The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  “Did you see the interview they did with me?”

  “No, but I ‘spect you done fine ‘cause you know lots about those kinda things.” Nellie glanced at the three roses in the center of the table and said, “I picked ‘em roses this morning from my garden ‘cause I knew you’d be comin’ to my lil’ house like you always do on a Wednesday. Evil can show up anywhere. If it walked into the Garden of Eden, it can walk into the hearts of men and turn ‘em dark as a lump of coal. But don’t let the silver linin’ of your soul carry a dark cloud.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I’ve always loved the way you put life in proper perspective. You taught me a lot when I was a young girl, and I’m still learning from you.”

  Nellie chuckled. She took a bite of collard greens, chewed thoughtfully and washed it down with sweet tea. “I’m still learnin’ things, too. Good Lord willin,’ I hope to be for a spell to come.”

  Elizabeth smiled and ate some of her chicken-pot-pie, the potatoes and carrots half the size of her thumb, steam wafting up from the broken crust. The phone buzzed in her purse. “Nellie, I usually never answer my phone during our Wednesday night dinners, but I asked a detective to check on something for me. This might be him calling.”

  “Then you got to answer it, Liz’beth. I want to know what he has to say, too.”

  NINETEEN

  Detective Mike Bradford stepped out of the Front Porch Café to make the call. He glanced back inside through one of the wide windows at the diners, mentally screening the various activities. As the call was connecting, he also noticed Wanda Donnelly speaking with Martha Black in one corner. When Elizabeth answered, Bradford said, “I talked with Wanda and Martha. It appears that the guy you saw was either on drugs or booze before stepping foot in the restaurant. He made some off-color remarks to Wanda. She told Martha, and then Martha asked the guy to leave.”

  “What kind of off-color remarks? Did Wanda say?”

  “Said he asked her what the special was tonight. When she told him, he asked her if she was on the menu, what would she cost? He went on to say he liked her lips and mouth. Wanda told him that she resented the comments and was not going to be his server. She reported it to Martha who let him know he wasn’t welcome in her restaurant.”

  “Who’s the guy? Did they know him?”

  “Martha knew who he was—said his name is Boyd Baxter. Before I called you, I ran a check on him. He’s been in and out of trouble since he was a teenager. Spent time in juvie for hitting one of his teachers in the mouth. Baxter was married for less than a year. He was arrested for battery against his wife. Records indicate he beat her bad enough for her to need plastic surgery to fix her nose. His wife filed two restraining orders before getting a divorce. He did a year in prison for almost killing a guy in a bar fight. Before that it was six months in county jail for setting a neighbor’s truck on fire.”

  “Sounds like some serious anger issues. Was there any background information in the records?”

  “I know of the family. Don’t know him, though. Seems he’s been lying dormant for a while. I checked with a colleague who had worked numerous calls from that residence. He said the Baxter family is or was a tight clan who lives in a rural area of north Forrest County. The father was a member of the Dixie Mafia, a man who did not spare the rod and spoil the child. The wife, before she died, was all about quoting the Old Testament from the Bible. Baxter has an older brother. The brother ran away from home at seventeen, joined some cult twenty-five miles out of Las Cruces, New Mexico, somewhere in the hills, before finally joining the Army.”

  Elizabeth pushed back in her chair, the wooden slats creaking. She looked at Nellie, who ate quietly, taking a small bite from a piece of cornbread. “Mike, do you think this man could be a suspect in the murders?”

  “That’s a possibility. Based on his background, and the implied threats to Wanda, I’ll see if I can get a warrant to look around his place. See what I can find out. Maybe he’ll fit nicely in your profile. Maybe not. Any psychological angle you think I should consider?”

