A Conspiracy of Fear Page 12

  I asked, “How could anyone know what the glass would do?”

  Molton shrugged. “We don’t know. We were lucky in a way that he chose to shoot from so high up. He didn’t have a direct view into the back third of the vestibule.”

  “He?” Todd asked.

  “Hard to find a woman perpetrator of a mass shooting in history.” Molton sipped coffee then continued. “A lot of other shots were fired and damage done. A lot of the exhibits were hit directly. In terms of timing, it seems to be you first, Mr. Carpenter, then the Suffer the Children sculpture, then random firing. If the police hadn’t been present on the street, far worse most likely would have happened. As far as we can tell, it was them returning fire that stopped everything.”

  Todd interjected, “Or maybe the son of bitch had his escape planned, and he knew he didn’t have much time, especially when people were returning fire.”

  Molton nodded. “Possible. Likely. People began streaming out of the building across the street from all the exits. We’ve timed it. It wouldn’t have taken that long for the killer to get down from the roof and get lost in the crush of people.” He shook his head. “So far we haven’t found anyone suspicious on video. It had been pouring rain for hours. In what we have so far, most everybody’s got an umbrella or is wearing a hoody, or a rain hat, or just a plain old hat. With all the restaurants, shops, and theaters in there, it was like a train station at rush hour.” He sighed. “The guy could have been camped up there for hours, days, weeks.”

  I said, “If he was a careful planner, and if the rehab work was as haphazard as you’re suggesting, he might easily have disguised himself as a construction worker prior to the shooting.”

  Scott added, “Afterward the most clever disguise would have been to be one of the police and guards who were on the scene, or he could have hidden himself among the first responders.”

  Molton shrugged. “You summarize the possibilities well.”

  Todd asked, “Did you find anything on the roof itself that told you anything?”

  Molton said, “Most of what was on that part of the roof was washed away in the flood.”

  “He planned it that way?” I asked.

  “He couldn’t have known what the water would do. Who would? Our guess is he’d cleaned up after himself or wasn’t going to leave personal connections anywhere up there. So far we haven’t found any evidence on the roof.”

  Todd asked, “Are you certain there was only one shooter?”

  Molton pointed at the computer screen. “He could have had a crowd of supporters up there cheering him on for all we know. What the evidence tells us so far is that we’ve got one person shooting and no evidence of co-conspirators. We aren’t dismissing anything yet, but current evidence points to one. We’re keeping an open mind.”

  I felt myself trying to catch my breath. I looked to Scott. He looked woebegone and crushed. I continued to rub his back. Molton was kind enough to wait silently while we tried to absorb all this new information.

  After the pause, Molton said, “The killer could have been planning for a while. When did you decide you were going to attend the opening?”

  “I go every year. It was just assumed.”

  “Who knew you were going to be here?”

  Scott explained about being the anonymous backer.

  When he finished, Molton said, “So a lot of people knew, but it wasn’t a known thing.”

  “Kind of,” Scott said.

  Todd broke in. “Are you saying someone from the gallery or the fundraiser tipped off the killer to Scott’s being present?”

  “We don’t know. The question of why here, why this venue is a good one. If it was done by a right wing nut, then he’s making a statement as well as killing a prominent member of the gay community. He had to find out when construction workers would or would not be there. Did he plant the weapons or bring them with? Did he bring a few at a time? So far surveillance hasn’t noticed anybody carrying anything suspicious, but there’s a huge health club in the next block north. People are going by with gym bags all the time. Plus, there’s a new fifty story hotel in the next block east. People show up with suitcases and boxes. We just need to keep looking at video. Maybe we’ll get lucky. He could have disguised himself before he got to the sidewalk after the shooting and on each different visit for his planning.”

  “You think he made multiple visits?” I asked.

  “We think he must have. Unfortunately, you can also walk through that building to a far street, or go to the subbasements to a variety of tunnels under the city. If you go far enough, you could come out to a subway or even to stairs leading up to an el station. If it’s on video, we’ll find it. It’s just that we’re not sure what we’re looking for.”

  Todd asked, “Not why here or why now but just why?”

  We all looked at Molton. He frowned. “It’s always complicated. Fame? Notoriety? A mass killer’s status? Some of the guys are made heroic by the crazies. Look at how the lunatic fringe made a hero out of an idiot rancher who wouldn’t pay his taxes, and that was just taxes not a massacre. One oddity so far is that we haven’t found a manifesto. A lot of these guys aren’t too bright, or tip their hand, even tell people what they’re planning to do.” He shrugged. “No one has come forward with any philosophical diatribe so far.”

  Scott asked, “Why me?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Molton betrayed not a sign that he’d heard victims voice this same lament for years.

  Molton gazed at him for several moments. We all knew why. Scott was a famous gay person, an athlete, and by his very existence, an affront to far too many.

  Molton said the obvious. “Famous people are targets.” He cleared his throat. “Have you had any specific threats lately?”

  “Everything is screened. After the injury it got a lot less.” He shuddered. ”I only lived because those kids showed up. If I was why he attacked, I was the cause of death and destruction.”

