Sinners and Secrets

Pride & Prejudice: 4 Decades of LGBTQ+ Murders

• Abraham Aurich • Season 2 • Episode 5

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This Pride Month special explores the disturbing pattern of LGBTQ+ activists' deaths being systematically misclassified as suicides despite evidence of hate crimes. We examine how visibility became a death sentence for those who dared to live openly when society demanded silence.

• Scott Johnson's death at Sydney's Bluefish Point in 1988 was immediately ruled suicide despite no evidence of depression
• His brother Steve spent 34 years fighting for justice, uncovering at least 80 similar suspicious deaths of gay men in Sydney
• Harvey Milk's 1978 assassination revealed how the justice system failed to acknowledge anti-gay motivation
• Marsha P Johnson's body was found in the Hudson River with evidence suggesting murder, not suicide
• Police departments consistently used "lifestyle" terminology to blame victims and avoid investigating hate crimes
• Contemporary activists still face targeted violence, from Marielle Franco in Brazil to state-sponsored persecution in Chechnya
• Modern technology and advocacy have improved responses, but trans women of color remain disproportionately vulnerable
• Speaking the names of those who were silenced becomes an act of resistance and protection for future generations

If you or someone you know is experiencing anti-LGBTQ+ harassment or violence, contact organizations like The Trevor Project or local LGBTQ+ centers for support and resources.

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Sandi McKenna:

December 10th 1988. Dawn breaks over the jagged cliffs of Sydney's North Head. A jogger moves along the coastal path, the salt air sharp in his lungs, until something down below stops him cold. At the bottom of Bluefish Point. Waves are washing over what looks like a body. The police arrive, they take a few photos, ask a few questions and within hours they've made their decision Suicide.

Sandi McKenna:

Welcome to our special Pride Month episode. Today we're diving into something that will make your blood boil and your heart break in equal measure. We're talking about activists, people who dared to live openly, to fight for equality, to be visible when visibility could get you killed. And we're talking about what happened when someone decided their voices needed to be silenced. From a cliptop in Australia to the halls of San Francisco City Hall, from the Hudson River to the streets of Brazil. There's a pattern here that law enforcement spent decades refusing to see. These weren't random crimes, these weren't accidents and they definitely weren't suicides. So stay with us, because over the next hour we are going to walk you through the stories of those whose lives and deaths demand to be heard. And here's the part that will haunt you how many more cases like these are still sitting in filing cabinets, misclassified and ignored, waiting for someone to finally ask the right questions. Let's find out. I'm Sandy McKenna and, along with Abraham Ulrich, welcome to this special Pride Month episode of Sinners and Secrets Audio Jungle Audio. Jungle Audio.

Abraham Aurich:

Jungle. Scott Johnson, just 27, lies twisted on the rocks beneath Bluefish Point. The officers take one look Gay man known meeting spot. They call it suicide, case closed. But here's what they never asked Was Scott depressed? Was he struggling? The answer, by all accounts, is no. He was thriving, working on his PhD in mathematics, in love with his partner Michael, making plans, building a future. But what Scott was was visible, openly, gay, out and proud. And in 1988, sydney, that kind of courage could cost him his life.

Abraham Aurich:

What police dismissed as an isolated suicide was part of something much bigger and much darker. Between 1976 and 2000, at least 80 men died under suspicious circumstances around Sydney 80. Yes, let that sink in. They called the locations Gay Beats, bluefish Point, marks Park, bondi Beach, places where men went to find connection, privacy, maybe even love. But they were being turned into hunting grounds.

Abraham Aurich:

Packs of teenage boys, sometimes as young as 14, would roam these cliffs looking for targets. They called it poofer bashing. To them it wasn't a hate crime, it was a pastime. The playbook was always the same them. It wasn't a hate crime, it was a pastime. The playbook was always the same Corner a man. Rob him, beat him, throw him off a cliff if they felt like it. And when the body was found, simple Gay man, known meeting place must have jumped out of shame.

Abraham Aurich:

The perfect crime, because the cops were already writing the ending. The more visible you were, the more danger you were in. If you were loud, proud or an activist, you were easier to find. And the Sydney police? They had a saying when these cases came in One less to worry about. That's not an urban legend, it's a direct quote. And this wasn't just Sydney, it was the Castro District in San Francisco, the piers of New York City, small town, big cities. The formula stayed the same Find a victim, silence them. Let society's shame do the rest. Who was going to fight for people the world had already written off? But silence didn't win, at least not forever, because someone always fights back. And who did? Scott Johnson's family, that's who. Harvey Milk's friends, marsha P Johnson's community, people who refused to believe that love was a reason to die or that pride was a crime. But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. Let's go back to that December morning in 1988 and talk about what really happened to Scott Johnson and why it took 34 years to call it what it was murder.

Sandi McKenna:

Let me tell you about Scott Johnson Not the victim, the person Because that's where this story really starts and what makes what happened to him so damn infuriating. He was 27,. Brilliant, fearless. Scott had moved from California to Sydney to pursue his PhD in mathematics at the Australian National University. This was 1988. Being openly gay wasn't just brave, it was revolutionary. And Scott, he wasn't hiding from anyone. Tall, sandy-haired, with this infectious laugh that his friends still talk about, he lived in Lane Cove with his boyfriend, michael Noon, and, by all accounts, they were happy, really, really happy. He was doing groundbreaking work in math, had a tight-knit circle of friends and he was planning a bright, wide-open future. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't struggling with his identity and he was planning a bright, wide-open future. He wasn't depressed, he wasn't struggling with his identity and he wasn't suicidal. Remember that it becomes very important later. December 10, 1988.

