A Conspiracy of Fear Page 11

  “I ain’t no fag.” He downed his shot then threw his beer at me. Scott grabbed a towel from the far side of the bar and handed it to me. I dabbed at the drips.

  The bartender lumbered over. “What’d I tell you last time, Zalachis? No throwing things at other customers.”

  Zalachis shouted, “I wish I’d planned it. I wished I’d been responsible for all those deaths. The doctors give me a few months to live. Nobody would punish me.”

  I pulled back, looked at him, glanced at the bartender who was shaking his head. I asked Zalachis, “Where were you late yesterday afternoon?”

  I didn’t see him as likely to be toting his oxygen tank along with tons of ammunition and stacks of guns around the streets of Chicago, but I thought I’d ask.

  He burst out with another grating laugh, but he didn’t answer the question. He said, “I just admire whoever did it. He was probably another fag.”

  I’d had enough. Information wasn’t worth my dignity. I said, “You’re a hateful pig.”

  He laughed and said, “Yes, I know.” He reached over with his cigarette and looked like he was going to grind it out on Scott’s shoulder. My hand shot out, but the bartender was quicker. He grabbed Zalachis’s arm, took my untouched beer, and dumped it on the lit cigarette.

  The bartender snarled, “Zalachis, get the hell out. Now. And stay out.”

  “I’ve been thrown out of better places.”

  The bartender said, “There are no better places that will let you in.”

  Zalachis shifted his butt to get off the stool. He stumbled, began to slip.

  Scott caught him.

  Zalachis yanked himself away, but he overbalanced himself backwards and began to topple. He was stopped by the bar itself, and the bartender grabbing the back of his shirt to help him stay upright.

  Zalachis, with oxygen tank in hand, tottered out. Once outside the door I could see him lighting another cigarette.

  The bartender brought Scott and me another round of shots and beers and placed them next to our untouched originals. In his gruff growl he said, “On the house.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Friday – 7:23 P.M.

  In the car, Scott said, “If we hadn’t been through the massacre, that would be the low point of the...” He paused. I glanced at him as I drove down Lake Shore Drive. He caught my eye. “I was going to say week, but I think the massacre has hit number one on awful things in my life, our lives. This guy?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “This guy was a pathetic asshole who is robbing the rest of us of precious oxygen.”

  “He was a closet case? Is a closet case?”

  “Gay or straight, he’s an asshole.”

  I said, “I wonder who the utility infielder was and if he’d still be around. He’s got to be on the roster for that year.”

  “We can check the stats and see if we can find him.”

  Scott called our answering service. He hung up and said, “We’ve got an urgent message to call Todd.” He punched in the number and put it on speakerphone.

  Todd answered with, “The police want to meet you both at the scene of the massacre.”

  I said, “I don’t know how I feel going back to the actual place.”

  Todd said, “The police told me they had important information for you.”

  “What information?” Unless they had the name of the shooter, or the latest word on casualties, I couldn’t imagine what information they would have that we would need to meet about.

  “They wouldn’t say.”

  I said, “I don’t know how much new horror I can take.”

  “It might be information that you need to have.”

  “Why can’t they tell you, and you give it to us?”

  “I think the police are going out of their way for you.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s the usual reason. Scott’s a famous ballplayer, but in this case, I just don’t know. You’re to meet with the Commander of Area 10, a guy named Drew Molton, who will give you any details and explanations he feels necessary. At least that’s all they told me. What details and explanation they are, I don’t know. They suggested I accompany you.”

  “Why do they want you there?”

  “Because nobody can get your god damn cell phone number, which even I do not have, and they got in touch with me, and I told them I wanted to be there. It’s a legal thing, and you’re my clients, and I just want to make sure I.” He faltered. He whispered, “I want to see.”

  I’d never heard our buttoned up and buttoned down lawyer so moved. I looked at Scott who nodded his head. I said, “Okay, we’ll meet you there.”

  Rain had begun to pour down again late that afternoon and was predicted to continue for hours.

  As we turned onto Franklin Street, we saw a clot of people standing in the deluge half a block down. They were on our side of the police tape. We parked and got out of the car. We saw Arnie, the sculptor, in the middle of the street. Rain sluiced off him. He was screaming loud enough to rupture his vocal chords. After a few more steps we could see the object of his wrath, Judd Haverel, the owner of the building across the street, who we’d seen for a few seconds on TV saying gay people had brought the attack on themselves.

  We hurried forward. Arnie waved his arms. Spit flew from his mouth. I caught him as he flung himself at Haverel. He was screaming, “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you so you can meet your God today, this very second.” Arnie struggled against me, but he wasn’t a big man.

  Haverel did not help. He was screaming, gesticulating, and reaching back to throw a punch backed up by four hundred pounds of flab. Scott placed himself in front of him.

  Cops rushed toward us and hustled Haverel away. Todd Bristol exited from a cab and walked up. We told him about the confrontation. Todd spoke with the cops then came back to the three of us. We moved under an overhang where we soothed Arnie until he was calm. Scott and I told Arnie we’d check with him later.

