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I groaned aloud at the now familiar pain in my gut and reached for the small plastic pill bottle on the table beside my chair. I struggled in frustration with its child-proof top and was ready to kick the manufacturer in the ass when the pill bottle opened with a jerk, spilling pills all over my lap. They should have called the lid an “old-hands-that-shake-proof” top. I grabbed the closest pill and popped it into my mouth. By the time I had collected all the pills and secured them in the bottle, my pain was receding. It never went away now: there were only highs and lows depending how long since the last pill.
I’d had my uniform altered and pressed as Jeremy had advised when he shot the interview. Now it looked like I would have to get it taken in again. In the two months since I spoke with the filmmaker, I’d shed more weight because of the damn cancer, and at 95, I didn’t have any extra to lose. Fortunately, I had been using the same service for three generations, and Sergio Aillo was always willing to send someone to my home for the measurements. I made the arrangements with the surprised tailor, hearing that unspoken question hovering over the hesitation on the phone.
To appease Rita, I let her write an article for the Legion newsletter that spoke to the interview with Jeremy and when and where it would air. She did an excellent job, and glowed when I told her as much. The newsletter had gone out at the beginning of the month, and already lots of vets I knew had received it; so, it was a good guess that veterans across the country would have been made aware of the broadcast. The questions would be would they watch it, and would they act on my request?
I’d have to wait all the same, so there was no sense worrying about it. We would know in two nights. For the broadcast itself, they invited me to the synagogue for dinner and a viewing. Jeremy had also organized a press conference following the airing, promising that this would give the story a real national—and possibly even international—push.
I had to admit, at least to myself, that I was getting anxious for my interview to air. It would give me peace before I faced my maker. I just prayed that I would make it until I could see if it brought results. My ever-increasing pain levels were a sure sign that the cancer was taking firm hold and running amok.
Pulling myself out of my chair, I put together a meal, finding that my appetite had returned, as had my sense of taste. As promised, the little vial of medical marijuana oil that a not-to-be-named friend had recommended (and supplied) was making a difference. It helped with the pain and allowed me to sleep better in between my usual nightly bathroom breaks. Who would ever believe that at my age, I would do drugs? Ha! My Maggie must be laughing her ass off.
With the plate balanced on my walker, I worked my way back to my chair and turned on the television to get the evening news. The lead story was again about the firebombing of the synagogues. Police had released a photo of an “individual of interest” who may have been the individual responsible for the fires. When the photo came on the screen, I almost spilled my dinner into my lap.
It was him! The swastika-painting Nazi who I flipped the bird at! The photo was grainy, but not enough that I couldn’t recognize the same hateful sneer that he gave me as he planned to strike me down.
A police officer appeared on camera. “We are asking for the public’s help in identifying this person of interest. We currently regard him as dangerous, and we request you do not approach him, but contact Lancaster County Crime Stoppers immediately. This could lead to a cash award.”
As the newscast turned to the next story, I considered how lucky I’d been in my encounter with the Nazi. If he was capable of firebombing not one but four houses of worship filled with innocent people, he definitely wouldn’t have spared me. He was a savage.
I found the business card that Sergeant Wade Simmons had given me and called him. He answered after the second ring.
“Simmons.”
“Sergeant Simmons. You might not remember me, but my name is Donald Wilson. I’m the old guy that you and your partner helped out of a fix I was in with a dirt-bag Nazi, a little over a month ago.”
“Of course, Mr. Wilson. How can I help you?”
“I just saw the news and the photo of the suspect the police believe might be responsible for the fires.”
“And...?”
“It was him. The same guy that tried to attack me,” I said.
“Are you certain?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, thanks for the information. I’ll make sure it gets to the investigators. They might want to interview you in light of this. Might be FBI by then, though, since there’s federal laws involved.”
“Not a problem. Any time.”
“You haven’t encountered him since, have you?”
“No. And I’ve stayed away from the NMA headquarters, as you advised.”
