“I can accept that,” Ray replied, turning to Jeff. “What about you, Jeff?”
He ran a hand over the bristles of his short, cropped hair. “I’ll do it; but like Buck said, if I’m not comfortable, I’m outta here. I can always find work installing floors.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
The mood shifted from apprehension to one of excitement. Buck started throwing out ideas, gates of a dam opening as the words gushed out. “We’ll need equipment—surveillance cameras, microphones, earpieces, and monitors—and that’s just to start. Where’s the money going to come from—a loan? Since we rent our studio space, how will we monitor the audience? There will be equipment to set up and tear down on every show, and we can’t let anyone catch on to what we’re doing. And who among us has the technical expertise?”
Susannah enthusiastically returned to the conversation. “I knew you’d come around. We’ll rent the necessary equipment to start. We won’t be able to cover the entire audience, but monitors can be set up in one of these conference rooms. As far as money, taking out a loan is a possibility.”
She considered the male faces around the table. “The thing we need to remember is The Road to Calvary won’t save anybody unless you market it.” She turned to Ray. “Reverend, start building relationships with the religion editors of area papers and make yourself available for interviews. Take out small ads in newspapers and on other cable stations to let people know that we—I mean, you—exist. You’re also not taking advantage of your core audience. Give them more than a post office box during the offering and at the end of the broadcast; get a telephone number up there, 1-800-HE-SAVES, in the center of the screen, where people can see it during the entire show. You need to do something different from the other religious programs already getting air time here.”
Ray was impressed. Marketing the show was a realm he had never felt comfortable with, simply because he didn’t have the expertise. He knew other televangelists did it with flair and success. Brick and mortar churches often weren’t shy about advertising either. For the first time, he recognized that saving souls was beyond the spiritual—it was a business. The key would be in doing both well. “You’ve given this quite a bit of thought,” he told Susannah. “Do you have a marketing background?”
“I’ve had some marketing experience,” she said. “I see the immense potential of your work—potential I was afraid you were going to throw away.”
“It’s a good thing God came to you in a dream,” Jeff mused, but Susannah was already moving on to another idea.
“There are other ways to distinguish the service. A choir praising God in jubilant song, a welcoming space, and members witnessing to the power of salvation in their own lives.” She paused. “As I mentioned to Reverend Ray, I’ve never seen a Christian makeover segment aimed at women. It would be another way of distinguishing the program.”
Buck stared at Susannah incredulously. “I’m all for 1-800-HE-SAVES, but how do makeovers fit into the program? And what makes them Christian?”
“Why do you insist on making fun of me? There are plenty of other programs that would love the idea.” Her voice had quickly turned defensive.
Taken aback by her sudden angry tone, all conversation ceased.
Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, my gosh, please forgive me. I’ve had a very recent family tragedy, and I’ve found survival itself challenging. I get frustrated, lashing out for no reason and saying things I shouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you. I fail to see how the concept of Christian makeovers fits into all this. Keep going,” Buck said graciously.
Ray watched Buck smile at Susannah with encouragement; he remembered his friend knew a thing or two about the fairer sex.
“I believe a woman who looks good feels confident, happy, and empowered to spread the word of God. What makes them Christian is that you’re bringing out that confidence by focusing on women who want to spread the Good News. Not ‘extreme makeover’ by any means, but showing any woman she can look good.”
“That would distinguish us, all right,” Buck replied dryly. “I’m simply trying to wrap my head around this. I know from firsthand experience, however, that all my wives loved their makeup.”
Ray looked on in bemused silence as Susannah processed Buck’s comment. Almost everyone was surprised by this revelation. Buck seemed too nondescript and mild-mannered to have had three marriages. But he knew from experience, stereotypes were meant to be broken.
“Wives?” Susannah said. “How many times were you—?”
Buck held up his fingers. “Three. My point is they all liked using makeup, so maybe this isn’t such a crazy idea after all.”
