Part 1
Milwaukee, Wisconsin. January 15, 2019.
Jamal Washington had been a plumber for 12 years. He had cleared thousands of drains and seen nearly everything that could obstruct a pipe. That morning, at Lincoln Heights Middle School, his inspection camera revealed something different. Among the usual buildup of hair, soap scum, mineral deposits, and invasive tree roots, he saw what looked like fabric. A dark strap. Something that resembled clothing.
He could have ignored it. He could have done what was expected—run the auger, break up the obstruction, restore the flow, and leave. That was how this account had been handled for years.
Instead, he chose to investigate further.
Lincoln Heights Middle School stood on Milwaukee’s north side, built in 1952, three stories of aging red brick behind a chain-link fence. The neighborhood had shifted over decades—from working-class white families with factory jobs to a community shaped by plant closures, unemployment, and demographic change. By 2019, the school’s 450 students were 78% Black, 15% Latino, and 7% other. Funding was limited. Infrastructure was deteriorating. Staff did what they could.
This was Jamal’s third visit that month for the same problem: basement bathroom drains backing up every 2 weeks.
His employer, Donovan Plumbing Services, had serviced the school for years. Jamal’s boss, Frank Donovan, 58, had built the company over 30 years into a 12-truck operation. Each time Jamal suggested repairing the main line permanently, Frank declined.
“They pay us every time,” Frank had said. “That’s good business.”
Jamal understood the reasoning. He did not agree with it.
At the school, Principal Helen Robertson, 62, confirmed the recurring issue. Jerome Caldwell, the 52-year-old night janitor who had worked at Lincoln Heights for 28 years, led Jamal to the basement.
The building smelled of industrial cleaner and old books. The basement air was colder. Concrete floors. Exposed pipes. Flickering fluorescent lights.
Jamal fed the inspection camera into the drain. At 6 feet, 10 feet, 15 feet, the monitor displayed typical debris. Then the image changed.
Fabric.
He adjusted the angle. Zoomed in. It appeared to be part of a backpack or clothing lodged deep in the pipe.
“I need access to the main cleanout,” Jamal said.
Jerome hesitated. The main line access was in the old boiler room, a space sealed for years. According to administration, it had been closed due to structural issues.
Jamal insisted he could not properly address the clog without inspecting the main line.
Jerome retrieved a key. At the far end of the basement, a heavy metal door stood wrapped in chains and secured with a padlock. A sign read: Danger. Do not enter. Structural damage. Authorized personnel only.
Jerome unlocked it.
The hinges screeched open. A chemical, musty odor spilled into the hallway, layered with something organic and decayed.
Inside, the boiler room measured roughly 30 by 40 feet. Old furnaces stood rusted and silent. The room was dusty, but structurally sound.
In the far corner, Jamal found the cast-iron main drainage cleanout—approximately 4 by 4 feet, bolted shut. The bolts were rusted but recently disturbed. The panel was less dusty than the surrounding floor.
He removed the bolts one by one. The smell intensified—sharp, chemical, reminiscent of formaldehyde.
When he lifted the panel, he saw bodies.
Small bodies.
Juveniles.
Wrapped in plastic and layered within the drainage chamber beneath the school.
The closest body’s plastic covering had torn. The face was partially decomposed but identifiable as a child. Behind it, more bodies, stacked within the confined space.
Six in total.
Jamal stumbled backward, dropping his flashlight. He struggled to breathe. Jerome stepped forward and looked inside.
Jamal called 911.
Within minutes, officers arrived, followed by homicide detectives, crime scene technicians, and the medical examiner. The school was locked down. News helicopters circled overhead.
Detective Sarah Jonas, 43, homicide division, entered the boiler room and ordered full crime scene protocol. The bodies were carefully extracted overnight.
Six juvenile victims. Ages approximately 12 to 16. Estimated time in the chamber ranged from 4 to 16 years. Chemical analysis confirmed the presence of formaldehyde and embalming compounds, used to slow decomposition and suppress odor.
All six victims retained identifying materials in their backpacks.
By morning, names were confirmed:
Aaliyah Davis, 14, missing May 2003.
Tyrone Mitchell, 15, missing September 2005.
Kesha Williams, 13, missing March 2007.
Darnell Thompson, 16, missing November 2009.
Jasmine Rodriguez, 12, missing April 2014.
