How DNA Solved Canada’s Most Notorious Cold Case

It has been decades since 9-year-old Christine Jessup was taken from her quiet neighborhood and brutally murdered. Years of anguish followed for her family as investigators worked tirelessly to find the person responsible.  The man responsible for Christine Jessup’s disappearance was right there in the front row of her memorial service. He hugged her mother.

 He sat in the pews of a small Ontario church while her 9-year-old classmates wept for her. He signed the guest book. He was on the visitors list at her home. He was in the family photo album and his name, his full, ordinary, unremarkable name, would sit quietly inside the Ontario police case file for the next 36 years.

 No detective would ever knock on his door. Not once, because the Jessups loved him. because their children had played together, because their wives were best friends, because he had eaten dinner in their kitchen and his family had eaten dinner in theirs. And only two days before 9-year-old Christine vanished, she had sat on the couch in his living room with her mother, laughing.

 An innocent neighbor would spend a decade wrongfully accused of this terrible crime. A wrongful conviction would shake the foundations of Canadian justice. A public inquiry would use the phrase, and I am not exaggerating, tunnel vision in the most staggering proportions. A mother would spend 40 years going to bed with the same question circling her mind.

 And through all of it, the man who actually did it would keep working, keep raising his sons, keep moving from one Ontario town to another until one October afternoon in the year 2020, a detective sergeant named Steve Smith would type his name into a searchable database and the case file would light up in front of him. This is the case of Christine Jessup and it is one of the most disturbing stories of hidden in plain sight in Canadian criminal history.

 To understand how a killer walked untouched for 36 years, you first need to understand two things about the 3rd of October 1984. The first is that Christine Jessup’s father was in jail that afternoon. Bob Jessup had been convicted of misappropriating funds from a relative. He was serving an 18-month sentence at the Toronto East Detention Center.

 That fact was known to almost nobody outside the family. It was private. It was quiet. It was the kind of thing you did not tell people. The second is that Christine, a 9-year-old, was going to be home alone because her older brother Kenny had a toothache that afternoon because her mother Janet needed to drive Kenny into Toronto for a dentist appointment.

 Because after the dentist, mother and son were going to visit Bob in jail, and because Christine being nine, was not allowed inside. That was the window. That was the only afternoon of the week that would happen, and whoever took Christine Jessup knew before she stepped off her school bus exactly how long that window would be. Now, the town Queensville, Ontario, a rural community of only a few hundred people, 60 km north of Toronto, but a world apart.

 In Queensville, the general store was the center of everything. Kids rode their bikes until the street lights came on. Doors stayed unlocked. There had never been a serious crime in living memory. And Christine, the youngest of two children, adopted brother Kenny, 5 years older than her, was the miracle her parents had waited nearly a decade for.

 Freckled, small, wiry, a beagle named Freckles who followed her everywhere, baseball trophies in her bedroom, and a plan when she grew up to become a veterinarian. At around 10 minutes to 4 in the afternoon on the 3rd of October, she stepped off her school bus for the last time in her life. That morning, Janet had watched Christine climb onto the school bus and waved as it pulled away.

That was the last time she would see her daughter. At school that afternoon, Christine’s music class handed out plastic recorders, the small pipelike instrument so many of us learned in elementary school. Her teacher had written each child’s name on a piece of tape and stuck it to their instrument. Christine’s said in careful handwriting, “Christine Jessup.

” She spent the last hour of the school day excited to show it to her family that evening. At around 10 minutes to 4:00 in the afternoon, the school bus dropped her off on Leslie Street, a short walk from her house. She had made plans with her friend Leslie Chipman to meet at the local park at 4:00, grab their dolls, then meet up.

Christine walked home. She picked up the mail. She stepped inside the empty house. She dropped her backpack in her bedroom. She hung up her jacket. She fished a nickel out of the change dish. And she walked to the little country store down the road to buy a piece of bubble gum. A witness later remembered seeing her at the intersection with her recorder still in her hand.

 She said hello. She was smiling. She bought the gum sometime just before 4:00 in the afternoon. And then she walked back out of the store. At the park, Leslie Chipman arrived on time. She sat with her dolls and waited. She waited some more. Christine never came. Janet and Kenny arrived home about 10 minutes past 4 in the afternoon.

