by Tom Lowe
“Yes, Your Honor. We can appreciate those thoughts. However, the best testament to my client’s innocence has nothing to do with all that. The plain and simple truth is yet another resident of our county has been slaughtered while Mr. Baxter was sitting in a jail cell. Unless my client is Houdini reincarnated, unless he found a way to slip through the steel bars, walk past all the guards, locked doors and cameras, there’s no way on God’s earth that Mr. Baxter had anything to do with Ms. Donnelly’s murder or the other three for that matter. That is why, Your Honor, we respectfully ask that all charges be dropped.”
“Your Honor,” said the prosecutor, standing. “The evidence speaks for itself. The state contends that Mr. Baxter will be found guilty as charged. Therefore, we request that this case continue on to the Grand Jury and to a speedy trial.”
Clyde Conner looked at prosecutor, Michael Meade, who defiantly put his hands on his hips. Then he shifted his gaze back to the bench and said, “Judge Zeigler, our request stands, sir.”
“Denied,” said the judge, his bushy eyebrows raised.
“In that case, Your Honor, it is only fitting that my client be released on his own recognizance as we prepare for trial.”
“Denied.”
“Your Honor!” said Conner. “Considering what has transpired in the last twenty-four hours—a respected, long-time member of the county, a man who was a scout leader and little league coach, was brutally murdered while my client was in jail. That speaks volumes of jurisprudence. In lieu of Mr. Baxter’s presence in the county jail or being released of his own recognizance, we request that the court grant a reasonable and minimal bond. Mr. Baxter also can be ordered to wear a GPS ankle bracelet and be confined to his property as we prepare for trial.”
The prosecutor stood and said, “Your Honor, the state disagrees and strongly recommends Boyd Baxter be held without bond.”
Judge Zeigler’s eyes cut between the defense and prosecution tables. There was complete silence in the courtroom. One woman in the front row waved a hand-fan to circulate the stale air around her face. The court reporter seated to the left of the bench paused, her fingers poised ready to record the judge’s words.
Judge Zeigler leaned forward, looked at the prosecutor and said, “Your request is denied. Bond is set at 700-thousand. If it’s made, a condition of that release is that Mr. Baxter be fitted for an ankle monitor and remain confined to his home and property.” The judge slammed down his gavel. “Adjourned!” He got up and strode to his chambers, his long arms swinging, black robe flapping behind him like a flag in the wind.
Clyde Conner turned to Boyd Baxter and nodded.
SEVENTY-NINE
As Elizabeth walked from the church office to her car, she opened the file folder and scanned the list. There were fifteen names marked with small red checks. All were parishioners who’d scheduled time for confessions during the last month. Out of the fifteen, nine were women, the rest were men. And only one had the first name David. It was listed as David Shaffer. Address and phone number listed.
She stared at the name for a moment, wondering if this man, David Shaffer, was the boy abused by Father Vogel decades earlier. And, if he was, did that mean he’d killed Vogel and four members of St. Patrick’s Parish. Or could it be any of the other names that took up eleven pages—587 members of the church … maybe the name wasn’t even on the list because he wasn’t registered as a member of the parish. Or was it Boyd Baxter and someone within his hate group committing the murders?
Elizabeth turned around and walked back into the office. She looked over at Patricia, smiled and said, “I left something in Father MacGrath’s office when I was here on Thursday. Is he still in there?”
“No. He just walked out back to the serenity garden for prayer.”
Elizabeth said nothing and continued down the hallway. She exited a private back entrance and walked down a stone path less than one hundred feet to three semi-walled trellises flowing in lavender wisteria. Climbing roses, the shade of butter, wrapped around a small, white picket fence leading up to the garden. The inside of the garden was filled with blooming flowers—impatiens, petunias, and lilies. There was a water fountain in the center, the gurgle of moving water mixing with the song of a cardinal at the top of a sweet gum tree.
