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Authors: Stephen Dobyns
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others must have been affected more drastically. And of course it wasnât just a death, it was a murder.
Six
J aniceâs body was discovered by Megan Kelly, who came to Janiceâs house every Wednesday morning at ten to clean. It was mid-October and the furnace was on. The house was hot. Janiceâs three cats, two black ones and a calico, were frantic. They had eaten their food and were starving. People were surprised the neighbors hadnât known something was wrong just from the sounds of the cats, their yowls. But neighbors said they were used to loud noises coming from Janiceâs house.
Mrs. Kelly was a solidly built woman in her sixties. She claimed she knew something was wrong the moment she opened the door. Certainly the cats were carrying on, but Mrs. Kelly said there was also a smell, the faint sweet smell of early corruption. One of the cats escaped the house immediately, the other two wound themselves round Mrs. Kellyâs legs so she nearly fell. Mrs. Kelly hung her coat in the hall closet and got the vacuum cleaner. First she vacuumed the hall. The cats stayed nearby, which surprised her since they hated the noise. Janice was one of those women who felt that rooms should be âbrightâ and the walls had a pink and yellow wallpaper hung with reproductions of French paintings with lots of flowers and light: Matisse and Bonnard, especially Bonnard. She had heavy furniture with pale flowery covers and a carpet with purple and yellow triangular patterns.
When Mrs. Kelly pushed the vacuum cleaner into the living room, she saw the body. Janice lay on her back between the couch and the fireplace wearing a blue terry cloth robe that must have belonged to one of her larger male friends. The robe was open, so Mrs. Kelly could see bare skin underneath. Janiceâs face was a bluish color. Her slanted eyes were open and bulging, rolled up as if trying to look back at something on the mantel. She had been strangled but that wasnât the worst thing. The worst thing, according to Mrs. Kelly, was that Janiceâs left hand had been severed at the wrist and her bone stuck out âjust like a white stick in a pool of blood.â Mrs. Kelly first thought that the cats had eaten the hand but that turned out not to be the case.
Mrs. Kelly ran next door to the Washburnsâ to call the police. Within ten minutes three patrol cars arrived, creating more excitement than Hamilton Street had seen in decades. The officer in charge was Ryan Tavich. He was in his midforties and generally well-liked. The trouble was that he, too, not long before, had been one of Janiceâs lovers.
And this became a problem: Janiceâs lovers. Because once the case had begun and no murderer was found within twenty-four hours, attention turned to these men. Some had families and had been seeing Janice secretly. Now their lives were turned upside down. They were suspects, or potential suspects. And not all of them were known, so that men whom no one thought were involved with Janice might indeed have been involved. There was much speculation about this and much exaggeration.
Chief Schmidt called the sheriff in Potterville. Then the state police were called. Ryan, in his own mind at least, was treated quite shoddily. He was a thick, rectangular man, a weight lifter whose shoulders, chest, hips, and thighs all seemed the same distance across. And he had a broad face with a square jaw, short black hair, and dark, almost sullen eyes. The kind of eyes that suggested disappointment. He began the investigation and conducted the first interviews, mainly with neighbors and Janiceâs ex-husband, Patrick. Then Phil Schmidt talked to the mayor, who talked with the city manager, and it was thought best to remove Ryan from the case.
We had reporters coming down from Utica and Syracuse, even Albany. And the wire services sent the story all over. The fact that Janiceâs left hand was missing gave special notoriety to
Six
J aniceâs body was discovered by Megan Kelly, who came to Janiceâs house every Wednesday morning at ten to clean. It was mid-October and the furnace was on. The house was hot. Janiceâs three cats, two black ones and a calico, were frantic. They had eaten their food and were starving. People were surprised the neighbors hadnât known something was wrong just from the sounds of the cats, their yowls. But neighbors said they were used to loud noises coming from Janiceâs house.
Mrs. Kelly was a solidly built woman in her sixties. She claimed she knew something was wrong the moment she opened the door. Certainly the cats were carrying on, but Mrs. Kelly said there was also a smell, the faint sweet smell of early corruption. One of the cats escaped the house immediately, the other two wound themselves round Mrs. Kellyâs legs so she nearly fell. Mrs. Kelly hung her coat in the hall closet and got the vacuum cleaner. First she vacuumed the hall. The cats stayed nearby, which surprised her since they hated the noise. Janice was one of those women who felt that rooms should be âbrightâ and the walls had a pink and yellow wallpaper hung with reproductions of French paintings with lots of flowers and light: Matisse and Bonnard, especially Bonnard. She had heavy furniture with pale flowery covers and a carpet with purple and yellow triangular patterns.
When Mrs. Kelly pushed the vacuum cleaner into the living room, she saw the body. Janice lay on her back between the couch and the fireplace wearing a blue terry cloth robe that must have belonged to one of her larger male friends. The robe was open, so Mrs. Kelly could see bare skin underneath. Janiceâs face was a bluish color. Her slanted eyes were open and bulging, rolled up as if trying to look back at something on the mantel. She had been strangled but that wasnât the worst thing. The worst thing, according to Mrs. Kelly, was that Janiceâs left hand had been severed at the wrist and her bone stuck out âjust like a white stick in a pool of blood.â Mrs. Kelly first thought that the cats had eaten the hand but that turned out not to be the case.
Mrs. Kelly ran next door to the Washburnsâ to call the police. Within ten minutes three patrol cars arrived, creating more excitement than Hamilton Street had seen in decades. The officer in charge was Ryan Tavich. He was in his midforties and generally well-liked. The trouble was that he, too, not long before, had been one of Janiceâs lovers.
And this became a problem: Janiceâs lovers. Because once the case had begun and no murderer was found within twenty-four hours, attention turned to these men. Some had families and had been seeing Janice secretly. Now their lives were turned upside down. They were suspects, or potential suspects. And not all of them were known, so that men whom no one thought were involved with Janice might indeed have been involved. There was much speculation about this and much exaggeration.
Chief Schmidt called the sheriff in Potterville. Then the state police were called. Ryan, in his own mind at least, was treated quite shoddily. He was a thick, rectangular man, a weight lifter whose shoulders, chest, hips, and thighs all seemed the same distance across. And he had a broad face with a square jaw, short black hair, and dark, almost sullen eyes. The kind of eyes that suggested disappointment. He began the investigation and conducted the first interviews, mainly with neighbors and Janiceâs ex-husband, Patrick. Then Phil Schmidt talked to the mayor, who talked with the city manager, and it was thought best to remove Ryan from the case.
We had reporters coming down from Utica and Syracuse, even Albany. And the wire services sent the story all over. The fact that Janiceâs left hand was missing gave special notoriety to
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