Cheated By Death (3 page)

Arriving home, I took the steps to my loft
apartment two at a time. I changed into a dark, hooded sweatshirt
to insure anonymity, grabbed my camera, film, the zoom lens, and
started back for the health center.

I parked a couple of blocks away and hoofed
it, staying across the street and keeping well away from the
protesters. No way did I want their wrath turned on me. Then I
snapped away for nearly half an hour.

Later, I fed a sheet of photographic paper
into the enlarger grid, exposed it, then plopped it into the
developer. Agitating the tray, I watched under the orange glow of
the safelight as the image appeared: a skinny woman with stringy
hair—her mouth wide open, exposing crooked teeth, her lips curled
in an epithet. Not exactly a poster child for the right-to-life
movement.

Print after print was the same. There was a story
there and I hadn’t captured it. But I did have half a brick of
film. I’d have to go back and try again. This time I’d take photos
of the women entering the clinic, too. And maybe I could make a few
bucks from this little exercise. I knew just where to go to do it,
too.

The next
day, I called the newsroom at
The Buffalo News
. Sam Nielsen, my former schoolmate, told me
to meet him at the paper’s lobby at precisely noon. Naturally, he
was twenty minutes late.

Sam and I go way back—if you count being
taunted by Mr. Campus for being a basketball-playing geek back in
high school as going way back. Anyway, we buried the hatchet
earlier in the year when I gave him an exclusive interview after
I’d beaten up a killer in church. And he’d helped me on another
case since then, but that’s another story . . . .

Sam was now one of the best reporters on
staff and I had no qualms about pressing him for a favor.

“Hey, Resnick!” he called, entering the lobby
from an outside door.

He held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand
and a Burger King bag in the other. Though still tall and lanky,
he’d lost his dark, wavy hair. His now-balding pate shone under the
newsroom’s fluorescent lights.

“Damn,” I said. “If I’d known, you could’ve
brought me a bacon cheeseburger.”

“Get your own,” he said without rancor. He
got me a visitor’s pass and I followed him up to his office, where
he yanked out the chair and sat down at his desk. He waved a hand
at the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. “To what do I owe the
pleasure?”

“I want to show you some photos.”

He looked unimpressed. “Not a bunch of kids
at the beach or any of that crap, I hope.”

“Give me some credit.” I opened my portfolio
case and withdrew the photos, tossed them at him, just missing his
burger and fries. I scrutinized his face as he shuffled through the
ten or so prints and decided he’d probably be a pretty good poker
player.

“Not bad, but what’s with the black-and-white
shots? When are you going to enter the twenty-first century and buy
a digital camera?”

“Give me a break. Most of my stuff is
black-and-white art shots. If you buy enough of these prints, I
might be able to afford a digital camera.”

He shook his head. “What else have you
got?”

“I brought other samples, but these are the
ones that count. I want you to do a story on the pro-life
protesters at the Williamsville Women’s Health Center.”

He spread the prints out across the litter
covering his desk. “What’s the hook?”

“I think the women who go there are in
danger.”

He frowned, restacked the photos. “You’ve got
some interesting pictures here, Jeff, but you’ve got no story.”

“You mean someone needs to be shot or the
place has to be firebombed before the paper shows interest?”

He handed me the photos. “That’s about the
size of it.”

I put the pictures back in the envelope,
trying, without much success, to hide my disappointment. “Your
burger’s getting cold. Thanks for your time.” I was on my feet, and
started walking away when his voice stopped me.

“Why are these women in danger?”

I turned. “A couple of these protesters are
certifiable.”

He shook his head. “Not good enough.”

“My sister-in-law has to face these jerks
every day.”

“So hire a guard.”

“
I’m
her guard.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

How could I? Eggs and lipstick were messy and
inconvenient, but not particularly lethal.

He sipped his coffee. “This isn’t like last
time, ya know. As far as you know, there’s been vandalism, but
nothing concrete—like a dead body. I don’t see the threat.”

“Why does someone have to die to pique your
interest?”

