There is a moment that happened at 7:03 in the morning on April 5th, 1984 inside Florida State Prison in Stark, Florida that nobody in that room expected. The man strapped into the electric chair had spent the past 7 years telling anyone who would listen that he felt nothing.
Nothing for the children he had killed. Nothing for the families he had destroyed. Nothing for the courts, the judges, the system, the concept of remorse itself. He had mocked it all. He had laughed at it. He had given press conferences from death row. He had written letters to the grieving mothers and fathers of the boys he murdered.
Not apologies, but boasts. He had told a reporter from the Baltimore City paper one month before he was scheduled to die that what he had done was a protest against society. He had grinned. He had joked. He had declared the night before his execution in front of a room full of reporters that his only dying wish was to have sex with a child one final time.
He had said it with a smile and then they strapped him in. And something happened to Arthur Frederick Good III that had never happened before in 8 years of performance and provocation and calculated indifference. The warden held a microphone to his mouth. The witnesses sat waiting. The switch was seconds away and the man who had felt nothing looked out at the room and said quietly with tears beginning in his eyes, “I’m very upset. I don’t know what to say really.
How much time do I have? The warden said nothing. And then good said, I want to apologize to my parents. And then, softer still, as if the words were being pulled out of somewhere he had buried them 8 years ago and almost forgotten. I have remorse for the two boys I murdered. It’s difficult for me to show it.
2,000 volts moved through his body at 7:03 a.m. His fists clenched. His body jolted once hard and then it relaxed. He was pronounced dead at 7:08 when warden Richard Duggar was asked years later which execution in his career had stayed with him the longest. He did not name Ted Bundy, who was also housed at Florida State Prison in Starkic at the time.
He named Arthur Good. Arthur Good was the hardest. Duggar said, “I had some real reservations about that one. Let’s face it, he was a nut.” This is the story of Arthur Frederick Good III. But before we get to that execution chamber, before we get to the electric chair, before we get to the seven years on death row and the letters and the press conferences and the grinning, we need to go back much further because the story of Arthur Good does not begin with a murder.
It begins with a childhood. It begins with a family in Hyetszville, Maryland. And it begins with a system that had every opportunity across years and years and years to stop what was coming and didn’t. Arthur Frederick Good III was born on March 28th, 1954 in Hyetszville, Maryland, a small workingclass suburb located just outside Washington DC.
in Prince George’s County. He was the youngest child and the only boy in a household that included his parents and three older sisters. His mother, Mildred, later described him as a change of life baby, meaning his arrival was unexpected, a late addition to a family that had perhaps already settled into its rhythms.
His father, Arthur Good Jr., went by the nickname Bud. Bud worked as a water and sewer inspector and as a milk delivery driver. Mildred was a housewife. They were not a wealthy family, but they were not desperate either. They were ordinary people living an ordinary life in a suburb that was full of ordinary people living ordinary lives.
There was no documented abuse in the good household, no violence that investigators later identified, no obvious catastrophe in the early years. But Arthur, the family called him Freddy, was not ordinary. From early childhood, something was clearly wrong. He exhibited developmental delays significant enough that he was placed in special education classes.
He struggled to make friends outside of his sisters. At age three, according to later psychiatric records, he had already been flagged as exhibiting signs of mental disturbance, a startlingly early identification that speaks to how visible his difficulties were to the people around him. His mother would later describe her attempts to help him, psychiatric treatment, interventions, consultations.
His father would describe his own attempts differently and more desperately, trying to get Freddy addicted to alcohol at one point, believing that if he stayed intoxicated, he would be too impaired to act on his fixations. Bud also arranged, according to reporting by the St. Petersburg Times journalist who covered this case extensively in the 1980s.
A sexual encounter between Freddy and a mentally disabled teenage girl in the neighborhood under the theory that this might redirect him. And Bud Good would later beat his son. He admitted repeatedly. His wife Mildred told that same journalist that it was like whipping a damned dog. He could never figure out why I was doing it.
None of it worked because what was growing inside Arthur Frederick Good III was not a behavior that could be beaten out of him or frightened away or redirected towards someone else. It was a fixation, specific and consuming and entirely focused on young boys. By the time Freddy Good was a teenager, that fixation had already turned into action.
He was making sexual advances toward younger boys in his Hyetszville neighborhood. He became known for it. He was arrested not once but three times in his teens and early 20s. Each time for offenses against children. Each time his parents posted bail. Each time he was released back into the community. The charges, despite the pattern, despite the repetition, despite the number of incidents, never resulted in meaningful incarceration.
