The Events Leading to Tragedy: What Happened to Patrick

While sharing these details is incredibly difficult, it's important for people to understand what happened to Patrick and the circumstances surrounding his death. This isn't just a story about a crime, it's about a failure of our justice system that allowed the person responsible to escape accountability. By understanding what happened, you'll see why reforming Act 911 is so crucial for Arkansas families.

On Sunday, March 24, 2019, just four days before the tragedy, we had a disturbing encounter with Philip Reynolds that made us realize he was using drugs. That day our son Lucas was fishing at Philip's pond while Patrick and I were fishing nearby. After we finished, Patrick stopped to talk with some friends who were grilling outside at their house.

I needed to run to our house, so Patrick asked me to take our Can-Am, pick up Lucas from Philip's place, and have him unhook the boat before I return. When I arrived at Philip's, it was immediately clear he was on drugs. His behavior was erratic and concerning. He told me he had already sent Lucas home because "he needed some adult alone time," and began yelling about an argument he'd had with his nephew.

I left quickly and went home to check on my son. When I asked Lucas what had happened, he began to cry. He explained that Philip had been acting like "a jerk," wouldn't let him get his fishing poles, and when Lucas tried to retrieve his cell phone charger, Philip told him, "I said leave. Stop being disrespectful and leave." Lucas was clearly upset by this sudden change in Philip's behavior.

When I returned to where Patrick was and told him what had happened, we immediately decided that our son would not be going back to Philip's house. Later that night, we sat Lucas down and explained our concerns about Philip's drug problem. Lucas readily agreed, saying he didn't want to go back there ever again.

On Tuesday, March 26, Patrick had to go sign a loan at the bank. On his way back, he stopped at Philip's to retrieve Lucas's fishing poles. He discovered that Philip had completely taken apart one of the poles. Despite this strange behavior, Philip told Patrick that Lucas was welcome to come fish at his pond anytime. Patrick was direct with Philip, explaining that Lucas would not be returning and that Philip needed to get help for his drug problem.

Despite this confrontation, there was no indication of the violence that would unfold just two days later. Philip and Patrick had been friends for several years. They had spent time hunting and fishing together, and Philip had formed what seemed to be a genuine relationship with our son. We had trusted him as a neighbor and friend.

March 28, 2019: That Thursday morning began like any other. Patrick came home from his truck driving shift around 3 or 4 a.m. When my alarm went off later that morning, he was asleep in bed beside me. I got up and woke our son so he could get ready for school. Our daughter had already left for college earlier that morning.

When I walked out that morning, I had no idea it would be the last time I would ever see Patrick. He was laying in bed sleeping with his CPAP machine on, just like always. It was such an ordinary moment - one I've replayed countless times since then. My son and I left the house; I dropped him off at school and continued on to work.

I had only been at work for about ten minutes when I received texts from Philip. He was asking if I was home, and I told him no. He asked if I was "winning or smoking," to which I replied I was smoking but not as much as before. Philip then mentioned being frustrated with his computer and asked where Lucas was when he needed him, adding "Ha." I simply replied "Lol school."

Philip's messages continued, asking "Red sleeping?" referring to Patrick. When I confirmed that yes, Patrick was sleeping, Philip replied, "I fight through it. Thank you." I just answered "Good luck." The conversation itself wasn't particularly alarming, but what was unusual was the fact that Philip had never texted me at all. In all our years as neighbors, we had only text one time prior to that and it was because I had car problems and was looking for Patrick.

Later that same day, I noticed Philip had made a Facebook post about praying, and I texted him to check on him, but he never replied to that message.

Around 11:30 that morning, Patrick called me. He told me he was heading to Fordyce to take care of some paperwork and needed to change two tires on his big truck, so he was going to pick those up. During our conversation, I mentioned that Philip had texted me earlier, and I read Patrick the messages. Patrick told me that Philip had also texted him saying he "needed a friend," but Patrick had explained he didn't really have time for Philip that day.

It wasn't until five years later, when I finally got Patrick's phone back from the police, that I discovered Patrick had actually texted back Philip telling him what he was doing that day and even asked if Philip wanted to ride along with him. Philip never replied to Patrick's invitation.

These ordinary conversations - discussing errands, work tasks, and neighborly check-ins - gave no indication of the tragedy that would unfold. Patrick was simply going about his day, taking care of responsibilities, and even extending kindness to Philip despite the concerning behavior we had noticed in the previous days.

Patrick called me again around 1:30 p.m. to let me know that while changing his tires, he had discovered a leaking seal and some worn bearings. He told me he had a new seal in the shop but would need to go to Pine Bluff Truck and Trailer to get the bearings.

