Makeup and religion do not mix, Buck thought, stifling a groan. He tried to be civil. “These are different programs; how will viewers know they’re related?”
Susannah’s curls bobbed as she shook her head. “I’m talking short sequences offering quick beauty tips for the Christian woman prior to the service. The rest of the broadcast focuses on Scripture, Ray, and his message.”
Buck rested his chin in his hands. He found himself considering a new perspective. This might work to distinguish us from the crowd. “What are we looking at in terms of costs?”
With a click of the mouse, Susannah brought their website up on the screen. “Buck, you’ve been overly modest. You’ve completed the website, and we are up and running.” Looking squarely at him, she chose her words carefully. “I realize working a full-time job definitely slowed the progress, but this is a fantastic site. Tell me if I’m missing anything. I love the history of the show, but especially a listing of all the times and outlets broadcasting the show, a link where individuals can send prayer requests, and a button to click for PayPal donations.”
Buck felt appreciated and quickly added, “Technology’s changing so fast that very soon we’ll also be able to have Ray’s past sermons for people to view as video clips.”
“You’ve done an amazing job on this,” Ray added. “This website looks great.”
Susannah was ecstatic, too, barely able to contain her excitement. “With all the different avenues, paid programming will pay for itself! And the beauty tips give women something else useful to take away from the broadcast.”
Ray followed up her comment. “Our goal is returning to at least one live broadcast a week, which I thought suited us very well. We’re hoping to get a decent time slot with either option, preferably Sunday mornings.”
“People record programs now, so the hour or day we’re broadcast may not be that big a deal,” Buck said. “I want us to get back to broadcasting live, too. New options with the internet are emerging at a fast pace, and I think we should re-launch the ministry. I can post broadcast dates, times, and stations on the website. We want others to discover us through word of mouth. And if one option doesn’t pan out, we still have alternatives. Excellent job, you two.”
Susannah spoke up. “I’ll contact the religious station in town regarding time slots and research further bids for paid programming.” She crinkled her small nose. “I’m so glad you approve, Buck. It means a lot. The focus will always be on Ray, but the beauty tips make us unique. If we see they’re not paying off, we end them.”
She kissed Ray full on the mouth, and Buck felt his brow arch. At some point soon, you’re going to have to tell Jeff and me that you’re a couple.
Ray broke into Buck’s thoughts. “I want to review the website.”
“No problem,” Buck answered. “Circle your chairs around the computer, and I’ll take you through it.” The sound of the metal chairs screeched against the cement floor. Buck watched the interaction between Ray and Susannah and for a fleeting second, wondered if he should say something. He didn’t trust her and made a mental note to start asking her specific questions, particularly about her past.
20
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 2002 IOWA/MINNESOTA
It took some cajoling, but Chief Langston came around to the importance of Linda going up to Minnesota and meeting with those most knowledgeable about Pamela Watts’s foster care.
At the picturesque Iowa-Minnesota border, Linda stopped at a rest area, her melancholy thoughts wandering to her husband, Tom. He would have loved this trip. Drives like this were especially tough because such sojourns had been theirs alone. When they reached this point, Tom would have found a picturesque landscape to admire and indulge his passion for photography. The limestone bluffs, rolling green hills, and placid waters of Minnesota would have made for stunning pictures to be turned into calendars or enlarged custom panoramas.
That was the deal. As soon as they reached retirement age, Tom wanted to pursue photography on a larger scale, and Linda’s passion was to compete in target shooting competitions across the country. When she graduated from the police academy, Linda had been noted as the best marksman, not just in the women’s division or the department, but in the state. She’d competed early in her police career, but eventually, she put those plans on hold until retirement. They would travel the country pursuing their interests while, most importantly, sharing their lives together.
After five years, she’d grown accustomed to living alone, but that didn’t mean she liked it. Every year in June, on the anniversary of Tom’s passing, she would be reminded how arbitrary death was. Here was a thirty-six-year-old EMT, in top physical condition, who had dropped dead in the kitchen while cooking them breakfast.
She had frantically dialed 911, performing CPR until the paramedics arrived, but Tom’s best friends and coworkers could do nothing to bring him back. The autopsy showed an embolism had slammed into his heart, meaning he was dead even before crashing to the hardwood floor.
Still, Linda had spent guilt-wrecked months wondering why she hadn’t done more, hadn’t called 911 quicker, hadn’t pumped more chest compressions, breathed more air into Tom’s lungs. Finally, her grief counselor arranged a meeting with the coroner who explained step by step how the embolism had formed and how, without knowledge of its existence, Tom had become a human time bomb exploding that Saturday morning. She couldn’t have diffused it, and she needed to cut herself free from the brutal guilt strangling her existence.
Eventually, coworkers and her three older brothers had tried setting up introductions and dates with acquaintances, but it always felt too soon. Her oldest brother, Paul, an EMT in Tom’s squad, had originally introduced them. Linda sensed Paul felt responsibility in looking out for his little sister. She had been thirty-two when Tom died, and Paul worried incessantly, saying over and again, “You’re too young to be a widow, Linda. Play the field. Go out and have fun!”
The guys she met were nice enough, but there was never a spark to light a romantic fire. Instead, she made her career the top priority. Being promoted to captain proved her sacrifice had paid off.
Pushing thoughts of Tom aside, her mind returned to the open questions in the Hansen case. Her team had known of Pamela Watts’s time in foster care but needed money to pursue the possible lead. And then Sister Monica had called, asking her to come to Minnesota.
Catholic Charities was the social justice network for the Archdiocese of St. Paul/Minneapolis, and a large part of its mission was placing children in foster care. Sister Monica was a no-nonsense nun who had worked with the organization since the late 1960s and knew its history. Even after inviting Linda to meet with her, the nun had asked to see a warrant before she would divulge any information. On this frosty morning, Linda and Sister Monica were meeting in the nun’s meticulously organized office.
From behind a neat stack of files, the broad-shouldered nun peered over her glasses. “It took some digging, but I think we’ve found at least some of what you’re looking for.” Brisk and to the point, the sister selected the top file. “Pamela Watts came into the Catholic Charities foster care system for the second time after her adoptive parents died in a house fire. There were no other living relatives, and that’s how Pamela ended up here. When I was going back over these files, I started remembering details of her case because it was so tragic.”