The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  As she stared at the approaching storm, Elizabeth thought of Monica Sweeny standing in the middle school parking lot, the American flag popping in the wind at the top of the metal pole. ‘I appreciate that, Miss Monroe … but I’m afraid you’re more than twenty years too late.’

  “Maybe not,” she whispered. She sat down, glanced at the photo of Molly on her desk. Elizabeth picked up her phone, found Father MacGrath’s number and called. After four rings, she whispered, “Come on, Father … answer your phone.” It went to voicemail—she disconnected and redialed.

  “On the fourth ring, he picked up and said,” Elizabeth … is it you?”

  “Yes, Father. It’s me. How are you?”

  “I wish I could say I’ve been in a worse situation, but I can’t. I’m about to go on trial for murder … and I’m an innocent man.”

  “But you know who killed Joe and the others. They only way to save yourself and all that you’ve done, all that you’ve stood for … is to tell police why you believe David Shaffer is the killer.”

  “He needs to tell them.”

  “Why? He confessed to you, didn’t he?”

  Father MacGrath said nothing.

  Elizabeth said, “I spoke with his mother, Monica. She doesn’t hold you responsible for what happened to her son. And, she forgives you for what happened on your watch. You need to forgive yourself. She knows her David is deeply troubled, very sick. And now she knows he’s back in Hattiesburg … back to where his hell on earth first began … St. Patrick’s Parish. I think she would be relieved, for her son’s sake, if you went to the police. He can be ruled incompetent to stand trial and sent to a mental health facility where he can get help. He doesn’t have to face prison. He’s been in his own self-confined prison for years. And he doesn’t have to face the death penalty.”

  Father MacGrath held his cell phone to his ear as he entered the sanctuary. It was deserted. “I will tell you this, Elizabeth. I appreciate your tenacity. Ever since you were a girl, I’ve known you were unique, an exception, really. You were older than your years and beyond reproach. When Molly was killed, I believe a piece of your own soul went into the grave with her. I also think David Shaffer was abused so horribly that, when Father Vogel continued and was never held accountable, it added insult to injury, causing David to delve deeper into his pain, eventually losing touch with who he is. And, when the church turned a blind eye, and I learned Father Vogel was accused in other parishes, I lost a piece of who I was as a priest. I sought answers for the unspeakable from God—I’m still praying about it.”

  From her office, Elizabeth watched lightning stoke the fire in the stomachs of black clouds, like the white-hot flicker of molten steel through the doors of blast furnaces. “Father, we all fall down, time and time again in life. It’s what we do. And it’s a choice to pick the path to get back up. You’ve reminded me of that more than once. However, some people are incapable of that. David Shaffer has moved from being lost to fantasy—a psychopath, where reality no longer exists for him. He is not able to pull himself back up without intense intervention, if at all.”

  “I suggested to you recently that there are three things necessary for the salvation of man. To know what he ought to believe. To know what he ought to desire. And to know what he ought to do. Elizabeth, I finally know what I must do.”

  “What?”

  “Report David Shaffer to the authorities. I told him if he did not, I will.”

  “Father, what do you mean … you told him?”

  “On the phone. I told him I know what he looks like. He still has the tiny, heart-shaped mole on his face. Still has the same gray eyes. I know what he said in confession. I recorded it on my phone. And, I told him I was going to the police if he didn’t go first.”

  “You are in grave danger! Where are you now?”

  “St. Patrick’s.”

  “Are you in your office?”

  “I just entered the sanctuary. I’m going to light candles and spend time with our Lord before I breach the sacrament of confession. Seek wisdom and His guidance. And then I will go home.”

  “You need to go home now.”

  “Not until I seek our Lord in the stillness of the sanctuary. It’s something I need to do, Elizabeth.”

  “Father … listen to me. Leave! David Shaffer knows you are there. I think he’s saved you for last. And now that you’ve drawn the line, I believe he’s coming for you.”

