News

Video
Music
Politics
TV
Movies
RS Country
RS Hip-Hop
Lists
More
All-American Nazis
How a senseless double murder in Florida exposed the rise of an organized fascist
youth movement in the United States

By Janet Reitman
May 2, 2018

Mike McQuade for Rolling Stone

Andrew Oneschuk and Jeremy Himmelman had been living in Tampa, Florida, for two
weeks when, on Friday, May 19th, 2017, their roommate Devon Arthurs picked up an
AK-47 rifle and shot them at close range. Oneschuk had just turned 18. Himmelman
was 22. They'd been staying in a lush gated community near the University of South
Florida, in a two-bedroom, terra-cotta condo rented by their fourth roommate, 21-
year-old Brandon Russell, a rich kid from the Bahamas who worked at a gun shop and
served in the Florida National Guard. Oneschuk, a prep-school dropout, was hoping
to become a Navy SEAL. Himmelman also considered the military, though he was more
of a drifter. Eighteen-year-old Arthurs, a pale, freckled kid who sometimes called
himself "Khalid," was unemployed and spent most of his time playing video games.
All four had met one another online, in forums and chat rooms popular with the more
extreme segment of the so-called alt-right.

RELATED

Teenage Jihad: The World of American Kids Seduced by ISIS

It was about 5:20 p.m. when Arthurs, dressed in jeans and a green polo shirt,
casually strolled into the community's leasing office and announced he'd just
committed murder. "He was extremely calm," one witness recalled, and he gave "a
little speech" about U.S. war crimes in the Middle East. Then he wandered across
the street and into a strip-mall smoke shop, where, brandishing a Glock
semiautomatic pistol, he took three people hostage. The cops arrived within
minutes. "I was never going to shoot anyone," Arthurs said as he surrendered. They
drove back to the condo, arriving just as Russell, in his military fatigues, ran
out the door "hysterical and screaming," as one cop put it. Arthurs seemed unmoved.
"He doesn't know what's going on," he said about his roommate, "and he just found
them like you guys just did."

The bodies lay in a small bedroom at the top of a carpeted staircase: Himmelman, a
beefy kid in black basketball shorts and a black T-shirt, was slumped on a futon,
with the back of his skull blown off. Oneschuk, lying supine on the floor in a
white tank top and khakis, had also been shot in the head. In a second bedroom, the
police discovered a 12-gauge shotgun and two large metal ammunition boxes full of
live rounds. Also found in the condo: several copies of Mein Kampf, a gas mask, a
trove of neo-Nazi and white-supremacist propaganda, and a framed photo of Oklahoma
City bomber Timothy McVeigh.

The local bomb squad was called to examine the contents of the garage: a "mini lab"
of chemicals, as federal prosecutors later put it. In one corner, a small cooler
marked with the name "Brandon" was filled with HMTD, a white cakelike substance
often used in making homemade explosives. Russell, a onetime physics major, later
told police he'd used the HMTD to boost DIY rockets with his college engineering
club. "It's not illegal," he said. "You can go on eBay and buy it."

Arthurs told a different story. "It's all there specifically to kill people," he
said. Sitting in a small interrogation room in his sweat socks, he explained to the
cops that his roommates were "national socialists" and members of a neo-fascist
group called Atomwaffen Division, German for "nuclear weapons." Russell had founded
the group, which Arthurs – who'd recently converted to Islam – claimed had about 60
or 70 members nationwide. "Atomwaffen is a terrorist organization," he said. He'd
taken part in online chats where Russell and the others discussed plans to bomb
power lines, synagogues, even Miami's Turkey Point nuclear plant. "Brandon is
literally somebody that has the knowledge to build a nuclear bomb," he said. "I'm
not meme-ing about that," he added, Internet-speak for "fucking around."

The detective, striking a dubious tone, asked him why his friends would make bombs.
Arthurs looked at him, dumbfounded. "Because," he said, "they want to build a
Fourth Reich."

Clockwise from top left: Devon Arthurs, Brandon Russell, Andrew Oneschuk and Jeremy
Himmelman. The Atomwaffen members met on the Internet, and briefly lived together
in a condo near the University of South Florida in Tampa. Shortly after killing
Oneschuk and Himmelman, Arthurs told police, “Atomwaffen is a terrorist
organization.”
1. The Red Pill

"We knew that Andrew had some bigoted right-wing views, and of course we hated
that," Walt Oneschuk tells me. Months after the murders, Andrew's parents, Walt and
Chris, still struggle to make sense of what happened to their youngest child and
only son. "I've seen long Facebook threads of comments from people saying things
like, 'Good, I'm glad he's dead,' " says Walt, a pained-looking man with a dark
mustache. "He was barely 18."

The Oneschuks live on a wooded cul-de-sac in Wakefield, Massachusetts, an upper-

middle-class suburb just north of Boston. When I arrive at their house one winter
evening, Chris, a determinedly cheerful woman in jeans and a fleece pullover, gives
me a prayer card from Andrew's funeral. On it is a photo of a handsome teenager
with light-brown facial hair, wearing a gray snowflake sweater. The picture was
taken on a hiking trip in the White Mountains, one of Andrew's favorite spots.
Growing up, Chris tells me, he liked to don his headlamp and head into the woods
behind his family's large tan colonial to spend the night amid the trees. His
parents show me photos: Andrew hiking Mount Washington; in a scuba mask during a
family trip to Hawaii. "He enjoyed a lot of outdoor things," says Walt.

Nonetheless, Andrew often seemed miserable – anger was "his default emotion," his
older sister, Emily, later tells me. He attended two different private schools,
each of which he hated. Team sports didn't interest him. Neither did most of his
peers. "The antithesis of what Andrew wanted to be was a white suburban prep-school
kid," says Emily, who now serves as a junior officer in the Navy. "I think we were
both looking for adventure, something bigger and more interesting."

Like Emily and his father, a former Navy pilot, Andrew wanted a military career. In
grade school, he pored over stories of the French Foreign Legion. At 12, he started
collecting pins belonging to the Spetsnaz, the Russian Special Forces. The next
year, he became obsessed with the German Wehrmacht, whose weapons and uniforms he
painstakingly memorized. One day he went online and ordered a replica SS jacket –
he liked the "aesthetic," he said.
When the detective asked why his friends would want to make bombs, Devon acted like
it was obvious. "Because," he said, "they want to build a Fourth Reich."
Emily believes that some of her brother's problems stem from their father's absence
– in 2010, when Andrew was entering middle school, Walt, an engineer who served in
the Navy Reserve, deployed to Iraq for a year, followed by a lengthy stint
shuttling back and forth to Afghanistan as a contractor. "That's when Andrew began
to warp," she says. Crushed by his father's absence, he lashed out at Chris. "It
was a rough situation without Walter there," says Chris' close friend Anita Roman.

