Silence killed my mother I couldn't protect.

I filed a report. The process felt incredibly old-school. It took multiple phone calls and trips, but I finally got an officer to let me fill out the form. I had to play back my conversation with the bank just to get attention to my claim. Ten days later, my report still hasn’t been entered into their system.

The suspect lied about her relationship to Linda when questioned by the detective. She lied about the card transactions. She lied to me over text about my mom’s condition—delaying my ability to grieve and respond. She removed an unknown amount of jewelry, electronic devices, accessories, estate documents, and cash from the apartment I inherited— and not without grabbing Linda’s wallet and cellphone.

I have the bank statements. I have the texts. I have the altered signatures. I have the pain. Knowing that my mom passed under such mental duress and financial strain is difficult to bear—but nowhere near as difficult as it was for her to escape it.

I knew this woman was preying on my mother, but I couldn’t protect her. She infantilized my mom with addiction and humiliation. My mom passed away on October 5. The surgeon cleared me to drive the next day, and my truck—vandalized while my mom was live on the phone—was fixed that same day. I went straight to my house in the Bronx.

I wandered around aimlessly in my old home for a couple of days. Finally, on October 10, when I couldn’t find her actual wallet anywhere, I called my mom’s phone. The suspect answered: “I know you want the text code for the money in the account. Your mother didn't have online access.” That sounded absurd to me. I checked it the year prior and although my mom didn't know she had an online profile, one was there with the username saved.

I replied, “I want my mother’s phone, keys, and wallet.”

I didn’t yet realize the extent of the theft. She agreed to mail the keys and wallet but insisted on keeping the phone—even after I offered to buy it. I kept her on the line while I checked my mom’s bank account. I found it registered to the suspect’s email address and my mother’s cell number. I immediately changed the information, then ended the call.

Reviewing the account, I saw transactions made on October 6 and 7—after Linda’s death. I called the non-emergency police line. They told me to call 911. I went to the precinct the next day. They told me to speak to the detective first. He declined to investigate, citing the suspect’s claims.

I called the bank again, recorded the call, then texted the detective that I was driving back down to the station with evidence. They took my report on October 13 after I convinced them I’d already spoken to the detective. But as of October 23, it’s still not in the system.

There’s a systemic problem preventing this case from being investigated. It could be process inconsistencies, cultural insensitivity, or even operational value—but we have to expose it. My instincts told me from day one: this woman was dangerous.