Susannah snatched the paper away without looking at it and addressed both men. “I’m not buying your ‘we were just bringing it to you’ story for a second. But here’s what I do buy,” she hissed and moved toward them. “You’re both nothing more than heroin junkies who every day are this close to falling back into your old ways.” She held her index finger and thumb a fraction of an inch apart.
“But,” Cole protested, “you were once an addict yourself, saved by this very program—”
“Shut up,” she snarled and moved in even closer. “I was never on the level of you two losers. I was a drunk, and in case you’ve forgotten, alcohol is legal. Heroin, on the other hand, is not. Let me be very clear—read one more letter, and you’re gone tomorrow. And what would your probation officers think when I tell them you were caught using again, and we had no choice but to let you go?” Susannah taunted them. “This letter or any other letter is none of your concern. Take my advice—do your fucking jobs and pull the checks.”
Cole’s spine straightened, bringing him to his full height. Eye-to-eye with Susannah, the edge in his voice was angry. “Are you threatening us? I’m not afraid to tell Ray this woman has grave concerns.”
Her lips curled into a nasty smirk. “And who do you think he’ll believe? Two grungy junkies or his good Christian wife?”
“Susannah! Sweetheart, where are you? I’m ready to leave,” Ray’s voice called from down the hall.
Cole witnessed her transformation with terrified awe. “In a minute, sweetheart. I’m finishing pulling your prayer requests.” Her voice turned from icy hatred to honey sweet and then back to the former. She put the letter in her purse and leaned in over the desk, separating them. “You mention this to anyone, and I can make you both disappear. Not a fucking word.” As Susannah left the room, the men overheard her coo, “Sorry, darling. I’m ready to go now.”
As their voices faded, Cole huffed angrily, “Jesus, we have got to tell somebody about this.”
Seth looked at him as if he were crazy. “Are you kidding me? You heard what that bitch said! We can’t tell Ray. What the fuck’s the matter with you!”
Cole tapped nervous fingers on Seth’s desk. Then he walked to his workspace, fishing in the wastebasket till he found what he was searching for. “We’re not going to tell Ray,” he said, waving the envelope. “But there are others we can trust. And . . . we have this.”
LATER THE SAME DAY ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI BUCK’S HOME
Buck leaned forward in his living room recliner, listening to Cole and Seth, who sat on the couch and finished the story of their encounter with Susannah. He had never asked their ages, but looking at their scared, unlined faces, he figured early- to mid-twenties at most.
Cole and Seth waited expectantly for Buck to speak, and he reprimanded himself for ever having doubted he could trust them. “Susannah took the letter, so we can’t even contact this Michelle Thomas, correct?”
Rising from the sofa, Cole removed a crumpled envelope from his back jeans pocket. “Not quite. I had tossed the envelope in the trash, and Susannah never asked for it. Ms. Thomas included a return address.”
Buck smoothed out the crinkled envelope, postmarked St. Louis. “Well, she’s local with a legible address, which is all very helpful. I’m glad you thought enough to save this.”
“So now what?” Cole was apprehensive about meeting Buck at his home and rubbed his fingers along the back of his tense neck.
Buck put an elbow across his knee. “First, I want you both to know you can trust Jeff and me implicitly. The next few days will be difficult, but be as nice to Susannah as possible without raising her suspicions.”
Seth crinkled his forehead, gulping air. “I’m not a good enough actor to pull that off.”
Buck sat up straight, eyeing the young men. “You’re gonna have to be. What I’m going to tell you cannot leave this room,” Buck said, leaning in. “Jeff and I have been working with the St. Louis PD trying to figure out who Susannah Williams is. Jeff’s old Iraq War buddy is a homicide detective, and it was Jeff who made contact.”
Cole nodded. “We heard the argument you had with Ray that Susannah had stolen someone’s identity. Then she twists the story that she is the victim. I’ll be honest—Susannah scares me.”
