In 1950, the average cost for a home in South Jersey was around $10,000. As far as the Pioppis were concerned, however, no price could be placed on their property and what it meant to them. The substantial two-story stucco farmhouse with the big, white-painted front porch had grown through the years to accommodate the increasing size of their household. Inside, the gleaming dark wood staircase rose from a hallway that evenly divided the downstairs rooms, decorated in the latest style. Except for special occasions, the family crowded around the chrome table in the kitchen for their meals. The house's living room and small sitting room were filled with plush sofas and chairs in deep burgundy, while flowered carpeting covered most of the floors. The furniture meshed with traditional art and sculpture, which sat side-by-side with a modern stereo system in one room and a new television set in the next. In addition to Armando and Theresa Pioppi and their sons John and Jino, the farmhouse was home to Jino's twenty-eight-year-old wife, Marion, and their three children, nine-year-old Jeannie, seven-year-old Armando, and thirteenmonth-old Teresa, also named for her grandmother. Marion had learned recently that she was pregnant with their fourth child. The pretty blonde, originally a Volpa from Williamstown, was a hard-working young woman who had no problem fitting into life on the farm.
November 17 started out just like any other day for the two families. While Tessie was busy helping her parents and caring for her boys, two-year-old Michael and baby Ernest Jr., the Pioppi women attended to household matters across the street. Jino and John had spent the week hauling chicken manure by truck from New Sharon, about twenty miles away, which was then spread as fertilizer across the dormant fields. It was a grueling but necessary job that made their crops the envy of their neighbors. Thankfully, they had finished that day.
As usual, the Pioppis ate supper around five o'clock. After helping her mother-in-law with the dishes, Marion asked her husband to take her to the general store in Downstown. Jino pulled the car out of the garage behind the house around eight o'clock and drove Marion, their daughter Teresa, and his sister Pearl to Clevenger's Store to buy groceries and ice cream. Dominick Biagi, Theresa Pioppi's brother, lived about a mile north of the Pioppi farm on Piney Hollow Road. He passed the house just as the family was climbing into the car. He had asked his daughter Eva to drive him to the Landisville Farmers Club, an organization for local farmers that had been started in the late 1800s. Although Biagi planned to stop and visit his sister on the way home, he first wanted to buy some whiskey at the club. He liked to start each day with a little splash in his coffee.
While the Biagi car rolled toward Landisville, Jino drove into Downstown, a tiny settlement situated on Harding Highway about three miles south of their farm. There, they bought their groceries, then talked for a few minutes with general store owner Mary Clevenger. She was waiting for her daughter Patricia, who had gone home for dinner after minding the store all day. The Clevengers were going to close for the night so that they could go to the movies. When Patricia returned, she noticed Ernie's car parked at Reed's gas station across the street. She never mentioned it to anyone, because it never struck her as important. After saying goodnight to the Clevengers, the Pioppis dropped Pearl off at her house, then returned home and dished out the ice cream for the entire family. Even Armando, who had retired early that night, had been happy to enjoy a bowl of ice cream in bed.
After watching television for a while, nine-year-old Jeannie went upstairs with her mother, who was trying to get little Teresa to sleep. Jeannie got ready for bed, but was too thirsty to rest, so she headed back downstairs to the kitchen for a drink of water. She preferred the water from the kitchen spigot, because it was always cold and refreshing compared to the upstairs bathroom sink.
In the meantime, Jino, who had just shaved, retired to the little sitting room where the family spent most nights. As he crossed the doorway draped in flowered curtains, he probably shook his head in amazement at the black-and-white television set with the twelve-inch screen that stood against the far wall. His mother and his brother John were watching it as avidly as little Mando, who sat next to his grandmother on the couch. Although they had owned the TV for a while now, most of them were still awed by this technological marvel that brought pictures as well as sound right into their own living room. Like their car, nice furniture, and good clothes, it was further proof to them that America was the land of opportunity for anyone who was willing to work hard.
