Dead Man Below Deck

Chapter 6. My Country Wants Me

The next morning was a Sunday, so we went to church. We were Presbyterians in Texas, but since Betty grew up Lutheran, we decided to be Lutherans in Wisconsin. We preferred a traditional service backed by liberal theology, so the Irish Lutheran church was just right for us.

Betty wore her denim skirt and one of my old shirts with the sleeves turned up at the ends. I wore a black blazer with khaki work pants and a bolo. This made me the most dressed up fellow in the sanctuary. The other guys were coatless and wore open-necked shirts. It was a pretty casual group. Most of the parishioners were even more casual; they did not show up at all. We had visited this place three times now and it was never even half full. Even so, they had three pastors running the service. One was a comedian, one might have been senile, and the third wanted to hug all the women.

“How can they afford to have three pastors?” Betty wondered aloud.

“Hopefully, they aren’t paying the old guy. He doesn’t seem to be all there. And the masher probably would be willing to work just for the feels.”

Lutherans were different from Presbyterians. Both groups were mainline protestant, of course, but the Lutherans were close cousins to the Catholics. Betty didn’t like it when I said that, but it seemed true to me. It was amazing to me that during the Reformation Lutherans and Catholics went around killing each other. After all, they were theologically pretty close together. They agreed on about everything except the old guy in the big hat in Italy. And, frankly, it seemed to me that even the Catholics ignored him most of the time.

I could afford to be objective about it since my ancestors were Anabaptists. The Anabaptists were pacifists, so both the Catholics and Lutherans could kill them without too much trouble. They deserved killing apparently because they thought you should only be baptized once as an adult. That way you might understand what you were signing up for which, as any marketing expert could tell you, was bad for business.

It seemed to me that Anabaptists had to learn to be good at running away. If they could not fight back and everyone wanted to kill them, then they must have slipped out of a lot of back doors. Otherwise, they would have all died and I would not be writing this book.

Anabaptists must have been naturally cantankerous. Otherwise, they would not have chosen to be on the side that was guaranteed to lose every time. The natural selection process would have favored those who were smart enough to leave town before they were drowned by the authorities. All this could explain why my natural opinionated stubbornness was counterbalanced by a healthy survival instinct. It was bred into me.

The Lutheran church service had nice music that sounded as if it was written for a harpsichord. They also had a standardized service that repetitively used the same prayers and other liturgy from one Sunday to the next. This was a good plan since human failings and spiritual problems tended to repeat themselves as well. Lutheran pastors were weak on sermons, but all were good singers. Pastors who could not sing must have joined another denomination. Maybe this was why pastors in the fundamentalist churches always seemed so angry; they wanted to be Lutherans but weren’t allowed because they couldn’t sing.

Of course, you could find a Lutheran church that was fundamentalist if that was what you wanted. The Missouri Synod was pretty hard core as were the Norwegian Lutheran and the Wisconsin Synod. Farther south, a small town may have ten denominations of churches within its boundaries. In Wisconsin, a town of the same size would have ten varieties of Lutherans. And one Catholic church which, as I wrote earlier, was pretty much the same thing except for paying lip service to that guy in the Vatican.

You might be wondering why I am spending so much time on churches in this chapter. Don’t worry. It will prove to be quite relevant later on.

The service was relaxing and brought us all a sense of peace as it was designed to do. In fact, it was so relaxing that one of the parishioners fainted during his kid’s baptism. That happens when you stand up too fast after falling asleep in church. They just propped him up in a pew and went on with it. The rest of us appreciated the drama since we were getting a little dozy as well.

After the service, we chatted with Betty’s cousin Andrew for a few moments on the sidewalk outside of the church. It was a nice cool morning with a gentle breeze. Andrew was a nice guy who did some kind of investigative work for state government. We made plans to look for each other at the concert in the park that was scheduled for Monday evening.

