Once upon a time about 1974, there was a 19 year-old woman named Greta Jansen. She was of average size for a Norwegian, going six-feet tall and weighed about 180 voluptuous pounds.
She had a gorgeous face and was prone to wearing her blond hair in long, twin braids. Her breasts were large and full, her waist wide but slender in contrast to her hips and thighs. Her arms
were long and immensely strong, but no muscles showed. The same was true of her legs. She was more powerful than any except for an exceptionally strong man and could do the manual labor
of two ordinary men. But there were no mannish qualities about her...Greta Jansen was all woman.
When Greta was 21, she left her home Norway and headed to America where she settled into a Norwegian community in Chicago, Illinois. It is there where she met and married Merrell Sorenson.
By profession, Sorenson was a private detective. But whatever talents he held in his field never bothered Greta.
They had been married for six months when a fire destroyed all the furniture in their home. And Greta, to her delight, collected something better than $10.000 in insurance. She looked upon this
as found money and began to wonder how she could get more of it.
It occurred to her then that Merrell Sorenson carried a $150.000 policy on his life. So, her first move was to persuade her unsuspecting husband to take out a second life insurance policy in the
amount of $150,000. Her second move was to negotiate for the purchase of a farmhouse in Pinckneyville, Illinois, a small, folksy farming town located down in Southern Illinois with a population of
about 6 thousand citizens.
Greta may not have been blessed with many virtues, but she was by no means a foolish woman. It seemed to her that in the event of her husband dying under curious circumstances, a big belly,
rural sheriff could be more easily tricked than the Chicago Police Department. In addition, the property down in Southern Illinois was a bargain. Some years before, an entire family consisting of
seven members had been mysteriously slaughtered during the night. The farmhouse, reputed locally to be thoroughly haunted, not by a single ghost but seven. Greta bought the place cheaply. She
didn't fear ghosts. By the time she would leave the property, however, the ghosts would have excellent reasons to be terrified of her.
Ninety days later, Merrell Sorenson dropped dead. Back in Chicago, he may have been a first rate detective, but in the little, hick-town of Pinckneyville, he died without ever knowing who suffocated him.
Greta found Sorenson napping on the sofa one afternoon and placed a pillow over his face and sat down on it until he expired. He kicked and flailed to no avail. Greta just crossed her legs, hiking a
sumptuous thigh up high on her knee, and said, "Just behave down there, love, this won't take long."
The doctor who signed the death certificate was quite satisfied that Merrell Sorenson died from a massive heart attack. And Greta eagerly collected the insurance which totaled $300,000.
Greta's next husband was Peter Hanson. And it is his name by which she was generally known, probably because of one exception, he lasted considerably longer than her other consorts.
During the two years that she spent as the wife of Peter Hanson, Greta went about establishing herself as a solid citizen of the community. She became a pillar of the church and no one sang hymns more
loudly or praised the Lord with more gusto. She became active in local charities, spoke harshly of no one, and laid down saucers of milk for cats.
It was a convincing and effective act, and no one was more surprised than Peter Hanson on the spring morning when he got hit on the head with a meat cleaver.
Greta summoned the doctor, who shook his head sadly, and in turn summoned the sheriff and the coroner.
With tears streaking down her cheeks, Greta announced in a broken voice that a meat cleaver had fallen off the kitchen shelf and onto the balding plate of her poor husband.
The coroner looked at the dead man's skull and gave it as his opinion that the meat cleaver would have to have fallen from the top of the Eiffel Tower in order to split Hanson's head almost down to the
chin. The kitchen shelf was five-foot from the floor, and Peter Hanson, who had been sitting down when the accident occurred, would have been a scant foot beneath it.
Greta then wanted to know how a man who called himself a Christian could make such a horrible implication to an hour-old widow.
The sheriff politely asked if the deceased had been inured in his wife's favor.
It seemed he had, to the extent of $200,000. But Greta added that if any mean minded member of the community thought she would break the law, much less one of the Lord's commandants for a
measly $200,000, then he was badly mistaken. She had never been so insulted.
