The Sunshine State

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”[asked Alice]. “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat. “I don’t care much where,“ said Alice. . . . “so long as I get somewhere.” “Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if only you walk long enough.” – Lewis Carroll

Chapter Ten

Clearwater, Florida, February 2009

It was the early morning of February 5, 2009. The following day, I’d arrive in the Gulf Coast city. Clearwater lies in a beautiful region of Florida. Adjacent Clearwater Beach boasts sugar-sand beaches, sparkling clear water, and the Guinness World Record for the longest run of continuous sunshine. Downtown Clearwater, however—home to the Church of Scientology’s worldwide headquarters—is literally Scientology central: the religion’s buildings and businesses dominate the cityscape. Wearing wait-staff-like uniforms—white shirts and black slacks—devout Scientologists robotically parade between Church-owned structures with painted-over windows. Overhead, security cameras scan the streets and sidewalks. In my mind, the yet unvisited Clearwater area was a frightful beauty with an inky black core.

My attorney, Ken Dandar, was instructing me on the necessary precautions. “You’ll have to stay in your hotel room if we’re not together,” he warned. “It’s not safe for you to walk about freely on your own down here. When you do leave your room, it’s important you stay in an open place with other people close by. It’ll be easier to scan the crowd and see what’s going on around you. Just don’t let yourself be alone with their people.”

Sitting in my kitchen in Virginia, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, I sipped at my Earl Grey tea.

“This is all new to you, I know,” he said. “It’ll be difficult to understand how ruthless OSA [Scientology’s Office of Special Affairs] operates. You became an enemy the day you started asking questions about Kyle’s death. You’re about to become an even bigger enemy.”

Arriving late February 6, I’d leave the next day. Ken thought it best to keep my stay brief: I’d get in and out as quickly as possible. We’d have just enough time to meet in person and have our conference with retired police investigator Ray Emmons. (I suspected that Ken had several questions about me. How would I carry myself in front of a jury? And, more importantly, would I be able to persevere through the turmoil that comes with litigating against the Church of Scientology?)     

“They used to follow Lisa McPherson’s aunties, Dell Leibreich and Ann Carlson,” said Ken. “Every time the ‘old ladies’ flew into Tampa International to meet with us, the parasites would be waiting, trailing us through the terminal. They have ways of finding information—what flight you’re on and the hotel you’re staying at. They’ll turn up where you’d least expect.”

I’d be staying in downtown Tampa at the Intercontinental Hotel. The Howard Frankland Bridge across Old Tampa Bay would separate me from nearby Clearwater. Hopefully, that would be enough distance.

 “I don’t know how they do it, but they do,” Ken continued. “You’re going to have to assume that they’re on to us about the pending lawsuit, and they’re unhappy about it. Last week, Ray was followed and run off the road after leaving my office.”

Listening intently to Ken’s monologue, I gazed outside at the dreary February landscape.

“You also have to watch for who you sit next to on the plane. On one flight, Dell and Ann spotted one of their OSA operatives across the aisle with a camera partially hidden in the folds of his jacket. It was pointed directly at them.”

I bit into my wheat toast. It was dry. 

“Do you understand what you’re getting into here?” he asked. “There isn’t going to be anything easy about this. It’s going to be a long, hard fight. This is how it is when you stand up to the Church of Scientology. Once we begin, there’ll be no turning back. Are you strong enough to endure the fight? It’ll be the most difficult battle you’ll ever have.”

Ken was wrong about the most difficult battle. That’s one I’d already confronted—the reality that my son was no longer among the living. I’d learned much about life since Kyle’s death. How fragile and random it is, like a delicate porcelain teacup teetering on the edge of a high shelf. One small bump propels it downward. In shatters, it no longer resembles its former self.

***

I stood alone at the airport terminal pick-up spot. It was surreal being in Tampa. And I wasn’t bothering with Ken’s advice. Looking over my shoulder—studying everyone close to me on the plane and in the airport—seemed a tremendous waste of time. If OSA wanted to follow me, so be it. My heart was already burdened enough without worrying about a flock of overzealous Scientologists.

The curb was bustling, lined with taxis, buses, and private vehicles. Engine noise, exhaust fumes, and hurried conversations filled the air.  

Ken pulled up, driving a bright cherry-red Hummer. I recognized him from an interview I’d watched on YouTube from his Lisa McPherson days. Jumping out of the driver’s seat, he rushed around the back to greet me with a hug.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said with warmth and enthusiasm. “I hate that it’s under these circumstances, but we’re going to do our best for Kyle.”

“Is that it?” he asked after loading my lone bag. “You travel light; maybe you can give my wife some pointers… Let’s get out of here!”

