DNA Exposed the Truth After 13 Years of Lies

DNA Exposed the Truth After 13 Years of Lies

On September 28th, 2000, David Camm was running about 20 minutes late. He was driving home from a church basketball game, preoccupied with thoughts of the minor argument he anticipated having with his wife, Kim, regarding their children’s bedtime. Bradley and Jill both had school the following morning, and Kim was known to be firm when the homework routine faced any disruption. Little did David know that three miles away, in the dark of his own garage, his life as he knew it had already ended. To truly comprehend the tragedy that unfolded that night, one must understand the foundation David Camm had built. Georgetown, Indiana, was a town of roughly 2,200 people—the kind of place where residents left their doors unlocked and exchanged friendly waves with strangers on the road. On Lockhart Road, named after David’s mother’s side of the family, David and Kim had constructed their dream home from the ground up, a testament to deep-rooted familial ties.

David met Kimberly Wren in 1984. Recalling their early days, he once said, “I was immediately very attracted to her. Beautiful young lady, extremely intelligent, kind, huge heart.” They married in 1989, the same year David joined the Indiana State Police. Within months, he was selected for the Emergency Response Unit, an elite team that required both grit and capability; he had earned his place. Kim built her own successful life alongside his, rising to the position of senior accountant at an insurance company. David, meanwhile, became the treasurer of their local church, the Georgetown Community Church—the very same place where he played basketball every Thursday night. Kim was the pillar of the household, a woman who held everything together quietly and without complaint. By 1993, they welcomed Bradley, and in February 1995, Jill arrived. The family possessed the house, the careers, the community, and the deep roots they had always craved.

Then, in May 2000, David made a career move he believed would enhance their family life. After 10 years of service, he resigned from the State Police. His uncle, Sam Lockhart, had offered him a position at his basement waterproofing company—an opportunity promising double the pay, predictable hours, and the chance to be home for dinner and help with homework. Kim’s sister later remarked that Kim had finally gotten exactly what she wanted: her white picket fence. However, four months later, on a Thursday evening in September, that life burned to the ground.

September 28th started like any other Thursday. David and Kim went to work; Bradley and Jill went to school. After school, Kim picked up both children, took Bradley to swim practice, and brought them home. David headed to the church gym at 7:00 p.m. for a routine session of basketball with 11 other men. Around 9:20 p.m., the games concluded, and David got into his car for the five-minute drive home. As he pulled into the driveway, he pressed the garage door opener. The door began to rise, and the first thing he saw was the blood.

Kim lay on the cold concrete of the garage floor—a devastating, horrific scene. It was immediately apparent that she had been fatally attacked. David was out of his car before it had fully stopped. He ran to her, knelt on the ground, held her, and whispered her name. He later recounted that he could tell from the emptiness in her eyes that she was already gone. Then, the reality of the children struck him. He looked toward the family’s black Ford Bronco, which was parked in the garage with the door slightly ajar. He looked inside and saw five-year-old Jill still strapped into her seatbelt. The attack had been sudden, cold, and final; she likely never even realized what was happening.

Brad was a different story. Brad had clearly tried to escape. His seven-year-old body was stretched toward the back cargo area of the Bronco, as if he had been scrambling and trying to put distance between himself and the assailant. He had been targeted as he attempted to flee. When David reached into the vehicle, Bradley was still warm. In a desperate, frantic state, David pulled him out and immediately initiated CPR, trying with every ounce of his remaining strength to breathe life back into his son. But it was already too late. David continued, because what is a father to do when his seven-year-old son is still warm? He kept going, even though there had been no chance of survival for over an hour.

David stood in the garage, his wife on the floor, his daughter in the backseat, and his son on the ground before him. He called the Indiana State Police—the very organization he had served for a decade, composed of colleagues who were also his closest friends. The dispatcher transferred him to a supervisor, and while he waited, he was placed on hold. David Camm stood in his garage, surrounded by the bodies of his entire family, and listened to hold music. When the supervisor finally picked up, David managed to say, “Get everybody out here to my house now. My wife and my kids are dead.”

Police arrived within minutes. They found Kim on the floor and both children in the Bronco. Three fatal attacks created a crime scene that one lead investigator later described as “probably one of the most horrific crimes” he had seen in his 33-year career. However, two items at the scene did not fit the narrative. The first was Kim’s shoes. She had been wearing them when she arrived home, but they were not on her feet. Instead, they were sitting on the roof of the Bronco, placed neatly and deliberately side by side, with the toes pointing outward. Someone had taken the time to carefully arrange those shoes in the middle of a triple homicide. Nobody could explain it.

The second item was a gray sweatshirt found on the garage floor next to Bradley’s body. It belonged to no one in the Camm family. Inside the collar, written in faded black marker, was a single word: “backbone.” To the investigators, this was merely an inconvenience—something that didn’t fit the story already forming in their minds. They pushed it into an evidence bag, sealed it, and set it aside. Three days later, they handcuffed David Camm. They were certain they had their man. Why bother looking for another? David Camm, a man with no murder weapon, a man whose clothes had been tested, and a man with 11 witnesses who could swear under oath exactly where he was when his family was killed, was arrested and charged with three counts of murder. The sweatshirt remained in an evidence bag, the word “backbone” remained in the dark, and the true story—one that would take 13 years, three trials, and a total courtroom breakdown to emerge—had not even begun.

