“Let me think, what else do I have at home? How about some rosemary? Do you know it’s a symbol of affection and remembrance?” She pinched off a few leaves of mint and rubbed them between her fingers before offering them to Dottie. “Do you smell the mint?”
“No, the only mint I know is in my tea. Oh, there’s so much to do, I really don’t know where to start first. I’ve been ‘walking the Yellow Pages’ to find someone to do some trimming, but no one seems interested in coming out here. I was told my nearest neighbor is a young man. Maybe he would be willing to do some work for me.”
“I didn’t see another house. Where is it? I don’t recall any other homes close by.”
Dottie pointed to a thick wooded area along her driveway. “Mr. Thompson said there’s another small house nearby–he called it a shack–where the young man lives and that he works in New Haven most of the time and wouldn’t give me any trouble. You can see his drive by the small pond just before my driveway if you look carefully.”
“Oh, Dottie,” Bashia said. “You’ll have to meet him. With so few neighbors around, it won’t hurt to introduce yourself. Has anyone been around since you moved in?”
“No, and I’ve been too busy getting the house cleaned up to explore the neighborhood, but I’ve been to that small grocery store down at the intersection and I’m sure word has gotten around.”
They had reached the back yard with its overgrown field as they talked. A shadow of a path through the tall grass led to the kennel. A row of high windows ran beneath the roofline of the long cinder block structure. Ground-level dog doors facing the field were partially hidden by the tall grasses. Inside, the bare cement floor was cool and damp. A few tools and buckets lay about, and leashes hung from wall pegs. Portable wooden jumps and dozens of wire crates were stacked in one corner. One end of the building was partitioned off into a small efficiency apartment.
“Mr. Thompson said the apartment was used by a young girl who was an assistant to the owner. It sure smells musty.” There was an old sofa-bed pushed against one wall, a single chair stood near the refrigerator and granite sink, and a small bookcase held a few tattered paperbacks.
“I can see it now–this will make a great lounge for your studio and students!” Bashia said. “We can work on this last, once we’ve made your home comfy and cozy.”
“This all has such great possibilities!” Dottie said, grabbing Bashia and dancing her out of the room and into the empty kennel area. “This cement floor will hold kilns and be easy to clean. And the sun pours in here all afternoon.”
“You crazy kid, you’re getting to be as imaginative as I am! But before you get carried away, let’s go back to the house and get started with room and window measurements. We’ll have to decide on colors for the drapes and how your furniture will fit in.”
They walked out into the autumn sunshine.
“Phew, what’s that smell?”
Dottie laughed, “Bashia, are you trying to tell me something?”
“No, no. There’s a weird odor here in the field. Don’t you smell it? It seems to be coming from that direction. Let’s go see. There may be a dead animal lying in the weeds.” She cautiously pushed her way through the tall grass until she stepped in a mushy spot.
Turning back to Dottie, she called, “Uh-oh, I think I know what it is. We had that trouble at home a long time ago. I think the septic tank has overflowed! See how wet it is here in a circle?”
Dottie walked gingerly through the grass. “What are you talking about–septic tank?”
“Dottie, shame on your citified self! Basically, sludge settles to the bottom of the tank and the scum floats on the top. But the bacteria attack and digest both. Didn’t you ever read Erma Bombeck’s It’s Always Greener Over The Septic Tank? It’s a cliché, but it happens to be true. Just a second, let me get a shovel from the kennel; and I’ll show you.” Dottie looked bewildered.
After they pushed the heavy lid aside, the putrid aroma became stronger. They gasped, their mouths dropped open as the muddy water began oozing out of the tank. Suddenly something popped up.
CHAPTER TWO
“Ohmigod!” screamed Dottie as she jumped back from the flowing water. “What is that?”
“It looks like a skull to me! I haven’t seen many skulls in my life, but it does look human. We’d better call the police!”
“Where did it come from? How could a skull get in the septic tank? Do you think someone got killed here? This gives me the creeps.” Dottie shivered.
