Splitting Nines (1)

by Ron Gannon

Chapter 7. The Warwick Slasher

  Craig Price was alone Sept. 1st, 1989, two weeks after Florence's murder. His cronies went to a house party. He was sure one of them was a racist and that’s why he wasn’t invited. If he came across them later on that Friday night he would beat them up. With any luck maybe some of them will show up the beach party he was walking to.

 

  There were twenty or so, all white, gathered around a large campfire on the beach. Most were standing around drinking beer and a few were smoking pot. Price recognized Jimmy and rushed over to him. “Hey clown, gotta extra brewski?”

 

  Jimmy lifted his can of Narragansett beer. “Sorry, last one.”

 

  Price could hear jokes being told nearby. One kid had asked what kind of wood doesn’t float and then said Natalie Wood. An older man said, “How do you make a nigger nervous? Take him to an auction.”

 

  Price wanted to throw him in the fire, but he figured he’d have to fight all twenty of them.

 

  Jimmy ignored Price and turned to Dave standing by his side. “This salesman sold my dad fire insurance and then tried to sell him flood insurance. My dad said, ‘Flood insurance? How do I start a flood?’”

 

  Price just glared at the large white jokester standing ten feet away smiling at him.

 

  Jimmy said to Dave, “Last night Johnny Carson said America is the land of opportunity where every boy can grow up and say, ‘Hey look, there goes a rich guy.’”

  Price stormed off. By the time he reached Casey Craven’s house he had a headache. To make matters worse he saw Casey peeking out her window. He imagined Casey was watching him in contempt until she closed her blinds - a typical white woman.

  Price plodded home, several houses away.

 

  Tom met with Shortman in a dimly lit corner of a barroom. Shortman leaned forward. “They want to charge you, Mr. Paine. You’re certain Evans lied about the time you were arguing?”

 

  “I’m positive, only once before eight.”

 

  “Do you think Florence told Mr. Disenzo about your affair with his wife?”

 

  “It might be the other way around. I don’t know. Other than those partial fingerprints what else did they find in the house?”

 

  “We found cat fur in the living room, on the staircase and in her bedroom. Odd since the house cleaner vacuumed around four the day of the murder. Is it feasible that Florence may have visited him before you argued? ”

 

  “No way! She thought the guy was a pervert.”

 

  “Then, I reckon he might have been in her room that night.”

 

  “You feel he might have done it?”

 

  “Perhaps, my gut says yes. But I haven’t ruled out several viable suspects. There’s another unsolved murder a couple of miles away. It appears to be another break-in gone astray. The burglar used a knife from her home, too. It’s a long shot, but the murders might be connected.”

 

  “Why is it a long shot?”

 

  “I can’t tell you everything I know about the case; that might be construed as unethical.”

 

  “What about me? Am I one of your suspects?”

 

  “Of course, that’s why I’m here. Have another drink and we’ll talk some more. Maybe I can get you drunk enough to confess.”

  Price smoked pot in his room, trying to reason with himself but the more he thought about that look on her face the angrier he got. Shortly before midnight he came to a solution. The only solution: kill Casey Craven.

  He dressed in his ‘thieving’ outfit: black clothing, black gloves, and sneakers covered with black tape. As soon as left his house he felt an adrenaline rush. His headache went away. He felt excited. His heart beat faster and faster as he scampered through his neighbors’ yards and over a couple of stockade fences to the Craven's house, about 100 yards from his house.

  The back door was locked. More readily was an open window to a small dinning area. First he cut out the screen with his knife and then removed his sneakers. He glanced around the backyards of the nearby houses before crawling through the window. He landed on a table. His 220 plus pounds caused one of the legs to cave-in. The noise of the furniture and him hitting the floor was just loud enough to wake up all the occupants.

  Casey, a thirty-nine-year-old widow, opened her eyes. She heared the noise. Mainly concerned about the safety of her two daughters she got out of bed to investigate. After turning on a small lamp by her bed she focused on a photo of her late husband in his army uniform. She missed him so much. It’s been over six years since he killed himself, but rarely does a day go by without thinking about him. His picture always brought a smile followed by sadness.

  Craig got off the floor and rushed toward the bedrooms. It was so dark he could barely see that the doors were shut. Suddenly a light shinned through the bottom of one of the doors. He grabbed the doorknob as the door to his right swung open. A tiny figure stood in the doorway. Her small hand flipped the light switch.

  Carla, age seven, stood there, terrified. Price grabbed her and slammed a hand across her mouth. He carried her down the hallway.

