by Henry Hack
“Oh sure. My God, they probably thought I was a robber or something! Oh, officer, I’ll get out of here right away.”
“Good idea, Frank,” he said with a smile. “And go get a cup of coffee. Don’t drown your sorrows with booze while you still have to drive home.”
“Thanks for the advice, Officer,” I said.
“So long,” he said.
I did go for a big cup of coffee – after first relieving myself in the diner’s bathroom – and mulled over the situation as I drank it. I had to reformulate my plans. I would have to reason things out very carefully before I made my next move. And I would certainly have to move Gloria Arcuri to the bottom of my list right now.
It took me several days to finalize my plans and several more to move on to the next person on my list – Alicia Buonora of Ventura. Being confronted by that Santa Monica cop turned out to be a blessing in disguise; I would now choose the women to visit based on police jurisdiction. Never would I go back to the same jurisdiction until I had exhausted all the others first. I figured if a woman I visited decided to call the police to report “a strange young man asking if I was his mother,” that information would not be shared among police agencies. But three or four calls like that to the same agency would most likely generate an inquiry.
My final plan was really simple – knock on the door, smile and ask the question, “Hello, Mrs. Buonora, I’m Frankie Chandler. I’m looking for my long lost mother, and I was wondering if you could help me.”
I figured by using my name and stating the reason for my visit up front, I had a good chance of catching a guilty reaction from the woman if she were indeed my mother. In those cases of doubt I would ask to be invited inside, but would immediately leave if the woman denied knowledge and I didn’t recognize her at all. And I would have to prepare another scenario if a husband or other family member opened the door.
My ace in the hole was Mommy’s fingerprint card. One of the criminal justice courses I took as an elective was called criminalistics. It was fascinating and dealt with the collection and scientific analysis of physical evidence. One of the units dealt with was dactyloscopy – the science of fingerprint identification. I learned how to lift latent prints, roll human fingerprints with ink and how to determine if two fingerprints were a scientific match. I ordered a fingerprint kit from a mail order scientific supply house and read a couple of library books that dealt specifically with dactyloscopy. If a woman denied being my mother, but I was suspicious for any reason, I would ask to take her thumbprint and then compare it to the thumbprint on Angela Chandler’s card. And if the woman refused to allow me to print her? Well, that would be another bridge I would have to cross when it happened.
I was about to embark on my journey to Ventura, but was still at home rehearsing the plan one more time when the question of all questions rose to the forefront of my mind as it had many times in the past. And as I had done many times in the past, I repressed it, but at this time it just wouldn’t be suppressed. I knew I had to deal with it sooner or later, the question being – just what would I do if I found her? So I spent a half hour trying to answer it and the best I could do was, “The answer to that question depends on Mommy.” Her reaction, her body language, her words, and her explanation – everything depended on Mommy.
The words in her note when she abandoned me were still seared in my memory, especially the last two sentences: “Maybe we will see each other again and you will then understand why I did this. Until then, I love you. Mommy.” Since she had never found me – had she tried and failed? – her words seemed to imply that maybe she wanted me to find her. And at that time I would “understand” – she would explain it to me. And, she loved me.
And after she explained, then what? Do we live happily ever after or go our separate ways? The question of all questions multiplied and morphed into myriads more questions. But the answer for now was action, not thought. No more questions. Find her first. Then the questions will all finally be answered.
My simple plan had gone through many modifications and I think – I hoped – I now had a reasonable, believable approach for success. I had anticipated that Alicia, and any other woman I would visit, would have a husband and a family, so when a man opened the door to my knock at 371 Wilson Avenue, I was not surprised. It was 7:30 in the evening, a time I had chosen figuring that no one would observe me walking to the house from my car and that dinner would be over. “Can I help you?” the man asked.
“I hope so, Mr. Buonora,” I said with a smile. “Or rather I hope your wife can help me.”
“How so?” he asked.
“I’m trying to locate a person who may have some information about my family and my past. May I come in?”
Mr. Buonora looked me up and down. He saw a clean-shaven, well-dressed, smiling young man carrying an attaché case. “Sure,” he said.
He invited me to sit down in the den and called upstairs to his wife. “Alicia! Come down a minute!”
As I heard her steps on the staircase my heart rate increased and I felt a trickle of sweat run down my left armpit. I stood up as she entered the den and faced me, and I immediately knew this wasn’t Mommy, not even close. I stood up and smiled, “I’m Roger Madsen, Mrs. Buonora, and I’m looking for my sister. I was hoping you might help me.”
“I’ll try,” she said with a confused look on her face, “but I don’t know…”
“Let me explain,” I said. “My parents were killed in a car accident when I and my sister were very young. We were judged to be wards of the state, and I eventually went to a foster home. I assumed my sister had also.”
“How awful, Mr. Madsen,” Alicia said.
“Terrible,” Mr. Buonora said.
