“I’m listening,” Carl replied.
“Michael Fredric Dean was born on July 5, 1959, in Wisconsin. His parents were Cora and Manfred Dean, of Black River Falls. Mrs. Dean was from the Norwegian Hanson clan, which has hundreds of family members in the many isolated coulees in the area.”
“Coulees?” Carl repeated.
“For your information, a coulee is a valley surrounded by many small hills. People up in Wisconsin explain that they live in such and such a coulee. Coulees were a geological anomaly. When the great glacier came down from Canada during the ice age, it somehow didn’t cover a portion of the land which runs from Eau Claire south to the border of Illinois. As a result, hundreds of small hills and valleys were left. It is a stark contrast to the otherwise flat Midwest.”
“I thought coulees were a Chinese worker or something,” quipped Heinz.
This merited him a blank stare from Loni, but she continued. “Manfred Dean’s origins were hard to track down. He just appeared in Black River Falls in June 1946. He was about thirty at that time. We could not find anything about him until I discovered there was a German prisoner of war camp about twenty miles from Black River Falls during the war.”
“German prisoners of World War II were interned in Wisconsin?”
“Yes,” she quickly replied. “Dean’s real name was Krauz and he hailed from Munich. Captured in North Africa in 1942, he was sent to Camp McCoy to wait out the war. He had apparently met his wife during this time there and he returned to Black River Falls shortly after the war ended. He changed his name to avoid any anti-German backlash.”
“I wonder why?” Heinz began to rub his chin in thought.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “He was a machinist by trade, a tool and die maker. In 1963, he moved his family to Streamwood. Mrs. Dean had relatives here. He worked for International Harvester in Chicago and retired in 1986. The couple died in 1988, when their car mysteriously drove into the side of a synagogue in Skokie, Illinois. Manfred had a record for assault, mostly from fights. His coworkers described him as arrogant, precise, with no sense of humor. They said he viewed anyone not German with tremendous contempt.”
“You got all this information in three hours?” Heinz was beginning to admire this woman.
“There is plenty more,” Agent Chen replied excitedly. “Dean has lived in Streamwood all his life, except for the army years. After barely graduating from Streamwood High School, he enlisted in the army in 1977. Two high-school teachers told me Dean was more interested in football than school. He was known as the ‘Assassin’ on the field, primarily due to his aggressive tackling and attitude. He was suspected of several cases of vandalism at the school, but someone else always came forward to take the blame.”
“What about his army file?”
“The army was not very cooperative, as his files are off-limits to civilians, even the FBI. From what I could gather, Dean was an MP — you know, Military Police — for several years. He left the military three weeks after the death of his parents. The rest of his file is closed to us. This could mean nothing, or it could mean a lot.”
“It does explain how he became a policeman here,” Carl noted.
“True,” Loni replied. “Due to his MP background, he was able to get hired in Streamwood in the fall of 1988. He lists church, golf, racing cars, and bowling as his interests. He has never been married and lists his emergency contact as Judy Kroll, the wife of Joe Kroll.”
“Well, Agent Chen, I don’t know; his background sounds like the profile of a loner. What do you think?”
“Call me Loni, please,” she purred and batted her eyes. “After all, I am your acting girlfriend right now.”
“Okay, Loni.” He liked the way her name rolled out of his mouth. “What should we do now?”
“I think I need to borrow a police cruiser.”
“Why?”
“I feel the need to go bowling.”
***
After a few minutes of discussion, Carl Heinz agreed to let her use an unmarked patrol car. After she left, he started to take apart the report on his desk. It was a cross-reference of Officer Dean’s cases and any name which appeared more than once on a report. Agent Chen had handed him the report as she had entered the office. He marveled at her work.
“I didn’t know our system could do these cross-references,” he said to himself. Heinz observed sixteen names noted twice, with eight noted three times. One name was noted six times — Ula Woods.