There was no registry at the time. There was no mechanism to follow him electronically. There was no interstate database that would have flagged his history. The moment he crossed a state line, he walked free again and again back into neighborhoods where children lived. In March of 1975, Good was arrested on five separate charges of sexual assault stemming from his abuse of a 9-year-old boy.
His parents raised $25,000 to post his bail. He was released while out on bail, not incarcerated, not monitored, not removed from access to children. He molested an 11year-old boy. The system confronted now with a documented pattern of escalating predatory behavior toward children spanning years did the following.
It sentenced him to 5 years of probation contingent on one condition. He had to voluntarily submit to psychological treatment at Spring Grove Hospital Center in Baltimore. The key word in that sentence is voluntarily. Arthur Good checked himself into Spring Grove Hospital Center in Baltimore and within 15 weeks he simply walked out. The treatment was voluntary which meant it was uninforcable which meant that when he left no alarm was triggered.
No officer was dispatched. No probation officer appeared at the door of his parents’ house. No warrant was acted upon. A judge had issued a bench warrant for his arrest. Upon learning he had left the facility, but nobody went to get him. The system had its paperwork in order and its hands entirely empty. Good’s parents, Bud and Mildrid, had recently retired from Maryland to Cape Coral, Florida, a city on the southwest coast of the state in Lee County, positioned along the Kousa Hatchee River.
Cape Coral in 1976 was a young and growing community barely 15 years old as a city built on a grid of canals that developers had dredged from swamp land starting in the late 1950s. It was the kind of place families moved to for the weather, for the open space, for the particular sense of possibility that Sunbelt, Florida offered in those years.
There were treelined streets and children playing outside and parents who felt safe enough to let their kids walk to the bus stop alone in the morning because this was 1976 and this was a family neighborhood and nothing like this was supposed to happen here. Good caught a bus south from Baltimore and went to stay with his parents in Cape Coral.
His father would later say that arrangements were being made to get Freddy back into treatment in Maryland. That red tape was slowing the process. Whatever the reason for the delay, it would prove fatal. Cape Coral is where we need to stop before we go any further and spend some time on a 9-year-old boy. His name was Jason Verdau.
He was born Jason Steel Verdau on May 20th, 1966 in Sodas Point, New York to his parents Helen and Walter Verdau. Jason was a third grader at Kousa Elementary School in Cape Coral in the spring of 1976. The family had moved to Cape Coral only about 6 weeks before Jason died. They were still settling in, still finding their footing in a new place.
Jason was already finding his footing just fine, the way 9-year-olds do. He had immediately fallen in with the Cape Coral Yankees little league team and had made it his world. Baseball was Jason’s thing. It was the language he already spoke. His little league coach would remember him decades later. Peppy, he said, very energetic, very ready to play ball.
He just jumped right into the game. He was ready to roll. And Jason’s father, Walter, worked at a golf course nearby. Jason had inherited that love of the outdoors, that love of sport, fishing, too. He was an active kid, an outdoor kid, the kind of boy who met every new place as an adventure and every new teammate as a friend. His mother, Helen, would describe him this way in words she chose carefully and meant completely.
He was the perfect child. I know you’re thinking this is what all mothers believe, but in Jason’s case, it was true. He was very outgoing, energetic, and intelligent. He loved baseball. He was sweet. He was an angel, an absolute angel, and he was put here for a reason. I believe that he was here for a reason.
He touched a lot of people in just 9 years. His best friend was a boy named Tommy Gorton. They played on the same team. Tommy number nine, Jason number seven. Tommy’s father coached them. Decades later, the Gorton family would still have the lineup card, the edges curled and the ink fading, showing those two numbers in a batting order from 1976.
On the morning of Thursday, March 5th, 1976, Jason Verau got up, played with the family dogs, and set out for school. His mother, Helen, watched him go. The bus stop was at the end of Alabar Lane near Old Pandela Road, not far. Close enough that a 9-year-old boy walks it alone, the way 9-year-old boys did in 1976, because the world was supposed to be safe enough for that.
Arthur Good, 21 years old and living with his parents a short distance away, was at or near that bus stop on the morning of March 5th, 1976. Court records confirm what happened next. Good approached Jason while other children were also present. He spoke with the group. He appeared. And this is how these things happen.
