“The Eggs Were Burning”: A Mother’s Execution, A 9-Year-Old Hero, and the Cold-Blooded Lie That Failed

DeRidder, LOUISIANA — On a quiet April evening, the air on Northridge Drive was thick with the smell of burning breakfast. Inside the home at 265 Northridge, the stove had been left on, the eggs charring in the pan, filling the house with acrid smoke. But the smoke was the least of the horrors hiding inside.

Behind a locked bedroom door, 28-year-old Ashley Fish lay lifeless on the bathroom floor. In the living room, four young girls—confused, terrified, and suddenly alone—were left to navigate a nightmare.

What followed was a harrowing investigation that peeled back the layers of a toxic relationship, exposed a killer’s chilling arrogance, and highlighted the unimaginable bravery of a 9-year-old girl who saved her siblings from a monster. This is the story of how Tyler Durachowski tried to get away with murder by playing the victim, and how forensic science—and his own hubris—proved him wrong.

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The Silent Alarm

The first sign that something was wrong wasn’t a scream, but a phone call. At the DeRidder Police Department, a dispatcher received a call that was unsettling in its calmness. The voice on the other end was flat, detached.

“Hi, I need to report a crime,” the male voice said. When asked for the address, he gave it: 265 Northridge Drive. Then, without identifying himself or explaining what had happened, he hung up.

Officer Josh Stanford was the first to arrive at the scene. He approached the house with caution, the dispatcher’s warning of a “potential danger” ringing in his ears. What he found inside was a tableau of domestic interruption. The house was eerie. The smell of burnt food hung heavy in the air.

“You all right, babe?” Officer Stanford asked gently as he encountered the children. “The door was locked in the room,” one of the children replied, her voice trembling. “I was scared the eggs were burning and she’s in there.”

The “she” was their mother, Ashley. The eldest daughter, Riley, just nine years old, had instinctively realized that danger was close. In an act of courage that likely saved further tragedy, she had gathered her three younger sisters—aged six, four, and two—and guided them out of the house to a neighbor’s safety.

With the children secure, Officer Stanford breached the locked bedroom. Inside the bathroom, he found Ashley Fish. She had sustained a single gunshot wound to the right side of her head. She was already gone.

The Manhunt and The Confession

Police initially faced a confusing scene. The shooter was gone. Was this a suicide? A break-in? The lack of forced entry suggested the killer was someone Ashley knew.

Neighbors provided the first critical leads. One neighbor’s Ring camera footage captured a black truck speeding away from the driveway just minutes before the 911 call was placed. Another neighbor, Ashley’s best friend, arrived at the scene and immediately identified the likely driver: Tyler Durachowski, Ashley’s new boyfriend.

“She’s going through a divorce… but he was here,” the friend told police, her voice breaking as she realized Ashley was dead. “I’m assuming it was Ty.”

Detectives learned that Ashley was in the middle of a separation from her husband, Jon Fish. She had recently started dating Tyler, a 34-year-old man from out of state. But the relationship had soured quickly. Just as a manhunt was about to be launched, the radio crackled with a bizarre update.

The killer had called 911 again.

“Hi, I uh… I need to turn myself into the police,” Tyler said, sitting in an empty parking lot at Burke’s Outlet, miles away. “Are you wanted?” the dispatcher asked. “No, I just committed a crime. I shot somebody.” “Who did you shoot?” “A woman. Ashley Fish.”

He didn’t say “my girlfriend.” He didn’t say “Ashley.” He called her “a woman.” It was the first glimpse into the dehumanization that would define his defense.

The “Perfect” Story

When officers arrested Tyler, they didn’t find a frantic, remorseful man. They found a calculated individual who appeared to be waiting. A search of his vehicle revealed no weapon, but it did uncover vials of testosterone and syringes—anabolic steroids known to fuel aggression and irritability.

Taken into interrogation, Tyler sat across from Lead Detective Cooley. Tyler was calm, almost helpful. He had a story ready, one he believed would exonerate him. He claimed it was self-defense.

“This woman and I got in an altercation… she pulled out a gun,” Tyler told the detective. “She loaded it and was pointing it at me… we started fighting and it went off.”

Tyler painted a picture of a chaotic struggle for survival. He claimed Ashley, angry that he was leaving her to move back to Oregon, had snapped. He described her as the aggressor, loading the weapon in the bedroom while he tried to de-escalate.

“I’m a man… I felt like I was fighting for my life,” he insisted. “I didn’t want to take a mother away from her four kids.”

He claimed that during a tussle in the bathroom, the gun accidentally discharged. He portrayed himself as the victim of a “crazy” woman, a narrative designed to play on the sympathy of the male detectives. He even expressed “guilt” about the relationship, trying to frame himself as a man of honor who had been trapped.

