But for all his complaining about Republicans, he had little to do with Democratic politics here.

“Never heard his name, ever, ever, ever,” said Patty A. Sprague, the St. Clair County auditor, who has been in elective office for more than a decade. “We knew our volunteers, and he was not a part of it at all.”

A onetime high school wrestler who worked for years in construction and then ran his own home inspection business, Mr. Hodgkinson spent much of his adult life here in Belleville, a Southern Illinois community of just over 40,000 people not far from St. Louis. He lived with his wife of nearly 30 years, Suzanne, in the home with the sun awning and flowerpots, which this past week were sprouting pink flowers, on a street with a pleasant name: Rolling Hills Lane.

Cindi Clements, 59, who has known the Hodgkinsons for more than 20 years, said Mr. Hodgkinson had long been “Billy Goat Gruff” and was known for his “abruptness,” qualities that could be endearing or maddening, depending on the audience. He was known to show up at dinner parties and turn around and leave if the meal was not ready. She said Mr. Hodgkinson’s political views had taken an “extreme, fanatic” turn in 2016; while “life moved on for other people,” she said, the election had “never ended for him.”

The Hodgkinsons had no biological children, friends say, but they were licensed as foster parents for much of the time between 1990 and 2003. The Illinois Department of Children and Family Services, citing privacy rules, declined to comment on their performance. Ms. Clements said they had taken in foster children because they could not have their own.

“They were loving,” she said. “We were not blood, but they would host Christmas for all of my family.”

In 2004, the couple was featured in a newsletter published by the state, in an article about a foster daughter named Julie. Mr. Hodgkinson, who went by the nickname Tom, was sick and in the hospital on Julie’s wedding day; he insisted on leaving the hospital to walk her down the aisle. Ms. Clements said he showed up for the ceremony in a tiny brick Belleville church, entering at the last minute as 50-some heads swung around to watch a sick man in a tie and slacks hobble in.