The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb Read online

  Madge stared down at the skeletal remains and shook her head in wonderment. “Good gravy, it’s him. I always thought it was one of those made-up legends, like Bigfoot or trickle down economics. Tell me, are those gold wings he’s wearing?”

  “Yes,” Des said.

  “Then it must be him.”

  “Must be who, Madge?”

  Madge blinked at her. “Lance Paffin, of course. Who else could it be?”

  “Would Lance Paffin be any relation to…”

  “He was Bob’s big brother. A hotshot Navy flyboy and major heartthrob, I’m told. Before my time.” Madge gazed at her curiously. “I keep forgetting how new you are to this place. You’ve never heard about Lance?”

  “This is what I’m saying.”

  “After a big night of partying at the country club’s spring dance in, let’s see, this was way back in 1967, I think, Lance took his catboat out for a moonlight sail. His boat was found washed up on the rocks at Saybrook Point the next morning. The Coast Guard searched and searched but his body was never found. There’s a headstone in Duck River Cemetery bearing his name except…”

  “Except what, Madge?”

  “Well, there’s always been this legend that he didn’t wash out to sea. That something else happened to him.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Des, what in the heck is he doing underneath Dorset Street?”

  “Kind of wondering that myself.” Des turned to the foreman and said, “I’m afraid that all work will have to be halted until further notice. This is now a crime scene.” She would have to notify Glynis of this as well. But first Des placed a direct call to her troop commander in Westbrook, a grumpy, sagging accordion of a man who absolutely hated to rub up against anything high profile, controversial or stressful. Something told her that this one was going to qualify as all three. When he answered she took a deep breath and said the words that she knew he wouldn’t want to hear. She said, “Captain Rundle, this is Master Sergeant Mitry. Sir, we’ve got something just a tiny bit unusual here.”

  * * *

  It took the vans from the medical examiner’s team forty minutes to get there from Farmington. There were five people in all—a team leader and four worker bees. The chief medical examiner arrived in a separate car to take charge of the scene personally, which was something he almost never did. His being there set off alarm bells in Des’s head. Clearly, she was experiencing a close encounter of the skunky kind.

  Des was by no means idle while she waited for them to arrive. Captain Rundle sent her two more uniformed troopers to help her reroute all traffic from the area and keep the local TV news camera crews and lookie-looks away. She obtained contact information for all of the crewmen who’d witnessed the unearthing of the shallow grave. She also notified Glynis and asked her to search the town’s public works records to determine the exact date when Dorset Street had last been regraded. It took Glynis less than ten minutes to supply the answer, thanks to her recently mandated conversion of Dorset’s musty files to computer discs. The last time Dorset Street had been stripped down to the bare soil was a major regrading project that took place between the 16th and 24th of May, 1967.

  Glynis delivered this information to Des in person at the site. She wanted to see it for herself. Stayed there with a stricken expression on her face, her mouth scrunched tight as she watched the medical examiner’s team carefully remove the skeletal remains on a plywood board so that no bones would be lost.

  But no matter how careful they were, Des knew they’d erect a tent around the grave site and undertake a painstakingly thorough archeological dig, sifting and screening every bit of the compacted soil, digging inch by inch with their tiny tools and brushes so as to make absolutely, positively certain that no bones, personal effects or pieces of crime-scene evidence were left behind.

  Meanwhile, she expected the Major Crime Squad to arrive any minute now to take charge of the criminal investigation into the death of this Navy flyer who’d been buried under Dorset Street for the past forty-seven years. Because there was no doubt that a crime had taken place. Otherwise, hello, he wouldn’t be under Dorset Street, would he? All of which meant the first selectwoman’s signature road project would have to be put on hold for days. The crew from Wilcox Paving would no doubt pack up their massive equipment and leave for another job. And God only knew when they’d come back. Glynis was not happy.

  Nor was Captain Rundle. He’d listened in dread-filled silence when Des filled him in on the phone. After she’d finished laying out the highly speculative ID scenario regarding Lt. Lance Paffin he told her go about her business and await further instructions from him.

  When he called her back Rundle said, “Master Sergeant, you’ll have to take charge of this one yourself for now.” He cleared his throat. “It seems that all three of our Major Crime Squads are up to their ears. They’ve got a rape homicide, a home invasion double homicide and a gang-related shooting. Those take priority over some old skeleton. It’s not as if he’s going anywhere, right?” She didn’t hear dread coming from him now. She heard fear. Her guess? He’d just gotten leaned on big time. And she had a pretty damned good idea by whom. What she didn’t know was why. He cleared his throat again. “Besides, the last thing we want to do is raise any red flags. We’ll have the FBI and NCIS crawling all over this, and we don’t want that, do we? So it’s your case for the next day or two. God knows you have the experience. I’ll keep major crimes in the loop. As soon as a team frees up you’ll hand off, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As far as the media goes, just tell them we’ve found some unidentified remains that may or may not be human. You have nothing further to say. If they want more details refer them to our public information officer in Meriden.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell those men on the paving crew to keep their mouths shut. We don’t want them blabbing about what they saw on TV. Same goes for the EMT people.”