  “I’ve watched you question people. You know what you’re doing. But since you asked, you might want to get him talking about his religious beliefs. See if he slips into some sort of denial by virtue of what he might allude to as a justification by scripture. He might not show you those cards, but you can get a sense of his rationale by selective and careful prodding. Just don’t come across as accusatory, more of understanding—trying to get a grasp of how something so horrible can be justified in this world of have and have nots.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “There’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Be careful, Mike. If this guy did kill Brian and Olivia, if he thinks you’ve trapped him, he’ll try to ambush you. Or someone in his family might try it. Maybe you should take backup.”

  “No sweat. Talk with you soon. How’s your friend, Nellie?”

  “She’s great.”

  “Give her my regards. Tell her she’s the lucky one for having a standing dinner date with you. Remember, there are six more nights in the week, especially Friday night.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I will. Thanks.” She disconnected and looked up at Nellie. “I guess you heard that, at least half of the conversation.”

  “Don’t need to be listenin’ to the other half to figure out two things.”

  “Two things?”

  “First, is you care a heap about that girl named Wanda. Second, I do ‘spect she might be ‘bout the age of your sweet Molly if God hadn’t called her home.”

  Elizabeth felt her eyes water, looking at the old woman’s gentle face. “And I suspect you’re right, Nellie.”

  “It’s a cut that won’t ever heal. And that’s okay. You might get it to scar up some, but along come somethin’ that reminds you of Molly’s sweet face and that ol’ scar will turn into a scab and bleed some around the edges. That’s fine, Liz’beth. But you got to live, too, while God gives you time and space on this ol’ earth.”

  “I know. Yesterday I visited Molly’s grave.” Elizabeth reached out and touched the petals of a rose in the vase. “I put a rose like this one on her grave and spoke to her. Between my tears, I told her about my life. My new roommate, Jack the cat, who thinks he rules the nest. I told Molly about my job, and I said a prayer. But I couldn’t help thinking about the heinous murders of those two young people. They were about the same age as Molly when a killer took her life and that of her boyfriend Mark.” Elizabeth looked away, wiping a single tear from just below her left eye. “Sometimes I feel so alone. And, my heart aches for their parents and what they’ll never get to experience either. I know how badly it hurts.”

  Nellie nodded and said, “Jesus walks with you ‘cause he’s in you, Liz’beth. I been tellin’ you that since you were three years old. When you gonna believe it, child?”

  “I do believe it. But I know evil walks out there, too. Just like you said, it walked into the Garden of Eden and never left.” She moved the vase of roses closer to her, bending to smell one rose before setting the vase back in the center. She looked over to Nellie. “Wanda, the girl you heard me mention with the detective … she has a rose tattoo on her wrist. She said her husband bought it for her so she could always have a fresh flower to remind them of their love.”

  “But you got to water that kind, too.” She smiled and sipped her sweet tea. “I tol’ you two things, but I’m thinkin’ it’s three.”

  “Three? What’s the third?”

  “That fella on the telephone … before you said goodbye, he musta said somethin’ that touched your heart. I saw it in the way you smiled, like you used to do when someone or somethin’ special came into your life. Maybe this fella is special.”

  Elizabeth pursed her lips and said, “Could be. We’ll see.” A warm breeze blew across the yard and onto the porch, wind chimes tinkling, the promise of rain in the air, the call of a whippoorwill coming through the darkness.

  Nellie said, “T
hey’ll find this bad man. I can feel it in my ol’ bones. I can hear it in the evenin’ breeze sure as the whippoorwill sings his song at night. But before they catch this man, you got to be careful, Liz’beth. Don’t let the devil set a trap for you, child.”

  TWENTY

  It was a Sunday mass unlike any before for Father Gregory MacGrath. He stood behind the dais, turning a page in the Roman Catholic missal, the smell of incense and burning candles in the motionless air. When Father MacGrath looked up and scanned the faces of three-hundred parishioners seated, he didn’t know if he would be looking into the face of a murderer. He cleared his throat, made the sign of the cross, and said, “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  The congregation responded, “And also with your spirit.”

  Father MacGrath nodded, his face expressionless. “Brothers and sisters, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”

  In unison, the people said, “Have mercy on us, O Lord.”

