by Tom Lowe
“At this point, I’m not certain. But let’s get through the court appearance first. However, I do know that the insanity defense is very rare. The stats, nationwide, are about one percent of defendants plead guilty by reason of insanity … and, of those, only about 25 percent result in acquittals. So, a lawyer, unless his client has a well-documented history of mental illness, would be crazy to go that route. He’d be better off with another strategy to keep his client off death row. Harold Conner is very clever—he’ll come up with something good for Baxter’s defense, and we’ll all shake our heads.”
“Well, honey … if you wind up bein’ the psychologist who has to give that guy an examination to determine his degree of insanity, I hope you’ll be able to see through any of his shenanigans.” She paused and clasped her hands together. “Well, look at me, just goin’ on and on about all of this. Y’all came here to eat. I’ll send Samantha to your table.”
Elizabeth said, “To start with tonight, I need some coffee, thanks.”
“Absolutely. Detective Bradford, coffee for you, too?’
“I think I’ll have a glass of your sweet tea, which I believe is the best in Forrest County. Maybe all of the South.”
“Aren’t you the sweet one for saying that about my tea. Comin’ right up. And you folks remember, it doesn’t matter if you’re gettin’ it to go or your eatin’ right here. The meals today for you two are on the house, okay?”
“Okay,” Liz said. “Thanks.”
Bradford smiled and said, “Thank you. We’ll dine in, but Liz has a class to teach tonight.” Martha left, and Bradford sat, turning to Elizabeth. “On the phone, you mentioned that Boyd Baxter might not be who we think he is. What do you mean?”
Elizabeth started to answer as a waitress brought a steaming cup of coffee and a glass of sweet tea with ice and a lemon wedge floating just under the surface. “How you two doin’ today?” the server asked. “Who gets the coffee, and who gets the tea?”
“Coffee over here,” Elizabeth said. “Black is fine.”
The woman smiled and said, “Martha told me y’all may be in a hurry on account Dr. Monroe has somewhere else to go tonight. Do you know what it is you want?”
“Not yet. I’m okay on time—maybe you can give us ten minutes or so.”
“No problem. I’ll check back in a bit.” She turned and left the table.
Elizabeth sipped her coffee and said, “Mike, I’m not saying that Boyd Baxter isn’t the killer. I simply have reservations … though, I could be wrong.”
“What’s your hesitancy? I thought he fit your profile to a T.”
“The profile, as you know, is a guide at best. Based on evidence, the type of crimes and the way they’re carried out, we can develop a profile of personality traits, gender, social status, attributes and deficiencies we think the killer will have. To our credit, with today’s database and case study comparisons at our fingertips, we can get very close in accuracies.”
“And, when you peel back the layers, Baxter is a dead ringer for your profile.”
“If I am asked to do a mental competency exam on Baxter, I’ll have a much better perspective. But there’s something about him that is slightly askew in this case.”
Bradford sipped his tea and then asked, “Can you be a little more specific? Why, now, are you leaning in that direction?”
“It was the look in Baxter’s eyes when you were describing Wanda’s arm and hand sticking out of the grave.”
“What about it?”
“He seemed confused. Almost a slight form of true surprise when you were describing what you found. There wasn’t revulsion in the sense that a normal person would have when told that kind of news … especially when that person, like Boyd Baxter, knew the deceased. Baxter obviously knew Wanda, and it was apparent that he seemed surprised at the details of your story.”
“I didn’t pick-up on that. He just seemed to sit there and stare at me, hardly blinking those wild eyes of his.”
“When you suggested that Baxter positioned Wanda’s hand in such a way that she appeared to be reaching to the heavens in an act of seeking forgiveness and atonement for sins here on earth … I saw Baxter close his eyes for about three seconds. He made a dry swallow before looking at you again.”
“Elizabeth, that might simply mean I drove a nail into his psyche. He then knew that we had figured out his game. The blood circled around Olivia’s tattoo, and then the way Wanda’s tattooed hand was positioned. It struck a nerve with Baxter.”
“It’s hard to strike a nerve with a psychopath. They have no nerves connected to a nonexistent conscience. What I think you did was give him news that resonated with whatever religious beliefs he harbors, and that was the cause of that particular reaction. If that’s the case, and if it’s accurate … what you told Baxter was the first time he’d heard what really happened to Wanda.”
“Wait a minute, Elizabeth. How about the phrase in Latin he likes to use, and probably spouted off to Wanda before he killed her … you shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death? The religious overtones that Baxter’s throwing out, quotes from Leviticus, and God knows where else from the Bible … it all fits right in with his religious psychosis and what he does to his victims. Brian Woods had the cross placed in his hands like he was in a casket—such a contradiction to the violence of the scene. Baxter thinks he’s on speed-dial to God and can do any damn thing he wants to people because he’s better than them. How mentally screwed up is that?”
