by Henry Hack
“Could Chandler have been hit in the head by a heavy object causing him to fall down the stairs?” Mason asked.
Woodson raised his eyebrows in surprise and said, “You think this was not an accident?”
“We don’t know,” Giano said.
“Got a possible weapon?”
“Maybe. A heavy granite doorstop. And maybe Bob Stans from crime scene here can tell us what he thinks.”
Stans put on a pair of glasses and looked at his notes. He said, “I examined the doorstop using binocular magnifying glasses. It has a very smooth polished surface and I was unable to detect any bloodstains, or hair or fibers, or any other material on it.”
“How about fingerprints?” Giano asked. “Should be a good surface for them.”
“Good surface, indeed, but not even a smudge. Sorry, guys, but if you think she crowned him with that block, I couldn’t find any evidence of it.”
I was sorely disappointed by Officer Stans’s findings, but bit my lip and said nothing. Wally must have read my mind because he asked Stans exactly the question I had wanted to burst out with.
“Bob, could any evidence on that block be easily washed off?”
“Very easily. The only thing I can suggest is to retrieve it and submit it to the Lab, but I doubt if they could find anything either.”
The doctor got up to leave and said, “Maybe I can find something at the post-mortem in the morning. Anyone want to join me? Company is always appreciated at the morgue.”
“I’ll be there,” Mason said. “Nine o’clock?”
“Nine-thirty,” Woodson said. “See you then. Goodnight all.”
“Uh, Doc,” I said. “Would it be okay if I observed, too? I’ve not seen a complete autopsy yet.”
“Sure,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be glad to further your forensic education.”
“Danny,” Giano said, “I don’t know if your boss will approve overtime for that.”
“No problem. I’ll be there on my own time, in civvies,” I said.
“I see, Danny Boy,” Mason said, “that you are all juiced up over this caper. I’m starting to get that way, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, there was something going on between Angela and Frankie all right. Something stinks here.”
I was relieved to hear that from Mason and we broke up with a lot of suspicions and questions that might, with any luck, be answered in the morning.
My first autopsy was not a pleasant experience – neither was my fiftieth one many years later – but, despite the sights, sounds and smells, I got through it with nothing more than wobbly knees. When the gruesome task was over and the morgue attendant was sewing up the corpse of James Chandler, Doc Woodson said, “Well, that does it. One wound to the head and a broken left femur.”
“Nothing suspicious at all?” Wally asked.
“Nothing to prove that it didn’t happen the way the wife said it happened.”
“Only one wound on the head,” I said. “Maybe she didn’t hit him with that doorstop. Maybe she just pushed him down the stairs. Or he could have hit his head on the same place that she hit him with the block.”
“Or maybe she poisoned him,” Mason said, and he wasn’t smiling at all.
“I’ll let you know the results of the toxicology reports as soon as they are complete,” Woodson said, “but I didn’t see any evidence of poisoning in his organs.”
“Okay, I know when I’m beat, Doc. I’ll close this out as accidental pending tox results. But I’m still suspicious about this. How about you, Danny?”
“Still suspicious, too.”
“Suspicions are not proof gentlemen,” Woodson said. “Be happy it’s an accident – a lot less paperwork. I’ll have my secretary call Mrs. Chandler so that she can have the funeral parlor come get the body.”
We left the morgue without a word, Wally heading toward his unmarked squad car and I for my private vehicle. We went our different ways, but I knew our thoughts about Angela Chandler were not different at all.
The tox report came back negative and Wally Mason officially closed the case as “Death-Accidental.” He had conferred with the Homicide Squad and they agreed with his conclusion and left the case with the Nine-Eight squad. If it was not a whodunit, they were not interested.
Jimmy Chandler’s wake and funeral were sparsely attended – Wally had made an appearance at both – and things went back to normal for Angela and Frankie. Normal lasted only a brief few days though, as I found out on the following Tuesday when I was patrolling on a day tour. The radio dispatcher said, “Car 9806, respond to 7721 Linden Street, Levittown – unknown trouble.”
