“You’re in one of the most dangerous professions,” I said. “It can’t be easy living with the constant pressure and threats.”
“I’ve been a lot of places and tried to help a lot of people. Yet, some people think I don’t value human life because of what I do. They couldn’t be more wrong. I hope the police catch who did this. I want to see justice done, not get revenge. I just would like to be able to ask whoever did it, ‘Why?’ ”
I said, “The only answer that makes sense is hatred, distorted, unreasoning hatred. All other answers are inadequate, and that one is incomprehensible to rational people. Have the police been able to tell you anything?”
“Whenever I haven’t been at the hospital, I’ve been at the police station. I’ve gone over as many threats as I can re-member. None of them stood out. We kept a log of any calls and letters, but I can’t imagine it survived the fire.”
“The police will probably be coming by to ask more questions.”
“Why? I’ve already told them everything.”
How do you say nicely, you yourself are going to be coming under suspicion because of some data a reporter happened to stumble upon? I said simply, “We were talking to a reporter who knew some data about the clinics you’ve worked at. They’ve had lots of troubles.”
“All clinics have had lots of troubles.”
“These seemed to have major problems while you were on the staff.”
I’m not much of a judge of people’s expressions, and I’m wrong often enough to be humble about it, but I thought I saw dismay followed by fear.
She rose to her feet. I figured she was about to toss us out. I was wrong. She strode behind the couch and ran her hand over it’s faded and cracked plastic. For an uncomfortably long time she didn’t look at either one of us.
Finally she whispered, “I was wondering when someone was going to notice. Years ago a friend of mine worked at a succession of clinics. Within a month after she started in three straight places, they were victims of acid attacks.”
I knew antiabortion activists would pour butyric acid in mail slots or through small openings they’d drilled in the walls. The acid is used in perfumes and disinfectants. Undiluted it smells like rotten eggs. It irritates the skin and the respiratory system. It does an annoying, although seldom a significant, amount of damage. The clinics often had to close until hazardous-materials teams got rid of the residue.
I asked, “Did someone connect your friend with the crimes?”
“A woman reporter in Sacramento, California, was doing a profile on a clinic where my friend worked. The reporter started asking questions about her background. My friend figured out what she was after and quit the next day. She went back to school to get her law degree. She didn’t want the pressure and the insult of being investigated.”
“Did she do it?” I asked.
“No. She had solid alibis for two of the occasions.”
“So why didn’t she stick to her story?” Scott asked.
“Simply being accused is bad enough. I had a friend who set off the theft alarm on her way out of one of those chain bookstores. She had her receipt in her hand. The clerks apologized profusely. They gave her a free gift certificate, but she was too humiliated to ever go back. She never wanted to risk setting off an alarm again. To this day she won’t shop in a store that has one of those. It causes her no end of hassles, but she’s sticking to her guns.”
“Isn’t that kind of an overreaction?” Scott asked.
“To her it wasn’t. She felt debased and frightened.” Dellios walked around to the front of the couch and paced for a few moments. “I’ve been worried about someone making the link between all those places and my working there. I had no way to stop the connection being made. Much of the time I’ve felt like my career and my life were hanging by a thread.”
“Why didn’t you just quit?” Scott asked. “There are other ways to serve the causes you care about.”
“I imagine the reasons I didn’t quit are very similar to reasons you didn’t quit playing baseball.”
Scott said, “I understand that.”
Dellios continued, “I didn’t bomb my own clinic. I have no reason to. I am not a murderer.”
I asked, “What are you going to say when the police want to know how it was that you were outside in a safe spot?”
“You mean just like you’re doing now?”
“Yeah.” I felt a little embarrassed at the boldness of the question, but I couldn’t think of another way to word it.
She brushed at some of the stray strands of hair around her face. She pulled her sweatshirt closer around her torso. She began slowly. “I’m a simple person, really. I believe in nonviolence. I grew up as the kid in the family who was always trying to make peace with my brothers and sisters, with the kids in the neighborhood, between the kids at school. It seemed so easy, so natural. Now I carry a gun. I keep a shotgun here under my bed. Me, who’s been a pacifist since high school, me owning a gun! I have a state-of-the-art burglar-alarm system surrounding this shabby apartment. I have a fire alarm in each room. I know antichoice fanatics probably wouldn’t attack just this one place, but look what they did to that city block. And they’ve found the home addresses and assassinated those doctors.” She sighed deeply. “My sister keeps telling me to get out of the business, but women need me. They need to have a place where they can feel safe to exercise their choices.” She stopped and stared into the middle distance for several moments.
I asked, “What happened at those other clinics?”
“The police never caught anyone. Just like whoever’s been targeting and killing abortion providers here and in Canada. I thought things would get better after we won that racketeering case a few years ago.”
She was referring to a case brought by the National Organization for Women and two clinics in Delaware and Wisconsin against two antiabortion groups and their leaders.
She went on, “We won the case, but it was like winning the battle and losing the war. The attacks never really lessened. I am not willing to sacrifice my sanity and my entire life. I have no clinic to return to. I am not applying for another job in one. I’m getting out.”