Susannah contemplated this. “I’m not saying we have to implement all these ideas. But here’s one you need to seriously consider.” She paused, eyeing each of the men. “Start broadcasting The Road to Calvary live.”
Silence enveloped the room, the dead air thick. Ray spoke first. “That’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but I’m not sure we have a large enough audience for a live show.”
“And implementing all this technology—” Buck started in, but Susannah interrupted.
“Think about how much more effective HE SAVES will be as an 800-number on the screen if at least one broadcast is live. Start small; try one live episode you’ve heavily promoted as a test. Have the phones answered immediately and get viewers invested in watching The Road to Calvary.”
“If ya ask me, it’d be a whole lotta work for maybe nothin’,” Jeff said, shaking his head.
“Jeff’s right,” Buck agreed. “Scheduling could be a problem. What if nobody shows up?”
“You won’t know unless you try,” Susannah said.
“This is low-power cable; city meetings are broadcast live every month,” Buck reasoned.
“Susannah has a point. Let’s at least try one live broadcast and see what happens. If it fails miserably, we’ll continue to rely on taping a weekly program. When I’ve considered broadcasting live, I’ve always thought it bestows a sense of urgency. Maybe I’m wrong, but as Susannah said, we won’t know unless we try.” Ray smiled at her.
“But who’s going to be responsible for making all this technology work?” Buck asked.
Ray hadn’t been this captivated by a woman or this excited about preaching in a very long time. He faced Buck with a ready answer. “You’ve got training in computer science and electronics, and Jeff here has a degree in broadcasting—”
“It’s a certificate actually,” Jeff interrupted sheepishly.
When Ray smiled, he radiated the warmth and charisma that hinted at a great preacher with the power to mesmerize. “You work as the camera operator and know more than you think. Both of you do. What Susannah is suggesting has merit. No, we can’t do everything. I’ll contact the cable station about presenting The Road to Calvary live on a Sunday morning in three or four weeks. I think this might have real potential, especially if it’s promoted well.”
Buck disagreed, shaking his head. “I’m with Jeff; this plan involves a huge amount of work.”
“The Road to Calvary airs twice a week, on Wednesday evening and Sunday afternoon. It’s taping the program where all the work is involved, and we’re already doing that. Think of this as the same amount of effort with more benefits,” Ray explained.
Buck seemed to relax a bit. Leaning back in his chair, he addressed Jeff. “I guess it can’t hurt to try, Jeff. I mean, we don’t have anything to lose. But, I do think we need to concentrate on doing a live broadcast before we start this eavesdropping on the congregation idea.”
Jeff hesitated for a moment. “Might as well. I’m willin’ to try goin’ live.”
“It’s settled, then,” Ray said, swiveling his chair. “Let’s try going live first and see what kind of response we have. If the show’s successful, then I’m willing to start putting the technology in place to anticipate the prayers and concerns of the congregation.”
“Every on
e of you is right,” Susannah acknowledged. “I realize I’ve kind of come in from out of nowhere with what may sound like some pretty crazy ideas. But I truly believe The Road to Calvary has a future.”
Ray smiled. “I’ll let the station know we’re going live and see if a Sunday morning slot is available. It would be outstanding if they would help promote us. We have lots of work to do to get ready. Susannah, I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but I’m counting on you to help us with planning the first live The Road to Calvary broadcast.”
“I’m more than happy to help in any way I can,” she said with a smile, her long lashes fluttering.
10
FRIDAY, MAY 24, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Linda’s trip to Chicago had proved enlightening, particularly since Patterson was still very much in love with his ex-wife. Even with a print match, this woman, who possessed a hard-to-see but unique mark inside an ear, had vanished. Nine excruciating days had passed since the Hansen bodies were discovered. In those fleeting days, the only good news was the discovery of the Hansens’ beige 1995 Toyota Corolla in Cleveland. The police department was keenly aware that, rather than satisfying the public, finding the car would heighten the need of the residents of Lincoln to get answers to the murders. Linda would be flying to Cleveland soon in search of more clues.
