by Tom Lowe
“Don’t need one,” Bradford said, face deadpan.
Detective Bill Lee said, “Boyd, we can work with you and the district attorney to lighten your sentence. Make sure the state of Mississippi doesn’t execute you, but you have to meet us half way. You need to work with us. What I’d like to know is why did you kill Wanda Donnelly? Was it the same reason that drove you to kill Brian Woods and Olivia Curtis?”
Baxter shifted his gaze from Bradford to Lee and said, “What if Wanda Donnelly was suggesting sexual promiscuity to me? What if she, the hard-workin’ waitress that she appeared to be … what if she unburdened her soul to me after I started comin’ in that restaurant? Her husband was gone more often than he was home. Wanda was lonely. Lonely women like men who’ll listen with their heart and not be judgmental. You fellas ever experience that … or are you always so busy talkin’ you forgot how to listen to what a woman really wants?”
“How would you know that Wanda’s husband was often on the road, Boyd?” asked Bradford, “You’d have to be stalking her house to know that.”
“Could be she told me. You’d be surprised what some girls will tell you if you listen well and tip better.” He grinned, looked at the small splinter under his fingernail, shifting his eyes back to Lee. “Ain’t no way on God’s green earth you boys are gonna get me to confess to crimes I didn’t commit. So, there is no deal to be reached on this here table today. I guess I’m free to go in the land of the free and the home of the brave.” He started to stand.
“Sit down,” Bradford said. “You know, Boyd, I mentioned that everything revolves around you, that the world is at your whim. Your truck just didn’t revolve through New Shepherd Cemetery, coming in the entrance and going out the exit. It stopped twice. The first time was in front of the spot where you buried Wanda’s body. The second time was when you put flowers on your grandmother’s grave. You know how we can tell, Boyd?”
Baxter said nothing. Pokerfaced.
Bradford continued. “We can tell because of the tire tread that matched the tread on your truck. They’re sort of like the soles on a pair of boots or tennis shoes—each one leaves its own unique impression in the soil. We can see wear and tear on the tires, tread patterns designed by the manufacturer. And, more importantly, we can tell the exact spot where a vehicle stops because those impressions in the soft soil are different from a moving tire. They’re wider. Little deeper. That’s where we took the casts that matched your truck. Not only did you stop in front of the spot where we found Wanda … you took her body from the bed of your truck. You dug a shallow grave and buried her right there. We have surveillance video from the church camera. You’re there, plain as day.”
“Bull shit,” said Baxter in a calm voice.
Detective Lee said, “Want some water, Boyd? Maybe a cup of coffee or a Coke?”
Baxter cut his eyes over to Lee and said, “Is this the part where you bring in the liquid refreshments because you believe my throat’s gone dry listening to this nonsense?”
Bradford smiled and said, “Boyd, the day Detective Lee and I were in your home, when we found your Nazi shrine, you enjoyed quoting a passage from Leviticus that you said Hitler followed by decrees for his dream of an Aryan nation.” Bradford glanced at his notes. “You quoted from Leviticus and said … do not mate different kinds of animals. And do not plant your field with two kinds of seed.”
Baxter smirked. “That’s straight from the Bible. Not my words or Hitler’s, but God’s words, Detective.”
“The last time you spoke to Wanda Donnelly in the restaurant, she said you quoted from Leviticus then as well. You didn’t like the rose tattoo she had on her wrist and you told her the Bible says … you shall not make any cuttings in your flesh or tattoo marks on you. After that, you said her tattoo was a scarlet letter, a sign of adultery. And then, days later, after you killed Wanda, you buried her body with the arm and tattooed wrist protruding from the grave. Was it because, in your mind, the wrist was cursed and not fit for burial? Was that it, Boyd … or were you positioning the hand to be reaching to the heavens in an act of seeking forgiveness and atonement for sins here on earth? Why don’t you just tell us?”
“Why don’t you just fuck off.”
“You like to go around quoting Bible verses. The one that says you shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death … where’d you find that in the Bible? Doesn’t matter, Boyd. We know you speak a little German … but what I want to know is how’s your Latin?”
