As readers of my original Fifthnail blog (link, top-right) may know, while I was living in North Dakota I took up skiing for the first time. The slopes were no resort, more like just a few hills. But they did have lifts, and Thursdays were “student night”, so I could use my NDSU I.D. To get rentals and lifts until midnight for only $25. It was the perfect chance for me to learn something I had always wanted to learn.
Of course there are always a lot of kids around the ski slopes, especially little slopes like these. But I wasn't interested in the children, I was there to practice skiing, and even if I happened to get a lift with a cute kid, I would be courteous, but otherwise ignore them. Like I said, my mind was on skiing, and I was enjoying myself responsibly for once.
I spent hours at a time on the slopes without a break, even in below zero weather (I'd learned how to dress warm living in Fargo). But, at some point I had to stop to use the bathroom.
On one such occasion I found myself in the small “boys room” alone, relieving myself in a urinal with my mind on what run I would choose next, or some such thing, when I heard the door to the bathroom open behind me and someone come in. As I finished relieving myself I instinctively noted that whoever came in did not move into the bathroom to take care of business, so I glanced out of curiosity over my shoulder to see if anyone was actually even there.
I saw a young boy, about nine or ten years old standing by the door, dressed as though he'd just come off the slopes for a quick pee, like me. Several children had just exited the bathroom a moment beforem after I had politely waited for them to finish theis business before pulling out my own hose to take care of mine. So seeing the kid in the bathroom alone was no real shocker, or turn on. I figured immediately that he must be waiting for me to finish – since it was such a small bathroom with only two urinals side-by-side – the same way I had waited for the kids before me to finish, just being polite.
But then I saw him flinch with hesitation. It was the most subtle movement that I caught out of the corner of my eye just as I was looking away from him. The boy had made a move that an animal makes when it is suddenly afraid and uncertain of its predicament. Something inside of me became suddenly awake, and aroused at the same time.
Of course I did not move on the boy, he was very safe where he was. In fact – and I know many will scoff at this, but it is absolutely true – I would have risked my life to protect that boy from harm if any had been threatened. At least in that context I would have; the chalet was not a safe “hunting ground”, not by far.
But the predator had definitely been stirred and awakened, and I took due notice. It wasn't the boy's appearance, age, or circumstances that aroused me, it was his fear, and his fear alone. The boy's fear had awaken a very dangerous predatory instinct.
I turned again and shrugged, nodded, and smiled to the boy, to assure him that I was finished, and that he was safe. As I washed my hands, I metaphorically scratched the predator inside of me behind the ears and thought to it: not yet my friend; not yet... go back to sleep.
P.S. We all have “sleeping predators” inside of us. Predators are born of fear, and live by it. To teach our children to “be afraid of strangers” (e.g. “stranger danger”) is to prepare them to be a victim. Children who are not afraid of strangers are not nearly as appealing to child predators. That does not mean they are immune to attack, only that they are much less likely to be targeted. And, if they are attacked, they are much more likely to escape unharmed. As a “child predator” myself I speak from direct experience, not psychological theory. Several times children that I targeted as prey escaped using natural instincts that were unhampered by fear. (Once a 7-year-old boy who I had alone in the woods, a firm grip on his arm, and a sharp knife in his face, got away by screaming and fighting. He was lucky I did not use the knife, or was he? Perhaps he instinctively knew that I wouldn't. Who knows, but he got away unscathed.) I also know of other child predators who have said the same thing (Westley Allan Dodd, for one), though most child predators are oblivious to their own predatory nature, so they do not even realize that it is fear that drives their lust. The same can be said for most other predators as well.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
What Happened In Prison - Part I: "The Punk"
After I was “voted out” of the Western State Hospital Sexual Psychopath Treatment Program, my 20 year prison sentence suspension was revoked. At the very tender age of 19 I was sent to prison.
