Bones in the Backyard

by Lois Blackburn

  She returned to her desk, opened her journal and in hard, sharp strokes wrote,

  Thompson doesn’t give a damn! All he thinks about is his own skin. He’s certainly changed his tune in the past couple years! I really need to talk to him. My car is ready to fall apart, the insurance is due and the landlord just told me to expect an increase in my rent the beginning of next year! And I think I’m going to fail algebra this semester! I can’t take this much longer!

  * * *

  Detective Greg Horton was an average man, indistinguishable in a crowd. That’s the way detectives are supposed to be, he was told, a regular guy, no different from the rest. His five-foot eight-inch frame was lean and mean; his receding black hair, penetrating eyes and perpetual thin-lipped scowl could fit the description of dozens of middle-aged men. Clothes hung loose and rumpled on his body. Yet people who knew Horton said there was a difference. He had a love/hate relationship with his job. He loved the investigation, getting the problem solved, talking to people, getting the truth out of them; but he hated the bureaucracy, the paperwork, the idiotic demands placed upon him. At times he was ready to throw in the towel, cursing his superiors, and the system that controlled promotions. It was a whole political process, getting promotions. He hated it.

  Dreading his workday, he pulled up an article he had seen recently on the Internet. “Anonymous” had submitted an article he found very apropos–a story of God creating police officers.

  “The Lord was creating an officer of peace on his sixth day, in overtime, when an angel appeared and said, ‘You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.’

  “The Lord said, ‘Look at the specs on this one–an officer has to run five miles through alleys in the dark, scale walls, enter houses the health inspector wouldn’t touch, and not wrinkle his uniform. He has to be in top physical condition at all times, running on black coffee and half-eaten meals. He has to sit in an undercover car all day on a stakeout, cover a homicide scene at night, canvass the neighborhood for witnesses and testify in court the next day.’” Horton laughed, “So true, so true!” He continued reading.

  “The angel said, ‘Your model is leaking.’

  “And the Lord answered, That’s not a leak, that’s a tear.’

  “’What’s a tear?’

  “’It’s for bottled up emotions, for fallen comrades, for commitment to that funny piece of cloth called the American flag, for justice.’

  “’You’re a genius, Lord,’ said the angel.

  “The Lord looked somber, ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t intend for that to happen!’”

  Horton nodded his head in agreement as he put away the article and left the building. Now, the drive from his office at the Eastern District Crime Squad in Norwich to the Danielson Barracks D became more pleasant. His body relaxed a little as he sailed up Interstate 395, past rolling hills, acres of forest and plowed-over fields readied for the next year’s planting. The air smelled of pine and goldenrod. Small towns still contained obsolete chimneyed, brick textile mills along the rivers from which they drew and discharged their power. Grimy broken windows saddened him as he thought of the hundreds of displaced mill hands. The area was changing. Already some of the cornfields sprouted rows of cookie-cutter homes. But it was an interesting change from his trips to Meriden or Hartford.

  At least he carried some authority in Danielson, Horton thought as he parked his car in the Troop D parking lot. His commander had okayed Jankowski’s assistance, now he needed to meet with the barracks chief and confirm it. Someone would have to cover for Jankowski when he was working the case, that was all.

  The small conference room at the State Police Barracks was stuffy and smoky. When Commander Sidney Cuthbert walked into the room Horton and Jankowski lowered their voices. Two troopers on duty joined them as they waited for Commander Cuthbert to review the file lying on the battleship-gray steel desk. Bland yellow walls, brown uniforms and hard metal folding chairs matched the group’s somber mood.

  Cuthbert studied the file, looked up and said, “So the skeleton’s at forensics and a DNA comparison is in the works? So, maybe now this turns into a murder, not an old missing persons event. I see you’ve requested Jankowski to work with you on this case?” He didn’t wait or expect a reply. “The State Crime Unit working with a Resident State Trooper–it wouldn’t be the first time. You two going to work it out? Good, go to it, I’ll be looking for your reports. Keep me posted if you need any more help. Any questions?”

