The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  Elizabeth started to make the call but paused as one of the men fired three rounds. She packed up her pistol and walked out the door, the man in the hunter’s cap shaking his head. As she got closer to the exit, she heard him laugh and speak to his buddies in a loud voice. “That’s the kinda woman you don’t want mad at you. She could shoot your pecker off from thirty feet away.”

  The tall man laughed. “She couldn’t see yours that far away.”

  In the parking lot, Elizabeth made the call to Detective Mike Bradford. He answered on the first ring. “Liz, where are you?”

  She smiled. “And a good morning to you, Mike. If you must know, I’m at the range—and I don’t mean driving range. After that, I have a nail appointment. It’s my treat to me.”

  “We’ve got two dead—looks like somebody used one of the two as target practice.”

  “What happened?”

  “A motorist found the first person shot to death in his car off Highway 49 in the De Soto National Forest. The woman, we know, was the last to die. The perp took her into the woods. This has the calling card of a real screwed-up person. The woman managed to record some of the perp’s voice on her phone. Elizabeth, you need to hear this. There should be enough here for you to profile this guy. Problem is … I’m not sure forensic psychology can even find a category for this monster.”

  SIX

  When Elizabeth arrived at the crime scene, troopers blocked the highway in both directions, traffic being rerouted around the immediate area. She showed her credentials to a young trooper and said, “CSI sent for me. Where’s Detective Bradford?”

  “They’re all back there, about seventy yards. It’s nasty.”

  She nodded and walked by him, quickly coming to the crime scene, yellow tape around the perimeter of a BMW parked off the road and under a large oak tree. Three men with the coroner’s office conversed next to the sheet-covered gurney that soon would be loaded into the dark blue van near where they stood. Two ambulances had their emergency lights shut off, paramedics standing by with glum looks on their faces. Sheriff’s deputies and state troopers moved around the crime scene with the methodical tempo of people who go from rescue mode to body recovery.

  Elizabeth spotted Detective Mike Bradford interviewing a woman. They were about fifty feet away from the BMW, standing next to a Toyota. Elizabeth assumed it was the woman’s car—probably the first person on the scene. Elizabeth stood back, listening, studying the woman’s body language. Fidgety. Eyes darting from the detective to the crime scene. Early thirties. Blonde hair, dark roots. Jeans, T-shirt. Half a dozen silver bracelets on one wrist.

  “Mind if I smoke?” the woman asked. “Got to calm my nerves down some.”

  “Sure,” said Detective Bradford, mid-forties, brown hair just touching the collar on a button-down blue shirt, tweed sports coat, pressed jeans. His face empathetic as he questioned the woman. “You say you never saw the female victim, right?”

  “Until you told me, I didn’t know there was one. She sure as hell wasn’t near that car, at least I didn’t see anybody beyond that poor man in the front seat.” The cigarette bounced in her trembling fingers. She took a deep drag, smoke exiting her nostrils.

  Detective Bradford handed her a card. “Take this. If you can think of anything else—anything, I don’t care how small it is … you call me. Okay?”

  She took the card, slipped it in her jean’s pocket. “Okay. Can I go now?”

  “Yes. Thank you for the information.”

  The woman dropped her cigarette in the sandy soil and ground it with the toe of her boot. “No problem,” she said. “I hope you can find the freak who did this.” She got in her car and left.

  Detective Bradford turned to Elizabeth. “Thanks for getting here so fast. You heard some of that … what do you think?”

  “You mean is she being deceptive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No signs of it. So, she was the first on the scene?”

  “Said she only stopped because she could see that the passenger side door was wide open but didn’t see anyone near the vehicle. So, she slowed down in passing, and the driver appeared asleep, which she found odd, thinking maybe he had a heart attack or something. She stopped in the road, backed her car up, pulled off to the side, and walked over to the BMW. She found him dead with a wooden crucifix in his hands.”

  Elizabeth said nothing. “Where was the female vic?”

  “She’s still there. We’re finishing photos and turning over rocks. I’ll take you there.”

