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 being encased in a wall. It was February 1972, and I was 15. The foster father was renovating the hotel’s kitchen. He planned to remodel the old kitchen into a games room equipped with pool tables and pinball machines.

He knew the camping children would be happy to pay to play. He was business-savvy and knew 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 caseworkers, 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 and sold an apartment building with commercial shops on the first floor.

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 not to 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.

I met my second youngest birth sister when her foster family camped there. Typically, the Children’s Aid had kept us isolated from one another. I am told the measure was taken to control children by taking away their personal support system.

Paolo was brilliant, and indeed, 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.

As foster children, we had been schooled on our societal place by the Children’s Aid caseworkers. I was amazed later in life to learn most of them did not have social worker degrees!

We were advised of 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 before 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 counter was being ripped out. Yvette, Paolo’s wife, despised it 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, an utterly 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 copper counter. I will be sincere 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 kitchen dishes, cups, bowls, serving platters, cutlery, cooking pots, utensils and other miscellaneous 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 said 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. Fearing dropping it, 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 lied to Paolo saying 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 for Paola to lose faith in his wife was 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 items purchased by the other children!

Yes, it was ritualistic for me to rob the moneybox, however, on that one night, I honestly had wanted a sad and long last look at the mesmerizing copper counter. I don’t recall seeing the copper counter, though. I was too shocked at another sight that unfolded 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. He pushed me to go up while hissing 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 covered entirely over. The wallboard was puttied, sanded and painted. Paolo would have had to stay up all night to complete the task.

Peering out the windows at the driveway, in hopes of seeing the boys footprints in the dirty snow, I 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 inside 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 case file was protected under adoption laws. I clarified I had not been adopted and the police said they could not refuse. They did ultimately turn over my case file, minus all medical records, for me to read.

In the case 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 account 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 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 a 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 precisely how it is, it truly is up to the cop to determine whether 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 during July 1972.

Witnessing the terrified boy shaking with fear, I’d known he was confident 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 inside the wall.

 

© Zora Zebic 2017

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Fiction? page 3

Looking out the window of the floating restaurant at a small gaggle of geese swimming and feeding, she was startled by his noiseless approach. She wondered why rich people were so weird, needing silent waiters? Where she’d come from it wasn’t very wise to allow for others to sneak up on you. Living on the streets, a teenage castaway misfit, had been rough and toughened her. Still, it was irritating this young man, simply doing his job, had so easily unnerved her.

Forcing herself to smile, expecting him to offer her a desert menu, she noticed a martini with an olive garnish on his serving tray. In a soft voice he said, “Excuse me miss, that gentleman has sent this to you.” She looked in the direction he indicated and felt the blood in her veins turn icy cold. Trying hard to suppress a shiver, she stammered, “That man is no gentleman and I won’t trust a drink from him.” The waiter gave her a startled look and said, “The drink is safe miss. I watched the bartender pour it.” She shook her head and through clenched teeth said, “He is more than capable of paying off a bartender to do his dirty work.” She could not stop herself from shooting the man on the other side of the restaurant her sternest glare saying, “If looks could kill…”

The man who had sent the drink stood suddenly, the chair flipping over behind him. His face reddened as he snarled loudly, “Bitch.” Other patrons in the restaurant began to murmur excitedly. It wasn’t every day they witnessed such a rich and well known artist lose it in a public. He stormed over to the retreating server and took the martini glass from his tray. In his true character, previously known only to her and a few unfortunate others, he threw the drink in her direction and snarled, “You could have had me. Instead you chose that loser. Look at him with a younger girl. He didn’t need you, and now you have nothing and nobody.”

The bitterness and rage of his words threw the patrons in the restaurant into frenzied chatter. Cell phones were capturing the scene in pictures and videos. She knew he’d never be able to purchase them all to keep the scene out of the media. She could see a panicked look on his face betray he’d became aware of his folly. Relieved, she knew his fan club would finally see the monster. For so many years he had painted himself as kindly and wise, the words in the songs he’d published were simply part of his false image and it had pained her to hear him on the radio. Each time she’d switched the stations to avoid the horrific memories his voice would induce.

Suddenly, and beyond her immediate comprehension, she felt as though a wave of peace and protection was pouring over her. In this new comfort zone she turned to look in the direction the monster was pointing to and saw a man with a younger girl, a girl late teens or early twenties. The restaurant became as silent as an empty church as she started to speak. She turned to the monster and said, in a voice filled with compassionate resonance, “He wanted children and I couldn’t give him any. He’s happy and that is all that ever mattered to me.”