Baxter grinned, lowered his voice to a whisper, comparable to the voice recorded the night Brian and Oliva were killed. “Inspector Bradford, this is the point in the little chat where I exercise my rights and request an attorney.”
Bradford leaned forward and said, “Boyd Baxter, you’re under arrest for the murder of Wanda Donnelly. You have the right to remain silent. You have, as you requested, a right to a lawyer. And, let us remind you that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Now turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
“Before I turn around, I want to look at those baboons behind the glass.” He pointed to the one-way glass panels. “Who we got in there? Maybe a few members of the sheriff’s elite force sittin’ back, scratchin’ your balls and watchin’ this bullshit like it’s some kind of Roman spectator sport.”
Detective Lee said, “Turn around, Boyd.”
“Go on, assholes! Send in the lions! They can’t hurt me. I’m greater than Richard the Lionhearted. And vengeance will be mine!” He quickly picked up a chair and threw it against the glass, shattering one large pane.
Shards of glass flew into Elizabeth’s lap and hair. The sheriff and deputy sheriff jumped up, pieces of glass falling from their clothes, blood trickling down the sheriff’s forehead.
Bradford and Lee wrestled Baxter to the floor, pinning him down. As they cuffed him, his right cheek was pressed hard against the tile floor. He looked wide-eyed through the broken glass at Elizabeth and shouted, “I recognize you! The county shrink! Analyze this, bitch. In a silent pantomime, like a chilling stage scene from a Greek tragedy, Baxter mouthed the words, “I love you.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Over the weekend, the sheriff’s department would only acknowledge that an arrest had been made. As promised, on Monday morning at 10:00 a.m., a news conference was called. Sheriff Dawson stood behind a gooseneck microphone mounted on a wooden podium in a conference room designed to hold fifty people. An inch-wide, flesh-colored bandage covering the six stiches sewn into Dawson’s forehead on Friday evening stood out.
There were five rows of plastic chairs filled with news media and a few employees from the district attorney’s office. The reporters arriving late stood along the back wall near the TV cameras on tripods. Phones placed on silence were vibrating and buzzing in pockets and purses. Members of the news media, including some from outside the local area, packed the room.
To both sides of the sheriff were his highest-ranking staff, the chief deputy sheriff to Dawson’s left, the district attorney—a gangly man in a dark suit—to the sheriff’s right. Four detectives, including Mike Bradford and Bill Lee were behind the sheriff next to an American flag on a stand.
Elizabeth Monroe sat in the back row, close to the left corner.
The sheriff’s community relations director, a blonde woman in her late twenties, stood near the entrance door, iPad in one hand. She gave the sheriff the thumbs-up signal. He nodded, looked at the reporters, cleared his throat and began. “Good morning everyone. I’m pleased to announce we have made an arrest for the murder of Wanda Donnelly. The man arrested is identified as Boyd Baxter. Detectives Mike Bradford and Bill Lee brought Mr. Baxter in for questioning on Friday evening. After that, with the physical evidence our CSI department gathered at the scene, we made the arrest. We guarantee you that we also will solve the murders of Brian Woods and Olivia Curtis soon as this has been a dark cloud over our county these last few weeks. We are looking into any possible
links between Wanda Donnelly’s murder and the murders of Woods and Curtis, and we will not rest until these crimes are solved. Baxter will now go through his first appearance in court.”
A tall reporter in a navy-blue sports coat raised his hand. The sheriff ignored him and glanced over to the prosecutor standing near the podium and said, “The district attorney’s office has filed a capital murder charge against Mr. Baxter. DA Roland Hendrix will speak with y’all in just a minute. I want to take a second to acknowledge the extraordinary investigative work that was done by this department to sift through the evidence, and to find and apprehend the suspect as quickly as they did. Detectives Bradford and Lee will be available for interviews as will I after the press conference. While I’m standin’ up here, if you have a few questions, now you can feel free to ask.”
