by Rick Homan
“Who is it? I yelled.
“Gillespie.”
My phone rang. It was Abbie.
“Just a minute,” I yelled.
I answered the phone.
“Nicole, did you just call me?”
I covered my mouth with my other hand and spoke softly. “Abbie, I need you to do something. Look out your front window and tell me who you see at my front door.”
“Is something wrong? Are you alright?”
“Just do it!”
I heard some shuffling.
“There’s a man standing there,” said Abbie. “I can’t see who it is. It’s too dark.”
“Just one?”
“Yes. Do you want me to come over?”
“No, but stay by your window and watch. I’m going to open my door. If anything looks wrong, come running over with guns blazing.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
“Whatever. Just keep watching. I’m putting you on speaker.”
I left my phone on the side table, grabbed one of the chairs from my café table and took it with me as I walked to my front door. I set it against the wall where it would partially block the door if he tried to rush in. Holding the hammer behind my back, I unlocked the door and opened it about a foot.
Pat Gillespie handed me a slip of paper. On it was written, “Judith. Klein’s Coffee Shop, 66 North Paint Street, Chillicothe. 4 pm.”
“Do you know where that is?” he asked.
“I can find it.”
“Be there at four tomorrow.”
“How will I know who Judith is?”
“If someone sits down with you, ask what her name is. If she says, “Judith,” talk to her.”
“How will she know who I am?”
“She’ll know. Good luck.” He turned and started to walk up Montgomery Avenue.
“Thanks, Pat,” I yelled after him.
He waved.
I heard Abbie squawking from the speaker on my phone. “Mission accomplished?”
“Yes,” I yelled as I walked back and switched to phone mode. “It was just Pat Gillespie bringing me some info on that stuff we talked about.”
“Why were you afraid to answer the door?”
“Oh, you know, sometimes something just doesn’t feel right. Thanks for calling back. That was good timing.”
“Are you okay now? Do you want me to come over?”
“No need.”
“Are you sure?”
When I stopped to think about it, there was a loose end bothering me. “Actually, if it’s not too late, come on over for a second. There’s something I’d like to run by you.”
We hung up and I looked out my front window just in time to see Gillespie turn the corner and start up Ohio Avenue. I felt bad for doubting him. He had been generous with his time throughout the afternoon, and had gone out of his way to bring me a message. Also, he was cute.
Chapter 29
As I waited for Abbie to appear, I thought about that loose end. Something was bugging me. It was like trying to remember the name of your cousin’s boyfriend whom you met at another cousin’s wedding two years ago. You know it, but you just can’t think of it.
From my front window, I saw Abbie come out her front door, lock it, and start toward my place, carrying a flashlight. For some reason she seemed to be resting it on her shoulder. When I opened my door and let her in, I saw why. The flashlight was as long as my forearm, and probably held four size-D batteries. Since it was made of metal, it would make a good weapon. By carrying it on her shoulder she was ready to use it like a club.
“Glass of wine?” I asked.
“No thanks,” she said, as we sat in the sling chairs. “What’s up?”
“First, how well do you know Pat Gillespie?”
“I’ve been here three years, and I think I met him during my first semester, so I’ve known him for a while. We were on the Curriculum Committee together two years ago. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Earlier this evening I met with him in the gallery. Remember all those codes I found in Edgar’s notebooks? Pat matched them up with symbols in the paintings. There were lots of things I hadn’t figured out. It was great.”
“And was he able to tell you if Matt Dunkle could be a neo-Nazi?”
“We’re working on that. He’s going to put me in touch with some people who investigate these groups.”
“Sounds like what you wanted.”
“It was. Then, when I was walking back across campus, I got to thinking. I’m trying to figure out if Matt Dunkle, a colleague on my Gallery Advisory Committee, is secretly a member of a hate group and maybe responsible for two murders. I just met with another colleague, Pat Gillespie, who knows a lot about these hate groups, and told him everything I know about this. What if Gillespie knows about hate groups because he’s also a member of one?”
“Gillespie?” Abbie looked at me like she thought I was crazy.
“That’s why I’m asking how well you know him.”
Abbie shook her head. “No. He’s the real deal. A few years ago there was a guy running for General Assembly from this district who regularly made racist remarks in this speeches. I volunteered for the guy opposing him—stuffing envelopes, making phone calls, that kind of thing. One day at campaign headquarters, I see Pat Gillespie. It turns out he’s helping the campaign understand how this divisive rhetoric works and how to counteract it. And it worked. Our guy won. So, no, I don’t think you have to worry about Pat.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Did he do something that made you suspicious?”
“No. In fact, my impression of him from our meeting is the same as what you just said.”
“So why were you afraid when he came to your door?”
“I think everything from the last few weeks caught up with me: Two people I knew have been murdered, I’ve learned more than I ever knew about hate groups, I suspect a colleague of being involved. It probably didn’t help that I walked across campus by myself in the dark and got home to find my Rabbit Hutch was dark. The light had burned out. Suddenly I was seeing scary things everywhere I looked.”