 Roughly 10 minutes after the school bus had dropped Christine off, they walked into a house that felt at first completely normal. Then Janet started noticing things. Christine’s red bicycle was lying on its side by the shed, its kickstand damaged. Christine loved that bicycle. She never left it that way.

 Her jacket was hanging on a hook that was well above her reach. Christine at 40 lb could not have hung it there herself. Her backpack was in her bedroom. The mail was on the counter, but there was no daughter. Janet started making dinner. She figured Christine was out playing. As the afternoon slipped into evening and the light began to fail, something in her began to hollow out.

 She called Christine’s friends. She called their parents. She walked to the park. She checked the store. She checked every place she could think of. At around 7:00 in the evening, Janet Jessup called the police. The window had already closed. The window had closed at roughly 7 minutes past 4 in the afternoon. The York Regional Police at that time had almost no experience with something like this.

 There was roughly one officer for every 860 residents, no major crimes unit, no history of investigating a child abduction. They did what they knew. They organized search parties. They knocked on doors. Within 24 hours, hundreds of volunteers were combing a search zone of 30 square miles. Helicopters flew low over farm fields. K-9 units tracked through the bush.

Divers searched every pond. Neighbors you had not seen in years walked shoulderto-shoulder across freshly turned soil, looking for anything. On the 6th of October, 3 days after Christine’s disappearance, Bob Jessup was granted an early release from the detention center on compassionate grounds.

 He came home to a house that had gone completely silent. By Halloween, the streets of Queensville were empty. Parents kept their children inside. Cards began arriving at the Jessup home from strangers across Ontario. One woman from Atobico wrote, “I wish this would be the day your little girl would be returned to you. Don’t stop praying.

” Janet kept every card. Christmas came. There was no Christmas tree in the Jessup home that year. Janet later said that if they had decorated, it would have felt like they were giving up. On the 31st of December, 1984, New Year’s Eve, day 89 of the search, a man was walking through a wooded field with his two young daughters near the small town of Sunderland, about 56 km east of Queensville. His dog had wandered off.

He was looking for it. What he found instead was Christine. The recorder from her music class was still there beside her, her name still taped to it. Her blue corduroy pants and her small Nike running shoes were nearby. The hand knitted blue sweater she had been wearing that afternoon was gone, and it would never be found.

 Christine had been taken from her family in the most devastating way imaginable. Because the body had been found in Durham Region, the case now belonged to Durham Regional Police. A new inspector was placed in charge. And in the first week of the new year, two detectives began working the file with a specific theory forming in their minds.

 Their theory was that Christine’s killer lived 30 ft from her bedroom window, that he was a quiet young man who kept beehives and played the clarinet, that he had never really spoken to her, and that what they were about to do to him would take 10 years, two trials, and a nation’s confidence in its own justice system to undo. On the 7th of January, 1985, Christine Jessup was buried at the small cemetery next to her own home.

250 people came. Many of them were children, her classmates. The Reverend Beverly Hall said in her eulogy that they had come with sorrow, with fearfulness, and with anger. Anger that such a terrible thing could happen to a delightful, innocent young child. 6 weeks later, the investigation would turn in the direction that would poison everything.

By the middle of February 1985, the investigation had gone nowhere. Two Durham detectives had been assigned to lead the case, Bernie Fitzpatrick and John Shepard, and the community wanted answers. On the 14th of February, Fitzpatrick and Shephard went back to see Janet Jessup. They asked her again about the people in her life, and this time she brought up the family next door, the Morans.

 The Morans had lived beside the Jessups since 1978. Alas, the father, was a retired engineer. Eda, the mother, was a retired teacher. They had six adult children. One of them, a young man in his mid20s, still lived at home. His name was Guy Paul Moran. He worked as a furniture finisher at a plant in Toronto. He kept beehives in the backyard.

 He fixed up old cars. He played the clarinet and the saxophone in local community bands. He was quiet, reserved, deeply attached to his family. In a small town in 1984, that combination, a quiet young man who worked with his hands, kept bees, played old-fashioned music, was enough to feel strange.

 Janet described him to the detectives as reserved, different, not like the other neighbors. That night, Detective Fitzpatrick wrote in his notebook, “Paul Morren, clarinet player, weird type guy.” That single sentence would go on to alter the course of Guy Paul Morren’s entire life. 8 days later, the detectives pulled up in his driveway and invited him for a friendly chat in their car. He said yes.