This is the mechanism. This is why 9-year-old boys who have been taught to be careful still end up following strangers. He appeared young enough, babyfaced enough that Jason’s mother would later say she understood how it happened. Good was 21. He looked, she said, around the same age as Jason’s older brothers. Not a threatening figure, not obviously dangerous, just a young man asking for something. asking for directions.
Maybe something ordinary, something that made leaving the bus stop with him feel like a reasonable thing to do. Good took Jason Verto into the woods across the street from the bus stop. The trees that stood there in 1976 are gone now. In their place sits a Target store. On the morning of March 5th, 1976, they were thick enough to hide what happened inside them.
Court records describe what good did to Jason Verdau in those woods. This is not the place to recount every detail and it does not need to be. What can be said and must be said is this. Good beat and sexually assaulted Jason Verdau and then he strangled him to death. And before Jason died, Good would later confess from the witness stand, not with regret, not with horror, but with the calm detachment of a man describing a transaction that the 9-year-old boy had said something.
When Good told him he was going to die, Jason said, “I love you.” And then Good strangled him. Jason’s body was found the following day concealed beneath Palmetto fronds in the woods near his home. He was nude except for his stockings. Helen Verto was at home in the yard when her son didn’t come home from school that afternoon.
She had been sitting outside in the sun. She would remember the sky, white clouds. She would remember waiting. She would remember the moment that waiting became something else. It’s probably the worst feeling you ever have in your life, she said. Cape Coral police were called. Jason Verdo had been reported missing. The community was shattered.
This was a city that had barely existed for 15 years, a city of families and sunshine and open streets. And now a 9-year-old boy was gone from a bus stop. and nobody could explain how. Good was questioned as a suspect in the days after the murder. He had been visible near the bus stop.
Other children had seen him, but he was not arrested immediately. And rather than stay and face what was coming. Good left. His parents, Bud and Mildred Good, put him on a Greyhound bus bound for Baltimore and told him to re-enter Springrove Hospital. They would later insist they had no idea their son had killed Jason Verdo. There is a detail here that matters and has never been fully resolved.
A neighbor reported hearing Budg Goods screaming at his son on the evening of March 6th, 1976, the night after local news ran extensive coverage of the discovery of Jason’s body. What was said in that confrontation is not known. Shortly after that evening, Freddy Good was on a bus north. He did not go to Spring Grove Hospital.
He went to Talsson in suburban Baltimore where he encountered a 10-year-old boy named Billy Arthy’s. Billy was a paper boy. He was known in his neighborhood. He was, in other words, a child who existed in public space at predictable times doing a predictable route. exactly the kind of child that Arthur Good had spent a decade learning to approach and manipulate.
Good persuaded Billy to go with him to Washington, DC. Billy was now a captive, though the full horror of what that meant had not yet revealed itself to him. The two of them, the 21-year-old fugitive and the 10-year-old boy, traveled together, and in Washington, DC on or around March 15th, 1976. They encountered an 11-year-old boy named Kenneth Dawson.
Kenneth was from Falls Church, Virginia, just across the district line. He was playing. He had no connection to good, no reason to be afraid, no warning of any kind. He was simply a boy who was outside on a day when the wrong person walked by. Good took Kenneth Dawson, too. Now he had two children. What happened next is documented in court records and in the testimony of the one person who survived it.
Good traveled with both boys with Billy Arthy’s and with Kenneth Dawson by bus from Washington DC to Falls Church, Virginia. Think about that for a moment. A man with a documented history of child predation who had already murdered a 9-year-old boy in Florida and left his body in the woods boarded a Greyhound bus with two abducted children sitting beside him. He moved openly.
He bought tickets. He sat in a seat. No one stopped him. No one raised an alarm. Whatever Billy Arthurs experienced on that bus ride, whatever he understood or did not understand about what was happening, he was 10 years old and he had no way out in a wooded area near Tyson’s Corner in Falls Church, Virginia.
On or around March 20th, 1976, 15 days after Jason Verto died in Cape Coral, Arthur Good sexually assaulted and strangled 11-year-old Kenneth Dawson. Billy Arthy’s was there. Billy was forced to witness it. The body was hidden in the woods. And then Good and Billy returned to an apartment on Cheryl Road in Falls Church where they had been staying. Billy Arthur was 10 years old.
He had been with Good for 9 days. What happened next was the thing that undid Arthur Good’s entire trajectory. A woman, her name has not been widely publicized, and she has remained largely anonymous in the decades since, recognized Billy Arthis. She had seen the missing person’s report. She looked at the 10-year-old boy and she looked at the report and she made the decision to act. She contacted police.
