There wasn’t much I could do about the long planning phase. A properly executed project meant a safe outcome at the completion. What could I change to be more effective? Up to this point I’ve pretty much dropped targets where I found them. I’ve avoided the messy business of hauling bodies around or trying to hide them in shallow graves but any business can be refined. The goal will be to construct a new timeline to include disposing of the body in some way to make an investigation more difficult. Confusing timelines and changing modes operandi buys me more time. Perhaps even never to be found. A perp that up and disappears is not unusual. Every state sexual offender’s registry has hundreds listed as noncompliant. In most cases it means they’re not living where they’re supposed to be. Authorities will put out a warrant on them, but if it works out my way, well, it’ll never be served.
Dover was my first kill. It hardly made the news. I was disappointed. To homicide detectives it was probably an irritant to have an unsolved murder but it wouldn’t be their first cold case to shelve and did they really care about Dover? In Spokane a couple months later I put down another scumbag. Would the detectives in Seattle and the detectives in Spokane make any connection? Outside the coincidence that they were both convicted sexual offenders, was there anything else that tied the case together? Only if there were some reason to tie ballistics together could they make a connection.
My first kill in Oregon was a guy I capped off Interstate 5. I left him right there in the carport bleeding. Would detectives make the connection to a serial killer? Did anyone really care that he died? Next was a slime-bucket I put down in John Day, Oregon. I guess townsfolk cared about that killing. They didn’t care about the victim but rather the unique ambience of their little community being shattered when the project culminated. Small towns don’t handle it well when someone gets murdered. That’s one of the pleasures of living in a small community, big-city stuff like murders just don’t happen every day. If those folks had known what he had done they would have hung him themselves. But it was kept quiet. The local newspaper was superficial in their coverage and Johnny Law wasn’t letting anything out. So people didn’t understand and remained very much afraid.
For the past couple of weeks I’d been traveling from Portland over to Highway 101 to get the lay of the land for what would be my next project. The target area was Neskowin, an unincorporated beach-side vacation hamlet thirty miles south of Tillamook. With only a few hundred residents it was just the type of place I’d like to avoid for a project.
Strong sensory perceptions associated with this old file started the ball rolling. I felt the pain associated with the crime and saw what I believed to be the victim in my dreams. My clippings were insufficient to provide valuable information concerning the whereabouts of Mr. William Loney. This criminal was a Canadian-born naturalized citizen and I was concerned I’d be making a trip to British Columbia to settle the score. But even a nebulous fellow like Loney, once out of prison, couldn’t hide forever.
My life it seemed had become a series of road trips to conduct interviews and visit courthouses in neighboring cities and states. I should have invested in KOA Campgrounds and then I could at least have used them freely. Early on I purchased a 1994 thirteen-foot Casita Patriot compact camper that was easily pulled by my Avenger. My ’57 Chevy pickup could have more easily pulled it, but I wanted my personal vehicle left out of it. Trying to keep a low profile meant holing up in small campgrounds a distance from my areas of interest. The Patriot made that easy to accomplish.
Mr. Loney was seemingly a man twenty-years-old one day and thirty-nine the next day. I knew the absence of personal history was mostly due to his incarceration. Taking the life of a seventeen-year-old girl that he raped and sodomized caught him a murder rap. His lawyer had him copout to a lesser charge and was sentenced to twenty-five years in the plea agreement. Not a bad strategy; jury convictions for these heinous crimes generally carry a stiffer sentence than the run-of-the-mill plea agreement. That’s why they call it “plea bargain,” because it’s a good deal for the perp. Good behavior in jail counts for something as well, netting about twenty percent of the sentence being knocked off. In Loney’s case he spent seventeen years behind bars. For those in society unaffected directly by this rape and murder, it may seem a sufficient sentence. He paid the price society required. But it wasn’t society that was victimized—it was a school girl. Not only had she been brutalized to death by Loney, her family and friends also had someone they loved stolen from them. No number of years would be sufficient for them. Not even the price of death would be enough, but it would be a heck of a lot closer. Further, it didn’t sit well with Walter either.
Taking my time and going through the usual steps to prepare was important. They might have been a waste of time in the end, but you couldn’t tell unless the steps were completed to begin with. Unfortunately, due to the plea agreement in this case I would have to resort to other resources. Plea agreements often lacked testimony, something I commonly used to establish names of witnesses and family for interviews. Further complications arose from this being a juvenile victim case. Much of the information was difficult to obtain and names were often just initials. In this case there would be no interviews.
With a vast number of people-finder sources available on the Internet it was possible to track down the location of a subject or a last known residence. Personal information such as age range, phone numbers, and others living at the location could usually be obtained as well. There were any numbers of ways to track someone and obtain viable information.
In the Loney case the Internet had provided just the lead I needed on the last known residence. My file photo from the old clipping would provide some assistance in identifying the mark, but it could not be counted on since so much time had elapsed. Next stop would be Neskowin for reconnaissance.
