by Chris Knopf
On the chosen night, I took the chance of pulling over to the curb to wait for the Japanese car to go by and pull into the driveway. Then, with my lights out, I pulled in behind just as Chalupnik was about to go down his front walk.
He spun around to face me, and I shot him in the stomach with a police-grade Taser stun gun. He crumpled to the ground, and I left the car and reached his writhing body well within the allotted ten-second limit of the electric pulse. At the moment the spasms stopped, I stuck an air-powered syringe into the side of his neck and pushed the button. There was a little pop, and a sound that was part groan, part gurgle came from Chalupnik seconds before his struggling form went lifeless.
I gathered up the fabric of his jacket at the throat and grabbed his belt, and half carried, half dragged the dead weight over to the Outback. Using the rest of my reserve strength, I heaved most of him into the back of the station wagon’s trunk. Then I went around to the back door and pulled him the rest of the way in.
I covered him with a packing blanket and gently shut the hatch, pushing till the latch clicked. Then I backed out of the driveway and left, putting my lights on only after reaching the end of the block.
The trip from Waterford to Wilton was uneventful and slow going, as I kept just below the speed limit; but I was in no hurry, and used the extra time to triple check the components of the plan, reminding myself of the virtues of careful planning in all endeavors great and small.
CHAPTER 11
When Chalupnik regained consciousness, he saw the inside of a wooden box. The wood surfaces were harshly lit by a recessed quartz halogen fixture in the ceiling of the box. His arms and legs were immobilized by the duct tape that secured him to the chair, which was in turn bolted to the floor with steel hardware. The box had barely enough ventilation to make breathing possible, if strained. The light, though dimmed, heated up the confined space.
From his restrained vantage point he couldn’t see the twoway communication device mounted near his right ear, but he could hear me clearly, even with the filter that flattened out my inflections, turning my speech into a mechanized monotone.
“You’re awake,” I said. “Can you see?”
“What the fuck is this?” he said, with the nasally insinuation of the man in the trench coat.
“Can you see?”
“My gut’s on fire. You shot me.”
“I shot you with a Taser. Otherwise you’d be dead. Tell me if you can see.”
“I can see,” he said.
“Your name?”
“You don’t know? You’re kidding me.”
“I do know. That’s why I want you to tell me.”
“Bela Chalupnik. How long I been out? My wife’ll have the National Guard out looking for me. Never been late much less not shown up.”
“They won’t find you. Until I want them to. I have a series of questions to ask you. I know all the answers. If you lie, I’ll know.”
“Who are you?”
“You can call me George O. Where do you work?”
“Why should I tell you anything?” he asked.
“Because there will be consequences if you don’t.”
“What consequences?”
“You’ll know when they happen. Where do you work?” I asked again.
“Clear Waters Resort and Casino.”
We went through another dozen of these easy Q and A’s, which he readily answered correctly. Then I asked him if working security at the casino was his only profession. He said yes.
“You’re lying,” I said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You have another profession which you’ve practiced for some time. It’s illegal. Tell me what it is.”
He denied it. I asserted he was lying. We exchanged different ways of expressing these positions for the next two hours. I increased the intensity of the light, which also had the effect of warming the stale air in the box, but not past the bearable.
Finally I said, “So I guess there’ll have to be consequences.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“You’ll have to wait to find out. Or you can tell me the name you use in your other profession. You have five minutes to decide.”
“Goddammit, tell me who you think I am,” he yelled through the little mike.
“No. You have to tell me. Otherwise, I won’t believe you.”
Neither of us said anything for the next two minutes, which I counted off for him. When I said “three” he tried to twist in his seat and banged his head around inside the box.
“What’re you going to do?” he screamed.
I stayed silent and looked at the stopwatch on my smartphone until it hit four minutes.
“Four.”
“You motherfucker, you are so dead,” he screamed again, nearly hysterical.
“Time’s up,” I said calmly. “Name?”
“Pally!” he yelled. “Pally Buttons, you miserable piece of shit who I am so going to kill as God is my witness.”
I kept him in silence for another five minutes. I was disappointed that he stayed silent as well, braced for the fearsome unknown, but in control of his dignity. I was hoping for less courage.
“Good answer,” I said. “Though I’m not sure you want God to witness the sort of thing you’re threatening. Talk about consequences.”
Getting people to tell me what’s in their minds was at the heart of my professional life. I’d made an extensive study of accomplished interrogators and knew well the psychology behind their success. Rather than wrenching out the truth by force, they created the circumstances whereby the subject would just let the truth dribble out. All but the most skillful and committed liars have some compulsion, even unknown to themselves, to tell what they know. To brag, to confess, to succumb to the pleasures of seduction.
But the constant in these interrogations was time. Weeks, months, years—I knew for me this would be impossible. Not with this person. My hatred and revulsion was too great, too personal, to be restrained by the necessary discipline.
