He was the 14-year-old best friend of her little brother.
But Rachel Hendricks, then 17, had a feeling about Jimmy McManus. He gelled back his coarse dark hair, wore baggy pants and Vans sneakers, and showed off for her at the skate park. She worked at Walmart in Hatfield and he got a job at the McDonald’s across the way, riding his board over on her breaks.
They spent every free moment together for two solid years (an eternity in high school). The relationship fizzled after Jimmy, who had trouble with authority, was sent to a juvenile detention center.
More than two decades later, Rachel had four kids, Jimmy had three, but neither was married. For years, Rachel had tried to find Jimmy on social media, back when people still used MySpace.
Recently, she saw that he had a Facebook page, which was not particularly active. On a hunch, Rachel checked Montgomery County jail records, and, in January, she reconnected with her first love.
“We always thought about each other for all these years,” Rachel recalled.
Jimmy was released on Feb. 6, 2021. When he came over the hill, he was no longer the beanpole Rachel remembered, but he did have the same huge heart.
Less than three months later, Jimmy was fatally shot in front of his mother’s house on Delphine Street in the Olney section of Philadelphia. He was 37, living with and helping to support his mother, and trying to settle down so that he could share custody of his three boys.
Jimmy’s murder on April 28, 2021 came on the same night as a series of shootings across the city left another man dead and six people injured. Jimmy’s death is unrelated, his family said. They are convinced that he was targeted by someone who knew him.
The perpetrators, according to family members, brutally attacked Jimmy for two days before his death — both times sending him to the hospital.
On April 28, 2021 after 1 a.m., Jimmy was discharged from Albert Einstein Medical Center and was walking home, complaining about a headache and how he was dying for a cigarette. Rachel, who was on the phone with him, heard gunfire erupt in the background. Jimmy was transported back to Einstein, where he was pronounced dead. Police have not yet made any arrests.
Born in Olney, Jimmy attended North Penn High School in Lansdale but dropped out by his junior year. He had a tumultuous upbringing, his stepsister, Cathi Rosa, said. For a time, he lived with his father and stepmother in the city before moving to Hatfield to live with his mother, Michele McManus.
Growing up, Jimmy was a risk-taker, remembered his mother. When the family vacationed in Ocean City, he swam far out in the ocean. He enjoyed partying at underground raves, waving glow sticks and lacing his fingers around an invisible ball (his signature dance move). Michele suspects that is when her son first tried PCP, phencyclidine. He couldn’t shake the addiction—or the consequences behind bars — until his death.
“It’s not just my son. It’s a lot of people,” Michele said, adding that she is praying for them all.
“It puts me in a different world,” Jimmy told Rachel after the pair had reconnected and she pressed him to go to rehab. “Nobody could bother me in that world.”
Jimmy also became obsessed with the inner workings of cars, breaking them down into their core components and then rebuilding. His father, James W., was also a mechanic, but Jimmy was self-taught, said Cathi, who remembers her stepbrother replacing the entire transmission in her 1998 Toyota Camry.
“Maybe he could just lose himself in it the way people lose themselves in their art,” she said. “Putting all the pieces together to make it work.”
Jimmy was a genuine “honest mechanic,” Cathi said. When he saw a neighbor struggling under the hood, he offered his assistance.
“That was who he was,” she recalled, “the person who went above and beyond to make sure you were safely driving in the street.”
Jimmy also enjoyed playing alternative rock on his guitar and bass (James W. played in a cover band.) Jimmy taught Cathi the only song she knows how to play on the bass: Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People.”
When Cathi’s date stood her up for prom, Jimmy rushed to rent a tuxedo and, serendipitously, wore his Adidas sneakers that matched the teal on his stepsister’s dress and her nail polish.
He was goofy and sarcastic, most comfortable entertaining a small crowd on his front stoop. Jimmy’s distinctive, contagious laugh began as a jolly chuckle and got louder from there. He also had a dark sense of humor — the kind that could lighten the spirits of a funeral procession.
“You didn’t have to fit society’s standards” around Jimmy, Cathi said. “You could be openly weird and goofy.”
He had boundless energy, his mother added. “He didn’t just go up the steps. He flew up the steps.” Jimmy also loved demolishing cheese pizzas, washed down with a Corona with lime.
Generally laid-back, Jimmy was meticulous about his appearance and black Jeep Grand Cherokee. The son of a military veteran who insisted that his environment be squeaky clean, Jimmy owned blazing white high top sneakers and regularly washed the shoelaces. He babied his Jeep, outfitting it with a supreme sound system. He blared old-school rap so loud that you could feel it in your chest.
After being released from prison the last time, Jimmy moved in with his mother to help with her bills and her bad back. After earning his GED, he began working for local garages and was taking classes to become a certified mechanic.
James, Jimmy’s 16-year-old son, met his father and Rachel for dinner every week, Rachel remembered, and Jimmy enjoyed taking his son to Monster Truck jams. Jimmy’s blue eyes sparkled when his eldest played the guitar for him on FaceTime.
Jimmy’s middle son has cerebral palsy, and, when they lived together, Jimmy used to shuttle him to physical therapy appointments and buy him special needs equipment to make life more comfortable, his family said.
He never got to meet his youngest boy in person.
Jimmy felt like he had to be the “man for everybody,” trying to outperform people’s low expectations, Rachel said. When he was sober, he was outgoing and upbeat. When he wasn’t, he became reserved and aggressive.
The couple had planned to buy a house together anywhere outside of Philly — away from temptation — so that Jimmy could invite his children to come stay with him.
Jimmy is buried at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Cheltenham, next to his beloved younger sister, Amanda, and his grandmother.
Cathi and Jimmy lost touch about a year ago. She was concerned about his lifestyle, and she encouraged him to stay focused for his children.
“You’re right. I got to do better,” he would always say.
One week before Jimmy was killed, they accepted each other’s friend requests.
Anyone with information regarding this unsolved case is urged to contact the Philadelphia Police Department at 215-686-TIPS (8477).
Resources are available for people and communities that have endured gun violence in Philadelphia. Click here for more information.
