Corrine Erstad: Missing Since June 1, 1992

In the summer of 1992, when the warm breeze drifted through the tree-lined streets of this quiet suburb, a small child’s laughter should have filled the air. Instead, the neighborhood was plunged into a decades-long nightmare. On June 1, 5-year-old Corrine vanished after leaving her home to play at a nearby park. She has never been found.

From the moment Corrine’s mother first dialed 911 until the final gavel fell in a tense courtroom, her disappearance has been mired in suspicion, fraught family dynamics, and legal controversy. Today, more than 30 years later, the case remains unsolved—a stark reminder of a child lost, a family fractured, and a justice system’s limitations in the early years of DNA forensics.

A Brief Summer Evening

The Erstad home sat just a short walk away from Skyline Park, a modest playground at the center of an otherwise unremarkable suburb. Around 7:30 p.m. on that fateful June evening, Corrine’s mother, Mona Williams, and her stepfather told the little girl she could head over to the park for a few minutes. When Corrine did not return promptly, her two older brothers went to bring her home, only to find the playground empty.

In the aftermath of her disappearance, frantic searches turned up nothing. Neighbors canvassed backyards, volunteers scoured wooded trails, and posters bearing Corrine’s face and big brown eyes blanketed local storefronts. One child who had been playing nearby told authorities he saw a little girl petting a man’s dog at about the same time Corrine was in the park. The man—described only as blond and possibly in his twenties—was never identified.

“It’s a nightmare,” her father, Jim Erstad, would later tell reporters. “You wake up and your daughter is gone, and you don’t know if she’ll ever come back.”

A Troubled Home and a Rising Suspect

As the days dragged on, suspicion turned toward a family friend, 24-year-old Robert Guevara. Often intoxicated when he visited, Guevara had been a regular overnight guest in the Erstad household. According to statements gathered by investigators, he sometimes slept in the same bed as Corrine—a fact that would take on a grim significance once she went missing.

The details only grew more disturbing. Corrine’s mother would later tell police that earlier on the day her daughter disappeared, Corrine accused Guevara of molesting her. Williams did not report the allegation immediately; she later claimed she was too overwhelmed by panic and disorientation to remember it.

Law enforcement’s suspicions hardened quickly. Police dogs tracked Corrine’s scent from her home to Guevara’s residence. Four days after Corrine vanished, investigators found a bloodstained sundress identical to the one she was last seen wearing, along with a pair of little girl’s underwear, in a locker associated with Guevara. A shower curtain in his trailer bore traces of blood and semen. Although DNA testing was in its relative infancy, preliminary results suggested the fluids belonged to both Corrine and Guevara.

“There was strong physical evidence indicating foul play,” said then-Dakota County Attorney James Backstrom, who later prosecuted the case.

Guevara was arrested and charged with kidnapping, rape, and murder on June 5, 1992—just four days after Corrine’s disappearance. For many, it seemed the case would be resolved swiftly.

A Trial That Offered No Closure

Yet the trial that followed in 1993 failed to deliver the verdict Corrine’s family and much of the community had expected. Guevara’s defense team argued that his locker and trailer were unsecured, allowing someone else to plant the damning evidence. They also pointed a critical finger back at the Erstad household’s own instability. Mona Williams had a history of substance abuse; the family had lived in foster care at times, survived solely on welfare payments, and faced chronic upheaval.

At the center of the trial was the forensic evidence—particularly the DNA. Modern readers might find it perplexing that Corrine’s bloodstained dress and the shower curtain carrying traces of both child and suspect did not clinch a conviction. But in 1992, Minnesota law still placed strict limitations on the presentation and interpretation of DNA. Expert testimony could not fully convey the odds that the samples came from anyone else, leaving jurors confused and open to the defense’s arguments of possible contamination or framing.

In the end, the jury acquitted Guevara of all charges. Minnesota’s restrictive DNA laws, combined with the absence of a body and a family life riddled with possible alternate explanations, cast just enough doubt on the prosecution’s case. Guevara walked free, maintaining his innocence, and has continued to do so ever since.

