by Rick Homan
I used a napkin to dry my face. “So, can you find out who this guy is in real life?”
She nodded. “I can dox him.”
“How long does that take?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Next month. I can’t predict.”
“How can I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t,” she said, folding her laptop and putting it in her purse. “When I have something, you’ll hear from me. Now let’s walk out of here together so it looks like I really am your auntie taking care of you, and we’ll say goodbye on the corner and go our separate ways.”
Chapter 31
When I was back in my car, I knew I should get going, but I had to sit there and cry for a few moments. I cursed Karl Krusher and the whole human race for being so stupid as to think you can make the world a better place by killing people. I cursed Fuchs College for being out in the middle of nowhere. I cursed Lionel for getting a better job and leaving me here alone, and I cursed myself for deciding to make a career of art history.
When I had all that out of my system, I wiped my face, blew my nose, and pulled myself together. When my breathing became slow and even, I drove away.
On the way back to campus, I wondered again whether I could trust the woman I knew as “Judith.” I trusted Abbie, she trusted Gillespie, and perhaps he trusted other people who trusted her. The longer that chain got, the weaker it looked.
If, as she said, members of the opposition infiltrated neo-Nazi groups, it seemed likely that neo-Nazis would infiltrate opposition groups. “Judith” might really be a neo-Nazi doxxing members of the opposition. Maybe Judith had doxxed her way to Gillespie and me. Now I might be on their list of targets.
That kind of thinking was making me start to shake. I had to get my mind onto something that would make the world seem safe again.
Sheriff Mason Adams and I didn’t agree on everything, but last year he had proven he was a decent man who would do the right thing. If I told him what I knew, he might be able to keep an eye out for me or at least tell me what to keep an eye out for.
I crossed the steel truss bridge into Blanton, took Maple Avenue over to Main Street and parked in front of Steadman’s. Sitting in my car, I called Adams and left a voicemail saying I had important information and asking him to meet me at the gallery if possible. It was already close to five o’clock, but I hoped he might still be on duty.
That must have been the right thing to do because as soon as I hung up, my whole body felt like jelly. I could have taken a nap right there in my car. I felt much more peaceful knowing that I might be able to lay out all of this new information for the sheriff within an hour or two. At the same time, it seemed likely Adams would have lots of questions I couldn’t answer.
I was starting to shiver, and I turned on the car’s engine so I could run the heater.
Knowing it was a long shot, I phoned Gillespie. He answered, and I said, “Hi, Pat. Thought you’d like to know the meeting with Judith went well. She’s a very smooth operator.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met her.”
That did not make me feel better. “I’m trying to set up a meeting with Sheriff Adams to let him know what you and I talked about at the gallery and what I learned from Judith this afternoon. If he’s available, we’ll meet this evening. If you’re available, I hope you’ll join us. You might be able to answer some questions that I can’t.”
For a few seconds I heard nothing through my phone. Gillespie’s reaction to the idea of meeting face-to-face with law enforcement would tell me a lot about whether I could trust him.
“Just checking my calendar,” he said.
That sounded like he was stalling. How could he not know if he was free in the next two hours?
“Yeah, I’m free this evening,” he said. “What time?”
“Don’t know yet. I’m waiting to hear back from him.”
“Okay, just give me a call.”
We hung up. That was a relief. I was glad Gillespie didn’t shy away from a meeting with the sheriff, and glad I’d have him with me when I delivered this news. Also, I didn’t mind the idea of seeing him again.
I went into Steadman’s to pick up a few things to get me through the weekend. As I pushed my cart through the aisles, I thought about what it meant to be the only Asian person in the store. During my first year at Fuchs, I was constantly aware of this. A year and a half later I thought about it less often, but still I wondered what the employees and other shoppers saw when they looked at me.
The husky young blonde man stocking shelves barely glanced at me as he did his work. I had seen him before, and he no doubt knew who I was. He looked like he could be a cousin in the extended Littleton family I had learned about last year. Was he resigned to my presence, or was he waiting for a signal from the moderator of some online group to purge the community of outsiders like me? I decided to run a simple test.
After stopping my cart a few yards away, I walked up to him, pointed to the shelf next to my cart, and asked, “Didn’t peanut butter used to be here?”
He glanced at the shelf I was pointing to and thought for a moment before saying, “It’s over on aisle seven now. We decided to put peanut butter and jelly next to the bread.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “Thanks.”
He nodded and I moved on.
He was polite, civil, and, best of all, he treated me as I imagined he would treat anyone else: neither hostile, nor overly helpful. I felt a little better, though after this semester none of this would matter because I wouldn’t be living here any longer.
My phone rang. It was Adams.
“Thanks for calling back, Sheriff.”
“You say this is important?”
“I think so. It’s probably not urgent, but I would feel better if I could tell you about it right away.”
“All right. I can meet you at the gallery in half an hour.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll see you then.”
I texted Gillespie to let him know.
