It's 1962, and we are living at 139 Willard St., Devencrest Massachusetts. Dianne and I are following my father through the woods. He's got a length of rolled-up cotton clothes-line sticking out of his back pocket.
We've got company. It's a female, late teens, early twenties. She's a Brunette. She's feeling good about herself. A handsome man has told her the things she has always wanted to hear. These things he has told her were good enough to get her to follow him into the woods and give her love to him. She is in her prime. Sometimes walking between us and our father and sometimes lagging behind, she is enthralled by the beauty of the woods, the beauty of the weather, she speaks of how wonderful she is feeling to be herself right now. To be desirable to this handsome man who is taking her into the woods to give her his love. She is under his spell. He isn't even speaking to her and she is still following us. Whatever he said to her was that seductive. Dianne and I are following him and she is following us.
What he had said to her had struck such a chord that she was willing to follow the three of us through the woods talking about everything while the rest of us are completely silent. She can't stop talking about how beautiful the situation is that she's in right now. She is pointing out the beauty of the trees and the weather. It's almost like she is feeling guilty about the fact that she is going to make love to this man who is obviously married with children and she wants us to understand that under circumstances as beautiful as this, a person should just go with their feelings which are stronger than their thoughts or beliefs. This is an exceptionally beautiful day in her life, and we as children should understand that we too will have days like this when we get older and should go with what is happening as long as no one finds out and no one gets hurt, it will be OK. Everything is beautiful, she wants to make sure that we understand that. Her rationalizations are met with silence. We keep walking.
She starts to have doubts as to what is going on here. She wants reassurance as to what is going to happen. She needs to hear some more of those magic words that seduced her into coming this far. So she goes to the front and approaches my father. Playing dumb she questions him. "Where are we going and what are we going to do when we get there?"
He's in his stalking, hunting, going to kill something mode now. He doesn't need to sweet talk her anymore and he's pissed off that she has been talking out loud possibly revealing our location, instead of following in silence the way his children have been trained. He decides to have some fun with her. He pulls the rope out of his back pocket and shakes it at her. "I'm going to take you into the woods, then I'm going to tie you up and kill you," he says, in a tone that could be taken as the sarcasm of someone that hasn't appreciated her talking so much, or could be taken as dead cold serious.
It was just enough to make her think that she was going crazy. Her jaw dropped, she stopped dead in her tracks, and he stuffed the rope back in his pocket and started walking again, knowing that we would follow, which would make her go even more crazy as we walked past her.
My father was using Dianne and I to bait and disarm another victim. None of his victims ever dreamed that they were about to die a horrible death in front of two innocent-looking children.
Even you. Today. After reading this. You would never in your wildest dreams, suspect that a man with two little kids, was using them to lull you into complacency so that he could kill you brutally right now. The next time you are near a grown man with two children, ask yourself, "Is this guy using these children to get me to drop my guard so that he can easily kill me right now in front of them?" You just won't be able to picture it because it is beneath the realm of possibilities.
My father knows this and takes great pride in the fact that he operates in a world that is just lower than the field of your vision. A world that is right next to you, but just out of your sight. A world where there are no restrictions, because no one is watching. A world that is right next to you and everyone else on this planet but can't be seen by most people. Out of sight, out of mind. This is how he got away with killing the seventy or so people that I am finally able to speak about.
If she had bolted without hesitation at this moment and ran as fast and as quietly as she possibly could in the other direction, she may have had a chance. If she had gotten out of sight before he knew what she was doing he may have settled for just scaring her and making her think she was nuts. She didn't, she stayed, she was as good as dead. She wanted things to return to the way they were two minutes ago. She followed us. Amazing, the power of children to disarm arm people is simply amazing. I know my father is chuckling to himself.
She caught up with me and my sister. We are a couple of kids, mind you, and she starts questioning us. "Did you hear what your father said?" Her face has turned pale with worry lines in it now, she's really confused, slightly bent forward. "Am I dreaming?" She's looking to us for answers. "I feel like I'm in a movie." She gets no reaction from us as we keep walking past her. "Am I going crazy?"