  Another door flew open. Casey appeared. She saw Price with her baby and charged after him. Price tossed Carla to the floor and slammed Casey against the wall, knocking the wind out of her. She barely got out, “Call 9 1 1,” as Price’s knife went into her chest. She went down.

  Carla ran for the telephone.

 

  Price went after her. He caught her, ripped the phone from her hands, then plunged his knife into her shoulder. Carla screamed in agony as Craig grabbed a stool. He bashed her head again and again and again. After every powerful blow blood flew out, leaving splatter on him and the surrounding cabinets. He took a moment to watch her die and listen to her death rattle. While getting off her lifeless little body, he noticed a rack of knives on the counter. He grabbed one and hurried back into the hallway.

 

  Nine year-old Gale knelt by her mother, crying, “Mommy, mommy, please wake up.”

 

  Price stabbed her repeatedly. Before long Gale’s arms fell limp to her side. Her petite body fell on the floor. Price listened for her death rattle. It came; giving him a thrill he would remember and brag about to anyone willing to listen. He stabbed Gale's bloody body over and over again before getting up.

  Price went back to stabbing Casey's body, more than fifty times until he accidentally stabbed his finger. “Shit!” he cried out, shaking his hand.

 

  He ran into the bathroom and found a Band-Aid. While shuffling back to Casey he placed the bandage over the deep gash in his finger. He dropped the wrapper by Casey's body, removed his gloves from his pocket and put them back on. “Racist bitch,” he murmured. Then Price got down on a knee and cut out Casey’s eyes.

 

  When he finished with Casey, he stomped into the kitchen and tossed the knife into the sink. He glanced down at little Carla. A large pool of blood had formed around her head.

  He fetched another knife from the rack and knelt over the dead child, placing his knees just outside her thighs. He stabbed her until the blade went through her thin neck, stuck to the floor and broke off at the handle.

 

  Before leaving the house he gathered some towels and attempted to clean up some of the blood around his victims’ bodies. In a short amount of time he found a trash bag for the bloody towels, his gloves and the knives. He left the house with the bag, put on his sneakers and sprinted home.

 

  A couple of days later the bodies were found by Casey’s mother. The media reported that the murders were committed by an apparent burglar living in their neighborhood. They assumed the victims caught the r
obber stealing inside their homes. Even with the obvious overkill, none suspected hatred as a possible motive. If so, nobody wrote about it.

 

  Dave and Jimmy were strolling through the Rocky Point amusement park when they came across Price. Jimmy noticed a gauze bandage wrapped around Price’s finger. He frowned and shook his head. “I read three more of your neighbors were sliced and diced. Still thieving and dicing?”

 

  A friendly smile left Price’s face. In a rage he pushed Jimmy. “Give me the fin you owe me, clown.”

 

  “For what?”

  “For not bashing your ugly face in.”

 

  Jimmy showed no fear and took a half step towards Price. “Careful, I’m not a little girl. You sucker punched me once, fat boy. That’s not going to happen again.”

 

  Dave clenched a fist, ready to assist his friend.

 

  A large shadow went over Price. Jimmy looked up and smiled. “RoboCop meet King Kong.”

 

  “We’ve met.” Shortman stepped in front of Price. He pointed. “What happened to your finger?”

  “I got drunk a few nights ago and punched out a car window. I saw a wallet on the seat. Couldn’t resist.”

 

  Jimmy laughed. “You cut it vandalizing a car? That’s what you’re telling a cop? You're a lot dumber than I thought." Jimmy gazed up at Shortman. "You should introduce him to your phone book."

 

  Shortman appeared confused. He tilted his head to the side as he looked down at Price. "What motivated you to do such a thing, Craig?"

  Price showed Shortman his boyish smile and looked a little embarrassed. “Ya know, I was drunk. And the wallet turned out to be empty.”

 

  Jimmy laughed. “What a moron. Confess to a lesser crime - that should work.”

 

  Price glared at Jimmy until Shortman grabbed his arm and led him through a crowd saying, “Let’s go to the station. I have some photos to show you.”

 

  Jimmy yelled, “Don't forget to use your phone book.”

 

  Shortman took his prisoner out an exit facing the bay. They walked a little before stopping in front of take out window. Shortman purchased a bag of clam cakes and led Price across a paved road to a park bench that faced the water. After sitting down Shortman shoved the bag in front of his detainee. Price took one without saying a word.

 

  “Enjoy the gentle wind and the smell of the salt water, Craig,” said Shortman admiring the view and taking in a deep breath of fresh air. “We can chat here or down the station with your parents present. Your call.”

