The Romeo Killer | Part 1

Like many women in their forties, my Friday nights lean toward comfort—cozy clothes, a mug of tea, and the familiar chill of a true crime documentary flickering on the screen. But what feels like safe viewership today once collided with my own life in a way I could never have prepared for. At 22, I was caught up in the ordinary chaos of adulthood—launching my career, making new friends, navigating uncertain first steps. What I didn’t know was that those same years would place me face to face with one of the most shocking crimes Upstate New York has ever endured. A crime that began in the quiet hours of a suburban home yet spilled into the hallways of my former campus, leaving many of us to carry its shadow long after the case was closed.

It was mid-November 2004, on a day heavy with late autumn. The sun never fully committed to rising, and the air—cold but not biting—hovered in the mid-40s with a dampness that hinted at winter lurking around the corner. The sky hung a dull pewter, pressing low over the Genesee and muting campus into shades of stone and slate. It was unremarkable weather for Rochester, NY, forgettable even, except it became the backdrop to a crime impossible to forget.

After work, I packed my car with an overnight bag and the kind of snacks you live on when you’re young, stretched thin, and still have an efficient metabolism. I then made the familiar drive from Syracuse to Rochester. These weekends visiting my boyfriend softened the sharp edges of transition, letting me dip back into a world that still felt partly mine.

As I pulled up to his dorm, I spotted him jogging toward me with the easy urgency that always steadied me after a long week. For a moment, everything felt ordinary—the relief of arrival, the comfort of a familiar face. But that warmth evaporated when my gaze shifted past him.

The dorm—a boxy mid-century tower with little charm, its third floor home to Sigma Phi Epsilon—was cordoned off in a shroud of yellow tape. It looped across entrances and stretched the building’s length, stark against the gray afternoon. The strips snapped in the damp wind, less like plastic than a warning.

At the far edge of the lot, a lone police cruiser sat angled toward the building, its presence quiet but commanding. The silhouette of the officer inside was barely visible, unmoving—an unblinking sentinel to whatever had unfolded.

“Change of plans,” Jonah said as I rolled down the window. “Let’s spend the weekend at your apartment.” I nodded, not questioning, trusting that explanations would come later.

Chris Porco’s name soon surfaced. On campus, he was known if not always noticed—a tall, easygoing business major who drifted between classes and fraternity parties. Professors found him bright but unreliable, his excuses more consistent than his assignments. To most students, he was just another twenty-something finding his footing.

Beyond Rochester, though, his life was anchored in Delmar, a quiet suburb near Albany. His father, Peter, was a respected law clerk for the Appellate Division, admired for his diligence and intellect. His mother, Joan, was a speech pathologist, beloved for her warmth and devotion to her patients. They embodied stability and dependability—the kind of family that seemed far removed from flashing tape and patrol cars.

But beneath that surface, cracks had begun to spread. Chris’s grades faltered, his professors lost patience, and academic probation loomed. At the same time, finances unraveled. He racked up debt, dipped into accounts without permission, and even forged his father’s signature on loan documents. When Peter and Joan discovered the deception, their disappointment sharpened into confrontation. Arguments over grades, tuition, and unpaid bills became more frequent. Friends later described Chris as charming but careless, masking mounting trouble with an easy confidence.

By the fall of 2004, those arguments had hardened into ultimatums. Resentful and cornered, Chris was locked in a battle not just with expectations but with the very people who had given him every opportunity to succeed.

His bright yellow Jeep Wrangler came to symbolize his double life. On campus, it stood out—flashy and unmistakable against lots filled with modest sedans and compacts. To classmates, it was a badge of freedom; to his parents, it was another burden, another line of debt they hadn’t agreed to shoulder. When they pressed him about the loans tied to the Jeep, tensions escalated. Peter even threatened to take the car away if Chris couldn’t prove responsibility.

The Jeep, once a symbol of independence, had become a wedge in the Porco household—cheerful on the outside, but beneath it, a rolling emblem of lies, debts, and disappointment. By November, the fragile balance between Chris’s family life and campus life was collapsing, and with it, the illusion of stability his parents had worked so hard to establish and maintain.

Keep your eyes open for Part 2, to be published separately.