Dark Exhibit

by Rick Homan

  We walked to the door. I hesitated before opening it because he seemed to want to say something. When he didn’t, I gave him a hug. He hugged back. It felt good.

  “I’ll come by here tomorrow,” he said. “Let me know what time you want to leave.”

  “I’ll send you a text.”

  Other than Patrick backing me up, the only thing I liked about the plan was that Kretschmer’s was on the way to Circleville, where Edgar’s studio was. After meeting with Judith, I could drop by and pick up that signed contract. I opened my laptop and sent Ella an email letting her know I would be visiting the studio around three the next afternoon and asking if there was anything I could do for her while I was there.

  A little after one o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I heard a car outside and glanced out my front window. A dark green jeep went by, turned around at the dead end of Montgomery Avenue, and started back.

  By the time I got out my front door, the jeep was parked in front of my Hutch, and Pat was walking toward me, wearing his leather jacket over a turtleneck with jeans and hiking boots. He looked good.

  Warmer temperatures gave me a welcome break from wearing wool pants and my parka. It felt good to go out in hiking boots and jeans with a short, lined jacket. I still needed a knit cap and gloves, but it felt like spring, compared to recent weeks.

  “Right on time,” I said.

  “Don’t want to hold you up,” he replied.

  “We’ll head toward Chillicothe and turn north on 23. On the map it looks like Kretschmer’s is most of the way to Circleville.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll do my best to stay close, but keep an eye on me in your rearview mirror so we don’t get separated.”

  “Don’t worry: I’ll be the one everyone is honking at for going too slow.”

  The drive was uneventful, and that’s saying a lot in midwinter in Ohio. It was not unusual to start out in sunshine and have snow falling by the time you got where you were going. We had gray skies all the way, but no precipitation.

  As I drove, I wondered why Judith wasn’t meeting me at the coffee shop in Chillicothe again. Maybe she had business in this area and was squeezing our appointment between others. I also wondered what information she had for me. If she had found out Matt Dunkle was Karl Krusher, I hoped she could prove it so I could get Dunkle arrested.

  Once we were in open country, I started looking at anything that might have an address number on it. I didn’t want to pass Kretschmer’s and have to turn around and come back.

  I needn’t have worried. It had a big sign set high on a post. I saw it a quarter mile away, next to a store the size of a small warehouse with a sign that read, “Bald Eagle: Guns, Ammo, Archery.” On the other side was the “Global Car Outlet,” which consisted of a mobile home with half a dozen cars parked in front of it.

  I flipped on my left turn signal, checked my mirror to make sure no one was about to pass me, and noticed Pat had not turned on his signal. I came even with the driveway and made my turn. Once I was in the lot, I looked back and saw Pat cruise right by the place.

  In front of me I saw that Kretschmer’s was a long, low building with neon beer signs in windows that were more like gun ports. It might once have been painted red, but it had weathered to a grayish brown. There were two pickup trucks parked in front and an old compact like mine parked at the end.

  I parked at the end next to the other car, got out my phone, and called Pat. “Where are you?” I demanded.

  “I stopped at a wide spot on the shoulder about a hundred yards further on,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you turn in here with me?”

  “If we pulled in together Judith might get spooked and run.”

  “I’d feel better if you were closer.”

  “I can see you from where I am. Once you’re inside, I’ll come back and park in the lot.”

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “This is the address my contact gave me. If anything feels wrong, come back out and we’ll drive away.”

  “Okay. Here goes.”

  As I walked to the door, I decided I would keep moving once I was inside. It made no sense to stand by the door, looking around the room, and giving everyone a chance to stare at me. But I had to stop halfway to the bar and let my eyes adjust to the darkness to avoid tripping over something. By the time I got to the bar, the bartender was there with an inquisitive expression. I bought a diet cola, went to a table, and sat facing the door so I would know when Judith came in.

  At the other end of the room, two men were playing pool. Another sat at the bar talking to two women. One of the women at the bar got loud enough so I could hear her over the song playing on the jukebox. “He says, ‘Why not?’ And she says, ‘Cause I already got one!’”

  That must have been funny if you heard the whole joke because the other woman squealed and the man at the bar laughed.

  The joke-teller hollered, “See you later,” and started walking my way. The other woman came with her to the middle of the room, but, instead of following her friend out the door, she sat down opposite me. She had short, dirty blonde hair poking from beneath a baseball cap, and a denim jacket over a t-shirt. With one nostril pierced and no makeup, she looked tough.

  We locked eyes. It was Judith.

  Chapter 36

  When I saw Judith’s tough-girl outfit, I understood why we were meeting in this out-of-the-way bar. Her strategy for staying under the radar was: never meet in the same place twice and never wear the same costume twice.

  “Shut up and look bored,” she said as she held out her right hand in a fist. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  I gave her a fist bump.

  A phone pinged, and it wasn’t mine.

  She pulled hers out, looked at it, and said, “You got back-up outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “Dark green jeep.”