Sandi McKenna:

Saturday morning, scott tells Michael he's going for a walk, something he often did. He loved the coastal trails, the cliffside views. He headed toward North Head, specifically Bluefish Point. Hours pass, scott doesn't return. Michael starts calling around. Friends haven't seen him by evening. He's frantic. He calls the police.

Sandi McKenna:

The next morning, that jogger we mentioned earlier finds Scott's body on the rocks below Bluefish Point. He's been in the water, battered by the waves, but it's obvious he fell from a significant height. Here's what the police did they took photos. They noted that his clothes were found neatly folded at the top of the cliff. Noted that his clothes were found neatly folded at the top of the cliff. They asked Michael a few routine questions and within 24 hours they had made up their minds Suicide. No canvassing of witnesses, no forensic testing of the clothing, no exploration into whether those clothes were folded by Scott or by someone else. No mention of the fact that Bluefish Point was a well-known gay meeting spot and the site of repeated anti-gay attacks. Case closed, filed away.

Sandi McKenna:

But 8,000 miles away in California, scott's older brother, steve Johnson, started getting calls that didn't make sense. They spoke often. Scott sounded upbeat, excited. Even Just days earlier he'd called Steve about his research and about coming home for Christmas. Steve started asking questions and the more he asked, the less the official story made sense.

Sandi McKenna:

First, the location. Bluefish Point wasn't just a scenic overlook. It was part of what locals called the gay beat Secluded areas where men met for connection, privacy and intimacy, but also places where gay men were targeted, attacked, killed. Second, the clothes Police claimed Scott folded them neatly before jumping. But his friends said he was meticulous. He'd never leave his things exposed like that, especially with rain in the forecast.

Sandi McKenna:

Third, the injuries. Scott had defensive wounds on his hands, on his arms, wounds that didn't match a simple fall. But when Steve tried to get answers he hit a wall. The New South Wales police weren't interested. They had their ruling and they were sticking to it. So Steve did what any loving brother would do when the system failed. He became the detective the police refused to be. He flew back and forth for years, hired private investigators, interviewed witnesses the police never had contacted. Investigators, interviewed witnesses the police never had contacted. He studied tides, weather and topography. He dug into the growing pattern of gay hate crimes that Sydney police had quietly buried and what he uncovered was horrifying.

Sandi McKenna:

Between 1976 and 2000, steve uncovered at least 80 suspicious deaths of gay men, each ruled suicide, drowning or accidental. Most were barely an investigation, some with no investigation at all. In 2005, steve pushed for a second inquest. Deputy State Coroner Jacqueline Millage reviewed the evidence for months. She ruled the suicide finding was wrong. Scott's death was caused by violence, but she couldn't determine if it was murder or manslaughter. It was progress, but it wasn't justice. In 2012, steve pushed for a third inquest. This time, coroner Michael Barnes went further. He found that Scott had died from a gay hate attack and criticized the original police investigation as deeply flawed. Still no charges, no arrests, no accountability.

Sandi McKenna:

But in 2017, everything shifted. The New South Wales government offered a $1 million reward for information leading to gay hate crime convictions and suddenly people started talking. One of them was Scott White, a teenager in 1988, a man with a history of violence against gay men, a man who had been in the area of Bluefish Point the day Scott died. A man who had been in the area of Bluefish Point the day Scott died. Under questioning, scott White admitted he'd crossed paths with Scott Johnson that day, that there was an altercation and finally, that he attacked him because he was gay. On May 2, 2022, 33 years, 4 months and 22 days after Scott Johnson's death, scott White was convicted of his murder. During sentencing, justice Helen Wilson said what Scott's family had waited decades to hear the victim did nothing wrong. The victim was targeted and killed because he was gay. But what makes this story not just heartbreaking but hopeful is this Scott Johnson's case unlocked dozens of others.

Sandi McKenna:

Steve's relentless pursuit of truth forced the government to confront what they had spent years denying.

Sandi McKenna:

Today, a special police unit reviews gay hate crime. Cold cases from that era Families once told their sons or brothers took their own lives are finally getting real investigations. Steve Johnson spent 34 years fighting for his brother. He mortgaged his home, depleted his savings, devoted every spare moment to seeking justice, and when asked why he never gave up, he said something that still gives me chills. Scott was my little brother. He deserved better than what they gave him. They all deserved better, and that's what this story is really about, not just one death or even one family's fight. It's about a system that failed an entire community, about how prejudice and indifference can be just as deadly as a weapon, but it's also about the power of love, of persistence and of refusing to let injustice stand just because it's easier. Scott Johnson died because he was gay and visible at the time when visibility could cost you everything. But his story lived because Steve refused to let him be erased, and that refusal to let him vanish that's what changed everything.

Abraham Aurich:

November 27, 1978, monday morning, harvey Milk walks the halls of San Francisco City Hall with a spring in his step. Just a week earlier, california voters rejected Proposition 6, a ballot measure that would have banned gay teachers from teaching public schools. Harvey had campaigned tirelessly against it and the victory it felt like a turning point. He had no idea he had less than two hours to live. Let's go back, because Harvey Milk's story isn't just about how he died. It was about who he was and why his life mattered. Harvey was 48, a former Wall Street analyst, turned camera shop owner, who found his true calling in politics. He wasn't just out out. He was loudly out, defiantly, joyfully, unapologetically gay at a time when that could destroy your career, your family, your life.