Settling on the couch, Jino began telling Theresa about his exhausting day, when they suddenly heard a loud rapping sound. Jeannie, who was just at the foot of the staircase, reached out automatically and turned the brass handle of the heavy door. Following his mother out into the entry hall, Jino froze as Pearl flew inside and screamed, "Ernie's over at my house with two guns! Call the state police!"
rnest Martin Ingenito was nothing if not determined on the night on November 17, 1950. He loaded an assortment of weapons into his battered, bullet-nosed 1941 green Ford coupe and headed toward the Mazzoli farm, the place he had called home up until about six weeks earlier. At twenty-six, Ernie was a handsome young man, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a roguish smile. Standing a little over 5 foot 6, he had broad shoulders and looked good in the latest Italian-cut jackets. He had a naked woman tattooed on one arm and a heart with Tessie's name on his opposite shoulder.
In the beginning, it had been easy for Ernie to capture Tessie's heart. They had been introduced by her cousin in December 1946. Tessie was barely bothered when he told her about his past, and they were married on June 21, 1947. Three years later, however, he bore little resemblance to the smiling bridegroom seen in their wedding photos. He had been running on coffee, cigarettes, and adrenaline for weeks, and that November night, he was a man on a mission. With loaded guns in the car and his pockets stuffed with ammunition, Ernie tried to sort out what he was going to say when he reached the Mazzoli farm. He was trying to be calm. He was trying to think. Every time he thought of a reason why he should be allowed to return to the house or at least see his two young sons, he could hear them talking-his in-laws, the lawyers, all the people who sat in judgment of him and decided he was no good. Ernie had watched some of them earlier that night as they shopped inside Clevenger's store. Slumped in his car across the street at Reed's gas station, he just knew they were talking about him.
Ernie is worthless. Ernie is lazy. He stopped helping out on the farm long before Mike threw him out.
Ernie is running around with other women. Why, somebody saw him just a few days ago shamelessly flirting with a girl on Landis Avenue in Vineland ...
For a moment, he was back in the classroom again, listening to the ugly sound of children laughing at him because he couldn't read well. Shaking off the fragment of memory, Ernie focused on the present. Then, he had run away from the people who had tormented him. He wasn't going to do that anymore. But how could a man talk to his wife and work things out when her whole family was against him? Even his father-inlaw wanted nothing to do with him. That upset Ernie because he had liked Mike Mazzoli a lot. They had always gotten along. Mike had even decreed that Tessie could marry Ernie, overruling Pearl's protests that their twenty-one-year-old daughter was too young.
So what if he had stopped working on the farm, Ernie thought. It wasn't like he was getting anything out of it. Sure Mike had given him money earlier in the year, but that didn't count. The Mazzolis were so old-fashioned; they had told him he'd get a further share of the profits when the harvest was in and the crops were sold, but he knew they would never give him anything. Pearl, especially, liked keeping him on a string. She knew that money meant independence ... But that really didn't matter anymore.
Ernie was making a good living now, repairing and selling appliances for Tessie's uncle, Tony D'Augustine. Business was growing steadily at Tony's store, located on Harding Highway in the tiny nearby town of Landisville, a farming community that was also home to several thriving family-owned sewing factories. Although he worked full-time at a sewing fact
ory in Vineland, Tony had been smart enough to realize that there was a fortune to be made in all of the new household conveniences being produced by companies like General Electric. When World War II ended, industry had to find a way to lure women out of the workplace and back into the home, to make room for all of the returning soldiers. Advances in technology meant that even the average American family could now afford luxuries like washers and dryers, refrigerators with built-in freezers, and most of all, television. And, if they couldn't, there were always layaway plans and charge accounts. For a few dollars a month, almost anyone could buy into the American Dream.
Like his employer, Ernie recognized a good opportunity when he saw one. He had breezed through the appliance repair training classes offered in Philadelphia by General Electric. Then, he had quickly proven to Tony that he was not only the right man to fix appliances but to sell them as well. At a salary of one dollar an hour for his work as a repairman, and an additional commission for every appliance he sold, Ernie was bringing home on average more than $50 a week. Good money-enough to support his wife and two sons. Despite everything that had happened over the past few weeks, he told himself that all he wanted was for Tessie and the boys to leave the farm and move with him into a home of their own. He had previously talked to Tony about renting the apartment above the store, but his employer was reluctant to agree. Married to Mike's younger sister Emma, Tony did not want to be perceived as taking sides in a family dispute. It was just another way that his in-laws had managed to interfere in his life, Ernie reflected bitterly.
