by Gregg Olsen
SEX, MURDER, MYSTERY
Gregg Olsen
Copyright © 2013 GREGG OLSEN
Cover Art: BEAUTeBOOK
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BITCH ON WHEELS
FOREWORD
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
SUMMER 1986
PROLOGUE
BOOK I — Preacher’s Wife
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
BOOK II — Doctor’s Wife
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
BOOK III — Fireman’s Wife
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS & NOTES
IF LOVING YOU IS WRONG
PROLOGUE
BOOK I — Daughter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
BOOK II — Teacher
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
BOOK III — Rapist
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
BOOK IV — Commodity
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND NOTES
UPDATE: 2004
TAKEN IN THE NIGHT
THE PLAYERS IN THE MATTSON SAGA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY GREGG OLSEN
* * *
BITCH ON WHEELS
Gregg Olsen
Copyright © 2013 GREGG OLSEN
Cover Art: BEAUTeBOOK
Cover Photography: Rachel James and Paul Kempin
FOREWORD
I think I speak for the majority when I say the one sociopath that interests true crime fans more than any other has got to be the female murderer. Look at the success of Investigation Discovery’s “Deadly Women” series. What about the attention someone like Casey Anthony has gotten? Or how, when a female is involved in (or even suspected of) a murder, the media dedicates more airtime than a potential presidential candidate. Indeed, we are fascinated by the mind of the female convicted of, or plotting to, kill her husband, lover, friend, neighbor, stranger, or, sadly, her children. We take guiltless, perhaps secretive pleasure in trying to figure out her next move as we watch the shows and read the books. This is why, when you look closely at Sharon Nelson, the subject of the book you are about to read, you must understand that the entire package is all here: cunning, evil, diabolical, ruthless, humorous, cold, and, perhaps most compelling when added to this list, sexy, beautiful and alluring.
There’s something fascinating contained in the idea of a woman who can melt a man’s heart, seduce him into leaving his wife and bed him down one moment, and the next, use those same elements to convince him to kill for her without remorse, pity, or compassion—all with a coy and devilish smile on her face and a warm and fuzzy feeling running through her blood.
Sharon Nelson, the black beauty heating up the pages of Gregg Olsen’s The Confessions of an American Black Widow, is one of those killers we love to hate. She personifies the notion that female killers make far better subjects to explore in book form than their male counterparts. Make no mistake about it—this is one of the reasons why Gregg and I have chosen to write books about the female murderer (of course, I have issues with my mother, too, but that is another story): because like that black widow she is named after, the female lures you in with her bag of tricks and mesmerizes you with her manipulation, tempting you to want to believe that somewhere within, her maternal instinct will take over and she will confess, beg for society’s pity and mercy, and turn her life around. But before you know it, you’re hooked on her seduction and malice and caught within that sticky web, unable to break free.
During the talks I give about female murderers, I often say this: The male killer can, simply, without a second thought, pick up a hitchhiker, drive him or her to a secluded area, and slit his or her throat without saying a word or batting an eyelash. Wash off his hands. Light up a cigarette. And continue on with his life as if nothing happened. That is the primal instinct of testosterone, coupled with the wiring of a sociopath and probably some abuse tossed in there somewhere too, at play.
The female killer, on the other hand, is the perfect (imbalanced) mixture of the dark mind, the hidden, ice cold heart and the whimsical charming allure that is sex appeal and seduction. She plays the role of the Mary Tyler-Moore housewife well, while maintaining the snooty credibility of the pretty blonde with pink gloves and matching hat pissing everyone off at PTA meetings. This, mind you, while thinking about how and when she will strike next, not to mention how much pain she will inflict on her victim. She might spend weeks walking through the aisles of the local CVS before even making a purchase, taking pleasure in choosing which poison she will use to take out the old man. She might study different types of accelerants on the Internet for a month with the mindset of picking the best possible way to inflict the most pain on her future victim. Or she might work on a prospective assassin (another tool for her) for months, plying him with the hottest sex of his life, drinks and good times, only to turn around when it’s over and delightfully tell him he was a terrible lover, he smelled, has a small penis, and is worthless at just about everything but killing for her, belittling him to the point where he believes he is worthless.
We like her be
cause she fantasizes and thinks about the kill quite a bit more passionately than her male counterpart. She even takes more pleasure in the appeal of the hunt or the stalk, almost as much a serial killer.