Although this was our first meeting, I felt like I’d known him for years. We’d already had plenty of phone conversations. He comes across as affable, composed, and calm. With his broad face—one that more readily smiles than frowns—Ken Dandar doesn’t seem to take himself all that seriously. I liked him immediately.

I opened the vehicle’s heavy door and precariously climbed up into the passenger seat. When the hatch was shut, I was encased within 8,000 pounds of steel, the biggest and baddest-looking vehicle to ever deploy across America’s upscale communities.

“So, I guess you’re a Republican?” I asked light-heartedly. “This is the first time I’ve ever ridden in one of these.”  

“I am a Republican!” he shot back in an exaggerated tone (obviously playing along). “That was a lucky guess, Victoria.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” I replied. “Who else outside of the military would ever drive one of these tanks?” (I was thinking about how these gas-guzzlers had fallen from grace the previous year when gas prices hit four dollars a gallon.)

“Do you get dirty looks from people when you’re driving this monster?” “Dirty looks?” he exclaimed laughingly. “I get the middle finger on a daily basis! That sharp turn we took back there probably cost me twenty dollars in gas!” 

“I guess the moral of the story,” I said, gazing out the window, “is that they weren’t meant to be driven off the battlefield.” 

“When I was involved in Lisa’s case,” he added, all kidding aside, “I was followed, harassed, and secretly photographed by those fiends. . . for years. Driving in this vehicle makes me feel safer. And, as far as battlefields go . . . we’re driving past one right now. Welcome to Clearwater, Victoria.”  

We drove within safe viewing distance of Scientology’s inner sanctum. The Church-owned edifices seemed to be everywhere. Ken pointed them out to me, naming them from memory. And there she was, the Fort Harrison Hotel, the Church’s flagship building. First opened in 1926—named for a Seminole War-era U.S. fort—the city block-spanning structure contains 220 rooms, three restaurants, a swimming pool, and a large ballroom. Atop its 11 stories, the orange-capped roof is a study in contrast against the gorgeous azure-blue sky. You can’t miss it. It’s a constant reminder to the citizens of Clearwater—what this town once was and what it could have been if Scientology had never dropped anchor just offshore. It saddened me to look across the city where Kyle had spent his final days.

“Would you like to go downtown and see the building where Kyle died?” asked Ken (immediately realizing he’d gone too far).

“I’m not strong enough for that today,” I answered after a moment’s silence. “It took every bit of my being just to get on the plane. Seeing the building would undo me completely. We’ll have to save that for another day.”  

With a worried look, he said he understood. Then he said he’d drive me to my hotel.

“Did I mention that Luke Lirot can’t be with us?” he added, his voice suddenly more upbeat. “He’s in Texas defending a client, a strip club owner, for something that went down in one of his clubs. You probably don’t need to hear the fine details on that one.”

I nodded in agreement. How differently these two lawyers plied their trade!

My hotel—the Intercontinental, near the city center—was a sleek glass pillar fronting West Kennedy Boulevard, a busy Tampa thoroughfare. The light-filled lobby was cavernous—the constant sound of guests’ high heels echoed as they traversed the polished marble.

I’d booked the room in my maiden name (something Ken had suggested). When the congenial young concierge told me my room was ready and slid the room card across the wooden counter, I asked if he could do me a favor. (I thought I’d use a bit of subterfuge in case OSA was following me.)

“I’m embarrassed to admit this,” I said, “but I’m somewhat superstitious. The room number you gave me is a bad luck number for me. Would it be possible to put me in another room? I don’t mind paying a little extra. Also, I can’t have an adjoining room connected to mine. I’d appreciate it if you could help me out.”

 “Okaaay,” he responded after an awkward silence—I noticed one of his eyebrows rise ever so slightly—“let’s see what I can do. . . .”

“You’re in luck, Ma’am,” he said, staring at his monitor, “I believe I’ve found something for you. How about this room number?”

“Perfect,” I said, examining the new card. “This is actually one of my lucky numbers. . . . One last request. If anyone should call asking if I’m staying in this hotel, please say no.” 

“Sure, no problem,” he exclaimed with a sigh of exasperation.

“Very good,” I said, gathering my belongings and the key card. “Just needed confirmation.” 

***

It was mid-morning Saturday; the breezy lobby was buzzing with activity. Hotel guests were keeping a new set of concierges busy behind the paneled counter. After looking around to see if anyone seemed suspicious and spotting nothing unusual, I again questioned whether Ken’s concerns were an overreaction, a side effect of spending years in litigation with the Church of Scientology.

It was going to be a long day, and it wasn’t going to be easy. Ray had combed over the police report, and, in agreement with lawyer Lirot’s earlier assessment, he’d found major issues he wanted to discuss with me in person. Adding to the suspense, Luke told me that some things just couldn’t be addressed over the telephone.

