In a packed congressional hearing room in Charlotte, North Carolina, on September 29, 2025, the air grew thick with grief and fury as Stephen Federico gripped a framed photo of his 22-year-old daughter, Logan Hailey Federico. His voice, raw from months of sleepless nights and shattered dreams, cut through the murmurs like a blade: “You will not forget her. I promise you, you will be sick and tired of my face and my voice until this gets fixed. I will fight until my last breath for my daughter.” The words, delivered with a father’s unquenchable rage, echoed the pain of a man who arrived home from work on May 3, 2025, not to embrace his vibrant child, but to learn she had been executed in her sleep—shot point-blank by a career criminal who prowled South Carolina’s streets despite nearly 40 prior arrests.
Logan’s death has ignited a firestorm, thrusting the Federico family into the national spotlight and exposing deep fissures in America’s criminal justice system. What began as a weekend visit to friends at the University of South Carolina in Columbia ended in unimaginable horror, fueling calls for reform, the death penalty, and a federal takeover of the prosecution. Stephen’s testimony before the U.S. House Judiciary Subcommittee on Oversight wasn’t just a plea; it was a battle cry against a bureaucracy he accuses of prioritizing offenders over victims. As the case barrels toward trial, with suspect Alexander Devonte Dickey facing a litany of charges, the world watches a father’s vow unfold: justice, or nothing at all.
A Night of Innocence Shattered
Logan Federico was the epitome of youthful promise—a 5-foot-3, 115-pound college student from Waxhaw, North Carolina, majoring in communications at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Described by her father as “my hero, my everything,” she was the light of the Federico household, a girl who lit up rooms with her laugh and chased dreams with unbridled energy. On May 2, 2025, she drove to Columbia for a casual sleepover at a rental home near the USC campus, a short escape to reconnect with her boyfriend and sorority sisters.
What police reports paint as a random act of savagery unfolded in the pre-dawn hours of May 3. According to affidavits from the Columbia Police Department, 30-year-old Alexander Dickey, a Lexington County resident with a rap sheet spanning over a decade, broke into the two-story house on Wheat Street around 3 a.m. Armed with a stolen 12-gauge shotgun and fueled by desperation, Dickey rifled through rooms, targeting purses and valuables. When he reached the second-floor bedroom where Logan slept, he didn’t hesitate. Dragged naked from her bed, forced to her knees with hands raised in futile surrender, Logan begged for her life—whispering pleas for her father, the man who had always been her protector.
A single blast to the chest ended it all. The autopsy by the Richland County Coroner’s Office confirmed homicide by shotgun wound, her small frame crumpling in a pool of blood as Dickey fled with her phone, credit cards, and cash. Undeterred, he embarked on a 90-minute spending spree—Uber rides, fast food, even a stop at a gas station—using Logan’s stolen cards before a manhunt led to his arrest the next day in a wooded area near Lake Murray. Now held without bond at the Lexington County Detention Center, Dickey faces murder, burglary, grand larceny, financial transaction card theft, and possession of a weapon during a violent crime.
For Stephen Federico, a 52-year-old IT consultant and devoted dad, the call came at dawn. “I was at work when the police showed up,” he recounted in a tear-streaked interview with WCNC Charlotte. “They said, ‘She’s gone.’ Just like that—bang. Dead.” The image of his “peanut,” as he called her, haunts him: a girl who dreamed of journalism, who FaceTimed him daily with stories of her latest adventure, reduced to a statistic in a system he believes betrayed her.
The Monster the System Couldn’t Cage
Dickey’s criminal odyssey is a damning indictment of recidivism run amok. Since turning 18 in 2013, he amassed 48 charges across 14 incidents—25 felonies, including multiple first-degree burglaries that carry mandatory 15-year minimums. Yet, through plea deals, clerical errors, and lenient sentencing, he served just 600 days in jail over a decade—less than two years total. In 2023 alone, he pleaded guilty to reduced charges as a “first-time offender,” despite prior convictions, allowing early releases on bond or probation.
