The Ghost of Glen Ellyn: An Innocent Errand, a 30-Year Mystery, and the Systemic Failure That Cost a Teen Her Life

On the gentle, sun-drenched streets of Glen Ellyn, Illinois, in the summer of 1985, a sense of security was not a luxury; it was a birthright. This was a town considered one of the safest in the area, a quiet, idyllic backdrop for childhood. Here, Christy Wesselman, a vibrant and popular 15-year-old, lived the carefree life of a teenager. An active student, vice president of her class, and a lover of softball and volleyball, Christy embodied the promise of her small community. Yet, in the span of an afternoon, this promise was brutally extinguished, leaving behind a wound that would fester for three long decades and expose a staggering flaw in the very justice system designed to protect her.

The nightmare began with the most innocent of errands. On July 21, 1985, Christy arrived home from summer classes around 3:30 p.m. She told her mother she was going to walk to a local store—just a few minutes away—to buy a soda and a chocolate bar for the two of them. She was expected back immediately. As the minutes turned into an hour, and the hour gave way to twilight, a familiar parental worry morphed into cold dread. With no cell phones to check in, Christy’s mother could only wait, her anxiety climbing with the setting sun.

By 1:50 a.m., with no sign of Christy and none of her friends having seen her that day, the family contacted the police. The initial search was frantic, but yielded nothing. Investigators quickly interviewed the store clerk—a man who knew Christy from the neighborhood, having even babysat her years prior. He confirmed she had been there around 4:00 p.m., bought the candy, and left, appearing happy and normal. The trail went ice cold the moment she stepped out of the shop.

The search continued through the night, challenging in the darkness. As midday arrived, a new team of officers took over, and one detective, relying on local knowledge, retraced Christy’s most likely route: a common shortcut through a large, vacant field of tall grass that separated the residential area from the commercial block. It was there, pushed through the overgrowth just a few yards from the worn path, that the detective’s eye caught something unusual, something that would define the next three decades of the town’s history: Christy Wesselman’s body.

The medical examiner’s findings were devastating. Christy had died from eight brutal stab wounds, and the evidence confirmed she had been sexually assaulted. Yet, the crime scene offered a confounding paradox. Forensic specialists scoured the grass but found no footprints, no defensive wounds, and no personal belongings that could link a killer to the site. The only physical clue left behind, apart from the perpetrator’s biological material, was a missing piece of evidence: the pearl ring Christy was wearing that day, which was nowhere to be found—a detail that led detectives to suspect the killer may have taken it as a perverse trophy.

The most bizarre aspect of the case was the chilling silence surrounding the crime. Despite the murder occurring in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, no one saw or heard a struggle. A family was hosting a barbecue mere dozens of yards away, yet recalled nothing out of the ordinary. A gas station employee worked his entire shift just 60 yards from the field, yet noticed no suspicious activity. Investigators theorized that the attacker either followed Christy silently or was someone she knew, which would explain the lack of screaming or visible resistance that would have alerted the neighbors. The town’s size made the latter theory plausible, but exhaustive interviews with every man known to Christy led nowhere. They also compiled lists of violent offenders in the area, but every single lead came to a dead end.

Crucially, the perpetrator’s biological material was collected and stored. But in 1985, DNA testing was an embryonic science, not yet standardized or readily accessible for criminal investigations. The sample was filed away, a biological time capsule waiting for a future that seemed increasingly distant. The case soon became a fixture in the annals of cold cases.

Then, three years later, in 1988, a spark of hope ignited—and just as quickly, led to an entirely new tragedy. As DNA analysis began to gain traction, investigators sought to collect samples from all existing suspects. One man, Dana Henry, a 34-year-old who lived near the field, refused to cooperate. His refusal instantly made him the focus of suspicion. The police pursued a court order to obtain his DNA, and when he resisted, Henry was charged with contempt of court and held in a jail cell for days, reportedly without clothing, enduring immense pressure until he finally relented.

