One Dead Drag Queen (21 page)

“We need to be sure this is the same guy. Can you think of any way we could know that it was him? Your description isn’t very specific. Thieme’s tentative identification is all we have to go on.”

“I know when I grabbed him, he didn’t pull away for a few seconds. After he began hitting me, I managed to grab him. For someone who acted like he wasn’t interested, his dick sure seemed to be.”

Scott said, “Any scars, tattoos, obvious ticks?” I caught a hint of sarcasm beginning to creep into his voice.

“I don’t remember. He was sexy. I saw him taking a piss by the side of the road once. I think he was uncut.”

This was not going to be enough. “We need something positive we can use.”

“I’ll try and think of something.”

After we hung up, Scott said, “That was unhelpful.”

“Should we have asked him to come to Chicago? We can afford to put him up for the night in a hotel.”

“Do you really want to do that?” Scott asked.

“We could if we have to.”

“Do you think that’s reasonable at this time?”

“I’m not sure what’s reasonable and neither are you. You’re the one who’s going from frantically willing to spend a million dollars to see what’s at the bottom of this to being hesitant and unsure about what we should do.”

“I am restating my official position that I want to take us away from all this forever.”

“You’re going to quit pitching? I’m going to quit teaching? Are we going to hide so completely that we never see our families? Even if we did leave, we’d still be living mostly in fear. All that makes sense to you?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be safe and secure.”

“And if only one of us goes?”

“I’m not going without you.”

I began to stand up, but I felt a mild wave of dizziness. I grabbed the arm of the chair.

Scott hurried over. “Are you all right?”

“Just a little woozy. I want a night’s sleep in my own bed without fear of terrorists. Let tomorrow’s dread fend for itself.”

I called the school’s answering machine and confirmed that I would not be in for the rest of the week. I had a doctor’s note stating the need for me to rest. Scott checked the messages with the service as I got ready for bed. I turned off all the lights except the small reading lamp on my side of the bed. I usually read something every night before I fall asleep. That didn’t feel right tonight. While the wrangling we’d been doing didn’t count as an official fight, I was uncomfortable. I still needed to talk to him. One of the few bits of wisdom my parents told me that stuck was never go to sleep angry. I’ve found they were right.

I sat up in bed with my back propped up against the pillows as he finished brushing his teeth. I heard the brush rattle when he put it in the holder. He switched off the light. As he crossed the room, he was lit by the glow of the city below. Half his face and torso were in shadow. His white briefs shimmered in the silent radiance. Living at the top of a building on Lake Shore Drive means there is always light of some kind coming through the windows. I was struck as I so often am by his athletic grace and rugged beauty. He crawled into bed and sat up next to me. I took his hand.

“I respect your fears,” I began. “I don’t want my own dread to control my life. I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t see running for the rest of my life. You’re right. If we went far away for quite a while, I think people would begin to forget that we exist. The concept of a private island with a bevy of pool boys to attend to our every need has a certain charm. I just don’t think it’s realistic. I don’t think I could do it. I know I don’t want to do it.”

“I’m still scared,” Scott responded. “Every unguarded moment brings back the picture of what I saw outside that clinic. I don’t want that to be us. I wish I could stop the dreams at night. I wish I could stop the memories during the day. But bad as those feelings are, I’m more worried about you and me. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulled me closer and put his arm around me. I felt his warmth and closeness and caught the mint aroma from his toothpaste. I breathed deeply.

“I’m not sure what to do,” I said. “It feels right to be trying to stop these threats against us. Here in bed, our connection to what happened at the clinic seems more remote. We’ve got a small piece of the world to fix. We’re not safe. Someone has made threats. That note in the hospital and someone being able to get that close scares me. I think we have a very
specific person who needs to be stopped. I think we should still be questioning people.”

“Do you really believe it’s possible for us to find out who it is? Look at the all the investigating the police did.”

“But we didn’t do any.”

He said, “We aren’t more qualified than they are.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. This was different from the wrangling earlier. His sonorous voice with its slight Southern drawl murmuring through it rumbled softly into my ear. I snuggled into his shoulder and side. The hair on his chest made a wonderful nest to burrow against. I felt safe and warm and comfortable.

“I know we aren’t more qualified, but I think we have a more direct concern than the police. We’ve trusted everybody else to make us safe. We may not be able to do much, but with a little persistence and a lot of luck, we might be able to do something.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Me too.” After several moments of silence, I said, “I’m getting really sleepy.” Neither of us moved. I felt myself nodding off and my head drooping on his shoulder. That’s when my memories of returning to the scene came back. I thought of Alan Redpath lying in the hospital. The sense of fortuitous escape crept into my mind until it was overwhelming. My eyes opened. I felt my heart pound.

Scott yawned. “You okay?” he muttered.

