by Tom Lowe
“What did you find out?”
“At one time, he was assigned to St. Patrick’s Parish. It was more than twenty years ago. Do you recall the name?”
“Vaguely. There have been a few priests that have come and gone through the years, just like any parish.”
“But the circumstances aren’t just like any parish, at least I hope they aren’t. Seems that Father Vogel was equivalent to a migrant worker. But rather than uproot and go to another job to work the harvest, he was uprooted by the diocese because of alleged child sex abuse. The cases were settled in civil courts where, for an undisclosed amout of money, apparently paid by whoever in the Vatican deals with this stuff. In the meantime, Father Vogel got his wrists slapped with a ruler and was shuffled off from parish to parish.”
Elizabeth looked at a small chip in her nail polish on one finger. “I don’t know if this information will have any bearing on these killings, but I wish I’d known this when I met with Father MacGrath. He might not speak about Father Vogel’s transfer, but I have to ask him.”
“Gotta go. I’m at the scene.”
Elizabeth disconnected, set her phone on the table and looked up at Otto. “Detective Bradford found out that the priest murdered in Natchez was one of the associate priests at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church at least twenty years ago. His name was Father Howard Vogel. He was transferred to a few parishes by the hierarchy in the Catholic church because of alleged child sex abuse. There were settlements in civil courts. I’m assuming criminal charges, if there were any, were dropped.”
Otto sipped his coffee and said, “This, Elizabeth, may be that elusive connection you’ve been seeking. Perchance, could whomever killed Father Vogel have been abused by him as a child?”
“Then why would that person kill others who are not priests, but are members of the church?”
“That’s the psychological question we can’t answer at this point. However, there are always traumatic scars on the victims of any kind of sex abuse as a child. This person could have repressed his anger for years, and then something happened. Something changed that gave him the reason, in his mind, to begin killing. And, his first victim was the man who’d abused him as a child.”
Elizabeth watched the waitress approach their table. She said, “Let’s order and eat. We can discuss this over lunch. Maybe, by the time we’re done, Mike Bradford will let me know what he found and whether it’s connected to St. Patrick’s.”
SIXTY-NINE
Detective Bradford stared at a tattoo of the Joker on the dead man’s body. He looked closely at the circle of blood that was swirled around it. The Lincoln Navigator smelled of urine, feces, and gym socks. A blowfly buzzed somewhere in the recesses of the large vehicle. Bradford wore rubber gloves as he examined the scene, looking closely at the tattoo, the ligature marks, the wooden cross in the hands. Blood had seeped from the left side of the blue lips, the blood now dry and looking as if dark red candle wax had dripped on the collar of the scoutmaster’s uniform.
Bradford took shallow breaths and looked across the front seat to the open door on the other side of the Lincoln SUV. His partner, Bill Lee, waited for a CSI tech to snap another picture from that angle. When the tech moved, Bradford looked at Lee and said, “Houston, we have a problem.”
“You think?” Lee said, walking around the SUV to the passenger side.
Bradford glanced over his shoulder, beyond the yellow crime scene tape that made a large square, fifty feet on all sides of the area. He could see TV news trucks arriving and reporters, cameramen, and a camerawoman scrambling. There was the sound of a news helicopter in the distance. More than a dozen sheriff’s deputy cars scattered around the parking lot, the strobe of blue and white lights flashing. Two ambulances, half a dozen emergency vehicles and two vans from the coroner’s office were there.
Bradford stood straight from leaning over to study the body. “The M.E. says the guy probably didn’t die from the head wound. It was the choking that killed him. Looks like it was done by someone with a lot of strength to pull up hard on that ascot.”
Lee nodded and said, “That would mean the killer was hiding in the back seat. When the vic got in behind the wheel, all hell broke loose. You can see the heavy scuff marks along the floorboard and dash area from the vic kicking with everything he had before he passed out.”
Bradford pointed to the tattoo. “And we have blood around that tat on the guy’s arm. Did you notice it’s fake? Bill, none of the news media know about the tats on the vics circled in blood. So, what does that tell you?”
“Tells me it’s not a copy-cat killing. And it tells me that it’s just a matter of time before Baxter’s attorney petitions the court for bail or requests Baxter be released altogether because of this murder—one he couldn’t have done because he was in jail.”
“Unless Baxter’s not alone, and his neo-Nazis are in collusion with him. A similar style murder doesn’t mean Baxter didn’t commit Donnelly’s murder or the other two. But it does weaken the case. Particularly if we’re able to link them as a serial run. The latter option is getting stronger by the day as were seeing a specific signature.”
A CSI tech wearing rubber gloves and a camera around his neck, approached. He said, “Detective Bradford, let me know when I can snap a few from this angle. The vic’s got a helluva gash in the back of his head.”
Bradford said, “Help yourself.” He nodded and walked around to the rear of the Lincoln. Bill Lee followed, and they compared notes. After a few minutes, Bradford looked up at the swelling ranks of news media beyond the yellow tape. He glanced at Lee and said, “This is the kind of murder that will make headlines way beyond Forrest County. We have a dead boy scout leader—a victim who’s lived here all his life, strangled and bludgeoned to death less than a hundred feet from a little league field where he coached for years.”
