Mommy, Mommy : A Danny Boyland Novel

by Henry Hack

  “I’ll see you then,” I said, thinking what a lucky break I just got – a job at a restaurant seven miles from my apartment. The move from California was already proving to be a good one.

  Two days later, with Los Angeles already fading deeper into the back of my mind, I picked up a copy of the Long Island Chronicle, and the feature story on the front page immediately caught my attention: SERIAL KILLER STALKS SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA. The story was written by a Los Angeles Times reporter. The Times owned the Chronicle which explained its appearance there on page one. The body count was up to twelve and the various police jurisdictions had finally come together, formed a Task Force and requested help from the FBI. And when they had put their heads and files together they discovered the key common denominators in the murders – the women were all of Italian heritage and all the same age – the exact same age. They were all born on November 17, 1967 – my birth date. Oh, my God!

  My body trembled as I read further. The FBI agent assigned, Michael Havlek, explained that the chief clue was the date of birth of the victims, and that many members of the Task Force wanted to withhold that information. However, they decided to release it as a preventive measure, so that women with that date of birth could take extra precautions to prevent becoming a victim. Havlek said that it would not be possible to assign a law enforcement presence to protect every woman in jeopardy – there were just too many with that date of birth in southern California. When he was asked how many, he declined to answer, but a check of the state DMV records by a Times staff researcher found 148 woman in the entire state with that date of birth and an unknown additional number who didn’t possess a driver’s license. However, all dozen victims thus far were licensed drivers in the state.

  The bottom line was that although they knew who the future victims might be, they did not know who was committing the murders or why. Havlek said there were in the process of reviewing the cases, re-interviewing possible witnesses and they hoped to publish a composite sketch of the suspect when that review was completed. “We also hope to have his behavioral profile fully worked up very shortly,” he said.

  When Agent Havlek next spoke to the media, a week later, there was good news and bad news – very bad news for me. The good news was that no more murders had occurred, a composite sketch was now available and a definite behavioral profile of the killer was established.

  That was also the bad news. The composite photo staring back at me from page one of the Long Island Chronicle was an exact likeness of my first husband – Jim Chandler. And the behavioral profile suggested that the killer’s motive was not money, nor sexual gratification, nor mutilation of the body, but more likely revenge. Revenge against an authority figure – an evil authority figure in the eyes of the killer. Perhaps a former school teacher, principal, former supervisor, or even his mother or father.

  I didn’t have to finish the article to know that my son, Frankie, was trying to find me – and kill me, and I had to admit that I certainly understood why.

  Three days passed and no more big stories came out of Los Angeles concerning the murders. The killer had not been apprehended, but no further ones had occurred. The speculation by the Task Force was now that everyone knew what he looked like, and who he was targeting, the killer was lying low, or had fled the area to parts unknown. Regardless of the reason, the stoppage of the murders brought a measure of relief to southern California, especially to forty-nine year old Italian-American women.

  I now faced a moral dilemma that had been severely troubling me ever since I saw my son’s picture in the paper. Should I call the Task Force and tell them my suspicions? What can of worms would I open? How much interest would they show me? Would they look again at the deaths of Sal and Jimmy? I toyed with the idea of sending an anonymous note telling them the killer’s name was Frankie Chandler, but would that help them? It might if I told them his date of birth and that he was raised on Long island, but then they would come here, wouldn’t they? And I was here. In the end, assuaging my conscience with the fact that the murders had stopped, I did nothing – nothing but worry what would happen if, or when, Frankie finally found me. Of course, he may never figure I went back to Long Island, but in case he did, I had come up with a plan. If he ever found me I would explain everything to him and hope that would make him understand why I abandoned him. Hopefully, he would accept my explanation, not kill me and go on his way to find his real mother. But, if that failed, I would kill him.

  I located the information that had long been buried in my personal papers and put it on the coffee table, and then I tucked my .357 magnum between the armrest and seat cushion on my living room sofa.

  All I could do now was go about my life and hope Frankie wouldn’t find me before the Task Force in California caught him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A month after my exams were over, I picked up the search again and satisfactorily crossed three more look-a-likes from my list. I had now gone through half the “highly probables,” and as the numbers dwindled, my anticipation increased. I became certain I would find Mommy soon, and when Maryanne Palermo opened her door and looked at me I was convinced I had found her.

  “Uh, my name is Frankie Chandler,” I said. “Do you remember me…Mommy?”

  A scowl appeared on Maryanne’s face and she said, “Mommy? I’m not your Mommy, asshole. Get off my porch.”

  “I just want to talk a few minutes,” I said. “Please, let me come in. Please…”

  “Get the hell out of here!” she screamed, “before I call the police.”

  I pushed my way in, kicked the door closed and grabbed her in a bear hug. I said, “I’m not a psycho and I’m not here to harm you. All I want to do is find out if you are my mother. Please, can you relax?”

  “Yeah, okay, let me go,” she said.

