13-09-2019, 07:49 AM
"Oui. Now, imagine you're Scott. A stranger in a strange land where your beliefs are a bubbling cauldron that you're forced to keep a lid on whenever you leave the house. So, you overhear a co-worker muttering something racist. You get a quiet moment with them and in your own subtly racist way, sympathize with their plight. Maybe you've got a tale of when one of 'them' thought they were as good as you just like what happened to that person. Now you've got someone you can TALK to about these things! You end up doing something after work. Playing poker like you suggest. Golf, fishing; something 'just you and the guys,' where the big guns can come out. So, you upgrade to blatant slurs and everyone laughs. Now you have found a tribe!"
"Oui." LeGrasse agreed. "From there, it's only a couple more beers to go from 'someone should DO something about them' to 'WE should do something about them.' One or two more from there to 'Enough talk! LET'S go do something about them!'"
Ramirez had told him before they met that this was how Luc thought. LeGrasse concluded.
"Only two outcomes from there: Go commit a hate crime or, preferably, keep talking about it and drinking until you're too drunk to do it."
"Oui." Luc agreed. "Reality hits, they remember that they're no longer in America and Sheriff Bubba will not be there to write it off as 'boys will be boys;' so, it is just drunk talk. Now, remember, you are still Jerry Scott in this example. Those little drunk talk almost-hate crimes are the only almost-outlet you have. In fact, it's probably you who convinces the others to stay here and continue drinking. Because if you're this enthused about it, it's probably a bad idea. The three of us already have some thoughts on what we'll find in there: Nazi memorabilia, swastikas, propaganda from white power groups. More than likely, a lot of guns. If he was a reader, the subjects will not be difficult to imagine; we won't find any Shakespeare. Now, imagine that out of the blue, Heinrich Dietz or someone representing him reaches out to you! He has some killing to do in San Finzione, and you've been reading his name online and in chat groups for so long that he's one of your Nazi heroes! And he's coming to YOUR city? You'll finally get to be party to a REAL hate crime; a murder, no less! So, the next time you're all drinking and playing poker, and the same old 'we should go beat up a minority whom we outnumber' conversation comes up ..."
LeGrasse got it.
"Now, not only are you living your fantasy, but you get to brag to 'the guys' that you're friends with a famous Nazi killer. They just TALK about wanting to kill Jews and you're DOING something about it! How do you NOT shoot your drunken mouth off to the guys? How do you NOT boast about how you know THE Heinrich Dietz? The Ministry of Science has Scott's phone. Once they crack it, there should be a few other names I'll be wanting to speak to."
Ramirez added a thought.
"How they found Adolf Eichmann." He answered. "His son bragged to his girlfriend about what a famous Nazi his father was. She told someone."
They watched as the dogs were brought in. The sounds of a struggle came over the radio and LeGrasse grabbed one and demanded to know what the fuck was happening. All three men drew guns and ran toward the sound of barking dogs inside.
* * *
La Policia found two boobytraps inside the house. Scott had put a spike trap on his bedroom door so that if it wasn't opened carefully, a board with many long nails hammered into it would drop down and hit whomever opened it in the face and upper body. One of the basement steps had also been replaced with balsa wood. If anyone put their weight on it, the stair would collapse and drop them onto bare rebar and shards of broken glass below. A rottweiler with a scar across its throat silently attacked a SWAT officer when they reached the basement. Animal Control took the dog and paramedics on the scene treated the officer's wounds and the situation was over before they made it from the Policia barricade into the house. They'd stopped and put their weapons away now that they weren't needed.
"The dog didn't bark before attacking." LeGrasse commented as they now stood on the porch. "The barking was all our own dogs."
"No. And he never will." Ramirez answered. "A heartless trick that I sadly encountered more than once on operations for El Squadra. Drug cartels, warlords, the particularly vicious and paranoid; they will sever the vocal cords of attack dogs so that they no longer bark and alert intruders. By the time someone hears the dogs coming, they're already upon that person and the screams do the job of alerting you."
"Sounds like the tactic of a Nazi." Was Luc's only response. LeGrasse shook his head and had none.
