He had left that morning like any other day, promising he’d be back in time for dinner. Instead, he returned to police tape and flashing lights outside his Chicago home, a modest place that once held the laughter of eight children. Officers tried to stop him, but he pushed past, desperate to prove this nightmare wasn’t real. Inside, the smell of iron and cleaning products clung to the air. Six bodies, including two of his children, lay motionless on the floor. No signs of forced entry. No clear suspect. No reason that made any sense.

In the days that followed, he faced reporters, detectives, and an empty house that echoed with memories. The community lit candles and demanded answers, but the investigation moved slowly. Between interviews and funerals, he clung to the two surviving children, the only pieces of his shattered world that the massacre had spared.