That was the last time I ever got to hear his voice.

These ordinary, everyday words about truck maintenance would become precious memories - the final conversation between husband and wife. There was no way to know that this routine call about bearings and seals would be our last exchange, no opportunity for meaningful goodbyes or expressions of love. Just the simple, practical conversation of a hardworking man taking care of business, unaware of what awaited him upon his way to get parts.

The Unthinkable Unfolds

While I was continuing my workday, unaware of what was happening, Patrick had left our home to get the bearings he needed but never made it to his destination. What occurred next would forever change our lives.

Philip Reynolds, our neighbor and someone Patrick considered a friend, had been planning violence. What I didn't know at the time was that he had sent threatening messages to my 13-year-old son. My son was also unaware of these messages which we would discover later, showed a menacing side of Philip that we hadn't seen before - one that not only targeted Patrick but also threatened our child. According to witness statements gathered during the investigation, Patrick had left our house heading toward Pine Bluff Truck and Trailer to get the bearings he needed. For reasons we may never know, shortly after passing the road where Philip lived, Patrick turned around and went to Philip's property instead. This small decision, perhaps an act of kindness or concern for someone he still considered a friend despite recent troubling behavior, would lead to unimaginable tragedy.

Around 3:00 pm I received a phone call while I was leaving work to pick up our son after school. It was LJ (Little Jerry). He had been trying to reach Patrick but was unable to. He told me that Phil had shot his dad. While driving to the school to get my son, I began frantically trying to call Patrick with no luck. I then tried calling our daughter, knowing she should be at home, but still no answer. I knew something was terribly wrong. I notified work that there was an emergency and I would not be returning that afternoon.

As soon as my son got in the car, I told him to start trying to call his sister while I continued attempting to reach Patrick. With each unanswered call, panic started setting in. We were on Grant 14 going down the first hill from Hwy 167 when I told Lucas to get on Facebook and message Philip's brother, explaining that I needed someone from their family to call me because I'd heard Philip had shot Jerry Mauldin and I couldn't reach Patrick trying desperately to find out what was happening.

I will never forget the moment Lucas opened his Facebook and discovered the message from Philip. "Mom, Phil sent me a message," he said. When I asked what it said, my son responded, "Mom, I can't," while handing me his phone to read. There on the screen were threatening, disturbing messages sent to my 13-year-old child from the man who, as we would soon discover, had murdered my husband.

I read the message and felt the blood drain from my face. My son sat pale and speechless beside me. Ten minutes later, we arrived at the scene. It was chaos - Arkansas Game & Fish Commission officers, State Police, Grant County Sheriff's deputies, fire and rescue personnel, and countless neighbors were gathered on the road.

The first thing I saw was Philip lying in the road covered with a white sheet up to his shoulders. Then I spotted Patrick's truck parked at Philip's house, but I couldn't see anyone over there. Desperate to find Patrick, I started walking toward his truck but was quickly stopped. "That's my husband's truck," I insisted, "I need to find him."

The officer firmly told me it was a crime scene and I couldn't cross the line. I began pleading for information about Patrick, asking if he was okay, pointing out that I couldn't see anyone over by his truck. They assured me deputies were there and someone would come talk to me soon.

Looking back, I was likely in shock. I kept asking about my daughter, worried she might have been with Patrick since she wasn't answering her phone. But with the road blocked, I couldn't go check on her, and I refused to leave without knowing what where Patrick was.

One of our neighbors approached and offered help. He called his wife and asked her to go to our house to check if our daughter was there. I asked him to tell his wife to have my daughter call me immediately if she was home.

Sheriff Vance, Deputy Roberts, and another deputy came over. Sheriff Vance told me all they knew at that point was that there was one fatality and one medical evacuation by helicopter. My mind raced with confusion and fear - with only one medical flight mentioned, what did this mean for Patrick and my daughter? I hadn't been able to reach either of them. My heart seized with desperate hope as I began praying, begging God that somehow Patrick was the one being transported, that he would survive, that my daughter was safe somewhere else entirely. In that terrible moment of uncertainty, I couldn't bear to accept what the officers' grim faces were trying to tell me.

When my daughter finally called, I felt a wave of relief wash over me - at least she was safe. She had been at home taking a nap, completely unaware of the nightmare unfolding just down the road. I told her what little I knew. "Pack some clothes in a bag for me," I instructed her, trying to keep my voice steady. "Grab all our phone chargers and be ready in your car. I'll let you know which hospital as soon as I find out." I was clinging to hope, refusing to accept what deep down I feared was already true. As I waited and spoke with neighbors, I learned more pieces of the horrific puzzle. Jerry Mauldin had been taken by ambulance to the hospital he had been shot in the leg. Someone mentioned that Patrick's fingers had been severed. The information came in fragments, each more nightmarish than the last, yet somehow it all felt distant and unreal, as though I was watching someone else's tragedy unfold.

