After her surgery for a D and C, she was sent home for the mandatory forty-five days to recuperate, with the option of an early discharge since her two-year assignment was almost over. Hospital personnel recommended she seek rape therapy in Connecticut, which she ignored because she was not comfortable rehashing her humiliating nightmare to counselors she might know. She didn’t even tell the real story to her daughters. She told them she had a cyst operation and was not going to return to Jamaica.
Even after two years, it was difficult to control her demons and hide her dark secret. She carried the emotional scars and humiliation of her body being attacked and violated. She often wondered if she had provoked it, and still avoided developing a relationship with any man.
But this Mark Jankowski aroused a desire to try to bury this horror-filled experience and get on with her personal life. She shook off her reverie as Jankowski said, “Well, ladies, while we’re waiting for the Crime Squad, I’ll take down your statements and look around.”
They entered the house, leaving their muddy shoes at the door. He sat down at the round oak kitchen table, pushed his holster to one side and removed his hat, revealing a full head of brown hair streaked with gray. Pulling a pad and pen from his jacket pocket, he questioned them both and quickly scribbled down their answers. When he finished, he sat back, relaxed, looked around the room and asked, “Just moving in?”
“Yes, I just got here a week ago and I don’t know many people here, except my friend, Bashia, from South Killingly. We were in the Peace Corps together and now she’s helping me get settled.” Dottie looked about nervously. “Do you suppose there’s a murderer around here?”
“We aren’t aware of any murders around these parts. This area is pretty quiet. I haven’t been here very long either, and I’m still trying to get used to this laid-back country living. It’s apparent that skull has been in the tank for a long time, but we won’t know anything more until it can be examined.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee and a sandwich?” Bashia asked. “We haven’t had any lunch yet, have you?”
“Coffee will be fine, I’m trying to lose weight,” Jankowski smiled, smoothed down his hair, tucked in his food-stained tie and tried to suck in his bulging midriff. He thought he would ease their anxiety by keeping the conversation from the problem at hand. “You said your name is Bashia? That wouldn’t be Polish for Barbara, would it?”
“Yes, it is! Go to the head of the class! Not many people can make that connection. I was baptized Barbara Aniela Ciekawy. And your name, can I safely presume that you’re Polish, too?” She smiled, wondering if that was what attracted her.
Dottie nervously busied herself at the counter making sandwiches, tossing her long hair over her shoulder as she worked. She paused, found some napkins and put them on the table, then picked up the teapot, filled it with water and set it on the stove, but forgot to turn on the unit. She hesitated, glancing at the bread sitting on the counter and suddenly turned to the policeman, “Do you know my neighbor? I’ve been told it’s a young man, but I haven’t seen him yet.”
“Johnny? Yeah, I know him. He stopped in once to ask about a fishing license. A big hunk of a guy. But he’s not around very much, told me he works in New Haven and stays with his girlfriend during the week. I see him once in a while.”
Sitting at the table next to Jankowski, Bashia guessed he was approximately the same age as she, in his early 60s. The gray streaks in his hair looked distinguished. But his soiled tie and midsection bulge made him appear older. His erect posture in the chair didn’t cancel out the negative vibes she felt and yet his blue eyes bewitched her. She questioned him between bites of her tuna sandwich. “Do you have any reports of missing persons? How long do you think that skull has been in there?”
“Well, Miss, I came here six months ago and have been getting acquainted with the area, reviewing past files and histories. That skull must have been in there at least five years to be so clean. Not even a hair, which is the last thing to decompose. Of course the atmospheric conditions, condition of the body and other factors affect decomposition, so it’s hard to tell. The state police forensic lab will be able to date it more accurately.”
Noticing that Dottie was still jittery and not eating, he tried to calm her by asking to see the rest of the house. She proudly led him through the empty rooms, pointed out unique features and apologized for the half-open boxes at the foot of her unmade bed. When they returned to the kitchen, he asked to see the large building at the side of the property.