While I was still in the county jail I learned the hard way that I needed to invent a story for why I was sentenced to prison. Rape was not a very popular crime, especially if it involved a child. The weak minded inmates (typical bullies) of course needed to make themselves feel better than someone, and society already made the rapists and child molesters easy scapegoats. So I made up a story about a “burglary that went bad” and became a first degree assault. Because of my age, the length of my sentence (a rapist typically only served 3 to 5 years on a first offense in those days), and the convincing details of my story, no one ever questioned it, or asked to see paperwork.
I was classified for population at the Washington Corrections Center (WCC) in Shelton. When I arrived I still did not know how much time I would be spending in prison. The judge only set the maximum term (20 years). But the parole board set the minimum term, which would determine your length of stay until you were eligible for parole.
Because this was my first offense as an adult, I expected to get 5 years at the most. That would make me eligible for parole after about one year in prison since I would ger credit for time served in jail and at the state hospital. All I had to do was hold my breath; the nightmare would be over quickly.
Or so I thought.
It turned out that the political environment concerning “sex offenders” was heating up. A small boy had been sexually mutilated by an x-mental-patient. The boy's mother was determined to get “justice” by punishing all child molesters severely, especially “homosexual” child molesters. I guess that meant me.
The parole board also had a letter that the therapist from the treatment program had written to the judge. I had no idea at the time that they could do that, so I made no effort to defend myself or contradict the numerous lies that the therapist had written about me. The therapist was one, Gary “Mike” Shepherd, and he had attempted to use his position of control over my treatment to coerce my mother into having sex with him. He was the reason I quit the program and decided to take my chances in prison. The incident with my mother was fully reported to the treatment program officials. Shepherd denied everything, of course, and accused me (in cohorts with my mother) of being manipulative and rebellious against the treatment program.
When the parole board took Shepherd's letter and the political circumstances into consideration, they came up with a minimum term of fifteen and a half years! That was five times over the expected range (of 3 years) and it meant that I would have to serve at least eight more years before even being eligible for parole!
Needless to say, I was shocked, severely! I lost part of my vision (literally tunnelvision) for some time after receiving the news. How could I possibly survive that long in prison? The worst I had expected was one more year! I was barely keeping my head above water as it was! And now...
A man in the cell next to me in the county jail had told me that because of my looks and my “attitude” (naive and immature to say the least) that I would be raped, and probably even killed, in prison. He claimed to speak from experience, and he predicted that I would “not last a year”. After getting 186 months from the parole board his prophecy haunted me.
I did get raped, of course, many times. And once I was attacked by a whole gang of black men (six at one time) who scared me so bad that I screamed with a loud high pitched shrill voice, exactly like the “punk” I was, “No! Please no! Help! No! Please stop!” the entire time. They didn't actually rape me. They just beat me to the floor, and then, of course, one of them “came to my rescue”. All he wanted in exchange was a small favor; a sexual favor. And then another, and another... each time threatening to “unleash” his friends if he didn't get what he wanted.
I went to the guards and told them I wanted to be moved to “protective custody” because I was being “pressured for sex”. The guards told me that unless I gave them a name they would not move me. I was too scared of the men who were raping me to give up their names. They told me if I ever did that they would kill me, even in protective custody. The “prophecy” from jail seemed to be coming true, so I kept my mouth shut.
I started taking classes to get my highschool diploma. I was safe in the school building, where the inmates who were raping me never set foot. I learned to like school, a lot. I became an almost straight - “A” student. Before leaving Shelton I had finished two years of highschool and got my diploma.
(Incidentally: They don't teach highschool in Washington state prisons any more. The best you can get is a G.E.D., so I was lucky.)
I spent my time in the living unit playing “Dungeons and Dragons” with other “kids” who were being “punked out” (pressured for sex) too. There was a little protection by staying in a group, but not much. Once several men came into my cell while “Junior” was visiting with me. I watched helplessly as they wrestled him down, pulled down his pants and put several of my personal art pencils into his rectum. They were laughing and joking the whole time. After they left, Junior curled up in a corner next to the locker in my cell and wouldn't talk to anyone. I wanted to help him so badly, but I didn't know how. (I find myself holding back tears even now as I remember this) I felt so desperately and painfully powerless.
