by Tom Lowe
EIGHTY-FOUR
Elizabeth knew the woman had spotted her. When she crossed the sidewalk running parallel to the road, she glanced at Elizabeth, quickly looking away. She waited for a car to pass, and then walked across the road to the parking lot. Elizabeth approached her and said, “Monica?”
She stopped, startled. Her face leery. “Yes … who are you?” She had an intense, penetrating stare. Dark hair beginning to gray. No makeup. Mouth creased and turned down.
“My name’s Elizabeth Monroe. Are you Monica Sweeny?”
“Yes, why?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Like you, I’m a teacher.”
“Okay, can I help you?” Monica angled her head, sunlight breaking through one of the few red maple trees planted near the sidewalk.
“I hope you can help me. I teach forensic psychology at Southern Miss. Look, I’m going to be very frank with you because you don’t deserve anything less.”
“What do you know about me? What do you want?”
“I know, like me, you’re a mom. Although I lost my only child to a murderer a few years ago, I’ll always be a mom. I just have to wait a while to see my child again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Elizabeth nodded. She glanced at a boy in the distance on his bike, backpack not all the way closed. “Monica, I know that you, too, lost a child; and I don’t mean a physical death. But a death, nonetheless. This one is often of the spirit. I’m a member of St. Patrick’s Parish. I know what happened to your son, David, all those years ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ll explain that in just a second. I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, how sorry I am to have learned some of what happened. Your son, unfortunately like thousands of children, was abused by someone who impersonated a man of God. When, in reality, he was sick—a pedophile. I know that kind of soul-scorching hurt is so very difficult to fade away. There are scars … sometimes scabs. And, too often, they get knocked off.”
Monica looked away for a moment, her eyes tearing, searching the campus as if her son might ride up on his bicycle, the years turned back to the innocence of youth before the ruin of evil. She moistened her lips. “I appreciate your sentiments. They’re coming twenty-three years too late. How do you know about my son?”
“Because, at this minute, police in Hattiesburg are interrogating Father MacGrath … asking him questions about the murder of four St. Patrick’s parishioners.”
Monica held her left hand to her lips. “Dear God …”
“The murders could, in a circuitous way, be connected to what happened to David.”
“I don’t blame Father MacGrath.”
“Monica, where is David today?”
“I don’t know. After a couple years of therapy, he turned to drugs. He became addicted and went to a half-dozen rehab clinics. Each time he was released, David promised me he wasn’t going back to drugs. He’d try, stay clean for a few months, and then something would happen to trigger it. And the cycle started all over again.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Eventually, after he learned not to blame himself for what a grown man—a priest, did to him, David became less angry but much more withdrawn. He is extremely bright and well read. He read everything he could about living a life of purpose, philosophy, world religions … trying to make sense of the horror he was put through in the back office with Howard Vogel. A few years ago, my son sold his house and just about everything he owned. He bought a motorcycle, and said he was going to the ends of the earth until he could figure out why he was put on earth … and what he was supposed do with the rest of his life.”
Elizabeth thought about the man on the motorcycle near Father MacGrath’s parked car. “Tell me about your son. What made you proud?”
“He was always a sweet boy. So trusting and full of life. He has a gift for music. David can play just about any instrument. He can sing well, too.” She managed a half smile and said, “He has an ear for voices and can impersonate actors and other famous people. David used to make his sister and me laugh with his clever impersonations. He can sound just like George W. Bush to a T.”
“Do you know if he’s in communication with his sister?”
“No, they don’t get along. Debbie always claimed David was a mean person, taunting and doing snide things to her behind my back. I never saw that side of him. To me he was always charming … and very smart, so I chalked it up to sibling rivalry. The relationship continued to deteriorate as David sunk further and further into his own world.”
“Did your children have a good relationship with their father?”
“Heavens, no. He was an alcoholic and verbally and physically abusive. I kept them away from him so he couldn’t lay a hand on us anymore. I guess that’s why David gravitated to Father Vogel. He seemed so attentive and kind to him.”