Abraham Aurich:

Harvey ran for San Francisco supervisor three times before finally winning in 1977, becoming the first openly gay elected official in California. He didn't win by playing it safe. He won by being exactly who he was. His campaign slogan Harvey Milk vs the Machine. And it fit. He was up against the old guard, the insiders, the ones who thought San Francisco should never change. But Harvey was to change and he was winning. Not everybody was happy. Dan White was everything. Harvey wasn't 32 years old, a former police officer and firefighter, a devout Catholic, a believer in traditional values, he was elected to the board of supervisors the same year as Harvey, representing a conservative district that was growing uneasy with San Francisco's shift towards progressivism. Where Harvey was inclusive and expressive, white was rigid and resentful. Where Harvey fought for the marginalized, white defended law and order. They clashed often and their mutual dislike was no secret. In October 1978, white abruptly resigned from the board, citing financial pressures. The salary of $19,600 a year wasn't enough to support his family. But almost immediately he has second thoughts. He lobbied Mayor George Moscone to reappoint him. At first Moscone seemed inclined to do it, but Harvey Milk and other progressive supervisors pushed back. They urged Moscone to appoint someone aligned with the city's future. They urged Moscow to appoint someone aligned with the city's future, not its past. On November 26, the day before the murderers, moscow called White, told him he wouldn't be reappointed. He was choosing a more liberal replacement instead. Dan White was furious.

Abraham Aurich:

The next morning, on November 27, white put on his best suit. Then he did something. No one noticed, but should have. He strapped on his service revolver, a .38 caliber Smith Weston. He arrived at City Hall around 10 am. But instead of walking through the front doors and passing through the metal detectors, he climbed through a basement window. He knew how to bypass security. Of course he had worked there. He went straight to Mayor Moscon's office. Moscon, expecting a conversation, let him

Abraham Aurich:

in. The first shot hit Moscon in the shoulder, the second into his chest. The mayor collapsed. Then White walked over to where Moscon laid, wounded but still alive, and fired two more shots at point-blank range into his head. But White wasn't finished, not yet at least. He reloaded his gun, crossed the building to Harvey Mills' office and asked to speak with him privately. Harvey, unaware of what had just happened, said yes. They stepped into a small side room. Moments later Harvey was dead, shot five times, two of them fired execution style into his head, after he'd already fallen. By 11.30 am both men were

Abraham Aurich:

gone. Dan White calmly walked out of City Hall, drove to the nearest police station and turned himself in to a former colleague. His precise words were simple I shot the mayor and Harvey. The city erupted. Thousands gathered in the Castro District, harvey's neighborhood. Candlelight vigils stretched for blocks. People wept in the streets. This wasn't just the murder of two politicians. This was an assault on everything the city's progressive movement stood for. But if the public expected justice, they were in for a

Abraham Aurich:

heartbreak. Dan White's trial began in May 1979. His legal team, led by Douglas Schmidt, mounted a controversial strategy the diminished capacity defense. Now let's be clear. The infamous Twinkie defense didn't claim junk food caused the murderers. What the defense argued was that White's junk food binge, candy bars, coca-cola was a symptom of deep depression, that his mental state was impaired by his inability to form intent. Psychiatrists smart and blind testify that White's shift from health food to sugar and snacks was proof of emotional collapse. But here's the problem this wasn't a spontaneous act. White brought a loaded gun. He avoided security. He reloaded after killing the mayor, then executed

Abraham Aurich:

Milk. The prosecution argued for first-degree murder. They pointed to all the signs of premeditation. But they made a critical mistake. They barely mentioned Harvey Milk's sexuality. They never framed it as a hate crime. Maybe they thought it was obvious. Maybe they didn't want to stir things up further. Maybe they underestimated the cost of silence. Whatever the reason, it was a miscalculation that would haunt San Francisco for decades. On May 21, 1979, the judge delivered their verdict Voluntary manslaughter, not first-degree murder, not second-degree murder. The man who executed two elected officials would be eligible for parole in just five

Abraham Aurich:

years. That night the Castro district exploded. What began as a peaceful vigil became the White Nights Riot. Protesters stormed City Hall Windows were shattered, police cars burned. Over 140 people were injured, dozens were arrested. The gay community had reached its breaking point. Dan White had served five years in one month. He was released in 1984. Less than two years later he took his own life carbon monoxide poison in a

Abraham Aurich:

garage. But the question never really left. Was this political rage a personal vendetta? Or was Harvey's identity, the fact that he was proudly publicly gay, the reason why White killed him? Here's what we know. Dan White made homophobic comments throughout his time in office. He opposed every piece of gay rights legislation and after the murderers, he told the police Harvey was trying to turn San Francisco into a playground for homosexuals. A direct quote here's what we don't know and may never know. Was that hatred the reason Harvey Milk died, or just one more layer in a tragedy shaped by rage, repression and

Abraham Aurich:

fear? What we do know is this Harvey Milk's assassination lit a fire under the LGBTQ plus rights movement that even his life hadn't sparked yet. The death became a rallying cry. His story became legend, and his message that visibility matters, that pride is powerful, echoed beyond San Francisco. Harvey once said If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closed door In death. He got his wish, and that bullet didn't just tear through one man. It tore open a national conversation. But it also revealed something darker how easily justice can fail when the victim is seen as other. How easily a hate crime can be reframed as something easier to swallow. Dan White didn't just kill Harvey Milk. He tried to kill the idea Harvey represented that LGBTQ plus people deserve not just tolerance, but acceptance, respect and power. And while the idea was wounded, that day, harvey's legacy proved stronger than the bullet that tried to stop it.

