Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

“Did you mention me?”

  “I didn’t talk about anyone but Macon,” Mia said as tears began to well up in her eyes.

  “Okay, okay,” I responded, giving her a hug and reassuring her it was the right thing to do.

  A flatfoot snooping around for a missing person, a task force for missing persons, seems strange to me. I never heard of such a thing. But then again, I live in a world filled with strange things. Apparitions and premonitions I know to be true that guide my destiny and bolster my courage.

  I decided to make a quick trip to the sisters’ home and see if Detective Ware had made an appearance there. With their past criminal history they were not likely to warm up to answering questions from Ware. Arriving at their trailer it was clear they had moved out. Where to? I could trace them down, I suppose, but why? It was time to leave it alone and get back to the work at hand. As Walter would say, “There are other fish to fry!”

  Chapter 9

  There is no greater fulfillment than hunting a human predator that is equally armed with cunning and intelligence. Once you have done so, you will never care for anything less.

  —Walter

  Growing up on a ranch had taught me the value of game trails when moving through dense brush and trees on Oregon hillsides. Every couple of days, my chores included saddling the horse and checking on cattle and fence line. Growing up on a working ranch I learned the natural cycle of life, living, and survival. Understanding animal behavior, both wild and domestic, was a skill taught mostly through observation and experience.

  Game trails were cut across the terrain over decades, perhaps centuries, by one animal following another back and forth to food and water. It was not uncommon to see tracks of deer and other wild creatures after a rain or in the soft dust ridges of a trail. They also served as camouflage for predators to stalk and ambush their prey.

  Outdoor enthusiasts, as well as predators, use urban biking and hiking trails pretty much the same way animals use game trails. I can’t begin to count the number of violent criminal and sexual offenses that occur each year on urban game trails. Despite what is commonly believed about the safety of bike trails; statistics tell a different story. Heavily wooded and isolated areas along these trails cater to predators and harbor a far greater risk than most people think.

  It bugged me that nearly eleven years before a predator had been working in my backyard, so to speak. I remember thinking to myself at the time I’d like to run into him in the act and put him down like a rabid dog. All I needed was a little justification and I could whack him, or so I thought. I now know that would never have happened. I wasn’t ready then. A lesson I learned the day Lewis Pohle crossed my path. In Pohle’s case every opportunity presented itself and I didn’t cap him. An exercise in futility as it turned out when he was released seven months later for time served while awaiting trial. If I had pulled my Roscoe and plugged him, I would not carry deep inside the feelings of guilt that I do for the elderly woman Pohle violated. Now my only solace is the fact Pohle will never rape again, thanks to Walter.

  My recollection of a bike trail predator first surfaced eleven years ago after a middle-aged woman riding a bicycle narrowly escaped an attack. Her description of the attacker was a young man in his twenties, light brown skin, medium-length straight black hair, five feet ten inches to six feet and 160 to 180 pounds. Soon after this event news reporters followed up with a second report that evidently occurred a week prior to the first one making the headlines. It too was a failed attempt on another would-be victim along a bike trail. Coincidence? Not likely.

  People love their freedom and hate to let anything interfere in their lives. I understand that, but it is more than laws that take away our freedom. Predators, through fear, take away our freedom as well. Park or trail warnings have little effect on people’s safety; only a few folks take heed and then not for long.

  When the story broke it was the talk of Portland. Some talked about it out of fear, others talked about it out of concern, but few were dissuaded to give up biking and hiking the trails. A few days passed before the attacker struck again. This time he was successful. Similar descriptions emerged and police were now asking for the public’s help: “Call Crimestoppers or your local police if you see someone on bike trails that matches the description.” I have to give it to the Portland Metro Crimes Bureau—they were hot after this guy. Now with everyone alerted and watching, the fourth attack still occurred. This time it was a sixteen-year-old girl and once more he was successful. He was becoming an effective predator.

  Police were quick to ensure that the local newspapers made a big front-page splash when the attacker was captured. Peace and safety had returned to our community, as if there were only one predator in Portland. The attacker, twenty-year-old Morey Leicester, was found less than a mile from the attack, where he was living in a tent.

  It was no surprise when the media didn’t cover Morey‘s plea deal. It was old news. He served nine years in jail as a first-time offender and due to his predatory nature he was listed as a Class III offender on Oregon’s sex offender registry.

  When people rely on laws to protect them they fail to understand the law. Laws were designed to punish offenders, but more commonly now; they are used in an attempt to rehabilitate. They don’t protect anyone. Sexual offender registries serve as nothing more than false hopes to appease society’s call for justice. No perp will be stopped from committing another sexual offense just because his name is on a registry. Never! It’s a false sense of security.

  At home my attention was drawn to his file. The sensory perceptions caused me to feel the fear and pain experienced by the victims. I could hardly remain sitting upright from the agony it brought upon me. I winched backwards and heard the noise like a roaring wave of voices crying out, “His time.” The feelings of hopelessness subsided as I refocused my attention on the clippings I’d compiled on Leicester. He topped my short list of candidates for execution.

