Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  I’d grown accustomed to receiving emails from Sasins and looked forward to them. I’d begun using my computer more from home with the most sophisticated IP blockers on the market. Yet, I continued to access my email moving to different locations. A couple of weeks had passed since I had shot Graves and finally I had centered my attention on a new target. Destiny’s eyes flared red when I read the name aloud. A sea of voices reached a crescendo as I openly declared he would be next. I sat back wondering if this sexual deviate had any idea apparitions followed his every move. There was no hiding.

  Sasins had been busy too, her email was revealing.

  Scythian,

  The latest updates through my sources are saying the Task Force criminologist believes he has identified the signature of the killer. A modus operandi was identified through three or more murders that are linked through architecture of the crime and tools used. Based on crime scene analysis the killer is well organized. The emotional core component of the signature is the killings are likely based on gratification and not revenge. These are the most recent conclusions by the Task Force and are not made public at this time. Keep me up on what’s happening.

  Archangel

  Reflecting on the “signature” the criminologist was addressing caused me to ponder the ideas. I had a hard time identifying the feeling I got when I took a life. Thinking on those that I had sent on their way I felt nothing for the individuals, only a sense of satisfaction in doing so. I suppose that equals gratification. I personally like to think of it like a calling a religious zealot would experience when he exercised his faith. Well, maybe this criminologist has nailed this concept correctly because I do feel gratified.

  Sasins deserved a response. That was kind of the unwritten deal we’d happened upon. She fed me current information and I gave her the heads-up on my next kill with a little history to understand why. It seemed to be working.

  Archangel,

  My motive for my actions is this: I believe. It would not be so if the punishment fit the crime but no such confidence by the people exists. The doctors and lawyers line up in opposition to the law of nature that directs us to rid our society of those that will not live civilized within its confines; the confines of security. I make this world a safer place, not for the uncivilized, but for those that desire peace of mind. Violent sexual predators, pedophiles and the lot have lost their place in such a society. They are untrusted and unwanted vagabonds in our world. This I believe.

  Scythian

  Sasins responded.

  Scythian,

  We should talk sometime. I have questions I would like to ask that cannot be addressed in email. Please consider it. You have my phone number.

  Archangel

  A meeting is out. I would like to express myself in a more personal way but I’m not interested in showing my identity to anyone. I know she wants the scoop on a killer as much as I want her to present an accurate account of what I’ve done. I really don’t want any more than that from her. I’ll keep her phone number but for now, email will have to do.

  Pulling into the drive where my trailer sat, I saw two cop cars parked alongside a string of mailboxes and another black unmarked car across the street from them. I tried to look nonchalant as I drove past them looking for a way to pass by my home. If I continued through to the other exit I ran the risk of drawing attention to myself; something I didn’t want to do. If I pulled into my driveway, they’d know it was me. In my rearview mirror another cop car had come up on me quickly. I had to consider, the game might be over. I pulled into my driveway. The cop car continued past my position to an unknown destination. I sat quietly for a moment then proceeded into my house.

  Peeking through my window curtain I could see the two cop cars by the mailboxes. The officers remained in their cars waiting, I assumed, to spring the trap. I could feel the rush of adrenaline, my heart pounded against the wall of my chest. Officers dismounted and walked to the black car. A moment later they entered a nearby mobile home. I watched as they brought a handcuffed man from the residence. As I’ve said, you never know how far from evil you might be. If nothing else it made for an exciting end of the day. It was time to get back to the project.

  Chapter 14

  It is an arduous war for justice; I will not recant or vacillate.

  —Walter

  Just north of Skidmore Street, the cheap little rundown house was nestled away amidst a sea of identical-looking World War II—built homes in the Albina district of Portland. During the seventies, this area was considered “the projects” as older housing was demolished to make room for lower-income apartment dwellings. Housing tracts not part of the agenda remained and were populated with tree-hugging, dope-smoking, communal-living hippies who thought they’d found a haven in the Northwest. They were successful in escaping the crime-laden Haight-Ashbury scene in California, only to discover their lifestyle brought with it a decadent crime wave to Albina. Many of the educated hippies moved on to more capitalistic futures in the alfalfa sprout business. Other visionaries opened health food and café stores while a few made Picasso pottery or engaged in body painting, calling it the “arts.” Skidmore and the surrounding area fell into deeper ruin. Rampant crime continued to spread throughout the district. No one felt safe and only the oldest and poorest residents remained.

  Here I focused my attention on Stewart Pidd, a thirty-seven-year-old convicted child molester from a neighboring state. He had done a couple years’ stretch for his involvement as a rising porn star after copping a plea to sexual assault of a minor in the second degree. In reality, he had committed far worse. You’d have thought a video of repeated sexual penetration of a minor in various orifices would bring a first-degree conviction, but plea bargains saved the victims and their families the humiliation of court exposure. At least that was the prosecutor’s perspective. In reality it saved the courts time and money while still scoring a conviction on the attorney’s report card.

  Fortunately, his twelve-year-old niece, the unwilling costar, was saved from the embarrassment of the video being distributed only because she committed suicide. Her parents said she killed herself after hearing her uncle received the light sentence.

