The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  “Oscar. My grandpa got him for me.”

  “That’s sweet. You take care of Oscar, okay?”

  The child nodded and grinned, her feet just hanging off the edge of the wide rocking chair, her grandfather’s hand on the armrest, slowly rocking his granddaughter and her bear.

  Mike Bradford greeted everyone as he approached them, then said to Elizabeth, “Maybe our table is vacant.”

  She smiled. “Didn’t know it was our table.”

  “I called Martha and asked her to hold it for us. She laughed and said the Front Porch has never taken reservations, but under the circumstances, she’d make an exception for us.”

  “That’s considerate,” Elizabeth said, opening the screened door and entering. Instinctively, she scanned the restaurant for Wanda. More than two-thirds of the tables were taken. No seats available at the counter. She noticed that there were a few more elderly folks than usual. Probably because of the early dinner hour. Get the discount before six and then get home in time to watch Jeopardy on television. Elizabeth didn’t see Wanda. Maybe she wasn’t working today.

  They walked across the wooden floor, a few heads turning and conversation lowering. “That’s the psychiatrist from the university that was on the TV news,” said one middle-aged woman to her husband as he spread an inch-thick slab of butter across a baked potato. “She’s the one police use to tell ‘em if a person’s too insane to go on trial for stuff like murder and whatnot.”

  Elizabeth ignored the hushed comments as she walked by the tables. She and Bradford took seats at the table farthest away from the entrance, her back to the diners, Bradford sitting so he could view the door. Elizabeth looked across the table at him and said, “I don’t see Wanda Donnelly here.”

  “Could be she’s not working today.”

  “Maybe … but she told me that she works every day except Sunday. She tries to attend church. They go to St. Patrick’s. Coincidentally, that’s where I took Molly when she was growing up.” Elizabeth paused, picturing Molly as a child.

  “You okay?” Bradford asked.

  “I’m fine. Wanda told me that her husband and a few other men were laid off recently at the lumber yard. He took a job as a long-haul truck driver. They do what they can to raise their kids and keep a roof over their heads. Her mother is there to help with the kids. I never heard Wanda complain. She only mentioned her situation because I asked her. Just came up in conversation, not fault-finding. She and her husband seem to have a good marriage. And that’s great.”

  “Amen to that. In this line of work, the one dispatch call that a police officer fears most is domestic disturbance. You never know what you’re walking into when you approach a house and knock on the door. The guy could be standing on the other side with a shotgun because he just shot and killed his wife. Lots of strained emotions flowing in those situations. By the way, how much time do we have before you head out with dinner for you and Nellie?”

  “Nellie isn’t feeling well tonight. She called me earlier and said she had a migraine headache and needed to climb into bed and sleep it off with some meds. I can’t remember the last time we missed our Wednesday night dinner. I’ll call her in the morning to see how she’s doing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear she’s not feeling well. I know how much you enjoy your time with her. Is it okay, then, if we order and talk through dinner?” asked Mike. “I missed lunch today, and I’m starving.”

  “How y’all doin’?” asked Martha, approaching their table with two laminated menus in her hands. “Are you two staying for dinner tonight?”

  “Yes, we’ll be staying. And, I’m well … how about you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Good. We believe we’ll have a full house before it’s over tonight. The specials include Gulf shrimp and grits. And we have homemade chicken and dumplins. The fresh, fried okra is to die for.”

  “The chicken and dumplins sounds good,” Elizabeth said.

  Bradford glanced at the menu and said, “I can never pass up the shrimp and grits when offered as a special. I’ll take sweet tea.”

  “You got it. How ‘bout you, Liz?”

  “Coffee, please. Black.”

  Martha nodded and shifted her eyes to Bradford. “If you don’t mind me askin’ you, are the police any closer to findin’ the person who killed those kids?”

  “We’re working non-stop. We hope to have something soon. But I can’t get specific right now.”

