Salvation Station

by Kathryn Schleich

  The television announcer’s voice caught her attention.

  “Mark your calendar to join the Reverend Williams and Miss Susannah Baker as they enter into the bond of holy matrimony on a very special live broadcast of The Road to Calvary on Saturday, the third of May, at seven in the evening,” said a male announcer.

  She sat back in her chair, contemplating this message. I want to share in their happiness. She didn’t drive much anymore, especially at night. She hit the pen against paper—tap, tap, tap. I don’t want to bother the girls, and Emma certainly won’t take me, she thought. Considering various scenarios, Ruth beamed. I’ll take a cab. That way, I’m not a bother to anybody, and they won’t even know I attended.

  SATURDAY EVENING, MAY 3, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI THE ENTRANCE TO THE ROAD TO CALVARY BUILDING

  Ruth’s yellow taxi pulled up to a single-level warehouse near the riverfront and the silver metal curve of the Gateway Arch soaring skyward. Outside in the warm spring air, people wearing their Sunday best filed into the building as greeters opened the door. Ruth had selected a floral print dress and donned her pearls for this special occasion.

  “Good evening,” she said and smiled at the greeter. Inside, she was handed a program with “The Marriage of the Reverend Raymond Williams and Susannah Lynn Baker” written in script with entwined wedding bands on the cover.

  An usher offered her his arm. “We are not a divided house, so I’ll seat you in the best available spot.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Ruth said.

  He escorted her midway down the aisle to a spot near the row’s end, which she thought was an excellent vantage point to watch the proceedings. Viewing the crowd, she saw persons of all different ages, races, genders, shapes, and sizes. The young blonde woman who took the seat next to her also seemed to be alone, and Ruth exchanged pleasantries with her.

  “What a perfect day for a wedding. Are you a friend of the reverend or Miss Baker?” she inquired.

  The blonde smiled in return. “My aunt Julia is a long-time parishioner, but she couldn’t be here tonight due to illness.”

  Ruth held out her hand. “I’ve been following Reverend Ray since their early days myself. Ruth Perkins. Nice to meet you.”

  “Sally Sullivan. I sold Ray Miss Baker’s engagement ring, and he’s been praying for my aunt’s health ever since.”

  “Oh, I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  The blonde woman shrugged her shoulders. “Unfortunately, it is. My aunt had a second heart attack, and she’s on life support. I truly thought if I asked the reverend to keep praying for her, this wouldn’t happen again.”

  “Don’t lose faith,” Ruth said encouragingly and patted Sally’s shoulder.

  Ruth noted that the crowd was quite large, and every seat appeared to be filled. The beginning notes of Pachelbel’s “Canon” filled the air as the processional began. The full choir assembled on the stage. Onto the stage walked the minister, whom Ruth barely recognized, then Ray in a black silk suit and pale rose tie, along with a younger best man in coordinating attire. They took their places at the front of the altar.

  The matron of honor followed dressed in a dusty pink silk frock. The “Bridal Chorus” began, and everyone rose to their feet, turning toward the back of the church. Carrying a small bouquet of pink roses, Susannah entered wearing an ivory tulle-and-lace, tea-length dress.

  At the altar, Susannah took Ray’s arm, and they approached the minister.

  The congregation took their seats, and Ruth fanned back tears. Sally handed her a tissue, and the minister beamed at the congregation. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

  They were married in little more than half an hour. By then, both Ruth and Sally were clutching tissues as the choir sung “The Wedding Song”; the Reverend Jacobson recounted how Ray and Susannah met and their personal stories of overcoming adversity to find each other.

  “That was lovely, just lovely,” Ruth said to Sally as they queued up in the reception line.

  “I’m so sorry Aunt Julia had to miss it. She would have cried right along with us.”

  Meeting Ray and Susannah, Ruth grasped both their hands heartily. “Congratulations! I’m Ruth Perkins. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Such a beautiful, solemn ceremony.”

