by Tom Lowe
A server approached the table, early thirties, hair the color of a raven’s feather, lilac blue eyes and a wide smile. “How are you Doctor Monroe? I saw you come in, and then I hoped and crossed my fingers that you’d take a seat in my section.”
“And I hoped this table would be in your section.” Elizabeth smiled. “I’m well. How about you, Wanda?”
“I’m good. Kids are good. Brandon’s on the road more than I’d like. He took a job as a trucker after he and five other men were laid off at the lumber yard.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Who’s watching your children while you work?”
“Mama. I thank my lucky stars she only lives a half mile from our house. We can’t complain. There are other folks got it worse than us.” She glanced over her shoulder as three more customers entered. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Coffee would hit the spot.” Elizabeth looked at a tattoo on the woman’s wrist and asked, “When did you get that? And what’s the significance of the red rose?”
She grinned; her face slightly blushing. “Brandon bought it for me. He said, when he’s on the road and can’t send flowers because the cost can add up, he wanted me to have a rose every day, so we had a small image of a red rose tattooed on my wrist just to remind me I’m loved. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Yes, it is. It’s sweet, and you never have to worry about watering it or the rose dying.”
“I guess it’ll die only when I do. I’ll take it to my grave. Be right back.” She left as another woman, Martha Black, the restaurant owner, came out from around the counter and headed toward Elizabeth’s table. Martha, early sixties, silver hair pinned up, the smile of an actress walking the red carpet. She strode across the wooden floor with a natural sense of elegance despite the fact that she was walking around the tables of her diners. She stopped and chatted with a table of men who worked for the power company, each man wearing a blue shirt with Mississippi Power embroidered above the left pocket. She chatted, laughed, patted one man on the shoulder, and headed toward Elizabeth.
“Hi, Liz, how you doin’ sweetie?” Martha asked, approaching the table, her voice drenched in a southern accent. “You make sure you get an extra chicken wing to take home to that cat of yours. He’s the biggest ol’ boy I’ve ever seen. I love how you found him. Wasn’t he loitering on your back porch one night?”
Elizabeth smiled. “I didn’t find him. He more or less found me. It was a rainy night, and when I opened my front porch door to check on something, this big tabby cat ran right past me. He claimed my home as his. So, despite my best efforts to find his rightful owner, no luck. Or at least no one is claiming him. I said hit the road, Jack. He ignored me and hit the couch instead. He’s still there.”
Martha smiled, her smooth cheeks pink. Eyes the tint of blueberries. “See what happens on a front porch. That’s why I named this place the Front Porch Café ‘cause, in the Old South, lots of things happen on a front porch, especially come warm summer nights. Plenty of folks fall in love on front porches. Lots of older folk sit on front porch swings and remember the night they first fell in love with the cutest boy or girl in school. Maybe it’s the night air filled with fireflies and the sweet scent of magnolia blossoms like perfume in the breeze, along with the sound of crickets singing louder than the frogs. Honey, it’s definitely a southern thing.”
“I would have to agree with you.”
Martha looked back toward the counter, every stool now taken, the slow turning paddle fans hanging from the ceiling circulating the smells of fried chicken and cornbread. She lowered her voice and said, “Liz, one of our customers, a police officer, just told me about the killings of the two young people in the De Soto National Forest. He didn’t go into a lot of detail, thank God, but he told me enough to paint a horrible picture. Are you gonna help the police with this one?”
“I’m not sure how much help I can be, but I’ll do what I can.”
“I remember you were an expert witness in the trial of that guy killin’ gamblers after they came out of casinos along the Gulf coast between Gulfport and Biloxi. Well, we know the new killer isn’t that fella ‘cause he’s on death row. Do police have any leads?”
Elizabeth looked across the restaurant as Detective Mike Bradford entered. He spotted her and smiled. Elizabeth glanced up at Martha and said, “I don’t know what they have yet. But the man coming to this table is the lead detective. He’ll be joining me.”
Martha’s eyes opened wider, a smile forming. You mean the tall, good lookin’ man walking this way … he’s the lead detective?”
“Yes, he is.”
“I recognize him. Doesn’t come in too often. But it kinda makes my heart beat a little faster when he does. Good for you, Liz. Nice catch, honey.”
“No, Martha, it’s not like that. We’re friends. Sometimes he’ll ask me to help him with a case if he needs criminal profiling.”
“Well, I better get back to runnin’ my restaurant. You tell me what he says, okay? If he has some idea what this killer looks like, tell me. I look at faces all day long, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Some, like you, I’ve known since they were kids. Others I’ve never seen before. If your detective friend knows what the guy looks like, tell me. I want to know if I’m feedin’ a murderer.” She patted Elizabeth on the hand, smiled at Bradford as he came closer to the table, then turned and went back to the counter.
NINE
Mike Bradford took a seat opposite from Elizabeth and said, “I remember you mentioning that you liked this restaurant. I’ve been in here for breakfast and lunch, but not for dinner.”
“It’s owned by Martha Black and family run. Everything they do, they do well.”
Wanda Donnelly came to the table with a second menu and asked Bradford, “Sir, can I bring you something to drink?”
