"I still don't believe they could hide the approach of a large asteroid."
"Seems like they're hiding a lot of shit," I said. "And if the government is gearing up to stop an asteroid, we wouldn't necessarily know. They have so many black programs that all we ever see is the tip of the iceberg."
Lilith stared straight ahead. Her persistent scowl made me think I'd scored some points. Unfortunately, those weren't points I wanted to score.
"We'll just have to dig deeper," she said.
We drove for a while in silence as I kept my eyes peeled for more deer.
"I can't believe I missed that he was gay," said Lilith.
Chapter 7
I DIDN'T GET A lot of sleep.
I lay awake the next morning at 6:45, watching daylight creep in around the edges of the double curtains, playing over the previous day, Lilith's remarks, and my late-evening phone conversation with Markus Killian.
Markus was pleased by what I'd learned about Wal-Mart and from Ethan Ellenberg, but his professorial self slipped when the subject of his daughter came up. While he acknowledged Lilith's contribution, he made it clear that she would not be accompanying me on my next or any other mission.
"We're going to look more deeply into the possibility of an asteroid impact," he said. "But in the meantime, since you're so close to Saint Paul, we thought it might be an idea to drive up there and delve into the shooting that occurred three weeks ago."
"The Gay Wedding Massacre?"
"Yes."
The professor went on to say that his people suspected at least some of the mass shootings over the last few years had been staged, but they "lacked definitive evidence" for that hypothesis.
"We'd like to know if gun control false flag operations are truly being run," Markus concluded. "If they are, that could have a significant bearing on the other anomalous events we've been observing."
And so I packed up my bags after a shower and free breakfast and headed north into the land of ten million lakes. I hadn't seen this assignment coming, but I was happy it had. I'd been planning a blog on the subject of possible gun-control false flags, but hadn't been satisfied with my level of research.
The standard narrative in conspiracy circles was that the government wanted to take away our guns to tame the American people as a path to a world government ruled by international bankers. It was a scheme that struck me as a bit too grand and difficult to achieve. And though some of these shootings seemed questionable if not downright fishy, I couldn't see how medical examiners, police, victims, and medical personnel could be controlled well enough to pull them off. Still, I'd wanted to dig into at least one of the shootings, and now I would get my chance.
The St. Paul shooting – aka the "Gay Wedding Massacre" – was the perfect gun-control media storm: Oath Keepers, racism, black on white romance, gay rights, martial law, a hero, AR-15s, and multiple victims.
In St. Paul, Minnesota the apparent unjustified shooting of Jamal Devers triggered a massive protest and riots when a St. Paul grand jury ruled the shooting justified – despite a video from a spectator’s cell showing an unarmed Jamal running from a car after a police chase and falling to a fusillade of police gun fire.
The Oath Keepers showed up with the stated intent of protecting property owners in downtown St. Paul against looting. Then, according to the news media, three Oath Keepers toting AR-15s chased some black youths they alleged were looters into a church where a gay wedding between a white man, Jacob Gustafson, and his black lover, Jerome Tyler, was taking place. According to Jacob Gustafson, the only surviving wedding member, the Oath Keepers went "utterly insane" and started blasting everyone in the wedding party while the alleged looters slipped away. Jacob said that his would-be spouse, Jerome Tyler, leaped in front of him as the Oath Keepers opened fire, "sacrificing his life to save mine."
Police arrived, and the Oath Keepers made a run for it. In a replay of the Boston Bombing, police in armored vehicles sporting full military armament roamed the town, knocking on and occasionally smashing down doors, ushering people in pajamas or underwear into the streets with hands held high as the manhunt escalated into a full Bostonian "shelter in place."
As night stretched into pre-dawn, a special SWAT force, acting on a tip, cornered the three Oath Keepers in an upscale St. Paul neighborhood, and a firestorm broke out. The three Oath Keepers were killed, along with two officers.
