Chapter 12

My cell rang. FaceTime request. Birdy Cummings. Odd, she was supposed to call me on one of my burner phones. A specific one. Before I answered, I connected the phone to my MacBook. Hurriedly, and I was glad I’d practiced the drill, I completed the 11 steps necessary to be able to record the call on my laptop.

“Hello.”

“Winter! I’m so sorry! Run!” Birdy with a shotgun jammed to her chin. Silence for a moment, then Birdy screamed, an anguished, almost inhuman shriek.

Something was being done to her offscreen. Something horrible.

I was gripping my cell almost hard enough to crack it. Staring at my laptop in horror.

A calm, almost pleasant voice said, “Winter Jennings. You’re next, carpet muncher.” Greta Gunther.

I yelled, “Wait! Don’t!”

“Bye Bye Birdie.”

The blast jarred me, made me jump. She must have purposely held her phone right next to the shotgun.

Heart racing, face flushed, hands shaking, I called Daddy. Gave him Birdy’s address; we both knew she hadn’t been killed there. But he’d know the fastest way to get a team to her house to verify it. And the forensic people would start there.

And Daddy would also know the fastest way to get protection to my office. I had the sense that this was now personal with Gunther. Birdy would have had to tell her the entire story. With me as the driving force that had flushed Ms. Sniper out.

I moved away from the windows, just in case. Sat down with my new Mossberg ATI Tactical shotgun across my knees. One of two I purchased after DJ Winston was assassinated. The second one I’d taken to a part-time police armorer and had him saw off 2/3 of the barrel. Illegal as hell, but it fit right into the special concealment compartment in my F-150.

The third shotgun, my original, was in our loft in the Wrigley.

I called the Sullivans and told Jessie what had happened. She said, “We’re gone.”

Next: Vanessa. No hesitation, “I’ll take the kids to Mission Hills. What’s Phillip’s New York number?”

I gave it to her, my voice subdued. “Wait until the police show up. They’ll escort you, make sure there’s no tail.” Pilar could sit on Walker’s lap. I didn’t need to tell Vanessa to garage the distinctive Jag. I did say, “Take the shotgun.”

Who else? I considered alerting the other Irregulars. But decided that was a stretch. Gunther was after me. Besides Birdy knew only their street names, didn’t have any contact info.

So. Daddy would see to my mother and sister. Vanessa and the kids would be tucked away. The Sullivans were on their way somewhere.

I imagine Gunther had called me soon after she had tortured my name out of poor Birdy. A grandmother, 60 years old. Her youngest daughter was pregnant again, I remembered that. Birdy who so enjoyed the cloak and dagger stuff.

I heard the sirens from blocks away. Peeked out a corner of my southernmost window to verify they really were who their decals claimed. I spotted Sergeant Finch and moved away from the windows. Snipers.

Mayor Tom Lynch held the press conference in the Union Station parking lot. Symbolic. And smart, dozens of reporters clamored for his attention. The Media Department had set up a giant screen, much like the ones that had showcased DJ Winston.

This evening the spotlight was trained on Greta Gunther. The best likeness of the handsome, black haired woman became the most famous face in Kansas City. All over, actually. The HEADSHOT! sniper now topped the Most Wanted list of every legitimate law enforcement agency.

It was three days before Birdy’s body was discovered. By smell. By dogs nosing around, whining. An abandoned garage in Salina, Kansas. A city of under 50,000. About 200 miles across State Line. Gunther was heading west. And probably north. Idaho. The FreedomRiders compound.

Homeland Security would be all around the 700 acres. But it would be impossible to cover every way in. There were probably tunnels that wouldn’t show up on satellite and drone coverage.

Every highway, state and county road, farming and logging path, no matter how obscure, would be manned, every vehicle searched.

No one was very optimistic that Gunther would be found that way. That hardcore survivalist family and their followers were tactically trained. Refresher courses, drills, the latest in technology. And 2,000 allies inside the compound. Plus plenty of sympathizers along the way.

The FBI team, Quantico division, found that Gunther, under the name Karen Olson, had purchased a used Saturn station wagon. Black, a 1995 S-Series. In Kansas City, Kansas. Paid cash, $2575.

The FBI learned this from the nationwide tip line. But they learned it three days after Birdy’s body had been discovered. So Gunther had been in the wind for about a week.