  Molton put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Carpenter, you had seconds to do all that you could. No one died because of you. They died because a rabid, homophobic pig chose to attack and destroy. I wish I could say we could always stop such things from happening. We can’t. I’m sorry. We can fight the crazies. We can catch the crazies. Short of locking all of ourselves up, we cannot stop the crazies. I’m so sorry. I wish there were deeper words of comfort I could say that would erase your memories from those moments, or that could ease your pain. I’m so sorry.”

  Everybody sipped water or coffee.

  Scott gulped. “I was saved by pure serendipitous chance.”

  Molton said, “I find that happens a lot more in life than we’d care to admit.”

  Todd asked, “Why did you tell Mr. Carpenter they targeted him?”

  “Somebody tried to kill him, and they’re still out there. You have a right to know so you can make decisions.” Molton turned to me. “Have you received any threats?”

  “No. The same service handles all my stuff.”

  Molton asked, “Can we see all the recent threats?”

  We agreed.

  Scott said, “I can’t hide in some concrete bunker, safe room, for the rest of my life.”

  Molton said, “I know. I understand. I’m sorry. You may want to take even more precautions in the future.”

  Scott shook his head. He whispered, “What are we supposed to do?”

  Molton said, “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.” He gave us his card with his cell phone and home phone numbers.

  The police left the room. We stayed to talk to Todd.

  Scott said, “Molton was really kind, but my feeling of guilt is still there.”

  Todd asked, “Would you rather not have known?”

  Scott shook his head. “No. I guess not.” He sighed. “It’s better to know. I feel lost and helpless. What the hell are we supposed to do?”

  Todd asked, “What did you do today?”

  I told him about the hospital vi
sits, talking to the entourage, going with Scott to physical therapy and the doctor visit, researching Fulham, and the visits to reporters.

  Todd said, “Why not follow up on that Fulham stuff? That Zalachis sounds like a total shit for brains. Spend time digging up crap on him. Hunt deeper into Fulham’s life.”

  “I think it would require a trip to Nebraska and probably one to St. Louis.”

  “So go.”

  “I don’t want to leave Scott.”

  Todd put a hand on my arm for a few seconds, another rare touch. “My dear old friend, you have been through a hell I can barely imagine. I don’t know how one gets through these things. I suppose one just endures. It sounds like you got engrossed in research today. You can’t do anything medically for people here. The hospitals are doing everything. You know that. You can’t investigate the actual crime. You’d need an immense team. This would give you something to do.”

  I said, “Scott has to go back for doctors’ appointments.”

  Todd said, “You will have to be apart from each other at some point. You know that.”

  “Staying together, we might be able to help each other heal.”

  “It’s just a suggestion.” Todd gave each of us the briefest of hugs, a third moment of touching. I knew he was moved. He left.

  As promised, Scott and I hunted for Arnie, but we couldn’t find him. The cops led us through the back door of the gallery so we wouldn’t have to face the mass of reporters still gathered out front in the pouring rain.

  A few feet from the exit a figure loomed out of the murk. I placed myself in front of Scott. Our escort of cops’ hands went to their guns.

  Arnie stepped into the light.

  Scott said to the cops, “It’s okay.”

  They left.

  Arnie, sodden as if he’d been standing in the rain, looked from one to the other of us.

  “This is all my fault.”

  Arnie hadn’t changed since the night of the massacre. The blood on his clothes and his face had smeared and run. His hair clung in skewed ringlets.

  Scott opened his arms wide, stepped to Arnie, pulled him in from the rain, and enfolded him in a tremendous embrace. Arnie shivered for a few moments and then he wept and wept, pouring his soul out while standing on the speckled linoleum of this back entrance.

  Scott murmured to him. “Ssshhh. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s not your fault.”

  When Arnie was under control, Scott leaned his head back and looked him in the eyes while still holding him. He said, “We need to get you warm and dry.”

  “I was out of control with Haverel.”

  Scott said, “Responding with anger to horror is natural. The man is a horror. Do you have people to go to? Somewhere safe? Is there someone we could call?”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  We walked half a block with him to a diner. He managed several sips of soup. He didn’t want to let go his despair. We at least got him to take Scott’s umbrella when he stepped out into the rain.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday – 9:36 P.M.

  Once outside ourselves, sheets of rain descended upon us. The wind howled. Scott hurried ahead. I plodded behind. He looked back, saw me dragging behind, and came back.

  “You okay?”

  I shook my head. “I just want to go home.”

  Cabs were scarce. We crossed over to Ohio Street and walked east toward home. We bent over, arm in arm, and made our way through the maelstrom.

  At Michigan Avenue we finally managed to find a cab. It took us the few blocks north to our condo.

  My mom and dad called to check on us. Scott and I were holding hands as we Skyped. After giving them an update, I echoed Scott, “I just feel so helpless.”

  Dad said, “You talked about that Fulham guy and what he told you.”

  I’d given them the barest outline about the old guy coming to me for help, but my dad notices details, all of them, from the first whiffs of the illicit cigarette I smoked when I was fourteen, to the needs of a teenager to be left alone.

  My dad continued, “You could look some more into that.”

