“You’ve done an amazing job on this,” Ray added. “This website looks great.”
Susannah was ecstatic, too, barely able to contain her excitement. “With all the different avenues, paid programming will pay for itself! And the beauty tips give women something else useful to take away from the broadcast.”
Ray followed up her comment. “Our goal is returning to at least one live broadcast a week, which I thought suited us very well. We’re hoping to get a decent time slot with either option, preferably Sunday mornings.”
“People record programs now, so the hour or day we’re broadcast may not be that big a deal,” Buck said. “I want us to get back to broadcasting live, too. New options with the internet are emerging at a fast pace, and I think we should re-launch the ministry. I can post broadcast dates, times, and stations on the website. We want others to discover us through word of mouth. And if one option doesn’t pan out, we still have alternatives. Excellent job, you two.”
Susannah spoke up. “I’ll contact the religious station in town regarding time slots and research further bids for paid programming.” She crinkled her small nose. “I’m so glad you approve, Buck. It means a lot. The focus will always be on Ray, but the beauty tips make us unique. If we see they’re not paying off, we end them.”
She kissed Ray full on the mouth, and Buck felt his brow arch. At some point soon, you’re going to have to tell Jeff and me that you’re a couple.
Ray broke into Buck’s thoughts. “I want to review the website.”
“No problem,” Buck answered. “Circle your chairs around the computer, and I’ll take you through it.” The sound of the metal chairs screeched against the cement floor. Buck watched the interaction between Ray and Susannah and for a fleeting second, wondered if he should say something. He didn’t trust her and made a mental note to start asking her specific questions, particularly about her past.
20
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 2002 IOWA/MINNESOTA
It took some cajoling, but Chief Langston came around to the importance of Linda going up to Minnesota and meeting with those most knowledgeable about Pamela Watts’s foster care.
At the picturesque Iowa-Minnesota border, Linda stopped at a rest area, her melancholy thoughts wandering to her husband, Tom. He would have loved this trip. Drives like this were especially tough because such sojourns had been theirs alone. When they reached this point, Tom would have found a picturesque landscape to admire and indulge his passion for photography. The limestone bluffs, rolling green hills, and placid waters of Minnesota would have made for stunning pictures to be turned into calendars or enlarged custom panoramas.
That was the deal. As soon as they reached retirement age, Tom wanted to pursue photography on a larger scale, and Linda’s passion was to compete in target shooting competitions across the country. When she graduated from the police academy, Linda had been noted as the best marksman, not just in the women’s division or the department, but in the state. She’d competed early in her police career, but eventually, she put those plans on hold until retirement. They would travel the country pursuing their interests while, most importantly, sharing their lives together.
After five years, she’d grown accustomed to living alone, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Every year in June, on the anniversary of Tom’s passing, she would be reminded how arbitrary death was. Here was a thirty-six-year-old EMT, in top physical condition, who had dropped dead in the kitchen while cooking them breakfast.
She had frantically dialed 911, performing CPR until the paramedics arrived, but Tom’s best friends and coworkers could do nothing to bring him back. The autopsy showed an embolism had slammed into his heart, meaning he was dead even before crashing to the hardwood floor.
Still, Linda had spent guilt-wrecked months wondering why she hadn’t done more, hadn’t called 911 quicker, hadn’t pumped more chest compressions, breathed more air into Tom’s lungs. Finally, her grief counselor arranged a meeting with the coroner who explained step by step how the embolism had formed and how, without knowledge of its existence, Tom had become a human time bomb exploding that Saturday morning. She couldn’t have diffused it, and she needed to cut herself free from the brutal guilt strangling her existence.
Eventually, coworkers and her three older brothers had tried setting up introductions and dates with acquaintances, but it always felt too soon. Her oldest brother, Paul, an EMT in Tom’s squad, had originally introduced them. Linda sensed Paul felt responsibility in looking out for his little sister. She had been thirty-two when Tom died, and Paul worried incessantly, saying over and again, “You’re too young to be a widow, Linda. Play the field. Go out and have fun!”
The guys she met were nice enough, but there was never a spark to light a romantic fire. Instead, she made her career the top priority. Being promoted to captain proved her sacrifice had paid off.
Pushing thoughts of Tom aside, her mind returned to the open questions in the Hansen case. Her team had known of Pamela Watts’s time in foster care but needed money to pursue the possible lead. And then Sister Monica had called, asking her to come to Minnesota.
Catholic Charities was the social justice network for the Archdiocese of St. Paul/Minneapolis, and a large part of its mission was placing children in foster care. Sister Monica was a no-nonsense nun who had worked with the organization since the late 1960s and knew its history. Even after inviting Linda to meet with her, the nun had asked to see a warrant before she would divulge any information. On this frosty morning, Linda and Sister Monica were meeting in the nun’s meticulously organized office.
From behind a neat stack of files, the broad-shouldered nun peered over her glasses. “It took some digging, but I think we’ve found at least some of what you’re looking for.” Brisk and to the point, the sister selected the top file. “Pamela Watts came into the Catholic Charities foster care system for the second time after her adoptive parents died in a house fire. There were no other living relatives, and that’s how Pamela ended up here. When I was going back over these files, I started remembering details of her case because it was so tragic.”
