Chapter 2
“But why?” Lorraine asked
“But why?” Lorraine asked. “Why would someone do that?”
“We found some business materials in the storage unit. Finch advertised memorial preservation services. He seems to have believed he was creating art, preserving beauty. Some of the items we found suggest he had a deeply disturbed view of death and preservation. And Mrs. Mitchell—” Bennett paused, choosing her words carefully. “All of Finch’s known victims were black children. We don’t think that’s a coincidence.”
Lorraine closed her eyes. “So, he targeted black children specifically.”
“We believe so. He seemed to operate in areas with significant black populations, and all the cases we’ve linked to him involve black children whose disappearances were dismissed as runaways. He may have chosen his victims because he knew their cases wouldn’t be investigated thoroughly.”
“He knew nobody would care enough to look for them,” Lorraine said bitterly. “He knew the police would write them off.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe that’s exactly what he counted on.”
Lorraine stood and walked to the window, looking out at the street where Jasmine had vanished 26 years ago.
“I spent half my life searching for her. I put up flyers every year. I called the police every month for the first 5 years. I hired a private investigator and went into debt trying to find answers. And the person who did this to her, he got to live free for five more years before dying in an accident. Where’s the justice in that?”
Bennett had no answer for her.
Over the next weeks, Bennett continued to investigate. Even though the primary suspect was deceased, she needed to know the full story. Needed to understand as much as possible for Jasmine’s sake and for Lorraine’s.
She tracked down former associates of Richard Finch. Most remembered him as odd and unpleasant.
One woman who’d worked at a taxidermy supply shop in the ’90s remembered Finch as a regular customer.
“He was creepy,” she said. “Always talking about preserving beauty, about how death didn’t have to mean the end. But what really creeped me out was the way he talked about black children specifically. He’d say things like, ‘They have such perfect features’ or ‘their skin preserves so beautifully.’ It was racist and disturbing. I was glad when he stopped coming in.”
Another former associate, a man who’d briefly partnered with Finch on some restoration projects, told Bennett, “Richard had this obsession with what he called ‘preserving innocence,’ but he specifically sought out black children. He’d drive through black neighborhoods, watch playgrounds, follow kids. I confronted him about it once, told him it was wrong. He just smiled and said I didn’t understand his art. I cut ties with him after that, but I always wondered if I should have reported him. Maybe if I had—”
Bennett assured him that even if he’d reported it, given the attitudes of law enforcement at the time, it likely wouldn’t have led to an investigation. But she understood his guilt.
She obtained business permits filed by Finch over the years. He’d operated in six different states between 1995 and 2002. Oregon, Washington, California, Idaho, Nevada, and Colorado.
He’d never stayed in one place long, always working out of his van, always paying in cash, always moving on after a few months. And in every location, he’d set up shop in or near predominantly black neighborhoods.
Bennett began cross-referencing his locations with missing children cases from that time period. What she found made her blood run cold.
In each state where Finch had operated, there were unsolved disappearances of black children around the same time. A 10-year-old black boy in Spokane, Washington in 1996. A 13-year-old black girl in Reno, Nevada in 1997. An 11-year-old black girl in Denver, Colorado in 2000.
She pulled those case files. Every single one had been closed as a probable runaway within weeks. Every single one had inadequate investigation. Every single one involved a family that had begged for help and been dismissed.
Bennett contacted the detectives handling those cold cases. She shared what she’d learned about Finch, his methods, his storage unit.
Several of the detectives were defensive, insisting they’d done their jobs properly. But a few were honest enough to admit that missing black children cases hadn’t received the attention they deserved.
“It was a different time,” one retired detective from Spokane told her. “We had assumptions about which kids were really in danger and which ones had just run away. Looking back, those assumptions were based on race more than facts. We failed those families.”
Together, the team of detectives began looking for other units Finch might have rented, other places he might have stored his work. It was like searching for needles in a haystack.
Finch had used different names, different addresses, always paid in cash. But slowly, painstakingly, they found traces of him.
A storage unit in Sacramento rented under the name R. Finley in 1996. Another in Spokane under Richard Fellows in 1997. Both units had been auctioned off years ago when rent stopped being paid.
Meanwhile, the forensic team continued processing the items from Jasmine’s unit. They found something significant hidden in a false bottom of one of the boxes: a journal.
