Cold Case of the Dirty Snow

* Please note I have changed the names of those written of here. The story otherwise is fact and truth.

45 years later and I remember the boy in the wall.

It was February 1972 and I was 15. The foster father was renovating what had been the hotel’s kitchen. His plan was to remodel the old kitchen into a games room with pool tables and pinball machines. He knew the camping children would be happy to pay to play. He was business savvy enough to know the children’s parents would finance the absence of their kids to enable them to enjoy their own adult activities. Camping kids would eventually rename the hotel with the games room “The Big House”.

I would silently chuckle years later when dealing with cops and Children’s Aid social workers, all expounding their beliefs Paolo, the foster father, was a “simple man, unable to hatch or carry out schemes or crimes.”

Paolo was an amazingly brilliant man who co-owned, with two of his brothers, a carpentry and house building business. He had in short order, soon after locating the hotel and cottages, sold his shares in a large hotel on Ouellette Avenue, sold his home on Mercer Street and sold an apartment building, with business shops on the first floor. Paolo told us at the dinner table of the Jewish family, the ones who were reputed to own most of Ouellette Avenue. He proudly said he had their finances in his pocket, but he would never reveal how.

Paolo enjoyed his dinner conversations where he would play himself up as a “Made Man” with the Mafia. Was he? I never fully believed him, but it was very disconcerting when the local cops would drop in for a beer with their “best buddy”. How he earned their camaraderie was another question that remains unanswered.

Paolo was able to convince his newlywed brother Elias and his wife Jennie to help finance the operation. The plan was for them to move into a room in the hotel. He also convinced his wife’s brother Bill to invest his savings and move in. It wasn’t too long before Bill, Elias, Jennie and the baby Terry gave up the dream and moved out and back to their own lives. Elias and a third brother had bought out Paolo’s shares in the family owned carpentry business.

I would be remiss to not mention how the Children’s Aid Society latched on to the scheme presented to them by Paolo. The Children’s Aid, as he told them could use funds meant to be spent on activities for the foster children, to ease the financial burdens on other foster families, thus enabling them to purchase campers and pay rental fees for summer camping. Paolo was brilliant, and certainly he was a man who could both conceive and bring to fruition his evil schemes and crimes.

Paolo also had at his disposal the thousands of dollars per month earnings from the dozen or more foster children in his care. The children, a free workforce as groundskeepers, housekeepers and maids for the rental cottages assured his financial success.

It continues to amaze me how the professionals were adept at protecting one of their own. That’s what it was though, protection of their perceived “normal citizen” from the horrible, and already damaged foster children. (Their words, not mine!)

As foster children we had already been schooled on our place and our failings to the community. Foster children were, as I was repeatedly told, “damaged goods”, “children who emerged from hellish conditions thoroughly affected”, “blemished and mostly nonredeemable souls”, and, “children who should be at all times grateful ANYONE would want them.”

A much smaller kitchen and laundry room had been installed in the original front offices of the hotel. For a short time prior to that one of those rooms had served as a bedroom for Bill.

As work on the old kitchen had gotten underway I’d been dismayed to learn the beautiful copper top counters were being ripped out. Yvette, Paolo’s wife didn’t want the counters saying they would be too hard to keep clean. I still recall looking at her with amazement and my words of response, “I don’t know what difference that would make to you. You don’t do any of the housework anyway.” Yvette had glared her usual face at me while Paolo had chuckled.

Yvette’s youngest sister was the paid hired help. Yvette had explained to me that Jasmin had been herself a wayward soul, accumulating children and no decent man would now look at her. I liked Jasmin and thought she was a classy, beautiful and, like me, a completely overworked servant to the dame Yvette.

I had my faith in God renewed one day when Jasmin announced her parents had financed a house for her and her children! Yvette was livid when she learned, money she had perceived to be part of her inheritance had been spent on her youngest sister. I was elated and did nothing to hide my great pleasure in Yvette’s wailing and misery!

It was late, past my bedtime, and I’d crept downstairs and tiptoed into the old kitchen, for a last look at the counters. I will be completely honest here and also tell of my own financial crimes in that household, a secondary reason for sneaking down to the first floor!

During the first month after taking possession of the house the foster children were corralled and brought down to the basement. The rooms had been used as storage and housed mounds of aged commercial dishes, cups, bowls, serving platters, cutlery, cooking pots, utensils and other miscellaneous hotel kitchen items. Yvette told us our task was to clean out the rooms. Everything was to go out to the temporary dumpster Paolo had rented. Our reward, Yvette told us, was we could keep any “treasures” we found.

I was elated to find a small dark green metal box. A key was in the lock and I opened it to find another key taped inside. I slipped the loose key into my jeans pocket and rushed over to the small pile of goodies I had found. Yvette stopped me, demanding to see the box. After examining it she said, “I’m keeping that.” I was upset and reminded her of her promise we could keep any treasures we found. Yvette sneered at me and said, “I didn’t mean anything of quality.” I watched her walk away, her nose high in the air as I gently fingered the second key in my pocket.

Yvette’s greed would be her own undoing. She had taken her prize into the back office where they checked in and out the campers. Yvette proudly told Paolo she had found a moneybox, complete with key.

