Ellen J. Green - Murder in the Neighborhood: The true story of America’s first recorded mass shooting

All the characters depicted in this book are real. Some have passed away, a few are still living. This story has been crafted through meticulous research using newspaper articles, police reports, interviews that survived in both in print and on film, and the countless memories of relatives willing to share. The circumstances described are true. The contents of the encounters between characters and their exchanges have been pieced together from the patchwork of memories passed on by those who were involved, and gaps in the narrative have been plugged by the judicious use of artistic license. The clinical conversations that took place between the psychiatrists and Unruh have been pulled almost word for word from Howard Unruhs hospital records.

The story of Howard Unruh was first told to me by my mother. She spent some of her childhood years in East Camden, several miles from where the incident occurred, and vividly remembers the day of the shootings and the events that followed. She said the community was stunned, that stories and photographs filled the papers every day for months, as neighborhoods tried to make peace with what exactly had happened.

Gun violence wasnt unheard of in post-war America. What set this incident apart was that the shootings werent sparked by a moment of passion, or secondary to another violent motive such as robbery; it was random and spontaneous and quick. Thirteen people were killed in twelve minutesa few blinks of an eye had changed everything. It struck panic into small- town America, putting everyone on notice that nobody was really safe, and that we didnt really know one another as well as we thought we did.

Many years later I started working in the correctional system in the city of Camden and my interest in the story was reignited. Everything was right thereprosecutors whod met Unruh, reporters who had investigated the case, the block where the shootings had taken place. I kept reading and researching. One afternoon I decided to drive to 32nd and River Road to see it for myself. The buildings are largely unchanged but the community there is vastly different and I wasnt sure if the people there would remember what had happened so long ago. It was serendipity that a woman had just purchased the Unruh and Cohen apartments that had been sealed for sixty-plus years, and offered a tour.

The apartments had many of the original fixturesthe closet door where Rose Cohen had hidden and lost her life was still there, although the door had been patched and painted. I had the opportunity to do a run though of the crime scene, to pace it out, see where it had all happened, to climb down a ladder into the basement and look for bullet holes from Unruhs shooting range, to stand in his bedroom where police had lobbed tear gas. It was then I decided that I needed to bring this story to the page. To bring post-war Camden back to life as best I could and tell the story from the beginning of what happened that day on September 6, 1949.

The story has everything: history, true crime, war, dysfunctional personalities, mental illness. And one unsolved mysterythe missing gate. The thing that is undeniable about the Howard Unruh story is that it opened the door to what has become a heartbreaking part of everyday life in America.

That September morning started much like any other. Camden, New Jersey, the sparkling little sister of Philadelphia, connected by the high arches of the Delaware River Bridge, was waking up to heat nearing the mid-seventiesby nine oclock the humidity was sitting high above the city, waiting to descend.

Cramer Hill, a small section of Camden, bound by the Delaware River to the west, the Pavonia Train Yard to the east, State Street to the south and 36th Street to the northa grid of streets twenty-four blocks long, and about five or six blocks wide contained withinwas about to draw the focus of the world but nobody knew it, not that morning at nine oclock.

River Road cut a swath through Cramer Hill where open-bay trucks rumbled through all day long, overloaded with tomatoes headed for the Campbells soup factory a few miles away. The clearly visible cargo was only held in place by wire mesh caging along the sides. The loud engine sounds called to children to get out of the street, to stand and watch, waiting for a tomato to break loose and fall into their small hands. They were often rewarded when a bump in the road threw a few of the greenish-red fruits into the street.

The smells of the river wafting in, the sounds of the boats, the hint of tomatoes cooking at Campbells, the smoke from the stacks of Eavenson & Sons soap factory a mile awayit was all there. But mostly it was the shoemakers pungent aroma of tannery oils, the lingering, savory fragrance from Latelas Italian luncheonette on the corner, the endless din of Engels bar across the street, and the music that poured out of its doors after the sun went down that filled every home.

Five businesses shared one side of the small blocka cacophonic mix of a pharmacy, a barbershop, a cobbler, a tailor and a caf. The other side only had two: a grocery and a bar. Most of the owners lived there, nestled in their small apartments above their establishments. They all knew each other well enough on that small stretch of River Road. Enough to pull a chair out onto the sidewalk on summer nights for a chat. Enough to get a drink at Engels now and again. Enough to keep an eye on things and on each other. But not one of them saw it coming. Not the Pilarchiks, the Hoovers, the Hamiltons, the Zegrinos or the Cohens. Theyd safely shared that space together for years, but not one of them was spared.

The sky was cloudless on that morning of September 6, 1949 when Raymond Havens stepped outside for some air. He had just turned twelve a few months earlier. His grandmother had sent him to get a haircut but he could see that the barbershop across the street was packed with waiting customers, kids overflowing outside, sitting on the steps. He wasnt getting a trim anytime soon. He debated going to the river to throw some stones but he knew hed come back muddy. Instead, he just planted his feet at that corner and waited, trying to figure the best way to idle his time.

Mrs. Cohen, the pharmacists wife across the street, was unlatching the heavy wooden door to the pharmacya dark space crammed with all sorts of odds and ends, complete with a six-stooled ice-cream counter. The Cohens had owned that pharmacy for as long as anybody could remember, perched right on the corner of the block at 32nd and River, where they got most of the kids walking home from Harry C. Sharp Elementary School two blocks away. Raymond liked them well enough, but never lingered inside. Quick and efficient, they took his money and sent him on his way. They had a son in the same grade at school, but Raymond barely knew hima quiet kid named Charles.