“I agree with you, Mike. There’s a lot of things about Baxter that seem off-kilter. However, I know what I saw, and I don’t believe he was acting in that three-second moment.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Maybe … but what if I’m right?”
“Then we’re about to have one helluva big murder trial, one that will attract news media from all over the place … and we have the wrong guy. I don’t want to think in those terms until proven otherwise.”
“Psychology is part science and part going with your gut when the science isn’t there.”
“What are you saying?”
“Something in my gut is churning. I felt it when I saw his reaction to your description of Wanda’s gravesite … and I felt it when Baxter looked through that shattered, one-way glass directly at me.”
“What do you mean?”
“As you and Detective Lee were holding Baxter down, handcuffing him … after he shouted that he knew me … called me a shrink and a bitch. He stared at me as his face, head and cheek were being held to the floor and mouthed three words silently to me.”
What words?
“He mouthed … I love you.”
“Well, that’s just great. If you do wind up conducting a mental competency exam on Boyd Baxter, that’s going to make for a weird and interesting session. Maybe it’s one you can eventually share with students in your class.”
FIFTY
It was a day that Father Gregory MacGrath used to look forward to seeing. Not now. For three decades, a few times a week, starting on a Monday, Father MacGrath listened to confessions at St. Patrick’s. It was always time well spent. He had an opportunity to listen to people open their hearts and confess their sins. More importantly, he had the esteemed honor to help them seek salvation in the arms of Jesus Christ.
There was no greater honor.
It was what God put him on earth to do.
But that had changed. And, it changed so abruptly it felt like a high-speed train had derailed and jackknifed across the tracks of his life and those of his parishioners. Since the chilling confession Father MacGrath heard weeks ago, he was no longer looking forward to time in the confessional booth on Monday mornings and later in the afternoon. He had heard three confessions earlier today, two women and one man. Only one was scheduled for this afternoon.
Father MacGrath sat on his side of the confessional compartment and waited, using his phone to check his hospital visit itinerary for the following day. T
he door to the booth adjacent to him opened and then closed. After less than twenty seconds, a woman’s voice said, “Bless me Father … for I have sinned.” There was a sniffle and a deep sigh.
“When was your last confession?”
“It’s been six months.”
“Are the sins venal or mortal?”
“Venal, Father. I haven’t been honest with my husband. I have strayed from the vows of our marriage, and I am so truly sorry. He wants a divorce, and I pray deeply that I can keep our family together. We have two children. I know the horrible error of my ways, and I seek God’s forgiveness.”
“You wish absolution and penance for your sins?”
“Yes. Very much. I will never allow it to happen again. It was a weak point in my life. I was overwhelmed with things. I am so sorry.”
“You are human and always loved in the eyes of our Lord. Are you prepared to say contrition?’
“Yes. Lord, I am sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love.”
Father MacGrath made the sign of the cross. “May our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you, and by His authority, I absolve you from every bond of excommunication, so far as my power allows and your needs require. Thereupon, I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The woman’s voice choked as she silently wept. After a few seconds, she said, “Thank you, Father, may the Lord be with you.”
“And you,” Father MacGrath said, looking down at an age spot on the back of his hand. He heard the door open and the woman leave. He checked the time on his phone and reached for the door handle.
There was a sound.
The door closed in the booth next to him. Through the lattice work, Father MacGrath could see the silhouette of a man. There was the smell of the same cologne. The same profile, and now the same voice.
He had returned.
“Bless me Father … for I have sinned.”
Father MacGrath felt his pulse quicken. “When was your last confession?”
“Has your memory failed you, Father? It was with you, and not so long ago. Now, I’m back.”
“What do you want?”
“Want? Nothing, really. I do seek absolution from my mortal sins. It gives me a fresh start, not unlike a snake shedding its old skin.”
Father MacGrath took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Confession of one’s sins is to be taken seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“It is not to be made a mockery. Confession only works in absolution of sins when the sinner is sincere and honest in seeking the sacrament of redemption and offers sincere penance in the eyes of Jesus Christ.”
“Father, are you denying me my right to confess and ask for absolution and forgiveness from our Lord? Under the code of cannon laws of the Holy Catholic Church, you do not have that authority to deny me the sacrament.”
“In most cases, you are accurate. However, since I am mortal, a mere human with the imperfections of mortality, I am, within the prerogative of the canon code, under no obligation to offer you holy sacrament if I believe you are insincere in seeking it. And this is what I believe. As I suggested to you last time, you should go to the authorities and seek assistance from psychologists and others trained to help.”
“You think I’m insane, don’t you, Father?”
“That is not for me to judge.”
“But you already have judged.”
“Our time is up. Please leave.”
“You have no right … you … judgmental old fool.”
Father MacGrath said nothing. He pressed the record button on his phone and held it near the lattice work.