The focus remained on finding Mrs. Hansen and determining her connection to the killings. Locating Nicole Hansen and easing people’s fears were paramount. Otherwise, there was the bogeyman factor of the unknown, an invisible killer who slaughtered families and buried them in the backyard.
Linda, Lyle, and Amy stood in front of the shiny, white dry-erase board, adding details.
“The NCIC confirms the fingerprint matches the same woman,” Linda said, “but she’s been off their radar quite a while. We have DL photos of utterly different women with various names and a partial print. The shape Patterson drew was found on Nicole Hansen and Susan Patterson’s pictures but was obscured by hair in Pamela Watts’s booking photo. Let’s start at the very beginning: ‘Baby Pammy’ as she was known by social workers, was born on or around June 25, 1964 and found abandoned at the door of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church, an inner-city parish in Minneapolis.” The marker squeaked as Linda began the timeline. “She was adopted at six months by Paul and Margaret Watts, who were originally her foster parents and named her Pamela Jane Watts. Her biological parents never came forward. In 1977, at the age of thirteen, Pamela lost both of her adopted parents in a house fire, which she survived. She spent the rest of her childhood in foster care.”
Lyle’s usually lively eyes were full of sadness. “This girl spent a third of her life in foster care. And that would be a helluva thing to find out—that you had been abandoned, thrown away like a piece of garbage. That’s got to be a horrible realization that you were unwanted.”
“The foster care aspect hasn’t panned out into helpful intelligence thus far. Her criminal history as Pamela Jane Watts is short, but there’s another suspicious incident. There’s the house fire in which her parents died, orphaning her twice. The chances of that seem incredibly remote. I’ve submitted a request for the coroner’s report, but that could take months. Amy, fill us in on her criminal history.”
Amy coughed and pinched her nostrils. “Sorry, the smell of that ink gets to me. At age nineteen, Pamela was convicted of check forgery and sentenced to eighteen months at the Correctional Facility for Women in Shakopee, Minnesota. I’ve connected with Shakopee, and they’re locating her prison records. Right after her release, she got married for the first time to the prison chaplain, Reverend Gordon Sayles, a much older man.” Amy paused, scanning her notes. “This would make it 1985, when Pamela was twenty-one. They were married until 1990 when she filed for divorce. I’ve contacted the correctional facility to track down Gordon Sayles. He doesn’t appear to have been a widower, but he might help us get a sense of her personality. In 1991, using the name Susan Nichols, she hooked up with Reverend Patterson, then living in Columbia, Missouri, also a widower.”
Linda tapped the board. “The sooner we can talk to Sayles, the better. I’m thinking an older man, along father figure lines. When I interviewed Patterson, he said that after they were married, she was caught embezzling church funds. Again, she had wheedled her way into the position of bookkeeper.”
Lyle propped his arms on the desk and rested his chin in his hands. “That brings us to 1993—”
“Right,” Linda interrupted. “According to Patterson they were married barely two years, and he filed for divorce in April 1994.”
“Thirty years old with two marriages behind her,” Amy said. “She works fast.”
Linda eyed the lieutenants. “Then she meets Gregory Hansen. Let me back up. Lyle, how large was his parish?”
“Reverend Martin told me the University Place congregation serves around five hundred families, which meant a bigger budget.”
Amy picked up the conversation, her pink nail polish bright on her hands. “Now going by Nicole Allen, she meets Gregory Hansen early in 1995. I confirmed with Ms. Jordan they were married thirteen months later, in February of 1996. Their son, Jacob, was born in December 1998, and their daughter, Elizabeth, in July 2000.” She paused again to read over her notes. “Then she campaigned for the job of bookkeeper by harassing the current one into quitting.”
