Shorty thought about it. “Not without some work,” he said. “I haven’t seen any sign of it. He can tell if you’ve opened it. That’s about it.”
“OK,” Mac said, feeling better. He should have asked earlier. “He responded right away,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, he did. He’s local to this time zone. And he’s fixed on you, Mac,” Shorty said. Mac could hear the concern in his voice.
“I’m careful,” Mac promised, before he hung up. And he was, because a charismatic leader who had 40K followers, all building their little arsenals? Scary as fuck. Mac could envision taking one man’s arsenal from him.
But 40,000 arsenals?
He went to bed, but he couldn’t go to sleep as he kept thinking about 40,000 gun-toting nuts out there who were being told the white man should rise again and reclaim the country.
Chapter 16
(Thursday, May 8, 2014)
Mac had never been so grateful for a low-key day. He’d made his blotter calls, then worked on more phone interviews. His retired sergeant friend called him back. Norton had been washed out of boot-camp when he was implicated in a gang of young men who were beating up Latinos. “They would roam at night, find a guy, and beat the crap out of him,” Sarge said. “Norton was involved, no question, but he wasn’t charged by the local cops. So, the Marine Corps just discharged him on entry level separation and washed their hands of him.”
“And he left the state, reinvented himself as just a dumb jock college student?” Mac said slowly. “And gets a scholarship at a university up here?”
“Sounds like it,” Sarge said. “Would they do that?”
Mac didn’t know. “I’ll find out,” he promised. “Thanks, man.”
So, Mac called the athletic department at Western Washington University, and asked if Norton had played baseball, and had it been on scholarship?
“Pete Norton? Sure, I remember him. Walk on, I think. Let me check,” the assistant athletic director said.
Mac waited.
“Yup,” the ADA said cheerfully. “He was a walk-on. We lucked out there, because he could really play. Got a scholarship for his sophomore year and on, though.”
Mac thanked him and hung up. He thought about the discrepancy and wondered if it mattered. So, Norton had found a college, came up here and started over. He did get a scholarship eventually, so was the lie a big deal? He didn’t know. He added it to his list of questions he had for Norton. He’d corner him this weekend for a follow-up interview. Or call him Monday if he couldn’t.
He had coffee with Janet and updated her. Told her about Sensei and the number of followers.
“Forty thousand,” he said. “I just can’t get past that.”
“Drop in the bucket,” Janet said. “There’s a lot of militia growth. Southern Poverty Law Center says the white militia groups have more than doubled since President Obama was elected. They’re tracking over a thousand groups.”
Mac thought that over. “Most militias are small groups,” he said slowly. “A bunch of dumb fucks with guns. This feels different. From the ground level? Most of these guys see themselves as part of a small gun club — they’d be proud to be called a militia. Sensei is their guru, but not their commander. But from the command level? He’s got 40,000 men, loaded for bear, he could mobilize with an email. How many of them would actually respond to a call? No clue. But even if it’s 10 percent? A solid 4,000 is a hell of a lot of men to put on the streets — men who have guns, know how to use them, and have been indoctrinated that they are the patriots that will save this country from multiculturalism.”
“That certificate program,” Janet said.
“Yeah, and the wilderness survival weekends. These men have shot at another man,” Mac said. “I’m convinced of it.”
“So, have most veterans, though, right? Is that different?”
“Yes,” Mac said promptly, then had to think about it. “Yes, it is,” he repeated slowly. “Shooting at someone who has been clearly identified as an enemy of the United States, at the direction of your commanding officer is different. Very different. And if you’re a Marine in Afghanistan for instance, and you shoot at someone without that direction, you’re going to be court-martialed and serve jail time.
“This is more of a mob mentality,” Mac continued, thinking out loud. “The kind of mobs that lynched Black men in the South.”
“What about Norton’s role?” she asked. “Does his presence make it different in the minds of these men?”
“The reserves! Shit, Janet, I forgot to ask about the deputy reserves!” Mac said with frustration. How had he not thought of them?
“What’s important about them?” Janet asked. Mac suspected her questions were designed to help him think, not because she didn’t know.
“Reserves are volunteers, and mostly? They’re scary. They volunteer so they can ride around with real deputies, carry a gun and a badge, wear a uniform. They’re gung-ho wannabes. Most of them can’t qualify for it as a job,” Mac said as he thought about what the reserves would mean to a man like Norton. “Couldn’t pass some requirement for the police academy. They get a job driving delivery trucks or something and sign up for the reserves.”
“So why are you so concerned about reserves in Skagit?”
“Because, Sensei might not be the only one forming his own extrajudicial force,” Mac said grimly. “Norton may be, too.”
“Except with Norton?” Janet added thoughtfully. “It’s a legally sanctioned force, Mac.”
Mac called the friendly sheriff deputy back and asked her about the reserves. “Yeah, we’ve got a bunch,” she said. “Seventy or so. Norton spends a lot of time drilling them, working with them. I’ve had one or two patrol with me, but they make me uncomfortable. Over-eager, you know?”
Mac thanked her and put away his phone. “That’s three times the number I’d expect,” Mac said. He’d learned a lot about how law enforcement was structured in the last three years, he thought. Lots of stupid trivia sometimes paid off.
“They’re even called a posse,” Janet contributed.
“Yeah,” he
