One Dead Drag Queen (7 page)

Each time, just before I felt myself finally drifting off to sleep, I’d get flashes of the terror I had witnessed hours before. I don’t remember falling asleep. I woke after maybe three hours in the middle of a nightmare of torn and bleeding people reaching out charred hands for help. The nightmare images still swirling in my mind boded ill for the healing power of sleep. The waking memory of the reality I had seen was equally as frightening.

I tossed and turned for another hour, vainly trying to nod off again. In addition to the restlessness from the chaos and the fear of the last few hours, I missed Tom’s sleeping next to me. I know I’m on the road half the spring and summer without him, but even then I miss him. When he’s supposed to be there and he’s not, I don’t feel right.

I called the hospital. There was no change in Tom’s condition. I turned on the noon news on MCT. They had extensive coverage of the bombing. The number of dead was up to thirty-four: fourteen in the clinic, five in the deli, four in a
residential hotel, four in a twenty-four-hour print shop, three in the health club, three passersby, and one person working late in his upscale office on a Saturday night. Hundreds more were injured. They showed extensive pictures of the children injured in the ice cream shop next to the Fattatuchis’ deli. I felt especially sorry for the parents clutching frightened kids, the bright lights and cameras intruding on their suffering. I wished I could comfort the little ones in some way.

Since so many people had died in the other venues, it was not officially decided that the clinic had been the target of the bombing. No group had called to take credit for the explosions. The reporter made much of the fact that last night there had been a banquet in Chicago honoring antiabortion protesters. Most of the prominent names in the movement had been in town, and all were being questioned.

My name was mentioned as one of the rescue workers, and as part of the speculation about why this had been done. Also discussed was Tom’s truck being blown up and what possible connection that could have to the earlier bombings. The reporter on the scene claimed that the device in Tom’s truck had been a limpet mine. I had no idea what that meant.

I saw Brandon Kearn being interviewed. Someone had gotten him a new blazer, his hair was cemented back in place, and he’d had a chance to clean up. Numerous close-ups showed his stitches prominently.

The last person interviewed was Lyle Gibson. He was the leader of the protesters from outside the clinic. He said, “My organization abhors violence, but those who murder children can hardly expect to avoid the consequences . . .” I turned it off. I didn’t want to listen to disclaimers designed to keep people from getting arrested for incitement to murder rather than being true expressions of sorrow and regret.

My press agent called. He burbled with excitement:
“Think about it. What more positive image for gay people than that of you heroically rescuing someone at one of the biggest disasters in urban history? You were there and helping. There’s all kinds of pictures of you being shown on the all-news stations.”

“I don’t really care.”

He blathered on, “I’ve got requests for interviews from half a dozen major news outlets so far. I’m sure there’ll be more. You could really cash in on—”

I spoke over his excitement, “Later, if there is a fundraiser to help the injured children, I’d be happy to be part of it. Right now my concern is my lover being unconscious in the hospital. I’ll call you.” And I hung up.

I called McCutcheon’s private number at home. He didn’t sound sleepy.

I said, “I’d like to try and get some answers from the police about what happened.”

“Like what?”

“Like everything. What happened, why, who did it, and if it’s connected to Tom and me.”

“I can try and call a friend in the department, or we can try and talk to the cop from last night.”

“I’d like to try both.”

An hour later, after I’d eaten, McCutcheon brought over Clayton Pulver. Pulver was in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore his hair slightly over his ears, and he had a mustache. He wore scuffed cowboy boots, faded black jeans, and a red and pink thunder-and-lightning western shirt.

McCutcheon explained, “Clayton’s in a tactical unit. He hears things.”

The tactical units in Chicago are cops in casual dress.
They are involved in basic anticrime work, such as setting up narcotics stings. They are the ultimate street cops with the toughness, street smarts, pride, and bluster that come from dealing with the darkest side of police work.

Pulver sprawled his skinny frame onto one of the white couches. He placed his right ankle on his left knee. McCutcheon sat on the arm of the couch. I was in a chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows with the John Hancock building in the background.

Pulver said first, “I like the way you pitch. Took balls to walk out on the mound with all the pressure.” His flat Midwestern tones contrasted with his down-on-the-ranch outfit.

“Thanks,” I said simply.

He entwined his fingers and placed them behind his head. His eyes swept around the penthouse. “Hell of a place you got.”

McCutcheon said, “Clayton, get on with it. What do you know about the bombing?”

Pulver grinned. His teeth were sparkling white. “I’ll tell you what I can because I owe Kenny here a big favor. I don’t like talking outside the department.”

I nodded. “I appreciate whatever you can tell me.” I’d never heard anyone call McCutcheon “Kenny.” His employees always referred to him as Mr. McCutcheon.

Pulver rubbed his narrow fingers on his pants. “Have you heard the best rumor yet? This one’s been on the Internet since a few minutes after the explosion.”

McCutcheon said, “If it’s on the Internet, it must be an absolute crock.”

“Yeah, but you get the most fun out of the Internet in a tragedy like this. It’s like the court jester in a Shakespearean tragedy.”

“Pulver?” McCutcheon added exasperation to his tone.

“The Internet rumor is that the bombing had nothing to do with the clinic. That, in fact, across the alley from the clinic there was a secret terrorist cell called the Tools of Satan with headquarters in one of those residential hotels that was destroyed. At that point the theory gets muddled. One idea is that the terrorists accidentally blew themselves away. Another is that a rival group of terrorists decided to strike against them. Supposedly no one would suspect it was a simple act of murder. Everyone would think the attack was aimed at the clinic.”

I asked, “Has anyone confirmed the existence of a terrorist hiding place?”

