By the time Edward arrived minutes later, with Willie Korman in tow, Frank Howard was seated in an armchair sipping from a glass of lemonade. He ran an appraising eye over the boys and half-raised himself to shake hands as the introductions were made, wincing with the effort. Then he settled himself back into the chair and began to describe his situation.
According to Howard, he’d spent most of his working life as a painter and decorator in Washington D.C. He had been decorous with his earnings, so that when he was no longer able to keep up with the physical demands of his trade, he had enough squirreled away to buy a small farm in Farmingdale, Long Island. His investment though, had come at a price. His wife had hated country life and had deserted the family, leaving him to care for his six children alone. Still, it was a good life. He had chickens and milk cows that provided him with a steady income, allowing him to employ a cook and five farmhands. Now came the crux of his problem. One of his workers had decided to move on, and Howard was looking for someone to replace him.
“I won’t lie to you,” the old man said. “The work is hard. But you look like a strapping young man and I am sure that you will do just fine. I am prepared to pay $15 per week. What do you say?”
“I say yes,” Edward responded immediately. This sounded too good to be true. $15 a week was more than generous. “I was wondering though Mr. Howard, if you wouldn’t have another position available. My pal Willie here is also looking for a summer job.”
Howard appeared to consider that for a moment, all the while eyeing Willie. “Alright,” he said eventually. “There’s plenty of work to keep the both of you out of mischief.”
A few minutes later Howard was on his way, having instructed the boys to pack their oldest clothes and to expect him on Saturday afternoon, when he’d arrive with a car to drive them to Farmingdale.
Chapter Four:
Gracie
Frank Howard didn’t show up on the Saturday, like he was supposed to. Edward and Willie spent the day hanging impatiently around the Budds’ apartment, becoming more convinced with each passing hour that the old man had duped them. To what purpose though, was a mystery. Then, late in the afternoon, there was finally a knock at the door.
The boys rushed to answer it, fully expecting to see their new employer on the doorstep. To their disappointment, it was only a Western Union delivery boy. The note he handed over, was from Frank Howard. “Been in New Jersey,” it read. “Call in morning.”
Eddie and Willie were disappointed at the delay, but pleased that their initial suspicion, that the job offer had been some sort of hoax, had been unfounded. So they’d have to wait another day. It wasn’t the end of the world. They’d waited this long.
Over in his apartment on East 100th Street, the man who called himself Frank Howard was also frustrated at the delay. He’d had to push back his plans by a day in order to complete his preparations. There were tools to be bought and he found them at Sobel’s pawnshop on Second Avenue. There was also the question to be mulled. Could he go through with this? Edward Budd had not been what he’d expected. He was bigger and stronger. And now there was the added problem of the Korman boy. Could he handle both of them? Howard thought that 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 14th 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. Then she stepped across the room and stood beside Howard.
The old man’s attention was now entirely on the child. He peppered her with questions. What grade was she in at school? What were her favorite subjects? Who was her best friend? Grace answered shyly but politely. She flinched when the old man reached out a gnarled hand to stroke her hair, but allowed him to do it. He told her how pretty she was, and how charming. Finally, Howard slid his hand into his pocket. “Let’s see how good a counter you are,” he said and produced a thick bundle of bills, which he placed on the table. Mr. and Mrs. Budd exchanged a look. They had seldom seen so much money. “Go on” Howard urged Grace, “Count it.”
Obediently, Grace counted out the notes, summing a total of $92. Then Howard reached into his pocket again and produced a handful of coins. Grace tallied those at 50¢. “What a clever girl you are!” Howard exclaimed, then scooped up the coins and placed them in Grace’s hand. “There you are. Go and buy some candy for you and your sister.” Again the girl looked nervously towards her mother who gave her a nod of consent.
“Tha
nk you, Mr. Howard,” Grace beamed. Then she rushed towards the door clutching her bounty.
“If you see Eddie out there,” her mother called after her. “Tell him Mr. Howard’s here.”
