In the small back bedroom of a West Side apartment, the ceiling light stays on. Day and night, rain or shine, the light falls on an elaborate tribute to Rickisha King-Tiggs: her backpack, her graduation regalia, the expensive Fendi bag she once hid under her bed. It sits on the dresser, never used, protective wrapping still on its handles.
There is a tall stand-up cutout of Rickisha in long braids and a blue dress, the one she wore to Gibsons on her last birthday. Dried roses, more after each visit to the cemetery. A stack of small Bibles in the corner by the window.
The bed is covered in neatly arranged clothes from all eras of Rickisha’s life: gym shorts from grammar school, her beret from high school, college sweatshirts. Next to the bed are two laundry bags stuffed full. Rickisha was shot dead in October 2022, at age 25.
Her mother Misty Tiggs washed the dirty clothes she left behind; she hasn’t yet found the strength to fold them. Before Misty leaves the house, she gives the figure of Rickisha a goodbye kiss. And then she steps outside, lonely and grieving, furious and fragile and desolate, with a bone-deep belief that it all could have been avoided.
The man charged in Rickisha’s killing was their neighbor. Misty and Rickisha had reported him to law enforcement at least twice before for threatening incidents, one of which allegedly turned violent. The system has limits, even against a known potential threat — a reality underscored in March when a pregnant woman i.
