SOLVED:Pennsylvania Cold Case | 4th-Oldest Case in American History Solved Through DNA After 58Years

SOLVED:Pennsylvania Cold Case | 4th-Oldest Case in American History Solved Through DNA After 58Years

The DNA results arrived on a Thursday morning in February 2022. Corporal Mark Baron opened the email with trembling hands. 57 years, 10 months, and 23 days. That’s how long Pennsylvania had waited for this answer. The match probability? 1 in 480 septillion.

To put that in perspective—and I need you to understand this—there have only been 117 billion people who have ever lived on Earth. To find another person with this DNA profile, you’d need to search 4 million planet Earths.

But here’s the twist that will make your blood run cold. The killer had been dead for 42 years. And when he murdered 9-year-old Marise Ann Chiverella on March 18th, 1964, he lived just six blocks from her home. He could see her grave from his bedroom window. His name never appeared in 58 years of investigation files. Not once, not even as a person of interest.

So, how did a teenage college student with a laptop finally unmask a monster who took his secret to the grave?

Welcome to Cold Case Desk. I’m your host, and today I’m taking you inside the fourth-oldest cold case in American history ever solved. A case that changed an entire town forever, that transformed how we catch killers, and that proved something terrifying and hopeful at the same time: DNA never forgets, even when everyone else does.

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It was a Wednesday morning in Hazleton, Pennsylvania. The kind of morning where the cold cuts through your coat and makes you wish you’d stayed in bed five more minutes. Marise Chiverella woke up excited. It was March 18th, 1964. Tomorrow was the feast day of St. Joseph, a big celebration at her Catholic school. She’d spent the evening before picking out the perfect canned goods from her father’s grocery store: pears and beets. She wanted to bring them to her teacher, Sister Josephine, today. She also wanted to get to school early enough to attend morning mass at St. Joseph’s Church.

Marise was 9 years old, 55 pounds, bright blue eyes, and dark hair. Her family described her as sweet and shy, the kind of kid who cared more about others than herself. She dreamed of becoming a nun. She’d just gotten an organ from Sears and was teaching herself to play. She was born on Thanksgiving Day, November 25th, 1954, in Waterloo, New York. By 1964, her family had settled into life in Hazleton, a Pennsylvania coal mining town where everyone knew everyone and doors were left unlocked.

The Chiverella family lived at 533 Alter Street. Her father, Carmen Chiverella, owned the Little Market, a neighborhood grocery store right next to their home. Her mother, Mary, worked at a knitting mill downtown. Marise had four siblings: Ronald (16), the oldest brother; Carmen Marie (13), her only sister; Barry (11); and David (7), the baby of the family.

That morning started like any other, except for one thing: Marise asked if she could walk to school alone. It was unusual; she typically walked with her siblings. St. Joseph’s parochial school was less than half a mile away—six blocks—but she’d never made the trip by herself. This morning was different. She wanted to get there early. She wanted to drop off those canned goods. She wanted to make it to mass. Her parents said yes.

Between 7:50 and 8:00 in the morning, Marise Ann Chiverella grabbed her school bag, her pocketbook, her canned goods, and left home. The temperature was brutally cold. The wind was fierce. She was wearing a dark jacket and skirt with black leotards and suede shoes. She had her multicolored scarf wrapped around her.

At approximately 8:10 in the morning, Helen Slattery, Marise’s mother’s cousin, saw the little girl walking east on the north sidewalk near 212 West 4th Street, close to Sherman Court. She was just one block west of Church Street, which locals called Route 309. Slattery watched Marise hustling along, fighting against that bitter wind. She thought about calling Marise inside to warm up for a few minutes. Several neighbors saw her and offered to let her come inside. Marise declined. She was determined. She had to make it to church on time.

That was the last time anyone saw Marise Ann Chiverella alive.

By midday, something was wrong. Marise hadn’t shown up to school. Her teacher marked her absent through all the morning classes. In the Chiverella household, lunchtime arrived. The kids usually came home to eat. Barry and Carmen Marie walked through the door. Marise didn’t.

Their father, Carmen, told them to go back to school and find her. Maybe she’d stayed for an extra activity. Maybe she’d lost track of time. Carmen Marie went to Marise’s homeroom teacher. The instructor said the same thing she’d told the school earlier: “I haven’t seen Marise either. She’s been marked absent all morning.”

That’s when everyone realized something had gone terribly wrong.

Carmen Chiverella, the father, started searching. He went to St. Joseph’s Church. He walked the route Marise should have taken. He asked neighbors. He knocked on doors. Then one of the neighborhood women yelled over to him. She asked who and what he was looking for. When Carmen said he was looking for his daughter, the woman’s face changed. “If you’re looking for the little girl,” she said, her voice shaking, “they found her.”

About 3 miles away from the Chiverella home in Hazle Township, there was an abandoned coal stripping pit. It was a scar on the landscape, one of thousands left behind by decades of anthracite coal mining in northeastern Pennsylvania. The pit was now used as an illegal dumping ground for refuse, tucked away near Hazleton Municipal Airport off Airport Road.

At approximately 1:00 in the afternoon, 38-year-old Arthur F. Robinson drove to the pit. He was giving his 16-year-old nephew driving lessons. He brought along a container of ashes to dump. As Robinson looked down into the pit, something caught his eye. At first, he thought it was a large doll. But as he moved closer, approximately 25 feet down the slope from the top of the garbage dump, he realized what he was looking at. It was a little girl.