The sheriff, after hearing Greta's speech, was hesitant. But the coroner insisted that the meat cleaver could not have fallen from the kitchen shelf. It had been wielded by an outside agency, and since
Greta was the sole outside agency present when the tragedy occurred, the sheriff took her to the county jail.
She wasn't there long.
Public sentiment was outraged. Greta was a staunch churchwoman and a pillar of the community. How then asked the community, with more passion than logic, could she be a murderess?
The authorities yielded to public pressure and Greta was released. The insurance company signed and handed over the $200,000 without further argument.
Although Greta had been completely vindicated, she had learned a lesson. It seemed to her that, if in the future, if there were to be anymore corpses lying about her property, it would be far better if
they were kept in a place where the suspicious eye of the coroner could not fall on them.
After the untimely death of a second husband, and collecting another big, insurance payout, Greta announced she was going into the hog-raising business and hired a mason to erect a smoke-house.
The smoke-house, which was made of cement, was attached to the kitchen by a narrow passageway. It contained all the accessories needed for hog-butchering, a vat, meat hooks, a meat cutting
machine, and a number of keen knives and cleavers.
In the plot of ground next to the smokehouse, Greta announced that she planned to plant a vegetable garden. She fenced all of this land in with rabbit-wire, which was eight-feet in height. When all of
this was done, she bought up several hogs. Then she sat herself down at her writing desk, chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully, and composed an ad that would run in the singles column in the back
of a rural, farm magazine. It read, "Lonesome, but charming young widow owning a fine farm in Pinckneyville, Illinois, wishes to make the acquaintance of a respectable gentlemen of substantial means.
Object: matrimony. No letter will be considered unless writer is willing to meet at the earliest opportunity."
The first respectable gentlemen to answer Greta's ad was Larry Owens of Boise, Idaho. Larry was a middle age bachelor and he was lonely. He arrived in Pinckneyville with $5,000 in cash, a $2,000
diamond ring, a costly gold watch, and a light and amorous heart.
Greta had little trouble relieving Larry of his tangible possessions. But when he asked to marry her, and as her husband share the profits of the farm, Greta demurred.
"I can only marry you if you truly marry me" Greta said. "I've already had a couple of unhappy experiences."
Larry wanted to know exactly how he could prove the depth of his affection.
"Work here for me for a while" Greta said. "And if you prove yourself worthy, I'll marry you."
"Okay" Larry nodded his head. "How much do you intend to pay me?"
Greta was shocked and appalled. "Pay my fiancé?" she exclaimed. "I've never heard such a thing!"
Larry finally went to work for free. And at the end of three months, he was still a bachelor and he was still unpaid. So Larry confronted Greta and laid down an ultimatum, either he was to be married
or he was to be paid. And that very evening too.
Greta eyed him quizzically. "You've been very patient" she said. "Tonight, I'll settle up with you in full. In the meantime, go out a dig a big hole in the vegetable garden. I want to burn the rubbish
later."
Larry dug a great big hole. Greta then invited him into her bedroom for more important matters. Larry offered no resistance and allowed Greta to tie his wrists and ankles to all four bedposts in the
spread eagle formation with thin, leather straps. She slid her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and wiggled them down over her hips and let them fall to the floor. She climbed onto the bed,
straddled Larry's head, and sat down on his face, leaving just his wide eyes to peer out from under her ample globes.
By the next morning, the hole in the vegetable garden had been filled in, and Larry had vanished.
Greta spent little time weeping over Larry Owens. She wrote another letter to the farm magazine, asking them to repeat her letter than had ran before.
This brought Mr. John Moss of Elbow Lake, Minnesota into her life. A prosperous farmer, John Moss did no show up empty handed. He brought $10,000 with him.
John Moss surrendered his capitol and became Greta's combination hired man and lover. Apparently, he was not indispensable in either capacity. A month and a half later, he vanished during the
height of Greta's hog butchering season. Greta told her neighbors that Mr. Moss had returned to Minnesota, and smoothed over a fresh new patch in the vegetable garden.
About this time, Greta crossed paths with Timmy Shaw, who seemed to have signed an iron-clad contract with his guardian angel at birth. As far as Greta was concerned, Timmy Shaw was a good
time man who lived a charmed life.
