Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  Sasins focused her article on domestic violence. The inclusion of Vanessa’s story set the stage for an alarming set of statistics concerning violence toward children in the home. She pointed out data identifying mothers as abusing children more frequently than fathers did, although it was frequently thought opposite. She laid out the facts and they were chilling. She used Mona’s legal case to focus on aspects of criminal parenting. The article concluded more like an epitaph touching briefly on Mona’s death. Sasins wrote, “Lott may have fell victim to her own drug-infested lifestyle.” She didn’t exactly strike oil with that one but it would be helpful if the police bought it.

  Sasins was correct though. Mona was a victim of her lifestyle. She was executed for what she didn’t do as much as for what she did. “Mona, Sasins wrote, was shot repeatedly and her body dumped in the river.” Wait a minute! How did she know Mona had multiple gunshot wounds? She had information that was not publicly released. What else did she know and how did she know it? She obviously had an inside track on privileged information.

  I had grown to respect Sasins as I had Horn. In a half dozen articles I’d read written by her, she had advocated greater punishment for the offenders. She expressed her concerns about law enforcement not following up on domestic violence when it was reported to community services. She spoke for the people, perhaps from the perspective of a victim, I don’t know. In any case, she seemed to be following my work closely, although perhaps unintentionally. I got a sense from her writings that she knew I existed—just not my identity. She clearly understood someone was extracting vengeance on a specific criminal element. She had previously cited Deed’s killing and wrote, “There exists a likelihood other vigilantes may be intent on doing the same thing. Not so haphazard but as dedicated to the same cause.” In her profile attached to each article was a picture of Sasins and a simple email address Archangel@ccm.com. Could it be possible I had an unintentional ally in this quest after all?

  I went to the library and opened up a free email account under the name “Scythian.” It was traceable to some degree although not easily since I was able to use it from a number of public locations. The email account did not require any personal information and since I was accessing from public terminals, tracing would be difficult. I sent a simple message.

  Archangel,

  I admire the opinions you put forth in many of your recent articles. I would have you know you have included some of my work in your writings. Your conclusions are not far from the truth. I work alone. I have chosen this life because it is necessary. Someone must right the wrong violent predators do. Since the judicial system is lacking in its ability to punish, I have accepted the responsibility. I hope in future articles any reference to my work will be made with understanding and not a shot in the dark as to why. I make myself available to you for this purpose.

  Scythian

  I debated sending the email for some time. I questioned myself repeatedly. This might not be a smart move. However, there might come a time in the near future I wanted someone to tell my story; what I did and why. If she was agreeable I could trust her to present my thoughts and feelings to the public.

  Predator, hear me! My advice to you is this: kill yourself and save me the time and effort. If not, I will come looking and when I find you I will show you the same mercy you showed your victim—none. It may be tomorrow, next week, or next year but I will come with a vengeance or my name isn’t Walter E Goe.

  Chapter 11

  I have come to resurrect justice; it is my destiny.

  —Walter

  Ever since I came to the realization there are some really sick individuals in this world, I have believed in the death penalty. I don’t mean sick in a medical sense but with a depravity that mankind tolerates because they cannot come to grips with the fact they need to be extirpated. These depraved individuals attack the dignity of humanity and just locking them up for a while solves nothing. Every violent sexual predator’s conviction, release, and subsequent offense reinforce my belief that they should be put down. I would call them animals but that description doesn’t fit. Animals are far better than the likes of these monsters.

  While I awaited a response from Archangel to my rather nebulous email, I busied myself with another project. Regardless of whether Sasins contacted me or not, I needed to continue my quest. Going through files and scanning news articles from dozens of sources was keeping my nose to the grindstone. What I was looking for I wasn’t seeing. No vibes, no sensory perceptions, it was as if something was blocking the development of a project. Was it me, was I looking in the wrong place for the lead? I am capable of carrying out a project without all the bells and whistles that usually accompany the development. I have no problem deciding who dies without help from mortals or the supernatural—ethereal beings only serve to validate my personal convictions and sanction my call to action.

