“Tell me, Kat, how did Dan sign off on the information?”
That took Katsumi by surprise. “Why does that matter, Sir?” she asked, knowing full well it must matter if he asked. Lazarus didn’t respond, knowing she would continue. “He signed the email Dan Grimsrud, with a postscript. The P.S. read ‘Tell Lazarus that he owes Dantastico and M.J. dinner at his earliest convenience.’ Is that some sort of code?”
“It is, indeed, Kat. It tells me two things. First, you are to erase any trace of the email, which I am certain you’ve already done. Second, he needs me to use the information he gave you in such a manner there’s no way it can be traced back to him. I have to corroborate the info with a third party. Now, I need to know what he told you, sweetie, short and to the point. Obviously, it’s troubling you, and I need you to turn this over to me. I’ll take care of whatever it is.”
Katsumi took a deep breath and spoke rapidly, “Mr. Grimsrud said there’s verifiable information in the BDSM community Mr. Garza is known for beating and raping young boys.” She started crying while she spoke.
Lazarus waited for 10 minutes while Katsumi wept. As he waited, the rage within him began to roil, heating up until it was a vein of lava coursing through his psyche. Her tears slowed to sobs as she tried to regain her composure, then Lazarus spoke.
“I’ll verify the information that Dan gave you. If I get confirmation, you can rest assured he will never harm another child again.” The tone of his voice never changed. He spoke as though he was telling Katsumi they would be going on a vacation. That was a side of Lazarus that few ever saw; the father he was to Katsumi. Nothing he said hinted of the rage he was feeling. Dan knew the effect it would have on him. Lazarus was sure of that, and Dan knew what Lazarus was capable of; intimately so.
“Now, Kat,” Lazarus said calmly, “you need to put this matter behind you, just like Dr. Hudson taught you to. Can you do that for me, sweetie?”
Katsumi drew in a long slow breath, exhaling slowly before answering, “As you wish, Sir, for you as much as for me.” He could see her trying to smile in his mind’s eye, wanting to assure him she would be okay.
“Thank you, Kat, for telling me,” said Lazarus. “I know it wasn’t easy. You need to know how proud I am of you right now.”
Katsumi’s mood lightened at his praise. She knew he meant it, that he wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. “You’re welcome, Sir,” she replied with a clearer voice. “I know you will take care of it however you see fit. I’ll be okay with whatever you decide.”
“I know you will, Kat,” answered Lazarus, then he added, “I love you, sweetie,” something he rarely said. It was the rarity that made it so effective.
“Me too”, replied Katsumi, a smile in her voice. “Bye for now,” she added.
Lazarus turned off the sat-phone, sitting back in the chair and closing his eyes. He began taking long slow breathes, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate timing. He knew he needed to remain focused on the task at hand, subduing the rage within him for now. Rage, in and of itself, was something that never drove Lazarus, and he wasn’t about to let it now. Lazarus liked to believe the mental walls he’d built around some memories were impenetrable; such was not the case. The conversation with Katsumi proved that. For 27 years they had stood strong, keeping the memories locked away from his consciousness. It had been a matter of survival, not only for Lazarus, but for others if he had not learned to separate himself from them.
He focused on the rage in an emotionally detached and psychoanalytical way, something he’d learned from his good friend Dr. Hudson. Lazarus knew he was about to relive the past he’d avoided facing for over two decades. He also suspected he’d never be able to wall those emotions back in, at least not completely. Langston padded over to where Lazarus was sitting, lying down beside the chair. He watched his master for signs of distress. He sensed the struggle, softly whining before laying his head down on Lazarus’ feet. There he would stay, until he felt the tension dissipate.
Chapter Twenty
Lazarus was 12 when it began. His aunt, Ziva, worried about his growing isolation and lack of friends, encouraged him to get involved in the Church. Although Ziva was Jewish, Lazarus had been baptized Catholic by his father, and she respected Jared’s decision. She took Lazarus to meet the local parish priest, Father Dominique Thoreau.