The weak October sun cast shadows on the overgrown path as they circled the field to the kennel. “I’m glad this path takes a wide swing around the septic tank. We won’t have to go near there again,” Dottie said. “Mr. Thompson said this area was used to train the dogs.”
“Mr. Thompson? Do you have his address?”
“Just his business address. It’s Chuck Thompson, he sells real estate, but I think he does other things–the card said Harmony Kennels. He seemed pretty anxious to sell the property, said something about taking a trip.”
They reached the kennel, entered the cool building, scrutinized the empty expanse and walked to the apartment at the far end.
“This is where the dog trainer lived. A former owner raised lots of purebred dogs and entered them in shows all over the country. Mr. Thompson said the girl who lived here helped the owner care for the dogs.”
Jankowski looked around slowly and carefully, taking out his pad and pencil to note the contents of the kennel and room before they walked back toward the house. “Did Mr. Thompson say if he had done any remodeling?”
Dottie, puzzled by the question and noticing the yellow tape on the grass, dashed for the house. “I think I’m going to throw up!”
CHAPTER THREE
“Come on, let’s not hang around here,” Bashia said, after Dottie returned from the bathroom. “The cop has gone back to his car to do something, how about if we go grocery shopping? Have you stocked up on supplies yet?” she asked, trying to distract and comfort her friend.
“I did buy some staples when I first got here but I could use more now. That would be a good idea. I can pick up some fruit and milk and I mustn’t forget to get something for Sarafina and Misha. I suppose now would be a good time to stock up. I haven’t bought kitty litter yet, either.” Dottie seemed to regain her composure as her thoughts turned to her cats. Looking in a small purse mirror, she brushed her hand over her hair, searched for her keys in her purse and headed for the door. As they walked to the car she began talking about her cats.
Bashia interrupted as they drove near the patrol car. She rolled down the window and called to Trooper Jankowski, “We’re thinking of going to town for a bit and will be back in a little while, all right?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
On the drive to the grocery store Dottie continued jabbering about Misha and Sarafina. She wouldn’t think of putting them in an animal clinic, she said. They had never been left overnight anywhere without her–and she worried that the move into a strange house, without their beds, toys and familiar furniture would traumatize them. Instead, she had left them with her friend, Alice, promising to be pick them up later. Alice was a security guard at the federal prison where Dottie had worked for a short time. Bashia had heard all this earlier, but she let Dottie ramble on, expending her nervousness.
At the Fresh Foods they found a grocery cart and walked up and down the aisles, picking up several items. When they came to the cat and dog food section, Dottie stopped. “Oh, good, here’s the same brand of cat food I buy in New Jersey,” she said, showing Bashia the cans. “This one for Misha and this one for Sarafina. It’s on sale, too. Help me load up the grocery cart, will you?”
“You buy two different types of cat food?” Bashia asked as she dumped several cans into the basket.
“Listen, those cats are like children in fur coats to me. They’ve been with me for a long time and I’ve learned they’re finicky eaters. Didn’t you
serve the foods your children enjoyed? Misha won’t touch Sarafina’s food and Sarafina is the one I have to hunt for under the bed or sofa when it comes time to feed her. Sometimes I bring the dish to her.”
Bashia rolled her eyes and shook her head in amazement as she pushed the grocery basket ahead of her. “Is your friend going to bring the cats up here, or are you driving back down to New Jersey?”
“I told Alice I would let her know when my furniture arrived. She said she might be going to a prison guard conference in New Hampshire soon, and she would be able to bring them here. I really think she’d like the drive. Autumn is such a nice time in New England.”
“You got that right. That’s why the traffic is so bad. Everyone loves to see our ‘small towns, large farms, rolling hills, gorgeous maples and juicy ripe apples,’ as the tourist brochures say. The next few weeks will be the best for autumn colors. And it will be good for you to have some company!”
While they shopped, Bashia thought of her own schedule for the next day and wondered if she should leave Dottie alone. She had an appointment with a woman referred to her by an old client. As if by telepathy, Dottie handed Bashia a magazine at the checkout stand where they placed their groceries on the conveyor belt.
