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I could smell the bullshit from a mile away. The cover-up was already in motion, and I knew right then that justice would never be served through official channels.
I left his office and went to my desk, where I did my own corrupt act in copying all the files I had on Lazaro D’Amato and the case against the family. Then I typed up my resignation letterand walked back to my sergeant, leaving my gun and badge on his desk. I didn’t even explain. I just handed him the letter and walked out.
I haven’t looked back. Instead, I applied for a private investigator's license and dug back into Lazaro D’Amato’s case. Lana may have rejected me, but I’ll fulfill my promise to her even if she never wants to see me again.
So far, I've focused on Peter’s words hinting at his involvement in Lazaro’s disappearance. I went to see him in jail, where I learned he'd been moved to a psychiatric facility. God, he was even worse off than I thought.
I've visited him several times, trying every angle I can think of to get him to talk. I've appealed to his sense of justice, reminded him of our partnership, even tried to play on his ego. But nothing works. He just sits there, a smug smile on his face, refusing to give me anything concrete.
"You're too late, Henry," he'd said during my last visit. "What's done is done. Let it go."
But I can't let it go. Not when I know how much finding Lazaro means to Lana.
And every day since Lana's return home, I've stopped by the D’Amato estate, needing to know Lana was recovering, only to be turned away.
Today, I couldn’t take it. I had to see her. I did the dumbest thing I could do and pushed my way in. I stood there, looking at the woman I love, while her brother held a gun to my head. I had no doubt he'd use it. But at least I knew she was alive. Still haunted by that night, but growing stronger.
I shake the memories of the last few weeks from my head as I arrive back at my apartment. I drag myself in and head straight to my makeshift home office on my dining table. I search what I have about Lazaro's disappearance for the umpteenthtime, looking for the information I’m missing, for the clue I’ve overlooked.
I go back to the abandoned vans. So far, I haven’t found any police reports about suspicious activity in the three cities that make me think it's related to Lazaro. No bodies at the morgue matching Lazaro around that time.
Grasping at straws, I decide to call hospitals. It’s crazy because if Lazaro was injured but healed, wouldn’t he have come home? If he was injured and died, there would be a report of it in the morgue. I go back to the obvious. Someone made him disappear without a trace, buried or dumped in Lake Michigan. In that case, I'll never find the answer, and that's not acceptable.
So I'm going to call hospitals to see if they have any records of Lazaro. I'm lucky because they're allowed to give law enforcement patient information in missing persons cases. It's one of the few exceptions to HIPAA laws.
I pick up my phone, dialing a hospital in Naperville.
"This is Detective Henry Lutz from Chicago.” I’m aware that I’m being deceptive as I know they’ll think I’m a law enforcement official. I feel like they'll be more forthcoming to a cop than a PI. “I'm looking into a missing persons case from three years ago." It's amazing how easy it is to veer into the gray areas of law.
The conversation goes nowhere, like all my calls before. But I continue on, immediately dialing all the hospitals in each of the cities. Napier, Illinois and Fort Wayne, Indiana. All are dead ends.
I rub my tired eyes and then call the first hospital on the list in Lafayette, Indiana. I'm tired, bone-weary, really. But I won't stop until all the calls are made.
"This is Detective Henry Lutz from Chicago. I'm investigating a missing persons case and was hoping you could help me with some information."
There's a pause, then, "What kind of information, Detective?"
"I'm wondering if you could tell me if a Lazaro D’Amato was admitted.” I give her the dates.
A moment later, I get the information I expect. No one admitted by that name.
“How about any John Does?” I ask the next question. “Male. About twenty-one at the time. Dark hair.”
I stand, stretching to release the kinks in my back and help me stay alert.
"We did have a patient matching that description," the voice finally says. "Admitted shortly after the date you mentioned."
I stop short. Could this be it? "Can you tell me anything else about him?"
“I can confirm he was discharged after treatment for severe injuries, about a month after he was brought in."
“John Doe?” I ask to be sure. “No one came forward looking for him?”
“Not on any reports I have here.”
"Any idea where he went?"
"I'm sorry, we don't have that information."