The FBI had my laptop, the one I’d recorded Birdy’s murder on. I wondered if I’d ever get it back. Decided I didn’t want to.

Daddy, through Hank Morristown, kept me up to date on the Gunther rumors. The latest were from DC. And, if true, terrifying. Although most of what I heard was as unreliable as that kid’s game, Telephone. And what turned out to be fairly accurate was late in reaching KC. Not all of it, but most of it.

The US Senator on the powerful Judiciary Committee, Harper Wainwright, doesn’t fit the mold of his conservative western state, Wyoming. He is a Democrat for one. An increasingly rare breed out West. Even though he’s 72 and in his fourth term, he’s still the junior senator. But with a massive independent streak. Which is what his constituents liked. Fierce self-reliance was more valued to a lot of them than party labels.

Wainwright is a much-decorated Vietnam veteran. Which he doesn’t talk about. When that stint ended, a three-letter agency in DC had a quiet talk with him. And sent him to Berlin for a crash introduction to the Eastern Soviet bloc.

Wainwright doesn’t talk about that either.

He’s worn his hair in a brush cut all his life. As have his male relatives. He comes from a respected family of cattle ranchers -- quiet, hard-working people who don’t grumble much when weather, markets, livestock diseases and similar events go sideways.

Harper Wainwright is a listener. More intelligent than he lets on. But he does more than listen, he remembers. And every once in a while takes action. Usually subtle, oblique, nab ‘em before they know he’s there, action.

He heard the first hint, just a whisper, about David and Charles Meriwether almost two years earlier. About two years before the CEO of Oasis had been assassinated.

Wainwright had never met his billionaire Montana neighbors, few people had.

And that vague passing comment sounded more like a tipsy wish than real intelligence. He was at the bar of T-Joe’s Steakhouse in Cheyenne. The senator was waiting to meet two fly-fishing buddies. No political talk, no business talk, just three old friends swapping trout lies.

Wainwright was considering the blackened prime rib. But he knew he’d end up ordering his usual, the 16-oz. ribeye with peppercorns.

He was leaning sideways on the bar, his back to a large, ruddy man in a well-worn cowboy hat. White. The erstwhile cowboy, his own back to Wainwright, lowered his voice, but the senator could still detect the smile in it, “Well the Meriwethers are up to it again.”

Wainwright didn’t hear the mumbled reply, but easily made out, “They stepped into the arena big time. Black money. Financing ... friendly groups.”

Two weeks had gone by since Birdy’s murder. Then Greta Gunther was spotted on one of the drone feeds. In the FreedomRiders compound, casually jogging her usual five miles, dark head holding steady, arms pumping smoothly.

Hank Morristown had managed to cling to his Oasis task force leadership. Daddy said it’s a testament to the esteem DC has for the quiet, dogged man.

With Daddy’s assent, Vanessa and the kids moved back in with me in our Wrigley loft. Not because Gunther had been located. More because we couldn’t spend our life in hiding.

Barry Hopkins was back from the St. Louis safe house, back working at Oasis again. The FBI decided that he wasn’t a high-level target. The healthcare company had back-paid him for all the time he missed at work. Appropriately so. Dan Bartlett, the placeholder CEO had decreed it. At the behest of the two Helsinki women really running Oasis.

But both Barry and I, plus the Sullivans, Vanessa, Daddy, are certainly accessible. Especially to the FreedomRiders sniper unit. Not a comforting thought.

Senator Wainwright forgot about the Meriwether gossip until he returned to DC. He called in his chief of staff, 56-year old Constance Grayson. Connie is a respected professional, highly recruited by other senators, both Democrats and Republicans. And by the White House in the two previous administrations.

Wainwright smiled at her. As usual it was just the two of them in his hideaway office in the Capital. No trophy walls, no photos with grinning politicians. He said, “Start a file. David and Charles Meriwether.

Connie smiled back, “Oh my.”

‘Start a file’ didn’t necessarily lead anywhere. But when it did, Senator Wainwright was at the forefront, with more knowledge, more facts, more connections, than anyone else.

He pioneered the first federal study on the opiate epidemic. At the urging of his personal physician who had seen the early signs of devastation coming. The senator co-authored the first legislation to turn emergency funding over to the states.

