text:
" _From Landfill to Hallowed Ground_ is a compelling saga, detailing the events following the horrific attack on America on September 11, 2001. Marra details how many first responders, filled with sadness and disbelief, selflessly acted with courage, love, and dignity in what became a massive recovery operation. The heroic efforts of these public servants helped restore our faith in the human spirit in the face of monstrous acts perpetrated upon so many. We shall never forget what they gave, and the victims will never be forgotten."

**—Anthony J. Marra**

Retired Assistant Chief, New York City Police Department

On September 11, 2001, as Commanding Officer of all police services,

Patrol Borough Staten Island, Marra established the crime scene at the Landfill.

"A gripping account of September 11, 2001, through the eyes of one who served there. Lt. Frank Marra, NYPD-Ret., artfully, adeptly, and sensitively takes us through the most horrific experiences of his honored career, leaving no stone unturned. The Staten Island Landfill, 'that sacred and hallowed ground,' became the world's largest 'movable' crime scene, where the debris was picked apart to find anything that might identify victims who had perished, from human form to dust. This book is a must-read for those who were there, and it is an excellent resource for undergraduate and graduate students, as well as researchers in mass disasters, terrorism, psychological trauma, and the resulting stressors. I urge you to read it."

**—Richard L. Levenson, Jr., Psy.D., CTS**

NYS Licensed Psychologist Certified Trauma Specialist

Police Surgeon, NYS Troopers PBA

© 2015 Frank Marra and Maria Bellia Abbate

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

_From Landfill to Hallowed Ground:_

_The Largest Crime Scene in America_

Brown Books Publishing Group

16250 Knoll Trail Drive, Suite 205

Dallas, Texas 75248

www.BrownBooks.com

(972) 381-0009

A New Era in Publishing™

ISBN 978-1-61254-850-0
LCCN 2014955699

Printed in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For more information or to contact the authors, please go to
www.FromLandfillToHallowedGround.com

_To all the victims of the 9/11 attacks and their families._

_To the First Responders who perished that day and those who gave so much of themselves post-9/11 in a tireless effort to bring normalcy to a very dark period in our country's history._

_To the fallen NYC skyline, a one-of-a-kind view that will never be again._
Contents

Author's Note | Calm before the Storm
---|---
Chapter 1 | Field of Death
Chapter 2 | Landfill to Crime Scene
Chapter 3 | Personal Effects
Chapter 4 | World Trade Center Vehicle Pound
Chapter 5 | Vending Carts
Chapter 6 | Red Cross Worker
Chapter 7 | Fire Truck Row
Chapter 8 | Men in White Suits
Chapter 9 | Landfill to Hallowed Ground
Chapter 10 | No Happy Ending
Epilogue | Staten Island Landfill, 2014

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Photos
Author's Note

Calm before the Storm

I remember clearly everything I did on September 11, 2001, and wish I didn't. I wish I had no memories of that day and wish that day had been different. Like so many thousands of others, I wish it had never happened, but it did, and my thoughts over a decade later are still too clear and too real.

I woke early, put on the coffee, and got my son Anthony up for school. Anthony was five years old and in kindergarten, and my daily routine was getting him ready, fed, dressed, and on the bus. My wife normally worked from home, but on this day, as luck would have it, she had to go to the office.

My son Dominic, who was one and a half, was up early as well, so I put him in his high chair. Dom and Anthony ate breakfast while the three of us watched television. Suddenly their cartoons were interrupted by a local news flash. The next thing I saw on the television was the south tower of the World Trade Center on fire. As the smoke billowed, I became mesmerized by what was happening. I assumed that this was some type of terrible, tragic accident, at which time I put Anthony on the bus.

Dominic and I continued to watch television, showing the tower smoking. I decided to call my father, Anthony Marra, who was the Borough Commander of Staten Island. I asked him if he was aware of what was going on at the World Trade Center. He said he had started to receive calls from his office about what was happening. I thought at first a small aircraft had crashed into the tower, but then I saw the second plane strike the North Tower with such force it almost came out the other side of the building. I said to my dad, "This is not a coincidence. These are not small planes but commercial airliners. This has to be some kind of attack." My dad was silent and then agreed that, in his forty-year career, this would be a day that no one would be prepared for. As we said good-bye, we both knew what had to be done.

As soon as I hung up the phone, I knew I had three calls to make. The first was to my office at the Brooklyn South Gang Unit. I spoke with my Lieutenant Joe Cardinale, who instructed me to get my personal business in order and to make my way to the office. The second call was to my wife, Laura. I told her to tell her boss she needed to leave. She had witnessed the second tower being hit on television at work, so she knew what I meant.

The third call was to my in-laws who lived around the corner to ask them to come and stay with my youngest son Dominic so I could get my son Anthony from school. He was my main concern. I needed to see him, to know he was safe. When my mother-in-law arrived, I headed straight for P.S. 32.

When I pulled up to my son's school, the street looked like a parking lot. The outside of the school screamed the word "panic" with cars parked on sidewalks and grass. I had to block someone's driveway to park a block away. The inside was jammed with people, and I could see the fear and panic on the other parents' and teachers' faces. We all had the same thought: _Just get my child and go home._ Phones were ringing, someone was talking over the loud speaker, and I heard someone say, "Mr. Marra, do you want me to get Anthony?" After what seemed like an eternity but was probably five minutes, we headed home. I gathered my work bag, told my mother-in-law I would stay in touch, and headed into Brooklyn around 9:15 a.m.

I was secure in the feeling that my children were safe and my wife was on her way home. Eventually my dad had to send a police car into New Jersey to get her. Laura was stuck in traffic so deep that she would not have gotten home unless this bold move was made. What I realized at a later moment was that despite all the craziness that was happening around us, all the fear, all the panic, this moment was truly the "calm before the storm" because what would follow in the next forty-five minutes would change all of us for the rest of our lives.
1

Field of Death

The body bags were piled up on the ground, a morgue in the making. There was no particular formation, just piles waiting to be used. Eventually the body bags would be spread out right next to one another in a military formation like soldiers going into battle. The bags would cover the outfield of the Staten Island Yankees Stadium, located in Richmond Terrace, in Staten Island, New York. The stadium for the class A affiliate of the New York Yankees is located on the waterfront directly across from Manhattan, a ferry ride away.

On a normal afternoon, this stadium would provide one of the best views of any stadium in New York, a picturesque landscape of the New York City skyline. On this day, it would be the backdrop of a temporary morgue. It would provide a view of devastation and astonishment for its onlookers. On September 11, 2001, the outfield was something it was never intended to be.

About four hours after the devastation had begun, I looked around and saw a sunny, perfect September day with a mild temperature, blue sky, and no clouds in sight. It quickly transformed into a sky engulfed by heavy dust and debris that could be seen from space. The best and iconic part of the New York City skyline had fallen. The assumption was that there would be an endless stream of body after body that would have to be removed from an area later identified as Ground Zero.

As the day went on, we learned that the bodies from both fallen towers would be removed from Ground Zero and transported to private ferries. The ferry boats would then transport the bodies to staging areas throughout the city: Yankee Stadium, Shea Stadium, and Staten Island Yankees Stadium. At the staging areas, NYPD detectives and police officers would begin to try to identify bodies that had no identifying documents. The deceased would be fingerprinted. DNA swabs of their mouths would be taken. Dental molds could also be done if needed. For the deceased who could not be identified at that time, they would be categorized with a missing persons report. Those who were identified were to be labeled homicide victims.

Later in the day, it became clear that there would be no bodies arriving at these staging areas. The search effort for people would be too arduous of a task manually. The seemingly endless piles of twisted steel and cement would have to be moved by machinery. Initially all the adrenaline we were working with seemed to be enough strength and hope that we would recover someone, anyone. As time passed, it became increasingly real that there would not be anyone to recover.

Word had worked its way through channels that the private ferries that were to be used to transport the dead would now become transportation for the living. It was becoming difficult, at times almost impossible, for people to get off of Manhattan; therefore, the ferries would run from Manhattan to all five boroughs and New Jersey in an effort to move people out. Everyone was extremely eager to get home to loved ones, especially since most people were unable to contact their families as a result of the downed cell towers.

At the time, my detectives and I were on the Manhattan side, and I decided that for traveling purposes, it would be easier to take one of the ferries to Staten Island rather than to fight through the cars and buses left on the bridges and the tunnels. From Staten Island, I figured I could get a ride back to our office in Brooklyn.

We began to help load the first ferries. I stood on the ferry going to Staten Island to help with the people onboard. Many of these people looked dazed, confused, and scared, as if they just survived a fifteen-round fight. Their faces were dirty and covered with dust, but it couldn't disguise the expressions on their faces—sheer tragedy and fear. I had a hard time looking at them, but an even harder time not wondering what must be going through their minds. Were they relieved they survived, confused and in shock still by what they saw, distraught because they may have lost someone or left someone, or maybe all three? Not only their faces were disturbing; many were covered from head to toe with a whitish gray dust of cement. Several had torn and ripped clothes. Some people were missing one shoe or even both. Women were walking with broken heels. A small group had superficial wounds that they had sustained as debris fell from the Towers, as these people ran for their lives.

The most bizarre group I witnessed were those covered in jet fuel. They wore an awful odor; their clothes were soaking wet as if someone had sprayed them with a fire hose. I approached one of the women and asked her if she could tell me how this happened. She said that she was standing in the lobby waiting for the elevator. She explained that she heard a loud crashing sound above her that had caused the whole building to shake. For a second, things quieted down, which offered only brief relief, and then all of a sudden she said that she began to hear a loud thundering noise like a herd of buffalo headed toward them. She and her coworkers began to panic and headed toward the elevators. The doors began to buckle, and gasoline flooded out from the elevator. Her expression was so memorable, as she continued to explain that the gasoline came from above with such force that it shattered all the glass in the lobby and knocked down everyone who was waiting for the elevator. She paused for a moment and almost breathless, shaking her head in disbelief, said, "I was in the South Tower."

I would learn days later that when the planes hit the Towers the fuel compartments on board the planes that housed the jet fuel had immediately ruptured on impact. This rupture caused the jet fuel to shoot down the elevator shafts and into the lobbies. The fuel traveled roughly eighty to ninety stories downward, cracking the elevator doors and flooding into the lobbies.

Thankfully the ferry boats were stocked with water and various food items, prepared for a day of business. We began to distribute these items to the people on board, and paramedics attended those injured. Many of the people who had jet fuel on them began to complain that their eyes were burning and they had trouble seeing.

When we arrived on the Staten Island side, we decided to stay on board to continue to help with the transporting of all of these people. There were still thousands of people on the Manhattan side who needed to get off the island. One gentleman in particular asked me if he could help out in any way and said that he would not mind making the return trip to help with the crowds of people. He introduced himself as John and said he lived in Staten Island. He worked on Wall Street, and his daughter worked in the South Tower. He explained that he was hoping that on the return trip he would see his daughter. He had spoken with her earlier, and she said she was fine. He called home to his wife, but she had not heard from their daughter. Rather than say the wrong thing, because clearly this gentleman was nervous and scared, I replied, "No problem, we will take all the help we can get."

During our trip back to Manhattan, John and I made small talk to pass the time and distract each other from the reality of what was going on. At some point, he asked me about what it was like trying to get into the city with all the craziness.

I told him that as I headed to Brooklyn to meet with my team I was greeted with scenes of chaos and confusion. It looked like the end of the world. I crossed the Verrazano Bridge, and it was completely empty of all traffic. At the toll booths, everyone had to show identification to proceed. When my team and I left to go to Manhattan, we experienced the same protocol, but the scenes were so much worse. Cars were left abandoned on the Gowanus Parkway. As drivers entered the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, they had to swerve in and out of traffic. People had just stopped and abandoned their vehicles.

