It was a bright Friday afternoon in Queens.
The kind of day when people walk without looking over their shoulders.
When danger feels distant, even in a busy city.
Seventeen-year-old
Josue Argudo was walking near Jamaica Avenue and 76th Street.
It was around 3:45 p.m., a time when the streets are alive with movement.
Students, shopkeepers, commuters — all moving through their own routines.
Josue had no reason to think this walk would be different.
He wasn’t meeting anyone.
He wasn’t running from trouble.
According to police, Josue encountered two teenagers he did not know.
One was later identified as Derek Trejo, 18 years old.
The other was a 17-year-old whose name has not been released because of his age.
What began as a brief dispute remains unclear.
Authorities have not said what sparked the confrontation.
There was no known prior connection between Josue and the suspects.
Witnesses say the tension escalated quickly.
Words were exchanged.
Then fear took over.
Josue turned and ran.
Down Jamaica Avenue, past storefronts and parked cars.
In full view of a neighborhood that would soon be changed forever.
Security footage later showed what happened next.
The two suspects chased him down.
They caught up to him on the sidewalk.
The attack was sudden and brutal.
Neighbors initially thought punches were being thrown.
It took moments to realize a knife was involved.
“I thought he was punching him,” one witness later said.
“But the guy in black must have had the knife wrapped around his hand.”
By the time the truth was clear, it was already too late.
Josue was beaten.
Then stabbed in the neck.
The wound was catastrophic.
He collapsed onto the sidewalk.
Witnesses watched in horror as his body gave out.
The afternoon noise of Queens fell into stunned silence.
A nearby neighbor rushed to help.
Others gathered, panicked but determined.
Someone began CPR.
Josue was still alive when emergency responders arrived.
He was rushed to Jamaica Hospital Medical Center
in critical condition.
Doctors fought to save him.
But the injury was too severe.
Josue Argudo was pronounced dead.
He was seventeen years old.
News spread quickly through the neighborhood.
A teenager had been stabbed to death in broad daylight.
On a sidewalk where people walk every day.
Police from the New York City Police Department secured the scene.
Yellow tape cut across the block.
Detectives began canvassing for witnesses and video.
Security cameras told a grim story.
Both suspects were seen fleeing the scene.
Their faces and movements captured clearly.
Within days, arrests were made.
Derek Trejo was taken into custody.
The 17-year-old alleged accomplice was arrested as well.
Both were charged with murder.
They were also charged with criminal possession of a weapon.
Prosecutors say they acted together.
Investigators allege the teens chased Josue down intentionally.
They say the attack was not accidental.
It was deliberate.
What remains unknown is why it happened at all.
Police say Josue did not know his attackers.
There was no history, no feud, no warning.
That randomness has unsettled the community.
Parents are asking how something like this can happen so suddenly.
How a disagreement between strangers can end in death.
Neighbors near Jamaica Avenue describe the moment as surreal.
One second, it was an ordinary afternoon.
The next, a young boy was dying on the pavement.
“The kid sat down, and then he slumped over,” a witness said.
Her voice shook as she spoke.
“What a sin.”
Those words echoed through the block.
A sin — because that’s what it felt like.
A life taken without reason.
Josue’s family was left devastated.
A phone call no parent is ever prepared for.
A future erased in minutes.
Friends shared memories online.
Photos of smiles, birthdays, school moments.
A teenager frozen forever at seventeen.
At vigils held in the days that followed, candles lined sidewalks.
Strangers stood shoulder to shoulder.
United by grief for someone many had never met.
Teen violence has long haunted parts of New York City.
But each case feels new to the families involved.
Each loss cuts fresh.
This killing has reignited conversations about youth violence.
About knives on the streets.
About how quickly tempers escalate.
Community leaders have called for calm.
For intervention.
For accountability.
But calm does not bring Josue back.
Intervention came too late for him.
Accountability will unfold slowly in courtrooms.
The accused teens remain in custody.
Their futures now defined by charges and hearings.
Lives altered forever — on all sides.
Prosecutors will argue the case was senseless.
Defense attorneys will present their narratives.
A jury will eventually decide guilt.
But no verdict will change what happened on that sidewalk.
No sentence will undo the fear Josue felt while running.
No ruling will ease the pain of his final moments.
The footage will be replayed in court.
Frame by frame.
Every step dissected.
For Josue’s loved ones, that footage is unbearable.
It captures a moment they wish they could erase.
A moment the city cannot forget.
Queens residents say the block feels different now.
Parents walk their children more closely.
Teenagers look over their shoulders.
The sidewalk has been cleaned.
The tape has come down.
But memory lingers.
Gun violence often dominates headlines.
But knives can be just as deadly.
And just as fast.
A single stab.
A single moment of rage.
An entire life ended.
Josue Argudo should have gone home that day.
He should have finished school.
He should have grown older.
Instead, his name joins a list no family wants to be part of.
A list of children lost to street violence.
A list that grows far too long.
As the case moves forward, the city watches.
Not just for justice.
But for answers.
Why did this happen.
How can it be prevented.
What must change.
For now, all that remains is remembrance.
A seventeen-year-old boy.
Killed in broad daylight.
Josue Argudo mattered.
His life mattered.
And his story will not be forgotten.
A Call for Help Turned Evidence: Inside the Murder of Hannah Marie Rogers.5460
A Story of a Night That Could Not Be Taken Back
The house on West Mosquito Drive looked ordinary from the outside.
A quiet stretch of Marana where lights usually dim early and neighbors know the rhythm of one another’s lives.
Nothing about the block hinted at the violence that would soon unfold inside.
On a night in July, that quiet ended.
By the time police arrived, a life had already been taken.
And the words that would define the case had already been spoken aloud.
“I killed her.”
