SALVATION STATION
Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Schleich
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2020
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-892-7 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-893-4 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019914836
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To all the courageous, resilient, and smart women I’ve met in my life
1
MONDAY, MAY 13, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA UNIVERSITY PLACE DISCIPLES OF CHRIST CHURCH
Two of them were just babies. Captain Linda Turner had been a homicide detective for over ten years, but this crime scene was still a shock. Half a dozen murders are considered a bad year, she mused, striding toward the scene. Three bodies accidentally discovered through an innocent act: an inquisitive dog burrowing deep into the flower garden behind its new home and bringing its master a gruesome prize.
“Morning, Steve,” she said. The cop guarding the area raised the yellow plastic POLICE LINE—DO NOT Cross crime tape as she folded her body and slipped under. “I understand the owner’s dog found the bodies.”
“Good morning, Captain. Yes, ma’am, he recently moved to town, the pastor of University Disciples of Christ Church,” Steve offered. “He made the 911 call.”
“What a welcome.”
This was all the information Captain Turner had on this breezy May morning. The smell of freshly turned soil and blooming flowers combined with a stench she knew all too well. Behind the neat limestone house, the flower garden was cordoned off, and evidence flags and numbered photo markers dotted the soil with yellow. A crime scene photographer had finished documenting the shocking scene, and the coroner was directing forensic experts gingerly extracting human remains from beneath the black earth. The bodies were wrapped individually in blankets, fragile from decomposition. The badly deteriorated remains were gently uncovered, revealing two young children dressed in tattered Disney pajamas. One body clad in pink Disney princesses and the other in Mickey Mouse gave Linda pause. The little girl and boy lay on blue plastic tarps spread over the grass, human jigsaw puzzles waiting to be solved. Linda couldn’t look any longer and turned away, her free hand covering her mouth, breathing through her nose to keep from gagging.
It had happened before, but the horror of murdered innocent children always had the same effect: Linda couldn’t stop until the depraved killer was found and convicted. She didn’t have any children of her own because she had invested 110 percent into her police career, but she was a favorite aunt. Linda envisioned the sweet faces of her nieces and nephews, all under the age of ten.
The back door swung shut with a loud bang, snapping Linda into the here and now. A familiar figure strode toward her. Tall and lean, Lieutenant Lyle Dale was a twenty-year veteran of the force. Dressed in a tailored dark suit and cowboy boots—always cowboy boots—he cut a striking figure. Linda met him halfway across the lush lawn.
“Morning, Lieutenant. Bring me up to speed,” she said, gesturing toward the vigilant CSI team.
Lyle spoke matter-of-factly. “One adult male and two small children. CSIs are still looking for a fourth body, but no luck so far.”
“I assume that would be the mother?” Linda asked, watching the hive of activity.
“That’s our best guess. The children make this crime especially heinous.”
“Yes, they do,” Linda acknowledged sadly. She strolled back toward the partially excavated garden, shading her eyes from the rising spring sun. “Walk me through the discovery.”
Lt. Dale cleared his throat. “If it weren’t for the Reverend Martin’s very large and curious dog, Kris Kringle, the bodies might have gone undetected. According to the reverend, Kris is always dragging home roadkill or what have you. This morning, Kris took to digging in the flower garden and brought his master a human leg.” Lyle turned toward the house. “Rev. Martin followed his dog out here,” he added, tracing the pastor’s path in one motion ending at the garden, “where he discovered additional human remains. At which point, he called 911.”
A strand had come loose from the ponytail securing her blonde hair, and Linda casually brushed it aside. “Any idea yet who they might be?”
“That’s where it gets intriguing,” Lyle replied. “Rev. Martin moved into the parsonage about eight weeks ago, replacing the former pastor named Gregory Hansen, who’d left to pursue missionary work in Africa. Rev. Hansen was married and had two young children. After the Hansen family moved, the national missionary office for the Disciples of Christ contacted the church concerned that the Hansens had never arrived.”
Linda glanced toward the corpses and the growing mounds of dirt from the excavated garden. “Three bodies. What are the chances that the Hansen family never left town?”
Lyle nodded, his face grim. “That’s my thought—that these are Rev. Hansen and his children. But we’ll need autopsies to confirm that.”
The sour feeling in Linda’s stomach made her think Lyle was right, but she had another question. “Did the church contact us or file a missing person’s report?”
“The church secretary confirmed a missing person’s report was filed when the national Disciples office called to say the Hansens weren’t in Cleveland,” Lyle answered, following her gaze.
Linda kept focusing on those tiny pajama-clad bodies. “Start interviewing persons of interest—”
“I’ve already got staff ready for interviews,” Lyle interrupted. “Rev. Martin is very willing to cooperate and has agreed to let police search the house and take prints. Then there’s the church secretary, Darlene Jordan, who specifically asked to speak with the person in charge.”
