by Tom Lowe
“Correct—I don’t know who this person is. But, I bring up the possibility of molestation only because the man alluded to it in the confessional.”
“Well, hinting and facts are not the same … so you don’t know if that’s true either. Even if you were not bound by the seal of confidentiality of the sacrament, you would not have a name to provide to the authorities.”
“I understand. However, he has entered into confession two times now saying he has committed murders. What if he comes back a third time? At what point, Bishop, does the sacrament of confession mean nothing to the sinner but a mockery to Christ?”
“Considering the circumstances, you are under no obligation to hear and minister the confession.”
“But that’s difficult when I don’t know his name. I can’t bar every male member of the parish because I don’t want to hear this man again.”
“No, Father, you cannot.”
“Then let me ask you this, Bishop Mann, although I can’t reveal or break the bonds of the sacrament of the confession … what is a greater sin, to violate that sacred trust or to hear no evil and allow the man to continue taking the lives of innocent people?”
Bishop Mann said nothing.
Father MacGrath gripped the ends of the wooden hand-rests on his chair and said, “The last time the man, this sinner, entered the confessional, I did something I should not have done … but I felt compelled to do so.”
“May I ask what it is you did?”
“I recorded his voice on my phone. The man said what he’s doing today goes back to the time he served as an altar boy at St. Patrick’s. Would you like to hear what he said?”
“Absolutely not! I find it hard to believe that you would even suggest that. I don’t want to hear, and neither shall anyone else. Never! This is in absolute violation of the sacrament of penance.”
“I found nothing in canon law that specifically prevents it. The violation would be to reveal it.”
“And that, Father MacGrath can never happen. I suggest you delete that recording immediately and never bring it up again to anyone. The church will not be a party or complicit in this. Do you understand?”
Father MacGrath looked across the room at the photo of the bishop and the pope. He said, “Yes.”
FIFTY-TWO
Father MacGrath was anxious to hear and see for himself. Maybe the television news would bring good news—some form of deliverance. Deliverance from evil. He stood in his home and picked up the remote-control for his television.
Before he left the church office, Father MacGrath had heard rumors and second-hand reports that police had caught the person responsible for one of three possibly linked murders. The church secretary, Patricia, had mentioned it before she went home for the day. She’d heard it from a parishioner who had called. And then she heard it from the man who’d delivered their order of office supplies. “Did you hear? They got the guy!” he said, carrying two boxes of paper and printer ink, his round face shiny.
“Hear what?” she asked.
“The news that they caught the serial killer—the one who killed that mother and the young couple in the forest. He’s some crazy loon who’s a neo-Nazi and pretty far out there.”
And now Father MacGrath could see and hear exactly what happened. He turned on the television and sat on his couch. He flipped through channels and stopped when he found a local newscast. The dark-haired anchorwoman, dressed in a blue suit, looked into the camera and said, “We have breaking news at this hour. The man police suspect took the lives of three people in Forrest County … sits in the county jail tonight. Sheriff Erwin Dawson held another news conference earlier today and announced that a thirty-seven-year old, Forrest County man, Boyd Baxter, is now facing kidnapping and first-degree murder charges in the death of Wanda Donnelly. Police also suspect he may be linked to the deaths of Brian Woods and Olivia Curtis, a young, engaged coupled found brutally murdered in the De Soto National Forest a few weeks ago. After the news conference, Baxter made a first appearance before a judge, and he was there with his lawyer. We have a team report tonight. Reporting first is Joe Meyer, followed by Heather Hodges.”
Father MacGrath turned up the audio, his eyes glued to the TV screen. The images were from a news conference, the voice-over from the reporter who said, “In his second news conference since the arrest, Sheriff Erwin Dawson said it took a lot of investigative teamwork to arrest Boyd Baxter in connection with the death of Wanda Donnelly, a wife and mother of two young children. Dawson said Baxter was taken in from a job site where he worked as a tree trimmer. He volunteered to have detectives question him at the sheriff’s department, and it was at the conclusion of the interrogation when Baxter was arrested.”