Andrew began throwing around the word "nigger," his sister says, though she
repeatedly scolded him. At school, he complained the other boys were "faggots," a
favorite term he used so often that his family, finding him increasingly hard to
discipline, tuned it out. Walt worried about alienating his teenage son, whose
inchoate anger had become more pronounced. "You're a cuck," he told Walt at one
point.

Increasingly, Andrew obsessed over issues like climate change and the Syrian
refugee crisis. He'd also embraced an apocalyptic and conspiratorial worldview in
which Western civilization was doomed, and he, a white male, was a victim. He was
amazed at his parents' complacency. Didn't they realize blacks were responsible for
80 percent of the crime in America? he'd falsely claim, using statistics that
seemed drawn from nowhere. "America is shit," he said. "My generation is failing."

By freshman year, Andrew was spending most of his time secluded on the third floor
of the house, chatting online. He seemed to be active on various forums for
Airsoft, a paramilitary game that attracts mostly white men from the U.S. and
Europe, some of them soldiers, others who would like to be. Russia, in particular,
has a thriving Airsoft community, which largely promotes itself through YouTube.
"Andrew watched tons of YouTube videos," Emily says.

Before long, he had an account on the Russian social-networking site VK, a central
platform for Ukrainian separatists looking for idealistic recruits. Andrew, who was
one-eighth Ukrainian, took to the cause, chatting with fighters and their allies.
He began formulating a plan to join the Azov Battalion, a notoriously brutal band
of international fighters helping in the resistance against the Russians. In
January 2015, Andrew bought a fake passport and a one-way ticket to Kiev. The day
before he was set to leave, having packed his camping gear and arranged for a
limousine to Logan Airport, he casually told his mother on the way home from
school, "I think I'm going to go to Ukraine."

"We went into crisis mode," Chris tells me. Two days after they canceled his trip
to Kiev, the Oneschuks brought Andrew to a psychiatrist at Boston Children's
Hospital. He had been to see several counselors by this point. "They always said he
was fine, just being a kid," she says. Chris suspected he manipulated the
counselors. For the next few months, he attended regular therapy sessions but
"accomplished zero," she says. Meanwhile, Andrew completed his sophomore year in
almost total isolation. "His politics were just too weird," says his sister. "He
alienated people."

Emily had been concerned when Andrew went through his German-army phase, though
some of her friends told her that they'd also thought the SS was cool when they
were younger. "I don't think they understood they were actually bad guys," says
Emily. "It's more like the bad guys in Indiana Jones with the cool car." But Andrew
took it further, eventually adopting the online handle "Borovikov," after a famous
Russian neo-Nazi gang leader. That spring, he hung an SS flag in his bedroom as
well as a giant swastika. Emily was aghast. "I pleaded with my father to make
Andrew take them down," she says. "I really don't think my parents got how
appalling it was."
She walked into Andrew's room and ripped the flags off the wall. "You're a Nazi,"
she said.

"I'm not a Nazi," he replied. "I'm a national socialist."

Andrew Oneschuk was one of a raft of alienated young men who, over the past several
years, found their way into the self-reinforcing online universe of the far right.
It was a phenomenon that, for a great many people, seemed to come out of nowhere:
"Ordinary" boys from ordinary towns in relatively ordinary economic circumstances
had suddenly aligned themselves with white supremacy. They had come to believe,
through an intricate online world, that everything they'd ever learned was,
essentially, a lie. In the lingo of the Internet, they'd been "red pilled," Matrix
style, their adolescent anomie exploited through a cottage industry of websites,
Reddit threads, Twitter feeds, YouTube videos, and scores of memes laced with a
sort of deceptive irony that made it hard to know what's a joke and what's not.
Adolf Hitler holding a PlayStation controller; Jamba Juice cups wearing yarmulkes
and payot; the anti-Semitic- cartoon character known as the Happy Merchant, often
portrayed making off with someone's money. There were anime characters dressed as
fascists, and "Nazi Ponies," which was a Tumblr blog, then a VK page, a Twitter
feed and a series of YouTube videos that showcased My Little Ponies accessorized
with swastika armbands or clad in full SS regalia.

Between 2012 and 2016, according to a report by George Washington University's

Program on Extremism, there was a 600 percent increase in followers of American
white-nationalist movements on Twitter alone; white-nationalist groups now
outperform ISIS in nearly every social metric. Analysts who study extremism note
that both the far right and groups like ISIS use similar tactics, producing high-
quality videos and employing memes and jokes to make their message more appealing.
"The overall goal is to destabilize people so you can then fill them with your own
views," says Keegan Hankes, a senior research analyst with the Southern Poverty Law
Center. "If you make racism or anti-Semitism funny, you can subvert the cultural
taboo. Make people laugh at the Holocaust – you've opened a space in which history
and fact become worthless, period."

Many of the right's most popular memes grew out of 4chan, the Internet's
notoriously anarchic image board, that, during the Aughts, helped launch the left-
leaning hacktivists of Anonymous. By early 2012, 4chan's tone had shifted
drastically to the right. The site's "politically incorrect" board, /pol/, home to
nihilistic trolls and thrill seekers known as "edgelords," helped spawn what
cultural critic Angela Nagle, author of Kill All Normies, calls a "leaderless,
digital counter-revolution." Some lurkers sniffed opportunity. On Stormfront, then
the most prominent white-supremacist website, several discussion threads considered
how /pol/ might be used to help young people become "racially aware," as one user
noted. "People seem a lot more open there in some ways," another observed,
"probably because it is a completely anonymous board so they are not afraid of
saying things that are racist."

By the fall of 2012, a 4chan user called "Stormpheus" began circulating what he
called a "Redpill instruction pamphlet," which advised others to "sweet talk [users
on other 4chan boards] about things that are on topic." Many 4chan users – on
both /pol/ and other boards – pushed back against the "stormfags," as they called
these interlopers. "It was mostly because they'd show up on /pol/ and start
expressing very sincere white-nationalist beliefs without the ironic-humor
component," says Matt Goerzen, of the research institute Data and Society. Which is
not to say that those posting ironically might not also have had those beliefs, he
adds. "You are playing with such a sophisticated irony in this anonymous culture,
even people who understand how multilayered it all is can't necessarily see through
it. You are whoever you pretend to be."

