Crossed

by Meredith Doench

  I pull the file from my satchel. Sambino could have been here for information on the program. Why? It’s so far-fetched that he would want to attend this conservative Catholic university given his fascination with vampires and dead bodies. “Do you recognize anyone in these photographs?”

  Weaver takes the photograph of Sambino from me and looks at it closely. “I do remember this guy. But his name’s not Sambino.”

  Weaver turns to his computer and does a quick calendar search. “Here it is. From September. He said he had a religious studies undergraduate degree from another university but was looking to get an MA and possibly a PhD.” Weaver’s fingers jump all over the keyboard. “Here’s the name: James Smith.”

  Finished with his undergrad degree? “Did this James Smith tell you he was from Willow’s Ridge?” Outside the office window, the arena lights flicker and flash as a basketball game is under way.

  “I can’t recall.” Weaver leans back a second, then pitches forward. His whole face opens wide. “Wait a minute. Is this part of those murders in Willow’s Ridge? Oh my God.”

  “There are confidentiality issues, so I can’t discuss the details.” I put on my professional voice. “But Nick Sambino—the person you know as James Smith—is a person of interest. Why did he tell you he needed to meet face-to-face? I’m assuming the program information is on the university’s website.”

  With a deep breath, Weaver rubbed his shaven head that gleamed like a cue ball. “He wanted to hear about our grad assistant teaching program. He said that money was an issue for him, and he was only looking into colleges that offered this type of program—we offer full tuition remission plus a stipend.” Weaver spins a gold band around his ring finger; he cannot be much older than me.

  “It was an odd meeting. I felt uncomfortable but he said that he wanted to work in the ministry, so I continued the meeting.”

  “Uncomfortable how?”

  Weaver shrugs. “He wanted to know about my life outside of work. That almost never happens.”

  “With potential students?”

  “My sexuality throws most students off around here.”

  I can’t help but smile at this comment. An out religion professor at a conservative, Catholic institution is certainly not what I expected either.

  “I remember this guy because he works as an embalmer in a funeral home. He said he wanted the degree so he’d be able to officiate at funerals.”

  Sambino? A funeral director and in the ministry? It simply does not add up. But Sambino must have known about Weaver’s particular line of work before he stepped foot in this office. He already knew more than I do about Weaver. What connection could this gentle giant possibly have with the case?

  “Anything else?”

  “He showed me a drawing of a tattoo he wanted. An ankh,” Dr. Weaver says. “That’s a cross that many vampire historians attribute to eternal life. He found some papers I wrote on cross studies in graduate school and wanted to talk about what he thought the rituals were for them. It threw me.”

  “Rituals?”

  Weaver shrugs. “Well, that’s just it. The only ritual I know of is the belief that the bearer of an ankh will have eternal life. He seemed disappointed.”

  Dr. Weaver stands and pulls a book about world crosses from his vast bookshelf. He flips to a page that shows variations on the ankh symbol, the Egyptian cross. The text claims that many practitioners of vampirism honor the ankh as something that will feed them when human blood is not available for consumption. The tie to the Christian crosses left with the murder victims does not slip past me.

  “I was surprised when this young man wanted to talk about crosses.” He tags the page so he can make a copy of it for me. “Generally my appointments only wish to talk about what classes they must take for a degree or what I’ve found in my studies of ex-gay ministries and conversion therapy. Crosses are a fascination of mine, but one I haven’t really written much about since graduate school.”

  “Did Sambino ask anything about ex-gay ministries or conversion therapy?”

  Weaver points out two framed photographs on the corner of his desk, one of Weaver and another man, the other of the two men with two young children. “My family,” he says, nodding at the pictures. “That’s Michael, my partner going on five years now. We adopted both of our children. Sam is one and Charlie is nearly four.”

  “Beautiful family.”

  “Thanks. We met through One True Path and Sambino seemed angry about that. Finally I told him I had another meeting to attend. I wasn’t comfortable sharing any more about myself.”

