by Tom Lowe
“It is … my daughter.”
The woman smiled. “That’s so sweet. Is she your only daughter?”
“She’s my only child.”
“That’s even more special. Does she live in Hattiesburg?”
“She passed away four years ago.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth turned and walked out the door.
• • •
The sun was just going down behind a wooded tree line as Elizabeth approached her daughter’s grave. Ancient, moss-draped oaks stood custodian in the cemetery, which was filled with all kinds of headstones, some dating back to 1765. Elizabeth moved past a headstone larger than a washing machine. Next to it was a full-sized statue of an angel, its wings spread, the figure weather-stained in shades of pewter gray, eyes staring at the headstone.
Elizabeth walked up to her daughter’s grave and simply looked at the headstone, the singing of a wood thrush in the oaks, bees humming in yellow butterweed flowers beneath a towering pine, the smell of wood smoke from a farm in the distance. She set the rose against the marble headstone.
Elizabeth stood there in silence for half a minute and then said, “Molly … hello, sweetheart. I miss you so much. I think about you every day. I think about who you were and what you could have become.” A tear rolled down Elizabeth’s right cheek, falling between her shoes on the dry grass in front of the stone. “Hey, did I mention last time that there’s a new fella in my life. His name is Jack. He’s got gorgeous eyes. He’s soft spoken. Doesn’t ask for much. Very neat. Clean. The perfect guy … except Jack’s a cat. He’s pushing twenty pounds. Plenty to love, though. You’d like him, but you always did love animals, and I believe they returned their love to you. I hope you’re at peace, baby. I wish I were. It’s been so hard without you. We had our moments when you were a teenager, but you were always a good kid, and you became a remarkable young woman. The person who did this to you and Mark is still out there. I will find him. There’s no bringing him to justice because there is no punishment that can justify what he did. My fear is he’s still doing it to other people. With God’s grace, I will find him. It won’t be justice, Molly. It will be retribution.”
Elizabeth took a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. “Friends have told me to forgive and move on with my life. But you were so much of my life. I can’t forgive, and I will never forget.” She glanced at the winged angel statue nearby. “I hope you’re singing with the angels and playing with butterflies every day. I don’t know if you can make wishes in heaven, considering that it’s heaven … but if you can, make one for me, sweetheart. Wish your mother luck. I love you.”
ELEVEN
Wanda Donnelly had to count her tip money twice because she kept thinking about what a customer had said to her. He was one of the first in the door after the sign was flipped from closed to open. Then the restaurant got really busy. As much as she tried not to let it bother her, it set an unpleasant tone for the day. Wanda stood behind the long counter and used a spray disinfectant to wipe it down. She quickly moved the rag over the surface, thinking about her children and her mother who’d called earlier, wanting to know when she’d be leaving work.
Two other waitresses and a busboy were in the restaurant. He was using a vacuum cleaner around and under the tables. One server set the wooden tables with paper placemats, forks and spoons wrapped in white napkins. The other woman was counting her tips, separating the one-dollar bills and the five-dollar bills. There were no tens.
Wanda stopped and stretched, taking off the apron with the words Front Porch Café embroidered over a silhouette of a rocking chair on a front porch. The owner, Martha Black, came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and said, “Wanda, go home to your babies. You worked a double today, darlin’, so there’s no sense in you stayin’ any longer than you have to. Hank’s runnin’ the vacuum. Alice can finish the set-ups for breakfast.”
“Are you sure? I want to pull my weight here. I really need this job.”
“And we need you. That’s why I want you to go home, be with your family, get some sleep and charm our customers again tomorrow.”
Wanda grinned, her face slightly blushing. “Thank you, Martha.” She folded her apron, started to say something, but stopped.
“What is it, Wanda? You look a little perplexed.”
“It’s nothin’, really.” She reached under the counter for her purse and placed the strap across her shoulder. “Good night, Martha. See you tomorrow.” She started to walk around the counter but stopped, turned around and said, “Maybe it’s nothin’ but I guess I ought to tell you.”
“Absolutely. What is it, honey?”
“A customer … a man.” She motioned to the far right of the dining area. “He was sitting by himself in one of the booths. The sun was just comin’ up over the parkin’ lot, shinin’ right through the window and over his shoulders so I couldn’t get a good look at his face, but I can’t forget what he said.”
“For God sakes, child, what did he say?”
“He kept lookin’ at my new tattoo on my wrist.” She held up her right wrist.
Martha said, “It’s lovely, and the reason you got it is even more lovely. It’s a love story if I ever heard one.”
Wanda smiled. “The customer asked me why I got the tattoo. I told him. He didn’t seem to find it lovely or anything like a love story.”
“Why? What was his problem?”
“I don’t really know. He was very calm, and his voice was soft, not a whisper, but close to a whisper, and I had to listen up to hear him. He said my tattoo was like a scarlet letter. When I asked him what he meant by scarlet letter, he laughed and said the rose was the color of scarlet, and it was more of a brand than a tattoo. I didn’t want to be rude, so I asked him nicely to explain himself. He quoted some passage in the Bible from Leviticus that says something like … you shall not make any cuttings in your flesh or tattoo any marks on you. I told him plenty of folks have tattoos or crosses and other Christian symbols as a personal testament of their faith.”
