Don't Look Behind You Read online

  Both Bob and Joann lived behind masks, trying to keep their secrets from prying eyes. He wanted his friends and other people to view him as a good family man. Like his own parents’ scrapbook, where he and his brother Ken smiled for the camera, the younger Hansens’ album is full of photos of them and their children. Bob and Joann’s “wedding” photo depicts a willowy bride with an orchid corsage feeding cake to her handsome groom. There are the birth announcements, the babies’ nursery identification cards, baby pictures, family reunions, snapshots of Bob and the kids on one outing or another, all looking joyful.

  They could easily have been chosen for the cover of the Saturday Evening Post.

  No one who hadn’t seen her cuts and bruises could have guessed that the beautiful Joann, who still made an entrance when she and Bob had their infrequent dates, was so afraid behind her carefully constructed facade.

  Bob was very successful in real estate investments and in construction. He worked hard and he was shrewd when it came to buying property. Although he wouldn’t allow Joann to buy anything without his permission, his family always had food and shelter. As obsessed as he was with hunting and fishing, their large freezer in the basement was well stocked with elk, venison, and all kinds of fish. Bob smoked much of the salmon he caught, and he made ground venison quite palatable by mixing it with beef fat.

  Again and again, Joann tried to convince herself that somehow he would soften if she just tried harder or found the right combination that pleased him.

  Sadly, the scenario she envisioned was hopeless.

  One evening in the early part of 1962, Joann prepared some trout that Bob had caught. She, Bob, and their children were sitting at their trestle table with benches on either side. Joann, as always, sat closest to the kitchen so she could jump up and get whatever Bob wanted. She was afraid she might be pregnant again, but that was no guarantee that she was safe from physical abuse.

  As they ate in silence, Bob noticed that she had peeled the skin off her portion of fish and pushed it to the side of her plate.

  “Eat the skin,” he ordered her.

  “But I don’t like the skin,” she protested.

  “Eat it!”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It will make me sick.”

  Suddenly he swung one muscular arm and knocked her off the bench.

  This was just one of many times when Joann had done something, all unaware, that tapped into Bob’s boiling rage. Sobbing, she ran to the kitchen while Nick, Kandy Kay, and Ty sat, stunned and confused, at the table.

  Bob left the table and returned with a two-shot Derringer pistol. “See this,” he instructed his three small children. “This is what we’re going to use to kill Mommy with.”

  The children would not remember this, but Joann heard it, and she knew he meant it. She told Pat Martin she was very afraid Bob might kill her.

  Chapter Six

  ESCAPE

  It was too much.

  When Bob Hansen left for the construction site the next morning—July 25—Joann gathered up her children and fled to Patricia Martin’s house. Pat hid Joann’s blue Chevrolet so Bob wouldn’t know where she and the children were, and Joann got a restraining order that forbade his coming close to her. She believed that if he did, she could call the police and they would protect her.

  She was adamant that she wanted a divorce, even though she was fearful of Bob’s reaction. She and the children drove back to Pat’s house.

  Joann didn’t know any attorneys or where to start. She knew a Realtor in Auburn who shared his office with an attorney named Luther Martin (no relation to Patricia Martin). As fate would have it, Martin was out of town for some time. But she saw another lawyer’s shingle right across the street. Determined, she asked the Realtor to take her over and introduce her to Duncan Bonjorni.

  If any attorney could have helped Joann, it was Bonjorni. A former justice of the peace and police judge, Bonjorni was both brilliant and fearless. He had paid his way through law school by working forty-eight hours a week, much of the time as a Capitol policeman in Olympia.

  He studied Joann Hansen.

  “I knew her husband,” the now-retired Bonjorni recalls. “He was a mean son of a bitch. There’s no other way to put it. He appeared before me once when I was a judge—he got into a shouting match with another driver at a place in Renton we called ‘suicide corner.’ I remember that he cut the other guy off, and they argued. When the other driver pulled away, Bob followed him, caught up with him, and took out a crowbar or tire jack and started hitting his car, breaking the windshield and denting the vehicle, and he was threatening the guy.”