Chapter Twelve
The old man sat quietly in the living room of his house located on Tanners Neck Lane. His age was indeterminable, but he was very old and had lived a full and remarkable life. His eyes were alert but rheumy. His vision was sometimes cloudy. Yet his inner vision, supported by the voices in his head, was as strong as ever. He knew he would succeed in his mission. The voices had convinced him with their singsong riddles about the future. “The time will come, you are the one,” they would announce.
The sprawling ranch house overlooked Moriches Bay on Long Island in the trendy town of Westhampton Beach. Outside the weather was beautiful but the old man had tired of the outdoors and now spent his time mostly seated at his old desk. He was obsessed with planning a mission of great importance, not just for him, but also for all humanity. It consumed all of his waking hours. The time to complete the mission had finally come. He just needed a little help, and he knew whom to involve, whether they wanted to be involved or not.
The old man hadn’t driven in more than ten years. Instead he depended on various services to bring him whatever he needed. His one companion was a Polish housekeeper who came each day and stayed long after the housecleaning dictated. Stella was fifty-five and unmarried, with no prospects. On occasion the old man had small presents sent to his home and gave these to Stella in exchange for brief favors. The need for favors came further and further apart now — after all, he was almost one hundred years old — but it still persisted. To him it was a measure of his existence. He had no friends and no relatives and knew only a few people by their name. His longtime friend had died a decade earlier. He was nearly alone in the world.
His several contacts and controllers from the old country had died of old age. The old man had only one remaining obsession. It was to complete his mission before he died. The voices in his head told him the time was now.
He had recently found some help, and a way to accomplish his goal.
Chapter Thirteen
Meanwhile at the Altar of the Creator church in Aurora, Joe Kroll was ripping one of his members a new asshole.
“How could you screw up this bad? You’re a dipshit. Here we are on the verge of a new horizon for the cause and you screwed it up. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve been an idiot. The Lord God has given us a miracle and you are throwing it away.” Kroll was firing on all cylinders, orating to an audience of one.
“I did it to protect the church, Joe,” Michael Dean argued. “By returning the van, no one will file a complaint. Heinz doesn’t give a rat’s ass. He’ll never follow up.”
“Our forefathers’ dream in America is just a few days away from starting and you screw up. I should’ve let them put you in Leavenworth. You would have made a good wife for some big black horse-hung animal — or maybe a Jew. Maybe I should drop you as a deacon in the church as punishment.”
Dean had an uncontrollable temper going all the way back to high school. Kroll, who had known him for over ten years, knew how to push all the right buttons. No stranger to violence himself, Kroll could feel the rush of adrenaline he always got when violence was near.
Kroll felt the sweet electricity of tension, the smell of fear. His brain was alerted for any sign of aggression. In his pocket, his fingers had already laced through the brass knuckles he always carried with him.
Dean was also ready for a fight. But Kroll had mentioned the one thing Dean feared — loss of his position as deacon in the church. All his life Dean struggled to be a leader. He had final
ly achieved a leadership role in the church, but now Kroll was threatening to take it away. He could not allow that to happen, especially now when his dreams were about to come true.
He tried to be conciliatory. “Joe, we know where Banyon lives and we’ll find him. He can’t stay hidden for long. I have people looking for him everywhere. I have the resources of the police department. Even that idiot Heinz thinks Banyon is someone with something to hide. I’ve sent a man over to his girlfriend’s house to see if he’s there. I’m expecting a call any minute.”
Kroll actually liked confrontation; it made his blood boil. Whenever his blood boiled, he always developed a need for sex. Not just any sex, but rough sex. The need for violence was now replaced by arousal. Kroll was consumed with sexual desire, and knew he would hunt later that evening. Dean had often hunted with him.
Michael Dean was feeling the arousal as well. “Kind of reminds me of our time on Okinawa. You were yelling at me just like this back then,” he suddenly laughed. “But we came through alright, didn’t we?”