“We all have to be on guard at the office,” Buck said. He held up the envelope. “In the meantime, I’m going to pay a visit to Ms. Thomas.”
40
FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 2003 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA CHIEF LANGSTON’S OFFICE
“Your idea for a joint investigation is a good one,” Chief Langston said, looking from Linda to Malachi. “What are you proposing?”
“Sir, we need to get close to Mrs. Williams. Put a cop on the inside who gains her trust. Not only a joint investigation, but an undercover operation. Detectives from your department have more experience working this case, and I’m suggesting it be an officer from the LPD.”
Langston tented his hands, elbows propped on his desk. “It’s an unusual request, and a joint investigation limits our legal capacity in your jurisdiction. Captain Turner, who do you think would be the best officer to go to St. Louis in that capacity? Dale?”
Linda cleared her throat, feeling her insides tingle. “Chief, with all due respect, I believe that officer should be me.”
There was quiet, Chief Langston mulling over this suggestion. The longer the silence, Linda worried, the less chance Langston would go for the plan.
“You definitely have the most expertise,” he finally agreed. “You’re also a captain and one of the best officers I have. The Northeast Sector needs a leader.”
Linda brought her shoulders forward, her posture straight. “Lyle Dale has the knowledge and experience to step in for me temporarily. I realize that a ranking officer being gone for a lengthy period might be tough on the department.” She stopped, taking in some air. “Therefore, I suggest we limit my undercover stretch to a relatively brief period.”
Malachi’s head jerked toward her. “How long, and will limited time give us the chance for you to build a relationship?”
“Captain Turner has a point, Detective,” Chief Langston interrupted. “We’ve worked this case for over a year, and it needs to be wrapped.”
Linda spoke, facing Malachi. “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard, but these murders are a stain on our department. Mrs. Williams is a newlywed, and they’ve got the capital campaign underway. Both those things will keep her in town. I think we can undertake a shorter operation, but our planning would need to be detailed. We’d rely on your jurisdiction to have all elements in place.”
“How long would I have?” the detective inquired.
Langston spoke up. “Four to six weeks planning time. Captain, you and Detective Johnson choose the most feasible identity. Once we have a backstory in place, she’ll come to St. Louis.” Langston pointed his pen at dates on a desk calendar. “Six weeks out is July eighteenth. From there, I’ll okay slightly over six weeks.”
This was going to be tight. Linda could feel her heart flutter. She hoped Malachi was on board.
“I always have liked a challenge.” Malachi grinned. “And this will definitely be that.”
They ordered in Chinese take-out and squeezed around the table in Linda’s office.
“I could be divorced, the same as her,” Linda said. “My professional background should be horticulture; maybe I’ve worked at a garden center. Common denominators right off the bat.” She scooped up a mouthful of shrimp fried rice with chopsticks. “I can start researching that.”
“That’s good,” Malachi replied. “Langston said I’ve got six weeks max to get you set up with documents, housing, IDs, all that. I’ll work with our undercover unit. I’ve got a flight for late tomorrow out of Omaha.”
They continued their discussion until they had filled yellow pages on a legal pad. The conversation took on a personal tone.
“Are you married?” Linda asked.
“Was married,” Malachi correc
ted. “My ex and I are on friendly terms and have two beautiful girls ages sixteen and eighteen.” The corners of his mouth turned down into a melancholy smile. “They’re growing up too fast and are both dating, a father’s worst nightmare. I wanted them to wait till they were at least thirty.”
Linda wiped her mouth. “I’m sorry. Have you been divorced long?”
“Our second daughter, Sasha, was born while I was in Iraq. That was a tough adjustment. Then I joined the police force, and you know what a toll this job can take on families. I was always working, missing too many family functions, dance recitals, regular dinners at home. I see my girls on a consistent basis, but Michelle and I decided we were better off leading separate lives. How about you?”
“I’m widowed. My husband, Tom, died six years ago.”