But Detective Cooley knew Ashley. He had gone to school with her. He knew the vibrant, loving mother of four was not the violent aggressor Tyler was describing. And as the evidence began to roll in from the crime scene, Tyler’s story began to crumble.

The Family’s heartbreaking Testimony

While Tyler spun his web of lies, Ashley’s family arrived at the station, shattered. Her ex-husband, Jon Fish, provided a heartbreaking look into the final moments of Ashley’s life.

Jon revealed that Ashley had been terrified in the hours leading up to her death. At 6:55 PM, she had texted him: “He won’t leave.”

Ashley had been trying to end the relationship. The family described Tyler as a “walking red flag”—a man who was arrogant, disrespectful, and unstable. Ashley’s father admitted he had previously threatened Tyler, demanding he leave his daughter alone.

“I wanted him to leave. Get out of there. Leave the girls alone,” her father recounted, fighting back tears.

The investigation revealed that Tyler was not “trapped” as he claimed. Love letters found by police showed he was still in contact with his ex-wife and could have left Ashley at any time. Instead, he stayed, fueled by possession and control. Tyler admitted in the interrogation that he planned to blackmail Ashley by telling her husband he had been sleeping over—a violation of her custody agreement—just to hurt her.

He was a man losing control, not a man fighting for his life.

The Interrogation: The Mask Slips

As the interrogation dragged on, the chemical imbalance from the steroids and the pressure of the lies began to show. Tyler became agitated. He couldn’t keep his story straight.

When asked about the physical altercation, Tyler minimized his own strength while exaggerating Ashley’s. Yet, when asked if she had ever been violent before, he could only cite that she had once “slapped him with a slipper.”

The detective pressed him: “How long from the time she came into the bathroom to where it escalated to the point she gets shot?” “Two minutes probably,” Tyler stammered. “Just struggling… trying to do like a chokehold thing.”

He claimed the gun went off in the struggle, at a distance, while they were both fighting for control. He claimed he didn’t know what happened immediately after.

Then, the forensic evidence arrived. It was the nail in the coffin.

The Evidence That Spoke for the Dead

Detective Cooley stepped out of the room and returned with the findings from the crime scene investigators. The science told a story that was diametrically opposed to Tyler’s version.

1. The Phone: Tyler claimed Ashley was holding the gun, loading it, and pointing it at him. However, when police found Ashley’s body, her cell phone was firmly gripped in her right hand—her dominant hand. It is physically impossible to aggressively wield a pistol, struggle in a life-or-death fight, and maintain a tight grip on a cell phone in the same hand. She wasn’t fighting; she was likely trying to call for help.

2. The Contact Wound: Tyler described a wrestling match where the gun went off between them. But the autopsy and ballistics report showed a “contact wound.” There was hair inside the barrel of the gun. This meant the muzzle was pressed directly, firmly against Ashley’s head when the trigger was pulled.

This was not a struggle. This was an execution.

3. The Lack of Injuries: Tyler claimed to be in a fight for his life against an armed woman. Yet, he had no defensive wounds. No scratches, no bruises, no torn clothes. Ashley’s body also showed no signs of a struggle prior to the gunshot.

When Detective Cooley confronted him with the reality—that the evidence proved he pressed the gun to her head—Tyler’s demeanor shifted from “helpful witness” to cornered animal.

“I don’t know, man. One bullet goes off and you’re [expletive],” Tyler mumbled, realizing the trap had closed. “I feel like… the more I talk, the more it’s going to look like, ‘Oh man, that guy’s a piece of [expletive].’”

Realizing his “self-defense” charade was over, Tyler shut down. “I think I need a lawyer.”

Justice for Ashley

The state of Louisiana did not buy Tyler Durachowski’s story. The evidence painted a clear picture: Tyler, enraged that Ashley was kicking him out and fueled by steroid abuse, cornered her in the bathroom. While she clutched her phone, perhaps trying to text her ex-husband one last time, Tyler took her own gun, pressed it against her temple, and pulled the trigger.

He then coolly walked out of the house, leaving four children under the age of ten alone with their mother’s corpse and a stove that was beginning to burn.

Tyler Durachowski was charged with second-degree murder and four counts of child abandonment. Despite his attempts to plead self-defense in court, the overwhelming physical evidence and his own inconsistencies secured his fate. He was found guilty on all charges.

The judge sentenced him to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

A Legacy of Courage

While the tragedy of Ashley Fish’s death left a hole in the DeRidder community, the story is also one of survival. The quick thinking of 9-year-old Riley, who recognized the danger and led her sisters to safety, prevented the loss of more innocent lives.

Ashley is remembered by her family not as the “woman” in Tyler’s cold confession, but as a devoted mother, a daughter, and a friend who was trying to reclaim her life. The eggs burning on the stove that morning were a symbol of a normal life interrupted by senseless violence—but thanks to the relentless work of detectives and the silence-breaking evidence, the truth was not lost in the smoke.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, help is available. You are not alone.