The Murders of Rhonda and Cor'an Johnson
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I'm Kristen Sevey. This is Murder, She Told. The third edition of the Connecticut Cold Case Cards, released in 2014, details the cases of three missing individuals and 52 unsolved homicides. Rhonda Johnson is the ace of hearts in this edition.

Her son, six-month-old Karan, is not shown on the cards, but represents the 53rd murder in the deck. In her picture, she beams, her dark skin glowing, a teenager with warm eyes and dimples digging into her cheeks. Her straight black hair is styled into an updo, with long, curled tendrils framing her face.

Rhonda wears a black halter dress and a silver necklace as she stands in front of a white trellis draped in blue cloth. She's at her high school prom. She looks happy, like she has the whole world ahead of her. Rhonda was born on November 16, 1977, in Stamford, Connecticut, a city where her family had roots stretching back for generations.

Her parents, Blanche and Jonathan Johnson, did not stay together. Sometime during her childhood, her father changed his name to Zubairi Asim Ajamu, a Swahili name that reflected his Muslim faith and his African roots. He went by his new middle name, Asim. He eventually moved to New York City, an hour or two away by train.

Blanche worked in the ambulatory care unit at Stamford Hospital while raising Rhonda and her brother, Bilal Hassan Ajamu, or Bila, as he was called, in an apartment complex on the west side of the city. It was a decent place to grow up. Rhonda's childhood friend, Jeanette, described it as a place where everybody knew each other. Everyone was close. You could bring your kids outside. This is Blanche, Rhonda's mother.

So Rhonda didn't like to play with dolls. She liked to climb trees. And I remember me constantly having to go outside and getting her down out of a tree because she was more tomboyish when she was younger. And she loved school, going to school.

Growing up on Connected Avenue, she had a lot of friends and she had a couple of special girlfriends, but one in particular, Tasha. And her and her girlfriend would get dressed up and, you know, they would do teenage things and they would hang out together. Most of the time I used to have to walk down the street and say, Rhonda, it's time for you to come home now. Or sometimes she would hide. She didn't want to come home. The Johnson household was a gathering point for friends and family.

I remember us playing Parcheesi and Monopoly, and we used to have picnics on Brink Street in the back of the house. Her cousin lived next door to us, so she was close with her cousin Mark and Kevin.

Despite her parents' separation, Rhonda remained close with her father.

In 1989, at the age of 11, she went to live with Awesome in New York and would remain there for the next few years.

I worked two jobs and I wasn't home and she didn't want to go to the babysitter anymore because she felt like she was a teenager and she didn't have to do that. So we decided it was best that she go live with her dad for a little while in New York. So she did and she went to school in New York and I would go down on the weekends to see her or go to get her and bring her home so she could be with me until she came back home to live with me for good.

In 1994, she returned to Stanford and moved back in with her mother in a new apartment complex on Bridge Street, now known as Fairway Commons. Then 16, she enrolled as a junior at West Hill High School.

Rhonda stayed busy. She was a strong student and a member of the school newspaper staff as well as West Hills Multicultural Alliance student group. A photo in her yearbook captures Rhonda leaning over a classmate's shoulder, offering him assistance with a computer. Her outfit, an oversized striped shirt under a dark vest, is straight out of the 90s, as is the enormous printer looming in the background.

Also typical of the 90s was this nightly ritual. She loved to stay on the telephone with her friends, yes. Sometimes I would say, Rhonda, that's enough of the phone. It's late. But I could still hear her talking on it. We asked Blanche what people remembered most about Rhonda. I can remember her laughter. She just loved people. She was a people person. And she was always smiling. And everybody always talked about her big smile.

And we asked her if there was anything about Rhonda that stuck in her mind. I just remember her saying, Ma, Ma. Rhonda what? I'm downstairs. I remember when she went to get her license and she came home. I said, well, did you pass? And she said, no, Ma. And then she said, psych. And she held up her license and we all laughed and were happy because she got her license.

Rhonda was a positive force in Stanford. Perhaps that's why she connected so much with the iconic movie from the 90s that showcased triumph over adversity and hope for the future. She loved to watch movies. Her favorite movie was Forrest Gump. She loved that movie. And she loved music. She loved all sorts, I think. She loved Tupac. I guess the music that was around that time. She liked old school music, too.

Rhonda had an active social life, including a steady boyfriend. She was known to frequent the parties and hotspots of Connecticut Avenue, Southfield Village, and the West Side. But all of that changed when she discovered she was pregnant in the summer before her senior year. It must have been a difficult decision, becoming a teenage mother when she had so many plans for the future. But Rhonda was equal to it, and she also had a strong support system. When

When she got pregnant, we couldn't keep her from school, but before she got pregnant, she would skip school and hang out with her friends and do stuff like teenagers would do. And then when she got pregnant with Karan, she seemed to blossom into a beautiful young lady who just loved her baby.

And I remember her saying, Mom, I'm going to get a good job and I'm going to take care of my baby. And I tried to get her to stay home from school sometimes, but she wouldn't when she was pregnant. She said, nope, I'm going to school. I have to go to school. I have to go to school. I want to graduate on time with my class, which she did.

On March 12, 1996, she gave birth to a baby boy whom she called Quran. The name, spelled C-O-R-A-N, was a nod to the Quran and her father's Islamic faith. The baby was given Ronda's last name, Johnson.

