A New Year Begins in Gunfire: One Man Dead, Another Wounded in Unrelated Downtown Des Moines Shootings 3954c
DES MOINES, Iowa —
The new year arrived quietly in downtown Des Moines, slipping in on cold air and half-lit streets, carrying with it the fragile hope that always follows the final seconds of midnight.
Fireworks had already faded into memory, bars were emptying, and the city seemed ready to exhale after another long year.
But before the clock could reach 2:30 a.m., that calm was shattered.
Not by celebration.
Not by laughter.
But by gunfire.
Just before dawn, an adult man pushed through the doors of MercyOne Des Moines Medical Center, bleeding from a gunshot wound, his face carrying the stunned disbelief of someone who had crossed, in seconds, from ordinary life into violence.
The injury was not considered life-threatening, yet the moment itself signaled something far more serious — that the first hours of the new year had already turned dark.
Police officers were alerted immediately, responding to the hospital and beginning to piece together what had happened, even as questions hung in the air unanswered.
Where had the shooting occurred.
Who had pulled the trigger.
And why violence had chosen this particular hour to announce itself.
They would not have long to wait.
Only moments later, another call came in.
Another address.
Another scene.
This time, an apartment building at 308 Court Avenue, in the heart of downtown, where the night would end far more tragically.
Officers arrived to find 30-year-old Tony Alexander Young suffering from critical gunshot injuries.
The scene inside the residence was tense, chaotic, and irreversible, the kind that leaves first responders knowing instantly that time is no longer an ally.
Des Moines Fire Department medics rushed Young to
UnityPoint Methodist Medical Center, where doctors fought to save him.
They could not.
Later that morning, as the city slowly woke to the first day of a new year, Tony Alexander Young was pronounced dead.
Another life cut short.
Another name added to a growing list that no community ever wants to read aloud.
What makes the loss heavier is not only the finality of death, but the proximity of it all — the way these events unfolded within minutes of each other, within the same downtown corridor, while most of the city slept unaware.
Two shootings.
Two separate incidents.
One fatal ending.
According to the Des Moines Police Department, the second shooting was not random.
It was not a stray bullet or an anonymous act of violence in the dark.
Investigators say evidence indicates that during a dispute inside the Court Avenue apartment, 31-year-old Jordan Isaac Carmi used a handgun to shoot Young.
The argument, whatever its origins, escalated into something irreversible, transforming a private conflict into a public tragedy.
In those moments, words were replaced by gunfire, and consequences arrived faster than anyone inside the apartment could have imagined.
Police arrested Carmi later that morning.
He lives at the Court Avenue apartment where the shooting occurred.
He is now charged with first-degree murder, a charge that carries with it the weight of a lifetime — not only for the accused, but for the family left behind by the victim.
As detectives continued their work, another detail emerged that underscored how far the violence had traveled.
Investigators recovered a handgun believed to be connected to the case from Walnut Creek
, near the North Valley Drive bridge.
A weapon discarded, removed from the immediate scene, as if distance alone could undo what had already been done.
But distance offers no absolution.
The creek, quiet and indifferent, now holds its own silent role in a story that will be replayed in courtrooms, police files, and grieving homes for years to come.
The water flows on.
The damage does not.
For downtown Des Moines, the timing of the violence cuts particularly deep.
New Year’s Day is supposed to represent renewal, reflection, and the fragile belief that tomorrow can be better than yesterday.
Instead, it arrived with flashing lights, sirens, and hospital corridors filled with urgency and grief.
Residents who later passed through Court Avenue would see no immediate sign of what had occurred there hours earlier.
No blood on the sidewalk.
No crowd gathered.
Just another building, another street, another place where life had changed forever behind closed doors.
Yet for those connected to Tony Alexander Young, the new year will never begin the same way again.
Birthdays, holidays, and ordinary mornings will now carry the weight of absence.
A phone that will never ring.
A voice that will never answer back.
The unrelated nature of the two shootings only adds to the unease.
They were not part of a single spree.
They were not linked by a shared suspect or a continuous chain of events.
They happened independently, a reminder that violence does not require coordination to leave devastation in its wake.
One man survives his injuries.
Another does not.