This left me in the dark for a couple of weeks. In my mind, this secrecy signaled that it was much worse than I’d feared. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be prepared to hear the details of Kyle’s last moments. I wanted to fast forward the day so I could be sitting in the airplane heading back home.

I was standing at the lobby doors, my well-worn briefcase in hand—it contained my notes and diaries from 2006 and 2007—when the unmissable Hummer pulled up close to the curb. I darted outside to greet Ken, my chauffeur and companion for the day. When he helped me up and into the Hummer, he asked if I’d noticed anything unusual at the hotel. I hadn’t.

We drove to Ken’s office on Gray Street in Tampa, all the while discussing the plans for the day. Ray would meet us at Ken’s in an hour.

A major business center on Tampa Bay, the city features predictably gridded streets lined with towering palms. Although it’s also a cultural center, Tampa—with its layout and little box-like homes—seemed flat and square.   

“I want to apologize ahead of time for how unorganized my office is,” Ken told me. “I just moved in not long ago. It’s the perfect place for me . . . especially now, with my being involved with you and Kyle.”

We pulled into a parking lot alongside a nondescript wooden building.

“See that place across the way?” asked Ken, pointing.

I gazed over at the four-story structure. The signage declaring that it was a Federal Bureau of Investigation field office boasted an unusually large emblem, something I immediately recognized from an old television show I’d watched growing up, The F.B.I. starring Efrem Zimbalist Jr. A camera above the guard house—one of many—was aimed directly at the slim parking space where Ken now guided his vehicle, the Hummer spilling over the lines into the adjoining spaces.

“Do you see the cameras?” he asked. “Some of them are aimed directly at my office building. That’s why I always park right here. We want those cameras on us, Victoria. It gives us protection against the cult.”

The office was crowded. Stacked in corners were sealed boxes waiting to be unpacked. Ken ushered me into a large conference room. Neatly decorated with framed artwork, it featured a long, gleaming mahogany table. As I sat down, Ken asked if I minded being alone as he needed time to get organized.

As he spoke, the front door banged shut.

“It’s only me, Ken,” Ray announced loudly. (He’d arrived early.) “Do you want me to lock this thing so we don’t get any surprise visitors?” 

A seasoned policeman, Ray Emmons looked exactly as I’d imagined him. Dressed in a plaid shirt—one that only accentuated the extra weight around the middle—he sported a ball cap that read “Here’s a Salt of the Earth Guy.” He was obviously a no-nonsense, unflinching, old-fashioned investigator.  

After joining the Clearwater Police Department in 1968, Ray spent the bulk of his twenty-five-year career as a vice and intelligence sergeant. In 1981, he began an assignment that would become his legacy—an investigation of the Church of Scientology. (Six years earlier, in 1975, they’d arrived just offshore, in the Gulf of Mexico. With a telescope aimed directly at Clearwater’s sandy white beaches, the organization started buying up downtown buildings under a fake name.) In 1983, Emmons produced a 10-volume report denouncing the Church as a criminal money-making enterprise. Well-researched and comprehensive, it exposed the intricacies of Scientology’s structure, its spy tactics, and the shady financial dealings of its founder, L. Ron Hubbard. Although the Emmons Report didn’t result in criminal charges, it certainly put Ray Emmons in Scientology’s sights. The Church hired people to tail him. They stole his trash, and they bugged his home phone.

Ray said hello and was pleased to meet me finally.

“I’m a father, and I love my daughters more than life itself,” Ray told me gruffly, “just as you do, Kyle. I can’t imagine how you must feel. You need to know before we begin that I’m with you all the way. You can call me if you ever need a friend to talk to—it doesn’t matter what time of day or night. Did you have any problems with anyone on your trip down here? Did you notice if anyone followed you?”

I shook my head.

“You’re going to have to be strong to get through this,” he continued. “I will tell you things today that no parent should ever have to hear. I’m sorry I have to do this.”

Across from me, Ken sat down with a blank legal pad, a pen poised in his right hand. Papers and files fanned out across the table. Ray took the lead, opening a large notebook containing a copy of the Clearwater Police Report regarding my son’s death. 

Silence momentarily filled the conference room—and then Ray began: “I’ve never seen such a sloppy, disjointed, and unprofessional report in all my days as an investigator.” Ken agreed.

“We’re going to ask you some questions about your conversations with Detective Stephen Bohling,” said Ray. “We’ll sit back and take notes. You tell us what you know, and I will tell you what I found in the report. Hopefully, by the end of the day, we can make some sense of this tragedy. I’m not making promises, but we’re going to try. Because Scientology is involved, of course, the sad truth is some questions may never be answered.”

