by Tom Lowe
SEVENTY-FIVE
Father MacGrath stood before the St. Patrick’s congregation and used both hands to lift a golden chalice from the dais. He held it in front of him and said, “May this mingling and hallowing of the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ be for all of us who receive it … a source of eternal life … amen.” He set the chalice back on the dais, made the sign of the cross, and proceeded with Holy Communion.
Father Mario Lopez, a swarthy man with coal black hair, slightly rounded shoulders, assisted with communion. Two stoic deacons in white robes helped with bringing the hosts and wine. An altar boy softly rang two hand bells in the background. A line of parishioners formed in front of both priests, the flock silently approaching the altar to receive the host and sip from the wine chalice. All heard the words, “The Body of Christ … the Blood of Christ.”
Father MacGrath nodded as an older woman took the host, made the sign of the cross and moved to the left, next to Father Lopez, to receive the symbolic wine. The next parishioner to step up to Father MacGrath was a man who looked to be in his early thirties. Hair the dark brown of autumn leaves in winter. Wide shoulders. His mouth was slightly turned down. Oval face that was impassive, like a poker player waiting for a turn of cards. He didn’t lift his hands to receive the host from Father MacGrath. Instead, he held out his right hand close to his body, requiring the priest to come a little closer.
Father MacGrath complied, moving forward with the cup that held the communion wafers. He could smell the man’s cologne.
He recognized it.
The scent from the confessional.
He set the wafer into the man’s palm and said, “The Body of Christ.” The man did not respond. Slowly he closed his hand into a tight fist. Face aloof.
Father MacGrath noticed a small, heart-shaped mole on the left side of the man’s face, and then he looked into his blue-gray eyes. These were the eyes he’d peered into decades earlier. The frightened look of that boy now long gone and replaced with eyes that were steely hard, as if looking at him through two peepholes in time. Unblinking.
The man shifted his hard gaze to an altar boy in the background softly ringing the hand bells, Father Lopez’s voice nearby saying, “The Blood of Christ.” After another few seconds, the man returned his icy scrutiny to Father MacGrath, a mock smile moving across his narrow lips. He walked away, the melodious sound of the bells filling Father MacGrath’s ears with a deafening pulse.
• • •
Mike Bradford rarely watched television on Sunday mornings. This Sunday would be an exception. He wanted to catch the local and national news to see how the news media reported the latest information on the case—to see who, if any, obliterated the facts to create an altered version of the story. Fresh from a shower, he poured a cup of coffee and sipped it as he walked from his kitchen to the living room. He found the remote and turned on the TV.
The station carried a live church service. He started to change the channels when he heard a voice that stopped him. He’d heard it somewhere before … but where? He looked at the screen as the camera cut from a shot of hundreds of parishioners to the priest. An older priest was holding up a chalice and conducting communion. He stopped, looked at his congregation and spoke into the microphone in a low, almost whispered voice. “In the words of Christ, take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my Blood and the Blood of the new and eternal covenant, which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in memory of me.”
Bradford stared at the screen. He thought about the audio recording on Olivia Curtis’s phone. The voice may not be exactly the same, but it was similar—eerily similar. Bradford read the caption at the bottom of the screen. St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. He knew he was watching Father MacGrath conduct mass. He sipped his coffee, his thoughts traveling from an ornate church across town to the body of Olivia Curtis in a primitive forest. The camera cut from the priest to the congregation. Bradford looked closer. Elizabeth Monroe sat in a pew, her eyes following the priests, her thoughts unreadable.
Bradford muted the sound, sat on his couch, staring at the church service in silence before pressing a button and watching the screen turn to black.
He waited about an hour and a half, then called Elizabeth.
“Hi. I just walked in from church,” she said.
“I watched the mass from St. Patrick’ broadcast live this morning.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were a closet Catholic.” She smiled.
He grinned. “I’m testing the waters. I was actually about to watch a morning news show and caught some of the service when I turned on the TV. I saw two things. One was you in the congregation and the other was Father MacGrath—the older priest. What initially caught my attention was his voice … crazy as this sounds, it was similar to the voice recorded on Olivia Curtis’s phone. Not exactly, but close.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and slowly released it. She said, “I assure you, Mike, a seventy-something-year-old priest is not our serial killer.”
SEVENTY-SIX
On Monday Elizabeth waited for the church secretary, Patricia, to make copies of the membership records, which included names of families, and their home and email addresses and phone numbers. Many parishioners enjoyed receiving the monthly St. Patrick’s newsletter through email. Elizabeth stood near a window in the office, glancing outside. Someone on a motorcycle, face completely hidden by the helmet and visor, was pulling away from a parking spot. There were only five cars in the lot. She’d parked next to Father MacGrath’s Cadillac Escalade. The motorcycle had been next to her car.