  “It’s a pleasure, indeed. I continue to pray for your family, Mrs. Perkins.”

  “Ray prays for your daughter, Emma, very hard,” Susannah said, reaching for her hand.

  “Our continued correspondence means so very much to me. I won’t hold up the line, but best wishes for a long and happy marriage,” Ruth said.

  The newlyweds greeted Sally. Worry flashed over Ray’s face. “It saddens me that Julia had another heart attack,” he said. “Please know that I will continue to pray for her full recovery. Be sure to keep us posted.”

  The young woman brushed aside a tear. “I appreciate that, Reverend. Congratulations to the both of you.”

  As Ruth and Sally passed a white basket brimming with cards, Ruth deposited a wedding card. Inside was a check for fifteen thousand dollars.

  37

  MONDAY, JUNE 2, 2003 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  There had been a match on ViCAP, followed by an intriguing email. Raymond Charlsen, now an assistant chief of police in St. Louis, had contacted Linda right after the ViCAP hit, providing further details.

  She stared at her computer, reading Charlsen’s words again. “The murder of Delores Reid, a homeless woman who was miraculously ‘healed’ on a religious program here, bears striking similarities to the Hansen murders. Lethal amounts of the drug Ambien were found in her system.”

  The exact same M.O., and very possibly the same used in killing Pamela Watts’s parents. Linda returned to the email. “Detective Malachi Johnson is lead on the case, and I believe Detective Johnson has valuable material that can be of assistance to you. He’s expecting your call.” Linda wrote down the detective’s number and dialed.

  The voice on the other end was deep. “Detective Johnson, Homicide Division.”

  “Detective Johnson, this is Captain Linda Turner in Lincoln, Nebraska. I understand you’re investigating a murder that is very similar to a triple homicide that occurred here thirteen months ago.”

  “That’s right. I’ve been aware of the unsolved Hansen murders since Chief Charlsen transferred here from Lincoln. Horrific case, but I didn’t expect to ever come across a connection. Until last week that is, when I was investigating what initially looked to be a suicide of a fifty-nine-year-old female. I got confirmation from the FBI that the common denominator between our cases is the large amount of Ambien present in our vic’s system, the same drug used to kill the Hansen family.”

  “Correct. But what else made you suspicious?” she asked, hardly able to catch a breath.

  “A couple of things. The substantial amount of Ambien present initially pointed to suicide. But while processing the scene, we discovered the prescription label on the bottle of pills was fake.”

  “And the second?” Linda could feel her heart beating faster.

  “The victim was a down-on-her-luck former actress who was also sometimes homeless. She was living in a flophouse, renting a room by the week. According to three residents, Delores let it be known that in March, she was paid to pretend she was crippled, rise up out of a wheelchair, and walk on some local religious program. The pastor claims to perform healing miracles.”

  Linda tried not to get too excited. “In your professional opinion, Detective, why kill a homeless woman appearing on a fraudulent religious program?”

  She heard shuffling of papers at the other end. “The neighbors I interviewed all said that she was paid and told to leave town. But Delores didn’t leave; she lay low waiting. This program is now running a capital campaign asking for close to two and a half million in donations. Delores began talking about how being able to miraculously heal and walk was worth more than she was paid. She wanted additional money, or she’d g
o public with the truth about these healings.”

  “Good old-fashioned blackmail,” Linda said. After all this time, another sour disappointment would do them no good, and she found herself questioning Detective Johnson’s finding. “Or it’s coincidence, and Ms. Reid could have overdosed on the Ambien?”

  “Sure,” Malachi acknowledged on the other end of the line. “But on the night Delores Reid died, another resident saw a figure leaving her room at around three in the morning.”

  “Did they get a description?”

  “It was in a dimly lit hallway, and the person was dressed in dark clothing. The witness indicated the person’s build was slight and thought it might have been a woman.”

  Linda took a drink from her water bottle. This was all circumstantial, but it was the best lead she’d had in months. “What was the name of the program Ms. Reid rose from a wheelchair on?”