“I’ve been waiting for the coroner’s report on her parents for months,” Linda acknowledged with slight irritation.
“You no doubt already know she was abandoned at birth. Mr. and Mrs. Watts were heavy smokers, and the fire investigation determined the blaze started in a wastebasket. The search also concluded the wastebasket was full of paper, accelerating the fire. It spread quickly, and the panicked barking of the family dog is what woke Pamela. I know it’s speculation, but I have always believed that this was a double suicide.”
Linda stared at the old nun. “Why do you say that, Sister?”
“For several reasons. First, there’s the fact the Wattses were in financial trouble. They were filing for bankruptcy because their antique store was failing. Second, there was a reason a fiercely barking dog didn’t wake her parents. Not only was their bedroom door locked, but during the autopsies, toxicology screens found significant quantities of Valium and Librium in both their systems. The parents had prescriptions. Mr. and Mrs. Watts were already dead when the house caught fire. And third, they had a large life insurance policy with Pamela as the beneficiary. I’ve witnessed how extreme stress can lead people to do something horrible because they believe it’s the right thing to end their problems. By killing themselves, they would at least leave their daughter well off.” Monica folded thick arms across her desk. “You should also know that Pamela tried to save her parents.”
Linda was incredulous but put on her best poker face. “That would be an entirely different story. How do you know this?”
“She had burns on both her hands from trying to open the bedroom door, which had a metal knob. The fire was getting too hot, leaving her no choice but to flee. By the time Pamela was thirteen, she had endured unimaginable trauma. No one deserves that.”
Linda struggled to keep her composure. As a nun, Sister Monica clearly wanted to se
e the best in everyone. Linda kept returning to the presence of substantial amounts of prescription drugs in the victims’ systems in both the Hansen and Watts cases. That meant the fire might not have been an accident. “Can I see the coroner’s report?” she asked, her voice growing hoarse.
Sister Monica handed the file over, and as Linda fumbled through the pages, she realized her throat was very parched. “Could I have some water, please?”
“Certainly.” Sister Monica rose and went to fetch a cup and water.
This woman murdered her children, her husband, and her parents. Rev. Patterson would have become a victim, too.
“Here you are, dear.” Sister set the Styrofoam cup on her desk.
Drinking the cool water in one gulp, Linda fixated on Sister Monica’s deeply lined face. “You’re right. What happened to Pamela must have been unbearable. What other details can you tell me?”
Sister Monica shuffled folders across her desk before she found what she was looking for. “I read over Pamela’s file to refresh my memory. Catholic Charities is here to aid children in need, and Pamela was clearly that, but we had a challenging time placing her, which only made her feel more unwanted. She frequently acted out, usually fighting with the biological children. When she was brought back to Catholic Charities, Pamela was devastated and became withdrawn and inhibited. The rejections were extremely hard on her. Pamela loved to read, and I think those fantasy worlds made her feel safe.”
“Do you recall specific examples that would make multiple families choose not to adopt her?”
Monica searched for another file. “There was a horrific incident with the Anderson family.”
Linda jotted the name “Anderson” on the page. “That’s a pretty common name—”
“But their story involving Pamela isn’t,” she said, sliding the open folder across the desk. “In most cases, the foster family contacts us and says, ‘This isn’t working out,’ and the agency sends a social worker to pick up the child and so forth. In this case, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson brought Pamela to Catholic Charities with her bags packed. They dropped her off, saying they had reached their limit and didn’t want this child in their home any longer.”
Even with all of her police experience, the idea that a child so terrified her foster family that they brought her back was chilling. “The Andersons were afraid of Pamela?”
Monica followed the text with her index finger. “‘Fearful for their safety,’ the parents said. It’s all here—the Andersons’ Labrador had recently given birth to a litter of puppies. The parents claimed Pamela didn’t appreciate the competition for attention from the pups and drowned them. I remember how upset Pamela was, and frankly, I never believed the story. It makes no sense that Pamela’s life was saved by her pet dog, and then she drowns puppies? No. She kept saying that the Anderson children were lying and blaming her for an act perpetrated by the sister, Louise.”
Sister has a point, Linda thought. Still . . . She nodded at Monica. “How old was she?”
“Fifteen.”
Linda made additional notes on her pad. “Pamela had to receive some type of mental health counseling.”
“That’s in her medical records—here.” Sister Monica flipped open another file. “She saw one of our psychiatrists, Dr. Bennett, who was worried about Pamela’s mental state. It says that when Dr. Bennett asked Pamela if she drowned the puppies, she replied, ‘Louise did it because she didn’t like me.’” The nun glanced over her desk at Linda. “Catholic Charities didn’t provide the kind of in-depth therapy for children that we do today, so Pamela obviously didn’t get the care she needed. That girl never had a chance.”
“Catholic Charities seems to have let Pamela fall through the cracks,” Linda remarked.
