Salvation Station

by Kathryn Schleich

  “Anything else that you can remember?”

  David shook a fist in recollection. “I don’t know if this will help, but Pamela had an odd mark on her body besides that mole. Her right earlobe had a small hole, like a partial moon almost. I remember because it was so unusual. Besides that, she insisted that it was Louise who had killed our puppies. It wasn’t true; Louise was heart-broken when they died. By then, my parents had reached their limit. They never took in any foster kids after that, which is a shame. As devout Catholics, it was kind of their mission to help children who didn’t have families, but Pamela Watts destroyed their faith.”

  Linda scribbled a note regarding another confirmation of the oddly shaped hole. “I’m sorry your parents’ faith was tarnished. They were only trying to provide a loving home.”

  “It still makes me angry, as it does my sister. We provided kids with a good, stable family environment, and it took only one bad apple for our parents to question whether what they were doing was worthwhile.”

  21

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2002 RICHMOND HEIGHTS, MISSOURI GALLERIA MALL

  It was going to be difficult keeping his intentions from Susannah, but on this sunny autumn afternoon, Ray told her he was going to visit a former church member who was ill, which was true to some extent. After his pastoral visit, he drove out to the Galleria in Richmond Heights in search of an item he never expected to purchase again. Moving with purpose past upscale stores, he reflected on how much one’s life could change in less than a year. He thought that perhaps that was naiveté on his part. In his line of work, he saw more often than most how their lives could change overnight. Usually, it was the tragic circumstances of an accident or untimely death, but if he thought over the last several months, his feelings shouldn’t come as a surprise at all. And it was time he made an honest woman of Susannah Baker.

  At the curve in the mall corridor, he spied Helzberg Diamonds, and his step quickened. He went directly to the case of diamond engagement rings, his air of purpose catching the attention of a young, blonde sales clerk.

  From behind the glass counter, she smiled. “May I help you, sir?”

  To Ray’s surprise, he was genuinely nervous, his first words more of a stammer than a statement. “Yes, I want to see some . . . I’d like to see what you have in engagement rings.”

  “We have a wide selection in all price ranges. How much were you thinking of spending?”

  He smiled at the clerk. “You know, it’s been a long while since I’ve done this, so I’ll take all the help I can get. What would be the average price a gentleman would spend?”

  The blonde clerk grinned. There seemed to be a flash of recognition as she directed Ray’s attention to a line of exquisite rings. “That depends on the carat weight of the diamond, its shape, color, and clarity. I can show you rings covering a price range from a thousand dollars on up. The average amount a man spends ranges from two to five thousand dollars. The rule of thumb is a month’s salary.” Unlocking the case, the sales clerk removed a tray of sparkling diamond rings set against black velvet. Placing the tray on the glass, she posed another question. “How would you describe your fiancée’s tastes?”

  “Fiancée,” he nearly whispered the word to himself. Ray’s face glowed. “That sounds lovely.”

  “Second marriage, I take it?”

  Ray nodded. “Yes. My first wife died of cancer in 1992.”

  She brought her hand instinctively up to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. But in the last few months, I’ve met someone special, the reason for my visit here today.”

  “That’s wonderful,” the blonde enthused. Recall unexpectedly brightened her face. “You’re Reverend Ray from TV—The Road to Calvary!”

  Caught off guard by the woman’s enthusiastic response, Ray fumbled for a reply. “Why yes, that’s our show, The Road to Calvary.”

  “My aunt watches your show, and one day a couple of months ago, I was visiting, and we watched it together. And, Reverend—may I call you that?”

  “Sure—”

  “Reverend, we watched you call a man, Jim, you knew him by name, out from the pit of alcoholism that was destroying his life. It was the most moving thing I’d ever seen. And I never thought I’d say this, but I started watching regularly with my aunt. The work you do is truly amazing.”

