by Tom Lowe
“What’s the difference?”
“You mentioned the PTSD creates voices in your head. One voice in particular, the voice of God, is what you followed, dictated that those people had to die. And, like the good soldier you are, you were simply following orders—the ultimate orders from the ultimate commander.”
“But that’s not what happened. Let me make this clear, Mr. Conner. I think you’re crazier than I am if you believe a jury picked here in Forrest County is gonna let me skate on account of some insanity plea.”
“It is only an option for you to consider.”
“I’ve considered it, and its off the table.”
“All right. But I feel strongly about presenting your military service records, your PTSD issues, and anything we can find to play the empathy card to a jury. It doesn’t mean you’re copping a plea of insanity. It only means we use what we have to keep you from death row if things go south here in southern Mississippi.
• • •
Elizabeth sat at her desk with the office door closed. She wanted to return Otto Emerson’s call, but her immediate concern was what she’d just learned in a simple conversation with the department receptionist. She took her phone from her purse and called Mike Bradford. When he answered, she said, “Mike, the other night we were talking about the missing link between Olivia Curtis, Brian Woods, and Wanda Donnelly … I may have found it.”
Bradford stood up from behind his desk, glanced at his watch and said, “Okay, I’m all ears. What do you have, and will this link help connect the dots to Boyd Baxter?”
“I don’t know about a connection to Baxter, but I do know that all three of the victims were members of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. Olivia and Brian were scheduled to be married there next summer. Wanda told me how she converted to Catholicism not long after she married Brandon and how much she enjoyed going to mass there. When Molly was a little girl, I took her to St. Patrick’s as often as I could. After I moved back to Hattiesburg, I started attending there again. Father MacGrath is wonderful.”
“All right, we now know the three victims attended the same church. I guarantee you that Baxter, the man with the Nazi shrine in his home, is not a member. He’s a member of New Shepherd. So, where does that leave us?”
“It doesn’t leave us, Mike, it starts us—or your investigative team, looking in that direction—St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. I suggest this because the dominating theme with the killer, and it could be Baxter, is the criminal use of religion to justify his murders. Maybe you can speak with Father MacGrath.”
“And ask him what? That’s the largest Catholic church south of Jackson. It probably has a few hundred people in the congregation. What do I ask the priest … does he think a member of his flock might be a serial killer?” Bradford rubbed his temples and let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. This has been a long and trying road to get him. I’m just a little drained.”
“I know. You and your team have done a thorough job in investigating different angles. Baxter does fit some key areas of the profile. And he may be the killer. However, because of the religious overtones to the killings, the web that links the three victims together appears to be St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.”
“Could be. But, like I said, it’s a big church. The law of averages, if you’re Catholic in Forrest County, it’s a good bet that’s where you’d go to church. I’ll look under every stone to see if Boyd Baxter has some ax to grind with that church or people who attend St. Patrick’s or even people who are Catholic. After lengthy interviews with him, and searching his house, I don’t think we’ll find anything in that area.”
“I know Father MacGrath well. He’s a year from retiring after decades as a priest. If you want, I can speak with him. I don’t know if it’ll shed more light on this link. But, I do know he’s always open and forthcoming. I’ll see what Father MacGrath has to say.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
When Elizabeth looked at the phone message on her desk, she had a question. Her old friend, Otto Emerson, had her cell number. Why didn’t he just call that? Why call the university office? She punched in his number, and he answered, his voice gravelly. “Hello.”
“Otto, it’s Elizabeth. How are you?”
Otto Emerson stood on the back deck of his Natchez home overlooking the Mississippi River. His frosty white hair was neatly parted on the left side, face ruddy, eyes the intensity of a butane flame. In his early seventies, he watched a container ship moving up-river, the tea-colored water forming a V behind the ship. He smiled and said, “I’m well, and I’m so glad you called. And, I’m sure you were wondering why I left you a message at the university rather than on your cell.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I was curious … you’ve never called the university before, only my cell. Well, once—when you were responding to the department secretary that you would guest lecture in one of my classes. Are you volunteering to come in again?”
He chuckled. “No. I had both numbers saved in my contact list and punched one of them without paying much attention. I realized I had called the university when I reached your department’s line. For someone who had made their living devouring and noting the overlooked, connective, uncommon, and tiniest of details, I guess retirement has made me more relaxed and less attentive. My wife, Ruth, says I’m also becoming more nostalgic. I won’t admit to that, though.”
“You are indeed.” Elizabeth laughed. “Next time I see Ruth, I’ll let her know I’ve noticed it, too.”
Otto laughed. He sat in a cushioned chair next to a round, wooden table in the center of the large deck, an opened red and white umbrella sprouting from the middle of the table. Baskets of impatiens and ferns hung from the eaves around the back of the house. The wind blew across the river, delivering the smell of wet earth, the breeze toying with wind chimes hanging near a basket of ferns. “I’m going to be driving through Hattiesburg next week, on Thursday, and I thought … I hoped, if you had time, I could treat you to lunch.”
