Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  No way! This was the “person of interest” Ware was looking for? This snotty-nosed kid was all amateur. The only possible connection with any of my work was the victims were child molesters. It wouldn’t take long for Ware to sort this out.

  Another week passed before I would get a break. The media had put this story behind them and moved on to newer happenings. As for Portland communities, the threat of vigilantes taking the law into their own hands was swept away by Deed’s arrest. Street gangsters battling over drug turf topped the headlines once again and the media were off and running in another feeding frenzy.

  I had a lot of respect for Detective Ware. He’d been around. You got the sense he was old school about law enforcement. His interview answers with the media gave the impression he was pretty tight lipped and serious. There was no room for questions he chose not to answer and he did not elaborate on questions he did answer. His press release was exactly that, a release of information he wanted out, that’s all. I’d like an opportunity to meet him. On the other hand, it was best I didn’t.

  Monday was a classic fall day. Portland was well known for its wind and rain. Doubtful anyone would use the park for a stroll on such a blustery day. The transit bus pulled up as scheduled and a lone figure dressed for foul weather pulled a hood up over his head as he exited. He proceeded into the park as the bus pulled away. I waited a few minutes to watch for any unusual behavior. As I prepared to face the elements the hooded person turned around from the height of a small knoll and appeared to look about. It was a fast scan and then he was on the move again over the hill and out of sight. When he turned in my direction I had him framed in a pair of binoculars; a quick glimpse of the subject’s face and I was 90 percent sure this was my target. I flanked the man’s movement staying well hid by the hill, bushes, and trees. Most people watched behind for movement and toward the front in the direction they were moving but didn’t watch their flanks closely. It was there on the flank I felt most comfortable.

  I caught fleeting views as we moved through the park until he vanished from sight into the brush. I moved slowly in his direction, I wanted to see what he was up to. I dared not approach too closely for fear of blowing my cover. As I crept closer I heard rustling noises in the brush that I was unable to identify what was happening. I backed away slowly and took refuge in a thicket, squatted down to wait it out. Something was going on here and I was determined to investigate it.

  Psychological time passes slowly. A minute can seem like an hour when anxiety interrupts the hands of time. My wristwatch showed fifteen minutes had elapsed since I concealed myself in the brush but the pounding rain made it seem much longer. I kept still as I watched the park visitor work his way through the brush to the pathway. I continued to watch until he was gone from sight. I decided it best to sit out the tailing and put my efforts into finding the reason for his visit. It’s an instinct, nothing more, but instinct hasn’t failed me yet; I rely on it heavily. I’m unable to explain why or how I can tell when I’ve seen something that is very wrong; a gift or a curse, I don’t know.

  I moved into the brushy area the mystery man had vacated a few minutes earlier and found with little difficulty the area he had rustled around in. The ground was heavily saturated from the rain but in one small area I could see a number of leaves showing a light brownish dryness mixed in with darker wet leaves. This area had recently been disturbed. Had I waited until later, the leaves would have been soaked and the area unremarkable. I probed the ground until I heard a sound of something crinkling under my latex-gloved fingers. With as little disturbance to the leaf cover as possible I slipped out a brown nylon ripstop stuff sack frequently used by backpackers to keep their gear dry. I carefully opened the bag revealing a revolver. Maneuvering the pistol in the bag I could see it had rounds in the cylinder.

  I removed the rounds, placing them inside my coat pocket before rewrapping the gun and placing it back in the hole it came from. I scooped some leaves over it and left it much the way I’d found it and made my way back to my Avenger. My sixth sense told me this man and I were destined to meet, perhaps soon.

  The weekend passed without any sign of the park visitor. Editorial comments were appearing in the newspapers concerning Deed and the defrocked priest he had allegedly killed. The media, being the bleeding-heart liberals they were, had Deed convicted of vigilantism in the public arena before the formal charges were levied. People wrote letters to the editor expressing their outrage at the epidemic of priests abusing children; very few letters were critical of Deed for taking the law into his own hands. It was another meaningless debate.

  Anna Sasins, an independent feature writer, caught my eye. According to the newspaper profile, Sasins had extensively covered human-interest stories as an investigative reporter for some of the top newspapers in the Pacific Northwest. Unlike other writers that aligned on the side of liberals and denounced vigilantism, she focused on Deed’s action as a result of a failed legal and religious system. Her point was clear and I was in agreement with her conclusion. The church organization protected itself—not the innocent child in their care. Mr. Deed, if guilty, was well within his rights. At least that’s the way Walter saw it.

  Friday morning rolled around and I began to second-guess my chances of making the park observation work out. The eleven-o’clock bus pulled up and a lone figure stepped off. The man moved quickly into the shaded park before stopping to look behind him. I could see it was Mo. I stepped from my Avenger with the Glock tucked under my jacket. With the moderator on it was easier to carry it short distances tucked away under an arm inside my jacket than fitting it into a holster. If opportunity knocked, I was ready to rock ‘n roll.

  I flanked his movement as before, this time with the intention of making a close encounter. Leicester moved into the brushy terrain as before, I made my approach. I could see him on his knees in the area of the hidden gun. Ten feet from him I stopped. I could tell he had heard my approach; he was still. I called out, “Leicester.”

