The Forgotten. Faye Kellerman
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said they were the police, Darrell! So what do I do? Just leave them there, knocking?”
“And since when do you believe everything someone says? You know how people are out to get us. Did you even ask for ID?” Darrell turned toward them. “Can I see some ID?”
Webster pulled out his badge. “We’re not interested in your philosophy at the moment, although I reckon we’re not averse to hearing your ideas. Right now, we want to talk about a temple that was vandalized this morning. Y’all know anything about that?”
“Absolutely not!” Darrell insisted. “Why should we?”
“Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts last night or early this morning?” Martinez asked.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Darrell said. “If I knew I was going to be raked over the coals, I would have established an alibi.”
“S’cuse me?” Webster said. “This is being raked over the coals?”
“You barge in—”
“She buzzed us in,” Martinez interrupted. “And you haven’t answered the question. Where were you and what were you doing last night?”
“I was home.” Darrell was smoldering. “In bed. Sleeping.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Alone. Unless you count my cat. Her name is Shockley.”
“And this morning?” Webster inquired.
“Let’s see. I woke up at eight-thirty … or thereabouts. I don’t want to be held to the exact time.”
“Go on,” Webster pushed.
“I exercised on my treadmill … ate breakfast … read the paper. I got here at around ten-fifty, ten-thirty. Erin was already here.” His eyes moved from the cops’ faces to the pitchfork of the Grant Wood classic. “What exactly do you want?”
“How about your complete names for starters.”
“Darrell Holt.”
Martinez looked at the woman. “You’re next, ma’am.”
“Erin Kershan.”
Holt tapped his foot, then released a storage cell of aggression. “I had nothing to do with the vandalism of a synagogue! That isn’t what this group is all about! We don’t hate! We don’t persecute! And if you were told that, you’ve been misinformed. We do just the opposite of persecute. We encourage ethnic integrity. I applaud Jews who wish to congregate with one another. Jews should be with other Jews. African-Americans should be with African-Americans, Hispanics with Hispanics, and Caucasians with Caucasians—”
“And what exact ethnicity are you?” Webster asked Holt.
“I’m Acadian, if you must know.”
“You don’t sound like any Cajun I ever met,” Webster said.
“The original Acadians came from Canada—Nova Scotia specifically.” Holt gave off a practiced smile. It was condescending and ugly. “I am proud of my heritage, which is why I feel so strong about preserving cultural purity. And it has nothing to do with racism, because as you can see for yourself …” He pointed to his hair and nose. “I have black blood in me.”
“So you admit to being a mutt,” Webster said.
Holt bristled. “I am not talking about bloodlines, I’m talking ethnicity. My ethnicity is Acadian and it is my wish to preserve my ethnic purity. It is our opinion that the mixing of ethnicities has ruined civilization and certainly the individualization and pride of too many cultures. Immigration has turned everything into one big amorphous blob. Look at cuisine! You go out to a French restaurant when you’re in the mood for French food. Or perhaps a Mexican restaurant when you want enchiladas. Or Italian or American or Southern or Tunisian whenever you want the various cuisines. Imagine what it would be like if you mixed up all these nuances, all the flavors. Individually they work; together, they’d make for one horrible stew.”
“We are not beef Stroganoff, sir,” Martinez said. “Food isn’t the issue. Crime is the issue. Vandalism is a crime. What happened today at the synagogue constitutes a hate crime. The vandals will be found, and they will be punished. So if you know something, I suggest you get a load off now. Because if we come back, it’s going to be bad for you.”
“You have us all wrong.” Holt picked up a handful of leaflets and handed them to Martinez. “You’ll probably throw them away. But should you care to enlighten yourself enough to give us a fair shake, you’ll see that what we say makes a lot of sense.”
Erin broke in. “We have all kinds of members.”
“All kinds of ethnicities,” Holt added. “We cater to the disenfranchised.”
“Like who?” Martinez asked.
“Read our flyers. Our members write the articles.” He plunked a few from the table. “This one—on the ills of affirmative action—was written by an African-American, Joe Staples. This one is on English as a second language in America, written by an ex-Marine turned psychologist.” He focused in on Martinez. “Mr. Tarpin is just elucidating a well-known point. That in the United States we have only one official language and that language is English. If you read it, you’ll see that he has nothing against Hispanics. Everyone who lives in the U.S. should speak English.” He smiled. “Just like you’re doing right now.”
“I’m glad Mr. …” Martinez looked at the flyer. “Mr. Tarpin would approve of my English skills.”
“Which makes sense, being as Detective Martinez is American,” Webster stated. “Which means, if you’re Canadian, Mr. Holt, Detective Martinez is more of an American than you are. And if you advocate people staying with their own kind, maybe you should go back to Canada.”
Webster was florid with fury, his hands bunched into fists. Martinez, on the other hand, was completely impassive, glancing at Mr. Tarpin’s words on why English was such a wonderful, expressive, and large language. That was certainly true enough. Compared to Spanish’s blooming buds, English was an entire bouquet of flowers because it used words from a variety of other languages. The irony was lost on the author.
Martinez said, “Did you print these flyers yourself?”
“The PEI did. Absolutely.”
“Things were left behind in the synagogue,” Martinez said. “Nazi slogans that were printed on flyers just like these.”
“There’s a Kinko’s about a mile away from here,” Holt retorted. “Why don’t you ask them about it?”
Webster said, “And if we were to download your computer files, we wouldn’t find neo-Nazi groups bookmarked on your favorite places?”
“No, you would not,” Holt said confidently. “But even if you did find anything you deem as offensive, it still proves nothing. I did not vandalize anything!”
“There were also photographs left behind at the temple,” Martinez said. “Horrible pictures of holocaust victims—”
“That’s terrible,” Erin piped up. “That’s not our thing.”
“What is your thing?”
“Erin, I’ll handle this,” Holt said.
She ignored him. “Our thing is keeping ethnic identity pure. Gosh, we do it with animals—purebred this and purebred that. So what’s so wrong about wanting people to stay pure? You call it racism, but like Darrell stated, we are not racists! We are preservationists. We have nothing against Jews as long as they stick with Jews, and stop controlling the stock market—”
“Erin—”
“I’m just saying what Ricky says. He says the Jews control all the computers. Just look at Microsoft!”