  “I always have had, and always will have the shield from the robe of Jesus Christ to protect me. It has allowed me to become an old man. I’ll be fine, Elizabeth. Do not worry about me.” Father MacGrath disconnected, lit one candle and used it to light more than a dozen candles. The splinter of lightning in the distance backlit the stained-glass windows in a pulsating rainbow of color.

  NINETY

  Elizabeth grabbed her purse and an umbrella and bolted from her office. She ran through the lobby, out the doors and toward the faculty parking lot. A strong wind blew from the northeast, shaking red maple trees planted in a neat row on the lawn bordering the parking lot. The smell of approaching rain hit her in the face as if she were riding a speedboat across a lake. Lightning splintered from the graphite sky in serrated veins of white. A crash of thunder sent a surge of noise—an invisible groundswell roaring into Elizabeth’s chest as she unlocked her car.

  She sat behind the wheel and the sky opened, pouring a waterfall over her car, the deafening slap of heavy rain on the roof and hood. She lifted the phone from her purse and called Mike Bradford. It went to his voicemail. She had to strain to hear. A finger in one ear. “You’ve reached Detective Bradford. Please leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Mike, it’s Elizabeth. I’m very worried about Father MacGrath. He told me a few minutes ago that he spoke with David Shaffer and told him that he would go to the police with details of Shaffer’s confession. I don’t know the facts of the confession, obviously. But I do know that whatever was said has led to Shaffer framing Father MacGrath as a serial killer—and now, I believe, Shaffer is going after him. I’m leaving the university. Weather’s crappy. I’m heading to the sanctuary to get Father MacGrath out of there before Shaffer can get to him. He’s stubborn. I may have to pry his hands off the altar. Please meet me there. Call me as soon as you get this, okay? Thanks.” She disconnected and drove into the heart of the storm.

  • • •

  Father MacGrath was deep in prayer, thunder rolling outside, when a side door to the sanctuary slowly opened. The intruder wore a black hoodie, like a monk preparing for prayer. But he was preparing for a human sacrifice. He paused, watching the old man at the altar with his head bowed, the flickering candles swaying over the dais, casting light and shadows across the face of Mary carved from white marble.

  The man quietly set his motorcycle helmet down next to a wooden pew. From the back of the church, he watched his prey. He’d thought about this moment for years. Planned it. Rehearsed it. Saw it in his sobriety. Lived it in the gray fog of drugs and alcohol he’d consumed to smother the fires. But that had the opposite effect. Enflaming the rage—an anger seething like the roar of the Burning Man up in flames on a scarlet desert night.

  He was there in the Nevada desert to witness the annual event, seeking a transformative experience of the Burning Man. What he got was so much more. It was the last day when stickman goes up in flames. Hundreds of people dancin’ in the dust like ghosts from Woodstock. Music blaring. Skin showing. Tattoos. The smell of weed, armpits and asses as people danced and rolled around like armadillos in heat. He watched two girls lie on their backs, moving arms and legs, making snow angels in the dust.

  And then night fell across the desert.

  Right before they torched Woody under more twinkling stars than what David Shaffer had ever seen sober, he popped a mescal button into his mouth and chewed it like leaf tobacco, chasing the ‘juice’ with a long pull from a bottle of tequila before tying off his left arm to find one of the few
remaining good veins. In the moonlight, he injected the needle into a blue vein and spewed almost pure heroin into his bloodstream. And then he sat and watched the fire-starters move around the base of the statue, torches in hand, singing, dancing, chanting as they lit the Achilles heels of the tall effigy to man.

  Shaffer’s eyes momentarily jumped to the couple in front of him, the guy inked with tattoos down his arms, and the girl with a wide, colorful display of flowers on the small of her back, visible by the midriff top she wore. His mind moved from the psychedelic vividness of the visuals to the words of Father Vogel, ‘tattoos are the mark of the beast—you were chosen, my beautiful boy, for your purity.’ Shaffer felt himself involuntarily shudder. But this time, it felt as if he was shaking off the words of the priest and regaining his focus, gaining his power.

