The Devil's Run Out Of Fire

This is a story about a man's attempt to commit the greatest crime of his life.

As I walked into the room, no one noticed me. Though I did not look out of place, for the fancy attire I chose for the occasion matched perfectly with the atmosphere, I could not stop myself from wondering why I hadn’t been noticed. It was true that only one other besides me knew what would take place as the evening reached its climax. Nonetheless it made me feel somewhat out of place among the rich folk of Virginia. They had only come for the amusing music and the delectable atmosphere, and I, a poor boy from Boston, had come only for the treasures that awaited me inside.

My partner, Henry Branford, was waiting against the far wall for me to join the party. I noticed him and I were dressed similarly, and by that I was not surprised. “Dress to blend,” Henry had told me. “If this is to be done, it is to be done right.” So, in all honesty, Henry had known what he was talking about. The only thing I recall thinking that night was if he had the brains to get us out of there alive and, if all went well, very wealthy. The commotion that hung in the air was only too delicious. I found myself tapping my foot to the beat of the drummer as he led the rest of the band in the rhythm of my favorite tune. I must have gotten caught up in the moment, for I felt a tug on my arm as Henry pulled me to the wall. Somehow, in all my excitement, I had wandered out into the middle of the dance floor and had struck up a dance with a young, pretty thing dressed in red. Henry pulled me to the nearest wall and whispered, “are you out of your mind? When I invited you along, it was not an invitation to whimsical merriment! If we are going to do this, we both need to be focused. Do you understand me?”

I remember nodding once, trying to look inconspicuous. Henry nodded in response and clapped me on the back. The music stopped suddenly. I lost my breath, only to be relieved when the dancers clapped and cheered for the musicians. The band struck up again and Henry pulled me along with him. It was time to go.

The two of us glided along the walls, hoping not to be noticed, as the dancers swept across the floor, seeming to float on air as they danced. I wished I could watch them further, but Henry would never allow that. I felt him release my sleeve and I followed on behind him, suddenly feeling hot under my three-piece suit. Afraid I would abandon my mission, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply for a few short seconds. Henry was already outside the room, so I hurried to catch up to him.

He was waiting around the corner. I stopped in front of him as he explained what would happen. “This is what’s going to happen. The safe is just up the stairs in the master bedroom. I slipped the code from the head of the house three days ago when I visited on behalf of my father . . .”

I tried to listen intently to his plans, but my mind wandered elsewhere. It was only when Henry clapped me on the back was I aware of where I was. “You get me, pal?”

I opened my mouth to say no, that I hadn’t heard him, but thought better of myself and nodded. “All right then. Let’s go.”

We dashed up the stairs as quietly as our feet would allow us. Once at the balcony, Henry darted left. I mimicked him. By the time that corner was behind us, the music faded into background noise. Henry continued on to the door at the end of the hall, which, surprisingly, was unlocked. Henry must have read the look of shock on my face, because he said, “Yeah, old Master Crowley seems to be trusting of the people he allows into his mansion. Henry opened the door to reveal the most exquisite room I could have ever imagined. Beautifully decorated in red and gold, the room looked as if royalty slept there. Everything was neatly placed, and I was left to question if the room wasn’t just for show. Henry chuckled at my amazement. “You get a good look there, Poor Boy. When we’re through cleaning out the Crowleys’ Place, your house could look ten times as lavish.”

I did not dare to believe him, for my imagination could not magnify this room by ten.

Henry slunk over to a painting on the left wall. A rather large Monet classic, it went with the theme of the room nicely. Henry ripped it from its place and tossed it on the bed. At first, I was shocked. He had known that my father was a painter, and also that I had been brought up on artists, music and paintings just like the Monet. My shock lifted only when I saw the safe, hidden in a hollowed out section where the painting used to rest. Henry told me to keep a lookout at the door in case anyone came upstairs. I followed instructions. From the door, I watched Henry as he pulled a slip of paper from his jacket and spun the dial on the safe. I watched the door with increasing anxiety. What if someone did come upstairs? What would happen to us then?

“Eureka,” Henry muttered from the safe. “Come here and look at this, Poor Boy,” he said to me. “Come and peek at your future.” I left my position by the door and walked briskly to the safe. My mouth dropped. Bundles of money and piles of jewels lay inside. My eyes sparkled from just their shine. Henry produced two large sacks from inside his jacket as well. I was baffled at how he could have fit them in. He handed one to me and told me to start piling them in. We would divide everything up once we were home free.

Wherever home free was, we never reached it. As we were sprinting from the mansion, three guards, which we had failed to noticed before, stood in our way. We tried to run in the opposite direction, but the weight of the sacks slowed us. The guards had no trouble holding us down while many of the dancers from inside the party room came outside to see what the commotion was. The next thing I knew, I was here, in the county prison.

Our trials were similar, yet very different. My poor old friend Henry had been sentenced to the death penalty, for he had a record larger than the Holy Bible. Henry was electrocuted on May the seventeenth, nineteen twenty-seven. I on the other hand, was spared my life, with help from the lawyer provided for me. Whether my life sentence is better than Henry’s murder, I cannot say. All I can understand is that the prison guards treat me better than I would have been treated if I was out on my own. In my eyes, robbing the Crowley Mansion was the best decision I had ever made, for I would have been homeless otherwise.

I chose to record the tale that changed the course of my life down because I feel that, in order to truly repent what I had done, I had better document it. Perhaps the prison will keep it as a memoir of my time here. Perhaps it will be thrown away like yesterday’s trash, as I will have been. The true reason, I believe, is because I never realized how grateful I was for a friend like Henry, who gave me the chance to live a decent life. I feel as if I’ve been completed during the time I spent in this tiny prison cell. I’d made a decent amount of friends; the diversity in this place is uncanny.

Dear reader; whoever you may be, and for whatever reason you may have the chance to read these papers, I trust that you have a unique story of your own to tell, and I sincerely wish that you put it on paper. Not only for my own reasons, but for the education of those to follow you. For as I write these words, I say to you, my reader, as God as my witness, my sentence has been served.

 

Zachary Crawford,

June 23, 1977