Although Frank and Hilda protested, the community donated close to $1,200 to assist them with their expenses. Ralph Norton, president of the Minotola Fire Company, and Buzzie Tarquinio of Buzzie's Market presented the money on Christmas Eve at the hospital to Frank and Hilda, who were overwhelmed by the generous donation. While Frank had been discharged by mid-December, Hilda remained hospitalized for several more weeks after finally undergoing surgery November 25 to remove the bullet from her hip. Dr. Anthony Greico and Dr. John Winslow, who performed the operation at Newcomb Hospital, turned the bullet over to the state police after it was removed.
While Ernie's wife and her relatives were being treated at Newcomb Hospital, the bodies of those who had been murdered were carried to different funeral homes, including Rone's in Vineland and Barclay's in Clayton. No single facility was equipped to prepare all of the bodies at the same time for burial. As some of Ernie's victims began their long, slow recuperation in the hospital, a viewing was held for the remaining five. On Monday, November 20, between 6:30 and 11:00 P.M., a solemn procession of thousands, including some curiosityseekers, walked past the five silver-colored coffins of Mike Mazzoli, Pearl Mazzoli, Theresa Pioppi, John Pioppi, and Marion Pioppi at the Rone Funeral Home, which was then located on Eighth and Montrose streets in Vineland. According to the Vineland Times Journal, Mike would have celebrated his fifty first birthday on Thanksgiving. While the bodies of the men had been dressed in blue serge suits, Pearl wore an aqua gown, Marion was attired in light blue, and Theresa was garbed in orchid. The open caskets had been placed in a circle in a large room adjoining the funeral home chapel to allow everyone to pass by all of them in single file.
The following day dawned as cold and gray as the spirits of the mourners who turned out to pay their last respects to those who would never have the opportunity to return to their homes. In the morning, the coffins were lined in front of the altar at Our Lady of Victories Church in Landisville. Built by Italian immigrants in 1902, the church was originally a simple, cedar-sided structure with no heat and unpainted pews, lit by kerosene lamps. In the years that followed, local families donated money for stained-glass windows and a new dome over the altar. Reverend Christopher Mazzolini, who had served as priest since 1930, conducted a requiem mass at the church, assisted by Reverend Salvatore Adamo and Reverend Sebastiano Andelora. Just a few days earlier, the parish priest had administered last rites to the deceased, after family members had called him to Piney Hollow Road.
The tiny church, with hand-carved religious statues bearing mute witness, was filled to overflowing with hundreds of family members and friends, who listened silently to Maz- zolini's eulogy that lamented the untimely deaths of the Mazzolis and the Pioppis. Among those in attendance at the funeral were Capt. Howard A. Carlson, Lt. J. A. Westphalen, and six troopers from the New Jersey State Police, along with Landis Township police officer Harry Reutemann. The newspaper noted "twelve professional pall bearers carried the caskets with military precision, to the five hearses in front of the funeral home." The funeral procession was escorted by both local and state police. Sixteen convertibles were used to carry all of the flowers from the Rone Funeral Home in Vineland to the church, then to Our Lady of Victories' small cemetery located on Summer Avenue at the edge of town, where members of many local Italian families were buried. At the cemetery, Armando Pioppi tossed some flowers onto the caskets, and then raised his gnarled hands toward the gray sky.
"That vagabond brought disaster to my family, and I know God will punish him," Armando cried in Italian. A few minutes later, the grief-stricken patriarch of the Pioppi family and other relatives were escorted away from the cemetery grounds by funeral director C. Calvin Rone.
s members of the Mazzoli and Pioppi families gathered at Piney Hollow Road on the night of the massacre, struggling to make sense of what had happened, Ernie sped south on Central Avenue, Minotola's main street, determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Mazzoli home on Jonas Avenue. A part of him recognized what he had done. A part of him didn't care. He had taken out the ones who had interfered in his marriage, turning his wife against him. But as Ernie considered heading toward the Coia farm on East Oak Road, he realized that he could no longer count on Henry and Marie for support, not when they found out what he had done. Maybe he'd just drive for a while. He liked to drive.