Edward and Willie Korman showed up minutes later, Willie clutching his duffel bag and both of them looking eager to be on their way. But as it turned out, their new employer was about to disappoint them again. After apologizing for not picking them up the previous day, Howard said that he was not able to take them out to the farm right away. He explained that his sister was throwing a birthday party for his young niece that afternoon, and that he was obliged to attend. Seeing the disappointment on the young men’s faces he dug into his pocket and produced his bankroll again.
“Tell you what,” he said, peeling off a couple of bills. “Here’s two dollars. Why don’t you boys go to the pictures this afternoon? I’ll go to the party and I’ll pick you up later, on my way home.”
Eddie and Willie were happy to accept. After woofing down a quick lunch they were out of the door and on their way to a matinee. By then Grace had returned, carrying a bagful of candy for her and Beatrice. Howard meanwhile had finished off his lunch and was sipping noisily from a cup of coffee. He seemed misty-eyed, lost in thought. Finally, he put down his cup, consulted his pocket watch and announced that it was time to leave.
It was while thanking the Budds for their hospitality and assuring them that he’d be by later to collect Edward that an idea seemed to occur to him. He wondered whether the Budds would allow Gracie to accompany him to the birthday party. There’d be lots of girls her own age, he said, and he was sure that she’d have a great time. And he promised that he’d have her back by nine, the hour that he’d agreed to meet Edward and Willie. “What do you say, Mrs. Budd? Can she go?”
Delia Budd looked across at her husband. Her inclination was to thank Howard for his kind offer but to say no. After all, they hardly knew the old man. Then again, what harm was there. Frank Howard was, after all, a kindly and generous old gentleman. The last thing she wanted was to offend the old farmer who had so kindly offered her son employment.
It was Albert Budd who broke the impasse, brief though it was. “Let the poor kid go,” he said. “She don’t see much good times.”
And with that it was settled. Delia Budd had only one more question for Howard. Where, she asked, did his sister stay? “In a fine building at 137th and Columbus,” Howard offered, which seemed to satisfy Mrs. Budd. The old man then consulted his pocket watch again. “We’ll have to leave right away, however. We wouldn’t want to be late.”
Five minutes later, Albert and Delia Budd stood on the sidewalk and watched as their pretty, ten-year-old daughter walked away with Frank Howard. Grace was wearing her best coat and had a gray hat with blue streamers. In her hand she clutched a small leather handbag. She looked quite the little lady. Beside her, Howard hobbled along at his odd bow-legged gait. As the Budds continued watching, the odd couple turned the corner and was gone from view. Half a block on, Howard stopped at the newsstand to retrieve his canvas-wrapped package. Something inside made a metallic clink as he picked it up.
Chapter Five:
Without A Trace
Frank Howard did not return Grace Budd to her home by nine o’clock that night, neither by ten nor eleven o’clock. Delia and Albert spent a long, sleepless night waiting on their daughter’s return. All the while they tried to convince themselves, and each other, that there was some logical explanation why Frank Howard had not brought Grace home. Perhaps the party had run later than expected and Mr. Howard’s sister had convinced him to let Grace spend the night. Yes, that was likely what had happened.
But by the time the first chill rays of dawn filtered through the windows of their apartment, the Budds decided that it was time to take action. They dispatched Edward to the local precinct to report Grace missing. A short while later, Lieutenant Samuel Dribben arrived at the Budd’s apartment with three detectives. The men listened intently as the distraught parents explained how they’d met Howard, how he’d offered their son a job and how they’d allowed their daughter to go with him to a children’s birthday party.
“And where was this party to take place?” Dribben asked. Delia Budd gave the address, immediately eliciting a curious expression from the detective. “That address doesn’t exist,” he said. “Columbus terminates at 109th Street.”
Any hope of an innocent explanation for Grace Budd’s disappearance had now been banished. And there was more distressing news for the Budd family when the police ran checks in the town of Farmingdale, Long Island and found no record of a farm owned by a man named Frank Howard. In the meantime, detectives and plainclothes officers had been dispatched to search the immediate area, and Edward Budd had been taken down to police headquarters to search through mugshots in the hope of finding the true identity of Grace’s abductor. The police were by now convinced that Frank Howard was not his real name.
