Clifford L. Linedecker - Killer Kids. Shocking True Stories Of Children Who Murdered Their Parents

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Table of Contents

Ive had the good fortune to be supported and assisted by many individuals and organizations in the preparation of this book. My thanks to each and every one, but especially to my friends and colleagues Bob Abborino, Billy Burt and Donald Vaughan.

Moms Beer Party

I t was party time at Nancy Knuckles house!

Her daughters and the other girls were going through Nancys belongings in her upstairs bedroom and closets, selecting clothing and toiletries they wanted to keep for themselves.

Her only son, Barton, was racing down the stairs with a gleaming new microwave in his arms. A card was Scotch-taped to the top identifying it as a present for all the kids, and a bright red ribbon lovingly tied by Nancy still encircled it.

Thanks, Ma, for the microwave! Bart whooped.

But Bart was even more excited when he lifted a box from a closet and pulled out an insurance policy on his mothers life. Were rich! he yelled.

Bart, his seventeen-year-old sister Pamela, and his fifteen-year-old sister Deborah, celebrated with their friends by breaking out beer and whiskey, putting on some rock records, and digging into additional presents their mother had been putting aside in anticipation of the approaching Christmas holiday. Both her girls found new Polaroid cameras, which they quickly loaded with film and began to use to snap pictures.

One of their favorite photographs was a shot Debbie snapped of the rest of the gang forming a human pyramid in the front room. The boys were on the bottom,supporting the girls. There was Bart; Pamelas current boyfriend, Dennis Morris; and two of Barts and Denniss pals, Steven Wright and David Dukes. The wobbly second row was made up of Barts girlfriend, nineteen-year-old Cindy Caruso; a fourteen-year-old girlfriend of Cindys; and Pamela. Another fourteen-year-old girl and Cindys two-year-old son, D.J., were at the very top.

Nancy Knuckles was religious and wouldnt have approved of the boisterous soiree, with all the earsplitting rock music, dancing, boozing, and smoking. But even though she was right there in the front room, she had nothing to say about it. Her petite body, already stiffened by rigor mortis, had been folded up and stuffed in a steamer trunk that the kids had pulled into the middle of the floor.

An ugly ligature of strong, braided white twine deeply embedded in her neck had left her face purple and the features frozen in agony, as if she were still gasping for breath.

Only a few hours earlier, Nancy Knuckles had one hand on the front doorknob and was holding a bag of aprons in her other hand, preparing to leave the house to begin her three-to-eleven P.M. shift at the Health Oasis, a vegetarian restaurant. Her daughter Pamela had looped an efficiently formed garrote over her mothers head from behind and pulled. As Nancy felt the rope loop around her neck, she lurched around in a half-turn, and for a brief second her startled eyes locked accusingly on those of her daughter. Her lips twisted in what appeared to be a smirk, as if she were daring her daughter to kill her. Pamela responded by jerking the garrote tighter.

Die, bitch, die, bitch! she screeched.

Nancy was a small woman, but killing by garrote is not easy, especially when victim and slayer are about the same size. As Nancys body slumped to the floor, Pamela dropped to her knees beside her, continuing to pull on the braided twine digging into her mothersneck. Nancys body spasmed and bounced as she struggled for breath, and the teenager looked desperately to her boyfriend, who was standing a few feet away, watching the struggle.

Dennis knelt on the floor beside the struggling mother and daughter, and leaned forward to help. He took hold of one end of the garrote and pulled. Then he took the other end.

Debbie was upstairs in her room when she heard the commotion. Curious, she walked downstairs into the living room and saw her mother facedown on the floor near the piano, with the teenage sweethearts kneeling over the body with the garrote. Pamela turned as Debbie entered the room, and screamed for her to go back upstairs. Obediently, the younger girl complied.

Much later, Bart would recall that he was in his bedroom when Debbie walked in and calmly advised: Pam and Dennis just killed the old lady.

Nancys body was stretched out on the floor, the garrote still looped around her neck, when Bart walked downstairs. Pamela and Dennis were breathing in short, quick, excited gasps, and their faces were flushed as Bart kneeled and peered at his mother. He felt for a pulse and put his hand over her heart, but couldnt tell for certain if she was alive or not. He yelled at his sisters to bring him their mothers stethoscope from upstairs. After one of the girls clattered down the stairs with the stethoscope, he pressed it to his mothers chest and listened for a heartbeat. Then he straightened up.

Well, she wont die, he said.

He stalked into the kitchen and returned with a white plastic garbage bag, which he pulled over her head and tied in the back. After a few moments he again leaned forward and pressed the stethoscope to his mothers chest. When he straightened up, he was grinning. She was dead at last.

Years later Pamela would recall how curious it seemed to her at the time that her mother was stillclutching the bag of aprons. Nancy had never loosened her grip on the bag, neither as her daughter looped the garrote around her neck, nor as she slumped to the floor, nor during her dying convulsions.

Nancy D. Knuckles, a registered nurse and single mother who worked two jobs to take care of herself and her family, was deliberately and ruthlessly executed in her home by her own children and one of their friends. She was forty years old.

It was a shocking and brutal crime, even for the Chicago area, which is known for such ruthless killers as prohibition-era mobster Al Capone, nurse-killer Richard Speck, and vicious homosexual serial slayer John Wayne Gacy. But this wasnt a gangster killing, and it wasnt a senseless sex-slaying of a stranger. The teenagers had brutally and remorselessly murdered their mother.

Matricide just wasnt the kind of thing that happened in the far-western Chicago suburb of Villa Park, where Nancy had settled with her rambunctious brood a few months earlier. Villa Park was a comfortable middleclass community, presumably far enough from Chicago to insulate the hardworking residents from the runaway crime and violence of the big city. Although she grew up in the city, as an adult Nancy had been drawn to the comfort and presumed safety of the suburbs and rural Illinois countryside.

Near the end of the summer of 1984, the hardworking nurse put a down payment on a comfortable three-bedroom, red brick duplex on East Vermont Street in Villa Park. The house was in a pleasant blue-collar neighborhood within short commuting distance of downtown Chicago, yet sufficiently isolated to make it an attractive environment for raising teenagers and younger children.

From outward appearances, there was nothing about Nancy Knuckles that fit the profile of a parent likely to be murdered by her own children. Mrs. Knuckles kept so busy with her two jobs as a restaurant cook and as avisiting nurse who helped convalescents in their homes, that neighbors didnt see much of her. On the infrequent occasions when they did run into her outside the house, she was courteous and pleasant. But she never seemed to have time to do more than pass the time of day with a simple, cheery Good morning, or a few dry comments about the weather.

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