The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  Elizabeth walked up to Benson and asked, “How are you?”

  He exhaled cigarette smoke through his nostrils and nodded. “I’ve had better days.”

  “Detective Bradford tells me you found the body.”

  “Are you a detective?”

  “No.”

  “Some kinda reporter maybe?” He glanced at the herd, the media sequestered behind the police line, cutting his suspicious chestnut brown eyes back to her.

  “No, I’m not a reporter. My name’s Elizabeth Monroe.”

  “I’m Al Benson. If you’re not a detective, what is it you do at a disgusting scene like this?”

  “I’m a forensic psychologist.”

  “What the hell is that? No offense, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “None taken. Sometimes police will call me in to help them profile a suspect.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” She closely watched his eyes.

  Al took a long drag from his cigarette, looked away, blowing the smoke out of the opposite side of his mouth, away from where Elizabeth stood. He touched the tip of his nose with a calloused finger and asked, “How do you do that?”

  “There are many factors. It takes time.” She glanced at the three shovels, pickaxe, hoe and rake in the bed of his pickup truck. “Detective Bradford tells me you’re a gravedigger.”

  “Only here, nowhere else. I do it for the church. I farm ninety acres of land two miles down the road. I dig graves because I want to give back to the church and its members. We don’t get too many deaths ‘cause we don’t have a very big congregation. I came here to dig a grave for Mrs. Jefferies’ family. She passed away a couple of days ago. I do it by hand, only use a shovel, a pickaxe and a rake, and I get it right. Figure it’s the least I can do for the folks. One day I hope somebody will do it for me. Don’t need no backhoe in this soil. Not many rocks. Not hardly any roots back here.”

  “What did you see when you arrived?”

  “It was the new dirt that first caught my eye. There hasn’t been a burial in a while. The dirt was fresh. I started walkin’ towards it when I spotted what I thought was a limb or something stickin’ up. Then I could tell it was a person’s arm. I thought I might have a heart attack on the spot. It was the hand that really got to me.”

  “How so?”

  “It was like her hand was trying to stretch all the way open. It almost seemed as if the arm was growing from the grave and the hand was a twisted bud, like a rose on a bush tryin’ to open in the sunlight. It was pointed straight toward the sky. I stepped a little closer, and I saw the red rose on the girl’s wrist. I like to have lost it then. The rose is my favorite flower.” He motioned toward the church. “All ‘em rose bushes you see on both sides of the church, I put them in the ground more than ten years ago.”

  “I noticed them when I parked. They’re lovely.”

  He nodded. “Reverend Garland, that’s our preacher, he has a way with talkin’ and explain’ the gospel of the Bible. But he’s the first to admit the good Lord didn’t give him a green thumb. So, I fertilize and trim the roses and other flowers on the grounds when needed, pull weeds around the graves.”

  Elizabeth smiled and scanned the old cemetery, many of the gravestones were weathered the dark gray of elephant hide. At least seventy feet away, she spotted the bright white of fresh flowers on a grave. She looked at Benson and asked, “You said there hasn’t been a burial here in more than four months.”

  “That’s right.” Al dropped the remains of his cigarette. He used the sole of his boot to smother it in the ground, picking the butt up and dropping it in his shirt pocket. “Why do you ask?”

  She pointed to the grave in the distance. “I just spotted a bouquet of white flowers on a grave over there. Is that the recent one?”

  “No, it’s on the opposite site of the cemetery. In the last twenty years, I’ve dug all the graves here. I pretty much know where everybody lies without havin’ to read most of the tombstones. It’s sort of like a word game, I can associate names and dates with the headstones.”

  “The grave with the flowers … who lies there?”

  He looked at it through squinting eyes and rubbed his wide hand across the stubble on his cheeks, the sound like sandpaper. He said, “That would be Mrs. Baxter. She died about this time five years ago. Funny how I can remember those things. Suppose I couldn’t if we had a large congregation.”