His piercing gaze appraised me. “Okay, I get
it. This is something you feel strongly about or you wouldn’t be
here.”

I stared right back. “You’re damned
right.”

“Go to the cops, Jeff.”

“Like you, they don’t want to waste their
time until someone gets hurt. I want to prevent that.”

“Can you?”

I had no answer.

He studied me for a few moments before he
grabbed a pad and a pen, scratched down a few notes. “All right.
I’ll look into it.” He nodded toward my portfolio. “Can I hang onto
them?”

“Sure.” I handed him the envelope.

He took out the prints again, studying them.
“This guy,” he pointed, “is Robert Linden. Head of the Erie Country
Assembly of Life. He emerged as the local pro-life superstar after
the Spring of Life protests way back when. Years ago he broke away
from Operation Rescue and that ilk.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He can inflame a crowd with his rhetoric.
But we haven’t had any incidents of note in a very long time.”

I studied the photo. Dressed conservatively
in a business suit and overcoat, Linden looked like the
stereotypical fire-and-brimstone preacher. His short-cropped silver
hair stood up to the brisk wind. His expression, in a face hardened
by the years, was one of puritanical self-righteousness. The unease
in my gut swelled, telling me to pay attention.

Sam looked at his calendar. “Unless something
comes up, I can give you an hour or two on Wednesday. Would that be
okay?”

“Sure.”

“Bring your gear and a notepad. I’ll put you
to work getting names for the photos. That is, if you’re willing to
sell.”

“I’m always open to negotiation.”

On my
way home, I drove past my
father’s house. The leaden sky did nothing to enhance the shabby
little Cape Cod or the rest of the drab, lower middle-class
neighborhood.

I didn’t tell Richard or Brenda I’d been
driving past Chet’s house. I didn’t tell them about my little
photographic project, either. They had their own concerns.

But driving by on a daily basis was stupid.
What was I hoping for, anyway? To catch a glimpse of the old man?
To stake him out? Richard said he seemed to know an awful lot about
me. How?

More than once I’d been tempted to pull in
the drive, knock on the door, meet the old man—just to get it over
with. Was I too chicken-shit scared of what I might learn, or that
my anger might cause me to pick a fight with a man who could no
longer defend himself?

Perhaps the best response was to just forget
about him—as he’d forgotten about me for thirty-two long years.

I turned onto Kenmore Avenue, drove straight
home, and spent the rest of the day contemplating the situation as
I worked in the solitude of my darkroom.

“
You really
don’t have to do this. I
don’t know why I made such a fuss the other day,” Brenda said as we
pulled out of the drive the next morning, but I could tell her
bravado was all show.

“I don’t mind. It’s an excuse to get my lazy
ass out of bed. Besides, I’m on stake-out duty today. It’ll be just
like old times.”

“Old times?” she asked in disbelief. “You
worked in a stuffy old insurance office.”

“I was a field agent for almost four years,”
I reminded her. “I had my share of peeing in soup cans.”

She scowled. I don’t think she believed
me.

Like before, we pulled into a parking space
half a block from the Women’s Health Center. I turned off the
engine and we sat in silence for a few moments, studying the
picketers. A new face had appeared in the crowd. He didn’t look
like the usual pro-life advocate—more like an aging hippie or
biker. Clad in jeans and a grubby cord jacket, he had a
gray-streaked, wiry beard, and his long hair was captured in a pony
tail. His eyes burned—religious zeal or a drug-crazed glow, I
wasn’t sure which.

Getting out of the car, I placed myself
between Brenda and the protesters across the street.

“Escort,” the newcomer sneered as I walked
her to the door, turning the word into a curse.

Once Brenda was inside, I returned to my car.
As promised, I devoted the rest of the day to a half-assed
stake-out. The picketers chanted, prayed, sang, and took every
opportunity to shove leaflets at anyone who dared make eye contact.
They took turns for lunch, and I followed a couple of them to a
nearby strip mall where their converted school bus was parked. Did
they all gather at the First Gospel Church and ride in together, or
did some of them drive to the clinic on their own?

