Legion of Twelve

By Michael David Sarbone

June 5, 2021: A Brooklyn resident was found dead on his kitchen floor with a pentagram carved into his stomach. The suspect boarded a ship called the Murdock, which set sail along the Hudson River. 

Alas, the lead detective's brother was kidnapped and trafficked upon that very ship, headed toward a gruesome fate. If detect

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael David Sarbone
• Release date: Apr 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578292397

Book preview

Part I

The Murdock

1

Café

An hour and a half before Mitch’s abduction, Doug takes exit 23A on the Henry Hudson Parkway, turns right onto Cookman, then pulls into the Cool Cat’s Café parking lot. He sees his brother sitting next to a pot of orange Tulips along a flagstone patio.

I’m late...

Where Mitch is seated, the sun glistens against his gold engagement ring between his fingertips and the black dining table. He’s smiling, sort of. He probably wishes I chose Smeagol’s bar next door, but who wants to admit they’d like a drink this early?

Doug takes a seat. He is happy to see his brother—it’s been too long.

And who’s fault is that?

Finally, says Mitch.

I know, I know. We said twelve.

Mitch shakes his head.

Are you ready for coffee? says Doug. Thanks for waiting, by the way.

Yeah, no problem.

It’s a problem, but whatever...

Mitch gets up to order inside. Doug tells him he wants an iced Americano, a triple shot, no sweetener. The moment Doug is situated, he realizes he is twenty-eight minutes late.

Across the street is an old church with a cobblestone walkway leading to scarlet doors—above which, a massive belfry beneath a spire, pointed to the heavens. Doug cannot recall the last time he went to church, though he is sure it must have been with his mother and aunt Jane. The church stands on a grassy knoll with a ten-foot wooden crucifix in the dooryard. It stares at him from across the way, and a thought occurs…when I die, it remains…

His eyes veer off to a small stretch of gravestones within a chain link fence, just beside the church, then settle on his brother, now returning to the seat across from him. He appears not to have slept in days, but that is not the issue…there is something more…something wrong.

You okay Mitch?

Yeah, he says curtly. He takes off his engagement ring and caresses it between his fingertips. His pupils are wide. They trail off.

I’m a detective for Christ’s sake. I know when something’s off...

Doug glances down at the engagement ring. And Vanessa, she’s good?

He shrugs.

Nah, says Mitch. I tried to leave her, man. I packed all my clothes. She ripped open my bags, and she smacked me…right in front of Stevie.

You have to get out of that situation. Vanessa is such a—you know.

I know, but, I have to do what’s right for Stevie.

Always thinking about the kid. At least his heart is in the right place…

The conversation finds a happier place, and Doug is somewhat relieved. Memories from before Vanessa resurface. Memories from a childhood unscathed by adult traumas. At least Mitch seems to find solace here, though even that is fleeting.

A barista brings them their coffee. Doug grabs his and stands. Thanks for meeting me, Mitch.

You’re leaving?

Yes. I’m on a case even as we speak. Mitch sighs in silence, so Doug fills in the gaps. Want to know what kind of case?

Yeah, tell me, he says.

Homicide. Man found dead in his apartment on Mercy Street.

That’ll be me…

Sure you have to leave? he says.

Pretty sure. Doug’s tone is sarcastic. He is, after all, on the job. I’ll try to find more free time, I’ll let you know.

If there is a next time...

Mitch looks at Doug, deadpan, and says, Sure you will.

Doug checks his watch: 12:40PM Great to see you, he says.

Mitch mumbles something else that Doug fails to interpret. Doug fixes the collar of his black pollo and adjust the belt in which it is tucked, then heads back to his Ford Crown Victoria which most people recognize as a not-so-undercover police vehicle. He drives off, and notices his brother’s arms are folded. He is not okay. Doug thinks he will ask him about it soon. He believes he will get the chance.

2

Crime Scene

Doug gets back onto the Henry Hudson, this time southbound.

Four more minutes to the scene of the crime, the G.P.S. assures him.

Malone arrives in five, to a brownstone a few blocks from where he lives.

He pulls up next to the curb behind two police cars. There’s more plant life than human life in Cobble Hill, he thinks, as he is caressed by loose branches of Little Leaf Lindens and Norway Maples along the sidewalk. The human population is a close second, though—cars blocking cars at every cobblestone intersection. A throng of locals navigate the sidewalk across the street and enter through their wrought iron gate, reminding him briefly of dogs in a kennel.

Yellow tape lines the path to the door. Doug enters.

Inside, two officers stand, arms crossed, shoulder to shoulder with a woman in a white lab coat. The body is splayed out along the white tiles of the kitchen floor. The crimson blood stains stand out against the white.

Detective Malone, you’re late.

