area around the bowling alley. They talked to known criminals who lived nearby. They investigated anyone with a history of violence or sexual assault. They ran down tips from the public. Every lead was followed, every potential suspect questioned.

One of those potential suspects was a man named Glen Samuel McCurley.​

McCurley lived relatively close to where Carla’s body had been found. When detectives knocked on his door in 1974 to ask him questions, they noticed something interesting: McCurley owned a .22 caliber pistol, and the magazine clip found at the crime scene was consistent with his weapon.​

It seemed promising. Very promising.

But then McCurley provided an explanation that detectives couldn’t easily disprove: He claimed his .22 caliber pistol had been stolen several weeks before Carla’s abduction. It was a convenient story, but McCurley added a detail that made it seem more plausible—he said he hadn’t reported the theft because, as a convicted felon, he wasn’t legally allowed to own a firearm in the first place.​

This admission was incriminating in its own way. It meant McCurley was willing to confess to illegal gun possession rather than cooperate with the murder investigation. But it also provided him with plausible deniability. If his gun had been stolen, then whoever stole it could have been Carla’s killer. McCurley could simply be an unlucky felon whose illegal firearm had been used in a terrible crime.

Without the gun itself, without fingerprints on the magazine clip, without eyewitnesses placing McCurley at the scene, detectives didn’t have enough for an arrest. DNA analysis didn’t exist yet—that technology wouldn’t be developed and refined for criminal investigations until the mid-to-late 1980s. The biological evidence collected from Carla’s body was carefully stored, but in 1974, it was essentially useless.

Investigators interviewed McCurley extensively. They documented his story about the stolen gun. They noted his criminal history. They filed him away as a “person of interest” and kept investigating other leads.​

But eventually, as months turned into years, the case went cold. There was simply nowhere else to go. Every promising lead had been exhausted. Every tip had been followed up. The evidence they had wasn’t enough to charge anyone, and no new information was coming in.

The murder of Carla Jan Walker became one of Fort Worth’s most frustrating unsolved cases—a brutal crime with evidence, with suspects, with theories, but no arrests. No justice. Just a grieving family and a community that knew a killer walked among them but couldn’t prove who it was.

Jim Walker grew up in the shadow of his sister’s unsolved murder. He watched his mother age under the weight of unanswered questions. He saw the case grow colder with each passing year. “There were really dark times,” he would later say, remembering how the not-knowing wore his family down.​

Meanwhile, Glen Samuel McCurley went on with his life. He got married. He had children. He became a father and grandfather. He went to work, came home, lived in the same general area where Carla had been murdered. For all appearances, he was just another Fort Worth resident living an ordinary life.​

But if McCurley was the killer—and decades later, science would prove he was—then he carried a terrible secret for 46 years. He woke up each morning knowing what he’d done to Carla Walker. He saw news stories about the case on its anniversaries. He knew her family was still searching for answers. And he said nothing.

That’s 46 years of sleeping next to his wife while knowing he’d raped and murdered a teenage girl. 46 years of hugging his children while knowing he’d strangled someone else’s daughter. 46 years of living freely while Carla Walker remained 17 forever, buried in a cemetery with an unsolved murder hanging over her grave.

 

When Science Refused to Let Evil Hide

The Letter That Changed Everything: 45 Years Later, Someone Knew Something

 

 

For 45 years, the murder of Carla Walker remained one of Fort Worth’s most painful cold cases. Police still had the evidence stored carefully in their archives—biological samples, crime scene photos, witness statements, that suspicious magazine clip. But with no new leads and no way to analyze the DNA with the technology available at the time, the case sat in limbo.​

Then in 2019, something unexpected happened that would set in motion a chain of events leading to justice.​

An anonymous letter arrived at the Fort Worth Police Department. The letter appeared to have been written shortly after Carla’s murder in 1974, though it had been held by someone for more than four decades before being sent. The contents were cryptic but disturbing: “- Blank- Carla – is hard say but is true.”​

What did it mean? Who had written it? Why had someone held onto this letter for 45 years before finally sending it to police? These questions sparked new interest in the case. Local media picked up the story, and once again, Carla Walker’s name was in the news.

The publicity from the letter did something crucial: it reminded people that this case was still unsolved, still open, and still desperately in need of resolution. It put pressure on the Fort Worth Police Department to take another look with fresh eyes and modern technology. And it caught the attention of someone who specialized in exactly this kind of cold case—Paul Holes.