Sandi McKenna:

Before we talk about how Marsha P Johnson died, we need to talk about how she lived boldly, defiantly and with a fire that still burns decades later. June 28, 1969. The Stonewall Inn is under siege, but this time the fight isn't coming from the outside, it's erupting from within. Decades of police raids, harassment and brutality have pushed the LGBTQ plus community to its breaking point. And right there in the thick of it, throwing bottles and leading chance, is a 24-year-old black transgender woman named Marsha P Johnson. The P, she said with a sly smile, stood for pay it no mind.

Sandi McKenna:

Marshall was born Malcolm Michaels Jr in 1945 in Elizabeth, new Jersey. She knew from an early age that she was different, but in the 1950s and 60s there weren't words for what she felt and there definitely wasn't acceptance. At 17, she made her way to Greenwich Village with just $15 and a bag of clothes. She took the name Marsha and lived her truth loudly and unapologetically. Marsha was impossible to miss. She stood over six feet tall and wore elaborate wigs, bright makeup and outfits that blended costume, protest and art. Feathers, flowers, bangles, rhinestones. Every look told a story and every story was unmistakably Marcia. But she wasn't just a performer, she was a protector. She was a protector, a revolutionary who understood that for people like her, survival and resistance were the same thing. After Stonewall, marsha co-founded STAR Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries with her best friend, sylvia Rivera. Star wasn't just an organization, it was a lifeline. Their Star House gave shelter to homeless LGBTQ plus youth, especially trans women of color, with nowhere else to go. And let's be clear, this was dangerous work. In the 1970s and 80s, being openly trans, especially if you were black and poor, was nearly a death sentence. Marcia lived with that threat every single day, but she never stopped showing up, never stopped opening her door, never stopped fighting.

Sandi McKenna:

By 1992, marcia was 46 years old and still fighting. She'd been hospitalized for mental health episodes, what doctors called mania. But that summer friends said she was doing well, she was excited about pride, she had plans, projects, purpose. Then came July 6, 1992. A Monday morning her body was found floating in the Hudson River near the Christopher Street Pier. The pier back then was a haven for LGBTQ plus youth, especially kids who'd been kicked out of their homes. It was also a place where trans women met clients because for many sex work was the only way to survive. But the pier was dangerous Violence, assaults, drownings. It was the kind of place where someone could vanish and no one would ask too many questions.

Sandi McKenna:

When Marsh's body was found, the NYPD moved fast, too fast. They ruled it suicide. No real investigation, no witness interviews, no consideration of the fact that Marcia wasn't suicidal. Here's what the police didn't ask. Marcia had been at a Pride event the night before she was last seen leaving around 1 am with someone no one recognized. She had future plans. She was excited about what was to come next. Here's what else they didn't ask. There was blunt force trauma to her head, a wound that suggested she'd been struck or thrown. But here's what says it all about how the NYPD valued Marsha's life. They didn't perform an autopsy. For weeks Her body sat in the morgue decomposing while someone decided whether her death was worth investigating. And when they finally did perform an autopsy, there was no water in her lungs. Think about that If she had jumped or fallen into the river and drowned, there would have no water in her lungs. Think about that If she had jumped or fallen into the river and drowned, there would have been water in her lungs. The absence of water suggested she was already dead when she entered the water, but the ruling stood Suicide.

Sandi McKenna:

For 20 years, marsha's friends and community demanded answers. They were ignored, dismissed, told to move on. Then, in 2012, something shifted. Filmmaker David France released the Death and Life of Marsha P Johnson, a documentary that pulled the curtain back on her case. It featured interviews with Marsha's friends, activists, experts and exposed just how flawed the original investigation had been. And it revealed something chilling. In the two weeks before her death, marsha had told friends she was being harassed. She said she was scared that someone was following her.

Sandi McKenna:

The documentary and the pressure it created finally forced the NYPD to reopen her case. Detective Ryan Cronin was assigned to reinvestigate. But by then the trail was cold. Witnesses had died, evidence was gone, memories had faded. What Detective Cronin did uncover was damning. Witnesses who saw Marcia with someone that night were never interviewed. Friends who said she wasn't suicidal were dismissed without statements and Marcia's purse Never found. She'd been seen carrying money from a recent gig In the world. Marcia lived in robbery.

Sandi McKenna:

Homicides were tragically common, but rarely taken seriously. As of today, marsha P Johnson's death remains officially unsolved. The case has been reclassified as a homicide investigation, but there have been no arrests, no charges, no justice. What Marsha's story really shows us is this Society saw her as disposable and in many ways still does. She was a pioneer, a revolutionary, a mother to a movement, and yet when she died, she was just another dead trans woman.

Sandi McKenna:

In the eyes of the NYPD, the intersection of racism and transphobia creates a perfect storm of indifference. Black trans women are murdered at disproportionate rates. Their deaths are rarely investigated with urgency or respect. Marsha's case wasn't an outlier. It was part of a pattern. Today that's starting to change.

