In a spine-tingling revelation that’s shattering the illusion of a perfect life cut short, newly unsealed court affidavits expose a deadly timeline: Monique Tepe was allegedly tormented by threats from her surgeon ex-husband Michael David McKee around December 6, 2025—the precise night chilling surveillance footage captured him creeping through her Columbus yard like a shadow of death, while she and her devoted dentist husband Spencer Tepe cheered at a Big Ten Championship football game hundreds of miles away in Indiana.

The bombshell detail? Midway through the electrifying halftime, Monique abruptly excused herself from the roaring stadium crowd, vanishing back to the hotel room in a cloud of distress. Spencer, ever the loving partner, confided to stunned friends: “She’s upset about something involving her ex-husband and she’s going back to the hotel.” Those haunting words, buried in Franklin County probable cause documents obtained this week, now scream foreshadowing. What “something” crushed her spirit that night? Friends whisper it was McKee’s relentless poison—threats like “I could kill her at any time,” vows to “always find her,” buy the house next door, and declare “she will always be his wife.” Chilling echoes of a marriage from hell, wed in 2015, shattered by 2017 amid allegations of emotional abuse, strangulation, and forced unwanted sex that Monique confided to witnesses in raw, terrified whispers.

Unbeknownst to the blissfully oblivious couple—still acting like newlyweds on the cusp of their fifth anniversary—McKee, 39, a vascular surgeon from Rockford, Illinois, had the day off from OSF St. Anthony Medical Center. Court records blast: he prowled the “curtilage” of their upscale Weinland Park home on North 4th Street, slinking through the back alley (the same path a hooded “person of interest” stalked on murder night), testing the grounds for nearly hours before slinking away empty-handed. No forced entry, but the intent? Crystal clear to prosecutors: a reconnaissance mission for slaughter. The couple’s absence at the Indiana game—Spencer, the Bengals and Buckeyes superfan from Mason High roots, Ohio State grad, and charismatic healer at Athens Dental Depot—saved them that night. But Monique’s mid-game meltdown? A psychic stab of dread from McKee’s invisible noose tightening.

Fast-forward to the bloodbath on December 30, 2025: pre-dawn hell unleashes in the family sanctuary. Spencer, 37, riddled with multiple gunshots beside the bed in a crimson pool; Monique, 39, blasted through the chest. Their innocent toddlers—a 1-year-old and 4-year-old—woke to sobs amid the carnage, miraculously untouched. A frantic friend, spotting Spencer’s corpse during a wellness check after his unpunctual work no-show (unthinkable for the “energy, laughter, generosity” embodiment), dialed 911 in horror: “There’s a body… laying next to his bed in this blood!” Nine 9mm casings scattered—no murder-suicide, ruled out cold. McKee’s silver SUV, flaunting a stolen Ohio plate and distinctive window sticker, ghosts in and out on neighborhood cams, tracked 900 miles round-trip from Illinois in under 17 hours. He ditched his phone at work December 29, evading pings, arsenal including a suppressor-wielding firearm recovered post-arrest.

The arrest capped a 10-day manhunt: Columbus PD, piecing alley shadows and vehicle forensics, nailed McKee in Rockford on January 10, 2026. Indicted on four aggravated murder counts and burglary with firearm enhancer, he pleaded not guilty via video from Franklin County jail, bond waived. His lawyer? The same who defended a notorious hospital killer. Family statements drip restrained fury: “Nothing undoes this devastation… we protect the children they leave behind.” Spencer’s kin, like brother-in-law Rob Misleh, paint Monique as “joyful, patient, warmth-defined,” escaping McKee’s grip—”willing to do anything” to flee his terror. She baked excellence, united souls; he shone bilingual, proud dad, party life-force.

But the December 6 overlap detonates everything. Was Monique’s halftime flight triggered by a fresh threat—text, call, gut instinct—as McKee literally cased their castle? Witnesses flood affidavits: McKee’s post-divorce obsession, life-threats during marriage, abuse that left her “terrified.” A prior “domestic dispute” 911 months earlier? Murky, but the pattern screams ignored red flags. Police Chief Elaine Bryant branded it “targeted domestic violence,” no random hit.

Columbus weeps: memorials of roses, sunflowers choke the bloodied threshold where vows turned to graves. The kids, orphaned miracles, symbolize innocence amid obsession’s rage. McKee’s Ohio State med school ties mock the betrayal—he trained where Spencer cheered Buckeyes. As trial looms, questions claw: Did pleas for protection fall deaf? How many “somethings” did Monique bury to shield her paradise?

This wasn’t impulse; it was a calendar of calculated doom. December 6: threat, stalk, halftime tears. December 30: execution. Monique’s hotel retreat that game night? Her last unwitting dodge. Now, justice hunts the surgeon who played God—and lost.