Did Philly police lose the case file for an unsolved homicide from 2007? This mom wants to know.

I thought I’d heard it all from families of homicide victims frustrated with the Police Department’s sometimes indifferent responses to their loved ones’ deaths.

And then I got a call from Monique Irvis, who shared some of the unfortunately commonplace grievances of being disrespected and ghosted by homicide detectives — but with one stunning difference.

Her son’s case file — which contained interviews, leads on suspects, and anything else that might help police solve the case — had apparently gone missing.

Yeah, I needed a minute to wrap my head around that one, too. So let me tell you a little about Irvis and her son.

Irvis’ middle child, Eric Keith Woods Jr. — born earlier than expected on Christmas Day, 1987 — was shot and killed in 2007.

The 19-year-old had been on his way home after attending a neighborhood basketball game with friends when someone opened fire on a Southwest Philadelphia street, and Woods was hit in the chest. He later died at the hospital.

Woods’ death left an agonizing void. Every year on Christmas, Irvis marks Woods’ life and death at his gravesite in Fernwood Cemetery in Landsdowne, hoping that one year she won’t just bring balloons, but some semblance of justice.

From the start of the investigation into her son’s murder, Irvis has pushed for answers and accountability. She demanded a new detective when she felt the first one assigned to the case was brushing off leads she thought could help solve her son’s murder. The next detective was better, she said, but then he retired. A few more followed after that, but 16 years later, the case remained unsolved.

There are lots of reasons why homicide cases stall — eyewitnesses won’t come forward, security cameras don’t work, or they don’t capture enough evidence. None of that makes it any easier on families, but at least they’re somewhat understandable.

Misplacing, losing, or otherwise not being able to locate a case file, though, would represent an indefensible level of incompetence.

The last time Irvis was able to access the file was in 2008, while she was discussing the case with the detective who eventually retired. He wouldn’t show her everything, she said, but he did allow her to get a sense of where the investigation was going.

In 2021, she asked to see the file again after receiving a tip she thought might help move the case forward. But she was continually put off every time she asked about it.

At the time, the department was moving from the Roundhouse at 750 Race St. to its new headquarters in the old Inquirer and Daily News building at 400 N. Broad St. Everything was being packed away, Irvis was told. Files are en route and all that …

But even after the move was completed early last year, Irvis’ requests were still met with excuses.

Last month she was determined to get things clarified at a “next of kin” meeting, where detectives update families on their loved ones’ cases. But almost immediately, she said, police began to give her the runaround.

“I told them I didn’t want to hear anything until there was a file in front of me,” she said.

After some hesitation from the detective and a lieutenant who joined the discussion, one of several people who accompanied Irvis to the meeting asked:

“So, you lost the file …?”

Instead of answering directly, or producing any documents, Irvis said police took another approach.

“Well, we’re just going to start off fresh from today,” Irvis recalled them telling her.

Incensed, Irvis said she got up to leave. “I’m done,” she told him before the detective stopped her with patronizing assurances — and a hug.

“We don’t want you to be done ...” he told her, grasping her hand.

But, Irvis, who’s 57 and a retired school police officer, is at her wit’s end.

“They won’t say it,” she told me in an interview last week. “They won’t say, ‘We lost it, it’s gone.’”

Her longtime friend, Dawn Burton, said witnessing the interaction was excruciating.

“It was like watching her lose her son twice,” Burton said.

In the 20-plus years I’ve covered gun violence, I’ve talked to many families seeking answers and justice. Every story is different, but countless relatives have shared similar accounts of feeling revictimized as their loved ones’ cases were shoved deeper into the bottom of an ever-growing pile of unsolved murders. It’s why so many families take on the work of trying to solve the cases themselves.

The city’s homicide clearance rate last year — 47% — is slightly below the national average of 50%. And by one estimate, there have been roughly 4,000 unsolved homicides in the city since 1990. In response to queries about the lag time in solving cases, the Police Department has often cited overworked and overwhelmed detectives and a lack of technology. The last time I visited the homicide division at the Roundhouse in 2018, detectives were still taking down messages on pink “While you were out” notepads.

But communication upgrades were supposed to be part of the move to Broad Street.

I reached out to the Police Department twice to get clarification about Irvis’ son’s case. Surely, I hoped, there was some explanation. Maybe this was all just a misunderstanding and the file had inadvertently ended up on the wrong desk or something. At the very least, there had to be a backup file, right? But I never heard back. No one in the department has provided a straight answer.

Irvis was recently informed through text that the required paperwork to “recreate the file has already been requested.” She’s not entirely sure what that means, and frankly, neither am I. But it’s made her question everything she’s ever been told about her son’s case — and who can blame her?

For years, Irvis has been asking for her son’s clothing and phone to be returned. But her requests were always denied because, as she was told, her son’s case was an open investigation.

But was that even true — or have those gone missing, too?

“I’m so angry, so disgusted,” Irvis said. “It’s a file, but it’s more than that — it’s my son’s life.”