Curt Andersen, a 62-year-old homeowner in Whitestown, Indiana, has been charged with voluntary manslaughter in the fatal shooting of Maria Florinda Ríos Pérez de Velásquez, a 32-year-old Guatemalan immigrant and devoted mother of four who mistakenly arrived at his home for a cleaning job. The incident, which unfolded before dawn on November 5, 2025, has ignited fierce debate over self-defense laws, immigration vulnerabilities, and the perils of everyday errors in an increasingly anxious America. Prosecutors announced the Level 2 felony charge on November 17, calling it a clear-cut case that doesn’t qualify under Indiana’s robust “stand your ground” protections. As the victim’s family mourns and demands justice, Andersen’s attorney vows a courtroom battle, framing the shooting as a justifiable response to perceived danger.

The tragedy struck in the quiet suburb of Whitestown, about 20 miles northwest of Indianapolis, where Ríos Pérez and her husband, Mauricio Velázquez, were part of a cleaning crew dispatched to a new model home. According to police affidavits, the couple received an address via text from their boss but ended up at Andersen’s residence by mistake—a simple mix-up that turned deadly in seconds. Velázquez later recounted to investigators how, around 6:50 a.m., they approached the front door with keys in hand, fumbling for the right one. Ríos Pérez, standing just 4-foot-11 and described by loved ones as bubbly and hardworking, jokingly snatched the keys from her husband. Before she could even insert one, a single gunshot rang out from inside the home, piercing the closed door and striking her in the head.

Ríos Pérez collapsed on the porch, lifeless in her husband’s arms as he desperately called 911. Responding officers arrived to find the scene frozen in horror: the petite woman sprawled amid cleaning supplies, her husband weeping beside her. Inside, Andersen and his wife had barricaded themselves upstairs, believing they were fending off a home invasion. The homeowner, who later admitted to police he fired without warning or verbal command, described feeling “terrified” after hearing noises at the door. He and his wife had discussed home defense scenarios beforehand, even telling a neighbor he’d shoot intruders on sight. From the moment the couple arrived until the 911 call, only about two minutes elapsed, with the key fumbling lasting 30 to 60 seconds.

Boone County Prosecutor Kent Eastwood, in a measured press conference, emphasized that while Indiana law shields homeowners from prosecution in genuine self-defense situations, this wasn’t one. “The facts do not support a home invasion,” Eastwood stated flatly, noting the absence of forced entry or threats. “It wasn’t a hard decision.” The charge carries a potential sentence of 10 to 30 years, though Andersen was released on $50,000 bond pending trial. His attorney, Guy Relford—a prominent Second Amendment advocate—fired back immediately, calling the prosecution misguided. “This is a terrible tragedy, but Mr. Andersen’s actions were fully justified by the ‘castle doctrine’ provision of Indiana’s self-defense law,” Relford said in a statement. He promised to prove in court that Andersen acted reasonably under the circumstances.

A Life Cut Short: The Heartbreaking Backstory of Maria Ríos Pérez

Maria Florinda Ríos Pérez wasn’t just a victim; she was the backbone of a tight-knit immigrant family chasing the American dream. Born in Guatemala, she immigrated to the U.S. years ago, settling in Indianapolis with Velázquez and their four children—ages 2 to 10. Friends and family painted her as a whirlwind of energy: a wife who cooked elaborate meals, a mother who volunteered at her kids’ school, and a cleaner who took pride in spotless homes to support her loved ones. “She was doing her job, supporting her family, and contributing to her community,” said family attorney Alex Limontes at a vigil-packed presser on November 17, flanked by Velázquez and sobbing relatives. Limontes, voice cracking, added: “Maria was shot through a closed door. Her life was taken in a manner that should never happen in any neighborhood in Indiana.”

The couple’s cleaning gig that fateful morning was routine—hired to tidy a freshly built model home in a developing subdivision. But the text message address led them astray by mere blocks, a clerical error with catastrophic consequences. Velázquez, who escaped unharmed, told reporters through tears that his wife had joked about the keys just moments before the shot. “She didn’t even put the key in,” he recalled, his voice breaking. The family, already reeling from the loss, now faces an uncertain future. A GoFundMe launched by supporters has raised over $150,000 for funeral costs and the children’s care, with donors hailing Ríos Pérez as “an angel who lit up every room.” Her employer, a local cleaning service, expressed devastation, vowing to review protocols to prevent such mishaps.

Community outrage boiled over quickly. On November 10, hundreds gathered for a candlelight vigil outside the Boone County Courthouse, chanting “Justice for Maria” under a drizzly Indiana sky. Immigrant advocates joined in, highlighting the dangers faced by Latino workers in service jobs—often underpaid and overexposed to risks. “Maria represents every hardworking immigrant who’s just trying to make it,” said one protester, holding a sign reading “Wrong House, Right to Live.” Social media erupted with #JusticeForMaria, amassing millions of views and drawing statements from national figures. Indiana Governor Eric Holcomb called it “a profound loss,” urging calm amid the probe, while civil rights groups decried it as symptomatic of racial profiling in “stand your ground” cases.