Capitalizing on this ambiguity, two longtime denizens of 4chan saw a chance to

bring fascism to the masses, positioning it as both radical and cool: a new
counter-culture. One was Andrew Auernheimer, 32, an infamous troll and former
hacktivist known as "weev," who in many ways embodies the ambiguous nature of
online extremism. Until recently, Auernheimer was a favorite of tech journalists
and digital-rights advocates (Forbes once likened him to Shakespeare's Puck). In
2013, Auernheimer went to prison for hacking AT&T's website. Thirteen months later,
after his conviction was overturned on a technicality, he emerged from the pen
sporting a swastika tattoo, and committed himself to spreading the message of
"global white supremacy," as he put it. "I converted a Bernie Sanders supporter
into a race warrior in nine tweets," he boasted in 2016.

Auernheimer found an ideological soulmate in Andrew Anglin, founder of the Daily

Stormer, one of the most influential far-right websites on the Internet. Anglin,
33, is a former vegan from an upper-middle-class suburb of Columbus, Ohio, who "got
into Hitler," as he said, by hanging out on 4chan. In 2013, he decided to create a
new platform for these views, launching Daily Stormer as a news site mixing the
clickbait style of Gawker with 4chan's trolling sensibility. Jews were "kikes."
Blacks were "nignogs" or "chimps." Women were "sluts," "whores," "bitches,"
"harlots," "slags" and "skags." Mainstream culture was "shitlib." Anti-Semitism was
funny – so funny that the site was awash with swastikas.

The Daily Stormer's target audience, as revealed in a leaked style guide for
potential contributors, was the "ADHD demographic" (including those as young as 11,
Anglin said recently). Writers were instructed to avoid "college words" and stick
to an eighth-grade vocabulary. "When I'm trying to change the way people think
about things," Anglin said in an April 2016 podcast, "it doesn't make sense to
target anyone but young people."

The larger goal of Daily Stormer – like a host of somewhat less-extreme websites
and podcasts, not to mention alt-right leaders like Richard Spencer – was to shift
the so-called Overton Window, a wonky poli-sci concept describing the process of
changing public opinion to accept ideas that might have previously been
radioactive. The feminist movement, which mainstreamed once-unthinkable concepts
like a female Supreme Court justice, was an example of an Overton shift to the
left. From the perspective of white nationalists like Auernheimer (who recently
floated the idea of murdering Jewish children in the name of free speech),
outrageous anti-Semitism might shift the window far enough to the right that a goal
of an immigrant-free, white ethnostate would look almost palatable.

The shift also served a more radical agenda. One Daily Stormer contributor, the
Canadian fascist known as "Charles Zeiger," would later wax victorious in an online
essay over the "unforeseen radicalization of the younger generation Z," who had
come to see that "the mainstream media is deceptive and evil, [social-justice
warriors] are stupid and annoying, and liberalism is boring and square." This turn
of events, he noted, presented modern-day fascists with a unique opportunity. "[W]e
can lead the youth in a rebellious cultural upheaval against the previous
generations of stuck-up boring adults," he said. "If we can help mold a social
movement like the hippies did, that should give us a huge source of radicalized and
militant recruits to bolster our ranks in the next five years."

One of Devon Arthurs' gaming friends has seen the strategy work, firsthand. "I have
personally watched a few teens go from having general, conservative or libertarian
viewpoints to becoming fascist sympathizers," he says. "It happens very
dynamically."
"The goal," an analyst says, "is to destabilize people's worldviews and fill them
with your own. If you make racism funny, you can subvert the cultural taboo."

A photoshopped image thought to be of Devon and Brandon, in 2016. Ironmarch.org

It was in this swirling environment that Devon came to believe the Holocaust was a
lie. Raised in a gated middle-class community in Longwood, Florida, just outside
Orlando, he spent most of his time on his computer. His parents were divorced, and
for much of his childhood he lived with his father, Alan, an insurance salesman,
whom one of Devon's childhood friends recalls as a caring but somewhat lax parent.
When I contacted him in the fall, Alan Arthurs didn't want to talk about Devon. "If
you want to know the truth," Arthurs told me in a text message, "I lost him to the
Web five years ago." (Laura, Devon's mother, didn't respond to e-mails.) "My
perception was that Devon had a lot of family issues," one of his online friends
tells me. "I was in a Skype call with him once, and he put his mom in a fucking
chokehold. Called her a fat fuck who was trying to take away his computer."

Devon attended Longwood's Lyman High School, where he immediately stood out. "He
was the guy you could always find saying something crazy," a former classmate says.
Though bright and articulate, he liked to spout far-right conspiracy theories and
spoke enthusiastically about Hitler. "People joked that he might be a school
shooter one day, but I kind of felt sorry for him," says Jacob Cohen, a Jewish
classmate who thought Devon didn't know what he was talking about, despite seeming
deadly serious. When Cohen asked him if he was a Nazi, Devon responded, "I'm a
national socialist." The use of the term "national socialism" – the ideology
espoused by the Nazis – is increasingly promoted by far-right groups as a form of
rebranding. Devon frequently extolled the virtues of national socialism, about
which he seemed to have an esoteric knowledge. "He had these entire alternate
histories memorized," says Cohen. "Why [the Nazis] changed the world."

In September 2014, Alan intercepted a copy of Mein Kampf that Devon had ordered
online. After Devon "physically challenged" him, Alan later told police, he kicked
his son out of the house. Devon moved in with his mother, who seemed to view her
son's extremism as a phase. But he'd become so relentless in his rants about "Aryan
superiority," a teacher recalls, he was getting into fights at school. One day,
during his sophomore year, a Jewish classmate, fed up with his rhetoric, pinned him
to the ground. Shakily, Devon declared, "I am willing to die for national
socialism!"

By that summer, Devon dropped out of high school. He became what the Internet calls
a NEET – Not in Education, Employment or Training – and spent much of his time on
gaming sites. He was particularly active on a Minecraft server called /int/craft,
where players, generally recruited from 4chan's right-leaning "international"
board, formed alliances based on quasi-historical events and ideologies: Norse
soldiers, medieval knights, the Caliphate. Devon, who went by the handle
"wolfdevon," obsessively threw himself into the game. "He was deeply autistic,"
Tuckers, one of his online friends, says. (There is no evidence Devon was actually
autistic – the term "autist" is used in online cultures as a multipurpose
pejorative, often to describe someone with hyperfocus.) "I think he was genuinely
more 'real' in his online persona" than he was in real life, adds Tuckers, an
Australian who, like most of their online community, never met Devon in person.
"But I think to a degree the ironic and sarcastic tone pushed him further down the
proverbial rabbit hole."