  After a couple of exhausting weeks searching, I spotted a small news piece in an eastern Oregon newspaper. A story buried on the third page of the Pendleton Chronicle carried a tidbit about a sex offender of a whole different nature. It was neither an April Fools’ Day joke nor a laughing matter. It was a current event and as sick as they come. I was surprised when I checked my files I had no historical documents on this perp, just an instant connection commanding me to pursue.

  Willard (Willie) B. Hartigan was an Idahoan sex offender according to the Thursday newspaper account. Some eleven years earlier he had earned his offender status as a seventeen-year-old juvenile. The victim was a six-year-old boy with the bad luck to live next door to Willie. The article outlined Hartigan’s payment to society confined to a Rebar Hotel in Caldwell, Idaho. I can only imagine how horrific juvenile detention might be. But he survived until his release at the ripe old age of nineteen. Somehow it didn’t seem sufficient.

  Upon discharge he was considered a danger to the community and required by law to register his residence. That was the one thing Idaho did right because Willie was still a danger. Hartigan moved frequently, mostly finding refuge in small rural communities. He failed occasionally to comply with the registry law and authorities eventually caught up with him. The reporter elaborated on a few historical facts from Hartigan’s past he thought readers would find interesting. Hartigan, twice since his release from incarceration in Idaho, had short stays in county jails for parole violations. It was, according to Hartigan, just an oversight on his behalf. It was certainly a believable story. Anyone might fail to register if they were moving into another state. In fact it might even be the reason to move to another state. In the second go-around he was jailed at Powder River Correctional Center because of another error, at least one of judgment, if you believe it was unintentional. Anyone might wander too near a grade school unknowingly if you were a convicted child rapist. The fact that he had in his possession duct tape and a small spool of rope in a brown paper bag was probably coincidental. The newest headline on Willie took a bizarre twist for the people of Baker City, Oregon, to consider.

  It had been nearly a month since I emailed Archangel. I’d resisted the impulse to check my email. The noose tightened with frequent exposure; something I couldn’t afford. In the public library I found it best to become Walter. Most cameras in public facilities are easily noticed, hence a valuable deterrence to criminal behavior. They could also be used to identify me if the police ran a trace on my email to Anna. No sense letting down my guard; besides, I liked being Walter, it felt comfortable. I slipped on the latex gloves and entered my information. The site box popped up revealing what I was hoping to see.

  Scythian,

  I am not sure what you are referring to as “work” that I’ve cited in my articles? Tell me a little more about yourself and maybe then I’ll understand your reference.

  Archangel

  Reporters and writers are great when it comes to letting the faucet drip. They never shut them off. It didn’t seem like much, just a drip, but it was an opportunity to finally relate my feelings as to why I
do what I do, yet remain anonymous. I guess I’ve wanted to tell someone from day one of this journey. Secrets are hard to keep; we all have a need to share the things we know. I was of the opinion I would someday be caught and tried for murder. When that day came, I wanted to take the stand and tell them all, “I killed them for being what they are, but you are on trial, not me. You are why I’m standing before you today. You liberal judges, unscrupulous lawyers, and cowardly jurors are all guilty of the murders I’ve committed; you didn’t do your job and I had to do it for you. You claim to stand for justice; you are all frauds; I’m the only one in this room standing for justice.”

  I thought for a while about my response to Archangel. What was her real question? Perhaps some confirmation I wasn’t a crackpot yahoo I suppose. I don’t imagine she gets correspondence from serial killers every day. In fact with her points of view, I doubt any would contact her. I decided the straight-up approach with her would be to my advantage. Something she would recognize.

  Archangel,

  Owen “Icky” Moore, the subject of your recent article, is a vicious man who enjoys inflicting pain. For a short while his life is spared. He longs for his freedom from incarceration but on that day, if our paths cross, he will surely die.

  Mona was not innocent of wrongdoing. She aided and abetted her man in the brutal assault and torture of their daughter.