 They asked him about Christine. He said he had barely spoken to her. Once when her dog ran away, he had helped her catch it. That was all. What Moran did not know was that the detectives were recording him. When they replayed the tape later, they found nothing incriminating. So they claimed that after the tape stopped, Moran had said something strange about innocent little girls growing up to be corrupt.

 From that moment forward, Guy Paul Moren became the only suspect in the Jessup case. In early April at Morren’s band practice, an undercover police woman approached him pretending to be a student hairdresser. She asked if she could practice on him. He agreed. She quietly snipped a few strands of his hair, dropped them into an envelope, and walked out.

 Later that month, the Federal Bureau of Investigation produced a psychological profile of Christine’s killer. male, local, white, between the ages of 19 and 26, almost certainly known to Christine, likely with a history of voyerism or arson. Guy Paul Morang fit the age and the town. He had no criminal record for arson or voyerism.

 He did not really match half the profile. The detectives ignored the parts he did not fit. At the Toronto Center of Forensic Sciences, a scientist compared Morren’s snipped hair to a single hair recovered from a necklace on Christine’s body. She reported that the two hairs were microscopically similar. Not a match. Similar, but to the detectives, it was enough.

 They also searched his car and found tiny fibers inside. Those fibers, the lab said, were microscopically similar to fibers on Christine’s clothes. There was a simple explanation the detectives did not want to see. The Morren and the Jessubs lived next door. They used the same laundromat. None of that made it into the case theory. On the 22nd of April 1985, Guy Paul Morren was driving to band practice.

 A red light began flashing behind him. He pulled over. The officers walking up to his car were the same two men who had chatted with him just weeks earlier. He said, “Oh, it’s you guys.” They said, “You’re under arrest for the murder of Christine Jessup.” He said, “Come on, guys. You’re kidding.” And Detective Shepard said, “No, Gee, we’re not.

 We know what we’re doing. We don’t make mistakes.” Guy Paul Morren was taken to Whitby jail and interrogated for 6 and 1/2 hours. The police showed him a giant blownup photograph of his own fingerprint. They told him it had come from Christine’s clothing. It hadn’t. It had come from one of his own clarinets. It was a trick. He did not confess.

 He kept saying the same sentence over and over. I did not do this. But he was in the system now. And the system had already decided. His parents mortgaged their family home to raise nearly half a million dollars in bail. His father, Alons, told reporters that he knew his son and that his son had not done this.

Guy Paul’s defense lawyer was one of the most famous criminal defense lawyers in Canada, a Toronto attorney named Clayton Ruby. The first trial began on the 7th of January, 1986. Ruby walked the jury through an impossible timeline. Moran had clocked off work in Toronto at 3:32 in the afternoon.

 The earliest he could have reached his own driveway in Queensville was around a/4. Christine had already vanished by then. His parents swore on the record that he had arrived home that afternoon at 5 carrying groceries. The crown had no answer for those groceries. They simply ignored them. There was one problem in the timeline.

 Janet and Kenny had originally told police they had arrived home at 10 minutes 4. If that was accurate, Guy Paul Morang could not physically have been there. So, the detectives went back to the Jessups again and again. They kept suggesting the clock in the Jessup kitchen must have been wrong. Eventually, under the weight of that pressure, Janet said maybe she had arrived home closer to 4.

That was the version she gave at trial. That single revision opened a 20-minute window Guy Paul Moren could have used if he had been the killer. He was not the killer. The crown called two jailhouse informants who had been at Whitby around the same time. One was a petty criminal later described as a pathological liar.

The other was known in court only as Mr. X. Both claimed Morray had confessed. Both had made deals for lighter sentences. An undercover police officer testified that Moran had made alarming statements referencing horror novels, which the prosecution framed as a subtle confession. Clayton Ruby did something unusual in that first trial.

 He ran a second line of defense in case the jury believed the informants. He argued that if his client had done anything, he was mentally ill and could not be held responsible. Moran himself hated the argument, but Ruby was trying to give the jury an alternative. On the 7th of February, 1986, the jury reached a verdict. Not guilty.

 The Jessups sat in that courtroom in stunned silence. Kenny wept openly. Bob Jessup told the press outside, “We’ve lived a year and a half of hell, and now the hell goes on.” But the crown was not finished. They launched an appeal arguing that the trial judge had improperly explained the concept of reasonable doubt.