I, myself, can't understand why she doesn't run away. She catches up again. She really is going crazy now; it's written all over her. She wants everything to be good again. She doesn't want to blow a good thing because she went nuts and heard something in her head. After all, if he said that, then why are these two children following him without question, without emotion?
She starts in again. "I feel like I'm in a movie. Am I going crazy? He said he's going to tie me up and kill me. Is that right? Did he really say what I heard him say?"
She's looking right in my face walking along side of me. She's wondering why we haven't run for our lives. She's wondering if what she's heard is true. We know that if we follow the program as we have been taught to so many times before that we will probably come out of this with our lives if nothing else. We also know that she is as good as dead.
All of us are still walking. I have an opportunity to try to make her understand that what she thinks is going on here is really what is going on. My father is listening to and enjoying everything that is going on behind him. I know that there is one thing that I can say to her that he will not object to, because he is confident that it will not work. If I time it just fight and say it just right, I could get her to wake up, and start running with all of her might. I give it my best shot; I look her in the eye while I'm walking and say to her flat out, "That's right, he's going to kill you."
Her jaw drops again, she stops dead in her tracks again, but she still doesn't run. She keeps following. She keeps saying that she feels like she's in a movie. Her eyes are wide. Her mind is squirming. She keeps repeating herself.
Meanwhile my father is still leading the way. He might as well be wearing a billboard on his back that says, "You see, Stevie? She's stupid like the rest of them. She doesn't deserve to live. I told her I'm going to kill her, you told her I'm going to kill her, and she's still following us. She wants to die. I'm going to be doing her a favor. She doesn't deserve to live. You know I'm right. I have to give her what she wants."
Once again, here I was in a position where I had to decide who was going to die. Here's how it worked out. If I ran, then my sister would run, and so would the girl. The girl may have outrun me, but would have out run my sister, and Dianne would die even if I stayed back because he was going into his killing mode, where his skin changes color and texture and becomes tight against his skeleton. He takes on super-human strength.
If I followed the program, the girl would die. It was as simple as that. Someone was going to die, and in my mind I decided who it would be. It would be her, unless she could out run him, which would be impossible.
How a man can arrange his life so that he has the time and energy to plan out and implement these scenarios time and time again could be somewhat admirable, but then again, looking at the flip side. When you don't believe in anything, you can do anything you want. This wasn't hard for him, this was a hobby. My father had an easy job as a cook in the army, he was not preoccupied with the chores of a regular husband and father, he had all the time and energy in the world.
I go through the alternatives in my head just like I have so many times before. The big picture is like this: If I stand up to him, he will kill me, no two ways about it, if not right now then in a day or two when he's got it worked out. I've already had the wire around my throat. I "understand" what it does.
If I sacrifice my life, people might miss me and he would be arrested for killing me which would save countless lives in the future, lives that have more value than mine because they are not growing up like this. They are growing up with love in there lives and will not be living half of a life for the rest of there life because they haven't witnessed this parade of death.
I have already told the priest at my first confession at Saint Mary's, and he called me a liar. Dianne has already told the two nuns at religious training school that we attended after school on base. These nuns took us to another priest, the three of them called us both liars. They called our mother to come and take us home and told her everything that we had told them. Then they thought about it and decided to cover themselves just in case. So they told the military police.
A soldier who was working the gate at the fort, who also happened to be a drinking buddy of my father, overheard the story at headquarters and told my father the next time he saw him at the gate. "Hey Griggs. Your kids are sayin' that you are killin' people. If those were my kids I'd go home and beat the fuckin' shit out of them for makin' up stories like that. Those are some real bad kids man. Don't you know how to discipline your kids? Even if what they are sayin' was true, I'd go home and kill them because they were my kids and they should have more respect for their own father." You tell me what happened next.