Sister Monica peered at Linda over the top of her glasses. “I disagree. Instead of continuing to place Pamela and risking further rejection, the board voted to keep her here with other foster children until she turned eighteen. She did make friends with some of the kids, and we enrolled her in one of our schools. Pamela was very bright and graduated from high school near the top of her class.”
Linda paged through her own file. “Pamela has a criminal history, unfortunately. She was convicted of check forgery and sent to the Shakopee Corrections Facility. However, she volunteered as a tutor to help other inmates obtain their GED.”
Sister Monica overturned another pile of folders. “I am sorry to hear that. But I’m not surprised she tried to help fellow women obtain their degrees. As I said, she was a voracious reader and loved learning. She tutored other kids during high school.” Sister abruptly changed topics. “You mentioned photos. You may have something more recent, but here’s a picture.”
The detective sat up straight in her chair and accepted the dull photo of a plump teenage girl with pale alabaster skin, ginger hair, and a mole above her right upper lip. Linda could barely detect the dark spot on Pamela’s right ear. Unlike the stark mug shot showing a sullen young woman, with a prominent nose, platinum hair streaked with black, dark roots visible, this girl was smiling into the camera. “Along with duplicates of the files, I need a copy of this picture, too.”
“Sure.” Sister Monica scribbled a note on a Post-it. “You’ve got the subpoena, and I thought you’d need one.”
Linda decided to test her theory that Pamela Watts was extremely adept at changing her appearance. She removed the unmarked driver’s license photos and mug shot from the folder, placing them side-by-side in front of Sister. “I know it’s been years, but which photo is Pamela’s?”
The old nun pursed faded lips, pointing to the newer images. “None of these are her. Two of the women have smaller, pert noses while their faces are thinner.”
Linda wrote a note on the file. “Thank you, Sister. All of these pictures are of Pamela.”
Sister Monica scowled, closely inspecting various pictures. “As you said, many years have gone by since I last saw Pamela.”
Linda deliberated on how to proceed. “I’m in contact with the correctional facility, and I’m awaiting her files. I think it would be most helpful to talk with the Andersons, if they still live in the area.”
Sister Monica scanned one of the folders. “I can see if the Andersons’ contact information is still current; but even if it is, they may not want to talk to you.”
“I understand. But innocent lives have been taken here, and I need you to do everything possible to get in touch with them.” Linda continued tapping her pen absentmindedly, questions of Pamela’s motivations and circumstances thrashing around in her head.
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 2002 MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA CATHOLIC CHARITIES OFFICE
Linda had been in touch with the correctional facility in Shakopee from the beginning, and while they had been cooperative, the warden pointed out Pamela Jane Watts had been imprisoned back in the ’70s and didn’t qualify as a cold case. Spring and summer faded into autumn before corrections located her files. In early November, while Linda was still in Minnesota, her prison records arrived in Lincoln. Shakopee had more news; they did not know the whereabouts of Gordon Sayles, which Linda thought strange. While Lyle combed Pamela’s incarceration history for any useful nuggets, Amy was busy trying to locate Sayles, hitting plenty of dead ends.
As she awaited the arrival of one of the Anderson children in Sister Monica’s office, Linda was relieved he had agreed to speak with her. The rest of the Andersons had flatly refused Monica’s request for a meeting. She worried that she might not be able to get firsthand accounts. But the brother had changed his mind and agreed to talk with her. The office door opened, and a tall, slender man in his early forties followed Sister Monica into the room.
“Mr. David Anderson, this is Captain Linda Turner from Lincoln, Nebraska. She is working a case you may be able to assist her with. I’ll leave you to chat.”
Sister Monica closed the door behind her, and Linda rose to shake David’s extended hand.
“I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me.
You may be able to shed some light on the kind of person we’re dealing with.” She took a seat and motioned for David to sit. “I’m not sure how much the sister told you, but we’re investigating a triple homicide, and Pamela Watts is a person of interest.”
“Anything I can do to help, although many years have passed. But there are some things you never forget.”
“Having your puppies drowned is a terrible ordeal. But let me start from the beginning. How long did Pamela stay with you?”
“I think it was slightly over three months, but it seemed much longer.”
“Do you remember how you and your siblings got along with her?”
David settled into his chair. “There are just me and my sister, Louise. Neither my sister nor I could stand Pamela. Mom and Dad referred to it as ‘only child syndrome,’ and because she was an only child, they were patient. We had several foster kids, some of whom Louise and I became very close to. But Pamela always had this attitude that she was somehow better than us, even though we were providing a loving home and family.”
“Three months isn’t a terribly long period. Was it the puppy incident alone, or were there other things leading up to removing her from your home?”
“Pamela was such a brat that it had gotten to the point where my sister and I wouldn’t be in the same room with her. Our parents were aware of the tension and had caught Pamela in lies about where she had gone or who she’d been with. Typical teenage stuff, except that she totally disrespected the rules my folks had. She frequently missed curfew and wore lots of makeup and smelled of pot.” He coughed and looked Linda in the eye. “They knew it wasn’t working out and were going to contact the social worker. But when she drowned Maggie’s puppies, that was the last straw. We realized there was something seriously harmful with her mentally. Rather than risk something more serious, they packed her bags and took her back to Catholic Charities.”
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