She sat back down in her chair, suddenly desiring to see the desert menu. She sipped from her glass of iced tea and let her mind wander to wonderful times. Times when he’d been her one and only true love. Times he’d loved her with equal passion and tenderness. Times when sex was pure, joyful and simply another way of expressing the depth of their love for each other. The monster had not been able to steal away her memories. His torture had not been strong enough to break her. Through it all she’d clung to the memories of true love and the strength of those memories kept her alive.

Looking up in hopes of locating her waiter she noticed all eyes looking at something else capturing their attention. Curious she turned to see her love had slumped to the floor, tears flowing from his downcast eyes. She stood and walked to him, to then kneel down while gently consoling, “If you’re going to puddle, I won’t let you do it alone.” His young companion, still sitting in her chair, her hand on his shoulder simultaneously said, “Dad do you know this woman?”

He raised his head in response to the two voices and looking into the eyes of his long lost love answered her, “Yes my child, she is my true love.” To her he said, “You did that for me? All this time I’ve thought you fell in love with someone else.” She looked from him to his daughter and said, “You needed children to complete your life.” The young girl looked at her, an impish smile playing at the corners of her mouth and said, “I think maybe everything is perfect now.”

She didn’t understand the girls words until he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace that caused her to helplessly sway, overcome by his touch of love. He said, “Her mother and I never loved one another, we are great friends. She knew I could never love any other woman after you. I wanted children and she gave them to me. She’s a good woman and a great mom. Now she’s gone to find her own true love. We’d come here to chat about how to deal with the fallout, the media and all.” She smiled and said, “True love is always a good story to tell.”

As they both rose the patrons and staff of the restaurant bust into wild applause. Cheers of congratulations rose. Many faces were mopping away happy tears they’d helplessly cried. One onlooker silently slinked away from the crowd, spotting his retreat she knew he’d not finished with her. He’d be back, some how, some way, having in his arsenal a newly devised weapon in hopes to further torture her. She didn’t care, she was safe now and her true love, now knowing the truth would protect her from the monster.

© Zora Zebic 2016

The Priest and the unmarked graves​

he said, “A long time ago I buried three people.

The Priest and the Unmarked Graves

During 2007 and 2008 he would come into my Native Craft Shop on Park Street in Windsor, Ontario. He was tall, slender, white-haired and looked to be in his 70’s or 80’s. The stale smell of cigarettes on his clothing told me he lived alone.
His clothing seemed as aged as he, yet his garb was that of a man of with good taste. A tailor-made suit hangs a certain way on a man, and I could tell he’d probably always been on the thin side as the suit still fit him reasonably well. His black shoes spoke of vintage imported Italian leather, and though the shoes had worn with age in places, I could see he was the type of man who knew well the need to preserve leather. His treatments and polishing of those shoes had undoubtedly earned him many extra years of shodden feet.
It was apparent he was a man who knew how to dress in style yet he carried himself with an air of humility. He was gentlemanly and spoke softly, but there was a sense of sadness about him. He pointed at an old cromolithograph that hung high on my wall. A framed, water-damaged Lord’s Prayer and Ten Commandments.

chrom

 

GIES & Co, Buffalo N. Y. Published by A. E. Pratt & Co. 27 Park Place E, New York, copyright 1880.

Noticing the water damage, he’d said the print wouldn’t have much value if I were selling it. I told him he could have it free as a neighbour in my apartment building had given it to me for that price. Her story was it had been a treasured family heirloom which had hung on her grandmother’s wall, to then be gifted to her mom and finally to her. Sadly, the apartment above hers had sprung a leak, and the picture had suffered for it. Her children didn’t want it, so she’d given it to me as I’d admired it.
He thanked me for the offer but refused to say, “People don’t adorn their walls with those these days, it’s no longer a popular trend. I’ve seen many of them, and it is nice to see it again. It brings back memories.” He asked if I was Roman Catholic and I told him the Sisters of Saint Joseph raised me. He smiled at that and told me he was a retired priest.
Each time he came to my shop he would tell me stories. One story was of how he’d spent a lot of time living with the Indians, and that was what drew him to my shop. He was looking for a white ceramic pipe, the type, sold on the Reserves. I didn’t have one but said I would keep an eye out for one. He told me a story of a friend who had shared life with him. His dog, someone he’d loved and always would.
The last time I’d seen him was the day he brought a large, worn padded mailer envelope. Gingerly he placed it on my sales counter and withdrew five laminated photos. The contents had barely fit into the container. He took out one average size photo of what looked like a chalet, snowed in.