Betty and I drove back to the condo, then I went into the den for a little work. After checking for email messages, it was time to do a little computing. Some colleagues had asked for a report on a survey we had done, so it was time to run the basic descriptive statistics which then were imported into a word processing file. The output did not look quite right for a nice report, so I started editing. Move this, delete that. Type ‘p=.0000’. Copy, paste, delete, type. Copy, paste, delete, type, faster and faster. I was going to make a mistake if I did not slow down. Copy, paste, delete, type. My eyes were tired and I was filled with a nervous tension. Copy, paste, delete, type. I had to quit. Just a little more. Had to stop. Almost done. Copypastedeletetypecopypastedeletetype.

I had to physically tear myself away from the computer. Staggering, I ran out of the den. In the living room, I dropped for twenty-five pushups. When I got up, my face was hot and I was still jittery.

So I set out for my daily walk. The compulsion to keep at the repetitive motion on the computer had never before been this bad. Other times, I just kept going until I was too tired to stop which was no later than six in the evening. That was not a big problem. I have known guys who didn’t stop computing all night long, eventually collapsing in their offices onto the floor. Then they would go out and get a big cup of coffee and start again. Compared to that, my little bout of compulsiveness was peanuts.

A walk around a small town in the Midwest was a good cure for almost anything. Fort Atkinson was like most such towns, but it was also unique in several ways. Take, for example, the Milk Shrine. You might think that having a Milk Shrine meant that the locals worshipped dairy cows like some sort of strange Hindu cult. However, reality was even stranger.

Way back when, one of the early governors of the state of Wisconsin was a fellow by the name of Hoard. Governor Hoard thought that the schools should teach in English rather than German. This argument was reminiscent of contemporary concerns about Spanish in the public schools. Anyway, the voters kicked him out of office for being anti-German. (Lesson for politicians who insist on language purity in the public schools—the growing Hispanic population might get even with you in the end.)

Ex-Governor Hoard started a newspaper in Fort Atkinson. He was a big believer in the dairy farm and promoted dairy farming constantly in his newspaper. Not surprisingly, the Milk Shrine, which was really a museum, contained a lot of stuff about Mr. Hoard.

Anyway, you walked into the Shrine expecting to find an altar, then you noticed it was a museum. You also noticed a lot of propaganda about how great the family farm was. I was okay with that point of view, being a bit of a populist myself. For the Shrine to promote farmers was kind of nice in a state like Wisconsin.

But wait, the story is not over yet. After you made it through most of the display, you started to realize that a lot of what you were seeing had to do with the mechanization of modern agriculture; machinery that no small independent farmer could hope to buy. If he did, he would not be a small farmer any more.

By the time you got to the end of the show, the sponsorship of the Shrine had become evident. It was Big Agriculture all the way. What appeared to be idealistic promotion of the small dairy farmer was actually heavy-handed lobbying by large corporations.

What did this tell us about Fort Atkinson in particular and the state of Wisconsin in general? It told me that the core values of the general public lie in populism, but the insidious forces of financial consolidation were quietly transforming the economy in ways the average person did not like. At his core, the average guy knew what had happened and it made him cynical and embittered. But he did not know what to do about it, except perhaps to attend county fairs and try to enjoy the best of small town life for as long as it lasted. After all, we could not control or predict in what ways the big corporations would choose to change it.

Twenty-five minutes after I started my walk, I was in McDonald’s, resting and drinking a well-earned Diet Coke. When Betty came with me, it took quite a bit longer to get to McDonald’s. She was a slow walker. Besides, this day I was cranked up by my computer work.

A smiling fellow in a nice suit slid into the seat opposite me. “Mind if I sit down?” Very polite, but he was already sitting which spoiled the effect.

“Sure. I was just leaving anyway.”

“My name is Will Johnson,” he said sticking his hand out. (The reader will note that our developer who was introduced earlier also was named Johnson. That coincidence has

absolutely no significance to this story, so you can ignore it. Johnsons are all over the place in Wisconsin.)