She had the support of her family, and I really took Karan to be my baby. I helped as much as I could, and we all lived in the same household. Me, her brother, Chris, my husband now, we just all pitched in, you know? Karan was a happy child. Rhonda's stepmother, Joanne, would give him the nickname Sunshine to reflect his sunny disposition.

Her pregnancy disrupted the first part of her senior year, but not long after giving birth, Rhonda returned to school. And even though she had many competing priorities, Karan was always her number one.

She was very protective of her child to be such a young mother, you know. I remember when her brother got married, she asked one of our friends who worked at the hospital to watch Quran. And every five seconds, she was calling her to check on Quran. So the girl had to tell her, Ronda, don't call me anymore. Quran's fine.

But there was a terrible secret that she was keeping about Karan. During the summer of 1995, Rhonda met up with a young man from her neighborhood named Andre Messam, who is a year older than her. He grew up on Connecticut Avenue also, but I didn't know him. He wasn't a friend of my son's, and he wasn't a friend of my daughter's. I mean, people on Connecticut Avenue knew him, but he wasn't in the circle of my children's friends.

Rhonda had cheated on her boyfriend with Andre. She was really upset when she found out that Corey wasn't the father of Karan. She was real upset. As a matter of fact, I came home and she was crying. I said, what's wrong? And then she told me the whole story. Rhonda told Andre Messam the truth, that he had a son named Karan. According to her mother, she wanted him to be a part of his son's life.

We don't know how Andre felt about the news. He was only 18, and he was in a relationship with someone else, and had been when Rhonda became pregnant. Other concerns loomed over him. In December, he had been arrested for a drug and weapons charge and was out on bail. But a blood test confirmed his paternity, and he did provide Rhonda with a little financial help.

Blanche told the Justice Journal in 2007, Rhonda wanted the baby to grow up and know his dad, but they weren't going together, and he didn't come around a lot. He would give her money for the babysitter. At this point, most people were still under the impression that Karan was her boyfriend Corey's child. Rhonda forged ahead with her classes, relying on her mother and other caretakers to watch the baby while she was in school. It was a very busy time.

I worked two jobs. I worked at Stanford Hospital and I worked at the post office. I would come home from the hospital at 4:00 and then I would leave, fix a little dinner for the children, and then I would go to the post office from 6:00 to 12:00 midnight. So my son used to babysit and my father was living with me at the time and so he was there with the children.

And then she had a babysitter, one of my neighbors, good neighbors, Mrs. Brooks, used to take care of my children also while I was at work. In the spring, Rhonda attended prom and graduated with her class, walking the stage to receive her diploma. Her yearbook quote read, I am finally out of here. I would like to thank Ms. Carol DeLuca for helping me get through the rough times.

Rhonda intended to go to college after graduation, and, in fact, had planned to take a bus tour of East Coast colleges while eight months pregnant. Her faculty advisor, Robbie Jenkins, advised her against the trip, as it was too close to her due date, and, quote, "...I didn't know how to deliver any babies."

It was prudent for Rhonda to stay local, so she enrolled at Norwalk Community Technical College, where she took a full load of courses towards a major in communications. The campus was a 20-minute drive away, so she drove her mom's blue Toyota Camry to get to and from class. She also worked part-time in the evenings as a dietary aide at Stanford Hospital, the same faculty where Blanche worked.

While Rhonda was at work, Blanche watched little Karan. Rhonda's father, Asim, recalled that for Blanche, it was just like raising a tiny version of Rhonda all over again. Summer wore on, and Rhonda was becoming impatient with her big secret. Andre was reticent to tell his girlfriend that he had fathered a child with somebody else. And, according to Blanche, he wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to financially support Karan.

At Rhonda's request, Blanche reluctantly agreed not to say anything to Andre's parents until the pair told them together on September 15th, Andre's 19th birthday. Andre and Rhonda made plans to meet on Wednesday, September 11th. He was to give her some money, and they planned to discuss the pending announcement.

Andre asked if they could postpone their meeting until the following day. Perhaps he was getting cold feet, or was simply putting it off for as long as he could. Or maybe something just came up. Rhonda agreed to delay the meeting for one more day.

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I'm sending my brother money directly to his bank account in India because he's apparently too busy practicing his karaoke to go pick up cash. Thankfully, I can still send money his way. Direct to my bank account.

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It's before 8 o'clock in the morning because I would have to be at Stanford Hospital at 8 o'clock. So Rhonda came in the room. She said, Ma, are you ready? It's almost time for us to go because I have to drop you off. I have to get Karan to the babysitter, and I have to go to school. So I said, well, Rhonda, I'm not going to go to work today. I'm going to stay home, so you can just leave the baby at home with Mommy, and I'm not going to go to work today.

So she said, Ma, are you sure? Because, you know, they're giving you trouble on your job. Are you sure? And I said, yeah, I'm not going in. So then I went back in my bedroom, and I thought about it, and I said, well, you know, Rhonda, you're right. Maybe I better go to work. I got ready, and she took me to the hospital, and I was playing with the baby, and I said, okay, be careful, and I'll see you guys when you come back to pick me up. And they went on, and I went inside the hospital.

After dropping her son at his babysitter's home on nearby Connecticut Avenue, Rhonda went about her usual school day. She spent the morning and early afternoon on campus in class. Around 2.30 or 3 p.m., she left Norwalk in her mother's Camry and drove back to Stanford. She picked up Karan around 3.30 p.m., buckled the baby into his car seat, and waved goodbye to his sitter. This was the last time that anyone would report seeing the pair alive.