“I can imagine how betrayed David must have felt. When’s the last time you heard from David?”
“The day he bought the motorcycle and drove way. It’s been a few years.”
“Did he change his name and go off the grid?”
“Far as I know he didn’t. He’s been David Shaffer all his life, and I expect he’ll continue with that unless he feels his name’s part of the awful things that were done to him.” She paused, standing more erect. “I blame it all on that animal, Howard Vogel. I stopped referring to him as Father Vogel, because he no longer had the right to that title after raping my son. Not one time, but over and over.” She swallowed, inhaled though her flared nostrils and said, “I wish now I’d filed criminal charges against him. You know why?”
“I have a good idea.”
“It’s because the Catholic Church was more concerned about hiding its child sex abuse problem than fixing it. That resulted in Howard Vogel doing it again and again. All the church did was send him away to another parish. Make it their problem.”
“Did you know that Vogel is dead?”
Monica’s eyes opened wider, a long-distance look on her face. “No. I hope he died a slow death from some kind of cancer.”
“It was worse. He had his throat slit. He was murdered in a church sanctuary.”
Monica looked away, face anxious, thoughts concealed. She shifted her eyes back to Elizabeth and asked, “Is that why you’re here? You think my David killed Howard Vogel?”
“I don’t know. I do know that, in the last couple of months, one person previously affiliated with St. Patrick’s, Howard Vogel, and four members of the church have been murdered, bringing the count to five. I’m not suggesting that your son had anything to do with those murders. However, considering what he was put through, if he did … he can get help. Psychiatric care in a state hospital could be an option if he’s involved.”
“Miss Monroe, I understand that you’re a member of St. Patrick’s, too; and I’m assuming you are friends with Father MacGrath. But, why would you drive down here from Hattiesburg to learn more about David?”
“Because I care. I care about him and the people who’ve recently died. What happened to your son was an unspeakable, horrific act of evil. After all these years, something connected to what Howard Vogel did to David as a child has returned to St. Patrick’s Parish. And, in its wake, five people are dead.” She reached in her purse and pulled out a card. “If you should hear from David, please let me know. If he is involved, he’s desperate for help. And I can bring it to him.”
Monica took the card, looked at the name and title on the center of it. “I appreciate that, Miss Monroe … but I’m afraid you’re more than twenty years too late.”
She turned and walked toward her car. At the top of a tall flagpole, an American flag flapped in the wind.
EIGHTY-FIVE
The data came back sooner than Detective Bradford thought it would. He sat at his desk in the homicide division of the sheriff’s office and watched a clerk approach. The middle-aged woman carried a file folder in her hands, her thin lips tight, bifocals connected to a lan
yard and resting on her blouse. She said, “This just came from the crime lab. I almost ran up the stairs to give it to you.”
“Thanks, Glenda,” Bradford said, taking the folder. He opened it and read the results of the blood analysis. He looked up at her and nodded.
She took a deep breath and said, “This will be interesting. It’s times like this when I’m glad I’m not in homicide.” She turned and walked by detectives in cubicles, working the phones and studying computer screens. Bradford reread the report. He stood, grabbed his sports coat from the back of the chair, and walked across the room to Detective Bill Lee’s desk, Lee finishing a phone call.
Lee hung up, pushed back in his chair, and turned toward Bradford. “You’ve got that look. Are those the DNA results in your hand?”
“Yeah, no surprises, really. Traces of blood on the hatchet match Joe Jackson’s blood. You want to call the sheriff and let him know that the media will be storming this place in a few hours.”
“Sure, we’ll let him decide whether to hold a press conference. Last one didn’t go so well in terms of Boyd Baxter walking out of here on bond, and his attorney raising doubt in our investigative abilities. I heard Conner is working on a motion for Baxter’s acquittal. We have an absolutely stellar record and never concluded that this was anything other than an active investigation. It only takes planting the seed of doubt to create a social media firestorm and skew the facts while we’re busting our butts to turn over every stone. Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll catch up with you at your desk. Think we need to take back-up for the arrest?”