  I first became aware of Pidd through an article Anna Sasins published on fast-food chains where many young kids got their first jobs. It might appear to be a casual human-interest feature to the untrained eye, but its contents were telling and startling. According to Sasins, fast-food joints were employing many sex offenders in the Portland area. In fact, it left some question in my mind whether these so-called restaurants screened applicants at all. Just by reading the article I thought the problem was obvious, but Sasins spelled it out. “Kids are at risk working in an environment where sex offenders work. Some measures should be taken to limit exposure.” I love that style of reporting. It was a beeline for the jugular. Sasins went on to name more than a dozen fast-food businesses in the Portland area where child sex offenders worked.

  My interest was piqued. I wrote Sasins, requested her sources and explained to her how much I appreciated her writing. I too had noticed people of interest working in these places. Maybe they couldn’t find better employment or maybe they had a more sinister purpose. My assumption was you could find some of both where easy prey was available.

  Sasins responded with the previously undisclosed names to the corresponding fast-food restaurants that were in her article. I don’t know what she thought I was going to do with the information but then again, maybe she did. I checked through my files and came across only one name that matched–Stewart Pidd. Seven years had passed since he went to jail in California, now he was working in my city. He was not registered in Oregon as a Class III sex offender, yet his crime should have qualified him. He evidently was not categorized to likely reoffend or he was in violation of the Oregon registry. I really didn’t care one way or the other.

  Learning your prey’s behavior was a valuable hunting skill. Trust me when I say, hunting is hunting, regardless o
f the prey. When it’s a rabbit or quail, you can be haphazard. The risk to the hunter is negligible. When you set out to kill something that can do the same to you, the risk must be taken into consideration.

  I found tracking Pidd to be difficult. Portland is a maze of freeways and turnpikes that lead into the boondocks. Pidd seemingly liked to cruise them all. To make things more difficult, Stewart or Stew as he preferred to be called, worked varying shifts in Lake Oswego, a suburb community of Portland’s south side.

  He was disgustingly unkempt, roly-poly, with bulging, bloodshot eyes. My guess was he cleared six feet and weighed easily in excess of 300 pounds. He was chief fry cook and griller, which added a daily layer of lubricant to his diaphoretic Neanderthal appearance. His hair was straggly long and dripped with perspiration as he slaved over the fryer. After his shift he disrobed to a well-soiled wife beater T-shirt. When the breeze was right, his pungent body odor drifted across the parking lot.

  His ride was a ratty-looking, washed-out light blue Ford Pinto. It wasn’t the kind of car that stuck out in the crowd, at least not in the Skidmore area. Picking him up when he left work was not difficult; tailing him was. Inevitably, I would lose sight of Pidd between where he worked and where he lived. It took me a few days to figure out why. He wasn’t heading straight home after work. He was cruising. His routes varied through Gresham, Aloha, Wilsonville, Tigard, and Hillsboro. It wasn’t his skill that shook me off his tail, he had no idea I existed. In all likelihood, I lost him because I wasn’t tailing him tight enough.

  It wasn’t until I picked him up at the restaurant during a morning shift that I was successful in finding his house. When the shift ended he made a beeline to his house on Skidmore. I wasn’t comfortable trying to set up an observation on his house from any angle on the street. The area was intimidating and unfriendly, not an environment where you’d want to mingle with the neighbors. I would wait for him to show up for work and then do a recon on his home. It would be a bit chancy, there might be others living with him, he could have house guests, or a guard dog penned up inside. It was a chance I would have to take.

  He didn’t show at work the next day, maybe it was a day off. Waiting was tough, my trigger finger was itching. Two days passed and still no sign of Pidd. I did a little cruising myself, driving by his home. The Pinto was parked in his driveway and no one was in sight.

  I sent Sasins an email, something I’d become comfortable doing. I believed we had developed a quasi-working relationship. She had given me information that I’d acted upon. I did my best to return the favor.

  Archangel,

  I have great respect for your work. I understand your passion to side with victims and defend those that are weaker. It has been said the pen is mightier than the sword. I postulate swords provide pens with power and vice versa. We use might for right and seek justice in our own way. This is our relationship.

  You may not agree with the method I’ve chosen to deliver the penalties, but the punishment is deserved and long overdue. Until the legal system realizes the severity of their passive approach to justice, I will continue to deliver on my promise. It is an arduous war for justice; I will not recant or vacillate. More treatment or education will only produce well-adjusted, smarter criminals. A greater understanding by society will only lead to acceptance, which is pretty much where we’ve arrived today. You and I are two lights within the same spectrum.

  Scythian

  The nights were wearing on me. One nightmare after another besieged me to find Pidd before it was too late. Too late for what, I wondered? Was he planning to move away and unknowingly escape Walter’s justice?