  Vanessa will never fully recover. How could she? She bears the scars in both body and soul. Sure, she’s in state custody for now, but the damage is done. Maybe she will learn to cope, maybe not. Maybe she’ll be a ward of the state for the rest of her life or maybe she will end the nightmares and torment once and for all by suicide. Many do and I really don’t blame them.

  I have come to resurrect justice; it is my destiny. You won’t necessarily agree with what I do, but I exist because the times demand it. For too long the liberal courts have violated the victims and shown favor to the criminals.

  I will soon send an undeniable confirmation of what I am. All I ask for is an opportunity to communicate the truth to someone who might be able to understand a lone voice crying out in the wilderness.

  Scythian

  It was time to send it and leave it alone. I needed to get on with the current project. Hartigan was up against charges that weren’t going to net him a lot of time. Willie was accused of cruelty to animals, criminal mischief, theft, and bestiality, but these types of charges are frequently boiled down to one or two charges by court time. A couple of witnesses watched Willie skillfully tie a small cord or rope around a sheep in a pasture and abscond with it. The witnesses pursued Willie and caught up with him not far from the fence line. According to the witnesses they observed Hartigan tie the sheep to a tree and then bend down behind the helpless animal and execute a sexual act. At twenty-eight years of age, Willie B. Hartigan was once again caught with his pants down, literally.

  Baker City is small-town USA. It was once a major hub during the westward expansion along the Oregon Trail, now relegated to mostly small farms and ranches. I located a nice campground only twenty miles southwest of Baker City on Phillips Lake in the Willawa-Whitman National Forest. To me it seemed very remote but as I recall it was the largest campground in the area.

  I decided to arrive in town only as Walter E. Goe, Freelance writer–reporter. Since I had plenty of business cards to choose from, it was wise not to use the same one I did in Medford. No sense making a simple connection for the cops.

  Once in Baker City I made the local greasy spoon my hangout and it didn’t take long to catch the drift among the townspeople. Locals were furious and vocal. Willie B. was already out on bail. He had served his time on parole and finished it. Now he was out on bail while he awaited trial. My immediate thoughts were who would bail out this sick pervert? According to the townsfolk, Hartigan had moved here to live with or off his cousins. They now served as third-party custodians with the courts.

  Asking upset people stupid questions about a perverse crime does provoke unique responses. Just the sort of thing I wanted. A good ol’ boy named Bootleg invited himself to sit at my table and keep me company. He wasn’t a typical Baker City resident but a home-grown Oregon hillbilly. He didn’t say much at first but eventually warmed to the idea of a conversation. It took a little getting used to Bootleg to understand his speech. Leaning in my direction, Bootleg whispered in a gravelly tone. “Yes’em, tha’ steali’n youngin better high ’n tailer out’a he-ere or we’d be’s to hangin’em.” Bootleg paused to cough up some phlegm before continuing, “You’d think wee’se don’t noed where he’d been liven’. He’d need a posse pertectin’ him if ’a he’d thinks he’sa gonna liven’re. He’d done wored out he’s we’come.” Somehow it all made sense when he said it.

  I acted surprised by what he said. “He’s staying with family here?”

  Bootleg laughed, “You’s noed he are, right next to-dah farm he’d stoled datta sheep from.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Bout’in mile er-so’s out’er town on Seven.”

  I took this to mean Highway 7 and continued to chat with other folks as they became available. Some had questions for me, mostly curious of particular stories I’d covered. A few folks had heard of some of the people I referred to, others I probably just thought they had.

  I visited the county courthouse daily to read the calendar call for circuit court cases posted in the hallway. I wouldn’t have to wait long to see action here. Within the first week of monitoring, Hartigan’s name was posted with a motion to change counsel. If granted, and no reason to believe it would not be, Hartigan would be represented by a new attorney to the case. Ruben Darroe, an unheard-of name in these parts perhaps but one I readily recognized as my nemesis. Further, Darroe and Hartigan were two peas in a pod—amorality and iniquity.

