I honed my interview skills, adapting the Harold Horn methodology. It was basic tracking groundwork for a news scoop. Pulling all available documentation on a crime from courthouse records and reading transcripts provided viable interview opportunities. Some courthouses were run a little more strictly than others, an inconvenience at times. But, since anyone can view a case, I could not be denied access.
The Internet was a rapidly developing resource. Websites were beginning to pop up aimed at hindering criminal behavior by informing the public of convicted sexual offenders and violent criminals’ whereabouts. I made it a tool of my evolving craft. Most website information files are easily accessed without any personal info being gathered from the inquiry. There was a chance my computer might leave a footprint on a website and be traceable. But there were ways around that as well. Simple fixes such as the purchase of the most recent cyberware designed to hide your IP identity were available. It seemed there was always someone developing a new way to trace IPs while at the same time their counterparts were developing new ways to disguise your computer identity. If Johnny Law caught up to me, they wouldn’t need my computer to convict me. There would be plenty of other evidence. I just wanted to stay off the suspect list.
Many of the cases I researched included depositions and testimonial evidence. It was easy to spot hostile witnesses simply by reading their statements. Through people finder websites I was able to identify where many of these witnesses lived. Criminals might try to avoid the same cities or the same states where they’d committed their crimes. But hostile witnesses almost never left the area. They were often common folk that became involved in the case by no choosing of their own and tended to stick it out where they were.
I remembered reading a Portland case of so-called “vigilantism.” The police reportedly responded to an alleged rape in the early morning hours in the Sandy Boulevard area. A female victim was discovered unconscious and bleeding at that location. The suspect was a twenty-nine-year-old neighbor of the victim and was also discovered at his residence bleeding profusely. Three other men were taken into custody as well for assault on the alleged rape suspect. The leader of the vigilantes was the husband of the rape victim.
I put my skills to work. I was able to locate all the people involved in the case except for the rapist, who was convicted. The husband, wife, and two others involved had all remained in the Portland area. I pondered on what story they had to tell. Collectively, the men remained hostile toward the perp. None of them regretted having retaliated. None of them equated their actions with vigilantism. All were aware the criminal was released from incarceration after three months and felt they dished out the only real punishment the guy ever received. They generally felt wronged by the system, but offered to have another go at their punishment for the perp, if it could be arranged.
I wanted to create more than a false identity for my façade. I created an alternate personality and gave life to it. My name’s not Frankenstein but I think I know what the old doctor must have felt like when he yelled, “He lives!” I’m not psychotic; I’m crystal clear with what I’m doing. If I’m caught you won’t hear me sniveling about it or claiming insanity. Others might say I am but I believe emphatically it needs to be done.
Plenty of people put on a façade every day. I’ve met and known many of them. Maybe it’s when the boss comes through the factory door or at church with family; there’s plenty of façade to go around. People don’t want you to know who they really are. Half the time they don’t even know who they really are anymore. Criminals are well versed in this manner of adaptation. They want the real person cloaked until the last possible minute. How many times have I heard it said, “I thought I knew him,” only to learn later that person was a scam artist or a pedophile? They can’t believe it because they were duped. They thought they knew the person; what they knew was a façade. I am the same way.
As part of my new me I wanted a name to present. Clark Kent wouldn’t work; it had been used and besides I was a far cry from a superhero. I needed something viable. My mind raced back to what Irene, a friend and coworker, bluntly said after she listened to me spout off, “That’s your alter ego speaking.” From then on, Irene called me Walter Ego teasingly. Now, a year later it dropped into my mind from nowhere, only it sounded like Irene’s voice speaking. Walter, my alter ego, is my “wannabe” me. I liked his ideas better anyhow.
Walter E. Goe, there are others by that name, but none can lay claim to being more unique than my Walter. He is a chameleon. His ability to blend with his surroundings, adapt to people, places and things is uncanny. He is predatory by nature. He is uniquely adapted to visual hunting. A skill developed early in my life and bequeathed to him. He is pitiless. His emotions are contained when he kills. More importantly, he kills that which is reviled by mankind; insects without natural predators that would overrun the world if it were not for Walter.
Forensic sciences have advanced by leaps and bounds over the past few years. Keeping that in mind, I went about making my preparations as carefully as I could. I didn’t see the need to make tracking me easy. I used common Latex or leather gloves to handle everything from business cards to weapons. No latent fingerprints. It wasn’t rocket science either. Forensics might be able to identify that a suspect wore Latex gloves or even the type of printer used for the cards, maybe. But they would be no closer in knowing who the suspect was or where the printer was. I wanted to keep it that way.
Since my plans involved interviewing people I prepared, in advance, the spiel I would give at the time I presented the business card. People find it hard to listen to you ramble through an introduction and read the business card at the same time. It’s diversionary and it works. People divide their attention and remember less of what you’re actually saying than if they were able to focus on the introduction.
I used common products that could be obtained in any city. Nothing weird that police could use to easily track me. Without a criminal record and with no direct connection to my targets, I would not be on anyone’s radar. Regardless, I worked diligently to keep my identity hidden.