  A detective led us past the cordon of police and barricades then opened a door that led through the boarded up entrance. Sheets of plastic rattled where the windows of the vestibule used to be. Laser lights streamed across the room like a moment from a light show from a 70s disco frozen in time. Yellow circles and white chalk outlines were scattered in various locations on the floor around us. The detective stopped three feet from the first chalk outline. He waited for a uniformed man to end his current conversation. He then turned to us and said, “I’m Commander Molton from Area Ten. I’m coordinating all the Chicago aspects of the investigation. How are you both doing?” He glanced at the bandage on the side of my head.

  Scott said, “We’re better off than a lot of people. We were lucky.”

  I added, “We’ve had a hell of a scare and seen some hideous things.”

  Molton said, “I asked you to come down because we needed to talk to you and give you some information. I’m afraid I have more bad news for you.”

  I felt my heart clutch. Scott’s hand found mine, and we moved closer to each other. “Has someone else died?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not aware that anyone’s medical status had changed, at least as of an hour ago.” He shook his head. “It’s something else.” He pointed to the laser beams above and in front of us. “We’ve tracked the shots from their point of origin on the roof of the building across the street.”

  Molton took us closer to the lasers. An assistant, introduced as Barb Dams, stood next to him with a laptop. She turned the twenty-one inch screen so we could see it. Molton pointed to the images.

  “The killer was on the water tower itself when he was firing his rifle. The structure across the street is actually five interconnected buildings, and the water tower was on top of the oldest section which happened to directly overlook the gallery.”

  Todd said, “Having a place to shoot is one thing, but that whole water tower collapsing had to involve a hell of a lot of foresight and planning and just plain luck. Every single thing would have h
ad to go just right.”

  I said, “Maybe the water tower was like a second bomb. You know how in some terrorists’ attacks there’s a second bomb timed to go off to kill and hurt first responders.”

  “Could be,” Molton said. “The timing is tricky. As a diversion, the shooter tossed firecrackers from his perch high above. He had some powerful weapons based on the shells we found. He could have weakened or destroyed one of the rusted old struts in seconds with a burst or two. It actually didn’t fall until some minutes after the shooting stopped, so we think he weakened it, but wasn’t up there when it fell.”

  He pointed upward. “Our people had gone floor to floor and room to room and were just getting to the roof when the thing collapsed. There was a boom that everyone heard. That may have been an explosive device attached to a tower’s struts, or he shot up the strut, and it held for a bit of time, and then collapsed for the lack of support from, or the added stress on, the strut.”

  He looked back at us. “The boom might have been when it hit the side of the roof, or the crack of one or more of the struts as it began to topple. My people are still working on that.”

  Todd said, “So it could have been dumb luck or brilliant planning.”

  “Our best guess is that it was careful planning mixed with random chance. For example, firecrackers are more impervious to damp from the rain, and it wouldn’t take much practice with them to figure out when to let them go. Wouldn’t take much practice to see how much time he had from tossing them off the building to when they hit the ground. We think only seconds. He had the kind that would make the most noise.”

  I said, “If they were on a fuse, wouldn’t he risk the rain dousing them? Or even maybe they’d hit the ground and disintegrate on impact and not explode?”

  Molton said, “He threw several boxes or bags full of different kinds or put them in a jar with air holes. Rain had been in all the weather forecasts that morning. He could have come prepared. We’re still assembling minute bits of data for blocks around the scene. The flood from the water tower carried debris in all directions and may have carried away a lot of useful material. Clues could have been washed into the sewers and be irretrievable.”

  I asked, “How did he know that the water tower would collapse in the first place?”

  “It seems like it must have been part of the plan,” Molton said.

  “So he must have been stalking it for a long time. Nobody saw someone suspicious? I saw one report on the Internet that said the owner claimed he had workers up there.”

  “Claimed is the correct word. We can’t find construction work orders for the past three months.”

  “How do you sabotage a water tower?” Todd asked.

  “This one was ancient. It might have been the original one with this building and then got used to fill the needs of the whole block long structure. We’ve found rotted timbers. Getting it to fall, we think, might have been luck as well, but it adds a whole new dimension to the chaos and more hurt and more danger. The thing was nearly one hundred years old. It had failed its last two inspections. The building owner has been questioned extensively.”

  Todd interrupted. “When he hasn’t been on television being a homophobic pig.”

  Molton said, “Which isn’t actionable.” The Commander shook his head. “That the water tower fell at the time of the shooting is just too much for us to consider as a coincidence. We are still examining the roof and the shards on the ground to find exactly how it happened. The damn thing was a disaster waiting to happen. We don’t have the exact forensics back yet, but we don’t think it would have taken much to bring it down.”

  We’d seen clips of the falling water tower on the Net. Molton now showed us the footage the law enforcement agencies had put together of the tower’s collapse. There were jerks in the film and small gaps, but it was clear what happened, but when it was done, we had no more insight than before although we noted the horror etched on the faces of the people caught in the maelstrom.

