Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  All right, Somers thought. There had to be another way. Naomi had lied about Armistead on social media. Maybe she’d already managed to access his accounts and close them. That seemed possible but not probable. Unless Armistead were a particularly trusting sort of person, which seemed unlikely given what Somers knew, he wouldn’t have given anyone easy access to his accounts. Somers could try calling Naomi, asking again about Armistead’s social media platforms, but he had the feeling she’d deflect again and—

  The idea hit hard. Somers went back to Facebook. He spent a good fifteen minutes trawling through pages before moving to Twitter. This time, it took less than two minutes before he found what he wanted. He let out a crow of triumph.

  @chukattack. That was Chuckie Armistead’s handle. And it hadn’t taken Somers more than two minutes to find it because Naomi Malsho had been following Chuckie Armistead’s account for the last three months. She had unfollowed him, Somers guessed, to try to cover the tracks, but she had retweeted many of his posts over the last twelve weeks, and those posts still showed in her feed when Somers glanced back at it.

  When Somers opened @chukattack’s Twitter profile, the description sent a flush of energy down Somers’s spine. It read: American Hero. God-fearing Christian. Fighting for White American Rights in a Brown-Loving World. Official Twitter for Ozark Volunteers. It was those last words, in particular, that another surge of excitement through Somers.

  As he had expected, the official Twitter account for the Ozark Volunteers displayed a hatred of just about everything. Blacks, Asians, gays, Jews, Muslims, trans people, Communists, liberals, environmentalists, and—this one was a small surprise—even vegans. Armistead’s posts blurred the line between the personal and the official, and Somers often couldn’t tell if Armistead ever genuinely spoke for himself. Regardless, the picture that emerged was of a hateful, vindictive, and violent man. Many of the posts called for immediate action: cross-burnings, window-smashings, but mostly what Armistead referred to, again and again, as alt-white urban guerrilla war. One of the posts included a video that showed someone in a hooded sweatshirt assaulting a pair of women outside the Pretty Pretty. As Somers watched, the man—Somers was almost positive it was a man—grabbed one woman by the hair and slammed her into the Pretty Pretty’s brick wall. The second woman turned, throwing a punch, but the man kneed her in the stomach and shoved her on top of the first woman. Shouts went up in the background of the video, and the hooded man ran, followed by whoever was holding the camera—Armistead, Somers guessed.

  The video left him with a foul taste in his mouth, and when Somers took a drink of coffee, he found that it was cold. He grimaced and shoved the cup aside.

  “Who the hell does something like that?” Somers muttered.

  “You got something?” Hazard asked.

  Somers beckoned for him to come around the desk, and then he played the video again. When it ended, Hazard’s knuckles were white where he gripped the desktop. “That’s Armistead?”

  “One of them.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Tell me about it. Reading through this shit—” Somers waved a hand at the Twitter feed. “It’s enough to make you want to throw the badge away.”

  Hazard grunted. He peeled his hands from the desk and nodded to his computer. “You want to hear about Fukuma?”

  “You found something?”

  “Something, yeah.” Hazard squeezed into the chair and started reading from the notes he’d taken. “Lynn Fukuma, born 1975 in Seattle. Bryn Mawr, then Harvard. Her Ph.D. is in anthropology, and the title of her thesis is Queer Gender Politics in Post-War Japan.”

  “Sounds like fun reading. So what gives? Naomi thinks the killer is a forty-year-old anthropology professor?”

  “It gets better. Fukuma took about three years off during her Ph.D. Supposedly she’s working on field research in Japan—I’m getting this from an article the L.A. Times did on her, by the way.”

  “The L.A. Times?”

  “So, supposedly she leaves Boston for Tokyo, field research, all that. What she really does, though, is go to L.A. And she joins up with Victoria Coutts, Betty Portis, Jeannine Shepherd, people like that.”

  Somers rubbed his forehead. “Ok, who are they? They sound familiar, but for all I know, that could be the cast of the Golden Girls.”