“Listen to this confession, Father. I have taken three more precious lives. And I must confess that I will take another soon. And after that, yet another. I must do my part. That hard lesson was earned here … what I have become was formed here. I was just one of the many altar boys, but I was Father Vogel’s favorite. You can’t go to the police because you didn’t go all those years ago. To reveal that today, would reveal your roll in the shrouding of crimes. In confession, you absolve sin … but you can’t hide from the sins, Father … when you did nothing to prevent them. And now you, Father, cannot break the holy seal of sacrament under the code of canon law. I feel a sense of redemption. I feel forgiven in His eyes because I follow His direction. I am born again!”
Father MacGrath heard the door to the adjacent booth open. The sound of the man running by the long rows of pews. The priest stopped the audio recording, opened the door and stepped from the confessional booth. He looked at the far end of the church, the front doors wide open, white hot sunshine bright at the entrance.
He glanced down at his phone. Father MacGrath did something he never believed he was capable of doing—recording the voice of a parishioner during a confession. He felt somehow dirty. Unclean. Unholy. As if he had violated the sacred trust of the Catholic Church and of God. Now that he had the recording, what must he do with it? What should I do? What can I do?
He walked from the booth to the front pew. He sat down and looked up at the large, sunlit, stained-glass windows, the image of Jesus in a green field with three of his disciples. The old priest stared into the face of Christ and then looked at a life-sized statue of Mary, positioned to the right of the stained-glass, the light casting her face in partial shadow.
Father MacGrath made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name … thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
He looked down at the phone in his hand—the voice of evil captured inside. He didn’t want to share what he’d heard because it violated the sanctified faith and belief of canon law—the sacrament. But he felt as if he held Pandora’s box in his hands—misery and sin captured on a digital file. Hope was in there, too. A double-edge sword that could cut deep and in both ways.
FIFTY-ONE
Father MacGrath sat in Bishop Maurice Mann’s archdiocese office, a polished cherry wood table between them where two steaming cups of herbal tea in fine china rested on top of coasters that had the symbol of a fish embedded in the center. The office was filled with books, many on the subject of the Catholic liturgy. Dozens of framed photographs hung on the walls, including one of Bishop Mann standing next to the Pope inside the Vatican, which immediately caught one’s eye as it was the dominating portrait in both size and contrast.
Bishop Mann, twenty years younger than Father MacGrath, sipped his tea. He had compassionate, blue eyes, fleshy pink cheeks and wiry eyebrows that made pronounced arches above his eyes. He said, “So, tell me more about this dilemma.”
Father MacGrath leaned forward in his chair. “In all my years hearing confessions and offering absolution, I’ve never heard this. One of my parishioners came and confessed to murders he said he had committed. He seeks God’s forgivingness, but says he feels driven to kill again.”
“That’s is horrible … very sad. Do you know if what he said is indeed true?”
“He never named any one specifically. However, in the news, I read and saw that police found the bodies of two young people. One was a graduate from Southern Mississippi and the other had just transferred in to complete her last two years of college. Their families are all members of St. Patrick’s. It’s devastating.”
“Have you spoken to them?”
“Yes, in a deep, consolatory capacity, with prayer and guidance from our Lord.”
Bishop Mann sipped his tea, set the cup back on the coaster, looked at the picture of him and the Pope, and lowered his eyes back to Father MacGrath. “What did you say after your heard this?”
“I suggested that, as an option, we could go i
n my office and discuss his situation. Another option was for him to speak to authorities.”
“But, I gather, he would have none of that, correct?”
“Yes. He wanted to confess his sins and ask for forgiveness. He seems to believe he can do these horrific mortal sins, and each time God will absolve him.” Father MacGrath looked down at the tops of his hands and focused on one of two dime-sized age spots on his right hand. He fingered a ring on his left hand and said, “I come to you, Bishop Mann, seeking guidance in this. What should I do? What should the church do? In these awful, extenuated and horrific circumstances, can I reveal what was disclosed in the confession?”
Bishop Mann took a long, deep breath and slowly released it. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his stomach. Interlocking his fingers, he said, “I believe you know what I must say before I say it. The simple and straight answer is no. However, this is not a simple or textbook confession. This is a human being confessing to taking another person’s life and seeking absolution. During the confession, when a man or woman confesses his or her sins to you—or any priest, they form a very sacred trust, a holy and unbreakable bond, as secrecy of commitment is formed. There can be no cracks in this hallowed foundation. Of course, while the priest is the administer of the sacrament, it is Jesus Christ who is listening and forgiving the sins. Thus, we cannot reveal to anyone, under any circumstances, what has been confessed or the nature of the confession. The sinner’s past is absolved and forgiven, thus his or her past is not moved into the present. The sacramental seal cannot be broken. Do you know the identity of this person?”
“No, although I suspect he might be a member of the parish and could have deep issues caused by being sexually molested in the church as a child. He also may have been a military veteran and his experiences from combat war might have been triggered or heightened, perhaps, by post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Father, whoever you might suspect, you don’t know that this man was the one who confessed to you under the anonymity of the confessional booth, correct? And, why would you think this person was molested in the church?”