One Dead Drag Queen (8 page)

“I read the same things you do. My sources say they aren’t even close to a suspect. I know they’ve hauled in most of the regular protesters who show up outside the clinic. They’ve got nothing out of them so far. They had to let them go. Some of them have been out there every day for years. Lots of these folks are dedicated to their cause. That doesn’t make them nuts. Setting off a bomb does. The police keep current files on the repeat protesters. I don’t know whether or not any of them have a background of violence.”

“You don’t need a background,” I said, “just a computer connected to the Internet.”

“Expertise in bomb making is no longer necessary,” Pulver agreed, “but there’s also a psychological profile.”

“And what if you’ve got a smart bomber who doesn’t fit the profile?” I asked.

“An angry, violent person who has never given a hint of
being sociopathic destroys a city block and doesn’t care how many he killed, and nobody’s noticed they’re slightly off-kilter? I don’t think so.”

“Lots of people holing up in cabins in Montana these days,” I said. “They keep to themselves and avoid their neighbors. Nuttiness is rampant, and I bet it isn’t that hard to hide.”

“I’ve got a hunting cabin in Montana,” Pulver said.

“Is telling me that supposed to comfort me?”

“I guess you can take it for what it’s worth.” Pulver didn’t sound angry or annoyed.

McCutcheon asked, “Didn’t I read in the
New York Times
that there is no profile?”

“I don’t read the
Times,”
Pulver said. “Profile or no profile, it’s going to take a hell of a lot of basic cop work to solve this and prove who the killer is. The FBI and ATF agents are waiting in the wings to screw it up. So far it’s strictly a Chicago case.”

“Are there clues yet about the bomb itself?” I asked. “Can’t they tell what kind it was and where it was bought and that kind of stuff from the remnants?”

“It was probably ammonium nitrate and fertilizer. Lots of it.”

I nodded, thought for a minute, then asked, “Am I in danger?”

“Maybe. Kenny says he recommended twenty-four-hour security.”

“Yeah, but what the hell am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? What do the cops advise? Hiding here for the next decade?”

“You’ve got tough choices to make,” Pulver said.

“What about hiring my own investigator on this thing?”

“I don’t see how that will help,” Pulver said, “and you’ve already got the security firm.”

“They give security.” I turned to McCutcheon. “You going to investigate this?”

“We’re licensed for it, but we don’t have anywhere near the manpower. We’re a small firm with only a few select clients to protect. To bust an international spy ring you need the CIA, not a security firm.”

“Police won’t like someone sticking their nose in this,” Pulver said. “I wouldn’t. They especially won’t like it if they find out I’m giving information.”

“Why would I tattle on somebody who’s helping me out? Why would you have told me this stuff if you didn’t think I could keep my mouth shut?”

“I like you. I admire your guts. And Kenny vouched for you.”

I stood up and walked to the windows. No insight leapt into the room.

“I’m going to see Tom.” I turned to them. “I appreciate the information you’ve given me. I feel a little more in control, even though I know I’m not.”

“If I can help with anything,” Pulver said, “call me.” He left.

McCutcheon said he would accompany me to the hospital along with one of his other guards. We drove over with Oscar Hills, a former hockey player who had just missed getting into the National Hockey League because of a conviction for battery in Alberta, Canada. Complicating his case was that the person he’d attacked had been his coach. He was short and stocky and one of the few guys McCutcheon had with a little bit of a sense of humor.

“Pulver called you Kenny,” I said while we were stopped at Clark Street and North Avenue.

“Yes, I know” was McCutcheon’s entire answer.

8

At the hospital Tom was still in intensive care. They had done a CAT scan and there was no internal bleeding. The diagnosis was that he had a severe concussion and would wake up when he would—probably sooner rather than later. The inability of medical personnel to be definitive pisses me off, as it does everybody else. And like most people, I realize they can’t say for sure. Definite answers lead to lawsuits and, worse, crushed expectations. One prof I had in college said that revolutions aren’t caused as people are driven steadily into despair. They are caused when the expectations of the people are raised, then dashed. At least medically I can understand how that can be true.

Tom’s dad and two of his brothers were there. When I arrived, they went down to the lounge to get something to eat. I sat by Tom’s side and held his hand. My guards waited outside. I watched the rise and fall of the sheet over Tom’s chest. The IV dripped. The machines he was being monitored by hummed softly. The flowers in their vases looked pretty
and kept quiet. I know Tom would say this was a good thing in an inanimate object.

I talked to Tom for a while. I didn’t care if he couldn’t hear. I told him I loved him and how I missed him and about things we would do when he was better. Mostly things I wanted to do that he hated. He was unconscious, so what better time to suggest a trip to Branson, Missouri? The man’s dislike for twangy country music sometimes approaches the pathological.

His mother, sister, and several older nephews showed up. They sat with me. We talked in low voices. Mostly we reassured each other about how tough Tom was, and how we all had to hope for the best. I was over my funk from last night and I found their presence comforting.