As they backed away from the wet grass, Bashia looked around. Dense woods surrounded the house and field. No other houses were visible. Tall shadowy birch and fir trees stood silent as sentries, while breezes teased the top-most branches. Autumn leaves lazily fluttered to the sunlit field. They were quite alone. She wondered how safe they really were.
“Come on, let’s go back to the house and call the police.” Bashia pulled Dottie along and tried to sound calmer than she felt. “Then we’ll find out what it is and what’s going on. Just think, maybe a famous person was murdered and dumped into the tank. Maybe it’s Jimmy Hoffa–or was he buried in concrete?” She gave a weak laugh to ease Dottie’s growing fear. “How long did you say the house had been empty?”
They took off their muddy, smelly shoes and dropped them on the doormat as they entered the kitchen. Dottie quickly dropped into a chair, feeling faint. Despite the creme blush on her cheeks, her face had turned pale. “I don’t think I like this. What do you suppose happened? Is there a body in the tank?”
“Don’t get shook,” Bashia answered. “We’re not even sure it’s a human skull, but I think it might be. Maybe the police are looking for a missing person.” She reached for the phone.
“This isn’t an emergency,” Bashia said as she dialed 911, “but I don’t know whom else to call.” When the call was answered, she told the dispatcher what they thought they had found.
“I’ll notify Trooper Jankowski, the Resident State Trooper for the Woodstock area, Miss. What is your name and address? Where are you calling from?” the dispatcher asked. “Stay right there, he should arrive shortly. And don’t touch anything.”
Bashia hung up the phone and turned to Dottie, “Trooper Jankowski, whoever that is, will be here shortly. Sounds like he’s Polish–hey, he and I should get along just fine!” Seeing Dottie staring out the window hardly hearing her, she began to rummage about in the cupboards. “Where’s your tea? Let’s have a cup while we’re waiting.”
Twenty minutes later the untouched tea had cooled and the two women fidgeted nervously. The fabric samples lay undisturbed, strewn about the floor, no match for the mental image of the skull on the surface of the water. Dottie shuddered, “Where in the world is he? This area isn’t that big, is it? I want to know what’s going on here! Is the house haunted, a skeleton in the closet?” she paused and gave a short laugh. “Now if that isn’t a cliché! But, really, are bones in the backyard a bad omen? Isn’t that old shoe in the chimney supposed to ward off evil spirits? Should I have stayed in New Jersey?”
“I don’t know what to say, Dottie. But you can be sure if that is a human skull, it was put into the tank a long time ago. From what we could see, besides the slime, it looked like a bald head; it’s probably been there a long time. I wonder if Mr. Thompson knows anything about this?”
At last they heard a car approaching on the gravel drive, and both rushed to open the door to welcome a tall, husky state trooper. “Oh, officer, we’re glad you’re here! Please come in. I’m Dottie Ann Weeks, this is my home, and this is my friend, Bashia Gordon.” Dottie studied his face as she blurted out her comment in one long breath. His nose seemed a little out of joint and pudgy pale cheeks reminded her of the Pillsbury doughboy. A small scar over his right eye gave him a mysterious look.
He tipped his wide-brimmed hat and introduced himself in a deep rumbling voice, “I’m Trooper Mark Jankowski. I understand you might have found a skull in the septic tank. How long have you lived her
e, Miss Weeks?”
“I’ve been here a week, and bought the place from Chuck Thompson two months ago. I think he said it had been empty for a few years. Come and look at what we found!” Dottie answered quickly.
The two women eagerly led the trooper to the field and stopped by the damp grass, careful not to get their sneakers wet again. “It’s over there,” Bashia pointed. “I wanted to know why this place smelled so bad, and dug up the top of the tank.”
“You dug up the tank lid?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Son of a gun! Let’s take a look at this skull. Did you touch it?”
“No. We were so shocked, we didn’t know what to do. So I phoned the police,” Bashia answered, mesmerized by his piercing steel blue eyes. “As I said, we took off the tank lid, and up popped this thing. It’s pretty hard to figure it out exactly, with all that slime and goop on it.” She didn’t want to appear foolish in front of this interesting man. “See, it’s still there.”
