28 Years Later, Biggie Smalls’ Mystery Is Finally Solved in 2025, And It’s Bad | HO

The Ghost That Haunted Hip Hop

For nearly three decades, the unsolved murder of Christopher Wallace—better known as The Notorious B.I.G.—has haunted the world of hip hop. On March 9, 1997, Biggie was gunned down in Los Angeles, just six months after the murder of Tupac Shakur.

The case became the stuff of legend: a mystery wrapped in conspiracy, gangland whispers, and the shadowy corridors of the LAPD. For years, fans and family demanded justice. Now, in 2025, the truth has finally emerged. And it’s far darker, and more disturbing, than anyone could have imagined.

A Night That Changed Everything

On the night of March 8, 1997, Los Angeles was alive with celebrity energy. The Soul Train Music Awards had just concluded, drawing stars from across the country.

Biggie, making his first major public appearance on the West Coast since Tupac’s death, was focused on promoting peace and his upcoming double album, Life After Death. Later that evening, he attended a Vibe magazine afterparty at the Petersen Automotive Museum with his producer and friend, Sean “Puffy” Combs.

Security was tight. Photographers snapped shots of Biggie smiling, posing, and moving confidently through the crowd. But after midnight, as Biggie and his entourage left the party in a convoy of SUVs, disaster struck.

At a red light on Fairfax Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard, a black Chevy Impala pulled up beside Biggie’s vehicle. A lone gunman fired four shots through the window. Biggie was hit and mortally wounded. He was pronounced dead at 1:15 a.m., at just 24 years old.

The murder happened in front of dozens of witnesses, but the killer vanished. Conflicting accounts emerged. Some said the shooter wore a bow tie. Others described a clean getaway. Security cameras caught only blurry images. The black Impala disappeared into the city’s darkness, never to be recovered.

The East vs. West Feud Turns Deadly

Biggie’s death was instantly linked to the infamous East Coast–West Coast rap feud. Just months before, Tupac Shakur had been murdered in Las Vegas. Both were 25, both were icons, both killed in drive-by shootings. The public didn’t see coincidence—they saw retaliation.

But before the violence, there was friendship. In the early 1990s, Tupac and Biggie were close, sharing stages and advice. That changed after Tupac was shot in New York’s Quad Studios in 1994. He survived, but became convinced he’d been set up—and that Biggie and Puffy, who were in the building at the time, knew more than they admitted.

The friendship dissolved. Tupac’s bitterness grew in prison, and upon release, he signed with Death Row Records and unleashed “Hit ‘Em Up,” a vicious diss track aimed at Biggie and Bad Boy Records.

What followed was a media-fueled war: Death Row vs. Bad Boy, LA vs. New York, Suge Knight vs. Puffy Combs. The 1995 Source Awards saw veiled threats and open hostility. The tension exploded with Tupac’s murder in September 1996. When Biggie was killed six months later, many saw it as the final, bloody act of a feud that had spiraled beyond anyone’s control.

A Case Gone Cold—and Corrupt

In the days after Biggie’s murder, the world expected swift justice. Instead, the LAPD investigation quickly unraveled. Leads were ignored. Witnesses were poorly interviewed. Evidence went missing. Behind the scenes, fear gripped the department. Rumors swirled that rogue officers with ties to Death Row Records might be involved.

Biggie’s mother, Voletta Wallace, and his widow, Faith Evans, filed lawsuits accusing the LAPD of corruption and a cover-up. They alleged that officers destroyed evidence and blocked internal probes to protect their own. The lawsuits were dismissed due to procedural issues, not because the claims were disproven. Even the FBI’s brief involvement led nowhere.

The case remained open, but the LAPD’s reputation was in tatters. The murder of The Notorious B.I.G. became a textbook example of a justice system protecting itself over the truth. In the vacuum, theories multiplied. Was it a gang hit? A record label power play? Revenge for Tupac?