Both moments unfold within the same narrow window of time, forcing the city to confront uncomfortable questions about safety, conflict, and how quickly lives can unravel.
Police continue to investigate the first shooting, working to determine exactly where it occurred and what led to the man’s injuries before he walked into the hospital seeking help.
Details remain limited, and officers have not indicated whether any arrests have been made in that case.
What is clear is that the early hours of January 1 were marked not by celebration, but by emergency calls and flashing lights cutting through the darkness.
As the legal process begins for Jordan Isaac Carmi, the case will move from the immediacy of the crime scene into the slower, more deliberate machinery of the justice system.
Court dates will be scheduled.
Evidence will be examined.
Statements will be scrutinized.
But none of that will bring back the life that was lost.
For Des Moines, this tragedy serves as a sobering reminder that violence does not pause for holidays, nor does it respect the symbolic promise of a new beginning.
It arrives when it chooses, often in the quiet hours when defenses are down and expectations are low.
As the city moves forward into the year ahead, the echoes of those gunshots will linger — not as sounds, but as questions.
How did a dispute escalate so far.
Why was a gun present in the first place.
And how many more mornings will begin with similar headlines if nothing changes.
For now, downtown Des Moines carries the weight of a new year that began not with hope, but with loss.
And for one family, the calendar has turned, but time has stopped entirely.
Nine Days in Isolation: Cylus’ Quiet Battle and the Courage That Refuses to Break 1675c
Nine days. For most of us, that might be a simple stretch of time—barely more than a week, a blur of routine errands, workdays, and sleep. But for Cylus, nine days felt like a lifetime. They were nine days of relentless treatment, of isolation, of walls closing in and machines filling the space where laughter and play should have been. They were nine days that tested not only his body, but also his spirit, his resilience, and the quiet, unwavering courage that has now come to define him.
Seven of those nine days, Cylus was sealed off from the outside world, locked away in isolation. Not because he wanted to be there, but because his treatments demanded it. Radiation—cold, clinical, unforgiving—was the only weapon available to fight the invisible enemy inside his small body. And so, surrounded only by the sterile glow of hospital lights and the mechanical chorus of machines, he endured.
Isolation is hard for anyone, but for a child it is especially cruel. Days that should have been spent chasing sunlight or laughing with friends were instead filled with procedures and silence. His parents could not comfort him in the way they wished. No hugs without barriers, no freedom to wander. Just a hospital bed, four walls, and the long hours of waiting.
The treatment itself was brutal. Each dose of radiation stripped his strength, leaving him weaker and more exhausted. His body, already small, seemed weighed down by an invisible burden. But behind the hardship, there was something remarkable: it worked.
Every single tumor responded. Even the ones no one had known were there—hidden shadows that threatened his future—were touched by the radiation. For his doctors and his family, it was a triumph, a breath of hope in a world where hope is often rationed in small, careful doses.
And yet, victory was bittersweet. Because while the tumors shrank, the toll on Cylus was undeniable. His family watched as he battled fatigue that no child should know, as his appetite faded, as his body grew frail under the weight of the cure.
But if cancer underestimated him, it was wrong. Through it all, Cylus showed a courage beyond his years. He didn’t roar or fight with noise—his strength came in smaller, quieter ways. The effort it took to smile through exhaustion. The determination in the way he pushed himself to move, even when his limbs trembled. The refusal to let despair take hold, even when the days felt endless.
His courage wasn’t for show. It wasn’t loud. It was steady, unyielding, the kind of courage that reveals itself only in silence. And in that silence, he taught his family a lesson they will never forget: that true strength isn’t about what the world sees. It’s about what you carry inside when no one is watching.
At last, after nine long days, the hospital doors opened. And suddenly, freedom.
The chance to go home. To leave behind the sterile smell of antiseptic and the fluorescent hum of hospital corridors. To return to the warmth of his bed, the comfort of his favorite things, the love of family without barriers between them.
Home meant laughter. It meant meals cooked in the kitchen instead of trays wheeled in under covers. It meant sunlight streaming through his own windows. Ordinary things that had never seemed so extraordinary.
