Salvation Station

by Kathryn Schleich

  He heard Linda say something about gathering DNA. Shaking himself out of fogginess, he accepted the reports she handed him. Ray studied the fingerprints and DNA results, detailing the matches between Susannah and several other names. Malachi laid other enlarged photos of her in a line. The reverend reviewed all the documents carefully, comparing the pictures closely. Ray nearly missed it. The odd hole in a moon shape on all of the women’s right earlobes. He couldn’t deny the truth any longer.

  Ray dropped his head into shaking hands.

  The howling sobs escaping his lips racked his entire body. He felt his shoulders pitching and tears streaming down his face. He thought about Susannah’s betrayal and his own role in a massive deception. In a way, his tears were the beginning of cleansing his soul.

  A gentle hand on his back brought Ray face to face with Officer Johnson, who handed him a box of tissues.

  He would tell them everything. Pulling a tissue from the box, he blew his nose. “My God, I’ve been an absolute fool. I should have known when Buck and Jeff were so suspicious because she seemingly showed up out of nowhere. They never trusted her. I want it on record that they questioned everything we ever did to ‘help’ the show.”

  Malachi smiled sadly. “I know. For now, let’s focus on their distrust of Susannah.”

  Ray nodded. “A few months back, they confronted me. They told me Susannah was not who she claimed, and they had proof she had committed identity theft. I, of course, didn’t believe them.”

  Malachi met Ray’s distressed gaze. “I can confirm every word is true. Jeff and Buck came to me months ago with their concerns and asked me to investigate. I didn’t have anything to go on until Delores Reid was killed, and then I found a link to Linda’s case in Nebraska. Tell us the timeline from the moment you met Susannah. I also need your permission to search your home. Otherwise, we’ll get a warrant.”

  Ray felt as if he’d taken a brutal punch to the stomach. He seized a deep breath. “Yes, you can search the house, the set. Whatever you need, I will cooperate fully.”

  He closed his eyes tightly, the image of Susannah’s blood-spattered dress and limp body appearing before him, a vision he couldn’t erase. She was my wife. I want to know if she’s going to die. I need to pray for her, he thought. Ray addressed both detectives. “Tell me the extent of Susannah’s wounds and her prognosis.”

  Malachi folded his large hands and spoke solemnly. “She took two bullets to the abdomen and is undergoing emergency surgery. Doctors won’t know the extent of the damage until they open her up.”

  “What if she dies? Then what happens?” Ray witnessed the gravity of the situation in both officers’ faces.

  Linda spoke first. “If that happens, at least six innocent individuals will have died in vain. As horrific as this is, we need her to survive and be prosecuted.”

  Malachi handed Ray a yellow legal pad and pencil. “It will be easier for you to recall details writing them down—dates, times, locations—everything.”

  Ray took the pencil in his apprehensive hands and began to write.

  60

  MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 2003 EARLY MORNING ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDOMINIUM

  Linda returned to her condominium well after midnight, her adrenaline still surging. An emergency room doctor had given her painkillers, but she was loath to take them, even as her arm throbbed. She needed to stay sharp. She parted the drapes for a view of the city skyline and slouched on the sofa consumed in thought. Malachi and she would go to Ray’s home in Richmond Heights that morning, but Linda knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  Ray’s anguished face appeared before her, as the realization sunk in that Susannah had led him down a path of fraud and deceit. How horrible it must feel to realize you’d been taken in by a cold-blooded killer. Linda knew the guilt, present in his eyes every instant he returned to the photo of the Hansen family, would not dissipate soon.

  She recalled the forlorn sound in Ray’s voice when Malachi asked if he had any family in the area he could stay with.

  The words were whispered to the walls, not to them. “No. Buck, Jeff, and Susannah are the closest to family that I have.”

  The department placed him in a hotel.

  Rising from the sofa, Linda went to the window. The lights of the city reflected off the river. At least Susannah had survived surgery. She kept hearing the surgeon telling her and Malachi the prognosis. “She’s lost a great amount of blood and flatlined in surgery. Getting through the night will be an enormous hurdle. I’ve placed her in a medically-induced coma. We’re doing all we can.” Malachi contacted the Feds, and US marshals stood round-the-clock guard.