The list of suspects grew: Suge Knight, Death Row’s fearsome boss; David Mack, a corrupt LAPD cop with gang ties; Amir Muhammad, a mysterious associate; and even, in fringe circles, Puffy Combs himself.

Theories, Suspects, and Dead Ends

Suge Knight was always at the center of suspicion. As Tupac’s label boss and Biggie’s rival, he had motive and means. But Knight denied involvement, and no charges stuck. David Mack, convicted for a bank robbery in 1997, was another focus. He owned a black Impala like the one used in the shooting and was linked to Death Row.

Investigators like Russell Poole and journalist Chuck Phillips believed Mack—or his associate, Amir Muhammad—may have been involved. Yet, evidence was circumstantial, and official investigations stalled.

Some pointed fingers at Puffy Combs, suggesting business disputes or insurance policies as motives. But these theories lacked credible evidence and were largely dismissed by investigators.

Books, documentaries, and TV series kept the case alive. The 2002 film Biggie & Tupac and the 2018 series Unsolved spotlighted LAPD corruption and the Mack-Muhammad theory.

Former detective Russell Poole claimed his investigation was shut down when it got too close to implicating cops. But no one was ever arrested. The case, officially, remained unsolved.

2025: The Truth Finally Emerges

After 28 years, the silence broke. Retired LAPD detective Greg Kading, who led a federal task force into the murders of Tupac and Biggie, revealed the truth. According to Kading, the man who pulled the trigger that night was not David Mack or Amir Muhammad, but Wardell “Poochie” Fouse—a known Mob Piru Bloods gang member and close associate of Suge Knight.

Kading’s investigation, based on informant testimony and confidential statements, uncovered that Suge Knight, while in jail, ordered the hit. The orders were relayed by a woman visiting Knight in jail, acting as his go-between. She later gave a full statement to police and the FBI, detailing how she passed Suge’s instructions to Fouse and helped arrange the payment for the murder.

Knight’s motive, according to Kading, was revenge for Tupac’s death. Though Biggie had no direct involvement, Suge wanted to send a message to the East Coast camp. Multiple sources corroborated this account, including Knight’s ex-girlfriend. Kading’s findings were first published in his book Murder Rap, but only in 2025 did law enforcement and the public finally accept them as the definitive solution to the case.

Why No Arrests?

If the case is solved, why is there still no justice? The answer is grim. Wardell “Poochie” Fouse was murdered in 2003, shot dead in Compton. With Fouse gone, there would be no trial, no confession, no closure in court. Suge Knight’s girlfriend, whose testimony was crucial, refused to go public. Suge himself is serving a 28-year sentence for an unrelated 2015 hit-and-run. For law enforcement, the main architect of Biggie’s murder is already behind bars.

There’s another reason for the silence: the LAPD and FBI have little appetite to reopen a case that would expose decades-old corruption and incompetence. The murder of The Notorious B.I.G. is, in the eyes of the system, better left as a cold case than a scandal that could cost the city millions in lawsuits.

By contrast, Tupac’s case saw an arrest in 2023, when Dwayne “Keefe D” Davis was charged after new evidence emerged. But with Biggie’s killer dead and witnesses unwilling to testify, the official closure fans crave will likely never come.

Biggie’s Legacy: The King of New York Lives On

When Biggie died, Brooklyn mourned. Tens of thousands lined the streets for his funeral. His mother, Voletta, became a public voice for justice. Faith Evans and Puffy Combs honored him in song. His albums, Ready to Die and Life After Death, became hip hop classics. In 2020, Biggie was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, cementing his status as a cultural icon.

Today, his children, CJ and T’yanna Wallace, carry on his legacy. Documentaries, tributes, and murals keep his memory alive. And with the truth finally out, the cloud that hung over his name begins to lift.

Biggie’s death was a tragedy. The cover-up was a scandal. But his life—his music, his words, his impact—remains untouchable. In every verse, in every Brooklyn block that still blasts his music, the King of New York lives on.