There was no one single or perfect weapon for Walter. His weapon of choice would be whatever worked best in the time of need. I knew how to shoot so it was more natural to use a gun, but I would use anything to accomplish my objective. Gun shops and gun shows helped me become familiar with what was on the market. When the time came to acquire a weapon I turned to the newspaper first. Private purchases from want ads were the most discreet way to go. Close second places to the want ads were gun shows out in the boonies. Cash purchases with no strings attached. No ATF forms and no gun registrations, just what I liked.
Portland area gun shows were heavily regulated, whereas the small community-based shows were a bit looser, as were some of their participants. I counted on these facts for buying opportunities. The first weapon I settled on was a .40-caliber Glock. It handled well and operated smoothly. Most importantly, it had the right karma.
I continued my search for weaponry at rural gun shows, I came across a seedy-looking vendor who struck up a conversation like a used-car salesman. He had ammo, clips, and parts for everything but not one assembled weapon was on his table. We made an arrangement to hook up and go through what he had at his house. He convinced me that a spendy little moderator package he had picked up along the way would work much like a silencer to reduce noise and flash. He presented a smooth-bore barrel saying, “No rifling’s to trace with this.” I think he knew what I wanted to do.
“It’ll get you in trouble ‘less you get permitted for it,” said Mr. Seedy. I acted interested in what he had to say. “Did you get a permit?”
“Nope, don’t need one ‘cause I don’t own one of these gizmos,” pointing at the moderator package. Seedy winked and smiled. His few straggly teeth showed through his shabby beard as we traded “gizmo” for cash. I didn’t have to ask if there would be any record of the transaction.
I was the proud new “non-owner” o
f the moderator. Seedy said, “You might wanna try subsonic rounds. That’ll make that there gizmo purr like a kitty.” By that I assumed he meant quieter and picked up a box of ammo. If I got caught with the hardware on my Glock and a magazine full of subsonic hollow-points, it would probably be because the police had connected me to a string of killings and not because I didn’t have a permit for a “gizmo.”
It was time to build a toolbox for work. A small knife was a great tool for a host of applications but there existed a need for a larger knife with at least a six-inch blade. What if I had to gain entry into a house? A glass cutter, yes, maybe—what about a set of bump keys? Licensed locksmiths act like they’re the only ones that can buy bump keys. I bought my set online and I wasn’t asked any questions. Bump keys could open almost any residential door lock or dead bolt within seconds. It would prove to be a good investment.
I laid out a set of guidelines that would hopefully keep me off the police most-wanted posters. Getting to know the perp personally would be a mistake. It could create a link between us that I wanted to avoid. Some contractors like to befriend their mark and weave a web around them. Not me. Keep it superficial. My real preference was not to know them at all. The same was true about anyone I interviewed. Why become involved personally—it is a mistake.
In a target-rich environment, the rule of engagement is “any target of opportunity.” That rule would require modification. To be opportunistic would be a disastrous course of action for what I was planning. Far more thought and planning was required. The down side, some might get away. As tragic as that might be, it was the way it was.
The finances were set. I had moved away from the old neighborhood, started a new life, and was no longer working the plant. I had plenty of time to devote to my projects. I was practicing with my pistol at the range daily. In my opinion, there was nothing worse than a killer who was a lousy shot. It might be construed as cruel and unusual punishment and I’d hate to be accused of that.
Besides weapons practice, projects required planning. Who, where, when, and how were the guts of the project. These things required the most time. I was becoming comfortable with who I was, the new me, Walter. Like an actor auditioning for a part, I wanted to do more than just act like Walter, I had to become Walter. At every opportunity that presented itself I played Walter like it was a dress rehearsal. I began introducing myself as Walter. I wanted it to feel natural and flow.
I remained aloof in my new neighborhood, making every effort not to meet neighbors. The less I knew about them and them about me, the better I liked it. Summer was rapidly approaching. The sensory perceptions were growing strong with the Dover case clippings. Destiny was in my ear prompting me to act. I had many questions concerning Dover—most would never be answered. He would be dead and Walter would be responsible. It was off to Seattle to begin my recon of the target.
Chapter 6
There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root
—Henry David Thoreau
It was the beginning of a beautiful summer in the Seattle area. Only one thing in my way of thinking could improve it, my first project coming to fruition. The “who” was easy, it had already been decided. Destiny watched over my shoulder making a big to-do over the news clippings involving one man’s name. Even worse were the voices disrupting my sleep. The voices were always with me, but recently they had increased in frequency and intensity. If I was going to get any rest I had to kill this guy, and I had to kill him soon.
Regardless of how harassed I was by dimensions of a spirit world, I refused to go off halfcocked. It was bad business. Every project had a plan. That was something I was proud of. It wasn’t haphazard or random but well planned, methodical, and to be performed with precision. In the military we called it a recon. The success of the follow-up mission, usually a search and destroy, depended upon the value of the recon. My reconnaissance left no stone unturned. Statistically it was undefeatable.
Benjamin Dover was more than just the target of my first project. Just the thought of killing him was stimulating. I didn’t think it should affect me that way but it was inspiring and enjoyable. Dover, a child rapist, had lived too long already. He had a price to pay and I was going to collect on it.
