Practice to Deceive

mansion that they eventually donated to the city of Akron. Now known as the Hower House, locals and tourists alike flock to view its historic luxury.
    Mary Ellen’s branch of the Hower family wasn’t particularly wealthy, however, and she went to high school in Coupeville, Washington, rather than an exclusive finishing school for girls.
    Jimmie Stackhouse met her there, and felt lucky to have won such a beautiful bride. As Jimmie was stationed from one base to another—in Hawaii and California—Mary Ellen gave birth to six children in eight years. Both she and Jimmie welcomed them, and they were very happy.
    And then, a horrifying crime in San Jose, California, stopped Jimmie Stackhouse’s world, changing his family’s future in untold ways.
    Stackhouse was stationed at the Naval Air Station at Moffett Field in Mountain View, California, thirty-five miles south of San Francisco, a short distance northwest of San Jose, and only a mile from San Francisco Bay.
    Moffett Field has a long and rich history going back to 1931, with huge wooden hangars that once housed dirigibles (blimps like the ill-fated Hindenburg, which crashed and burned in Lakehurst, New Jersey, in 1937). Later Moffett provided space for fighter jets. The naval facility was decommissioned in 1994, and both NASA and private corporations now occupy the fifteen hundred acres there.
    For Stackhouse, his wife, Mary Ellen, and their three boys and three girls, Moffett was a good duty station. The temperature was moderate, there were flowers everywhere, and even the fog that hovers so often over San Francisco is held back by the coastal range of mountains before it hits San Jose. At the time, Moffett was rumored to have the best commissary in America, and navy families abounded so that Mary Ellen and their children had no difficulty finding friends.
    Jimmie bought a split-level house for his brood on Ruskin Drive in the Berryessa neighborhood in San Jose. There were plenty of bedrooms and a green sweep of grass where the Stackhouse children could play.
    They were a handsome family. Jimmie was a big, rugged man with wavy, red-blond hair that he combed into an imposing pompadour. Thirty-year-old Mary Ellen was a tall, slender brunette who was attractive enough to be a model. Tommy, eight, was the oldest and resembled his mother, while Mike, seven, Lana, five, Brenda, four, Rhonda, three, and Robby, eighteen months, all looked like Jimmie.
    Jimmie had thirteen years in the navy and he loved it. A flight mechanic, he planned to stay in the service until he retired. Mary Ellen had her hands full with six children under eight, but she occasionally worked as a cocktail waitress at the navy base and also helped out with wedding receptions there. To add a little more to the family’s income, she sold Avon products.
    She was fiercely protective of her children, particularly when Jimmie was gone for training or active duty.
    In early June 1963, Jimmie was far away from home. He was attending navy classes at Stewart Air Force Base near Nashville, Tennessee. Mary Ellen missed him, of course, but she wasn’t lonely—not with six active children running through their new house.
    Although she had close neighbors, friends she knew well, Mary Ellen was always careful about locking her doors and windows at night. Once she got the children in bed, she allowed herself some “alone” time to watch television and relax.
    On Tuesday, June 4, Jimmie called her, something that was unusual for him, and she was happy to hear his voice. But she had Robby in his high chair and was feeding him supper. He demanded her attention; either he or his bowl of food were in danger of falling out of the chair, so she couldn’t talk long. She and Jimmie agreed they would try again soon to have a calm conversation.
    Later, with the house finally quiet, Mary Ellen poured a cup of coffee and dished up some ice cream for herself, carrying them to the living room so she could watch one of her favorite shows.
    At 10:30 P.M. , the sun had finally set. It was a warm night, and she still had the windows open. Uncharacteristically, she put off locking the outside doors, even the one that opened into the lower level of their house. But she was involved in watching television.
    None of the children or nearby neighbors heard anything unusual during the night . . .
    But things were far from normal in the Stackhouse household. No one woke the children up on the morning of June 5 to tell them it was time