  She tapped out a short message on her phone. “Okay. My gal’s watching your guy.”

  I sent Pat a text: “With Judith. All okay,” and put my phone away.

  She looked at me with a smile. “I found out who Karl Krusher is.”

  “Is it Matt Dunkle?”

  “You tell me.”

  She held up her phone so I could see it. She had a photo of a man walking out of a storefront with post-office boxes visible inside. He had a small package in one hand.

  “That’s him,” I said, “but how do you know he’s Karl Krusher?”

  “I had my sock puppet, tell Krusher I had some genuine, World-War-II-era, Nazi medals and was willing to trade for some other Nazi stuff. He wouldn’t agree to a meeting, but he sent a P.O. Box number and said to mail them. I tracked it down and kept the place under surveillance to see who opened that box. When he came for it we got his pic.” She swiped the screen of her phone a few times to manipulate the photo and held it up again for me to see. “Just to make sure, I used this bright yellow tape to seal the package.”

  Sure enough, the package in Dunkle’s hand was sealed with yellow tape. “By the way,” I asked, “did you really have Nazi medals?”

  “Who knows? People sell stuff online all the time and say it’s real.”

  “So, you got Karl Krusher’s P.O. box number, and Matt Dunkle opened that box, so he’s Karl Krusher.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Can you send me a copy of that picture and the P.O. Box information?”

  “Sure.”

  “And I need to know how to find those conversations online where he brags about how he did the murders.”

  That brought a scowl. “That’s going to be a little tricky. They’re on a closed forum.”

  “Okay, but can you let me know how to find the forum?”

  “Yeah. I can do that.”

  “I need something solid so the sheriff can arrest him.”

  “Why don’t you just tell the sheriff to watch for Dunkle’s name to blow up on social media when we release evidence that
a professor at Fuchs College is a neo-Nazi?”

  “No! You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dunkle has already killed two people connected with that exhibit and he’s suspicious of me. If you expose him publicly he may freak out and come after me. I need him arrested before any of this gets out.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m part of a collective. I don’t own this information, and it’s not entirely up to me what happens to it.”

  “Can’t you tell the people you work with I’m trying to help the sheriff catch a murderer?”

  “Sure, I’ll pass that along, but I can’t make any promises.”

  I held my breath, trying to contain the panic rising from my gut. “Send me all the info you have, and I’ll give it to the sheriff this afternoon. With any luck I can have Dunkle under arrest by tonight.”

  “You got it.”

  She offered the fist bump again. I accepted.

  “Stay and finish your drink,” she said. I nodded and she headed out the door.

  I texted Pat: “Judith coming out. Give me a minute.”

  I was not going to finish that cola and then need to use the bathroom in this place, but I took time to send a text to Adams saying I had conclusive evidence for him and would be back on campus within two hours.

  When I got outside, Pat was waiting for me, parked next to my car. He rolled down his window. “Was that Judith?”

  I nodded. “She just came out and got in the other car.”

  “I thought you said she had red hair and wore bright colors.”

  “She did the last time I saw her.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “I guess they keep a very low profile. Have any luck in there?”

  “Bingo,” I said. “Dunkle is Krusher.”

  He shook his head. “This is really sad.”

  “Yeah. I left the sheriff a message to meet up this afternoon, so I have to get going.”

  “Back to campus?”

  “Not directly. I have to stop by Edgar’s studio to pick up a signed contract. A member of my committee is on the warpath about doing everything by the book.”

  Pat checked his watch. “I need to get back for a meeting. Otherwise I’d go with you.”

  I wouldn’t have minded some back-up, but I’d already taken up most of his afternoon. “No need. I know right where it is. I’ll be in and out in five minutes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you back on campus.”

  I leaned in through the open window and kissed him on the cheek, which put an end to the conversation. I was glad to see him smile.

  As I drove north on Route 23, it felt good to know to a near certainty who had taken the lives of two people, people who had worked hard to get where they were in life, and to know that the villain would pay for those crimes. I was so eager to get this information to Adams I actually drove a couple miles-per-hour over the speed limit at one point. Of course, I had another reason to be in a hurry. If Judith’s band of self-styled avengers went public with their information this afternoon, I would be in danger. The quicker I got Adams interested in arresting Dunkle, the better.

  I drove up to the door of Edgar’s studio and parked so the door of my car would open toward it. Once inside, I flipped on some lights and went right to the file drawers under the work table in the center of the room where I assumed Edgar kept things like signed contracts. The bulb in the work lamp was the only source of warmth in the room so I stood close. The concrete floor seemed to suck heat through the soles of my shoes.

  The search took longer than I expected because Edgar’s labeling system for the file folders was eccentric, and because I wanted to be sure I put everything back the same way I found it in case Ella came looking for something.

  I found the contract and was just stooping to put the folder back when I heard footsteps on the gravel outside, which was strange because I hadn’t heard a vehicle drive up. I expected to see Ella come through the door since I had told her in an email that I would be here around three o’clock.

