A Conspiracy of Fear

by Mark Zubro

  Scott said, “Tom told me about what happened to you as a teenager.”

  Fulham got misty eyed.

  Scott said, “Maybe O’Rourke writing articles will even things up a bit, and now maybe more of the reporters will be willing to tell the truth. The article I read claimed there were numerous sources.”

  Fulham shut his eyes, licked his lips, and said, “Good.”

  I said, “I went to Nebraska and met with a couple members of your family.”

  He glanced from one to the other of us. I’d say he looked alarmed at this revelation. He pointed a wavering hand at me. “You what? What did you go there for?”

  “Information.”

  “I didn’t tell you to go there.”

  I let a tinge of asperity creep into my voice. “I didn’t know I needed your permission.” I got a swift look from Scott, and I changed my tone. “It seemed like a logical thing to do. It’s the start of a strain of homophobia that has affected your life. I wanted to investigate any threads that were there.”

  “And to see if I was a liar. None of those who attacked me would still be alive.”

  I said, “I didn’t doubt that memory. I just wondered how a family could just erase a son. I was hoping to get some background. Some sense of place. Some sense of who you are. A good researcher checks all information.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true. What did the motherfuckers say?”

  “You didn’t mention you had a meeting with your great grandniece. She seemed eager to try to meet you. In fact went out of her way. It seemed pretty brave. Why didn’t you talk to her?”

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” A tear came down his cheek. “It hurt too much.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He hesitated.

  I made my voice very soft, “Is it because you thought it would make me more sorry for you?”

  “Because I was a shit to them. My family was crap to me, and I wasn’t going to go about forgiving now.”

  “She had nothing to do with what happened to you.”

  He snapped. “I know that.”

  Scott said, “Why don’t you show him the pictures?”

  “Pictures?” Fulham asked.

  I took out my cell phone and called up the pictures I got from Millicent. He frowned when he saw the pictures of the newspaper clippings. “My mother had all these?”

  “Yes.”

  He choked up and began to cry. Moms can bring that out in people at the oddest moments. I got him tissues and helped him clean himself up. We got to the picture of Kemmler, and he teared up again.

  I asked, “What did you and Huey Kemmler fight about that night?”

  “I don’t remember.” He caught my eyes. “I’m not a liar. I just don’t remember.”

  “While in St. Louis, I met with the Kemmler family. Including his great grandson. He was not from the Central Valley of California.”

  “He wasn’t?” Fulham looked genuinely confused.

  “Did you tell him all the truth about yourself?” Scott asked.

  “Well, no. It was a closeted time. In lots of places we even used fake names.”

  “He was from a prominent family in St. Louis. There’s a picture of you, him, and the woman who had his child, a son. That man had a son who had a grandson both of whom we met.”

  “I knew none of this.”

  “You were in a picture with the two of them.”

  “It was a long time ago. There are lots of pictures.” He pointed at my phone. “Do you have it on there?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” We’d been tossed out before I’d been able to ask for copies.

  Despite Scott’s warning look, I persisted, “Isn’t that what you fought about that night? That he told you his girlfriend was pregnant, and he was giving up on his life with you.”

  “He called me faggot, queer and told me never to touch him again or get near him again.”

  I took his hand. “You knocked him out that night, but I don’t think you killed him.”

  “Bless you,” he muttered. He patted my hand. “Bless you.”

  I could feel Scott’s impatience rising. I was drawing out the revelation about his innocence in hopes it might drain more of the truth from him. Scott would say this was mean, and I guess he’d be right. I felt ashamed of myself.

  I said, “I met his girlfriend.”

  “She’s alive?”

  “Yes.” I paused. “She says she watched the fight. She says she went up to him after you left. He was badly hurt, and they walked together on the levee down by the river. She says she struck him at least twice, and she pushed him into the river. The death certificate says he received several severe wounds to his head caused by a blunt instrument. Did you hit him more than once?”

  Fulham asked, “Did she say shove him, push him? She’s old. What can she remember?”

  I said, “The same could be said about you.”

  “She’s probably guilt ridden.”

  Scott asked, “Aren’t you guilt ridden?”

  “I have a right to be.” He looked away from me, shook his head. He was crying again. “I just don’t remember. Stop. I can’t deal with this. I want you to leave now.” He raised a feeble arm. A manipulation or a genuinely old man who couldn’t handle this kind of stress? I looked at the monitors. I said to myself, yeah, you’re a doctor and know what you’re looking at. Would I be upset if I caused this unpleasant old man to stroke out? Well, yeah. Even though I knew it was medically unlikely, I backed off.

  Darryl hurried into the room. “I heard Mr. Fulham’s voice.” He looked from us to him.

  Fulham said, “They were just leaving.”

  We walked out.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Sunday 9:57 P.M.

  Two doors down was Eliot Libnum’s room. It was late, but the light was on. I tapped on the doorframe and heard, “Come in.”

  He sat with his eyes open staring out at the dark beyond his window. He was alone. He had several displays of flowers. He moved his head to look at us and raised his arm. He said, “I can move a little. They say it will come back.”

