BWC footage released of Virginia Park deputy-involved shooting
When deputies walked up to him, as you can see Corona picked up a shotgun from behind a tree and put it behind his back. Deputies gave him multiple chances to drop the weapon.
Deputies called out to Rosales multiple times in English and Spanish before the video shows Rosales pull the weapon out from behind his back.
Deputies yelled to put it down and that nothing was going to happen to him.
Medical aid was given to Rosales but he died on scene.
The critical incident review board determined the shooting to be within policy.
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Yahoo
24 minutes ago
- Yahoo
New information about Walmart mass shooting emerges in recently released evidence
EL PASO, Texas (El Paso Matters) – A shopper emerges from an aisle in Walmart and looks for someone to help her. The only person around is a 6-foot-tall young man in a black T-shirt, tan cargo pants, black tennis shoes and the beginnings of a goatee, looking at his cellphone while leaning on a display of mini fridges. As captured on store cameras, she approaches him, says something, and he shrugs as if he doesn't understand. She appears to laugh, clasps her hands together, then thrusts them upward three times, signaling she needed help getting something out of her reach. They walk together down the aisle where she had been, and a set of hands is seen on store video reaching to the top shelf. The man walks back to the display area where he had been standing, once again looking at the phone as he settles near another display. The woman heads off in a different direction. Every day in El Paso, people feel safe in approaching a stranger for a small favor that is quickly granted, momentarily brightening the lives of both. This was no act of kindness. It was 9:13 a.m. Saturday, Aug. 3, 2019, at the Walmart next to Cielo Vista Mall. The man in the black T-shirt was 21-year-old Patrick Crusius. On his phone was a manifesto he had recently written vowing to stop the 'Hispanic invasion of Texas,' which he would soon post to an internet site frequented by white supremacists. (The woman who approached him spoke to Crusius only in Spanish, his attorney, Joe Spencer, told El Paso Matters.) At 10:38 a.m., just over 80 minutes after retrieving something for the shopper in need, Crusius reentered the Cielo Vista Walmart with a Romanian-made AK-47-style semiautomatic rifle he purchased from the internet weeks earlier. By the time he left the Walmart a final time, 23 people lay dead or dying, another 22 had wounds they would carry for life, and El Paso was changed forever. The basic elements of El Paso's darkest day are well-established. Crusius has pleaded guilty in both federal and state courts to the deadliest hate-driven attack against Hispanics in U.S. history. He will die in prison. But because Crusius never faced trial, El Paso knows little about what investigators learned as they tried to piece together the gunman's motives, and what transpired that day. State and federal laws generally allow law enforcement and prosecutors to keep secret such evidence before criminal cases conclude. With the criminal cases now ended, some of what investigators learned is being made public. The Texas Department of Public Safety – which assisted in the investigation – recently released a trove of video and photographs from the Walmart mass shooting investigation to Interrogation Files, an Arkansas-based YouTube channel that specializes in videos of law enforcement questioning of people accused of crimes. Interrogation Files requested the records from DPS under the Texas Public Information Act. Interrogation Files published a video released by DPS that includes two El Paso police detectives questioning Crusius less than three hours after the shooting. The video released by DPS shows almost two hours of questioning by the detectives. An interrogation by FBI agents later that day was not included in the videos released by DPS. DPS also provided Interrogation Files with extensive videos from cameras inside and outside the Walmart, as well as crime scene photos by law enforcement. Interrogation Files agreed to share the materials received from DPS with El Paso Matters. El Paso Matters reviewed the video and images released by DPS and will not publish or describe graphic material. But we are sharing some of what is contained in the evidence to deepen public understanding of the attack. The information released by DPS includes two separate videos of El Paso police detectives Fred Hernandez and Adrian Garcia interrogating Crusius on the afternoon of Aug. 3, 2019, hours after the shooting. The first video is about 58 minutes long and the second is 57 minutes. On the video, Crusius waived his rights to remain silent and have an attorney present for questioning. DPS also released a 36-minute video produced by the FBI that stitches together recordings from Walmart cameras from the moment that Crusius' 2012 Honda Civic is first