Or maybe you’re just early, Susan.

She rolls her eyes as she fastens her thick green gloves over the sleeves of her lab coat. Her curly auburn hair runs over her face, wild like a forest. She speaks through the sprigs of her split ends.

I didn’t realize we were on a first name basis.

Did I jump the gun there, Susan?

Hey, whatever floats your boat, Doug. She offers him a wink before she digs into the corpse’s chest.

Shot in the heart.

And you’re to blame, says an officer.

Quoting eighties music, says Susan. You’re so funny and interesting, Stevens. She spares no sarcasm.

What can I say? I used to play that tune when I was plowing chicks in my hooptie.

Charming, too, says Susan.

Stevens shrugs.

Tell me something I don’t know, sweetheart.

Gordon’s never going to promote you to detective.

Huh?

Something you don’t know. The other officer laughs.

Shut up Lopez, says Stevens. It’s not like you’ll be promoted.

At least I have a fighting chance, says Lopez. I have something called work ethic. Something your lazy, sorry ass—

Gentlemen, the case… says Susan.

Stevens and Lopez put on their serious faces. Malone is hardly aware of the banter in the room. He is much more concerned with the body.

The dead man’s bulbous stomach approximates pregnancy. His bloody undershirt covers most of it, but leaves the navel and his fuzzy, pasty skin exposed. Beneath the happy trail is a scar that travels up into the tank top. The scar is lined with stitches, and the area is swollen. Malone knows that Susan is apt to mention it, but is excited to beat her to the punch.

Yes McCormick, Malone says. Undeniably shot in the heart. The angle of penetration and direction of blood indicates a gunshot from the hall near the door. We can most likely rule out suicide. But what really interests me is…

The scar trailing the stomach, Susan finishes.

Of course she would say it first. Just can’t help but be one step ahead.

Yes, he says. The nature of the scar trailing the stomach is peculiar. The stitches are red and puffy, indicating infection. There’s also no clear pattern to the stitching, as if a regular schmo had done it. I’m sure your forensics team will have more to say.

You can be damn sure about that, says Susan. I’ll have a full-scale analysis of the body by the end of today. Unless you or the peanut gallery have any further comments, the forensics team will proceed.

Hang on, says Malone. He approaches the sprawled corpse. Lopez, McCormick and Stevens watch as he lifts the dead man’s undershirt to reveal…checkmate…more scarring. Only, these scars are not lined with sutures. These scars, pink and purple and subcutaneous, travel the body from chest to stomach, forming the shape of a pentagram.

3

Saint Elizabeth’s

Meanwhile, Mitch awakens, sprawled along the teal flat sheet of a stretcher. Through crusted and bleary eyes, he sees a statue of Christ with his arms open wide, as if to say, I accept you.

The statue is lifelike, with the exception of the pupils—they seem to have been painted in at the last minute, overly narrow and cat-like.

Then there is the short guy with the cleft lip. He flashes a card toward the lady at the front desk. She nods solemnly. Mitch is carted through double doors and the man is still by his side, smiling.

Above him is a doctor in light turquoise scrubs and a round white medical mask. His neck is stiff—eyes fixed only on what is ahead.

The white cement block walls are lined with a single sky-blue stripe at center. Above the next set of double doors, in vermillion red paint reads, E-Wing.

They stop.

The doctor and the man with the cleft lip disappear. Mitch waits.

A pale, lanky, red-haired nurse meets Mitch in the hall. Her porcine face and braces remind him of his high-school years. With two unsteady hands and a stethoscope, she approaches his heart for a reading.

I’m going to check your heart, she says through her nose. As she leans in, her pronounced top teeth approach Mitch’s face. She breathes as if she is hooked to a medical apparatus. Each of her labored exhalations sends a gust of air onto Mitch’s nose. The gust disperses over his cheeks, which raises the hair on the back of his neck.

His eyes widen.

It’s good, she says. Now I just need your finger.

She takes his hand and holds his outstretched pointer. With a walnut shaped device, she conducts the finger prick test. Mitch watches as she pricks his finger and squeezes the surrounding skin for a sample. She cannot seem to get it. Hang on just a sec, she says. She squeezes some more. You see how it trails down the side of the finger? Mitch can see the blood trickling down. I’m having trouble getting the sample. More blood escapes the pointer finger. It’s really giving me trouble. You don’t mind if I prick you again?

Mitch looks away and says, Maybe you can get someone to help you? No, I can do it. She squeezes out more blood, but to no avail. You see how it trickles down the side? It’s hard to get. She squeezes again. "I can get it. Mitch feels pain, not from the bleeding, but from anxiety. She lifts the finger stick to eye level and sighs a breath of relief. I got it. All normal readings. She disappears and returns not five minutes later. I’m sorry, I was supposed to do this first. I need your arm." She rolls up his sleeve and wraps a latex tourniquet around his upper arm. She applies a cotton swab of alcohol to the median vein of his inner forearm, and approaches the vein with a needle.

