by Tom Lowe
In her mind, she replayed part of her conversation with the priest. ‘His mother’s name was Monica Sweeny. She didn’t want to put her son through the courts … have him testify in public. They soon moved away … to Gulfport.’ Elizabeth turned on her computer and began searching social media, looking for a Monica Sweeny in Gulfport. It didn’t take her long. One site led to the next, and within ten minutes Elizabeth knew that a woman named Monica Sweeny taught sixth grade at Andrew Jackson Middle School. She was the right age to have been the mother to a twelve-year-old boy twenty-three years ago.
The ‘timeline’ and ‘about’ sections on Facebook, indicated that Monica Sweeny was a Christian—a Catholic. She’d taught school most of her life. And she was born in Hattiesburg. There were pictures of an older daughter and two granddaughters.
There were no pictures of a son—then or now.
Elizabeth wanted to know why.
She picked up her purse and phone, then locked the office door. She glanced at her watch. She knew Mike Bradford and Bill Lee would be interrogating Father MacGrath right about now. If she hurried, she could drive to Gulfport in less than ninety minutes, the distance not too far, giving her plenty of time to return for her evening class. She would arrive close to when the middle school was letting out for the day.
Maybe she could speak with Monica Sweeny.
• • •
Father MacGrath was escorted into one of three interrogation rooms near the homicide division at the sheriff’s office. Detective Bill Lee asked, “Father, can I bring you something to drink? Water, coffee or a soft drink?”
“No thank you. I’m fine.” Father MacGrath’s eyes were puffy and slightly red.
Lee nodded and pulled out a chair across the table from the priest. “Detective Bradford will join us in just a minute. We really appreciate you taking the time to come down here today.”
“I’m happy to help in any way I can.”
• • •
Sheriff Erwin Dawson stood behind the one-way glass and watched the interview. His chief deputy, Gary Millard, folded his arms across his chest and said, “I hope Mike and Bill got it right this time. The news hounds have no idea that one of the most respected Catholic priests in southern Mississippi is being questioned in the deaths of four people … maybe five.”
The sheriff nodded. “We need to do this as quietly and efficiently as possible. Father MacGrath has been a pillar of the community for as long as I can remember. As far as I’m concerned, Bradford and Lee are still drivin’ this investigation, behind the scenes, as a serial connection based on fumes of circumstantial evidence. Also, the guy who called in the tip on Joe Jackson’s murder could be somebody who’s pissed at the priest. There were no security cameras in the school parking lot where the Lincoln Navigator was found. We got no idea whether the caller is full of shit or if he’s tellin’ the truth.”
“But don’t forget the surveillance camera at New Shepherd Baptist Church. There’s video of someone driving a red Cadillac Escalade entering the property.”
“We’ll, that’s where it gets interesting. But we don’t have a glimpse of the tag because of the angle, and we can’t get a good look at the driver.”
The chief deputy shook his head. “Maybe, but there are not many brand-new Escalades that color in the area.”
“Bradford’s back. Let’s see what direction he and Lee take this thing.”
EIGHTY-TWO
Bradford greeted Father MacGrath with small-talk pleasantries before guiding the conversation into a questioning session. A small recorder was on the table between the detectives and the priest. “Father MacGrath,” Bradford began, “have you ever had the occasion to visit New Shepherd Baptist Church in the eastern part of the county?”
“I always enjoy visiting churches and parishes around the state; however, I can’t recall that particular church, no.”
“Have you ever had the occasion to go to De Soto National Forest recently?”
“I’ve visited there, but it’s been a few years.”
“When was the last time you saw Father Howard Vogel?”
Father MacGrath didn’t respond immediately. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s been over twenty years.”
Bradford jotted the information down on a legal pad in front of him. “When was the last time you were in Natchez?”
“Oh, I’m not sure. I’d say at least five years.”
“Why did Father Vogel leave St Patrick’s Parish?”
“For alleged improprieties with a minor.”
“Let’s get specific. The improprieties boil down to pedophilia, and it wasn’t alleged. Correct?”
“Father Vogel said it never happened. However, the child said it did. I’d suggested that criminal charges be filed.”
Bill Lee interjected, “Rather than just suggest that, why, as a priest entrusted with the welfare of your members … why didn’t you call the police?
“In hindsight, I should have. His mother said she didn’t want her son to go through the court system. She didn’t want him to get on the stand to testify.”
Lee continued, “Did the diocese or the church make a financial settlement with the family?”
“Yes. I don’t recall the amount. The family consisted of the boy, a girl, and their mother. The girl—or boy’s sister, was about two years older, I believe. The mother was divorced, and as far as I knew, a father wasn’t present.”
Bradford said, “Why, after all these years, do you think someone might want to kill Father Vogel?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. It could be related to an incident of child abuse or something entirely different.”
“How well did you know Joe Jackson?”
“Very well. He’s been a member of St Patrick’s for many years.”
“Did you know he, like Father Vogel, was a pedophile?”
“No, of course not.”