When they put double-bunks in all the cells at Shelton I ended up moving in with Junior. It was convenient for the men who were pressuring us to have us both in one cell.
I tried everything I could think of to get out of being raped. I even asked my “classification counselor” if I could be transferred to the new sex offender treatment program at the Twin Rivers Corrections Center (TRCC) in Monroe. He told me that I had too much time left on my sentence to be eligible for the program. It was only for people who were close to getting out of prison.
I also studied religion, and hung out with the Christian inmates for awhile, until one of them raped me. I took correspondence Bible study courses, and became very familiar with the “religion” bookshelf in the prison library. I was looking for answers, but wasn't finding any. I finally said a prayer to God that went something like this:
“God, I don't know if you are real or not. But I can't find any evidence at all that you exist. I have prayed and prayed for help, but so far the only help I have ever gotten has come from myself. So I'm going to go my own way for now. I pray that if this is a mistake that you will bring me back. Amen.”
That was the last time I prayed or even acknowledged God for many years. “My own way” was to educate myself, and to start sticking up for myself. Which I did. I can still remember the first real sense of power I got from seeing the look of surprize on inmate Guzman's face when I picked up a mop wringer to use as a weapon when he started picking a fight with me on the tier. Guzman had once beat me up just to steal my Timex watch that was a gift from my grandmother she gave one just like it to my brother too, one of the very few sentimental items I owned. I made him beat me up in order to take the watch but I didn't fight back. This time I was clearly going to fight back and Guzman backed down immediately. I learned a new lesson that day about bullies. They really are cowards.
My victory did not last long though, before those six black men put me “back in my place”. But I wasn't ready to give up so easy.
After two years of being beat-up and raped I figured a way out. I gave the guards the name of a black inmate who I knew would not try to kill me. But neither had he ever assaulted me. So after they took him to the “hole” and me to PC (protective custody), I sent a letter to the prison disciplinary officials (who were going to punish the black inmate for pressuring me based on my statement alone) and I told them that I had lied in order to get put in PC.
It worked. The black inmate got released from the “hole”, and after six months in PC (segregation), I got transferred to McNeil Island Corrections Center (MICC). At McNeil nobody knew me. And, I was older and better able to defend myself against other inmates. The rapes stopped, and a new chapter in my nightmare began.
(To be continued...)
While I was still in the county jail I learned the hard way that I needed to invent a story for why I was sentenced to prison. Rape was not a very popular crime, especially if it involved a child. The weak minded inmates (typical bullies) of course needed to make themselves feel better than someone, and society already made the rapists and child molesters easy scapegoats. So I made up a story about a “burglary that went bad” and became a first degree assault. Because of my age, the length of my sentence (a rapist typically only served 3 to 5 years on a first offense in those days), and the convincing details of my story, no one ever questioned it, or asked to see paperwork.
I was classified for population at the Washington Corrections Center (WCC) in Shelton. When I arrived I still did not know how much time I would be spending in prison. The judge only set the maximum term (20 years). But the parole board set the minimum term, which would determine your length of stay until you were eligible for parole.
Because this was my first offense as an adult, I expected to get 5 years at the most. That would make me eligible for parole after about one year in prison since I would ger credit for time served in jail and at the state hospital. All I had to do was hold my breath; the nightmare would be over quickly.
Or so I thought.
It turned out that the political environment concerning “sex offenders” was heating up. A small boy had been sexually mutilated by an x-mental-patient. The boy's mother was determined to get “justice” by punishing all child molesters severely, especially “homosexual” child molesters. I guess that meant me.
