Brooklyn Bones (2 page)
I decided who was in charge—me —and started up the stairs. Then the doorbell rang.
There were two young officers in uniform, who looked so much like guys I knew when I was young that it hurt. They identified themselves and politely asked me to take them to the “situation.”
Joe and I stood nearby watching, keeping an eye on them and at the same time curious to see what they would do.
When they poked their heads into the hole in the wall, one of them said, “Holy shit!” then he looked at me and muttered a quick “Sorry.”
“It’s ok. I’ve heard it before.”
“Jeez,” he said to his partner, “it looks like a burial or something.”
“You said it. We’ve got to call detectives in, crime scene, the works.”
The other one nodded. “They’re going to drop their teeth when they hear this one.” He turned to us. “We need to ask you some questions, and we’re gonna tell you not to touch a thing until the experts show up. Got that?”
“Of course.”
“I need names, addresses, phone numbers, occupation.” He whipped out a notebook and pen. “So you live here? What were you doing when you found these bones?”
“Mrs. Donato wasn’t here,” Joe said emphatically. “She was at work. I’m her contractor. We started to break down that wall and there it was.”
“So you found it?”
“Not exactly. I was here, but Mrs. Donato’s daughter, who’s working for me, was the one who actually uncovered it.”
“Oh yeah? And where is she? We’ll need to talk to her.”
“She’s upstairs, but please,” I begged, “she’s only fifteen and she’s really upset. Can’t you just talk to us?”
“No, ma’m, we can’t.” He smiled. “I have a younger sister. We’ll be nice, don’t worry, but let me get straight on these other questions first. Now, do you own or rent? Anyone else live here, besides you and your daughter? And how long have you been here?”
“Own. Ten years. It’s only us right now. We used to rent out the garden floor, until we started all this construction.”
“And you’re fixing it up now?” He turned to Joe. “And you’re in charge of that?”
I said, “Of course he is. You don’t think we….”
“Nope, not thinking anything, just asking questions about stuff the detectives might want to know. OK, let’s get the young lady down here.”
I hesitated, wanting to argue, then gave in and went to get her. I found her curled up on the top step. She lifted her face from her knees and said, “I can’t. I won’t.”
“There is no choice here. You have to. If you don’t come down, I’m sure they’ll come up to get you. Wouldn’t that be worse?”
She gave me a considering look and went clattering down the stairs.
I followed, braced for more hysteria, but the young cops kept their promise and treated her gently. She described how she broke through the wall with a sledgehammer, and they teased her about not being that strong, and she offered to show them. Standing near the broken wall, looking in again, one of them said to the other, “Tell you something. I think that’s a kid. Not a little kid, but a young girl.”
The second cop said, “You can’t tell all that from bones!”
“Yeah, you can. The experts can, anyways. Bet you anything it turns out to be female and young. Ever know a guy with a teddy bear?”
Chris looked ready to cry again, but I knew they were merely being young cops, covering up their discomfort. Either that, or they were jerks. I barely got the words out —“Have a little respect here!” —when the bell rang again.
A crowd filled my steps, men and women, some in plainclothes, some in uniform. They came in, identified themselves, conferred with the cops already here. We sat in a corner, quiet and out of their way, and they forgot about us. In the blur of their intense activity, I never did figure out exactly who was who. Some were detectives, some maybe from a crime scene unit. They went right to work, carefully enlarging the hole Chris had made, taking pictures, taking samples, bagging up everything they found.
One would say, “Chain bracelet, silver-color,” and the other wrote it down. “Record albums here—Rolling Stones,
Sympathy for the Devil
. The Doors. Just called
The Doors
, I guess. Jefferson Airplane.
Surrealistic Pillow
. Real oldies. I mean, when do you see records at all any more?”
“Man, this is a weird one. I don’t see the head bashed in, we’re not finding bullets here. Sure looks suspicious, but there’s no obvious cause of death.”
Another voice said, “ME’s gonna have a field day with this one.”
Chris covered her ears.
Joe watched what they did, asked and answered questions, but I sat with my daughter, stroking her hair. Then someone handing out the objects gave a low whistle and muttered, “I’ll be damned.” Everyone looked his way as he carefully held up a broken piece of brick and said, “There’s writing on it. RIP. Then it says 9/16/72.
Over Chris’ hidden head, Joe and I stared at each other as one of the cops said, “Not a cover up, a freakin’ burial,” and another said, “Or both.”
Eventually one of the men in plainclothes come to us and double-checked all our answers to the questions of the first cops. He said to Joe, “Joe Greenberg? Office at 533 Bergen? We’ll want to check out your contracting license numbers,” and to me, “Can you verify when you moved here? And where you lived before? We might want that, but it can wait.”
He turned to colleagues and said quietly, “If everything checks out, they’re OK. This situation looks way older than their residence.”
At last, they gently placed the body in a bag and wheeled it out, placed a bright yellow crime scene tape across the hole in the wall and started packing up their equipment. I hadn’t moved from the sofa but looking through the front window I could see a crowd gathered outside, curious neighbors, a few cars stopped to see what was going on.
I heard a familiar voice saying, “I live next door. Just checking to see if everything’s OK with Miz Donato. Anything I can do?” Mr. Pastore, my grandfatherly next door neighbor.
A cop replied, “Yeah, she’s all right. You can come back later. No one’s coming in right now.”
The plainclothes officer who seemed to be in charge came back to us and said, “We’re going to check out everything you told us, but for now, relax.”
Chris looked up. “Checking us out? Do you possibly think we had anything to do with that….that….those bones?”
He smiled slightly. “No, young lady, we don’t think that, but we have to ask, you know.”
