One Dead Drag Queen (24 page)

Just before the cops entered the building, Scott said, “I didn’t like him, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

Of course, we were questioned. When we mentioned the phone calls, connections were quickly made to the bombing. Kearn used his cell phone to call the station with the news. He also said he’d check his source to see if he knew any more.

While he called, Jantoro, the detective, showed up. After he questioned us, I asked, “Had he talked to the police about the bombing?”

“All I know is that he was in the deli, and he gave them the news about a woman named Susan Clancey.”

“How is she connected to the explosion?”

“I don’t know. He was pretty vague about how he found out about her visit.”

“He knew everybody in town who was any kind of activist. He has for years. Did he mention anything about the videotapes of the rescue efforts?”

“Not that I heard.”

“He said something about them in the message he left us. Can we find the person who knew they were taking him down and ask why?”

“Maybe,” Jantoro said. “What was the deal with the videotapes?”

“I don’t know. He could have been being mysterious or he could have known something.”

Jantoro said, “All the television stations voluntarily gave their tapes to the police. People have been going over them for several days. Nobody reported anything suspicious. I’ll have to give them a call.”

“Maybe he was overdramatizing his role,” Scott suggested. “He did that a lot, or maybe he just wanted to be on television.”

“He had a big ego,” I said, “but he wouldn’t lie.”

Kearn rejoined us. “I found a second source on the Clancey rumor. Did you know she was at a convention in Madison last weekend? Not too far to drive down for the afternoon.”

Jantoro said, “We’ll contact the organizers to see if she was actually present the entire time.”

“Myrtle Mae had dinner at Fattatuchi’s Deli,” Scott said, “but the first time we talked he told me he didn’t know anything.”

I said, “Maybe it was one of those deals where he didn’t know that he knew something. Or he saw something that cost him his life.”

“Or it was random urban violence,” Scott said. “Or a relative who wanted to inherit his money.”

“Which are also possible,” I said. “He had a companion of sorts, a John Werner.”

“We’ll try to contact him,” Jantoro said.

I used Scott’s cell phone to call the operator to get Werner’s number. He didn’t answer.

Interviews finished, for several minutes we watched nothing happen outside of Myrtle Mae’s building. The guard from McCutcheon’s firm, a man with a goatee, stood next to our car, which was illegally parked fifty feet away.

Scott asked, “Are you okay? You’ve been friends a long time.”

“I’ll miss his humor. His imitations of both Mayor Daleys were classic bits of humor. His impersonation of Republicans in the U.S. House was beyond hysterical.”

Myrtle Mae’s death was another emotional bombshell that added to my sense of physical disorientation. I needed time to sort out the horrors that had happened, but I didn’t feel I had that luxury at that moment.

I asked Kearn, “Could we get access to the videotapes from the scene of the explosion?”

“Sure, but I was planning to talk to Lyle Gibson, the leader of the protesters. He’s finally agreed to an interview. He’s insisted it be off camera. Do you two want to come along? We can get the tapes afterward if you want.”

I eagerly accepted. “On the way I’d like to check on John Werner.”

There was no answer at his condo across from North Pier. The doorman said he’d gone out several hours before.

22

Scott and I drove with Kearn. Our guard followed us in his car.

I said, “We have two names of protesters who might be dangerous, Edward Eggleston and Omega Collins.”

“I’ve got their names in a list of the protesters. What did you find out about them?”

I told him. When I finished, Kearn said, “I’ll put their names on the top of the list to interview.”

We were on the Dan Ryan Expressway going south. I said, “I’ve heard about Gibson, but I’ve never met him.”

“You must have seen him outside the clinic.”

“I always entered by the back way.”

“Big, bald fella. He always dresses in black, head to toe. He called a press conference earlier today. He claimed he was in mourning for the children who died in the explosion. He has a congregation in Park Forest in the south suburbs. I’ve been looking up his background. We’ve got a big file on him at the station. He worked hard at making sure his was
an integrated church years before the demographics of his congregation began to change.”

“How’d he get involved in the protests?”

“It seems to have been a gradual thing. His parents were in mainstream Protestant religions. Gibson attended several theology schools. Nothing enormously radical in any of them. How or why he changed to radicalism is unclear. Besides leading the protests, he’s opened his home to the itinerant demonstrators on the traveling antiabortion circuit.”

“Would he harbor a killer?”

“That has never been proven. Several years ago a suspect in one of the earlier clinic killings was reported in the Chicago area. I would find it hard to believe that the killer was being hidden in Chicago and not have contact with Gibson.”

“It sounds like these itinerant protesters leach off the poor and ignorant.”

“There’s a long history of kindness to travelers in the true Christian tradition. The movement isn’t fueled by a lot of money. These folks help each other. In a lot of ways it’s very communal in a sort of sixties, hippie way.”

I said, “I guess you gotta get your communal experience where you can.”