At the hospital, Blanche waited for her daughter to arrive. The plan, as usual, was for Rhonda to arrive at 4 p.m. and make an exchange. Rhonda would give her mom the car and Caron. Blanche would then watch little Caron while Rhonda was at work. Because her shift started at 4:30, Rhonda only had 30 minutes to make the handoff. But on this day, Blanche watched as minutes and then hours slowly passed.

I wasn't paying attention to the time and when I looked at the clock it was quarter after four. And I said, "Well, I wonder where Rhonda and the baby are." I said, "Why didn't they come upstairs? Because I know she has to be in the kitchen at four o'clock." So I went to the window and I looked out from the third floor. I could see downstairs in the front of the hospital

and I didn't see my car. So I went downstairs and I went to the kitchen and I said, "Has anybody seen Rhonda?" And they said, "No, we're waiting for her to come in. She's supposed to be on the register." And so I said, "Oh." I said, "She didn't call?" And they said, "No." That was one thing that clicked in my mind. I said, "Something's not right because she would not have not called in to work."

A cold fear prickled down her scalp and tightened around her lungs as she imagined her daughter and grandson in an accident somewhere, or stranded in a bad section of town. Rhonda was still a relatively new driver, after all.

So I went back to the front of the hospital and I used the telephone at the front desk and I called my cousin Sandy, who lived next door to me, and I asked her to go look out the window to see if she'd seen the car. And she said, "No, Blanche, the car is not there."

And then I called the babysitter and I said, "Is the baby still there?" And she said, "No, Rhonda picked the baby up around three o'clock a little before three." And then I called my cousin again and she said, "Rohina's home," which is my son's wife, "and Rohina came and picked me up from the hospital." And I said, "Rhonda's not home." And she said, "But Ma, Rhonda's pocketbook is hanging on the door."

And so I started going around and looking for Rhonda. I went to Connecticut Avenue over to Tasha and them's house, and they said she was there earlier, but she left, and they didn't know where she went. And so I said, well, take me back up to the village. Maybe she went to the village. And I looked around there, and I didn't see my car anywhere in the village. So then I said, well, Rohina, take me home, and maybe Rhonda will call me.

And so instead of turning down Greenhart Road, I went straight down Wilson Street. And I'm glad I didn't turn down Greenhart Road because then I would have seen the horrific scene. As Blanche explained, she was retracing Rhonda's steps. The window in which her daughter and grandson were unaccounted for shrank and shrank. Blanche became increasingly convinced that they must have been in some type of traffic accident on the way to the hospital. Perhaps Rhonda was hurt and unable to call.

So I went home and I started pacing up and down because Rhonda didn't call and I didn't know where she was. So I started calling around the hospital and I got really nervous because she was driving and I thought they were in an accident of some sort because I knew my daughter would call me and she would not go into work.

So I called down New York to where her father lived and I asked, "Was Rhonda down there? Have you seen Rhonda?" And he said, "No." And I said, "Well, she's not home and I don't know where her and the baby are." And by this time it was getting later and later and her aunts were over at my house and my cousin Sandy and I was upset and I kept on worrying and I didn't know where she was and I was just so worried.

And then at 8 o'clock, I think that's when that phone call came in about, it was from a friend of mine's mother. And she said, Blanche, what is your car marker? And I said, why, Granny? We used to call her Granny. She said, just tell me what your car marker is. And I told her, and she said, oh, Jesus Christ.

And I knew something was wrong right then, so I threw the phone down and I walked out of the house and I walked all the way up to Ripplewom High School. And I just laid out there and I prayed and I said, Dear God, please, please don't let my kids be hurt, please. I don't know how long I laid out there. And then I got up and I started walking back to Bridge Street.

A gloomy dusk had settled over Bridge Street as the sun sank low. Blanche paced the neighborhood, her stomach in knots. Looking up from these dark thoughts, Blanche recognized the figure of a friend walking towards her on the sidewalk. They had the slow, cautious steps of somebody approaching a wounded animal, careful and guarded. That was when Blanche knew that her daughter and grandson would not be returning home.

One of my friends got out of his car because everybody was looking for me. And as he got closer to me, I said to him, his name was Ronnie. And I said, Ronnie, I don't want you to tell me anything. I don't want to hear nothing you have to say. And I said, I don't want to talk to anybody. And I remember walking and walking. And I said, just leave me alone. Just go away. I want to be by myself. And he said, no, Blanche, I'm not going to leave you by yourself.

And I went and sat down behind the pancake house, and I was just sitting there looking at him. And then I asked him, I said, Ronnie, is my daughter dead? And he said, yes. And I said, is Karan dead? And he said, yes. And I sort of just lost it. And I said, well, what kind of accident are they in? Where is the car? What happened? And he didn't say anything.

And by this time, it was loads of people around me and everything. And my girlfriend was there with me. Her name was Kim. And I said, get me out of here, away from all these people. And we rode down to Cummings Beach, and we were just sitting there, and I was just crying and rocking back and forth. And I said, what kind of accident were my kids in, Kim? And she said they weren't in an accident. And I just looked at her. I remember looking at her, and I said, well, if they weren't in an accident, what happened to them? And that's when she told me somebody shot them.

If you take exit 6 off I-95 South, you'll be spat out onto a quarter-mile stretch of pavement called Grenhart Road. There, you can either turn right onto a five-block warren of residential and commercial buildings, or you can drive straight back onto the highway. This was the exit that Rhonda would frequently take to get home, just a mile and a half from her mother's apartment.