The journal was partially water damaged. Many pages stuck together or illegible, but what could be read was damning. Finch had documented his work in clinical detail.
The journal entries were disturbing, written in a detached tone that suggested the author saw nothing wrong with what he was doing.
“October 1998, Portland. Perfect specimen acquired. Young black female, ideal proportions, untouched by age’s decay. Her features are exquisite. Exactly what I’ve been seeking. We’ll begin preservation process immediately. This will be my finest work.”
“October 25, 1998. Preservation process proceeding excellently. Subject responds well to treatment. The melanin in the skin preserves beautifully, better than lighter specimens. Final result will be museum quality, a memorial to eternal youth and beauty.”
The racism in the entries was explicit and sickening. Finch had fetishized black children, seeing them as objects to collect and preserve.
He’d written about how he chose victims from neighborhoods where nobody asks questions, and how he relied on police indifference to certain communities.
Bennett felt sick reading it. Finch had known exactly what he was doing. He deliberately targeted black children because he knew the system would fail them.
There were other entries, some illegible, some partially readable. References to previous works and the collection, mentions of different cities and dates, but the water damage made it impossible to read most of the details.
Bennett had the journal examined by forensic document specialists. They used various techniques to try to recover more of the text, including multispectral imaging and chemical treatments.
Some additional text became visible, but much remained unrecoverable. What they could read suggested Finch had been doing this for years, possibly as early as 1995.
The journal mentioned six completed pieces and referenced storage facilities in different states.
Bennett met with Lorraine regularly to update her on the investigation. Lorraine deserved to know the truth. All of it. Even the parts that were painful.
“So, my daughter wasn’t his only victim,” Lorraine said when Bennett explained about the journal and the racist motivations.
“No, we believe there were at least five others, all black children. We’re trying to identify them and locate the remains.”
“And this man specifically targeted black children because he knew nobody would look for them.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry. The system failed Jasmine in every possible way.”
Lorraine was quiet for a long moment. “I want Jasmine home now. I want to bury my daughter and then I want to help you find the others. Their families deserve the same closure I’m getting and they deserve to know that someone finally cares enough to look.”
The medical examiner released Jasmine’s remains in early December 2024. Lorraine held the funeral at Mount Olivet Baptist Church where Jasmine had sung in the youth choir.
She expected a small service, just a few close friends and family members who’d known Jasmine. Instead, hundreds of people came.
They came from all over Portland and beyond. People who remembered Jasmine’s case and had never forgotten. Teachers from Jasmine’s school. Neighbors from the old neighborhood. Members of the black community who’d watched too many children disappear without justice.
Activists who’d been fighting for years to get law enforcement to take missing black children seriously. And families of other missing black children, people who understood Lorraine’s decades of searching and wanted to stand with her.
Lorraine delivered the eulogy herself, standing at the pulpit with Jasmine’s school photo displayed behind her. The photo showed a beautiful 12-year-old girl with bright eyes, box braids, and a smile full of hope.
“My daughter Jasmine was 12 years old when she was taken from us,” Lorraine began, her voice steady. “She loved reading Toni Morrison novels that were probably too old for her. She wanted to be a veterinarian. She made her own Halloween costumes. She had her grandmother’s singing voice and her grandfather’s stubbornness. She was kind to everyone, always standing up for kids who were being bullied. She was my baby, my everything, and I loved her more than words can express.”
She paused, looking out at the crowded church.
“For 26 years, I searched for Jasmine. I put up flyers every year on the anniversary of her disappearance. I called the police every month, begging them to keep looking. I hired private investigators I couldn’t afford. I never stopped searching, never stopped hoping that somehow she’d come home. But nobody listened. The detective assigned to her case decided within days that she was just another runaway black girl from a single parent home. He didn’t search. He didn’t investigate. He just closed the file and moved on.”
Lorraine’s voice grew stronger.
“For 26 years, I was told I was in denial. I was told to accept reality and move on. I was told that girls like Jasmine run away all the time. Girls like Jasmine. Black girls, poor girls, girls from neighborhoods that people have written off, girls whose lives apparently don’t matter enough to warrant a real investigation. Now I finally have answers. My daughter was murdered by a monster who specifically targeted black children because he knew nobody would look for them. He knew that missing black children don’t get the same attention as missing white children. He knew that police would assume they’d run away or gotten into trouble. He counted on that indifference and he was right.”
