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An international and multigenerational group of artists will take over the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis for Like Water, which considers water from different angles – from fonts of inspirations […]
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The World in St. Louis is a rotating gallery located in the back of The 1904 World’s Fair exhibit. St. Louis was the center of the world in 1904. Musicians, artists, writers, scientists, […]
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Patterns of Luxury: Islamic Textiles, 11th–17th Centuries showcases rare and magnificent examples of the Saint Louis Art Museum’s collection of early Islamic textiles, including many that have not been on […]
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Intertwined since the very beginning, the camera and the car revolutionized modern life in America. This photography exhibition at the Saint Louis Art Museum displays artistic work shaped primarily by […]
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Made literally from land, Pueblo pottery is one of America’s most enduring art forms, and the innovative exhibition Grounded in Clay: The Spirit of Pueblo Pottery connects a remarkable group […]
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Interwar France was a period of exceptional creativity, innovation and turbulence. Roaring: Art, Fashion and the Automobile in France, 1918–1939, explores the role of the automobile as both subject and […]
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The 1904 World’s Fair was a fascinating yet complex event that continues to evoke a range of emotions. It was grand and shameful. It was full of fun and full […]
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Boeing’s air and space museum, the James S. McDonnell Prologue Room, will be open to the public this summer! From biplanes to space capsules, the Prologue Room displays artifacts and […]
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Four subjects were taken into custody after fleeing officers in a carjacked vehicle on July 16, 2025.
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In late September 2000, longtime Kerr County, Texas, resident W. Thornton Secor Jr. sat down with an oral historian to tell his story. Like many of the residents recorded as part of a decadeslong effort by the Kerr County Historical Commission to document the community’s history, Secor had a lot to say about the area’s floods.
“It always seems to happen at night too,” Secor said of local floods he and his family had experienced. “Can’t see most of it.”
Secor, who died in 2022, was a third-generation manager of a lodge that still operates along the Guadalupe River. His oral history shares family memories of floods going back to 1932 — like the time a flood that year washed away most of the cabins his grandfather built.
Now, Secor’s daughter, Mandi Secor Lipscomb, is left considering the future of the lodge in the aftermath of another devastating flood, on July 4. Secor Lipscomb is the fourth-generation owner and operator of the same lodge, Waltonia on the River.
Often when I try to understand a place or process a big news event, I look for records kept by local historical societies and libraries. In archived documents, preserved photographs and oral history collections, one can start to see how a community understands itself. So, as news reports about the floods in the Central Texas Hill Country poured in throughout the week, I went looking for historical context. What local knowledge is held by people who live, or have lived, in what’s repeatedly described as “Flash Flood Alley”? How have people in Kerr County’s past contended with floods of their own time?
A trove of more than 70 oral histories recorded by the Kerr County Historical Commission begins to answer those questions. The recordings document memories of floods going back to 1900, but oral histories alone rarely tell a full or accurate story. Still, there’s at least one conclusion to draw: Everything has a history. The flood that killed more than 100 people in the Kerr County area this month is not the first time a flash flood on the Guadalupe River took lives of people, including children.
The front page of a local newspaper, the Kerrville Daily Times, on July 20, 1987. A flash flood killed 10 campers as they tried to evacuate. (Kerrville Daily Times via Newspapers.com)I keep this history in mind when I hear local and state officials say no one could have seen this coming. Take this exchange between a reporter and Kerr County Judge Rob Kelly:
Reporter: Why weren’t these camps evacuated?
Kelly: I can’t answer that. I don’t know.
Reporter: Well you’re the judge. I mean you’re the top official here in this county. Why can’t you answer that? There are kids missing. These camps were in harm’s way. We knew this flood was coming.
Kelly: We didn’t know this flood was coming. Rest assured, no one knew this kind of flood was coming. We have floods all the time. This is the most dangerous river valley in the United States. And we deal with floods on a regular basis. When it rains, we get water. We had no reason to believe that this was gonna be anything like what’s happened here. None whatsoever.
My colleague Jennifer Berry Hawes wrote last week about the uncanny similarities between the Texas floods and Hurricane Helene, which struck North Carolina last year. In both disasters, weather forecasts predicted the potential devastation, yet people were left in harm’s way.
And as another colleague, ProPublica editor Abrahm Lustgarten, pointed out in a piece about how climate change is making disasters like the flood in Texas more common, “there will be tireless — and warranted — analysis of who is to blame for this heart-wrenching loss” in the weeks to come.
