Recipe for Hate

by Warren Kinsella

  “None taken,” she said.

  “I have an obligation to assess whether the guilty pleas were voluntary, Detective Murphy, and here you were meeting them earlier, all on your own,” O’Sullivan said. “That’s problem one. Problem two is that, in the event that one or all of these monsters ever decides to withdraw their plea, and appeal, their little private chat with you will almost certainly become a legal issue and a PR nightmare. And that will not be helpful, will it?”

  Murphy looked down, apparently wishing that all of this was over. He wondered if Martin was going to tell the Chief of Police.

  O’Sullivan leaned back in his chair and addressed Sharon Martin. “In light of this, and in light of the state of the evidence, Ms. Martin, I intend to reflect on whether I should indeed accept the guilty pleas of the accused,” he said. “I will entertain arguments from you, and defense counsel, in writing. But I warn you that I am not presently inclined to let the pleas stand.”

  “I understand, Your Honor,” Sharon Martin said, wondering yet again why she ever chose to work as a District Attorney.

  “Good,” Sean O’Sullivan said, turning his attention to a stack of case law at the corner of his desk. “All of you have a nice day. Even you, Detective Murphy.”

  C H A P T E R 38

  “I’m sorry, Christopher,” Assistant District Attorney Sharon Martin said, “but I’m not clear why we’re meeting.”

  It was less than a week after the guilty pleas by Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic. The judge still hadn’t ruled on whether the pleas would be accepted.

  Reluctantly, Martin had agreed to meet with me and X. I stood by the door to her tiny office.

  X ignored what she had said. “I’m not here to advocate for some neo-Nazis,” he said, without emotion. “If they were all hanged, for any reason, no one would care. But they shouldn’t be jailed for murdering our friends. They didn’t do it.”

  “I see,” Martin said. “Forgive me for being surprised by that. But you’re not a police officer. And the accused have all pleaded guilty.”

  “That’s irrelevant, and you know it,” X said. “By accepting their guilty pleas, you ensure the real killer gets away with murder.” She blinked, apparently amazed by X’s self-confidence. Or arrogance.

  X reached into the folds of his jacket and extracted some papers. “Have you heard of the Aryan Nations and Christian Identity?” he asked, placing the wrinkled pamphlets on her desk. “Identity is a phony religion that is taking the extreme Right by storm these days. And the Aryan Nations are its most violent converts.”

  Sharon Martin picked up the pamphlets and flipped through them, her revulsion obvious. “This stuff is awful,” she said. “Where did you get this? This is hate propaganda, by any reasonable definition.”

  “Boston,” X said. “And I agree. It’s awful. But it’s the philosophy that many of the skinheads, and almost everyone in the Far Right, subscribe to. And it is a factor in each of the murders — maybe even the reason why the murders took place.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t … not for sure,” X replied carefully, “but I’m willing to bet that religious symbols, related to Identity, were found on, or near, Jimmy, Mark, and Danny.” He paused, watching her very carefully. “They were, weren’t they?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you even if I knew that to be the case, which I don’t,” Martin said, looking shocked. “But, even if this Identity Aryan insanity is related to these prosecutions, it is irrelevant to what I am doing. Murder is murder, whether motivated by religion or not.”

  “I know that,” X said. “But if the skinheads didn’t do what they’ve been charged with — and they didn’t, I’m telling you — then this so-called religion is very relevant. Because it means that the killer is still out there, and it means he believes he still has orders from God to do it again. And he will do it again.”

  “He? One killer?” she said. “Why do you believe it was one killer?”

  “I didn’t before. But I do now,” X said, taking back the pamphlets. “I’ve been reading up a lot on the Aryan Nations. They have violent rhetoric, but so far, they haven’t actually been caught killing anyone. They’ve been very careful, in fact, not to be caught doing anything too violent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they have been under continual police surveillance since they moved to rural Pennsylvania, that’s why,” he said. “There’s an army of FBI agents watching them. They’d be insane to commit all of these crimes in the space of a few weeks in just one small city.”