The same male reporter in the blue sports coat, standing next to a cameraman with the TV camera on his shoulder, asked, “Sheriff Dawson. Where is Boyd Baxter now? When’s his first court appearance?”
“Baxter’s being held here at the county jail. His first appearance is scheduled for tomorrow morning—Tuesday.”
“Do you know if Baxter retained a defense attorney?” another reporter asked.
“It is my understanding that he has, yes.”
A female reporter sitting in the front row asked, “Sheriff Dawson, you mentioned evidence. Do you believe Boyd Baxter is a serial killer and responsible for the deaths of Olivia Curtis and Brian Woods, too? What did your team find?”
“There are similarities in the murders that may lead us to only one killer—numerous bits and pieces, added all up, present a whole and frightening picture. We can’t get into every piece of evidence as we do not want to compromise the investigation. Regarding the arrest, however, tire tread molds cast at the crime scene in the cemetery where Wanda Donnelly’s body was found placed Baxter’s truck at her make-shift grave site. We also have surveillance video of his truck entering the property.”
A balding, middle-aged newspaper reporter raised his hand. The sheriff gestured to him. “Sheriff Dawson, there’s got to be more information you can share—what is connecting all three of these murders together?”
“A number of things have us leaning in that direction. I’ll ask Detective Bradford if there’s anything else he can share at this time.” He looked back at Bradford and nodded.
Elizabeth watched Bradford step up to the microphone. He looked at the reporter and said, “The suspect fits the psychological profile. He is a psychopath who enjoys leaving a shocking statement at the crime scenes … or at least where the bodies are found. The common denominator is that he likes to put them on display, to pose them for the dramatic effect they’ll have on whomever finds the corpses. In the case of Olivia Curtis, he made her strip before killing her and hung her naked. He shot Brian Woods in the head and left a small wooden cross clasped in his hands. The suspect buried Wanda Donnelly, as you all know, with her arm sticking out of the grave—apparently for a morbid display.”
“So, you think Baxter has this religious thing … a mental thing, maybe some kind of hate for what he might perceive as promiscuity and the women are to blame?” a blonde reporter in the third row asked.
“That’s a possible theory, but speculation at this point. There are other things that I won’t get into here, but, as Sheriff Dawson said … they all add up to a scary picture.” He nodded, and the sheriff moved back in front of the microphone.
“The good thing … ” said Dawson, both of his large hands on either side of the podium. “The good thing right now is that the residents of Forrest County are a lot safer than they were twenty-four hours ago. And, after Baxter’s preliminary hearing, we’ll ask that bond be denied due to the circumstances and folks can go on about their lives without the fear of a possible serial killer abducting and killing them.
• • •
In the late afternoon, when an unexpected rain shower had finally ended and the pewter sky washed out the heavens, Elizabeth left her office and walked toward the faculty parking lot. There were less than a dozen cars remaining. She stepped around a drainage ditch flowing with the fast gurgle of water into a small settling pond where frogs chanted a chorus of thanks to the thunderstorm. The air was cooler and felt cleansed from the storm.
Elizabeth got in her car and drove to the Front Porch Café to grab a quick dinner before having to return to the university to teach her evening class. Usually, she headed home a little earlier on Monday’s for left-overs, but her days lately had been so sporadic, she hadn’t had time to prepare many home-cooked meals for herself.
As she drove down the two-lane road, Elizabeth thought about the sheriff’s news conference, replaying Boyd Baxter’s response and reactions to the detectives’ questions, and she couldn’t help thinking about the bold look in Baxter’s eyes as he was pinned to the floor, looking through the shattered glass and directly at her. The words he silently mouthed … ‘I love you.’
Elizabeth felt her pulse jump as she parked. Her phone buzzed. She lifted it from the console. Mike Bradford calling. He said, “Hi, what a day. I didn’t get a chance to speak with you after the sheriff’s news conference. Anyway, I think we should celebrate. Boyd Baxter is sitting in a county jail cell, and your profile helped put him there.”
Elizabeth half smiled, getting her purse off the adjacent seat, locking the car door, and walking toward the restaurant. She said, “It was the evidence, Mike. The profile I came up with could probably and, unfortunately, fit a few people in Forrest County and a lot more across the state. That doesn’t make them killers … but the potential is there.”