The parole board also had a letter that the therapist from the treatment program had written to the judge. I had no idea at the time that they could do that, so I made no effort to defend myself or contradict the numerous lies that the therapist had written about me. The therapist was one, Gary “Mike” Shepherd, and he had attempted to use his position of control over my treatment to coerce my mother into having sex with him. He was the reason I quit the program and decided to take my chances in prison. The incident with my mother was fully reported to the treatment program officials. Shepherd denied everything, of course, and accused me (in cohorts with my mother) of being manipulative and rebellious against the treatment program.
When the parole board took Shepherd's letter and the political circumstances into consideration, they came up with a minimum term of fifteen and a half years! That was five times over the expected range (of 3 years) and it meant that I would have to serve at least eight more years before even being eligible for parole!
Needless to say, I was shocked, severely! I lost part of my vision (literally tunnelvision) for some time after receiving the news. How could I possibly survive that long in prison? The worst I had expected was one more year! I was barely keeping my head above water as it was! And now...
A man in the cell next to me in the county jail had told me that because of my looks and my “attitude” (naive and immature to say the least) that I would be raped, and probably even killed, in prison. He claimed to speak from experience, and he predicted that I would “not last a year”. After getting 186 months from the parole board his prophecy haunted me.
I did get raped, of course, many times. And once I was attacked by a whole gang of black men (six at one time) who scared me so bad that I screamed with a loud high pitched shrill voice, exactly like the “punk” I was, “No! Please no! Help! No! Please stop!” the entire time. They didn't actually rape me. They just beat me to the floor, and then, of course, one of them “came to my rescue”. All he wanted in exchange was a small favor; a sexual favor. And then another, and another... each time threatening to “unleash” his friends if he didn't get what he wanted.
I went to the guards and told them I wanted to be moved to “protective custody” because I was being “pressured for sex”. The guards told me that unless I gave them a name they would not move me. I was too scared of the men who were raping me to give up their names. They told me if I ever did that they would kill me, even in protective custody. The “prophecy” from jail seemed to be coming true, so I kept my mouth shut.
I started taking classes to get my highschool diploma. I was safe in the school building, where the inmates who were raping me never set foot. I learned to like school, a lot. I became an almost straight - “A” student. Before leaving Shelton I had finished two years of highschool and got my diploma.
(Incidentally: They don't teach highschool in Washington state prisons any more. The best you can get is a G.E.D., so I was lucky.)
I spent my time in the living unit playing “Dungeons and Dragons” with other “kids” who were being “punked out” (pressured for sex) too. There was a little protection by staying in a group, but not much. Once several men came into my cell while “Junior” was visiting with me. I watched helplessly as they wrestled him down, pulled down his pants and put several of my personal art pencils into his rectum. They were laughing and joking the whole time. After they left, Junior curled up in a corner next to the locker in my cell and wouldn't talk to anyone. I wanted to help him so badly, but I didn't know how. (I find myself holding back tears even now as I remember this) I felt so desperately and painfully powerless.
When they put double-bunks in all the cells at Shelton I ended up moving in with Junior. It was convenient for the men who were pressuring us to have us both in one cell.
I tried everything I could think of to get out of being raped. I even asked my “classification counselor” if I could be transferred to the new sex offender treatment program at the Twin Rivers Corrections Center (TRCC) in Monroe. He told me that I had too much time left on my sentence to be eligible for the program. It was only for people who were close to getting out of prison.
I also studied religion, and hung out with the Christian inmates for awhile, until one of them raped me. I took correspondence Bible study courses, and became very familiar with the “religion” bookshelf in the prison library. I was looking for answers, but wasn't finding any. I finally said a prayer to God that went something like this:
“God, I don't know if you are real or not. But I can't find any evidence at all that you exist. I have prayed and prayed for help, but so far the only help I have ever gotten has come from myself. So I'm going to go my own way for now. I pray that if this is a mistake that you will bring me back. Amen.”