“No, he’s an old priest,” Bradford said.
“But, if he’s a killer priest, he could have a sawed-off twelve gauge under his robe just waiting to send a couple of detectives into the next world.”
Bradford looked down at the file folder in his hands. “What bothers me is this … Father MacGrath doesn’t appear to have the strength to physically choke a man to death as large as Joe Jackson. It’s not like he used a garrote wire to halfway decapitate him—he used the ascot around the vic’s neck to choke the life out of him. That’s got to take some muscles.”
“Mike, don’t forget the spilt skull. That levels the playing field.”
“Maybe, but the M.E. said the reason there was so little blood from that wound is because Jackson was already dead from asphyxiation. His heart had stopped pumping blood.”
“Then why play whack a scout leader and split his skull? Makes no sense.”
“It does if you’re trying to get blood residue on a hand ax to frame somebody and draw a circle around the tattoo of a Joker.”
“Don’t even go there. You really think MacGrath is being set up to take the fall as a serial killer?”
“I don’t know. But he did look very surprised and confused when we told him we’d found the hatchet. He said it wasn’t his, and that he was being framed for the murders. He could be telling the truth.”
“At some point, most killers say that. No one is ever guilty. I’ll call Sheriff Dawson, see what he wants to do in terms of all the damn news coverage that’s about to hit us like a dark cloud.”
• • •
Elizabeth was pulling her car onto Highway 49, heading straight north from Gulfport to Hattiesburg, thinking about her heartbreaking conversation with Monica Sweeny. As a mother, she could feel the pain that Monica endured because of what Father Vogel had repeatedly done to her son, David. Elizabeth knew the agonizing stats: children are three times more likely to be victims of rape and molestation than are adults. One in three girls and one in five boys are victims of sexual assault … and usually not by strangers. Much more often by a family member or a trusted adult.
Trusted adult.
Father Howard Vogel.
Elizabeth opened her driver side window for a moment, filling her car with the breezy air of fall. She inhaled deeply, closed the window and called Mike Bradford. When he answered, she said, “Mike, I managed to locate the woman that Father MacGrath said was the mother of the child abused by Father Vogel twenty-three years ago. Her name is Monica Sweeny, and she’s a middle school teacher in Gulfport. I just left after speaking with her and—”
“Elizabeth why’d you drive down there? If we need to talk with her, we’ll go do it.”
“I did it because, as a woman—a woman who’s lost a child, too … I thought I could relate to her, and she could do the same with me. I wanted to hear—to listen to what she could tell me about what happened at St. Patrick’s when her son was a boy.”
“We know what happened—he was a victim of child sex abuse. Criminal charges were never filed, the mother not pushing it, the Catholic Church doing what it so often did when pedophiles were found in their mix—they transferred them to another parish. Out of sight, out of mind until it happens again. A sad merry-go-round.”
“We know what happened decades ago, but we don’t know what happened to him in the years since. Monica told me that therapy didn’t seem to offer long-term help for David. She said he became an addict, in and out of rehab clinics. And then, finally one day, she said he left—dropped off the grid, bought a motorcycle and traveled.”
“And now he’s back in Hattiesburg.”
“And it’s not a heartwarming homecoming. It’s a Greek tragedy in the worst form. I saw someone on a motorcycle in St. Patrick’s parking lot, not far from where Father MacGrath parks his car. The motorcycle driver wore a helmet and visor, so I couldn’t see his face, but my gut is telling me it was David Shaffer.”