Turning him in was not an option, it was suicide. Sacrificing my life to save others was not an option because of a little thing called a transfer. The army will transfer any one who is willing to go where they want them in a matter of hours. He would put in for a transfer, kill me and bury me on the way out of town, and no one would know I ever existed when he got to the next place. He used transfers whenever things got hot for him. He transferred a lot. It gave him a clean slate to start with when he got to where he was going. No one would suspect him and he could start all over again.
So here I am watching all these people being killed, and I can't do a thing about it. The brightest option I have is to slit his throat while he is sleeping, but I haven't done it because my mother has made it clear to me that she would kill me for taking away her dick. I feel guilty for not taking my one option and saving these people's lives. I'm watching this girl march to her death.
I think to myself that I am a murderer, just by being my father's son, I am a murderer. It doesn't matter if I don't like it, it doesn't matter if I've tried to stop it, it doesn't matter if I didn't choose it. I have been there so many times when it happened. I have made the choice so many times that it would be them to die instead of me that I am a murderer by proxy. OK, it wasn't my fault. It was a no-win situation. But I have made the decision time and time again that I would be the one to live and they would be the one to die. It was hopeless. Just hopeless.
OK, so now she's been told twice that my father's going to kill her, plain and simple, and she's coming along anyway. She's babbling on and on about her confusion as to whether this is really happening or not. She keeps saying that she feels like she's in a movie.
My father has stopped and is looking ahead. His ears are turning red. He is slightly hunched over as he is becoming more and more enraged. He's going into his psychotic rage.
She asks me, "Should I run?" I look her in the eyes and nod my head, yes. I know that if I speak at this point, my father will consider it conspiracy against him. She doesn't run; it is she that will die. She is taking steps backward, still talking, still looking terribly confused.
My father spins, walks swiftly past us, and punches her right square in the mouth. She falls backward to the ground, hands to her mouth, bleeding across her face. "Why? Why? Why?" She carries on.
My father walks back to the front. She's yelling. Crying. "Why? Why? Why did you hit me?" She really wants to know. "What? Where? How?" I feel sorry for her. She's going to need some dental work. She gets back up, she's trying to control the blood coming from her mouth, trying to keep it off her clothes.
I am amazed, simply amazed, that she hasn't started to run yet. I'm asking myself: "Why isn't she running? Is she trying to save me and Dianne from harm by staying? Is this some sort of mating dance? Is this some sort of ritual that men and women go through in order to enter a state of being in love? Is she proving her love for him by bleeding all over the place and not leaving after he's punched her right in the mouth. Is this what my mother went through to get her first date with him? Are the two of them going to embrace when she passes this test? Why is she not running away? Is all of this coming to something other than her death? Is it possible that she really wants to die at my father's hands because that is the highest form of flattery that a man can bestow upon a woman? Does she have that much strength that she wants to make this rite of passage, at my fathers hands, on this day, in front of two kids? Does he have some sort of power over her? Is she incredibly stupid? Is she incredibly heroic, trying to save us two kids? Or is this just plain her unlucky day?"
She's crying. She gets up, she's screaming at him for what he's done to her. She's outraged, starting to curse at him while she holds her bloody hands to her mouth, but she doesn't try to run away. Maybe she thought more of us kids than we thought of ourselves, and was trying to help us, which would sort of implicate us just that much more in her death. I know it's not really my fault, but whether it was my fault or not, I'll be wearing the stigma of multiple murders for the rest of my life.
He walks swiftly past us and punches her squarely in the mouth again, only harder this time. He stands over her, cursing her for cursing him, for being stupid, for thinking she was pretty, for coming into the woods with the intention of fucking him, for having the nerve to think that she would be safe and live through it. His voice has taken on a demonic tone, his tonsils are rattling in his throat. She's laying on her back, hysterical.
He falls to one knee so he can punch her repeatedly in the face. This is a full-grown man, in a super-human rage, punching a young lady in the face repeatedly, with all his might. I don't know why she stayed conscious. He stands back up.