Paul Holes and the Power of Television: When Cold Case Expertise Meets Modern Media

Paul Holes was already a legend in the cold case community by 2020. He was the investigator who had been instrumental in identifying the Golden State Killer—one of California’s most notorious serial offenders who had evaded capture for decades until genealogical DNA finally revealed his identity. After retiring from law enforcement, Holes had become the host of “The DNA of Murder,” a show on the Oxygen network that examined unsolved cases and applied modern forensic techniques to see if they could be cracked.​

In April 2020, the Oxygen network aired an episode focused on Carla Walker’s murder. Holes reviewed the case file, examined the evidence, and discussed with Fort Worth detectives the possibilities that modern DNA analysis might offer. The episode brought national attention to a case that had been mostly local knowledge for decades.​

But the show did something even more important than raise awareness. Paul Holes used his connections to introduce Fort Worth Police Department Cold Case Detectives Leah Wagner and Jeff Bennett to a cutting-edge company called Othram Inc..​

Othram specialized in a revolutionary type of DNA analysis that could work with degraded, contaminated, or minimal DNA samples—exactly the kind of evidence that often exists in cold cases like Carla Walker’s. Traditional DNA testing requires relatively pristine samples with sufficient genetic material. But evidence from 1974 had been stored for nearly half a century, exposed to temperature changes, degradation, and the simple passage of time. Standard DNA analysis had been attempted on Carla’s case before with no success—the samples were too degraded, too contaminated, or simply too old to process with conventional methods.​

But Othram was different. They used advanced techniques including forensic-grade genome sequencing that could extract readable DNA profiles from samples that other labs had deemed unusable. Even better, Othram specialized in genealogical DNA analysis—the same technique that had helped catch the Golden State Killer. Instead of trying to match DNA directly to someone in a criminal database, they could build family trees and narrow down potential suspects through their relatives.​

The Oxygen network, recognizing the potential breakthrough, agreed to pay for Othram’s testing of the evidence from Carla Walker’s case. This was crucial—advanced DNA analysis is expensive, and many cold cases lack the budget for cutting-edge forensic work. But with the network’s funding and Othram’s expertise, Carla’s case had a chance.​

Detectives Wagner and Bennett carefully packaged the biological evidence that had been collected from Carla’s body in 1974 and sent it to Othram’s laboratory. Then came the waiting. DNA analysis of degraded samples isn’t quick—it requires meticulous work, specialized equipment, and expertise.

But within weeks—not months or years, but weeks—Othram delivered results that would change everything.​

The DNA Doesn’t Lie: A 77-Year-Old Man’s Worst Nightmare Comes True

The DNA profile extracted from evidence on Carla Walker’s body from 1974 was clear enough for analysis. Othram’s advanced sequencing technology had successfully pulled readable genetic data from samples that were 46 years old. Now came the detective work.​

Using genealogical databases and family tree construction, investigators began to narrow down potential matches. They looked for male individuals in the Fort Worth area whose age would have been appropriate for the crime in 1974. They cross-referenced with the old case files, including that list of “persons of interest” who had been interviewed decades earlier.

And one name kept appearing: Glen Samuel McCurley.

Now 77 years old, McCurley was the same man who had been questioned in 1974. The same man who owned a .22 caliber pistol that matched the magazine clip found at the crime scene. The same man who had claimed his gun was stolen. The same man who, despite being investigated, had never been charged.​

For 46 years, he had lived freely. He had married. He had raised children who became adults and had children of their own. He had aged from a 31-year-old into a senior citizen. He had probably convinced himself that he was safe, that too much time had passed, that the evidence was too old, that no one would ever be able to prove anything.

He was wrong.

Armed with Othram’s DNA analysis suggesting McCurley as a strong suspect, Fort Worth detectives applied for a warrant to collect a DNA sample directly from him for comparison. In September 2020, officers approached McCurley and obtained the sample. Then it was sent to the lab for definitive testing.​

The results came back: it was a match. The DNA from Carla Walker’s body matched Glen Samuel McCurley’s DNA profile. Not partially. Not possibly. Definitively.​

On Monday, September 21, 2020—46 years, 7 months, and 4 days after Carla Walker was abducted from a bowling alley parking lot—Fort Worth Police arrested Glen Samuel McCurley and charged him with capital murder.​

“Finally, Finally”: A Family’s 46-Year Wait for Justice

 

The press conference announcing McCurley’s arrest was emotional. Fort Worth Police Department officials stood at podiums and explained how modern DNA technology had finally solved one of their oldest cold cases. They thanked Othram, Paul Holes, the Oxygen network, and most importantly, the detectives who never gave up on Carla.

