On a frigid morning in January 2004, Elisa Diaz stood in her dress blues inside Temple University’s Liacouras Center, proud and sentimental. Graduation Day had finally arrived for the Philadelphia Police Department’s latest cadets. She'd grown up 125 miles away, a small-town girl from the Poconos, but moved to Philly to pursue her lifelong dream, a career in law enforcement.

Now, with Badge Number 4929 pinned below her lapel, she couldn’t wait to embark on her new adventure in one of the largest police departments in the country.

As the festivities wrapped up, she introduced her parents to the inspector who oversaw training at the academy and had been supportive of her: Carl Holmes. He was a human skyscraper, 6-foot-6, close to 300 pounds, a former offensive tackle at Temple.

“We will protect her,” Holmes assured her parents.

That put her mom, Patricia Diaz, at ease. Elisa was 21, the youngest in her class, and Holmes seemed like he could be trusted to look out for her.

Courtesy Patricia Diaz Elisa Diaz’s January 2004 graduation from the Philadelphia Police Academy was documented by her hometown newspaper, The Pike County Dispatch.

During training, Holmes told Diaz his door would always be open for her. But he also warned, without elaboration, that once assigned to a district, she might experience some “weird s—.”

Diaz assumed he meant that male cops would hit on someone like her — young, slender, attractive. She figured she could tough it out and rebuff any advances; nothing would get in the way of her being a cop.

Holmes was right. Before long, one of Diaz’s bosses was sexually harassing her, even showing up at her house unannounced. She grew scared.

She turned to her cadet mentor for guidance, meeting Holmes in his tiny office at the police academy and confiding her fears. In response, Holmes lifted her onto his desk, forced his tongue in her mouth and groped her breasts, according to a recent grand jury presentment.

Diaz tried to push him off, but at 5-foot-4 and 125 pounds, she was easily overmatched. She pleaded with him to just let her go, swearing she wouldn’t tell anyone. But he grabbed her chin and told her no one would believe “some little bitch.”

As she struggled to break free, he bearhugged her from behind, shoved his hand down her pants, and forced a finger into her vagina.

She fled from his office and frantically dialed her mother. When Patricia Diaz answered, all she heard was the haunting sound of her daughter crying and screaming.

What happened to Diaz in 2004 has remained secret — until now. In the 15 years that her story went untold, Holmes grew more powerful, rising to the rank of chief inspector, while also allegedly assaulting two other female cops.

Courtesy Philadelphia Police Department Carl Holmes was an inspector at the police academy when he met Diaz in 2003. He assured her parents that the department would take care of their daughter.

Holmes, now 54, and married with two daughters, wasn't some lone wolf, operating in the shadows. His alleged crimes were well known to officials in the Philadelphia Police Department, the District Attorney’s Office, and City Hall.

He has long denied ever forcing himself on any female officer. But in October, District Attorney Larry Krasner charged Holmes with sexual assault and related offenses, at the recommendation of a grand jury that heard testimony from at least three of Holmes’ alleged victims, including Diaz.

A deep look into Holmes’ conduct, including recently obtained documents, reveals systemic flaws that shielded him and other top police officials: prosecutors reluctant to hang a case on the word of victims who delayed reporting their assaults; city officials content to look the other way, even as Holmes cost taxpayers more than $1.3 million in lawsuit settlements; and a Police Department that discounts sexual harassment complaints — especially ones filed against commanders — leaving women vulnerable to retaliation.

Holmes’ history also lays bare how “broken” the city’s procedures are for handling complaints of sexual misconduct, says City Controller Rebecca Rhynhart, who has called for a single, independent office to be given oversight of sexual harassment investigations involving city employees.

Nowhere were these problems more glaring than in Internal Affairs, where allegations typically come down to a rank-and-file cop’s word against a boss’s. Without eyewitnesses or video or audio evidence, female officers are routinely not believed.