Blackstone Code-Chapter 653: A Letter of Gratitude

In the morning, Johnson arrived at the State Tax Bureau. According to unwritten rules, being made a consulting researcher was considered a favorable retirement arrangement—certainly better than ending up as a warehouse or records clerk.

Consulting researchers were allowed to ask about anything, and as long as they didn’t interfere in actual operations, they could do whatever they wanted—including accessing the evidence or archives rooms to review materials.

After parking his car, he headed to the director’s office, only to be told the director was away for training. No one knew when he’d be back.

As a former director of a local tax bureau, Johnson knew exactly what this meant—it was just a way to step aside, get things done without offending anyone.

It was a clever tactic, but not everyone could use it—only those who truly held power.

With a slight sigh, he went to the deputy director’s office. After knocking, he entered.

The deputy director was busy with paperwork. He glanced up at Johnson standing by the door, then lowered his head again without stopping his writing, showing no respect at all.

And frankly, there was no need to—Johnson was just a consulting researcher now.

“Something you need, John?”

John was a shortened form of Johnson’s name. Federals liked to do this—shortening names to seem casual, maybe even friendly. But in the workplace, it often came across as condescending and dismissive.

If Johnson still held more power than the deputy director, he would never have been called John—just like he used to be called Director Johnson.

Johnson’s expression didn’t change much, though who knew what he really thought. “I heard from a colleague that a guy named Fox was arrested?”

The deputy director stopped writing and looked at Johnson with a bit of confusion. “Yes. Is there a problem?”

Johnson nodded quickly. “I used to be the tax director in Sabin City. I’ve dealt with that guy before. Just wondering if I could be of any help…”

The deputy director put down his pen and laced his fingers, resting his hands on the desk. He frowned, thinking.

The bruised-face guy had used measures on Fox last night, but that old man was tough—he didn’t say a word, didn’t even groan.

They’d been in this line of work long enough to know who would break and who could grit their teeth. After the first round, they could usually tell.

Someone like Fox couldn’t be broken with torture. In fact, using it might cause him to lash out with wild accusations or even commit suicide. It wouldn’t be the first time.

That’s why bruised-face had gone straight to Kurland City afterward—he knew there was no more value in pressing Fox and needed a new angle.

Now it was a psychological game, not one of pain and suffering.

With no better options, Johnson’s arrival seemed worth a try.

The deputy director, realizing all this, asked, “You know this… Fox?”

Johnson shook his head. “I’ve heard of him. I supervised investigations back then but never met him. Still, he definitely knows who I am.”

The deputy director furrowed his brow again, then slowly nodded. “Find a way to talk to him. You know what I mean?”

“I understand, Director.”

Saying Director again stirred something intense in Johnson. He used to be the one called that. But when others addressed him, it never carried the caution, humility—even deference—he used now.

The deputy director waved him off, and Johnson left the office, carefully closing the door without making a sound so as not to disturb the man’s thoughts.

He stood outside the door for ten seconds or so, then shook his head with a bitter smile and walked toward the interrogation room.

Thanking a colleague who opened the door for him, he stepped inside.

Mr. Fox was sleeping, slumped over the table. There was no bed here, and the floor was too cold—even in summer, too cold for an old man.

It was an uncomfortable way to sleep, but he had no choice. Pain and hunger had eventually knocked him out.

The door creaked open, waking him. He slowly sat upright—moving too fast might pull something. Once fully upright, he turned to see Johnson at the door.

They knew each other well—one was a frequent suspect in case files, the other the former tax director often seen on TV. Though they’d never met, there was a strange familiarity.

“Director Johnson…” Fox smiled through his bruises. His composure was impressive, even to Johnson. There was no fear or despair, only calm and dignity. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Fox patted the dust off his clothes and said, “Sorry you had to see me like this. Forgive the indecency.” He pointed to his thigh. “They kicked me. I still can’t stand up, so I can’t greet you properly. My apologies.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Johnson walked over, hands in his coat pockets. From Fox’s condition, it was clear his night had been rough.

“I didn’t think they’d come to you. That’s surprising.” Even Fox was taken aback they’d pulled in a former director like Johnson. It showed how tightly the Bureau was closing in.

Johnson pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, handed one to Fox, and lit it for him.

Waving out the match flame, he said, “Someone asked me to deliver a message: he remembers your friendship and wishes it everlasting.”

Fox smiled faintly. “Is that so…” He exhaled deeply and looked up at Johnson. “If you see him again, tell him—this is what I deserve.”

Johnson nodded. After a brief hesitation, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Fox removed the cigarette from his mouth. “If you can get them to bring me something to eat, that’d be enough. They starved me all day. My stomach’s killing me. Hopefully something easy to digest.”

“You probably don’t know, but last night I was actually thinking about how to swallow my own shoe.” Fox laughed. “I’d always heard people say that, but I never thought hunger would make anything look edible.”

“If someone asks how I got here…”

Fox tapped the table with the fingers holding his cigarette. The rubber surface barely made a sound. “I know what to say.”

There were no cameras or recorders in this room. It was built specifically for measures—for torture.

No one would risk recording what happened here. If any of it leaked, it would be a massive scandal. And according to the Federal Charter and legal interpretation, any confessions or evidence obtained through torture had no legal standing.

Torture also raised the risk that other cases might come under scrutiny, potentially causing enormous trouble for the entire system.

Only after the measures were finished would Mr. Fox be transferred to another interrogation room—one with audio and video recording. There, they wouldn’t lay a hand on him. He would be given food and water on time, and treated like a taxpayer.

Johnson stayed a bit longer. The two of them chatted about recent news in York State. After around five minutes, Johnson left the room.

At the door, he paused and told the guards to bring Mr. Fox some food.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that Johnson returned home from the State Tax Bureau. What surprised him was that Lynch wasn’t there waiting.

Around 7 p.m., the phone suddenly rang. It was Lynch.

“The director has gone to the central office for a training session. No one knows when he’ll be back. The deputy director is now in full charge of the case.”

“I also saw Mr. Fox and passed on what you told me. He asked me to tell you—he said this is what he deserves…”

After that, there was silence for a few seconds. Then Lynch’s gentle voice came through the receiver: “Thank you very much, Mr. Johnson. It’s late—I won’t keep you.”

The next morning, having returned to ordinary life, Johnson was checking his mailbox as usual when he found a plain white envelope inside—no name, no postmark, very thin.

His heart suddenly began to pound. A surge of adrenaline left him with a dry mouth.

He licked his lips, slipped the envelope into his pajama pocket, and quickly went back to his study.

Sitting in the chair by the window, with his back to the sunlight, he gently opened the envelope and took out what was inside.

A small slip of paper—with only one line: Cash Check – Golden Exchange Bank.

There was no other writing on the envelope or the slip to explain its meaning. But Johnson knew—this was Lynch’s thank-you letter, his way of expressing gratitude for those small, seemingly insignificant things Johnson had done yesterday.