DC homicides

‘He is not a statistic’

Here are the stories of 12 of the District’s 162 homicide victims – one for each month of a violent year.

January

Rahji Ross, 35

Marvin Stewart, 49

Eduardo Carias-Martinez, 21

Andrew Newman, 17

James Anderson, 27

Phillip Jones, 17

Lakida Goodman, 34

Kevin Owens, 22

Jerald Williams, 45

February

Navontae Howard, 19

Tracey Jones, 46

David Messerschmitt, 30

Rico Myers, 25

Torrey Bowman, 31

Marcus McClam, 29

Davon Barnes, 25

March

Thomas Deal, 33

Deonte Bethea, 30

Alejandra Coronado-Cardona, 37

Christopher Adams, 20

Marcus Alston, 27

David Simmons, 32

Milton Swinson, 30

Richard Dudley, 61

Tyrone Moore, 32

Antonio Ayala, 34

April

Luke Holt, 16

Demetric Greene, 38

Larry Wallace, 23

Joshua Steele, 23

Nathaniel Brooks, 32

Charles Hatcherson, 49

Darryn Conte, 39

Andre McConnell, 26

May

Gregory McBryde, 21

Anthony Benson, 17

Michael Marshall, 33

Darren McManus, 54

Terrance Moore, 27

Santos Garcia, 65

Jermaine Jordan, 23

Darlene Bryant, 46

Veralicia Figueroa, 57

Amy Savopoulos, 47

Philip Savopoulos, 10

Savvas Savopoulos, 46

Stephen Clark, 24

Anthony Osgood, 29

Devonte Reed, 20

Tamara Gliss, 31

Charnice Milton, 27

Pedro Melendez-Alvarado, 50

June

Santos Ventura, 64

Qur'an Vines, 21

Anthony Melvin, 57

Kenneth Fogle, 54

Donald Bush, 44

Jose Lopez, 39

James Brown, 26

Malek Mercer, 15

Larry Lockhart, 25

Antonio Bryant, 28

Brian Sickles, 42

Patrick Shaw, 26

Joel Johnson, 53

Arvel Stewart, 26

Heineken McNeil, 19

Stephon Perkins, 21

Kevin Johnson, 23

Darrell Grays, 33

Rodney Davis, 25

‘He is not a statistic’

Here are the stories of 12 of the District’s 162 homicide victims – one for each month of a violent year.

July

Kevin Sutherland, 24

Dwayne Dillard, 23

John Jones, 24

Thomas Harris, 52

William Herndon, 24

Timothy Bing, 36

Bryan Perkins, 18

Charles Douglas, 33

Wesley West, 25

Antoine Jackson, 22

Isiah Agyekum, 25

Antonio McCallister, 23

Antonio Austin, 31

Jerome Diggs, 47

Melvin Williams, 31

Derrick Black, 24

August

Michael Toland, 22

Shaun Simmons, 18

William Burke, 34

Robert Smith, 1 month

Charles Burton, 37

Eric Jackson, 32

Eric Smith, 44

Ryan Addison, 28

Lawrence Carter, 27

Matthew Shlonsky, 23

Amari Jenkins, 21

William Conley, 24

Tenika Fontanelle, 31

Johnson Jonas, 29

Loretta Carswell, 63

Kassahun Edo, 35

Kenneth Watson, 26

Antonio Dean, 24

Bobby Ellis, 33

Omoni Johnson, 26

Shaheed James, 21

September

Davon Wade, 22

Malik Thomas, 21

Uyer Hooper, 55

Jarrell Hall, 28

Levi Davis, 38

Charles Welch, 25

Marcellus Green, 39

Deontray Ingram, 22

Kuron Calleo, 28

Delany Epps, 29

Thomas Stalling, 50

Kenneth Evans, 45

Ernest Massenberg-Bey, 21

October

Muhammad Washington, 20

Cortez Clark, 32

Tavon Patterson, 23

Joel Midgett, 24

Percy Williams, 20

Marcus Manor, 38

Norman Joaquin, 42

Eric Jones, 19

Nathaniel Moody, 51

Daniel Brown, 19

Marcquetta Cunningham, 24

Leon Reid, 35

Kenneth Cosby, 36

Joseph Belle, 36

Van Joyner, 36

Victor Drummings, 41

November

Desiree Cooper, 36

Tyree Banks, 19

Charles Newell, 24

Reginald Perry, 28

Diante McLeod, 28

Antwan Baker, 29

Ray Harrison, 21

Onyekachi Osuchukwu, 24

Frederick Etheridge, 28

Kevin Wallace, 21

Clarence Terry, 64

Kevontae Jones, 19

James Neal, 54

Dwayne Grandson, 24

December

Sean Dillard, 46

Kwaza Blue, 20

Michael Jones, 23

Gary Brown, 25

Arthur Baldwin, 30

Eric Brooks, 26

Charles Mayo, 53

José Ochoa, 17

Lenard Wills, 50

Kevin Prater, 31

Darnell Mayfield, 34

Published on January 1, 2016

Died Jan. 3, 2015

Rahji Jerod Ross, 35

(Family photo)

Ronald McConnell held his son Rahji in the delivery room just moments after he was born on Feb. 8, 1979. He pulled the child, his first, close to his chest, and the tears started falling. McConnell says he felt a life force fill the room. He cried and cried more.

“It was so powerful,” he says. “It was something I can’t explain.”

Starchild. As he held him in the hospital, that’s what McConnell wanted to name his son. It was the end of the ’70s after all, and McConnell has always been a spiritual seeker. Laughing now, he says his wife, Joy Ross, quickly talked him out of it. Instead, he named Rahji after a co-worker he respected.

But that intense closeness he felt for his son would never go away. McConnell, 65, sits on a bench in Lincoln Park on Capitol Hill remembering how he brought Rahji here as a child to run around and play football. Lincoln Park is just a few blocks from McConnell’s childhood home, and he likes to think about how it intersects both of their early years. They played in the same playground, ran between the same trees, looked up at the same Lincoln statue, talked on the same benches.

As Rahji grew older, the conversations grew deeper. There were some difficult years. In his teens, Rahji had two children of his own, a boy and a girl. Drugs were an issue for a while. He was locked up and spent some time at the Oak Hill Youth Detention Center.

McConnell doesn’t block out those years, but they don’t begin to define his son for him. “He had some rough times as a youth, but he turned it around,” his father says. “He was working at two jobs. He always provided for his children. He molded himself into a productive citizen.”

