“I’m glad you’re pleasantly surprised,” Bob said. “So, let’s talk for just a minute about timing. Unless either of you feel differently, I thought we’d put off doing the autopsy until the morning to give you guys a chance to get acclimated here in our paradise. Does that sound to you all like an appropriate plan? There haven’t been any follow-up cases of similar poisonings, which is what I’d feared, so the urgency I felt has lessened.”
“Whatever,” Laurie said, looking at Jack and getting a nod of agreement. “This afternoon or tomorrow is fine with us. To be honest, I’m totally thrilled just to get away from the OCME. You have no idea.”
“Tomorrow morning it is,” Bob said. “The body is here in the walk-in cooler.” He pointed over Laurie’s shoulder at the insulated door. “But for now let’s get you situated.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh my gosh, it’s after two already. I guess the first order of business is to get you some lunch.”
“That’s already taken care of,” Jack said. “We took a detour into Ted’s Diner on our way into town.”
“Perfect!” Bob said. “Then let’s head back to my office and plan the rest of the day.” He started from the autopsy room, waving over his shoulder for the others to follow. “How was your drive up here?” he questioned.
“It couldn’t have been more pleasant,” Laurie remarked fallingin behind. “Particularly the last hour or so after leaving the thruway. It’s so much more rustic than either of us expected, especially when we started getting into the mountains. I can’t tell you how nice it is to get out of the city, which neither of us have done very much over the last number of years.”
“What’s astonishing is how woodsy it is until you drive into Essex Falls itself,” Jack added from behind Laurie.
“It’s part of what makes the place so special,” Bob agreed.
Once they got into Bob’s rather spartan office, he had Laurie and Jack sit in two of the four aged straight-back chairs while he sat behind his equally aged metal desk. On it was a sleek iMac and a group of framed photos of his three children when they were youngsters and his wife. “Yes, that’s Carol,” Bob said of his wife’s pic when Laurie questioned it. “Obviously it was a few years ago. She’s looking forward to meeting you guys tonight as we have planned a barbecue this evening, if you’re willing. We’ll be having my personal favorite: double-thick loin lamb chops.”
“By all means,” Laurie said after glancing at Jack, who nodded enthusiastically.
“But first I have a confession to make,” Bob said. “On the phone I promised you that I would get the posh, old Bennet Estate for you while you are here. Unfortunately, that is not going to happen. I didn’t know at the time that the property was already being rented by our local militia group, the Diehard Patriots.”
“We saw signs for the Diehard Patriots,” Laurie remarked. “We were wondering what it was. So, it is a militia group. That’s what we suspected.”
“I’m afraid so,” Bob said with a mildly despondent shrug. “I mentioned on the phone that we’re having a bit of an issue with a small right-wing extremist group. It’s an attempt at a local versionof the Oath Keepers or Proud Boys but not nearly as scary, as the Diehards have less than a couple of dozen members. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan, but they stick to themselves, doing survivalist nonsense, drinking beer, and shooting their AR-15s.”
“Why would they be renting a fancy estate?” Jack questioned.
“A good question,” Bob said. “First of all because it’s surprisingly inexpensive through Airbnb. A year ago, a private equity real-estate development company bought the old Bennet Shoe factory building next door as well as a number of the associated, empty, high-end homes that are outside of town, including the Bennet family estate, for a relative pittance. The concept is to turn the empty mill building into a five-star, four-season resort, which I think has a good chance of success with what the area has to offer, although all they’ve done so far is update the homes.”
“But again, why would a fledgling militia group rent a mansion?” Laurie asked.
“I’m getting to that,” Bob said. “It’s for a rather strange reason, which to find out, I had to ask Bill Hargrove, the chief of our five-man police force, who makes it a point to know everything that’s going on in town. What he told me was that four supposedly experienced militia members from Holland, of all places, came all the way over here to Essex Falls specifically to instruct the Diehard militia in combat tactics, whatever that means. And as strange as all that sounds, it was all arranged by none other than Ethan Jameson, the pest control technician we’re going to be autopsying tomorrow morning. He and several of his close friends are the Diehard Patriot founders.”
A simultaneous, sardonic smile appeared on both Jack’s and Laurie’s faces as they exchanged a quizzical glance.
“Okay,” Laurie said in a drawn-out style as if she didn’t quitebelieve what Bob was saying. “Tell me this: How was all that arranged by Mr. Ethan Jameson all the way up here in the middle of nowhere? And why Holland?”
“A sign of the times,” Bob said. “Apparently Mr. Jameson had been spending a lot of time online in various right-wing militia-oriented social media platforms and chat rooms like VKontakte and Telegram, interacting as these people do while augmenting and fanning their prejudices and conspiracy theories. Supposedly the Dutch militia guys contacted him out of the blue on one of these chat rooms and offered their professional services to the fledging Diehard Patriots on the condition they were provided a place to stay and a means of transportation while they were here. The rest is history, but to specifically answer your question of why they are Netherlanders and not from another country, I have no idea.”
“Holland does seem like a strange place for right-wing militia people,” Jack said. He’d been there once. He remembered Amsterdam as being inordinately friendly, open, and a very welcoming, tolerant city.
“I think that all of Western Europe is seeing a surge in right-wing activities,” Bob said, “including Holland.”
“That’s probably quite true,” Laurie said. “Same here in the United States.”
“What’s the current accepted term for people from Holland?” Jack asked. “I’m confused that you called them Netherlanders.”
“For good reason,” Bob said. “They used to be called either Dutch or Hollander as I remember, but Chief Hargrove specifically used the term ‘Netherlander.’ When I questioned it, he said that’s what these militia members called themselves.”
“So Chief Hargrove spoke with them directly?” Laurie questioned.
“He did indeed,” Bob said. “I’m not surprised. He takes his job to heart, and when he heard that there were foreign—‘fa’ren,’ as he’d say—militia members in town interacting with some of the local ne’er-do-wells, he went out there and met them and even checked on their IDs. He described all four as being genuinely cooperative, respectful, and even polite, and he found their passports were all in order.”
“How long have they been here?” Jack asked.
“I was told more than a month,” Bob said. “But they keep to themselves out there at the Bennet Estate, and there hadn’t been any trouble with them whatsoever. But apparently that was about to change. According to Mr. Jameson’s live-in girlfriend, Janet Huber, whom Bill Hargrove interviewed on Monday, the day Mr. Jameson died, Mr. Jameson had been furious at the Netherlanders to the point that he was going to have all four of them kicked the hell out of the Bennet Estate that very day.”
“Did she say why?” Laurie questioned.
