I trotted across Lowry Mall, staring intently at the screen on my phone, dodging the occasional summer session student. Every search engine I tried came up with nothing relevant for a David Gowen or a Professor Louis Roebuck. Had they been involved in some sort of a scandal, surely there’d be some mention of it, somewhere. Of course, this was about eighty years ago, back when Columbia was a relatively small town. I needed to dig deeper, make sure I wasn’t researching something that had already been printed and forgotten.
Massive Ellis Library loomed, gray and imposing, over the center of campus. Trying to remember the directions from the map of campus, I circled the building until I found the neglected, glass-fronted door. MISSOURI HISTORICAL SOCIETY
I scanned their hours. They closed at five during the summer, and it was ten till. I’d probably have to come back tomorrow, but decided to check things out anyway.
A smug portrait of Harry Truman, the only successful Missourian since Jesse James, greeted me. The office was dimly lit, reeking of old newspaper, stale air, and dust. Political cartoons lampooning decades-dead politicians and university presidents lined the walls. The requisite photograph of the Academic Hall fire of 1892 hung over a bank of file cabinets.
“May I help you?”
The girl behind the counter was as young as Steph, shorter than Steph, and probably weighed twice as much. She did, however, carry a lot of that weight in her chest, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. She had hair as kinky as steel wool and as red as a box of McDonald’s french fries. A proliferation of freckles covered her apple cheeks. Thick lips and a turned-up nose completed the picture.
“Yes, um…” I glanced at her name plate. “Christine?”
“Call me Charlie.”
“Charlie, um, do you work here?” She seemed awfully young. I was hoping for someone a little more experienced to help me.
She raised an eyebrow. “No, I’m actually heiress to the throne of Moldavia. Today I switched places with a lowly peasant girl to see how the serfs live.” She then squinted her eyes and bared her teeth. It took me a moment to realize that was how she smiled.
I found myself grinning in return. “Sarcasm. I learned about that in English lit.”
“Yes, Einstein, I’ve worked here all summer. I’m going to be a freshman next year, so I figured I’d read all the books in advance. What’s your story?”
“Sherman. I’m a Youth Scholar.”
She laughed. I wasn’t sure if it was over my name or my academic pursuits. “Aren’t you a good boy, spending your summer vacation learning.”
“Look who’s talking!”
“Hey, at least I’m getting paid. Now what did you need, I don’t have all day.” She then glanced around the gloomy, silent office, as if noticing the neglected state of things for the first time. “Oh, I guess I do.”
“I’m looking for information on a couple of names. A Reverend David Gowen, he was a minister at the Holiness Church here in Columbia in 1935. Also, Louis Roebuck, he was a professor at MU around the same time.”
She copied down the names, asking me to spell ‘Roebuck.’ “Tried Googling it?”
I frowned. “That’s no way to research.”
She shot me her grimacing smile again. “Good answer, Sherwood. We’re about to close, but I’m here tomorrow. Why don’t you stop by and I’ll give you a hand?”
That was one way of going about it, but I didn’t want to waste time digging through more old files, not if I could help it. “I don’t suppose you could take a look for me, Charlie?” I gave her my most charming smile.
She rolled her eyes. “You know, earlier this summer, I had every jock on campus here, asking me to do the homework for their remedial classes. But somehow, you’re different.”
“Smart?”
“Scrawny.”
We locked eyes for several seconds. I think we were both trying not to laugh.
“Tell you what, Sure-thing, I’ll see what I can come up with this week. Stop by sometime. Maybe we can make some popcorn and read some of the old agricultural yearbooks.”
“Thanks, Charlie. I’ll make this up to you.”
“I’ll send you a bill. So why are you interested in these guys, anyway?”
I thought about telling her, but decided to keep it to myself. If there was a story in this, it was all mine. Plus, the whole conspiracy theory thing might sound kind of weird to someone else.
“It’s boring.” I headed to the door.
“Kay. Hey!”
I stopped.
Charlie stood. “I’ll be done here in about five minutes. You want to grab a cup of coffee or whiskey or something?” She was smiling, but for the first time since I’d come in, she didn’t look utterly self-assured.
I briefly considered her offer. After all, she was the first intelligent person I’d met on campus, and the flirting was kind of obvious. But she also had the beginnings of a double chin, and part of her shirt was tucked into the rolls of her stomach.
“Sorry, got to get back for dinner. Thanks for everything.”
She nodded. I saw her hand briefly touch her belly, but that might have been my imagination.
“See ya round, Charmin.”
I sat alone in the Mark Twain dining hall, my chicken cacciatore growing cold as I composed messages on my phone. On every Missouri-themed bulletin board, Facebook page, or historical society, I left a request for information. It was doubtful anyone there knew anything about Professor Roebuck or Reverend Gowen, but I had to check all avenues. In the end, I’d left over fifty messages. I might have done more, but my dad kept trying to call.
I pulled the letter out of my case and reread it. It certainly sounded interesting, what with that talk of a missing body, a fire, and some kind of cover up. But what if the truth was much more mundane? Or this had already been sorted out during the depression? Or what if I broke some amazing story, but Mr. Hopkins didn’t care because it had happened so long ago?