What the father remembers most are the things that connected them. He worked out with his son. Running, chin-ups, push-ups, skipping rope, lifting weights. They pushed each other. At 35, Rahji was cut like the boxer Michael B. Jordan plays in the movie “Creed.”

He loved listening to music. All kinds. The Temptations and Stevie Wonder and Lou Rawls. But also Led Zeppelin and Three Dog Night. And Common and Nas. He composed songs on his keyboard and filled notebooks with poetry in beautiful longhand, with lines that revealed his spiritual searching side.

In a poem he titled “Sibling Soul,” Rahji wrote: Aware I know this book of life has more in store than I shall ever know.

The last time McConnell saw his son was on Jan. 2. Rahji, who worked setting up for events at the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center, was at his parents’ Fort Dupont home with a friend. They were making sandwiches and discussing how dangerous the streets had become.

“They were talking about how much madness there was out there,” McConnell says.

Earlier that day, a stranger had asked Rahji for a cigarette and became belligerent when he didn’t have one. It unsettled him.

The homicide detectives knocked on the door of McConnell’s home on the morning of Jan. 3. Rahji, they told his parents, had been a passenger in a car that had been carjacked in the 2700 block of Bruce Place in Southeast D.C. early that morning. In a crime that remains unsolved, two men wearing ski masks and black clothing had pointed guns and ordered the occupants out of the car. There was a struggle. Rahji was shot multiple times. He was dead by the time police arrived, becoming the District’s first homicide of 2015.

McConnell says he listened as the detectives talked, but none of it was sinking in.

“I heard them, but I didn’t hear them. I didn’t want to hear it. I couldn’t let myself hear it,” he says. “It was like my heart left my body. It was like my whole soul left.”

After the detectives were gone, McConnell tried to make sense of Rahji’s death. It was fruitless. He went upstairs to his bedroom and looked through old pictures of his son. He cried and cried more.

— Joe Heim



Died Feb. 16, 2015

Rico Myers, 25

(Family photo)

Wes Chavis picked up 25-year-old Rico Myers’s body from the morgue in February. He embalmed him and applied makeup to the young man’s skin, which had become increasingly blotchy since he was diagnosed with lupus as a teen.

Chavis, the owner of W Wesley Chavis III Funeral Services, was just doing his job, and he didn’t want the Myers family to fret about funeral logistics.

But later in church, when he saw Myers laid out in a smoky blue suit, lying in a silver casket with its white lining, he broke down.

Myers, who hoped to be a mortician himself, had worked as Chavis’s assistant intermittently since high school. Together, they prepped the bodies of grandparents, newborns and murdered men in their prime.

Now, Myers — the young man who had proudly shown off his neatly pressed suit before each funeral he worked — lay in the casket at the age of 25, and inside his suit was a body punctured by bullets.

“I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. He was like a son. I bury young guys all the time, but this one really hit,” Chavis said. “No matter, when the kid was with me, he would make me feel good. He was excited about everything.”

On Feb. 16, Myers was shot several times around noon in the 6100 block of Clay Street NE, blocks from the Capitol Heights Metro station. D.C. police have arrested three men in connection with the killing; they are accused of shooting Myers as he sat in his car with the engine running.

Myers grew up in Northeast near Navy Yard and attended Cardozo High School, later taking classes in mortuary science at the University of the District of Columbia. He started playing football in the peewee division and continued with the sport through his first two years of high school, but he had to stop at 16 when he was diagnosed with lupus, an autoimmune disease.

“He was a good person, a good, kind person. No one could say anything bad about him,” said his mother, Wanda Myers.

She said her son would spend long stints in the hospital, quickly becoming a favorite among doctors at Washington Hospital Center. During his hospital stays, she said, he would dart into other patients’ rooms, talk to them and try to make them forget about their illnesses.

“He was a cheerful person, very funny,” she said.

But also, “His illness took a toll on him,” his mother said. “Rico thought that because of his condition no one would hire him for a job, so he started hanging around different people.”

Myers had two young children, ages 5 and 6, whom he doted on — reading to them, buying them bikes and taking them ice skating. He loved beach trips as a kid with his family, and he recently took his children to Myrtle Beach, S.C.

Rico Jr., with diligent instruction from his dad, could ride a two-wheeler bike at age 3.

“Little Rico is the spitting image of his father,” said the boy’s mother and Myers’s longtime girlfriend, Erica Brewer. “Everything about him, the way he plays around, the way he dances — but Little Rico has rhythm.”

Myers enjoyed going out with friends and dancing, but, Brewer said, he wasn’t the most conventional dancer. “He had his own beat in his head,” Brewer said. “He was always the life of the party. You would notice him because he was always offbeat.”

Myers would have turned 26 the weekend after Thanksgiving. His family held a two-night celebration of his life that ended with a family dinner at Benihana restaurant.

“He was just so special, and everyone just loved Rico,” his mother said.

Chavis, the funeral director, said he still can’t believe the teen he mentored is gone. “He was really intelligent. . . . He dreamed of being a licensed mortician, and he had the ability to do it.”

Chavis spoke at his funeral, recalling how he saw a real purpose in his work ensuring that families had meaningful send-offs for their loved ones.

“He was really doing the work and serving the people,” Chavis said.

— Perry Stein



Died March 12, 2015

Christopher Adams, 20

(Linda Davidson/The Washington Post)

Christopher Adams was a neat freak.

His bedroom, which has been untouched since the day the 20-year-old was killed, still contains more than 30 pairs of shoes, lined up, in boxes, with the toes pointing toward the wall. On the closet shelf, neatly organized, are his roll-on deodorant, his sunglasses, his white cap from high school graduation, his Polo body oil. His belts are suspended vertically in organized rows. All his shirts are hung on hangers, facing the same way.

His bureau still holds all his socks — folded just so — in the top drawer, with underwear in the second drawer, and papers and cellphone in the third.

“Chris did not like people touching his things,” says his mother, Tawana Adams. She is sitting on the sofa in the Northwest Washington apartment building where Chris lived most of his life. “So I haven’t touched his stuff. People say you should get rid of it. But I can’t do it. I feel like Chris is still away at college. I don’t want to believe he’s not coming back.”

He was home on spring break from Allegheny College on March 12 when he was fatally shot in his car, which was stopped at the intersection of Jefferson and Eighth streets NW in Brightwood Park at 1:30 a.m. The next day, police arrested 24-year-old Glenn R. Walker and charged him with first-degree murder while armed. Charging documents and court records do not indicate a motive.

