by Robin Yocum
“Just finished,” she said, grabbing some clean towels. Her face was deeply creased. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, and several wild whiskers sprang from her chin. “I just need to take these in.”
“I’ll take them,” Toots said, compressing the towels and toiletries between a pair of thick hands. “We’ve got some work to do in here. Did you empty the trash from this room?” She pointed to a clear plastic bag tied to the front of her cart.
Fran untied it and said, “Thanks.”
The room was surprisingly neat. Several pressed shirts hung in the closet. There were two shaving kits on the vanity, and several pairs of shoes were lined up against the wall. On the corner table sat a manual typewriter and a stack of papers.
“Look at this,” I said, reaching for the stack of papers.
“Don’t touch it!” Toots yelled, causing me to jump.
“Christ, Toots, what’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Sorry, Allie, but that might be important. We don’t want to contaminate it with your fingerprints.”
On the top sheet were the words:
Operation Adolph Lives
Manifesto for
The Aryan Republic of New Germania
“This looks big,” Toots said. “I’ve got some rubber gloves out in the car. Let me get them.” He returned with two pairs of latex gloves, which he and Fran tugged on. Gently taking the cover page by the corner, he flipped it faceup on the table, revealing a preamble and numbered proclamations that resembled a to-do list.
1) The Aryan Republic of New Germania shall be founded. Its capital shall be called New Berlin and shall be formed in the mountains of what is now western United States.
2) An Army will be formed.
3) Jews and niggers, or any half-breed containing nigger blood, shall not be admitted under any conditions.
4) The current president of the United States will be assassinated.
5) Any government official or undesirable interfering with the establishment of the Aryan Republic of New Germania will be considered an enemy of the state and executed.
6) Through expansion, the Aryan Republic of New Germania will take control of all lands currently in the control of the United States.
Beyond the line items were detailed plans for assassinating the president and every member of Congress and taking control of the government. “Nothing but a bunch of gibberish,” Fran said. “It’s just the ranting of a crazy man.”
Toots looked at me, the skin stretching tight across his jowls.
I recalled his earlier admonition: Make sure he understands the importance of the discovery. “Gibberish? Are you kidding me?” I asked.
Fran’s forehead creased with lines of confusion. “What?”
“You can’t possibly be that thickheaded, Frannie. You have an ex-convict who spent time in a federal prison who writes a manifesto plotting the assassination of the president of the United States and the overthrow of our government, and all you say is it’s ‘a bunch of gibberish’?”
Fran looked at Toots for help. “Think big, Mr. Congressman,” Toots said.
Then Fran rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Do you really think anyone’s going to believe this goofball could actually assassinate the president?”
For the first time in my life, I hit Fran. I slapped him hard across the left ear with an open hand. “Yes, goddammit! That’s exactly what I think, you moron. This is your chance. You’ve already got them on murder. Now you can get them on conspiracy to kill the president.” He cupped his hand over his reddened ear. His jaw tightened, and for a moment I thought he might hit me back, but I didn’t stop talking. “Let me spell it out for you. I think the lead paragraph in the newspaper would read:
“‘In the midst of a murder investigation of Ku Klux Klan member and white supremacist Rayce Daubner, Jefferson County Sheriff Francis Roberson uncovered a plot to assassinate the president of the United States by the radical leader of a separatist group attempting to start a new country—the Aryan Republic of New Germania—in the mountains of the American West.’”
“I don’t know,” he said.
I raised my arm again and said, “So help me Jesus, Francis, if you fumble the ball on this one, I’ll—”
“Hey, look at this,” Toots said, pointing to a page near the back of the manifesto.
The last several pages of the document listed names and addresses. On the first page was a listing for
Daubner, Rayce; Steubenville, Ohio
“Bingo. There’s your connection,” Toots said. “He somehow got involved with these guys, and they found out he was a federal informant. It makes sense. Himmler was a cellmate of Johnny Earl. He tells Himmler the name of the guy who set him up for the drug fall, and Daubner happens to be on Himmler’s Christmas card list. They murdered him because they assumed that he was a traitor to the Aryan Republic of New Germania.”
