The Last Normal Night

The summer air hung thick and sweet over Springfield, Missouri, on the evening of June 6, 1992. Cicadas hummed their ancient chorus as twilight painted the sky in shades of amber and rose. At Kickapoo High School, hundreds of teenagers in caps and gowns tossed their tassels skyward, their laughter echoing across the football field where they’d spent four years dreaming of this exact moment. Among them stood Suzanne “Suzie” Streeter and Stacy McCall—two best friends whose futures stretched before them like an open road, bright with possibility.

Suzie, nineteen years old with shoulder-length brown hair and an infectious smile, had worked hard for this diploma. She’d juggled part-time shifts at the local convenience store with late-night study sessions, determined to make her mother proud. Her dream was to attend cosmetology school in the fall, maybe open her own salon someday. She had steady hands and an artist’s eye for color—friends always asked her to style their hair before big events.

Stacy McCall, eighteen, stood beside her with that characteristic warmth that drew people in. With blonde hair and bright eyes, she radiated the kind of kindness that made strangers feel like old friends. She planned to study nursing, inspired by years of watching her grandmother battle illness with grace. Stacy volunteered at Springfield’s community hospital on weekends, delivering flowers to patients and reading to children in the pediatric ward. Her mother, Janis, often said Stacy had “an old soul”—wise beyond her years, responsible to a fault.

As the ceremony concluded and families dispersed into the humid night, Suzie and Stacy made plans with their graduating class. Like teenagers everywhere, they wanted to savor every moment of this milestone. Multiple parties beckoned—backyard barbecues with tiki torches, gatherings at local parks, impromptu celebrations that would stretch until dawn.

A Mother’s Quiet Evening

While her daughter celebrated, Sherrill Levitt, forty-seven, spent her Saturday evening in the quiet comfort of home. A petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair that she often swept into a practical ponytail, Sherrill had built a stable life through sheer determination. After divorcing Suzie’s father years earlier, she’d raised her daughter alone, working long hours as a cosmetologist at a Springfield salon. Her hands bore the calluses of hard work—cutting, styling, coloring hair day after day to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

The house at 1717 East Delmar Street was modest but meticulously maintained. Sherrill took pride in her home. The lawn stayed trimmed, flowers bloomed in terracotta pots on the front porch, and inside, everything had its place. Family photos lined the hallway walls—Suzie as a gap-toothed six-year-old, teenage Suzie at a school dance, graduation portraits taken just days earlier.

That evening, around 11:15 PM, Sherrill spoke on the phone with a close friend, discussing plans to refinish an antique chest of drawers she’d found at a garage sale. Her voice carried the contentment of a woman who’d worked hard and earned her peace. After hanging up, she changed into her nightgown, let Cinnamon—the family’s small, yappy Shih Tzu—out for a final bathroom break, then settled into bed. The television in her bedroom flickered with the late-night news. Springfield was safe, predictable. Nothing ever happened here.

Sherrill had left the porch light on for Suzie, knowing her daughter might come home late. The bulb cast a welcoming glow across the front steps—a beacon saying “come home safely.” She drifted to sleep with that particular lightness mothers feel when their children reach important milestones. Suzie had graduated. Life was moving forward exactly as it should.

The Party Circuit

Meanwhile, Suzie and Stacy made their rounds. First stop: a gathering at Battlefield Park where dozens of graduates clustered around picnic tables, passing around soda cans and bags of chips, recounting favorite memories and signing each other’s yearbooks in the glow of flashlights. Music blared from car stereos—Nirvana, Pearl Jam, the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The early ’90s soundtrack of youth.

By 10:30 PM, they’d moved to Janelle Kirby’s house, where another cluster of friends had gathered. Janelle, also a graduate, lived with her boyfriend in a rental house across town. The plan was for Suzie and Stacy to spend the night there before heading to White Water Bay, a local water park, early Sunday morning. A final hurrah before summer jobs and adult responsibilities took over.

But Janelle’s house was packed. Bodies crammed into every room. The air conditioning struggled against the body heat of two dozen teenagers. Music competed with conversations. Someone spilled beer on the carpet. The chaos felt overwhelming after hours of celebration. Around 12:30 AM, Suzie and Stacy exchanged a glance—that wordless communication between best friends.

“Want to just crash at your place?” Stacy asked.

Suzie nodded. “More room. Plus, Mom will have made breakfast.”