  “You said Mrs. Baxter, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Her name was Judith Baxter. She and her husband, Ralph, were longtime members of the church. They were here every Sunday mornin’ and again on Wednesday night Bible studies. They both knew the Bible like the back of their hands, especially Ralph. He was all fire and brimstone. He volunteered to preach sometimes when Reverend Garland was sick or on vacation. But folks didn’t cotton to Ralph’s style. We’re all sinners, but in his eyes, redemption was for the chosen few. He was very disciplined. As much as he said he loved the Lord, I never saw the man smile.”

  “You said both of the Baxter’s are buried here.”

  “Yes. He went first, maybe two years before his wife died.”

  “I assume family members put the flowers on her grave.”

  “Their grandson does. Nobody else. His name’s Boyd … Boyd Baxter. Sort of a chip off his granddaddy’s shoulder. But like they say, the acorn don’t fall too far from the family tree.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Elizabeth stared at the fresh magnolia flowers on the grave and thought of the person who most likely placed them there, Boyd Baxter. The name on the headstone read:

  Judith Baxter

  1926 – 2013

  Elizabeth looked at the grave to the right, the name Ralph Baxter, engraved on it. She recalled what Wanda had told her about the man that Elizabeth now knows is Boyd Baxter. ‘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.’

  Elizabeth started walking back to the gravesite where Wanda’s body was found. She could see the CSI techs pouring a white liquid into tire tracks left by a truck or car. After a moment, she got Bradford’s attention. He nodded, walked around the investigators, and met Elizabeth closer to the rear of the church. She told him what Al Benson had said. She pointed to the grave with the magnolias. “I walked over there. The flowers are fresh. Magnolia blossoms don’t live too long without being placed in a vase with water. Those haven’t been on that grave very long.”

  Bradford folded his arms, looked at the grave in the distance and said, “We’re pouring a mold in wide tire tracks left in the soil. From first observation, we can tell they don’t match the tires on Mr. Benson’s truck. But they could match the tires on the truck in the front yard of Boyd Baxter. That would prove he, or at least his truck, was here in the last twenty-four hours. Baxter doesn’t look like the type who’d loan his truck out to someone. If it was here, my money says he was the driver.”

  “Why would he bury Wanda’s body, pose her arm, and then place flowers on his grandmother’s grave?”

  Bradford shook his head. “You’re the criminal psychologist, Elizabeth. I’m hoping you can tell me. We can use it in court.”

  “If the mold you pull from those tire tracks match the tread on Baxter’s truck tires, what’s your next step?”

  “To arrest and charge him with the abduction and murder of Wanda Donnelly. In the meantime, we’ll use a fine-tooth-comb to go over the graves of Baxter’s grandparents. You never know what we might find among the magnolias.” He looked towards the church. “Our office reached the minister. He was out on a hospital visit but should be here any minute now. I spotted a small security camera on the left-side eave of the church building. The camera is pointed more toward the grassy parking lot. We’ll see if it captured any movement.”

  “If Baxter’s truck is on there, maybe you can see who was driving it.”

  “That’d be the icing on the criminal cake if we could. But
, if the tire tread matches what’s embedded in that moist soil, considering what Baxter said to Wanda in the restaurant, it’s enough for the prosecutor to file charges. I’m starting to feel good about a bad case, one I thought we would have a hard time solving.”

  “Maybe it will be a slam dunk for you. But, as you know, that’s not always the case.” She smiled. “No pun intended.”

  Bradford glanced toward the gravedigger’s truck, more than fifty feet away, Benson now sitting on the lowered tailgate. “When you were talking with Mr. Benson, the gravedigger, anything stick out to you with that guy? Is he on your profiler’s radar?”

  “No, he doesn’t appear deceptive or to be evasive in any way.” Elizabeth paused, the chortle of a mockingbird coming from one of the oak trees, the sound of a semitruck down the highway. “Mike, consider this … as odd as Boyd Baxter comes across, he is, from what you shared, no doubt, a staunch neo-Nazi. These people tend to like the comradery of a like-minded group, a group that shares two things: the hateful ideologies and a dark triad of personality traits that include narcissism, the psychopathy that embraces a lack of empathy or remorse, and the Machiavellianism or manipulation of others through the group’s deceitfulness. In criminal psychology, it’s sometimes referred to as the absence of a moral compass due to the lack of individual accountability for what the group, as a whole, does.”