That was the last time I prayed or even acknowledged God for many years. “My own way” was to educate myself, and to start sticking up for myself. Which I did. I can still remember the first real sense of power I got from seeing the look of surprize on inmate Guzman's face when I picked up a mop wringer to use as a weapon when he started picking a fight with me on the tier. Guzman had once beat me up just to steal my Timex watch that was a gift from my grandmother she gave one just like it to my brother too, one of the very few sentimental items I owned. I made him beat me up in order to take the watch but I didn't fight back. This time I was clearly going to fight back and Guzman backed down immediately. I learned a new lesson that day about bullies. They really are cowards.
My victory did not last long though, before those six black men put me “back in my place”. But I wasn't ready to give up so easy.
After two years of being beat-up and raped I figured a way out. I gave the guards the name of a black inmate who I knew would not try to kill me. But neither had he ever assaulted me. So after they took him to the “hole” and me to PC (protective custody), I sent a letter to the prison disciplinary officials (who were going to punish the black inmate for pressuring me based on my statement alone) and I told them that I had lied in order to get put in PC.
It worked. The black inmate got released from the “hole”, and after six months in PC (segregation), I got transferred to McNeil Island Corrections Center (MICC). At McNeil nobody knew me. And, I was older and better able to defend myself against other inmates. The rapes stopped, and a new chapter in my nightmare began.
(To be continued...)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Murder Isn't A Solution
While I was still in prison for “raping” a 14 year old boy (when I was 16), two significant events occurred that caused me – or rather, allowed me – to decide that if I was ever to get any “justice” in this world I would have to take it for myself.
Both of these events were directly related to society's attack on sex offenders.
The first significant event, that I later used as a convenient and convincing excuse to dehumanize children so I could use them in my schemes, was the receipt of my minimum sentence (which determines the actual amount of time spent in prison until I was eligible for parole). It was set to five times over the normal range for my crime (I got 186 months, the range was 30 to 40 months, 40 being the theoretical “high end” for a first offense like mine).
My sentence was so exceptional that I nearly went into emotional shock, literally, when I was told. I lost all peripheral vision for about an hour and had memory blackouts while I tried to grasp this inconceivable reality. It took me several days to recover, and even then I thought it must be a terrible mistake. It had to be a mistake, since that was the only way I could survive the emotional impact.
Over time of course I got over the “denial stage” and began the process of developing more long term coping mechanisms. Of course, I got no counseling or professional advice, I was expected to “suck it up”. It was all a part of my “punishment” (oh ya, and “rehabilitation”). So the coping mechanisms I came up with were mostly supplied by the only source I had, other inmates, who had all learned numerous and apparently effective ways of dealing with their own “unfair sentences”.
I began fantasizing a lot about what I would do when I got out. Of course, since I was only 16 when I was arrested, and still living at home and going to highschool, I had no way of imagining how unrealistic and even crazy my fantasies were. But they helped me survive, and that was all that mattered.
There were two main reasons why I got such an exceptional sentence, and I was oblivious at the time to both of them.
One reason was politics. Unbeknownst to me, a small boy was attacked by a mental hospital patient who severed the boy's penis. The mother of the boy became politically active, using her son's tragedy to promote her own agenda of tougher sex crime laws (e.g. longer sententes for sex offenders). Since my victim was also a young boy (never mind that so was I) my case was “politically sensitive”. If I had received anything less than an exceptionally exceptional sentence certain people in the community may have been aroused against the Parole Board which was under a lot of political preasure already from new sentencing guideline laws that were to go into effect soon.
The other reason I received such a long sentence was because of a scathing report from the “Sexual Psychopath” Treatment Program. I did not finish the program after the therapist tried to pressure my mother for sex by threatening my status in the program (this was all documented, but the Parole Board believed the therapist, not me or my mother).
The second event during my incarceration that further supported my decision to “get even” with society, was the public murder, by hanging, of one Westley Alan Dodd. Dodd had also victimized small boys sexually, so that made him akin to me. He murdered three boys and was caught trying to kidnap another boy at a movie theater.