They said their goodbyes, promised to meet everyone at White Water by noon, and climbed into Suzie’s car—a well-used vehicle that smelled like vanilla air freshener and old french fries. They drove through Springfield’s quiet streets, streetlights casting pools of orange light at regular intervals. The town slept.

Around 2:00 AM, possibly 2:15 AM, Suzie’s car pulled into the driveway at 1717 East Delmar. Stacy’s car followed—she’d driven separately from one of the earlier parties. Both vehicles came to rest in the driveway, engines ticking as they cooled. The porch light blazed bright, just as Sherrill had left it.

The Last Known Moments

What happened next can only be reconstructed from fragments—physical evidence, a few observations, and the eerie silence that followed.

Suzie unlocked the front door. She and Stacy entered, dropping their purses on Suzie’s bedroom floor alongside their jackets. Stacy carefully folded the outfit she’d worn to graduation—a floral dress with a sweetheart neckline, white sandals—and placed it neatly on a chair. This detail would later strike investigators as significant: it showed the girls had settled in, anticipated sleeping, planned to wake up and face the next day.

The house was dark except for the glow from Sherrill’s bedroom television. Cinnamon stirred, padding out to investigate the newcomers with sleepy interest. Suzie probably whispered to avoid waking her mother. The two friends likely moved quietly through the familiar spaces—past the living room with its floral-print couch, through the kitchen where dishes from dinner sat drying in the rack, down the hallway with its gallery of family photos.

Did they notice anything unusual? A sound? A movement? Or did they simply prepare for bed, exhausted from hours of celebration?

Evidence suggests they changed into comfortable clothes. Made up the guest bed. Perhaps brushed their teeth, washed their faces. The mundane rituals of young women at the end of a long day.

Sherrill’s bed appeared slept in when discovered the next morning—covers pulled back, pillow bearing the indentation of her head. This suggested she never woke during whatever transpired. Or if she did, it happened so quickly she had no time to disturb the sheets further.

Somewhere in those dark hours between 2:15 AM and dawn, three women vanished.

Sunday Morning: Discovery

Janis McCall woke early on June 7, as mothers do. She’d been looking forward to seeing Stacy over breakfast, hearing about the graduation parties, perhaps looking through photos. When Stacy didn’t answer her home phone, Janis felt the first flutter of concern. Not panic—not yet. Just that maternal instinct that something wasn’t quite right.

She called Janelle Kirby’s house around 8:00 AM. Janelle answered groggily.

“Is Stacy there?” Janis asked.

“No, Mrs. McCall. She and Suzie left last night—said they were going to Suzie’s house instead.”

That flutter became a pulse. Janis tried calling the Levitt residence. The phone rang and rang. No answer. She tried again at 8:30. Again at 9:00. Each unanswered ring amplified her worry.

By 9:30, Janis couldn’t sit still. She drove to 1717 East Delmar, pulling up to find both girls’ cars parked in the driveway. Relief washed over her—they were home. Probably just sleeping in after a late night.

She knocked. No answer. Knocked harder. Still nothing. The front door was unlocked—unusual but not alarming. Sherrill sometimes left it open during the day. Janis pushed it open.

“Hello? Stacy? Suzie?”

Silence. Cinnamon barked from somewhere inside. Janis stepped into the living room. Everything looked normal. Lived-in. The television in Sherrill’s bedroom was still on, volume low. Purses sat together in Suzie’s room—all three women’s purses, clustered near the bed. Keys on hooks. Wallets containing cash and IDs. Cigarettes in ashtrays. The personal items you’d never leave behind if departing voluntarily.

Janis’s heart began to hammer. She walked through each room, calling their names. Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms—all empty. Beds looked slept in but unmade. Sherrill’s work uniform hung in the closet, ready for her Monday shift.

Outside, Janis flagged down Janelle Kirby and her boyfriend Mike Henson, who’d just arrived to check on the girls. Together they searched more thoroughly, voices rising with urgency.

“This isn’t right,” Janis said, her voice cracking. “Something’s wrong.”

On the front porch, they noticed shattered glass—the porch light’s globe lay in fragments on the welcome mat. The bulb itself remained intact in the socket, still illuminated. Mike Henson, trying to help, grabbed a broom and swept the glass into a dustpan. Later, investigators would note this with frustration—potential evidence, destroyed by well-meaning friends.

Inside, they found the answering machine. A message waited—its red light blinking. Janis pressed play. A strange voice came through the speaker—obscene, disturbing, the kind of call women unfortunately receive all too often. Thinking it was unrelated, possibly even harassment Sherrill had dealt with before, someone deleted it. Another crucial piece of evidence, gone forever.