  Police were called and Bonjorni sentenced Hansen to twenty-four hours in jail, knowing he’d made an enemy. “I was too dumb to be afraid of him, I guess. But I still wouldn’t have wanted to meet him in a dark alley. His hands were as big as hams.”

  Now, in late April 1962, Duncan Bonjorni asked Joann Hansen: “Are there any marks on you?”

  Without saying a word, Joann stood up, removed her sleeveless blouse, and lowered her pedal pushers.

  Bonjorni had seen cases of spousal abuse before—but nothing like this. “She was covered with bruises. She had one huge bruise—as big as a saucer—on her left side. Her husband had hit her mostly on that side—her ribs, her breasts, her thigh,” Bonjorni remembers. “She didn’t have a mark on her face—or anywhere that showed.”

  Knowing how big Bob Hansen was, the attorney realized that Joann would have “looked like a small child” next to him.

  “She was tremendously afraid of her husband,” Bonjorni recalls. “But she had a lot of spirit. Even though she was frightened, she didn’t come across as downtrodden or intimidated.”

  Duncan Bonjorni agreed to represent Joann in a divorce proceeding. They would talk about money later.

  Now in his mideighties, Bonjorni’s memory is impeccable.

  Asked if Joann Hansen was attractive, he nodded. “Any man who still had a heartbeat would take a second look at her.”

  “Were you interested in her romantically?” I asked him bluntly.

  He shook his head. “No. But she needed someone to help her get away from Bob Hansen.”

  With Bonjorni’s help, Joann filed preliminary papers seeking a divorce. She said she’d been married to Bob for more than five years, and gave her wedding date as April 1956. She might have fudged a year or it could have been only a typo in the document; Nick was born in November 1957.

  Joann had signed a sort of prenuptial agreement back in the midfifties. The early agreement specified that, if they ever divorced, Bob would retain ownership of the four houses he’d bought before their union.

  By 1962, there were more than fifteen properties, and his wealth had grown considerably. Joann hoped he would let her have a house where she and their children could live, and that he would pay child support. She could get a part-time job if she had to.

  Anything would be better than constantly living in fear, and worrying about how Bob’s rages were affecting Nick, Kandy Kay, and Ty.

  On May 2, Bonjorni filed Joann’s divorce complaint. The first sections listed known facts—date of marriage, names and birthdates of children, and their assets, which mainly consisted of the rental houses that Bob had purchased over the years. She had the Chevrolet Biscayne, and he had two trucks and $2,500 worth of tools and equipment. Their furniture was estimated at only $500.

  Their property, however, was noted to be worth over $300,000—a very large amount in 1962. They had no debt except for mortgage payments, which were covered by rental payments.

  Joann didn’t hold back when her reasons for seeking a divorce were presented to the court.

  “[That] Defendant Robert M. Hansen has treated Plaintiff Joann E. Hansen with extreme cruelty, rendering her life burdensome, and making the continuance of this marriage no longer possible. That, in particular, Defendant has kicked, beat, and struck Plaintiff and threatened her life in the presence of witnesses. That Defendant regularly
beats Plaintiff severely, and does so in front of the minor children of the parties hereto. That said beatings are without reason and provocation, and are severe enough to inflict large painful bruises, making it impossible for Plaintiff to sleep, and causing her to be in extreme pain and unable to perform her usual duties and move about normally. That further, said Defendant beat and abused Plaintiff’s child by a prior marriage to the degree that she was forced to relinquish custody of said child to her former husband. That as a result of the actions of Defendant, Plaintiff has lost all love and affection for said Defendant, and it is no longer possible for parties hereto to live together as husband and wife, or at all.”

