The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  “It appears to be a signature killing. In other words, the killer wants credit for doing what society, as a whole, finds so aberrant, so despicable … so unspeakable, that we have severe laws of punishment for those convicted of these types of heinous crimes.”

  “By laws of punishment, are you suggesting the death penalty?”

  “Not in terms of what the killer should get if he is found guilty. That will be up to a jury and judge. However, in Mississippi, the state does reserve that option for atrocious crimes of this nature.”

  “That would be assuming the killer is found mentally competent to stand trial. Will that be where you or someone like you might be called into court?”

  “That would be up to the attorneys and the request of the judge.”

  “Based on what you’ve seen so far, and in your conversations with detectives, obviously we have a serial killer in our midst. Can you give us an indication as to what type of a person police are looking for? What would be the motive behind the killer’s actions? And you mentioned a ‘he’ rather than ‘she’ …”

  “First of all, it hasn’t been determined that the killings are linked. So, speaking hypothetically, I would say this: The killer thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. He may share a doctrine of hate with other like-minded people, but he’s a loner. He’s selecting victims from his own depraved bucket list. It may have a connection to avenging an act or acts, a cause or doctrine. But, unlike a mass murderer who’d rather walk into a church or synagogue and use an assault rifle to slaughter victims, this guy is selective, preferring to take someone from the herd and kill at his discretion. He believes he’s justified in this because, in his sick mind, he thinks he’s been granted a hunting license to do so.”

  “What do you mean by license?”

  “In my opinion, he thinks he’s been ordained by God to take the lives of innocent people.”

  “Are you saying he thinks he hears voices?”

  “I don’t know that. But I do believe he will continue his killing until he’s caught. He will be caught because, after this latest murder, he’s made too many amateur mistakes, and that’s going to bring this sick man to his knees.”

  “Can you tell us what you mean by mistakes?”

  “I don’t want to share information that might, in any way, compromise the police investigation. There is physical evidence. And there is the mental evidence, too. In my line of work, we hunt for clues not unlike the detectives, but we’re more hunters of the mind, and a sick mind can’t hide very well … at least not for long. Monsters can’t hide behind a tree, because they’re too delusional to tell the difference between the forest and the trees. Thank you.” Elizabeth smiled, turned and walked back toward the church.

  “Doctor Monroe,” shouted the reporter. “What did you mean by that last statement?”

  Elizabeth kept walking, holding her head up, staring at the security camera mounted to an eave of the old church, the white steeple above it. Beyond that, circling a hard-blue sky, a black vulture rode air currents, the scavenger surveying the land for signs of the dead and dying. Within seconds its long shadow moved over Elizabeth, the church grounds and cemetery.

  FORTY

  Detective Mike Bradford watched the video recording for the third time. He played it back in slow-motion, stopping and zooming into the picture, trying to see who was behind the wheel of a Ford pickup truck he knew was owned by Boyd Baxter. Bradford sat in a chair at a small desk in the church office, Reverend Hayes standing next to him, staring through his bifocals at the screen. Bradford looked up at him and asked, “Do you recognize that truck?”

  “Can’t say I do. Many folks in our congregation drive trucks. I’m at the age where it’s hard for me to tell all of the makes and models apart. And I used to drive a Chevrolet truck thirty years ago.”

  Bradford said, “From this angle, the camera captures the right, passenger-side profile of the truck entering the church property and driving down the gravel driveway to the cemetery. But we don’t see the truck exiting.”

  “That’s probably because the gravel driveway makes a meandering path through the cemetery and loops back out on the opposite side of the church to the county road. The truck could have exited on that side, and we wouldn’t see it on camera again.”

  “So, someone can enter or exit coming in on the opposite area, and there is no security camera there, correct?”

  “That’s right. We got a limited budget. We chose to install one camera pointed to the southwest side, encompassing the parking area, the whole left side of the building.”

  Bradford looked at the date and time on the video, marked it down on his notepad and continued watching. As he was about to stand, he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He looked down at the screen and saw a second vehicle. He watched it for a few seconds as it entered the gravel road and slowly wound through the property and out of the frame of the camera. He fast-forwarded the video, but the vehicle never emerged.

  Reverend Hayes ran his tongue on the inside of his cheek, removing and cleaning his bifocals with a tissue. “Detective, you figure that whoever was driving that truck was the one who killed and buried that young woman?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m figuring. Take a look at this.” Bradford replayed the video. “Any members of your congregation drive a red Cadillac Escalade?”

  The minister watched the image of the Cadillac moving through the church property. He said, “Now, I might remember a car like that. But, to the best of my recollection, I have not seen that car in the lot Sunday mornings or any other time, for that matter. The driver may be lost, we get people using the drive to turn around and head back out to the county road. Sometimes, we get people who like to visit old cemeteries. I’m told ours is in the top ten oldest in Mississippi. You’d be surprised at how some folks enjoy strolling through old cemeteries, reading the headstones and taking pictures. It’s a hobby for some people. I heard there is a website for such a thing.”

  “That Cadillac came in one way, like the truck, and apparently exited out the opposite side toward the highway. Whoever was driving the car, unless he or she had very poor vision, must have seen the girl’s arm sticking up from that shallow gravesite.”