When looking at Sharon Nelson closely, I think it goes without saying (but I will anyway) that she used men as if they were disposable—and, in some cases, they were. She treated men with disdain because she hated them. Yet, the one thing about Sharon I think this book focuses on and fleshes out to the great advantage of the reader is, when you come down to it, Sharon Nelson—like many femme fatales who plan and plot and obsess about killing their husbands for the money—is so seriously flawed to the point that she is stupid. And the title of this volume points to where Sharon Nelson’s idiotic exploits began: with her “confession” to police at a Pizza Hut one afternoon. Still, the thing that dumbfounds me most when I read stories like Sharon’s is how many people (and for how long) these psycho-pathetic bitches are able to fool.
M. William Phelps,
2011, Investigative journalist,
author of 20 books, creator and star of
Investigation Discovery’s “Dark Minds”
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Sharon Lynn Douglas Nelson Harrelson — Minister’s wife, doctor’s wife, fireman’s wife, murderer
Mike Fuller — minister, Sharon’s first husband
Rochelle Fuller (Mason) — eldest daughter of Sharon and lover
Denise Fuller — daughter of Sharon and Mike
Craig — Sharon’s lover in North Carolina {not the father of Rochelle)
Perry Nelson — Optometrist, Sharon’s second husband, victim
Julie Nelson — Perry’s first wife
Tammi Nelson, Kathy Nelson, Lorri Nelson (Hustwaite) — daughters of Julie and Perry
Danny Nelson — son of Perry and Sharon
Misty Nelson — daughter of Perry and Sharon
Gary Starr Adams — Carpenter, Sharon’s pretend husband (mountain meadow wedding), murderer
Nancy Adams — Gary’s first wife, mother of their two children (a grown daughter and a teenage son)
Buzz Reynolds — Rancher, Sharon’s lover and pretend husband (pool party wedding reception)
Glen Harrelson — Firefighter Sharon’s third legal husband, victim
Andrea Harrelson — Glen’s first wife, mother of Todd and Tara Harrelson
IMPORTANT OTHERS
Barbara Ruscetti — Perry’s office assistant in Trinidad
Judy Douglas — Sharon’s oldest sister
Elaine Tygart — Detective, Thornton Police Department
Glen Trainor — Detective, Thornton Police Department
SUMMER 1986
TWENTY YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE IT ALL STARTED. Two decades had come and gone. Seven thousand, three hundred days had become permanently etched in a young woman’s memory. And still the saga of her father’s brutal murder had not come to a complete resolution.
Lorri Nelson Hustwaite took a deep breath when she got on the phone to hear the news; the conclusion to a yo-yo of heartache and hope in her family’s search for closure. She and her three sisters and brother had filed suit against insurance companies that had paid Lorri’s one-time stepmother more than $200,000 in life insurance benefits. Another insurance company had already paid the children $50,000 in an out-of-court settlement.
“The Supreme Court affirmed the decision,’’ said the voice of her sister Tammi over a line stretching from Tammi’s house in Redlands, California, to Whitefish, Montana, where Lorri and her family of four made their home. The Colorado Supreme Court had agreed that a consortium of insurance companies had been negligent in making the huge payouts to Sharon Lynn Nelson. The insurance companies had, in fact, gathered enough evidence to make the woman a suspect in the murder of her husband, Perry Nelson. Yet the companies had done nothing with their suspicions. At least, not enough.
“It’s finally over,’’ the older sister said.
At 33, Lorri wanted more than anyone to believe that the words were true. The blond wife and mother of two had been through so much. She dropped the phone and went to hug both her husband and a family friend who was visiting at the time. She felt joy tempered with sadness. Lorri had never said good-bye to her father.
Whatever labels affixed to her—Black Widow, ambitious gold digger, insatiable slut—she was a killer. Much more, but never less than that. If Sharon envisioned her life as one big movie, in which she was the star, she was mistaken. If she thought she could sweep away the hurt left as a grim remnant of her insatiable greed, she was wrong.
Dead wrong.
Lorri saw it. Others did, too. Yet no one had been able to stop Sharon. No one could even slow her down. From the ranchers, to the deputy, to the office secretary who suspected the worst, none could do a thing to bring the woman to justice.
In the end, only she could do it to herself. It was so fitting. It was almost funny, if it had not been so tragic.
Only Sharon Lynn could screw herself.
In Canon City, Colorado, in a prison that rivals the best the world of punishment has to offer, Sharon repeats her broken-record claim that she is innocent. The frosted-coiffed babe in the orange coveralls didn’t do anything wrong. This is a free country. She is an American, for God’s sake. She was misunderstood. She made bad choices, but she wasn’t a killer.