  Father MacGrath placed both of his hands on the edges of the dais and said, “Let us extend a peace offering to our brothers and sisters. Peace be with you.” He watched as the parishioners mumbled greetings and shook hands, most saying, “May peace be with you.”

  The priest looked for anyone sitting down, or someone—a man who might be reluctant to engage in the peace offering. He could spot no one who appeared to be hesitant or socially awkward. Lots of genuine smiles. Handshaking. A few hugs. And then they sat, three hundred pairs of eyes—eyes of sinners, looking up at him to lead them in salvation and grace. Father MacGrath talked about sinning and repentance and how God instructs us to change our ways, using Jesus Christ as our model.

  “Please kneel as we share the prayer for the Liturgy of the Eucharist.” Father MacGrath turned toward a table behind him. It was covered in a snow-white linen tablecloth, and on top of it were white candles flickering in three candelabras, communion wafers and a chalice filled with red wine. He looked through the shimmer of yellow flames, to the face of Mary in one of the stained-glass windows and said a silent prayer.

  • • •

  After mass Father MacGrath greeted as many of his flock as he could. Some people stayed back, waiting for their turn to shake his hand, share a brief comment, and feel even more blessed to tackle the week ahead of them. “Your words today really helped me, Father,” said one young mother, her small son in tow. No sign of her husband. “I just wanted to say thank you for delivering mass in such a way that I think people can really relate to what you’re saying. Your funny sense of humor doesn’t hurt either.” She smiled.

  Father MacGrath grinned and said, “That’s so kind of you, Celeste. I try to follow the Roman Catholic missal and incorporate contemporary issues to bridge the lessons with real-word models to help people lead lives that follow the example set by Christ our Lord.”

  “You do it well. This is my third parish since growing up in Mississippi. I have nothing against any other priests of churches in the archdiocese, I just like the way you make it more real than what I’ve heard in the past. My husband John thinks so, too. He’s out with the flu today.”

  “I will pray for a fast restoration of John’s health.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She left with her son.

  After a few more exit conversations with parishioners, when St. Patrick’s Catholic Church had returned to silence, Father MacGrath turned to walk back to his office in the rear of the building.

  “Father,” came a voice from one of the pews. A man stood.

  “Yes, may I help you?” asked Father MacGrath.

  The man was well groomed. Close haircut. Dressed in a black polo shirt and khaki pants. Deep-set eyes that were guarded. No smile. “Father, I’ve been coming here for more than six months, and we haven’t met, at least not face to face.”

  Father MacGrath felt his pulse quicken. Was this the man in the confessional? The voice … similar. But was it him? He said, “I am so sorry to hear that. My sincere apologies. I try hard to meet and greet members of the parish after mass and many other times during the week. What is your name?” He walked toward the man.

  “My name’s Matthew Long.” They shook hands.

  “It’s so good to meet you, Matthew.”

  Long looked at a nearby statue of Mary, shifting his dark eyes back to the priest without moving his head. “You do have a large parish, Father, so I can’t expect you or Father Lopez to know everyone.”

  “We’ll, it’s certainly good to meet you. Welcome to St. Patrick’s. We hope this will become your church home through the months and years. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

  “You mean for a living … or what do I like to do?”

  Father MacGrath smiled. “Both.”

  “I’ve been out of the Army for fourteen months.”

  “Oh, where were you stationed?”

  “Afghanistan, twice. Yemen. Syria. Four tours.”

  “We appreciate your service.”

  “I didn’t have a whole lot to say about it. You agree to wear the uniform … you agree to the travel itinerary. I’m not sure if the world is a better place for what I did or any of the fellas in my squad. Most of us came back alive. But, something kinda dies in you over there … your conscience. You can’t trust anybody … women, kids. No one. They believe what they’re doing is right and in the name of God or Allah. We believe what we’re doin’ is in the name of God and country. Somewhere, in all the lines in the sand, I believe both sides buried whatever morality they had left.” He paused and pursed his red lips. “Sorry, Father. I didn’t come here to lecture you, a man who lectures his congregation.”