The video cut to a close up of the sheriff doing an interview. “The physical evidence places Baxter in New Shepherd Cemetery close to the time when the medical examiner said Wanda Donnelly was murdered. Our CSI department lifted tire tread imprints next to the grave where the suspect dug and buried the body. And those tread impressions match tires on Baxter’s truck. We also have security camera video of him driving his truck onto church property.”
The images cut to the reporter standing in front of the Forrest County Sheriff’s Department building. He said, “After today’s news conference, Boyd Baxter made a first appearance in court. Heather Hodges has more.”
The video moved to inside a packed courtroom, Baxter and his attorney standing next to a table near the front. A female voice-over said, “It didn’t take long for this to become quite forceful in Judge Anthony Zeigler’s courtroom. In Boyd Baxter’s first court appearance, with his attorney by his side, renowned criminal defense lawyer, Clyde Conner, Judge Zeigler began to explain the charges when Baxter screamed at the top of his lungs at the judge.”
The scene cut to Baxter who pointed his finger at the white-haired judge and shouted, “This is bull shit! I’m being framed! The DA has had an ax to grind with my family for years. Specifically, my daddy! This is trumped up garbage!”
Father MacGrath leaned forward, listening to the man’s speech pattern.
“Enough! No more of that in my courtroom!” shouted Judge Zeigler, his cheeks reddening. A bailiff stepped closer to the defense table, less than six feet from Baxter. The judge glared at Baxter’s attorney and said, “Mr. Conner, make sure your client understands the gravity of his actions in here. I won’t put up with it.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the lawyer. “We apologize for the outburst. My client hasn’t slept in two days. I know that’s no excuse, Your Honor. We appreciate your tolerance and patience, and we won’t let it happen again.”
The judge nodded. “Mr. Baxter, you are facing charges of kidnapping and one count of first-degree capital murder. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” said Baxter, his eyes burning.
The judge nodded, looked at the prosecutor and said, “Mr. Meade, unless the state has returned a grand jury indictment against Mr. Baxter, we’ll set a preliminary hearing to be held next week—nine o’clock on Tuesday, the seventeenth of October. Will that schedule work for all parties … the state and your client, Mr. Conner?”
“Yes, Judge Zeigler, that is fine,” said the prosecutor.
Conner said, “Yes, Your Honor. That will work for us. However, if it pleases the court, may I approach the—”
“No. At this time, it does not please the court. You can do that later in the preliminary hearing. Am I clear on this?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Your Honor.” He shifted his unreadable eyes to Baxter, nodding.
The image cut to an auburn-haired reporter standing in one of the halls in the courthouse, large polished wooden doors to Courtroom One directly behind her. She said, “When asked about the allegations, Baxter shouted in the courtroom, District Attorney Roland Hendrix said they are too farfetched to even justify a comment. It can be noted that Boyd Baxter’s father … Charles Baxter, who died in prison, was serving a life sentence for racketeering, orchestratin
g a hit on a former boss, and assault with a deadly weapon. Baxter senior was known to have strong ties to the Dixie Mafia along Mississippi’s Gulf coast. After the hearing, Boyd Baxter’s attorney, Clyde Conner, held an impromptu news conference on the courthouse steps.”
The video cut to attorney Clyde Conner walking up to reporters like he was about to feed pigeons in the park. His wide eyes reflected a playful amusement, as if the whole think was a big mistake. Late forties, his salt and pepper hair tied in a short ponytail. He said, “My client, as you could see in there, is very distraught. Since his daddy was locked up, he’s felt that well-connected, powerful people, from Hattiesburg to Jackson, have conspired to send him to the same prison where his father had been held. Let me make this clear … ” he paused, waiting for the reporter’s microphones to inch closer and said, “Boyd Baxter is not guilty of murdering anyone. Yes, he’s had run-ins with the law. But that didn’t start until after he served two tours of duty in the Middle East. He’s a war hero with PTSD issues, and some people want to point the finger at him for murder. He is innocent, and we will fight this all the way to the Supreme Court if we have to.”