Mitch notices her unsteady hands. Are you sure you can do this?

Yes, don’t worry, she says. Try to relax.

Mitch thinks, I wish you would relax.

It is a miracle—she penetrates the vein, and he sighs with relief. She tapes the cannula to his forearm with white surgical gauze.

I’m nurse Gloria, she says. I was supposed to say that first. Good luck. She leaves Mitch in the hall again to stare at the red lettering: E- Wing. He tries to see through the two rectangular windows at the center of the double doors, but it is too dark. To his surprise, the lights buzz and flicker on.

The doors open.

A doctor approaches through dim, ambient lighting. He dons a traditional white coat over a gray suit and tie. He wears a round white medical mask. He has thin, white hair that stabs the air like pine needles, a wide nose and stern eyes, laced with cynicism. You’re here, he says. I’m doctor Al. Wait right there.

As if I have a choice.

The doctor returns to cart Mitch through the double doors.

The E-wing is not only darker in sight but in feeling. The air is thicker. There is a distant, muffled scream of a patient followed by silence. The hallway seems endless. How long is this corridor? After what seems like hours, they approach a new set of double doors. Above it, the red light of a security camera flashes.

The doors open.

Wait here, he says, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Mitch has become accustomed anxiously waiting in hallways. Doctor Al soon returns to cart him further into unknown territory, beneath intermittent splashes of florescent light. How far back does this hospital extend? Mitch tries to imagine the building’s exterior, and thinks it must be something like twelve buildings long. He feels lucky to doze out of consciousness, but the reprieve from discomfort is short lived.

Mitch awakens. His arms and legs are in shackles, bound to chrome chain links which extend to the floor. The bindings weigh him down to a stainless-steel table. He checks his surroundings, but his neck is held in place by an iron shackle. Though his mobility is abysmal, he manages to see Doctor Al and the cleft-lip guy at the foot of the table.

Don’t take the kidney, his capture says. This one’s a green crate.

A green crate?

Mitch cries aloud—or at least tries to. All he can manage is a muffled moan. It draws their attention just the same. The syringe in doctor Al’s hand becomes visible. Mitch cannot express his panic, except through dilated pupils. The two men approach Mitch at either side, and the doctor inserts the needle into his exterior jugular vein. The side of Mitch’s neck goes numb, and he exits the conscious world.

4

Engagement Ring

SATURDAY

5:31AM

Doug awakens from a nightmare which he cannot recollect with any clarity. His pale, plain-Jane wife is fast asleep. The mid-June sun sends its luminescence through his bedroom window with eternal resonance, to remind him that when he dies, it remains.

6:03AM

Get the fuck in here, says Chief Gordon, when Malone steps onto the threshold of his office door. He notices his white Burt Reynolds mustache first, followed by the foul stench of halitosis. Chewing tobacco is Gordon’s preferred poison, and Doug can almost taste it from the waist bin beside his desk. Since he had already finished a healthy glob, he draws from his collection of cigarillos and lights up in the office, adding to the pervasive must. Gordon sucks up death—embracing the reaper with unfounded tenacity, paradoxically keeping him young—and the embers collect in the blue and gray argyle patterned rugs.

Such an ugly pattern, he thinks, is a brutal reminder that department funding is at an all-time low.

Malone takes a seat in one of two neighboring chairs so Gordon can begin his drunken sailor tirade.

There’s some shit going on that you need to be aware of. Brooklyn is in the shitter. Close my door. Malone closes the door. Gordon sucks more cigarillo and puffs a ball of smoke that reaches the ceiling by the time Malone turns back to face him.

"Let’s start with the drug imports. Absolutely rampant, you hear? We’re scared to crack down, and when we’re scared to crack down, we lose control. When we lose control, we start to look like Cali—and I don’t mean the United States. He lets out a steady stream of smoke and a drawn-out sigh. Look here. He points to a map of Brooklyn behind his desk, at a loading dock along the East River. That right there is the geographical cesspool of death and shit. A total mindfuck. Those pricks have our balls in a vice grip, and we can’t seem to shimmy our way out. When Davidson got cracked at the dock, we couldn’t pursue the case. Why? Because we’re the pussies now. Drug kingpins, they’re the big bosses, and we’re the pussies."

What do you propose we do? Malone says.

Steak-out, Malone. You don’t go in there, unless you want to be as dead as Davidson. No, you hang out. You sit and watch—wait for them to slip up. They always do.

Roger that. How’s about the homicide, chief?

You mean yesterday, Mercy Street? Yeah, that's a weird one.

