Deranged: The Shocking True Story of America's Most Fiendish Killer by Harold Schechter Page A
Authors: Harold Schechter
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old man’s creaky mattress. The rough-housing grew wilder. Suddenly, locked in a bear hug, the two boys slid to the floor, laughing raucously. Their laughter died abruptly, however, when they looked over and saw what was lying under the bed.
Before the old man could stop them, the boys had jumped up and rushed from the apartment.
Not a word had been spoken. But the old man knew exactly what had occurred. Through the wall that separated his bedroom from the kitchen, he had heard the sounds of the horseplay, the thump of the bodies tumbling onto the floor, then the sudden, charged silence. And as the two boys hurried past the kitchen on their way to the door, Cyril Quinn had shot the old man a look that spoke more eloquently than any words.
It had been a look of pure fear.
7
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
S unday, June 3, was one of those gray, dreary days in the city when the sky seems less cloudy than smudged. At around 10:30 in the morning, Frank Howard, dressed in the same slightly scruffy blue suit he had worn the previous Monday, disembarked from the subway at 14th Street and began making his way toward the Budd residence, several blocks away.
Cradled in one arm was a compact bundle, tightly wrapped in a piece of red-and-white-striped canvas. A small white enamel pail—purchased the previous morning from a peddler named Reuben Rosoff, who sold sundries from a pushcart on the corner of 100th Street and Second Avenue—dangled from his other hand.
On the way to the Budds’ apartment, the old man made several stops. At a small German delicatessen, he had his pail filled with fresh pot cheese. Across the street, at a fruit-and-vegetable stand, he purchased a small carton of plump strawberries. Then he continued westward along Fourteenth Street. Managing the box of berries, the pailful of cheese, and the canvas-wrapped bundle was a slightly awkward business, but the old man was more dexterous—and far less feeble—than he looked.
Still, when he stopped to buy a paper at a newsstand on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, just a block away from the Budds’ apartment building, hemade a show of fumbling with his packages as he fished for a coin.
“You going to be able to manage the paper, too, Pops?” asked the news seller.
“I’m not so sure,” said the old man. Then, nodding at the canvas-covered parcel under his arm, he asked if he could leave it at the newsstand for a little while. He would return for it in an hour or so.
“Sure,” said the newsy, reaching for the bundle, which he placed inside his stand.
Frank Howard thanked the man for his trouble. Then he picked up his paper and turned the corner toward the Budds’ apartment.
It was a few minutes before eleven when Frank Howard knocked on the door of the Budds’ ground-floor apartment. The family had been to church that morning. Mr. and Mrs. Budd, still dressed in their Sunday best, were relaxing in the living room, listening to Gene Austin croon “My Blue Heaven” on the Victrola, while little Beatrice sat cross-legged on the carpet, leafing through the pages of a picture book. The rest of the Budd children were outside on the street with their friends.
Mrs. Budd greeted the little man warmly, then led him into the living room, where she introduced him to her husband.
“These are for you,” said Howard, handing the woman the berries and cheese.
Mrs. Budd exclaimed over the gifts, while the two men shook hands.
“You’ll never taste creamier pot cheese than that, I can guarantee it,” said Howard. “Nor sweeter strawberries.” He reached down and petted Beatrice on the head. “I bet you like strawberries, don’t you?” he whispered.
Beatrice, embarrassed, looked down at her feet and shrugged.
“This come from your farm, Mr. Howard?” asked Albert Budd, moving closer to his wife and squinting at the fruit and the little white pail with his one good eye.
Frank Howard smiled
Before the old man could stop them, the boys had jumped up and rushed from the apartment.
Not a word had been spoken. But the old man knew exactly what had occurred. Through the wall that separated his bedroom from the kitchen, he had heard the sounds of the horseplay, the thump of the bodies tumbling onto the floor, then the sudden, charged silence. And as the two boys hurried past the kitchen on their way to the door, Cyril Quinn had shot the old man a look that spoke more eloquently than any words.
It had been a look of pure fear.
7
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
S unday, June 3, was one of those gray, dreary days in the city when the sky seems less cloudy than smudged. At around 10:30 in the morning, Frank Howard, dressed in the same slightly scruffy blue suit he had worn the previous Monday, disembarked from the subway at 14th Street and began making his way toward the Budd residence, several blocks away.
Cradled in one arm was a compact bundle, tightly wrapped in a piece of red-and-white-striped canvas. A small white enamel pail—purchased the previous morning from a peddler named Reuben Rosoff, who sold sundries from a pushcart on the corner of 100th Street and Second Avenue—dangled from his other hand.
On the way to the Budds’ apartment, the old man made several stops. At a small German delicatessen, he had his pail filled with fresh pot cheese. Across the street, at a fruit-and-vegetable stand, he purchased a small carton of plump strawberries. Then he continued westward along Fourteenth Street. Managing the box of berries, the pailful of cheese, and the canvas-wrapped bundle was a slightly awkward business, but the old man was more dexterous—and far less feeble—than he looked.
Still, when he stopped to buy a paper at a newsstand on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, just a block away from the Budds’ apartment building, hemade a show of fumbling with his packages as he fished for a coin.
“You going to be able to manage the paper, too, Pops?” asked the news seller.
“I’m not so sure,” said the old man. Then, nodding at the canvas-covered parcel under his arm, he asked if he could leave it at the newsstand for a little while. He would return for it in an hour or so.
“Sure,” said the newsy, reaching for the bundle, which he placed inside his stand.
Frank Howard thanked the man for his trouble. Then he picked up his paper and turned the corner toward the Budds’ apartment.
It was a few minutes before eleven when Frank Howard knocked on the door of the Budds’ ground-floor apartment. The family had been to church that morning. Mr. and Mrs. Budd, still dressed in their Sunday best, were relaxing in the living room, listening to Gene Austin croon “My Blue Heaven” on the Victrola, while little Beatrice sat cross-legged on the carpet, leafing through the pages of a picture book. The rest of the Budd children were outside on the street with their friends.
Mrs. Budd greeted the little man warmly, then led him into the living room, where she introduced him to her husband.
“These are for you,” said Howard, handing the woman the berries and cheese.
Mrs. Budd exclaimed over the gifts, while the two men shook hands.
“You’ll never taste creamier pot cheese than that, I can guarantee it,” said Howard. “Nor sweeter strawberries.” He reached down and petted Beatrice on the head. “I bet you like strawberries, don’t you?” he whispered.
Beatrice, embarrassed, looked down at her feet and shrugged.
“This come from your farm, Mr. Howard?” asked Albert Budd, moving closer to his wife and squinting at the fruit and the little white pail with his one good eye.
Frank Howard smiled
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