For his family, bringing Cylus home was more than just relief—it was healing. They knew the fight was not over. They knew more treatments, more battles, more sleepless nights still lay ahead. But in that moment, there was gratitude. Gratitude for the progress made. Gratitude for the chance to rest. Gratitude for time together, away from the machines.
Because sometimes victory doesn’t mean the war is won. Sometimes it means a brief pause, a breath of air, a reminder that life is still waiting beyond the battle.
The truth is, childhood cancer does not offer easy victories. Every step forward feels fragile, every milestone carries both joy and fear. But Cylus has proven that even the hardest battles can be met with courage. His nine days in isolation were not wasted—they were transformed into a testimony of resilience, a chapter in a story that is far from over.
For his parents, those days will never be forgotten. They saw their son endure what many adults could not. They saw him stripped of comfort and strength, and yet refusing to surrender. They saw that even in the smallest body, there can exist a spirit that is fierce and unbreakable.
Cylus’ story is not finished. The fight continues. More treatments wait ahead, each carrying its own risks, its own uncertainties. His family knows the path will be long and difficult. But they also know that the boy who emerged from nine days of isolation is not the same boy who entered it. He is stronger. He is braver. He has already proven he can withstand storms that seemed impossible.
And so, while fear lingers, so does faith. Faith that tomorrow can be better. Faith that progress will continue. Faith that one day, the shadows of illness will finally loosen their grip.
For those who have followed his journey, Cylus has become more than a name. He has become a symbol of perseverance, a reminder that strength does not always roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it is found in the quiet determination of a child who chooses to keep going, even when everything in his body tells him to stop.
His story has already touched hearts far beyond the walls of the hospital. And it will continue to do so, because stories like his carry a universal truth: that courage is not reserved for the strong or the mighty. It lives even in the smallest among us.
Nine days felt like a lifetime. Seven of those in isolation, endured with a bravery that could humble anyone. And now, with the hospital doors open and home waiting, Cylus has shown us all what it means to fight—not with noise or spectacle, but with quiet, steady strength.
The battle isn’t over. But today, there is hope. Today, there is gratitude. Today, there is the chance to breathe again.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, Cylus will continue to write his story. One day, one step, one act of courage at a time.
The…
DES MOINES, Iowa —
The new year arrived quietly in downtown Des Moines, slipping in on cold air and half-lit streets, carrying with it the fragile hope that always follows the final seconds of midnight.
Fireworks had already faded into memory, bars were emptying, and the city seemed ready to exhale after another long year.
But before the clock could reach 2:30 a.m., that calm was shattered.
Not by celebration.
Not by laughter.
But by gunfire.
Just before dawn, an adult man pushed through the doors of MercyOne Des Moines Medical Center, bleeding from a gunshot wound, his face carrying the stunned disbelief of someone who had crossed, in seconds, from ordinary life into violence.
The injury was not considered life-threatening, yet the moment itself signaled something far more serious — that the first hours of the new year had already turned dark.
Police officers were alerted immediately, responding to the hospital and beginning to piece together what had happened, even as questions hung in the air unanswered.
Where had the shooting occurred.
Who had pulled the trigger.
And why violence had chosen this particular hour to announce itself.
They would not have long to wait.
Only moments later, another call came in.
Another address.
Another scene.
This time, an apartment building at 308 Court Avenue, in the heart of downtown, where the night would end far more tragically.
Officers arrived to find 30-year-old Tony Alexander Young suffering from critical gunshot injuries.
The scene inside the residence was tense, chaotic, and irreversible, the kind that leaves first responders knowing instantly that time is no longer an ally.
Des Moines Fire Department medics rushed Young to
UnityPoint Methodist Medical Center, where doctors fought to save him.
They could not.
Later that morning, as the city slowly woke to the first day of a new year, Tony Alexander Young was pronounced dead.
Another life cut short.
Another name added to a growing list that no community ever wants to read aloud.
What makes the loss heavier is not only the finality of death, but the proximity of it all — the way these events unfolded within minutes of each other, within the same downtown corridor, while most of the city slept unaware.
Two shootings.
Two separate incidents.
One fatal ending.
According to the Des Moines Police Department, the second shooting was not random.
It was not a stray bullet or an anonymous act of violence in the dark.