With no body recovered and no further arrests, Corrine’s case has devolved into a swirl of persistent theories:

Guevara’s Involvement

Many in law enforcement and the broader community remain convinced that the circumstantial and forensic evidence points directly to Guevara. Their stance has never wavered: the bloodstained clothing, the shower curtain, and Corrine’s own reported accusation of molestation. Yet double jeopardy laws prevent prosecutors from charging him again in her disappearance, leaving no path to a retrial barring an extraordinary revelation.

Stranger Abduction

Some continue to wonder if the little girl spotted talking to a man in the park was indeed Corrine. Could a stranger—perhaps traveling through the area—have taken advantage of a momentary lapse in adult supervision? This theory fails, however, to account for the compelling DNA evidence found in Guevara’s belongings.

Family Negligence or Involvement

The Erstad family’s chaotic living situation and Williams’ history of substance abuse led to rumors of deeper involvement—ranging from financial motives to unsafe acquaintances. These speculations gained minimal legal traction but hovered in the background, muddying the waters of an already labyrinthine investigation.

By 1994, Corrine was declared legally dead. Her father, who later spoke about the agonizing uncertainty, chose not to hold a funeral without his daughter’s remains. “There was nobody to bury,” he explained, “and no closure for any of us.”

The fallout from Corrine’s unsolved disappearance reverberated beyond one family’s tragedy. The public questioned how a jury could acquit a suspect when blood evidence linked him to a missing child. DNA analysis was still developing in the American legal system, but outrage over Corrine’s case contributed to a shift: Minnesota later revised its statutes to allow more comprehensive use of genetic testing in court. Experts could finally explain, in empirical detail, the statistical improbability of a match belonging to anyone but the defendant.

“It’s a terrible tragedy that we couldn’t get justice for Corrine,” Backstrom would reflect years later. “But her case became a catalyst for critical changes in how we handle DNA evidence.”

Despite those changes, the sense of lingering injustice remains. Inver Grove Heights, once an unremarkable patch of suburbia, still carries an eerie infamy tied to Corrine’s name. Over the years, locals have launched memorials, candlelight vigils, and renewed calls for tips. Periodically, investigators announce a fresh lead or a new approach—but Corrine remains missing.

Searching for Answers in an Unyielding Mystery

Cold cases often gain fresh momentum when technology advances or when an individual steps forward with new information. The case of Jacob Wetterling, another Minnesota child who vanished in 1989, was famously solved in 2016, offering hope that Corrine’s family, too, might one day learn the truth.

“Sometimes, time is on our side,” said a retired Inver Grove Heights detective who once worked Corrine’s case. “People get older, consciences weigh heavy, or new forensic methods emerge that can make the impossible possible.”

Yet the frustration is palpable. Every tip that fails to materialize into solid evidence feels like a reopening of old wounds. “It never goes away,” Corrine’s father has said. “You just learn to live in a world without answers.”

If You Know Something

What happened to five-year-old Corrine on that June evening in 1992 remains a mystery that weighs heavily on those who lived through the frantic searches and the high-profile trial. While the face of missing-children posters has long since changed, Corrine’s story persists in the hearts and minds of a community that refuses to forget her.

Anyone with information that could shed new light on her disappearance is urged to contact the Inver Grove Heights Police Department or the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children at 1-800-THE-LOST.

For those who loved Corrine, the question has always been simple and unrelenting: Where is she? Until that question is answered, her case stands as a haunting testament to how easily justice can slip away, and how a single day—a single moment—can reshape a family, a community, and the very fabric of law enforcement in Minnesota.

Prelude to a Summer’s Nightmare

On June 1, 1992, five-year-old Corrine “Corky” Erstad was an energetic spirit living with her family in Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota. The child, known for her sweet smile and brown eyes, was wearing a white sundress festooned with watermelon designs when she vanished. In the hush that followed her final trip to the nearby Skyline Park, a swirl of heartbreak began unraveling the community. Far from a typical “lost child” case, Corrine’s disappearance was soon overshadowed by a menacing twist: suspicious items drenched in blood and semen discovered in the home of a longtime family friend.