“It’s amazing what you can find on someone’s computer. It looks like Jackson and Vogel, before his death, visited some of the same online child porn sites. Our sex crimes division has been conducting an investigation into Joe Jackson for suspected pedophilia after a boy, going though family counseling, reported that Jackson touched him inappropriately.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. That is horrible to hear.”
“But not surprising, right?” asked Lee.
“Yes, it is surprising.”
“It’s almost as surprising as for us to learn that whoever killed Jackson in that parking lot was wearing a priest’s dark suit and collar. Had Jackson confessed his sins to you, and you decided to retaliate with something way beyond penance?”
“Absolutely not. And to be blunt, I resent the implication of that question.”
Bradford looked up from his notepad and said, “Father MacGrath, the fact is that four people, members of your parish have been murdered. A former priest that previously worked at St. Patrick’s was murdered. That makes five that had an association with your parish. You need to tell us why.”
“I don’t know why.”
Bradford opened a file folder next to his notes. He lifted out a single page. “There are fifteen names on this page. That’s the number of people that had confessions scheduled in the last sixty days. The appointment record indicates that, out of the fifteen, you heard ten confessions, and Father Lopez heard five. Out of your ten, four are dead. Brian Woods, Olivia Curtis, Wanda Donnelly and now Joe Jackson. This, Father, is unprecedented. Why are those people confessing to you becoming murder victims?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” Bradford looked down at the list. “Out of the remaining six, those still alive, three are women and three are men. One of those men is named David Shaffer. You admitted to Elizabeth Monroe that Father Vogel’s victim, at the time, in St. Patrick’s, was a boy named David. What we want to know is this … is David Shaffer the same person who was abused by Father Vogel more than twenty years ago?”
Father MacGrath
said nothing. He glanced down at the audio recorder, the notes, the folder, the detectives gripping ink pens. He raised his pale eyes. “I do not know. If he is, he’s never told me. And, I will not violate his privacy by asking him.”
“Okay,” Bradford said. “But you ought to be able to answer this … has David Shaffer been a member all of his life, or did he join the parish as a grown man?”
“We have well over five hundred members. I’ve known many who’ve been life-long members, but not all. Especially in the last few years, it’s been difficult for me to recall. I think David’s a fairly recent member—perhaps joining the church in the last couple of years.”
Bradford nodded. “Father, please think hard about this next question because of what we’re dealing with here—a serial killer. Did Shaffer say anything in confession that might lead you to believe he’s somehow involved in the murders?”
“Even if he or anyone had, I could not disclose that information. At that point, the person seeking penance and absolution is seeking it through the custody of our Lord. The sinner is opening his or her heart to God and truly seeking forgiveness. To violate that sacred trust, the seal of silence that makes the sacrament work for millions, would violate hope, faith, conviction and the covenant the sinner is making with our Lord.”
Detective Lee grunted and said, “Father, with all due respect, I want to remind you this is a murder investigation. Not one, but four people are dead—no, five, with Father Vogel.”
Father MacGrath touched the gold cross around his neck, his brow furrowed like someone had stitched ruts into his forehead. He remained silent.
Bradford said, “I think that you’re hearing something in those confessions that is making you extremely angry—angry enough to kill, or someone has told you something in the confession that could lead to us solving it. Now, which is it? Are you behind these killings? Or are you an innocent priest who has heard a murderer confess, but you won’t disclose the information for fear of violating a confidentiality canon that should have no relevance when it comes to murder?”
Father MacGrath leaned back in his chair. He gazed at the one-way glass and then shifted his eyes to Bradford. “I am neither. I am simply a man of God, fulfilling the teaching and love of Jesus Christ to my fellow man. At this point, I want to call my lawyer. I have nothing further to say.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Bradford said. “Because we found a hatchet in the back of your vehicle. The lab’s testing it for traces of blood. If they find it, and if it matches Joe Jackson’s blood, or any of the other victims, we’re going to hold you on multiple homicide charges.”
“I don’t own a hatchet or an ax. If you found one in my car, it’s only because someone placed it there. I’m being framed for murders I did not commit. The real killer is still out there.”
Detective Lee said, “Then you need to help us find him.”
“I need to be alone for deep prayer. There is a garden outside of the church’s sanctuary. It is filled with flowering shrubs, magnolias, a small fountain and a few benches for parishioners to sit and pray. I like to think it’s not unlike the place where our Lord Christ went to be alone to pray when he sought solitude in the Garden of Gethsemane. May I go or am I being held?”
Bradford said, “You can go. But, I’d advise you not to go too far.”
• • •
Sheriff Dawson turned to his chief deputy and said, “If we find DNA on that ax that matches any of the four victims, this will be one serial killing rampage that’s gonna rank up there with Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer. I can see the headlines now … the killer priest, a murderer who gives his victims last rites before he kills them.”
EIGHTY-THREE
Elizabeth decided to take her chances and not call the school. If she called Andrew Jackson Middle School and tried to make an appointment to see Monica Sweeny, it may not happen. Elizabeth wasn’t a mother with a child in the school. She decided to wait in the faculty parking area and hope she could catch Monica Sweeny walking to her car. The pictures of her on Facebook looked recent. Elizabeth felt she could recognize the women from a distance, and certainly up close.