Lee nodded, looking at his phone. He said, “Sheriff’s calling for an update. Maybe he held that news conference a little too early. Four bodies in Forrest County, and we have no idea if there will be more.” Lee stepped away and took the call.
Bradford continued his investigation, examining the contents of the vehicle, speaking more with the medical examiner, and looking again at the wound on the back of the victim’s head. After another twenty minutes, he walked toward the reporters sequestered behind the yellow tape. Cameras clicked. Flashes fired. Microphones were pointed in Bradford’s direction. He looked at the reporter and said, “We can’t comment much on this until notification of next of kin. I can tell you we are working this as a homicide. The victim appears to be a middle-aged, white male. The Lincoln Navigator is registered in his name. Again, the man’s identity can’t be released yet. The medical examiner will complete an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death. I can tell you the victim appears to have been strangled and then bludgeoned.”
“When was the person killed?” asked a blonde TV reporter in a light pink blouse and dark pants.
“Not long ago. The M.E. will give as close an estimate as to the time of death.”
“Who found the body?” asked a tall radio reporter wearing wire-framed glasses.
“A local resident walking her dog. She told us she’d seen the car in the parking lot at the end of a little league game, and it was still there this morning. So, she walked over to see if it was abandoned. That’s when she spotted the body on the driver’s side behind the wheel.”
A TV reporter reached over the yellow tape, his arm long, a microphone in his right hand. He asked, “Detective Bradford, could this person be the fourth victim murdered by a serial killer? Have you now connected the murders?”
“It’s way too early to speculate.”
The reporter said, “We spoke to Francis Compton, the woman who found the body and first dialed 9-1-1. She said she glanced through the driver’s side window, thinking that the man inside the Lincoln Navigator might be asleep. She told us on camera that it gave her the creeps and almost vomited when she spotted a wooden
cross resting in the man’s hands, an oddity amongst such a surreal and violent backdrop. We understand that Brian Woods, one of the other victims of the alleged serial killer, was found with a cross in his hands. So, my question is this … since it looks like the work of the same killer … and, if it was, what does that say about the arrest of Boyd Baxter?”
SEVENTY
Otto Emerson and Elizabeth were just finishing lunch when Mike Bradford called with horrific news. Bradford stood next to his unmarked sheriff’s car less than one-hundred feet from the Lincoln Navigator in the center of the yellow crime-scene tape. CSI techs and sheriff’s deputies were still processing the area, the strobe of white and red lights sweeping the spectacle. Bradford spoke into his phone and said, “We have what appears to be a fourth victim.”
“Dear God,” Elizabeth whispered.
“White male. Identified as Joe Jackson, fifty-three. A lifelong resident of Hattiesburg. Looks like he was coming to or going from a boy scout event. He’s wearing a scoutmaster’s uniform.” Bradford gave Elizabeth more details and said, “We found an adult-sized baseball uniform in the vic’s Lincoln. So, I’m assuming he’s a coach, too.”
“A little league coach and a scoutmaster. Sounds like the all-American kind of guy. How was he killed?”
“We found deep ligature marks around his neck. Looks like a wound from an ax in the back of the head … and the M.E. believes, due to very little blood loss near the wound, that chop to the head wasn’t the fatal blow. It was the strangulation. It looks like the killer used blood from the head wound to draw a circle around a tattoo Jackson had on his forearm. The tattoo is of the Joker from the Batman movies. It’s a helluva bad scene out here … similar in the aftermath to the others.”
“Was there something else you found?”
“The tattoo is fake—a press-on kids would wear—but you wouldn’t know that at first glance. Also, the victim had a wooden cross shoved in his hands.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. She looked at Otto and spoke to Bradford. “What’s your gut telling you, Mike? Is this the same guy or, God forbid, do we have a copycat killer?”
“It’s still too early to tell. It’s obviously the same sort of scene … the same sick depravity and signature. We know one thing for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“The guy sitting in the county jail, Boyd Baxter, didn’t do it.”
“The tattoo with the blood …” Elizabeth hesitated as a mother and child walked by her table on the way to the restroom.
“What about it?”
“Did you ever share that specific detail with the news media?”
“No, so that may negate a copy-cat theory. As far as I know, none of them have picked up on it.”
“Whoever killed this guy knew. He knew because either someone, maybe a deputy or a CSI tech, shared it somehow. Or he knew because he’s the real killer—a serial killer—and Baxter truly is an innocent man.”
“That makes my head hurt even more. Elizabeth, I have to go. The sheriff just arrived, and the news media are going nuts.” Bradford disconnected.
Elizabeth set her phone down and looked up at Otto. “We have a fourth victim. A man, possibly a boy scout leader, was found dead in his car. The victim’s car is in a school parking lot near a little league field. Looks like he was someone who coached little league, too. I’m mystified by the tattoos in these crimes. Mike said this vic had a fake one … yet, the tattoos were real on the first two victims. The killer, if he had a biblical aversion to skin cuttings, probably would know the difference. So why does he want us to notice this particular signature? Otto, what the hell’s going on here?”