They met, not through the matrimonial ads, but on the streets of Pinckneyville. Timmy Shaw was a college graduate, handy with hammer and nail, and he liked his drink, and he was flat broke. The
latter fact was not destine to win over Greta, but oddly enough she took a liking to him.
Greta offered Timmy Shaw a job on the farm and she actually paid him wages. Whatever affection Greta entertained for Timmy was returned. He fell hard for the voluptuous Norwegian with the long,
blond braids. He begged her to marry him. She never did. Since they became lovers as well as an item about town, the wedding would have been a technicality because Greta was of no mind to marry a
man who was not possessed with "substantial means."
Timmy Shaw was still working on the farm when George Brown of the Ozarks, Missouri, arrived on the scene, carrying a copy of the farm magazine.
Greta cooked an ample supper. As they sat at the kitchen table and ate, Greta and George Brown laughed and chattered, leaving Timmy out of most of their conversations. Timmy felt like the odd
man out and resented George Brown's presence.
After supper, Greta instructed Timmy to clear the table and wash the dishes while she and George retired to the living room sofa to get better acquainted over glasses of wine.
After finishing his chores, Timmy came into the living room to see his mistress and George Brown snuggled up closely on the sofa, laughing and flirting. The top three buttons of Greta's dress was now
open and George's nose was inching closer to her cleavage. Timmy sat on the recliner across from them, silently seething, that is until Greta told him to get up and refill their wine glasses. Timmy did what
he was told and returned to his seat. He kept silent and watched Greta relieve George Brown of what cash he brought with him, a little more than three grand and tenderly promise her hand in marriage.
Timmy felt despondent and cuckolded. He took to drinking in the town's taverns while George Brown pressed his tuxedo.
However, after returning home one evening, Greta made Timmy understand that things between them were as they had been before.
"What abut Brown" Timmy asked, amazed.
"He jilted me and decided to marry a girl down in Tampa instead"
Timmy frowned. "How does he know a girl down in Tampa He once told me that he has never been to the state of Florida."
"What's the difference" Greta said, and tossed her blond braids back over her shoulders. "We'll never hear from him again. Just forget it."
Timmy Shaw forgot it, for the moment.
If Timmy Shaw ever wondered why Greta was so busy in her smoke-house both in and out of hog-butchering season, he said nothing. If he was ever curious as to what she did with the bags of quick
lime she ordered from town, he held his peace.
Between 1978 and 1982, Greta's matrimonial ad ran a number of times in several farm magazines and there were a dozen applicants for her hand. Despite the fact that she married none of them, their
presence always aroused Timmy's suspicion. However, his fear of losing his mistress to another always seem to vanish at the same time did his rival. He never knew if he was to sleep in the master
bedroom with Greta, or the spare bedroom down the hall that was assigned to the hired man.
John Alden of Bakersfield, California was the next to arrive at the Pinckneyville farmhouse by the same lovelorn route as the others. He avoided Greta's lethal embrace for two whole weeks. After that
time, Greta dispatched Timmy on an errand that would guarantee his absence for at least three hours.
Timmy, however, did not carry out Greta's instructions. Instead, he went to one of the town's taverns and enjoyed three beers. Since the bartender refused to grant him anymore credit, he returned
home. He arrived at a most uncomfortable moment.
Timmy strolled into the smoke-house just as Greta was laying the corpse of John Alden on the chopping block and was honing a meat cleaver. Timmy turned white. Greta turned red.
Timmy had his suspicions that dirty deeds were going on, but to actually see his mistress readying to chop up a suitor was something else.
"My god! What are you doing?"
"I'm cutting him up" Greta calmly answered. "Then I'm going to bury him in the vegetable garden. The quicklime will work better that way."
"you mean...you murdered him?" a horrified Timmy gasped.
"Self defense" said Greta. "He tried to trick me. Heaven knows what sort of girl he thought I was."
Through either desperate love, or out of fear of his own life, Timmy kept his mouth shut.
Lester Goodwin withdrew $20,000 from the bank, paced his clothes, and left his home in the Black Hills of South Dakota and headed for Pinckneyville, Illinois, and the lonesome but charming young widow.
