One Dead Drag Queen by Mark Richard Zubro Read Free Book Online

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