One Dead Drag Queen

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  “Sure.” I was ready to go along for now.

  “One of the things I heard was about the head of your security firm, Ken McCutcheon. Do you know anything about his background?”

  “Lots of rumors.” I told him the ones I’d heard.

  “I think the parts about him being a mercenary in Bosnia and Africa might be true. In Bosnia he was not fighting on the side of truth and light.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was on the side that was doing the ethnic cleansing.”

  “That’s impossible. He’s so young. He seems so normal.”

  “So did the Germans who worked at the concentration camps.”

  “Do you have proof of this? Who’s your source?”

  “I don’t reveal sources.”

  “Don’t give me that. I’m not an investigating government body. I’m also not somebody who is inclined to believe you. I’ve got to have some basis for believing what you tell me.”

  “I can tell you this much. It’s another reporter who covered Bosnia for the networks. There are a lot of national news reporters in town to cover this. My source saw him on one of the newscasts of the bombing of your lover’s truck. He called and asked me if I knew who he was.”

  “He could have seen him for only a few seconds. Is he sure it’s the same guy?”

  “He was reasonably sure. The reporter wanted to know if you guys were connected to right-wing militia groups.”

  “That’s ludicrous.”

  “We check everything. I told him I didn’t think gay people and right-wing militias resonated. This guy was more interested in seeing if McCutcheon could have been connected to the bombing itself. I’m interested in that, but also in finding out if he’s a danger to you.”

  “I don’t want him working for me if he was what you say, but it’s going to take some convincing to prove McCutcheon is a threat to me. I’m not sure I’m ready to believe the say-so of one reporter who I’ve never met. It’s a stretch from him maybe being in Bosnia to me being worried about him as a danger. Forgetting the international complications for a moment, if he wanted to kill me, he’s had plenty of chances.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to himself, but maybe he’d be willing to let someone else capitalize on the opportunity.”

  “Then why hasn’t it happened yet?”

  “It’s just something I think you should be aware of. Like the guy who followed us here, who is studiously ignoring us while he sits alone in the front booth. Is it one of your security people?”

  I resisted looking over my shoulder. “You exacted a promise of silence that made no sense to me. I still think you could have just come to the hospital and gone off with me quietly. Maybe you’ve seen too many conspiracy movies.”

  “Maybe you haven’t seen enough. Maybe I didn’t want to take the time, or I didn’t have the time. Maybe I thought you’d be interested. You should have come alone. You’ve probably compromised me. If it’s not one of your guys, we better wait here until you send for help.”

  I glanced around. It was Oscar. “It’s one of mine. How could his presence compromise you?”

  “Since he’s from McCutcheon’s firm, he may be a danger to you. If he’s a danger to you, he might become a danger to me.”

  “Why? He couldn’t have heard what you said. And how would his knowing you compromise you? For all he knows, maybe we’re meeting to plan a clandestine love affair.”

  “Not if you already told McCutcheon you were meeting me. If I’m right, and they have ways of learning things, they would know where you got this information.”

  “Look, this is way too Byzantine. The evil guys instantly knowing the good guy’s every movement and every thought until the last ten minutes before the end only happens in the movies. Your source is going to have to do better than vague fears about McCutcheon. Does your guy have pictures of McCutcheon beating up gay people? Or pictures of him standing in front of a prominent Bosnian landmark holding a dead baby? Or a video of him machine-gunning a crowded orphanage? I gotta see proof.”

  “My source has started checking into McCutcheon’s firm. So far he’s got a rumor that this ‘security firm’ might be a cover for a mercenary group aligned with right-wing splinter groups.”

  “A rumor? That’s a crock. A total, complete, and utter crock! This is too loony. How am I supposed to investigate the head of my own security firm?”

  “I just pass on information. What you do with it is your business.”

  “I’m not going to begin leading a tabloid life.”

  “You already do.”

  That stopped me. I sipped coffee. Finally I asked, “You called me to tell me this?”

  “Yes. I’m willing to talk to any possible source and check out any possible lead.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Would it help if I was gay?”

  “I’m not sure what would help at this point. Tom likes to talk about great flaming dragons coming down from heaven to deliver messages at important moments. He sees more humor in that comment than I do.”

  “Great flaming dragons aren’t going to help right now.”

  “What other information do you have? Has anybody talked to the protesters who are always around outside that building? They should be suspects. I saw that Lyle Gibson on a newscast making a statement.”

  “I’m working on getting an interview with him.”

  “He’d make a great suspect along with all the other regular protesters, and the people who were at that banquet.”

  “I assume they are looking at everybody, which must include them. I do know none of the regular protesters were seriously hurt in the explosion.”

  “Could they have been warned ahead of time and moved away?”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “What about terrorists from outside the country?”

  “At the moment the police think this is homegrown terrorism, not international.”

  “How do they know that?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve been developing a few other angles. I’m digging into the background information about the director of the clinic I met when I saw you in the hospital that first night.”

  “What about her?”