“What you suspected, Baxter may not be the perp. Since the vic’s death is within the last few hours, Baxter’s out of the running, at least as a serial killer. And, too many things are pointing to these murders as serial by a signature or mission killer. Copycat killers, however, do emerge from time to time. But it’s rare in a relatively small community area like Forrest County. The odds would be much less here than in places, such as New York or Los Angeles.”
“I’m almost at a loss for words.”
“Elizabeth, this doesn’t in any way diminish the criminal profile you did. Baxter certainly fits much of it, but your profile better fits someone who’s methodical, not all over the place like you’ve been describing Baxter. As the crime scene detectives look through the forensics, you can look somewhere else.”
“I think I know where you’re going with this. I need to see if the victim, Joe Jackson, has a connection with St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.”
“Exactly.”
SEVENTY-ONE
For a brief second, Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether to call Father MacGrath on his cell phone or go through the church secretary. She decided to use the main number. A woman answered and said, “St. Patrick’s Catholic Church … how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, is this Patricia Owen?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“Patricia, it’s Elizabeth Monroe. I’m wondering if you can do a quick favor for me?”
“I’ll sure try, Elizabeth. How may I help you?”
“Can you look at your membership records and let me know if Joseph Jackson is a member?”
“Did you say Joseph Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“We have a Joe Jackson. Officially, he’s listed as Joseph, but everybody calls him Joe. He’s been attending here on a regular basis for years.” She chuckled and said, “Not only does he attend on a regular basis, Joe always says he’s just a regular Joe when he’s introduced to new people. He’s very active in the church and even more active in the community, especially with young people. He’s involved in things, such as scouting and little league. Joe’s great. We need more folks in this world just like him. Are you trying to get a message to Joe?”
“No, but I would like to speak with Father MacGrath. Is he in his office?”
“Not at the moment. He’s on his way back from visiting a member who’s in the hospital … Thelma Hickman. She’s in treatment for stage four breast cancer. I feel so bad for her … it has gone to the bones. Such a sweet woman. She worked twenty-five years for the Hattiesburg library. Do you know Thelma?”
“No, and I’m sorry to hear about her cancer. When Father MacGrath returns, would you please have him call me?”
“Of course.”
Elizabeth gave the secretary her number, thanked her, and disconnected. She looked across the table at Otto Emmerson and said, “I guess you heard that.”
“Most of it. But not the part of confirmation as to whether this poor guy was a member of the church.”
“He was. And now this makes four. What do you think, Otto? What are we missing here?”
“Here’s what could be happening. As I mentioned, it’s highly unlikely that we have a copycat killer in this part of Mississippi. However, we have some folks who might align themselves on the side of Boyd Baxter or at least Baxter’s mission of hate and politics of destruction. If a few of his colleagues decide to throw the light of suspicion off Baxter, they or any sympathizer could have committed the latest murder. News media will jump all over it, and in the court of public opinion, Baxter’s not guilty before he’s ever tried in a real court. Eventually, Baxter is released back into the pack where he may stray from them to kill again. And, I preface this theory if he is indeed the murderer. If he’s really innocent and sitting in the county jail awaiting trial, then there is a hell of a deadly and diabolical killer roaming Forrest County.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She sipped her coffee, mind racing. “The line in the sand, Otto, is the line or circle drawn around those tattoos. It’s not common knowledge. The news media haven’t been broadcasting it or writing about it because Detective Bradford, not wanting to disclose everything and compromise his investigation, hasn’t released that information. The latest vic had blood circled around his tat. If Baxter is the killer, maybe he told one of his fellow Nazis what
he did. But that doesn’t seem probable. Also, we can’t forget about Father Vogel who once worked at St. Patrick’s … and, he’s dead, too.”
Otto took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with the back of both hands. He said, “It’s rare that individuals, even in extreme hate groups, would pinch hit and commit more murders. The exception could be if the person incarcerated was the leader. Based on what you shared about Baxter, I’d guess that isn’t the case.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I feel sure he’s a loner, more in the trenches and not the guy writing the hate manuals.” She took a deep breath, her eyes scanning the restaurant and the dozen or so diners eating and chatting. “Otto, did I ever tell you about the woman who practically raised my brother and I for the first fifteen years of my life?”
“You did mention a woman. Said she had a great impact on you, but I can’t recall her name.”
“It’s Nellie Culpepper. I was having dinner with her last week, something I try to do regularly, and she said whoever is doing this, hates bad … hates real bad … was the way she put it with her brow wrinkled and eyes wide. She was implying there is something within each victim that is soliciting the killer’s hate. Not that he’s a member of a hate group. So—what is generating that revulsion and why? What is the score to settle? Is that ‘something’ shared between all four vics … and maybe the murdered priest? I think that’s where we have to go to find the killer.”
SEVENTY-TWO
Elizabeth and Otto were leaving the restaurant when Father MacGrath returned her call. She stepped off of the wooden porch and stood near a hanging basket of impatiens. Otto took a seat in one of the rocking chairs scattered along the porch. Elizabeth held the phone to her ear and said, “Father MacGrath, thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”
“No problem, Elizabeth.”