Physical force had long been proved the best way to extract false information. Or for creating martyrs, or people so deranged by pain they no longer knew what truths they possessed.
What was needed was a better motivator.
“Pally Buttons is well known in certain circles,” I said. “What does he do?”
“If you know everything, why do you keep asking all these questions?”
“I told you. I need to know you’re telling the truth.”
“He’s a gun. And a cleaner. Handles special projects. When do I get my head out of here?”
“When all my questions have been answered to my satisfaction.”
“How do I know if you’re telling the truth?” he asked.
“By the absence of negative consequences.”
This was one of the ways Evelyn kept the incipient unruliness of her little brother in check. By darkly threatening the possibility of negative consequences.
“You think being taped up with your head in a box ain’t negative?”
“In comparison? No. In comparison it’s a tropical vacation.”
I let that settle in for a while, then I asked him, “What’re the responsibilities of a cleaner?”
“Jesus Christ, it’s like being in fucking school. He cleans up after a hit, or after a fuckup that might lead to the wrong people being looked at. Pally offers a package deal. Lowers the overhead.”
“So Pally must be pretty good at what he does. All that experience in the Shore Patrol and working security really paid off.”
I liked the way Chalupnik preferred to talk about his alias in the third person. Made it easier to admit to things, operating under the illusion that he wasn’t really talking about himself.
“Was that a question?”
“Not unless you want to argue the point,” I said.
“No argument. The record speaks for itself. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
I wished I was still ab
le to perform regression analyses. They’re highly useful tools for predicting outcomes based on a dance between dependent and independent variables. You learn when it’s time to split off into a new analytical direction. Essentially identifying the critical forks in the road.
“I told you. I’m George. I represent one of your clients. They’re feeling some unhappiness about a situation.”
“Unhappiness? For Christ’s sake, why do it this way?”
“They’re very unhappy.”
“No reason for this. No reason at all. Pally is Mr. Perfection. Never had a complaint from nobody. Ever.”
“Really. So then would it surprise you that Pally the professional cleaner needs a cleaner of his own?”
I still couldn’t read his thoughts, but I could somehow tell when he was struggling to form a response.
“Bullshit. Never happened.”
“Names of the women Pally’s capped over the last calendar year.”
“No,” he said without hesitation. “No fucking way. Bring on the consequences.”
I stuck a straw into the box through a small hole lined up with his mouth.
“Want some water? You’re getting hoarse.”
“What is that, poison? Some fucking drug? No thanks.”
“No. It’s just water. I haven’t heard all your answers yet. I have nothing to gain by killing or hurting you.”
“There’s a comfort,” he said, but after a pause, sucked down half the glass I held for him.
“Here’s what you should consider,” I said. “I need to establish the context for the next part of this conversation. If I can’t do that, then you have no way to free yourself from what could be a very unpleasant situation.”
“You didn’t tell me that before.”
“There was no need,” I said. “You’ve spoken the truth at every stage, so I’ve trusted what you say. But now you to want to be stubborn. It’s only fair that you appreciate the stakes.”
He considered that.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “Something fucked up with one of the projects, sometime after the fact. I can be in the shit for it, but maybe not, depending on the facts of the matter. Is this what you’re saying?”
It was a critical moment. I had to take a chance that giving him some hope wouldn’t encourage deception now that I was running out of questions with verifiable answers.
“That is correct. Names of the women, last chance.”
“Only one woman. Florencia Cathcart. Fine-looking skirt, but Pally’s a professional.”
Something surged up from deep within me, heating my face and crackling in my ears. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket where two more powered syringes were waiting. I fondled the one with a lethal charge. I saw myself jamming it into the back of his neck and ending everything right there. I got control of my breath and gave a moment for my heart rate to calm back down.
“You continue to show an admirable pragmatism,” I said. “So now perhaps we can reach the end of these proceedings and both get on with our lives.”
“I’m for that. I’m feeling like hammered shit.”
“Very well. We’re still validating, however. How many blanks did you ask Ms. Cathcart to fill out on the sheet of paper you gave her.”
“Oh, man, that was a long time ago. I don’t remember stuff like that. I’m not trying to dodge the question. I just don’t remember. I get it wrong, you’ll think I’m lying.”
“Try.”
He did. Then said, “Five? I think it was five.”
“What were the answers?”
“Jesus Christ, Forgiver of Sins, I have no idea. I really don’t. Just numbers, or letters and numbers together. That wasn’t part of my job. I was just told to give her the paper and verify one of the answers. I forgot it the second I saw it and this was, like, a year ago. I’m not lyin’. I cannot answer that question.”
The stress in his voice was unmistakable. What little mobility he had seemed to go rigid, braced for impact.
“They wouldn’t expect you to,” I said.
His body sagged to the limits of the duct tape restraints.
