Deranged: The Shocking True Story of America's Most Fiendish Killer by Harold Schechter
Authors: Harold Schechter
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their neighbors, but mischief is in their hearts.
PSALMS 28:3
E ddie and Willie passed most of the appointed day—Saturday, June 2—inside the Budds’ apartment, impatiently awaiting Frank Howard’s arrival. A pair of canvas duffel bags, crammed to capacity with well-worn but freshly washed work clothes, lay in a corner of the living room.
The two teenagers had spent the week crowing to their acquaintances about their good fortune, about the “gentleman farmer” from Long Island who had offered them summer jobs in the country and fair wages to boot. Now Eddie and Willie were eager to get going. But the day wore on with no sign of Frank Howard.
Late in the afternoon, someone finally knocked on the door, and Eddie hurried to open it. Much to his disappointment, he found himself face-to-face with a Western Union delivery boy, who handed him a message and hovered in the doorway until Eddie forked over a dime.
With Willie peering over his shoulder, Eddie read the terse, handwritten note: “Been over in New Jersey. Call in morning.” The message was signed “Frank Howard.” The boys exchanged a brief, crestfallen look. Then Eddie shrugged. By now, it was four o’clock. Evening was just a couple of hours away. They had managed to wait this long. Waiting another day wouldn’t kill them.
* * *
Though he had decided, for reasons of his own, to delay his plans until Sunday, the old man, too, had been impatient for the week to pass. True, neither the Budd boy nor his friend was exactly what he’d had in mind when he first came upon Eddie’s classified in the newspaper. In spite of the enthusiasm he’d found it necessary to feign, he had been disappointed by their appearance.
But—flame with a passion he could barely contain—he was in no position to pick and choose. Eddie Budd and Willie Korman might not have been his ideal choices. But they would do.
He had, in fact, spent much of the week in an agony of anticipation, so intense at times that it felt almost paralyzing. Still, he had not allowed himself to be idle. There were important things to be done, and he had attended to them promptly and efficiently.
The first order of business had been his shopping. On Tuesday, the day after his visit to the Budds’, he had strolled over to a hock shop called Sobel’s on 74th Street and Second Avenue. There, for less than five dollars, he had bought three of the items he would need. The three most essential items.
Carrying them back to his apartment at 409 East 100th Street, he had carefully opened the brown paper package and, after briefly admiring his purchases, placed them in a neat row on the floor underneath his bed.
As it turned out, he had cause to regret removing them from their wrapping. Later that week, shortly before noon on Thursday, he had gone out to buy a newspaper and had run into a twelve-year-old acquaintance named Cyril Quinn, who was playing boxball on the sidewalk with another boy the old man recognized, the son of the burly Italian who delivered coal to his building.
For several months, the old man had been cultivating the Quinn boy’s trust by giving him small gifts—candy, ice cream, pieces of change. He had particular plans for the lad, which he had been waiting for the right moment to implement. Now, seeing the boys playing on the street and thinking about his new acquisitions resting on the floor beneath his bed, he was seized by a sudden inspiration. He would test out his new purchases on Cyril Quinn.
Greeting the boys, the little man asked if they had eaten lunch. When they shook their heads, he invited them to his apartment for a bite. As soon as they were all inside, the old man repaired to the kitchen, pointing to his bedroom and telling the boys to wait for him there. The old man was at the sink, slicing bread and cheese for sandwiches, when the accident occurred.
Cyril—who had visited the apartment before and felt at home there—began wrestling with his friend on the
PSALMS 28:3
E ddie and Willie passed most of the appointed day—Saturday, June 2—inside the Budds’ apartment, impatiently awaiting Frank Howard’s arrival. A pair of canvas duffel bags, crammed to capacity with well-worn but freshly washed work clothes, lay in a corner of the living room.
The two teenagers had spent the week crowing to their acquaintances about their good fortune, about the “gentleman farmer” from Long Island who had offered them summer jobs in the country and fair wages to boot. Now Eddie and Willie were eager to get going. But the day wore on with no sign of Frank Howard.
Late in the afternoon, someone finally knocked on the door, and Eddie hurried to open it. Much to his disappointment, he found himself face-to-face with a Western Union delivery boy, who handed him a message and hovered in the doorway until Eddie forked over a dime.
With Willie peering over his shoulder, Eddie read the terse, handwritten note: “Been over in New Jersey. Call in morning.” The message was signed “Frank Howard.” The boys exchanged a brief, crestfallen look. Then Eddie shrugged. By now, it was four o’clock. Evening was just a couple of hours away. They had managed to wait this long. Waiting another day wouldn’t kill them.
* * *
Though he had decided, for reasons of his own, to delay his plans until Sunday, the old man, too, had been impatient for the week to pass. True, neither the Budd boy nor his friend was exactly what he’d had in mind when he first came upon Eddie’s classified in the newspaper. In spite of the enthusiasm he’d found it necessary to feign, he had been disappointed by their appearance.
But—flame with a passion he could barely contain—he was in no position to pick and choose. Eddie Budd and Willie Korman might not have been his ideal choices. But they would do.
He had, in fact, spent much of the week in an agony of anticipation, so intense at times that it felt almost paralyzing. Still, he had not allowed himself to be idle. There were important things to be done, and he had attended to them promptly and efficiently.
The first order of business had been his shopping. On Tuesday, the day after his visit to the Budds’, he had strolled over to a hock shop called Sobel’s on 74th Street and Second Avenue. There, for less than five dollars, he had bought three of the items he would need. The three most essential items.
Carrying them back to his apartment at 409 East 100th Street, he had carefully opened the brown paper package and, after briefly admiring his purchases, placed them in a neat row on the floor underneath his bed.
As it turned out, he had cause to regret removing them from their wrapping. Later that week, shortly before noon on Thursday, he had gone out to buy a newspaper and had run into a twelve-year-old acquaintance named Cyril Quinn, who was playing boxball on the sidewalk with another boy the old man recognized, the son of the burly Italian who delivered coal to his building.
For several months, the old man had been cultivating the Quinn boy’s trust by giving him small gifts—candy, ice cream, pieces of change. He had particular plans for the lad, which he had been waiting for the right moment to implement. Now, seeing the boys playing on the street and thinking about his new acquisitions resting on the floor beneath his bed, he was seized by a sudden inspiration. He would test out his new purchases on Cyril Quinn.
Greeting the boys, the little man asked if they had eaten lunch. When they shook their heads, he invited them to his apartment for a bite. As soon as they were all inside, the old man repaired to the kitchen, pointing to his bedroom and telling the boys to wait for him there. The old man was at the sink, slicing bread and cheese for sandwiches, when the accident occurred.
Cyril—who had visited the apartment before and felt at home there—began wrestling with his friend on the
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