  On the third day Pidd showed up for work. I waited until he was busy grilling before heading to Skidmore. I felt good about the time frames; he had consistently worked eight-hour shifts. In the Albina district not many people were up early. Those that were out and about were generally on their way to work, the rest were more like blood-suckers, venturing out once darkness embraced the neighborhood.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary at Pidd’s house. His backyard bordered an old church parking lot. The church was abandoned and boarded up. I pulled my Avenger up next to his unfenced lot and watched. After half an hour’s observation I was still uncomfortable with the situation, but having seen nothing out of the ordinary I determined it was time to act. I stealthily made my way around to the front door. I knocked and listened; it was quiet. I knocked a second time, nothing. My preferred way of entry was the back door, but in this case the front door was well hidden from view. The wood-framed screen door hung partially open. Using bump keys the lock opened in seconds and I was in.

  The stench filled my nostrils immediately. I walked slowly through the house trying to hold my breath. My hopes were to set up an ambush but that seemed less likely now—I couldn’t hold my breath that long. Bang, bang, and it would be over, that’s all the time I needed and his debt would be paid. The innocent niece he abused and exploited to be a porn star would finally have justice.

  The home was a single-level two-bedroom box. The front door opened into a small living room that was adjacent to the hallway, an easy ambush. The kitchen and dining room were one and the same leading to a laundry room by the back door. Any place in here would work if I knew which door he would use. The putrid smell of body odor from the bathroom to the bedrooms was so bad I’d have to use one of the other rooms.

  A hall closet sat at the end of the hallway and was bolted with three bolts, top, middle and near the bottom. Why would anyone need three bolt locks on the outside of a closet door? My curiosity got the best of me and I began with the top bolt sliding it slowly out of the hasp. I slipped the bottom bolt out next, and then with Glock in hand, released the middle bolt. I turned the knob and opened the door. Movement in a back corner stood my hair on end as I retreated a few steps. My Glock responded automatically to a dead-on firing position. In the dim light it took a moment to focus on the young girl that was bound and gagged. I slipped my weapon into my belt and froze in place. Now what do I do? Squinting as her sight adjusted from the closet darkness she waited for my next move. I dropped to one knee and leaned toward her. With both hands I pulled her from captivity. I wrestled the gag from around her head releasing a torrent of sobs and uttering of unintelligible words. As the girl cried her heart out I heard Destiny speak, “take her from here.” When Destiny touched my back I understood why the dreams had pressed me into acting.

  I was faced with a new dilemma, one that I hadn’t planned for. She was clothed in an oversized T shirt that reeked of Pidd. I cut the duct tape from her wrists and ankles and helped her to her feet. She continued to sob and try to speak; I knew I had to get her out of the house right away. Unlike any other rescuer, I couldn’t bring myself to call 911. We headed for the back door. If Pidd had showed up then and there, I’d have taken my knife and skinned him alive. I would have enjoyed every minute of it, in fact hours of it. I would not have been quick.

  I’ll admit, when it comes to building a rapport or talking with kids, I’m at a loss. “What’s your name?” I asked. It was a slow process. She made multiple attempts to speak but had difficulty forming words. I was becoming a mixed bag of emotions as I waited. Anxiety loomed. Finally, I was able to understand her to say “Helen.”

  “Helen you are going to be safe; you’re safe with me.” Helen nodded her head as she held back the tears.

  I helped Helen into the passenger side of my car as I tried to figure out what to do with her. I knew what I had to do, but how?

  “Helen, I need to call someone,” Helen nodded between sobs. “I need to know your last name?” She paused briefly as if trying to remember, “Beck, Helen Beck,” she answered.

  I’ve kept Sasins phone number with me since she invited me to contact her, never really expecting to actually call. In my bug-out bag I kept a prepaid mobile phone. I had intentionally loaded it with only twenty-five minutes’ air time intended for a one-time use and then into the river with it. A couple
of blocks away stood a Mom and Pop’s grocery that catered to an older crowd. This was a good place to stop and make the call. It was my best hope.

  I pulled into a parking spot near the end of the building, excused myself from Helen, and placed the call from in front of my car. I was relieved when I heard a female answer.

  “Anna Sasins.”

  “This is Wal-ah, Scythian.”

  Sasins was silent for several seconds.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

  “I need your help, Anna.”

  Anna replied in a startled and high-pitched tone, “With what?” I knew she didn’t want to be involved in anything I was doing; she had made that clear enough early on. Now the inflection in her voice reinforced her notable concern. From my perspective, I wasn’t all that jazzed about her involvement either, but I needed her to make an exception.

  “I have rescued a young girl from a sex offender; I need to turn her over to you.”

  Anna, with a whispering sigh, asked the million-dollar question, “Why me?”

  “She was a hostage. She needs transport to a hospital. They will contact the police. I need someone I can trust and you’re the only one that can do it. I will give you the address where she was being kept for the police.”

  There was a short pause before I asked again, “Anna I need your help on this; I can’t take her myself and I don’t have friends I can call on.”

  “Okay, okay, do you know the girl’s name?”

  “Helen Beck.”

  “Helen Beck!” Anna exclaimed. “She’s been missing for the past four days. She was kidnapped on her way home from school in Aloha.”

  “Well, she’s not missing anymore. Where can we meet?”

  Helen was watching me; I couldn’t help but feel the poor little thing was becoming more frightened by my actions. She wanted to go home, that was the only thing on her mind. “Anna, hang on a minute, I want you to talk with Helen and reassure her that she is safe with me and will be safe with you.”