One Dead Drag Queen (27 page)

Scott began a biblical discussion that sounded like a repeat of the one we had with the Reverend Mr. Gibson. Useless as I thought it was, I didn’t stop him. They both spoke softly but dogmatically. I’d rather have anvils dropped on my head than listen to the two of them. When a significant pause for mutual respect occurred, I asked, “Do you know where Mr. Eggleston is?”

“He left town the day after the explosion. I believe he’s organizing some demonstrations in Seattle.”

“Why wouldn’t Gibson tell us that?”

“You’d have to ask him.” She knew nothing or was un-willing to tell us anything helpful about the bombing.

Out in the car Scott said, “That was unsettling.”

“How so?”

“I wish these people would rant and spew hatred. It would make it a lot easier to hate them back.”

“Life can be ambiguous like that.”

At home the answering service had a message from Gloria Dellios. She wanted to meet us at her apartment. It was getting totally annoying by this time waiting for a security guard to show up before we could go anyplace. I’m not sure
what real good they did. Anybody with a high-powered rifle a couple hundred yards away could probably kill us both in a matter of seconds before any guard could react. I figured it wasn’t time to start that argument again.

Gloria Dellios opened her apartment door. She looked as pale and drawn as the last time we’d met. Another woman was in the room. Dellios introduced us to Susan Clancey, the late-term-abortion doctor.

Susan Clancey was what used to be called a full-figured woman. Her imposing heft was augmented by her being nearly six feet tall. With her silver spectacles and gray hair cut in soft feathers, she could have been anybody’s grandmother.

After we were seated, Clancey began, “We wanted to find out what the police know. Gloria thought you might have a contact with the police, the press, or both who were working on the case.” Her voice was pleasantly modulated.

Scott said, “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

“We know. I’m not sure what to do.”

“You’re not a suspect,” I said. “It’s your coming to town that might have made a difference. If people knew about it, then it could be significant.”

“I’m afraid I let it slip while I was in Madison. Several members of the right wing had infiltrated the convention.”

“Do you know who?”

“No.”

“Why not tell this to the police?”

“I want to, but I want to do it carefully. I don’t want more controversy attached to my name.”

“Is that realistic?” I asked. “Won’t you be controversial wherever you go for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t really think someone would bomb that whole area to kill one person. That doesn’t make sense. I may be an object of hatred, but if you’ve got the expertise to make a bomb, you’ve got the wherewithal to buy a high-powered rifle and take a shot at me.”

Dellios said, “Another problem is that the clinic owners have expressly forbidden us to perform the late-term procedures. They were afraid of even more protests and negative publicity. I arranged for Dr. Clancey to come to town on my own. My sister needed the procedure done. She’s had a lot of medical complications with the latest pregnancy. She will probably die without the procedure.” Dellios’s voice trailed off as she finished, “She has enough kids already.”

“I was not aware of those rules,” Clancey said. “I came to town in good faith.”

“Why did you want to see us?” Scott asked.

“If people think I was at the clinic, they may blame me for getting all those people killed. The right-wing crazies will claim it’s my fault for coming to town.”

I said, “You know what they say is ludicrous. Why give credence to their raving?”

“It’s perception as much as anything. And I was there. Gloria and I left together. I haven’t told anyone that I was part of the explosion.”

“Why not?”

Dellios said, “I received a bomb threat minutes after Susan arrived.”

“You knew and you didn’t order an evacuation?” I found it hard to breathe. I tried to stand up, but found myself dizzier than when I’d woke up in the hospital. In seconds Scott was at my side and helping me to sit back down.

Dellios said, “You must understand, we get hundreds of those kinds of calls a year. The call came directly into my
private line. I figured someone was using it for harassment purposes. We have those metal detectors. We inspect all packages and purses. No one could bring anything in. I didn’t expect something like this. How could anyone?”

“How would you know what to expect?” I asked. “This is criminally negligent.”

“It seemed like just another threat. I thought of simply logging it in with the others. I decided to get Susan out of the building. I thought about her first.”

“We’re lovers,” Clancey said. “When I discovered that she got me out to keep me safe, I was angry as well. I was the one who insisted we go back in and warn everyone. We were on our way when the explosion occurred. The delay was less than five minutes.”

“I killed all those people.” Dellios buried her head in Clancey’s bosom and wept.

It took nearly ten minutes for everyone’s emotions to calm down enough to continue any kind of discussion. I asked, “You’re a doctor, why didn’t you stay to help?”

“Gloria was screened somewhat. I wasn’t. I landed on my head and shoulder. I had a concussion. I was in a hospital myself until this morning.”

“Gloria better get herself a lawyer,” I said. “She’s going to need one.”

“I’m not liable. I didn’t plant the bomb.”

“You’d both better come forward,” I said.

“Did the caller mention anything that would help the police?” Scott asked.