Father MacGrath muted the sound on his television. He slumped back against the couch, two fingers on his left hand touching a gold crucifix on a chain around his neck. He whispered, “Lord … Jesus … thank you for your intervention. Thank you for giving law enforcement what they needed to end this horror. I pray for that man’s soul. He confessed his sins to you Father, and now, in your wisdom, he will have to confess his sins to a jury of his peers in a court of law. We know you, Lord, are the ultimate and final judge of us and how we conduct our lives to you in service to others. But we are thankful tonight that the killings will stop, that the horror and evil is now gone from amongst us. In your precious honor, Lord, and in that of our savior, Jesus Christ … amen.”
Father MacGrath slowly stood and turned off the television. He looked forward to a good night’s sleep, the first he would have in weeks. And he prayed that tonight the ghosts of his actions, abiding by the silence of the sacrament, would no longer haunt him.
FIFTY-THREE
It was Wednesday—time reserved for Nellie Culpepper, and time Elizabeth reserved for herself to spend with her closest friend on earth. Elizabeth sat with Nellie on Nellie’s screened, front porch and ate dinner as a full moon crept over the sycamore trees and crickets sang, the night air sweet with the perfume of blooming jasmine. Nellie finished a bite of fried chicken, glanced over at Elizabeth and said, “I ‘spect I know what’s botherin’ you t’night, Liz’beth.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I’m sorry, Nellie. I don’t mean to be this quiet. It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“One of the real good things ‘bout family is not havin’ to talk if you don’t feel like it. Just sittin’ out here on the front porch with you, havin’ a nice meal, hearin’ the crickets sing, and the old hoot owl holler is what I like.”
“Me, too.”
“I imagine what’s on your mind is what’s on your heart. You were always a child who toted her feelin’s out front.”
“And, all this time, I thought I’d changed—thought at my age, I’d learned to hold my cards closer to my chest.” She smiled.
“I know you Liz’beth. I watched the TV news earlier today and saw where they caught that feller for killin’ that young mother. I ‘spect your mind is thinkin’ about all that ‘cause that’s what you do. Is he the man the po’lease believe done the killin’s of the others?”
“Yes. The latest victim is a woman, Wanda Donnelly. I mentioned her to you last time. She was a waitress at the Front Porch Café. She was married with two children. And now she’s dead—the third victim. Police think they caught the right man. And my profile helped them find him.”
“But somethin’s tellin’ me you don’t believe your own profile, ‘dat right?”
“I stand by it, but the profile isn’t unique or specific to only this suspect. He might have killed those three people … the physical evidence, in Wanda’s case, says it’s a very high probability he did. The link to the other two is circumstantial, at best, or a probability via the profiling. But, there is something in my gut that’s giving me doubts. And I’m not sure exactly what it is. I thought it was the look on his face when detectives were questioning him, but with a psychopath, facial expressions can be very deceiving and don’t always reflect accurate reactions at the time.”
Nellie sipped from a glass of sweet tea. “But a man’s eyes say more than the face or the mouth a lot of times. What was his eyes sayin’ to you?”
“That he was surprised or maybe slightly confused when he heard about how the killer had covered dirt over Wanda’s body but left her arm and hand exposed, actually positioned to stick out from the grave, putting her rose tattoo on a dark and sinister display.”
Nellie said nothing for a few seconds. She rocked in her chair, used a paper napkin to wipe a bit of chicken fat from her lips. “Liz’beth, it’s so sad to hear about your friend, Wanda. I ‘magine the last time we had dinner on my porch, Wanda might have fixed up the meals for you to bring here.”
“She did.”
The old woman nodded. She said, “This feller they caught … did he know Wanda?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Did he know ‘em two other poor souls?”
“He denies knowing them. We don’t have any evidence that he did.”
