Due Process Read online

  “They ought to just shoot him too,” Horn exclaimed.

  “Harold, they don’t shoot the criminals, why would they shoot the lawyer?”

  Harold stood firm. “He’s as guilty as those he gets off. They are bound to go and do it all over again.”

  Strong words, I thought, definitely strong words from a guy who’s been more involved than most people ever want to be.

  What I liked most about Harold was his love of talking about the details of a crime. I looked at it as another resource for learning the ropes of investigation. I don’t know how much of what he said was true but certainly the way he obtained information intrigued me. We spent hours in my backyard drinking brewskis and talking about the cases of the day. Harold would many times fill in the history on a case and predict the outcome before a trial concluded. It was uncanny how informed he was on crime and how well he understood the flow of the trial.

  Harold helped with a great many debates. I was armed with information better than any coworker who wanted to discuss the topic. Unfortunately, my time at the plant was to be short-lived. I could not tell anyone what I was contemplating. Coworkers would be mortified if they had a wannabe killer in their midst. It simply is not in people to be supportive of that type of person. Harold would have been conflicted, himself being a crime fighter of sorts. This was a secret I had to keep to myself.

  Harold provided guidance in some of his trade secrets for gathering article information. He introduced me to the public records systems at the courthouse, which he frequently used when he was breaking a story. Often the alleged criminals had lengthy records or other “newsworthy” information available in the archives. He taught me the meanings of words used in trials that aren’t common terms, at least not where I worked at the aluminum plant. I asked and he answered. If he couldn’t answer he helped me find an answer.

  I focused my attention on violent sexual crimes. I considered them the lowest of the low. Hours that I used to watch crime shows on TV were replaced with intense Internet searching. I was amazed how much information was at my fingertips. I was encouraged to read comments by regular people on the news articles covering violent sexual assaults, kidnapping, child molesters, and child abusers. “Fry ‘em,” “String them up,” “Euthanize the wacko!” Wow, regular people thought like me. They’d never act on it but the mindset was there.

  I learned to discriminate when it came to labels like “sex offender.” A nineteen-year-old high school senior boy got involved sexually with a fifteen-year-old sophomore girl because they thought they were in love. I don’t look twice at that case. It might have been the same label but it was not the same thing I was at odds with.

  Every news article I’d read that had a comments section said the same thing. Every interview I’d seen with family members said the same thing, “I’m not satisfied until he/she is dead.” People were sick of the arguments for convicted criminal’s rights. Victims would struggle a lifetime dealing with their pain of memory. Many I read about went off the deep end in drugs and alcohol, developed PTSD and other psychological issues, and still others committed suicide. While the perp sucked down sodas and watched Disney movies in a halfway house paid for with tax dollars. A walk in the park on a warm sunny day convinced me it was time to take care of business.

  A couple years later as I scanned the news articles I ran across a second time Darroe represented Lewis Pohle. The newspapers carried the story, “Elderly woman assaulted in Wood Village.” Lewis was not a smart criminal. He left fingerprints, semen, and a witness who could identify him at the scene of the crime. Darroe, who I considered truly to blame for this present crime, cast his trickery once again by swaying the courts away from prosecution in favor of hospitalization. Low IQ and a history of psychiatric problems was the basis of Darroe’s defense. The prosecutors opted for psychiatric care with a civil commitment and some assurance Pohle would be secured away for at least a little while. A little while was exactly what it was. Pohle was hospitalized in a psychiatric facility and spent about a year institutionalized. The psychiatric sentencing review board granted discharge to an assisted living facility while compliant with his medications and with his illness in remission. I thought, Walter, this is your cue.

  I can’t describe the feeling I had the morning I woke up to read Lewis Pohle’s obituary. It seems he died an unnatural death. In my book, however, a Rock River Arms AR-15 .223 semiauto 20-inch barrel with a GemTech Halo Suppressor sounds like natural causes to me, or at least in Pohle’s case.

