Transgender Suspect Hid Vegas Woman’s Body in Freezer
Updated: April 2, 2025, 7:30 PM PDT
LAS VEGAS — The stench of decay hung heavy in the air as Las Vegas Metropolitan Police officers breached the door of a cluttered mobile home in the east Las Vegas Valley on November 6, 2024. What began as a routine welfare check spiraled into a macabre discovery: the frozen, contorted body of 68-year-old Monique Gilbertson, stuffed inside a locked chest freezer, her lifeless eyes staring up through a shroud of frost. Now, her transgender ex-roommate, Daniel “Jazlynn” Roush, 38, stands accused of a murder so cold-blooded it has left the city in stunned silence.
The grim scene unfolded at a residence on the 5500 block of Tres Piedras Road, near Nellis Boulevard, after a concerned acquaintance reported not hearing from Gilbertson for two weeks. Body camera footage, released by the Clark County District Court, captures the chilling prelude: officers hammering on the door, only to be met by Roush, who emerged with a web of lies. “She left town for a while,” Roush claimed, voice steady, insisting Gilbertson had dashed off to visit her brother on the East Coast—an emergency, they said. But Gilbertson’s half-brother, Fred Carstens, hadn’t seen her since 1982, shattering Roush’s story like brittle ice.
“She called me yesterday,” Roush pressed, doubling down as officers grew wary. “I’m house-sitting. I’ve been renting this place since September.” The defiance in their tone clashed with the nervous twitch of their hands, a detail not lost on the police. “It’s weird that you’re being so defensive,” one officer remarked, suspicion thickening the air.
A House of Horrors
Stepping inside, officers were assaulted by a rancid cocktail of urine, feces, and rot. The mobile home was a labyrinth of filth—piles of garbage, stained mattresses, and smeared walls painting a portrait of neglect. “It’s everywhere,” an officer muttered, his flashlight cutting through the gloom. Minutes later, their beam settled on a white chest freezer, its lock glinting ominously amidst a heap of tattered fabric.
“He’s freaking out, saying we can’t open it,” an officer noted as Roush’s protests echoed from the porch. Undeterred, police pried it open. Beneath a white tarp lay Gilbertson—her body folded like a discarded doll, knees bent backward, arms twisted unnaturally, her skin a pale blue from days, perhaps weeks, in the icy tomb. “There’s a person in here,” an officer barked, voice tight with shock. “Go get him in handcuffs.”
The autopsy would later reveal a nightmare etched in her blood: 400 nanograms of fentanyl per milliliter—200 times the lethal dose—coursing through her veins. Prosecutors allege Roush didn’t just supply the drugs; they “force-fed” Gilbertson the synthetic opioid, a deliberate act of malice to “take over her life.” Grand jury transcripts paint a darker picture still: Roush’s wife, Gina Lopez, confessed that after Gilbertson overdosed, Roush smothered her with a pillow, her gasps silenced before her body was crammed into the freezer. Lopez admitted to aiding in the gruesome disposal, her hands trembling as she helped lift the corpse.
A Deadly Deception
Gilbertson, described by friend Gilbert Brown as a lonely soul undone by addiction, had met Roush in September 2024 at a local store. In a moment of misplaced kindness, she offered them a place to stay. But the arrangement soured fast. Text messages unearthed by police reveal a desperate plea from Gilbertson in October: “The sooner you come, the sooner we can get this over with.” She suspected theft, Brown said, her trust eroding as her drug habit—cocaine, pain pills, and Kahlua-soaked nights—spiraled.
Roush, meanwhile, spun a tale of entitlement. “I have rights here,” they told police, clinging to a fabricated narrative of tenancy even as the freezer hummed with its ghastly secret. Lopez, occasionally present in the home, initially feigned ignorance—“I had no idea she was in there”—before crumbling under questioning, admitting the body had been frozen for at least four days.
A Community Shattered
The indictment, handed down in January 2025, charges Roush with second-degree murder, abuse of a vulnerable person, residential burglary, and drug offenses. Lopez faces burglary and drug possession counts, her role as accomplice cemented by her own words. As the case barrels toward district court, the east Las Vegas Valley mourns a woman whose generosity became her undoing.
“She just wanted friends,” Brown said, voice breaking. “Her addiction was her downfall, but she didn’t deserve this.” Neighbors, too, are haunted—whispers of the “freezer house” now a grim legend on Tres Piedras Road.
Police continue to unravel the motive, though the evidence suggests a calculated bid to seize Gilbertson’s home, her life snuffed out to clear the way. For now, Roush sits behind bars, their not-guilty plea a faint echo against the weight of bodycam footage and forensic truth. Gilbertson, once a name behind a story, lies silent—her final chapter a frozen horror no one saw coming.
