THE PSYCHS OF MANHATTAN Read online

  James was already on the scene when Sarah arrived. He was glad the eyewitness was still there rather than at the precinct. Interviewing at the crime scene was better for eyewitness recall and consistent details.

  Sarah noticed the witness was clearly shaken. ‘Hi George, I believe you may have witnessed a crime?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Tell me in your own words what happened.’

  ‘Well, I was setting up my equipment, when I saw a young guy on my side of the street. He started walking in the crosswalk. A van came charging up the street and suddenly stopped, blocking him from crossing. It frightened the hell out of me. I thought he was going to get hit. A guy jumped out and pulled him into the van.’

  ‘Could you describe the guy who was pulled into the van?’

  ‘He was wearing jeans and a white top. He had blonde hair.’

  ‘How old do you think he was?’ Sarah questioned.

  ‘He looked in his early twenties.’

  ‘What about the man who pulled him into the van. Are you able to describe him?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He was wearing a black hoodie. Sorry, it happened so quickly. That’s all I can remember.’

  Sarah continued. ‘What did the van look like?’

  ‘It was white and had “Express Cleaning” on the side. The windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the driver. I wish I could tell you more. Wait a minute. There was one other thing. Before the young guy started crossing, I saw him wave to a man on the opposite side. The man waved back and then disappeared.’

  Sarah continued the questioning. ‘Would you be able to recognize that man?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to recognize his face but from a distance he looked like an important businessman.’

  ‘What do you mean by an important businessman?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘He was wearing a fancy looking suit.’

  Sarah was curious. ‘How do you know it was fancy?’

  ‘It looked like a suit the attorneys wear on the Avenue of the Americas.’

  Sarah looked up from her notebook. ‘Was there anything else you noticed about the guy who was wearing the fancy looking suit? For example, was he Caucasian, black?’

  ‘He wasn’t black; I know that much.’

  ‘What about his height. Do you think he was taller, shorter, or the same height as you?’

  ‘He was definitely taller than me and was slim. The traffic blocked some of my view, but he had short fair hair and was an older guy. Probably around his forties and…he stroked the front of his hair.’

  ‘We need you to come down to the station to go through some mugshots. You may be able to recognize someone. It might take up a good part of the day,’ James said.

  ‘I’m glad to help you man, but I really need to work. I’m struggling with money as it is. I’ve got mouths to feed.’

  James took out his wallet. ‘Here, this’ll cover your costs for the day; on one condition. Will you make me a mean hotdog?’

  ‘I sell the best hotdogs in New York, you can ask anyone.’

  ‘James, you’ll get us into trouble.’ Sarah raised her eyebrows and lowered her tone. ‘That could be perceived as positively swaying an eyewitness.’

  James looked like the cat that ate the canary. ‘I know, I know. I couldn’t help but compensate the guy.’

  Sarah grinned. ‘I understand the context and intention, but we’ll just keep your kind act under wraps.’

  James could tell George was a good person. It was easy for someone to witness a crime and then walk away thinking someone else would help. He’d spoken with witnesses who’d had to live with their guilt because they hadn’t reported something suspicious or they’d only done so days later when it was too late for the victim.

  ‘There’s one more thing, George,’ James said. ‘What made you call us?’

  ‘If it happened to me, I’d hope someone would help.’

  ‘Ok, thanks George. Now, where’s that mean hotdog?’ James asked.

  James turned to Sarah and said quietly, ‘Interesting. Our man on the street corner strokes his hair just like our Doctor Ellison and matches his height. He also wears a fancy suit. Interesting. I wonder if it’s Ellison’s hand-tailored suit.’

  Sarah nodded. She then dated her last entry and closed her notebook. She knew that George’s eyewitness testimony might not hold up in court due to his distance from the crime, but she thanked the power of good for getting one step closer to an evil predator.

