“But this wasn’t an individual assassination. If someone really wanted to kill you, they’d probably succeed.”
“Then why did I hire you?”
“Same reason everybody does. If there was a concerted frontal attack on you, we’d try to stop it. Those rarely happen. Mostly we’re a deterrent. The attackers or killers have to take us into account. What we’re really here for is to make the client feel more secure. You knew that when you hired me.”
He didn’t have to say, “I told you so.” I remembered the earlier conversation when he’d explained the limits on what his firm could do.
As we turned onto Michigan Avenue, I thought I’d try again. “What does it mean that they knew which car was his?”
“You want a vast conspiracy or random chance?”
“Neither. I want to go to sleep.”
“Random chance happens more often than we care to admit. That’s why it’s called random chance.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting? I think the bomb was meant for Tom and me, and I’m frightened. Can I walk outside of my home? Going with me to events is one thing. Having you around my every waking minute does not sound like the way I want to live. Do Tom and I need to keep you around forever?”
“What did you think was going to happen after you became the most public gay figure in America?”
“How could anyone have planned for that?” I sighed. “I expected to be a focal point, not a target.”
“It’s not an easy reality to face. The more careful and more sensible take as many precautions as they can.”
“I’m not sure if I’m careful or sensible at this point. Sometimes I think everybody is threatening me. This doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s happened so far makes sense to someone who is probably certifiably insane. How you live your life in the face of that insanity is your choice. You can sit in your apartment and wait for the world to come to you, or you can make decisions and do something about it. You’ve been under threat since you announced you were going to pitch after coming out.”
6
I will never forget pitching in that first game. The terror and joy of those moments is seared in my memory. The announcement of my impending mound appearance caused an immense sensation. I was to be the first athlete who was openly gay while still active in a major sport. Within fifteen minutes of the announcement that I would pitch, all the tickets for the game were sold out, and more press credentials were requested than for a World Series game. Tickets were being scalped at over a thousand dollars apiece. Security was unprecedented—everyone attending the game had to walk through metal detectors and all bags were searched. The cops told me I set a record for number of death threats in a twenty-four-hour period.
Hundreds of other calls came from people threatening to cancel their season tickets. Some threatened not to go to another baseball game as long as I was in the league. A slew of supportive calls came too, but none of these were what I was afraid of.
Several prominent sports people have said that it would be easier for a convicted felon, returning from a stint in prison, to play on a professional sport team than it would be for an openly gay person. There’s no question there are gay people in major sports. A few who compete in individual sports have come out—Louganis, Navratilova, Galindo—but these are the exceptions, not the rule.
I was unprepared for what greeted me when I went out to begin warming up that day. As I walked out of the club-house, I heard an uncharacteristically loud murmuring from the stands. I could see blue-uniformed cops blocking the light in the doorway to the field.
My favorite catcher, Morty Hamilton, was behind me. Morty wasn’t that great with a bat, but he threw himself with reckless abandon at anything pitched to him. He set the record for fewest passed balls in a season. He said, “I ain’t never been shot at.”
“This isn’t a day for dying,” I remember saying.
Five feet from the dugout I stopped and took a deep breath. I walked into the sunshine and stopped again. Thirty thousand people were already in the stands. As I jogged onto the field, they rose to their feet cheering and applauding. I turned around 360 degrees. It was hours before game time and the stands were nearly filled.
“Don’t sound like a lynching,” Morty said.
I nodded.
After a few moments, he nudged me. “We gonna get started or you gonna stare at them?”
The crowd clustered as close as they were allowed to the playing field during batting practice. Police officers stood at every egress to the field and at the end of the aisles next to the field. After I finished stretching and doing wind sprints, I began to warm up. There were calls of encouragement and scattered applause at every pitch.
It was the largest crowd in the history of the park. When I walked out to pitch in the first inning, the ovation continued for five minutes. A few in the reserved boxes were sitting down. As far as I could see, the rest were on their feet. Thousands were waving little rainbow flags. I saw numerous rainbow banners unfurled. I could see groups of leathermen, clots of drag queens, and thousands of regularly dressed men and women.
After the national anthem, they didn’t sit down. They roared and cheered for each strike I threw. They booed at each ball. Each out caused a wave of thunderous cheering. After the third out that inning the noise swelled to a crescendo. As I strolled to the dugout, I gave the crowd a slight tip of my cap. They went nuts.
Most of them sat down as my team came to bat. When the first batter stepped in, the singing started. First it was “We Shall Overcome,” then “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” then various show tunes. It was a gay crowd after all.
I pitched a one-hitter. Morty said I never threw harder. While I was on the field, I don’t remember the cheering ever stopping. Even when the game ended, they kept on. Hundreds of cops stood on the field as I made a circuit of the stadium. Even then they didn’t stop. I came out of the club-house three times before they finally began streaming out of the stadium.