“You don’t have to worry about me, you know. That was a shocker, seeing that skull, but it’ll be taken away soon and I’ll be all right. Look, here’s an article, ‘Control Your Life’. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ll have to decide if I want to stay here, though.”
“I understand, but remember, anyone who can make it in the Peace Corps can survive anything!” They laughed and nudged each other as they pushed their grocery cart out the door and to the car.
“Five o’clock traffic can really be something. I thought I left all that behind me but I hadn’t counted on the roads being so narrow,” Dottie frowned as she concentrated on the single lane of traffic ahead of her. “It seems strange not to have turning lanes like back home. That really keeps the traffic flowing.”
“I know what you mean. When I visit my children in Arizona or Florida I really notice the difference. Then when I return it takes me a while to get accustomed to these roads again. We like to say our roads were made by following the cow paths. It’s just another part of quaint New England. Have you heard that?” Bashia teased.
“No, I haven’t, but I guess there are a lot of things I’ll be learning about.” She turned up Englishtown Road, which was deserted, and relaxed her hand on the wheel. “I wonder if anyone noticed the police car drive up the road this noon or if the Crime Squad has arrived yet.”
“We’ll soon find out,” Bashia said. “By the way, did I tell you I have a ten o’clock appointment tomorrow? I can stay with you for the evening, but I’d better leave early. Or would you prefer to spend the night at my house?”
“No, I don’t think so, but let’s wait and see what happens with the police investigation.” She turned into her driveway and parked next to the police car where Trooper Jankowski still sat, doodling and drawing cartoons. No Crime Squad vehicle was in sight. “You must be hungry,” she called to him. “Would you like something to eat now?”
Jankowski got out of his car and began to help carry the groceries inside. “Yes, a sandwich sounds good, Miss, if it’s not too much trouble. I’ve just received a report from the crime guys; they’re on their way and should be here in half an hour.”
“Thanks for your help, Officer,” Bashia smiled as she took a bag of groceries from him. “Please call us by our first names, since you’re probably going to be here for a while. What is your first name?” She looked up into his steel blue eyes and almost dropped the bag when she realized he was looking at her with the same intensity. Blushing, she turned away, feeling her body temperature rise.
“Mark. My mother had high hopes I would become a priest, so she named me after Saint Mark. Fat chance!”
An hour later two men from the Major Crime Squad drove into the yard in their white van. Detectives Ed Fallon and Mike Ellis shook hands with Trooper Jankowski and walked to the septic tank while he gave them a cursory report. The women watched as the three huddled together in discussion, then the men retraced their steps. Jankowski introduced the two men; Detective Fallon was tall, thin and apparently in charge; Detective Ellis, of medium height, wearing a rumpled suit, pulled out a notebook and waited for Fallon to question the women.
“Got someone around who can drain the tank?” Fallon asked Jankowski when the interviews were completed.
“I can call a guy named Frenchy. I’ve heard he does a good job.” Turning to Dottie, he asked, “May I use your phone book?”
In the kitchen, he thumbed through the book and dialed Armand’s Disposal Service number. “Frenchy? Trooper Jankowski here. I’ve got a job for you that must be done right now. Can you come? I’m on Moon Road in North Woodstock. At pole number 213.” He laughed at some unheard remark before continuing, “No, not that kind of a problem, but I need you here now–this is official business.”
Fifteen minutes later a loud rumbling noise interrupted everyone’s thoughts. A black, dirt-encrusted tanker bumped through the tall grass. Jankowski waved to the driver as the truck came to a stop. “Ah, Frenchy, thanks for being so quick.”
The short elderly Frenchman jumped down from his truck, wiped his hands on soiled yellow coveralls, the pant legs tucked into knee-high black rubber boots, and slammed the truck door. His face was surrounded by curly gray hair. “What’s up?” he asked.
“This is Detective Fallon and Mike Ellis over there. We need to have the septic tank pumped out before we can say what’s up. These ladies found a skull in there,” Jankowski replied.
