Inmate 1577

1

January 29, 1955

8:39 PM

37 W. Rosedale Avenue

Northfield, New Jersey

Henry sat deathly still in the corner watching the life drain from his mother’s body, knees drawn tight against his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. He stared at the blood seeping from her pulpy head wounds, poking forth from between strands of matted hair.

The seven-year-old boy had told the policeman in so many words about the man in the black knit mask who came up from behind and struck his mother several times, then disappeared out the back door. Afterwards, Henry had sat frozen, unable to move, unable to comfort her in her last seconds before her body stilled, her eyes rapt in death.

A bottle of maple syrup, the lone weapon his mother had grabbed to fight off her attacker, lay shattered on the floor, oozing across the kitchen linoleum. In halting sentences, with shock-laden tear-filled eyes, Henry described how the masked man had knocked it from her hand before she could raise it.

It now sat impotent on the ground, like a cold revolver stuck in the deepest reaches of a holster, never given the opportunity to be of service.

Henry had finally eased forward, inching across the floor until the tips of his toes were a fraction of an inch from the pooled blood that encircled his mother’s head. He reached over and touched her ashen face, then poked it, despite the policeman’s admonishment to stay back from her body.

At his tender age, the finality of death was little more than an innate concept, like when an animal in the wild knows that one of its own kind is no longer among the living.

THE POLICEMAN, AFTER HAVING WAITED in the living room with Henry, walked outside into the winter evening. Moments later, he pushed open the door and then stepped aside so another man could enter.

Walton MacNally’s eyes instantly settled on the center of the kitchen floor, taking in the violence laid bare before him. A grocery bag dropped from his hand, glass bottles within shattering as it struck the hard floor.

“Doris?” He rushed to her side, caressed her face, felt for a pulse, couldn’t stop staring at her head wounds.

“Sir!” the cop said. “Mr. MacNally. Don’t touch the body-”

MacNally’s Adam’s apple rose sharply, then fell. Ignoring the cop’s directive, he lifted Doris’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissed it, and then started whimpering. He became aware of his son and pulled his gaze from his wife’s irreparably injured and abnormally still body.

“Henry-what…what happened?”

The boy’s eyes coursed down to his mother. His lips made an attempt to move, but no sound emerged.

But there was little doubt as to what had transpired. His wife had met with severe violence, the overt damage to her head and brain unquestionably fatal.

A parched “Why?” managed to scrape from MacNally’s throat. “Who?”

“A detective should be here any minute,” the policeman said.

MacNally scooted over to Henry and took the boy into his arms. His life had been turned upside down, destroyed…his mother, his maternal presence, ripped from him like a doe taken down by a lion while her fawn watches.

MacNally swallowed hard. A whimper threatened to escape his throat, but he fought it back. A pain unrecognizable to him, unlike anything he had ever felt, emerged from deep in his soul and manifested as a plaintive, silent moan. He balled a fist and shoved it between his front teeth. He did not want to further traumatize his son by losing control.

Now more than ever, Henry needed him. He needed him to be strong.

A DETECTIVE ARRIVED TWENTY MINUTES later. Dressed in a charcoal suit with a narrow tie and a black fedora tipped back off his forehead, he stepped into the kitchen through the back door and surveyed the room.

Henry was seated in his father’s lap on the floor, against the far wall. The side of the boy’s head rested against his dad’s chest, a gathering of shirt stuffed into the palm of his left hand.

“I’m Detective George O’Hara. You’re Walton MacNally?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Hara knelt carefully beside the woman’s body and felt for a pulse. “So what happened here?”

“I came home about, about twenty-five minutes ago. Henry-”

“No,” O’Hara said. “Your son. I want to hear from your son.” O’Hara took a knee in front of the boy. “You okay, Henry?”

Henry’s eyes moved about the room, then finally came to rest on the detective. “My mom’s not gonna wake up.”

“I know. I’m sorry, son.” O’Hara glanced at MacNally, then swung his gaze back to Henry. “Did you see what happened? Did you see who did this to her?”

Henry sucked on his bottom lip. Dropped his gaze to his lap. Nodded.

“Did you know the person?”

Henry spoke without looking up. “He had a mask.”

“What kind of a mask?” O’Hara asked. “Like the Lone Ranger?”

“Bigger. All over his face.”

O’Hara nodded. “Did he say anything? Did you know his voice?”

Henry shook his head. “He didn’t talk.”

“How big was he? Was he-was he as tall as your dad?”

Henry twisted his lips. “Same.”

“Close your eyes for a second, son. Go on.” He waited for Henry to comply, then said, “Imagine the man is right here, right now. I’m here, so he can’t hurt you. Picture him, look right at his face. Can you tell me anything more about what he looks like?”

Henry kept his eyes shut but shook his head.

“If your dad was wearing a mask, would the man look like that?”

Henry nodded.

“What kind of a-”

“Quiet, Mr. MacNally,” O’Hara said. He rose, sucked on his teeth a second, and then looked over at the woman’s body.

Henry tightened his grip on his father. MacNally shifted his weight and cuddled the boy. It was now just the two of them. Henry had been such a blessing that he and Doris had started discussing another child. But times were tough, and he had lost his job as a welder for a commercial building contractor three months ago. They were existing solely on Doris’s lean secretarial salary, so they decided to put off the idea of another child, at least until he had found employment. He began drinking to escape the pressures and feelings of inadequacy.

Then came a break: a week ago MacNally heard of a shipping company that needed an able-bodied man to work the docks unloading cargo. It was a waste of his artistic talents, but he needed the money. Though it had only been six days, he hadn’t had one drink and his boss took notice of his work ethic. Tonight he was going to tell Doris they should consider that second child.

Those plans were now gone. Forever lost, like the life that had drained from his wife’s body.