  “I understand. Last thing you want this creep to think is y’all are about to arrest him. He could fly the coop and wind up in Canada or someplace.”

  Elizabeth said, “Martha, I don’t see Wanda. Is she working today?”

  “She’s supposed to be. She was due in at ten this mornin’ but never showed up, and that’s not like Wanda at all. That girl was born with responsibility in her genes. I tried her phone twice. It goes straight to voicemail. I left messages. She’s not callin’ back. I know one of her kids is sick. She may have had to take him to the doctor, or even the hospital, for that matter. And she could have forgotten her phone.”

  Elizabeth listened closely and said, “But you don’t really believe that, do you? I can tell you’re worried. Have you tried calling her mom or her husband?”

  “Don’t have their numbers. Tell you what, Liz, I’m about ready to send my brother down to Wanda’s house. They got seven acres and a farmhouse they’ve been tryin’ to remodel for a couple of years. They live off Old River Road.”

  Bradford said, “Rather than do that, can you give me Wanda’s address? I will have a deputy ride out there and check on her.”

  Martha smiled. “That would be great. I’ll get it for you.”

  She walked back toward the counter and then disappeared into a small office on the opposite side of the kitchen. Elizabeth looked at Bradford and said, “I’m worried. I know Wanda well enough to firmly believe that she wouldn’t jeopardize her job by not calling in to work.”

  “Like Martha said, Wanda has a sick child. Her husband is on the road. So maybe she rushed the child to the doctor or even to an emergency room if he or she is seriously ill.”

  Elizabeth looked at her watch. “It’s a quarter after five. Most pediatricians are closed. Even if Wanda did go there, I think she would have called from the doctor’s office. Martha said that Wanda was scheduled for work at ten this morning. That’s over seven hours ago … more than enough time to find a phone somewhere.”

  “I agree. This doesn’t feel right. As soon as Martha gets the address, I’ll send a unit to Wanda’s place.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Thank you, Mike.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Now, as you promised, you were going to tell me more about this guy—the possible suspect, Boyd Baxter.”

  “I will. Maybe it’s something you might want to hear after you eat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, what I have to tell you might turn your stomach.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Elizabeth held her coffee cup with both hands and said, “Okay, let’s hear it before Martha comes back to our table.”

  Bradford leaned forward and said, “Boyd Baxter lives alone in a rundown trailer, Confederate flag flying near the front porch, a hundred-pound dog, a pit-bull, chained to a dogwood tree in the front yard. Baxter’s got a big wooden cross nailed to the wall near the front door. Under it is a bronze plaque that reads: No one who practices deceit will dwell in my house. No one who speaks falsely will stand in my presence.”

  “Interesting,” said Elizabeth, sipping her coffee.

  “The only time Baxter appeared slightly nervous was when I showed him the search warrant. He wanted to know what we were searching for on his property. I told him it’s called evidence. He has one back bedroom converted into some weird shrine to Adolph Hitler.”

  “What? That’s eerie.”

  “There are dozens of pictures of Hitler all over the walls. Nazi swastikas everywhere. Even more disturbing are the photos of victims gassed
in the holocaust. He has a collection of videos and DVDs of all things associated with the Nazi party and the atrocities they committed. When I asked him why he had all of that, he responded with … it’s just a hobby, and he has broken no laws. He said he’s always been fascinated by how one person could persuade a nation, or at least his hand-picked leaders, to do everything in their power to accomplish two things.”

  “I’m almost hesitant to ask, but what two things?”

  “One was an attempt to wipe out an entire race of people. The second was to destroy their religion along with the annihilation of its people.” Bradford paused, watched a family enter the restaurant. He lowered his voice and said, “This is the kind of dangerous fanaticism that attracted nut cases to people like Charles Manson. They’d send him fan mail. Manson even had women fawning over him.”

  “Do you know if Boyd Baxter has a girlfriend?”

  “He said he has, and I quote … a ‘lady friend.’ I bet she’s quite a lady.”

