After Aisha McCain couldn’t reach her formerly homeless older brother for several days this past fall, she grew concerned and called the front desk of the San Francisco supportive housing complex where he lived. When workers told her they hadn’t seen him, she dialed the police and raced over the Bay Bridge from a dinner in Berkeley.
Wilton McCain, who went by his middle name of Eric, had moved into the Mission District building, called the Jazzie Collins Apartments, soon after it opened in 2022. City leaders touted the 96-unit complex as a revolutionary step forward in the long and fraught challenge of lifting people off the city’s streets. No run-down tenement or makeshift shelter, it was stylish and modern, offering residents kitchenettes, access to an outdoor courtyard, and hope.
But when Aisha arrived on the evening of Nov. 16, a San Francisco fire engine was already parked in front of the building. She wasn’t allowed up to her brother’s unit. “Where’s my brother?” she screamed repeatedly.
Aisha McCain poses for a portrait in front of Jazzie Collins Apartments, a supportive housing complex run by the nonprofit HomeRise, in San Francisco on Feb. 20, 2026. McCain’s brother Eric died in his room in November.
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
She would soon learn that, even though the facility was required to regularly check in with him, Eric had died so long ago that firefighters found his decaying body surrounded by insects. A medical examiner described the remains as “moderately decomposed” and broadly attributed his passing at age 54 to chronic alcoholism.
Article continues below this ad
Aisha was later told, and records indicate, that Eric was last seen by Jazzie Collins staff 12 days earlier, during a routine pest control inspection. Though he alerted staff then that he felt too ill to allow them inside, nobody returned to check on him, according to Jazzie Collins records and an independent investigation into his death.
San Francisco Chronicle Logo
Make us a Preferred Source to get more of our news when you search.
Add Preferred Source
Jazzie Collins is one of 18 supportive housing complexes in San Francisco run by the nonprofit HomeRise, which operates on roughly $41 million annually and provides close to a third of all city-funded units for the formerly homeless and their families. Endorsed by city officials as a kind of gold standard in the fight against chronic homelessness, with amenities like private patios typically reserved for market-rate housing, the nonprofit receives tens of millions of dollars every year in public grants and loans to fund its vast operation — some 1,500 apartments as well as teams to provide mental health and employment services to tenants.
Yet Eric’s death was emblematic of HomeRise’s deep struggles to provide the support it promises despite regulators flagging its failures in recent years, according to an investigation by the Chronicle and UC Berkeley’s Investigative Reporting Program. The problems his passing exposed have in recent weeks pushed the city to act.
In January, as Aisha sought to force Mayor Daniel Lurie and other leaders to confront her brother’s death, an independent investigator concluded that the nonprofit violated its own policy. Jazzie Collins staff must locate residents not seen in 72 hours, even if they must enter their rooms without permission.
Article continues below this ad
“I think my brother might be alive today,” Aisha told the Chronicle, when asked what might’ve gone differently if HomeRise followed its own rules. “The worst part is I’ll never know if my brother suffered for days.”
On Feb. 6, the city Department of Homelessness and Supportive Housing, which reports directly to the mayor, reprimanded HomeRise in a corrective action letter, citing the nonprofit’s failure to follow city rules on wellness checks. That standard requires staff to attempt to confirm a resident’s whereabouts if the person hasn’t been seen for six days in most cases. Dariush Kayhan, the agency’s deputy director for programs, concluded that “required wellness check steps were not completed.” The department ordered HomeRise to overhaul its process for wellness checks, with added training and technology.
Following the letter, San Francisco leaders this month placed the nonprofit on the city’s most serious monitoring status — a rare step typically reserved for providers who are in financial distress or pose major safety risks, according to city policy. It’s the second time officials have done so with HomeRise in the past two years.
The City Attorney’s office has also launched its own investigation into HomeRise, a spokesperson for the office said. The action comes after the nonprofit fired an employee who allegedly falsified records to indicate she had tried to check on Eric days before his body was found, according to the organization’s records.
In a statement to the Chronicle, HomeRise CEO Janéa Jackson said the nonprofit had already taken steps to strengthen its wellness check policy, including by retraining staff and increasing their supervision.
Article continues below this ad
“We take any indication of gaps in wellness check practices extremely seriously,” she said, later adding: “Our priority is clear: stronger accountability and more reliable systems to ensure resident safety.”
The Chronicle and IRP investigation found Eric’s situation was not unique.
Since Jazzie Collins opened, at least three other residents were found decomposing in their rooms more than three days after they were last seen, autopsy reports show. In the case of a resident found in late December of 2023, investigators noted, “It was unclear when the subject was last known to be alive, but staff presumed it had been longer than three days.”