Father Dominique was in his early fifties, short at only 5’6”, and almost as big around. He was bald, with the exception of a few stalwart hairs, hanging on for dear life, around the back of his head. He was well known for his love of wine and sweets and the seemingly endless hours he spent with troubled youths. Ninety per cent were boys, though no one seemed to think it was odd. He was a man, after all, and could relate to boys better than girls. When counseling a girl, he made sure one of her parents was present. Father Dominique insisted on it, so there would be no misunderstandings. It made sense to them.
Lazarus warmed quickly to Papa Dom, as he was referred to by most of the parishioners. Father Dominique had a deep voice and a booming laugh. He always had sweets for the children, too. In time, he began to fill the father-less void in Lazarus’ life. He wanted to please Papa Dom and make him proud, just as he would his father. He felt honored when the priest began to give him tasks around the church and in the rectory. The rectory was detached from the church, shaded by large oak trees with a beautiful flower garden in the back.
After 3 months of working with Lazarus, Father Dom approached Ziva with a proposal. He suggested she allow the boy to spend one or two nights a week at the rectory. He showed her the small bedroom that was down the hall from his, assuring Ziva that if Lazarus needed anything, he would be there for him. To Lazarus’ joy, Ziva consented. She’d seen changes in Lazarus and believed spending more time with the priest would make those changes even better.
All was fine for the first 6 months. Lazarus felt wanted and loved by the seemingly congenial old priest. Papa Dom would come to his room every night at 10:00 with cookies and milk. Then, the priest would join Lazarus on his knees, for evening prayers.
Lazarus had become more outgoing, making friends with a few of his classmates. Even they noticed the changes in Lazarus. He was less standoffish, and they discovered he had a good sense of humor. He always found a way to make them laugh.
Lazarus was on his way to see Father Dom one Friday afternoon when he saw some boys playing soccer. One of his friends waved him over. He spent the next two hours on the makeshift pitch. He was having so much fun he lost track of time. When he realized how late it was, he excused himself from the game and ran to the church.
Father Dom was standing by the front door when Lazarus arrived.
“Hello, Papa Dom!” Lazarus exclaimed as he went to hug the priest. Father Dom extended his arm, stopping Lazarus in his tracks.
“Not so fast, little man,” he said with a strange edge to his voice. “You are over two hours late and a smelly mess.” He went on, “Why would I want to hug a dirty boy who doesn’t even love me enough to be on time?” The priest was visibly angry now, a scowl on his face.
Lazarus quickly went from the shock of being straight armed, to dismay at the anger. “I’m sorry, Papa Dom,” he said, as tears began to well in his eyes. “I got caught up playing soccer with my friends from school and lost track of time.”
“So, your new-found friends from school are more important to you than I am?” the priest responded with venom in his voice.
Lazarus bowed his head in shame, knowing he had disappointed Father Dominique. “No, Father,” he replied using the formal title. “You are much more important to me. I love you, Father, I just lost track of the time.”
The priest snorted in derision, “If you truly love me, then you will understand you must be disciplined for being late.” He raised Lazarus head to look him in the eyes. “First, get out of those filthy clothes, take a shower and scrub yourself clean. Now go, before I change my mind and send you home.”
“Yes, Father,”
he replied, heaviness in his heart.
He had failed Papa Dom, who had taken an interest in his life, providing so much for him the last six months. His feet felt as though they were encased in lead as he walked dejectedly to his room. There, he stripped off his clothes and went to the shower. He took 15 minutes scrubbing until he was certain there wasn’t a speck of dirt anywhere to be found. He even washed his hair twice. He put on clean clothes, returning to his room to find Father Dominique sitting in the chair by the bed.
“Take off your clothes, Lazarus,” he ordered sternly. Lazarus complied down to his underwear. “The boxers, too,” said the priest with a dark look in his eyes. Lazarus did as he was told, now standing naked before the priest, covering his privates in shame.
“Turn around, bend over and grab your ankles,” Father Dominique demanded.