Oh?

McCormick did the whole nine last night, her and the forensics team. That poor bastard must've gotten in balls deep with the wrong side of Brooklyn. Those fuckers not only shot the bastard, but they took his kidneys.

"Say what chief?"

You heard me Malone. Took. His. Fucking. Kidneys. Gordon puts out his cigarillo and tosses it into his tobacco-stained waist bin. Susan says it’s the organ trade. Frankly, I don’t want to hear about it right now. It’s heroine imports, it’s the mob, then it’s kidney theft. I need a shot of Gin before I contemplate kidney theft.

Jeez, Brooklyn’s really is in the shitter.

You’re telling me? Gordon fingers his slender white mustache. Go chop it up with forensics. I want a full report on that East River stakeout, but not until you’ve got something. Are we clear?

Chrystal.

Good, he says curtly, and points a finger to Malone’s eyes. And don’t be dead as Davidson.

And don’t be dead as Davidson, he repeats. The comment is in poor taste, but which comments from Gordon aren’t? Malone exits the room with a mounting desire to speak with Susan McCormick about the organ black market.

6:30AM

At the sliding glass door, Malone obtains clearance to enter the forensics Lab of Prospect Heights, behind the police station. He informs them of his appointment with Susan McCormick of the crime scene unit, and is escorted by a short bald man in a lab coat. He brings Malone to the east wing along a narrow gray-tiled path, distinct from the white tiles all elsewhere. The path is demarcated by yellow and black strips at either side, emulating police tape. In the east wing, there are state of the art computers and lab technology resting upon gray granite tables in rows much like the layout of the office cubicles at the police station. Further east, at the end of the corridor is the private office of forensics expert Susan McCormick.

They enter her office. It contains the same equipment and layout as her east wing colleagues, only more secluded. She sits at her desk, which faces the wall. She spins around in her rolly chair to greet Malone and his guide, then waves the latter off. A smile unfurls from beneath a stack of curly, reddish-brown hair.

Good morning, Doug, she says. There is a coffee on her desk. Malone is immediately aware she is a morning person—a rarity, among all the night owls at the bureau.

Hey Susan. What do you got for me?

Let’s go back to McCormick and Malone. I tried the first name thing again, and I didn’t love it.

Roger that, McCormick. Let’s talk homicide, shall we?

I’d like to brief you on the specifics and get your opinion. Sound good?

Sounds about right.

Sounds cold and calculated.

We did a full sweep of the body—imaging, DNA, prints, etcetera. The first thing we noticed in the body scans was the absence of a kidney. Removed haphazardly, I might add. Whoever did this was a merciless brute. The internal scarring is indicative of a jagged knife’s edge. The perp was deep in there, just slicing and dicing…he at least had the good sense to single out a kidney and leave the surrounding viscera. She looks off, absently. "That’s not even the worse part. My team concluded that this was not the cause of death. He survived that ratchet stitch-job as well as severe hemorrhaging of the bladder. The gunshot to the heart is what ultimately did him in."

So motive...you don’t happen to be well versed on the organ black market?

The red market, let’s call it, she says. We haven’t established a motive, but we have to explore the possibility of organ trafficking, however uncommon in the United States.

Organ trafficking—that would be something.

I’d say. But don’t get too excited—maybe the perp just needed kidneys for his dying mom, or hospitalized sister. Or maybe he’s just a sick fuck. I suppose that much is true no matter how you slice it…point is, we don’t know, detective.

Slice it—good one, McCormick.

Huh?

Nothing. What about fingerprints?

I was getting to that. We dusted for prints shortly after you left, and we hit the proverbial jackpot. I predict we will arrive at a match in our databases by the end of the day. Three days max.

That’s wonderful. Technology is wonderful, you are wonderful.

Getting ahead of yourself again, Malone.

If calling you wonderful is getting ahead of myself, then it’s precisely where I want to be. Real smooth, Doug, he thinks. There is a brief silence. I’m kidding, McCormick.

Susan.

Huh?

Just call me Susan.

Her untamed auburn hair looks cute as hell in contrast to her lab coat, so prim and proper. And she’s a genius. A gorgeous genius. I fancy myself an intellectual around family and internet chat-rooms, but around her, I’m a peasant. A layman. Or if I’m lucky, an understudy. Maybe it’s the morning brew that’s got me all excitable…Malone cogitates on this for the briefer part of a minute, and reminds himself that he is a married man…a married man with a kid and commitment issues. Oh shit, he thinks. I’m an asshole…an irredeemable asshole.

Okay, Susan, he says, and winks. She is not put off by this in the least. In fact, she smiles.

5:35PM

The John V. Lindsay East River Park promenade offers the occasional patch of emerald-green