The Girl Named After Summer and the King of Empty Promises

The fall of 1996 in Powell, Wyoming, was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and the electric charge of new beginnings. For the freshmen arriving at Northwest College, the horizon felt limitless. It is a specific kind of magic, that first semester away from home—a time when reinvention feels not just possible, but inevitable. Among the sea of new faces was Berry Bryant, an 18-year-old girl whose very name evoked sweetness. Named after her mother’s favorite fruit, the strawberry, Berry carried a warmth that thawed the cool Wyoming air. She was not just another student ID number; she was a musician, a creator, and a daughter who called home just to share the mundane details of her day.

But shadows often stretch longest when the sun is brightest. While Berry was unpacking her life and preparing for a future in fashion merchandising, another student was unpacking a lifetime of entitlement and unchecked aggression. Levi Colin was a sophomore, a 19-year-old who walked with the swagger of a man who believed the world had already crowned him king. He was the hometown hero from nearby Ten Sleep, a tiny community where his athletic prowess had bought him a localized celebrity status.

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What unfolded between these two students in October of 1996 was not a tragedy of chance, but a collision of two opposing forces: a young woman asserting her autonomy and a young man who viewed that autonomy as an insult. This is the story of a scholarship winner with a backbone of steel and the homecoming king who decided that if he couldn’t possess her, he would destroy her.

A Symphony of Ambition and Independence

To understand the magnitude of the loss, one must first understand the vitality of the life that was extinguished. Berry Bryant was the kind of teenager parents dream of raising. Growing up in Riverton, Wyoming, she was the center of a tight-knit family unit that included her mother and younger brother. Their bond was fortified by Sunday dinners and a shared language of inside jokes. When Berry left for college, it wasn’t an escape; it was an expansion. Northwest College, a two-year school located about three hours from her hometown, offered the perfect balance of independence and proximity.

Berry was a woman of substance. She was an honor roll student and a talented musician who had secured a scholarship to play the saxophone. But her creativity extended beyond music. She had a tactile gift, a love for fabrics and design that led her to sew her own clothes. She saw potential in raw materials, envisioning what a scrap of silk or denim could become with a little vision and labor. This passion was driving her toward a major in fashion merchandising. She was grounded, driven, and possessed a quiet confidence that allowed her to navigate the chaotic social landscape of college with grace.

By October, she had settled into the rhythm of campus life. She had a circle of friends, she was attending classes, and she was thriving. She had successfully navigated the transition from high school to college, a period where many stumble. She was happy. And in the cruel calculus of true crime, her happiness and potential make the events of October 4th all the more devastating.

The Big Fish in a Dangerous Puddle

If Berry Bryant represented the promise of the future, Levi Colin represented the dangers of a glorified past. Hailing from Ten Sleep, Wyoming—a town with a population hovering around 300—Levi was the quintessential big fish in a microscopic pond. In a community that size, scrutiny is constant, but so is adoration for those who fit the mold of the local hero. Levi fit the mold perfectly. He was the captain of the football team, the captain of the basketball team, and the homecoming king.

Psychologically, Levi appeared to be stuck in a loop of adolescent glory. He was the type of young man who learns early on that talent on a field can act as a currency to purchase forgiveness for flaws off of it. When he arrived at Northwest College, he brought with him an ego that had outgrown his character. He was used to being the focal point, used to getting what he wanted, and seemingly unaccustomed to the word “no.”

From the moment Berry arrived on campus, Levi was there. He was a hovering presence, lingering on the periphery of her new life. When her family helped her move into the dorms, Levi was loitering nearby, asking invasive questions, inserting himself into a family moment where he didn’t belong. It was behavior that transcended awkward flirting; it was predatory surveillance. He told his friends explicitly that he was “going to get her,” phrasing his interest not as a romantic pursuit, but as a hunt.

Red Flags in the Rearview Mirror

The warning signs regarding Levi Colin were not subtle; they were glaring, neon-red flares that signaled imminent danger. Days before the murder, an interaction occurred that would haunt Berry’s friend, Jesse, forever. It happened during a car ride—a setting that should have been mundane but turned menacing.

