I faced the wall again and realized I was finally pulling the nails from the last wooden board. Once I freed both nails, I pulled the board off the wall and discarded it into a pile in the middle of the floor, which was now nearly as tall as I.
Before Ryan’s men started removing the remaining drywall, I ransacked the two piles of debris on the floor to salvage whatever newspaper clippings I could find. My attempts didn’t amount to much—just a few tattered articles that were so ripped, they weren’t legible and probably would end up being thrown away. I couldn’t say I was that concerned, though, because as soon as I was able to remove the whitewashed boards on the wall facing me, I found my holy grail.
From floor to ceiling, and spanning the entire width of the wall, which had to be twenty feet, were yellowed newspaper pages still clinging to the boards beneath them. As I stared at the articles and images that had been meticulously excised a long time ago and were now displayed before me, my mind raced with the need to read and inspect each one. I took a few steps closer, suddenly irritated with the sun for setting. Now all I had to rely on was the overhead fluorescent lighting of a two-foot-long shop light. It threw garish shadows against the walls in some areas and was so exceptionally bright in others, it was like trying to read a blob of gray print in a blazing spotlight.
“What do we have here?” I whispered aloud, taking another step closer. My gaze was affixed to another picture of the young police officer. This one depicted him in a three-piece black suit and a tie. He was offering a smile and handshake to a beefy woman who resembled a large hen with her pointy nose, billowy cheeks, miniature chin, and beady eyes. The enormous plumes exploding from a comical hat perched precariously on her head completed the fowlish comparison. She was smiling coyly at the handsome officer, but I couldn’t make out the expression on his face as he was depicted only in profile. Above the image, the headline read: “Corporal Drake Montague Greets Guests at Gala Benefitting Charity Hospital.”
So I now had an identity for the devastatingly handsome young man whose police portrait I’d uncovered in the rubble earlier. I wasn’t sure why, but my discovery made me inordinately pleased. In learning his name, maybe I’d somehow opened a door to the past—a door that was, for all intents and purposes, buried in time and hidden by myriad whitewashed boards.
With renewed fervor, I shifted my gaze to another article, just below the one regarding the Charity Hospital Gala. The Times-Picayune was displayed across the top of the page in bold Edwardian script. Beneath it were the words: “New Orleans, Friday, May 24, 1918.”
“1918! Aha!” I said out loud, not exactly sure why I felt the need to speak, considering the only ears listening were my own. “Scene of the Latest New Orleans Murder,” I read as my eyes skimmed the image of a rustic one-story house. The words “Grocery and Bar. Joe Maggio” were painted on the fascia board along the top of one wall. Just beneath the image of the store and bar was a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Maggio. Mr. Maggio’s suit was complete with a vest, and he had a handlebar moustache. Mrs. Maggio’s updo and high-necked black dress made the picture look as if it dated from the late nineteenth century.
“Joseph Maggio and his wife, from a photograph taken on their wedding day fifteen years ago, and the house in which they were killed while asleep in their bed.” I read the caption appearing just below the image of the Maggios. Above the caption was a picture of the layout of the Maggios’ home, showing how the killer entered the home by way of the back door, apparently, chiseling out a panel of it. A dotted line revealed the trajectory the killer took, showing how he traveled through the kitchen and the hall before executing his grisly task in the Maggios’ bedroom.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the handsome policeman were involved in the crime, so I read the lengthy article, only to discover that the unfortunate Maggios were hacked to death by their own ax before having their throats slit with a razor. Apparently, the brother of Joseph Maggio was charged with the murder, but nowhere was there mention of Drake Montague. I took a deep breath and realized my heart was racing. I could definitely recognize the fact that I was intrigued by the story but there was something else lurking just below my fascination and that felt very much like fear.
I quickly turned my attention to the article at the left of this one and read the title: “Another Hatchet Mystery; Man and Wife Near Death.” This article also managed to make the front page of the Times-Picayune, and judging by the date, occurred roughly a month after the Maggio murder. I scanned the next newspaper clipping, which appeared just below that one, and noticed it, too, dealt with what appeared to be a spree of ax-related crimes. The title of this article was: “Police Believe Axeman May Be Active in City,” the byline reading, “One Explanation of Murderous Assault on Mrs. Edward Schneider.” This article was dated August 6, 1918, just three months after the Maggios’ murders.
Now faced with a mystery, I was only too excited to uncover why these articles had been pasted all over the room. I immediately turned my attention to the clippings appearing at the bottom of the wall. All three had ties to the ax murders, the third referring to the killer as the “Axeman.” My heart strumming in my chest, I hurried past the pile of debris beside me and skimmed the subject lines of the various articles still remaining on the wall.
“Victim of Axeman Is Near Death After Operation,” I read out loud. I skimmed through five more articles, which all named additional victims of the Axeman’s wrath. When I reached the headline farthest from me, at the bottom of the wall, I stopped short. The date read March 10, 1919, and, beneath the title “Three Gretna Victims of Ax Murderer,” there was an image of a child dressed in a long white nightgown. Although her hair was cut short, it was obvious she was a little girl by her outfit, as well as her large, innocent eyes. I imagined she must have been about two or three years old at the time the photograph was taken. Below her picture was the portrait of a couple I supposed were her parents—a man and woman on their wedding day—and beside them, an image of their home, which also happened to serve as a store. Above that image was another map detailing the dotted-line route the Axeman took from his point of entry at the back door to their bedroom. The depiction of three bodies sprawled atop the bed made my heart sink. I read the caption: “These photographs show the Cortimiglia family, victims of the latest axeman mystery, and their Gretna home. The child, Mary, aged two years, was slain outright. Charles Cortimiglia is dying in Charity Hospital. His wife’s condition is serious.”
I took a step back and felt my shoulders droop. Any excitement I previously felt with the discovery of Drake Montague and my curiosity regarding why these articles were glued to the walls dissipated instantly. Instead, I was left with an overwhelming sense of grief. Even though the death of this child occurred nearly one hundred years ago, I couldn’t suppress the overwhelming tide of heartache that surged through me.
I couldn’t focus on my sorrow long, however, because I was suddenly covered in goose bumps from head to toe. I rubbed my arms to ward off the sudden arctic chill in the air and glanced around myself, searching for an open window that might explain the sudden plunge in temperature. Finding both of the windows latched and secure, I turned around and started for the door, wondering if maybe there was an open window in the hallway? Fear was already burrowing its way into my gut, and I took a deep breath, all the while asking myself why I felt so afraid of a simple chill in the air? I exhaled and saw the cloud of my hot breath directly in front of me. That was, in one word…strange.