Homeless No More

Jean Pulsifer was at her computer again, searching online for the phantom that was her brother.

From her Ashland, Mass., home, the 52-year-old music teacher worried and wondered about her only sibling who had disappeared in 2004.

"I asked friends to pray for me to find him," she said. "He was one of the good things in my life. It really hurt me."

In August, when their 79-year-old mother died in the family's hometown of Columbia Falls, near Kalispell, Mont., Pulsifer became even more desperate to find him.

Lyle Casterline, meanwhile, was living a quiet existence in a homeless encampment on the bank of the Flamingo Wash in Las Vegas.

During the day, the 45-year-old Marine Corps veteran collected aluminum cans, which he sold for $1 a pound. He used the few bucks he made to buy beer and food. Sometimes, he'd hang out and drink with his girlfriend and homeless buddies at Molasky Family Park, about a mile and a half east of the Strip.

Chronic back problems had left him unable to work, and he had lived off the radar for a year and a half.

He didn't know his sister was searching for him; he'd been too embarrassed to ask her for help.

He also had no idea that a Montana accountant, a lawyer and two private investigators had joined in the hunt for him, but had come up empty.

He continued to hope that somehow, someday, he'd get his life back on track.

Casterline sought help in early November at a homeless outreach event at Cashman Center. The annual outreach, called Project Homeless Connect, offers free services such as housing referrals, medical and legal help and job placement to about 2,000 homeless people.

He ate lunch there and visited the makeshift court, where he succeeded, he thought, in getting dismissed the warrants for his arrest that were issued after he didn't take care of tickets he got for trespassing in the wash and for being in the park after hours.

Before heading back to the wash that day, the bearded, gregarious Casterline was interviewed by a Review-Journal reporter.

"I'm looking for anything I can get," he said. "I'm just trying to survive."

A week later, Pulsifer sat at her computer in the home she shared with her husband and two sons.

She typed Casterline's name into an Internet search engine, which she did from time to time, always in vain.

But this time, a Review-Journal article, "Homeless people get help," popped up on the screen. Its first two words were: Lyle Casterline.

"I died," Pulsifer said. "My mouth dropped open. I just stared. I couldn't even talk."

She was overjoyed to find a mention of the brother she hadn't seen in more than a decade, but dismayed to learn he was homeless and suffering from serious health problems.

"I was happy and sad at the same time," Pulsifer said. "But I knew he was alive, and at least I could find him. It might be hard, but I didn't care how long it took."

That night, she said, "I cried my eyes out."

She also called the newspaper for help.

"This is going to sound crazy," she said in a breathless voice-mail message, "but I'm desperate to find my brother."

An accountant from Kalispell also called.

"We've been looking for Lyle," said Ken Kettinger, the accountant and personal representative for the Casterline family estate. "We need to tell him about his inheritance."

A reporter found Casterline at Molasky Family Park. He had just returned from a morning collecting cans with his girlfriend, Shae Mulanas.

When told Jean Pulsifer was looking for him, Casterline's face slackened in surprise, then brightened.

"That's my sister," he said.

But he politely declined the offer of a cell phone to call her immediately.

"I'm half-drunk right now."

Pulsifer decided to fly to Las Vegas the day after Thanksgiving. The Casterline family long ago purchased two weeks per year at a time-share hotel just off the Strip, and she arranged to stay there. Casterline agreed through a reporter to meet his sister at Molasky Park on Saturday morning.

She couldn't wait to see the handsome brother who always made her laugh. But she had bad news: Their mother, Wilma Casterline, had died from natural causes including kidney failure. Their 81-year-old father, Don Casterline, lived in a nursing home and was suffering from dementia, Pulsifer said.

She had other news, too.

Then, on Thanksgiving Day, she received the first phone call in years she'd had from Casterline.

It came from the Clark County Detention Center.

Casterline had been arrested on one of the warrants he thought he had cleared up at Project Homeless Connect.

The siblings had only 20 minutes to talk, not long enough for Pulsifer to bring Casterline up to speed about the dramatic changes in the family.

She asked her brother why he hadn't contacted her sooner.

"Pride," he answered.

She flew to Las Vegas the next day and visited him in jail. She was shocked at the sight of him.