In every city it had been the same. Threats. Tickets sold out in minutes, record crowds, wild cheering, rainbow flags, singing. In one city someone had shouted out, “Sinner.” The cheering didn’t stop for fifteen minutes after that. The shouter was escorted out, probably more for his safety. I won twenty-eight games that year. We didn’t come close to getting into the play-offs, but Chicago is used to losing baseball teams.
I said to McCutcheon, “I thought I was past all that. The season’s over.”
“It’s never going to be over as long as you’re alive.”
I knew that already. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be reminded of it at that moment. Because you aren’t the one to say something first or you forget the truth in a moment of high emotion doesn’t mean you haven’t thought of it or don’t realize it.
As he pulled into the circle drive of my building, I said, “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life.”
“Wallowing in self-pity is probably not a good option. I’d stick with round-the-clock security at least until this is cleared up. It’s more likely to be helpful than pity.”
“I’m not sure I need a lecture on my response to this whole situation. You’re a guard, not my keeper.”
“What do you want me to say?”
I didn’t want to sit and brood. I wanted to hurt someone. Which is how all this mess probably started. Someone wanting to lash out and hurt. Tom would say it’s more complicated than that. He’s always looking for deep psychological motivations and hidden meanings.
Finally I said, “I want you to tell me that you have a magic formula to make this all go away.”
“Maybe you should try that self-pity thing for a little longer.”
I managed a brief smile. “How would the twenty-four-hour-a-day security work?”
“It’s pricey.”
“Cost is not the problem.” Before this, security had been easily planned. We’d go over my schedule of public appearances, and people
from his firm would be assigned. The number of guards would depend on the venue and how large a crowd was expected.
He explained, “For today, call whenever you’re ready to go out, I’ll respond immediately. I can have someone ready in half an hour, probably less. If you know the night before, it is easier to assign somebody, but we’re just starting and this is a special case. You have the firm’s number, my private office number, my home number, and my pager number. No matter what time, just call me.”
“I could get used to hating living like this.” I shook my head. “I’m going to get some sleep.” I got out of the car.
Just before I entered the private elevator to the penthouse, I looked back at the entrance. McCutcheon was watching me from his Hummer, waiting until I was safely inside.
7
Each time, just before I felt myself finally drifting off to sleep, I’d get flashes of the terror I had witnessed hours before. I don’t remember falling asleep. I woke after maybe three hours in the middle of a nightmare of torn and bleeding people reaching out charred hands for help. The nightmare images still swirling in my mind boded ill for the healing power of sleep. The waking memory of the reality I had seen was equally as frightening.
I tossed and turned for another hour, vainly trying to nod off again. In addition to the restlessness from the chaos and the fear of the last few hours, I missed Tom’s sleeping next to me. I know I’m on the road half the spring and summer without him, but even then I miss him. When he’s supposed to be there and he’s not, I don’t feel right.
I called the hospital. There was no change in Tom’s condition. I turned on the noon news on MCT. They had extensive coverage of the bombing. The number of dead was up to thirty-four: fourteen in the clinic, five in the deli, four in a residential hotel, four in a twenty-four-hour print shop, three in the health club, three passersby, and one person working late in his upscale office on a Saturday night. Hundreds more were injured. They showed extensive pictures of the children injured in the ice cream shop next to the Fattatuchis’ deli. I felt especially sorry for the parents clutching frightened kids, the bright lights and cameras intruding on their suffering. I wished I could comfort the little ones in some way.
Since so many people had died in the other venues, it was not officially decided that the clinic had been the target of the bombing. No group had called to take credit for the explosions. The reporter made much of the fact that last night there had been a banquet in Chicago honoring antiabortion protesters. Most of the prominent names in the movement had been in town, and all were being questioned.
My name was mentioned as one of the rescue workers, and as part of the speculation about why this had been done. Also discussed was Tom’s truck being blown up and what possible connection that could have to the earlier bombings. The reporter on the scene claimed that the device in Tom’s truck had been a limpet mine. I had no idea what that meant.
I saw Brandon Kearn being interviewed. Someone had gotten him a new blazer, his hair was cemented back in place, and he’d had a chance to clean up. Numerous close-ups showed his stitches prominently.
The last person interviewed was Lyle Gibson. He was the leader of the protesters from outside the clinic. He said, “My organization abhors violence, but those who murder children can hardly expect to avoid the consequences . . .” I turned it off. I didn’t want to listen to disclaimers designed to keep people from getting arrested for incitement to murder rather than being true expressions of sorrow and regret.
My press agent called. He burbled with excitement: “Think about it. What more positive image for gay people than that of you heroically rescuing someone at one of the biggest disasters in urban history? You were there and helping. There’s all kinds of pictures of you being shown on the all-news stations.”
“I don’t really care.”
He blathered on, “I’ve got requests for interviews from half a dozen major news outlets so far. I’m sure there’ll be more. You could really cash in on—”
I spoke over his excitement, “Later, if there is a fundraiser to help the injured children, I’d be happy to be part of it. Right now my concern is my lover being unconscious in the hospital. I’ll call you.” And I hung up.