Sandi McKenna:

Marsha is finally being honored. Monuments are going up, scholarships are being funded and her work her real work continues through grassroots organizations supporting LGBTQ plus youth. But maybe the most important tribute is this People who are finally asking the right questions about her death. They're demanding answers. They're refusing to let her story stay buried. Portia P Johnson spent her life fighting for a world where people like her black, trans, poor, loud, beautiful could live safely, openly and with dignity. She didn't live to see that world realized, and if her death tells us anything, it's that she may have died because that world didn't yet exist. 30 years later, we're still asking the question Marsha might have asked when will Black trans lives matter enough to get justice? When will the system that failed her be forced to face that failure. The answer is we're still waiting.

Abraham Aurich:

March 14th 2018, rio de Janeiro, brazil. Just after 9 pm, Mariel Franco leaves a panel of Black women in politics Still glowing from the energy in the room. She climbs into the backseat of her car with her press advisor, anderson Gomes. Her driver pulls away from the cultural center and makes it exactly four blocks. Another car pulls up alongside them at a traffic light and, without warning, gunfire Thirteen shots, nine of which hit their mark. Mario Franco and Anderson Gomes died immediately. Mario Franco and Anderson Gomes died immediately. The driver somehow survives. Let me tell you who Mario Franco was. Her life explains why her death sent shockwaves around the world.

Abraham Aurich:

Mario Franco was everything the Brazilian establishment feared Black, a woman, openly bisexual and unwilling to stay quiet. She grew up in Meir, one of Rio's largest favelas, where police brutality was a daily reality for her. She grew up watching friends and neighbors disappear into a system that treated poor black lives as disposable. But Marielle didn't just survive. She rose above her origins. She went on to earn her master's degree in public administration, became a human rights activist and won a seat on the Rio City Council. Her platform Police Accountability, women's Rights, lgbtq Plus Rights and the End of the Military Occupation in Rio's Favelas. Marielle wasn't just talking. She was investigating, documenting, naming names. Days before her murder, she publicly criticized a violent police operation going on in her neighborhood by calling out a battalion known for its brutality. Needless to say, marielle Franco made powerful people nervous, and her murder it wasn't random. It was a message, a political hit carried out with military precision, the kind of operation that doesn't happen without permission. Seven years later, we have some answers. In 2023, brazilian federal police arrested five men in connection with the crime, including two former police officers believed to have pulled the trigger, but the mastermind, the people who ordered the hit, they're still free. Mario's case shows us something chilling when LGBTQ plus activists also challenge state power, the danger multiplies. This isn't just about personal bias. This is institutional violence designed to silence dissent, and if you want to see what that looks like completely unrestrained, look no further than Chechnya.

Abraham Aurich:

In 2017, reports began emerging from this Russian republic, reports that should have shocked the world. Men were being rounded up, detained, tortured and, in some cases, killed because they were suspected of being gay. This was systematic, coordinated and brutal. Chechen's officials tracked people using their social media, dating apps and informants. These men were arrested, detained in secret facilities, literal concentration camps. Once there, they were beaten, electrocuted and even tortured. Some were released, others vanished, never to be seen again, even tortured. Some were released, others vanished, never to be seen again.

Abraham Aurich:

Chechen's leader, razam Khodorov denied the whole thing. He said, quote if such people existed in Chechnya, law enforcement wouldn't need to worry about them. Their own families would send them to a place of no return. End quote Translation we don't have to kill them. Their own families would do it for us. This wasn't mob violence. It was state-sponsored genocide run by government officials, shielded by Moscow's silence and largely ignored by the rest of the world. International investigators documented the crimes, but prosecuted almost none. The men responsible still hold power. Then there's Mexico. The numbers alone are staggering.

Abraham Aurich:

Between 2013 and 2020, more than 400 trans people were murdered. Most of these murders followed a pattern Extreme violence, sexual assault, mutilation. These weren't crimes of passion. They were warnings meant to silence entire communities. And, as always, the more visible you are, the more at risk you become. Trans women who speak out, organize or refuse to hide become deliberate targets, like Alessa Flores, a trans rights activist murdered in 2020. She had reported death threats to the police, begged for protection. The police ignored her. Then she was killed. Or Paola Buenarrostro she organized Mexico's first trans pride march. Weeks later, she was shot and left in the street.

Abraham Aurich:

Message received. The pattern is undeniable. Whether it's Rios or Grozny, mexico City or Sydney, the message is the same Visibility became dangerous, speaking out is dangerous, challenging power is even more dangerous and the response Tragically consistent as well. These deaths don't get full investigation, these voices don't get preserved. But what connects them all, the men of Chechnya, the transhuman of Mexico, is this they knew silence was deadly and still they spoke up. They could have stayed quiet, could have disappeared, but they didn't, because they understood what their killers feared that love, justice and truth, when spoken out loud, are more powerful than violence and hate. It's 2025 and we're still burying the same victims, still having the same conversation, still fighting the same battles. The progress is real, but it's fragile and it's paid for in blood. Every pride flag, every marriage equality law and every anti-discrimination ordinance exists because someone risked their everything to make it happen, and for too many, that risk wasn't theoretical, it was fatal.

Sandi McKenna:

It shows up in police reports across continents, across decades Two quiet words that have buried more truth than they've ever uncovered Probable suicide. Let me read you some of the headlines Gay man found dead at cliff base. Police rule suicide. Transgender woman found in river Apparent suicide. Lgbtq plus activist dies under suspicious circumstances Suicide suspected. Do you hear the pattern? Because the families of these victims did and they started asking a very simple question why is suicide always the first assumption when LGBTQ plus people die under mysterious circumstances?