“Should Kerr County, where most of the deaths occurred, have installed warning sirens along that stretch of the waterway, and why were children allowed to sleep in an area prone to high-velocity flash flooding?” Lustgarten wrote. “Why were urgent updates apparently only conveyed by cellphone and online in a rural area with limited connectivity?”
As we wait for answers — or as journalists dig for them — the oral histories show Kerr County residents have warned one another, as well as newcomers and out-of-towners, about flooding for a long time. In his 2000 oral history, Secor said he remembered a time in the spring of 1959 when his father tried to warn one new-to-town woman about building a house so close to the river.
“He took her out and showed her the watermarks on the trees in front of our house and all,” Secor said, likely referring to the watermarks from the flood of 1932, which a local newspaper described at the time as “the most disastrous flood that ever swept the upper Guadalupe Valley.” The flood killed at least seven people.
“‘Oh,’ she says, ‘that will never happen again,’” Secor recalled.
He said her body was found in a tree a few months later after a flood swept her and the roof she stood on away.
“It’s going to surprise newcomers when we get another flood like the ’32 flood,” Secor said in 2000.
“It’ll get us again someday.”
As the Guadalupe River rose over the July 4 weekend, the 16-cabin lodge his daughter owns was sold out and full of guests. All of them escaped the floods, said Secor Lipscomb. They ran, some barefoot in the mud, up a steep hill beyond the property’s retaining wall. They took shelter in a barn.
Later, Secor Lipscomb assessed the damage to her family property. What she saw left her in tears: Four cabins had water up to the ceiling. Another two had flooded about 5 feet. But among the wreckage was a crew of nearly 40 volunteers, ready to help with the cleanup.
By the time I reached out to her to ask her about her father’s oral history, six cabins and the main camp office were already demolished.
The cabin her great-grandfather and grandfather built together more than 100 years ago still stood. But it won’t for much longer. It is so damaged with water that it, too, will have to go.
“This is our family history, our family legacy,” Secor Lipscomb told me. “Of course we’re going to rebuild.”
When they do, their customers will be ready. Many of the families who survived the flood already told her they’ll be first in line to book for the next available July 4.
CorrectionJuly 21, 2025: This story originally misstated the death toll in the Kerr County area. The flood killed more than 100 people there, not more than 130.
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Clayton Strong pulled up to a tiny hospital in Idaho, walked through the emergency room doors and told a clerk that his wife’s body was outside in their SUV.
A sheriff’s deputy was at the hospital talking to Strong by the time the coroner arrived. This was an “unattended” death: one where no doctor could attest to a medical reason for the person’s demise. That made it the coroner’s job to determine how and why she died.
Strong, a stocky man with white hair and bushy eyebrows, explained that he and his wife lived in an RV park on the edge of the woods nearby. He said his wife had been bedridden for years with Parkinson’s disease. That morning she’d woken up and asked for peanut butter and water, Strong told the deputy. He found her dead some time later.
The coroner looked over Betty Strong’s body. It was thin and frail. He didn’t see a reason to suspect anything other than a natural death for this 75-year-old woman. The sheriff’s deputy seemed to be satisfied with the explanation too. So, the coroner ruled that Betty Strong died around 8:40 a.m. on Dec. 14, 2016, from complications of Parkinson’s, and he signed off on allowing cremation of her body.
Less than five years later, Clayton Strong’s next wife turned up dead, too: shot in the chest in Texas.
It turns out that both marriages had a history of domestic unrest, with visits from police who documented threats to each woman’s safety.
It’s impossible to know whether a different approach to investigating Betty Strong’s death would have uncovered foul play. What is certain is that clues and evidence in the case were lost forever — and Idaho’s system for death investigation let it happen.
Family members of both women believe a more thorough investigation of the death in Idaho might have saved the life of Clayton Strong’s next wife in Texas.
“Someone shows up with a dead body and just says they died of natural causes,” said Amy Belanger, one of Betty Strong’s children. “I mean, really, do you just take their word for it?”
The answer is no, according to five of six national death investigation experts ProPublica consulted. They said the coroner should have obtained medical records to confirm Betty Strong was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, examined the trailer where her husband said she died, or both.
“You can think of all sorts of scenarios — criminal, accidental or natural — that could have occurred there,” said Jennifer Snippen, a death investigator, educator and consultant in Oregon. “But my argument is, if you don’t go to the scene and you don’t look at the medical records, you just don’t know.”