Abbie relaxed and smiled. “It doesn’t hurt to take precautions.”
“Thanks. I want to ask you about something else. Pat said a lot of this hate-group organizing happens on social media. That got me to thinking: About a week ago I called Mel Schrier, a friend of Edgar’s from Cleveland, to ask why he and Edgar had been concerned about security for the opening of the exhibit. Mel said he had been developing ways to search for things on the internet—he’s some kind of programmer—and he picked up some racist chatter directed at Edgar on social media.”
Abbie mulled that over and said, “So Gillespie and Mel both know racists organize on social media. So what?”
“Mel’s story about unleashing robots to search for things on the internet sounds far-fetched. Maybe it’s much simpler than that. Maybe he’s on these forums because he’s involved in this activity.”
Abbie was squinting, as if she literally couldn’t see what I was saying. “Then why would he be Edgar’s friend?”
“Maybe he’s not really a friend. Maybe he’s more like a spy, picking out targets like Edgar and getting close to them to gather information for his hate group.”
“But if his group was planning to do something bad to Edgar, why would Mel warn Edgar about security at the opening?”
That question stopped me for a moment. “I don’t know how these groups work. Maybe it was just psychological warfare, a way to keep Edgar off balance. Or maybe he was maintaining his cover by seeming to be concerned about Edgar’s welfare.”
Abbie shook her head. “I’m not buying it, Noonan. I’m paranoid, but I’m not that paranoid.”
“It just seems weird that I’m hearing about hate groups on social media twice in one week from two different people. One of them, Gillespie, is doing research. But how likely is it that I just happened to meet two people researching the same thing?”
“Sometimes these things really are just coincidence. Life is full of them. But if it bothers you, mention it to the sheriff next time you talk to him. He can figure out whether it means anything. That’s his job.”
“You’re probably right.” Suddenly I felt very tired. “Thanks for coming over.”
“No problem. Get some rest. You look like you need it.”
Abbie went to the door and said, “Be sure to lock this as soon as I leave.” With her combination flashlight and nightstick on her shoulder, she left.
I took another sip of the red wine, poured the rest out, and washed the glass. I left the chair behind the door to serve as an alarm system and put the other folding chair against the back door. I thought about booby-trapping the door to the bedroom and all the windows but decided instead to sleep with all the lights on.
Before turning in, I had one more task. With Gillespie’s note in hand, I opened my laptop and created a map and directions to Klein’s.
On Thursday afternoon I found Klein’s in a block of three-story, red-brick buildings that looked like they’d been around since the 1880s. The café occupied a corner storefront, which gave it abundant daylight from windows on two sides. I guessed it could seat fifty people, though there were less than a dozen customers on that Thursday afternoon. The space to walk between the tables and the groupings of couches and easy chairs was a luxury unknown back home in San Francisco where space is always at a premium.
I got myself a cup of tea and an almond biscotti, found a table for two by the window on the side street, and sat facing the door. After a few minutes, I glanced around the room to see if anyone was looking my way and perhaps getting ready to join me. No one was. A couple of elderly gentlemen were having a quiet conversation by the front window. Everyone else was absorbed in a book, newspaper, or laptop.
A woman walking up the street caught my eye with her red hair, oversized sunglasses, mustard-yellow coat, and large, green purse. She bustled through the front door of the café and walked directly to my table. With a big grin on her face she said, “Nicole, so good to see you. It’s been a while.” She took my hand, leaned in for a cheek kiss, and whispered, “Move to that table in the back while I get some coffee.”
I held on to her hand as she started to pull away. “What’s your name?”
The big grin returned. “Judith.”
Chapter 30
I did as Judith asked, and a few minutes later she sat opposite me. The table she had pointed out was near the corridor that led to the rest rooms and presumably a back entrance. We both sat with our backs to a wall and could see the entire place.
She wore lots of jewelry—two rings on each hand, bracelets, a gold choker, and big earrings—and lots of makeup. My first impression was of a middle-aged woman, but, when I got a closer look at her, she seemed perhaps in her late twenties like me.
“I don’t know how much Pat Gillespie has told you,” I said.
“Let’s skip the small talk,” she replied, all the while maintaining that grin, which at this distance looked artificial. “I love the idea of doxxing a college professor.”
“Doing what?”
“Sorry. Jargon. Exposing the true identity of someone who uses a fake identity online.”
“I’m not sure about exposing him. I just want to find out if he’s involved in any neo-Nazi activities. If there’s evidence that he is, I’ll turn that over to the sheriff who is investigating a pair of murders that . . .”
“Don’t need to know,” she said. At the same time, she chuckled as if I had just said something funny. “What’s his name?”
I hesitated. I was about to give personal information about a colleague to someone I didn’t know. Depending on how it was used, it might ruin his reputation whether or not my suspicions were true. I had to trust that Gillespie had not put me in touch with some kind of cyber-terrorist.
She pulled a laptop from her purse. “Don’t look so grim,” she said as she powered up. “We’re sitting here talking about real estate, or buying clothes at the mall this weekend, or anything you think is fun.” I must have looked confused because she glanced around the room as if to remind me where we were. I couldn’t match her expression, but I smiled and said, “Oh, yes, that sounds very nice.”