  Linda’s mind returned to the shooting. The police had never thought about the possibility that an angry relative of a bilked parishioner would shoot Susannah just as they were closing in to arrest her. Maybe we should have, she berated herself. There hadn’t even been the chance to question Emily, or was it Emma? Linda couldn’t recall. She had been taken to county, and Phil was overseeing interviewing her.

  LATER MONDAY MORNING, AUGUST 11, 2003 RICHMOND HEIGHTS, MISSOURI RAY’S HOME

  Chief Langston was pushing for Linda to wrap up the investigation, but she had argued they were right at the six-week time limit. After so much work, she wanted to be the one to end this.

  At Ray’s brick home, Linda pointed out the castor oil plants to Malachi. “Those tall plants are extremely poisonous. Susannah admitted as much, and I think she may have been making ricin. Be on the lookout for typical stuff found in every home—pots, coffee filters, and solvents to unclog drains. Completely innocuous products on their own.”

  In the kitchen, Malachi opened drawers and cupboards. “I’ve got coffee filters and pots.”

  A female CSI technician named Sanders walked through the kitchen door. “Detectives, I’ve found something you need to see.”

  Outside in the stifling detached garage, they listened.

  “I’m processing Mrs. Williams’s car,” Sanders said. “At first glance, everything appears normal. But I noticed the glove compartment seemed small. I did some knocking around and sure enough, there was a false bottom hiding a box.” The tech had laid out her findings on the hood of the car. “Here’s what I found—a hypodermic needle, a large amount of the sleep aid Ambien, a loaded nine-millimeter, and travel brochures for Tahiti.”

  Malachi’s deep voice raised a notch. “A nine-millimeter was used to kill Michelle Thomas and Jeanette Morelli. If we prove this is the same gun, that gives us the connection we need,” he told the women, but he looked puzzled. “I understand that Susannah used the Ambien to drug Ray, and it knocked him out, leaving him with no memory, particularly when combined with alcohol. But the syringe?”

  Linda’s smile tightened, mentally returning to her research. “Because the most lethal method of ricin delivery is by injection.”

  “Why not use the combination of Ambien and alcohol if she wanted to kill Ray?” Malachi said. His forehead creased.

  Linda’s gaze was steely, observing Malachi and Sanders. “Ricin is nearly impossible to discover in an autopsy unless you’re looking for it. I think Susannah was planning to drug Ray before injecting him with the ricin, which would cause his heart to stop, looking to all appearances like a heart attack.”

  “We gotta keep hoping she lives,” Malachi said and pointed toward the backyard. “Ray mentioned the maintenance shed. Let’s have a look.” He paused. “Nice work, Sanders.”

  “Yes, Sanders, this is fantastic,” Linda enthused.

  They headed toward the wooden shed at the far corner of the property. The ground was soft from recent rainfall. Malachi handed her gloves as they walked. “How’s the financial review coming?”

  “I haven’t heard back from Phil. It shouldn’t be much longer,” Malachi said, reaching for the door of the maintenance shed.

  It was stuck; using his shoulder, Malachi pushed it open. Sunlight filtered into the small dark space. Linda felt around for a light switc
h, careful not to bump her injured arm. She found the toggle, and a stark yellow bulb illuminated the murky angles.

  Garden tools hung on the walls. A partially covered lawn mower and snow blower stood in the corner. Linda’s attention was drawn to cupboards above and drawers below a small counter area. She pulled a flashlight from her inside jacket pocket. Opening the cupboards first, she saw a large plastic watering can and various holiday decorations, the ordinary implements found in countless backyard sheds across the country.

  Malachi whipped off the vast tarp that covered the lawn equipment, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Dirty air parched their throats, causing spasms of coughing. Linda covered her mouth. Malachi glanced over a shoulder. “We’ve got suitcases—two.” Dragging one out from behind the snow blower, he tried to open it. “It’s heavy and locked.”

