Solved Murders - True Crime Stories - Mystery and Injustice The Unsolved Death of Paula Josette Inside a Mexican Prison PART3 #79

Episode Date: February 3, 2026

#horrorstories #reddithorrorstories #ScaryStories #creepypasta #horrortales #truecrime #unsolvedmystery #paulajosette #prisoncorruption #justiceforpaula Mystery and Injustice: The Unsolved Death of Paula Josette Inside a Mexican Prison (PART 3)In Part 3, the truth behind Paula Josette’s death begins to surface as her family pushes harder against a system built on silence and fear. New witnesses emerge, revealing shocking details about the prison’s dark operations and the cover-up that may have hidden the truth for years. This chapter exposes the depth of corruption and the heartbreaking struggle of a family fighting for answers in a place where justice seems impossible. A chilling reminder that real horror lives in the shadows of power and neglect. horrorstories, reddithorrorstories, scarystories, horrorstory, creepypasta, horrortales, truecrime, paulajosette, unsolvedmystery, mexicanprison, justiceforpaula, prisoncorruption, darktruth, realhorrorstories, mysterycase, realcrime, victimsjustice, injustice, trueevent, corruption

The night everything went wrong. No one really knows what exactly happened that night inside the prison, but everyone agrees on one thing, the sub-commander on duty gave the order. He told two correctional officers to take the young woman, barely alive or maybe already gone, from the jail to the general hospital in Hermosio. The paperwork shows that she arrived at the emergency room at 1042 p.m., and by 1049, the doctor on call had already declared her dead. Just seven minutes. That was all it took for Paula's story to end, or, depending on how you look at it, to begin again as a mystery that no one wanted to solve. More than 24 hours passed before her family even learned what had happened. An entire day where her mother, Breseda, had no idea her daughter's body was lying in a cold hospital morgue. A full day of silence, of unanswered calls, of confusion. By the time they finally told her, her, it was already too late to ask the most urgent questions. Everyone involved seemed to have conveniently forgotten details, timelines, and responsibilities. According to several

prison workers who later gave statements that day had been messy from the very beginning. The first red flag, the first of many, was that both Paula and her friend were allowed to enter the prison without presenting any form of official identification. That should have been impossible. There were protocols, procedures, rules printed on laminated sheets next to the entrance. But somehow, that evening, the rules became flexible. They were bent, twisted, and quietly ignored. In Paula's particular case, her entry was even stranger. She was listed as visiting for a conjugal meeting, even though she didn't meet a single one of the requirements that such visits demanded.

Normally, anyone wanting to spend the night with an inmate needed to present multiple documents, an ID card, a visitation permit, proof of address, and either a marriage certificate or an official document proving they were living together as partners. Paula didn't have any of that, not a single piece of paper. Her mother later confirmed that Paula didn't even possess a valid identification card, not a passport, not a driver's license, nothing. She was still in the process of getting her papers in order. And yet, despite all that, her name magically appeared in the prison's visitor log for that day.

Someone, somewhere, had made sure she got in. After questioning several officers and staff members, investigators concluded that it had been the prison director himself who authorized the visit. He claimed he did it in the spirit of respecting inmates' rights, that Carlos, the prisoner Paula, came to see. had filed an official request for a conjugal visit days earlier. Supposedly, this request had been made on December 26th, and the director had passed it to the appropriate committee for review. On paper, it all looked legitimate. But when Paula's family and lawyers dug deeper, things started to smell rotten.

There was evidence, or at least strong suspicion, that the commander in charge of the prison had been paid off to let Paula in. money, favors, something, the details were hazy, but the pattern was clear. It wasn't the first time rules have been ignored in exchange for a quiet envelope. What shocked everyone was how openly it was done. No one even bothered to fake the paperwork properly. Then came another irregularity, a serious one. Somehow, an inmate had access to a cell phone.

Not just a phone for calling family, but a full-revely. smartphone with social media, messaging apps, and internet connection. Through that phone, Carlos had been communicating with Paula for weeks, maybe months, before that night. They texted each other, called each other, and even had video calls late at night. All this from inside a supposedly secure prison. The guards either didn't know, or didn't care. According to Paula's mother, the messages between the two of them mysteriously disappeared shortly after her daughter's death. Carlos's accounts were deleted, his profiles wiped clean, his online trace gone. But Brezada, smartly and maybe instinctively, had saved screenshots of some conversations, along with voice

notes Paula had sent to a close friend. Those files later became crucial pieces of evidence, tiny fragments of the truth that the system tried to erase. Not trusting the official investigation, Breseda reached out to the National Citizen Observatory on Feminicide, a group of independent forensic experts. She asked them to conduct a second forensic examination, a re-evaluation of the evidence, hoping that a more transparent and specialized team could help piece together what really happened. The official report, full of inconsistencies and missing information, had left too many questions unanswered. When the independent experts reviewed the autopsy results, they found disturbing details.