It was 2:55 p.m. She drove through the visitors’ parking area, beyond a sheriff’s car, and into the faculty lot. There were less than twenty cars parked. Maybe one of them would be owned by the woman Elizabeth believed was the mother of a child who was robbed of his innocence many years ago.
Elizabeth parked in an open space that would give her a good look at the school’s exit doors. She glanced down at her watch and thought about Father MacGrath and the questioning he was enduring. She knew Mike would play fair, but he’d also play hardball if he had to. Their last phone call was in her thoughts, Mike’s words terse, definitive: ‘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.’
Elizabeth watched middle school-aged kids flock to the yellow buses that lined up in the loading and unloading circle. Children with backpacks laughing. Happy school was over for the day, greeted by the warm sun on their faces, the Gulf breeze, and the chuckle of gulls above them. The birds seemed to share a childlike gusto with the kids that ran beneath them. Some children spent a few seconds to look back over their shoulders, catching a glimpse of someone they’d like to sit next to on the bus ride home.
Elizabeth watched them and could not help but think of Molly and the times she’d picked her up from school. Elizabeth was eager to hear about her day, and Molly was excited to tell her. “Mom,” she said one time, getting in the passenger side of the car, her eyes filled with wonder, backpack tossed on the floorboard. “In science we learned about …” She paused and sounded out the word in a whisper, saying, “Meta … meta … morphosis.” She looked up at Elizabeth and grinned, pulled a piece of paper from her notebook with a large circle drawn on it. “This is called the lifecycle. The butterfly starts out as a teensy-weensy egg. See?” She pointed to a hand-drawn egg.
“I see,” Elizabeth said.
Molly smiled. “Well, that’s where it starts. The egg hatches into a baby caterpillar. Do you like the way I drew this one?”
“Yes, that’s excellent.”
Molly nodded, eyes bright. “And then the caterpillar eats lots of leaves and stuff and turns into a chrysalis. It usually hangs upside down from a limb. A few weeks later, the chrysalis opens up and a beautiful butterfly comes out. But it can’t fly yet.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because its wings are sort of wet and not very strong. But they warm up in the sun, and then the butterfly flaps its wings and flies away. I wish I could fly.”
“One day you will, sweetheart. It’ll be a different kind of flying, but it’ll be a lot like the butterfly, exploring the world and distant horizons.”
Molly nodded and clicked her seatbelt.
Elizabeth blinked her eyes rapidly for a moment, back in the present. As the buses left, a few straggling kids walked out to the remaining cars. Teachers began coming from an exit door closer to the parking lot. Elizabeth watched as half a dozen teachers, men and women, walked toward their cars. A half minute passed, and another teacher emerged. She walked alone. Purse in one hand, a lunchbox in the other.
Even from a distance of one hundred feet, Elizabeth knew it was Monica Sweeny. She seemed to walk at a brisk pace, her face unreadable, eyes looking at the sidewalk in front of her. She wore a gray blouse and black pants.
Elizabeth got out of the car, took a deep breath and waited for the woman to get closer.
• • •
Father MacGrath drove from the sheriff’s department back to St. Patrick’s, his mind dazed. When he pulled up in his parking space, he couldn’t remember the route he’d taken to arrive at the church. Couldn’t remember the streets or whether he’d even stopped at red traffic lights. The collar around his neck felt tight, his palms moist, heart rate irregular.
He got out and followed the pathway adjacent to the bloom
ing oleander bushes, the path leading to the private, back entrance to his office. He entered and locked the office door, sat in his chair and made a call to the diocese. Father MacGrath told the receptionist it was urgent. He had to speak with Bishop Mann. After half a minute, the bishop answered and said, “Father, always good to hear from you. What’s the urgency? Is everything all right at the parish?”
“No, everything is not all right. A lot of it is all wrong. And much if it goes back more than twenty years ago when Father Vogel was here.”
“I had nothing to do with his reassignment. What’s wrong?”
“As I told you, members of my parish are dying—no, they’re being murdered. The man who spoke in the confessional is the killer. You forbade me from going to the police and now another person was murdered. This must—”
“I did not forbid you. The canon laws of the Catholic Church, as they specifically apply to confessions, forbid it. There is no precedent for it. Never has been.”
“Perhaps there should be.”
“What are you saying, Father?”
“What I’m saying is that, if the parish member—the confessor, does not go to the police, then I will. I will not have the blood of another person on my hands.”
“The identity of the parishioner is anonymous. How do you know?”
“The voice, the cologne he wears, the heart-shaped mole on his cheek, and finally it was the look in his eyes. He may be a grown man now, but I can tell it in his face and especially in the eyes … because I saw that look so many years ago. And you don’t forget it. If I am to be defrocked and excommunicated from the church that I have served most of my life … then so be it. Goodbye Bishop Mann.”