  Receiving the go-ahead from Cuthbert, Horton and Jankowski drove the eighteen miles to the Woodstock Town Hall. The two-story colonial brick building snuggled into the sloping green hillside. Hedges surrounded the front of the building, but the rear lower level, where the troopers parked their cars, was paved solid in blacktop. Horton followed Jankowski into his small office, smoking a cigar. “Nice area,” he said, as he filled the room with pungent clouds of smoke.

  “See that sign?” Jankowski barked. “No smoking in the building.”

  “Yeah, but I hate to waste a good cigar. O.K., I’ll put it out. Let’s get down to work here. Oh, thanks for the heads-up on that unknown–Pierce.”

  Horton wanted to get the feel of the area, visit the scene at Dottie Weeks’ home and set up a plan of operation while waiting for the DNA report to come back. Jankowski rehashed the Hartford Courant articles Bashia had found, without mentioning her, and the fact that Mrs. Stearns had petitioned probate court. Horton knew about the petition, but not about the collection of news articles.

  They decided Jankowski would talk to the people previously interviewed, find Pierce and check the area and people around the Stoddard home more thoroughly. Horton, who was working on other cases, would coordinate the investigation, keep tabs on the Forensic Lab, and search for any further court records and information. Both would establish a filing system to absorb the mountains of paperwork they would produce, and fax reports to each other.

  As they drove to North Woodstock, Horton commented that he had been to Danielson before, but didn’t realize northeastern Connecticut was so rural.

  Jankowski nodded, “Yeah, I’m finding that out myself. There’s a mixture of dyed-in-the-wool Yankee farmers, Finnish, French, Polish and Jewish immigrants from New York raising chickens, old money and mill workers, nothing like my previous department in New Haven.

  “I’ve been told the area is changing. With communities springing up everywhere between Boston and Hartford, all this open land will soon be gone. Woodstock is a good example of growth. I read that it was settled early on when preacher John Elliot brought religion to the Indians. Now it’s the politicians bringing in who knows what.”

  Horton agreed, “Just like the area between Norwich and Groton! That Foxwood Casino is the largest in the country and has driven farmland prices out of sight.”

  As they parked on the side of Dottie’s house, it was obvious that she wasn’t home. The men walked to the rear of the house and stopped at the spot where the septic tank was buried. “It’s close enough to the house, how could anyone dig up the cover and dump a body in without the occupants of the house knowing?” Horton wondered aloud as they covered the grounds. “Was the body put in there while Terry Vaselekos lived here? Does she know more than she’s saying? If the body is Danielle Stoddard, did Chuck Thompson forcibly take her away and bury her here later? And what about André Lizotte and Ransom Pierce? Was either of them capable of killing Danielle? Why would she have been killed?”

  “Hopefully we’ll find the answers. It’ll be difficult; any evidence is long gone. At that time Joe Murphy didn’t consider it a homicide and didn’t comb the area for evidence,” said Jankowski as he led the way back to the car.

  “Well, it’s not too surprising that Trooper Murphy didn’t go further with his investigation,” said Horton. “I’ve read that several hundred thousand missing persons reports are filed each year with the FBI by local police agencies! And they say that’s only perhaps half the cases that occur–but in th
e other half million or so, the person is found or simply shows up after a short time. Trooper Murphy called it the way he saw it, based on his best available information–that this missing woman was eccentric, to say the least, from what both her sister and her associates said about her. She had gone away for extended time periods previously.”

  “Well, I’m determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I retire in two years. Think we can get it wrapped up before then?” Jankowski laughed as Horton did a double-take to see if he was serious.

  * * *

  Mark Jankowski had no trouble reaching Chuck Thompson at his Harmony Kennels in Lincoln, Massachusetts and made an appointment to interview him. He took the time to reread the old file before driving there.

  He recognized Thompson by the file description. But now his brown wavy hair only waved around a bald spot; his tanned cheeks pulled down in a sneer. He showed a slight paunch under his gray suit and his shoulders were stooped, making him somewhat shorter than Jankowski. Despite his stoop, his gait signaled a sense of control.

