The anatomy of a crime – Winter 2002
In this issue:
 |
- Anatomy
of a crime
Four Central alumni serving in the law and order industry give a sneak peak into their lives and careers - A day in the
life
Ross McCarty ’80 works to keep the streets of Urbandale, Iowa, safe - Under the
microscope
Hiram Evans ’75 plants dead pigs in his backyard, analyzes blood, bugs in the name of science - Taking the
stand
Vickie Gregory ’75 looks deep inside criminals’ souls to reveal their guilt, innocence or sanity on the witness stand - Locked up
Iowa State Penitentiary warden John Mathes ’67 prepares Iowa’s criminal population for society - A Life remembered
Washington, D.C., attorney, beloved wife and sister Karen Kincaid ’83
loses her life to the tragic terrorist acts of Sept. 11
Anatomy of a Crime - Four Central alumni serving in the law and order industry give a sneak peak into their lives and careers
Three
blood-spattered bodies have been found in an isolated Iowa country house.
The police scanner whispers and roars with information that a highly enraged
male suspect carrying a gun has fled the scene to prowl
the dark corners of a nearby suburban neighborhood. There is fear he will
strike again.
A team of police race to the scene.
They pinpoint the suspect’s whereabouts and move in to make their
arrest. The officers move slowly but assuredly as the suspect has gained
illegal entry into one of the area’s newly constructed homes.
The next several hours become a dangerous game of cat and mouse as the suspect makes threats and demands of the officers who stand outside with their guns drawn fearing the worst.
Ultimately, the suspect gives himself up. An arrest is made and the suspect is hauled away to jail.
But while the intense drama is over, the crime is far from being solved. It will take years before the criminal is brought to justice.
Such is the anatomy of a crime, a highly intricate web of police and justice work that begins at a gruesome crime scene and snakes its way through evidence testing and analysis in laboratories, lengthy interviews and testimony in courts, and rehabilitation and restitution in prisons.
The media often make big cases out of crime scenes and criminals, but little is known about the men and women who work behind the scenes to make the United States a safer place to live. Filtered through the tragic events of Sept. 11, there is no more relevant time to celebrate the work of Central alumni who have used their diverse degrees in sociology, biology, psychology and philosophy to create this highly crucial network of justice.
They work separately but together
weave a tapestry of powerful security in their respective roles throughout
the country. If these alums worked the aforementioned crime together,
it would start with police sergeant Ross McCarty ’80 patrolling
the streets of Urbandale, Iowa. California criminalist Hiram Evans ’75
would then take the evidence back to his lab to determine the who, what,
when, where and how of the crime. Vickie Evans ’75, a forensic psychologist
in Utah, would spend several hours interviewing the criminal, ultimately
testifying for or against the suspect in a court of law. Once a sentence
had been rendered, the criminal would spend years under the
rehabilitative care of Iowa State Penitentiary warden John Mathes ’67.
But in all this there is also
the victim, the person whose life was given for this
unfortunate work to have to be done. In this issue, Central College salutes
Washington, D.C., attorney Karen Kincaid ’83, who lost her life
to terror when the plane she was traveling on to get to a work assignment
crashed into
the Pentagon Sept. 11.
The following pages detail the work that goes on behind the yellow line. Please, step over the tape and learn about what happens within the anatomy of a crime.
A
Day in the Life - Ross McCarty
’80 works to keep the streets of Urbandale, Iowa, safe
Ross
McCarty never knows when he gets in his cruiser if he will face certain
danger at the turn of a corner. He admits he still gets a slight twitch
in his stomach when calls come through dispatch about fights at bars,
trouble on isolated Iowa highways and other situations that may put him
in a vulnerable situation. But he does have one goal:
“I don’t ever want to shoot another human being,” said Sgt. McCarty ’80, a police officer with the Urbandale Police Department who has managed to avoid brandishing his gun by treating people with dignity. “The one thing I’ve learned is if you treat everyone with respect, you usually get it back. If you don’t, they’re gonna fight you and it gets pretty tiring wrestling people to the ground every night.”
Every shift is different depending
on the circumstances of the day: A three car pile up near the intersection
of Interstates 80 and 35 needs a police officer to guide traffic that
has congested near the carnage. A fight between different refugee groups
near Merle Hay Mall necessitates police presence because a group of children
are in danger in the midst of the melee. A homeless couple needs assistance
finding shelter for the night because they have gone
days without nourishment and don’t know who to go to for help.