It wasn't as though I sympathized with Dodd so much because of his sexual preferences, as much as it was his repentance after he was caught. Dodd expressed repeatedly that he could not control his fantasies and that he prefered to die rather than grow old in prison. He tried to tell people how things could have been different for him and especially for the boys he killed, “if only people would listen”, instead of being so quick to judge and condemn a man like him; which was a man like me.
I understood Dodd completely. Even while I was still in prison I tried to get help, but no one would listen. It was all about rules and regs. I was not just a number, but a “bad number” that was to be delt with systematically. Of the only two people who ever did listen to me, one was ignored by the Parole Board (Dr. Sally Sloat, a prison psychologist who told the Parole Board, in person, that I needed treatment and was an excellent candidate for treatment outside of prison – all the Board heard was “needs treatment” and they actually added more time to my sentence!).
The other was my “Man” (Lover), another inmate who also happened to have a B.A. Degree in psychology. He wasn't just ignored, he was harassed by the guards and ultimately serving more time in prison because of trying to help me (which he knew would happen when he made the choice to help).
So I understood Dodd perfectly, and when they hung him at the Washington State Penitentuary in Walla Walla, while I was there (1993), to “send a message” to other would-be child killers, like me! But the only message I heard was not the one that the people sending the message intended.
The message I heard was, “Murder is a good solution for a bad person”. Except to me the “bad person” was the society that condemned me, that condemned Dodd, my “brother”, and unwittingly condemned themselves to my wrath and vengence.
I literally swore to myself on the day Dodd was murdered that I would avenge him. Of course by that time I had already decided to avenge myself, so my oath for Dodd was really a commitment to “attack society” more than once, and I am presently sitting here in a California jail cell as a direct result of that commitment.
A prudent reader will note that I am not claiming that these “significant events” that occurred while I was in prison are “reasons” for why I ended up raping and murdering children when I got out. They are not reasons; they are a part of what I did, not excuse or reason for it. The two girls I murdered in Seattle were a part of the exceptionally long sentence I served in prison for “raping” a young man. And the boy that I murdered here in California was (is) a part of Dodd's “execution”.
There are no reasons and excuses for any of it. But there can be understanding, if we stop focussing on cause and effect, which only solicits blame and excuses, and instead embrace our own part in the madness. That's exactly what I did when I picked that little girl up in Montana and carried her home to Idaho. I realized that I was a part of the very insanity that I condemned! I was not the cause, but I was a part. I saw that murder was not a solution after all, it was only another part of the problem.
So I stopped murdering. I also stopped judging, condemning, and blaming (i.e. “reasoning”) and started understanding for the first time in my life.
Both of these events were directly related to society's attack on sex offenders.
The first significant event, that I later used as a convenient and convincing excuse to dehumanize children so I could use them in my schemes, was the receipt of my minimum sentence (which determines the actual amount of time spent in prison until I was eligible for parole). It was set to five times over the normal range for my crime (I got 186 months, the range was 30 to 40 months, 40 being the theoretical “high end” for a first offense like mine).
My sentence was so exceptional that I nearly went into emotional shock, literally, when I was told. I lost all peripheral vision for about an hour and had memory blackouts while I tried to grasp this inconceivable reality. It took me several days to recover, and even then I thought it must be a terrible mistake. It had to be a mistake, since that was the only way I could survive the emotional impact.
Over time of course I got over the “denial stage” and began the process of developing more long term coping mechanisms. Of course, I got no counseling or professional advice, I was expected to “suck it up”. It was all a part of my “punishment” (oh ya, and “rehabilitation”). So the coping mechanisms I came up with were mostly supplied by the only source I had, other inmates, who had all learned numerous and apparently effective ways of dealing with their own “unfair sentences”.