The three men entered the living room, finding it neat and tidy.
"I expected more of a mess." Ramirez remarked.
"Not this room." Luc replied. "This is where he'd receive any 'ordinary' guests. Where he did things that the neighbors might see."
"And 'what would the neighbors think' ALWAYS matters!" LeGrasse added.
"Oui. It's fortunate that he had no wife or children; their lives would have been hell. The hints at his character are subtle here. A copy of 'Triumph of the Will' in the DVD rack, appropriated Celtic/Viking runes. Bet he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference." He walked over to a rack of CDs and pulled one out to show the others. "Only the most well-known racist of American artists, as I expected. This." Luc picked up a copy of a publication called "14 88" with a space between the two numbers to make it clear that they were separate numbers rather than "1488." "The bedroom trap most likely functioned as a security blanket or night light while he slept. Still worth checking. However, the basement, I imagine, will be more revealing. He had a trap and a dog on it, he must have something down there."
"Fourteen. Eighty-eight." Ramirez muttered, listening but also studying the magazine's title.
"'14' refers to '14 Words.'" Luc explained. "A popular Nazi screed. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, so '88' is Nazi code for HH: Heil Hitler. They cracked the Enigma code because Nazis so often ended their commniques with an HH."
"My money," LeGrasse added. "Is on the basement being a weapons cache. If he didn't bring his own guns from America, he'd have found a way to get some here. Not as easy as in America, but this is the country that armed the populace for war with surrendered Nazi guns. They're not illegal, we simply have well-reasoned restrictions. Thinking on your earlier comments about drunken poker buddies, Generalissimo, perhaps one of them stays late drinking after the others have gone. It's just the two of you drinking and hating, probably slurring out how you two could still go vandalize a synagogue, but being too drunk to do more than..." He slipped into a slurring drunk American accent. "Shaaay, you sheem cool. Wanna shee my gunsh in the bashement? Watch thoshe shteps." He dropped the tone. "And that's when you show him 'With this stuff, we could really teach them a lesson!' By then, you're too drunk to make it back up the stairs you've boobytrapped, so you spend the rest of the night playing with the guns and thinking 'Maybe someday.'"
They agreed. LeGrasse looked over at the television.
"Some violent video games over there."
"Which tells us nothing." Luc replied. "Though the media would have us believe so, it is a cherry-picked argument. Many people enjoy violent video games; I am one of them. And no real people whom I have ever shot were not shooting at me first. Our generation grew up on Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner, and I'm willing to bet that neither of you know someone who was killed by pre-meditated falling anvil either. The last 'Grand Theft Auto' game sold 90 million copies. If video games caused people to be violent, the whole planet should be dead now. Entertainment is always a convenient scapegoat because no one seriously defends it and it gives parents something to blame besides their own parenting. In the 1950s, it was comic books. In the 1960s-80s, music and cartoons made children turn bad rather than poor parenting. Now it is video games."
Luc shook his head.
"It is a distraction." He told the two men. "And it is working. The basement will be the real find, and that's where we should be going."
* * *
The rigged step down to Jerry Scott's basement was marked with crime scene tape. The three stepped over it and made their way down to the room lit by a single bare bulb.
Tool racks lined two of the walls with outlines of where tools were to be returned after use. A welding torch and acetylene tank stood in a corner, the mask hanging from it. A long workbench dominated a third. Bomb Squad technicians were going over Scott's unfinished projects on the bench to see if anything could be learned from what he'd been working on. A spiked dog collar on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with drying blood around it was attached to a chain that reached down a short hallway to a red door that had been opened by SWAT; who'd confirmed that the weapon stockpile was in that room.
It was the décor of that wall that caught their attention the most. The left side of the doorway bore the Nazi flag they'd all expected. Other decorations on both sides of that wall were reproductions of German propaganda posters from the same period. Several were portraits of Hitler painted into historical scenes common to those posters. One had his face peeking out of a suit of armor on a white horse with its front legs kicking up; a knight going into battle. Another showed him as a proud Viking warrior, complete with the horns that Vikings didn't wear until Wagner glued them onto some helmets.