There was one other lead. The Western Union message Howard had sent to Edward Budd. Howard had, of course, pocketed the slip of paper (and it was now obvious why), but the original would still be at the office that it had been sent from. A couple of detectives were immediately tasked with tracking it down.
On Tuesday, June 5, the story broke in the tabloid press, triggering the inevitable flood of crank calls, cruel taunts, and useless information. There were two leads, however, that initially seemed promising. A neighborhood woman pointed the finger at an elderly man named Joseph Slowey, said to have an “unhealthy interest” in young children. Slowey denied any involvement in the Budd abduction and was quickly cleared. Then four of Grace’s playmates told police that they had seen her and Frank Howard get into a blue sedan, with a young man at the wheel. This suggested a well coordinated kidnapping and sent police on a frantic search for the vehicle, which ultimately proved fruitless.
On Thursday, June 7, one thousand flyers were distributed to police departments throughout the US and Canada. These included a photograph of Grace Budd and a description of both Grace and Frank Howard. The following week saw another batch of flyers, 7000 of them, distributed across New York City. Grace Budd’s picture was suddenly everywhere – in subway stations and ferry terminals, in banks, post offices, barbershops and grocery stores, in diners and luncheonettes. And this, inevitably, triggered a deluge of new tips. Sightings of Grace and her elderly abductor came in from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Niagara Falls and Long Island, not to mention various locales in the five boroughs. Each of these tips was scrupulously checked, either by officers from the West 20th Street precinct who had taken the initial missing persons report, or by detectives from the Bureau of Missing Persons, which had now joined the hunt.
In mid-July, the search for Howard’s elusive telegram finally paid off when detectives traced it to the Western Union office at 103rd Street and 3rd Avenue in Manhattan. The police now had a sample of the kidnapper’s handwriting, but there was still no trace of the man himself.
Another valuable clue emerged when police traced the hawker who had sold Howard the small white pail in which he’d delivered the pot cheese to the Budds. He was a pushcart vendor named Rueben Rossoff, but while he could easily identify the pail by the price tag on its underside, he had little recall of the transaction itself. Still, the location of Rosoff’s stall was close to the Western Union office and that suggested that Howard either lived in the area – East Harlem – or frequented it. A dragnet was therefore organized, employing hundreds of officers. Rooming houses and hostels were searched, while residents and business owners were questioned. It came to nothing.
Throughout the long, hot summer of 1928, the tale of the missing Grace Budd continued to demand column inches in the New York papers. The story was, of course, a boon for the tabloids and they played it to the hilt. The Daily News for example, ended each bulletin with this line: “Follow the search for little Grace Budd and her kidnapper in tomorrow’s Daily News!” It was cheap and tacky, but it sold newspapers.
/> Meanwhile, caught in the midst of this maelstrom were Grace’s unfortunate parents. Albert appeared bowed under the weight of his unbearable loss, while Delia wavered between optimism, that her daughter would be recovered alive and well, and despair, that Grace was already dead. One person who came to share the latter opinion was Lieutenant Samuel Dribben. Yet even he could not have begun to imagine the horror of what had really happened to Grace Budd.
Chapter Six:
Suspects
In August 1928, a prison warden from Railford, Florida contacted officers involved in the Budd investigation. Like law enforcement officials across the country, J.S. Blitch had received a flyer about the Budd kidnapping. After mulling it over, he had become convinced that Frank Howard was a former inmate of his, a conman by the name of Albert E. Corthell. Corthell had been released two years earlier and, according to Blitch, he closely matched the description of Frank Howard. That, however, was not the only reason that Blitch suspected Corthell. The conman had a habit of hiring prepubescent girls to pose as his daughters and Blight believed that he might have kidnapped Grace for the same purpose.
Serial Killers: Confessions of a Cannibal Page 2
