Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  My hand went over the woman’s mouth as I spun her behind the entry door and against the wall. “Ssssshhh.” I whispered in her ear while my partners bum rushed the target. I slid the door shut with my left foot as I pressed the woman against the wall. She’d had only a sheet wrapped around when she answered the door. In the scuffle, it had dropped to the floor. With my hand over her mouth and tightly squeezing her body against the wall, her eyes filled with tears as fear gripped her.

  Bludd and Kuhl were faced with a different problem. Pembroke was passed-out. I saw the pie-eyed expression of the woman when our target was drug from the bed without as much as a whisper. Pembroke was yanked up by his hair and seated on a wood-framed desk chair; Kuhl used electrical zip ties to secure his ankles, wrists and arms, just above the elbows, to the chair frame. Bludd used less than a half roll of Duct Tape this time. He made me proud.

  Bludd scoured the room for anything we preferred not to be there, like covert cameras. Kuhl reached into his bag-of-tricks, pulled out one of his gadgets that looked like a voltmeter that he used for counter surveillance. He swept for bugs around the room; I continued to hold the naked woman. We all had our jobs to do. Some jobs were better than other jobs, but nobody complained, I certainly didn’t. We all carried our load.

  Kuhl gave the thumbs up and put his bug detector back in his bag. He started to zip the bag closed, snapped his fingers, apparently he’d remembered something he needed to do. We all watched as he reached back into his bag to see what he would come out with next. He looked up at his audience, smiled, and pulled out a can of potted meat.

  Although neither Bludd nor I had commented on what Kuhl had done, he responded, “What can I say, I’m hungry.” I turned my attention back to the woman, “I want to talk to you. Do you understand?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I can’t do that if you’re screaming, and I can’t do that with a wad of tape around your mouth, okay?”

  Again, she acknowledged with a nod. I slowly dropped my hand. I reached down and picked up the sheet for her to cover herself.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’s okay. Just stay chilled, okay?”

  “Yeah,” she responded.

  I didn’t figure a tough guy approach was necessary to gain her compliance. Not at all.

  “I’m not going to hurt you—I’m not here for that.”

  She adjusted the sheet around her as she said, “I didn’t think you had planned to. You could have done it already. A man like you could do anything he wanted to, and I couldn’t stop him.” She had paused before she added, “Even if I wanted to.”

  She was intuitive, smart as if she’d had an education from something other than a book. The type of education only a hard life could teach her. She knew how to survive.

  “Smart girl,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Samantha, but my friends call me Sam.”

  “Okay friend, have a seat on the bed.” She looked for a spot away from the action. She sat with her back against the makeshift headboard that was attached to the wall then adjusted the sheet around her.

  “You shouldn’t have done that mister. He’s a Crown prosecutor. It could spell big trouble for you.” What a nice gal. She was looking out for me already, and we’d only been friends for a couple minutes.

  “I’m going to take my chances,” I said.

  Bludd used a little cold water, and a couple slaps to make sure Pembroke was coherent while Kuhl dug the potted meat out of the can with a plastic Spork. I positioned myself in front of Pembroke. I wanted to make sure he could see and recognize me. “You don’t look happy to see me, counsellor.” It was rhetorical. “You didn’t want to talk the last time we met. Well, you’re about to have a change of heart. As an attorney, you’re accustomed to asking the questions. That’s about to change. Before I leave, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know, and then some. You can make it easy on yourself or.... Well, you know the rest”

  Kuhl finished his can of cold potted meat and fished around in his bag for something else. “If you’ve finished with the Alpo, could we to get back to business?” I asked.

  “Count me in,” Kuhl said, “I’ve had some experience in this sort of thing when I worked for Uncle Sam.”

  I watched Samantha as she took it all in. We didn’t have much time, but I didn’t want Pembroke to know that. What he needed to know was we had the entire week to devote to him. Kuhl evidently spotted a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol in an open bathroom cabinet. He must have known what it could do. He uncapped the bottle and poured it on Pembroke’s head. The alcohol ran down his forehead and cascaded over his eyelids that he had squeezed shut. The muffled screams through Bludd’s tape job were barely noticeable; the dance he did while tied in the chair was more memorable.

