320 Pounds of Rocks

It was a chilly March afternoon as Mary sought permission to visit her cousins, promising Dad to return home by 6, before sunset this cloudy winter day. Parent’s separated, reminded not to visit my mother. Difficult to make friends. Over the past six years, I had moved five times, changed schools, seeking to fit in once again. Now it’s just me and my dad. Well, there was David Lewis, a relative by blood, sort of, and his female companion sharing this small apartment.

Bundled up, I walk half a mile to my mother’s home. I lied. This was my plan. Dad allows me to see Mom once a month. Any further visits need to be secret. Someone once heard that if I broke the rule, he would “kill me.” A common threat used recklessly to manipulate a child.

Left home at 3 and stopped to see Mom. Mom gave me a gift, a small white purse and fifty cents. We visited and then I headed to my aunt’s house and spent time with my two cousins. Time slipped away. In leaving, Aunt Alice accompanied me for a bit. Then, my aunt and cousins headed to a nearby park. A final send-off at the corner of Harriet Street and Market. With the sun setting, a few flakes dusting the earth, it was 6:30. Quickly said my goodbyes and headed homeward, now over a mile away.

No one would see me after this. Not until found four days later, hidden beneath a pile of twigs and four boulders, strangled. I headed home, knowing I would be late, knowing Dad would be mad, punished. Up the road, a car pulled over, engine idling, visible water vapor from the exhaust pipe polluting the air. I crossed the street, quickened my pace, eyes down, avoiding visual contact with the driver. Pass by as I hear a door open. Not looking back, I quickened my pace.

Dad was at home watching through the frosted window, pacing, anger growing with each tick of the wall clock. Growing louder. The house is empty. At seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine, ten, now exactly 10:30, four and a-half hours pass. Finally, he picks up the phone and dials the police. “My daughter is missing.” A conversation ensues. The officer notifies patrol vehicles to be on the lookout for Mary.

Phone calls made. Maybe she went to her mother’s, now hiding. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends — all contacted. No one has seen her. Over the next two days, anxiety mounts as police check several empty houses. The police received no new information as the search continues. Stories spread as rumors embellished. Parents suspected. Police suggest she is a runaway. Likely, she spent the last days with a friend. Girls do this all the time, unaware of the consternation parents’ experience, fretful.

The front page of the paper spread the word, pictures. Finally, a special detail of city police begin an intensive search of vacant buildings, abandoned homes, junk yards, excavations, used car lots, along the river, strangers questioned.

Was this a serial murderer? What about those other girls murdered in Pennsylvania, still unsolved? Hundreds questioned. Police in neighboring communities and across state line notified. Police begin to suspect foul play. Marise C, 9, missing a hundred miles south, found raped and strangled in an abandoned strip mine. A connection? Other stories spread.

Fours days later, at 4:30 p.m. a dad wandering along an isolated trail with his two sons discover a fully clothed body, covered with twigs, branched and dirt and weighted down with four heavy stones. She has been missing for ninety-four hours. The body taken to the nearby hospital where her father would make an identification. Mixed with anger and guilt. At 10:50 p.m., District Attorney Paul H. McCabe reports the case was definitely determined to be a homicide. The medical examiner would perform a more extensive autopsy as soon as possible.

Sixteen police officers from four agencies meet at 10:10 the next morning ‘resumed’ an extensive search of the area where the body was found. Clue collected two small white buttons, thread still attached, and other objects. Big news for a small community.

Police Chief Eugene F. Golden, convinced that Mary was murdered near the spot where the body was found. At 1 p.m., the medical examiner issues a verdict of homicide. The girl likely died of strangulation and or choking. A completed report would be ready for publication in the several days.

Where was her purse? Mary would, from the beyond, be embarrassed by all the attention, mused. From afar, Mary observes. Parents questioned, family members suspected, strangers interviewed, some given a polygraph. Rewards offered. Newspaper filled with stories. Stories about this quiet, shy girl, tragically murdered. A poor girl from a broken home, just a runaway. She’ll be back.

Today, I stand looking over his shoulder as he pours through newspaper articles, obits, and Internet conversations, obsessed with finding the who. I just celebrated my sixty anniversary. If alive would be 73 years young. All that remains is a marker at the Peter and Paul’s Cemetery, Elmira, New York. I have a case number (Case # 64– 2419 / 00- 7156); I have a Memorial Id number (ID 162480452), and a determined, aging writer. Most say I no longer exist. “Let her rest in peace.” I believe, as he thinks, as he writes my name; I subsist. The voice insists on knowing.

Knowing name of the last person to see me alive.