Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  Cochrane went back into the building briefly with his ladder and collected the cameras.

  On the drive back to Queens, Lazlo checked the plates of the sedan and the van on the on-board computer. One set were registered to a Toyota Prius owned by an elderly couple in Miami, the other to a VW Beetle owned by a twenty-year-old Bostonian.

  Lazlo arrived back at his Brownstone around 11:00 p.m. John was eager to find out what he had discovered. He didn’t have to wait long. Lazlo went straight to his computer and connected a pen-drive. The footage showing the delivery and storage of body bags in a refrigerated container was damning, but not as damning as the photos of the girl’s body uploaded from Lazlo’s phone. John finally felt a sense of relief that it wasn’t just him who had seen what El Gordito was doing. Now, an NYPD detective was also in the know.

  On his way into the precinct the next morning, Lazlo received a text from Genna. It stated that the scientist had emailed him the test results of the blood sample that had been recovered from the murdered chef, Ignacio Felix.

  Once he’d reached his desk, Lazlo also received some unexpected good news: his captain had sent out a text informing everyone at the precinct that he would be in Denver for the next few days attending to his mother, who had been taken gravely ill. This would make bringing in El Gordito a lot easier once he’d also gotten rid of his bitter rival, Detective Caleb Richards, who had been assigned to take over any new evidence against El Gordito.

  Genna had e-mailed a DNA profile of the blood sample he had taken from the chef’s tooth, and reported that he’d already run the profile against the police database. There had been no match, which didn’t surprise Lazlo, since DNA samples from El Gordito and his top lieutenants had never been collected. The only way forward was for Lazlo to obtain swabs of saliva from the drug lord and his men at the precinct, then have Genna match the profiles against the sample collected from the dead chef’s body.

  One of the powers of the police, which Lazlo had frequently used in his career, was the right to arrest suspects based on probable cause, without the need of an arrest warrant. Probable cause wasn’t defined in any statute—it was defined through case law. The circumstances of its use had to be weighed in the context of the rights of the individual under the Fourth Amendment. Lazlo knew the definition well. An arrest under probable cause could be made if supported by a reasonable amount of suspicion, supported by circumstances sufficiently strong to justify a prudent and cautious person’s belief that certain facts were probably true. Well, who else would murder his chefs after a failed health inspection?

  A voice from behind Lazlo broke his concentration. “Dan! Screwed up any more cases yet?”

  The voice had a softer Texas twang than Caleb Richards and belonged to someone simpatico to Lazlo. It was his partner, Peter Markle, who sauntered over to sit at the desk opposite Lazlo’s. He had just returned to the precinct following a two-month transfer to Chicago PD, where his expertise had helped on a serial killer case.

  Lazlo knew Markle had an advantage over him in being more level-headed. He also, more importantly, knew that his friend had his back covered when they were out on raids. Like Lazlo, Markle just wanted to get the job done, and this had inevitably led to him being investigated in the past by Internal Affairs regarding unorthodox methods of obtaining arrests.

  Lazlo now told him the story behind the chef killings and showed him the crime scene photos. Markle, concurred that it could only be the work of El Gordito and his men, but he was surprised at the staging of the murders with the roaches and bugs––it was something new for the kingpin. After finding out what Lazlo intended to do next, Peter Markle insisted on marking his first day back at the NYPD by assisting his partner in the arrest of El Gordito and his top four henchmen: Manuel Hernandez, Alberto Gonzalez, Mario Cervantes and Victor Sanchez

  El Gordito stood by a window, looking down at the spectacular view of Manhattan. Behind him, in his spacious corner office, stood Manuel Hernandez and Mario Cervantes, arguing over a late drug shipment.

  The doors burst open and Lazlo, Markle, Cousins, and two other heavily armed NYPD officers marched into the room.

  A scar like a flat brown worm ran over the top of one eye to the bridge of El Gordito’s nose, preventing an even raising of his eyebrows. “Gentlemen! Have you come to start a war?” His joke only thinly veiled his underlying outrage.

  “Miguel Vargas,” Lazlo announced using El Gordito’s legal name, “Manuel Hernandez and Mario Cervantes, you are all under arrest for the murders of Ignacio Felix and Ricardo Aparcio,” said Lazlo, and he continued by reciting their Miranda rights.