seen approaching the store parking lot until he drives away after the shooting one hour and 46 minutes later. The store cameras captured Crusius mercilessly gunning down people as he approached the Walmart, as he entered the store, as he moved through, and as he exited. Before the shooting, Crusius went inside the Walmart and walked around for about 30 minutes, bought a bag of oranges and ate at least one, and sat in his car for almost an hour. Five minutes before the attack, he drove his car through a sidewalk to reach a parking space on the southwest side of the building. Crusius left two minutes later to seek another parking spot, where he began his assault. During the interrogation, Crusius gave a different explanation of his motive than he provided in the manifesto he posted online shortly before the shooting. In the manifesto, he highlighted a series of racist beliefs and said his attack was meant to stop 'the Hispanic invasion of Texas.' The information released by DPS includes two separate videos of El Paso police detectives Fred Hernandez and Adrian Garcia interrogating Crusius on the afternoon of Aug. 3, 2019, hours after the shooting. The first video is about 58 minutes long and the second is 57 minutes. On the video, Crusius waived his rights to remain silent and have an attorney present for questioning. DPS also released a 36-minute video produced by the FBI that stitches together recordings from Walmart cameras from the moment that Crusius' 2012 Honda Civic is first seen approaching the store parking lot until he drives away after the shooting one hour and 46 minutes later. The store cameras captured Crusius mercilessly gunning down people as he approached the Walmart, as he entered the store, as he moved through, and as he exited. Before the shooting, Crusius went inside the Walmart and walked around for about 30 minutes, bought a bag of oranges and ate at least one, and sat in his car for almost an hour. Five minutes before the attack, he drove his car through a sidewalk to reach a parking space on the southwest side of the building. Crusius left two minutes later to seek another parking spot, where he began his assault. During the interrogation, Crusius gave a different explanation of his motive than he provided in the manifesto he posted online shortly before the shooting. In the manifesto, he highlighted a series of racist beliefs and said his attack was meant to stop 'the Hispanic invasion of Texas.' But under questioning by the two El Paso police detectives, he gave another reason for the attack on a store crowded on a Saturday morning with predominantly Hispanic and Mexican shoppers: 'I guess I was bullied in high school by Mexicans.' Crusius repeatedly told the officers that the reasons for his attack could be found in his manifesto, which was a 2,300-word screed that praised a previous white supremacist killer and said immigration was a threat to white people. But during the interrogation, he also returned to the bullying theme, which was not mentioned in the manifesto. 'That's the real reason. I rationalize in different ways. That sounds pathetic to say that's really why I killed a bunch of people. But, yeah, that's it.' Crusius was calm throughout the interrogation, but his left leg shook visibly and his statements were often muddled. He confused El Paso and San Antonio at one point. He said he posted the manifesto, which is replete with racist tropes, because 'I just didn't want people thinking I was a white supremacist. That's why I posted it, really.' As Crusius' criminal cases wound through the courts, his attorneys said he had a lengthy history of mental illness. He told his interrogators that he had long held violent thoughts and said he stopped seeing a therapist because he didn't think it was working. He also said he was on the autism spectrum. In the interrogation, Crusius said he couldn't sleep the night of Aug. 2, 2019, so he left his grandparents' house in the Dallas suburb of Allen, where he was living, and headed for El Paso. 'I mean, I just had violent thoughts, and I've been battling them for a long time. Yesterday, I mean, I didn't think I'd actually do it, but you know, yesterday I started having really violent thoughts and the next day I just drove and did it.' He brought the AK-47 rifle he had recently purchased, and ammunition he said he had begun accumulating before he bought the gun. He said he chose to make the 10-hour drive to El Paso because it was far away from the Dallas area, where his parents and grandparents lived. Of El Paso, Crusius said, 'I had no idea where it was.' He used a map on his phone to make his way from North Texas. When he got to El Paso, he got lost in a neighborhood, Crusius told the detectives. He was hungry, so he looked for a Walmart. The Cielo Vista Walmart was the first one listed on his phone search. During the interrogation, Crusius said he acted alone in the attack. 