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.”
Linda checked her notes. “And that was in 1992?”
“That’s correct—May of 1992.”
“Before you were married, what was Susan’s last name?”
“Nichols,” he replied flatly, deliberately saying each letter as he spelled it out.
She kept pursuing this line of questioning that might connect pieces of the puzzle. “Ms. Nichols’s background—where was she from? Any family or friends?”
Still edgy, he was at least able to look her in the eyes as he spoke. “Susan never mentioned any family except once. Told me she’d grown up in Minneapolis, an orphan. I realized later Susan seemed to know a great deal about me when I knew almost nothing in relation to her.”
Linda turned the page, sliding frontward in her chair. “You mentioned Susan seemed familiar with your background. Can you provide specifics?”
He looked toward the ceiling, as if he were deciphering the swirling patterns molded into the plaster. “She knew where I had gone to seminary and when I graduated, that the job in Columbia was my third as pastor, and my wife had died recently. Knowing details on Laura didn’t seem odd at the time; but when I look back, I get the sickening feeling that Susan Nichols had researched my background.”
A most definite pattern, Linda thought. “Let’s go back to being married. You said you wed in May, 1992. I need you to tell me how long it lasted and your relationship.”
Rev. Patterson again sighed. “We were married not quite two years. Once we married, Susan became the church bookkeeper. I suppose I was naïve, but this was my wife after all—and I trusted her implicitly to count the Sunday offering and make a deposit. And I loved her.”
He stopped, his attention again diverted to the ceiling. Linda was sympathetic, but she needed the reverend to keep talking. As sore as the memory might be, he had no way of knowing the calculated plan he’d become a victim of. “Reverend Patterson, it’s important you tell me every detail.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. Rev. Patterson eyed Linda, struggling to find the words to continue. “Talking about Susan is like watching a movie. And even though I know the ending, it still breaks my heart. But that’s not why you’re here.” Patterson paused for a moment before exhaling loudly. “One day, our bank called a church trustee and said, ‘You haven’t got enough money to pay your bills.’ We had no idea how extensive the damage was.”
Rev. Patterson stopped again to collect his thoughts.
“Take your time,” Linda said quietly.
He smiled his appreciation and continued his pace, slow and deliberate. “Funds were missing from all the church accounts at the bank. Susan had access, and suspicions on the board were high. I was very hesitant. I thought the board was being unnecessarily accusatory. But I was out-voted; a member followed her when she made the weekly deposit. She was observed taking money she skimmed from the offering to another bank across town and depositing it in an account under another name.”
“When did you confront her?”
“This was in the spring of 1994. I was devastated. The finance committee wanted solid evidence to press charges and waited several weeks. I still couldn’t believe this was happening and insisted the committee chair confront her. That was in early April. She denied it, and we had a terrible fight. Susan accused me of not trusting her. The next day, Susan told me I’d betrayed her. She refused to work. I had meetings until late in the evening, and by the time I came home, she was gone. Susan had emptied and closed her personal account.”
“How much money was there?” Linda asked.
“Approximately $25,000, which isn’t that much when you consider the risks she took.”
“On the phone, you mentioned you divorced Susan—”
“That’s correct,” he interrupted. “In Illinois, I had grounds because Susan had willfully deserted the marriage, and I knew it would be uncontested. Once she was no longer here, I wanted to get the process over with.”
“But you also left the church, and I have to ask why. You weren’t the one taking money.”
Rev. Patterson shifted his weight. “I was naïve in trusting Susan, but I still felt partly responsible. Sure, there were members who wanted me to stay, but as far as I was concerned, I had breached the trust of the congregation and the board. It was better for everyone if we made a fresh start.” Patterson stroked his beard. “You may not know this, Captain, but embezzling in the church world is not that uncommon.” She had been aware of that, realizing many people dismissed such a notion among communities of faith. Linda put fingers to her mouth, contemplating her next move. “Reverend, do you think Susan would be capable of darker crimes? Say, murder, for example?”
The pastor appeared shocked at the question. “Susan may be a con artist, but she is no murderer. This part of my life is extremely difficult to relive. I loved Susan, and I believe she loved me, too. We had a good marriage, Detective, and I was deeply saddened at how it ended.”
Reaching into a leather briefcase, Linda selected a manila folder and pulled it free. She took the photograph from the church fundraiser Darlene Jordan had found and handed it to Rev. Patterson. Nicole Hansen was circled in permanent red ink.
“Rev. Patterson, is this your ex-wife?”
Accepting the photo, Darryl studied it hard, angling it in the light. “There’s a resemblance, but I’m not sure, especially not being able to see all of her face. Another thing, this woman is a brunette, and Susan was most definitely a blonde. My ex-wife also had a prominent mole above her lip—you know, like the model Cindy Crawford. This woman doesn’t possess any such marking. Another thing, Susan had a strangely shaped hole inside her right ear.” He made a crude drawing on paper. “Almost like a half-moon. You didn’t see it unless you were up close.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t an ear piercing? Many people have those,” Linda said.
The reverend shook his head adamantly. “No, it was natural. Susan became self-conscious when people asked her about it.”
Linda wrote these items in her notes as Rev. Patterson handed back the photograph and drawing. “Reverend, we’re investigating a woman who may have deliberately sought out pastors, particularly those recently widowed. Very calculating and smart. What would help me is to identify the things that attracted you to Susan,” she explained.
Reverend Patterson’s elbows were propped up on the armrest, and he brought his hands together in a V-shape, silently contemplating Linda’s request. When he spoke at last, his eyes glistened. “I could be philosophical and say that, due to my personal situation, the companionship Susan offered and what I perceived as love helped move me out of my grief.” He hesitated, taking a long breath. “And she seemed so vulnerable, yet so willing to give of herself. I believed I could reciprocate in the role of protector. I convinced myself that we were each fixing something in the other that had been broken. That way, I didn’t feel so guilty marrying her so soon after Laura’s death.”
Linda felt chills crawling up her back. She’d dealt with criminals keenly adept in the art of manipulation before, but this woman’s charisma was so pervasive that her victims wound up feeling both guilty and responsible.
Linda finished writing the last sentence with a flourish, the ink skidding off the page. There was one last question she needed to ask. “Reverend, do you have any pictures of Susan I might have?”
The corners of his mouth curled into a sour smile, and she already knew the answer. “There aren’t any photographs of Susan,” he answered quietly. “She took every single picture with her the day she left.”