“Can I ask what happened?” Malachi took a sip of soda.
“Tom dropped dead of an embolism at thirty-seven. It changed my perspective on a lot of things, especially religion. This case only adds to my cynicism because it’s revealed the scars left from preying on the gullible and the dirty secret of organized religion. The individuals involved here not only haven’t proven me wrong but have shown there’s a very dark side to believing in something without question.” Linda stopped herself. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Malachi took another gulp of his drink. “Not in the slightest. I’ve been thinking much the same, regarding religion in general, and whether I even believe in the idea of a Supreme Being.”
Linda wiped the remainder of her lipstick off, thinking how comfortable it was to have this conversation with someone who had the same doubts. “After my husband died, I was certain there was no God, at least not for me. Yes, there’s still good in the world, however buried it might sometimes be. I always thought that if there was a God, the world would be a better place. Chalk it up to free will, a concept I remember from my Catholic school days.”
He nodded in agreement. “We tried to raise Sasha and Lauren to be good, honest, moral people, but I wasn’t convinced we needed religion to accomplish that.” He took another scoop of rice and looked Linda straight in the eye. “Do you believe in God? If that’s too personal a question, please tell me to take a hike.”
Condensation formed on Linda’s glass. “No, that’s a perfectly reasonable question, given that this case deals with persons of supposed faith who have lied and cheated those who trust them. I was raised Catholic. It didn’t make sense to me that only men could be in charge and that you absolutely had to believe certain things, so I walked away. I consider myself an agnostic, but the people we deal with make me question it every day.”
“Yeah, this line of work can jade a person pretty damn quick.” He swirled the remaining soda in the bottom of his glass.
Linda wiped her mouth once again. “I’m not a theologian, but I think some people just want to be given the answers. They don’t want any tough questions to deal with, just tell them what to believe straight up. I have confidence that’s what’s happening here. We’ll see how this plays out. Even if this program is a fraud, some members will still choose to keep believing.”
Finished with his meal, Malachi placed his chopsticks crosswise on his plate, returning the conversation to the job. “My sources on the program say Susannah Williams talked about suffering a major tragedy.”
Linda made certain her gaze didn’t linger too long on Malachi’s handsome features. “What sort of tragedy?”
“She claimed that her two children were killed in a car accident. Sister-in-law picking them up from daycare. She’s never provided enough details for us to check the authenticity.”
Linda held her chopsticks aloft. “That is one of the most revolting things I’ve ever heard. Jacob and Elizabeth Hansen are those dead children. The image of those small bodies clad in their torn Disney pajamas will never leave me. I will do whatever it takes to catch this bitch.”
41
THURSDAY EVENING, JUNE 12, 2003 GLENDALE, MISSOURI MICHELLE THOMAS’S HOME
It was after nine o’clock when Michelle Thomas’s doorbell rang, interrupting a crucial moment in her favorite TV show, Survivor. “Damn!” she huffed, rolling off her living room couch to answer.
Michelle tied the belt of her robe around her waist, flipping on the porch light. A woman dressed in dark clothing stood alone. She unlocked the bolt lock but kept the chain in place, opening the door as far as the chain would allow. “Can I help you?”
“I am so sorry to bother you,” the woman apologized. “But can I use your phone? My car won’t start, and my cell phone is completely out of bars.” She held up her useless cell.
Michelle was hesitant at first. It was dark and late with a stranger on her doorstep. “Okay,” Michelle said and unchained the door.
“Thanks so much. One call, and I’ll be on my way.”
Michelle led the way to the wall phone in the kitchen, her slippers shuffling along the floor. Turning toward the woman, Michelle pointed to the phone. “If someone needs to come and get you—”
“That won’t be necessary,” the woman replied abruptly, holding a thick throw pillow from the sofa across her body. “You won’t be filing a complaint against us.”