Who was David Camm to these investigators? What evidence was so convincing that they ignored everything else? Floyd County Prosecutor Stan Faith arrived at the scene around 10:00 p.m. He looked at the garage and then at David Camm, a former state trooper standing in blood-soaked clothes, inconsolable. Within hours, a decision was made—quietly, without announcement—that would dictate the entire trajectory of the case. David Camm was deemed the suspect, not a “person of interest.” From that moment on, the investigation was engineered to prove that one predetermined conclusion.

To build the case, Faith needed a forensics expert. He called Rod Englert, a well-known private blood spatter analyst based in Oregon. However, Englert was unavailable that night, so he sent his assistant, Robert Steitz. The most experienced detective on the scene, Jim Nimer, felt something was wrong immediately. He pulled his superiors aside and stated, “This man does not look qualified to be here. I do not want him on this scene.” His superiors told him to stand down; Stan Faith wanted Steitz involved. And so, Robert Steitz, originally brought in to photograph and document, became the forensic authority on a triple homicide.

David had surrendered the clothes he wore that night as part of standard procedure. When the lab results returned, eight microscopic dots of blood were found on his shirt. Steitz examined them and delivered a conclusion that stunned the room: they were “high-velocity impact spatter” (HVIS). In forensic analysis, HVIS is what occurs when a bullet strikes a body at close range, turning blood into a fine mist of microscopic droplets that travel backward toward the shooter. Those eight dots, Steitz claimed, were scientific proof that David Camm had been standing within 3 to 4 feet of his daughter, Jill, when she was shot. He wasn’t guessing; he told investigators he was 100% certain. “The only way those stains get on a shirt,” Steitz asserted, “is from blowback from a gunshot wound. This is scientific documentation.”

Investigators adopted this theory as absolute truth, building their arrest warrant around it. Steitz continued his inspection, finding more “evidence.” He pointed to a long ribbon of blood near Camm’s body, where the color faded from dark red to almost clear. “That color change,” Steitz claimed, “meant only one thing: someone had used a high-pH cleaning substance, like bleach, before police arrived.” He insisted David had panicked, tried to wash the scene, failed, and then called it in. He pointed to the garage door, the breezeway siding, a mop, and a jacket. “All of it,” Steitz declared, “showed traces of high-velocity impact spatter.” Robert Steitz was not merely confident; he was absolute. In a courtroom, science is often treated as divine; no one questioned Steitz, no one verified his findings, and no one scrutinized the man behind them.

Yet, a stubborn problem remained: David Camm’s alibi. It was not a vague recollection, but a solid block of time supported by 11 separate human beings who were physically at the Georgetown Community Church with David from 7:00 p.m. until after 9:00 p.m. All 11 witnesses told the same story with no contradictions. The medical examiner placed the time of death at approximately 8:00 p.m.—a time when David was confirmed to be at the church. Investigators adjusted their theory, suggesting David must have slipped out during the second game, driven five minutes home, committed three murders, and returned to the sidelines without a single one of those 11 men noticing his absence. The entire round trip, including the murders, had to fit within 15 minutes, eight of which were spent driving. That left only seven minutes for a triple homicide.

Then there was the phone call. Records showed a call from the Camm residence at 7:19 p.m. Investigators pounced, claiming this proved David was home and lying about his whereabouts. However, Indiana spans two time zones—Eastern and Central—and the phone company’s billing system had logged timestamps incorrectly across that boundary. When corrected, the call had actually occurred at 6:19 p.m., a full hour before basketball began. The “proof” that David was lying proved absolutely nothing.

Now, investigators faced a crisis. Forensic science seemingly pointed at David, but the alibi held, the timeline was nearly impossible, and there was no murder weapon. When the evidence doesn’t build the case you want, you stop building the case and start building the man. Investigators began digging into David’s personal life. What they found had no bearing on a murder investigation, but it was perfect for making a jury despise him. David had been unfaithful multiple times—12 women in total. Some were full affairs; some were women he had pursued and been rejected by. He had left Kim once while she was pregnant with Jill and had pursued female colleagues while in uniform. While none of this was evidence of murder, the prosecution brought all 12 women into the courtroom. The jury listened to story after story of deception and infidelity. It was embarrassing and dark, and it achieved the prosecution’s goal: David Camm was portrayed as a terrible husband. The prosecution no longer needed to prove he pulled the trigger; they just needed the jury to hate him enough to disregard the impossible timeline.

The trial began in February 2002. Robert Steitz took the stand with complete confidence, introducing himself as a professor, a crime scene reconstructionist, and a PhD candidate in fluid dynamics. He spoke with an authority that commanded the room. He explained the eight blood dots as “scientific proof” that David was the shooter. Rod Englert, the senior analyst, followed him and confirmed every finding. The defense fought back, presenting their own analyst who argued the dots were “transfer stains”—the result of David brushing against his daughter’s hair while trying to pull her from the vehicle. To demonstrate, the defense brought a blood-soaked wig into the courtroom and dragged a shirt across it. The resulting pattern looked remarkably similar to the prosecution’s “evidence.”

