Mona held her tongue and refused to rat on Icky for the trauma Vanessa had endured. It was clear from her initial interview she was at minimum guilty of neglect. She allowed the little girl with severe wounds to go untreated and the abuse unreported; to my way of thinking she shared an equal if not greater guilt.
In court, Darroe raised concerns about Owen Moore’s civil rights being trampled on and the excessive force used by arresting officers. In deposition Moore asserted his innocence by pointing out that Mona, during their on-and-off-again relationship, had other men in her home. He implied that in his absence, Mona herself might be responsible. Vanessa, for a five-year-old, was barely able to communicate. Mom, Dad, yes, and no trumped her vocabulary skills. Mostly she threw tantrums and uttered noises when in want or need. Court-appointed doctors concluded she was severely traumatized with impaired social skills for her age.
Criminal proceedings were delayed multiple times. Darroe and prosecutors jockeyed motions around and amended charges. There was psych testing and challenges to testing results followed by more psych testing. First break for Darroe’s case came after careful examination by court-appointed doctors who without reservation declared Mona not competent to stand trial. It is odd to me that various definitions of incompetence are in use because neither the legal system nor court-appointed experts can agree on a single meaning in the context of criminal law. The psychologist report found Mona “cognitively deficient, which impairs her ability to supervise, protect, and care for her child.” She was in their opinion emotionally unstable and unable to participate in her own defense. Mona would not stand trial. She would be placed under mental health supervision which did not require hospitalization or further incarceration. She would, however, lose all custodial rights to Vanessa.
The second break came shortly afterwards in the form of a plea deal. What the State could prove beyond a reasonable doubt and at what expense became the pivotal points of the case. It was set to be a very costly trial, Darroe would see to this. Perhaps someday he’d pay for the harm he had done.
Prosecutors offered a single count of felony assault and battery on a child with a minimum of seven years incarcerated. It was a stiff sentence but Icky had history and it didn’t play well for him. Justice was served or so the saying goes. Owen would serve at least two thirds of his sentence before being eligible for parole. I marked the date on a laundry list of names that I hoped to see again. Arguably justice had not been served. Owen Moore destroyed a life he helped create. It wasn’t his right. Anything short of paying with his life was simply too lenient.
Icky had a nasty reputation for being cruel and inflicting pain. Mona knew he was ruthless and prone to violence, but she didn’t care enough for herself or her daughter to change the scenario. She lacked something natural inside. Maybe her continuous drug abuse fried her wiring harness; I don’t know and I don’t care. It was no excuse. Mona was responsible in one way or another for all that had happened to Vanessa. If it were the drugs that made her a living zombie, then she bore the responsibility for taking the drugs in the first place. She needed to pay for a life destroyed. The shell of a human that was left as Vanessa was not at all who Vanessa would have or could have been. That is tragic.
Mona instantly qualified for social security now that she was “incompetent.” She played the welfare role before. People like Mona didn’t deserve to have a second child. Mona was still an unrepentant drug abuser. She would have no problem finding a needle-sharing sperm donor again. What bothered me the most about Mona was that she was remorseless. She had no compassion for her child. If she had she would have stopped trying to protect her lover long ago. I don’t claim to understand the dynamics of someone like Mona. I don’t have to understand to pull the trigger.
Mona was easy to locate. I felt she was comfortable in the Medford area where her circles of lowlife drug-seeking friends were, and I was right. Like most people she had a telephone; she listed it as M. Lott. No question in my mind it was her. The question really was how do I make contact? Maybe a straight-up call from Walter, but how would it go? “Hello, I’m Walter E. Goe and I’d like to schedule some time with you for an execution.” No, that wouldn’t work, even on someone as brain-dead as Mona! But an interview might, especially if was sprinkled with some cash.
Mona was not uneducated—she was, according to the psych doctors, mentally fried. She had swum in the pool of drugs for so long I was going to have to hurry in order to kill her before she did it herself. I placed a call the next day to Mona from the Southside mall just outside Portland.