There's a scattering of scraggly trees and a small chain-link fence that separates Grenhart from the highway. It probably does little to block the noise of rushing cars, but may provide just a little visual privacy to those who live there. The street lies west of Stamford's downtown district and doesn't see heavy foot traffic. There are a number of businesses in the neighborhood, including a construction firm, a car dealership, and a shrub care company.

There were plenty of people who called it home then and still do today. At about 5:45 that Thursday, September 12, one resident, Pasquale Orrico, was walking home from work when he noticed a blue Toyota Camry parked on Grenhart between Victory and Diaz streets.

This was not unusual, as there was a lane for parking on the side of the road opposite the highway. However, he did notice the driver, a young woman, slumped against the partially open driver's side window, motionless. He assumed that she was sleeping, as was the baby that he could see in the car seat in the back. "I was going to wake her," he later told the authorities. "I thought she was sleeping. I almost touched her."

But he thought better of it and continued on the way home. A couple of hours later, just before 8 p.m., a woman who was walking her dog down Grenhart Road also took note of the Camry and the figure slumped in the front seat. Unlike Pasquale, she noticed the lifeless pallor of Rhonda's skin and the conspicuous silence and stillness of the baby in the back seat. Horrified, she hurried home to call the police.

Around this same time, a man named Bobby Windham approached the car on his way to the store. Bobby was a dietary assistant at Stanford Hospital, the same department where Rhonda worked. Though he knew both Rhonda and Blanche from work, Bobby didn't recognize the motionless young woman in the car. At first, he assumed she was resting or intoxicated and continued on his way. He never saw little Caron in the back.

On his way back from the market, he saw that the Camry was still there and knocked on the driver's window. The girl didn't respond. The keys, Bobby noted, were still in the ignition, though the engine wasn't on, which struck him as odd. Returning home, he conferred with his wife about the car, and she made him go back and check on the young woman again.

It was then that he realized the gravity of the situation and, like the dog walker, returned home to call 911. It was not long before the first police officers from Stamford PD reached the Camry. They discovered that Rhonda had been killed by two gunshot wounds to the back of her head. Karan, still in his car seat, had been shot once in the temple at close range. No weapons were found in the car or in the surrounding neighborhood.

It's possible that Rhonda didn't even realize that both she and her son were about to die. Blue and red lights bounced off the buildings lining Grenhart Road as investigators began a long night of forensically processing one of the most jarring crime scenes they had ever encountered.

The next day, Friday the 13th, the Stanford PD interviewed Rhonda's friends, family, and co-workers in an effort to piece together a portrait of her life and a timeline for the day of her death. They spoke to Rhonda's high school boyfriend, Corey, and to Andre Messam, Karan's father. In the afternoon, autopsies were conducted on both Rhonda and the baby.

The investigation was still in its earliest stages, but Lieutenant Frank Lagan told the local newspaper, The Advocate, that his team suspected that Rhonda and Karan had been killed in the Camry where it had been discovered. He added, I don't believe this was a random thing.

Rhonda's father, Asim, had sped through the night on an Amtrak from New York once news had reached him. Speaking to the paper from his ex-wife's apartment, he said that the family was in shock. They couldn't fathom why Rhonda would have been on the street where she was killed. He told a reporter, "Rhonda would have no reason to be on Grenhart Road."

While the police continued their investigation over the next few days, Rhonda's family grieved. Friends and neighbors arrived at the apartment on Bridge Street to offer their condolences and express their sorrow.

I just couldn't believe it because I didn't have any idea who would do something like that, especially to a little baby that couldn't even walk and talk, and to my daughter. She didn't have any enemies like that. So I don't know who could have. At the time, I couldn't put it all together. I just had no idea. It was just a shock to all of us. It left me with an empty, empty hole in my heart.

On Wednesday, September 18th, just six days after she last saw them, Blanche Johnson laid her daughter and her grandson to rest. Before the funeral, I went down to Downer's funeral home, and they let me see my children.

They let me spend time with them. So I remember going down there. My girlfriend was with me, and I just hugged Rhonda, and I kissed her, and I rubbed her hair, and I just sat there and looked at her for a long time. And then I went to seeing the baby, and I kissed and hugged him and touched him. And that helped me at the funeral a lot because I got to spend time with my children before that day.

Visiting hours were held at Bethel AME Church, a Methodist church on the city's west side, a red brick building with a sharp white steeple.

Rhonda and Karan shared a single coffin with the baby nestled in his mother's arms. Rhonda loved clothes, and when she got older, she loved jewelry. She loved sterling silver. As a matter of fact, when she passed away, I buried her with her silver necklace, and I think her earrings were silver. I know she got buried with one of her necklaces.

The funeral service, held in the early afternoon, drew an overwhelming number of attendees. More than 600 people came to pay their final respects, with 200 or so standing outside in the rain or huddled in the church's crowded foyer. Rhonda's parents were in attendance, as was her stepmother, her brother, and extended family. Also present were Corey, her high school boyfriend, and her baby's father, Andre Messam.

Ron Thomas, a family friend, said a few words and read two poems written by Rhonda herself. One read: "As the days pass, I grieve for the one in pain. Brothers killing brothers seems so insane. Sorrow is what I feel. Sorrow is what I live. Hoping that tomorrow will have something better to give. I share the pain. I share the tears. I share the burden our everyday life bears.

Hang in tight. Hold on tight. Because I know that everything is going to be all right.