At 11:45 AM, Janis called the Springfield Police Department. Her voice shook as she reported three women missing.

The Investigation Begins

Officers arrived within twenty minutes. Patrol cars lined East Delmar Street, drawing neighbors to their windows and front yards. Detective Steve Polansky was among the first investigators on scene. A veteran with fifteen years on the force, he’d worked missing persons cases before—usually teenagers who’d run off after fights with parents, occasionally adults escaping bad marriages. They almost always turned up within 48 hours.

But this scene troubled him immediately.

“No forced entry,” he noted, circling the house’s perimeter. “Doors and windows secure. No signs of struggle inside.”

His partner, Detective Tony Glenn, inventoried the contents: “Three purses. Three sets of car keys. Wallets with cash and credit cards. Driver’s licenses. Even their cigarettes—smokers don’t leave cigarettes behind.”

The beds appeared slept in. Clothing folded neatly. The television still playing in Sherrill’s room. It was as if the three women had simply evaporated.

Crime-scene technicians arrived, dusting for fingerprints, collecting hair and fiber samples, photographing every room from multiple angles. They found dozens of prints—expected in a lived-in home—but identifying which belonged to visitors versus residents would take weeks.

One detail captured everyone’s attention: the shattered porch light. Had it broken accidentally? Or had someone deliberately smashed it to darken the entrance? Without the glass fragments—swept away by Mike Henson—they couldn’t determine if it had been struck from outside or if the bulb had simply burned out and exploded.

In the backyard, investigators found faint impressions in the damp earth near the back gate. Shoe prints, possibly. Small—women’s sizes. Leading away from the house toward the alley beyond. But overnight dew and early morning rain had softened them, making casting impossible. Photographs captured blurry outlines, nothing more.

Canine units arrived Sunday afternoon. German Shepherds trained to track human scent worked the property, noses pressed to ground. They picked up trails leading from the house to the driveway, to the street, toward the alley—but then the scents dissipated. As if the women had simply vanished into air.

The Community Responds

By Sunday evening, word had spread across Springfield. Three women—a mother and two young graduates—missing without explanation. The local television news led with the story. Reporters crowded the police station, demanding updates. Neighbors gathered in clusters, sharing theories in hushed voices.

“They probably just went somewhere,” some said hopefully. “Maybe a surprise trip?”

But those who knew the women shook their heads. Sherrill had work Monday morning. Stacy had plans at White Water Bay. None would have left voluntarily without telling anyone.

By Monday, flyers appeared on every telephone pole, bulletin board, and storefront window in Springfield. Three faces stared out from photocopied paper: Sherrill with her practical smile, Suzie with her youthful exuberance, Stacy with her warm, open expression. MISSING. LAST SEEN JUNE 7, 1992. CONTACT SPRINGFIELD POLICE.

Volunteers organized search parties. Hundreds of citizens combed parks, wooded areas, abandoned buildings, drainage ditches. They walked shoulder-to-shoulder through fields, calling the women’s names until their voices went hoarse. Local businesses donated food and water for searchers. Churches held prayer vigils, candles flickering in the twilight as congregations prayed for the women’s safe return.

The high school where Suzie and Stacy had just graduated held an assembly. Students who’d partied with them just days earlier now sat in stunned silence, unable to comprehend how celebration had transformed into tragedy. Counselors offered support. Teachers wiped away tears. The yearbooks everyone had signed so joyfully now felt like artifacts from another lifetime.

Local radio stations broadcast pleas for information. National media picked up the story—CNN, major newspapers, crime shows. The Springfield Three became a household name across America, their faces recognizable from coast to coast.

Theories Emerge

As days became weeks, investigators explored every possible avenue.

Theory One: Acquaintance Abduction

Detectives focused heavily on people who knew the women. Sherrill’s ex-boyfriends underwent intense scrutiny. One man, particularly bitter about their breakup, had made threatening comments in the past. Police questioned him for hours. He maintained his innocence and provided an alibi—he’d been at a friend’s house that entire weekend, with multiple witnesses. Phone records confirmed he’d made calls from that location throughout the night.

Suzie’s ex-boyfriend also drew attention. They’d dated for two years before breaking up amicably months earlier. He’d moved on, was seeing someone new. On the night of June 6, he’d attended different graduation parties across town. Dozens of people saw him. His timeline was solid.

Theory Two: Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Perhaps the women simply encountered someone with evil intentions. Springfield in 1992 felt safe, but crime existed. Police files showed several recent burglaries in nearby neighborhoods. Could a burglar have targeted the house, been surprised by the occupants, and panicked?