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  He gave us a feeble wave. Better than paralysis was my thought. I introduced Scott. We sat on either side of the bed. He tapped my hand. “You stopped to see me and helped. Thank you.”

  I didn’t think I’d done much to help, but I let it go.

  He went on. “I think the doctors were surprised when I began to be able to move things. I think maybe they thought I was permanently paralyzed. Now they say there’s real hope.”

  I said, “I’m glad.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Scott asked.

  “Franklin has talked to that Colly guy about a deal for writing a manifesto. Colly is a certifiable loony, but Franklin is desperate.”

  “So desperate he’d listen to a homophobic crazed person?”

  “I think Franklin would listen to the guy who did the massacre. I should never have worked with him.”

  “Do you have family coming?”

  “They’re going to bring me home when the news is clearer about what I’m going to be able to do.”

  After a few more kind words, we left.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sunday - 10:28 P.M.

  It was later still, but I wanted to check on how Sean was doing. In the hall outside his room, Mr. and Mrs. Hansen told us that Sean’s condition had not changed. They seemed to be bearing up as well as could be expected.

  Mrs. Hansen said, “Edmund is in with him now. Edmund is in bad shape.”

  Scott said, “You’re most kind to take him in.”

  Mr. Hansen said, “They’ve been together so much the past year. It’s not a burden.”

  “Is it okay to go in?” I asked.

  “Yes. I don’t know what to say to Edmund.”

  We walked in. We heard a low murmuring voice. It was Edmund. He was holding Sean’s hand. Tears ran down his cheeks. He was saying, “I will
always love you. No matter what.”

  I tapped on the side of the door. He looked up at us. He didn’t try to hide the tears. He flew into my arms. I held the boy as he sobbed.

  We sat with him a long time, whispering together. He was devastated at what had happened to Sean, felt guilt for his own lack of injury, was worried about staying with the Hansens, was worried about college, but every other sentence was concern about Sean.

  We comforted him as best we could and left.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Sunday - 11:25 P.M.

  Halfway down the corridor, I saw a knot of men. As we walked up to them, I could see it was Arnie, the sculptor who was arguing with McMullen and Albert Colly. I could hear Arnie’s loud voice. He was pointing at Colly, and emphasizing each point with a jab of his finger. Arnie was still in the same clothes he’d been wearing the night of the attack. I saw blood stains in the same spots on his shirt and jeans.

  Colly shoved Arnie. We hurried forward. Colly began shouting. One hand he held out as a fist. With the other he ticked off points he was making. He said, “I know why you guys planned this.”

  “You’re insane,” Arnie screamed.

  “The value of all these works of art has skyrocketed. You know after that idiot in Florida shot that black kid? The bidding for his paintings started at a hundred thousand. So maybe these small press guys wanted to create a publicity stunt to make money, or the gallery did, and it got out of hand, and the shooter has to be killed or has already been killed by one of you people from the gallery or the small press. The police won’t talk to me because they know I’m right. You guys planned it, and you’ve got the cover-up all set.”

  Arnie shouted, “The gallery didn’t need to kill anybody. They already had tons of publicity. They’re making money hand over fist. The pre-bidding was enormous.”

  Colly pointed at Arnie and shouted back, “Another sign of a cover up. Drive up the prices early. By all rights, you should be dead. You’re responsible for all these others being killed.” He spotted us and shouted, “You two ghouls are trying to cash in on the dead and dying.”

  I was furious. I advanced toward them. I found myself inches from Colly. I shouted at him. “Why would you say such an unbelievably stupid and hurtful thing? How would you know what was supposed to happen unless you planned it? You stupid son of a bitch. Who the fuck let you into the hospital?” I raised my hand. Colly shrank away.

  Scott stepped between Colly and me. He said, “Mr. Colly, how can we help you?”

  He turned to Scott. “You’re the pitcher.”

  “Yes, I am. I understand the police are asking about your whereabouts at the time of the shooting.”

  This was news to me or was my straight arrow husband lying through his teeth?

  Colly said, “You’re making that up.”

  “You made yourself noticed around the scene of the attack, at the press conferences, now here at the hospital. I believe several people have complained, and the police always look with suspicion on those who are too interested.” He leaned forward as if he were taking the man into his confidence. “I heard you were next on their list.”

  “I can’t be. I have an alibi.”

  “People can vouch for you?” Scott asked.

  “Of course. Of course.” But Colly’s eyes shifted, and he didn’t meet Scott’s gaze.

  Scott said, “I heard the police are planning to round up all the conspiracy people in town and bring them to an interrogation room at the new police headquarters.”

  “They can’t.”

  “You heard about all the trouble the police in Chicago got into because they tortured people?”

  “Yeah. We all have. They’ll do anything to get a suspect to confess.”

  “This is a special room, or that’s what I heard, where no one will ever know what goes on.”

  “That’s unconstitutional.”

  “This is Chicago. This is their biggest case since the Haymarket bombing. They are determined to pin this on someone.”

