“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I think you do, Mr. Quinn. I think you know everything about Vargas’s operation. It’s why you ordered the hit on Lazlo and turned up to finish him off. That’s personal. You were there to punish him for interfering in a billion-dollar business. A business that you have a stake in.”
“You’re reaching, Special Agent. You have no actual proof against me, just theories. You would be wise to release me. I work for some very powerful people. It will save you a lot of embarrassment. People like me don’t go to jail.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Chapman countered. He indicated to the ledgers again. “The income from the drug sales was washed through a gang of smurfs. We have a list of all the bank accounts used right here. We’re drilling down through all those transactions. The funds are being funneled into various companies, that much is obvious, but we’ll get to the end beneficiary. We always do.”
There was no reaction from Quinn. After a few moments, Chapman got up and headed for the door.
Just as he was leaving, he stopped and turned toward the silent figure. “As I’m sure you know, the drugs were being produced through the use of genetically engineered strains of yeast at the secret facility under the guidance of a scientist––the only person alive capable of using so-called synthetic biology to, in essence, brew heroin and cocaine. You wouldn’t happened to know where he is, would you?”
Chapman didn’t bother to wait for the inevitable lack of response. He exited and closed the door behind him.
John remained in the observation room. If he had finally found Santiago’s spirit—and he knew it was only a possibility at this stage—he wasn’t about to take his eyes off his host.
Chapman returned to Interview Room 1 after about forty minutes. John noticed he was wearing a satisfied smile as he returned to the chair he had occupied earlier.
“So, Mr. Quinn. We’ve already traced some of the drug money that was laundered. As I outlined earlier, it turns out it was indeed ‘smurfed’ by a crew of low-level money handlers depositing cash into a variety of bank accounts. The accounts were opened by a number of citizens using multiple fake identities. We would have never guessed these citizens would be part of the laundering chain if we hadn’t intercepted a stack of IDs with their photos on them, a few days ago. Isn’t it rather beautiful the way the pieces come together?”
Silence.
“Anyway, these citizens made the transfers from their accounts to several accounts held by various companies registered in the Cayman Islands and ultimately in Panama. Those companies then sent the money back to a company registered right here in the US. A company known as Tactical Consulting.” Chapman paused. He looked at Quinn, who stared back, emotionless.
“That’s your company, Mr. Quinn. You are taking the proceeds of El Gordito’s drug distribution empire. And you’ve been making some pretty big payments to some other companies. We’re still looking into those but, rest assured, we’ll find out who you have been paying off.”
Still no response.
Chapman paused to stare at Quinn as if to check whether a crack was starting to appear in his carefully constructed dam of restraint. Now John could see the orange fire in the man’s eyes, burning with higher intensity.
“We have also succeeded in identifying the name of the kidnapped scientist in charge of the pill-production process, who has gone missing. As you can imagine, finding a man with such unique knowledge has been our top priority. It’s Ekrem Yilmaz, Mr. Quinn. Does that name mean anything to you?”
There was no change in Quinn’s stoic demeanor.
“It should do, Mr. Quinn. You see, as soon as we captured you, a photograph of your face and your car plates went straight into our database. At that point, you became a person of interest in our system. We could track your movements over the last few days before your arrest, through police networks of facial and license plate recognition systems in twenty-one states. As soon as we identified you, we obtained a warrant to search all the locations you visited. Ten minutes ago, the Philadelphia branch of the FBI raided a house in the northeast district, which you had visited several times. And there they discovered Dr. Yilmaz being held prisoner.”
John could see the spirit inside Quinn was raging. Quinn’s skin was glowing, and orange light was penetrating the fabric of his clothes. With every second, the glow became brighter.
“It’s over, Quinn! Your operation is finished. El Gordito is going to be indicted, thanks to his lawyer and his accountant turning state’s evidence and cutting themselves a deal. We have you on attempted capital murder, kidnapping, drug manufacturing, drug distribution and money laundering….”
Chapman didn’t finish because he noticed that Quinn had started mumbling to himself.
“Shut up! Shut Up!” Quinn started to say, his voice becoming louder and louder.
John felt his heartbeat pounding like a jackhammer as he could now see the spirit’s head slowly emerging. And there he was, just as John remembered him from the photo Jennifer had shown him online—the long hair, the cruel eyes, and thin nose. The sound of a muffled voice grew louder and louder. As the mouth appeared, so did the voice—clear and booming. It had a thick Mexican accent and overpowered the shouts of Quinn, which suddenly stopped as the spirit’s head fully emerged. Quinn’s eyes glazed over and rolled upward.
There was the sensation of blood drumming in John’s head and a feeling of intense anxiety gripped him as he had no doubt that the spirit of Juan Santiago was right there before his eyes.
The strong, Jesus-like facial features started to slowly distort. The spirit’s glow changed from the orange that John had become accustomed to seeing, into an intense white. “You can’t do this! You can’t do this! You can’t fucking do this!” the spirit screamed.
John