National socialism was a frequent topic of conversation on politically themed

Minecraft servers. It was "edgy" to call yourself a fascist, says one of Devon's
gamer friends, Nero. Some people took the ideology further, using Minecraft and
other gaming platforms as a gateway into the larger far-right underground. One
denizen of this world was Brandon Russell, whose explorations into the darker
corners of the Internet led him from 4chan and Daily Stormer into a national
socialist Tinychat room loosely sponsored by the American Third Position Party, or
A3P, recently renamed the American Freedom Party.

Third Position, which draws from the European neo-fascist movement of the same
name, was formed during the early days of the Tea Party, and was backed by some of
the leading white nationalists in the United States. Its six-man board includes
Kevin B. McDonald, a former psychology professor at California State University,
Long Beach, whom the SPLC calls "the neo-Nazi movement's favorite academic." The
group's leader, Los Angeles attorney William Johnson, has advocated for a
constitutional amendment to deport immigrants and nonwhites from the U.S., notably
those with any "ascertainable trace of Negro blood." When I spoke to Johnson on the
phone, he told me A3P had always made an effort to recruit young people online.
Nathan Damigo, who created the white-nationalist campus group Identity Evropa, also
helmed A3P's National Youth Front. "The end goal of recruitment," Johnson said in a
2015 interview, "is to make them nationalists and racially conscious."

Brandon Russell grew up as a racial minority in the Bahamas, where nine out of 10
people are black, and he was educated at an elite, multicultural private school.
His parents, both native white Bahamians, never married. Brandon had only minimal
contact with his dad, a deputy sheriff in West Palm Beach, though his mother and
grandparents doted on him. In elementary school he had been diagnosed with ADHD,
and later suffered from depression, which he tried to mask with clownish behavior
and off-color humor. "He'd make stupid jokes he saw on 4chan, kind of memes in real
life, which isn't a good social tactic," recalls a friend who met Brandon through a
University of South Florida engineering club. Brandon had enrolled at USF in 2012
and was the club's resident guinea pig, offering himself up for experiments like
dressing in a chain-mail suit of armor to get struck with a Tesla coil. "He was
like the radioactive Boy Scout," his friend says.

Online, Brandon adopted a new and more heroic identity. He called himself "Odin,"
after the warrior god of Norse mythology. Older members of /pol/ viewed him as
"completely harmless" and "intolerably autistic." But he impressed younger kids
with his "hypermasculine persona" and knowledge of radioactive material (he'd been
collecting small amounts of thorium since the 10th grade). Devon met Brandon in a
Third Position live chat and they soon became inseparable, joining the same online
communities, where several friends recall that at various times they seemed
unhinged, playing around with handguns in video chats while arguing about
international fascism. "Odin will 'sperg out one day," predicted one online friend.
"He's a ticking time bomb."

Gradually, Brandon and Devon were drawn into the larger white-nationalist
ecosystem, where celebrated figures like Auernheimer or the Danish white
nationalist and Third Position moderator "Natural Selector" served as brand
ambassadors to increasingly extreme communities. It was Natural Selector, Brandon
later said, who led him to Iron March, a "global fascist community" with about
1,600 members. "I am Odin!" he announced on his first visit to the site, in March
2014.

"Stop annoying us," one user responded.

If Daily Stormer sat at the center of the galaxy of far-right websites and forums,
Iron March, founded in 2011, lived in the furthest, least-ambiguous corner. Self-
described hardcore fascists warred over arcane bits of dogma, debating the theories
of 20th-century fascist Julius Evola against ideas like "esoteric Hitlerism." The
site's slogan, "Gas the Kikes! Race War Now! 14/88 Boots on the Ground," paid
homage to two central precepts of neo-Nazi ideology – the number 88, or so-called
double H, representing the words "Heil Hitler," and a slogan known as the Fourteen
Words: "We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white
children." A series of "Revolutionary Fascist Manuals" could be found on the site;
so could lesser-known works like Siege, a fascist call to arms by the American neo-
Nazi James Mason. Released in 1993, Siege infused national socialism with the anti-
capitalist, hippie ethos of Mason's hero, Charles Manson. "The only recourse for
National Socialist Revolutionaries," Mason's book explains, "is to go underground
and build their own armed struggle to wage war against the State."

Brandon took this to heart. In an October 2015 post on Iron March, "Odin" announced
the formation of Atomwaffen Division, which had been "at least 3 years" in the
making. "We are a very fanatical, ideological band of comrades who do both activism
and military training," he wrote. No "keyboard warriors," he added. "If you don't
want to meet up and get things done don't bother."

Dozens of young men responded to the thread, which claimed the group had 40-odd
members across the U.S., mostly in Florida, but also in nearly a dozen other
states. "Interested," one Boston teenager who called himself Borovikov wrote on
March 28th, 2016. "Who should I contact?"

Surveillance footage believed to capture Andrew during the "stickercaust" at Boston

University.
2. The Trump Effect

On the night of May 1st, 2016, a series of racist fliers appeared around the campus
of Boston University. Black lives don't matter, read one. The Nazis are coming! The
Nazis are coming! read a second, signed "Atomwaffen Division Massachusetts." A
grainy surveillance video broadcast widely on local TV news showed a sneaker-clad
young man in a black hooded raincoat and khakis, whom Chris and Emily Oneschuk
later concluded was almost certainly Andrew. The "stickercaust," Zeiger wrote on
the Daily Stormer, was the work of "heroic patriots." "If we cause a media storm
every time we put up a few stickers, we'll own the news media," he wrote. "[And] if
they stop covering our propaganda, we also win; it means the system is now
desensitized to hardcore nazism."

Andrew had spent the previous fall at Bard College at Simon's Rock, an early-
college program his parents hoped would help turn their son around. One of the most
progressive schools in the country, Simon's Rock promotes itself as a school for
"independent minds," with programs like weekly stress-reduction classes and a
designated "social justice and inclusion" week. Andrew lasted one semester. "He
called a girl who happened to be gay a 'fag,' " says Emily. On the day he was
kicked out, he flashed a Nazi salute.

Back in Wakefield, Andrew had made his way to Iron March, where Atomwaffen was
building a small online following. Brandon and Devon, who served as his deputy, had
set up an Atomwaffen Twitter account and YouTube channel, and filmed themselves
exploring abandoned buildings, posing with the group's black-and-yellow flag and
even hanging out at a bowling alley – "Atombowling," Devon called it. They covered
their faces with skull masks and wore paramilitary uniforms to pose with Airsoft
guns, or, as would increasingly be the case, actual assault rifles. The group's
first public action, in November 2015, involved the Florida cell – then just
Brandon and Devon – posting anti-Semitic fliers around the University of Central
Florida campus in Orlando. "Very mischievous weekend," Brandon noted on Iron March.
"Absolute Sticker Holocaust," replied another user.

