by Henry Hack
“Okay. What was your name?”
“Hopkins. Matthew Hopkins. Are you free later this evening?”
“Yes, we are.”
“How would eight o’clock be?”
“Fine. Do you know where we live?”
“Yes, on Braddock Avenue, number 224, apartment 4E. I’m happy you were listed in the phone directory.”
“All right. We’ll see you later.”
I hung up and thought I had done a masterful job of deception in getting an appointment. George’s initial comment – I have no daughter – and the coldness in his voice when he said it, led me to conclude that they had probably disowned her when she gave birth to me. Maybe even before she was ever officially married to my father. I intended to find out the answers to my questions very soon.
A nice-looking man with a full head of white hair, a lined face and piercing light-blue eyes with a distrustful look – my real biological grandfather – opened the door and let me into apartment 4E. He introduced me to his wife Eleanor – my real biological grandmother – who immediately asked me if I wanted something to drink. “Coffee, or a soda, perhaps?”
“A glass of water would be fine,” I said.
Eleanor Weston was a pleasant-looking woman with short gray hair and a round face with sparkly light-brown eyes. I guessed she was about seventy years old, about two or three years younger than George. I was paying attention to their features to see if any obvious ones had passed down from them to Ellen, and then to me. The only similarity I could see so far was my brown eyes and Eleanor’s.
We all sat around a coffee table in the living room and I snapped open my briefcase and withdrew Ellen’s certificate of birth and her marriage certificate and handed them to George. He scanned them, nodded his head, and passed them to his wife. She read them and then took a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped a tear from her eye. George said, “That’s her all right, but I don’t understand why she would want to leave us any money at all.”
“Strained relationship?” I asked.
He grunted and said, “That would be an understatement. We haven’t seen her nor heard from her in over twenty-five years.”
“How about her husband?” I asked. “James Chandler.”
“She never should have married him,” Eleanor said. “Truth be told, Mr. Hopkins, we were extremely upset at her hasty marriage and her…her condition. We’re strict Roman Catholics, you know.”
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or re-open old wounds, but I have a sworn duty to try to locate any other kin – blood relatives of Ellen – who she did not mention in her will, before I can fully send it to probate.”
“She walked out on Chandler and left him with the baby,” George said. “He remarried and several years later fell down a flight of stairs and killed himself. It was in the papers. I’ll tell you I didn’t shed a tear over that. There was also speculation that maybe Chandler didn’t fall down those steps and maybe his second wife, Angela, pushed him. She fled a week later and was never found or heard from again.”
“So what happened to the baby? Your grandson?”
“We have no idea,” he said. “After Angela abandoned him there was nothing further in the news.”
Eleanor Weston was gushing tears now and George turned to her and said, “Stop that babbling, for Pete’s sake!”
“That’s pretty awful,” I said.
“There was some thought that Angela fled because she figured the cops were thinking she might have pushed her dear hubby down those stairs as I just said. And she had no real attachment to the kid. It wasn’t hers.”
I felt the anger begin to rise in me and I said, “The kid, Mr. Weston, did the kid – your biological grandson – have a name?”
“Frankie,” Eleanor blurted out. “Frankie Chandler.”
“And what became of little Frankie Chandler?” I asked.
“As I said before, we don’t know,” George said. “I guess the state took him.”
I had to bite my tongue and quell my anger for a moment, because I now had to ask the key question. I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’ll follow up with Child Protective Services on Frankie. Now, when Ellen disappeared do you know what happened to her, or where she went? Did she remarry and have more children?”
“She went into the convent,” George said. “A good place for the who…”
“George!” Eleanor snapped. “Please.”
“That’s good,” I said. “No more people to track down. Now let me ask you something, if I may. Did you ever think to seek out your daughter and forgive her?”
“That’s not your concern,” George said. “Just get on with your business.”
“I intend to, but first just one more question. When Angela Chandler abandoned Frankie – your biological grandson – did you ever consider taking him in and providing a loving home for him rather than have him put in an orphanage?”
Mrs. Weston started to say something, but George stopped her and said, “We didn’t want the little bastard, plain and simple.”
“And you didn’t care about his future or what would become of him?”
“No,” George said, “nor the little bastard’s mother either. Now are you going to give us the papers to sign and get out of here?”
“I sure am, Grandpa,” I said reaching into my briefcase and withdrawing my Glock, which I pointed directly at his face.
“What the…?”
“Shut up, George. I did not come here with any intention of killing you, but I never met anyone quite as cold and heartless as you two. And believe me I’ve met a lot of rotten people during my rotten life. You two call yourself Christians, strict Roman Catholics? Like hell you are! You don’t have a Christian bone in your body. You disowned my mother and left me to the wolves.”
“What are you talking about?” Eleanor said.
“Ellen Weston is my mother. And I’m your grandson, Frankie Chandler.”
“You’re a liar!” shouted George Weston as he started to rise from his seat.