Scott said, “Communal living and a hippie lifestyle always struck me as being about peace, gentleness, and the summer of love.”

Kearn said, “Many of these folks are looking for a quiet and peaceful life, a simpler life.”

I said, “Except the ones who write fraudulent checks and blow other people up.”

“I’ve interviewed some of them. They aren’t inherently evil. At least the ones who aren’t trying to get their faces on the cameras. I think it’s too simple to dismiss them as right-wing dupes.”

I said, “Especially not if they’re determined to blow up the rest of us. It sounds like you’ve got some sympathy for them.”

“I’ve got sympathy for people who believe sincerely and aren’t out for themselves. The phony ones are usually obvious. Unfortunately, when they’re on camera, the station won’t let us put captions under their names like ‘hypocritical preacher’ or ‘publicity-hungry nut.’ ”

“Is that what Gibson is like?”

“I’ll let you judge for yourself. I’ll tell you this much. He ran for the Illinois House a few years ago. He ran an immaculately clean campaign. Every penny was scrupulously accounted for. He got clobbered in the primary, but at least he was honest.”

“I’ll save my sainthood medal for him until after I’ve met him.”

Scott said, “Do terrorists and heaven mix? A few of these antiabortion people do have a lot in common with the militia people.”

“I don’t understand that at all,” I said. “I can’t think of more disparate groups.”

“I disagree,” Scott said. “They want the government out of their lives except when they want it to interfere in people’s lives when somebody makes a decision they don’t like. A lot of these folks are from rural areas, but you better not take away their farm subsidies.”

I asked, “Isn’t he going to be surprised when three of us show up on his doorstep?”

“Yeah,” Kearn said. “I doubt if he’s going to confess anything to me. If he was planning that, he’d invite the entire press corps to make sure he made a colossal splash. I figure with you guys, it might get him a little off-balance. If so, maybe I’ll get something significant. I realize I’m most likely
to get a lot of self-righteous ranting from the guy. So far I’ve got nothing. I’m beginning to think this assignment is useless. I’m not going to catch an international terrorist. As long as it boosts the ratings, we’ll keep covering it.”

We exited Interstate 57 at U.S. 30. We drove past Lincoln Mall and the strip of stores between it and the Metra Tracks, which I always thought of as the dividing line between Matteson and Park Forest. We made a right on Orchard Drive, drove three blocks, and turned left. I watched for the house number as Kearn drove. We pulled up in front of a modest-sized ranch home on the south side of the street.

Gibson answered the door himself. He was medium height with an immense full beard and bristly hair in a haystack halo around half of his head. He gave a cheerful smile and held out his hand to Kearn. “I recognize you from the news.” He peered at Scott and me. “Your faces look a little familiar. Aren’t you the baseball player and his lover?” He reached out and shook our hands. So much for discomfort leading to some kind of chink in his armor. He invited us in. His voice boomed. He welcomed us profusely, offered to give us a tour. We declined. He insisted on getting us something to drink. We trooped into a spotless kitchen. I asked for water. Kearn and Scott got generic-brand, orange soft drinks. Three kids all under the age of five rushed through the kitchen into a family room beyond. They clasped hands, twirled for a few moments in a circle, then fell in a giggling heap on the ground. Gibson set his generic-brand, grape soft drink down on a high shelf and joined the kids on the floor. He listened to them carefully explain what it was they were about. He then directed their activity to a set of blocks and trains, which they fell to with alacrity. He retrieved his drink and sat down on a rust-colored ottoman. We sat on matching sofa sectional pieces.

“What can I do for you?” he asked brightly.

If the man was any more cheerful, he might become a menace to a free society.

“I’m a little uncomfortable discussing what we have to in front of the children,” Kearn said.

“Nothing you can say will hurt them,” Gibson said. “They understand the Lord’s business.”

“We want to talk about the killings at the clinic,” Kearn said.

“A tragic thing,” Gibson said.

The lack of compassion in his voice irritated me. How could he seem so cheerful? I’d certainly been in the presence of people who hated me passionately. I’d learned some degree of calm, but I felt free to say, “I was in the explosion.”

“I’m sorry.” But still cheerful. “I know you imagine we had something to do with the explosion, but let me assure you, violence is counterproductive to our efforts. Some people who are upset at the murder of the unborn have committed deplorable acts. I don’t agree with them, but I understand their anger and their frustration.”

“But you don’t seem upset by what happened.”

“The people who died are with Jesus. If I were called in the next minute, I know my soul would be ready to meet my maker. I don’t know about their immortal souls, but I always hope for the best.”

“You had a whole banquet full of possible terrorists in town,” I said. “Any one of them could have done it.”

“And the police have interviewed them. None of the people I know believe in violence. You know the obvious answer. If they were at the banquet, they couldn’t have set the bomb.”

I said, “Maybe that’s why God invented timing devices.”

“Do you know all of the people who were at the banquet?”
Scott asked. “Can you vouch that they are all incapable of violence?”