Texas Or Bust

After my ill-fated attempt to flee the country into Mexico to evade police I ended up in Tucson, Arizona. After spending the night in a flea-bag motel I decided to continue East on the Interstate. As I entered the freeway I saw a lone hitchhiker with a green army duffel bag with his thumb out on ramp. Thinking I'd be less conspicuous with a passenger in the car I decided to pick him up.

I don't remember his name, so I'll just call him Doug for convenience. I do remember him showing me his driver's license though. He said he had just been released from jail on some misdemeanor charge in Tucson and was now trying to get back home to Houston, Texas. Since I had nowhere else to go I told him that I'd drive him there. That was the reason he ended up showing me his license, so he could take a turn at the wheel while I rested on the long drive, which we made non-stop (except for gas and snack food).

Along the way I started experiencing pain while urinating when we stopped for gas. By the time we reached Houston my urine was dark red. In a panic I asked Doug for directions to the nearest hospital which he provided with no problem. At the hospital I let Doug watch the car, even leaving the keys with him, while I went into the emergency room and registered under a false name.

I remember that the waiting time was not very long, maybe twenty minutes, and then I was escorted to my examination room and interviewed by a male nurse, or physician's assistant. After explaining the problem and even confessing to having had unprotected anal sex a few days earlier (I did not mention that it was with a ten-year-old boy, of course) the young man asked for a urine example, which I provided, then left me in the room for about another twenty minutes or so.

When he returned he explained I had a common urinary-tract infection. He gave me some pills and a milky fluid in a medicine cup to drink (penicillin, I'm sure), then he told me I had to wait at least an hour to make sure the medicine worked. Then he left the room.

After a few moments the pain subsided dramatically, and I started getting paranoid about the fact that I had provided a false name when I checked in with no identification. So I snuck out a side door and returned to the car where I found Doug still dutifully resting in the driver's seat.

We left the hospital and drove to his mother's house where he dropped off his duffel bag and retrieved some buckets, detergent, and squeegees which he said he could use to earn some quick cash washing windows. I doubted his claim but went along with it. I drove him to a small restaurant in an urban area where I watched as he went in, spoke to the owner, then came out and proceeded to wash the large windows fronting the restaurant. It only took him about a half hour to wash the windows, then he went back inside and collected about $40 cash from the owner.

We needed the money because I was nearly out of cash myself. So we gassed the car, then I drove Doug to a metal fabricating shop where he introduced me to some "buddies" of his, and he used some of the money to buy some weed from one of them, which we smoked right there in the shop's break-room.

Then Doug asked me to drive him to a neighborhood South of Houston where his "best friend" lived. When we got there - a low income "black" neighborhood where children played unattended (I noted) in the fields near the rundown houses - he asked me to wait in the car while he went inside the plain house we parked in front of to go get his friend.

He was inside for what seemed like way too long (over thirty minutes, methinks). When he finally came out he brought with him a young black man, who I'll just call Ron here (I don't remember his name either). Ron was obviously a hustler, and it seemed just as obvious to me that he and Doug had worked out some sort of plan while inside the house to hustle me out of the car I was driving, since it was the only thing of any value I had left to my name. Doug knew I was on the lamb by this time so I couldn't go to the police. By himself Doug was harmless, not nearly intelligent enough to be considered a threat. That's what made the conspiracy between him and Ron to jack my car so obvious. Suddenly Doug started acting like he had some objective that required nearly all of his focus and mental capacity. Ron had to actually keep Doug on point with "subtle" hints, that I could see easily. It was like two blind men trying to rob a man who could see them clearly signal intentions to each other by touch or something. Ron was clearly the "intelligent" one, but he wasn't very smart either. He didn't seem to realize that I could figure out what he meant when he told Doug to "chill" for example (i.e. "not yet").

So, I played along by pretending to be dumber than the dumb. There were two of them and only one of me, and Doug was right about one thing, I couldn't expect help from the police. I would just have to outwit them, which turned out to be not very hard.

One thing I learned about surviving in prison is that you never show your cards. On the long drive to Houston at one point Doug asked me as nonchalantly as he could about how I protect myself. He was trying to "peek" at my hand. So I just pointed at my head and said, "with this", to which he replied, "You mean you talk your way out of trouble?" And I said, "Something like that."

