The next morning I headed downtown, determined not to give up on my quest for information about Rev. Gowen. The guy on the phone said there’d been some kind of a scandal, right? Maybe Mr. Hopkins would give me props for digging up dirt. Hell, it was either this or interview some elderly alumnus about the way things used to be.
The former Holiness Church, now First Baptist, was only about half a mile from campus. Obviously an old structure, it resembled a gothic cathedral welded to a middle school. This was a Tuesday, and I had no idea if anyone would even be there, though there were a few cars in the lot.
I paused to straighten my collar and adjust the tie I’d worn despite Mr. Hopkins’s advice. I triple-checked to make sure my notepad and Dictaphone were still in my case.
I am a real reporter.
Locating the entrance, I poked around the dimly-lit hall until I located an office with the light on. A man sat at a desk, reading a file. He looked up and smiled when I knocked.
“What can I do for you?” He was very young, with copper-colored hair and a ruddy face.
“I have a question about your church.”
He stood and shook my hand. “Reverend Zeke Morely.”
I held out my press pass. “Sherman Andrews. I’m with the Missourian.”
The reverend frowned for a moment. I remembered what Mr. Hopkins had said about people distrusting the press.
“Aren’t you a little young to be a reporter?”
That stung. “Aren’t you a little young to be a minister?” Not the most professional response, but still…
Fortunately, he smiled. “Point taken. Actually, I’m the youth pastor. Now what did you need?”
“I’m interested in one of your ministers. A man named David Gowen. He was a pastor here in 1935.”
Rev. Morely paused. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Tell you what, we have a little booklet about the history of our church, let me grab you a copy. In the meantime, there’s pictures of all our past ministers down the hall, why don’t you have a look.”
Excellent. Excited to place a face with my guy, I hurried to the wall of holy men. It began with a charcoal portrait of the staid-looking Elias Holiday, 1885-1887, and ended with bald Dr. Wallace McKay, 2007-present. Backdating, I searched out the 1930s section of the timeline.
“So why are you interested in our church?” called Morely from the office.
“Um, my great-grandfather went here. Mentioned Rev. Gowen in his journal. Thought it might make an interesting historical piece.” I was only half paying attention. Something wasn’t right. The chronology continued unbroken all the way till bespectacled Harvey G. Baker, 1920-1931, then leapt straight to Jacob Howard, 1936-1938. There was no entry for 1931-1936, when David Gowen would have been minister.
“Ugly looking mugs, ain’t they?” The reverend appeared behind me, grinning. “Which one’s your guy?”
“Um, he’s not there. Any idea why there’s no photo for these years?”
He checked the dates. “I never noticed that. Odd. But a photo like that would have been over seventy years old. It could have gotten ruined sometime.”
“I guess.” I wasn’t willing to chalk this one up to coincidence. The only missing picture is of the one guy I’m interested in?
The youth minister scratched his head. “Although…” He paused, and studied me, as if internally debating something.
“What, what?” I asked, almost jumping up and down.
“It’s probably nothing, but there was this old parishioner I knew, maybe five years ago. And I mean old. One time he mentioned that a minister here was once dismissed because of some kind of a scandal. Maybe that was your man. They might have taken his picture down if he embarrassed the church somehow.”
Scandal? Yes! “Do you remember any details?”
Rev. Moreley raised an index finger and made a thoughtful groaning noise. “Aaah….no, sorry, it’s gone.”
“Could I talk to the man you mentioned?”
“I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.” He handed me a photocopied booklet, bound with spiral plastic. “At any rate, here’s our little history.”
I glanced at the cover and slipped it into my bag. I suspected a booklet that contained ‘over fifty time-saving recipes from our parishioners’ wouldn’t help me much.
“Reverend, do you have any old church records I could look at? Papers, files, that sort of thing?”
He rubbed his almost hairless chin, then glanced down the hall as if looking for someone. “There’s some old files down in the basement. Let’s go have a look.”
