![]() Standing over Joseph was a tall man wearing a slouch hat and a dark suit. The girls rushed to his bedroom and opened the door. ![]() On the evening of August 10, 1918, she had been sleeping next to her younger sister, Mary, when they heard their uncle, Joseph Romano, screaming. Pauline had dreaded the potential for her home to be targeted. He would take nothing and leave only one clue behind: the bloodied hatchet, caked with gore and strands of hair. Using an ax-one that usually belonged to his victims-he’d hack and swipe at couples who were sound asleep in the early morning hours. Each home invasion was remarkably similar: The assailant would use a chisel to pry out a door panel, unlock the entrance, and then find the master bedroom. Like most residents of New Orleans, the 18-year-old had spent weeks reading the morbid newspaper accounts of his attacks. Pauline Bruno was terrified of the ax man.
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