The rolling spruce covered hills along the pristine coastline made this a popular beach-front. It had scores of vacation rental homes and resorts for thousands of travelers who swelled the summertime population to more than two thousand people. It evidently was also a great place to stow away from society, or at least Loney thought so. Being off the beaten path, most visitors came for the scenic beauty never noticing those around them. In Loney’s favor was the fact that his crime was far in the past. Few if any in this area would remember hearing of him.
I set up observation on his home, a secluded beach-front cottage. He had landed a full-time job as a live-in manager for a property management group that had rental cabins along the beach. It was apparent to me Loney had started a new life in Neskowin. Not bad for a felon. It was certainly better than the fate of the high-school girl when he killed her. He was married now, with a newborn child. His wife was much younger than Loney, maybe in her early twenties. She commuted to Lincoln City for work. I can’t speak to her wages but she was able to take the baby with her to the office each day. None of that was of any real concern to me, just unfortunate. Meanwhile, Loney was free to do the handyman chores with the cabins, rent vacancies, and take care of various little boats and kayaks stored on the property. It was a pretty sweet deal.
A few more preparations and I would be ready to go. With my Avenger I visited junkyards frequently looking for parts. Some of the folks that run these bone yards don’t make much off what they sell so they let you do the labor, like removing a bumper, tailgate, or a license plate. Switching license plates for a project is handy in keeping a low profile. In the remote event that someone was suspicious and took down the plate number off my vehicle it would be useless in identifying me as the owner.
The morning was brisk the chosen day of the event. The coastal communities would almost assuredly be near-deserted. It was the off season but even then some folks liked to get away from the hustle and bustle of city life for a few days of relaxation.
I pulled into a roadside parking area above the cabins and watched for the daily routine to begin. Mrs. Loney with baby in hand departed on time, driving their only ve
hicle south. Bill wasn’t out and about yet. I had dressed for the occasion. Casual slacks, turtleneck sweater, rain slicker and chukka boots. I always felt like a moron until I slipped on the black-framed glasses and vintage charcoal gray Stetson fedora. I was no longer assuming a role; I was Walter, 100-percent.
The sun made its appearance warming the air only slightly while a mist clung to the ground. The radio announcer called for a cool and disappointing fifty-five degrees for the high. It would have to improve some for that to happen. On the horizon loomed a wall of dark clouds preparing their assault on the coastline.
Loney strolled out of his cabin with broom in hand. He didn’t look like a man in a hurry to get the day started. It was, however, routine. He swept the porches of cabins one after the other as he worked his way to where the boats were stored. I made my way across the hard sand to the back of the boat-storage shed. I could hear movement inside but nothing distinguishable. I looked about to the parking area; there was no one in sight. The impending storm might have deterred beachcombers for the day. That was good news for me, bad news for Bill.
Six cabins sat side by side facing the beach. Whoever had built them had the foresight to put up privacy walls between the cabins’ sandy yards leaving the view open to the beach. The walls were a wood slat construction running twelve feet from the cabins and stood more than five feet high. The design allowed wind and blowing sand to pass through them, yet obscuring the view of neighbors from each other. Inside the yard were an outdoor grill, picnic table, and lawn chairs. Other than looking weathered it was reasonably nice.
I walked to the nearest cabin and knocked loudly. I already knew cabin number one was the only one occupied. It was rented by a middle-aged couple. I continued knocking until I heard the storage shed door open.
“Can I help you?” Bill shouted.
“I’m looking for the manager.”
Bill closed the door behind him, “Well, you found him.”
“I’d like to rent a cabin for a night, I’m meeting friends tomorrow in Depoe Bay and I’m just early getting here.”
Bill nodded. “One hundred twenty-five dollars a night. Do you want to see the unit?”
“Hey, that’s great.”
Bill opened number six that I had been knocking on and gave me the tour. It was certainly sufficient for my needs. Of course, all I needed was a quiet place to shoot him.
Bill asked, “Where did you park?”
I pointed to the parking lot by the road. Bill pointed to his cottage and the road leading past it to the cabin parking area. “Pull’er on down there, it’ll be a lot easier for you.”
It doesn’t feel right, something is wrong, I thought. At this point I’d not touched anything inside the cabin. If I needed to I could abort and no one would be the wiser.
“Are you putting the rental on a card?”
“No, I rather use cash when I can.”
Bill nodded again as I pulled out my wallet to pay him. I guess if I wasn’t asking for a contract he wasn’t offering one either. “Do you need a receipt?” Bill asked.
“Just a waste of a good tree,” I jokingly replied.
Loney smiled and proceeded to the front door pointing to the door key on an end table. I slipped on my black ultrathin leather gloves and closed the door behind me.
Bill went back in the storage shed as I made my way through the sand to my vehicle.