"He looks so old," she said later. "We had a very intense conversation."

She told him about their mother. Casterline was upset that he hadn't known earlier. But he and his parents had long been estranged, and he hadn't considered contacting them, either, when he got into trouble.

He was also certain that he had been written out of his mother's will.

The truth was far from it, Pulsifer told him. Wilma Casterline had left her son 80 of the family's 220 acres of lush land next to the mountains outside Kalispell.

It's an area Kettinger described as booming, "a place for big money, where rich people come to play," ski, and buy winter or summer homes.

"We have huge subdivisions being built," Kettinger said.

He said if Casterline were to sell his 80 acres, he would likely "never have to worry about money again."

"Finances aren't going to be a problem."

Pulsifer confirmed that the land was valuable, but asked that its estimated monetary worth not be published.

"It's a rags to riches story," she said.

She bailed her brother out of jail, bought him a burger and some new clothes at Wal-Mart, and arranged a room at the time-share for him and his girlfriend, the petite, blond Mulanas, whom Casterline professed to love dearly.

"We had a very joyful reunion," Pulsifer said.

Days later, she gazed tenderly at her much cleaned-up brother in the hotel's courtyard as he told, probably for the hundredth time, some of their family stories.

There was the one about how a 12-year-old Casterline shot a hole in the family's farmhouse wall after he confronted a would-be burglar with one of the family's rifles. Casterline, his eyes shining, pretended to cock and fire the absent rifle.

Or the one about how one of Casterline's childhood fishing buddies got seasick and threw up over the side of the boat, then ended up snagging the day's biggest catch. Casterline grinned and pantomimed waves crashing against the side of the boat.

"He's always been so funny," Pulsifer said, laughing. "He's always been so smart. That's why I missed him."

Casterline was having the time of his life with Mulanas in the spacious hotel room. It had a hot tub, a kitchenette and a king-sized bed.

"I haven't watched TV in forever," he said.

When prodded, he spoke reluctantly about his homelessness and the extraordinary events of the past week.

"I was in jail when Jean told me what had happened," he said. "I just sat there. I was sad about Mom dying, of course. And I thought I'd been totally cut out of the will."

Casterline, who was adopted into the family as an infant, said he always got along with his sister.

But he had a difficult relationship with his parents. As an adult, he distanced himself from them.

"They didn't approve of my lifestyle," he said without elaboration.

Pulsifer said their parents hadn't approved of Casterline's previous girlfriends.

He said the inheritance had come as a total shock.

"I never thought in a million years this would happen. Not only am I no longer homeless, but I have a few bucks. I still can't believe it's true."

There's one wrinkle that could complicate Casterline's inheritance: his admitted affinity for alcohol.

"He has to be competent and have the ability to dry himself out and clean himself up," Kettinger said.

"Under the circumstances, if he wants to sell the land, we might have to go to a conservatorship. We want to make sure he doesn't do something crazy."

Under a conservatorship, someone else would be responsible for his assets.

Casterline, who smelled of alcohol at a morning interview, said it wasn't a serious problem for him.

"I like my beer, but I don't get stupid drunk."

Casterline got a new ID -- his was lost long ago -- on Wednesday with the birth certificate his sister had brought.

He also got a learner's permit, as he had allowed his missing driver's license to expire.

He bought a car on Thursday with money Kettinger wired from the estate.

Casterline planned to drive to Montana with Mulanas early this week.

Pulsifer would fly out to meet them in Kalispell on Tuesday. There, the siblings would talk with representatives of the estate to discuss Casterline's options.

He wants to sell some of the land, build a house on the remainder and make a new, better life there with Mulanas.

"I don't plan to ever come back to Las Vegas."

But reality was clearly still sinking in for him and Mulanas late in the week.

Mulanas asked Pulsifer if the couple still would be able to collect cans in Montana.

"I told her, 'You don't understand. You won't have to do that again,'" Pulsifer said.

Whatever the future holds, Casterline said he doesn't want to lose touch with his sister again.

And he still can't get over how she finally found him.

"That's an incredible thing," he said, shaking his head. "God works in mysterious ways."

Contact reporter Lynnette Curtis at lcurtis @reviewjournal.com or (702) 383-0285.