I can’t sleep, and it’s the bloody carpet’s fault.
Last week, Up North police found a blood-soaked rug rolled up in an abandoned truck in the Huron National Forest. They didn’t see the body hidden in the woods nearby, at least not right away.
Police arrested Clifford Marion Farthing, 57, after he told them he shot a man three times in the heat of an argument, rolled him up in the carpet, used a dolly to hoist the body into the truck, and hauled it to the forest for disposal. Police say the dead man’s girlfriend, Doreen Schunk, helped hide the body and provided the gun.People kill people with guns nearly every day in Michigan and barely cause a stir. Another shooting in Detroit, Grand Rapids, Benton Harbor, Jackson? Meh. Same old, same old.
Mix in a tell-tale carpet and place the crime in the wilds of the rural north, though, and the story gets interesting. Ooh, that monster, we say, shuddering a little and scanning for more lurid details.
But the important part of this story ― the part that keeps me up at night ― isn’t the rug, or the truck, or the forest. The important part is what we do with it.
Back in the mid-80s, when Michigan was ramping up its “tough on crime” policies, Farthing pleaded guilty to second-degree homicide in Oscoda County and was sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole. He was 17 at the time of the crime.
I don’t know details of that incident, and the court documents that might enlighten me are a vexing three-hour drive away. I do know it wasn’t the same murder as a more notorious incident in the same county that same autumn ― one in which two downstate hunters were killed by a couple of locals, chopped up, and fed to pigs.
Farthing was raised in a cage, locked up with the most dangerous people in the state from age 18 onward. In 2023, having never learned the shaping lessons of independence, the 50-something man was paroled to woodsy Iosco County, where he had no connections, no support, and little access to resources that might have connected him to something resembling a “normal” life.
Two years later, police say, he killed again.
Michigan in recent years has overhauled its rules regulating life sentences for minors and young adults. Hundreds of Michiganders found guilty of serious crimes committed when they were teens now qualify for resentencing and possible release after serving decades expecting to die in prison.
Farthing’s case will make advocates against the recent changes sit up and take notice. See? people are already saying. This is why we can’t just let them go. They’re dangerous.
That understandable reaction doesn’t reflect reality. Juvenile lifers, once paroled, seldom reoffend. (One notable exception in Michigan involved a man named Timothy Riddle ― who, I must clarify, is NOT the same person as my brother-in-law, who bears the same name and is a very nice guy.)
Releasing Farthing didn’t cause the second murder. But, as I lay restlessly awake in the wee hours of the morning, I couldn’t help thinking how we might have prevented the three gunshots that took another Michigan life.
Back in the early 80s, Farthing’s community could have buckled down on efforts to protect families, keep kids in school, prevent abuse, and give troubled teens an alternative to destructive behaviors.
The Michigan Department of Corrections could have paroled Farthing somewhere with robust reentry services rather than depositing him in a rural motel.
His prison overseers could have made sure he had adequate life skills. The parole board could have seen the danger and refused to release him. Once they did, properly funded local police could have done more patrols, been more vigilant, kept closer tabs on him.
The state could have passed gun laws that made it harder for him to get his hands on a deadly weapon. Advocacy groups could have pushed for rural mental health access and jobs training programs. Communities could have backed efforts to combat poverty, substance abuse, isolation, and other root contributors to violent crime.
Individuals could have donated used items to the clothing drive, given the unkempt job applicant a chance, gotten to know their neighbors, reported suspicious activity, and modeled healthy ways to address conflict.
Could-haves and should-haves won’t stop Farthing’s bullets. But other would-be killers are already lining up behind him. Other arguments are igniting, other lives are in turmoil ready to boil over to violent acts that will make us shake our heads and say, “What a shame.”
The shame is on us if we see it coming and do nothing.
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I know not everyone wakes up stewing about violence reduction. A raging national fandom for true crime doesn’t translate to a national determination to find solutions. Family and acquaintances get a little glassy-eyed when I launch into one of my tirades about the criminal legal system, and I get it. Everyone has their own battle to fight.
This is mine.
To be honest, I’m not sure how to fight it. A friend suggested I start a podcast focused on the “What next?” behind real crime stories. I could call it “No Murder Before Coffee,” we agreed. I don’t think that matches my skillset, but I might launch a Substack, if I can figure out how to attract readers. I’ll keep plugging away at the book project that daily convicts me of one person’s ability to enact change, and I’ll keep lying awake at 3 a.m., working out ways we can do better at keeping one another safe.
If that’s something you wake up thinking about, too, shoot me an email at julie.j.riddle@gmail.com and we can fight together.