S
hayne Maupin sat in the front row of the church staring stoically at the projector screen.
Photos of his girlfriend, Alissa Parraz, and their infant son, Nycholas, ticked by: Nycholas playing in a laundry basket, looking up at the camera; Nycholas tucked into his car seat; and Shayne holding hands with Alissa in the snow.
Shayne, 18, wiped his eyes with the sleeve of a red hoodie he had shared with Alissa. He didn’t know their time together as a family would be so brief.
Blue, orange and yellow flowers were arranged on the altar next to a framed photo of Alissa holding Nycholas. Also on the altar: an urn, and plastic children’s toys.
Jim Lee Maupin Jr., Shayne’s father, rubbed his son’s head to comfort him before walking onstage to address the funeral audience. He was struggling, too.
“I’m grateful that my son had fell in love,” he said through tears. “I just wish it would have lasted longer.”
Alissa, 16, and 10-month-old Nycholas were slain Jan. 16 in a mass shooting in Goshen, an unincorporated community bisected by railroad tracks along Highway 99 west of Visalia.
It was the first of 13 days of gun violence that rocked California. In Monterey Park, 11 people died at a dance studio on Jan. 21; the suspected gunman also died, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. On Jan. 23, seven people were gunned down at two Half Moon Bay farms. In Goshen, the violence and concerns about possible cartel involvement shocked neighbors into silence, fearful of retaliation. Almost four months later, loved ones of the victims are still trying to piece together what happened.
Officers responding to a 911 call on the morning of Jan. 16 immediately found the bodies of Alissa and Nycholas in the street in front of the house where she lived with family. Both were shot in the back of the head, and were the last to be killed in a massacre that claimed six lives. A neighbor recalled seeing Alissa’s body in the predawn light next to an abandoned child’s mattress on the curb.
In surveillance video shown at a police press conference, Alissa is seen running from the house with Nycholas in her arms. She drops him on the other side of a fence before hoisting herself over a chain-link gate. One of the two gunmen follows her, a rifle in his hands.
Nycholas, who was in foster care for most of his life, had been reunited with Alissa just three days earlier.
Four of Alissa’s other family members also died in the shooting, including her grandmother, Jennifer Analla; great-grandmother, Rosa Parraz; great-uncle, Eladio Parraz Jr.; and cousin, Marcos Parraz.
Law enforcement were familiar with the Harvest Avenue house, Tulare County Sheriff Mike Boudreaux told reporters. Deputies executed a search warrant there on Jan. 3. According to Boudreaux, at least two people in the family were Sureño gang members. He said both gunmen were members of the rival Norteño gang and had targeted the family.
Noah Beard, 25, of Visalia, and Angel Uriarte, 35, of Goshen, were arrested and charged with six counts of murder with special circumstances, among other charges. Both pleaded not guilty.
Valerie Gensel, Shayne’s mother, said no social worker or representative from the sheriff’s office called to notify Shayne of Nycholas’ death.
“Not one cop,” she told KQED. “Nothing.”
Tulare County Sheriff’s Office spokesperson Ashley Ritchie said detectives, who were focused on catching the killers, did not immediately know Nycholas’ identity or the identity of his father.
For months before the shooting, Gensel said, she had concerns about Alissa’s living situation and her grandfather, Martin Pena Parraz, who sometimes stayed at the Harvest Avenue property. Gensel said he had threatened Shayne’s father and verbally attacked Shayne.
Sheriff’s deputies conducting a parole compliance check on Parraz on Jan. 3 found his brother, Eladio Parraz Jr., at the house instead.
“Martin and his brother Eladio Parraz are documented Sureño gang members in Tulare County,” a sheriff’s deputy wrote in a report reviewed by KQED.
According to police, a search of a trailer on the property belonging to Parraz Jr. turned up an AR-style rifle with no serial number, a shotgun, a handgun, ammunition, methamphetamine, pipes for smoking meth, body armor and 10 bags of marijuana.
