This is a statement from the daughter to the Vidocq Society.
"The night it happened, it was late February 1957. I was fifteen. Anyhow, my mother had made baked beans-they weren't very good-and she took some down to Jonathan. When she came back up, she said Jonathan was going to get a bath that night. And I remember there was no work or school the next day.
After a while, she went down to get Jonathan. Next thing, I heard her stomping up the stairs, cursing ing Jonathan all the way, his feet going thump, thump on the steps as she dragged him along. When she got him upstairs, I saw from her face that she was really unhappy with him, for some reason.
God, his eyes looked so scared. She made him sit on the bathroom floor as the tub was filling. Back and forth, he rocked, making that little moaning sound. He looked so pathetic. Too old for a diaper. All these years later ... I'm sorry. Sorry.
"Cut his fingernails," she told me. So I did. They were pretty dirty. I tried to be gentle.
When the tub was full, she picked him up, took off his diaper, and put it in the wastebasket. I was embarrassed to look. Then she picked him up under his arms and lowered him into the water. He let out a little scream. The water was too hot. He kicked and splashed; my mother got wet.
She lifted him back out and held him up on his feet. He was still complaining. You know, whimpering. And dripping water. "That's enough," my mother said. "That's enough!"
Still, he kept complaining. Stomping his feet and crying. Pretty soon he had tears and stuff from his nose running down his front.
"I said, enough!" my mother said. Now I knew she was really angry with him.
Back into the tub he went. He didn't scream this time. Maybe the water was cool enough. Or maybe he was afraid.
And then he threw up. Out came this brown mess-the baked beans-into the bathwater.
My mother let out a shriek like I'd never heard before. She yanked him out of the tub and slapped him. I mean hard. So, of course, he started to cry real hard.
And when he wouldn't quit, she slapped him some more. On the face. So, of course, his crying only got worse. And that was when my mother lost it entirely. She slapped him so hard, he fell and hit his head on the floor with a loud sound. She kept hitting him with both hands, on his head and around his body. My mother's head was shaking from side to side, she was swinging so fast. Then she wasn't slapping anymore, but punching as hard as she could. Jonathan was just lying on the floor. He'd tried to curl up. I don't think he was making any sounds by then.
And then my mother looked at me. "Get out!" she screamed. "Get out!"
David Stout. The Boy in the Box: The Unsolved Case of America's Unknown Child (Kindle Locations 1970-1972). Kindle Edition.