Westlund had to be careful not to press too hard. He didn’t need any suddenly suspicious parents going to the cops or telling the doctors at the hospital about him. As with the Ellises, one parent or the other was often more skeptical about his motives; sometimes both scowled when he got around to donations to the ministry and the life insurance policy. If they balked, he immediately backed off and waited for them to come back to him, often having decided to go along with the plan because they felt guilty about not supporting him. But as his ability to pick the right marks increased over time, he had less to worry about.
The South in general had been a lucrative place to do business with the prevalence of Pentecostal and other churches that believed in faith healing. But all good things must come to an end, and an experienced con man like Westlund knew that the longer he worked an area, the greater the chance that he’d slip up and get caught. And it had finally happened in Memphis.
Nonie Ellis wasn’t the first mother of a critically ill child he’d talked into taking out a life insurance policy without her husband’s knowledge and with Westlund forging the signature. In the other case, the woman’s husband had balked and she’d come to him with tears in her eyes and desperation in her voice. One of the side benefits of his profession was that the women were often young and some, like this woman and Nonie, quite pretty. They were also vulnerable to a holy man full of assurances that all would be okay, which their husbands could not compete with. He’d give them a shoulder to cry on, and often as not he’d get them into bed, explaining that it was all part of God’s compassion for them in their hour of need.
In the previous case, the woman had fallen in love, as they often did when he turned on the charm, but he was surprised when she announced that she’d decided to leave her husband to become her minister’s wife. Doctor of Divinity John LaFontaine had scrambled to “admit” that he was in the process of divorcing his wife—“a harlot” who had cheated on him repeatedly—and until the paperwork was final, they’d have to remain “secret lovers in Christ.”
The woman had been satisfied to wait, but now her husband had refused to take out an insurance policy and sign over the benefits to Westlund. She was worried that Westlund would leave her and stop praying over her terminally ill daughter because of her husband’s “selfishness.” Westlund told her that she didn’t have to worry—that he loved her and her child and wouldn’t leave either of them. But his visits to the home became noticeably less frequent and his lovemaking rushed and lacking his old passion. Then one day, she’d come to him with “an idea to help Jesus”—she’d take out the insurance policy and Brother Frank could play her husband when the insurance medical examiner came by the house.
At first, he “resisted” her plan, saying he didn’t want her to go against her husband’s wishes. Then, after an afternoon of lovemaking, he relented “because the money goes for the greater good, God’s work, and that isn’t a sin.”
His frequent prayer visits to the house had resumed, as did his ardor in bed. Then the woman’s daughter died, normally a time when he expected the woman would turn to him for comfort. But rather than leaning on him, after signing over the insurance check she instead became overwhelmed with guilt and told her husband about the affair and the insurance scam.
A large redneck, the husband then made two mistakes. He should have gone to the police, but instead he dropped by Westlund’s house one evening to demand the money back for his silence. “And it’ll keep me from putting a load of buckshot in your ass for taking advantage of my wife, you sorry piece of crap,” he added.
The second mistake the man made was not looking out for trouble the next night when he went to take out the trash. He was a big man, a tough man, but he was no match for three other large men wearing ski masks and wielding crowbars. The first blow to the back of his head had knocked him down and out; the several dozen more that followed eventually killed him after he spent a week in a coma, during which he never regained consciousness. That’s when Westlund had paid the widow a visit to offer his condolences, and a piece of advice. “You’re still alive, and I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you,” he said without a hint of his former affection for her.
Westlund thought that was the end of it until a Memphis homicide detective, Willie “Wink” Winkler, came calling. The detective said he’d been assigned to the husband’s murder case and in the course of his investigation he had checked the wife’s phone log. “And it looks like she calls you a lot.”
“Of course she does, I am the family’s spiritual adviser,” Westlund answered. “This has been a difficult time for them with their daughter’s illness and tragic demise … and now this murder. Terrible … just terrible.”
Westlund had felt reasonably secure that the detective would never be able to make a case against him. There’d been no witnesses to the attack, and the crowbars had gone into the Mississippi River. The wife was scared to death and apparently hadn’t said anything to the detective about the insurance payment. But he knew from his first stint in prison—for a simple Ponzi scheme that had cost him five years—that detectives sometimes lie in the weeds and wait for their targets to relax.
So when David Ellis got a job in New York City, Westlund had told Nonie she needed to go with him, and then announced that it was time to move his ministry north to “battle evil in that modern-day Sodom.” Brother David was lukewarm about his plan, but Nonie, whom he’d set his lustful eyes on, had been ecstatic.
The move had paid off even better than he expected. His sometime partner in Memphis, Sister Sarah, told him that the detective had come by the widow’s home but the frightened woman had stuck with the story that there had been no romantic liaisons with Reverend LaFontaine and that she believed he’d moved on to California. Sarah, whom he’d asked to keep an eye on his victim, had dropped by for “a visit” right after the detective left her home to let her know that she was being watched.
