A Final Hug

I watched my aunt and cousins as they walked away into the night, not realizing this would be the last time anyone would see us again, except for… but… I’m getting ahead of myself.

Aunt Rose admonished me to head home quickly. Now standing at the crossroads, with a lone streetlamp casting eerie shadows, they slowly slipped into the darkness, their voices fading. Their laughter echoed off the empty street this Sunday night.

Our tardiness would anger Father. We were supposed to be home hours ago. Mary imagined arriving home, her father’s booming voice echoing in her mind, angered by her lateness and the impending punishment. She promised to arrive at dusk, but now several hours later, had lied by visiting Mom. Mary has lost track of time.

The temperature, dropping on this already chilly spring night. Clutched to her chest, arms wrapped around me tightly. I can feel her heartbeat, a steady rhythm. Her breath was warm, visible, when exhaled.

Afraid of the dark, we turn and pause, observing our path homeward void of people, an occasional streetlamp, light escaping around window curtains, and here and there a porch light illuminating our path.

Only 1.2 miles to the front door. Safety with Dad and David. Mr. Ellsworth once threatened Mary that if she ever visited Mom without him, he would “kill her.”

She was about to vanish. They found her on March 19th. I was about to vanish. They found me on May 1st.

This is my story.

We started walking onto the empty street, lined with mature elm trees, bare branches, buds anticipating spring’s arrival. A waning moon, late March. A few snowflakes float quietly down, quickly melting. 1.2 miles from the front door and safety. Walkable in twenty-four minutes.

She and I are always together. At home, I sit on her nightstand, next to a small lamp. Whenever she left the house, I would be at her side. A Christmas gift, I was a prized possession. Some say I was white, some dirty-white, and still others said I was beige. Inside me you would find a notepad and stubby pencil, a pen, a pink eraser, a neatly folded handkerchief, a small comb, lip balm, a small cross, and a fifty-cent piece… a gift from Mom.

I was about to become the object of an intensive search! For sixty-two days, I was a mystery. Then located, identified. Supposedly containing clues that would solve the mystery. Found resting “in the vicinity of where her body was discovered.”

So many questions needing answers:

Did they find me now in an area that they had searched previously?

Was I the first breakthrough in the case?

Was there anything in me? Missing?

Was someone looking for me, or did someone stumble upon me?

How can I help catch the slayer?

Who found me?

Considering they searched the area multiple times, how did I just reappear now?

Only two of us know the truth.

Mary started walking. She was worried. Afraid of the dark and anxious that her dad would be upset. Her mind abuzz, should she return to Mom’s house? Warned never to go there. She did worse; she had lied. Her stomach churning. New school, new friends, and the boy she met at the YMCA dance occupied the moment.

She moved ahead, not noticing what was around her. Heading into the darkness this Sunday night. And after moving here, still getting used to everything. The sixth move in recent history. Missing her friends.

So cold!

Oblivious to the vehicle passing by slowly, stopping half a block away. The driver dropping someone off, waiting until they enter the residence… auto idling…

fumes escaping the tailpipe… still waiting… Mary eighteen minutes from home.

Freezing, she pulled her hood about her head.

Her parents separated, her fault. Siblings scattered miles away.

Everything is in a state of disarray.

Now passing the idling vehicle, the driver opens his door, exits and stands, and shouts, “Hey, Mary, it’s me.”

Startled, she slows and focuses on the male figure hailing her. I can feel her heartbeat increase. She pulls me closer.

“It’s me. You headed home? Just around the corner, right?”

Hesitant, “I’m, I’m… fine.” Still struggling to identify the figure. Looking ahead, the street dark, a slight breeze, snowflakes collecting on the sidewalk… pauses.

“Mary, your choice. The car’s warm. I’m headed that way… you live on Main Street… well, you need to move along. Be safe.” He pauses… waits… “You remember me…right… cousins, anyway, say hi to Auntie.”