One thing was certain, I had to have a lot more information than I did now. Charlie might turn up something; I’d stop by and see her in a couple of days. Or maybe Gowen’s church might provide a lead. A little searching revealed that the building, at least, was still around, though it now housed a Baptist congregation.
“Hey, roomie!”
Shit.
My annoyance turned to flat out dismay when I realized not only was L.J. approaching my table, but he was accompanied by John Doe and Aaron, that wannabe soldier. The three of them sat down without asking, Aaron shoving some of my stuff aside.
John was finishing a story. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but once you’ve committed to the lederhosen and pineapple, it’s not like the circus animals are a big surprise. I mean, Ypsilanti, Michigan! I guess the standard deviation just isn’t enough for some people.”
L.J. and Aaron nodded. “I hear you, man.”
I was almost, but not quite, tempted to ask them what they were talking about. What I really wanted was privacy. Unfortunately, I had barely touched my dinner, so I couldn’t just get up and leave.
Aaron was already stuffing his face. “So what workshop did you go to this afternoon, Sherman?” His tray was covered with dozens of sausages. I’d have to ask Steph what Freud would say about that.
“I didn’t.” Some of us had work to do.
“Ya should of. We got to hear this old sailor who fought at Guadalcanal.”
John was picking at a salad. “Hey, my great-grandfather was there.”
“You ought to go see that guy. Maybe they knew each other.”
“I doubt it,” mumbled John.
“Why not?”
“Because great-grandpa was in the Japanese navy.”
L.J. laughed. “Hey!” he said suddenly, turning to me. “Did you ever play quidditch?”
“Quidditch?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to get together a team for the summer.”
“Quidditch?” I repeated. “Like from Harry Potter?”
“Yeah. You ever play?”
Many sarcastic comments bounced around in my brain. “No, L.J., for the simple reason that I do not have a flying broomstick.”
It didn’t faze him. “Oh, we just hold the broom between our legs. You should come tomorrow, it’s fun.”
“So you’re asking me to prance around pretending to be a witch, with a stick crammed up my ass?”
“Thank you!” said Aaron, who obviously shared my opinions. “Football or faggotry, one or the other.”
I began to collect my utensils. Why did I think the Scholars’ program would be some kind of intellectual Mecca? It was just high school all over again, same dumb shits who wanted to waste time playing sports and telling stupid jokes. It was like hanging out with my dad’s poker buddies. Well, I had a plan, and it didn’t include hanging out with these guys.
“I’m going back to the room,” I said, picking up my tray.
“We’ll be up there in a minute,” said L.J.
“Lovely.”
L.J. had set up his laptop on his bed and was streaming an episode of ‘Three’s Company.’ He sat on the floor with John and Aaron, laughing like baboons at the sitcom shenanigans.
I stared at my own laptop, accessing more Columbia history sites, trying to track down the reverend and the professor. I had the creeping suspicion maybe there was no information out there. Even if the incident in the letter was important, if it had been covered up successfully, then I was wasting my time.
“This show is so gay!” barked Aaron. I made a fist around the pen in my hand. Didn’t these guys realize I was trying to work? Didn’t they notice how annoying they were being?
Granted, I could have popped in my earplugs, or gone to the lounge, or actually asked them to leave. But I refused to show weakness. I held my ground, venting my displeasure through a series of loud sighs and angry glances.
“Hey, who’d you rather go with,” asked L.J., pointing to the screen. “Janet or Chrissy?”
“Chrissy, no contest,” said Aaron, taking a swig of soda, then belching.
“I dunno,” said John. “She’s cuter, but kinda dim. And probably high maintenance. Janet would probably look better in the morning.”
Bunch of god damn monkeys.
My phone rang. Jeez. Didn’t my father realize I could spend the night away from home without his help? It had been years since Boy Scout camp.
But it wasn’t him. The screen just said Restricted.
“Hello?”
“Sherman Andrews?” said an adult voice, raspy and serious. It was after nine in the evening, so this probably wasn’t a salesperson.
“Speaking. With whom am…”
“Mr. Andrews, I understand you’re interested in information about Reverend David Gowen.”
I rushed to the door to the relative quiet of the hall. “Yes! Do you know something?” God, what luck, I hadn’t posted those messages an hour ago.
“Why, exactly, are you interested?”
I played it close to the vest. “I’m just curious. I found a document that mentioned some sort of a fire…”
The person on the other end laughed. It sounded forced. “Around about 1935? I think I can help you. There was a fire at the local Masonic Hall, and one of the reverend’s parishioners died. They’d been serving alcohol there—this was during Prohibition, mind you—and the reverend pulled some strings to make it look like the guy died at home. Not very well, I’m afraid, it leaked out, and he caught hell for his involvement.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool, cinderblock wall. Damnation. Not only was the scandal public knowledge, it was lame. So much for dreams of being Bob Woodward. Now I’d have to go out and do the dull assignments Mr. Hopkins had given me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled into my phone. “How do you know all this?”
“I dabble. I hope this is the info you’ve been looking for. I’m sorry it’s not the least bit interesting.”
