Serial Killers: Confessions of a Cannibal Read Free Page A

he could. The element of surprise would be with him. Besides, he’d been doing this for a very long time.
     
    At around mid-morning on Sunday, June 3, a gray muggy day in New York City, Frank Howard disembarked from the subway at 14 th Street. He was dressed in his best suit, the same threadbare ensemble he’d worn on his first visit to the Budd residence. Today, he carried a package under his arm, wrapped in red-and-white striped canvas. The package felt comfortably weighty and emitted the occasional clink of metal-on-metal as he walked. In his other hand, Howard carried another recent purchase, a small, white enamel pail.
     
    It was several blocks to the Budds’ apartment, but Howard didn’t mind that. He had a couple of purchases to make before he got there. The first of those was transacted at a German delicatessen, where he paid to have his pail filled with fresh pot cheese. Then, at a sidewalk stall, he bought a bushel of ripe strawberries. Finally, he stopped at a newsstand to buy a copy of the New York World. He had a favor to ask the stall owner. Would he be prepared to mind his package for an hour or so? The news seller took one look at the frail old man juggling his many packages and agreed to help. Howard handed over the striped parcel and then set off for the Budd’s apartment, just a block away. At around 11, he knocked at the door.
     
    Delia Budd greeted her son’s new employer warmly, then accepted his gifts of cheese and strawberries with delight. “These are from my farm,” Howard explained. “I guarantee that you’ll never taste sweeter strawberries nor finer cheese.” Inside, Mrs. Budd introduced Howard to her husband, still dressed in his best suit, having attended church that morning.
     
    “Edward’s over at Willie’s house again,” Mrs. Budd said, “But he’ll be in shortly for lunch. I trust that you’ll join us, Mr. Howard.”
     
    “I’d be delighted,” Frank Howard said.
     
    While Mrs. Budd busied herself preparing the meal, Howard sat down with her husband in the lounge. There he explained to Albert Budd that he’d been unable to come the previous day because he’d had to go to New Jersey to view some horses for sale. “I hope that Edward wasn’t too disappointed,” he said. “I trust that he got my message?” Budd said that he had and thanked Howard for sending it.
     
    “You wouldn’t perhaps still have it?” Howard enquired.
     
    “As a matter of fact, yes,” Albert Budd said. “It’s over there, on the mantelpiece.”
     
    Then, as Mrs. Budd entered the room to announce that lunch was ready, Frank Howard did a curious thing. He walked over to the mantelpiece, picked up the message and slipped it into his pocket.
     
    Lunch was ham hocks and cabbage, the heated up remains of the previous evening’s dinner, with Mr. Howard’s plump strawberries offered as dessert. The Budds and their guest had just sat down at the kitchen table when they heard the front door open and close again. “That will be Gracie,” Mrs. Budd said. She called out to her daughter. A moment later, Grace appeared in the kitchen doorway.
     
    Frank Howard, just about to stuff a forkful of cabbage into his mouth, stopped in mid-motion. The girl was beautiful, pale with lustrous mid-brown hair and large eyes that seemed to sparkle. She was still in her church outfit, a white silk dress with white stockings and matching pumps. A string of imitation pearls hung from her neck, making her look more mature than her ten years. She smiled shyly at the stranger sitting in her kitchen, then averted her eyes towards the floor.
     
    “This is Mr. Howard,” her mother said. “Say hello.”
     
    “Hello,” Gracie mumbled, eyes still downcast.
     
    Howard had now placed his fork down on the plate and appeared to have lost any interest he might previously have had in his meal. “Come here, child,” he said patting his knee. Grace cast a nervous look towards her mother, who nodded encouragingly.