Arthur Robinson immediately left the site and called the Pennsylvania State Police. Within minutes, police arrived at the scene. So did priests from St. Joseph’s Church. Back in 1964, it was common for clergy to arrive at death scenes to administer last rites, a Catholic sacrament for the dying. One of those priests looked at the small body and his face went pale. He knew her. He positively identified her as Marise Ann Chiverella.

Let me describe what investigators found that day. And I need to warn you, this is going to be difficult to hear. But it’s important you understand the brutality of what happened to this little girl because it’s going to matter later when we talk about the suspect.

Marise was found at the bottom of the refuse pit. She was still fully clothed in her dark jacket and skirt with her black leotards, but her suede shoes were missing from her feet. They were found nearby, along with her school bag, her pocketbook, and those canned goods she’d been so excited to bring to Sister Josephine. Her wrists were bound together with one of her own shoelaces. Her ankles were bound together with her other shoelace. A multicolored scarf—what people back then called a babushka—had been stuffed so deep into her mouth and throat that it knocked out one of her teeth. It was used as a gag to prevent her from screaming. She had been hit twice on top of her head, hit once on her right temple. There were strangulation marks around her neck.

Dr. Julius Fost conducted the autopsy at Hazleton State General Hospital. Cause of death: asphyxiation and strangulation. Marise Ann Chiverella had been strangled to death.

But that wasn’t all. She had been sexually assaulted before she died. And the killer left something behind, something that wouldn’t matter in 1964, but would become the key to everything 58 years later. The killer’s bodily fluids were found on her jacket.

In 1964, there was no such thing as DNA testing. The structure of DNA had only been discovered by Watson and Crick in 1953, just 11 years earlier. Nobody understood that genetic material could be used to identify a specific human being. So that evidence was carefully documented and preserved. And then the case went into a filing cabinet where it would wait for science to catch up.

Let me paint you a picture of Hazleton, Pennsylvania in 1964. This was a coal mining town, a place built by immigrants: first Germans and Irish in the 1840s, then Italians, Poles, Russians, Lithuanians, Slovaks, and Montenegrins who came to work the mines. By 1964, the coal industry was dying. The Knox Mine disaster in 1959 had been the death knell. Deep mining had shut down entirely.

But the community spirit was still alive. This was a place where everyone knew everyone. Where kids played outside until the streetlights came on. Where children walked to school by themselves, came home for lunch alone, and nobody thought twice about it. Ron Marchetti, who was the same age as Marise, remembered: “Back then we didn’t even lock our doors. You could ask anybody around here my age or who knew that age, and they’ll know Chiverella and remember that case.”

Jake Ripa, a local jeweler who lived a few blocks away from the Chiverella family, said: “The innocence of youth in the community was gone. That was it. There was no more ‘I’m going down to my friend’s house.’ Mom and dad were like, ‘We’ll take you.'”

The day after the murder, Hazleton Mayor Joseph Conahan—who lived one block from the Chiverella home and whose children played with Marise and her siblings—made a statement: “Yesterday’s crime makes everyone cognizant that evil constantly is present and heinous murders can happen here.”

It was the end of an era. Doors started getting locked. Parents stopped letting kids walk alone. The assumption of safety that had defined small-town American life evaporated in a single day. Joseph Yannuzzi, who was 27 at the time and later became Hazleton’s mayor, remembered: “It was scary in a sense that this happened—murder, let alone rape, let alone a child. It was terrible.” He looked at his adopted son and wondered what kind of world he was bringing him into.

The funeral was massive. The church was packed. The lines at the viewing stretched out the funeral home doors. When the coffin was closed, Marise’s mother gave her daughter one final, farewell kiss.

A mother isn’t supposed to outlive her child. And for 58 years, Mary Chiverella would pray for one thing: that the Pennsylvania State Police would find the man who hurt her daughter.

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Pennsylvania State Police at the Hazleton barracks responded immediately to the discovery of Marise’s body. Retired Trooper Donald Good was one of the first responders. The investigation team worked 20-hour days, 7 days a week, without a single day off from March through mid-July of 1964. That’s approximately 4 months of intensive, round-the-clock investigation.

They interviewed hundreds of people. They documented everything. They compiled over 4,600 pages of investigative documents, a number that would eventually grow to 6,000 pages over the decades. And they carefully preserved every piece of physical evidence, including Marise’s clothing.

That decision to preserve evidence with meticulous care would prove to be the most important choice anyone made in this case. But in 1964, forensic science was incredibly limited. There was no DNA testing, no computers, no national databases, no way to share information effectively across jurisdictions. Blood typing could only determine four basic categories: A, B, AB, and O. That’s it. You couldn’t distinguish between millions of people with the same blood type. Fingerprints had to be compared manually. Crime scene investigation was rudimentary.

Without DNA and without witnesses who could identify the perpetrator, investigators were working in the dark, but they followed every lead.

One man who owed money to Carmen Chiverella’s grocery store confessed to the crime. Investigators brought him in. He said he strangled Marise with his hands, but police knew she’d been strangled with her own shoelaces. The confession was false.

Another man was scheduled for a polygraph test. The night before the test, he drove to the area near the pit where Marise’s body had been found. He parked his car. He let the motor run. He died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Was it suicide? Was it an accident? Nobody knew for sure, but he was never definitively connected to the crime.

A young man with psychological challenges was observed in the woods near the dumping site. He may have witnessed the murder or the body being dumped, but his account was difficult to verify.

