by Tom Lowe
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Father, but I wanted to let you know that there’s been another murder.”
“I am so sorry to hear that.”
“And, this fourth victim was a member of St. Patrick’s, too. His name is Joe Jackson.”
Father MacGrath slowly lowered himself into his office chair, his body heavy with fatigue and stress. Elizabeth said, “Father … are you there?”
“Yes … dear Lord … Joe. There are no words. Joe has been a member for years. He’s very active in the church. This is an enormous loss. Has anyone spoken with Joe’s family?”
“I don’t know. Police detectives will give them the news and details soon.”
“Where was Joe’s body found?”
“In his car … in a school parking lot near a little league field.”
“He was ‘Coach Joe’ for hundreds of kids through the years. I’m so sorry to hear of this unspeakable horror.”
“Do you know if Joe was married?”
“He was at one time, years ago. He’s been divorced for quite a while. His elderly parents live in Hattiesburg, as does a sister with a large family. I don’t believe Joe ever had any kids of his own. Maybe that’s one reason he reached out and helped children. From scouting to little league, he’s always been there, making a difference.”
“Father, I’m about to drive back to my office at the university. St. Patrick’s is right on the way. I need to talk with you, and I’d rather not do it on the phone.”
Father MacGrath said nothing, his mind racing—the man’s voice saying, ‘From the phone I’m using, you will have no record of this call. But in your mind, you will record it, and you won’t forget it.’
“Father,” Elizabeth said. “Are you there? May I stop by for a few minutes?”
“Yes, I’m here. Of course, you may.”
“See you in twenty minutes.” She disconnected and walked across the restaurant porch to where Otto sat and rocked in the chair. She said, “Father MacGrath is very distraught over the death of Joe Jackson. I hated to be the one to tell him. “I’m sure he’ll be consoling the family soon. I’m going to stop by his office. I want to ask him about Father Howard Vogel.”
Otto stood and said, “Let me walk you to your car. I’ll be driving back to Natchez this afternoon.” As they crossed the restaurant parking lot, Otto said, “Elizabeth, your detective friend is lucky to have you helping him. Not only can you come up with an excellent criminal profile of a perpetrator, but you have the drive to question people—people, such as your beloved priest, Father MacGrath. I have to believe that this is not easy for you. He helped you dearly when you were grieving after Molly’s death. And now … well, maybe he’s only doing his job, serving the Lord and his parish.”
“He is a good man, a kind and compassionate man. He may not have an inkling in terms of the St. Patrick’s connection to these murders. But, he will know about a priest that used to work at St Patrick’s before he was transferred away, before he was murdered on the steps leading to a church altar in Natchez. He will know about Father Howard Vogel. And I think Vogel might be the glue to this.” She stopped as they came up to her car, turning to give Otto a hug. “You drive safely, you hear me?”
“Absolutely. And you let me know what you discover. This is turning out to be quite a case … the kind of horror we saw too often in the FBI. Perhaps, we’ll soon find out who killed a priest at a Catholic church in Natchez and see how it might be connected to a parish in Hattiesburg you’ve been part of since you were a girl. Be careful, Elizabeth. The closer you get to the source of evil, the more you’ll feel the fire of the dragon. Just don’t get too close. Criminal profilers don’t have to do that.” He kissed her on the cheek, turned and walked to his car.
• • •
At the crime scene, Sheriff Erwin Dawson huddled with detectives Mike Bradford and Bill Lee. The sheriff asked questions about the murder scene. His reelection bid was still seventeen months away, but he wanted to keep a high profile, especially in the biggest case the county has seen since 1923. It was that year when a crazed killer hacked two families to death over a property dispute. Seven people were dead after two hours of fighting. One entire family gone.
Sheriff Dawson turned to Bradford and Lee. “It’s just a matter of a few hours before Clyde Conner, Baxter’s attorney, calls some knee-jerk news conference to begin planting seeds of doubt in the minds of the public about his client.” The sheriff used two hands to hitch up his wide, black belt.