“Sweet tea will be fine, thanks.”
“Be right back.”
Bradford leaned forward, scanned the restaurant, a few eyes looking away. He turned toward Elizabeth, lowered his voice and said, “We have IDs on the victims. Brian Woods and Olivia Curtis. Both local. They’d been dating for about a year. Engaged to be married.”
“What a tragedy.”
“Brian Woods was from a prominent family that manufactured marine engine parts. Olivia’s parents are divorced, but both are said to have played equal roles in raising her and her brother. We’ve let the families of both victims know what happened. That’s the part of the job I hate.”
“Why was their car on the side of the road. It looked new. I doubt they experienced engine problems. Had they run out of gas?”
“Yes. Nothing but fumes left in the tank. It looks like the perp had crossed over from the opposite side of the road, the side with the oncoming traffic. That in itself is odd because motorists pulling off the road to help someone in a stalled car usually are driving on the same side of the road. It’s easier and safer than stopping to help someone who had been driving in the opposite direction.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She looked across the café at a mounted trophy-sized, largemouth bass that hung from the pecky cypress wall. Next to it was an old sign that advertised Mail Pouch Tobacco. She lowered her eyes to Bradford. “What if the perp was following them? Maybe passed their car, turned around and went back to where they’d parked off the road. He could have pretended to be a Good Samaritan until he made it obvious his intention was the exact opposite.”
Bradford nodded. “We can see where he parked in front of the victim’s car. But there are no distinct tire tread marks because of all the pine straw, weeds and grass.”
Wanda brought a cup of coffee and a glass of sweet tea. She set both on the table and said, “Y’all ready to order or do you need a few more minutes?”
“A few more minutes will be good,” Elizabeth said. “Thanks, Wanda.”
“No hurry. Take your time.” She left as two more diners entered the restaurant.
Bradford said, “The girl, Olivia Curtis, had sent and received
some text messages before she and Brian were killed. The messages were sent to Angela Chaffin, who’s a friend. I called and spoke with Angela. Oliva texted that she and Brian were low on gas and his charge card wouldn’t work at a gas station. Angela texted back saying she’d buy a gas can and bring gas to them. That was the last text.”
“Did Olivia or Brian call anyone?”
“She didn’t, but the last call on Brian’s phone was to his father. Mr. Woods said he didn’t see he had a missed call until later in the night, and when he tried to call back, there was no answer.” Bradford took a sip from his glass of sweet tea, his eyes scanning the restaurant. “I’ve listened to that audio recording a dozen times now. Not many murder scenes or situations leading up to a murder surprise me much anymore, but that’s not the case with this one.”
Elizabeth stirred her coffee. “It’s horrific, but you’ve seen horrifying murder scenes, so what is it about this one that’s got to you?”
Bradford let out a long breath. “Just the cloud of evil that could be felt from the car to where we found the girl’s body. It was palpable.”
“I agree. I felt it, too. Still do, settles in your pores. The last time a double homicide came into my life was when my daughter Molly, and her boyfriend Mark, were murdered. The killer dug a hole in the deep woods and buried them … he buried their bodies under the corpse of a rotting deer.”
Bradford shook his head. “I remember you sharing that with me—that’s horrific. I am so sorry.”
“He did it to throw off the scent so the police bloodhounds couldn’t find them. It didn’t work.”
“Although the motives may be very different, I do believe that’s the kind of diabolical criminal mind we’re dealing with here, too. I doubt we’ll find prints. The medical examiner says there is no indication the girl was raped. We’re checking the type of rope he used, seeing if it was bought at any local stores. The perp may not have left physical evidence, but he left his voice, and he didn’t know it. That was brilliant on the part of the girl to record some of what was happening, as terrifying as it was for her.”
Elizabeth set her coffee cup on the saucer. “All you have to do now is match the voice to someone to find the murderer.”
“It’s not that easy. The recording is fair at best. The perp was not close enough to the microphone on the phone for a high-quality recording. If he’s not local, that could be quite a challenge.”
“I think he’s … or he has local ties that brought him back to Hattiesburg.”
“Okay, Elizabeth … what makes you convinced of that?”
“What he said. What he did. He stalked them. Maybe pretended to offer them help before shooting the man in the head. Then he marched the woman into the woods, forced her to strip, and killed her. Based on what you shared with me, your best clue is what the perp said in Latin … Et roborabitur fortitudo eius in hora mortis … you shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death. The wooden cross placed in the man’s hands and the cross carved in the woman’s back … those speak volumes.”
“From your criminal psychology experience, what’s that telling you?”
“It’s telling me the killer was raised with some form of religion in his life, but something drastic happened. Somehow, there’s a circle that the victims entered into with the killer. By circle I mean something they’ve shared. Could be a neighborhood. Could be a family relationship, even a distant one. Maybe it’s job-related or a volunteer event. There’s some shared experience or circumstance—probably involving religion, that creates familiarity on the part of the killer that led to contempt.”
“So, you’re saying he knew the vics, right?”
“At least one of them, maybe both. This guy’s playing the role of prosecutor, judge, jury, and executioner.”