  Bradford nodded. “Okay, Elizabeth, break it down even further for me. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the person who killed Wanda, the person who killed Brian and Olivia, is not a joiner. He’s a lone wolf. His cause isn’t about race, neo-Nazi creed, or some political agenda. It’s about how he believes he has the right or obligation to kill under the approval of God to avenge or settle something.”

  “You told me what Al Benson said about Boyd Baxter’s grandparents, the heavy religious doctrine. I’m not a psychologist, but to me, that sounds like the gunpowder in the bullet for a guy like Baxter. With these nut-job cases, motive often becomes as crazy as they are. And, for law enforcement … it comes down to finding physical evidence that will support a case when the proverbial justification of why the criminal did what he or she did always can’t be understood.”

  An older man in a light cotton suit, no tie, approached. He walked under the shade of the live oaks, two squirrels following behind, hopping in the grass, one squirrel stopping to bury an acorn. The man’s face was thin, eyes wide, a ping-pong sized Adam’s apple in his throat. He walked up to Bradford and Elizabeth. He extended his hand and said, “I’m Reverend Garland Hayes. The officers told me where to find you. You’re Detective Bradford, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. This is Doctor Elizabeth Monroe.”

  They all shook hands, and the minister said, “This is such an awful tragedy. I’m not usually at a loss for words, but based on what I’ve been told, this is beyond words.” He looked toward the shallow gravesite, the CSI techs concluding their forensics investigation.

  “What have you been told?” Bradford asked.

  “Only that some poor girl’s body was found on church property, in our cemetery, and she wasn’t properly buried.” He cut his eyes to Elizabeth and said, “Doctor Monroe … your name rings a bell. I believe I remember seeing you interviewed on the TV news recently.” He glanced over his shoulder to the news media in the distance.

  Elizabeth said, “I’m a professor of criminal psychology at the university. And I try to volunteer my time to the police on cases like this one.”

  Reverend Hayes eyebrows arched. “Oh, I see. Well, how can I help y’all?”

  Bradford said, “I’d like to take a look at the video on that surveillance camera, the one that’s pointed toward the grass parking area.”

  “That’s not a problem. It’s motion sensitive. Sometimes we see deer grazing. Sometimes there’s nothing except our congregation on Sundays and on Wednesday evenings. The camera’s images are recorded to a computer hard-drive in the church office.”

  Bradford nodded. “Let’s go take a look. On the way to the office, I’d like to hear more about a family that’s been part of the church for a long time.”

  “Absolutely, Detective. Who is that?”

  “The Baxter family.”

  Elizabeth watched the subtle, physical reaction Reverend Hayes had to the name. And now she was curious as to why.

  THIRTY-NINE

  On the way to the front of the church, Reverend Hayes eyed the pack of news media less than one hundred feet away, just beyond the parking area. He looked at the three news trucks, cameras on tripods, portable lights, and reporters holding microphones and speaking into the lens of cameras. “I can’t believe all this is happening,” he said with a long sigh, his southern accent thick. “Our little church has been here since right before the Civil War. And, in all that time, it’s been a house of refugee for anyone seeking God. Now, on these hallowed grounds, some poor soul was taken. I hope you find this evil, Detective Bradford.”

  “That’s our goal,” Bradford said as he and Elizabeth walked with the minister up the three brick steps to the concrete entranceway. Reverend Hayes fished for keys in his pocket, looked at Bradford and said, “You’re correct, the Baxter’s were long-time members of New Shepherd. Ralph, and his wife Judith, have passed on, but their grandson, Boyd, attends occasionally. His mama and daddy attended for a while, not the father so much—he wound up in prison. But Boyd’s mother was here, and then she seemed to have drifted away.”

  Bradford said, “I heard Ralph Baxter would fill in for you occasionally.”