  Elizabeth followed Detective Bradford, the staccato verbiage of police radios in the air. They stopped at the BMW. She looked in the car, studying the pattern of blood and brain matter. “Mike, you mentioned the perp’s voice on the girl’s phone. Where’d you find her phone?”

  “Floorboard. Almost out of sight.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Detective Denninger has it. It’s been dusted and bagged. I can play the recording for you. Let’s walk to the next body. Better brace yourself.”

  They walked through the woods, following a trail winding around live oaks and loblolly pines. The smells of pine needles and damp earth in the motionless air. Within one hundred feet, they arrived. Elizabeth touched her lips with her fingertips, staring at the girl’s body, hanging nude from a lower branch of an oak. Her wrists were bound, a rope looped over the tree limb. A pool of coagulated blood beneath her bare feet. Her throat had been slit. Dried blood from her wound feathered in crooked trails over her breasts and stomach. A circle of blood smeared around a small tattoo of two hearts on her hip.

  Half a dozen investigators worked the crime scene along with deputies and two members of the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. They were thorough, turning over leaves, probing for evidence. Shooting video and photos. Elizabeth walked around the girl’s body, searching for additional wounds or marks the killer may have left. A crucifix had been carefully carved between her shoulder blades, very little blood, indicating the killer had made the cutting after she’d died. Blowflies crawled in and out of the wounds, the insects quickly laying eggs.

  Elizabeth turned to Detective Bradford. “Mike, can you cut her down?”

  He nodded, looked at another investigator, Detective Bill Lee—late fifties, tie loosened, eyes red and tired. Bradford said, “If you’re done, let’s take her down.”

  “We have all we’re going to get from here,” Lee said. “What a damn shame.” He cut his eyes up to Bradford. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years, longer than that poor girl has been on earth. I’ve never seen anything like this. How about you?”

  Bradford glanced at the girl’s body, shifting his eyes to his partner. “I’ve worked a few double murders, but nothing like this. The cross carved into her back, and the tat circled with the vic’s blood—we got us a real creep, folks. And, only once before did I work a case with weird religious overtones—the perp was a real nut case. That was a few years ago, and coincidently, Elizabeth worked with me on that one, too.”

  Lee placed a notepad inside his sports coat pocket. He swatted a blowfly. “Only thing harder than catching these creeps is telling her family … and the boy’s family, too.” He looked at Elizabeth. “How are you Doctor Monroe?”

  “Been better.”

  “I hope you can profile this killer. I got a feelin’ he’s just gettin’ started.”

  Elizabeth said nothing, watching the coroner’s technicians position a gurney near the tree where the girl hung.

  Detective Bradford asked, “Bill, do you have the girl’s phone?”

  “Yes.” He reached inside a paper bag, lifting out a plastic bag. Elizabeth could see the phone had been dusted for prints. Bradford said, “Let’s play that recording for Elizabeth. Maybe it’ll help her get a profile.”

  Detective Lee said, “It’s right before he shot the man. The poor girl had to endure a worse death.” Donning a fresh pair of gloves, he played the recording.

  “I don’t want your mon
ey. I want you to settle a score for me.”

  “What? What do you mean … score?”

  “One that will expose the evil.”

  Olivia shouted. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

  “Et roborabitur fortitudo eius in hora mortis. Do you have any idea what I just said?”

  “Please … just let us go.”

  There was a blast—gunshot. Screams. Loud. Painful. And a thud, the phone dropped.

  Detective Lee shook his head. “That sentence in a foreign language … anybody know what it means?”

  Elizabeth looked up at the girl’s body, the sound of crows calling from atop a tall pine. She said, “It’s Latin, and it means … you shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death.” Elizabeth watched two deputies lower the body to a sheet on the gurney. She pushed a strand of dark hair behind one ear and folded her arms.

  Detective Bradford said, “Sounds like some biblical quote.”