Most of the county coroners in Idaho are part-time elected officials with tiny budgets and no oversight or state funding to support their work. The national experts said that kind of system is more prone to cursory investigations like the one into Betty Strong’s death.
The failure to reform death investigations in Idaho has raised alarms for more than 70 years, according to current and former Idaho coroners and previous ProPublica reporting.
A national magazine called Idaho “the best place in the nation for a criminal to ‘get away with murder’ in the literal sense” because of the state’s “antiquated county coroner’s system,” the Idaho Statesman newspaper reported in 1951.
Asked whether murderers have escaped prosecution in Idaho’s coroner system, Rich Riffle, coroner for the county that includes Boise, said, “My humble opinion? Yes.”
That almost happened in 2019 when one inexperienced Idaho coroner decided to take the word of Chad Daybell that his wife, Tammy Daybell, had died in her sleep after chronic health problems, vomiting and a cough. Her body was later exhumed after his next wife’s children went missing. An autopsy by the Utah medical examiner’s office found what medical records would have shown, had the Idaho coroner requested them: Tammy Daybell was healthy. A jury convicted Chad Daybell of murdering her by asphyxiation and of killing his next wife’s two youngest children. The case is under appeal.
At trial, coroner Brenda Dye said she had regrets. Her voice shaking, Dye told the court she would have ordered an autopsy if she’d known better, but “at that time, with my limited training and being new, I did the best I could.” She declined ProPublica’s interview request, citing the case’s effect on her mental health.
The community set up a memorial to two children who Chad Daybell was convicted of murdering; he was also convicted of killing his previous wife Tammy. The coroner originally believed Chad Daybell when he said that Tammy had died in her sleep. (John Roark/Post Register via AP)Idaho isn’t the only place where death investigations fall short. Because there is no uniform federal system, the rigor with which your death is investigated depends on where you die. Other states lack enough forensic pathologists to do autopsies. And many local systems like Idaho County’s are squeezed for money.
But even among its short-staffed, underfunded peers, Idaho stands out. One measure is the state’s autopsy rate: third-lowest for autopsies in all deaths, last in the nation for autopsies in known cases of homicide.
Gov. Brad Little said in January that he would support more state resources to help Idaho’s coroners do their jobs. But he never got the chance; coroner-related bills passed by the Idaho Legislature this year contained no funding or other assistance for coroners and death investigations.
So for now, each of Idaho’s 44 coroners will bear costs that other states help cover: driving a body hundreds of miles to an autopsy; paying for some of those autopsies; or trying to recruit one more person to join Idaho’s statewide forensic pathology workforce of three.
“If you don’t care enough about how death investigations are done in your jurisdiction to invest in the people doing it, to provide them with the resources or to have high enough standards for the people that you hire to do this, you’re going to get what you get, what you accept,” said Snippen. “You’re going to get what you allow to happen.”
Florida, 2010-2015Betty Brock was a mother of seven who enjoyed singing and art, long bicycle rides, organizing family photos and researching her ancestry.
She was caring for her terminally ill husband in 2010 when Clayton Strong befriended her on the internet, according to Belanger, her daughter. Strong claimed to be “basically destitute and living in his car,” a backstory that appealed to a woman with a soft spot for taking in “wounded people” and trying to heal them with love, Belanger said.
Strong drove hundreds of miles from Southwest Florida and showed up at the Brocks’ property in the Florida panhandle. They agreed he could sleep in his car there as long as he helped with caregiving and housework. Soon he was sleeping in an outbuilding on the property, then in the house.
Betty’s children were puzzled as this newcomer became a fixture in their mother’s life. They wanted to give Strong a chance, but they soon grew suspicious.
Betty Brock’s husband died in August 2010. By January, she was Betty Strong.
After their courthouse marriage, Clayton Strong used their now-shared funds to buy a Ford truck and an Airstream trailer and took his bride on the road, Belanger said. The couple visited national parks that Betty had always wanted to see. They camped and hiked their way across the continent. They bought mining claims and panned for gold in the remote Idaho wilderness.
Betty and Clayton Strong. Betty’s children say Clayton isolated her, threatened them when they tried to visit her, kept her from seeing her doctor, then took her to Idaho, where she died. (Courtesy of Amy Belanger)After that honeymoon, the walls around Betty Strong grew impenetrable, her children said. According to what two of her children told ProPublica and to statements two others made to police, Clayton became the gatekeeper of all communication with their mother, and he padlocked the doors of their Florida home and held the key.