But the most powerful moment came when Carla’s brother, Jim Walker, spoke to the media. Now 58 years old—older than his sister would ever be—Jim struggled to maintain composure as he addressed the cameras.​

“The word that came across my brain was finally, finally,” Jim said, his voice breaking. “This is a resolution that’s been prayed for”.​

He talked about being just 12 years old when Carla was murdered. About growing up watching his mother suffer through “really dark times.” About how the unsolved nature of the crime had left a wound in his family that never fully healed. And now, after 46 years, there would finally be answers. Finally be accountability. Finally be justice.​

The arrest made national news. It was another stunning example of how DNA technology was revolutionizing cold case investigations. Cases that had seemed permanently unsolved were suddenly being cracked open. Killers who thought they’d gotten away with murder were being confronted with scientific evidence that couldn’t be argued away.

Glen Samuel McCurley was booked into the Tarrant County Jail on charges of capital murder. Prosecutors initially considered seeking the death penalty, but ultimately decided against it given McCurley’s age and the decades that had passed. Instead, they would seek life in prison without the possibility of parole.​

McCurley entered a plea of not guilty. Despite the DNA evidence, despite being the person of interest from 1974, despite all of it, he maintained his innocence. His lawyers prepared for trial.​

The case was set for August 2021—almost exactly one year after his arrest.​​

In the Courtroom: Confronting the Man Who Stole a Sister

The trial of Glen Samuel McCurley began in August 2021 in Tarrant County, Texas. Media packed the courtroom. Carla Walker’s family sat in the front rows—her siblings, now in their 50s and 60s, finally getting to face the man accused of murdering their sister nearly half a century ago.​

Prosecutors methodically laid out their case. They presented the evidence from 1974: the abduction from the bowling alley, Rodney Roy’s testimony, the magazine clip, the autopsy findings showing Carla had been held for days and subjected to horrific abuse. They explained how McCurley had been interviewed back then and how his story about the stolen gun had prevented his arrest at the time.​

Then they brought in the modern evidence: Othram’s DNA analysis, the genetic match, the scientific certainty that McCurley’s DNA was present on Carla’s body from the sexual assault.​

One of the most emotional moments came when Rodney Roy took the stand. Now in his mid-60s, Rodney had carried the weight of that night for his entire adult life. He had survived the attack that killed his girlfriend. He had been pistol-whipped and shot at. He had lost consciousness and woken to find Carla gone. And he had spent 47 years wondering if there was something more he could have done.​

“This happened so fast. This was so fluid that it’s like to me it was less than two minutes from start to finish and Carla was out of the car,” Rodney testified, his voice steady but heavy with decades of pain.​

The court saw photos of Rodney’s injuries from that night—the gashes on his head, the blood covering his face and hair. The jury heard how he’d tried to fight back despite being at gunpoint and outmatched. How he’d been beaten unconscious while a predator dragged his girlfriend into the darkness.

The prosecution showed medical evidence from Carla’s autopsy. They detailed—as delicately as possible, given the victim’s family was in the room—what had been done to her during the two days she was held captive. The morphine injections. The sexual assault. The strangulation that ended her life.

And through it all, Glen Samuel McCurley sat at the defense table, now 78 years old, his expression largely unreadable.

Then, on August 23, 2021, something unexpected happened.​

McCurley had a “sudden change of heart,” as the media would later describe it. In the middle of the trial, he changed his plea from not guilty to guilty.​

The Confrontation: “I Wish You Had Done This a Long Time Ago”

When Glen Samuel McCurley stood before the judge and admitted his guilt, the courtroom erupted with emotion. Nearly 50 years of waiting for this moment—for this acknowledgment, for this accountability—came crashing down on Carla Walker’s family all at once.​

But what happened next was even more extraordinary.

