by Tom Lowe
“I hope you’re right, and maybe you are. But, I can’t help thinking about the connections to St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. Maybe it’s all coincidental. I’m on my way to meet with the priest, Father MacGrath.”
Feeling a bit offended, Bradford said, “Twice in the last few minutes you said I hope you are right. Elizabeth, the murders are still an open investigation, so I’ll continue to look at all leads and possibilities. I’d like to think I’m not the type of detective who’s hasty to place blame without solid evidence as back up. What do you think Father MacGrath can tell you? It’s a big church.”
“Yes, but he knows a lot of the people in the parish. I’m hoping he might remember something that will give us an edge.”
SIXTY
Elizabeth sipped from a cup of warm tea and wondered if a man of God, a man she’d known most of her life—the most trustworthy person she’d ever met, was being deceptive. She sat at a table in a dining area of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church, Father MacGrath across from her, steam rising from his cup and words coming from his mouth that made her suspicious.
There was nothing specific. Nothing she could point a finger at and ask for clarification. It was more in his overall demeanor, a slight hesitancy in his speech she’d never heard before now. She’d always known Father MacGrath as a man with a positive personality that greeted a stranger before he could shake the person’s hand.
Not today. For some reason, Father MacGrath seemed preoccupied, his thoughts distant. This was odd for a man who always put others first, never seeming to dwell on whatever chapter in his own life might not be playing out well. Elizabeth had asked him how he was doing in his last year or so before his well-earned retirement. He said all was fine in his world. However, he’d miss the one-on-one talks with members of the parish, and he’d miss the opportunity to help mend hearts and guide people to closely follow the word of God. And, in the trying times, of which there would be many, to encourage them to stand straight and remember that faith and trust in Jesus Christ conquers all.
Elizabeth smiled and said, “That’s what makes you excellent as a priest, Father. You have a way with people. You’re a great listener, and no matter how many times you may have heard similar stories from members of your parish, you make each person feel as if his or her immediate needs were the most important thing to address. It’s a talent, and you will be sorely missed.”
He chuckled, sipped his tea, carefully setting the cup in the saucer, and said, “Well, Elizabeth, listening is a skill that people in the professions of serving as priests, clergy, counselors, or psychologists, need to develop. It’s never about them, but rather about the person before them, and ultimately it’s about assisting that person to learn how to help him or her find solutions through the unconditional love and trust in God.”
“No doubt. You helped me when Molly was killed. I had no place to turn. I came home and came back to church.”
“And you came back to Christ. It was a difficult journey for you, doubting so much about His word when your daughter had been taken from you.”
“I was visiting her grave a few days ago. We talk. And I try to listen just like you do.” She sipped her tea and said, “I imagine you’re looking forward to your retirement.”
He smiled. “Yes and no. I’m not going anywhere for a year and three months. Then I plan to do some traveling.”
“Where’s your first stop?”
“Rome. The Vatican. I saw it when I was first studying for the priesthood. That was so many years ago, more than I care to think about. To go back, I think, will reaffirm some of the reasons I chose to become a priest.” He smiled. “Now, enough about me. You said it was urgent. How might I help you?”
Elizabeth leaned closer. “Those listening skills we talked about … I would bet that those skills need to be really fine-tuned during confession.”
Father MacGrath stared at the steam rising in his cup before looking into Elizabeth’s eyes. He took a deep breath and said, “Absolutely, a priest doesn’t have the luxury to see the person. To look him or her in their eyes, to hold their hands and pray for them. The confession is about removing the priest somewhat, allowing the sinner to open his or her heart and confess their sins to our Lord, and then to sincerely ask for forgiveness and the sacrament of penance.”
“Will you miss it?”
“The confessions?”
“Yes.”
“Most of it. Confessions have been part of the church and canon law almost as long as the church has existed. It has helped untold millions of people come closer in their personal relationship with our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
Elizabeth leaned in closer. “Father, as I mentioned on the phone, three members of the parish have been murdered. Brian Woods, Olivia Curtis … and Wanda Donnelly. How well did you know each person?”
He nodded. “Not well as I would have liked to have known them. I’d occasionally see them during Holy Communion. I’d speak with them and their families briefly as they exited after mass. The parish has become so large in the last five or so years. We have two youth leaders; staff for senior worship, elder issues, and premarital and marriage counseling; as well as a fine person who heads our singles and single-parent socials. We now have two priests. Thanks to our Lord, the diocese sent Father Lopez to us. He’s been wonderful. As a matter of fact, he performed the funeral service for Olivia Curtis. He would have been the one scheduled for Brian and Olivia’s premarital counseling. But, sadly, he had to oversee Olivia’s funeral instead.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea. She said, “It’s great that we have a large and growing parish, and you can’t possibly know everyone well … but did you know them well enough to have an inclination if someone in the congregation might have wanted to harm the three people who were murdered?”
“I thought the police had arrested someone for those crimes?”
“They did for Wanda’s murder and are trying to link him to the other two.”
“But you aren’t convinced they have the real killer, correct?”
“I have my doubts?”