  “Sir, the first selectwoman has just passed me some interesting information. The last time Dorset Street was regraded was back in May of 1967. That coincides with when Navy Lieutenant Paffin disappeared at sea, I’m told.”

  Rundle fell silent.

  Stayed silent for so long that she finally said, “Sir?…”

  “Pursue this matter discreetly. I am talking kid gloves. Keep thorough documentation. And if you have any questions I want you to contact me personally. No one else. At some point later today you’ll be … just wait for further instructions, okay?”

  Translation: She would not know what in the hell was going on until a certain higher-up got in personal touch with her and told her what in the hell was going on. That certain higher-up being the imposing ramrod of a deputy superintendent who everyone in the Connecticut State Police called the Deacon.

  And whom she called Daddy.

  * * *

  The Cyrus Paffin House was a barn-red saltbox-style colonial that had been built in 1732, according to the quaint little historic plaque next to its front door. It had been home to generations of Paffins ever since, as had the twenty acres of prime Frederick Lane real estate that surrounded it. Frederick Lane, which forked off of the Old Boston Post Road about a mile north of the historic district, was considered one of the choicest addresses in Dorset. Some of the finest old homes in town could be found there.

  Former First Selectman Bob Paffin and his wife, Delia, had spent most of their married life in the old Cyrus Paffin house. Their eldest son, Harrison, now lived there with his wife and children. Bob and Delia lived in a newer place on the same property that you didn’t know was there unless you knew it was there. Des had learned that this was typical of the Dorset blue bloods. The older the money the harder it was to find.

  A pair of smooth, well-tended gravel driveways adjoined the old saltbox. One driveway led to a garage and garden shed out back. The other driveway, which was the one that Des took, snaked its way past the garage and through the woods that were behind it. F
rom the street it appeared as if there was nothing but woods all of the way down to the banks of the Lieutenant River. Appearances were deceiving. The gravel driveway eventually reached a three-acre clearing where a snug, natural-shingled cottage with blue trim overlooked the tranquil river. Bob and Delia had designed and built the cottage for their retirement. It was very private, very peaceful, very nice.

  Des parked her cruiser in the driveway and got out, hearing nothing but the chirping of the birds and the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel. She rang the doorbell. She waited.

  It was Delia who answered the door, accompanied by an ancient, arthritic white toy poodle that barked at Des without much conviction.

  Des tipped her hat politely. “Good morning, Delia.”

  Delia responded by staring at her in clench-jawed silence. Everyone in Dorset professed to adore the former first selectman’s wife. She served on the board of directors of the Dorset Day Care Center, the Youth Services Bureau, the Welcome Wagon and a gazillion other worthy local institutions. Des often heard her referred to as a “treasure” and a “dear.” In fact, Des had never run into anyone who didn’t go out of their way to say how warm and giving Delia was. Des wouldn’t know about that. Delia Paffin had never given her anything but the big chill from the day she arrived.

  “Why, Resident Trooper Mitry,” she said finally, her eyes glinting at Des from the doorway. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude on you folks. Just wondered if I could have a minute of your time. Bob’s time, actually.”

  Delia frowned at her. “I’ll have to see if Bob’s free. Would you care to come in?”

  Des stepped into the entry hall, which was furnished in a vaguely Danish-modern style and reeked of one of those pine forest-scented plug-in thingies that Des detested. Made your whole damned house smell like a highway rest stop lavatory.

  “I apologize for the odor,” Delia said, managing a tight smile that did not reach all of the way to her eyes. “I’m afraid we have a choice of either deodorizer or pee-pee. Poor old Skippy can’t control himself like he used to.”

  Poor old Skippy was sniffing at Des’s ankles. Smelled her cats no doubt. Des watched him, wondering if he was going to hoist his leg and let her have it.

  Delia watched the dog, too, possibly hoping he would. She was a plump, apple-cheeked dowager with a head of carefully sculpted hair that was dyed a most peculiar yellowish orange. The only other time Des had seen that same exact color it was inside of a blue box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Des supposed that Delia had been attractive when she was young if a man’s taste ran to the ample milkmaid type. She was not someone who’d ever been delicately proportioned. Not with those meaty wrists and hands. She was dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, dark brown slacks and pearls.

  “I’ll see if I can find Bob,” she said.

  “No need to search around.” Bob Paffin came strolling in from the sunroom. “I’m right here.”

  Skippy let out another half-hearted bark.

  “Atta boy,” Bob said to him. “You keep right on protecting the fort.”

  Dorset’s recently ousted first selectman of thirty-four years was red nosed, snowy haired and weak chinned. He was a thinly built man, not particularly tall. Des guessed that Delia outweighed him by a solid thirty pounds. He had on a white button-down shirt, tan crew neck sweater and gray flannel trousers. He didn’t appear to be any happier to see Des than Delia was—for the simple reason that he wasn’t. He’d never liked anything about Des. Not her skin color. Not her gender. Not the way she went about her job. Not one thing.

  “How are you, Bob?”

  He answered with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. “Well enough. Haven’t the slightest idea what to do with myself all day long but that’s my problem, not yours. What can I do for you?”

