Death at a Dumpster

This would be a huge day. The biggest day ever, followed by an even bigger night.

The 6-inch fish-filleting knife, a skinny knife with a sheath, was a beautiful object. It had a good balance, a good feel. The thought of how it would be used brought a jolt of excitement. The thought of how this day would end brought a feeling that the killer had never known before: absolute power.

Over and over, the grip had been practiced until the assailant had it down cold. It became second nature. The handle had been taped to prevent slipping, even after the grip became slick with blood. A puddle of maimed foam from two pillows was testament to the rehearsal for the main event. When this was over, the apartment would have to be cleaned meticulously and all these shreds of foam burned.

"Make sure she’s dead," the killer repeated over and over. "I can’t let her live because then she could identify me. I have to make sure she’s dead. Once she’s dead, we’ll be all over each other every night, non-stop, even better, even more dangerous. I’m ready now. Now."

* * *

At 6:30 a.m. on the morning of March 20, 1982, Larry Cusack took the 9 millimeter Walther PPK out of the kitchen cabinet where he always kept it.

He took a clip out of the cabinet and loaded the automatic. It was the weapon he carried to and from work as a cop in Webster.

As he pulled out of the driveway, Felicia, at 44 a year older than her husband, cleared the table of the dishes he had used for his light breakfast of coffee and toast. Their children, 11-year-old John and 13-year-old Grace, were still asleep.

Home for the Cusacks was a four-bedroom colonial in a place called Duckbill Cove. It’s a small town in a part of New Jersey known as the Jersey Shore or just the Shore, about an hour south of New York City and 10 minutes from the Atlantic Ocean.

The Cove was a tight-knit bedroom community, population 5,500 in 1982. The median house price was $89,000. The schools produced students who went on to do above-average work at the regional high school. The municipal facilities and services were viewed as superior and the streets were considered safe.

Tonight the Cusacks would be going to a movie in a community also considered safe. But not safe for everyone--.

* * *

She was covered with blood and wasn’t breathing. DeVito, a marketing manager with no training in first aid, felt he had to do something. He knelt by Felicia and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He’d seen it on Quincy.

It worked. Felicia started breathing again.

Ann Padgett grabbed some napkins from Dublin restaurant and ran outside. A busboy, Juan Gonzalez, grabbed a linen tablecloth and followed her. Reaching Felicia, Ann saw she was covered with blood from the chin down.

"Oh my God, stabbed? This is slaughter," Ann cried out.