  “Warrant!” El Gordito demanded.

  “No warrant. I have probable cause,” Lazlo replied.

  “You are out of your mind, Detective Lazlo. Your department can’t afford this!” El Gordito mocked and motioned to his men to present their wrists in front of them for handcuffing. “Let the officers do their job, gentlemen.”

  “No! Put your hands behind your back,” Lazlo said as he forced the kingpin’s arms into position and cuffed him, after pushing him down onto his desk.

  “Careful Detective. Haven’t you learned yet that I own this town?” Vargas warned.

  Markle, like Lazlo, was unfazed. He demonstrated his disregard for El Gordito’s power by using a display of unnecessary force, slamming the head of one of the drug lord’s men down onto the desk as he cuffed the guy. “He resisted arrest,” Markle announced, looking El Gordito squarely in the eyes.

  “Your rule is coming to an end, El Gordito. This time you’re going down. Where are Sanchez and Gonzalez?” Lazlo demanded, barely hiding his disdain.

  “Well, normally I would tell you to go to hell, detective. But I want to assist you in your unlawful arrest of as many of my team as you want. It will make your fall that much harder. Take these cuffs off me and I will call my lawyer and get them to come into the station.”

  Lazlo obliged, and El Gordito dialed his lawyer. “I’ve been arrested, and I’m being taken to the . . . 73rd. Precinct?” He sent Lazlo an inquiring glance, and Lazlo nodded in confirmation. “Along with Hernandez and Cervantes. They also want to arrest Gonzalez and Sanchez. Would you be so kind and ask them to come to the precinct?”

  He didn’t bother to listen to his lawyer’s objections. He just hung up.

  John had somehow rested far too long on Lazlo’s couch, underestimating his need to regenerate. He had left the brownstone, probably hours after Lazlo.

  He was now sitting and waiting by Lazlo’s desk in the detective’s pen at the precinct. And suddenly he heard shouts of protest—a distinctive mix of Mexican and New York accents. Had Lazlo arrested El Gordito and some of his men? Acutely aware that just like any other spirit, Santiago’s spirit would be able to see him, John had to quickly disappear. He moved quickly out of the detectives’ bullpen and into the confines of the officers’ kitchen. He waited there, allowing sufficient time for Lazlo to place each of his arrestees into separate interview rooms—a move that would be necessary, he guessed, to see if their stories checked out.

  John then cautiously moved out from the kitchen and back in the direction of the detectives’ pen, following the corridor that led toward the row of interview rooms. He stepped inside the observation room overlooking Interview Room 1.

  Lazlo and another man, not in uniform, he hadn’t seen before were already in there, deep in discussion. Looking through the window, John immediately recognized El Gordito sitting alone in the interview room. This close, he could see a scar close to one of the drug lord’s pitch-black eyes. He shrugged off the chill he felt from the man’s stare and lopsided grin on the other side of the glass. Of greater concern was that El Gordito wasn’t possessed. What the fuck? Where the hell was Santiago’s spirit? He slipped out into the corridor and into each of the observation rooms overlooking the remaining interview rooms. None of El Gordito’s henchmen were possessed either.

  He returned to the first observation room, where Lazl
o was still talking to the other man, with whom he clearly had a high degree of professional chemistry. John suspected he was probably another detective. He was saying to Lazlo, “I couldn’t be sure at first, when we arrested El Gordito and his men, but just now, when I cuffed Hernandez to the table in Room 3, I could see he has scratches along the index and middle finger of his right hand. They look fresh.”

  “That would be consistent with a scratch from the chef’s broken tooth while trying to stuff him like a goose for foie gras,” Lazlo declared.

  Just then, a slick-looking man in a suit that managed to look both expensive and sleazy entered the interview room. He straightaway cautioned his client to stay silent. He stared at the one-way glass. John immediately noticed he was, in fact, possessed. Santiago’s spirit—it has to be. John’s constant level of heightened stress jumped a few more notches at the possibility of actually coming face-to-face with the spirit who had not only possessed El Gordito but also caused a man to stab him.