  THIRTY

  Propaganda

  Pastor Sleeman considered himself a wealthy genius. He’d progressed from high school dropout to powerful pastor who brainwashed his submissive followers.

  Born with a club foot, he had worn calipers until he was seven years old. Throughout his adult years, the scars of schoolyard teasing remained. He could still hear their taunting: ‘Here comes the cripple, here comes the cripple! Quick! Run and hide, run and hide or you’ll catch his germs!’

  Due to his parents’ guilt over their son’s disability, they’d emotionally overcompensated and frequently told him he was special. He became isolated from other children and despised their happiness. Feeling powerless as a child had driven his psychopathic fantasies. ‘One day I’ll show them I’m not just some dumb cripple. My IQ is one of the highest and they know it. They will burn in hell. They will be sorry,’ he’d promised himself.

  Many of his followers had been outcasts of society and were desperate to fit in and belong to a family. The pastor knew the power of words when preaching to the masses. ‘I work hard for God and not for reward. It is more blessed to give than to receive. Let us save the people of Vegas.’ His worshippers happily gave him whatever dollars they had in the hope that they would have everlasting salvation.

  He knew how easily they submitted and obeyed him. Not only did they hand over their bank accounts, but the elderly also named him in their wills. He had gained an empire of wealth from those who were desperately lonely and looking for salvation. His cash flow provided a luxurious lifestyle which included a hotel, golf course, penthouses, and even a private jet, all tax deductible. He told his parishioners that thanks to their generous donations, his jet helped him spread the word of God.

  He promoted group discussions rather than individual interactions, a successful strategy he had found in his research into Adolf Hitler’s speeches. Anyone who had challenged Hitler’s ideals had been quickly overruled by others in the group.

  The pastor’s followers feared retribution and alienation by speaking against him. He told them that rejecting God and his commandments led to decay and corruption of mankind. The guilt of rebellion kept his congregation faithful.

  The pastor considered his worshippers were like ants marching under his control. He would not hesitate to kill anyone who challenged him. He knew they feared him and feared burning in hell. This opened the path to submission and wealth.

  He relished the thought of becoming the U.S. president and living in the White House, with like-minded leaders, while recruiting his loyal and billionaire business associates for his mission of revenge on those who’d gone against him. They would be squashed like a bug and women would be at his mercy but for now, he had toys that provided him power and fun. His favorites were kept in a basement he called his “toy box.” The church provided him with the perfect vessel for evil, along with the opportunity to satisfy his lustful games. He knew only that his toys came from a Mr X in Manhattan.

  When the pastor ordered his toys, the victims were delivered to The Lord’s House of Therapy. The younger the toy, the higher the price.

  His hands trembled at the thought of his next toy. Murder was his dessert on the menu. He considered himself the chosen one, entitled to have anyone he desired. He was no longer the cripple. He was the one who enjoyed the vulnerability and helplessness of his victims.

  No one suspected the pastor. Despite not being Catholic, he had been an honorary guest at the Vatican where he had been awarded a medal fo
r his work with the homeless.

  The pastor was married to his teenage sweetheart, Magda, and they had one daughter, Helga. He loved to spoil his daughter and never missed a chance to play the role of doting and devoted dad at any school or family event. To outsiders, he looked like the typical family man.

  When the pastor wasn’t available for church functions, he justified to his followers, ‘I could work all day and night, but I value my beautiful family and being a good husband and father means spending precious time with them.’

  The pastor separated his predatory life from his family life, switching roles seamlessly. He owned a home for his family and The Lord’s House of Therapy, where he told everyone he conducted spiritual healing through music and dance. His family never visited The Lord’s House of Therapy; this was a strict rule. It was just one of a long list of rules that had to be obeyed. No one dared go against his rules.

  * * *

  In the beginning, Magda had revered her husband. She had even changed her name from Lorna to Magda at his request. He’d said Magda was a strong name that bestowed wisdom, courage, and positive values. She helped support his beliefs but there were times when she had an underlying fear for her safety. The fear travelled from her throat to the pit of her stomach.