Sliding into the vehicle, closed his door, looked ahead, preparing to leave.

Mary, twelve minutes from home.

Mortals are always making choices, some beneficial, some neutral, some questionable, and others detrimental. She steps toward the auto suspiciously. She knows better. Seconds tick by. She hears the auto change gears and revs slightly. She takes another step forward. She can hear the car shift back into park.

So cold, her sneakers wet, feet aching, tired from a busy afternoon, wanting to get home, chooses… to take a chance. Two steps, opens the door. In the darkness, still unsure of the driver, hesitates, slides in, … then pulls the door closed. Leans against the passenger door, still clutching me. The vehicle moves forward.

Silence.

She moves purse from ‘cross-body’ position to the seat next to her side, realizing he passed her street. Hesitant to challenge any adult, points, mumbles, “That’s my street.”

He continues driving, ignoring her. Clearly, he does not intend to take her home.

She placed me on her lap. “Please take me home!”

“Do you know where ‘Lover’s Lane’ is located?”

Soon we’re three miles away from town, past the houses, lights, cars, help.

Mary, her hand on the doorknob, in a state of distress and panic, pleaded. “Please take me home.” Her voice cracks.

The driver, now slowing down, is looking for… a place to turn off. He unexpectedly left the primary route and went onto what seemed an unused rut-filled roadway leading into the forest… darkness.

The individual is young, muscular, and appears to be in his early twenties. He stops and turns the car off. Silence. He grabs Mary and pulls her across the front seat. She struggles, knocking me onto the floor. Covers her mouth, other hand around her throat. He freezes as a vehicle passes along the main road. She is fighting. Pulling her into the woods, I heard only footsteps fading away and branches cracking. I’m hearing indistinct sounds, plus dogs barking at a neighbor’s place visible through the leafless trees.

He returns alone.

She was vulnerable; he was an opportunist.

I have heard the stories. The newspapers filled for weeks with reports, interviews, and daily updates. Reward offered. And multiple searches.

Where’s the missing purse? But… I’m not missing.

I’m concealed under his bench-seat.

He had panicked. Headlights. Barking dogs. Homeowners looking out their windows. Identifiable.

Then one spring day, cleaning his car, vacuuming the floorboard… there I was. Daily driven around town. Carpooled to his work and back. Ran errands.

He remembered! The night he sat on the 80-pound child as she gasped for air. He stuffed her mouth as he strangled her, watching her choke on twigs, branches, and leaves, and then he covered her with rocks, believing that nobody would ever find her. Now in his possession, THE PURSE. What to do?

He was an opportunist; she was the victim.

Agitated, he returned to the scene of the crime… back to the vicinity of the murder-site and tossed the purse.

Returned. Wiped clean. Some say white, some dirty-white, some say beige.

A stranger out for a walk happened upon me.

The authorities never identified the killer. Shortly after discovering the body, volunteers and the Civil Defense police conducted an intensive search of the area. Professionals doing a line search, one step at a time, found objects much smaller than a purse, i.e. two white buttons, a pen, footprints, and more.

Warm weather cleared the area of snow… and here, on the foliage surviving the fall and winter, was the purse, in its original condition, visible for any hiker walking along the trail to stumble upon. Quickly shipped off to the crime laboratory in Albany. Prodded and probed, unable to offer any definitive DNA.

I can only hope that late at night he will wake… see her face, hear her cries pleading, her last breath escaping her lungs as he sat upon her. She died in his hands. Then he hides her body. Meanwhile, the family morns her death forever.

What did he think when his daughter walked out the front door to visit a friend, or walked to school, or came home late from a date? When his granddaughters became juveniles? Read the newspaper each year? A cold case.

Lying on his deathbed, what were his final thoughts? Regrets?

Meanwhile, here I sit in a box, on a shelf, having seen his face, knowing the police are still hoping for a transformational break.

One fingerprint…