“The closest I came were some guys who did freelance work for him over the years. They’re how I first got on to what his business was really all about. Pflug never let them anywhere near clients, but they knew who their targets were. They wouldn’t share any names with me, no matter how many drinks I bought them- I think they were afraid of being implicated in anything- but two of them said the list included a lot of Wall Street assholes. And that’s a quote.”
Neary and I looked at each other again. “Think we could have a chat with some of those guys?” I asked.
Gerber laughed. “Sorry, boys, that’s how somebody like me loses all his reporter merit badges. Pardon my French, but no fucking way.”
Neary shrugged, and we were quiet for a while, thinking.
“How do you know he’s good at it?” I asked Gerber finally.
“What?”
“If you never spoke to any of his clients, how do you know that Pflug is good at his work?”
There was a long silence on the phone speaker.
“You still there, George?” Neary asked.
“I’m here,” Gerber said. His voice was a little choked.
Neary looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “You doing okay?” he said to the phone.
“I’m all right,” Gerber said.
“Did we hit a nerve, George?” Neary asked. “Was that a bad question?”
Gerber coughed a little. “No, no, it was the right thing to ask,” he said. “It’s what I would’ve asked.” Another cough. “I know that Pflug is good at what he does because for a while, after that article came out, I was one of his targets.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Gerber sighed. “It was little shit at first: hang-up phone calls in the office and on my cell and at home. And then I began to notice that they were timed- just when I’d get to my desk in the morning, just when I’d get in my car, just when I’d get home- as if someone was watching me. Then my mail started getting fucked up. Bills came late, and the envelopes looked like they’d been tampered with. Some bills never came at all. Then one day I got no mail at all, just a mailbox filled with dog shit.
“After that he moved on to the office. A woman down in sales started getting harassing e-mail- pornographic e-mail- that looked as if it was coming from my computer. From me. And just like the phone calls, they were timed; she’d only get them when I was at my desk. And then…” Gerber paused and coughed some more. “Then, my editor gets a fax- anonymous- that purports to be from an employee who’s too frightened to come forward directly. The fax tells him he should check out my computer, that I’ve been downloading all sorts of… pictures… of kids, for chrissakes…” Gerber paused again and sighed heavily.
Neary spoke to him, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. “You must’ve had some idea where this was coming from, George. You must’ve thought of Pflug first thing.”
“Of course I did,” Gerber said. “As soon as the phone calls started. And I told my editor and our lawyers and the cops about them right away. That’s probably what saved my ass. Because these e-mails and the shit they found on my computer- the pictures- they all looked like the real deal. And there were no signs of tampering, no traces of intrusion, no traces of anything- not on my computer, or my phones, or my mailbox. Nothing.”
“When you told the police about the phone calls, did they put traps on your line?” Neary asked.
“Sure they did, at which point the calls stopped. And that was the pattern: I was always playing catch-up. As soon as I talked to the postal inspectors about my mail, the mail tampering stopped and the e-mail shit started. When that happened, our tech guys put some sort of monitor on my account, after which there were no more harassing messages. And then my boss got the fax.”
“Did anybody ever confront Pflug?”
“Several times. He claimed to have no knowledge of anything, of course, and he could prove he was on the other side of the country when this shit was happening. There was no evidence that pointed to him- or to anyone else, for that matter.”
“Are you sure it was Pflug?” I asked.
Gerber was quiet again and I worried that I’d angered him, but when he spoke his voice was soft.
“After the business with the fax and the pictures, things went quiet. A week, a month, two months go by and nothing happens, and I’m thinking it’s finally over. And then…” Gerber coughed softly a few times and took a deep breath. “Then one night I come home and my doghis name was Murrow- is gone. He was a fat old Lab, arthritic and deaf and half blind, who’d sleep all day in the back yard. He barely got himself up to take a leak anymore, and on his best day he couldn’t have jumped my fence, any more than he could’ve opened the gate by himself. But he was gone.
“I called the cops, and ten minutes later a prowl car came to my house. They took me up the ridge to the edge of a ravine, and… down below was Murrow.” He paused again and sniffed. “A jogger had phoned it in just an hour before, and she was all freaked out. And why not? I mean, how often do you see a headless dog?”
Gerber sighed heavily. Neary looked at me and shook his head.
“The cops told me it was probably local kids. They said they’d had problems with pet killings in some neighborhoods on the other side of the canyon, and this was probably the same thing. They said they’d be working it, but they didn’t sound hopeful.”
“What did you think?” I asked.
“Not much of anything, just then. I was… I was pretty much in shock. But afterward… I knew.”
“What happened?”
“About a month later, I was having lunch with a friend of mine at a place in Santa Monica and the waiter comes over and tells me I have a call on their pay phone. I pick it up, and on the other end is Pflug. He tells me he’s calling to say how sorry he was to hear about my dog, and isn’t it terrible about kids today, and what’s wrong with our cities anyway? And then he laughs like a maniac, and says I can change my underwear now because he’s done with me. And then he hangs up.”
“Was he done?” Neary asked.
“Nothing else happened- except I didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for about a year afterward.”
“You go to the cops about it?” I said.
“And say what? I had no proof of anything, and by then I knew Pflug didn’t leave a trail.” Gerber was quiet for some time, and then he found his voice and his bitter laugh again. “So that’s how I know Pflug is good at his work. That’s my cautionary tale. Any other questions?”
Neary and I looked at each other. We were out of questions, and we told Gerber so and thanked him for his time.
“I can’t say it was a pleasure, but if it serves to screw up Pflug a little, I’m glad to do it. Any chance you guys want to tell me a little more about what’s going on?”
Neary smiled. “Sorry, George, but in the words of a fine journalist I know: no fucking way.”
Gerber laughed. “Then I wish you luck- and if you get the chance, give that bastard a kick in the nuts for me… and give him one for Murrow too.”
Gerber hung up and Neary rubbed his eyes. “Hell of a guy, this Pflug,” he said. “Maybe I won’t let him work on my rA©sumA©.” I nodded. “Those pictures- of Jane and your nephews- from what Gerber said, they seem to be right up his alley.”
“It seems so.”
Neary looked at me. “Chances are, he won’t tell us shit about who his client is.”
“Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to the discussion.”
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
25
Neary said he would work on a meet with Pflug, and I didn’t object. Chances were, Pflug would be more receptive to his approach than to mine, and I knew Neary didn’t entirely trust me to manage it without bloodshed anyway. I took a subway uptown, and the ride to Union Square was filled with the memory of those photographs, the look on Jane’s face as the elevator doors slid shut, and the choked sound of George L. Gerber’s voice. By the time I got home, my head was aching and my teeth were clenched.