Ex-cop charged with killing 2 in Tampa crash now a fugitive

TAMPA — Joshua Roelofs had choices.

He could make the state prove that he drove drunk one early morning three years ago, causing a crash on the Courtney Campbell Causeway that killed Kris Koroly and Ricky Gongora.

Or he could plead guilty and let a judge decide his punishment.

As he sat in a Tampa courtroom one day in April, the beefy, bearded ex-deputy mulled another option. He told his lawyers he needed more time to pray and talk with his family.

A few days later, court personnel waited close to an hour for Roelofs to appear and announce his decision. He never did.

Roelofs, 36, has been a fugitive since.

He has left behind two grieving and angry families. Until his disappearance, they believed their long wait for accountability and closure could be near an end. Instead, justice seems as elusive as the defendant.

“It kept the wound festering,” said Gongora’s sister, Victoria Negrete. “I just feel violated and hopeless.”

Two good men

Kris Koroly came to Florida from his native Michigan about a dozen years ago to help a cousin who was building a house. He never left.

He had two brothers and a sister. He also had a teenage daughter named Lily, who lives with her mother in Alabama. In the final year of his life, he hasreconnected with the girl through calls and gifts. He had a pit bull named Wrigley.

He had a tattoo on his abdomen that read “Detroit’s Finest.” His sister made fun of him for it. With his long, stringy hair and scruffy appearance, Koroly, 44, was more than once mistaken for Kid Rock, a fellow Motor City native.

He met Ricky Gongora at the Salt Cracker Fish Camp, where they both worked on Clearwater Beach.

Gongora, 44, was a self-taught chef who had worked in kitchens throughout the nation and around the world. He had lived in Brazil and Seattle, New Orleans and his native Texas. When friends called in need of a sous chef, he would go.

Passionate and creative, he saw himself as an artist, one who picked up new food-making skills in his travels. He knew everything from Cajun styles to sushi to Italian dishes.

He trademarked some of his own recipes, like “Rickdiculous Tamales,” a hot sauce-infused twist on the Spanish dish. At Christmas, he would give dozens to his friends at their request. When his sister was recovering from surgery in 2017, he threw some together to ensure that she had food.

He liked being near the water and felt at home in Florida. He was saving money to buy a sailboat so he could live at sea.

Both men hated cars. Koroly used an electric bike. Gongora got around on his pedal bicycle with pink front spokes.

So it was that they rode in the back seat of a friend’s Kia Sorento SUV in the early morning of April 12, 2022, bound for Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino.

William Camacho drove. His girlfriend, Jessica Perez Ruiz, sat up front.

They were a little more than halfway across the eastbound side of the Courtney Campbell Causeway when a Nissan GT-R sports car sped up behind them. The car slammed into the back of the SUV, which rolled several times, landing on its side in the opposite lanes.

All four people inside were thrown to the pavement. Camacho and Perez Ruiz both were hospitalized with severe injuries. Koroly and Gongora were killed.

An ex-cop accused

Moments after the crash, another driver saw a tall, heavyset man walking across the road, away from the Nissan. He was later identified as Roelofs.

Tampa police officers who responded saw no indication that he was impaired but later noted he had bloodshot eyes and “thick-tongued” speech. A medical test about five hours later would showed his blood alcohol content was 0.069, a little below the 0.08 limit at which state law presumes impairment. Investigators concluded he likely was within the range of impairment at the time of the crash.

Investigators retraced Roelofs’ movements. Hours before the crash, they found he had paid for several vodka-based drinks at Yard of Ale and Park & Rec in downtown St. Petersburg.

The dashboard camera in his Nissan recorded footage showing the car weaving across the yellow line and straddling the middle lane before it sped up and slammed into the SUV. The car’s speed was pegged at more than 100 mph.

Roelofs was jailed on charges that included DUI manslaughter and vehicular homicide. He quickly posted bonds totaling $19,000 and was released.

The case received somewhat heightened public attention, owing to his past as a law officer. For about five years, he worked as a Polk County sheriff’s deputy. He was fired in 2015 after his superiors accused him of filing inaccurate time records to receive extra pay.

After that, Roelofs became involved in several businesses, including a solar energy company, according to state corporation records.

He married his wife, Brielle, in 2020. Records show it was his second marriage. She did not respond to phone messages and emails seeking comment.

Photos the couple shared on social media show them with their two daughters. Others show Roelofs with a drink in hand.

One Facebook image from 2020, which vanished after the crash, showed him in a driver’s seat with two large bottles of Everclear 95% grain alcohol. Clad in sunglasses, he raises his thumbs and smiles.

State sentencing guidelines pegged his penalty at about 30 years in prison. Early in the case, prosecutors offered an agreement for 28 years if he pleaded guilty. Roelofs’ defense countered with an offer of 10 years, followed by 10 years of supervision. No agreement was reached.

