Incel: A Thriller

By Brian Lutterman

They Can Find You Anywhere.

 

They Can Get To You Anytime.

 

Society's Rejects Are Striking Back.

 

Disgraced former FBI agent Kevin Arneson once hunted the world's most dangerous terrorists. Now, back home in a tense, post-George Floyd Minneapolis, he takes on a new challenge when one of his closest friends receives serious death threats. The suspects: group of embittered, sex-starved, and sometimes violent young men called incels, who are terrorizing and then killing successful middle-aged women with no apparent connection to each other. Each victim inexplicably admits the killers into her home, despite widespread publicity and hysteria over the serial murders. Arneson, defying warnings from the FBI and police to stand down, recruits his friend Camryn Becket, an ex-lover and former deep-cover CIA agent, to help track the mystery assailants. As the death toll mounts, Arneson and Becket pursue the killers, burrowing through layers of deception. In a stunning climax, they uncover a monstrous scheme that goes beyond the murders, reaching back into their own troubled past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian Lutterman
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985466461

Brian Lutterman

A former corporate attorney. A Minnesota farm kid. And, in recent years, an author. Lutterman coined the term “corporate thriller” to describe his series of suspense-filled novels featuring Pen Wilkinson, a sassy, whip-smart, paraplegic attorney, described by the St. Paul Pioneer Press as “. . . one of the most intriguing new characters on the Minnesota crime scene.” The series began with Downfall, praised by Mystery Gazette as ” . . . an exhilarating, action-packed financial thriller.” Brian’s most recent book, Nightfall, was named 2019 runner-up for Minnesota’s best adult novel in the Minnesota Library Association’s annual competition. Lutterman’s first book, Bound to Die, was a Minnesota Book Award finalist. Brian lives with his family in the Twin cities. Visit his website at: www.brianlutterman.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a little unnerving, to be honest, said Renee Hoynes. It’s not every day somebody actually threatens to kill you.

Had you gotten threats before these?

The two sat in Renee’s south Minneapolis kitchen late at night, drinks in front of them on the table. Next to the glasses sat the visitor’s cell phone.

Oh, sure, but not like this. I mean, people write in all the time. Or call or email. And some of the stuff I get isn’t very savory. Proposals of marriage, invitations for one-night stands. Then there are the pictures of… you know. Disgusting.

The visitor responded with a knowing smile. Of course. Renee, a local news anchorwoman, was beautiful, the stuff of male fantasies.

Usually, Renee said, the threats come because I haven’t taken somebody seriously. Or sometimes they come from wives whose husbands are obsessed. Refill?

No, thanks. So, what’s different about these threats?

Renee’s lovely face crinkled a bit. She worried about crinkles. One of these years the ratings would slip. She, along with her big contract, would be jettisoned, replaced by somebody younger, cheaper, and without the dreaded crinkles. I’ve been getting them for a few months now. They’re terrible, absolutely vile. Unlike anything I’ve gotten before. Plus, I find out the same people are trashing me on some wacko social media site for incels and white supremacists.

Incels?

‘Involuntary celibates.’ We did a story on them once. Young guys, nerdy, awkward, and angry. They spend a lot of time online. They’ve been rejected by women, and they don’t take it well. They blame the women rather than themselves. They’re filled with rage. I’ve read that some of them are also white supremacists.

Why threaten you? It’s not like any of them has tried to date you, right?

Renee shrugged. Who knows? Maybe any attractive or self-confident woman triggers their anger. It’s not like I’ve personally encountered any of them, at least that I know of. She exhaled. Anyway, this group has threatened to rape and kill me in all kinds of creative and exquisitely painful ways.

Really? Such as?

Renee recoiled. You don’t want to know the details, do you?

The guest smiled. Of course not. Have you told the police?

The station’s security people reported it, yes. The cops sort of threw up their hands and said they couldn’t trace the threats so be extra careful.

Careful, said the guest. So, you don’t go to your car alone after the ten o’clock news.

Right. They have a guy who will go with you. I took advantage of that tonight. Renee felt an uncomfortable vibe. She wanted another drink, but her visitor had declined.

And you’ve got an alarm and cameras here at the house, the visitor said.

Sure. And ever since the divorce, I’ve made sure they’re turned on.

You look a little worried there, Renee.

