by Mike Markel
“Yeah, why?” Nick said.
“Just trying to think through how best to go at Fredericks.”
“I think it would be best if he didn’t know we got his emails. That way, he won’t make a stink by going to the president—or going to the student newspaper or anything like that. The less he actually knows about what we’ve got, the more likely we can keep the lid on this without alerting BC.”
“I understand that,” I said, “but we need something to poke him with.”
“Try to let him know you’re interested in BC. Does he know what case you’re asking about?”
“Yeah, he knows it’s Dolores Weston. He mentioned that in our interview.”
“Try to give up as little as you can, but make it clear that if he has any knowledge of BC or anyone else who might be involved with killing Weston, he needs to get out in front of this right now.”
“You got any questions for Nick, Ryan?”
“No,” Ryan said. “I’m good.”
* * * *
Willson Fredericks was lecturing to about a hundred students. Twin screens high above his head showed a map of Europe with a bunch of red and blue lines in squiggly circles around Germany. There were little symbols of tanks with U.S., British, and Soviet flags on them, converging on Berlin. I think we were looking at the last days of the Nazis. Or at least the last days of the German Nazis in World War II. You never want to count out the truly odious regimes like the Nazis, which can adapt to a lot of different environments. Like cockroaches.
We were standing outside the lecture hall on the main floor of the Social Sciences Building. I didn’t see any kids sleeping, but a bunch had their legs draped over the seats in front of them. Half the kids had their laptops going. I could see a few Facebook pages, a couple of video games, some kids writing email. But a number of students were listening to Fredericks talking through his lapel mic, and some were taking notes.
About a dozen skateboards were leaning against the side walls of the lecture hall. I don’t understand why kids today want to act younger than they are. My generation, we wanted more than anything to seem older and more mature, which would explain the binge drinking and anonymous sex. I wondered if the skateboards bummed Fredericks out. It would me. Would make it harder to believe I was teaching at an actual university.
“Want to wait till he’s done?” Ryan said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Can’t disrupt a class unless you’re gonna read him his rights.”
“I didn’t know that.” Ryan smiled. “Is that in the regs?”
“No, I’ve seen it on TV.” I glanced around at a bunch of kids gathering outside in the hall. They must be the next shift. “You know when the next class starts?”
Ryan went over and asked a girl, who gave him his answer—and a big smile. “He’s done in about five minutes,” Ryan reported.
The laptops in the lecture hall started to close up, but Fredericks kept talking. Finally, he looked at his watch and finished up. The kids gathered their stuff and started to leave. Three or four students made their way to the front of the lecture hall to talk to the professor, so we sat on a bench outside. There was no exit near the front. We’d catch Fredericks as he came out one of the doors near us.
“Professor Fredericks,” I said. “Detectives Seagate and Miner.”
He pulled back, like I was contagious. “Yes, Detectives,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you here.” Meaning we had no right.
“We need to talk with you, Professor.”
“All right,” he said, the tone a little annoyed. “Let’s go up to my office.”
“We’d rather do this at headquarters.”
“I don’t see why,” he said, wearing a smirk, as if the two of us were playing chess and I was too dumb to see that he was about to checkmate me. “My office is right upstairs.”
“We want you to make a formal statement. We’ll video it, so there’s no question later about what was said.”
“I can’t imagine what you could possibly expect me to make a statement about.”
“Professor Fredericks.” I leaned in toward him and gripped his bicep with a little force. He looked down at my hand, like now I’d crossed a serious line. “There are some things you see, and some you don’t. Now, the fact you don’t see why we’re gonna bring you in, or the fact you don’t see what we could possibly want to talk to you about—those are both real interesting. But they don’t change the fact you’re gonna come down to headquarters with us—right now—and give us a statement—right now. We’re treating you respectfully—we didn’t interrupt your lecture, and we’re not cuffing you right here. But I need you to understand, we’re not really asking if you’d like to go to headquarters with us. We’re telling you that’s what you’re gonna do. Maybe me being so polite is throwing you off.”
“This is unacceptable, Detective—”
“Ryan, cuff him.”
“All right, Detective,” Fredericks said. “All right.” He jerked his arms back, palms up, like he’d collapse and die if we came any closer.
“Good, Professor. I was getting worried there for a second you still were not understanding how this works.”
“I will go with you to headquarters,” he said, “but first I insist on putting my books and materials back in my office and notifying the staff that I will need to cancel my office hours.”
“First you what?” I said.
“I said ‘I insist.’”
I smiled at him. “Okay, Professor, I see you’re not real used to having someone tell you what you’re gonna do. How about this: we walk upstairs with you, let your put your things away and tell the staff you’re gonna miss office hours, then you come with us quietly. Is that okay?”
He turned his body slightly so that he wouldn’t have to look at me. When I was a kid I had a dog did that when he was mad at me. Fredericks said, “This way,” and he led us toward the staircase.
Chapter 12
“Ryan, you wanna get the video?”
