Chapter Two
The Massacre
October 31, 1971
Law enforcement worked tirelessly on the case of the murdered Cunningham family, but it remained unsolved for decades. From the evidence, questioning eyewitnesses, and piecing innumerable clues together, they did their best to determine what happened on that Halloween night.
The evening began when Mary Cunningham and Ida Mae Cunningham, Mary’s mother-in-law, took the Cunningham children trick or treating.
Betsy Ann was the eldest child. “Mother, I’m not dressing in costume this year. I’m thirteen now, and I’m too mature for that silly custom.”
Cletus was eleven and the oldest boy. “I want to be Jed Clampett from the Beverly Hillbillies. I’ll attach floppy, cardboard ears to Blackie’s natural ears, and he’ll be Jed’s Bloodhound, Duke.”
Nine-year-old Daisy divulged, “I’m dressing as Jeannie from I Dream of Jeannie. That was my favorite television show.”
Travis, who was six, loved baseball. “I’ll be Jim Palmer, the Baltimore Orioles’ pitcher. I know, I always dress like him. That’s because he’s the best ball player ever.”
Four-year-old Lily constantly needed to be the center of attention. “I’m a princess.” She danced around in her lovely, pink lace and netted dress with the shiny crown atop her golden locks.
As for two-year-old Silas, he didn’t care what he wore as long as he was included in the fun. Grandma had made a charming, white bunny costume for him.
Since the children had school the next day, Mary didn’t keep them out late. Around seven fifteen, rain began to fall, soaking the children’s festive costumes. As the group left the home of Rhonda Dixon, one of the ladies in Mary’s prayer group at the Nawinah Presbyterian Church, Rhonda had heard Mary say, “This rain is coming down too heavily. This is the last house we’re stopping at tonight.”
Officials surmised the family arrived home before eight p.m.
“Bath time, children,” Mary said as she and Betsy Ann readied the younger three for bed. “Since it’s a special night, you older kids may stay up a little later to sample some of your treats.”
Ida Mae prepared her evening chamomile tea. “I’ve started a new novel, and I’m retiring to my room to read this fascinating book.”
Mary replied, “Well, I plan to enjoy a cup of hot coffee in the living room until Bill gets home. His secretary called earlier to inform me he’d be late.”
Bill Cunningham, standing well over six feet with dark brown hair, worked late the night of the tragedy. Bill’s secretary had hurried into his office. “Mr. Cunningham, I’ve just received an emergency call about a fire reported at the Wesley Road Orange Grove.”
Bill jumped out of his seat. “Call Dan immediately. Tell him I’ll pick him up on the way to the grove.” He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and rushed out the door.
Nothing was ever proven, but rumor was some disgruntled pickers had set the fire. Bill and Dan Reynolds, Bill’s chief foreman, arrived at the fire location shortly after the fire department. Several hours were spent putting out the flames. The fire department left the scene around nine fifteen p.m. Bill, Dan, and a few of Bill’s workers stayed longer to confirm no sparks remained. Shortly before ten, Bill said to Dan, “What do you say we go back to my house for a few drinks? It’s been a long day.”
The practice of enjoying drinks together was not unusual for Bill and Dan. As well as being Bill’s foreman, Dan was Bill’s best friend. Mary and Dan’s wife, Anna, co-chaired the annual rummage sale at the Presbyterian Church.
With rich, dark hair and deep brown eyes, Dan Reynolds was nearly as tall as Bill Cunningham and similar in stature. While on the job, he, like Bill and all workers at Gunderson Orange Groves, wore the official navy blue company uniform with the gold orange tree emblazoned on the chest pocket.
Dan and Bill often confided in each other about their personal lives. Bill was not one to gossip, but a hushed rumor in Nawinah speculated that Dan and Anna were having marital issues. How the rumor started was unknown. However, during the social hour after the ladies’ prayer meetings, the women would often discuss the personal lives of those members not in attendance.
****
Just after sunrise the next morning, an anonymous telephone call came into the Nawinah Sheriff’s Office. The caller sounded very agitated but did not give his or her name. The conversation was so inaudible and muffled Trudy Prout, the desk clerk who took the call, couldn’t determine if the caller was male or female. Trudy thought the caller said, “There’s trouble at the Cunningham House. Better send the sheriff right away.”
Several times in the last few years, Sheriff Albert Bailey was called to the Cunningham House to check out complaints regarding drifters breaking into an outbuilding or the smaller Gunderson House on the property. Setting far back from the road among the tall, juniper trees and thick ground foliage, the property provided a perfect place for the homeless to find shelter.
When Trudy contacted Sheriff Bailey, he thought, “With all the rain last night, prob’ly some ol’ bum decided to sleep off a drunk. Maybe Trudy jist wasn’t payin’ attention when she took the call. Sometimes she’s too busy readin’ her gossip newspapers. I don’t want to fire the woman ’cause she really needs her job to support her two youngins, bein’ that her ol’ man was killed in that plant accident. But she has to start payin’ attention.”
“Hell, since it ain’t no emergency, I’m gonna stop at the Donut Oven and git me some coffee and one o’ those frosted lemon donuts.”
About seven thirty a.m., Sheriff Bailey drove his cruiser down the long, winding drive lined with neat rows of blooming flowers and lofty shrubbery. His thoughts were concentrated on Edna, his wife of thirty-five years. Edna is makin’ her delicious pot roast tonight. I got a hankerin’ for some. As was evident by his bulging belly, the sheriff loved his food and looked forward to every meal.
Approaching the residence, the sheriff noticed an eerie silence. His professional senses took over, and the thought of food was cast aside.
Awful quiet out here. Why ain’t no ceilin’ fans runnin’ on the porch? And where is Blackie? He’s always barkin’ when I come down the drive. How come the youngins aren’t raisin’ a raucous gettin’ ready to catch the school bus? This is strange…”
Concerned, Sheriff Bailey got on his radio to Chief Deputy Edgar Fitzsimmons. “Ed, whare are ye right now?”
After a crackling reception, the deputy responded, “I’m at the Dobson place on Drake Road.”
“You’d best git out to the Cunningham House. I’m not sure what’s agoin’ on, but somethin’ jist ain’t right.”
“Okay, I should be thar in about thirdy. I’m finishin’ up here now. Somethin’ got inta Mrs. Dobson’s chicken coop, and thar are dead chickens layin’ everwhere.”
“You’d best git here sooner. Forget about the chickens.”
After hanging up his radio, Sheriff Bailey exited his cruiser while keeping his eyes on the house. He cautiously walked to the porch, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the front door.
No answer.
Then he shouted, “Hello! Bill? Mary? Anabody home?”
Still no answer.
He knocked again and yelled even louder, “Bill? Mary? Are ye here?”
Still no sound came from inside the house.
He tried the doorknob. The door was unlocked. Drawing his weapon and pointing it ahead, he pushed the door with his gun and walked onto the black and white tile foyer.
“Hello. Bill? Mary? Anabody home?”
The sheriff stood in the entranceway of the big house, repeating Bill and Mary’s names and hearing only the echo of his own voice as it reverberated in the empty hallway.
“Bill? Mary? Are ya in here?”
****
The sheriff was still inside the Cunningham House when Chief Deputy Fitzsimmons parked his cruiser near the porch. Just as the deputy was exiting his vehicle, the sheriff came bursting out the front door, tripping down the stairs, and dashing past the deputy into the thick bushes on the side of the house. He must have stayed hunched over vomiting for a full five minutes before catching his breath. “Ed, somethin’ horrible has happened! They all dead! All nine of them—all dead! Thar’s blood everwhere!”