  “They can’t.”

  “I’m just saying things I heard.”

  Colly began to back away. “I’ve got an alibi.”

  Scott said, “Good, be sure it’s solid. You have a lawyer on retainer?”

  “I can’t afford one.”

  Scott raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh.”

  Colly trundled his bulk down the corridor and banged open the door to the stairs and rushed through. McMullen followed him.

  When Scott caught my eye, I raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. “It could be true or at least it had to sound plausible to a mind ready to believe that shit. That’s the best part of a conspiracy.”

  We turned to Arnie. He began to bang his head against the wall he was leaning against, a thump every few seconds. I reached out to him. His legs crumpled, and he slid down with his back against the wall. Scott and I got on either side and eased him to the floor. We knelt next to him.

  Scott asked, “Have you slept?”

  “I’m never going to sleep again. Ever. I’m never going to make another sculpture. I think I’d rather be dead.”

  We put our arms around him. He smelled of damp and lack of being bathed. Scott murmured, “If you give up, if you die, they win.”

  “They always win. Always.”

  “No,” Scott said. “I’m living proof of that. You’re living proof of that. Every time we draw breath, we achieve something. We may lose battles. We will never lose the war.”

  Arnie looked at him. “I wish I could believe that.”

  Scott said, “The longer you wallow in despair, the more they win.”

  Arnie gazed into those wonderful eyes then asked, “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Arnie wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Okay.”

  Scott said, “Maybe one of the doctors could prescribe you something to help you sleep.”

  I said, “You know, Arnie, helping those who are physically hurt is more important than anything any of us who survived might be feeling.”

  “You’re right. I’ve been a shit. I’m just so upset.”

  “We all have a right to be.”

  We offered to take him home. He meekly acquiesced. We stopped at a burger place and made sure he ate. On the way from there, he fell asleep in the back seat of the car before we’d gone two blocks. He lived in Andersonville so we drove him up to his place. He was so groggy and out of it, Scott carried him into his apartment. We got him out of his wet and stained clothes and into a hot shower. We waited until he was finished, dried off, and in bed and asleep before we left.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sunday – 11:59 P.M.

  After we got home, we sat in the living room. I could tell Scott was upset and had been since we’d been to see Fulham.

  Scott said, “Wasn’t that kind of mean to hold back the information that Fulham wasn’t the killer until the end? That was the biggest news.”

  I said, “I don’t think we’ll ever know the whole truth. Certainly Fulham started the chain of events that ended in Kemmler’s death. Was he the immediate cause or the proximate cause?” I shrugged.

  “I would have told him the good news first. Why didn’t you just tell him?”

  “I guess I thought it was for the best. That maybe I could get more information from him.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I asked, “How could you be so calm with Colly?”

  “I thought I was pretty damn clever.”

  “I’m not used to you lying.”

  “You should see batters when they think I’m going to throw them a curve, and it’s not.”

  “Not the same.”

  “Kind of is.”

  “You’re always so calm, so kind, giving the other person the benefit of the doubt. Why can’t I get the benefit of the doubt here? These people are insane murderers. You almost died.”

  He’s the calm and sweet one, and I look like a shit for complaining, bitching, and finding fault. Sometimes
his even-handedness really drives me nuts. How do you say to your husband, be meaner? He just isn’t. I know I benefit from his patience as well, because after some of the stupid things I’ve done or said, I get calmed at. Not that he’s a saint. Although I’ve learned to heed and take warning when his voice reaches that deepest thrum. He’s either very turned on or very pissed off. Far more often the former.

  Scott said, “We always give each other the benefit of the doubt. I’m not saying what you did was wrong. I’m saying I’d have done it differently.”

  “You said you thought it was mean.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I was trying to accomplish something. There’s more to that old fuck than he’s telling. I don’t want to be reasonable. I want to fight and hit out. I don’t understand how you can be so calm.”

  “Do you want me to be angry with you? Do you want me to scream and rant and run around as if my hair was on fire? Is there a script you want me to follow? For all of us to follow? Tom Mason’s Guide to Correct Behavior After a Massacre? What do you want? After we’re done with all the shouting and the shooting and the hurting and the getting even, then what happens? After we scream and carry on, and maybe we feel better for doing that, then what happens?” He shook his head. “Maybe that works at times, but I’ve never thought the Barney Fife reaction to the world made sense. If I had a choice, I’d go with James Bond but be less lethal. Calm and reasoned.”

  “I want passionate and furious.”

  “Are you saying you want to dictate my reaction?”

  “No.”

  “I am what I am. You know that. We’ve known each other for years. You’re as calm and sensible as I am. I’ve seen you with the slowest most depressed and most contrary adolescents, and you make them feel better about themselves. They actually learn stuff because they have you for a teacher.” His voice had reached its deepest thrum.

  I shook my head, “My patience with kids is infinite, or I want it to be. I’m afraid adults hit the limit on my temerity index pretty quick.”

  “I know. I love you.”

  “No matter how mercurial?”