Police even investigated a possible connection to a similar case: the 1962 murder of 9-year-old Carol Ann Dougherty in Bristol, Pennsylvania. She’d been found strangled in St. Mark’s Roman Catholic Church choir loft. Approximately 1,000 people from Bristol had been in Hazleton for a high school basketball playoff game the night before Marise was killed, but no confirmed connection was ever established.

The investigation team followed the right leads. They asked the right questions. Retired Corporals Thomas McAndrew and Shawn Williams would later say that the original investigators were following the right leads and asking the same questions investigators would today.

But there was one massive problem: the killer’s name never came up. Not once. Not in any interview, not in any tip, not in any witness statement.

More than 230 members of the Pennsylvania State Police would work on this case over the next 58 years. They reviewed it annually. They maintained monthly contact with the Chiverella family throughout the decades. Retired Trooper Donald Good’s wife noted that every year on the anniversary of Marise’s death, her husband brought up her name. Another year had passed, another year without answers. But they never gave up.

Let me tell you about Mary Chiverella, Marise’s mother. She saved every letter and sympathy card received after her daughter’s murder. Every single one. She told her family that having Marise, even for just 9 years, was a blessing. Ron Chiverella, Marise’s oldest brother, remembered that at every Sunday dinner, every holiday meal, his mother would end grace with the same prayer: “Please help the Pennsylvania State Police find the man that hurt my daughter.”

Year after year after year. Eventually, Mary reached a point where she forgave the man who took her daughter, though she never knew his name. Mary Chiverella died in 2014, 50 years after her daughter’s murder. She died without knowing who killed Marise. Carmen Chiverella, the father, had died years earlier. Both parents went to their graves without answers.

The four surviving siblings—Ron, Carmen Marie, Barry, and David—carried the weight of their sister’s unsolved murder for their entire adult lives. But they held on to hope because the Pennsylvania State Police had promised them something: they would never stop looking.

In 2007, 43 years after the murder, technology finally caught up to evidence. The Pennsylvania State Police DNA laboratory developed a suspect DNA profile from the killer’s bodily fluids found on Marise’s jacket. Let me say that again: 43 years after investigators carefully preserved that evidence, scientists were finally able to extract a genetic profile from it.

DNA profiles were developed for all the original suspects from 1964 and submitted to the DNA lab. None of them matched. Every single original suspect was eliminated.

The killer’s DNA profile was then entered into CODIS (the Combined DNA Index System), the national database containing profiles of convicted offenders, arrestees, and forensic samples. Lieutenant Devon Brutosky later explained: “Since 2007, the killer’s DNA profile has been checked monthly against all new entries in our DNA databases.” Monthly. For over 12 years. 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019.

No matches. Not a single one.

Why? Because the killer had died in 1980, before DNA databasing became standard practice. His DNA wasn’t in any criminal database. So once again, the case went cold.

But something was about to change.

In 2018, the Pennsylvania State Police partnered with Parabon NanoLabs, a Virginia-based DNA technology and genetic genealogy company. This wasn’t traditional forensic DNA analysis. This was something revolutionary.

On March 20th, 2019, Pennsylvania State Police released composite images created by Parabon’s Snapshot forensic DNA phenotyping system. Using deep data mining and advanced machine learning algorithms, the technology analyzed the killer’s DNA to predict his physical characteristics: Ancestry: European/White. Hair color: dark/brown. Eye color: blue or green. Skin tone: fair with possible freckling. The composites showed what the suspect would look like at ages 25, 40, and 60.

The images were released to the public via Pennsylvania State Police, social media, and press. Maybe someone would recognize him. Maybe someone would remember something. The Chiverella family and investigator associations provided funding for the expensive forensic DNA study.

But the real breakthrough came from a different technology. In 2019, Parabon uploaded the killer’s DNA profile to GEDmatch, a public genealogy database. This was different from CODIS. CODIS only contains DNA from convicted offenders. GEDmatch contains DNA uploaded by consumers who’ve taken commercial ancestry tests, people doing genealogy research, looking for biological relatives, building family trees.

The upload found a match: a very distant relative, approximately a sixth cousin, a match of about 53 centiMorgans (which is a measure of genetic linkage). Lieutenant Devon Brutosky explained: “We got a match somewhere around a sixth match, a sixth cousin, a very distant match that narrowed down suspects.”

53 centiMorgans doesn’t sound like much, and it wasn’t. It was like finding a single thread and trying to follow it back through six generations to find the person at the other end. But it was a thread, and someone was about to pull it.

Before we meet the teenage genealogist who cracked this case wide open, I want to ask you something: Are you subscribed to Cold Case Desk yet? If not, what are you waiting for? We cover the cases that never got solved… until suddenly they did. Hit that subscribe button and turn on notifications so you never miss how justice finally catches up.

Now, let’s talk about Eric Schubert.

It was February of 2020. Eric Schubert was an 18-year-old college freshman at Elizabethtown College in Pennsylvania. He was a history major from Medford Lakes, New Jersey. He’d been doing genealogy research since he was 8 years old. Ten years of experience. He discovered genealogy when he learned his grandmother was adopted. That mystery sparked something in him. He started building family trees. He got good at it, really good.

By 18, he’d already helped police departments near Philadelphia and Chicago solve cold cases. He’d started his own business, ES Genealogy. And one night in February 2020, he was reading about cold cases in Pennsylvania. Hazleton was only about 80 miles from his college. When he came across an article about Marise Ann Chiverella’s case—specifically the March 2019 release of the Parabon DNA phenotyping composites—he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So, he did something most 18-year-olds wouldn’t have the courage to do. He sent an email to the Pennsylvania State Police. “Just reaching out and saying, ‘Hey, I think I know what I’m doing. If I’m not stepping on any toes, I’d be happy to help,'” Schubert recalled years later. “I didn’t think that would work, but it did, and I’m very thankful for that.”