Berry was driving her own car, Jesse was in the back seat, and Levi was riding shotgun. The dynamic was immediately off. Levi spent the drive bragging, inflating his own importance, filling the cabin with the hot air of his narcissism. Then, the conversation took a sharp, invasive turn. He turned to Berry and commented on her sexual history, stating arrogantly that he could “tell she was a virgin” just by looking at her.

It was a power move, designed to humiliate, to make her feel small and exposed. A different girl might have shrunk away or laughed it off nervously. Berry Bryant did neither. She kept her eyes on the road and owned her truth. “Yeah, I am,” she replied coolly. “And I’m proud of it.”

It was a moment of absolute triumph for Berry, a display of the backbone that defined her character. But for a personality like Levi’s, this rejection was likely intolerable. Her refusal to be shamed, her refusal to be charmed by his status, and her refusal to play his game disrupted his worldview. To a predator who views women as conquests, a woman who says “no” with confidence is not just uninterested; she is a challenge that must be neutralized.

The Party and the Vanishing

Friday, October 4th, 1996, began as a celebration of youth. Berry and her friend Jesse attended a campus dance before drifting to a dorm party. The atmosphere was typical of freshman year: loud music, cheap drinks, and the intoxicating feeling of freedom. Levi was there, of course. He attempted to recruit Jesse as a wingman, asking her to help him get with Berry. Jesse, loyal and aware of Berry’s feelings, shut him down immediately. She made it clear: Berry was not interested.

Levi left the party, seemingly accepting defeat. Berry told Jesse she was going down the hall to greet a friend and would be right back. It was the casual, fleeting statement that ends thousands of nights out. I’ll be right back.

But she didn’t come back.

As the minutes stretched into hours, the low-level anxiety of a missing friend began to curdle into panic. By the next morning, it was clear that Berry hadn’t just crashed in another dorm room. She was gone.

The timeline of the search is a testament to the instincts of Berry’s friends. When the Resident Advisor called Jesse at midnight asking for Berry, Jesse didn’t wait. She threw on a hoodie and began physically scouring the campus. She checked the lounges, the hallways, and the parking lots. She found Berry’s car parked exactly where it had been left. This was the first concrete sign that something was terribly wrong. Berry hadn’t driven away. She had been taken from the very ground she stood on.

The Blood on the Dorm Room Floor

While Jesse was checking local hospitals in a desperate attempt to find a logical explanation, a surreal scene was unfolding across town. In the early hours of the morning, the county prosecutor received a call that sounded like the opening scene of a horror movie.

Levi Colin had walked into his own dorm room covered in blood.

His explanation to his roommates was frantic and disjointed. He claimed he had been in a fight with another male student. He said things had gotten out of hand, that he might have killed him. In a display of staggering audacity or perhaps shock, he asked a few of the guys to get in a car and drive back to the scene with him. His stated reason? He needed to retrieve his knife.

The drive that followed must have been suffocating. As the car rolled through the dark Wyoming streets, the adrenaline of Levi’s lie began to wear off, replaced by the crushing weight of the truth. The story about the fight fell apart. In the quiet of the car, Levi Colin confessed. He hadn’t fought a man. He had raped and murdered a woman.

The reaction of the students in the car was immediate and commendable. They didn’t help him hide evidence. They didn’t panic and run. They restrained him and drove him straight to the police station. In a story filled with moral failures, the actions of these young men stand as a crucial pivot point toward justice.

A Web of Lies and the Cold Reality

In the interrogation room, Levi Colin tried to spin the narrative one last time. He was a man accustomed to charming his way out of trouble, and he attempted to apply that same logic to homicide. He told investigators a story that was as insulting as it was implausible. He claimed that he and Berry had gone for a drive, that they had engaged in consensual sex, and that she had attacked him with a beer bottle. He painted himself as the victim, claiming he had stabbed her in self-defense.

Police officers are trained to deconstruct lies, and Levi’s story was built on sand. There was no evidence of a beer bottle attack. There was no logic to his claims. The “consensual drive” narrative was a known play in his playbook. Just months prior, in Ten Sleep, he had used a similar ruse on another girl—luring her into his car to “show her the headlights,” then driving her to a remote location and assaulting her. That girl had survived by threatening him, staring him down until he backed off. Berry Bryant had likely tried the same, but this time, Levi had escalated.