For Will Johnson to try to shake hands was a little unusual. If I had been back in Texas, I would not have taken notice because people were very friendly there. They shook hands on any occasion and always said hello when they saw each other or even when they saw strangers. I think it was a Baptist thing. Of course, they also got quite angry very easily and would not hesitate to pull out a concealed handgun and shoot you if you got out of line. They seemed to believe this was necessary because of the high crime rate by which they meant Mexicans. Mexicans carried knives and stabbed each other all the time over women the Anglo Texan thought. The Anglos carried guns so they could defend themselves against the Mexicans. It was ridiculous, of course. Mexican-Americans were very nice, polite, kind, and considerate people, except maybe outside of a Gentlemen’s Club at one in the morning. People could get hurt under those circumstances. But there was no good reason to be there anyway, so who cared?

People in Wisconsin were less likely to shake hands, say hello, or even look you in the eye. This was how they showed courtesy; they didn’t want to intrude. So when Johnson introduced himself, I knew he was selling something.

“Ed Schumacher. Nice ta meetcha”. There was a certain way to exchange the ceremonial greeting, including correct pronunciation of words. I was working on blending in.

“How’s it goin’,” he asked with a smile.

“Just fine. Nice weather for a walk, don’cha know.”

“Yah. That’s for sure.”

It was my turn, but I couldn’t remember what came next, so I just let an awkward silence develop. After a moment, I chugged down my soda and stood up.

“Well, I guess I better get back to it,” I said.

“Mind if I walk along?” This guy definitely wanted something. But I didn’t really want a new friend.

“Well, I’m getting my exercise. Can’t mess around.”

Johnson’s demeanor became a little more serious, a little less friendly. “This will only take a minute. Maybe we can have a chat while you walk.”

This guy was official. Police, no doubt. Always one to support law and order, I didn’t argue with him. So out we went.

I headed in the direction of the hardware store where I had unfinished business. The way to get there from McDonald’s was down an alley behind the store. This was out of the way of prying eyes and gave Johnson a chance to make his pitch.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Maybe I can do something for you. I bet you have a few unanswered questions about the police matter over at your place.”

“Yup.”

He waited for me to reel out my unanswered questions, but I just looked at him, so he went on with his line.

“Mr. Schumacher, the police made a mistake with you, but it really wasn’t their fault. You were set up.”

“Set up? How so?”

“Saturday morning at about six somebody called the police and reported the body. The tipster implied you had a fight with the dead man the night before.”

“No kidding?” I was shocked. And angry. How are you supposed to defend yourself against false accusations delivered anonymously?

“Calm down,” Johnson said. “We know you didn’t do it.”

Taking a deep breath, I relaxed a little. “Okay, that’s good. How do you know?”

“Because you have just about the best alibi I have ever run across in twenty years of law enforcement.”

“I do?” I was feeling pretty smug about being special until it occurred to me that being in bed with my wife was not all that strong as alibis went.

“Yes sir. You see, the medical examiner placed the time of death as being Thursday night. You were not even in town. We traced your credit card expenditures to a motel outside of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. We called the place and they were able to give an accurate description of you with no trouble at all.”

He suppressed a grin. “The manager seemed to be a little upset with you. Something about a very bad smell being left in the room you rented. I wouldn’t recommend going back there if you can help it.”

Oh, the incident with the squirting cat. “That’s a big relief,” I said. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that the dead guy was under my deck from Thursday night until Saturday morning?”

“That’s correct.”

“You mean, I not only didn’t notice him Saturday morning, I also didn’t notice him when we got back in town Friday evening?”

“That’s correct.” He gave me a break. “Well, I guess there was no reason to look under the deck.”

Maybe not, but I had walked right past the spot when I went out to check the mail Friday evening. Since the authorities had a lot on their minds and shouldn’t be burdened with unnecessary information, I did not bother to mention the business about the mailbox. I was sure the body had been there in its usual spot. I just was not paying attention, as usual.