'I don't have any friends,' he told Hernandez and Garcia. Store security cameras show Crusius' Honda Civic arriving at about 8:56 a.m. Aug. 3, 2019, and he parked a minute later. (The time stamp of 9:56 a.m. on the Walmart security cameras was an hour later than the actual time in El Paso, the FBI said in the intro to the video it created from store camera footage.) Crusius had been driving for about 10 hours. He walked into the Walmart at 8:59 a.m. through the grocery entrance. No uniformed security officers are evident in the video. Crusius walked through the store without engaging with store staff or customers. At 9:02 a.m., he went into a restroom at the front of the store and was off camera for 8 minutes and 13 seconds. When he emerged, he drank from a water fountain for six seconds, then resumed walking through the store. Crusius seemed to avoid contact with others. While walking in an aisle and looking at his phone, he reversed direction when he looked up and saw two men coming toward him. He proceeded down the next aisle to his right. Shortly after he reappeared in the camera's view, a woman pushing a shopping cart can be seen coming behind him, then turning up another aisle. This was the woman shopper who approached Crusius to seek his assistance reaching something on a top shelf. It was his only interaction with another human being captured on video while he was inside the store. Crusius walked out of the store at 9:20 a.m. without purchasing anything. He went to his car, opened the door, then closed it without getting in. He walked back to the Walmart, reentering at 9:23 a.m. He headed to the produce section and picked up a bag of oranges. Crusius used a card to pay at a self-checkout machine, pacing for 15 seconds as the payment was processed. He then exited the store a second time at 9:26 a.m. Crusius went on and off camera over the next few minutes, but was captured on video eating an orange in the entryway. He left the Walmart again at 9:30 a.m., carrying the bag of oranges in his left hand. Crusius walked to his car, got in, and sat there for 56 minutes and 10 seconds. Investigators determined that he posted his manifesto from his phone to the internet during this period, at 10:20 a.m. At 10:28 a.m., a group appeared to unload groceries in the car parked next to Crusius. He drove forward, turned south and then west, and parked for another three minutes in the same aisle. Crusius then drove forward and turned north toward the store. He then turned west on the road in front of the Walmart before turning north again at the end of the store, driving across a sidewalk near several people and into a parking spot next to a minivan on the west side of the store. No one, including store security, appeared to have approached Crusius after his reckless move, though the vehicle was largely out of camera view for 35 seconds. It was perhaps the last chance to stop a mass killer before his attack. Officials with Walmart, which is facing multiple civil suits stemming from the attack, did not respond to questions from El Paso Matters about security at the Cielo Vista store the day of the attack. Crusius can be seen on store video briefly walking between the driver's side of his car and the driver's side of a minivan parked next to him, and put something over his shoulders. Subsequent video would show it was a pouch containing ammunition magazines. At 10:35 a.m., he pulled forward and turned in front of the Walmart once again. He weaved through the parking lot before pulling into a spot that faced the midpoint of the store just before 10:37 a.m. He exited the car, popped the trunk, and put on shooting earmuffs before pulling out his rifle. 'I can't shoot that thing without ear protection, period. It disorientates me. It makes me feel sick,' he told police a few hours later. At 10:38 a.m., Crusius slammed his trunk shut, put the AK-47 to his shoulder, began walking toward the Walmart, and fatally shot his first victim – a 58-year-old woman who had just turned her shopping cart toward him in the parking lot – 14 seconds after raising his weapon. He headed toward the grocery entrance where minutes earlier he had eaten an orange as shoppers went in and out. Crusius continued firing inside the store for almost three minutes before exiting a final time and heading back to his car. Hours later, he would tell police he didn't expect the attack would last as long as it did. 'I thought there would be somebody shooting back.' He pulled out of the parking space at 10:42 a.m. He later told police he tried to call 911 to surrender after he drove away, but couldn't get through. He was driving back to the Walmart about 20 minutes after leaving when he saw law enforcement vehicles about a block from the store and surrendered to two Texas Rangers and an El Paso police officer. When detectives asked him during the interrogation what he planned to do as he drove away after the shooting, Crusius said: 'I mean, I just had to get away. I don't … It was so nasty.' But even as he walked away from the carnage he left in the Walmart, Crusius fired on a car passing in front of the store, killing a 77-year-old man and wounding his wife. They were his final victims. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
