Mommy, Mommy : A Danny Boyland Novel

by Henry Hack

  “I’ll put this in my night-table drawer and keep it loaded. It’s a .357 magnum revolver and very easy to work. Just point it at the middle of the bastard and pull the trigger. Can you do that?”

  “I’m sure I could,” I said.

  And now I was sure of a lot of things. I was sure that we would set a wedding date tomorrow. I was sure we would not get married on that date, or any other date. And I was sure I had to kill Sal Domenico – soon. As I had done to Jimmy Chandler, a preemptive strike seemed once again necessary. Had Tom O’Shea been the only decent man in this world?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Although my first encounter with Alicia Buonora seemingly went well, when I later reflected on my visit I realized a couple of problems had occurred. My prepared script for a family confrontation was not comprehensive enough – I had to wing it on a lot of their questions. I had given them too much information about my search even though it was for an imaginary sister. But the biggest fault was staying there for much too long a time – they could easily describe me to the police if that occasion ever arose.

  I wrote down a few alternate scenarios on paper eliminating these pitfalls and changing a few other things. When I finished there was one thing I hadn’t yet been able to adequately plan for. What if I encountered someone who I really thought could be my mother, but who denied it? I would take out my trusty fingerprint kit and ask her to provide a thumbprint. That was the plan. But what if she declined? How far could I force the issue?

  With my newly amended scenarios committed firmly to memory I resumed my search a few days later. The next two went well. Maxine Crisatta and Anna Caffero were home with their families and I was able to use an abbreviated version of the “missing sister” scenario with good success. And again, as was the case with Alicia Buonora, none of the woman struck me as possibly being Mommy. Although these visits were much shorter, the next one lasted much longer and happily also ended well.

  Mary Donato lived alone and had the strongest resemblance to Mommy thus far. I went right to the heart of the matter after she invited me in. “Mrs. Donato, the person I am looking for is my mother. I haven’t seen her in many years – since I was nine years old. Her name then was Angela Chandler, maiden name Capozzi.”

  I was watching her reactions as I put forth theses names, but she didn’t appear to be startled at all. I continued, “Mrs. Donato, are you my mother?”

  “Oh, my goodness, Mr. Wallace, I’m afraid not. Unfortunately, I never had any children. Oh, I know how you must feel. I’m so sorry.”

  I was pretty certain she was telling the truth and was not Mommy, but I wanted to see her reaction to the fingerprint request so I opened my attaché case and took out Angela’s picture and showed it to her. “Yes,” she said, “I do resemble her quite a bit.”

  Then I removed the fingerprint card and said, “Mrs. Donato, just to ease my mind and rule you out completely, would you let me compare your thumbprint to my mother’s?”

  She hesitated a bit then said, “Okay, I don’t see why not.” I took out the ink pad and carefully rolled her left thumb onto a white piece of cardboard. Although I was very nervous, the print came out fine. I took out a large magnifying glass and compared the two. These were huge differences in the whirls, loops and ridge endings. “Take a look,” I said. “I’m somewhat experienced in this area, but even a layman can see they don’t match at all.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I certainly see that. I’m sorry.”

  I smiled and said, “So am I. I don’t know how my mother turned out, but when I find her I hope she’s half as nice as you.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Wallace. Have you been searching long?”

  “No, just a few months, but I have a lot of women to go.”

  “Well, I hope you find her soon. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you after all these years. You’re such a nice young man.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be on my way now.”

  My next visit, a week later with Mrs. Joan Evacherria, did not go as smooth. She was not nearly as friendly as Mrs. Donato had been; in fact she was almost hostile to my plea. And when I asked if I could take her thumbprint she jumped out of her chair and said, “I will not! Are you some kind of pervert?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said, quickly packing up my stuff and closing my attaché case. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

  “Damn right you’ll leave,” she said as I ran for the door. I figured the faster I left the less chance that she would call the police, and even though I hadn’t gotten her print there was no doubt in my mind that this cantankerous woman was not my mother.

  This confrontation was the first glitch in my quest so far and I felt I had handled it as best as I could have. I was feeling pretty good and gaining confidence and had already eliminated several possibles. I figured that at the rate I was going – fitting the visits in between school and work – I would be able to complete the entire list of thirty-two in another three months. But on my very next visit things took a turn for the worse, a turn that would change my plans and drastically change me.

  Nancy Griselli opened the door and glared at me. She had a cigarette in one hand and a glass containing ice and a clear liquid in the other. And from the smell of her breath the liquid contained alcohol. I had trouble speaking because I was stunned by her resemblance to my mother; it could very well be her.

  ‘Well?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and her voice.

  “My name is Sam Edwards and I’m looking for my mother,” I said. “Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “That’s a good one,” she said with a mocking laugh. “Come on in handsome, and tell me your sad story.”

  I followed her inside. She swayed a little as she pointed out a sofa for me to sit on. “What’ll it be?” she asked as she began to walk away.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “A drink. What’ll you have to drink?”

  “Oh, I don’t need…”

  “I don’t trust a man who doesn’t drink, and if you want your answers…”

  “Vodka on the rocks,” I said.