The church was silent except for quiet weeping.
“Jasmine’s killer died 21 years ago without facing justice. That eats at me. It will eat at me for the rest of my life. But today isn’t about him. Today is about Jasmine. Today we remember a beautiful, smart, talented girl who should have had a whole life ahead of her. She should have gone to high school and college. She should have become a veterinarian. She should have fallen in love, had children of her own, lived to be an old woman. All of that was stolen from her. What we can do now is make sure she’s not forgotten. Make sure her story is told. Make sure we keep fighting so that no other black child disappears while police shrug and move on. We have to demand better. We have to demand that black children’s lives matter as much as anyone else’s. We have to refuse to accept a system that treats our children as disposable.”
There was not a dry eye in the church. When Lorraine finished, the congregation stood and applauded, then broke into singing “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” It was the song Jasmine had been learning with the youth choir before she disappeared.
Jasmine was buried in Riverview Cemetery under a simple headstone. Lorraine had chosen the inscription: “Jasmine Louise Mitchell, 1986-1998. Beloved daughter. Her life mattered. You were never forgotten.”
After the funeral, Darnell Washington approached Lorraine. He’d been standing in the back of the church, feeling like an intruder, but unable to stay away.
“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m Darnell Washington. I’m the one who found—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Lorraine took his hand. “Thank you for calling the police. Thank you for taking photos and documenting everything. Without you, I might never have gotten Jasmine back.”
“I had her in my office for 8 weeks,” Darnell said, his voice breaking. “I looked at her every day and didn’t know. I didn’t realize—”
“You couldn’t have known,” Lorraine said gently. “Nobody could have. But you did the right thing once you suspected. That’s what matters. Because of you, my baby is finally home.”
Darnell had been struggling with guilt since the discovery. He’d talked to a therapist, tried to rationalize that he’d done nothing wrong, but the image of that crate in his office haunted him.
He decided to do something with that guilt, to turn it into action.
“I’m working on establishing a foundation,” he told Lorraine. “The Jasmine Mitchell Foundation. It would focus on advocating for missing black children, training law enforcement to investigate these cases properly, and supporting families who aren’t being heard. I know it’s not enough, but I want to do something.”
Lorraine smiled through her tears. “Jasmine would have loved that. She always wanted to help people. She used to talk about becoming a veterinarian so she could open a clinic in our neighborhood where people could afford to get their pets treated. She had such a good heart.”
Detective Bennett continued her investigation into Richard Finch’s other potential victims. She coordinated with police departments in Washington, California, Idaho, Nevada, and Colorado, sharing information about Finch’s movements and methods.
The case in Spokane, Washington looked promising. A 10-year-old black boy named Marcus Johnson had disappeared in July 1996, the same month Finch had a business permit in that city. The case had been closed as a runaway despite the family’s insistence that Marcus would never have left home.
Bennett worked with Spokane detectives to locate the storage unit Finch had rented there. It had been auctioned in 2005. They tracked down the auction buyer who died in 2015. His estate had been sold off. Contents scattered.
It took weeks of following leads, but they finally located a man who’d bought “weird taxidermy stuff” at an estate sale in 2016. Among the items in his garage was a wooden crate with a brass plate reading: “Memorial art piece. Commissioned work 1996.”
Inside was another preserved body. A young black boy approximately 10 years old, positioned as if sleeping.
DNA testing confirmed it was Marcus Johnson.
Bennett called Marcus’s mother, Denise Johnson, who’d spent 28 years searching for her son. The conversation was heartbreaking, but Denise expressed the same sentiment Lorraine had. Finally, after decades, she had answers. Finally, someone had cared enough to look.
“They told me Marcus probably ran away to join a gang,” Denise said, her voice heavy with old pain. “He was 10 years old, a 10-year-old honor student who loved Pokémon cards and wanted to be a scientist. But because we lived in a black neighborhood, because I was a single mother, they assumed my son was headed for trouble. They stopped looking after 2 weeks.”
The investigation expanded. Bennett worked with a team of detectives across multiple states, searching for other units Finch had rented, other children he might have taken.
It was slow, painstaking work. Many records were incomplete or destroyed. Many trails led nowhere.