Martha leaned forward on the counter and asked, “What’d he say to that?”
“He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he said something that made me the maddest.”
“What?”
“He told me a scarlet letter is a symbol of adultery.”
“You got to be kidding me.”
“No. I wish to God I was kidding you. But there’s nothin’ funny about this guy. He said he saw me get in the car the other night with a tall man who wasn’t my husband. I told him that was Randy the cook, and he was givin’ me a ride home because my car was in the shop. I told him what I did was nobody’s business, and I don’t have to answer to anybody but God, and he sure as hell wasn’t the good Lord. Then the creep said something in a foreign language I didn’t recognize. I was so mad I just walked away. I tried to find you, but Randy said you had run down to the bank. When I looked back at the table, the guy was gone.”
“If you ever see this man again, come get me. If I’m not here, get my brother Luke. We’ll call the police on this fella.”
“I don’t know if insulting a woman is a crime in southern Mississippi. I imagine at one time it was. But, unfortunately, bullying is a national pastime, although most of it seems to be done by cyber creeps who hide behind computer keyboards.” She adjusted her purse strap, glanced out to the parking lot. “Maybe he won’t ever show up again.” She bit her lower lip and sighed.
“Wait a minute. I want Hank to walk you out to your car.”
“He doesn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, he does. If this creep saw you get in Randy’s car and made a lewd comment about it, he could be somewhere out there watchin’ for you, or for any of my girls. I’ve been thinkin’ about puttin’ up security cameras, now I’ll do it.” She looked toward the older teenager with the vacuum in his hand. She raised her voice. “Hank!”
He turned off the vacuum, his slightly p
impled face confused. “Huh?”
“I want you to walk Wanda out to her car, okay?”
“Sure,” he glanced out the window to the parking lot. Under the street lamp, there were five vehicles in the lot, all employee cars. “You sick, Wanda?”
“No, I’m not sick. Never mind. It’s okay, Martha. I’m all grown up. It isn’t the first time a weirdo came into my space, and I guess it won’t be the last time either. I can take care of myself.” She nodded and walked out into the night.
The teenager looked at Martha and asked, “What was that all about?”
“Nothing, Hank. Just go on and finish your work.” Martha walked to the restaurant’s front entrance, looking through the glass pane windows. She watched Wanda clutching her car keys in one hand, her purse in the other. She thought about her conversation with Elizabeth Monroe earlier in the day … If your detective friend knows what the guy looks like, tell me. I want to know if I’m feedin’ a murderer.
TWELVE
Father Gregory MacGrath didn’t watch the late local news. He didn’t want to see or hear more confirmation of the tragedy—the murders of two of Hattiesburg’s young people. He sat on the couch in the small living room of his house near St Patrick’s Catholic Church and thumbed through a National Geographic magazine. Although he didn’t want to watch the news, in an inexplicable way, equivalent to driving by a horrible accident on the side of the road, he had to look. Had to see if he, in some remote way, could have led to the crossroads of the tragedy.
Earlier in the day, three members of the parish had come by the church to pray for the young couple slaughtered and to pray that police will quickly find the killer. The church secretary, Patricia, had followed the story on social media. One member of the church had called to see if funeral services for the victims would be held at St Patrick’s.
Father MacGrath prayed for their souls and for eventual closure for their families.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the words of the man in the confessional.
I will kill again, and you, Father MacGrath, because of the holy sacrament of the confessional, can do nothing about it.
Was this man responsible for these deaths?
Father MacGrath set the magazine on the coffee table in his home, looked at a painting of Jesus hanging on one wall and made the sign of the cross. He clasped his hands together under the warm light coming from beneath a single lamp and whispered a prayer, “God, our father in Heaven. In my heart, I fear the deaths of these young people may have been caused by the man in the confessional. I do not know his name, but I do know his voice and his dark heart. By the laws of the holy sacrament, I cannot break the seal of confessions.”
He paused, his eyes moist, staring at the image on the wall. “But in my heart of hearts, I cannot believe that silence is what you taught us. Father, I have never had this dilemma, a murderer confessing his sins and then admitting he will kill again. Do I break the seal of confession? I desperately seek your guidance, amen.”
He wiped his eyes and picked up the TV remote on the coffee table. He turned on the television and found one of the local news stations. The image was of a female reporter standing next to the yellow crime-scene tape at nightfall. Under the TV lights, he could see a BMW car behind the tape, a flatbed tow truck, and two police cruisers. The reporter, brown hair to her shoulders, looked in the camera and said, “Police are continuing a large-scale manhunt for the killer. As far as we know, there are no witnesses, at least no one has come forward with information. A passerby did tell police she saw the BMW pulled over to the side of the road. She noticed that the passenger car door was open, which she found odd as it appeared the driver behind the wheel was asleep. When she stopped to see if she could help, she saw the young man’s body. He’d been shot in the head. The police also said a young woman was found more than eighty yards in the woods, her nude body hanging by her wrists from a large oak tree. A cross had been carved into her back between her shoulders. An autopsy is pending to determine the exact cause of death. Doctor Elizabeth Monroe, who teaches criminal psychology at Southern Mississippi, was on the scene with detectives. She called the killer a psychopath.”
