There’s motive, Linda thought. She moved ahead with her questions. “When did Reverend Martin move in?”
“The first of April,” Darlene stated. “I didn’t think anything of it then, but Bill mentioned more than once how clean the house was.”
“My team is interviewing him now,” Linda said. “When did the Disciples of Christ Church missionary office call to say the Hansens had never shown up?”
“The second week in April,” Darlene said. “Gregory had mentioned they were taking a family vacation to Florida before reporting to Cleveland.” She looked off into space, shaking her head sadly. “I took the call and forwarded it to Bill. When he came out of his office, he was ashen, not a drop of color. We called the police, and they did a preliminary search but found no trace of the Hansens.”
“The Hansens were leaving the country. Was there any family that was contacted?”
“Nicole never spoke of having family. Gregory’s parents are dead, but he had distant relatives in western Nebraska. They were as mystified as the rest of us.”
Linda made notes to contact other law enforcement agencies. “Would you happen to have any photographs of Reverend Hansen, his wife, and children?”
Darlene considered this for a moment. “We have several of Reverend Hansen, so that’s no problem, and some of Jacob and Elizabeth at church functions. But Nicole, I shouldn’t be surprised she stayed out of photos.”
Captain Turner rolled the pen between her long fingers. “We won’t know for several days whether these remains are the Hansen family. You’re suspicious of Mrs. Hansen, and I can understand that. But, Darlene, I need to ask you if there might be another individual capable of killing the reverend and his children—a neighbor or disgruntled parishioner?”
Darlene sat back in her chair, a pensive look in her eyes. She sat up abruptly, the palm of a hand slapping her forehead. “With all that’s happened, I completely forgot this.” She cleared her throat and continued, “Last year, when Nebraska played Notre Dame, Gregory was involved in an automobile accident. I’m not sure of the date, but it was soon after 9/11. You know how crazy this town gets during football season.”
Linda leaned in closer. She understood rabid Husker fans, the entire state coming together in support of the football team. Ranked number one and two respectively, Nebraska and Notre Dame last year were playing each other for the first time in four decades. Bodies spilling from packed bars onto teeming streets had Linda and her department working extra hours on security detail. The accident only added to the controlled mayhem. Linda was intrigued by Darlene’s fresh perspective on the tragedy and asked her to continue.
“I’ve tried to block out details, because Gregory could barely speak of it. He had an evening meeting the Thursday before the game, down by the university. Because this was Notre Dame, downtown had large crowds, especially in the bars. On his way home, a group of very drunk frat boys ran out into the middle of the street, and one of them lay down in a traffic lane. It was dark. Gregory didn’t see him and ran over the kid, who died a few days later. Gregory was devastated.”
Linda wanted knowledge on the state of Gregory and of the parents. “As I remember, the parents of the student tried to blame the reverend—”
“Yes,” Darlene interrupted hoarsely. “The father showed up here shortly after the boy’s funeral, accusing Gregory of deliberately running over his son. Threats were made, and Gregory was genuinely compassionate, trying to help. The guy screamed at Gregory that as a father himself, he would learn what it felt like to have a child taken from you. It was a terrible confrontation.” Darlene stopped to brush aside a tear. “I’m sorry, this is more emotional now. The one thing that made us fearful was how he continued to intimidate Gregory on email. But Gregory said he was ‘taking the high road’ by not engaging this very angry individual and refused to call the police. The accident had a terrible effect on Gregory. I think it’s the main reason he wanted to do missionary work, simply to get away from the constant harassment.”
Linda glanced at her watch. “We’ll need Reverend Martin’s computer to access those emails. I’ll call forensics right now to retrieve it.” She returned the notepad and pen to her purse. “This interview has shed light on many of the questions we have, Darlene. I can retrieve the material, but if you remember even the smallest detail, here’s my card.”