Fairfax County officers responded. On March 22nd, 1976, they went to the apartment on Cheryl Road and they arrested Arthur Frederick Good, the third Good Handcuffed and in custody, looked at the officers and said, “You can’t do nothing to me. I’m sick. Billy Arthus was physically unharmed. Physically, what he had witnessed in those woods in Falls Church, Virginia, what he carried from those nine days in the company of Arthur Good is not part of the public record.
Billy Arthus declined the notoriety that this case offered. He testified he was the star prosecution witness in the Virginia trial. And then, as much as was possible for a boy whose face had appeared on a missing person’s report and whose name was in newspaper stories across two states, he tried to disappear from the story.
Whether he succeeded in disappearing from the memory of what he saw, no one can know. Good confessed to the murder of Kenneth Dawson immediately and in detail. He also confessed to the murder of Jason Verdau in Florida. He did not confess with remorse. He confessed the way someone might describe a series of events they found neither remarkable nor shameful.
He was transported to Virginia for trial. His parents, who had by this point spent years cycling him through the legal and psychiatric systems of Maryland, arrived at the position that their son was insane and that his mental illness should protect him from the harshest consequences the law provided. The Virginia jury disagreed.
They deliberated. They returned a verdict, sane, guilty. They sentenced Arthur Good to life imprisonment for the murder of Kenneth Dawson. Virginia did not have the death penalty at the time. Good received the maximum sentence the state could impose and it would not cost him his life. Florida was a different matter.
Good was extradited back to Florida to stand trial for the murder of Jason Verdau. And at this point, Arthur Good did something that nobody in the courtroom expected, and that would characterize everything about how he approached this case from that moment forward. He waved his right to legal representation, he chose to conduct his own defense.
a man with borderline intellectual disability with no legal training with a documented history of mental disturbance going back to early childhood. He stood up in a Florida courtroom and said in effect, “I will speak for myself.” And then he took the witness stand and he confessed and detailed. He described what he had done to Jason Verdo.
He was not confused on the stand. He was not incoherent. He was not the picture of someone who did not understand the proceedings. He commanded the jury to convict him. He told them directly that he deserved to die. Circuit judge John Shira sentenced Arthur Frederick Good III to death on March 21st, 1977. He was 22 years old.
What followed was 7 years on Florida’s death row. Florida State Prison in Starka is located about an hour’s drive west of Jacksonville in Elatchua County. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, it housed over 200 men on death row, including some of the most violent and notorious criminals in American history. Among them was Ted Bundy.
The prison was, in the words of the journalist who covered this case for the St. Petersburg Times, an institution that appeared to have no other industry but confinement. It was massive. It was barbed wire and concrete and locked gates through which visitors passed one at a time. It was the kind of place that was supposed to contain the most dangerous people the state had identified and keep them from doing any further harm.
And among all of those men, among all of those convicted killers, among the men whose crimes had shocked Florida and the nation, Arthur Frederick Good became known as the most hated man on death row. That is not a casual designation. It means that the men who shared that institution with him, men who had themselves committed murder, found good so repellent that they could not tolerate his presence.
Death row inmates who typically protested the executions of their peers on principal signed a petition demanding good be removed from their section. They did not want to be near him. Prison officials eventually moved him to Q-wing, kept in isolation. Bundy was at various points his neighbor in that facility. Even among the condemned, Good was alone.
From inside that isolation, Good wrote, “He wrote every single day, 10 to 15 letters at a time, according to prison officials. He wrote to school teachers asking for children as pen pals. He wrote to public officials. He wrote to journalists. He wrote to the Washington Post, which had been receiving his correspondence since the moment of his arrest in 1976, and would continue to receive it until the week before his execution.
His final letter to the Post, dated March 29th, 1984, read in full. Dear editor, The Washington Post, Washington D.C., very urgent. My execution is scheduled for next week and I demand it be carried out. Please arrange to come interview me immediately. Sincerely, Arthur F. Good III. He also wrote to the families of Jason Verau and Kenneth Dawson, not to apologize, to describe the murders, to tell them what he had done and how it had felt.