There’s also drug use and sales, domestic violence disturbances, late-night stabbings, people driving under the influence of drugs and alcohol, scattered homicides and seasonal bursts of shoplifting in the affluent community’s shops and grocery stores. It’s never an easy job, but McCarty and the six officers he oversees on the department’s swing shift offer the 35,000-member Urbandale community their first link to safety and civility.
“All policemen to a degree are social counselors,” said McCarty, a former Central College football star and sociology major. “I truly wanted to get out and do something where I would help people. God puts people where he needs them the most.”
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Ross
McCarty gets ready for a night on the streets of Urbandale in his
police cruiser. |
Police work is a job McCarty
feels proud to have because it is one that makes an impact on the people
around him. Eighteen years after putting on his first bulletproof vest,
McCarty still wakes up every morning looking forward
to the day ahead.
Oct. 3, 2001, is no exception.
The workday begins at 2:45 p.m. with the afternoon briefing. The small group discusses a stabbing that occurred on the weekend prior and how they are going to make an arrest. The conversation includes how they will manage their duties without the presence of two officers who may be activated due to America’s military retaliation for the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, D.C.
Despite the serious tone, there is an undercurrent of the brotherhood the officers share together as officers of the law. The men don’t always hang out together in their personal lives, but they all know they have each other’s back during the work day.
“The brotherhood isn’t about us being one big family getting along,” said McCarty, a father of two and husband to wife Greta for 22 years. “We are the thin blue line that helps people when things aren’t going so well. One officer doesn’t stand for himself — he stands for this community, he stands for this state and he stands for the Constitution.”
McCarty started his career in law enforcement at the Iowa Department of Corrections. He was a counselor for four years in a halfway house working to integrate people back in to mainstream society, but soon found himself sending more people back into the prisons then he was letting out.
“I started to develop more of a police mentality,” said McCarty. “I was policing people more than counseling them, so it seemed like a natural progression.”
A 4:30 p.m. run to a 911 call near Merle Hay Mall causes McCarty to reflect upon his days at Central. The area is highly Bosnian, he explains, and many of the calls turn out to be fights between different ethnic refugee groups. If the call turns out to be a situation where he has to counsel people, McCarty feels his four-year liberal arts education at Central will give him the foundation he will need to handle the situation effectively.
“I got out on the street and found out all these liberal arts classes I took relate directly to what I do every day,” said McCarty, who grew up in La Porte City, Iowa. “There were a lot of things I learned at Central that I didn’t know how it would fit together, but now I understand how they relate. Central really prepared me.”
As a policeman, McCarty has learned it is most important to treat all the people he comes across as equals. The confused situation surrounding the Sept. 11 tragedies has made his philosophy even more relevant as Americans are suddenly considered suspicious because they may look different than others.
McCarty
administers a lie detection test at the Urbandale Police Department
headquarters. |
“If you can’t articulate why this person is a threat, you shouldn’t touch them,” said McCarty, as two homeless people other officers might harass try to thumb a ride on Interstate 80. McCarty instead calls for an officer to go see if the couple needs food and shelter. “I would hate for us to get to the point where we forget we have a Constitution. You want to find the bad guy, but you want to do it under the laws this country was founded upon.”
By 5 p.m., a series of car accidents keep the Urbandale Police Department busy through around 7 p.m. On this day, there are no fatalities so McCarty stops to see if his officers need backup and then quickly heads to the scene of the next accident to do the same.
McCarty feels the best part of his job is that he is able to help people on a daily basis.
In August 2001, a family was at a softball game and their infant stopped breathing. The baby turned blue and faced instant death until McCarty administered CPR and got the baby breathing again. It was one of the most fulfilling experiences he has ever had, but he knew the baby’s survival had little to do with what he did to save it.
“It’s not for you to decide, it’s for God to decide,” said McCarty, who is currently training to run the Honolulu marathon in December. “If you have a good religious background, it helps you deal with some of the things you see.”
Still, McCarty does not feel like he’s a hero. He just does what he can to keep the streets safe because that is what he has been trained to do.
“I have met heroes and very few of them are police officers,” said McCarty, an avid mountain climber during his few spare moments. “Heroes are the type of people who aren’t trained but are suddenly cast into something. They don’t know exactly what to do, but they know they have to do something.”