  He watched the orange flames lick the legs and torso of Burning Man before bursting into an inferno and consuming the figure with an insatiable hunger. The crackle of burning wood was soon approaching the rumble and snap of a forest fire in the desert. The orange firelight reflecting off of spellbound faces filled with awe and dust, tears streaking through the grime. If there ever was a true bonfire of the vanities, Shaffer felt it, witnessed it that night. The firestorm rising into a mushroom cloud, ashes drifting into the heavens and falling back over the people in a baptism of black ash.

  It was that night his mission became clear. The voices he heard in the crackle of destruction meant a rebirth of his soul. It was told to him then … and now, around the flames from the candles, he must set fire to evil.

  He quietly walked down the long aisle toward Father MacGrath.

  This sacrifice would be different from the butchering of Howard Vogel inside a smaller parish in Natchez. Vogel had been confused, as if he couldn’t remember all of his victims through the years. The names were forgotten not long after the rapes stopped. Soon the appearances of the children, their contorted and anguished little faces would evaporate into nothingness, as would their pleas and cries fade to silence like slaughtered lambs.

  Tonight, he took a few steps closer, watching Father MacGrath as the old man uttered his final prayers on earth. Shaffer pulled a long, serrated knife from his belt, the priest oblivious to his destiny, eyes closed, kneeling.

  • • •

  Elizabeth drove through a pouring rain, wipers making an attempt to fight the deluge as she pulled her car into St. Patrick’s parking lot. She felt a tinge of relief seeing only Father MacGrath’s car in the lot near the entrance to the office. She decided to park on the opposite side, a little closer to the church entrance. As she slowed and started to turn into the space, she hit her brakes.

  The motorcycle.

  It sat stationary in the spot like one of the four horses from the Apocalypse. No rider in the storm, but the gas tank was an ashen-like color—the color of death in Revelation. Elizabeth parked next to the motorcycle. She reached in her purse and picked up her gun. She stared through the rain falling on her windshield, through the slap of the wipers, to the church. Lights were on in the office. And it appeared there were soft lights in the sanctuary. She could see the flicker of candlelight coming through the stained-glass windows.

  She made a call, the light from her phone on the left side of her face. Mike Bradford answered and said, “Elizabeth, I just heard your message. I’ll go by St. Patrick’s and—”

  “Mike, I’m at the church now, in the parking lot. David Shaffer’s motorcycle is parked in the lot on the opposite side of Father MacGrath’s car, closest to the church entrance. I hope I’m not too late.”

  “Elizabeth, don’t go in there alone.”

  “Right now, I have no choice. If Shaffer’s in the sanctuary with Father MacGrath … I don’t want to think what could happen. I’m going in, Mike. I have to.”

  “Wait for me! I’m bringing backup. We found out that a Cadillac Escalade was rented in Jackson the day before Wanda Donnelly’s body was found. It was the same color and model year as Father MacGrath’s car. Prior to that, an Escalade was rented the day before Olivia and Brian were killed. The ID on the driver’s license was David E. Shaffer.”

  “How far out are you?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Father MacGrath may not have ten minutes. Hurry!” She disconnected, opened her car door and got out in the rain.

  NINETY-ONE

  David Shaffer was enjoying a moment he’d thought about for years—the murder of a second priest. Shaffer walked around the old man who was kneeling, eyes closed in prayer. He stood in front of Father MacGrath and touched him on one shoulder with the point of the knife. The priest’s eyes fluttered open, face confused—his expression one of a man bewildered—awakened from a dream.

  Shaffer used his left hand to slowly remove his hood.

  “It is you,” Father MacGrath whispered.

  “Who else?”

  Father MacGrath was silent.

  “You knew I would return. This time I appear in the flesh right before you.” Shaffer reached in the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a stale wafer. “I did one other time. It was at mass not long ago. You knew it was me. I could see it in your eyes. But you chose to do nothing. I must say, Father, you do honor the discretion and sanctity of confession … or you did until now. This is what you tried to feed me at mass.” Shaffer tossed the wafer at Father MacGrath’s feet. “You said … the Body of Christ. What does that really mean when a priest like Father Vogel is violating the body and spirit of children?”