Lazarus was afraid, but he was more afraid of disappointing the priest then what might follow. He did as he was told. Lazarus knew a spanking was coming, but he had no idea how the priest would deliver it.
Father Dominique closed the door. Lazarus didn’t look back. He was determined to take his punishment like a man. Then he heard something whistling through the air. The razor strop landed on the back of his thighs, delivering a level of pain he had never known. He screamed in spite of his determination, looking back at the priest to apologize again. The look on the priest’s face stopped him cold. It was purple with rage. Lazarus knew there would be no mercy.
“How dare you move when I am disciplining you!” screamed the priest, spittle flying from his mouth. He rained hell down on Lazarus back, buttocks and legs. The strop whistling through the air incessantly, until the boy was a mass of purpling welts and bleeding cuts. Lazarus finally collapsed to the floor in agony. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his head, sobbing in pain and terror. He had no idea how long the beating lasted; finally losing consciousness.
When he came to, Father Dominique was cleansing his cuts with hydrogen peroxide and antibiotics. His touch so gentle, Lazarus couldn’t believe it was the same man who had just beaten him unconscious. Then he realized the priest was crying, whispering to himself, “My poor boy, look what you made me do.”
Lazarus opened his eyes to slits, not wanting the priest to know he was awake, afraid the beating would resume. It took everything in him to remain silent, not reacting to the sting of the antiseptic and rubbing of his wounds. He focused on the pain, isolating and using it to suppress the anger that began to rise within him. Eventually he was able to let the pain wash over him until he no longer felt it.
The priest stopped his pitiful crying, turning Lazarus over on his back. The ice-cold water he dumped was more than could be ignored. Lazarus jerked violently, opening his eyes and looking up at Father Dominique.
“There’s my sweet boy,” said the priest with a smile. “You had me worried there for a moment.” Then he repeated, to make sure Lazarus heard him, “See what you made me do?”
Lazarus didn’t respond, watching the priest with empty eyes. Sadly, some part of Lazarus agreed with the priest. Maybe he was to blame. If only he hadn’t stopped to play soccer, none of this would have happened. Tears fell from his eyes. Tears Lazarus forced to come, knowing that if he didn’t feign remorse, Father Dominique’s rage might return.
“I am so very sorry I made you do this, Father,” Lazarus said in a whisper. “I never meant to disappoint you.” Perhaps it makes no sense to you, but Lazarus was a 12-year-old orphan with a hole in his heart left by the deaths of his parents. In spite of his anger, he didn’t want to lose Papa Dom. “I am truly sorry, Father,” he repeated, not sure himself if he truly meant it.
Father Dominique smiled softly, “I will forgive you my son, after you complete your penance for what you made me do.”
“What must I do, Father?” Lazarus asked. “How can I make up for it?”
“There are no prayers of forgiveness for this transgression. The only way you can atone for the pain and disappointment you caused is for you to make me happy again.”
Lazarus didn’t even moan when the priest lifted his battered body from the floor – laying him on the bed. He never said a word as the priest removed his clothes, folding them neatly on the chair. He didn’t move when the priest lay down beside him. He endured in silence, staring at a spot on the wall, focusing his anger there. To Lazarus, it seemed like hours rather than the 20 minutes it took Father Dominique to destroy his innocence and seal both their fates. It was in that moment “The Chameleon” began to take shape in the darkest reaches of a 12-year-old boy’s soul.
*****
Breath by breath over the next three hours, Lazarus reined in the rage. Rage Katsumi had unintentionally unlocked in the man she loved as a father. Had she known the results of what she shared, she would have been beyond consoling. It took every ounce of his mental training to bring himself back under control; back to the now. When Lazarus began to breathe normally, Langston sensed the change in his master, licking him on the legs. Lazarus released his grip on the arms of the chair, leaving deep grooves in the leather. He reached to scratch Langston behind the ears, absently, as he regained control of himself.
