Until her murder at age 16, Nancy Clutter was everyone’s friend.Īnd she was Bob Rupp’s first love. She was in 4-H, went to church every Sunday and made top grades. She had an easy laugh, and there wasn’t a mean bone in her body. Brown hair, curled at the ends, sparkling eyes, a wide, girlish smile. “You know,” he says, slowly and quietly, “Nancy was really pretty.”Īnd she was. The teenage sweethearts fill their small Holcomb kitchen with unspoken memories as they nudge their thumbs along the wooden frames and smile. Then she stands and walks to the counter. From the kitchen table, his wife, Coleen, waves a dismissive hand. “See? I used to have hair,” he jokes, rolling his eyes toward the thin, white patches that remain. They’ve weakened his hearing, slowed his walk and loosened his face, creasing it with wrinkles. But he admits that 40 years have taken their toll. The jaw is still strong, the lips still full. Standing at the counter, the man silently studies the photos as he sips water from a Dixie cup. It’s his junior college picture, his wife’s engagement portrait. The other photo shows a girl, smiling tentatively and brushing her smooth face with a white-gloved hand. One contains a black-and-white photograph of a young man, with dark hair, a strong jaw and a full lower lip. Gently, without words, he props the picture frames on the kitchen countertop, so close they’re touching.
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