by Tom Lowe
Father MacGrath’s attorney, Shelby Nolan, divided his professional time between Hattiesburg and Jackson. His firm, Nolan, Squires and Morgan, operated two offices with more than a dozen associates in Jackson and half that many in Hattiesburg. In his fifty years as an attorney, Shelby Nolan had, by far, the most wins in his column than all of his partners and associates combined. He had a mane of thick silver hair; a ruddy, narrow face; wire-rimmed glasses; and unreadable sea green eyes, which seemed to look into a person’s pores, searching for ancestral DNA.
Years ago, after winning a thirty-million-dollar, wrongful death lawsuit against a power company, Shelby picked up the nickname ‘Silver Fox,’ a name he didn’t try to justify or dignify. He stared at the prosecutor, patiently waiting for him to finish his soliloquy. The DA, now sixteen years into the job, didn’t personally prosecute cases anymore unless they were high profile and seemed to be a slam dunk.
The case of the state of Mississippi vs. Father Gregory MacGrath appeared to be such a situation. Two assistant prosecutors accompanied Springer—a gray bearded senior associate and a woman in her late thirties with pencil-drawn, black eyebrows and blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun.
Springer concluded by saying, “Although Father MacGrath appears to have been a model citizen for decades in the community, as we all know, appearances can be deceptive. Due to the physical and forensic evidence and the heinous nature of the crime, the state of Mississippi requests that bond be denied. Additionally, there’s a strong possibility this murder is connected to other murders—serial killings—collectively making this an active investigation. Therefore, with this at stake, anyone, regardless of his or her long history in the community, is a flight risk.”
Judge Anthony Zeigler cleared his throat. “Mr. Nolan, the floor is yours for about two minutes. Please be succinct.”
“Absolutely, Your Honor,” he said in a gravely southern drawl. “I can do that because it won’t take long to tell the story of Father MacGrath. He grew up here. It’s always been his home. He has a brother and a sister in Forrest County. He’s an internationally known Christian scholar, the author of two books. A sought-after speaker. He’s helped guide and grow St. Patrick’s Catholic Church from one of the smallest parishes in the state to one of the largest. But, beyond the size, it’s about what he’s done to help others learn to seek a higher power in their walk on earth, their walk with God.” There was a murmur in the gallery.
Shelby Nolan paused, his sense of timing flawless. “We will prove that the charge of murder for Joseph Jackson’s death is circumstantial at best, unfounded, and without merit. After what just occurred with the highly publicized bond release of someone else charged with Wanda Donnelly’s murder and suspected of the same serial crimes they are trying to accuse my client of, the sheriff’s office and the prosecutor are now hungry to find and saddle another suspect. This often creates and expedites mistakes and false accusations in the due process of investigations and the law itself. In my career in Mississippi, I’ve seen it happen more times than I’d like to admit. In the meantime, Your Honor, we ask that Father MacGrath be allowed to continue his important work within the ministry, that the bond be reasonable, to let this man of God continue making a positive difference as he has for the last forty years in our community. Thank you.”
Judge Zeigler ran his tongue on the inside of his mouth, he nodded at Shelby Nolan and looked directly at Father MacGrath. “Let me remind all of you in this courtroom that, in this hearing, the amount set has a direct bearing on the weight of the charges in or by themselves. It means that the defendant must satisfy that bond amount to assure he or she appears for trial. Considering the prosecutor’s case of probable cause with regards to the defendant, apparent forensic evidence, and the additional circumstantial evidence brought up here today, bond is set at one-million.”
The judge slammed down his gavel, got up from behind the bench and left as the courtroom erupted in loud chatter, TV news camera operators jockeying to get a shot of Father MacGrath being led away by two bailiffs. He was no longer wearing a dark suit and white collar of a priest.
He was wearing an orange jumpsuit.
And he wore the mark of suspicion across his back as plain as the letters: County Jail.
• • •
Following the hearing, bond had been made, and Father MacGrath walked out of the county jail. He wore his dark suit and collar, attorney Shelby Nolan at his side. Dozens of reporters met them as they walked down the courthouse steps. “What’s your next step, Father MacGrath?” shouted a perspiring newspaper reporter, his black-framed glasses sliding down his nose as he jostled an audio recorder and notebook.
“Mr. Nolan,” interjected another reporter, “did you think bail would be granted considering the homicide charge?”
Shelby Nolan stopped, waiting a few seconds for the rest of the herd of reporters to gather around. He said, “Yes, of course. This may be a homicide case, but I guarantee you one truism … Father Gregory MacGrath did not do it. Judge Zeigler made the right decision in granting bond. We will aggressively defend this case. The prosecutor knows they have no real evidence, and that Father MacGrath, who’s served this community for more than forty-five years, is being framed for a horrific crime he could not and did not do. If any of the recent murders are connected, my challenge for law enforcement is to go out there and find the real killer before it happens again.” He paused and touched Father MacGrath on the shoulder. “If you fine members of the press will excuse us, my client has to prepare for next Sunday’s mass like he’s done for decades.”
