Your Father's Murderer A Letter To Zachary

The first time I watched Dear Zachary*, I had to pause it three times in the first twenty minutes. Not because it was confusing. Because I couldn't breathe.

You've probably heard of it. Maybe someone told you "you have to see this documentary" with that particular tone people use when they're warning you, not recommending. Or maybe you stumbled across it on a true crime listicle and didn't realize what you were clicking into.

Either way — if you haven't seen it, I'm not going to spoil the ending. Practically speaking, about the people left behind. But I will tell you this: it's not a documentary about a murder. It's a documentary about what happens after. About a legal system that moves at the speed of bureaucracy while a child's life hangs in the balance.

And it all started with a letter.

What Is Dear Zachary*

Kurt Kuenne didn't set out to make a film. He set out to make a scrapbook.

Andrew Bagby was his oldest friend. They grew up together in California, made terrible home movies together, stayed close into adulthood. Consider this: when Andrew was murdered in November 2001 — shot five times in a parking lot in Pennsylvania — Kurt did what any of us would do for a best friend. Also, he grieved. He showed up for Andrew's parents, David and Kathleen. And then he picked up a camera.

The original plan was simple: interview everyone who knew Andrew. Friends, family, coworkers, ex-girlfriends. Compile their memories into a video letter for Zachary — Andrew's son, born two months after his father died. A way for a boy to know the man he'd never meet.

That's the film Kurt thought* he was making.

What he actually made is something else entirely. A real-time chronicle of a custody battle between Andrew's parents and the woman accused of killing him. And a portrait of grief that doesn't perform for the camera. A indictment of a bail system that let an accused murderer go free while she appealed her extradition.

And yes — a letter to Zachary. Just not the one Kurt planned.

Why This Story Still Haunts People

Twenty years later, people still message Kurt Kuenne. Strangers. They find his email or his social media and they write things like "I watched this in 2008 and I still think about it weekly" or "I had to take a week off work after seeing this" or simply "thank you.

Why?

Because Dear Zachary* refuses the true crime template. No ominous music cues telling you how to feel. Here's the thing — phone calls. Now, no talking-head experts explaining the psychology of killers. Day to day, no dramatic reenactments. Court documents read aloud. Plus, just home footage. The raw, unedited voices of two grandparents who loved their grandson enough to fight a foreign legal system while mourning their only child.

David and Kathleen Bagby are the heart of this film. Not because they're perfect — they'll tell you themselves they weren't — but because they're real. On top of that, you watch David, a physician, calmly cross-examine witnesses in a Newfoundland courtroom one day and break down in his kitchen the next. You watch Kathleen, who channeled her grief into advocacy, helping change Canadian bail law while raising a grandson who looks exactly like the son she lost.

Their fight wasn't abstract. Even so, it was selling their California home to fund the legal battle. It was 4:00 AM phone calls with lawyers. It was showing up, every single day, for a little boy who called them "Mummy and Daddy" because he didn't know any different.

And the whole time, the woman who killed their son — Shirley Turner — was free on bail. Living in the same town. Pushing Zachary in a stroller past the courthouse where his grandparents fought for him.

That's the part people can't shake. That said, not the murder. The after*.

How the Legal Battle Unfolded

The timeline matters here. Not because dates are interesting, but because the delays were* the tragedy.

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November 2001: Andrew Bagby is murdered in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Shirley Turner, his ex-girlfriend and the last person to see him alive, flees to Newfoundland, Canada — her home province. She's pregnant with Zachary.

December 2001: Turner is arrested in Newfoundland. Pennsylvania requests extradition. Canada agrees — but Turner appeals. And appeals. And appeals.

July 2002: Zachary is born. Turner is still free on bail. David and Kathleen Bagby fly to Newfoundland, rent an apartment, and begin a custody fight they never asked for.

January 2003: The Canadian courts grant the Bagbys limited custody — weekends, basically. They move to Newfoundland full-time. They're in their sixties. They're raising a toddler. They're fighting extradition hearings. They're grieving.

August 2003: The Supreme Court of Canada denies Turner's final appeal. Extradition is ordered. She's supposed to be handed over to U.S. authorities.

August 18, 2003: Shirley Turner jumps off a cliff into the Atlantic Ocean with thirteen-month-old Zachary strapped to her chest. Both drown.

The Bagbys learn from a reporter's phone call.

That's the version you'll read in news summaries. But the film shows you what the summaries leave out: the Newfoundland judge who granted Turner bail despite the prosecution's objections, citing her "strong community ties" and the fact that she was a "young mother." The bail conditions that let her live unsupervised with Zachary. The social worker who warned the court Turner was a flight risk — and was ignored.

The system didn't fail once. It failed repeatedly, in documented ways, with multiple opportunities to intervene.

Common Mistakes People Make About This Story

Mistake: "It's just another true crime documentary."

It's not. Shirley Turner appears mostly through court documents and a few grainy photos. Andrew is present in every frame through the people who loved him. True crime as a genre tends to center the perpetrator — the psychology, the method, the mystery. Which means dear Zachary* centers the victims. She's not the protagonist. Because of that, zachary is the reason the film exists. She's the antagonist, and the film treats her that way without sensationalism.

Mistake: "The grandparents should have just let it go / moved on / accepted the custody arrangement."

This one makes me angry. The Bagbys did accept the custody arrangement — the limited one the court gave them. They moved to a frozen island they'd never visited, in their sixties, to be near their grandson. Still, they followed every rule. They showed up for every hearing. They did everything the system asked of them.

The system still* failed Zachary.

Mistake: "Kurt Kuenne exploited his friend's death."

Kurt didn't release this film for years. Because they wanted bail reform. He only released it publicly after the Bagbys asked him to — because they wanted people to see what happened. He finished a version in 2004, showed it privately to the Bagbys, and sat on it. Because they didn't want Zachary's life to mean nothing.

The film exists because* the family wanted it to.

Mistake: "This could never happen here / now / in my country."

Bail reform is still a live issue everywhere. The specific laws have changed in Newfoundland — the Bagbys' advocacy led to "Zachary's Bill," which amended the Canadian Criminal Code to allow courts to deny bail to accused persons who pose a risk to public safety, including risk to children. But the underlying tension? Now, the presumption of innocence versus the protection of potential victims? Day to day, that's universal. And the delays? Still standard.