Where’s the Money? 

But first, he needed money. 

And, without money, his chances were slim to nonexistent. 

In late 2004 Rathbun was 48 years old. He had no references given his long history of dereliction of his Church external affairs duties as well as his violence against Church staffers. 

He was a zero—a cipher as seen against the backdrop of society. That is, any lawful or rational society.

The day after he walked away from the Church for the last time, Rathbun called his wife from Orlando where the bus from Tampa had dropped him. 

There was no regret, no hint of guilt or self-examination, not even a token semblance of remorse. 

There was just a calculated indifference to the woman he so abruptly left.

There was also along with a matter-of-fact request for a contact number that would be necessary for the halving of marital assets and transferring of an inheritance from his father, Slade—the father that he had never gotten along with but, now, whose money Rathbun was happy to take and gladly spend.

After getting those ducks in a row, Rathbun—armed with a credit card—started off on a ramble that would take him north to Georgia, up through the Carolinas, over to Louisiana and across to the barrier islands of the Texas Gulf.

He was a drifter—aimless in his travels with the recurrent thought that Church members would ask him to come back, even plead with him. 

They were the thoughts of a fantasist—one who thinks the whole world is going to come to him. 

Instead, the whole world is content to carry on without him. 

Rathbun was on the road for just shy of six weeks—staying in hotels while splashing out on roadhouse dinners and Blockbuster video nights. 

By the end of January 2005 Rathbun was living in Port Isabel, Texas, a flyspeck of a city in the southernmost part of Texas. 

The transient nature of the place suited him. Nobody asked questions on the border, as he told a newspaper: 

“It’s not a big thing that a guy in middle age comes into town destitute or depressed. There’s a lot of that along the border,” Rathbun said. “So it wasn’t like I stuck out like a sore thumb. It was nice.” 

But one wonders how “nice” it really was for a man nearing the half century mark—a man with no skills or real job prospects. And, a man who had contributed nothing but havoc to his former Church and former friends. 

Rathbun eked out a living on the southern tip of the Texas Gulf coast by writing for a small newspaper—the type of publication that relies on volunteer contributors. 

He was lucky to earn minimum wage. 

He padded out his new resume—and income—by hawking beer in a ballpark and working shifts in a convenience store. 

It is a meteoric fall for the man who fancied himself a senior executive in his former life, a man to be looked up to, a man who had power. 

Working behind the counter or pushing a broom in the convenience store he blamed others for his new life. 

The malfeasance and intimidation through violence was not his fault. He took no responsibility. 

He still thought his former friends would come for him—and beg him to return.           

After meeting a local woman online via an Internet dating service, Rathbun demanded—and then signed—divorce papers from his wife. 

The woman was 34-year-old Monique Banks, a recent divorcee and health insurance worker and Rathbun wasted no time—quickly declaring his love after he and “Mosey” tired of their Internet trysts and met for dinner. 

By then Rathbun had managed to purchase a house in the town of Seabrook, Texas, on Galveston Bay. 

By midsummer 2005, he was living in the Seabrook home with Mosey. 

Rathbun continued to embellish his new resume. 

He added some color to his new identity: a dedicated environmentalist and an enthusiastic Boys & Girls Club volunteer. 

The only problem was that the needy boys and girls never heard of him. Nor has the Sierra Club. 

As the year went on, Rathbun burnished his newly-crafted identity with more fabrications. He now spoke of working for an “educational entertainment outfit”  along with “adopting a family that was a refugee from Hurricane Katrina.” 

The legend in Rathbun’s own mind loomed larger. 

But there is was also discontent. 

Mosey let drop to a friend that her lover was looking for extra shifts in the convenience store after a failed attempt in the coffee business. When pressed by the friend, she didn’t want to talk about it. 

The meteoric fall of Marty Rathbun continued. 

But still, he believed he would be vindicated—in his mind the world would still come calling.      

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