The police cut through the noise. They demanded to know where she was. Levi, realizing the “self-defense” charade was over, agreed to lead them to her.

He took them 16 miles north of town, into the vast, indifferent darkness of the Wyoming landscape. The location was desolate, a place chosen for its silence. When the headlights of the police cruisers finally swept over the scene, seasoned officers had to turn away. The brutality was absolute. Berry had been beaten and bludgeoned, but the cause of death was a throat slashed so deeply it amounted to near-decapitation.

This was not a fight gone wrong. This was an execution.

The Final Walk in the Wyoming Dark

The forensic evidence and Levi’s eventual confession pieced together the final, terrifying hour of Berry Bryant’s life. Levi hadn’t left the party and gone home; he had waited. He likely intercepted Berry in the parking lot or near the dorms, using a ruse to get her to his car—perhaps the same “look at my headlights” trick he had used before.

Once she was inside, the trap snapped shut. He drove her against her will out of Powell, into the darkness. But Berry Bryant did not go quietly. The evidence suggests that out in that field, she realized the danger and attempted to escape. She got out of the car and began walking down the cold road, trying to put distance between herself and the predator.

Levi tackled her. The assault that followed was a violent assertion of power. He raped her, and when she fought back—as evidenced by the severe defensive wounds on her hands—he took out his knife. Berry fought for her life until the very end. She died as she lived: fighting, refusing to submit, refusing to be a victim even as the physical odds turned insurmountable.

Cowboy Justice: Swift and Unforgiving

In many jurisdictions, a murder trial of this magnitude would drag on for years. Motions would be filed, venues changed, and the family would be dragged through a marathon of grief. But Wyoming in 1996 operated on a different frequency. This was “Cowboy Justice”—swift, unflinching, and allergic to nonsense.

Levi Colin was arrested in October. By November, he was sentenced.

There was no drawn-out trial because the evidence was overwhelming and the prosecutor was relentless. Facing the undeniable reality of his actions, Levi pleaded guilty. He was convicted of first-degree murder, sexual assault, and kidnapping. Additionally, prosecutors formally charged him for the assault on the girl in Ten Sleep from the previous summer, establishing a clear pattern of predatory escalation.

The sentencing hearing was a moment of grim finality. Wyoming is a death penalty state, but it is a punishment rarely used. The judge looked at Levi Colin—the former homecoming king, the golden boy who thought he could take what he wanted—and decided that death was too easy. A lethal injection would be a release.

Instead, the judge sentenced him to three consecutive life terms. There would be no possibility of parole. There would be no “good behavior” loopholes. Levi Colin was told, in no uncertain terms, that he would die in a cage. He remains incarcerated today at the Wyoming Medium Correctional Institution, a man whose life effectively ended at 19, just as he ended Berry’s at 18.

The Dress That Was Never Worn Again

The true tragedy of Berry Bryant’s murder is not just the horror of her death, but the loss of her life. We lost a fashion designer. We lost a musician. We lost a mother, a leader, a friend.

Berry was buried in a dress she had made herself. It was a garment she had worn to a high school dance, a tangible piece of her creativity and skill. It was a heartbreaking symbol of the future she was denied—a future where she would have created beautiful things, where she would have run businesses, where she would have continued to make her family laugh.

Her mother passed away a few years ago, carrying the weight of her daughter’s absence to her grave. Her brother continues to live with the void, the empty chair at the table, the silence where a saxophone should be playing.

The story of Berry Bryant is a reminder that the monsters we fear are rarely hiding in the bushes. They are often the boys we know, the ones with the charming smiles and the high school trophies, the ones who believe that “no” is just a word they can ignore. It is also a reminder of the power of instinct and the bravery of resistance. Berry Bryant fought back. She didn’t survive the night, but her fight ensured that her killer would never harm another woman again. In the end, the homecoming king lost his crown, but the girl named after a strawberry left a legacy of courage that outlasted them both.