Andrew was bored, working at a pizza shop and taking classes at Bunker Hill
Community College in Boston. The SS flag remained on his bedroom wall (as a
concession, he'd hung the swastika in his closet). A worried Emily attended a
college lecture on "homegrown violent extremism" given by an FBI official whom she
approached afterward. "You just described my brother," she said. The agent handed
her his business card. "He made it sound like he couldn't do anything," she says.
Frustrated, she continued to work on Andrew. "I could not make him see how this
stuff would ruin his life," she says. "Even after getting kicked out of Bard, he
could not conceive that his beliefs were a problem. He saw it as the fault of these
hypersensitive liberals who were oppressing him."

The theme of liberal oppression was one of the key strains of the Trump campaign,
which Andrew had begun to embrace. Trump's angry rhetoric fed Andrew's sense of
personal injustice. It also gave him hope – maybe he wouldn't have to leave the
country after all, he told his family. In the spring of 2016, a Trump poster went
up in his bedroom. That summer, when the family went to New York to celebrate
Emily's 21st birthday, Andrew begged to go to Trump Tower to buy a Make America
Great Again hat. "He was just ecstatic," says Chris.

Another young man enamored with Trump was Jeremy Himmelman, an underemployed 21-
year-old from Walpole, a working-class town just south of Boston. Jeremy was a
sweet goofball, as his family and friends saw him, but he also struggled with ADHD
and depression and drank heavily. One of five siblings whose parents divorced when
he was seven, he'd dropped out of high school in the 12th grade. Since then he'd
been adrift, dabbling in Boston's music scene and getting fired from construction
jobs. He found refuge in video games: Minecraft, Runescape, Call of Duty. In the
middle of 2015, after several failed suicide attempts and a series of
antidepressants, he agreed to undergo electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT.

Jeremy was carrying around a dog-eared copy of Mein Kampf, calling people cucks and
bashing immigrants, says his sister: "I told him his beliefs would get him killed
one day."
Jeremy changed after the treatment, says his younger sister Alyssa. "He would just
go off about weird, random shit that made no sense." He became political, but not
in any structured way. After testing his DNA through Ancestry.com, he became
obsessed with his German heritage and began calling people "cucks," bashing
immigrants and talking about "gassing kikes." "I told Jeremy his beliefs would get
him killed one day," says Alyssa.

By early 2016, he was carrying around a dog-eared copy of Mein Kampf. Alyssa
suspected the political climate was shaping his newfound beliefs. "I don't want to
blame Trump, but he had an influence," she says, recalling her brother excitedly
donning his MAGA hat before a Trump rally in January. "Growing up, Jeremy had
friends of all different races. But when Trump started spewing all that cancerous
bullshit about immigrants, Jeremy started saying he hated black people and
Mexicans."

A few months after the rally, Jeremy joined Atomwaffen's Skype group, where he met
Andrew. They were different from some of the other recruits, says a former member.
"They were more mainstream . . . more like normies." By the fall, they were best
friends. The two shared a love of guns, and a common language. "Just meme-ing,"
they'd say if anyone challenged them. "They used to get drunk and use axes to chop
apart mattresses," says one of Jeremy's friends.

On September 18th, 2016, Andrew texted Jeremy, "Odin really wants this done," later
adding, "Would be lit if we both got on CCTV." They were planning the next
Atomwaffen stickercaust. Around that time, posters demonizing Jews had sprung up on
the campus of UC Berkeley. Swastikas were scrawled on a dry-erase board at San Jose
State. At the University of North Carolina, Charlotte, a student hung a Nazi flag
in his dorm window. A month before the 2016 election, Andrew and Jeremy distributed
a stack of fliers featuring Atomwaffen's growing stock of propaganda – no kikes no
fags no niggers, and do not be fooled by jewish lies! – around Boston's Suffolk
University campus. "Brandon thought the stickers were important because they made
people scared," one Florida-based Atomwaffen member told me. "But it also brought
attention to the group."

Devon during an interview with police after the murders.

A few days after Trump's election, an Iron March user started a lengthy thread
questioning the seriousness of their efforts: "Are we larping?" he asked. The
answer, almost resoundingly, was this is not role-play. Bomb-making manuals were
making their way through the encrypted networks. In the shadowy realm where online
braggadocio might become real-life action – including detailed planning for the
August 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesvile, Virginia – there were
discussions about which "fashy" group might be most effective: Atomwaffen was now
one of several neo-fascist youth organizations, including Identity Evropa, the
Traditionalist Worker Party, and American Vanguard, competing for members and
attention, often in extreme ways. Atomwaffen, though, as one person noted, had
"zero standards." He'd been in contact with an Atomwaffen recruiter in Michigan, he
wrote, who put him in touch with a more senior member for vetting. "And that guy
was a White Muslim."

Most people saw Devon's embrace of Islam, which occurred in early 2016, as a phase.
It had been something of a trend in their circle, according to friends from
Minecraft. Two other gamers who also became Muslims ("They did it for pussy," says
one online friend) were instrumental in bringing Devon to Allah, though "Devon had
a weird religion at first," says his friend Qaysar, who also converted, at Devon's
urging. "It wasn't true Islam. It was more [about] idealizing the prophet Muhammad
as a white Aryan. . . . You know, Muhammad as an ideal male form."

Brandon, meanwhile, had joined the Florida National Guard. White-supremacist and
neo-Nazi groups encourage their members to join the military, notes Matthew
Kennard, author of Irregular Army, seeing it as free training for the "RaHoWa" –
racial holy war. Brandon had penned long blog posts on the need for military and
survivalist training. In June 2016, he emerged from boot camp "different," recalls
a longtime friend. The two hadn't spoken much during the previous year, but by the
time they reconnected that summer, Brandon had taken to playing World War II-era
martial music in his car and wearing a T-shirt that read Auschwitzland in Walt
Disney script. He also seemed consumed with Atomwaffen, though "as far as I was
concerned, it was just Brandon and a bunch of edgy teenagers taking themselves too
seriously on the Internet," the friend says. "Maybe I should have taken it more
seriously."

The friend blamed Devon. "I told Brandon to stay away from him," he says. The first
time they met, he recalls, they'd been driving around Tampa listening to music,
"and I put on a rap song and Devon flipped out and started screaming at me that I
was a degenerate." Devon's increasingly vocal support of Islamic extremism irked
the Iron March community, and he was eventually banned from the board. But Brandon
stuck by him. The two had a strange codependency. Brandon treated Devon almost like
his pet, leaving him $20 each morning, but also, at times, withholding his money,
or food, as a form of discipline. "I think it was a power trip for Brandon," one
acquaintance says. "It was a really toxic friendship," says another.