“Thanks for sharing this information. Your buddies, the detectives, didn’t tell me anything except not to leave town. Which raises an interesting question: why are you telling me about this now? Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“Mr. Schumacher, this is a little awkward, but please hear me out. First of all, I am not with the local police. I am a Secret Service agent.” He let that sink in for a moment.

“We have a problem. Word has reached us that an assassination attempt will be directed at the Democratic presidential nominee, John Kerry, within the next week. We traced the information to Fort Atkinson.” I was completely lost. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Mr. Schumacher, have you ever heard of a militia group called the Fist of God?”

“No. Who the heck are they?”

“They are the same kind of people who blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City.” Johnson could not repress a look of anger. With an effort, he smoothed his features and got back to business. “The only terrorist group in this area is the Fist of God, so they are probably the ones who are planning the assassination attempt.”

“What good does it do them to kill John Kerry?”

“This group is very right wing. They think the federal government was taken over by communists a long time ago and that state governments are almost as bad. They consider themselves to be true patriots because they want to restore the government to the principles that it started with. Or at least, they want to change the government to the way they would like to believe it originally operated. That means a lot fewer laws, less government involvement in education, no income taxes, no environmental protection laws, and that sort of thing. And, of course, they are radical fundamentalists when it comes to religion.”

“Militant Libertarian fundamentalists?”

“Sort of, except that a lot of Libertarians are in the ACLU. These Fist of God guys don’t like lawyers.”

“That’s pretty weird. But what does it have to do with me?”

“The Fist of God is the action arm of a movement. Basically, they provide the foot soldiers who are willing to get killed for the cause. But they don’t have a lot of education, they don’t have high paying jobs, and most of them are just not too bright. Organizing terrorist campaigns takes money. You have to arrange travel, purchase guns and explosives, buy vehicles. These guys don’t have any money, so somebody is financing them.”

At this point, Johnson took a breath, looking at me appraisingly. “We need to find out who is financing the Fist of God, so we can shut them down.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “You can help us with that. Mr. Schumacher, your country needs your help.”

Well, of course. It was about time they recognized it. “How can I help? I don’t know any of these people.”

“But you do, Mr. Schumacher, you do. And they are very impressed with you. If you play your cards right, you might be asked to join them.”

“This is nuts. I don’t support any militias. Hell, I’m practically a socialist! Why would they think I would join them?”

“Because you had a nice conversation at the Country Club last night. You sounded off about government regulations and generally came off as a right-wing nut case.”

This hit a little too close to home. “Well, maybe I did get carried away a little.”

Johnson smiled indulgently. “We all do once in a while. In this case, it works to our advantage. Jorgenson is involved somehow with the flow of money into the Fist of God. We need you to make nice with them, gain their confidence. You’re a smart guy; you can do it. Just tell them you supported Pat Buchanan.”

“I did not support Buchanan!”

“You support the Reform Party.”

“That’s Ross Perot’s party! Buchanan’s people hijacked the party during the last election. I would never support Buchanan!”

“Calm down, Ed. I know that you know that, but Jorgenson doesn’t know that. You can let him think you like Buchanan, can’t you?”

This was going to be harder than it had first appeared. Pretend to like Pat Buchanan? Ouch!

“We need you to meet with Jorgenson when he asks you out for that little chat he wants to have with you. Go along with him. Find out what you can. But be cautious. The Fist of God is a dangerous group.”

We agreed that Johnson would meet me at McDonald’s at one p.m. every day for the next week to check on progress. How was I to know what a mess this would get me into? After all, when your country needed you, you really had a duty to respond. And respond I did in my own special way. Maybe that was the problem. Johnson really didn’t know who he was dealing with. My wife says I am a little nutty. Of course, she really shouldn’t talk. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, right?