Recipe for Hate

by Warren Kinsella

  Pretty crazy, actually.

  All four of the Kowalchuk sisters were great beauties. The eldest two had left home to get married or attend Boston U. Patti and Betty were the youngest and a lot less conventional than their older siblings. From an early age — in Menlo Park and then in South Portland — Patti and Betty stood out from the crowd.

  Patti and Sister Betty always told me everything, by the way. Half of the stuff I know comes from them, in fact.

  Betty was Sister Betty, as I had called her — bringing home strays, fundraising for charities, volunteering for food hamper deliveries for seniors. Betty was the one who loved to dance and laugh and go to parties. Patti, mostly, did not. She was quiet and sometimes a bit of a loner, like X.

  Everyone knew that Patti was tall and beautiful — but not as many people knew that she hated being tall and beautiful. She was the smartest of the sisters but, whenever possible, she hid her IQ. Until punk rock happened, and until she and Betty and Leah formed the Punk Rock Virgins — and until she met X and me, I guess — she had considered her life to be a downward spiral.

  The summer before she started at PAHS, she was sexually assaulted. I was the only one she ever told, she said. She confided in me one night at the tail end of a drunken basement party at Luke Macdonald’s place.

  She had been working three nights a week at Taco Bell at the Maine Mall. It was a hot Friday evening in July, and she had agreed to work until closing. Not far from the tollbooths leading to the turnpike, at the edge of the darkened parking lot and some trees, Patti waited alone for the bus. Two clean-shaven young guys who she had served earlier in the evening drove up in front of her as she sat on a bench, where she was reading some Vonnegut. They tried to engage her in small talk; when she didn’t respond, they got out and grabbed her and pulled her into their van. While one stood outside, the other one raped her. When he finished, they switched places.

  Afterward, they ordered her to put her Taco Bell uniform back on and clean herself up, and then pushed her out of the van. They drove north, toward the airport, and she could hear them laughing as they went. She was just sixteen.

  Patti didn’t scream for help, or call the police or her parents, or even Betty. Instead, she continued waiting for the bus, gasping for breath, and went home. She hid the blood on her uniform with her backpack.

  Patti slipped in through the garage, went upstairs, and took a shower that lasted until the hot water ran out. She then went to bed and stared at the ceiling, weeping without making a sound. She never told anyone what had happened to her. Not until she told me, at least.

  For the next few weeks, she spent all of the money she earned at her part-time job on drugs and home pregnancy tests. By late August or so, she knew that she was not pregnant. But, by then, Patti had a pretty impressive drug problem.

  She bought weed from a coworker, but it didn’t do what she needed it to do. So she started regularly popping mushrooms, or dropping acid, or — when she didn’t have money — sniffing some glue she found in the garage. Twice, she told me, she tried crystal meth, snorting it.

  She stopped washing her hair as often. She started smoking. She chose to wear lots of makeup, enough to get her mother to ask her why she was “covering up a beautiful face with paint.” But covering up was what Patti wanted to do. She wanted to atomize, she told me, and fall between the blades of grass on the front lawn.

  At PAHS, in her first year, her drug use dropped off a bit — mainly due to a lack of income — but she made no effort to know anyone. In the first half of that year, when she was thinking about running away, a British cousin sent her a bootleg tape of the Slits performing on the Clash’s 1977 White Riot tour. She played it over and over; it electrified her. She went looking for stories about the Slits in imported copies of the NME and Melody Maker.

  The Slits were all beautiful women, but they deliberately covered their faces with makeup. They all were hip as hell, but they wore baggy, mismatched clothes that made them look like androgynous circus freaks. They were theoretically part of the male-dominated music business, but they wrote and performed songs about being girls, and the idiocy of men. Patti adored them, and wanted to be like them, however possible. With her saved Taco Bell holiday pay, she bought an old Fender Stratocaster copy and a tiny cube amp at a pawnshop downtown. She started writing songs, some only a minute in length, about being a girl. Inspired by what her sister was doing, Betty found an old bass guitar at a garage sale, and soon they were playing together in a corner of the basement of her family’s home. For the first time in a long time, she started to feel better.