Instead, Eric and the other three residents were found belatedly and for other reasons — because neighbors complained of foul smells; because relatives called staff with concerns; and during scheduled visits by pest control, according to reports and interviews with former HomeRise staff.
Jackson said that her organization reviewed these cases and concluded they didn’t violate the nonprofit’s wellness check requirements, which mandate staff must locate residents who have been missing for 72 hours.
Article continues below this ad
Emily Cohen, a spokesperson for the city’s homelessness department, which funds HomeRise’s supportive services programs, said it has taken steps to hold the nonprofit accountable, including citing it for noncompliance. “The circumstances surrounding Mr. McCain’s death are serious and unacceptable,” Cohen said in an interview.
But she added that these measures must be balanced with protecting the vulnerable residents who depend on the organization for housing.
“Trying to support [HomeRise] in improving their practices does not mean we excuse what went wrong,” she continued. “It means we’re requiring them to meet our standards.”
Left: Aisha McCain speaks at a Local Homeless Coordinating Board meeting in memory of her deceased brother at City Hall in San Francisco on Jan. 5, 2026. Right: Aisha McCain holds her brother’s ashes while waiting to make her public comment at the meeting.
Camille Cohen/For The S.F. Chronicle
Top: Aisha McCain speaks at a Local Homeless Coordinating Board meeting in memory of her deceased brother at City Hall in San Francisco on Jan. 5, 2026. Above: Aisha McCain holds her brother’s ashes while waiting to make her public comment at the meeting.
Camille Cohen/For The S.F. Chronicle
On Monday, four days after the Chronicle sent an email asking about Eric’s case and issues surrounding wellness checks, Shireen McSpadden, director of the homelessness department, announced her retirement. She gave no reason for stepping down in letters to community partners and other city department heads, and it’s unclear whether the scrutiny of HomeRise played a role.
Article continues below this ad
The mayor’s office declined to comment, citing the ongoing city attorney probe, and referred questions to the homelessness department.
Aisha has been flooding the city and HomeRise with dozens of public records requests in the months since her brother’s death, while pressuring agencies to take action to protect people in supportive housing. She has carried Eric’s ashes to public meetings to put the danger, and her family’s loss, on display.
“I cannot let it happen to anyone else,” Aisha said. “My heart is broken. It has to come out. The truth has to be told.”
San Francisco’s main approach to fixing its rampant homelessness crisis is based on a straightforward idea: The best way to get people off the streets is to offer them a home, with few strings attached, so they can heal and rebuild their lives.
Known as “Housing First,” this framework has been at the heart of city homelessness policy since former Mayor Gavin Newsom introduced his 10-year plan to abolish chronic homelessness in 2004, a reform that signaled a shift away from temporary shelters toward lasting solutions. In the years that followed, the city added thousands of units of permanent supportive housing.
Then-San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom looks out the window of a room at the McAllister Hotel in 2004. The room was to house a formerly homeless person, part of his administration’s shift toward supportive housing.
Brant Ward/The Chronicle
This form of housing — long-term, subsidized and paired with services like basic medical care and drug treatment — seeks to create a stable pathway out of homelessness. Residents don’t need to stop using drugs and alcohol to get housed, though the sites offer resources to help them use more safely or quit. While support services are optional, the city requires providers to proactively offer them to tenants at least once a month.
When implemented properly, permanent supportive housing can successfully stabilize even the most vulnerable homeless people, according to research from the UCSF Benioff Homelessness and Housing Initiative. The key, experts say, is the supportive part: Services must be effective and buildings fully staffed.
The exterior of the Jazzie Collins Apartments run by HomeRise in San Francisco on Nov. 30, 2022. The building is one of 18 supportive housing complexes in the city operated by the nonprofit.
Jessica Christian/The Chronicle
In 2018, city voters blessed this idea by passing Proposition C, an initiative that taxed large businesses and used the proceeds to fund permanent supportive housing providers, including HomeRise. A key argument of the campaign to pass the measure, which went into effect in 2020 after a legal fight, was that it required a quarter of revenue to go to intensive mental health and substance abuse treatment.
In the years since, powerful San Franciscans have hailed HomeRise as a prime example of this system working. In 2023, U.S. Rep. Nancy Pelosi called the nonprofit a “beacon of hope” and “model for the nation in helping to solve chronic homelessness.”
Yet city agencies have repeatedly identified failures across HomeRise’s operations, from rampant misspending to severe shortages in staffing. These failures have further hamstrung the services that experts say are crucial to the model: adequate case managers, mental health counseling and connection to programs like job training.
In a scathing 2024 audit of HomeRise, the city detailed wasteful spending of taxpayer dollars and “extremely poor” record keeping. Executives had shifted funds meant to pay for resident services to inappropriate staff bonuses, expensive dinners and HomeRise-branded swag.