I asked, “Do you always leave at that time on a Saturday?”
“Why are you so concerned?”
“I think my concern is natural.”
“You sound like you’re investigating.”
“I was injured in the blast. My friend died. Alvana’s child is still not out of danger. Scott and I have been under threat. My personal life and public life have merged to the point of constant danger. I want to put a stop to as much of that as possible. I’m not ready to walk away yet. Before I retire to a lead-lined bunker, I’m going to fight back.”
Dellios said, “There’s only so much a person can take. Accusing me isn’t going to help. I’m no threat to either of you. I barely know Scott. I only know you from your part-time work at the clinic. I’m certainly sympathetic to you as a gay couple, and I’m not a killer.”
I said, “We heard a rumor that Susan Clancey was supposed to be coming to town.”
Dellios made a little eep noise and twittered her fingers around her throat. “I don’t know where you could have heard that.”
The intercom buzzed. She walked to the switch, flicked it on, and asked, “Who’s there?”
“Detective Jantoro, Chicago police. I need to talk with you again, Ms. Dellios.”
She buzzed him in. Before she opened the apartment door, she inspected him through the security peephole. Jantoro entered, nodded hello to us, and said, “I need to talk to Ms. Dellios alone.”
She made no protest and neither did we.
In the entrance to the apartment house Scott said, “She didn’t answer your questions about why she left when she did.”
“I know. The fact that she wouldn’t tell us why she left makes it suspicious to me. Not only that, she looked panicked when I asked her about Clancey.”
Scott said, “If she set
the bomb, wouldn’t she have been farther away when it went off?”
“I guess.”
“And if she was planning to blow up that block, wouldn’t she have already had an excuse for leaving? She’d know she’d need one. I think her lack of an excuse shows that she didn’t do it. Whoever was crazy enough to set off that bomb was also bright enough to do a lot of complex planning.”
“You could be right.” I was tired. “Let’s go home. We can call that reporter’s contact on the East Coast.”
19
As we took the elevator to Scott’s penthouse, I said, “You know, we could just not call McCutcheon tomorrow and go off on our own.”
“You can if you want,” Scott said, “I have no intention of going around town without him. You can decide how brave you are and how much danger you’re willing to risk. I, for one, think we need to use him.”
We called the East Coast. As the phone rang, I eased into an overstuffed chair. It felt wonderful. I was more tired than I thought.
Thieme’s contact, Toby Ratshinski had a deep voice. I pictured a lumberjack. I explained about Thieme and what he’d told us about McCutcheon.
Ratshinski’s skepticism disappeared at the mention of Thieme’s name. It was quickly replaced with curiosity about us. “This is really Tom Mason? The guy who was on all those talk shows?”
I assured him it was and that Scott was on the extension.
“Wow. This is great. I admire you guys so much. I’d be happy to do what I can for you.”
“What were you doing in Bosnia?” I asked.
“I was the lowest rung on the reporting ladder for the Washington Post. I was willing to do anything to have a career in journalism. If it took going to Bosnia, I figured it was worth the risk. Better than reporting on school board and zoning meetings in the farthest suburbs around Washington, D.C. How will my knowledge about Bosnia help you guys?”
I said, “We heard you got beat up in Bosnia.”
“I sure did.”
“We’re interested in the guy who did it.”
“A nasty, tough son of a bitch.”
“Angus Thieme thought the guy looked like the owner of the security firm we’ve hired. We’re trying to be sure of his identity. Could you describe the man you made a pass at?”
“A college-wrestler type. Very wiry, lithe, not too tall. I forget the color of his eyes.”
“What happened?”
“I was in this absolute hellhole of a town. We’d been threatened by police, security officers, and the armies on both sides in the conflict. We were constantly afraid for our lives. A group of us had pretty much decided to beat it out of there. This guy was with us all the time. No one knew what his job really was. He wasn’t a reporter. Everybody assumed he was with the CIA. One night I was drinking. I was far from home, scared, and lonely. He was a stud. We were in a war zone.”
He paused. I thought I heard him take a sip of liquid. In a moment, he continued, “We talked intimately for hours. He sat closer to me than need required. He invited me to stay overnight at his place.”
When I was dating, guys had to practically spell out in neon their interest or lack of same. A blatant grab of the crotch is a clear message, but I was never good at picking up on the more subtle nonverbal cues.
Ratshinski continued, “At the entrance to a dark, narrow, and treacherously steep stairway, I put my hand on his butt. He lost his temper. He switched from friendly and affectionate to a raging madman in an instant. He literally picked me up and threw me into the street. I’m not a very big guy, but that was unbelievable. He began pounding on me. I think he might have killed me except a jeep-load of MPs happened by. They made him stop, but they didn’t arrest him. I had no one to really complain to. The local authorities were a joke. Appeal to our military was a ludicrous idea. Anyway, as far as I could see, he wasn’t under their jurisdiction.”
“We need to be sure this is the same guy. Can you think of any way we could know that it was him? Your description isn’t very specific. Thieme’s tentative identification is all we have to go on.”