Lieutenant Devon Brutosky received the email. An 18-year-old kid offering to help solve a 56-year-old murder. Most law enforcement agencies would have ignored it. But Brutosky vetted Schubert. He learned about the previous cold cases he’d helped solve. He saw the credentials. He recognized this was outside the box of state police, but he made a decision: they accepted his offer.

Schubert would work on the case for free. He was given access to a partial case file containing the suspect’s DNA and a list of potential matches from GEDmatch. His assignment: build family trees from distant DNA matches to identify the killer through genealogical research. Starting point: approximately 2,000 people who may share ancestors with whoever committed the crime, and that 53 centiMorgan match, a sixth-cousin relationship.

To put this in perspective, imagine you’re trying to find a specific person in a crowd of 2,000 people. And your only clue is that one of those people has a great-great-great-great grandparent in common with the person you’re looking for. That’s what Eric Schubert was working with.

Throughout the remainder of 2020 and all of 2021, Eric Schubert worked. He spent up to 20 hours per week on the case, building family trees, studying distant matches, constantly asking investigators for more DNA samples to test.

While he explored genealogical family names during his research, one surname emerged: Paulmeno. State police troopers immediately recognized the name. Renate Paulmeno had been shot dead outside her home on Buck Mountain Road in Lausanne Township, Carbon County, back in the 1970s. DNA related to that investigation confirmed investigators were on the right ancestral track.

The connection led them to retired New Jersey State Police Captain John Paulmeno, who referred investigators to another family member, someone who kept an extensive family tree. A family historian. This was the genealogical framework they needed.

Throughout 2020 and 2021, investigators interviewed numerous Paulmeno relatives. They acquired voluntary DNA samples from family members. The family’s cooperation was essential, and fortunately, they gave it. Schubert built extensive family trees, working to narrow down from distant matches to closer relatives, and slowly—painfully slowly—the DNA match climbed. 53 centiMorgans, 100 centiMorgans, 500 centiMorgans. Eventually, over 1,000 centiMorgans that indicated a half-uncle or first-cousin level relationship. They were getting closer.

In 2020, the Pennsylvania State Police DNA lab established a Y-chromosome DNA profile for the suspect. The Y-chromosome is inherited through the paternal line only; it’s carried as an exact match through male lineages. This helped confirm they were tracking the right family line.

Finally, the research narrowed the suspect pool to four individuals, four men. One of them had been arrested in 1974 for an unrelated sexual assault. His name was James Paul Forte.

James Paul Forte was born on July 21st, 1941, in Hazleton, Pennsylvania—the same town where Marise Ann Chiverella would be born 13 years later. He graduated from Hazleton High School in 1959. His yearbook described him as “tall, blue-eyed, and handsome. Loves to sleep. Sports are his favorite, especially baseball. Future undecided.”

After high school, he enlisted in the US Army on October 16th, 1959. He was discharged on September 28th, 1962. Forte never married. He had no known children. He was described as living a muted life, keeping to himself. He worked as a bartender and bar supplies salesman.

In 1964, when he murdered Marise Ann Chiverella, he was 22 years old.

And here’s what made investigators’ blood run cold: James Paul Forte lived in Hazleton. Multiple addresses were documented. 118 West 14th Street—directly across the street from St. Joseph Slovak Roman Catholic Cemetery, the cemetery where Marise Ann Chiverella was buried. James Paul Forte lived with a direct view of her grave.

He also lived at 745 North Laurel Street and 770 North Laurel Street. All of these addresses were approximately 6 to 7 blocks from the Chiverella family home at 533 Alter Street. He’d been living right there in their neighborhood, close enough to walk to their street in minutes.

And authorities determined that James Paul Forte had no known connection to Marise Ann Chiverella or her family. Police described the attack as random. One source indicated Forte was technically Chiverella’s sixth cousin, but authorities could find no actual connection between them. State Trooper James Kirro emphasized Forte acted alone. His family had no knowledge of what he did, so people have to remember not to vilify them. The Forte family can’t atone for his crimes.

Corporal Mark Baron, who had become the lead investigator, read all approximately 5,000 pages of investigation files. “I’ve read the report,” he said. “He’s not there.” Forte’s name does not appear anywhere in the investigation files compiled over 58 years. He was not part of the initial murder investigation. He was never interviewed. He was never considered a suspect. He was invisible until genetic genealogy found him.

But there was something else investigators discovered about James Paul Forte. Something that made them absolutely certain they had the right man.

Ten years after James Paul Forte murdered Marise Ann Chiverella, he did it again. Not murder, but close.

On April 3rd, 1974, at 4:00 in the morning, a 23-year-old woman went with Forte to the Capri Lounge at Alter and Second Streets. She was visiting a friend. When they left, Forte was supposed to take her home. Instead, he drove to Stockton Mountain Road in Hazle Township, and he violently attacked her. The victim was sexually assaulted in what investigators later described as a “very violent encounter.”

When a truck stopped behind Forte’s car, he fled the scene. He eventually let the woman out at West Broad and Vine Streets. She walked home. She called friends and police. She was taken to the hospital. A search warrant was served on Forte’s vehicle. Police retrieved hair samples from the front seat and mud indicating the car had been driven in the area where the assault took place.