I began fantasizing a lot about what I would do when I got out. Of course, since I was only 16 when I was arrested, and still living at home and going to highschool, I had no way of imagining how unrealistic and even crazy my fantasies were. But they helped me survive, and that was all that mattered.
There were two main reasons why I got such an exceptional sentence, and I was oblivious at the time to both of them.
One reason was politics. Unbeknownst to me, a small boy was attacked by a mental hospital patient who severed the boy's penis. The mother of the boy became politically active, using her son's tragedy to promote her own agenda of tougher sex crime laws (e.g. longer sententes for sex offenders). Since my victim was also a young boy (never mind that so was I) my case was “politically sensitive”. If I had received anything less than an exceptionally exceptional sentence certain people in the community may have been aroused against the Parole Board which was under a lot of political preasure already from new sentencing guideline laws that were to go into effect soon.
The other reason I received such a long sentence was because of a scathing report from the “Sexual Psychopath” Treatment Program. I did not finish the program after the therapist tried to pressure my mother for sex by threatening my status in the program (this was all documented, but the Parole Board believed the therapist, not me or my mother).
The second event during my incarceration that further supported my decision to “get even” with society, was the public murder, by hanging, of one Westley Alan Dodd. Dodd had also victimized small boys sexually, so that made him akin to me. He murdered three boys and was caught trying to kidnap another boy at a movie theater.
It wasn't as though I sympathized with Dodd so much because of his sexual preferences, as much as it was his repentance after he was caught. Dodd expressed repeatedly that he could not control his fantasies and that he prefered to die rather than grow old in prison. He tried to tell people how things could have been different for him and especially for the boys he killed, “if only people would listen”, instead of being so quick to judge and condemn a man like him; which was a man like me.
I understood Dodd completely. Even while I was still in prison I tried to get help, but no one would listen. It was all about rules and regs. I was not just a number, but a “bad number” that was to be delt with systematically. Of the only two people who ever did listen to me, one was ignored by the Parole Board (Dr. Sally Sloat, a prison psychologist who told the Parole Board, in person, that I needed treatment and was an excellent candidate for treatment outside of prison – all the Board heard was “needs treatment” and they actually added more time to my sentence!).
The other was my “Man” (Lover), another inmate who also happened to have a B.A. Degree in psychology. He wasn't just ignored, he was harassed by the guards and ultimately serving more time in prison because of trying to help me (which he knew would happen when he made the choice to help).
So I understood Dodd perfectly, and when they hung him at the Washington State Penitentuary in Walla Walla, while I was there (1993), to “send a message” to other would-be child killers, like me! But the only message I heard was not the one that the people sending the message intended.
The message I heard was, “Murder is a good solution for a bad person”. Except to me the “bad person” was the society that condemned me, that condemned Dodd, my “brother”, and unwittingly condemned themselves to my wrath and vengence.
I literally swore to myself on the day Dodd was murdered that I would avenge him. Of course by that time I had already decided to avenge myself, so my oath for Dodd was really a commitment to “attack society” more than once, and I am presently sitting here in a California jail cell as a direct result of that commitment.
A prudent reader will note that I am not claiming that these “significant events” that occurred while I was in prison are “reasons” for why I ended up raping and murdering children when I got out. They are not reasons; they are a part of what I did, not excuse or reason for it. The two girls I murdered in Seattle were a part of the exceptionally long sentence I served in prison for “raping” a young man. And the boy that I murdered here in California was (is) a part of Dodd's “execution”.
There are no reasons and excuses for any of it. But there can be understanding, if we stop focussing on cause and effect, which only solicits blame and excuses, and instead embrace our own part in the madness. That's exactly what I did when I picked that little girl up in Montana and carried her home to Idaho. I realized that I was a part of the very insanity that I condemned! I was not the cause, but I was a part. I saw that murder was not a solution after all, it was only another part of the problem.
So I stopped murdering. I also stopped judging, condemning, and blaming (i.e. “reasoning”) and started understanding for the first time in my life.
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