5
THURSDAY, MAY 16, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA OUTSIDE NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
The results of the autopsy and forensic tests had taken several days. A throng of reporters threw questions at Linda in front of the Northeast Police Headquarters. In a quick succession, word of the gruesome triple murders tore across the flatlands, spawning unbridled rumors, conspiracy theories, and hearsay. Fielding questions in the bright spring sun, Linda spotted reporters from throughout Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, South Dakota, and Colorado. It hadn’t turned into a media circus, at least not yet, but CNN and FOX had both sent correspondents.
“The victims have been positively identified as the Reverend Gregory Hansen, age forty, and his children, Jacob, age three, and Elizabeth, eighteen months—”
“How long have they been dead?” a boyish and chiseled male reporter asked.
“Sir, if you’ll just be patient, I’ll get to that.” Linda smiled and nodded. “The coroner believes the victims died approximately two months ago, estimating the time of death in late March.”
“How did they die?” someone else shouted.
Linda kept her genial smile in place. Her first press conference, she needed to keep things on track.
“The coroner’s report indicated Reverend Hansen died of blunt force trauma based on the skull fractures present, but we haven’t gotten specifics. Most likely from a heavy object of some kind. The autopsy also revealed that all three victims had substantial amounts of the drug Ambien, a prescription sleep aid, in their systems. The children would definitely have died from a massive overdose.”
“Fatal for the reverend?” the chiseled reporter inquired, his smile dazzling.
Linda didn’t recognize him as a local reporter but identified his flirtatious behavior. She was well-versed in using her feminine charms to spur a suspect into talking. His enigmatic charisma, however, would not work in his favor. “Yes, we believe the amount was lethal for Reverend Hansen.”
“How were the murders carried out?” an out-of-state reporter yelled.
Observing the red lights of recording cameras, Linda carefully phrased her response. “We are basing our assumptions on the autopsies, and we speculate the Ambien was mixed in with food or beverages to mask the taste. Let me be clear, we do not have proof that was the case, but it makes the most sense.”
“Is Mrs. Hansen a suspect?” a brunette female reporter from one of the Omaha stations asked.
“Nicole Hansen’s whereabouts are unknown, and she remains a person of interest we wish to talk to.”
“Do you think Mrs. Hansen killed her family?” The same young brunette tilted her head, her lacquered hair unmovable in the brisk breeze.
“As I said, Nicole Hansen is a person of interest. We are asking for the public’s help regarding Mrs. Hansen’s whereabouts, and any pertinent knowledge related to this case—”
“Captain Turner—”
Another reporter started to interrupt, and Linda held up a slender hand and finished her sentence.
“We have set up the following telephone number,” she said and repeated the number twice before continuing. “If anyone saw something or heard something, we want to talk to you. We believe there is information out in the community that may be helpful in solving the murders of the Hansen family.”
The same reporter persisted. “Captain Turner—”
Linda held up both hands palms out. “No further questions. Chief Langston will provide you with additional details.”
Reporters began shouting, “Chief Langston!” as Linda and her team moved back inside. Lyle and Amy Clair seated themselves in front of the ca
ptain’s wooden desk in an office on the precinct’s always busy floor.
Linda settled at her desk. “As you’re aware, Darlene Jordan has provided some crucial data regarding Mr. William Dawson and the death of his son down at UNL during the Notre Dame football weekend. Dawson is convinced the Reverend Hansen was responsible for his son’s death, making him our first real suspect. What have you uncovered?”
Amy spoke first, pulling a stack of emails from a file on her lap. “Dawson was obsessed with the idea Gregory was responsible. He frequently and graphically threatened the Hansens with bodily harm. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that he killed them all, burying Mrs. Hansen on a different piece of land to throw us off.” She slid the folder to her boss.
Linda pulled her chair closer to the desk, thumbing through the emails. “Unis are picking Dawson up at the construction company he owns. I’ve sent two in case he’s combative. I’ll want you both observing the interview.”
Lyle’s frustration revealed itself in a long sigh. “This case keeps getting stranger.”