  “This arrest is preposterous. You have gone too far this time, Lazlo!” the lawyer snarled at the one-way mirror.

  “Despite all his power and threats, it’s that scumbag lawyer that allows him to thrive,” Lazlo muttered to his companion. “Let’s make them sweat a while longer.”

  Ten more minutes passed before Lazlo and his colleague leisurely walked into the interview room. John stayed in the viewing room.

  As they entered and sat down, Lazlo introduced himself and then his colleague, Detective Peter Markle, for the record.

  A snide smile appeared on the lawyer’s puffy red face as he returned the courtesy. “Raul Gomez, Attorney-at-Law, known very well to your captain. Now, let’s not waste any more time, shall we? Mr. Sanchez and Mr. Gonzalez are otherwise indisposed but will join us as soon as possible—but I suspect my client will be out of here before they arrive.” He paused to stare at both Lazlo and Markle. “Both your careers are over!”

  “Cut the shit, Gomez. We need a DNA sample from your client and all his men. Now, he can give it voluntarily, or we can take it by force,” Markle threatened.

  “You have no right to do that,” Gomez interjected.

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Counselor,” Lazlo explained. “The police are allowed to take DNA under a Supreme Court decision in 2013. Should I send you the case law?”

  “That only applies when the arrest has been lawful. This isn’t a lawful arrest.”

  “Probable cause,” responded Lazlo.

  “We’ll let the judge decide,” Gomez countered, and his eyes burned a brighter orange now.

  Suddenly, El Gordito intervened, his black eyes shining with anger. “Take your sample, detective. If you think you can link me to anything you are more stupid than I thought.”

  Markle opened the pouch he had on the table in front of him, took out what looked like an oversized Q-tip and swabbed the inside of El Gordito’s mouth, placing it in a test tube, which he then sealed.

  Lazlo and Markle went out of the room and came back within the space of a couple of minutes. They could hear the muted sounds of a scuffle, shouting, and a metal chair falling to the ground in another interview room.

  Minutes later, Cousins entered and nodded to Lazlo to indicate he’d been successful in what he’d had to do.

  “Thank you, Officer Cousins,” Lazlo turned to Vargas. “Seems like your colleagues were less than voluntary in providing their samples.”

  “That’s outrageous. This whole arrest is a blatant misuse of police power!” Gomez protested. “Where’s your captain, Lazlo?”

  “He’s in Colorado. A family emergency. He’s not answering his phone,” Lazlo said without hiding his satisfaction at being able to deliver this news.

  Gomez got up, and John noticed his eyes burning with fury. “Rest assured your captain will hear of this as soon as I can get through to him. But now I’m going to get a judge to rule this detainment unwarranted. My clients will be out of here in a matter of hours and you, detective, will be out of a job!”

  “Officer Cousins here will shortly take you to a holding cell,” Lazlo informed Vargas with a broad grin as he and Markle left the interview room.

  John waited a while before venturing out of the viewing room. He had braced himself for a confrontation with Santiago, but it looked as though the spirit had left the station with his host, Gomez. Instead, he found Markle and Lazlo alone, talking in the corridor.

  “I’m going to get a rush on those DNA tests. You stay here and see if you can get anything more out of El Gordito,” Lazlo informed Markle as he grabbed the pouch of swab samples from his hand.

  “Damn it, Lazlo! Follow procedure!” Markle shouted after him.

  Lazlo didn’t respond.

  As John followed the detective out of the station, he tried to work out how Lazlo was planning to make the arrests stick. It was obvious that Gomez would undermine their validity. The fact that Tom Stevens, and not the official M.E., had obtained the samples from the chef’s body could render the evidence useless. Lazlo was sticking his neck out and making his friends do the same, but why?

  When Lazlo pulled up in his car outside Genna’s lab, he already had four missed calls from the captain on his mobile and a message from Markle. Sitting in the front passenger seat, John listened to Markle’s recorded message as Lazlo played it through the speaker on his phone. The captain had spoken with him and had said that he was under a lot of pressure from his superiors, urging him to justify the detention of El Gordito. Apparently, the captain was furious that Lazlo wasn’t answering his calls. But—and it was a positive ‘but’—the captain had agreed to allow El Gordito and his men to be detained for the maximum-possible time without charging—thirty-six hours. Given that a DNA match was being attempted to identify one of Vargas’s murder victims, he had figured that it would be more of a risk to free them than to keep them in the cells.