Sandi McKenna:

Let's go back to the cases we've covered. Scott Johnson, found at the bottom of the cliff, gay man remote area. No obvious struggle and close the file within hours Suicide. Never mind that Scott had no history of depression, never mind that he had plans for the future, never mind that the location was a well-known hotspot for anti-gay attacks. The narrative was too convenient to question. Marsha P Johnson, found floating in the Hudson River in 1992. No thorough investigation, no interviews with friends who insisted she wasn't suicidal, no consideration of the blunt force trauma to her head.

Sandi McKenna:

Here's what these cases had in common the victims were LGBTQ+, the circumstances were suspicious and the authorities chose the explanation that required the least work, the fewest resources, the smallest amount of caring. When a straight, white, wealthy person dies mysteriously, there is an investigation, witnesses are interviewed, forensics analyzed, leads pursued. When an LGBTQ plus person, especially someone poor, trans or a person of color, dies the same way, the assumption changes. The thinking goes like this Well, these people live difficult lives. They face discrimination, rejection, mental health challenges. Of course they'd be suicidal. It's victim blaming dressed up as compassion and it kills. But in case after case, families refused to accept the easy explanation. These families saw what investigators didn't or wouldn't acknowledge that assuming suicide was often a way of avoiding the harder, messier work of investigating a hate crime.

Sandi McKenna:

And slowly, painfully, the truth began to emerge. Not because the system worked, but because people outside the system refused to let it fail. Cold case units formed decades later started finding evidence that had been ignored or dismissed. Community organizers forced cases to be reopened. Documentaries brought public attention to deaths that had been filed away and forgotten. In Scott Johnson's case, a public reward finally pushed witnesses to come forward, people who'd seen gangs in the area that night information that could have been gathered in 1988 if anyone cared enough to look. Marsha P Johnson's case was reopened only after public outrage and documentary pressure forced the NYPD's hand. Even then, it took years for them to reclassify her death as a homicide. These cases could have been solved decades earlier if they'd been treated with the same care given to other victims. The evidence existed, the witnesses were there, the forensics were possible.

Sandi McKenna:

What was missing was the belief that these lives mattered enough to investigate fully. And that belief, or lack of it, comes from somewhere. It comes from a society that still in many ways sees LGBTQ plus people as other, as tragic by default, as someone responsible for the violence they face, as living lives that naturally end in tragedy. And that bias doesn't just affect the individual cases, it blinds the entire system. When each death is treated as an isolated incident, when every suspicious death is quietly stamped suicide, authorities miss the bigger picture. They miss the organized gangs targeting gay men, the serial killers hunting trans women, the coordinated threats aimed at LGBTQ plus activists. It's only when activists and families demand a broader look that the patterns emerge Clusters of suicides at gay meeting spots, transgender women found dead under similar conditions, the same suspects appearing again and again across supposedly unconnected cases.

Sandi McKenna:

Today, things are slowly shifting. Some police departments now have LGBTQ plus liaison units. Some jurisdictions have updated hate crime protocols. Some cold case units are reviewing historical LGBTQ plus deaths. But this change didn't come from the inside. It came because families and communities refused to accept probable suicide as the final word. They fought, they organized, they demanded better. Every reopened case, every overturned suicide ruling, every long overdue conviction, each one is a victory, not just for justice but for the principle that all lives deserve to matter equally under the law. But each one also represents something else a system failure, a life that might have been saved, answers that should have been found long ago. And now we have to ask ourselves how many more cases are out there still filed away as probable suicide, waiting for someone to care enough to look again? How many families are still fighting for answers they should have gotten decades ago? And how many have we already lost Because no one asked the right questions when it still mattered?

Abraham Aurich:

There's a word that appears again and again in police reports, newspaper articles and official statements about LGBTQ plus victims over the last 50 years. It's subtle, easy to miss, but once you see it, you can't unsee it. The word is lifestyle. The victim's lifestyle may have contributed to their death. Police are investigating whether the victim's lifestyle played a role. Given the victim's lifestyle, suicide cannot be ruled out. That single word carried the weight of an entire society's prejudice. It didn't describe an identity. It implied a choice, a risky one, a dangerous one, one that made violence seem not only predictable but almost deserved. This wasn't an oversight. It was editorial strategy, a way of reinforcing the idea that LGBTQ plus people were tragic, unsafe or other. And it worked Because, over time, lgbtq plus victims weren't treated as fully human. They became cautionary tales, not people, not lives worth protecting, not stories worth justice. But here's what that narrative erased so many of these victims weren't just living, they were leading. Harvey Milk wasn't just a gay man, he was reshaping California's politics. Marsha P Johnson wasn't just surviving, she was saving lives. Mario Franco she wasn't just bisexual, she was dismantling corruption, fighting police violence in Brazil. These weren't random acts of violence, these were strategic silences. People in power got uncomfortable. And when these changemakers were killed, the word lifestyle gave everyone else permission to look away. The legacy of that silence. It can be overstated. Imagine being LGBTQ plus in the 1970s, 80s or 90s and knowing that if something happened to you, society would shrug and say well, what did they expect? So people hid, they stayed quiet. They didn't report violence, they didn't seek help, they lived. So people hid, they stayed quiet. They didn't report violence, they didn't seek help. They lived smaller, safer lives, not because they wanted to, but because being seen felt like a death sentence. And the cruel irony Most of the people we lost were the ones trying to change that. Marsha P Johnson was out there every day feeding that. Marsha P Johnson was out there every day feeding, sheltering and fighting for LGBTQ plus youth, but when she died she was dismissed. Just another tragic trans woman Harvey Milk. He proved gay leaders could be effective, respected and visionary, but his assassination was framed as well the cost of his controversial lifestyle.

