A Killer of TERFS

“I reject your hypothesis.”

-Quentin Tarantino

*

Sexuality and Gender Studies Professor Gardner Graham hadn’t left home in weeks because of the public controversy over her recent stances. She turned down most visitors and all requests for interviews. Her days were full of reading, buttery Chardonnay, and occasionally a Klonopin.

One person she saw was Tad Embrey, her well-scrubbed Republican neighbor from down the hill. Tad knew all about Gardner’s predicament. He slid a note under her front gate, offering his help. Gardner was touched by his kindness. She began letting him buy her groceries at the Namaste Mart on Hyperion.

Another person Gardner allowed in was Channing Hughes, her secret African-American boyfriend. Channing was twenty-one. Gardner was fifty-seven. Channing had been her student, before USC fired her.

“Absolve me of my whiteness!” Gardner screamed in bed. “Absolve me of my whiteness with that anthracite snake!”

Garner’s nightstand shook. Her copy of Linda Sarsour’s We Are Not Here To Be Bystanders fell on the floor.

“Your snake is religious!”

Out in the night, the Man wore white gloves and covered his face with pantyhose. His Thirteen Incher was sheathed in leather.

Binocular surveillance told him that Gardner’s balcony door was half open. He climbed a back gate, entered, and walked along her soft carpet toward the sounds of sex. He saw a muscular black ass thrusting. The Man drew his Thirteen Incher, snuck up behind Channing and slit his throat. Gardner shrieked. The Man pushed Channing from the bed. Blood sprayed. He grabbed Gardner by the hair, held his Thirteen Incher to her throat and forced her to watch Channing die in the corner.

The Man then let go of her hair and stabbed deep into her vagina, driving his blade down to the handle. It went through her and into the mattress, pinning her in place. Her arms flailed. He pulled it out and sliced open her stomach. Gardner’s insides spilled out in a wormy mush. The Man sheathed his weapon and used her blood to write TERFS — WE SEE YOU on the wall.

*

Shelby drove up the hill. The bubble siren blared on her roof. Both detectives could see the lights of the patrol cars above them.

Curious neighbors were out on their porches. Shelby and Dobbs got out. A patrolman recorded names. They flashed their shields, signed the log, and went under the tape. Spear, the shift’s senior lead officer, approached them.

“There’s two dead inside,” Spear said. “A fifty-seven-year-old USC Gender Professor named Gardner Graham and a USC student named Channing Hughes.”

Spear led them in. Shelby stepped in the bedroom first. It was a humid night. Gardner’s entrails smelled foul. Dobbs covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. The coagulation of the blood told Shelby they’d been dead about two hours. Moonlight from the window gave everything an alien luster.

“What can you tell us?” Dobbs asked Spear.

“The Professor’s neighbor, Mr. Embrey, called it in. He told us a lot. She recently got into a public controversy because of her views on transgenderism. It made her afraid to leave her house. Embrey saw a suspicious Mazda cruising around tonight. He took pictures from his window and got a plate.”

Shelby and Dobbs looked at the wall: TERFS — WE SEE YOU. Shelby’s wife Crockett was passionate about transgender rights. Shelby, who always focused on work, didn’t pay enough attention.

Dobbs asked, “What’s a TERF?”

“I don’t know,” Shelby said.

Captain Monica Thornton entered. Shelby and Dobbs stood at attention. The captain hadn’t called ahead.

She said, “Two other gender academics, Blanche Cottard and Anita Sciorra, both associated with Professor Gardner here, were the other double homicide in Silver Lake tonight. They were shot at close range with an AR-15 while having drinks at an outdoor table of the Black Cat.”

Shelby and Dobbs knew about the earlier call to the bar on Sunset. They hadn’t expected a connection to this case. “Wasn’t another woman like this killed downtown last week?” Shelby asked.

The captain nodded. “Kathryn Tran. She was a UCLA gender Professor who was stabbed to death after leaving a restaurant downtown. RHD took it. They’ve been operating under the assumption that the Tran murder was done by a long-term kidnapper they’ve been after. Tran was the daughter of a big investment banker friend of the mayor. So far they’ve got nothing.”