  I’d known for some time of apartment buildings being used to house a very special clientele. Some metro areas purchased more than services of a halfway house. They went the extra mile with taxpayer funds to permanently house sex offenders at no cost to the criminal. Talk about discrimination. Bank robbers, drug runners, and murderers didn’t get the same freebee—why did sex offenders? Some probably thought this was a great idea. I didn’t. It was another case of misguided justice. The liberals argued it was a better solution than having them living in residential areas. Walter argued that they shouldn’t be alive at all. That’s Walter for you.

  I learned of these apartment–halfway houses by noting a number of sex offenders being released to a single address. I’d made it my business to know where complexes like these were located. I referred to these apartments as high-risk locations. I’d spent hours observing and documenting behaviors around these facilities.

  Morey was a resident of such a facility. The complex sat in an older Portland neighborhood near the Beaverton and Interstate 5 confluence. It wasn’t a low-rent district per se, just an older part of the city with many well-built middle-class-type dwellings. The twelve-apartment two-story facility appeared to model a military barracks of the early fifties from the outside. It was an unlocked halfway house that utilized a pass system for its residents to come and go. Not exactly freedom but nonetheless a pretty standard operating procedure, monitored in a very substandard way. Still, it wasn’t going to be easy getting close to the target.

  Walter sported a little heavier jacket due to the lower temperatures, normal for November in the Pacific Northwest. The plan was to make quick work of this project. Christmas was just around the corner and I wanted to get into the spirit of the season—what could bring more joy to the world than the fresh December kill of Morey Leicester? His victims would undoubtedly be ecstatic.

  It was necessary to make a positive identification of my target. It would be boots on the ground, tailing residents, until a positive identification could be established on Leicester. My assump
tion was that with the passing of a decade, Morey’s appearance hadn’t changed enough to make it difficult to determine whom to stalk.

  Each morning, Monday through Friday, residents gathered outside at eight o’clock to smoke. I didn’t know if Leicester was a smoker, but I’d start there trying to make a positive ID. My vantage point for this observation was an old red brick Christian church. There was no designated parking lot, just a small dirt field and curbside parking around the church. It was easy to blend into these surroundings with my Avenger. A few of the cars hadn’t moved in weeks, others came and went frequently. Most important was the view. It was a clean, straight shot at the back corner of the halfway house where the “smoking circle” assembled.

  There were a couple of very dark-skinned men that could be eliminated as the target immediately. The other guys, well, I needed a closer look. Not much activity went on around the complex on the outside of the building. When daily passes were issued residents began to filter out. One man caught my attention as he left the compound walking slowly down the sidewalk toward a corner convenience store. My Avenger rolled in quietly to the rear parking area. I sat for a few minutes and watched the front door. With my .40-caliber strapped under my jacket I made my entry to check things out. I instantly came face to face with the man I was following. His now visible red blazer caught my eye first. A fast glance at the name tag revealed his name as Ryan. The arrest records I had on file showed Leicester at five feet eleven inches. Ryan wasn’t any more than five feet six inches. It was back to the drawing board after a hot cup of coffee.

  Driving back to my observation area I passed two fellows exiting the complex gate. Both had potential. They made their way to a bus stop and waited about fifteen minutes before a ten-thirty bus arrived. In this urban jungle buses made frequent stops and if you tried to tail one you might be picked out by a discerning eye. I decided it best to lie back as far as possible and try to pick up the scent later. I followed loosely, keeping the bus in sight. At its major hub downtown the bus emptied out before I was able to park and watch. Tomorrow would be another day.

  At home I kicked back and watched the evening news. Sometimes I wondered why it really agitated me when I heard one report after another of murder, rape, gang activity, home invasions—man there was no end to it. I was ready to turn it off, remote in hand, when an interview with a sheriff’s department detective caught my attention. Sergeant Brandon A. Ware was investigating a homicide of some nature but I didn’t catch the details. My interest was stirred with this older-looking gentleman with a drab suit jacket and matching tie. There was something familiar about him. Something I recognized. I searched my thoughts momentarily before the light came on; this was the “Missing Persons Task Force” officer who had come to see Mia Payne. My interest now piqued. Ware was a homicide detective. The MCSD must be stretched awfully thin if they had him looking for a missing person.

  Early in the morning I renewed my observation of the apartment. I looked over the smoking group closely to see if I could ID Leicester. Some of the men wore hoodies pulled up, others had skull caps on. To make this guy I would have to get up close. I drove about a block south of the bus stop, parked, then strolled to the Plexiglas bus stop to wait. Like clockwork one of the men from the previous day approached the waiting area. “Hi” I chirped. The fellow nodded in my direction.

  “It’s my first time taking the bus here, do you ride it much?”

  “Yah, some,” he replied.

  “Is it usually on time?”

  “Always.”

  I already knew this was not Leicester. From an old description I had and a more recent picture, this guy didn’t even come close to matching.

  “Any sites to see along the way?” I asked.

  “With a sigh he answered, “Trees, lakes, and parks, that’s about it.”

  We continued the casual conversation over the next few minutes. I pressed the point of finding a secluded area along the route where I might enjoy my privacy. Eventually he offered up something of value. “One place along the way is probably good. I got a friend, Mo, he goes there, I guess he likes it.”

