As part of his “Beyond Lost Laurel” series, Rich has written about the tragic murder of 13-year-old Audrey Blaisdell, who disappeared while at the bowling alley with her parents in 1973. Check it out here.
Rich has written about a fascinating, tragic story from 1978, when Maryland City was literally rocked by an explosion in the wee hours of February 1st. The mystery deepened when firefighters discovered the home’s occupant dead in the front yard—of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. What happened at 355 Cokeland South that morning, that led to it being an empty lot for more than half a decade?
Laurel real estate agents may periodically stumble across what appears to be a typo on the books in the sprawling neighborhood of Maryland City, just off Route 198. In the sea of single family houses built in the early 1960s, there’s one on Cokeland South that stands out on paper, if not in person. As the home’s Zillow.com profile indicates, “355 Cokeland S, Laurel, MD is a single family home that contains 1,120 sq ft and was built in 1984.”
The houses directly beside it were built in 1963. In fact, all of the other houses on Cokeland South and the surrounding streets were built in 1963. So that has to be a mistake, right?
Not according to those who lived in the neighborhood in the late 1970s and early 80s—particularly the kids who enjoyed playing on what they called, simply, “The Empty Lot”. And aerial photos from 1980 do indeed show an empty lot on the site:
However, aerial photos from 1964 clearly reveal a house there at that time:
So what happened here? It’s certainly not unusual for homeowners to completely rebuild—whether it’s the result of a devastating fire, flood, or other natural disaster. Or, simply by aesthetic choice—sometimes, people decide to make significant changes to their property that requires tearing it down and rebuilding something new.
But why would the house at 355 Cokeland South disappear, and its lot sit completely vacant for several years?
This past December, I received an email from Lost Laurel follower Werter Arrington. He knew the basic answer to this question; because as a child, his family lived directly across the street at 350 Cokeland South. And in the early morning hours of February 1, 1978, he witnessed the aftermath of a violent explosion that destroyed his neighbors’ home.
But this wasn’t a horrific accident or freak occurrence, as Maryland City firefighters and Anne Arundel County Police first responders soon determined. The occupant of the house, Frank Stanley Kotra, was found dead in the front yard—of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Werter remembered his parents trying to lend aid—covering the man in a blanket and talking to him until help arrived, knowing that it was likely far too late. It was. Firefighters converging on the blaze had quite a task on their hands that morning: multiple 55-gallon drums of cleaning supplies had become involved in the fire that originated in the basement, prohibiting them from making any attempt to attack the fire from inside—or what was left of the inside.
And in what must have been a particularly macabre scene, firefighters realized they had inadvertently been kneeling on the victim’s body while operating a hose line at the front of the house. By that point, Kotra’s body had become partially covered by debris; and worse, his face and head had become frozen to the ground.
“He was frozen to the sidewalk and had to be chipped from the ice before they could remove his body.” —Maryland City Fireman Dave Smallwood
Maryland State Police reported that the cause of the fire was “ignition of a flammable liquid, possibly gasoline,” and the State Medical Examiner officially ruled the death of the 48-year-old retired military man a suicide.
There’s no way of knowing exactly what transpired at 355 Cokeland South that morning, but it stemmed from a domestic incident. Most theories have Kotra’s wife, Hannelore, planning to leave the marriage and take their children—leaving Frank despondent. Some suggest that he intended to kill everyone in the home. (Firefighters reported that he had blocked egress with furniture). But others claim that the family was safely away with relatives, and that Kotra himself had even made arrangements for his children to spend the night with a neighbor. At any rate, a distraught Frank Kotra was fortunately home alone at 4:45 AM on February 1, 1978, when he decided to set a fire in his basement—likely knowing that it would trigger a massive explosion—and then walk to the front yard, put a gun to his head, and pull the trigger.
Frank Stanley Kotra was born on February 14, 1929 in Tarnow, Poland to Karol Kotra and Stefania Siedlik.
In 1955, he became an American citizen residing in Chicago; and the following year, he married Hannelore in Manheim, Germany. The U.S. Army Staff Sergeant and his wife spent time in Fort Smith, Arkansas before moving to Maryland City.
After retiring from the Army, Kotra sold Amway products—which might explain the unusually large volume of cleaning products in his basement, further fueling the fire.
Kotra was just two weeks shy of his 49th birthday when he took his life, and was buried at Arlington National Cemetery on February 3rd. His headstone revealed another intriguing fact about his short, troubled life—he’d served in both the Korean and Vietnam wars.
Little was known about post-traumatic stress disorder during Frank Kotra’s lifetime. In fact, the term “PTSD” didn’t first appear in the psychiatric lexicon until 1980. Could that have potentially played some role in this tragedy?