  I loosened the grip of my arms from around her waist. “Let me show you a picture and you’ll see why I think you may be her.” I reached for my attaché case and Maryanne ran out of the living room, toward the back of her house. “I’m not going to chase you!” I yelled. “Mrs. Palermo, I’m not here to hurt you…”

  Maryanne reappeared in the living room, pointing a silver automatic at me and shouted, “You’re damn right you’re not going to hurt me, but I’m going to hurt you, you sick psycho son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Please let me show you…”

  “Don’t open that case another inch. What do you have in there? A gun?”

  “No, no,” I said. “A photo, some papers and a fingerprint kit, that’s all.”

  “Fingerprint kit? Oh, boy, what kind of sicko are you? Sit on that chair.”

  She motioned me to a stuffed chair in the corner of the room. As I started toward it she turned to reach for the telephone and the gun turned with her. I took the chance and lunged for it. I grabbed the barrel, but she had a firm grip on the handle, finger still on the trigger. “Bastard!” she yelled as she pulled it.

  I heard the bullet whine as it passed my ear along with the loud explosion. She was no match for my strength and I finally yanked the gun away from her and shoved her away. She picked up a lamp and rushed at me. I pulled the trigger and hit her in the shoulder. She went down in a heap. “You stupid bitch!” I yelled. “Look what you made me do!”

  She was in terrible pain and crying. Blood poured from her wound. I grabbed my case and flung it open. I took Mommy’s picture and shoved it in front of her face. “You see!” I shouted. “That’s why I’m here! Now, answer me – are you my Mommy? Are you Angela Chandler?”

  She shook her head – barely – and whispered, “No.”

  “Liar! Give me your hand.”

  She either wouldn’t or couldn’t comply, so I took it and pressed her thumb on the ink pad and rolled it. Her arm dropped limply from my hand as I took the magnifying glass and made the comparison. At first I thought I had something – both prints had central loops – but that was the extent of the similarities. And three other points of comparison were way off the mark. So
n-of-a-bitch! I was convinced it was Mommy! Maryanne was moaning now as my anger was rising. I turned toward her and picked up the gun. I shot her through the heart, putting her out of her misery and, somewhat disturbingly, I felt no remorse at all. I put the gun in my briefcase and left.

  I had now killed two women in my search for Mommy, although the first one, Nancy Griselli, was certainly unintentional. Yet that first death seemed to bother me a lot more than deliberately shooting Maryanne Palermo last night. I felt my action was justified, like when I caused the truck engine to fall on Harold Jonas many years ago. It was almost as if I had killed my mother herself instead of a look alike. And it made killing the next one easier, and with each murder my satisfaction grew almost as if I were really killing Mommy over and over again and exorcising my growing hatred of her.

  Simplifying my modus operandi, I would wait until I was sure the woman was alone, and when I gained entrance to the home I went directly to the point, asking if she was Angela Chandler. As soon as I heard the word no, I pulled the trigger, or stabbed her, or choked her or bashed her over the head with a heavy object. That last method was messy, but seemed to give me the most satisfaction – and I didn’t have to wonder why.

  And then, after a dozen murders, I had to stop. The police were finally onto me. My likeness was in all the newspapers. Women with Mommy’s birth date were on high alert. When the media referred to me as a serial killer, I was taken aback. Me? Frankie Chandler, a serial killer? No way! Serial killers were sick psychos. They tortured their victims, or mutilated them horribly usually with some sick sexual fantasy involved. They were deranged monsters. They were beasts who deserved to die. They were not me.

  I quit my job by calling in over the telephone – I didn’t want them to match my face to that in the newspapers, if they hadn’t done so already. My employers, both from India, only occasionally looked at a newspaper and that was printed in their native language, so maybe I would catch a break there. I grabbed up all my belongings from my apartment, put them in my car and checked into a seedy motel on the other side of town under the name of Richard Owens. I immediately began to grow a beard and shaved my head completely. There was no doubt that I had to get out of Los Angeles, preferably out of the whole state, very soon, but I didn’t want to leave before I finished checking the few remaining names on my list. Fortunately, I hadn’t been real chummy with any of my college classmates and stayed to myself while on campus, so I felt none of them would connect me with the picture in the newscasts and papers. And every day that I checked, the media still had not published or broadcast a name to go with my picture.

  In a few weeks, when my beard was finally grown in and I still had not been identified, I chose the driver’s license picture from the group I had remaining that looked most like Mommy and checked the house out. It appeared empty, as if no one lived there and no one answered the doorbell. I knocked on the neighbor’s door and an old man answered. I said “I’m looking for my mother’s friend Maria Ferraro. I promised Mom I’d say hello when I came to Los Angeles.”

  “Oh, Maria just moved away about a month ago. That crazy killer, you know.”

  “Why was she afraid?” I asked.

  “Same date of birth as all the others. Wouldn’t you be afraid?”

  “You bet I would be if I were in her shoes. I’d run a long way away from here, that’s for sure.”

  “So would I, and besides her husband had been killed in a robbery not long ago. No reason to stay here.”

  “Uh, did she say where she was going?”

  “Nope, maybe the new people know, but they’re not moving in for two weeks.”

  “Okay, thanks a lot,” I said and headed for the post office.