Father MacGrath sat on a concrete bench, his back to Elizabeth. She walked up to him, his eyes closed, his hands and fingers steepled in prayer. She said, “I am sorry to interrupt you. I wouldn’t if the circumstances were different. I must ask … I need to clarify something because, if I don’t, the police will come in here with questions a lot tougher than mine.”
The old priest opened his eyes and slowly turned his head in her direction as if he was awakening from an operation in a hospital room. “Yes, Elizabeth?” His voice was somehow weaker than earlier.
“Father, do you know David Shaffer?”
“Yes.”
“According to the appointment schedule for confession time, sessions split between you and Father Lopez, David Shaffer was scheduled for the confessional not long ago.”
“I, nor Father Lopez, know who enters the adjacent booth to confess his or her sins to our Lord.”
“Was David Shaffer the same person who was violated by Father Vogel twenty-three years ago?”
“The child’s mother was Monica Sweeny. I don’t recall the boy’s full name.”
“But it could have been Shaffer … David Shaffer, correct?”
“Yes, it could have.”
“Father, if it is … and if he’s responsible for the deaths of four members of this parish, and a fifth victim—Father Vogel, please give me an insight so I can take this to the detectives. That will remove you from this seal of the sacrament that may secure confidentiality, but it can’t hide the truth. And, when it comes to a serial killer, what’s the greater sin, Father?”
“Elizabeth, all I do is … has been … and always will … be in God’s hands.” He closed his eyes and began a silent prayer.
“Father, I say this with respect overruled by my concern for you. If it was David Shaffer all those years ago, he is a very sick man. His hurt from sexual abuse may have lain dormant for decades … but now, it’s as if someone opened a Pandora’s box, all the horror is pouring out. It’s coming out with a fury and vengeance. Please, if you feel personally guilty about what happened twenty-three years ago, put it aside to prevent more murders.”
“Elizabeth, you don’t understand—”
“I believe the ultimate target is you. That’s what I understand.”
Father MacGrath’s face was unreadable. He looked at her and said, “I need to be alone. I need time with God.”
Elizabeth turned and left, walking down the stone path, around the building and to the church parking lot. She unlocked her car door as the detectives pulled into the lot. Mike Bradford at the wheel, Bill Lee with him. They were followed by a sheriff’s car, two deputies inside it. They parked next to the detectives and turned off their motor. Elizabeth could hear a police radio dispatcher, the woman’s voice sounding mechanical and programmed—like an app delivering time and temperature.
Bradford and Lee got out, Lee walking over to the deputies and talking with them through an open window in the driver’s side. Bradford met Elizabeth and said, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
She lifted the file folder in her right hand and adjusted her purse strap with the other. “This is a list of every member of St. Patrick’s Parish. And I have fifteen names checked off in red ink. The fifteen are members who had scheduled and done confessions within the last six weeks.”
“Do you really think that something said in one of the confessions has a bearing on this case?”
“What I know is how I see Father MacGrath. He’s not the same man he used to be. I believe something traumatic has happened to him. He told me the child’s first name all those years ago was David. On this list is a David Shaffer. Are they one and the same? Was David Shaffer one of Vogel’s victims, and
if so … did Shaffer kill Vogel inside that church in Natchez … and is he killing people in Forrest County? Mike, I’m not a detective. I have the utmost respect for what you and Bill do.” She glanced at the patrol car. “For what every member of your teams does. From a criminal psychology perspective, though, I can tell that something has Father MacGrath in a vice grip. He’s old. He’s frightened. He’s being evasive. I think he’s carrying a heavy burden, and he doesn’t know where to turn.”
Bradford took one step closer, his eyes searching her face. “I know this is difficult for you, too. Father MacGrath was a rock for you in a horrible time in your life. You’re emotionally invested in this, Elizabeth. But, sometimes, you have to simply back away and follow the physical evidence. It’ll either implicate Father MacGrath in this or it won’t. But, right now, Boyd Baxter is out of jail on bond. We have a fourth body, and the damn news media are circling the courthouse and sheriff’s office like vultures.”