Among the mourners, a current of anger hummed. The initial shock of the killings had dissipated, leaving behind a growing sense of outrage and injustice. Stamford was a city that had seen its share of gun violence, but the seemingly senseless murder of a young woman and her infant had shaken something loose in the community. The pastor of Bethel AME Church, Reverend Winton Hill III, declared,

"I am tired of burying our children, and today we are burying our children and our grandchildren." Ronda's father, Asim, performed the eulogy for his daughter and grandson, making no effort to hide the anger within him. "I pity the fool who killed my babies," he said. "The man or woman who kills a human being takes on all their worldly sins because they didn't have time to atone. My babies will go directly to heaven.

He demanded of the crowd, how could some sick human being do that to my babies, to Blanche's babies? Perhaps the attendees stirred, wondering that themselves. No doubt they thought about whether the killer sat amongst the pews or stood wedged beneath the wet doorway of the church. Rhonda's cousin, Wendell Christian, spoke to one of the reporters who attended the funeral and reflected, I hope the person who did this ain't sitting here. There ain't a soul in that body.

When the service concluded, the single coffin was carried from the church by a group of Stamford firefighters who had volunteered as pallbearers. A line of cars made their way to Woodland Cemetery, a grassy patch of land overlooking the east branch of Stamford Harbor. There, Rhonda and Karan were laid to rest. Their family began a period of waiting, the length of which they could not yet imagine.

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During the funeral, Stamford's mayor, Danelle Molloy, had pledged that the city would work tirelessly to locate the person responsible. The Stamford Police Department led the investigation. During the first week, they interviewed everyone in Rhonda's life. Rhonda's brother told The Advocate: "We're very satisfied in the investigation right now. I know that my family would like to thank the whole Stamford community for their support.

Members of Bethel AME Church and Union Baptist Church jointly fundraised a $1,000 reward. And in October, the state of Connecticut followed suit, offering an additional $20,000 funded by the governor's office. Six months after the murders, Stamford PD Lieutenant Frank Lagan spoke with the press and asked for the help of the Stamford community.

He said, "I think it is time for decent people to tell what they know about this, to put aside personal fears and do what's right for the community. Somebody that can kill a six-month-old can kill anyone."

For the most part, Lieutenant Lagan was tight-lipped about the details of the case, refusing to name any suspect. When asked if Rhonda's former boyfriend or Karan's father were considered suspects, he responded, "We haven't ruled anybody in or out, quite frankly."

The lieutenant revealed that his team had spoken with four people he believed had first-hand knowledge of the crime, but all four either refused to talk or denied knowing anything. To anyone who was afraid to come forward, he offered help to protect them, offering to relocate them to another part of the city, saying, "...we can work with the housing authority if people are too scared." But all he heard was silence.

It had been two months since the murders. November 16th should have been Rhonda's 19th birthday. Blanche told the press, I go down to the grave constantly and I talk to my daughter. It helps my mind to be busy. Her friends and family gathered to celebrate her life and remembered the good times they'd shared with her. Blanche shared with us a simple, beautiful letter sent by an acquaintance of her daughter's.

Chris Sabia wrote this on October 10th, 1996. Dear Johnson family, You don't know me. My name is Chris Sabia and I graduated this past spring with Rhonda. We had a couple of classes together. Right now I'm away at school. Recently, my parents came to see me play baseball. They watched the game and then afterwards we went out to dinner. It was nice not having cafeteria food for a change.

As we ate, I caught them up on what was happening with me at school and how I was adjusting. I asked how everyone was at home, and it seemed to be a typical conversation that a college student would have with his parents. My mom then asked if I had heard anything about the girl who was killed. An immediate feeling of fear and emptiness came over me.

I had not heard of anyone being killed, so I was instantly preparing myself for who it was. I was terrified of not knowing. Sitting in a restaurant, awaiting a couple of sad, sad words. For a brief moment, my panic disappeared. I figured that if it had been someone that I knew, my mother would have known that person too, and she probably would have called me and told me, and the thing would have been a much bigger deal.

She said, "It was the Johnson girl. Her baby, too." I looked across the table, straight into my mother's eyes. And I couldn't do anything but cry. In front of everyone I was sharing a meal with, in front of a crowded restaurant, I just cried. No one, not even my parents, knew why I was crying. None of them knew who Rhonda Johnson was. My parents assumed that I hadn't either.

Well, I did have the wonderful opportunity to know Rhonda.

We weren't best friends, we didn't share any of our deepest feelings and ideas with each other, but we definitely knew one another. I remember how big her smile was. Not too many people in this world can smile as bright as she did. It made me feel like smiling when I saw her smile. I especially remember her speech. We had speech class with Ms. Stelmach together, on peach cobbler.

She wasn't the best speaker in class. I definitely wasn't either. But she was so happy to share her peach cobbler recipe with the rest of us. It was nice. I know what I've said isn't healing any of the pain. I'm not trying to. I just felt like I had to tell you my experience in knowing Rhonda. I also wanted you to know that I am sharing and feeling some of the pain that you are. With deepest regards, Chris Sabia

I remember when I read it, I just cried and cried and cried. It was so moving to have someone write to me that knew Rhonda and didn't know her really well just from school. And I guess he was just so sad that that happened to her and the baby. And he wanted me to know how deeply painful it was for him also.

So I thought that was very nice of him to write me a letter. I got so many sympathy cards from people all around, and it was just comforting to know so many people cared and loved my daughter and our family.