With that Shelby Nolan walked next to Father MacGrath as they moved towards the car that would give them a quick exit, the throng of media following like a large centipede, all legs, walking sideways, carrying cameras and barking questions.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Elizabeth entered the lobby near the entrance to the School of Criminal Psychology, purse over her shoulder and lights from a television news camera suddenly in her eyes. A reporter, thinning hair, high forehead, dressed in a full suit and tie, approached. He had a wide smile, reaching with a handshake and the confident charm and suave of a Porsche salesman. Here to help without being pushy.
“Doctor Monroe,” he said as she walked towards the door to her university department. He held the microphone to his side. Not stalking. More statesman like. “You’d spoken to us two weeks ago in regard to your criminal profile of the person likely responsible for the murders. Boyd Baxter’s attorney is lobbying to have charges dropped against Baxter because the word on the street is that the recent murders have been committed by a serial killer. Now Father Gregory MacGrath is facing a murder trial. Can we ask you if you still stand by your original profile, and how might a respected priest in the community fit that profile?”
Elizabeth started to wave the reporter and cameraman off, to walk around them. But she stopped and said, “Based on the information and evidence received, I do stand by my profile of the murder suspect. It’s personal for him, and he’s seeking vengeance for something that happened at some point in his life. The victims may not have been directly, or even indirectly, responsible for what may or may not have happened to this person. However, in the eyes of the psychopath—this killer sees something in them that is somehow connected to the incident or incidents, and he’s out to settle a score, if you will.”
“How would this profile apply to someone like Father MacGrath, a man who’s an icon in the community?”
“It won’t apply. He doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Then why was he arrested?”
“I’m not in a position to answer that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.” She walked around the reporter and husky cameraman, entering her department reception area. Claire was standing behind the reception desk where she could see the TV interview through the window, the reporter now moving close to a department directory sign positioning to do his on-camera, stand-up summation.
“Doctor M
onroe,” she said. “I wish I could have warned you about that news crew. They showed up here unannounced. Dean Harris suggested that I call security to have them removed from the building.”
Elizabeth said, “I think they’ll be leaving now. They got what they wanted, at least some of what they wanted.”
“Okay. Oh, before you head back to your office, I have a message. A man called for you. He had a rather soft voice on the phone, so I had to really tune in to hear him. Anyway, he asked if you were here. When I said you weren’t in and asked for his number, he said to just let you know that he called.”
“Who called? What’s his name?”
She looked down at a small notepad and said, “David Shaffer. I asked if there was a message, and he said, ‘tell Doctor Monroe I’ll be seeing her soon.’ And then he just hung up.”
“Claire, can you look at your incoming call log and see if there is a number for this man?”
“Yes, I wrote the time down when he called. This morning at 9:39.” She punched a button and scrolled through the digital record of numbers. “Umm, I have a call at exactly that time, but the caller ID was blocked. That’s rather odd. Doesn’t happen often.”
“If he calls back, please put him through to me. And, if I’m in class, text my cell, and I’ll immediately get to my office to receive the call transfer … this is important, Patricia. Thanks.”
After teaching her class, Elizabeth entered her office, closed the door, and called Mike Bradford. When he answered, she asked, “What happened in Father MacGrath’s preliminary hearing? Did the judge allow bond?”
“Yes, one-million. Someone was waiting at the bond office and posted Father MacGrath’s bond immediately. He’s already out, pending trial. He and his attorney walked through a sea of news media to make their exit. As we expected, this has the attention of all the cable and broadcast news outfits.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Attorney Shelby Nolan pulled his dark blue Jaguar into the parking lot of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church. Father MacGrath sat in the passenger side, now wearing his priest’s suit and collar. He clutched a file folder on his lap, his eyes fatigued and red-rimmed. “You can park next to the Escalade,” he said.
“No problem.” Shelby parked and shut off the motor. “Want me to join you inside your office. With a last name like MacGrath, you probably have some Irish whiskey locked away for special occasions. I’d say this would qualify as one of those occasions.”
“When I hear a not guilty verdict, that will be a special occasion—one delivered by God. Shelby, I know your home is in Jackson. I don’t want to keep you from your family.”
The attorney grinned. “My kids are all grown. Just my wife, me, and our yellow dog, Tucker.”
“That’s an interesting name for a dog.”
“Came from an old lawyer named Tucker Calhoun. I learned a helluva lot from him before his passin’ years ago. Sometimes, when I’m standin’ in front of a jury, I ask myself … what would Tucker say? I close my eyes for a second, and I can see him in front of jury after jury. That ol’ man could read juries like books, and he could tell stories like nobody’s business.” He paused and looked in Father MacGrath’s eyes. “You get some sleep tonight and leave the worry stuff to me, all right?”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll have my associate, Vivian Landers, call you in a little while. She’ll need some information that will help our case. I’ll tell her to be brief—today’s been a long day for you.”
“Okay.” He slowly got out of the car, his joints sore and arthritic. Father MacGrath entered the main office, Patricia standing from behind her desk to greet him.
“Oh, Father MacGrath,” she said, meeting him with a hug, eyes welling with tears. “We’ve all been so worried about you. I think I’ve received more than a hundred calls and emails today from parishioners. Father Lopez has been pacing the sanctuary in prayer. He left just a few minutes ago. And, a large prayer group has been here every day since your arrest. Everyone is so concerned. They all want me to tell you how much they believe in you and how much you are loved.”