“Guys like Alexander Dickey are given chances by being let out of prison—and not even in prison,” Stephen fumed during his congressional testimony, his voice rising as he slammed the table. “How many chances do you get? It used to be three, right? So when did it change to 40?” He detailed how Dickey’s escalations—from petty theft to armed home invasions—went unchecked, culminating in Logan’s execution. “He was a lunatic on a rampage,” Stephen told Fox News, his eyes blazing. “And the system handed him the keys.”
The hearing itself was a powder keg of emotion. As Stephen spoke, tears flowed from lawmakers and spectators alike. He chastised Rep. Deborah Ross (D-NC) for confusing Logan’s name with another victim, Iryna Zarutska, in a moment that underscored the dehumanizing churn of bureaucracy. “You pissed off the wrong daddy,” he warned the room, vowing to haunt their corridors until change comes. Videos of his testimony went viral on X, amassing millions of views and shares, with users like @IngrahamAngle amplifying his words: “The system cared more about a career criminal than his child’s life.”
A Father’s War: From Grief to Advocacy
Stephen’s crusade began in the sterile confines of a Columbia hospital morgue, identifying Logan’s body amid the chaos of flashing lights and sympathetic nods. But grief quickly hardened into resolve. “All she wanted was to visit her friends,” he told the subcommittee, painting a vivid portrait of Logan’s final hours. “She was executed on her knees, begging for her hero—me. And I couldn’t protect her.”
He’s since become a relentless force, testifying alongside other victims’ families like Mia Alderman, whose granddaughter fell to similar systemic lapses. In media blitzes—from Fox News to the SC Daily Gazette—Stephen demands the death penalty, the only retribution he deems fitting for an “execution.” “I want him dead,” he stated flatly, rejecting lesser sentences as insults to Logan’s memory.
His push extends to legislative overhaul. Proposing “Logan’s Law,” a federal mandate for life sentences without parole for violent recidivists, Stephen argues for stricter bond denials and full-term incarceration. “There is only one thing that would have kept my daughter alive: putting a career criminal in prison,” he declared. Allies like Rep. Nancy Mace (R-SC) echo his call, urging Attorney General Pam Bondi to intervene and secure capital punishment. South Carolina AG Alan Wilson has rallied law enforcement for a unified prosecution strategy, citing Dickey’s record as “clear statutory aggravating factors.”
Yet, hurdles loom. Fifth Circuit Solicitor Byron Gipson, criticized by Stephen for perceived leniency, insists his office has communicated extensively with the family. Stephen, undeterred, seeks federal jurisdiction, blaming state “record-keeping mistakes and plea deals” for Dickey’s freedom. On X, supporters rally with hashtags like #JusticeForLogan, while critics decry Gipson as a “disgrace.”
Ripples of Reform and a Nation’s Reckoning
Logan’s murder isn’t isolated; it’s symptomatic of a recidivism crisis plaguing the Carolinas and beyond. The hearing spotlighted cases like Iryna Zarutska’s, another young woman slain by a repeat offender, underscoring how “soft-on-crime” policies—early releases, racial equity considerations—escalate dangers. Stephen’s story has galvanized conservatives, with figures like Gov. Henry McMaster facing scrutiny for silence on the case. X threads buzz with outrage: “Why no post about Logan from SC leaders?” one user demands.
For the Federicos—Stephen, wife Lisa, and surviving children—the void is eternal. Logan’s room remains untouched, her laughter preserved in voicemails Stephen replays obsessively. “She was my why,” he whispers in quieter moments, clutching her photo like a talisman. But in public, he’s a warrior: speaking at vigils, lobbying in D.C., ensuring Logan’s name sears into policy.
As Dickey’s trial looms—potentially in early 2026—Stephen’s promise holds firm. “You woke up a beast,” he told lawmakers, a vow etched in loss. In a nation weary of preventable tragedies, his fight isn’t just personal; it’s a clarion call. Will it forge “Logan’s Law,” topple a broken solicitor, or exact ultimate justice? Only time—and Stephen’s tireless voice—will tell. One thing is certain: Logan Federico will not be forgotten. Her father guarantees it.
