Clad in a hospital gown, left wrist handcuffed to the bed frame, Susannah sat upright, a tray of soft foods on her lap. An IV dripped in her left arm, and machines displayed her vitals.
Recognizing Linda, Susannah spoke softly, her voice weak. “Linda, it’s so nice to see a familiar face. Do you know where Ray is?” She pointed at Malachi. “Why am I handcuffed to the bed?”
Linda approached, unzipping her portfolio. “This isn’t a social call, Susannah. I’m Captain Linda Turner from Lincoln, Nebraska. I’m here to chat with you about your deceased husband, Gregory Hansen, and your children, Jacob and Elizabeth.”
Susannah laid down a spoon, watching the detectives without a sound.
Next to Linda, Malachi’s powerful frame towered over her. “And I’m Detective Johnson from the St. Louis PD. I’ll be discussing the murders of Dolores Reid, Jeanette Morelli, Michelle Thomas, and Cole Leon with you. But, first, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”
Linda watched Malachi read Susannah her Miranda rights. As she suspected, Susannah’s facial features betrayed no emotion. She pleaded ignorance, shaking her head. “Why are you reading me my rights? Where’d you say you’re from—Nebraska? I’ve never even been there. I thought you were from Illinois.”
Linda moved the food tray aside and laid out pictures of the smiling Hansen family in Disneyland and photos of their remains. “You have a long criminal history, preying on recently widowed pastors and embezzling. But in March of last year, as the wife of Gregory Hansen at the Disciples of Christ University Place Church in Lincoln, Nebraska, you murdered your husband and two small children, burying them in the parsonage flower garden. Gregory’s plan to do missionary work in Africa wasn’t part of your scheme, so you killed your own family.”
Susannah glanced at the photos before recoiling in horror. “You’ve made a terrible mistake. My husband and I divorced because our children died in a car accident. If I knew where he was, you could ask him yourself.”
Linda was incredulous, hitting a fist against the tray. “Isn’t that convenient? ‘If I only knew where my husband was.’ There is no husband, and I can prove it. Look at the photos, Susannah! These are your children and husband. We have evidence that you cannot deny—the DNA you share with Jacob and Elizabeth is proof you’re their mother.”
“What do you mean my husband and children? None of this is true or even makes sense!” Susannah gasped hoarsely. Her tears rushed down her pallid face in streams.
Her heart and blood pressure monitors began beeping loudly. Dr. Maynard quickly spoke up. “You’re upsetting Mrs. Williams. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Malachi’s muscular frame faced the physician, his voice firm. “We’re not going to do that, Doctor. The truth can be very upsetting. You may remain present through the remainder of this conversation.” He nodded for Linda to continue.
She took a breath. “You can lie all you want, but I’ve learned all about you, Pamela Jane Watts. You were abandoned at birth on the steps of St. Stephen’s Catholic Church in Minneapolis. That must have taken your very soul, or maybe you never had one because there were people who loved you. From all accounts, your adoptive parents, Margaret and Paul Watts, adored their only child. No one could ever prove that you were responsible for the suspicious fire that killed them when you were thirteen. I’m convinced that you were.”
Susannah fell against the pillows, shaking her head. “Why are you doing this? I’m Susannah Williams, wife of Reverend Ray. You’re a member of our church, for heaven’s sake! To say that I’m some sort of psychopath is a horrible lie.”
Malachi spoke up. “If pictures of your dead children—a three-year-old and a toddler—won’t elicit a response, I can’t imagine these will make an impact either.” He forcibly slapped crime scene photos of the other four victims across the bed.
From the corner of her eye, Linda saw Dr. Maynard holding his chin in his hand, listening intently. He stepped back from Susannah’s bed.
Her wet eyes blinked. “They did! They make me sick to my stomach! Who could possibly do such a hideous thing? I’ve never seen any of these people!”
“You did this!” Linda snapped, her voice impatient.
Susannah’s response was shrill. “No, no, no! That’s not me!”
Linda and Malachi exchanged glances, and she retrieved an evidence bag holding the signed U-Haul return contract and three surveillance photos from the Cleveland video. Malachi removed the food tray.
“Emotion won’t do it, so let’s try some hard facts.” Linda pointed to the contract. “This is the contract you signed when you returned the U-Haul trailer in Cleveland, Ohio, using the alias Nicole Hansen. The time stamp is 1:07 p.m., on Monday, April first, 2002. That’s seven days after you fled Lincoln, Nebraska, towing a U-Haul trailer behind your beige 1995 Toyota Corolla. You’ll also note in these still photographs that you laid your right hand on the paper to hold it while you signed with your left. Only ten percent of individuals are left-handed. You also made a palm print. It took us a while, but we matched that print to you, Susannah. You, Pamela Watts, Susan Patterson, and Nicole Hansen, who murdered her family in cold blood, are all the same person.”
“You’re upsetting me,” Susannah wailed. “The doctor’s right. I need to rest. I won’t talk to you anymore!”
Linda calmly folded her arms. “Your turn, Detective Johnson.”
She watched as Malachi’s eyes zeroed in on Susannah, his look one of cool assurance. “Killing Delores Reid was a big mistake. Ms. Reid was a talker and wasn’t going to shut up that you ripped her off. You used the same drugs to murder the Hansen family, providing a connection between our cases. Your next murders were a bit harder to prove. The footprints of size eleven men’s athletic shoes initially threw us off. Ballistics matched the bullets that killed Jeanette Haskell and Michelle Thomas to the nine-millimeter we found in your vehicle.”
Tears running down her face, Susannah pleaded with Dr. Maynard. “Please, Doctor, tell them to stop! None of what they’re saying is true! They’re harassing me for someone else’s terrible crimes.”
Malachi addressed the physician. “One last thing, Doctor, and then, we agree Mrs. Williams needs to rest.”
Linda moved to the entrance, drawing the curtain open. She offered her arm to steady the gait of a young man whom she walked to the foot of the bed. Linda watched Susannah’s face turn from a blank façade to one of horror.
“Hello, Susannah,” Cole Leon greeted her, his voice steadfast. “I’m supposed to be dead. But I’m just blind, thanks to you.” His vacant eyes looked in Susannah’s direction, but stared into empty space. “You almost fucking killed me because your plan was coming apart! You know who saved me?” he taunted her. “Seth.”
“You thought the antifreeze lacing Mr. Leon’s orange juice would kill him and keep him from disclosing to Ray Ms. Thomas’s plan to sue.” Malachi’s voice was smooth and even. “Even if you had succeeded, you were getting sloppy. You see, Susannah, when we searched your home, we found antifreeze hidden in the maintenance shed and a pair of your shoes also tested positive for it.”