January 20, 1947
Everyone says Henry R. Smith, 20, was a different boy when he came home after his Navy service. Morose, nervous. Still, two months ago he was all smiles when he married Barbara Anne Chilton, 19. The newlyweds moved into Barbara's parents' home at 1612 Hillhurst. Chester Chilton is a building contractor, and Henry went to work as his assistant.
Last night the young couple was celebrating Barbara's return from a trip to San Francisco. They went out on the town with Chester, and returned to find the house thick with the smell of burning meat; a ham had been forgotten in the oven. (This would never have happened if the Mrs. were home, but she's in Detroit settling a family estate.)
Chester raced to the kitchen to deal with the mess, while Henry and Barbara retired to their bedroom. Half an hour later, a terrible boom split the evening's peace. Henry ran out into the hall, shotgun in hand, and cried "My God, Pop, kill me. I just shot Barbara!"
Chester passed his son-in-law and saw his daughter splayed out on the bedroom floor, shot through the eyes. Henry came up behind him. Chester wheeled and raced out of the house, thinking he had to call the police, get help, get away, do something...
Another shot rang out. Henry Smith had blown his brains out.