“I’m not certain how much you’ve been told,” Ray continued, his voice laced with concern, “but I’m going to cut to the chase and just say it. I’m deeply troubled with what I’ve read.”

“What room were you told Kyle died in?” he asked, getting right down to business.

“The family was told that he died in his room, Kyle’s room.”

Ray glanced at Ken with a knowing look.

“In the report, it says he was found in his father’s room.”

I shook my head in confusion.

“Bohling gave me specific and detailed information in my first conversation with him. He told me he was looking for a Scientologist who’d been staying in the room. This guy was away for a while, so Brennan let Kyle stay there.”

Looking down, I opened my briefcase. 

“I have his name written down in my notes,” I said, flipping through my papers. “Here it is–a guy named Eddie Childers. Kyle’s father told me that some of Childers’s belongings were still boxed up in the room. Bohling told me he was looking for Childers. Bohling said he wanted to ask about the weapon in Brennan’s apartment and ask Childers if he recalled seeing it in the drawer where Brennan said he’d stored it.”

(Unfortunately, this was the last I heard of Eddie Childers. There’s no mention of any interview with him in the police report. Or if there was ever one conducted.)

“We could try to find this Childers character and get him deposed,” said Ray. “But, is there any point? He’s just going to lie.”

Lying and Scientology—therein lies the rub. Scientologists believe they’re the saviors of humankind. According to Hubbard (in “Keeping Scientology Working”): “We’re not playing some minor game in Scientology. . . . The whole agonized future of this planet, every Man, Woman, and Child on it, and your own destiny for the next endless trillions of years depend on what you do here and now with and in Scientology. This is a deadly serious activity.” Scientologists are indoctrinated to think that their religion is the only way forward. They’re taught, wrote Mike Rinder: “That if Scientology is flourishing, then every person, every family, every group, mankind and even animals and the environment will flourish. . . . If it is good for Scientology, it increases survival . . . and thus it must be good. This is the equation that justifies not only lying but harming people so long as it is for the benefit of Scientology.” (See http://www.mikerindersblog.org/why-do-scientologists-lie/.)

The discussion quickly moved on. They were hitting on all of the police report’s inaccuracies. Each of these points felt like a stab to the heart.

“Ray,” said Ken, “do you think Kyle was moved after he died, and that’s where the laundry basket comes into play?” (In the Clearwater apartment, Kyle had been found on the floor, his head inside a plastic hamper.)

Ray shook his head matter-of-factly.

“I don’t see that here, Ken,” he said, staring down at police photos. “And the room they’re claiming was Kyle’s looks staged to me. Remember, we’re dealing with Scientology here . . . there’s going to be a lot of things that don’t make sense. You know this case is going to make some of the residents of Clearwater very uncomfortable when it goes to trial.”

“It seems someone put Kyle’s head in that laundry basket to help them cut back on clean-up time,” said Ken matter-of-factly. “

Ray paused momentarily, then nodded.

The thought that some Scientologists had scrubbed clean the apartment after Kyle’s death was nauseating. But—with what I’d learned about Scientology since Kyle’s passing—it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. The organization’s dictatorial control over its followers is deeply disturbing, immoral, and dangerous.

They’ve been told by the founder that, in the pursuance of Scientology’s goals, Scientologists often lose track of the boundary separating right from wrong. It’s perfectly acceptable to step across that dividing line. They’ve been taught that the collective—the Church—comes before them, before their families, and sometimes even before the lives of their children.

Ray turned to me with a serious expression: “Did you tell that fool, Tom Brennan, that Kyle was coming home on Monday?”

I shook my head no.

“Then why would the bed linens be stripped?” Ray asked.

“Something happened in that room, and they disposed of them,” answered Ken. “Maybe that’s why they were missing. . . . Kyle’s bags were packed as if he was leaving that evening, not three days later.”

“It says in the report here that a Sgt. McAuley went into the room and looked around,” Ray added. “And yet there’s nothing in the report filed by him, just a reference written by Clearwater policeman Jonathan Yuen.”

Yuen was one of the first officers to arrive at Brennan’s apartment that night. At the time, he’d only been with the department for eighteen months. He’d been hired right out of college. Despite this fact, however—and even though higher-ranking officers were also present—Yuen was placed in charge of the death scene.

The two men continued conversing as if I wasn’t there. In a sense, I wasn’t—I was rapidly descending into a dark void. A well of darkness and despair was closing in. I was hoping my quiet countenance masked my psychological tumble.

“You’re going to have to be strong, kid,” said Ray, pulling me back into the conference room, back into the here and now. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. Can you stay strong for Kyle?”

“Can we take a break for a few minutes so I can gather myself?” I asked.