Meanwhile, Nonie introduced him to the widow Kathryn Boole, and he’d charmed her into turning over the Avenue A building to him. He’d also been duly grateful when she told him that she’d amended her will to leave the building to him, along with the balance of her estate, when she died.
Although he’d so far been unable to duplicate the system he had in Memphis for identifying the families of critically ill children, he’d been pleased when his plans for the Ellis kid, Micah, had apparently come to fruition. As he’d known was likely, the symptoms of the tumors returned and then grew steadily worse.
When it became apparent that Micah was fading fast, David Ellis’s “faith” had begun to waver, and he spoke to his wife about taking the child to the hospital. Of course, Nonie, who leaned increasingly on Westlund as her son’s condition grew worse, told the reverend about David’s plans. He turned that around to blaming the husband’s qualms for the lack of faith that was dooming their child. Fortunately for him, the child died before David could change his wife’s mind.
However, Westlund hadn’t counted on the New York District Attorney’s Office bringing charges against the Ellises. In Memphis, whether it was due to the religious politics of the region or something else, the district attorney had never pursued a faith-healing case. But Karp was a different breed and determined to pursue the parents for their recklessness.
Westlund could not have cared less about what happened to the Ellises. But Nonie had told him about the letter from the insurance company. It was simple: if the Ellises were found guilty of the reckless-manslaughter charge, the insurance claim wouldn’t be paid. It was worth a quarter of a million dollars to get the case dropped, and if that didn’t work, to make sure the Ellises were acquitted. He didn’t like putting himself in the limelight, just in case someone in Memphis saw him on television, but his ego and desire for money had led him to bring the protests against the DA’s office, as well as contact the lawyers who’d taken on the case on First Amendment freedom-of-religion grounds.
Now here was David Ellis angrily waving the i
nsurance letter in his face. “I meant to thank you for that,” he said, acting as if they’d all known about the policy. “It was a generous gesture, brother.”
“You trying to tell me you didn’t sign my name on the policy?” David Ellis demanded.
“I swear on the Bible,” Westlund said. Not even a lie, he thought. Brother Frank signed it.
“I don’t believe you!”
“Brother, I understand that you’re on edge with the trial starting tomorrow, but it’s going to be all right and—”
“There’s not going to be any trial,” David interrupted. “At least not for me. Nonie can make up her own mind. But I’m going to plead guilty in the morning.” He held up the paper again. “And I’ll be giving this to the district attorney.”
Westlund looked aggrieved. “If it’s the money you want, you can have it. I thought it was a gift for Christ.”
David shook his head as tears came to his eyes. “Money? You can’t give me what I want,” he replied. “I want my son back. We were fools to believe in you and your lies. I was a fool to let you into my home. … And just so you know, I was the one who called 911 that day … but I was too late, so I lost my son, and now my wife. But I’m going to do what I can now to atone, may God forgive me.”
David Ellis turned and left, but Westlund followed him out of the apartment to the elevator. “You’re sure we can’t reach some understanding, brother?”
“Don’t call me ‘brother,’ and the answer is no,” David said. He paused and, with his voice breaking, added, “And if you see my wife, send her home.”
When the elevator door closed, Westlund called Bernsen. “Hey, bro, we got a situation,” he said. “Get someone to follow Ellis. We may have to find us some more crowbars, if you get my drift.”
Returning to the loft, Westlund paused for a moment inside the foyer and then went to the kitchen, where he opened a drawer and looked at the two handguns there—one an automatic, the other a revolver. He took out the latter. Any idiot can use a revolver. He then went into the bedroom, where the woman was waiting, the hand with the gun in it hanging loosely at his side.
“I can’t believe that David would …” Her voice trailed off. “What are you doing with that gun?”
Westlund’s shoulder sagged. “I would have never expected David to react that way either, but the devil has taken his heart and soul,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Now I’m afraid the authorities will misinterpret. You know the district attorney, Karp, has it in for me and won’t rest until I am in prison.”
The big man began to cry quietly. “I will not go to prison to be set upon by the agents of Satan,” he said, looking down at the gun. “You need to go now, my love, and we will meet on the other side someday.”
“You can’t! I won’t let that happen!” the woman declared, rushing into his arms.
Westlund kissed her fervently, dropping the gun on the floor, then picking her up and carrying her to the bed, where he set her down. “How much do you love me?” he asked as he pulled off his sweat suit.
“More than life, my darling, more than life!”
13
BRUCE KNIGHT STEPPED OUT OF THE D TRAIN AT THE 125TH Street station in Harlem and immediately regretted it. It was well after midnight and the only other people in sight were three young black men whose exposed arms and necks were covered with dark tattoos. They immediately stopped smoking whatever it was they had been passing among themselves and watched him intently. He went over to a bench and sat down with his back to them, hoping he didn’t look as much like a target as he felt.
Conscious that his suit alone, never mind the color of his skin, in that neighborhood at that late hour invited criminal avarice, he was also sorry that he’d brought the sophisticated new cell phone with all the bells and whistles that his former and now-current employer had delivered to him with a note that read “A gift so that we can communicate effectively. All apps and the monthly data plan paid for one year. Enjoy.” He wondered how he’d explain what he’d been doing in Harlem in the early A.M. when robbed of his wallet and new toy. They’ll think I was looking for drugs, he thought, which I guess is better than their knowing what I’m really doing.