It’s 8 p.m. and although McCarty doesn’t feel like a hero, the streets of Urbandale hum quietly as dusk gives way to another peaceful night. McCarty, who will keep going until 11 p.m., can breathe a sigh of relief because he gain met his goal — the gun stayed in his holster and the community he loves is safe. Not bad for a day’s work, but the uncertainty of tomorrow looms around the corner.
Under
the Microscope - Hiram Evans
’75 plants dead pigs in his backyard, analyzes blood, bugs in the
name of science
The
maggots, flies and beetles crawling across the pig’s decaying carcass
revealed a series of clues to Hiram Evans. Three weeks earlier, the California
scientist had put the dead swine in his backyard to make this
grisly discovery.
He took the insects back to his lab where he did an entomological investigation. Based on where the bugs had landed on the gilt’s anatomy and how long they had been there, Evans was able to determine how long the pig had been dead. It was no different than any of a number of other dead bodies Evans has dug up during the course of his career.
Such is a typical scientific
experiment for Evans ’75, a criminalist for San Bernardino County
who takes physical evidence from crime scenes to determine the who, what,
when and where of crimes. While the results often
determine a suspect’s guilt or innocence, Evans’ job is not
to discover why horrible crimes occur.
 |
Evans
analyzes crime specimens at his San Bernardino, Calif., forensic
science laboratory. Evans credits a visit to fellow chemistry graduate
Mike Peterson '69 at the Iowa State Crime Lab as the impetus for
his interest in criminalism. |
The criminalist, who is also a deputy sheriff for San Bernardino County, leaves that work up to the detectives and lawyers. Evans is strictly concerned with science.
“I was a scientist the day I walked in here and I’ll be a scientist the day I walk out,” said Evans, a chemistry major who immigrated to Central from a childhood in San Diego. “I didn’t get this job to be a paper pusher. I thought no two days would be alike and that’s pretty much been the case.”
Although he’s been doing biochemical analysis on blood, glass, paint, drugs and other things left behind after vicious crimes for more than 20 years, the work Evans does has achieved a certain level of pop culture “it job” status thanks to the infamous O.J. Simpson murder trial, gritty television shows like C.S.I. and horrifying movies like The Silence of the Lambs which glamorize the gore. Evans has tested his own share of bloody gloves under the microscope, but he says his job is nothing like what people have come to expect through its quick flash, everything-is-solved-within-an-hour media portrayal.
“There are a lot of tedious hours worked in a lab that the C.S.I. workers seem to get done in about 15 minutes,” said Evans, who has a master’s degree in criminalistics from California State University, Los Angeles. “I’m probably one of the dinosaurs who has done everything — blood spattering, interpretation and DNA and drug analysis.”
Still, unrealistic Hollywood-cultivated expectations aside, much of the work Evans does on a daily basis seems more akin to a gruesomely vivid Thomas Harris novel than anything most people would ever dream they’d spend their lives doing. The work is so all-consuming Evans, who is not married, has little time to pursue hobbies like reading, gardening and music which take his mind away from the death and destruction he must confront every day on the job.
It’s not uncommon for Evans
to dig up petrified bodies, visit the morgue, or rehydrate detached fingers
during a typical work shift. Working for the country’s largest county,
memorable cases are as common as the dead
bodies, which turn up almost every day in the highly remote area.
The victims aren’t always lucky enough to be found dead. Evans most remembers the story of a woman in 1986 who was brutally assaulted and left to die after her attacker poured sulfuric acid over her torso. Badly disfigured, the woman survived the attack with no face, nose, ears or sight — her injuries so bad not even the hospital could treat her.
“Her face ended up in a jar,” said Evans. “The flesh just sloughed off.”
Evans’ knowledge of science assured the attacker would not be able to strike again. He was able to analyze the traces of sulfuric acid left on the woman’s skin and trace the chemicals to the attacker, who was found with an empty bottle of sulfuric acid in his vehicle.
Finding justice for innocent victims and the families they often leave behind is the meat of Evans’ work.
“All those victims have families who reasonably expect justice,” said Evans, who has to pick and choose between several hundreds of deserving DNA cases each year.
He and his staff are generally able to work about 50. The results are almost immediate to Evans, who said the science he learned as a young adult at Central has been with him every step of the way throughout his blood-spackled career in criminalism.