But they found another victim in Sacramento, California. A 13-year-old black girl named Shayla Barnes, who disappeared from Reno, Nevada in 1997. Her remains were located in a warehouse that had bought storage unit contents at auction.
Then another in Denver, Colorado. An 11-year-old black girl named Brianna Washington, who disappeared in March 2000. Her remains were found in a props warehouse where they’d been mistaken for a movie prop for years.
Four victims recovered. Four black families finally getting the closure they’d been denied for decades. But Finch’s journal had mentioned six completed pieces. Two remained missing, their location unknown, possibly destroyed or still sitting unrecognized in someone’s collection.
Bennett became obsessed with finding them. She coordinated with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, cross-referencing every unsolved case from 1995 to 2003 that matched Finch’s pattern.
Black children dismissed as runaways. Disappeared from areas where Finch had operated.
She worked with Lorraine Mitchell and the other families to raise awareness about missing black children and the systemic failures in how these cases were investigated.
They spoke at conferences, lobbied for policy changes, and worked with Darnell Washington’s foundation to improve training for law enforcement.
“The system failed our children,” Lorraine told a room full of police officers at a training session. “Not because individual officers were necessarily bad people, but because the system itself was built on assumptions that devalued black lives. When a white child goes missing, it’s a tragedy that mobilizes entire communities. When a black child goes missing, too often it’s assumed they’re a runaway or got involved in crime. That double standard cost my daughter her life and delayed justice for 26 years.”
The training sessions were uncomfortable for many officers, forcing them to confront their own biases and the failures of their departments, but they were necessary. Bennett made sure of that.
6 months after Jasmine’s funeral, Bennett received a call from a woman in Boise, Idaho. She’d been cleaning out her late father’s basement and found a wooden crate with an unusual brass plate.
She’d searched online for “memorial art piece commissioned work” and found news articles about Jasmine’s case.
“I haven’t opened it,” the woman said nervously. “But based on the articles, I think you should probably look at it.”
Bennett flew to Boise that night. The crate was the same style as the others. Inside was a young black boy, approximately 9 years old, preserved in the same manner, wearing clothes from the late ’90s.
DNA testing confirmed he was Terrence Moore, who disappeared from Boise in June 1999 while riding his bike to a friend’s house. The case had been closed as a probable runaway after police decided he’d left because of problems at home.
His parents had been going through financial difficulties at the time, and investigators had assumed Terrence had run away because of stress.
Five victims recovered, one still missing.
Bennett continued searching for the sixth victim. The journal had contained a partial list, and forensic specialists had been able to recover more text using advanced imaging techniques.
The list showed:
J.M. – Portland, Oct ’98 – Jasmine Mitchell
M.J. – Spokane, July ’96 – Marcus Johnson
S.B. – Reno, Sept ’97 – Shayla Barnes
B.W. – Denver, March ’00 – Brianna Washington
T.M. – Boise, June ’99 – Terrence Moore
K.P. – Las Vegas, Nov ’95
The sixth victim, K.P., taken in Las Vegas in November 1995.
Bennett searched missing person’s databases for that location and time frame. She found a case that matched.
Kendra Phillips, 12 years old, black, disappeared November 4th, 1995. Case unsolved. Family reported her missing, but police investigation was minimal.
Bennett contacted Las Vegas Metro Police and requested help locating any storage units Finch might have rented in the area. They found one rented under yet another alias that had been auctioned in 2007.
Tracking down the contents took months. The auction had been poorly documented. Buyers had scattered. Many had passed away.
But Bennett refused to give up. Kendra Phillips deserved to be found. Her family deserved closure.
She finally got a break when a retired auction buyer remembered purchasing a crate that matched the description. He’d kept it in his garage for years, thinking it might be valuable.
After his wife passed away in 2023, he’d downsized and donated most of his belongings to a local thrift store.
Bennett rushed to the thrift store. The crate was there in the back storage room waiting to be priced and put on the sales floor.
Inside was Kendra Phillips, preserved like the others, wearing a Spice Girls t-shirt and jeans from the mid-’90s.
Six victims. All found. All identified. All black children whose cases had been dismissed, whose families had been ignored, whose lives had been deemed not worth investigating.
Bennett organized a memorial service for all six children. The families came together, united by their shared loss and their shared experience of being failed by the system that should have protected their children.