Within a day a Facebook page appeared depicting one of the Oath Keepers. Gary Hanson, gleefully burning a LBGT flag. That one image launched a media circus: suddenly rainbow flags were sprouting everywhere in support of the fallen wedding goers and the African-American gay groom who had heroically placed himself between his bride-to-be and the fusillade of AR-15 rounds.
To add fuel to the media fire, another Oath Keeper who'd died in the shootout had allegedly tweeted racist comments, one of which went viral: "Black lives only matter if they're decent human beings. Most aren't."
Thirty-two million dollars was fast-tracked to the victims’ families.
The usual cries for gun control that followed from the usual places were joined by family and friends of the victims, who after brief eulogies turned to demanding that something had to be done about guns. Though gun control outrage from previous mass shootings had failed to generate a consensus, this time it developed into a national obsession – real or manufactured – which culminated in a new Congressional bill proposing psychiatric requirements, reduced ammunition capability, and a mandatory buy-back of all assault rifles with permanent bans to follow.
As I approached my new hotel, the Radisson Blu, I had only my usual fuzzy vision of how my next assignment might play out. One obvious target was the surviving groom, Jacob Gustafson, who after a couple of weeks in a hospital recovering from multiple gunshot wounds now seemed good as new, and was busy showing photos of his relationship to reporters and posting them on internet media. Another possibility was talking to one of the wounded cops. I didn't relish that idea. If there was something crooked going on, they weren't likely to have loose lips, and if they suspected I was looking into them they'd be plenty likely to return the favor or worse.
After checking into the hotel, I grabbed a bite at a nearby Mexican restaurant, and drove west to Edina, where Jacob Gustafson had purchased a new and very expensive home with the roughly three million dollars the government had tossed his way.
I found myself in a wooded area much like Ethan Ellenberg’s home in Sioux Falls, except the homes here were mostly at the ends of long driveways buried in the woods. No way to see anything without leaving the van. For now I contented myself with parking under some trees a short distance from Jacob Gustafson's driveway and took the opportunity to dig a bit deeper into the numerous files of the event that Markus had sent to my laptop.
While I couldn't point to one thing that clearly labeled the St. Paul shooting as fake, it had a ton of discrepancies – many of the same logic issues presented by the Virginia Shooting, Sandy Hook, Aurora, and Umpqu a Community College. First, I'd met a number of Oath Keepers in the last few years, and they didn't much resemble the "crazed Constitutionalists," "armed militia government-haters," or "homophobic racists" labels that the media smeared them with after the shootings. The Oath Keepers I'd met, being generally conservative, might not have liked the idea of gay marriage, but they'd seemed to be people of strong ethical principle who supported every person's right to choose the course of their own lives. I had a lot of trouble seeing Oath Keepers going "utterly insane" and slaughtering people at a gay wedding. I also had trouble seeing them being bought off by the very forces they declared themselves to be fighting against.
In another connection to the prior shootings, Gary Hanson, the Oath Keeper shown burning the rainbow flag on Facebook, was taking serotonin reuptake inhibitors and seeing a psychologist. Among the other discrepancies - aside from the standard unemotional friends and family whose grieving so strangely focused on gun control – was testimony from people living near
the church and the SWAT showdown that spoke of "two or three shots" instead of the fusillade that police and Jacob Gustafson described.
And whatever happened to the looters that the Oath Keepers allegedly pursued into the church? Not to mention why Oath Keepers attempting to capture looters would decide on the spot to shoot up a wedding party. None of it added up.
I watched some interviews with Jacob Gustafson and two other Oath Keepers who knew Gary Hanson, along with a pair of police officers involved in the shootout and various people who'd been in the vicinity of the church and the SWAT firefight. Several friends and family of the slain wedding-goers were interviewed, with the main focus on relatives of Gary Tyler.
The Oath Keepers called the accusations of racism and gay-bashing leveled at their fallen comrades "total bullshit." One man, identified as Gary Hanson's best friend, declared that he'd been drinking and had "burned the rainbow flag as a joke," and that the Oath Keeper who'd tweeted the "Black lives only matter if they're decent" line was "taken out of context." The police officers presented a tightlipped front to news cameras, squeezing out a grudging statement that the Oath Keepers had opened fire on them and "we responded with appropriate force," as one officer put it.