Bradford said, “I answered a few questions earlier from the reporters, basically told them everything was pending notification of next of kin and results from the autopsy.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff. “I’ll walk over there to see if I can add to that. Maybe it’ll soften the blow we know is comin’ when Conner starts his rantin’ on the courthouse steps with the TV cameras in tow.”
The sheriff walked across the lot, his gun-belt squeaking, wide wingtips making a noise like a slow horse ambling back to the barn at twilight. Bradford turned to Lee and said, “I guess I should be with him for backup. Never can tell what Randall Owens from Channel Seven will ask.”
Lee grinned and said, “Sheriff Dawson is like a long time, respected football coach in the NFL. If he doesn’t like the question, he’ll either ignore them or call them out. I’m not sure which is worse.”
“That’s the truth,” said Bradford, before turning to join his boss in front of the news media.
Before the sheriff could get all the way up to the yellow tape, a reporter from Channel Seven, Randall Owens, shouted out a question. “Sheriff Dawson, this murder has some of the characteristics of the other three killings. What does that tell you, and are you going to release Boyd Baxter from jail?”
The sheriff ignored the question as he stopped at the yellow tape, rocking for a second on his large wingtip shoes. A newspaper reporter, black-frame glasses, unshaven, raised his hand. The sheriff nodded, and the man asked, “Does your department have additional suspects in these cases?”
“Yes, that’s part of the process following the trail or trails of evidence. I will say that physical forensic evidence does not lie. And, we certainly have that in the case against Boyd Baxter for Wanda Donnelly’s murder. The discovery of the body here today does not exonerate Baxter from hers or any other murder. It just means he didn’t commit this one. We know that Baxter is a member of a violent neo-Nazi group that claims active members in twenty-two states. Could one of them be responsible for this murder? We don’t know that. Could this be the depraved work of a copycat killer? Maybe. We’ll vigorously pursue all angles.”
“What if it’s the same person?” asked a willowy blonde female reporter from a cable news network. “Isn’t there certainly a possibility that one person is responsible for all of these murders in Forrest County?”
“Of course, that’s possible. Is it probable? We don’t know. Let me say to the residents of the county and Hattiesburg, be diligent, be cautious. The victim here today was a scout leader and little league coach. There is no rhyme or reason for the murder or how it might be connected to the other three. It may not be. But I want the citizens to know we have ordered extra patrols. We’re asking deputies to work overtime. And I’ve recently hired more deputies who will hit the streets this week. In the meantime, if you see something … say something. If it’s strange or out of place, let us know, and we’ll investigate. Solving crimes is a community effort, and Hattiesburg takes pride in being a unique and strong community. Thank you. We’ll give you more information as it becomes available.”
The sheriff turned and walked away as more questions were shouted. Bradford walked alongside him, knowing that neither he nor the sheriff had the answers.
SEVENTY-THREE
Elizabeth sat across the desk from Father MacGrath in his office and said, “I know this is a horrible time for you, Father, and members of the parish. I include myself in the group.”
“Of course, Elizabeth. This
has been your church home for years. And I hope it will continue to be long after I’m retired.”
“I look forward to hearing Father Lopez at mass one day soon.”
“He’s scheduled for the last mass of this month. He’ll be doing more and more in the remaining months before I retire.”
“Driving over here, I was thinking about the priests who’ve come into the St. Patrick’s community, made a positive difference, and gone on to do it someplace else, in another parish or even in the mission fields.”
“There have been a handful. I’ve always been proud of the work they did here and the impact they’ve made elsewhere.”
“Would you include Father Vogel among that group?”
The old priest leaned back in his chair, his forearms on the armrests, hands curled on the dark wood like claws. He licked his dry lips and said, “No, I would not.”
“May I ask why?”
“I think you know why, Elizabeth, or you would not have mentioned his name.”
“Why did he leave here? Why did he work at five other parishes before he was murdered at his last church in Natchez?”