  “That would have been a very different show. Coutts, Portis, and Shepherd are some of the founding members of the San Andreas Deep Ecologists. SADE.” Somers shook his head, and Hazard said, “Eco-terrorists. They threw pipe bombs into an active construction site, and when that didn’t work, they took a sniper rifle and started picking off workers.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I know. And the thing is—”

  Shaking his head, Somers held up a hand. “No, I mean, that’s terrible. But that’s not what I was reacting to.”

  “What?”

  “You.”

  “What?”

  “Did you just make a joke? That crack about the Golden Girls, how it would have been a very different show. That was a joke.”

  “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

  “You. Emery Hazard. You made a joke. And it was kind of funny.”

  “I am funny,” Hazard said, his face like a steel plate.

  “Funny like a shotgun slug. All right, let me guess: none of those women went to prison.”

  “Betty Portis and Victoria Coutts did, but it was stuff the police cobbled together. They couldn’t get them for the shootings or the actual bombs. They were out in a few years, but by then SADE had cooled down.”

  “Until Fukuma showed up?”

  “Kind of. The Times article is a profile piece, but it’s part of a series on a movement that the newspaper keeps calling the California Queer War. Fukuma and the other people they interview refuse to call it anything but a, quote, ‘leaderless resistance to the hegemony of sex and gender.’ They were a hell of a lot meaner than the San Andreas Deep Ecologists. People involved with this ‘leaderless resistance’ started the same kind of stuff: there was a bus bomb that killed twelve people, someone shot up this hotel, the Sunset Marquis, and killed a young mother, police cars were vandalized, on and on. This is all pre-internet, right, so these people would post public notices in newspapers claiming that the crimes were committed as part of this resistance.”

  “And Lynn Fukuma is involved in this?”

  “From what the Times interview suggests, she’s the one that started all of it. She’s pretty outspoken. She talks about the deaths as necessary evils, ways to end a cycle of slavery and oppression that has lasted for millennia. ‘That young mother,’ this is Fukuma talking, ‘was a soldier in the enemy lines, representing everything that has to die before a new world order can be born: the vulnerability of the uterus, impaled on the male organ, pierced and violated and subjugated. Raped, I should say, the way men have raped the land to lay their seed. Her death isn’t a tragedy. Her death means there’s one fewer light in that blazing marquee proclaiming hetero-male dominance.’” Hazard paused; his face was expressionless when he glanced up at Somers.

  “You don’t fucking believe that bullshit, do you?” Somers realized what he had said and tried again, lowering his voice. “I mean, I get it. Really, I do. People are shitty to each other. And yeah, the LGBT community in particular and women in general have had a shittier time than most.”

  “You don’t get it,” Hazard said. “Because you’re part of the hetero-male dominant class. And because you’re white and middle-class.”

  “Bullshit. I call bullshit on that.” And, to Somers’s surprise, Hazard flushed—not with anger, but with something like embarrassment. Somers wasn’t sure why Hazard had reacted that way, but he decided to keep talking and press his advantage. “You’re right. I’m white, I’m a man, I’m straight, I grew up with money. Lots of advantages. But that doesn’t mean I have my eyes shut. That doesn’t mean I’ve never felt—” He fumbled his words here, not quite sure what he meant. Alone?
Wounded? Afraid? Like an outsider? “Different,” Somers said, settling on the best word he could come up with. “And it doesn’t mean I can’t understand, at an intellectual level, what other people have gone through.”

  His face still colored, Hazard said, “Ok.”

  Somers, waiting for another assault, leaned back defensively. “What do you mean, ok?”

  “I mean ok.”

  “Ok, you mean I’m right? Or ok, you think I’m a moron and you can’t wait to stop talking to me?”

  A smile ghosted across Hazard’s face and then vanished, but he didn’t say anything.

  Somers reached across the desks and tapped Hazard’s monitor, where the interview with Fukuma was displayed. “We’re partners. I want to know what you think about this before we talk to Fukuma.”