  Linda turned back toward the tools. “Maybe there’s a crowbar in here.”

  “On your upper right,” Malachi said. He placed the bar between the lids. His muscles bulged as he popped the suitcase open, and women’s clothing scattered on the floor.

  “Susannah was very close to leaving,” Linda said, surveying the clothing. “She kills Ray and goes to Tahiti with plenty of money to begin life under another identity.”

  “We need evidence bags for all this,” he said and left the shed.

  She turned on the flashlight in her hand and observed the dimly lit room. Rummaging through the suitcase, Linda discovered a one-way first-class airline ticket to Tahiti. She used a knife from the shed to rip the suitcase lining, where various envelopes were hidden, each stuffed with cash, and there was a passport under a new name.

  She bent down to open the lower cupboards, shining the light inside. Seasonal wreaths, Halloween pumpkins, Christmas lights. Her good arm stretched farther back, touching some type of plastic bag and metal.

  Linda’s stitches tugged in protest; the wound hurt like hell. She sat back on her heels, sweat beading on her forehead. The heat and humidity left her gasping.

  On her stomach and stretching as deep as she could, Linda illuminated an obscure corner of the cabinet—a clear Ziploc bag filled with a ground substance and, next to it, a food processor. An efficient way to pulverize castor oil seeds.

  Linda heard rapidly approaching footsteps and pulled her body from the cabinet, her blouse and pants encrusted with grime.

  “I think I’ve found ricin but can’t reach it. I also found scads of cash and a passport in the suitcase lining.”

  “Holy shit.” On his knees, Malachi reached into the corner, removing the bag.

  “There’s also a food processor we need,” Linda said, taking the bag.

  They bagged as much of the evidence as they could before running out of bags. “Too much money,” Malachi said, wiping his wet brow. His cell rang.

  “Great. Phil’s finished reviewing Ray’s financials. I’ll get CSI to bag the rest.”

  61

  MONDAY, AUGUST 11, LATE AFTERNOON ST. LOUIS DOWNTOWN PRECINCT

  Phil handed the detectives a sheet of numbers.

  “The account listed under Susannah Baker must be where she kept the window donations,” Linda said, skimming the columns of a separate account. “There’s over half a million dollars.”

  Malachi cocked his head at Phil. “Where’s the reverend?”

  “He’s waiting in Interview Room 3.”

  Malachi held the door for her. “I feel for the pastor.”

  Ray sat at the gray metal interview table with another cup of hot coffee. Linda searched his lined face and thought the pastor looked as though he had aged fifteen years overnight. “Good afternoon, Reverend,” she said as she pulled out an empty chair. “Pardon our appearance.”

  “Any news on Susannah’s prognosis?” he inquired tentatively.

  Malachi sat next to Linda. “No change since we last spoke. She’s still in critical condition. However, we can prove our theory she was planning to leave soon.”

  Linda watched Ray’s gloomy face sag. She tried to make her voice soothing. “Reverend, we threw a massive amount of data at you last night. Do you remember us explaining her embezzlement activities with the other churches she became involved with?”

  “Yes, I remember everything.”

  She moved the pages of financial data toward Ray. “We assembled the capital campaign finances as well as personal money. Let’s start with the church campaign. We’ve discovered that American Stained Glass made one prototype for a Lorraine McArthur, whom they never heard from again.”

  The pastor inhaled, color seeping from his stunned face. “That’s my late wife’s name. My God!” Ray struggled to compose himself, his voice shaky. “What happened to the money Susannah collected for those windows?”

  The legs of Malachi’s chair screeched across the floor. “We traced the donations to a small local bank. Over five hundred thousand dollars was deposited into an account under the name Susannah Baker, a name you know well. Reviewing the list of donors, Susannah had collected either partial or full amounts for sixteen such windows, none of which was ever going to be built. In your maintenance shed, Captain Turner discovered a packed suitcase with a hundred thousand in cash and a fake passport.”