I heard the helicopter approaching as Philip was being loaded onto a stretcher and placed in an ambulance. I watched numbly as the ambulance pulled away, then stopped about 500 yards down the road. Through the trees, I couldn't see the helicopter waiting in the field, but that flight was for Philip - the man who had just destroyed our lives was receiving emergency medical care.

What I didn't fully process in that moment of shock was the terrible math this created: if Philip was the medical evacuation, then Patrick was the fatality. The same group of officers approached me again, their faces grim. 'You should go home now,' they said. 'We're pretty sure Patrick is the fatality. Their words made no sense to me. "What do you mean 'pretty sure'?" I demanded. "He's 5'11" with a mullet and a big red beard. I need to see him - I can tell you if it's him." During this conversation, I urged them, "You better drug test him. He's strung out on meth. He's probably been up for about two weeks." I knew what we had witnessed in Philip's behavior in the days leading up to this nightmare - his erratic actions, his hostility toward Lucas, the bizarre disassembly of the fishing pole. These weren't signs of mental illness but of sustained methamphetamine use.

But they wouldn't let me see Patrick, wouldn't let me confirm what I was still desperately hoping wasn't true.

Some friends took Lucas and me home - not to our house of 20 years, but to the property Patrick had dreamed of owning for over 20 years. When it finally became available for sale in November 2018, we had purchased it immediately. We were still remodeling the house, having just finished building our shop on the property. We were staying in the shop with our camper inside while the main house renovations continued. It was a dream Patrick had held onto for decades, and now he would never get to see it completed.

Several people gathered at the shop that evening, but nothing felt real. All I could think about was my children - how were they going to make it through this? How was I going to protect them from this pain? The faces and voices around me blurred together as I moved through this nightmare in slow motion.

Everyone had left except for a few close friends when Sheriff Vance returned around 12:30 a.m. and confirmed what I had been dreading for hours: the fatality was indeed Patrick. He brought me Patrick's billfold, a small piece of the man I had lost. I remember asking if someone could retrieve Patrick's truck, and I inquired about his phone. Sheriff Vance informed me the truck was being impounded as evidence, and the phone had been taken as evidence but would be returned once it was downloaded.

For some reason, my mind fixated on a memory - earlier that week, Patrick had stopped by our old house and gathered some belongings. Among them was his mounted bass, a box from our filing cabinet containing our marriage license and other special mementos, and pictures of us with our children on the days they were born. It was as if some part of him had known to collect these precious items, to bring them home to me.

"Can I have that box?" I asked Sheriff Vance, my voice breaking. "It has our marriage license in it." He said he didn't see why not and went to retrieve it. When he returned with the box, we set up a time to come to the sheriff's office the next morning for our interviews.

I clutched that box - containing memories Patrick had thoughtfully gathered just days before - as the terrible reality began to settle in. The man I had spoken with just hours before about truck bearings and seals would never come home again. The father of my children, my partner of 20 years, my best friend, was gone forever, taken in an act of violence that made no sense and never would.

In the quiet hours of that night, after everyone had left and my children had finally fallen asleep, I remained awake, unable to close my eyes. I was lost in a way I had never experienced before - suspended between the life I had known that morning and a future I couldn't begin to imagine without Patrick beside me. How do you sleep when your world has been shattered? How do you take the next breath when grief sits on your chest like a physical weight?

The ordinary day had turned into the worst nightmare imaginable, and there was no waking up from it. Tomorrow would bring more painful realities - interviews at the sheriff's office, funeral arrangements to consider, and the cruel irony that the following day should have been Patrick's 46th birthday. He would never open the gifts we had carefully chosen for him, never blow out his candles or hear our horrible singing. Instead of celebrating with crawfish, family and friends, we would be planning how to say goodbye.

In the coming days, we would learn more about what happened that terrible afternoon through 911 calls and police reports. The details would only deepen our pain and raise more questions about how the justice system would eventually fail us as completely as it had failed Patrick.

But that is for another post for another day. For now, I will share only that in those dark hours, alone with my thoughts and the crushing weight of new widowhood, I made a promise to Patrick. Whatever it took, however long it might be, I would fight for him and I would make sure our children knew how much they meant to him. I didn't yet know what form that fight would take, but I knew I would never stop.