Paula's body showed multiple injuries, each one telling part of a story that no one at the prison wanted to explain. Her arms, forearms, and hands were covered in bruises, the kind that usually appear when someone fights back, when someone tries to defend themselves from being restrained or attacked. These weren't simple marks, they were signs of resistance. The autopsy also noted patechiae, small reddish spots caused by bleeding beneath the skin. Forensic pathologists know what that means. In many cases, patiki eye are a sign of asphyxiation. Combined with the bruises and other injuries, the evidence suggested Paula may have been suffocated.

Whether by hand, by force, or by something else, no one could say for sure. But it didn't look like a simple medical emergency. The family's lawyers insisted that the injuries had to be interpreted together, not separately. You couldn't just pick one or two and dismiss the rest. Everything pointed to physical aggression, and yet, the official report avoided those words. From the start, Paula's death should have been classified as suspicious and violent, a potential femicide or homicide, not just a tragic incident. But that didn't happen.

The District Attorney's Office never once stated that they were investigating the case with a gender perspective, despite a 2015 Supreme Court ruling that made it mandatory for all suspicious deaths of women in Mexico to be treated that way. That ruling wasn't a suggestion, it was law. Still, the prosecutors behaved as if it didn't exist. Paperwork went missing, requests were ignored, and the truth sank deeper into bureaucratic silence. At one point, the family's attorneys formally asked the prosecution to hand over the full-color autopsy photos, as well as biological samples taken from Paula's body. Those materials could have helped clarify what had really happened. According to Mexican law, the authorities were supposed to provide those documents within five business days. Weeks passed. Then months. No response ever came. On top of that, investigators never examined the cell where Paula had been with Carlos, nor the vehicle that transported her to the hospital. They didn't analyze the videos or photographs taken of her body,

nor did they review the security camera footage from the prison. The official excuse. The cameras weren't working that night. Conveniently, all of them had stopped recording just when something went horribly wrong. That explanation was almost insulting. absurd. When the toxicology report finally arrived, it listed the presence of clonazepam in Paula's system, a medication that, in high doses or combined with other substances, can cause cardiac arrest. It was presented as the likely cause of death. But her mother didn't believe it for a second.

Paula didn't take medication like that. Someone must have given it to her, or worse, used it to sedate her before whatever happened next. Brezadegh kept pushing. She wrote letters to the state attorney's office, to human rights organizations, to journalists, anyone who might listen. She described how her daughter had left home that afternoon wearing jeans and a white top,

saying she was going to meet a friend. She never came back. Later, she found out that the friend was Carlos, a man serving time for armed robbery and assault. Paula had met him online months earlier, through messages and video calls that started off innocent but gradually became more intense. Carlos had a way with words, charming, manipulative, patient. He told Paula he was misunderstood, that he'd been framed, that prison was a temporary injustice. He made her feel special, like she was the only one who saw the real him. From the outside, it might sound naive,

but loneliness can make people believe things they normally wouldn't. Paula was young, hopeful, maybe too trusting. Carlos promised her love, protection, a future. What she didn't know was that he had done the same thing with other women before her. Inside the prison, inmates weren't supposed to have internet access, but everyone knew that money could buy almost anything, phones, alcohol, even short visits without supervision. Carlos had managed to create several social media profiles, presenting himself as a free man, living a normal life.

That's how Paula met him. And once she was emotionally hooked, he convinced her to visit him. He made it sound romantic, a love story against the odds. But it wasn't love that awaited her inside those walls. The day she entered the prison, no one asked too many questions. The guards pretended not to know. noticed the missing paperwork. Someone even logged her as spouse, even though she clearly wasn't. The visit was approved, the cell prepared. Hours later, Paula was dead. To this day, no one can fully explain what happened between her arrival and her death. The official story says she suffered a heart attack. But the bruises, the patechi eye, the missing videos, the deleted messages, they all scream otherwise.

