Jose Soriano fell through a gaping hole in the mental health system, and advocates say his stepfather paid for it with his life.
Diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia several years ago, Soriano's family said the 23-year-old Highlands Ranch man received little treatment for his illness. He had short hospital stays here and there. He rarely took the pricey medication he needed, sometimes because he refused to take it, sometimes because his family couldn't afford to pay for it, his mother said.
So the voices got louder - and angrier.
On April 1, investigators say, Soriano's 11-year-old brother watched in horror as Soriano stabbed David Arias while he was sleeping, then cut his own throat.
Soriano survived. Arias didn't.
After a brief stay in a state psychiatric facility, Soriano was transferred to the Douglas County Jail, where he is awaiting trial on a first-degree murder charge. His preliminary hearing is Wednesday.
Assistant public defender Kyle Dumler, who represents Soriano, would not discuss the case.
To mental health advocates, Soriano's story represents the worst outcome for someone struggling from a mental illness. And they argue it's a result that could become increasingly common if lawmakers don't find ways to use their limited money more effectively.
"It's not good enough to just throw up our hands and say, 'Well, we don't have enough money,' " said Carol Ann Reynolds, executive director of the Colorado branch of the National Alliance of Mentally Ill. "Let's not use the lack of resources to justify what happened here."
As resources for mental health treatment have dwindled, many of the state's poor - and seriously troubled - have gone untreated. As a result, many of them have wound up in the criminal justice system, mostly for minor offenses, Reynolds said.
Carolyn O'Brien, a probation officer for Arapahoe and Douglas counties whose caseload consists of mentally ill defendants, has seen it happen time and time again.
'The system failed us'
She said many have been ordered to take medication and seek treatment, but without insurance, they can't access the services they need.
Soriano had no insurance. His family tried to get him help but didn't always know who to call or where to go.
Rose Orozco said she researched her son's illness, talked to her own counselor about it, and regularly called hospitals, but that no one offered any help.
"The system failed us over and over and over again," Orozco said.
'Sonny knew he was sick'
Soriano's family first noticed something was wrong when Soriano was about 17. His father had just died of lung cancer, and Soriano, who had dropped out of high school to help care for him, was devastated.
The boy, once one of the more popular kids in middle school, once loving and well-behaved, became increasingly paranoid.
Known to his friends and family as "Sonny," Soriano started thinking people were trying to kill him by trying to poison his food. He began talking to the television, his family said.
He started drinking excessively, and as he grew more ill, he got more paranoid, Cruz said.
"Sonny knew he was sick and he knew he needed help," said Jessica Cruz, 23, one of Soriano's longtime friends. "It seemed like really no one wanted to help him."
Arias loved Soriano and was understanding about his illness, Orozco said.
"They were very close," Orozco said.
But Arias also was the subject of much of Soriano's paranoia. He was worried Arias was hurting his mother, or his younger sister. He often thought Arias was going to harm him.
Without treatment, Soriano started racking up arrests, mostly for nonviolent offenses.
"His way of getting help was getting in trouble with the law," Orozco said. "That was his cry for help."
'They'll just lock me up'
Last October, Orozco called the police from the family's Highlands Ranch home after she and Soriano got into an argument about how loud he was playing his stereo.
Soriano was arrested and was placed on a year of probation after pleading guilty to harassment. He was ordered to stay away from his mother and move out.
In January, Orozco let him back in. He had nowhere else to go, she said.
The months passed, and Soriano wasn't getting any better.
The day of the stabbing, Soriano was gone most of the day. When he returned, he was withdrawn and depressed.
Orozco asked Soriano if he would be willing to check himself into the hospital, but he refused.
"They'll just lock me up," Orozco recalled him saying.
Orozco and Arias stayed up with Soriano to keep an eye on him, but as the hours grew later, they decided to go to bed.
Orozco's younger brother was sleeping in the couple's bed because he had a nightmare the night before, so Orozco and Arias made a bed for themselves on the floor.
Just as Orozco was dozing off to sleep, Soriano knocked on the door. He said he was scared. He asked his mother for a cigarette and asked to come in.
Orozco opened the door.
She says Soriano walked past her, went straight for Arias and began stabbing him.
Soriano's young brother woke up to screams.
Orozco told him to run downstairs and call 911.
In the meantime, Soriano stopped attacking Arias, went into the adjoining bathroom and began to cut his own throat. Arias, bleeding profusely from his own wounds, was trying to stop Soriano from hurting himself, according to sheriff's office reports.
Arias was losing blood rapidly. Soriano was combative.
Deputies used a dog and a Taser to subdue Soriano. As he was being taken into custody, reports say, Soriano told the deputies that Arias stabbed him first.
Arias was rushed to a nearby hospital, where he died.
"He's burning in hell now," Soriano told investigators.