Hello Texas! You may or may not have heard of Janice Willhelm. Well I am Jan. And yes, I am very much dead. Unless you have the ability to speak with the dead we likely will not have a conversation. Perhaps you might take little time and hear what I have been able to get through instead. First let me give those unfamiliar with me or my story a little background. I was born on July 20, 1947 to Morris and Mable Robeson and raised in Centerville, Texas. Our home was on property that my family has been on since the Civil War period, about seven miles from town on FM1119. In fact, my family has lived in Leon County since the mid-1800s. As a small child, I would walk to see my grandparents across the pasture from our house, and play in the creek, while my parents ran the saw mill. My other grandparents were Ben and Adelle Lee. My grandfather Ben Lee was the sheriff in Leon County for many years. He is likely very disappointed in Kevin Ellis, Jerry Wakefield, Mike Price and even Hope Knight. Disappointed is putting it mildly.
I moved to Dallas as a young adult to find better job opportunities. I had two children, that I raised in the Dallas area. I decided to better myself by going back to school and getting my nurse’s license. I had a very successful nursing career. I was head nurse at ICU/CCU at Parkland Hospital in Dallas. Then I decided to enter the home health care industry. I was a home healthcare nurse for many years and had some amazing patients. In 1997, I decided to move back to my hometown of Centerville.
Once I moved back and settled in, I started working at St. Joseph in Madisonville. While there, I ran into an old friend from high school, Gerald Wilhelm. We started dating immediately and moved in together rather quickly. My kids thought it was rather sudden, and they didn’t trust Gerald from the get go. That’s why I decided not to explain how we happened to run into each other at the hospital. Gerald’s wife at the time had a stroke and was in the hospital for treatment. Gerald coerced her into signing away all her assets to him. Immediately after, he withdrew all her funds from the accounts, and left her at the hospital to fend for herself. He told me it was his money, and I believed him, and I really wanted to find someone to grow old with, so we moved in together and didn’t look back.
After Gerald’s divorce, we immediately got married, and started building a house on property my parents gave us on FM 1119. I wanted a 2-bedroom home, so my children could visit and my new granddaughter to stay in, but Gerald refused to build beyond a one-bedroom home. My father passed away, and my children noticed the fear I had towards my husband now. My daughter noticed Gerald was missing the entire day my dad died, and thought it was odd. There were conflicting reports on what happened that day, but no one with authority ever questioned it. No one questioned the placement of the gun, or the physical limitations of my dad, or the trajectory of the bullet, or the conflicting stories of what really happened.
What a lot of people do not know is my brother Sam was very jealous. He managed to hide it most of the time and no one in the family ever saw him or his wife and daughter except twice a year for a couple of hours since the 1970s. They would come to our parents for Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Eve Day. That was it since Nixon was president. When our father suffered a stroke in 1998 Sam suddenly began to have a presence in their home. He wanted them to make him Administrator of their estate and give him durable power of attorney. They put my son, they’re only grandson as Durable Power of Attorney but let Sam be the executor.
When my father died Sam was very cold about it and so was my husband. I became very suspicious and when I learned a neighbor, Joe Luis Weaver was the first to arrive on the scene and was off duty and told my son he felt he walked in on a homicide scene and not a suicide.
My father could not lift a Norelco nose and hair trimmer to his ear. How did he manage to shoot himself in the head with a colt revolver with a 6-inch barrel?
After my father’s death, my children noticed Gerald started drinking hard liquor more heavily. I showed fear and anger towards him. I stopped visiting my daughter in Dallas, and whenever she came to visit me, Gerald was always there watching.
Joe Weaver allegedly shot himself in the head several months after my father’s death. Leon County Sheriffs Office denies even having a police report on either case.
I started having physical problems that eventually made me disabled, and I could no longer work. I had lower back problems and a herniated disc. I also had a tumor removed from my left arm, triceps area that was a size of a large orange. It weakened that arm, and I could no longer use it to lift even a glass of tea. Thankfully I could use my right arm to do most of my baking and crafts. I still found solace in my new grandbaby, and all my arts and crafts. You can see in the crime scene photos I was very active in sewing.
You can also see anything I needed to lift, was on the right of where I sat.
That’s because my left arm was so weak now. I had this amazing embroidery machine. I was constantly buying fabric online to work on quilting projects. I have always had a love for sewing. The afghan in my lap, I knitted. This was my favorite and was that super soft yarn that keeps you toasty warm. My cat loved to crawl up in my lap and keep me company.
I fell off a chair in 2007, and really messed up my ankle. This impacted my mobility to where I needed a walker to get around the house, and I required pain medicine on a regular basis, but had a great deal through a drug company where I could pay a low copayment for my medication. I was still able to enjoy my arts and crafts, but I needed to sleep in my recliner to help support my back.
In 2010, somehow, the Leon County Sheriff office say I used a gun with my arm that cannot lift a glass of water and shot myself. The bullet paralyzed me instantaneously. It severed my spinal cord. There was no exit wound because the bullet lodged itself in my body. Yet, I threw the gun over 4 feet in front of my body, put my hands back under my blanket, and kept my comfy reclining position in my recliner. I must tell you I had an intimidation of firearms my entire life. I was often ridiculed at times over my fear but I can tell them all, “I told you so!”
Problem is I am dead.
My husband said I was out of pain medication, but in a deposition, he contradicted those statements he made on the 911 call. There are full medication bottles everywhere in the crime scene photos. I made a grocery list, and was in the middle of laundry, and had many craft projects I was actively working on. The sheriff’s department said I left a suicide note, but if you look at it, they are simply nurse’s notes from a prior patient. It’s easy to recognize, because there are blood pressure, and pulse readings. I had a hard time throwing anything away, even nurse’s notes.
As a member of this community, I feel horrified my death was not investigated. I never realized my life was disposable as well as the life of my father, many neighbors, my niece. What has happened to this community? When my parents were alive, this community worked with each other, supported each other, and took care of one another. Now so many have died and continue to die without any recourse.
My husband was having a cheap affair with a local harlot, a two-timing gold digger. Before and after my death. Her mother likes to say we are related but its very very distant and we never had anything to do with them.
What you may not know is Gerald left her in his will which the county probated immediately after his death. I am still perplexed as I never made a will when I was alive and they probated the one he made for me after they shot me.
I was a mother, a grandmother, a neighbor, a friend, a nurse, an aunt, a sister, and a cousin. Yet no one has heard my family’s pleas to solve my murder. I was living a good life, I enjoyed my life, I enjoyed sewing and baking, and yet someone ended it, and the sheriff’s department refuses to acknowledge this. My grandchildren will never know me, they will never know how I smiled or the mischievous sparkle I would get in my eye, or the way my hair smelled, or my loving touch.
My family will not get to embrace the past with family heirlooms, or jewelry handed down, or see old photographs I had. Everything has been lost that was in my possession, but one thing will endure, the memories my family have, and the perseverance of justice coming to light into these deaths.