Lyle’s frustration revealed itself in a long sigh. “This case keeps getting stranger.”
6
LATER THE SAME DAY LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
William Dawson did make a scene, both at his office and Northeast Headquarters, screaming that his rights were being violated.
“What the hell is this all about? I’ve been sitting here over twenty minutes. You can’t just bring me down here for no reason!” Dawson yelled into the two-way glass.
Linda waited for his tirade to end before entering the room. Carrying a legal pad and files, she faced an arrogant man used to having his way. “Mr. Dawson, I’m Captain Linda Turner, Northeast Team. Thank you for coming down today. You may possess knowledge that would be extremely helpful to us in a case we’re investigating.”
Sweet-talking him softened his angular features. “Well, it’s not like I had a choice. Why am I here?”
Linda seated herself, closed manila folders on the table between them. “I have some questions regarding the Reverend Gregory Hansen.”
“Finally!” Dawson declared, throwing his hands in the air. “I’ve been trying for months to get your attention; that man killed my son!”
Her face devoid of expression, she opened the folder to the accident report. “I have the accident report right here, which made clear that Brandon, whose blood alcohol content was 0.27 several hours after the accident, was extremely intoxicated and lay down on O Street—”
Dawson angrily pointed a rigid index finger at her. “I have witnesses that Gregory Hansen, a so-called man of God, deliberately ran over Brandon!”
She saw dual sides of this man—a bully and a father in the throes of grief and denial. “Who are these witnesses?”
“Brandon’s fraternity brothers. They were there, and other witnesses who saw that accident!” he shouted.
She calmly returned to the folder. “Mr. Dawson, each of Brandon’s fraternity brothers was interviewed, and none of them realized he was in the street. Witnesses corroborated the findings of officers at the scene that his fraternity brothers were also extremely intoxicated, and Gregory Hansen had no time to react. Here’s the accident reconstruction. Brandon was lying in the middle of a busy street, dressed in black, after dark.”
Dawson leaned his sinewy frame hard into the table. “I thought you said I had information that could help you. You cops are all alike. All right, so they had a few drinks. Hansen saw them; that area near the university is very well lit.”
Linda leaned back, cornflower blue eyes gauging Dawson’s twisted features as he twisted a hand through wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “This doesn’t concern the accident, Mr. Dawson. What I’m interested in is your relationship with Reverend Hansen afterwards.”
He laughed bitterly, a smirk across thin lips. “Did that ass file a harassment report against me?”
“No, but he should have.” Linda removed the bottom folder from the pile, laying the most vicious emails in front of Dawson. Next to those, she placed the graphic photos depicting the Hansen crime scene, her voice firmly in control. “I should be charging you with stalking, harassment, and making terroristic threats. Don’t pretend you don’t have any knowledge of what I’m talking about. You made good on your promise to make Hansen pay by killing him, his wife, and two small children in late March. Then you buried their bodies in the flower garden behind the parsonage, except for Mrs. Hansen. Tell me where you buried her remains.” She slammed her fist into the table.
Dawson’s dark eyes widened in disbelief. “No, I . . . Gregory Hansen’s dead?”
“The entire family. You’ve left quite the paper trail, Mr. Dawson. It leads straight to you.”
William Dawson trembled, his face and voice full of agony. “This is terrible. But I didn’t kill anyone. I never meant to hurt him or his family. I wanted Hansen to accept responsibility.”
Linda knew the death of William Dawson’s only son was devouring him. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Mr. Dawson. But I find it hard to believe you didn’t realize the Hansen family was murdered, since it’s been the lead news story here, even on the national front.”
He stuttered, “I’ve . . . I was in Kansas City at a contractor’s convention.”
“I’ll need the name of the convention and any witnesses who can verify your whereabouts. The same goes for the period between March twenty-fourth and twenty-eighth. The Hansens were murdered on one of those days.”
“I—I can give you the conference confirmation,” he stammered. Linda thrust a yellow legal pad and pencil toward him. “And the dates in March?”
He looked at Linda, his bravado replaced by fear. “I can’t recall where I was on so many days two months ago.”
“If you won’t tell me, I will be charging you with murder in the first degree, in addition to making terrorist threats. You’ll never see outside prison walls.”
Dawson stopped writing, the pencil quivering in his grasp. He glanced toward the wall, then back at Linda. “You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell my wife. I was in Cancun at a resort with my girlfriend. Things are very strained between my wife and me since Brandon died.”
“I can’t promise you anything,” Linda replied evenly. “Give me your girlfriend’s name, her contact information, the resort where you vacationed, and the dates of the trip. Otherwise, you are our prime suspect.”
“Oh, God,” Dawson exhaled and began hastily filling the legal pad.
7
FRIDAY, MAY 17, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
“William Dawson alibied out, but he’s a deeply troubled man. He’s one who’ll never get over losing a child,” Linda told Lyle and Amy the following morning.
“You sound concerned,” Lyle asserted. “Do you feel Dawson is a danger to himself or others?”
“No, at least not right now. He genuinely believes it was no accident his son was killed. Let’s keep casual tabs on him—the occasional welfare check. My fear is this will keep gnawing at Dawson, and he’ll come completely undone in a violent manner.”
“God,” Amy said. “I hope you’re wrong.”
“Me, too. What other leads have we got?”
“We’ve looked at the missing persons reports filed by Reverend Martin, talked to Gregory Hansen’s relatives in Scottsbluff, interviewed neighbors, and so far, we have nominal material,” Amy said, slapping a light palm against the manila folder in her lap.
“Same goes for the family moving,” Lyle explained, removing a linen handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiping his nose. “Eyewitnesses’ accounts vary. Some say they saw a moving van; others tell us it was an unmarked truck. A third group insists it was a U-Haul. I’m working the local and U-Haul angle. Tuesday, March twenty-sixth was the last time Nicole Hansen was seen. Since then, there is no trace of her—no ATM or credit card activity, phone calls, or public sightings. My gut says Nicole Hansen no longer exists.”
Amy sighed deeply. “I agree. Gone off the grid and into her next identity.”