Father MacGrath nodded and managed a smile. “That’s heartwarming. I so deeply appreciate the love of the congregation. These are trying times. Evil enjoys creeping in places like churches to bring people down. But, with the love of God, the shield against the dark side is stronger. And it always will be.”
“Amen, Father.” She reached for a tissue, pulled two from the box on the corner of her desk, mascara like black rivulets in her stream of tears. “I wrote down a list of everyone who called and emailed.” She stepped to her desk and lifted up a spiral notebook. “All the names are in here. You don’t have to return the calls unless you want to. They just wanted me to tell you they were thinking of you in case … in case …”
“In case the diocese didn’t bond me out of jail? It’s all right, Patricia. That would be the assumption for most people. Yes, I’ll take the list. And thank you for making it.”
She handed the notebook to him. “What is the next step for you?”
“My attorney is preparing a defense, but we hope to have the case dismissed before it goes to trial. The sad part of all this is that someone is framing me for crimes I did not commit, and I, or my attorney must prove my innocence beyond a reasonable doubt, and none of this is reasonable. It’s fearlessly evil.”
“Who would do something like this, Father? And why?”
“I cannot plant the seed of denunciation and blame in another man’s soul without knowing for certain. Why don’t you go on home, Patricia? I’ll see you in the morning. And, after spending time in a jail cell, you don’t know how good it sounds to say I’ll see you in the morning.”
She smiled and picked up her purse. “I’ll be here for you, Father. We all will.”
“Thank you.”
When she left, he locked the door and walked back to his office. He placed the file folder on his desk and set his phone right beside it. He sat and scanned the names in the spiral notebook. There were nine sheets, filled with the names of parishioners. Patricia had drawn a smiley face at the top of each page. He looked at the drawings, his heart heavy with the opposite—sorrow.
He began to think about the day’s events, the cutting words that the prosecutor said to justify no bond, the murmurs in the courtroom, the blank stares from spectators to the indifference of the bailiffs shuffling him in and out of the court room. He rubbed his temples just as his phone rang. The buzzing sound seemed out of place, intrusive in the silence around him. It felt like the noise was synthetic, almost mocking in its banality. He watched his phone for a moment, as if it were somehow an alien form.
He thought about what Shelby Nolan has just said: ‘I’ll have my associate, Vivian Landers, call you in a little while.’
Father MacGrath slowly reached for the phone and slid it to him. The caller ID read: Unknown. He pressed the button to answer it. “Hello?”
“Father MacGrath,” said the man, his words soft and melodious.
The voice! The same man.
“Are you there, Father? Sometimes I never know.”
“What do you want? Haven’t you done enough?”
“Oh, no, Father. You see, I’m just beginning. I decide what enough means. And guess what … we’re not there yet.”
“Why did you succumb to placing that hatchet in my car?”
“Why do you think? You’re not a stupid man, but you and the church do such thoughtless things. Once, in mass, you talked about people reaping what they sowed. You had some clever little metaphors about sowing the seeds in the good earth of man. And you segued to the mustard seed, still on the theme of faith. But, how in God’s name can people have faith in a church that turns its back on its children and allows pedophiles to exist in the shadows of the cross?”
Father MacGrath said nothing, his heart racing, a pain radiating in his chest.
“Answer me!”
“I have apologized to you. What was done to you was horrible.
I don’t condone what the church did with Father Vogel, or any of the other priests known to have abused children.”
“Abused? Is that what you call it? Call it what it is … rape! That’s what they’re gonna do to you in prison, father. There’s a special place in prisons for people who allow child rape to happen.”
“I didn’t allow it! When I found out, I reported it.”
“You will probably receive the death penalty for the serial killings. Yes, the police will connect them all to you—I am making sure of it. And the families of the deceased will demand it. But, if you somehow manage to get life in prison, think of me and all the other kids when they come for you.”
“I’m reporting you to the police. I know who you are, David Shaffer. I may have been wrong in not calling the police when I first learned of what happened to you. But I won’t be blamed for the murders you did. And now I’m doing what I wish I’d done when your mother came to me … I’m calling the police. I have your voice recorded on my phone.”
“How?”
“During confession.”
“That’s a massive violation of canon law. You cannot break the sanctity of the sacrament and confession.”
“Yes, I can. And I will. If you don’t turn yourself in by noon tomorrow, you give me no choice. Goodbye, David. May God have mercy on your soul.” He disconnected and held his hand to his heart, the pain radiating. He opened his desk drawer, took the top off a bottle of aspirin, popped two in his mouth, and swallowed.
EIGHTY-NINE
Elizabeth noticed the daylight change with the abruptness of someone shutting off a lamp. It wasn’t the gradual ebb of the sun toward the end of the day. It was as if a shawl was suddenly tossed over the sun. She looked out her office window to an ominous horizon, clouds stacked like wet cordwood in the sky, leaves on the trees motionless. The change in light cast a sepia tone over the campus as far as she could see. She watched two students walk quickly to the parking lot.