On April 13th, 1974, Pennsylvania State Police Trooper James Gibb charged James Paul Forte with involuntary deviate sexual intercourse, indecent assault, and aggravated assault & battery. Forte was released on $5,000 bail.

And then something happened that should make every person watching this absolutely furious: On September 18th, 1974, Forte pleaded guilty to aggravated assault only. Prosecutors withdrew the sexual assault and indecent assault charges. On October 2nd, 1974, Judge Bernard C. Brominski sentenced James Paul Forte to one year special probation supervised by the Pennsylvania Probation and Parole Office. He was ordered to pay the victim’s hospital bill. No prison time. No serious consequences. A violent sexual predator walked free.

Now, let me connect the dots for you. The 1974 assault and the 1964 murder had chilling similarities:

* Both involved violent sexual assault.
* Both occurred in the Hazleton/Hazle Township area.
* Both involved Forte using his vehicle to transport victims.
* Both attacks occurred in secluded, isolated locations.
* Both victims were physically restrained.
* Both were described as extremely violent encounters.

The key differences? The 1974 victim was an adult who survived. Marise was a 9-year-old child who was murdered.

And here’s the tragedy: At the time of Forte’s 1974 arrest and trial, investigators working the Chiverella case were unaware of the connection. Forte’s name had never come up in the investigation. DNA technology did not exist. There was no way to connect the 1974 attack to the 1964 murder. Had DNA analysis been available in 1974, Marise’s case might have been solved 48 years earlier.

Instead, James Paul Forte received a slap on the wrist and continued living his life.

Four years later, in 1978, he was arrested again by Hazleton police for reckless endangerment and harassment. Police were called to the area of Manhattan Court and 11th Streets for a report of a man running with a gun. What happened with that case? Nobody knows. The records are lost to time.

But on May 16th, 1980, James Paul Forte’s story came to an end. He was 38 years old. He was working as a bartender at Genetti’s Best Western Motor Lodge on Route 93 (also called Route 309) in Hazle Township. He collapsed at work. Heart attack or heart failure; authorities believe it was natural causes. He was dead upon arrival at the hospital. He was buried in Calvary Cemetery in Drums, Luzerne County, Pennsylvania.

James Paul Forte died believing he had gotten away with murder. For 42 years, his secret was safe. But DNA doesn’t die. And in December of 2021, investigators made a decision: They were going to bring James Paul Forte’s DNA out of the grave.

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Police met with the Luzerne County District Attorney’s Office to determine their next steps. They had strong genealogical evidence pointing to James Paul Forte, but they needed a positive identification through direct DNA comparison. They needed to be absolutely certain. There was only one way to do that: exhumation.

They obtained a search warrant. On January 6th, 2022—41 years, 7 months, and 21 days after James Paul Forte died—his body was exhumed from Calvary Cemetery in Drums, Pennsylvania. A tissue sample was obtained for DNA comparison. The process was conducted with the cooperation of Calvary Cemetery officials and the assistance of the Luzerne County District Attorney’s Office.

Deputy District Attorney Daniel Zola would later say something that perfectly captured the moment: “Forte may have thought he took his secret to the grave, but we brought him out of the ground and took his DNA.”

The tissue sample was sent to the Pennsylvania State Police DNA lab, and then they waited. The results came back on February 3rd, 2022. The DNA profile from James Paul Forte’s exhumed remains matched the DNA profile from the semen stain on Marise Ann Chiverella’s jacket. The match probability? 1 in 480 septillion.

Let me put that in perspective one more time because I need you to understand how astronomically certain this is. Scientists estimate that approximately 117 billion people have ever lived on Earth throughout all of human history. To find another person with this same DNA profile, you would need to search over 4 million planet Earths. The Y-chromosome DNA profile also matched.

After 57 years, 10 months, and 23 days, the Pennsylvania State Police had identified Marise Ann Chiverella’s killer: James Paul Forte. The man who lived six blocks away. The man whose name never appeared in the investigation. The man who could see her grave from his window. The man who got away with murder for his entire life. Science had finally caught up to him.

At 10:00 in the morning on Thursday, February 10th, 2022, Pennsylvania State Police held a press conference at the Hazle Township Commons building. The room was packed. Dozens of family members, friends, law enforcement officials, and community members who had covered or followed the case over decades filled the space. Present at the press conference were Lieutenant Devon Brutosky, Pennsylvania State Police; Corporal Mark Baron, lead investigator; Trooper First Class Anthony Petroski, public information officer; Trooper James Curros; Luzerne County District Attorney Sam Sanguedolce; Deputy District Attorney Daniel Zola; and Eric Schubert, genealogist, now 20 years old.

Retired officials in attendance included Sergeant Donald Good, age 89, an original 1964 investigator; Corporals Thomas McAndrew and Shawn Williams, recent retirees; and Captain Brian Tobin and Lou Rossi, retired. The Chiverella siblings were there: Carmen Marie Ratkkey, Marise’s sister; Ronald Chiverella, Marise’s brother; Barry Chiverella, Marise’s brother; and David Chiverella, Marise’s brother. Their parents, Carmen and Mary, weren’t there; they had both died without ever knowing the answer.

Corporal Mark Baron stepped up to speak.

“This is a very important day for our department. It is also an important day for the Hazleton community as a whole. This was a violent and heinous crime that was committed against a small child,” his voice started to break. “This is the fourth oldest cold case in the nation to be solved utilizing this technology, which makes it the oldest in the state.”

This is a day the family has been waiting for nearly 58 years. Baron became visibly emotional, breaking down in tears at times and pausing to compose himself.

