Salvation Station

by Kathryn Schleich

  Linda watched Malachi read Susannah her Miranda rights. As she suspected, Susannah’s facial features betrayed no emotion. She pleaded ignorance, shaking her head. “Why are you reading me my rights? Where’d you say you’re from—Nebraska? I’ve never even been there. I thought you were from Illinois.”

  Linda moved the food tray aside and laid out pictures of the smiling Hansen family in Disneyland and photos of their remains. “You have a long criminal history, preying on recently widowed pastors and embezzling. But in March of last year, as the wife of Gregory Hansen at the Disciples of Christ University Place Church in Lincoln, Nebraska, you murdered your husband and two small children, burying them in the parsonage flower garden. Gregory’s plan to do missionary work in Africa wasn’t part of your scheme, so you killed your own family.”

  Susannah glanced at the photos before recoiling in horror. “You’ve made a terrible mistake. My husband and I divorced because our children died in a car accident. If I knew where he was, you could ask him yourself.”

  Linda was incredulous, hitting a fist against the tray. “Isn’t that convenient? ‘If I only knew where my husband was.’ There is no husband, and I can prove it. Look at the photos, Susannah! These are your children and husband. We have evidence that you cannot deny—the DNA you share with Jacob and Elizabeth is proof you’re their mother.”

  “What do you mean my husband and children? None of this is true or even makes sense!” Susannah gasped hoarsely. Her tears rushed down her pallid face in streams.

  Her heart and blood pressure monitors began beeping loudly. Dr. Maynard quickly spoke up. “You’re upsetting Mrs. Williams. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Malachi’s muscular frame faced the physician, his voice firm. “We’re not going to do that, Doctor. The truth can be very upsetting. You may remain present through the remainder of this conversation.” He nodded for Linda to continue.

  She took a breath. “You can lie all you want, but I’ve learned all about you, Pamela Jane Watts. You were abandoned at birth on the steps of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church in Minneapolis. That must have taken your very soul, or maybe you never had one because there were people who loved you. From all accounts, your adoptive parents, Margaret and Paul Watts, adored their only child. No one could ever prove that you were responsible for the suspicious fire that killed them when you were thirteen. I’m convinced that you were.”

  Susannah fell against the pillows, shaking her head. “Why are you doing this? I’m Susannah Williams, wife of Reverend Ray. You’re a member of our church, for heaven’s sake! To say that I’m some sort of psychopath is a horrible lie.”

  Malachi spoke up. “If pictures of your dead children—a three-year-old and a toddler—won’t elicit a response, I can’t imagine these will make an impact either.” He forcibly slapped crime scene photos of the other four victims across the bed.

  From the corner of her eye, Linda saw Dr. Maynard holding his chin in his hand, listening intently. He stepped back from Susannah’s bed.

  Her wet eyes blinked. “They did! They make me sick to my stomach! Who could possibly do such a hideous thing? I’ve never seen any of these people!”

  “You did this!” Linda snapped, her voice impatient.

  Susannah’s response was shrill. “No, no, no! That’s not me!”

  Linda and Malachi exchanged glances, and she retrieved an evidence bag holding the signed U-Haul return contract and three surveillance photos from the Cleveland video. Malachi removed the food tray.

  “Emotion won’t do it, so let’s try some hard facts.” Linda pointed to the contract. “This is the contract you signed when you returned the U-Haul trailer in Cleveland, Ohio, using the alias Nicole Hansen. The time stamp is 1:07 p.m., on Monday, April first, 2002. That’s seven days after you fled Lincoln, Nebraska, towing a U-Haul trailer behind your beige 1995 Toyota Corolla. You’ll also note in these still photographs that you laid your right hand on the paper to hold it while you signed with your left. Only ten percent of individuals are left-handed. You also made a palm print. It took us a while, but we matched that print to you, Susannah. You, Pamela Watts, Susan Patterson, and Nicole Hansen, who murdered her family in cold blood, are all the same person.”

  “You’re upsetting me,” Susannah wailed. “The doctor’s right. I need to rest. I won’t talk to you anymore!”