Wainwright believed in the science of man-influenced climate change. He didn’t argue with his colleagues, just did enough quiet, friendly, arm-twisting to fund the hiring of dozens of experts in the field. Rarely going right at a controversial topic head on, he wrote the rider to focus on added protection for the power grid. Something most legislators could agree on. The newly hired scientists were in under an innocuous banner.

But Connie knew ‘start a file’ wasn’t done casually, not by Senator Wainwright. She said, “Direction?”

He told her about the overheard snippet in that Cheyenne steakhouse. Connie nodded, made a note, looked at her boss and said, “Hate groups.”

In the logical part of my consciousness, I understood why the FBI, or the ATF, or any branch of Homeland Security, couldn’t obtain search and arrest warrants for the FreedomRiders compound and Greta Gunther.

Oh, they could. But by the time the raiding party arrived at the only vehicular entrance to the enclosure, Gunther would be long gone. Tunnels were almost a certainty; they were assumed to be buried too deeply to show up on satellite. Plus there were hundreds of small exits. Just turn off one electrified section and Gunther could be miles into the woods in any of three directions.

Beyond that, there was every possibility of an armed response. Over 2,000 angry men and women who genuinely hated governments. Especially the Federal one. Add to that the dozens of homeschooled children who could become unwitting shields. Or perhaps not so unwitting. Programmed from birth, many of them.

Optics.

Helicopters were ruled out. Without question the FreedomRiders would have surface-to-air missiles. And have them ready once a warrant was served.

But the emotional side of my brain seethed. I wanted the cunt who had killed, in this order: Bob Morrow, Barry’s assistant. DJ Winston. Birdy Cummings. And most probably others that we didn’t know about.

Hank sympathized with me. I sympathized with him.

Birdy Cummings haunted me. A pleasant woman who got such a kick out of playing Nancy Drew.

Greta Gunther.

An FBI assistant showed Daddy and me into a conference room. Against all policies and protocols, Hank Morristown showed us the Gunther family tree. An ugly tree, gnarled and twisted with poisonous roots.

He pointed to the top, “Klaus Gunther, Greta’s grandfather. His ancestors were Idaho outlaws too, but Klaus was the first one to go off the grid, to declare war on the government. Founded the FreedomRiders in 1965. Funded from bank robberies, small time heists, dope, the usual.”

The arrow pointing down went to one black & white photo: “The son, also named Klaus. Current head of the movement. Three kids.”

Three arrows pointed further down to three color photos: “Niclas, the oldest. Jannik. Then Greta, daddy’s sweetheart, she’s the baby of the family.”

Cunt.

Hank kept the pointer on her face. “A lot of early FreedomRiders underestimated her at first. Gave her shit because she wasn’t popping out white babies.”

That, I had learned, was the primary female mission -- deliver babies to grow the pool. The FreedomRiders and their fellow travelers were fine with non-believers -- especially blacks and browns -- having abortions, access to birth control.

Just not their own women. They were expected to deliver baby after baby.

Well.

Hank moved his pointer back up, “Word is that Niclas, the oldest kid, is the smartest. Not that Greta is dumb, she isn’t. But she’s more of a stiletto, Niclas is a planner.”

There were dozens more Gunthers and their relatives on the cork board. Many deceased, and not necessarily of natural causes. A startling percentage were incarcerated. The Gunthers were equal opportunity prisoners -- federal, state, local.

Off to the side of the mug shots there was series of close-ups. Every arrested Gunther had an 88 tattooed on his left forearm. Hank told us what we already knew, “The eighth letter of the alphabet -- H. Double H, Heil Hitler.” Sweethearts.

Arrows pointing to tiny boxes emanated from most of the young women -- children they had borne. Future FreedomRiders.

Hank pointed to one photo, unlinked to the Gunther outlaw family tree -- “Otto Gunther. One of Greta’s cousins. Odd duck, doesn’t seem to have any affiliation with the FreedomRiders. Wharton graduate. Stockbroker in Philadelphia.”

Daddy said, “Uh oh.”

Hank shook his head, “We’ve run him through all the filters. Seems clean. But we’ll keep an eye on him.”

When Constance Grayson started a file, it was never something so boneheaded as putting a manila folder in a locked filing cabinet. Well, she did that. And the notes were handwritten. She never went digital on sensitive cases.

And it was difficult to imagine anything or anyone more sensitive than the Meriwether billionaires. Come to think of it, it wasn’t that difficult. The Meriwether billionaires AND hate groups. American Nazis.