A few weeks after the stickercaust at Suffolk, in October 2016, Brandon and Devon
went to Boston. It was the first time that Andrew and Jeremy, the "Boston cell,"
would meet both Atomwaffen founders in person. "This should be epic," Jeremy texted
Andrew in anticipation. They were planning a hiking trip in the White Mountains,
with plenty of Knob Creek whiskey. "Devon will embrace the haram," Andrew joked.

The two Floridians had driven up to Boston in Brandon's Dodge Nitro and were
staying at the apartment Jeremy shared with his sisters. Unaware she'd be having
houseguests, Alyssa was shocked to find them camped out in a bedroom. Devon was
lying under a stack of blankets. "I'm an autist!" he said, several times. He called
her a "dumpster slut."
"You know the Holocaust never happened," Brandon told Alyssa, who recalls that he
wore his military fatigues. The two men had scrawled swastikas on the walls with a
fire extinguisher. "Please just get them out of the house," Alyssa begged her
brother. "I don't want them here."

Over the next few days, the behavior didn't let up. "It was very obvious that they
were mentally unstable people," said a friend of Jeremy's who'd given the guys
a ride home from the city one day. "Brandon and Devon were, like, bouncing up and
down in the back seat of my car screaming at each other. It was just weird, weird,
weird."

It was easy to dismiss Brandon, with his slow Bahamian accent, as "dumb and
awkward," as Jeremy's girlfriend, Katie, who asked not to use her real name, did at
first. He once mistook a cat for a raccoon. At a Halloween party Jeremy brought him
to, "he shat on normies' toothbrushes," he later told Andrew. "For no reason." To
adults, he was polite, with a firm handshake and an ability to look people directly
in the eyes. "He's a charming bullshit artist," says Alan Arthurs, who assumed
Brandon was his son's age, as he seemed to surround himself with teenagers.

It was intentional, Brandon noted on Iron March; recruiting the youngest national
socialists he could find was a way to "weed out spooks." Andrew and Jeremy
sometimes called him "Daddy." The power was addictive. "I think Brandon could have
believed anything as long as it got him followers," says Katie. "He knows what
people want to engage with, and he mirrors it. He's really good at manipulating
people."

Participants at one of Atomwaffen Division’s “Hate Camp” training sessions. At

least five murders have been associated with the neo-Nazi group in the past year.
By the time he joined Atomwaffen, Jeremy had attempted suicide three times in two
years: overdosing on pills twice and slitting his wrist. So it was particularly
resonant when, just after New Year's in 2017, a person who identified himself as
Brandon's father called to tell Jeremy that Brandon had tried to kill himself and
was on life support. Jeremy, who had himself been on life support after one suicide
attempt, texted Katie that he might never see Brandon again. "This is such FUCKING
SHIT," he said, crying.

For months, Brandon had been urging Jeremy to come to Florida. It'll be great, he
promised him repeatedly. Brandon would be in school part of the time, or at
National Guard formation, but there would still be plenty of opportunities to meme,
explore the Ocala National Forest and shoot guns at the range. Jeremy might even be
able to buy the Tek-9 he'd wanted. (Brandon himself would reportedly purchase a
Tek-9 from the back of someone's car in a Walmart parking lot.) Jeremy, perpetually
strapped for cash, would never commit. Now, believing his friend was near death, he
rushed to book a flight.

That night, Brandon called and said he was fine; he had asked a friend to pose as
his father. "It was a joke," Jeremy told his girlfriend. "What the actual fuck."
But there was no canceling his ticket: His flight left the next afternoon. Katie
saw it as a callous act of manipulation on Brandon's part. "I can't believe you're
still going down to see them after this," she told Jeremy.

"You don't understand," he said. "They're my brothers."

Andrew joined Jeremy in Florida, but within a week the two were on an Amtrak train
back home. Brandon, as it turned out, was living in a run-down apartment just off
campus, and was almost never home. Jeremy had been "cleaning up the mess Devon left
in Brandon's apartment," he told Katie a few days after arriving. "Clothes, trash,
food . . ."
Jeremy moved back into the "meme-shack," as he called his apartment in Walpole, and
was downing up to a half bottle of vodka a day. He had new roommates who hated his
politics and made him sleep in the basement. "It was like a dungeon," says Alyssa.
Triggering normies, as he called it, wasn't as much fun now that Trump was actually
the president. Bostonians glared at his Trump hat and called him a racist. On Super
Bowl Sunday, a couple of revelers stole his white MAGA hat and stomped all over it.
The police, he told Andrew, "didn't do shit." Jeremy hated Massachusetts, he said,
"almost as much as Florida."

In March, after fighting with his roommates, he was ordered to move out. "I should
hang myself, tbh," he texted Andrew. That evening, Jeremy tied a noose around a
beam, downed some vodka and then, crying, called his girlfriend, who took him to
the hospital. While he was recuperating, Katie says, he had a revelation about
Atomwaffen. "It was really a wake-up call for him, and he realized he had to change
his life. "

Andrew had come to the same decision, or at least it appeared that way. "I know my
beliefs have caused me problems," he told Walt and Chris one afternoon early in
March. His mother stopped unpacking the groceries on the counter, stunned. "I
honestly didn't think I'd hear Andrew say something like that until he was 30," she
says.

Both Andrew and Jeremy dedicated themselves to change. Jeremy stopped drinking and
moved in with Katie. He talked about joining the military.

"Just lose like 45 lbs my man," Andrew texted.

They stayed out of Atomwaffen's group chats, or tried to. An influx of new members
had begun to take conversations in a darker and more radical direction, often led
by a Texan who called himself "Rape." Brandon, as leader, tried to keep the peace,
though he never disavowed anyone. When a rumor spread last April that an Atomwaffen
member had spoken to the FBI, Jeremy panicked. Andrew wasn't as worried. "We've
been out of it all for a long time now," he said. "I'll cut contact with Brandon."

"Block him," Jeremy said. "I'm done with him."

But Jeremy seemed to find it impossible to truly cut ties with Brandon, who
appeared desperate for him to return to Florida. Katie suspected the Atomwaffen
founder had got in Jeremy's head. Out of nowhere, "Jeremy started saying how
pathetic he was for living with me, and that he isn't a real man," Katie says.
Jeremy told Andrew he was miserable. "I just want out," he said, and floated the
idea of them both leaving Boston. "We could always go [au]tism in Florida [for] 3
months," he texted, "rent free."

"Hopefully it never comes to Florida," Andrew said. "I'll live in Alaska in a

homeless camp first."

