FOUR YEARS AGO TODAY: Unsolved killing of 31-year-old mother in North Little Rock weighs on investigators

A memorial to Samantha Olson sits Saturday at the intersection of McCain and JFK boulevards in North Little Rock, where she was shot and killed on Aug. 14, 2013.
A memorial to Samantha Olson sits Saturday at the intersection of McCain and JFK boulevards in North Little Rock, where she was shot and killed on Aug. 14, 2013.

Most of the homicide cases handled by the North Little Rock Police Department investigations unit contain some sort of pattern that eventually shapes into a reason and sometimes leads to a suspect.

The case of Samantha Olson, a 31-year-old mother who was shot in 2013 in North Little Rock, sticks with investigators, in part because it hasn't yet formed that pattern.

The pattern in other cases may be an unexpected crime of passion, like an angry end to a relationship. Or it may be a drug deal gone wrong. Loved ones are usually left with some semblance of an answer to the resounding question: "Why?"

"Samantha Olson was totally innocent," said Capt. Brian Scott, who supervises the investigation into her death. "She was just driving down the road, just like anybody else could be driving down the road."

Nothing in her past points to an answer, Scott said. Interviewing and re-interviewing witnesses hasn't turned up a solution.

Tracking down more than 1,000 maroon trucks that matched the description of the Ford pickup the shooter was in hasn't paid off.

But investigators aren't giving up.

Samantha was driving east on McCain Boulevard, with her nearly 1-year-old daughter, Linnea, strapped in a car seat in the back. She stopped at the busy intersection of McCain and JFK Boulevard, surrounded by shops, a bank, a fast-food restaurant.

That's when the shots rang out.

Samantha had her window cracked open because it was warm that mid-August day.

A gunman in a maroon Ford pickup with a toolbox in the back fired three to six shots.

The car window was unbroken, the baby was uninjured, but Samantha was hit.

Her car rolled through the intersection, stopping near the Starbucks on the southeast corner of JFK and McCain.

Today a weather-worn wooden cross adorned with flowers slowly fading from red to pink sits next to the coffee shop beneath a road sign.

Samantha's younger sister, April Welshhons, got the call from their brother that night while she was in her Dallas apartment.

"Sissy's dead."

As they grew up, Welshhons and Samantha had gotten close -- talking on the phone often. Welshhons would visit one weekend each month when she came to Arkansas for Army Reserves training.

Samantha's number is still on Welshhons' favorites list in her phone. She saved the messages from the last time they texted, two days before Samantha was shot.

"My sister really was the rock in our family," Welshhons said. "Everybody called Sissy, everybody. Bad day? We'd just call Sissy, text Sissy. It's just what you did."

Friends and family describe Samantha as a caretaker. She went with her mother to chemotherapy, even when her mom told her it wasn't necessary.

"She was there every day," said Aimee Dickerson, Samantha's childhood best friend. "She didn't listen to Mom, she just did what she needed to do. She always made me want to be a better person."

The two lived down the street from each other growing up and called each other's parents "Mom" and "Dad."

Samantha had two dogs, a cat and several fish. She doted on her niece and Dickerson's two children.

She was only missing one thing: a child of her own.

"All she ever wanted was to be a mom, and she finally got it," Welshhons said. "Linnea was like the happiest, sweetest little baby. She [Samantha] hated going back to work, but she'd come back during her lunch break."

Samantha had trouble getting pregnant, suffering several miscarriages, and she loved kids. She and her husband, Eric Olson, kept trying, and she was ecstatic when she realized she was going to be able to give birth to Linnea.

The day she went into labor, she was in her living room talking with Dickerson, who rushed Samantha to the hospital.

Dickerson had planned to make Samantha a scrapbook documenting Linnea's first year, but Samantha died before she could finish it. Now, Dickerson keeps the still unfinished pink, yellow and blue polka-dotted book safe for the day Linnea returns to Arkansas to claim it.

The last time Dickerson and Samantha's family saw Linnea was in 2014. Things have been tense between Samantha's family and Eric Olson since she died, Dickerson said, but she is sure Linnea will come back one day with questions about the mother she never knew.

"I can tell her about the first time I spent the night at her house, the last time I saw her in person or at her funeral," Dickerson said. "Whatever she wants to know, I'll let her know."

Samantha was there during the births of both of Dickerson's children, there for every birthday, there to help her friend through a divorce. When Dickerson remarried after Samantha's death, she put up a picture of her best friend because it felt wrong if Samantha wasn't there, too.

"She always could light up the room," Dickerson said. "She never met a stranger. Ever."

Before the shooting, Samantha had recently changed careers, becoming an accountant after years of working as a waitress. Welshhons said she always admired Samantha for her courage in making the switch.

At first, the family was confident that police would find her killer, but as time passed, they became resigned and frustrated.

"I don't know how a family is expected to cope and move on and accept and forgive if there isn't any closure on it," Welshhons said.

Unsolved murders like this one can fade from active investigations to cold cases examined by two retired officers who volunteer to return to the office.

But Samantha's case won't fall to the cold case unit as long as Scott is there.

"When I say so," Scott said. "When I am convinced that we've done absolutely everything we can. One day, something may pop."

Sgt. James Dancy, an investigator, responded to the call that Wednesday evening. He still remembers being confused by getting a call about a shooting so early in the night. He got to the scene in less than 4 minutes.

"There's times I wish my eyes could unsee and my heart could unfeel," Dancy said. "What we experienced there that day."

Dancy was a patrol supervisor at the time, and when he transferred to the investigations team, the first thing he did was open Samantha's case for review.

Unsolved homicides represent defeat, hanging in the minds of the team members until the thoughts begin to hover on the border of obsession.

"You can solve 200 homicides out of 201, and in your mind, you're a failure," Scott said. "I feel like a failure with this case hanging over me."

Scott said he and his investigators have tried techniques that were previously untested on this case. They still get emails, phone calls and Facebook messages from people who think they saw the pickup. Usually, it's about one tip per month.

They follow up on every tip.

Scott said they keep pushing on cases driven by memories of the murdered.

"When you see the bodies and those lifeless eyes, you wonder why anybody feels they have the right to do that to somebody," Scott said, gazing down at his office floor.

Scott and Dancy are confident that the case will be solved, an arrest will be made and Samantha's loved ones will be able to sleep a little easier at night.

"Somebody's going to talk, and when that day comes, we'll have our answers," Scott said.

"I hope I live to see it," Dancy replied, taking another sip out of his plastic foam cup full of black coffee.

Anyone with tips in this case can call the North Little Rock investigations unit at (501) 680-8439.

SundayMonday on 06/25/2017

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Samantha Olson poses with her husband, Eric, and their daughter Linnea, who was strapped in her car seat as a 1-year-old when her mother was shot and killed in August 2013. Linnea was not injured.

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