Alton, Illinois — an early summer evening that felt ordinary. Heat lingering on the pavement. On a grainy CCTV screen at 11:57 p.m., a man steps out of an apartment building, cradling a white laundry basket—so mundane that no one would think twice. He slips behind a smoke shop and disappears. At that same hour, a mother texts her daughter: “You okay?” No one realizes it’s the last message she’ll ever send into the void.

By morning, a construction worker walks to a dumpster near a worksite. Broken drywall. A bloodied knife. Clothes tossed like afterthoughts. Every instinct tells him to back away. By noon, a mother opens her daughter’s door—and her world collapses.

Lisa Dodd—Riverbend’s bright, animal-loving girl; the smile at Dairy Queen; the child who donated her birthday to the local humane society. She was weeks away from becoming a mother. On the night of June 8, 2022, tomorrow vanished.

– The day before: Ordinary hours for a mom-to-be
Afternoon, June 8. Lisa sits on her porch, scrolling her phone, resting a hand on her eight-month belly. The family calls the baby “Baby Bean.” Shower invitations just went out. At 22, she’s saving for the future, working shifts at Dairy Queen, dreaming of following her mom into the medical field.

– A fragile relationship
Lisa is in an on-again, off-again relationship with DeAndre Holloway, her boyfriend the same age. Their history is turbulent—fights, reconciliations, more fights. Coworkers and family worry: bruises once blamed on “the dog jumping,” frequent lateness, personal drama. One day, a camera behind her workplace captures them arguing in a car. In September 2021, she texts her boss: “My boyfriend beat me again… They want me in a safe place. He’s threatened us before.” Soon, they’re back together.

– June 7: A silence that stretches
DeAndre vanishes without a word. At 9 p.m., Lisa texts her mom: “You think he just left?” She counts the clothes he took. It feels intentional. Her mom, worried but trying to soothe, replies: “If it had to end, at least it wasn’t violent.” Lisa answers: “I’m not seeing it that way yet.” She drives aimlessly after 1:30 a.m., too anxious to sleep. Morning brings no answers.

– Morning, June 8: Cameras and thin hope
Lisa asks her landlord to check CCTV. It shows DeAndre leaving with his uncle the night before. A message arrives that evening: the uncle is bringing him back; everything’s fine. Lisa’s mother isn’t convinced, warns of risks. Still, Lisa chooses hope—again. At 9:11 p.m., the building camera records Lisa and DeAndre returning home.

– 9:11–10:49 p.m.: The last unheard minutes
Downstairs neighbors notice the apartment door slightly ajar—unusual. Muffled cries, the floor trembling as if from a struggle. Then a series of steady, heavy blows—methodical, rhythmic—like splitting wood: lift, commit, bring it down. Four, five, six beats. Then silence. Lights flick on and off upstairs. No one comes down. At 10:49 p.m., her mother texts: “You okay?” No response.

– 11:57 p.m.: The white laundry basket
DeAndre appears in the lot, changed clothes, a white laundry basket in hand. He steps out of frame toward a smoke shop. At 12:01 a.m., another business’s CCTV captures a white basket tossed into a dumpster, clothing flung after it. Later, police confirm the basket contains a severed portion of Lisa’s remains.

– Early hours, June 9: Covering tracks
Lisa’s car is moved. Around 2:30 a.m., DeAndre shows up at his mother’s home—agitated, pacing. By 10 a.m., family watch him cut off his dreadlocks—his pride, now wrapped in toilet paper and thrown away. He asks for clean clothes and discards the old ones. His grandmother notices he’s carrying Lisa’s ID, bank card, and keys. “Why do you have these?” “Found them on the ground,” he says. The answer goes nowhere.

– 12:59 p.m., June 9: 911 and a frozen moment in time
Lisa’s mother arrives at the apartment and lets herself in. Her cry to the dispatcher is raw. Police enter, secure the scene, search. Lisa’s body is found in the bedroom. No obvious murder weapon. The missing remains are not there. The neighborhood, ordinary hours earlier, is now a national headline.