  They explained the discovery of the gun, Ambien, travel brochures, and tools for making ricin.

  Ray’s body went limp in the chair, and Linda watched his eyes enlarge as he realized he had been mere days away from death.

  Linda gazed keenly at his pale face. “Are you all right, Reverend?”

  He stared into space, talking as if to himself. “The purple spiky flowers in the garden—Susannah said they were poisonous. We joked about it.” Ray’s eyes returned to face them. “Could you give me a moment alone, officers?”

  “Certainly,” Malachi answered.

  As they left the room, Linda looked over her shoulder. Ray had lowered his head back onto the table, his body shuddering in waves of sobs.

  62

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2003, EARLY MORNING LINDA’S CONDOMINIUM

  Linda fumbled for the receiver as the ringing phone woke her from a deep slumber. She dropped it on the floor and through blurry eyes, glanced at the clock. Six o’clock. Damn it! “Hello?”

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Malachi said cheerily. “Our girl survived. The doctors are bringing her out of the coma this morning. If Susannah breathes on her own once they take her off the ventilator, they’ll stop the drugs and gradually get her to wake up. In any case, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  Still groggy, Linda sat up in bed against the pillows, her arm throbbing. The alarm was buzzing from some unseen hiding place. She must have knocked the clock off the nightstand, too. “Okay. What time will you be here?”

  “Seven. I’ll bring you coffee.”

  Linda sprang out of bed, wide awake. Closing this case and going home were within reach. Racing energy surged through her body. For months, she had waited for this moment.

  ST. ALEXIUS HOSPITAL ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI 7:30 A.M.

  As promised, Malachi arrived at her condo with a Starbucks venti-sized latte.

  “Skim milk, extra shot, no froth, just the way you like it,” he said, pulling the car away from the curb.

  “Bless you,” Linda replied, drinking deeply from the tall cup.

  The drive was short, and they talked of bringing this horrendous case to an end. At the hospital, they rode the elevator to the hushed floor of the ICU. Outside the closed door of Susannah’s room, US marshals stood guard. A nurse came out, at which point Linda heard gagging noises coming from inside.

  The nurse noticed their police badges. “It will take a while for her to get used to not having a tube down her throat,” she whispered. “She’ll be hoarse and may have difficulty speaking. I’ll let Dr. Maynard, the attending physician, know you’re here.”

  In a vacant office, Linda and Malachi went over their strategy. It was agreed they would take a tag-team approach in the presentation of evidence, with Linda starting off. Three hou
rs later, Dr. Maynard knocked at the door.

  “Susannah is coherent, but I want you to back off if this becomes too much for her,” he declared.

  “I understand. However, Susannah Williams is the prime suspect in several homicides,” Malachi bluntly informed the physician. “She’ll be questioned, but we have the proof to arrest her.”

  The doctor glared at Malachi. “You can’t do that!”

  “Yes, we can,” Linda added briskly. “You’ve done your job; now you need to let us do ours.”

  She watched Malachi’s handsome face break into a smile. “We’re pros, Doc,” he said. “I promise you we won’t cause a scene in the ICU.”

  Clad in a hospital gown, left wrist handcuffed to the bed frame, Susannah sat upright, a tray of soft foods on her lap. An IV dripped in her left arm, and machines displayed her vitals.

  Recognizing Linda, Susannah spoke softly, her voice weak. “Linda, it’s so nice to see a familiar face. Do you know where Ray is?” She pointed at Malachi. “Why am I handcuffed to the bed?”

  Linda approached, unzipping her portfolio. “This isn’t a social call, Susannah. I’m Captain Linda Turner from Lincoln, Nebraska. I’m here to chat with you about your deceased husband, Gregory Hansen, and your children, Jacob and Elizabeth.”

  Susannah laid down a spoon, watching the detectives without a sound.

  Next to Linda, Malachi’s powerful frame towered over her. “And I’m Detective Johnson from the St. Louis PD. I’ll be discussing the murders of Dolores Reid, Jeanette Morelli, Michelle Thomas, and Cole Leon with you. But, first, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”