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Clayton shaken by girl's killing

In the beginning, the good people of Clayton had outlets for their anxiety as they waited for word about Autumn Pasquale.

In the beginning, the good people of Clayton had outlets for their anxiety as they waited for word about Autumn Pasquale.

Within hours of the 12-year-old's disappearance Saturday, residents of the working-class Gloucester County borough had started searches, organized vigils, filled Facebook pages, and posted fliers about the missing girl all over town.

Late Monday, Autumn's body was discovered in a curbside recycling receptacle, and by the next morning a new kind of waiting was under way.

It was an excruciating interval - the lag before autopsy results, arrests, anything that might explain the brutal facts - that offered people little consolation and even less to do, except cry.

"I can't believe it. Not Clayton," said Michelle Connell, who handled coffee and other refreshments at First Presbyterian Church, next to the borough hall.

"I grew up here," Connell said. "I rode my bicycle down these streets. Things like this don't happen in Clayton."

The church and municipal complex had been the epicenter of a collective search effort built on optimism that Autumn might still be alive. Hundreds of people from the county and beyond tried to find the well-liked tween with the pink-tipped blond hair, or lit a candle to keep hope alive.

On Tuesday morning, with rumors raging, people who came to the complex could only try to comfort one another under the cool blue sky.

The crowd sobbed when Gloucester County Prosecutor Sean Dalton, Autumn's uncle Paul Spadafora, and borough Mayor Tom Bianco addressed them in a grassy spot between the borough hall and church. Dalton led the group in the Lord's Prayer, and the mayor, visibly moved, spoke to me afterward.

"Right now we have to help this family, and we have to heal as a community," Bianco said. "We will get through this as a community. This is a resilient town."

As traffic churned by on Delsea Drive, girls in Clayton High School jackets rushed to embrace one another. Mothers pushing strollers stopped to hug small children. The pain and fear were palpable.

"Keep your children close to you," said Heather Anderson, the mother of a 3-year-old. "You can't trust the small-town mentality anymore."

Several women, none of whom wanted to give their names, talked of "monsters" in their midst, as if only science fiction could account for such a shocking crime.

"It's just very scary," said Sharon Hampton, a mother of three who had come to borough hall with her husband, Wesley.

Clayton is a small town - about 8,200 people in a little more than seven square miles. It's a former glassmaking center whose last glass factory, Clevenger's, went out of business in 1999. But the town looks and feels solid, as if it plans to stick around for a while.

Some have lived in Clayton for generations. Adults buy houses near, or on, the same block where they grew up. In the grid of modest ranchers and Cape Cods, many elaborately decorated for Halloween, people really do know many of their neighbors.

"To have this happen here, and have it happen to somebody we know, is just unbelievable," said Vicky Armstrong, who grew up in Philly but has lived in Clayton for 38 years.

"Just last night I took pots of chili over to [the Pasquales] after the vigil, so they would have a hot meal.

"My heart hurts so bad. It's more than I can verbalize."

Late in the day, Dalton's office announced that two brothers, ages 15 and 17, had been arrested and charged with strangling Autumn.

The suspects lived around the corner from Armstrong, and from William Cartwright.

"It's just a shame," said Cartwright, 41, a carpenter and father of three.

"Two boys taking a little girl's life.

"How do you explain it to your family?"