Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - I Solved My Father's Murder The Infamous B.I.G. and the Truth That Took 28 Years #41

Episode Date: August 4, 2025

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #justice #unsolvedmystery #coldcase #familymurder  For nearly three decades, the murder of his father remained a painful mystery for the narrator. Tied to the infamous B.I.G. case, he refuses to let the past stay buried. Through dogged investigation, unexpected leads, and sheer determination, he unravels the secrets that led to justice. This story is a powerful testament to perseverance, family loyalty, and the pursuit of truth in the darkest of circumstances.  horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, coldcase, familymurder, justicequest, crimeinvestigation, unsolvedmystery, revenge, persistence, darktruth, notoriouscase, victimstory, hauntingpast, investigationthriller, crimeandjustice

My name's Tiana Wallace. I'm 32 years old, and for the past 10 years, I've been a detective, not your average one either. I specialize in cold cases, the kind no one wants to touch anymore. The thing is, I didn't get into this line of work for fame or glory. I did it for one reason, to find out who murdered my father. You might have heard of him, he was the infamous B.I.G. March 1997. The month my life changed forever. I was just a toddler, barely three years old, sitting on my father's lap in the front seat of a car in Los Angeles. A trip that was supposed to be fun turned into a nightmare I still live in every day. My dad had been paranoid that entire week. Kept saying someone was out to get him for the murder of Tupac Shakur. Everyone on the

West Coast thought he had something to do with it, even though there were plenty of reasons to believe he didn't. There were alibis, witnesses, people who knew better, but that didn't matter. Rumors spread like wildfire, and my dad. He was already drowning in them. He kept going back and forth about returning to Brooklyn. Said L.A. wasn't safe for him anymore. I remember sitting beside him, not understanding much of what was going on, but I could tell he was scared. He didn't say it out loud, but you could feel it in the air, thick and cold like fog. Then it happened. The night of March 9, 1997.

We were at a party earlier, some Vibe magazine thing. Then we left. I was dozing off in his lap when the shots rang out. Four of them. Loud. Close. Defening. People screamed.

The whole world stopped. And just like that, my dad was gone. He was declared dead at 1.12 a.m. I cried so hard that night, not because I understood death, but because he stopped moving. I remember shaking him, begging him to wake up. Daddy, please. Don't go yet. But he did.

My mom was just 23. She was a wreck. Grandma tried to hold it together for all of us, but I could see the pain in her. her eyes every time someone said his name. My dad was gone, and no one knew who pulled the trigger. Or maybe they did, and just didn't care enough to find out. Years passed. I grew up surrounded by his music, his image, his legacy. And every time someone mentioned his death, I felt this fire inside me. That fire pushed me to become a detective. I trained hard, busted my ass, and eventually joined the force. Solved case after case.

My record. 85% clearance on unsolved murders. Not to brag, but I was damn good. Still, one case haunted me, my father's. I officially opened my own investigation in 2018. Took a deep dive into the files, the old witness statements, all the rumors and theories. East Coast versus West Coast Bad Boy v. Death Row

FBI surveillance LAPD corruption It was like trying to untangle a web made of smoke. At first, it was all dead ends. Then one day, on a completely unrelated raid, I found something. We had a warrant to search the house of a retired LAPD officer. The guy was being investigated for drug possession and accusations of assaulting students back in the late 90s. Just a dirty cop washed up and hiding out in a dusty house with too many secrets.

While going through his stuff, I found a drawer locked tight. Picked it open and found a note inside. A yellowed piece of paper, folded and stuffed between old paperwork. It read, Kill That Fat-Ass Quick. He knows too much about what I did to two-pack. He'll expose me quick. Signed, Sean Comps, dated, March 4, 1997. Five days before my father was murdered. I stared at it for a long time. The writing was sloppy, rushed. But the message was clear. And just like that, puzzle pieces started clicking together. I remembered the blue steel pistol that was reported missing around that time, by Sean himself. The suit Sean had supposedly gifted to a fan shortly before the murder. The strange behavior in interviews, the tears that seemed fake in old footage. Suddenly, everything felt like

a setup. I pulled every string I had. We tested the suit found at an old memorabilia auction, the one people thought was just a collector's item. It still had fingerprints. The same prints matched shawns, and guess what? They were dated from the exact day of the murder. He hadn't worn gloves. From there, it all unraveled. Turns out, Sean was more involved in both Tupac's and my father's murders than anyone had guessed. He played everyone. Made it seem like he was grieving, like he was mourning. All the while, he was pulling the strings.

The man in the old video crying over my dad. Not Sean. Just some dude who looked like him, a fan of my father paid off to play the role. We raided Sean's house. found more evidence, journals, notes, even a burner phone with messages tracing back decades. He thought he was untouchable. He thought no one would ever dare come after him. But he didn't count on me. I'd been waiting my whole life for this moment. We gathered enough to indict him not just for conspiracy to murder my father, but for Tupac's

murder too. When the trial came, people finally saw who he really was. Not a bit of Businessmen. Not a producer. Not a victim. But a manipulative, calculated killer who had everyone fooled. The actual shooters. They got 20 years each, old guys now, barely able to walk. But Sean, he got sentenced to over a thousand years. Not just for murder, but for obstruction, manipulation, and decades of hidden crimes. Justice didn't come fast, but it came. Twenty-eight years later, I finally closed the case. I finally gave my father peace. I stood at his grave the day after the sentencing and whispered, We did it, Daddy.

I got him, I didn't cry. Not because I wasn't sad. I just felt, finished. Like I could finally breathe. Later that week, I visited Grandma Violetta's grave. She had passed just three months before the case closed. I had wanted her to see it, to know justice was served, but life's cruel like that. I brought her flowers and sat by her side.

Grandma, I whispered, I did it. I solved who killed your son, and for a moment, I swear I could hear her say, I knew you would, baby, so now here I am. 32 years old, with the one goal of my life finally achieved. And I'm asking myself, what now, I don't know the answer yet. Maybe I'll keep solving cold cases. Maybe I'll take a break. Or maybe I'll write a book. But one thing's for sure, I won't ever stop fighting for the truth.

Because I'm Tiana Wallace, daughter of the infamous B-I-G, and this detective doesn't quit. The E-N-D, but not really.