A British rock-star-turned-celebrity-preacher is really just a schmuck from Cleveland Heights

One day, Feuerweker arrived at the home for a scheduled visitation. He began fighting with Sharon over custody agreements. The debate moved into the kitchen, where Paul was cutting carrots. Before anyone knew what was happening, Feuerweker pulled a gun and fired five shots into Paul Roth's back. It was one of the most violent homicides in Cleveland Heights history, Captain Tim Cannon says today.

In an affidavit, Sharon claimed that her husband was a "vengeful man" who "hated the police." Feuerweker was sentenced to 15 years.

Roth learned about his father's death days later. Solace came from his new wife, Joan, who had her own tragic past: Her dad had killed her mother in an alcoholic rage.

When asked today why he chose to edit these details of his early life, Roth — who now answers only to Caspar — pauses, his voice wavering like the sound from a 1920 Victrola.

"My childhood was very tragic, very dysfunctional," he says. "Why would I want to go back and talk about those things? . . . I don't see why it's important."

It's a sentiment he takes to heart: His own children don't know his real name.

People who meet Caspar McCloud have a hard time forgetting him. When his name comes up 30 years after auditioning for a role in Beatlemania, actors from the original production fall over each other trying to describe the man.

"This guy was — and still is — one of the weirdest side stories to the Beatlemania saga," says actor Lenie Colacino, who played Paul McCartney.

In 1979, two years after the show opened, Beatlemania was still selling out most nights. Producers decided to take the show on the road. Every Thursday they held open casting calls to fill the extra spots — for the touring production, not the Broadway version, as Caspar claims.

It was a warm spring day when McCloud showed up for his audition. He ambled straight up to the director. Hello, he said, I'm Caspar McCloud. I'm from England, and I'm here to audition for the role of John Lennon.

Cast members rolled their eyes. "I instantly recognized him as a fraud," Colacino says.

The biggest giveaway was McCloud's voice. It was peanut-butter thick and sounded like a cross between Prince Charles and Kenny Chesney. "His speech and enunciation was suspiciously unlike any [we] had ever heard before," recalls actor Glen Burtnik.

But McCloud impressed the director with his bravado and was hired on a temporary basis. The cast was surprised, but not shocked. "He had a very cool look about him, and sometimes in this business, it's all about how you sell yourself," Colacino says.

But McCloud — or "Cas-puhh," as the cast came to mockingly call him — never made it past early rehearsals. Colacino claims that the wannabe rocker couldn't carry a tune.

Even in New York, a city full of embellished tales, McCloud stood out with his stories of riding horses in the English countryside and jamming with Gene Simmons. "It all sounded highly questionable," says Burtnik. "But it was hard to believe someone would keep up such a scam for so long. He had a wife and everything, so how could they both be in on such a creepy hoax?"

McCloud was eventually fired. Though he still insists he originated the role of Lennon onstage, Brian Penikas, head of BeatlemaniaAlumni.com, says McCloud's name doesn't appear in any printed material from that period. "Many musicians have tried to cash in over the years by claiming that they were part of the show, when they had nothing to do with it," he says.

Castmates lost track of McCloud over the years. Some claim that the rocker did produce a record that quickly disappeared. One former colleague, who refused to be named, says he is "almost certain an album came out." In fact, one used copy is currently for sale on Amazon.com.

Others are unconvinced. "Never happened," says another colleague. (Atlantic Records didn't respond to interview requests.)

But even as they mocked him, it was clear McCloud still cared about their souls.

The cast tells stories of how he would appear at shows, convincing security to allow him backstage. Performers would find him patiently waiting in their dressing rooms, holding pamphlets about Christ. He'd launch into lectures about God's love and how the Lord pulled him from the dead.

"It sounded like a grandiose, egocentric, messianic fantasy to me," says Burtnik.

"Honestly, I was kinda creeped out by the whole exchange."

In the Christian circles in which McCloud runs, few people are aware of his real story. To them, he is an honest, upstanding Christian and lovable Brit. They won't hear otherwise.

"I just can't conceive that it wouldn't be true," a youth pastor in Georgia says of McCloud's past. "He's never had any negative publicity. He's never been involved in any mess in the public eye. All he's doing is raising awareness for Christianity."

"Caspar is warm and compassionate and creative," says Barnes, head of Adventures in Missions. "He's a man of great passion and faith."