But nothing was stolen. Electronics, jewelry, cash—all remained untouched. Burglars want valuables, not complications. Taking three women would have been enormously risky and logistically complex.

Theory Three: The Persistent Caller

That deleted answering machine message haunted investigators. Who had called? What exactly did they say? Janis McCall described it as “obscene” and “sexual in nature”—but she’d deleted it immediately, assuming it was a prank or wrong number.

Could it have been a clue? A threat? Phone company records showed several calls to the Levitt residence in the days prior to the disappearance, originating from payphones scattered across Springfield. Investigators visited each location, interviewing nearby business owners and residents, but no one remembered seeing anyone suspicious.

One theory suggested a stalker had targeted Sherrill or the girls, made that final threatening call, then acted on his obsession. But Sherrill’s friends insisted she’d never mentioned feeling watched or receiving disturbing attention.

Theory Four: Connection to Other Crimes

In the months following the disappearance, detectives examined whether the Springfield Three case connected to other unsolved crimes. Several women had been assaulted in Missouri and neighboring states around the same time. Could a serial predator have been operating in the region?

One suspect in particular drew intense interest: a transient construction worker who’d been living in Springfield temporarily. He had a criminal history including assault and had left town abruptly days after June 7. Police tracked him to Arkansas, brought him in for questioning. He denied involvement, refused a polygraph, but had no solid alibi. DNA technology in 1992 was primitive—investigators collected samples but couldn’t definitively link him to the scene.

Years later, improved DNA testing would show he wasn’t a match to trace evidence found at the house.

Theory Five: Organized Crime or Trafficking

Some theorists suggested human trafficking. Both young women fit the demographic traffickers often target—young, attractive, vulnerable. But Sherrill’s presence complicated this theory. Why take a 47-year-old woman?

Moreover, professional trafficking operations typically operate in larger cities, target isolated individuals, and avoid scenarios where witnesses (like neighbors) might intervene. Abducting three women from a residential neighborhood carried enormous risk.

Still, the theory persisted. Springfield sits along Interstate 44, a major trafficking corridor. Tips flooded in claiming the women had been seen alive—in Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas. Investigators chased each lead. All proved false.

The Evidence That Wasn’t

What makes the Springfield Three case so frustrating is what investigators didn’t find.

No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds on walls or furniture. No broken dishes or overturned lamps. Whatever happened occurred so quickly and quietly that three women had no chance to fight back or raise alarm.

No blood. Crime-scene luminol testing revealed nothing. If violence occurred inside that house, it left no trace.

No witnesses. Despite occurring in a residential neighborhood, no one reported seeing vehicles, hearing screams, or noticing anything unusual. The night of June 6-7 was a graduation night—people were out late, driving around. Yet no one saw anything.

No bodies. Extensive searches covered hundreds of square miles. Lakes were dredged. Wells were explored. Abandoned properties were thoroughly examined. Nothing.

No demands. If kidnapping, why no ransom call? Sherrill wasn’t wealthy. Stacy and Suzie were teenagers. Who would profit from taking them?

No communication. In cases where people disappear voluntarily, they usually contact someone eventually—a friend, a family member, someone they trust. Thirty-three years have passed. Total silence.

Family Anguish

For the families, the absence of answers was torture.

Janis McCall aged years in those first months. The vibrant woman who’d dropped off graduation balloons at Kickapoo High School in early June became gaunt and hollow-eyed by autumn. She quit her job—couldn’t focus, couldn’t function. Every phone call sent her heart racing. Every knock at the door brought desperate hope and crushing disappointment.

She kept Stacy’s room exactly as it had been that final morning. Graduation dress hanging in the closet. Yearbook open on the desk. Nursing textbooks stacked neatly for fall semester classes Stacy would never attend. Janis would sit in that room for hours, talking to her daughter as if Stacy could hear.

“I know you’re out there,” she’d whisper. “I know you’re trying to get home. I’m waiting, baby. I’ll always wait.”

Sherrill’s sister and brother became fixtures at the police station, demanding updates, pushing for new leads, refusing to let the case go cold. They hired private investigators, offered rewards, appeared on television news shows and talk programs, desperate to keep their loved ones’ faces in public view.

Suzie’s father, from whom Sherrill had divorced years earlier, returned to Springfield despite their difficult history. Grief transcended old animosities. He walked search grids alongside volunteers, posted flyers, called politicians demanding action. His daughter was gone, and nothing—not pride, not past hurts—mattered more than finding her.

