On an early Thursday evening meant to usher in the start of summer recreation, tranquility at Douglass Park on Chicago’s West Side shattered into chaos and unimaginable grief. Just after 7:00 p.m., moments after the public pool had closed for the day, 55-year-old Charles Leto—a lifeguard employed by the Chicago Park District—allegedly drew a firearm and opened fire on two Black teenage boys, 15-year-old Marjay Dotson and 14-year-old Jeremy Herred, near the pool and adjacent basketball courts. In the wake of the unprovoked shooting, Marjay was mortally wounded by a gunshot to the back and later succumbed to his injuries at the hospital. Jeremy was struck in the neck and rushed into emergency surgery. Though he survived the operation, he remains in the intensive care unit, his condition still critical, as his family and the wider community cling to hope.
What began as a routine evening at a beloved neighborhood gathering place has now become the epicenter of profound anguish, fear, and outrage. Witnesses on scene reported that Leto, who had reportedly been fixing a bicycle shortly before the incident, seemed to turn without warning, drawing a weapon and firing at the boys with no provocation. Chicago police quickly apprehended Leto at the scene. Two days later, following intense scrutiny and mounting calls for justice, authorities announced that he now faces multiple felony charges, including first-degree murder and attempted murder.
The shock of the shooting is compounded by the setting and the identities involved. Douglass Park is meant to be a sanctuary—a public space where children, families, and athletes gather for recreation, safety, and community. Leto, as a city-employed lifeguard, was expected to be a figure of protection. That he is now accused of a senseless act of violence against children under his watch has devastated a community and raised urgent questions about vetting, training, and oversight within the Park District system.
The details that have emerged paint a grim and confusing picture. According to law enforcement accounts and eyewitnesses, the teens were near the basketball court and pool—possibly relaxing or socializing—when the attack occurred. No confrontation, altercation, or provocation has been reported to justify the violence that followed. Investigators remain perplexed, combing through security footage, statements, and background checks to determine what may have motivated Leto’s actions. So far, no motive has been publicly disclosed.
The personal devastation of this incident is centered around two young lives—one lost, one teetering between survival and tragedy. Marjay Dotson, the 15-year-old who was killed, has been remembered by friends and family as an energetic, respectful teen with a warm personality and a passion for sports. His death has left a vacuum not only in the hearts of his family but in a wider peer network of classmates, neighbors, and mentors who had hoped to see his bright future unfold. There is a heavy weight to the idea that his final moments came not in danger’s way but while enjoying a familiar and supposedly safe community space.
Jeremy Herred, just 14 years old, is in a fight for his life. His family has shared that he underwent a successful surgery following the gunshot wound to his neck, but he remains under critical care in the ICU. The physical and psychological scars he may bear are incalculable. His loved ones have asked for prayers, support, and justice—not just for Jeremy’s recovery, but for accountability in the face of a crime they describe as senseless and evil.
The community’s grief has quickly transformed into collective mourning and protest. In neighborhoods where systemic inequities are already deeply felt, the idea that a trusted public employee could become the source of such violence has sparked widespread indignation. City leaders, community advocates, and civil rights organizations have condemned the attack and demanded transparency in the investigation. For many, this is not just a horrifying anomaly—it is another instance in a long, painful line of systemic failures, where the safety and value of Black lives are continually undermined.
Questions surrounding Charles Leto’s employment have become central to public scrutiny. As a lifeguard with the Chicago Park District, Leto would have undergone background checks and seasonal training. That someone in this role not only carried a weapon but used it on children raises immediate concerns. Was there any history of violence? Were there red flags in his behavior? How did a man who could turn so violently manage to stay embedded within a position meant to preserve life, especially at a pool often crowded with youth?
Park District officials have yet to make a formal statement addressing Leto’s employment history or the incident in full, pending the ongoing police investigation. However, the urgency of reform and review is becoming difficult to ignore. Already, calls are mounting for sweeping audits of employee screening processes, expanded mental health assessments for frontline recreational staff, and the installation of additional security measures at public parks.
Local residents, meanwhile, are reeling from the emotional toll. Douglass Park is more than just a public facility—it is a community landmark. For many families, especially during summer, it serves as a safe haven, a space for childhood memories and generational bonding. That this space has now been marked by bloodshed is a betrayal that may take years to repair. Parents are now left questioning the safety of sending their children to swim, play, or shoot hoops—even under supposed supervision.
Marjay’s death has already begun to mobilize youth organizers and violence prevention advocates. Vigils are being planned. Community meetings are being called. The cry is unanimous: this must not happen again. Yet beneath the outcry is a tide of grief, one that words cannot entirely contain. At its core, this story is not only about a shooting. It is about childhood interrupted. About a boy whose life ended with unthinkable suddenness. About another who will forever carry the weight of what happened. And about a city once again reckoning with what kind of protections its children are truly afforded.
Charles Leto remains in custody. His legal proceedings are expected to begin shortly. Prosecutors have signaled their intent to pursue full accountability under the law. But for those mourning Marjay and praying for Jeremy, the court process—however necessary—is only one piece of a far deeper healing journey.
As the investigation moves forward, the city watches. Not just for answers. Not just for justice. But for the assurance that spaces like Douglass Park can one day be what they were always meant to be: places of safety, joy, and life—not of mourning.