5 hours ago
- Yahoo
El Paso Police fight back vs. catalytic converter theft with VIN etching event
EL PASO, Texas (KTSM) — The El Paso Police Department and Take 5 Oil Change are taking 'proactive steps' to protect vehicle owners from the rising threat of catalytic converter theft. To that end, they will host a Catalytic Converter Theft Prevention Event from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. on Saturday, July 26 at Take 5 Oil, 1341 N. Zaragoza. The event will offer vehicle owners free VIN etching services. El Paso has reported more than 800 catalytic converter thefts during the past three years, El Paso Police said. To help deter these crimes, the El Paso Police Department is providing free vehicle identification number (VIN) etching on catalytic converters. This process involves permanently marking the vehicle's VIN onto the converter, making it more difficult for thieves to sell the stolen part without proof of ownership, police said. This is a preventative measure aimed at reducing thefts and helping identify stolen property more easily, police said. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed. Solve the daily Crossword
Chicago Tribune
10 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Neighborhood ties still propel violence in a changing Cabrini-Green
Julia Tate was headed to bed a few weeks ago when her daughter burst into their rowhouse screaming. Tate's cousin, Devon LaSalle, had been shot. The family had urged LaSalle to not come around the neighborhood so much, but he grew up in a now-closed part of the Cabrini-Green rowhouses. He still spent a lot of time there in spite of how much had changed since he was a kid on Mohawk Street. At 41, LaSalle was one of many people who stuck around the rowhouses even as development exploded around the now-vacant lots where the infamous high-rises once stood. Old relationships persisted too, for better or worse. When LaSalle and another man were killed days apart on the same block in what's left of the original public housing development, authorities said both had known their alleged shooters for years. It's been two decades since there were slayings so close together in the Cabrini-Green rowhouses, a patch of 146 public housing units ringed by new construction in the well-heeled River North area. Chicago Police Department sources and neighborhood violence interrupters say the killings likely came from personal history and were not tied to wider gang conflicts. And they came at a time when a leader with his own links to Cabrini-Green is seeking to run the Chicago Housing Authority. Now-former Ald. Walter Burnett Jr., who stepped down from his City Council spot while angling for the post, grew up there and has long decried people's tendency to hang out in their old neighborhoods, Sue Popkin, a researcher who has tracked the impact of the CHA's Plan for Transformation across a number of now-demolished housing complexes, including Cabrini, said old residents and people with ties to the developments keep coming back and maintain social lives in their old neighborhoods long after they've moved away. She offered another CHA development, the Ida B. Wells Homes, as an example. It took years for the homes to be dismantled, she said — 'but until it was entirely gone,' former residents returned. 'People go back to places after disasters,' Popkin said. 'You can't get people to move away from the edge of the ocean, even after there's a flood. There's a very powerful pull of home.' That pull was true for Devon LaSalle, his family said. He came back often to spend time with his girlfriend and his cousins, who are Cabrini residents. LaSalle made an excellent plate of Spanish rice, they said, and would set up in a nearby park to cook and sell plates with a few friends. He had a lot of history on those blocks. Court records show he was arrested last year and charged with aggravated discharge of a firearm after he allegedly fired a gun down Cambridge Avenue into a group of people. That case was still pending at the time of his death. More recently, LaSalle had started working as one of 21 peacekeepers through the organization Near North 3.6.5, and meant to use his own close street relationships around the neighborhood to prevent further violence. The group's leader, the Rev. Randall K. Blakey, said LaSalle had been considered 'one of the best and most promising' men to work with the program, which started in April of this year. He had not been on duty the night he was shot, Blakey said. Just after midnight on July 13, Assistant State's Attorney Mike Pekara said, LaSalle spoke to a man, Maurice Timms, briefly in one of the courtyards that separate the banks of rowhouses. After LaSalle turned away, Timms allegedly shot him once before he approached and fired again. A citizen called 911 a few