I shot him right between the eyes and said, “No, I’m not, Grandpa.”
I shot him twice more in the chest and turned the gun toward Grandma. She hadn’t screamed when I fired the gun and killed her husband, but had clapped both her hands over her mouth. I said, “Do you want to say something to me?”
She removed her hands from her mouth and placed them in her lap. “Yes,” she said in a whisper. “Yes, Frankie, I am sorry. I wanted to visit my daughter, I wanted to reconcile with her so many times, but George would not hear of it. And when I heard what happened to you – when Angela left you – I took it as a sign from God. I would take you in and find my daughter and bring us all together as a family.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Again, George wouldn’t hear any of it. ‘My sentimental bullshit,’ he called it.”
“Grandma, there comes a time in just about everyone’s life, when they have to find the courage to stand up to whoever is restraining them and do the right thing. You didn’t do that, though. You blew it.”
“No, I…I didn’t, but you seem to have turned out to be a nice young man, Frankie. Are you really a lawyer?”
“No, Grandma, I’m not a lawyer. I’m not much of anything. Let me tell you what became of your ten-year old grandson when you didn’t do the right thing.”
I told her everything and ended with, “…so your grandson ended up as a serial killer. Thanks, Grandma and thanks Grandpa,” I said looking down at his body.
Eleanor was crying again and said, “What are you going to do now, Frankie?”
“I just want to find my mother. I want to have a chance at some happiness. Can you help me, Grandma?”
“Like I said, she went into the convent. It’s the one way out east on Long Island, on the south fork.”
“Do you know if she is still there?”
“No, I don’t know anything else, or what happened to her, or where she may have gone if
she left there.”
I looked at my grandmother and suddenly felt a pang of sympathy as my anger drained out of me. I thought about sparing her life, but realized I had already gone too far and couldn’t allow her to live. I shot her quickly three times in the chest avoiding looking into her eyes. I left the apartment after wiping my fingerprints from the glass of water I had used and collecting the six expended cartridge cases. Stepping over grandma’s body, I looked down at her, shook my head, and wiped a few tears from my eyes.
When I arrived back home I first cleaned and reloaded the automatic and then booted up my PC and began the search for Roman Catholic convents on Long Island. There was just one on the south fork – St. John of the Cross – and their website was chock full of information. St. John’s school, taught by both nuns and lay faculty, was the main function of the convent, and since a healthy tuition was charged to the rich east-end Catholics, the school was the chief support of the entire facility, including the church.
There were about thirty faculty and administrators and each had half a page devoted to them including a color picture, short biography and academic credentials. It took me less than two minutes to find Ellen Weston, although that name was not mentioned. She was Sister Audrey LaSalle a member since January 1991, when I was ten months old. Her date of birth was not listed, but her beautiful brown eyes, Grandma Eleanor’s eyes, my eyes, stared out at me. And no other woman entered within a year of her. This was her. Mommy. I had finally found her. Well, not yet, but that would be soon – very soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The four of us – Allison, Mike Havlek, Spider and me – sat around drinking coffee and going over the California murders and the murder here on the Island with one goal in mind – how do we find and arrest Frankie Chandler? It got to be past five o’clock and we were all tired and out of ideas. I said, “Why don’t we wrap it up for now and mull it over in our dreams?”
“Yeah, I’m beat and still on West coast time,” Havlek said.
“Where are you staying?” Spider asked. “Do you need a lift?”
“No, thanks. I have a rental and I’m going to stop first at the Long Island FBI office. They’re getting a hotel room for me.”
We decided to meet back at the squad by eight the next morning and, as we walked to our cars, Havlek grabbed my arm and said, “Thanks again, Danny, for the way you handled this with the Director. I know you could have really stuck it to me.”
I smiled and said, “I saw through your arrogant FBI exterior and visualized the good guy underneath.”
“X-ray vision,” he said with a laugh.
“That’s your thing, Superman. Not mine.”
“What’s with the reporter, Allison?”
“Good reporter and she knows when to keep her mouth shut. She has yet to violate any confidence over the years she’s worked with us.”
“Not bad looking, either,” Havlek said.
“Is Superman interested in Lois Lane?”
“Is she married?”
“Nope, unless you consider married to her job as being married. Probably very much like you.”
“You’re very perceptive, Danny Boy.”
“That’s why I’m a detective, Superman.”
I had taken Wally Mason’s original case file home with me, the one of Jim Chandler’s murder seventeen years ago. I vaguely remembered him and the social worker, Pam Saunders, trying to locate relatives who could have possibly taken Frankie in. As usual, I discussed the case with my wife, Tara, a former homicide detective and still on the Job working in the District Attorney’s Squad. After relating the happenings of the day she said, “So Manny Perez is still at it sticking nicknames on people, I see.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and it’s amazing how accurate he is with them, ax-lady.”
“Well, when you catch three ax-murders in one year what else would he call me?” she asked poking me in the ribs.
“He could have called you Halle Berry like I did.”