For more than a year it had been my great pleasure to be blackmailed over any truth or lie the other children could come up with. Their payment, always the same, I was to rob the moneybox and turn the proceeds over to them. I loved it, every moment of it. My plan was a brilliant as any Paolo could have conceived!

I never kept any of the money. The only money I used came from the parents whose children I babysat. Yvette knew my earnings exactly and pained over every penny I spent trying to prove my guilt. In her obsession to catch me, and to my utter amusement, she failed to notice the funds continually spent by the other children!

Certainly, it was ritualistic for me to rob the moneybox, however on that one night I truly had wanted a sad and long last look at the mesmerizing copper counters. I don’t recall seeing the counters though. I was too shocked at another sight before me.

A boy was inside a partially covered wall, his eyes pleading with me to help. His mouth was gagged shut and his hands were trussed tight to his sides, bound with some sort of fabric strips.

Horrified, I asked Paolo what the hell he thought he was doing. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me through the massive hotel lobby/dining room then through the chandeliered smaller dining room.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs he pushed me to go up. He’d hissed he was just scaring the boy as punishment and warned me to mind my business.

There was no telephone on the second floor to call the police and I was too frightened to go back down the stairs.

I didn’t sleep that night and I never did see that boy again. At breakfast the next morning Yvette announced the boy had run away as Paolo crunched away at his breakfast never looking up from his plate. After washing up the dishes I’d gone to look at the wall and saw it was completely covered over. The wallboard was puttied, sanded and painted. Paolo would have had to stay up all night to complete the task.

I looked out the windows at the driveway in hopes of seeing the boys footprints in the dirty snow and saw nothing.

Twenty years later, in 1992 I was in a Police interview room with a Constable of the Colchester Township Police. Paolo had been arrested on numerous charges of child molestation and the Constable wanted to hear my story, if I had one.

During my interview I’d told him of the numerous times I’d been sexually abused. I told him about the anal rape and how Paolo’s wife had helped pin me down. She was fully aware of the actions of her husband. She was a willing participant.

I also told the constable about the boy in the wall. I was disappointed but not surprised when he suggested it had merely been a dream or nightmare.

I’d demanded the Roman Catholic Children’s Aid let me read my file. Initially they denied me access telling the constable my file was protected under adoption laws. I clarified I had not been adopted and the police told them they could not refuse. They did ultimately turn over my file, minus all medical records, for me to read.

In the file I read a report by a worker that I thought should substantiate my story. At the least, I hoped, the constable would acknowledge the information gave my story sufficient credibility to warrant his investigation.

The Children’s Aid worker had written five adolescent children had run away from the foster home. The first had been a boy in February, 1972!

I’d excitedly told the constable of the entry. He replied he wasn’t about to rip open walls based solely on an alleged memory of a foster child with mental health issues, and a Children’s Aid note of a child who had run away.

I asked the Constable, “Does it ever end? Does the day ever arrive that our words as foster children can be perceived as possible truth? Will foster children ever be regarded as worthy people?” Not surprisingly, the Constable had nothing to say.

What kind of legal system do we have when a cop has the authority to decide whether or not to investigate a reported crime? Sadly, that is exactly how it is, it truly is up to the cop to decide if a crime may or may not have been committed.

I was the second of the five runaways. I’d snuck out a second story window in the middle of the night five months later in July, 1972.

Witnessing the terrified boy shaking with fear, I’d known he was certain of being buried alive in the wall. I will never forget his eyes pleading with me for help. Feeling threatened and unable to do anything I’d crept away to my bedroom. I was convinced from that moment on Paolo was going to make me his next murder victim.

Regardless of how many times I have told this story, the wall remains intact.

45 years later and I remember the boy in the wall.

 

6 thoughts on “Cold Case of the Dirty Snow

  1. I find myself wishing,with an aching heart,that I had not read this story.It is,as this same heart tells me, so much more than just a tale from a young girls memory. There is so much hate, greed and lust in this sinful world,yet out from the ashes of burnt dreams lives the hope that, someday, good will prevail; that love will conquer all.There is nothing we can do,about the boy in the wall,but we can combat the ugly evil that still runs rampant throughout our society by showing love and kindness to all we encounter.There is a God who is in control and until the day He reveals to us the reason for these atrocities, we will keep our faith, trust in Him and continue fighting the good fight. As for the boy, he is no longer in the wall. He walks with Jesus ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I can’t image the horror. I don’t understand the hypocrisy of a world, where we are supposed to look out for mankind, yet ignore the memories of a now amazing confident adult. WHY? What does it hurt to go to the current owners and ask? I know for one, if there was a skeleton in my walls, I would want to know. Justice should prevail.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I too kind of wish I hadn’t read your story Christine, so much pain in this world filled with horror and sorrow. I too have my own stories of pain and fear but just not ready to put it on paper I guess. Keep up your amazing stories and I will continue to read all, through the hurt. Love you lady, ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I can’t even imagine how you poor children were treated and through the Church yet. I am so sorry that you had to go through this. Keep posting your stories it is important for the world to know. I hope one day you get to testify in congress or on the Oprah show. This is your platform use it. You survived for a reason and now live to tell the truth of the horror. I hope they all rot in jail or hell.
    A compeling post. Reblogged and shared. xo

    Like

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