– Night of June 9 into June 10: Warrants and a suspect in focus
A search at DeAndre’s mother’s home yields the cut hair and clothes matching CCTV. In the early hours of June 10, police in Gillespie arrest a “John Doe” on a cannabis charge—later identified as DeAndre. He’s restless, combative, bangs his head, and is restrained for safety. Alton investigators arrive with warrants for biological samples.

– June 10–13: Silence and charges
In the interview room, DeAndre refuses to confirm his identity, says he wants to “go to work,” mentions prior meds, then asks for a lawyer. On June 13, 2022, he’s charged: two counts of first-degree murder, two counts of intentional homicide of an unborn child, vehicle-related offenses, and concealment of homicidal death. Bond: $2 million.

– Court competency and mental health
In custody, DeAndre is disruptive, makes threats, refuses a virtual hearing, and is forcibly brought to court. He’s found unfit to stand trial and sent for restoration. Meanwhile, an Illinois Supreme Court ruling limits the treatment of an unborn child as a second murder victim for life-sentencing purposes—narrowing maximum penalties.

– Final sentence: 60 years
In January 2024, DeAndre pleads guilty. On January 17, 2025, he is sentenced to 60 years: 30 for murder, 20 for the homicide charge, 10 for concealment—consecutive. He must serve at least 52 years before eligibility for release. For Lisa’s family, it is measured justice; for the community, a brutal lesson.

– A neighborhood after the storm
Neighbors who once passed each other taking out trash and heading to work become witnesses. They remember the cries, the shaking, the guilt of not calling again. But neighbors aren’t police. They have no protocols, only fear. “What if…” lingers.

– The family speaks: Pain and a call to action
Lisa’s mother—grandmother to “Baby Bean”—thanks investigators and names the truth: this was the result of two years of escalating domestic violence. Her message to those trapped in abuse: “Make a safety plan to leave. If someone threatens to kill you—believe them. Reach out to local or national resources. Your life depends on it.”

The “WOW” moment isn’t a cinematic twist; it’s the ordinary horror of a laundry basket in the night. Under dim infrared, it marks the line between pretense and reality. While a mother typed “You okay?” and upstairs lights clicked on and off, the story crossed the point of no return.

Another, colder turn: a sequence of deliberate acts—changing clothes, cutting hair, dumping evidence, carrying the victim’s documents, showing up at mom’s door at 2:30 a.m., asking for a “fresh start.” Not a flash of regret, but a layered attempt to erase, to rebuild a different “me.”

But cameras don’t forget. Steps, turns, timestamps, objects—stitched together into an answer sealed by a 60-year sentence under the courtroom’s cold lights. Procedure and technology did their part. The price—a mother, an unborn child—remains too high for any number to soothe.

Lisa Dodd’s story does not end with a sentence. It slips into every home where someone is “learning to endure” abuse in silence. It appears in the texts: “He disappeared again,” “I’m fine,” “Don’t tell anyone.” It asks each of us: when you hear thuds through the wall, what will you do? When you type “You okay?” at 10:49 p.m., could that be the last chance?

For law enforcement, this case underscores:
– The value of CCTV, tight timelines, and swift response to “odd but not urgent” calls.
– Cross-jurisdiction coordination when suspects move between towns.
– The reality of competency proceedings—and the need to connect mental health care earlier, before it’s too late.

For media and social platforms:
– Tell it right, without sensational gore. Respect victims and families. Don’t turn tragedy into entertainment.
– Share resources for domestic violence alongside the story, not just fear.

For communities and individuals:
– Recognize abuse signs: control, humiliation, isolation, threats, physical/psychological harm.
– Build a safety plan: safe shelter options, emergency numbers, a go-bag, exit routes—and tell someone you trust.
– If you see or hear something alarming, don’t play detective; call 911 (or your local emergency line). Better a false alarm than a missed chance to save a life.

Lisa’s family chose action in their grief: donations to domestic violence services, a plea to believe threats when they’re spoken. They can’t bring back Lisa and “Baby Bean,” but they can save other Lisas—with their story, their courage, and the right numbers saved in a phone.

The Alton night is long gone, but the white basket remains in memory—a symbol of how evil can wear the mask of ordinary. If there’s one thing to carry forward, it’s a promise: don’t ignore calls for help, don’t excuse violence, don’t let another “Lisa” lose her voice.