Adams’s mother wonders every day what happened, listening to her son’s last messages, reviewing his last texts, looking at the last photo someone snapped of him before he was killed. The tall, thin sophomore, who was majoring in sports medicine at Allegheny, is wearing a red jersey and jeans. He wanted to start a clothing line and become a rapper. The night he died, he was driving home from a recording studio after dropping off a friend, his mother says.

SUITLAND, MD --  DECEMBER 6: Tawana Adams visits her son's gravesite at Lincoln Memorial Cemetery in Suitland, Maryland, on December 6, 2015. Her son Christopher Adams was fatally shot March 12, 2015, while sitting in his car at Eighth and Jefferson Streets NW in Washington, D.C.  (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Tawana Adams visits her son’s grave at Lincoln Memorial Cemetery in Suitland, Md. Christopher Adams was fatally shot March 12, 2015, while sitting in his car at Eighth and Jefferson Streets NW in Washington. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

She can’t understand why someone would shoot her son, her best friend, her child who told her he was never moving out of the apartment because he didn’t want her to live alone.

Born June 29, 1994, Christopher Ian Adams graduated in 2012 from Wilson High School, where he played basketball and football and went to the prom dressed in a gray tuxedo with a pink bow tie and pink cummerbund.

He loved Cap’n Crunch and Froot Loops but would not drink soda. At their apartment building, he helped elderly people take out their trash. He was protective of his mother, texting her to make sure she was safe at home. He took his grandmother to her doctor’s appointments.

His sister Shamyra Buchanan, 23, wrote a letter to him after his death, telling him that it should have been her who was killed “because I was the one always messing, being disobedient and you were the total opposite. You were the one that enjoyed school, played all sports, got the good grades and all that good stuff. I wish you could get a second chance and come back to us. I wish you would just pop up at the house or call my phone or answer your phone and say, ‘Got y’all LOL, Y’all miss me?’ ”

His mother has a hard time crying. In the house, she works around things, leaving them as he left them. In the kitchen, she has left his Cap’n Crunch cereal box where he left it, next to his Raisin Bran. His grape jelly and Jiffy peanut butter sit on a corner of the counter, along with an oversize bottle of hot sauce. He liked hot sauce. In the freezer, she’s preserved a vanilla sheet cake from his wake with white frosting and pictures of him.

When her grief gets to be too much, she says, she goes to his bedroom, opens his closet door and buries her face in his shirts.

— DeNeen L. Brown



Died April 23, 2015

Charles Hatcherson, 49

(Family photo)

Charles Hatcherson texted his niece in April promising to attend her graduation from a master’s program in California. He was proud that the girl he once butted heads with as a teenager would be the first in the family to graduate with such sterling credentials.

Days later, Hatcherson, 49, was fatally shot on his block in Northeast Washington. His niece, Mikia Ross, sat through final exams grieving.

If Hatcherson fit into any family stereotypes, it would be the know-it-all-uncle, Ross said.

“You don’t argue with Uncle Charles because he knows what he’s talking about,” said Ross, although she had plenty of clashes with him when he lived with her family while she was in high school. “He was this funny, loud guy.”

He would keep CNBC turned on at nearly all hours and shouted back at Jim Cramer. “He was constantly wanting to be in the know about Wall Street,” Ross said.

But he was generous, not greedy, Ross said. She recalls Hatcherson giving a homeless man the coat he was wearing. Another time, he cleaned out an elderly neighbor’s gutters and paid to replace pipes that were leaking into the basement.

Hatcherson, who graduated from McKinley Technology High School, had a fascination with technology that led him to take apart computers just to reassemble them, his niece said.

WASHINGTON, DC --  DECEMBER 8: The scene of a homicide in the 4300 block of Gault Place, where Charles Hatcherson, a 49-year-old club promoter was killed is shown in northeast Washington, D.C., on December 8, 2015. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

The scene of a homicide in the 4300 block of Gault Place, where Charles Hatcherson, a 49-year-old club promoter, was killed in Northeast Washington. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

At barely 5 feet tall, he drew attention but lived outsized. He listed his job as a club promoter on Facebook.

On Instagram and Facebook, he posed with younger friends at bars, posted adoring videos of his three dogs playing and shared photos of colorful exotic fish and sea horses in his tanks.

Chrislene Bright befriended Hatcherson several years ago when she worked bottle service at the Shadow Room lounge near George Washington University. She said she came to view him as more than a partier when he gave her a baby blue pet cancer awareness bracelet and learned of their shared love for animals.

“He was more than what meets the eye,” Bright said. “As you get to know him, there are multiple layers that made him unique.”

Bright would bring her toy poodle Chloe and Yorkshire terrier Simone to play with his Pomeranian ManMan and Chihuahua MaMa when he lived near Capitol Hill. They’d order Thai food: shrimp tempura for his dogs and vegetarian items for him because he refused to eat meat.

Bright said Hatcherson pushed her to pursue her dream of voice acting. Months after he died, she quit her job at the club to work full-time doing voice-overs.

Police have made no arrests in Hatcherson’s slaying.

He is survived by a teenage son, who is now being raised by Hatcherson’s sister, Angela Ross.

Angela Ross, who is Mikia’s mother, said her brother’s death was the latest in a string of family tragedies. Her youngest brother and nephew also died violently.

At different points, she lived blocks away from Hatcherson and two of their sisters.

“I used to see him every day.”

— Fenit Nirappil



Died May 28, 2015

Pedro Melendez-Alvarado, 50

(Family photo)

Enma Rodriguez watches her son more closely these days.

She searches his sullen face for hints of rage, rushes to soothe him when she sees him punch his open hand, and tries to elicit a few words when the grief seems overwhelming.

But, the mother reasons, a 12-year-old whose father was taken from him for no apparent reason has every right to be angry.

“He tries to be strong. He says very little, but, sometimes, he tells me, ‘I miss Daddy,’ ” Rodriguez said, her eyes reddening. “And the only thing I know how to respond is to say I do too.”

The 46-year-old mother and her son, Carlos Daniel, live in a humble Fairfax County apartment where the walls bear reminders of Pedro Melendez-Alvarado, the 50- year-old immigrant father, uncle and brother gunned down May 28.

For reasons investigators still do not know, someone in a dark-colored vehicle opened fire on Melendez just before 9 a.m. while he was driving on Interstate 295 in Washington. D.C. police initially pointed to road rage but have since called it a “traffic altercation.”