  “Well, thank you, Miss—”

  The bubbly clerk extended her small hand across the glass countertop. “Sally. Sally Sullivan. It is a pleasure to meet you, Reverend. My aunt Julia won’t believe it! You said you’re getting engaged; that’s wonderful!” Stopping only long enough to catch a breath, Sally made a sweeping motion over the cases. “What kind of jewelry is your fiancée fond of?”

  “Hmmm. Something simple, but elegant. Susannah—”

  “Susannah Baker, the woman who helps on your show?”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  “This is good news. Pick out whatever ring you wish, Reverend, and I’ll make sure you get the best price.”

  The sufficient money Ray had made as a consultant would pay for a lovely engagement ring. “Show me that one,” he said, smiling and pointing to a pillow-cut diamond for nearly $6,000.

  “You have wonderful taste!”

  Ever the preacher looking to spread the good news, Ray examined the ring. He pointed to another. “Let me see the solitaire diamond in yellow gold.” Ray stopped looking at the rings for a brief moment and glanced at Sally. “You know, we have a website and are looking at some new broadcast opportunities. Here’s my business card—one for you and one for Aunt Julia. We’re not broadcasting live right now, but here are the days and times we do prerecorded broadcasts. We’d love to have you in our studio audience!”

  “She will be thrilled to have a personal invitation. My aunt has lots of friends, too; she’ll get the word out to all of them about the new programming time.”

  “That would be much appreciated.” Ray took the solitaire diamond from Sally, slowly turning the gleaming jewel in his large hands. “Let me ask you something. Am I being old-fashioned in wanting this ring to be a surprise? Do most couples pick them out together nowadays? I want to do this right.”

  “It’s about a fifty-fifty split in terms of what couples do. Trust me, Reverend, there is no wrong way to give a woman an engagement ring.”

  22

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  On her return, Lyle presented Linda with organized stacks of Pamela Watts’s correctional files, which they hoped would offer insights into her personality. Mounds of yellowed brittle paper and forms, including transcripts from the trial convicting her of forgery, lay in neatly arranged piles.

  The timeline displayed on the white dry erase murder board was different than most. It didn’t span a few hours or days but crossed into the territory of years and the unsolved. Some pivotal event had made Pamela angry enough to blame and then possibly kill her families.

  Linda paced before the board discussing Pamela’s check forgery conviction with Lyle and Amy. “The files provide the case number for Pamela’s crime. By Minnesota law, if a check forgery is over five hundred dollars, the crime is a felony, and the forger faces up to five years in prison.”

  “Didn’t you say Pamela Watts was convicted of forging ten thousand dollars in checks?” Amy asked, pointing a pencil toward the board.

  “Yes, and it involved a single check.” Linda directed her finger at the name William Gunderson. “Court documents indicate Pamela befriended a Mr. Gunderson, an elderly gentleman in his eighties, who was her neighbor. She gained his confidence and trust by doing grocery shopping and cleaning for him. He gave her a key, and she was able to obtain a blank check from his home, which she made payable to herself for ten thousand dollars.”

  “She would’ve had to forge his name,” Lyle said, clasping hands behind his head.

  “Which she did, and quite well.” Linda handed out copies of Gunderson�
�s real signature and Pamela’s forged check. “The forgery of Gunderson’s signature was nearly identical. She forged Gregory Hansen’s signature on the final bank withdrawal she made of $150,000, and that of every other pastor she embezzled from.”

  Amy examined the documents and returned to her notes. “Pamela Watts didn’t serve anywhere near the maximum sentence.”

  “No, she got three years. She was nineteen, and the jury felt she was young enough to redeem herself. She only served eighteen months in Shakopee, getting time off for good behavior. In fact, Pamela Watts was listed as a model prisoner.”

  “Did the court records ever indicate why she forged Mr. Gunderson’s check? Was there an accomplice?” Lyle asked.

  Linda pulled the court file. “Her attorney claimed Pamela got involved with the wrong crowd. But counsel had difficulty finding these friends, and they may never have existed.” The air reeked of sulfur, an odor Linda disliked as it gave her a headache. Detective Morris must be dieting again and having hard boiled eggs for lunch.