Family and friends spoke in glowing terms about the deceased wedding goers, especially the groom, Jerome Tyler. The descriptions, like those of many mass shooting victims, seemed more generic than personal ("Jerome was just one of those people who loved everybody and always had a positive attitude toward life"). No tears were shed on camera, though one bearded dude kept shaking his head and gesticulating frantically, almost as if he were trying to work up some emotion. I had the impression of people reading lines – of amateur hour at the local theater.
To me, the most unbelievable of all the characters was Jacob Gustafson. He struck me as a straight guy pretending to be gay pretending to be grief-stricken. I couldn't claim to have any gay friends, but his gayness seemed over the top. Rarely did a sentence escape his lips without a lisp or a mincing gesture. But when I looked at him and ignored all the verbal and physical flourishes, I thought I saw an underlying hardness in his eyes and jaw. He reminded me of some of my Marine buddies who sometimes went on exaggerated gay-riffs in our downtime. Gustafson also had what I'd call a "hard body." Not to say gays couldn't be muscular, but I sensed a military straightness in his posture between flounces. He held himself like an operator. Was I the only one seeing this?
"Jerome was like a big brown adorable teddy bear," Gustafson gushed. "He was the love of my life." He paused to rub his eyes, though I couldn't make out any tears. "I miss him every day in every way."
Gustafson brandished a large tablet and took the viewers through a pictorial "tour de force" of his relationship: walking hand-in-hand on the beach, horsing around in someone's backyard, hands ensnared in a toast to each other, and embracing in front of a large wedding cake featuring two tuxedoed men holding hands. "We had the most passionate, special kind of love, and our friends thought we were the most adorable couple," he declared.
I sat scratching my head as the sunlight filtering through the windshield diminished to a soft glow. I didn't have a degree in psychology or body language, but I'd match my bullshit detector with anyone's. And as I watched Jacob Gustafson, my B.S. detector was ringing loudly enough to give me a frickin' headache.
Aside from the basic insanity of the idea, if some of these shootings were staged, why did they have so much trouble finding people who could actually act? Why all these dudes and gals who wouldn't have made the cut in a junior high play? If the CIA or some other alphabet agency was carrying this shit out, they really needed to hire an acting coach or something.
A low-slung sports car – Corvette Stingray – rumbled out of Gustafson's driveway. As I shoved aside my laptop, the Corvette paused, and the driver stared straight at me. I wasn't prepared for that. Up to that moment, my targets had seemed conveniently oblivious to my presence. I gazed down at my seat as if it was the eighth wonder of the world, and the Corvette accelerated away.
I started the van and followed several car-lengths back, grateful for the darkening day. I had to bury the gas pedal as the Sting Ray whipped around the first corner with a macho growl and hurtled into traffic beyond the woods. Was he trying to escape me, or was this how he usually drove?
I managed to keep him in sight until he lost me at a signal. I still wasn't sure if he normally drove like a lunatic or believed I was tailing him. Whatever the case, the way he drove his car, and the car itself, reinforced my suspicion that Jacob Gustafson was a lot less swishy than he seemed.
I idled along the same boulevard, not having much hope of encountering Jacob and his Corvette, but then I spotted it: stylish iridescent blue curves shining amidst a profusion of pedestrian shapes and colors in a restaurant parking lot. Perhaps all was not lost.
I found a parking spot many spaces removed but still within observing range of the Sting Ray. This would probably take a while. I reached for my laptop.
A rap on my window launched me half out of my seat. Jacob Gustafson stood with his face inches from the glass, glaring at me. I took a deep breath and rolled down the window.
"You're a reporter?" he accused more than asked.
"Uh" – seemed like as good of an out as any – "yes. You got me."
"You weren't exactly subtle. I saw you staking me out back at my place."
His words were clipped, hard-edged, but more matter-of-fact than angry. If this guy was gay, my gaydar was irreparably broken. Instead, the beeping in my head was signaling military. Unlike gaydar, I had complete faith in my military dar. I cleared my throat.