 The appeal was granted. A second trial was scheduled. And in 1992, 7 years after his arrest, Guy Paul Morang sat in a London, Ontario courtroom while the prosecution rebuilt its case with an even more absurd theory. that when Moran saw Christine at the intersection with her plastic recorder, he took out his clarinet and started playing.

 That she, being a musical child, walked over to his car to listen, that he had used his instrument to lure a young child away. The jury believed it. On the 30th of July, 1992, Guy Paul Moran was found guilty of firstdegree murder and sentenced to life in prison. For 18 months, he sat in a Canadian penitentiary for the death of a child he had never touched.

 While Guy Paul Moran was in prison, a new field of forensic science was quietly maturing. It was called DNA analysis. It had not been advanced enough in 1985 or in 1992 to be reliable in court, but by the mid90s it was. Four small biological samples had been preserved from Christine’s clothing over the years. Three of them had degraded to the point of being useless, but one, a single tiny sample, still had enough material left to yield a reading.

 It was tested against Guy Morren’s DNA. The result was unambiguous. The sample did not belong to Guy Morren. It could not belong to him. It belonged to the actual killer. On the 23rd of January 1995, the Ontario Court of Appeals set aside his conviction and entered an acquitt. Guy Paul Morang walked out of a courtroom a free man for the second time in his life.

 He faced a bank of cameras and said only what he had been saying for a decade. I know I didn’t do it. I did not kill Christine Jessup. It’s as simple as that. And finally, DNA has exonerated me 100%. His father, Alance, was asked what he wanted to say. He said, “After 10 years, they never did believe us. How often do you have to say the truth?” The truth was never enough for them.

 The Ontario government awarded Guy Paul Moran and his parents jointly $1.25 million in compensation. Guy Paul gave half of it to his parents to cover their legal bills. The attorney general of Ontario apologized publicly. Ken Jessup apologized privately, but a question remained and it hung in the air over the entire country.

 If Guy Paul Moran had not killed Christine Jessup, then who had? To answer that question, the government of Ontario ordered a public inquiry. Justice Fred Kaufman chaired the commission on proceedings involving Guy Paul Morraine. Hearings began in February of 1997. It ran for 146 days. It heard from 120 witnesses.

 It reviewed more than 100,000 pages of evidence. When it was finished, Kaufman delivered a report of nearly 1,400 pages with 119 separate recommendations. The findings were devastating. The report described the entire investigation as, in the judge’s own words, tunnel vision in the most staggering proportions. The detectives had decided Moran was the killer within days of first hearing his name, and everything they touched afterward was bent toward proving that theory.

 The hair evidence was declared essentially valueless. The fiber evidence had been contaminated in the lab, and a staff member had later revealed that the scientists had known about the contamination as early as 1986 and had never told the defense. One prosecutor, a woman named Susan Mlan, broke down on the witness stand and said, “I am not proud of having been involved in the prosecution of someone innocent.

” At the inquiry, Janet Jessup was asked why she had revised her arrival time. She said, “Maybe I am wrong.” All right, I’m sorry if I am. And then she said the one sentence she is most remembered for saying about the entire ordeal. This inquiry was not about Christine. It was about Mr. Morray.

 Justice Kaufman finished his report with a line that would echo through Canadian legal history. An innocent person was convicted of a heinous crime he did not commit. Science helped convict him. Science exonerated him. His work inspired a wave of reforms, new restrictions on jailhouse informants, new standards for forensic testing, new training against tunnel vision, and a national conversation on wrongful convictions that led to the creation of the organization now known as Innocence Canada.

 Guy Paul Moran quietly rebuilt his life. He married. He had two sons. He worked as a baggage handler at Pearson Airport. He would later repair pianos in his own workshop. He did not trust the police any longer, and he kept his social circle small. But a killer was still walking around Ontario, and the Jessups still did not know his name.

For the next 25 years, the Christine Jessup case sat in a filing cabinet at Toronto Police Headquarters. Every year tips would come in. Every year detectives would follow them. And every year they would run into the same wall. In the mid90s, a nine-person task force had interviewed more than 300 people and taken DNA samples from anyone who could have been in the area. Nothing matched.

The team eventually disbanded, but the case was never forgotten. A senior officer in the cold case unit, a man named Stacy Galant, kept the file alive. He believed DNA science would one day catch up. He said over and over that the evidence was still there. All they needed was the technology. In late 2017, a new detective sergeant took over the case.