Fran looked at me this time. “That’s it,” I said. “You’ve solved a murder and saved the life of the president. You’re going to be a hero.”
“I’ve got a friend who works for the Secret Service in Columbus,” Toots said. “I think you should let me call him. They’re going to be very interested in this.”
“Do you really think so? I mean, do you really think they’ll view this guy as a legitimate threat?”
“Don’t make me hit you again,” I said. “It doesn’t matter how much of a legitimate threat he is. He was going to attempt an assassination on the president, and you foiled the plot.”
Again he looked at Toots, who shook his head. “You’re about to be a national hero, Sheriff. You’re about to be the guy who saved the president’s life—the former FBI agent who gave up a glamorous career with the agency to return to Jefferson County, Ohio, because he loved the people and wanted to be their sheriff. Play this right, and it’s your ticket to the United States Capitol.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SHERIFF FRANCIS ROBERSON
Early the next morning, as I entered the jail, Alaric Himmler lifted his head off the cot for a second, then dropped it back into the hammock created by his interlocked fingers. The preacher got up and walked to the front of the cell and started yelling, “This is a crock of horseshit. You’ve got no right to keep us in here.”
Fritz Hirsch was grinning and pressing his face between two cell bars. “Uh-oh, it’s the man of God, and he’s in a rhubarb with the head referee. He’s blowing snot bubbles, he’s so upset. But I’m telling you, folks, this referee is not going to budge. He’s a mule.”
“And tell that crazy son of a bitch to shut his mouth,” the preacher shouted. “He’s driving us crazy; he announces every move we make.”
I looked over at Fritz and couldn’t help but grin. “Fritz, that’s enough.”
“Oh my, sports fans, the preacher has just gone crying for mercy to the referee. This game is over. It’s over. Fritz wins! Fritz wins! Fritz wins!”
“Who else has been using your car?” I asked the preacher.
“No one’s used that car but me and the general. Now, how long are you going to keep us in here on these garbage charges? We didn’t do nothing. That fat slob of a deputy provoked an argument with us, then arrested us. That’s baloney.”
“You’re telling me that you haven’t let anyone take that car out on a joyride? The only ones who have been in it are the two of you?”
“Are you hard of hearing, too? No one drives my car but me.”
I nodded to show I understood. From my briefcase I retrieved the plastic evidence bag containing the .38 caliber revolver. “We found this in your car. Any idea how it got there?”
“You didn’t find that in my car.”
“Oh, but I did. It was in the trunk, wrapped in a Valley View Motel towel.”
“Well, if you did, then you or someone planted it there, because that’s not my gun.”
“Oddly enough, it’s mine.”
The preacher squinted. “Are you on drugs or something?”
“What? I never murdered anyone in my life. I never touched that gun, and I don’t even know who this Daubner guy is.”
“Really? That’s very interesting, because his name is in the back of the manifesto that I found in your room at the Valley View Motel.”
This brought the general to his feet. “I know every man on that list. There was no Rayce Daubner.”
I pulled a photocopy of the page with Daubner’s name on it and held it up.
The general looked at me, and the skin around his eyes tightened. “This is a setup.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t type this list?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“The font on the manifesto matches the font on the Underwood typewriter in your motel room.”
“There is no typewriter in my motel room.”
“Not anymore. I’ve confiscated it as evidence. You boys are under arrest for the murder of Rayce Daubner and, coming soon, conspiracy to kill the president of the United States.”
I called the FBI office in Pittsburgh and asked them to deliver a message to agents Vincenzio and Norwine. “Will they know what this is in reference to?” the secretary asked.
“Most definitely,” I said.
Twenty minutes later, Vincenzio called. “Looking for some help on your investigation?” he asked, a mocking edge in his voice.
