It would have been so easy to find him because he was there to be found.
In the 48 hours before Gloria Choi was shot fourteen times by her ex-boyfriend on a dark road outside Lakewood, Washington, police had received four separate warnings — surveillance footage, a seven-page stalking document, a no-contact order violation — and acted on none of them decisively. Her death in January 2022 raises a question that has outlasted her killer's conviction and her family's grief: when a system is given every tool it needs to prevent a murder and still fails, who bears responsibility for the silence that follows? Her family's wrongful death lawsuit has surfaced a legal doctrine as troubling as the crime itself — that police may have no enforceable duty to pursue a known abuser, even when the danger is documented, proximate, and urgent.
- Gloria Choi called 911 while Billy Rickman fired fourteen bullets into her truck — the entire attack, including her voice and the gunshots, was captured on the recording.
- In the 48 hours before her death, police received surveillance video, a detailed seven-page stalking report, and a description of Rickman's vehicle — which was parked half a block from where Gloria worked.
- Officers left Rickman a voicemail, failed to issue a BOLO, and never walked to the motel six minutes away where he was actually staying — a retired law enforcement trainer who had trained those officers called their response a clear failure.
- Rickman was convicted of aggravated first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole, but the conviction has done nothing to answer the family's central question: why wasn't he arrested before he killed her?
- A wrongful death lawsuit against Lakewood Police has exposed a legal fault line — a judge asked whether police have any duty to pursue a domestic violence abuser not at the scene, and the city's own lawyer answered: they do not.
- As of May 2026, the lawsuit remains unresolved, Rickman is in prison, and Gloria's seven-year-old son lives with relatives in another state.
Gloria Choi was on the phone with a 911 dispatcher when Billy Rickman opened fire. He fired fourteen bullets through the windows and door of her truck on a road outside Lakewood, Washington, on the night of January 2, 2022. She was pronounced dead at a nearby hospital. The call — her voice, the gunshots, the silence — was recorded in full.
What made her death unbearable to those who loved her was how preventable it appeared. In the 48 hours before the shooting, police had received four separate warnings: surveillance video of Rickman slashing tires, a detailed seven-page document Gloria had compiled listing his violations of a no-contact order, and a description of the vehicle he was driving — a vehicle parked half a block from where she worked. No BOLO was issued. No one walked to the nearby motel where Rickman was staying. One officer left him a voicemail.
Gloria was thirty-six, a mother to a seven-year-old son, and the manager of a Holiday Inn Express. Rickman had entered her life in May 2021 as a charming guest at her parents' hotel. Within months, the relationship had become dangerous — he drained her bank account, became physically aggressive, and planted tracking devices in her car. By November, Gloria had left him and filed a police report. A judge issued a no-contact order on December 1. When Rickman was released from a brief jail stay, he told her best friend Brieanna Eberly: "I'm still gonna talk to her."
What followed was relentless. He showed up at coffee shops where she hid in bathrooms. He slashed tires at her workplace — twice. On January 2, Gloria called 911 to report her truck had been broken into and told the officer she was certain it was Rickman. That evening, Rickman turned off his phone and went to find her. He rammed her truck off the road, then stood at her driver's side window and fired nine times. When her foot slipped from the brake and the truck lurched forward, he made a U-turn and came back — firing five more shots through the window to make sure.
Rickman was arrested four days later in northern California and was ultimately convicted of aggravated first-degree murder, sentenced to life without parole. But the conviction left Gloria's family with a question it could not answer. Her family's attorney, Meaghan Driscoll, filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the city of Lakewood and brought in Russ Hicks — a retired officer who had trained the very officers involved — to evaluate the response. His assessment was blunt: they failed her. "It would have been so easy to find him," Driscoll said, "because he was there to be found."
In a January 2025 hearing, a judge asked the city's lawyer directly whether police could legally do nothing in response to a domestic violence complaint because there is no duty to pursue an abuser not at the scene. The city's lawyer confirmed: that is correct. As of May 2026, the lawsuit remains unresolved. Gloria's son lives with relatives in another state.
Gloria Choi was on the phone with a 911 dispatcher when her ex-boyfriend opened fire. The call lasted about two minutes. In that time, Billy Rickman fired fourteen bullets through the windows and door of her truck on a dark road outside Lakewood, Washington, on the night of January 2, 2022. She was pronounced dead at a nearby hospital. The entire attack—her voice, the gunshots, the silence that followed—was captured on the recording.
What made her death particularly unbearable to those who loved her was this: police had been warned. Four times in the previous 48 hours, Gloria or her friends had called 911 to report Rickman's stalking. They had given officers surveillance video showing him slashing tires. They had provided a detailed seven-page document listing his violations of a no-contact order that a judge had issued just weeks earlier. One officer had even been given a description of the Chevy Colorado Rickman was driving—a vehicle that was parked half a block away from where Gloria worked. Yet when Rickman turned off his phone around 6 p.m. that evening and drove to find her, no one was looking for him.
Gloria was thirty-six years old. She had a seven-year-old son. She managed the Holiday Inn Express in Lakewood and had worked her way up from nothing, driven by a fierce desire to provide for her child and honor her parents, who owned a hotel nearby. Her best friend Brieanna Eberly remembered her as someone who gave everything she had—to her family, to her work, to the people around her. "She was a part of my family," Brieanna said. "My whole family knew her, and they loved her."
