In the early morning hours of May 3, 2025, the vibrant life of Logan Haley Federico, a 22-year-old North Carolina college student, was brutally cut short in a senseless act of violence that shook the quiet streets of Columbia, South Carolina. Logan, a radiant soul with dreams of becoming a teacher, was visiting friends at the University of South Carolina, her laughter and warmth filling the air during a carefree weekend. Known for her infectious smile and relentless drive, she was the kind of person who made everyone feel seen, her ambition matched only by her kindness. But in a fleeting moment, a career criminal named Alexander Dickey turned her bright future into a haunting tragedy—and what he did next defies comprehension, twisting a heartbreaking loss into something even more grotesque.

Logan’s story was one of promise. Raised in Waxhaw, North Carolina, she was a beacon of hope for her family and friends. She juggled late-night study sessions with part-time jobs, all while volunteering at local schools to inspire the next generation. Her Instagram was a collage of sunny days, coffee runs, and moments with loved ones, captioned with her signature optimism: “Chasing dreams and good vibes.” That weekend, she’d driven down to Columbia for a much-needed break, joining friends for a night of bar-hopping and late-night chats. By 2:30 a.m., the group had retreated to a rented house on Cypress Street, a fraternity hangout where they crashed in blissful ignorance of the nightmare about to unfold. Logan sent a final text to her mom—a simple “Love you, goodnight”—before drifting off, unaware that a predator was lurking.

Alexander Dickey, 30, was no stranger to law enforcement. With a staggering 39 arrests, including 25 felonies, his life was a spiral of violence, theft, and drugs. Released on probation just months earlier after a string of burglaries, Dickey was a ticking time bomb, his rap sheet a grim testament to a system that critics say failed to keep him caged. Described by locals as erratic and menacing, he was the kind of figure who sent shivers down spines in the neighborhoods he prowled. That night, fueled by a cocktail of desperation and substances, he armed himself with a stolen handgun from an earlier heist and targeted the Cypress Street house, drawn like a moth to the flame of opportunity.

The intrusion was swift and silent. Dickey slipped through an unlocked window, moving through the darkened house with chilling precision. He pocketed wallets, phones, and credit cards from the sleeping occupants, his hands steady despite the chaos he was about to unleash. Logan, asleep in a guest room, never stirred as he stood over her. A single gunshot shattered the stillness, piercing her heart and ending her life in an instant. The blast woke her friends, who froze in terror as Dickey loomed, his presence a specter of death. Without a word, he fled, clutching his stolen haul, leaving behind a scene of devastation: broken dreams, a pool of blood, and a young woman whose light had been extinguished.

What followed wasn’t the frantic escape of a remorseful killer but a depraved display of arrogance that stunned even seasoned investigators. Instead of hiding, Dickey embarked on what police called a “shameless shopping binge.” With the stolen credit and debit cards (possibly including those of Logan’s friends, though details remain unclear), he drove a stolen car to a string of stores across West Columbia. Under the glow of retail lights, he swaggered through aisles, piling up electronics, designer clothes, and random trinkets like a man celebrating a windfall. Surveillance footage captured his casual demeanor—smirking as he swiped cards, unfazed by the life he’d just taken. While Logan’s body lay undiscovered, her friends reeling in horror, Dickey was tossing items into a cart, racking up charges that pinged as cruel notifications to the victims’ phones.

His spree wasn’t just theft; it was a middle finger to morality. He hit Walmart, Target, and smaller shops, spending with reckless abandon. In one chilling moment, he reportedly tried to charm a cashier while buying a gaming console, as if the blood on his hands was just another Tuesday. The audacity peaked when he ventured into Saluda County, attempting more purchases before his stolen car broke down, forcing him to ditch it like a discarded toy. For nearly two days, he evaded capture, weaving through backroads and hiding in plain sight, his trail marked by fraudulent transactions and a growing sense of public outrage.

The manhunt was relentless. South Carolina’s finest—Columbia Police, Lexington County Sheriff’s Office, and the State Law Enforcement Division—deployed every resource, from drones to dogs, to hunt him down. On May 5, Dickey’s luck ran dry in Gaston, where he’d barricaded himself in a house he’d broken into. In a final act of defiance, he set the place ablaze, flames roaring as he tried to erase his sins in the inferno. SWAT teams closed in, pulling him from the smoke like a demon from a nightmare. Singed and defiant, he was arrested, treated for minor injuries, and locked away in Lexington County Detention Center, facing charges of murder, armed robbery, grand larceny, and arson.

Logan’s family is broken but unbowed. Her mother, Karen Federico, spoke through tears at a vigil attended by hundreds: “She was my sunshine, my reason to keep going. How do you bury your baby?” The family launched a scholarship fund in Logan’s name, vowing to keep her passion for education alive. Her father, Stephen, became an unexpected advocate, railing against a justice system that let Dickey slip through the cracks time and again. “Forty arrests, and he was free to kill my daughter,” he said, his voice raw with grief and fury. “This isn’t justice—it’s a betrayal.” The community rallied, with tributes flooding social media: #JusticeForLogan trended, alongside photos of her beaming at graduation, hugging her dog, living the life she loved.

The case has sparked a firestorm. How does a man with Dickey’s history roam free? His probation records reveal a pattern of leniency—missed hearings, slapped wrists, and second chances that piled up like kindling. Activists are pushing for tougher laws, arguing that repeat offenders like Dickey need iron bars, not open doors. Prosecutors are eyeing the death penalty, a move that’s reignited debates in a state where executions are rare but resonant. Logan’s story isn’t just a tragedy; it’s a wake-up call, a demand for change in a world where innocence can be stolen in a heartbeat.

As memorials bloom in Waxhaw and Columbia, Logan’s legacy endures. She was the girl who sang off-key but loud, who dreamed of classrooms filled with curious kids, who loved fiercely and lived boldly. Dickey’s twisted post-murder spree—swiping for luxuries while her family wept—lays bare a chilling truth: evil doesn’t pause for remorse. Logan’s light may have dimmed, but her spirit fuels a fight for justice, a cry to protect the next daughter, the next dreamer, from a monster’s grasp.