  I engaged Sam in small talk as Kuhl set the pace, but it was impossible to divert our attention from the torturous scene that unfolded in the room. I’m not proud of the measures we’d been forced to undertake to get the job done. If it were up to me, I’d simply double tap behind the ear and let the carcass rot, but in Pembroke’s case, he was a way to a means and a means to an end. If he wanted to cooperate, and talk as I’d asked, I’d kill him outright. If not, we could drag it out for a week, and I would have without any remorse.

  After Pembroke had bounced around in the chair for a few minutes, Kuhl picked up a small under-counter plastic storage drawer from the bathroom, filled it with water and flushed his eyes then pat dried his face. Sam had collapsed her face into a pillow and tried to hide from the nightmare she was in. She was a victim of circumstance, but it couldn’t be helped. This wouldn’t scar her any worse than she already had been, by her choices in life. I assured her none of this involved her in any way. When we were done, we’d leave, and she’d never see us again.

  Bludd stood behind Pembroke and removed the tape from his mouth. Bludd was ready to slap another piece of tape over his mouth if he started screaming or yelling. “Okay, let’s talk,” I said, “Who do you work for? And I don’t want to hear your jargon of being a prosecutor. You know what I mean?”

  I had to give it to Pembroke; he had a way with words. A bad way. The rubbing alcohol hadn’t dampened his spirits any or maybe it was the booze talking, but he continued his tough attorney act, “You and your criminal league of friends are those sucker fish at the bottom of a tank. You eat all the crap at the bottom, like a scavenger. I told you before, you need to wise up and realize you’re on the wrong side,” he said.

  He was probably right. The odds were against us. We were few in numbers, and we didn’t have the bankroll the Mob had, to get things done. Bludd applied a liberal amount of fresh Duct Tape to Pembroke’s mouth. Kuhl unwound the razor sharp metal ribbon from the potted meat key he’d opened his can with and let the peeled strip fall to the floor. I had no way of knowing what Kuhl had in mind, but he was highly trained while in service to our country. There was no way any of us could have fathomed such an interrogation technique. I just wanted answers, but sometimes drastic measures were forced upon us to get the job done. Such was the case of Pembroke. The faster he cooperated the better it was for everyone involved.

  Pembroke, however, was not so easily swayed. Kuhl removed a small Spyderco pocket knife from his front pants pocket and with its razor sharp blade, carved a strip of flesh less than a quarter-inch in width on Pembroke’s upper arm at the shoulder. The little piece of skin hung out like a hangnail. Bludd held Pembroke in place while Kuhl took the meat can key he’d used to open the potted meat, slipped the slotted end over the piece of skin and twisted the key.

  Kuhl continued to twist the key and wrap the skin around the key while Bludd helped control Pembroke’s dance. “Mate, where did you learn to do something like this?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Kuhl said, “but it’s not my first rodeo.”

  Thomas Orlando Kuhl, aka, T.O. Kuhl, had a past, and he didn’t want to share it. I didn’t blame him. It was probably
better left in the past. I wasn’t a novice when it came to extracting information. None of us were. Some techniques were efficient and gruesome; the two went hand-in-hand. Prolonged pain equalled information. In more modern times, information sought after, focused on painless and bloodless extraction. It was a nice thought, but it had one major drawback. It didn’t work. With the facts known, society continued its humane approach to fruitless interrogation. Boring a prisoner to death should be inhumane, as well.

  Pain could be overdone, and shock would render torture utterly useless. That wasn’t our goal. That’s why it was necessary to apply it in small amounts over a period of time; time we didn’t have. Otherwise, I would have subjected Pembroke to hours of Tiny Tim’s version of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.” Humane, but cruel and unusual punishment, that would undoubtedly lead to revealing everything he knew; or insanity, whichever came first.

  I wasn’t after his confession. I already knew he was a Mob associate. I had bigger questions for Pembroke to answer. A good interviewer like Kuhl could extract everything he asked for, and then some. A moral hazard for the truth. With Kuhl’s methods and expertise he would have Pembroke admitting to being the second shooter on the grassy knoll. That was not the goal. People would tell you whatever they thought you wanted to hear, if they thought it would end the torture. I wanted truth. If he wouldn’t talk, he would beg for death before we were finished.

