The memory of nine-year-old Candy Rogers is forever woven into the history of Spokane, Washington, her innocent face a haunting symbol of a tragedy that defied resolution for six agonizing decades. Her story is not merely one of a child lost, but of an enduring mystery that tested the perseverance of generations of law enforcement and carried a cruel human cost that broke a family. On the afternoon of March 6, 1959, Candy left her home in West Central Spokane on a simple errand, one that every child in her neighborhood had undertaken: selling Camp Fire mints to raise funds for her Bluebirds youth group. It was a mundane act of youthful enterprise that set the stage for an unimaginable horror, leading to what was, for a time, considered the oldest cold case ever to be solved in the United States.

Candy was a cherished, only child, known in her community as a pleasant, friendly little girl who loved to laugh. Though her parents, Elaine and Carl Rogers, had separated, her mother, a school teacher, ensured she was provided for and happy. By 1959, Candy was a bright fourth-grader at Holmes Elementary School and an enthusiastic member of the Bluebirds, a group dedicated to personal growth and community service. That fateful Friday, she asked her mother, Elaine, for permission to sell seven boxes of Camp Fire mints in the neighborhood. Elaine reminded her daughter of the cardinal rule—to return home before dark—a warning that, had Elaine known what the day held, would have been an absolute prohibition. Candy ate a quick oatmeal cookie, played briefly with the family dog, and headed out around 4 PM, joining other girls in a neighborhood full of familiar faces.

But as 5:30 PM came and went, Elaine’s worry sharpened into a desperate fear. The footsteps she waited for never came. By 6:30 PM, a small search party composed of relatives, friends, and neighbors began knocking on doors. They confirmed that Candy had been seen walking around, clutching her boxes of mints, but no one knew where she had gone after the last house. The search intensified, involving police officers and sheriff’s deputies. Late that evening, a glimmer of hope was found: a group of searchers discovered six boxes of Camp Fire mints lying across a local drive—the identical type Candy was selling. Six boxes were found, but she had left home with seven. The single missing box, along with the girl herself, remained an agonizing void.

The following morning, the community mobilized. Almost everyone in the city had heard the news, and well-meaning individuals trooped out in large numbers to assist. The search was massive, covering roads and dense woods with officers on horseback, in vehicles, and eventually, in the air. The Air Force assisted by providing a helicopter, boarded by five men. In a cruel twist of fate, the pilot failed to see a high-tension wire and crashed into the Spokane River, instantly claiming the lives of three men: Airman Merlise D. Ray, Sergeant William A. McDonnell, and Lieutenant Kenneth G. Fatech. The tragedy cast a pall over the search, but it did not diminish the community’s determination. No one wanted the loss of these three heroes to be in vain, yet despite everyone’s best efforts, Candy seemed to have vanished without a trace. Elaine, refusing to eat and constantly staring into space, was slowly being driven mad by the uncertainty.

The devastating resolution came 16 days after the disappearance. On the afternoon of March 22, 1959, two Airmen hunting woodchucks stumbled upon something strange deep in a rock clearing, about seven miles away from Candy’s home. They found a small pair of blue suede shoes, their delicate craftsmanship indicating they belonged to a child. The shoes were handed over to the police, and Candy’s grandfather confirmed they looked similar to the ones she had worn. The next morning, a team of officers and volunteers descended on the clearing. An officer discovered a small mound of brush and pine needles, and to his horror, saw a small knee sticking out. He carefully brushed away the leaves to reveal the decomposing remains of a child.

Candy’s remains were found in a state that painted a grim picture of her final hours. Her clothes were torn, her feet bound with a strip of torn cloth, and another piece of clothing was wrapped around her neck. Upon hearing the news that her daughter had perished, Elaine lost consciousness and had to be placed under sedation. The autopsy confirmed the community’s worst fears: Candy had suffered a heinous act of violation and was ended by strangulation.

The Spokane Police Department immediately launched a focused homicide investigation. Early suspicion fell on an imprisoned serial aggressor, Hugh Bayern Morse. This theory was fueled by a bizarre piece of forensic evidence found on Candy’s clothes: a strange purple smear that smelled like grape gum, a flavor Morse was known to favor. However, Morse denied any involvement, and without physical evidence, charges could not be brought against him. The investigation stalled. Months turned into years, and though the dedicated detectives of the Spokane Police Department Major Crimes Unit never forgot, Candy’s case faded from the public memory, becoming what one detective later called “the Mount Everest of our cold cases.”

The human toll of the long silence was heartbreaking. Four years after Candy’s passing, her father, Carl Rogers, ended his own life in a hotel in Walla Walla, unable to cope with the unbearable grief and uncertainty. Her mother, Elaine, survived for decades, quietly passing away in 2006 at the age of 82, having never learned the identity of the person who took her precious daughter.

The case found its redemption through the relentless march of forensic science. By 2001, DNA technology, non-existent in the 1950s, offered a thread of hope. Candy’s clothing, carefully preserved as evidence, was submitted to the lab. Forensic investigators successfully isolated DNA from her undergarments and created a male DNA profile. The excitement was palpable, but an initial search of the database yielded no match. In 2002, the profile was compared to Hugh Bayern Morse, who was finally ruled out as the perpetrator. Nothing of interest surfaced for years, and detectives’ hopes were repeatedly dashed.

Around 2017, a revolutionary new method emerged: forensic genetic genealogy, a technique that combines DNA analysis with traditional family history research to piece together clues. The Spokane Police Department decided to give it a try. The preserved DNA sample, stored since 2001, was sent to Othram, a private forensic lab in Texas known for working with degraded samples. Six months later, the lab returned a startling result: three deceased brothers were identified as possible suspects. Their names were John, Andrew, and Terry Hoff.

Detectives focused on John Hoff, who was already deceased, having ended his own life at the young age of 31 in 1963. They did a background check, discovering that he grew up just about a mile from Candy’s home. More tellingly, Hoff had a troubled past, including an assault conviction in 1961 for using force to remove a woman’s clothing and trying to strangle her—a pattern of aggression that mirrored the final moments of Candy’s life. He served six months in prison for that act before being discharged from the Army as a deserter.

The most damning piece of evidence linking Hoff to Candy was an unusual connection: Hoff’s stepsister was a 10-year-old Camp Fire Girl at the time, and had taken on the role of Candy’s “big sister” in the program. This provided a clear line of access and opportunity. To confirm their suspicions, detectives obtained a DNA sample from John Hoff’s daughter, Kathy, whose DNA was found to be 2.9 million times more likely to be related to the suspect profile than that of the general population.

The final, undeniable proof required an extraordinary step: the exhumation of John Hoff’s remains in 2021. A DNA sample taken from his corpse was sent to the lab, and the result was what detectives had waited six decades for: John Hoff was the perpetrator. The case was officially closed.

The resolution brought a complex mix of feelings. John Hoff’s daughter, Kathy, was devastated by the revelation that her father—who she had believed ended his life due to depression—was, in fact, an aggressor. She bravely offered a public apology to Candy’s family, stating, “I’m very, very sorry for what my dad did… I hope that it gives peace.” The surviving relatives of Candy found a measure of satisfaction, knowing that the person who took their little girl had finally been named, even if they had perished without facing justice. The oldest cold case in American history was finally solved, a profound testament to the determination of multiple generations of detectives and the power of technology to reach across time and unmask a secret aggressor who had lived, and perished, with a devastating lie.