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wouldn’t say whether he’d gone to Omaha, arguing that it didn’t matter one way or another. At the same time, he pretty much settled the matter by alluding to the fact that Berry had been stabbed. The Omaha authorities had suppressed this. (They would have liked to suppress the coat hanger as well, but it leaked, and the symbolism was just too good to expect the press to keep it under wraps. It was easier to hold back the knife work, because it hadn’t shown up until they had Roswell Berry on the autopsy table. He’d been killed with a single stab wound to the heart, inflicted with one stroke of a narrow-bladed knife or dagger. Death was virtually instantaneous and there was no bleeding to speak of, which is why the stabbing wasn’t noticed at first, and why it managed to stay out of the papers.)
    Roswell Berry had looked like a difficult target. He’d been more than halfway across the country, staying in a hotel with a good security setup, and escorted at all times by a cadre of loyal bodyguards, broad-shouldered young men in chinos and short-sleeved white shirts, with buzz haircuts and unsmiling faces. (“Thugs for Jesus,” one commentator had styled them.) There was plenty of speculation as to how Will had managed to slip through their ranks and get in and out of their leader’s hotel room.
    “WILL-O’-THE-WISP?” the Post wondered on its front page.
    But if Berry was a hard man to kill, Will’s next pick was clearly impossible.
    “An Open Letter to Julian Rashid” was the heading on his next letter to McGraw, mailed some ten days after his ambiguous response to Berry’s death. In it, he charged the black supremacist with fomenting racial hatred for purposes of self-aggrandizement. “You have created a fiefdom of a people’s discontent,” he wrote. “Your power feeds upon the hatred and bitterness you create. You have called out for violence, and the society you vilify is at last prepared to turn that violence upon you.”
    Rashid first landed in the spotlight as a tenured professor of economics at Queens College. His name back then was Wilbur Julian, but he dropped the Wilbur and tacked on the Rashid around the time he began formulating his theories. The name change was not part of a conversion to Islam, but merely represented his admiration for the legendary Haroun-al-Rashid.
    His theories, which he expounded in the classroom in spite of the fact that they had little demonstrable connection to economics, contended that the black race was the original human race, that blacks had founded the lost civilizations of Atlantis and Lemuria, that it was this race of black men who were the elders revered in the prehistory of societies throughout the world. They were the builders of Stonehenge, of the heads on Easter Island.
    Then white men had arisen as some sort of genetic sport, a mutation of the pure black race. Just as their skins lacked melanin, so were their spirits lacking in true humanity. Their bodies were similarly stunted; they could not run as fast or as far, could not jump as high, and lacked that primal connection to the very pulse of the earth, which is to say that they didn’t have rhythm. Perversely, however, they were able to prevail because of their inhuman nature, which led them to overwhelm and betray and subvert the black man whenever the two races met. In particular, it was a late offshoot of the white subrace whose special role it was to serve as architects of the white subjugation of the black race. These mongrel dogs at the heart of it all were, surprisingly enough, the Jews.
    “If it turns out there’s life on Saturn,” Elaine said, “and we go there, we’ll find out that they’ve got three sets of eyes, and five sexes, and something against the Jews.”
    Whenever he was given the opportunity, according to Rashid, the black man showed his natural superiority—in track and field, in baseball and football and basketball, and even in what he labeled “Jewish” sports—golf