The hall to the red door was lined with similar posters depicting the President of the United States also painted into famous patriotic American scenes. At the terminus of the chain, where it was bolted to the wall by the door, food and water dishes sat.
"One might think this is some kind of torture room." LeGrasse commented. "If Scott hadn't worked in maintenance. You were right about the basement being more telling, Luc."
"Oui." LeGrasse agreed. "From there, it's only a couple more beers to go from 'someone should DO something about them' to 'WE should do something about them.' One or two more from there to 'Enough talk! LET'S go do something about them!'"
Ramirez had told him before they met that this was how Luc thought. LeGrasse concluded.
"Only two outcomes from there: Go commit a hate crime or, preferably, keep talking about it and drinking until you're too drunk to do it."
"Oui." Luc agreed. "Reality hits, they remember that they're no longer in America and Sheriff Bubba will not be there to write it off as 'boys will be boys;' so, it is just drunk talk. Now, remember, you are still Jerry Scott in this example. Those little drunk talk almost-hate crimes are the only almost-outlet you have. In fact, it's probably you who convinces the others to stay here and continue drinking. Because if you're this enthused about it, it's probably a bad idea. The three of us already have some thoughts on what we'll find in there: Nazi memorabilia, swastikas, propaganda from white power groups. More than likely, a lot of guns. If he was a reader, the subjects will not be difficult to imagine; we won't find any Shakespeare. Now, imagine that out of the blue, Heinrich Dietz or someone representing him reaches out to you! He has some killing to do in San Finzione, and you've been reading his name online and in chat groups for so long that he's one of your Nazi heroes! And he's coming to YOUR city? You'll finally get to be party to a REAL hate crime; a murder, no less! So, the next time you're all drinking and playing poker, and the same old 'we should go beat up a minority whom we outnumber' conversation comes up ..."
LeGrasse got it.
"Now, not only are you living your fantasy, but you get to brag to 'the guys' that you're friends with a famous Nazi killer. They just TALK about wanting to kill Jews and you're DOING something about it! How do you NOT shoot your drunken mouth off to the guys? How do you NOT boast about how you know THE Heinrich Dietz? The Ministry of Science has Scott's phone. Once they crack it, there should be a few other names I'll be wanting to speak to."
Ramirez added a thought.
"How they found Adolf Eichmann." He answered. "His son bragged to his girlfriend about what a famous Nazi his father was. She told someone."
They watched as the dogs were brought in. The sounds of a struggle came over the radio and LeGrasse grabbed one and demanded to know what the fuck was happening. All three men drew guns and ran toward the sound of barking dogs inside.
* * *
La Policia found two boobytraps inside the house. Scott had put a spike trap on his bedroom door so that if it wasn't opened carefully, a board with many long nails hammered into it would drop down and hit whomever opened it in the face and upper body. One of the basement steps had also been replaced with balsa wood. If anyone put their weight on it, the stair would collapse and drop them onto bare rebar and shards of broken glass below. A rottweiler with a scar across its throat silently attacked a SWAT officer when they reached the basement. Animal Control took the dog and paramedics on the scene treated the officer's wounds and the situation was over before they made it from the Policia barricade into the house. They'd stopped and put their weapons away now that they weren't needed.
"The dog didn't bark before attacking." LeGrasse commented as they now stood on the porch. "The barking was all our own dogs."
"No. And he never will." Ramirez answered. "A heartless trick that I sadly encountered more than once on operations for El Squadra. Drug cartels, warlords, the particularly vicious and paranoid; they will sever the vocal cords of attack dogs so that they no longer bark and alert intruders. By the time someone hears the dogs coming, they're already upon that person and the screams do the job of alerting you."
"Sounds like the tactic of a Nazi." Was Luc's only response. LeGrasse shook his head and had none.
The three men entered the living room, finding it neat and tidy.
"I expected more of a mess." Ramirez remarked.
"Not this room." Luc replied. "This is where he'd receive any 'ordinary' guests. Where he did things that the neighbors might see."
"And 'what would the neighbors think' ALWAYS matters!" LeGrasse added.
