“We’ve got that contact from Angus Thieme,” I said. “This goes beyond the mystery-man image McCutcheon tries to portray. Everybody’s got secrets, but usually a time comes when it’s important or necessary to tell.”
“We can work on discovering the truth. Until we find out more, I think we should keep him on. He’s had innumerable chances to do us genuine harm. Why he would have waited this long to act is unfathomable to me. Isn’t it unreasonable to just dismiss him?”
“What’s happened to me is beyond unreasonable, but I guess you’re right. For now, I’m willing to go with your instinct. At the least, though, he should wait outside while we do all our interviews.”
“Okay.”
We walked back to McCutcheon and told him what we had decided. He nodded. “That’ll be fine until you get a new security firm.”
“We’re not asking you to quit,” Scott said.
McCutcheon said, “As soon as this mess is resolved, I think it would be best.”
Scott looked annoyed, but kept quiet. We left it at that.
17
The coffee shop was in a neighborhood changing from run-down ethnic to rehabbed overpriced. The vinyl on the booths was ripped, the floor had specks of dust probably there since the Depression, and the walls had pictures that Norman Rockwell would have thought were too treacly.
As we walked in, Scott pointed to a man in a back booth and said, “That’s him.”
Pulver waved us over.
Pulver wore sunglasses, a brown and white western shirt, black jeans, and black cowboy boots. He looked like a lean cowboy ready to go out and rope a few steers or punch a few cows. He wasn’t handsome, but whippet thin, a panther down on the range. He could be a poster boy for what rugged and tough should look like.
Pulver smiled at us as Scott did the introductions. “You feeling better?” Pulver asked. The accent was South Side of Chicago, but soft and deep. You could almost picture a cowboy around the campfire murmuring to his buddies after a long day in the saddle. He gave meaning to the concept I’ve heard some gay men express that if there were reincarnation, they’d like to come back as a cowboy’s saddle.
I said, “Just about a hundred percent.” Actually, I still felt a bit light-headed. Scott looked as if he could use several nights’ sleep.
Scott and I ordered soft drinks. Pulver asked for tea. McCutcheon said, “Clay, I’m going to sit at the counter, but I want you to give them as much information as you can.”
“What’s up?” Pulver asked.
“We’re having paranoia problems,” I said.
McCutcheon said, “It’s important, Clay. They can explain it as well as I can. They need you.” McCutcheon walked away.
Pulver shook his head. “Kenny really likes you both. I trust him and I owe him. Although, when I’m done with you guys, I’ll have paid him back twice over. It’ll be nice to have him owe me for a change.”
I said, “I’m working from the assumption that we shouldn’t trust anyone. Until we get some definitive answers, we trust nobody, including you and McCutcheon.”
“Why would I give you information if I’m out to get you?”
“I don’t think Tom’s being logical,” Scott said.
“Someone told us to be suspicious of McCutcheon. You came to us through him. Therefore, I’m suspicious of you.”
Pulver frowned. “I’m not the one who was in the middle of a bombing, nor am I the one who keeps getting threats, so I’ve got a lot of sympathy for your fear. But if you don’t trust me, why would you be trusting what I have to say to you?”
“Exactly,” Scott said.
That logic had me stumped. I went back to my question. “What’s the deal between you and McCutcheon? Are you lovers?”
Pulver rubbed his chin the way the aged, grizzled prospector always does in old movie westerns. “I’d rather you trusted me. I’m willing to go a little way to earn your trust because I think you need help.”
“I’m sorry I’m being so paranoid,” I said. “I just figure it’s best to be cautious.”
Pulver nodded. “I was born and raised on the far south-west side of Chicago. I am not as prejudiced and bigoted as most people think that makes me. Kenny and I went through kindergarten to tenth grade together. Kenny and me are tied to the old neighborhood and to each other, but we are not and have never been lovers. As far as I know, he doesn’t have anyone special now.”
“We heard that he punched a guy in Bosnia after he had sex with him.”
“Lots of crazy rumors can start for any number of reasons. Do you guys think he’s a threat to you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Stop,” Scott ordered. “I for one appreciate Pulver’s and McCutcheon’s help and patience.” Scott placed his hand on my arm. “We can play the ‘who’s more paranoid’ version of ‘who do you trust’ and ‘who’s a threat’ until we all bore each other to tears. Let’s get on with it.” He looked at Pulver. “You tell us stuff. We find out over time if it’s believable or not. If the information you give us is false and gets us killed, we won’t be able to come back and say I told you so. With luck we’ll come out alive and with a solution at the end.”
“Eminently sensible,” Pulver said.
I kept my mouth shut. I was beginning to feel a bit foolish. I could never be a right-wing preacher. Self-righteous posturing, as I’d been doing, gets old very quickly. I realized my unreasonableness was approaching the level of irrationality. I decided to give it a rest. I just had to hope backing off didn’t get us killed.
“You still aren’t part of the team working on the investigation?” Scott asked.
“No. The rest of the criminals of Chicago have not used the explosion as an excuse to call a moratorium on their criminal activities. In fact my partner and I helped bust a small heroin operation last night.”