“We’re always told not to get attached to a case, but you can’t help it. It’s a vivid memory for everybody who lived through this, and it’s a vivid memory for everybody who grew up in this area.”

What happened to her ushered in a change in this community. Whether you like it or not, the way you lived changed after March 18th, 1964, in Hazleton.

He continued, “Even though it took nearly 58 years for this case to be solved, I think this should instill in the families of victims across the state and across the country a sense of hope. And that hope is that no matter how long it may take, we as law enforcement will never give up in trying to find the perpetrators of these heinous crimes that go on.”

Lieutenant Devon Brutosky spoke next.

“The Pennsylvania State Police was founded in 1905. So over half of our existence, we’ve investigated this case.”

Think about that for a moment. The Pennsylvania State Police had spent more than half of its entire organizational history working on this single case.

District Attorney Sam Sanguedolce addressed the room.

“The dedication to this case is what solved it. It is our greatest regret that we can’t prosecute this individual, but as the family says, he will see vengeance.”

Deputy District Attorney Daniel Zola shared a personal connection. As a child, he found an original newspaper article about the case in their attic. His mother used the Chiverella story as a lesson to keep him safe.

“Once you saw her face, you couldn’t forget it,” he said of Marise. “He was a real monster,” referring to Forte.

Then Carmen Marie Ratkkey, Marise’s sister, stood up to speak for the family.

“We have so many precious memories of Marise,” Carmen Marie said. “At the same time, our family will always feel the emptiness and sorrow of her absence. Consequently, we will continue to ask ourselves what would have been or could have been.”

She paused, gathering strength.

“Our parents expressed their sentiments a long time ago. They didn’t want punishment or revenge. They wanted justice. Our family now knows the identity of her murderer. Justice has been served today. Thanks to the Pennsylvania State Police, justice has been served today.”

She described Marise as a sweet and shy girl who was learning to play the organ and aspired to be a nun.

Ronald Chiverella spoke next.

“I feel a sense of closure. I don’t have closure that it’s all behind me. As Carmen said, we’re all going to have memories of that horrible day. All of those 58 years, the Pennsylvania State Police routinely made their presence known continuously.”

He said, “Troopers provided comfort and hope and never left the family’s side, forging an emotional connection. We’ll continue to ask questions we did in the past. What could have been? What would have been? What nieces and nephews? It’ll never be known because of the loss of Marise.”

Ronald rattled off a list of troopers by name, referring to them as the frontline team.

“Over the past 58 years, the Pennsylvania State Police have continuously worked this case, and a special thanks to the frontline team. Our family thanks you so much.”

The core message from the Chiverella family was clear: their parents never sought revenge or punishment. They only wanted justice. It was never about hatred. It was about affording Marise the rights that were ripped away from her—the right to live, to become a mother, to have children.

Eric Schubert, the 20-year-old college junior who had worked on the case for two years, was emotional.

“The investigation that went into all of this work was probably the hardest genealogy task that I’ve ever faced in over 10 years, as long as I’ve been doing genealogy. This was probably the hardest thing that I’ve ever done in my entire life. And it means so much to me that I was able to be on the team that could provide answers to the Chiverella family. Everything that had to go right did. We just kept chugging forward with these really small DNA samples until we got the big fish, which we did in Mr. Forte.”

Retired trooper Don Good, 89 years old, attended the press conference. His wife had noted that every year on the anniversary of Marise’s death, Don brought up her name. Another year had passed. Good said he thought the case would remain unsolved, but never forgot Chiverella.

Ron Marquetti from the Greater Hazleton Historical Society said, “I’m just glad it’s solved. That’s all I can say, finally, after all these years. Back then, we didn’t even lock our doors.”

The case had cast a long, dark shadow over Hazleton for nearly 58 years. The press conference represented not just resolution for the Chiverella family, but for an entire community that had lived with the fear and grief of an unsolved child murder for generations.

The Marise Ann Chiverella case became the fourth oldest cold case in US history ever solved using genetic genealogy. It was the oldest in Pennsylvania. To understand how significant this is, we need to talk about the revolution that’s happening in cold case investigation right now.

Before I do, I want to ask you something: If you’ve made it this far in the video, you’re clearly invested in these stories. So, do me a favor. Hit that like button if you haven’t already. It genuinely helps the channel grow and means we can cover more of these incredible cases. And if you want to see more stories like this, subscribe and turn on notifications. Now, let’s talk about how genetic genealogy is changing everything.

On April 24th, 2018, something happened that changed law enforcement forever. Investigators arrested Joseph James DeAngelo, a 72-year-old former police officer, for a series of murders, rapes, and burglaries committed in California during the 1970s and 1980s. He was known by multiple names: the Golden State Killer, the East Area Rapist, the Original Night Stalker. He had committed at least 13 murders and over 50 rapes. He had evaded capture for over 40 years.

How did they catch him? Forensic genetic genealogy. Investigators uploaded crime scene DNA to GEDmatch, the same public genealogy database that would later be used in the Chiverella case. They found distant relatives. A genealogist built family trees. They narrowed down to Joseph James DeAngelo. They verified with direct DNA evidence. Case closed.

The Golden State Killer case proved that forensic genetic genealogy worked. It sparked widespread adoption by law enforcement across the country. Since 2018, over 600 cold cases have been solved using this technology. 600 families who thought they’d never get answers suddenly got them. Cases from the 1970s, the 1980s, the 1990s, the 2000s.