“Damn straight,” shot back Kroll being more conciliatory. “I sure as hell will never forget that adventure any time soon.”
“The army should have never sent us to that cesspool,” Dean offered. “It was their fault. The crazy Japs there constantly accused the American military men of raping their girls. Didn’t they get it? We won the war and could put as many men on Okinawa as we wanted to station there. They thought that if they made enough accusations we would go away.”
“Yeah, but our yellow-bellied leaders didn’t understand,” Kroll filled in. “They always knuckled and paid off the families and court-martialed the men. Their lives were ruined.”
“But we stopped that, at least for a while, didn’t we?” Dean said with vengeance.
“You almost got us hung, as I recall,” replied Kroll.
“It wasn’t my fault,” cried Dean. “The girl and her brother had clearly staged the rape scene. The sailor was innocent. They just wanted to extort money from our government.”
“Our investigation proved the sailor couldn’t have raped her,” Kroll agreed. “But you screwed up Michael.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Dean argued. “When that girl came at me with the knife, I had to knock it away, and I bear-hugged her while you interrogated her brother.”
“But the confrontation had gotten you aroused. I saw it in your eyes. Her little legs were dangling and her skirt was rising. I knew something was going to happen.”
“But, Joe, you were the first one to hit her.”
“Well, she wouldn’t shut up. But you hit her many times after that. Then you raped her.”
“You did too,” Dean reminded his friend.
“Michael, you hit her one too many times. She died, for Christ sake.”
“But I fixed it, Joe. I killed her brother, made it look like a suicide after he killed her.”
“We were lucky. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Twenty-five years later, Dean was still reliving the event. The blood rushed through his veins. He was not ashamed of what they had done; he was proud. They had saved a fellow Aryan, showed up the inept military government, exterminated some Asian garbage, and been sexually satisfied, all in one fell swoop. He couldn’t wait to have a chance to do it again sometime. A phone rang, breaking the trip down memory lane.
Dean opened his cell phone. “Where is he?” Dean screamed into the phone. He hung up abruptly and looked helplessly at Kroll. “The asshole Banyon has gone to Las Vegas, to some convention. Our guy saw a note at Banyon’s girlfriend’s place. He was posing as a telephone man and saw the note on the refrigerator. Banyon will be back in four days. I told you we would find him.”
“You’d better call the old man and report,” a worried Kroll replied.
Chapter Fourteen
Dean was the only person allowed to communicate with the old man on Long Island. He told everyone the old man would only deal with him. He didn’t want Kroll to take over and take credit for his work and he was actually a little afraid of Walter Pierce. The old man was very good at intimidation. Before making the call, he thought about his history with the old man.
Pierce had first made contact with him over two years ago. He had been reading the “personal services” ads in a mercenary magazine. The ad read “Need to identify a fingerprint. Can you help?” It had been placed by Walter Pierce. He had taken the job for five thousand dollars, half up front. Dean could not find the fingerprint in the police data banks, but knew a female clerk at the FBI in Chicago. She also came up empty. The owner’s prints did not exist, or they were not in any database. It was a dead end.
The fingerprint suddenly appeared in the police database about a year ago, in Streamwood no less. Dean notified Pierce by voicemail but never received a return call. A year later, Walter Pierce called back. His voice was wheezy but clear.
“Come to see me. I have something for you to do and will pay handsomely for your services. It might lead to the one thing you have always desired. You may be the one I seek. I will need to know if you fight for the cause. Bring documentation that you believe.” Dean knew the cause was white supremacy. He was sure the old man, like himself, was one of them. That had been just four days ago. He remembered the trip.
***
Dean had arrived at MacArthur Airport at a little after noon. It was a two-and-a-half-hour flight from Chicago. MacArthur, located in Ronkonkoma, is about halfway between New York City and Montauk Point, the end of Long Island. The area could be accessed by any of New York’s three main airports, but MacArthur Airport saved hours in commuting time when going out to the highly populated island.