Linda removed a small pad of paper and pen from her jacket pocket, scribbling notes. “I’ll talk with the church secretary. Once we’ve secured the house, you and Amy start canvassing neighbors and church members.”
“Right. One other thing: both Amy and I detected the odor of bleach throughout the house, as though someone was cleaning up after themselves.”
“Captain Turner? Ma’am, there’s a reporter from the Journal Star asking to speak with you.” It was Steve, the strapping, young, uniformed officer assigned to keep bystanders away from the scene.
“I need to give the press a preliminary statement,” Linda acknowledged. “We haven’t seen a case involving the murder of children in quite a while, so it’ll merit extra attention. I’ll see you back at the station.” Linda strode toward the quickly forming gaggle of reporters with Steve at her heels.
Cases like this were one reason Linda Turner loved her job. Her dedication and tenaciousness had assured her promotion as the youngest person to attain the rank of captain in the LPD. Sifting through the clues of a tangled mystery, discovering which pieces fit and which l
ed to a dead end, then assembling that evidence into a case to catch the perpetrators and bring them to justice were what had made law enforcement so enticing.
But there was an unhappy downside to her meteoric rise. No longer was there anyone to come home to and share a lifetime with. To preserve her sanity, Linda made the choice to delve deep into her career, personal needs be damned. This case was already tugging at her emotions. Those children’s bodies haunted her. Who would savagely murder a pastor and innocent children, burying the evidence in a flower garden? Why? And most troubling, where was the mother? Linda made a silent vow to find out. No matter what.
2
TUESDAY, MAY 14, 2002 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI THE ROAD TO CALVARY TV SET
His voice was as smooth as good Kentucky sipping whiskey, the southern lilt forceful yet refined. Among the crowd, a few responded, “Amen!” as the Reverend Ray Williams, his body six foot three inches of sinewy muscle, strode across the cramped stage on a mission to save and assessed his sparse flock. The set was tightly confined; on TV, the lighting, color, and camera angles would give the illusion of spaciousness.
“Remember what the Bible tells us in John, chapter eight, verse twelve. Jesus proclaims, ‘I am the light of the world! Whoever follows Me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life!’ Believe in Him and I tell you, brothers and sisters, all who accept Jesus Christ will have everlasting life!”
Rev. Ray had done this work long enough to know everything looked better on television, except the numbers. For five years, he’d courted an audience from a low-power cable TV station in St. Louis, confident his message would attract followers looking for salvation. A couple thousand worshippers invited The Road to Calvary into their homes, but it wasn’t enough. He had spent more of his own money than he cared to admit; however, expenses kept rising, and there was relentless competition for viewers, members, and revenue.
Even now, Ray was conflicted in his decision to close what had seemed a promising venture. He’d never lost his enthusiasm or the feeling he was indeed proclaiming the word of God and news of salvation. Ray knew everyone was a sinner, including himself. He hoped The Road to Calvary would spur people to rise above their sins, accept the Good News, and find the true meaning of Christ in their lives. The reverend smiled warmly at his audience and motioned for them to stand. “Let us share our belief in Jesus Christ by praying together our prayer of deliverance.”
The congregation rose to their feet and repeated the words they had come to know by heart: “Lord Jesus, I believe in You. I believe You died for my sins and rose again to save me from a world mired in sin . . .”
At the prayer’s end, a cheerful male voice yelled off stage left, “That’s a wrap!”
The prayerful opened their eyes. Ray bid his flock goodbye. “Thank you for joining us, and see you next week for another taping.”
The rented studio space had emptied out, and Ray steeled himself as he prepared to break the news to his miniscule staff. Jeff Jones and Buck Neal had worked with him since the beginning and, other than the cable channel volunteers, were his only employees. After Ray’s wife died, he’d needed a break from running a church, and low-power cable seemed the perfect avenue to reach a larger audience.
Although the pay was low, it was more than either Buck or Jeff thought Ray could afford, so they had risen to the occasion time and again, working long hours to produce the show. Jeff, a Gulf War veteran who had left the army with a medal for bravery, had taken the cable station’s courses on how to run the camera equipment, while Buck, with a background in TV production and IT, handled the lighting, edited the videotape, acted as stage director, and greeted audience members. But in the world of low-power cable, local religious programming was a staple. With limited resources, Ray had underestimated the toughness of that competition.
As he stood on the edge of the carpeted stage with his cohorts, he marveled at their vast differences. Short in stature, Jeff made up for it with his buffed physique that won area weightlifting contests, while, in stark contrast, Buck sported a mullet, a paunch, and a silver earring. He was a recovering alcoholic, and unlike Jeff who had never married, Buck had three failed unions behind him. As a team, they’d worked together in seamless tandem, and now it was going to end.