Prison officials eventually cut off his contact with the victim’s families after those letters became known, but not before the parents of both boys had received correspondence from the man who had killed their sons, describing those killings in detail for no purpose other than to reopen the wounds. Michael Dawson, the father of 11-year-old Kenneth, would later say that when he heard of Good’s death on the morning of April 5th, 1984, while listening to the radio at his home in Falls Church, Virginia, he felt something that he struggled to put into
words. I don’t have the words to express it. The hurt, he said. But I feel a little bit better this morning. At least I won’t have to hear his mouth and see his mouth anymore. Running on the television, Michael Dawson had asked Florida officials for one thing. In the leadup to the execution, he asked for a front row seat.
He wanted to be in that room. He wanted to see it with his own eyes. The state of Florida said no. Even in justice, the system made a decision about how the father of a murdered child was permitted to grieve. The legal battle to reach that April 5th date had stretched across seven years and touched nearly every level of the American court system.
Good’s case became, whether anyone intended it to, a significant reference point in death penalty law. The case known as Waynewright versus Good reached the United States Supreme Court and is still cited in legal proceedings today. The name of the man who murdered two children embedded permanently in American constitutional history as a precedent.
The appeals raised questions about competency, about the validity of goods waiver of counsel, about the proper use of aggravating factors in sentencing. The Federal Circuit Court in Atlanta at one point overturned the Florida death sentence entirely, finding that an aggravating factor had been improperly applied. The sentence was sent back.
Further proceedings were conducted. The death sentence was reinstated. Florida Governor Bob Graham reviewed the case for clemency and declined to intervene. Graham signed the death warrant on March 6th, 1984, 8 years and one day after Jason Verdau was murdered. Goods lawyers filed in every court still available to them in the final days before April 5th.
No judge granted a stay. The Supreme Court rejected a last minute bid and throughout all of it, Good himself was writing to the Washington Post demanding that the execution proceed on schedule. He was, it seemed, looking forward to it, or at least performing the appearance of looking forward to it, which in Good’s case was not always distinguishable from the reality.
One month before his scheduled execution, John Waters, the Baltimore filmmaker, the man who would go on to make Hairspray, already a cult figure in 1984 through films like Pink Flamingos, sat down with Arthur Good for an interview published in the Baltimore City paper. This is a strange detail in a case full of strange details, and it matters because of what Good said.
He described his murders as a protest against society. He said that if society punished pedophiles less harshly, they would not need to kill their victims to escape detection. He framed his own actions as reactive, as logical, as a message he was sending to a world that had refused to understand him. He had no regret in that interview.
He had an argument. And then came the night of April 4th, 1984. Florida State Prison granted media access in the hours before the execution. What took place was, in the most accurate description, a press conference. Good sat before reporters and he performed. He joked, he laughed. He said he had no remorse, none whatsoever. He grinned at the cameras.
He said that if he ever got out, he would go after as many children as he could. When asked if he had a final request, he smiled and said, “I want Ricky Schroeder to sit on my lap when I am strapped in.” Ricky Schroeder was 11 years old at the time. He was a child actor famous for his role in the film The Champ and the television series Silver Spoons.
He had never met Arthur Good. He was a child, and Good’s fixation with him had been documented in prison records going back years. The reporters got what they came for. Good gave them everything they needed for their stories. And then the press conference ended and the room cleared. And sometime after midnight on April 5th, 1984, Good’s parents called to say goodbye.
Prison officials noticed the change immediately. The performance ended. The bravado drained out. Bud and Mildred Good, the parents who had posted Bale again and again and tried to get their son help and ultimately watched him become something they could neither explain nor stop, said goodbye to their son.
And Freddy Good, the man who had shown nothing to anyone for 8 years, went quiet. He became anxious, somber. He did not sleep that night. At 4:45 in the morning on April 5th, 1984, his final meal arrived. Steak, a baked potato, buttered cauliflower, and broccoli, half a gallon of ice cream, a dozen chocolate chip cookies. A prison spokesman said he ate with gusto.
Father Joseph Manard visited before dawn. According to the chaplain, Good said he was ready to die. Then came a shower, clean clothes, the uniform he would be executed in. At 6:55 in the morning, he was brought into the execution chamber. His head had been shaved. Conductive gel had been applied to his scalp. The leather straps were cinched across his chest. 12 witnesses sat in the room.
The man who had laughed with reporters less than 12 hours earlier was pale. He was shaking and he asked the warden quietly, “Will it hurt?” The warden held a microphone to his mouth and asked if he had any final words. There was a silence and then I’m very upset. I don’t know what to say really.
