Mommy, Mommy : A Danny Boyland Novel

by Henry Hack

  I had found a furnished apartment, which would shortly be available, in a private residence on a nicely tree-lined street in the Elmhurst section of Queens within walking distance of the subway. With that taken care of I scanned the classified ads in the newspapers and the online search engines for job openings. And I checked the front pages of the newspapers for my picture. Now, seven days after I had killed Angela, there was nothing in print or on the TV. Surely the police had gotten Maria’s prints back, surely they knew that Angela Chandler had the same date of birth as the dozen victims in California – so then why were they keeping the lid on?

  I tried to reason it out. Danny Boyland had always impressed me as a good cop – and a smart cop. Not every cop gets to be a homicide detective, only the real good ones. And what I concluded was that major publicity would severely hinder his investigation. Danny probably figured that my photo, widely distributed, would probably cause me to do two things – flee New York in a hurry, and change my appearance. And the serial killer connection would create anxiety, if not panic, throughout the city of New York and its suburbs. And even if they stated that, with the death of Angela – the killer’s mother – meant he had found his target and had no more reason to kill, the lives of women with that birth date would still be screaming for police protection.

  So, I concluded, Danny was trying to find me on his own, under the radar. Fat chance! He knew everything about Frankie Chandler, but nothing about Matthew Hopkins. Maybe when he hit a dead-end, he would have to go to the media for help. And when he did, maybe I’d search out and kill another woman with the same date of birth. That would throw them for a loop. But I was done with killing, wasn’t I?

  When my new social security card came in the mail I started applying for the jobs on a list I had composed. Even though I would lose my previous earnings under my old social security number, it was a small price to pay for my identity protection. Besides, when I was able to collect, who knew if there would be any money left to collect from?

  Another reason my confidence in not being found by the police was high, was that if I were Danny Boyland, I would figure that Frankie Chandler had left New York right after Angela’s murder. He would figure I had lived in California while killing the women there, and I had fulfilled my objective with the sole murder here. He would figure I would have beat it to somewhere else, somewhere far away from both places, some place like Chicago, or St. Louis or Florida. I almost felt sorry for Danny. He had a murder on his hands and he knew who did it and why he did it, but had absolutely no clue as to where he was.

  I landed a good-paying job at a large computer repair outfit in Manhattan. In addition to the salary I got an array of benefits and a 100% tuition reimbursement for pursuing a bachelor’s degree in computer science. I knew that degree would enable me to command a much higher salary, money I would need to attract these beautiful Manhattan chicks I was surrounded with. But I wouldn’t wait until then for some female companionship – I had already waited too long.

  I began dating and working hard, and enjoying the city and all it had to offer. Life started to become very good. There was only one thing missing – my real Mommy. Although I had promised myself to purge her out of my mind, I just couldn’t do it. The face of Ellen Weston – a face I had no actual conception of – intruded more and more into my dreams and then into my waking moments. One face was that of a smiling short-haired blonde, then a long-haired redhead and then one night she appeared in my dream – really a nightmare – as Angela Chandler with a bullet hole in her head.

  Try as I might I couldn’t get Mommy – Ellen Weston – out of my head, so I went back to the computer and began a search. Then after two days, I stopped. What was I doing? Was I gearing up for another Angela Chandler type search? No! I refuse to kill again! I would not track down women with Ellen’s date of birth. No, no, no! I grabbed a bottle of beer and read through the documents I had taken from Angela once again, this time slowly, deliberately, and carefully. And by the time I took the last swallow of beer the answer – the clue – leaped off the page of Ellen’s birth certificate. Father’s name: George Weston. Mother’s name: Eleanor Weston (nee Grady). And since Ellen had been born in a Queens hospital, and her marriage certificate showed she was married in Queens, I had to assume that the Weston’s were longtime residents of the same boro in which I was now living. If I could find them – Hi folks, I’m your grandson! – would they know the whereabouts of their daughter Ellen? Or had they put her out of their lives even before she gave birth to me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Case closed. Frankie Chandler had been trying to find his long lost mother for years. He figured she was in California from the car information I had given him, and he re-located there to find her. Only he had found a dozen look-alikes and killed them first. Was each murder a partial death of Angela? Was that how his mind had become – twisted, distorted, and hate-filled? Then he found the real Angela Chandler and tracked her down back to Long Island and finished his quest. He had no more reason to kill again, so as I said – case closed. All I had to do was find him and snap the cuffs on.

  As I wondered where Frankie Chandler had fled – far away from here no doubt, but certainly not back to California – I also wondered if I was partly or wholly responsible for the death of twelve innocent women, and that of Angela Chandler. I believed the decision made by Wally Mason, Pam Saunders and me when Angela abandoned Frankie seventeen years ago, the decision to withhold that fact from him that Angela was not his real mother, was the correct one. But when Frankie came to see me after his tour in the Navy and inquired about her, I still kept it a secret from him. He had asked about her almost casually, certainly not with the fervor of a man who wanted to find her at all costs. If I had detected the slightest obsession in his demeanor, I would have told him immediately, and then thirteen women might still be alive.

