In the quiet, working-class neighborhoods of New Britain, Connecticut, where families gather for backyard barbecues and children chase fireflies under streetlights, a veil of normalcy concealed a horror that has left the community reeling. On October 8, 2025, an anonymous tip led police to the overgrown backyard of an abandoned Victorian home on Clark Street—a dilapidated eyesore long plagued by squatters and forgotten dreams. There, in a weathered plastic storage bin meant for holiday decorations or old toys, officers uncovered the skeletal remains of 12-year-old Jacqueline “Mimi” Torres-García. Wrapped in trash bags and clad in the tattered remnants of a Disney princess nightgown, her body bore the silent scars of unimaginable suffering. Investigators believe Mimi had been dead for nearly a year, her life extinguished in the fall of 2024 through prolonged abuse, malnourishment, and neglect at the hands of those who should have been her guardians: her mother, Karla Garcia; her aunt, Jackelyn Garcia; and her mother’s boyfriend, Jonatan Nanita. As the trio faces murder charges, Mimi’s father, Victor Torres, broke his silence with words that echo the agony of a parent powerless against a system that failed: “I haven’t seen my daughter since her 12th birthday—all my texts and calls went unanswered.”

Victor Torres, Mimi’s biological father, lives out of state, separated from his daughter by miles and a custody arrangement that granted sole guardianship to her mother, Karla. In interviews following the grim discovery, Torres recounted his futile efforts to maintain contact. Mimi’s 12th birthday on January 29, 2025, marked the last time he spoke to her—a brief, cherished conversation filled with the innocent chatter of a girl on the cusp of adolescence. After that, silence descended. Texts went unread, calls rang into voicemail oblivion. Karla, he said, offered excuses when pressed: Mimi was busy with school, or simply didn’t want to talk. Torres, respecting what he believed was his daughter’s wishes, didn’t push harder, fearing he might drive her further away. “I thought she just didn’t want to see me,” he confided, his voice heavy with regret. Unbeknownst to him, Mimi had vanished from the world months earlier, her absence shrouded in a web of deception that allowed her tormentors to evade detection for almost a year.

Mimi Torres-García was a beacon of joy in a life marked by instability. Born on January 29, 2013, to a teenage Karla Garcia, she entered a world of fragmented family ties. Victor Torres played an early role in her upbringing, but as years passed, custody shifted fully to Karla, who navigated single motherhood amid low-wage jobs and turbulent relationships. Mimi, with her curly hair and wide, curious eyes, found solace in creativity. From kindergarten through fifth grade in New Britain’s Consolidated School District, she dazzled teachers with her artistic flair—sketchbooks brimming with dragons soaring through enchanted skies, vibrant flowers defying gravity, and self-portraits where she reigned as a queen in crayon crowns. “She was always sharing her crayons, always laughing,” recalled a former classmate, Jaydalisse Serrano, who played Roblox with Mimi, giggling over virtual mishaps. Lunchtimes revealed quieter struggles: Mimi often scavenged for scraps, her frame slight and her clothes ill-fitting. Bruises appeared like unexplained shadows, dismissed as playground accidents in a system strained by caseloads and caution.

The descent into darkness accelerated in the summer of 2024. Karla had begun dating Jonatan Nanita, a 30-year-old with a history of petty arrests and a reputation for volatility. His presence transformed the family’s cramped apartment into a pressure cooker of fear. Jackelyn Garcia, Karla’s 28-year-old sister, was a constant fixture, her own past stained by an 18-month prison sentence for nearly beating her infant daughter to death—inflicting fractures, skull trauma, and bruises that mapped a path of rage. Under parole supervision, Jackelyn’s visits only amplified the toxicity. Neighbors in Farmington’s Wellington Avenue condominium complex—a tidy, 140-unit haven—recalled hearing muffled cries through thin walls, the sharp crack of a belt, and shattering plates over minor infractions. Mimi, once bubbly, grew withdrawn, her drawings fading from color to grayscale.

