The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  “Are you sensing he may know something about these killings and doesn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe, but, it’s not that he doesn’t want to talk. Perhaps he can’t. If he heard something from someone, specifically in a confession, he will not disclose the information for fear of breaking the two-thousand-year-old sacred covenant of canon law.”

  “I’d like to think laws related to the prevention of homicide or the apprehension of someone who committed a homicide would supersede canon law.”

  Elizabeth watched a drop of condensation roll down the stem of her martini glass. “It’s difficult to understand. Any priest who divulges someone’s confession is subject to defrocking and excommunication from the church. He told me that he cannot compromise any degree or breadth to allow words spoken in confidence during confession to become public. Father MacGrath, after forty years as a priest, is about to hang up his collar. Probably the last thing he wants is to go out in flaming controversy.”

  Bradford finished his drink and said, “In my opinion, life and death consequences trump a right to privacy when it comes to a murderer confessing his sins in a confession booth.”

  “We don’t know that’s what happened. It probably hasn’t. But after finishing this martini on an empty stomach, I’m grabbing at straws trying hard to find the common link.” Elizabeth reached in her purse for a pen and slip of paper. She wrote down a name and slid the paper across the table to Bradford.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Matthew Long. It’s a name Father MacGrath reluctantly gave me. Father told me Long is a new member of the parish. He may not even be registered as a member, but he attends a couple times a month. The guy’s got a lot of issues stemming from war, combat, death … all compounded into PTSD. If, for some reason, the case against Baxter falls apart, you might want to question Matthew Long.”

  “Okay,” Bradford said, putting the slip of paper in the inside pocket of his sports coat. Would you like another drink?”

  “Not yet. Maybe a glass of wine later with dinner.” She clenched and unclenched her hands on the table.

  Bradford reached out and held her right hand. He said, “It seems like Baxter really upset you. Don’t let him. He’s not worth it.”

  “I’m not. It’s not Baxter, specifically. It’s this whole thing. The psychological pieces aren’t firing well enough to paint a picture with Baxter’s hard face in it.” She paused, glanced down at Bradford’s wide hand on hers and said, “Mike, you remember a few months ago, I believe it was in Natchez … a priest was murdered. Parishioners discovered his body near the altar on Sunday morning. I don’t think they ever found the killer.”

  “I do remember the murder. What about it?”

  “I wonder if there is any way it could be connected to the killings we’ve experienced?”

  “Seems like a longshot. Natchez is clear across the state. There are a lot of Catholic parishes in Mississippi and throughout the South.”

  “Yes, but there are not a lot of murdered priests. That is the only case I can think of in Mississippi. I don’t remember the victim’s name, but I wonder if he was ever assigned to St. Patrick’s at some point in his career.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to find out. I’ll look into it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Good. Thanks.”

  “Let’s order.”

  “Okay. Oh, speaking of Natchez, an old friend of mine, Otto Emerson … I’d mentioned his name before to you. Otto helped set up the FBI’s criminal profile department—the Behavioral Science Unit, or BSU. He’s retired and living in Natchez with his wife. He’ll be in Hattiesburg tomorrow. He worked some of the toughest profile cases in the nation. Coincidently, the Unabomber case. I’m having lunch with Otto. I want to run this by him—my profile of the perp. Get a fresh pair of eyes on the psychology of all this, including my competency evaluation of Boyd Baxter. Maybe Otto can offer something I haven’t seen.”

  “Even after interviewing Baxter, the forensic evidence we have … you aren’t convinced—”

  “I’m convinced he’s evil, more of a sociopath over a psychopath, and certainly capable of murder. But the psychology of this keeps returning me to the church. Maybe Otto can help me find out why.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  The following day, Elizabeth was anxious to hear what one of the FBI’s best criminal profilers would say about the case. She took a seat at a table in the Front Porch Café, ordered coffee and glanced at the menu. She was fifteen minutes early, her mind replaying parts of the conversation with Father MacGrath. “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.”