Investigators say evidence indicates that during a dispute inside the Court Avenue apartment, 31-year-old Jordan Isaac Carmi used a handgun to shoot Young.
The argument, whatever its origins, escalated into something irreversible, transforming a private conflict into a public tragedy.
In those moments, words were replaced by gunfire, and consequences arrived faster than anyone inside the apartment could have imagined.
Police arrested Carmi later that morning.
He lives at the Court Avenue apartment where the shooting occurred.
He is now charged with first-degree murder, a charge that carries with it the weight of a lifetime — not only for the accused, but for the family left behind by the victim.
As detectives continued their work, another detail emerged that underscored how far the violence had traveled.
Investigators recovered a handgun believed to be connected to the case from Walnut Creek
, near the North Valley Drive bridge.
A weapon discarded, removed from the immediate scene, as if distance alone could undo what had already been done.
But distance offers no absolution.
The creek, quiet and indifferent, now holds its own silent role in a story that will be replayed in courtrooms, police files, and grieving homes for years to come.
The water flows on.
The damage does not.
For downtown Des Moines, the timing of the violence cuts particularly deep.
New Year’s Day is supposed to represent renewal, reflection, and the fragile belief that tomorrow can be better than yesterday.
Instead, it arrived with flashing lights, sirens, and hospital corridors filled with urgency and grief.
Residents who later passed through Court Avenue would see no immediate sign of what had occurred there hours earlier.
No blood on the sidewalk.
No crowd gathered.
Just another building, another street, another place where life had changed forever behind closed doors.
Yet for those connected to Tony Alexander Young, the new year will never begin the same way again.
Birthdays, holidays, and ordinary mornings will now carry the weight of absence.
A phone that will never ring.
A voice that will never answer back.
The unrelated nature of the two shootings only adds to the unease.
They were not part of a single spree.
They were not linked by a shared suspect or a continuous chain of events.
They happened independently, a reminder that violence does not require coordination to leave devastation in its wake.
One man survives his injuries.
Another does not.
Both moments unfold within the same narrow window of time, forcing the city to confront uncomfortable questions about safety, conflict, and how quickly lives can unravel.
Police continue to investigate the first shooting, working to determine exactly where it occurred and what led to the man’s injuries before he walked into the hospital seeking help.
Details remain limited, and officers have not indicated whether any arrests have been made in that case.
What is clear is that the early hours of January 1 were marked not by celebration, but by emergency calls and flashing lights cutting through the darkness.
As the legal process begins for Jordan Isaac Carmi, the case will move from the immediacy of the crime scene into the slower, more deliberate machinery of the justice system.
Court dates will be scheduled.
Evidence will be examined.
Statements will be scrutinized.
But none of that will bring back the life that was lost.
For Des Moines, this tragedy serves as a sobering reminder that violence does not pause for holidays, nor does it respect the symbolic promise of a new beginning.
It arrives when it chooses, often in the quiet hours when defenses are down and expectations are low.
As the city moves forward into the year ahead, the echoes of those gunshots will linger — not as sounds, but as questions.
How did a dispute escalate so far.
Why was a gun present in the first place.
And how many more mornings will begin with similar headlines if nothing changes.
For now, downtown Des Moines carries the weight of a new year that began not with hope, but with loss.
And for one family, the calendar has turned, but time has stopped entirely.
Nine Days in Isolation: Cylus’ Quiet Battle and the Courage That Refuses to Break 1675c
Nine days. For most of us, that might be a simple stretch of time—barely more than a week, a blur of routine errands, workdays, and sleep. But for Cylus, nine days felt like a lifetime. They were nine days of relentless treatment, of isolation, of walls closing in and machines filling the space where laughter and play should have been. They were nine days that tested not only his body, but also his spirit, his resilience, and the quiet, unwavering courage that has now come to define him.
Seven of those nine days, Cylus was sealed off from the outside world, locked away in isolation. Not because he wanted to be there, but because his treatments demanded it. Radiation—cold, clinical, unforgiving—was the only weapon available to fight the invisible enemy inside his small body. And so, surrounded only by the sterile glow of hospital lights and the mechanical chorus of machines, he endured.