I got to the gallery in twenty-five minutes and found Adams standing outside the door, hat in hand.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said as I unlocked.
“Not a problem,” he replied.
I snapped on the lights and led him to the paintings in the corner. “All these paintings have neo-Nazi codes in them. This one contains the number 88, which is code for . . .”
“‘Heil Hitler.’ I’m aware of that.”
“And the painting is called ‘Dinosaur,’ so the painter is saying this attitude is extinct.”
Adams stared at the painting for a moment. “Okay.” He sounded skeptical.
“A colleague helped me with this one,” I said as I stepped over to “Hung Out to Dry.” “He suggested that the same way 88 means ‘Heil Hitler,’ this date, 11/11/11, could mean KKK, and of course it’s a painting of white sheets.”
Adams looked at the painting and looked at me. He seemed to be waiting for something he could get excited about.
I stepped to the right. “This one’s called ‘Cheering for Losers.’ Look at the letters on the cheerleaders’ sweaters: R-A-H-O-W-A, code for ‘racial holy war.’”
“I’ve never heard that one,” said Adams.
“I hadn’t either, but the same colleague told me about it. He’s joining us here, by the way. His name is Pat Gillespie. He’s a psychology professor who studies white supremacist groups.”
The sheriff still had no comment.
I walked to the next painting.
“Looks like somebody got shot,” said Adams.
“Blood, soil, and a gun,” I said, pointing out the main elements of the picture. “The title of the picture is ‘Honor.’ ‘Blood, Soil and Honor” is a slogan for these groups. Since the gun takes the place of honor in this picture, it’s a call to violence.”
“Do you think the painter was a neo-Nazi and somebody decided to kill him?”
“No, sheriff. Just the opposite. He’s saying 88,
‘Heil Hitler,’ is extinct, and the Klan has been hung out to dry, and whoever cheers for racial holy war is a loser, and their only honor is in using a gun.”
Adams shook his head. “Forgive me, professor. I must be missing something.”
I couldn’t think of a way to make this any clearer. Fortunately for me, Gillespie appeared in the doorway of the gallery at that moment.
Chapter 32
“Sheriff,” I said, “this is my colleague, Pat Gillespie.”
The men shook hands and walked to the bench in the middle of the gallery. Adams was taller, but Gillespie seemed just as powerful because he was bigger through the chest and shoulders. Adams’ loose-limbed, rhythmic way of walking suggested he had become strong by working hard and living an outdoor lifestyle. By contrast, Gillespie’s steps were compact and balanced with no wasted motion. No doubt his strength came from weight-training, which, I imagined, he did to make up for the hours he spent sitting at a desk.
I pulled a chair over so I could sit facing them. “I was just telling the sheriff about the codes hidden in the paintings and the titles.”
Gillespie nodded.
“I understand about the codes in the paintings,” said Adams, “but what do they have to do with either of these murders?”
Gillespie glanced at me. I took the lead. “These paintings were all done during a three-year period when the artist, Edgar Yount, was living with Jessica Fabrizio.”
Adams sat up a little straighter, looked at the paintings, turned back to me, and took out his notebook.
I went on. “I’ve been to Edgar’s studio and looked through his notebooks. Most of the codes in these paintings are in the notebooks for those three years, and his notes say he heard about them from her.”
Adams nodded. “And he and she were both murdered within a week after these paintings were put on view here.”
“Yes,” I replied and waited for him to think about that.
Adams glanced at Gillespie and back at me. “All right, they both knew about these codes, and I can see how the codes might give a neo-Nazi a motive to kill the artist. Were there any neo-Nazis at your gallery on that Saturday when Jessica Fabrizio was killed?”
I took a deep breath and said, “We’re wondering about Matt Dunkle, the math professor I told you about.”
“Why is that?”
“At the opening Matt and Edgar were standing in that corner, having an intense discussion. I can’t be sure, but I think they were talking about these paintings.”
The sheriff shrugged. “I’m sure they weren’t the only ones to talk about them.”
“True, but I recently discovered that Matt Dunkle and Jessica Fabrizio were in a relationship years ago when they were both in school in Albany.”
After making a note, the sheriff said, “So it would seem she came here to see Yount and his paintings, and ended up seeing another boyfriend from earlier in her life.”
“Yes, although I don’t know if they spoke. I was out of the room when Jessica arrived, and Matt Dunkle was leaving just as I came back.”
“How does any of that make Dunkle a neo-Nazi?”
“Jessica had to find about these codes somehow. Maybe she heard about them from Dunkle when they were together at Albany.”
The sheriff shrugged. “That’s just a guess.”
“At least we know that Dunkle knew both victims and he knew about the paintings.”
Adams nodded. “I agree, but that’s not much to go on.”
“Can’t you at least investigate to find out if he has any ties to these groups?”
Adams shook his head. “I’d love to put a man on it full-time, but we already have a lot of leads to track down. Let me ask you this. Let’s say this math professor was a neo-Nazi and still is. And let’s say he told Jessica Fabrizio all about these codes. Why would he kill her and the painter? What would he hope to gain by it?”