“All I can say is that it was a male. Not a kid, but that’s all I know.”

We left them without learning anything helpful in finding out who did the bombing.

On the way to the car Scott asked, “You really think they could arrest Gloria Dellios?”

“Five minutes could have saved a lot of lives.”

In the car McCutcheon said, “There was just a special bulletin on the radio. Braxton Thornburg died in the explosion.”

“The Internet rumor was true?” I asked.

“Must have been.”

Scott asked, “What was he doing in Chicago?”

“Hiding in those old buildings across the alley from the clinic. You can talk about being a survivalist in the wilderness, but when it comes right down to it, getting swallowed up in the middle of a large city is probably more effective. The report said he’d cut his hair short and dyed it blond. He no longer had a beard and had lost fifty pounds.”

“So the conspiracy theorists are right again,” Scott said. “There really was a terrorist cell of sorts nearby.”

“It was only one guy,” McCutcheon said.

“Do they think he did the bombing?” I asked.

“The news report didn’t say. They certainly must be concentrating on him.”

We stopped to see Alan Redpath. His bed was surrounded with cheery balloons and smiling stuffed animals. The poor kid was in the same position we’d seen him last. The machines showed life. I saw the tiny chest rise and fall. Alvana’s brother nodded and smiled at us. The doctors still weren’t sure if Alan would live. I stepped next to the bed. I touched the little boy’s hair and patted his face. If I believed in prayer, now was when I would utter one.

24

In the elevator at the penthouse I said, “I’m going to call all of our sources. We should get all of them together.”

“Won’t that piss some of them off?” Scott asked.

“If we got everybody together, maybe we could coordinate efforts. If we pooled information, we might get somewhere or at least get nowhere a lot faster. It would save a lot of driving around aimlessly.”

“And if we piss some of them off, then we won’t get any help. Some of these people agreed to help us if we were the only ones who know about it.”

I said, “I think the only one who might be chancy is the detective, Pulver. The rest of them are journalists. I think we should call Borini and Faslo as well. If we get the whole aggregation together, maybe we’ll get something.”

“I doubt it.”

“I’m willing to listen to other suggestions.”

“I’m willing to listen to all kinds of suggestions, I just don’t happen to think this is a very good one.”

“So stay away from the meeting.”

“If they even all decide to show up.”

“We could just not tell any of them we were inviting the others.”

“Are you listening to yourself? Do you think this is making sense?”

Inside the penthouse Scott paced the living room. He seemed unable to sit down. I stood with my back against the unlit fireplace and waited. When he’s restless, it means he wants to talk. I guessed calling our sources wasn’t a great idea, but it was all I had at the moment.

Scott abruptly stopped moving and said, “I am such a screwup. Everything I did before you woke up has been a disaster. I lost my cool, that was the problem. If I’d been as calm as I should have been, I’d have thought longer.”

“Aren’t you being a little tough on yourself? At least you tried to do something. Not like Gloria Dellios when she got the bomb threat.”

He exploded, “How can you get a bomb threat and not evacuate the building? That is madness. How can anybody be involved in that type of thing? And Myrtle Mae thinking he knew something. He probably didn’t. It was probably another one of his hysterical overreactions to a misinterpretation of data. Maybe it killed him. And now you want to call all our sources together. Have you thought about the implications of that? We’ve barely discussed it.”

“What’s to discuss?”

“You need to put more thought into what you do. Like with the clinic. You’re lucky your name wasn’t on one of those Internet lists of people working at such places.”

“I was just a volunteer. I was never paid. No one really knew.”

“What difference does that make? It was dangerous. What
kind of friend asks you to come to work at such a dangerous place?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Look what’s happened all because you can’t pass up the chance to make a statement or help a cause. Somebody’s got a grievance, you’re there with a picket sign. I don’t care about your goddamn causes.”

“Aren’t you the famous openly gay baseball player, the focal point of a major cause?”

“It’s not the same. That’s personal and directly effects our well-being. With you, everything that comes along, you’re committed to.”

“Not everything.”

“Too much, too often. And look where it’s put you.”

“The victims are responsible for being attacked? I don’t think so. And you don’t believe that either. You’ve always supported my working in causes before.”

“It hasn’t gotten you nearly killed.”

“You’re really angry.”

“Don’t do that psychobabble crap to me. I don’t need my feelings named, repeated, or analyzed. I know I’m totally pissed.”

It drives me nuts when something he’s been holding back turns into an explosion. I wish he could tell me before he erupts. I know it is hard to just be open. Nevertheless, I was irritated. “Why couldn’t you talk about this earlier?”

“Right, in the hospital? You’d just woken up from being unconscious. I’m not sure I could have articulated what I was worried about or angry about. How come you’re so goddamn sure if everyone just told the truth everything would be fine? Nobody, including you, indulges in instant truth every time a thought or a feeling strikes them. I was petrified of losing you.”