"I was hoping for an interview," I said.
Gustafson measured me with cold grey-blue eyes for a long breath. He sighed. Not an eye-rolling, theatrical sigh – just a sharp, steadying release of breath.
"I've done enough interviews."
"Could I buy you dinner?" I attempted a gay-friendly smile.
"No. Not interested."
He turned away and headed for the restaurant. Without thinking, I jumped out and pursued, grasping the back of one shoulder. He spun, and in one swift motion swept aside my grip and captured my wrist in the crook of his arm. He doubled up on his grip with his other hand and torqued my forearm downward. I could've defended in any number of ways, but trusting that he didn't mean to truly hurt me I allowed myself to be driven to my knees.
"As I said," he growled under his breath, "I've done enough interviews."
"Point taken," I said.
He released me. I shuffled to my feet. A question invaded Gustafson's eyes as he studied me. At this point, I didn't see any disadvantage in laying some cards on the table.
"Interesting," I said.
"What?"
"You're not even slightly gay, are you?"
"Are you saying" – he paused to inject an indignant lisp into his voice – "that a gay man can't handle himself?"
I laughed in his face – at the double entendre as much as his acting. "Dude, that was pathetic."
"What are you talking about?"
"Let's just say you're badly missing your acting coach."
"How about I rearrange your gay-bashing features?"
"Also missing your scriptwriter, apparently."
He took a step toward me. I just cocked my head and smiled. If he wanted to get busy in the parking lot, I was happy to oblige. I wouldn't be rolling over this time. Besides, you can tell a lot about a man by the way he fights. Gustafson pulled up, his eyes narrowing as they drilled into mine. He was reading me just as I was reading him.
"Who are you?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"I was wondering the same about you."
"I'm a gay man who just lost his life partner, asshole."
"Next thing you'll be telling me you had a white-hot love."
"Go fuck yourself." He started to turn away, but stopped himself again. "Seriously – who the hell are you?"
"Just someone searching for the truth."
"The truth can set you free." He smiled, his eyes cold. "Sometimes even free of your life."
"Inspiring quote. I'll remember that."
His body and expression relaxed a notch. He seemed undecided about how to proceed. Then he shook his head and turned away.
"You once served your country," I said. "Now you've joined with people who want to destroy it. I'm wondering how you justify that."
Gustafson stopped. After a few moments, he turned halfway back to face me.
"What news agency did you say you work for?"
"I didn't say. What alphabet agency did you say you worked for?"
I thought I saw a glint of surprise predate his smirk. "You're one of those conspiracy blogger-wackjobs, aren't you?"
"If I'm a wackjob, how come I can see through you when the media is lapping up your bullshit?"
"You have no proof. Your feelings about me aren't worth the shit they're written on."
"It's worth something to me. You never did answer about how you, a military vet, justifies doing this."
"As if all vets are saints." Gustafson snorted. "I will tell you this. It is possible to serve your country even when it looks like you aren't. You might think you know the score, but in reality you don't know jack shit. Other than that, go fuck yourself."
"Why I never!" I lisped, flipping a limp wrist at him.
He smiled. More grudging than actually amused, but it was still an acknowledgment of my irrepressible wit and possibly of his true self.
I watched him head back to the restaurant, my sense of triumph fading. Even if I was right about Jacob Gustafson, that didn't necessarily mean that people hadn't died. As he'd pointed out, I had my gut instinct and not much else. The big questions – who was running this, and how, and why – remained unanswered.
I sighed. I was just getting started here.
Chapter 8
I LOCATED GARY HANSON'S widow in nearby Stillwater – a small, picturesque community nuzzling the St. Croix River. I'd seen her in one brief interview: a very pretty lady who stated that while she'd had little contact with her husband – they'd been separated for over two years – she knew from phone conversations that Hanson had been suffering from depression and taking Zoloft. She claimed to be mystified by his actions that night, and speculated that the anti-depressants were a factor.
Operation Indigo Sky Page 10