The Chandler’s house! What could have happened now? I punched the accelerator and was there in four minutes. Everything looked normal, from the neatly-trimmed lawn to the closed front door, as I pulled to the curb and jumped out of the car. I knocked on the door, and as if he had been waiting on the other side, Frankie Chandler opened it and looked up at me with what I could only describe as a look of utter despair. His eyes were wide-open but there was no life in them. I said, “Frankie, what’s the matter?”
He sniffed and blinked his eyes, obviously on the verge of tears. He took my hand and silently led me into the kitchen. He pointed to the table. I saw only an empty glass, but as I got closer I saw a piece of paper with writing on it. When Frankie broke his silence he startled me. “It’s from my Mommy,” he said. “She’s gone.”
My fingers trembled as I picked up the note. I read,
Dear Frankie,
I’m sorry but I had to leave. Call the police at 9-1-1. They will know what to do. Maybe someday we will see each other again and then you will understand why I did this. Until then, I love you. Mommy
That heartless bitch! Now I knew she murdered her husband. And now to abandon her only child! I hadn’t been on the Force for long, but I was certain it would be a long time before I came across another cruel, cold-blooded act such as Angela had just committed. I put down the note and said, “Was this all she left?”
Frankie nodded yes. I looked at the empty glass and said, “Sit down, Frankie. I’ll get you some milk. Then I have to call Detective Mason to come over. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
I paced around the house while waiting for Wally to arrive, my attention focusing on the shiny granite doorstop which now sat adjacent to the wall next to the closed basement door. I was sure I would have no trouble convincing Wally to take it with us this time when we left.
He arrived in ten minutes and I pointed out the note to him. He said, “What time did you get home from school, Frankie?”
“Same as always, around three.”
“And mommy wasn’t here?”
“No. I called for her…uh, I yelled, ‘Mommy, I’m home’, but she didn’t answer. I went into the kitchen. Mommy always has a glass of milk and cookies for me, but they weren’t there. Uh, the glass was, but it was empty. And then I saw the note under it.”
“Did you check around the house to look for her?”
“No, I just did what the note said. I called 9-1-1 and waited. Officer Boyland got here right away.”
“Can you show us mommy’s bedroom?”
“Sure, it’s upstairs.”
We followed Frankie upstairs and Wally looked at me shaking his head and mouthing the word, “Unbelievable!”
A quick check of the room determined that most all of Angela’s clothes and personal effects were gone. Jimmy Chandler’s suits and jackets and slacks remained neatly arrayed on one side of the large closet.
“Frankie,” Mason said, “what kind of car does mommy have?”
“It’s a green Chevy, but it wasn’t in the driveway when I got home.”
We went back downstairs and Wally picked up the phone and called Central Detectives. “I want a crime scene team at this address. And give me a DMV check on any vehicles owned by a James or Angela Chandler also at this address.”
Central came back with a
1986 Chevrolet, dark green, four-door sedan registered to James Chandler. Plate number was FSV-7624.
“Thanks, Wally said. “I want you to put out a multi-state alarm for that vehicle and its driver – Angela Chandler, age 31, five-foot five-inches, a hundred fifteen pounds, dark brown hair and eyes. Wanted for murder and child abandonment.”
I knew, and I knew that Wally knew, the murder charge was really pushing it, but that charge would certainly get every cop’s attention from Maine to Florida.
“Frankie,” Wally said, “do you have any relatives, uh…aunts or uncles that I can call to come over to be with you?”
He shook his head no.
“How about grandparents?”
Again, a shake no.
“Did mommy have an address book with telephone numbers of her friends?” Wally asked.
Frankie walked over to the kitchen counter by the wall telephone and looked it over. “It’s a red book. It usually was on the counter, but I don’t see it now.”