  Father MacGrath said nothing, his hands still clasped together.

  “Stand up!” ordered Shaffer.

  He slowly stood, not taking his eyes off Shaffer. “David … I have no fear of death. You can threaten me, but you cannot intimidate or scare me. And the reason is because of my unwavering belief in our Lord. I know that you are angry, and you have every right to be … but you do not have the right to take a human life.”

  “Father Vogel had no right to take my life—to steal my soul. And that’s what he did each time he took me in his office and closed the door. For twenty-three years, I could hear his grunts and groans in my mind. The colors of the curtains in his office, the smell of his sweat, the pain of the thrusts … it’s all there. Never goes completely away.” He paused and placed the tip of the knife against Father MacGrath’s neck. “And you did nothing! I’m not alone. There are thousands of adults who faced their own versions of Father Vogels in their parishes. The names may have been different, but the sins of the father were the same.”

  “I am so very sorry.”

  “After you and the church did nothing to punish or even stop him … you say you’re sorry … why? You must be made an example, as was Vogel.” Shaffer reached into the side pocket of his hoodie and this time removed a small can of lighter fluid. He jerked the plastic tip off and sprayed lighter fluid in the pattern of a cross over the chest of the priest. He reached to his left and lifted a long, white candle from its holder. “When you burn, the whole church will burn, too. It’ll burn to the ground. Maybe then the stain of sin, like the sin that swept through Sodom and Gomorrah, will be gone.”

  He moved the candle flame closer and said, “Et roborabitur fortitudo eius in hora mortis.”

  There was a slight sound in the rear of the church. Elizabeth entered, her pistol, in both hands. She stood still and silent for a moment, watching what was happening on the altar. She reached in her jacket pocket and pressed the record button on her phone and ran as quietly as possible down the main aisle, stopping less than thirty feet from Father MacGrath and David Shaffer. “Don’t do it!” she shouted, pointing her pistol at Shaffer’s chest. “David, put the candle and the knife down. We can talk through this. I spoke to your mother. She loves you deeply and will do anything she can to help you.”

  Shaffer looked up, staring at Elizabeth. “Help me from what? From myself? I’m afraid that’s not possible?”

  “Yes, it is possible. My name is Elizabeth Monroe. You left a message with my o
ffice. After I met with your mother, I know that she called you. She delivered the message that psychological help can be an alternative to prison or worse.”

  “Worse! What’s worse than being sodomized at age twelve by a two-hundred-pound man wearing the collar of a priest? Answer that for me, Doctor Monroe? You can’t even come close to understanding.”

  “Yes, I can. Rape isn’t unique to pedophiles and their victims. I know.”

  Father MacGrath looked at Elizabeth, his eyes heavy with fatigue and sadness. He wanted to embrace her and pray for her. But the cold burn of lighter fluid had soaked into his skin, the acrid odor filling his nostrils and lungs. He cut his eyes to the burning candle in one of Shaffer’s hands, the long knife in the other.

  Elizabeth said, “Please, David … put the knife and candle down … okay? No one is going to hurt you now or ever again.” She stepped closer, holding her pistol in a two-handed grip, the barrel pointed at Shaffer’s chest. “Please … don’t make me shoot you.”

  “Why? That would be an exit I can choose.”

  “David, you don’t have to do this. Father MacGrath has suffered through the years. What you did, killing people to frame him, won’t ever justify what was done to you. And, it wasn’t caused by Father MacGrath—you know that. Enough people have died because of that horrible summer when you were twelve-years-old. Let us help you now.”

  “Father MacGrath is guilty! He looked the other way just like the rest of the hypocrites in the Catholic church. Framing him was the only fun I’ve had in all of this—sacrificing four people who sought absolution from a hypocrite and linking them to him through confessions, tattoos, little cross clues, and a candy red car. Clever, don’t you think?” He tilted his head down, then looked up at Elizabeth through cold, assessing eyes. He said, “Put the gun down on the pew in front of you, and I will put the knife and candle down.”