After Connie and the senator agreed on his schedule for the day, she put a throwaway phone in her purse and left the Capital. Took the Capital Subway System to the senator’s main office in the Hart Senate Building. Plain Jane architecturally, but at least it didn’t look like a cereal box.

She told the seven staffers, mostly young men and women, “Back in an hour or so.” They were used to seeing her leave without giving a reason or destination.

She walked in the general direction of the Smithsonian and dialed a number. To another throwaway which was changed at least once a week.

Matt Striker knew who the caller was. Constance Grayson was the only person who called the investigator on his ever-rotating roster of burner phones. He answered, “Striker.”

“Got a moment?”

Matt laughed, anyone in the know made time for Connie. For the chief of staff of one the most quietly influential people in town.

Matt Striker was 36, young for his rung on the DC ladder. Tall for his profession. Discreet beyond imagination. Dark hair, a lined Nathan Lane face, expressive and sympathetic.

Connie sat next to him on a bench, both looking straight ahead, “New file. David and Charles Meriwether. Possible funding for hate groups.”

She stood and walked back toward the Hart.

I went back to work, back to something approximating a routine. But Greta Gunther was never far below the surface. Unlike my last big case, a rogue lab in California, Gunther wasn’t a faceless adversary. I knew what she looked like, what she sounded like. What she had done.

I’ve never killed anyone, never even shot at anyone. But I felt, without much doubt, that I could shoot Gunther. Of course, I’m no sniper, so I’d have to get close in. To a sniper.

There was no doubt in my mind, she would try to kill me. The carpet muncher who had ... not quite ruined her life. But certainly inconvenienced her. Homeland Security had the FreedomRiders compound under permanent surveillance. Well, permanent until things changed.

Gunther could have plastic surgery, I guess. I probably would in her situation. Apparently the FreedomRiders had enough money to bring in a medical team. Bring in a hospital for all I knew.

At the time, I had no way of knowing those early, faint, Meriwether / FreedomRiders rumors were being adroitly orchestrated way back in DC.

Matt Striker worked solo. No receptionist, no administrative assistant, no partners. His was a lone-wolf operation.

Thanks to Constance Grayson, Matt had licenses and permits that gave him every bit as much leeway as a senior FBI agent. Pack a weapon on a commercial flight? No problem. Concealed carry everywhere in the country? Naturally.

But more vital than the street-level advantages, was his digital access to almost every government website in the country. Federal, state, county, parish, city.

People understandably make fun of government Alphabets. But the law enforcement databases that Matt could navigate were invaluable. ViCAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program). The FBI’s NIBRS (National Incident-Based Reporting System). NCIC (National Crime Information Center).

Because of the possible Meriwether connection, Matt regularly checked RMCIN (Rocky Mountain Criminal Information Network) because it included states from Arizona north to Canada. Including Montana and Idaho.

Matt wasn’t at a genius level on computers, but he was more than good. Just below brilliant. His real flair, however, was in interactions with people at almost every level. He wasn’t intimidated by high ranking politicians. He wasn’t influenced by K Street. In fact, the world of lobbyists didn’t know he existed.

Those who did know him -- precinct cops, grifters, hustlers, secretaries, storekeepers, bar patrons -- saw him as a pleasant, low-key guy. His one-man shop had something to do with executive travel arrangements. Or was it futures trading? Furniture imports?

Hank Morristown, through Daddy, told me to be patient. That he was working on something. Something bigger than Greta Gunther, but it included her.

Be patient. What choice did I have?

As prearranged, Constance Grayson called Matt Striker a week after their initial Meriwether meeting.

He sat next to her and said, “Not much.”

“Early innings.”

“I spent two days in Montana. Billings. Some bar talk about that Meriwether PAC. RightWorld. Politicians aren’t popular, as you know, in that part of the country. But folks seemed positive about RightWorld. Doing the Lord’s work and all of that.”

Connie shook her head. If the Lord’s work included defunding Head Start, closing down public schools, eliminating Planned Parenthood. And sponsoring private militias, backing close-down-the-federal-government politicians, jailing anyone who strayed from their narrow orthodoxy.

Matt said, “Went up to Coeur d’Alene too. The FreedomRiders have a quiet presence. Do their shopping in town, so that boosts the local economy. I overheard three different people say Greta Gunther had been framed by the Feds.”