 His name was Steve Smith. patient, methodical, and intent on trying something that had never been used to solve a case like this in Canada. It was called forensic genetic genealogy. Only months earlier, it had been used in California to identify a man known as the Golden State Killer. In December of 2019, Smith sent Christine’s killer’s DNA profile to the Ontario Center of Forensic Sciences and from there to a laboratory in Houston, Texas called Aram.

 In that lab, a genealogologist named Anthony Redgrave uploaded the killer’s genetic code to a public ancestry database used by hobbyist family historians all over the world. 33,000 distant relatives came back. For 8 months, Redgrave and his team walked backwards through census records and obituaries and marriage certificates.

Third cousins to second cousins, second cousins to first. They narrowed 33,000 names down to about 400, then to two family trees, then to a single common ancestor, a man named Henry Hoover Jr., born in the year 1804 in a small Ontario community called Lennox. And then they began walking forward from him down through the generations, ruling out anyone born too early, ruling out anyone born too late, and ruling out anyone who could not have been in southern Ontario in October of 1984.

On the 7th of August 2020, they arrived at one name, Calvin Dana Hoover. Steve Smith typed the name Calvin Hoover into the searchable version of the case file, and he watched as the file lit up in front of him. Calvin Hoover had been in the Jessup case file since October of 1984. He was listed as a friend of the family.

His wife was listed as one of the people with access to the Jessup home when the family was not there. But he had never once been questioned. In 36 years of investigation, no detective had ever knocked on his door. Now they needed to prove the match. And there was a problem. Calvin Hoover had passed away in 2015.

 He had left a short note that did not mention Christine Jessup or any other crime. To confirm, the police needed his DNA from an uncontested source. Steve Smith later described what came next as a Hail Mary. He reached out to the Ontario Center of Forensic Sciences and asked whether by any chance they had retained any biological samples from Hoover’s autopsy.

 If not, the police were prepared to seek a court order to examine his remains. The Center of Forensic Sciences confirmed that yes, they had kept two small vials of his blood on file. On the 30th of September 2020, an Ontario court judge signed a warrant granting police access. On the 9th of October, the samples were tested.

That same day, the Center of Forensic Sciences confirmed a complete match to the DNA recovered from Christine’s clothing 36 years earlier. 6 days later, on the 15th of October, 2020, Steve Smith drove out to Queensville himself. He wanted to deliver the news to Janet Jessup in person before it broke on the news.

 She was 78 years old. He sat with her while back in Toronto. The acting chief of the Toronto Police Service, a man named Jim Rmmer, stepped in front of the cameras. He told the country, “We positively confirmed the identification of the person responsible. Calvin Hoover of Toronto, Ontario, was 28 years old in 1984.

If he were alive today, the Toronto Police Service would arrest Calvin Hoover for the death of Christine Jessup. The country stopped what it was doing. And the Jessup family, for the first time in 36 years, had an answer. The answer was worse than they had imagined. Calvin Hoover had not been a stranger. He had been a family friend.

He had met his first wife, Heather, in 1977 when she was 20 years old. She already had two young sons from a previous relationship and Calvin adopted them. The couple had two more sons of their own. In 1984, they were living in the Scarboro area of Toronto. Both Calvin and Heather worked at a telecommunications company called Eastern Independent Telecom, the same company where they met Bob Jessup, Christine’s father.

 The two families became friends. Their children played together. They had barbecues. Heather would babysit Christine and Kenny from time to time. Christine trusted Calvin the way any 9-year-old trusts a family friend. She had known him her whole life. And here is the detail, the one that made every other piece of this 36-year investigation lock into place at once.

 Only 2 days before her disappearance. On the 1st of October 1984, Janet, Kenny, and Christine had visited the Hoovers at their Scarboro home. It was an ordinary afternoon. Coffee, conversation, kids in the next room, and during that visit, Janet told Heather something in passing. She said that on the 3rd of October, she would be driving Kenny into Toronto for a dentist appointment.

 Then she would go with him to visit Bob at the detention center. And Christine, she said, could not come. Christine was too young. Christine would be at home alone. That was the only day of the week that would happen. According to the police investigation that followed, only three people outside the immediate Jessup family knew that Christine would be alone that afternoon.

Bob’s lawyer, Bob’s boss, and Heather Hoover, and by extension, her husband Calvin, who was in the same house on the 1st of October and either overheard the conversation or was told about it later. And there was one more detail, the one that answered the question police had been asking themselves for decades.