  It isn’t uncommon for partners to meet in ex-gay ministries, though I didn’t know many who generally admitted to such. Here it is—that chaos theory slapping me once more in the face.

  Weaver leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other. “Sometimes I get strong reactions from people when I discuss my topic of research. I’m one of the ex-gay ministry’s strongest opponents.”

  I’ve been quiet for too long, scribbling away on my pad. “I know about ex-gay ministries,” I say, explaining my silence. “I’m a survivor as well.”

  Eli Weaver’s wide shoulders reach high above the back of his chair. “I’m glad you made it out. I don’t mean to bring back any bad memories for you.” His eyes are soft and genuine as they examine me. “How long were you a member?”

  “Only one summer,” I say. “And that was more than enough.”

  Weaver chuckles. “Were you a member of a group here in Ohio?”

  “The Willow’s Ridge group, actually.”

  “Ah, Pastor Jameson! He’s still going strong out there. He refuses to let me interview him.” Weaver holds up his hand. “It will interest you to know that Sambino said he’d been to some of the One True Path meetings in Willow’s Ridge.”

  Here’s another piece of the puzzle slipping into place, a cornerstone that ties back to One True Path.

  “He gave me the sense that he still attends from time to time,” Weaver says. “He claimed something that I know only too well. Many of the men at these meetings are so repressed that any other man they get close to is someone they could easily develop a crush on. One-night stands are not unusual. You know as well as I do that those meetings portray homosexuality as an addiction. So if you fall off the wagon one night, you climb back on the next day. He said he enjoyed being the one who helped men fall off the wagon.”

  “He didn’t say he zealously believes in the organization’s ideals or teachings?”

  “Not at all,” Dr. Weaver says. “Quite the contrary.”

  “But Sambino seemed angry about you meeting your partner at a meeting.”

  Weaver nods. “I think that had more to do with our commitment rather than where we met.”

  “Meaning?”

  Weaver shrugs. “He gave me the impression of a young man who likes to spend one night with a guy, not a lifetime.”

  “You said you also specialize in the study of conversion or reparative therapy. Did Sambino ask at all about this?”

  “He asked me to explain to him how the process works. I’m guessing you know from your time with Jameson that these types of therapy can be tragically damaging. Jameson is one of the strongest proponents of this therapy in the state of Ohio. He pushes members into relearning gender and sexual roles. From what I understand, he has a conversion therapist who comes to the meetings and works solely with the group.”

  My stomach rolls over. I’ve never been to a conversion therapist, but members of my group had. I knew how severe their training could be, including electric-shock therapy, self-mutilation for same sex sexual thoughts, and the strong encouragement of 1950s-era gender roles. Just like ex-gay ministries, the practices of reparative or conversion therapists have been denounced by all medical fields. Still their businesses survive. Nothing breeds fear like deep-seated shame.

  Our killer could very well be a victim of ex-gay ministries and / or conversion therapy. Ainsley’s probably right:
there could be two working together. One of them could be Sambino. I know from my own experience how angry and ashamed these treatments can make a person. For some, angry enough to kill.

  Weaver opens a document on his computer. “I’m going to print you a copy of my latest publication. Sambino asked me a few questions about the numbers of members in these ex-gay organizations, and unfortunately, the numbers are increasing. I detail their ties to reparative therapy in the article.”

  “How did the ankh tie in with his questions about ex-gay ministries?”

  “I’m not so sure it did,” Dr. Weaver says, rubbing his brow. “The way I saw it, he came to find out about the Egyptian cross and wanted to chat about the ex-gay world once he found out what my studies were in. He never enrolled in any of our classes.”

  Weaver hands me the pages, then holds my hand a few seconds too long. “I know you’re consumed with this case, and God knows we need someone as smart and capable as you to solve it, but once you’re done, I’d love to share my story with you about my own time in the ex-gay ministries.” His smile is warm and wide, and a beautiful set of straight white teeth shine at me. “We can swap tales about our root causes.”

