The Chosen

by Sharon Sala

  Jay saw the obituary by accident as he was cleaning out his cab. He couldn’t believe what he was reading, and yet there it was. Walter Leopold Lazarus, age eighty-seven, husband of Etta, father to a son and daughter, grandfather to six grandchildren, and just buried in Perpetual Care Cemetery. His thoughts began to tumble. Lazarus. It couldn’t be a coincidence. When he glanced at the paper and realized that it was three days old, he panicked. Lazarus had been raised from the dead on the third day after he was buried, just as Jesus himself had been raised from the dead three days after his crucifixion. If he was meant to follow through on this, he didn’t have any time to waste.

  He sat down on the edge of the back seat and read the obituary again and again, until the facts were burned into his brain. Two nights ago he’d brought Phillip into the fold, then yesterday the other Simon. With only two disciples to go, should he go for them first, or return Lazarus to the living?

  A sudden breeze ruffled the edges of the paper he was holding. He took it as a sign from God. Quickly, Jay finished cleaning out the cab, got out his map to the city and found the location of Perpetual Care. There were things to be done before dark, at which time Lazarus would be rising.

  Ben got the call at 6:04 a.m., saying that a body had been found on a bench in a grove of trees not far from the memorial honoring the nurses who’d served in Vietnam. Because of the location, they had to park in the lot near the Lincoln Memorial, and walk up the commons to where the body had been discovered.

  The sight was more than bizarre.

  When they got there, they found a very well dressed dead man, sitting upright—wearing an Italian suit and Gucci shoes, and tied to the bench with a length of rope, like a puppet on a string.

  Ben saw Fran Morrow, the crime scene investigator, crouched in front of the body, staring upward into the dead man’s face.

  “Hey, Fran, what can you tell us?” Rick asked.

  “He’s dead,” she drawled, as she continued to stare at the face without moving.

  There was something odd about her behavior, and Ben picked up on it. He squatted down beside her without actually touching.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  She pointed to the man’s face. “I think he’s wearing makeup.”

  Ben shrugged. “So he’s a transvestite, maybe?”

  “In a dress, yes, but not in that suit,” she said.

  “So what are you thinking?”

  “That this isn’t a murder.”

  Ben frowned. “But he’s dead.”

  “There’s no visible wound,” she said.

  “Maybe it was a heart attack,” Rick offered.

  “And tied to a bench? Explain that,” Ben said.

  “I can’t,” Fran said. “But I’ll know more after I get him to the lab.”

  “Any ID on him?” Ben asked.

  “Nothing in the pockets,” Fran said, then added, “There is one other thing.”

  “Like what?” Ben asked.

  “I detect the odor of embalming fluid.”

  Ben stared.

  Rick’s mouth dropped.

  “You saying this guy’s already been buried and dug up?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Fran said. “I just said I smell embalming fluid.”

  Rick looked at the body one more time, then turned away and spat, as if the taste in his mouth was suddenly too disgusting to bear.

  “Oh, great, ghouls and grave robbers. What’s next…zombies?”

  “Somebody could have lifted him from a funeral parlor,” Ben said.

  Fran shrugged.

  “Can you get us some prints?” Rick asked.

  Fran nodded as she stood. “If I were you, I’d just check the obits and funerals for the past…oh, I’d say four or five days…find out how many men over the age of eighty have been buried, then go check the locations. The open grave site will be your winner. Meanwhile, we’re going to take him back to the morgue and give him a nice cool slab to rest on while you go find where he’d been planted. Believe me, he more than needs to go back.”

  January was downing her last bite of scrambled egg when the phone rang. She grabbed the receiver on her way to the sink with her dirty dishes.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. DeLena…January…you didn’t do as I asked, did you? Although I suppose I should have expected that. Your curiosity is what makes you a good reporter.”

  January stifled a gasp. It was the same man who’d called her before. Only this time she was going to be the one doing the talking.

  “We’ve met before, haven’t we? In the park. Are you stalking me?”

  “No.”

  “Then leave me alone,” January said.

  “Now you’re starting to get the picture,” he said. “It’s not pleasant to have someone prying into your private business.”

  January frowned. He had her there. But she wasn’t done.

  “Your business ceases to be private when it becomes criminal,” she said. “You’re killing people, aren’t you? What’s wrong with you, mister? Trying to live up to that name you gave yourself? Sinner. Not very original.”

  Jay frowned. She was taunting him. He needed to let it go. Patience was a virtue.

  “I want you to understand that I’m still walking in His shoes,” he said. “Every step He took, every path He trod, every lesson He taught us. The answers are out there. Look for them and you will understand.”

  “You talk in riddles, Sinner man. If you want to teach the ignorant, you don’t speak in riddles. You make yourself plain.”

  Jay thought about that and decided she could be right. If the constant pain in his right eye would lessen up just a bit, he would be able to think more clearly on his own.

  “Yes. I see what you mean,” he said.

  January was more than a little surprised that he’d acquiesced so easily.

  “So what’s your name, Sinner? I mean your real name. And what game are you playing?”