  For more than five years, Joann had managed all of the Hansens’ rental properties and kept the books. Duncan Bonjorni told her that the original size of Bob Hansen’s estate had undoubtedly increased greatly in value due, in large part, to her efforts. She deserved to have an equitable distribution of their assets in any divorce settlement.

  She also asked for a “full, absolute, complete decree of divorce,” custody of their children—with reasonable visitation rights for their father—support and education of the minor children until they came of age, the household furniture, her car, and attorneys’ fees.

  Since Joann had no funds, Bonjorni asked for a temporary order giving her the Chevrolet Biscayne to drive, support and maintenance, the furniture, and the use of one of the many houses the couple owned.

  In response, Bob pleaded poverty, saying that after he paid all of his mortgages each month, he only had $400 left from the rentals. But Joann, who had kept the records, knew he cleared $1,125 a month.

  Bob Hansen hired his own attorney and fought Joann furiously over division of their assets. He harassed her constantly and made her life miserable. To upset her, he gave lighted cigarettes to Nick, Kandy Kay, and Ty—even though they were all under five.

  In that summer of 1962, she had no real place to live. She took the children and went to visit one of her sisters in Spokane for a while. When she felt they might be overstaying their welcome, she moved back to Pat’s house.

  Duncan Bonjorni helped Joann file a tougher restraining order meant to protect her if Bob should try to locate her. The order was issued on August 8, 1962, and Joann heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe she could get away from Bob and have a new life where she wasn’t afraid anymore.

  She almost believed that was true. Today we have learned that restraining orders aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on as far as safety for the person who holds them. Yes, they can cause a stalker or angry spouse to be arrested if they disobey the orders, but many of them aren’t deterred. If a man—or a woman—is obsessed with someone, a court order doesn’t help. Too often, they make the stalker furious and their targets are in even more danger.

  Joann and the children stayed at Patricia Martin’s house in Auburn for two weeks, weeks when she was able to relax a little. But it was a temporary measure. She knew she couldn’t hide from Bob forever, and he was sure to figure out where she was, anyway. Probably, he already knew. Joann wasn’t close to many people, but Pat had always been there to help her when things turned rocky. He would guess that she had run to Pat for shelter.

  Forty-eight years later, Patricia Martin still feels guilty that she couldn’t do more to help her best friend. They sat at Pat’s kitchen table, drank coffee, and smoked endless cigarettes, as they debated what Joann should do. Both of them were naive about restraining orders. Joann wanted so much to be back in her own home, and Bob owned plenty of houses where he could live.

  The restraining order said she could go back to the large brown house in Des Moines. Bob was supposedly living in the smaller white house a few blocks away.

  Pat urged Joann to go home—to live the way she deserved to live. “He’s not there, Joann,” she said. “You’ll see. You have made the first move to be free, and now you can build on that.”

  Patricia Martin honestly felt that she was giving Joann the best advice possible. No one should live in hiding, afraid of shadows. After all, Joann had a restraining order.

  One thing Pat has never forgotten—and it niggles at her. “Joann begged me to go home with her, and stay until she got the locks changed,” Pat says. “But I was too afraid of Bob. I knew he resented me for taking Joann’s side and giving her a place to run to.”

  It was Friday, August 10, 1962. Joann had made plans with her mother and her three sisters to visit the World’s Fair in Seattle the next day. She really looked forward to being with them again. Bob had forbidden her to tell their three children that they had aunts and cousins and grandparents on their mother’s side. Her world had grown smaller and smaller, without her realizing how confining it was—until it was too late.

  As Joann prepared to leave, Patricia Martin hugged her and Nick, Kandy Kay, and Ty. They would be five, four, and three in three months.

  “Joann had five dollars,” Pat remembers. “I know she wanted to buy some hair dye and she didn’t even have enough for that. So I gave her enough to make up the difference.”

  Pat asked Joann to call her as soon as she got home. It wasn’t that far from Auburn to Des Moines. She watched them drive away, and then went inside to wait for Joann’s call.