All three stared at the gaping opening with the skull half in and half out of the muddy liquid. Limping slightly, the officer stepped forward and sank in the squishy grass. He squatted down to get a closer look. He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket, lifted the skull by poking a pencil into its empty left eye socket, shook the water out, and gingerly put it into the bag. When he straightened up, he returned to the women, turning the grisly find in his hands like a fragile snowball.
“It’s human, all right. I don’t see any fractures or blows to the head. You say you just found it?”
“Yes, we were exploring the property. When this happened, we didn’t know what to think,” Bashia answered.
Taking another look at the tank, he said, “We’ll have to get the tank pumped out to see if there is anything else in there. Excuse me, I need to contact headquarters.”
Dottie gasped, staring wide-eyed. “Uh, you mean there could be more bones in there?”
“There might be, and the only way to find out is to drain the tank, but the Major Crime Squad will order that–probably Frenchy and his honey wagon will be called.”
As he carried the skull to the patrol car, Bashia noticed his uneven gait and wondered what had happened to him. He lowered his six-foot, two-inch frame into the seat and radioed headquarters, giving an order to the dispatcher, “Contact the Major Crime Squad and tell them to get up here. I think we’ve got a homicide on our hands.”
Something in the back of his mind was nagging him. When he was first assigned to Woodstock, he read through a slim batch of old, unsolved case files. Was there a connection? He would definitely review them again when he returned to his office.
The trooper walked off a wide circle around the septic tank, laying a yellow plastic “DO NOT CROSS” tape out on the grass. Then he turned to the silent observers sitting on the back steps. “Don’t go near the septic tank, please. From here on the crime team will be taking over. I’ll stay until they arrive, but it might take an hour.”
Dottie took a deep breath and held it for a long time before exhaling with an “Ohmigod! I don’t believe this. I don’t understand. What does this mean? And what is a honey wagon?”
“It means a crime was probably committed here, or someone disposed of a body–or at least this head. The Major Crime Squad oversees homicides in the state and will take charge,” Jankowski said as he rolled up the remaining tape. “And a honey wagon is a tanker truck equipped to pump out septic tanks, fill swimming pools and pump water from flooded areas or ponds. Frenchy–his name is Armand something, but he goes by Frenchy–has quite a going business.”
He paused as he looked around the area, and wondered about a woman purchasing a house in the country, only to discover it was the site of some gruesome doings.
Bashia put her arm around her distressed friend as they walked back to the house. What a strange man, she thought as she glanced over her shoulder. He looks like a slob, but is a professional as can be. Something about him intrigues me, I need to learn more about this guy, she thought. But she wasn’t sure if she was ready to trust any man–ever since a devastating encounter shattered her comfort level with men. Each time she thought about the incident, she relived it again in slow motion.
It had happened during one of her Sunday afternoon bike rides in Jamaica. Peace Corps Volunteers had been warned not to go out alone, but Bashia loved exploring her surroundings in the lush, colorful countryside. She pedaled up and down hills, over dusty, ochre dirt lanes, admiring foliage so strange to her. Banana trees hung heavy with fruit, clusters of “hands” hanging low, with large tattered yellow and green leaves bending down as if to protect them. The tall ackee trees provided a staple for the natives–leathery, pear-shaped, yellow and scarlet fruit spitting out black, round, seed pods, exposing a fleshy pulp that resembled scrambled eggs when cooked, but was deadly if eaten before the fruit popped open. Purple and red oval mangos hung by thread-like stems from other trees, attracting bees to their sweet sap droppings. She had learned the hard way that green mangos gave her a rash. Another tree was called the “water tree” by the natives, appreciated for the rainwater held in the large, unopened buds of the cup-shaped red flowers.