No one has been charged in the shooting, which also injured Melendez’s roommate and co-worker, Miguel Rodriguez.

The morning had started like many in the 13 years they had worked construction together, Miguel Rodriguez said. They were headed to Bladensburg when they noticed a vehicle traveling erratically.

The car moved into Melendez’s lane, the fast lane, and slowed. Miguel Rodriguez said his friend reacted by moving right to pass. The other car sped to overtake him, a maneuver that went on for several miles from Mount Vernon north into Washington before Melendez noticed the other vehicle pulling up parallel.

“He asked me if it was the same car, but I didn’t pay attention because I was on my phone,” Miguel Rodriguez said. “All of a sudden, the shooting started.”

Melendez was pummeled by bullets. A slug lodged under Miguel Rodriguez’s left ear.

WASHINGTON, DC --  DECEMBER 8: The scene near I-295 Northbound near Exit 1 where Pedro Melendez Alvarado was shot and killed in May in Washington, D.C., December 8, 2015. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

The scene near I-295 where Pedro Melendez Alvarado was shot and killed in Washington. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

The crime stunned and puzzled relatives who say Melendez’s inconspicuous life was hardly one to attract seemingly random violence.

Melendez had the routine of many immigrants: work, home, work and little free time. And his essential errand: wiring money to El Salvador.

In the complex where he lived with dozens of other immigrants and three of his siblings, Melendez was known as “Don Pedrito,” an amicable neighbor who once offered a pregnant neighbor a ride. She gave birth in his Chevy’s back seat.

With Melendez’s death, his families lost more than a father. He financially supported a family of six he left behind in 2002 in El Salvador. His regular remittances allowed some of his children to stay in school rather than work at an early age.

“We never lacked a thing,” said Wendy Melendez, 21, a daughter.

She said his family there would message her father daily: “We would send him morning greetings or call before he went to work and in the afternoon; we would video chat.”

“It had been a year since I’d seen him,” she said, “and, tragically, he returned to us dead.”

When news of Melendez’s shooting reached one of his closest nephews in El Salvador, the 26-year-old — who suffered from a bad heart — went into cardiac arrest and died a week after his uncle. They were buried together.

Melendez and his siblings in Virginia got together often, supported aging parents and tried to re-create the warmth of their youth — growing up in a small house with 12 siblings — for their children here.

It was at one of those family events that Melendez met and fell in love with Enma Rodriguez.

He didn’t allow her to take the bus but was prompt to pick her up from her job at a restaurant every evening. In more than a decade together, Melendez endeared himself with his gifts and wild ideas, such as the time he surprised her by painting the dining room wall a faux brick pattern he’d designed.

“He was a marvelous person in every sense of the word,” Enma Rodriguez said. After work, Melendez would arrive smiling to greet his family, sit on an oversize couch and eat with them. “He never came home upset or bitter.”

— Arelis R. Hernández



Died June 28, 2015

Rodney Delonte Davis, 25

(Family Photo)

“Lo” was his nickname. Everyone called him that. Short for Polo. Shorthand for fashion king. Rodney Delonte Davis was one of those guys who cares about clothes. He didn’t want to be seen wearing what others were wearing. He wanted to stand out. If he met up with a group of friends and someone had on the same shirt, Davis went home and changed. There were always new shirts. And new shoes. And new ball caps. Dozens of those were emblazoned with the logos of his favorite teams.

“Rodney wanted to look just right,” says his mother, Lisa Ellis. “He was always swagged out.” She’s sitting in the dining room of the family’s townhouse in Manassas where Davis lived with his parents right up until June 28, the day he was shot and killed in deep Southwest Washington, just a block from Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue SW.

Dead at 25.

“I seen him Saturday and he was gone Sunday,” Ellis remembers. A framed portrait of her son is on the wall. There are other pictures of him as well. Holding his kids. Smiling. The wall has been turned into a memorial.

“The boy was happy every day,” his mother says as she tends to one of Davis’s three children who is asking for his shoe to be tied. “He gets that from me. He was a jokester.”

MANASSAS, VA--  NOVEMBER 29:  Lisa Ellis, 46, and husband Shawn Ellis, 49, pose for a portrait at their home in Manassas, Virginia, on Sunday, November 29, 2015.  Ellis' son Rodney Davis was shot multiple times and he was found on the Unit block of Galveston Place, SW near S. Capitol Street on June 28. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Lisa Ellis, 46, and her husband, Shawn Ellis, 49, pose for a portrait at their home in Manassas, Va. Lisa Ellis’s son Rodney Delonte Davis was shot and killed in Southwest Washington. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Lisa Ellis doesn’t know why her son was in Washington the night he was killed. He was a homebody, she said, who rarely went into the city. He preferred hanging out with his kids and playing basketball at a nearby gym. He had been in trouble as a teenager, but nothing serious, his mom says. And after he had children, two boys and a girl, he focused on them and on working with his stepfather as a mover.

There was something else about Davis. His mother is sure that he wouldn’t have wanted her to share, but she tells it anyway. Even as an adult, Davis sucked his thumb. Most often when he was asleep, but occasionally when he was awake as well. A habit that never quite broke. She likes remembering him that way. Thumb in mouth, telling jokes and laughing. Thumb in mouth, eyes closed and sleeping.

The investigation into Davis’s death is ongoing. Police say they have few leads at this point. His mother doesn’t want to know the details about her son’s death. She just wants his killer caught.

“They need to find who did it,” she says. “I can’t let my baby go to a cold case.”

— Joe Heim



Died July 4, 2015

Dwayne Gene Dillard, 23

(Family photo)

The Fourth of July was Dwayne Gene Dillard’s favorite holiday, and he dressed for the occasion. Last year, he wore a red, white and blue 1992 Olympic basketball shirt, white pants and white Air Jordans. In a photo he sent to his girlfriend, Dillard was clean.

It was the last photo of him alive.

That night, in a call to his girlfriend, Semarja Freeman, Dillard said he was hanging with old friends in a Southeast neighborhood but told her “I don’t need to be out here anymore.” Freeman agreed to pick him up.

She called back seven minutes later as she neared, but Dillard didn’t respond. She texted once. And then again.

When Freeman pulled up to Douglass Place, friends had already rushed Dillard to United Medical Center. He died there from a gunshot wound. He was 23.

“I miss his laugh, his loud stupid laugh,” Freeman, 22, said. “He was so full of life.”