Isolation is hard for anyone, but for a child it is especially cruel. Days that should have been spent chasing sunlight or laughing with friends were instead filled with procedures and silence. His parents could not comfort him in the way they wished. No hugs without barriers, no freedom to wander. Just a hospital bed, four walls, and the long hours of waiting.
The treatment itself was brutal. Each dose of radiation stripped his strength, leaving him weaker and more exhausted. His body, already small, seemed weighed down by an invisible burden. But behind the hardship, there was something remarkable: it worked.
Every single tumor responded. Even the ones no one had known were there—hidden shadows that threatened his future—were touched by the radiation. For his doctors and his family, it was a triumph, a breath of hope in a world where hope is often rationed in small, careful doses.
And yet, victory was bittersweet. Because while the tumors shrank, the toll on Cylus was undeniable. His family watched as he battled fatigue that no child should know, as his appetite faded, as his body grew frail under the weight of the cure.
But if cancer underestimated him, it was wrong. Through it all, Cylus showed a courage beyond his years. He didn’t roar or fight with noise—his strength came in smaller, quieter ways. The effort it took to smile through exhaustion. The determination in the way he pushed himself to move, even when his limbs trembled. The refusal to let despair take hold, even when the days felt endless.
His courage wasn’t for show. It wasn’t loud. It was steady, unyielding, the kind of courage that reveals itself only in silence. And in that silence, he taught his family a lesson they will never forget: that true strength isn’t about what the world sees. It’s about what you carry inside when no one is watching.
At last, after nine long days, the hospital doors opened. And suddenly, freedom.
The chance to go home. To leave behind the sterile smell of antiseptic and the fluorescent hum of hospital corridors. To return to the warmth of his bed, the comfort of his favorite things, the love of family without barriers between them.
Home meant laughter. It meant meals cooked in the kitchen instead of trays wheeled in under covers. It meant sunlight streaming through his own windows. Ordinary things that had never seemed so extraordinary.
For his family, bringing Cylus home was more than just relief—it was healing. They knew the fight was not over. They knew more treatments, more battles, more sleepless nights still lay ahead. But in that moment, there was gratitude. Gratitude for the progress made. Gratitude for the chance to rest. Gratitude for time together, away from the machines.
Because sometimes victory doesn’t mean the war is won. Sometimes it means a brief pause, a breath of air, a reminder that life is still waiting beyond the battle.
The truth is, childhood cancer does not offer easy victories. Every step forward feels fragile, every milestone carries both joy and fear. But Cylus has proven that even the hardest battles can be met with courage. His nine days in isolation were not wasted—they were transformed into a testimony of resilience, a chapter in a story that is far from over.
For his parents, those days will never be forgotten. They saw their son endure what many adults could not. They saw him stripped of comfort and strength, and yet refusing to surrender. They saw that even in the smallest body, there can exist a spirit that is fierce and unbreakable.
Cylus’ story is not finished. The fight continues. More treatments wait ahead, each carrying its own risks, its own uncertainties. His family knows the path will be long and difficult. But they also know that the boy who emerged from nine days of isolation is not the same boy who entered it. He is stronger. He is braver. He has already proven he can withstand storms that seemed impossible.
And so, while fear lingers, so does faith. Faith that tomorrow can be better. Faith that progress will continue. Faith that one day, the shadows of illness will finally loosen their grip.
For those who have followed his journey, Cylus has become more than a name. He has become a symbol of perseverance, a reminder that strength does not always roar. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it is found in the quiet determination of a child who chooses to keep going, even when everything in his body tells him to stop.
His story has already touched hearts far beyond the walls of the hospital. And it will continue to do so, because stories like his carry a universal truth: that courage is not reserved for the strong or the mighty. It lives even in the smallest among us.
Nine days felt like a lifetime. Seven of those in isolation, endured with a bravery that could humble anyone. And now, with the hospital doors open and home waiting, Cylus has shown us all what it means to fight—not with noise or spectacle, but with quiet, steady strength.
The battle isn’t over. But today, there is hope. Today, there is gratitude. Today, there is the chance to breathe again.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow, Cylus will continue to write his story. One day, one step, one act of courage at a time.