by Wynn Wagner
"Sure,” I said. “Anything to help the guy who is in charge of keeping people from shooting at us."
"Hey, don't blame me for this steakhouse thing,” Iacocca protested. “It is a police matter, not the FBI."
The police detective punched Iacocca.
"Assaulting a federal officer,” Iacocca said. “Everybody see that? The local police are attacking FBI agents in broad moonlight and in front of a dozen witnesses."
"Mario,” the detective said, “all of your witnesses are police officers. Most of them are on the take or owe me favors. Pick your battles better."
Iacocca brought out a stack of pictures. “No camera was pointing at your car, but we have several people there that the guards haven't been able to identify."
Wyatt and I went through the pictures until one caught Wyatt's eye.
"Jeremy?” he said. “Oh God, that's my ex."
He looked confused and hurt. Wyatt had a sudden wave of fear, and he didn't know what to say or think about the picture. The guy who had thrown him out when he went to Alcoholics Anonymous had been caught on camera in our parking garage. I got my head around it fast, but Wyatt wasn't able to think it through. I suddenly knew that we had some kind of Fatal Attraction thing going on with this guy. It must have been Wyatt's ex that threw that bomb into my apartment, and he had planted another bomb under Wyatt's car.
"Any idea why your ex would be in the condo garage?” the police detective asked.
"Not a clue. When I went to AA a year and a half ago, Jeremy was pissed to lose his drug-buddy."
"You still clean?” the detective asked.
"Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Clean and sober."
"Good for you."
"Anyway,” Wyatt said, looking a little relieved, “Jeremy threw me out of his apartment. I don't know how he could have problems with me and Sean, but he was always a little scary."
"What's his full name?"
"Jeremy Whitlock, but I don't know his middle name."
"No big deal, probably,” Agent Iacocca said.
The officer typed the name into a little Netbook computer he was carrying. The detective used his computer to take notes, but I think it was connected to the police databases.
"I don't see a... oh, okay, his real name is John Patrick Whitlock."
"Jeremy must be a nickname or an alias or something,” Iacocca added.
"He's a real piece of work,” the officer said. “Did he hurt you?"
"No, he just tossed me out of the apartment when I stopped using and drinking."
"Yeah,” the officer said into his cell phone, “Jeremy Whitlock. I see outstanding warrants, so can you pick him up for me?"
Wyatt gave him the address where Jeremy had been living.
"I don't know if he's still there,” Wyatt said.
"It's a start. You did good with that picture. We can look him up a thousand different ways. This is an awesome lead, guys."
"So, is this shooting related to the bombs?” I asked, but Iacocca just shrugged.
"What bombings?” the detective asked.
"Abortion clinic bomber,” Iacocca said. “This is Sean Roberts, the radio broadcaster."
"Wow, yeah, okay. You got attacked too."
I held up my left hand, and he saw my missing fingertip.
"We either have a bomber who can shoot,” Iacocca said, “or we have every bad guy in the country trying to kill you two. I don't know which would be worse. I don't like either option, personally, but then again this is y'all's ass on the line, not mine."
"Let me know when you start trying to comfort the victims,” I said. “I'm not picking anything of that up yet."
Iacocca and his officer buddy did a fist bump.
A paramedic came up to start working on Wyatt's arm. He started to protest when the paramedic cut the arm off the shirt.
"It's already trashed,” I said.
"Jeremy needs to pay for it."
"We're not sure it was Jeremy who was the shooter,” the officer said. “Unless you know something we don't."
Wyatt shook his head.
"He could just take his shirt off,” I told the paramedic.
"My husband likes to see skin,” Wyatt said.
"What?” I said.
"Time and a place,” Wyatt said. I must have been drooling at his chest or something.
"I didn't do nothin',” I said, batting my eyes at him.
"Stop it, you two,” Iacocca insisted. “I'd say go get a room, but you probably would."
I just shrugged.
"We can take you in to see the doctor,” the paramedic said, “but I think you'll be okay. It barely cut the skin. You should probably see your own doctor."