As he drove, Ernie's thoughts jittered back and forth from having a home of his own to seeing his sons. If only they had agreed to let him see the kids. The older one, especially, was at an age where it was fun to do stuff together. The night before, Ernie had gone to the Coia house on East Oak Road in neighboring Buena Vista Township. He had hoped that Tessie's uncle, Henry Coia Sr., might be able to help him. Henry Sr. and his wife Marie were away when Ernie arrived, so he sat down and watched television for a while with eighteen-yearold Henry Jr., known as Sonny. Sonny often helped Ernie deliver appliances from the store.
Henry Sr. was a little surprised to find Ernie in his house when he and Marie walked in the door just before midnight, and he wasn't happy when the younger man asked him to speak to Mike Mazzoli on his behalf. Although the Coias liked Ernie, his constant visits had become a little awkward since he was no longer living with his wife. Reluctantly, Henry Sr. agreed that he would speak to Ernie's father-in-law on Friday. He said he would stop by the Rulis home in Cecil, where Ernie was boarding, around three that afternoon, and let him know the outcome of their discussion.
As promised, Henry Sr. had driven to Cecil, but the result of his conversation with the Mazzolis, as far as Ernie was concerned, had been disappointing. Tessie was going to divorce him. She had already seen Philip J. Lipman, a prominent attorney from Vineland, who promised her that she had sufficient grounds to end her marriage. If she didn't accept any financial support from her estranged husband, as her mother was pushing for, then he would be out of her life forever. For a while, Ernie had tried to enlist Lipman in his effort to reconcile with Tessie. He finally realized it was useless to contact Lipman again-or any other lawyer for that matter. Sure, he was supposed to go see that attorney in Bridgeton tomorrow morning. But he already knew it wouldn't be worth the trip. Nobody could help him. Nobody even tried. That's why, after Henry Sr. left, Ernie had retreated to his bedroom. Not long afterward, he began to gather together his small collection of guns.
Ernie had earned a marksman's certificate ten years earlier as a private in Company F, 111th Infantry of the Pennsylvania National Guard. That was before they found out he was only sixteen when he enlisted and honorably discharged him on December 4, 1940. Later, while stationed with the United States Army at Fort Belvoir in Virginia, he had qualified for sharpshooter status before all his troubles there began. Ernie hadn't thought too much about guns after that-in fact, it wasn't until recently that he started his current collection. From his unlocked Army foot locker, he chose two loaded pistols: a Mauser, and a Luger with a special apparatus that allowed it to fire automatically like a machine gun. From under his bed, Ernie grabbed a .32-caliber carbine wrapped in an old pair of pants. He had stolen the weapon and some ammunition from the Army base where he had been stationed in 1942. He also brought along a small handgun that Tony had kept in the basement of the appliance store.
After the shootings, the media would run large-type headlines about another crazed vet going berserk in New Jersey. They compared Ernie's actions to those of Howard Unruh, a twenty-eight-year-old Camden man who, just the year before, had picked up his guns and calmly walked down the street shooting everyone in his path, including a three-year-old neighbor. Born in 1921, Unruh had volunteered for military service when he turned twenty. It was very likely that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder after serving in a number of bloody battles as a tank gunner and a sharpshooter during World War II. When discharged from the army, Unruh returned to his hometown and decided to study to become a pharmacist. But as time passed, he became more reclusive, leaving the house only for school and Bible study group meetings. Unruh started to compile "hate lists" of those neighbors who irritated him until one day he decided he had put up with enough. Following his shooting spree, Unruh was arrested, pronounced insane, and sentenced to spend the rest of his life in the New Jersey State Hospital in Trenton, where he was still living in 2008. Despite some similarities in their actions, there was one major difference between the two men-Unruh was insane. Ernie wasn't. He knew he wasn't. He knew exactly what he was going to do.