I nodded that I was, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t had this kind of memory since my days in the marines. It was as unpleasant now as it had been then. All the helplessness and sense of simple luck ruling my life rushed back. It felt as if I were falling from a great height. I’d dreamed this more times than I’ve ever admitted to Scott. I’d be falling with all kinds of time to think about not having a parachute. About not having a net
below me. There was never anything I could do to stop the ground from rushing ever closer. Nothing that would stop the ground from being very hard. Nothing that would stop the coming of death.

I was alive only because I was too annoyed to stay and argue with a woman who was now dead. Because a little boy had dropped a ball. There was no decision I could have made, no action I could have taken, to change what had happened.

20

Morning’s discomforting light arrived far sooner than I wished. While Scott was in the shower, the phone rang. The service had a message from Angus Thieme. I called him at his hotel. His militia expert could meet us in an hour at the Breakfast Club on Hubbard Street.

I told Scott. He pulled back the shower curtain and said, “You should call McCutcheon so he can go with us.”

With some reluctance I did so. McCutcheon said he’d have the car outside in half an hour. I wondered if he was ever late or ever held up in traffic or ever anything less than perfect. I wished I trusted him more.

I showered and shaved quickly. The weather was cooler so I wore a sweater Scott had bought for me in Ireland two winters ago. He wore a University of Arizona sweatshirt.

The Breakfast Club is an amazingly pleasant place to have breakfast. If you go, try the scones. They are unimaginably good and a delightful bonus after the superior main fare.

A bald, portly figure matching Thieme’s description
stood outside on the corner. There was no line waiting on a Wednesday. We were seated immediately. Owen Harvey looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. The bottom portion of his left earlobe was oddly jagged as if it might have been cut off by an unsharpened knife or bitten through and ripped away. I had to stop myself from staring at this oddity.

After we ordered, Harvey said, “Angus says you boys are in a bit of a fix. He asked me to help you out.”

“Who do you work for?” Scott asked.

“Officially I’m a freelancer, but mostly I work for United States government agencies. If you want identification, you’re out of luck.”

Again, I was hesitant about trusting a stranger, but what could we do? Have confidence in a stranger or get no information. I didn’t see any other way out. I said, “We’re suspicious about a guy named Ken McCutcheon, who was using the name of Forandi in Bosnia. Also, if you could tell us anything else about the bombing investigation, we’d appreciate it. I was in the explosion. We’ve also been personally threatened.” Scott and I gave him details about our problem.

When we finished, Harvey said, “People employ me mostly for background information. Antiabortion protesters are one of my specialties. McCutcheon’s name has come up on the periphery of a number of my other investigations. I’ve never been able to ascertain if he’s a problem or a solution. Maybe a little of both. I’m sorry I don’t know more. I know nothing about his activities in Bosnia.”

Scott asked, “Can you tell us anything about that banquet with all those protesters in attendance?”

“I have no indication that any of them set the bomb. A lot of the fanatics started out as perfectly nice people who just got themselves in deeper. Much of the impetus has come from members of the Catholic Church, which I hasten to add,
as an institution, always condemns violence against the clinics and the workers.”

“Do you think they’re sincere?”

“I have absolutely no proof or even a slight suspicion that the Catholic Church is leading a vast conspiracy to destroy abortion clinics or murder people. The cardinals and bishops don’t go in for guns and bombs. They have enough clout by picking up the phone and talking to politicians. Violence could put that power at risk. Nor do I have any reason to believe that any of the mainstream or radical-right Protestant churches have anything to do with organizing violence.”

Scott asked, “What about the atmosphere they create that gives aid and comfort to those who do the violence?”

“All of that is politics,” Harvey replied, “not forensics. Not hard data. People can be felled by any kind of crazy idea. If I get involved in the debate between freedom of speech and death threats, I get nowhere. I stick to real facts.”

“What can you tell us?” I asked.

“I found out some information on the protesters outside the clinic. I have passed this on to the police, of course, and to Angus, who I have worked with before. We have been of benefit to each other.”

Our food arrived. We ate for a few minutes in silence. Then Harvey said, “Most of the people who protest outside the Human Services Clinic are simply good people drawn to a cause they believe in very deeply. A hard-core group of about seven were the ones who really kept it alive. Of those seven, two are known to be prone to violence. They are suspected in three clinic incidents in Florida and one in Seattle.”

“Why weren’t they targets of investigations before?” Scott asked.

“They were. The key word here is
suspected
. No one has been able to prove anything. Some of the pro-life people kill
and run. However, these folks have managed to stay above ground and beyond the reach of the law. After an incident of violence they’re the bunch that claim no responsibility. The kind who yell ‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater and claim to be innocent after so many die.”

“They can really get away with that?” Scott asked.