“It’s a job where your contributions are relatively easy to see because we’re either putting bad guys in jail or telling investigators they have the wrong guy,” said Evans, joking that he had to find a way in the beginning to stomach the macabre details of his career. “The challenge early on is being able to keep your lunch down. It’s considered bad form to puke at an autopsy.”
It’s safe to say even the ever-polite food connoisseur Hannibal Lector would agree with that logic.
Taking the Stand - Vickie Gregory ’75 looks deep inside criminals’ souls to reveal their guilt, innocence or sanity on the witness stand
It was 1996 and Troy Kell was on trial for his life in Utah. Already in prison on two life sentences for a 1986 murder in Nevada, the self-admitted white supremacist had stabbed fellow inmate Lonnie Blackmon in the head, chest and throat 67 times while two other inmates held the African-American man down.
During the trial, Kell told jurors he killed Blackmon in self-defense. But witnesses told a different story. They spoke of a man who had often touted white power and a crime so gruesome Kell was covered with Blackmon’s blood within 20 seconds.
A prison surveillance camera caught the brutal act – Blackmon pinned against jail bars while Kell and two others brutally snuffed his life away. A large pool of blood on the ground testified to the horrific act of sudden violence.
The tape showed Kell grabbing a towel to wipe the blood off his hands. He yelled “white power” to inmates who looked on and cheered. Medical examiners said the knife was dull, causing a painful death that was likely executed within one minute because of severe injuries to Blackmon's jugular vein and carotid artery.
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Witnesses said Kell brutally and methodically slaughtered Blackmon like an animal. Kell tried to say it could have just as easily been him dead at Blackmon’s hands. He pled for his life, but jurors didn’t buy it.
They decided Kell deserved to receive the death penalty for taking Blackmon’s life. He is currently on death row in Utah awaiting his sentence.
Where most saw animalistic evil in Kell, Vickie Gregory saw pain. The forensic psychologist conducted neuropsychological testing on and interviewed Kell for 45 hours before the trial and saw a young man who was a victim of the prison system. His affiliation with white supremacy had developed in prison as a means of survival, she said.
There was no denying he committed the crime and should be punished for his act of violence, but paying for the murder with his life was too severe in Gregory’s eyes.
“He was criminally responsible,
there was no doubt he did it,”
said Gregory ’75. “The prison made him that person. I saw
it through his eyes.”
During the trial, Gregory testified on Kell’s behalf for his defense team. She told jurors being locked up in isolation with no contact to the outside world was causing Kell sensory deprivation. She learned Kell was bounced between his divorced parents from the age of eight until he found himself in prison at 18 for the murder in Nevada.
Kell, who suffers from attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, never had a chance, according to Gregory. The death penalty verdict haunts her to this day.
Gregory, who majored in psychology and English at Central, has testified in more than 50 capital homicide cases throughout Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Alabama and Missouri. She said her love for unlocking the secrets of the human mind began at Central while taking a psychology class taught by Jim Schulze and Ed Willis.
“I fell in love with psychology,” said Gregory, who initially planned to be an English teacher. “I have a natural affinity for understanding the dynamics of people. I have immersed myself in it. It’s the way I think.”
Gregory has both a Ph.D. from Iowa State University and a law degree from the University of Utah. With two different specialties, Gregory finds herself involved in all sides of the law when she is called to trial.
As a forensic psychologist, Gregory interviews suspects to see if they have any signs of mental illness to determine what state of mind they were in when they committed the crime. Then she is called either by the defense or the prosecution to testify in the trial.
As a lawyer, Gregory specializes in the sentencing of capital homicide cases and conducting the direct cross-examination of witnesses.
“I see it both from the
prosecution and the defense as well as the psychological and legal,”
said Gregory, who has been in private practice since 1986. “If I
work as a lawyer, the background in psychology allows
me to do a good job. The vast majority of people I see who have committed
a crime have some degree of mental illness. My challenge is to see whether
they have a defense.”
Gregory, who is not married, admits
her job is sometimes emotionally taxing. The death penalty cases like
Kell’s are the hardest to let go of, but she has learned to leave
it behind. She finds solace in her two dogs, and hobbies like
photography, sailing and writing.
Gregory hopes to next parlay her knowledge of crime into a best-selling book.