She's really taken a beating, it's bad, her face is really smashed, completely flattened in front, her nose is completely pushed into her head, her face is all red like hamburger, it's twice as wide as it used to be, her mouth has been ripped twice as big across her teeth which are gone now.
Her head pops up to look at us two kids, and her eyes are out of their sockets. A red swollen bloody horrified mask has replaced what used to be her face. In the midst of all her terror, she needs an answer to a question that's on her mind. She looks to Dianne and me for the answer. Actually, it's two questions. She asks us just by looking at us: Did you kids deliberately assist him, and lead me into this? And. Can you help me?
We stood silent, motionless. We knew what we had to do. We were in that position again. If we wanted to live we would have to be very strong and show no emotion just like all the other times. We wanted to live. We stood in silence.
I looked into her horrified bloody eyes and told her without saying a word. "You will die." She knew it now. She "understood."
The vision of her face, what was left of it, when she looked at us like that, has haunted me all of my life. It is forever burned into my brain. When it would come to me, I would do whatever I had to do in order to block it out as fast as I could. I would reach for the nearest distraction, anything to block it out. It was a lot of work, but I finally succeeded. I haven't had a flash of her face for a good fifteen years until this very moment as I'm writing this. Now it's back.
Bring it back, and get used to it.
I've been running from this all my life. Her face. Her eyes could still see, even though they were out of their sockets from the pressure of his blows. She was screaming at him, but you couldn't understand the words anymore.
I've got a problem with this. There might come a day when I am used to the sight of her face when she looked at me, but there will never come a day when I get used to the sight of him driving down the road looking for his next victim, which he is doing right now, right under everyone's nose.
OK. So he's standing over her. As if what he's done already isn't bad enough. He reaches in his pocket, pulls out his knife and opens it. It's the little knife with the white handle and the blade that's not even two inches long and a quarter inch wide. The same one that I saw him slit the guy's throat with at the dining hall. She puts her hands up in front of her with her fingers spread in a defensive posture.
This poor girl. There was a day when she was a little girl coming into puberty. Her father knew that he wouldn't always bee there to protect her, so he told her what to do if she ever got in trouble with a man. He told her that she would have to make up her mind that it was him or her. He told her that she had the ability to render any man in the world helpless by kicking him in the nuts. He told her that this was a secret weapon that she should always remember but should never use unless she absolutely had to. Surely, her father would approve of her using the secret weapon now, he would be proud of her for remembering it and using it at this time. It was going to save her life.
She kicked him in the nuts. It didn't work. Her father had failed her. Her father never thought that his daughter would some day be lured into the woods by a man who did not feel pain, had no conscience, and would do this to her for no reason. If her father thought there was a chance of this happening, he wouldn't have had any children at all.
My father took broad wide strokes at her hands, following through with each one and yelling one word for each stroke. "Do. You. Think. That's. Going. To. Hurt. Me? Do. You. Think. That's. Going. To. Stop. Me?"
The cuts were deep. Her hands were spurting blood, they weren't working any more. She couldn't see her own face except for the reflection in ours, but she could see what was happening to her hands and she could not believe it as she examined them for a second. If only this really was a movie for her.
My father has had enough of his foreplay. He's really excited. It's time to get laid. He pulls his dick out and shows her what he's got for her. He dives to the ground, lifting her skirt in front and starts to rape her. She tries to push him off to the left or right side but her hands don't work anymore. She holds them to the sides of his back and stares at them in disbelief they've been cut to the bone. He is grunting and giving her what to him is his love.
Suddenly it comes to me: now's our chance to get out of here. I considered trying to bash his head in with a rock but I knew I wouldn't be able to sneak up on him, I'd have to run at him, he'd hear me coming and throw me away with one arm and his rage would turn to me. He is super-strong when he's in this state.
I know that if Dianne and I stay that we will be forced to watch another long, drawn-out, meticulous burial and listen to his redundant monologue as he does it, which will take hours. We're a long way from home through the woods but I know that if we just keep moving to the west that we will get home in a few hours just before dark.