What I didn't tell him of course was that he was an idiot and I could see his "hand" (intentions) as easily as you can see a child's cards in a poker game. The two of them (Doug and Ron) thought they could beat me with a pair of jacks. But, they didn't see my small straight until it was too late and I laid it on the table and walked away with the "pot" (which turned out to be worthless, as you'll see).

So we drove to a secluded tavern, which was just a one room shack on a dirt lot with a small bar and one pool table inside. It was early, so the tavern was empty. We turned out to be the only customers as I recall. It seemed clear to me that the woman tending the bar would not raise an eyebrow if anything happened in the tavern. It seemed safe to assume that as long as she herself wasn't in danger then the concealed shotgun (her "trump card") would never come out.

Of course I'm just supposing all this about the bartender and such, but the point is that I knew I couldn't expect any help from her, so I understood the danger I was in even though we were in a "public place".

I pretended I felt safe though, and acted like I was with my "buddies" as we ordered drinks and paid for a game of pool. Ron kept Doug on a tight leash with little high-signs and signals that I pretended not to notice. We played a game of pool for three players, where each of us took turns trying to sink five balls. At one point, and on a cue from Ron, Doug said he needed to use the bathroom after I had just taken a turn. So it was Ron's turn next, then Doug's turn again. Ron shot and scratched. Then he suggested that I go ahead and take my turn since Doug was still in the bathroom. But instead I just started bouncing the cue ball off the rail while we waited for Doug.

After a few months Doug came back and as soon as he saw me shooting the cue ball he became irate and accused me of going out of turn very aggressively. It was obvious that he was trying to pick a fight, and didn't even listen to anything I said when I tried to explain that it was still his turn and I was just playing around with the scratched cue ball. Fortunately Ron backed me up, and calmed Doug down with more "not yet" high-signs.

So, now the "play" was clear to me. They would start a bar fight, beat me silly, then take my car and leave me to lick my wounds thinking I "deserved" to get jacked or something. Actually, I wasn't 100% clear on the play, but I knew my hand was being called and it was time for me to make my move.

I was still pretending to be "buddies", and so were they, thinly. So I used that as my draw card and got lucky. I pretended to suddenly remember that I had told my girlfriend I would call and needed to use a phone. There was no payphone in the bar, so I needed to make a quick trip to a nearby gas station to call her, and I'd be right back. I made my play fast, so by the time they realized I had just beat them with a small straight I was already out the door and gone. I still remember the look on Doug's face when he realized what was happening too late to do anything about it. I think Ron must have said something to him after I grabbed my car keys (which he had been holding at the time) and walked out the door, because after I got in the car I saw him suddenly come running out of the tavern and in my direction. But I'd already started the car, dropped it into gear and literally pealed out of the parking lot throwing dust and gravel back at the would-be carjacker. I remember wondering if he would realize after that exactly what I meant when I had pointed at my head and said, "with this". Probably not, but it was a nice thought.

I drove a few miles away from the tavern, really not having any idea about where I was, then pulled off the road to take inventory of my situation. I had very little money - less than $50 - but a full tank of gas. I checked a paper map and figured out a route that would get me North and away from the city. I remember a strong sense of just wanting to get far away from Houston as quickly as I could.

But first I got out and checked the trunk where Doug's window washing tools still were. I considered keeping it for a moment, maybe I could use it to earn some quick cash the same way he did. But in the end I decided it would be too risky to expose myself to scrutiny like that, so I just removed all of it and left it there by the side of the road. So much for my "pot" of winnings, and good riddance to Doug and all that was his.

I then drove north on some state highway, but did not get far before I started to fall asleep at the wheel. I actually must have fallen asleep at one point because I saw a large road sign that simply disappeared when I tried to read what it said. The only sleep I had had for the last two days or so was the little I got on the way to Houston while I let Doug drive. So I decided it was too dangerous to drive any further and pulled off behind a gas station and then fell asleep right there behind the wheel of the car. Luckily no one disturbed me or called the police.

