The Rabbit Factory (50 page)

Church and Collins took turns questioning him for another twenty minutes, but Freddy didn't know much. He wasn't even a small fish in the pond. He was a bottom feeder who would give up whatever he had if it could save his own scaly skin.

"Alright Freddy," Church said. "We need to talk to Mr. Lamaar. I'm sure he's not sitting in his rocker on the front porch. Where in the house is he?"

"The bookcase in the Media Room opens up like one of those Hollywood sets you see in the movies," Freddy said. "That's where Mr. Lamaar hides out. It's Sunday afternoon, so he'll be in the sterile room getting dialysis from the nurse. Don't forget. You promised to give me a break if I helped you."

"You have been very helpful, Freddy," Church said. "And how could I forget? It's not every day that someone leads me to Jesus and tells me how to bring Dean Lamaar back from the dead."

It had been less than two weeks since Terry and I rode through the Rabbit Hole on a golf cart to look at the body of the late Eddie Elkins.

It was now 6 p.m. on a sunny Sunday in May, and we were in the lead vehicle as a sextet of Government-Issue Chevy Suburbans returned to join the agents who were watching Lebrecht's house.

Church, Collins, Terry, and I waited while the rest of the team surrounded the house and covered every possible escape route, including the roof.

"It's been over an hour since we grabbed Freddy," Church said, "so they know he's missing. But they haven't tried to escape."

"It might be hard for Lamaar to get around unnoticed dragging a dialysis machine behind him," Terry said.

The four of us went to the front door. "Why don't you do the honors, Mike," Church said. "You cracked the code."

Actually Diana cracked the code, but I decided not to mention it and just rang the doorbell on her behalf. "FBI and LAPD,"

I yelled. "Open up!"

Lebrecht opened the door. He was wearing blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt that was devoid of logos, pictures, or sports team affiliation. "Hello, Detective Lomax," he said. "I suppose you and these other gentlemen are the reason I have to fix my own dinner. Where did you take Freddy?"

"Freddy is in good hands," I said. "And I have excellent news You won't have to fix your own dinner ever again. The United States government will be happy to fix it for you. We have a warrant for your arrest."

I read him his rights, while Collins signaled eight agents to move into the house. "We have a search warrant," I said. "Let's start in the Media Room."

The agents fanned out through the house and the four of us walked into the empty Media Room. The control button was recessed into a decorative wall panel and was practically invisible. We would have found it eventually, but Freddy bought himself some get-out-of-jail-sooner points by telling us exactly where it was. I pressed it, and a five-foot section of bookcase swung open.

The room behind it was small, about twelve by fifteen feet. In the center was a brown leather recliner. Facing me, his body adjusted to a forty-five-degree angle, was the childhood icon of generations of children, my own included. Dean Lamaar.

A series of tubes ran from his left arm to a large column that was a foot square and five feet high. The tubes, filled with blood, snaked their way through a rotating pump and back into his arm. There was a video display at eye level that monitored his progress. A small, dark-skinned man of about fifty, wearing white pants white shoes, and a white T-shirt, was seated at his side.

I scanned the room and a feeling of deja vu crept over me. "Jesus," I said.

The man dressed in white stood up. "Si, Senor," he said.

I turned to Church. "I wasn't talking to him," I said, laughing at the comic ludicrousness of it all. "I meant Jesus, would you look at this room. It's an exact fucking replica of the room Dean Lamaar grew up in. There's another one just like it at Family land."

"With or without the dialysis machine?" Terry said.

Except for the medical miracle that was detoxifying Lamaar's blood, the room looked exactly like the Homestead exhibit Amy had taken me to. The furniture, the books and toys on the shelves, the drawings on the wall, everything. Dean Lamaar had returned to his boyhood home.

He was wearing navy slacks and a blue-and-green checked shirt. A pale yellow shawl was draped across his lap. He was no longer the same vibrant, healthy Dean Lamaar I had watched in the video. The head full of white hair had thinned, and the rosy Reagan glow had turned gray and waxy. But his eyes were still fiercely alert, and his voice still commanded attention.

"Gentlemen," he said, welcoming us and despising us in a single word.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Ronnie Lucas and numerous others," Church said. "You have the right to remain silent..."