  Linda calmly folded her arms. “Your turn, Detective Johnson.”

  She watched as Malachi’s eyes zeroed in on Susannah, his look one of cool assurance. “Killing Delores Reid was a big mistake. Ms. Reid was a talker and wasn’t going to shut up that you ripped her off. You used the same drugs to murder the Hansen family, providing a connection between our cases. Your next murders were a bit harder to prove. The footprints of size eleven men’s athletic shoes initially threw us off. Ballistics matched the bullets that killed Jeanette Haskell and Michelle Thomas to the nine-millimeter we found in your vehicle.”

  Tears running down her face, Susannah pleaded with Dr. Maynard. “Please, Doctor, tell them to stop! None of what they’re saying is true! They’re harassing me for someone else’s terrible crimes.”

  Malachi addressed the physician. “One last thing, Doctor, and then, we agree Mrs. Williams needs to rest.”

  Linda moved to the entrance, drawing the curtain open. She offered her arm to steady the gait of a young man whom she walked to the foot of the bed. Linda watched Susannah’s face turn from a blank façade to one of horror.

  “Hello, Susannah,” Cole Leon greeted her, his voice steadfast. “I’m supposed to be dead. But I’m just blind, thanks to you.” His vacant eyes looked in Susannah’s direction, but stared into empty space. “You almost fucking killed me because your plan was coming apart! You know who saved me?” he taunted her. “Seth.”

  “You thought the antifreeze lacing Mr. Leon’s orange juice would kill him and keep him from disclosing to Ray Ms. Thomas’s plan to sue.” Malachi’s voice was smooth and even. “Even if you had succeeded, you were getting sloppy. You see, Susannah, when we searched your home, we found antifreeze hidden in the maintenance shed and a pair of your shoes also tested positive for it.”

  A hoarse scream emanated from Susannah as her arms swung wildly, the loosening IV setting off alarms. “Go away! All of you—go away!”

  Clutching Cole’s arm, Linda maneuvered his body toward the door as Susannah’s cries echoed down the hall.

  63

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 2003, AFTERNOON ST. LOUIS CITY JUSTICE CENTER

  Emma had been in jail for five days. This was a life she had never, ever thought would be hers, but she would have to accept it.

  She hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not this. There were no guards posted outside barred cells, as she had imagined. Instead, they mingled with the inmates in what she had been told was the “direct supervision” model. Cameras and computer screens monitored guards’ and inmates’ every move.

  The food wasn’t that bad. There was only one item so far that she couldn’t stomach—powdered scrambled eggs. Their rubbery texture made her gag.

  Emma stretched out on her bunk. Sleeping was almost impossible, even with lights out at nine o’clock. There were three other women in her “pod,” most here on drug-related charges. Their every restless movement kept her wide awake, giving her too many stretches of watching herself shooting Susannah Williams again and again.

  Learning that Susannah was not just guilty of fraud but had also been arrested and charged with multiple homicides didn’t give Emma any sense that her deed had been a virtuous one. In fact, the truth sickened her and made her regret her actions more. I should have let the authorities handle her. She figured dealing with the “I should haves” was part of her punishment.

  The charges were attempted murder in the first degree, and Emma knew jail was inevitable. Her lawyer, Maya Holbeck, initially thought an insanity defense was an option, but a psychiatric evaluation determined Emma knew right from wrong. She herself recognized
that she wasn’t insane.

  She leaned her head against the cool brick wall and closed her eyes. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. What in God’s name have I done? Poor Jack. The milestones I’ll miss—Elizabeth and Katrina’s college graduations, weddings, grandchildren. And the worst part is Mom’s financial situation is the same. I’m grateful she doesn’t know her daughter tried to commit murder.

  Emma was startled at the sound of the pod door unlocking via the click of a computer. A female guard named Sykes entered to escort her to a private room for the meeting.

  “Okay, Duncan, your attorney is here. I’ll take you downstairs.”

  Emma slid off her bunk in her beige prison jumpsuit. That was interesting—Maya was early, over an hour.