He heard footsteps behind him. Oh well, here we go. The thought was immediately overwhelmed by a stench so powerful he nearly gagged. He expected to hear a demand for his wallet and started to rise but stopped at the sound of the voice behind him.
“Evening, Mr. Knight … crap tits whoop whoop … sorry we’re a little late.”
Knight relaxed and looked behind him as he stood up. There were no gangbangers around, just “Dirty” Warren Bennett and an enormous, bearlike man from whom the smell emanated. “Hi, Warren, good to see you,” he said. “And your friend …”
“This is Booger,” Dirty Warren replied. “Sometimes known … oh boy … as the Walking Booger.”
Knight looked back at Booger and noted he was aptly named, as the man had a sausage-sized finger shoved knuckle-deep up a nostril. Booger appeared to be wearing several layers of filthy clothing that covered all but his hands, neck, and face, all of which were in turn covered with coarse dark hair, further enhancing his ursine appearance.
The giant apparently did not believe in bathing. However, he was friendly enough, extending the unoccupied hand, which Knight chose not to examine as he shook it.
“Please a meet choo,” Booger mumbled. He may have even smiled, though it was difficult to tell through his furry face.
“Likewise,” Knight replied. “What happened to the ’bangers who were just here?”
“They … oh boy tits cocks whoop … took off,” Dirty Warren replied, then pointed at his companion. “They’re afraid of him. Booger’s just a big teddy bear unless … whoop … you get him riled, then he’s Ursus horribilis … a grizzly.”
“Grrrrrrr,” Booger growled for effect, then laughed. “Booger Bear hong-ree. Go.”
“You’re always ‘hong-ree,’ Boog,” Dirty Warren replied. “But you’re … asshole whoop whoop scumbag whore … right. David’s waiting.” He looked at Knight. “You remember the way?”
Knight looked down the subway tunnel to where the rail disappeared. Most people would have cringed at the idea of walking into the darkness, but while he would have rather been home in bed, he felt nostalgic at the same time. “Not really, but I know we go that way,” he replied, pointing down the tunnel.
Dirty Warren patted him on the back as he walked past and hopped down from the platform onto the tracks. “Good start. Remember to stay away from the third rail.”
Knight walked to the yellow warning line at the edge of the platform and hesitated, recalling the first time he’d climbed down from another platform looking for a place to sleep.
Some four years earlier, on a bitterly cold February night, he’d been homeless and living on the streets. There were no more spaces available at the Bowery Mission, so he stumbled down into the nearby subway station to stay warm. Craving a drink but without enough money to buy a half pint of even the cheapest bourbon, he contemplated giving up, just stepping off the platform in front of the next train or touching the electrically charged third rail.
However, although he frequently contemplated suicide, the will to live kept glowing in him, though he did little to fan the flames. So he hopped down from the platform and headed along the track looking for some dry spot and a little warmth. As each train passed, he wondered if any of the occupants looking out caught a glimpse of his haggard face and booze-hazed eyes and, thinking they’d seen a bogeyman, screamed.
A little ways down the track, he found a nook in the tunnel wall leading to a doorway marked MAINTENANCE ONLY, above which hung a dim lightbulb that cast a faint orange glow, giving the space a Halloweenish look. He tried the door but it was locked. Still, the alcove was reasonably dry and the color of the light at least offered the illusion of warmth, so he curled up in a corner, the backpack that held all his earthly possessions his pillow.
He fell a
sleep between the passing of each train, which in his exhaustion merely stirred him to semiwakefulness, after which he’d slumber again. So it had taken him quite a while to realize that he was being shaken by someone and then, once he was awake, to believe he wasn’t still dreaming.
Thinking that he was being robbed or assaulted by some other subway dweller, he pulled the small steak knife he’d found in a Dumpster and slashed at the dark figure bending over him. But it was like fighting a shadow, as his assailant easily evaded his frenzied swinging. He was soon exhausted and stood numbly, realizing he was at the mercy of the stranger, who he now realized was a tall bearded man in a hooded robe.
During their “fight” he caught glimpses of the man’s pale, gaunt face, which was framed by long, dark hair and dominated by two black eyes that flickered with an inner fire. Now, as he stared into those eyes, Knight knew he was looking into the face of a killer who, if not totally insane, was walking insanity’s razor edge. Yelling in terror, he made one last lunge at the stranger, only to have the knife knocked from his hand. Then, as fast as a cat after a rat, the man moved around him and kicked behind his knees, driving him painfully into the ground; his attacker then yanked his head back, and with one hand digging into his eye sockets, he took the other and placed a sharp blade at his throat.
“For the love of Christ don’t kill me!” Knight cried out. He had no idea why he’d chosen those words, which he hadn’t heard or used since leaving his Midwest home and Presbyterian upbringing. But they seemed right at that moment.
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