I pinch the shoulder of Dianne's sweater and pull on it to signal that we must leave quietly and now. We snuck off to the east at first until we were out of sight and hearing range of our whispers. I told her that we would circle to the south and make our way home. We were scared and traumatized but it was wonderful to have asserted ourselves by escaping from him. Just being able to breathe and feeling safe in the seclusion of the woods was a major victory for us. So what if there might be a wild animal to attack us on the way? Wild animals were the least of our worries. Wild animals can be dealt with.
I kept reassuring Dianne that I knew we could make it, that even though we had never been this far from home on foot and the woods were unfamiliar, we could still make it home by following a direction that was just to the right of where the sun was headed as it crossed the sky. We could have gone north and walked along the road but he might intercept us. I knew that by the time he came home from burying her that he would be tired and satisfied with what he had done and wouldn't attack us. He might not even remember that we were there. He certainly didn't care that his kids were so far from home in the woods. All we had to do was stay away from him, let him exhaust himself with her body, and make it home. Then we would have at least a few days before we would start to be in danger again as his thrill wore off.
We finally did make it home, but something happened on the way. Something good happened on the way home.
I knew that if we were on track that we would eventually come to an estate, and we would have to cross it. The last thing we'd have to deal with was getting across it and then we'd be in familiar woods.
In the past, our father had taken us from our house in Devencrest and marched us east through the woods as far as we could go. He was constantly looking for new and better places to commit his acts. We marched past an irrigation ditch which we would later use for ice skating. Then we came to this estate. Maybe it was just a nice house with a long driveway and a big six-bay garage, but to us, it was an estate. They had a lot of cars, they even had a tractor in the garage. As we stood in the woods to the west of the house behind an old stone wall embankment, my father had told us, "Don't ever go on their property. Don't even let them see you, because they hate army kids and they'll shoot you with a shot gun, and then the police will come and take me and your mother away and you won't have a place to live, even if you're not dead." The lesson stuck.
After his lecture, for excitement, I would bring Dianne or go by myself to hide behind this embankment and pretend that I was spying on this place. I would marvel at the wealth of civilians, and dream of living safely in a place like this, with protective parents that would shoot my father with a shotgun if he ever came on the property. I could see them running out the door and blasting him backwards, and the evil blackness would splatter out of his stomach, he would die on the ground, choking on his blood which was so evil that it was black instead of red, then the ground would have to be cleaned.
OK, so here we are on the northeast side of the garage and house. We want to get to the southwest side, where we will be at the spot that we know so well, then we'll be home free. We'll be in our woods from that moment on, and getting home from there will be easy. We've got to cross the property.
There are two options. One is to go farther to the north, run across without getting shot and into unfamiliar woods again. The other is to calmly but deliberately walk diagonally across the property directly to where we want to be, keeping our arms and hands close to our sides so that we don't scare anyone if we are seen. If they come out with the gun, we'll be more than halfway across anyway and then we can run.
We were feeling empowered. We had escaped from our father and his burial scene and we had found our way home. Getting shot at wasn't that big of a threat right now. If they called the police, it might even lead to something good. We were feeling brave. We decided to take the direct route by walking past the garage and house.
We started out. At first we were shielded by the garage. Then we were in full view of the house as we approached and crossed the driveway. We were onto the grass, angling towards the spot we knew and in full view of the garage bays too now.
I heard a tool drop in the garage. It was because someone had seen us. I was scared and relieved to hear what was a most friendly and non-threatening male voice come out of the shade of the garage. He was deliberately keeping his voice at a higher pitch than usual, and he seemed really glad to see us. It was like he didn't have any friends and hadn't seen any one in a long time.
"Kids! Hey kids! I cant believe it. Hey!" He could see we were ready to run so he let us know that he wasn't going to hurt us as he came out of the shade. He was so happy to see us that we felt sorry for him and didn't run. "Wow. What are you kids doing out here? Do you need some help? Are you lost or somethin'?"
