Thanksgiving morning should have been a day of warmth.

A day of soft laughter echoing from the kitchen.

A day of tiny footsteps padding across hardwood floors while parents teased each other about burnt pies and forgotten ingredients.

But inside one home on Indianapolis’ east side, that warmth evaporated long before firefighters arrived.

Instead, a silence—cold, violent, and irreversible—had settled over the walls.

At around 10:30 a.m., as families across the city gathered around tables and ovens, Indianapolis Fire Department crews were dispatched to a small house on North Audubon Road.

To neighbors, it seemed like an ordinary call.

A wisp of smoke.

A minor fire.

One more emergency in a busy holiday morning.

But when firefighters pushed inside after extinguishing a small flame, they walked into a tragedy that no amount of training could prepare anyone for.

On the floor lay a man and a woman—both young, both bleeding, both shot.

The man was already gone.

The woman still clung to life, just barely, her breaths shallow, her pulse faint beneath rapidly cooling skin.

Even in chaos, firefighters know the difference between hope and the absence of it.

They rushed her out, forcing time to stretch, praying the hospital could perform a miracle.

But the miracle never came.

Hours later, the woman—36-year-old Meghan Wiekerson—was pronounced dead.

And the man beside her in that quiet home—confirmed by independent sources as Corkney “CJ” Morgan Jr., also 36—had taken his last breath before help even arrived.

Inside that same home, two toddlers—a one-year-old and a three-year-old—sat unharmed.

Alive.

Confused.

Small souls surrounded by smoke, gunfire’s aftermath, and the absence of the parents who had tucked them into bed just the night before.

They were safe physically.

Emotionally, the wound would follow them for a lifetime.

Detective Tommy Thompson with IMPD stepped in front of cameras hours later, his voice carrying the kind of heaviness that does not fade after press conferences end.

“The hardest part,” he said, “is that today’s Thanksgiving. A day families should be together. Enjoying each other. No family should go through this today.”

His words faltered for a moment—not in hesitation but in sorrow.

Even seasoned officers feel the ripple of certain cases.

This was one of them.

By early afternoon, investigators realized this was more than a house fire.

More than a domestic disturbance.

This was a double homicide.

A life stolen from a father.

A life stolen from a mother.

Children left behind.

A fire intentionally set or connected, now part of a separate arson investigation by IFD.

And somewhere, perhaps hours away from Indianapolis, a chain of events was still unfolding.

Because just a few hours after CJ and Meghan’s bodies were discovered, Whitestown Police spotted a white Dodge Charger speeding recklessly down Interstate 65.

At first, it seemed like an unrelated incident—just another dangerous driver.

But within minutes, something felt off.

The Charger kept accelerating.

Swerving.

Running.

When officers attempted to pull it over, the driver refused.

It became a chase.

Highway patrol units joined.

County officers joined.

The tires eventually hit a set of deflation devices deployed by Indiana State Police.

The vehicle skidded, spun, and finally came to a violent halt in Tippecanoe County.

Inside, officers found a man who refused to exit the vehicle.

Lafayette police and state troopers were forced to take tactical measures—an extraction that ended with the driver taken to the hospital, injured but alive.

Police will not yet say whether this driver is connected to the deaths of CJ and Meghan.

They only say the connection is “part of the dynamic, ongoing investigation.”

Meanwhile, back on Audubon Road, word spread quickly as investigators taped off the house.

Yellow tape fluttered in the cold breeze.

Shadows of officers crossed the lawn.

Neighbors gathered quietly, exchanging whispers that felt too heavy for a holiday morning.

One of them, Joshua Scarks, had just moved into a home down the street.

He had stepped outside after seeing smoke, thinking it was a routine fire call.

But as the truth emerged, his shock was immediate.

“I didn’t know somebody was shot,” he said. “I thought it was just a fire. I’m alarmed that this is what happened.”

Alarmed.

But the truth was worse than alarming.

It was heartbreaking.

CJ and Meghan were both just 36.

They were parents.

Partners.

People who laughed, fought, dreamed, argued about what color to paint the kitchen, and held their children through sleepless nights.

Meghan was the kind of woman who made people feel like family even when they weren’t.

CJ was the kind of man who lit up a room with his smile.

They were known.

They were loved.

They were more than the anonymous silhouettes police found lying on the living room floor.

As their identities were released, family members began gathering.

Some in cars.

Some still in disbelief.

Some unable to process how Thanksgiving morning had turned into a nightmare they would relive for years.

There is nothing more cruel than losing loved ones on a day meant for gratitude.

Nothing more disorienting than watching a holiday become a yearly reminder of loss.

Detective Thompson said it plainly:

“Anytime you lose a loved one, it’s hard. But when it happens on a day meant for joy… it’s even harder.”

In the coming days, the coroner will finalize reports.

Police will follow leads.

Pieces of evidence—shell casings, burn patterns, radio logs—will help build a picture of what happened inside that house.

But the emotional truth will remain far more difficult to understand.

Two children will grow up hearing stories about parents who adored them.

Parents taken too soon.

A family will gather every Thanksgiving and feel the absence of two seats at the table.

Friends will replay old memories of CJ’s easy laughter and Meghan’s loving presence.

And a community, shaken and wounded, will brace itself for answers.

Was the fire meant to hide the crime?

Was the shooter someone they knew?

Was the fleeing driver on I-65 connected?

Or was this tragedy the result of something deeper, darker, more complicated than anyone expected?

For now, detectives urge anyone with information to come forward.

Because justice, while slow, still matters.

Because two children deserve to grow up knowing the truth.

Because a family deserves answers.

And because CJ and Meghan deserve more than being remembered only by the chalk outlines left behind.