On the Manhattan side, the cars had layers of thick dust on them caused by the fallen Towers. Everything was pulverized and created a huge dust cloud that billowed into the tunnel. As drivers emerged from the tunnel and drove toward the World Trade Center, or what was left of the World Trade Center, they could go only so far. The mounds of debris and of twisted steel and cement poured onto and covered all of the West Side Highway, taking down everything in its path, including a Marriott Hotel and a good portion of the Winter Garden, a large building in the Financial Center across the street from World Trade Center.

We continued to talk, and I asked John what he saw when the planes hit the Towers. He said that he could hear the impact from his building on Wall Street. It was incredibly loud and disturbing. At first no one overreacted to the sound, but then the rumor began to spread about what was actually going on. He said his secretary told him that she had heard that a large plane hit the South Tower. "I then left my building to find out what was going on, and I could see a large hole in the South Tower and flames coming from the inside," he said. He went back inside to get his coat and call his daughter. Then his face grew drawn and sullen, his eyes stared into the sky, and he said, "When I came back outside, that's when I saw people jumping from the South Tower. This is an image that I will never forget. I can't imagine how bad it was inside that building so that the better idea was to jump to your death."

When we arrived back on the Manhattan side, the large crowds had lessened, and additional ferries, as well as private boats and various vessels, were still in service helping to transport people out of Manhattan. I could see people walking across the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. My team and I took additional trips back and forth, and John stood with us helping out. I would see him attempting a cell call every once in a while. I figured he was trying to call home or his daughter, but I did not ask. He told me on our last trip back to Staten Island that he had not heard from her but he remained hopeful. I tried to be supportive. I said that the cell phone service in the area was severely damaged when the Towers fell. John nodded, walked away, and began handing water to those in need.

When we docked in Staten Island, I told John that my team was going to stay. It was about 7:00 p.m. I explained that we were going to try and get a ride back to Brooklyn because a new shift was coming to relieve us. John said he was going to take one more trip over in the hopes of seeing his daughter. He said that maybe the cell service was improving and that maybe he would hear from her soon. I agreed with him, I thanked him for all his help, and we shook hands. In that moment, we both must have felt the same. Shaking hands just didn't seem to be enough, and in a moment of raw emotion, we embraced. I wished him and his family well. I thanked him again. He told me that I helped keep his mind off what could possibly be the inevitable. "If I don't hear from or see my daughter in the next hour or so, I have to come to terms with the fact that she is dead and then explain that to her mother." John began to break down and sob. I was utterly speechless.

Here was a man who for five hours displayed an act of selflessness by putting his own feelings aside to help others. Who does that in today's society that is filled with such selfishness and hatred? At that moment, reality slapped me hard, and I called my family immediately to tell my wife and three boys how much I loved them. John walked away and got on the ferry. That was the last time I saw him.

September 11, 2001, was the longest day I have ever experienced. The sights and sounds that I heard and saw will haunt me forever. As I think back and reflect on that time, there are two thoughts that stand out about that day. The first is seeing the devastation and horror that was the World Trade Center and saying to myself that the best part of New York City was lying on its side. The second thought is of John, the man I hardly knew who made such an impact and impression on me that day. I hope everything worked out for him. I hope and pray that he found his daughter and together they took a ferry ride back to Staten Island just as we had done that day so many times.
2

Landfill to Crime Scene

I arrived home on September 11, 2001, about 10:00 p.m. When I thought about how fortunate I was at that moment when my wife Laura greeted me at the door with a comforting hug, I felt my body slump into hers in both relief and sadness. I know she said something about our boys being asleep, but it all seemed mumbled. I was in a fog. I had gone on adrenaline the whole day, using up every ounce of mental and physical strength I had, and I was ready to share with her all the chaos and tragedy I witnessed. We sat and talked, almost at a whisper, still trying to comprehend the reality of what took place. Even as a cop, and as much as I have seen on the job, I had not been immune to pain and emotion, and I gave her the best description I could about what I saw and heard.

The calmness was shattered by a call from my father, Anthony Marra, NYPD two-star chief and Borough commander of Staten Island. He explained, in his authoritative, all-business tone, that all the staging areas that were originally set up were never utilized, nor would be. He said that the tons of twisted steel and cement were going to be moved from lower Manhattan to the Staten Island Landfill. From that point on, since there wouldn't be any survivors, the Landfill would now be the main staging area.

There was no longer search and rescue, strictly a search and recovery. He told me that the crime scene, all that was left at and around Ground Zero, would be moved by truck and barge to the Staten Island Landfill. It would now become the largest movable crime scene in American history. All individuals currently involved in the Brooklyn South Gang Unit, which was my current assignment, as well as other detective units from within the city, would be reporting to the Landfill. Initially patrol officers needed to stay at their present assignments for continued public safety, but everyone throughout the New York City Police Department eventually ended up at the Staten Island Landfill and worked into the search and recovery rotation.

On September 12, 2001, I was off to Staten Island. Because this was a crime scene, most of the detective bureau would be part of this operation, and what an operation it was. All detective units ranging from the Gang Unit to the Organized Crime Control Bureau would be utilized. Narcotics, Public Moral Units, and detectives from seventy-five different detective bureaus throughout the city were also heavily involved.

The Landfill was so vast that it had its own water access that connected to New York Harbor. Who could've imagined that the "dump," as we islanders referred to it, was going to house all the debris and remains of one of the most tragic and largest attacks on US soil?

Two white trailers were then brought in for temporary headquarters, one for the NYPD and the other for the FBI. Then like an atom bomb exploding or the "big bang," different tents and trailers began to spring up. After only three weeks of operation, there were two temporary headquarters, a cafeteria, and a supply tent, where anything from gloves to heavy coats could be obtained. There was also a tent assembled for "mustering," where the members of service would meet to get daily assignments and a trailer for medical attention and various medications/antibiotics. The dump turned into a small city. Frank Tegano, NYPD retired crime scene detective, recalled his experience:

When we first started at the Landfill, I remember there was a pizza truck that came every day with donated food, and caterers from Staten Island sent food. We even had barbeques. Later OSHA [Occupational Safety and Health Administration] and the Board of Health said that we could not cook or eat any food in this area. We were cooking and eating in clouds of asbestos and debris.

I was assigned to the auto pound. Others were assigned to the doctors' trailers, the cafeteria, the crime scene trailer, and the sifters. Many civilians from privately owned construction companies with sifting machines were assigned there as well. Vice President Dick Cheney's construction company from Texas was among those companies from out of state.

The Landfill was a crime scene but not a traditional crime scene. A normal crime scene is roped off, and the only people allowed in are the crime scene detectives. Evidence is removed that could help in solving the crime, and the area is then guarded by a police officer until there is no further evidence that can be found. At the Landfill, the evidence from this crime was not only the bodies and body parts. There was the visual evidence of the planes striking the buildings, and the evidence from these planes was recovered at the Landfill. I remember there were areas designated for plane parts such as tires, landing gear, engines, seats, framing of the plane structure, and numerous other small pieces that could be seen and identified. I always expected to see more, but the planes were pulverized when the Towers collapsed, a lot like the office furniture and computers. I was at the Landfill for over five months, and I never saw office furniture or computers. Not only was this the largest crime scene in American history, but it was also the longest ongoing crime scene. Every day some form of evidence was found.

The Landfill was set up for search and recovery. In the early stages, the mounds of debris would be raked through by detectives and first responders and then eventually by sifting machines. The use of the sifting machines expedited the search and recovery process. The Crime Scene Unit was all set up and ready to go. Detectives worked in pairs. One detective had the arduous task of taking photographs of body parts, and the other detective would be in charge of documenting all the information. There would be some days that detectives not assigned to the Crime Scene Unit would have to help in the crime scene tent because a crime scene detective had court or took the day off. Some could handle this assignment, but others could not. There were times that a detective would become overwhelmed. During those instances, they were removed from the tent and replaced by others who could handle the assignment.

Frank Tegano was assigned to the crime scene tent to handle the bodies and body parts that were recovered. He later spoke candidly about his experiences at the Landfill and moments that were difficult to forget. During his time there, he recalled moments in the crime scene tent that were very difficult because of how the Landfill had been perceived:

They didn't categorize it as a morgue; they just called it the Landfill. Once we got there, we were set up with a tent with tables and plastic on the tables. Detectives and first responders would go sifting and then bring the body parts to us and just dump them in piles on the plastic tables. Then we would carefully go through the evidence. We had anthropologists with us who were there teaching us how to determine whether the bones we saw were human or animal. The reason for this was that the two Towers had three restaurants, so there could be steak or pork or even chicken bones that could be taken for pieces of human flesh or bone. We had to know the difference. By the time we were finished at the Landfill, we had recovered and tagged over 3,500 pieces of bone or flesh.

Detective Tegano worked at the Landfill from September 2001 to January 2002. He emphasized that this was a crime scene and documentation was important:

These bodies were often wrapped and covered in cement, mud, and different materials. They had been exposed to the elements, and the decomposition process had already begun. Every day a refrigerated morgue truck would arrive at the Landfill to pick up the body parts to be brought back to the City Morgue in an attempt to identify who these people were from the list of the missing.

In the beginning, all the bodies that were coming in . . . you'd get a body, and it would have an ID tag on it. That was the hardest part. I remember seeing a girl at the Morgue. I could barely make out that this was a woman. . . . But as I am going through her identification, I could see that she was a twenty-six-year-old gorgeous blonde working for Cantor Fitzgerald. And I was angry, just angry. I remember she lived in the Rockaways, and I just became so angry. The job suddenly became personal.

DNA testing through hair, skin, and saliva swabs, if possible, along with fingerprints and dental records, would all be utilized to identify the body parts and the victims. The crime scene detectives at the Landfill were all issued dental cameras, used to photograph the jawbone and teeth with close-up photos of fillings. The trick with the fillings was that we needed to get three fillings together in the same mouth to enhance the identification process.

The identification and notification processes were bittersweet. Many families were looking for that phone call, for closure, or for some sort of finality that their family members had been recovered. They weren't waiting for a phone call claiming their family member survived. When they received a call, they would have to be told how we verified the identity. We would have to explain that through DNA testing we were able to make an identification but explain that we are sorry to say that we had only his or her hand, foot, or maybe a finger. The families would then be allowed to pick up the body part for burial. Unfortunately, this scenario was common at the Landfill or City Morgue. There were also chunks of flesh too ground up to identify what body parts they were because of all the dirt and cement mixed into the flesh. These parts would be sent to the Morgue for DNA testing. All body parts eventually made their way to the Morgue to be frozen until testing could occur.

Remembering this was a crime scene would always hit home when first responders working the sifters would bring police officer equipment like hats, gun belts, shields, weapons, and firefighter equipment such as gloves, jackets, or helmets to the crime scene tent. Each day at the Landfill became like almost any other job. We would go through the motions, perform our assignments, and fulfill our duties for the day on our twelve-hour rotation, until we were reminded of the reality of the situation and why we were there. The NYPD lost a total of 23 members, the Port Authority 37, and the NYFD 343.

I know that all the equipment was kept in a special place, bagged separately, and sent to the Morgue to be examined closely for anything that could lead to whose equipment it was. They would look for a serial number or shield number. When a police officer or fireman was found at Ground Zero or at the Landfill, the body was transported immediately to the Morgue in Manhattan. When evidence was determined at the Morgue, whether it was a police officer or fireman, a procession would be formed, and everyone in the procession would stand at attention and salute until the body was inside. Normally this would also be done once the family arrived at the Morgue to view the body, remains, or evidence.