“Hello,” She answered.
“I’m calling for Mona Lott.”
“This is Mona.”
“My name is Walter E. Goe. I’m a feature news writer for a national news magazine. I would like to do an article on your mistreatment by the justice system.”
As I was giving my sales pitch she interrupted, “Ah, I don’t think so.”
“Mona, I think your story is worth telling. You were not treated fairly and you should not have lost custody of Vanessa.” Mona did not respond.
“Seriously, I’ll pay two hundred dollars up front for your story. If my editor likes the workup, there’ll be a big payoff for you when we publish it.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I would like to keep this quiet and private until we have the story copy ready.”
“Okay.”
“I’m in Seattle, but I can fly in tomorrow, we can meet somewhere and put some ideas on paper.”
“Okay, but I don’t have a car to meet you.”
“No problem. Is there somewhere close by, a city park or place you know well?”
“Kornbreads is a nearby buffet, we can meet there.”
“Excellent, I’ll give you a call when I get into town tomorrow, say, early afternoon if possible and we’ll schedule a time for our meeting.”
Mona replied, “Okay,” and hung up the phone.
Of course I was in the Portland area since that’s where I lived, not Seattle. Driving would take me a few hours at most. I called Kornbreads in Medford and asked for the address. I located a nearby hotel, The Privacy Inn, on Biddle Road and booked a room for a couple of nights. The parking area was a horseshoe layout that wrapped around a small strip mall, Kornbreads, and the Inn.
It was early spring and temperatures were dropping into the low forties at night, warming to midfifties and sixties during the day. The weather allowed me to wear a turtleneck sweater, chino pants, penny loafers, and a light overcoat that went nicely with my homburg fedora that I wore slightly tilted to the left. As usual I shaved my goatee, had my hair trimmed neatly, dyed my hair a light brown and completed my disguise with black-framed glasses. All that was left to do was pack a few essentials for the trip, .40-caliber, tool box, latex gloves, and a change of clothing, just the essentials.
The next day I contacted Mona from a nearby gas station. I never use my cell phone on the go. Calls can be traced too easily when the police start snooping around a corpse. Mona sounded excited about our meeting and said she would be at Kornbreads around 3 p.m. Minutes before our scheduled meeting I pulled my Avenger into Kornbreads parking lot as far from the diner door as possible in a corner position. My intent was to watch for a lone female and note the direction from which she approached. I didn’t know this diner; it might have outside security cameras in the parking area. No sense getting sloppy.
Less than ten minutes passed when Mona came walking up Morrow Road. After she entered the diner I waited another ten minutes before getting out of my car and heading for the front door.
I scanned the area for any security cameras inside that might be visible. Anyone who might notice would only assume I was looking for someone I knew. Mona was seated at a booth facing the door and saw the cue. She lifted her hand with her palm facing me in a simple gesture, I’m right here. I walked directly to the table and extended my hand as I inquired, “Mona?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Walter
, very pleased to meet you.”
We exchanged greetings and I sat down opposite her, opening my card case. An authentic-looking business card for a well-known magazine popped up. She took the card and gave it a casual onceover. I went into my spiel the moment she took the card.
“I want to make this as painless as possible.”
She smiled and replied, “Okay.”
Mona went through some of the history and the things Icky had done to her and Vanessa. Tears welled up at times as she talked about her fear of Icky. I, in turn, was sympathetic and consoling. “I wanted him to stop, but he wouldn’t. There was nothing I could do.” After nearly an hour of this dribble, I called a halt to the interview. She was making me sick with her sniveling. I suggested we finish up tomorrow. Mona was agreeable.
“How about the money you promised?
I could see by her expression she was not bashful about the request. Under my note pad was an envelope containing four fifty-dollar bills that I had prepared while using latex gloves. I let it slip out from my notepad and pushed it to her with the pad like it was a drug deal going down.