“You haven’t told me what fucked up,” he said, his voice hoarse with tension. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
“There’s money missing,” I said.
“Missing from where? That’s got nothing to do with me. I just handled the project with those two people, period. I got no idea what it was about and I don’t care. None of my business. They think I had something to do with this? I never heard a thing. Never a peep in all these months. They can’t just talk to me? You working for them?”
“For whom?”
“The clients on the Cathcart thing. You’re not working for them?”
“You know the rules. You give me the names and I tell you the answer.”
Even in his rising panic, he had the presence of mind to think before he spoke.
“What if you’re not?” he asked. “What if all this is a setup on them? You know how long I’d last in this business if I sell out my clients? There aren’t consequences negative enough to match what they’d do to me.”
“Don’t bet on it. Give me the names.”
“No, that’s it. This is bullshit. I’ve already said too much. Get me out of here. You hurt me you’re a dead man. I got sons that’ll track you to the gates of hell.”
He went on like this for a while, stopping only when he noticed I wasn’t responding. I allowed about five minutes of silence to pass before speaking.
“Okay,” I said. “Fair enough. You’ve made your choice, and I respect that. I’m ready to get back home anyway. Let me just show you how this is going to work.”
I reached up and slid the hard panel out of the top of the box. This left the other half visible through the piece of Plexiglas. Chalupnik immediately understood the implications. I waited for the screaming to stop.
“These big rats have to eat almost continuously,” I said, “and it’s already been a few days. So I think as soon as I pull up the Plexiglas there won’t be much hesitation. I’ll give you a few seconds to get ready.”
“Mother of God you’re not going to do this,” he said.
“I just hope it’s not too much of a mess for the cleaner. Unlike you, I subcontract all that. It’s amazing what some people will do for a living. Have a nice night.”
I pulled up the Plexiglas. I had to pull the earpiece connected to his mike away from my ear it got so loud in the box. But I could still hear the thump, surprised how little time it took for the rats to ram into the piece of clear, hardened glass I’d installed a few inches from his face as a final obstacle. You could hear the frantic scratching as they tried to claw their way through to an overdue meal.
“Oh, that’s right,” I said into my mike. “I forgot this thing has another door. Sorry about that.”
“Ott,” Chalupnik screamed. “Jason Three Sticks. And some other shit he had on the phone. Didn’t identify himself. Please don’t do this.”
“Tell me about the project.”
“They sent me a letter with the stuff I was supposed to show the woman,” he said in halting, breathless bursts. “Gave me a scheduling window, wired half the fee before, half after. That’s it. Didn’t tell me nothing else and that’s the way I like it. Less I know the better. You gotta get them rats out of here. They’re gonna break the glass. Mother of Mercy.”
“Interesting that a man so devoid of mercy feels he can invoke that privilege for himself,” I said.
“Fuck mercy. Put a gun in my hand, George. I’ll do it myself. That glass is moving. I can see it move. They’re gonna break through.”
I knew they couldn’t, so I waited another few minutes, then reached into my jacket pocket and chose the syringe with the non-lethal dose and stuck it in his shoulder. Then I used a combination of buck knife and industrial scissors to cut off and strip the gummy duct tape. After that, it was merely a matter of hauling his inert form out of the building with the same
cart I’d used to get him in there, then pouring him into the Outback. I went back inside to free the rats and break down the box, hiding it for later disposal. Then I drove to the little park in Norwalk where I’d met Henry Eichenbach. I dumped Chalupnik out in the parking lot and drove home, already working out the calculations for the next phase of what I now called the project, courtesy of Pally Buttons.
CHAPTER 12
I spent the next morning in a library in Bridgeport trying to hack into the accounting system at Florencia’s insurance agency. I had reasonable hope of success since I was the one who’d purchased and configured the system five years before. It was a web-based application, so I was able to do much of the work from my home office through remote access. In the first five seconds I learned the disappointing news that my password had been deleted or changed. I’d been careful to spec a system with the best security protections available at the time, so this was no small thing.
I was in unknown territory. In all the years of tracking down people and information, I’d never resorted to anything remotely defined as hacking. I never saw the need, nor sought the thrill of the hunt that drew many otherwise honest people into illegal cyber-invasions. So after a failed attempt, I spent a long time staring at the log-in screen, pondering.
To the best of my memory, there was no way for the system to trace a thwarted effort to log in. However, it was able to shut out further attempts after three failures, which meant the IP address of the potential invader was recorded somewhere within the application. Which was why I was operating from the library, where the only restriction to anonymous Internet access was the inability to find an empty seat.
The record of the offending IP address stayed forever. The block itself could be removed, though only by the system administrator. That used to be me. I once knew how to get around any of the security protocols and protections, but it had been a while, and in the intervening time the part of my brain most involved in quantitative pursuits, like computer automation, had been mashed up by a bullet through the head.