“Father Vogel was a very gifted priest in terms of his ability to connect with people. He studied and knew Catholic liturgy, the papal missal, and the Bible very well. He could draw parallels and find the best assessment and words, the words of God, to help people in time of need. But he became a sick man.” Father MacGrath made a dry swallow, leaning forward slightly in his chair, a slow-turning ceiling fan casting a moving shadow on the wall behind him.
“In what way was he sick?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’ve thought about this for years. Not only in reference to Father Vogel’s behavior, but in the general nature of sin … of evil. Saint Aquinas believed we inherited our propensity for sin from Adam and Eve. The nature of mankind is not polluted like a river by sin. However, it is weakened by it, and the stain of sin that soiled the Garden of Eden is still with us. And this, Elizabeth, is evidenced by the simple and undeniable fact that our wills are not in parallel with that of God. That is why it is paramount that we seek God’s help in order to restore the good of human nature and help bring us into accord with His will. Our ultimate guide is what Christ taught us.”
“I gather that Father Vogel strayed from those life lessons.”
“In perhaps the worst way.”
“I am going to let you tell me, Father. At this point in time, I have to know because—”
“Elizabeth, that was a long time ago—”
“But the sins of the father … that father … Vogel, are still haunting St. Patrick’s today. As I told you on the phone … we just found a fourth victim murdered—another member of this parish. I know these deaths all tie back to Father Vogel. And I need, we need, for you to tell us how.”
“It was many years ago, and I was a relatively young priest, perhaps more naïve than I should have been for my age. I never saw or never noticed.” He paused and looked at a large, white cross displayed on one wall. “Unfortunately, Father Vogel’s actions at that time were not unlike some of the recent revelations of pedophilia unveiled in a few other parishes in this country and elsewhere around the word, Ireland in particular. This in no way lessens or diminishes the impact at St Patrick’s Parish.”
“How did you discover what he was doing?”
“I didn’t, sadly. A parent, a single mother at the time, came to me. Her son was twelve, and he was an altar boy. When his grades in school dropped, when he became sullen and defensive, she took him to counseling. After a few sessions, he told his mother that Father Vogel had abused him more than a dozen times over a six-month period. Father Vogel told the boy that no one would ever believe him. The manipulation of the priestly collar over the mind of a child. Horrible.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“No. In retrospect, I should have. I left that option up to the boy’s mother. She didn’t want to put her son through the courts … have him testify in public. They soon moved away … to Gulfport I believe. I reported Father Vogel’s actions to the diocese. They provided psychological help, counseling, all in efforts to change him. But, in hindsight, I’m not sure if change was possible. He was transferred to another parish where I heard that it happened again. And, the pattern of warning and counseling was repeated. As I look back on my life as a priest, that period is by far my greatest failure. I am so sorry for that child.”
“What if he wasn’t the only one? What if it wasn’t an isolated case? He could have abused more boys in the time he was here. He certainly did it after he left. He was a habitual offender, and now those children are all grown men with scars on their souls.”
“I share the blame, and I am so sorry for it.”
“What was the child’s name?” Elizabeth asked. “Was it … Matthew Long? Was that his name?”
Father MacGrath interlocked his fingers together on the top of the table. “No. The child’s first name was David. His mother’s name was Monica Sweeny. However, the boy had a different last name. Monica had gone through a brutal divorce and went back to her maiden name. The child kept his father’s last name. I don’t recall it.”
“Do you have a record of it?”
“No. There was not a formal report, as such, filed here at the church.”
“How about the diocese? Would they have it?”
“I don’t think so. I’d spoken with them over the phone in regard to this matter, spoke with Bishop Vincent Bradley. He died of cancer many years ago.”
“Two decades passed, and Father Vogel was still being shuffled around the parishes like a hot potato. That means, as you said, there were other victims. It wasn’t too long ago when a grand jury investigation in Pennsylvania revealed the fact that more than a thousand children in that state alone were sexually abused by three hundred priests through six decades. Little boys and girls raped by priests. I remember reading the news report, and it indicated there were probably many more than a thousand victims. Many too afraid or ashamed at the time to report the sexual abuse. What did the Catholic Church do about it? The offenders were basically put in adult time out … reassigned to another parish with a slight slap on the wrist. And, as it all comes forward, the statute of limitations for criminal charges expires. But the scars don’t.”