But Jeremy pushed. He needed Atomwaffen in a way – it was, for better or worse, his
community. And Brandon told him he had fancy new digs. "He literally got a condo
for us," Jeremy texted Andrew. "Apparently [it's] massive. Pool jacuzzi a gym a
racket [b]all court. . . . You and me get to share a big meme bedroom," he added.
He sent Andrew a link to the property's website. "SO GOD DAMN SMUG."

"Fuck that's a resort," Andrew replied, but continued to waver. "I'm still
skeptical about all the shit we can get dragged into." He'd been hoping for a job
with the Appalachian Mountain Club in Maine, but at the end of April he was turned
down. Looking back, says Chris Oneschuk, "Andrew cared about Jeremy and didn't want
him to kill himself. That's why he went to Florida."
Jeremy promised Andrew this trip would be different from the last. "We're going to
make it very clear [to Brandon] that he's not to put up a single sticker when we're
there or any stupid fucking cringy AW stuff," he wrote. "We'll both lay down the
law."

Stencils found on the floor of the garage in Brandon's Tampa Bay condo.
3. Lost Boys of Atomwaffen

Nothing in Florida was as they'd been promised, though Andrew and Jeremy agreed
that at least this condo was nicer than Brandon's last place. It was a sparsely-
furnished two-bedroom littered with clothes and shoes and empty food containers. It
was also a repository of extremism. The framed photo of Timothy McVeigh was the
only decoration in Brandon's room. In the living room, where Devon slept on the
couch, Brandon had tacked up a large North Korean flag. Atomwaffen Division's
black-and-yellow banner hung over the kitchen table. An American flag was the
doormat. Each morning, Andrew and Jeremy would dust it off and put it back on the
wall; every night when they got home, it would be back on the floor. "The way
Jeremy described it, it was a house divided," says Katie. "Andrew and Jeremy versus
Brandon and Devon."

Brandon was around more than he'd been in January, but was weirder and ruder than
before, Jeremy thought. "He drives around offering homeless guys $20 to say 'The
Holocaust never happened' while he films them," Jeremy told a friend. He seemed
eager to stage another stickercaust, his Dodge Nitro littered with campus fliers
bearing slogans like Don't prepare for exams! Prepare for race war!

Devon had found a new direction. He hardly left the condo, spending his days online
or reading the Koran. He'd gone "full Islam," as one online friend later put it,
and in recent weeks had taken the name "Khalid," for the sixth-century warrior
Khalid bin al-Walid, founder of the first Islamic Caliphate. He'd also apparently
sworn allegiance to the Islamic State, consuming recruitment videos and fantasizing
about making hegira, or sacred pilgrimage, to Raqqa. Several people online wondered
if they should report him to the FBI. "We had conversations about [that]," says one
gaming friend. "But he never threatened any action, so we didn't want to ruin his
life."

It's unclear how much Andrew and Jeremy truly disavowed Atomwaffen. Given Brandon
and Devon's dedication to "edgy shit," as Jeremy put it – "that's their whole
lifestyle," he acknowledged to Andrew before the trip – why did they decide to
spend the summer in their apartment? At first, the two seemed to be trying to make
the best of it. "It's great here," Andrew told one of his friends in Massachusetts,
whom he tried to persuade to visit. "It's sunny, we can go fishing, we can go out."
But slowly the environment wore on them. Florida's heat and tropical rain were
unlike anything they'd experienced. There was also a spooky sameness to the gated
community. "It fucking sucks here," Jeremy told Katie.

Devon relentlessly tried to convert them. He railed against marijuana use one day,
condemned homosexuality the next, blamed America for ripping apart everything that
mattered to him, and talked about being part of the ummah, at one with the brothers
in Iraq or Syria or Afghanistan or Yemen or somewhere – it was all kind of a mess
in his head, but it all had meaning, somehow, and in his hyperarticulate manner, he
could ramble on for hours. "Wake up so we can leave this shithole," Jeremy texted
Andrew one morning from a different part of the condo. "Don't wanna listen to this
cuck pray for another min."

The men argued over Devon's conversion – Andrew, Jeremy told his girlfriend, was
particularly offended by Devon's embrace of ISIS. But it was his idleness that
irked them most. They deluged Devon with Craigslist postings, one of which, Andrew
pointed out, "literally says come on in and we'll put you to work." Devon remained
unemployed.

About a week after arriving in Tampa, Andrew and Jeremy were hired through a temp
agency for an $11-per-hour gig at a recycling plant. "Is Devon still driving you
crazy?" Chris asked Andrew when she called on May 17th. Yeah, Andrew said. But he
was stuck in Tampa for another week because of his temp job. Chris told him to just
come home. "I'm always starting things and then dropping them," Andrew said. "I'll
leave as soon as we're done."

But Andrew changed his mind. When Jeremy spoke to Katie on Friday, May 19th, he
said that Andrew was planning to leave Tampa on Monday. "[Andrew] truly hates
Brandon and Devon and they blatantly hate him," he said, adding with a frowning
emoji: "I'm going to miss him." He sent Katie pictures of the lizards he saw
running around the complex. That evening, just after 5 p.m., Katie texted Jeremy a
little heart. "FaceTime me?"

"I'm hanging out with Andrew and Devon rn maybe later," he replied.

"Okie," she responded. She told him she was going to take a nap.

Jeremy teased that she'd probably nap "for 7 hours." It was the last she'd ever
hear from him.

A gun found at the crime scene.

Florida has the second-largest concentration of hate groups in the country,
according to the SPLC, a number of which are located between Orlando and Tampa.
Until May 19th of last year, neither the local nor state law enforcement had ever
heard of the Atomwaffen Division. One former Florida state cop explained it as a
matter of priorities. "Neo-Nazis have been around so long, they're like wallpaper,"
he said. But there are dwindling resources for intelligence gathering, he added.
"When local intelligence officials want to know who the Nazis are, they go to the
Southern Poverty Law Center website." Federal law enforcement was also in the dark.
Following the murders in Tampa last summer, says the SPLC's Hankes, their
organization received calls from U.S. government officials asking about Atomwaffen.
"They had no idea who they were," he said.

Devon quickly confessed to killing his roommates, saying he'd shot them during an
argument about Islam. But, as recordings taken while he was in police custody
suggest, there was more to it. "I was thinking, like, how could I have done this?"
he told the detectives. "And the only thing I could rationally think was, you know,
if I hadn't done that . . . there'd be a lot more people dead than just two." He
admitted he sounded crazy, but "it's a real deal," he said. "They have a real
intent."

Brandon, who was still wearing his National Guard uniform, was interviewed by the
police at three the next morning. "Let's be candid," said one of the cops. "Your
political beliefs are more neo-Nazi-type beliefs – yes?"