“Can you give me another couple of minutes?” the secretary asked, standing at a door that lead to the copy and supply room.
“Absolutely, Patricia. No hurry.”
The woman made a cursory smile and disappeared into the back room. Elizabeth then remembered she had received a text while she was talking with Patricia, shortly after she had arrived at the church. She glanced at her cell and read it. Mike Bradford wrote: Please call me immediately. Urgent.
She made the call and said, “Sorry about the delay in getting back with you. What’s urgent?”
“Are you still at the church?”
“Yes, I’m in the church office getting a list of every member of the congregation. I’m convinced that someone on that list is the killer.”
“Is Father MacGrath on the list?”
“I doubt it. He’s the senior priest.”
“Then maybe he should be.”
“Mike, what the hell’s going on?”
“We got a tip. Caller was put through dispatch, and Bill Lee took the call. The caller told him that he’d seen a Cadillac Escalade parked next to the Lincoln Navigator in the school parking lot. He said he found it interesting because both vehicles appeared brand new. Both are the top of the line for Ford and Chevy. He said they were parked as if the owners were comparing their cars … almost nose to nose. Or front bumper to front bumper.”
“Did the caller leave a name or number?”
“No, he said he really wanted to call the crime tip line where callers remain anonymous but dialed the wrong number and was put through to the homicide division.”
“Okay, Mike. Where’s this leading.”
“The caller said he saw a man get out of the passenger side of the Lincoln Navigator, walk around the vehicle and get into the Escalade. He said he only remembered it because he said the man wore the white collar of a priest. He said the priest was carrying something that looked like a hammer from the distance. Elizabeth, what kind of car does Father MacGrath drive?”
Elizabeth glanced out the window, bit her bottom lip and said, “Cadillac Escalade.”
“What color is it?”
“Red.”
“Sort of a deep blood red?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the color of the Escalade I saw on the security camera at New Shepherd Baptist Church. Elizabeth, I have a search
warrant. Detective Lee and I will search the priest’s car and house. If Father MacGrath’s car is at the church, it means he is—you need to get out of there immediately.”
“Father MacGrath is the one who gave me permission to get the church membership records. That’s what I’m doing.” Elizabeth looked toward the supply room, the noise of the copy machine ratcheting. She stepped further away, toward the exit and lowered her voice. “Mike, Father MacGrath admitted to me that the priest who was murdered in Natchez, Father Vogel, was a priest at St. Patrick’s years ago. Vogel was a pedophile who dodged criminal charges for a lot of reasons that pedophiles get away with these crimes. Their victims are children, often too afraid to come forward. They’re traumatized and embarrassed.” Elizabeth shared the information and added, “Maybe whoever killed Father Vogel was one of his victims as a child. And now he’s back in Forrest County, or maybe he’d never left. But something has triggered his rage.”
“Why kill innocent people like a little league coach, a waitress, or a young couple planning a wedding?”
“I don’t have those answers, but I think they’re tied to St. Patrick’s and its history with Father Vogel.”
“Do you think Father MacGrath is a pedophile?”
“No, I don’t. But, if the victims or possible victims of Vogel, when he was at St. Patrick’s … if they believe Father MacGrath swept any allegations under the carpet and was in collusion with hierarchy of the Catholic Church who knew about it … that could be a different story. A story of revenge—of settling a score. ”
Bradford said nothing for a few seconds. He drove the unmarked sheriff’s car, Detective Bill Lee in the car with him. “Elizabeth, at this point, it seems to me the guy who’s in the center of this is the senior priest at your church … Father MacGrath. Maybe he’s being blackmailed.”
“I don’t think that’s it. I think he’s heard something in confession, and he’s scared.”
“All of that is pure speculation until we can bring MacGrath in and question him. If he was told something in confession that will solve these crimes, he’d better tell us what he knows, or he could be facing murder-one charges. We’ll be there in a few minutes. We don’t know what’s going to happen. You should get out of there.” He disconnected.
Elizabeth walked from the vestibule to the long hallway leading down to the closed door to Father MacGrath’s office.
Was he the killer … a monster just beyond the door?
Elizabeth didn’t want to believe it. How could she have been so wrong? Her judgement and love for one man so misplaced? She looked at a bulletin board mounted on one wall of the receptionist’s office and thought of the white board in her classroom. She could see her hand holding a marker, the black ink neatly forming words on the board: Know thyself.
She heard her own voice speaking to the class, the eyes of her students open, receptive. Listening. “Know thyself … An unexamined life is not worth living. This philosophy is where the cornerstone of forensic psychology is laid. What do you think I mean by that?”
