Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  “Where are you going?”

  I saw Macon’s eyes dart around the room like a con man checking to see if anyone else could hear him, “I’m not sure but it’ll be far from here.” How noble on his part, I thought. He told Mia Australia; it’s all part of the game. Oh, he’ll flee the state. He’ll end up in California or Florida or somewhere like that doing the same thing he did here. And what’s this about his father, the person he said was responsible for him being the way he is. I don’t know what to believe.

  “Doesn’t it bother you, knowing what he did and allowed others to do to you and your sisters?”

  Macon replied in a soft voice, “Yes, but he’s still my father and it was a long time ago. When I was in jail, he was the only one who came to visit. He put money on my books so I could buy things I needed. He’s always been there for me.”

  “Macon, if it works for you to stay at your dad’s house, just lie low for a while and get your ducks lined up before you go.”

  He nodded in agreement knowing he would have to put a plan together. Macon was still on parole—if he ran, he violated his parole and would be returned to jail if caught. The drive passed quickly as he rehashed details of his and his sisters’ early family life. I was nauseated by what I heard because on some level there was truth in there. Walter would get to the bottom of it.

  My plan would expand in scope and difficulty if Macon’s story rang true. Regardless of the mitigating factors that jurors took into account, I was not forced to consider them. Namely, Macon was absolutely to blame for what happened to Barbie. I was not conflicted between right and wrong in this case, only saddened.

  We reached a shack of a house Macon called his father’s home. We pulled onto an overgrown path of a driveway that led to a lean-to roof off the house. An eerie tree-branch canopy covered the roadway that hid the house from view. The house was dark and foreboding. I immediately felt uncomfortable here. A single light appeared as the front door opened. The small stature of a man could be seen peering out. I assumed it was Macon’s father, since he had mentioned the old man lived alone. As Macon came around the front of the car the old man invited us in straight away. As we entered the door, Macon introduced me to his father, Phil Payne. I extended my hand in greeting and followed Phil and Macon inside; the house was as shabby inside as it was outside.

  Phil appeared much older than his stated age. His beard was gray and straggly, and his hair had been shaved to a crew cut. He looked emaciated and smelled of rotting clothes soaked with perspiration. His denim pants and a once white T-shirt had given way to various stains of brown and yellow a long time ago.

  I sat with Macon and Phil in the dimly lit front room. Macon wasted little time explaining what had occurred with Mia and Barbie. This time he went to greater lengths with the sordid details. I watched closely for his father’s reaction. Phil became restless. His eyes darted back and forth from Macon to me. Macon confronted Phil, “Dad, it was the same things you did to all of us kids.” Phil never raised an objection to what Macon said. His only response to any of it was, “I don’t remember.” As Macon talked, blackened shadows formed in the hallway’s recesses, I could hear them groaning and see them reaching outward toward us. I became tense, wanting to engage these apparitions as they slowly crept into the living room. A white blinding light appeared from behind me. My reaction must have been noticeable as Macon and Phil gave pause to their conversation and cast a glance in my direction. Destiny stood in the room, her arm outstretched toward the hall and not a shadow in sight. Macon, smiling, asked, “Are you falling asleep?” I apologized. It seemed like the quickest way out rather than explain what I saw. Not that any of them would have believed me.

  As Macon continued his conversation it turned from accusation to planning. Macon was dead set on leaving. Getting up the money to go was the big thing.

  “Macon, why don’t we get some rest tonight and hit it fresh tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll have better ideas if we can sleep on it.” In all honesty, I was biting at the bit, the place gave me the heebie-jeebies and I was glad to escape.

  It was at this point I realized the truth to the adage, “The family that preys together, stays together.” Macon and Phil were two peas in a pod, preying on society. I also realized I was getting a bargain price on this kill, so to speak, two for the price of one. Preparations for a well-executed project usually took weeks. To pull this off, I only had days.