  Magda was clever at hiding her true feelings and playing the loyal and happy wife. She knew that no one would understand her fear, as her husband was so skilled at manipulating others. She considered him more like a cult figure whose words would cast an evil spell for control. She knew that she would look like a liar if she ever said anything against him. At social gatherings, he would often say, ‘I have a beautiful family and staff who work tirelessly for others burdened with life stressors. I am proud of them all.’

  She knew the chilling truth behind the seemingly benign words and overly positive manner. She often experienced his sudden and frightening anger. When she disagreed with him, he squeezed his fingers around her neck. What she didn’t know was his murderous personality. A personality type that could kill her. A personality type that could squeeze the life out of her.

  * * *

  The pastor was preparing for his next toy at The Lord’s House of Therapy when he heard the buzzer from the front security gates. The routine was always the same and his excitement built.

  ‘Yes?’ the Pastor asked.

  ‘Your package has arrived, Sir.’

  ‘You know the drill.’ He opened the gates.

  Max was the best driver around. He did his job with no questions asked and the toys always arrived in one piece.

  * * *

  Max preferred to work alone, as snitching was always a danger, but with a street grab he didn’t have a choice but to hire help. His golden rule was to drop off his accomplice, with a wad of cash in his pocket, and then head to Vegas to make his delivery.

  Max drove down into the basement garage at The Lord’s House of Therapy with practiced ease. He stepped out of the van and stretched, feeling relief at completing another assignment without a glitch.

  The van appeared empty except for a few cardboard boxes. The metal flooring of the van was an illusion. He unclipped two levers and pulled out a false floor that looked like an oblong toolbox. This was no ordinary toolbox. It was designed with a mesh grid that allowed enough airflow for the victim. The toy wasn’t making a noise. There was no room to kick and fight. Instead, he was frozen with fear.

  Although Max considered himself detached from the suffering of the pastor’s victims, he did not consider himself a cold-blooded killer. He justified to himself that if he didn’t do the job, someone else would. His courier work provided him a lifestyle that others could only dream of. He had a beach house on the Californian coast, his kids went to the best schools, and his wife lived a life of extravagance. Because of this, he could depersonalize the victims and detach from any feelings for them.

  His family was oblivious to his contradictory values. After a delivery, Max always looked forward to seeing his wife, Kimberly, and his two children, Sofia and Lilly, who giggled with delight on his arrival and tore around the house playing tag, oblivious to the disturbing real-life games Daddy played.

  His wife thought he worked as a Secret Service agent for the Department of Homeland Security. His job justified spending weekends away when any of the presidential family went on vacation. She’d accepted his story without question, explaining to family, friends and social acquaintances her husband’s regular absences by saying he looked after their investment properties. She kept her word and never discussed her husband’s secret assignments with anyone, until she found a diner docket from Vegas with a date that didn’t match his story. He was supposed to be in Washington DC, working in the Oval Office but according to the docket, he’d been eating at Stallone’s Burger Bar in Vegas. Kimberly remembered his call that weekend. He’d told her about the Washington blizzard and how slippery the roads were. She knew his work was top secret, but she didn’t expect him to lie about his location, and lie so convincingly.

  Now Kimberly wondered whether to hire a private investigator to see if he was hiding a dirty little secret.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Megalomania

  Mohsen was busy distributing food parcels on the streets of Vegas and running his food kitchen. He was the imam of a mosque on the outskirts of Vegas, a charitable man who worked in the seedy Vegas alleyways and back streets helping the needy, away from the tourists who were mesmerized by the glitz and glamour of the Vegas strip.

  He recruited young Muslims and non-Muslims as volunteers to teach them the value of helping others and to foster a healthy sense of identity. Building cultural and religious bridges for world peace and unity was something Mohsen believed in. He encouraged young Muslims to integrate and harmonize with other youths their age who were non-Islamic, so they wouldn’t feel alienated or isolated because of their religion.