I noticed a name and number on a piece of paper stuck on the side of the refrigerator with a magnet. Frankie, do you know who Mrs. Mary Bennett is?”
“She’s the landlady.”
“Frankie,” Wally said, “would you mind going into the den and watching TV for a while? I have to discuss some things with Officer Boyland.”
“Okay,” he said and shuffled away.
Wally was livid. “That poor kid. A week ago he was part of a family and now he’s an orphan. That rotten murdering bitch. I guess we have no choice but to get Child Protective Services over here right away.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “That system sucks. If Angela isn’t found, Frankie’s future will not be a happy one.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience, Danny Boy.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “A story for another time.”
“I see Crime Scene pulling up,” Wally said, “and I’ll tell you this – that fucking doorstop will leave with them this time.”
CHAPTER THREE
It was well past two in the morning when the detectives finally left, and I felt I had toughed it out pretty well despite their questions about the arguments that Jim and I had, or didn’t have, engaged in during our marriage. I was sure I had convinced them Jim’s death was caused by what I had claimed – an accidental fall – and that they left seemingly satisfied with that scenario.
I went upstairs to check on Frankie. He was sound asleep. I went back downstairs and over to the basement stairwell, flicked on the light and went down. I stepped over to the congealing puddle of blood, now giving off a coppery odor, and walked over to the small twelve-bottle wooden wine rack. I selected a bottle of Shiraz and took it upstairs to the kitchen. As I extracted the cork I wondered if this bottle would have been the one Jim was going to choose had he gotten this far, that is if I hadn’t crushed his head in with the doorstop and pushed him down the stairs.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of garlic, tomato sauce and the veal that we had for dinner. Veal parmigiana, a rare treat due to the cost of the meat, was Jim’s favorite meal, and since it would be his last, why not go for it? I poured a full glass of the dark, red wine and raised it out and up to toast my dear, late husband. “Here’s to you, you bastard,” I whispered. “May you rot in hell.” I took a long swallow of the wine and sat down to think things out. Right now, it appeared I had gotten away with it. I didn’t know if any of the cops made a connection between the doorstop and its possible employment as a murder weapon, but even if they did I was certain that I had cleaned it very thoroughly. But to be sure, I would do that once more.
I went over to the basement door and brought the heavy block back to the kitchen and placed it in the sink turning the hot water on to flow over it. I scrubbed all its surfaces for a good five minutes using dish detergent and bleach, then rinsed it thoroughly and dried it. After inspecting it I put it back in its place. I was bone-weary tired, and knew I should clean up Jim’s blood before it dried. But then, I realized, it really didn’t matter. My plans did not include the condition of this basement anymore.
I slept until eleven the next morning and when I got up and looked in on Frankie he was still sleeping on his back. As I looked at the poor kid a picture of Jim came to me; they looked so much alike – a spittin’ image as the old cliché goes. I hoped that good looks were all he shared with my late husband. I hoped he wouldn’t grow up mean and nasty – a wife beater like Jim, and my father. And I hoped that he would earn enough money to buy his wife a house instead of renting the cheapest place in the neighborhood. I wished this all for Frankie because I knew I’d never be around to find out.
Drinking my second cup of coffee I reflected on last night’s events. Had I covered all my bases? Had I slipped up somewhere? Would they find anything after the autopsy? I glanced up at the wall clock and realized it was probably over by now. Had all my careful planning before the murder – a preemptive strike I knew I had to make – have a flaw in it? I didn’t think so. And I didn’t doubt the fact – then or now – that I had to kill Jim. The verbal abuse had escalated to physical abuse and I knew where that would lead – to my death. Just as my father had finally killed my mother. Way back then I had vowed to never let what happened to her happen to me. I would not endure what she endured all those long suffering years, and I hadn’t. I began to re-hash last night once more when Frankie walked into the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. I got up and hugged him and said, “You slept a long time. That was good.”
“I’m hungry,” he said.