Dillard’s killing came in the crossfire of a high-profile gunbattle that left two others wounded. It sparked outrage from city leaders after police officials released video of men openly carrying handguns and one man firing repeatedly on a city street.

Much of Dillard’s life centered on his two sons, his 5-year-old namesake and nearly 2-year-old Dwuan. He took the boys on weekend adventures to water parks, the National Aquarium in Baltimore and any other spot for fun.

He dedicated so much time to his boys because his own father had no role in his life, his family said. The youngest of three sons, Dillard grew up on Bowen Road SE, less than half a mile from where he was killed. As a preteen, he played a lot of basketball and even hit the court with grown men. He carried bravado that outsized his age.

“He would say, ‘I’m going to be the first kid to come out of elementary school and go straight to the NBA,’ ” recalled Bernard Brown, his stepfather.

To his mother, Lisa Brown, he was a protector, the one who answered the door to make sure the apartment was safe and stood guard for any trouble. But she also took up for her baby boy, even as Dillard and her husband kept a sometimes contentious, but loving, “Sanford and Son”-style relationship, Lisa Brown said.

“He was a spoiled kid that got away with anything. He always would try anything and try you,” Bernard Brown said. “But it would make me laugh. I miss those confrontations.”

Dillard attended Savoy Elementary School and Hine Junior High School before he headed to Anacostia High School, where Michelle Obama spoke at his 2010 graduation. His basketball dreams shifted toward hope of a college education.

He never made it. Instead, he labored at a string of temp jobs, working at a Cort Furniture warehouse and, most recently, as a custodian at Children’s National Medical Center and MedStar Washington Hospital Center.

Lisa Brown, a line cook at the White House, held a rivalry with her son, as the two battled to one-up each other in the kitchen. He’d bring home shrimp or crabs from the Wharf in Southwest or wake the household at 2 a.m. as he cooked his signature maple bacon and eggs.

Dillard and Freeman dated for two years, a relationship that started with friendship and grew through game playing at Dave and Busters, rooting for Lebron James and long drives, simply making each other smile, but rarely just sitting around.

In a white three-ring binder, Lisa Brown collects mementos of her youngest son’s life, and his death. It holds his obituary, his death certificate and his birth certificate. Dillard smiles as a school boy dressed in a clip-on tie and proudly poses with his arm over his mother’s shoulder.

“He was well loved,” Lisa Brown said.

— Clarence Williams



Died Aug. 8, 2015

Eric Anthony Jackson, 32

(Family photo)

Eric Anthony Jackson greeted everyone he knew on Facebook every day with the same cheerful post: “Good morning, world.”

Until Aug. 9, 2015. There was no “good morning.”

E.J., as family and friends called him, was fatally shot Aug. 8 at age 32.

Jackson was born and raised in the District, the youngest of five children who stayed emotionally and geographically close as grown-ups. He and his four sisters all chose to live in the District as adults; when he died, Jackson was living with his sister Latoya and her family.

The five gathered each Friday to start the weekend together.

“He was the life of the party at any family function,” his sister Denna Jackson said.

A construction worker who loved his job, he was finishing a course on the path to a management role.

He never had children but didn’t lack for young relatives. “He’d say, ‘My nieces and my nephews are my kids,’ ” Denna said.

With each of his sisters a mother to at least three children, Jackson found himself an uncle to 19 nieces and nephews and to two great-nieces, the start of the next generation.

He took the children to movies and museums, a skating rink and Chipotle. Jackson also pulled them aside for serious conversations about whatever was going on in their lives.

But though those 21 children looked up to him as an additional parental figure, his sisters never let him forget that he was the baby among the five of them.

“We picked on him. Whoo!” Denna said. They still called him “Chin,” 29 years after a memorable family photograph: the one of all five dressed in their best with 3-year-old E.J. prominently sticking out his chin.

“You know how hard it was to get them five kids together for that photo?” recalls Jackie Jackson, their mother, who has the framed picture on her apartment wall in Washington Highlands.

Jackie and her son liked to gamble at Horseshoe Baltimore Casino and Maryland Live. “He had his good days and, boy, he had his bad ones,” she said. But she said those ventures weren’t only about gambling — sometimes he made the trip without betting a cent, just to spend time with his mother.

Jackie said she hasn’t been back to Horseshoe since his death. “If I go in there, I’ll be looking for him.”

Jackie Jackson, center, and her daughters Latoya Jackson, left, and Danelle Jackson, pose for a portrait in Washington. Jackie’s son, Eric “E.J.” Jackson, 32, the youngest of five siblings, was fatally shot Aug. 8. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Twelve days after the killing, 27-year-old Kenneth Donato Stewart was arrested and charged with shooting Jackson in the 1200 block of Maple View Place SE, about four blocks from the Anacostia Metro station.

Witnesses told police that several people were outside because a block party had just ended, and they heard arguing.

On surveillance video, an officer wrote in a police report, Stewart can be seen shooting.

Jackson’s mother and two of his sisters said they had heard Stewart’s name before but don’t know how he would have known Jackson or why they may have argued.

The police report doesn’t make clear whether Jackson was an intentional target: “Stewart is observed brandishing and discharging a firearm in a crowded urban area, and under circumstances that posed an extreme risk of death and serious bodily injury to the many uninvolved and unarmed bystanders that were in the area.”

Jackie said she isn’t interested in knowing more about how her son came to be a homicide victim. “I don’t think anything gives you any closure,” she said. “Not a day, minute, or hour goes past that we’re not thinking about him.”

Denna and Latoya, spending a recent afternoon with some of their children in their mother’s cozy apartment, nodded.

“Every day, all day. I feel like it doesn’t get better. It gets worse,” Denna said.

The sisters still start lines from their favorite movies — “Lord of the Rings,” anything with Dave Chappelle — wishing their brother were there to complete them.

On their phones, they see the dozens of photos the siblings took, sometimes playfully posing like pop stars. After all, they were the “Jackson Five.”

The remaining siblings still get together weekly, and amid the bantering, Denna said, sometimes “you end up saying his name.”

They’ve made shirts with E.J.’s face that read “I ♥ You, Lil Bruh.” And on Fridays, they wear them.

— Julie Zauzmer



Died Sept. 5, 2015

Malik Mason Thomas, 21

(Family photo)

LaShon Holtzclaw isn’t the sort of person to watch the news. Too much of it gets her down. But on the night of Sept. 5, she spotted a cluster of police cars near Largo High School, sirens wailing. So she flipped on the 10 o’clock news to see whether the commotion had made it to the airwaves.