  “Sometimes people don’t see much unless you point it out to them. Sort of like leading a horse to water.”

  “That grave with the exposed arm was hard to miss. I think that’s one of the reasons the killer chose to bury her there. He wanted people to see it.”

  “Well,” said Reverend Hayes, putting his bifocals back on his nose. “I’m not a detective, but that could mean the fella in the Cadillac might have been the one who did it.”

  • • •

  Bradford walked with Elizabeth back to her car, the investigation winding down in the cemetery. He told her what he’d seen on the video and added, “I recognized the pickup truck as the same one that was parked in Boyd Baxter’s yard in front of his trailer. Although, on the video, I couldn’t see the front of the truck, I’d bet it had a plate that read: NO FEAR - 1 Peter 3:14.”

  Elizabeth pushed a strand of hair behind her left ear and said, “That Cadillac you mentioned …” She cut her eyes to the media who were now converging near the shallow grave, still kept at bay with the second yellow police line tape. “The Cadillac is intriguing. You said the driver entered the property, according to the time stamp on the video, about an hour after the pickup truck. Why didn’t he or she call 9-1-1? Why did Al Benson, the gravedigger, have to be the one to do it hours later?”

  “Who knows why people do what they do. But, in this business, I’ve come to know that every criminal lies. People are funny, and I don’t mean the humorous sort of funny. It’s possible the driver in the Cadillac did see the arm sticking up out of the grave and simply panicked, driving out the opposite exit of the church property and vanishing.”

  Elizabeth paused, choosing her words carefully. “What if Wanda’s body was in the trunk of that car? What if the Cadillac driver is
the killer?”

  “That’s a possibility, but the preponderance of physical and circumstantial evidence is pointing toward one man, a guy who idolizes a maniac who was responsible for the deaths of millions. We know what Boyd Baxter said to Wanda in the restaurant. We have security video of his truck entering the cemetery. We will have the tire tread molds that I guarantee you will match his tires, and we have a dead body. That’s enough to take to any grand jury.”

  Elizabeth got her car keys from her purse and unlocked her car. She turned to Bradford and asked, “What do you do next?”

  “I’m going to compare notes with Detective Lee and the other two investigators. I want to hear if anything more was found by the CSI techs. We’ll have a team converging on Baxter’s house to get tire tread comparisons. If they match, he’ll be arrested for first degree murder.”

  “Murder? As in singular? How about the murders of Olivia and Brian?”

  “I’m hoping that once we get Baxter in the station and in one of our interrogation rooms, he’ll come clean and admit to those as well—we’ll try to cut a deal with his attorney. At that point, all any defense attorney for him can do is try to keep Baxter off death row. And I’ll do everything I can to keep that from happening.”

  “Mike, the voice on the recording you pulled from Olivia’s phone … I know it’s more of a whisper and not that easy to hear, but does it sound like Boyd Baxter?”

  “Unknown to Baxter, when Bill Lee and I were questioning him in his house, I recorded some of it. I had a speech pathologist listen and analyze both. She said there are similarities, but it’s inconclusive due to the poor quality on Olivia’s phone. I’ll have the FBI lab techs do an analysis.” He took a deep breath and watched the news media half circle around the crime scene tape. “Every one of those reporters is itching to learn the identity of the victim. My next stop will be to Wanda Donnelly’s home. Like I said, it’s the hardest part of the job. I’ll call you.”

  Elizabeth nodded, the cackle of a mockingbird above her in one of the oaks. She said, “There’s something I just remembered that might help explain the Cadillac.”

  “What’s that, Elizabeth?”

  “Remember the conversation I told you about when Wanda was afraid that night she thought someone was watching her house? She was alone with her kids.”

  “I remember.”

  “She said the person in the parked vehicle on the road overlooking her farm was in a car. She said car, not a truck. Baxter drives a truck. Does he own a car, too?”

  Bradford said nothing. The mockingbird’s chortle sounding like the iconic laugh from a comic book character—the Joker.

  FORTY-ONE

  Brandon Donnelly was drying the dishes when he heard the knock on his front door. He set one dish down on the kitchen counter and walked to the door, the noise of the television on in another room. He heard his daughter say, “Daddy, somebody’s at the door.”

  “I’ll get it,” Brandon said, wiping his hands on a white towel. He peered through one of the glass panels on the door. Two cars in his dirt driveway. One was a police cruiser, the other looked like a dark Chevy Caprice, four door sedan. A tall man in a sports coat and two deputies were standing right outside.

  Brandon opened the front door, his eyes filled with hope and slight suspicion, searching the faces of the three men just beyond the screened door. He knew what the detective was about to tell him. Brandon stepped outside and said, “I hope y’all come here to give my kids and I some good news about their mama.”

  “Mr. Donnelly, I’m Detective Mike Bradford. Sir, I wish to God I had good news to tell you, but I don’t. We found a body today. Unfortunately, the medical examiner has a positive ID, and it is Wanda. I am so sorry to have to tell you this, sir.”