“When I turned eighteen, I tried to find her with no success. Then recently, with the help of a private investigator, I discovered that one of my mother’s sisters – my aunt – had adopted her from the state home. The problem is my mother had two sisters – Alicia and Sandra – and I don’t know which one adopted her. The private eye couldn’t find that out either. So, I’m on a search and my question is, Mrs. Buonora, are you my aunt Alicia Mercer and does my sister live here?”
“I’m sorry,” Alicia Buonora said, “but I have to answer no to both those questions.”
I sighed and said, “Unfortunately, I’ve heard the same answers before. Thank you for listening to me. I’ll be on my way now.”
“Mr. Madsen, how did you choose my wife as a possibility?”
“Based on her first name and her age.”
“Then you must have a lot of women to check.”
“Hundreds, Mr. Buonora, but I’m not ready to give up my search.”
“Have you placed an ad in the newspaper?” Alicia asked.
“Several dozen,” I responded. “No luck.”
“Well, maybe your luck will change,” Mr. Buonora said, shaking my hand as I prepared to leave.
“Thank you again for listening to me,” I said. “Good night.”
I took a deep breath of the cool March night air as I left the house. One down, thirty-one to go.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Although I was now heading for fifty I still yearned for a stable, happy relationship with a man – just like I had with Tom. But as a famous author once wrote – “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” and I sure had trouble finding another good one. And then, I thought, maybe I had my one good man and that would be that. So I stopped searching for a mate among the numerous businessmen who frequented Maxwell’s, and became content with my life as it was.
My solitary existence was conducive to introspection and I often thought of Frankie and Jim Chandler and if I could have done things differently. Could I have toughed it out longer? Would Jim have changed when he finally got his promotion? Was it necessary to abandon my stepson? Where was Frankie now? He would be in his twenties and I hoped he was having a decent life. Had he ever tried to find me? Did he care? Did he need money? I had plenty now. I could help him…
As I got to know Sal and our dating took a turn toward the serious side, I became troubled on occasion with something about him – his mannerisms or way of speaking – I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it. Finally, it hit me. He reminded me sometimes, not always, just sometimes, of my father. And my father had murdered my mother.
Not that Sal physically resembled my father; it was just his actions, his laugh which at times could be a cruel one. Dad had been short and squat with a heavy jaw that always seemed to need a shave and his straight black hair was thin and receding. Sal was tall and had elegant features with a prominent Roman nose and a head covered with wavy black hair. It wasn’t the differences that troubled me, it was the similarities, and I had to shortly make up my mind if this was a factor in our relationship because Sal had broached the idea of living together and then, in the near future, getting married.
Despite my misgivings I finally decided to take the plunge figuring life was passing me by and this might be my last chance at a happy marriage and a long relationship. Sal moved out of his apartment and moved into my house. He had been divorced for a few years and still paid child support for one of his two children. His ex-wife, Joanna, had gotten the house and three years alimony which had just been fulfilled. His first son, Michael, was in the Air Force and Louis, age sixteen, lived with Joanna.
Sal was open to me about his first marriage telling me that he and Joanna had just drifted apart after twenty-two years. Neither one had yet remarried although he heard she was seeing someone. “I hold no grudge,” he told me. “What’s past is past.”
So Sal and I set up house together and after a few months things were going along just fine between us. We made love regularly, went out to dinner or a show often and enjoyed each other’s company. Sal had a high paying position in the sales department of a major equipment manufacturer and told me if I wanted to quit my job at Maxwell’s, he wouldn’t object. He said, “That way you could be home at dinnertime all the time and be able to make your great Italian dinners for me more often.”
Something about the way he said that sent a slight chill through me, but he had been smiling, so I let it slip out of my mind and thought of it no more. A few weeks later Sal’s company, Manchester Machinery, held its annual Christmas holiday party at a local catering hall. It was top-shelf, with a prime rib dinner and dancing to a live orchestra, and Sal introduced me to many of his co-workers and their spouses. He would sometimes say, “This is my fiancée, Maria,” or, “This is Maria, my future wife.”
Then, as a couple neared us, Sal’s face darkened and he said, “Crap, here comes my ex-wife. What the hell is she doing here?”
Joanna was a very nice-looking woman with upswept blond hair and high cheekbones. She was wearing an expensive dress, expensive shoes and what appeared to be a very expensive multi-jeweled necklace and matching bracelet. She said, “Hello, Sal,” and her handsome escort said, “Hi, Sal. How are things going?”
The two men apparently knew each other and Sal replied, “Going okay, Matt. Oh, this is my fiancée, Maria.” After the introductions were made, Matt took Sal by the arm and said, “We need to talk a few minutes of business, ladies. Please excuse us.”
They walked toward the bar and I said, “Do they work together?”
“Yes,” she said. “Matt’s in manufacturing and I guess you know Sal is in sales.”
“Yes,” I said and shut my mouth not knowing what else to say.
“Awkward, isn’t it?” Joanna said with a smile. “The once and future Mrs. Salvatore Domenico squaring off with drinks in our hands as weapons.”
I smiled back and said, “Nothing we can do to change the past, though.”