Items brought to the crime scene trailer made this a special crime scene. One day, one of the sifting machines broke down, and there was something stuck in the sifter, preventing it from turning. A large piece of cement appeared to be wedged into the sifting mechanism. Because of its size and awkwardness, workers took a couple of hours to pry the item free. Then they had it picked up by a backhoe and put on the debris pile. When the backhoe operator dropped the item from his bucket, it hit the pile, causing a piece to break off. The operator saw something shiny. After more chipping away, investigators found pounds of gold that had melted together. Because the gold was mixed with so many different materials, at first we could not identify what it was.

Apparently the Treasury Department had leased floor space in the basement of the World Trade Center. When the Towers collapsed and were on fire, the impact coupled with the jet fuel that burns at 1,200 degrees melted everything in their paths. But not all the gold housed in these sub-basements melted. Later we learned that much of the gold survived and had to be taken by subway from where it was located to an undisclosed location. The gold that was found at the Landfill was given to the FBI.

Many different items were recovered, including narcotic safes and the copper from the elevators that were priority in the first two weeks. The Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) also leased space at the World Trade Center. There were safes housed in the sub-basements where evidence was being securely kept for narcotics cases. The retrieval of these safes was of grave importance to the DEA and was imperative to court cases. No evidence, no case. Amazingly these safes were all found prior to using the sifting machines. They were located by rake and shovel and a lot of luck.

This small working city became a grave, a burial ground, for people who perished on that day. Tegano speaks for those who served at the Landfill when he said it should be seen and perceived as holy ground:

One day there will be a mass grave site for all the World Trade Center victims that could not be identified. Early into this crime scene the recovered bodies had identification on their persons. As time went on, it became hard to identify someone or even what you were looking at. By the end, it was almost impossible. Bodies and body parts had been exposed to winter and decomposition and were unidentifiable. I take with me many thoughts and memories.
3

Personal Effects

By the middle of October 2001, rake and shovel were put down at the Landfill, and the sifting machine was front and center, making evidence retrieval at least four times faster than raking through the debris fields. The sifting machines all came from Texas. At least ten sifting machines operated at the Landfill. These conveyor belts were welcomed pieces of machinery that increased work capacity and took less of a toll on the detectives and first responders working there.

Throughout my time at the Landfill, we often came across personal effects from victims, whether at the auto pound or at the sifters or even in the crime scene tent. Personal effects came in different forms: jewelry, identification tags, briefcases, or credit cards. Every once in a while, we would receive a call from the main headquarters at "The Hill," a nickname given to the Landfill, that a family member or members were here to take personal belongings from a loved one's car. I would send one of my detectives to drive the family to the auto pound or escort them personally. These situations became emotional and created memories that stand out more than others.

One day, a family showed up, mom and two children, which was unusual, because typically only one person would come to retrieve some items and then leave. We always asked for identification from the person and proof of registration for the auto to make sure this was one of the registered owners. We never had a problem with people providing the proper identification and information requested.

I greeted the woman, a tall brunette with a forced smile. She introduced herself as Michele: "I am here to look through my husband's car for anything that might have been left behind. He died in Tower 2; he worked on the 85th floor." I asked her what kind of vehicle. She responded softly, "A white S500 Mercedes Benz." We walked Michele over to the car. Normally we would let the people take as long as they wanted while they were there. We knew this was all part of their grieving process.

We told them that they could take any effects from inside the car but that they could not take the car itself. I explained that all of these autos were part of a crime scene and told her to notify her insurance company that we had the car. Michele understood the procedure and opened the rear passenger door and told her children to get in. She closed the door and took out an 8 x 11 framed photo of a man. We assumed it was her husband. She placed the picture on the driver's seat facing the steering wheel. When I looked at her, she reopened the door just a little and said that if we didn't mind, they were going to sit here for a while. She seemed as though she was trying to recapture moments when he was alive. I nodded to her and told her to take as much time as she needed.

I asked one of my detectives to keep an eye on them and make sure this did not get any more bizarre because she had the keys to the car, probably her set. I wanted to make sure she did not try to drive this car out of the auto lot. We locked the gate to be sure. After about thirty minutes, I went back to the car, and I could see that Michele had been crying. She was holding a cigarette lighter; it was chrome with a Harley-Davidson insignia. She rolled down the window and told me that her husband's passion was riding motorcycles on weekends with his friends from work. Michele then whispered to me, so her children could not hear: "I hope to bring some form of closure. His body has not been recovered."

With that, she got out of the vehicle and carefully let her children out. She told me she was also there to see if she could retrieve his briefcase and asked if she could look in the trunk. I told her she absolutely could and offered her my help. Michele opened the trunk with her remote, and the briefcase was there along with what looked like some birthday gifts wrapped in a colorful paper. Michele closed the trunk and said, "My daughter's birthday was September 13. Those are her gifts, but I don't want her to see them. She is only five. Do you have a large garbage bag I could put them in? I will give them to her for Christmas." I answered her and heard my voice crack as I spoke. We grabbed some garbage bags, reopened the trunk, and put the gifts into the bags without the children noticing. She grabbed the briefcase, and we closed the trunk.

Michele put the briefcase on the hood of the car and opened it. Inside were paperwork and a birthday card. She began to read it and cried uncontrollably. I tried to comfort her. The children became upset seeing their mother crying, so I closed the briefcase and began to walk Michele and the children to the temporary headquarters. One of the detectives brought the closed briefcase to Michele. "You have been more than kind," she said, "but I am going. Could you have someone drive us back to the top where my car is?" Her children got into the van first, and then she did. Michele rolled her window down: "I left the picture of my husband on the seat. I have others. He loved taking family rides and just talking with the kids. He worked all week and would get home late. Sometimes they were sleeping, so weekend drives were our best times together." The van pulled away.

As the crime scene trailer began to see more and more evidence, the effects told their own stories. Some of the body parts wore identification tags; others wore jewelry. There were all types of jewelry, from earrings to bracelets to necklaces. Some of the hands still had rings on their fingers. The jewelry was removed and separated from the body, but everything was marked with a serial number so we could match the body part with the jewelry. So much jewelry was being recovered through the sifting machines that the commanding officer of the Landfill, James Luongo, came up with a process that the jewelry would be photographed and then sent to all the New York newspapers. This was done so that the entire tristate area—New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut—could view the jewelry on a daily basis. The hope was that someone would recognize the jewelry and help in identifying the bodies and body parts recovered.

This process definitely had some success, and I remember people would come to the Landfill to get a closer look at a ring that they thought belonged to their loved one. There were wedding bands, engagement rings, and even college or high school rings. In addition to the recovery of jewelry, identification cards were being found through the sifting machines, in particular from Cantor Fitzgerald. When Flight 11 crashed into Tower 1, the plane hit right below the Cantor Fitzgerald offices, making escape impossible. The plane took out a large portion of the stairwells and damaged the elevators. When Tower 1 collapsed, 658 of 950 employees in the Cantor Fitzgerald offices died.

The Staten Island Landfill World Trade Center Recovery Site sifted through over 1.45 million tons of debris. Over the course of the operations, the sifting machines and personnel working those machines were able to retrieve over 600 Cantor Fitzgerald identification cards, but not all belonged to the missing. This was an astonishing endeavor, and I could only hope these identification cards found their way to the families of the people who were lost. I know that pieces of jewelry were still not claimed when I left the Landfill to go back to the Gang Unit, and I believe there are still over 600 pieces of jewelry unclaimed in possession of the NYPD.

The crime scene yielded many different items in addition to jewelry, watches, and identification cards. There was also an abundance of house and car keys. I don't know what happened with those items. The house keys would be tough to track. The auto keys were quite damaged and not usable. In total, 54,000 pieces of property were recovered and 19,000 returned. All 1,200 victims were identified either through DNA, fingerprints, or identification.

I would always read the missing persons sheets while my detectives made rounds at the auto pound. The sheets would keep us up to date about those who were missing from the World Trade Center. As time went on, those missing persons became homicide victims. There were two men on the list that I went to high school with. I was able to verify this through different publications like the _Staten Island Advance,_ which is the local paper in Staten Island. The _Advance_ ran continuous stories about Staten Island residents who were reported missing after the Towers fell. The _Advance_ would also publish individual stories about people presumed missing or even dead. Between the _Advance_ and our missing/homicide sheets, I was able to verify that the two people whom I had graduated high school with were victims of the September 11 attacks.

Anthony Starita, a graduate of St. Peter's Boys High School Class of 1984, an employee of Cantor Fitzgerald and a former Staten Island resident, was living in New Jersey at the time of his passing. Paul Barbaro, a graduate of St. Peter's Boys High School Class of 1984, an employee of Cantor Fitzgerald and a former Staten Island resident, was also living in New Jersey at the time of his passing.

I knew both men but had not spoken to either in over eighteen years. Seeing their names on those sheets made me feel so connected and sad that it is hard to describe. One day while at the Landfill, on break during a familiar rotation at the auto pound, I happened to be looking at one of the local newspapers and was viewing the pages where the jewelry was displayed. I noticed a high school ring. I looked closely at it and saw that it said St. Peter's, but I could not make out the entire insignia. For the next few weeks, I would look in the paper to see if there were any other rings with the St. Peter's insignia. I did this daily because I was hoping that maybe one of the rings could have been Paul's or Anthony's.

The search became personal. I began to look at the jewelry before it was photographed. I began to look through everything that was recovered to see if I could be lucky enough and find one of their rings, providing they were either wearing that ring or even got a high school ring. It felt good to try to find out if the ring belonged to either of those two men. Using my time to try to help a family bring closure to an extremely difficult time helped me to deal with what had happened. I think that is one reason I spent six months at the Landfill. Being there made me feel I was helping, contributing in some way. Anyone who worked there felt the same way.

I continued my search up until the time I left the Landfill but had no luck. There were St. Peter's rings but not St. Peter's Boys High School in Staten Island. I hope that Paul's or Anthony's identification cards from Cantor Fitzgerald found their way back to their families. There was more to looking for a connection to Paul and Anthony, and it wasn't just that I knew them and we went to high school together. We had our prom at the Windows on the World restaurant. Whenever I tell people where my prom was, I always say that it was at the highest location you could have been in New York City with the best view of the city. Windows on the World was located in the North Tower 1 on the 106th and 107th floors. Windows on the World was a catering hall/restaurant and all four sides of the restaurant were windows, which allowed us to look at all five boroughs and New Jersey as far as the eye could see. I remember at my prom everyone was leaning on a window and just looking down. I remember getting that sick frightening feeling of being so high up. Imagine those people trapped up there, with no chance of being saved, and either staying and accepting their fate or desperately jumping.

The prom, by my best recollection, was the last time I saw Paul and Anthony and a lot of others. Here I was, eighteen years later, looking for their school rings, rings that could be mixed in with the steel and cement that was Tower 1 along with Windows on the World. I dedicate this chapter to Paul and Anthony.
4

World Trade Center Vehicle Pound

The Landfill was a crime scene like no other. Each area was separate and distinct, but all shared a common goal—search and recovery. Each told many stories, and this investigation spread far over 2,200 acres. One of the components of this crime scene became the World Trade Center Vehicle Pound, also referred to as the "Auto Pound."

After about a month, the Staten Island Landfill, a location known as the drop-off point for household waste, began to take its place in American history. Its strong bright lights at night shone across the Staten Island sky as the "city" took its shape there. A comfort zone began to build for those assigned to the recovery site. I ventured out into the Landfill to get a close-up tour of something that in the past I could see only from hundreds of feet away. The auto pound was my steady post. From the first day I was there to my last, I saw hundreds of cars delivered to the Landfill from Ground Zero.