Destiny was awaiting me there. Somehow I knew I was on the right track but my feelings of confusion were puzzling me. As I sat there in the roadside parking area my concerns were soon put to rest. It was people! A man and woman showed up apparently to check on a rental cabin. If I had killed him in the unit upon my exit they might have seen me and sounded the alarm upon finding the body. It was a risk I hadn’t really planned for but should have.
The visitors left and Bill slowly strolled back to the storage shed. This was the largest outbuilding on the beach measuring somewhere around twenty feet wide and thirty feet in length. The windows were maybe six feet off the ground, serving some purpose other than to see in or out of. I drove my Avenger past the area for parking and on to the parking pad alongside the shed. Quietly I exited my car and made my way around to the front storage-shed door. Opening the door, I found Bill sitting in an old office chair behind a makeshift desk of plywood and wooden crates. With feet propped up he looked relaxed and enjoying a magazine. “Problems?” he said as he closed the magazine and pushed it under the plywood cover.
“No, no, I just have a couple questions.”
Taking his feet down, Bill leaned forward and replied, “Shoot.”
This was awkward. Shoot was exactly what I wanted to do. He must be a flippin’ mind reader! Not yet, not yet, I kept telling myself. Not yet.
“I’m a feature writer for a travel magazine and I’d like to get some pictures of Proposal Rock. Can you give me some ideas?”
Bill thought for a moment, “You could rent a boat, swing out in the ocean and get some shots.”
“I’ve never driven a boat. Do you think I could do it by myself?”
Shaking his head in a manner indicating no, he chuckled, “It would be suicide.”
Wrong! I was thinking homicide, not suicide. “What about some cliffs in the area, maybe overhangs or something where I could get some good shots?”
“There are some steep cliffs a couple miles from here,” Bill said pointing south.
“Time is of the essence I think. Any chance I could rent your services for an hour or so to guide me? The rain is going to hit soon and I’d like to get the photos as the storm is approaching. I think they’ll turn out well.”
Bill thought for a moment before answering, “I suppose so.”
“Does a hundred dollars sound right?” I asked.
“Sounds right to me, let’s do it.”
I pulled a hundred from my billfold handing it to him and into the Avenger we went.
“Where’s your camera?” Bill asked.
My reply was quick, “In a bag in back.” I thought to myself, is he getting concerned?
Traveling south a short distance we turned off the main road into a parking area. Remote, no other vehicles, I was feeling right about this place. A short hike found us standing on a promontory overlooking basalt cliffs and an increasingly turbulent sea. The wind was whistling through the trees; undoubtedly that’s all Loney heard, but there were voices too.
It was somewhat unnerving to stand with no barrier between me and the 150-foot fall into the water. I hoped Bill didn’t feel the same way. I set my bag down and began to pull items out, one of which was a large black steel pipe 1-inch thick. I had filled this pipe with cement and named him “Thumper” for obvious reasons. I pulled out a small tarp partially concealing the pipe while Bill continued to look out over the beach area toward Proposal Rock. He began to point out different landmarks when he fell forward on his face. His eyes were glazed and blood trickled from his nose. Walter had introduced him to Thumper. With a creased skull above the right ear, he didn’t utter a word. Perhaps he no longer was able to. He rolled onto his stomach and I brought down the pipe again at the base of his skull. I don’t know if he was still alive when I pulled him to the edge and rolled him over the cliff but it didn’t matter. He was dead the moment he got into my car—he just didn’t know it.
The stormy sea swallowed him quickly into its frothy brew. His body would be carried far from the base of the cliffs by storm’s end. Even if someone thought he had ventured into the water, the Coast Guard search and rescue teams were not likely to set a course in this storm. I loaded my things back in the bag. Kicked a little dirt over the blood trail on the outcropping and figured the storm would take care of the rest.
Back in the Avenger I looked around at the deserted parking area and relaxed for a moment. This was not how I had planned to kill him. In a way it was tragic—I mean, I had tossed Loney in the drink with a hundred dollars of mine in his pocket. Otherwise, it seemed to go well and I believe he felt the
brunt of his punishment with the help of Thumper.
I spent the next couple days in Tillamook while the storm pounded the coast with plenty of wind and rain. I watched the local papers to see if any articles surfaced on Loney. Evidently, he never surfaced either.
Whatever the authorities thought about his disappearance is a mystery. Without any evidence that he was murdered he will be labeled another sex offender on the lam. I thought about the young widow, Mrs. Loney, having the hardship of a love taken away. Then there is the baby deprived of its biological father. How unfortunate for them. This project has caused more reflection for me than most. I question myself as to how I am different than he was. Loney had deprived a loving family of their daughter two decades ago. I deprived a family of their loved one. Does that make me like him? I think not. He killed an innocent young person—I have killed a guilty person. I blame the justice system for allowing this error to go uncorrected for so long.
I’ve accomplished what I came to do. Loney has passed on to whatever exists for him next and a hidden timeline for the murder has been created. Enough reflecting, I’m more than satisfied with the outcome of the project.
Chapter 8
A predator for prey is expected. A predator for predator is not.
Due Process Page 8