She was twenty, still figuring things out, still coloring her days with plans, friends, and shifts at the local Friendly’s where she served coffee and comfort food with a kind of practiced tenderness. Although Amanda Plasse wasn’t well-known, her life was vividly full—just not long enough.
One late August afternoon in 2011, Amanda didn’t show up for her shift. That simple absence was troubling. A few hours later, she was discovered dead and stabbed in her kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of an unheard battle. In a town like Chicopee, the news didn’t just circulate quickly—it sunk deeply into people’s conversations, prayers, and darkest fears.
The inquiry began urgently, but like so many early cases, it proved complex. No leads stuck, but they came in. Short bursts of possibility, followed by extended periods of silence, were interspersed by moments of hope. For two whole years, Amanda’s family lived in that hollow space—knowing what had happened but not who had done it.
Amanda’s mother, Michelle Mathison, didn’t wait for the phone to ring. She made fliers. She knocked on doors. She hosted community gatherings and, most remarkably, maintained saying Amanda’s name in public areas. She understood, perhaps better than anyone, that unsolved cases began to evaporate. And she refused to let that happen.
| Name | Amanda Plasse |
|---|---|
| Birthdate | December 11, 1990 |
| Died | August 26, 2011, in Chicopee, MA |
| Age at Death | 20 |
| Known For | Waitress at Friendly’s, aspiring artist |
| Case Outcome | Dennis Rosa-Roman convicted in 2016 |
| Legacy | “Amanda’s Law” passed in Massachusetts |
| External Link | ABC News coverage |
It finally boiled down to a whiteboard. Investigators discovered a hint they had missed when going over case notes and scene documentation. A name—Dennis Rosa-Roman—paired with a bloodied sneaker print. Rosa-Roman had a criminal past and a history of violence. The casing accelerated after the parts clicked. 2013 saw his arrest, and 2016 saw his trial.
It took five hours for the jury to deliberate.
By all accounts, the evidence was obvious, the testimony strong, and the timetable alarmingly logical. Rosa-Roman received an unreleased life sentence. Hampden County District Attorney Anthony Gulluni called the evidence “compelling and convincing”—and the judge agreed. Justice had finally arrived, albeit unusually late.
However, what came next was considerably more systemic than a conviction. During the early phases of the case, it emerged that two Chicopee police officers had taken unlawful images of Amanda’s body and shared them casually—with coworkers, with acquaintances, even at a children’s football game. That violation—cruel, thoughtless, and totally preventable—prompted cries for reform.
Michelle, again, turned pain into activism.
Amanda’s Law, which forbids first responders from capturing or disseminating victim images for purposes other than official evidential use, is the outcome. Years have passed while it was filed and stalled. However, it passed with the support of lawmakers like Rep. Joseph Wagner and a resurgence of public interest. The law now stands as a shield for future victims and a barrier that should never have needed enforcement.
There’s something particularly unique about how sadness, when confronted with persistence, becomes an instrument for public protection.
Earlier this year, Amanda’s tale was covered in a “20/20” segment titled What the Killer Left Behind. It felt more like a reckoning than a true crime show, and it was pieced together via detective interviews, trial video, and snippets of Amanda’s life. A tardy recognition of her identity and the struggles her family faced.
I once stopped watching the show and gazed at the frame of her grinning behind a Friendly’s counter. It was the sort of photo most of us have—blurred by light, full with ordinary joy—and it lasted with me far longer than I expected.
Since then, Rosa-Roman has attempted to change his mind. He maintained that he had come upon Amanda’s body and sought to help. After considering his appeal, the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court swiftly rejected it. He remains jailed at MCI Cedar Junction, his sentence undisturbed.
In many respects, the verdict’s finality has made room for something else: legacy. These days, Amanda Plasse’s name is more than simply a headline. It’s law. It’s precedent. It’s the lesson that young lives can resound long after they’ve been stolen.
Nothing is improved by that. There is no such thing as closure, as Michelle famously stated. Perhaps, however, the balance is shifting. A slight shift from suffering to purpose. And that counts where Amanda used to live and laugh in the sleepy nooks of Chicopee.