Ray cleared his throat. “I always promised you’d be the first to know the fate of The Road to Calvary, and unfortunately, that moment has come.”
“You’re ending the show?” Buck asked.
“I don’t want to draw this out, but yes. Even with the reasonable cost of low-power cable, we can’t pay the weekly rent for the space. We have a small, loyal following, but we can’t survive much longer. The money just isn’t there, and I can’t afford to keep subsidizing us. I’ll tell the congregation and cable station next week that we’re going off the air at the end of the month.”
“Guess it’s a good thing none of us quit our day jobs,” Jeff said.
“And I thought our faith in Jesus Christ would make this show work,” Buck added unhappily.
“Me, too,” Ray said, a sad smile across his handsome, character-lined face. “We gave it five years and put all of our energy into this venture.” He draped long arms around each man’s shoulder. “No regrets. We didn’t change the world, but we put our heart into every show, and I’m eternally grateful to the both of you.”
A woman’s voice startled all three men. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said softly. They turned and saw a slender woman dressed in a cream pantsuit with chestnut hair in soft ringlets framing a heart-shaped face. “I’m sorry to startle you,” she apologized, “but I’ve been standing in the back. Rev. Williams, could I speak with you for a moment?”
Stepping from the stage, Ray extended a hand. “Certainly, Miss—”
“Baker. Susannah Baker,” she replied, shaking Ray’s outstretched hand firmly. “But Susannah, please.”
“Susannah, it’s a pleasure.” He paused and recalled the very pretty face from previous tapings. “You’re one of our recent regulars, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I started coming around two months ago. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She smiled.
“You said you wanted to talk?”
She laughed nervously, gesturing toward Buck and Jeff. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But when you’re done, I wondered if we could talk privately.”
Ray turned to the younger men. “There’s nothing else to add, unless one of you has questions.”
“You do what you need to do,” Buck said, patting Ray’s shoulder. “Jeff and I will put the equipment away and lock up the building.”
“Miss Baker, did you want to talk here, or would you rather go somewhere else?” Ray asked. “There’s a coffee shop up the block.”
“That would be lovely,” she said, her eyes lighting up.
“I’ll see you gentlemen next week,” Ray said, offering Susannah his arm. They left the office building and stepped out into the warm, spring air, chatting casually as they walked. “Are you new to the area or just our show?” the pastor inquired.
“Both,” she said. “But you have a wonderful program, Reverend, and I’m sure it’s helped many people.”
“Well, not as many as I’d like,” he replied. If Miss Baker were asking for a sympathetic ear, Ray thought it best not to drive her away with talk of going off the air. His role for now was to be an attentive listener. At the diner, they ordered coffee and took a table near the windows.
She didn’t waste an instant getting to her point. As she fortified herself with a long sip, Susannah Baker’s dark eyes were bright with anticipation, as though she were going to impart a happy secret. “Not to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I’m here to give you a message that ending this wonderful program is the worst thing you could do.”
Ray cradled the warm ceramic coffee mug in his large hands. “A message? From whom?”
Susannah Baker paused, searching the pastor’s handsome face. “God,” she said.
&nb
sp; He stared at this mysterious woman. Her pronouncement was genuine and earnest, but a career in ministry had taught him some of the world’s craziest souls were absolutely sincere and committed to their own warped reality.
“I’m going to jump right in and hope you won’t think I’m crazy. Rev. Williams, you don’t know me, but I owe my life to you.”
As he observed her gulping a drink from her mug, Ray determined that most individuals who were bereft of reason didn’t know enough to acknowledge it.
“You helped me climb out of a bottomless pit and find our Lord Jesus Christ, but I know I’m not the only person you’ve saved. Last week, God spoke to me in a dream, with a clear plan to enrich The Road to Calvary and allow your message to be accessed by a much larger audience.”
As Susannah stopped for a sip of coffee, Ray posed a question. “What kind of direction, exactly, did God give you?”
Her penetrating eyes never wavered from his face. “God told me that He has chosen you to work miracles.”
His response, a surprised chuckle, wasn’t mocking her in any way, but the absurdity of a small-time preacher being called upon to work miracles gave him pause. “Miss, I’m just a poor preacher with a small flock. As far as miracles go, that’s up to God.”
“I’m not talking about walking on water, Reverend. Suppose you were in a position where you could see and hear the needs and prayers of everyone attending The Road to Calvary. Those followers need your help, Reverend, and here’s the perfect opportunity to give it to them. You choose the audience members with the greatest needs and, using the miracle of technology, lead them toward redemption, while giving others in the congregation hope.”
Ray sat motionless, astounded into silence by what he’d heard. Surely, she was joking, or she was completely nuts and masked it extremely well. His voice took on the tone of the Pentecostal preacher that he was, clear in his disapproval. “I think you’re confusing miracles with fraud, Miss Baker. And that’s not something I want to be involved in.”
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