They Tortured Her for 46 DAYS While Police Refused To Search | The Brutal Murder of Romona Moore

[Music] A warning to our viewers. What you’re about to watch is a true story. The following program contains content that some viewers may find disturbing. Viewer discretion is strongly advised. May 10th, 2003. 1:15 p.m. A phone call that would shatter everything. I know about the missing girl. King’s Highway.

 Look behind the abandoned house. The voice was cold, anonymous. Then silence. El Carmichael had been waiting for this call for 46 days. 46 days since her daughter Ramona walked out their front door to grab food at Burger King. 46 days since a 21-year-old honors student at Hunter College simply vanished off the streets of Brooklyn.

When police arrived at that address, what they found would haunt them forever. A young woman’s body decomposed beyond recognition, wrapped in a blanket like garbage. But this was just the beginning. The basement where Ramona died would reveal the darkest corners of human evil. Chains, restraints, evidence of torture that lasted for days.

 Two predators who had turned kidnapping and murder into their twisted entertainment. This is 2003 Brooklyn, post 911 America, where immigrant families worked multiple jobs chasing the American dream, where honor students like Ramona Moore believed they were safe walking three blocks to get dinner. They were wrong.

What happened to her family afterward exposed a system that failed her twice, first in life, then in death? This is the story the police didn’t want to investigate. The case that almost never got solved and the anonymous phone call that finally brought two monsters to justice. Welcome to the Shadow Files crime series.

 Tonight’s case will shake you to your core. Take a moment to hit subscribe, drop a like, and please let us know where you’re watching from. And now we begin. East Flatbush, Brooklyn, 2003. This wasn’t the Brooklyn of gentrified coffee shops and luxury condos. This was workingclass America. Caribbean families who’d fled poverty in Guyana, Jamaica, and Haiti for a shot at something better.

 They worked double shifts, cleaned office buildings at night, sent their kids to good schools during the day. The Moore family was exactly this story. Ramona’s parents had immigrated from Guyana when she was 8, settling into a neighborhood where everyone knew your business, and that was supposed to keep you safe.

 This was post 911, New York, a city still jumping at every siren, still learning to trust again. But in neighborhoods like East Flatbush, people looked out for each other. Kids walked to corner stores alone. College students came home for family dinner. Mothers didn’t lock their doors when they ran quick errands. The community had survived crack epidemics, budget cuts, and urban decay.

 They’d built something solid here. Churches on every corner, block parties in the summer, grandmothers watching from stoops, making sure everybody’s children got home safe. But beneath this surface of community solidarity, predators were hunting. And when those predators struck, some victims would discover a brutal truth about American justice.

That not all missing persons are created equal. When a young black woman disappeared in East Flatbush, police shrugged. When a white woman went missing in Manhattan the same week, they held press conferences. This is the America Ramona Moore lived in, where your zip code, your skin color, and your family’s accent determined how hard anyone would look for you when you vanished.

 To understand what was stolen from this world, you need to know who Ramona Moore really was. October 8th, 1981, Georgetown, Guyana. Ramona Gail Amanda Moore entered the world to parents who had nothing but dreams. Her father worked construction. Her mother cleaned houses. They lived paycheck to paycheck in a country where opportunities were scarce and hope was a luxury few could afford.

 But they had a plan. America, the land where immigrant children became doctors and lawyers, where a little girl from Georgetown could become anything she wanted. When Ramona was eight, they made the leap, packed everything they owned into two suitcases, and landed in New York City with $200 and a prayer. East Flatbush became home, a neighborhood where Gion families clustered together, speaking Creole on stoops, cooking curry and rice in tiny kitchens, rebuilding their lives one day at a time.

 Ramona’s mother, El Carmichael, worked three cleaning jobs. office buildings at night, houses on weekends, whatever it took to keep her daughter in good schools. Her father picked up construction work when he could find it. Every dollar they earned had one purpose, Ramona’s future. He was their only child, their entire world, and she lived with five cousins who became her siblings in a cramped apartment where family dinner meant eight people round a table built for four.

 But that table was filled with love, with laughter, and with constant talk about Ramona’s achievements. Her uncle Clifford man pushed her the hardest. When she showed him a report card full of A’s, he didn’t celebrate. That’s nothing, he told her. Anyone can get an A. All I want you to do is maintain that. That’s the difficult part. And she did.

 Ramona Moore never earned anything less than an A from elementary school through college. She chose psychology for a reason. She wanted to help people overcome trauma. Growing up in an immigrant household, she’d watched family members struggle with the psychological wounds of leaving everything behind. She understood pain. She wanted to heal it.