  “Give me a minute, will you?” At the stainless-steel sink, Emma splashed water on her face to wash the tear stains away. She dried her face and ran a comb through her wavy hair.

  Sykes led her into the hallway. Talk filled the air as they passed the dayroom. Inmates lounged on gray sofas watching The Oprah Winfrey Show on the big screen television or engaging in games at the recreation tables. She noticed a guard playing along.

  Everything is so, so bright, Emma thought. Light filled the great room. They walked across the room and past the main guard stationed at a podium and computer screen.

  On the floor holding the interview rooms, Sykes punched in a code on the keypad to open the door. Emma wasn’t expecting to see Jack with Maya.

  “Call if you need anything, Counselor,” Sykes said to Maya. The door shut behind her.

  The metal furniture seemed molded to the floor. The walls and doors were almost blinding in their sheer whiteness. Instinctively, Emma reached for Jack. She hugged him tight and pulled back. “Not that I don’t love to see you, but this is unexpected.”

  “I have some news,” he said. The somber look across Jack’s features told her the news was not good.

  Emma’s temple furrowed in concern. “Are Elizabeth and Katrina all right?”

  “Yes, they’re fine.” Jack said quietly. “It’s Ruth.”

  Relief that the girls were all right tugged against the apprehension in Jack’s words regarding her mother. “What is it—another stroke?”

  Jack grasped her hand, his fingers caressing her knuckles. “Em, yes, it was another stroke—‘a massive hemispheric infarction’ is what the doctors called it. Ruth died early this morning.”

  Ruth died early this morning. Jack’s words kept repeating themselves in Emma’s head. She remained motionless, trying to make sense of this.

  When the words finally came, they squeaked out of her dry mouth. “She’s gone, and I didn’t even get to say good-bye.” Sobs shook Emma’s body. She pulled her hand out of Jack’s tender grasp, dropping her head into her own open hands.

  Jack moved closer, and Emma felt his large arms envelop her trembling body. “Get it all out, Em,” he whispered, gently rocking her.

  For several minutes, the only sounds in the confines of the small room were Emma’s sobs.

  “If I had just kept my anger under control, I could have been there for Mom in her final days. Now she’s gone, and I’m in jail charged with attempted murder. Why the hell did I think shooting Susannah Williams would get Mom her money back?” Emma’s face was wet.

  Her shoulders heaved up and down as another wave of sobs engulfed her. She laid her head on Jack’s shoulder.

  Maya handed Emma a Kleenex. “I think I may have some reasonably good news, given the circumstances.”

  Emma lifted her head, accepting Maya’s tissue, and dabbed at her glistening eyes. “I guess it can’t be much worse.” She sniffled and wiped her nose.

  The lawyer removed a folder from her leather briefcase. “You could be facing life in prison, but there’s a deal on the table. The DA agrees that there are clearly extenuating circumstances that led to your actions.”

  Holding Emma close, Jack asked for clarification. “What does ‘extenuating circumstances’ mean?”

  “In the simplest of terms,” Maya said, “extenuating circumstances mean facts surrounding a crime that lessen or mitigate it. In your case, you were reacting to your mother being bilked out of most her life’s savings by Susannah Williams and, you thought, the reverend. Extenuating circumstances don’t lessen the degree of the crime but are applicable in the sentencing phase.”

  Emma felt the twinges of a headache start to appear in her temples, but she had to pay attention. She couldn’t face spending the rest of her life locked up; yet, she understood it was a distinct possibility. “You said the DA is open to a deal.”

  Maya laid out the preliminary agreement. “Susannah Williams survived and is expected to make a full recovery from her injuries. Your charges have been lessened—instead of first-degree murder or attempted murder, it’s now second-degree attempted murder. This is where extenuating circumstances and a plea bargain come in. If you plead guilty to second-degree attempted murder, the DA is offering ten years in prison, max. Part of the deal is mandatory anger management therapy. Given that you also have no criminal history and were essentially sent over the brink by fraud, there is also the potential for early parole and time off for good behavior. Or you have the option of taking your chances with a jury and going to trial.”