  The assisted living facility from its outer appearance looked very hospitallike. I don’t know if that was intentional or if it was just an old hospital that was converted. The grounds had a fenced area with a few trees more or less central to the yard. Plastic benches and chairs were dotted about the yard for leisure, and a paved pathway encircled the yard. It was nestled away from the main streets and against a hillside laden with heavy trees and underbrush.

  Walter spent a few days bird-watching in the area. Perhaps looking a little nerdy; with a pork pie hat, casual wear, and a set of binoculars, he was quite the sight. On a couple of occasions he spoke with people that were on nature walks or cutting through the wooded area, which was difficult to traverse because of the underbrush. Most visitors, however, didn’t stray from the beaten pathways through the area. The living facility fence line was well marked and posted. There was evidence others had trod that direction before, though it was doubtful they had the same intention I had.

  Springtime brought out the best in nature; likewise it brought the facility residents out in the yard for long periods of time. Plenty long enough for me to get a bead on Pohle. I’ve always enjoyed trying new things and new ideas. A long-range assassination was a newly devised plan that required a special purchase of a specific type of weaponry. But hey, Pohle was worth it.

  It was Sunday and a heavy mist hung in the air, a cloudlike canopy, blocking the sun. I made my way the short distance to an area I had scoped out earlier that would conceal my presence slightly more than 100-yards from the treatment center yard. I packed the short-barreled rifle in a guitar case reminiscent of the old Chicago gangster days.

  Near the crown of a hill I carefully spread out a non-reflective space blanket and hunkered down behind a rotting log covered in Oregon grape foliage. Spreading the bipod and leveling the weapon in the direction of the yard I could see clearly through my scope, even with these flat light conditions. Nine o’clock rolled around and the sun was struggling to burn away the cloud cover. The yard door opened and two residents proceeded into the yard. The staff member hooked the door open and made her way to the benches, drying them with a towel she was carrying. Pohle came to the door briefly, and then returned inside.

  Anxiety piggybacked on my anticipation. Pohle appeared in the doorway again, this time he stood motionless with his arms crossed. My shot was lined up, but it wasn’t the shot I wanted. I could hit arm bones and ricochet the bullet away from a vital organ or hit him in the shoulder and knock him back out of view from a second shot. In the distance was the murmuring of a voice, one that was familiar but of no concern. Destiny was nearby.

  Lewis moved from the doorway to a lawn chair but he wasn’t alone. My scope showed clearly he was unknowingly being escorted into the yard by Destiny. As Pohle sat down, Destiny gestured by opening her arms as if to say, “Here.” He sat back and propped up his legs. He appeared comfortable and content. Zhoop … Zhoop. Both shots struck center mass; if he wasn’t dead he would be sorry he wasn’t. Quickly I removed the bipod and placed the rifle, bipod and spent casings into the guitar case. Hunched over I gathered up the space blanket and stuck it in my jacket pocket. It was time to exit stage left.

  This was not a high-profile case but reporters would be interested to make it into more than it really was. People would react critically to the killing of a psychiatric patient, but to me he was no better or worse than the next rapist or murderer. If the police found exactly where I was during the shooting there
would be some level of forensic evidence, I suppose. However, not enough to track or trace me or even put me under the microscope. I’ve made that as difficult as possible.

  It was Walter who pointed out to me how much pleasure can come from reading an obituary. It marked a new day in my life that allowed me to enjoy walks in the park again. The obituary was small and probably insignificant but the reporters went hogwild for this kill. Some writers speculated with terms like “vigilante” and “revenge killing” while others capitalized on the string of run-ins with the law and courts, making their feeble attempts to analyze the “causes” of this poor soul’s demise. I think he’s dead because Walter killed him. That’s all.

  Chapter 5

  We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.