  “Danny! Partner? Hello, are you in there?” Spider asked breaking my deep thoughts and snapping me back to the present.

  “Oh yeah, I was just thinking.”

  “Jesus,” Allison said. “You tell us you know who killed Maria Ferraro and then you drift off to never-never land. Care to tell us why?”

  “Sure,” I said and filled them in on the Frankie Chandler story and my part in it.

  “You can’t blame yourself for all those deaths,” Spider said. “You could not have anticipated that at all.”

  “Maybe I could have if I had been a little smarter and paid a bit more attention to the miserable life of young Frankie Chandler.”

  “Danny, what’s done is done,” Allison said. “Stop beating yourself up, it won’t do any good. Let’s concentrate on finding him. I still have the copy of his photo sketch that was printed with the original story, so I’m all set to go.”

  “Set to go for what?”

  “For my story, that’s what for. This is going to be tomorrow’s page one headlines in the Chronicle.”

  “That may not be a good idea,” I said.

  “What do you mean? This is the biggest story of my career and you’re not going to prevent me from going with it. Besides, you can’t prevent me from printing it.”

  “I know I can’t,” I said, “but I can ask you to hold off for awhile.”

  “Why would I do that? A little while ago you thought it was a good idea to print the story. What’s changed?”

  “What’s changed is we now have a definite suspect. And I don’t think I want him to know that we know who he is.”

  “And,” Spider said, “now that he’s killed his mother – at least who he thinks was his mother – he has no reason to kill again.”

  “But you have no idea where he is,” Allison said.

  “True,” I said, “but something’s bothering me about this whole thing. Let’s refresh our coffee and do some brainstorming, okay?”

  After brewing a fresh pot of coffee and taking a few sips in silence I said, “Angela reads about the murders and she gets nervous – all the victims are her
age and physically resemble her. Then when the Task Force discovers all the victims’ dates of births are the same and decides to go public with it, Angela puts the puzzle together. Her long lost son, Frankie, is coming to get her, and he’s pretty close.”

  “So she beats feet to Long Island,” Allison said, “figuring she’d be safe three thousand miles away.”

  “Not really,” I said, “I think she knew he would eventually track her down no matter where she ran off to.”

  “Then wouldn’t she have prepared herself for the confrontation?” Spider asked.

  “Like buy a gun?” Allison asked.

  “You might think so,” I said, “and I certainly would have just in case I was unsuccessful in talking him out of killing me.”

  “How could she have possibly talked her way out of that?” Allison asked.

  “By telling him she was sorry for abandoning him, but that it was to be expected since she wasn’t his real mother,” Spider said.

  “Obviously that didn’t work,” Allison said.

  “No,” I said. “Let me think more about this…”

  The three of us had gone out to lunch and kicked some more ideas around, but we couldn’t get Allison to change her mind about going with the story, so I knew another confab with our bosses would have to happen. When we got back to the squad Manny Perez said, “Hey, Lois Lane, Superman is here to see you.”

  “What are you talking about, Perez?”

  “Superman. Looks just like him. He’s in with the boss. An FBI agent interested in your murder case.”

  “Agent Havlek?” Allison said.

  “That’s what it sounded like,” Manny said. “Don’t fall in love now, Lois.”

  “Screw you, Manny,” she said shaking her head, but unable to suppress a smile at the detective’s antics.

  We went back into the conference room to await the presence of Agent Havlek. When he came in with Lieutenant Veltri, who introduced him to us, I was startled, as I’m sure were Allison and Spider, by his appearance – Clark Kent minus the glasses. Tall, good-looking, dark hair. Too bad his attitude didn’t match his looks. He said, “How come you didn’t call me right away about this?”

  As the lead detective on the case, I answered, “We were just about to do that. We ascertained the connection to the murders in California and figured you’d want to know.”

  “Brilliant!” he said. “I’m taking this case over, right now. And you, Miss Hayes, can leave right now. I’ll call your editor shortly. This story stays under wraps until I say it can go. Got it?”

  “Why you arrogant bastard…!” Allison said as I got up and grabbed her and escorted her out of the room to an empty office. I said, “Sit there and calm down, but don’t leave. You’ll be back in the mix soon, don’t worry.”

  “What can you do about that insufferable prick?”

  I just smiled and said, “Sit tight.”

  “Okay, Agent Havlek,” I said when I returned. “You were saying that you were going to take over this case – my case – right now?”

  “Correct, this is now a federal case. I am with VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program of the Behavioral Science Unit, and I claim jurisdiction.”

  “Wow, that’s a mouthful,” I said looking at Lieutenant Veltri who had not left, but sat off in a corner with a slight smile on his face. “Now, if you come down off your high horse and play nice, I just might let you join our team and assist me, on my case.”

  “I guess you want to do this the hard way, Boyland,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to have my boss call your boss – my big boss in Manhattan.”