  “Good boy,” she said making her way to the kitchen where I heard the clink of ice cubes and the sound of liquid gurgling out of a bottle.

  She returned and sat on the sofa next to me, handing me the glass. “So, tell me honey,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  I told her of my search and finished by showing her the picture of Angela. She took it, sucked down a swallow of her drink and studied it. She put her drink down and picked up her cigarette and took a deep drag on it. “I can see why you’re here,” she said. “It’s scary. We do look a lot alike.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not Mom…my mother?”

  “No way, Sammy.”

  “Would you mind if I fingerprinted you?” I asked.

  “What for?”

  “To make sure,” I said, taking out the fingerprint card.

  “No way,” she said. “I already told you I ain’t your mother. I don’t have any twenty-five year old kid.”

  “Then why would you object to the fingerprints?”

  “Tell you what, Sammy,” she said moving closer to me on the sofa and placing her hand high up on my thigh. “I like you and you’re a good looking guy. Make love to me, Sammy, and I’ll let you fingerprint me. I’ll let you do a lot of things.”

  “Mrs. Griselli,” I said pushing her away.

  “Call me Nancy,” she said, grabbing me again.

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why not? Ain’t I good looking enough? Am I too old for you?”

  “No, not at all. You’re a very attractive woman, but don’t you see…?”

  “See what?” she interrupted.

  “If we do…if we make love and then I fingerprint you and you turned out to really be my mother that would be awful. That would be incest.”

  “I told you I am not you mother!”

  I held out the ink pad and said, “Prove it.”
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  “Then we’ll make some hot love, Sammy boy?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  After examining the print and determining, with a deep inward sigh of relief, that Nancy Griselli was definitely not my mother, I packed up my things and said, “Well, I guess I’d better be on my way.”

  “Hey!” she shouted. “We got a deal! You ain’t going anywhere until after we spend some time in bed.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Deal’s off.”

  I headed for the front door and she jumped off the sofa and lurched after me. She grabbed my jacket and spun me around. I tried to push her away, but she held on with surprising strength. Finally, I was able to break her tenacious grip and I threw her forcefully backwards. She stumbled over an end table and, as if in slow motion, arms flailing, trying to maintain balance, she fell face first onto the brick ledge of the fireplace with a stomach turning splat.

  I rushed over to her still body and turned her over. Her forehead was split open like a ripe cantaloupe and blood and gray ooze slowly leaked out. Her glazed eyes were unmoving. I checked for her pulse and for a breath from her half-open mouth. They were not there. Nancy Griselli was dead.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! How’d this happen? Tears ran down my face and I began to panic. I swallowed the rest of my vodka and forced myself to calm down a bit. Think! It was an accident. I didn’t intend to kill anybody. But she was dead, and I was responsible. After all if I hadn’t shown up tonight she’d be alive, wouldn’t she?

  I wanted to bolt out the door, but calmed myself down and took stock of things. I brought my glass into the kitchen, washed it thoroughly in hot water and soap, dried it and returned it to its cabinet. I took the dish towel and wiped my prints from every surface I remembered touching. I checked my attaché case to make sure I had everything I came with and I was set to go. Using my handkerchief I prepared to turn the doorknob on the front door when it hit me. Her thumb!

  I rushed over to Nancy’s body and looked at her thumb. Sure enough it still had plenty of fingerprint ink on it. I opened my case and removed a can of solvent. Pouring some on my handkerchief I wiped away all traces of the ink. My God, she was turning cold already. Glancing around once more, certain that I had removed all traces of my presence, I left the house.

  The next day I bought the local papers and searched them thoroughly for any news about Mrs. Griselli. There was nothing there, and nothing on the TV news, either. The story appeared on the fourth day, on page twelve of the Times, along with a dozen other short articles considered to be of minimal interest. It was less than a hundred words and essentially said, “A neighbor found Nancy Griselli dead on the floor…medical examiner found a blood alcohol level of 0.18 percent…cause of death ruled an accidental fall from intoxication…”

  Although very much relieved, I was too shook up to continue my quest any time soon and focused my efforts on my upcoming final exams at school. When they were over I would decide what to do. Maybe I should just give this whole crazy search up, but I knew I couldn’t. If anything, my obsession in finding Mommy was digging deeper into my soul, and until I found out why she abandoned me it seemed I might never rest. But with the death of Nancy Griselli still in the forefront of my mind, I knew it would be a long time before I could work up the nerve to resume the search for my long lost mother.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sal and I set our wedding date for two months away and this seemed to mollify him, but my plans had been carefully thought out and the time was now. Being in sales Sal had to make occasional trips out of town and his next one was set for tomorrow. He was to fly to San Francisco for two days and be home late Friday night. After breakfast I helped him pack and told him I would drive him to the airport and go to work from there. He said, “No, I’ll leave my car in the parking lot. When I get home Friday night you’ll be working. And, by the way, after we’re married I want you to quit that place.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said.

  “Good, I want you home more for dinner.”