To this day, no one is certain where Ernie planned to go that night. He may have been heading toward or, at one point, even driving down Tuckahoe Road, a rural route that would lead him south to his hometown of Wildwood Crest. He may have been drawn back to the coastal community where he had been raised, just as he always seemed to be whenever he felt overwhelmed by the outside world. If he wasn't "going home," Ernie may in fact have been heading to the Coia home on Oak Road. But was it to seek comfort or get rid of more of the inlaws who he felt hadn't treated him fairly? With such a quicksilver temperament, it is possible by that point that Ernie looked upon the Coias as the enemy. After all, Henry Sr. had been responsible for bringing him the bad news about Tessie's plans for a divorce earlier that day. If Ernie had a particular destination in mind that night, he never reached it.
Hours passed. Ernie kept driving but somehow never seemed to leave the vicinity of his crimes. It was well after midnight when he turned on the radio and spun the dial quickly through the static of stations whose frequencies were partially blocked by the surrounding trees. After a few minutes, he heard a news announcer talking about him, stating with controlled excitement that dozens of state and municipal police officers were out in force and a statewide alarm had been issued for his capture. Some officers were assisting with the search, while others were assigned as bodyguards for members of Tessie's family. The police were also watching bus stations, diners, and bars, the announcer reported, in an effort to locate Ernie and prevent his escape.
It was the largest manhunt in the history of New Jersey, the voice on the radio declared, and they were all looking for Ernie. He didn't care. Let them come. But as he glanced at the weapons that were strewn across the seat, Ernie suddenly realized that he couldn't stand the idea of going to jail. The Army stockade had been bad, but he had the feeling civilian prison was worse. Slowing the car just a little, he groped under the front seat until he pulled out a worn razor blade. It was an option. After all, he realized, if he had killed Tessie and hurt his boys, what else did he have to live for?
While his momentary concern for his family may have been genuine, it was doubtful that Ernie, with his strong instincts for self-preservation, ever really intended to commit suicide. It was possible that he figured an apparent attempt couldn't hurt. At the back of his mind, he probably believed the authorities might decide he was crazy for shooting all those people, which meant he'd wind up in an asylum, like that guy in Camden, instead of jail-definitely the better of the two options. Hastily pushing back his left coat sleeve, Ernie tentatively ran the cold metal against his skin. With a sigh, he thought briefly about turning himself in to the state police. Although his defense attorney later declared that his client intended to do exactly that, Ernie never mentioned any plans to go to the authorities when his car was stopped a short time later on East Oak Road. He let the steel bite a little deeper into his left wrist.
At just about the same time that Ernie opened fire at the Mazzoli home in Minotola, Tpr. George Yeager, who had first been dispatched to the Pioppi home, crossed the street to the Mazzoli farmhouse on Piney Hollow Road. Entering the bungalow, Yeager found Tessie lying on the floor, with young Michael trying to sit on her lap, his bare toes stained red with his mother's blood. The trooper picked up the boy and sat him on the couch in the little sitting room that divided the kitchen from the dining room. While some officers attended to Tessie, others searched the premises. Seeing the carnage, Yeager called for an ambulance and additional manpower. When he returned to the Pioppis, Yeager saw Jeannie still lying on the sofa where her grandfather had placed her. By that time, the doctors had arrived;
when they finished their work, the police first loaded Tessie into the ambulance, then placed Jeannie on the front seat, and then bundled Pearl onto a stretcher, laying her on the floor after removing a seat. Yeager, who followed the ambulance to Newcomb, remained at the hospital until about 3:00 A.M. He briefly interviewed Tessie, then young Jeannie, but he couldn't speak to Pearl because by then she had died of her wounds.