  —Francois de la Rochefoucauld

  A life can be taken and no one can stop it if the person taking the life is willing to trade his own to succeed. I determined I was such a person. The decision to pursue my intentions would cost me my existence, at least the one I had known. I would, out of necessity, live anonymously among my neighbors, alone and without friends. I dare not bring attention to myself; it would be counterproductive to my goals. I am willing to sacrifice everything to appease justice. What were my intentions? To extract vengeance in blood by the bucketful.

  It has been a long and confusing road to this point. I’ve reflected on it often. Now a light shines at the end of the tunnel. The path before me is clear, illuminated by Destiny, for I know her well. No longer do I surge with rage at the judicial system’s many failures. It is behind me now. I feel at peace. I continue to hear the cries of suffering souls; I feel their pain. It is a penetrating motivator. Whatever resolve I could not attain by my own understanding, apparitions have guided my footsteps. I realize I have been chosen.

  A springtime rally was held in Portland to stop vigilante violence. I followed the development of these activists’ agenda and noted a strong leaning toward sex offenders. Specifically, the new sex offenders’ registry. I passively roamed through the crowd listening to speakers bemoan the actions of ordinary citizens who had grown weary of sex offenders living anonymously next door in their communities and acted out in some negligible manner. As the social militants lamented their grief-stricken woes I was overcome with emotion.

  Attendees may have thought I was moved to tears by their stories, but that was hardly the case. I couldn’t care less about these perverts bemoaning their unfair treatment. I heard the cascading of voices crying out in unison for vengeance like the roar of a waterfall. The voices were loud and deafening coming from all sides around me. I was impacted by the flashing of mental pictures of violent sequences and shocking perversions with members of the small crowd as I passed by them. If I could believe these visualizations to be true, I was in the midst of an unholy alliance.

  The files I have collected over the years have spoken to me in their own special way. Long ago I’d concluded the punishment didn’t fit the crime. Violent criminals did too little time and within months of finishing their hitch were back in jail with another violent crime notched in their belt. I planned to put an end to that cycle.

  Sexual offenders were never really off the radar but have carved out an anonymous life in the general population. We have been assured they would be watched closely by the authorities, but how can we believe that? How can a known sexual predator kidnap children and sexually abuse them for years before being discovered if they were so closely monitored. I don’t accept the excuses of too large caseloads for these probation officers to do their job. That’s nothing more than window dressing. If it is true, the judicial system is to blame for giving communities a false sense of hope that they are protected from predators returned to the street. It is all a testament to the failure of the system that “watches” these offenders.

  It is not just my perception that sexual offenders are not punished sufficiently. The correctional system that once punished violent sex offenders now spends more time and money rehabilitating and educating the inmates. Are sex crimes the product of the undereducated or the poor? It is as much a problem with the rich as it is with the poor. The problem is wiring! No amount of mind-altering drugs or rehab will fix it. The lawmakers have worked hard to remove emotion from the law but the issue remains emotional for the victims and their families. These criminals have ruined the life of another human being and in some cases many lives. Taking the law into my own hands, vigilantism, is my only answer. I will be the human element of the law and launch a private war. It will be measured in body count. Then maybe the lawmakers will hear. Until then vigilantism is the only way.

  I grew weary of arguing with the likes of Lowe and Bear on my breaks at work. It solved nothing and changed even less. My understanding of a spiritual dimension seeking justice prompted me to action on their behalf. My memory of Darroe’s treatment of Hertz frequented my thoughts while the video of Speck revictimizing so many families served to reinforce my intentions. The tables had to be turned. Violent sexual predators would become victims of their own doing, and maybe not just their kind, but other vile criminals as well. Every judge or jury that thinks violent acts against the innocent can be measured in a few years is wrong. These are life-changing attacks that have profound ramifications for the victims and their families. Who says punishment and vengeance must be separated as if they are two distinct goals?