“Are these two here going to RHD as well?” Dobbs asked the Captain.

If a case had any major media, celebrity, or political connection, it was transferred away from divisional detectives like them to the elite Robbery Homicide Division.

“No,” the Captain said. “It’s the same killer for all four and likely for all five. You two are catching all the cases.”

Shelby provided the best optics here. Captain Thornton liked to mentor other black female officers. She told Shelby that she could make Captain one day if she made the right moves. “Understood.” Shelby looked at the wall again.

“Each woman was given that label,” Captain Thornton said. “TERFs.”

“What does TERF mean exactly?” Dobbs asked Shelby again.

The Captain stared at Shelby, waiting.

“I don’t know,” Shelby said again.

“Who would?” Captain Thornton asked.

*

Christina Banuelos worked Vice. She was a twelve-year veteran of the department as well as the first and only trans detective on LAPD. Shelby and Dobbs arrived at her desk in the Vice Bureau of New Parker Center.

“This way,” Christina said. Carrying her laptop, she led them to a private conference room. They all took seats.

“Our victim’s neighbor got us a license plate,” Shelby said. “The neighbor was following the professor’s situation in the media. He gave us a run down on what he thinks is going on. My wife follows trans issues but I’m lost. Can you tell us what a TERF is?”

“I’m guessing neither of you have Twitter accounts.”

“I’ve got a Facebook page,” Dobbs said. “That’s it between us.”

“TERF means Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminist,” Christina said. “It’s a label for feminists who maintain that biological sex exists. TERFs reject the idea that trans women are biological women and often oppose trans rights legislation and assert that trans women should be denied access to public spaces designated for biological women.”

Dobbs was confused. “That’s controversial?”

“Yes. A great deal of trans activists claim that all gender is a social construct and think that claim should be enforced legally in all situations. They believe people who disagree with that are expressing bigotry.”

Shelby felt relieved to be hearing this. Christina was a valuable resource for the LAPD. They’d known each other for years. One memory stuck out.

It was the Transgender Day of Awareness, two years back. Shelby went with Crockett. The march went down Hollywood Boulevard. Crockett held a poster board that read BLACK TRANS LIVES MATTER. Shelby’s said TRANS RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS. Back then Christina was in Traffic Investigation. She worked security for the march.

Later, there was an event at the LGBT Center on Schrader. There was a bar and Shelby ordered Margaritas. Crockett came back from the bathroom. Something was on her mind.

“What’s up?” Shelby asked.

“The CEO of the center just told Christina to leave,” Crockett said.

“What for?”

“An LAPD uniform violates the center’s policy of inclusion.”

“Where’s Christina now?”

Crockett pointed across the room. Christina was heading for the exit. Shelby got in front of her.

“Were you just told to leave?” Shelby asked.

Christina made a sad smile.

Shelby marched over to the CEO and flashed her shield. “I’d be in uniform too if it wasn’t my off day.” Shelby was angry. “Do I have to leave too?”

“The LAPD are some of the biggest enablers of the epidemic of violence against trans individuals,” the CEO said. “The uniform is frightening.”

“Get out of here with that shit.” Shelby knew these people never bothered to look up actual crime statistics. “Tell her you made a mistake. Invite her back.”

Later, Christina returned in plain clothes. The next day the CEO issued a formal apology both to Christina and the chief, calling all LAPD officers “valued members of our shared community.” Christina never discussed the incident with Shelby. Six months later, Christina was promoted to detective.

Shelby asked, “So Gardner Graham was a TERF?”

Christina turned her laptop around. It was Professor Graham’s Twitter account. A tweeted picture showed fifteen women. Graham was in the center. Christina pointed at three faces and said each name as she pointed: Anita Sciorra, Blanche Cottard and Kathryn Tran. Christina pointed at the caption:

All Proud TERFs.