  He flipped through a notebook. “Five years ago Gloria Dellios worked at a clinic in Texas where two people were shot. Three years ago she worked at a clinic in New Mexico that was firebombed. Three other places she’s worked at over the years have been targets of sabotage.”

  “Can you prove they weren’t all coincidences?”

  “The string of them is getting long enough to cause me to check her out more thoroughly.”

  “Nobody besides you has noticed this pattern over the years?”

  “I don’t know yet. She wasn’t the director of any of those. She started as a nurse practitioner in 1980. About ten years ago she got into administration and has been working her way up to director.”

  “Someone must have noticed.”

  “If they have, no one I’ve talked to in a police organization has made the connection. The cop I talked to in Chicago promised to check on it. I called Texas and New Mexico. They report nothing suspicious about her.”

  “Are you saying she’s a random nut or that an antiabortion group planted her in all these jobs? That’s awful deep cover and tremendous long-range planning. The clinics must do background checks before they hire people.”

  “I would presume they do,” Kearn said, “but I don’t know for sure. Backgrounds can be faked. Random nuts can slip through lots of cracks.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got much there. Do you really think one of those true believers could work in one of those places?”

  “If they thought it was the best way to enhance their cause.”

  “Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced.

  “Another thing I’ve got. I had one of the people at the station run down the names of the owners and tenants of all the buildings that were destroyed and those on the blocks aroun
d them. I’m going to go over it for any anomalies.”

  “Like what?”

  “The police will probably see as much as I do, but you never know what small snippet of information will break this case.” Kearn shrugged. “It’s like the last grain of sand that shifts a fraction of an inch and causes the earth to quake.” While taking a sip from his coffee, he nodded toward the half-filled row of counter stools. “The third guy from the door has been staring at our table for some time. You know him, or did two of your security people follow us?”

  I glanced as casually as I could. When the man saw my look, he got up off his stool and approached our table. I tensed immediately.

  He looked to be around fifty and about seventy-five pounds overweight. He wore a red windbreaker, a blue, crew-neck T-shirt with a pocket, and white Bermuda shorts. He poked a finger at me. “You’re Scott Carpenter.” He began to reach into his pocket.

  Oscar was there in seconds. The man was supine on the floor in less time than that. The befuddled man looked up and held out a pen. “I wanted your autograph.”

  Oscar helped him up. The guy was embarrassed and pissed.

  I apologized, signed the autograph, and offered to get him a baseball signed by the whole team. Finally, mollified, he waddled away.

  Kearn said, “If you’re going to bring protection to our meetings, then they will have to be much less obvious. And you’ll have to hire a firm with better operatives. I spotted your guy within two minutes.”

  “Then why did you keep talking to me?”

  “I want an exclusive interview. I’m looking for any angle.”

  I gazed at him carefully.

  He continued, “I’m in a profession that is ruled by tabloid journalism, but after what I’ve been through, I’m not sure that should be all. I’m looking for human interest with dignity, not sensationalism. They haven’t snuffed out every shred of my integrity.”

  I guess I wanted to believe him. More for his sake than mine. I looked at his overly coiffed hair, his professionally manicured fingers, and his perfectly cut clothes. Being clean and neat is not a sure sign of corruption or of being gay, but too many things about this guy were a little too perfect. Rolling in the mud in tattered blue jeans, worn sneakers, and a ripped T-shirt aren’t qualifications for sainthood, but I know which one I trust more. He got up to leave, and I stood up with him. We shook hands.

  “I’m just offering you some help,” Kearn said.

  “I’m interested, but I’m not sure who to trust.”

  “When I get information, I’ll share it with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me when you know anything.” Kearn handed me his card. “That’s got my home, work, and pager number on it. Call anytime.”

  I got back to the hospital around six. Tom’s mother was on duty. A couple of relatives were getting a bite to eat. In the next couple hours numerous people from Tom’s work stopped by. Meg Swarthmore, one of his best friends at school, stayed for an hour. She filled me in on more gossip about the people at school than I ever cared to remember. She kept saying, “Be sure to tell him this when he wakes up.”

  I must have given an annoyed sigh at one point because she finally ran down. “I guess I’m rattling on,” she said, “because I’m scared. I want him to wake up.”

  “I’ve been talking to him while he’s asleep,” I said. “I understand the impulse.”

  Edwina Jenkins, his principal, came by. I told her, even if he woke up in the next five minutes, he wouldn’t be in the rest of the week. She made sympathetic noises and left as quickly as was decently allowable.

  Several of our gay friends showed up around eight—they were sweet and sympathetic. Then the phone rang about eight-thirty. It was the switchboard. They said they had an urgent call from someone named Myrtle Mae. Before I could tell them to take a message, I heard him say, “It is absolutely vital that I speak to them.” His drag-queen persona was on high shrill and fast-forward. Maybe for some people it’s hard to say no to a drag queen on a mission, not me. I hesitated, trying to think of a polite way to tell him to shove it. Unfortunately, the operator took my silence for a yes. She put him through.

  “I found something out that you might be interested in knowing, and I know Tom will be when he wakes up.”