The initial crime scene investigation, hampered by darkness, ended as Ernie wandered through the wooded back roads of Atlantic and Cumberland counties. On Saturday, November 18, Sergeant DeWinne dispatched Tpr. Louis Cunningham, a four-year veteran, and his partner, Raymond Vorberg, to the area of Lincoln Avenue and Oak Road in Landis Township, as the section around the town of Vineland was then known. A native of the area, DeWinne strongly suspected that Ernie would head toward the Coias' home, which was less than a mile away from that intersection. It was around one o'clock in the morning when Cunningham and Vorberg reached their assigned area and began to patrol the network of quiet streets. They were driving east on Oak Road near Central and Lincoln when a car passed them in the opposite direction. Checking the license plate, ZR 82 R, the officers confirmed that it in fact was the vehicle they wanted. Cunningham, who was driving, whirled their black-and-white Ford around and sped after the suspect.
As they pursued the other car, Cunningham blew his service whistle and yelled at the driver to pull over. The green Ford crossed Lincoln Avenue, then Central, still heading west, when the police drew up behind it. When their suspect's car finally slowed to a stop in the westbound lane, the troopers pulled next to it in the oncoming lane. Since the vehicles were only a few feet apart, the patrol car headlights illuminated the driver's side door of the coupe. They could see only one person inside. Vorberg climbed out with a .45-caliber Rising subma- chine gun and pointed it steadily toward the other vehicle. Cunningham unholstered his service revolver, and slowly approached the car from the driver's side.
Cunningham ordered the driver to step out.
After a moment's pause, Ernie opened the door, and climbed out with his hands splayed out from his sides. Before the troopers could say anything, Ernie said, "I am the man you are looking for. I did it."
'What's your name?" Vorberg asked.
"Ernest Ingenito."
Ordering Ernie to raise his hands over his head, Cunningham holstered his weapon and stepped closer, while Vorberg kept the machine gun trained on their suspect. Cunningham opened the front door of Ernie's car, then opened Ernie's coat. The trooper took the Luger from the holster strapped to Ernie's left side and pulled the revolver from his right coat pocket. As he patted down the suspect, Cunningham also discovered that Ernie was carrying a lot of loose ammunition in his pants pockets, along with two boxes of bullets in his left rear pocket. The trooper left the ammunition for the Luger in Ernie's pockets, together with his identification, so that it could later be documented at the barracks as the suspect's property.
Vorberg ordered Ernie to lie down on the ground in front of him, where he was illuminated by the headlights of their patrol car. As he kept his gun trained on Ernie, his partner discovered the .32-caliber Mauser automatic on the front seat of the car. In back, Cunningham found the .32-caliber Army carbine on the rear seat of the Ford. All of the guns in Ernie's possession were loaded. Handcuffing their suspect, the troopers placed their prisoner by himself in the back of their patrol car and transported him and the guns to the Malaga barracks. Before they left, Ernie's green coupe was pulled temporarily to the side of the road.
As they rolled through the night toward the Malaga barracks, Vorberg asked Ernie, who was slumped in the back seat of the patrol car, why he had gone on such a violent rampage. Ernie said he was having trouble with his wife and kids; his wife wouldn't allow him to see his sons and "that was the end of that."
"Why?" Vorberg asked.
"There is no use telling you," Ernie answered. "You wouldn't understand."
The Malaga barracks was housed in an elegant old threestory farmhouse with a columned portico covering the front steps and a sun porch that completely enclosed the first floor of the building. The driveway that circled in front of the barracks was already mobbed by dozens of newspaper reporters when the officers arrived in Franklinville at about 1:45 A.M. Pulling around back, the troopers hustled Ernie into a small utility room at the rear of the building, which held cleaning utensils, a toilet, a sink, and a hamper for soiled uniforms. The state police hoped that if they kept their prisoner in a quiet spot, out of the media's sight, they might have a chance to obtain a confession.
Among the law enforcement authorities who gathered at the barracks that night were George Small, investigator for the Gloucester County Prosecutor's Office; William A. Gravino, assistant county prosecutor; Emory J. Kiess, assistant prosecutor for Atlantic County; and Joseph Mangold, Atlantic County detective. State troopers included Sergeant DeWinne, detectives William Piana and William Conroy, and troopers Cunningham and Vorberg. As the interrogation continued, other officials from Gloucester, Atlantic, and Cumberland counties and additional state police officers entered and left the room.