One house she studied consisted of a cement block building, with a zinc-paneled roof and a new addition, still without a roof or windows. A TV antenna jutted precariously into the sky. A woman stood on the dirt floor in the unfinished section, cooking over a large stove, while her diapered baby sat in the open doorway and stared at Bashia through round black eyes. Nearby a roadside stand with a small hand-painted sign nailed over the door advertised box lunches of chicken and rice, meat patties, and curried goat.
Up the hill, the houses were smaller and scattered further apart. Their orange, purple, red or blue painted doors and window trim brightened the shabby buildings thrown together in a hodgepodge of wood, rusting aluminum panels and old screens. Ratta castles, the natives called them. At the top of the hill, Bashia had stopped to catch her breath and look around in the bright sunshine. She realized she had ridden farther than ever before and she felt very much alone. The densely vegetated hillside fell sharply on one side of the lane, too steep for houses or gardening.
A shadow crossed her path and a tall, muscular, middle-aged man with glistening black skin came toward her, carrying a machete that looked three feet long. Her intuition told her to be wary. Damn, she thought, why didn’t I remember my Peace Corps SOS Shrill Alarm! Suddenly his large rough hand reached for the handlebars of her bike and quickly turned the wheel, knocking Bashia to the ground. As she struggled to untangle herself from the bicycle, he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her into the thick underbrush at the side of the road. Her eyes darted frantically about to see if anyone was within earshot as he smacked her flat on the rough ground. She screamed, but knew no one would hear her frantic cries for help. He laid the machete down and began to grope her, tearing at her clothes. His broad grin exposed a mouthful of missing teeth. She tried to twist away from his grasp, but he slid his sweaty body on top of her, pinning her down and said, “Ise got somtin mek you happy, happy.” The last thing she remembered before she passed out was the wild, demonic look in his dark eyes as he forced himself into her.
Some time later, scratched, bruised and feeling dirty inside and out, she struggled to get back on her bike and ride to her apartment. Fear of AIDS, more than pregnancy forced her to report the incident by phone to Peace Corps headquarters that evening. She was told to pack a bag and report to Kingston the next day.
In her meeting with the headquarters nurse, Lisa DeGrazio asked her seemingly endless questions about the attack. Did she know her attacker? Did she think he knew her? Or was she a random victim? What were the details of the event? How did she get back to her quarters? What did she do after that? Was she aware that she would have to be shipped to the states for full medical evaluation and probably a D and C procedure? The nurse obviously had already reviewed Bashia’s file to see that she had a current tetanus shot and tested HIV negative before leavi
ng the U.S. After becoming well acquainted with her patient and the incident report, the nurse conducted a thorough physical examination, including a rape kit. She finished by applying antiseptic cream and a few bandages to cover the scrapes and gravel burns from Bashia’s attempt to fend off her attacker. Then the nurse had accompanied her to the office of Benjamin J. Burnside, Jamaica’s Peace Corps Director.
It was his responsibility, he had explained, to ensure that Bashia Gordon’s well-being and safety were protected. But as the United States’s official representative of the humanitarian program started by President John F. Kennedy in 1961, he needed to maintain an amicable relationship with the host country. He gently probed Bashia’s reaction to the assault and the resulting impression of Jamaica she would carry back home. Did she bear any animosity to Jamaican people because of this unfortunate incident? She assured him she did not–that all of the people she had previously met and dealt with were very friendly, helpful and agreeable. Because crime rates were high in the cities, she tried to stay away from large rowdy groups of Jamaicans in public places. They seemed to speak a whole different language, reverting to the Jamaican patois dialect, making it difficult to know their intentions. In her everyday contacts, students in her sewing classes and merchants in the shops all used proper British English and everyone was friendly and polite to her, she told Mr. Burnside.
He took detailed notes on her comments throughout several hours of interviews spread over two days. Once she assured him that she was fully aware that it was an isolated incident and she was just anxious to be finished with this ordeal of examinations, questions and paperwork, he told her she would fly the next morning to Washington D.C., where all PCVs received medical attention. Even her friend Dottie didn’t know why she shipped out.
Bones in the Backyard Page 2
