Due Process
Vigilante Serial Killer—Justice Dispatched with Extreme Prejudice
Lyle O’Connor
The New Master of Crime Thrillers
PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974
[email protected]—www.publicationconsultants.com
ISBN 978-1-59433-386-6
eBook ISBN 978-1-59433-387-3
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2013939993
Copyright 2013 Lyle O’Connor
—First Edition—
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Due Process is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
Dedicated to Gena—Who shares my dreams and owns my heart.
Acknowledgement
My sincere appreciation to Walter Allen Grant, author, contributor, who guided my hand in this adventure.
Chapter 1
He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.
And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes into you.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
My Dodge Avenger purred down the highway as the sun dropped below the horizon painting the western sky bright orange; the vivid colors faded rapidly into various shades of twilight. I wasn’t in a hurry; in fact, I had time to kill. I smiled, realizing my subconscious had provided the perfect pun. My rendezvous with Seth Poole was still an hour away; his time of reckoning was close at hand. Poole was employed at a convenience store on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon; a relatively short drive from where he lived. I’d been to his house before and over to the little store, but never had the opportunity to meet him in person, certainly not like we would meet tonight.
I exited the freeway and made my way down a winding country road to where Poole lived. Just past his dimly lit house I made a tight left turn onto a dirt road and coasted to a stop behind an entanglement of brush that concealed the Avenger from view. Out in this area houses were sparse and only a few spangles of light were visible through the gnarly old growth. With scarcely a sound I slipped from behind the wheel and pushed the door shut. Poole’s house sat a short distance off the road and about fifty yards from the turnout. Leaves rustling in a chilly wind masked any noise I might have made on my way to his carport.
Over the next few minutes I opened the screen and knocked on the old Plexiglass storm door that opened into what appeared to be the original single-car garage; the carport was an add-on. The garage had been turned into a utility room and served as side entrance to his house. With no one answering the knock I assumed the house was empty as it usually was—Poole lived alone. The carport area was lit by a single overhead light inside the utility room which left much of the carport in darkness; this was to my advantage. Poole would enter his house from the carport when he arrived home. This had been his routine on the occasions I’d observed his customs and habits; nothing was likely to change tonight.
The magic hour approached. Poole was already on his way home and should be arriving within the next couple of minutes. I concealed myself in a dark corner of the carport and waited. “What if” scenarios played out in my mind—what if, what if, what if … Although I’d rehearsed my response to every conceivable situation, my emotions ran between apprehension and euphoria. When I spotted headlights peeking through the trees my thinking returned to normal and I put everything out of my mind except the job at hand. The wait was over.
Poole swung his EL Camino around at the driveway entrance, braked to a stop, and then roared up the driveway in reverse. The sound of heavy-metal rock music violated the night silence. For a moment I was concerned his backup lights might illuminate the carport enough for him to spot me hiding in the shadows. I slinked farther back into my hiding place and waited. Poole turned off the ignition as the El Camino rolled to a stop. The radio went silent. I was thankful for the return of nighttime stillness—I didn’t want any distraction when I confronted him. I wanted his full attention.
He turned off the headlights and emerged from the vehicle picking through a ring of keys held in his left hand. My single-word greeting, stern and commanding, carried an air of doom. “Poole!”
Startled, he dropped his keys on the concrete floor and began to back away slowly. Fear distorted his face. “What! Who are you! What do you want?” I moved from the dark recess of the carport into the shadows and then into a shaft of light from a naked bulb in the utility room. My handgun was now clearly visible to him. He continued to hurl questions at me. My response was deathly silence. I slowly brought my gun to the ready, sighting down the barrel at the center of his chest. His voice cracked as he cried out, “No! My God! Don’t, don’t shoot!”
Poole dropped to his knees with his hands cupped as if praying. “I’m begging you, man. I’ve never done anything to anybody! Don’t kill me!” I remained silent as I took a few more steps toward him; I wanted Poole to meet his Grim Reaper face to face. He continued to plead for his life while I stood silently over him as judge, jury, and executioner. I drew within a few feet of the cowering, pathetic excuse for a man while leveling my pistol at his head. His cries meant nothing to me. From my subconsciousness came the question: Is there something I want to say before I pull the trigger? Nothing came to mind. In my opinion he didn‘t deserve the courtesy of knowing why I was going to put him out of my misery. He was a worthless scumbag who had ruined the life of another human being. An innocent boy, barely six years old, had been sodomized by Poole for his sick pleasures. Poole had a rendezvous with death; I was here to arrange the meeting. Sure, I knew whatever I did would not change what happened to the victim. There was no undoing what he had done. What it did mean was Seth Poole would never ruin another child’s life. In the broader spectrum of my goals, it ultimately meant: chalk one up for Walter. That’s one perp down and another half million or more to go.