“For somebody to go and do the awful things ‘dat he done … that’s the kind of evil that festers like a boil in the darkest part of the heart. It ain’t like somebody does a killin’ at a bank robbery when the man with the gun panics and pulls the trigger. To do ‘em things this man done, if it’s him, tells me he know’d the people … and he know’d ‘em good enough to do more than just kill ‘em. It’s like what happens when someone lynches a man and leaves him hangin’ from the tree limb for all to see. The hangman wants to leave a message of hate. Whoever be killin’ these people in Forrest County hates ‘em. Hates ‘em real bad. Child, you just got to find out why.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Elizabeth sat on her couch, Jack’s head resting on her thigh, a glass of red wine in her hand. She finished watching the news coverage of Boyd Baxter’s arrest and court appearance. She was intrigued by his outburst, first wondering if it was a ploy designed by his attorney to set the groundwork for an insanity plea. But then she thought of the outburst Baxter had when he was arrested, his breaking the observation window with a chair.
His red face smashed against the white tile floor. Staring at her.
She sipped her wine, scratched Jack behind his good ear and thought about what Nellie had said, “The hangman wants to leave a message of hate. Whoever be killin’ these people in Forrest County hates ‘em. Hates ‘em real bad. Child, you just got to find out why.”
“I’m not sure why … Nellie,” Elizabeth whispered. “But I am sure it has to do with some warped religious justification on the part of the killer. And Boyd Baxter, very well, could be the poster child for that … but is he the killer?” She looked at Jack, his languid eyes drowsy. “Jack, with the battle scars you have, the lessons you’ve learned in life, what’s your take on all of this? You sat here and watched the news with me. Your thoughts?”
Jack slowly turned his head toward Elizabeth, watching her. She said, “You know something, big guy? I could learn a lesson from you. I like the quiet contemplation you do, Jack. You sit there and think. You weigh all of your obvious options, and then you go with your gut or feline instinct. Nellie—you have to meet her—tells me that whoever killed Brian, Olivia, and Wanda hates them real bad. That’s Nellie’s words. She said the killer wants to leave a message of hate. We just have to find out why.” Elizabeth scratched Jack’s fluffy neck. “So, what’s the why factor … and how does that play into the psyche of Boyd Baxter?”
Elizabeth looked at her watch. “Do you think it’s too late in the evening to call Mike?” Jack made a slow blink. “Tha
t’s what I thought.” Elizabeth picked up her phone from the coffee table. She made the call, and Mike Bradford answered, his voice sounding tired. “Good evening to you,” he said.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“You didn’t. I was just having that celebration drink by myself, a very old single malt, flipping through the news channels. Some of the national networks, like CNN and Fox, are carrying the story.” Bradford sat in a leather recliner in his home. The room was semi-dark, lit by one table lamp, TV screen flickering, sound muted, two fingers worth of scotch remaining in his glass.
Elizabeth said, “That’s not surprising. However, in this day and age of the near constant lunacy of a lone gunman walking into a church, synagogue, or even a yoga studio to shoot people, that sort of makes our killer, with three known victims, seem minor. And that’s a sad testament to our times.”
Bradford sipped his drink and said, “When I signed up for law enforcement, I had no idea the extent of what man will do to his fellow man if the evil bone is stuck in his craw. I don’t know if a Heimlich maneuver will ever dislodge that bone. At that point, maybe a priest can exorcise the demons out, but law enforcement can only put the handcuffs on the perp and hope the system will at least contain him. But they’re breeding faster that we can put the lid on the jar.” He chuckled. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. After a drink, I close my forensic files and open my philosophy files. I know you didn’t call this time of night to hear that.” He sipped the scotch.
She smiled. “Actually, I enjoy hearing your philosophy. It’s what makes you good at law enforcement. It’s a very attractive quality. You can see beyond the black and white, into the gray areas and the shadows. I just want you to know that I appreciate you and your dedication to what you do.”
“Thank you. Did you call to tell me that?”