"I consider myself a national socialist," Brandon responded. "Just proper terms."

The police turned the conversation to Brandon's online activity. "I've said a lot
of things on the Internet," Brandon said.

"Threats? Did you ever threaten to kill anybody?"

"Not in a non-satirical manner," he said.

"Like 'death to Jews?' " the officer asked. "You'd be joking around . . . everybody
would think that would be funny?"

"Maybe I should speak to my attorney."

Brandon was ultimately let go, as the police concluded he'd had nothing to do with
the murders. The FBI, meanwhile, was still investigating the nature of the
explosives in his garage. Hours later, a federal warrant was issued for Brandon's
arrest, charging him with possession of an unregistered destructive device and the
unlawful storage of explosive material. By then, though, he'd skipped town and was
on his way to acquiring even more weapons.

All he wanted, Brandon told the cops, was to visit his father, the deputy sheriff
in West Palm Beach. Instead, shortly after being dropped off at his condo early on
the morning of May 20th, he got in his Nitro and drove an hour south to Bradenton,
where he picked up a fellow Atomwaffen member who promptly quit his job and
withdrew his life savings of $3,000. The two made their way to a gun shop north of
Fort Lauderdale, where they legally purchased a hunting rifle and an AR-15-style
weapon with four high-capacity magazines and more than 500 rounds of ammunition.
Then they headed for the Florida Keys.

On May 21st, nearly 48 hours after the murders, Brandon's car was spotted in Key
Largo, where police arrested him in the parking lot of a Burger King. According to
a government motion, Brandon, now in FBI custody, was asked about Atomwaffen. He
ended the interview on the spot.

Five weeks after the murders, Atomwaffen launched a new website. "We are a
Revolutionary National Socialist organization centered around political activism
and the practice of an autonomous Fascist lifestyle," it announced. There was new
propaganda reflecting an almost apocalyptic worldview. fuck hope read one poster.
Rape – recently identified by ProPublica as 24-year-old Texan John Cameron Denton –
assumed a leadership role, taking Atomwaffen in an even more extreme direction. On
its new YouTube channel is footage of tactical-training sessions, known as "Hate
Camps," featuring assault-style rifles and other weapons. One member told me their
numbers ballooned after Charlottesville – ProPublica estimates they now have twice
the number of followers they had in 2015.

Since last fall, three more murders have been associated with the group. Just
before Christmas, Nicholas Giampa, a 17-year-old who followed an Atomwaffen-related
site called SiegeCulture, murdered his girlfriend's parents at their home in
Reston, Virginia. A few weeks later, in Orange County, California, Samuel Woodward,
who'd taken part in at least one Atomwaffen Hate Camp, killed his high school
friend Blaze Bernstein, who was gay and Jewish, stabbing him 20 times and burying
him in a shallow grave. Atomwaffen members reportedly championed Woodward as a "one
man gay Jew wrecking crew."

Giampa and Woodward – like the Austin bomber or the Nashville Waffle House shooter
– have been portrayed as disturbed young men with emotional "challenges." Had they
been nonwhite Muslim extremists, this would almost certainly have not been the
case, notes Pete Simi, an expert in far-right extremist movements at Chapman
University. "U.S. law enforcement and policymakers and the general public tend to
perceive right-wing extremists in ways that de-emphasize their relevance and
diminish the threat they pose," he says. "We find it more difficult to frame those
who are closely tied to the status quo as a threat."

On June 8th, 2017, Devon Arthurs was indicted for the first-degree murders of
Andrew Oneschuk and Jeremy Himmelman. He was later declared mentally ill and
incompetent to proceed and was committed to the Florida State Hospital for
psychiatric treatment. For his part, Devon saw himself as the latest in a long line
of domestic terrorists. "I'm not what people would expect to be the face of
terror," he said to police after his arrest. "I'm just a normal guy like anyone
else. So was McVeigh."

Two days after Brandon Russell was indicted on felony explosive charges, on June
7th, he was granted bond by a federal judge who was unable to find "clear and
convincing evidence" that he posed a threat. Only after an 11th-hour plea by
Justice Department officials was the judge's ruling vacated and Brandon's bond
revoked. He eventually pleaded guilty without providing any information about
Atomwaffen, and was sentenced to five years at the Coleman Federal Correctional
Institute, a low-security prison in Wildwood, Florida. The sentence was about half
of what the U.S. attorney had requested – the feds had found a "written recipe for
explosives" in Brandon's condo; they'd also intercepted a letter containing bomb-
making instructions he was trying to send to another Atomwaffen member.

A few weeks after sentencing, Brandon called Jeremy's family. He was still locked
up in county jail, awaiting his transfer. "He spoke to my sister," Alyssa told me.
"I think he wanted to grieve with us or something. He wanted her to know that
Jeremy was really happy before he died."

Daniel Costello contributed reporting for this story.

Have a tip? You can contact Rolling Stone through one of our secure drops.

More News
There Are Others Worthy of Trump’s Pardon Power
Breaking Down Robert Mueller's Newest Indictment
Dierks Bentley on Nashville Gossip, Pot Brownies and New Album 'The Mountain'
Why Can't the President Watch Porn in the White House?
Reggaeton Royalty Ivy Queen and the Noise Reflect on the Genre's Rise
All Stories
Topics: Donald Trump Nazi Long Reads
Around the Web

Asia Argento Releases Statement on Anthony Bourdain's Suicidepagesix.com

The Double Life of Anthony Bourdainnickiswift.com

Dierks Bentley's Powerful Performance at the CMT Music Awardscmt.com

Powered by ZergNet
Around the Web

Fired 'Tonight Show' Staffers File Lawsuitaol.com

Science Says This Body Type Is the Most Attractive Nownypost.com

The Untold Truth of Anthony Bourdainmashed.com

The Real-Life, Tragic Story of Matthew Perrynickiswift.com

This is Where You've Seen the Cast of 'Riverdale' Beforelooper.com

What Really Happens to Your Body When You Stop Making Lovethelist.com
Powered by ZergNet
Trending
Anthony Bourdain Dead at 61 of Apparent...

9.8
A Brief Guide to the 'Kids See Ghosts'...
9.2
Anthony Bourdain's Meal With Obama Was a...

8.1
Remembering Anthony Bourdain: The Man Who Ate...

6.9
'Game of Thrones' Prequel Pilot Ordered by...

5.9
© Rolling Stone 2018
Digital Edition
Subscribe
Give a Gift
Coverwall
Contact
Privacy Policy
Your California Privacy Rights
Your Ad Choices
Privacy Preferences
Terms of Use
Customer Service
Advertise
Confidential Tips