Deviations (9 page)

“See anything you want to follow up on?”

“I don’t know. The guy was saying how the time for
talk has passed, how they need to take action. Said that some patriots have
already carried out missions, picked up the sword, that kind of shit, and how
we’re all gonna have to do that. Lots of nigger-this and nigger-that. Kikes,
towleheads, wetbacks. But everything is groups, no individuals.”

“No clear threats against anyone in particular?”

“I didn’t see anything like that.”

“So how do you want to go at Fredericks?” Ryan
said as we headed out to the parking lot.

“We’re just stupid cops coming to talk to the
smart professor. If we get anything off him, we tell Murtaugh. Otherwise, we
wait for the chief to tell us how he wants us to proceed. Sound good to you?

“Absolutely. Let’s talk to the smart professor.”

Chapter 8

“Thanks very much for
taking to time to speak with us,” I said. “You mind if Detective Miner grabs a
chair from out in the hall?”

“Not at all,” Professor Willson Fredericks said.
He remained standing, so I did, too. The office was insultingly small. I’m
thinking eight by thirteen, but the eight was closer to six because the cinder
block walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, which crawled over
the top of his battered gray steel desk like a speed bump. One wall was all
window, looking out over the quad on campus. It must have been the break
between classes because dozens of students were crisscrossing the quad, every
one of them carrying a backpack. The girls could’ve been me twenty years ago,
except I couldn’t afford Starbucks, I didn’t have a cell phone, and I kept my
boobs inside my shirt. The sun was on High, and even though it was only fifty-five
degrees, the girls were trying to get into it. Even from this guy’s second-floor
office, I could see that this was the first day of Nipple Fest.

When Ryan made it back with a plastic chair,
saying “Sorry” for no reason, the three of us sat.

“Like I said, we appreciate you making the time.”

“My pleasure.” Professor Fredericks carefully
crossed one leg over the other. He glanced down at his charcoal wool slacks,
straightening the crease.

“I see from that plaque that you’re the faculty
adviser to BGLAD. What’s that, again?”

“BGLAD stands for
Bisexuals, Gays, Lesbians, and Allies for Diversity. In addition, we have
several new transgendered students on campus, whose interests we represent.
We’re going to need to change the name of the organization to include a T for
the trannies.” He offered a hint of a smile.

“How’d you get
involved with the organization?” I said. Ryan gave me a look as the blood rose
to my cheeks. “You know, I mean, if you want to tell us about it.” Can taking
six months off and not talking to anyone make you rusty? Yeah, I think, maybe.

“Well, of
course, Detective Seagate, I don’t mind at all.” This guy put a lot more
thought into his appearance than I did. Everything was top of the line, from
the muted maroon and purple paisley bow tie—a real one, not a clip-on—to the soft-shouldered
wool sport jacket, a subtle green plaid with gold and red undertones and real
leather buttons, that draped gracefully over his thin frame. He sported a
pencil-wide blond mustache, and his thinning hair, free of any traces of gray,
was carefully cut. Inexplicably, he had a deep tan, which made him look fifty-two
or fifty-four, but beneath the careful grooming he could have been sixty or a
little more.

He swallowed,
his Adam’s apple poking up over the top of his crisp blue cotton shirt, as he
prepared to deliver a well-rehearsed little story. “As you may know, my field
of expertise includes the Nazi period, and I devote some attention to that
movement in virtually every course I teach. Today’s student has, of course, no
memory of that period, except for one or two who have heard a grandfather
discuss it. So my first challenge is to interest them in the historical forces
at work during that time. I often refer to the Night of the Long Knives.” He
paused, glancing first at me and then at Ryan, giving us a chance to earn some
class-participation points.

Ryan leaned
forward. “That was in the thirties, right? Hitler killed about a thousand of
his political rivals one night.”

“Excellent,
Detective. It was in June 1934, over a weekend, actually, not one single night,
that Hitler consolidated power by purging the Nazi party of many of his most
powerful rivals. The most prominent was a man named Ernst R
öe
hm,
who was commander of the SA, a precursor to the SS.” Fredericks paused again,
looking expectantly at Ryan, but my partner just shook his head.