I work on myself to avoid becoming a hater. Sometimes it’s difficult, particularly in these charged political times.

It’s hard not to hate the hate groups. In my mind, I’ve shorthanded them to ‘American Nazis’.

But the leftwing ... at best, naive dreamers who see Utopia through Washingtonian eyes. The government can fix everything for everybody. Well, no.

A darker view, promulgated by conservatives, portrays the left as anti-American, anti-Christian. anti-free markets ... the party of antis. And some in the movement, like the Antifa activists, fit into that category.

But I’m not a hater. Mostly.

I invited the Winter Irregulars to a Saturday luncheon at our Wrigley loft. Except for Cathy Austin, none of them had been here before. Sort of a church and state separation. Or something. In any case I had been shielding my family from the street people.

But Birdy’s murder ... well, something inside me shifted. She now felt closer to family than street.

In addition to Cathy, the honored guests who were able to attend were:

Buster Fagin and his mate, BJ Kowalski.

Tony Gonzales, that handsome fat man who is always making moves on women. It had shocked me that my mother had an affair with him. But I got over it -- she’s human.

Joey Viagra. I prepared Vanessa and the kids to be ready for his personal erection reports.

Bernard Mingo Cochran. I’d keep an eye on the slick little crook.

Bobby ‘Just Kidding’ Armstrong. No way he’d miss a free feed.

Sara Cunningham. Involved with that horrible Hugo Blenheim.

Squeaky Collins, still in high school.

Jittery Gerard Malden.

Corky Dawson, the Peanut barmaid.

It wasn’t a Birdy Cummings memorial, nothing like that. Although I planned to say a few words in her honor. But in addition to thanking the Irregulars, it was an opportunity to remind them that it wasn’t a game. It could be dangerous.

Just ask Birdy’s children. And grandchildren.

The FreedomRiders were almost impossible to infiltrate. The Meriwether brothers, far more so.

Money, deep rooted suspicion of the outside world, zealous acolytes. Xenophobia. David and Charles never appeared in public. They weren’t recluses though, nothing like that.

They hosted fundraisers. Each brother owned several houses, mansions, ranches, beach homes, around the world. To be invited to a conservative event at the Meriwether level meant, in the circles that mattered, you’ve arrived.

The donations were gathered at the very start of each conference. And the amounts shared with the attendees. No one arrived without a six-figure check to fund this cause or that one. Often, seven figures.

It was an insular rightwing world, everyone knew everyone else.

Matt Striker would have to start somewhere else. Somewhere lower.

At my Irregulars party, Tony Gonzales hit on every female in the loft. Including Pilar. Vanessa gave Walker a ‘chill it’ look and he tried.

But the most persistent Pilar pursuer was little Buster Fagin. Pilar seemed more amused than anything at the 12-year old boy. But Walker was becoming visibly annoyed.

BJ nudged Walker, “Buster juss want some gash, Walk. And that ain’t no trash talk.”

Out of the mouths of babes. Even my son had to smile.

Another park bench in DC. Now it was almost two years since Senator Harper Wainwright had heard that initial Meriwether scrap of gossip. And three days after the assassination of the CEO, Donald Jefferson Winston. The FBI didn’t have a single lead. Not a solid one, anyway, not a promising one.

Matt Striker had moved full time to Coeur d’Alene. He eventually cozied up to one of the biker brothers in a loosely knit Idaho gang, Rocketeers. The bikers were remotely affiliated with the FreedomRiders. Matt had never asked a single question more penetrating than, “Another brew?”

Matt didn’t try to pass himself off as anything more than an amateur Harley fan. No 72-hour Cannonball runs, no tricked-out bikes. But he and Rags Reston had one shared background -- they’d both served, at different times, in Basra. Neither one talked about it much. Except for some initial conversations to establish the other one wasn’t bullshitting.

Reston ostensibly worked as a mechanic at the nearby truck stop on I-90. But his real gig was cooking meth. He was careful, dedicated. And connected. Through his biker friends, he made regular cash donations to the FreedomRiders. Not nearly enough to make him a player. But enough to allow him to continue to operate his little lab.

In DC, looking straight ahead, Matt told Connie. “Disturbing gossip. Heard it both places.” Billings and Coeur d’Alene.

Connie waited, she wasn’t much of a chatterbox. Which further distinguished her in this town.

“Two things. There are whispers linking the FreedomRiders to that assassination.”