“I would love that. The last time we had lunch was on your back deck overlooking the Mississippi. You’ve retired to a great place, Natchez. You get a chance to watch river traffic during the day and night for that matter. Since I was a little girl, the paddleboats have always been my favorites.”
“I concur with that. Something romantic and truly American about the big wheelers slapping the water, smoke billowing as they move up and down the river. I’m living the vicarious life of Huck Finn.”
“You’ve earned it, Otto. Enjoy.”
“Hey, one of the reasons for my call is coming from a TV news interview you did. There’s a lot of interest in the case here in Mississippi and beyond. Looks like you folks have a hell of a situation with a potential serial killer who goes beyond the norm, and that’s an oxymoron in describing a murderer. There’s nothing normal about that. But it does appear to me to be one person in what we referred to in the Bureau as someone who’s a signature killer, leaving his unique mark behind. Rather than take souvenirs from his victims, he makes his victims into relics of his hobby—death. I saw there was an arrest made.”
“Yes. Your call is fortuitous, and your timing couldn’t be better. The man arrested certainly fits some key areas of the profile I put together for police. I’m hoping and praying he’s the perp and this horror has ended with his arrest.”
“Maybe they got their man. But I detect a sense of hesitance or skepticism in your voice. What’s got you uncertain?”
“I didn’t know it was that obvious. Otto, I kept racking my brain, then speaking with detectives, trying to come up with something that links the victims, all three of them, to the perp.”
“But I sense some apprehension, at least on your part. What is it?”
“I just learned that all three victims were members of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church here in Hattiesburg. I’m a member there, too.”
“Did you know any of the victims from church?”
“No, but I knew one of them from a local re
staurant. I used to go to St. Patrick’s regularly, especially when I was raising Molly. I started going back after I returned to Hattiesburg. The murders have a strong and definite religious overtone to them.”
“In what way?”
“In the first two murders, part of what the perp said was recorded on one of the victim’s phone. The audio quality isn’t good, and forensics can’t definitely match it to the man they just arrested. On that recording, we hear the killer saying a brief sentence in Latin. When translated he said, ‘You shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death.’ It’s as if this guy has a God complex or he believes he’s following his warped sense of orders from God to justify his killings.”
Otto was silent for a moment, watching a blue heron sail across the Mississippi River. “I’ve profiled those types. And, when it comes to psychopaths, they’re some of the worst of the worst. They believe they’re on a divine mission and above the laws of society. This type of mental disorder gives them a false shield of bravado because they truly think they’re impervious to any manmade consequences. To extrapolate it even further, look at the mindset of a terrorist who does not fear death because he believes he’ll be rewarded in martyrdom or paradise with a concubine of virgins and all the hummus he can devour. By the way, when referring to the killer’s profile, you did say ‘some key areas.’ Where shall I meet you on Thursday for lunch?”
“There’s a restaurant downtown called the Front Porch Café. Great food if you really like southern cooking.”
“I was raised on it. What time?”
“Does one-fifteen work? My students have an exam that morning and should be wrapped no later than a quarter of, giving me plenty of time to get to the restaurant.”
“Absolutely. I’ll see you then. I have an idea I want to share with you about the common link you just found between the victims and how it might connect to the killer.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
When two bailiffs led Boyd Baxter into the courtroom, he had no idea that the scene would be standing-room only. Members of the news media and some correspondents from TV tabloid news programs packed the courtroom. Some came from the major cable news channels, others from the network stations in Jackson and Hattiesburg.
Curious spectators and courthouse workers who scheduled their breaks to be present, made up the rest of the crowd. They all wanted a close look at the man the media were painting as a monster for the unspeakable evil that hung over the crime scene like cobwebs spun from the silk of sin.
Martha Black was one of them. She left her restaurant for a couple of hours to arrive early and secure a seat in the front row. Her eyes burned into Baxter’s face as bailiffs led him to the table where his attorney, Clyde Conner, was waiting with his leather briefcase open, a manila file folder on the table.
Conner whispered something in Baxter’s ear, Baxter nodding, and then they both sat down. On the opposite side of the old courtroom, the lead prosecutor, Mike Meade, tall and silver-haired, and a female member of his team, dressed in a dark business suit, sat behind a wooden table, file folders in front of them.
Mike Bradford sat in the second row with his partner, Detective Bill Lee, and a female member of the sheriff’s CSI team, a brunette with her hair pulled back away from her face. Bradford leaned toward her and said, “Thanks for all your hard work on this case. I’m just hoping we got the right guy. It all looks and feels right … but …..”
“But what?” she whispered, eyebrows arching. “Of course, we arrested the right guy. Now’s not the time for thoughts like that. Thank God this guy’s off the streets.”
There was a murmur in the crowd as people speculated in hushed tones about the man accused of one murder and possibly tied to two more. “He looks like a young version of Charles Manson,” whispered a middle-aged secretary from the county clerk’s office to her co-worker, a man with sagging, pink jowls, his barrel chest stuffed into a tight-fitting, blue sports coat with a button missing on the front.