“Let’s take five, Ken,” said Ray. “I see a cookie jar over there that needs some attention. Don’t tell my wife about this, Victoria. I’m a diabetic, and she wouldn’t approve of me dipping into a cookie jar.” 

Collecting myself, I gazed at the clock, counting the minutes until it would be over. In just a few hours, I’d be at the airport heading back home.

“You holding up, kid?” asked Ray, sensing my weariness. I said I was fine, but I didn’t fool Ray. He’d been trained to spot a lie.

“Ken,” he said, gazing at me sympathetically, “let’s go for another hour or so and call it a day. We can go over the pertinent areas now and do the rest by phone. We can’t cover the whole case in one day.”

Holding a stack of chocolate chip cookies, the sergeant seated himself in the chair next to mine.  

 “Let’s discuss the weapon that was found in the apartment,” he said. “Did Kyle have any knowledge of it? It says in the police report that he didn’t.”

“He knew about it,” I said. “He’d found it earlier while staying at his father’s with his older brother Sean. In 2005 and 2006, the boys visited Fort Myers, Florida, for an extended period with my ex. Sean had just returned to the States after serving overseas in the U.S. Army. Sean remembered this gun because Kyle showed it to him and asked him to identify it. He told Kyle it was a Taurus, a model many police officers use. Kyle had found it inside a nightstand, stored in a small bag. Sean said it startled him, so he took it from Kyle and checked the chamber to make certain it wasn’t loaded.”

“Was it?” asked Ray.

“No,” I said. “And there was no ammunition in the bag either. This was a concern of Sean’s, and he told me that he asked his father about it later in the day. When his father said there wasn’t any, Sean searched the apartment to make certain.”

“Okay,” responded Ray. “Ken, I’ll run a check with all the gun and ammo shops in Clearwater. We know Kyle didn’t buy it; he wasn’t twenty-one. Let’s see if we can learn when and where Brennan purchased the ammunition. Let’s hope he didn’t use cash.”

As Ray and Ken continued talking and exchanging notes, I found myself detached—again. Was the gun that Kyle found stashed at Brennan’s place in Fort Myers the same one that killed him in Clearwater?

Something reeled me back in. Rummaging through my faded briefcase, I pulled out my gun-related notes and slid them in Ray’s direction.

“What else did Sean say about Brennan having a weapon?” asked Ken.

“He said Brennan wasn’t living in the safest of areas. The boys told me that the house had been broken into a couple of times. He also had a steady stream of boarders coming and going.”

“What did Detective Bohling say to you about the ammunition?” asked Ray. “Did you discuss it with him?” 

“I asked him about it several times. My husband, Rick, and Kyle’s oldest brother also did. We wanted Bohling to question Tom Brennan about it.”

“In March, a couple of weeks after Kyle died,” I continued, “his brother spoke with the detective first. One of the questions he asked was, ‘When was the ammunition purchased’? Bohling said that Brennan told him it came with the gun. We also asked about a gunpowder residue test—if one had been done on Kyle’s hands. Bohling told us that Kyle’s hands had not been tested, and they’d never processed the scene or the weapon for fingerprints.” 

“That wasn’t true, Victoria,” said Ken. “The detective lied to you and your family.”

That information hit hard. A dark abyss opened up beneath me as I reflected on the last moments of my son’s life—the terror that must have raced through him. Then I was racked with guilt: I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most. I wanted to slide off the chair and disappear into the floor.

The conference room was deadly quiet.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“They didn’t find any prints on the weapon or any of the other items tested,” said Ray. “On anything.”

“How can that be?” I asked.

“That’s what we need to find out.”    

I spoke with Bohling in April after Kyle died and asked him to question Brennan about the ammunition. Weeks passed without hearing from him. When I contacted him again and asked about the ammunition, he was rude. This was when I realized I’d have to hire a lawyer to get our questions answered.

“Let’s back up,” said Ray. “What did Bohling say to you when you asked him if he’d questioned Kyle’s father about the ammunition?”

“Detective Bohling told me there was no law in Florida prohibiting Brennan from buying it. As far as he was concerned, if Brennan went out and bought it on the day Kyle died, came home and threw it on the bed, and told Kyle he could play with it, that would be fine.”

Dumbfounded, the two stared at me.

“Was Kyle left-handed or right-handed?” Ray asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Right-handed.”

“Did anybody even ask you this question during the investigation?”

When I answered no, Ray shook his head in disbelief. Ken rolled his eyes. I sat poised at the edge of my chair, trying to process what their reactions meant.

“Did they ever ask you to identify Kyle’s handwriting or ask you for a sample?”

“No.”

“And the bullet that killed Kyle,” said Ray. “I can’t believe no one on the scene that night thought to look for it.”