Kareem Jackson, 14, missing October 2018.
All last seen at Lincoln Heights Middle School after extracurricular activities.
Each disappearance had been reported. Each investigation had faded. Most had been labeled runaways.
Part 2
Detective Jonas reviewed the files.
Each child had disappeared after staying late at school—basketball practice, debate, choir, football, science club, a student advocacy meeting. The disappearances were spaced across 16 years. No coordinated task force had ever linked them.
Public scrutiny intensified. Questions emerged about systemic neglect—about how missing children from an underfunded, predominantly Black neighborhood failed to trigger sustained investigative urgency.
Detective Jonas returned to the school and interviewed Principal Robertson. The principal acknowledged reporting each disappearance but admitted she had not connected the pattern.
Attention shifted to Jerome Caldwell.
Jerome had worked at Lincoln Heights since 1991. Night shift. Full building access. Keys to every room, including the boiler room.
A background check revealed no criminal history. Further investigation uncovered online postings under anonymous usernames—racist commentary about demographic change and resentment toward minority advancement.
A search warrant was executed at Jerome’s home. In his basement, behind a false wall, investigators found personal items belonging to the victims: Aaliyah’s basketball jersey, Tyrone’s debate trophy, Kesha’s choir medal, Darnell’s signed football, Jasmine’s science ribbon, Kareem’s Black Students Matter button.
An encrypted computer was seized and analyzed by the FBI cyber unit.
Inside were detailed logs documenting each murder.
May 18, 2003: Aaliyah Davis. Lured to the basement under false pretenses. Strangled with electrical cord. Wrapped in plastic. Placed in drainage cleanout. Chemicals applied.
September 9, 2005: Tyrone Mitchell. Similar method.
Subsequent entries detailed the remaining four victims.
Jerome described surveillance, planning, isolation tactics, and concealment procedures. He exploited his position as trusted staff. He relied on the sealed boiler room and the lack of deep plumbing inspections.
On February 3, 2019, Jerome Caldwell was arrested and charged with six counts of first-degree murder. He did not resist.
In interrogation, he waived his right to counsel and confessed. He expressed no remorse. He framed the killings as ideological acts, targeting students he perceived as symbols of demographic and cultural change.
He acknowledged that had the bodies not been discovered, he intended to continue.
Part 3
The trial began November 4, 2019.
The prosecution presented physical evidence, digital logs, trophies, and Jerome’s confession. The defense attempted to argue mental illness and PTSD. The jury deliberated 4 hours.
Guilty on all counts.
Jerome Caldwell was sentenced to six consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.
In the aftermath, scrutiny extended beyond the killer.
Principal Robertson resigned in January 2020. The Milwaukee Police Department conducted an internal review into missing persons case protocols and acknowledged systemic disparities in investigative response. Reforms were announced.
Donovan Plumbing Services faced public backlash. Though not criminally liable, the company’s pattern of temporary repairs without comprehensive inspection became a focus of criticism. Contracts were terminated. The company collapsed within months.
Jamal Washington was offered a position with the Milwaukee Waterworks Department as lead plumber for the school district. His mandate: inspect all 163 schools’ drainage systems thoroughly—main lines, cleanouts, and structural access points—without shortcuts.
In December 2019, Lincoln Heights Middle School was renamed Remembrance Six Academy.
In the courtyard, six life-sized bronze statues were installed:
Aaliyah Davis, arms raised in a jump shot.
Tyrone Mitchell, holding a gavel.
Kesha Williams, mid-song.
Darnell Thompson, football in hand.
Jasmine Rodriguez, looking through a telescope.
Kareem Jackson, fist raised.
At the memorial service, families gathered. Flowers were placed at each statue.
Patricia Davis, Aaliyah’s mother, thanked Jamal personally.
“Thank you for looking,” she said. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
Jamal returned to work the following year overseeing comprehensive inspections across the district. His work was no longer only about pipes. It was about ensuring that hidden spaces were not ignored.
Six children had been concealed beneath a school floor for up to 16 years. Their absence had once been treated as individual tragedies. Their discovery exposed a pattern.
The drainage pipes at Lincoln Heights had clogged for years. The blockage had not been random. It had been layered.
Six lives, concealed in silence, were found because one plumber chose not to clear the obstruction and leave.
He opened the cleanout instead.