“I know you’re under pressure to solve this. But please sift through everything very carefully before all of Mississippi believes a seventy-year-old priest is a serial killer.”
“There will be no rush to judgement … nothing more than a normal inquiry … following leads, following the evidence. And that has to begin right now.”
Bill Lee walked over to Bradford and Elizabeth. He nodded and said, “How are things going, Doctor Monroe?”
“Fine, Bill. You can drop the formal stuff. We’re all in this thing together.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled.
Bradford released a deep breath and looked at the red Escalade. “Bill and I need to go inside that church. We need to let Father MacGrath know we have a warrant to search his car and property. And, we really need to take him into the interrogation room at the station. I’m sorry that it’s come to this.”
Elizabeth said nothing. The detectives walked around her and entered the church. She looked up at the large, white cross towering at the top of St. Patrick’s. She didn’t know what, if anything, Father MacGrath would tell them. She did know that the church would never be the same after the investigation ended … because there could be no good ending.
Not this time.
The statute of limitations might have expired, but old ghosts from human atrocities never die. They often come back in another form seeking vengeance when justice was lost along with the innocence of the victims.
She turned and walked to her car, the police radio in the deputies’ cruiser squawking with another call. The dispatcher’s staccato voice sounded detached and far away, like the cry of a crow perched at the top of a lone tree without leaves in the cold, steel gray of a winter’s dawn.
EIGHTY
It didn’t take the deputies very long to find something. Five minutes after Elizabeth left, as the detectives were inside speaking with Father MacGrath, the deputies searched the priest’s Escalade. They looked under seats, in the glove box, and in the rear compartment. The taller of the two, young with ears that stuck out, said, “Clean as a whistle, Sergeant. I can’t even find lose change under the seat or a piece of lint.”
Sergeant Charlie Moss, silver sideburns and guarded eyes, said, “It’s like somebody took a vacuum and went over ev’ry square inch.”
“Maybe it’s just the way the priest keeps his car. Spotless.”
The sergeant walked to the rear and opened the hatch. “Let’s check the spare tire area. It may be even cleaner than the rest of the vehicle, but that’s the only place we haven’t looked.”
The deputy nodded. “Are we going with the detectives to the priest’s house to search it, too?”
“They have the warrant, and that’s the plan.”
“I know I’ve only been with the sheriff’s department for three years, but I never would have imagined that a respected priest, a guy like Father MacGrath, would become a murder suspect.”
“You never know what people do when they think nobody’s lookin’ and won’t ever have a reason to look. Not that he’s guilty of these murders, but you gotta admit—four of the vics are from this Catholic church.” He looked across the lawn at the sprawling red brick church, a black vulture soaring on an air current in front of clouds the color of baled hay. “Let’s open the spare tire area.”
The deputy nodded, pulled the latch in the rear compartment and removed the covering. He looked at the new tire, the smell of rubber rising in his nostrils. The sergeant used his right hand to feel around the base of the tire. “We might have a loose tire iron down here.”
“Something like that ought to make a rattle when driving.”
Sergeant Moss put on a latex glove and continued. In a few seconds, he lifted something from the tire well. “Would you look at that?” he said, using two fingers to hold the wooden handle. “That’s no tire iron, unless Cadillac has started adding hatchets along with jacks and lug wrenches.” He examined it closely. “I can’t see any blood on the blade or anywhere else.”
“Why would a hand ax be stuck in the spare tire well?”
“That’s the question, wouldn’t you think? Bring me a bag out of our car. I’ll let the detectives know. I’m sure they want to have it tested for blood. That victim in the Lincoln Navigator …”
“What about him? I didn’t work that one.”
“We found him wearin’ a scoutmaster’s uniform. He had a helluva gash in the back of his head. Looked like he’d been whacked with a hatchet. Not just any ol’ hatchet, but a scouting hatchet. Like this one.”