The reporter looked off camera for a moment and the interview with Elizabeth emerged. “The killer is a psychopath who gains artificial strength and temporary bravado by killing unsuspecting victims like these people. This sick person wants to make a statement—to send some message. I have no doubt this very statement will lead to his 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.”
Father MacGrath stared at the scene and said, “Elizabeth … my dear, Elizabeth. May God guide you …”
The live image cut back to the reporter who said, “Neither Doctor Monroe nor detectives are saying exactly what that calling card might be. However, lead investigator on the case, Detective Mike Bradford, did say the public needs to be very cautious.”
The video cut to an interview with Bradford, the pulse of blue, red and white emergency vehicle lights in the background. He said, “We don’t think these were random killings by someone passing through Forrest County. We want to caution residents of the county and Hattiesburg to be very diligent. We have reason to believe that the killer is or was a resident. He probably knows the area well. He could be your neighbor down the street. We don’t want to unduly scare folks, but we do want them to remain cautious because we don’t think this killer is done.”
“You mean you think he’s a serial killer.”
“He’s already murdered two people that we know of today. There could be more, and there could be more in the future. We will find this guy and prosecute him to the fullest extent of the laws of Mississippi.”
“Meaning the death penalty if found guilty?”
“That’s exactly what it means.”
The video cut live back to the reporter. The wind blew, she pulled a loose strand of hair from her face and said, “Police say next of kin have been notified of this double murder. The victims are identified as twenty-two-year-old Brian Woods and twenty-year-old Olivia Curtis. Both were residents of Hattiesburg. Reporting live from near the De Soto National Forest, this is Heather Larsen.”
Father MacGrath reached for the large metal cross that hung from a chain around his neck. He held the cross with two fingers, looking at the image of Christ in the painting, a split-second burst of lightning reflecting off the cross, the extended rumble of thunder in the distance.
THIRTEEN
Elizabeth hoped the killer was watching her TV interview. The only reason she’d done the brief interview with the reporter was to penetrate the delicate ego of a criminal mind that crossed the line into murder and self-invincibility. Maybe my comment would cause him to make a mistake and let his guard down. Maybe it would save lives. She stood in her kitchen alcove and watched the newscast from a TV in the adjacent family room, Jack stretched out on the couch, his eyes sleepy.
She flipped between three local stations, watching the coverage of the murders. Elizabeth was interviewed by only one reporter, Heather Larsen, from Channel Seven. Detective Mike Bradford was interviewed by three local stations. A male reporter asked him, “Doctor Elizabeth Monroe is on the scene with you. Can you tell us why she’s here?”
Bradford looked at the reporter and said, “Due to the nature of these crimes—these heinous murders, we value her opinion, her insight into the criminal mind.”
“What has she suggested so far, Detective?”
“I’m not going to get into the specifics in order to not compromise the investigation.”
“We heard that Doctor Monroe said the killer left a calling card. Do you know what she means by that?”
“Today’s forensic technology leads to evidence unachievable just a few years ago. The physical forensics give people like Doctor Monroe, a criminal psychologist, a better insight into profiling a suspect.”
“Wh
at can you tell us?”
“Nothing more than I shared already—that the bodies of two young people, residents of Forrest County, were found. I won’t get into the specifics, but we will catch this guy. In the meantime, the public needs to be alert. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Elizabeth lifted the remote control to mute the sound from the TV. She stood next to one of her French doors and watched lightning pop in the distance, the white veins spidering through the grain of dark clouds. Thunder reverberated through the state-owned woodlands behind her home. Elizabeth walked over to the couch and sat beside Jack. She rubbed his wide head and scratched him behind his ears. He looked up at her through content eyes. She smiled. “Jack, it was a night like this one when we first met. Well, we didn’t really meet, formerly. You just barged in and marched right past me. After all this time, I’m so glad you walked into my life.”
Lightning burst in the dark sky through the windows. There were no streaks or bolt to be seen, rather it was as if a massive camera flash lit up the countryside to the edge of the horizon, creating a black-and-white landscape. It was followed by the roll of thunder and the pelting of rain against the roof and outside deck—a rain dance with an enraged tempo. In the light from her outdoor floodlights, Elizabeth watched the rain spill from the flooded gutters down onto her wide-leaf philodendrons, the plants jerking left and right as if an invisible boxer were throwing punches.
• • •
Wanda Donnelly was reading her two small children a bedtime story when she noticed car headlights raking across her living room window, which she could see from the children’s bedroom. Because she lived on a small farm at the end of a cul-de-sac in a rural neighborhood with few neighbors, there was very little traffic. She glanced at her watch and said, “The little rabbit snuggled in his nest and fell fast asleep. And it’s time for you two to snuggle in your beds and go fast asleep.”