This Saturday, the country reaches a solemn milestone: twenty-nine years since Megan’s Law became federal. It is a law not born from bureaucracy or think tanks. It came from a parent’s scream, a child’s last breath, and a neighborhood that never saw it coming.
Megan Kanka should be 38 years old today. Instead, she is frozen in time: a brown-haired, blue-eyed seven-year-old girl who never got to grow up.
I have three daughters, and I cannot write this as a neutral observer. Megan’s story lives in the back of my mind every time one of my girls walks down the block, grabs a popsicle from the freezer in the garage, or disappears from view for even a minute too long.
That is why this matters to me. I still care, even if many others have moved on.
A Day No Parent Can Forget
It was July 29, 1994. Megan was playing outside her Hamilton Township home in New Jersey. Her neighbor, Jesse Timmendequas, invited her inside to see a puppy. There was no puppy.
Timmendequas had two prior convictions for sexually assaulting children. He had served his time, then moved into a rental with two other sex offenders. The Kanka family knew none of this. No one had told them. No law required it.
That day, Timmendequas raped Megan, strangled her, and dumped her body in a park. The horror was unspeakable. But what made it worse was the betrayal. A system that claimed to protect families had protected the predator instead.
From Tragedy to Law
Megan’s parents, Richard and Maureen, turned their grief into a mission. They did not retreat behind closed doors. They fought. Within a month, New Jersey passed a group of bills requiring community notification about sex offenders. These became the foundation of Megan’s Law.
In 1996, President Clinton signed the federal version. It required states to notify the public when convicted sex offenders moved into neighborhoods and mandated public registries, allowing families to check who lived nearby.
It wasn’t a perfect law. It wasn’t a surgical policy. It was raw and fast and emotional. But it was necessary.
When the Cameras Came
To its credit, the media gave the story attention, but it also helped distort it. Headlines warned of monsters in the bushes, and television segments leaned into the image of a shadowy stranger lurking outside a school.
The reality was different. Most children who are assaulted know their abuser. A coach. A relative. A neighbor. While understandable, the “stranger danger” narrative gave people a false sense of whom to fear.
Still, Megan’s Law changed things. It forced communities to ask hard questions, gave parents a tool, and, for a time, it felt like the system had finally taken our side.
Does It Still Work?
It depends on how you measure success. Megan’s Law gave families knowledge. It gave law enforcement tools. It gave victims the feeling that they had been heard.
But research has raised doubts. Studies from multiple universities have shown that public registries do not significantly reduce repeat offenses. First-time offenders, who are not yet on any list, are harder to prevent.
Even so, Megan’s Law has value. It warns, informs, and keeps a flashlight on the places predators would rather remain hidden. It may not prevent every crime, but it ensures the next family is not blind to the danger.
Collateral Damage
No law exists without consequence. Megan’s Law has made reintegration difficult for many. Employers are hesitant. Landlords say no. Some people on the registry, even those with minor offenses, live under bridges, unable to find housing.
In some states, the registry makes no distinction between someone who committed a non-contact offense decades ago and someone who harmed a child last year. Critics argue this broad brush harms society and the individuals trying to rebuild their lives.
Civil liberties groups have challenged Megan’s Law in court. Some claim it violates due process, and others call it cruel. But the courts have largely sided with the people because the alternative is ignorance, and ignorance kills.
A Legacy That Grew
Megan’s Law opened the door to other legislation meant to protect children. The Adam Walsh Act built a national tracking system. Jessica’s Law, inspired by Jessica Lunsford’s murder, established minimum sentences for child predators. Kate’s Law, named after Kate Steinle, targeted repeat offenders who returned after deportation.
Even former Fox News host Bill O’Reilly used his platform to push these laws into the spotlight. Critics mocked him, but the public listened. He was not defending a party. He was defending kids.
Each law carries Megan’s echo. Each one a gravestone etched into public policy.
The Anniversary That Slips By
This Saturday is not marked on most calendars. There will be no Google Doodle, no White House proclamation, no moment of silence on the morning news. And that’s what frightens me.
Because if we forget the “why,” the “what” loses all meaning.
This law was not meant to be convenient. It was not passed to win votes or boost careers. It was a cry for help, transformed into ink, paper, and the force of law.
And now, as we drift further from that July day in 1994, I worry we’re losing our grip on what we promised.
She Should Still Be Here
Megan didn’t ask to be a symbol. She wanted to ride bikes, pet a puppy, and grow up.
Instead, her story ends at seven, with a childhood interrupted by a man who never should have been that close to her, a man whose record should have been known, a man the state protected better than it protected Megan.
I am not a policymaker. I am a father and a grandfather. And I know this: every law can be debated. But some laws must be defended.
Megan’s Law is one of them.
So yes, it may need reform and precision. But it should never be forgotten, dismissed, or diluted until it’s no longer recognizable.
Because if we let Megan’s name fade, if we turn the page too soon, then she dies a second time.
And this time, the loss belongs to all of us.
Say her name.
Megan Nicole Kanka.
Born May 7, 1987.
Died July 29, 1994.
Remembered. Always.
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