When my sister was murdered in her home in September of 2009, my life changed forever. The questions that flood your mind in these circumstances are unbearable. Not knowing who murdered my sister was all-consuming.

Every day, I waited for my phone to ring, to hear the detective’s voice telling me an arrest was made. I tried to prepare myself for that day. How would I react? Would I be overjoyed? Would I feel relief? There is no script for this, no rule book. You learn as you go. I experienced frustration at the lack of an answer.

I already had someone in my mind tried and convicted. Why wasn’t he arrested? I just knew I was right. Wasn’t I? The entire family grew impatient. We cried, we prayed, we begged for an answer to the who. I thought knowing that answer would make things easier, or at least less intense.

I remember the day exactly. March 23, 2010. Exactly 6 months and 4 days after my sister’s murder. My phone rang, I answered. “Mrs. Dickinson, this is Detective F.”  I remember holding my breath. He then told me they had made an arrest. I literally fell to my knees. Silent tears streamed down my face. My husband was home and asking, “What? What?” I put my hand up to silence him. I didn’t want to miss one word the detective was saying.

I responded to the detective, “Who? Who?” He told me the man’s name. It was not who I had tried and convicted. Instead, it was a man who lived across the street from my sister.

The detective told me the scenario they had put together. The man had knocked on my sister’s door about 7 pm. He was looking for odd jobs to make some cash. He had asked my sister before for odd jobs. She was leary of him; she had told me and a few of her friends how he bothered her. She told him no, she had no extra money.

Inside of my sister’s front door was a small table. She was in the habit of leaving her purse on that table when she entered her home. The man most likely saw her purse there. He left and later, most likely came back to her home, waiting in her fenced in backyard, lurking in the dark. When he saw my sister’s bedroom light come on, he most likely thought she was going to take a shower. She was only changing clothes.

He entered her home through her patio door. He most likely walked straight to her front table, going for her purse. Sandra had a dog, Leroy. Either Leroy started barking, a different bark, or Sandra heard something and walked down the hallway from her bedroom to her living room. She most likely screamed and told him to get out of her house. At that moment, the man knew my sister could identify him and at that moment he chose to silence her.

The man was a three-time convicted armed robber. He didn’t want to go back to jail so he brutally stabbed her to death, leaving her in the guest bathroom to be found the next morning.

While the detective told me everything, I stayed on my knees, rocking back and forth weeping. I finally managed to speak. “I was wrong,” I said. The detective asked me what I meant. I told him all these months I had her ex-husband convicted. He said that her ex gave very good information that helped us make the arrest. I then felt very guilty. Guilty of thinking those terrible things about the wrong man.

After hanging up the phone, I reached for my call list. I had prepared a list of people to call, like a phone chain. I called my oldest sister who in turn called my other sister and my mother. I called both my children. I then called one of Sandra’s friends so she could call others. I then called her school principal.

There were so many people that I wanted to know before they saw it on the news that night. The last person I called was my sister’s pastor, Pastor Stan, one of the kindest men I know. I was fine until I called Stan. Then I lost it. After hanging up the phone from speaking to Stan, I handed my husband the phone. I couldn’t talk anymore. I asked him to intercept all phone calls for me. I had group support that night and needed to go.

I remember standing in the shower before support group and bawling. I cried and cried. It was as if I was reliving those first few hours after finding out about her death, all over again. Then I was physically ill. I was sick until there was nothing left inside of me. Then my stomach contracted over and over again. I had never felt such anguish, if that’s what you call it.

I didn’t scream, I didn’t rant, I didn’t cuss and swear at the man. I cried and cried. And I asked, “Why?” I didn’t understand. He murdered her so he wouldn’t have to go back to prison? Did he really think he would get by with murder? Evidently so. At that moment, I learned the difference between how criminals think and how people like me think. We do not have the capacity to think that way. It was way too much for me to try to understand.

It took about 5 days for me to feel relief. I was relieved the waiting for the “who” was over. I was relieved the accused was in jail and in a state that had the no-bond law for accused murderers. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. I also learned that having the answer to the who brought on more questions. What happens now? Will there be a trial? How long will it take? Complicated grief, it actually seems to never end.