In response, officials placed the nonprofit on the most extreme monitoring status and required leadership to work closely with city departments on its finances. In September, city officials downgraded HomeRise’s concern level after “significant improvements” on issues found in the audit. However, much of that progress took place as the nonprofit’s ability to provide compassionate care faltered, records show.
A year prior, eight of HomeRise’s buildings were staffed at levels that were “not adequate to deliver contracted services,” according to inspection reports. The homelessness department issued a corrective action letter — a serious step taken after regulators find a pattern of poor performance — to one of its newest buildings, HomeRise at Mission Bay, a glittering four-story complex that earned a national urban design award after it opened in 2022.
The courtyard at Jazzie Collins Apartments, a new building for formerly homeless people, includes a donated piece from “Hearts In San Francisco” by artist Jeremy Sutton.
Yalonda M. James/The Chronicle
Officials demanded the organization address staffing vacancies preventing it from providing key services such as mental health care and crisis intervention. But employee staffing charts show that, as of May 2025, HomeRise still had critical vacancies across most of its buildings — including Jazzie Collins.
And as of this February, city records show, HomeRise had not fixed these issues. Staffing is but one of a slew of issues within the organization’s facilities. Residents live in buildings that have seen stabbings, dog attacks, vermin infestations, broken heating and hot water systems, dangerous code violations, fires, flooding and episodes of domestic violence and sexual assault.
CEO Jackson acknowledged HomeRise remained understaffed, noting the issue is common in behavioral health settings. She emphasized that supportive housing is independent living, “not a medical nor assisted living setting.”
In many ways, Eric McCain’s struggles — addiction, trauma, homelessness — made him the type of tenant that Jazzie Collins and other supportive housing facilities were designed to reach. But he was not a forgotten soul, his younger sister, Aisha said. He remained an integral part of her life and that of their parents.
At his celebration of life at the Italian Cemetery in Colma on a recent Saturday, she shared stories of their childhood, recalling how she loved when he read her his favorite X-Men comics despite not understanding them. “He was my first co-conspirator. He was my first bully, my first friend, my first teacher, my little babysitter,” she said.
Eric McCain, 6, reading an “X-Men” comic book to his younger sister Aisha McCain, 4, as children in San Antonio, Tex.
Courtesy of Aisha McCain
She said they were raised in a military family that bounced from Texas to Europe and eventually San Francisco. Eric spent his childhood protecting his sister from family turbulence. She recalled that as a child in San Antonio, Tex., Eric would hold her hand while they walked to school. As they would turn the corner, just out of sight of their protective mother, he’d yell, “Run!”
“My brother was my superhero,” Aisha recalled. “He was the coolest guy in the world to me.”
Photos of Eric McCain are shown at his memorial service in Colma on March 14, 2026. His loved ones described him as a “genius” and “gentle giant.”
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
Always athletic and great with his hands, Eric could build furniture from raw wood as a child. He dreamed of becoming a professional skateboarder, but his stature was an impediment as he grew to 6-foot-5 with size 16 shoes. “He was so brilliant,” Aisha said, recalling how he told her he took the SAT exam as a joke and scored 1570 out of 1600.
Eric graduated from Washington High in San Francisco in 1989. He wound up working construction, but his on-again, off-again use of alcohol and drugs upended his life. He often crashed on friends’ couches, until he moved in with his mother and stepfather. That ended during the COVID-19 shutdown when the family asked him to move out: They wanted him to become more independent, and they worried he would expose the virus to his elderly parents.
He began staying at the city’s single-room occupancy hotels for the formerly homeless before he landed at Jazzie Collins. “He felt cool that he had his own place,” Aisha said. “I liked it because I could call the front desk and ask how he was doing.”
Aisha McCain speaks at the memorial service for her brother, Eric McCain, in Colma on March 14, 2026. She described her brother as her superhero.
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
Last year, concerned with Eric’s drinking, Aisha’s parents paid for him to go to rehab. But when he returned to Jazzie Collins, he relapsed, drinking with his neighbors. Aisha said she pushed him to attend AA meetings, but he resisted, arguing that Jazzie Collins didn’t host any and the closest meetings were too far away.
Eric was hit by a car in the fall, breaking four ribs and tearing a ligament in his knee. He was in and out of the hospital. Around that time, he exchanged texts with longtime friend Creighton Pulliam. “I was in the hospital for a month,” he wrote. “I fell out of the shower. I lost 40 pounds. I’m walking with a cane. I can barely breath [sic]. Other than that life’s great. Can’t be stopped.”
Over the years, he had helped Pulliam move multiple times. She recalled his intellect and lively spirit. During their last call, the pair planned to cook a spaghetti dinner together.
