by Henry Hack
A NOVEL BY
HENRY HACK
Copyright © by 2013 Henry Hack
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4912-3949-2
ISBN 13: 978-1-4912-3949-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63007-242-1
For the gang of kids on 134th Street from
the good old days of long ago.
Especially for Willy O’Kane and Alfred Kiider.
And most especially for Georgie Stewart.
Have we ever had as much fun, and enjoyed such
great friends, as we did when we were ten years
old, and the summer days had no end?
Also by Henry Hack
Danny Boyland Novels
Danny Boy (Salvo Press)
Cases Closed (Dog Ear Publishing)
Harry Cassidy Novels
Cassidy’s Corner (Salvo Press)
www.henryhack.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE: Frankie
CHAPTER TWO: Danny
CHAPTER THREE: Angela
CHAPTER FOUR: Danny
CHAPTER FIVE: Frankie
CHAPTER SIX: Danny
CHAPTER SEVEN: Ellen
CHAPTER EIGHT: Frankie
CHAPTER NINE: Angela
CHAPTER TEN: Frankie
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Frankie
CHAPTER TWELVE: Frankie
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Danny
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Danny
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Danny
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Frankie
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Angela
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Frankie
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Angela
CHAPTER TWENTY: Frankie
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Danny
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Frankie
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Danny
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Frankie
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Danny
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Ellen
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Danny
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Frankie
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Danny
CHAPTER THIRTY: Allison
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Danny
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
I still remember the night of the accident with absolute clarity although it happened over fourteen years ago. Accident was the official, final ruling of what had happened, but that night I suspected, and the police at the scene suspected, my mother had killed my father – bashed him on the back of his head with a granite doorstop and threw him down the basement stairs. Only nobody could ever prove it, and Mommy sure hadn’t confessed.
I remember all the people who showed up at our small house in Levittown, Long Island, on that chilly Wednesday night in October – the police, the doctor and the EMTs. And I most certainly remember the next few days – the wake, the funeral, the investigation, the empty glass and, of course, the note. The note written by Mommy, the words written on it seared into my brain, on the day she left me forever.
I was nine years old and sound asleep when I awoke to the sound of Mommy screaming. Terror flooded my body as I walked to the stairway and began to creep down the carpeted stairs as the awful shrieking continued. I peered around the banister post at the foot of the stairs and saw Mommy holding her head between her hands, crying, screaming and moaning as she looked down the basement stairwell. I rushed over to her and screamed, “Mommy! Mommy! What happened?”
She grabbed me tightly around the waist and said, “Oh, Frankie, Daddy fell down the stairs. I’m afraid he’s hurt bad. He doesn’t seem to be moving.”
I gasped for air and she released her grip on me. I said, “Was he hitting you again, Mommy?”
“No,” she said. “We were getting along fine tonight. He was going to get a bottle of wine from the basement and I was in the kitchen looking for the corkscrew when I heard him fall. It was an accident, Frankie. And when the police and others get here it won’t do any good for me – or you – to mention your father and I ever quarreled at all. No mention of yelling or hitting, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, “but why would the police come here?”
“I have to call an ambulance and the police have to come when there’s a serious accident. Now I have to go down and check your dad before I call. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Mommy, are you sure he wasn’t hurting you?”
“No, no, we were going to have a glass of wine and watch the late news before going up to bed. Let me go check him.”
I watched Mommy make her way down the thirteen wooden steps to where my Daddy lay sprawled on the cement floor. When she turned on the basement lights I could see a large puddle of blood under his head. He was not moving. Mommy looked up at me and said, “Oh, Frankie, it’s bad. I don’t think he’s breathing. I have to call the ambulance right away. She ran up the stairs and into the kitchen and grabbed the phone off its cradle. She dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator what happened. When she hung up she turned to me and said, “They’re sending the ambulance and the police. Remember what I told you before. No talk of arguing or hitting.”
“Yes, Mommy,” I said now figuring that maybe this was no accident, that maybe she pushed Daddy down those stairs. Not that I could blame her for that, I guess.
Mommy poured a glass of milk for me and we both sat at the kitchen table to wait. Two minutes later we heard the sound of sirens and a minute later they were there – a patrol car from the local precinct and an ambulance. Mommy met them at the front door and directed the officer and the two men from the ambulance to the basement stairs.
They were back in three minutes and asked us to come into the kitchen. The policeman said, “I’m afraid it’s bad news. Your husband is dead.”
“Oh, my God!” she screamed. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said one of the ambulance guys. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The policeman said, “I’m Officer Daniel Boyland and we have to leave things as they are until we photograph everything and process the scene. I’ll go out to my radio to make the notifications, and then I’ll come back to get some basic information.”
Mommy lowered her head onto her crossed arms on the kitchen table and began to sob. For the first time that night I began to cry. My father was dead and that fact began to sink in. Although he was very abusive to my mother he rarely hit me or even yelled at me. As I started to remember going to ballgames, the beach, the city and vacations, his loss hit me harder. I hoped Mommy was telling the truth. I hoped she didn’t kill him.