“Elizabeth, what do you want me to say? That was horrible as was the incident here. That evil was a tiny minority within the church. What more can I tell you?”
“You can tell me if this killer confessed his sins to you.”
“I can do anything else to help you, but not that.”
“Then I take it he did.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Elizabeth, please. You’re angry—”
“You’re damn right I am.” Elizabeth felt her heart pounding, her hands slightly trembling. “You said his first name was David. How many members of St Patrick’s have the name … David or Dave?”
“Off-hand, I couldn’t tell you exactly. I can think of a least a half dozen, maybe more.”
“Can your assistant give me a compete and updated list of all members?”
“Yes, of course.”
Elizabeth stood. She stared at the gold cross hanging from a chain around the priest’s neck, the cross resting against the fabric of his dark suit, near the center of his chest. She looked up from the cross, directly into his eyes and said, “Father, I have love and respect for you and all the good you’ve done over the years. My love for you won’t fade, but if you don’t help us find this person … this killer, my respect for you will….”
She turned and left the room.
SEVENTY-FOUR
It didn’t take Clyde Conner long to hold court on the steps of the Forrest County Courthouse. He stood at the top step under a hard-blue sky addressing more than a dozen reporters who had formed a semi-circle around him. Conner, dressed in a bone white, seersucker suit, salmon pink shirt, and blood red tie, nodded to the th
rong. He could see spectators stopping to watch and listen. His eyes narrowed as he followed someone with an audio recorder and camera jogging down the sidewalk under the elms. The reporter ran up the steps, taking two at a time to join the news conference.
Conner said, “Let’s give Mr. Mullins with Newstalk Radio 580 a moment to catch his breath.”
• • •
From the third floor of the courthouse, Judge Anthony Zeigler stood by the window looking down at an impromptu news conference that was forming. The judge held a classic redwood pipe in one gnarled hand, a whiff of smoke wafting from its center, the scent of cherry tobacco in his chambers. He turned toward an attorney friend, a lawyer locally known for probate and estate settlements, a portly man with a circular bald spot on the back of his head that resembled a skin-colored kippah cap, and said, “Take a look at this, Ben. Clyde Conner is whipping up the news media.”
Attorney Ben Weaver walked over to the window and looked down at the scene. He chuckled and said, “Conner knows how to work ‘em. Talk around here is he’s considering a bid for attorney general. That’d be like a snake shedding his skin and then tryin’ to hide it somewhere.”
“What’s so damn important that he can’t file a motion? Why’s he got to call a press conference?”
“It has to be related to his client, Boyd Baxter.”
There was a knock at the judge’s door. His secretary, a petite woman with short, gray hair entered and said, “Excuse me Judge Zeigler. We just got word that there’s been a motion filed for a hearing to release Boyd Baxter on his own recognizance.”
Judge Zeigler stuck the pipe in the left side of his mouth, clapping down on it with his crooked teeth. He said, “That’s what the damn press conference is all about.”
The secretary’s eyes batted, and she said, “They found another body. The fourth one. A friend of mine at the sheriff’s office said this last murder looks like the rest of them. Reckon it’s the same person?”
• • •
Clyde Conner was on a roll, stopping and starting with the subtle delays in his speech that would give the video news editors a place to cut his soundbite without cutting his message. He was a pro and made no attempt to pretend otherwise. However, he was savvy enough not to come across as patronizing the reporters who stood in front of him. He said, “So, in conclusion, I’ve filed a motion before the Honorable Judge Anthony Zeigler to do what is right in accordance with the law. Boyd Baxter may not be a boy scout, but he’s no killer. He may be opinionated, but the last time I looked at the laws of Mississippi, opinions were still legal. Boyd may not be what some folks like to call politically correct, that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. And, that sure as heck doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. Far from it. My motion is for an emergency hearing to allow my client to leave the county jail on his own recognizance.”