Alissa and another minor, whose name in the report is redacted, were at the house at the time of the search. Deputies did not contact Child Welfare Services because, according to Ritchie, the drugs and guns were found in the trailer and not in the house, where the minors were. The trailer, one of two on the property, was a “completely different residence from where Alissa was living,” Ritchie said.
Law enforcement is required to report suspected child abuse or neglect under the Child Abuse and Neglect Reporting Act. When asked about the search, Carrie Monteiro, public information officer for the Tulare County Health and Human Services Agency, which includes Child Welfare Services, pointed to the law. She declined to answer questions about the case, citing confidentiality.
At a Jan. 13 juvenile court hearing, according to Gensel, a judge decided Nycholas would be returned to live with Alissa full-time in the house. In a March 7 Facebook post, Gensel wrote that Nycholas and Alissa were “failed badly” by law enforcement and the county’s child protection agency.
“Only if the judge [listened] to me my grandson would still be here and my son wouldn’t be heartbroken or lost like he is right now,” she wrote, referencing the Maupins’ desire for Shayne and Alissa to share custody of Nycholas.
At the funeral on March 17, relatives, co-workers and friends of the Maupins gathered inside Faith Baptist Church in Alturas, a small town in the remote, high desert of upstate California where Alissa lived before moving to the Central Valley.
The family wanted answers. Why were Nycholas and Alissa allowed to remain in a home known to law enforcement for gang activity?
“There was no reason to kill [Nycholas],” said Shayne’s grandfather Jim Lee Maupin Sr., who traveled to the service from Oklahoma, where the family has its roots in the Peoria Tribe. “He couldn’t have said a word about them. Even if they let him live, he ain’t going to be able to point them out.”
Micki Witzel, Shayne’s great-aunt, was distraught.
“They really need answers to why this even happened,” she said through sobs. “They should never have put that baby back in that house.”
Since the shooting, the Maupins said, they had been confronted by Alissa’s family. Some of Alissa’s relatives who live in Alturas appeared at the park where the Maupins were gathered on what would have been Nycholas’ first birthday. It was March 1, and the solemn balloon release was disrupted by revving engines and spinning tires, according to Gensel.
It left her questioning how Alissa ended up in Goshen in the first place.
“I would have did anything for her if [Child Welfare Services] or the courts asked us if she could stay with us,” Gensel told KQED after the funeral. “We would have opened our arms and our doors to her. We would have gave her [the] life that she wanted and needed.”
Alturas is the seat of Modoc County in the northeastern corner of the state. Bordering Oregon and Nevada, Modoc is one of the state’s least populated counties.
At over 4,000 feet above sea level, Alturas and its desert brush and grazing livestock are covered by a fine snow in winter. Deer meander into yards with pristine views of the snow-capped Warner Mountains. “Where the West Still Lives” is the Alturas motto.
At Antonio’s Cucina Italiana, where Shayne once worked, a funeral program was tacked to a bulletin board. A former co-worker recalled Shayne frequently on the phone in the evenings talking about getting custody of Nycholas.
It was in this town of 2,700 people that Shayne and Alissa met. They were introduced by Shayne’s younger brother. Shayne, who declined to be interviewed for this story, was 15 and Alissa had just turned 14.
The day after the funeral, Gensel fondly recalled memories of Alissa.
“She liked to play. She liked to dress up Shayne,” Gensel, a traveling certified nursing assistant, said of the girl she described as bright and shy. “They’d go to the park to walk. [They’d] have little snacks to take with them.”
The memories flooded back to Gensel, 44, who spoke to KQED at a lodge near her home: Alissa and Shayne jumping on the trampoline in the snow, and Alissa nibbling on snacks “like a little bird” because she was too shy to eat in front of the family.
Alissa’s adolescence was marked by repeated shuffles among family members in Alturas and the Central Valley, 500 miles away. Police records reviewed by KQED show she had trouble at school: In October 2020, she and another female student fought. Alissa punched the other student several times, according to an incident report.