Officer Boyland returned and sat at the kitchen table between me and Mommy. He stroked her back and asked if she was all right. Mommy raised her head – her eyes were bloodshot – and she said, “Yes, but let me get a glass of water.”
She got the water and more milk for me and sat down again. “What do you need, Officer?” she asked.
“Just some preliminary information – the detectives will be here soon for more details.”
“Detectives?” I asked.
“Yes, son,” he said. “All sudden deaths, accidental or otherwise, must be investigated. Now, ma’am, what is your husband’s full name?”
“Jim...James R. Chandler. And this is our son, Frankie. My name is Angela.”
Officer Boyland smiled at me and said to Mommy, “Please briefly describe what happened to Jim tonight.”
Mommy told the officer the same story she had told me about the wine and hearing Daddy fall down the stairs.
“And what about you, Frankie?” he asked. “What can you tell me?”
“I woke up because I heard Mommy screaming. She told me Daddy fell down the stairs.”
Officer Boyland looked at me with squinted eyes. He sa
id, “Frankie, I know you are tired, but I’d like you to stay awake so you can talk to the detectives when they get here. Can you do that for me?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Good lad,” he said with a smile.
The officer got up from the table and went over to the men from the ambulance. When his back was turned, Mommy whispered, “Remember, say nothing of arguing.”
I nodded my head. The doorbell rang and Officer Boyland let in two more men. They were dressed in suits and ties.
Officer Boyland introduced Detectives Wallace Mason and Joseph Giano to Mommy and me. Mason was a big guy with a stern look on his face and seemed to be in charge. He said, “Let’s go have a look, Joe. Danny, you come down with us.”
The three policemen went downstairs and came back after about five minutes. Mason said, “After the medical examiner and crime scene photographers arrive and check out the scene we’ll be able to remove your husband’s body. He has to be autopsied tomorrow – all accidental deaths have to.”
“I understand,” Mommy said, while I was wondering what that word autopsied meant.
“You should be able to have the funeral parlor pick him up in the afternoon,” Detective Giano said with a sympathetic smile. “Now we know you already told Officer Boyland what happened, but please repeat it for us.”
Mommy told the detectives the same story she told me and the officer. When she finished Mason said, “Did he cry out before he fell? Or during his fall?”
“No,” Mommy said, “not a sound.”
“Did you hear anything, Frankie?” Giano asked.
“I heard my Mommy screaming. That’s what woke me up,” I said.
“Mrs. Chandler,” Mason said, “were you and your husband arguing prior to him heading for the basement?”
“No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
Mommy gave me a glance and the two detectives glanced at each other, too.
“I was just wondering if he approached the top of the stairs in anger.”
“No, he did not.”
“You never argued with your husband?” Giano asked.
“I didn’t say that. Of course we argued. I’m pretty sure all married couples occasionally argue.”
“I’m sure you are correct, Mrs. Chandler,” Mason said. “On those occasions when you did argue, did you two ever get physical?”
“No, only verbal,” Mommy said shooting me another look.
“What did you argue about?”
“Mostly about money – there never seemed to be enough. We rent this house and wanted a place of our own, but saving up enough for a down payment was difficult.”
“Do you both work?” Mason asked.
“Yes, Jim was a junior draftsman at Canfield Engineering in Manhattan. I work as a school aide in the early morning through the lunch hour at Maywood High School here in Levittown.”
There was a knock at the door and Officer Boyland let a man in who introduced himself as Doctor Woodson, a deputy medical examiner. He went down into the basement with Detective Mason. Just then two more men came in, “Crime scene guys,” Boyland said and they also went downstairs.
They were down there a long time and when they all came up Detective Mason said, “We’re just about done here, Mrs. Chandler. Let’s move to the den while they remove your husband’s body.”
The ambulance guys took Daddy away and the doctor and the crime scene guys left too. Detective Giano said, “All we need Mrs. Chandler is your written statement. We can do it now if you are up to it, or tomorrow afternoon in our office if you prefer.”
“I’d like to do it now,” she said. “Can I put Frankie to bed first?”
“Sure,” Giano said. He knelt down in front of me and said, “I’m very sorry about your Dad, Frankie. Try to be strong for your Mom. She’ll need you by her, especially the next few days.”
“I will,” I told him. “I love my Mommy.”
“While you’re putting Frankie to bed,” Boyland said, “is there anyone you’d like us to notify? Maybe someone to come over and stay with you awhile?”
“No,” Mommy said. “There are no nearby relatives, and we really don’t know the neighbors that well. Frankie and I will be fine.”
Mommy brought me up to bed and tucked me in. I fell asleep thinking about Daddy and the brand new bicycle he got me last Christmas. I hoped Mommy would be okay. I hoped she hadn’t pushed him down the stairs. I hoped she wouldn’t have to go to jail and leave me all alone.
