Intruder in the Night

"Such a nice family," decided Staten Island neighbors soon after Dr. and Mrs. Melvin Nimer summer-rented the red brick and grey shingle house at 242 Vanderbilt Avenue. Not that neighbors saw Dr. Nimer much; he was busy as a new resident in surgery at the massive (800-bed) U.S. Public Health Service Hospital three blocks away, overlooking lower New York Harbor. But vivacious Loujean Nimer, like her husband 31 years old, was friendly. So were crew-cut Melvin Jr., 8, toddling Gregory, 2, and even five-month-old Jennifer, born shortly before the Nimers came east from Phoenix. Such a nice family.

To Mormons Melvin and Loujean Nimer, there was no finer compliment. Since the autumn day in 1946 when Melvin hurried home from the Navy to Orem, Utah, and married his high school sweetheart, a nice family and a happy, secure family life had been their goals. Melvin got a pharmacy degree, decided to switch to medicine, went back to medical school at the University of Utah. Loujean helped out their budget by working as a secretary, did her housework nights while Melvin studied and first baby Melvin Jr. slept. After Melvin graduated, the family moved to Seattle where he interned in the Public Health Service Hospital, then to Phoenix, finally to Staten Island for his promising $5,700-a-year surgical post. In Staten Island the Nimers made the first payment on a new five-room, $18,000 ranch house, excitedly got ready for the big move this week.

Stranger in the Night. Home from a family picnic one day last week, the Nimers turned in early. Waking in the night, Melvin Jr. rubbed open his eyes, saw standing over his bed a strange man in overalls and white mask. The boy screamed for his mother; Loujean dashed in from the next bedroom. The stranger wheeled, flicked a knife; Loujean staggered to her bed with wounds in breast and abdomen. Slight (5 ft. 7 in.), Dr. Nimer leaped at the assailant, wrestled the man down the stairs, into the kitchen. Beside a telephone the doctor collapsed with chest and abdomen ripped.

Beside Loujean's bed was a telephone extension. Clutching her crimsoning nightgown she dialed the operator, gasped: "Please help me! Call the police! We're being murdered here!" Eight-year-old Melvin, swallowing his fright, took the phone from the trembling hand. Said he, manfully: "Tell the police I'll be waiting downstairs outside for them." Counseled the operator: "No. Stay inside. Stay by your mother."

Last Instruction. The cops found the house unrobbed and untouched, and no sure clue as to how the housebreaker had come or gone. The Nimers were conscious but in pain. One policeman tried to raise Melvin's head from the kitchen floor; gently, Melvin ordered him not to, and braced his feet against a wall to ease his agony. While being carried to an ambulance on a stretcher, Loujean opened her eyes. Said she to a policeman: "Please feed the baby plain milk. No formula."

The cops scoured Staten Island, picked up suspects, kicked up lawns looking for a knife. They groped for explanations, e.g., maybe the killer was a psychotic from the hospital, checked records, bars, neighbors. But neither dragnet nor theories helped the Nimers. Soon after they were carried out and neighbors took the children away, Loujean and Melvin both died, and with them died the nice family and the dreams that had almost come true.

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