  Lyle leaned on a desk, arms crossed. “Her crime wasn’t well conceived. She forged one check, and Gunderson caught her.”

  “But Pamela bided her time, helping her neighbor for months before she stole anything. She had the patience to commit a serious crime. However, she completely misjudged that Gunderson would not press charges and back down just because she was a teenager. And she insisted that Gunderson had wanted her to have the money.” Linda clasped her hands behind her head. “She said on the stand it was all a misunderstanding. Mr. Gunderson might have been old, but he was no dummy. The money Pamela took was a substantial amount for him, and his attorney asked for the maximum sentence.”

  The phone on Amy’s desk jangled; and after a moment’s hesitation, she answered the call.

  Linda continued to speak. “It’s fortunate for us that Pamela got caught because, as a convicted felon, she and her aliases were in the NCIC database. So she turned to embezzling, which takes longer to detect, especially if you’re good at it. She always left town whenever congregations began to suspect her.”

  “Literally absconding with the church funds.” Lyle stretched his arms above his head. “Any possibility of interviewing Mr. Gunderson?”

  “Long gone. Died in 1986 at the age of ninety-two.”

  “We have a good idea of her MO—preying on the vulnerable.” Lyle waved an open hand toward the murder board. “I can’t help but believe her anger at being abandoned as an infant is the real motive here.”

  Linda crinkled her nose, still smelling the intense odor of hard boiled eggs. “I’m torn about that theory. She had a loving family—parents who adopted her, and later two beautiful children and a handsome husband. Yet she threw it all away in an inconceivable manner.”

  “I have always believed—and I think you do, too—that money truly is at the root of all evil. We’ve both seen murder committed for far less.”

  Linda acknowledged Lyle’s statement with a shake of her head and glanced toward Amy, who was rapidly scribbling on a legal pad. “I keep returning to the reason she became this amoral being. I can’t dismiss the idea that discovering you were left by your mother or father, to die for all we know, evolved into a relentless rage. Sister Monica disagrees, but I’m not convinced.”

  Amy dropped the receiver into the cradle of her phone. “Sorry to interrupt, but that was the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigations. I have disturbing news.”

  23

  THE SAME DAY MINUTES LATER

  Linda grabbed a chair from an unoccupied desk. “Let’s have it.” “We thought Reverend Gordon Sayles was a father figure to Pamela, but the good pastor had some nasty skeletons in his closet.” Amy ran an index finger along the page. “While they were married, Sayles was caught having sexual intercourse with an inmate and fired by the prison. This inmate claimed Sayles raped her when he was providing spiritual guidance in his office. Sayles denied the allegations, calling the woman a ‘mentally disturbed liar.’ But other inmates came forward with similar tales of Sayles forcing himself on them.”

  Linda’s shoulders hunched, her dejected face in her hands. “Was Sayles convicted?”

  “Yes. He was sentenced to twenty years at the Minnesota Sexual Offenders facility in Moose Lake, Minnesota.”

  “Wow,” Lyle said. “Do we know his current whereabouts?”

  “He died of pancreatic cancer in 1995.”

  “Can you blame Pamela?” Linda said sympathetically. “I’m not justifying her crimes, but this woman cannot catch a break. Interesting that her prey of choice were all widowed pastors.”

  Lyle stretched his long legs. “What if Pamela knew these men earlier in life and they, like Sayles, did something that scarred her, and it became her goal to extract punishment?”

  Linda’s lips drew into a tight smile. “Nice work, Amy. As to your theory, Lyle, it would require meticulous planning to reenter their lives as someone they wouldn’t recognize. It’s worth investigating that angle, but we’ll have to push much deeper into her past. These were recently widowed men, sucked in by her charm. They lived all over the Midwest, so she’d have had to track their movements and lifestyles. It’s a long shot at best. Plus, the pastors’ wives all succumbed to cancer.”