She looked around her expensive kitchen. Truth be told, I’m petrified. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they’ve posted online and sent me in emails.

The smile again. You know, I believe I would.

Renee felt flat-out spooked now. She looked around again. I hate to be inhospitable, but I’ve got to hit it.

There’s no hurry, said the guest, who reached into a small backpack, produced several items, and began placing them onto the table next to their glasses.

What on earth— Renee began, realizing for the first time that she had sat herself in the corner of the kitchen’s breakfast nook, and the only way out was past the guest to the doorway. Stupid.

You live in a beautiful home, Renee. Unfortunately, things are about to get a bit messy. Now, it’s a mess that has nothing to do with me, because, well, I was never here. Renee stared in horror at the items lined up on the table. A small hand vacuum. A bottle of bleach. Several rags. A plastic bag. And the final items, two rubber gloves. My disappearing kit. I was never here.

What do you mean? What on earth . . .

With that, the visitor produced a large knife.

Renee looked frantically around her kitchen, at the expensive pots and pans hanging from racks above the island. My God, what are you doing?

The visitor tested the knife’s edge with a thumb. People like you, Renee—beautiful, wealthy, adored, entitled—you have no idea what’s going on. You don’t take threats seriously. You don’t take the rest of us seriously. And that’s a problem. A problem for me. But most of all for you.

Renee began to stand up, but it was too late. The visitor was around the table and had plunged the knife into her abdomen before she had any chance to react.

Renee, clutching her stomach in unspeakable agony, fell over sideways onto the floor, realizing her guest was right. She hadn’t had a clue.

Chapter 2

Is this low-rent enough for you? Brit Reedy gestured around the dining room of the semi-casual French restaurant on St. Paul’s Grand Avenue.

His lunch guest, Kevin Arneson, poured ketchup onto his plate and shrugged. They have burgers on the menu. Better than one of your snooty clubs. You always bring the help here?

John Britton Reedy II, looking suitably patrician in slacks, blazer, club-style tie, and oxblood loafers, responded with a wounded look. You’re family, Kevin. He sipped his bourbon. A slightly embarrassing shirttail relative, perhaps, but definitely inside the fold.

I’m overwhelmed, Brit.

Really? Have you gone soft since you left the Bureau?

Soft? No.

How about ‘bored to death’?

Arneson chewed thoughtfully on a French fry. Avoiding boredom is a luxury I don’t have. I’m lucky to be walking around, a free man.

You and tedium—a match made in heaven. In law school you were the ultimate grind. Studying hour after hour, day after day, without complaint. And now, of course, a lucrative consulting practice like yours is worth eating a lot of boredom.

It pays the bills. Arneson had consulted on terrorism-related issues for several Fortune 50 companies since leaving a senior counterterrorism position at the FBI a year and a half earlier.

Reedy put his sandwich aside. We have a concern we’d like to discuss with you.

Arneson looked up. We?

Yes, it involves Shelby.

Arneson abandoned his burger.

Now that I have your complete attention, Reedy said, I’ll start by telling you that Shelby is against my discussing this with you.

I thought I was family.

You’re not married to her. You don’t have to face the music at home. She’s getting threats, Kevin.

Arneson waited.

Not the usual kind. Extremely explicit and violent. They’re coming from some group of men calling themselves ‘incels.’

Involuntary celibates.

So, you’ve heard of them.

Arneson nodded. Resentful, hate-filled dweebs who’ve struck out with women. Sometimes identified with white supremacy.

They certainly are in this case. They apparently have some social media site where they’re spreading their disgusting brand of hate. But the more troubling thing is that they’re sending emailed threats directly to her.

Tell me about them.

They started about five months ago. Reedy shook his head. It’s really revolting stuff, Kevin. Tons of crude and vile names. All the ways they’re going to violate her and kill and eviscerate her. And of course, there’s the racial stuff.

Arneson nodded. Shelby was Black. She has no idea who these people are?

None.

Have others received threats from these guys?

We don’t know.

I’d have to look at the threats, but they sound inconsistent with what little I’ve heard about incels.

How so? Reedy asked.

My understanding is that incels are usually young—in their twenties, sometimes younger. And their targets are usually somebody they know, often a woman who’s rejected them.

That would presumably make the targets younger as well, Reedy observed.