  “Come into the office, we can talk there,” Thompson said, without introduction. “What is it you want? I’m a busy man.” He apparently didn’t appreciate being tracked down and interviewed about something that had happened so long ago.

  Jankowski sat down and looked about. The office was a model of efficiency, several file cabinets stood in a row and the walls were covered with photos of Thompson and his dogs, with ribbons attached to the picture frames. A blotter, small calendar, pens and a penholder stood on Thompson’s desk. A mixed odor of smoke, sawdust and energetic animals filled the air. A low rumble of barking came from the kennels.

  “There have been some new developments regarding the disappearance of Danielle Stoddard and I’d like to go over the case with you. Any objections?”

  “Wouldn’t do much good if I did object, would it? Just make it brief, I’ve got work to do and that happened a long time ago,” Thompson said.

  Jankowski cleared his throat, took out a tape recorder and said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to tape our conversation. Saves me from trying to decipher my scribbling later. If you have no objection we can begin. Good.” He turned on the recorder. “Please tell me about your previous association with Danielle Stoddard. I understand you had been her friend for a long time.”

  Exasperated, Thompson replied, “Yes, I was first introduced to her back in the 1970s sometime but it wasn’t until the middle of the ‘80s that I became friendly with her–helping her with her dogs and such. I sold her a dog, and then she came to me quite regularly asking for advice about raising dogs on a professional level. But I told all this to the police back in ’94, I think.”

  “I know, but we found a skeleton on her property now, and we need to get more details to clear this up. How did you happen to find the house for Danielle anyway? I thought you said you were an accountant and dog breeder, not a real estate person.” Jankowski watched closely for a reaction from Thompson.

  Thompson froze. “I didn’t know a skeleton was found! Is it Danielle?” He stopped breathing for a second, then regained his composure.

  “I am an accountant and have connections. Harold Reagan, a friend of mine, is an attorney, and he told me about this place in North Woodstock. I took a look and figured it would work well for Danielle if she built a kennel for her dogs. It was isolated so there wouldn’t be neighbors close enough to complain about any barking. When I showed it to her, she was delighted, couldn’t wait to get out of her family home. So I offered to sell that for her and work a deal with the Connecticut place at the same time.”

  “And I suppose you made a commission on the transaction?”

  “Of course, it was the normal thing to do. I wasn’t that much of a friend to give up a few thousand dollars.” Thompson began to fiddle with a pen on his desk, avoiding Jankowski’s stare.

  “You said in your 1994 interview that you supervised the construction of the kennel?”

  “There was a lot to do, contracts and contractors and all. Danielle had never dealt with that and seemed eager for me to take charge. I had the time, so I did it for her. Then, after going to her for authorization to pay construction bills every few weeks, she suggested giving me carte blanche with her checkbook. Soon after that she decided she wanted to give me power of attorney.”

  “And you didn’t think that strange?”

  “No, after all, I’m a CPA. It’s second nature for to me to handle finances. I thought it was a good idea.” He pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered one to Jankowski.

  He declined, sizing up Thompson’s confident, almost belligerent manner as he lit his cigarette.

  Thompson looked at Jankowski through the blue haze he created, thinking what the hell are you doing, trying to dig up dirt over an old case? Nothing else to do? But he just chuckled, thinking of “digging up dirt”.

  Jankowski looked squarely into his brown eyes. “What’s funny, Mr.Thompson?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Let’s get on with it, I’ve got things to do,” he said, angrily crushing out his newly lit cigarette.

  “In your interview you said you were taking care of all her finances, not just her checkbook. When did this happen?”

  He sighed in frustration, “Well, let me think. It was in ’89 that she bought the house and we started building the kennel. After that Danielle got more involved in purchasing, training and grooming the dogs. Her pack grew to something like twenty-eight dogs and she asked me to take care of all household and kennel expenses. In ’91, before she went to Europe, she decided she wanted to write a new will, so I asked Reagan to do it for her.