“No,” she said and then turned to see where the two men were. She lowered her voice and said, “Has he hit you yet?”
“Wha-a-at? No, of course not!”
“Good,” she said. “Hopefully, he’s changed.”
“Sal hit you?” I whispered.
“Not at first, but as the years went by it began, and then increased rapidly. Basically, that’s why I asked for a divorce. I was afraid he might kill me.”
“Oh my God!” I said suddenly weak in the knees. I grabbed the edge of a nearby table for support. Joanna observed my reaction and said, “Maria, I didn’t mean to frighten you – and I’m not trying to screw up Sal’s relationship with you. It’s just that some women accept that treatment. I did for a long time.”
“When did he start?” I asked. “Was alcohol involved?”
“You have previous experiences in this area?”
“My father was very abusive to my mother,” I said. “I don’t want that to happen to me.” Of course I neglected to tell her that dear old dad killed mom and that I had killed my first husband to prevent a similar fate.
“Like I said before, hopefully he’s changed, since he obviously hasn’t struck you. But to answer your questions, he didn’t start to hit me until we were married a few years and yes, alcohol seemed to increase the frequency and intensity of his brutality.”
I decided right then and there that marriage to Sal Domenico was no longer a desired option. When the two men returned to us, Sal eyed me warily and I just smiled and took his arm. I said, “I hope business is over, gentlemen. After all this is a party. It was nice meeting you, Matt. You too, Joanna.”
As I tugged Sal away he said, “You’re right, let’s get another drink.”
If Sal had any suspicions about the conversation I just had with Joanna, I hoped I had put those suspicions to rest.
The next three months with Sal went along just fine. I was beginning to doubt Joanna’s tale of brutality, but then that night at the dinner table I saw the first sign of a different Sal – and it truly frightened me. It was a Monday, my day off from Maxwell’s, and I had prepared a sumptuous Italian meal for us. It was Sal’s favorite – baked lasagna with meatballs on the side – all of which he would smother in my red sauce. And this main dish was accompanied with a small green salad, garlic bread and a magnum of Chianti Classico wine.
When Sal came in the front door a huge smile lit up his face as the pungent aroma of the garlic reached him. “Ah,” he said. “Lasagna and meatballs?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said. “And it will be ready in five minutes.”
He took off his jacket and tie, grabbed a slice of garlic bread and poured the wine into our glasses. I served the meal and we both dug in. Halfway through dinner Sal said, “You know the highest compliment we old-school wops can pay to a woman’s cooking is, “Yo, Maria, it’s just like momma used to make.”
“And I qualify?” I asked.
“Most assuredly,” he said, “which makes me more certain – not that I ever had any doubts – that I want to marry you. So, when do we do it, Maria?”
He had caught me off guard and I stuttered a bit and said, “Uh, gee Sal, I don’t know.”
He obviously didn’t care for that answer and that dark visage came over him again, now the second time I had seen it. He took a large gulp of Chianti. I noticed the magnum was almost empty and I knew I had drunk only a glass and a half myself. He said, “Whaddya mean, you don’t know? Whatsa matter?”
“Uh, nothing, Sal, just that I hadn’t thought about a definite date, that’s all.”
“Well, start thinking about it,” he shouted. “Or did that bitch ex-wife of mine talk you out of it?”
He then leaped out of his chair and grabbed me around
my throat hard enough that I couldn’t speak. Still shouting he said, “She did, didn’t she, that lyin’ bitch Joanna?”
I was grasping at his hands and he finally relaxed his grip. I rubbed my neck and sobbed as he sat back down. “Well,” he said. “I asked you a fucking question.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I managed to whisper and the words hurt my throat as I spoke them. “Joanna said nothing to me about you.”
“Then forget about it. But you better start thinking about the date soon. Got it?”
“Sure, Sal,” I said able to speak a bit more normally now that the pain was subsiding. “Tomorrow we’ll check the calendar and definitely set the date.”
That seemed to calm him down and he began to wolf down more food. He finished the bottle of Chianti and staggered as he got up from the table. He leered at me and said, “Joanna! Fuckin’ bitch! I wish I knew the guy who’s been killing those broads. I’d give him that bitch’s address.”
What Sal was referring to was five murders that had been committed by an unknown person over the past several months. All the victims were middle-aged women, but none of the murders was near our neighborhood. They were scattered in various locations many miles away. The police had no reason to yet believe a serial killer was responsible. All the murders were committed by different methods – shooting, stabbing, choking, bludgeoning. But law enforcement’s resistance to the serial killer designation did nothing to calm the jitters and fears of Southern California women of a certain age, including me. Just last week, right after the most recent body had been discovered, Sal came home from work one day with a package. “I got a gun,” he said. “I’m worried about this maniac.”
“I guess my age does fit his victim’s profile,” I said.
“Yeah, and if he comes around here I’ll blow his brains out. And if I’m not home you’ll blow his brains out. Right?”
“I guess I could do it if I was scared enough,” I said.