  Brandon gripped the wrought iron railing next to the brick steps. His knees weak. His heart pounding, stomach burning. His eyes welled with tears, wiping one eye with the back of his hand. His lower lip trembled. His thoughts raced—not able to ask a question. Brandon lowered himself, sitting on the top step. He looked at Detective Bradford and the somber faces of the two deputies. He could tell each man was genuinely sorry to be standing in front of his home on a cool evening with the worst news he’d ever heard in his life.

  He took a deep breath, rested his wrist on his knees, hands trembling. “Y’all are sure it’s my wife?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradford said. “The preliminary results of the autopsy did confirm it was Wanda. Also, both Dr. Elizabeth Monroe and I knew her from the Front Porch Café, and we were able to identify her body at the scene.

  “Where is she right now?”

  “At the county morgue.”

  “I want to see her. I need to talk to her. I got some things to tell her.”

  “Mr. Donnelly,” Bradford said, his voice soft. “I know that’s what you want to do in your heart. But your wife is gone, sir. I was fortunate enough to have met her at the restaurant. She was very much a fine person, and I could tell she loved her family. I suspect you could talk with her better simply by looking up at the heavens. In a capital murder case like this one, we have to complete the autopsy to determine the exact cause of death. After that, your wife’s body will be released to whatever funeral home you want, sir. But right now, it is not the time for you to go down there. Okay?”

  Donnelly nodded, tears dripping down his cheeks.

  “Daddy,” said a little girl opening the door. A boy stood next to her. She saw her father through the screened door sitting on the steps. She heard one of his sobs. “Daddy, why are you crying? Who are those men?”

  • • •

  Boyd Baxter parked in front of his trailer and lifted a chainsaw from the back of his pickup truck. He slammed the tailgate and walked over to the pit bull on a long chain. He set the chainsaw down and petted his dog. “How was your day today, Rocky?” The dog wagged its tail and barked. “Anybody come on our property while I was gone? If they did, I hope you ran them off.”

  Baxter picked up the chainsaw and started walking toward a locked storage shed when he heard cars coming down his gravel driveway. He stopped and watched as two sheriff’s deputy cruisers and a white van approached his truck and parked. The van had lettering on both side panels that read: CSI – Forrest County Sheriff’s Department.

  Two deputies got out of each car. A large man got out of the CSI van. He wore jeans and polo shirt that had the letters CSI on the back. All of the men watched the pit bull, the big dog uttering a low growl in the back of its throat, ears flat back, and fur sticking up down the center of its back. The deputies approached, keeping their distance from the pit bull, all four men watching Baxter and the chainsaw.

  “Boyd Baxter,” the senior deputy said.

  “You know my name. Now, you mind tellin’ me why y’all come on my property?”

  The deputy opened an envelope he was carrying. “This here is a warrant to search and impound your pickup.”

  “Why? I ain’t done nothin’ but go to work every mornin’ to earn an honest day’s pay. You impound my truck, you take away my paycheck. I work as a tree trimmer. That truck is like this chainsaw, a tool for me. What right y’all think you got comin’ in here to remove that from me?”

  “This warrant gives us that right. Your truck shouldn’t be out of commission long. Maybe half a day if it’s clean.”

  “What do you think it is that I supposedly did? What crime did I allegedly commit?”

  “The detectives will speak to you about that. In addition to taking your truck, we need you to come with us to the sheriff’s office for questioning.”

  Baxter gripped the chainsaw and took two steps forward, the dog barking. One tall deputy placed his hand over the grip of his holstered pistol and said, “That’s far enough. Why don’t you just set the chainsaw down and come with us?”

  “I could ask you why don’t y’all just kiss my ass, but I’m too much of a respectful person to do that.” He looked over at his dog and said, “Rocky, what do you thi
nk, boy?” The dog growled. Baxter grinned, looked at the deputies and said, “You got a warrant to search and impound my truck, fine. But you don’t have one for me. So, unless you fellas got an arrest warrant for me, last time I checked … private property was just that … private. You have to drive by three signs on my land with that no tresspassin’ message posted. Now, turn around and get the hell off my property.”

  The tallest deputy sneered. “We’ll be back within the hour, and you’re coming with us … dead or alive. You pick.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Right before the eleven o’clock news, Father Gregory MacGrath poured a glass of red wine, his thoughts returning to the most horrific confession he’d ever heard. ‘I will kill again, and you Father MacGrath, because of the holy sacrament of the confessional, can do nothing about it. I enjoy the therapy of the confession. I share my burden and feel a release.’

  He stood in his kitchen for a moment, rubbing his temples, head aching. He picked up his glass and walked into his living room. He sat alone in an overstuffed chair, a book about the history of World War II on the small table next to him. In a corner, an antique clock ticked, its golden pendulum the only movement in the quiet room.

  Father MacGrath picked up a TV remote from the table and hit the power button. The television mounted to the wall near the corner of the room came on, a news broadcast underway. An anchorman said, “We have breaking news at this hour. Forrest County Sheriff’s detectives are investigating a gruesome murder near an historic old church in the eastern section of the county.” He turned up the sound. The news anchorman said, “Channel Seven’s Nicole Miller has been on the scene all day and has more. Nicole?”