Rickman had entered her life in May 2021 when he checked into her parents' hotel from California. He was charming at first, the kind of man who noticed her and made her feel seen. He sent her texts about how she made him feel special, how his heart was hers. Within weeks, they were a couple. Within months, the charm had curdled into something darker. He drained her bank account. He drank heavily and used cocaine. He became physically aggressive, pushing her around, throwing her. He planted Apple AirTags in her car so he could track her movements. By November, Gloria had gathered the courage to leave him. She moved back in with her parents and filed a police report. The officer who took that report was alarmed enough to recommend a domestic violence no-contact order, which a judge issued on December 1, 2021. Rickman was arrested for taking her truck and spent three days in jail. When he got out, he told Brieanna he didn't care about the order. "I'm still gonna talk to her," he said.
What followed was a campaign of relentless pursuit. Rickman showed up at coffee shops where Gloria was hiding in bathrooms, petrified and shaking. He confronted her at a shopping mall. He sent her emails accusing her of leaving him for another man. On December 30, he spotted her at a coffee shop with her friend Jacob Blue and called her from a blocked number, yelling at her. That night, someone slashed the tires on Jacob's Jeep at the Holiday Inn where Gloria worked. The next day, on New Year's Eve, the same person slashed all four tires again. A desk clerk chased after the tire slasher, recording video and calling 911. The video showed a man in a distinctive walk—the same walk Rickman had—puncturing the tires on a Chevy Colorado with one light out. Police said the video wasn't clear enough to make an arrest.
Then came January 2. Gloria called 911 to report that her truck had been broken into, her laptop stolen, and a tire slashed. She told the officer she was certain it was Rickman. She gave him a description of Rickman's black BMW. She mentioned the no-contact order. The officer said he would leave Rickman a voicemail. That evening, around 6 p.m., Rickman turned off his phone. Sometime later, he found Gloria driving on a road near her parents' house. He rammed her truck, forcing her off the road onto a gravel shoulder. When she tried to drive forward, he was blocking her. She called 911. "I think my boyfriend's following me," she said. "He just hit my car." Then: "He's got a gun! Please come!" Rickman stood at her driver's side window and fired nine times. The door was locked. He wasn't trying to talk to her. He was there to kill her. When the truck lurched forward and hit a utility pole—Gloria's foot no longer on the brake—Rickman made a U-turn and came back. This time he didn't get out of his vehicle. He rolled down his window and fired five more shots to make sure.
Billy Rickman was arrested four days later in northern California, soaking wet and hypothermic after hours in the cold. He was convicted of aggravated first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole. But Gloria's family—her parents, her son, her friends—were left with a question that the conviction could not answer: Why wasn't he arrested in those 48 hours before he killed her? Gloria's family hired an attorney, Meaghan Driscoll, and filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the city of Lakewood and its police department. Driscoll brought in Russ Hicks, a retired law enforcement officer who had trained the very officers involved in Gloria's case. Hicks was blunt: they failed her. One officer left Rickman a voicemail—a message that conveyed the police weren't taking the threat seriously. Another officer said he drove around looking for Rickman's BMW but there was no police record of it. No one followed up on the desk clerk's description of the Chevy Colorado. No one issued a BOLO—a "be on the lookout" alert. No one walked to the Home Motel, a six-minute walk from where Gloria worked, where Rickman was actually staying. "It would have been so easy to find him," Driscoll said, "because he was there to be found." In a January 2025 hearing on the lawsuit, a judge asked the city's lawyer a stark question: "A police officer could still sit back and do nothing in response to a complaint by a domestic violence victim because there's no duty to look for the abuser?" The city's lawyer answered: "That's correct." As of May 2026, the lawsuit remained unresolved. Gloria's son lives with relatives in a different state.
Citas Notables
It would have been so easy to find him because he was there to be found.— Meaghan Driscoll, Gloria's family attorney
This death was incredibly foreseeable and preventable. Lakewood PD should have found Rickman and arrested him to protect Gloria.— Meaghan Driscoll
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does this case matter beyond the tragedy itself?
Because it exposes a gap in how we protect people from domestic violence. Gloria did everything right—she left, she got a no-contact order, she called police four times in 48 hours with evidence. And the system still failed her. That's not a mystery or a fluke. It's a pattern.
The police had surveillance video, a description of the truck, even a seven-page document from Gloria. Why didn't they act?
That's what the lawsuit is trying to answer. One theory is that officers didn't see the urgency. They left a voicemail instead of actively hunting for him. They didn't issue a BOLO. They didn't walk to the motel. It's possible they thought he was just a nuisance, not a murderer-in-waiting.
But they had been trained in domestic violence. The expert witness had trained them.
Exactly. That's what makes it worse. They knew better. The training was there. The knowledge was there. The evidence was there. What was missing was the will to act.
What does it say about the law that a judge had to ask whether police even have a duty to arrest someone violating a no-contact order?
It says the law is broken. Or at least, it's being interpreted in a way that leaves victims unprotected. The city's answer—that police have no duty to look for an abuser—is legally defensible but morally indefensible.
Gloria called 911 while being shot at. Did that change anything?
It changed the case against Rickman. The prosecution used the 911 call and all the stalking evidence to convict him. But now that same evidence is being used in a wrongful death lawsuit to argue the police should have stopped him before he ever got to that road.
What do you think Gloria would have wanted?
Accountability. Not revenge—accountability. Her family wants the system to acknowledge that her death was preventable and that someone should have done the preventing.