“I’ll call around noon, if that’s alright with you, Mona?”
She replied, “Noon is good,” smiling ear to ear and clenching the envelope tight.
Mona folded the envelope into her pants pocket and slipped out of the booth. The hook was set. After saying our goodbyes I walked south and around the back of Kornbreads. I rounded the building, then back north to my car. I arrived at the Avenger in time to watch Mona walking west on Morrow Road. I pulled off my hat and glasses as I watched her. When she was almost out of sight I started the car and drove slowly in her direction until I saw her walk from the street into a small four-plex apartment building.
The next day I placed the call; we set the time to meet for 1 p.m. I drove down Morrow Road and parked at a graveled crossroad near the entrance to her quad. Mona exited the bottom floor apartment nearest the street and proceeded toward Kornbreads. I now knew where she lived. I waited until she cut across the street into the parking area of the diner before pulling out onto the road. Parking my Avenger out of sight of the diner, I eased out and met with Mona. We finished up a few questions I had on how the courts and legal system screwed her before turning the conversation to the local area.
I asked, “Since I’m here for the rest of the day, I’d like to see some of the local sights. What is there around here to see?”
“What kind of things do you have in mind?” Mona replied while gently running her hand over the top of my hand. Sometimes you don’t have to be a mind reader to know what someone’s thinking. I decided to play the hand that was dealt. Mona wasn’t attracted to me because I was good-looking; she was attracted to me because in her eyes I looked like Ben Franklin, lots of them. Not moving my hand I responded, “Well, I was thinking historical landmarks, waterfalls, maybe scenic areas.”
“There are plenty of wooded areas around here,” she said with a sheepish grin.
As Mona continued to talk I was amazed how the court-appointed psychiatrist could have found her incompetent to stand trial. Today, she was articulate, her thinking was organized and she was animated. A few short weeks ago she had an OxyContin affect, thorizine shuffle, and hardly knew her name.
“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” Mona picked up on my trancelike state.
“Oh, ah, I was just thinking how lost a city boy could get out there. I mean, I’m used to street signs and maps, not dirt roads, trees, and riverbeds.”
She was quick to respond, “Silly, I wasn’t talking about you going alone.”
“I’m game, let’s go.”
Mona smiled and replied, “I’ll show you one of my favorite waterfalls if you like. It’s only an hour away.”
“I’d like that, maybe get some pictures there too.”
This was uncharted territory for me. I had planned to kill Mona in her apartment, but opportunity might prevail. Although convenient and only a small change in plans, it was risky—changing plans spontaneously was always risky. It was impossible to calculate all the things that could go wrong even when you’d planned everything and followed your plan to the letter—the possibility of something going wrong increased when you changed horses in midstream.
Mona and I chatted casually as we made our way north on Interstate 5. I was never more thankful the Avenger had bucket seats than on this trip. It kept some distance between us. As we drove she would occasionally run her hand up the inside of my thigh and back down to my knee, I suppose in some sort of preview of the command performance she was planning. Frankly, it was giving me the willies.
Dillon Falls on the Rouge River was closer than she thought. It was only a thirty minute drive. We were heading for Sam’s Valley Road when Mona suggested we try the Upper River Road. It was everything she said it would be. This was a truly riparian environment with a mix of Brumitt firs standing alongside ponderosa pines and deciduous trees. As we proceeded east we rounded a large butte with grass-covered steep ridges to our south side, the river on our left.
I spotted a well-maintained dirt road off to the left that led down to the river’s edge. The riverbank was covered with trees and underbrush, making it a perfect hiding place.
“I’d like to get a couple pictures, then we can get back in the car.” Mona, smiling, replied, “Sure, whatever you want,” slipping her hand up the inside of my leg. I waited to hear what additional cost she’d confer to this little venture.
The dirt road led to a turnaround that appeared to be the hub for a spiderweb of four-wheel-drive trails. I parked the car and told Mona I’d only be a few minutes. Mona said, “Take all the time you like, it’ll be dark soon.”