“What investigation would that be?” I asked.
“There’s only one that you ought to be concerned about, Francis.”
“Oh, you mean the Daubner murder? Tsk. Where’s my head? That’s what I was calling you about. We made an arrest, and we’re going to hold a press conference at the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine. I thought maybe, since you’re so interested in this case, you’d want to stop by.”
“You made an arrest in the Daubner murder? Who?”
“You know, with Rayce being an informant for the feds, I thought you might be interested,” I said, ignoring his question.
“Who’d you arrest?”
“I thought you’d be interested, particularly since his being an FBI informant is apparently what led to his demise.”
“Bullshit. This had nothing to do with his role with the FBI. Who did you arrest, goddammit?”
“I’m sorry, Agent Vincenzio, but we’re not releasing that information at this time. However, you’re welcome to attend the press conference in the morning; it’s at nine o’clock at the sheriff’s department and—” That was all I got out before he hung up on me.
Allison had appointed herself to arrange the press conference. I was surprised at how quickly she did it and how many reporters agreed to attend. There were reporters from the Steubenville Herald-Star, the Wheeling Intelligencer, the Ohio Valley Journal, the Steubenville and Wheeling television stations, and three local radio stations. Seated at the table at the front of the room were myself, Toots, and Jason Sinclair of the Secret Service field office in Columbus. In the seats behind the media were Agents Vincenzio and Norwine, a handful of court watchers, and the two public defenders who had been assigned to Himmler and the preacher.
While the reporters were getting settled, Vincenzio came up and sneered. “This changes nothing, Roberson,” he said in a low voice so that only I could hear. “I don’t believe for one minute that these two killed Daubner. This is just a sham to get the heat off you, but I’ll tell you right now it isn’t going to work. In fact, this makes things even better, because once I pin this murder on your old teammate or that doofus social worker, your butt will be mine, too.”
I looked at him and smiled. “Alfred, in fifteen minutes, you’ll be happy just to get out of Steubenville without making a total ass of yourself. Now, why don’t you have a seat? We’re ready to get started.” Once the last radio reporter added his microphone to the bouquet of instruments at the lectern, I stood to begin the press conference.
I introduced myself, Toots, and Sinclair, then, as camera flashes lit the room, I said, “I’m going to read a statement, then Agent Sinclair will make a statement, after which we’ll open this press conference for questions.
“On July 21, 1989, Steubenville resident Rayce Daubner, age thirty-five, was found murdered in Jefferson Lake State Park in Jefferson County, Ohio. Mr. Daubner had been shot to death, and forensic tests determined that the murder weapon was a thirty-eight-caliber handgun. Two days ago, a thirty-eight-caliber revolver, which had been stolen from the sheriff’s office several months ago, was recovered in a car owned by the Reverend Wilfred A. Lewis, whose last known address was in Terre Haute, Indiana. Tests conducted by the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation and the United States Secret Service have determined that the thirty-eight-caliber handgun recovered from Reverend Lewis’s car was the same one used in the shooting death of Mr. Daubner. Reverend Lewis and an accomplice, Mr. Alaric Himmler, have subsequently been arrested and charged in connection with Mr. Daubner’s murder. Reverend Lewis, Mr. Himmler, and Mr. Daubner were members of a white supremacist group known as the New Order of the Third Reich. Evidence found at a motel room being used by Reverend Lewis and Mr. Himmler revealed information linking the three men. We believe that Mr. Daubner and the suspects had a mutual interest in the New Order of the Third Reich. Furthermore, we believe Mr. Daubner was murdered after it became known to Reverend Lewis and Mr. Himmler that Mr. Daubner was an informant for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. How the suspects came into possession of the murder weapon is speculative at this point, but Mr. Daubner had been a suspect in the weapon’s theft from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. We have yet to determine which of the two suspects pulled the trigger. Reverend Lewis and Mr. Himmler are currently being held in the Jefferson County Jail. Their arraignment on murder charges is scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning in Jefferson County Common Pleas Court, the Honorable Judge Lester Theodous Pappas presiding.”