“It’s okay,” Lazarus said in a soothing voice. “It’s okay,” he repeated as much for himself as his loyal companion. Even as he spoke the words aloud, he knew it was a long goddamn way from ever being okay again. “Come on, Langston, I have some work to do.” He got up and went inside, grabbing the sat-phone on the way, punching in a number from memory.
A woman’s voice answered, “Hello, my friend. It’s been far too long since we talked,” Said Dr. Helen.
“Yes, HH, it has been,”
“What can I do for you, Spike?” she asked. Helen and Darnell were the only two that called him Spike. It was an inside joke, a nickname he earned when first working with Katsumi. She assumed it was something important. Lazarus rarely called her on the sat-phone, so she knew this wasn’t a social call.
“Enrique Garza,” he said flatly, “He lives in Rockport, Texas and works in Corpus Christi. I need information from the local BDSM community as to what his propensities are.” Dr. Helen and Darnell were part of the community in the Chicago area.
“When do you need to know?” asked Helen.
“As soon as possible, two to three days, but tomorrow would be better,” he responded.
“Not a problem. I have a friend in the Corpus Christi community. How do you want the information delivered?”
“D” was all he said. “And, HH, there’s one more thing if you can?”
“What do you need, Spike?” asked Helen.
He smiled at the reference he missed the first time. At least she wasn’t calling him ‘Sir Rabbit, Bunny Boy the First’ - a long story, but a story worth hearing.
“If it’s possible, I might need you and D here sometime in the next 2-4 weeks.” Lazarus hesitated before adding, “Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
That surprised the good Doctor. “Oh really?” she asked. “Can I assume this someone is of the female persuasion?”
Lazarus laughed in spite of himself. There was no slipping anything by HH, she knew him all too well. “Yes, and she’s ALL woman,” he replied still laughing.
“I’ll see what I can do, but it shouldn’t be a problem.” Then Helen added, “One quick question. Where in the hell are you anyway?”
Lazarus laughed, “Rockport, Texas. It’s on the Gulf Coast, about 30 miles north of Corpus Christi.”
“Do they have a good Mexican restaurant there? You still owe us dinner for the Super Bowl, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied. “Damn Broncos anyway, and yes there’s a good Mexican restaurant here with great fajitas.”
“A man after my own heart,” she laughed. “As for D, I’ll have him on the road as soon as I find out what Garza is in to.”
“Thank you, Helen. It’s important I find out ASAP. I’ve been contracted by him and I need to know everything there is.”
“As you wish, Spike,” she said with her gravely laugh.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he sighed, “Et tu Brute?”
“Hell yeah, Spike,” She was still laughing. “See you soon my friend.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Lazarus. “One little favor if you can swing it.”
“Sure, hit me.”
“See if you can get Darnell to come in kinda low-keyed. Rockport isn’t ready for the real deal when it comes to your hubby.”
Helen had another good laugh at that one. “I’ll give it my best shot, but even a low-keyed Darnell is pretty hard for white folk to handle.”
“Truth is truth, as he is so fond of saying, but at least try to get him not looking like a hit-man for some Chicago street gang.”
“He’ll be low-keyed,” said Helen, “but there’s no way I’ll be able to talk him out of the Caddie.”
“I can live with that,” said Lazarus.
“I’ll let you know when he’s on the road.”
“Thanks, Helen.”
“No worries Spike,” Helen said as she ended the call.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lazarus spent the next three days in Rockport. He modified the relocation plan to his satisfaction, in spite of his misgivings. Business was business. What might or might not happen to Garza, once the contract was complete would be another matter entirely. That hinged on whether or not Helen could corroborate the information. He would still finish what he started, no matter his personal feelings.
He received Garza’s new identity on Tuesday the 23rd. The package had been shipped and re-shipped three times through drop boxes around the country. The worst that could happen would be the package traced back to a man who didn’t exist in La Crosse, Wisconsin. The delivery was made to his Bill Ronnebaum identity at the La Quinta. Lazarus was religiously cautious when dealing with anything that left a paper trail.
Evolution of a Killer Page 12
