I know I haven't posted in an extremely long time but I truly haven't found anything new to share until today. While scrolling through my multiple news feeds this morning I found an article on CNN about Kasia Janus and her father's murder by cyanide in Chicago 40 years ago.
Like many, I knew the outline -- seven deaths in a 24-hour period when someone managed to slip contaminated capsules into bottles at Chicago area pharmacies. Believe me, it wouldn't have been hard 40 years ago. Packaging was nowhere near as safe as it is now, thanks to the Federal Anti-Tampering Act of 1982.
But I don't think I knew the specifics, especially that 4-year-old Janus also lost her uncle and aunt within that 24-hour period. That blew my mind. I know how my family has struggled over the years with Uncle Charley's murder, but to lose three members? It beggars belief.
What drove me to tears was the description of 4-year-old Janus whispering in her father's ear, "Tata, it's me. I know you're playing a game. Just wake up."
I couldn't help but think of my own frantic grandfather as he watched his beloved older brother die while in the violent throes of strychnine poisoning.
Did he beg Charley not to die? Did he call him by childhood nicknames in the forlorn hope that something, anything, would stop the nightmare?
To read that her uncle and aunt catastrophically took Tylenol for their headaches after they came over to comfort Janus, her mother, and her brother made me think of Grandpa and how he nearly took a capsule himself which later tested 100 percent positive for strychnine.
They died. Grandpa only lived because the doctor called him back into the bedroom for Charley's final death throes.
I have reached out to Janus, but doubt I'll hear back. In the meantime, prayers are ascending for those who are victims of violent crimes.
Time, most certainly, does not heal all wounds.
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