When he rented the post office box in Pasadena, an industrial suburb southeast of Houston near NASA's manned space center at Clear Lake, Parker used the name Charles O. St. Ignatius. He paid for the first six months and pocketed the small flat key. Then he drove into Houston, where he bought the black suit and the clerical collar he wore when he went to the banks.
“We've started a fund drive at our church,” he told the first banker. “We are in desperate need of a new roof.”
The banker didn't yet know if he was about to be hit up for the fund drive, so his expression was agreeable but noncommittal. “That's too bad, Father,” he said.
“The Lord has seen fit to give us three near-misses the last several years,” Parker told him. “Two hurricanes and a tornado, all just passed us by.”
“Lucky.”
“God's will. But the effect has been to loosen the roof and make it unstable.”
“Too bad.”
“Our fund drive is doing very well,” Parker told him, and the banker smiled, knowing he was off the hook. “Well enough,” Parker went on, “so we'll need to open a bank account, just temporarily, until we raise enough money for the repairs.”
“Of course.”
Parker pulled out the two white legal envelopes stuffed with cash. “I believe this is four thousand two hundred dollars,” he said. “Is cash all right? That's the way the donations come to us.”
“Of course,” the banker said. “Cash is fine.” And under five thousand dollars meant that none of it would be reported to the Feds.
Parker handed over the envelopes, and the banker briskly counted the bills: “Four thousand two hundred fifty dollars,” he said.
“Thank you,” Parker said.
There was a form to be filled out: “In what name do you want the account?”
“Church of St. Ignatius. No, wait,” Parker said, “that's too long. Signing the checks …”
The banker smiled in sympathy. “Just St. Ignatius?”
“All right,” Parker said. “No, make it C. O. Ignatius, that's the same as ‘Church of.’”
“And the address?”
“We've opened a post office box for donations, so let's use that.”
“Fine.”
A little more paperwork, and Parker was given a temporary checkbook and deposit slips. “My deposits will be in cash, of course,” he said.
“We recommend you don't mail cash.”
“No, I'll bring it in.”
“Fine,” the banker said, and they shook hands, and Parker went on to the next bank.
That day, he opened accounts in nine Houston banks, never going to more than one branch of the same firm. When he was finished, thirty-eight thousand dollars was now in the banking system, no longer cash, with nearly eighty thousand still in the side panels of the Taurus.
After the last bank, he drove on down to Galveston and spent the night in a motel with no view of the Gulf. In the morning, he rented a post office box under the name Charles Willis, for which he carried enough ID for any normal business scrutiny, then went to a bank not related to any of the ones he'd used in Houston. As Charles Willis, and using checks from two different St. Ignatius accounts, he opened a checking account with fifteen hundred dollars and a money market account with four thousand, giving the post office box in Galveston as his address. Then he took the free ferry over to Bolivar Peninsula and headed east.