I looked up and made eye contact with Vincenzio, who sat and glared. As I returned to my seat, Agent Sinclair stood and walked to the lectern. “Good afternoon. In the course of his investigation of the murder of Rayce Daubner, Sheriff Roberson uncovered a plot by Reverend Wilfred A. Lewis, Mr. Alaric Himmler, and their white supremacist organization, the New Order of the Third Reich, to assassinate the president of the United States.” At that instant, heads in the audience snapped up, and the color drained from Vincenzio’s face. He looked at me, and I winked. “Through the diligent work of Sheriff Roberson and Chief Deputy Majowski, this plot was foiled. It was believed to be a legitimate threat to the president and other members of the United States Congress. Sheriff Roberson obtained the manifesto of the New Order of the Third Reich, which detailed plans to assassinate the president and establish a new country in the western part of the United States. We have determined that the typewriter found in the motel room rented by Reverend Lewis and Mr. Himmler was the same one used to type the manifesto. I cannot divulge details of the plans, but suffice it to say, we are very grateful for the outstanding police work conducted by Sheriff Roberson, Chief Deputy Majowski, and the rest of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. Without their initiative and thoroughness, we could have been facing a tragedy of mammoth proportions. This case will be turned over to the federal prosecutor, who will seek indictments for conspiracy to kill the president.” He looked at me, and I nodded. “Okay, are there any questions?” Sinclair asked.
Eight hands flew up in unison. I joined Agent Sinclair at the lectern. We were peppered with questions as the reporters tried to decipher the story that had just been dropped on them. Marshall Hood of the Intelligencer asked, “How do you know that Mr. Daubner was a federal informant?”
“I was informed of this fact by the Federal Bureau of Investigation after Mr. Daubner’s death.” I glanced at Vincenzio. “In fact, we have FBI agents Vincenzio and Norwine in attendance today. They have been in town c
onducting a separate investigation of Mr. Daubner’s murder. Gentlemen, would either of you care to comment on your relationship with Mr. Daubner?”
It was one of the few times in my life when the perfect response came out of my mouth at the right time. They say there is no greater revenge than success, and at that instant, Alfred Vincenzio realized that I had beaten him again. He walked out of the room and left Steubenville.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
VINCENT XENAKIS
I can’t believe he signed the paper and resigned. What a dunce. It was a total bluff. I didn’t even think of it until I walked into my office. I had pecked it out on the computer about four seconds before he walked into the room.
An hour after Oswald left my office, I walked into the staff meeting with a never-before-felt confidence. I took my former boss’s usual seat at the executive table and without comment began pretending to organize and study my papers. I could feel the eyes upon me. When Roland Clemens entered the room, he arched his brows in my direction and asked, “Isn’t Mr. Oswald coming?”
“No,” I replied.
“Is he ill?”
“No.”
Mr. Clemens wiped at the corners of his mouth and asked, “Well, why isn’t he here?”
I had hoped to make the announcement more dramatic, but I simply slid the resignation letter across the glass-topped table to Mr. Clemens. “Mr. Oswald resigned this morning. He asked that I give you his letter of resignation.”
“What? He resigned? Just like that?”
“Effective immediately,” I replied, looking at my papers and fighting off the urge to smile. “He’s elected to pursue other interests.” I stared at Mr. Clemens until the silence became uncomfortable and he began the meeting. I gave an update on the social services department, making several references to my programs, acting as if I had been in charge of the department for years. When Mr. Clemens had adjourned the meeting and was gathering his papers, I said, “Mr. Clemens, could I have a minute with you, please?” When the room had cleared, I handed him an envelope containing my performance evaluation. “It’s my annual evaluation. Mr. Oswald was kind enough to complete it before he resigned. I assume that you’ll take care of getting that to human resources and approve the salary increase.”