  The postal clerk took a while to find Maria’s forwarding address. It seems she had telephoned the United States Postal Service and instructed them to have her local branch forward her first class mail to their main branch, general delivery, in Hicksville, Long Island, until she established a permanent address. That call had been made two days ago. So that’s where Mommy had fled to! It was Mommy this time. I was certain of it. Long Island – of course! Maria Theresa Ferraro had run back home.

  I went to the post office branch that serviced me the next day and had my mail forwarded to the same Hicksville branch. I checked out of the motel, packed up my car with my clothes, computer, and the Glock .40 caliber automatic I had taken from Maryanne Palermo, and set out on the long drive home.

  As soon as I reached Long Island I checked into a cheap motel in Hicksville and went to the post office to inquire about my mail. The clerk had the record of forwarding, but nothing had come for me so far. I thanked him and checked out the interior of the branch. Then I went out and re-parked my car to get a good view of the front door and I waited. Closing time came and Mommy had not shown up.

  I went back to the motel and unpacked and then went out shopping for food – breakfast and lunch items and bottled water. At eight o’clock the next morning, I was again parked outside the post office, in a different spot, and waited. Again, she did not show. Nor did she show the next day or the next. Finally, on Saturday morning, I saw a dark-haired woman driving a Benz come right past me into the parking lot. I had gotten a very good look at her and watched her park and walk inside. My heart beat faster. It was her for sure – Angela Chandler a/k/a Maria Ferraro – my long lost mother.

  It was easy to follow her home to Farmingdale in the heavy traffic. She parked on the street and walked to a large two-family house and entered through a side door which probably led upstairs to the second floor. I waited for about a half hour but she did not reappear. Not wanting a repeat of my past experience where the cop showed up that time, I left the area.

  I returned on Monday morning very early, but didn’t observe her leave for work. Although I was certain that Maria was Mommy, I was not yet mentally ready to confront her. A few days of observation revealed that she worked mostly afternoons and evenings at a fancy restaurant in Woodbury about seven miles away. She usually arrived home between eleven-thirty and midnight, a perfect time to confront her.

  On Wednesday night of the following week I made my move as I observed Mommy leaving her car and walking to the house. I followed her, gun drawn. She placed her key in the lock and opened the door. I stuck the gun in her back and whispered, “Don’t say a word. Just go up the stairs.”

  She stopped, turned and smiled at me, “Hello, Frankie,” she said. “It’s been such a long time, and I’ve been waiting for you. Please come up.”

  I was stunned and could only say, “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Frankie, but not your real one.”

  By the time we reached her second floor apartment I still had not yet processed her words. She turned on the lights and took off her jacket. “Please sit down,” she said. “May I get you something? A drink perhaps?”

  I had finally found my voice and said, “All I want is an explanation – for everything.”

  “And you well deserve it, Frankie. Please put the gun away. I’m sure you’re not going to kill me – at least not yet.”

  I put the gun in my jacket pocket and said, “I’m listening, Mommy. It’s taken me a long time to find you, but what did you mean when you said ‘not your real one?’ If you think some kind of lie will stop me from pulling this trigger, you are mistaken.”

  “No lies from me now, Frankie. Here’s the whole lousy truth.”

  Mommy told me everything – her childhood, her father’s abuse that killed her mother, her decision not to let a similar fate happen to her, the killing of my father and her flight to California.

  “Why did you leave me?” I asked. “Couldn’t you have taken me with you?”

  “I knew the cops would be after me and you would have slowed me down. And, as I mentioned before, I’m not your real mother – your biological one. When I married your father you came along with him. You were eighteen months old.”

  “Liar!” I yelled. “You’re the only mother I ever knew.”
/>
  “True, Frankie, but my attachment to you wasn’t that strong. That’s why I abandoned you.”

  “Prove it,” I said. “Prove you are not my mother and tell me who the real one is.”

  “See that envelope on the end table? Let me go get it and open it up.”

  “Go ahead,” I said moving my gun into my waistband.

  She came back and sat beside me on the sofa and opened the envelope. There were some photos of Dad, Mommy and me, but none when I was an infant. She picked up a document and handed it to me saying, “Here’s the proof, Frankie, here’s a copy of your Dad’s wedding certificate to his first wife, Ellen Weston – your real mother.”

  I read it with disbelief and shook my head. She handed me another document. It was my original birth certificate listing James Chandler and Ellen Weston as my parents. I didn’t want to believe it, but how could I dispute the cold hard facts in front of me. I said, “What happened to her?”

  “She was very young and pregnant with you when she married your Dad. Her parents were strict Roman Catholics and disowned her. She was unable to handle motherhood, so when you were six months old she just up and left.”

  “You mean she abandoned me, too?”

  “Yes, and also your father. And to his credit he kept you and raised you for the next year until he and I were married.”

  I couldn’t stop the tears form pouring down my face. Abandoned twice! The tears of pity turned quickly to tears of anger. As I wiped them away I asked, “Do you know where Ellen is now?”

  When Mommy –Angela – answered she was pointing a large revolver at me. “No, Frankie, I have no idea what happened to her. Now I’m going to call the police.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “Please.”

  “Why not?”

  “Give me a chance to find my real mother. I understand now why you did what you did. I’m not angry anymore. I’ll never bother you again.”