“What can you tell us about the bombing?” Scott asked.
“Couple things. You know the Fattatuchis, the owner of the deli that was destroyed?”
We nodded.
“Their son is a member of a right-wing militia group. He dined in their restaurant earlier that evening. We’re looking for him, but haven’t been able to contact him.”
“He’d be hard to miss,” I said. “He’s always dressed in leather and tries to look like a terrorist.”
Scott said, “Myrtle Mae talked about a guy in leather he had his eye on in the restaurant. He said it was their son.” Scott gave us the description.
“Sounds like him,” I said.
“Who is Myrtle Mae?” Pulver asked.
I explained.
“I’ll have to make sure he’s on the list of people the police have to talk to.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Scott said.
“He was there,” Pulver said. “That’s enough to get him at least a simple visit.”
“If we’re lucky, he’ll get locked up for a crime,” Scott said. “We heard that Susan Clancey was supposed to be in town.”
“Who’s she?” Pulver asked.
I said, “A woman who performs late-term abortions around the country. Quite often major demonstrations occur when she comes to a town to do the procedure.”
“I haven’t heard anything about her.”
“She tries to keep a very low profile wherever she goes.”
“You’re saying she could have been a focal point? Where’d you get this information?”
Scott said, “From that Myrtle Mae we told you about.”
“How would he know that?”
I said, “I’m not sure. He does seem to know a lot of people and often has inside information.”
“We’ll have to find out what he knows.”
“The Fattatuchis’ son really is a terrorist?” Scott asked.
“Would he really blow up his own family’s restaurant?” I asked.
“I find that hard to believe,” Scott said.
Pulver said, “We know he’s a member of a group, but we don’t know anything beyon
d that. He may have an alibi. He may simply march around in the woods on weekends, a glorified Boy Scout with a lethal weapon. Despite the headlines about those groups, most of them are still pretty small, filled with loons working scams not to pay their taxes.”
I asked, “What else can you tell us about the bombing?”
“The offices of Freedom’s Children were in the building that was completely destroyed directly north across the alley from the clinic.”
“Who are Freedom’s Children?”
“A right-to-life group.”
Scott asked, “Do the police think the bomb could have been meant for them? I’ve never heard of a pro-choice group dedicated to violence.”
“But the pro-life groups see them as killers. It’s all in your perspective. The police have found a group that has a connection to protests about abortions. One person was found dead in the part of the building we believe were their offices. Everybody wants to understand the connection. No one does yet.”
I asked, “Anybody else who died that was connected to anything suspicious?”
“We’re reasonably certain the bomber did not die in the explosion. We don’t have an extra limb or anything like they did in Oklahoma City, although it’s still early. One of the people who died in the copy shop had ID that showed he was a legal immigrant from Iraq. That also proves nothing.”
Scott asked, “How about the employees of the clinic itself?”
“I’ve got nothing on that so far.”
Scott told him about Gloria Dellios and her connection to clinics that had experienced attacks.
“It needs to be checked,” Pulver said. “Didn’t I read somewhere that over twenty-five percent of the abortion clinics have had some kind of violence occur at them this year? I suspect all of them get threats. Another thing to consider is the string of violence that happens to abortion providers every fall.”
I said, “I’ve seen articles about that.”
“We’ve got possible international implications,” Pulver said. “I know the Canadian authorities are very interested.”
“But weren’t those shootings, not bombings?” Scott asked.
“The method is different, but you never know when a nut is going to escalate. Frustration builds. Violence ensues.”
I said, “We heard a rumor that we were suspects. That we’re being investigated by homophobic cops.”
“Not that I’ve heard of. I can check it.”
Scott asked, “Have you found out anything about that Internet rumor about the Tools of Satan having a headquarters near there?”
“Nobody’s even been able to confirm that a group by that name exists. The newest reports are that Braxton Thornburg was seen in the area before the explosion but not after. You’ve heard of him?”
I said, “Isn’t he the California bomber who’s supposed to have been hiding in the High Sierra for years?”
“How reliable are those reports?” Scott asked.
“No real proof yet. Just more Internet drivel.”
For a few minutes we discussed the threats we’d gotten. At the end I said, “I think we could try putting ourselves out as bait. If someone is following us that closely, we could draw them out. If they thought our guards were gone, we could catch them.”
Pulver said, “And if your guards were gone and these people were very good, you could be dead in seconds.”
“I agree,” Scott said. “It’s too dangerous.”
I dropped the idea.
Pulver knew no further information. We thanked him.
As we left, he told us, “Good luck, you guys. If you want to get hold of me without telling Kenny, here’s my card with my private pager number. Seriously, he is your best possible defense.”
McCutcheon joined us as we walked out.
“Where to?” Scott asked as McCutcheon waited in the car.
“I think we should talk to Gloria Dellios. I want to find out who else was hurt and who else died at the clinic. I knew a few of them. I’d like to see how they are. And we could ask her a few questions, such as why she just happened to be walking out of the clinic when the bomb exploded. Also, if Susan Clancey was coming to town, Gloria might have known.”