  “She was so wrapped up with the dogs that she said when she died she wanted me to take care of her dogs, and to scatter her ashes over Madison Square Garden during a Westminster Kennel Show–rent a plane to do it! And she wanted money to go to a dog museum and other charitable organizations. For these services, and others during her lifetime, I was to get title to the North Woodstock property. Reagan became trustee of the will and her trust.”

  “Tell me about the trust.”

  “She had a charitable remainder trust established several years ago, by her father perhaps, I don’t know. At any rate, she was able to draw on the trust during her lifetime, at the rate of eight percent annually. It was a sizable amount and I had no trouble managing her property with the funds. With power of attorney, I was able to draw from the trust to pay Terry Vaselekos, Danielle’s on-site assistant, and all other household expenses. I told the police that before.”

  “Did you receive any money?”

  Now thoroughly agitated, Thompson answered, “Of course, both Mr. Reagan and myself received generous salaries for our work.”

  “What do you think happened to Danielle? Didn’t you find it strange that a wealthy woman would just disappear off the face of the earth?” Jankowski asked.

  “I’m telling you the same thing I told the police six years ago. I don’t know! Why don’t you talk to someone else; what about that guy down the road? Did anyone ever talk to him? What about André Lizotte?” Thompson spouted out words like the Yellowstone Geyser, eyes seething with rage and his face turned red.

  Jankowski sat stone-faced, until Thompson calmed down. Then he asked about Lizotte and Danielle’s Paris trip. Thompson said he wasn’t privy to why Danielle went to Europe in 1991, nor what she did there. She had left instructions for the long-term care of her dogs. He didn’t know where Danielle stayed or with whom. He had taken her peculiar manner of dress in stride, but when she returned from Paris with André, wearing men’s clothing, smoking cigars, showing a slightly bewhiskered chin, and acting more and more manly, he really began to wonder. And then she legally changed her name to Dan.

  Jankowski scratched his head and said he wasn’t quite sure where Lizotte fit into all this, what did Thompson think? Thompson visibly stiffened and became antagonistic.
He didn’t like André, he said, and thought he was a sponger and a homosexual. He was astonished when Danielle returned with André in tow, and let him live with her. André catered to her every whim and soon Terry and he were ignored. Danielle frequently was rude to both of them and seemed only to enjoy André’s company. But, in a year or so, Danielle and André had had an argument and Lizotte moved out. He didn’t have any idea what the argument was about. Thompson suspected Lizotte had moved to a gay community, but he returned frequently and Danielle gave him money. Yes, he had an old Worcester address for André but didn’t know if he still lived there.

  “O.K., so, what do you know about a man named Ransom Pierce?” Jankowski asked.

  “Pierce? I haven’t thought of him for years. Why, what do you want to know?” an agitated Thompson answered.

  “We hear he was threatening Danielle.”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Yes, I think at one time Terry was worried that he might attack Danielle. But Terry was very young, you know, and easily upset. Especially where her mentor was concerned.

  “Pierce was an active exhibitor for a while, but that was when Danielle wasn’t confiding in me. I didn’t compete directly against him, so I didn’t pay much attention–maybe he was aspiring to qualify as a judge and was passed over. Or maybe he just went crazy or something. Don’t ask me, but you’ll probably want to look him up through the AKC, especially if you think that skeleton is Danielle.

  “Are you almost finished with me? I didn’t realize you needed this much time and I have things to do.”

  “Just a little more. Tell me about the last time you saw Danielle, or Dan.”

  “Hell, I was at her kennel two or three times a week. I don’t remember exactly when I last saw her, but the last time I talked with her she was furious about the Oyster Bay Show. She had received a letter saying something wasn’t filled out correctly and her entry was disqualified. She called me about that–that’s the phone call I told the police about. I told her I could straighten things out, correct the application and FedEx it out in the morning, but she was so angry, she went into a screaming fit, and slammed the phone down in my ear. I tried to call her back, but couldn’t get through. After a few tries, I figured she had just left it off the hook. Then I decided I’d go to her home in the morning and show her the correct application form ready to mail.”