The detective’s phone rang just after dawn. A newspaper delivery worker had found them on a dead-end street—a young woman and a little boy, lying on the pavement next to a parked car. Both were already dead. Stacy Anne Falcon was twenty-two.
She’d grown up in Renton, Washington, a cheerful girl with a wide circle of friends. After high school, she met John, and they moved to California together. Their son, Jacob, was born a few years later. But when they moved back home, the marriage fell apart, and Stacy became a single mother, working as a waitress and renting a small apartment to give her son a steady life.
Four days after celebrating her birthday with her mother, Stacy went out with friends. She left Jacob with a trusted babysitter and spent the night at a few clubs, enjoying herself. Just after 1:30 a. m.
, she picked up her son and drove home. Around 2:11 a. m. , neighbors heard a woman scream and gunshots.
No one called the police—the area wasn’t safe, and gunfire wasn’t uncommon. At the scene, detectives found shell casings, Stacy’s phone, and her belongings scattered nearby. Three white buttons that didn’t belong to her. Her wallet and jewelry were untouched, which ruled out robbery.
Both victims’ shoes were found several yards from the car, carefully removed. The car keys were wedged between the driver’s seat and the door. Used tape lay nearby. It looked like the killer had planned to tie them up and steal the car, but when he couldn’t find the keys, things turned deadly.
The autopsies confirmed gunshot wounds. Stacy had defensive injuries—dirt on her socks and trampled grass nearby suggested she’d fought back, managed to break free, and reached the car, but didn’t have time to drive away. There was no evidence of sexual assault. The motive wasn’t robbery or sexual violence, which pushed investigators toward Stacy’s inner circle.
Her mother was working a cafe shift when detectives arrived. She ran out, sprinting several blocks before collapsing in tears. She told them Stacy had once lived in the same apartment complex as the babysitter, but moved after hearing gunshots nearby one night. She also mentioned a man named Rich, whom Stacy was dating.
Rich said he’d spent the evening at a bar near Stacy’s apartment, then slept at her place because he didn’t feel like driving home after drinks. He claimed he woke up and assumed Stacy and Jacob had come back and left early. His polygraph raised red flags, but bar witnesses backed his alibi, and there was no evidence linking him to the crime. Stacy’s ex-husband, John, said he’d been drinking with friends, then home playing pool.
His friends confirmed it, but his polygraph also raised flags. No evidence matched him either. The car and belongings yielded no foreign DNA or fingerprints. Then a hospital called.
A man had shown up in the middle of the night in blood-stained clothes. He said he’d fought with his girlfriend. The blood didn’t match Stacy or Jacob, so he was cleared. A grocery store’s CCTV showed a man talking to Stacy before she picked up Jacob, but he couldn’t be identified.
The last incoming call on her phone was from a man named Scott. Scott said he’d been home with his wife and kids. He admitted they’d briefly dated, but it ended when Stacy found out he was married. They stayed friendly.
His wife confirmed his alibi. But Stacy’s friends mentioned Scott had once left her a $100 tip at the cafe where she worked—odd for a man with a low-paying job and a family. Investigators began to suspect he might be involved in selling drugs, but the lead went nowhere. Two weeks later, Scott’s body was found stuffed in the trunk of an abandoned car.
His brother said Scott had gone to collect money from a man named Vince for a sound system they’d installed. Vince denied everything, but Scott’s blood was found in his apartment, and he’d been using Scott’s credit card. Vince was arrested. Before trial, Vince changed his plea.
He claimed self-defense, saying Scott had threatened him. He also claimed Scott admitted to killing Stacy because she was planning to tell his wife about their affair, and that they’d both been dealing drugs. Detectives didn’t buy it. Scott’s wife swore he was home that night.
His brother said Scott would have mentioned an affair and had no involvement with drugs—they made an honest living fixing cars. Vince’s story fell apart, and the case went cold. Stacy’s mother never stopped calling. But detectives retired or moved on.
The Seattle cold case unit was shut down due to budget cuts. In the early 2000s, an inmate claimed a man named Charles, who’d worked with Stacy at the cafe, confessed to the murders over a drug dispute. Detectives didn’t find the story credible, but they sent the evidence to the lab anyway. The lab was backed up and asked for a year.
In 2002, the results came back. Modern tools identified DNA on gloves and duct tape found at the crime scene. But it wasn’t Charles. It was a man named Jerome Jones—a name that had never appeared in the case files.
Jones had a long criminal history: robbery, assault, car theft, drug offenses. In 1995, a year after Stacy and Jacob’s murders, he and an accomplice killed a businessman in California and were sentenced to life. Detectives also learned that in 1994, Jones lived in the same apartment complex where Stacy had once lived, and where her babysitter lived. Even more chilling—he had worked at the club where Stacy celebrated her birthday that night.
Questioned in prison, Jones denied everything. But his DNA was on the gloves and tape, and the biological samples taken from Stacy’s body during the original investigation were still in storage. This time, they found his DNA in her mouth—proof of sexual assault. His DNA was also under her fingernails, from where she’d fought back.
Detectives brought the evidence to the district attorney. He wasn’t convinced it was enough to tie Jones directly to the murders and asked for a crime scene reconstruction. It’s unclear if that ever happened. No charges were filed.
The case was shelved again, even with multiple DNA matches. And no one ever told Stacy’s mother. She kept searching with her sister’s help for fifteen years. In 2017, her sister passed away, and she carried on alone.
Every attempt at justice led to a dead end. In 2019, a Seattle journalist took an interest. He contacted Stacy’s mother and started digging. He discovered that the police had matched Jones’s DNA to the victim’s body more than fifteen years earlier—and no charges had ever been filed.
When he told Stacy’s mother, she was devastated. The police had a suspect tied to the case by multiple DNA samples and did nothing. The journalist asked the former detective why her family was never informed. The detective said the evidence seemed too inconclusive at the time and he was handling too many cases.
The district attorney said it wasn’t his responsibility to notify families. The journalist published an article, and public outrage erupted almost instantly. A new team of detectives reviewed the evidence and were stunned. They began preparing for trial.
Then came another turn: Jerome Jones, still serving time for the California murder, was granted parole, even though he wasn’t supposed to be released until at least 2030. The prosecution rushed to file charges before he could walk free. By early 2022, they succeeded. Jones was arrested right after his release, extradited to Washington, and placed in custody.
Stacy’s mother passed away just four months after his arrest. She never saw the man responsible for her daughter’s and grandson’s deaths held accountable. The prosecution moved forward anyway. Their theory: Jones attacked soon after Stacy left the babysitter’s house.
He planned to steal the car, but forced her out and sexually assaulted her. She broke free, ran back to the car where Jacob sat, and Jones shot them both. He dragged their bodies onto the road, but couldn’t find the keys, so he fled, leaving behind his DNA. In May 2023, Jones pleaded not guilty.
The trial hasn’t started yet, and he remains behind bars. With the evidence against him, there’s little doubt. If convicted, he faces life in prison. It took thirty years to get here.
He could have been charged as early as 2002, just eight years after the murders. For reasons no one has fully explained, it took twenty more years to bring charges against a man already in prison the entire time. Stacy’s mother spent years in the dark, heartbroken, fighting for justice she never got to see.