The few seconds I held Poole at gunpoint seemed like an eternity to me. I doubt it felt much different to him. My pistol was intimidating. The .40-caliber Glock was fitted with a 7 ½-inch moderator that looked and worked much like a silencer. He was quiet now and his bowed head signaled he was ready to accept the inevitable. I don’t know if I was thinking anymore or just ready to react when I felt a prompt to pull the trigger. No need to draw it out any further, it would serve no purpose. I hadn’t come to torture him. I didn’t feel any rush or exuberance. Thuup. Thuup. My gun blazed off two quick subsonic hollow-point rounds that could hardly be seen or heard. It was done.
This waste of humanity, known to me as the Poole Project, slumped to the floor. For a moment I kept my weapon leveled on him while I watched the blood flow from the wounds in his head. After a quick scan over my shoulders I lowered my weapon from the ready and removed the moderator. I holstered the Glock and picked up the spent cartridge cases. Cautiously, I slipped out through the dilapidated side wall of the carport and made my way through the brush back to my car. My mind was fixated on the event in the carport; I watched it play out over and over. It was like a kaleidoscope spinning from one picture to another and consumed my every thought. I had to snap out of it and focus on my departure.
Thirty-two-year-old Seth Poole lay dead. Although I could easily have accepted the blame for his untimely demise, it was much deeper than an opportunistic execution. He himself was the single most respons
ible person for his death. At least that’s the way I saw it. Poole had committed a sadistic-heinous attack on an innocent young boy. It was that day that Poole unknowingly sealed his own fate in death. He considered himself as having paid the price to society for his crime, a statement he frequently repeated when questioned about his past. He had been sentenced to the Washington State Correctional Facility at Walla Walla for too few years. He was cooped up with others of his own kind, away from general inmate population for his safety. His incarceration did not rehabilitate him and it ultimately did not make it safer for him. It only postponed the inevitable—his due. He championed the idea that his parole was the end of the consequences for his crime. He was gravely mistaken. I mean that literally.
I moved slowly through an overgrown hedgerow and onto the dark turnout. The Avenger sat quietly awaiting my arrival. I opened the car door slowly; its well-greased hinges were as silent as the night itself. The overhead lamp was disabled to allow easy access without being noticed. As I started the vehicle I realized no one was privy to what had happened. I turned on the headlights and slipped the car into drive.
Poole’s house was a little over an hour’s drive from my place. As the miles rolled up on the odometer, the tension that had built at the carport began to dissipate. As I drove toward home, somewhere during the route I distinctly heard the voice of a child whisper, “Thank you.” I couldn’t be sure how real it was, I never know anymore. Hearing it seemed reward enough.
It was unfortunate justice had not been served by the courts and matters had to be handled this way. What due process under the law should have been had become a mockery of justice and a flimsy bucketful of excuses for criminals’ rights. Due process was now more of a provision for the miscarriage of justice than anything else. It was Walter’s mission to put some dues back in due process.
I pulled the Avenger into my driveway, turned off the lights and engine and sat there thinking of how Walter had come to be. I wasn’t a born killer; I was a made killer. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard it said, “If that was done to my wife, kid, and so on, I’d kill ’em.” Few ever do. It must make them feel better to say it and I’m sure they would like to see it happen but they don’t have it in them to be doers. Justification for killing a sexual predator by a victim or a victim’s family member is understandable if not widely accepted by a majority of people. No one blames someone who acts out in anger in these circumstances. It’s personal, emotional, understandable, and to some extent acceptable in the eyes of the law. However, I am neither understood nor accepted. To exact a revenge killing after they’ve completed their prison sentence is not defensible. It is especially so in my case since I have no personal relationship with the victim or the victim’s family.
I’ve never been a victim. I don’t know what it would be like. I’ve never had a family member victimized in a heinous crime. I’ve never known friends or close associates who have suffered in this manner. My reason is entirely different. I tried for a time to justify my actions in a rational way that others might understand, but to no avail. For lack of better terms, I am a vigilante killer, and I accept that. I prefer to think of myself as freelancing in the justice system.
People kill people for many reasons: some lawful, some unlawful. Revenge, passion, rage, for their gods or country, the list goes on and on. In some rare cases the United States judicial system exercises power over life and death with a decision to execute. Regardless of what the reason is or if the reason is socially acceptable, killing goes on around us every day. I am not a homicidal maniac or a random serial killer. I kill with reason and purpose. I’m not ashamed of what I am or what I do.
Is it predestination, fate, or the will of one of the gods that propels my destiny? I don’t pretend to know. I think of myself as playing my part in the here and now, that’s all. Personalities are formed in the early stages of life and choices throughout life are made based in part on our personalities. I’m not talking about the cocaine-snorting Freudian crap spewed out by the “professionals” of our day but in layman terms, it’s just the way we’re wired. Maybe it’s as simple as I never had a chance from the beginning.