He was going to get Tessie and the boys out of her parents' house. He believed that everything would be all right if he could just persuade her to listen to him instead of her mother. A man deserved his own home. He tried not to think back to all the mistakes he had made with Doris, his first wife. He knew that things might have worked out differently between them if they could have gone out and lived on their own. Now, Doris was with somebody else, and his little girl, Dorothy, didn't even know her real father.
It wasn't right.
He was so tired of people telling him what to do. They had tried to boss him around in the Army, and a couple of officers, at least, had discovered what happened when they made him lose his temper. Throwing those punches had been worth the two years spent in the stockade and a dishonorable discharge. Then that smart-mouth cook at the diner in Vineland had made the mistake of expecting Ernie to eat burnt toast. He had beaten some sense into that guy. More recently, there were the lawyers. No matter who he talked to, they all seemed to say the same thing. Wait. We'll go to court. Just be patient. We'll make sure you get to see your kids. Well, he was tired of waiting. He was sick of being ignored. Tonight, he was going to get what belonged to him. Ernie quickly drove the four miles from the house in Cecil, a small community that sprawled along the Black Horse Pike east of Williamstown, to the Mazzoli farm. By then, he had been staying with Adolph Rulis and his wife Katherine for about a month. Ernie had first met Al and Kay about four years ago, when he moved in briefly with his father, Ernest Sr., and stepmother Rose. The two older couples had been friends since Ernie's father opened his luncheonette at the center of the tiny hamlet, about a block away from the Rulises' one-story bungalow. After Mike had thrown him out in October, Ernie couldn't stomach the idea of moving back in with his father. He couldn't stand Rose, who was always saying bad things about his late mother. Besides, he and Ernest Sr. hadn't spoken much over the past two years, ever since his father had taken the Mazzolis' side about the money issue. No, he couldn't go there.
After spending a miserable five nights alone at Palmer's Cottages, one of the many roadside motels that dotted South Jersey's highways, Ernie had to find someplace else to live. He was glad the Rulises had agreed to help him out. It was worth $10 a week to have a quiet place to sleep and have his laundry done. His board included meals, but Ernie rarely ate at t
heir house. He did appreciate the fact that Kay was always ready to pour him a cup of coffee in the morning before he went to work. Although he had never had any close friends, Ernie found he enjoyed Al's company. He was somebody the younger man felt he could count on.
Speeding south on Piney Hollow Road, Ernie recalled the night of November 5, when Al had accompanied him on a drive to the Mazzoli house. His lawyer, Fred Gravino from Woodbury, had said to bring a witness the next time he tried to see his boys, and Al agreed to go along. When they arrived, Mike stepped out onto the front porch and told them to pull around to the back door. As they climbed out of the car, Mike stood in the doorway and asked Ernie what he wanted. With Al stand ing quietly in the background, Ernie said he wanted to see his children. His father-in-law asked if he had a court order.
"No," Ernie said.
"I'm sorry, you can't see the children without a court order," Mike said.
"Can I just look at them for a little while?" Ernie asked, trying to keep his voice under control.
"No."
With that, the two men returned to Ernie's car and left.
On the way back to Cecil, Ernie had mumbled half to himself: "How do you like that, Al. You can't see your own kids. You can't see your own kids without a court order." Although Ernie had remained calm during the exchange, the humiliation of Mike's dismissal that night still angered him as he drove. He was, in fact, almost shaking with rage by the time the old Ford rolled to a stop in front of the Mazzoli house. The white farmhouse with cement roof tiles looked almost like a doll's house compared to some of the other more substantial homes that dotted the street. That was another thing, he seethed. The sixroom house was so small, there was never any privacy for the young married couple to enjoy. Ernie could feel his temper rise even more as he stared at the front door. He shook his head. It all ended here, tonight.
Rain of Bullets: The True Story of Ernest Ingenito's Bloody Family Massacre Page 2