Some of the notable cases include:

The 1981 murder of Laura Kempton in New Hampshire, solved in 2023.

The 1984 murder of Pamela Cahanes, solved in 2019.

The 1987 and 1989 murders of Shannon Lloyd and Renee Cuevas in California, solved in 2022.

The 1988 murder of Stacy Lyn Chahorski in Georgia, solved in 2022 (which also identified the victim).

The 1995 murder of Patricia Barnes in Kitsap County, solved in 2021.

Multiple sexual assault cases from 2003 to 2004 in Pullman, Washington, solved in 2020.

Cases have been examined as old as 1932. The technology works for murders, sexual assaults, unidentified remains (both victims and suspects), missing persons, and combined victim/perpetrator identification.

Let me break down exactly how forensic genetic genealogy works because it’s important to understand.

Traditional forensic DNA, the kind used in CODIS, analyzes about 20 specific locations in your genome called loci. These are just markers. They’re enough to identify you if your DNA is in the database. But CODIS only contains DNA from convicted offenders, arrestees, and crime scene samples. If you’ve never been arrested or convicted, your DNA isn’t in there.

Genetic genealogy is completely different. When you take a commercial ancestry test like 23andMe or Ancestry.com, they analyze hundreds of thousands of markers across your entire genome—way more information than forensic DNA. Most people who take these tests upload their results to public genealogy databases like GEDmatch so they can find biological relatives and build family trees.

Here’s where it gets interesting. When investigators upload crime scene DNA to these public databases, they’re not looking for an exact match. They’re looking for relatives: third cousins, fourth cousins, fifth cousins, sixth cousins—people who share a common ancestor with the perpetrator.

Then a genetic genealogist, someone like Eric Schubert, builds family trees from those distant matches. They work forward through the generations, identifying descendants of that common ancestor. They narrow it down to a manageable pool of suspects. Police investigate those suspects using traditional methods. They verify with direct DNA evidence. It’s a combination of cutting-edge science and old-fashioned detective work, and it’s incredibly effective.

But forensic genetic genealogy is controversial. The big question is: Is it an invasion of privacy?

Here’s the argument against it: When you upload your DNA to a public genealogy database, you’re not consenting to law enforcement use. You’re just trying to find out if you’re related to anyone interesting. But by uploading your DNA, you’re potentially implicating your relatives in criminal investigations—relatives who never consented to anything, third cousins you’ve never met, fourth cousins you don’t even know exist. Is that fair?

Here’s the argument in favor: These are public databases. People voluntarily upload their DNA. They’re choosing to make that information available. And we’re using this technology to solve violent crimes—murders, rapes, cases where victims and families deserve answers. If your distant cousin committed a heinous crime, shouldn’t law enforcement be able to use every tool available to catch them?

Most experts recommend limiting the use of forensic genetic genealogy to serious violent crimes, murder, and sexual assault. Some call for judicial oversight requiring warrants before uploading to genealogy databases. Guidelines are still being developed. Legal frameworks are still evolving.

But here’s what’s not controversial: Families deserve answers. Victims deserve justice. And DNA doesn’t forget, even when everyone else does.

The Marise Ann Chiverella case is a perfect example of why this technology matters. Without it, James Paul Forte’s name would never have come up. Without it, the Chiverella family would have gone to their graves just like their parents, never knowing who killed their sister. Without it, a 9-year-old girl who just wanted to bring canned goods to her teacher would have remained a nameless tragedy in a forgotten file cabinet.

After the February 2022 press conference, Lieutenant Devon Brutosky made a statement that should concern everyone: Current troopers believe Forte could have committed even more crimes. Corporal Mark Baron echoed this. Police said it may not have been the only crime Forte committed and asked anyone with information to come forward.

Think about the timeline:

1964: James Paul Forte murders 9-year-old Marise Ann Chiverella.

1974: He violently and sexually assaults a 23-year-old woman and receives essentially no punishment.

1978: He’s arrested for reckless endangerment and harassment involving a gun.

1980: He dies.

That’s 16 years between the murder and his death. What happened in those 16 years?

After the announcement, a woman named Gina Donahue Connors came forward with a chilling story. She was approximately 9 or 10 years old in the years following Chiverella’s murder, sometime in the mid-to-late 1960s. She was walking with a friend at the corner of Third and Alter Streets in Hazleton when a man in a car stopped. He tried to get them into his car.

“Come on, we’ll give you a ride. I will give you a ride.”

They refused. He persisted.

“No, no, no. Come on, we’ll give you a ride.”

They ran into an A&P store for safety. After seeing James Paul Forte identified in 2022, Donahue Connors believed it was the same man. Now that she’s made the connection, it brings her closure, but still makes her uneasy, she said.

Investigators stated clearly: While they cannot be certain, state troopers do not believe that Marise Chiverella was Forte’s only victim. If you or someone you know has information about James Paul Forte or suspected crimes in the Hazleton area from 1964 to 1980, Pennsylvania State Police are asking you to call 570-459-3890. Even decades later, information matters. Even decades later, other families might be waiting for answers.

The Marise Chiverella case proves something powerful: Justice can come even when it seems impossible.

Fifty-eight years, three generations of investigators, 230-plus Pennsylvania State Police members, a teenage genealogist working from his college dorm room, and science that didn’t exist when the crime was committed—all of it came together to identify a killer who died believing he got away with murder.

Corporal Mark Baron’s words at the press conference should give hope to every family still waiting for answers: “Even though it took nearly 58 years for this case to be solved, I think this should instill in the families of victims across the state and across the country a sense of hope. And that hope is that no matter how long it may take, we as law enforcement will never give up in trying to find the perpetrators of these heinous crimes that go on.”