Locked Up - Iowa State Penitentiary warden John Mathes ’67 prepares Iowa’s criminal population for society
John Mathes understands the mind of a criminal because he once thought that way himself. The freshly appointed warden of Fort Madison’s Iowa State Penitentiary found himself in trouble as a 17-year-old in Pella, Iowa, for bootlegging liquor from Missouri and providing it to his friends. At the time, he saw no harm in what he was doing. He rationalized his behavior by thinking he was entitled to do whatever he wanted because his personal value system told him he could do adult things.
“I thought I should be able to do things that were adult even when I wasn’t,” said Mathes ’67. “As long as I had that value system, I behaved that way.”
It was, by all accounts, a typical
teenage crime in retrospect, but the experience of having rights taken
away due to probation would have a life-long effect on Mathes, who spends
every day working with prisoners to help them get their rights back as
productive members of society. He said his new way of thinking began at
Central College, where professors like
William Paul reached out to him in a way no one else ever had.
 |
Mathes
took on the lofty task of being the warden of the Iowa State Penitentiary
after 22 years as the superintendent of Newton's Correctional Release
Facility |
He admits he fought the process at first. The second of four children raised in a blue-collar family, Mathes thought reading books and learning new concepts were a waste of time. He knew he would end up operating heavy equipment like he had been since the sixth grade when his father put him behind his first excavation shovel.
“I was a horrible student,” said a smiling Mathes as he overlooked the mustard-colored maze of brick walls and coiled barbed wire of the penitentiary, the state’s only maximum-security prison. “Central challenged me to examine my own belief system and start thinking for myself — not only for work but in every aspect of who I am. Had Central not continued to reach out to me, my life would have been a lot different.”
During Mathes’ journey at Central, he found himself called to the seminary. He applied to the New Brunswick Theological Seminary where he was accepted, but ultimately declined the invitation. Instead, the philosophy and sociology major took notice of a vocational rehabilitation program at the University of Iowa.
After graduating from Central
in 1967, Mathes headed to Iowa City, where he earned a master’s
degree in 1969 in the Department of Education for Rehabilitation Counseling.
He spent some time working at a men’s
reformatory in Animosa and later moved to Des Moines where he helped open
the Des Moines Model Neighborhood Community Corrections Project which
soon became the forerunner of Iowa’s then newly emerging Community
Corrections Program.
He took a break in 1973 to pour
basement walls in Colorado but found his way back to working with mentally
ill people in Woodward, Iowa. He realized his real interest was working
with people with flawed value systems who had found themselves in trouble
for many of the same reasons he had as a 17-year-old in Pella. He wouldn’t
look back again, accepting the superintendency
of the Correctional Release Facility in Newton in 1978.
Mathes saw the facility grow from 110 beds of minimum security to more than 1000, which included building a new 750 medium security bed unit, during his 22-year tenure at the jail. He planned to retire in Newton, but by December 2000 a new challenge in Fort Madison began calling his name. He knew no matter how much he rationalized, he couldn’t say no to this opportunity.
“I was very happy in Newton, but I felt a powerful need to come here,” said Mathes, a father of three including Kelly Mathes ’94 and husband to wife Ellen for 25 years. “I think the good Lord called me to do this. I tried to talk myself out of this 100 times. It didn’t make sense in terms of my comfort level and yet I felt a need to do it. Ever since I said yes, I have never second-guessed that decision. It was the right thing.”
Mathes relishes the challenge of being associated with what the Des Moines Register has called “Iowa’s toughest prison.” The oldest prison west of the Mississippi River houses 931 inmates in its three custody settings.
Approximately 63 percent of the
inmates have been convicted of crimes against a person. On Jan. 1, 2001,
243 inmates were serving a life
sentence. The average age of a lifer is 33.
Even though he knows many of the prisoners will never have the opportunity to use their new skills in regular society, Mathes feels challenged to provide a safe and secure environment where his men can grow as human beings.
“Part of our job is to prepare the inmates to become responsible citizens in society, but the other part is making them become responsible citizens away from society,” said Mathes, who will open a new special needs unit for inmates with psychiatric diagnoses in August 2002. “Our job is to challenge inmates to the degree they recognize that value system is not in their own best interest. That short cut — or short circuit — that says ‘I want it, I need it, I’m entitled to it’ doesn’t serve them well. There is a hell of a price to pay here.”