As things had begun to settle down at the Landfill from the initial chaos, Commanding Officer James Luongo called a supervisors meeting to bring together all the sergeants, lieutenants, and captains who were assigned to the Landfill to give permanent assignments. This was a way to lock down responsibilities and secure all loose ends. I remember being at this meeting and trying not to volunteer for something that I would regret, especially knowing this was going to be a long, ongoing recovery endeavor. One of the things we were always reminded in the NYPD was not to volunteer for anything. Volunteering never worked in our favor, only the Department's. I stood there trying to say nothing, trying not to break the "Golden Rule." Then as if someone took possession of me, like a faucet my mouth just poured out, "I'll supervise that!" I was now in charge of the auto pound at the Staten Island Landfill.

I had volunteered, but over time I realized that I had scored. I had to speak with Lieutenant Bovino for my assignment and had to gather an understanding of what the responsibilities of the auto pound were. For starters, the auto pound would be located about one mile from where all the sifting would be taking place. It was stationed close to the highway for easy access. The main objective of the Staten Island Landfill World Trade Center Auto Pound would be, over time, safeguarding autos that were left behind.

The cars were brought to us from Ground Zero and the surrounding areas by barge and on trailers. These cars were either abandoned on the streets or left in parking garages. Most were damaged, some more than others, when the Towers fell.

Resembling a used car lot, the auto pound ran twenty-four hours a day. The shifts were twelve hours, 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. and then 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. I worked mainly the 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. with Tony Brognano and Matt Eadiccio. The conditions we worked under at the auto pound were similar to the other designated recovery areas around the Landfill. No matter where I was, I could feel the dust from the fallen Towers in my throat, and the wind just continuously whipped it around even more, at times making seeing difficult. The cars were covered with it. As a result, we were required to wear surgical, protective masks because of the increasing winds at the Landfill. The cement dust and debris particles whirled through the air constantly and created a much bigger health issue than any of us could have imagined.

Our job at the auto pound was to accept the vehicles that were delivered. We would log them in and then voucher or tag them to maintain inventory. Once a car was accounted for, we would park it until the next step was figured out. Sometimes in the beginning, we would pick a car from the auto pound where the keys were left, and my detectives and I would use that as our transportation to drive around the Landfill. Heavy in our minds were thoughts of the owners of the car and who and where they were. We wondered if these people ran for their lives when the Towers began to crumble, were trapped inside and never came out, or were safe at home and had yet to go look for their cars.

I estimate that at one point we had 250–300 vehicles. They would come to us by trailer. Some were in great condition and some in just good condition. The main problem with all the vehicles was the appearance of the heavy cement dust and asbestos, which not only was visible on the outside but also made its way into the climate control centers on all the cars. This condition deemed these cars unfit to be returned to their owners, so almost all cars were paid for by the insurance companies. The ramifications that could result from returning any vehicle that could negatively affect the health of the car owner could prove to be more of a financial burden for the insurance companies in the long run.

Over time I was given a temporary headquarters vehicle from our communications division, and we were able to utilize this vehicle to complete our paperwork and to eat our meals away from some of the harsh elements outside. We were also able to hook up a microwave, coffee machine, and other basic necessities. The temporary headquarters made life at the auto pound manageable. We also had a television, and I vividly remember being able to watch my beloved New York Yankees and the Arizona Diamondbacks play. Most important, it kept us out of the elements. We were there for the winter, so it was a place to keep warm and a place to keep us from the smell of the crushed cement and asbestos that the vehicles had on them, the circulating dust and debris, and the smell of methane gas that the Landfill produced from the decomposing garbage.

Once all cars retrieved were accounted for, we were required to safeguard them until we were instructed otherwise. Every once in a while, we would get a call from the main headquarters located up by the sifters that a family member was here to take personal belongings from their car or to pick up their family member's auto. Other than that, we just made sure the autos stood intact and nothing additional happened. As time went on, we were told that the insurance companies were paying the owners off for all vehicles taken from Ground Zero. "Total them," we were told.

The nights and days were long, but the memories were even longer. I think by just being there we felt we had a sense of doing something to help the situation. In the end, all the cars that we had vouchers for were crushed. They were deemed unsuitable to be given back to the owners. Ironically, the cars were crushed because of the toxic elements on them, which presented a threat to the owner, yet the first responders were initially told that the air around Ground Zero was safe.

On one particular day, Tony and Matt, detectives in the Gang Unit, were conducting their usual procedure of inventorying the autos. I was in the temporary headquarters vehicle assigned to the auto pound reading the newspaper and supervising. Suddenly Tony darted into the trailer yelling, "Frank, you have to see this. You are not going to believe it!"

Unaffected by his abrupt manner, I replied, "What's up, Tone? Did Rauer sneak up here and you found him sleeping in one of the cars?" Detective Rauer was another Gang Unit detective.

Tony just looked at me like a deer in headlights. "I wish it was that. You have to take a walk with me." There had been a lot of talk of weird and unexplainable sightings up at the Landfill during these months, so I have to admit that Tony had me real curious.

I followed him out into the chilly, cloudy night air to the back of the lot where we parked all the trucks or SUVs. He brought me to one particular truck, a late model Chevy Suburban. At this point, I was confused and wondering what he was really up to and what had spooked him. Then I thought, _maybe joke's on me_. "Tony, we have five more suburbans just like this one."

"Not like this one, take a closer look at the hood."

As I peered closer, I could see about a six-inch pile of cement, the entire length and width of the hood. At first, it looked like a tiny pre-poured concrete foundation like a mold made out of cement. Then I finally made out what it was and realized what had shaken Tony. Embedded in the hood, encased in cement like a prehistoric fossil, was a full ribcage attached to a spinal column, and encased in the ribcage was an assortment of organs still connected to hip bones.

There was complete silence as we looked in amazement at the hood of the truck. I reported this to the main headquarters and requested that crime scene come down to the auto pound. An anthropologist came with them. The crime scene detectives decided the best course of action would be to remove the hood from the truck and transport the hood to the crime scene trailer. There, along with the anthropologist, they would be able to chip away at the cement so they could remove the bones and organs without too much damage in an attempt to identify this person.

That day at the auto pound was a clear reminder, not that you needed one, of why we were there. This Chevy Suburban told stories of its own, a few in fact. Did the owner just run and abandon his vehicle while running for his life when the Towers fell? Who was this individual whose last moments on this earth had to be nothing short of tragic? Was this a police officer or a fireman? There are so many unanswered questions that I hoped could be resolved, especially for the family of this person. One thing I did know was that this crime scene, this Landfill would be a part of me for years to come.

In the first three months we were there, the vehicles would come in a steady stream of six to ten at a time. The autos would get the once over, we would spray paint a number on the windshield in orange paint, and that number would then be placed on the voucher. This was the way we could keep track of the autos. We were required to look through them for personal effects and to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. Much of our job was "babysitting" to see what would happen with these autos. We would conduct an hourly walk-through in pairs to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary going on and that no vandalism had occurred. Basically we made sure the autos stood in the condition they came.

The nights and days at the auto pound were long and at times emotional, but the memories were even longer. In the end, all the cars that we had vouchered were crushed. The owners had received notices from their insurance companies that they would be paid for their cars. The autos were deemed unsuitable to be given back because of the toxic elements they were exposed to. These elements had gathered in the autos' climate control systems, which presented a threat. The first responders, the detectives and police officers who handled these autos from day one until they left our possession, were initially told the air at Ground Zero was safe by the Department of Environmental Protection. I think they got that one wrong.
5

Vending Carts

Cars and trucks weren't the only form of autos that we came across during my time at the auto pound recovery site at the Landfill. I was sitting in the headquarters trailer when I received a phone call. Someone from the main headquarters was calling. I was told that we had a delivery coming and that we should get prepared. Although some days were relatively monotonous, some days were full of surprises, sadness, and weird experiences. So when they called and emphasized for us to be prepared, I couldn't imagine what it would be. Some days, things just couldn't get any stranger.

In response to the main headquarters' request to be prepared, we immediately designated an area and awaited the arrival of our incoming autos. When the delivery came, it was not autos we were retrieving but vending carts. Initially I was somewhat surprised to see them, but it wasn't all that strange to encounter vending carts in Manhattan. They were like permanent fixtures on every other street corner. Many of these were the carts that could be seen in New York City in front of office buildings or on street corners. Vendors sold everything from a cup of coffee to a small meal.

We had spent about three to four hours with these carts when they slowly began to tell their own stories. We would scratch our heads and wonder yet again what we were really getting involved in.

At times, a cart owner or two would make their way to the Landfill to retrieve or claim ownership of their vending carts. The first person I encountered trying to retrieve a cart drove up in his own car. He asked if he could look at a specific cart. There were seven lined up all together. It was hard to tell them apart because they looked like carbon copies of one another. I gave the gentleman his cart and watched closely as he began to give it a close inspection. He looked at the inside and then the outside. Then he actually walked inside the cart and really gave it the once-over. He approached me, "Can I take the cart?"

The procedure for allowing the owners to retrieve the carts required some red tape. Even though this was part of a crime scene, the hierarchy had determined that these carts were used to produce income for the individual. Coupled with the fact that we could use the space, we were allowing the owners to take commercial vehicles back. The stipulations were that the owners had to wash the cars, or in this case carts, before taking them, and they had to provide us with proper documentation. I told the man that he could have the cart, explained the proper protocol, and emphasized that I needed to see proper documentation to prove this cart was indeed his.

The gentleman, whose name I assumed was Mr. Moussad because that was the name that was on the registration he showed me, was pointing to the cart he had just inspected. He said in a heavy accent, "That is mine." I took his paperwork and tried to match his registration with something on the cart, but I couldn't find any type of documentation in the cart or on the outside. The permit from the outside appeared to have been removed. There was nothing to identify this cart on the inside. I told him, "I cannot properly identify this cart as yours. Your paperwork does not match anything, and actually, there is nothing to match it. Did you notice that when you were inspecting the cart there was no documentation on it?"

He responded, "Yes, but I know it is my cart, and you have to give it to me." I apologized and told him that I absolutely could not give him the cart without proper paperwork and that the cart produced none.

The man just looked at me puzzled and staring. I could see that he was becoming agitated. He began to raise his voice and started to make demands. "You don't know who I am. You don't know anything," he shouted. I reminded him that he was in no position to make demands and that he would have to leave. He started to walk away; "I will be back, and I will bring paperwork for all of these carts."

"Great, if you bring the proper paperwork you can have them all. Trust me they are taking up valuable space." He gave me a long hard stare, mumbled something that I couldn't make out, and left. That was the first of many of my encounters with these vending carts. The whole situation became more and more peculiar.

After this individual left, my detectives and I began to look through these carts for paperwork. Out of the seven carts, five had registrations in the name "Moussad." The registrations were in a drawer inside one of the carts. None of the carts had permits we could see. We could see the residue outline on the front windows where they would be. It looked as if they were ripped off, possibly in a hurry, because on some of the carts' front windows small pieces of the permits were still there. The permit allowed vendors to sell food products on the street. The permit had to face out so it could be easily seen for inspection by the New York City Health Department. My thoughts at that point were that if Mr. Moussad returned and the carts were his, we would help him look them up to get them out of the lot quicker. I told my detectives to let me know when he showed up and also to make sure the front gate was locked.

I would enter the Landfill off of Victory Boulevard, a secondary more nondescript entrance that we would use to get to the auto pound, which was more convenient than the main entrance. On a Wednesday afternoon as I entered the Landfill driving to the auto pound, I spotted a car about one hundred yards ahead of me driving in the same direction. I don't think the driver saw me. When I pulled into the auto pound, the car was outside the gate, and I realized it was the same man from two days earlier trying to take the cart.

I parked my car and went inside the trailer. I told one of my detectives to greet the guy and explained that he was the man from the previous day who wanted to take a cart. Mattie went outside and after about ten minutes, came back and said, "Definitely the same guy as the other day. He claims to have paper work for at least five carts." Tony, Mattie, and I went to greet our visitor.

