In September 2002, the quiet autumn air in Salem, Arkansas, carried no hint of the darkness that was about to descend. It was a time of falling leaves and cooling nights, a season of change that, for one family, would become a permanent and agonizing winter of the soul. Angela M. Cox, a 23-year-old mother filled with determination to build a new life, kissed her mother, Lorna Pool, goodbye. She was driving to Alton, Missouri, to pick up her beloved four-year-old son, Mikey. It was supposed to be a joyful reunion. Instead, it was the beginning of an 18-year nightmare. Angela and Mikey vanished without a trace, their disappearance leaving a gaping wound in the heart of their family and a chilling mystery that would haunt the community for nearly two decades.
For Lorna Pool, the years that followed were a torturous limbo, a state of suspended grief between a sliver of hope and the crushing weight of despair. She relentlessly pushed investigators, printed flyers, and spoke to anyone who would listen, refusing to let the memory of her daughter and grandson fade. The small town of Salem, where everyone knew everyone, was shaken. Massive searches were organized, with volunteers combing through fields, creek beds, and abandoned buildings. But every lead went cold. Every path ended in silence.
The initial investigation centered on the remote farm owned by Clarence and Barbara Crusen. Mikey had been staying with the older couple in a temporary arrangement while Angela worked to get back on her feet. The last known destination for Angela was their farm. Yet, the Crusens were adamant: Angela and Mikey, they claimed, never arrived. With no evidence to contradict their story, the investigation stalled. The case file grew thick with reports but thin on hope, eventually being relegated to the cold case archives, a monument to a mystery no one could solve.
But a story like this never truly dies. It lingers in the mind of a mother who cannot rest and in the memory of a detective who cannot forget. In 2020, nearly a decade after his retirement, Detective Dale Weaver of the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department, who was first assigned the case in 2003, received a call that would change everything. The department was reviewing old cold cases, and Angela’s was on the list. For Weaver, now in his 60s but with his investigative instincts as sharp as ever, this was a second chance to finish what he had started.
Weaver dove back into the files, meticulously reconstructing timelines and re-examining old witness statements. The world had changed since 2003; advanced databases and new forensic tools were now at his disposal. As he sifted through property and financial records, searching for any overlooked link, one bizarre detail snagged his attention. In 2005, when the Crusens sold their Alton farm, Clarence had insisted on a strange clause in the contract: he would personally remove and take the old oil furnace from the house. It was an illogical request. Why would anyone go to the trouble of removing an old, heavy heating system? Weaver’s gut told him this was more than an eccentricity; it was a clue.
This thread—the furnace—became the central focus of the renewed investigation. In early 2021, armed with this new information, Weaver and current investigators paid another visit to Barbara Crusen. Her husband, Clarence, had passed away in 2012, leaving her a widow living a quiet life. When Weaver questioned her about the furnace, he saw it—a fleeting flicker of fear and guilt in her eyes. She offered a flimsy excuse about her husband being particular, but her voice wavered. The detective knew he was close.
The investigation intensified. Weaver uncovered preliminary paperwork showing just how serious the Crusens had been about adopting Mikey, a plan Angela had reversed at the last minute. For a controlling man like Clarence, who was known to hold grudges, this rejection must have been infuriating. The pieces were falling into place, but Weaver still lacked the definitive proof needed to close the case.
With the assistance of the FBI, investigators proposed a polygraph test for Barbara. In April 2021, she voluntarily agreed. In the sterile environment of an FBI field office, the test began. When the critical questions were asked—”Did you see Angela M. Cox in September 2002?” “Do you know what happened to Angela and Mikey?”—the machine registered clear deception. The test was over. Barbara had failed.
In the crushing silence that followed, FBI Agent Sarah Mitchell gave Barbara a choice: leave and wait for the inevitable charges, or finally tell the truth. After 18 years of carrying an unimaginable secret, the dam broke. Sobbing uncontrollably, Barbara Crusen confessed to the horrific events of that night.
Her story was a tale of rage and brutal finality. Angela and Mikey had, in fact, arrived at the farm. When Angela stood firm in her decision to take her son home, Clarence flew into a violent rage. He took Angela outside. Barbara, terrified, stayed inside with Mikey, hearing shouts followed by a deadening silence. When Clarence returned, he was alone. He ordered Barbara to keep Mikey in the bedroom, and like she always did, she obeyed her domineering husband.
The next morning, Clarence delivered the sickening truth. He had killed Angela. And then, in an act of pure evil, he had disposed of her body in the furnace, burning her remains until nothing was left. But his monstrous crime wasn’t over. Mikey, inconsolable and crying for his mother, had become a liability. Fearing the little boy would expose him, Clarence killed him, too. He burned his four-year-old body in the same furnace as his mother.
The confession sent shockwaves through the law enforcement community. Two lives, erased from the world by fire and fury over a custody dispute. Forensic teams were dispatched to the old farm, where they found trace evidence—bone fragments and chemical residue—corroborating Barbara’s horrifying account. On April 28, 2021, the case was officially closed. Angela and Mikey Cox were declared deceased by homicide at the hands of Clarence Crusen.
Because the killer was already dead, and Barbara was seen as a witness and accessory—herself a victim of Clarence’s control—prosecutors declined to press charges against her. For Lorna Pool, justice was a complicated and painful concept. Detective Weaver personally delivered the news to her. The waiting was over, but the truth brought a fresh wave of agony. There would be no funeral, no grave to visit. Her daughter and grandson were simply gone.
News of the solved case reignited the grief in Salem. A memorial service was held, packing the local church with people who had never forgotten the young mother and her son. Lorna, with a strength forged in unimaginable pain, stood before her community and thanked them. She spoke of her daughter and grandson, ensuring they were remembered not as victims, but as the loving people they were.
Barbara Crusen became a pariah, living out her days in self-imposed isolation, shunned by the community until her death in 2026. For Lorna, the end of the mystery was the beginning of a new chapter. She channeled her grief into purpose, establishing the Angela and Mikey Foundation, a non-profit dedicated to helping other families of missing persons. The foundation provides resources, funds searches, and advocates for justice, turning a story of profound personal tragedy into a legacy of hope and support for countless others.
A permanent memorial now stands on the Salem courthouse lawn, a granite stone etched with the names of Angela and Mikey. It reads, “Justice delayed is not justice denied.” For a mother who never gave up and a detective who refused to forget, those words represent the end of a long, dark road and a solemn promise, finally fulfilled.