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Martha Black, standing next to Elizabeth’s table with a pot of coffee in her hand. “Where’s your detective friend?”

  “I was just going to call him. He’s probably up to his elbows with the aftermath of the preliminary hearing and putting pieces of his case together as it moves through the judicial system.”

  “Honey, I was at the hearing. Sat in the front row. Detective Bradford was in the second row close behind me. I tell you what, after Boyd Baxter’s hearing, he tried to stare down the detective. It didn’t happen. Detective Bradford strikes quite a larger than life figure. Reminds me of a mix between Clint Eastwood and Liam Neeson.”

  “I’m glad you were there, Martha. Was Brandon Donnelly there, too?”

  “Yes, he stood along the back wall. I could tell that all he wanted was two minutes alone with Baxter. We started a fund at the restaurant and online to help Brandon with the kids. Wanda worked a lot of hours here. She made good tips. He’ll miss that income.”

  Elizabeth unzipped her purse, lifting out a handful of twenty-dollar bills. She handed them to Martha and said, “Please, add this to the fund. I met Brandon. My heart goes out to him and those children.”

  “Will do. Thanks.” Martha paused, glanced over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “Liz, I happened to see that gun inside your purse. Do you always carry it?”

  Elizabeth set her purse near her feet and said, “After my life was threatened last year, I started going to the gun range. My granddaddy taught me to shoot when I was a teenager. I grew up around guns. I wish I’d taught Molly.”

  Martha’s eyes filled with sympathy. “You didn’t ever know you’d need to. Nowadays, with crazies walkin’ in any place and shootin’ it up, a gun is a good idea.” Martha watched an older man approach the table. He had perfectly parted white hair, a wide smile, eyes that sparkled. He wore a tweed sports coat, blue shirt, and khaki pants.

  “Hi, Elizabeth,” Otto Emerson said, walking up and kissing her on the check.

  She hugged him and said, “It’s so good to see you. Martha, I want you to meet my dear friend, Otto Emerson. Otto, this is Martha Black. Her family has owned the Front Porch Café for years.”

  He smiled and extended his hand, “So nice to meet you, Martha. If the food tastes as good as it smells, well, I’ll have died and gone to God’s heavenly kitchen.”

  She grinned coyly and said, “Well, we can’t compete with St. Peter and whoever he’s got in the kitchen. Could be that Julia Child is there makin’ some of her dishes. I read one of her cookbooks and laughed when she wrote, ‘If you’re afraid of butter, use cream.’ We use a lot of butter here. We’re not afraid of anything. It goes great on hot cornbread.”

  “Indeed,” said Otto. “And buttermilk biscuits, too. I live in Natchez. Maybe I can get a petition signed to entice you to open a Front Porch Café over there.”

  “I love Natchez. It wouldn’t take much for me to consider that. I’d let my brother run this place. I’ll have Gloria bring y’all another menu. Coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Martha smiled and disappeared into the influx of a dozen new customers coming in for lunch, the restaurant quickly turning t
ables as people hurried back to work.

  Otto took a seat across the table from Elizabeth and said, “What a delightful lady.”

  “She treats her employees like family.”

  “I read about Boyd Baxter’s preliminary hearing. Bond denied due to the kidnapping, nature of the murder and flight risk. Interesting the district attorney planted the seed about the other murders. Should make a very interesting trial. I may drive back over here to catch the opening day.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Only a former FBI profiler might say that. It’s sort of like catching opening day of baseball’s spring training down in Florida.”

  A waitress in her forties brought a second menu and coffee. She smiled and said, “Unless y’all are ready to order, I’ll give you folks a few minutes to look over the menu.”

  “Thanks,” said Otto.

  “Special today is mama’s meatloaf. Comes with two sides—collards, mashed potatoes, fried okra, squash or zucchini casserole.” She smiled and walked away.

  Otto sipped his coffee and then asked, “Is there anything new in regard to the case you want to share with me?”