  It was around mid-year, as punk rock (in general) and the Slits (in particular) were making her feel alive again, that she encountered X at the Southern Maine Community College all-ages show, and met him again a few days later, when X and I were sitting in PAHS’s Language Studies area. She was only there to pick up a unit in a course in which she had fallen behind.

  After she was sexually assaulted in the mall parking lot, Patti ignored any guy who exhibited interest in her. One time, she experimented with a girl she met at the mall’s lone cinema, at a late-night showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. They kissed and groped each other as the movie played. But Patti told me that she had no interest in taking it any further.

  X and I were both seated at one of the stupid trapezoidal tables, not speaking, reading. Patti later told me she thought we were tall and tough looking and, with leather jackets draped over the backs of our chairs, had this amazing wordless fuck-you thing happening. That day, I was wearing a sleeveless shirt with ska-type black and white checks on it, she said. “X, meanwhile, was long-haired, and so fucking gorgeous, and he was wearing a white T-shirt on which he had expertly recreated the Clash logo, in these brilliant blue letters. You guys looked so amazing, that day.”

  It’s true. And I usually look amazing, truth be told.

  She was walking past, casting surreptitious glances at X and his shirt, when he suddenly looked up. “Hi again,” he said. I looked up, too.

  “Hi,” she said, looking awkward, hesitating. She pointed a finger at X’s shirt. “The Clash. Nice!”

  X’s uneven laser-beam eyes were on her now, and Patti looked like she wished she hadn’t said anything. She waited for him to speak. Finally, he did, as I looked on, grinning.

  “You a fan?” X asked.

  X Test.

  “Of the Clash?” Patti said, knowing that X could only be referring to the Clash, but realizing that he might think she was a fan of something else. Like, say, him. “Of course. I like them.”

  By this point, I had turned over my book, crossed my arms, and was totally enjoying the exchange.

  “Got any of their stuff?” X asked her. Another test.

  “Yes,” she said, then shrugged. “But I like the Slits better.”

  Wow.

  I was surprised that she knew about a still-pretty-obscure British punk band. She now had our full attention. We looked at her. “You know the Slits?” I asked her. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve been listening to them for a while.”

  We looked at her some more, and then we both stood up. X extended a hand.

  “I’m X,” he said. “This is Kurt Blank.”

  C H A P T E R 24

  The bail hearings for the two skinheads, which most of us attended, took place three days after Bauer and his buddy Dragomir Babic were brought back to Portland by some border services officers. Babic preferred the street name Hess — as in Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy führer. Like Wojcik before them, the two skins refused to say anything to anyone, including the idiot defense counsel who had been assigned to them. At their hearing, the two stood when the bail commissioner entered the courtroom, and then gave him a bloody Nazi salute.

  Seriously.

  This caused a big stir, naturally, and persuaded their idiot attorneys to put off the bai
l hearings for another three days.

  The charge was assault causing bodily harm, for the attack on X. Missing, however, was the charge of attempted murder, as Detective Murphy had promised. Also left unsaid was any news of charges for the murder of Jimmy Cleary and Mark Upton, or the attempt to murder Danny O’Heran. The Portland punk scene, which turned out in full force at the bail hearings, was massively pissed off. A couple punks voiced their anger and were escorted out of the crowded courtroom by Portland police, who were also there in great numbers. The two dissenters flipped the cops the finger as they were hustled out.

  Not present in the courtroom was the victim — X ­­­­­­— or the main witnesses to his assault — Mike the biker and his two unaffiliated biker friends. All were expected to testify at the trial. Despite the lack of murder charges, Detectives Murphy and Savoie, and their police chief, did their best to make sure that every frigging reporter in Maine was there for the bail hearing. They told the media, anonymously, that “more charges were pending” — which most of us took to mean murder charges.