I fixed him some scrambled eggs and toast and a big glass of orange juice and he wolfed it down and went into the den to watch TV. I didn’t press him to talk about his father and I was happy he didn’t bring it up either. I poured a final half-cup of coffee and got back to recalling last night’s chain of events. I needed to go through them one more time just to be sure that I hadn’t made a mistake.
I had put Frankie to bed after dinner, came back downstairs and suggested to Jim that he get a bottle of wine to “celebrate.” We had had only a small glass with dinner from a three-day old bottle that had a third left in it. He had come home from work that day and informed me he had gotten a good review, but only a small bump in salary. Big deal, a ten dollar raise! But he was in a good mood and insisted he was next in line for a promotion to journeyman draftsman probably within a year. I had smiled and said, “That’s great news, Jim,” while thinking that the cheap outfit he worked for would give him another big ten bucks a week for it.
I followed Jim to the basement door. He opened it and placed the granite doorstop in front of it to hold it open and started down the stairs. I picked up the block with both hands not deterred by its bulk or weight – I had practiced with it – and hit him hard on the back of his head. He said, “Oh,” and fell to his side on the handrail. I pulled him upright and shoved him down the stairs. I picked up the doorstop once more and went down to make sure he was dead. If not, I would have hit him again to finish the job. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do that. He was definitely not breathing.
I came back upstairs, washed and dried the doorstop and placed it back in front of the basement door. I rubbed some table salt into my eyes and began screaming until Frankie awoke and came downstairs. Then I checked Jim out and called the police. I had already gone over that part of the evening many times. Yes, I believe I had it wrapped up neat and clean. The next few days would tell, but I vowed to keep my composure through them all. Then I would be home free – finally.
The phone rang and my bravado evaporated. I picked it up and answered. A female voice said, “Hello, Mrs. Chandler? This is Elle Masters, the medical examiner’s assistant. You can call your funeral director now and tell him it’s okay to pick up your husband’s body.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll make that call now.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and hung up the phone.
Hardly anyone showed up for Jimmy’s wake and funeral. I was an only child
and my father was in jail serving twenty-five years to life for murdering my mother. Had they both been able, however, they probably wouldn’t have come anyway. But then they would have been happy to see him dead, so it would have been a tossup. They had been vehemently opposed to our marriage. Unless Jimmy found a way to miraculously change into an Italian Roman Catholic he would never be accepted into the Capozzi clan. And when our marriage took place in a Lutheran church, I was as good as dead in their eyes.
Jimmy’s parents were not much better than mine and they didn’t show up either. Wealthy world travelers they had disinherited their only son when he chose to marry a “low-class Wop” from a poor family. We had not heard from them – not even a card – in over four years, and my attempts to reach them about their son’s death were in vain. They were probably off to Paris or Vienna, or who knows where again, and the messages I left on their machine at their home in Colorado were not returned.
Only a few friends from Jim’s office and my school came to pay their respects at the one-day viewing and funeral service and he was put in the ground on Saturday, October 15. I sent Frankie back to school on Monday and took two bereavement days off from work. They were very understanding and encouraged me to take the whole week off. Little did they know I would never be back.
I drove to the bank and withdrew all the money from our checking and savings accounts – a whopping $2,700 – and filled up the gas tank on the way home. When Frankie came home that afternoon I gave him his usual glass of milk and plate of cookies. He took a swallow of his milk and said, “What will we do now, Mommy?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It will take awhile to figure things out.”
“I miss Daddy,” he said.
I smiled and said, “So do I, Frankie.” It was a lie, of course, but the poor kid was only nine years old and had been in a fairly good relationship with his father. At least Jim hadn’t gotten around to beating him yet. What I didn’t tell Frankie was that I had already figured out what we would do – or at least what I would do. Frankie would be left on his own. I felt a little guilt over that. He wasn’t a bad kid, but after all he wasn’t even my own child, which made even that little bit of guilt fade into the background.