One Dead Drag Queen (25 page)

“You know no one could possibly vouch for every single one. Do you really think that’s a sensible question?”

Kearn asked, “Did you know Susan Clancey was supposed to be in town?”

Gibson’s smile completely disappeared. “If we would have known she was planning to be in Chicago, we would certainly have made sure it was splashed all over the papers. She has committed mass murder. She will be punished. If not here, then in a life in hell in the hereafter.”

Now he was sounding like a fundamentalist minister preaching hate instead of Christianity. In an odd way I found that comforting. The enemy was exactly what I thought him to be. Few things clear the mind like an obvious enemy acting in a way that fits all the prejudices. Very much like a school administrator acting like a moronic twit, which would be a cliché if it weren’t so true.

Gibson breathed deeply for several moments. Then his smile began to return. “But I’m sure I would have heard if she was coming to town.”

“Do any of your protesters have any expertise in explosives?” Kearn asked.

“You know the police asked these questions already. I wonder why you’re here. A reporter and two national spokes-persons for the gay agenda.”

“I’m here doing some follow-up on the explosion,” Kearn said. “Obviously you and your group form a significant part of the story. You’ve been out there for years protesting.”

“Rain or shine. Heat or cold.”

“I’m here,” I said, “because I’ve been personally threatened. Friends of mine died in the explosion.”

“Doing a little investigating on your own? Hoping the evil
leader of the pro-life crowd will confess to you the error of his ways?” Gibson gave an uproarious laugh. The children looked at him briefly, then returned to their play.

Gibson said, “I abhor violence. The next time I am arrested, it will be my one hundredth time. Not one of the arrests was for a violent act. I did not plant the bomb. I know nothing about explosives.”

“But there are some in the movement who have done violence,” Kearn said. “There are dead doctors here and in Canada.”

“People take their chances when they take the lives of children. We are believers, but because we believe does not inherently make us violent. Belief is a valid concept.”

“What is the nature of belief?” Scott asked. “Isn’t that the basic question?”

“Perhaps,” Gibson said.

I wasn’t sure there was much point in engaging Gibson in a theological or philosophical debate. Scott thinks debate and reason will lead to truth. I have my doubts.

“And isn’t belief itself a choice?” Scott asked. “And isn’t what one believes a choice?”

“Not according to the church,” Gibson said.

“But when you say according to the church, haven’t you let them do your thinking for you? You’ve abandoned your own identity to that of a collective mind that has been proven wrong. Look at all the torture and murder that have happened and continue to happen in the name of God.”

“Evil exists in the world. You cannot blame God for that.”

Scott said, “What I don’t get is, how you can abandon logic and reason and switch to God and belief? Why do people of faith prefer abstract thought over empirical observation?”

“But don’t you believe in all kinds of things that you cannot
see? When you turn on a light, do you ‘believe’ in electricity? Do you discuss its nature and origins or do you trust those who invented it? It works. It is the same thing with faith. Because you don’t know how it runs doesn’t mean it does not exist. I do not understand the laws of physics, but planes still stay in the air.”

Scott said, “I don’t see the validity of equating observable physical phenomena with the existence of a god.”

“I can see God’s plan in the fall of a sparrow. God is in everything. You make the mistake of enshrining reason and logic above all else. The world doesn’t run on logic and reason. There’s an awful lot of emotion and feeling, belief and faith. Reason and logic are not enough.”

Scott said, “I find that reason and logic are all there is. If you abandon reason and logic, you’re left with little more than voodoo.”

“But I can deny your basic premises as easily as you can deny mine.”

Kearn interrupted, “Fascinating as all this is, I was wondering if you knew how we could get in touch with Omega Collins or Edward Eggleston.”

“For what purpose?”

“To interview them as we have you. Because I have a source who says they are the ones in your organization who are most likely to be prone to violence. Do you know if they have the expertise to build a bomb?”

“Expertise to build a bomb? That’s no criterion for suspicion in this day and age. All you need is a computer hooked up to the Internet. You yourself must have thought of the Internet connection. Pish, tosh.”

I hadn’t heard the old-fashioned dismissive since I was a child listening to my grandmother.

Gibson continued, “Everyone knows about the theory that there was a secret terrorist cell in the building across the alley from the clinic. I doubt if the bombing had anything to do with my group. Shouldn’t you be investigating these terrorists?”

One of the children crawled into his lap and snuggled against his massive bulk. She leaned her head against his neck and closed her eyes. He cradled her gently.

“If the police questioned them,” Kearn said, “why would it hurt if I talked to them?”

“If my friends were inclined to confess, and I’m not saying they have anything to confess, why would they pick you and not their priest? For that matter, why you and not the police?”

“I prefer to talk to sources directly,” Kearn said.

“Very sensible,” Gibson conceded.

“It will simply be a matter of time before I find them independently,” Kearn said. “Why not help us?”

“Honestly, many of the people in the movement don’t have permanent addresses. They come to town and those of us who live here open our houses and our pocketbooks to them.”

Even though I understood it, his unwillingness to help irritated me. Truculence began to erode my veneer of calm. I said, “They sound like a bunch of freeloaders who’ve learned how to get a meal ticket from poor saps who they’ve duped.”

“I prefer to call it the triumph of Christianity rather than the victory of cynicism. I won’t help you find my people. Many of them will be leaving now anyway. There is nothing more to protest at that clinic. There is nothing to hold them here.”

“Convenient for you,” I said.

“I understand how you feel. It must have been awful being in the explosion.”

“I don’t think you do understand how I feel. You’ve been on the giving-out side of the protests. How can you possibly know what living on the other side of fear feels like?”