Yes. Thirty-nine-year-old married women, even the gorgeous ones, don’t sound like the type they would normally complain about. And why Shelby specifically? You would expect some connection, some encounter with her.

There’s been an encounter, of sorts. They’ve sent her videos, Kevin. Footage of Shelby jogging, walking to her car in the parking ramp, shopping. They’re stalking her.

Arneson exhaled. I see.

Reedy sat up, his gaze hopeful. You seem to have some familiarity with these groups.

Very little, Arneson said. I know they are on the FBI’s counterterrorism radar, and that’s about all. Of course, the bad guys I chased were usually from the Middle East. Are the messages signed?

Reedy pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read: They sign the emails ‘ICRevBoyz.’ That apparently stands for Incel Revolution Boys.

You’ve reported this?

Yes, although it was difficult to get Shelby to agree. The police tried to trace the group but couldn’t. They said that when somebody uses a TOR browser combined with a virtual private network, and is serious about not wanting to be traced, it’s virtually impossible to do so. C and D’s cyber-security consultant agrees, and so does mine. Reedy ran a large investment business, owned by his family. He would have hired the best, and so would Castle & Drinkwater, the large, white-shoe law firm at which Shelby was a partner.

Do these thugs have a website? Arneson asked.

They do. It’s filled with incel hate but doesn’t target anyone by name. The hosting companies take them down, but they keep popping up elsewhere. It’s whack-a-mole—typical of these hate group sites, according to the police.

It’s hard to think about this without considering this week’s big story.

Reedy nodded, running a hand through his fading-to-brown blond hair. With the murder of Renee Hoynes dominating the headlines, I don’t want Shelby to be next.

Roger that.

Reedy paid the check, and he and Arneson walked out into the crisp, sunny fall day. In the parking lot, they stopped next to Arneson’s Honda sedan. Reedy pulled a flash drive from his pocket. Would you care to take a look at these threats?

I could try. I’m not sure what I could do.

I know what I’m asking, Kevin. I know you walk on eggshells with the Bureau. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe it was serious, and—well, if I didn’t think you’d want to be involved.

Arneson nodded.

And, Reedy added, I’d like you to talk to Shelby. She needs to face reality.

Arneson hesitated.

You’re her closest friend, Kevin, and you have expertise. She might listen to you. Arneson looked into his friend’s face, and the usual amused, ironic detachment was gone, replaced by the vulnerability of a fearful husband.

Arneson took the flash drive.

You should know, Reedy said, that she was dead set against involving you. She doesn’t want you hovering, and she likes you the way you are. Straight-arrow and by the book.

Arneson nodded and put the drive into his pocket.

Reedy managed a smile. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve been committed to principle. Principle even cost you your FBI career. I’ve always wondered how that might change if things became personal. He turned serious. What I’m saying is that I understand what you may be risking, and I appreciate it. Thank you, Kevin. He clapped Arneson on the shoulder and walked away.

Chapter 3

Raggster leaned back at his worktable, glancing idly at the five computer monitors lined up in front of and beside him. The monitor directly in front of him displayed the smiling face of a woman named Monica, to whom he had just completed sending his latest message. Typical snooty bitch—high-powered career, rolling in money, too good for men. Older but not bad looking. And a fucking lawyer to boot. The stuck-up smile would disappear.

My buddies and me are just watching and waiting, Monica

I’d be watching my back if I was you. We’ll see who’s too good for who

I think you’ll be good

We’ll see how many of your holes we can plug at once

We’ll use some cool equipment to do it, too: Power tools. Kitchen appliances. Small animals.

We can do that for a long time. A LOOOONG time. And then we’ll bring out the knives. Long time there, too. Man, you’ll be pleading squealing for us to kill you. But we wont not right away. We’ll probably start by taking your hands off. After that, we’ll get creative. And finally, we’ll just stick you in the gut and let you bleed out. And then we’ll put the video online and charge people to watch it. They’ll post some cool comments . . .

The latest email wasn’t the most graphic or violent—far from it—but Monica would get the message. Oh, yes. Sometimes he was tempted to just let her sweat for a few more weeks, maybe a few more months. God knew she had it coming, the stuck-up bitch. But he wanted to get on with it. He needed to.