  I laugh with him at the absurdity of our pasts. “God, I haven’t thought about my root in years. I think I might’ve blocked that word from my vocabulary.” The ex-gay organizations claim all homosexuals have a root cause of their sexuality issues. Everything, they say, can be traced back to the root. It’s healing the root, they claim, that heals homosexuality. Hence why they believe it is so vital to blame everything on your caretakers.

  “The sharing of our stories heals us, you know, keeps us strong. We all need to support one another.”

  “I’d like that,” I say, sliding into my coat and leather gloves.

  While I wait for the elevator, I skim through Dr. Weaver’s extensive paper. It’s thick with statistics and details of the dangers associated with ex-gay ministries and conversion therapy. But it’s not the numbers that stand out to me. It’s a Bible verse that catches my attention. A verse from Mark 4:22 that resonates somewhere deep inside me, like the final stillness of a musical tuning fork after it’s been struck:

  For there is nothing hidden, except that it should be made known; neither was anything made secret, but that it should come to light.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rowan greets me at the hotel door, her hands and fingers blackened with charcoal from sketching, her hair a mass of unruly curls. Sheaves of newsprint are scattered about the room. She’s found inspiration in the snowy scene outside our hotel window—leafless branches with mounds of snow precariously balanced along the thin, fragile lines of them, a timeless wooded scene lit with parking lot lights.

  Rowan groans when I dump the stuff from the car in the corner of the hotel room, realizing that I’ve brought along the case folders. I ignore her protests and hug Rowan tight, not willing to let go. It’s my way of apologizing since it’s almost ten p.m. After a moment, I hear her stomach growl. Then she giggles, and it’s so unexpected that I dissolve in a raging peal of belly laughs that leave my eyes tearing. God, I’m so tired.

  “You promised me pizza and a beer!” Rowan explains through laughter. “Look how late it is.”

  I kiss her forehead. “I did, didn’t I? I think everything’s closed up around here by eight. This isn’t the kind of town that has anything open twenty-four-seven. Delivery pizza?”

  Rowan steps into the bathroom to scrub her hands and arms clean. She lifts the oversized sweatshirt over her head and stands in a bright blue bra with her hip bones pressed against the bathroom sink. Her natural curls tumble below her shoulder blades. When her hair is wet and brushed straight, it falls to her waist. Rowan’s hair, I like to say, has a presence all its own. Not only is it sleek and shiny as a seal’s back, but it’s the color that most people notice right away. Not black, definitely not brown, but instead some sort of palette mixture of burnt sienna, gold, and earthen tones. I love it when Rowan wears her hair in a fat, messy bun held together with pencils and long paintbrush handles. I like to joke that it’s the mass of hair that holds her slight body down in a wind gust. Rowan’s body has a remarkable grace to it, a flow of movement that reminds me more of a dancer than a painter.

  Rowan looks out at me through her reflection in the mirror while she finger-brushes her hair into a ponytail. “I figured you’d be late,” she says. Her words state a fact not an accusation. “Pizza’s on its way. I called in the order as soon as your car pulled up. Check the fridge.”

  Jammed inside the hotel’s minifridge is a six-pack of cheap beer, the only brand the never-closing Michael’s Mini-Mart carries. Rowan knows me so well. Sometimes I wonder if I would ever be able to survive in this world without Rowan.

  The cable music channel on the television spills out something called adult alternative. This genre is a complete mystery to me. When did I stumble into this age and music category? It absolutely floors me when I hear songs I rocked out to as a teenager played on the easy-listening channels, in elevators and doctors’ offices. Rowan likes this channel, though. She argues that we are the alternative to adult.

  Since I’m using the desk for the case, Rowan and I sit cross-legged on the floor, with the mostly eaten pizza between us and the disturbingly ugly hotel comforter under us. The frantic pattern is enough to give me a migraine. Rowan calls this setup a middle-of-the-night hotel picnic.