"Thanks,” Wyatt said. “No need for hospitals. We've had plenty of drama for one day."
The paramedic wrapped Wyatt's arm and came to check me out. He listened to my chest and found noises he didn't like.
"You been injured recently?” he asked.
"Bomb,” Wyatt said. “He was in the hospital for three months."
"Lung?"
"Punctured, I think,” I said.
"I hear aspiration in there, and that's not usually the kind of sound you want to hear."
"Worrisome?” I asked.
"It's relative,” the paramedic said. “I mean, if I put my stethoscope on your chest and heard Hannah Montana, that would, you know... we'd just take you in and tell your boyfriend to settle all your affairs."
"Indubitably,” Wyatt said, “but we haven't been together long enough for him to be having an affair."
"It sounds like your fall strained that previous injury. We can take you in, or you can sign a blood oath to see your doctor tomorrow."
I promised to call the doctor, and the paramedic began to pack his gear. The next thing I knew, he was outside talking to a firefighter. The paramedic had arrived in the ambulance that was rushing the waitress to the hospital, so he was either negotiating for a ride back to the firehouse, or he was killing time waiting for the ambulance to return.
The police insisted on driving the rental car back to the condo. We rode with Agent Iacocca in his Camaro. Wyatt squeezed into the backseat, or what Chevy calls a backseat. Anybody older than about five has to curl up and sit sideways. I pulled the passenger seat as far up as I could. Iacocca used the car as his office, and he had to shovel out stacks of paper and fast-food wrappers to make room for the two of us.
"Got a siren?” Wyatt asked.
"It's nighttime,” Iacocca admonished. “Maybe some afternoon."
"All boys like that?” I asked.
"Yeah, Wyatt isn't unique. Sorry."
"He's got other, you know,” I said as Iacocca raised one eyebrow. I think maybe he wanted me to continue.
"I'm sitting right here,” Wyatt said from the backseat. “Don't talk about me like I'm not here."
"I think he wants you to tell me all about him,” Iacocca said.
"He's something of a pervert,” I whispered, and Wyatt flicked his hair back. He held out the arm that had been shot, and he touched a fingertip to his wrist as he made a sizzling sound.
"Hot stuff, honey,” he said. He'd just been shot, and he was making jokes. I would have been scared and off in some corner afraid to come out. I'm the big, bad motorcycle rider, and the swish was being more of a man than I could be.
* * * *
"I need you two to stay put until we have this guy in custody,” Iacocca said as he let us out at the condo building. “He may already be in custody, but don't leave until you hear from me.” He looked at me and also at Wyatt to make sure we both understood. “Okay?” he repeated.
"Yes, Mummy,” Wyatt said. “We're grounded, Mummy. Can we at least have ice cream before bed?"
"Don't make me pull out my handcuffs,” Agent Iacocca said.
"Ooo, Mummy. Please! Please cuff me, Mummy."
"I'm in love with a depraved individual,” I told Iacocca.
"Is he as dangerously unbalanced as he seems?"
"Worse. He's a complete pervert."
"But I wear it well,” Wyatt said as he flicked one side of his curly blond hair.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Eleven
...That is the same congressman who apologized to big oil when the government tried to get them to clean up the Gulf of Mexico. He is a representative, but who does he represent? Before he was elected, you might want to know that he worked for the oil company that he apologized to. Do the math. That's Perspective America. I'm Sean Roberts....
"And, we're clear. That's a wrap,” Ronny said through the studio intercom.
It was the day after the restaurant shooting, and I was already back on the air. Life goes on, and they said I couldn't even mention the shooting. A news hound was almost killed in a shooting, and he didn't use that on his own damn news show. Janie Marroquin had told me that it would scare the kiddies and the blue-haired ladies.
"Great setup,” Iacocca said as he walked into the studio when the ON THE AIR light went out. “This is awesome."
"If it is so great, why is he always complaining about the traffic?” Janie Marroquin asked.
"Traffic? He has to walk down the hall."