Abraham Aurich:

This framing had a purpose. It kept society from having to examine its role in LGBTQ plus violence. If these deaths were just part of that lifestyle, then we didn't have to question the law, the system, media and ourselves. It was victim blaming just dressed up in formal language. But language shapes reality and eventually LGBTQ plus voices began reshaping the narrative. Lifestyle became identity, choice became orientation and tragedy became what it often was a hate crime.

Abraham Aurich:

Today's activists understand what their predecessors only dreamed of that visibility, while dangerous, is also powerful. That speaking out while risky is also how you change the world. And that silence, it, may protect you for a while, but it will never set you free. We haven't broken the silence completely. Trans women of color are still being murdered, queer people around the world still face state violence and the media still gets it wrong Too often in my opinion. But the framing has shifted, and that shift matters. We no longer accept lifestyle as an excuse for neglect. We demand names, investigation, accountability. The voices that were silenced didn't die in vain. They forced the world to listen, even in death, and their legacy it lives, not just in the cases we solve, but in the culture we're still fighting to change. One conversation at a time. One truth at a time. One conversation at a time.

Sandi McKenna:

One truth at a time, one name at a time, february 2025. Somewhere in America, a transgender woman checks the news before heading out to work. Another headline, another law, another murder in her community. She sighs, she smooths her blouse and walks out the door anyway, because that's what survival looks like now. This is what it means to be LGBTQ in 2025. The landscape has changed, but the danger hasn't disappeared. It's just evolved. Let me give you some numbers that haunt the headlines, if they even make the headlines at all.

Sandi McKenna:

In 2024, at least 36 transgender people were murdered in the US. That's that we know of the true number, almost certainly higher, because many deaths are misreported, deadnamed or erased before they're ever counted Globally. It's even more alarming before they're ever counted Globally. It's even more alarming In 2023, the Trans Murder Monitoring Project documented over 320 murders of transgender and gender-diverse people. That's more than one death every day, and the pattern is painfully familiar 96% of those victims were transgender women, 80% were people of color.

Sandi McKenna:

When racism, sexism and transphobia collide, the result isn't just inequality. It's fatal. But violence isn't only physical. In 2024 alone, over 500 anti-LGBTQ plus bills were introduced to the US state legislatures, bills targeting access to health care, education, bathrooms, even the right to simply exist in public. This isn't accidental, it's not isolated. It's a coordinated campaign. Families are fleeing states where their children can't access medical care, trans people are retreating into hiding and LGBTQ plus youth suicide rates are spiking. But 2025 feels different because the response is faster, louder, more unified. Take Nex Benedict, a 16-year-old non-binary student in Oklahoma. In February 2024, nex was beaten at school and days later died. The police rushed a call it a suicide, but this time the system didn't bury the story. The police rushed to call it a suicide, but this time the system didn't bury the story. The community refused to let it. Within hours, lgbtq plus advocates were demanding answers, investigative journalists were on the case and the public was paying attention. Groups like the Human Rights Campaign, glaad and the National Center for Transgender Equality now operate rapid response teams. They monitor investigations, train families to deal with the media and keep names like Nexus from being forgotten.

Sandi McKenna:

Digital activism has become a force of its own. Podcasts like the Dark and the Embedded prove that persistence can solve cold cases. Documentarians no longer wait for justice. They dig it up themselves. When the death and life of Marsha P Johnson dropped on Netflix, it did more than just tell a story. It shamed the NYPD into reopening her case. That's what happens when media is wielded by people who care.

Sandi McKenna:

Technology cuts both ways. Dating apps now include safety tools, but they also expose users to hate. Social media connects isolated queer youth, but it also becomes a bullhorn for threats. Still, data is improving. The FBI's hate crime reports now break down anti-LGBTQ plus violence. Local grassroots trackers fill in the gaps when law enforcement drops the ball.

Sandi McKenna:

Legally, we've come a long way since Harvey Milk's murder. The Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr Hate Crimes Prevention Act expanded federal protections to cover LGBTQ plus victims. Hate crime laws now exist in most US jurisdictions, but laws don't enforce themselves. Prosecutors still have to press charges, juries still have to believe the victims mattered, and police they still have to investigate with care. And the threats keep coming.

Sandi McKenna:

Online harassment campaigns, doxing, coordinated messaging, politicians exploiting transphobia to win elections. The tactics change, but the goal stays the same Make LGBTQ plus people afraid, make them invisible, make them quiet. So where are we now? We live in a time of progress and backlash side by side. Same-sex marriage is law, but transgender teenagers are being denied basic medical care. Drag performers have TV shows, but not legal protection to perform in public.

Sandi McKenna:

What's keeping people alive isn't policy, it's people. Organizations like the Trevor Project answer crisis calls 24-7. Local LGBTQ plus centers offer therapy, housing, help, legal aid or just a room where you can exhale. Online, queer kids in conservative towns are finding friends they've never met. That's new, that's powerful, and visibility that once felt like a death sentence has become its own form of protection. It's harder to disappear someone whose name trends on Twitter. The fight continues because it must. Because tonight a transgender woman walks home keys in hand, hoping she gets there. Because somewhere, a gay teenager wonders if it's safe to be honest. Because somewhere an LGBTQ plus activist is hitting post knowing it might put a target on their back. The names we've spoken tonight Scott Johnson, marsha P Johnson, harvey Milk, marielle Franco they matter because they remind us every LGBTQ plus life has value. Every unexplained death deserves a second look. Every voice silenced leaves us all a little weaker. The fight isn't over. It won't be over Not until no one has to choose between love and life, between authenticity and safety, between being visible and being alive.