Carla’s sister, Cindy Walker, was given the opportunity to address McCurley directly in court. She walked up to him—this man who had stolen her sister, who had destroyed her family, who had lived freely for 46 years while Carla remained 17 forever. And she spoke words that had been building for nearly half a century.​

“I wish you had done this a long time ago,” Cindy said to McCurley, her voice shaking with emotion.​

Then she asked him the question that families of victims always want answered: “I want to know if you’ve done this to anybody else. You need to bring that out because those families need to know too”.​

It was a moment of raw, unfiltered grief and anger and desperate need for truth. Had there been other victims? Other Carlas whose cases never got solved? Other families still wondering? McCurley’s DNA was now in the system—if he had attacked anyone else, science might eventually reveal that too. But Cindy wanted him to confess, to give other families the closure hers was finally receiving.

McCurley offered no response to her question.​

In a moment that surprised everyone, members of McCurley’s own family—who had presumably known him as a grandfather, a father, just an ordinary man—embraced members of Carla Walker’s family in the courtroom. It was a powerful acknowledgment that McCurley’s crimes had created victims on both sides. His family had to grapple with the horrifying realization that someone they loved was capable of such evil.​

The judge sentenced Glen Samuel McCurley to life in prison without the possibility of parole. At 78 years old, it was effectively a death sentence. McCurley would spend whatever time he had left behind bars, his freedom finally taken away just as he had taken Carla’s life away all those years ago.​

For Jim Walker, Cindy Walker, and the rest of Carla’s family, it was a moment they had prayed for but never been certain would come.

“Finally, finally,” Jim had said when McCurley was arrested. Now, with the guilty plea and life sentence, that “finally” had teeth. There was justice. Not perfect justice—nothing could bring Carla back, nothing could undo 46 years of grief—but justice nonetheless.

After the Verdict: Reflecting on Nearly Half a Century of Waiting

The resolution of Carla Walker’s case sent ripples through the cold case community and among families of unsolved murder victims nationwide. If a case from 1974 could be solved with degraded DNA evidence, what other cold cases might suddenly be solvable?

The answer is: potentially thousands.

Across the United States, there are an estimated 250,000 unsolved murder cases. Many of them are decades old. Many of them have DNA evidence that was collected and stored but never successfully analyzed because the technology didn’t exist or the samples were too degraded or contaminated for conventional testing.

But companies like Othram are changing that equation. Advanced DNA sequencing, genealogical analysis, and improved testing methods are opening up cases that were previously thought to be permanently unsolved. The same techniques that caught the Golden State Killer and solved Carla Walker’s murder are now being applied to cold cases across the country.

For families like the Walkers, this represents hope—the hope that no matter how much time has passed, justice might still be possible. That the person who murdered their loved one might finally be held accountable. That the terrible not-knowing might finally come to an end.

But the Carla Walker case also highlights the human cost of delayed justice. Jim Walker was 12 years old when his sister was murdered. He was 58 when her killer was arrested. He spent 46 years—more than three-quarters of his life—living in the shadow of an unsolved murder. He watched his mother age under the weight of unanswered questions. He endured “really dark times” as his family struggled with grief that had no resolution.

Rodney Roy spent 47 years carrying survivor’s guilt, wondering if he could have done something differently that night in the bowling alley parking lot. The physical wounds healed, but the psychological trauma of losing his girlfriend in such a violent way and being unable to stop it stayed with him through his entire adult life.

And Carla herself never got to experience any of it. She never graduated high school. Never went to college. Never became the nurse she dreamed of being. Never got married, never had children, never grew old. She remained frozen at 17—the age she was when Glen McCurley decided that satisfying his own violent impulses was worth more than her entire future.

That’s what murder really steals: not just life, but all the life that should have come after.

The Final Chapter: McCurley’s Death and Carla’s Legacy

Glen Samuel McCurley died in July 2023 while serving his life sentence in a Texas prison. He was 80 years old. He had spent less than two years behind bars for a crime he had gotten away with for 46 years.​

Some might say he escaped full justice by dying relatively quickly after his conviction. He didn’t spend decades in prison the way he deserved. He didn’t grow old and frail behind bars while contemplating what he’d done. Two years is nothing compared to the lifetime of grief he inflicted on Carla Walker’s family.

But others would argue that he got exactly what he deserved: exposure, shame, conviction, and the knowledge that everyone—his family, his community, the world—finally knew what he really was. Not an ordinary grandfather. Not a regular Fort Worth resident. But a predator who had kidnapped, tortured, raped, and murdered a 17-year-old girl and then lived with that secret for nearly half a century.