 By 2003, she was a third-year honor student at Hunter College. Her professors were amazed by her work ethic while other students partied. Ramona was in the library until closing time. She had papers to write, internships to apply for, graduate school applications to perfect. But she wasn’t all work. Every Christmas, Ramona made it her mission to buy gifts for everyone in the family.

 Didn’t matter if she only had $20. Everyone got something to unwrap. Her cousin still remember her laugh. Infectious and genuine. She could quote romantic comedies word for word, made mixtapz for friends, spent Saturdays hunting for bargains and sharing her finds with anyone who’d listen. Her dreams were crystal clear. Graduate from Hunter, get into Colombia or NYU for graduate school, become a therapist specializing in childhood trauma, open a practice right here in East Flatbush, helping immigrant families navigate the American dream

while healing from the American nightmare. She wanted to buy her mother a house. Mama worked three jobs for me. She’d tell friends. I’m going to work three jobs for her. Spring 2003 was everything falling into place. She was dating someone the family approved of. Had landed a summer internship at a local mental health clinic.

 Was excited about presenting her research on PTSD and immigrant communities. Ramona’s routine was clockwork. Up at 6:00 a.m. Commute to Hunter College in Manhattan. Classes all day. Part-time job at a local daycare where the children adored her. Home by 7:00 p.m. to help her younger cousins with homework. Church every Sunday. Never stayed out past 10 p.m.

without calling home. April 24th, 2003. Her last normal day. She attended psychology classes, turned in a major paper on PTSD that she’d spent weeks perfecting. Her professor later remembered she seemed excited about an upcoming presentation. Called her mother at 6:00 p.m. like always. I’ll be home for dinner, ma

1. 6:55 p.m. Ramona Moore walked out her front door wearing jeans, sneakers, carrying a small purse. I’m just going to get something at Burger King, she told her mother. three blocks away, five minute walk. She’d done it hundreds of times. But in 15 minutes, everything would change. She would never make it to that Burger King.

 While Ramona Moore was building a future, two predators were planning her destruction. Troy Hendris, 22 years old, a violent criminal with a rap sheet stretching back to his teens. Assault charges, drug dealing. He lived in a basement apartment on Snyder Avenue, just blocks from where Ramona walked that night.

 But this wasn’t just any basement. Hris had been preparing chains bolted to the walls, restraints, soundproofing materials. Neighbors would later tell police they’d heard construction noises, strange sounds coming from below. But in East Flatbush, you minded your own business. His partner was Kase Pearson, 24 years old, street name monster, and he’d earned it.

Multiple women had accused Pearson of sexual assault over the years. None of those cases were ever prosecuted. He walked free, bragging to friends about breaking in victims. Both men were alleged members of the East Flatbush Blood set. But this wasn’t gang business. This was predation, pure and simple.

 They knew these streets, knew the patterns. Young women walking alone after classes. Students coming home from part-time jobs. They’d been hunting for months, identifying targets, learning routines. Hrix’s basement wasn’t just his apartment. It was a carefully constructed torture chamber. He’d invested time, money, and planning into creating the perfect prison.

 Thick walls to muffle screams, multiple restraint points, tools of torture readily available. They weren’t opportunistic criminals. They were systematic predators who had turned kidnapping and torture into their entertainment. And on April 24th, 2003, they found their next victim, a young woman walking alone, as we go into the most chilling details of this documentary.

 Take a brief moment to like and subscribe to our channel if you haven’t already for more in-depth investigations and analysis of significant cases like this. April 24th, 2003. A Thursday evening that started like any other. 6:55 p.m. Ramona Moore kisses her mother goodbye. I’m just running to Burger King. I’ll be right back.

 She’s wearing jeans and sneakers, carrying a small purse with maybe $20 inside. She has no idea that two predators have been prowling these same streets all evening hunting. 7:15 p.m. Ramona stops at a friend’s house to pick up a borrowed CD. Her friend would later remember how happy she seemed, talking about weekend plans, a presentation she was excited to give, her summer internship starting soon, just a normal college student living a normal life.

 Meanwhile, Hrix and Pearson are driving the neighborhood. They know these blocks intimately. know which streets are poorly lit, which corners don’t have security cameras, where a young woman might walk alone. 7:30 p.m. Ramona leaves her friend’s house, three blocks to Burger King, a 5-minute walk she’d made hundreds of times.