  For almost a full minute, Hazard was quiet. It seemed impossible that such a big man could be so quiet, but he managed it remarkably well. His big hands were folded on the desk, his strong, slender fingers interlocked. Then he let out a slow breath.

  “I think she’s right about parts. I think there’s been a lot of shit thrown on anyone who’s different, but I think humans are always going to be that way. And I’m not just talking from my own experience. Like you said, I’ve got eyes and a brain. Look at the Ozark Volunteers; they’re the extreme. They hate anyone who’s different from them in any way. People like that, the people that don’t want anything to change, the people that want to hurt and silence anyone who’s different—that kind of people make me angry.” Those big, strong hands flexed and twisted for a moment.

  “I have a hard time thinking you’d shoot a young mother because she represents the effects of patriarchy,” Somers said drily, although he pitched his voice low and soft.

  Hazard snorted. “Since when do you know the word patriarchy?”

  “Hey! I went to college.”

  Another ghostly smile flickered and vanished. “You’re right. That part of what Fukuma says, when she talks about enemy soldiers and all that, it’s insane. If she really believes that straight people are evil just because they’re straight—just because being straight somehow reinforces an oppressive system—then she’s just as crazy as the Volunteers.” Hazard let out a sigh. “And earlier, when I said ok, I meant, ok, you’re usually a moron, but this time you’re right.” His eyes flicked up to meet Somers’s, and a grin flashed across his face—not a wispy echo of a smile, but a full-on grin, like a flashbulb exploding and then gone.

  Somers found himself smiling as well. “All right.”

  “All right?”

  “Yeah, I think we’re on the same page. More or less.”

  An indecipherable look passed over Hazard’s face—curiosity, that was part of it, but the rest Somers couldn’t recognize—and Hazard leaned forward. His chair creaked under him. “When you said you were straight—”

  But before Hazard could finish, Lender’s voice cut through his words. “Oh, Christ. Not her.”

  Somers glanced up, surprised to see Lender and Swinney crossing the bullpen. From behind the thick, yellow frames of his glasses, Lender was peering at Hazard’s screen. His enormous mustache quivered. Swinney, for her part, looked more tired than usual, and she’d clipped back the few long strands of her reddish-blond hair so that she looked more militant than usual.

  “Fukuma?” Somers said. “You know her?”

  “Know her?” Lender said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking on his heels. “Where the hell were you a few months ago? She’s the one that put a torch under this town and tried to see if everything would go up in flames.”

  “Swinney,” Somers said, “your partner is being dramatic again. What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s talking about the protest at the college. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I was there. But I don’t remember Fukuma.”

  “That’s because Cravens had us spread like butter on toast,” Lender said.

  Somers caught a questioning glance from Hazard, and he shrugged. “I didn’t know she was there, honest.”

  “That’s the bitch who pepper-sprayed me,” Lender said, one of his hands hovering at his yellow plastic glasses. “Should have booked her on assault, but Cravens said the whole thing was a powder keg.”

  “Someone want to tell me what happened?” Hazard said.

  “Later,” Swinney said, catching Lender’s arm and nodding towards Cravens’s office. Cravens stood in the doorway, staring down at the cluster of detectives.

  “Taffy’s?” Lender said as he turned to follow Swinney.

  Somers shot a glance at Hazard.

  “Sure,” Hazard said, rolling his big shoulders.

  “See you tonight,” Swinney called back, as she and Lender shot towards Cravens’s office.

  “All right,” Hazard said, his gaze settling on Somers, “why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Somers nodded. He followed @chukattack’s Twitter account, just in case anything new showed up, and started to close the browser. Then he remembered Naomi’s account. It made sense to follow her as well since she seemed more involved in this case than she wanted to admit. He went back to her profile and drew in a breath when he saw her latest tweet.

  “Somers, you going to tell me what happened, or do I have to wait for Lender and Swinney?”

  Somers barely heard Hazard. He read the tweet and then re-read it. Then he launched out of his seat, grabbed his jacket and his gun, and started around the desk. “Come on. I’ve got to tell Cravens, and then we’re going.”