  I fell into bed exhausted. My mind was turning a hundred miles an hour. How to do it? When should I strike? I’ve killed before and felt nothing. What would I feel this time? Would it be harder? Did both deserve to die? If so, who did Walter kill first? Where were the voices that help guide me? There were too many what-ifs to plan for and too many questions demanding an answer.

  Mia was eager to hear if Macon had left. I related some aspects of our discussion but I seriously doubted he would be able to come up with the funds to make it happen. I mentioned Phil and Macon were planning a less costly move to Canada which seemed to please Mia. She continued her clear message that she never wanted to see him again; I felt confident she never would. Further, after she was sure he had left the country she planned to petition for divorce. That was perfect.

  I kept daily contact with Macon, driving out to visit him. He was growing more anxious to leave. I was growing more anxious to kill him.

  “Can I catch a ride with you?” Macon asked.

  “Sure” I answered “Where to?”

  Macon had secured a vehicle. He didn’t tell me the details of how he came by it but his plan was to get it roadworthy for a long trip. Phil had warned Macon not to mention to anyone where they were planning to go. My time for action was growing shorter by the minute. I took Macon to his sisters’ home where he picked up an old station wagon. I followed him back to Phil’s house then hung out while Macon worked on the car.

  Not only did Phil look old and worn down but his house and property mirrored his appearance. On the property, brush had taken over what was a small field. The property had been fenced at one time with hog wire fencing, some of which was still visible amidst the brush and attached to trees along the field perimeter. Twenty yards out from the house sat an old-fashioned river-rock well. It was characteristic of decades earlier when this patch of ground was viable. It was complete with the rotting remnants of a water bucket tied to what was left of the cross member. I was inquisitive and asked Phil about it to which he replied, “Hardly any water ever in it. It’s bone dry now. Too many people pumping water out of the ground around these parts.” Stacks of old bleached plywood and various size boards were leaning up behind the house and piles of firewood dotted the backdrop. To add to this tinderbox, summer’s heat had dried the brush brittle.

  Macon was making frequent trips from Phil’s to his sisters’ trailer house. He was liquidating property he and his father could sell using his sisters’ place for their yard sale. Macon, trying to be cautious in my presence, mentioned to Phil they had cleared nearly everything out that they wanted to get rid of. Keeping tabs on their progress and advancing my project were paramount.

  While Macon was busy with the yard sale I had plenty of opportunity for small talk with Phil. “Phil, I know you’re not telling anyone where you’re going and that’s a good way of doing it. Breaking all family ties for just you and your son must be hard?”

  Somehow this question triggered an unexpected response. Phil spoke frankly with me. “I have to make it up to my boy. I did a lot wrong to him and his sisters.”

  “Are you talking about what Macon brought up about being used for sex orgies?”

  He fell silent and gazed toward his backyard. He walked slowly to the rock well as I followed close by. We stood together looking into the well. Phil cleared his throat. “I was strung out on booze and drugs. Twenty years of booze and drugs.” Typical excuse, I thought, and meaningless! After pausing for a moment Phil continued, “I just couldn’t stop it. I wanted to. I just couldn’t. It didn’t happen all the time,
just sometimes.” Once or a hundred times, I thought, what’s the difference. I was convinced without a shadow of a doubt he needed to die. He might not be able to sexually abuse a child anymore because of his health or age. Maybe he was no longer a threat to society. I was killing him for what he’d already done. He was responsible for the damage he did to at least three children and I suspect more, although that was never clear. I couldn’t stomach listening to him any longer or I’d kill him right then. “See you guys tomorrow, Phil.” I walked to the car while Phil stood near the rock well gazing into the void.

  I stopped in to say a quick hello to Macon at his sister’s place. Macon said the sale was going well and he planned to work it straight through and move as much as he could in the next day or two. That signaled to me it was becoming a now-or-never situation.

  Monday rolled around and as expected Macon headed to his sisters’ place. I gave it about fifteen minutes before pulling into Phil’s driveway.