“You’re so sweet, Danny. You still do know the right words.”
“Help me go over this case of Wally’s and then we’ll turn those sweet words into some sweet lovin’,” I said.
“Sounds good. Let’s have a look.”
We both read the entire case, twice, making notes and sipping a little red wine. When we agreed we were done Tara said, “If Angela told Frankie that she was not his real mother, would she have known who his real mother was?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She married Jim Chandler when Frankie was a year and a half old. His first wife walked out on him and who knows if he ever knew – or cared – where she went.”
“I’m sure Angela would have known her name, at least. Jim would have mentioned it.”
“So, we assume Frankie also knows his real mother’s name and is now searching for her?”
“Yes, and we may have a new string of murders beginning soon, depending on how much information he has on her.”
“What could he possibly have besides her name? How would he know her physical description, or date of birth, or where she might live?”
“You just read the same case I did, Danny Boy. You tell me.”
I looked at my notes and then it hit me. “The Chandlers!” I exclaimed. “Jim’s parents.”
“Correct,” Tara said. “Angela’s parents are dead and wouldn’t know anything anyway. But the Chandlers…”
“Yeah, the world travelers form Colorado who wanted no part of their grandson.”
“Suppose Angela told Frankie of the existence and whereabouts of his grandparents?”
“He could be tracking them down in an effort to get information on the whereabouts of his real mother,” I said.
“And?”
“And they might be his next two victims.”
“And?”
“And their number is here in the file. So let’s call them – right now.”
“Great police work, lover boy.”
The message on the Chandler’s answering machine said, “Hello, we’re off traveling again. Please leave a message.” I found the number of the local police department in Wally’s notes and called their detective squad and filled them in on my concerns. One of them went through the patrol force’s vacant home list and said the Chandlers were due back in two weeks. That gave us a breather and I asked them to call me immediately when they got home and to put a watch on them for protection from a possible visit by Frankie Chandler. They were very cooperative and wished me success in nabbing our serial killer before he got out their way.
“A good night’s work,” I said to Tara. “Thanks a lot for your input. How about a nightcap?”
“Sure, lover boy, and then I’d like a little input from you, if you get my drift.”
“I sure do, lover girl. Drink up.”
There was a message on my desk when I got into the office at eight the next morning. It said, “Call Detective Gennaro in Ballistics.” And when I did he informed me that the bullets recovered from Angela’s body came from a .357 S&W Magnum revolver and they matched with the bullets taken from a recent robbery victim in Los Angeles. “What was the victim’s name, Walt?”
“Salvatore Domenico, and I have something real interesting for you, Danny Boy.”
“I’m all ears,” I said my curiosity now fully engaged.
“I called the case detective out there and he told me the case is still unsolved. He also told me the name of the deceased’s fiancée – Maria Ferraro.”
“Holy crap! Angela killed another one!”
“Don’t be so hasty,” Walt said. “Frankie Chandler could have done it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. We’ll have to mull this one over.”
After I thanked him and got the Los Angeles detective’s contact information, I filled in the rest of my team who had all arrived in the office while I was on the phone. I also told them of my attempts to contact Frankie’s grandparents the night before.
“I think that Angela killed Sal, f
or whatever reason, and fled from the area taking the gun with her for protection from Frankie when he showed up,” Allison Hayes said.
“Sounds plausible,” Spider said. “What reason would Frankie have to kill this guy, Domenico, anyway?”
“Maybe something we don’t know,’ Danny said. “But all the other murders committed out there with a firearm were done with a .40 caliber automatic. I’ll call the LA detective later and see what else he knows. Who did Sal in is not that important right now anyway.”
“I guess all we can do is wait for the Chandlers to get home,” Agent Havlek said. “As soon as they do I’ll send a couple of agents up to babysit them until I can fly out there – with you Danny, of course.”
“Of course,” I smiled.
“Can I go with any of the story now?” Allison asked.
“I would say no,” Havlek said. “We still don’t want to alert Chandler.”
Allison looked as if she were about to object, so I said, “Miss Lane, I’ll give you Wally’s case to read. Put the whole thing together so far. All you’ll have to write is the ending when it happens. The Pulitzer Prize will be all yours.”
She smiled and said, “Okay, Danny, I’ll start writing. It looks like we are at a dead-end right now.”
“Yeah,” Spider said. “It’s that time in the investigation when all we can do is hurry up and wait.”
“For the Chandlers to come home,” I said.
“Or the next body to turn up,” Havlek said.
“Or several bodies,” Allison said, “as the psycho Frankie Chandler hunts for mommy number two.”
We sat in silence for a while and then got up to disperse. Allison was first up and said, “Back to the world of mundane journalism.”
Mike Havlek said he was going out to the FBI Office in Melville to check in on what other serial murders might need his attention. He said, “Uh, Miss Hayes, uh, Allison?”
“Yes, Mike?”
“Would you care to have dinner with me tonight?”