Raggster stood up. It was ten p.m., time for his walk. He put his jacket on, set the burglar alarm, and walked outside. As always, the southeast Minneapolis neighborhood was quiet. He lived in a single-story, bungalow-style house that had been added onto a couple of times. When his father had departed a dozen years ago, leaving him and his mother penniless, they had moved into this house with his grandmother. After his mother had moved to New Mexico last year with her latest boyfriend, Raggster had wasted no time putting Gram in a home. His mother had heard about it but didn’t care, and voila, a nice little house in a nice quiet neighborhood was all his, at least until his mother had decided to make trouble again.

He reached a good rhythm with a comfortable stride, passing the quiet houses, lights dimmed. People watched the ten o’clock news. People who didn’t have a clue. People who thought he was just a quiet young guy—that really smart boy down the street who had grown up playing by himself with rockets and computers—who now worked from home doing something-or-other with technology. He felt like a presence in a science fiction movie. They walk among us.

Once he had thought he could exist as an ordinary man, who could function normally. But then he’d realized that to really live, to reach his full potential, he had to be smart, to use his ability to figure things out. His entire life had been a battle against inferior minds. Small minds, petty minds. Bullies and principals and teachers, when he was young. Employers and bureaucrats and, unfortunately, on two occasions, cops, now in early adulthood. He had defeated them all, owned them. And now he owned the women who’d looked down their noses at him; women who were now cringing, terrified, and powerless before him. He’d done it all on his own, from his little house. All his humiliation and legal pitfalls behind him. Life was all there for the taking, and he was no longer sniveling or requesting or waiting in line—he’d grabbed it. And, thanks to him, there was now one less preening bitch anchoring the ten o’clock news.

He walked on in peaceful darkness, breathing in the smoky fall air, past the battered cars parked on the street, past the corner market now owned by an Iranian family. The daughter who worked the counter wore one of those head scarves, but she looked like she had potential underneath. Now there was a culture that knew how to handle women. They made sure their women kept their mouths shut and did what the hell they were told; that they never preened and flaunted and tried to show how smart and high-powered they were.

Well, here’s to you, Haji—I’m doing my bit, too.

Chapter 4

Arneson drove back toward Minneapolis, forcing himself to pay attention to the road. Brit Reedy’s news presented a threat to the uneasy peace he’d made, both with his former employer and with himself. A deadly arrow aimed directly at his weak spot. Shelby Malone would always be a weak spot, he thought, and Brit Reedy, her husband, knew it better than anybody. The three of them—Arneson, Shelby, and Reedy—had been classmates at Georgetown law school, close friends and members of an unacknowledged triangle. Arneson had bonded with Reedy, a fellow Minnesotan, and both had bonded with Shelby, a North Carolinian with a charismatic, all-weather smile belying her seriousness of purpose. They had all been serious; Shelby had graduated second in a class of over five hundred students. Arneson had ranked first. In the unspoken contest for Shelby’s affection, he had finished runner-up.

Arneson exited the freeway and drove into northeast Minneapolis, a onetime working-class neighborhood now gentrifying at a dismaying rate. A call came in on his cell phone. He didn’t recognize the number, but the caller ID: FBI MINNEA, caused his stomach to do a back handspring. He let the call go to voicemail, then played the message. A female voice said, Mr. Arneson, Special-Agent-in-Charge Bolstad would like you to drop by his office at four this afternoon. Please confirm receipt of this message. Arneson clicked his phone off.

A few minutes later he approached his house, a sturdy, white two-story frame structure, located on 3rd Street NE, between 14th and 15th Avenues. The place had belonged to his mother’s parents and had been kept in the family by an uncle. When the uncle died, Arneson’s mother, who lived in northern Minnesota, had inherited the house, passing it along to Kevin, who then moved back to his home state from Washington, DC.

He pulled into the narrow driveway and parked in front of the tiny garage. Leaves were piling up against the chain link fence separating his property from the neighbor to the south, even though he’d raked only a few days ago. He entered the house through a side door, disabled the alarm, and carefully draped his sport coat on a chair in the kitchen. The adjacent living room still smelled of fresh paint; Arneson had been gradually refurbishing the house. He went into a small room off the back hallway where he’d set up an office and sank heavily into his desk chair.