"Oui. It's fortunate that he had no wife or children; their lives would have been hell. The hints at his character are subtle here. A copy of 'Triumph of the Will' in the DVD rack, appropriated Celtic/Viking runes. Bet he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference." He walked over to a rack of CDs and pulled one out to show the others. "Only the most well-known racist of American artists, as I expected. This." Luc picked up a copy of a publication called "14 88" with a space between the two numbers to make it clear that they were separate numbers rather than "1488." "The bedroom trap most likely functioned as a security blanket or night light while he slept. Still worth checking. However, the basement, I imagine, will be more revealing. He had a trap and a dog on it, he must have something down there."
"Fourteen. Eighty-eight." Ramirez muttered, listening but also studying the magazine's title.
"'14' refers to '14 Words.'" Luc explained. "A popular Nazi screed. H is the eighth letter of the alphabet, so '88' is Nazi code for HH: Heil Hitler. They cracked the Enigma code because Nazis so often ended their commniques with an HH."
"My money," LeGrasse added. "Is on the basement being a weapons cache. If he didn't bring his own guns from America, he'd have found a way to get some here. Not as easy as in America, but this is the country that armed the populace for war with surrendered Nazi guns. They're not illegal, we simply have well-reasoned restrictions. Thinking on your earlier comments about drunken poker buddies, Generalissimo, perhaps one of them stays late drinking after the others have gone. It's just the two of you drinking and hating, probably slurring out how you two could still go vandalize a synagogue, but being too drunk to do more than..." He slipped into a slurring drunk American accent. "Shaaay, you sheem cool. Wanna shee my gunsh in the bashement? Watch thoshe shteps." He dropped the tone. "And that's when you show him 'With this stuff, we could really teach them a lesson!' By then, you're too drunk to make it back up the stairs you've boobytrapped, so you spend the rest of the night playing with the guns and thinking 'Maybe someday.'"
They agreed. LeGrasse looked over at the television.
"Some violent video games over there."
"Which tells us nothing." Luc replied. "Though the media would have us believe so, it is a cherry-picked argument. Many people enjoy violent video games; I am one of them. And no real people whom I have ever shot were not shooting at me first. Our generation grew up on Bugs Bunny and the Road Runner, and I'm willing to bet that neither of you know someone who was killed by pre-meditated falling anvil either. The last 'Grand Theft Auto' game sold 90 million copies. If video games caused people to be violent, the whole planet should be dead now. Entertainment is always a convenient scapegoat because no one seriously defends it and it gives parents something to blame besides their own parenting. In the 1950s, it was comic books. In the 1960s-80s, music and cartoons made children turn bad rather than poor parenting. Now it is video games."
Luc shook his head.
"It is a distraction." He told the two men. "And it is working. The basement will be the real find, and that's where we should be going."
* * *
The rigged step down to Jerry Scott's basement was marked with crime scene tape. The three stepped over it and made their way down to the room lit by a single bare bulb.
Tool racks lined two of the walls with outlines of where tools were to be returned after use. A welding torch and acetylene tank stood in a corner, the mask hanging from it. A long workbench dominated a third. Bomb Squad technicians were going over Scott's unfinished projects on the bench to see if anything could be learned from what he'd been working on. A spiked dog collar on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with drying blood around it was attached to a chain that reached down a short hallway to a red door that had been opened by SWAT; who'd confirmed that the weapon stockpile was in that room.
It was the décor of that wall that caught their attention the most. The left side of the doorway bore the Nazi flag they'd all expected. Other decorations on both sides of that wall were reproductions of German propaganda posters from the same period. Several were portraits of Hitler painted into historical scenes common to those posters. One had his face peeking out of a suit of armor on a white horse with its front legs kicking up; a knight going into battle. Another showed him as a proud Viking warrior, complete with the horns that Vikings didn't wear until Wagner glued them onto some helmets.
The hall to the red door was lined with similar posters depicting the President of the United States also painted into famous patriotic American scenes. At the terminus of the chain, where it was bolted to the wall by the door, food and water dishes sat.
"One might think this is some kind of torture room." LeGrasse commented. "If Scott hadn't worked in maintenance. You were right about the basement being more telling, Luc."
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