“Well,” Ray said in a somber voice, “I’ve never in my life seen an investigation that parallels this one. Kyle deserved better than this. There was a time when being a homicide detective meant being a voice for the victim. This is a travesty, perhaps even criminal. I apologize for this as a former officer of the Clearwater Police Department. I’m going to do my best to get to the bottom of this. Detective Bohling has some hard questions coming his way.”

“Are you holding up okay, Victoria?” asked Ken. “We can stop now if it’s too much. I know this isn’t easy.”

“Let’s just get through this. I’ll be okay.”

“Let’s wrap this up,” said Ray. “Here’s my conclusion: The bullet that killed Kyle wasn’t found. A GSR test was withheld from testing. Ken, we need to find out what happened to that test—make certain it hasn’t gone missing. Brennan’s hands went untested. Every piece of evidence bagged for fingerprints came back negative. That doesn’t happen.”

“By the evidence presented,” he said after a pause, “and because of what’s not presented . . . we really don’t know who pulled the trigger in that apartment.”

Silence. I absorbed that information. I could hear the clock ticking and feel my heart pounding.

“It appears that Kyle was standing when he was shot,” he continued. “I don’t think his head conveniently fell into a laundry basket, not if he was standing. The missing bullet would have told us the trajectory path. Without it, we have a problem discerning exactly where the shooter was standing when the weapon was fired. Also, there were no fingerprints found on the spent casing.”

Ken rubbed his brow in disbelief and agitation. 

“Ray,” he interjected, “the medics were the first to arrive, so we don’t know if the casing and weapon were moved before the police got there. That’s another problem. And there’s no formal interview of Brennan. Why do they have the Gentiles’ interview recorded but not Brennan’s?”

Officer Yuen had questioned Brennan but later—contrary to standard police practices—destroyed his interview notes. Denise Miscavige Gentile—David Miscavige’s twin—had been Tom Brennan’s Scientology auditor or spiritual advisor. It’s inconceivable, but the night Kyle died, Brennan called her for advice before dialing 911. Denise and her husband, Gerald, immediately rushed over to Brennan’s apartment. They were there before the paramedics and police arrived. How long had they been there? What were they doing there? Were other Scientologists present? Those are but a few of the crucial unanswered questions.

“Can we assume Paul Johnson had something to do with that?” Ken added with a laugh. Johnson was Tom Brennan’s legal counsel, a high-dollar representative who was also the Church of Scientology’s in-house attorney. With the help of OSA, he’d lawyered up pretty quickly after Kyle died. How could Tom Brennan—making next to nothing working for the Church of Scientology—have afforded Johnson’s services? Another important question.

“Victoria,” said Ray in a serious tone, “did you find anything of importance in Kyle’s belongings that were sent home?”

“Kyle’s belongings were mailed to his older brother’s home,” I replied. “When he told me about it, I asked him to search through Kyle’s things—between the pages of books, inside the pockets of his clothing—not to leave anything unexamined. As a result, we found photographs of an apartment fire that involved his father back in Virginia and a few pictures of Kyle’s camping tent on a beach in Maui. He was on Maui for six days; two were spent at a resort, and in the last four, he camped on the beach. There were also saved voice messages in his cellphone from his father.”

“The message seemed significant,” I continued, “was of Brennan telling Kyle that the vitamins he’d bought him were the only things he needed to help him.” In other words, Kyle should be ingesting B complex and calcium magnesium compounds instead of taking his prescribed medication. This point of view—anti-psychiatry and pro-vitamin regimen—is typical of Scientologists. In 1973, Hubbard announced a technical breakthrough of his, one with which Scientologists could “take over mental therapy in full.” It involved isolation, muzzling (no talking), vitamins and minerals, tranquilizers—if necessary—and then regular Scientology auditing. He called this program one of the “major discoveries of the Twentieth Century.” (See Janet Reitman, Inside Scientology, The Story of America’s Most Secretive Religion, page 208.)

“It was definitely Kyle’s father’s voice we were hearing. He sounded antagonistic and angry. We knew this must have been very upsetting to Kyle. It certainly was to us back home.”

“The other things you found, fire photos?” asked Ray.

“Yeah, the Ivy Gardens fire. Kyle had the negatives, along with the photographs, hidden inside a DVD movie case of ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’”

At this, the two men erupted into some much-needed laughter.

“Yeah, Kyle had a quirky sense of humor.” (It pleased me to think that others were amused by his wittiness.)

Tom Brennan and I had a successful catering business when Kyle was growing up. When we separated in 1998, my attorney worked out an agreement wherein I’d receive my yearly salary and part of the profits instead of alimony until Kyle reached the age of eighteen. After that, I wanted nothing from Tom Brennan.