Instead of an account on that event, she saw a report on a white sedan on Xenia Street in Southeast D.C. that someone had set ablaze while a body had been inside. Thinking little of the carnage, Holtzclaw turned off the television and padded off to sleep.

The next morning, she awoke to find a card underneath the door of her Landover home. It belonged to a D.C.Washington homicide detective. He wanted to talk. “He made it seem like it was just about a stolen vehicle, but I said, ‘I’m not an idiot. Please, don’t do that. You’re a homicide detective,’ ” Holtzclaw remembers saying. Police had found a body inside a burned car, the detective told her. The vehicle she had seen on the news belonged to her son, 21-year-old Malik Mason Thomas.

In disbelief, she grabbed her iPad and scanned through news articles. One article said the death marked the 108th homicide in a city catapulting toward one of its deadliest years in a decade. Another article also said the death brought the grim tally to 108. This three-digit number, which until that moment had been devoid of meaning, had suddenly become the most distinguishable aspect of her son’s life.

Everything about him had been blotted out. The blaze so charred his remains that it would take weeks before authorities could positively identify him. Then the media insisted as describing him not how Holtzclaw viewed him — as her son, as a youth finding his way — but as a data point in a larger arc of homicide and death.

WASHINGTON, DC --  DECEMBER 11: The scene of a homicide in the 400 block of Xenia Street SE near Foxhall Place, where Malik Thomas was found in a burned out car in September, shown in Washington, D.C., on December 11, 2015. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

The scene of a homicide in the 400 block of Xenia Street SE where Malik Thomas’s charred remains were found in a burned-out car. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

“He is not a statistic,” Holtzclaw said. “This is my son. His name is Malik. His name is Malik Thomas. And he comes from a very loving family.”

But how could she let people know that? How could one grieving mother in a city full of them distinguish herself — and so distinguish her son? Holtzclaw started contacting reporters. “It is not the wish of my family to have Malik known simply at D.C.’s [108th] homicide,” she wrote in one email days after her son’s body had been found. “Someone attempted to obliterate Malik’s existence.”

She wrote to city officials, later delivering a lengthy sermon about her son, who had been shot before his car was set afire, at a public hearing discussing the city’s homicides. She held vigils at the site where her son was found, distributing fliers that identified Thomas in a community that only knew him as a body found inside a burning car. His killing remains unsolved.

Here’s what she wanted people to know: “He had a huge heart,” she said. “And an infectious smile.” He was independent. “When he was in middle school, he would sell candy out of his book bag,” she said. Then, when he was in high school, he opened a lawn care business. Since his name means “king” in Arabic, he named it “Royal Service.”

She concedes he sometimes got into trouble. Court records show he picked up a number of petty charges — possession of marijuana, theft, possession with intent to deliver — but hadn’t been arrested in the last 17 months of his life. Holtzclaw said her son had gotten a job delivering Chinese food.

The last night of his life, he dropped by her house to say hi and make a sandwich. She remembers he was excited about how good his white Hyundai Sonata looked. He’d just gotten it out of the shop. She can’t get that image out of her head.

— Terrence McCoy



Died Oct. 16, 2015

Joel David Midgett, 24

(Family photo)

The statue at the back of the church was his spiritual refuge.

Joel David Midgett always had the same routine when he arrived at Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Northwest Washington, where he’d been baptized and had worshiped his whole life. He’d walk through the New York Avenue NW church’s wooden front doors, pass under the rose window, turn right and kneel down on a leather-bound stool before a statue of Jesus clad in a purple cloak and a white tunic emblazoned with a thorn-entwined heart. Blood dripped from Christ’s palms.

Midgett prayed here about twice a month during Holy Redeemer’s evening Mass, says the church’s priest, the Rev. David Bava. He didn’t share his prayers, but Bava knew the 24-year-old needed the solace they could provide. In 1990, before he was born, his father, Joel Brockenberry, had been fatally shot across the street from the church. He was just 19.

Bava sometimes wondered if Midgett was praying for his father. “I often thought the statue represented the Savior,” he says, “but maybe the image represented the father he never knew.”

His grandparents, William and Lorraine Brockenberry, raised him at their home in Shaw. Midgett — whose first name was pronounced like his father’s — Jo-elle — joined a Cub Scouts troop at Holy Redeemer. He was tall and muscular, and when he arrived at Dunbar High School, he pitched and played left field on the baseball team. For awhile, he styled his hair into dreadlocks.

When he graduated from Dunbar in 2009, Lorraine felt gratified. “I was just so happy he finished school,” she says. “I used to tell him, ‘Finish school. You’re going to need that diploma. Do this for me. Graduate.’ And he used to say, ‘Okay, Grandma.’ ”

Bava also played an important role in Midgett’s life. In addition to baptizing him, he also presided over his Holy Communion when he was 8 years old.

Midgett spent much of his free time either inside the church or right outside it. Across the street, he’d hang out with friends at a couple of the markets, ordering take-out. In front of the church, he’d wait for the bus to take him to occasional jobs and often wound up in lengthy discussions with Bava.

WASHINGTON, DC --  DECEMBER 8: Pastor David Bava shows the spot where Joel Midgett knelt and prayed in his church in Washington, D.C., on December 8, 2015.    Midgett was stabbed to death on K Street, NW in Washington, D.C., in October. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

The Rev. David Bava shows the spot where Joel Midgett knelt and prayed in Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Washington. Midgett was stabbed to death not far from the church. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

They talked about his yearning to be a responsible dad to the son he’d had with a girlfriend in 2011. Kennan Russell is now 4 years old.

“He talked to me about how proud he was of his son,” Bava says, “and his desire to give him the best rearing he could.”

But Midgett struggled with unemployment and brushes with the law, including arrests for unlawful entry, marijuana possession and assaulting an officer. The assault and marijuana charges were dropped, William Brockenberry says, but Midgett spent about six months in prison a few years ago on what his grandfather calls “trumped-up charges.”

His criminal record may have made it tougher to land work. “He was very frustrated about not finding a job,” Bava says. “He was trying to temp. But he couldn’t really land something full-time.”

Midgett had one other challenge: He drank too much, his priest says. “He wouldn’t get into a program,” Bava remembers. “He couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

And yet, through it all, Midgett kept coming back to Holy Redeemer.

“He was spiritually centered,” Bava says.