  “It was about forty-five minutes before she called me, and she said everything was okay—that she was ‘all right.’ She even thought it was probably a good decision for her to go home. She was feeling not so scared, and beginning to relax. We were both relieved …

  “Suddenly, Joann said, ‘Pat! Wait a minute—’

  “And then she said, ‘Oh, Pat! He’s in the basement! Oh, God—he’s here, he’s coming up—’”

  Joann started screaming as if she was terrified, as Pat frantically asked her what was wrong.

  “But then the phone went dead,” Pat remembers, and it’s obvious Pat is right back where she was forty-eight years ago.

  Patricia Martin dialed Joann’s phone number, only to get a busy signal. She kept redialing, but for half an hour, no one answered.

  After so many calls, Bob Hansen finally picked up the phone, his voice calm. Pat asked to speak to Joann.

  “Stop that crap, Pat,” Bob said. “You know she’s with you.”

  But, of course, she wasn’t. Joann Hansen was gone.

  Pat wanted to call the police right away, but her husband discouraged her, explaining that adults couldn’t be reported as missing until they’d been gone for forty-eight hours. And she didn’t know which department to call. The King County Sheriff’s Office or the Des Moines Police Department.

  As it turned out, even if she had filed a missing report on that Friday afternoon in August 1962, it probably would have made no difference.

  Chapter Seven

  AUGUST 11, 1962

  Patricia Martin held the tiniest hope that Joann Hansen had escaped and found some safe haven other than her own house and spent the night there. That seemed highly unlikely; Joann wouldn’t have let her worry all night without finding a way to check in.

  And then there was the outing where Joann was supposed to meet her mother and her three sisters at the Seattle World’s Fair on that Saturday after her Friday disappearance. Joann had really been looking forward to that, especially since she didn’t get to see her family very often. Bob wanted nothing to do with her relatives, but the restraining order had given her the courage to arrange to meet them.

  But they had gone to the designated spot where they were to meet on August 11. They waited and waited, and she didn’t show up. In case they had the time wrong, they kept returning to the meeting spot, but she was never there.

  Patricia Martin didn’t know what to do. She called Duncan Bonjorni and told him that she didn’t know what had happened to Joann and she feared for her safety.

  Duncan called the King County Sheriff’s Office and persuaded them to send out an All Points Bulletin if Joann didn’t show up in twenty-four hours. Adults who disappear often do so because they want to leave, and police departme
nts set a time period before they will act on a missing report—unless there are overt signs that the person has been injured such as blood, bullet holes, or signs of a struggle.

  The brown house showed no signs that anything violent had happened there.

  Although Pat’s husband was a police officer in Auburn, the last place Joann was known to be was in Des Moines.

  Louie Malesis warned Pat that he doubted that any police department would investigate a case without a body.

  She soon found that he was right. Indeed, the first time prosecutors in Washington State would win a case where there was no body of an alleged victim would be in 2000, almost forty years in the future. Even then, the victim had been missing for nine years before a gutsy prosecutor, Marilyn Brenneman, agreed to file murder charges against the husband of the missing woman. Brenneman won that landmark case. (See Empty Promises: Ann Rule’s Crime Files, Vol. 7.)

  Patricia Martin was a woman on fire who refused to stand by and see Joann Hansen’s disappearance be ignored. She contacted the Des Moines Police Department, then located in the upstairs of an old wooden building owned by the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks who occupied the first floor. There were only a handful of commissioned officers in the department in 1962.

  When she tried to report Joann as a probable murder victim, she was told that the Des Moines police could not investigate a suspected homicide where there was no body to validate that a missing person had died of homicidal violence.

  Next, she called the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, one of Seattle’s two newspapers, a publication that was known for its probing investigative articles.

  But Pat was stymied when a reporter told her that they could possibly write an “unsolved” murder case if there was a body. “Without a body, we can’t write anything,” he finished.