• • •
As Elizabeth drove toward the university, she couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Father MacGrath. She knew he was hiding something, and that he was torn between volunteering information that might help solve four—maybe five murders and ripping up his oath as a priest in service to the Catholic Church. There had to be a middle ground, she thought. A just God would demand truth.
She parked in the faculty lot, her mind playing back what Father MacGrath had said about the character of sin, ‘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.’ She grabbed her purse off the seat next to her and whispered, “But that doesn’t justify allowing it to continue by ignoring it.”
Elizabeth walked at a fast pace through the administration building to her department. The office secretary, Claire, stood at the reception desk when Elizabeth arrived and said, “Doctor Monroe, Detective Bradford called. He said he tried to reach you on your cell phone but couldn’t get through.”
“My battery died. I’ll charge it in my office as I finish prepping for my class tonight.”
“Here’s his number.” She handed Elizabeth a phone message slip.
“Thanks, Claire.” Elizabeth unlocked her office, settled at her desk, put her phone on charge and returned Mike Bradford’s call. When he answered, she said, “I didn’t get your call because I forget to recharge my phone battery. Did you arrest Father MacGrath?”
“No, but there’s no doubt it’s pending.”
“Pending what?”
“Whatever it is that he’s going to tell us in questioning. He volunteered to come in for that. Also, we found a hatchet hidden in his car under the spare tire. The fourth victim, Joe Jackson, had his head spilt by a large knife or a hatchet. I’m betting it’s the latter. And, the hatchet we found in Father MacGrath’s Escalade is an older model, wooden handle, with the letters BSA engraved in the wood. That’s not his initials, but it does stand for Boy Scouts of America. Probably came from the back of Jackson’s Lincoln Navigator where he kept his scouting supplies.”
“Mike, I’m truly at a loss for words. I can’t imagine Father MacGrath as a killer. What if he’s being set up? It’s just not in his DNA.”
“To some degree, it’s in everyone’s DNA—goes back to our ancient ancestors in the hunter-gatherer, eat-or-be-eaten world. But it’s there, b
uried.”
“That’s called survival. Much different from premeditated, cold-blooded murder.”
“And that goes back even further to Cain and Abel.”
Elizabeth stared at the picture of her daughter Molly on the corner of the desk.
“What if the killer placed the hatchet in Father MacGrath’s car because that person knows the priest might implicate him in the murders?”
“How? How would Father MacGrath do that?”
“What if the murderer could have told Father MacGrath everything in confession, asked for penance and absolution from his sins, and then gone out and done it again. In this case, four times … maybe five.”
“That’s a big what if. Let’s try this one on for size: What if Father MacGrath, the genteel, southern gentleman and senior priest that he appears to be, is killing people because he believes they aren’t capable of real absolution for their sins and are making a mockery of the church and confession by pretending to change?”
“Mike, do you really believe that?”
“After Boyd Baxter, and what I’ve seen recently, I’m not sure what I believe anymore. But that’s not relevant … the evidence is. And that’s all I have to go on, period.”
“Possibly, since you found a hatchet in Father MacGrath’s car, maybe he’ll disclose the name of the person he believes set him up to take the fall for this.”
“Right now, the news media have no idea that we’re questioning him or the evidence we found. But they will because people talk, they gossip, and that includes people who work at the sheriff’s department. This is the stuff for the tabloids—a serial killer who’s a priest … waving a cross in one hand and a hatchet in the other.”
EIGHTY-ONE
Elizabeth sat behind her desk and completed the last of what she needed for tonight’s class. Switching to prep for her next lesson plan, which followed her course syllabus, her thoughts kept drifting to the murders and the root cause of the killings. She could see Nellie’s lined face, the old woman’s eyes swelling behind her glasses, her mouth pinched, and then her words, ‘He hates ‘em real bad.’ Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating. Father MacGrath doesn’t hate anyone, she thought. But he knows someone who does.
