Deviations (10 page)

“Well,” I said.
“I think we have a basic understanding of its relationship with the militia
movement from the eighties and nineties, that it feeds off some of the same social
and racial anxieties, but that it’s picked up some steam with the election of a
black man, that it’s focused on illegal immigration from Mexico, that sort of
thing.”

He looked a
little hurt that I’d just reduced these rich, complex issues to a grocery list,
depriving him of the opportunity to make them come alive through little stories.
“Yes, Detective, those are the issues, and that is the anger I refer to in my
subtitle. How, in particular, can I assist you?” His head was tilted slightly
back. I will answer your questions directly, his expression said. Too bad. Your
loss.

“Maybe if you
could help us understand what’s going on here in our region. Is there a patriot
movement here in Rawlings? In Montana?”

“Here in
Rawlings?” he said, his eyes drifting toward his big window. He gazed at the
three-story campus library a hundred yards away, as if the answer was hidden in
a secret pattern in the red bricks. I looked over there, too, but all I saw was
the bricks. “I think the way I’d answer that is to say that there are
undoubtedly patriot-movement people, or sympathizers, here in Rawlings, as
there are in any city, big or small. However, I am unaware of any organized
cell or chapter. Certainly, there is no organization resembling a patriot cell that
chooses to advertise its activities or openly solicit members.”

“And here in
Montana, Professor?”

He looked at
me, his expression somber. “There is, as you are undoubtedly aware, the Montana
Patriot Front, headquartered in Lake Hollow—”

“That’s a
couple hours west, right, out in the woods?”

“Yes, that is
correct. It is indeed out in the woods. In fact, it is in a meadow, which is
surrounded by woods.” He looked a little annoyed with me interrupting him. Professional
guys like him, I like to interrupt. Throws them off their game.

“Have you been
there?”

“It’s visible
on Google Earth. I have spent many hours watching videos of various speeches
and rallies held in Lake Hollow.”

One of the few
things I believe in is the Two Rules for Interacting with Cops: Don’t lie to
me, and don’t make me run. Fredericks had just come very close to breaking the
first rule. “Yes, that makes sense.” I heard Ryan shift in his chair, telling
me he caught what had just happened.

“Much of my
research involves close analysis of their propaganda. In my early years, I was
restricted to reading their little newsletters. The only excitement that
afforded was the occasional chat with the provost about how it would look if
anyone in the community discovered we were purchasing neo-Nazi literature with
state funds.” He presented a small smile, apparently having forgiven me. “Now,
however, everything is available online. Did you know that there are more than seven
hundred self-described Nazi channels on YouTube?”

Guys who lie
to cops all the time—from hookers to gang bangers and defense attorneys—know
you never get in trouble for what you don’t say. You only get in trouble for
what you do say. So they don’t say that much. They know they’re lying. We know
they’re lying. And they know it’s our job to prove they’re lying. But this
professor, since he doesn’t lie all the time, he’s not that good at it.

Before I could
start in after Fredericks, Ryan said, “Could you tell us a little about the
Montana Patriot Front?”

“It’s a fairly
typical cell, a mix of neo-Nazi ideology—complete with a lightning-bolt
swastika, for instance—and the more contemporary anti-immigrant and racist
elements. There are, perhaps, fifty or sixty members, of whom perhaps a
half-dozen might be considered hard core, the rest being weekend warriors,
mostly from in-state.”

“To your
knowledge, have any members or associates been implicated in any crimes?” Ryan
said.

“If by
‘implicated’ you mean ‘convicted,’ no. In their various writings they complain
about oppressive federal investigators, but that song is sung by every patriot
group. Federal investigators are aware of them, I am certain, and I do know
that federal agents visited them in 2004, in connection with the beating death
of a Jamaican man in Spokane, but no charges were filed.”

Ryan said,
“Can you help us understand the leader of that group?” Ryan looked down at his
notebook, then shook his head, acting disgusted at himself. “Sorry,” he said,
“I don’t know the guy’s name.”

Willson
Fredericks’ expression told us he knew for a fact that Ryan and I were not only
ignorant but stupid and lazy, too. We didn’t know that guy’s name, and it never
would have occurred to us to look it up. Certainly we never would have read
anything Fredericks wrote.

Professor
Willson Fredericks took a breath, like he was going to start telling us another
little story. “You’re referring to Christopher Barry,” he said. “In fact, he
prefers to be called the Reverend Christopher Barry.”

I said, “He’s
a real reverend?”

“I’m certain
he kept the invoice, for tax purposes, if nothing else,” Fredericks said, with his
tiny smile.

I laughed,
which he seemed to appreciate. “So what should we know about him?”