  Kuhl had hooked the outer layer of the epidermis and rolled it off the dermis where the pain sensors abound. The small strips of skin peeled easily. When Kuhl had finished a couple short strips, Bludd once again removed the tape. Pembroke’s actions and attitude still needed adjustment, proven when he spat in Kuhl’s face. Lawyers were known to be a nasty and infectious bunch, evidenced by the foulmouthed rant he flew into after he spat.

  Bludd covered Pembroke’s mouth with another piece of tape, and Kuhl poured a little dab of rubbing alcohol on the fresh wounds of Pembroke’s arm. He danced some more. Sam kept her face buried in the pillow, but she could hear everything being said. Bludd pulled Pembroke’s head forward, and Kuhl began to strip layers from his upper back. He passed out at one point, which was common enough behavior when an adequate amount of pain had been delivered. Kuhl used smelling salts to bring him back around. As Kuhl continued, I thought to myself, what was my greatest advantage with Pembroke? He was a lawyer, and lawyers were always ready to play let’s make a deal. What I had to do was show him how to put the deal I had for him in his win category, and it would be a done deal.

  Pembroke looked more and more like a Striped Bass as the better part of two hours took their toll. Sam hadn’t lifted her head since we had begun the interrogation. Bludd ripped the tape from Pembroke’s mouth, and I asked the questions, again. “What’s your business with the Mob?

  “They’re Family,” he said. “Omerta.”

  “A blood oath,” I said, “Well my friend, you will have paid your oath before today is over. How long have you been a made-man?”

  “Twelve years.”

  “Why are we here?”

  “Some writer friend of Maximillian’s got his nose in our business. He gained a foothold with one of the made-members and wanted to uncover dirt to sell a book. When your boss told me about those two runaway girls, I knew we had to put a lid on things. I clued Bruno in on where they were. I put the word out to Maximillian and family that one of the girls defected back for a fix, but it wasn’t true. She was still on the run when she was caught. We needed to make it go away for good before we got pressure from the cops or media. Bruno took Cal’s cell phone and sent a text message to the girls to meet him. They didn’t know it wasn’t him they were meeting. We had to get rid of Joey to make sure we didn’t have a rat in the family.”

  I thought it odd that we would meet like this. The crime family and Palatini were both working our way to the common ground. The mobsters tried to smoke out a rat, and the Palatini tried to ferret out a mole. There was no rat to be had, and I had my mole in hand. “What happened to the writer?”

  “Cal?

  “Yeah, Cal.”

  “Bruno killed him.”

  I didn’t have to ask why. I knew why. What I wanted was a confirmation. “Where are the runaway girls?”

  “Dead—Bruno took care of them.”

  “How do you know he killed them?”

  “He told me himself. Bruno doesn’t need to lie about anything.”

  “The girls, how did Bruno know their cell phone number?”

  “Cal broke and told Bruno he had their number in his phone.”

  “You said Bruno took care of Joey?”

  “That was the idea. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.”

  “There was another woman helping the writer, what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. Bruno learned about her too late.”

  Pembroke had avoided eye contact since he started to roll over on the family. He now stared into my eyes and measured me. “Who was she, one of Maximillian’s killers?”

  I could have ignored the behavior, but for the sake of saving time I thought the best course of action was to cuff him one on the side of his chops and put him back on the right path.

  “I ask the questions, I said. “Where’s Bruno?”

  Pembroke had talked; he knew he was already a dead man. If we didn’t kill him, the Mob would. The only thing he could hope to achieve at this point was a swift death to end the game. He opted for the deal.

  I had more questions. Questions he couldn’t answer. If Bruno had not killed Anna, who did, and what had become of Joey Naccarella? Maybe Bruno didn’t tell Pembroke everything, especially if they were concerned with a rat. Pembroke was a lawyer after all. How much could he be trusted?

  Pembroke was slow to respond. Kuhl held the potted meat key next to his face, and said, “Answer the question or I’ll peel your face.”