Under a late-spring sun, Corrine slipped out the front door to play, but never returned. Within hours, a frantic search commenced. Within days, an arrest was made. Within weeks, the stage was set for one of Minnesota’s most chilling trials—one that ended in a shock acquittal and left Corrine’s fate unresolved.

Born on February 17, 1987, Corrine was “Corky” to her loved ones. Her mother, Mona Williams, and stepfather were struggling with life’s uncertainties—frequent moves, welfare payments, and, as alleged in trial records, occasional personal troubles. Yet Corrine’s world included two older brothers, a cluster of friends, and a beloved routine. She was last seen departing her home at approximately 7:30 p.m. that Monday, heading toward Skyline Park near 65th Street and Cloman Way, a mere five-minute walk away.

When Corrine’s father tried to bring her home soon after, the little girl was missing. A child in the park thought he saw her talking to a man with a dog—but no one was certain. By 9:30 p.m., Corrine’s parents reported her missing. Lights flickered on across the neighborhood, and a surge of dread set in. Something was wrong.

As the community and law enforcement scoured the region for the missing child, a disturbing revelation emerged. Robert Guevara, a family friend who frequently slept in their basement when too intoxicated to drive, became the central suspect. Police K-9 units tracked Corrine’s scent straight to his home. And more hauntingly:Inside Guevara’s storage locker were found a white sundress matching Corrine’s last-known outfit, and a girl’s underpants. Both bore blood and semen stains. A shower curtain from Guevara’s trailer also contained suspicious blood traces. The DNA pattern indicated that the fluids could have come from both Corrine and Guevara.

It was a bombshell: horrifying evidence to suggest the unthinkable had happened. Within days, the newscasts flared with chilling details, culminating in Guevara’s arrest on June 5—only four days after Corrine vanished. He was charged with kidnapping, rape, and murder in Corrine’s presumed death.

Friends and family told investigators that Corrine occasionally complained about Guevara’s behavior—particularly that he sometimes crawled into her bed on nights he slept over. Then, on the very day Corrine disappeared, she allegedly accused him of molestation. Mona Williams, Corrine’s mother, claimed she forgot to tell the police about this for several days amid the swirling panic. Meanwhile, defense attorneys insisted the entire story was suspect, and that Corrine’s mother and stepfather’s home environment was chaotic at best.

But the stark physical evidence spoke volumes: hair, blood, and semen. It seemed to paint a grim picture. The entire region braced for a solemn conclusion that the child had met a terrible fate. The tension and fear soared, reminiscent of a horror-film crescendo.

When Guevara faced trial, the once-straightforward storyline became a labyrinth of allegations, conspiracy theories, and contradictory evidence:

The State’s Theory

Prosecutors argued that Guevara lured Corrine away from her own front yard, assaulted her, and murdered her to hide his crime. The bloodstained clothing discovered in his storage locker, they contended, was a near- smoking gun.

The Defense’s Counter

Guevara’s lawyers advanced a shocking idea: that Mona Williams, in dire financial straits and grappling with personal demons, might have arranged to have Corrine kidnapped or sold for ransom. The defense hinted at corruption and potential evidence “planting,” speculating that unknown persons placed Corrine’s outfit in Guevara’s locker to frame him.

Unsecured Locker

The defense hammered on the fact that Guevara’s locker and trailer were not locked or heavily secured, meaning anyone could place items inside. If Corrine’s mother (or some unknown figure) wanted to scapegoat Guevara, the defense argued, forging evidence would not be difficult.

DNA Laws Circa 1992

With Corrine’s body missing, the trial’s pivot was the partial DNA evidence. Under Minnesota laws at the time, the prosecution couldn’t fully employ the advanced DNA probability analysis. The State was hamstrung, forced to argue their circumstantial case without the robust science that might have otherwise swayed a jury.