He was wearing a wide-brimmed greasy cowboy type hat. He looked very much like Chester from the TV show Gunsmoke and came off very much like him too. It occurred to me that he must be the caretaker. He seemed in awe of us because of the direction we were coming from. It added up to the fact that something was very wrong. It was as if he knew that this was a very important moment in our lives and he wanted to do his part. He quickly got around to the subject of milk and cookies.
"Let me see if the Missus has any milk and cookies for you." We could hardly believe it. We were going into what used to be considered an enemy's house, not to be shot, but for milk and cookies. He went in first and got straight to the lady of the house, letting her know that something very delicate was going on here, milk and cookies was going to be the theme, she would have to rise to the occasion, and they would figure it out as they went along. His main goal was to find out what was wrong.
He let us into the kitchen. The lady came in and sat down. She was a little suspicious at first but she sized up the situation quickly and became very interested and concerned. we sat at the table with all the manners we had in our bones and all the manners we could dream up. Eating one cookie each, drinking our milk, politely refusing the next cookie offered, and finishing the box with a pause between each cookie so that the next one could be offered.
They were asking very good questions. I didn't want to burden them with our troubles and they knew it, which made them want to know our story even more. We became friends as we sat around that table. They knew that something was going on here. They tested us and knew that we would not lie to them, but would rather not burden them. They knew that we as children were trying to protect them as adults from something incredible and dangerous.
They reassured us that they could be trusted to not tell the wrong people about our secret, and we reassured them that we would not tell the wrong people that we were ever there. We made this agreement and worked out all the details. I made sure it was ironclad. I knew they were going to have to trust us to never tell our parents that we were there and that they had helped us. The lady was in total admiration of the fact that I made absolutely sure that they understood that we would never tell that we had been there. She said that I would make a good real estate agent.
She and the caretaker were ready. For me to not tell them would have been to hurt a couple of good friends. Good friends with power. This was a good man. He knew that I didn't want to say everything in front of my sister because she was having trouble, she was really traumatized bad and it was everything that I could do to keep her going through the woods this far. I didn't want her to slip backwards.
He suggested that I go into the other room with him and then I could tell him what was going on. He was real good about it. I told him what had happened and what was happening all the time at our house. I told him everything in as clear and concise a manner as I could. He knew that I was telling the truth and he took it like a man. He was good. He stayed solid. We went back to the kitchen and we were able to speak about me and my sister's problem without speaking directly about the girl's face.
At the moment the lady realized that my father would come and kill her if he found out, I caught her and reminded her of the promise that we had made, the promise that would never be broken. She and the caretaker promised that they would go to the police, but they would tell the police that as children we were in great danger, and the police were not to just knock on the door, ask our parents why their children were accusing them of murder, and then leave.
I told them everything that was going on, and they listened. I gave them the whole picture, right down to our name and address. The man was deciding out loud whether to go to the local police or the state police. He decided on the state police.
It was getting to be time to leave. We said our polite good-byes. As we went out the door, we repeated our promises. We walked across the grass toward our destination and the caretakers emotions started getting the best of him as he escorted us. He stopped, looked at the lady in the doorway and choked out the words, "But they're just a couple of kids." We felt sorry for him. He held his hands to his heart as if it were bleeding for us. He swallowed hard and walked with us through the woods, halfway to our house, saying. "I wish I could take your place for you. Just hang in there. It won't be long. I'll tell the police. I promise. We'll get you safe."
As we got closer to home we indicated that it was too risky for him to come along much further because my father would kill him on the spot if he saw him.
We parted ways and never saw each other again, but it wasn't too much later that a state police detective came to our house, dropped cards all over the place, and asked my mother to come forward. I'll know his name when I see it. All I need is a list of names to look at. It makes sense to me that there would be a record of this girl's disappearance, that the people from this estate called the state police the next day, and the detective from the state police came to our house not too long afterward.