After I woke I gassed the car and bought some snack food then continued North. I drove around Dallas on the freeway that circles that city and had to back track when I realized I was going South again. North of Dallas I ran out of gas and money. So I pulled off in some small town and found a Western Union office. Then  I called my dad in Nevada and asked him to wire me enough money for me to drive to my step-sister's house in Warsaw, Missouri, which by now was only six or seven hundred miles away. The money arrived with no problem, then I drive the rest of the day and at my father's urging spent the night at a decent travelers hotel with an indoor pool, which I used gladly. Swimming makes me feel safe and reinvigorated. The next day I drove into Southern Missouri and met my step-sister, Jenny, in town so she could escort me to her house several miles down a long winding access road (maps were no help). I ended up staying with Jenny and her three teen boys for several weeks until my father and step-mother arrived to visit having driven from Nevada. But that's another part of the story, which I will continue soon in the next part of this bizarre saga called, "Sister Sister".

[J.D. June 26, 2019] 

Run For The Border

After kidnapping, raping, and murdering ten-year-old Anthony Martinez in Riverside county, California, I drove South then East into Arizona. I decided to drive into Mexico and take my chances on the streets on some big city down there rather than in the U.S. where I had warrants and a criminal record. I assumed the record and warrants wouldn't follow me or hound me down there, and maybe I could get a job, learn the language, and live my life unmolested and free. But I never got to find out. In fact, I never even got into Mexico, at least not all the way in.

I chose a border crossing that looked inconspicuous on the folding paper map I had. It was at the end of a long straight single-lane highway that ran for several miles (ten at least, as I recall from memory) from the nearest small town on the American side. At the crossing itself, there was a small town, more like a village really, on the Mexican side, and just the border crossing facilities (no town) on the U.S. side. I crossed with no problem and drove to a small convenience store/gas station in the Mexican town. I figured I'd need some Mexican currency and it'd be easiest to exchange the cash I had near the boarder where they'd hopefully be used to exchanging pesos for dollars.

The store was sparsely stocked, and most of the items it sold seemed to be locally produced, things like pork rinds in unlabeled clear plastic bags, sealed with staples. I selected a commercially labeled bag of chips and soda in a bottle, then got in line to check out.

There were several others, all Mexicans, in the store and in line (as I recall it was essentially the only store in town). After waiting my turn I placed the items I had selected on the register counter and handed the cashier a twenty-dollar bill. But he waived it off, saying something in Spanish that I did not understand. A man behind me in line who spoke English told me that the cashier could not make change for the twenty. I told him it was all I had. Then the man behind me said something to the cashier in Spanish that prompted the cashier to quickly accept the bill, and then literally empty all of the Mexican cash (bill only) from the register and give it to me. It seemed everyone was satisfied, though I realized I was probably getting short changed (I only got about eight U.S. dollars worth of pesos back), but I didn't mind.

I then got back in my car (actually, it was the Chrysler New Yorker I had swapped my Buick Skylark for in Seattle with a lady-friend before I absconded from parole) and headed South into the desert on the only road out of town (not going back to the U.S.). I did not get very far before I came across a police checkpoint, or inspection station of some sort, with signs both in English and Spanish that indicated I was required to pull over. So I did.

The uninformed police inside a small building at the station informed me that before I could continue past the "ten-mile border zone", I was required to have my car bonded. They explained that this was necessary in order to prevent car thieves from taking cars stolen from the States into Mexico to be sold. Then they directed me back to the border town where I had come from where I could get my car bonded (they could not do so themselves, their job was only to make sure cars entering Mexico were properly bonded and/or registered).

So I drove back to the border town and quickly found the bonding office, which was one of only a few business buildings there. They looked up the year, make, and model of the car I was driving in a book and told me the bond would be about $1000, as I recall (or some similar amount that I could not afford).

I was thus forced to either abandon the car at the border and take a bus into Mexico, or return to the U.S. I chose the latter, even though I knew it would be more risky trying to re-enter the U.S. than it was leaving.

I had no problem getting back into the States though. The border officer at the crossing just asked what my business was in Mexico, and then waved me through after I told him I was turned around for failing to bond my car at the border zone (which probably happens a lot).

I then drove North on the single-lane highway that headed back toward the interstate, but decided to stop for the night at a state park campground along the highway in the middle of the desert. There were surprisingly (to me) several other campers already there, some families, and all in tents (as I recall it was a tent only campground, no campers). Because it was in the middle of a flat desert area, all the campsites were in plain view of each other. I drove around and picked out a site some distance away from the other campers and pitched my tent, then ate and relaxed until night came.

