In 2002, Madison McGhee’s father, John Cornelius ‘J.C.’ McGhee was murdered in cold blood in the doorway of his home. Madison was just six years old at the time, but, decades later, she started asking questions about his mysterious murder – and turning the spotlight on her own family and the police to untangle a shady web of ‘coincidences' and conspiracies. Now returning for a second series of her gripping podcast, Ice Cold Case, Madison, 29, shares her story with GLAMOUR – and reveals why she’s trusting intuition to find her father’s killer.
I vividly remember the moment I found out my father had been murdered. I'd always been told that he died of a heart attack. But aged 16, when I went to visit my family on my dad's side, the truth came out.
I hadn't seen my grandmother in 10 years, around the same time my father, her son, had died. The visit had gone well and, after leaving the house, I turned to wave goodbye to my cousin, Omar, who was stood outside on the front porch. I’d only ever met my father’s nephew once before – at my dad’s funeral – but, in that split second, seeing him again felt like taking a punch to the stomach; it physically knocked the wind out of me. I was struggling to breathe and although I couldn't – and still can't – explain it, I knew in my gut that something was wrong.
All I could think about was my dad. I couldn’t shake this sinister feeling that had washed over me and I was desperately trying to piece it all together. It was here, on the driveway of my grandmother’s house, that my mum had to finally tell me the truth: my dad had been murdered, shot at point-blank range in his own doorway – and his killer had never been found.
In the years that followed, a natural curiosity gripped me and I began exploring the circumstances of his death. I requested the official report from the police investigation – a bungled case that has never been closed, nor brought a single suspect to trial – fanning the paperwork out ceremoniously on the floor in front of me, trying to fit pieces of an impossible jigsaw together.
As the story unfolded, I started to learn some uncomfortable truths about my dad – a man who was a known drug dealer, user, and police informant – yet I still felt fiercely that he deserved better. The more I read, the more I needed to find out for myself what had really happened to him, and why. Was the case botched because he was Black? The Belmont County police force was comprised predominantly of white officers 22 years ago, and a lack of diversity would have created bias, intentional or not. Did my dad’s custody battle with his ex, Deneen, play a role in the murder? Or could the fact that he’d informed on his own family members to protect himself from prison hold the key? I went back through the family tree, contacting cousins and aunts I had no relationship with to unearth new information. But the more people I spoke to, the more shocked I was to discover a plethora of theories surrounding my father’s murder. Sadly, none seemed noble or upstanding.
According to the files, the day my father died went something like this: Omar, who lived next door to my dad, reported a break-in at around 6am that morning. Three or four guys broke in, tied up my dad’s sister and Omar’s girlfriend, then spent 30 minutes ransacking the house for money. They were specifically looking for a safe, and somehow wound up at my dad’s house with Omar in tow – a detail that immediately stood out as odd to me while I was ploughing through the pages. Why was he still there? Why was he the only one not tied up?
My dad, having heard a commotion next door, had walked towards the front porch just as the ransackers burst into his house. He was shot at point-blank range. A kill shot. No money was taken, no alleged safe searched for. The facts came at me like a bullet train. None of it made sense as I tried to piece the events together in my mind, replaying my father’s shocking murder out in the cheery confines of my Charleston home.
Omar’s emergency call raised even more red flags – failing to divulge that my dad has been shot, calling him his “neighbour” rather than his uncle. As I sat there, listening to his strangely emotionless emergency call from the sanctity of my bedroom, chills ran up and down my spine as he spoke: there was no shock, no authenticity in his voice. One minute the ransackers had Californian car plates and Omar knows who they are; the next, he denies recognising them at all. It’s a really bizarre call to make, knowing that your uncle is probably lying dead in his living room. When the police finally arrived, I read how they’d searched my sister’s house first, rather than my dad’s, numb in disbelief. I was dumbfounded to learn that no DNA evidence, no dusting for fingerprints, had ever taken place.
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It was clear that only witness testimonies could unlock the truth now. I needed people to talk; to dig up fresh leads, drum up interest in the local community, apply pressure on the authorities – which was where the podcast, Ice Cold Case came in.
At first, my extended family – most of whom I hadn’t spoken to in decades – were eager and excited to help. I set up intimate interviews in their kitchens and living rooms, recorded wild theories about underground drug wars, custody battles, and old family rivalries. But, as the podcast neared its launch date, people suddenly closed up: they didn’t want their recordings aired or real names used. It was frustrating because I’d assumed we were all on the same page; I thought we all wanted to solve this together. That’s been one of the hardest things to deal with, actually, the shifting dynamics and the realisation that I can’t trust the two institutions you’re taught to trust as a child: your family and the police.
Initially, Omar was at the top of my list of suspects. His account kept changing and his lack of emotion seemed peculiar to say the least, but key witnesses cleared him of any involvement and, following questioning by the police, he put forward a new prime suspect in the case: Daryl Smith, a convicted criminal known to both Omar and a nephew my dad had informed on. Ultimately, though, Daryl was arrested but never charged – Omar’s account just wasn’t deemed reliable enough to stand up in court. For a long time, I was convinced that Daryl Smith had pulled the trigger. Then, he called me, requesting to meet. We set a date and a time, agreeing to sit down in a local library – the quiet, dusty shelves providing a safe public space in which to look my dad’s potential killer dead in the eyes. I was scared to meet him; nervous about what he might say and how he’d react to my questions. But by the time I left, my theory had changed: he seemed genuine, truthful, slightly bemused by it all. Yes, he had a checkered past. Yes, he’d been involved in some shady situations – just like my dad. But he hadn’t murdered my father. And I believed him.
It was back to square one; back to building fresh theories. I haven’t lost hope in bringing my father’s killer to justice. Making Ice Cold Case has produced so many new leads, and my investigation continues to open up unexpected lines of enquiry. I’ve grown closer to my dad while making the podcast, too. I now know the ‘real’ him, and discovering that we’ve both battled with anxiety and depression in the past has helped me to process my own grief, and unpack some personal experiences along the way.
Now, as I sit here sifting through new information, I can feel the direction of the investigation shifting – and I know, deep in my gut, that I’m getting closer to cracking the case. After all, intuition is what led me to discover the truth about how my father died. Now, I’m hoping it’ll also lead me to his killer.
Season 2 of Ice Cold Case is now available on all podcast platforms.