"I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that. Prima donna here has asked for a traffic helicopter so he isn't late to the studio."
"We could get you one of those battery-operated remote helicopters if you want,” Iacocca said.
"I'm the star here,” I said. “The least you could get me is a Predator Drone. I can probably have you replaced."
"No, you can't,” Janie said. “Check your contract. They only let you on the air because I'm here to keep you legal. Without me you have no nouns or verbs."
"Whatever. What can we do for you, Agent Iacocca? Do you know Janie Marroquin?"
"Sure,” he said. “Hi. I just wanted to let you know that we haven't been able to find Jeremy Whitlock. His stuff was still in the apartment, but he wasn't. I don't know if somebody tipped him off that we wanted to question him, but he's gone."
"So...."
"So, I need you both to stay in the condo for a few days. We'll get the guy. It's just a matter of time. Wyatt?"
"Mario?"
Okay, Wyatt and the FBI agent were suddenly on a first name basis? Jeez, my lover is either way more informal than me or there's some flirting going on.
"Do you think you have anything with Whitlock's fingerprint or DNA?” the agent asked.
"That'd be creepy,” Wyatt said. “I tried to get him out of my life. Let me think."
He left the room and returned with half of a ceramic bust of Betty Boop.
"Betty Boop?” Iacocca asked.
"I can't believe you kept that thing,” I said. “You're really weird sometimes."
"Whatever. Jeremy broke it when he threw it at me. I don't know if any of his fingerprints are still on it, but you can look."
"Great,” Iacocca said as he pulled a plastic baggie out of his suit jacket. He got Wyatt to drop it directly into the bag, and then he sealed it.
Wyatt's cell phone starting beeping, so he excused himself and left the studio as he got his phone out of his pants pocket.
"Is all this one case or two?” Janie asked. “You got a separate shooter and bomber?"
"I don't know. Two is my guess. I think you have a bomber and an angry ex-lover. I wish it could be one, but arresting Whitlock as the abortion clinic bomber would make police all over the country rest easier. I just... I mean, you know... bombing and shooting are really different. Shooting goes after one target usually, but a bomb is like a social statement. You know—"
"It's my dad,” Wyatt said with tears in his eyes as he walked back into the studio. “He had a stroke. My sister says he won't last the night. I gotta go."
"Where?” Iacocca asked.
"Madison,” I said, and Wyatt nodded. “Madison, Wisconsin."
"I don't suppose I can get you to stay here?"
Wyatt just looked at Iacocca with tears streaming down his face.
"No, it was a stupid thing to ask,” he said. “I suppose you're going too?"
I nodded, and Janie started making some phone calls. She had to see if my stand-in voice was available to do the show for a few days.
We don't get a break. What's with Wyatt and me? It took us a year to get together. Once we became a couple, people shoot at us and throw bombs at us. And now Wyatt's father had a stroke. This is really fucked up. Somebody remind me to find that damned angel of mine to give him a piece of my mind. Rafa, you're dead meat.
"Worst case, there's a station in Baraboo nearby you can use to broadcast."
"Thanks, Janie,” I said with as much of a smile as I could muster.
* * * *
We flew into Milwaukee and changed planes for a short hop to the airport in Madison. When we arrived in Madison, an FBI agent came onto the plane. The co-pilot of the Madison flight was also the flight attendant, and he asked for the party who was meeting Mario Iacocca to identify themselves. I guess that the agent didn't want to use real names.
The agent asked us to follow her, and we were happy to get off the plane first. I hate standing in line as everybody gets their luggage. We were on the smallest plane I had ever seen, so I was really happy to get out.
"We have a situation,” the agent told us. “You're involved in two cases back home, right?"
We told her that we were.
"It's one case now,” she said. “Agent Iacocca says there is a forensic link between some kind of bomb and the person that was trying to shoot you. We are looking for one person instead of two or more. He believes you are likely targets going forward, and I think you may know this person. Right?"
"Yeah,” I said. “Wyatt knows him. I just saw his picture."