Lamaar snapped back at him. "What if I don't wish to remain silent?"

"Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law."

"Fine, I understand my rights. I want to talk, but I'll be

plugged into this contraption for..." Lamaar leaned over to read the monitor, "...another hour and fifty-two minutes."

"Then I guess we'll wait," Church said.

"No," Lamaar said. "We'll talk now. You can question me here."

"Do you want an attorney present?" Church said.

Lamaar sneered at the suggestion. "All I need is Jesus," he said.

"Okay," Church said. "I'm going to want to tape it."

"Klaus has got video equipment," Lamaar said. "What do you need?"

"Thank you, sir," Church said, "but we brought our own."

"Make sure it's working," Lamaar said. "I don't do more than one take." The Prince of Joy and Laughter laughed, but there was no joy. The laughter sounded like dementia. The Prince had become King Lear.

One technician set up the video equipment, while a second clipped a lavalier mike to Lamaar's shirt. "This dialysis machine's a bit noisy," the sound man said. "I'll jy on an extra mike just to make sure we pick everything up." He was lying. The second microphone fed into a voice analyzer. It's not as reliable as a polygraph, but it can detect stress in a person's voice and measure ten different levels of truthfulness ranging from Boy Scout honesty to avoidance to out-and out bullshit.

Church walked up to the recliner. "I'm Special Agent in

Charge Garet Church," he said politely. Then he pointed to the

shawl on Lamaar's lap. "Sir, may I take a look under the blanket?"

"If I had a gun under there, I'd have shot you when you

came through the door," Lamaar said, handing him the shawl.

Church checked the recliner, then set the shawl back on Lamaar's lap. "And what's that button in your left hand, sir?" "Sodium release. I press it if my blood pressure drops." Church thanked him, stepped back, slated the tape with the date, time, and location, and read the Miranda. "You understand

your rights, sir?"

He did. "I'm ready to confess all my sins," Lamaar said. "Can I just tell it my way? I was never any good at questions and answers."

"I have one burning question first," Church said. "There are still hired guns out there murdering innocent people. The first order of business is for us to find them and tell them the war is over. We need names and places."

"I had nothing to do with casting," Lamaar said, as casually as if he were talking about a movie and not a massacre. "I left that to the other three. You'll have to talk to them. Klaus Lebrecht is more likely to open up than Barber. Mitch is a zealot. Dedicated to the cause."

"What about Kennedy?" Church said.

"Kevin had prostate cancer a few years ago. It kicked in again and has started to metastasize. Kevin will be dead before he tells you anything."

"Excuse us a second," Church said. I followed him outside.

The technician who set up the voice analyzer joined us. "The part about the cancer is true," he said. "But he lied about the first two guys. I'd say Barber's our weakest link."

"I'll have the surveillance units bring in Barber and Kennedy," Church said. "Get Barber in the box with Patch. He'll put some fucking heat on him."

A few minutes later, we were back in the room with Lamaar. Church gave him an icy nod. "Go ahead, sir. Tell it your way."

Lamaar cleared his throat. "I was eight years old when I drew my first cartoon character. I was twelve when my father beat me savagely for it."

For the next ninety minutes Lamaar talked. Some of it I'd

heard from Big Jim or Eeg, but that had been Hollywood hearsay. This was direct from the source. I remember Amy saying that Lamaar wouldn't let anyone ghostwrite his autobiography because his personal life was too boring. I only wished she were here to witness this. When Lamaar finally spilled his guts it was mesmerizing.

"As a boy, I instinctively knew to keep my pictures private," he said. "I wanted to share them with Mother, but I knew she would be consumed with fear of how Father might react. He had forbidden me to even read comic strips. But I had a destiny and nothing was going to stand in my way. Nothing.

"So I sinned. I would sit in my room by the light of a tallow candle and my colored pencils would sweep and swoosh and shade. Father had his leg blown off in the Great War and some nights I would hear him hop, hop, hopping to the toilet without strapping his wooden leg on. I would quickly douse the light and hide my pads and pencils in the hollow wall behind my closet.