  “That’s right. You learn stuff quickly.” He chuckled. “Unfortunately, after he filled in a few times, I had to ask him not to volunteer his services.”

  “Why was that?” Elizabeth asked.

  Reverend Hayes looked though the bifocals perched at the tip of his thin nose, finding the correct key for the door. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead … or livin’ folks for that matter. It’s not what Jesus taught us. However, after Ralph preached, some folks came to me and said it was so … how should I put it? Well, one lady said his interpretation of the gospel caused her palms to sweat, she and her husband said the preachin’ was causing folks extreme anxiety. When some of ‘em threatened to leave the church, I thanked Ralph for what he did, but told him the church didn’t need him filling in for me. We picked Deacon Frank Tindell to substitute. After that, things seemed to settle down. At least for a little while.”

  “How’d Ralph Baxter take it?” Bradford asked.

  “About a month later, he came in my office and accused me of conspiring with the congregation to keep him out from behind the pulpit. After that, he tried to get as many members as he could to leave and form a church with him as their minister. He got three out of the ninety-five. Less than a month later, Ralph died. His wife, Judith, continued to attend here until her death—but as I mentioned, her attendance became irregular.”

  “How was their grandson, Boyd, through all of this?” asked Elizabeth.

  “I never talked to him directly about it. Tried to mention it one time, but he just waved me off. He gave an odd sort of smile and said something I never forgot.”

  “What was that?” Bradford asked.

  “He said that, as a Christian, he had no duty to allow himself to be cheated, but he also had the duty to be a fighter for truth and justice. And then he just walked across the church grounds to his truck and drove away.”

  Reverend Hayes unlocked the front door. “Y’all come on inside.”

  Elizabeth said, “I really don’t need to view the entire surveillance video. My expertise isn’t in viewing evidence, only people. However, if there’s anything Detective Bradford believes I should see, he can jot down the time code.” She smiled. “Besides, I left my phone in my car. I need to go get it to see if my office has been trying to reach me. May I use your restroom when I return?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The ladies’ room is to the right when you come back inside the vestibu
le.” He looked at Bradford and said, “That camera rarely ever records much during the week other than the wildlife.”

  Elizabeth left the church entranceway, Reverend Hayes gently closing the door behind him and Bradford. She walked across the grounds to her car, unlocked it and lifted her phone. There were no missed calls or text messages. She placed the phone in her purse, locked her car door and turned around into the lens of a television camera.

  A female reporter, tall, dark hair, said, “Doctor Monroe, I don’t want to appear as if we’re ambushing you. I just happened to see you here and thought, perhaps, we could chat a moment.”

  Elizabeth looked at the reporter and the cameraman. He was unshaven and wearing a Channel Seven News T-shirt and blue jeans. The reporter said, “Craig is not rolling. The camera’s off. I don’t jump out of the bushes and do gotcha interviews. However, with your permission, I would like to ask you this … it appears whoever killed the girl here today may be using the same modus operandi—way of staging bodies that’s similar to the other recent murders. This would seem to be your expertise, so I’d guess that’s why you are here today. May we do a quick interview with you about that?”

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder at the crime scene in the cemetery. She thought about Wanda’s hand protruding from the grave, the stiff atrophy to the body when she was lifted from the grave, the dirt in her face and hair, the wrinkled and filthy waitress uniform she wore. “All right,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll answer a question or two related to that, the psychological profile, but I will not answer or speculate on the investigative components of the case. That will be up to Detective Bradford and the other CSI team members.”

  “Fair enough,” the reporter said with a smile. “Craig, let’s roll.”

  “Rolling,” said the cameraman.

  The reporter spoke into the microphone and asked, “Doctor Monroe, we’re near the scene of what appears to be a third murder possibly connected to the person who took the lives of Olivia Curtis and her fiancé Brian Woods. Investigators tell us in the first two murders, Olivia’s body was staged, after death, by the killer. Today, in a cemetery at New Shepherd Baptist Church, that appears to be the case as well. If it is the same killer, what kind of message is he leaving behind?”