Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  Dream manipulation was a discovery I made as a child. Once I became comfortable with this fact that nothing was out of my control; dreamland was as enjoyable as a summer vacation. Things happened unexpectedly, like in all dreams, but I soon discovered how to make the challenge workout to my benefit. This has been a valuable tool in handling stressful and demanding situations with a certain confidence that only comes from experience.

  I’m not sure when I had first begun solving problems in my dreams. I remember as a child facing the same nightmare night after night, over and over again. Oddly, I became so familiar with the dream I could anticipate what would happen next. When I became conditioned to the scenario I was able to weigh options and changed the outcome. I didn’t win every bout in my dreams, but eventually I manipulated events until it worked out the way I wanted and needed it to. Once I was comfortable with the fact that I could think through the process, the frightened feelings and stress that initially petrified me, no longer bound me up in fear.

  In my sleep I could recognize the recurrence of a specific dream when it started. I’d been there before in a previous dream, and I knew at some point I would need to react to a situation. This exercise conditioned my mind to produce a more desired outcome. I had lived through all the twists and turns thrown at me.

  Eventually a dream would come to its end. There were no signs saying “the end;” nonetheless I would not dream the same dream ever again. When I had learned whatever exactly it was I was supposed to learn, the dream simply vanished. I enjoyed some of them enough to try and start the dream before I fell asleep but to no avail. When it was done, it was done.

  Recurring dreams helped condition my mind by overcoming challenges rather than accepting the worst scenarios. They didn’t start up as soon as one would end. There were months between dream episodes. I never knew when they would start, but I knew they would; it was a matter of waiting, not anticipating.

  One of my favorite recurring dreams as a child was falling from the sky. I hear most people experience falling through the air or from a mountain or tall building; I fell in an old-fashioned wood chair. I don’t know why I was in a chair but it always started out that way. The sensation of falling uncontrollably was scary at first. I remember waking suddenly in a panic, my heart racing, still feeling the sensation of falling until I realized I was in my bed. At some point I recognized the dream for what it was—a dream. From then on I no longer woke in fear. As strange as it may sound, I learned to fly that old wood chair! I enjoyed many dream world hours holding on to the seat of the chair. I shifted my weight to one side or the other and she banked perfectly. Sometimes it was nothing more than thinking as I flew and she responded to my desires. I didn’t know the mechanism that propelled it and I didn’t care. It was challenging and ultimately fun.

  On my last flight I swooped down low over fields and brushed the tops of pine trees before making my descent to land. It was my first time bringing her in and as good fortune would have it a dirt runway appeared in a meadow. I slowed her up and brought the chair legs in contact with the ground. It was a little rough without wheels but the dust settled and I was alive and on the ground.

  It was a harmless little dream that conquered height, flying, and ultimately the fear of death. It’s humorous to think back about it today, yet I’m quite sure it was intended as training for my journey through the world I had yet to encounter. Looking back, I believe my life and who I was to become, had been predetermined. I have no idea how many lessons are embedded in my subconscious like this one. I don’t recall them all now, but in retrospect I do understand how they have made the path I have chosen, or that was chosen for me, more manageable.

  Not all my dreams were relegated to early childhood. During my days of camaraderie with Stoneman, I began to dream of ridding the world of child sexual predators, pimps, murderers, and the like. I thought the recurring dream was in part a response to our late-night conversations, which habitually turned into solving the problems of the world. I was never alarmed by the frequency of these dreams; I’d been down the path before. As usual, I grew fond of having them and welcomed their continuance. Perhaps the nature of the dreams would be alarming to others, but to me they were comforting in a special way.

  My most memorable dream began with an old comic-book-type metro area similar to Gotham City. Tall dark buildings were hovering over the dimly lit streets. Shadows were cast on every alley and corner. I can still see myself wandering aimlessly down the mazelike city corridors, my eyes keenly observant. I was on a stealth-type patrol; at least, that was my recollection. I came to understand that my destiny was to counterbalance the criminal elements of this city. It would require a special skill set, imaginary skills formed by my dreams. Skills that today are second nature to me. I use them instinctively according to the situation.

  Variations in these dreams were usual. This specific dream was different in escalation. Evil people challenged me, and my response rose to the level necessary to overcome their wickedness. There were rapists and child molesters that I caught in the act while at other times I faced pimps, pushers, gangsters, and street hustlers, preying on nameless innocent victims.

  My job was clear. I was the White Knight to the rescue. Intervene and protect—that was my mission, my reason for being there. If violence was necessary I applied it with ferocity. Many times my intercession in a victim’s defense brought death to the assailants, in a most brutal manner. It became ordinary and normal to kill.

  Like all my recurring dreams, problems emerged. Multiple assailants or the progression to weapons by the criminals were commonplace. The ability to apply skills and problem-solve were put to the test. From a samurai katana to grenades, I was conditioning my mind to kill.