6
LATER THE SAME DAY LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
William Dawson did make a scene, both at his office and Northeast Headquarters, screaming that his rights were being violated.
“What the hell is this all about? I’ve been sitting here over twenty minutes. You can’t just bring me down here for no reason!” Dawson yelled into the two-way glass.
Linda waited for his tirade to end before entering the room. Carrying a legal pad and files, she faced an arrogant man used to having his way. “Mr. Dawson, I’m Captain Linda Turner, Northeast Team. Thank you for coming down today. You may possess knowledge that would be extremely helpful to us in a case we’re investigating.”
Sweet-talking him softened his angular features. “Well, it’s not like I had a choice. Why am I here?”
Linda seated herself, closed manila folders on the table between them. “I have some questions regarding the Reverend Gregory Hansen.”
“Finally!” Dawson declared, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve been trying for months to get your attention; that man killed my son!”
Her face devoid of expression, she opened the folder to the accident report. “I have the accident report right here, which made clear that Brandon, whose blood alcohol content was 0.27 several hours after the accident, was extremely intoxicated and lay down on O Street—”
Dawson angrily pointed a rigid index finger at her. “I have witnesses that Gregory Hansen, a so-called man of God, deliberately ran over Brandon!”
She saw dual sides of this man—a bully and a father in the throes of grief and denial. “Who are these witnesses?”
“Brandon’s fraternity brothers. They were there, and other witnesses who saw that accident!” he shouted.
She calmly returned to the folder. “Mr. Dawson, each of Brandon’s fraternity brothers was interviewed, and none of them realized he was in the street. Witnesses corroborated the findings of officers at the scene that his fraternity brothers were also extremely intoxicated, and Gregory Hansen had no time to react. Here’s the accident reconstruction. Brandon was lying in the middle of a busy street, dressed in black, after dark.”
Dawson leaned his sinewy frame hard into the table. “I thought you said I had information that could help you. You cops are all alike. All right, so they had a few drinks. Hansen saw them; that area near the university is very well lit.”
Linda leaned back, cornflower blue eyes gauging Dawson’s twisted features as he twisted a hand through wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “This doesn’t concern the accident, Mr. Dawson. What I’m interested in is your relationship with Reverend Hansen afterwards.”
He laughed bitterly, a smirk across thin lips. “Did that ass file a harassment report against me?”
“No, but he should have.” Linda removed the bottom folder from the pile, laying the most vicious emails in front of Dawson. Next to those, she placed the graphic photos depicting the Hansen crime scene, her voice firmly in control. “I should be charging you with stalking, harassment, and making terroristic threats. Don’t pretend you don’t have any knowledge of what I’m talking about. You made good on your promise to make Hansen pay by killing him, his wife, and two small children in late March. Then you buried their bodies in the flower garden behind the parsonage, except for Mrs. Hansen. Tell me where you buried her remains.” She slammed her fist into the table.
Dawson’s dark eyes widened in disbelief. “No, I . . . Gregory Hansen’s dead?”
“The entire family. You’ve left quite the paper trail, Mr. Dawson. It leads straight to you.”
William Dawson trembled, his face and voice full of agony. “This is terrible. But I didn’t kill anyone. I never meant to hurt him or his family. I wanted Hansen to accept responsibility.”
Linda knew the death of William Dawson’s only son was devouring him. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr. Dawson. But I find it hard to believe you didn’t realize the Hansen family was murdered, since it’s been the lead news story here, even on the national front.”
He stuttered, “I’ve . . . I was in Kansas City at a contractor’s convention.”
“I’ll need the name of the convention and any witnesses who can verify your whereabouts. The same goes for the period between March twenty-fourth and twenty-eighth. The Hansens were murdered on one of those days.”
“I—I can give you the conference confirmation,” he stammered. Linda thrust a yellow legal pad and pencil toward him. “And the dates in March?”