“Professor Graham was concerned about the direction of the trans rights movement. While maintaining that trans people deserve equality, the professor believed that biological sex was real and that it shouldn’t be subordinated to subjective interpretations of gender. She didn’t think kids should be taught that trans women who are still biologically male can have their periods or that it’s scientifically legitimate for someone to change genders during the course of a conversation. Others disagreed vehemently. The issue’s become a cultural land mine. In an effort to decrease the toxicity of discourse, Graham decided to form a coalition of liberal intellectual feminists who all openly accepted the TERF label. She wanted to destigmatize the slur so others would feel more comfortable sharing their opinions that might deviate from trans orthodoxy. A month ago, Professor Graham shared a YouTube video explaining all of this. The controversy was major.”

“Why?” Dobbs asked.

“Professor Graham had been an anointed feminist activist for decades. Her influence as a gender studies professor was huge. This change was seen as betrayal. Some saw it as a threat.” Christina cracked her knuckles.

“Then our perp probably is an anti-TERF trans activist? Just like Graham’s conservative neighbor suspects?” Dobbs asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

Shelby pointed at Kathryn Tran in the picture. “Tran was killed a week back. The ME says it was likely with the same knife as Gardner and her boyfriend. Did RHD come to you about any of this?”

“No.”

Shelby thought about how good she would look clearing a case that RHD could get nowhere with. She reached over to the screen and scrolled down to the previous post. It was a picture of the professor and the famous author J.K. Rowling. The caption said THIS QUEEN.

“Christina, where do you personally stand on these issues?” Shelby asked. “What do you think about women who get called TERFs?”

Christina waited. “I knew I was trans at twelve. That’s long before any of these labels existed. I was the first trans woman on LAPD.”

“That couldn’t have been easy,” Shelby said.

Another memory came back:

Shelby and Christina were at a cop birthday party at El Compadre in Echo Park. It was just after Christina’s transition. They drank flaming Margaritas. Christina said she was “honored to travel between the sexes.” Christina described her childhood fantasies as “Napoleonic in nature.”

“On the job you see how evil people are.” Christina said. “I try to think fairly. Biological women deserve more than being told ‘men wouldn’t do that.’”

*

Shelby and Dobbs were taking witness statements when Detective Weber from the Intelligence Bureau called Shelby. Weber and his partner Marino were known to be full of useful information.

“A CI of ours knows the car seen leaving the Graham murder,” Weber said.

The DMV said the red Mazda from the neighbor’s picture was registered to a dead Salvadoran woman from Boyle Heights. No one knew who drove her Mazda now. It disappeared after her suicide a year ago. It was never reported stolen.

“Let us talk to your CI,” Shelby said.

“Tacos Gavilan in South Central. One hour.” Weber hung up.

Shelby told Dobbs. Dobbs didn’t want to owe Marino and Weber a favor but he knew their information would probably pan out.

At the restaurant, there were outdoor tables. Marino and Weber sat with a nebbish middle-aged white woman. She wore glasses and had black corkscrew curls.

Marino sipped horchata. “This is Mrs. DiAngelo. She’s a professor.”

Shelby wondered what Marino and Weber had on Mrs. DiAngelo.

“She’s got a name to go with the red Mazda,” Marino said.

“We’re listening,” Shelby said.

“Fredrix Smith.”

Dobbs wrote the name down.

“Who is Fredrix Smith?” Shelby asked.

“A student of mine.”

“Is he trans?” Shelby asked.

“No. He took the name to show solidarity with gender non-conformists. Fredrix is a cis, heterosexual white male.”

“What do you teach?”

“Whiteness Studies. I teach a lot of radical Antifa types.”

“What’s Whiteness Studies?” Dobbs asked.

“The study of the structures that produce white privilege and an examination of whiteness as a source of systemic racism and other group behaviors of white people, such as manifestations of white fragility.”

“How do you know Fredrix drives that Mazda?” Dobbs asked.

“I’ve seen him driving it.”

Marino unfolded a piece of paper. It was a screenshot of traffic cam footage from in front of the Black Cat. A red Mazda went north on Sunset. Mrs. DiAngelo pointed at the bumper stickers. They were pixelated but legible.