He was all smiles, significantly less agitated from our prior meeting. He said that he had the proper paperwork for five carts. He then handed me a folder. I saw right away that the name on all the paperwork matched what I saw in one of the carts: "Moussad." I continued to look through the paperwork and said, "I saw you come in the back entrance. That is for police and sanitation only."

He looked straight at me. "Sir that was not me; I came from the entrance off the highway."

"Did you go up to the main headquarters to let the personnel there know what you needed?"

He shook his head nonchalantly and responded, "No, I just drove straight here."

I pulled Mattie and Tony off to the side and told them that this guy was lying because I had followed him in. He had come in from the Victory Boulevard entrance.

"I'll tell you what, my friend, if you legitimately are Mr. Moussad, you can take your carts and go." I handed him back his paperwork.

"I am not Moussad; my name is Sam. Moussad is my Uncle." He produced a driver's license with a name on the license that I could not pronounce, but I know for sure it did not say "Sam." I asked him who Sam was. He said that was his nickname.

"You're not Moussad," I said. "I really don't know if you are Sam, but either way I can release these carts only to the registered owner. "Sam" became so irate that he threw all the paperwork in the air. The wind blew it throughout the lot.

I looked at him and said, "Here is what will happen next. You are going to pick up every piece of paperwork, and when you're done, you are going to walk to your car, get in, and drive out toward the main entrance, not the way you came in because that was you I saw. If you don't know where the main entrance is, these two nice detectives can escort you. Tell your uncle that if he wants these carts, he needs to come here himself. He can ask for me. I'm Sergeant Marra. If I ever see you here trying to get these carts, I will kick your ass all over this lot, OK, Sam?" He just looked at me and began to pick up his paperwork. When he was done, I had Mattie and Tony take him to the main entrance. After that incident, we requested that sanitation close off the Victory Boulevard entrance. Unfortunately, sanitation said that was not possible, so we began to block it off the best we could with some of the autos we had in the auto pound.

I never heard from the uncle, we never saw Sam again, and that was the last time anyone tried to claim the carts. Rumors began to fly about the carts, but they did not start at the auto pound with that incident; they started at Ground Zero where the carts came from. These stories were unsubstantiated. Separating rumor from fact had us scratching our heads and wondering what the truth was.

Rumor: The people who owned the vending carts were aware of the attacks and began to move the carts away from the Towers approximately thirty minutes before the first plane hit the Towers.

Fact: The vending carts that were delivered to the auto pound were undamaged. In fact, a very good friend of mine, Andrew Buonantuono, who was working for a construction company at a job downtown, spoke to me about going to work that morning and trying to get a cup of coffee but couldn't seem to find a vending cart in or around the area of the World Trade Center and Battery Park City. He said that on that particular morning, he took a train to Bowling Green in Battery Park and walked up from the train only to see no carts. "As I walked to the job, I noticed that all the carts that would normally be at specific locations were gone. I walked around to different spots, but nothing. So strange. It didn't make any sense."

Rumor: All of the food, beverages, and cash registers were seen being removed from the various carts surrounding the areas around the Towers and placed into vans.

Fact: The vending carts at the auto pound had no signs or traces of food or beverages, plates, coffee cups, or stirrers, nor did they have any cash registers or money.

Rumor: There were claims that the vendors/owners or workers were seen removing the permits the morning of the attacks.

Fact: All the carts received at the Landfill were missing their vendors' permits, and they appeared to have been removed.

Rumor: The vending cart owners knew about the planned attacks, were of Middle Eastern descent, and would not pick up the carts themselves.

Fact: The vending cart owners never showed up to retrieve their carts. I know that one person attempted to take five carts, and he was not the registered owner.

Whether these situations were coincidental or not, I don't know. It would be hard to prove any of these rumors. I know that the carts we received at the auto pound told their own stories. This was a tug-of-war scenario between fact and fiction that went on quite a bit at the Landfill. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, trying to make sense of so many things that had transpired during these tragic days. People wanted to be able to piece together all of these unanswered questions.

I stand behind the facts that I presented based on personal experience. I was at the Staten Island Landfill. I saw the carts that were delivered to the Landfill firsthand. It was odd enough that the vending carts were completely undamaged considering the destruction that took place. Even odder was the fact that there was no sign of food or beverages, no paper plates, forks, knives, spoons, not even a cash register. There weren't any permits on these carts.

As with many uncertainties about the events of September 11, the aftermath raised intriguing questions that will likely never be answered, including many about the carts. The destruction came so fast; when was there time to empty these carts? People left their autos, some valued at over 100,000 dollars. If the autos could not be saved, how could the carts be moved to a safe location so quickly? At that critical moment, what was a safe location? Did first responders clean the carts after the devastation occurred? Would that have been a priority? Why no permits? Was there a perfectly logical explanation? If so, what was it? Granted there was about one hour between the time that the first plane hit and the first Tower fell. No one expected that Tower to fall. I'm sure that in the spirit of business the cart owners would have just relocated and continued selling. Why did they flee and take everything. How did they move to a safe location?

As odd as the facts were and how much people may have wanted answers to justify what they saw and experienced, my goal is simply to record what I saw and heard at the Landfill. Most of these rumors would be almost impossible to prove, and at that time, we were trying to pick up the pieces of the devastation, not make sense of it. That would be someone else's job. The vending carts, just like so many other pieces of evidence, would become part of the crime scene that took us in many different directions. Like all of the vehicles that were brought to the auto pound from Ground Zero, the vending carts were eventually destroyed.
6

Red Cross Worker

In addition to the mysteries surrounding the food vending carts, I remember hearing many different stories of other strange and unexplainable occurrences. The Landfill, with all its lost and fallen civilians as well as the city workers who also perished, was a vulnerable and spiritually exposed place. It never dawned on me that of all the different stories and rumors at the Landfill we would also hear "ghost stories."

There is so much to speak of regarding my memories of the six months I spent at the Landfill. So many years have passed, and I am finally able to put together all those memories. When I began to piece together my thoughts and experiences and combine them with all the information that Maria, my co-author, and I collected, I never expected someone to recount what he believed to be a paranormal experience which triggered a memory I had long forgotten.

The largest movable crime scene in American history had ghost stories to tell. I had encountered my own odd experiences, and crime scene detectives who worked the Landfill had their own stories to share. One of those was Frank Tegano, a retired New York City Police Department crime scene detective. I had known Frank for some time, and we had worked together in the late 80s at the 120th Precinct in Staten Island, New York.

Frank spent his years as a detective in the Crime Scene Unit and was temporarily assigned to the 9/11 Staten Island Landfill World Trade Center Recovery Site. His main assignment was to help with the identification and recovery of the body parts that were found at the sifting locations. He worked with a forensics team and highly trained anthropologists to identify human remains.

At one point in an interview about his recollections, Frank asked if I had ever heard about the Red Cross worker. As he asked that question, he turned the key to a vault of memories that I had completely put away. The memories all began to come back. "The Red Cross worker who would walk around and serve sandwiches and coffee by the sifting machines?" Before he could even finish his question, I responded yes. This was a memory that I had left dormant for years. Suddenly I was able to explain that one random day I was at the tent where the daily assignments were handed out and I overheard two police officers talking. One of them was asking the other if he saw the Red Cross worker walking with a tray of sandwiches. He explained that the woman headed toward him, and he didn't think anything of it. Then he had looked around to see if there were other Red Cross workers with her and when he looked back at her, she vanished. He kept repeating to his friend that she was gone, that she just vanished into thin air.

I told Frank that I had forgotten all about that woman wandering the site. I remembered that three other detectives from the Bronx reported seeing a woman with sandwiches over by the large sifter. They claimed in their recollection of the event that they would call to her but she would not respond, just walk away and disappear behind a pile of debris.

Frank described the woman as African-American dressed in an old 1950s style nursing uniform, which we later realized was the old traditional Red Cross uniform, similar to those worn during the time of World War II. He said that he saw her one time when he was exiting the crime scene trailer. Frank said that he happened to look in the direction of the sifters and noticed a nurse dressed in white walking around the debris field carrying something that looked like a tray of sandwiches. When he first saw this image, the person mixed in well with everyone else because of the white surgical scrubs the sifter workers wore. Initially I wasn't positive about what I had seen until later I was hearing that other people had witnessed the same thing. Many of us were unable to make sense of it, the nurse in white serving food at the sifting machines.

I expressed to Frank that I had seen her a few times and that every time, she would appear to be walking towards me from about fifty yards away. Then as I would take a second glance, trying to understand what I was looking at, she would be gone. The first time I saw her was a day that I was not feeling very well, so I decided to go to the medical trailer that was set up by the FBI. When I exited my vehicle and began to turn toward the front of the trailer, I saw in the distance a woman dressed like a nurse all in white walking around one of the sifter machines. At first, I turned away and continued to walk into the medical trailer. As I was being attended to, I suddenly couldn't get the sight out of my head.

From the first time I had experienced this phenomenon, I was confused, not that she might have been a spirit or a ghost because I can honestly say that was not my first thought. My job was centered on facts, not fiction, fantasy, or science fiction, so my initial response was confusion. It struck me very odd that someone was serving food at the sifters, even stranger that someone was around the sifting and debris piles without a breathing apparatus and white surgical-type scrubs, which were standard attire at the sifting locations. The dust that came off the sifting machines was always blowing in every direction and would have made serving food impossible in that area. The food would have been completely covered with dust before anyone could take a first bite. The thought of eating in that area would be physically nauseating between the smells of cement, twisted steel, possibly human flesh, everything else mixed into the mud, and methane gas from the decomposing garbage. I had seen workers every once in a while by the sifters catching a cigarette break but definitely not eating. It later hit me after the rumors started to spread about the "nurse" that this could possibly be paranormal. Frank and I agreed that whether or not the presence of that nurse was real, it was extremely strange and unexplainable. This was definitely something that no one was able to explain. When we thought about how much death we were surrounded by, it was hard not to think of something spiritual.

The Red Cross nurse wasn't the only unexplainable sighting that I had heard of or experienced at the Landfill. Late night sightings made their way around the dimly lit section. During the nighttime surveillance, seeing was difficult. The area was not only dimly lit but also windy with dirt and dust swirling in all different directions. Every hour we would have to do surveillance around the area to make sure the autos were secure. I can remember many times we would go in and out of the vehicles to inspect them for vandalism or to take a count that none was missing. The pound was close to the West Shore Expressway, providing easy access to the highway. That facilitated different types of crime in the auto pound. In early November, a sanitation worker was caught trying to remove tires and rims from a car. We once caught another sanitation worker siphoning gas from a truck, so the possibility of someone trying to steal an auto would not have surprised me.

There were many times my detectives or detectives from other units who were covering the pound on our days off reported that while conducting routine surveillance, they thought they saw what appeared to be shadows or large black masses moving around the autos. I really never questioned what anyone saw because we began to hear more and more stories just like these reports throughout the Landfill.

There were additional reports that images or figures were seen walking in restricted areas and non-restricted areas. Some reported trying to call out to these figures, but they would just walk away and disappear into the darkness. There were reports of figures and even a dog seen at what I refer to as "Fire Truck Row," where all the New York Fire Department fire trucks were stored along with other police cars, trucks, and ambulances that were removed from Ground Zero during the excavation process. These vehicles were devastated, some beyond recognition. These vehicles in many ways became the final resting place for many of the fallen firemen and first responders.

Over 4,500 human remains were recovered at the Staten Island Landfill. That adds up to many spirits that could be wandering, possibly looking for closure. A woman dressed in a Red Cross uniform handing out sandwiches, trying to feed the workers, maybe trying to provide comfort whether from this world or beyond; what appeared to be people seen walking in restricted areas and suddenly disappearing; or dark shadows/masses floating around the autos at the auto pound—why not? We may not be able to prove these stories; on many levels, they could be discredited by the workers' long hours, exhaustion, and the stress and tragedy that surrounded them on a daily basis. What made these stories believable was the number of the workers who experienced the same sightings and shared the same memories of what they saw.