His death brought the Carla Walker case to its final close. There would be no appeals, no retrials, no legal maneuvering. It was over.

Carla’s family could finally, truly move forward knowing that her killer had been caught, convicted, and was now gone. The case that had defined so much of their lives was solved. The question mark that had hung over Carla’s grave for 46 years was finally erased.

The Technology That Wouldn’t Let Evil Hide: Understanding What Made This Possible

To fully appreciate the resolution of Carla Walker’s case, it’s important to understand just how revolutionary the DNA technology that solved it really is.

When Carla was murdered in 1974, DNA analysis didn’t exist as a forensic tool. The structure of DNA had only been discovered in 1953, and the idea of using it to identify individuals was still theoretical. Investigators collected biological evidence because they knew it might be useful someday, but they had no way to analyze it.

DNA fingerprinting was first developed in 1984 by Sir Alec Jeffreys, and it was first used in a criminal case in 1986. Throughout the late 1980s and 1990s, DNA analysis became more sophisticated and more widely used in law enforcement. But conventional DNA testing has always had limitations: it requires relatively fresh, uncontaminated samples with sufficient genetic material to analyze.

Evidence from old cold cases often doesn’t meet those criteria. Samples that have been stored for decades can degrade. DNA can break down into fragments that are too small for conventional analysis. Contamination from other sources can make results unreliable. Many cold cases had DNA evidence, but it was unusable with standard testing methods.

That’s where companies like Othram come in. They use a technique called forensic-grade genome sequencing, which can work with much smaller, more degraded DNA samples than conventional methods. They can extract readable genetic profiles from evidence that other labs have deemed too damaged to test.

Even more importantly, Othram pioneered the use of genealogical DNA analysis in forensic cases—the same technique that was used to identify the Golden State Killer. Instead of trying to match DNA directly to someone in the FBI’s criminal database (CODIS), they use public genealogical databases to build family trees and identify potential suspects through their relatives.

Here’s how it works: When someone submits their DNA to a genealogical service like 23andMe or Ancestry, that genetic information goes into a database. If investigators have DNA from a crime scene, they can search these databases for relatives of the perpetrator. Maybe they find a second cousin. Or a great-uncle. Or a distant relation.

From there, investigators build out family trees, narrowing down the pool of suspects based on age, location, and other factors. Eventually, they can identify a specific individual as a likely match, at which point they obtain a warrant for that person’s DNA to confirm.

This technique has revolutionized cold case investigations. Cases that seemed permanently unsolved are being cracked open. Killers who thought they’d gotten away with it are being identified decades later through the DNA of relatives who may not even know they exist.

Glen Samuel McCurley probably never imagined that evidence from 1974 could be analyzed with sufficient accuracy to identify him 46 years later. He probably thought that as long as his name wasn’t already in the criminal DNA database, he was safe. He probably assumed that time itself was his ally—that the longer he went without being caught, the less likely it was that he ever would be.

He was catastrophically wrong. Time doesn’t protect killers anymore. DNA doesn’t forget. And science has gotten very, very good at making old evidence speak.

The Broader Impact: How Many Other Cold Cases Are About to Break Open?

The resolution of Carla Walker’s case is part of a larger trend in law enforcement: the Cold Case Renaissance.

Since 2018, when the Golden State Killer was identified using genealogical DNA, dozens of cold cases have been solved using similar techniques. Killers from the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s are being identified and arrested. Families who had given up hope are getting answers.

The National Institute of Justice estimates there are approximately 250,000 unsolved murders in the United States, with about 6,000 more added each year. Many of these cases have some form of DNA evidence that was collected and stored but never successfully analyzed.

Now, with improved technology and techniques, a significant percentage of those cases might be solvable. Labs like Othram are working through backlogs of cold case evidence, applying advanced sequencing to samples that were previously unusable.

The implications are staggering. Potentially thousands of killers who thought they’d gotten away with murder could be identified. Thousands of families could get the closure that the Walker family finally received. And perhaps most importantly, the message to anyone contemplating a violent crime is clear: you might escape immediate justice, but DNA never forgets, and science only gets better at finding you.

This creates a powerful deterrent effect. The knowledge that a crime committed today might be solved 20, 30, or 40 years from now through technology that doesn’t even exist yet changes the calculus for criminals. The window of “getting away with it” is closing.