The house sitting at 355 Cokeland South today was indeed newly built in 1984, and bears no scars from February 1, 1978. Nor would you guess that the site had been an empty lot for more than half a decade after an explosion rocked the community. It looks very much like the other houses on the street and surrounding blocks throughout Maryland City—peaceful. Let’s hope that Frank Kotra found peace, and that his family, friends, and neighbors who lived through this event nearly 40 years ago have found peace, as well.
There are a number of good people both working at and frequenting the Tastee Diner who make it the special place that it is. But for us, the first was a waitress named Windy Floyd.
Over the past 3 years or so, Kevin, Pete, and I have had the pleasure of becoming “regulars” at Laurel’s legendary Tastee Diner. To say that there’s no other place quite like the Diner would be a tremendous understatement; its historic ambiance alone just genuinely inspires us as we compare notes and go about uncovering new stories from Laurel’s past. I could sit for hours at Starbucks and not come up with a single idea; but give me ten minutes with a cup of coffee at the Diner and the wheels already start to turn. And it all began by sitting at a table in Windy’s section.
This being its 40th anniversary under the Tastee Diner banner, we’re in the process of putting together a very interesting history of the three diner cars that have occupied the site at 118 Washington Boulevard since the early 1930s, originally started by Walter Susini.
But sometimes real life has a way of interfering with things. This past Saturday—at the Diner, of course—reminded us of that.
Windy didn’t seem to be working her regular shift. Another long-time waitress, Melissa, came over to help us instead. But rather than take our order, Melissa began with an unusual question:
“Have you all heard from Windy?”
She went on to reveal that the Diner hadn’t heard from her since Tuesday—that she’d missed her Friday shift without calling in, and was scheduled to work that day (Saturday) as well… but still hadn’t called in.
Calls to Windy’s cellphone went straight to voicemail, she said. Even more worrisome, a visit to her house in Jessup yielded no response, although “all the cars are there,” according to Melissa. “The dog isn’t even barking.” that didn’t sound good at all. We lost our appetites.
We left the Diner that afternoon while Anne Arundel County Police were doing a welfare check at Windy’s house, prompted by a call from Diner staff. There was a brief bit of hope that she may have traveled to visit her family in Tennessee—that, perhaps, something had happened that caused her to leave unexpectedly. But even still, by all accounts, Windy would’ve made time to call the Diner to let them know.
A few hours later, we learned the devastating news. Windy was dead. She’d been shot—apparently while she slept—by the man with whom she lived. He’d then turned the gun on himself, taking his own life.
Apparently, there was a history of domestic strife that wasn’t reported to police—problems that had increased in severity in recent weeks, according to investigators. Windy, unfortunately, never let on that anything was wrong. She was only 49 years old.
* * *
The Diner was literally a brighter place with Windy working there. Her smile and laughter were immediately welcoming, whether you were a regular or not. Getting to know her over these past few years has been a pleasure—sitting in Windy’s section was truly part of our routine. We looked forward to seeing her. She’d actually save “our table” if she knew we were coming in when there was a crowd. And she genuinely took an interest in the research we do, often stopping to sit with us for a few moments to get a look at some vintage photos Pete had found, or at Kevin’s most recent Laurel Leader article.
She was one of the first people to receive a Lost Laurel book from me, and could always count on Pete to bring her back a t-shirt from a concert at Atlantic City. She was proud of her Laurel History Boys swag, too: t-shirts and stickers courtesy of Kevin—who enjoyed asking her for a menu every single week, despite ordering the same thing time and again. “I already know what you’re gonna get, so don’t even ask for that menu,” she’d playfully chide.
Kevin, Pete, and I always took turns paying the tab, and even though we’d often forget who got the last one, Windy never did. If I reached for the check, she’d put it in front of Pete instead. “No, Rich, you got it last time. Let him pay!”
This has been a sad, surreal week. And it will undoubtedly be sad and surreal at the Diner for quite some time. But Windy wouldn’t want that, I’m sure. She was excited about the prospect of this 40th Anniversary of the Tastee Diner that we were just discussing last weekend, and would’ve loved to see how it shapes up. Whether you’re a Diner regular, or even if you haven’t been in years, stop by one day soon and let the staff know that you’re thinking of them. If it feels like we’ve lost a family member, we can only imagine how tough this must be for Windy’s co-workers. Jeff, Joy, Melissa, Patty, Emily, Kevin, Gene, and everyone in the Tastee Diner family—you’re in our thoughts and have our sincerest condolences.
Rich has posted a story about what might be the unluckiest street corner in Laurel—the bizarre and tragic history of Sixth & Main Streets.
In the span of less than 15 years, it saw two fatal trolley accidents, the suicide of a well-known jockey, and had a connection to a horrific triple-murder. All this, and even stranger coincidences…
You can read all about it on Rich’s page.