“COEXIST, Bernie Or Bust, No TERFs On Our Turf,” the Professor said.

“Fredrix is in Antifa?” Shelby had learned a lot about far left extremism in the past few hours.

“He’s sympathetic to Antifa. He’s not a member.”

“Why is Fredrix driving a car stolen from a dead woman?” Dobbs asked.

“Until now I just presumed the car was his. He must have added the bumper stickers after he stole it.”

“Where can we find him?” Shelby asked.

Mrs. DiAngelo gave them an address. “I gave him a ride home after a BLM march once.”

Shelby looked at Marino and Weber. “We owe you.”

Shelby and Dobbs drove to the address in Silver Lake. A SWAT team would meet them there — Fredrix had an AR-15 and had used it. While Dobbs drove, Shelby found Smith’s Instagram page. She scrolled through pictures: Fredrix was at a rally for Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. He released an album of self-produced electronic music. He brought a prop guillotine to a protest at Mayor Garcetti’s home in Hancock Park. There was a screenshot of an article. It was a Medium.com post. The title was, “Why I Killed the TERFs, by Fredrix Smith.” There was an image of Fredrix holding a sign that said TRANS IS TRUTH. Shelby clicked on the link in his bio.

Shelby showed this post to Dobbs.

Fredrix lived in a building on Lucile. SWAT was already there. Shelby and Dobbs put on their vests and drew their service weapons. SWAT prepared quickly. Both detectives felt a surge of anxiety about what they faced: this was some new form of evil. The building manager revealed that Fredrix, who lived in a unit in the back of the first floor, was home. SWAT entered and approached his door.

SWAT blew the hinges. In the living room, Fredrix stood with his hands behind his head. He wore a black T-shirt with a picture of Bernie Sanders on it. It said RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE.

“Get on your knees!”

Shelby had seen his face on many violent young white men over the years. He was doing that same bad imitation of Heath Ledger as the Joker.

“I regret nothing,” Fredrix said, kneeling. A SWAT team member put flex ties on him. “Illuminate my actions to the world, for it is you and the systemic repression you represent that should be exiled into the dark.”

*

He never asked for a lawyer. They’d been in the box for three hours. All he asked for was a Coke Zero.

“Tell me again, from the beginning,” Shelby said.

“Trans Exclusionary Radical Fascism denies the right of trans people to exist.” Fredrix had explained that the last letter of the acronym had been updated from feminist to fascist. “TERFs are the biggest threat to the most marginalized identity in American society.”

Dobbs sighed.

“Why do you care this much about trans people?” Shelby asked.

“TERFs, like all Nazis, deserve no right to a peaceful existence. They’ve repeatedly declared their intent to directly harm the trans community. They threaten the safety of others and therefore deserve no safety themselves until they choose to be human again.”

“Are you hoping that others go out and stab different TERFs in the vagina? Or shoot them?”

“I live in Silver Lake. My community is a bastion of progressive virtues. One of the most evil and public of all TERFs was in my midst. Gardner Graham was their leader. I always remember that where you see a TERF, behind them is someone in a MAGA hat cheering them on. In our current climate, deaths like these are a political necessity.”

Medium had since taken the post down but it was still circulating. “Explain why to us now,” Shelby said.

“Gardner Graham needed to experience the pain her words caused. Every time a TERF speaks, the emotional pain that marginalized trans people register is just as torturing in reality as the physical pain I was forced to put her through. All TERFs deserved a fair warning about what’s coming for them if they speak up. They need to know protectors of the weak are watching them.”

Dobbs asked, “Why did you stab some but shoot others?”

“I followed two of them to the Black Cat, a historic landmark in the world of LGBTQI+ rights. I didn’t plan to kill them there, but the symbolism was too perfect. I couldn’t get close enough for intimate knife work with all those people around, so I used my AR.” Fredrix yawned. “I’ve told you everything. Now I’m going to enjoy my soda. Call my lawyer, Detectives.”

Shelby and Dobbs went out to the hall.