  “From what you’ve said, they already sound insane,” she said. “Why would you think such a group is being careful?”

  “Because,” X said, standing up to leave, “to them, we aren’t worth the trouble. The Aryan Nations have bigger plans than a bunch of punk rockers in Portland. Whoever is doing this might follow their beliefs, but he isn’t following their plan.

  “He’s out there, operating on his own.”

  After that, all of us started to see the mystery car everywhere — sliding along, all dark and mysterious and shit, always at the edge of our vision. Together or by ourselves, we’d all spotted it, but we were always too far away to identify who was inside.

  It was a pain in the ass. If it was the cops, why didn’t they just identify themselves?

  “It looks like a cop car,” I said, out of breath, following one unsuccessful effort to sprint after the vehicle. “It’s gotta be the fuckin’ cops.”

  “Not sure if that’s better than the neo-Nazis,” X said, leaning against a fence near Holy Cross, also catching his breath.

  “Do you remember what Marky said about the car he saw outside Gary’s the night that Jimmy was killed?”

  “Yeah. Dark brown, or black,” X said. “Which is about ninety-nine percent of the cars in any city.”

  “But it could be the guys who killed Jimmy,” I said, as we started walking.

  “Could be,” X said, shrugging, and we cut down the alleyway that led to my place. “Dunno. Whoever it is, they know that we’ve spotted them, but they keep coming back in the same car. Which says to me that their objective is to spook us.”

  It was working.

  “So, do we tell the cops?”

  “They’re useless … or at least Savoie is,” X said as we reached my place. “The Assistant DA said she’d look into it, but you know they won’t.”

  C H A P T E R 39

  Luke Macdonald was excited.

  “I got them!” he told X and me. “I got the guys that’ve been following us!” Luke, X, and I had met for an emergency get-together at Sound Swap. Luke had called us early Sunday morning. He’d been out on Saturday afternoon with his dad’s super-expensive camera and a big honking lens. He’d staked out an alleyway between my place and X’s, he said, and — just as it was getting dark — he caught the stalkers.

  “I got maybe half-a-dozen shots before they took off,” Luke said. “They probably saw me, but they didn’t come after me.”

  X asked Luke to describe what he saw.

  “Dark brown Chevy, dirty, plates covered in mud,” Luke said, excited. “And there were definitely two guys in the front. Big.”

  “Great work, brother,” I said, clapping Luke on the shoulder. “Can you get the shots developed fast?”

  Luke shook his head. “Not until Monday at school,” he said. “I need the PAHS darkroom. I’ve done it before. It’s easy.”

  It was Sunday, and everything was closed. X and I looked at each other.

  “Okay,” X said. “Monday it is. Guard that film, Luke.”

  Luke nodded. “You got it, man,” he said. “There’s no fucking way anyone’s getting this stuff from me.”

  On Monday morning, after attendance and the Pledge of Allegiance in homeroom, Luke and Sam tracked X and me down in the Social Studies area.

  We
both jumped to our feet when we saw Luke. His face was a total mess. There was a gash across the bridge of his nose and clumps of clotted blood below his nostrils. One eye was just a slit and blackening fast, and there was a nasty purple bruise on his forehead, above the black eye. His T-shirt had been ripped at the neck.

  “Jesus, Luke,” I said. “What the hell happened?”

  “I’m okay, but the bastards tore my Sid shirt,” Luke said, frowning, looking down. “And I just got it, too.”

  “Who did it?” X asked, but we already knew the answer.

  “Four skins,” Sam said. “They must’ve seen him and followed him after he took those shots. They jumped him when he was transferring at the Maine Mall. We were supposed to meet up early this morning to develop the photos from yesterday.”

  Mr. Leduc, one of the Social Studies teachers, walked over and asked us to move our discussion out into the hallway. Then he noticed Luke’s face. “You need medical care, Luke,” he said, sounding concerned.