Bradford was driving. “How about a celebration drink? Just the two of us. I think we’ve both earned it. Or better yet, let me treat you to dinner at the Cellar Restaurant. It’s one of your favorites and the closest thing we have in Hattiesburg to the Four Seasons in New York.”
“I can’t, but thanks—I teach my grad class tonight. I’m walking up to the Front Porch Café for a quick meal before I have to get back to the university. I can order something for you, too, if you’d like to join me.”
“Maybe you and I can go out tomorrow night to celebrate.”
“That sounds good, but I think the celebration part might be a little premature.”
“Why, Elizabeth? I’m pretty sure Baxter’s our guy.”
“Maybe. If you want to join me at the Front Porch, I’ll tell you why he might not be who you think he is?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
FORTY-NINE
Elizabeth was looking over the menu when Bradford entered. He smiled and made his way toward the table just as Martha Black spotted him. She was behind the counter counting change back to a customer, a middle-aged woman with her husband. Martha smiled, handing them a to-go box and said, “The shrimp and grits will be good for y’all’s breakfast tomorrow. Just heat it in a cast iron skillet with a little butter. When you’re done, put a fried egg or two on top. Y’all will think you done died and gone to heaven.”
“Sounds good,” said the man, taking the box and shuffling with it across the restaurant to the door, his wife stopping to chat with a couple just entering.
Martha waved toward Elizabeth’s table, moistened her lips and walked to greet them. She said, “Liz, you and this handsome detective make a great team when it comes to catchin’ criminals.” She smiled at Bradford and said, “Before you sit down, can I give you a hug. All day long, the TV news has been broadcastin’ updates and whatnot from that news conference of that guy y’all caught.” She stepped over to Bradford and hugged him. Then she looked at Elizabeth and said, “Whatever you are ordering tonight, it’s on the house. That’s a small token of our sincere appreciation we all have for you. I was on the phone speakin’ with Wanda’s husband, Brandon. He’s been in tears most of the day. And, Elizabeth, he’s singing your praises almost like you were a detective.”
Bradford sat and said, “She’s better than a regular ol’ sleuth lik
e me. She’s a mind hunter. That’s where Elizabeth starts, because that’s where the crime begins—in the criminal mind. We couldn’t have done it without her. I have a gut feeling she’s not done with this case.”
Elizabeth said nothing. Martha said, “Oh, really? What could Liz possibly do next? Y’all got this killer locked up. We’re hoping the judge sets bail so high that there’s no way he or any of his family can afford it. Boyd Baxter’s daddy used to run with the Dixie Mafia on the Gulf coast, mostly out of Biloxi. He died in prison. The word, for years, was he stashed away a lot of money. Maybe Boyd has access to it.”
Bradford nodded and said, “I believe he’s got more money than he’d earn trimming trees. He hired one of the top lawyers in the city, Harold Conner. And, my guess, since the physical evidence is strong, Conner will do whatever legal maneuvering he can to keep Baxter off death row. Baxter’s lawyer might even play the insanity card.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Martha said, touching her lips with two fingers, looking over her right shoulder. “Do you mean that, if he pleads insanity, there could be no murder trial? That would be horrible!”
“I’d suspect that Conner would say that, since Wanda’s murder was planned in advance, very much premeditated, his client is a sick man. So sick in fact, he’s mentally incompetent to stand trial by reason of insanity; and that he, Boyd Baxter, ought to be shipped off to an institution for the criminally insane to live out the rest of his days on thorazine, staring at shadows on the wall.”
“Dear God, Detective Bradford, I hope not,” Martha said. She looked at Elizabeth. “You reckon it’ll come to somethin’ like that or maybe they’ll go on and have a regular full-blown murder trial? The courthouse will be packed, I can assure you of that. I might even give some of my employees the time off to go sit in the courtroom behind Brandon Donnelly and his family to show their support. What do you think, Liz? Will there be a murder trial?”