In a dramatic climax, reminiscent of a slasher flick’s final reveal—Guevara was acquitted. The public reeled in disbelief. The attorneys parted ways: The prosecution lamented the legal handicaps, the defense maintained that their client was a scapegoat. After the verdict, Corrine’s father publicly believed his daughter was almost certainly dead, “cleverly disposed of.”

Even after the acquittal, both law enforcement and much of the community continued to point the finger at Guevara. Innocent or not, the official stance remains that foul play likely ended Corrine’s life. She was legally declared dead in 1994, but no body has ever been found. Investigators privately confide that they still consider Guevara involved, but the principle of double jeopardy protects him from a second murder trial.

Meanwhile, Mona Williams’s decision not to inform police immediately about Corrine’s molestation allegation continued to haunt the case’s legacy. And the rumored scenario that Corrine was sold or kidnapped for ransom never advanced beyond theory. Another swirl of suspicion emerged around the family’s environment—did Corrine wander off, or were there other potential abductors from the troubled circle?

Throughout the 1990s, Inver Grove Heights lived under a cloud of heartbreak. People placed stuffed animals, flowers, and heartfelt notes near the park, praying for Corrine’s safe return. Search parties combed wooded areas, ditches, and back roads. Flyers with Corrine’s freckled face were posted on telephone poles, pinned on grocery store boards, and taped to car windows—an unrelenting reminder that a child’s life had been stolen in broad daylight.

Corrine’s father acknowledged over time he believed she was gone. Yet, the agony of no funeral, no tangible goodbye, placed the family in suspended grief. He found a measure of acceptance, saying, “She was cleverly disposed of… She’d want us to carry on.”

Although Corrine’s disappearance and the subsequent trial belong to the early 1990s, its echoes remain in Minnesota’s legal landscape. The frustration over the partial DNA usage at Guevara’s trial contributed to legislative changes, eventually allowing far more robust forensic evidence in future cases.

Police Keep the File Open

Decades after, the Inver Grove Heights Police Department continues to field leads, albeit rarely. They maintain Corrine’s profile in missing-persons databases. The force stands ready to re-examine the suspect pool if a new clue surfaces—whether from a confession, a discovered set of remains, or a break in scientific technology.

Family Moves Forward

For those who loved Corrine, living life means balancing the daily routine with the constant ache that there’s no real closure. Over the years, Corrine’s father found ways to carry her memory gently, rejecting the notion of closure as an unattainable “myth.” He said Corrine “wouldn’t want me crippled by grief.”

In a horror movie, the final frames might show a deserted child’s sneaker or a swing set drifting in an empty park at twilight. In Corrine’s real-world tragedy, we have chilling parallels: a swirl of pink and white fabric, spattered with unspeakable evidence in a locked metal trunk. The mother sobbing in a letter to the suspect, begging for her daughter’s location. A father quietly acknowledging she’s gone. A suspect indicted for monstrous crimes, only to be exonerated by a legal technicality and flawed forensic constraints. 

Corrine “Corky” Erstad was just five—still discovering life’s wonders, innocently trusting, thrilled by a short walk to Skyline Park. Whether she encountered true evil in a friend’s basement or at the hands of another predator remains unverified. The horrifying possibilities spin like a kaleidoscope, each scenario more grim than the last.

Despite the high-profile trial, we are left with the same echoing question from a June evening in 1992: Where is Corrine? Officially, she is presumed dead. Unofficially, the heartbreak remains palpable in her family’s spirit, with no grave to visit and no final truth to anchor them.

Anyone with information, even a fragment from that day or weeks after, is urged to contact Inver Grove Heights Police. Like so many cold cases, the Erstad disappearance stands as a testament that closure can be elusive—part fact, part rumor, and wholly devastating in its uncertainty. Years drift by, but the memory of a joyful five-year-old in a watermelon sundress endures, a ghostly silhouette in a small city’s shared conscience. And the last words fade, akin to a horror film’s final shot: the park at twilight, the wind in the trees, a child’s laughter abruptly replaced by silence.