“She had a sassy attitude. Her mom told me that I wouldn’t be able to handle her,” Gensel said.
Alissa learned she was pregnant in the summer of 2021. Soon after, she moved to Tulare County to live with her father’s family, Gensel said. Exactly why remains unclear.
According to Gensel, Alissa’s mother, Shyla Pina, told her that the juvenile court system required Alissa to live with her grandparents after she spent time in juvenile detention for fighting with her younger sister while holding another sibling. But Gensel believes Pina, an Alturas resident, chose to send Alissa away after learning about the pregnancy.
“She never wanted to go down there,” Gensel said. “That was her first words — ‘I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go.’”
Pina declined to be interviewed. When reached on Facebook, she ignored a reporter’s question seeking clarity about how Alissa came to live in Goshen with her grandparents. Instead, she wrote: “My daughter is very smart and loving yes she had her ups and down[s] with everything that has happened to her.”
Attempts to reach other family members were unsuccessful.
Juvenile courts do send minors to live with family members in other counties in certain situations — for example, the court determining a minor is a danger to their family, or a minor’s living situation is unsafe, Modoc County Chief Probation Officer Stephen Svetich said.
“If we find that they need to be placed out of home, they could be placed anywhere else in the state,” Svetich said in a phone interview.
Alissa had lived in Tulare County as a child. Documents obtained by KQED reveal that in September 2017, a Tulare County court issued a protective order barring contact between Alissa and her father, Martin Eulojio Parraz.
On Sept. 6, 2017, a police officer responding to a report of suspected child abuse at Freedom Elementary School in Farmersville, a small town east of Visalia, was told an 11-year-old female student in the sixth grade had come to school with scratches on her face.
The student, identified in an arrest report only by her initials, “AP,” told police she lived with her father, Martin Eulojio Parraz, in nearby Woodlake. She said she had lived in a house that was frequently shot at, and that she was used to getting down on the floor and crawling to the back rooms.
“She did not know if her father was a gang member, and said he likes the color blue, has a tattoo on the back of his head with ‘CFM,’ and tattoos of a 1 and a 3 on each hand forming a 13,” an officer wrote in the report.
The color blue and tattoos with the number 13 are common Sureño identifiers. The Sureños — or Southerners — are a network of street gangs that pledge loyalty to the Mexican Mafia.
According to the report, “AP” said she saw her grandfather and father get arrested. She detailed physical abuse, including having her head slammed against a wall, being shoved into a closet and having chili rubbed in her mouth and eyes. She also told police she didn’t feel safe at home and hadn’t seen her mother in three years. Police and social workers immediately removed the student and her siblings from their father’s home.
Court records show Alissa’s father told police five months later he was a “Southerner” and a member of CFM, short for Crazy F—’ Mexicans.
In 2019, Martin Eulojio Parraz was sentenced to almost 18 years in prison for child abuse, and charges stemming from his role in a gas station robbery. That same year, according to a Tulare County court judgment, Pina was granted custody of Alissa and her siblings; they moved to Alturas.
But Alissa was back in the Visalia area, living with her father’s side of the family, within about two years. Once again in Tulare County, she posted TikTok videos of herself lip-synching songs in a bedroom and choreographing dance moves with her cousin in a backyard.
Shayne used the money he earned working at Antonio’s to buy bus tickets and pay for taxis so he could visit Alissa, and later Nycholas. Sometimes his parents drove him the 500 miles.
Alissa’s grandfather didn’t approve of her relationship with Shayne, and limited the time she could spend with him when he visited, Gensel said. According to Gensel, during one of the first visits, he verbally attacked Shayne because he was wearing the red hoodie he shared with Alissa, the one he later wore to her funeral.
Gensel said there was also tension between the families because she gave Alissa birth control.
“She always asked me to kidnap her or take her home with us,” Gensel said. “She didn’t want to be there.”
On one visit, they circled the block while Alissa waved from the driveway.