  Molton adjusted the computer so we could all see the screen better. He said, “The problem the fireworks caused was that precious moments were lost while the guards thought one of the protestors on the street was firing. Many of those people scattered and fled. Several of the people across the street might have been hit in the return fire. We were lucky the rain kept the number of people down and with the first bangs and flashes people either ran or fell to the ground. It was only when the shots kept coming that security personnel identified the angle. They were taking cover as well. The shooter had the high ground and darkness from the rain. In fact, the shooter himself was never seen, just the flash from his gun.”

  We’d heard similar speculation on television, now confirmed.

  Molton continued. “I’m afraid that’s not why I asked you to come down.” He pointed to the laptop his assistant was holding. “We’ve mapped where everyone was standing when the shooting began.” He manipulated the wireless mouse and the screen changed. “Here’s where everyone was when the shooting started.”

  Scott, Todd, and I clustered around the screen.

  I said, “These are approximations?”

  “We think we’ve got it pretty close. We’ve got everyone’s account of where they were when it started and stopped and their movements. We’ve got blood spatters or residue from victims to confirm placement or make readjustments.” He moved the cursor. “For example, you were here when it started.” He had me right at the exit from the actual galleries into the vestibule. “You ran toward where Mr. Carpenter was but stopped to catch Mr. Traverno. We know where you, Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Traverno, and the two young men Sean and Edmund wound up because of what you told us and each individual’s blood residue behind the sculpture.”

  “You got forensic tests back that fast?”

  “The mayor and the governor decreed that all will be expedited and there will be no delays at any level. This is carnage and whoever did this will be caught, and we won’t be delayed with waiting for tests results.” He moved the cursor again. “So, we for sure have blood trace and your word that you moved behind the sculpture.”

  That item stood in its battle-scarred state. Molton cleared his throat. “It’s a good thing you moved.” He pointed above us at the laser lights then back to the map of who was where on the screen. “I can now overlay the beams onto the map.” He manipulated the mouse again and the laser and positions of the humans meshed.

  “Here’s where everyone was at the first shot. Not the firecrackers, the actual shooting.”

  I gasped and put my arm around Scott. His arm was around me. Todd, who never touched anyone if he could help it, put a hand on each of our shoulders.

  Molton said, “As far as we can tell, the first shots were aimed at you, Mr. Carpenter. Our best guess right now is the killer was aiming for you. You were his main target.”

  I felt Scott tremble. I said, “I think we should sit down.”

  We found ourselves in the tiny office where I’d gone the night before with Fulham.

  Scott and I sat next to each other. Todd on the other side of him. Scott shook his head and wouldn’t look up. I sat as close to him as I could. I kept one hand on his back and the other on his thigh.

  Molton asked Barb Dams to bring some water. When she reappeared with a bundle of water bottles, Scott took one and gulped from it. His face was pale. He said, “I just happened to stumble into those kids.”

  “It was probably what saved you, all three of you. You moved when you might not have.”

  Molton nodded toward the lap top screen. He moved the lasers and stand-ins for people in slow motion. We saw a virtual recreation of the horror.

  Half way through Scott asked him to stop. He drank from his water bottle. He was shaking. I kept my arm around him as I asked, “Why wait for this venue to go after Scott?”

  Molton shrugged. “We don’t know. It is the biggest gay event this month except for the Pride Parade, and you aren’t scheduled to be in that, Mr. Carpenter, but yo
u were here.”

  Scott muttered, “This is all my fault.”

  Molton said, “Mr. Carpenter, we could get together all the people who feel that way about this. I’ve heard the same from the sculptor, the gallery owner, and a number of others. I’ve heard this from many victims in many a tragedy.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, here or for any of them. We could get together all the people who feel they are at fault and have a guilt orgy. They didn’t do it. They didn’t cause it. It was done to them. You are not at fault.” He shook his head. “I will do everything I can to make sure there is not an orgy of guilt among the survivors.”

  We all paused for thought for a few moments then I asked, “Why didn’t he wait for a better shot? Why did he start shooting at just that moment?”

  “We’ll ask him when we catch him.” He called up a picture of the building across the street. “We discovered that some of the people caught in the gallery shooting also had an office in the building. GAY Press. Do you know them?”

  “We’ve just met some of them. I held one of them in my arms until the paramedics took him away. Is there a connection between them and the shooting?”

  “We’re looking into everything.”

  “This seems to be an awful lot just for me,” Scott said.

  “It might have been all show to make his work more spectacular, to make a name for himself, or to keep himself from getting caught. He loves this now, is my guess, and when we catch him, he’ll actually love it more. I’m convinced we’ll catch the son of a bitch. We’ve got numerous local and state jurisdictions as well as Homeland Security and the FBI, literally hundreds of people working on this.”

  I said, “The shooting didn’t stop with a couple shots at Scott. There were lots more. Those couldn’t have been for Scott.”

  “We think that’s where he started or at least that’s what the trajectory is telling us. You were first, by design, is our best guess, but possibly by random chance. There was less direct death, we think, because of the angle. He would have had a better angle and could have killed more people if he hadn’t started with you. We don’t know if he planned on the glass shattering. More people were injured from the glass than the actual bullets.”