  “Baxter’s fascination with a mass murderer like Hitler is not unlike the fascination some people, especially women, have for serial killers. Some convicted serial killers have received marriage proposals from women. The term in psychology is called hybristophilia or the Bonnie and Clyde syndrome. It’s along the lines of a deviant fetish—people who become sexually aroused with the knowledge their partner is a serial killer.”

  “How does this apply to Baxter?”

  “Well, it appears he’s fascinated with power and the ways that power can cause large-scale death. If you look further into his weird collection, you might find videos of people dying or just after they died. Suicides. Murders. Whatever bizarre obsessions are downloadable on the Internet today. Mike, this guy has a serious aberrant obsession, and when you stir in his penchant to quote Bible verses, he just might be your prime suspect.”

  “I know you’ve been replaying that audio recording in your mind. So, have I. But I gotta tell you that Baxter, strange as he is, doesn’t come across as a guy who’d spout Bible verses in Latin … or maybe he’s memorized that one particular verse. He appears as a person who would speak plain English to call you a sinner in his eyes before he pulled the trigger.”

  Elizabeth watched an older couple enter, a small man holding the thin arm of his gaunt wife. “You mentioned he doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murders.”

  “Said he was home. Of course, we can’t prove he wasn’t there, and he can’t prove he was. He’s indifferent … almost challenging us to prove exactly where he was that night. Which means he could have committed the murders.”

  “Does his voice remotely sound like the voice on the recording?”

  “It was a similar tonal quality. Same sort of accent and cadence. Baxter slips in and out of a whisper, like a preacher making a salient point, but he doesn’t talk in a whisper.”

  “Maybe neither does the killer if he were talking normally and not speaking in his self-cast role as judge and executor.”

  “Now, if you put on your forensic psychologist’s hat, which, by the way, I don’t think you ever take off, even when you take a shower … ”

  “Excuse me?”

  Bradford grinned. “It’s just a figure of speech—not a visual. You can’t separate yourself from what you do. I can’t either. That’s why my wife left me. Maybe that’s why you aren’t married. Sorry, I digress.”

  “I was married. When Molly was nine months old, her father walked out on the two of us. From that point forward, my focus was on Molly, not some man that would dilute that commitment. I didn’t need it. Neither did Molly. So, I left the area to start over. And then she was taken away from me.”

  “And, in the years since her murder, you’ve been searching for her killer.”

  “Wouldn’t you, Mike? With all due respect to law enforcement, my daughter’s murderer is walking among us. Free as a bird, while Molly and her sweet boyfriend, Mark, are dead—their lives snuffed out like swatting a mosquito on your arm.”

  Bradford leaned forward in his chair. “Before I retire from the sheriff’s department … or before I die, I hope to God I can help you bring Molly’s killer to justice.”

  Elizabeth said nothing for a few seconds. She glanced across the restaurant to the counter where a female server was holding a tray of hot food. Nearby, Martha was coming out of her office. “Thank you, Mike. I appreciate that, but right now we both need to find out who killed Olivia Curtis and Brian Woods. We need to know that Wanda Donnelly is safe. I see Martha coming our way with a piece of paper in her hand. I assume it’s Wanda’s address. And I hope one of your deputies can get there quickly.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Martha Black did something she rarely did in her restaurant. She sat down at the table with two customers. Her father had taught her that, although the diners were guests in their restaurant, it wasn’t as if they were guests in their home. They were paying for dinner, meaning the owners—the Black family, and the waitstaff, were there to serve the customers, not to hobnob with them and sit at their table.

  Martha sat across from Elizabeth and Detective Bradford. She licked her lips and said, “I tried Wanda one more time before getting her home address from our files. I left another message—at least I think I did.”

  Bradford asked, “Did you hear her phone ring before it went into voicemail mode?”

  “No, matter of fact I didn’t. It seemed just to go straight to voicemail.”