  He fumbled for something between his feet then stood upright.

  “Morey Leicester, step out here.”

  With his gun partially hidden behind his leg, he shouted nervously, “What do you want?”

  I stepped through the brush while drawing my weapon; he quickly brandished his into an old fashioned Mexican stand-off. I stepped forward slowly and closed the gap between us. With our weapons nearly touching I heard the clicking noise of dry fire from his revolver.

  I dropped the rounds from his revolver on the ground in front of him. “On your knees! On your knees! On your knees!” The command finally resonated and Morey whispered, “No.” His gun fell to the ground behind him. “I’m sorry, it was a mistake.” For what it’s worth, I agree he’s a sorry individual. I’m not sure what mistake he was talking about, I suspect he made a lot of them but again I had to agree a mistake was made. For his crimes, he should have been locked in a dungeon and the key thrown away—he should not be walking the streets nine years later. I couldn’t change what he had done but I could change the court’s mistake and Morey’s future.

  Not that it made all that much difference to me but insincere contriteness mixed with a lot of begging for your life was always a nice touch. But, as I’ve said before, it didn’t make any real difference.

  “Did the women beg you to let them go?” He bowed his head and slowly shook it from side to side as memories ran through his mind. Now I know he understands my presence. “How about the teenage girl, what did she say? Did she beg you to let her go?” He didn’t answer. I raised my voice, took a step closer, and demanded, “I want to know, did she beg you not to rape her? Did she?”

  Morey’s head sunk lower. His stare was distant as if reliving his victim’s pleas.

  A symphony of angelic voices began to cry out from above the treetop canopy. I knew it was time. Thuup, the .40-caliber ripped into his forehead. I placed three more rounds into his head making a bloody mess for crime scene investigators to contend with.


  With the past couple of kills I had done my best to hide the bodies. Mo Leicester I left purposely where I killed him. I wanted him found with his gun near his side with his fingerprints all over it—a convicted predatorial multiple rapist who did his dirty work on urban game trails in the parks of Portland. The press would have a field day with it. They’d resurrect the history and cause concern in their own special way. Instead of charges, Deed would probably get a medal for ridding the world of the priest with a passion for young boys. Certainly, Deed was in line to gain God’s favor.

  From my actions the press would be quick to exonerate Deed as a serial killer. How could he be, he was locked up tighter than a drum. If Deed kept his mouth shut, he might walk a free man, you never know. If he got off, that was fine with me. I didn’t hold revenge against him. He was violated and the perp got away with it. If Deed did kill the priest, he made two things perfectly clear—revenge is what every victim wants and he wanted to ensure it never happens again to anyone else. The priest would never harm another child just like Mo would never rape another girl. It was a 100 percent guarantee.

  I didn’t know what Morey was planning to do in a secluded area of the park with a handgun but statistically, the next time around, the victim would not have lived. It was something they learned when given a few years behind bars to think about the next time. In any case, he was dead. It didn’t matter what he was going to do, Walter killed him for what he had done a decade before.

  Back at my home I cranked up the wood-burning stove. A peace settled in as I warmed myself. I didn’t have a Yule log or chestnuts to roast, just an old project file to burn. Things were shaping up to be a very merry Christmas after all.

  Chapter 10

  When the legal system failed, I factored myself in as a consequence.

  That’s what I was—a consequence.

  —Walter

  It has been said so many times after a tragic event occurs to a child at the hands of a parent, “It should be illegal for some people to have kids.” I couldn’t agree more. The problem, however, is it’s impossible to know who should and who shouldn’t have children ahead of a child abuse event. But it sure screams reasonable to me, once it has happened, such people lose their right to have kids. They simply can’t be trusted with the life of another child.

  Child abuse comes in many forms. Whether the psychiatric community identifies emotional abuse or neglect as the cause of abnormal behaviors or the religious community identifies the sin of sparing the rod and spoiling the child is all irrelevant to Walter. It is when I read of excessive physical abuse that involves violent torture or sexual abuse that it becomes my interest.

  Over the past year and a half I’ve followed a case that my old friend Harold first reported on in his crime log at the time of arrest. Quickly forgotten about by most, I watched to see if justice would prevail. Feature writer Anna Sasins covered the story in historical depth. She profiled the family in a human-interest piece. Taking Horn’s and Sasin’s articles I sat back in my recliner and listening carefully to my thoughts, found a channel of communication I didn’t fully understand, but the message was clear. A war horse of unnatural white stood before me with knighted vesture dipped in blood on the horn of the saddle. A voice beckoned me, “Adorn yourself and join in battle.” To the voice I said, “Have I not engaged the enemy many times?” As the last words slipped from my lips, two dragons screamed in the distance. The voice cried, “Ride, hesitate not, for it is the dragon’s time to die.” Quickly removing the royal robe from its resting place, I draped the mantle over my shoulders and mounted the steed. The voice cried, “Ride, ride!” I could hear the echo of the command as my eyes opened in the comfort of my home. I was now sure legal justice would not prevail in the case.

