He Never Came Home and Vanished in 1983—25 Years Later, They Found His T-Shirt Buried at His School

October 17th, 1983 — Atlanta, Georgia

Nine-year-old Kevin Powell was a boy who lived half in this world, half in the galaxies he drew on the backs of his schoolwork. He was small for his age, with wide, curious eyes and a gap-toothed smile that made his mother’s heart ache with love. His favorite t-shirt was a bright yellow Pac-Man, its cartoon mouth chomping forever across his chest—a splash of sunlight against his dark skin.

Kevin loved order and rules, things that made sense: Pac-Man, the stars, and science projects with his older sister Yolanda. She was sixteen, fiercely protective, the only one who could calm his anxieties or fuel his dreams of rocket ships and distant planets. That Monday, like most Mondays, Yolanda had after-school activities. Kevin knew the way home. He was a “big boy,” their mother always said.

When the final bell rang at Eastmere Elementary, a flood of children spilled from the red brick building. Kevin, meticulous as ever, told his teacher Mrs. Davidson he needed a few more minutes to finish coloring a map. She nodded, distracted by the end-of-day chaos. That was the last time anyone at the school would admit to seeing Kevin Powell alive.

By 4:30 p.m., Yolanda was pacing. He was always home by 4:00. She called her mother, who tried to sound calm. “He’s probably just daydreaming, Landa. You know how he gets.” But by 5:00, dread had set in. The school phone rang and rang before a janitor picked up—everyone had gone home. Yolanda called her mother again.

“I’m leaving work now. Call the police. Call them right now.”

The Investigation That Wasn’t

The Atlanta Police officer who arrived seemed tired, his questions rote. “Probably just ran off to a friend’s house. Happens all the time.”
“No,” Yolanda insisted, her voice cracking, “he’d never do that. He’s nine. He’s missing.”

The officer’s tone shifted, referencing the city’s recent trauma: the Atlanta child murders, which had ended only two years earlier. “We can’t afford to stir up panic every time a child is late,” he said. “It’s probably a misunderstanding.”

Their mother cut in, her voice razor-sharp: “He never left school property. As far as we know, he never left.”

“Well, ma’am, that makes it a school district matter first. They need to conduct an internal investigation. Our hands are tied.”

But Kevin Powell didn’t turn up by morning. Or ever.

Eastmere Elementary closed ranks. Principal Carter insisted all procedures had been followed. Kevin was marked present, a teacher recalled him staying late, but no one saw him leave. There were no security cameras in 1983, no electronic locks—just brick walls and the word of adults.

The police made a few phone calls, canvassed the neighborhood, but there was no citywide alert, no search party. The Powell family made their own flyers, Kevin’s gap-toothed smile and Pac-Man shirt taped to telephone poles and store windows. Rain made the ink run. Sun faded the paper. Yolanda walked the streets, calling his name until her voice was gone.

Weeks passed. The city moved on. Kevin Powell became another statistic—a boy who simply vanished.

A Quarter Century of Silence

For most, twenty-five years is a lifetime. For Yolanda, it was a relentless ache. She moved away, tried to build a life, but Kevin was always there—a ghost in every quiet moment. Her parents never recovered. Her father died in 1998, her mother just three years before the call that would change everything.

In the early 2000s, Yolanda started a website: “Justice for Kevin Powell.” It was a digital vigil, a refusal to let him be forgotten.

Eastmere Elementary closed in 2002, its playgrounds overgrown, its windows boarded. In 2008, the city approved its demolition for a new community center. One sweltering August morning, a backhoe clawed at the earth where the back fields once sprawled. The operator felt the bucket snag on something soft.

He climbed down, thinking it was just old rags. But as he brushed away the clay, colors emerged—a faded yellow patch, the ribbed texture of cotton. A piece of metal, caked with dirt, glinted in the sun. He rubbed it clean: the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo’s starship. A memory surfaced—a missing boy, a city holding its breath.

The site supervisor called the police. Within an hour, the construction site was cordoned off. The roar of machinery was replaced by hushed voices.

The Unveiling

Detective Ronell Ramsay of the Atlanta PD cold case unit called Yolanda. She was forty-one now, a social worker, her hair streaked with gray. “We found some clothing, Ms. Powell. A belt buckle—a spaceship. The Millennium Falcon.”

Yolanda’s world narrowed to a pinpoint. She drove to the site in a daze. Ramsay led her to a white tent. On a blue tarp lay the Pac-Man t-shirt, faded and decayed, the denim jeans, and the Millennium Falcon buckle. “These were his,” she whispered, her finger trembling as she touched the cool metal.

The discovery was not an ending—but a beginning. The beginning of a new, more terrible chapter.

Piece by Piece

The construction site became a crime scene. Forensic archaeologists and anthropologists were brought in. Yolanda watched from beyond the police line, day after day, as each scoop of earth became a beat of her suspended heart.

The search grid expanded. On the fifth day, a technician scraping near a cluster of old azalea bushes found a small bone—a child’s rib. Silence fell. Over the next 48 hours, more fragments were found: a femur in a drainage ditch, part of a pelvis near the gym foundation.

Kevin’s remains were not in one place—they were scattered, deliberately. The forensic anthropologist confirmed the worst: the fragmentation, the dispersal, the clean breaks. This was not the work of animals or time. This was a calculated dismemberment.

Detective Ramsay delivered the news to Yolanda himself. “He wasn’t just killed,” Ramsay said quietly. “He was taken apart. Someone tried to erase him.”

Yolanda did not cry. She simply closed her eyes, her face a mask of stone. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would anyone do that?”

The Search for a Killer

The killer had to be someone who knew the grounds intimately—someone with access, tools, and the solitude to work unseen. Ramsay pored over old staff records: teachers, janitors, bus drivers. One name stood out: Arthur Parsons, the groundskeeper.

Parsons had worked at Eastmere for 15 years, retiring in the mid-1990s. He was invisible—a man who knew every ditch, every patch of earth. Ramsay found him living alone, now in his seventies, in a dilapidated house.

Ramsay confronted Parsons with the evidence—the t-shirt, the buckle, the scattered remains. “We have ways to find out what happened,” Ramsay bluffed, describing forensic techniques Parsons could not comprehend. The old man’s composure cracked.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Parsons muttered. “He saw me with some equipment—stuff I was taking. He said he’d tell the principal. I just wanted him to be quiet. I hit him with a wrench. Then I… I had to make sure no one found him.”

Parsons described the dismemberment in the maintenance shed, the burning of Kevin’s backpack, the careful burial of remains. There was no remorse—only the exhausted relief of a man unburdening himself.

Justice, at Last

Arthur Parsons was arrested, his confession the final key. The city reeled—how could such evil have gone unnoticed for so long? Yolanda sat through the trial, her brother’s Pac-Man t-shirt now an icon for the forgotten. Parsons was convicted and sentenced to life in prison.

Yolanda buried what remained of her brother in a small casket. On his headstone, beneath his name, she inscribed: “He loved the stars.”

The story of Kevin Powell did not end with the trial. It became a part of Atlanta’s history—a cautionary tale, a testament to a sister’s unwavering love and the brutal cost of silence. Yolanda became an advocate, ensuring no other child would be forgotten.

She never found peace, but she found the truth. And in unearthing that truth, after twenty-five long years, she finally brought her brother home—not in the way she’d hoped, but home nonetheless.

The silence was broken. And Kevin Powell—the boy who loved the stars—would not be forgotten.