Aisha said she last spoke to her brother in late October. He shared a story about their childhood. They spoke about politics, as they often did. They couldn’t bear President Donald Trump and the country’s Republican leadership and both looked forward to the midterm elections, she recalled.
“OK, I’m done talking,” her brother said after an hour-long call, his usual parting line. Each said, “I love you” before hanging up.
Eric McCain posing for a photo in South Lake Tahoe on a trip with friends. Four years later, his body would be found decomposing in his San Francisco supportive housing unit.
Courtesy of Aisha McCain
As Eric’s health declined in his final months, he retreated inside his apartment, according to HomeRise and medical records that detail the nonprofit’s failures to watch over him.
On Oct. 26, a HomeRise employee knocked on his door, but there was no answer. On Nov. 4, employees came to his unit to conduct a routine pest control and room inspection. He answered the door and “stated that (he) was not feeling well and was experiencing pain.” He declined to allow anyone inside.
When a staff member asked Eric if he needed an ambulance, he said he just wanted to rest. The employee told Eric to alert staff if he needed medical attention. Nobody communicated with him further.
On Nov. 9, his case manager taped a notice to Eric’s door saying he failed to complete some paperwork. “(Case manager) has tried multiple times to reach resident, but there is no response,” the employee wrote.
Five days later, a nurse with the city Department of Public Health visited his room around 10:20 a.m. “No contact was made, several knocks on door and rang doorbell,” the nurse wrote in her notes, according to medical records shared by Aisha.
The HomeRise staff member who was fired indicated she had knocked on Eric’s door a couple hours after the nurse left, but surveillance footage from the hallway showed that didn’t happen, an independent investigation found. The employee would later tell an investigator her entry was a “typo” and that she had actually conducted a wellness check on two other earlier days. But again camera footage showed that no one knocked on, or tried to open, Eric’s unlocked door on those days either.
Aisha, 52, has refused to let HomeRise’s failures go unnoticed. She is no ordinary advocate, armed with tenacity drawn from her own journey.
Aisha McCain waits to speak publicly at the Local Homeless Coordinating Board meeting at City Hall in San Francisco on Jan. 5, 2026.
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
In 2001, she was arrested and convicted in a massive federal crackdown on a San Francisco gang called Big Block. Her boyfriend had been the leader of the gang’s Hunters Point operation, and she got caught manufacturing crack cocaine in her South San Francisco apartment.
In May 2008, a few years after Aisha got out of prison, she was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer that had spread to her lymph nodes. She’s now a three-time cancer survivor whose battles led her to a new career creating medical devices to help patients heal from surgery. She has secured nine patents and runs her own company.
Amina Alexander-Banta, mother of Eric McCain, greets friends of Eric’s at his memorial service in Colma on March 14, 2026. “No parent should have to go through this,” she later said.
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
“My brother was vulnerable and depended on this program to help ensure his safety,” she wrote HomeRise officials on Nov. 19, copying the mayor. “He was failed, and I need full transparency on what happened and what steps will be taken to prevent this from happening to another resident.”
The next day, she followed up: “The lack of required 72 hour checks is the direct reason my brother was left to die alone and decompose to this level,” she wrote in a separate email to HomeRise officials.
Two days later, after HomeRise officials promised to clean her brother’s room, Aisha visited Jazzie Collins to remove Eric’s belongings. She said she was shocked to discover stains from bodily fluids on the floor. She documented the disorder in a video showing a toppled walker on the floor, stacked books, a golf bag and cluttered desk. Eric’s bike and electric guitar still hung on the wall.
“I don’t understand how anything was cleaned if it looks like this?” Aisha narrated. “And when there are still traces of blood on the floor.”
Aisha McCain hosts the memorial service for her brother, Eric McCain, in Colma on March 14, 2026. The family invited friends to tell stories about Eric and to wear light colors instead of black to celebrate his life.
Camille Cohen/For the S.F. Chronicle
Aisha later realized her brother’s laptop and game console were missing. “I expect my brother’s stolen PlayStation, his Lenovo laptop, and any other missing property to be found and returned at once,” she wrote to the nonprofit. “I do not know what else may have been taken because your staff entered the apartment without any legal authority.”
She filed a police report for the missing items and was told officers were reviewing surveillance footage.
On Jan. 5, Aisha attended a meeting of the Local Homeless Coordinating Board, a committee appointed to oversee how the city spends federal funding on homeless services. It would be the first of many public hearings she would attend. She introduced herself and then her brother, holding a small bottle of his ashes at a podium.
“My brother didn’t just die,” she said. “He was abandoned by the system that was supposed to keep him safe.”
This article was reported with the support of the Fund for Investigative Journalism and in partnership with the Investigative Reporting Program at UC Berkeley Journalism.