The phone on Amy’s desk jangled; and after a moment’s hesitation, she answered the call.
Linda continued to speak. “It’s fortunate for us that Pamela got caught because, as a convicted felon, she and her aliases were in the NCIC database. So she turned to embezzling, which takes longer to detect, especially if you’re good at it. She always left town whenever congregations began to suspect her.”
“Literally absconding with the church funds.” Lyle stretched his arms above his head. “Any possibility of interviewing Mr. Gunderson?”
“Long gone. Died in 1986 at the age of ninety-two.”
“We have a good idea of her MO—preying on the vulnerable.” Lyle waved an open hand toward the murder board. “I can’t help but believe her anger at being abandoned as an infant is the real motive here.”
Linda crinkled her nose, still smelling the intense odor of hard boiled eggs. “I’m torn about that theory. She had a loving family—parents who adopted her, and later two beautiful children and a handsome husband. Yet she threw it all away in an inconceivable manner.”
“I have always believed—and I think you do, too—that money truly is at the root of all evil. We’ve both seen murder committed for far less.”
Linda acknowledged Lyle’s statement with a shake of her head and glanced toward Amy, who was rapidly scribbling on a legal pad. “I keep returning to the reason she became this amoral being. I can’t dismiss the idea that discovering you were left by your mother or father, to die for all we know, evolved into a relentless rage. Sister Monica disagrees, but I’m not convinced.”
Amy dropped the receiver into the cradle of her phone. “Sorry to interrupt, but that was the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Investigations. I have disturbing news.”
23
THE SAME DAY MINUTES LATER
Linda grabbed a chair from an unoccupied desk. “Let’s have it.” “We thought Reverend Gordon Sayles was a father figure to Pamela, but the good pastor had some nasty skeletons in his closet.” Amy ran an index finger along the page. “While they were married, Sayles was caught having sexual intercourse with an inmate and fired by the prison. This inmate claimed Sayles raped her when he was providing spiritual guidance in his office. Sayles denied the allegations, calling the woman a ‘mentally disturbed liar.’ But other inmates came forward with similar tales of Sayles forcing himself on them.”
Linda’s shoulders hunched, her dejected face in her hands. “Was Sayles convicted?”
“Yes. He was sentenced to twenty years at the Minnesota Sexual Offenders facility in Moose Lake, Minnesota.”
“Wow,” Lyle said. “Do we know his current whereabouts?”
“He died of pancreatic cancer in 1995.”
“Can you blame Pamela?” Linda said sympathetically. “I’m not justifying her crimes, but this woman cannot catch a break. Interesting that her prey of choice were all widowed pastors.”
Lyle stretched his long legs. “What if Pamela knew these men earlier in life and they, like Sayles, did something that scarred her, and it became her goal to extract punishment?”
Linda’s lips drew into a tight smile. “Nice work, Amy. As to your theory, Lyle, it would require meticulous planning to reenter their lives as someone they wouldn’t recognize. It’s worth investigating that angle, but we’ll have to push much deeper into her past. These were recently widowed men, sucked in by her charm. They lived all over the Midwest, so she’d have had to track their movements and lifestyles. It’s a long shot at best. Plus, the pastors’ wives all succumbed to cancer.”
“What if they didn’t, but were murdered instead?” Lyle stated.
Linda felt jitters up her spine. “You mean Pamela killed them to get close to these men?” She shook her head. “That’s farfetched at best. She’d have to be a criminal genius.” She thought a moment. “If you want to pursue this approach, start with Sayles. It will take tenacious investigators willing to go over the same territory multiple times. If you hit a dead end, let it go. We need to get these murders solved.”
“Agreed. But I’m willing to delve in if the road takes us there,” Lyle said. “I have a gut feeling widowed pastors aren’t the only common denominator that connects everyone.”
Linda cocked her head. “I’ll contact former LPD officers who have moved onto other departments. A lot have stayed in the Midwest. It can’t hurt. They may have stumbled across a link we’ve overlooked.”
Lyle and Amy nodded their heads in unison.
“I’ll request that list,” Linda said, rising from the chair. Maybe Lyle is onto something, Linda thought, returning to her office. Only time will answer that.
24
DECEMBER 6, 2002 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI BUCK’S HOME
From the moment the website launched, the response was remarkable. It had allowed them to broadcast live on KNSL, which served the St. Louis Metropolitan area and beyond. With the combination of live and taped broadcast formats, The Road to Calvary was bringing in plenty of money to pay for programming.
Sitting in Buck’s home office, Ray peered over his shoulder at dozens of prayer requests, completely in awe.
“This is a lot of folks asking me to pray for them, which is great. I never imagined we’d get this kind of response so quickly.”
Buck turned his chair toward Ray. “That’s why I wanted you to see for yourself and decide how to proceed. Are you serious about answering each individual prayer request?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you want me to create a form letter for you to sign? We can type in the specific issue they’ve asked you to pray over, so it doesn’t appear to be a form letter.”
Ray’s voice was firm. “No form letters. Personal responses to people’s needs are important. They remember that.”
“There must be over a hundred requests here.” Buck pointed to the computer screen. “This will be time-consuming.”
“I’m aware of that. But these folks are seeking guidance, and a personal response to their situation shows that The Road to Calvary isn’t some canned program asking for money. Most of these requests came in via email. You may not know this, but I used to type a hundred words a minute. I’m up to the challenge, and it will serve us well in the long run.”
“Are you comfortable reading emails off a computer screen?”
Ray considered Buck’s question. “Forward them to me as emails every Wednesday, and we’ll see how it works out.”
“Once a week it is.” Buck sat back in his chair, smiling. “I never knew you typed a hundred words a minute.”
“Probably closer to a hundred and ten. My father believed typing was an important skill for a pastor to have because a lot of the time, there was no church secretary. Lorraine, God bless her, spent many hours typing correspondence for me, usually during Easter and Christmas.” Ray was silent, misty-eyed at the memory of his dead wife. “Then she got sick, and it was up to me again . . .” His voice trailed off. Rousing himself, Ray turned to Buck, his voice strong and enthusiastic once more. “Let’s get started.”