“Why, Elizabeth? What seems to be out of place with the arrest?”
“Do you know the accused man, Boyd Baxter?”
“No, not that I can recall.”
“If he has no connection to the church, I have to wonder what his connection to the victims is and whether there is a link to someone attending St. Patrick’s?”
“I pray not. I suppose the police have those details.”
“But they don’t, Father. They have some physical evidence that places Baxter at one of the crime scenes, and the way that murder happened is similar in method and aftermath to the murders in the national forest. However, the one strong and common factor is that all three victims attended St. Patrick’s … and these murders have religious connotations.”
“Dear Lord … what do you mean?”
“A wooden cross was placed in Brian Woods’ hands. This contradicts the violence of the scene or the crime itself—like someone was trying to insert a measure of innocence. The killer knows Latin, at least a verse in Latin that is the equivalent to this: ‘you shall be strengthened by His presence in the hour of your death.’ He seems disgusted by tattoos or by people who have them and used the blood of one victim to circle her tattoo.”
Father MacGrath placed both of his hands on the table, two small, brown-age spots on his left hand. He looked up and said, “I hope and pray that the man arrested for those heinous crimes is indeed guilty of committing them.”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“How do you mean?”
“If someone else is killed and the body is left in a similar style—posed, that, most likely, would mean the killer is free and out there. If not, as this goes to trial … maybe police do have the right man. Father, I need you to think hard because a man’s life is on the line if he’s innocent. And, if he is, the lives of potential victims are at stake. Is there anyone in the congregation—and I’m not asking you to cast
false suspicion on someone—who …? What I am asking is whether there may be someone who’s sought help from you or spoke with you and shares that he has deep issues … issues that might result in him harming people?”
Father MacGrath moved his cup and saucer to the far left of the table. He said, “Elizabeth, all my life, I have been trained to follow the simplest and yet most difficult rule in life. It was the edict of Christ … to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That means I have made it my life’s mission to try hard not to judge anyone. That will be up to God, of course. But to answer your question, there is one young man that comes to mind. He attends mass usually no more than twice a month. Sits alone. Not very social. I had a talk with him not too long ago. He, like others who’ve experienced the horror of war and combat … or people who’ve been victims of rape or other forms of severe mental or physical abuse, suffers from the aftereffects. Some, perhaps people in your profession, call it post-traumatic stress disorder. As a priest, I have seen this effect far too often and in far too many walks of life. It’s certainly not unique to military combat. Regardless, this member of St. Patrick’s has been meeting with counselors at the VA hospital. His most difficult challenge is trying to return to a world he left, to people who don’t understand how and why his view of returning to the normalcy of home doesn’t match theirs or even their values anymore. He’s angry, confused and extremely frustrated.”
“He sounds somewhat like the man arrested for the murders, Boyd Baxter. Can you tell me his name?”
“Normally, I would not. But multiple murders are not normal. Could he have done it? I don’t know. I do know that we’re doing all we can to extend God’s love and compassion to him here. His name is Matthew Long.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to give the police his name?”
“No, at least not immediately. We’ll see what happens with the current suspect and our quality of life in Forrest County.”
“Meaning, assuming the murders have stopped, correct?”
“Yes. Father, I need to ask you something even more personal. I hope you don’t mind, and I hope with all my heart you can answer it.”
“What is it, Elizabeth?”
“I know the confession of sins to a priest is confidential. However, if a murderer is confessing to killing, that’s got to be different because human lives are potentially at stake … especially if the person confessing was planning to do it again. Father, if you had such a situation, would you tell me or go to the police?”
“The sacred seal of the sacrament can never be broken. Because it not only breaks holy canon law, it destroys the sanctity of the confidential confession. And, in doing so, it erodes the absolute faith parishioners have that their sins, their confessions, are to be heard only by God. If that is erased, a major pillar of the Catholic Church and its ability to help people, will fall to its knees.”
“You didn’t answer my question. I have so much respect for the role priests play in hearing confessions; however, if the person making the confessions is a serial killer … someone who plans to continue killing, he or she must be exposed and brought to justice. If not where does the longest shadow of sin fall, from the killer or someone who knowingly allowed the killings to continue?”
Father MacGrath was silent for a moment. “Elizabeth, my love for you, God’s love for you, is without measure. But I cannot and will not compromise any degree of breadth to allow words spoken in confidence during confession to become public. There is nothing more I can say about that subject.”
Elizabeth looked into the old priest’s eyes, his unruly white eyebrows. There was more of a sadness in the hazel irises than a defensive expression. She reached across the table and held his hands. They were cold to the touch, and the room was warm. “I understand, Father. And I so appreciate who you are and what you stand for.” She stood to leave, placing her purse strap across her shoulder. “I want to attend mass Sunday. It’s been too long.”
SIXTY-ONE
The next day, Elizabeth waited to speak with a suspected serial killer. She sat at a metal table in the county jail’s secure conference room, a place where prisoners met with attorneys. Elizabeth was surprised she had been the psychologist requested to administer the competency evaluation, and that it had been scheduled so quickly. It crossed her mind that the paperwork might have been in progress before the request was made to the judge.