The last time Betty Strong saw her primary care doctor in Florida was in May 2013, according to records her son obtained after the death. Before that, she hadn’t been in since 2010, the year Clayton Strong entered her life. The notes from the 2013 checkup show health issues common in older adults but no Parkinson’s diagnosis, and neither Parkinson’s nor other neurodegenerative diseases were listed in the family history section.
The children watched from afar as the marriage devolved over the next two years. Between January 2014 and February 2015, police went to the couple’s residence for welfare checks and domestic disturbances at least six times, according to police reports that Belanger provided to ProPublica.
Her children told police that Clayton Strong threatened to shoot them if they set foot on the property, threatened to hurt their mother if they didn’t back off, and prevented her from seeing a doctor.
In the first of those police visits, in January 2014, the records show that Belanger’s sister, who lived nearby, called the sheriff while standing outside the Strong residence, a brown house surrounded by oak trees and pines on a winding country road. A deputy arrived to find Belanger’s sister and Clayton Strong in a stalemate, then talked to everyone outside, according to a sheriff’s office report. The deputy then watched as Betty Strong turned to her husband to “ask him for permission” to hug her daughter, and Clayton Strong “removed a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the porch entrance gate so Betty could go in the yard” for the hug.
The report says the deputy made a referral to Florida Department of Children and Families, the agency that investigates possible abuse of vulnerable adults, and that the department opened a case.
A similar scene played out when one of Betty Strong’s sons went to the house to check on her in February 2015. For two years, Clayton Strong turned the son away when he tried to visit, and this time Strong “threatened to shoot him with a gun if he did not leave,” the son told a sheriff’s deputy. Clayton Strong denied that, the deputy’s report says.
The deputy found Betty Strong alone on a bed in an RV parked behind the home, the report says. She said she had Parkinson’s disease and couldn’t get around well. Clayton wasn’t holding her against her will, she told the deputy, but she couldn’t take care of herself without him.
She had a walkie-talkie. The deputy asked: Is Clayton using that radio and telling you what to say? Betty answered “no” while nodding her head “yes.” It was a chilly afternoon, and the deputy noticed Betty had a blanket but no heater.
“Betty’s demeanor, living conditions, and the controlling behavior by Clayton” warranted a referral to the Florida Department of Children and Families, the deputy wrote.
Asked for the outcome of that referral, a spokesperson told ProPublica the department investigates “all allegations of abuse, neglect, or exploitation” but that records of those investigations are confidential under state law.
Days after the referral in February 2015, police were again dispatched to the Florida home. This time, it wasn’t one of Betty Strong’s children who called; it was someone from adult protective services in need of police backup. According to the dispatch log, the worker said Clayton Strong “has threatened before to pull a gun on her and is very anti-law enforcement.”
The couple left town a month later. Betty Strong’s children never heard from her again.
Betty Strong early in her relationship with Clayton Strong. Within a few years of this trip, Clayton told authorities she’d died of Parkinson’s, but her children say she never had the disease. (Courtesy of Amy Belanger) Idaho, December 2016By the time Betty Strong died in Idaho County in December 2016, she hadn’t been seen in Florida in 21 months.
Idaho County’s elected coroner, Cody Funke, had been in the job about as long.
He knew the county well. Its vast forests, mountains and meadows stretch across more land than Massachusetts. Rugged and remote, it attracts people who want to be left alone and who distrust both government and conventional medicine.
Funke, pronounced “funk,” was in his late 20s in 2014 when he learned his part-time job at a funeral home was being eliminated. His boss asked: Had he considered running for coroner? The coroner at the time was retiring and urged Funke to do it. So did Funke’s boss from his other part-time job, as an EMT. What sealed the deal for Funke: As coroner, he would get health insurance.
Funke started the job with a feeling of “good luck, godspeed, you’re gonna need it.” There was no apprenticeship or ride-along to watch seasoned pros, like he’d gotten when he trained to be an EMT. There was a training conference he attended in Las Vegas before taking office, and Funke received more than double the 24 hours of coroner education required by Idaho law. Even so, he isn’t sure it was enough to prepare him.
Funke learned on his first day that he wasn’t getting a vehicle to move bodies from a death scene. If the local funeral home’s vehicle was occupied, Funke had to use his family truck. A year after Betty Strong’s death, the county commission got the coroner a vehicle: a pickup truck the sheriff’s office didn’t need anymore.