  So, of course, just about every reporter in the state had obediently filed into the second-floor courtroom at the old, gray stone Portland district courthouse on Newbury Street. Something like four TV crews waited in the cold outside, and killed time by shooting footage of the exterior and the big stone columns out front. Inside, their colleagues checked their hair and waited for something to happen.

  In a waiting room in the courthouse basement, X sat with his father, me, the Upchucks, and his sister, Bridget. His dad explained the process to us as we waited. “There are really only three grounds for detaining someone,” he said. “To ensure the attendance of Bauer and his friends in court. To protect the public. Or to help maintain confidence in the justice system.” He paused. “I’d argue, in this case, Bauer meets all three criteria. There’s no way he’s going to be granted bail, even if he hasn’t been charged with any of the murders.”

  “Do they have to prove their case at a bail hearing?” I asked.

  “It’s not a trial. The DA only needs to show they have a case on the balance of probabilities, not beyond a reasonable doubt. For that reason alone, I don’t see Bauer going anywhere anytime soon. There are too many witness statements from your friends, and he’s got a record of violence. Besides, he may consent to staying in jail.”

  “Why would he do that?” X asked.

  “If he knows he’s unlikely to win, he’ll probably get credit for time served. I also suspect he fears that some of your friends may come looking for him, if he gets out. It’s probably safer for him to stay incarcerated.”

  “I’d say that’s definitely true,” I said.

  X gave a little snort. His dad looked uneasy.

  The door to the waiting room opened and Detective Murphy stuck his head in. “They’re bringing Bauer up,” he said, quietly. “Thomas, you’re free to come up, as well as the girls, but obviously not you, Chris, as I explained …”

  X’s dad, Bridget, Patti, and Sister Betty followed Murphy out. I decided to stay with X. We slumped back in the uncomfortable wooden chairs. “How’s your head, brother?” I asked.

  “Getting better,” he said. “Could live without all this crap, however.”

  “I hear you. So, any idea why they haven’t charged these guys with the murders yet?”

  X put his Converse-clad feet up on a chair and shrugged. “I don’t think these bastards could have tried to kill Danny. Jimmy and Mark maybe, but not Danny. They weren’t even in town. So, if they didn’t go after Danny, maybe it creates reasonable doubt that they killed the others.” He paused, thinking. “There’s got to be another reason, though. The cops and the DA just aren’t saying.”

  I shook my head, disgusted. “Okay,” he said. “Then why not at least fucking charge them with attempting to murder you?”

  X shrugged again. “Hate to disappoint you, man, but I don’t think they were. I mean, even the stupidest bonehead would know not to commit a murder twenty feet from where hundreds of pumped-up punks were partying. There’s no way.”

  A few minutes clocked by. We waited in silence. Sooner than expected, the door pushed open again. It was X’s father, followed by Bridget and the Upchuck sisters, all looking confused. They sat on the available chairs. “What are the fourteen words?” X’s dad asked us.

  “The what?” X asked, sitting up. “Why?”

  “Because Bauer came in, and all he said was that he was going to say ‘the fourteen words,’” his dad said. “I wrote them down.”

  He read off a scrap of paper: “‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ And then he sat down, and he didn’t say anything else.”

  X’s dad took us to a door on the south side of the courthouse, away from where the media were hanging out. “Here you go,” he said. “Head out this door, and then you can jump on the bus and get back home. I’ll go out the front with Bridget and the Kowalchuk girls, and then I have to get back to work.”

  “Thanks for coming, Dad,” X said. “We really appreciate it.”

  He patted us on our backs and headed in the direction of the interview room. We pushed open the courthouse door and stepped out into the cold. Stomping his feet, waiting for us, was the Press Herald’s Ron McLeod. “Hey, guys,” he said. “When I saw your dad in court, I figured he’d know the back exits.” He gave a self-satisfied grin. “Can I buy you lunch? Coffee? Tea?”