She began hosting a meeting of women who had lost their children to violence. The women had met through mutual acquaintances. They shared memories of their loved ones and processed their grief together. The days after that, a lot of people were coming to the house, and I got a lot of mail. The mailman came every day with sacks of mail, sympathy cards, and my sister and my brother, everybody went back home after a couple of days, and it was really sad for me. I was real sad. And

And I did have a friend of mine that she came over every day after things quieted down and she would get me out of the bed every morning and take me out for breakfast so I wouldn't be laying there. She didn't want me to grieve in the house. So she would come every morning. And I know I had to get myself together before she came there because she was coming and I didn't want her to see me in a wreck. So we would go out and have some breakfast together.

before she had to go to work, and then I would go back to my house. And I think I went back to work in October. I just couldn't stay there in that house any longer and look at four walls. So I went back to work, and I threw myself into my job.

Fall slipped into winter, the days shortening and the air growing chill. The Johnson family remained steadfast in their faith that the Stamford PD would make an arrest. Blanche told the advocate in January, I want the public to know that this case is still open. We are still looking. This case is not dead yet. The police are still working hard to find out who did this.

For their part, the investigative team was still applying pressure to the public to come forward with information. Lieutenant Lagan did share that they now believed, based on the forensic evidence, that the killer had been in the car with Rhonda and the baby when they were shot. The implication was that it had either been a carjacking gone wrong or that the young woman knew her killer and may have gone to Grenhart Road to meet them.

After I had time to think and putting it all together, I just...

I just imagine what happened, you know. I imagine that Rhonda knew who her killer was and she wouldn't put any stranger in the car with her or the baby. And I know that she was supposed to go and meet his mother and introduce the baby to them. And because it was Red Heart Road and the mother worked right around the corner, I just put two and two together. And that's how it went. Yeah.

And I think the policemen, after they had time to think about it too, they knew they also came to that conclusion. Blanche is referring to Andre Messam. Andre's mother worked nearby. Perhaps it was a convenient meeting point for Rhonda and Andre. September 12, 1997 arrived, the one-year anniversary of Rhonda and Karan's deaths.

Blanche took the day off work and spent it with a family friend who had recently lost her own mother. Rhonda's bedroom in her apartment remained untouched, down to the trinkets adorning the top of her dresser. It served as a shrine and a memorial to her daughter, who she was not prepared to let go of.

Into their second year without answers, Rhonda's family began to lose their patience. It was clear that they would have to keep Rhonda and Caron as visible as possible if justice was ever going to be served. In May of 1998, the family asked investigators to increase the reward from $20,000 to $100,000. State Attorney Eugene Callahan applied for the increase but was told that Connecticut could only provide $50,000 per incident rather than per murder.

Still, it was a significant amount of money for anyone who might be considering coming forward. On September 12, 1998, the second anniversary of the killings, Rhonda's parents and brother led a prayer at the site of the murder on Grenhart Road. Their words were nearly drowned out by the rushing traffic of I-95.

A slab of stone supported by two cinder blocks served as a memorial. Flowers were propped up into the holes of the cinder blocks. A cluster of pink and blue balloons floated above. Rhonda's stepmother, Joanne, wove a sunflower into the chain-link fence behind the memorial in memory of the sunny infant that she used to babysit.

Asim's frustration and anger was clear as he spoke to a reporter from The Advocate about the stalled investigation. Again and again, he and his ex-wife had been told that an arrest would be imminent, and yet no one was behind bars. He told the paper, "'We have to have some fire put underneath them. This is a podunk town, and this is a major thing.' Two children shot behind the ear."

Before parting, Asim asked those attending the gathering to help put up flyers advertising the $50,000 reward. He also asked them to write to Mayor Danel Malloy, urging him to make good on his promise to prioritize the investigation. If the squeaky wheel is the one that gets the grease, Rhonda's family was prepared to make some noise.

Andre Messam sat in the pews the day that his son and his son's mother were buried. Perhaps he grieved their death sincerely. Perhaps he was doing what was expected of him. It was difficult to overlook the obvious motives. He would no longer be on the hook for child support. He wouldn't have to help care for an unwanted child. He wouldn't have to fess up to his girlfriend.

While there didn't appear to be any direct evidence linking him to the crime, Andre surely felt the eyes of the law and the community focused on him. On October 1st, 1996, just a few weeks after the murders, he was arrested on a number of drug-related charges after a foot chase with police.

Some cops in the narcotics unit were on patrol in the area when they saw Andre and another man on the porch of a building on the 200 block of Connecticut Avenue. According to their report, the officers got out of their unmarked patrol cars. As they approached the two, they took off running.

The officers gave chase and one caught up with Andre after he jumped a fence and hid in a bush. He was caught with 37 baggies containing a paltry 5.2 grams of crack cocaine and two bags of marijuana. The incident was a debacle. Two of the narcotics officers sustained knee injuries during the chase, one from falling down a slope and the other from jumping the fence.

A third officer ran into a wasp's nest and was stung repeatedly on his face, neck, and hands. All three were treated at Stanford Hospital. As a result of his flight, Andre was charged with interfering with the police in addition to six drug charges that included possession of narcotics with the intent to sell and possession within 1,500 feet of public housing. His bond was set at $35,000, and he was released from jail after it was paid.

His next brush with the law came in late March of 1997, when a task force focused on narcotics conducted a search on his sixth-floor downtown apartment. They arrived in the afternoon with a warrant and left with a bevy of drug charges and Andre once more in handcuffs.