  “We’ve had a bit of a situation with the dig.”

  “Of course you have. That’s what happens with these big government projects. They’re taxpayer-funded disasters. That’s why I always opposed them. Buzzy Shaver phoned me ten minutes ago and told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “That the whole darned operation had come grinding to a halt.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “He didn’t have to. There’s always a foul-up.”

  “Bob, I’m about to say something that you may find disturbing. I suggest you sit down.”

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest, staring at her defiantly. “I’ll stand on my own two feet if you don’t mind.”

  “As you wish. I understand that you had an older brother, Lance, a US Navy flyer who disappeared off of his sailboat in Long Island Sound one night.”

  “That’s right,” Bob said grudgingly. “He took the Monster out and never came back. That was ages ago. Way back in ’67.”

  “Do you remember the exact date?”

  “Of course I do. It was the twentieth of May. Why?”

  “According to town records, Dorset Street was in the process of being regraded the night he disappeared. In fact, that’s the last time it was regraded.”

  “So?…”

  “So I’m here to inform you that the paving crew just uncovered the skeletal remains of a US Navy flyer in dress blues buried in a shallow grave under Dorset Street. There’s a distinct possibility that the remains are those of your brother Lance.”

  Bob Paffin gaped at her in goggle-eyed shock before his legs gave way underneath him. Des caught him by the armpits as he started to crumple to the tile floor. She hoisted him over onto a small bench next to the front door.

  “How dare you?” Delia’s eyes blazed at Des angrily. “My husband has a heart condition.”

  “I did urge him to sit down,” Des said as Bob slumped there, stunned.

  Delia rushed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Courvoisier and a glass. She filled the glass and held it out to him.

  He took it from her and gulped it down, shuddering slightly. Then he sat there breathing slowly in and out. “I’m … okay now. I’m fine. Just don’t do well with shock. Never have. I-I guess you’d like to talk about this.”

  Des nodded. “If you’re up to it.”

  He handed the empty glass to his wife and stood back up. He seemed steady enough on his feet. “Of course. Come on in.”

  There was a round glass table in the sunroom where it looked as if Bob and Delia had been playing a game of gin rummy. Delia wiped the cards from the table and the three of them sat down there, Skippy settling himself at Delia’s feet.

  From where she sat Des could see a long, long way up and down the Lieutenant River. “This is a lovely spot,” she observed, acutely aware that Delia hadn’t offered her coffee. A minor social slight, but Des noticed it. She was meant to. This was how disses were served in Dorset.

  Bob was gazing across the table at her in disbelief. “This must be some kind of a sick joke. Are you telling us that my brother has been underneath Dorset Street this whole time?”

  “I’m telling you that someone has been under Dorset Street. And absolutely no one is regarding it as a joke, sick or otherwise. The chief medical examiner has attended the site personally. And the officer’s remains are being treated with the utmost care and respect.”

  “Well, do you know how he died?”

  “Not yet. We won’t know until the ME conducts a thorough examination. And it may be impossible to tell after so many years.”

  “But you … you think it’s Lance?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. We need your help, Bob.”

  “Of course. Anything I can do.”

  “Anything,” Delia chimed in. “Anything at all.”

  Des reached for her notepad and pen. “For starters, would you happen to remember how tall your brother was?”

  “Lance was an honest six-footer, unlike a lot of men who claim to be but are actually five-foot-ten.”

  “Do you recall if he had any distinguishing injuries?”
r />   Bob looked at Des blankly. “What are those?”

  “Did he suffer any broken bones when he was growing up?”

  “He did, yes. Lance broke his collarbone sledding down Johnny Cake Hill when he was, oh, ten years old.”

  “Right or left?”

  “Right, I’m pretty sure. And he broke his left wrist playing basketball in high school. Some thug from Old Saybrook tripped him.”

  “Did Lance wear jewelry of any kind?”

  “His naval academy class ring. Never took it off. He was so proud of it. Remember, Delia?”

  “I remember,” she said quietly.

  “Which finger did he wear it on?”

  “His right ring finger.” Bob narrowed his gaze at her. “Did you recover his ring?”

  “What month of the year was Lance born?”

  “July.”

  “That would make his birthstone…”

  “His ring had a ruby set in it.”

  “And he was a member of which class?”

  “The class of ’62. His class motto was the word ‘honor.’ It was engraved on the ring. And his name was engraved on the inside.”

  “Did Lance wear a wristwatch?”

  “Yes, he did. Our folks gave him a Rolex Submariner as a graduation present.”

  “Which wrist did he wear it on?”

  “His left.” Bob ran a bony hand through his white hair. “This kind of information will help you figure out whether or not it’s Lance?”

  “It’ll help. Were you and Lance full brothers?”

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Did you share the same biological mother and father?”

  “Of course we did,” he said indignantly. “Why wouldn’t we? He was born six years before I was. It was just we two. Mother was unable to have any more children after I was born.”

  “Bob, I’m sorry for the inconvenience but a technician from the ME’s office will probably stop by later today to take a cheek swab from you.”

  “What on earth for?” Delia demanded.

  “If Bob and Lance were full brothers then Bob’s DNA will match that of the remains.”