It was fair to say I took an interest in Dover before Destiny put in her two cents’ worth. Destiny didn’t verbalize her feelings often but relied frequently on gestures and some form of telepathy. I trusted those things that were transmitted to me to be honest and truthful. Dover had made it to the top of my short list. In some sense he was the same to me as all the others I‘d compiled notes and clippings on. I knew something of his history and what I knew I didn’t like. Prodded by sensory perceptions and the need to right the wrongs done to innocent victims, I pursued my project with zeal.
I didn’t feel the necessity to meet with or greet him on a personal level; however, it was a technique I would employ if need be. Who he was as a person didn’t matter to me. If he had gotten on with his life after incarceration, if he was gainfully employed making a new future for himself or just being reunited with his family and enjoying their love and support, I didn’t care. He should never have lived past his sentencing day.
Everybody had a story and my target was no different. Benjamin grew up in the southern suburbs of Seattle. His parents were both employed in the aircraft industry and had provided Ben with a stable home environment. It was a normal, working, middle-class neighborhood and family. Sometimes you hoped to put your finger on something and be able to say “That’s what went wrong,” but frequently it was just not there. More often it was as simple as a wiring problem for which there was no fix or cure. In Ben’s case there was nothing remarkable about his upbringing.
His physical appearance was perhaps an issue for him. He was small in stature not unlike thousands of other kids his age. He was regarded by classmates to be reclusive. Benjamin followed in his parents’ footsteps. After graduating from high school he landed a steady job at the aircraft plant. He worked around women in the workforce but never really dated. He was twenty-seven-years-old with no personal life outside company picnics and parties. He was a loner.
It was at one of these company picnics that Anita Mandalay met Benjamin. Anita with her young son in tow attracted the attention of Dover almost immediately. She saw stability and kindness in Benjamin, two attributes she was looking for in a relationship. She made it easy for Ben to become involved. She made him dinner and showed herself capable of being a wife and mother to him. She didn’t want to do the dating scene; she wanted a husband who would provide for her and her son. This was just the type of relationship Benjamin looked for as well. Avoiding the social environment was what he was all about.
Initially, Benjamin was exceptionally loving and good to her son. A ready-made family seemed to suit him just fine. Ben always brought candy or a toy for the lad when visiting Anita. Within weeks Benjamin was staying every night at the Mandalay residence, and it seemed right. Whatever went wrong went wrong quickly. Psychobabblers would later state their case in court for leniency, blaming everyone from his parents to the school system for his “undersocialization” that caused his lack of self-control. In the end it was just another meaningless excuse.
The history making Ben the man of my dreams was ugly. He took his live-in girlfriend’s little boy and repeatedly sodomized him. He was caught and incarcerated. End of story as far as the judicial system was concerned. The aftermath of such a debased event as happened to this youngster was rarely taken into consideration. By all accounts he was a smiling, curious four-year-old who loved to explore the world around him. He colored pictures and when he could escape the house into the backyard, he would wander for hours, bug to bug, dandelion to clover, all the while sporting an awestruck smile. He was full of life, full of innocence, and happy. Ben changed that forever.
Anita worked outside the home in a retail store. She worked an evening shift starting at 4 p.m., finishing up around m
idnight. Ben and her son got along well together. Anita was delighted when he volunteered to babysit while she was away—it just seemed natural for Ben to accept the responsibility of care for the boy. Court records indicate it was only a matter of weeks before Ben began to fondle the youngster. With each passing day Ben escalated his behavior until he began sodomizing the child. The boy never said a word to his mother. Why? No one knows.
Anita, who suspected nothing, had not noticed the personality changes in her son. He was now withdrawn and played by himself in the house. Anita was wrapped up in her new life with Ben and might not have known anything was wrong if her son had not become sick. Anita took him to a doctor and an evil was exposed. Plenty of evidence was noted from anal bleeding and scar tissue from what appeared to be sexual activity. That’s where it came unraveled for Ben.
Prosecutors seized the opportunity to avoid a messy trial by offering Dover a plea deal. According to them, it was still a felony conviction for Dover and since he had no previous criminal convictions, jail time would be minimal. In their view they were “saving” the victim and family the “embarrassment.” Dover copped a plea to a lesser felony charge which carried three years in the slammer and five years of useless parole. The courts slapped other punishments on him, like months of self-reflection therapy and a taxpayer-funded meditation group led by a swami.
However, from my perspective, the plea deal was unfortunate for Dover. He would have been better off if they had locked the door and thrown away the key. But now, he was out of jail and subject to Walter’s retribution. It was a great opportunity to employ techniques I have put together for this purpose. His parents had not moved from the Renton area despite the ill-gotten fame. The court documents showed strong support from his immediate family members and unless something had occurred, this wasn’t likely to have changed. He was an easy target to locate and set up on to watch. Anita was also easy to find. She had continued her residence in Seattle. Evidently she had never married and lived alone on the north side. She frequented a behavioral health center not far from where she lived. On a couple of occasions she took a young boy from this facility on afternoon outings. I suspected then, this was her son and everything wasn’t working out well for him. I had to take a chance, I had to get closer.
Due Process Page 6