“I did it.”
Those words, investigators would later say, came not from a police interrogation but from a phone call.
Taton Dorfman, then 30, called an ex-girlfriend.
He did not ask for advice.
He did not ask for help.
According to court records, he confessed.
He told her he had killed Hannah Marie Rogers, his 30-year-old girlfriend.
He added that the dog next to them was dead, too.
The call escalated into something even more disturbing.
Dorfman allegedly opened FaceTime.
He showed himself lying beside Rogers’s body.
Blood was visible around her head.
The room was still.
The screen carried a moment that could never be erased.
The ex-girlfriend did not hesitate.
She took screenshots.
She sent them to law enforcement.
Those images triggered an immediate response.
Officers from the Marana Police Department rushed to the home shortly before 10:30 p.m.
They were warned that Dorfman had multiple weapons inside.
As patrol cars arrived, the situation became more dangerous.
Dorfman barricaded himself in the house.
Hours passed with tension building on the street.
Neighbors watched from behind curtains.
Lights flashed against walls and windows.
The night stretched long and uncertain.
Police say Dorfman also sent messages on Facebook during that time.
He claimed he was going to kill himself.
Friends and acquaintances read the posts in shock.
Inside the house, officers later found signs of heavy intoxication.
A large amount of alcohol.
Drug paraphernalia scattered in the room.
When Dorfman finally came out, he was taken into custody without further violence.
Officers entered the home.
What they found confirmed the worst fears.
Hannah Marie Rogers lay on the bed.
She had suffered a single gunshot wound to the head.
There were no signs of a struggle that could have saved her.
Beside her, on the bed, was her dog.
The animal had also been shot once.
The cruelty of that detail shook even seasoned investigators.
A handgun was found near the foot of the bed.
Blood was visible on Dorfman’s hands and face.
He had no injuries of his own.
The house that had once been shared by a couple became a sealed crime scene.
Evidence markers dotted the floor.
Photographs documented a moment frozen in violence.
For Hannah’s family, the news arrived like a collapse of reality.
Phone calls came with voices that sounded far away.
A daughter, a sister, a loved one was gone.
Friends described Hannah as kind and grounded.
Someone who loved animals.
Someone whose life was cut short without warning.
As the case moved forward, the digital evidence remained central.
The screenshots.
The messages.
The FaceTime call.
Proof that arrived in real time.
Proof that left little room for doubt.
Prosecutors built their case carefully.
They outlined the confession.
They presented the physical evidence.
They showed how quickly the ex-girlfriend acted.
How screenshots preserved the truth.
How those images led police directly to the scene.
Defense arguments could not undo what had been recorded.
Words spoken freely.
Images captured without coercion.
On Wednesday, September 3, a jury delivered its verdict.
Taton Dorfman was found guilty of second-degree murder.
The decision echoed through the courtroom.
There was no celebration.
Only quiet acknowledgment of justice reached.
And the heavy understanding that a verdict does not restore a life.
Second-degree murder carries the weight of intent without premeditation.
A recognition of lethal choice.
A recognition of irreversible harm.
The conviction also acknowledged the killing of the dog.
An act that underscored the violence of the night.
An act that spoke to a loss of control.
As news spread, the Marana community reacted with sorrow rather than shock.
By then, the facts were known.
The grief had already settled.
Vigils were held.
Candles flickered in the desert air.
Names were spoken softly.
People talked about warning signs.
About alcohol and drugs.
About the dangers of domestic violence that hide in plain sight.
Police reiterated the importance of reporting threats.
Of taking confessions seriously.
Of acting quickly when something feels wrong.
The role of the ex-girlfriend became a point of reflection.
Her decision to document.
Her decision to send the images to police.
Without those screenshots, officers said, the response could have been delayed.
Evidence could have been lost.
The case might have taken a different path.
Instead, a digital moment preserved truth.
Technology became a witness.
And justice had a clearer road.
Dorfman remains in custody as he awaits sentencing.
The court has scheduled sentencing for October 20, 2025.
The date looms for both families.
For Hannah’s loved ones, sentencing will reopen wounds.
They will hear details again.
They will stand in a room where absence is loud.
For Dorfman, the sentence will define the rest of his life.
Years measured in custody.
Consequences that cannot be negotiated away.
The judge will weigh aggravating factors.
The use of a firearm.
The breach of trust within an intimate relationship.
The presence of alcohol and drugs.
The attempt to barricade.
The messages threatening self-harm.
All of it will matter.
All of it will be considered.
None of it will bring Hannah back.
Cases like this leave communities searching for meaning.
They ask how love turns lethal.
How an argument becomes a gunshot.
They ask why warning signs go unnoticed.
Why help arrives too late.
Why some nights end in sirens instead of sleep.
Domestic violence experts point to escalation.
Isolation.
Substance abuse.
They remind the public that danger often grows quietly.
That confessions sometimes come before prevention.
That intervention saves lives when it arrives in time.
For now, the house on West Mosquito Drive stands empty.
A structure holding memories it cannot release.
A reminder that violence leaves permanent marks.
Neighbors pass by and remember the lights.
The roadblock.
The waiting.
They remember how quickly a normal night unraveled.
How fast the ordinary became unbearable.
How a phone call changed everything.
Hannah Marie Rogers is remembered not for how she died, but for how she lived.
For the love she gave.
For the life she deserved to continue.
Justice, in this case, arrived through courage and clarity.
Through screenshots taken in fear.
Through officers who moved fast.
On October 20, 2025, a sentence will be read aloud.
It will be formal.
It will be final.
But beyond the courtroom, the story remains human.
A woman lost.
A family changed forever.
And a reminder that when someone says, “I killed her,”
those words must never be ignored.
They must be answered — immediately.