Then Midgett was stabbed to death Oct. 16 walking along the 200 block of K Street NW in a killing that is still under investigation by D.C. police. It happened not far from Midgett’s home at the edge of Shaw and not far from his church.

On a cool October morning, Midgett’s family and friends gathered at Holy Redeemer, where his father’s funeral had also been held. Instead of kneeling in the back before the statue of Jesus, Midgett now lay at the front of the church, his body in an open casket for everyone to see.

— Ian Shapira



Found dead Nov. 2, 2015

Desiree Cooper, 36

(Family Photo)

She left the family home on the outskirts of Harrisburg at the urging of her mother, who worried her daughter might miss out on opportunities if she stayed too close to her parents in suburban Pennsylvania.

So Desiree Cooper went off to study architecture at North Carolina State and Temple universities. She took jobs in Michigan, then South Carolina. She traveled to Greece and to Africa. In her mid-30s, she took a job at an architectural firm in Arlington, and in November 2014 she bought a two-story rowhouse in the District, on Tennessee Avenue on Capitol Hill.

Friends and family said Cooper flourished. She took full advantage of city life, of the neighborhood cafes and restaurants. She volunteered to help the less fortunate. She jogged around the Mall. She joined a church. She started to renovate her house. She met a man who worked as a trainer at her gym.

That man was 37-year-old John Robinson, popular in his own right at Results Gym on G Street SE. They dated, and he met her parents. He helped her renovate. And over the Oct. 31 weekend, D.C. police said, Robinson fatally shot Cooper, 36, and then took his own life.

Cooper’s parents made a frantic drive from Harrisburg on Nov. 2 after they couldn’t reach their daughter for two days.

They arrived at the red brick house to find their daughter’s car in the back. A contractor let them in. Vivian Cooper found her daughter’s body face down in the living room; Robinson’s was face up. Police said a handgun was on the floor between the bodies.

Vivian Cooper, a retired school teacher in her 60s, and Norman Cooper, a retired train engineer who is 77, left and stood stunned in the alley. They called their daughter’s best friend, Elduise Johnson-Traore, known as E.J.

“Time stopped,” the friend said.

WASHINGTON, DC--  NOVEMBER 23: Norman E. Cooper, 77, and his wife Vivian Burkholtz Cooper are photographed in Washington, D.C., on Monday, November 23, 2015. Their daughter Desiree Cooper was murdered in her Capitol Hill home in November. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Norman Cooper and his wife, Vivian, pose for a photo in Washington. Their daughter Desiree Cooper was slain in her Capitol Hill home in what police say was a murder-suicide. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Cooper’s parents, married 40 years, said they can’t fathom the violent death. They said their daughter never told them she had been abused or that there was trouble, though she did tell her mother a few weeks before the shooting, “I don’t think it’s going to work out with John.”

The parents later learned that Robinson was married, which they don’t believe their daughter knew. Robinson’s family doesn’t believe that the deaths were the result of a murder-suicide and blame a possible burglary.

During a recent trip to Washington to take care of their daughter’s affairs, neither Vivian nor Norman Cooper would go in the rowhouse.

They stayed on the sidewalk, joined by Johnson-Traore. Norman Cooper talked of how when his daughter was 3, she joined him in his basement shop, donned safety goggles “bigger than her head” and sanded a block of wood, a precursor to her career. She helped him put on a new deck and install ceiling fans, refusing to give up “until they were perfect.”

Cooper settled in the Washington area a few years ago and finally on Capitol Hill. “It’s chic to be in D.C., and she was very chic, the belle of the ball,” Johnson-Traore said. “She wasn’t a party girl, but if there was something going on, she would go.”

Her rowhouse was both an investment and a home, and she scrimped to make the down payment. Johnson-Traore said her friend paid meticulous attention to detail, recalling the housewarming party where Cooper served homemade sorbet adorned with pieces of peppermint.

At the Little architectural firm in Northern Virginia, Cooper excelled, hired as a project manager for a team working on a large development in Maryland. Her boss, Janey Gregory, described her style as “angelic,” her attitude as “authentic.” She was on a diversity panel and on a national group of minority architects.

Vivian Cooper said she never worried about her daughter in the city. “I encouraged her to move away from home because I thought she was too close to me. I told her, ‘You need to spread your wings and find a job away from home.’ ” Now, the mother said, “I don’t feel that way anymore.”

— Peter Hermann



Died Dec. 5, 2015

Kwaza K. Blue, 20

(Family photo)

Kwaza K. Blue lay in his casket wearing an olive green suit jacket and the Versace glasses with the rectangular lenses that were so familiar to those who knew him. His face was placid, reflecting a calm he too rarely found when he was alive.

On a December morning, nearly 300 friends and family members gathered to see him one last time at his funeral at the House of Praise in Northeast Washington. The mourners included Blue’s 10-month-old son, who was being carried by his mother. They clustered in groups, the sound of muffled sobs occasionally broken by a shrill wail. A deep sadness filled the church. But there was anger, too, that a 20-year-old’s life had been snuffed out over a meaningless argument. And anger that this happens so often.

Blue was better known by his nicknames: “Fatglo,” a name he gave himself because he liked how it sounded, and “Freeway,” prompted by his many years in foster care, being shuttled from home to home, from highway to highway. He was always in search of a family, of stability, of belonging. He finally found that with his aunt, Denitra Galloway, a few close cousins, his classmates and the friends from the Southwest Washington neighborhood where his aunt lived.

Then, on Dec. 5, five days before he would have turned 21, Blue was gunned down in an alley near the corner of First and O streets SW around the corner from his aunt’s house, just a few blocks from Nationals Park. It was the third homicide in that block in 12 months.

The beef that led to his death, his aunt said, started with a stolen book bag. The argument escalated quickly. It ended with a single gunshot and Blue being pronounced dead at George Washington University Hospital, becoming the District’s 152nd homicide of 2015.

The killer’s identity is probably known, but no one is talking, Galloway said.

“It’s the street code,” she lamented. “They’re not saying. I’m just praying to God that someone will have a heart and say who did this to my nephew. Because my nephew was a good guy. It’s senseless.”

Blue, she said, was a funny, caring, down-to-earth kid who had been dealt a bad hand.