  “Did it do that earlier today?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, it did, now that you mention it. What does that mean?”

  “Depends on the phone. Do you know if Wanda has an iPhone or something else?”

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Here’s Wanda’s home address.” She handed the slip of paper to Bradford.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking at the address. “I have a fairly good idea where this is on Old River Road. We can have a couple of deputies over there in a short while.”

  “I appreciate it. In normal times, I kinda wonder what that means anymore, but twenty years ago, I didn’t fret so much about my employees. Didn’t have to. There was no Internet. And there seemed to be less creepy people on the planet. Heavens to Betsy, I don’t know what the world is coming to anymore. I might not be so worried about Wanda if that customer hadn’t given her such a hard time one morning … then other night.”

  “Your reaction, Martha, is perfectly understandable,” Elizabeth said. “You care, and it shows. Your employees are fortunate, and they appreciate you.”

  She smiled, stood, and said, “Thanks, Liz. I try. And I try not to be a mother hen. I’m sure your food is ready. I’ll have Brenda bring it out to you.” She left and briefly greeted an elderly couple leaving their table with left-over food in white Styrofoam, to-go containers. Elizabeth watched the older couple for a moment, the man holding a walking cane in one hand, a food container in the other.

  A server came from the kitchen, two plates of food on an oval-shaped tray. She walked across the restaurant to Elizabeth and Bradford. “Who had the chicken and dumplings with a side of fried okra?”

  “I did,” Elizabeth said.

  The server put the plates of food in front of them and said, “I’m bettin’ the shrimp and grits will sell out long before we close. It’s so popular.”

  “Glad we got here early,” Bradford said.

  “Can I get y’all more coffee or sweet tea?”

  “That’d be good,” Elizabeth said.

  Bradford nodded. “Thanks.”

  Just as the girl was turning to leave, Martha walked quickly across the restaurant, her heels making a clacking sound. To the server she said, “Thanks, Brenda. We got a family that just arrived. Please help them find a table.”

  The girl nodded and left.

  Elizabeth said, “What’s the matter, Martha? Do you have bad news?”

  “I don’t know if it’s bad. But I know it’s not good news, at least not what I was hopin’ to hear. I just g
ot a call from Wanda’s mama. Her name’s Loretta Dupree. She told me she hasn’t heard from Wanda since she left for work this mornin’. She said that wasn’t like Wanda at all, because when she works a double, she always checks in with Loretta. Her mama’s especially worried since one of the kids has the flu. She knows Wanda would have been callin’ to keep tabs on her baby boy.”

  Bradford asked, “What kind of car does Wanda drive?”

  “Lemme think. It’s blue. Small. Usually, it has two car seats for kids in the back. I think it’s a Chevy. I can call Loretta and ask.”

  “Good, please do that,” Bradford said.

  Elizabeth said, “When was the last time Wanda’s mother heard from her?”

  “Right before she left for work, around 9:30. Loretta had picked up some medicine for the sick child along with some breakfast from McDonalds for the kids. She said Wanda seemed anxious. Didn’t say why. When she pressured her, Wanda said it was on account that her husband, Brandon, was going to be delayed another day before he could drop off a load of machine parts and get back home.” Martha licked her bottom lip and said, “Liz, I’m real worried now.”

  “I am, too.”

  Martha looked at Bradford. He said, “I’ll get the make and model of her car. I’ll call in a BOLO—we’ll have every police agency in Mississippi be on the lookout for her car, and for her. We’ll find Wanda. I promise.”

  Martha’s hazel eyes welled. “Detective, just promise me you’ll find her alive, okay?”

  THIRTY

  The next morning, Elizabeth awoke to a scare. There was no noise. No intruder in her home. It was a little before 6:00 a.m. She had another fifteen minutes before her alarm clock would sound. She opened her eyes and saw Jack sitting in the bed and staring at her. “Whoa, Jack,” she said, her voice raspy. “That’s a little creepy big guy. How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”