  “I conducted a competency evaluation on Boyd Baxter. He definitely has issues. Many of them connected to his father’s brutality toward him.”

  “Is his father dead?”

  “Yes, but in Baxter’s eyes he died long before he was sent to prison. His father was serving a life sentence for a collection of crimes—racketeering, assault, planning a hit that led to the death of his boss … and that was the convictions. He was a suspect in much more. He died in prison at the hand of another inmate. Charles Baxter was one of the original members of the Dixie Mafia.”

  “I remember them. About as cold-blooded as they come.”

  “Combine Boyd Baxter’s rough and tumble childhood with multiple tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq, the result is someone who’s definitely paranoid. But, I’m now seeing sociopathic not psychopathic. He’s angry and trusts no one. He does understand the charges. Understands the crimes. And, he understands he has to work with, not against, his attorney in court. He’s a practicing neo-Nazi who is the first to grin and tell you he wishes genocide for Jews, gays and blacks.” Elizabeth filled Otto in on her time spent with Baxter.

  “He fits the mold as a potential murder suspect,” Otto said. “But does he fit the killer’s shoes. When you were talking about the killer’s profile on the phone the other day, something you said stood out to me. You said, Baxter fit ‘some key areas.’ Many hate groups, neo-Nazis in particular, flaunt a lot of tattoos, especially those of swastikas.”

  “Maybe it was for some kind of shock value that he wanted, but Baxter told me that one of the people he admires was Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber.”

  Elizabeth’s phone buzzed on the table. Mike Bradford calling.

  Otto said, “You can answer it, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s a detective I’m working with on the case. I’ll call him back. I rarely have time with you. This is just as important.”

  “I was with the Bureau when we were hunting down Kaczynski. At that time, it was the costliest manhunt in American history. After I return from the restroom, I’d like to hear why Baxter admires a man who murdered three people and injured twenty-three others, many with severe, debilitating injuries that compromise their lives to this very day. In the meantime, you might want to return your detective friend’s call. See what he wants.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Elizabeth could hear the sounds of multiple sirens in the distance. She sipped her coffee at the table inside the Front Porch Café and wondered if the emergency vehicles were rushing to an automobile accident. Or was it something else. She tried Mike Bradford’s number and got his voice-mail. She disconnected, smiling as Otto Emerson returned to the table, sat down, and asked, “Did you reach the detective?”

  “No. Call went to his voicemail. He must be pretty busy.”

  Otto nodded. “I think I know what you’re going to tell me, but why did Boyd Baxter say he admired the Unabomber?”

  Elizabeth shared the story and added, “Baxter is competent to stand trial. He’s sociopathic and seething with anger. He knows right from wrong and is in contempt with society. He’s a hate monger who’d like to wipe gays, blacks and Jews off the face of the earth and take the nation down with it. To my knowledge, none of our victims matched those groupings.”

  Otto shook his head. “Baxter, in my book, is an extremely loose cannon. If he isn’t a murderer, I think he has the predisposition to become one. He’s virulent and may be violent.”

  “But, just like the Unabomber, Baxter does not want the moniker of mental illness around his neck.”

  “Interesting dynamics … to carry a label as a killer or worse, a serial killer, but don’t tag them with the mark of insanity. Elizabeth, tell me more about the Donnelly case and the other victims.”

  “I told you about the fact that all three victims were members of the same church I attend, St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “One victim, a married mother of two, worked here as a waitress. Her name is Wanda Donnelly, which, as you know, is the murder Baxter’s been charged with.” Elizabeth told Otto what she knew about Wanda’s conversations with Baxter, the reference to tattoos and skin cutting, Baxter reciting from the Leviticus, and the parked car near Wanda’s home. She went through what she knew about the other victims.