Abraham Aurich:

Say a name that was meant to be forgotten, any name, and listen to what happens. You feel it. The way the air shifts, the way silence becomes electric, because somewhere someone was counting on that name never being spoken again. This is why memory terrifies those in power, not just because it represents facts, but because it preserves truth. And truth, once spoken, demands a response. When we remember Harvey Milk, we're not just honoring a murdered politician. We're confronting a world where a man could be gunned down for being openly gay and his killer could serve just five years. When we speak Marsha P Johnson's name, we're not just recalling a pioneer. We are calling out 30 years of silence, 30 years of refusal to ask the hard questions about how and why she died.

Abraham Aurich:

Memory excavates Every time we revisit a story that was buried, we reveal the system that tried to erase it. Every cold case reopened is an admission that justice failed the first time. Every overturned suicide ruling is proof that bias wore a badge. And that's exactly why these stories were meant to disappear, because they revealed uncomfortable truth about who the system protects and who it discards. But memory, it spreads. When one person starts asking questions, others join in. When one family refuses to accept silence. Other families find their courage. When one journalist investigates a cold case, others follow and suddenly those cases don't seem so cold anymore.

Abraham Aurich:

Telling these stories doesn't just honor the dead, it arms the living. It gives language to experience, validation, to suspicion and proof that your instincts about injustice are real. Because when we refuse to let people be erased, we make erasure impossible. When a documentary forces a police department to reopen a case, when a podcast unearths new witnesses, when families finally get the investigation their loved ones deserve, that's memory weaponized. Every visual that reads the names of the lost is a dedication of defiance. Every chant, every mural, every candlelight march across streets once stained by violence. It's memory made visible. And it's not just about the names we know. It's about the ones we never learned, the ones buried in case files marked no further action, the ones erased so thoroughly we can't even mourn them. For every Scott Johnson whose case made headlines, how many never did. For every Mario Franco who became a symbol, how many activists vanished without a trace? This is why memory matters, because it creates space and those stories will never recover. Every name we speak makes room for the names we can't. And maybe most importantly, memory shapes the future.

Abraham Aurich:

When young, lgbtq plus people hear these stories. They understand they're part of a lineage. They learned that their right to exist, to love, to speak, was earned through unimaginable loss. They learned that their lives mattered because someone else's life mattered first. And they learned something else, too that the fight isn't over. The forces that killed Harvey Milk, that erased Marsha P Johnson, that silenced Mario Franco those forces still exist, but now so do we. Every story we tell creates a record that can't be undone. Every episode, every name, every investigation builds an archive of truth, one that would outlast the people who tried to bury it. This is the power of memory as resistance. It turns victims into witnesses, it turns silence into testimony. It turns endings into beginnings. The people we've spoken about tonight, they're not gone. They are here in these words, in these demands, in this ongoing fight for justice. Memory is a weapon and, in the right hands, it proves that love outlives hate, that truth endures beyond lies and that some voices once heard can never be truly silenced.

Sandi McKenna:

I'm not a politician, I'm not a doctor. I'm a wife, I'm a mother, I'm a grandparent, I'm a friend. I'm a human being. And that's exactly why I decided to talk about this, because when any person in our community faces harm for just being who they are, it affects all of us our neighbors, our families, our schools.

Sandi McKenna:

You don't have to understand someone's entire story to want them to be safe. You don't have to agree on everything to believe that every person deserves to come home to their family each night. I was raised to protect people who can't protect themselves, to stand up for the vulnerable. That's not politics. That's just being human. We're losing neighbors to violence and fear, and when good people stay quiet, the loudest voices aren't always the kindest ones. So I decided to speak up because I believe most of us, deep down, want the same thing Communities where everyone can belong, where our differences don't divide us, but where our shared humanity brings us together. Everybody deserves to have their children safe, their friends safe, their parents safe. We all deserve a peace of mind, and that's why it's so important.

Abraham Aurich:

Before you close this tab, before the world rushes back in, I would like you to remember something. Tomorrow morning, someone will sit in their car outside their parents' house wondering if it's safe to come out. Someone will cross a dark parking lot after a night out scanning every shadow. Someone will choose whether to speak up at school, at work, at home, knowing it could cost them everything. But what you do, what you choose to do with what you've heard tonight, may be the reason they make it home.

Abraham Aurich:

We told you about the ones we lost, but we haven't told you enough about the ones who survived the teenager who didn't take their own life because someone at the Trevor Project picked up the phone. The trans woman who escaped a death sentence because Rambo Railroad got her out. The victim who saw their attacker convicted because someone demanded the case be reopened. Those victories happen because people like you refuse to look away. Everyone we talked about here tonight. They're gone. They can't vote, they can't speak up, they can't protect anyone anymore. But you can. You are their voice now, their vote, their second chance at justice. I am Abraham Alrick and, along with Sandy McKenna, we want to thank you for joining us on this episode of Sinners and Secrets. If you liked this episode, consider subscribing, liking and sharing, and leave a comment and tell us what you think about the episode. Until next time, keep questioning, keep seeking, and may your journey be as rich and enlightening as the stories you encounter.

People on this episode

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Sandi McKenna

Host
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Abraham Aurich

Co-host