Epilogue

TWO WEEKS. IF anyone had told me my life could turn upside down in just two weeks, I would have said they were insane. As I’d predicted, the shootings at Saint Edmund’s began a media frenzy. To my surprise, I was at its center.

It started with the photographs. Someone had snapped pictures of me as I walked out of the church that evening, likely more out of reflex than genuine interest. Then a Westlake policeman told them just who and what I was.

The resulting headlines would have made the National Enquirer proud. John’s personal favorite, “Transgender Detective Shoots Killer Priest,” was picked up by the New York Times. With my story now national, the Times and other publications called requesting a comment. I didn’t return any of their messages. John objected, but I didn’t want to be anyone’s cause for a day.

My mother phoned, wanting to know why she had to read about my exploits in the newspapers. I promised next time I would call if I shot any more priests, but Mom was not amused. John called as well and later brought me dinner. He proved to be a true friend when we talked about everything but the case.

Despite my best efforts, I’d become the most well-known private detective in Greater Cleveland, maybe the entire Midwest. In the first week after the shootings, I received calls regarding six other cases, and I responded to the two that sounded most interesting. One was a young wife whose husband had disappeared. The facts she related made it sound like more than the usual “other woman” situation. The second call would be my first corporate case, an embezzlement potentially extending across several layers of an Akron industrial firm. As a prelaw student in college, my minor had been in finance. I figured I should finally put those skills to work.

I’d left her four messages, but the person I most wanted to hear from would not return my calls. When he’d first met Hannah, John had told me not to fuck things up. I still held out hope, but it looked like I’d managed to do just that.

I needed to keep my mind off my romantic difficulties, so I came up with a to-do list. I accomplished the first item with a phone call to Detective Aldean in Manhattan, Kansas. Ecstatic to hear of Samuel Dennert’s death, he promised to buy me a beer should I ever visit the city. I told him he could thank me instead by informing the Donahue family, and he agreed without any hesitation.

I completed the next item after I received my final check from the Jesuits. With some trepidation, I traded Hannibal in for a 2016 Volkswagen Passat. As I looked at Hannibal sitting alone at the auto dealership, I knew my mixed feelings weren’t based on nostalgia. Hannibal and I had hated each other for too long to pretend about such things.

Instead, it occurred to me that Hannibal might hunt me down, like the car in Stephen King’s Christine. That prospect would have worried me more if I weren’t certain Hannibal would break down long before reaching me. After the trade, it was a relief to drive home in a car that didn’t sound like an eighty-year-old asthmatic lying on his death bed.

The third item on my list was more complicated, and it required a meeting with Father Lawrence. I’d visited Father in the hospital, but I hadn’t been back to Saint Edmund’s since the night of the shootings. I called first to make sure he knew my intentions and then drove to the parish. The church was unlocked, and I found the confessional booth with Father Lawrence’s name.

The light was on, and I stepped inside. It had been twelve years since my last confession, and the booth was as constricting as the ones I remembered from my childhood. I knelt, and the divider slid between us.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Father Lawrence responded a little too quickly. “Why is it I feel like I should duck?”

I wondered how long he’d been saving that one. The rest of the sacrament went more smoothly, at least until Father assigned my penance. I expected the “three Our Father’s and three Hail Mary’s” of my youth. What I received was something completely different.

“Paul told me you and he have reconciled, and I think that’s great. For your penance, you should do the same with Lydia.”

I was appalled. “You’re punishing me because I shot you.”

“Making up with your sister-in-law is an important step for you. The fact that it amuses me is merely a side benefit.”

Father Lawrence then reminded me he was God’s representative in the sacrament of confession, which cut off any further argument I might have made. Stepping out of the confessional, I found I did feel better. Maybe there was something to the sacrament after all.

Sometimes it’s better to pull the Band-Aid off all at once. After calling Paul to ensure he and Lydia were home, I asked if I could come over with a present for baby Hailee. Despite my objections to Father Lawrence, it occurred to me days ago this might be a way of smoothing over the rift between Lydia, Paul, and myself.