As time went on, I was having a lot of trouble with the image of that girl's face when she looked at us. We had already told my mother about what my father did to this girl and knew that she would do nothing about her or any of the other people, we understood that and took it for granted. I was really having trouble dealing with the memory of her looking at me to see if I had lured her to her death on purpose, if I could help her, and if her face as smashed up as she thought it was. It was ruining all of my free time in between torture sessions. Therefore my entire existence was ruined.
I complained about this to my mother, that he had gone too far with this and it was ruining my life. She gave me her best motherly advise. "Block it out. You just have to find a way to block it out. Put it out of your mind. You can do it if you try. I have a lot of things like that that bother me and I just block them out. You have to practice it then you'll get good at it and it will work every time, then nothing will bother you anymore." Thanks Mom.
OK. Now that I'm done, I remember where my father got this girl. He picked her up right off the eastbound side of Route 2A, right next to the intersection of Snake Hill Road.. She was not hitchhiking, she was walking as if she had a good ways to go before she got home. She was just a naive teenage girl coming into her womanhood and feeling good about the unlimited promise of her future as a woman. She did not come into the woods to screw my father, she thought she was helping him to take us kids on a picnic.
It was one week before Halloween, this day was warm and sunny in the afternoon and the leaves had turned color. She was just really enjoying it, walking east, swinging her arms, taking it all in.
My father pulled over and pretended that he thought he knew her. They weren't warning people about this stuff back then. He was as smooth as silk. She fell for it. He molded himself into someone that was feeling exactly like her at this moment: chirpy, up, caught up in the beauty of the day. He was so good that she never had a second thought about his motives.
He disarmed and charmed her so fast with the presence of his two children, faking that he had mistaken her identity, a brief conversation about the children that she planned to have someday, and inviting her to come along on the picnic we were allegedly headed to that she was in the car in less than one minute. It was a rush job of sorts like: "Hey! You're feelin' good! I'm feelin' good! This beautiful warm opening in the weather is only going to last a couple of hours! We're goin' on a picnic! Come on and join us! We're goin' for it!"
My father is what is known as a chameleon. His entire life is an act to throw people off of who he really is. He usually plays the stupid foreigner with a heavy accent because it suits his needs in general, but when it comes to getting his next victim, he has the ability to become anyone he wants in a split second. He sizes them up and becomes the person that his victim will trust, desire or believe in. There's been times when he's passed himself off as a brain surgeon just for kicks.
He put this girl on the spot just like a super salesman. When she mentioned the kids she wanted to have someday, my father put her maternal instinct on the spot. She would have to deny her maternal instinct and admit that she was lying about wanting to be a good mother or she would have to get in the car and help a father show his children the beauty of nature.
This girl would have been a civilian, and she would have lived east of the bait and tackle shop. I believe she pointed out the house where a relative lived as we drove east.
OK: I just remembered some things. I've been writing parts of this stuff down for a few days and I just had some stuff come back to me that may conflict with what I already wrote but this should condense some important facts:
- She was not going to screw my father, she was just naive. She was a brunette with a pony tail dressed like a typical teenager from the early 60s in a sweater and a full pleated skirt, 17-19 years old. She was within walking distance of her house though it was going to be a hike, so she lived in that direction, east on Route 2 from Devencrest. Once she was in the car and we were driving east, my father pulled the car off the road to the south before we went the distance that it was to her house.
- The man that gave us milk and cookies at the estate probably wasn't the caretaker, he was more likely the lady's husband. There's got to be a record of her disappearance with the state police.
- It was one week before Halloween, because when the man at the estate saw us he said, "Kids! Hey! Kids! Halloween's not till next week!" It was a weekend, because we were not in school, neither was she, unless she had just recently graduated high school.
- When my father got home, he had already buried her, just North of Route 2, behind the Pepsi warehouse was his indication. I've got a feeling that he may not have dug her up and brought her to New Jersey because her skull would have been so heavily-fractured in the face area and I know he likes the skulls.
- She did not come into the woods to have sex with my father, and the reason that she didn't run when she should have was because she was trying to look out for me and my sister.