 Church Avenue to Remson Avenue, turn right. Almost there. She never makes it. Witnesses would later tell police they saw a young woman talking to two men near a car. Not struggling, not screaming, just talking. Maybe they asked for directions. Maybe claimed they had car trouble. Maybe pretended to be lost. Whatever lie they told, it worked.

By 7:45 p.m., Ramona Moore was in their vehicle. By 8:00 p.m., she was chained in Hendrickx’s basement. The Burger King security cameras would confirm she never walked through their doors. In 15 minutes, a brilliant young woman with her whole life ahead of her had vanished without a trace.

 Her mother was still setting the table for dinner, expecting her daughter to walk through the door any minute. But Ramona Moore would never come home again. What happened next defies human comprehension. Hrix’s basement apartment on Snyder Avenue. Low ceilings. One small window painted black to block out light, to block out hope.

This wasn’t a home. It was a dungeon. Chains bolted to the walls. Restraints, makeshift torture devices scattered around like tools in a workshop. The apartment had been soundproofed just enough that screams wouldn’t carry to the street above. Neighbors later told police they’d heard strange noises coming from the basement, banging, muffled sounds.

 But in a neighborhood where people minded their own business, no one investigated. For 3 days, Ramona Moore endured unimaginable horror in that basement. Prosecutor Anna Siga Nicolasi would later tell the jury, “Ramona Moore’s injuries are indescribable. The horror she endured, the torture she endured will become clear.

 She was chained, beaten with dumbbells, burned with cigarettes, attacked with knives, saws, hammers, subjected to repeated sexual assault. The medical examiner would confirm the systematic nature of the torture. This wasn’t random violence. This was calculated, prolonged, sadistic. But perhaps the most shocking testimony came from Roando Jack.

 Jack was a friend of Hrix. He stopped by the basement during Romano’s captivity. He saw her chained, beaten, clearly a victim, clearly suffering. And he did nothing. In his own words, at trial, he made no effort to save her life. Didn’t call police. Didn’t even call for help. Instead, he went shopping, attended a baby shower, drove back home to Maryland.

 He saw a young woman being tortured to death and treated it like background noise. The prosecution asked him directly, “Why didn’t you help her?” His answer haunted the courtroom. I thought about it, but I didn’t want to get involved. For 3 days, while Ramona’s family was frantically searching the streets, posting flyers, begging police to investigate, she was alive in that basement, suffering, fighting to survive.

 Her mother was calling her cell phone every hour. Her cousins were walking the neighborhood with her picture. Her uncle was contacting politicians demanding action, but the police had already closed her case. Young women her age sometimes don’t check in, they said. April 27th, 2003, 3 days after her abduction, after enduring torture that would break the strongest person, Ramona Moore was murdered.

 Her body was wrapped in a blanket like garbage, dumped behind an abandoned house on King’s Highway, left to decompose while her killers went about their normal lives. Hris flooded his basement, trying to wash away the evidence, trying to erase what he’d done. Both men returned to their routines, hanging out with friends, going to parties as if they hadn’t just tortured and murdered an innocent woman, as if Ramona Moore had never existed at all.

But they made one critical mistake. Their appetite for violence wasn’t satisfied. 4 days later, they would strike again. April 25th, 2003. One day after Ramona disappeared, El Carmichael walks into the 67th precinct in East Flatbush. Her daughter never came home last night. Never called. This isn’t like Ramona.

 The desk sergeant barely looks up. How old is she? 21. Ma’am, many women her age failed to check in with their families for benign causes. She’s probably with a boyfriend. Give it a few days. El Carmichael knows her daughter. Ramona calls. If she’s going to be 5 minutes late, something is wrong. I need you to open a missing person’s case. Sorry, the law sucks.

 She’s over 18. We can’t do anything. Case closed. No investigation, no paperwork, no effort. But here’s what makes this story even more devastating. That same week, across the river in Manhattan, another young woman goes missing. Svetana Aronov, a white woman, a rare book dealer from the Upper East Side. 3 hours after Aronov is reported missing, NYPD launches a full investigation, press conferences, search teams, her photo plastered across every news station in the city.

 Meanwhile, in Brooklyn, El Calm is making photocopies of her daughter’s picture at Kinko’s, spending her own money, walking the streets alone, taping flyers to telephone polls. The contrast is impossible to ignore. When a white woman disappears in Manhattan, it’s breaking news. When a black woman disappears in Brooklyn, police say, “Give it a few days.” April 26th, 2 days missing.