At one point, Ernie was told to remove his clothes. While the prisoner was taking off his shirt, Piana asked: "Why did you do it? Why did you commit these crimes?"
"They wouldn't let me see my children," Ernie said.
After Ernie took off his undershirt, Piana noticed a trickle of dried blood on his left wrist.
"What did you do, try to commit suicide?" Piana asked. "With what, a razor blade?"
"Yes," Ernie answered.
"Where is the razor blade now?"
"Out in the car," Ernie said.
"You didn't try very hard," the detective said.
"No," he retorted. "I couldn't go through with it."
Piana sent Vorberg back to Oak Road. Before long, the trooper returned with a Treet single-blade razor, which he had discovered on the floor mat of the front seat of the Ford. Piana showed the razor to Ernie.
"Is this the blade you tried to commit suicide with?" Piana asked.
Ernie nodded, looking out over the sea of impassive faces.
"Let's get this over with," he demanded. "I did it. Give me the chair."
There was no answer.
"Why don't they put me in the electric chair and get it over with?" Ernie asked again.
After Piana told Ernie to step back against the wall, he began to search him. The prisoner asked, "Why didn't the troopers kill me when they got me?"
Piana didn't answer. He was too busy pulling out handfuls of ammunition from Ernie's pants pockets. After identifying himself and the other officers as state police, Piana told Ernie that he was under arrest for a series of murders and shootings. Although the police in New Jersey were not then required to read a prisoner what would later come to be known as the Miranda Rights, Piana informed Ernie that whatever he said must be of his own free will. Ernie grunted in response, as Piana placed everything he took from Ernie's pockets into envelopes, which he marked with the date, time, and his initials. In addition to the ammunition, Ernie had $6.38, a 1950 driver's license, a scrap of paper with attorney William Gallner's name and address, two keys, two pocket screwdrivers, one blue-bordered handkerchief, one leather belt, and several boxes of matches, along with the keys to Tony D'Augustine's store.
When Piana finished searching him, Ernie put his shirt back on and was handcuffed once again. Before the detective could resume the interrogation, Cumberland County prosecutor George Stanger entered and began to question the prisoner. Stanger's office had become involved in the case after Pearl Mazzoli died in Vineland, which was located in Cumberland, the county just south of Gloucester. Stanger, who later was elected to three terms in the New Jersey State Senate, was a no-nonsense prosecutor who had served briefly in 1944 as acting governor. When Stanger arrived, Ernie was standing on one side of the room against a stand holding a washtub. Piana introduced the prosecutor, who said, "You realize you are under arrest."
"I done it, that is all there is to it," Ernie answered. "They wouldn't let me see the kids."
Stanger asked Ernie for details about his movements leading up to the night of November 17. At one point, apparently not happy with the prisoner's attitude, the prosecutor asked, "Ernest, are you willing to talk to me about this thing?" When Ernie said yes, Stanger asked, "You remember you don't have to, and whatever you say can be used against you. Are you still willing to talk to me?"
"Yes."
Although Stanger had expected the prisoner to cooperate after agreeing to talk, it was soon obvious that Ernie was reluctant to answer his questions because of the stenographer, Tpr. Charles Myers, who was documenting the interrogation. In an effort to gain Ernie's trust, Stanger told Myers to stop taking notes.
"Why don't you want to give a statement?" Stanger asked. "The stenographer is here. Why don't you want us to write down what you are saying?"
"When I was in the Army, two lieutenants and two sergeants beat me up," Ernie said. "They took a statement from me, but when they got through, there was a lot of stuff in there I didn't say. I don't want that to happen here."
"All right," Stanger said. "We aren't going to take any statements."
After looking around the crowded room, Stanger suggested that the prisoner might be more cooperative if there were fewer police officers in the room. He emptied the room of all but three troopers and started again.
"Ernest, what did you do?"
Ernie hung his head a little.
Rain of Bullets: The True Story of Ernest Ingenito's Bloody Family Massacre Page 7