“You’re kidding! A skull? A human skull?” Nothing like this had ever happened in his twenty-eight years of service. The somber look on everyone’s face told him it was true.
“Do you have a screen filter on your hose? There may be small pieces down there that we’ll be interested in,” said Detective Fallon. “Let’s get to it.”
Frenchy backed his truck close to the septic tank, hopped out and began to unwind a chunky hose. Without saying a word, intent on his work, he snapped on a filter and dropped it into the opening. A fetid odor rose from the agitated liquid, forcing the women to back off and hold their breath. Jankowski and the detectives stood close by.
Half an hour later the tank was just about drained when the hose started moving convulsively. Frenchy pulled the hose part of the way out, whacked it against the opening and dropped it back in. “Something must have blocked the hose, but I think it’s okay now.”
Finally, a loud sucking sound signaled that the last of the liquids had been pumped from the tank. Frenchy pulled the hose out and coiled it around the bracket at the back of his truck. He wiped his hands on his coveralls before reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief. Wiping his brow, he turned to Jankowski, “Now what? I don’t see no skull.”
“Thanks for your help, Frenchy. And remember, the ladies don’t need a bunch of sightseers here, this is just an investigation. Please don’t be discussing this around town.”
Frenchy changed his coveralls, filled out a report form Jankowski gave him and climbed into his truck, grumbling something about being dismissed just when things were beginning to get interesting. He drove his full honey wagon back down the driveway.
Fallon donned his own coveralls, heavy-duty rubber work boots, a hard hat and canvas gloves from the van, and squeezed down into the tank. Ellis handed him a camera to photograph the scene inside the tank. He took a dozen pictures from different angles before handing the camera up to Jankowski. “There’s quite a few bones laying around. I may be here all night!” he called out to the men. Carefully he retrieved the bones, one by one, and passed them up to Ellis and Jankowski. The slimy bones and slippery gloves slowed the process and spattered their uniforms with sludge.
“A doctor friend of mine once told me there were over 200 bones in the body,” sputtered Detective Fallon as he gasped for fresh a
ir. “I don’t plan to count them, but this sure does seem like a lot of bones! And here’s a heavy one–someone made sure this body wouldn’t be discovered. It’s wired to a cement block!” All three men struggled to haul the gruesome segments from the tank without separating them.
Fallon flashed his light around the empty tank one last time before climbing out and taking several deep breaths. He pulled off his soiled, smelly outer clothing and glanced about for a hose to rinse his hands. Seeing none, he called Ellis to bring him the moist towelette package from his equipment box. Gratefully, he wiped his hands, then vigorously ran a hand through his crew-cut red hair, shaking off the tight confinement of his hard hat.
The policemen huddled together talking quietly about the situation. They took measurements and made sketches of the bones and septic tank, then placed the evidence in separate plastic bags. It was apparent that the bones had been submerged for a long time, for there were no visible clues–no clothing fragments, tissue nor hair. Ellis completed the inspection by diagramming the surrounding area, making extensive notes and taking more photos of the land, house and kennel. Bashia and Dottie sat on the back steps the entire time, quietly watching the activities.
It was almost six when Detectives Fallon and Ellis drove off with their find. Jankowski knew it would be several weeks before any report would be available. The bones would be sent to the State Forensic Science Lab in Meriden for examination and a DNA profile, but it would not be considered a priority, since the bones verified that this was not a new crime. He finished filling out his own report forms in the car, and radioed headquarters once more before telling the women he was leaving.
“The septic tank cover is back in place, and you should be all right now. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to worry. I’ll check with you tomorrow and let you know what’s happening.” He wanted to offer them more reassurance, but he became tongue-tied as he stared into Bashia’s sparkling green eyes. Did he get a hint of interest from her? He was sorry he hadn’t changed his tie this morning after dropping scrambled eggs on it, but he had been in a diner and hadn’t wanted to return to his apartment. He unconsciously pulled in his gut and stood a little taller.
Bones in the Backyard Page 3
