Deviations

by Mike Markel

  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 Röehm, 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 Röehm 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?”

  “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.”