  Being Muslim wasn’t easy in Vegas. Occasionally he was spat on, but he held no grudges and didn’t judge anyone for being afraid. He knew it worked several ways. There were non-Muslims who feared Muslims, Muslims who feared non-Muslims, and Muslims who feared Muslims. He didn’t think too much about it. He considered life was too sweet to dwell on negativity.

  As he walked along the Vegas strip, a vehicle screeched to a halt. He stepped behind a bus shelter, hoping not to be seen. A vehicle door opened, a young girl fell out onto the sidewalk. She looked no more than twenty years old. No one stopped to help. It was as if she was invisible. She was crying and there was blood smeared under her nose.

  Before the vehicle sped off, Mohsen caught a glimpse of a man sitting in the back seat. He was sure it was pastor Sleeman, who he’d met at a charity dinner. Pastor Sleeman was the founder of the Vegas Savior’s Church. He had over two thousand followers who came for salvation every week. Among his followers were gamblers, sex addicts, alcoholics, drug addicts, and anyone else who needed saving. Some were eternally trapped in Vegas, like mice on a treadmill, making enough money to escape but unable to resist their lust for another gamble. Vegas provided the perfect environment to nurture their cycle of addiction.

  Mohsen knew that pastor Sleeman called Las Vegas the devil’s euphoria and reassured his worshippers they had the power to change their lives and receive what he called ‘religious ecstasy’, promising a shift from the devil’s strip to true enlightenment. The sign on his vehicle read, ‘The Lord God is the only truth.’ Pastor Sleeman preached morals and the evil of gambling to the most vulnerable. He spoke of redemption, forgiveness, and everlasting life.

  What does pastor Sleeman have to do with this girl? Mohsen wondered. Her arms were outstretched as she balanced on her heels, trying to get up. She wiped the tears and blood from her face as the vehicle sped off.

  Mohsen recognized her. It was Bella. She worked at a strip club and he had seen her using drugs. The last time he had spoken to her, she was trying hard to kick the habit.

  ‘Are you ok? Can I help you?’ Mohsen asked.

  ‘
I don’t need your help. I’m ok.’

  ‘Who was that man? Did he hurt you?’

  ‘Why do you care? No one else cares,’ she replied, her voice trembling.

  ‘I care because you have a right to be safe. If someone is doing this to you it has to be stopped. Please, take this food.’

  Bella could see the goodness in his eyes. She couldn’t understand why he cared and why he didn’t see her as trash.

  ‘My wife can take you to a safe house tonight.’

  ‘No, it won’t do any good. That client is dangerous. I’ve tried to get away before and he ends up finding me. It’s no use fighting it. You don’t understand.’

  Mohsen had seen it before. The girls were stripped of their self-worth and identity. Unless someone physically took them off the streets, they were forever trapped by their perpetrator’s emotional and violent control.

  ‘Was that man in the back seat the pastor?’ asked Mohsen.

  ‘Yes. He’s dangerous and totally untouchable. He said he’s entitled to do whatever he wants because he owns me. He has lots of money and knows lots of people.’ As she spoke, she looked around fearfully.

  ‘But Bella, how do you know the pastor?’

  ‘The owner of my strip club told me that he knew a pastor who could help me get off the drugs. I went to church and met him. He said he was God’s overseer and he called me the chosen one. He said I had to fulfil my destiny by satisfying God’s overseer. He beats me if I don’t follow his orders. How could I have believed him! How could I be so stupid.’

  ‘You’re not stupid. He betrayed your trust in the worst possible way. This man doesn’t define who you are. You must go to the police.’

  ‘The pastor mixes with people in high places. He can shut anyone up with money. He brags about his hush money. You don’t understand. He doesn’t drop off food parcels; he drops off…bodies.’