No matter how many times a building is renovated, the basement always stays the same. In the century and a half this church had existed, they’d added electricity, plumbing, and central air, but the cellar was still the same dank, brick-walled pit that it must have been in the 1800s. I followed Rev. Morely down the creaking, wooden steps, into the musty, cluttered basement.
This place had obviously been a dumping ground since before the Second World War. A quick glance showed me a water damaged pew, a banner for a decades-past rummage sale, and a rather frightening nativity shepherd. My guide motioned me forward, until we came to a bank of file cabinets.
“Most everything is on computers these days,” he said, slashing through a spider web. “Everything before that went in here. We moved them down here a while ago. Lord only knows how far back the papers go.”
Splendid. I was about to politely suggest that he could return to whatever he’d been doing, when a shadow fell across the door to the main floor.
“Reverend Morely?” came a commanding, though elderly voice. “Are you down there?”
It was hard to tell in the darkness, but I think he went slightly pale. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re waiting for you.”
“I was just…”
“We’re waiting.” I don’t know why, but I got the chills.
The minister turned to me. “I have to go now. There’s a flashlight in that tool chest. Try to leave things as you found them. You can use the copier in my office if you need to.”
Without turning, he began to slowly, deliberately, ascend the stairs.
“Reverend?”
“Yes?” He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“Um, where are you going?”
He paused, then let out a long, agonized sigh. “The yearly budget meeting.”
I watched him go, wishing I could do something to save him.
Once I was alone, I located the flashlight and began digging. It didn’t take me long to realize the task might not be as hopeless as I thought. While the cabinets themselves were in no particular pattern, I soon discovered that the files inside were in meticulous chronological order. After fifteen minutes of searching, I found the drawer that corresponded to 1935. It was on the bottom, of course. I kneeled on the grubby floor, bracing the flashlight in my armpit, squinting at the crabbed titles on the musty cardboard folders.
David Gowen
There it was. I was almost afraid to touch it. I took it in my trembling hands, already planning how to sneak it out the door without anyone noticing.
And it was empty. I knew by its weight as soon as I picked it up. There was nothing inside.
What the hell had this guy done that they’d tossed his files? Despondently, I turned the folder over and gave it a shake.
Something fluttered out.
It was a photograph. I gingerly picked it up and held it in the beam. While I didn’t know much about photography, the faded black and white picture seemed ancient. I squinted at the figures. Four men standing in front of what appeared to be the steps of a large brick building.
The first man on the left was bearded and well dressed. He wore a dress shirt, tie, and the tab collar popular before the Second World War. He stood still and erect, arms folded. Though it was hard to tell from the grainy photo, he looked to be around sixty.
Squatting on the stair next to him sat a man of about forty. He was wearing a long jacket. Squinting into the camera, he grimaced in an unpleasant manner. His arms, which were visible out of the front of his sleeves, were muscular. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
Next to the powerful man stood the sort of person who might have been called a hippie, had he been born many decades later. He wore sandals, old pants, suspenders, a straw hat, and a partially unbuttoned shirt. He was also the only one in the picture who was smiling. I’d have guessed him to be twenty at the oldest.
Lastly, standing to the far right of the group, stood a nervous looking man in a suit. Balding, he looked to be in his late thirties. He seemed to be cross-eyed, though that might have just been a flaw in the film.
Eagerly, I turned the photo over. On the back, in large letters, someone had printed Columbia, Missouri Nov. 1935.
Below that were four names. I squealed with delight when I read them: Prof. Louis Roebuck, Sgt. Herbert Knowles, Sammy Hollerback and Rev. David Gowen.
Under the names, someone with different handwriting had scrawled three dates: January 14, 1937, November 14, 1936, and August 31, 1937. Only the rev had no date. Finally, at the bottom of the picture, JB 1:15 (2) was written in bold, block letters.
I turned the photo over, wishing I had a magnifying glass.