  I heard Phil holler through the open door, “Macon’s at the girls’ place.”

  “That’s okay, Phil; I wanted to see if you wanted to sell that ol’ rock well. I’d like to have it, unless you’ve got other plans for it?”

  I could see Phil at the door scratching his chin and thinking.

  “Well, let’s see.”

  Phil smiled and led the way to the backyard. Leaning up against the well, he said. “You’ve been a good friend to my boy, how about free?” Unfortunately it was a deal I’d have to pass on. Phil didn’t own the property and it wasn’t his to sell; besides he had a use for it after all. Thumper crashed into the base of his skull. I swung the steel pipe again and again as Phil lay out cold against the well. I don’t know if it killed him then or if the plunge headfirst to the base of the well did him in but I was certain he was finished. I really didn’t care as long as he was dead. I leaned over the well and watched for any signs of life but there was none. It was a productive morning already and it had just started.

  I drove to meet Macon at the yard sale. When I pulled up Macon had just about finished loading his car with the remnants of the sale. He gave his sisters a couple leftover items he didn’t want to take with him and said his goodbyes.

  “Hey, I’ll follow you home and help with the items in your car.”

  “Thanks,” Macon replied. “If there’s something you want, it’s free.” What a giving family. My dad used to tell me, “Doing good is its own reward.” That’s what I was all about; doing good for good’s sake.

  I chatted briefly with his sisters until he finished sorting the trash he wanted to keep from the trash he planned to leave. After a few minutes he had finished his task and jumped in the wagon.

  “Let’s go.”

  I nodded to him and addressed the girls with one parting statement.

  “Macon’s other car is in better shape. More than likely he’ll take it when he goes.”

  “What other car? I thought he only had the station wagon.”

  “Trust me; he’ll be well taken care of.” The gullible girls wanted to believe everything would work out for the best. As we talked, both sisters made comments that they knew what was up, at least to some degree, and that Phil and Macon were leaving for an undisclosed destination. I was satisfied it would be awhile before they became concerned. I jumped in my Avenger and followed Macon to Phil’s house.

  We pulled off into the dry and dusty drive leading to the house. Macon was already out of his car when I pulled up behind him. He walked to the back of the wagon and opened the tailgate. I followed with my Glock neatly concealed next to my side. If need be I was ready for action. Macon pointed to where he wanted to stack the items then entered the house looking for Phil. I’d moved a couple items from the car when Macon emerged from the house. He didn’t say anything but with a puzzled look on his face, proceeded to the overgrown backyard and field. I followed a short distance behind as he ventured out farther into the field.

  I continued behind a safe distance so as not to cause him alarm. From the corner of the house the well area was a twenty-yard shot, one that I had practiced many times. I lifted my left hand up for a brace as I took aim. Macon was making his way toward the rock well all the time looking toward the tangled wood and brier. Thuup! The first shot struck him in the back. I approached quickly, Thuup. Thuup. The next two shots blew blood and brain matter out onto the ground.

  This was a nasty mess, not the way I wanted to work. I pulled Macon up and dropped him in the well. It was early evening and I would have a majority of the night to apply the cosmetics as needed. I had brought a bag of lime to pour on the bodies to minimize any smell of decomposition if the larger plan didn’t work out effectively.

  The pairs of latex gloves worn for both kills were tossed in the well. Trace forensic evidence that might be in the gloves would soon burn. A woodshed stood near the back of the house. Some gnarly old chunks of wood not fit for the small woodstove in the house were piled alongside the shed. I carried a dozen chunks to the well to conceal the bodies and poured an accelerator of old fuel and oil on them. Black smoke rose from the well but the bonfire was concealed.