  “That stuff about a score to settle,” Detective Lee said. “Who the hell were the vics? Sounds like a mob contract hit. But why do this crazy shit to the girl?”

  Elizabeth said, “Because it probably wasn’t done by a hit man. The killer mentioned exposing evil in connection with a score to settle. I think this was about vengeance. And it was very personal. But I don’t know why.”

  SEVEN

  As Elizabeth and Detective Bradford walked through the forest, back to her car, they could hear the approach of a helicopter. Beyond the canopies of oaks and the tree-line, she spotted a news helicopter, the Channel 9 logo just visible as the pilot approached from the northwest. She looked over to Bradford and said, “It’s amazing how quickly the media get here.”

  “A double murder is news anywhere, but in southern Mississippi, considering the heinous nature of these murders, it’s big news. The vics are both young and driving a nice car—people will shake their heads and ask why. It’s gonna make the news for weeks.”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  They walked beneath a tall pine and stepped out into the open. A dozen police cars and emergency vehicles were parked all along the shoulder of the road. Television news trucks were arriving, reporters and camera operators scrambling to be the first to capture video of the bodies being loaded into the coroner’s blue vans.

  Brian Woods’ body lay on a metal gurney, a white sheet covering it. Two somber-faced coroner’s assistants moved it, preparing to set and lock the stretcher into the van. Elizabeth watched the news media converge, cameras rolling. Even from a distance of fifty feet, she could see that part of the sheet near the head area had three spots of blood, each a little larger than a quarter.

  A tall reporter wearing a blue sports coat, white shirt and jeans, looked across the vehicles and people, locking eyes with Elizabeth. She thought he had recognized her. The reporter tapped his husky cameraman on the arm, pointing toward Elizabeth and Detective Bradford. Other reporters followed suit, faces anxious for a story, hungry for the details and why the murders were committed. Elizabeth knew the motive behind the killings was too complex for a twelve-second soundbite on the six o’clock news.

  “Detective Bradford,” said the reporter in the sports coat. He held a microphone in one hand, a small notepad in the other. He was as tall as Mike Bradford, at least six feet. He had the concerned look in the eyes lawyers and reporters try to fake when consoling someone that has information they want. He said, “Looks like a horrific scene. Can you tell us what happened?” The reporter started to raise the mic in his hand.

  Bradford looked over the cameraman’s shoulder to the pack of media converging. He said, “Give us a few minutes, and I’ll hold a brief news conference. The preliminary investigation is happening right now. I need a little time to speak with the other three detectives on the scene.”

  The reporter nodded. “Fair enough. We heard the second body is back in the woods. Can we go in there?”

  “No!” said Bradford, his voice firm. “It’s an active crime scene. We don’t want it compromised in any way.”

  “No problem.” He looked at Elizabeth and asked. “You’re Doctor Monroe, right? You teach criminal psychology at Southern Miss. How do you profile this killer? Who could do something like this?”

  Elizabeth smiled, looked at the other camera lens pointed in her direction. She said, “Please, hold those questions for Detective Bradford’s news conference. This is the county’s investigation under the sheriff’s office. Anything at this time is purely speculative. Now, if you will excuse me.” She walked around the cameraman and faced three more cameras and reporters.

  A woman, black hair pulled back, eyes as green as new pine needles, held a microphone and asked, “Doctor Monroe, can you at least tell us if you think these murders were committed by someone who knew the victims?”

  “Please refer that question to Detective Bradford and the other investigators.”

  The reporter smiled, her eyes calculating, knuckles white gripping the microphone, manicured fingernails catching light like falling leaves at sunset. “Okay, maybe we can ask you a question more aligned with criminal profiling. Rather than speculate on who might have killed these two young people, why do you think he or she did it?”

  Elizabeth paused for a moment. Her mind flashed back to her daughter Molly’s funeral, the lowering of the casket into the grave. She looked at the reporter and said, “The killer, most likely, is a psychopath who gains artificial strength and temporary bravado by killing unsuspecting victims like these people. It appears this sick person wants to make a statement—to send some message. I have no doubt this very statement will lead to the killer’s capture.”