  The data piled up in Emma’s brain. She knew that this was far better news than a life sentence, but that ten-year period in prison weighed on her. How could I have been so rash? She looked at Jack to gauge his reaction.

  He touched her hair. “I don’t want a trial, and I don’t think you do either. I think this is the best offer we’re going to get. But I’m not the one who will be in prison. Tell me what you want to do.”

  Emma was quiet for a few minutes, contemplating what she would say next. “I don’t want a trial. I’m guilty. I’ll take the plea bargain,” she said without the slightest hesitation. “I’ll pay my debt to society. But I have a favor to ask you, Maya.”

  Maya bobbed her head. Her face was one of compassion. “I think I know what it is. You want to tell your mother good-bye and go to her funeral, like any loving daughter.”

  Emma started to cry again. “Yes, I want to attend my mother’s funeral.”

  “Let me present your request. I will also tell the DA you’ve accepted the plea deal. A lot of times a request to a family member’s funeral is denied, but again there are extenuating circumstances.” Maya returned the file to her briefcase and rose to depart. “I’ll contact the DA as soon as I leave. I should have an answer in the morning.”

  Maya shook both of their hands, and the door opened. Sykes took the attorney’s place, standing guard, her hands clasped in front.

  Emma turned to Jack. She put her hands on both his shoulders, the tears running down her cheeks. She searched his face, considering his dark eyes for an answer. “Jack, do you still love me? I miss you all so much!” She buried her face in her husband’s chest, the sobs overtaking her again.

  She felt his lips whispering into her hair. “Shh, Emma. Shh. I love you more than you will ever realize.”

  64

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDOMINIUM

  Chief Langston relayed news that prosecutors in Missouri and Nebraska were working out the details of how the trials would proceed, extradition, and eventual incarceration. Linda knew that she would testify at all the trials, and there could be as many as six.

  Tomorrow, she was flying home. Malachi was dropping by with dinner and to say a temporary good-bye. Malachi. Linda smiled at his name. Their budding romance had been a lovely development in a sea of darkness. On Wednesday they had found several hours free from police work for dinner and a movie. As the sun rose over the Arch, they were still talking.

  A chilled six-pack of Budweiser was in the fridge. The doorbell rang. The clock read ten past six. She opened it to Malachi’s smiling face and the smell of fresh pizza.

  “Whatever you brought, it smells divine,” she said, leading him to the kitche
n.

  “One St. Louis-style pizza and gooey butter cake from Gooey Louie’s for your last night in our fine city,” Malachi declared, kissing Linda’s cheek.

  They moved in tandem—Linda pulling plates from the shelves and Malachi setting the oven on low.

  Malachi helped himself to two Budweisers, placing the bottles on the counter. He found the opener in a drawer and handed Linda a beer. “Here’s to the perseverance of good old-fashioned police work.”

  Bottles clinked as they drank to their victory. “As much as I want to get home, I am really going to miss you. Sure, there will be the trials, but that’s part of our jobs,” Linda said wistfully.

  Malachi grinned and clasped Linda’s hands in his. “I say we give a long-distance relationship a chance and see where the journey takes us. I have vacation coming, and I’ve always wanted to see for myself what the ‘Go Big Red’ madness is all about.”

  She was delighted at the suggestion. “It would be fantastic to see a game for once.” Her face clouded. “But we’re both committed to our careers. Are we fooling ourselves we can make this relationship work?”

  “We’ll take it slow,” he said.

  Linda wrapped her arms around Malachi’s muscular neck, tilting her face up to his. “It’s a deal,” she smiled. He pulled her close, engaging in their first kiss of this unexpected romantic interlude.

  65

  SEPTEMBER 9, 2010 POTOSI CORRECTIONAL CENTER, MINERAL POINT, MISSOURI

  Today was the last day of Pamela Jane Watts’s earthly existence, and the remaining moments crept by. Never had she believed she would actually be looking forward to her execution, but she had nothing more to live for. Thoughts kept churning in her head. I was so damned close to disappearing for good. Pamela sat in her solitary cell, glaring at the drab walls, two distinct voices arguing in her head. Nearly got away with it all. I should’ve killed Ray. But I hesitated.