He was currently doing background investigations on two employees of a New York-based company worried that they might have hired people with terrorist connections. Arneson was waiting to hear back from a source overseas. He also worked on the terrorism component of another company’s overall emergency response plan, as well as advising an insurance company on the advisability of locating in a country prone to the occasional terrorist attack. It was lucrative work, if not exciting, and he suspected the Bureau had steered the business his way to keep him busy, content, and out of trouble. A smart plan, which had nonetheless failed to anticipate the threats to a woman for whom Arneson, after two decades, still felt a deep fondness.

He picked up the phone, called the assistant to Special-Agent-in-Charge Bolstad, and said he’d be there at four.

*              *              *

If appearances counted in the FBI, Win Bolstad, the new special-agent-in-charge of the Minneapolis office, had made the most of his. He was tall, with an angular face and thick, distinguished graying hair, and wore the usual conservative dark suit, white shirt, muted tie, and wingtips. Bolstad’s assistant showed Arneson into the spacious office and left, closing the door behind her.

From the Bureau’s website, Arneson knew that Bolstad was a native of Minnesota. He had, in fact, been raised near Brainerd, a scant thirty miles from the small town of Northfall, where Arneson had attended high school, and where his mother still lived. Only two years ago, Bolstad had worked in Washington in the Counterterrorism Division, as had Arneson, but the division’s bureaucracy was vast enough that they had never met. Bolstad had then done a stint as special-agent-in-charge in Richmond before receiving a promotion to Minneapolis, a bigger office.

The SAC was standing to one side of the chair behind his desk, reading a file. Sit down, Arneson, he said without looking up.

Arneson strode over and stood directly in front of him, extending his hand. Kevin Arneson, he said. Pleasure to meet you.

Bolstad looked up, surprised, gave him a look of tired amusement, and shook his hand. Arneson took a chair and waited.

Again without looking up, Bolstad said, There are gaps in your file. Big gaps.

They might have classified some stuff, Arneson replied.

You were in Albany, working on stolen car cases. Two years later, you’re in a senior position in counterterrorism in DC. How did that happen?

After I got a commendation for busting a chop shop, they looked in my personnel file and discovered I could speak quite a bit of Pashto. I picked it up in Afghanistan.

"You picked up Pashto? The SAC chuckled and closed the file. And so the legend of Kevin Arneson began. And a few years later, you’re leading the domestic field investigation for Eleven-Eleven, the second-biggest terrorist attack ever. We all worked on it, but you led the charge. He sat down. I’ve been here all of two weeks, and at the top of my inbox is a message from DC telling me I’m supposed to keep an eye on you."

Arneson remained silent.

Bolstad leaned back, studying him. I don’t know what offense you committed, but it must have been a doozy.

Arneson stared at him.

And sensitive. One thing the file does say is that you were a guest at one of our top-secret secure interrogation facilities for a while. Hell of a way to reward the hero of Eleven-Eleven. Did they not like the answers they got from you?

They were satisfied I told the truth.

If you did, it was apparently damaging to national security.

Or just embarrassing to the wrong people.

The SAC shrugged. Possible. But there are a couple of things they obviously still don’t know. There are persistent rumors, dating back to my time in Washington, that the Eleven-Eleven terrorists had another accomplice within our national security apparatus, one who is still out there.

Could be.

And they’re obviously not a hundred percent sure you don’t have an insurance policy. Documentation of these damaging things you apparently know, sitting in a lawyer’s safe somewhere, ready to be released if you disappear.

Arneson studied his fingernails.

It makes no difference to me, Bolstad said. My charge is to keep you out of trouble. Are you going to be a problem for me?

He spread his hands. Who, me?

You’ve kept your nose clean so far. But there may be temptations.

Arneson didn’t take the bait.

I’ve learned, Bolstad said, that you have a close friend who’s got a bit of trouble. You may be inclined to try to help.

Arneson fought to keep his expression neutral. The Bureau knew about Shelby, who was undoubtedly in his file as a known associate, and it had reached the SAC’s desk. The FBI’s involvement almost certainly meant that other women—probably prominent women—had received similar threats. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

Don’t even think about it, Bolstad said. This situation is being taken care of. I just started this job, and I really, really don’t need any trouble from you. If you’ve done anything about your friend, or even thought about it, you need to stand down like yesterday. He leaned forward. There are people in DC who feel threatened and are watching for any chance to eliminate that threat. Cross me, even a little, and I won’t hesitate to feed you to them. He turned his attention to paperwork