  I crack open my fourth can of beer. “I can’t pretend that Marci and everything else didn’t happen.”

  Rowan closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. “I’m not asking you to forget. I’m asking you to let Marci go.”

  “Isn’t letting go the same as forgetting?”

  “Luce.” Rowan’s voice trails off like an exhausted sigh. “What are you so afraid of? What do you think will happen if you let her go?”

  At rare times in my life, I’ve imagined saying good-bye to Marci. Then the guilt comes rushing back, smothering me like a tsunami. “Don’t I deserve to carry her with me? To not forget? Someone needs to remember what happened to Marci.”

  Rowan moves closer until her knees line up with the bends of mine. She takes both my hands in hers. “What if it’d been you that died that day? Would you insist Marci punish herself and never move on from your death?”

  I wouldn’t wish these feelings or memories on anyone, most of all, Marci. Down the hall, the elevator buzzes and the shower kicks on in the room adjacent to ours. R.E.M. sings on the television about the end of the world as we know it.

  Rowan’s hands knead mine. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “It was her necklace that upset me most.”

  “Marci’s?”

  I nod. “They need to run more DNA tests. Everything from her crime scene is in the evidence room.” A shiver passes through me. “No one ever thinks they’ll end up a box there, you know? Especially a sixteen-year-old small-town girl.” Rowan squeezes my hands, urges me to continue. “I tried to focus on my job, but I could see her wearing that necklace, the sunlight glinting off it around her neck. I could see her like she’d been then, her hair in a ponytail, her cutoff jean shorts. I wanted to grab those clothes from Ainsley and bury my face in them to see if her smell was still there. She had this Marci smell, you know? Fruity shampoo and cigarettes. And peppermint. She was always chewing on those hard candies.” My eyes mist over and the tears blur my beer can. I take another long gulp and a memory assaults me.

  Marci tore along the path through the quarry with me hot on her heels. We’d made a game of it, which of us could get to this secret place first. The problem was I had no idea where we were going. It was a built-in win for her, something I was positive she hadn’t accidentally overlooked.

  “Hurry!” she called out over her shoulder. “It’s perfect!”

  It had been one of the first warm days of summer and my pale legs showed the sunless winter. I charged after Marci while branches slapped against my bare arms and legs and she gig
gled because I didn’t know where to move to get away from them. We were full of play and I realized as I chased after her that this was the first time I’d seen Marci drop all her guards. In the quarry, Marci was nothing but herself.

  Marci burst onto a rocky ledge, me right behind her. I stopped myself just in time not to slip over the ledge. A rocky drop-off filtered down to a running stream. Marci took hold of my hand and led me along the skinny path until we turned into the mouth of a cave.

  “Welcome to Stonehenge.”

  The cave was tall and wide enough that we both could stand, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees inside the stone cavern. Marci held on to my hand and I let her. “How did you find this place?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve played in this quarry forever. There are a lot of these old caves around and I’ve been in them all. This one’s my favorite.”

  I looked around at the layered walls and uneven floor beneath my feet. Stonehenge looked like any other small cave I’d ever seen, but there was a beautiful steady stream of light filtering through its opening. “Favorite? Why?”

  Marci gave me a smile that said she was only waiting for me to ask. She pulled my hand and led me deeper into the cave, so deep I thought we were going to walk right into a stone wall until she made a sharp turn to the left and crouched to slip into an opening. I followed on my knees as though I were passing under a rock bridge. A whole other secret section opened up where we both could stand and move around. Just enough light seeped in that I could see the outline of her in front of me. She turned on a small flashlight that she must have kept hidden in the cave. And that small beam of light showed me a work of art I never even imagined could be possible. The ceiling was high and the walls were pocked, the markings like books of all different lengths on a bookshelf. But it was the colors that got me most, the pink hues of the stony earth, the mauve layers of rock, the silver threads mixed throughout.