  I did not expect Matt Dunkle to walk in, but he did.

  Chapter 37

  Dunkle wore heavy black boots, black leather pants, and a black leather jacket. Under one arm he carried a motorcycle helmet. He had a backpack slung on the opposite shoulder.

  The implications of his appearance in Edgar’s studio at that moment were so mind-bogglingly horrible I didn’t even try to sort them out. I just stood there, staring at him. Most of us forget that fight and flight are not our only choices. There’s also freeze.

  I smiled and said, “Hi, Matt. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “You announced at our meeting yesterday that you would make a trip to Yount’s studio to pick up the contract.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t say when.”

  “It wasn’t hard to keep track of you,” he said as he set his helmet and backpack on the table next to the door.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “You could have called me if you wanted to come along and see the studio. Lots of people find it interesting to see how artists work.”

  “I already saw it—last weekend.”

  My heart jumped. He had just admitted being here around the time when Edgar was killed.

  “I have the contract,” I said, holding up the pages in my hand, “and I need to get back to campus.”

  I started toward the door, and he sidestepped to block my way.

  “I thought we could have a talk,” he said.

  “It’s freezing in here. Let’s find a more comfortable place. There’s a nice coffee shop in Chillicothe . . .”

  “Right here is fine. Did you go looking for art that would ridicule the sacred truths of white people or did you only notice our codes after the paintings showed up?”

  He was using language I had never heard aloud from anyone. “Matt, you’re on the committee. If you had any concerns about bringing this artist to campus, you could have said something last fall.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “I didn’t know anything about the codes.”

  “Really? You must think I’m stupid.”

  “Obviously not. You’re highly intelligent.”

  “Then maybe you’re the stupid one.”

  “I don’t think we have to say anyone is stupid.”

  “True. That goes without saying when talking to a member of an inferior race.”

  When he said that, I felt colder inside than I did outside. “Matt, you don’t really believe these things, do you?”

  “What things?”

  “Are you serious when you say I’m a member of an inferior race? Two weeks ago you invited me out for dinner.”

  He allowed a thin smile. “That might have been interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought it might be worth the price of dinner to find out if it works the same way with your kind.”

  “If what works the same way?”

  “The way the parts fit together for mating. We might have produced a half-human hybrid.”

  For the first time in my life I was shivering with cold and ready to vomit at the same time. “Matt, you must know the history and the pseudo-science behind these lies. You’re an educated man, an intellectual.”

  “No. I am not an intellectual.”

  “Of course, you are. You have a PhD in mathematics.”

  “Mathematics is pure. It cannot be corrupted by artists and intellectuals.”

  It was deer-in-the-headlights time for me. I could think of nothing else to say.

  But he was far from done. “I am sent here as a prophet to tell you the end is near for the self-proclaimed elite who set themselves up to rule over the white people who built this nation. You talk of history. You say you teach history. Do you even know history entered its final era in 1995?”

  His group had its own definition of Armageddon. This just got worse and worse.

&
nbsp; Dunkle’s eyes focused somewhere beyond me as he spoke. “When the murderer O. J. Simpson was set free, and Louis Farrakhan instigated the Million Man March, the people were asleep. They did not see the danger to their way of life, but a handful of heroes saw it. Kaczynski saw it. McVeigh saw it. The Sons of the Gestapo saw it. And there were others, working behind the scenes, fighting under cover of darkness—thirty black churches burned to the ground in eighteen months. The revolution had begun.”

  I had learned about some of these events in high school and college. “Matt, all that happened a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” he cried, smiling like a shark. “The battle is long, and the soldiers are weary. We stand up to take their places. That’s why I killed the whore who betrayed the truths I revealed to her. That’s why I killed the artist who mocked things he could never understand. That’s why I am sent here today to rid the world of his pimp.”

  The sound of tires on the gravel outside was like a chorus of angels to my battered soul.

  Dunkle held up an index finger as if threatening to stab me with it if I moved.

  The door opened behind him, and Ella walked in.

  “Nicole? I . . . oh, hello,” said Ella when she saw Dunkle.

  He smiled and held out his hand as he said, “Hi. I’m Matt Dunkle. Nicole and I are colleagues.” He no longer spoke like a prophet.

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied.

  “In fact, I’m on the Gallery Advisory Committee.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you for organizing the exhibit. It meant so much to Edgar.” She turned to me. “Nicole, did you find that contract?”

  Still dumbstruck, I held up the pages in my hand.

  “Oh good,” she said. “I thought I’d help if you couldn’t find it. I’m familiar with the way Edgar filed things. My, it’s cold in here. I’ve been trying to save money on the heating bill, but I can turn it up if you’re going to be here a while.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Dunkle. “We won’t be here long.”

  “All right, then,” said Ella. “I’ll be on my way.”

  As she turned toward the door, I felt a jolt of adrenaline. “I’ll go with you,” I said, and started forward.