This land should be considered "Hallowed Ground" just like Ground Zero. To me, it is sacred ground, the final resting places for so many who lost their lives that day and were transferred here. How many family members' loved ones are still there, whose remains haven't been found and identified? How many have had their ashes and remains uprooted and brought to this place? Why isn't their presence believable?

If someone had told me that two planes would intentionally be flown into the World Trade Center Towers, causing both Towers to collapse, taking the lives of thousands of people, I would not have believed it. So why not believe these stories and accounts from an unusual crime scene. Why can't we call them "Landfill Ghost Stories"?
7

Fire Truck Row

As we drove through the Landfill, starting at the beginning of "The Hill" past the auto pound approaching the sifters and the men in white suits behind the debris field, we could smell a different kind of death and sheer sadness.

There were quite a few different facets and sites to see and explore at this extensive crime scene at the Landfill. Every turn up and down the hill demonstrated another aspect of destruction that took place on that infamous day in September. Each area had its own story, and in many cases, we didn't need help understanding the story it told. In specific cases, no words were needed. One place in particular that clearly spoke for itself was "Fire Truck Row."

At the end of the hill, this particular extension to the crime scene resembled a junk yard. It looked just like a scrap yard where someone might go to get spare or scrap parts. But past the overall junk yard appearance, it was so hard to miss the familiar sight and colors of our city's first responder vehicles. There were fire trucks, police cars, unmarked police cars, ambulances, and other emergency vehicles all situated in rows by departments.

All of the vehicles were piled on top of one another, at least four to five high. First were the fire department vehicles. After the fire trucks and other fire department vehicles, the next pile of stacked autos was police cars, port authority vehicles, and additional police vehicles bearing no significant name or insignia, and ambulances. Fire Truck Row literally took our breath away and instantly filled us with a special sadness.

This part of the Landfill crime scene boldly stood out because of the significant and memorable red and white colors of the fire trucks. As we approached the vehicles, it became harder and harder to tell the difference between them. Those that were crushed and burned so badly were difficult to identify. Often we could not tell what type of vehicle each was. The police and the first responder vehicles resembled those of the fire department vehicles and vice versa. They looked like pieces of abstract art. From afar we were able to see clearly and identify what they were because of the significant symbols and colors, but as we got closer to them, the colors and the clarity faded. At that point, we were faced with the sheer destruction and trauma that these vehicles endured, and we couldn't help thinking about those first responders who were in them.

As we drove through the vehicles or walked around them, we could smell death, along with the mixture of the methane gas and the remaining debris flying around. Even after leaving the area, it took a while to rid ourselves of the odor that lingered there. It followed us.

In some instances, we could see coats and stuff left inside the vehicles. In others, we couldn't even identify or see the difference from one item to the next as a result of the destruction. Initially I asked myself why these autos were situated separately from the auto pound. Then I realized that not only were they New York City property, but they were also, as a result of sentimental value, not to be displayed as "trophies" but to memorialize them in their own separate section for our fallen heroes and first responders. Those vehicles represented the 343 fireman and 23 police officers who were killed that day. This area was a unique and revered extension of the crime scene.

Fire Truck Row was visited frequently. Firemen would come on their days off. Off-duty police officers and those working the Landfill would also head over there, all with the same intention: to pay their respects to their fellow fallen comrades. Often while I was there, there were firemen and officers standing around talking, sharing stories, and at times, laughing while recalling funny memories of their colleagues who had passed. It was similar to being at a wake, a unique wake, under different circumstances. There was a time when I was there and a group of off-duty firemen brought a six pack or two of beers and just sat there, telling stories and talking aloud to their perished colleague as if he were there with them. Family members of fallen heroes brought their children there to honor them. Whoever came, whether they brought beers or kids, whether they sobbed uncontrollably or laughed, these people needed to have a place to mourn. We were all there for the same reason, to remember, to thank, to pray, and to pay our respect to so many who gave everything on that day.

Off-duty firemen and police were not the only ones who came to visit Fire Truck Row. Civil service personnel of all ranks, especially the higher ranks within the fire department and the police department, as well as politicians and journalists from different cities, made their way up there to see the destroyed vehicles.

Journalists from various places often came to take tours of the Landfill, and many of them were interested in seeing Fire Truck Row and all of the destroyed first responder vehicles. I encountered journalists from numerous cities, including Los Angeles, Baltimore, and Washington. When they arrived at the Landfill, I would visit briefly with them and explain where we would be headed and ask whether they had any specific questions. At some point in the conversation, they would make reference to Fire Truck Row and were always interested in seeing the first responder vehicles. My belief is that the vast scene and quantity of first responder vehicles retrieved from Ground Zero were what drew such a crowd. A majority of those responders who were in those vehicles died that day. The vehicles symbolized death and destruction.

One day I was asked to give a reporter from the _Washington Post_ a tour of the Landfill. I picked him up at the temporary headquarters and drove him around in a red, white, and blue SUV. I offered him a tour and told him to let me know where and when he wanted to stop so that he could take pictures. We first toured the auto pound. He looked around and began asking where the fire trucks were. Then we continued up the hill to the debris field to see the sifting machines. I took him to the cafeteria area where we got something to eat. Then we proceeded to the area where the men in white suits got their supplies to do their tours. As we continued to the back end of the sifting machines to the larger debris area, he took more and more pictures. The reporter continuously asked me when we would get to the area with all the first responder vehicles.

We finally came to Fire Truck Row at the end of the hill. He wanted to get out, walk around, and take pictures. I studied the look on his face because I was always curious to observe people's reaction to this area. It could be overwhelming for many. The reporter stood there initially and didn't say a word. A few moments passed, and he replied slowly and quietly that he didn't realize how many there were. Soon he went into his professional mode and went to work. He spent at least forty-five minutes walking around the area, and I watched him as he thoroughly inspected each fire truck and vehicle, looking inside intensely as if he were searching for something. He did not give the same attention to the police vehicles that he did to the fire department vehicles.

The reporter was gone a long time. When he returned to the SUV, he began to explain his experience at the Pentagon in Washington. He said they lost over 120 people in Washington but nothing compared to the losses in New York and that he had a hard time comprehending how many first responders perished that day. He said his friend was a fireman. We drove back to the temporary headquarters in silence.

On many occasions on my own time, after a shift ended or right before my shift began, I would be drawn to visit Fire Truck Row. It was a place for me to stop and remember, thank and pray, and continue to do the job I was sent there to do.
8

Men in White Suits

The first night I left there, I remember getting home. I stripped, literally stripped in the street, and hosed myself down and hosed my truck down. I then experienced the worst headache of my life for the next few days, and I thought I was going to die. I thought I was having a stroke." This is how Dr. Brian Mignola, NYPD Police Surgeon, described the aftermath of his first visit to the scene. "The next time I went to the Landfill, I made sure to wear a re-breather before I even got off the highway, and I kept it on while I was up there. . . . I was there during the day one time, and all the detectives were in white level A-suits and were sifting through all the debris. It looked like a scene from a science fiction movie, like something from _Armageddon_. Coupled with everything going on, the methane gas from the garbage was bubbling up from the ground. It was such a surreal experience."

Dr. Mignola, who spent time at the Landfill and continues to care for many first responders who worked there, said he was shocked at how little precaution was taken on the part of the first responders as well as those in charge at the Landfill: "I couldn't believe how strong the smell of methane gas mixed with all the debris was, and people were eating in the middle of this. They had a mess tent. I said, 'You guys have to be out of your minds,' and I was looking at the bottles of water the workers were drinking from, and they were just full of the dust that was swirling around the Landfill. I remember shouting at them that they were out of their minds and that they needed to clean the bottles off."

Working at the Landfill left a picture that is hard to forget. That first night it was hard not to notice all the dust around us everywhere. It was under and over us and at times circling around us in slow moving clouds. Worse than the dust was the smell, the potent and undeniable smell of methane gas that would bubble up from under the ground. This was normal for a landfill, but what made the situation worse was the mixture of the smell of the methane gas and all the debris.

So many first responders endured this type of working condition day after day. Some were able to walk away without any health issues to speak about, but there were many of those unfortunate first responders who were not that lucky. There were claims that the air was safe to breathe by the Environmental Protection Agency at both Ground Zero and the Landfill. Only later did the consequences of exposure to this toxic environment become clear. Their stories have been captured in their own words:

Retired Detective Michael Tegano worked at the Staten Island Landfill two or three times a week from November 2001 until May of 2002:

I was working in the Organized Crime Control Bureau Narcotic Division during the time of 9/11. They [NYPD] basically took the Narcotics and Housing Detectives to cover clean up, trying to keep all the street cops where they are needed, most on the streets. At first, I was instructed to go through surrounding buildings around Ground Zero to assess what kind of damage there was and then act as security for various sites. Eventually I was reassigned to the Landfill.

There I was working the conveyor belt, sifting through debris and rubble hoping to find the remains of people who were killed along with any personal effects. I could remember some days we would find nothing. One day a Glock19 9mm handgun was found. We just knew it was a cop's service gun. There were days we would sift a foot in a shoe or find a wallet. As time went on, items became harder to identify. No matter what we found, I hoped it could bring closure for those who lost someone. The Landfill provided as much as it could for those who would work there, but the conditions seemed pretty unhealthy. There was dust and debris everywhere, floating through the air and sticking to our outer garments.

I know we played a large role in helping in the aid and recovery efforts and in turn helping to bring some kind of normalcy back to the city as well as some closure to those who lost someone, but honestly I don't need recognition for doing something I believed in my heart to be the right thing to do. It was my job. I would do it all over again if given the choice. I just wanted to be treated right by the NYPD. That's it. They offered us nothing at the time—no help, no assistance, no counseling—to help and make sense of everything that was happening. They sent us out there and never looked back. Everyone knew the air at Ground Zero and the Landfill could not have been good, but government and city officials would always be on television huddled together at press conferences telling us that the air was fine.

It was two years after I left the Landfill that cancer screenings were offered to us to check our health. So we went in, it was required, it was a day off. After we got screened, we were told that if you hear nothing in the next few weeks consider that a good sign. Sure enough I received a letter that I had to go for a follow-up. I was later diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

Retired Detective Ernest Vallebuona and I worked together during my career. Mike and Ernie will be forever connected in a way that I can guarantee they wish they weren't:

I had just finished a late tour. I was on my way to Home Depot with my four-year-old son. At the time, I was a Staten Island resident. I witnessed the smoke billowing from the tower as I passed the Landfill on the highway. I was called to report to the 7th Precinct and assigned to the Organized Crime Control Bureau Vice Enforcement Division. After the first few days of trying to locate any survivors, my responsibilities would vary from day to day, from evidence collection to security to escorts. We would escort politicians who needed to see the destruction up close. I was assigned to the area at Ground Zero for about five months averaging three times a week. The smell was bad and never really improved. We would wear surgical masks at times and breathing apparatus despite the fact that we were told the air was fine to breathe. Around three years later, I was working a street fair in Harlem and started to exhibit symptoms of food poisoning, stomach pains and cramps, sweating, and diarrhea. Later that night when I got home, I went to the emergency room in Nyack, Long Island. After a battery of tests, I was informed that I could have cancer. I was officially diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma as well as neuropathy in the arms and legs and renal failure. I have become diabetic due to the chemo treatments. My medical issues have been focused on curing my cancer. Any minor respiratory issues have been put on hold.

My life has changed for both better and worse. Living with cancer is very stressful because your world and your family's world is an uncertain place. But having lived through cancer opens your eyes to what is really important; it brings you in touch with your spiritual side. I try not to focus on all the 9/11 fanfare. The whole commercialization and politicizing sickens me. As a nation, we need to take care of our protectors, our warriors, and be better prepared to help the sick and wounded. God forbid this happens again.

