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WARNING: information provided could be too graphic in nature for younger ages, weak of heart or similar circumstances. discretion is advised
amityville murders
In the early evening hours of November 13, 1974, the patrons of Henry’s Bar, a tavern located at the corner of Merrick Road and Ocean Avenue in Amityville, chatted while sipping their beers and cocktails. To them, the start of the evening seemed just like a typical one in Amityville: calm and uneventful. By night’s end, however, life in Amityville would never again be the same.
At 6:30 p.m., Ronald DeFeo Jr., known by the locals as “Butch,” opened the door to the bar and yelled, “You got to help me! I think my mother and father are shot.”.....
.....Although the DeFeo house was only a block away, Bobby drove frantically down the street. One of the men yelled out for him to slow down, but Bobby ignored the comment, arriving at 112 Ocean Avenue in a matter of seconds.
The DeFeo residence was a large, rambling, three‑story Dutch Colonial home built in 1925. Because the property was long and narrow, the dark‑shingled house sat sideways with the front door facing the elongated driveway. At the end of the DeFeos’ 237‑foot‑long lot sat their boathouse, right at the edge of the Amityville Creek.....
.....The house was quiet, except for the barking of Shaggy, the DeFeos’ sheepdog, who was tied up to the inside of the kitchen’s back door. Because the dog was not totally housebroken, the family routinely tied the animal there.....
....With Bobby Kelske in the lead, the five men hurried up the stairs to the second floor. Bobby, a regular visitor to the DeFeo household, knew exactly where the master bedroom was located. As they reached the second floor, they were overwhelmed with the stench of death.
Bobby stopped at the doorway to the master bedroom and hit the light switch. Before him lay Ronald Joseph DeFeo Sr., 43, and his wife Louise DeFeo, 42. A hole in the center of DeFeo Sr.’s bare back was the first indication the couple was not sleeping. Dried blood had trickled out of the wound, disappearing beneath the obese man’s blue boxer shorts.
In contrast, Louise DeFeo’s wounds were not clearly ascertainable because her body was buried beneath an orange blanket as if she were protecting herself against the evening chill. Behind the bed was a mirrored wall, which eerily reflected the macabre scene.
Seeing that Bobby was ready to pass out, the other men led him downstairs, past the life‑size portraits of family members that hung on the staircase wall.
John Altieri remained on the second floor and checked out the northeast bedroom. Clipper ships, cannons and eagles dotted the room’s wallpaper. On the dresser, to the left of the door, lay several statues and figurines that one would expect to find in a devout Catholic home. Strewn across the floor were athletic shoes and toys signaling that the bedroom belonged to a boy, two boys to be exact.
On opposite sides of the room lay the bodies of two young boys, face down like their parents. In the bed on the left lay the body of John DeFeo, nine. Altieri could not pinpoint the bullet hole in John’s back since the “Knicks” sweatshirt he was wearing was covered in blood.
In the other bed lay John’s brother, Marc DeFeo, 12. Next to Marc’s bed was a pair of crutches and a plain, gray wheel chair. The boy had recently suffered a football injury and needed their assistance to get around. At the foot of his bed lay a crumpled‑up green and yellow bedspread and an orange blanket. This time, Altieri could make out the wound: a single bullet hole in the center of the boy’s back.
Seeing more than he had wanted, Altieri left the room and rejoined the others on the ground floor. There, Joe Yeswoit called 911, giving details to an emergency operator.
--The preceding was taken from Chapter One of The Night the DeFeos Died