Brennan didn’t like the arrangement. He started embezzling money from the business, tens of thousands of dollars. The accountant told me that the IRS might step in. Kyle’s older brother, who was working for Brennan, told me the same thing. Soon after, Brennan moved the company’s computer and business files to his Ivy Gardens apartment. And it wasn’t long before a fire destroyed everything in the four-apartment unit.

The fire marshal said a lit cigarette had been tossed into a wastepaper basket in Brennan’s home office. Thank goodness nobody was killed or injured. The IRS, not having adequate information to audit the business, settled with him for a $13,000 payment. When a million-dollar lawsuit was leveled against Brennan by the apartment management company, he filed for bankruptcy.

Suddenly the questions started coming faster: “What did the detective tell you about this ‘Jerry’ character when you spoke with him?” asked Ken.

“Not much. . . . We didn’t know who Jerry was. We were confused because Bohling told us he was in the apartment and had a right to be there. This is why we thought he was Brennan’s roommate.”

“He told you that Jerry was in the apartment?” Ken was incredulous.

“Absolutely, he said that to me, Rick, and Kyle’s brother. When we first asked who Jerry was, Detective Bohling wouldn’t say. He referred to him simply as ‘some Scientology guy.’ When I called in April, I learned that Eddie Childers was Brennan’s roommate, but he wasn’t near the apartment the night Kyle died. When I asked about Jerry, he finally gave me his full name—Gerald Gentile.”

I got upset when I heard this. I had no idea who this person was and what he was doing in that apartment. Why weren’t his hands tested for gunpowder residue? It didn’t make any sense to me. The more questions I asked, the more agitated Bohling became. It seemed like he wanted Kyle’s family to disappear.

“Ken,” said Ray, “how about I stop with my questions after we cover the computer a little bit? My lunch is overdue and I have my wife waiting for me back home. I’m sure Victoria is ready for a break.”

“So, what about Kyle’s computer?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and launched into this sordid sidebar: When Kyle was traveling, he brought a lot of stuff with him, including his laptop computer. After he died, Kyle’s belongings were sent to his brother’s condo, not to my home. It made me question if someone other than Tom mailed them.

When the computer arrived, Kyle’s sister-in-law opened it to look at his schoolwork. Kyle took a lot of pride in his writing: he saved everything. When she turned it on, she noted that someone had opened files a couple of hours after Kyle died; this would have been in the early morning of Saturday, February 17.

The computer files were missing, gone. They were deleted on February 22nd, the day it was mailed back to Virginia. As you can imagine, we were troubled by this, so we contacted the Clearwater Police Department and told them about it. This information traveled back to Kyle’s father by way of the detective. Tom Brennan called the house in a panic, asking what was happening with the computer. When the question was turned on him—“You tell us what happened to the computer”—he hung up the phone and was never heard from again.  

“I don’t believe Jerry is the one who actually had the computer,” said Ray.

Ken stated that it had probably quickly passed into the hands of the Church of Scientology. “If the contents of the computer showed Kyle in a good light, they’d destroy that. Someone was covering their bases, thinking ahead.”

“You know damn well OSA jumped in there even before the police arrived,” said Ray, obviously agitated. “We know Kyle was alive at 10:30, and if the call for help didn’t get sounded until after midnight, there’s a lot of time for nefarious activity in that apartment.”

“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” said the veteran policeman, rising from his seat and eyeing the clock on the wall. “I’m going to head out, Victoria, and leave you in Ken’s care. I hope you don’t mind, but I will be calling you a lot in the future. We’re going to become good friends. I want to get a picture of Kyle if you don’t mind. I’d like to place him near my computer, next to Lisa McPherson.”

***

Walking with Ken along Tampa’s upscale pedestrian mall, I noticed men of various ages and sizes dressed in pirate costumes. Some had on cheaply made pirate hats, while others—wearing striped pants, red sashes, and eye patches—looked like they’d stepped off the set of “Pirates of the Caribbean.” Typical of the buccaneer stereotype, some of them were loud and obnoxious. Eyeing the passersby, a few were sitting at an outdoor cafe—tankards of ale and half-eaten sandwiches scattered across the tabletops. Around their necks, they were wearing strings of multi-colored plastic beads. Because they exhibited various stages of inebriation, the area seemed more like a barroom at closing time than a high-end shopping center on a Saturday afternoon.

“What’s with all the pirates, Ken?”

I discovered we’d stumbled into the tail end of the Gasparilla Festival, a big deal in Tampa. Each year, the city pays tribute to a fictitious pirate named José Gaspar. From the 1780s to the 1820s, he supposedly roamed and plundered throughout the Gulf of Mexico from his base in western Florida.

