The Case of “NIKOLE’S CHRISTMAS FAREWELL” #MurderNoir
Weird Darkness: Stories of the Paranormal, Supernatural, Legends, Lore, Mysterious, Macabre, Unsolved
Deep Dive
Why did the Klingels hire a private investigator to find their granddaughter?
After their granddaughter Nikole vanished in 1978, the Klingels spent 20 years wondering about her fate and decided to take action by hiring a private investigator to uncover the truth.
What happened to Nikole's mother, Susan Klingel?
Susan Klingel died in a car accident in 1977 when her boyfriend Jarrett Betterson was driving. The accident occurred in Michigan, and marijuana was found in the car, but the investigation did not lead to any significant findings.
What happened to Nikole after her mother's death?
After Susan's death, Jarrett Betterson met Barbara, and they left Michigan with Nikole around Christmas 1977, promising the Klingels they would take care of her. However, Nikole seemingly vanished after early 1978.
How did Jarrett and Barbara Betterson die?
Jarrett and Barbara Betterson died by suicide in their Las Vegas apartment in 1997. Jarrett shot Barbara before turning the gun on himself. They left behind an apologetic letter and money for their cremation.
What were the possible fates of Nikole speculated by the police?
The police speculated that Nikole either died during the journey west, was given away, or possibly lives somewhere under a different identity. The case remains unsolved.
What evidence was found that suggested Nikole might still be alive?
Jarrett continued to collect Nikole's Social Security survivor benefits until she would have turned 18, which created a paper trail suggesting she might still be alive.
What was the role of Detective Jeff Rosgen in the case?
Detective Jeff Rosgen became involved in the case in 1997 when the Klingels hired a private investigator. Rosgen visited the Bettersons in Las Vegas, claiming he knew what happened to Nikole, which led to their eventual suicide.
What was found in the Bettersons' apartment after their death?
In the Bettersons' apartment, Barbara was found lying on a waterbed clutching a Bible and a red rose, with two .22-caliber slugs through her heart. Jarrett was found in the next room with a bullet through his brain.
What was the significance of the letter left by the Bettersons?
The Bettersons left a letter at Jarrett's mother's house in Georgia, stating, 'By the time you get this, we should be dead.' The letter also included $900 for their cremation and an apologetic message to the apartment manager.
What is the current status of Nikole's case?
The case of Nikole's disappearance remains unsolved. The Klingels hope for DNA testing to uncover the truth, but the only people who might have solved it are now dead, taking their secrets to their graves.
- Nikole Betterson disappeared around Christmas 1977.
- Her father collected her Social Security survivor benefits until she would have turned 18.
- The family moved from Michigan to Nevada around the time of her disappearance.
Shownotes Transcript
Lights are going up, snow is falling down, there's a feeling of goodwill around town. It could only mean one... McRib is here! People throwing parties, ugly sweaters everywhere, stockings hung up by the chimney with care. It could only mean one... McRib is here! And participate at McDonald's for a limited time.
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Private investigator Peggy Bessie dropped this one in my lap, like a sack of coal in a Christmas stocking. The Klingels were looking for their granddaughter, she said. Their eyes, filled with the kind of desperate hope you see in gamblers down to their last chip. Twenty years is a long time to wonder about a child who vanished like morning frost in the desert sun. The photographs they clutched told a story sweeter than sugarplums.
A little girl with curly black hair, dark as midnight, wearing a red and white dress that could have easily blended in at Santa's workshop. In one picture she is wearing a bonnet, holding onto a stuffed bunny, while her father, Jarrett Bederson, leans in for a kiss. The kind of moment that freezes in time, like an icicle that never melts. Me? My name's not important. I'm a private eye.
The story spilled out like bitter coffee on a cold morning. Labor Day weekend, '77. Jarrett was at the wheel when fate rolled the dice. The car flipped more times than a crooked dealer's cards, and Susan Klingel, Nicole's mother, took her final bow. Found marijuana in the car they did, but the investigation went nowhere, like footprints in melting snow. Then came Barbara, Jarrett's new flame.
She made promises to the Klingels, saying, "I'll be a good mother to Nicole. She'll be well taken care of." Empty words that would echo through two decades, like carolers in an empty church. Around Christmas of '77, they packed up and headed west, leaving Michigan's snow for Vegas' neon glow. It was this trip when little Nicole disappeared forever. Some said Vegas was the destination.
Others whispered California, but somewhere between the frost of Michigan and the heat of Nevada, little Nicole Bederson, age two, vanished like smoke from a snuffed Christmas candle. The only trace she left was a paper trail, those Social Security survivor checks that kept coming month after month, regular as Christmas cards, until she would have turned 18.
Detective Jeff Rosgen caught the case in the summer of 1997 when missing persons files piled up on his desk like unwanted white elephant Christmas gifts. He found the Bedersons living in a Vegas apartment complex where dreams go to die, far from the neon paradise of the strip. Jarrett was wheelchair-bound now, courtesy of a bus accident that fate had dealt him not long before. Rosgen played his bluff in early November, smooth as aged whiskey.
"I know what happened to your daughter," he said. He watched fear dance across Jared's face like Yule candles flickering in the window. Barbara stood behind him, their secrets slowly untangling like boxed-up Christmas lights. It was then that the ghost of Christmas past came calling, along with the Angel of Death. Their final act played out just before Christmas, when their bodies were found decomposing like dead holiday evergreens left to rot.
Barbara lay on the waterbed, clutching a Bible and a red rose, two .22-caliber slugs through her heart. Jarrett had made the bed before putting a bullet through his brain in the next room. Their goodbye note arrived at Jarrett's mother's house in Georgia, like a horror-themed Christmas card. "By the time you get this, we should be dead," it said. Inside was $900 for their cremation.
Their last grasp at blending in with the pristine and unblemished white of the December snow. Their last message to the apartment manager was apologetic, like a child caught stealing Christmas cookies: "Forgive us for having to deal with the mess we left." Now I sit here in the Las Vegas PD homicide office with Lieutenant Wayne Peterson, staring at crime scene photos spread out like a macabre advent calendar.
The Klingels want DNA testing done, hoping science might unwrap the mystery like an anticipated Christmas gift that never comes. But the truth about Nicole remains as elusive and dark as Krampus himself. Maybe she's out there somewhere, living another life under another name. That'd be my Christmas wish, that she's still living. But another part of me thinks maybe she's in some unmarked grave between here and Michigan.
Christmas snow warming her resting place like a blanket. Or maybe she's just another ghost haunting America's highways, as lost as the spirit of the holiday season in a Vegas casino. The only witnesses left are a blood-stained Bible, a dead rose, and a stack of government checks that stopped coming when Nicole's ghost turned 18. Sometimes I think about that little girl in the bonnet holding her stuffed bunny.
frozen in time like a Christmas ornament preserved in tissue paper, waiting for someone to finally tell her story. But, as Peterson says, thumbing through the thin file, this mystery might stay hidden and unrevealed like lost Christmas gifts. The only people who could have solved it shows a bullet's answer to a detective's questions, taking their secrets to graves as cold as a Michigan Christmas. I can only hope the ghost of Christmas past is haunting them right now.
making them relive the holiday horror that they orchestrated.
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