It wasn't a simple medical emergency. It was a cover-up. The second autopsy raised even more questions. Independent experts noted signs of mechanical asphyxiation, possible sedation, and the presence of clonazepam that didn't match a voluntary intake. In simpler terms, someone could have drugged her and then suffocated her. But proving that in court, without the missing evidence, was almost impossible. Meanwhile, Carlos remained in prison, calm and protected. He refused to give any statements beyond a brief note where he claimed Paula had felt unwell

during the visit and that he'd called for help immediately. The guards backed his story. They said they'd rushed her to the infirmary, but the timeline didn't fit. Between the moment she felt unwell and her declared death at the hospital, more than an hour had passed, an hour no one could account for. What happened during that time? No one knows, or rather, no one wants to say. When journalists later tried to investigate, they found the same pattern repeated across other cases,

women allowed into prisons under irregular circumstances, inmates using cell phones to contact them, and visits approved with fake or incomplete documentation. It was part of a silent, corrupt system where rules could be bought and lives could be lost without consequence. For Breseda, the fight didn't end with her daughter's burial. She became an advocate, attending protests, speaking to media, and demanding justice not only for Paula but for every woman whose death was labeled unexplained. She learned about other mothers who'd gone through the same, stories buried under paperwork,

autopsies that didn't match, and institutions that treated their grief like an inconvenience. She carried her daughter's file everywhere, a thick folder filled with photos, copies, reports, and post-it notes. They think I'll get tired, she once said in an interview, but they don't know what it's like to bury your child without answers. Every few months, she submitted new requests for evidence, the video footage, the forensic samples, the visitor logs. Each time, the same bureaucratic silence answered her back. The National Observatory on Feminicide eventually published a report including Paula's case as one of several examples of how justice fails women in Mexico. The report criticized the lack of proper investigation, the mishandling of evidence,

and the absence of a gender-based perspective in cases where women die under suspicious circumstances. They called Paula's case emblematic, meaning it stood as proof of everything that's wrong with the system. As months turned into years, new information. surfaced little by little. A former prison guard, anonymously, confessed that Paula had been unconscious when she was taken out of the cell, not after a heart attack, but after a struggle. He described shouting, movement, and then silence. He said he didn't speak up earlier because he feared for his job and his life. His statement never made it into the official record, but it confirmed what Breseda had always believed. She remembered her daughter as cheerful,

impulsive, full of life. Someone who loved to laugh at bad jokes and take pictures of sunsets. It broke her to think that Paula's last moments were filled with fear. Every time she saw the bruises in the autopsy photos, she imagined her daughter fighting, trying to breathe, trying to survive. That image haunted her more than anything else. By the time the case reached its second anniversary, almost nothing had changed. The prison staff involved had been reassigned but not punished. The director quietly retired. The sub-commander who ordered the transfer still worked there.

The files remained open but stagnant, like a wound that refused to close. Officially, Paula's cause of death was still listed as cardiac arrest due to clonazepam intoxication. Unofficially, everyone knew there was more to it. If you ask Breseda today what justice means, she won't talk about prison sentences or court rulings. She'll tell you it means truth, the real story, the one hidden behind the walls and paperwork. She says that as long as Paula's case stays unresolved, every woman walking into a prison, a police station, or even her own home could be the next victim of the same negligence. What happened to Paula wasn't an isolated event.

It was the result of a chain of decisions. small acts of corruption, silence, and indifference, that ended in tragedy. A guard who looked away, a director who took a bribe, a prosecutor who ignored the law. Each one contributed to a system that made Paula's death possible and then made her story disappear. The saddest part. There are probably more Paulus out there, stories untold, cases unreported, families still waiting for answers that may never come. Every time Brezada stands before a microphone, she reminds the world that her daughter was more than a name in a report. She was a person, a daughter, a dreamer, someone who trusted too much in a world that gave her nothing back.

When you walk past the prison today, it looks like any other government building, grey walls, cameras, guards at the gate. Nothing on the outside tells you that inside, a young woman once died under mysterious circumstances. There's no plaque, no acknowledgement, not even a line in a report that says, We failed her. But if you listen closely, if you talk to the people who were there, you can still feel the unease, the guilt that lingers in whispers. And that's the thing about stories like Paulus. They don't end.

They echo. They stay alive in the voices of those who refuse to forget. Brezada's fight continues, in courtrooms, in interviews, in interviews, in press, protests. She knows justice in her country moves slowly, if at all. But she also knows silence would be worse. As for Carlos, he remains behind bars. Some say he was transferred to another facility. Others claim he still has his phone and his connections. The truth is, no one really knows. His name rarely appears in the news anymore. But Paula's name, that one keeps resurfacing, attached to words like impunity, violence, and feminicide.

It's strange how a story that started with a young woman walking into a prison for love became a symbol of everything broken in the system. Maybe that's the cruelest part, she went there believing in connection, in forgiveness, maybe even redemption. Instead, she found betrayal, violence, and a system that turned its back on her. And somewhere in the paperwork, buried between signatures, stamps, and legal jargon, lies the truth of what really happened that night when the sub-commander ordered two officers to drive Paula to the hospital. Seven minutes after she arrived, she was gone. Seven minutes that hold more questions than answers. To be continued.