“Not a smidgen of fact to the rumor, so far. That’s the best kind of thing to get on the Internet. Something faintly plausible and absolutely undeniable.”

“I’m ready to discount it,” McCutcheon said.

“Everybody pretty much does. That’s the beauty of that kind of rumor. It could be true. And it’s even better if it’s denied by the police because someone will find some occupant of the area who has a third cousin living in the Middle East. Said cousin is probably a grocery clerk in Tunisia who has a brother-in-law who was in the Libyan army thirty years ago. That person will make half-baked claims that officials will scoff at.” Pulver snapped his fingers. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”

“Pulver,” McCutcheon said, “can we just get on with it?”

“Okay. I called a few people. Here’s the deal. The bomb in your friend’s car is throwing the investigation off somewhat. Bomb the clinic, second bomb to kill rescue workers, that’s happened in a number of these. Why a third bomb? Why your lover’s truck? It was in the clinic’s lot. Might have been a fluke, or of course, someone could have known it was his specifically. Terrorizing abortion clinics isn’t big news,
although killing that many people at a clinic is a record. One big problem is nobody knows how you fit in.”

“I’ve gotten several zillion death threats.”

“But not in connection with an abortion clinic. If somebody does bomb one of these places, it’s most likely a political statement. I know everybody expects this to be a right-wing conspiracy. These organizations aren’t shy about taking credit. Half the time that’s the point. But we don’t have that here. No one’s called to claim responsibility.” Pulver shook his head. “Kenny told me about the threat you got last night. No one knows how significant it is. It might have been a coincidence. A lot of people don’t like you, and you’re one of the most recognized people in the city.”

“Ken and I have been through all that speculation.”

Pulver resumed, “I heard it was a limpet mine that got your buddy’s truck.”

“That means nothing to me.”

“It gets set off by vibrations. Normally it wouldn’t have blown until someone got in the car and started the engine, but the two el trains passing at the same time caused just enough movement to set it off.”

“I would have been killed.”

“Yep. It wasn’t set for blowing up the car on a timing device. Death was the goal, not just destruction. That’s the bit that indicates it was more personal rather than political. I think it’s highly unlikely the bomber or bombers used that kind of explosive device because it was the only one he could get.”

“Maybe he got a deal,” McCutcheon said. “Buy three rockets, two mortars, and you get this limpet mine thrown in for free.”

Pulver said, “And maybe a lower interest rate on his payments,
which he doesn’t have to make until next year. Or a frequent-terrorist discount.”

Their attempts at sarcasm were more humor than I was in the mood for.

“What else?” I asked.

“The bomber knew what he was doing and planned well.” Pulver leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. He held my gaze for several moments, then said, “Lots of people are going to be asking you questions about this. Kenny’s a friend and I’m in your corner. I think it would help if we went over you and your friend’s movements the last few days.”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“Nope.”

“How could I know anything?”

“You probably don’t, but if someone is specifically after you, then maybe you’ll give me a hint that will begin helping us get to the bottom of this.”

“But I couldn’t possibly be involved.”

“Somebody had a lot of other cars to choose from last night. Your buddy’s truck got bombed. If it means anything beyond random chance, we’ve got to ask.”

It seemed pointless to me, but I went ahead and gave him a detailed account of my movements the day before.

When I finished, Pulver shook his head. “Somebody’d have to be watching you both awful close and be awful lucky to be able to plant that bomb on such short notice in Mason’s truck. That’s presuming all three bombings had something to do with you.”

“Could they have?”

“Anything’s possible.” At least Pulver didn’t sound as dismissive as Jantoro had the night before.

“Who’d be willing to go to such great lengths to hurt me and Tom?”

“Do you read your own press coverage?” Pulver asked.

“Okay, stupid question. Sorry.”

Pulver continued, “But why wait until last night to go to those lengths? And why kill all those other people? Venting anger at you by hurting your lover makes some sense, not killing all those other people as well.” Pulver shook his head. “I don’t think it was
all
about you. I’m just not sure it wasn’t somehow about you. Putting the bomb in Mason’s truck specifically makes things complicated and awkward. Your killer has to realize he was there, find the truck, get the bomb—”

I interrupted, “Unless they followed him from home.”

“How would they know he was going out? If they knew where you lived, why did they wait until this time when he went out? It’s too much coincidence. We need a lot more information before being able to say anything for sure.”

“Do the police have any clues at all?”

“Tons of them literally. The main explosion was a truck bomb, big goddamn thing. They’re trying to assemble parts of the vehicle that they think contained the bomb to try and determine the manufacturer and ownership. That stuff could also tell them about the nature of the blast, and they might find traces of chemical residue for analysis. They’ll probably be examining what’s left of that block for weeks. Every piece of debris will be carefully sifted. They’re talking to the survivors. They’ve got hundreds of possible witnesses, and they’re trying to pin down the movements of anybody who was around that block.”

“What about all those prominent protesters being in town?”

“Cops don’t like coincidences. All those people have the
alibi of having been at the dinner, but one of them could have parked the truck and strolled over.”

I said, “Someone must have seen a truck with that much explosive.”

“If they’ve found out something from witnesses, I haven’t heard about it. With that much destruction, I was told the bomber would need at least a thousand pounds of explosives. They’re also going through the background of every person who had a business on that block, of every employee of all the shops, all the residents, and of course, of every person who was killed. So far nothing has come up.”

“They had Timothy McVeigh within a few hours,” I said. “They had a reason to question that Eric Robert Rudolph, in those bombings in the South, in less than a day. It didn’t take them long to identify the suspects who shot those doctors at the abortion clinics.”