CHAPTER TWO
I got the call to respond to 7721 Linden Street, Levittown for an aided case. The dispatcher said, “Possible serious physical injury. Ambulance is also responding.”
I logged the date and time of the call on my clipboard, switched on my roof-rack lights, hit the siren and sped to the house. I was there in a few minutes and the ambulance pulled up right behind me. I was met at the door by a nice-looking, but obviously distraught woman who identified herself as Angela Chandler. The not unpleasant odor of garlic, probably remaining from their dinner, reached my nose. I noticed a young boy seated at the kitchen table as Angela directed me and the AMT ambulance driver to the basement where she said her husband had fallen down the whole flight of stairs.
We examined the body and it didn’t take us long to determine that Mr. Chandler was dead, most likely from hitting his head on the hard cement floor. One of his legs was twisted behind him and appeared to be broken. We came upstairs to give Mrs. Chandler the grim news, and as I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed it – a large, highly-polished gray block of marble or granite that was being utilized as a doorstop to keep the basement door open. It was about four inches high, eight inches long and two inches thick – very similar to the dimensions of an ordinary brick – and it looked as if it weighed a few solid pounds. I resisted the urge to pick it up to examine it, but knew it would have to be checked out at a later time.
Angela Chandler seemed genuinely upset over the news of her husband’s death and the boy who she told us was her son Frankie, began to cry. But something was not quite right. Angela seemed disturbed when I told her detectives and crime scene personnel would have to show up and Frankie, well Frankie just seemed to parrot what “Mommy told me,” with little emotion. I kept thinking about that heavy block of granite.
After I made all the notifications on the radio, I called the detective squad on my cell phone and filled in Wally Mason, who was catching cases this tour, on the situation and my suspicions. When he pressed me for particulars I couldn’t give him any. “Okay, Danny,” he said. “We’ll kick it around afterwards. Me and Joe will be there soon.”
When Wally – whose size and gruff demeanor could be intimidating – and Joe Giano arrived, and we were safely in the basement and out of earshot, Wally said, “Well, my young rookie police officer have you thought of any particulars for your suspicions?”
“Yeah, Wally,” I said not upset over the rookie label for that was what I was after all. “Angela seems a bit defensive and Frankie is kinda…well, creepy.”
“Are those the elements of a crime heretofore unknown to me?” he asked with a serious look on his face.
I had to laugh and said, “No, but the heavy doorstop at the top of the stairs could be a murder weapon.”
“Well, Sherlock,” Giano said with a grin, “we will most certainly check that out very carefully.”
“Before we left the office,” Mason said, “we ran this address through the database. There are no reports of domestic disputes or violence here, nor have there ever been any occurrences or complaints that warranted a police response.”
“And,” Giano said, “neither Angela nor James Chandler have any arrests or priors or complaints against them – not even a traffic ticket.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t clock him with that brick though, does it?” I asked.
“No, it does not,” Mason said, “but let’s not form an opinion until Joe and I speak to the grieving widow, and until the medical examiner h
as his look-see, and until crime scene processes the area. Is that okay with you Detective, uh, I mean, Police Officer Boyland?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling pretty well shot down.
“Good, Danny Boy,” he said referring to the name conferred upon me practically the minute I entered the Police Academy almost a year ago. He smiled and there was no sarcasm in his voice when he said it. Wallace Mason was a damn good detective, albeit a tough, rough-around-the-edges one, and I’d best be served by just keeping my mouth shut and listening and observing him and Joe work. I vowed to do just that – that is after I couldn’t resist silently pointing out the doorstop to him as we reached the top of the stairs. Joe grinned and whispered, “The butler did it, in the study, with a brick.”
I listened carefully as Wally and Joe interviewed Angela and Frankie and I caught, on two occasions, Angela shoot a look at her son, a look that said, “Say nothing,” or “Back me up on this.” I knew that both detectives also noticed those glances. Maybe this rookie was onto something.
When the crime scene guys came, Wally Mason went with them toward the basement. I was certain he would now tell them to inspect a certain block of gray granite very carefully.
After Doc Woodson and the body and the crime scene techs left, Wally and Joe let Angela put Frankie to bed and then they took her statement. We all gave her our condolences once again and left her to her grief and loneliness. As we were walking to our cars Wally Mason turned to me and said, “Come back to the stationhouse and meet us in our office. Doc Woodson and the crime scene guys are en-route, too. We’re all going to have a little pow-wow on this caper.”
“Are you now thinking this was not an accident?” I asked.
“We’ll see, Sherlock,” Joe Giano said.
When we were all assembled in the detective’s squad room Wally Mason said, “Doc, could you give us your opinion on this? And then you can get out of here and back into bed.”
“It appeared to me that his death was caused by the fall – specifically the blow his head received when it hit the basement floor.”