“Yeah, so every year Tampa reenacts a pirate invasion,” said Ken. “The mayor surrenders the city to the pirate captain, and then we have a parade, and everyone gets drunk. Sometimes, the pirates are drunk even before the parade begins; that makes it a bit more interesting.”

I explained that back in Charlottesville, the only festival we celebrate with copious amounts of alcohol is Foxfield, a day filled with steeplechase races and tailgating alongside the track.

“Wait, are you saying your neighborhood is more refined than mine?” asked Ken with a smile.

“Not at all!” I responded. “Whether it’s pirates drinking beer or frat boys drinking Virginia Gentlemen, they all end up drunk. Bow ties or pirate hats—it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

“Okay,” laughed Ken. “If you’d like, you can go shopping at Nieman’s while I go have lunch. It’s just down the way a bit.”

“No thanks, I’m coming with you! And I hope you’re buying because these days I’m lucky if I can shop at Target.”   

We sat down in an open-air restaurant featuring dark wooden tables and linen napkins. I wasn’t hungry. I was still shaken up by the things I’d heard in the meeting. A neatly dressed waitress took Ken’s order.

Soon, a large plate of kettle chips sprinkled with blue cheese appeared. He said he shouldn’t be eating this stuff, then helped himself to a heaping portion. That’s when I remembered something I’d been told about Ken. The Lisa McPherson case had been so stressful, evidently, that he had to undergo triple bypass surgery. The Scientology attorneys—like their clients, demonstrating no empathy—swooped in, demanding that he make a court appearance while still in recovery. They were relentless. Frail and unsteady, Ken had to lean on the plaintiff’s table; he could barely hold himself upright during the proceedings.     

I asked him if he wanted to finish up. It was fairly quiet there, and I hadn’t noticed anyone following us.

“If you want to move forward with a lawsuit,” he said, “the Church of Scientology is going to be looking under rocks to find any and all information about you. If there’s something bad, any kind of dirt, they’re going to find it, and they’ll use it against you. So, I need to ask you if you’ve ever been arrested.”

“Nope.”

“How about drugs or alcohol? Any problems?”

“No,” I responded laughingly, thinking of all the ribbing I’d gotten over the years. “Not so much as a puff off a cigarette.”

“Wow, you’re pretty boring!”

That’s it?” he asked. “I’m not going to get surprised by a police record you don’t want me to know about?”

“No worries. It’s not going to happen.”

“They’ll come after Kyle, Victoria, and he’s not here to tell his side of the story. That’s where you’re going to need strength. You’ll have to relive the worst day of your life over and over again. You need to ask yourself if you can do it. There’s nothing wrong with not being able to. Most couldn’t. Do you want some time to think about it?”

“I’ve made up my mind,” I answered. “It was made up within the first half-hour of our meeting this morning. Let’s do it! Maybe we can get some answers. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

***

Positioning myself in one of the few comfortable chairs in the Tampa International Airport, I looked around. I was taking Ken’s advice. There was nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of OSA. For a moment, I couldn’t help but reflect on Kyle’s last trip home. He’d passed this way, cold and alone, resting in an airplane’s cargo hold—his final journey. Now, a different image of Kyle flashed before me, momentarily giving me the comfort I needed. Smiling—his handsome face scrubbed clean—it was a vision filled with love and peacefulness. His happy expression soon receded; however, the fading likeness quickly formed a stark contrast to the battle being waged within my mind’s darkest corners.

I awaited the boarding announcement, surrounded by the airport’s hurried comings and goings. One family was rushing to the baggage carousel. A much younger couple most certainly looked lost. Sitting opposite me, an elderly gentleman casually flipped through his newspaper. Lulled to sleep by the incessant chatter, a small child stretched across her uncomfortable mother. Long queues snaked through the terminal—at the check-in desk and in front of fast-food restaurants.

Across the way, a touristy gift shop was filled with key chains, colorful T-shirts, stacks of saltwater taffy, and racks of postcards—all emblazoned with “The Sunshine State,” the Florida state tagline. Inside the store, a gaggle of bystanders glared disapprovingly while a youngster loudly howled at her parents. Although she refused to release her tight grip, they obviously had no intention of buying her that coveted plush pink flamingo.  

From the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar word scrolling across a nearby LED sign. With heightened interest, I watched the predictable information roll by, everything the weary traveler could want—the time, the outside temperature, “Welcome to Tampa.” And then I saw it, panning by in slow motion: “To Members of the Church of Scientology, Clearwater Welcomes You.”

Copyright © 2026 Victoria L. Britton

Dedicated to the memory of Raymond L. Emmons

1942-2017

https://www.pulitzer.org/article/when-scientology-came-town

https://thetruthforkylebrennan.com