I called McCutcheon’s private number at home. He didn’t sound sleepy.
I said, “I’d like to try and get some answers from the police about what happened.”
“Like what?”
“Like everything. What happened, why, who did it, and if it’s connected to Tom and me.”
“I can try and call a friend in the department, or we can try and talk to the cop from last night.”
“I’d like to try both.”
An hour later, after I’d eaten, McCutcheon brought over Clayton Pulver. Pulver was in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore his hair slightly over his ears, and he had a mustache. He wore scuffed cowboy boots, faded black jeans, and a red and pink thunder-and-lightning western shirt.
McCutcheon explained, “Clayton’s in a tactical unit. He hears things.”
The tactical units in Chicago are cops in casual dress. They are involved in basic anticrime work, such as setting up narcotics stings. They are the ultimate street cops with the toughness, street smarts, pride, and bluster that come from dealing with the darkest side of police work.
Pulver sprawled his skinny frame onto one of the white couches. He placed his right ankle on his left knee. McCutcheon sat on the arm of the couch. I was in a chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows with the John Hancock building in the background.
Pulver said first, “I like the way you pitch. Took balls to walk out on the mound with all the pressure.” His flat Midwestern tones contrasted with his down-on-the-ranch outfit.
“Thanks,” I said simply.
He entwined his fingers and placed them behind his head. His eyes swept around the penthouse. “Hell of a place you got.”
McCutcheon said, “Clayton, get on with it. What do you know about the bombing?”
Pulver grinned. His teeth were sparkling white. “I’ll tell you what I can because I owe Kenny here a big favor. I don’t like talking outside the department.”
I nodded. “I appreciate whatever you can tell me.” I’d never heard anyone call McCutcheon “Kenny.” His employees always referred to him as Mr. McCutcheon.
Pulver rubbed his narrow fingers on his pants. “Have you heard the best rumor yet? This one’s been on the Internet since a few minutes after the explosion.”
McCutcheon said, “If it’s on the Internet, it must be an absolute crock.”
“Yeah, but you get the most fun out of the Internet in a tragedy like this. It’s like the court jester in a Shakespearean tragedy.”
“Pulver?” McCutcheon added exasperation to his tone.
“The Internet rumor is that the bombing had nothing to do with the clinic. That, in fact, across the alley from the clinic there was a secret terrorist cell called the Tools of Satan with headquarters in one of those residential hotels that was destroyed. At that point the theory gets muddled. One idea is that the terrorists accidentally blew themselves away. Another is that a rival group of terrorists decided to strike against them. Supposedly no one would suspect it was a simple act of murder. Everyone would think the attack was aimed at the clinic.”
I asked, “Has anyone confirmed the existence of a terrorist hiding place?”
“Not a smidgen of fact to the rumor, so far. That’s the best kind of thing to get on the Internet. Something faintly plausible and absolutely undeniable.”
“I’m ready to discount it,” McCutcheon said.
“Everybody pretty much does. That’s the beauty of that kind of rumor. It could be true. And it’s even better if it’s denied by the police because someone will find some occupant of the area who has a third cousin living in the Middle East. Said cousin is probably a grocery clerk in Tunisia who has a brother-in-law who was in the Libyan army thirty years ago. That person will make half-baked claims that offic
ials will scoff at.” Pulver snapped his fingers. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.”
“Pulver,” McCutcheon said, “can we just get on with it?”
“Okay. I called a few people. Here’s the deal. The bomb in your friend’s car is throwing the investigation off somewhat. Bomb the clinic, second bomb to kill rescue workers, that’s happened in a number of these. Why a third bomb? Why your lover’s truck? It was in the clinic’s lot. Might have been a fluke, or of course, someone could have known it was his specifically. Terrorizing abortion clinics isn’t big news, although killing that many people at a clinic is a record. One big problem is nobody knows how you fit in.”
“I’ve gotten several zillion death threats.”
“But not in connection with an abortion clinic. If somebody does bomb one of these places, it’s most likely a political statement. I know everybody expects this to be a right-wing conspiracy. These organizations aren’t shy about taking credit. Half the time that’s the point. But we don’t have that here. No one’s called to claim responsibility.” Pulver shook his head. “Kenny told me about the threat you got last night. No one knows how significant it is. It might have been a coincidence. A lot of people don’t like you, and you’re one of the most recognized people in the city.”
“Ken and I have been through all that speculation.”
Pulver resumed, “I heard it was a limpet mine that got your buddy’s truck.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It gets set off by vibrations. Normally it wouldn’t have blown until someone got in the car and started the engine, but the two el trains passing at the same time caused just enough movement to set it off.”
“I would have been killed.”
“Yep. It wasn’t set for blowing up the car on a timing device. Death was the goal, not just destruction. That’s the bit that indicates it was more personal rather than political. I think it’s highly unlikely the bomber or bombers used that kind of explosive device because it was the only one he could get.”
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