 Why Sunderland? Why had Christine’s body been found in that specific field, in that specific stretch of woods? 56 km away from her home because Calvin Hoover had a friend who lived there, an old school friend. Calvin used to drive up regularly. They would go off into the bush together for outdoor activities. That friend, now deceased, had no connection at all to Christine’s death.

But Calvin knew that stretch of woodland. He knew where a body could rest without being found for a long time. He was right about that. Calvin Hoover’s life after the 3rd of October 1984 was on the surface ordinary. He kept working. He raised his sons. He moved through the greater Toronto area eventually to a rural home in Port Hope.

His marriage to Heather ended in 1991. He filed for bankruptcy. In 1996, he was convicted of impaired driving. He remarried in the year 2003. But that second wife became sick and passed away in 2009. He struggled with alcohol. He struggled with gambling. He was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around 2010. Steve Smith later said Calvin Hoover seemed to have gone through a significant change in the mid to late 1990s.

Whether that change was guilt, Smith said, we may never know. In 2015, Calvin Hoover passed away at his home in Port Hope, taking his secrets to the grave. The note he left behind said only, “I hope you all have a good life.” He never confessed. He never named her. His ex-wife, Heather, gave one interview to the CBC in February of 2021.

 She had kept a school photograph of Christine on her wall for years. She said, “That type of DNA doesn’t lie. There’s only one way it got there. And she added something that will stay with you. I have thought many times things could be so different if the police had done their job a little better. If I had known way back then for Guy Paul Morin, the identification of Calvin Hoover was a moment of quiet vindication.

 He said, “When DNA exonerated me in January 1995, I was sure that one day DNA would reveal the real killer. And now it has.” In October of 2024, 40 years after Christine’s death, Guy Paul Moran appeared in Ottawa before a Senate committee reviewing a new law that would create an independent commission for wrongful convictions.

He sat beside two other men who had also been cleared after decades in prison. He spoke about how in his own town, some of his neighbors still whispered about him, unaware that a killer had already been identified. His testimony brought several senators to tears. For the Jessup family, the closing chapter came in a series of quiet steps.

 Janet Jessup lived long enough to know the truth. She died on the 15th of March, 2024. She was 81 years old. Her son, Ken, buried her on the 3rd of October, 2024, exactly 40 years after Christine had disappeared, right next to her daughter in the small Queensville cemetery. Ken himself has become a different man. He became sober on the 7th of March, 2022.

He now lives in Fort Erie, Ontario, where he runs a small business creating laser etched wood art. He volunteers for other families of victims, and he advocates for better support services in his community. His mother had once told him before she passed that he should run his own market one day.

 In the summer of 2025, he took over as the manager of a farmers market in a small town near where he lives. When he saw a double rainbow the day he was considering the job, he took it as a sign. In August of 2025, a three-part documentary called The Christine Jessup Story premiered on Crave and later on Netflix. It was the first time the Jessup family had spoken publicly about the case.

 Ken said afterward that filming it was the greatest therapy he had ever experienced. That for the first time in his life, he did not need to look backwards. He could only look forward. And Christine Jessup is still buried in the small cemetery next to the field where she used to ride her bicycle in a town that has never quite gotten over her.

 Think back to the beginning of this story. Beyond the headlines, the courtrooms, and the decades of searching, bring your mind back to an ordinary autumn afternoon, and a 9-year-old girl walking home from school with a small plastic recorder in her hand. Her teacher had put her name on a piece of tape and stuck it to the instrument, Christine Jessup, and she was so excited to show it to her mother and her brother that evening.

 She never got the chance. But that same recorder with her name still on it was there next to her when she was found. It was there when Guy Paul Moren was accused, tried, convicted, and cleared. It was there when the DNA was extracted and when the family tree grew back to a man born in 1804. And it was there when a detective knocked on a door in Queensville and told a mother at last the name of the man who had taken her daughter.

 It took 40 years. It took a family that never gave up. It took the passing of Christine’s mother before her killer’s name was fully known. It took a science that did not exist when the crime was committed. But in the end, the little girl with the recorder was heard. If Christine’s case has stayed with you, leave a comment below telling me one thing you’ll remember about her.

 And for more Canadian cold cases solved by DNA and by the officers who refuse to give up, click on the video on your screen right now. Until next time, this is Crime Narrator. Take care of each other.