She didn’t have to wait long for Boyd Baxter to arrive. There was a loud buzz sound, the ratchet noise of metal on metal, and the click of a door being opened. Three uniformed guards escorted Baxter into the room. One stayed by the door as the other two walked Baxter to the table. “Sit,” one guard ordered, as if he were giving a dog a command. Baxter sat in the metal chair opposite Elizabeth, the guards moving to different corners of the room.
Elizabeth smiled and said, “My name’s—”
“I know who you are,” Baxter interrupted. “I’ve seen you on TV, on the news. Seems like every time someone gets murdered in the area, you’re on the news.”
“I’m glad that isn’t often. Aren’t you?”
Baxter grinned. “Is that question part of your test?”
“What test is that, Boyd?”
“The test you’re supposed to give me to see if I’m insane. I told my attorney not to do it, but Clyde Conner likes to do things his way. He thinks my PTSD is gonna get me a breather. That ain’t gonna happen ‘cause I didn’t do it. I’m flat out not guilty.”
Elizabeth opened the thick file folder on the table. She turned on a small hand-held recorder. Baxter scratched the tip of his nose and asked, “You recordin’ me?”
“Yes, and the only reason is for accuracy. I want to get it right, don’t you?”
“I want to get the hell outta here, wouldn’t you, Doctor Monroe?”
“Of course. Mr. Baxter, I have no idea what your attorney plans to do in your defense. Competency to stand trial doesn’t necessarily result in a defendant pleading insanity at the time a crime or crimes were committed. It is not a plea that says not guilty by reason of insanity. The purpose of our time here today is to evaluate competency—specifically your competency to stand trial. Do you understand?”
“What I understand is this … I’ve been setup. Somebody’s gettin’ away with murder while you wanna have me look at inkblots and let me tell you how my old man used to knock me unconscious. I’m not goin’ to trial because I didn’t do it. How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell y’all that?” Baxter’s voice was high and agitated.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Elizabeth could see the largest guard fold his arms across his wide chest, shifting his weight from side to side. She looked at Baxter and said, “I understand. Please, just calm down. We’re just here to talk. And, remember, I am not in law enforcement. I am not part of the judicial system. However, Mr. Baxter, I am trained to administer competency evaluations. It will be up to the judge to take it in consideration for the trial.”
“That screwball judge has done made up his mind about me. I’ll never get a fair trial in that man’s court. Ain’t no damn way. That day I tossed the chair through the window in the cop’s interrogation room, you’d been watchin’ me behind the glass the whole time.” He started a slow smile. “You were sort of like a peepin’ Tom, sittin’ back there with your notepad, secretly scribblin’ shit down that means nothin.’ Do you like to watch, Doctor Monroe? I bet you do. Shrinks sit beside the couch and watch … when what they really want to do is to participate. But they don’t know how ‘cause they’re so uptight about what drives the world … sex.”
“Mr. Baxter, let’s get back on track.”
“That is the track. How’d you feel when I looked up at you through that shattered window, my head pinned down to the damn floor, and I told you I loved you. When’s the last time a man has told you that, Doctor. Did you feel somethin’ deep inside you? A tingle, maybe?”
“Here’s what we’re going to do, Mr.
Baxter. I will ask the questions because I am the administrator. I have a series of about a dozen questions to ask you. The sooner you stop trying to analyze me, the quicker we can get this over with. What happens here could help or hinder your case. Now, you decide. Would you like to proceed? If not I’ll walk out that door and your competency evaluation walks with me. What’s your decision?”
“All right. Let’s start off right. For the record,” he glanced at the audio recorder. “I did not kill one person or those three people. If I’m gonna start killin’ people, I might hunt down gays, Jews and blacks. If I got really lucky, I might knock off a black Jew who’s gay. We call that a three for one.”
“Who’s we?”
“Me, myself and I … along with lots of guys like me who wanna see this country stripped down to what’s real and ways to restore this as a nation of power. Somethin’ to be reckoned with! White lives matter, too, Doc. Now, before you bring on the mumbo-jumbo questions, I want to tell you why I admire the Unabomber.”
• • •
Later that afternoon, Elizabeth called Mike Bradford. He answered and said, “Before you tell me how it went with Boyd Baxter, I have one quick question.”
“Okay, what’s your question? I’ve been asking them for a while. It might be nice to answer one.”
“I’m starving. Did you have time to eat anything today? I know you’ve been running since early morning—from teaching your class to administering the competency evaluation. How about a late-light lunch before you head over to Nellie’s?”
“As long as we can start with drinks first … and how about dinner? I’m not going to Nellie’s tonight. She and I are going to The Flea Market and Crafts Show on Saturday. She loves to browse and stock up on locally made canning goods for the fall and winter.”
“Drinks first, as in plural? Was your competency evaluation of Baxter that bad?”
“On a scale of one to ten … ten being the worst, I can only say it was off the scale. I’ll brief you on what, no doubt, was the strangest competency hearing I’ve ever done. I feel like I should shower, but a drink sounds even better.”