Years Pass: Cold Case

By 1995, the Springfield Police Department had interviewed over 3,000 people, pursued more than 5,000 tips, and spent thousands of investigative hours on the case. Yet they were no closer to answers than on day one.

The case was officially classified as cold—not closed, never closed, but cold. Active investigations slowed. Detectives moved on to new cases. The file boxes stacked up in evidence storage.

But the families refused to give up. They formed the “Springfield Three Support Group,” meeting monthly to share information, support one another, and strategize new approaches. They lobbied for updated forensic testing as technology advanced. They created websites (once the internet became widespread), social media pages, and maintained constant contact with journalists interested in cold cases.

Anniversaries brought renewed media attention. Each June 7, television news revisited the case. Reporters interviewed the families, updated viewers on any developments (usually none), and appealed for fresh tips. These annual reminders kept the Springfield Three in public consciousness.

The Parking Garage Theory

In 2007, fifteen years after the disappearance, a new and tantalizing theory emerged.

A Springfield businessman named John claimed he’d overheard a conversation in 1992 between two construction workers discussing “three bodies” buried beneath what was then a new hospital parking garage—built just months after the women vanished. The garage sat near downtown Springfield, less than two miles from the Levitt home.

John, who’d remained silent for years out of fear, finally came forward. His story gained traction. Ground-penetrating radar analysis of the garage showed anomalies—possible voids in the concrete consistent with buried objects.

Families begged authorities to excavate. “Dig up the garage,” they pleaded. “If there’s even a chance they’re there, we need to know.”

But practical realities intervened. The garage was operational, serving a busy hospital. Tearing it up would cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. What if the radar anomalies were just construction irregularities—rebar placements, utility conduits? What if they excavated and found nothing?

Lawyers got involved. Liability concerns arose. Hospital administrators resisted. Police were cautious—they needed more than a fifteen-year-old secondhand account and ambiguous radar readings.

The garage remains standing. The bodies—if they’re there—remain entombed in concrete. The theory remains unproven but also unrefuted.

Digital Age Revitalization

The rise of social media and true-crime podcasts in the 2010s brought explosive renewed interest in the Springfield Three.

Reddit communities dedicated to unsolved mysteries made the case a top discussion topic. Armchair detectives pored over police reports (portions leaked or obtained through FOIA requests), scrutinized crime scene photos, built elaborate timelines, and debated theories in threads stretching thousands of comments.

True-crime podcasters devoted multiple episodes to the case. “My Favorite Murder,” “Crime Junkie,” “Casefile”—major shows with millions of listeners—all covered the Springfield Three in depth. Younger generations who’d never heard of the case became invested, spreading awareness globally.

YouTube channels created documentary-style videos, some reaching millions of views. Amateur investigators recorded themselves visiting the Delmar Street house (still occupied by different owners), exploring Springfield, interviewing locals who remembered that summer.

Facebook groups dedicated to solving the case attracted tens of thousands of members. People shared theories, pointed out overlooked details, and occasionally claimed to have insider information. Most tips led nowhere, but the collective attention kept pressure on law enforcement.

Forensic Advances

Modern forensic technology offered new hope.

DNA analysis in 1992 was rudimentary. By 2010, techniques had advanced dramatically. Investigators reexamined every piece of physical evidence collected from the house—hair strands, fiber samples, that cigarette butt, fingerprints.

They developed partial DNA profiles from trace evidence. But partial profiles aren’t definitive. They can rule out suspects but rarely identify them conclusively without something to compare against.

Genetic genealogy—the technique that famously solved the Golden State Killer case in 2018—offered promise. Upload DNA to databases like GEDmatch, find distant relatives, build family trees, narrow down suspects. But it requires quality DNA samples. The evidence from 1717 Delmar was degraded, contaminated by years of handling, mixed with DNA from multiple individuals (friends who’d visited the house, police officers, crime scene techs).

Still, investigators try. As of 2024, efforts continue to extract usable genetic material and run it through genealogy databases. Each year brings slight improvements in technique. Each year offers renewed hope.

The Women Who Won’t Be Forgotten

Sherrill would be 80 years old now. She never saw her grandchildren, never retired to the peaceful golden years she’d worked so hard to reach.

Suzie would be 52. She never opened that dream salon, never styled brides’ hair or taught her own daughter the craft she loved.

Stacy would be 51. She never became the nurse she dreamed of being, never held newborns or comforted the sick and frightened.