“I’d love to get picked for his jury,” the man muttered.
“All rise!” shouted a bailiff. “Honorable Judge Anthony Zeigler presiding.”
Judge Zeigler entered from a door to a hallway that led to his chambers, his black robe billowing behind him as he strode to the bench and took his seat. He opened a file and looked over his bifocals to the crowd. “Let me remind you folks in the news business, your cameras are welcome in here, but no lights and no extraneous noise. First sign of it, y’all shall follow one another out the door.” He glanced at the file, raised his eyes to the lead prosecutor and then to Clyde Conner. “This is case number 793281, the State of Mississippi verses Boyd William Baxter, for the capital crime of murder. Mr. Conner, your client, Boyd William Baxter is with you, correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He looked at Baxter and then Conner. The judge asked, “How does your client plead to the charge, counselor?”
“Not guilty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Conner.” He looked at the prosecutor. “Mr. Meade, you have the floor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. In my seventeen years as a prosecutor, I have never seen a case so heinous, so premediated and brutal as this one. Wanda Donnelly, who was a loving wife and the mother of two young children, is dead—her hand sticking out from the grave in a macabre display to send some kind of perverted message to whomever found her body, including members of law enforcement. For this reason, Your Honor, the state strongly suggests that Mr. Baxter be held with no bail and a trial date immediately be set. And, let us not forget the recent murders of a young couple, Brian Woods and Olivia Curtis, that police are investigating … with possible links to the defendant—”
“Objection!” shouted Conner. “There’s no evidence that my client had anything to do with that. The state’s insinuations are ludicrous and libelous.”
Judge Zeigler nodded. “Duly noted. The court asks the state to refrain from remarks that do nothing but muddy the judicial waters. Mr. Conner, you heard the state’s argument. What’s your rebuttal?”
“Your Honor, my client, Boyd Baxter, is an innocent man. He’s purely a victim of circumstances, which result in nothing more than circumstantial possibilities, not evidence, because that’s what it is. That’s all the state has at this time—circumstances. Considering the fact that my client was born in Forrest County, is a life-long resident, owns property here … and the fact that his family goes back four generations, before the Civil War, he’s not a flight risk. We respectfully ask that bond be set at a reasonable amount, Your Honor. Thank you.”
“All of that is suitably considered, counselor. However, considering the shocking nature of the crime and physical evidence stated during a preliminary examination that appears much more than circumstantial, bond is denied, and the defendant shall be remanded to the county jail. His file can move forward … ”
“In that case, Judge Zeigler, my client, a decorated combat war veteran has been treated for a severe form of post-traumatic stress disorder. We request a competency evaluation before moving this case to a Grand Jury.”
Judge Zeigler looked at Baxter who was staring at his attorney and said, “So ordered. Let’s get it set up within the week.” He slammed his gavel down and the courtroom erupted in the drone of a hundred voices, speaking in tones that were no longer hushed.
FIFTY-NINE
After a morning of back-to-back student conferences, Elizabeth placed a call to the man who’d been a rock for her after Molly was murdered. She walked from the university administration building to her car and called Father Gregory MacGrath. The church secretary was polite and immediately put the call through to the priest. When he answered, Elizabeth said, “Father MacGrath … it’s Elizabeth Monroe. How are you?”
“I’m well. However, I’m searching my tired old memory banks, trying to recall the last time I saw you at mass.”
“I’m sorry. It has been too long, at least a couple of months.”
“What do I owe the honor and
pleasure of your call?”
“I need to speak with you, and I’d rather not do it over the phone. May I come by to see you?”
“Of course, Elizabeth. Do you have a date and time in mind?”
“Yes. Today. Can you spare fifteen minutes out of your busy schedule?”
“I think that can be arranged. Would two o’clock work for you?”
“Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Elizabeth, before you hang up, may I ask why the urgency of the meeting?”
“Because people have been dying, Father. Three people murdered. All of them were members of St. Patrick’s. I’ll see you at two.” Elizabeth set her phone down in a cup holder on the car’s console. She started the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror just as her phone buzzed.
Mike Bradford calling. Elizabeth answered, and Bradford said, “In Boyd Baxter’s preliminary hearing, the judge denied a motion for bond.”
“Did Baxter have another outburst in court?”
“No. But, if looks could kill, he’s ready to assassinate me. When they led him away, he stared at me the whole time. That’s not the first time in my career it has happened, but it’s the first time I got it from a serial killer. His attorney did ask the court to allow for a competency evaluation. They’re going to play the PTSD card as far as Clyde Conner can take it.”
“There are a lot of people who suffer from that, but it doesn’t turn them into serial killers. And, you may want to be careful about referring to him as a serial killer until a real link is established. The media is picking up on that inference. I do hope you’re right about Baxter.”
“Why wouldn’t we be, Elizabeth? He’s a poster boy for your profile, and the evidence—at least in Wanda’s case—puts him there. And, if there are no other similar murders while he’s off the streets, that further proves our assertion that Baxter’s the perp.”