Carmichael contacts ABC News hoping for coverage. They call the 67th precinct for comment. The police tell the media the case is closed. Her daughter has been missing for 2 days and they’ve already given up. The Carmichael family takes matters into their own hands. They print hundreds of flyers, knock on doors, contact local politicians.

 City Councilman Charles Baron starts making calls, demanding action. Finally, under political pressure, the NYPD agrees to reopen Ramona’s case. April 28th, 2003, 4 days after she disappeared. But here’s the cruel irony that will haunt this family forever. Ramona Moore was murdered on April 27th, one day before police resumed their search.

 If they had acted immediately like they did for Svetana Aronov, Ramona might still be alive. While the official investigation stalled, Hrix and Pearson’s appetite for violence wasn’t satisfied. Days after murdering Ramona, they struck again. A 15-year-old girl walking home from school. Same neighborhood, same tactics.

 They lured her to the same basement where Ramona had died. But this victim fought back. After being sexually assaulted and bound with duct tape, she did something extraordinary. She licked the adhesive on the tape covering her mouth until it loosened. Worked herself free while her attackers slept. She escaped, ran to police, gave descriptions, provided evidence.

 This brave teenager’s testimony would eventually solve Ramona’s case. Her courage gave Ramona’s family the justice the system had denied them. But first, they had to find Ramona’s body. May 10th, 2003, 46 days after Ramona vanished. El Carmichael’s phone rings at 1:15 p.m. The voice is unfamiliar. Male calm.

 I have information about the missing girl. Go to this address on King’s Highway. Look behind the abandoned house. He hangs up. Carmichael calls the police. This time they respond. Officers from the 67th precinct and emergency service units race to the location. Behind a burned out house, they find what they’ve been dreading for six weeks.

 A blanket wrapped around something that was once a human being. Ramona Moore’s body decomposed beyond recognition. Dental records would confirm what her family already knew in their hearts. The anonymous caller’s identity was never determined. Someone knew what happened to Ramona. Someone with a conscience finally spoke up. But who? And why did they wait so long? That mystery remains unsolved to this day.

With Ramona’s body recovered, police had a murder case, but they still needed to catch her killers. The break came from that brave 15-year-old survivor. After her escape, she gave police detailed descriptions of her attackers and the basement where she was held. The location matched the Snyder Avenue area where Ramona had disappeared.

 Police quickly apprehended 19-year-old Troy Hendris. He was already known to authorities held at Riker’s Island on pending charges, but by law, detectives couldn’t question him about Ramona’s murder yet. His partner, Kase Pearson, had vanished. Police launched a massive manhunt across the tri-state area.

 Pearson had an arrest record. Burglary, assault, tips poured in, leading investigators to locations throughout Brooklyn and Albany, all dead ends. The search expanded far beyond New York. Information led them all the way to Atlanta, Georgia, where local police raided an apartment where Pearson was supposedly hiding with his girlfriend.

Empty hand again. Then came the tip that changed everything. Pearson’s own friends contacted police. They were sickened by the crimes he was accused of and knew about the ongoing manhunt. They gave police an address, an apartment in Yoners. May 21st, 2003. A little after 5:00 a.m. Yoners police set up surveillance cameras outside the apartment building.

 They weren’t taking any chances this time. Officers called the apartment trying to convince Pearson to surrender peacefully. He refused. The woman whose apartment Pearson was in returned home during the standoff. She handed police a key, but the door was secured with a chain. Bolt cutters were needed to get inside.

 As authorities breached the apartment, Pearson had already barricaded himself in the bedroom, pushing a bed against the locked door. When officers broke through, they found the room apparently empty. Then Pearson burst out of a closet, knife in hand, lunging at the officers. Two shots fired. One bullet struck him in the thigh.

 Kase Pearson was finally in handcuffs. During questioning, he initially denied any connection to Ramona’s murder, but eventually he broke down and confessed, giving investigators disturbing details that were far worse than anyone had imagined. The case was building, but the most shocking testimony was yet to come from a witness who had seen Ramona alive in that basement and done nothing to save her.

 January 18th, 2006, nearly 3 years after Ramona’s murder, justice finally had its day in court. Brooklyn Supreme Court opening statements begin with prosecutor Ana Siga Nicolasi laying out the horrific details. Two juries, one for each defendant. Troy Hendris, now 24. Kase Pearson, 25. The evidence was overwhelming. DNA, witness testimony.

 The 15year-old survivor ready to face her attackers. But these weren’t ordinary defendants. January 19th, 2006, day two of testimony. As court adjourned, Kase Pearson was being escorted from the courtroom when he suddenly pulled out a concealed knife. Without warning, he lunged forward and stabbed his own defense attorney in the back repeatedly.

