Monday, April 28th, 1913
With his head bare and tears running down his weathered face, W J Phagan stood in the doorway of his home on Mar Street, crying out to the heavens for justice in the murder of his fourteen year old granddaughter, Mary Phagan. He said he would not rest until the killer was caught and punished.
The only sounds that broke the silence were his sobs, the soft patter of the rain, and the distant rumble of a train, as the old man’s trembling voice rose in an anguished plea against the one who had lured the young girl into a deserted building and strangled her. It was the raw grief of a man whose life had been shattered, his hands lifted as if calling on some higher power to see the murderer brought to account.
“By the power of the living God,” he prayed, his voice cutting through the falling rain and the train’s loud roar, “I hope the murderer is made to suffer as that innocent child suffered. I hope his heart aches with remorse as ours ache with loss. No punishment is too harsh for the brute who took the sweetest, purest life on earth. Even hanging cannot make up for the pain and sorrow he has left behind.”
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