“Well, I do know. My uncle —well, almost uncle—is a retired detective. And he would know better!”
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Sergeant Rick Malone,” she said proudly.
“Could be I’ve met him. Now, listen.” He glanced sternly from me to Chris to Joe. “No one, and I mean no one, touches anything! That’s what the tape is for, to keep everyone away. Don’t even touch the tape! Don’t even work
near
there. Don’t even
think
about it. Got that?”
We did.
“Good.” He looked up to see his crew gathered at the door. “Here’s my card, in case you need to get in touch. I’m Russo. I’ll be in touch with you, if we need anything else. That’s it for now.”
And they were gone at last. Chris, Joe, and I stared at each other. Then Chris stood, said, “This is too gruesome!” and disappeared upstairs.
Joe asked me if I were all right, but I waved him away and he left. He needed to get on with his evening plans and I needed to collapse.
I found a cold beer in the fridge and fell into my favorite chair.
I could barely take in what I had seen. There was a body in my house. It had been there, unknown, all these years. It was not scary, not physically threatening, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but my own little house that I loved so much now felt different to me. And not in a good way. Plus I might be dealing with the police for a long time to come. As if I did not have enough on my shoulders already.
The phone broke into my muddled thoughts. It was my best friend Darcy.
“Can you come meet me for a bite of dinner in a little while? I want a glass of wine and girl talk.”
“Oh, no, not a chance, not tonight.”
“Try to change that to ‘yes of course.’ I’m a free woman and I want to make the most of it. ALL my kids are out doing teenager things and Carl is on a business trip.”
“I don’t know…”
She abruptly stopped her torrent of conversation. “What’s wrong? I hear it in your voice.”
So I told her about the discovery in our house and she was appropriately shocked. “And Chris was hysterical? Of course she was. You poor thing! But who can blame her? How are
you
doing?” Then she said, carefully, “Maybe it would be good for you to get out tonight. Don’t you think? Be with people, have some distraction.“
“But I can’t…Chris…”
“Chris will be fine.” She said it with the confidence of one who had survived three teenagers.
“No, Darcy, I don’t think…not tonight….”
Then, the sound of teenage chatter came drifting down the stairs.
“Hold on a minute.”
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, I could easily hear Chris. Our house is tiny for the neighborhood, with a separate rental apartment, now empty, on the garden floor and only two narrow stories for our own use. Her high voice came floating out of her room, rising and falling.
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “Oh my god! I hit the sheet rock with a hammer and it crumbled and there was this skeleton. It was the scariest, creepy…” Pause. “No, I am not kidding! How could you even think that? They were totally real bones and sort of dried skin too. And hair! Honest.”
Her voice fell again, and I could only hear the sounds, not the words, but it didn’t matter. She was working her own phone, processing the events of the day in her own teenaged way, with her friends. I said thank you to someone out there, some patron saint of parenthood.
I returned to my own call, told Darcy I would call her back and went upstairs. Before I could knock, Chris’ door opened. She had changed her clothes and was in mid-makeup.
“I’ve got to get out of this house. It’s too creepy.”
“I hear that. Where are you going?”
“Meeting Mel for pizza.” Her tone was sulky but her expression was pleading. I thought time with her best friend might be good for her.
“Then I might have supper with Darcy. You have your phone? Be home by ten.”
“Whatever.” She closed her bedroom door.
I wanted to smash the door down, even though I knew she was just trying to get control of her shock. Because I am a mature adult, I called Darcy instead, jumped into the shower, dressed quickly in a cool sundress and sandals, skipped makeup, and left the house. The ten-block walk to the restaurant, a cute patisserie with light meals, would give me time to compose myself. At least I hoped it would.
I stopped to exchange a few words with Mr. Pastore, assuring him I was fine, and Chris was fine, and promised to tell him all about it later. I stopped his flood of questions by admiring the magnificent roses he was pruning, and hurried down the block to our main avenue.
Before I got there, a voice called to me from across the street. It was Mary, our neighborhood crazy lady. Sometimes she was Ellen or even, occasionally, Zsa Zsa.
Of course we all teach the children to say the more correct “mentally ill.” Some days she was incoherent, weeping, ranting, clearly unwashed and smelly, and probably off medication. Other days we have had wholly rational conversations about the changing color of the leaves or who was moving in and out, but she has never told me exactly where she lived, or where she comes from. I was pretty sure she was alone in the world, but even that was only a guess.
Today looked like a somewhat lucid day. She called out, “Everything all right, dear? I saw police at your house. They scared me.”
I only gave her what I hoped was a friendly wave and an “Everything’s fine.” I didn’t want to be unkind, but I didn’t have the time or energy for her tonight.
I turned the corner into the crowds on the avenue. My modest house is on what used to be the far raggedy edge of Park Slope, this famously beautiful, historic neighborhood. But the neighborhood keeps spreading. Sometimes I miss the butcher and the sprawling, shabby toy store, so handy for last minute gifts, and even the tired corner bars where old men drank beer at eleven a.m. Coffee bars that offer four-dollar cappuccinos are replacing them all.
Actually, I was powerfully tempted when I passed one of them. The stress from this strange day was rapidly sinking in. Something sad and ugly had happened right there, in the home where Chris and I had been living our ordinary lives. It didn’t feel quite so much like our shelter any more. Caffeine and sugar to go suddenly seemed like a wonderful idea.
I exercised self-control on the coffee but could not control my thoughts. Was there someone out there in the world wondering about the dead girl all these years, or was she one more of the city’s tragic lost souls? I thought of my own child and I shuddered.