  He closed up his suitcase and turned to me. I was holding the Magnum. He was three feet away and the gun was steady in my hand and pointed right at the middle of his chest. He started to open his mouth and I pulled the trigger once. The noise of the gunshot was much louder than I expected and I watched Sal fall backward from the force of the large bullet. I stood next to him ready to shoot again, but I could tell by his eyes that he was already dead. I smiled ruefully thinking – one brick to the head, one shot to the body. I was getting good at this.

  I put a bathroom towel over the spreading bloodstain on Sal’s chest and dragged him out of the bedroom through the hallway and kitchen and into the garage where our cars sat side by side. I would have preferred to leave under the cover of darkness, but his flight was at three and the car had to be clocked into the lot well before that.

  Before I put him into the trunk I removed his wallet, pinky ring and watch. I put his suitcase and business briefcase on top of his body, opened them both and rifled through their contents spreading them around before closing the trunk lid. I went back inside where I put the bloody towel into the washing machine and turned it on.

  After parking his car at the airport, I walked out of the lot and took a bus halfway home and got off. Before the next bus arrived, I dropped Sal’s wallet, minus the cash, down a storm drain. Then I walked around the corner, and again certain no one was watching me, threw his ring and wrist watch down another drain.

  Of course, Sal didn’t come home as planned on Friday night, but I waited until I awoke Saturday morning to call the police. At first they were reluctant to get involved, telling me that he probably stayed there some extra time, but I insisted saying, “He would have called me. He always does if his schedule changes.”

  I guess the concern in my voice convinced them, because an officer responded to my home and took down all the details of Sal’s car and itinerary and asked for a photo. I acted distraught during the whole time, and I knew they bought the worried bride-to-be routine hook, line and sinker. I guess that should have been expected – after all I had previous practice.

  The same officer came back later with the gruesome news that he had found Sal’s car and his dead body. He told me it appeared as if Sal was a victim of a robbery. Again, I acted devastated by the news – the worried fiancée, uncontrollably weeping. They classified the case as a robbery/homicide, perpetrator unknown. I waited a month and decided it was time to leave sunny California.

  Nothing really good had happened during my years there, except my brief marriage to Tom O’Shea. Although I was now financially secure, that one good thing had ended in tragedy. And there was one other troubling situation that made me flee – that killer was still on the loose. Although so far the police authorities had still not classified the murders as the work of a serial killer, it was obvious that he was only targeting middle-aged women, all of Italian descent, in a random manner throughout southern California. What was really creepy – scary actually – was that some of these women strongly resembled one another, and strongly resembled me. Some of the newspaper’s editorials were calling for all the police jurisdictions involved to get their act together to form a Task Force, and/or involve the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit without further delay. I, for one, was leaving without further delay before I became victim number ten or eleven, or whatever this psycho was up to.

  I sold my house and most of my belongings, settled up all my bills and credit cards, got into my two-year old Mercedes Benz and pointed its nose due east. Cruising along quietly on Interstate 10, my .357 Magnum tucked in my handbag on the seat next to me, I pondered my destination and my future life. I was fleeing a possible serial killer, but wasn’t I also one? How many does it take before the police definitely classify you as one? Only two, like me? Or a half dozen? Or was it a person’s future intent, to keep killing until finally stopped? If so, I was certainly not a serial killer for I had no desire, or intent, to ever kill anyone else in my lifetime.

/>   Imperceptibly my Benz steered me northeast and I realized where I was headed by the time I was on Interstate 85 approaching Richmond. I was going home to Long Island, the only place I could feel comfortable. The police were no longer interested in Angela Chandler much less a woman named Maria Theresa Ferraro.

  When I arrived one sunny afternoon I checked into the hotel next to the Nassau Coliseum where Jim and I had occasionally gone to a New York Islanders hockey game. I registered for five days and the next morning I began my search for an apartment. On the third day of my search the real estate agent took me to a second-floor, one-bedroom apartment in Farmingdale. Being new to the area, I had to pay the security deposit and the first two month’s rent with postal money orders.

  After I moved in and established myself at a local bank, I began the process of becoming a New Yorker once again. I applied for a New York driver’s license and New York plates for my Benz. I booted up my laptop and changed the address for my credit cards and other online accounts. I checked my mutual funds at Vanguard investments that Tom’s accountant had help me set up after my husband’s death, and they were doing well. I was drawing enough money to cover my rent and other bills, and was hardly touching the principal. But I couldn’t just sit here at the age of forty-nine and do nothing, so I decided to hunt for a waitress job.

  “You’re kidding!” exclaimed John Tomasso, the maître d’ of the Wolf’s Lair Restaurant when I inquired about employment.

  “Pardon me?” I said. “Why would you think I would be kidding you?”

  “Because one of my top waitresses gave me notice – very short notice – not five minutes ago.”

  “Then when can I start?”

  “If you’re qualified, this weekend.”

  I told Mr. Tomasso of my experience at Maxwell’s and offered to call to get a written reference. He said, “That won’t be necessary. This place is very similar to your description of Maxwell’s. Come Friday night, I’ll quickly know if you can handle it.”