In the quiet, unassuming neighborhood of Queen Anne in Seattle, Washington, a Sunday in March 1985 dawned like any other. The air was heavy and overcast, a prelude to a coastal downpour, and the city was still shaking off the remnants of a recession, cautiously embracing a new era of tech and industry. For most families, it was a day for rest and reflection, a time for a traditional Sunday brunch. But at the humble home of the Ferreira family, a mother’s anxious glances toward the front door revealed a deepening sense of unease. Her daughter, Maria Helena, 32, and Maria Helena’s partner, Jandira Soares, 28, had not arrived for brunch, and their phone calls went unanswered. What began as a simple worry soon spiraled into a decades-long nightmare that would consume a family and expose a dark, unholy secret buried deep within the heart of Seattle’s most powerful institutions.

Maria Helena, a dedicated nurse at one of the largest public hospitals in the Northwest, and Jandira, a high school English teacher, had been living together for nearly four years. To their conservative community, they were simply “roommates” sharing expenses, a common arrangement in the 1980s. Only a small, trusted circle knew the true nature of their relationship. Their lives seemed to hum along with a comforting regularity. The night before their disappearance, they were seen returning from a downtown movie theater, their bags filled with fresh groceries from the Pike Place Market—a simple snapshot of an ordinary life, abruptly frozen in time.

When the frantic phone calls stopped, Maria Helena’s mother, Dona Josefa, sent her eldest son, Carlos Alberto, to their apartment. The scene he found was eerily unsettling. The door was unlocked. The groceries were still on the kitchen table, half-organized as if they had been interrupted mid-task. There were no signs of a struggle. Their purses, documents, and money were untouched on the sofa. The only things missing were their raincoats and a large black umbrella, suggesting they had left on their own volition, perhaps to escape the impending storm. But where could they have gone? The police, led by the diligent and respected Detective Arnaldo Coelho, were called in. “This is a disappearance with unusual characteristics,” he stated in his initial report. “There is no immediate evidence of a crime, nor any indication that the women planned a trip or a prolonged absence.” The first 72 hours were a blur of frantic searches and interviews, but no one, not friends, family, or colleagues, could offer any explanation for their sudden vanishing act.

The case remained a frustrating enigma until a shocking new detail emerged. A neighbor, Mrs. Celia Gomes, revealed that she had heard a heated argument coming from the women’s apartment late that Saturday night. She couldn’t make out the words, but a male voice, “strong and authoritative,” stood out. “I thought about knocking on the door,” she confessed to investigators, “but I was afraid.” The lead was a breakthrough, but it raised more questions than it answered. Who was this man, and why had neither Maria Helena nor Jandira told anyone they were expecting a late-night visitor?

The first solid clue arrived in April 1985 when a taxi driver, Jose Raymond Oliveira, came forward after seeing their faces in a newspaper. He recalled driving two women matching their descriptions, accompanied by a man in religious robes, in the early hours of March 17. The women were silent, heads bowed, while the man did all the talking, instructing him to drive to the historic St. Anthony Cathedral. “I thought it was strange, the time,” the taxi driver recounted, “but the man said they needed to arrive before the first mass.” The man paid with a large bill and insisted he keep the change, a gesture that seemed designed to make him leave quickly.

The taxi driver’s testimony turned the investigation toward the cathedral, one of the oldest religious structures in the Northwest. Detective Coelho’s request to search the premises was met with immediate resistance from the Archdiocese of Seattle. It took a court order, three painstaking weeks to secure, before police could finally enter. The search turned up nothing. The priest in charge, Father Joaquim Almeida, denied that any women had been there, stating, “Our gates close at 8 p.m. and only reopen for the first mass at 5 a.m. None of our brothers would have the authority to bring visitors, much less women, after hours.” The cathedral’s records were unhelpful, and a meticulous search of the dorms and chapel yielded no clues. But in the library, a small detail caught the investigators’ attention: a section of the wall looked like it had been recently repaired, the mortar a different shade. When questioned, the priest explained it was due to a recent leak, a story that was corroborated by official documents. The date on the documents, however, was two months before the disappearance. Without a specific warrant, the police couldn’t break through the wall, and the case hit a major roadblock.

The investigation began to stagnate under the weight of institutional pressure. Then, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Investigators learned that Jandira had once been in a relationship with a seminarian named Paulo Roberto Mendes, who had left the religious life for her. He had since returned, becoming a novice at the very same St. Anthony Cathedral in 1984. When questioned, he denied any recent contact with Jandira and provided an ironclad alibi, stating he was on a spiritual retreat with seven other novices on the night of the disappearance. The trail went cold. Despite the family’s persistent efforts, including hiring a private detective, the case of the “Missing Women of Queen Anne” faded from the headlines. Dona Josefa passed away in 1998, never knowing what happened to her daughter. But Carlos Alberto vowed to keep the search for the truth alive.