August 26, 2024—the first day of sixth grade at Slade Middle School—sealed her isolation. Karla withdrew Mimi from public school, citing a move to Farmington and plans for homeschooling. Connecticut’s lax regulations demanded no proof, no curriculum oversight, no welfare checks—just a signature. With that, Mimi disappeared from society’s radar. No teacher marked her absent. No friends exchanged texts about weekend plans. In the dim basement of their rental unit, her world shrank to a suffocating routine of torment. Meals were rationed to starvation: stale bread soaked in thin broth, canned beans sparingly doled out. Punishments were savage—belts lashing skin, fists fracturing ribs and arms, restraint pinning her during rages. Autopsy findings revealed the brutality: untreated breaks that healed crookedly, severe vitamin deficiencies ravaging her organs, chronic dehydration etching lines of suffering on her young body. At 4-foot-6 and barely 70 pounds, Mimi wasted away, her spirit dimming like a candle in the wind.

By October 2024, as Farmington’s leaves turned fiery, Mimi breathed her last. The exact cause—blunt force trauma compounded by starvation—awaits final confirmation, but her suffering ended in silence. No ambulance sirens pierced the night. No frantic pleas echoed. Instead, Karla, Jackelyn, and Nanita orchestrated a macabre cover-up. Mimi’s body was wrapped in trash bags and stashed in the basement freezer, nestled among frozen meals—a grotesque secret amid daily life. Karla cashed child welfare checks, Nanita worked warehouse shifts, Jackelyn ferried groceries and lies. For months, the illusion held. In March 2025, the family relocated to New Britain, transferring the thawed remains to the plastic bin. It sat in their new home until October 7, when Nanita hauled it to Clark Street under moonlight, dumping it amid weeds and debris.

The anonymous tip on October 8 unraveled the deception. Officers, masks donned against the rot, documented the nightmare: the bin’s lid ajar from scavengers, bones exposed in decayed fabric. Dental records sealed the identification, launching a multi-agency blitz. Arrests cascaded: Karla and Jackelyn on October 13, Nanita the next day after a botched flight in a stolen car. In Torrington’s Litchfield Judicial District Courthouse, the trio faced justice amid sobs and shouts. Bonds towered: $5 million for Karla and Nanita, $1 million for Jackelyn. Charges mounted—murder with special circumstances, conspiracy, unlawful restraint, cruelty to a child, tampering with evidence, corpse desecration—carrying life sentences without parole.

Victor’s anguish cuts deepest. Living out of state without custody, he battled for visits, but Karla’s barriers proved impenetrable. Excuses piled up: Mimi was too busy, or uninterested. His texts and calls vanished into the void, leaving him haunted by what-ifs. “I fought for her, but the system said no,” he said, clutching a dragon sketch from her school days. Now, with Mimi’s siblings—two younger half-brothers—safe in foster care, Victor grapples with loss compounded by betrayal. Grandparents, like Felix Osorio, mourn a “happy” girl who was “everything” to them, always playing and smiling. “She was my love,” Osorio wept, his words a dirge for innocence stolen.

New Britain’s Latino community, tight-knit and resilient, reels from the blow. Vigils swelled, candles flickering against the chill, Puerto Rican flags waving in solidarity. Clark Street bloomed into a shrine: teddy bears sodden with rain, balloons bobbing like lost souls, chalk angels guarding the bin’s ghost. “Ni una más,” chanted mourners—”not one more”—a vow against the violence that preys on the vulnerable. Friends like Jaydalisse brought stuffed animals, remembering Roblox laughs and shared secrets. “No kid should go through that,” she said, her voice trembling.

Yet, Mimi’s death indicts a broken system. DCF probed the family six times on abuse tips—bruises, neglect—but closed cases for “insufficient evidence.” Homeschooling’s void loomed large: in one of 11 states with zero oversight, parents can isolate children without repercussion. Legislators pledge reforms—annual check-ins, inter-agency hotlines, multilingual resources—while advocates decry the “blind spots” that doom the voiceless. “This isn’t one failure—it’s a symphony,” said Office of the Child Advocate Director Marissa Calvello, launching a probe into DCF lapses.

As trials loom in 2026, forensics and testimonies will unveil more horrors. Nanita’s temper, the sisters’ complicity, Karla’s welfare fraud—all threads in a tapestry of tragedy. For Victor Torres, justice is bittersweet. His lament—”I haven’t seen my daughter since her 12th birthday”—resonates as a father’s cry against silence. In New Britain’s mill-town heart, where parades once crowned kids queens, Mimi’s absence carves a void. Her dragons, now memorials, soar in chalk—symbols of a spirit unbroken, demanding we see the unseen.