“Elizabeth, all that is good and well, but the fact is we have forensic physical evidence. The blood sample tests are back from the crime lab. The blood on the hatchet found in Father MacGrath’s Cadillac matches the blood on victim number four, Joe Jackson. We’ll be arresting Father MacGrath today. We have video of what appears to be his Escalade at New Shepherd Cemetery before Wanda Donnelly’s body was found. The priest’s voice sounds a lot like the voice recorded on Olivia Curtis’ phone, and the headlights of an Escalade make the L-shaped patterns Olivia mentioned in her phone message to her friend, Angie Chaffin.”
“Monica told me David is very good at doing voice impersonations. Maybe he was impersonating Father MaGrath’s voice when he murdered the victims.”
“I know you have a special place in your heart for Father MacGrath, but the evidence is compelling.”
“Maybe, but it’s not overwhelming, Mike. Can you question David Shaffer, see what he might know and have to say? What if he planted that hatchet?”
“How’d he get into Father MacGrath’s Escalade?”
“He could have left it unlocked. Do you always remember to lock your car, especially in a place like a church parking lot right outside the main office? Regardless, can you question him before you arrest Father MacGrath?”
“Already a step ahead of you, Elizabeth. We’re trying to locate him. He’s listed as a member of St. Patrick’s, but there’s not a lot of information about him. The phone number we found on the list you gave us is registered to a Janelle Murphy. Bill Lee called and spoke to her. She says she never heard of David Shaffer. We had two deputies ride out to the home address listed. It’s a ranch-style, brick house. Maybe thirty years old. No one came to the door. No sign of a car or a motorcycle in the drive or garage. No name on the mailbox. Probably a rental. We checked the property records. The homeowners are listed as Mark and Mary Sherman. No current contact information for them yet, but their tax payments are up to date. So, it’s just a matter of time before we locate them.”
“If Shaffer has nothing to hide, why give a fake phone number to his church?”
“Why does anyone today do what they do? I blame some of it on social media, the rest on irresponsible, deadbeat parents.”
“Maybe you can see if anyone has rented a red Lincoln Navigator from any of the area car rental places. David Shaffer would have to show his driver’s license to rent a car.”
“When will you be back in Hattiesburg?”
“A
bout an hour. Mike, if you do have to arrest Father MacGrath, please be kind. I know you are, but not everyone along the judicial path is like you. If you don’t have to place him in handcuffs, please don’t. He’s not well, and I’m worried about him.”
• • •
Monica Sweeny sat at her kitchen table and stared at the card Elizabeth Monroe gave her. She looked at the title written on the card beneath the name, Professor of Criminal Psychology. Monica picked up her phone and made a call. After three rings, someone answered but said nothing. Monica licked her lips, eyes anxious, a glimmer of hope somewhere in the angst. She said, “David, it’s your mother. You don’t have to say anything if you prefer not to. I understand why you don’t talk. If you’re back in Hattiesburg, I know someone who wants to help you. Her name is Doctor Elizabeth Monroe. She’s a psychologist, and she’s a professor at the university there. I spoke with her today in Gulfport. She’s very nice. She knows you’re there, and she really wants to help. She seems very caring. I’ll text her number to you. I hope you’ll call her, David. I love you.”
Monica’s pulse raced, her breathing shallow and fast. She waited another few seconds, hoping for a response. Any response, just a couple of words like okay Mom.
The line went dead in her hand.
Monica stared out her kitchen window to a lone sycamore tree. She lowered her eyes to the card on the table, touched it with two fingers and made a silent prayer.
EIGHTY-SIX
Father Gregory MacGrath never even had a traffic ticket. And now he stood in court in an initial appearance next to his defense attorney and listened to the murder charge recited from the lead prosecutor, District Attorney Ken Springer. He said, “Detectives have gathered forensic and physical evidence connecting Father MacGrath directly to the murder of Joe Jackson. And, we will prove Jackson’s death is linked to more homicides. We’re talking about a serial killer in our community.”
Father MacGrath appeared resigned, almost disoriented as he sat behind the defendant’s table. The courtroom was packed with news media and spectators in what promised to be the “trial of the century.”