He turned it on from the unit on the wall. We were in Interview 2, which was the less scary of the two interview rooms because the cuffs attached under the table, not on top. We were sitting on heavy steel chairs, straight backed, no cushioning. We used to have plastic ones, but they always broke. Then we got metal ones with cushions on the seat, but they didn’t last because the cushions got ripped. Sometimes interviews can get highly aerobic.
Willson Fredericks was looking a lot less pulled together than he did when we interviewed him in his office yesterday. His forehead was a little shiny, and he kept touching the ends of his skinny mustache like it was a prop and the glue wasn’t holding. He clasped his hands and rested them on the table in front of him, but a slight tremor made his gold watchband click against the steel table. Some people, you wonder if they’ve ever been in a police station. Willson Fredericks, you knew he hadn’t.
We sat across the table from him. I opened a manila folder and studied it with furrowed brow for half a minute. Over the years, I’ve learned that slowing things down gives newbies a chance to marinate a little bit in their own sweat. It moves things along when we start the questioning.
“We appreciate you being willing to come in and give us a statement.” I didn’t mean it to sound wiseass, having explained to him ten minutes ago how he was going to do what we told him to do. But I could tell from some pretty vigorous jaw clenching and a vein on his temple thumping like a bass drum that he was not a happy professor. Which gave me and Ryan the advantage.
I’ve never had a professor in for questioning, but I’ve sat across this scratched-up table from all kinds of business execs, a minister, a couple lawyers. They were all smarter than me, of course, but they couldn’t get comfortable with the different roles and different rules. You live your life lording it over the less powerful, it’s hard to realize that when cops are chatting with you in a room with a videocam, tiled walls, and a one-way mirror, maybe you’re not holding the high cards. These professional types never do
anything real stupid, like take a swing at a cop, the way drunks do. But they can’t even make themselves pretend they’re cooperating. In that way, they’re not as smart as, say, your average tranny whore. Compared to the typical professor, they’re Einsteins. Get one of them in here, better bring your A game.
“Professor Fredericks, here’s what we wanted to ask you about. You’ve certainly written quite a few articles on the Neo-Nazi movement.”
He looked like he wanted to smile and bow his head slightly to acknowledge the compliment, but he restricted himself to inhaling loudly and flaring his nostrils.
“I notice from a number of these articles that you refer frequently to someone named Benjamin Connors.” I was looking down at the pile of articles in the folder. “Here, for example, ‘personal communication with the author.’ Here again, ‘personal communication with the author.’ Help me with this, if you don’t mind, Professor. It’s been quite a while since I had to write footnotes.”
“Of course, Detective.” He let himself relax now that we were back in our proper roles: him smart, me stupid. “Those are not footnotes. In a list of works cited—you might remember that as a bibliography—the author lists the sources that he or she used.”
“Yes, I see most of the items in the bibliographies are articles and books, some Web sites. But with Benjamin Connors, it’s always ‘personal communication with the author.’ What exactly does that mean?”
“Without being more technical than necessary, Detective Seagate, each of the various journals and book series in which I publish has a different policy about how to cite research sources. Some call for the author to list personal communications; others do not list them, the argument being that a personal communication is not archived and therefore is of no value to scholars. For that reason, in some pieces there will be no personal communications whatever in the list of works cited—”
“I’m sorry, Professor, I guess I didn’t make my question clear. What I want to know is, what exactly is a personal communication?”
“Oh, I see, I misunderstood your question,” he said, with an obnoxious bump on “misunderstood,” as if even a shit-for-brains like me should know my half-assed question was to blame. “A personal communication can be a phone call, a letter, an email, an instant message, or a conversation. The medium is of no relevance, in fact. The crucial point is that a personal communication is not archived and therefore not available to other scholars to examine.”
“So someone reading an article that lists a personal communication, that person in effect has to take the author’s word for it. I mean, that the conversation or letter or whatever said what the author said it does.”
“Yes, that’s correct. The academic community relies on trust, just as any discourse community does. I don’t wish to appear immodest, but my fellow historians are familiar with my work. I’ve been active for close to three decades. When I claim that someone had a personal communication with me, my word is good. My most valuable possession is my scholarly credibility. I assume it’s the same in your community?”
“Right,” I said. “It’s the same in the cop community. Let me get back to this Benjamin Connors for a second. We’d like to talk with him. Can you give me his address?” I picked up my pen, not expecting to use it.
“Yes, I could.”
“Great,” I said, my pen poised over my skinny notebook.
“But I won’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Detective, you have to understand. I have worked for a number of years to gain the trust of these people in the patriot movement. I assure you, nobody hates them more than I do. But as a scholar I must protect the confidentiality of my sources. Without the assurance that my word is good, nobody in the movement would speak with me.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Professor, but we’re conducting a murder investigation, and we think the murderer might have something to do with someone in the patriot movement. Surely you want to help us in the investigation?”
“Of course I do. But I’m not sure you understand my point. Benjamin Connors—by the way, that’s not his real name—”
“That’s not his real name?” I sighed. Such disappointment.
