The story of the Coleman murders is not one of mystery that lingers unsolved — it is one of tragedy, betrayal, and a cold logic that shocked even the most seasoned investigators. To understand its ending, we must first trace the psychological and emotional threads that led Chris Coleman down a path that would end in the deaths of his wife and children — and ultimately, in his own life as he knew it.

Chris Coleman had always lived in a world of appearances. Raised in a devout evangelical household, he was taught early on that reputation and righteousness went hand in hand. His job with Joyce Meyer Ministries reinforced this expectation: he was to be the picture of moral character, the man who protected the preacher and, by extension, her message.

But behind the closed doors of his home, Chris was a man increasingly torn between two worlds. His marriage to Sherry, once built on shared dreams of stability, faith, and family, had begun to fray. Sherry felt neglected, isolated by Chris’s frequent travel, and perhaps increasingly aware that the man she had married was no longer the man standing in front of her.

Sherry’s friends noticed she had grown anxious, even fearful. Her haunting statement — “If something happens to me, Chris did it” — now reads like a prophecy she was unable to escape.

Chris, meanwhile, had already begun living a double life. Meeting Tara Lintz in late 2008 gave him something intoxicating: attention, excitement, validation. With Tara, he could be the man he wanted to be — admired, free, unburdened by the responsibilities of fatherhood or a failing marriage.

But to pursue this new life openly would mean divorce, and divorce could mean losing everything: his job, his income, and his standing in the religious community.

It was in this pressure cooker of desire, fear, and pride that Chris began crafting what he must have believed was the perfect solution.

The anonymous threats were not spontaneous — they were the first careful steps of a plan. By creating the “destroychris” email address and leaving threatening letters, Chris was building a narrative in which he was not the aggressor but the victim. He was painting a picture for his coworkers, for the police, and eventually for the courts: a picture in which some deranged enemy of Joyce Meyer had set their sights on him and his family.

Each letter grew darker, more explicit. Each one ramped up the danger, until the idea of an outside killer seemed plausible — even inevitable.

But the façade began to crack even before the murders took place. Investigators installed cameras, checked the mailbox, and monitored the situation closely. No stalker ever appeared.

And then came May 5, 2009 — the day that would change everything.

The timeline was crucial. Chris left the house at 5:43 a.m., supposedly kissing his wife goodbye and heading to the gym. But the autopsy told a different story: Sherry and the boys were already dead.

In those quiet, predawn hours, Chris had walked from room to room, ending the lives of the three people closest to him. Sherry was strangled first, the evidence suggested. Garrett and Gavin next — their small bodies discovered with words scrawled on their sheets in red spray paint, a grotesque echo of the earlier threats.

Then Chris left the house.

He called Sherry’s phone twice on the way to the gym. Texted her. Left voicemails. At first glance, this might have seemed like the worried check-ins of a husband concerned for his family. But to detectives, it looked like staging — laying the groundwork for the story he would later tell.

When Chris returned and found police already at the house, he stayed outside, crying but making no move to enter. To the officers, this was unusual. Most husbands would rush inside, desperate to see their families, to confirm what had happened with their own eyes.

In the days that followed, the evidence against Chris became impossible to ignore.

* **The timing of death** placed him in the house when the murders occurred.
* **The handwriting analysis** connected him to the spray-painted threats.
* **The purchase records** showed he had bought red spray paint months earlier.
* **The email trail** traced the threatening messages back to his own computer.
* **The security camera footage** proved no one else entered the home after he left.
* **The scratches on his arms** suggested a struggle — perhaps from Sherry fighting back in her final moments.

Most damning of all was the motive that emerged: Chris’s affair with Tara Lintz. The texts, the photos, the videos, the notes on his phone — they all pointed to a man preparing for a future with another woman.

Divorce, to Chris, was not an option. But murder, in his mind, was a way to have everything: freedom from Sherry, a life with Tara, and a preserved image as a “widower” rather than a divorced man.

When the case went to trial, it was largely circumstantial — no murder weapon, no direct confession. The jury initially struggled. At one point, they were deadlocked 7-5 for acquittal.

But then came the turning point: a photograph found on Tara’s Blackberry of her kissing Chris in October 2008, earlier than either of them had admitted their affair began.

This photo shifted the narrative. If Chris was lying about when the relationship started, what else had he lied about?

After 15 hours of deliberation, the jury returned a verdict: guilty on all three counts of first-degree murder.

Chris Coleman was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. He narrowly escaped the death penalty — Illinois abolished it only months later.

To this day, Chris maintains his innocence. He has appealed, claiming that someone framed him by using his laptop to create the threatening emails. But every appeal has been denied.

For Sherry’s family, the verdict brought a measure of justice but not peace. They lost not just a daughter and sister, but two bright, young boys who never got the chance to grow up.

They filed a wrongful death suit against Joyce Meyer Ministries, arguing that the ministry should have done more to recognize the danger Sherry was in. The suit was ultimately dismissed, but it forced a difficult conversation about the intersection of faith, family, and accountability.

Tara Lintz disappeared from public life after the trial. Once the center of Chris’s obsession, she became the unwilling witness to his downfall. She testified truthfully, wore the promise ring to court, and faced harsh public judgment, but she was never implicated in the murders.

Joyce Meyer, for her part, expressed deep grief over the tragedy. She spoke publicly about the need for spiritual leaders to remain vigilant — not only about threats from the outside but about the struggles within the lives of those closest to them.

Today, Chris Coleman resides in Dodge Correctional Institution in Wisconsin — the same facility where another infamous family annihilator, Chris Watts, is serving his sentence. The parallels between the two cases have been noted frequently: two men, two seemingly perfect suburban families, two affairs that pushed them to kill.

Sherry’s memory lives on in the scholarship fund established in her name, a tribute to the life she led and the children she adored. Garrett and Gavin are remembered not for the way they died but for the joy they brought to their community.

And for those who followed the case, the Coleman murders remain a sobering reminder that evil does not always come from strangers lurking in the night. Sometimes, it lives under the same roof.

The ending of the Coleman case is not one of lingering questions but of a grim clarity:

* **Chris Coleman**, once the trusted protector of a ministry, is now a prisoner for life, the architect of his own downfall.
* **Sherry Coleman** is remembered as a woman who saw the danger coming but could not escape it.
* **Garrett and Gavin**, innocent victims, symbolize the terrible cost of one man’s obsession with image and control.
* **Tara Lintz** moves forward, scarred by her connection to the case but free to live a different life.
* **Joyce Meyer and her ministry** remain a reminder that faith does not shield anyone from tragedy — and that vigilance is always necessary.

In the end, justice was served, but the story remains haunting because it feels so preventable. Chris Coleman could have chosen divorce, could have chosen honesty, could have chosen life.

Instead, he chose murder.

And that choice has written the final chapter of the Coleman family’s story — a chapter that will forever stand as one of the most chilling tales of suburban betrayal in American history.