“Röehm was widely
known to be homosexual,” Fredericks continued, “and the SA was rife with gays,
as was the entire Nazi party leadership. For some time, scholars believed that
Hitler purged R
öe
hm and other high officers in the SA because their
homosexuality was becoming an embarrassment. After all, homosexuality was a
punishable offense in Germany at that time and, theory has it, Hitler could no
longer tolerate this behavior, which was so obviously inconsistent with his
professed master-race propaganda. Some homosexual apologists in the scholarly
community posit that Hitler himself was homosexual, with one scholar even
arguing that in his early days in Vienna he was a prostitute. According to this
line of reasoning, which, incidentally, I do not accept, the Night of the Long
Knives was a ritualistic self-castration by Hitler, much as his obsession with
the Jews was his psychopathic reaction to the fact that he may have been
Jewish.”

“Wow,” I said,
ever the articulate student. I found this all really interesting. I don’t know
anything about history, of course, but I can recognize a good story and a good
storyteller. I would definitely take a course from this guy.

He smiled and
raised his eyebrows, knowing he’d gotten my attention. The gesture wasn’t
obnoxious or self-satisfied, more like he appreciated me playing my role, which
was to sit there, pay attention, and look respectful.

“Do you
remember, I believe it was about six or seven years ago, when a touring
production of
Cabaret
came to
campus?”

Ryan’s face
lit up. “Yes, we saw that. My wife and I saw that.”

“Do you
recall,” the professor continued, “that the production emphasized the
homosexual theme, particularly at the end?”

“That’s right.”
Ryan leaned forward, Fredericks shifting in his seat to face him. “The emcee
character was gay, right? He wore some kind of symbol on his clothes.”

“Exactly. He
was forced to wear a pink triangle, which was a sign of stigma, just like the
Star of David that Jews were forced to wear. When Hitler instituted the camps,
you recall that he rounded up not only the Jews but people with handicaps, the
Roma—whom we used to call Gypsies—and the homosexuals. Within the camps, the
homosexuals occupied the lowest stratum in the hierarchy, and they perished at
a higher rate than any other group. There is some controversy about the exact
number—from perhaps fifteen thousand to as many as one-hundred thousand. They
were subjected to hideous medical procedures to see whether they could be
‘cured.’ The healthiest among them were forced to serve as concubines for the
SS officers, many of whom were homosexual. Those inmates who agreed to serve in
that capacity were offered some protection. Those who refused were sometimes
castrated, sometimes starved to death, sometimes worked to death in the
quarries. Sometimes simply shot.”

Fredericks’ eyes
were going back and forth from me to Ryan, like he was using the story to size
us up—see whether we were mostly bummed out by Nazi cruelty or grossed out by
homosexuality. I know I was sitting there slack jawed. I glanced over at Ryan,
who was looking way sad. Suddenly, it was very quiet in that little office, the
only sound the chatter drifting in from the kids in the hall.

“It was right
after that production of
Cabaret
that
several students from BGLAD asked whether I would consider serving as faculty
adviser to their organization. I accepted.” Professor Fredericks shifted in his
seat. “That, Detective Seagate, explains how I came to be the adviser to
BGLAD.” He smiled, letting me know that this was his explanation, and that he
would say no more about it. If my own prejudices, insecurities, or smallness of
mind led me to wonder if he had any other connection to the homosexual
community, that, I’m guessing he would think, said more about me than about him.

It wasn’t as
simple as it being none of my business, although of course that’s true. The way
he was sitting up tall in his chair told me this was a scene he had performed
regularly for three decades or so, in front of students as spiritually dazed
and confused as me. And that he wouldn’t be at all surprised if at least some
of those students would see the question of whether it’s okay to torture gays
as a real head-scratcher. I could see him trying to teach people something
important—less that being gay is none of your business and more that it doesn’t
matter. As long as a gay guy’s not making the boys bend over their desks, who gives
a shit? It’s unimportant. Each of us has something to offer. What Willson
Fredericks has is a few hundred stories, each of them ending at the same place:
you could spend your life hating people because they don’t look or sound or
pray or eat like you—or fuck who and how you do—or you could take a deep breath
and try to relax. If you’re too stunted and shallow to see it’s okay that
everyone is different, you could at least shut up and make it a little less obvious
you’re a total asshole.