Lorraine Mitchell spoke on behalf of all the families.
“Our children were taken from us by a monster who knew that nobody would look for black kids from black neighborhoods. He was right. The police didn’t look. Society didn’t care. For decades, we grieved alone while our children’s cases gathered dust in filing cabinets. But today we stand together. Today we say their names. Jasmine Mitchell, Marcus Johnson, Shayla Barnes, Brianna Washington, Terrence Moore, Kendra Phillips. Six beautiful black children whose lives mattered. Six families who never stopped searching. Six cases that should have been solved decades ago, but weren’t because of systemic racism in law enforcement. We can’t bring our children back. We can’t punish the person responsible because he’s been gone for over 20 years. But we can make sure this never happens again. We can demand that black children’s lives are treated with the same urgency as anyone else’s. We can refuse to accept a system that writes off our children as runaways before even trying to find them.”
The memorial received national attention. News outlets covered the story, highlighting the systemic failures that had allowed Richard Finch to target black children for years without being caught.
Criminal justice reform advocates used the case as an example of how racial bias in policing leads to real harm.
Police departments across the country were forced to examine their own practices in handling missing persons cases. Many implemented new protocols specifically designed to prevent the kind of assumptions that had closed Jasmine’s case and the others after just days or weeks.
Darnell Washington’s foundation grew, partnering with law enforcement agencies to provide training on implicit bias and proper investigation procedures. The foundation also provided support for families of missing black children, helping them navigate the system and advocating on their behalf when police weren’t taking cases seriously.
Detective Bennett received recognition for her work on the case, but she deflected the praise.
“I was just doing what should have been done in ’98,” she said. “The real heroes are the families who never gave up, who kept searching when everyone told them to move on. They’re the ones who made sure their children weren’t forgotten.”
A year after Jasmine’s funeral, Lorraine Mitchell stood at her daughter’s grave. It was covered in flowers, not just from Lorraine, but from strangers who’d been moved by Jasmine’s story.
There were letters, too, from parents of missing children, from activists, from people who’d never met Jasmine, but felt connected to her story.
“I brought you home, baby,” Lorraine said quietly. “It took 26 years, but I brought you home, and I made sure the world knows your name. I made sure people understand what happened to you and the others. I made sure your life mattered.”
She placed fresh flowers on the grave.
“I’m going to keep fighting, Jasmine. For you and for Marcus and Shayla and Brianna and Terrence and Kendra. For every black child who’s missing right now while police assume they’re runaways. For every family that’s begging for help and being ignored. I’m going to keep fighting until the system changes.”
Lorraine returned to her car where Detective Bennett was waiting. They’d formed an unlikely friendship over the past year, bound together by Jasmine’s case and their shared commitment to justice.
“Ready?” Bennett asked.
Lorraine nodded. They were driving to Salem to meet with state legislators about a bill that would require police departments to implement specific protocols for missing persons cases involving children of color.
It was small progress, but it was progress.
As they drove away from the cemetery, Lorraine looked back one more time at Jasmine’s grave. The headstone stood out among the others, a testament to a life that had been stolen, but would not be forgotten.
The system had failed Jasmine Mitchell. It had failed Marcus Johnson, Shayla Barnes, Brianna Washington, Terrence Moore, and Kendra Phillips. It had failed their families and countless others.
But those failures were finally being acknowledged. Changes were being made. And six children who’d been dismissed, forgotten, and hidden away were finally being remembered as the beautiful, beloved, important people they’d been.
It wasn’t justice. Not really. The person responsible was long gone. But it was something.
It was acknowledgment. It was the truth finally coming to light. It was a promise that their lives had mattered, that their deaths would lead to change, that they would never be forgotten again.
Some truths take decades to surface. Some families never stop searching. And some victims are forgotten because the system decides their lives don’t matter enough to investigate.
Every year, thousands of black children go missing. Too many of their cases are closed as runaways without real investigation. Too many families are told to move on while their children are still out there.
This is for them. For every black child whose case was dismissed. For every family that was told they were in denial. For every life that was deemed not worth the effort to find.
Jasmine Louise Mitchell, Marcus Johnson, Shayla Barnes, Brianna Washington, Terrence Moore, Kendra Phillips. Their lives mattered. Their stories matter. They are finally remembered.