Ray’s eyes traveled across the open space. It was impressive and had endless potential, but a sticky subject needed to be addressed—price. The reverend cleared his throat. “Mr. Wilcox, this is all very remarkable, and I’d be a liar if I said we couldn’t make use of every single inch. But you’re a businessman, and I need to ask your price.”
Karl Wilcox gave a jovial laugh, unexpected for the situation. He grinned broadly at the assembled group. “Reverend, Jim Jameson and I have been best friends since we were kids. We’ve gone to school together, raised families together, and been there for one another in the good times and the not-so-good.” Karl regarded his friend. “Jim, I hope you don’t mind me telling this story—”
Jim casually interrupted Karl. “Not at all.”
“As you know,” Karl said and smiled at the faces before him. “Jim had a drinking problem that was destroying his life. With the help of your program, Jim released himself from his addiction and reclaimed his life. He did what you asked, Reverend; he found an AA meeting and has gone faithfully ever since. I can’t tell you how often I dreaded getting the phone call that Jim had been found dead after a bender. But thanks to you and the miracle of faith in Jesus Christ, Jim is on the road to recovery.” The big man paused for emphasis. “How much is this building going to cost you? Not a cent, Reverend, because I’m giving it to you.”
Ray heard Karl Wilcox clearly, but he found the words eluding him.
“You don’t believe me, do you? I’ll say it again. I’m donating this building to your fine program, The Road to Calvary. It won’t cost you a dime.” Wilcox stopped talking and removed an envelope from his shirt pocket, handing it to Ray. “I also understand there will be numerous expenses as you start up. Consider this check for $50,000 another crucial donation to continue your good works.”
Ray could not believe his ears or his eyes. This was a miracle indeed. He inhaled deeply and let the news sink in. “I’m over-whelmed—we all are. This is incredible.” Karl Wilcox’s astonishing words repeated themselves in his head: “I’m donating this building to your fine program, The Road to Calvary. It won’t cost you a dime.” Ray chastised himself for ever doubting Susannah. As he looked to her, tears of joy trickled down her cheeks. There were so many emotions—both Buck and Jeff were sniffling—and so much Ray wanted to say. “Mr. Wilcox, sometimes even a pastor’s faith in God is shaken, but you, sir, have given us a miracle. God bless you, this is truly a momentous day.”
Karl Wilcox grasped Ray’s hand in a hearty grip. “My pleasure, Reverend. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the necessary paperwork for donating the building, but in the meantime—” Karl removed a cluster of keys from his pocket and placed them in Ray’s outstretched palm. “I imagine you folks need to get to work and keep this show on the air.”
Regaining their composure, Buck and Jeff were already exploring the huge warehouse, tossing around ideas on how best to utilize it.
Alone for a moment, Susannah slipped her hand into Ray’s and whispered softly, “What did I tell you? Ask for the stars and know at least that we tried.”
Buck and Jeff were still jabbering as Ray gently squeezed her hand, too emotional to say another word.
18
OCTOBER 11, 2002 LINCOLN, NEBRASKA NORTHEAST POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Friday marked just over five months since the Reverend Martin’s dog had unearthed the gruesome discoveries in the parsonage flower garden. Linda sat at her desk sorting through paperwork from other cases, but the murders of Gregory Hansen and his children were never far from her mind.
She had asked Darlene Jordan for a picture of the family and taped it to her desk. She requested photos with most murder cases. Linda believed it was important to put a face to the victims who, regardless of the circumstances, had lived as someone’s children, spouses, siblings, and friends. Cops often had a macabre sense of humor, a protection mechanism that kept the horror of situations at a safe distance. But Gregory, Jacob, and Elizabeth Hansen were unusual.
It wasn’t simply that children were involved; in her fifteen-year career, Linda had investigated enough cases concerning children to understand that the shock value eventually tapered and the sheer revulsion no longer made her fight the urge to retch in disgust. The factor that made this case so horrifying was a mother killing her family with no hesitation, vanishing, and slipping into another identity. Discovering who Nicole Hansen had become was verging on an obsession.
Linda stared hard at the picture, a sweet shot of Gregory and the children from autumn 2001 taken at the entrance to Disneyland. Nicole was absent; she was undoubtedly the photographer. What struck Linda was the children and Gregory enjoying “the happiest place on Earth.” She tried to stop her mind from wondering if this was the trip where the children had gotten their Disney pajamas. In a few short months, these children would die in those joyful pajamas. The twisted turning of her stomach would not ease.
There was something else crowding her mind—unfortunate news regarding the status of the investigation. Lyle and Amy would be as devastated as she was.
“None of this will come as unexpected,” she told them, “but I’ve been told to cut back on the Hansen investigation. After five months conducting dozens of interviews and following countless tips, we still don’t have one solid lead.” She read the disappointment in their eyes. They had quietly gathered in Linda’s office, the door closed to the hum of the precinct.
Lyle was the first to speak. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but not to have one viable lead borders on failure.”
“You know better than that, Lyle.” Linda tried to keep her tone of voice even. These murders were hard on everyone. “I’m under orders to concentrate on fresher cases that require our attention and resources.”
“I figured as much,” Amy said, folding her arms. “I suspect that most people can’t stomach the idea of Nicole Hansen killing her husband and children. The stereotype that women rarely commit murder is a hard one to break.”
Lyle stretched his lanky frame against the chair, a knowing smirk turning up his mouth. “But they do, and far more often than people think.”
Their foe was a formidable one, but Linda wanted to be certain Lyle and Amy understood that no one had failed. “This one’s exceptionally good—exceedingly smart, a master manipulator with an amazing ability to find people’s weaknesses and exploit them to her advantage. After all the interviews, I’m convinced that’s her gift—finding the weak spot and twisting it to her advantage.”
The corners of Lyle’s mouth again turned up in a smirk. “I agree.”
“It doesn’t spell the end, but the investigation will slow down,” Linda continued. “The toughest part of police work is patience. Let’s go over the evidence we’ve collected again and see if there isn’t an angle we’ve overlooked.”
MONDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2002 RICHMOND HEIGHTS, MISSOURI RAY’S HOME
Ray wanted to be up and running in the new space by November sixth. The donated building brought a different set of challenges. The $50,000 from Karl Wilcox would help immensely, but equipment, air-time options, and improvements were costly. Digital technology was making filming affordable, and with Buck and Jeff scouring the internet for good buys on new or used cameras, lights, and editing consoles, they agreed to take out a $25,000 loan to cover further expenses.