The courtroom in Boise, Idaho fell silent as Steve Goncalves stood at the podium on January 29, 2026, clutching a single folded piece of paper. Behind him sat his wife Kristi, their faces etched with three years of unrelenting grief. Before him sat Bryan Kohberger—convicted four months earlier of the brutal stabbing deaths of four University of Idaho students in November 2022. Today was sentencing day, and for the first time, the families of Madison Mogen, Kaylee Goncalves, Xana Kernodle, and Ethan Chapin were given the chance to speak directly to the man who took their children.
Steve Goncalves, father of Kaylee, had spoken first—his voice steady but thick with emotion as he recounted the moment police arrived at his door. But it was when he turned to address his daughter directly that the room felt the full weight of loss.
“I love you, Maddie,” he said, looking toward the empty space where Madison Mogen’s family sat. “Wish you were still here.”
The words were simple, yet they landed like a physical blow. Madison’s parents, Ben and Stacy Mogen, sat shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed. Stacy reached for her husband’s hand as tears streamed down both their faces. Steve continued, his voice cracking: “You were supposed to graduate, get married, have babies. You were supposed to grow old. Instead we’re here… burying pieces of our hearts every single day.”
The victim impact statements lasted nearly four hours. Each family spoke of futures stolen, milestones never reached, and the permanent silence that now fills rooms once filled with laughter. Xana Kernodle’s mother, Cara Northington, described waking up every morning still expecting to hear her daughter’s voice calling from the kitchen. Ethan Chapin’s parents, Stacy and Jim, read letters their son had written home from college—letters now stained with tears and framed on their mantle.
But it was Madison Mogen’s family that seemed to carry the heaviest silence. Madison—known to everyone as Maddie—had been the glue of the friend group. Bright, kind, always smiling, she had dreamed of becoming a teacher. Her mother Stacy spoke softly, almost whispering: “She loved children. She wanted to spend her life helping them grow. Instead someone decided her life should end at 21.”
Ben Mogen, Madison’s father, stood next. He had rarely spoken publicly in the years since the murders, preferring to let his wife and Kaylee’s family carry the voice of grief. Today he chose to speak directly to Kohberger.
“You took her from us,” he said, voice low but steady. “You took her laugh, her hugs, her future. I don’t know if you can understand what that means. I don’t think you can. But I want you to hear this: every single day for the rest of my life, I will miss my daughter. Every holiday, every birthday, every quiet Tuesday night when the house feels too big—I will miss her. And I will never forgive you for that.”
He paused, took a breath, then looked straight at Kohberger. “I love you, Maddie,” he said again, softer this time. “Wish you were still here.”
The courtroom remained still for several long seconds. Kohberger, seated at the defense table, stared straight ahead, expression unreadable behind thick glasses. His attorneys had advised him not to react, not to speak, not to give anything that could be used in appeals or future proceedings. He followed that advice perfectly—showing no visible emotion as family after family laid bare their devastation.
Judge Steven Hippler, who had presided over the trial with measured calm, allowed each speaker to take as much time as needed. When the last family finished, he addressed Kohberger directly before imposing sentence.
“You have heard the voices of those left behind,” Hippler said. “You have taken four promising lives and caused pain that will never heal. The law allows only one sentence for these crimes. That sentence is death.”
Kohberger showed no outward reaction. He had been convicted on all four counts of first-degree murder and one count of burglary in September 2025 after a trial that lasted nearly five months. The jury deliberated for just under nine hours before returning guilty verdicts on every charge. Sentencing had been delayed several times due to motions from the defense, but today the chapter closed: death by lethal injection, to be carried out at the Idaho Maximum Security Institution.
Outside the courthouse, the families gathered briefly with supporters. Steve Goncalves hugged Ben Mogen tightly. Stacy Mogen held a framed photo of Madison smiling in a sunflower field. Reporters were kept at a respectful distance while the families released a joint statement:
“Today was not about closure. There is no closure when your child is murdered. Today was about making sure the world knows who Maddie, Kaylee, Xana, and Ethan were—not just victims, but daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, friends. We spoke their names. We said we love them. And we will keep saying it for the rest of our lives.”
The case had gripped the nation for years. Kohberger’s arrest in Pennsylvania in December 2022—six weeks after the murders—came after a painstaking investigation that relied on genetic genealogy, surveillance footage, cell-tower data, and the knife sheath DNA. The trial itself was emotional and contentious, with graphic crime-scene testimony, expert battles over DNA evidence, and emotional moments from surviving roommates Dylan Mortensen and Bethany Funke.
For the families, sentencing marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. They have vowed to continue advocating for victims’ rights, mental health support for college students, and stronger safety measures on campuses. Several have established scholarship funds in their children’s names, ensuring that Maddie’s dream of teaching, Kaylee’s love of animals, Xana’s kindness, and Ethan’s infectious smile live on through others.
As the families left the courthouse together, holding photos and each other, the words Steve Goncalves spoke echoed long after the courtroom emptied: “I love you, Maddie. Wish you were still here.”
They were words spoken not just to a daughter lost, but to a world that must never forget.