  “What?” Hazard said, getting to his feet. “Where are we—”

  “The Ozark Volunteers are marching on the college, and it sounds like a lynch mob. The hashtag is #whitejustice. If we don’t get there fast, we might not have a suspect to interrogate.”

  THE IMPALA BOUNCED ALONG Wahredua’s twisting roads, tires screeching as Somers took the turns too fast. On the top of the car, a light whirled, and a siren announced their approach. Cars moved out of the way. Hazard grunted as they went over another bump and his ass came down hard on the seat.

  “Isn’t this an overreaction?” he asked.

  “Not if you were at that last protest.” Somers’s face was grim.

  “All right,” Hazard said, gripping the door to keep from sliding out of his seat as Somers took another sharp corner. “How bad was it?”

  “About as close to a full-fledged riot as Wahredua’s seen since they integrated the schools.”

  “And you don’t remember Fukuma pepper-spraying Lender?”

  “Like Lender said, we were spread pretty thin.” The town around them had begun to change. Older buildings, mostly limestone, dropped away. The streets widened. Stylish brick storefronts appeared, and ahead, over the top of a row of stucco apartments, the towers of Wroxall College loomed. Somers continued, “They had just about everybody from the force at that protest. It was the first time the Ozark Volunteers had done something public like that in years.”

  “The timing lines up pretty nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Right around when Naomi came back.”

  “And the protest?”

  “It was supposed to be a peaceful march. The Ozark Volunteers had applied for all the permits, and they promised they wouldn’t start any trouble, but we knew it would be a powderkeg. Cravens had us posted along the Volunteers’ route, but that was a mistake. We were spread out too much, you see. As soon as the Volunteers reached the college, some of the protesters—the people protesting the Volunteers, I mean—pushed through the cordon. They rushed into the march, and the fighting started.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was. Upchurch and I were on that block when everything turned to hell. We got separated pretty fast, and after that, it was every man for himself. I had my gun, but what the hell good was that, and I had one pair of cuffs. All I could do was pull people apart and try not to get my own ass beat.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Volunteers kno
cked the shit out of the college kids. Probably shouldn’t be a surprise. The fighting slowed down. I met up with Upchurch and some of the other boys, and we started corralling the ones who were still fighting. All told, we arrested twenty-two people.”

  “Twenty-two? That’s it?”

  “It was chaos, like I told you. And by the time things started to settle, a lot of them had slipped away. The ones we arrested were the ones who didn’t know when to quit. Most of them weren’t even Volunteers. Upchurch had this one guy. Even after the guy was cuffed, he kept screaming and kicking and fighting. Said just about every foul word you can imagine to Upchurch. Upchurch had a bloody nose, and this guy was the one who had given it to him. I thought Upchurch would lose his shit, but he just laughed and walked the guy over to the car and put him in the back. Those are the kind we ended up arresting—the crazies.”

  More sirens had started to sound behind the Impala, and Hazard threw a glance back. Three black-and-whites were coming after them. “I guess Cravens took that tweet pretty seriously.”

  “She just about lost her job because of the last march. I don’t think she’s going to let this one go the same way.”

  “I don’t know how much say she’ll have,” Hazard said. “They didn’t apply for permits, and they’re not looking to make a peaceful display. This sounds like vigilante justice. She’d better get the fire hoses ready.”

  Somers didn’t answer.

  As they came around the next block, Wroxall College came into view. Hazard had known the college campus from his childhood; he had spent a good amount of time there, especially as a teenager. It had been a safe space for Wahredua’s only official gay boy to sit and stare longingly at guys in their early twenties. Grunge had been popular then, and Hazard still had a thing for guys with long hair flannel shirts.

  The college itself was built in two quadrangles, creatively named the North and South Quads. Each quad was surrounded by buildings that looked like they’d been pulled from Oxford or Cambridge: massive stone structures with gargoyles and buttresses and delicately carved tympana. Hydrangeas and lilacs grew along edges of the buildings, and massive shade trees canopied the grassy quads.