WASHINGTON, DC --  DECEMBER 16: Family and friends including aunt Denitra Galloway, hands outstretched, gather for the funeral service of 20-year-old Kwaza Khalif Blue in Washington, D.C., on Wednesday, December 16, 2015. Blue was shot and killed in DC just 5 days before his 21st birthday. (Photo by Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

Family and friends including aunt Denitra Galloway, hands outstretched, gather for the funeral service of 20-year-old Kwaza Khalif Blue in Washington. (Nikki Kahn/The Washington Post)

“He was an all-around guy who was just messed up by the fact that his mother could not get off drugs and left him in the system,” she said.

But he made friends easily and returned to high school to get his degree.

“He could’ve just said, ‘The hell with school, don’t nobody care about me,’ ” his aunt said. “But he walked across that stage and he was so proud. And I was so proud.”

At his funeral, Blue was remembered as a doting father to Khalil. And as a jokester who loved to tease. And, after he got his high school degree, as someone who was always pushing others to get theirs. His friends wore T-shirts with his face and an array of messages: Glo in Peace. Glo in Paradise. My angel gone too soon. Love you Fatt Glo.

His 16-year-old sister, Anija Blue, read from cards that had been sent to the family.

“I can’t believe I’m up here doing this,” she said. “This is crazy. Pray for me and my family, please.”

A few tough-looking kids sitting in the pews tried to keep it together. They bit their lips, swallowed hard and wiped away tears, hoping no one would notice.

Next to the casket, Blue’s name was spelled out in blue flowers on a backdrop of white carnations. Three Christmas wreaths adorned the wall behind the altar.

Blue’s baby son, Khalil, was held by his mother, Janelle McCain, next to the casket. He leaned down to see his father’s familiar face. Straightened up and leaned down again. There was a slight smile on his face as if he were playing a game, waiting for his dad to wake up, open his eyes and take him into his arms.

At the end of the service, the casket was closed and a woman screamed.

“I don’t want to say goodbye! I don’t want to say goodbye!”

— Joe Heim


January

Rahji Ross, 35

Marvin Stewart, 49

Eduardo Carias-Martinez, 21

Andrew Newman, 17

James Anderson, 27

Phillip Jones, 17

Lakida Goodman, 34

Kevin Owens, 22

Jerald Williams, 45

February

Navontae Howard, 19

Tracey Jones, 46

David Messerschmitt, 30

Rico Myers, 25

Torrey Bowman, 31

Marcus McClam, 29

Davon Barnes, 25

March

Thomas Deal, 33

Deonte Bethea, 30

Alejandra Coronado-Cardona, 37

Christopher Adams, 20

Marcus Alston, 27

David Simmons, 32

Milton Swinson, 30

Richard Dudley, 61

Tyrone Moore, 32

Antonio Ayala, 34

April

Luke Holt, 16

Demetric Greene, 38

Larry Wallace, 23

Joshua Steele, 23

Nathaniel Brooks, 32

Charles Hatcherson, 49

Darryn Conte, 39

Andre McConnell, 26

May

Gregory McBryde, 21

Anthony Benson, 17

Michael Marshall, 33

Darren McManus, 54

Terrance Moore, 27

Santos Garcia, 65

Jermaine Jordan, 23

Darlene Bryant, 46

Veralicia Figueroa, 57

Amy Savopoulos, 47

Philip Savopoulos, 10

Savvas Savopoulos, 46

Stephen Clark, 24

Anthony Osgood, 29

Devonte Reed, 20

Tamara Gliss, 31

Charnice Milton, 27

Pedro Melendez-Alvarado, 50

June

Santos Ventura, 64

Qur'an Vines, 21

Anthony Melvin, 57

Kenneth Fogle, 54

Donald Bush, 44

Jose Lopez, 39

James Brown, 26

Malek Mercer, 15

Larry Lockhart, 25

Antonio Bryant, 28

Brian Sickles, 42

Patrick Shaw, 26

Joel Johnson, 53

Arvel Stewart, 26

Heineken McNeil, 19

Stephon Perkins, 21

Kevin Johnson, 23

Darrell Grays, 33

Rodney Davis, 25

July

Kevin Sutherland, 24

Dwayne Dillard, 23

John Jones, 24

Thomas Harris, 52

William Herndon, 24

Timothy Bing, 36

Bryan Perkins, 18

Charles Douglas, 33

Wesley West, 25

Antoine Jackson, 22

Isiah Agyekum, 25

Antonio McCallister, 23

Antonio Austin, 31

Jerome Diggs, 47

Melvin Williams, 31

Derrick Black, 24

August

Michael Toland, 22

Shaun Simmons, 18

William Burke, 34

Robert Smith, 1 month

Charles Burton, 37

Eric Jackson, 32

Eric Smith, 44

Ryan Addison, 28

Lawrence Carter, 27

Matthew Shlonsky, 23

Amari Jenkins, 21

William Conley, 24

Tenika Fontanelle, 31

Johnson Jonas, 29

Loretta Carswell, 63

Kassahun Edo, 35

Kenneth Watson, 26

Antonio Dean, 24

Bobby Ellis, 33

Omoni Johnson, 26

Shaheed James, 21

September

Davon Wade, 22

Malik Thomas, 21

Uyer Hooper, 55

Jarrell Hall, 28

Levi Davis, 38

Charles Welch, 25

Marcellus Green, 39

Deontray Ingram, 22

Kuron Calleo, 28

Delany Epps, 29

Thomas Stalling, 50

Kenneth Evans, 45

Ernest Massenberg-Bey, 21

October

Muhammad Washington, 20

Cortez Clark, 32

Tavon Patterson, 23

Joel Midgett, 24

Percy Williams, 20

Marcus Manor, 38

Norman Joaquin, 42

Eric Jones, 19

Nathaniel Moody, 51

Daniel Brown, 19

Marcquetta Cunningham, 24

Leon Reid, 35

Kenneth Cosby, 36

Joseph Belle, 36

Van Joyner, 36

Victor Drummings, 41

November

Desiree Cooper, 36

Tyree Banks, 19

Charles Newell, 24

Reginald Perry, 28

Diante McLeod, 28

Antwan Baker, 29

Ray Harrison, 21

Onyekachi Osuchukwu, 24

Frederick Etheridge, 28

Kevin Wallace, 21

Clarence Terry, 64

Kevontae Jones, 19

James Neal, 54

Dwayne Grandson, 24

December

Sean Dillard, 46

Kwaza Blue, 20

Michael Jones, 23

Gary Brown, 25

Arthur Baldwin, 30

Eric Brooks, 26

Charles Mayo, 53

José Ochoa, 17

Lenard Wills, 50

Kevin Prater, 31

Darnell Mayfield, 34

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