Brandon Kearn showed up without a camera crew. He was in faded blue jeans and a blue, crew-neck T-shirt. “How is he?” Kearn asked.

“Not worse, but not awake.”

“Not worse is good?”

“I hope so.”

Kearn nodded toward McCutcheon and Oscar. “Why are there armed guards here?”

“You can tell they’re guards?”

“Both of them gave me a suspicious once-over, and I’m a good reporter. I can tell if someone is armed or not.”

“They’re security guards I’ve hired.” I introduced him to them.

“I’ve heard of you,” Kearn said. “Your firm guards a lot of high-profile celebrities.”

McCutcheon nodded.

Kearn and I moved away from them. “I came to see how you were doing,” Kearn said, “but also to tell you I’m going to be doing some investigating.”

“You’re using this to become famous like Arthur Kent in the Gulf War. Last night I thought you were fed up.”

“I was tired and frightened. I haven’t gotten much sleep, but I know I’m in the middle of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a career-maker. You should realize that too. I’d be happy to interview you.”

“I’ve already got plenty of fame, thanks. Is that the only reason you came, to see if I could help your skyrocketing career?”

“Partly.”

I guess I was glad he was being honest. “I can’t be that big of a deal.”

“I hear they’re considering you for the cover of
People
magazine. They’ve got a photo of you with your arm around a fireman helping him to an ambulance.”

“I don’t remember flashbulbs going off.”

“I’ve seen it. It’s you.”

I snorted. “If somebody had gotten a picture of a child being rescued, that would make the cover of everything. Frankly, I wish somebody had. I was just doing the right thing.”

“While I’m after any edge I can get, I’m also trying to do the right thing. I’ve got a big story now, and I want my part to keep getting bigger. I’m going to be on
Nightline
Monday.” Kearn moved closer. I could smell his cologne and coffee on his breath. He muttered, “I know it’s hard to believe that a heartless, cliché-handsome reporter would care about someone who is injured, but I do. But since I am indeed a heartless, cliché reporter, I want to offer a deal. I’ll funnel you the information I get. If you think it’s enough to grant me an interview, will you call?”

I nodded agreement. I doubt if what he found would be that helpful to us. Kearn wished me well and left.

Morty, my catcher from the team, arrived. He hugged me and stayed for a while. The guy can be so soothing even under the toughest conditions. A few minutes after he left, the nurse came in to change Tom’s IV bag and check the machines.

She rummaged in the drawer of the cabinet next to Tom’s bed. She took out an empty bedpan and an envelope. “Did one of you leave this here?” She held the envelope out to me. “Isn’t this your name?”

“Scott Carpenter” was typed on the outside of the envelope. I frowned and reached out for it. McCutcheon noticed the action and strolled over.

Tom’s mother, sister, and McCutcheon leaned over my shoulder as I opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper with one line of type all in lowercase: “you’re next faggot.”

Everyone who wasn’t standing, leapt to their feet—except Tom of course. His sister gave a loud gasp and fainted. Before I could catch her, she tipped over a stainless-steel tray. I did manage to cushion her fall a little bit. Seconds later hospital workers crowded the doorway.

Mrs. Mason snatched the note from my hand. She glanced at it, turned it over to the blank side, then threw it to the ground. She reached for me and clutched my arm. She breathed deeply for several moments, then pulled herself up to her full height. “This has gone far enough,” she stated.

I agreed.

McCutcheon carefully picked up the envelope and note and examined them. Hospital security guards showed up in minutes and the police a short while later. Moments after them, Stan Goodman, the head of hospital security, arrived. He ordered a list be compiled of the names of every person
who worked on or had any kind of official access to this floor.

“What about strangers?” McCutcheon asked.

“Wouldn’t someone have noticed a stranger?” I asked.

“This isn’t a closed floor,” Goodman said. “People aren’t supposed to just walk around aimlessly, but it happens. A determined killer with a thought-out scheme could probably get away with more than I’d care to admit.”

While hospital workers scrambled about, I fumed and fretted. The string of possible coincidences was too long already to think that Tom just happened to be in the hospital where a mass murderer worked. However, three facts were incontrovertible: the threat to me on the street, the bomb in his truck, and now this piece of paper. In my mind the idea that somebody had specifically targeted him and me was unquestionable. Whether it had anything to do with the massive devastation yesterday was still open to doubt.

McCutcheon said little. Mrs. Mason quietly but firmly demanded a complete investigation. We were all promised this would happen. I also insisted we call Larry Jantoro, the detective who had questioned me the night before.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Mason, McCutcheon, Jantoro, and I were ushered into Norton Smithers’s office on the twelfth floor. Smithers, the head administrator of the hospital, was a white-haired man in his early sixties. Stan Goodman joined us. He briefed Smithers on everything that had been done so far.

Jantoro said, “We’ll need the names of all the personnel who worked on that floor.”

“It’s being compiled,” Goodman said.