“The Reverend
Barry is seventy-eight years old. He lives with his wife, Alice, who is seventy—they
have been married some forty-eight years—in a
two-bedroom frame
house in Lake Hollow, Montana. Barry has, as they say, a complicated past,
which has included several encounters with the authorities.”

“What kind of encounters?” I said.

“Nothing involving violence,” the professor said.
“His specialties are avoiding taxes and committing various forms of fraud. He
is definitely old school. He set up his first church some time before you were
born, and he is adamant that the Montana Patriot Front is indeed a church, not
a political organization or social club or anything of the sort. He peppers his
speeches with elaborate arguments drawn from the seedline theory of Christianity—”

Ryan nodded, the eager student eating up what the
professor says.

“That’s the idea that Jews descended from Satan,
and white Christians are the true Israelites. It’s quite complex, and I won’t
take your time with it. My point was simply that the Reverend Barry includes
enough of that silly theory in all his sermons—he calls them sermons—to
frustrate the Internal Revenue Service, with which he has been in conflict for
some decades now.”

I said, “And you mentioned some fraud problems?”

“Yes,” Professor Fredericks said. “Nothing particularly
interesting there, unfortunately. Like many of the militia leaders of his
generation, he existed on or at least near the threadbare fringes of
respectability. Online marketing of questionable vacation properties,
currency-conversion schemes, commodity futures. In the seventies he spent eighteen
months as a guest of the state of Texas for insurance fraud involving several
warehouses that caught fire unexpectedly. All in all, he truly lives up to the
phrase ‘the banality of evil.’” He looked to Ryan, assuming I wouldn’t get the
reference. He was right.

Ryan said, “Hannah Arendt?”

Willson Fredericks simply nodded his head.

“So, Professor,” I said, putting my hands on my
thighs, ready to wrap up the interview, “you’re saying you don’t see the
Montana Patriot Front as a violent group.” I was starting to stand up.

He looked at me. “I don’t believe I said that,
Detective.”

Chapter 9

“What do you think?” I said
as we were driving back to headquarters.

“I had a professor like him, at BYU. He was a
classics teacher. Dr. Harkins. We were supposed to spend the whole semester
covering classical literature, but we spent about half the time on ‘the
exquisite Sappho.’ That was his term: ‘the exquisite Sappho.’”

I had to concentrate on driving because most of
the kids didn’t bother looking up from their phones as they flip-flopped across
campus. “Am I supposed to know who the hell the exquisite Sappho is?” I slowed
down as a boy and a girl met in the middle of the street right in front of us
and went into a big hug. I inched up a little closer to them, the V-8 on the
Crown Vic putting out a macho rumble. The boy shot me a pissed-off look. When
the girl saw us, she mouthed “Sorry,” dragging the boy off toward the curb.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Ryan said, playfully. He
knew all kinds of stuff I didn’t. I don’t think it was because Brigham Young
was a real university and my state college wasn’t, although that’s probably
true. It was more that he was sober and actually went to classes. “How ’bout I
tell you where Sappho came from?”

“All right, Alex, you tell me where he came from.”

Ryan laughed. “First thing, Karen: Sappho was
female. Second thing: she came from the island called Lesbos.”

“No shit,” I said. “What are the odds of that? The
island’s called Lesbians, and she turns out lesbian.”

“Weird, huh?” Ryan said, wearing a big grin. “Like
Lou Gehrig getting Lou Gehrig’s Disease.”

“As enlightening as this has been, partner, when I
asked about the professor, I was thinking more in terms of him helping us
understand, you know, who killed Dolores Weston. Him being a big-ass liar and
all.”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to think about that,” he
said. “When I said he reminded me of my old professor, I wasn’t getting at the
gay thing—”

“So you see Fredericks as gay.”

“Without a doubt,” Ryan said.

“And you know that how?”

“The fact that he didn’t come right out and say
it.”

We were streaking across campus at four miles per
hour. “Ryan, I’m trying to not kill any students here. Would you consider
talking in a straight line?”

“The thing you need to understand about
professors—and I can say this because my father is one—is that they don’t make
any money and the students call them by their first names, so they want to
protect the little bit of dignity they have. It makes them feel important. They
love to play these games where they hint around at things without saying them.”

“And that’s what he’s doing with being gay.”

“The way I see it. He’s standing inside the
closet, but he’s got the door wide open so everyone can see inside, see him
standing there. He doesn’t want to come right out and tell the kids he’s gay,
so he just signals it. You know: the bow tie and everything. He sees it as a
teachable moment—that’s a phrase my father uses.”

“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to come out.”

“Probably some of that, too. He might rationalize
it as he’s making the kids think, which is good for them.”

“Okay, tell me about him lying that he hasn’t been
to Lake Hollow.”

