One Dead Drag Queen (5 page)

I once asked McCutcheon what he had said to the guy. “I reasoned with him” was all he ever told me. If people began to crowd around me after a talk, McCutcheon placed himself between them and me. He didn’t threaten or push or shove. People just seemed to give him space. He had a sense of presence that always seemed to work.

When he drove me places, he seldom spoke, rarely engaged in idle conversation, and never used more words than necessary. I’d hired him for his presence, not his personality, so his not talking much didn’t bother me. Tom sometimes said McCutcheon gave him the creeps. McCutcheon was quiet, unobtrusive, and efficient. The others in his firm, mostly guys his age or slightly older, had either copied his
demeanor or were similarly trained. I felt safe with them around.

The friends who’d recommended him to me told exotic stories about McCutcheon, each stranger than the last. They speculated wildly about an erratic and erotic life with James Bond-type adventures including male and female lovers around the globe. The rumors included murky tales of connections to the CIA; that he’d done time in a Turkish prison; that he’d been part of assassination plots against a variety of foreign leaders; that he’d been part of any number of well-known terrorist organizations; that he was the leader of a gay death squad; that he was a straight hit man for various wealthy gay clients. I hired him because two people I trusted implicitly swore by him and his firm’s expertise and willingness to sacrifice themselves at moments of danger. When I asked for a résumé, he said, “Either you trust the people who recommended me or you don’t. If you don’t trust them, I’d rather you didn’t hire me.”

Another time I asked if he wasn’t kind of young to have his own agency. All he’d said in return was “How old should I be?” After that I stopped asking questions.

That morning I stood next to him in the hall. He said, “One of my employees saw your picture on the late news. He called me. Thought I should check out what happened.”

“How’d you know Tom was hurt?”

“I didn’t. I knew that you were out in public and that nobody from my firm was with you. I got the answering service to put a call directly through, but there was no answer. I know Tom works at that clinic. We’ve picked him up there once or twice after an event of yours. I figured I better stop by—you had been recognized at the scene and lots of people knew you were there. I couldn’t find you and I didn’t know
where you were, so I tried calling the hospitals until I got to this one.”

“I was threatened.” I told him what had happened.

“I’ll stay close. Bombers often come back to help at the scene to see their handiwork and revel in the chaos. If I can find you, so can anyone.”

I introduced him to the family. They showed little curiosity about his being there. They were aware of the security measures Tom and I had taken in the past few years.

Around five they told us that Tom had been moved to the intensive care unit on the third floor. We moved our vigil up there.

By six in the morning there had been no change in Tom’s condition. The doctor told me that the good news was no bones were broken. The bad news was that they couldn’t tell the extent of his internal injuries. They were most worried about head trauma. The doctor had ordered more tests. Tom might wake up, or he might not, but we would not do ourselves any good staying awake and hanging around the hospital.

Tom’s parents and I agreed on rotating assignments for the vigil. I’d been awake and there the longest and I was exhausted. They would stay and call with any news.

McCutcheon and I rode the elevator down to the first floor. The doors opened onto the hospital foyer. Television cameras and reporters were strewn about the room. A spokesman for the hospital was making a statement and seemed to be trying to organize the chaos the reporters were helping to accentuate. I was spotted. A wave of media people rushed toward me. A young couple, the woman significantly pregnant and being wheeled forward, were between us and
the reporters. The woman’s angry squawks as they massed behind her gurney gave them pause. Television lights focused on me. McCutcheon led me slowly to the right. They fired questions. I halted. I was used to the media’s need for something. I’d been brusque with Kearn at the scene and had refused all interviews in the emergency room, but I could give them something.

The man and pregnant woman gazed at the chaos around them. “Aren’t you Scott Carpenter the baseball player?” the husband asked.

I nodded and smiled. “Let’s make way for them, shall we?”

The herd of media parted to form a path for the pregnant couple. When they were free, I focused on a reporter I recognized and nodded to her. She asked, “We heard your lover was in the explosion. How is he?”

I said, “The doctors are doing all they can.”

Someone shouted, “Is he getting special treatment because you’re famous?”

“Everyone who knows someone caught in this catastrophe is concerned. I’m not special. I waited like everyone else. Tom is alive. My heart goes out to those who’ve lost a loved one.”

I turned quickly. McCutcheon caught the movement. We forged a path through the mingling horde and out a side door. McCutcheon drove me back to my car under the el tracks near the scene. He drove a grayish black Hummer. I don’t get the attraction of those vehicles. Yeah, I know they’re supposed to be butcher than all get out, but they’re noisy, clunky, difficult to maneuver, and they can cost up to a hundred thousand dollars. I glanced around the seat and tried to figure out what it was that made it cost so much. A cursory inspection showed me nothing.

As usual McCutcheon said little as he drove.