  “Point it out when we pass it, will you?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I sat back and waited for the bus. If Mo found a nice secluded place, he was up to no good, assuming Mo was Morey.

  My new acquaintance pointed out an old park a couple miles from the halfway house. It was imperative I check it out before the recon proceeded further.

  The park sat to the north side of the roadway overlooking an undeveloped hillside. The well-nourished fir trees in the park were so dense, sunlight scantly penetrated through them. My reconnaissance of the park showed it was little else than a nature trail through the heavily wooded area. No playground equipment, facilities, courts, or ball fields. By park standards it was small, encompassing about a city block. Its main feature was a winding pathway dotted with park benches. My probing here convinced me Mo would like a park like this.

  My focus changed to where my stakeout would be centered on, the park’s only bus stop. Early the next morning I made my way to the site for the observation. I eased my Avenger up to a prime location with a clear view of the bus stop. I awaited with anticipation the arrival of the first bus of the day.

  Casually sipping coffee I perused the local interest stories. Nothing really caught my eye until I spotted “Police Eye Vigilante Killings” written by my old friend Harold Horn. It was a rehash of a recent murder with Horn’s speculation on the motive. He always fancied himself a detective and this was his way of living it out. The problem that faced me was that he was very close to the truth.

  I sat very uneasy as I read the article. Horn quoted Detective Ware in an interview on the recent killing, “We are looking into the possibility of this murder being linked to other recent homicides.” What others, I thought, as I slipped down a little lower in my car seat.

  How was this recent murder Detective Ware was working on being linked to other killings? Was it my work he referred to? I suppose I should be thankful they were on the wrong track on the latest homicide but it offended me they might attribute my work to someone else. Hopefully, they weren’t looking to hang another murder on my collar, one I didn’t do. At times I wished I had an inside ear to police activities. I’d like to know if they’ve turned up any other perps I’ve eliminated or connected the dots to the Washington projects. I feel myself becoming more nervous and glancing out my car window in all directions. Not because I’m afraid of being caught; because I haven’t killed enough yet.

  Horn went through the recent crime emphasizing what was apparent to him to be motive. The man killed in the Portland suburbs was a sixty-year-old retired Catholic priest, according to Horn. The priest had a known history of allegations of sexually abusing children in his parish. He was defrocked and sent away for treatment but never charged with the multiple rumored crimes. The motive in Horn’s mind was clearly “revenge.” He based this loosely on the historical allegations and the fact someone emptied a full magazine into the priest. Had I known about this man of the cloth before his killer got to him, I might have been the responsible party they were looking for. It was the end of the article that had my curiosity the most. In his interview with Detective Ware he stated he had “a person of interest” they were looking for. Was it me? Horn said it was possibly a deeply religious male in his early twenties. I can only hope they buy Horn’s profile, I’ll be in the clear.

  It was after 5 p.m. before I knew it. I spent many hours today thinking this current project through. It wasn’t a smart move to kill this guy while the heat was up, but the alternative was to wait and see what happened. I could change projects, maybe cross state lines and hit somebody in a new area. That would take time out of my busy schedule to devise. And that means time was being wasted. The value I saw in this “person of interest” was a more confusing picture for police. I really didn’t want the new shooter to get credit for what I had accomplished. On the other hand, if t
hey picked this shooter up, it’d cover my tracks for a while.

  Three days passed and I was still perched watching the little park from my car. The main traffic in the park was bike riders and joggers, and then not many. This was a perfect spot for criminal activity. All predator animals selected their prey—so did predator people. People got a false sense of security because predators didn’t constantly attack. That was true, because they were like animals. They attacked when they needed to feed. It was not every day or all the time but when they struck, their prey would be isolated and defenseless.

  Predator animals worked game trails because their selection was convenient just like bike paths and park trails. They didn’t expose themselves to unnecessary risks to bring down their prey. That behavior pattern was never more evident than with human predators that had been to the Big House for a previous selection and conviction. They were far more cautious and cunning the next time around and there was always a next time.

  Harold’s article set off a barrage of media articles on vigilantism over the next few days. The reporters were singing to the choir and the people were eating it up. The media were fickle, not really supporting the idea of vigilantism but not dispelling it either. A lineup of psychologists and various disciplines in therapy were adding motive and rationale to the frenzy. Criminal rights advocates were putting in their two cents, readers were writing letters to the editor, everyone had something to say or add; all very sensational—and useless.

  I was at my park stakeout for a week and the fervor had not let up. Most of the media opinions didn’t amount to a hill of beans to me but I had to be concerned. Joe Citizen might start looking around and report a suspicious person. It could be a lucky break for Detective B.A. Ware. It was something to be considered. Besides, sitting here at the park wasn’t paying off. I started to make a plan B for this project. At home I laid out the file, information, and notes I had collected in some hopes of discovering a new or overlooked clue that would get things moving. The news flashed its lead story, “Twenty-one-year-old held in connection with priest’s murder.” The story was scanty on the news hour. The alleged assailant, Darren Deed, was believed to have known the victim and was apprehended attempting to flee the Portland area.