Dr. Brian Mignola, NYPD Police Doctor and Surgeon, spoke on behalf of the many patients that he has treated over the past decade who were stationed at either Ground Zero or the Staten Island Landfill: "Set yourself aside for a minute, take yourself out of the emotional loop of what happened, and just observe and listen to the complaints. The majority of the first responders were complaining of chronic coughs and trouble catching their breath, and they all described a burning sensation in their lungs. Even those who did not know one another had the same kind of description of the burning in their lungs, both first responders from the Landfill and Ground Zero. I had one detective from upstate New York who never met this other detective from Long Island, New York, and they both had the same exact complaints. Other complaints were chronic stomach pain, sinus headaches, a lot of post-traumatic stress, and excessive fatigue. We then saw several cancers that started to pop up."

Mike Tegano and Ernie Vallebuona will always be connected, like many of the other first responders who have developed cancer over the years. Some have already sadly passed, probably as a direct result of the exposure to various toxic materials found at both the Landfill and Ground Zero. Both men developed non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and both men worked with and around the same materials. The 1.45 million tons of twisted steel and cement from Ground Zero where Ernie worked was brought to the Landfill where Mike worked, and yet the powers that be, right after the September 11 attacks, continued to say that the air was safe to breathe.

Many of those who are sick will hopefully fight and beat their battle with cancer; many will not. They have succumbed to financial distress as a result of their medical bills and costs of treatments while not being able to continue working. In January of 2011, the government passed a new law, the James Zadroga 9/11 Health and Compensation Act, which claims to offer compensation and funding for those facing 9/11-related health problems and to continue to help provide those individuals with monitoring and treatment at least until 2015, but then what? We can only hope that our government will continue to aid and assist all those individuals who became ill as a result of their generous and brave assistance in the days and months following the worst tragedy ever to hit American soil.
9

Landfill to Hallowed Ground

The Staten Island Landfill, circa 1984, was a garbage dump, satisfying one main purpose: storing garbage and burning it. Infamously known as the "dump" by the residents of Staten Island, it was a place that I would go to with my dad when I was a kid whenever he had to throw out items that the local garbage men would not take. Who would've guessed all those years ago that many years later I would've been assigned there as part of a search and recovery site for a national tragedy? Who could've guessed that the "dump" would be considered the area containing the largest crime scene in American history?

The "Landfill" rose and was fully functional. The largest crime scene in American History opened in September of 2001 and closed in May of 2002. To me the memories and experiences there will never be gone. Even after over thirteen years, when I drive by the Landfill, I no longer see the "dump." I see a holy ground, a hallowed ground with bright lights that shine for miles, but all I can think about every time I pass is how many lives were affected there, mentally, physically, or both. I still think of it as a time that stood still. I think that I will begin to make the sign of the cross as I pass it, as I would if I were passing a Catholic church. I want to show my respect to those who gave so much of themselves on September 11, 2001, and to those whose final resting place is there, lost on "The Hill."

During the time I was assigned at the Landfill, along with my fellow detectives, we would venture out and just drive around. I was amazed to find the wildlife that is able to sustain there. There was a man-made lake that had to be ten acres wide where I saw people fishing. There were endless roads that went nowhere, 2,200 acres of landscape in all. This place was so big that it was once said that the Staten Island Landfill was the highest point on the eastern seaboard and that astronauts could see it from space. Now this Landfill will be known for so much more: a crime scene, a recovery site, a resting place, hallowed ground.

The facts are relatively clear. Approximately 4,512 body parts and pieces were recovered. Over 3,000 lives were lost that day. If we multiply the lives lost by how many bones there are in an adult body, the numbers are well over 600,000. To think only 4,512 bones or body parts were recovered from sifting through the debris of both Towers is staggering. These facts raise questions about where are the rest of the body parts and bones.

Sadly, with all the hard work put forth by our first responders and NYPD workers, we weren't able to recover nearly enough to help many families find closure. We knew it was going to be a tough task. There were so many families who lost loved ones on 9/11 and feel that their remains are still there at the Landfill. I have read that on occasion sifting still goes on at the site. According to the _Staten Island Advance_ , the local Staten Island newspaper, in an article dated April 17, 2013, sixty-two fragments of bones had been recovered at the former Staten Island Landfill since sifting began again on April 1, 2013. Since 2010, some sixty truckloads of World Trade Center debris have been brought to the Landfill from Ground Zero as construction crews dig in new areas as they build the Freedom Tower.

A cemetery without tombstones and an untraditional crime scene, the Staten Island Landfill could be considered a final resting place. What rose from this "dump" is now hallowed ground. A memorial will one day stand at this Landfill, a place where family members can visit to reflect and pay their respects to their loved ones. A place that can be seen by all and maybe where tourists from all over the world will come to see where the two greatest buildings in the world came for their final resting place with those who were in the buildings on that infamous day. I realize that there is a memorial and museum built at Ground Zero, both places where people will go to mourn, reflect, and look. But there should also be something at the Landfill. I have heard in the past that a park will be built, and within this park, there will be some kind of memorial signifying how the Landfill was used during that moment in time. I hope there will be.

I remember being told that the elevation where the sifting was taking place rose almost two feet from the start of the sifting until the end. This was a time in my life I wish I could forget, a time I wish had never happened as the Landfill rose and became a complete working city. It is also important to keep in mind that there were many civilians that were assigned at the Landfill from privately owned construction companies who owned the sifting machines and worked countless hours away from their families. I am sure that they left something on the hill, and many memories were left with them.

I concluded from my time at the Landfill that it was an excellent choice to be utilized as the largest recovery site in the history of New York City. It was a small functioning city that became home to so many NYPD personnel who were assigned at the Landfill and those who visited on a daily or weekly basis to sift through rubble.

Remember this Landfill had an infrastructure that contained a temporary headquarters equal to City Hall, a mini-hospital, a cafeteria, a crime scene tent of all recovered remains, a junkyard for all first responder vehicles that were crushed, a harbor where debris was barged over from Ground Zero, sifting fields where the trucks unloaded their debris, and an auto pound set up at least one half mile from where debris was being sifted. The opinion of many has changed. The former Staten Island Landfill is now hallowed ground and should take its place in American history.
10

No Happy Ending

All gave some; some gave all. According to the New York Committee for Occupational Safety and Health, 30,000 people who either worked on the pile at Ground Zero, sifted through World Trade Center rubble looking for victims' remains at the Staten Island Landfill, or who lived in the area have gotten sick as a result of the toxins that emanated from the site.

As a retired New York Police Lieutenant, I became frustrated by the plight of the first responders and began to compile stories with the hopes of one day having a book published telling the world what I saw and heard, to tell of the people I knew who became sick, to be a voice, a platform for them, a behind-the-scenes look at the six months I spent at the Landfill, a time that always makes me wonder if I'm the next one to get sick.

No happy ending is something that I always ponder. Not only does it make me think of those who are currently sick and those who have passed on, but it also makes me think about the families who have never had closure. Those families said good-bye to their loved ones on the morning of September 11, 2001 and never got a chance to see or hear from them again. I think about the people who received calls telling them that "we have your son's shin bone" or "we found your daughter's index finger." How could that be closure? How is burying a piece of someone saying good-bye? Some received a follow-up call telling the family that "we found another piece of your husband." Was it better to feel as if you had something to bury? I couldn't possibly imagine what that must have been like for those families. Personally, I would've preferred to have received a call, hoping that they would've found something, than those families who never received a call. At least then a family could have something to bury and have a place to visit to just say a prayer or reflect. Numerous stories just like these scenarios were reported.

According to the Associated Press, on April 3, 2013, an article stated, "Possible human remains found in new 9/11 debris uncovered at World Trade Center site 12 years later. Jim Riches pulled his firefighter son's mangled body out of the rubble at the World Trade Center, but the phone calls still filtered in years afterward. The city kept finding more pieces of his son at Ground Zero and the Staten Island Landfill." That father was cited as saying, "They'll call you and they will tell you, 'we found a leg bone. We found an arm bone; we held them all together and then put them in the cemetery.'" The article continued:

Those are the phone calls, both dreaded and hoped for among the families of September 11 victims. And as investigators began sifting through newly uncovered debris from the World Trade Center this week for the first time in three years, those anxieties were renewed more than a decade after the attacks. But there was also hope that more victims might yet be identified after tens of millions have been spent on the painstaking identification process. Two potential human remains were recovered recently, according to the Medical Examiner's Office. We would like to see the other 40 percent of the families who have never recovered anything to at least someday have at least a piece of their loved one, Riches said. "They can't go to the cemetery and pray."

The city's last sifting effort ended in 2010. This time, crews were able to dig up parts of the Trade Center site that were previously inaccessible to workers, the city said. Some 2,750 people died at the World Trade Center in the 2001 terrorist attacks, but only 1,634 people have been identified. "We have been monitoring the World Trade Center site over time and monitor the construction," said Ellen Borakove, a spokeswoman for the medical examiner's office. "And if they see any materials that could possibly contain human remains, we collect that material."

About 9,000 human remains recovered from the ruins of the World Trade Center remain unidentified because they are too degraded to match victims by DNA identification. The remains are stored at an undisclosed location monitored by the medical examiner's office and will eventually be transferred to a subterranean chamber at the National September 11 Memorial and Museum. Some victims' families expressed impatience that the city has only just uncovered more debris. "Quite frankly they should've excavated this and searched it 12 years ago," said Diane Horning, whose son Matthew died in the attacks. "Instead they built service roads and construction roads and were more worried about the new buildings and tourism than they were about the human remains." Feelings like this and many other mixed reviews and emotions about the new museum and Freedom Tower will likely continue to surface.

The city's efforts to identify September 11 victims have long been fraught with controversy. In April 2005, the city's chief medical examiner, Charles Hirsch, told families his office would be suspending identification efforts because it had exhausted the limits of DNA technology. Just a year later, the discovery of human remains on a bank tower roof and then in a manhole near Ground Zero outraged families who said the search for their loved ones had been rushed initially. The findings prompted a renewed search that cost the city tens of millions of dollars and uncovered 1,500 pieces of remains.

Meanwhile, some victims' relatives sued the city over its decision to move 1.6 million tons of material from the Trade Center site to the Staten Island Landfill, saying the material might contain victims' ashes and should have been given a proper burial. The lawsuit was dismissed and unsuccessfully appealed to the United States Supreme Court.

As it embarks on combing through debris again, the medical examiner's office says it will keep monitoring the site as long as new areas are being dug out and exposed. Charles G. Wolf was pleased to hear about the renewed search, though he believes that his wife Katherine was vaporized during the attacks. Investigators have never found her remains. Years ago it bothered him that he had no grave to visit. Wolf said the opening of the September 11 Memorial has filled a hole in his heart, but he will never have closure. "You heal. You carry on," he said. "It's not closure."

The real question for many is what happened to the 1,116 missing 9/11 victims. For those who have never received a call that a loved one was found or a piece of a loved one was found, they must be left with a sense of emptiness that I can't describe in words. I can only sympathize with those families, but I cannot empathize with them. I can only try to imagine or put myself in that position for just a few seconds, and still it does not come close to experiencing those raw feelings of emptiness and loss, the not knowing. No happy ending, no closure, absolutely.