“You made your choices.” The fatuous smile plastered on his face as he said this really pissed me off.

Before my anger could burst out into a less than helpful tirade, Kearn stood up and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gibson.”

Gibson adjusted the child in his arms and got to his feet. “If any of you ever feel the need to have a further philosophical or theological discussion, please come by. I’d be happy to chat as long as you like. I’ve been accused of everything already, so you can be as angry as you like, but if you want to get down to the nature of belief and the existence of God or anything else, I’d be happy to talk. I’m here for you.”

I hate it when somebody says “I’m here for you” and he or she isn’t being sarcastic. I’m afraid he was deadly serious. “What I need,” I said, “is for reason and logic to triumph.”

We left.

Outside, Kearn said, “I’ve never actually heard someone have that lengthy of a calm debate with him. How did you do it?”

Scott said, “I was fascinated. Here was this guy in his native habitat. I wanted to hear him.”

“To what end?” I asked.

“Because I was willing to listen to him,” Scott said, “didn’t mean I agreed with him.”

I said, “I didn’t like him.”

“I can understand you not liking him because you presume he’s homophobic,” Kearn said.

“That’s part of it,” I said. “What I hated most was that smile. I’ve seen that same fatuous grin on Phyllis Schlafly’s face, Bob Bennett’s, George Will’s, Jerry Falwell’s, all those right-wing talking heads. That smile that says something like, ‘You poor child, how quaint that you want to take part in the adult world. I will tolerate your silly prattle for a few moments, but we all really know that what you have to say is nonsense and not worth my time.’ ”

“All that from a smile?” Kearn asked.

“And more,” I said. “Look at those pursed lips of George Will’s. They make him look as if he were permanently in charge of changing society’s diapers.”

As Kearn started the car, he said, “I’d love to get you guys and Gibson on the same talk show. You’d set ratings records.”

Scott said, “We’d bore each other and the audience to death.”

Kearn said, “You’ve thought about the nature of belief and your relationship to the world. Thoughtful men are in short supply.” He pointed to Scott in the backseat. “Where the hell did you learn all that?”

I know how Scott hates to be denigrated by people who think he’s stupid simply because he’s a jock. However, he replied mildly, “I applied some simple logic to his basic beliefs. He’s right that logic doesn’t run the world. I just wish it did more often.”

Kearn said, “Take it that I’m making you an official offer for an interview anytime it is convenient for you and your lover, or you and any combination of people I can get my bosses to agree to.”

Scott murmured a noncommittal, “We’ll have to see.”

“I’d really like to do some groundwork for a story connected with you guys. None of the other reporters have been
able to get past your agent or your answering service. I’ve been helpful. What do you think about some payback?”

Scott said, “We don’t know if we’re part of the solution. And we don’t know if anything we do might set someone off or cause ourselves more danger or more hassle.”

Kearn sighed. “Okay. But I get an exclusive if there’s a story to be found here.”

We agreed on that.

Kearn said, “If you guys don’t have anything planned at the moment, I’ve got time to assemble those tapes from the night of the explosion. I’d like to view them with you.”

He was doing us a favor so I could hardly say, “I’d rather not have you there.”

We tried John Werner’s home phone, but got no answer. We stopped by, but the doorman again said he had gone out earlier and not returned.

Back at the television station, Kearn found copies of the tapes. We brought them back to our penthouse. Kearn gazed at the view, then he stopped, as most visitors do, at Scott’s trophy table. We keep his high school state baseball trophy on the table with his Major League Most Valuable Player and Cy Young awards. “Very nice,” Kearn murmured. When he finished his observations, we took the tapes to the electronics center. This was an interior room with four mismatched, deliciously comfortable easy chairs, surrounded by state-of-the-art electronic everything. “You want to see all of these?” he asked. “They go on for nearly forty hours. It’s everything all the crews got.”

“I’d like to go over anything you’ve got connected to me from that night,” Scott said. “Whoever was stalking me might have been caught in a shot. Let’s start there.”

I added, “We should also look through all of it. Maybe
we’ll see people who look out of place to us, or maybe we’ll recognize someone.”

Kearn inserted a tape. It showed a group of surly-looking men with
TEAMSTERS ON STRIKE
signs gathered around a priest kneeling on the ground.

“What was that?” I asked.

Kearn pressed the fast-forward button. “The story we were on just before the bombing. A priest knew the leaders of both sides of the strike. He was trying to mediate the solution. He got a nasty club on the head for his troubles.”

“Hard for me to picture a priest as a Teamster,” I said.

Unedited tape can make for remarkably intense viewing. Or as is more likely, be intensely boring, filled with inarticulate people or mistakes or dead time while film continues to run. In the first few minutes we saw Kearn in high-speed jerks begin an interview four times. Then a lot of Teamsters milling around. Then several minutes of postmelee interview shots from the strike. A few seconds of transition tape passed by. The bombing coverage began with a swaying and jiggling camera moving rapidly toward the block where the clinic had been. There was nothing boring about the fire scene. I hadn’t viewed any of the coverage on television. I was entranced.

They hadn’t caught my actual rescue. The cameras had extensive coverage of Alan Redpath. We ran the first tape straight through. We spent another hour on it, going backward and forward, pausing numerous times so Scott and I could examine different faces, postures, walks, body structure. They had caught about ten minutes total of Scott and the people around him. Nothing gave us any hint of possible attackers or clues to who may have caused the explosion.

After the third hour, I asked, “Can we keep all these and watch the rest of them later? I’m a little tired.” I wanted Kearn
to leave and couldn’t think of a polite way to tell him to go home.