Free The Trinity by David LaBounty

really done anything distinct in his life.
    “Rodgers, you are a saint,” Crowley continues. “You have the eye of an eagle, and you did the world a great service: there is one less dirty non-white polluting the white world. I would have rather shot a Negro or a Jew, but we’ll take what we can get.” Crowley almost regrets shooting a Muslim. Hitler had wished the German people had chosen a more militant, loyal religion, not the soft Christianity that flourished throughout Western Europe. The Muslims would die for Islam; it had been centuries since a Christian had died for Christ.
    “I coulda shot a nigger,” Hinckley says, “no problem.”
    “In due time, my son, in due time,” Crowley replies. “We will build this temple one stone at a time.
    “And Lee,” the priest says to Rodgers via the rearview mirror, seeing only Rodgers’s silhouette and the whites of his eyes in the darkened back seat, “as a priest, I can forgive you. The Church has not taken that away from me, and our white god, Odin, is smiling upon you, my son. God is smiling.”
    They return to Crowley’s cottage for more drinking. The priest and Brad continually pat Rodgers on the back and compliment his aim, his timing, and his level head. By the time the evening is over, Rodgers no longer thinks of himself as a murderer. He is a soldier.
    After midnight, the priest returns the pair to the road just down from the base entrance, knowing now that they won’t tell a soul about their activity, or about their friendship.

He is the epitome of an almost dignified Scot, tall and thin, a full head of black hair imperceptibly sprinkled with gray. His face is adorned with pale blue, almost gray eyes and a long aquiline nose on a still longer and red face. Constable Robertson is the lone representative of the Tayside Police in Lutherkirk—a small village with a population of about 300—and has been for nearly twenty years. It has always been his dream to be the man responsible for law enforcement in his native village, and the circumstances in his days upon the conclusion of his police training allowed that to happen for him at a young age.
    His is basically a 9 to 5 job, Monday through Friday, and much of his time is spent sitting in his small, one-room storefront office along High Street. His office is very simple, consisting of a solitary desk, a teletype machine, a coat and hat rack, a thin and shallow jail cell, a small refrigerator, and a hotplate for boiling tea on a small table in front of the large picture window, surrounded by a collection of donated mugs used by his frequent visitors, citizens of the village who constantly pop in to say hello.
    His day consists of writing his daily reports or reading the police bulletins from across the United Kingdom. He constantly glances out the front window, staring out into the street in case some burglar or murderer from England, one of the U.K.’s most wanted, is passing through.
    But all he sees are the same faces and forms he grew up with, people he knows at a glance. And then there are the young Americans from the base, walking along the same sidewalk as the citizens of Lutherkirk but living in a different world, rarely socializing with the Scottish people, except for times spent in pubs or shops. The American faces are never permanent. A face that becomes familiar soon disappears and is replaced by a similar looking young man, with the same sort of homogenous appearance: short hair, blue jeans and tennis shoes. The Americans from the nearby base have been part of the Lutherkirk landscape for all save the very early years of his life.
    There is little crime in Lutherkirk, and if things at one of the pubs get out of hand or if a husband gets physical with his wife, the citizens won’t hesitate to call the constable at any hour of the night, or even knock on his door, as he lives just a block from his office.
    A neighbor of the Beasleys heard their window break. She is an older widow, distrustful of