After studying humans like rats in a cage, science still can’t explain mankind’s propensity for violence. Science can’t predict who will become a violent criminal and doesn’t have the cure. There are too many variables. It is a simple fact that each of us is a variable. You can make some sort of statistic from it if you like but it won’t bring a conclusion, only a theory at best. The next brainiac comes along and uses those same statistics to disprove your theories and hypotheses. As for me, as far back as I can remember, I’ve always been inclined to choose my own path. I wasn’t into doing what other kids did just because it was popular or because others did it: I did it because it was right for me.
Right and wrong or good and evil are concepts with very thin lines of demarcation between their elements. In different societies different taboos exist. In different eras different taboos have existed. There have been times when doing right was called wrong because boundaries lines were obscured. Elements of both right and wrong are equalized in some concept of fairness. Get over it. Life is never fair. A child is sexually abused and childhood innocence stolen, that is not fair. Not in our society and not in our era. But there is an emergence of liberalism that is obscuring the line within the justice system. A sense that crimes of this nature were treated harshly was “unfair” to the criminal and a movement emerged in the ’60s and ’70s to have shorter incarcerations and rehabilitate these poor lost souls so they could be productive members of society. Hogwash!
Victims of heinous crimes do suffer for a lifetime. Case after case demonstrates victims do not learn to live with what has happened. Fear, distrust, and the stigma of what occurred permeate their sense of security throughout life. In essence they have lost their lives. If the courts are unable to recognize what an offender owes, Walter will by execution.
I guess this is where my ideas differ from so many others. Crossing the line and doing what would be called socially wrong, was acceptable to me if it brought about the right that was being challenged. Right had to win. The police won’t think so. To them it’s a stat mounting against them. The media frenzy will capitalize on another scoop. Serial killer on the loose! Only a handful of reporters will even scratch the surface of the truth.
You might think I’m a right-wing religious zealot. You couldn’t be further off base. I wasn’t raised in any faith or religion. Good and evil to me are interchangeable terms with right and wrong. It’s simply semantics, not religious beliefs. For the record, I admit I’m bankrupt in the area of religion. To me there is no god or gods. The Dalai Lama has the same power as Allah or Rah. Buddha, Lucifer, Jehovah, or Zeus—I believe in none of them. Wiccas casting spells, shamans and witch doctors with their hocus-pocus, have no power in my life because they don’t mean a thing to me. Have I insulted all your gods yet? I apologize if I missed any of the headliners of religion. Nothing personal against those that practice or profess faith in something, it just wasn’t for any of us in our household. Consequently, religion did not form any of my opinions on life.
I had a happy home life growing up. I admired my parents’ relationship. I was never exposed to fits of anger by my parents, and child or spousal abuse was unheard of in our family. I wasn’t raised in some clinically dysfunctional family. What I have become was not a product of my upbringing.
I was raised in a rural setting along the Columbia River Basin in Oregon. The ranch was literally nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range. I roamed there freely as a child becoming a naturalist of sorts; I was inquisitive and left no stone unturned. It was paradise on earth.
There were dangers, of course. All variety of snakes frequented the barnyard and hillsides. There were rabid coyotes and feral dog packs in the area. Bears and cougars were spotted from time to time and presented an unpredictable danger. Then, there were the dangers from ranch animals and various p
ieces of farm equipment, such as tractors and mowers. I grew up knowing danger from many things. I considered it to be normal and routine exposure. What wasn’t normal was harm suffered at the hands of another human. This was foreign to my world.
I was oriented early in life to the value of a weapon. I cut my teeth on a .22 rifle and .410 shotgun. The lure of shooting the big bores compelled me to shoot every chance I had. I became accurate and deadly. By my late teens, I was hunting everything from rabbits to elk. I was likewise doing most of the shooting on the ranch when it became necessary. Each year, we raised a hog and steer to butcher. It was one of my daily chores to feed them. They were absolutely dependent on us for everything and became very domesticated, but it was still the nature of the ranch that dictated their fate.
Generally, the first step in the butchering process was to put the gun to their heads and shoot. I was the shooter and I can tell you from experience it’s not at all the same as hunting wild game. Shooting Bambi, even with all the personification we have given this cartoon creature, is still nothing in comparison to something you have grown an attachment to. The sense of attachment to something you have cared for, whether you knew from the beginning it was going to be butchered or not, attacks the emotions. Somehow, you have to overcome the reluctance to kill. I became a master at shutting down my feelings to carry out what was necessary.
The low spot of all the killing I had to do as a youngster was when my best friend Shorty mixed it up with a porcupine and got a quill in his nose. Shorty was basically a useless cocker spaniel for farm use, but he was my first dog and my friend. When the quill had worked its way up his nose and festered, it caused him to run a high fever that would ultimately kill him. My father insisted it was my dog and I bore the responsibility to decide how he would meet his fate. My heart sank and I felt deeply sorrowful when I aimed the shotgun in his direction. Shorty knew what guns did; he’d seen me kill a hundred animals. Friend or not, he knew my decision before the trigger pull. I could see it in his eyes.
Due Process Page 1