We couldn’t get near the scene of the explosion. The entire area was cordoned off. We could see the muted chaos from several blocks away. I saw three fire hoses still pouring water on the remnants of the city block, although at the moment only whiffs of smoke oozed from a few spots. Police and fire department personnel hunted through parts of the wreckage that were sufficiently cooled. I doubted if there was much hope for any more survivors. The second blast and unchecked fire had eliminated any possibility of that.

Ken drove past my car slowly. It was barely first light. Trails of mist floated over the scene. The square arches of the el tracks over the pavement created a twilight world during the brightest day. At the moment, each strut struck me more as menace than support. McCutcheon trained his spotlight on any dark corners. When he decided all was safe, he stopped opposite my car.

“We should get Tom’s truck out of here too,” I said.

“I can follow you home, then bring you back.”

I began to open my door. It was early enough that traffic was still light. I had to wait for a van to pass, then together we slowly crossed the street toward my vehicle. McCutcheon didn’t look at me. Just like the Secret Service seldom looks at the president. They are on the alert for dangers as was McCutcheon now.

I was tired, worried about Tom, and in need of sleep. I doubted if all McCutcheon’s precautions were necessary. I couldn’t imagine someone who’d seen me at the fire being able to figure out which of these cars was mine.

Above, an el car thundered forward from the Loop. I paused. I didn’t want to be under the tracks when its jangling rumble passed overhead. At the best of times the el train noise was a major annoyance. Another train hurtled toward us from the west. McCutcheon and I stopped. The cacophony was terrible. Then the ground shook. Tom’s truck blew up.

5

For the second time in a few hours, I was knocked to the ground. It was more instinct than conscious decision that I got my hands out in front of me and broke my fall. McCutcheon and I scrambled away from the intense heat. Down the block about fifty feet, we stopped. I sat myself on the curb on the far side of the street from the burning wreck. At this distance I could barely feel the heat from the flames. Bits of pavement were gouged into my already begrimed palms. I picked out the larger bits, then dusted my hands on my jeans to dislodge the remaining dirt. McCutcheon stood over me. As we watched Tom’s truck burn, random thoughts and fears flitted through my mind. They centered on who would do this, and how did they know his truck was here?

I was determined to do all I could to make the terror I was feeling disappear. I was angry at the perpetrators and frightened for Tom’s life and my own. Mixed with fear and anger were feelings of dread and hopelessness. I already knew that there was no way to stop the unreasonably angry
and the totally mad from wreaking destruction on the rest of us. I guess we all know this, but how often do we really face it? I’m not sure if I was trying to keep myself from thinking about the accumulated terror of the night or from looking for real answers. I realized I’d never come this close to dying before. That scared the hell out of me. I pictured myself getting into Tom’s truck and being instantly immolated. I threw up what little was left in my stomach.

People from the scene of the clinic explosion rushed toward the flames of this new terror. A fire engine arrived in less than five minutes. Tom’s truck was a complete loss, but they worked to keep the flames from spreading to the other cars or melting the struts of the superstructure on which the el ran.

A mess of cops showed up. I told the first ones I was the lover of the owner of the truck and that he’d been hurt in the earlier bombing. A crowd of onlookers and a few camera crews trickled over. I was recognized early on, but McCutcheon and I got to stand inside the crime-scene tape and be less hassled.

A uniformed cop took down basic information. Then Larry Jantoro, a Chicago police detective, showed up. He and McCutcheon nodded to each other—wasn’t hard to figure they knew one another—and Jantoro addressed his first questions to McCutcheon.

Full dawn broke as McCutcheon gave him the details about what had happened from the moment we turned onto this street. When Jantoro asked me about my movements that night, I told him everything. As I explained, he took notes and asked questions. The one he repeated most often was, “Did you come back here at all after you arrived?”

I hadn’t. After I finished, Jantoro said, “We’ve got to figure
out if someone knew this was actually your buddy’s truck, or if you and him were a victim of random chance. This auxiliary parking lot for the clinic may have been a secondary target or the killer’s last cruel joke to hurt people who thought they were safe.”

“Or it could have been a planned attack on us,” I said.

“Anything’s possible,” Jantoro said in that grudging tone that meant he didn’t really think it was probable. “You’ve got guards. You might think about hiring a few more.”

The police had sent for the bomb squad to inspect all the other cars in the vicinity. I was unwilling to wait the extra time. I could get my car later.

“The world has lost its mind,” I said as Jantoro walked away.

McCutcheon nodded. “Looks that way a lot. I’d be out of a job if it wasn’t.”

“Is that security-guard humor?” I asked.

“Just an observation.”

“Somebody could be watching me right now.” I glanced around at the still-darkened buildings and the shadows under the el that might not dissipate even in the brightest light of day. “This is more immediate than all the threats during the season. What am I supposed to do now?”

“You could obsess about it, but what’s the point? You’re already alert and wary.” McCutcheon and I talked as we got into his Hummer and headed toward Lake Shore Drive. “Think about it this way. Most likely they were after the abortion clinic. It’s unlikely that it’s about you or Tom.”

“But not impossible.”