  The Medford, Oregon couple that Horn and Sasins wrote about was jailed for aggravated child abuse and child endangerment of their five-year-old daughter. One thing reporters know, the uglier the facts of a case, the more the readership. Horn was straightforward with the facts without the grotesque hype whereas Sasins looked for an angle to accentuate a specific point she wanted to make. Something she referred to in her writings as the “human interest” side of the story. As for me, I loathe the media’s reporting. My preference would be to never have known such bizarre crimes occur, yet I immerse myself in articles of this nature. I may be a killer, but I don’t kill innocent children. I kill for good, I don’t kill the good; I’m good at it because I can do it without reservation.

  Mona Lott was a drug-abusing whiny crack whore who wasn’t able to take care of herself, let alone a child, but she had one regardless. She was the product of a well-to-do-family with a historical background. The Lott family had migrated from England to America before the colonies were formed and helped settle Virginia. By the time the War of 1812 rolled around they owned a large tobacco plantation and had a great deal of clout. From there the pioneering spirit took hold and they followed the sunset to the west coast. Mona’s grandparents and parents enjoyed the benefits of the industrial revolution in California while Mona pursued being a junior pharmaceutical major near colleges rather than in them. Something went badly wrong with the gene pool when it came to Mona. Her parents said it was the drugs, but was it really? The question always prompts a second—which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  Her live-in, off-and-on-again boyfriend, Owen “Icky” Moore was reportedly the biological father of their little girl, Vanessa. No one is quite sure how Icky got his nickname, only that he really revered its connotation. He, unlike Mona, came from a seedier environment. His parents were dysfunctional alcoholics that spawned a large family in Detroit, Michigan. His brothers and sisters, to their credit, rose above their upbringing and made something worthwhile of their lives. Icky took the path of least resistance. His siblings attended local schools in their neighborhood; Icky attended reform schools and similar institutions. For most of his teenage years he was incarcerated at youth facilities. At nineteen he could no longer be held as a juvenile and was released back into society. Sasins says she spoke with family members who described Icky as a bully who regularly got into fights with other kids. One sister complained it was impossible to keep a house cat with Icky around. He was incredibly cruel to animals, stabbing them with sharp sticks and choking them to death. They were not surprised to hear the law finally caught up with his cruelty.

  Icky’s lifestyle brought numerous run-ins with the law, mostly bar fights and trespassing beefs. He enjoyed hanging out at bars, picking up hookers, and drinking on somebody else’s dime when he could intimidate them. He secured labor jobs working in residential construction. Something about his work habits or reliability always seemed to come up that caused him to be sent down the road.

  At twenty-seven Icky met Mona, a skinny girl with low self-esteem, and seemingly a boatload of money. Mona’s loving family enabled her lifestyle, making provisions for her every need. Her car and trailer house were bought and paid for by the Lott family. Her parents would have preferred her to live at their home but she was found to be untrustworthy and they thought it cheaper to pay her to stay away. At twenty-four she met the man of her dreams, Owen Moore. It was into this relationship a little girl was unfortunately born—bad luck for Vanessa, pure and simple. Mona and Owen never officially married; to do so would have cost them government freebees, but they were nonetheless in love.

  Hospital records submitted as evidence during the trial helped piece together the first known facts of the case; however, there were previous injuries before the June 1999 visit that alerted hospital medical staff to the child abuse. Police and Child Protective Services acted promptly and took Vanessa from their home. This began an investigation that resulted in both Mona and Icky being jailed for inflicting injury on a child and child endangerment. Mona’s parents, although sympathetic, could not bring themselves to post the hefty bail and Icky didn’t have anyone who cared enough to admit they even knew him.

  The defense team was headed up by no
ne other than Ruben Darroe. Whoo, whoo! The big top was in town; let the circus begin. I remember well his shenanigans in the Hertz case with Lewis Pohle. It had become commonplace for this imaginative lawyer to exploit legal loopholes and make a mockery of the court proceedings. I felt it was my duty to follow this case and insure justice was served. With Darroe at the helm, it was likely I would have to mete out the final touches of punishment.

  The little bit of graphic information I was privy to brought me great pain. It was literally physical pain that wrenched at my innermost being, only to be replaced by rage when the pain subsided. The thought of these two parents walking on the charges because of Darroe’s trickery disturbed me in ways I’d never known before. In all likelihood I was already notably disturbed. When the legal system failed, I factored myself in as a consequence. That’s what I was—a consequence.

  Vanessa was savagely tortured at the hands of her parents. They were responsible for multiple bite scars on her torso, buttocks, and genitalia. I say “they” because there was plenty of fault and blame to go around. According to medical evidence reports, the bites she suffered mutilated her genitalia and caused permanent disfiguration of her breast area. She also bore signs of recent battery. Mona had taken Vanessa to a hospital emergency room because she was having difficulty breathing. This was Vanessa’s first trip to a medical facility since she was three. Mona must not have been thinking clearly; the initial assessment alerted hospital staff to the physical abuse and started the wheels rolling. X-rays further revealed cracked ribs that explained the nature of the breathing problem. When Vanessa was asked about the scars and bruising, she would only say, Daddy. She was placed in the State’s custody. Mona and Owen were jailed.