The officers reportedly seized 50 pre-packaged $10 bags of crack cocaine, along with about $1,500 worth of loose crack cocaine. In addition to possession and intent to sell charges, Andre was also faced with the charge of operating a drug factory. Officers took from him several cell phones, a pager, packaging materials, and $497 in cash.

The search came after a month-long investigation in collaboration with the state police. Andre was taken to State Police Troop G headquarters in Bridgeport, where he was held on a $75,000 bail.

His lawyer, Matthew Maddox, suggested that he was being targeted unfairly by the police because of their suspicions about his involvement with Rhonda and Karan's deaths. Quote, He's absolutely innocent. The child was his child. He had no motive to commit this crime. He'd even offered his cooperation to Lieutenant Lagan twice while awaiting trial but received no reply. He told the advocate around the one-year anniversary,

Regarding his drug arrests, his lawyer told the paper that it virtually amounts to a persecution campaign. Both sets of charges, arising in 1996 and 1997, were settled in 1998. He was sentenced to 92 months in state prison, which is about seven and a half years.

His attorney, Matthew Maddox, said that the punishment was excessive. Most offenders in Andre's position, he claimed, would have been sentenced to a maximum of three to five years. I think the eight-year sentence speaks for itself, he later told the media in 2000. It makes me think that he's being punished for an uncharged offense.

He continued, there was no ill will between him and Rhonda. The birth of the child didn't bring any shame to him. Beyond that, he didn't think his client was capable of such a cold-hearted act. It's been extremely embarrassing to him to be considered a suspect, he said. Police continue to knock on his door and harp on him rather than investigating any other suspects.

Born in October of 1980, Kenneth Brickhouse was only 15 years old, about to turn 16, on the day that Rhonda Johnson parked her mother's Camry on Grenart Road. He is 43 years old today and has spent the majority of his adult life incarcerated. From a young age, Kenneth courted trouble. He was familiar with the criminal underbelly of Stamford, the black market of drugs and weapons.

Before he turned 17, Kenneth had already been arrested on a major drug charge. In 1998, he was convicted and sentenced to seven years in prison, of which he would serve three. During his stint in prison, Kevin was approached by FBI agents collaborating with the Stanford police on the Johnson murders. There was a rumor that Kenneth had some information about the weapon used in the crime.

He willingly submitted to a polygraph test in December of 2000, during which he mentioned that he had sold a gun to Andre in August of 1996, the month before Rhonda and Karan were killed. Andre and his brother, Adrian, he claimed, threatened him to remain quiet. Ultimately, Kenneth didn't pass his polygraph, and jailhouse informants often have a conflict of interest in agreeing to speak with the police.

But if it were true, it shed some light on a question that the investigators had long had. If Andre was the killer, where did he get the gun? Not long after his interview in Polygraph, Kenneth was released on probation. His freedom didn't last long. In March of 2001, he was arrested in Norwalk, Connecticut for leading the police on a car chase and being caught with a handgun in his possession.

Later that month, he was arrested again for attempting to sell 30 bags of crack cocaine to a police informant. This time, he faced federal drug charges. In January of 2002, Kenneth stood in the U.S. District Court in Bridgeport, Connecticut to await his sentence. His mother, Alice, spoke on his behalf, telling the judge that her battle with substance use disorder had led her to neglecting her son as a child, when he needed the guidance most.

I was not a mother to this kid, she told the court. My son is a good person. He's made some wrong decisions, but he's a kid. He's nothing but a baby. He deserves a chance at life. Also present in the courtroom was Frank Lagan, the lead investigator in the Johnson case, now assistant chief with Stanford PD.

He listened as Kenneth pleaded for leniency, perhaps waiting for the young man to reveal more about the gun he sold to Andre, the gun that could have taken Rhonda and Karan's lives. "'I sold drugs and used drugs and did a lot of things that I regret. I'm sorry for all my crimes, and I look for mercy,' Kenneth said. He made no further mention of selling a handgun to Andre Messam in the summer of 1996."

Kenneth was sentenced to a total of 132 months in federal prison. Later in the year, he pled guilty to other state charges and received an additional six years to be served consecutively with his federal sentence.

His legal team appealed his federal conviction on the grounds that his pre-sentence report included his admission to the FBI that he had sold Andre a handgun for $150 and that the judge had unfairly used that information in his sentencing decision. The appeal was denied by a federal circuit court. Ultimately, he served a total of nine years before being released on supervised parole in 2011.

Five years after his release, he was arrested again for possessing and selling cocaine and heroin in a multi-agency sting operation. In 2017, at the age of 36, he was sentenced to 10 more years in state penitentiary, followed by an additional five years of parole.

Kenneth's movement in and out of prison overlapped with Andre's. While briefly liberated in 2004, Stanford officers raided Andre's apartment on Orchard Street and arrested him for possessing a small baggie of cocaine. In the next two years, he was tried twice, with the first trial ending in a hung jury and the second ending in a conviction. Andre was sentenced to three years at Bergen Correctional Center, a minimum security facility in Storrs, Connecticut.

During his sentencing, Andre was visibly angry. Convinced that the severity of his sentencing related to the Stamford PD's suspicions, he taunted the officers present at the hearing, shouting, "'Arrest me for it!' Though the judge and the court officials denied that the Johnson case had any bearing on his sentence, there may have been some truth in Andre's claims."

Though he has not been a very successful criminal, he has also operated at a disadvantage. Ever since the Grenhart Road murders, he's been firmly under the gaze of law enforcement. While another young man may have been able to operate relatively freely in the city's drug market, that was never going to be an option for Andre.