“Well, I admit he has made inconsistent and evasive
statements, so I guess he’s probably a liar.”

“Did you go to law school while I was gone?”

He smiled at me. “No need for personal insults,
Karen. Yes, either he was lying in those articles where he said he’s been out
to Lake Hollow, or just now when he implied he’s never been to the compound.”

“Okay, which is it? Could you tell from the
articles if he was making that shit up?”

“You mean, if he was really there or he just
pieced things together from videos and newsletters and things?”

“Yeah, that’s the question, Holmes.”

“I’m going to have to go back and read them
again.”

I stopped the cruiser and turned to him. “You get
off on this?”

“Are you asking me if I enjoy my job? Yes, thank
you, Detective, I enjoy it very much.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I’m a cranky, overtired
alcoholic. Could you give me a straight answer?”

“Straight answer is, I’m not sure. I could see him
lying in those articles, giving himself that Indiana Jones Nazi-hunter
mystique. And I could see him not wanting to put himself at Lake Hollow if he
knows there’s a connection to the Weston murder.”

“You could see someone from the Montana Patriot
Front hitting Weston?”

“Sure. Why not? On the other hand, that could just
be him puffing himself up, like a kid from the suburbs recording his own
gangsta rap on an iPad.”

“Yeah,” I said. “First he gives us this story
about Christopher Barry being a small-time tax cheat and grifter. Then he hints
around that the group might be dangerous. That doesn’t add up.”

“I bet part of it was the professor’s ego,” Ryan
said. “He was having a great time, our coming over to talk to him. It’s
flattering, you know? Couple of detectives stopping by. That’s why he told us
he figured out we were working on the Weston murder. Thing about professors:
they like to believe they’re smarter than everyone else, but if you just let
them talk for a few minutes, they’ll tell you everything they’re thinking—plus
some stuff they don’t even realize they’re thinking.”

“Bottom line,” I said, “we should look harder at
this guy—and at the group.”

“I think we have to. Remember, Fredericks said
Barry’s got half-a-dozen true believers, I think he called them. Barry himself
is pushing eighty, so he’s not the muscle, but we can’t rule out one of his
people. What do you want to do? Talk to the chief?”

“No, first I want to see what the university has
to say about Willson Fredericks.” I turned the cruiser around and drove back to
the parking lot outside Fredericks’ building. “Get me the office of the
university counsel, will ya’?”

He swiveled the computer toward me and I dialed on
my cell. “Hello, this is Detective Karen Seagate, Rawlings Police Department.
Yes, I need to see Ms. Brandt. In fifteen minutes would be good.” I waited.
“Fine, thanks very much.” I hung up. “We’re gonna interview a lawyer.”

* * * *

The receptionist in the
university’s executive offices looked up and smiled with tight lips. I returned
the smile. “Detective Seagate, Detective Miner. We have an appointment with Ms.
Brandt.”

“Just one moment, please.” The secretary picked up
the phone and dialed her. “She’ll be right out, Detectives. Won’t you have a
seat?”

I took the plush upholstered couch. Ryan took a
matching chair. I looked around at the oak paneling, the oak desk and matching
file cabinets, the deep carpet with the university logo on it. That must have
cost a few bucks. I looked at Ryan, my hand doing a Vanna White at the classy
furniture. He nodded. Good to see our tax dollars hard at work.

We both stood as Cynthia Brandt, the university
attorney, strode out of her office, extending her hand to me. A tall, thin
woman of about sixty, with short-cropped gray hair, she took off her reading
glasses, which hung from a gold chain around her neck. She was wearing a
two-button double-breasted blazer, navy, with a high-neck rose silk blouse. The
tweed skirt, in rust and gray, went a few inches below her knees. The hose had
a slight tint to cover up her legs, which were a little roadmappy. All in all,
she was doing what she could. She gave me a big smile, like when she woke up
this morning she was really hoping Ryan and I would swing by. “Detective, I’m
Cynthia Brandt. Can I get you some coffee?”

I remembered that Ryan can’t drink coffee or Coke
or Jack Daniel’s—really, he can’t drink anything I like. We’re very different
people. “Just one, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Jackie, would you mind? Two
coffees. Please, Detectives, come right in,” gesturing me and Ryan into her
office and offering us chairs. No trouble for you, I thought, watching the secretary
scurry away for the coffee.

Brandt took a matching chair facing me. The
secretary came in with the coffee service and placed it on the low table
between me and her. “Thank you, Jackie,” Cynthia Brandt said as the secretary
left the office and closed the door.

“Thanks for seeing us on such short notice, Ms.
Brandt.”

“Not at all.” She paused. My turn.