  “I know, sir, thanks,” Luke said. “I’ve already been in to the office and they’ve called the police. But the nurse isn’t in yet.”

  Out in the hallway, X put an arm around Luke while Sam and I slumped against a row of lockers.

  Everything is just getting worse and worse.

  “Are you going to be okay, big guy?” X asked. “They worked you over pretty good.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay, brother,” Luke said. “I’m a lot more worried about what my dad’ll say when he hears all of his expensive fucking camera equipment is gone.” He winced. “And the fact that all the evidence is gone, too, of course.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” X said. “I called the DA last night and gave her a description.”

  “What’d she say?” Sam asked.

  “It wasn’t even a Maine car,” X said. “The mud covered up most of the plate, but they think it’s from Pennsylvania.”

  “Jesus whipped,” I said. “Pennsylvania? Didn’t you say that’s where that Aryan group is based?”

  “The DA didn’t want to talk about that. But, yeah,” X said. “She told me the plates could have been stolen. But some of those guys seem to be up here now.”

  “Great, that’s just great. But why would these Aryan pricks want to tail us?” Sam asked. “Why not get some of their local guys to do it, or whatever?”

  Before X could respond, we were interrupted by an announcement from the PAHS administration, requesting that Luke report “immediately” to the office. Luke shrugged and started walking. Sam, X, and I followed.

  The administration’s office was in the middle of PAHS, near the school’s gymnasium and across from the main entrance. Pushing open the doors to the lobby, we spotted some familiar faces.

  “Hello, boys,” Detective Savoie said, his flabby old face like a wrinkled shirt. Detective Murphy was standing to one side of him and the school’s brainless, anally retentive vice-principal on the other.

  “Two homicide detectives show up for the mugging of a high school student on a bus? Impressive,” I said, not impressed at all.

  Savoie, I fucking hate you, I think to myself. I’ll bet you’re a closet Nazi, you fat prick.

  “Yeah, well, guys,” Savoie said, irritated. “We want to talk to your friend Luke here, but we also want to talk to all of you. Especially after the DA told us this morning that someone has been following you guys and you didn’t bother to call us. Again.”

  “Slipped my mind, I guess,” X said, not hiding his contempt. “Sorry.”

  Savoie’s face went red. He looked like he was going to have a stroke. Murphy put a big hand on X’s shoulder. “Chris, if someone is still after you guys, we want to find them,” he said. “We just want to help out here. Is there anything you can tell us about what these guys looked like?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

  Savoie was still struggling to keep control. “Look, the administration told us you took some pictures. Where are they?”

  “Too late,” Luke said. “The guys who attacked me took all my dad’s camera equipment and film.”

  “Shit!” Savoie yelled, causing about a dozen students and teachers to stop and watch the scene unfold. “You should have come straight to us!”

  Ha! This is getting good. Tension is good.

  X, Luke, Sam, and I said nothing. We just stared back at Savoie.

  The detective really looked like that stroke was imminent. His partner just looked embarrassed. Recovering his voice, the vice-principal turned to the cops. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, we’d appreciate it if you could continue this discussion elsewhere. Luke needs to be seen by our nurse … And you’ll forgive me for saying that our school has had quite enough drama over the past three months.”

  C H A P T E R 40

  The autopsy report said that the volley of .45-caliber bullets slammed into the torso and head of the controversial radio talk show host as he stepped out of his Volkswagen Beetle. It was just past 9:00 p.m. The bullets ricocheted throughout the man’s body, shattering into lead fragments — severing his spinal column, ripping apart his heart, and turning his brain into pulp. He fell onto the driveway at his Toronto home.

  McLeod got his hands on a copy of the Toronto police report, natch.

