One Dead Drag Queen

by Zubro, Mark Richard

  “How do you plan to get that?”

  “That guy Pulver from the Chicago police seems like a good possibility.”

  “I’ll talk to McCutcheon about setting up an appointment.”

  “Please do. We’ll start there in the morning.”

  The nurse entered again. She insisted that I get some sleep. Although I was keyed up to take some action in our defense, once Scott had left and the lights were turned off, I felt myself getting drowsy. As I drifted off, I recalled the image of the guard standing outside my door.

  14

  The next morning I only felt a trifle woozy. I got to the bathroom myself. The shave and shower felt great. Getting out of the hospital gown and dressed in the clothes Scott had brought felt terrific. Eating a decent meal felt even better. I think hospital food is okay. I figure if I don’t have to cook it or clean up afterward, it’s gourmet.

  Then I got annoyed waiting for the appropriate hospital personnel to show up so I could officially leave. While waiting, I tracked down Alan Redpath. He was in the same hospital, in pediatric intensive care. They didn’t know if he would survive. I managed to look in on him. He seemed to be hooked up to far more machines than I had been. Watching the poor kid sleep made me more determined than ever to find out who had blown up the clinic.

  Scott arrived before nine. He looked as if he’d been through the explosion. I hugged him. “You look awful,” I said.

  “If I get to sleep, I start to have nightmares about the victims I helped.”

  “You were almost one yourself.”

  “I know. That scares me a little too.”

  I tried to reassure him. “It’s going to take time. It’s not easy to get used to what you saw.”

  “I wish it would be sooner rather than later. I just want to be at peace.” I told him about Alan Redpath.

  “Poor kid,” Scott said.

  The doctor showed up, spent less than five minutes, and told me I could go.

  Once in the car, I said, “I want to go to the bomb site.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to look.” McCutcheon was with us. He raised no objections. I really didn’t want to talk with the guard around. I wasn’t about to ask him for permission to do anything, either.

  On the way over, McCutcheon said, “I’ve made a few more calls on Borini and Faslo, like I promised. I heard nothing suspicious and couldn’t find anyone ready to bad-mouth them. As for that employee’s gay discrimination suit, the guy was supposed to be an incompetent dolt who got himself fired for being unable to run some software he claimed he’d had training in. He’s been fired from four other jobs. Three before and one after.”

  We parked the car as near as possible to the site and strolled over. The temperature was above normal. The smell of damp and burning permeated the air. Crowds still gathered at the periphery of the scene. To keep from being recognized, we wore baseball caps pulled down over our eyes and cheap sunglasses. Many times this simple ensemble keeps the curious from recognizing us.

  Among the onlookers, I saw Mrs. Fattatuchi clutching the arm of her oldest daughter. Periodically, I saw her raise a tissue to her eyes. She seemed to be just staring. I didn’t know her personally, so I didn’t feel comfortable going up to her to talk.

  After we’d made a complete circuit of the site, we stood at the viewpoint closest to the rear of what had been the clinic. Puddles of water reflected the scattered clouds. The aboveground remnants of the buildings were charred by fire. The air reeked of smoke and burned flesh. We could see rescue workers hunting for survivors and the dead in the unburned remnants of the health club across the street.

  The police crime-scene tape kept us more than a block away, but from the various vantage points we gaped from, I could still see how massive the destruction had been. Seeing the reality of what had happened made the extent of my good fortune stunningly clear. Part of my survival had been due to solid masonry and concrete abutments used by the builders of a century ago. Perhaps my survival was also due to my tiny and cramped work space and that a little boy had dropped a ball. It had always seemed so confining and uncomfortable, designed more for hiding than working.

  I was staggered at the enormity of not being among the dead amid so much destruction. Several unremoved burned-out cars reminded me of how close Scott had come to being immolated. That thought smote me most intensely at that moment.

  Every once in a while I ruminate about the decisions I’ve made in my life. The moments of change, the moments when everything would have been different if I’d made another choice. There were lots of regrets and satisfactions mixed with big and little decisions. In retrospect, joining the marines had been a huge mistake. Some of the fortunate turnings had been blind luck. Hindsight said being in a monogamous relationship since before the AIDS epidemic had been fortuitous indeed. I’d had my share of hot one-night stands, but before the plague. Luck and random chance rather than choice as ruling elements in my life were not an attractive thought. I like to believe that I am in control of my fate. I don’t like to face the fact that I’m not. Deep down I can’t imagine that there is some grand scheme for why things happen. I look at a universe consisting mostly of unimaginable vastnesses of indifference, and I can only see that we are born, live, and die more by random chance than most of us care to admit. Belief is nice as a concept and is reassuring to a lot of people. It just isn’t enough for me.

  At the moment I felt overwhelmed by what I saw and felt. I became dizzy and staggered slightly. I leaned heavily on Scott’s arm.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Be as brave and active as I said in the hospital.” I pointed at the scene in front of us. “This is too much.”

  “You were in combat.”

  “It’s not the same. That was far away and foreign. This is at home, where I live. There you live by chance and chaos is expected. I was young and stupid. It was easy to be oblivious at a moment’s notice. Here the world is supposed to be ordered. That was many years ago. This is too overwhelming.”

  “You already knew it was bigger than us. I know you. You’re going to get involved. This is personal. Someone you know died in the explosion. You don’t give up that easy. If you didn’t work on it, you’d be miserable.”

  Brandon Kearn emerged from behind a slew of television trucks from CNN, WGN, WBBM, WLS, WMAQ, CLTV, WFLD, and MCT.

  “Good to see you out of the hospital,” he said to me.

  “Thanks for coming to see me,” I replied. Scott had told me about Kearn’s visits. “You’re still reporting from the scene?”

  “Mostly getting some background shots for the continuing coverage. It would be great to do an interview with you guys. It would give me something to lead the news with.”

  “Not right now,” I said.

  “If the rest of the crews over there get a whiff that you’re here, you won’t have much choice.”

  “We should move off,” Scott said.

  “I wanted to talk to you anyway,” Kearn said. We strolled southward. At the next corner he drew us aside so McCutcheon could not hear. “My fire department contact called me again. He really wants to talk to you guys.”

  “Good,” I said.

  He gave us a slip of paper. “He’s expecting a call.”

  “What does the fire department guy know?” Scott asked.

  “Details.”

  “You can’t just tell us?” Scott asked.

  I said, “I’d like to get the information firsthand.”

  “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.”<
br />
  “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 investigatin
g 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.”