From the trunk I removed a black canvas bag containing my equipment. Mona accompanied me through the bushy terrain to the lava outcroppings over the river. I sat my bag down unzipping the top fold. Looking around I tried to give the appearance of setting up for a proper photo shoot. In reality I was checking to see if the area was conducive to completing my project.
Mona unbuttoned her shirt, exposing her braless breasts for a few seconds; I surmise she intended it as a preview of what she had planned for later. She gave me a come-hither smile while teasingly tying her shirt into a midriff fashion. She probably thought the photo shoot would feature her, maybe in a sexy position with nature as the backdrop. She was right to some extent. She was caught up in the moment as she pointed downriver. “This would make a beautiful picture.” She gestured with a sweep of her hand, “I’d love to spend the rest of my life right here.”
Once again, she hit the nail on the head. I softly added, “Today is your lucky day.” Mona smiled as she turned back in my direction. Her expression changed abruptly as she focused on the barrel of my Glock pointing at her cleavage.
“The courts did you a disservice and I’ve come to correct that mistake. You let your child be abused. You aided and abetted in her torture and destruction. You covered it up and you are as guilty as you claim he is.” I expected some argument, but that flat affect returned; only this time it was sincere. She was voiceless, her eyes stared into mine.
With that I squeezed the trigger, Thuup. Thuup. Her body hurled backward and down over the natural rock jetty on which she’d stood. Her body rolled in the current of the Rogue. I fired a series of shots to insure she was dead. Where I struck her at this point didn’t make any difference. In fact, if there were multiple gunshot wounds it might appear personal, someone who knew her, someone who was angry with her. It would be to my advantage.
I scanned the hillside for any onlookers who might have seen me. Suddenly it dawned on me, I’m all alone. It was unusual not to have voices or apparitions, not even Destiny. I was all alone, was I wrong about this kill? I placed my equipment back in the bag and returned to the Avenger. I didn’t worry about covering up my footprints or checking to see if there was blood splatter on the rocks, depending on how far the body drifted it was nearly impossible for searchers to find the crime scene
. From the number of tracks on the ground in the parking area and the nearby four-wheeler trails, the indication was this area saw a lot of activity. Any tracks I might have left would be concealed within a few days.
After a comfortable night’s sleep in Medford, I decided to spend the rest of the week sightseeing in the area. A day trip to Crater Lake was awesome and refreshing. A last-day visit to the Jacksonville Museum before heading back to Portland rounded out my few days of rest and relaxation.
I followed the local news to see if Mona was discovered. A report of an unidentified female body at Foot’s Creek surfaced four days after Mona’s disappearance. The location was significant. It was only a few miles from where Mona had fallen into the river. In a candid acknowledgement, the police spokeswoman commented, “Investigators are not releasing additional details at this time.” So for now the wait-and-see continued.
Mona would not fit into the puzzle for Detective Ware, who seemed interested primarily in dead or missing sex offenders. Unlike TV shows that solve complex forensic problems in fifty minutes, give or take a couple of commercial breaks, it was much more difficult in real life. Police relied heavily on theory, profiles, and breaks in a case when they didn’t have a suspect. Forensic evidence gathered at crime scenes would support their case, when the time came, but it was not going to identify a suspect.
Mona’s killing did not significantly impact the local community. Police were releasing only necessary information to the public. With the cops being tight-lipped, public pressure to make an arrest was nil. The local media was on board with police to preserve the integrity of the investigation. But in the absence of factual information they were quick to fill in the gaps with their own rendition. Mona had friends and acquaintances, people who could add information and value to their stories, and that’s what they focused on. If not for freelance writer Anna Sasins, Mona’s name might never have been mentioned again. Not surprising, Medford news outlets did not carry Sasins’ story. However, her article was widely distributed throughout metro areas of the Pacific Northwest.
Due Process Page 13