How much time do I have? And then I want to apologize to my parents. and then softer. I have remorse for the two boys I murdered. It’s difficult for me to show it. At 7:03 a.m. 2,000 volts moved through the body of Arthur Frederick Good III. His fists clenched, his body jolted, and then it was still.
He was pronounced dead at 7:08 in the morning on April 5th, 1984. He was 30 years old, the same age Jason Verto’s father had hoped to be, sitting in the front row watching. The state of Florida had said no. Walter Verto, Jason’s father, did not go inside the prison. He drove to Rafford. He sat on a hill outside the walls and then he went home.
his son Jason’s little league field in Cape Coral, the field on Southeast 27th Street, where the Cape Coral Yankees used to practice, where Jason had played number seven and jumped right into the game and been peppy and ready to roll, had been renamed Jason Verdau Memorial Park shortly after Jason’s death in 1976. It is still there.
It is the oldest baseball field in the city of Cape Coral. It has hosted district tournaments. Generations of children have learned the game on that field who were born after Jason died. The Gorton family still comes to watch. Tom Gorton Jr. who was one of Jason’s teammates and whose father coached them both still remembers the day Jason was killed.
March 5th, 1976 was Tom Gorton Jr.’s birthday. He has never forgotten it. The field is still there. Jason’s great nephew threw out the first pitch to open the little league season in 2026, 50 years after Jason was murdered. A slip of paper surfaced some years ago. Someone found it and gave it to the Gortons.
In Jason’s handwriting from second grade, it said, “My name is Jason Verdo and I want to become a baseball player.” He was 9 years old when he died. He never got to become anything. Here is what this case demands we sit with. 50 years later, Arthur Good was not a mystery. He was not a riddle that nobody could have solved. He was a documented predator who had been arrested multiple times before he killed anyone.
He had been in and out of the legal system. He had been in and out of psychiatric facilities. He had a paper trail that stretched back to his early teens. And yet Jason Verau is dead and Kenneth Dawson is dead. And Billy Arthy’s carried for the rest of his life whatever he saw in those woods in Falls Church, Virginia in March of 1976. The system that allowed Arthur Good to walk out of Spring Grove Hospital in 1975.
The system that issued a bench warrant and then declined to act on it. the system in which authorities in Maryland and Florida and Virginia were not effectively communicating with each other. That system did not fail through cruelty or malice. It failed through gaps, through the kind of procedural inadequacy that looks from the inside like paperwork in order and hands unfortunately empty.
involuntary treatment, a missing arrest, a bus ticket south to where his parents lived. Three children paid for those gaps. That is not a detail about 1976. That is a conversation that remains current wherever systems exist that rely on voluntary compliance from people who have already demonstrated they will not comply.
Wherever jurisdictions fail to communicate with each other about dangerous individuals who cross state lines, wherever the paperwork is complete and the follow-through is absent. Jason Verau wanted to be a baseball player. His number was seven. His coach remembered him showing up late to practice once because he had been with his dad at the country club where Walter Verto worked.
And when Jason finally came across that field, he was ready to play. He jumped right into the game. He was 9 years old and he was already everything he was supposed to become. The story of Arthur Frederick Good III is the story of how that future was taken and how the system that was supposed to prevent it failed and how a 10-year-old boy named Billy Arthus survived 9 days in the custody of a predator.
and how a woman on a street recognized a face from a missing person’s report and made a phone call that stopped it from going further. And how 48 years later on a 5 and 1/2 acre lot on Southeast 27th Street in Cape Coral, Florida, children too young to know his name play the game that Jason Verdau loved on a field that bears his name.
and how Jason’s great nephew stood on that mound in March of 2026 and threw the first pitch of the season in a park that exists because a 9-year-old boy lived here once and played here and was taken and was not forgotten. Jason Verto is not forgotten. Before you close this out, I want to ask you something. The system failed Arthur Good’s victims because voluntary treatment, no cross-state communication, and an uninforced warrant left a documented predator free.
That was 1975 and 1976. What would you change if you could go back? Was the single biggest failure, the lack of enforcement, the voluntary nature of treatment, or the silence between the states? Tell me in the comments if this story stayed with you. Sharing it is the most direct way to make sure the names of Jason Verto and Kenneth Dawson reach more people.
50 years is a long time to be a child on a plaque in a park that most of the people driving past have never stopped to read. Subscribe to this channel. We tell these stories the right way all the way back to the beginning where the failures actually started.
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