  “He’s under De Luca’s protection; you’ll never get to him. I told De Luca the whole thing with your insignificant little group. Bruno had thought it was about revenge, but we know the truth now. We know it’s about business…our business. You are in trouble. De Luca ran with it up to the Commission. They will take action. Maximillian stuck his nose in a place it didn’t belong,” he paused, “but I will tell you this, you are known, and they will hunt you and kill you. You are out-gunned and out-matched. Maximillian told me all about your little band of killers. Yeah…sure, Maximillian sold you out for nothing.”

  “If De Luca has Bruno then he’s in Toronto?”

  Pembroke didn’t answer. Kuhl closed in on Pembroke’s face with his knife. “Okay, okay…he’s in Toronto. You’ll find him at the Galaxy Icahn.”

  I was satisfied that we’d gotten what we were going to get; Pembroke was of no further service to the project alive or for the revenge I was after. Bludd taped his mouth one last time, and I pulled a Muslin sack from my bug-out bag and slipped it over his head. Sam lifted her head. The curtain was on the way down for Pembroke. She didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t help being drawn to the final performance. Bludd went into the bathroom and returned with a hair curling iron, tied the cord loosely around Pembroke’s neck and slipped one end of the curling iron inside the loop, twisting it into a tourniquet. Bludd cranked it tight and held it. He squeezed down on the cord a minute more than necessary before releasing the tourniquet and cutting the body loose from the chair. I checked his vitals. Pembroke was dead.

  It was zero dark-thirty and just before daybreak when I turned my attention to Sam. The car was parked around the corner, and she hadn’t seen it, nor would she. Bludd and Kuhl gathered up our belongings and sat them by the entrance door. She had not seen our faces under the masks, any identification she could make was nil.

  She wasn’t the cream of the crop as far as a witness went; she wouldn’t be especially credible. I figured her past was tainted with a rap sheet of miscellaneous petty crimes. I didn’t know if her profession were a chosen path, or she was forced into the game. In the end,
it didn’t matter; I wasn’t there to rehabilitate her. She had value and I wanted to exploit it. When the cops arrived on the scene, they’d comb through the crime scene for evidence. Her story would be an integral part of what they collected. Everything she heard Pembroke confess to, she’d tell. Her input would be collaborated at the highest levels of the Crown. If they failed to investigate, there would be a public outcry. Cops would love to catch the killers of a high profile murder, such as in the death of Pembroke. They would glory in the positive news reviews, for a job well-done. A rare event for the media. But the real story would be Pembroke’s association with the Mob. The cops would really get their jollies if their investigation turned up more dirt at the Crown attorney’s office.

  I saw it differently. Any further Mob connection in the political arena, especially at the Crown Attorney’s office, would be swept under a rug. They couldn’t lose the trust of citizens with more scandals. I was already there. I didn’t trust government to do the right thing. Not Canada’s. Not ours.

  “What are we going to do with her?” Kuhl asked.

  “Bind and gag her.” I said. Sam was resistive to the idea, but I explained she would only be that way for a few minutes while we made our getaway. Although she objected to the gag, she did favor one aspect of the plan—us gone. I told her I would call the front desk and have an employee do a welfare check on her room. She seemed satisfied. We had her put on clothes before securing her hands and feet. Bludd was about to tape her mouth shut, but Kuhl had seen his tape job earlier and said, “I’ll take care of that.” He placed one piece of tape gently over her mouth and sat her on the bed.

  “Tell the cops everything.” I said.

  We departed with our bags in hand. Kuhl walked to the Beemer, reached under the front fender of the wheel well and removed his ordinance and the lojack before he took off in his van. Bludd and I went for breakfast. It was more than an hour after we’d left when I made a call to the motel desk for the welfare check in room twenty-nine. There were no sounds of panic in the clerk’s voice; my guess was Sam had not yet been discovered. After breakfast, we blended into the heavy morning traffic crossing the border. We’d decided to lay low for a day, get some rest, and meet the following day at the hut. “Let’s find a cheap place in Buffalo to crash for a day and tomorrow we’ll tackle the Bruno thing,” I said.