The Placebo Effect by David Rotenberg

the investigators asked if the kid knew a man named Boris Barionofky.
    The young player dodged. He was truthful but circumspect.
    Suddenly the interrogators’ questions began to come more quickly, often not waiting for the translator to complete his response. Without any segue, the nature of the questions changed.
    Way more accusatory.
    â€œHow many times have you met Boris Barionofky?”
    â€œWhen was the last time you met him?”
    â€œWho else was in the room with you two?”
    â€œWhat exactly was discussed?”
    â€œHas he contacted you since you came to America?”
    â€œWhen was that?”
    â€œDid you meet or speak on the phone?”
    The translator pleaded with them to give Sergei a chance to answer the questions. The head investigator turned on him. “Keep your fucking mouth shut. Sergei understands English well enough to answer our damned questions. Don’t you, Sergei?”
    The boy looked around wildly, clearly trying to find a place of safety in this cage of lions.
    Then the interrogator tossed three photographs onto the table.
    Luska reached into a folder and handed copies of the same three pictures to Decker.
    Each clearly showed the young hockey player with a barrel-chested middle-aged man.
    The hockey player suddenly stood and shouted something in Russian.
    Decker turned to Luska, “My sister is…”
    â€œSick. He said, ‘My sister is sick and needs help.’”
    Then there was a moment of silence in the room.
    The general manager swore softly. The interrogators looked at each other, then left the room.
    Decker turned to Luska. “Give me your transcription.” She did. “Come back in ten minutes.”
    She got up and left the room. Decker quickly read through the transcript and underlined the truths. The others he noted were some sort of lies. Probably just equivocations he thought, but it wasn’t his job to decide.
    He opened the door and called for Luska. He handed her the transcription and explained what his notations meant. She thanked him and handed him a thick envelope—$11,290.
    Decker stuffed the envelope with the money into his shoulder bag and headed toward the elevator, but when Luska turned away from him he ducked down the escape stairway, went through the crash door on the thirty-sixth floor and was about to deposit his self-addressed envelope with the USB key for this interview into the U.S. Mail slot there when he thought better of it and pocketed the thing. He raced down the remaining thirty-six flights. After switching cabs three times he got to the Pittsburgh International Airport in beautiful downtown Coraopolis, PA.
    Henry-Clay wanted to clap his fat little hands, but he thought the better of it. He clicked off the images on the flat-screen TVs mounted on his office wall and said to the air, “Even when he doesn’t speak the language. Even then he knows a truth from a lie.” Henry-Clay flicked off the video player and threw his copy of Decker’s annotated transcript toward the circular wastebasket against the wall. It hit the far side and rimmed out. He rolled his office chair over, grabbed the transcript, dunked it, raised his arms, and announced, “Three-pointer!”
    Then Henry-Clay punched a button on his console. “When’s he getting to Cleveland?”

11
CLEVELAND, OHIO
    AFTER A HALF-HOUR FLIGHT HIS PLANE TOUCHED DOWN , and twenty minutes after that, Decker entered the main offices of the Cleveland Plain Dealer and approached the front desk. “You have a package for David Gerts.”
    The security guard asked for ID.
    Decker showed him his fake David Gerts driving license and took the package.
    â€œRoom two oh seven, down the hall and up the stairs.” Decker nodded. “Welcome to the Plain Dealer , Cleveland’s finest daily newspaper.”
    Decker suspected two things. One, that the guy hated having to say that to everyone he served, and two, that the