"It was the perfect hiding place. Until the coon died. She must have been sick and burrowed her way into that space. When the stench of dead coon became powerful enough, Father went in search of the carcass.

"It was on the day of my twelfth birthday, and I came home from school, excited about what treat Mother might have for me. Along with Christmas, it was the only other day of the year that Father permitted her to give me a gift.

"He was sitting there, a whiskey glass in his hand and hatred in his eyes. The fucking hypocrite. Oh, he would preach about the dangers of alcohol, then go home and drink himself mean and ugly. He had my pencils and pads on the table next

to him, and he demanded to know how I got them. My bowels went loose and I prayed to the Good Lord not to let me crap in my pants.

"I told him I bought them at Goldberg's Emporium with money I earned cleaning Mr. MacDaniels's barn. He started to scream. You should have given that money to your Lord Jesus Christ, not to that thieving Jew merchant, Goldstealer. And then he held up my drawing pad. What are these evil pictures? I explained that they were cartoons, but he didn't see cartoons. He saw animals dressed like people. Cows and dogs and pigs, dancing and smoking. Female animals with bosoms. And then he saw Miss Kitty. Little flecks of foam bubbled from his lips and he went into a rage. A cat, dressed like a whore, and what name do you give her? Kitty? The name of my sainted dead mother? God will strike you dead for this, Deanie.

"God didn't strike me. Father did. I had suffered his belt before, but this time twenty lashes weren't enough. This sin called for greater pain. He dragged me to the fireplace and made me throw my drawings and pencils into the fire. I was crying and bleeding and begging. And now, sinner, he said and he forced my hands into the flames screaming, this is what it will feel like in Hades.

"Mother had been cowering behind the kitchen door, but she couldn't watch any longer, and she ran into the room and pulled my hands out of the fire. She begged him not to hurt me, especially on my birthday, and that set him off even more. He pushed me to the cellar door and threw me down the stairs, yelling, For your birthday dinner you can eat water bugs and mouse droppings!

"It was dark with just a little daylight coming through the

window. A water bug as big as my fist darted across the floor. I tried to step on it, but I missed. I was petrified, because I thought that the bug was angry, and he'd bring back his friends. Now I was afraid to sit on the floor. I had never seen a water bug in the coal pile, so I climbed to the top, careful not to collapse it. The window was dirty, but there was enough light to see for another hour. I picked up a lump of coal and began to draw on the cellar wall.

"There was a character that had been inside my head for years. A rabbit. Defiant, confident, dauntless, daring--everything I wished I could be. That night in that dungeon, he came to life, and he comforted me and sustained me through my loneliness and fear. In the morning, I gave him a name. Rambunctious. I knew he was part of my destiny and no one would ever stand in our way. I decided right then to murder my father."

Lamaar paused, and the only sound in the room was the whir of the dialysis machine. "It took me a few weeks," he said. "Not to get up the courage, but to come up with a plot. I was only twelve, but I was very creative. One night, after Father had passed out from liquor, I climbed a tree, crawled out on the roof, pried loose some shingles, and let them slide to the ground. The next morning he saw them and told me to hold the ladder while he repaired them.

"He hobbled up fifteen rungs, and just as he lifted his good leg to step onto the roof, I shoved the ladder backwards. He came crashing down and landed in a pile of garden tools that I had placed on the ground. I ran to him, ready to bash his skull with a shovel, but he fell on an iron rake and cut an artery. I will never forget the look in his eyes, first pleading for me to get help, then horror as I whispered, I'll see you in hell. I stood

over him until he bled to death.

"Everyone accepted it as just a tragic accident. But at the cemetery, as they lowered him into the grave, Mother hugged me tight, put her lips to my ear and whispered, Thank you, thank you, thank you. We never spoke of him again."

A tray was attached to the right side of Lamaar's recliner. There was a box of tissues in it, a large syringe with no needle, and a can of Pepsi with a straw sticking out of the top. He reached over with his right hand, took a sip, then gestured his head toward me. "I've been trying to place your face," he said, as if we were casual acquaintances at a studio party. "I saw you on TV after the Ronnie Lucas murder. And we watched you on the Web cam. You and your partner put the ransom money in the van, but you were the one who realized we were going to blow it up."