- Brittany Phillips was just 18 when she was found murdered in her Tulsa apartment in 2004
- Despite hundreds of interviews and DNA investigations, her killer has never been publicly identified
- Her mum, Maggie Zingman, has spent more than 20 years travelling and campaigning for answers
Here, Maggie, 71, shares her story in her own words.
The polished granite gravestone glittered, as I placed my hands on the angel resting above it.
‘I love you,’ I whispered, a tear sliding down my cheek.
I could hardly believe 21 years had passed since I buried my darling daughter, Brittany.
My girl was laid to rest on her 19th birthday – her life cruelly ended in the most horrific way.
Brittany was my second child with my ex-husband John, and growing up she was doted on by us, just as she was by her big brother, Joshua.
With wild blonde curls she was a brave little thing, getting scrapes, jumping backwards into pools, and roaming around the playground getting bumps that turned into battle scars.
As intelligent as she was fearless, aged four Brittany got a private primary school scholarship.
In class, friends flitted around her like happy butterflies.
Teenage Brittany loved socialising as much as studying, yet she always made time for family.
‘You’re my best friend, Mama,’ she’d say, giving me a kiss.
That’s why, in 2003, when Brittany, then 17, was offered a scholarship to study chemistry at uni 2000km away, I felt a pang of sadness.
On one hand I was very proud – it was the same uni I’d attended, graduating with a degree in psychology. And Brittany – having lost her grandma Eva to cancer – was determined to find a cure.
But it was so far away. I was going to miss her.
We vowed to call each other daily, and soon Brittany was updating me with stories of the people she’d met and the adventures she’d had.
But beneath the happy chatter, Brittany had begun to feel homesick.
By early 2004, she finished her first year and came back to our hometown.
At first she lived with some friends, then, in May, we found her a one-bed apartment.
I’d moved as well, and now we were an hour’s drive from each other.
She studied again, and was excited for her future.
That September, Brittany called to say she was feeling under the weather. It wasn’t unusual, as Brittany had always been prone to allergies.
‘I tried to go to the doctor’s, Mum,’ Brittany told me. ‘But I couldn’t get an appointment.’
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She told me she was with a friend who she was going to drop off before heading home.
Brittany’s birthday was the following week, so she had organised to drive to me a few days later so we could celebrate.
‘We’ll find you a good doctor,’ I assured her, before we both ended the call saying, ‘I love you.’
It was the last conversation we’d have.
The next night, I called her, but her phone went to voicemail. I wasn’t worried as Brittany had evening classes.
But when she hadn’t called back by the next day, concern gnawed.
‘Please call me,’ I urged in a voicemail, panicked.
I tried again later – but nothing.
Then at 1am, a knock on the door came.
Opening it, I saw a young police officer standing there.
‘I’ve been informed your daughter has been murdered,’ he told me awkwardly, giving me the details of a detective who could tell me more.
I felt my legs go weak.
There had to be some mistake – not my girl.
I phoned the detective, and he confirmed the terrifying truth.
My girl’s body had been found at her home.
I had to see her. Hardly able to think, I raced to Brittany’s apartment.
The block was swathed in police tape. The lights from parked cop cars flashed outside.
Finding an officer and explaining who I was, I learned more.
‘She was killed in her bedroom,’ they told me.
It felt as if my heart had been torn in two. Despite working in trauma intervention for 15 years, there was no amount of training in the world to prepare you for losing your own child.
Joshua completely broke down, and blamed himself for not checking in with her in the last few days.
‘It’s absolutely not your fault,’ I soothed him.
The following week, on what should have been Brittany’s 19th birthday, we held her funeral.
Around 200 people came to say goodbye.
To honour my girl, we all wore pink and purple. Her pink casket was draped with a purple sheer material she’d had over the banisters of her bed.
Instead of seeing her blow out candles on her birthday cake, I watched, distraught, as her coffin was lowered into the ground.
But there was more torment to come.
An autopsy revealed my girl had been raped before she was murdered – and that she was strangled to death.
Left alone, her body lay on her bedroom floor for three days before it was found.
A friend had raised the alarm after my girl hadn’t turned up for class.
My heart broke.
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Brittany must have been terrified in her final moments.
Police revealed there were no signs of a break-in.
Did she know him? Had she been stalked? Was the killer waiting when she got home? I couldn’t stop the awful thoughts.
The horror in my head was bad, but worse was the lack of police leads.
In the following months, hundreds of potential suspects were interviewed.
But the case reached a dead end.
Then in 2007, I decided to act. I brought a car, had it painted in Brittany’s favourite colours, and emblazoned it with photos of my girl. Then I started touring the country trying to jog people’s memories and crack the case.
I find joy in sharing memories about Brittany with people who stop to talk. And I feel sympathy when they share their own stories of tragedy.
I also help spread awareness of other cold cases and I encourage people to speak up to the police department and keep fighting for justice.
There have been moments when I’ve thought the nightmare might be over.
In 2018, police released a composite sketch of a suspect based on the same DNA police used to compare suspects at the start of their investigation.
The blond, blue-eyed man was the type my girl would’ve fancied.
A genetic company hired to identify the DNA, discovered he was the innocent boyfriend of a friend of hers, and he was quickly ruled out. It also meant that picture was no longer our suspect.
Some years later, DNA that was found under her fingernails, suggested my girl had fought her killer.
In January 2023, there was another twist when my ex found a birthday card written by Brittany, meant for his dad. She’d written it right before she died, but the stamp was dated a few days after police believe she was murdered.
Had that letter been sent by her killer? It seems like we may never know.
Joshua, now 42, and I blow out a candle for her birthday, or have pink and purple balloons.
More than 2000 people have been interviewed over my daughter’s murder and I continue to travel the country hoping for leads.
Brittany would’ve been 41 this year – maybe married, and with children.
Arriving in new towns in my car, I speak with strangers about my girl.
I’ve driven over 560,000 kilometres over 20 years doing 25 tours.
She was my whole heart and I’ll keep up my quest until the day I die.
I know she would have done the same for me.
Visit facebook.com/mom.missing.brittany