“That’s correct. His real name is not Benjamin Connors. Certainly you can understand why the operatives in the movement use aliases to try to evade the FBI.”
“So your position is that you are not willing to assist us in tracking down Benjamin Connors so we can question him.”
“I am quite certain that Benjamin Connors is in no way involved in any murder. It is a matter of academic freedom, Detective. I’m sorry. Perhaps you’ve heard the term reporter’s privilege? Like a journalist, I have a right guaranteed by the First Amendment to the Constitution—indeed, it is a responsibility—to protect the confidentiality of my sources. That principle is inviolate.”
“Actually, Professor,” Ryan said, “I’m not sure all Constitutional scholars would consider that principle inviolate.”
Fredericks’ eyes flared, like Ryan had personally betrayed him, first by disagreeing with him, then by using the word “inviolate,” which apparently is reserved for douches with PhDs. Then, in an instant, Fredericks seemed to catch himself. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the tolerant professor willing to entertain the possibility that a star student had a valid alternative point of view. Of course, it was all part of the show, Fredericks knowing the best way to crush a young punk was to let him speak: eventually he’d say something stupid that Fredericks could disassemble. “I’d certainly be interested in hearing more about your interpretation of the First Amendment, Detective Miner.” Detective Shithead.
“I’m no scholar like you are, Professor,” Ryan said, “but my understanding of the First Amendment is that, like almost every provision of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, it was written to outline general principles, not to provide specific definitions—”
“That is precisely what I said, Detective. That principle is now known as the reporter’s privilege—the right to not name sources.”
“As I was saying, Professor,” Ryan said, smiling, as if the guy’s interruption meant not that he was rude but that he was nervous, and that Ryan was now going to exploit his advantage. “The purpose of presenting general principles is to enable courts to exercise some flexibility in adjudicating future cases that deal with matters of fact or circumstance that the founders could not have anticipated. And that flexibility enables courts to allow the reporter’s privilege in some circumstances and compel the reporter to reveal his or her sources in other cases.”
“All very interesting, Detective—”
“Courts routinely seek to balance the interests of the unfettered press and other interests,” Ryan said, not stopping to acknowledge the interruption, “such as those of the victims of serious crime or of national security. So if a court found that a reporter is protecting the confidentiality of a source who knows the identity of a murderer—or of a person who is likely to commit a murder—it is quite likely to authorize the state to compel the journalist to reveal his or her sources. The courts have a phrase for those circumstances: I think they call it exigent, urgent circumstances.” Ryan was leaning forward in his chair. “Or isn’t that your understanding of the reporter’s privilege, Professor?”
The professor smiled slightly, saying nothing. I took that to mean he wasn’t going to challenge Ryan.
I said, “So, if I understand you two correctly, if I was to convince the prosecutor—Ryan, would that be local or federal?”
“Local if it’s a routine murder, federal if it’s a hate crime.”
“So if I was to convince the federal prosecutor you know the identity of someone who, say, murdered a state senator because of her views on stem cells or religion or something like that, or this someone might kill someone else, such as another public figure he doesn’t like, then that prosecutor might compel you to tell us who the hell Benjamin Connors is, right? Is that how you read it, Ryan?”
“Yes,” Ryan said.
“And you, Professor, is that how you read it?”
He sat there, silently.
“And if the prosecutor compels you to divulge his identity, that might make it into the paper.”
“I would welcome the opportunity to defend my point of view in any public forum.” He smiled a bring-it-on smile.
“All right. Good.” I put on a facilitator smile. “We’re making some progress here.” I looked down at my notes. “Professor Fredericks, is it true that you receive mailings from patriot groups?”
“Yes, Detective.” He sighed. “I am a scholar of the patriot movement, and I receive their emails. I read books and articles about them, too. And I talk with other scholars about them. Guilty, guilty, guilty.”
The sarcasm told me he thought I was wrapping things up. “And do you ever correspond with members of patriot groups and talk about operations they’re planning to carry out, are considering carrying out, or have carried out?”
He looked weary, like it was a real burden having to ask sluggish students to phrase their questions more precisely. “Let me ask you, please, to define what you mean by ‘operations.’ Would a rally be an operation? A brochure? A video on YouTube?” His hands fluttered in the air, the gesture saying that the possible interpretations of the word are almost limitless, and therefore the quality of my question quite shitty.
“No,” I said, looking right into his face. “By ‘operations’ I mean unlawful acts such as harassment, intimidation, any kind of physical violence such as beating, attacking with a weapon. Baseball bats, knives, guns, that sort of thing.”
He closed his eyes slowly, shaking his head. “Don’t be absurd, Detective.”
“I want to be sure we get this clear for the record. You are saying that you have not corresponded with anyone about unlawful operations?”
“Detective, I’m sure you find this interview exciting, but I must say that, from my perspective, it has become quite tiresome.”
“Still, Professor, just to make sure we get your words on record, you have not corresponded with anyone about past or future unlawful operations?”