“That’s right,” she replied. “Tell me about him. Why do we think he’s been a naughty boy?”
“I don’t know for sure, but, fifteen years ago when he was in graduate school . . .”
“Smile and keep it short,” she said.
I smiled and said, “Fifteen years ago he may have passed codes like ‘88’ and ‘RaHoWa’ to a girlfriend.”
“And do we think he is still hanging out with the wrong crowd?”
“Maybe so, because someone murdered that girlfriend and her ex-boyfriend for making fun of these slogans.”
The word “murdered” dented her performance. I saw a flash of anger in her eyes and her grin dropped for a moment as she clenched her jaw. All the while she typed on her laptop at a speed I had never achieved. “That narrows it down,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“If he’s been in the movement that long, he’s must be a leader. The foot-soldiers tend to come and go. He’s probably the moderator of an online group.”
While she typed some more, I glanced around the room and smiled to help maintain our cover.
After a minute or so, her grin returned, she looked up, and said, “This is so serious, I’m going to put my oldest sock puppet on it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“In order to listen in on what the bad boys are saying, we create false identities and join their online groups. We call them sock puppets because they talk like bad boys, but they’re controlled by us.”
“And why would you use your oldest sock puppet?”
“The longer a sock puppet is active in a group, the more credible he is. It’s like any social situation. People don’t share much information with a newcomer, but someone who’s been taking part in the conversation for two or three years is more trusted. I’m now logged into a neo-Nazi discussion group where my sock puppet has been active for three years. Recently he has even asked some members to send him personal information in private messages, and they have.”
“And you use that information to expose them?”
“Not yet. I haven’t done anything with it, and that makes my puppet look even more trustworthy.”
“How do you know if someone in the group is a real neo-Nazi or another sock puppet like you?”
She chuckled. “We don’t always. Sometimes I’ve gone after someone and found out it was another member of the opposition doing the same thing I’m doing.”
She typed and clicked a few more times while grinning her best grin. “Okay. I’ve made a few comments to let all of them know my sock puppet is logged in. How did the murder victims make fun of the slogans?”
“There are paintings in the exhibit now up at Fuchs College that contain these slogans, but they’re only apparent to people who know them. One has ‘88’ in it and it’s called ‘Dinosaur.’ Another contains ‘RaHowa’ and it’s called ‘Cheering for Losers.’”
She nodded and typed as I spoke. “Okay,” she said. “That gives me enough to get started. I’m just having my sock puppet say somebody took out that ‘fag painter’ and his ‘bitch girlfriend.’”
“The painter wasn’t gay.”
“Facts don’t matter.” She read from her screen for a moment. “This is good. A few people know about the murders and they’re answering questions from the others. She was killed in a motel, and he was killed in his studio. Is that right?”
My heart thumped and my stomach lurched. It was hard to hear these terrible events reported as mere facts. I nodded.
She typed several words. “I’m saying that whoever killed them is a hero of the movement.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt sick, knowing that people spend their time
trading these hateful thoughts.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “We’re in luck. We have a comment from the moderator, ‘Karl Krusher’—that’s his screen name—saying he might know something about how these murders went down, and the others are begging for details.”
“So, this moderator might know who the murderer is?”
“He might be the murderer, and he might be the guy you’re asking about.” She read from her screen for a moment. “Was the girlfriend strangled?”
“Yes.”
“He’s saying he saw her at the gallery, knew she gave the codes to the painter, followed her to her motel, got into her room, punched her in the face, and killed her with his bare hands. He’s laughing about how afterward he had to stay quiet in the room while the painter was knocking on the door to pick her up. Sounds like he’s the one.”
I was feeling dizzy. “How did you just happen to log on to one forum, post a couple of comments and get a guy to confess?”
“First of all, he’s not confessing. He’s bragging.” She stared at the screen for a moment. “And they are eating it up. Second, I’ve been doing this a while, and I know which forums are full of posers and hobbyists, and which are hardcore enough to have people who might really kill for their cause. Third, I’ve suspected for a while that the moderator of this group was local. His vocabulary, syntax, a few things he’s mentioned over the years—they’re all consistent with someone living in southern Ohio. I took an educated guess, and it looks like I was right.”
“So, we know that the moderator of this group, who calls himself ‘Karl Krusher,’ murdered Jessica Fabrizio and Edgar Yount.”
“I wouldn’t say so a hundred percent. It’s not unheard of for these guys to cover themselves in glory by taking credit for someone else’s handiwork, but what I’m seeing here is pretty convincing.” She stared at the screen. “He’s now describing how he used a sleeper hold to make the painter unconscious so he could hang him from a pipe in his studio.”
“I can’t smile anymore,” I said. I had tears running down my face.
“That’s okay,” she said as she reached across the table and took my hand. “We’re now close friends, or maybe I’m your aunt. Let’s say I just read an email that brought you some bad news. Now I’m comforting you.”