Now more than thirteen years after the catastrophic destruction of the World Trade Center the question remains of what could have happened to those victims who are still missing. In every building collapse in history, usually the victims' bodies have been recovered more or less intact. Falling buildings crush human bodies; they do not shred them into tiny pieces or cause then to vanish into thin air. Yet on September 11, 2001, the most famous building collapse in American history, more than 1,000 victims disappeared. Not a trace, not even a shred of skin, a fragment of a nail, or a shard of a bone from any of these bodies was recovered, despite the meticulous sifting that took place at the Staten Island Landfill by the men in white suits. For the human remains recovered that help identify over 1,600 victims, most were not intact bodies but pieces of bone and flesh. It is unfortunate to say, but the victims who have yet to be found, even the smallest piece of their DNA, will be spoken about in the same conversations about where all the furniture, computers, telephones, and filing cabinets were. Most of those items were just pulverized or vaporized. I know how hard that has to be for someone to accept, but I feel that all these years later it is the best explanation. On assignment at the Landfill for the six months, I never personally observed any mounds of office furniture or computers or filing cabinets. I would think that two buildings, 110 stories each, would produce some of these items, but from what I remember maybe a sifter would find a telephone keypad. I don't recall more than that.

Some believe that the Towers were blown to bits by explosives in addition to the planes that struck them. Many families who have lost someone share this belief. Other attempts to explain the devastation have suggested controlled demolitions in addition to the planes. These explanations reflect the need to make some sense out of why so many are still missing and nothing of these victims has been recovered.

In 2006, human bone fragments were discovered scattered all over the roof of the neighboring Deutsche Bank building. Those who believe the Towers were blown up use this as their watermark that the Towers didn't collapse but were exploded, explaining why so many victims were never recovered. Why were so many victims vaporized into thin air? I don't agree with these statements, but if accepting this explanation makes it easier for the families who have never received as much as a piece of skin of their lost family member, then so be it.

Another article, "September 11th Anniversary: The Remains of 9/11 That Were Never Found" ( _Huffington Post Latino Voices_ first posted 09/09/11), states on behalf of a woman who lost her son,

Whenever she wants to feel close to her son Paul, who died in the Sept. 11 attacks, Sophie Ortiz pulls out her journal and writes to him, usually the latest news about his daughter and other family. Paul's body was never identified, so there is no grave to visit. The journal has become a means for a mother to connect with her son. The young computer technician was one of the 1,121 people killed on 9/11 whose remains have never been identified. "It's like [my son] just disappeared. It would be better to know [what happened to him]," said Ortiz, who explained that the failure to recover her son's body made it more difficult to accept his death. The day of the attacks, Paul—or Paulie, as he was affectionately called by his family—was working an extra shift and had gone to the Windows on the World restaurant at the World Trade Center to install equipment for a conference. Moments after the first plane hit the tower, Ortiz, who was 21 at the time, called his father to say he was fine. Paul Ortiz, Sr. remembers the conversation. "He asked, 'Dad, did you hear what happened?' A plane hit the World Trade Center. And I said, 'how do you know?' 'Because I'm here,' he said." Ortiz Sr. said his son told him not to worry, that firefighters were on their way. That was the last time they spoke. "I was sure he had managed to get out. We waited, waited and waited, and we never saw him again. I now understand that he never had a chance," he said. The Ortiz family scoured the city's hospitals hoping to find him, but there was no trace of the cheerful Puerto Rican young man who loved salsa and had twice thrown himself into a lake to save someone's life.

The _Huffington Post_ article continues to explain the need of many of the victims' families to be able to have something to bury in order to properly proceed through the grieving process. In many cultures, the grieving process begins with burial; it provides closure so that the loved ones can begin the process. So many of families of the 9/11 attacks, like the Ortiz family, haven't been able to retrieve any remains of their loved one and have had to find other methods of coping with the loss and the grieving process:

Luis H. Zayas, director of the Center for Latino Family Research at the University of Washington in St. Louis, said it is more difficult to say goodbye to a loved one when you don't know how he or she died, or how they spent their last moments. Among Latinos, Zayas explained, burials are of great importance within the concept of death and how it is processed. Ortiz said that her faith and belief that she would see her son in the next life have helped her cope with the pain of losing him. "At first, all I wanted was to find him, to see him one last time. But it did not happen that way, and I must accept that and be satisfied with how things turned out. I had to seek another way to find peace," she said. As much as she wanted so much to see her son's body, Ortiz said she doesn't need to visit a grave to be near him. To feel Paulie in her heart, she only has to remember his laugh, his enthusiasm and the great father he would have been if he were still alive.

There must be many thousands of stories out there just like these, stories that reach to areas of heartbreak that is unimaginable. We are thirteen years removed from that infamous day, and people who have lost loved ones are still trying to cope the best way they can, either by writing in a journal to a loved one or visiting a grave or dealing with the fact that there will be no call that some part of a missing family member was found. No matter what the scenario is, people are trying to deal with this event and will continue because it has nowhere to go. September 11, 2001 happened in our backyard; the reminders are so strong and are constantly around. I worked through the tragedy, and now that I am retired, the one thing that really still reminds me of that day and why things will never be the same is the "Fallen Skyline."

Growing up in Staten Island, I can clearly remember seeing the World Trade Center from my old house, 49 Livermore Avenue. My street was one block from the JC Penney shopping plaza, and I could see the top of both buildings from the front of my house. They would peak right over the roof of JC Penney's. The two Towers were always a sign of strength and power as I would look at them. Especially as a young boy, I took pride in telling people that I could see the "Twin Towers" from our block. On September 11, 2001, the New York City skyline changed dramatically, and the view from my block was never the same.

Both Towers were finally completed in 1975 after years of construction. What is now known as Battery Park City was built on the Landfill removed from the foundations of both Towers. The World Trade Center officially opened to the public on April 4, 1973. At the time, the two 110-story buildings became the world's tallest buildings.

What a lot of people don't know is the original construction project was proposed in 1946. Not until 1964 when then Governor Nelson Rockefeller looked at the model with the architect, Minoru Yamasaki, did the dream become a reality. Construction began in 1966, and the World Trade Center opened in 1973. It took roughly seven years to build and about eleven seconds to destroy.

I know that people in general endure and move on. I know that buildings will be rebuilt, and that is evident from the Freedom Tower, which is near completion and stands taller than the World Trade Center did. I wish those buildings were still there and no one had died and no one was sick, but that is not the reality of the situation. The reality is to deal with the tragedy and try to move on, for those families who lost loved ones and for all the first responders who gave so much of themselves. All must stay strong.
Epilogue

Staten Island Landfill, 2014

Almost thirteen years have passed since I was last at the Landfill. To be honest, I had a lot of anxiety about returning after all these years and all those memories. After many unsuccessful attempts at reaching out to various city officials and parks department employees, Maria and I headed out on our own to see the Staten Island Landfill. We were curious to see if there had been any changes or renovations made to "The Hill" since our time there so many years ago.

On our arrival, we were met with serious obstacles. Security at the Landfill is the tightest I had ever seen it. By memory and sheer instinct, I directed us to the entrance and exit from when I worked here. Our first stop was the auto pound. The Landfill, being as large as it is, 2,200 acres in all, was divided by the West Shore Expressway. There is a road used by only those working the Landfill that connects the two sides and travels under the Expressway, a road many don't realize exists.

As we approached the auto pound, despite the security guards who would let us in only so far, we were able to get a good glimpse at what it looks like now. We exited the vehicle, I took a deep breath, and I knew it was something I had to do, not just for the book, but for me. This book has forced me to remember so much about that time in my life, and as I approached the auto pound, it all just seemed surreal. I can't believe that so many years have passed.

The auto pound was gated, as I remembered, but this time it housed work trailers, not autos. We walked around, and I was hoping to see if there were any remnants of thirteen years ago, maybe a sign "WTC Auto Pound" or an auto or paperwork, but there was nothing. We walked for a good twenty minutes and then eventually returned to our car and proceeded to the next area.

We began to drive and search for the hill, the location where all the sifting took place, the bulk of the crime scene. There were many different entrances and exits to the Landfill. At this point, Maria and I were just trying to get as close a view as possible. We entered one area off the main service road and encountered tons of construction. We tried to get in closer.

We were stopped by a security guard who wouldn't let us any further. We were approximately a few hundred feet below the part of the hill where sifting took place. The security guard told us that no one is allowed beyond that point without proper credentials and that they are so strict about letting anyone near there, that a couple of weeks ago a family who lost someone in 9/11 with an employee from Homeland Security was turned away from going up there. He couldn't tell us why that group was turned away as well. We also asked him if he knew if a memorial had been set up or if there was going to be. He sadly shook his head and said that he knows that there isn't one there now and hasn't heard anything about there being one set up any time soon.

We left the security guard and tried another area where we had heard that new soccer fields had been built on the Landfill, which was part of the new renovation process for the new park that the NYC Parks Department is developing. This park should be, when it is completed, double the size of Central Park in New York City. As we drove around to all the different areas, we could see all the construction taking place to take this "dump" to transform it into a large park facility. Parts of the park will be done in phases, based on when a specific part of the Landfill had been capped and closed.

As we entered the entrance of Arthur Kill Road, we walked onto the soccer fields. It is a nice facility with turf and a track where people were running; however, Maria and I were both able to smell the distinct gas odor that surrounded us. From the soccer field, as we looked up, we could see the hill where sifting took place. We could see how vast it extended and how one part of it is still a mountain of dust and dirt and the other is all overgrown landscape.

We left the soccer field and tried one more entrance to get closer. We drove along a rocky road and continued to ascend, making our way up a makeshift path until we reached a point where we couldn't go any further. We exited the vehicle. I began to play tour guide, for my one customer, Maria. Just to see Maria's face, as I pointed and rambled on and on about where everything was and what took place at different locations, was worth the effort to get back to this location. I could tell by her expression that this has brought together everything I have told her since day one of our book project.

As we began our "tour," I walked with Maria and tried to explain as best as I could where each trailer or tent was, so she could envision "The City" as it was years ago. We spent about forty-five minutes there; the view was spectacular. As we walked back down to the car, I took one last look, remembering that small city that rose and accomplished so much. Now it is just flat ground, but to me it will always be much more. I can only hope that in the future, during all the renovating and developing, they provide a memorial for all those whose lives were lost.
Acknowledgments

Thank you to my wife, Laura, for always believing in me and for understanding that this book had to be written, not only to keep the memory of 9/11 alive, but to help me better understand that period in my life. To my sons Anthony, Dominic, and Frank, thank you for being my inspiration and my heroes. To my parents Anthony and Arlene Marra, thank you for always being supportive of my ideas. To my partner and dear friend Maria Abbate, thank you for helping me write my story and becoming one with these stories.

**—Frank Marra**

I am thankful for my wonderful family, my husband, Michael, and my three beautiful children, Alexa, Michael, and Delilah, for always supporting me in all my endeavors. A special thank you to Frank, who has been a great friend and partner as well as an inspiration for putting this book together. Through Frank, I was able to become a part of his experiences and learn so much more about a time period in our history that will live in infamy.

**—Maria Bellia Abbate**

We would extend a special thanks and acknowledgment to the following people: Brian Mignola, MD; Richard Levenson Jr., PsyD, CTS; Ernest Vallebuono; Michael Tegano; and Frank Tegano.
About the Authors

**Frank Marra** worked at the Staten Island Landfill World Trade Center Recovery Site from September 2001 until February 2002, an experience that served as inspiration for _From Landfill to Hallowed Ground: The Largest Crime Scene in America._ His law enforcement career included seventeen years with the New York Police Department and the rank of Detective and then Lieutenant. He was born in Staten Island, New York, and currently resides in Millstone, New Jersey, with his wife Laura and three sons, Anthony, Dominic, and Frank.

**Maria Bellia Abbate** , inspired by Frank's experiences at the Recovery Site, was eager to assist in helping to put all his stories and memories together to create _From Landfill to Hallowed Ground._ Currently she is a teacher in Staten Island. A native of Brooklyn, New York, Maria lives in Millstone, New Jersey, with her husband Michael and her three children, Alexa, Michael, and Delilah.

Photos

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