  Lazlo took a deep breath. He felt a sense of vindication. He wondered if the captain was beginning to trust him again.

  With John invisibly in tow, Lazlo found Genna in the basement of the lab, near the scene of the previous mouse carnage. The scientist was preparing for analysis of the DNA samples using two new RapidHit DNA testing machines. Without wasting a moment to greet Lazlo, Genna loaded the DNA sample from Mario Cervantes into one machine and the sample of Manuel Hernandez’s DNA into the other machine.

  After an hour of waiting, which Lazlo and Genna filled with general conversation, the sample from Mario Cervantes came back with no matches to the police database, which was expected, but there was also no match to the profile that had been produced from the chef’s blood at the crime scene. The second machine announced it had completed Hernandez’s DNA profile. Again, there were no matches with the police database, but there was a decisive match with the DNA profile from the blood found in the tooth.

  “We’ve got Manuel Hernandez. These machines are state-of-the-art, and the results are incontrovertible,” announced Genna.

  “That’s the guy with the scratches to his fingers! We got El Gordito’s number two!” Lazlo said triumphantly. There was a moment of punching the air and high-fiving, which John wished he could have participated in, but then Lazlo got back to business. “Run the samples from El Gordito and the others. Maybe one of them will turn up!”

  Lazlo called Alan Carlisle, the assistant prosecutor for the State of New York. He didn’t answer his mobile, so Lazlo called his secretary and John listened in. Carlisle was out for lunch at the exclusive Amber Rooms Club in Manhattan.

  The maître d’ at the Amber Rooms requested proof of club membership with a well-cultivated, snooty tone.

  “This is my membership card. It’s official police business,” said Lazlo, showing him his badge as he pushed his way past the man. John followed, but not before he had shown his own disdain for the man by causing a ghostly flutter of some papers on the maître d’s podium, causing them to fall to the floor.

  Lazlo looked through the glazed doors into the
restaurant. He saw that Carlisle was sitting with his boss, Mark Gamble, the district attorney for the State of New York. He knocked on the glass, and they and a few other diners, who were indignant at the interruption, looked at him. John took the opportunity to check if any of them were possessed. None of them were.

  Carlisle made a gesture of apology to Gamble and walked over to the doors.

  “This better be good, Lazlo. Gamble is crazy about the sanctity of his club.”

  Lazlo showed New York’s assistant prosecutor the police report, the photos of the murdered victims and, lastly, the DNA profiles not only placing Hernandez at the scene but also proving he had been involved in the murder.

  “Shit! You know what this means?” Carlisle quirked an eyebrow and smiled. “At last, we have something substantial! Wait here,” he said and went back to Gamble.

  Lazlo could see Gamble at the men’s lunch table, thumbing through the documents. He said something to Carlisle, who then immediately returned.

  “All evidence collected in line with procedure?” Carlisle inquired, eying Lazlo suspiciously as he handed back the file.

  “Of course,” lied Lazlo.

  “This is just the kind of win that the mayor needs right now regarding crime. Fine work! We’re running with it! I’ll get the arraignment set for tomorrow or the day after. My office will send you the documents charging him with first-degree murder.”

  As John let out a silent sigh of relief, Lazlo called Markle. “We’ve got a positive on Manuel Hernandez. Charge him, and keep the others detained for the full thirty-six hours. And start working on Hernandez to get him to implicate the others.”

  Lazlo couldn’t put it off any longer. He called his captain. It took just under twenty minutes for the captain to concede that there could no longer be any doubt that El Gordito was involved in the double homicide of the chefs. The DNA match conclusively placed his henchman, Manuel Hernandez, at the scene of one of the murders related to the DNA club. El Gordito’s lawyer, Gomez, had already called several times threatening that the captain would soon receive a call from Judge Dwight over the legitimacy of the detention. However, with Hernandez now charged, there was nothing that Gomez could do except wait for the arraignment. The captain even agreed to put out a BOLO to all units for Alberto Gonzalez and Victor Sanchez to be brought in for questioning.