He looked at Linda, his bravado replaced by fear. “I can’t recall where I was on so many days two months ago.”
“If you won’t tell me, I will be charging you with murder in the first degree, in addition to making terrorist threats. You’ll never see outside prison walls.”
Dawson stopped writing, the pencil quivering in his grasp. He glanced toward the wall, then back at Linda. “You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell my wife. I was in Cancun at a resort with my girlfriend. Things are very strained between my wife and me since Brandon died.”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Linda replied evenly. “Give me your girlfriend’s name, her contact information, the resort where you vacationed, and the dates of the trip. Otherwise, you are our prime suspect.”
“Oh, God,” Dawson exhaled and began hastily filling the legal pad.
7
FRIDAY, MAY 17, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
“William Dawson alibied out, but he’s a deeply troubled man. He’s one who’ll never get over losing a child,” Linda told Lyle and Amy the following morning.
“You sound concerned,” Lyle asserted. “Do you feel Dawson is a danger to himself or others?”
“No, at least not right now. He genuinely believes it was no accident his son was killed. Let’s keep casual tabs on him—the occasional welfare check. My fear is this will keep gnawing at Dawson, and he’ll come completely undone in a violent manner.”
“God,” Amy said. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“Me, too. What other leads have we got?”
“We’ve looked at the missing persons reports filed by Reverend Martin, talked to Gregory Hansen’s relatives in Scottsbluff, interviewed neighbors, and so far, we have nominal material,” Amy said, slapping a light palm against the manila folder in her lap.
“Same goes for the family moving,” Lyle explained, removing a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping his nose. “Eyewitnesses’ accounts vary. Some say they saw a moving van; others tell us it was an unmarked truck. A third group insists it was a U-Haul. I’m working the local and U-Haul angle. Tuesday, March twenty-sixth was the last time Nicole Hansen was seen. Since then, there is no trace of her—no ATM or credit card activity, phone calls, or public sightings. My gut says Nicole Hansen no longer exists.”
Amy sighed deeply. “I agree. Gone off the grid and into her next identity.”
Linda c
upped her chin in her hand. “Did we get any pictures of Mrs. Hansen? Darlene Jordan was going to check.”
Amy Clair shifted the file on her lap, removing a photograph. She passed it to Linda. “It wasn’t easy; but lucky for us, Darlene Jordan is tenacious. She found one picture from a church benefit, but part of Mrs. Hansen’s face is obscured. The photo is from the late 1990s, so her appearance could have changed by now. Darlene remembered Gregory insisted Nicole be in the photo because she was on the planning committee.”
Handling the picture, Linda studied it closely. A young woman sporting a multi-layered medium brown shag with blonde highlights smiled in profile. “I recognize her hairstyle. She’s copying Rachel from the TV show Friends.”
Amy peered over Linda’s shoulder. “Millions of women got that haircut. Makes it easier for her to blend in as just another hip, suburban mom.”
“Good point, Amy. Let’s move on to the bank accounts,” Linda said. “I met with the First Nebraska Bank president, and he’s given us complete access to the church accounts. The ‘miscellaneous’ expenses Darlene discovered were drawn from those funds. However, one of the tellers who frequently waited on Mrs. Hansen remembered her mentioning another account at the National Bank of Commerce. We discovered an account under her maiden name, Nicole Allen. The savings account grew to over $150,000 before it was closed after withdrawing everything the last week in March.” Effortlessly, Linda changed topics, selecting another file. “Forensics pulled a partial handprint from the parsonage. I sent it to the National Crime Information Center, and there were several hits. The print matched Nicole Allen’s, but also women named Susan Patterson, Pam Sayles, and Pamela Jane Watts. It was a lucky long shot. I’m investigating her aliases further.”
Lyle chuckled. “Even with the house cleaned and occupied by somebody else, there’s always the chance evidence will be left behind. Do we know anything about her identity as Susan Patterson?”
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