hours after the shooting to report that Timms had returned to the area and he was asleep in a nearby pickup truck, Pekara said. Officers arrested Timms after a group of residents identified him as the alleged shooter, according to police records. Eight days earlier, 46-year-old Darrin Carter was killed about 50 yards down the block, authorities said. Obbie Sanders allegedly approached Carter as he sat in his car, took out a gun and shot him multiple times. Carter then sought help from a nearby squad car before he lost consciousness, Pekara said. Sanders — who wears leg braces and uses a cane to walk because he's been shot so many times — was allegedly captured on surveillance video fleeing the shooting scene, and police arrested him after he crashed a car near Wacker and DuSable Lake Shore drives. Both Sanders and Timms had been in the neighborhood's social mix days or weeks before the slayings, Pekara said. LaSalle's father, Ralph LaSalle, has been trying to think what could have pushed someone to allegedly 'execute' his son, particularly someone who they'd all known personally. 'That guy, I knew him,' he said of Timms. 'He called me 'Pops.' I wouldn't have figured he would do (anything) like that.' Now 64, the elder LaSalle spent 10 years in prison as a young man after he was convicted of voluntary manslaughter. He has thought about the man he killed decades ago often over the last several weeks. 'The pain I'm feeling, now I know what his parents went through and how they felt,' he said. He doesn't plan to return to Cabrini-Green ever again. Burnett said the killings highlight issues the area has faced for years, even as the area has seen crime plummet and development take off around what's left of the rowhouses. A native of the Cabrini-Green rowhomes, Burnett may soon assume control of the CHA this summer. He said former residents of the rowhouses often return to the area after moving away or being released from prison, reigniting old conflicts. 'All these outside folks coming to the neighborhood, I think it's a detriment to the neighborhood,' Burnett said. 'It's hard to stop those incidents when folks are drinking or getting high and they get into it.' His comments largely echoed those he made five years ago when the killing of 9-year-old Janari Ricks jarred the city. Then, too, Burnett called for nonresidents to keep out of the rowhouses and 'do dirt' elsewhere. Residents of Cabrini-Green were critical in helping CPD officers find a suspect in that case, too, police officials said at the time. One man was charged with murder in the boy's death, and court records show that case is still pending. Janari's mother later filed a lawsuit against CHA, the security firm that patrolled the rowhouses and the property management company. That lawsuit, settled in 2024 for $7 million, alleged that the shooter who killed Janari was well-known in the neighborhood as a violent person, as was his intended target. The target of the shooting, it was alleged, was included on a CHA 'exclusion list' of people who were not to be allowed within the rowhouses. Burnett said CHA could do more to ensure that only those named on a lease are residing in a unit, though he said he couldn't say whether rules related to the list need to be strengthened. 'We need to check these places,' Burnett said. 'We've got a lot of folks harboring in apartments that (aren't) supposed to be there.' The CHA did not immediately respond to a request for comment. Burnett told the Tribune that fostering a sense of community and respect for current residents would help deter behavior that can lead to violence. 'So I think the challenge is, one, the people in the neighborhood who may be related to these folks don't demand respect for their houses,' Burnett said. 'Your cousins, your brother, your baby's daddy, you don't demand that they respect your neighborhood.' In a statement, a CHA spokesperson said that all public housing residents needed to adhere to the rules laid out in their leases. According to the statement, the agency 'works hard not to perpetuate stigma for past, present, or future public housing residents' and is making it a priority to offer public gathering spaces where people with ties to the area can return and celebrate their history there. The intersection of Cleveland and Oak streets is known as Dantrell Davis Way, in memory of the 7-year-old boy slain by a sniper's bullet in 1992 as he walked to school through the high-rises with his mother. Scores of children were shot within the Cabrini-Green high-rises, and Dantrell's death catalyzed momentum for the structures' eventual demolition, which researchers like Popkin found led to dramatic dips in violent crime. Along the west side of Cleveland is a vacant lot, still owned by the CHA, where Dantrell's former school once stood. To the north, a new apartment building is under construction. A set of cubic gray and white rowhomes stand on the east side of the street behind a black fence, where people on a recent