“I know when I grabbed him, he didn’t pull away for a few seconds. After he began hitting me, I managed to grab him. For someone who acted like he wasn’t interested, his dick sure seemed to be.”
Scott said, “Any scars, tattoos, obvious ticks?” I caught a hint of sarcasm beginning to creep into his voice.
“I don’t remember. He was sexy. I saw him taking a piss by the side of the road once. I think he was uncut.”
This was not going to be enough. “We need something positive we can use.”
“I’ll try and think of something.”
After we hung up, Scott said, “That was unhelpful.”
“Should we have asked him to come to Chicago? We can afford to put him up for the night in a hotel.”
“Do you really want to do that?” Scott asked.
“We could if we have to.”
“Do you think that’s reasonable at this time?”
“I’m not sure what’s reasonable and neither are you. You’re the one who’s going from frantically willing to spend a million dollars to see what’s at the bottom of this to being hesitant and unsure about what we should do.”
“I am restating my official position that I want to take us away from all this forever.”
“You’re going to quit pitching? I’m going to quit teaching? Are we going to hide so completely that we never see our families? Even if we did leave, we’d still be living mostly in fear. All that makes sense to you?”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be safe and secure.”
“And if only one of us goes?”
“I’m not going without you.”
I began to stand up, but I felt a mild wave of dizziness. I grabbed the arm of the chair.
Scott hurried over. “Are you all right?”
“Just a little woozy. I want a night’s sleep in my own bed without fear of terrorists. Let tomorrow’s dread fend for itself.”
I called the school’s answering machine and confirmed that I would not be in for the rest of the week. I had a doctor’s note stating the need for me to rest. Scott checked the messages with the service as I got ready for bed. I turned off all the lights except the small reading lamp on my side of the bed. I usually read something every night before I fall asleep. That didn’t feel right tonight. While the wrangling we’d been doing didn’t count as an official fight, I was uncomfortable. I still needed to talk to him. One of the few bits of wisdom my parents told me that stuck was never go to sleep angry. I’ve found they were right.
I sat up in bed with my back propped up against the pillows as he finished brushing his teeth. I heard the brush rattle when he put it in the holder. He switched off the light. As he crossed the room, he was lit by the glow of the city below. Half his face and torso were in shadow. His white briefs shimmered in the silent radiance. Living at the top of a building on Lake Shore Drive means there is always light of some kind coming through the windows. I was struck as I so often am by his athletic grace and rugged beauty. He crawled into bed and sat up next to me. I took his hand.
“I respect your fears,” I began. “I don’t want my own dread to control my life. I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t see running for the rest of my life. You’re right. If we went far away for quite a while, I think people would begin to forget that we exist. The concept of a private island with a bevy of pool boys to attend to our every need has a certain charm. I just don’t think it’s realistic. I don’t think I could do it. I know I don’t want to do it.”
“I’m still scared,” Scott responded. “Every unguarded moment brings back the picture of what I saw outside that clinic. I don’t want that to be us. I wish I could stop the dreams at night. I wish I could stop the memories during the day. But bad as those feelings are, I’m more worried about you and me. I don’t know what to do.”
He pulled me closer and put his arm around me. I felt his warmth and
closeness and caught the mint aroma from his toothpaste. I breathed deeply.
“I’m not sure what to do,” I said. “It feels right to be trying to stop these threats against us. Here in bed, our connection to what happened at the clinic seems more remote. We’ve got a small piece of the world to fix. We’re not safe. Someone has made threats. That note in the hospital and someone being able to get that close scares me. I think we have a very specific person who needs to be stopped. I think we should still be questioning people.”
“Do you really believe it’s possible for us to find out who it is? Look at the all the investigating the police did.”
“But we didn’t do any.”
He said, “We aren’t more qualified than they are.”
There was no sarcasm in his voice. This was different from the wrangling earlier. His sonorous voice with its slight Southern drawl murmuring through it rumbled softly into my ear. I snuggled into his shoulder and side. The hair on his chest made a wonderful nest to burrow against. I felt safe and warm and comfortable.
“I know we aren’t more qualified, but I think we have a more direct concern than the police. We’ve trusted everybody else to make us safe. We may not be able to do much, but with a little persistence and a lot of luck, we might be able to do something.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Me too.” After several moments of silence, I said, “I’m getting really sleepy.” Neither of us moved. I felt myself nodding off and my head drooping on his shoulder. That’s when my memories of returning to the scene came back. I thought of Alan Redpath lying in the hospital. The sense of fortuitous escape crept into my mind until it was overwhelming. My eyes opened. I felt my heart pound.
Scott yawned. “You okay?” he muttered.
I nodded that I was, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t had this kind of memory since my days in the marines. It was as unpleasant now as it had been then. All the helplessness and sense of simple luck ruling my life rushed back. It felt as if I were falling from a great height. I’d dreamed this more times than I’ve ever admitted to Scott. I’d be falling with all kinds of time to think about not having a parachute. About not having a net below me. There was never anything I could do to stop the ground from rushing ever closer. Nothing that would stop the ground from being very hard. Nothing that would stop the coming of death.
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