Lester was smitten with Greta and all for an instantaneous marriage, but the object of his affection was having none of it.
When Greta requested her customary proof of genuine love, Lester daringly slapped his wallet on the kitchen table and offered Greta the entire contents. Greta was not moved. So Lester vowed that he
would get in touch with his bank back in South Dakota and instruct them to convert his securities to cash and transfer the funds directly to Greta's bank account. The transaction took one week to complete.
And after exactly one week, Greta invited Lester on an inspection tour of her bedroom. He did so and ended the trip under Greta's ample sitter, and then the smoke-house, and the adjacent vegetable
garden.
Greta's position became shaky for the first time. She heard from a sheriff's deputy, that Timmy Shaw, while drunk, told a group of his fellow drinkers that if anything every happens to him at the farm, they
were to request the sheriff to investigate. He darkly hinted of horrendous doings at the Hanson place.
Greta's reaction was characteristic. She didn't defend herself, she attacked. She showed up at the county courthouse and announced that Timmy Shaw had beaten her up and threatened her life. She swore
out a warrant for his arrest.
However, after a private session with Timmy in his jail cell, which no one knows what compromise was reached, Greta withdrew the charge and Timmy Shaw was released.
Still, Greta remained uneasy. Maybe the business of running "respectful gentlemen" through the sausage grinder was coming to and end. Perhaps, it was time to take a two-three skiddo...which meant in
Southern English, "Get out of Dodge!"
So, one April night, the Hanson farmhouse was suddenly ablaze. No one gave the fire alarm until it was too late and all the buildings were burned to the ground. The next morning, the charred remains
were carefully searched. A blackened body was found. It was a female. Greta Hanson had obviously died in the flames and there was a natural suspect for the sheriff, Timmy Shaw, who curiously enough
had not slept at the farm that night. It was also recorded in in courthouse records that Timmy had beaten Greta and threatened her life.
Timmy Shaw was arrested, thrown in the county jail, and charged with murder, arson, and everything else that the prosecutor could think of at the moment.
The corpse was transported to the morgue, where the coroner, who Greta had rightly accused of being a most suspicious man, viewed the remains.
The female body was not that of Greta Hanson, he announced. "It was several inches shorter and much lighter" he stated. Greta Hanson was blessed with a set of pearly white, good and sound teeth.
This cadaver wore an ill-fitted plate.
Meanwhile, Timmy Shaw, in order to save himself from the electric chair, was talking like a radio announcer trying to beat the clock. He told the sheriff about John Alden and the mysterious disappearances
of Greta's other suitors. The sheriff promptly armed his deputies with shovels and sent them out to the Hanson property. By dusk, they uncovered twelve recognizable skeletons. In addition, they also
discovered a metal strong-box, which held several pieces of men's jewelry, mostly wrist watches and wallets.
It was now obvious that Greta had committed murder and arson to cover her tracks. Exactly where she obtained the female corpse that she hoped would be taken for her own was never known. The state
of Illinois offered a large reward for the capture of Greta Hanson. Every police headquarters across the USA was notified. But Greta made her six-feet, voluptuous shadow difficult to find. The search for
her would extend to her homeland, Norway, as well as Canada, Australia, England, Europe, both America's, and Africa. But no one ever wittingly laid an eye on Greta Hanson.
Timmy Shaw took a drink from his beer and told the bartender, "She got away with it, Charlie! She got away with it, and she's off to the devil knows where."
In a sumptuous hotel room in London England, a naked chap lay face-up on the bed, his wrists and ankles tied to all four bedposts in the spread eagle formation by thin, leather straps. On the dresser
was two backpacks that contained 100,000 British pounds. Next to them, lay two airline tickets to Wales.
A tall, voluptuous woman slid her thumbs into the waistband of her undies and wiggled them down over her hips and let them fall around her ankles. She climbed onto the bed, straddled the chap's head,
and sat down on his face, leaving just his eyes to peer out from under her ample globes of womanhood. The bloke's erection jerked and throbbed, and he bucked his hips up at the air. The woman reached
out and her slender fingers teased the underside of his hard-on, ever-so-gingerly. "Just behave down there, love, this won't take long" she announced in a heavy, Norwegian accent.