The office he inherited also had no camera, and the county hadn’t budgeted to give him one. He’d have to use his phone to take pictures of bodies and death scenes.
There was no morgue.
The Idaho County coroner’s office didn’t even have an actual office.
Funke’s predecessors kept their files on paper, at home, he learned. The previous coroner’s house had flooded, so when Funke took over, all that remained fit in two manila folders.
The coroner’s entire budget this year is $85,651. By comparison, coroner’s offices serving small populations had an average budget of $280,000 in 2018, according to a national study.
Paid $13,000 a year, Funke is on call 24 hours a day and, last year, investigated and ruled on 71 deaths, about one every five days. Papers on an additional 102 deaths of people under a doctor’s care came through needing his signature for cremation.
Funke does the coroner work on top of a full-time job. When a call comes in during business hours, he dips out to go to a death scene. If someone dies at dinnertime, he might not see his family until morning.
He must decide with each death what the circumstances require: a simple phone call; an all-out investigation with autopsy, witness interviews, tissue samples and more; or something in the middle.
To examine a death scene, Funke might have to drive three hours or longer each way. Whenever he orders an autopsy, Funke or his deputies have to take the body to the nearest autopsy center, a trip that takes a full day and usually demands an overnight stay. His current budget can cover 10 autopsies a year.
Cody Funke, the Idaho County coroner, also worked full time as a city wastewater treatment operator. He now works for the state prison system while remaining the coroner. (Liesbeth Powers for ProPublica)In those first years as coroner, Funke often leaned on police.
Funke found it strange that Clayton Strong had loaded his wife’s body into their SUV and driven to the hospital. Most people call 911 to report a death and wait for help to arrive, Funke said. But Strong offered an explanation that seemed to satisfy the sheriff’s deputy: He didn’t know many people in town and wasn’t sure what to do.
Strong had said his wife hadn’t seen a doctor because she stuck to homeopathic remedies. That’s not unusual for Funke to hear.
The widower gave Funke the impression a coroner and sheriff’s deputy wouldn’t be welcome inside the trailer where she died. That’s not so outside the norm for Idaho County either, Funke said.
Betty Strong’s death looked like an easy call. So Funke helped move her body to a cot to be taken from the hospital to a local funeral home.
According to a later report from the sheriff’s office, Clayton Strong showed up at the funeral home that day, said he wanted her cremated and paid $2,310 in cash. The way Funke heard it from a funeral home employee a few days later, Strong paid in $100 bills out of a lunch box.
The detail struck Funke as peculiar. But he let it go.
Florida, 2017The couple’s Airstream trailer showed up one day in January 2017, parked outside their house in Florida. A neighbor called Amy Belanger with the news, and she dispatched her brother, Daniel, who lived nearby. They’d spent almost two years fearing the worst.
The only person at the house was Clayton Strong.
The family’s matriarch had died a few weeks ago in Harpster, Idaho, Strong said. Then he told his son-in-law to get off the property.
Amy Belanger started making calls the next day. One of the first people she reached was Funke, the county coroner. She was perplexed, she said. Why hadn’t anyone called her or her siblings? Why didn’t he question whether Betty Strong had actually succumbed to a disease or if something else had killed her? Belanger told Funke about the history of police calls in Florida and concerns about their mother’s safety.
Funke thought back to what he’d heard from the funeral home. A lunch box of cash for a cremation? That image never sat quite right. Now he had solid ground for suspicion. Funke told Belanger he’d talk to the county prosecutor and see what could be done.
The prosecutor and the sheriff’s office initially told Belanger they had opened a homicide investigation, according to a detailed timeline she created at the time. But the death scene — the Strongs’ trailer — was long gone, the body cremated. The sheriff’s investigator and prosecutor ultimately didn’t seem to think there was enough evidence for a homicide investigation, Funke told ProPublica.
(The prosecutor and sheriff’s investigator did not return phone calls, emails or certified letters from ProPublica requesting comment on their decisions following Betty Strong’s death.)
Notes from Belanger’s timeline quote a Florida detective saying he was sorry the death had occurred outside his jurisdiction. He explained to her that “in Florida, deputies would have had the medical examiner’s office verify medical records and take a blood sample.”
