Women Who Stay, 9

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

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That night, I dug deeper into the history of Second Story, the small empire of thrift stores the Robichauds ran.

After Antonio's unceremonious firing from the Bureau of Housing Inspection in 1979 (supposedly for pissing on his boss' desk, though that smacked of office gossip to me), he opened his first location in Howell Township. The neighborhood was filled with young families just over the poverty line, and he did especially well in the resale of children's clothes and home furnishings.

In a local interest piece from 1981, a reporter described Second Story as "a small and tidy showroom of used goods, each corner a preset tableau of domestic bliss." The camera panned over bookshelves filled with vases and tchotchkes, side tables stacked with sets of plates, and mannequins. Many, many mannequins. In a voiceover, Antonio was asked what he thought accounted for the shop's success.

"I've always had a good eye for things," he said, over a shot of him rearranging a rack of men's clothing. The camera returned to his face, squinting in the sunshine in front of the store. "And I like to drive. I'm always finding small estate sales on byroads others miss." I wondered, watching in my bed, if the reporter had seen what I saw. The shifty smile of that crossed his face when he said he liked to drive. But kept in mind my bias, knowing what he'd done on the Garden State Parkway in the decade before.

In his eight years with the BHI, Antonio inspected thousands of hotels, motels, and apartment complexes scattered across New Jersey. More than almost anything, I wanted those records. I wanted to map out his movements and overlay them with the map I already had: that of the discovery locations of six dead men, victims of the Hitchhike Hangman.

All six were young and handsome. All were traveling by thumb along the Garden State Parkway, mostly to or from Atlantic City. All were found raped and strangled, dumped on the side of the highway in the dead of night to be discovered in the dawn by yawning commuters. If there was a proper investigation into these deaths, I had yet to see any evidence of it. All I could find were derisive press releases assuring the good men of New Jersey that if they weren't hitchhiking, they had nothing to worry about.

Between the lines was another warning: they'd be even safer if they weren't confirmed bachelors. If they went home to wives and children instead of going walking, "looking for trouble." But despite the lack of consideration afforded his victims, the police didn't need to hunt down the Hitchhike Hangman to stop him. He hung his hat in 1979. His last victim was found in December, bruised and bloodied and mourned by a sister who gave a moving plea on the evening news.

"My brother had his whole life ahead of him, and now that's gone. If you know anything, please. Please call the authorities."

No one called. The bodies stopped appearing. Police suspected he'd died or been imprisoned for unrelated crimes. No one thought much about him again until 1996.

In 1980, Antonio used his first year's profits from the Howell thrift store to purchase Hollow Hill Farm. It was a far cry from the cramped New Brunswick brownstone the family had spent the last decade. It boasted 17 acres of wooded land. It had stables. It had a Tudor mansion with a pool in the basement and nearly 12,000 square feet of living space.

To Janie, I suspected it offered prestige and comfort.

To the children, fresh air and space to roam.

To Antonio, a fresh killing field.

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Read on to Chapter 10