I also knew I needed to avoid the mistake I’d made at Hailee’s baptism party. Trying for humor, I’d brought Hailee a small plastic football as a toy. Knowing my personal history, Lydia and Paul were not amused.

Instead of humor, I went for nostalgia and brought copies of the two books our parents had read to Paul and me before every bedtime. Every evening, my mother would start with Goodnight Moon, and my father would finish up with the Great Big Book of Dinosaurs. While their connection always eluded me, the books were a staple of our childhood for years.

Lydia greeted me at the door, and I ended up staying for supper. Paul and I pretended not to notice her flinch when Paul handed me their baby, but that was the only glitch in an otherwise successful evening. Hailee, now almost two years old, surprised us all by saying my name. While I’d never been much for children, I found I actually liked the kid. Growing up with Paul and Lydia as parents, she would need a fun uncle. For my part, I would need someone to watch the Browns games with when John wasn’t around.

I left Paul’s house shortly after supper. When I arrived back at my apartment, I was shocked to find Hannah waiting for me at my door.

“Sorry for arriving unannounced,” she said. “Do you mind if I come in?”

I hurriedly unlocked the door before she could change her mind. I motioned her to a chair, but she remained standing.

“I had three visitors at the station today—your friend, John; Father Lawrence; and some guy named Tomas O’Malley. I assume the last name was fake. In any case, they came to talk about you.”

To my knowledge, the three of them had never met. Also, Tomas had given his real name? I was surprised, to say the least. “What did they say?”

“They said you were a pain in the ass. John was the one who said it, but you’d be amazed how quickly the other two agreed.”

It was nice to have supportive friends. “Did they say anything else?”

“They said that you were worth it. Is that true? Are you worth it?”

I suddenly felt exhausted. “To be honest, there are days I really don’t know.”

“I think you are. The truth is, I was planning to stop by even before your friends’ visit. I’ve done a lot of thinking these past two weeks, and I realized I was looking at our relationship strictly in the context of my parents. I watched for any sign you weren’t trustworthy, and I ignored all the signs you were. You saved my life in that house, even though it meant putting your own at risk. I’m not sure how I allowed myself to forget that.”

“You saved mine right after.”

“I couldn’t let you one-up me, could I?”

For the first time in weeks, I was smiling. “I won’t lie. It’s great talking with you again.”

“There’s one more thing I want to ask you. You and I came together during a lot of craziness. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I need to make sure we can be as good during non-crazy times.”

“What are you asking?”

“I want us to back up to a bit. I want us to go out on a date, maybe even a few dates, and see how we do. I want to see what it’s like to be normal.”

“You think you and I can ever be normal?”

“Maybe normal is the wrong word. I want to know we can work when we’re not together on a case. I’m going home right now, but I want you to call and ask me out on a date. We can even go to one of those superhero movies you like.”

“I will call you. I promise.”

She started to leave, then turned again to face me. “These last two weeks have been the least annoying time in my life—it’s been driving me crazy. Call me, okay?”

“Count on it.”

I stood in my tiny apartment and watched her leave. When we met, Hannah told me my cases were all about chasing happy endings. Weakness or not, I knew I wasn’t ready to stop looking.

I also realized Hannah and I weren’t living in a Hallmark movie. Our issues wouldn’t be resolved with a last-minute kiss or the arrival of a puppy dog. That being said, she seemed interested in trying. That was a victory I hoped I could build on.

With my mind still reeling from the thought of a transgender Hallmark movie, I remembered the final item on my to-do list. I found the old contact information in the back of my small desk and called the number on the page. Given the hour, I expected a recording, but a human voice on the phone said, “Cleveland Gender Reassignment Program. How can I help you?”

I made my first appointment.

How does one define identity? I still don’t have the full answer to that question, but I now know this procedure would be part of my response. Years ago, I signed up for the same program and backed out after just two appointments. John had called me a wimp, and he was right.

Whether it was Hannah, this case, or a combination of the two—I was different now. Father Lawrence called it trust; others might call it acceptance. For me, they were the same thing—I could no longer be something I wasn’t.

I couldn’t be a wimp anymore.