  Otto listened without interruption and said, “The blood circling the tattoo on one victim certainly is a poignant piece of the puzzle. Combine that with Baxter’s detest for tattoos … there are some strong psychological parallels. Based on what you told me about Baxter and his conversation with Wanda, I could see how detectives would follow something that’s much stronger than a breadcrumb trail. However, of course, that doesn’t mean that Boyd Baxter is a serial killer.”

  “I went to St. Patrick’s on Tuesday and visited with Father MacGrath. He’s the senior priest and a dear friend of mine—the one who helped me try to deal with the senseless murder of my daughter, Molly.” Elizabeth told Otto about her visit and the conversation with Father MacGrath and added, “He certainly knew or knew of the victims, but he’s one of two main priests at the church. Although he’s the senior priest, he makes it his business to shake everyone’s hand and to hear their story. He doesn’t know why they were singled out by the killer. And, he said the suspect, Boyd Baxter, as far as Father MacGrath can determine, has never set foot in St. Patrick’s. Otto, there has to be a connection—the wooden cross in the hands of one male victim, the Latin phrase and what it means, the female victims put on display, including the circle of blood around one woman’s tattoo and specific attention called to other woman’s tattoo.”

  “Centered on all you’ve shared with me, I’d think your profile is as close as you can get it. Criminal psychopaths, the killers, often fall into three categories: mission, visionary, and hedonistic. The mission killers believe they’re on some kind of quest to rid the world of immoral people—the sub-race. The visionary killers believe they’re getting directions from a higher power, telling them to kill. The hedonistic killer selects and kills his or her prey for the thrill of the hunt. The person responsible for the three murders in Forrest County, which they appear to be linked, seem to lean toward the category of a mission killer. He believes it’s his responsibility to rid the world of the depraved, sinful—the sub-humans. On a mass scale, people like Hitler would fall into this category.”

  Elizabeth pushed back in her chair. She pulled a strand of hair behind one ear and said, “Boyd Baxter kept a shrine to Hitler in one of his bedrooms. He has an entire room dedicated to all things Nazi and embraces Hitler’s mission and personality type.”

  “That would further suggest that Baxter, if he’s the killer, committed these murders because he is or was on a mission, driven as Hitler was … to rid the world of people whom he feels are worthless and unworthy of life.”

  Elizabeth said nothin
g. She watched a family of four about to begin their meal, the man, woman and two children bowing their heads in prayer. “Otto, maybe I’m off base. Maybe Boyd Baxter did commit the murders … but …”

  “What, Elizabeth?”

  “A few months ago, a priest at a Natchez parish was murdered. I read about it. The news reports said his body was found near the altar.”

  “I didn’t know him, but I heard about it. At this point, no one has been arrested.”

  “Do they have a suspect?”

  “If they do, police are pretty tight-lipped about it. I believe the poor man was strangled. Are you suggesting there may be a link between the priest’s death and the killings here?”

  “I don’t know. There could be. My detective friend I mentioned, his name is Mike Bradford, is looking into it. Although, at this point, he believes Baxter’s the killer.”

  Elizabeth’s phone buzzed on the table. Mike Bradford calling. She looked up at Otto and said, “If you don’t mind, I should take this. The lead detective, Mike, is calling me a second time, which is odd because he knows I’m at lunch with a friend. I’ll be brief, but he might have something to say that I can share with you.”

  “Absolutely. Answer it. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Elizabeth looked across the restaurant to a mounted trophy buck head as she answered the phone, the dead deer’s brown glass eyes seemed to stare directly at her. “Hi, Mike.”

  “Elizabeth, where are you?”

  “I never like conversations that start that way.”

  “I never like days that start this way.”

  “What do you mean?” She glanced up at Otto who was sipping his coffee.

  “I’m driving to a crime scene. Appears to be a murder. That’s all I know at the moment. I’ll call you after I have time to investigate. My partner Bill Lee is coming from another direction. He might be there by now. Another thing I wanted to share with you. Maybe you can add this information to your profile. The priest killed a few months ago in Natchez, his name was Father Howard Vogel.”