  “It’s called The Road to Calvary, and here’s why this may be a potential lead for you. The pastor has a new wife, maiden name was Susannah Baker. I’ve seen the program once and need to do further research, but she hasn’t been around that long. They got married in a live broadcast in May. One of my army buddies works on the show. He’s always been suspicious of Ms. Baker’s intentions and brought me a copy of her driver’s license. I also delved into the origin of her social, and the Susannah Baker issued this particular number died in 1995.”

  That statement grabbed Linda’s attention hard. Her breathing was shallow, and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Is this the break we’ve been looking for?

  There was utter silence on the line as the thoughts in Linda’s mind competed for attention. The mysterious woman showing up fit the pattern. The murder of Delores Reid fit the pattern.

  “Captain Turner?” Malachi inquired.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Trying to process these findings. These months of having a heinous crime still unsolved have been unsettling for our department, and this would be a huge break. The woman we’re looking for is very skilled at changing her appearance, so making a positive ID that way could be difficult. However, I do have forensic evidence in the form of a palm print. If we could get prints from this Susannah—what did you say her last name was?”

  “It was Baker. But now it’s Williams.”

  Linda scribbled the names across the page. “If we get her prints and DNA to make a positive ID, the Hansen case is back on. Before we rush into anything, I’d like you to come to Lincoln ASAP with all the materials you have. If you need me to speak with your superiors, I’m happy to do that.”

  “Chief Charlsen mentioned sharing evidence and discussed undertaking a joint investigation. I need time to gather what we have, but I can be in town the day after tomorrow.”

  “Great. We’ll find you a place to stay.” She paused, her mind running at full speed. “Besides case files and evidence, can you get me some of those TV tapes of this program? Those are crucial to making a positive identification.”

  “Sure, that’s no problem. I’ll contact you tomorrow with my flight itinerary.”

  “Thank you, Detective Johnson. I look forward to meeting you and our possible collaboration.”

  Linda hung up, her thoughts tripping over one another. The Hansen case was back on.

  38

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 2003 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  Linda liked Malachi Johnson immediately. His tall, muscular physique was evidence he worked out and, she thought, was perhaps a former athlete. In reviewing the cases, they found too many similarities for this to be coincidence. They had written the common aspects of both cases on a white board, and similarities were emerging.

  Linda knocked on the board. “The mysterious woman showing up seemingly out of thin air fits the pattern. The murder of Delores Reid fits the pattern in the way she was killed. Still, it’s all circumstantial.”

  Malachi reached into a bag and produced a half-dozen video tapes. “You asked for videos from the program. Any place we can look at these?”

  A television and VCR were set up in Linda’s office and Malachi queued the tape to an image of a woman with medium chestnut hair, ringlets framing her face. Linda motioned to photographs attached to a board. “As you can see, none of these women resemble each other. What matched were fingerprints and an odd half-moon hole on the inside of her right ear. We believe her real name is Pamela Jane Watts. In this photo taken by Catholic Charities we have an overweight girl, with blue eyes, short red hair, and an identifying mole.” Linda pointed to an enhanced photo of the hole. “This appears on every photo except her mug shot. I confirmed the shape was present from birth. At nineteen her hair is shoulder length, a mixture of platinum blonde and black streaks. Again, the mole is present. After her release from prison, she marries her first husband. Her hair is bright copper and the style quite short on her Minnesota driver’s license.” She moved down the row of photos. “Pamela weds her second husband using an assumed name of Susan Nichols. You can see her appearance is strikingly different. She’s wearing a tight blonde perm, big glasses, and she’s heavier, making her look older. On her Nebraska driver’s license she transforms again. As Nicole Hansen, the mole is gone, her nose is smaller, her eyes seem brighter, and her weight is 40 pounds less. She looks closer to her real age and the shag haircut is very flattering in contrast to the perm. I believe she underwent plastic surgery to alter her looks permanently, a nose job and eye lift for sure. Three of her identities involved financial crimes, mainly check forgery and embezzlement. Additionally, embezzling money would provide her with the funds for this type of surgery. If we can determine from these films that Susannah Williams is left-handed, there’s a stronger chance our killers are one and the same.”