Chaos erupted. Troy Hendris saw his opportunity. He vaulted over the courtroom barricade and charged toward a baiff, trying to grab his gun. Security officers tackled both men to the ground as spectators screamed and dove for cover. blood on the courtroom floor. A defense attorney rushed to the hospital. Two defendants who had just proven they were capable of violence anywhere, any time.

 The judge had no choice, a trial declared. Ramona’s family watched their chance at justice slip away because these monsters couldn’t behave even in a courtroom. But prosecutors weren’t giving up. March 2006. The second trial begins with unprecedented security measures. Both defendants shackled hand and foot, wearing black foam mittens so they couldn’t grip weapons.

 Extra baiffs stationed throughout the courtroom. Metal detectors, full body searches. This time there would be no escape attempts. Case Pearson shocked everyone by taking the stand in his own defense. Shackled and wearing those foam mittens, he denied everything. I hugged her. Goodbye. He claimed about Ramona. Said his confession to police was just creativity. The jury wasn’t buying it.

The 15-year-old survivor took the stand, looked her attackers in the eye, and described her escape from that basement of horrors. Her courage gave Ramona a voice from the grave. Ramona Jack testified about seeing Ramona chained and beaten and doing nothing. His admission of cowardice haunted the courtroom.

 Forensic experts presented DNA evidence, crime scene photos, the overwhelming proof that these two predators had tortured and murdered an innocent woman. March 23rd, 2006, both juries returned their verdicts. Guilty. First-degree murder, kidnapping, rape, sodomy, torture, every single count. April 11th, 2006, sentencing day. life in prison without the possibility of parole, plus an additional 22 years for their courtroom escape attempt.

 Brooklyn District Attorney Charles Hines spoke to the press. I am hardpressed to find a more evil case. I am satisfied that these defendants will never see the outside of a prison cell. Justice for Ramona Moore, finally. But for her family, the fight was just beginning. After the verdicts, El Carmichael stood before the cameras with a message that shook New York City.

 “All I got was nothing but disrespect from the media and the police,” she said. “This was a Hunter College student, a black woman. Racist, it’s all racist.” She wasn’t done fighting. While Svatlana Aronov got press conferences and search teams within hours, Ramona got dismissed and ignored.

 While white missing persons made headlines, black families were told their daughters probably ran away. El Carmichael was going to make sure this never happened again. One filed a federal lawsuit against the NYPD alleging systematic racial bias in missing persons investigations. The case gained national attention, forcing America to confront an uncomfortable truth about whose lives matter when they disappear.

For 6 years, the case worked its way through federal court. August 2014, federal judge Nenah Gershon dismissed the lawsuit. Her ruling, no evidence of widespread racially motivated practice within the NYPD. Individual differences between cases, yes. systemic bias. No. But El Carmichael’s fight sparked real change.

City Councilman Charles Baron proposed the Ramona Moore law requiring immediate investigation for anyone 25 or under who goes missing. Hunter College established a scholarship in Ramona’s name. East Flatbush organized neighborhood watch programs. Missing persons protocols were updated.

 Most importantly, people started paying attention when young black women disappeared. Ramona Moore’s death exposed the system that failed her. Her mother’s fight began to fix it. Today, Troy Hendris and Kase Pearson remain locked away in maximum security prisons. They will never taste freedom again. El Carmichael continues fighting for missing person’s reform.

 The 15-year-old survivor rebuilt her life and became an advocate for assault victims. Her courage saved future victims. The anonymous caller. His identity remains a mystery. The questions that haunt us. Could Ramona have been saved if police acted immediately. How many other families face similar indifference when their loved ones disappear? When will all missing persons receive equal treatment regardless of race or zip code? Ramona Moore was laid to rest, surrounded by the Caribbean community that loved her. Her headstone reads,

“Beloved daughter, student, angel.” She was a young woman who made Christmas special for everyone who earned straight A’s who wanted to heal trauma in others. She deserved to graduate, to help families, to make her mother proud at her wedding. Instead, she became a symbol of how indifference can kill, how some lives are valued less than others.

But she also became a catalyst for change, a name that demands we do better. Every missing person deserves the same urgency, the same resources, the same chance at coming home alive. Remember Ramona Moore. If you enjoyed this content, join our community by subscribing and turning on notifications.

 Every subscriber makes it possible for us to keep creating content we’re passionate about sharing with