Captain Thornton approached. “Despite Medium taking it down, Smith’s post has gone viral. Numerous outlets are acting like he did something worthwhile.”

The captain held out her tablet. The top headlines were: “Gender Theorist Claims Responsibility For Murder of Alt Right Professor,” “Fredrix Smith: Serial Killer Or Unlikely Freedom Fighter?” and from a popular LGBT magazine Shelby used to read, “The TERF Murders: Who’s Really To Blame Here?”

“I’ve scheduled a press conference in an hour,” Thornton said.

“His Medium post didn’t even make sense,” Dobbs said, still registering the headlines.

“The internet doesn’t feel that way. We can’t let Smith hide behind this bullshit. You two have to hold a press conference and tell the truth.”

Later, the room was packed with media. The gay and trans journalists were given front seats by the department’s media relation’s team. Shelby read a statement. She explained what murders Smith was being charged with and why. She listed evidence.

After the speech, she opened up for questions.

“Does the LAPD have anything to say about Smith’s cause?”

“His cause?”

“The fight for trans equality. The fact that Professor Graham refused to understand the obvious difference between sex and gender.”

“We’re focusing on hard, physical evidence. Like the fact that both murder weapons were found in his house and that his car was photographed leaving both crime scenes,” Shelby said.

“Wasn’t the car stolen? Does proof exist that Smith ever drove that car?”

“His fingerprints were found all over the steering wheel as well and the handles of the vehicle.”

“But you don’t deny that the LAPD has a history of systemically oppressing marginalized groups, do you? The LAPD are some of the biggest enablers of the epidemic of violence against trans individuals.”

“Do you have any words for the trans community tonight?”

“Does the hate ideology Professor Graham espoused bear any connection to the way she was treated?”

“Did Professor Graham play any part at all in her own demise?”

*

Shelby waited in the garage. Marino and Weber arrived.

“I need another favor.”

“What?” Weber asked.

“Smith wants his lawyer. He’s sticking with his freedom fighter story. He needs to fully confess before the lawyer shows.”

“He did confess,” Marino said. “He’s done for.”

“He has to say why for real. Help me make him.”

*

Marino and Weber entered the box. Marino carried a bag. Weber turned off the camera. Marino took a belt from the bag and strapped Fredrix to a chair with it.

Shelby watched on the other side of the mirror. Dobbs stood behind Shelby.

Marino took a phone book out of the bag. Fredrix looked confused. This proud social justice warrior and self-proclaimed expert on all abuses committed by the LAPD didn’t know what the phone book was for.

Marino showed him.

Fredrix screamed.

Marino kept hitting him.

“Help! Please stop! I’ll do anything!”

Marino looked into the mirror and smiled. All it took was four hits. Weber unstrapped Fredrix. Marino left the phone book on the table. They left.

Shelby and Dobbs walked in. Shelby turned the camera on. Dobbs handed Fredrix a Coke Zero.

“Give me the truth,” Shelby said.

“You’re an Uncle Tom and a race traitor,” Fredrix said. “That’s the truth.”

“I can call my friends back anytime.”

Fredrix took a sip.

“Your whole Medium post is phony, right?” Shelby said. “All you really care about is being cruel to women.”

Fredrix shrugged. “I also enjoy messing with people’s heads.”

“Why target TERFs?” Shelby asked.

“At first this was a nebulous idea. After I discovered what a TERF was, I guessed that if I openly murdered a few, most would support me as long as I signaled woke motivations. If you know how to play a male feminist, like I do, you can fuck a lot of terrific poon. There’s no way I could have scored like I have if I hadn’t specifically focused my energy on the women in the L.A. social justice movement and enthralled them with my passion for activities like protesting the state of Israel or businesses that aren’t vegan friendly.”

“I’ve seen how them hippie girls look. They fine,” Shelby said.

“But they don’t fulfill me. To properly get off, I need to be rough. That required creativity. When I learned that Gardner Graham lived in my neighborhood, I took it as a sign that I should finally undertake this new, bigger project. It would be a series of Jack the Ripper-style murders, all done in the name of trans rights. Instead of ending up as just another anti-woman serial killer, history would absolve me as a hero, all because the reasonable people out there would be too scared to state the obvious for fear of being called transphobic. One day, I saw Professor Graham shopping at Namaste Mart. I was just buying my oat milk and jicama wraps and there was my Mary Kelly.”