Two muffled pops, and Michelle clutched her hemorrhaging abdomen, falling to the floor in excruciating pain. She gasped trying to breathe and was still cognizant enough to realize she hadn’t noticed the stranger’s gloved hands in the dark. Michelle observed the profuse amount of dark blood spurting from her midriff. She tried to cover the hole in her stomach with her trembling hands, but the tacky substance soaked them in red. The woman climbed the bedroom stairs, and Michelle heard a single pop.
In a few seconds, the woman returned from upstairs, heading toward the sliding back door.
Michelle used her waning energy to speak three words. “Help me. Please!”
The woman turned toward her, the gun still in her hand. “No.” Michelle felt the room fading away. She was losing consciousness, blood pooling on the vinyl. As her world fell into blackness, the last sound she would ever hear was the slamming of the patio door.
42
SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 2003 GLENDALE, MISSOURI MICHELLE THOMAS’S HOME
Buck drove to the Glendale suburb, thankful that Michelle Thomas’s phone number was listed and that she was willing to talk to him. He had a disturbing feeling that Susannah wasn’t going to stop at threatening Cole and Seth’s jobs. His visit was twofold. He wanted to confirm whether Susannah’s constant appeals were driving her roommate to give all her money to the church. He also felt the need to apologize in person to Ms. Thomas. They had talked on Thursday and agreed to meet Saturday evening. Buck didn’t know if it would make any difference, and perhaps he was the one looking to assuage his guilt.
Turning down a block where tree branches arched over the street, he spied the 1950s brick rambler, set back on an expansive lot, under a canopy of trees. He parked and went to the front door and rang the bell. He heard talking inside, but no answer. She must be home. Buck rang the bell a second time. Still no answer.
After the third ring, Buck peered in the bay window and viewed the flickering blue light of a television set in the living room. That explained the voices he’d heard, but where was Ms. Thomas? He stepped off the porch, walked past the attached garage, and made his way to the back, where there was a cozy patio with sliding glass doors. Buck went to peer inside.
He gasped and jumped back from the door, fumbling for his cell phone. “Oh shit! Jesus!” A woman’s body lay on the vinyl floor of the kitchen in a congealed spatter of blood.
He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He attempted to dial 911. In his state of shock, Buck’s fingers seemed enormous as he misdialed yet again.
Goddamn it, Buck, focus! Deliberately he punched in the three digits. An operator answered on the second ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Holding his phone in one hand, he tugged on the sliding door with the other. As soo
n as the door was ajar, a foul odor filled his nostrils, and Buck realized by the darkening of her body that the woman was dead.
“I came to visit Ms. Thomas and found a body. I’m pretty certain she’s dead.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the operator asked.
“Yeah, the odor’s terrible—” Buck gagged and closed the sliding door.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Buck covered his mouth and nose. “The smell is ghastly, and her skin is very dark.”
“Sir, are you on a cell phone?”
“Y-yes,” he stuttered. “Yes, I am.”
“I need you to tell me the address for first responders.”
He was shaking so violently, Buck was afraid he would drop his phone. He gave the dispatcher the address.
“I need you to stay where you’re at until the police and fire arrive,” the calm dispatcher instructed.
“Sure,” Buck managed, his legs wobbling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Buck paced the length of the driveway, leaving a voicemail for Jeff to call him right away. Within minutes, wailing sirens filled the air—first the police, followed closely by the fire department. Flashing lights lit up the street. As emergency responders entered the front door, Buck surveyed the winding block as curious neighbors came outside, gathering in small groups, scrutinizing the scene and murmuring among themselves.
A female officer walked toward Buck. “Did you call this in, sir?”
“Yes.” Instinctively, Buck reached for his driver’s license in his back pocket.
The officer asked him routine questions on the nature of his visit, and he noted her nameplate read “Lane.” When she asked Buck whether he had entered the house and disturbed anything, Buck felt intimidated, but he tried hard to steady his voice and remain calm.
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