His attorneys, Deborah Barra of Orlando and Glen Lansky of Valrico, were ready to proceed, either in trial or with a plea. When Roelofs failed to show up, they withdrew.

“It was a surprise,” Lanksy said. “We don’t really know anything other than what the public knows.”

Within weeks, someone paid off the forfeited balance of the bonds Roelofs posted to get out of jail. The Mulberry home listed as his permanent address was sold last fall. The business address for his solar energy company changed to a home on a gated, 16-acre plot of land in rural Polk City, east of Lakeland.

Joseph Dunlop was there last week when a Tampa Bay Times reporter visited. He said Roelofs is his grandson.

He was with him the last time he appeared in a Tampa courtroom. He left unhappy but said nothing about fleeing, Dunlop said. He said he hasn’t seen him since.

“Josh made a decision to push (the case) right to the end, and the prosecutor wouldn’t back off,” he said. “I don’t have a clue where he’s at.”

And his wife and kids?

“I heard they were going to Ohio or something,” he said.

He vouched for Roelofs, insisting he wasn’t completely to blame for the collision. He pointed to the victims, faulting them for not wearing seat belts and accusing the other driver of being impaired.

Dunlop claimed the judge “doesn’t know the whole story.” He insisted the crash was merely an accident.

“You can’t change what’s done,” he said. “You can’t bring them back.”

Justice denied

Under Florida law, even if the other driver was impaired, it wouldn’t negate Roelofs’ responsibility.

Rachel Pell, Koroly’s sister, said she doesn’t believe Roelofs intended to cause anyone’s death. But her family and others continue to suffer for what the state says he did.

“Whether it was my brother, a mass murderer or a kingpin, it doesn’t matter,” Pell said. “Those are still human beings.”

William Camacho, who was driving the SUV, suffered a severe brain injury after Roelofs crashed into his vehicle. He lay in a coma for four months. He remains permanently disabled.

His sister, Luz Camacho, who lives in Puerto Rico, said her brother struggles to walk, has seizures, needs constant assistance and has a reduced mental capacity.

He struggles with depression and anxiety and sometimes hallucinates. She struggles to help pay for his medical care.

“He’s like a little kid,” she said.

Only Camacho’s girlfriend recovered fully.

Despite her brother’s struggles, Camacho’s sister refuses to pass judgment on Roelofs. She places her trust in God and the legal system.

Pell met with a detective in Tampa last month, who told her police are looking for Roelofs. She wonders what his plans are and whether he intends to stay on the run.

“That’s no way to live,” she said.

She knows Roelofs is from Michigan, albeit on the other side of the state from where she lives. She wonders if he might return to the Traverse City area, on the state’s western coast. She’s thought about putting Roelofs’ picture on a billboard and offering a reward.

Nevertheless, she said, she doesn’t want the case to dictate her life.

She holds onto the memories of her brother. During her first visit to Tampa after he died, she packed up the meager possessions he had and realized what was important to him — a bracelet his daughter gave him when she was 4 years old, the meticulous records he kept of Wrigley’s veterinary visits.

An artist friend used some of his ashes to make glass necklaces. Some were scattered in ceremonies at Clearwater Beach and the shores of Lake Michigan. She saved the rest for her brother’s daughter.

The girl came with Pell to Tampa. She saw the house where her father lived on Rogers Street. She ate at the Salt Cracker restaurant where he worked. She saw dolphins on the waters where he used to give Jet Ski tours.

It was important, Pell said, for her to experience the places her father knew and to know that he’s not forgotten.

In their shared connection to the tragedy, Pell has befriended Gongora’s sister.

Victoria Negrete is a career military master sergeant, who, as a mortuary affairs specialist in the Air Force, has lent support to families whose loved ones never came home. The work became more difficult after her brother’s death. In her grief, she moved to a different operational field.

Negrete still has her brother’s bicycle. She can’t bring herself to ride it. More than a dozen of Gongora’s friends got tattoos of the bike as a sort of living memorial.

His former girlfriend helped place another along the Causeway, close to the spot where he and Koroly died. The small plaque sits affixed to a stone pillar near the roadside.

It reads: “In loving memory of Rick Gongora and Kris Koroly and the countless unnamed victims of drunk driving. Never forget, never drive drunk.”

On the run

Joshua Roelofs is 6 feet tall and weighs about 300 pounds. He has brown eyes and brown hair that he tends to keep short. He often sports a beard. He has ties to Central Florida; Columbus, Ohio; and northwestern Michigan.

Anyone with information regarding Roelofs’ whereabouts can call the Tampa Police Department at 813-231-6130 or the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office at 813-247-8200.