“Kathryn Tran was a week ago,” Dobbs said.

“I always do ample surveillance before I strike. I was following Tran that night, taking notes. As I watched her eat dinner through the window at Terroni, I got a throbbing hard-on. I’d been going through a dry spell. I have needs. I had my Thirteen Incher. I just got on with it. Later that night I plotted out how I would move on the other three.”

“How rough with women have you been in the past?” Dobbs asked.

“Ever heard of the East Side Rapist?”

A serial rapist had been attacking women across the eastern half of Los Angeles for the past five years. Since many of the victims were illegal Hispanics, LAPD had long suspected that many of the rapes had gone unreported and the real count was higher than recorded. The dead woman who owned the car Fredrix had used in the murder was one of the East Side Rapist’s first victims. After she was raped she killed herself. The East Side Rapist was still out there.

“What about him?” Shelby asked.

“That’s me. I’m the East Side Rapist.”

“How many women was that?” Shelby asked.

“I wasn’t organized at first. Thirty? Thirty-five?”

Dobbs wrote on his notepad.

“I didn’t want to kill the black kid. The targets were supposed to be only women.” Fredrix winked.

“Are you hoping other people kill more TERFs?” Shelby asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I want to begin a new movement.”

Dobbs looked at Shelby — Jesus Christ.

“And I consider this project a success. What I’m saying now will be regarded as a false, coerced confession by one of the most corrupt police forces in history. Men will still believe in my cause. What I wrote on the Internet will be remembered, not what I’m saying now.”

Shelby and Dobbs left the room.

Dobbs called Fredrix’s lawyer.

*

Shelby called Christina on FaceTime.

Christina wore sweats and sat on the balcony of her apartment, lit by the sunset. Back when Christina first transitioned, Shelby remembered her looking awkward, like a teenage boy’s weird impression of what a woman should be. Now she was a true beauty.

“Bad time?”

Christina said, “No. How can I help?”

“It’s a personal question.”

Christina looked embarrassed.

“Forget it,” Shelby said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“What’s your question?”

Shelby waited. “How could those people kick you out of that event? Why let them do it?”

“They didn’t know I was trans.”

“How is that possible?”

“All they saw was my uniform. The reason they asked me back in was because you used your badge to scare them. After the event was over, that was when they realized I was the famous trail-blazing trans cop. That’s when they apologized.”

“But why didn’t you tell them at the event? Why not say it to their face?”

“Because I’m LAPD first. Trans is just how I was born. I didn’t think I would lessen the division between my community and the police if I lost my temper. I want other trans people to not be scared of cops. I want there to be peace.”

Shelby went home.

Crockett was still up. All their dogs yipped. “You don’t even call me once over a case like this?” Crockett had been reading hateful things about her on the Internet. Shelby could tell.

“I was busy.”

“Bitch, I’m an ally to the trans community.”

“I consulted Christine. She’s a detective now. It’s her job.”

“Yeah, but she’s not on the right side anymore.”

“She’s not on the what?”

Crockett just stared.

“Smith’s just a routine misogynist. He admitted as much to me but it won’t come out. Don’t be fooled by his act. He’s just using the type of good causes you believe in as a cover.”

“Won’t come out?” Crockett connected dots. “So what they’re saying is true, you really did try and kill him like he was George Floyd?”

Shelby turned around and left.

She drove to the strip mall behind the Three of Clubs in Hollywood, where her trans CI Yolanda Olmos got her head kicked in four years ago. One of Yolanda’s johns had done it. When Shelby called her family to make the notification, Yolanda’s father simply said, “My son died a long time ago.”

At the Vons on Sunset, Shelby bought a box of refrigerated Margaritas in cans. Back at New Parker Center, she drank all of them in her car and fell asleep alone on a cot inside.