As with Kenneth, he essentially had a glowing neon target on his back from the moment that he became connected with the senseless murder of a teenage mother and her infant child. I would ask him, why did he do that? For what purpose did you do this awful, why did you kill my kids? Why? I have hatred in my heart for who did this to them. I have hatred in my heart. And you're not supposed to have hatred in your heart. You're supposed to learn how to forgive, but I'm not there yet.

I don't know if I'll ever get there. I hope I will one day, but I'm not there. Years drifted by and the case remained open. The skin of Moss grew in the lettering of Rhonda and Karan's grave. The neighborhood where she grew up and where she had planned to raise her son changed, gentrified. Her mother Blanche relocated to a new home, taking her daughter's toys and scarves with her.

Her contact with the Stamford PD slowed to a trickle and eventually stopped. She resigned herself to the idea that the justice that she and her family will see in their lifetime may not be of the judicial variety.

I haven't been in touch with the police department in many years because the last time that Frank Lagan called me down and he said, I thought he had good news for me, but he didn't have good news. And I just remember him telling me about what Andre said when he went to the jail to see him.

and that was kind of a letdown for me and I remember I went behind TBS on Bedford Street and I just sat there in my car and I cried and cried and cried until I couldn't cry anymore and

And then I decided that's when I said, I can't do this anymore. And I said, I'm going to just give this over to the Lord because the Lord said, let vengeance be mine. And that's when I decided to just give everything over to the Lord. And I know Rhonda and Karan are in heaven. I just couldn't keep running back and forth down to the police station. Couldn't do it anymore.

In 2006, Ronda's father, Asim, passed away. Like many family members of victims whose cases remain unsolved, he never had the satisfaction of seeing his baby girl and his grandson's killer convicted. Asim's ashes were buried at Ronda and Karan's grave at Woodland Cemetery.

Over the years, Stamford PD approached the case from new angles and with fresh eyes. Frank Lagan, who was eventually promoted to captain, contacted the FBI for assistance in reexamining the physical evidence retrieved from Blanche's Camry. According to Lt. John Forlivio, who took over the case in 2007, the forensic evidence was analyzed at the FBI's lab in Virginia.

The results were that we came up with no evidence to link a suspect to the crime. There was no match." He told the Justice Journal's Don Maselli that the case is still missing a little something.

Stanford Sergeant Anthony Lupinacci, who worked the Johnson case from 2009 to 2012, also believed that the case was solvable, but needed witnesses or informants willing to step forward. Of the investigation, he claimed that he had to start from scratch, a common refrain that victims' families hear when a new investigator takes on the case.

Sergeant Lupinacci told The Hour in 2012, "The guys who originally investigated this worked around the clock and gathered a lot of physical evidence and a pretty solid lead on a suspect. I interviewed the same witnesses and investigated the case with a fresh look on it and came up with an additional suspect." In the intervening 11 years, this additional suspect has never been named.

Sergeant Lupinacci also mentioned that the Camry was still in their possession. With new advancements in DNA technology, it may be possible to go back and find further evidence. Andrei Messam has spent more time in prison than out of it. In 2010, the DEA once again arrested him in a sting they dubbed "Operation Hammer Time," which targeted 20 individuals dealing narcotics and firearms in the Greater Norwalk area.

Andre was found to have traveled to New York City to purchase a large quantity of heroin, which he then brought back to Connecticut for distribution. He pled guilty to the possession charge and received a sentence for 105 months with six years of supervised release. "I'm never going to give up hope, and I think that, indirectly, the Lord is working for me because he's keeping these people in jail," Blanch told the Justice Journal in 2007.

Just this summer, 2023, while on parole, from the FBI's Transnational Organized Crime Task Force, purchased approximately 55 grams of methamphetamine from Andre. A lab analysis of the substance would later reveal it to be 100% pure.

In July, Andre fled from police, who tried to stop him in New Haven. The authorities caught up with him at a rental car agency in the Berlin Turnpike in Newington, Connecticut. He's currently awaiting trial and, if convicted, faces a minimum of 10 years behind bars, with the possibility of a life sentence. But this time, he will be served in a federal facility.

where he won't have to worry about drawing the Ace of Hearts from a deck of playing cards and seeing an all-too-familiar face.

Rhonda was just a bubbly, happy person, and she just loved people, and she loved her family. She just loved family and her friends. I miss them terribly, and I wish they were here today. I carry them in my heart all the time. They may be gone from the earth, but they'll never be forgotten. Never. Never.

If you have any information about the murder of Rhonda and Karan Johnson, call the Stamford Police Department Crime Stoppers Hotline at 203-977-TIPS or call the Connecticut Cold Case Unit's tip line toll-free at 1-866-623-8058 or you can email them at cold.case at ct.gov.

Happy New Year and thank you so much for listening. I am so looking forward to this next year and I'm so grateful that you're with me. I would love it if you shared Murder, She Told with a friend or recommend it on social media. For more Murder, She Told, you can follow the show on TikTok, Facebook, and Instagram. A detailed list of sources, photos, and more can be found at MurderSheTold.com. Thank you so much to Blanche for sharing her memories and her photos with us.

Thank you to Morgan Hamilton for her writing, Samantha Colthart for her research, and to Byron Willis for writing and research. Special thanks to Brian King from the Ferguson Library for his help. If you have a suggestion for a case or even a correction, you can email me at hello at MurderSheTold.com. I'm Kristen Seavey. Thank you for listening.