“It put her in contact with the money—always the money.” Linda stretched out manicured hands on her desk. “The people of Lincoln, Nebraska, want to know if and why Mrs. Hansen killed her husband and children. This will be a time-consuming investigation; but if we don’t have a suspect soon, we may run into budget and manpower issues.”
Lyle cupped a large hand under his chin. “Understood. Did Darlene say anything about the Hansens’ possessions? They were leaving the country; surely, they had to have some.”
“Good point, Lyle. I’ll see if I can reach Darlene today,” Linda said, rising and glancing at her watch. “I may be able to still catch her.”
Linda parked in the lot next to the church, but her gaze instantly found the parsonage. She was drawn to the site of the garden at the back of the house. The crime tape was gone, but the mounds of dirt unearthed by forensics were still in piles near the gaping holes where the bodies had been found. These were a father and little children. Those children were mere babies. Linda stared in mournful silence. She found it impossible to erase the memory of those little bodies dressed in their innocent Disney pajamas. I promise you I will do everything in my power to find your killer.
A gust of wind blew her hair across her face, and she hurried to the church. A chill crawled up Linda’s back as she opened the church office door. She didn’t blame Rev. Martin for moving out of the house; it was simply too sickening to live there.
“Shit!” Around the corner, Darlene cursed the copy machine.
Embarrassed by catching Darlene in an uncomfortable moment, Linda announced her presence. “Hi, Darlene. I hope I’m not coming at an inconvenient time.”
“No. I shouldn’t swear in the church, but this damned copier jammed again.”
“That’s quite all right.” Linda chuckled. “I’ve heard it before. Even in church.”
“Good.” Darlene slammed the front of the copier shut.
Linda slipped her bag off her shoulder, removing her notepad. “Thanks for agreeing to see me. I have a few additional questions.”
“Sure. Anything to help get this solved,” she said, starting the copier again.
“My colleagues and I keep coming back to the fact the Hansens were going to Africa and what they were bringing with them. Were their possessions and clothing being shipped? Or were they being held in a storage locker?”
“Neither,” Darlene said, taking a seat at her desk, while keeping a watchful eye on the copy machine. “Most of their furnishings were sold at three huge moving sales. That was another thing Gregory and Nicole argued over. She was unhappy with the prospect of doing missiona
ry work, and she wanted their things held in storage. But Gregory thought they might be gone for ages and decided to sell most everything.”
Linda wrote furiously. “Did Gregory give any indication of how long they might be gone?”
“No, but the Disciples of Christ Global Ministries office in Cleveland, likes for people to come home every five years, so they won’t get burned out.”
“Five years in a foreign country is a long stretch,” Linda said. “Did they get paid for their work?”
“They were to get a stipend while working as missionaries, but you can’t get rich on that. Gregory thought they could use the money from the sales to start over whenever they moved back to the States.”
“These garage sales—the Hansens sold their clothes, too?”
“All the winter ones anyway. Gregory wanted to travel as light as possible. And the children were small and would have outgrown most of their things. They sold nearly everything they had.” Darlene paused and walked to the copier, which was making a rhythmic thwack, thwack as pages stacked in the sorter. She grabbed a pile, bringing them to her desk.
Linda stopped writing and watched Darlene sort pages. “The Hansens’ car was located in Cleveland, where I’ll be heading shortly. We have some idea of the path Nicole took. But we have no witnesses recalling a moving truck.”
“It wasn’t a moving truck,” Darlene said emphatically. “The main thing of value the Hansens were keeping was their car. They rented a small U-Haul to pull behind the Toyota.”
Damn! She probably switched the license plates. Pulling a U-Haul behind the vehicle made it harder to identify, Linda thought as Darlene kept talking.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t think to mention the trailer sooner,” Darlene said, stacking pages of the bulletin on her desk. “This whole ordeal has been a terrible shock. But I can help explain the confusion of witnesses. It was the end of the month, and there are apartments up the street. Around the same time the Hansens were moving, one of our members was also leaving, and they hired professional movers. They told me when they changed their address.”
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