Bradford sipped his tea and said, “The voice on the recording has a mechanical, cold-blooded undercurrent. It was as if it wasn’t his real voice, but rather a demon speaking from within him. I know that sounds crazy, bizarre, especially coming from a hard-case detective like me. But there is no denying that the message, the way it was delivered on the recording, would send chills down the back of even the most seasoned cop.”
“My mind keeps going back to what the killer said about settling a score. He used the word you … you will help me settle a score. And then he referred to exposing evil … as he was committing horrible evil. Mike, this guy … twisted mind and sick as he is … may not be done.”
“During my press statement, the reporters were asking me the standard questions, but one of them asked me if I knew what you meant when you told her the killer left a statement. She said you called it his calling card, something similar to a fingerprint. And, all we have to do is match it. Were you talking about the audio recording?”
“Not specifically. I wouldn’t reveal to the media that you had it unless you let them know first. I was speaking about the killer’s overall method—the way he staged and left the crime scene. He left some of his persona there, too. Not as traceable as DNA, but recognizable as a latent fingerprint under close examination. The cross carved into the victim’s back, the way he posed her body. The killer’s style, if you will, is similar to the stylized technique of a movie director. I fear that we’ll see something like it again. Not from the same script, but the visual techniques used to shock the public will be there. It’s a macabre calling card.”
“We gotta get to this guy fast. He has to be stopped.”
Elizabeth sipped her coffee, her eyes drifting to some of the faces of the diners. She said, “It looks like there are about eighty customers in here. We have cops at the counter. A firefighter. Two paramedics. A table full of lawyers. Lots of folks who work in manufacturing, agriculture, and transportation. What if the killer is sitting in here and eating Martha’s fried chicken not long after he killed that man and woman? He’d blend in well because he’s a chameleon, charming when it benefits him. Helping old ladies cross the street because he knows where the grandmother’s daughter or son live, and all the while he’s prepping for the kill. He’s sampling appetizers, nibbling on the crust of the intended victim’s inner circle before taking the entrée.”
“We’ll investigate the social circles—real and digital, of Olivia, Brian, and that of their friends and families. Maybe someone has seen something—a stalker or someone who Brian or Olivia felt uncomfortable with when they were around this person.”
“You might want to steer the investigation toward people in their lives that may have had some religious ax to grind, a hidden agenda on the edge, or a vendetta somehow associated with something the perp thinks Brian and Olivia did or did not do.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s most likely white. Probably not married. Raised in some kind of religious background. He believes that he has the moral authority to kill. I’m not sure why, but that’s one of the things driving him. It’s apparently not sexual. It’s not gender based. It’s something deeply personal. It could be related to an event or something that happened to him … or to some cause he’s following with the fervor of a zealot. He’ll keep a low profile, but still circulate in public. His public persona will be an act. There will be a dark side that is not an act. I think he’ll be hunting for new prey. And I’d bet it will be someone he knows or is in some way connected.”
TEN
Elizabeth drove away from the restaurant and thought about the rose on Wanda’s wrist. ‘So, we had a small image of a red rose tattooed on my wrist just to remind me I’m loved. Isn’t that romantic?’ Elizabeth smiled as she drove down the road leading into the heart of downtown Hattiesburg. She thought about her own daughter, Molly, and pulled off the road into the parking lot of a florist. It was close to 5:30, and the shop was open. Elizabeth locked her car and walked towards the entrance.
The shop had been there for decades. Family owned and operated. Elizabeth opened the door and entered, the jingling of bells at the threshold. The shop was filled with green—indoor pl
ants, peace lilies, African violets, dwarf palms, spider plants and many more. The air was heavy with the scent of lilies, and the musky smell of jungle plants.
“Welcome,” said a gray-haired woman behind the counter. Her hair was braided, the braid hanging over her shoulder to the center of her breasts. She had kind, brown eyes that looked over the rims of glasses perched at the tip of her elfin nose. “May I help you find something?”
“I like your shop. I’ve driven by many times and always wanted to stop in, but I haven’t had the special occasion.”
“Anytime is good for flowers. You don’t need a special occasion … all you need is a special person.” The woman smiled, her bottom teeth slightly crooked.
Elizabeth returned the smile. “You’re so right about that.” She looked at the dozens of flowers in a large, glass-walled cooler behind the counter.
The shop owner studied Elizabeth for a moment. “Are you buying flowers for yourself, maybe a table piece?”
“Oh no. I’d like to buy a long-stemmed rose … a red one, please.”
“Of course. We have some fresh cut this morning.” She turned around, opened the cooler and lifted a red rose from a vase of more than a dozen roses. She held it up for Elizabeth to inspect, the rose just opening, petals as dark as a scarlet sky at the break of dawn. “Will this do?”
“Yes. It’s lovely.”
“It’s from a species call the Victor Hugo roses. The deep red color and delicate petals are what wins medals in floral competition. It also wins hearts. Shall I add some baby’s breath greenery with the rose and place it in small vase?”
“No thanks. It’s beautiful just the way it is.”
“Sounds good. It’ll be three dollars, ma’am.”
Elizabeth paid in cash and picked up the rose. The shop owner said, “I bet the rose is for someone very special in your life.”