  My father’s passing in the mid ‘90s left the ranch to me. I struggled with the idea of working the ranch, but I had other things on my mind. I had removed myself from rural living by taking up residence in a metro area; it would be difficult to go back to the ranch. I had plans and they conflicted with ranching or a full-time job of any kind. It had started as a thought, an idea, and now I was driven. It was time to take up the gauntlet; I had no choice. If I believed in God I might think the ranch was a sign from the Almighty to deliver me from the temptations I now faced. Nah, if it were a sign from God, it was to sell the ranch and use the money to support my hunt. That was more believable; if I believed!

  The ranch was an easy sell. Wheat, alfalfa, and pasture land with a house and barn was a sought after commodity. A picture of independence was coming together. I’d lived debt-free with the exception of my Sandy Boulevard home. The sale of the ranch provided the finances to buy something outright in cash. With plans in mind I started looking for something in a transient-type environment. A mobile home community would be convenient and affordable. I was about to become trailer trash.

  I located a 1972 Brookwood mobile home with everything I wanted and had looked for. The structure was a 24-by-40-foot two-bedroom, one-bath with a carport and storage shed. The well-maintained yard bordered a nature preserve in the Johnson City area not far from Interstate 205. The move was about twelve miles south of my N122 residence, but in a city like Portland it was far enough that I’d probably never see any of my old neighbors again.

  My N122nd Street home eventually sold and brought in a pretty penny. My inheritance, the sale of my home, plus the money I’d saved while working at the aluminum plant left me debt-free with plenty of money in the bank to finance my new lifestyle. Life was looking good. I said goodbye to Harold and friends in the old neighborhood. I left the impression I was going to travel the country and see the world I’d inherited. There would be no expectation by them to see me around. I followed suit with the plant saying goodbye to friends and coworkers. Thankfully I don’t have to put up with gerbil-brained chatter of irresponsible frivolity anymore. I felt liberated!

  Over the past few years I’d developed some simple resources. My love for an old 1957 Chevy half-ton pickup that Dad had given me. My second vehicle was a black 1995 Dodge Avenger. It was bland, low profile, and paid for in cash. As it turned out, it would be key in facilitating my plans. It blended into any area of the city.

  The next thing I had to work on was me. I wanted to stay in the background, like a spider hidden in a hole; exposing
myself just long enough to snatch life from a victim. My plans involved being seen—if you can be seen, you can be identified. The real question was: What did I want people to see?

  I was in my midforties, nondescript at five feet nine inches, and average weight. My hair was light brown with a touch of gray appearing throughout. I have worn a goatee for the past fifteen years. My facial hair was brown but fading to a yellowish white, and looking scruffy in recent years. The easiest change would be to shave the goatee. It grew back quickly enough to provide an incognito appearance when needed. I intended to be clean shaven whenever I worked a project. A little bit of hair dye and presto, I’m a new, younger man. The hair dye rarely keeps my hair dark brown very long, the old grayish stuff is soon in full bloom again, thus hiding my identity. Eyeglasses, the inexpensive black framed type purchased at discount stores, were added to further conceal my appearance.

  My façade adapted the Clark Kent look without the hidden superpowers. My research would require me to get close to sources from time to time and what better way than a news reporter or writer. It’s a profession easily recognizable by almost everyone. I decided to present myself as a freelance feature writer for a major syndicated magazine. It didn’t really matter which brand name I used. The important thing, it legitimized my connection and interest in the case. No one was likely to suspect I had anything other than professional curiosity. They would never suspect an investigative reporter of gathering information for raison d’être.

  The area of clothing was a challenge. I was a factory worker. Casual dress to me was a jungle-style fatigue shirt, T-shirt, and denim pants. Flip-flops or tennis shoes are in style every day as far as I’m concerned. If it’s really cold I pull out a hoodie.

  It was necessary to fit the perception people may have of a seasoned middle-aged reporter. Casual professional I call it. I opted for long-sleeved polo shirts with a blazer when weather dictated, chino pants, and comfortable loafers. Clean shaven with a little hair dye and black framed glasses, I had a new appearance without a new identity.