  “My name is of no importance, and I do not play games. I follow in His steps.”

  January slapped the cabinet with the flat of her hand. The sound echoed loudly enough that Jay heard it and felt her disdain.

  “That’s nothing but a repeat of your same old story, buddy. Here’s the deal. If you don’t have anything concrete to prove to me that you’re for real, just quit calling.”

  Jay had wanted her off his back, but now that she’d offered him the option, he felt panic at losing their connection.

  “You don’t have to believe me. See the truth. Lazarus has risen.”

  The line went dead in her ear. January slammed the phone down in disgust and then stood there for a moment, going back over the conversation they’d just had. And that last remark—Lazarus has risen. What the hell did that mean?

  Lazarus died. Jesus raised him from the dead. January thought of Jean Baptiste and the missing men. The death of Bart Scofield. What could he mean by “Lazarus has risen”?

  Then it hit her. She grabbed the phone and called a friend who worked at a local paper.

  “Washington Post, Emily speaking.”

  “Emily, this is January. How are you doing?”

  “Great, girlfriend, but never as great as you. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What else is new?” Emily said.

  “It’s not a big one. But I need you to check the obituaries for the past week and tell me if a man named Lazarus has been buried recently.”

  Emily laughed. “Now what, DeLena? You looking for a miracle?”

  “No, but I think someone else is,” January said.

  “My computer is a dinosaur. It’ll take me a few minutes to download the info.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m going to put the receiver down. Pretend you hear Elvis singing, ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’? It’s what I would play if I was important enough to have music when I put people on hold.”

  January laughed. She coul
d hear Emily moving around her desk. She heard her muttering to herself as the program stalled; then she heard paper tearing. She didn’t have to ask to know that Emily was frustrated. Every time that happened, she broke out the chocolate.

  A few minutes later, Emily picked the phone back up. January could hear her chewing.

  “M&Ms or Snickers bar?” she asked.

  Emily snorted softly. “What? It’s not enough that you’re beautiful, smart and slender? Now you’ve gone all psychic? If you are, I hate you.”

  “I can hear you chewing. What have you found for me?”

  “Only because I refuse to acknowledge the jealous streak in my body, I will share info.”

  “And that would be…?” January asked.

  “You were right. A man named Walter Leopold Lazarus was buried four days ago in Perpetual Care Cemetery. Want the address?”

  “Yes, please,” January said, and took down the info Emily gave her. “Oh…Em, did he have any next of kin?”

  “Yes, a wife named Etta. Want her address, too?”

  “Yeah, sure,” January said, and jotted that down, along with the rest of what Emily had told her.

  “Anything else?” her friend asked.

  “No, but thanks a bunch. I owe you lunch.”

  “It’s a deal,” Emily said. “See you on the tube.”

  They disconnected. The moment the line was free, January called Ben’s cell.

  Ben and Rick were almost back to the car when Ben’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and grinned as he answered.

  “Good morning, January.”

  Rick wanted to listen, but he’d already messed things up once by being stupid. He wasn’t going to repeat that mistake again.

  “I’ll just be over there,” he said, pointing toward the car.

  Ben was too focused on January to do more than nod. “You’re at work pretty early,” he murmured.

  “I’m still at home,” she said. “And I just had another phone call from our preacher.”

  “The hell, you say. Did he threaten you again?” All the humor was gone from Ben’s voice.

  “Not really. It’s something else. I have a really weird question to ask you.”

  “Like what?”

  “By any chance, have you guys found the body of a dead man…No, wait, I didn’t say that right. Have you—”

  Ben interrupted, “Found a dead man who’d already gone through one funeral and was shooting for another?”

  January gasped. “You have? Already?”

  “Yes. He’s on his way to the crime lab as we speak. Now tell me what you know,” Ben said.

  “His name is Walter Leopold Lazarus,” January answered.

  “Lazarus…as in—”

  “Exactly.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Ben said. “How do you know this?”

  “Because the preacher, when he called, told me that Lazarus was risen. Knowing the other stunts he’s been pulling, I took a guess and called a friend at the Post, who checked the obits. It’s time to tell your captain everything I know. If I come in, will you be there?”

  “Rick and I are still on the scene. Give me thirty minutes.”

  “See you there,” January said.

  Thirteen

  Ben called the captain from the car and told him they were coming in with some breaking info.

  “Make me happy,” Borger said. “Tell me it’s going to help us catch Bart Scofield’s killer.”

  “And then some,” Ben said.

  “I’ll be here,” Borger said, and disconnected.

  Ben and Rick arrived ahead of January only because they ran with the lights and sirens all the way to the precinct. While January’s reputation with the public was good, it was less than favorable within the police department. Too many of her scoops had been at the expense of department mistakes or the result of someone with a big mouth willing to sell what they knew. Ben bet she would never make it to the captain’s office unless he paved the way.

  “I’ll wait out here for her and bring her in,” he said.

  “Want me to wait with you?” Rick asked.

  “No. Go on in and prep the captain. Maybe he’ll be through cursing by the time we get there.”

  “Right,” Rick said, and hurried inside.