  X and I looked at each other, considering. As he had promised, McLeod actually hadn’t used anything we discussed during our earlier meeting. And unlike any of the other stupid reporters, McLeod actually hadn’t written anything that was too sensational. We didn’t exactly trust him, but we didn’t distrust him yet, either. “All right,” X said. “Where?”

  McLeod took us to a Dunkin’ Donuts a couple blocks west, on Congress. The old coffee shop provided a place for lawyers to meet clients who were uncomfortable talking in the courthouse. It was a pretty good hideout for stoned teenagers who were skipping school, as well, and a respite for homeless people who had nowhere else to go when it got cold. After McLeod had paid for our drinks — vile coffee for him and me, herbal tea for X — we sat at a table far from everyone else, at a window overlooking the street. McLeod pulled out his notebook from his puffy, down-filled LL Bean jacket, then focused most of his attention on his doughnut, which was covered in sprinkles. “So,” McLeod said. “I would expect you’re full of questions.”

  “You could say that,” I said, putting down my coffee. “Why haven’t they charged any of them with something more serious than assault? Why haven’t they charged them with murder, or at least attempted murder?”

  McLeod kept eating his doughnut. He didn’t even look up. “Because they didn’t kill anyone,” he said matter-of-factly.

  X nodded, agreeing.

  “How the hell do you know that?” I said, annoyed. “Why put on this big media circus, and then not bother to charge anyone with anything that’s important?” Then I remembered the assault and the stitches in X’s head. “Sorry, brother,” I said.

  “No probs,” X said, carefully extracting the microscopic tea bag from his cup.

  “That’s a very good question, actually,” McLeod said, peering up at me above his wire-rimmed glasses. “Why oversell the bail hearings, and then deliver so little? The cops’ answer might be to hint that more charges are coming, which is what they’ve been doing all along. But I don’t see how they can ever charge these three with murder. And I hear the DA doesn’t think they’d get convictions if they tried.”

  “What does Savoie think?” I asked. “What does Murphy think?”

  McLeod waggled a finger in the air, as if he was giving a lecture to two bright students. “Again, a good question,” he said. “Savoie and Murphy aren’t of one mind on this case, from what I hear. There’s quite a difference of opinion down at police headquarte
rs, in fact.” He looked at X through his thick glasses. “Savoie is the doubter. But Murphy apparently wants to hang the skinheads for what they did to you, with or without a trial. Or so he tells anyone who will listen.”

  We waited, saying nothing. After a bit, McLeod delicately inquired about X’s well-being and asked about the mood within Portland’s punk scene. But, apart from those questions, he didn’t ask us anything else. We could tell he knew more than he was letting on, though.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m, uh, sorry,” he said, when he had eaten the last of his doughnut. He peered at some scribbling in his notebook.

  Great. Now what?

  “About what?” X asked.

  “I forgot to mention something. I, uh, managed to find out the results of Daniel O’Heran’s tests,” McLeod said, getting a bit quieter. “Cops told me he has acute respiratory impairment, which is what you get from drowning.” He paused. “Unlike Jimmy Cleary or Mark Upton, there was nothing unusual about his circumstances, or so I’m told.”

  “You mean, apart from the fact that anyone would want to go swimming, fully clothed, in the Atlantic in the middle of winter?” I said. “Besides that?”

  “Yes,” McLeod said. “That’s correct. He wasn’t in any way impaired — no alcohol or drugs were found in his system — so it is highly unlikely he just decided to take such a big risk.” He paused again. “And the bruises.”

  “What bruises?” X asked.

  “There weren’t really any,” McLeod said. “It doesn’t seem like anybody wrestled your friend to the water’s edge and pushed him in. And that is why the attempted suicide theory persists. But, like you say, if he wasn’t trying to hurt himself, someone must have put him in the water.”