  As my dreams were more and more successful, I took pride in their outcome. I felt heroic but sought no recognition of the fact. Seeing a victim safe or saved was gratitude enough. I suppose it could be said, I have a bloodlust for killing, and simply carried out those feelings in my dreams. It’s just not true. In my dreams I could kill without emotion just like I learned to suppress my emotions when I killed a farm animal. However, one thing was very different. The farm animal was innocent of any wrongdoing. The predators I skewered, sliced, or otherwise dismantled, were the worst kind. Their sole mission was to cause innocent victims severe harm. They were attacking others, and when I stepped in, they attacked me. I had no problem with their disposal. As I look back on these episodes, I can see the value of precognitive conditioning. It has allowed me to expand my horizons. I’ve heard the motivational slogan so many times, “The key to success is making your dreams come true.” When my dreams come true they will be a living nightmare for evil doers.

  While I intensified my debating with Bear and Lowe, at night a sensation of pain and anguish would come over me in my dreams. Perhaps I brought it on by immersing myself in too many media clippings or watching the onslaught of new crime TV shows. All I knew was the feeling I connected to these criminal events, I loathe with a passion.

  At times, deep in my dreams when the throes of agony baptized my every thought, I could hear whispers of a voice, only a word or two at first and very difficult to understand. This was unusual, new and stimulating. Never before had I experienced sensations that parallel auditory sounds. Identifying the voice was difficult; it was nothing I recognized from the past. A child’s voice, maybe, I couldn’t be sure. There was no rhyme or reason to the pain or auditory sensations and no particular frequency. While I was awake, fully cognizant, reading the news clippings, a sensation of pain would come over me. It seemed my dream world was merging with my consciousness. As much as I wanted to shrug it off as something generated by my mind, intuition told me there was much more to understand.

  Maybe I sound a little crazy and perhaps that would explain everything satisfactorily if I were, but I’m not. Clarity came in the morning hours after I welcomed in the New Year with a bit more holiday cheer than necessary. I’d said goodbye to my work buddies and
hopped a taxi for home. I tilted my head back momentarily to relax only to have my incoherent state disturbed by the cabbie. I staggered off to my doorway, fumbling around in my front pocket for the house key. Once inside I turned on the lights and plopped into the nearest recliner. Rather than passing out, as I should have in my drunken stupor, I was wide awake. I could see files and clippings strung out across the living room from coffee table to couch. I remember thinking to myself, “What am I doing with all this?” Then, I pulled the recliner handle up, raising the footrest, and pushed the chair into a supine position. Here, I intended to bed down for what remained of the night.

  I may have dozed for a while, I can’t be sure. A brilliant light flashed before me; it was painful to look at. My eyes squinted closed. I awoke to a lambent daybreak, only a trace of light shone from the hallway. Surmising that somehow the only visible source of light was responsible, I returned to my state of slumber. Suddenly the intense light appeared again. I was conscious yet unable to move. The wind howled and dark ominous clouds rolled across the horizon. A field of apparitions swayed violently like grass on the rolling tundra upon which I stood. I had plunged into a stormy dreamlike state the likes of which I had never before experienced. Lightning flashed, obliterating all darkness momentarily. I awaited the thunder that never followed. Each flash became more intense, more blinding. Black and grayish clouds swirled above me like a giant vortex. In the distance a ghostly silhouette came into view. As it drew closer I could make out the outline of a young child five or six years of age.

  This apparition was fully clad in white and did not speak or look in my direction. It was two-dimensional, although similar to a still photo, it appeared alive, yet the affect told a different story. The eyes were dark caverns of lifelessness filled with pain and sorrow. My intuition told me an unnatural and horrific event was responsible for the vacating of both heart and soul. I felt helpless and anxious as it stood motionless before me.

  In the distance, a slight vestige of pleading or supplication could be heard like a wave reporting the sea. I recognized it as cries, filled with pain and sorrow. It was somehow familiar to me, something that I had experienced before. My anxiety turned to sadness. Was it a harbinger of this child’s fate? Was this the foreshadowing of something I could still do something about or was it relegated to the past?

  I asked the apparition, “What does this mean?”

  A child’s voice answered, “These are many.” The apparition looked out over the field and again said, “These are desolate cries and desperate prayers, without remnant of hope and long dashed by the lack of miracles.”

  With that I startled awake. My thoughts were immediate. What was this nightmarish dream? In past dreams, I was accustomed to acting in some way to fix the problem. No such problem had presented itself this time. This dream had a different relevance, one I had to pursue.

  From the first night the child apparition appeared to me in a dream it became a continuous presence; a familiar spirit if you will. There was increased intensity in these sensory perceptions to a degree it forced me to question my own sanity.

  “Am I mad?”

  I would have to say to myself, “No! I suppose not.” Although I assume all insane people think they are not. Mere questioning one’s own sanity cannot be the test. If I admit I’m Insane, then all is explained. I can rest easy knowing I need medication.

  “Do I hear voices?

  The answer is clearly, “Yes,” a voice that has transcended my dream world.

  “Do I hallucinate?”

  “No, not really.” Maybe it is a gift, a very special gift. A gift that will make your blood run cold and your hair stand on end.

  As time progressed, the area of sensory perception became more vivid. I was cognizant of what I was seeing and what I had felt. The painful visualizations surfaced at times when I read my collection of clippings. They were, what I believed to be, momentary glimpses of what a victim experienced at the hands of a predator. What was still perplexing was what, if anything, I was to do with this awareness?