The 1964 investigators couldn’t have known that DNA technology would eventually exist. They couldn’t have known that the evidence they carefully preserved would become the key to solving the case 58 years later. But they preserved it anyway. They documented everything. They kept Marise’s clothing. They filed every report. They did everything right. And that’s why this case was solvable.

There are lessons here for every law enforcement agency in the world: Preserve evidence. Document thoroughly. Never assume a case is truly unsolvable. Science keeps advancing. Technology keeps improving. What seems impossible today might be routine in 20 years.

The Pennsylvania State Police maintained monthly contact with the Chiverella family for 58 years. Think about that commitment. They reviewed the case annually. They never gave up. Even when leads dried up, even when suspects died, even when the original investigators retired and passed the case to the next generation, they never gave up.

Ronald Chiverella said at the press conference, “All of those 58 years, the Pennsylvania State Police routinely made their presence known continuously. They provided comfort and hope and never left the family’s side.”

That’s what real justice looks like—not flashy, not fast, just persistent, methodical, dedicated work over decades.

But let’s not forget the human cost of this case.

Carmen and Mary Chivalella died without ever knowing who killed their daughter. They spent 50 years praying for answers they would never receive in their lifetimes. The four surviving siblings—Ron, Carmen Marie, Barry, and David—carried the weight of their sister’s unsolved murder for their entire adult lives. Carmen Marie said it perfectly: “We’ll continue to ask ourselves what would have been or could have been.”

Marise Ann Chiverella never got to grow up, never got to graduate, never got to fall in love, get married, have children. She never got to become the nun she dreamed of being. All of that was stolen from her on a cold March morning in 1964 by a man who lived six blocks away. Justice came, but it came too late for so many people.

Hazleton, Pennsylvania, changed forever on March 18th, 1964. The innocence was lost. The trust was broken. The doors got locked. But the community never forgot Marise Ann Chiverella. Her story was passed down through generations. Parents used it to teach their children about safety. The case became part of the collective memory of an entire town. And when the announcement came in 2022 that her killer had been identified, it wasn’t just closure for the Chiverella family; it was closure for everyone who had lived with that long, dark shadow for nearly 60 years.

Ron Marquetti said, “I’m just glad it’s solved. That’s all I can say, finally, after all these years.”

Here’s what James Paul Forte didn’t understand when he murdered Marise Ann Chiverella in 1964: DNA is forever. You can’t destroy it. You can’t erase it. You can’t take it to the grave. Science will catch up. Technology will advance. Genealogists will build family trees. And eventually—maybe not this year, maybe not this decade, but eventually—your name will surface. Your crime will be solved. Your victim will get justice.

Lieutenant Brutosky said it best: “Forte may have thought he took his secret to the grave, but we brought him out of the ground and took his DNA.”

There’s a warning here for every person who’s ever committed a violent crime and gotten away with it: You haven’t gotten away with anything. You’re just waiting.

Let me tell you who the heroes of this story are:

• The original 1964 investigators who preserved evidence they couldn’t even use yet.
• Retired trooper Donald Good, who thought about Marise every single year on the anniversary of her death.
• Corporal Thomas McAndrew, who told the next generation of investigators, “This case is solvable.”
• Corporal Mark Baron, who refused to give up and who broke down in tears at the press conference because he cared so much.
• Lieutenant Devon Brutosky, who took a chance on an 18-year-old kid’s email.
• Eric Schubert, who spent two years and hundreds of hours building family trees for a little girl he never met.
• The Chiverella family, who waited 58 years and never lost faith that the truth would emerge.
• And Marise Ann Chiverella herself, the 9-year-old girl who wanted to bring canned goods to her teacher, who wanted to make it to church on time, who dreamed of becoming a nun.

She’s the hero of this story because her case proved that no matter how long it takes, no matter how cold the trail gets, justice is always possible.

The Marise Ann Chiverella case is the fourth oldest cold case in American history solved using forensic genetic genealogy, but it won’t be the last. Right now, as you’re reading this, genetic genealogists are building family trees for other cold cases. DNA labs are testing evidence that’s been sitting in storage for decades. Investigators are uploading profiles to genealogy databases. Families are waiting for the phone call that changes everything. And somewhere, a killer who thinks they got away with murder is about to learn they were wrong.

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Leave a comment below. Tell me what you think about forensic genetic genealogy. Tell me if you think 58 years is too long to wait for justice or if you think any amount of time is worth it if the truth finally emerges. I read every single comment and I want to hear from you.

The Marise Ann Chiverella case teaches us something profound: that the little girl who never made it to church on that cold March morning in 1964 did eventually get her miracle. It just took 58 years, the work of 230 investigators, the brilliance of a teenage genealogist, and the relentless march of science. But she got it. Justice came. Truth prevailed. And James Paul Forte’s secret was dragged from the grave and exposed to the light.

For Marise Ann Chiverella, who wanted to be a nun. For Carmen and Mary Chiverella, who prayed for answers they never received in life. For Ron, Carmen Marie, Barry, and David, who carried their sister’s memory for 58 years. For the town of Hazleton, which lost its innocence on March 18th, 1964. For every family still waiting for answers.

This is their story, and this is why we never give up. Thank you for reading. Thank you for remembering. Thank you for caring about justice.

Until next time, stay curious, stay compassionate, and never stop believing that the truth will eventually come out, no matter how long it takes.