  “What?” I could barely get the word through gritted teeth.

  “Dr. Susan Clancey was supposed to be at the clinic.” He paused as if the import of this would be readily understood by me. It wasn’t.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  Dramatic sigh. “You don’t know?”

  I didn’t give him the benefit of my own dramatic sigh. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Tom will know. Susan Clancey is notorious for performing late-term abortions. Her visit to Chicago was supposed to be kept secret for obvious reasons. If it was known she was coming to town, there would have been large demonstrations. Her presence has caused near onto pitched battles in some cities.”

  “But no one here knew?”

  “That’s what I said. However, what if that knowledge leaked out?”

  “Are you sure about this information? Where did you hear it?”

  “A source. Tell Tom when he wakes up. He’ll know it’s important.”

  Myrtle Mae hung up. The image of him stuffing candy bars into his mouth at last year’s pride parade came into my mind. At the time I’d dared to comment that what he’d draped over himself for the day looked like a cheap bedsheet. He claimed it was the sheerest and most expensive silk. That day a friend of ours who cared enough to count claimed Myrtle Mae had eaten at least a dozen candy bars in less than two hours. I would take Myrtle Mae as seriously as I felt necessary, which wasn’t much.

  I turned my attention back to the friends who were there and enjoyed them until nine o’clock, when they left, then I went down to the cafeteria to get some food.

  13

  When I awoke for the second time, I was looking out a darkened window. It was night. Dim light came from somewhere behind me. I felt much more alert. I realized I was hooked up to various devices. I deduced I was in a hospital. I was wearing a hospital gown, which after a woman’s girdle is the most singularly demeaning garment designed by man. I hadn’t owned a pair of pajamas since I was ten.

  I heard distant voices. I thought I recognized Scott’s and my mother’s. They were murmuring low and were outside my line of vision.

  I thought about calling out to them, but that seemed as if it would take too much energy. I had to piss, but didn’t see a bedpan. I let that idea drift off. I tried to think back to how I got here.

  The last thing I remembered before waking up the first time was working in the Human Services Clinic.

  I’d just had a meeting in an upstairs office with Gayle Bennet, a woman who did not like me, did not like my being there, and did not mind making her feelings about it obvious. Unfortunately, that particular day I was trying to get a project done for my friend Alvana Redpath, and I’d promised Alvana I’d be nice to Gayle. This was important to Alvana because she was trying to date Gayle. I kept telling Alvana that I thought Gayle was straight, but Alvana was smitten.

  I’d been fuming as I came back down to the basement because Gayle had been unnecessarily rude, and I had swallowed my annoyance in deference to Alvana. I’d seldom met overt hostility at the clinic, but Gayle had said something about how stupid men could be. All I was doing was clearing up the filing and trying to make the system more efficient, so that it would serve the entire clinic more effectively.

  After the meeting, Alvana and her son Alan had met me in the basement. She’d just picked him up from the day-care section of the clinic. Her four-year-old was one of the few kids under the age of ten who would put up with me. Scott is better with the little ones, and he always thinks I can’t handle any of them. Alan was a quiet child, more given to spending time alone with a set of blocks than in socializing with the other children. I empathized. I enjoyed spending time with him. He and I were playing a h
aphazard game of catch with a Nerf ball as Alvana and I talked. I remember crawling under a desk to retrieve an errant toss. After that, I vaguely recalled a loud noise and pain in my head, then nothing.

  I rotated my neck, moved each arm and leg, rearranged my torso. Nothing caused any particular pain. I figured this was good. I tried to lift my head. For a few seconds it was okay. Then I got dizzy and a little nauseated. I put my head back down. I would try that again later. I didn’t feel tired. I concentrated for a few moments and tried calling for Scott or for my mother. My vocal chords emitted a mild harrumph. I lifted my eyes to look around as well as moving my head without lifting it from the pillow. I couldn’t see a call button. I gathered my energy and turned onto my side. The light was coming through the open door to the hallway. A few feet outside the door, Scott and my mother were talking with Ken McCutcheon, Scott’s head of security.

  I don’t like McCutcheon. In my opinion, he is too pretty and way too young to run security for anything except a Little League team. I didn’t like the way Scott had checked out his background. He’d talked to a few friends. Big deal. But that was his decision. He’s the one with the most death threats. I’d wanted Scott to get security far sooner than he did.

  I pulled in a deep breath. I gave a call that came out somewhere between hey, oops, and huh? The three of them turned around and hurried into the room. McCutcheon stayed near the door. Scott and my mother each sat on the bed, my mother on my right, Scott on my left. Each held a hand.

  My mother said, “Tom, you’re awake.”

  I nodded. She’s good with the obvious.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I gave it another nod. My “Yes” came out as “Yumphs.”

  Scott said, “You’ve been unconscious for two days. The doctor says nothing is broken, and they don’t think anything is damaged permanently.”

  “We should get the doctor in here,” my mother said. “At least the nurse. They’ve got to check him over.” She didn’t wait for agreement or approval. She leaned down and hugged me fiercely, then rushed from the room.