Linda cupped her chin in her hand. “Did we get any pictures of Mrs. Hansen? Darlene Jordan was going to check.”
Amy Clair shifted the file on her lap, removing a photograph. She passed it to Linda. “It wasn’t easy; but lucky for us, Darlene Jordan is tenacious. She found one picture from a church benefit, but part of Mrs. Hansen’s face is obscured. The photo is from the late 1990s, so her appearance could have changed by now. Darlene remembered Gregory insisted Nicole be in the photo because she was on the planning committee.”
Handling the picture, Linda studied it closely. A young woman sporting a multi-layered medium brown shag with blonde highlights smiled in profile. “I recognize her hairstyle. She’s copying Rachel from the TV show Friends.”
Amy peered over Linda’s shoulder. “Millions of women got that haircut. Makes it easier for her to blend in as just another hip, suburban mom.”
“Good point, Amy. Let’s move on to the bank accounts,” Linda said. “I met with the First Nebraska Bank president, and he’s given us complete access to the church accounts. The ‘miscellaneous’ expenses Darlene discovered were drawn from those funds. However, one of the tellers who frequently waited on Mrs. Hansen remembered her mentioning another account at the National Bank of Commerce. We discovered an account under her maiden name, Nicole Allen. The savings account grew to over $150,000 before it was closed after withdrawing everything the last week in March.” Effortlessly, Linda changed topics, selecting another file. “Forensics pulled a partial handprint from the parsonage. I sent it to the National Crime Information Center, and there were several hits. The print matched Nicole Allen’s, but also women named Susan Patterson, Pam Sayles, and Pamela Jane Watts. It was a lucky long shot. I’m investigating her aliases further.”
Lyle chuckled. “Even with the house cleaned and occupied by somebody else, there’s always the chance evidence will be left behind. Do we know anything about her identity as Susan Patterson?”
Linda stopped Lyle with a raised index finger. “We’ll get to that. The medical examiner retrieved DNA from Jacob and Elizabeth’s remains. I also entered the Hansen murder details into the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Mrs. Hansen is a fugitive. I can’t get past the idea that she has probably killed before. This crime involved careful thought and preparation but I’m convinced she was interrupted. The CSI unit returned to the house and applied luminol. Large amounts of blood splattered in the entry way and on the walls were found. That would be consistent with Gregory Hansen’s skull fracture. We need to spread the word on these murders to law enforcement agencies across the country, and ViCAP is our best option.” Enlarged driver’s license photos from Nebraska and Illinois were attached to a white board. In each photo, the woman’s appearance was strikingly different. Names, hairstyles and color, physical markings, height, weight, and eye color varied.
Lyle leaned forward. “What do we know about her background so far?”
“Susan Patterson was married to a Reverend Darryl Patterson, now living outside Chicago. She also disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I’ve contacted Reverend Patterson, and he’s agreed to talk to me. I’m flying to Chicago on the six thirty flight on Monday morning. In the meantime, I want you to continue trying to track the Toyota Corolla the Hansens owned.”
8
MONDAY, MAY 20, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA/CHICAGO, ILLINOIS LAKE MICHIGAN DISCIPLES OF CHRIST CHURCH
Living in a post 9/11 world meant Linda had to be at the Lincoln Municipal Airport at least ninety minutes before departure, just like any other air traveler. That also meant arriving at four-thirty, with the lights of the airport seemingly hovering in the inky darkness. It was too early for her taste, but terrorists had changed the rules. She would interview Rev. Patterson that morning in Chicago, then take a cab back to O’Hare and catch a three o’clock flight home to Lincoln.
On the flight, Linda assessed her questions and organized her thoughts. By eight o’clock, she was hailing a cab and speeding into Chicago rush hour traffic. In the backseat of a Yellow Cab weaving down Interstate 294, she decided she’d rather not know how high that speedometer was climbing. There were many horn blasts and more than one screech of tires as the cab braked hard to a halt, then shot off again, zipping between cars and trucks. When they arrived at the Lake Michigan church, Linda was certain the driver heard her great sigh of relief as the cab lurched to a stop.
Waiting to greet her in the parking lot was the Reverend Darryl Patterson. No hair remained on his head, but his face had the steel-wool gray of a neatly trimmed beard. His baldness made him appear older. Up close, Linda judged Patterson to be in his early to mid thirties. The rimless glasses he wore gave him a scholarly air. He’d insisted on paying the cab fare. “You’ve come a long way,” he explained, “and this concerns Susan; it must be important.”
Linda noted this comment as Rev. Patterson escorted her into an airy office filled with streaming bright sunshine. He offered good, strong coffee, which she gladly accepted.
“You said you have some questions about my ex-wife,” he began. “I won’t lie to you—that’s a chapter of my life that’s hard to revisit.”
She made a notation to return to that comment and attempted to put the pastor at ease. “I’ll try to make this as painless for you as possible. Can you tell me how you met Susan?”
Seated at his desk, Rev. Patterson drank his coffee. “She was a parishioner at my last church in Columbia, Missouri. We got acquainted through her involvement in church activities.”
“So, Susan was a volunteer?”
“Yes. She approached me one Sunday after services saying she wanted to be more involved.” Rev. Patterson paused for another sip of coffee, as if it were providing fortification. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with church work, Captain Turner, but we have more volunteers than paid staff. Without them, we literally couldn’t function.”
Linda saw a pattern emerging. “This is a hard question, but I must ask it. Were you married or involved with anyone else during this period?”
Rev. Patterson was resolute in his response. “Absolutely not. My first wife had died of breast cancer, and I was still grieving and trying to comprehend my loss. Susan came into my life offering comfort, and I enjoyed her company.”
“When you met Susan, how long had your wife been deceased?”
“Less than six months.” He fiddled with his glasses nervously as if he were pained by a distressing emotion.
“I recognize this is difficult for you,” she soothed, “but honest answers will be very helpful. Was your wife’s illness common knowledge?”
“Most definitely. Columbia isn’t a large city—around eighty-five thousand. But it’s also a college town, and my late wife, Laura, taught in the English department, where she was well-known and liked. When she became ill, there were several fundraisers and articles in both the school and local papers. When she died, the funeral was quite large.”
“So, you met Susan six months after your wife died. How long was it before you married?”
His body twitched anxiously; the questions were clearly digging up uncomfortable memories. “Eight months.”