The Pflegmatic

Under the Gun

The interrogation room looked like a set piece from The Wire. Jay ran his finger across the metal table, regretting it instantly. The surface was covered in a thin layer of muck, roughly the consistency of old bacon grease. He wiped his hand on a piece of paper and flared his nostrils. It smelled like cheap beer and cigarettes. There was also a whiff of post-9/11 paranoia, like an old fart stuck in the fabric of an office chair. Freedom fries, let the eagle soar, color-coded terror forecasts.

By now, Jay deduced the police were playing mind games with him. It was pretty transparent, actually. They were trying to wait him out. In the movies, there would've been a hot profiler chick somewhere, preferably hiding behind a two-way mirror, nibbling on a No. 2 pencil. But this wasn't the movies, and Jay wasn't exactly Hannibal Lecter. For all accounts, he was a tip-top model citizen. He paid his taxes on time, didn't speed, didn't drink much. Just a yes Sir, no Sir kind of everyman living it up in the land of the free. At least on paper, which ironically looped right back into being suspicious.

Finally, the door flung open. A clean-cut agent in a suit waltzed in and slammed a pack of folders onto the table. He sat down and unraveled a rubber band before producing a pair of reading glasses. His age was hard to pinpoint, but Jay thought he had a timeless Tommy Lee Jones no-nonsense quality to him. Not necessarily Men in Black, more the "I don't care" type of U.S. Marshal from The Fugitive (whatever his name was). The kind of cop who'd drive you right over the edge of a waterfall. Jay smirked.

"Do you think this is funny, Mr. Anderson?" The agent said, sounding like he was doing a bad Hugo Weaving impression. Hell, he didn't even look up. He just kept flipping through one of the folders.

Jay rolled his eyes. "It's Henderson. Why am I here?" The agent lowered his glasses. Jay continued, "And who are you anyway?"

The agent pointed his glasses at Jay. "First of all, I'm not your boyfriend, so don't you roll your eyes at me like I just asked you for a sandwich."

"Alright, alright!" Jay said while putting his palms up.

"Second of all, I'm not here to answer your questions. I'm not here to amuse you either. And please spare me the sovereign citizen routine. Just let me do my job. Are we understanding each other, Mr. Anderson?"

"Henderson," Jay mumbled.

"Come again?" The agent raised a hand to his ear.

"Never mind." Jay closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was going to be a long night...

About a Guy Called Hans

Crumbled hamburger wraps, a few empty soda cans, some napkins. Jay was leaning back in his chair and picking his teeth with his fingernail. Agent No-Name was standing outside and listening to some distinguished-looking man. Occasionally, the agent would answer and point in Jay's direction, wave a few documents around, and then fall silent again when it was his turn to listen.

"Are you sure?" the agent asked. "Yeah, do it!" said the other man and vanished. Agent No-Name just stood there for a few seconds, looking lost, but eventually, he got back into his groove and power-walked into the interrogation room. The door closed, and he threw a photograph on the table.

"Do you know this individual?" barked the agent.

He was pacing back and forth without losing eye contact with Jay. The wobbly picture depicted a dark-haired man wearing aviator shades carrying a plate of pancakes to a shed in the woods, with a big bad "I like to kick puppies" frown on his face. He was also carrying a mysterious wooden box that had a bunch of wires sticking out.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's Hans. Hans Neumann." Jay went on. "We're distant relatives. Same grandmas. What do you want from him?"

"Do you know him well?" The agent made it sound like a rhetorical question.

"I guess. Met him at a family gathering after he showed up out of nowhere. We went fishing a few times. Nice guy, but you always had a hard time convincing him to do anything. Called him the other day, but he didn't even pick up."

"Why?" The agent sat down and got closer to Jay.

"What? Why wouldn't he pick up?"

"No, why did you call him?"

"I needed help with a broken hard drive. I knew he had a knack for electronics and computers. So I felt like catching up."

Agent No-Name didn't say anything. Then he slid a handwritten note across the table and tapped his index finger on what looked like a signature—Jay's signature. As a matter of fact, the whole text looked like Jay's handwriting.

"That's a suicide note. Says your name, right there." The agent raised an eyebrow.

"What?" Jay took the paper and started reading. "The fuck!? I didn't write that." Jay was genuinely baffled by the revelation. The agent smiled.

"Oh, here's the thing. I believe you, but we found this in Neumann's apartment. That and a bunch of other things. Neumann himself vanished a week ago... and you were the last person to contact him." The agent stood up and gave Jay a stern look.

"We have reasons to assume the real Hans Neumann died 12 years ago. Which would make this person..." The agent pointed at the photograph. "...an imposter."

"You're kidding!?" Jay couldn't believe it.

"The imposter for that matter seems to be a figure going by the name of the Pflegmatic. Some sort of international bombmaker who sold his services to a dozen terrorist organizations. We suspect him to be involved in a series of recent letter bombings."

The agent continued: "Here's what's going to happen. You will go home and pretend none of this ever happened. We can't offer you full witness protection but we'll keep an eye on you. In the unlikely case of Hans decides to pop up again, we will be there."

Jay's heart was pounding. "Are you crazy? You're going to get me killed. Why the fuck did you even tell me?" The agent didn't answer.

"Here's my card. Call this number in case of an emergency." Jay took the card reluctantly.

"Great..."

Jay was escorted down to some subterranean garage by a burly Henry Rollins looking guy, until they reached a black car.

"Get in the van!" The burly man said. Jay looked at him like he was stupid but complied. They must've driven for twenty minutes until Jay got thrown to the streets and found himself standing in the parking lot of a brightly illuminated waffle house. They didn't even say goodbye. Bastards.