Personally, I
don’t care whether you’re gay. I like to think it’s part of my new humility: now
that I realize I’m pretty much a steaming pile, I hesitate a few seconds longer
before deciding that you are. But I have to admit it’s probably just my old
egotism: I don’t care whether you’re gay because  
…
well, because you’re you, not me. Fuck whoever you want. Just ask permission
first, of course. It’s good manners.

I was okay with
this professor. I could see him walking up to the podium on the first day of
class, and all the little cowboys and cowgirls looking at him funny because of
the bowtie and the whole fruity vibe. But then he’d start talking, start
telling his stories, and a couple of days, couple of weeks later, he’d know he
was connecting when he saw the kids put down their phones, their eyes wide. Maybe
getting some of the girls to cry. That would be why he was here, dressed like
GQ
, sitting in his beat-up chair, at his scratched-up
desk, in his cinder-block office smaller than a holding cell back at
headquarters.

“But I assume
that you and your partner have not stopped by to discuss my duties as a faculty
adviser?” He picked an invisible speck of lint off a sleeve.

I smiled. “Of
course, Professor. You’ve been very generous with your time. We’re here to see
if you could help us understand the patriot movement a little better.”

“The patriot
movement? Yes, certainly.” I could see the wheels turning in his head. “This is
in relation to a case?” An eyebrow went up slightly.

“Yes,” I said.

His eyebrow
was still hanging up there, but I didn’t say any more. His index finger came up
to his mouth. He tapped at his upper lip, then traced the contours of his skinny
moustache. “Let me think,” he said. “Two detectives are sitting in my office. I
assume this does not relate to a graffiti incident.” He paused, his hands
parting, then looked directly at me. Surely you owe me at least that much, his expression
said, particularly when I just favored you with that moving story about gays in
concentration camps. You remember, no? Right after you stumbled through your
question about whether I was gay?

“I’m sorry,
Professor, but we can’t say any more about what we’re working on. Could
jeopardize the integrity of the case.”

“I see.” He
shifted in his seat and cleared his throat theatrically. “I hadn’t realized
that the murder of Senator Weston was in any way linked to the patriot
movement. Interesting. Very interesting.” His finger worked the moustache.

“We really
can’t comment on that,” I said. But I suspected he was telling the truth that
he hadn’t linked us coming to see him with the Weston murder until now.

He uncrossed
his legs, then crossed them in the other direction, signaling that he was quite
disappointed by this recent turn of events. He sighed, gazing at the wall over
my shoulder. I could see him doing this in class, waiting for the students to
answer a question, watching them put their heads down, suddenly fascinated by
something in their textbooks.

“We were given
your name by Carol Freeman,” I said. “She told us you might be able to help us
understand the patriot movement.”

Professor
Fredericks smiled. “Yes, Dr. Carol Freeman. She and I are two of the last
surviving dinosaurs from the old days at Central Montana Junior College,” he
said.

“Well, she
told us you know everything there is to know about the patriot movement,” I
said.

“She’s too
generous.” He straightened in his chair.

“She put us
onto you because you’ve written so much about Nazi history and its modern—Ryan,
what’s the title of the professor’s most recent book that Carol mentioned?”

Ryan looked
down at his notebook. “
The Modern Patriot Movement: Issues, Anger, and
Domestic Terror in Post-9/11 American Culture.”

“Certainly,
I’m flattered that anybody outside of my immediate area would be familiar with
my work. It is a rare treat, indeed, for a humble researcher.” The twinkle in
his eyes said he was telling the truth: he did get a kick out of it. The
“certainly, I’m flattered” line sounded well-rehearsed, but what the hell? I
don’t mind making stuff up and kissing ass in interviews if it gets the guy to
tell me something useful. Besides, Willson Fredericks seemed like a harmless
enough dork who probably wasn’t ripping anyone off or asking all that much out
of life. “Yes,” he continued, “
The Modern Patriot Movement
is my latest book. What would you like to know about
the modern patriot movement?”