The Cinderella Murder

23

Martin Collins worked his way down the aisles of his megachurch, conveniently located right off I-110 in the heart of South Los Angeles, shaking hands and offering quick hellos and blessings. He had delivered a rousing sermon to a packed house of four thousand, on their feet, their hands raised to God-and to him. Most could barely make rent or put food on the table, but he saw bills flying when the baskets were passed.

The early days of recruiting new members in tattoo parlors, bike shops, and sketchy bars and painstakingly converting them, reinventing them, were long over.

To see thousands of worshippers enthralled by his every word was exhilarating, but he enjoyed this moment-after the sermons, after the crowd dwindled-even more. This was his chance to speak in person to the church members who were so devoted to him personally that they would wait, sometimes hours, to shake his hand.

He circled back around to the front of the church, saving for last a woman who waited in the front pew. Her name was Shelly. She had first arrived here eighteen months ago, a walk-in who had found a flyer for Advocates for God in the bus station. She was a single mother. Her daughter, Amanda, sat next to her, twelve years old with milky skin and light brown eyes fit for an angel.

Martin reached out to hug Shelly. She rose from the pew and clung to him. “Thank you so much for your words of worship,” she said. “And for the apartment,” she whispered. “We finally have a home of our own.”

Martin barely listened to Shelly’s words. Sweet little Amanda was looking up at him in awe.

Martin had found a way to bring substantial funds into Advocates for God. Because they were now a government-recognized religion, donations were tax-free. And the dollar bills thrown from wallets in a post-sermon fervor were nothing compared to the big money. Martin had mastered a feel-good blend of religious and charitable language that was like a magic recipe for scoring high-dollar philanthropic contributions. He’d found a way to make religion cool, even in Hollywood. Not to mention the huge federal grants he landed with the help of a few like-minded congressmen.

The money allowed the group to back its mission of advocating God’s goodness by helping the poor, including supporting members who needed a safety net. Shelly had whispered her gratitude for a reason. Martin could not provide a roof for every struggling follower-just the special ones, like Shelly and Amanda.

“Still no contact with your sister?” Martin confirmed.

“Absolutely none.”

It had been two months since Martin had convinced Shelly that her sister-the last member of her biological family with whom she had contact, the one who told her she was spending too much time at this new church-was preventing her from having a personal relationship with God.

“And how about you?” he asked little Amanda. “Are you are enjoying the toys we sent over?”

The child nodded shyly, then smiled. Oh, how he loved that expression-filled with trust and joy. “Can I get a hug from you, too?” Another nod, followed by a hug. She was still nervous with him. That was okay. These things took time. Now that she and her mother were in an apartment that he paid for, he would increase the amount of time he spent with both mother and daughter.

Martin knew how to lure people in. He had been a psychology major in college. One course had an entire section of the syllabus devoted to battered woman syndrome: the isolation, the power and control, the belief that the batterer is all-powerful and all-knowing.

Martin had earned an A+ on that part of the course. He didn’t need the textbooks and expert explanations. He had seen those characteristics in his own mother, so incapable of stopping his father from hurting her… and young Martin. He had understood the connection between fear and dependency so well that at the age of ten, he had vowed that when he was older, he would be the controller. He would never be controlled.

And then one day he was flipping channels in the middle of the night and saw a minister of a megachurch on television, a 900 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen for donations. He made everything sound so black-and-white. Ignore the word of the Lord and burn, or listen-and donate money-to the nice-looking man on the television and earn a place with God. Talk about power.

He started watching that preacher every night, practicing the words and the cadence. He researched the IRS rules for religions. He learned about faith-based grants, which allowed churches to get government money by administering charitable programs. He whitened his teeth, joined a tanning center, and printed glossy brochures promising people closeness to God by helping the poor.

The only problem had been the police. They didn’t have any proof yet, but Martin’s predilections had come to the attention of Nebraska law enforcement, and he was tired of their slowing down when they passed his house or saw him near a playground. Off he went to Southern California, filled with lots of sunshine, money, and people searching for a way to feel good about themselves. Advocates for God was born.

And though he clothed himself in religiosity, he knew that the keys to his power had been learned in his own household, watching the way his father controlled his mother.

Ingredient number one: fear. This part was easy. Martin didn’t have to hurt anyone. A nondenominational yet fervently religious church like Advocates for God tended to attract people who were already afraid of the world as they knew it. They wanted easy answers, and he would happily oblige.

Number two: power and control. Martin was the “supreme” Advocate for God, a direct vessel for the voice of God. He, in short, was their god. When he spoke, they listened. That aspect of the church had earned AG more than its share of detractors, but Martin didn’t need everyone in the world to believe. He had sixteen thousand church members and counting, and a track record of raising more than four hundred dollars per year per follower. The math worked.

Number three: isolation. No friends, family members, or other people to interfere with AG’s hold. Early on, this had been Martin’s biggest challenge, and he had learned his lesson with Nicole. Now he was more selective, forcing church members to earn their way into AG’s inner circle with years of loyalty. Until they knew too much about AG’s finances, he could afford to let people walk away.

His cell phone buzzed in his front pocket. He retrieved it and looked at the screen. It was Steve reporting from up north.

“I have to get this,” he explained to Shelly. “But I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“That would be nice,” the woman said, giving him another hug. Martin patted little Amanda on the head. Her hair was soft and warm. If he timed his visit right the next day, she would be home from school, before Shelly left the janitorial job he had found for her at an office building.

He answered as he made his way to the room’s rear exit. “Yes?”

“Nicole had a visitor to her house today, the first in the time I’ve been watching. A woman, must have been seventysomething, driving a Volvo. I followed her to a neighborhood called Castle Crossings, outside of Oakland. Looks pretty nice. Maybe it’s her mother?”

“No, her mother died in Irvine a few years ago.” Martin slipped through a fire door into the stairwell for privacy. “Did you get a name?”

“Not yet. It’s a gated community. Not to worry-Keepsafe has plenty of alarms here, so I can get past the entrance. I know the car and the license plate. I’ll find her house tomorrow and get an ID.”

Sometimes Martin thought about how easy it would be to collect dirt on his potential enemies if he had a police officer or two in his inner circle. A cop could run the plate in seconds. But cops weren’t wired to succumb to Martin’s formula. He had considered simply bribing someone to be on his payroll, but he figured any cop who would take a bribe would sell him out in a heartbeat.

Once Under Suspicion started filming, Martin could rely on Keith Ratner to find out what, if anything, Nicole planned to say about Advocates for God. But until then, all Martin could do was wait and take whatever drops of information Steve could gather.

“Very well,” he said. “Thank you, Steve.”

Once Steve hung up, Martin threw his phone so hard that the sound of the screen shattering echoed through the vacant stairwell.