The Homeowner’s Side: Fear, Firearms, and Legal Defenses

From Andersen’s vantage, the morning unfolded like a nightmare script. The retired engineer and his wife, roused by knocks and key jiggles at their door, grabbed a handgun from their safe—a common setup in gun-friendly Indiana, where over 1 million concealed carry permits circulate. Affidavits detail how Andersen peered through a window, saw shadows, and assumed the worst. No lights were on outside; it was still dark. “I was terrified they were going to break in,” he told detectives, head bowed after learning the truth. When dispatch revealed the victims were cleaners at the wrong spot, Andersen grew “upset,” slumping in apparent remorse. He and his wife emerged hands-up, cooperating fully, even reenacting the scene for police later that day.

Relford, Andersen’s lawyer, leans hard on Indiana’s castle doctrine, which presumes reasonable fear inside one’s home and bars retreat requirements. “Homeowners have the right to defend their castle,” he argued on social media, posting affidavits to bolster his client’s panic. Supporters, including local gun rights groups, echo this, pointing to rising burglary stats—Indiana saw a 15% uptick in 2024. Yet critics counter that Andersen’s snap decision bypassed de-escalation: no shouts, no 911 until after the shot. Eastwood dismissed self-defense claims outright, citing video doorbell footage showing no aggression from the couple. The prosecutor’s candor—”Honestly, it wasn’t a hard decision”—has fueled Andersen’s camp, who call it premature.

As the case heads to trial, likely in early 2026, it spotlights America’s fractured gun debate. Indiana’s laws, among the nation’s most permissive, have shielded shooters in past “wrong place” incidents, but this one flips the script with charges filed swiftly.

Echoes of Similar Tragedies: A Pattern of Missteps and Mayhem

Ríos Pérez’s death isn’t isolated; it’s the latest in a string of “wrong address” shootings that expose raw nerves on property rights versus human error. In April 2023, 16-year-old Ralph Yarl, a Black teen in Kansas City, Missouri, was shot twice after ringing the wrong doorbell for his siblings. The elderly shooter, Andrew Lester, pleaded guilty to assault but died before sentencing, sparking national fury over racial bias. That October, 20-year-old Kaylin Gillis was killed in upstate New York after her car pulled into the wrong driveway; homeowner Kevin Monahan got 25 years to life for second-degree murder.

Further back, 2021 saw 19-year-old Brennan Shaffer shot in Colorado for knocking on the wrong door, though no charges stuck under castle doctrine. These cases, often involving young people of color, have prompted lawsuits, legislative pushes for “knock and talk” reforms, and soul-searching on firearm access. Everytown for Gun Safety, citing FBI data, reports over 200 “mistaken address” incidents since 2015, with 40% fatal. In Indiana alone, self-defense claims spiked 20% post-2022’s permitless carry law. Advocates like Limontes tie Ríos Pérez’s fate to immigrant precarity: “Undocumented workers fear calling police, so they suffer in silence.”

Andersen’s charge could set precedent, testing if prosecutors can pierce self-defense shields when evidence shows no imminent threat. Relford hints at a plea deal or dismissal, but Eastwood’s resolve suggests a fight. Meanwhile, Velázquez grapples with single parenthood, telling IndyStar, “She was my everything. Now I tell our girls Mommy’s an angel watching over.”

Broader Implications: Justice, Guns, and the Immigrant Grind

This saga ripples beyond Whitestown, probing America’s fault lines. For Latino communities, it’s a stark reminder of vulnerability—Ríos Pérez’s immigration status, though legal per family statements, amplified fears of reprisal. Cleaning crews, often immigrant-led, report address flubs as commonplace, yet rarely lethal. Industry insiders told local outlets they’ve pushed for GPS-verified jobs post-incident, but enforcement lags.

Gun control voices seize the moment: “When fear trumps facts, innocents die,” tweeted Moms Demand Action. Pro-2A factions retort that hesitation kills homeowners too, citing unsolved burglaries. Nationally, similar probes—like a 2024 Texas case where a jogger was shot at a “suspicious” address—keep the discourse heated.

As court dates loom, Whitestown mourns a woman who embodied quiet resilience. Her funeral, held November 20 at an Indianapolis church, drew 500 mourners, with eulogies lauding her laughter and loyalty. Velázquez, clutching photos of his wife, vowed: “We’ll fight for truth, for her.” For Andersen, the charge marks a pivot from presumed innocence to public scrutiny. In a polarized nation, this “wrong home” wrong turns into a referendum on when defense becomes destruction—and who pays the ultimate price.