Who the hell were you people? How were you connected?
Northern Missouri, March 3, 1935—Sammy Hollerback always wore an expression like he’d just walked into a surprise birthday party. Not that anyone had ever thrown him a birthday party. He’d lived on the road since he turned twelve, almost eight years ago. His silky blonde hair and smooth cheeks made him look even younger.
The night was overcast, but without the threat of rain. Sammy whistled as he walked along the silent rails of the Chicago-Pacific Line. Winter was over. The deep woods that surrounded the tracks already showed green tints of new life. Crickets sang in the blackness. Farther off, frogs groaned in a hidden pond. The woods held that scent of earth and decay and new life that you only smell in the early spring. It would soon be warm enough to sleep out every night. For six months he could stop worrying about frostbite and pneumonia.
Sammy felt as though he were master of all he surveyed. This was almost literally true, as it was too dark to see much of anything, and all he owned in the world he carried in a small pack on his back. If Sammy were to find a magic lamp, his first wish would have been for a pouch of tobacco, and his second for fifth of Scotch. It might not have occurred to him to make a third wish.
Sammy knew that he’d reach La Plata before dawn. There he could catch a few hours of sleep in the shed behind the railroad station, before hopping the 10:15 freight to Phoenix. Or the 11:05 to New Jersey. He hadn’t decided yet.
One thing about the country’s economic hardships: tramping had become the career of choice. Seemed everywhere people were on the bum. And the more hobos, the harder things got. Railroad bulls who used to wake you with a nudge to the ribs were more likely to use a club to the skull. Farmers who once shook their head in amusement when they found you in the barn would now turn out the dogs. And some of those small town sheriffs…an incident in Waterloo, Iowa, had been especially rough. Sammy could smile about it now, albeit with fewer teeth.
Still, he couldn’t bear his fellow outcasts any ill will. You looked out for your fellow traveler. You fed him when he was hungry, he did the same for you. You shared whatever you had. Those who didn’t often wound up frozen in snow banks.
Almost on cue, Sammy noticed a campfire up ahead. Not right on the tracks, but deeper in the woods. Too far from any town to belong to a farm or a business. No, it had to be the brotherhood of the wanderers.
Sammy’s smile grew broader. He would eat tonight. The half bottle of whiskey in his sack would ensure him a portion of whatever his new friends were having. He began to jog toward the blaze.
The tracks made a sudden sharp turn and Sammy found himself walking through dense forest. The cloudy night had obscured his sense of distance; the fire was a great deal farther than he had first thought. He trudged almost a quarter mile from the rails before he could make out details.
Sammy’s broad grin shrank when he came close to the fire. Something didn’t feel right. This was no campfire. It was huge, and judging from the ash and charcoal, it must have been a bonfire. That was strange; why would a bunch of hobos want to set up such a blaze in this mild weather?
He looked around for evidence of whoever had started the fire. He poked among the trees for signs of empty cans of beans, cigar stubs, or bottles of booze. Nothing.
When you live on the road you develop a voice in your head that it’s always wise to listen to. Right now, Sammy’s voice was telling him to go back to the tracks. Something was wrong.
As he began to hike away from the fire, a patch of white caught his eye. Someone had whittled the bark away from the trunk of a tree. In the bare patch, about a foot square, there was a strange symbol. Samuel squinted at it in the flickering light. While hobos had their own ciphers to warn and advise each other, he’d never seen anything like this. It looked like a sideways ‘E’ with an X under it.
A branch brushed Sammy’s head and he pushed it away. It swung back slowly and solidly. Not like a branch. Too heavy, too awkward.
He probably only saw the boots for half a second. Expensive, polished boots, swinging gently, level with his head. Above the boots were a pair of legs. He didn’t look up to see the rest of the spectacle.
Sammy reached La Plata well before the sun came up. When he told the local police about the hanged man, he was arrested for public drunkenness and served two months on the county work farm.