  The ground was dry and hard. Boot impressions were difficult to see but I had been in the house many times and that was a forensic concern. I scooped up any visible blood splatter and used a piece of brush to whisk the ground to cover my actions. Next I busted up a few pieces of the old plywood and put down the well. The glue in the plywood made for a hot fire. The smoke turned to a light gray as the big gnarly chunks turned into deep burning coals. This would be an all-night babysitting job and maybe the next day too.

  My schedule allowed for me to make a phone call or two so I began with Mia. I kept it short and sweet, “He’s gone.”

  She sounded sad. “Do you know where?”

  “No, and I don’t want to know.”

  “What if the parole officer comes around looking for him, what do I say?”

  “First, don’t mention me at all, Mia. If you want to tell them he left you or whatever that’s up to you but don’t involve me. I’ve done my part.”

  “Okay,” she muttered.

  She might not have been happy with her decision to put him out of her life but it was a decision she could never go back on now.

  I slipped by the sisters’ home and let them know Macon and Phil had left. They were pleased Macon got away without any problems. They couldn’t care less about their father.

  “The police will probably come around looking for Macon. If you’re smart you’ll let it end then and there with ‘We don’t know where he is and don’t expect to hear from him.’ Don’t even mention me; I’ve helped him all I can.”

  They were both prostitutes and druggies. They were used to contact with cops and not talking. They agreed it was the best course of action. I promised to bring the station wagon back from their dad’s house since I knew they didn’t ever visit him. That was fine, they said.

  I parked my Avenger about a quarter mile from Phil’s place and walked the rest of the way to the house. Wearing my latex gloves, I emptied the wagon of all the belongings and placed them inside the home. I shuttled the car to the sister’s trailer the next evening, arriving about ten minutes before the taxi would arrive. I’d arranged for a cab to pick me up at eight o’clock. The sisters were either gone or asleep; in any case, no one came out of the trailer so I left the keys in the ignition and had the cabbie drop me at a driveway leading to Phil’s house. Under the cover of darkness I walked back to the Avenger and it was off to stoke the fires.

  How long can someone be missing before it is noticed? Reclusive people like Phil or me, probably a long time. Macon’s parole officer might discover him missing after a couple months and issue a warrant, maybe. His soon-to-be ex-wife was glad he was “missing.” If he was a no-show for court, the divorce was automatic. The sisters were happy he had slipped through the cracks and was making his way to the Canadian border. They were not going to raise a concern that might impede his getaway. There was
nothing for the media to sensationalize if it was discovered they were missing.

  Just a couple more things to take care of and I’d feel better about my involvement. Phil’s house wasn’t Phil’s, it was a rental. The landlord posted an eviction notice on the door. It wasn’t a month later that all the worldly possessions Phil and Macon had were being loaded into a trailer. My guess was it was headed for the dump.

  The rainy season began in September. I drove by the house one last time. It looked like a bunch of hippies had moved in. Throwbacks from the sixties complete with tie-dyed T’s, long hair, and that sort of thing. Any evidence that might have been there was contaminated so badly it would hold little value, except perhaps for two charred bodies in the well. As long as the bodies weren’t discovered, I was in the clear. No crime was suspected, other than Macon’s skipping his parole requirements.

  I felt good about what I had done, although those that fail to understand will consider me horrible. “You killed people you befriended.” I did no such thing. I was never their friend nor were they mine. I’d done what I set out to do, dispose of the worst kind of criminals and escape detection.

  I kept tabs on Mia to oversee any interest that might arise over Macon for skipping the country. As I was wrapping this up I decided to swing by and check in with Mia. She told of a parole officer who stopped by. Seemed he was interested in the details of Macon’s leaving the state. The officer was aware of the filing for divorce and asked for a call if Macon contacted her. Mia produced a business card from another officer from the Multnomah County sheriff’s department. Detective Brandon A. Ware was investigating missing persons as part of some type of criminal task force.

  Mia said, “I told him the truth.” What truth! I thought.

  Mia went on after a short pause, “I told him he ran from the state and was never coming back because he didn’t want to go back to prison.”