  Shortman bit into the round greasy dough he held by his finger tips. As he chewed he examined a piece of quahog surrounded by white batter prior to putting the remaining half in his mouth. Then he offered Price another one. He took one and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. With a mouth full of dough Price mumbled, “Why are we here?”

 

  “To discuss your finger. May I have a look?”

 

  “Sure, I got nothing to hide.” Price removed the white gauze.

 

  Shortman scrutinized the cut. “There are no abrasions around the wound. It’s clear a knife cut your finger. Not broken glass. Was it a burglary gone bad, Craig?”

 

  "No, I didn’t do any killing. I wasn’t there!”

 

  “Then tell me how you cut your finger.”

 

  “I told you. I did it breaking into a car.”

  Shortman put his hand on Price’s shoulder. “Car glass shatters into pellets. No way could it have pierced your finger. It's impossible.” He offered Price another clam cake and took one himself. After he finished eating it he asked, “What kind of person murders children like that?”

 

  “A crazy person or one high on drugs.”

  "What kind of drugs were you on, Craig?"

  "I didn't do it."

 

  “We turned over a mountain of evidence to the FBI for analysis. Have you ever been inside Casey Craven's house?”

 

  “No.”

 

  “How are you going to explain your blood, footprint and fingerprints by those bodies when the results come back, Craig? You left a good print on the Band-Aid wrapper."

 

  “The obvious: the police are just trying to pin the crime on a black kid.”

 

  “Come on, Craig. Think about it. You’ve been arrested for B & E, peeping into houses, vandalism, multiple assaults and all you got was probation. Just last month you assaulted your sister, your father and a police officer. Your father had to help the arresting officer get you into handcuffs. What was your punishment? A night in detention and probation? I’ll show you a long list of white kids who spent time in Sockanosset for much less.”

 

  “If you’re gonna arrest me, do it. Otherwise, I wanna go home.”

  “First let me treat you to a cup of clam chowder.”

 

  “Okay, but no more questions.”

 

  “Just one, Craig. Did you brag about murdering a neighbor who caught you thieving two years ago?”

 

  Price was rattled by the inquiry. His so-called friends had ratted on him. He was sure of it. So he played it cool and smiled at his interrogator. “I was joshing with ‘em. Ya know, we were doing drugs and telling stories - trying to out do each other. You must ‘member what it was like when you were 13 or 14. I liked Becky. Played touch football with her son many times.”

 

  “You recently told Jimmy about the murder. I’m not aware of him ever doing drugs.”

 

  “Yeah! I told that clown that after he told me he raped and murdered Mrs. Paine. He said the bitch was begging for it.”

  “Are you willing to take a lie detector test, Craig?”

 

  “Sure, that’ll prove I’m not lying. Jimmy and that freak with fake fingers probably killed Mrs. Craven and her kids. The one by Ann and Hope, too. Believe me, that clown's a psycho.”

 

  The captain sat at his desk, reading a report. He looked up at Shortman. “Do you believe James Timber admitted to raping and killing Mrs. Paine?”

 

  “Absolutely not! That kid's smart. An honor student. He’s not the type to boast about murdering and raping - especially to Price. He may have done it, but he didn’t brag about it.”

 

  “Good! The prosecutor wants Paine arrested.”

 

  “Price might have killed her too. No doubt he murdered four and I think Victoria Crane, too.”

 

  “We’ll let a jury decide. Set up an appointment for the polygraph test. Be sure both parents are there. And have him sign a statement that he was never in Casey Craven’s house.”

 

  Price thought the test seemed ridiculously easy to beat up to, “Do you know where the murder weapons are?”

  "No," answered Price. He thought, “Oh fuck! They’re in the shed.”

  The machine detected indecision. He was lying. Then the police obtained a warrant to search his house and shed. After finding the murder weapons and bloody gloves inside a bag, Price was put under arrest and handcuffed.

  His mother cried and his father screamed at the arresting police officers.

 

  A few weeks prior to his sixteenth birthday, Price confessed to four murders. On

  September 21, 1989 Craig Price appeared before a Judge at the Kent County Courthouse. During the brief proceedings, Price was read the four murder and burglary charges against him. He pled guilty to all them. The Judge ordered that he be held in the training school for boys until his twenty-first birthday. The maximum sentence allowed by law in Rhode Isl
and. Also he was ordered to undergo psychiatric treatment to prepare him for release as a free man with a clean record.

 

  In hand cuffs Craig Price left the courthouse with a smile on his face. Some of his chums were outside shouting his name. He yelled to them, “Later, when I get out we'll all smoke a bomber together.''