  The Brotherhood’s man, the one who had lent his infant daughter to be used at the initiation ceremony, lowered the silenced MAC-10 machine gun and sprinted to the curb, where a dark sedan was waiting for him. In it, behind the wheel, were three other members of the Brotherhood, one of them the informant, and their leader. The shooter jumped into the vehicle and the Brotherhood screeched away, toward Lake Shore Boulevard. The shooter gave a broad smile. “Did you see that?” he said. “He didn’t make a sound. He just went down like I pulled the fucking rug out from under him.” They all laughed.

  The Brotherhood had made its second successful assassination, and the four men were happy. The talk show host’s crime had been to criticize the Far Right on his CFRB radio program, and to ridicule their plan to wipe away the vestiges of civilization and return to a time where Aryan men were “rooted” in the earth. He’d called them “rural red-necked mouth-breathers and knuckle-dragging hicks,” and that is why they decided to kill him.

  The Brotherhood’s first execution, turns out, had taken place a few days earlier. The victim was an Aryan Nations member who liked to shoot off his mouth in bars. The neo-Nazis thought the man was a security risk, and so a decision was made to eliminate him. McLeod told us the man was lured to a remote wooded spot about two hours away from the Aryan Nations’ Pennsylvania compound. As he stepped out of a member’s car, a hulking, muscular member of the Brotherhood smashed the back of his skull with a sledgehammer. That didn’t kill him, to everyone’s surprise. So the big man fired a shot from a Ruger Mini-14 into the man’s forehead. That killed him. The job done, the Brotherhood’s members — the informant included — then buried the man’s body.

  The big man — the one with the sledgehammer, and then the Ruger Mini-14 — was Northman.

  Northman hadn’t been present for the murder of the Toronto talk show host — he had to work — but he wished he had been. The informant later said he celebrated the death of the “talk show Jew,” just as he and his kinsmen had been happy about the execution of “the big mouth.” The revolution — the revolution to wipe out the muds, and the Jews, and the race traitors — had finally begun. The revolution that would see the return of a simpler, cleaner time. A new Reich, as their leader had said.

  Northman stopped his car at the Interstate tollbooth and he grinned up at the pimply faced young attendant. “You again?” the guard said, friendly. “You sure are logging a lot of miles, these days.”

  “That’s for sure,” Northman said, extracting a single to pay for the toll. He looked at the video camera, recording the exchange. “I gotta find a new line of work.”

  “Well, let me know w
hen a spot opens up,” the boy said, eager. “I’d give anything to do what you do.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Northman said, pocketing his wallet and shifting into drive. “Have a good one.”

  And with that, Northman started again on the long drive back home, and back to the final confrontation with the one he hated the most, the punk called X.

  C H A P T E R 41

  We stopped seeing the mystery car right around the time Luke took his lost-for-good pictures, and right around the time the threatening notes and symbols began. In our lockers at PAHS, at some of our homes — basically, anywhere we hung out — members of the X Gang, the NCNA, and the Room 531 crowd started to receive cryptic (and often less-than-cryptic) threats. Die Jew, Heil Hitler, 88, you’re a fag, crap like that. We couldn’t figure out who was doing it. But it was totally obvious that the messengers were connected, in some way, with psychopaths in Christian Identity and the Far Right.

  Not very fucking subtle, these Nazi bastards.

  So, we had another meeting with the DA, Sharon Martin. As before, it took place in her miniature downtown office. But along with me and X, this time, were X’s dad and Patti. We had all brought along copies of the hate propaganda and threats we’d received, and some Polaroids of hate graffiti in our neighborhood. X and I stood at the door to Martin’s office, while Thomas and Patti sat in the only two available chairs. Thomas placed the hate stuff X had received — along with everything that had been sent to me, Patti, and Sister Betty — on Martin’s desk blotter. Beside them, he laid out photos I’d taken of various neo-Nazi and white supremacist symbols — the Celtic cross, the SS double lightning bolts, the swastika — that had recently been left behind at the X Gang’s regular haunts. Martin said nothing as she slowly went through the notes and the photos. We watched her.