It Took 25 Years to Put Together the Missing Pieces of My Siblings’ Murders

The medical examiner described my sister’s body as cold to the touch. Her body suffered multiple gunshot wounds. One on the left ear 5 inches below the top of the head, one 4 inches below the top of the head on the left ear, a graze wound to the left side of her neck, and a graze wound to the left shoulder.

The medical examiner described my brother’s body as cold to the touch. His body suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. One 0.6 inches above the left eyebrow, one to the back of the head, one on the left arm, a lacerated gunshot wound to the palm of the hand, and a lacerated gunshot wound to the first finger of the left hand.

They were murdered on March 11, 1996. It would take me nearly 25 years to learn these details. I sought them out not just because I had a need to know. I felt I had the right to. But Illinois law disagrees. 

In Illinois, a homicide victim’s family members can request a free copy of the police report. They also have a right to information about the conviction, sentencing, imprisonment, and release of the people accused of the crime. Otherwise, you have to request information through the Freedom of Information Act, which usually means fees, long waits, and redactions.

I have outlived all of my siblings and my mother and father, but I’m still the baby. The baby is always kept in the dark as everyone tries to protect them from the harsher realities of the world. But, of course, that only makes their desire to know stronger. Because I was the baby, I had so little time with my brother and sister. I have so few memories of our lives before, and I don’t have anyone left to fill in the gaps. I’m the last one. Instead of memories, I have documents. 

People in my shoes should not have to pay and wait and fight and appeal for answers, for knowledge about the loved ones they’ve survived. 

It was a Monday afternoon, and I was about to leave my dorm for my weekly radio show. I had my CDs in my backpack and was minutes from walking to the station when the phone rang. It was my eldest sister’s best friend. She called to tell me that Juanita and Rodney were dead. My mother was too overwhelmed with grief to speak.

I screamed so loudly that one of my suitemates ran to get the hall director. In the minutes, days, and years that came after, all I knew was that a woman who lived in the same building as my siblings forced her way into their apartment and shot them multiple times at point-blank range, killing them both instantly. They were dead, but the not knowing began to weigh on me, so I set out to find out why.

I am the youngest of my mother’s children. When you’re the youngest child it can often feel like the adults and older kids have all these secrets and worlds that you know nothing about. It can feel as if you’ve entered the story in the middle of the book, and you’re perpetually too young to know things. You’re always the baby.

My mother had four babies. When I arrived home from school to attend the funeral, I walked in on my mother surrounded by friends and family. I can still hear her scream, “That woman killed my babies!”

I stayed at home for two weeks. In that time, extended family helped my mother clean out the apartment my brother and sister shared. Rodney had been in a construction accident several months before, resulting in the loss of his left leg. Juanita opened her home to him for his after-care and rehabilitation. 

The first thing I saw was the blood splatter along the wall by the front door where Juanita had been shot. The evidence of an intruder violently entering the space was everywhere. Their belongings had been strewn about. As we got close to the hospital bed where my brother had been lying when he was shot, I could see the urine stain revealing the fear and loss of control Rodney suffered on what became his death bed. 

It was nearly impossible for me, a 19-year-old college student, to fully process the scene, and I didn’t dare overwhelm my grieving mother by asking for details. In the immediate aftermath, none of that seemed to matter. 

After I graduated, I spent a year living at home. I had worked on my student paper at the university and would eventually have a career in journalism. I used what knowledge I had about accessing open documents and sought out the initial incident report from the Chicago Police Department. I obtained a single-paged, redacted document that shed no light on the events of March 11, 1996.

During the year I was home I convinced my parents to come with me to the Cook County Courthouse to read the police report related to their murders. By then, the woman who had killed Juanita and Rodney was dead. I hoped that would mean I could access unredacted information now. 

I walked out with a large manila file that I didn’t immediately read because I was afraid. At that time it wasn’t about specifics. It was about retrieving knowledge about two people I loved dearly and having it in my possession. It was the only way I had left to hold onto them. I stored it away in a plastic bin that I carried with me from city to city, apartment to apartment for more than 20 years. Eventually, my bouncing around the east side of the country led me back home to Chicago in 2007. 

After settling into my job and being OK with living in the city that had taken so much from me, I felt ready to sift through the documents. While there was a wealth of information related to filing charges against the killer, I still had no narrative about that day. I was piecing together bits and pieces, but didn’t have the whole story. I needed more than a “supplemental report.” I’d need it all – court documents, autopsy reports. No redactions. No hidden truths. 

In fall 2018, I was teaching a journalism class about the Freedom of Information Act. I heard my voice tell the class, “If there is something you want to know about then go find out.” A colleague was lecturing about filing FOIAs. I told him my story. He told me to restart my document journey from the beginning. 

I got a full police report, which was far more complete than the single-page document CPD gave me so many years before. I went back and forth with various government agencies. When I learned that it would cost me hundreds of dollars to obtain the autopsy reports, I felt defeated. I didn’t have the money, but the FOIA officer offered me an alternative – come down to the office and view them in person. 

Covid-19 restrictions were in full effect so my window was limited. I knew I shouldn’t go alone. I recalled the horror of walking into their apartment and seeing evidence of violence everywhere. I anticipated I’d need a hand to hold. My colleague sat by my side as I read every page of police interviews and autopsy reports. I took notes of details I thought mattered – what they were wearing, the contentious history they had with the upstairs neighbor who would later decide to end their conflict with gun violence. I read every word of her confession. This woman who stole my brother and sister from me became the last person to tell me the last moments of their lives. I finally had my full narrative, and it came from the voice of the murderer.

I became overwhelmed with grief and wept uncontrollably while consuming every page. But I finally knew. 

While I sometimes have flashes of the violence described in all the documents I have collected over the years, I work to fill my memories with the joys I had with them. I worry about forgetting. 

Of all the things I have come to know along this path is that so long as I keep remembering their lives, Juanita and Rodney will be more than just dead.