In 2003, a flicker of hope reignited the cold case. During the renovation of an old mansion that had once housed religious figures from the cathedral, a small locket with the initials “MHF” was found buried in the backyard. Carlos Alberto immediately recognized it as a Christmas gift he had given his sister, Maria Helena, just months before her disappearance. “It’s unmistakable,” he said, visibly emotional. “I had it specially engraved for her. She wore it all the time.” The discovery prompted the police to reopen the case, this time with a new lead detective, Renata Campos, and modern investigative techniques.

Campos re-interviewed the aging taxi driver, Jose Raymond, who revealed a detail he had not mentioned before: the man in the religious robes had a distinctive burn scar on his right hand. This small detail led police to the file of Father Anselmo Carvalho, a priest at the cathedral who had died in 1999 and whose medical records indicated he had a similar scar from a kitchen accident in 1981. The connection was tenuous, but it was all they had. Then, in 2010, Mrs. Celia Gomes, the neighbor, made a deathbed confession. She admitted that she had lied in her original testimony, omitting crucial information out of fear. “I recognized the man’s voice that night,” she whispered to the police. “It was Father Anselmo. He wasn’t arguing with them; he was threatening them. I heard him say, ‘You are a perversion in the eyes of God. You must be purified.’” After that, she heard sounds of a struggle and a sickening thud. The confession, though tragically delayed, provided a motive: a hate crime fueled by religious intolerance.

The case took another dramatic turn in 2015 when a local Truth and Reconciliation Commission, originally established to investigate historical injustices, took on the case. They uncovered declassified documents that revealed Detective Coelho had been pressured by superiors to back off the investigation into the cathedral. Correspondence between the Public Safety Commissioner and the Archdiocese hinted at an agreement to “preserve the institution’s image.” The truth was, the original investigation had been intentionally obstructed. A former cathedral cook also came forward, revealing that on the morning after the disappearance, Father Anselmo had prevented her from entering the library, claiming “emergency repairs.” She also noted “dark stains” on his sleeves. The pieces were finally coming together, all pointing to the repaired wall in the library as the key to the mystery.

In 2016, the justice system finally authorized a structural inspection of the cathedral. Using non-invasive technology like ground-penetrating radar, investigators located a hidden compartment behind the wall. But the final, tragic revelation came on July 14, 2022, when a partial renovation of the now-museum cathedral required the demolition of the same wall. Behind it, in a small, sealed space, workers discovered two human skeletons, their hands still intertwined. Forensic analysis confirmed they were two women, killed over 30 years prior. The signs of extreme violence were horrifying: blunt force trauma to the skulls and multiple broken bones. But what chilled investigators to the core were the postmortem mutilation marks, a pattern that suggested a macabre ritual. A handwritten prayer book was found next to the bodies, with underlined biblical passages referencing sin and divine punishment.

DNA testing confirmed that one skeleton belonged to Maria Helena. The other, by dental records, was Jandira Soares. It was a tragic end, but for Carlos Alberto, it was a profound relief. “It’s a tragic ending,” he said, “but it brings some comfort to the family who can finally give them a dignified burial.” With the discovery, the investigation focused on those still living. The prosecutor’s office charged three men with qualified homicide and concealment of corpses: Paulo Roberto Mendes, Father Joaquim Almeida, and Brother Matthew Xavier, Father Anselmo’s former assistant.

In a stunning confession, Paulo Roberto Mendes, living under a false identity, admitted his role. He revealed that Father Anselmo, upon discovering the women’s relationship, became obsessed with “saving their souls.” On the night of March 16, 1985, they went to the apartment under the guise of a spiritual conversation. The situation quickly spiraled out of control as Father Anselmo, in a fit of rage, began to “exorcise” them, striking them repeatedly with a metal crucifix. Paulo admitted to helping transport the bodies to the cathedral, where Father Anselmo, with the help of Brother Matthew, performed a gruesome “purification ritual,” mutilating the bodies before sealing them in the wall. Father Joaquim, now 92, admitted to discovering the crime but choosing to cover it up to protect the church’s reputation.

The trial in March 2023 was a landmark moment for America, establishing a legal precedent for hate crimes motivated by homophobia, even when the crime occurred decades before such laws existed. The men received sentences ranging from 12 to 28 years. Maria Helena and Jandira were finally laid to rest together, their intertwined hands a powerful symbol of a love that could not be broken. The case of the Missing Women of Queen Anne became a national symbol of the relentless fight against intolerance and the unwavering pursuit of justice, no matter how long it takes. As Carlos Alberto said at the inauguration of a memorial dedicated to his sister and her partner, “Time can hide the truth, but it cannot erase it.” Their story, now tragically complete, serves as a beacon of hope, ensuring that no one else suffers a similar fate.