Transcript
Nikki Wasolishen (0:03)
Hi, my name is Nikki, and I'm the daughter of a murdered woman. Welcome to Poppy Killed Mommy. Before we get started, I need to warn you. This podcast contains discussion of domestic violence, homicide, and other potentially distressing topics. The individual mentioned is presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Listener discretion is advised. Poppy killed Mommy. Those were the first words my little sister said to me after the Sedona Police Department put me in the backseat of a squad car with her minutes after our mother's death. Those words have followed me, haunted me, and shaped me into the woman I am today. This podcast has honestly been the biggest challenge I've ever taken on. It's been completely overwhelming. I've pushed myself far outside my comfort zone to bring you the story of my mother, Stephanie Marie Wasolishen, who like to be called Stacy. Hers is a case like countless others across America, because in the US Domestic violence claims thousands of lives each year. At the core of domestic violence is power and control, and leaving an abusive relationship is one of the most dangerous times for a woman. The Bureau of Justice Statistics says that, and I've learned it firsthand. In 1993, my mother made the decision to leave, but she never got a chance to pack a bag and go. I grew up with the knowledge that her death was ruled a homicide, that it was domestic violence. But for 30 years, I wondered why no one was ever charged, why nothing ever happened, why no one stood up for my mom when it mattered most. As the years turned into decades, my hope faded. But 28 years after her death, I started investigating myself. I started asking questions, and I discovered what an epidemic domestic violence is in our nation. Here's just some of what I've learned. Domestic violence accounts for 15% of all violent crime. 41% of women have experienced some form of domestic violence every day in the US Three women are murdered by a current or former intimate partner. A homicide is 500 times more likely to occur if there's a gun in the home. 75% of women murdered by their partners are killed as they are leaving or after they leave. Almost one third of female homicide victims are killed by an intimate partner. These statistics are not just numbers to me, they are the backdrop of my mother's death, the weight I carried into adulthood, and the reason I'm telling you this story now. I'm here to spread awareness about my mother's case and about how common this kind of violence is in everyday American life. I want answers. I want closure for myself, for my family, but most importantly, for my mother, Stacy in this podcast, I'm going to take you through my mother's cold case step by step. I'll show you what happened that night in July of 1993. Everything I remember as a child and everything I've discovered as an adult. I'm going to show you the evidence that exists and let you decide whether there was enough to bring charges or at least present my mother's case before a grand jury of our peers. Before I tell you about the worst night of my life, I want to tell you about my mother, Stacy, and some of the parts of her life I've learned through family and friends while making this podcast. In many ways, I've come to know her better in death than I did in life. My mother was born a twin, Stephen and Stephanie wasolishin. Born in Chicago on June 1, 1961, baby Stephen died nine months later from measles. Because the police refused to transport him to the hospital, fearing contagion, they told my grandparents to call a taxi instead. Because of the delay, he didn't make it. His death was such a tragedy that it made the local papers and it sparked a deep distress of police in my family, which ironically has followed us into the next generation. After Steven's death, the family packed up and moved to Phoenix, Arizona, where Stacy would grow up in a big Russian family. Grandma B had seven kids in total, and the youngest, Wendy, was close in age to my mom. I like to think Wendy was the twin my mom got back when my mom was a teenager. Her father, Harry, died of a heart attack. I never heard my mom talk about this period, but from what Wendy told me, it was devastating for the youngest girls. Grandma B, who had never worked outside the home, was suddenly alone and she quickly remarried a man named Bruce, whom I only knew as the balloon guy. Bruce was not a nice man, and from what I've been told, he was abusive to my mother in ways I'm still trying to piece together. There's a rumor that my mother was impregnated by him as a teenager and sent to Chicago to either have a baby or have an abortion. Some say the baby was placed for adoption. Others say there never was a baby. I may never know the full truth.