morning were watering their lawns and walking their dogs. South of Oak Street stand blocks of boarded-up rowhomes and the 800 block of North Cambridge Avenue. People lined the street on a recent afternoon, chatting in twos and threes as they leaned on cars and against fences. A teenage boy rode a motorbike up and down the block, revving the engine every time he turned around. Rodnell Dennis stood at the far end of her block with his arms folded. A group of kids rounding the corner stopped for hugs and fist bumps before scattering into several rowhouses up and down Cambridge. Others dressed in swim gear waited on the steps or hurtled back and forth across the street, where a fence blocked off more boarded-up units. Dennis, 46, grew up in the high-rises and spent 20 years behind bars before he was paroled in 2012. He recalled finding a dramatically different Cabrini-Green upon his return — 146 of the original rowhouses surrounded by new construction. A CHA spokesperson said the agency had erected 4,000 units of public housing around the neighborhood since 2000. Another 4,000 units still planned for around the area will house people with a range of incomes, as part of the CHA's 'Cabrini Now' plan. The agency's ombudsman lets residents living in mixed-income communities offer feedback and voice concerns with community-building, a spokesperson said, and CHA works with several organizations in the Near North Side area on events where residents can get to know one another. But for Dennis, who now works as a peacekeeper through Near North 3.6.5, the distance between the old neighbors and the new feels vast. 'They don't know us,' he said. 'They just know the stories they've heard about us. They form opinions that have no relevance to who we are.' Dennis, who pleaded guilty to the murder of a 9-year-old boy when he was just 13, said he had come a long way from contributing to the violence that gave Cabrini-Green its notoriety. 'It goes to show you a level of growth from then to now,' he said. But he said it's hard to impress that on people who avoid the rowhouses despite living so close by. 'How do you communicate with people who live 15 feet from your front door but don't want to walk through your neighborhood?' he asked. Just behind Dennis, Julia Tate's rowhouse still had stuffed animals and a wilted flower from LaSalle's memorial gathering next to the front door. He left behind 14 children and had just welcomed his first grandchild, relatives said. On Wednesday afternoon, Tate's air conditioning was blasting and the blinds were drawn to keep out the start of the latest heat wave. Her phone rang every few minutes with relatives calling about funeral arrangements. Now 56, Tate has lived in the rowhouses all her life, on Iowa and Mohawk streets and now in a unit on the southern edge of the neighborhood. She remembers her mom growing cucumbers and cantaloupe out front, trips to Rainbo Roller Rink in the Uptown neighborhood and singing in the Sunshine Gospel Choir. Tate mentioned the 1970 murders of two police officers in nearby Seward Park as an example of the kind of violence that gave the housing projects their notoriety. Cabrini-Green 'had its day,' in her words. But the rowhouses had been another story. 'This area was always a safe haven for people,' she said. 'We had a childhood life, even though things might have been happening during the time when we were growing up.' People come back to the rowhomes because that's what's left, but also because they were considered a less risky place to be, she said. 'The people that come down here now are the people that used to be in the high-rises,' Tate said. And while crime has dropped sharply in the area since those towers were demolished, Tate feels that kids growing up in the last of the rowhouses today don't have as much access to the kind of programs that sprang up to help kids who lived in the high-rises. Some anti-violence workers said the new development in the area has actually made it harder to secure funding. City and state dollars often are allocated based on median-income in a particular ZIP code, making kids from struggling families less likely to stand out on paper in a wealthier zone. A CHA spokesperson said in a statement that the agency was always looking for ways to offer more options for youth activities. Currently, organizations like After School Matters and By the Hand Club for Kids run no- or low-cost programming for families in the area along with the Chicago Park District. Stacie Wade, LaSalle's second cousin who pounded up the stairs screaming the night he was killed, remembers programs from her youth in the rowhouses. Now 31, Wade doesn't recall worrying about shootings growing up. 'I used to like it down here,' she said. But LaSalle was like an older brother to her, and his death has made her reconsider the neighborhood where he spent so much time and she's lived most of her life. He was with people he trusted when he came back, she said. And still he was taken away.