"My father is dying,” Wyatt said as he started crying.
"I know, and I'm so sorry,” she said. “Let's get you to the hospital. There are police officers already at the hospital, and I'm with you for as long as you're in Madison. The bureau doesn't usually do protection, but we have a Ten Most Wanted fugitive who is out to kill both of you. We think he might follow you here."
It finally hit Wyatt that I had almost been killed by a bomb thrown by his ex-lover. It wasn't somebody angry over my radio show. It was Wyatt's former boyfriend. We were both almost killed by a bomb that his ex planted in Wyatt's car. And if that wasn't enough, Jeremy Whitlock was the guy who had shot at us in the restaurant. The police must have pulled a fingerprint off something. I don't know what it might have been, but the FBI agent said there was a match. This guy was an asshole, a scary asshole who had a history of attacking people he didn't like politically. He had a history of trying to kill Wyatt and me just because he didn't like the fact that Wyatt got sober.
"Come on,” she said. “I promise to stay out of your way as much as I can."
Wyatt lost it. I have never seen anybody cry as hard. He could barely stand. It was like the weight of the universe was crashing onto his shoulders. He was losing his father. He had to be near his mother, who wanted nothing to do with her queer son. He was being stalked by his ex, who just happened to be the most dangerous criminal on the FBI's radar at the moment.
"I am so sorry, Sean,” he said as I held him. “This is all my fault, babe."
"No, it isn't,” the FBI agent said. “This is Jeremy Whitlock's fault. Make no mistake that every officer in a hundred miles knows he might be heading here. They want this guy because one of his bombs went off in Milwaukee."
We had a police escort to the hospital in Madison, and both cars were moving fairly fast. Every time there was a traffic light, I saw flashing inside the police car. They apparently had some way to control the traffic signal using flashing lights in the patrol car. The FBI agent still slowed way down at intersections, but we had green lights all the way from the airport to the hospital.
We parked near the front door in a place marked as a fire lane. I guess the FBI was close enough to being a fire truck or somethin
g. Good to know.
Wyatt was on a mission, and we all did our best to keep up. The FBI agent told him the room number, so we all raced for the elevator.
His sister was in a waiting room near the elevator. They hugged and cried for a few moments. If there were bad feelings between the siblings, they didn't show it. From the way Wyatt spoke, nothing would have surprised me about his family. I knew Wyatt had issues with his mother, but he never told me anything about his sister or father. There was another brother too, I think.
The sister was Katariina Nelson, Wyatt told me later. Katariina is a name that several Nelson women had, and Wyatt's sister always used the full name, not just Kate. The Nelsons were Estonian, and his father had actually been born there. It was a good thing that I didn't suggest that Wyatt looked like he had Russian blood. I don't think Estonia and Russia got along. There was a matter of eighty years of occupation by the Soviet Union that everybody remembered. Estonia is next to Russia and Latvia, and it is just across some water from Finland. Estonia is its own deal. Even the language is in a class by itself.
Wyatt loved Estonia. When he told me stories about his visits there, his eyes lit up. The country was open to gay guys, including same-gender marriage. There were no laws against being gay or loving somebody who was gay. I thought he'd have liked to move there someday. I told him it was way too cold for me, but he got me to agree to a visit. I agreed to go there to get married. Estonia isn't quite Russian, and it isn't quite Scandinavian, and it isn't quite European. I think it is a mix of all those cultures with plenty that is pure Estonian.
Estonia may have been open to its gay citizens, but Wyatt's mother wasn't. I think she wanted to go help Jeremy Whitlock. Let's just say that his mother and I were never going to bond or be buddies.
Katariina was great. She and the FBI agent hit it off. If I hadn't known better, I'd have said we had a little lesbian affair in the making.
Wyatt's father was in a coma, and there were wires and tubes everywhere. A minister in a collar was standing in the hospital room with the father and mother. The collar was solid white all the way around his neck. There was no notch in the front of the collar like I usually see. Wyatt told me the family was Lutheran, and I wasn't really sure how that was different.
