One Dead Drag Queen (16 page)

“Your buddy is right,” Kearn said. “If you’re going to ask questions, it’s better to get the information directly from the source. Good reporters know that. You don’t want someone interpreting for you. Plus, if you’re suspicious of everyone, as I think you should be, then you shouldn’t trust me either.”

“Why would he talk to us?” Scott asked.

“He’s gay and he’s sympathetic to your cause.”

“The international gay conspiracy strikes again,” I said.

“I wish I had one of those,” Kearn said. “Hell of a lot easier to get information. Have you heard they found William Portmeister in the rubble of the health club?”

“Who’s he?” I asked.

“He owns MCT. Near him they found Alderman Allen. They’d been reported missing but weren’t found until early
this morning. The two of them worked out every Saturday evening, then took their wives out to dinner, very clubby and fashionable. Two other executives from the network were there, but they were in a different part of the building. They survived.”

“Did you know any of them personally?”

“I’d met Portmeister once or twice. I didn’t know the others. The death count is over fifty now.”

I asked, “With a dead alderman, is this going to turn into something political?”

“A dead Chicago alderman?” Kearn said. “Why would someone go to all this trouble for one of them? If you wait just a little while, he’d probably be indicted for something and thrown in jail.”

“Any reason to think the health club was the target?”

“Not that I know of. It was directly across the alley from where the truck was placed. You figure if it was the target, they would have parked it closer.”

I asked, “Do you have a list of who died?”

Kearn pulled out a dog-eared piece of paper and handed it to me. “I haven’t had time to check many of these people out. We’re starting to get data released to the media on some of the victims. A lot of this is going to start appearing in the paper. I know the three women at the top of the list were in the clinic. All were pregnant. They were in a waiting room. They’re all dead.”

I shook my head. I was still leaning on Scott. Seeing this scroll of the dead renewed my feeling of vulnerability. I looked for Susan Clancey’s name. It wasn’t there.

“Do you know who Susan Clancey is?” I asked him.

“A woman who performs late-term abortions. What about her?”

“We heard a rumor that she was supposed to be in town on Saturday.”

“I haven’t heard a word. Nothing has been on the wires about her. Thanks for the tip.” Kearn pointed at the paper he’d given me. “I should have these lists earlier than most people. Call me periodically, and I’ll update you. I gave Scott my pager number.”

Scott asked, “Have you managed to get an interview with that Lyle Gibson, the head of the clinic protesters?”

“I’m still working on it. He’s usually eager to get as much publicity as possible.”

Kearn pulled us slightly farther down the street away from McCutcheon. As he handed us another slip of paper, he lowered his voice. “This is the name of the reporter who knew McCutcheon in Bosnia. You need to call him. I get uneasy every time I see you guys with him. You better check this out first.”

Scott looked hesitant. I took the paper and nodded. I asked, “Would it be possible to view the videotape that you got that night? I want to see everything I can about what happened. Looking at the video will give me more of a sense of reality. In some ways I feel disconnected, because I didn’t actually experience what happened. I’ve seen the aftermath. Maybe the tape will give me a clue. I might recognize someone or something out of place.”

“Sure, I can arrange it.”

I said, “You know, I appreciate all your help, but I’ve been wanting to ask something.” Kearn nodded. “One thing I don’t get from what Scott told me is you deciding to investigate. Are your bosses urging you to? How can you expect to succeed when all these police officers are working on the case?”

“It isn’t a question of absolutely succeeding. It’s more I’ve
been permanently assigned to the story and given time and staff to develop any lead I can. Sure, I’d like to find the killer. I think I’m more likely to advance my career because of this explosion. I hope my being blatant about my ambition doesn’t annoy you. My goal for now is to insinuate myself into any parts of this investigation that I can. If I get leads, I follow them. If I get cops to talk to me, I’m lucky. I’m not going to be like most of these drones sitting at press conferences called by spokespeople for the police where reporters ask repetitious and silly questions.”

Scott said, “Sunday morning you sounded ready to quit being a reporter.”

“I still might. If I can, I want to put a human face to this tragedy—real stories about real people. At the same time, if I stay in this career, this is the biggest thing I may ever cover. I don’t have any illusion that I’ll solve the case, but I do recognize the fact that we make our own luck. I’m just as likely to find out who did it as you are.”

Scott asked, “You aren’t worried it might be dangerous if you actually did find the killer?”

“Maybe I’m too confident or too naive or too ambitious. I’ll try to avoid hubris, but not to the exclusion of getting the story.”

Scott said, “Maybe you’d feel different if you’d been personally threatened like we have.”

“Do you have proof the bombing is connected to the threats against you?”

“No,” Scott said.

“If you get any, please let me know.”

“Why are you willing to help us?” I asked.

“I told your lover, random chance could break in my favor. I’ve got you talking to me. I’ll take any lead and any chance. Plus, Scott still has some value as a person to be
interviewed as one of the rescuers. He’s famous so he’s part of the story.”