Of course, solving these cases requires resources. Advanced DNA analysis is expensive—the testing done in Carla Walker’s case cost thousands of dollars, paid for by the Oxygen network. Many police departments don’t have budgets for this kind of work. There’s also the question of privacy—using genealogical databases to identify suspects has raised ethical concerns about whether people who voluntarily submit their DNA to learn about their ancestry should have that information used in criminal investigations.

These are important debates. But for families like the Walkers, the calculus is simple: their loved one’s murderer was caught. Justice was served. And that’s worth fighting for.

Lessons From Carla’s Case: What We Can Learn About Violence, Justice, and Technology

The murder of Carla Jan Walker and its resolution 46 years later teaches us several important lessons about crime, justice, and the role of technology in both.

First, evil often looks ordinary. Glen Samuel McCurley wasn’t a monster in appearance. He was someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s grandfather. He lived in the community, went to work, probably seemed perfectly normal to his neighbors. This is perhaps the most unsettling aspect of his case—the reminder that people capable of horrific violence can hide behind facades of normalcy for decades. The person sitting next to you in church, or serving you coffee, or living down the street could be harboring terrible secrets. Evil doesn’t always announce itself.

Second, families of victims never truly move on without resolution. Jim Walker’s testimony about watching his mother suffer through “really dark times” for decades illustrates the ongoing trauma of unsolved murders. It’s not just the initial grief—it’s the perpetual wondering, the feeling that justice has been denied, the knowledge that somewhere the person responsible is living freely. Resolution doesn’t erase the pain, but it does provide a form of closure that allows families to process their grief differently.

Third, technology changes everything. Evidence collected in 1974 by investigators who had no idea DNA analysis would ever exist became the key to solving Carla’s murder in 2020. This suggests that how we collect and preserve evidence now will matter for decades to come. It also means that cold cases should never be considered truly closed—they’re just waiting for technology to catch up.

Fourth, persistence matters. The Walker family never stopped advocating for Carla’s case. Cold case detectives never completely gave up. Paul Holes and the Oxygen network brought new attention and resources to bear. This combination of family persistence, dedicated investigators, and media involvement created the circumstances for breakthrough. If any one of these elements had been missing, McCurley might have died free.

Fifth, there’s a certain poetry to science being the tool of justice. McCurley probably thought his crime was perfect enough—committed in 1974 when DNA analysis didn’t exist, no witnesses, victim disposed of in a remote location. He’d been questioned and released. Decades passed. But his own biology betrayed him. The DNA he left on Carla’s body in 1974 waited patiently for 46 years until science advanced enough to read its message: “Glen Samuel McCurley did this.”

The Valentine’s Day Dance That Never Should Have Ended This Way

In another timeline—in the timeline that should have been—Carla Jan Walker would have danced with Rodney Roy at the Western Hills High School Valentine’s dance on February 16, 1974, and then gone home safely. She would have graduated high school in 1975. She would have gone to nursing school, achieved her dream of helping people. She would have gotten married, maybe had children, definitely grown old.

She might be in her late 60s now, probably retired, enjoying grandchildren, looking back on a full life well-lived.

But Glen Samuel McCurley stole all of that. He reduced her to 17 years of life and a cold case file. He turned her from a person with dreams and a future into a victim, a cautionary tale, a name in news articles.

Except Carla Walker is more than that. She’s the reason DNA technology has advanced to help solve cold cases. She’s the reason her family never gave up fighting for justice. She’s the reason investigators keep pushing forward on decades-old cases. She’s proof that justice delayed is not always justice denied.

Her case reminds us that every murder victim was a real person with a real life that mattered. That the crime doesn’t end with the killing—it echoes through decades, through families, through communities. And that bringing killers to justice, even decades later, matters profoundly.

Carla Walker never got to grow old. But her case has ensured that countless other cold cases now have a chance at resolution. Her DNA evidence, carefully preserved by 1974 investigators who didn’t fully understand what they were preserving, became the template for how modern technology can reach back through time to deliver justice.

That’s her legacy: Not just that her own killer was caught, but that her case proved it was possible.

On February 17, 1974, Carla Jan Walker went to a Valentine’s dance and never came home. For 46 years, that was where her story ended—with darkness, with questions, with injustice.

But then science whispered Glen Samuel McCurley’s name, and Carla’s story got a different ending. Not a happy one—there are no happy endings when a 17-year-old is murdered. But a just one.

Finally, finally.