The year Betty Strong died, 20% of natural deaths investigated by a medical examiner in the part of Florida where she had lived underwent autopsies before the examiner decided the cause of death was natural. About 65% of all deaths taken in by Florida’s medical examiner that year were autopsied. Both numbers dwarf Idaho’s coroner autopsy rates.
It’s not just Florida. Many states have more sophisticated systems for investigating deaths than Idaho’s. In much of the country, centralized state medical examiner offices oversee all death investigations or provide a backstop to elected coroners in each county.
Idaho’s rural neighbor Montana has a hybrid system of medical examiners and coroners, supported by a coroner liaison who works with death investigators to make the process more consistent statewide. And next door in Wyoming, a state board sets rules for coroners to follow. The rules spell out what each death investigation should include: scene investigation, toxicology sample, DNA sample, photographs, external examination of the body and an inventory of property, evidence and medications.
Jennifer Snippen, the death investigator in Oregon, was one of the experts who drafted the National Institute of Justice’s 2024 death-scene investigation guidebook.
She said death investigations are more likely to be thorough when states and counties give their investigators enough funding and education, “so that they have the motivation and the ability to get to as many scenes, and get as much information about every single death, as possible.”
Those who study the work of coroners and medical examiners in the U.S. have learned that the deaths of elderly people are especially likely to be written off as age-related, without considering whether the person may have also been a victim of abuse or neglect.
Snippen’s research in 2023 is one of the most recent studies to confirm that. She reviewed data from thousands of cases. The person least likely to get a scene investigation or autopsy? An elderly woman who dies at home.
Lauri McGivern, a nationally recognized expert in death investigations, said national standards would have Funke verify Betty Strong’s Parkinson’s diagnosis and ask more questions of Clayton Strong as the sole caregiver of a vulnerable adult. McGivern, who coordinates medicolegal death investigations in Vermont, reviewed the facts that Funke was given at the time of Betty Strong’s death and his subsequent report at ProPublica’s request.
To follow national standards, McGivern said, Funke also would have gone to the Airstream trailer or asked law enforcement to examine the death scene and report back to him.
But McGivern and other experts said they understand why Funke didn’t follow those national guidelines — because they’ve seen it happen so many times in places like rural Idaho.
“He’s doing what he was shown how to do,” McGivern said. “And probably doing the best he can, with no budget and no support and no education.”
When Funke took over from Idaho County’s previous coroner in 2015, there was no equipment. Over the years, Funke had to get county commissioners to approve purchases like a radio to take coroner calls. (Liesbeth Powers for ProPublica)Frustrated by how little Idaho officials knew and why they hadn’t dug further into her mother’s death, Amy Belanger channeled her grief into trying to find answers on her own.
She followed a trail of public records left by Clayton Strong. Had he harmed other women? Had he been in a relationship with anybody who went missing? “I was looking into his past to see if there was a pattern like that,” Belanger said. Something she could share with officials in Idaho.
Then she stumbled across a document: a recent marriage license.
Three months after depositing Betty Strong’s body at a hospital in Idaho, Clayton Strong wed a woman from Texas.
Belanger needed to warn her.
Texas, 2017-2021Shirley Weatherley had a lot in common with Betty Strong. She was a mother and grandmother. She’d been married before. She lived in a small, modest home on a large piece of land in a rural locale, where she’d been caring for a terminally ill former spouse when Strong contacted her on Facebook.
They’d known each other as teenagers in Lubbock. Their reconnection after he arrived at her house in Weatherford, a suburb of Fort Worth, eventually began to worry her children.
“He isolated her,” said Jamie Barrington, Weatherley’s son with a previous husband. “He wouldn’t let grandkids, my brother — anybody’d come over, he just kept them at arm’s length.”
Shirley Weatherley (Courtesy of Jamie Barrington)Barrington said he and other members of Weatherley’s family had suspicions about Strong. Then they connected with Belanger and heard what happened in Florida and Idaho.
Belanger urged the family to tell their mother everything they’d heard. She “actually was pleading with us to watch out,” Barrington recalled.
Knowing another family was worried helped fuel Amy Belanger’s quest for the truth about her mother’s death. Her siblings chipped in to help Belanger rent a van and drive across the country in search of clues — anything that could shed light on her mother’s death.
Once she got to Idaho, Belanger spent more than a week investigating. She met with the coroner and sheriff. She went to the mining claims the Strongs had purchased. She stayed at the RV park where Betty Strong died and interviewed the people who’d owned it in 2016; they remembered talking to each other about how “hinky” the death and Clayton Strong’s reaction to it seemed.