“I think I can help you there,” said Gillespie. “The men who join these movements imagine they are involved in a noble cause. You can see it in these paintings. They pick up a gun to defend their honor. They think they’re involved in a holy war. Killing someone who insults their cause would be a matter of honor for them, especially if the victim appeared to know their secrets.”
Adams pressed his lips together before speaking. “A lot of these guys talk that way, but they hardly ever do anything about it.”
Gillespie nodded. “That’s true. A lot of them are just playing soldier. But the true believers, the leaders of these movements, have a bunker mentality. They convince themselves the end is near, and the time for extreme measures has come. Some of them even talk about wanting to go out in a blaze of glory.”
Adams thought about that. “Okay. You’ve convinced me that a certain kind of man would do this, but I still don’t have a reason to think your math professor is like that.”
“Actually, we’re working on that,” I said. Both men looked at me wide-eyed. Turning to Adams, I said, “Dr. Gillespie put me in touch with someone who infiltrates these neo-Nazi groups online. I met with her this afternoon and described the situation surrounding the two murders. She knew where to look online to find the kind of man Pat just described. While we were sitting there, she started an online discussion about the murders, and pretty soon the moderator of the forum was bragging about how he’d done them. He gave details I’d never heard.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“He said he used some kind of martial arts hold to make Edgar unconscious so he could hang him.”
Adams had that look of locking onto his prey. “Does this man have a name?”
“Only a screen name: ‘Karl Krusher.’”
The sheriff sighed. “Social media companies don’t give up information without a fight. I hate to think of how many agencies would have to get involved, and how long it would take, to make them tell us who that is.”
“There might be another way,” I said. “This woman I talked to has methods for finding out who someone on an online forum is. She calls it ‘doxxing.’” I glanced at Pat for help.
Gillespie picked up my cue. “Over the years, for my research, I’ve talked to people who oppose hate groups by tracking them on the internet, especially on social media. Usually they monitor activity and feed information to legal and political organizations or to law enforcement. Occasionally they discover the identity of someone important and publicize their name in order to expose what they’re up to. They call this ‘doxxing.’ It’s a slang term for ‘documenting’ or ‘dropping documents’ on that person.”
I picked up the explanation. “That’s what she said she would do. She’ll try to find out who ‘Karl Krusher’ is.”
The sheriff held up his index finger. “I want to warn you both not to get involved in any form of vigilantism.”
Gillespie shook his head. “Absolutely not. This is just harvesting information and occasionally making it public.”
Adams spoke again. “I strongly advise both of you and your contact person to turn over any information you have to law enforcement.”
We both agreed.
Adams picked up his hat. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to this professor. If it looks promising, I may be able to get some investigative support from the state police or the FBI. Let me know the minute you have any further information about this online character.” He looked at me and said, “Thank you for calling me.” He glanced at Pat and said, “Thanks for your time.”
The sheriff left. Pat and I sat down again.
“Thanks for chiming in on the psychology of the true believer,” I said. “That is chilling.”
Gillespie nodded. “There aren’t many of them, but it’s a well-documented type.”
“I think your explanation tipped the scales and got the sheriff interested in investigating.”
“If so, I’m glad, but really I think it was your experience with Judith that did it. Did you say she went online and found someone talking about committing the murder
s while you were sitting there with her?”
“Yes. Right there in the café, she pulled out a laptop and logged on. She asked me a few questions, posted a few comments, and the moderator started bragging in detail about how he did the murders.”
“How could she do that?”
“I wondered the same thing, but, as you were just saying, there aren’t that many of these true believers. She said she knows the various forums and discussion groups, so she knows where to look for them. I think what really narrowed it down for her was knowing it had to be someone who lives in this area. She said she had suspected for some time this guy was in Ohio because of his vocabulary and local references.”
“Fascinating. You now have more in-person experience of how these online investigators work than I do.”
“Really?”
“I do a lot of my research online. I have my own sock puppets, and over the years I have converted those into a few person-to-person contacts with people in the opposition, but the people I know act as gatekeepers. I give them a list of questions; they bring back a list of answers. They never give me access to other people.”
“Now that I’ve met Judith I’m sure I’d recognize her again. She has red hair and she likes to wear bright colors.”
He smiled. It was a nice smile. And those green eyes were killing me. I had to stop staring at them. I was embarrassing myself.
This would have been the moment to suggest that we stroll over to a neighborhood bistro, have a meal, and get to know one another better. Too bad we were on a campus in the woods that provided no place to get a meal in the evening. If we drove into Blanton, we could have our pick of the Golden Palace, which was competent, or bar food at Marten’s Tavern, which was not, judging by what I had heard. Somehow adding twenty minutes of driving either way killed the spontaneity of the idea.
“Can I walk you back to your place?” he asked.
Chapter 33