She asks herself over and over how it turned out so bad for her.
“What good has all of your goddamn wanting to be good and moral gotten you, Sharon? What has it gotten you? I can’t answer that yet. Sometimes part of me wants to be the biggest bitch in the penitentiary. When someone is talking at night, go down the hall and say, ‘You goddamn motherfucking slut why don’t you shut your goddamn mouth?’ I can’t do that, because my anger and the words would cause that person hurt. There are times when this whole thing gets to me so bad that I want to turn into the bitch that everyone thinks I already am. I don’t know how to do it with no conscience. I wish I could. It would make my time so much easier, I think. ”
Yet one summer afternoon in 1996, it suddenly no longer mattered what Sharon hoped, wished or wanted. It didn’t matter one bit about her at all. As the dust settled on a two-decade-long nightmare of sorrow and dreadful consequences, Lorri Nelson Hustwaite was finally able to rest knowing her stepmother had not gotten away with everything. She could finally say good-bye.
PROLOGUE
FOR A PLACE WITHOUT AN OCEAN, THERE IS nowhere in the world more lovely than landlocked Colorado. Mountains of unbelievable mass spray upward from spruce-covered foothills with exhilarating force. Stands of birch and aspen shimmer; their leaves moving like silver schools of fish. Snow clings to the tops of the highest peaks throughout the warmth of summer. Rocky Mountain high. John Denver. Coors Beer. The Broncos. Rugged. West. Unspoiled.
Folks who live in Colorado know all of that. Old-timers and newcomers alike know that theirs is the state that holds truest and firmest to the call of the Old West. Colorado is western without the trendy goofiness of California; the granola zealotry of Oregon; the drippy weather of sodden Washington.
And forget Utah, Coloradans opine. Utah, they know, is its own planet.
While those who ran other state tourism boards tell postcard printers to “punch up the color,” no such effort is needed for the images of the Rocky Mountain State. Skies are sapphire, rich and deep. Look to the heavens day or night and feel a sense of falling up. Foaming rivers hastily ran through chiseled chasms like Christo-inspired aquamarine ribbons stretched from boulder to boulder, canyon wall to canyon wail.
Colorado is the place where the great prairies are stopped by the Rockies. Denver, the state’s largest urban center, is bunched against the mountains. Like Denver, most of the state’s major cities—from Ft. Collins in the north, south to
Colorado Springs, Pueblo and Trinidad, the smallest of the big four—are strung along north-south Interstate 25.
Yet, as is true of any place, after the passage of time the splendor c
an fade in the eye of the beholder. Mountains can be an encumbrance that forces additional hours from Point A to Point B. Raging rivers overflow in the blink of an eye during lickety-split spring melts. And the trees? They are no longer things of beauty, but disparaged because of a sudden drop in lumber prices. Excitement wanes. Interest falls. Time to move on.
Love can be like that, too.
The man poking through the stinking, smoldering remnants of the living area of the house at 12370 Columbine Court had seen his share of such scenes. Thornton, Colorado, police criminalist Bob Lloyd had personally handled more than 1,000 death investigations. All but what could be counted on two hands had taken place in Detroit.
Detroit. The name no longer brought residual feelings of goodwill and recognition. No more did Detroit conjure the sounds of Motown to reverberate in his head or the smell of a new car inspire him to smile. The Detroit of Bob Lloyd’s tenure as an officer there meant only one thing: death.
He kept a black plastic binder of grisly photographs he’d taken over his twenty-year career in the Motor City. He called it his D-book. If it meant “Detroit” or “Death” it didn’t really matter. They were one and the same. Images on the pages revealed dead eyes fixed in lifeless terror, blood-spattered walls and coagulated pools of mahogany… all were the reality of the job that took more than it gave.
The veteran criminalist made up his mind that enough was enough when a twelve-year-old girl was shot in the head a couple of blocks from his supposedly safe neighborhood. Drug violence knows no boundaries. The little girl had been riding her bike down her street when gunfire ripped through the air and killed her. Bob Lloyd’s daughter was the same age, his sons were fourteen and sixteen. The father and husband knew it was time for the cop to move on.
Suburban Denver was safe, clean, friendly. If none too exciting, then he knew he’d have to buckle down and get used to it. At least he would not need to bring two guns to protect himself during a crime-scene investigation. At least he could go to sleep at night without the worry that the lead spray of a drive-by shooting would shatter his daughter’s window and kill her as she slept in her bed. He arrived in the snow-crunched month of February 1986 and the months flew by without a murder. Not several a night nor a handful a week—zip.