Back in Texas, Weatherley’s family tried to warn her.
When they relayed the story about Betty Strong to her, Weatherley chalked it up to a grieving family trying to cope with loss by grasping for an explanation, Barrington said. After all, Strong had a death certificate that listed natural causes.
The details Barrington later learned from family members and police about his mother’s life with Strong were “pretty horrific,” he said. Weatherley had reported that Strong threatened to kill her, but no charges were filed. Then at one point, in the midst of an argument with Strong, Weatherley lobbed the accusations about Betty Strong’s death at him, Barrington said. Strong flew into a rage.
Weatherley called police in July 2021. She and Strong were splitting up, and he shoved her while moving his stuff out of the house, Weatherley told the officer. Strong had “hurt her” in the past, so she called police to make sure it didn’t happen again, the officer’s report says. The officer got Strong’s side of the story — she was “running him off,” but he didn’t push her — and stuck around until Strong agreed to leave.
Police would later document finding two items in the house. The first was a copy of Weatherley’s will that left everything to Strong, on which she’d written “VOID,” the second was a digital camera hidden in their bedroom. The camera contained selfies of injuries to her face and chest and a video of Strong putting his arm around her neck as she screamed for help.
Strong persuaded Weatherley to let him back into their home once more on Aug. 4, 2021, according to police records.
Four days later, Weatherley’s son and grandson found her body wrapped in a gray tarp near the front steps to her home. She’d been shot in the chest. Authorities matched shell casings at the scene to an AK-47-style rifle, which security footage showed Strong ditching in a shopping cart outside a Walmart.
Picked up later by police in Mexico, Strong died of cardiac arrest while awaiting extradition in Weatherley’s killing.
Mexican police booked Clayton Strong on gun charges in 2021. After the arrest, they discovered he was a suspect in the murder of his wife in Texas. (Parker County Sheriff’s Office via Facebook) TodayJamie Barrington, Shirley Weatherley’s son, was reluctant at first to speak publicly about his mother’s death in Texas, even years later. He agreed to talk with ProPublica, he said, because he wants Idaho’s coroner system to improve. He said he never imagined that a death like Betty Strong’s could be ruled “natural” based on what a spouse told authorities.
“I truly believe that if there had been a proper investigation and not taking his word for it,” Barrington said, “that it probably would have made a big difference” in what happened to Shirley Weatherley.
Word of Weatherley’s murder eventually reached Funke, the coroner in Idaho. He said in hindsight, Strong’s actions in Idaho County seem more suspicious than they did at the time to his inexperienced eyes and ears.
Now, after 10 years as coroner, “I would have pushed a little bit harder” to have an officer or deputy follow up or go to the RV park with him. He would have asked police to use a national database — one he didn’t know about at the time — to find Betty Strong’s family members and learn more about her background. “I have trust issues after cases like this,” he said.
Funke said the story of Betty Strong’s death needs to be told, even if it shows that he and Idaho County made mistakes, because it can help lawmakers understand what is wrong with the state’s system.
Idaho’s coroners need more funding, he said, because right now they’re an afterthought in county budgets. Most counties set a coroner salary at what amounts to less than minimum wage, so it’s impossible for someone like Funke to be coroner without a second, full-time job.
“These offices should be fully staffed,” he said. “Maybe we have one or two people that are here full time to answer questions and respond to these calls, versus, ‘Hey, I’ve got to take time off work, boss.’”
And he believes new coroners who lack experience should be required to learn how to work a case from start to finish before they’re called out to a death like Betty Strong’s.
Daniel Belanger, one of Betty Strong’s children, came away from his interactions with Idaho County officials convinced that the only way deaths like his mother’s will be properly investigated is through legislation forcing coroners and law enforcement agencies to change their approaches.
“They completely dropped the ball,” he told ProPublica.
Amy Belanger said her family has reclaimed very few of her mother’s possessions from the Airstream trailer. Strong emptied the Florida house of family heirlooms after their mother’s death, Belanger said. Most of the family photo albums her mother toiled over are gone.
The brown house on the winding road in Florida is still there. Belanger’s memories of family cookouts and holiday gatherings linger in the house; they weren’t wiped away by the police visits and padlocked doors. But the family home isn’t the family’s anymore. Years later, it is stuck in legal limbo — the deed still in the name of Clayton Strong and Shirley Weatherley, the woman he married after the death of Betty Strong.
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