  “What if they didn’t, but were murdered instead?” Lyle stated.

  Linda felt jitters up her spine. “You mean Pamela killed them to get close to these men?” She shook her head. “That’s farfetched at best. She’d have to be a criminal genius.” She thought a moment. “If you want to pursue this approach, start with Sayles. It will take tenacious investigators willing to go over the same territory multiple times. If you hit a dead end, let it go. We need to get these murders solved.”

  “Agreed. But I’m willing to delve in if the road takes us there,” Lyle said. “I have a gut feeling widowed pastors aren’t the only common denominator that connects everyone.”

  Linda cocked her head. “I’ll contact former LPD officers who have moved onto other departments. A lot have stayed in the Midwest. It can’t hurt. They may have stumbled across a link we’ve overlooked.”

  Lyle and Amy nodded their heads in unison.

  “I’ll request that list,” Linda said, rising from the chair. Maybe Lyle is onto something, Linda thought, returning to her office. Only time will answer that.

  24

  DECEMBER 6, 2002 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI BUCK’S HOME

  From the moment the website launched, the response was remarkable. It had allowed them to broadcast live on KNSL, which served the St. Louis Metropolitan area and beyond. With the combination of live and taped broadcast formats, The Road to Calvary was bringing in plenty of money to pay for programming.

  Sitting in Buck’s home office, Ray peered over his shoulder at dozens of prayer requests, completely in awe.

  “This is a lot of folks asking me to pray for them, which is great. I never imagined we’d get this kind of response so quickly.”

  Buck turned his chair toward Ray. “That’s why I wanted you to see for yourself and decide how to proceed. Are you serious about answering each individual prayer request?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you want me to create a form letter for you to sign? We can type in the specific issue they’ve asked you to pray over, so it doesn’t appear to be a form letter.”

  Ray’s voice was firm. “No form letters. Personal responses to people’s needs are important. They remember that.”

  “There must be over a hundred requests here.” Buck pointed to the computer screen. “This will be time-consuming.”

  “I’m aware of that. But these folks are seeking guidance, and a personal response to their situation shows that The Road to Calvary isn’t some canned program asking for money. Most of these requests came in via email. You may not know this, but I used to type a hundred words a minute. I’m up to the challenge, and it will serve us well in the long run.”

  “Are you comfortable reading emails off a computer screen?
”

  Ray considered Buck’s question. “Forward them to me as emails every Wednesday, and we’ll see how it works out.”

  “Once a week it is.” Buck sat back in his chair, smiling. “I never knew you typed a hundred words a minute.”

  “Probably closer to a hundred and ten. My father believed typing was an important skill for a pastor to have because a lot of the time, there was no church secretary. Lorraine, God bless her, spent many hours typing correspondence for me, usually during Easter and Christmas.” Ray was silent, misty-eyed at the memory of his dead wife. “Then she got sick, and it was up to me again . . .” His voice trailed off. Rousing himself, Ray turned to Buck, his voice strong and enthusiastic once more. “Let’s get started.”

  The second week in December, Ray sat at his desk reviewing prayer requests—everything including family squabbles, illnesses, chemical dependency, financial problems, and work-related issues. One stood out—written in elegant script by someone who understood good penmanship. It concerned a family matter. Ray held the letter in his hands and began reading.

  Dear Rev. Ray,

  My name is Ruth Perkins, and I have watched your wonderful program, The Road to Calvary, since it went on the air. I have seen the many miracles you’ve performed, and, while it is difficult for me to ask, I request your assistance in a family matter.

  My daughter, Emma, and her husband, Jack, have had a troubled marriage for some time and are considering divorce. Quite frankly, they married far too young with a baby on the way, which put their union under stress from the start. Both were in college at the time, and my son-in-law finished his degree and works as an engineer in the medical field. Emma wasn’t so lucky. It’s not that Jack held her back, but another baby convinced her she should stay home raising the girls.