  Less than five minutes later, January wheeled into the parking lot. Ben was coming toward her before she got out of the car. He grabbed her elbow as she started to exit, and gave her a quick hug.

  “I don’t like it that this Sinner feels the need to keep calling you.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” January muttered. “Will your captain hear me out?”

  “Yes. He won’t like it, but he’ll listen.”

  “I brought all the notes I’ve been keeping.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Ben and January ran the gauntlet of cops, their expressions ranging from curious to disbelieving as they headed for the homicide division. Minutes later, January was standing in Borger’s office, Ben and Rick behind her. Borger eyed her without comment, then arched an eyebrow at his detectives.

  “I don’t know why she’s on top of something we’re investigating and we’re standing around with our thumbs up our butts.”

  “You’ll understand when you hear her out, Captain. Not a one of us would have ever gone down this road in the investigation. We deal in facts, and everything she has is theory.”

  “I don’t have time for some bullshit theory, and you know it. Why are you wasting my time?” Borger snapped.

  “You’ll see. Just hear her out,” Ben said.

  “She better have something worth talking about,” Borger said.

  January glared.

  “Well, Captain…she has plenty to talk about, but if you’re reluctant to hear her out, she will be more than happy to take it to her boss. He will be all over it like flies on shit.”

  Borger stifled a grin. DeLena had put him in his place, and rightly so.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Force of habit. Please, have a seat.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll stand. I think better when I move.”

  Having said that, she began to pace.

  “I’m going to start at the beginning because if I don’t, you’re never going to believe me.”

  “All right, I’ll hear you out. But answer me one question first.”

  “If I can,” she said.

  “When you’re through talking, are we going to have a suspect in the Scofield murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “This all started because I wanted to do a documentary on people who claim to have had near-death experiences. Several months ago, someone told me about a street preacher who made such a claim, but there was a twist to his story. He claimed that when he died, he went straight to hell, and that when the doctors resuscitated him, he changed his way of living. I’ve been looking for him ever since. At first, no one seemed willing to talk to me. As time passed, the stories continued, but no one seemed to know where he could be found. I was about to think he was just some urban myth when I heard a funky story about some street preacher passing out coupons for free fish sandwiches that could be redeemed at a fast-food place. By the time the owner of the fish place found out what was happening, almost a hundred counterfeit coupons had been passed at three different locations. I chalked it up to a scam and thought nothing more of it.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?” he asked.

  “I’m getting there,” January said. “Then a man was beheaded. It was when I learned his name that the notion I’ve been exploring ever since occurred to me. When homeless men began disappearing and I learned their names I knew I was onto something. It was also around then that Bart Scofield was kidnapped. Then he turned up dead and—”

  Borger held up his hand. “Look, Ms. DeLena, this is somewhat interesting, but I still don’t know where you’re going. Can you condense this journey? I have a meeting in a half hour
.”

  January threw up her hands in disgust.

  “Condense it? Sure. Here’s the scoop, Captain. You’ve got a head case who’s trying to recreate and live the life of Jesus Christ so that when he dies again—and he claims it will be soon—he’ll go to heaven, not hell. If that holds true, then consider this.”

  She began ticking off her clues on her fingers.

  “The fish coupons…he was feeding the multitudes with loaves of bread and baskets of fish, compliments of the restaurant’s generosity, but it was still bread and fish. He’s been kidnapping homeless men whose names are the same as Christ’s twelve disciples. So far, according to a Mother Mary Theresa who runs a shelter for the Sisters of Mercy, at least Simon Peters, Matthew, Andrew, James and John have gone missing. I’m guessing by now there are others. A man was beheaded in one of the parks. He was homeless, too. His name was Jean Baptiste. Say that in English and you’ve got John Baptist, or John the Baptist. The nut has been calling me for some time now. He knows I’ve been looking for him. When I asked him why he killed Bart Scofield, you know what he told me? He told me it was the wrong Bart. Bartholomew was the name of one of the disciples. For whatever reason, your Mr. Scofield was the only man he’d taken who wasn’t someone off the streets. I can’t pretend to know what’s in his head, but I know what he said.”

  “Is that all?” Borger asked.

  “No. The drawing your sketch artist did of the man we think is the Sinner matched a man your people arrested for disturbing the peace some time ago.”

  “We had him in custody?” Borger asked.

  Ben shrugged. “For a few hours.”

  “And we let him go.”

  “It was disturbing the peace, Captain. How could anyone have known?”

  “What was he doing?” Borger asked.

  January opened her notebook and laid it in front of Borger. “He was trying to have the employees of the IRS thrown out of the building.” She tapped on the page in front of Borger. “Read it for yourself and do the math. IRS out of the building. Money changers out of the temple. Throw the money changers—the IRS—out of the temple…or the IRS building.”

  “Crap,” Borger said. “Is that all?”

  “At my last count, he was short a few disciples. Besides calling me, I have reason to believe he may be stalking me. He appeared out of nowhere in the park where I run. I believe he was waiting to confront me. I think he got off on talking to me when, at the time, I didn’t know who he was.”