  “Ah, a southpaw,” Malachi said knowingly. “There was no indication from the ME’s report if Delores’s killer was right- or left-handed.”

  The pair began studying the videos. When Susannah appeared facing the camera straight-on, Linda paused the tape and held up the various photos. “We need to find evidence of that shape within her ear.”

  “Your hunch about plastic surgery makes sense. I can’t imagine one single person looking so different without surgical help.” Malachi took the remote and fast-forwarded.

  “Stop and go back,” Linda commanded, moving in closer to the screen. “There. You can barely see it under the cuff of her blouse, but Mrs. Williams is wearing a watch on her right wrist.” She pointed to the flash of a gold watchband.

  “Left-handed,” Malachi said, stroking his neatly trimmed black beard. “Still, we need a person on the inside. I’m thinking an undercover cop who’s familiar with her MO.”

  Linda stared at Susannah Williams’s frozen image. “I have an idea, but it may take a few days. Can you stay longer?”

  “Sure,” Malachi said.

  39

  THURSDAY, JUNE 5 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI THE ROAD TO CALVARY OFFICES

  Cole Leon opened another envelope, looking for a prayer request or donation. Instead all he found was a letter—a very angry letter. He scanned the contents briefly before calling Seth over.

  “Hey, Seth, look at this,” he said and scooted his chair closer, so both men could read the missive.

  “‘To Whatever the Hell Your Name Is: My name is Michelle Thomas and I’m putting your program, The Road to Calvary on notice that I have filed a complaint with the Missouri Attorney General’s Office, regarding the fraudulent practices of your organization. For the past year, my roommate, Jeanette Morelli, has given nearly every penny she makes to your program, believing your outrageous claims that healing and prosperity will come to those who believe.’”

  Cole paused. “I’ve never seen a letter like this before.”

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to,” Seth whispered. He read on in low tones. “‘Belief in such nonsense has caused her to be unable to pay rent, help buy groceries, or get her car fixed. I’m not a heartless woman, so instead of kicking Jeanette out, I’m letting h
er stay. However, I’m using her as an example of how your program, Reverend, along with that cunning wife of yours, prey on the vulnerable. You give people false hope, and I won’t rest until the world knows the truth about you and your program.’”

  Cole folded the letter, holding it in his hand ready to speak, but an anxious Seth cut him off. “What are we supposed to do with this?”

  Still holding the letter, Cole glanced around the empty mail-room. Satisfied they were alone, he lowered his voice further. “I’m not convinced Ray is at fault here; in fact, he may not even know what’s going on.” He ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “There’s something I should tell you. I’m picking up extra shifts for more money. I want outta the halfway house.” Cole stopped and pulled his thoughts back on track. “I started noticing late at night Susannah going through the prayer requests being sent to Ray. It started right after they were married. She was here every night I worked. One night, after she’d gone, I went through the requests again, and a third of them were gone. Anything Susannah doesn’t want Ray to see, she removes. I’m betting Ray will never see this letter.”

  Susannah’s strong, condescending voice startled them both. “My, but that’s quite the story you’ve concocted, Cole. Given your history, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The truth is that Ray can’t possibly answer every prayer request. I’m only trying to be a helpful spouse.” Her face showed no emotion, except perhaps contempt.

  Seth’s raised voice was angry. “We’re both turning our lives around; we’re not using anymore. We’re grateful for the opportunity we’ve been given. But, please, don’t patronize us.”

  Susannah sneered at Cole and Seth. “You don’t even know what patronizing means.”

  Seth began to protest, but Cole raised a hand, stopping him. He held the letter between his index and middle fingers, speaking very calmly, trying to sound as professional as he could. “We came across this irate letter and thought you should see it. It’s from a woman filing a complaint with the attorney general against us. She’s talking about fraud.”