The result was definitive: Henry’s DNA did not match the sample from the crime scene. He was innocent and released. But the damage had been done. Henry had to spend an estimated $50,000 on legal fees, a battle that forced him to mortgage and eventually lose his home. Friends and family turned against him, convinced of his guilt even after the DNA evidence cleared his name. Years later, a heartbroken Henry admitted that the ordeal had utterly ruined his life, yet no one from the police department ever apologized, leaving him to carry the twin burdens of the murder’s injustice and the state’s reckless persecution.

For nearly 30 years, Christy’s case remained at a standstill, occasionally punctuated by frustrating dead ends, such as the man named Willis who bombarded the victim’s family with endless, irrelevant tips, eventually forcing the family to seek a restraining order. In 2000, the killer’s DNA profile was uploaded to the nascent FBI database, but no match appeared. The case transitioned from a fresh wound to a chronic ache for Christy’s family, who watched the original detectives retire, leaving the mystery to a new generation of investigators.

The breakthrough, when it came in 2015, was a twist of fate born directly from a change in law. The new detective team received a notification: a perfect DNA match from the FBI database. The profile belonged to 62-year-old Michael Jones, who lived 150 miles away and had just been arrested for domestic violence. Crucially, his DNA had been submitted under an Illinois law passed in 2002 that required anyone suspected of a crime to provide a DNA sample. The main advocate for this very law had been the State’s Attorney from the county where Christy’s murder took place—a law born partly out of the very frustration caused by Christy’s unsolved case.

Investigators were stunned. Michael Jones had never been on their radar. He was neither a suspect, a witness, nor remotely connected to the original investigation. He was a complete ghost. Yet, a deeper look into his history unveiled a terrifying pattern of violence. His criminal record stretched back to the mid-1970s, including an assault on a woman and a subsequent brutal attack and sexual assault of a 27-year-old woman in 1977. Jones was sentenced to a 10-to-20-year term for that crime.

This is where the story pivots from a cold case finally solved to a profound, sickening tragedy of systemic failure. Despite his violent history, Michael Jones was released on parole in 1983, having served a mere six years of his sentence. He was back on the streets two years before he ambushed and murdered Christy Wesselman. In a heartbreaking interview, Christy’s mother stated the agonizing truth: if Michael Jones had been made to serve his full sentence, her daughter would still be alive today. The system, in its misguided leniency, had not only allowed a dangerous predator back into the community but had failed to even notify his previous victim of his early release.

As police built their case, they uncovered more chilling details. Jones’s ex-girlfriend described him as volatile, capable of sudden, unprovoked rages. She also mentioned his unnerving obsession with detective books and true crime shows, suggesting he knew precisely how to cover his tracks and avoid leaving evidence—a likely explanation for the sterile crime scene in Glen Ellyn. His solo motorcycle trips to visit family in Chicago placed him frequently near Christy’s town, explaining how a passing predator could strike and vanish without ever registering on the local police’s radar.

Armed with irrefutable DNA evidence, police officially charged Michael Jones on September 18, 2015. After three long years of legal waiting, the case finally came to a head in 2018. Facing the certainty of a conviction and a life sentence, Jones chose to plead guilty in exchange for a lighter term—a compromise that meant he never had to reveal the agonizing details of that summer afternoon in 1985. The judge sentenced Michael Jones to 80 years in prison, with a possibility of parole no earlier than 2095, effectively ensuring he will die behind bars.

The sentence brought a final, crucial measure of closure to the Wesselman family. Yet, the final notes of the case were bittersweet. While thanking the investigators, Christy’s mother’s grief remained intertwined with anger at the failure of the justice system—the early release of a man whose freedom cost her daughter her life. And Dana Henry, the innocent man whose life was irrevocably shattered by police suspicion, attended the trial of the real killer. He shared that, even decades later, the nightmare continued, a scar that no final conviction could fully heal, especially in the absence of a simple, overdue apology. The case of Christy Wesselman is a somber testament to the resilience of a mother’s search for truth, but also a stark, unforgettable reminder that sometimes, the most dangerous failures are not those of the criminal, but those of the system built to protect the innocent.