  “It’s all right. I’m interested.”

  “Interested … that’s the same word the VA shrink uses when he’s doling out meds to ease the PTSD. I’ve pretty much got it licked and without the little white pills dispensed by guys in white jackets. Night sweats are almost gone. Only thing that really bothers me, though, is fireworks. Come Fourth-of-July, a holiday that a veteran should celebrate, considering what it stands for … I want to crawl under the bed. I can take the fireworks up to a point. But, when some half-drunk clown is still settin’ them off at midnight … you know the sporadic pop—pop—pop.” He took a step closer. Father MacGrath could see buried anger smoldering like hot kindling in the man’s eyes. Long said, “It’s those last, isolated pops. They’re the ones that remind me of the Taliban, a couple of snipers sitting on a goat trail ledge in one of those rocky hills, just taking pot shots down at us.”

  Father MacGrath said, “Son, my heart aches for your pain. I do believe it’s good for you to openly discuss your exasperation. It helps release pent up hostility from deep inside you. Perhaps you can come by my office this week. I often have tea in the afternoon. I’d be happy to talk with you to see how we can bring our Lord and savior more into your life to embrace you with his love.”

  Long shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d like that, Father, but I believe I need something more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Confession. I’ve done some bad stuff over there … learned to do what I was trained to do. You see, Father, when you wear the uniform and tote a gun, you’re a mercenary. A sanctioned killer lookin’ for the enemy. The rules of the Bible don’t work in the rules of war. So, the lines around sin become blurred. After years of doin’ that, when you take the uniform off, does it mean you change back to the man you were?” He paused and smiled for the first time since standing from the pew. “I need to confess, Father, because I know what I tell you will stay in that little booth, locked like a dead man in a coffin … forever.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  On Tuesday, in the early afternoon, Detective Mike Bradford and his partner, Detective Bill Lee, drove the backroads of northern Forrest County looking for a murder suspect. They had no idea if Boyd Baxter, the man who spoke sexual comments to a waitress at the Front Porch Café, was connected to the mur
ders of Olivia Curtis and Brian Woods. But they did know of his background, his criminal history, his propensity to walk the line between right and wrong—between good and evil. Too often stepping over the line on the dark side.

  Even with that knowledge, they weren’t prepared for what they’d find in Baxter’s ramshackle home at the end of a winding, dirt road. They drove their unmarked police cruiser down the road, a rooster tail of dust bellowing up behind the car. The road was bordered by tall, skinny pines—as if the forest suffered from a nutrient deficiency in the dry, sandy soil.

  There were a few barbed wire fences, and an occasional trailer set back off the road, mailboxes dented, some with a bullet hole in one side and out the opposite panel. Dust, the tinge of salmon, settled on the mailboxes, scrub oaks and brush like it all had been coated in a thin layer of talcum powder. “Look at that damn dust,” said Detective Bill Lee. He sat on the passenger side, glanced out the closed windows of the car, and looked at the dust in the side-view mirror. He had a hawkish face and skeptical eyes that made him a good cop—never taking anything at face value. “Could be it never rains out here. That stuff looks like some kind of nuclear radiation fallout. Maybe it’s not safe to get out of the car.” He released a deep breath.

  Bradford smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about the dust. Our concern is what we’ll find when we knock on Boyd Baxter’s door. I called his employer, Johnson Tree Service. The owner said Baxter took a few paid-leave days.”

  “So, he’s on vacation, maybe?”

  “The owner didn’t say. Just said he’s expecting him back later in the week.”

  “Baxter could be anywhere but here if he’s on some kind of vacation. Or, if he is our serial killer, he could use paid time off to go hunt for his next victim.”

  “Or he could just be one of the many sickos in the state of Mississippi who don’t believe the law, or the rule of law, applies to them and their good times. Hey, look at the flip side.”