  Review of my media collection was a daily task. Usually the voice was quiet while I read the articles. I came across an older file, one that I have read a hundred times when pain and fear coursed through my being. The file to me was one of many but somehow it was a gateway to understanding. I set the file aside, sat back, and mused upon these things. Prompted by sensory perceptions I fell into a trancelike dream. The familiar childlike apparition flashed before me. Moments or hours later I opened my eyes to find a medieval scene before me. To my left, high upon a grassy hill, a black stallion with heavy armor pranced back and forth. Mounted upon the stallion was a knight, himself adorned in black. He appeared fearless, sitting tall on his steed holding a lance glistening in the sunlight. He was a crusader, the embodiment of a righteous evil. At the bottom of the hill were thousands of ghostly beings, neither male nor female, taunting the knight to charge. My familiar apparition appeared at my side pointing at the people, whose foul stench represented the nature of their being. A child’s voice loudly reverberated across the sky, “These are the souls of those who are guilty of unthinkable atrocities against humanity.”

  Alone, the black knight stood against these beings. What chance had he? I thought. It was clear, regardless of the outcome, the knight would take the field in combat. His armor-clad steed grew anxious; snorts of lightning emanated from his nostrils and the pounding of his hooves was as the sound of thunder echoing across the barren plains. Chills ran down my spine as the knight began his descent to the field below. The knight’s heels sank into the flanks of his trusty mount, urging him forward. Reaching the flat land of the battlefield, the knight leaned forward simultaneously lowering his lance to engage. His fiery stallion responded instinctively to his master’s commands.

  I watched the knight, with unwavering courage and valor; assault the line of filthy souls. He did not slow in his advance. The knight’s gallant steed bowled through and over many; his lance punctured and collected even more. Regardless of the continuous onslaught of apparitions entering the battle from all sides of the field, the knight drove forward. No end in sight. It was then I realized my role in this drama.

  I woke with a new perspective for the purpose of my existence. It was far more than being a bit player with a cameo appearance. It was playing a lead role on the stage of life. I would vanquish the villain or die trying.

  The visualizations of the victim’s faces I’ve seen were very personal to me. Faces filled with grimacing and pain while others were flat and emotionless. Innocence and hope lost at the hands of wicked people satisfying their lust. Victims’ voices cried out to me. Not to me alone, but anyone who would come to their aid. Regardless of what manner of diversion I engaged in, the sensation of their torture I could not escape. It was more graphic than words could relay, more horrific than a mind could bear.

  My memory is intact. All that I dream will become a predator’s nightmare in reality. I will find comfort in my resolve and act accordingly. Some people deserve to die. By their own actions they have lost their right to live. It’s an emotional response, I agree. Since when is this argument strictly academic? But then again, perhaps fate had predetermined their consequence even before I was born and I wasn’t given a choice as to the role I would play. I will make them pay the natural price for their transgressions. For I know and understand the common emotional feeling that drives the natural man. That’s where Walter comes in.

  Chapter 4

  I have never killed a man, but I have read many obituaries with great pleasure.

  —Clarence Darrow

  Everyone loves a park and every town seems to have one. Some are small historical landmarks whereas others are recreational, complete with ball fields and tennis courts. Many have outdoor concert stages, unpaved hiking trails, and nature areas. Smaller communities and urban neighborhoods have developed parks that focus on traditional family areas complete with picnic tables and playgrounds. All parks have one thing i
n common—they lend themselves to criminal behavior. Why do you think they are so often closed in the evening? Could it be the potential criminal activities?

  Two blocks from my Portland suburban home lies a bike path that links a maze of arteries throughout the city. These urban conduits winding through neighborhoods and parks emptied out into the city’s main retail and industrial areas. Few people are truly aware of criminal behavior occurring along their favorite bike path or in city parks. Some areas along these urban arteries are more dangerous than others. Getting to a park nearly always requires passing by or through these unsafe areas.

  I have been an avid hiker my entire life. I’ve hiked on the Pacific Crest and Oregon Skyline trails. I’ve taken treks on Mount Hood, Broken Top, Three-Fingered Jack and the Three Sisters wilderness area. Hiking of this nature requires some conditioning training if one wants to enjoy it. When you live in Portland, or any other city, this can be a challenge. The options are to drive many miles to remote areas to walk on trails, take a daily trip to a local gym for some cardio, or use the city bike paths and parks. Pathways seem to be the best option. Why not—they are free for the use and close by.

  My first jaunt on the bike path was immediately uncomfortable. Vagrants in some areas, hoodlums hanging out in others, it wasn’t as pleasant as I’d hoped it would be. At other times there was very little activity on the path. This added likewise to my anxiety. Too quiet for too long and my hackles started to rise. I felt both alone and watched at all times.

  My jujitsu throwing partner, Justyn Kase, and I developed a close friendship. Best of all, we thought a lot alike. I let him know what I felt about the bike path. I was delighted to hear his input. “Why don’t you carry a gun?”