  “And just who is your boss?” I asked. “And just how big is he?”

  “He is Edwin DeLand, the Assistant Director in charge of the New York office.”

  “Not high enough,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m very good friends with DeLand’s boss – his ultimate boss – Walter Kobak.”

  “Kobak? The FBI director? Give me a break, Boyland.”

  “Want me to call him and have him direct you to play the game the way I want it to be played?”

  “Yeah, go right ahead, asshole. I’m calling your bluff.”

  I put the phone sitting on the conference room table on speaker mode and dialed a number from memory. A voice answered, “FBI Headquarters. How may I direct your call?”

  “The Director’s Office please,” I said noticing a slight change in the smug look on Havlek’s face.

  “Director’s Office, Miss Mays speaking.”

  “Hi, Wendy,” I said. “It’s Danny Boyland from New York.”

  “Oh, hello, Danny. How are you?”

  “Doing great, and you?”

  “Very good. Oh, I guess you want Mr. Kobak. He’s got some people in his office, but I’m sure he’ll pick up for you. Hold on.”

  The smug look was now entirely gone form Havlek’s face and both Veltri and Spider sported big smiles on theirs. A voice boomed out of the speaker phone. “Danny Boy, how the hell are you?”

  “I’m great, Walt,” I said, “and you?”

  “Never better since you and I rolled up those terrorist Romen Society bastards.”

  “Hey, we had a little help.”

  Walt laughed and said, “Yes, we did. Now what prompted this call? What can I do for you?”

  I looked over at Agent Havlek whose complexion was deathly pale and said, “You know that serial murder caper out in California.”

  “Sure.”

  “We have a similar murder here. My case. Victim has the same date of birth. And the FBI case agent, Michael Havlek from VICAP, is sitting here with me, Spider Webb and Pete Veltri. He has flown all the way out here and offered his assistance and all the resources of the great FBI to help me out. I think that was terrific of him and I just wanted to convey my appreciation to you.”

  “You know we always serve to please. Agent Havlek?”

  “Yes, sir,” Havlek managed to speak.

  “Do whatever you can to help them, okay? They’re a great bunch of investigators.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  “And hello there to Pete and Spider.”

  “Hi, Walt,” they both said.

  “Well, I have to run. Good luck on your case, Danny. Grab that psycho soon.”

  “We will, Walt,” I said. “So long, partner.”

  I disconnected the call and looked over at Agent Havlek, a semblance of color returning to his face. He got up, walked out of the office and closed the door. Ten seconds later there was a knock on that door. “Come in,” I said.

  A smiling Michael Havlek entered, extended his hand and said, “I’m Mike Havlek from the FBI and I just flew in from L.A. to offer you whatever assistance I can in your murder investigation. Will you be so kind as to let me help?”

  “Certainly,” I said. “Oh, Superman, would you mind if I asked ace investigative reporter Lois Lane to join us?”

  “Not at all, I would love to have Miss Lane’s knowledge and input on this matter.”

  I was impressed. Mike Havlek had taken the heat and reacted well. If this new demeanor held up, he would be a great asset to our team. Now, where the hell was Frankie Chandler?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Finding the Weston’s turned out to be an easy task. I accessed the Queens’ white pages on my PC and found only one George Weston with a listing that was located in an apartment building on Braddock Avenue in Bellerose – Unit 4E.

  The next evening I dressed in a suit and tie and placed the documents in my briefcase. Then I had a thought – suppose the Weston’s were aware of the killings and the date of birth connection? But then how could they? They probably didn’t even know if Jim Chandler remarried at all. But, to be on the safe side I put one of my guns in the briefcase. I chose the automatic, not the revolver I had just used to kill Mom…Angela. If I had to use it, the bullet comparison results should confuse the homicide squad a bit.

  Mommy – Ellen – would be
forty-five now, so I figured George and Eleanor Weston would be in their late sixties or early seventies. I had to figure out how to approach them, how to have them let me into their apartment, no easy task with suspicious elderly people, I figured. After running several scenarios through my mind, and not finding one that seemed sure to work, I decided on a ruse that might not get me inside, but might get me information. I picked up my phone and dialed their number. A man answered and I said, “Is this Mr. Weston? George Weston?”

  “Yes,” he said with a trace of annoyance in his voice. “What is it?”

  “I’m calling on behalf of your daughter’s estate. I’m the attorney assigned to distribute her assets according to her will.”

  “I have no daughter,” he said.

  “Oh, then perhaps I have the wrong George Weston, or perhaps you are Ellen Weston’s father, but decline to admit it. She mentioned that may occur in her will.”

  “Did she mention why?”

  “Yes, but before I reveal anymore information could you tell me your wife’s name?”

  “No, you tell me.”

  “According to Ellen, it’s Eleanor.”

  “So she’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she left us money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “I’d rather not go into the details on the phone,” I said. “I need to ascertain your identity and have you and your wife sign some papers. Then the estate will be distributed in about two to three months.”