Free Bearing Witness by Michael A. Kahn Page B

didn’t now. Although the crowd was obviously gathered for a Sunday morning sermon, this would be no ordinary religious event. For today we were going to hear from Bishop Kurt Robb, former Green Beret and high school driver’s ed instructor, currently the spiritual leader of the Church of the Aryan Jesus and the Grand Commandant of Spider.
    Bishop Robb was also the main target of Jonathan’s criminal investigation. That was why we were here. Although several of his sermons were available in printed form and on cassettes—through his own mail-order operation for the true believers, in the evidence files of the Attorney General’s office for the investigators—Jonathan had yet to observe a live performance. Since he’d soon be observing another type of live performance, namely, Bishop Robb’s command appearance before the grand jury to answer Jonathan’s questions, he decided to check him out here first.
    When Jonathan had mentioned where he was going Sunday morning before our drive to Springfield, I asked to join him. After witnessing Gloria’s murder, I was more than a little curious to see one of the skinheads’ spiritual leaders in action.
    Bishop Robb’s followers had rented Reavis Banquet Center for the morning so that he’d have an opportunity to bring his message to the city folk. It was part of his grand plan—to establish a viable neo-Nazi organization near where he believed his true constituents were located: in the larger cities and suburbs. As he was fond of saying, “You can’t run a national revolution from a kooky commune in Montana.”
    Stepping onto the stage was a stout, middle-aged man with thinning, slicked-back hair, wire-rim glasses, and a pencil mustache. The taped organ music ended abruptly as he approached the podium and cleared his throat.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, “welcome to our special morning with our very special guest. In keeping with the spirit of the occasion, our guest has asked that we not applaud.” He paused and looked toward the side, where the door had opened. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to present Bishop Kurt Robb.”
    Through the side door filed eight men in their twenties and thirties, moving at a stride somewhere between a march and a swagger. All wore jeans, dark boots, and what looked like black-and-gold high school letter jackets without the letters. All had buzz cuts and all wore aviator sunglasses. They took up positions along the floor in front of the stage and turned in unison to face the audience, their hands clasped behind their backs, their legs at shoulder width.
    There was a moment of tense silence, and then a tall man in a white robe entered from the side. It was Bishop Kurt Robb. You could almost feel a shiver run through the crowd as he stepped onto the stage. He was wearing tinted horn-rims and his trademark green beret. He paused to shake the hand of the man who had introduced him. It was a solemn handshake. The man nodded deferentially and quickly stepped down from the stage.
    Robb was now the sole figure on the stage. He stared at the audience. Below him, his security guards stood motionless. Robb’s straight brown hair was brushed at an angle across his forehead in a creepy echo of his hero. All that was missing was black hair dye and the brush mustache.
    After a moment, he nodded somberly. “Good morning, my friends.”
    â€œGood morning,” they murmured back at him.
    â€œI have come here this morning, good people, to bring you news, to tell you that what happened in Germany many years ago is happening today in this country.” He had a deep, modulated voice with a hint of hickory in the accent and honey in the timbre. It was the smooth voice of a folksy radio personality.
    â€œThe Jews are grabbing control of everything they can lay their greasy hands on. My friends, this is a replay of