“Oasis. Kansas City.”

“Right. Second subject. Rags Reston ... well, he has a tell. When he thinks something is serious, his voice lowers, he gets quieter.”

Connie waited.

“Rags was a little more talkative than usual. There’s some FreedomRider buzz. Excited chatter. Some big event. No details but I heard one guy in Billings say, ‘About time. The world will sit up.’ And this is even a wispier scrap, the code name of the operation, if there really is one, might be KZ.”

“I’ll get back to you.” This rose to the Senator Harper Wainwright level. In his hideaway office. Swept for electronic surveillance twice a day.

Connie added two purposely cryptic notes to her Meriwether file: Oasis. Big event.

Greta Gunther hadn’t left the FreedomRiders compound for 27 days.

Stay patient.

Fuck.

Senator Harper Wainwright sat beside Constance Grayson in the back seat of the black Lincoln Town Car. Which had been stretched, not to gargantuan lengths, but enough to install a back-facing seat. The senator conducted many of his most private conversations on the move.

Matt Striker noticed the security team following them. In addition to the two armed men in front. The privacy divider was up.

The senator said, “The Oasis assassination, that’s a law enforcement issue. Pass the rumor along to your FBI contact.”

“What about the Kansas City office?”

“DC first. Then a courtesy call to the field office.” He shook his head, “HEADSHOT! was terrible. And kids around the world saw it. But that’s in the past. They’ll eventually track down who’s behind it. I hope.”

Connie murmured, “The Meriwethers.”

Wainwright nodded, “If there is a FreedomRiders connection to Oasis, the Meriwethers might well be involved. Very indirectly of course. Tracks well covered.”

He looked steadily at Striker, “But this other ... something big. Something the world will notice. We may have to take action without ... proper sanctions.”

Striker said, “Those are bad people. Out at that compound. My contact has never been inside the wire, but he believes they can outgun the Idaho National Guard, the State Police, any single police department in the state.”

“Do you think they’re planning something in Idaho?”

“No, honestly I don’t. These are not stupid people, not at the top anyway. If they go for something, it’ll be a bigger target. More deaths. Or something symbolic like Lady Liberty.”

“Just like the terrorist groups we’re monitoring.”

Connie said, “The FreedomRiders are terrorists.”

Shortly after the Sullivan twins had identified Greta Gunther, Hank Morristown invited Daddy and me to his office. “Meet a guy from DC.”

Matt Striker, if that’s his real name, has the most soulful eyes I’ve seen short of Pantone’s Basset Hound. Matt had a nice quiet demeanor. Serious subject, but he didn’t take himself too seriously. Tall, I like that too.

Hank said, “Tell ‘em, Matt. They’re cleared.”

“I’m just a private investigator. Like you, Winter. But I’m working, sort of off the record, for the US Senate.”

Daddy said, “Who? Which committee?”

Hank said, “Confidential, Dave. Sam says to trust Matt, he’s a straight shooter.”

Sam. Sam Sifton, Hank’s boss in DC.

Matt said, “I’ve been looking into the FreedomRiders. Spent most of the last two years on the fringe. Never tried to get inside, so this is ... hearsay. Gossip. But I’ve heard it more than one place.”

Daddy stirred. He wanted to know the backstory. Who Matt was working for.

Matt said, “The word is that the FreedomRiders are involved in the Oasis killing. Assassination.”

I kept a straight face. It was nice for once to see the locals a step ahead of the big guns from DC. But this was Hank’s show so I kept quiet. Apparently Sam Sifton had too. Hadn’t mentioned that the FreedomRiders were more than involved. The founder’s granddaughter, Greta Gunther had pulled the trigger.

Hank must have like what he saw in Striker. He slid Gunther’s picture across his desk. “The sniper.”

Matt Striker was stunned. Just for a moment. Didn’t try to hide it. I liked that. Then he smiled. Which turned into a quiet chuckle. “You rubes must have stumbled over a clue.”

Hank gave him the outline. Matt was suitably impressed. He, with all his DC connections, with his time in Idaho, had heard a rumor. We had identified the fucking killer.

Matt said, “Damn good work. Very impressive. That direct tie-in between the FreedomRiders and Oasis nails it. No question.”

Then, he elaborated on another rumor. Perhaps an even more vital one -- the Meriwether brothers and the FreedomRiders. Funding.