  “What do you mean … statement?”

  “He left a calling card. It’s not unlike a fingerprint. All we have to do is match it.” Elizabeth stepped aside and walked away, ignoring the follow-up questions. She got in her car, turning up the air-conditioning, the stench of death still in her hair and nostrils.

  EIGHT

  Four hours later, Elizabeth pulled her car into the parking lot of her favorite café, The Front Porch Café, in downtown Hattiesburg. She parked and sat in her car, motor running, thinking about the crime scene—the young man’s body loaded in the dark blue van. She thought about the dead girl—her eyes frozen with the look of fear in them, a final ending no one should ever experience. It’s an extreme fear when the breath of evil moves across your face like a cold wind and the chill also locks your spine, a paralyzing fear.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and visualized the girl’s naked body hanging from the lower limb of an ancient oak, the slight pendulum sway of the body in the breeze, the near perfect cross carved between the shoulder blades. Elizabeth replayed the initial phone call from Mike Bradford when he reached her at the shooting range. ‘The woman managed to record some of the perp’s voice on her phone. Elizabeth, you need to hear this.’

  She turned off the car motor, her thoughts racing, trying to put a few of the many missing pieces together. Elizabeth held the wheel with both hands and recalled the audio recording, the man’s whispered voice taunting, and with a layer of condemnation.

  “Et roborabitur fortitudo eius in hora mortis … do you have any idea what I just said?”

  Elizabeth whispered, “You shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death.” She thought about her upbringing in the Catholic church, thought about the hundreds of masses she’d attended as a girl and then later when raising Molly after her husband abandoned them both for the bottle and the illusions he poured into each glass.

  After he’d left, Elizabeth went into survivor mode, opening a small bake shop and making enough money to send her daughter to college. Following Molly’s murder, Elizabeth sold the shop, earned her Ph.D. in forensic psychology and became a college professor. She thought about the question one student asked the other night in class, ‘How do you think you might react if some guy sitting across that table from you in a jail interview room was the killer … the one who murdered your
daughter?’

  The buzzing of her phone brought Elizabeth into the moment. She looked at the caller ID, recognized the number and answered. Detective Mike Bradford said, “Are you back at the university?”

  “I’ve come and gone. Why?”

  “There are a couple of things about this horrible case I’d like to run by you if you have a few minutes.”

  “Okay. I’m at The Front Porch Café. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “See you.” She disconnected. Locked her car and walked across the parking lot. The Front Porch Café was a stand-alone restaurant, reminiscent of a Mississippi country home from a century ago—a two-story, converted house near the downtown square. The old home was painted white with black shutters on the front windows. A wooden porch wrapped around most of the restaurant. Baskets of overflowing ferns and red and white impatiens hung from the eaves. White rocking chairs and wooden benches were scattered across most of the porch. A leafy magnolia tree cast a swath of shadow across the lawn, the fist-sized blossoms on the tree resembled white and pink ornaments.

  It was a place that Elizabeth found comfort, not only in the food, but the owner, her family, and staff. The old place reminded her of the Mississippi home she and her brother were raised in until their parents’ deaths. Elizabeth walked up the three wooden steps, across the porch to the screened door, the scent of magnolia blossoms mingling with cornbread. She entered and headed toward a table in one corner.

  The restaurant was half full—at least forty people sitting at tables, booths and a long counter near the kitchen. The clientele was a mix of professionals and people who made a living with their hands. Three lawyers sat in one booth, deep in discussion about a jury trial. Two paramedics and three firefighters perched on stools at the counter.

  Five women, members of the Daughters of the Confederacy, sat at a round table sipping sweet tea and eating salads, fried catfish, and crispy chicken. One woman in a canary yellow sundress, telling a story about her great grandfather, stopped in mid-sentence as Elizabeth walked across the restaurant and took a seat in a corner of the room, setting her purse next to the chair. There was an old Dr. Pepper sign mounted on the wall behind the table.