  I told them what I’d done while waiting for Scott.

  “So look into it some more,” my dad said. “You investigate. I know you. You got involved in research and finding stuff out. You get totally absorbed. You could do more.”

  “I don’t want to forget what happened.”

  “You never will,” my dad said. “It will be with you forever, but for the moment, you’ve got to get past the immediate horror. Like you did in the marines.”

  He was right. I’d survived that. He and I had some long talks after I’d gotten back. I’d told him things that I’d only whispered to Scott after we’d been together for five years.

  My mom said, “Scott can’t go to Nebraska or anywhere else. He’s got doctor appointments.”

  Scott said, “I’ll skip them and go with.”

  My mom said, “You can do that, but you don’t want to endanger your rehab. That’s an important part of your life. If you go and your healing is slowed or the problems exacerbated, or your career is ruined because you did go, then a mass murderer has gotten his way. He wins every time you alter your life.”

  I said, “I’m scared.”

  My mom said, “I’m scared for the both of you.”

  My dad concurred. He added, “You will resume your lives. This isn’t your first threat.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And you’ve been in danger.”

  We left it uncertain.

  I was exhausted. We ate some leftovers and cleaned the kitchen. We took long warm showers. In bed we held each other for what seemed like hours.

  I didn’t feel like talking. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and the continuous tension since the massacre.

  I listened to him falling asleep then slipped out of bed, threw on the black boxer briefs he’d been wearing all day, found a flannel shirt of his that he wore while he did his wood working. It smelled of newly-sanded wood and Scott.

  I sat in the living room with the lights out. When the wind gusted, rain rattled against the windows. Through the double thick insulated panes, I could hear the distant thunder and see flashing lightning as the storm rolled over our building.

  I stared out the windows for a while then gazed around at our stuff. I picked up my Bose headphones with the iPod attached, but I couldn’t think of what possible music I could listen to at a time like this.

  I thought to myself, this is what living in the middle of a catastrophe feels like, the moment when all your fears come true. I wasn’t into castrophizing, fearing all outcomes to the point of paralysis or fantasizing that only the worst could happen and the only option was to do nothing, but there was nothing to do now to occupy my mind.

  A bolt of lightning hit the top of the towers on the Hancock building a few blocks away. The heart of the storm was upon us.

  Then I realized this wasn’t the worst catastrophe. At least not for us. We were alive. Maybe alive by inches, but all the same, this wasn’t the worst. Scott was still alive as was I. Obvious, I know, but when pure evil has released pure hell, I think I can be forgiven some obliviousness and an emotional over-reaction.

  I let myself revel in the fact that we were alive, and felt guilty for that.

  As close as we’d come to the brink, we hadn’t gone over it. Between flashes of lightning and roars of thunder, I listened to my own breathing. I’d never forget the perspective of our good fortune, just as I’d didn’t know when the images of what I’d seen would be erased.

  I felt awful for those who died and their families, for those who were hurt far worse than we were.

  The storm raged. My thoughts caromed around like a cue ball blasted around a pool table with a shotgun.

  Everything was a fight. Everything was always a fight. We hadn’t been blind to so much hatred. We’d faced it before. Sure, Scott being a public figure, we knew that would cause problems.
We’d taken all reasonable precautions, but this was insanity outside our control. Then again, if it was sanity within our control that would be even more frightening.

  All the political meetings and fund raisers, gay community benefits we’d gone to. All the hard work of so many, and I thought of how futile it was in the face of such blind hatred and indifference.

  The rain poured down.

  I might have wept, but I didn’t know if the tears would be selfish ones for myself or for those who died, and did it make any difference? There was no one here to see my tears.

  I wrapped Scott’s flannel shirt around me tighter. He gets them a size too big because he likes the feeling of freedom and space.

  I twirled the iPod dial idly through the playlists. At a time like this there really wasn’t anything else but Judy Collins and her albums In My Life followed by Wildflowers. As I listened to the sad and gentle music, I watched the pouring rain sluice down the windows.

  Tinges of despair nibbled at the edges of consciousness.

  Perhaps I nodded off. I do know that I awakened to find Scott next to me on the couch. He wore an old pair of jeans.

  I hit pause on the iPod, took off the headphones. He put his arm around me.

  We sat together and watched the rain. What was there to say? What words can you speak?

  Someone targeted the one you loved for death, and others had died. I felt awful for feeling sorry for myself when the man I loved undoubtedly needed me. He’d been the target.

  I whispered. “You okay?”

  He caressed my shoulder and head, and murmured the sibilant. “Shuuush. Shuuush.”

  I subsided and thought what was the point of doing anything. Ever. About anything. Why take up arms against the slings and arrows? It never stops. Never.

  I fell asleep in his arms.

  When I awoke, I found a blanket covering both of us. I was between him and the back of the couch.

  Sunlight glittered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was early morning. I’d made it through the dark night. As in Tolkien, the dawn always brought hope. I remembered my favorite scene from the book so well repeated in the movie of the arrival of the Rohirrim to attempt to lift the siege of the city of Gondor at the rising of the sun in a fantasy world of the imagination.