At Fort Madison, all of the prisoners are required to work in some way. Some take courses about anger management or self-esteem. Others work on getting their GED’s or spend time preparing the day’s meal in the cafeteria. But none of the men at Fort Madison wake up in the morning with the freedoms people outside the jail have to choose their own breakfast, clothes, workday schedule and leisure-time activities. That, Mathes said, makes incarceration by its very nature a horrible punishment that he feels many in society take for granted when they think about prison life.
“In prison, somebody else makes all those decisions for you,” said Mathes. “That loss is a loss of freedom that we take way too lightly when we think of prisons. We get to protect the public, but we also get to wrestle with people about where their actions have taken them, where they are and where they are going to be.”
The leadership role is a far cry from the liquor-bootlegging teenager who first enrolled at Central not knowing why he was even wasting his time with college. Mathes said he is thankful every day for the profound learning experience he earned at Central College — a solid foundation for life he tries to build upon with every new experience.
“I’ve always looked at Central as a very challenging time for me when I was encouraged to broaden my horizons,” said Mathes.
“College was not fun for me, but it was really important. I have always been grateful to have had the opportunity to learn from the people at Central. It was a unique opportunity to grow.”
A Life Remembered - Washington, D.C., attorney, beloved wife and sister Karen Kincaid ’83 loses her life to the tragic terrorist acts of Sept. 11
Karen Kincaid leaned into her husband as they drove to Dulles International Airport and asked, “How much do I owe you for the cab fare?” Knowing his wife was joking as she often did, Peter Batacan said, “This one is on the house.”
It was a typical quip between the couple on a clear September morning in Washington, D.C. Kincaid, a D.C.-based communications attorney, was to board Los Angeles-bound American Airlines Flight 77 for a work conference.
When the couple said their goodbyes
at the airport, Batacan had no idea it would be the last time he would
see his wife of five years alive.
Soon, the couple’s happy life together was destroyed by the tragic
events of Sept. 11. He was listening to the radio in the car when he learned
terrorist hijackings had forced planes to strike the World Trade Center.
He didn’t initially make a connection. But then the news announced
Flight 77 had struck the Pentagon. Life was immediately altered, he said.
 |
Kincaid,
with her husband Peter Batacan, at the 1999 New York City Marathon.
The Coquille ran the 26.2 miles together and finished. |
“I lost the better part of me that day. Now it feels like life has just been ripped away,” said Batacan. “We had a marriage that was a partnership in the truest sense. We had so much of our lives ahead of us.”
Kincaid ’83 was described as a quiet and gentle soul who had a gift for patiently listening to and caring for others. The Waverly, Iowa, native loved the couple’s three cats, pursued photography and trained for marathons in her spare time. She was also the type of person who took time out of a hectic day to visit with a neighbor or spend time getting to know one of the maintenance workers at her Washington, D.C., law firm.
“Everyone was important to Karen,” said her brother Kristian Kincaid of Dubuque. “She was a very kind person.”
After graduating with honors from Central in 1983, the political science and economics major attended Drake Law School where she was articles editor for the Drake Law Review and graduated with honors in 1986. Her distinguished legal career included two judicial clerkships, first with Leo Oxberger, Chief Judge of the Iowa Court of Appeals and later with J. Smith Henley on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit. In 1989, Kincaid moved to Washington, D.C., to work as an attorney adviser for the Federal Communication Commission’s Private Radio Bureau. She entered private practice in communications law in 1993 with the D.C.-based law firm Wiley, Rein and Fielding, where she rose to the level of partner.
While Batacan feels tremendous loss, he is comforted by his wife’s life-loving spirit. He knows she lived her short life to its maximum potential.
“Even though her life was cut short at a young age, she made the best of it,” said Batacan, also a communications attorney whose legal career began at the Federal Communications Commission. “She lived every moment to be with loved ones and cultivate friendships.”
In addition to Batacan, siblings Karyl Kincaid-Noel of Waverly, Kristian Kincaid of Dubuque, Kasey Kincaid of Des Moines and Kay D’Amico of Cedar Rapids survive Kincaid.
The couple did not have any children. She would have turned 41 on Nov. 3, 2001.
Please direct questions or comments
regarding editorial content of the Central Bulletin to Abby
Gonzales, News & Marketing Writer.
Phone: 641.628.5157 | Email: gonzalesa@central.edu
For alumni-related issues, please
contact Sunny Eighmy, Director of Alumni Relations.
Phone: 641.628.5280 | Email: alumni@central.edu