Elizabeth saw a student’s face as the girl answered. “Is it like to be honest with yourself because, if you lie to yourself about who you really are, what good is that when you’re using psychology to help others. It’s being authentic.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Elizabeth didn’t know how much time she had before detectives, maybe accompanied by deputies, walked into the church offices to question Father MacGrath. She glanced at her watch, looked down the long hallway one more time before walking across the office to the supply and copy room. The secretary, Patricia, was just finishing. She placed pages of paper in a folder and said, “Here you go, Elizabeth. The list is up-to-date. Most members of the parish prefer to get our newsletter online, through their email, but we still have phone numbers and home addresses.”
“Thank you very much. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Well, now that you mentioned it. Maybe one more thing. I know that when I had booked time for confession, which was a while ago, and I’m overdue for another …”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Yes, unfortunately. At least I hope I don’t repeat the same sins.” Elizabeth smiled. “Anyway, I know I had made an appointment through you to reserve the confessional booth.”
“Yes. It’s still done that way. Father MacGrath or Father Lopez never know the names of the parishioners, only the appointment times. The priest arrives first and proceeds with whatever number of confessions we have scheduled. Usually, it’s only one for a given time. Sometimes, though, there are a couple. We schedule them at least ten minutes apart in case the times go over a tad. They usually don’t.”
“You could do me a huge favor. If you can look at your appointment book for the last month, see who made appointments, then put a check mark by their names on this list, I would really appreciate it.”
“I’m not sure I can do that because of the confidentiality of the confession.”
“Yes, the confidentiality has to do with what’s confessed to the priests for God’s ears during the time in the confessional—the context of what was confessed. Appointment times and people, even if my name was on the list, means nothing more than we’re being good Catholics and confessing our sins.”
“I understand, but I should ask Father MacGrath.” She started to pick up the phone.
“You don’t need to interrupt Father MacGrath. Patricia, I wish I didn’t have to tell you this … but when I do, you will understand why I made the request. As you know, another member of St. Patrick’s has died. The killer, for some reason, is targeting our members. That makes the need for this information urgent.”
The secretary touched her neck with the tips of three fingers, her eyes wide.
Elizabeth said, “With Joe Jackson murdered last week, his death brings the number of murder victims from this parish up to four.”
“Oh … dear … you think our members are being targeted? This is … this is beyond words.” She made a dry swallow, looked at a painting of Christ across the vestibule. Her eyes welled.
“I’m so sorry to have to share that with you. Somehow, we believe, the confessional may have a link to the murders. That doesn’t mean those members who made appointments for confession are suspects. But they might know something they can share with police that the priests cannot do. Also, my collecting this information and what we discussed today is highly confidential. Understand?”
The woman barely shook her head, her thoughts isolated.
Elizabeth said, “Please, check off the names of people who made confession appointments the last month.” Elizabeth handed the list of names back to the secretary.
She managed a nod, opened a drawer on her desk, removed a file folder, and then made cross-reference checking. Within a few minutes, she’d checked fifteen names and handed the list back to Elizabeth. “Thank you, Patricia.”
“You’re welcome. I thought the man who killed the first three members of the parish was locked in jail and awaiting trial.”
“He was arrested for one murder and a suspect in the other two. And, yes, he’s still there, yet Joe Jackson was murdered.”
“What does that mean?”
“That’s why I asked you for this list. I think the answer is somewhere in here.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Judge Anthony Zeigler sat behind the bench, scanned the motion before him, and looked over his bifocals to a packed courtroom. In the last fifteen years as a circuit court judge, he couldn’t remember a time when a bond hearing had generated this much interest. Members of the news media sat in the second and third rows. Cameramen with tripods, stood near the back wall, TV cameras pointed toward the defendant and his lawyer.
Judge Zeigler looked over to the table where Boyd Baxter, dressed in a wrinkled orange jumpsuit with the words County Jail stitched on the back, sat next to his attorney, Clyde Conner. “Mr. Baxter, your psychological examinat
ion states that you are indeed competent to stand trial. Therefore, we are going to move your case forward to a Grand Jury. Your attorney can advise you of any appropriate information and dates in between. Once the Grand Jury deliberates, and if probable cause is found, an arraignment will be set where you’ll appear and learn your trial date. Do you understand?”
Baxter nodded, and in a barely audible voice, said, “Yes.”
Clyde Conner stood and addressed the judge. “Regarding bond and the charges, Your Honor … my client has been a long-time resident, an upstanding citizen for quite some time, and is a United States army veteran. He also was in …”
Zeigler could tell that Conner was using his acting skills, trying not to display his natural conceit. “Mr. Conner,” Judge Zeigler said, his voice gravely from years of pipe smoking and a taste for bourbon, “I’ve heard your argument and read your motion. However, I’m not convinced, at least in the best interest of the county, that what you contend here is accurate. In my book, anyone facing charges of kidnapping and murder, and actively being investigated for multiple homicides, is indeed a flight risk. I don’t care how long he’s lived in the county or what regiment his great, great granddaddy fought with during the Civil War.”