“Let me tell you why we’re here, Ms. Brandt. We’re
investigating a case, and the name of one of the university employees came up.”

The attorney paused as she was lifting her coffee
cup. “I see.”

“He’s a history professor. Willson Fredericks.”
I’d been in this position a few times, informing executives that an
investigation had led to their companies. The suits always go into stammer
mode, expressing shock, then disbelief and denial. Then comes Quiz the
Detective, where they demand to know precisely what evidence the police have,
like they get to choose whether to cooperate.

Cynthia Brandt’s face became blank. To buy time,
she took a long sip of coffee. “Willson Fredericks, you say?”

“Yes, we need to follow up some leads on his
relationship with the Montana Patriot Front.”

The lawyer’s shoulders seemed to relax. “Oh, I
think I can clear this up,” she said. “Professor Fredericks has a national—no, an
international reputation for his work on the neo-Nazi movement. We are
immensely proud of his magnificent scholarship.” She smiled. No problem, see? I
just explained it to you—and it only took a few seconds! You run along now,
please. Jackie will clear the coffee.

I try to keep my prejudices in a back room, but
I’ve never had a good encounter with a lawyer, and I was starting to not like
this one. Treating us like we’re the Library Patrol, and we’re a little
concerned about some of the books the professor has been checking out.

Ryan must have seen me starting to look a little
nasty, so he broke in. “Yes, Ms. Brandt, we’re familiar with Professor
Fredericks’ reputation. We know about his research on the neo-Nazi groups.”

I thought I had it under control, so I spoke. “Ms.
Brandt, we’re conducting a criminal investigation and, like I said, we want to
pursue some leads about Professor Fredericks.”

“Tell me what you need,” she said. “We will of
course cooperate with any legitimate request for information.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “We’re investigating
a possible hate crime, and we want to better understand Professor Fredericks’
relationship with the Montana Patriot Front. We’re not here to make an arrest.
We’re merely following up some leads at this point. We need access to his email.”

“I’m sorry, Detective, that’s out of the question.
Electronic mail is private correspondence, just as letters are, and is
therefore protected. In addition, there is the concept of academic freedom. We
could not possibly let you into the professor’s account.”

“I agree with you that his computer would be a
gray area. It’s the email on the university’s email server we want to see.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be anything there, would
there? Certainly, a faculty member wouldn’t retain controversial email on the
server. He or she would erase it, no?”

Ryan said, “People do erase their email all the
time. But servers in large organizations are backed up at least once a week,
sometimes every day, in case of a virus or some other problem that crashes the
system or just one computer.”

“Well, you apparently know more about this than I
do. But I maintain that this material is protected. The faculty member would
have to give you permission to search.”

“Actually, no,” I said. “The university would. The
faculty member is out of the loop on this one. The organization—a business or a
non-profit like a university—has legal ownership of its electronic network. Any
correspondence through that network, including email or Web sites downloaded,
is accessible to the organization’s management. We don’t need to inform the
faculty member at all. We just need the university’s permission.”

“Well, I’m going to need some time to consider
your request.”

“We have to move as quickly as possible to
increase our chances of finding incriminating evidence—or ruling him out as a
suspect. When it’s electronic evidence, every minute we wait increases the
possibility that it will be corrupted or compromised in some other way.”

“All right, I see your perspective, Detective
Seagate. I’m prepared to bring this to our Executive Council, which meets this
next Tuesday. I’m sure your arguments will prove—”

“No, Ms. Brandt. I need the permission now.”

“That’s out of the question. At the very least, I
would have to meet with the university president, who is away at an all-day
meeting of the State Board of Education, which—”

“You don’t have a phone number?”

“Detective, these meetings are arranged months in
advance, and the agenda is extremely full—”

“Ms. Brandt, let me be clear about this.” I was
leaning towards her. “I am willing to get a court order to crack your server,
and I can get it before this coffee is cold. If that’s the way we play it,
here’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll have three computer technicians here by one
o’clock this afternoon. The first thing I’m gonna do is pull the plug on all
the networks in the university. The Registrar’s office, all the labs, all the
faculty computers—all the screens will go black. And they won’t come on again
until I say they do.”

I had no idea whether I could get a court order;
it depended on which judge heard my request. Most likely, I’d be able to
isolate the one network with the suspect’s account. But I wasn’t thinking it
through, weighing the factors and putting together a strategy for getting her to
cooperate with me. I was pissed. She was slowing us down, and for no good
reason. If Fredericks was just yanking our chains, as he probably was, we’d be
in and out in an hour. He’d never know we’d looked at his mail—and neither
would anyone else. We had a legitimate right to find out if he knew anything
about the Weston murder, and it wasn’t up to Cynthia Brandt to decide how we
get to exercise that right.