“Good to hear. Thank you again, Mr. Wilson.”
I hung up the phone and sat a while pondering whether the police might watch those headquarters to see if he showed up. It’s what I would do if I hadn’t made the promise to stay clear of the place.
***
AS SIMMONS HAD SUGGESTED, I got a call the next morning to ask if a couple of investigators could come by to ask me some questions. Coffee had just finished perking when there was a sharp rap at the door. After checking the peephole and seeing two women holding up open badge wallets, I opened the door.
“Mr. Wilson, I’m FBI Special Agent Monica Gilpin and this is my partner, Special Agent Jennifer Pointer. Thank you for seeing us at such short notice.”
“Not a problem. I’ve made fresh coffee. You’ll have a cup?”
“That would be nice. Thank you,” she said.
As I poured their coffee, I studied the pair of women. The one who identified herself as Special Agent Gilpin was in her thirties with short dark hair and light brown eyes. She stood taller than my five foot ten and looked like a long-distance runner. Her partner wasn’t as tall, but her wide shoulders might have been from weight training. Special Agent Pointer wore her red hair in an Annie Lennox crew-cut, and her green eyes were unsettling, reminding me of a serpent ready to strike. Both wore conservative dress suits.
Once I had served coffee—black for both— and settled in my chair, I said, “Ask away.”
“We read your statement about the confrontation a few weeks ago, but we’d prefer hearing about it from you,” said Gilpin.
I walked them through my story from the point where I saw the hooded man painting a swastika on my building’s wall, to where the chance appearance of police had saved my bacon that day in front of Nazi headquarters.
“And both times, the suspect was wearing a gray hoody?”
“Yes, and although I can’t be certain, it looked exactly like the one he was wearing in the photo the police released.”
The two women glanced each other in an unspoken communication. From an inside breast pocket of her jacket, Agent Pointer pulled out a small manila envelope. Without a word, she placed four photographs of different young men in front of me before looking expectantly at me. “Can you identify any of these people?”
Glancing down, something immediately pulled my eyes to one familiar face. The image might have made him a year or two younger, but there was no mistaking the face. I pointed at the third photo in the lineup. “That’s him.”
“Do you recognize any of the others?”
I studied each of the others but shook my head. “No, I haven’t seen any of them. So, who is he?”
Once again, there was that silent communication between the special agents.
“You are extremely lucky that Constable Simmons and his partner happened by that day,” said Gilpin, taking the lead again. “His name is Joseph Russell, and he’s a very dangerous individual. He has ties with a neo-Nazi group called the Atomwaffen Division with strong connections to the Nazi Movement of America, the NMA. They’re one of the most violent groups out there. The FBI has been tracking that group since it first came to our attention about three years ago. Russell is a suspect in a number of arsons and even a couple of murders. We think his involvement in the area is to bring attention to the march being planned here for the summer.”
“Here in Lancaster?” I choked in shock.
“Yes. It’s set for the second week of July.”
“I can’t believe the city is going to allow it,” I said, taken aback. My hand covered my eyes as images of Charlottesville came to mind.
“The city is trying to have it stopped and has refused to issue a permit, but our sources have confirmed that the organizers plan to ignore any lack of permit.”
“Wouldn’t they be arrested if they attempt to march without permission?”
“Well,” Agent Pointer said, “That’s where it can get hairy. Do we attempt to arrest a fully armed group for a misdemeanor? A lot of innocent people could get hurt if the group resisted arrest.”
I saw her point, but it was frustrating to think that they could break the law with such impunity.
“And what about him?” I asked, pointing at the photo. “He’s bound to be there.”
“Once we have eyes on him, he’s as good as caught,” Gilpin said. “We’ll wait until after the march, and when his supporters have dispersed, we’ll pick him up. That way, there’s no risk to the public.”
I nodded, but I didn’t think it would be that easy with the guy. My gut was telling me that Joseph Russell would not go down without a fight.