  Counsel for the defense wasted no time filing motions with the circuit court. I attended court to see Willie B. Hartigan, I couldn’t care less about the motions. You can always tell who’s who at the defense table. One person is dressed up nicely. That’s the defendant. The bearded guy with the ponytail and sandals is the defense attorney.

  Darroe was first to enter the nostalgic-looking old courtroom. I remember him well; he fits my perception of a criminal defense attorney perfectly. Hartigan strolled in a few minutes later with his third-party custodian in tow. He was casually dressed, not overdone, with cheap slacks and button-down shirt. His hair cut short, neatly trimmed, and he sported extended lamb-chop sideburns with a soul patch for facial hair. He sat down at the defense table with a self-satisfied smirk on his face and began to converse with his attorney, or should I say rehearse the script for the opening act.

  The bailiff commanded, “All rise.” I whispered under my breath, “And let the games begin!” The prosecutor opened with a few known basics concerning the charges. Darroe countered with motions to dismiss the specific charges of bestiality and suppress evidence obtained, according to Darroe, unlawfully by the sheriff’s department. Darroe’s focus was clear and clever from the beginning. He wanted the human-animal sexual interaction out of the jury’s mind. Darroe knew it was reprehensible behavior to most people. It was more apt to trigger a harsh reaction to Hartigan at jury deliberation. He provided a long list of documentation from researchers and renowned professors acknowledging the cultural perspectives of westerners,

  “It is nothing more than a culture of unfounded fear. It’s a Salem-style witch hunt of those with a different sexual orientation,” Darroe clamored.

  The defense provided document after document reflecting negatively on the taboo based ancient Judeo-Christian beliefs and a throwback to pseu-dosciences of the Dark Ages. Unfortunately, for the prosecution, there were landmark cases where morality was not sufficient justification for law. Darroe with his courtroom dynamics, “That’s all this is, is someone’s ancient moral views made into law” gained momentum.

  I couldn’t help my thoughts rebutting everything Darroe said. If I had been the prosecutor may
be I’d have played into Darroe’s hand, but at least I’d have had my say. The more I listened to him the more difficult it was not to shoot Darroe and let Willie dance from Bootleg’s barn rafter.

  As I sit listening to this diatribe about zoosexual activity being natural and enjoyed by many, animals and humans alike, I’m thinking about how normal it is to kill something that is vile and repulsive, like animal rapists.

  Darroe went after the animal cruelty charge with fervor. Legal terminology was vague. The law could not conclude whether or not sexual activity can be proven to be cruel or abusive. You would think so but sadly it’s not an open and shut book. What Darroe wanted to do was create doubt in the prosecutor’s mind as to whether or not they had an ironclad case. The fact was they didn’t have it in the bag. Ultimately, Darroe would succeed in creating wiggle room for some old-fashioned plea bargaining. Something he’s notorious for.

  Could prosecutors prove without a reasonable doubt penetration had occurred? Bestiality hinged on that issue. The animal was examined according to documents, but only the trauma of being tied to the tree could be validated. “Is it abuse when a veterinarian artificially inseminates a cow?” Darroe roared. “Did the cow ask for the veterinarian to violate her clear up to his shoulder?” Darroe paused. “Animal husbandry is practiced every day in America and it’s not illegal.”

  Darroe again offered various opinions from “experts” with supporting documents proving there was no evidence animals were injured by the sexual interaction with humans and in fact may actually enjoy it—that did it, I’m killing Darroe.

  Lastly, he addressed the actions of Hartigan as someone who had successfully dealt with the issue of sexuality and impulsivity by using an animal that he had not harmed for sex. It was by no way an admission of guilt. “As distasteful as it may seem, my client was trying to walk the straight and narrow,” Darroe said passionately. I didn’t see it that way. Looking around the courtroom, Darroe surmised, “This is a nonissue issue in this case.” It was becoming clear this case would be disposed of by the prosecutors. After all, they’re just lawyers too.