Katdog

The first photo was of an Alaskan Malamute. He told me, through all the years after his pet had died, he would take the picture out to relax by surrounding himself with memories of happier times. One day he’d noticed how the photo had started to fade and he was afraid that time would erase his dog forever so he’d had it laminated to ensure it would last until he was ready to for his own grave.

Saints

He then showed me a black and white photocopy of St Genevieve of Paris and St Apollonia of Alexandria, by Lucas Cranach. He said he’d taken photographs of his pictures and had them developed at a print shop so he could keep the memories. He told me the histories of these saints. I told him as a child I had attended a school named Saint Genevieve’s!

Jesuit

He showed me his colour photocopy of The Jesuit Martyrs of North America. His heroes, he said. Looking at me then with a stern expression he said, “In the interaction with the native people of North America what politicians and historians believe and profess and what the church believes are often two different things.”

Kateri

He said, “This is Kateri Tekakwitha.” He told me her story in vivid detail, and I have to admit it pained my heart. As I looked at the image of a very young and beautiful girl he’d added, “Kateri was an Indian, and I hope to live long enough to witness this canonization of an important Canadian Saint.” On October 21, 2012, POPE BENEDICT XVI canonized Kateri Tekakwitha. I don’t know if he lived long enough to see her finally so blessed by his faith.
I had to close my shop near the end of 2008. My charity received the sad news that our government funding was to end by mid-2009. Saving my charity consumed all my time and energy, and I never did see him again. Before I closed my shop, it had already been many months that I had not seen him and he did not return to reclaim the photos he had given me.

Mailer

Storing the inventory of my shop I carefully wrapped his padded mailer and the Lords Prayer and Ten Commandments chromolithograph. I thought many times of them, and his request to me.
Sadly, so many times over the years, I was sure I had accidentally left the envelope behind at another place where I had temporarily paid rent to house my charity. I had unpacked the chromolithograph, but somehow it had gotten separated from the priest’s mailer envelope. Just today, February 6, 2016, I had gone up to my attic to look for a photograph my son Carlos. The photo would fit in with another story I wanted to tell, and as I sifted through the many boxes, I chanced to find the ragged mailer envelope. It was still as intact as when the priest had given it to me.
I did also find the photo of the round chair Carlos had reminded me of, and I will post that photo in a future blog. Coming down from the attic I called to my husband Barry, “After all these years I found them!” The part of the story I haven’t told you until now is about the fifth laminated photo and what he had written.

church

When the old priest had shown me the last two items he’d preserved in the mailer envelope, he said, “A long time ago I buried three people. The details are on the back here. They need you to tell the story.” Saying that he showed me a note he had handwritten and taped to the back of the photo.

stonywold

CHAPEL AT STONYWOLD, A T.B. HOSPiTAL FOR 1920S

BESiDE LAKE CUSH A QUA iN THE ADiRONDiCK

STATE PARK N.Y. – 50 Mi. ? S S W of MTL. P.Q.

CLOCK AND CHiMES – THREE GRAVES iN BACK

ONE MiSSiONARY PRiEST AND MR. AND MRS.

MOONSNELLER – – R. i P.

He then said, “What I hope will happen is for someone to find the graves someday. It is important they have a proper burial.” He didn’t explain any further, and as he walked out the door of my shop, I felt his message was urgent. In what way? I didn’t know. He never returned to my shop, and I wondered why he’d left behind the picture of his precious memory of his beloved dog. He’d spoken of how the original photo had faded and his need to have the photo last until he, himself, was ready to leave.
I didn’t notice an oddity until I started to type the text of his handwritten note. Looking through a magnifying glass at the tiny words something unique jumped out at me. He printed his directions to the graves in capital letters, with the one exception – the word “of,” however on every occasion he has written one letter in lowercase, the letter i. He never told me his name, and he never said the name of the missionary priest. Perhaps the lower case letter i is a clue to his identity or the identity of the nameless and buried missionary priest?
A reader led me to the link below. I’ve learned the priest made spelling errors as corrected below. I’ve found the surname Sneller but not Moonsneller. Perhaps this was meant to be Mr. and Mrs. Moon Sneller. STONEYWOLD, LAKE CUSH A QUA AND ADiRONDiCK are Stoney Wold, Lake Kushaqua and Adirondack.

https://localwiki.org/hsl/Stony_Wold_Sanatorium

church?

Here then is the final photo the old priest gave to me. You’ve read this story, so now this is your personal Cold Case. Can you solve it?

© 2016 Zora Zebic