Three lives, frozen in time. Three families, frozen in grief.

Yet their memory lives on—not just in the hearts of those who loved them, but in the changes their disappearance inspired. Springfield’s police department overhauled its missing persons protocols. Crime scene preservation training improved statewide. Graduated seniors now receive safety briefings. Neighborhood watch programs intensified.

Nationally, the case influenced how law enforcement approaches cases with no obvious crime scene, no witnesses, no clear motive. It demonstrated how quickly evidence can be lost when well-meaning people contaminate scenes. It showed the importance of preserving even seemingly irrelevant details—like that deleted answering machine message.

Still Searching

Today, in 2025, the Springfield Police Department maintains an open file on the case. A tip line remains active: (417) 864-1810. The FBI still lists the Springfield Three on its missing persons database.

Stacy’s mother Janis McCall, now in her seventies, still waits by the phone. Sherrill’s siblings, though elderly, still attend annual vigils. The community still remembers.

Recent years have brought small developments. In 2024, as mentioned earlier, renewed DNA analysis identified potential distant relatives. Investigators are painstakingly tracing family trees, looking for connections that might point to a suspect from 1992. It’s slow, painstaking work—but it’s work. It’s hope.

A 2025 documentary series titled “Vanished: The Springfield Three” aired on major streaming platforms, introducing the case to yet another generation. Tips flooded in. Most were well-intentioned but unhelpful. A few seemed promising—detectives are following up.

Cold case units in Missouri have made solving the Springfield Three a priority. New detectives look at old evidence with fresh eyes. Witnesses from 1992—now middle-aged or elderly—are reinterviewed. Sometimes memories crystallize with time. Sometimes people who stayed silent out of fear or misplaced loyalty finally speak.

Why We Can’t Look Away

What is it about this case that captivates us decades later?

Perhaps it’s the ordinariness. These weren’t people involved in dangerous lifestyles. They weren’t running from anything or hiding secrets. They were a working mother, a recent graduate, and her best friend—people like us, living lives like ours. If it happened to them, it could happen to anyone.

Perhaps it’s the absence of closure. Humans crave narratives with beginnings, middles, and endings. The Springfield Three story has a beginning and middle but refuses to end. That open question—”what happened?”—gnaws at us.

Perhaps it’s the hope that somehow, someday, someone will remember something crucial. A detail overlooked in 1992 might be obvious in 2025. Technology impossible then might be routine now. Justice delayed isn’t necessarily justice denied.

Or perhaps it’s simpler than that. Three women vanished. Three families shattered. Three mysteries unsolved. And we—collectively, as a society—refuse to forget them. In remembering, in questioning, in seeking answers, we honor them. We say: “You mattered. You still matter. We won’t stop looking.”

Your Role in This Story

If you were alive in June 1992, if you lived in or near Springfield, if you attended those graduation parties or drove through that neighborhood that night—think back. Even the smallest detail might matter. A car you saw but dismissed. A person who seemed out of place. A conversation overheard and forgotten.

If you’re younger, share this story. Talk about it with family members who might have been in Springfield then. Post about it online. Keep these faces in public view. Someone, somewhere, knows something.

Call the Springfield Police Department tip line: (417) 864-1810. Even if you think your information is insignificant, let investigators decide. Cases are solved by tiny pieces fitting together, not by dramatic revelations.

Conclusion: The Light Still Burns

That porch light at 1717 East Delmar Street—the one Sherrill left burning for her daughter—has been dark for decades. Different families live there now. Life moves on. Springfield grew, changed, modernized. The teenagers who graduated with Suzie and Stacy are grandparents now.

But metaphorically, that light still burns. In the hearts of those who refuse to forget. In the dedication of investigators who won’t close the case. In every podcast episode, every Reddit thread, every documentary, every conversation that keeps the Springfield Three alive in public consciousness.

Three women vanished on June 7, 1992. Thirty-three years later, we still don’t know why or how. But we do know this: their story is not over. As long as people care, as long as investigators work, as long as hope persists—there’s a chance for answers.

The question that haunted Springfield in 1992 still haunts us today: What really happened to the Springfield Three?

And perhaps, one day soon, we’ll finally know.

If you have any information about the disappearance of Sherrill Levitt, Suzanne Streeter, or Stacy McCall, please contact:

Springfield Police Department
(417) 864-1810

FBI Tips
1-800-CALL-FBI

Your call could be the key that finally brings three families—and an entire community—the closure they’ve sought for more than three decades.