Despite the 11 witnesses testifying to David’s presence at the basketball game, the jury had to choose between eight blood dots and 11 human beings. On March 17th, 2002, they returned a verdict: guilty. David Camm was sentenced to 195 years in prison. He was led out of the courthouse in the very handcuffs he had used while serving as a trooper. He had been buried alive by the system he served for a decade.

For six months, David sat in his cell, listening to the rattling of keys, thinking, “This is it. They figured it out.” But no one came. In August 2004, the Indiana Court of Appeals overturned the conviction, ruling that the testimony regarding David’s affairs had unfairly poisoned the jury. For a moment, there was hope. Then, a new prosecutor, Keith Henderson, announced a second trial. Before it could begin, the defense team returned to the one item that had never been explained: the gray sweatshirt.

It had sat in an evidence room for nearly five years. The defense pushed for the DNA on the sweatshirt to be re-run under court supervision. When the results finally hit the CODIS database, they came back within hours. The male DNA belonged to a man named Charles Darnell Boney. In Indiana law enforcement files, Boney was not just another convict; he was a predator with a terrifying and specific fixation. Since 1989, he had been targeting women, cornering them at gunpoint, and forcing them to remove their shoes. Known as the “Shoe Bandit,” he had served time for robbery and criminal confinement against women and had been released on parole just weeks before the Camm family murders.

The connection was undeniable. Kim Camm’s shoes had been removed and placed on the roof of the Bronco—the exact signature of the Shoe Bandit. Furthermore, the coroner’s report noted bruising on the tops of Kim’s feet, marks that were finally explained. The monster had left his calling card, and the state had spent five years looking right past it. On March 5th, 2005, investigators found a palm print on the outside passenger door of the Bronco that matched Charles Boney. In a just world, David Camm would have walked out of prison that afternoon. But Floyd County prosecutors could not admit their corruption or the flaws in their original investigation. They changed the script.

They arrested Boney and gave him a choice: go down alone for a triple homicide, or provide the narrative they needed to keep David Camm in the picture. Boney chose to talk. His story was one of the most unbelievable accounts ever told in an Indiana courtroom. Boney, who left his DNA, fingerprints, and calling card at the scene, tried to claim he was there only to deliver an untraceable gun to David Camm. He claimed that when Kim pulled into the garage, David followed her in, arguments ensued, and gunfire followed. Boney then claimed that in a panic, he tripped over Kim’s shoes, and in the middle of escaping a chaotic crime scene, he paused to pick them up and arrange them neatly on the roof.

The autopsy results—the bruising on Kim’s feet—proved this was not a “clumsy trip” but a violent ritual. Investigators ignored the inconsistency because they only cared about the co-conspirator. Dr. Kim Rossmo, a criminologist who reviewed 35 hours of Boney’s interrogation, noted that Boney was never treated like a suspect, but like a resource. Investigators weren’t seeking the truth; they were building a narrative.

The involvement of Boney’s girlfriend, Mara Mattingly, was even more damning. On the night of the murders, Boney had left the house and returned after midnight, sweating, breathing hard, and showing her a gun—the presumed murder weapon. She told investigators she believed something had “broken” in him. Despite this, the prosecution ignored the obvious. Even more disturbing, Stan Faith—the original prosecutor—had personal ties to Boney’s mother. Records showed that in the 14 days before he was even a suspect, Boney had contacted the Floyd County Prosecutor’s Office 33 times.

Charles Boney agreed to testify against David Camm in exchange for a promise that he would not face the death penalty. Trial two began in January 2006. With the affairs inadmissible, prosecutor Keith Henderson invented a new motive: he claimed David had been mistreating his daughter and killed the family to cover it up. The defense’s medical examiner destroyed this claim, but the jury believed the narrative. What the jury didn’t know was the pressure being applied behind the scenes. DNA analyst Lynn Scamahorn testified that Stan Faith had threatened her career when she refused to lie and say she found David’s DNA on the sweatshirt. Fingerprint analyst John Singleton also testified that Faith pressured him to soften his testimony regarding the palm print.

On March 3rd, 2006, the jury again returned a guilty verdict: life without parole. Later, it was revealed that Henderson had signed a lucrative book deal while actively prosecuting the case. The Indiana Supreme Court eventually removed him and issued a formal public reprimand. Additionally, a police officer named Myron Wilkerson had illegally removed Kim Camm’s cell phone from evidence, and when it was eventually recovered, it had been wiped clean.

In 2009, the Indiana Supreme Court finally had enough. They cited the unverified theory, the prosecutor’s book deal, and the lack of physical evidence supporting the abuse allegation. They smashed the conviction to pieces. For the second time, David’s sentence was overturned. Floyd County had lost twice, but their ego remained intact. They refused to stop. In 2013, a third trial was ordered, but this time, the truth—buried for over a decade under corruption, ego, and a “backbone” sweatshirt—was finally ready to surface. The ordeal had been a harrowing test of resilience, and for David Camm, the nightmare was finally nearing its long-awaited conclusion.