“She was scared to leave the yard,” Gensel said. “She was scared her grandfather was going to see her.”
But Alissa’s aunt, Christina Castro, said Alissa had a special relationship with her grandfather.
“She had the cutest way she would say ‘graanpaa,’” said Castro, the mother of Marcos Parraz, who was also killed in the shooting. “She was sweet, funny, beautiful, outspoken, confident and full of pride. She was all that and more, and proud to be a Parraz and a young mother.”
Three days after Nycholas was born, Tulare County Child Welfare Services placed him in foster care. Boudreaux later told reporters Alissa wasn’t able to provide sufficient care. Alissa was allowed monthly, supervised visits until she was granted full custody on Jan. 13, he said.
The Maupins said they wanted Nycholas to live with them half of the time in Modoc County, but attorneys for Nycholas and Alissa believed nine hours in a car every two weeks would be inappropriate for an infant. Gensel recalled the drive back to Modoc County after the hearing as “sickening, quiet, long.” In the car, the Maupins talked about how they planned to return to Tulare County the following week for their first overnight visit with Nycholas.
“But they were killed before we got that chance,” she said.
In Alissa’s last TikTok post on Jan. 14, the words, “Who would sit at your grave the longest?” appeared on the screen, followed by photos of Nycholas.
On the morning of Jan. 16, Shayne went to the lodge near the Maupins’ home where he could use the Wi-Fi, and tried calling Alissa. At the same time, a relative of Alissa’s came to the Maupins’ home and informed Shayne’s parents of the shooting. Gensel drove to the lodge and told Shayne to stop dialing.
There was no one on the other end.
“For him to look at me and say, ‘Why, Mom?’ — to have to tell him his family was murdered, to watch his soul walk out of him — hurt so bad,” she said.
According to police records and Tulare County Sheriff’s Office spokesperson Ritchie, in the weeks leading up to the shooting, sheriff’s deputies and a parole officer had been to the house at least four times looking for Parraz, who had an active parole warrant. He was arrested hours after the mass shooting.
On Feb. 16, Parraz was indicted on federal charges of possession and intent to distribute methamphetamine and heroin and being a felon in possession of a firearm and ammunition.
The Maupins live in a mobile home park on the edge of a reservoir about 15 minutes outside of Alturas. Aside from the lake, the nearby lodge and a few ranches, the neighborhood is surrounded by desert grass and open sky.
On a day in late February, snow flurries fell on cars parked in the driveway.
Inside, the Maupins had set up an altar in the corner of their living room. A poster showed photos of Alissa and Nycholas, and a guardian angel candle had been placed next to an urn decorated with an image of trees in the fall. There was also a homemade Father’s Day card.
Days earlier, Alissa’s family members had shown up at a house where Shayne was hanging out with a friend, Gensel said. After Alissa’s and Nycholas’ deaths, Shayne had been given half of their ashes, and Alissa’s family members were demanding his half. Shayne didn’t go outside.
Alissa’s relatives didn’t attend the funeral that Gensel organized at Faith Baptist Church in Alturas. Gensel streamed the service on Facebook for family and others who couldn’t attend. The photo slideshow had a technical glitch and had to be restarted.
“I wish Alissas’s family could have been here today. But they’re not. It hurts,” Gensel said onstage.
Shayne asked Gensel to keep the flowers from the funeral alive.
“He barely eats,” Gensel said. “He’s just lost. We’re all lost.”
On a recent afternoon, Jim Lee Maupin Jr., Gensel and their daughter stood where Alissa’s and Nycholas’ bodies were found. They cleared some of the dried grass and adjusted a small, leaning wooden cross so it stood upright. They added an Easter sign, photos and purple, blue, red and white artificial flowers next to the votive candles and bouquets that had dried in the sun.
New cellophane balloons tied to the cross bobbed in the wind.
“Everyone that knew what was going on in that house is at fault because we all could have came together and fought for them,” Gensel said. “But we all failed them. Just not the system, but all of us.”
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