15-05-2025
The Ice Cold Case Podcast Traces Madison McGhee's Efforts to Solve Her Dad's Murder
I've spent the past few years pouring everything I have — time, energy, and over $100,000 — into answering one question: What happened to my dad on July 11, 2002?
At the time I was six years old. I was told that my dad, John Cornelius McGhee, had a heart attack and passed away. But when I was 16 I learned the darker truth: He was shot and killed in the doorway of his home in Belmont County, Ohio, and to make matters worse, the case was never solved.
It took me a while to process, but after a few years, I started asking more questions. I was met with hostility from my own family that piqued my curiosity. I knew there was more to the story than everyone was sharing with me.
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At first I thought I could just call the sheriff's department and they'd fill in the gaps. But when I finally reached out, in May 2020, I was met with what felt like indifference and incompetence. My father's case had gone cold, and it seemed to me that my dad didn't matter to them. That's when I realized, if I wanted justice for my dad, I'd have to fight for it myself. (Teen Vogue has reached out to the Belmont County Sheriff's Department for comment.)
That realization led me to start an investigation that eventually manifested into my podcast, Ice Cold Case. I wanted to tell my dad's story and take control of the narrative because people like him — Black drug dealers who become confidential informants — often don't get the sympathy of the public when they are violently killed.
In general, Black individuals in the US are more likely to be homicide victims and less likely to have their cases solved compared with their white counterparts. According to federal homicide data cited by the gun violence-prevention organization Violence Policy Center, in 2022, Black people accounted for 13% of the US population but 54.1% of homicide victims.
A 2021 NBC News investigation looked into the falling rates of 'cleared' homicides in the US, a term that refers to cases solved or closed for some other reason. The investigation drew on data from the Murder Accountability Project, an organization that tracks unsolved homicide data in the US. In Ohio, where my father's homicide occurred, law enforcement solved 71.9% of all homicides between 1976 and 2019, according to NBC News's analysis. Accounting for race, law enforcement solved 78% of homicides of white people, and 67.6% of homicides of Black people, NBC News reported.
I wasn't just working against what seemed to me like the errors of one small sheriff's office in Belmont County; I was coming up against a criminal legal system that routinely denies justice to Black victims and their families. Ice Cold Case was my chance to humanize my dad — and maybe even solve this case.
Before the podcast, I had other dreams. I'd moved to Los Angeles, after my childhood in West Virginia and college in South Carolina, hoping to build a career in film and television — and I was making strides. During the pandemic, though, I put everything on hold and decided to investigate what happened to my dad.
The first time I traveled to Belmont County, I didn't know what to expect. I was nervous, hopeful, and completely unprepared for what I was about to experience. I maxed out my credit cards to make the trips back and forth happen, booking flights, rental cars, and hotels. Being in Bridgeport, Ohio, where my dad lived — and where he was killed — was overwhelming. I was meeting a dozen family members for the first time, one of them through paid prison phone calls only.
I kept some of those conversations secret so no other cousins would know we were in contact, because there was still a culture of secrecy and fear of repercussions surrounding my father's death. I was doing the work of an investigative journalist, but this was my dad, and this wasn't my job. Instead of collecting a paycheck, I was collecting debt.
I had this naive expectation that I'd go there, talk to the sheriff's office, and they'd be eager to help me. Instead, I was met with unsettling apathy. In early phone calls with Belmont County, law enforcement officials admitted that they had a suspect in mind — and had even arrested him early in the investigation — but they told me their efforts to pursue charges failed and they were no longer actively pursuing the case. I was shocked that they weren't doing more to protect their community from someone they believed might be a killer.
But my dad deserves answers, so I pressed forward, paying for travel, interviews, copies of police files, and printouts of relevant information at local libraries. I had to pay production costs to get the podcast made — I didn't even own a microphone or recording equipment. I needed software to edit everything together. I paid to publicize and market both the podcast and my dad's case to make sure that when you google 'John Cornelius McGhee' you'll be able to find the latest updates and submit your own tips. When I first started this, a quick search for my father's name rendered few results.
How does one spend $100,000 investigating their own father's homicide? Easily. There's limited financial assistance for families who want to do this work themselves, so I drained my savings. I took out loans. I lived on credit cards. (This is not a financial advice column, but I probably serve as a great example of what not to do if you want to have decent monetary health.)
I'm sure you're wondering whether I think I wasted my money. If I never catch the killer, was it all worth it? Absolutely. While the debt I've accumulated is real, and the consequences of that will take time to recover from, I don't regret a single dollar.
I did something for my dad that feels like no one else had the courage to do: Fight for the truth. In the process I've found a community I had no idea existed. I've met other families who are fighting for their loved ones, like Sarah Turney, Julie Murray, and David Robinson. I've connected with people who share the frustration, pain, and exhaustion of trying to solve a cold case when it seems that no one else cares. That, in itself, is priceless.
In April, I was surprised to receive a call from police who told me they had assigned a new investigator to my dad's case. We spoke on the phone for about 30 minutes. I was promised weekly progress reports, but nearly a month later, I haven't heard anything else.
No matter what, I will never stop fighting for John Cornelius McGhee. I will continue to advocate for law enforcement to equitably investigate crime regardless of the victim's background. Through my podcast, I've tried to humanize my dad. He wasn't just a drug dealer who 'got what was coming'; he was a father, a brother, an uncle, a friend, and a person who deserved justice.
I may never get the closure I hope for, but I've tried to make sure the world remembers the person who was lost and understands why he matters. J.C. McGhee matters because he was my dad, and that should be enough.
Originally Appeared on Teen Vogue
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