I said, “Like you, we’re going to do whatever little bit makes sense. You think you’re using us, but we’re using you as well. I suspect we’ll get more from you than the reverse.”

“If we’re lucky, it will be mutual,” Kearn said. “I don’t think you should get your hopes up.”

I said, “My hopes aren’t up. I realize the impossibility of what I want to do, but if I don’t try, then I’ll never know what I could have accomplished.”

Kearn wished us luck and reminded us to keep in touch. As we turned to go, McCutcheon shouted at us. He rushed forward and shoved Scott and me aside. Kearn jumped into the street. A black Mercedes with tinted windows ran halfway up onto the curb. It missed Scott’s left foot by a yard, and Kearn’s bent-over form by only a few inches. The car crushed a no-parking sign, of which there are all too many on the near west and north sides of Chicago. I never saw the brake lights flash on as the Mercedes rushed away from us.

We got up and dusted ourselves off. It had happened too fast for any of us to get the license number of the car.

Scott asked, “Was that aimed at us or simply an accident?”

Kearn asked, “And which of us was it aimed at?”

I said, “Hard to tell. Whoever it is has enough money to afford an expensive car.”

“And tinted windows,” Scott added.

“Which are illegal in Chicago,” McCutcheon said.

“They are?” Scott asked.

“Yep,” McCutcheon said.

Kearn asked, “Do you have any specific idea of who would be after you?”

“We don’t have a clue at the moment,” I said. “Staring at
where the car disappeared won’t get us anywhere.” They turned to look at me. “We’ve got a lot of work left to do. Thanks for your help so far. You’ve helped us, we’ll try to help you. We’ll talk again.”

We agreed to that and parted.

“Another in a long string of coincidences?” I asked the two of them.

“I think so,” McCutcheon said.

I thought he spoke much too quickly and much too confidently.

15

We used Scott’s cell phone to call Angus Thieme, Kearn’s reporter contact. He wasn’t in his hotel room. We called his news affiliate in Chicago. Scott used his name and fame to get through the layers of secretaries and flunkies. I told Scott to set up the meeting in Thieme’s hotel room.

“Why his hotel room?” Scott asked after he hung up.

“We’re investigating our guard. We can leave him down-stairs in the hotel and go up to the room ourselves, and if necessary, we can ditch him afterward.”

Scott said, “I think the argument still applies. If he’s one of the people trying to kill you, me, or both of us, he’s had plenty of chances. If he’s keeping track of us for some obscure reason, another hour or so of him hanging around can’t make that much difference. If he’s innocent, we haven’t lost anything.”

McCutcheon drove us to the Marriott on Michigan Avenue. McCutcheon made no demur as we left him in the lobby and proceeded up to the twentieth floor.

Angus Thieme was a bear of a man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was over six feet tall with a snowy white beard that connected to the fringe of hair encircling his bald head. He wore a khaki jacket over khaki pants and a blue shirt. He offered us bourbon and we declined, but he took half a glassful.

He grinned at us as we sat down. “I don’t usually get these high-class rooms. I’m used to being on the road in very un-pleasant hovels. I’ve slept outdoors more than I care to admit. I can always tell a hotel that thinks it’s high-class. You get an iron and an ironing board in your room. First thing I always think of when I show up in town, what is it that I have to iron?” Abruptly, he changed topics. “You’ve made a lot of news this year. How are you both doing?”

“It’s been like a circus,” Scott said.

“News reporting can be like that,” Thieme said, “but you seem to have handled it well.”

“As good as we could,” I said.

Thieme said, “Sensible answer.”

I said, “Brandon Kearn told us you had some information for us. We’re not sure if we can trust him.”

He shrugged. “As much as any reporter. I’ve heard of him, which is a little odd for someone not on a national network, although Chicago is a pretty big market. He’s very ambitious and out for himself, but he’s been extremely helpful on several projects I was working on. The kid has great instincts. If he isn’t blinded by the cameras, he could become a good reporter someday. Still, I’d love to shave that cemented hair completely off. I have a suspicion that his relentless ambition is a cover for a soft interior. I like him, and he asked me to help you out.”

I said, “We appreciate anything you can tell us.”

“You’ve heard the rumor about the secret terrorist cell,
Tools of Satan, being the target and not the clinic?”

“Is anybody taking that seriously?” I asked.

“It’s hard to discount anything in a catastrophe of this magnitude and complexity.”

“It’s from the Internet,” I said. “Who believes anything on there?”

“No one with a modicum of sense, but the idea won’t go away. It keeps picking up steam. I’ve been running around for hours trying to find a shred of evidence. Haven’t gotten any yet.”

I asked, “What do you know about Ken McCutcheon?”

Thieme said, “I’ve got five people to interview this afternoon so I’ll make this quick. You might think of ditching your guard.”

“You need to tell us why,” Scott said.

“I knew him in Bosnia five years ago. He was practically just a kid. He was not using the name McCutcheon. Yesterday, I saw him in the background in one of the stories about your truck being blown up. Rumors in Bosnia said he was connected with the militia movements here.”