18
It was late afternoon. I was hungry, and I needed some sleep. Scott was yawning as we rode.
We stopped at Carson’s for Ribs on Wells Street. I had the pork chops and Scott the end cut of prime rib. Both of us ordered their famed “garbage” salad. We talked little until the end of the meal, and then mostly I was content to hear about the carpentry project Scott was working on. Simple domestic conversation was eminently soothing. We talked about paying the bills and taking his car in for a tune-up, and about a new car for me.
We picked up a paper to hunt for details about the explosion and to see if they had a list of the dead and injured. From the headlines to the final squibs, they mostly reported on the press conferences the police had been having. There were pictures of investigators standing on the debris at the site; investigators giving interviews; investigators looking solemn while standing behind politicians being reassuring. All these were crammed amid as many pictures of sobbing people as they could find. A photo of Scott helping a fireman filled half of page six of the Sun Times. The City Council had met in special session to offer a million-dollar reward for information leading to an arrest.
We’d been to a party at Gloria Dellios’s house about six months ago. My friend who had died in the clinic, Alvana, had made sure we were invited. Dellios’s phone number wasn’t listed, so we couldn’t call ahead. A listed phone number for an abortion provider was an open invitation to the crazed. Although with Web sites listing names and addresses, secrecy wasn’t as vital as it once was.
She lived in the oddly placed apartment complex built in the middle of Fifty-fifth Street just west of Hyde Park Boulevard. We found a parking place a half block up on Dorchester Court. Her apartment was on the tenth floor and looked toward the west.
She wore an old University of Oregon sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a gray ribbon. Numerous wisps of hair leaked from the bow. The fading sunlight caught these strands and made it look as if her face had a wild glow around it.
She hugged me briefly. “Thank God, you’re all right. What did the doctors say?” Her words were kindly, but even in those short phrases she mixed in deep sighs and pregnant pauses. She spoke listlessly, as if each syllable were a burden. It was almost painful to listen to her.
I gave her a brief summary.
We sat in a living room filled with waiting-room chic: cheap vinyl chairs with pea-soup-green seats and chrome armrests, a few Golden Books for children strewn on a nicked and scarred coffee table. A couch stuck out from a wall, dividing the living room from the dining room. The track lighting was dim. The walls were bare except for a poster advertising a woman’s music festival in Seneca Falls, New York.
I pointed at the books. “You have children?”
She smiled faintly. “No. Those are for my sister’s kids. They live in the neighborhood and drop by frequently. I try to keep educational activities strategically placed around the apartment. Part of the reason I moved to Chicago was to be closer to my sister and her kids. She’s recently divorced, and I wanted to be supportive. We’re all each other has.”
I said, “I’m worried about who else might have been hurt in the explosion. We couldn’t find a newspaper with a list of victims. We wanted to talk to you as well. Who besides Alvana was hurt at the clinic?”
“I’m going to miss Alvana. She was so fabulous. Always a good person to talk to. Always a voice of calm and reason.” Dellios began to cry.
I remained silent as she dabbed at her eyes. I wasn’t sure I could talk very well at that moment either. I knew I would miss Alvana a great deal.
After her tears stopped, she said, “I’m not sure if anyone else you know was hurt. I’ve seen partial lists in several papers. So many are dead.” She handed me a list. I scanne
d it as she spoke. “We’ve been open seven days a week for years. We were closing in less than an hour. A few more minutes and it would have been so different. What happened there is so awful. The clinic is destroyed, and its services are desperately needed.”
No one else’s name besides the ones Alvana’s roommate had mentioned was on the list. I asked, “Who actually owns the clinic?”
“A consortium of women doctors.”
“Are the police checking to see if anyone was angry enough at one of them to blow up the whole place?”
“Human anger I understand,” Dellios said. “Getting even, while distasteful, is a very natural response to what you see as injustice. But I just don’t understand that much anger directed at one person. Would that be worth causing this kind of destruction and so much harm to so many?”
I said, “Irrational anger is in vogue. It’s the emotion of the moment, and it’s acceptable and encouraged in some segments of the population.”
Dellios said, “I don’t get why some men are so angry and concerned about women they don’t know who are making a choice. I think the heart of the problem is some men cannot relinquish power and control over women.”
“Do either of those things really matter now?” Scott asked. “Whatever the reason, and there are probably many, a lot of people have died because of some nut.”
Dellios said, “All of us who work in such places live a life of fear. So many people I care very much about have been hurt in very many ways.” She reached for a box of tissues on a nearby table, dabbed at her eyes, and tossed it into a waste-basket already filled to near the top with other tissue. “I wasn’t crazed after the explosion that night because I was so busy. I wish I had something to work on now. Anything to get my mind off this horror.” She pulled out another tissue and used it. “I hate it when women cry, but I’m not sure what other reaction makes sense. If I get angry about what happened, I’m just as bad as whoever did this. If I just feel sad, I feel like I’m betraying the women who died and the cause I believe in. I want to fight, but I don’t know how or who. There is just too much hate.”
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