At three o’clock, I left my chilly car and
walked over to the Niagara Realty Company, the clinic’s next-door
neighbor, to warm up.

“I wish the police would arrest every one of
those bastards,” the manager, Kathy Burton, said. “They’re scaring
my clients away. Lately, most of my agents have met prospective
customers off-site to avoid the situation. Those protestors have
been hanging around for almost a month now. I’ve still got two
years left on a five-year lease. What am I supposed to do?”

“Call the cops?” I suggested.

“I have, but Bob Linden and his followers are
always careful to act within the boundaries of the law.”

Next, I spoke with Tim Davies, the heath
center’s security chief. He knew about the cars being egged and the
messages in lipstick, but no one had seen the perpetrators. The
clinic had beefed up its manpower with rent-a-cops, and had
scheduled the installation of more security cameras around the
clinic and in the parking lot by year end, but in the meantime what
could unarmed minimum-wage guys with uniforms and brass badges do
to stop violence aimed at the staff or patrons?

Right on time, I met Brenda in the health
center’s lobby. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

She smiled, but seemed edgy.

We barely got down the steps before Brenda
stopped short, distracted by a fracas across the street. Close to
tears, an elderly woman, with a halo of snowy hair framing her
drawn face, stood huddled in her drab gray topcoat, surrounded by a
crowd of protesters.

“Don’t go into that den of death! The Lord
Almighty will forgive you if you turn away—condemn the child
killers!” Bob Linden thundered.

“Leave me alone,” the woman cried, shying
away from the Reverend, who moved to block her way once again. The
other picketers clustered around her, their shrill voices
rising.

Brenda bolted across the street.

“Brenda, wait!”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Brenda hollered at Linden. “Leave this poor woman alone.”

Linden turned, vexed. “The first amendment
gives me the right to counsel anyone entering that
slaughterhouse.”

“It’s a women’s health center,” Brenda
bristled. “And the constitution does not give you the right to
hassle this lady.”

Linden straightened to his full height, and
clutched his Bible to his chest. “I am here as God’s
messenger.”

“You’re no more God’s messenger than I am,”
Brenda said.

“Brenda,” I warned, grabbing her arm to haul
her away. She shook me loose, her stance showing she was itching
for a fight.

“You make your living murdering helpless
babies,” Linden accused.

“Come on,” I grated, and tried to turn her
away, but Brenda’s and Linden’s gazes were locked—brittle anger
crackling around them like static electricity.

“I only came here to get a new prescription,”
the old woman said, looking at me with pleading blue eyes. Her
words caused Brenda to look away. She took the woman’s left arm,
while I grabbed her right, and we pushed through the circle of
bodies surrounding us, leading the old lady away from Linden and
his crowd of bullies.

“May God forgive you,” Linden shouted as we
guided the woman across the street and up the steps.

“What took you so long, boys,” I said as two
security guards opened the heavy glass doors to let us in. Behind
us the picketers started singing a hymn.

“Are you all right, hon?” Brenda asked the
elderly woman. I felt the old woman trembling under my grasp.

“Thank you for helping me. I’ve been coming
here for over twenty years. I’m afraid to come back,” she said.

“Who’s your appointment with?” Brenda
asked.

“Dr. Newcomb.”

“Forget the waiting room. I’ll get you right
in,” she said, and led the woman away.

The ineffective guards looked at me,
embarrassed. I turned aside, and took a chair to wait.

Brenda stayed with the old lady until her son
arrived to take her home. Linden and most of the protesters had
disappeared by then.

I approached my car with some trepidation,
remembering how years ago clinics down south had been firebombed.
But these protesters were a church group. Surely they wouldn’t
condone that kind of violence.

Paranoia crept closer as I gingerly opened
the driver’s door, got in, and turned the key. The engine purred. I
feigned a calm I didn’t feel as I circled back to pick up Brenda at
the center’s entrance.

“What’re you going to tell Richard?” she
said, once we were on the road and heading home.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. Let me tell him. In my own
way.”