Dean rented a car, and, after collecting a map, made his way to the Long Island Expressway. Heading east he noted the flat contour of the land. There were also fewer houses lining the highway than he expected. Taking exit number 70, he proceeded to Montauk Highway and passed through the small town of Eastport.
Continuing down the highway, he passed a sign for Speonk. Finally he reached Westhampton and Tanners Neck Lane. Turning right, he followed the tree-lined road. He could smell the scent of the ocean now. As he came around one more curve, he saw water. But it wasn’t the ocean. It was a large bay. Coming to a halt at the end of the road, he noticed a brick-walled compound to his right with iron gates and no nameplate. He walked up to the gate and depressed the button on the wall.
“Who is it?” The voice was old, but Dean recognized it.
“Your visitor from Chicago,” Dean replied.
“Leave your car where it is and walk up to the house,” the voiced ordered. “I’ll open the gate for you.”
“Fine,” Dean said as he scanned the landscape for cameras. He saw none. The house was set back from the road some hundred feet and had a circular driveway. The ranch style house had been built with red brick and covered with a shake roof. It looked like it could withstand a frontal attack. The door opened before he got there. A medium-sized man stood in the opening. He had stooped shoulders and wore a dark suit. The man appeared to be very old, maybe ninety years old or more. He looked frail with stooped shoulders, and seemed to have trouble standing up. There was a look of grim determination on his weathered face. There was also something in his hand. Drawing closer, Dean recognized a gun pointed at him.
“Nice gun Mr. Pierce, German Luger, looks like a relic from World War II,” Dean said with no trace of fear. He didn’t believe a gun that old could even fire. Dean was an expert on guns, and this one needed work to fire.
“Good of you to notice. I trust no one.” He waved the gun in such a way as to encourage Dean to enter.
As he passed by the old man, Dean could feel a chill come from inside the house. An old grandfather clock ticked in the background. Despite having furniture, it seemed empty. All in all, the house reeked of loneliness.
Dean was ordered to raise his hands and to lean against the wall. He was expertly frisked, then ordered to turn around. Once again, he was
staring into the barrel of the Luger.
“Michael Dean,” he said clearly. “I’m here at your request. We talked on the phone just yesterday. You do remember?”
“I may be old, but I’m not senile. You are either here because of greed or because of the cause. Which is it?” The gun moved menacingly closer.
“Both. I’m a businessman,” Dean replied cheerfully.
“Good, right to the point,” the old man said. “I have a proposition for you. First we are going for a little ride — you drive.” Dean was ordered to walk slowly back to his car, two steps ahead of his host.
When the two men reached the car, Dean was instructed to open the trunk. The old man put Dean between himself and the open trunk. Satisfied that no one was in there, he ordered Dean to open all the doors so he could look into the car. With his gun still trained on Dean, he stood back.
Once satisfied he ordered. “Get in and drive where I tell you.” He took out a piece of paper, and thrust it into Dean’s hands. On the paper were precise directions.
They followed a long straight road that headed north and stretched for as long as the eye could see. Dean learned from the map that it was the Speonk-Riverhead Road. Six miles up the narrow street, Dean was ordered to turn into an overgrown dirt road. It continued slightly uphill. Soon he was told to stop near a crest.
“Out,” the old man ordered.
They walked to the crest which was covered in an open meadow. Dean could see for miles. The land before, and below him, was dotted with stunted pine trees. A town was outlined in the clear distance. A body of water lay to the right and another was straight ahead. Yellow-white sand was everywhere beneath his feet. The only sound was a slight rustling of a breeze in the barren woods. The sight was beautiful.
The old man gestured toward the water on the right. “That’s where Long Island forks.”
“This is quite a view,” Dean agreed.
The old man smiled. “Straight ahead is the Sound and Connecticut is in the distance. Can you see it? The trees behind us prevent you from seeing the Atlantic Ocean. The ocean is less than nine miles from this spot.”
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