“Yeah…” An odd thought occurred to me. “Um, how did you get this number?
“From the Missouri Historical Society message board.”
“I posted my e-mail address there, but not my phone number. In fact…” I tried to remember my exact message. “I didn’t even leave my last name.”
“You’re mistaken.” The voice brooked no argument.
“No, no. I never give out this number.”
“Then how am I calling you?”
“Uh…” He kind of had me there. “I guess I must have…”
“Yes, you did. Good evening.”
“Who is this?”
I was talking to a dead line.
Dejected, I walked back into my room. So much for my first big scoop.
The guys were just starting another episode.
Come and knock on our door…
I looked at my computer, then at the sitcom. I lowered myself to the floor next to my roommate. He passed me a bag of chips.
I reached up to my desk and grabbed the letter from Gowen, rereading it in the desperate hope I might have missed something.
I think we would all do well not to mention what we discovered to anyone. I’ve spoken to Sammy and Sgt. Knowles and they agree.
Sammy and Sgt. Knowles. I wondered who they were. Too bad I didn’t have their full names.
Somewhere in France, April 3, 1918—Sergeant Herbert Knowles surveyed a scene that would have driven most men mad with horror. He lit a cigarette. Knowles was only dimly aware of how dead he was inside. After seeing so many men die, after killing so many men whose names he didn’t know and whose faces he saw all too clearly…that’s when the numbness started. After that, the trenches become just another workplace. All it cost him was a tiny part of his soul.
Sgt. Knowles crushed his cigarette and hiked forward through the blasted field of mud, where not so much as a blade of grass grew. He cut a striking figure in the sickly afternoon sun. At 6’2”, with sandy hair and a lantern jaw, he was the sort of doughboy you’d see on a recruitment poster. The folks at home would be delighted to hear how many Huns he’d shot. Knowles had just turned nineteen.
Wasn’t there a time when the stench of the unburied dead would have made him vomit? Did the far off reports of artillery once feel like nails in his brain? When did life become so cheap? When did socks and toilet paper become so goddamn precious?
The field of mud and reeking, stagnant water held little of interest. A coil of barbed wire. A caisson, burned and mostly buried. Busted sand bags. Part of a horse.
The patrol served no purpose. The lines had been broken, Jerry was on the run. There wasn’t an enemy within five miles. Still, orders were orders. If the captain wanted to be sure the area was secure, then Knowles had best see what was beyond that ridge.
There was a man beyond the incline. For just one second, Knowles felt he was back home in Missouri, back at the Methodist church on a Sunday morning. But the thought crumbled from his mind. Jesus had a beard. The man on this cross was clean shaven. And naked; Jesus would never be naked.
It took the sergeant’s shell-shocked brain a moment to comprehend what he saw. Then, to his horror, the numbness vanished.
Knowles had seen men die. Men he’d marched with, talked with, eaten with. He’d seen soldiers trying to stuff their own guts back in. He’d killed rats that had gnawed at the wounds of his dying comrades. He’d seen men vomit bits of their lungs during gas attacks.
When he saw the man on the cross, he did what he had never done. He ran.
Not far. Just behind a hill, so he wouldn’t have to look. Crouched in the mud, Knowles gasped for air that suddenly seemed ranker than usual.
The rumors were true. He hadn’t wanted to believe what he’d heard. The Krauts really didn’t do that sort of thing. Taking turns with grade school girls, cutting the hands off Belgian children, cannibalism…that was just wartime propaganda.
But the crucified man was real. The Germans were monsters. Swine. Shit.
Knowles had to cut the man down. He couldn’t leave him there for the greasy, fat crows. With fear that he’d not known since his first battle, he crept nearer the hanging man.
The cross had been crudely constructed; two pieces of rough board hammered together. The man wasn’t nailed there. He had been tied on with barbed wire. His head hung down. The face was not visible, for which Knowles was immensely thankful.
Though flies buzzed around the corpse, it bore few wounds. Just gashes where the barbed wire dug into the flesh, and a strange series of cuts that crisscrossed the man’s hairless chest. Almost deliberate. Like a sideways letter ‘E’ with a cross below it.
And then Knowles realized two things which would cause him to wake up screaming, far after the end of the war. The man raised his head. He was alive. And his eyes had been removed.
Knowles collapsed. The man’s head lolled, and Knowles prayed that this horrible ghoul would not come alive again. Scrambling for his knife, he stood up. For a moment he considered slashing the dying man’s throat. It would almost be a mercy.
As Knowles began to cut the man’s bonds, he realized his prayers were not to be answered. Slowly, the man’s head rose again. Mere inches from Knowles face, he turned his empty sockets to his rescuer.
The knife fell from Knowles’ hand. Flies crawled out of the bloody eye sockets, as the ocular muscles writhed horribly. The man, who by all rights should have been dead, smiled. An awful, ghastly, insane smile. And then he spoke. And then he died.
The words of the crucified man followed Knowles as he sprinted back to his unit. They haunted him through Armistice Day, and tortured him at random moments during the 1920s and 30s.
Knowles never knew what the man said.
He spoke German.
The man on the cross was an enemy soldier.
The monster that had done this to him was an American.