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The sight brought Oesch back to the night when she raced up the basement stairs to find her mother's body. For Oesch, Chillicothe has morphed into a town that celebrates her mother's killer. "It's like he's a freaking hero now," she says.
Oesch sees a justice system eroding, letting a convicted murderer loose on a technicality if he fights long and hard enough. Oesch and her family remain convinced that prosecutors got it right.
Oesch references inconsistent statements that Woodworth gave to authorities early on about how often he visited the Robertson home and shed. "Innocent people don't lie," she says. She says the bullet taken from her father's liver will again send Woodworth to prison "if my mother can get a fair trial."
The outpouring of support and sympathy that the Robertsons received in the months after the slaying has disappeared. She wants to tell Woodworth's supporters to shut up and just let the case play out in court. "All these people weren't at my house that night," she says.
"I almost wish it was a cold case sometimes," she says.
Then, she says, the family wouldn't have to relive this. They could try to move on.
A prison guard walked up to Woodworth's jail cell and handed him some shabby clothes — oversized jeans, a Carhartt T-shirt that hung loosely on his shoulders and some ill-fitting sneakers — on the morning of February 15, 2013.
Hours later, guards drove Woodworth 50 miles from the Daviess/DeKalb Regional Jail in Pattonsburg to the Livingston County Sheriff's Office, where family members brought him clothes that fit. Woodworth put on a blue button-up shirt and pressed slacks.
After posting a $50,000 bond — raised mostly by his supporters — Woodworth was greeted by a crowd of more than 200 outside the Sheriff's Office. The Robertsons stayed indoors most of the day, hoping to avoid the festivities.
The Woodworth family Christmas tree was still in the living room when he returned home later that day. His parents gave him more than a decade's worth of presents that they had kept stashed in his old bedroom. Nieces and nephews helped tear through the packages and sang him Christmas carols.
Standing in his basement bedroom in late October, Woodworth eyed a framed photograph on the nightstand next to his bed. The picture shows Woodworth and his fiancée at the Kansas City Chiefs' spring-training camp in April. The two have yet to set a wedding date.
Woodworth is trying to forget the murder indictment that has haunted him since 1993. He hopes that the system will soon be done with him.
"I'm actually kind of at peace with everything," he says. "I really would like to think it's over with. For me, at least."