After dark I tried to sleep inside the tent, but was disturbed by howling coyotes much too close for comfort. So I broke camp in the dark, threw everything back in the trunk of the car, and drove back out to the highway and headed North again planning on finding a cheap motel in the first town I came to.

But, as soon as I got back on the deserted highway, I got pulled over by a border patrol. They asked what I was doing in the area (near the border) after dark, and I explained about the howling coyotes and deciding to look for a motel. After checking my license and registration (it had only been about a week at this point since I absconded, so there was still no warrant for me yet for the parole violation) and the contents of the trunk (looking quickly, I supposed for drugs and/or illegals) they sent me on my way.

I found a run down motel and spent the rest of the night there under my own name. Then the next day I found my way back to the interstate (I-10? I don't recall exactly) and then headed East. I stopped in Tucson and parked the car in a crowded bus station parking lot, packed some suitcases and bags with everything I though I'd need to survive on the streets for a while, and then called a taxi to pick me up in front of the station and asked the driver to take me to an inexpensive hotel or motel. My plan was to abandon the car at this point, making it look like I had perhaps caught a bus to somewhere else. I feared that someone might have already connected me to the Martinez murder, so ditching the car seemed wise.

But, the next day I was able to walk downtown and found the Tucson Public Library, where I checked the Internet (yes, they had the Internet in those days available at most large public libraries) for news about the murder and me. I found no news about me, and all the news about the murder indicated that they were looking for a local suspect. So it felt safe for me to retrieve the car and continue East, which I did.

On my way leaving Tucson, I picked up a hitchhiker who was lugging a green (army type) duffel bag with his thumb out on the Freeway entrance going East. I figured having someone else in the car with me would be less suspicious than driving alone, especially in a white sedan matching the description of the one used to kidnap that boy in Southern California. I was just trying to play it safe.

The hitchhiker turned out to be a moderately dimwitted man who had just been released that day from the jail in Tucson, and he was trying to get home, to Houston, Texas. So I told him I'd drive him all the way, and did so. Then he and a buddy of his tried to rob me in Houston, but that's another story.

[J.D. February 20, 2019]

(Next post in this series: "Texas Or Bust")

April Fools, California

When I lived in Seattle, in 1996 and 97, I was on parole from prison after serving over 14 years inside for putting my dick in a 14-year-old boy's mouth after making him take off all his clothes at the point of an empty gun which I had just stolen from a neighbor's house. In July of 1996, while on parole, I lashed back out at society for depriving me of my youthful prime years (call it naive, but it was what it was) by kidnapping, raping, and murdering two very young (9 and 11) homeless Native American girls. I didn't get caught, but the pressure of not knowing if I'd be caught caused me to start subconsciously undermining my parole status by smoking a lot of marijuana and moving in with a couple of meth-heads (though I never actually used meth myself). And when I pissed dirty on a routine parole office urine test I decided to abscond. That was early 1997 on April 1st, or “April Fools' Day” to be exact. I knew the “dirty U.A.” would get me violated and sent back to prison where I'd have to finish the last three years of my 20-year-sentence. So it appeared to make no sense for me not to abscond, since no matter what I did I'd have to go back inside for three more years. I had “nothing to lose” as they say.

I traded cars with an older woman (“Dee”) who had befriended me for sex (in the hopes of getting pregnant, I later realized, because her husband preferred sex with his own prepubescent daughters instead of her). Then I took the money I had been saving to move (about a thousand dollars) and headed south on interstate five.

I spent that first night on the lam in the first travel hotel I saw as soon as I crossed the state border into Oregon. Crossing the border made me officially a fugitive. I had a full beard at the time (my first, and only recently grown). So, I used my beard trimmers to give myself a buzz-cut haircut, and Van Dyke'd my beard --- which was completely out of character for me (I really didn't like Van Dykes or buzz-cuts). I figured appearing out of character would help as a disguise. The next morning I donned a cotton Nike baseball cap (also out of character) and continued South on I-5. (I'm noting this uncharacteristic change of appearance because it describes how I looked days later when I kidnapped 10-year-old Anthony in front of several other children. Even though I was later incorrectly described in the news as having only a mustache, I actually still had the partial beard at that time. This mistake may have helped me get away, and nevertheless told me that no one had gotten a good look at me, which obviously is what I wanted.)

My intent was to drive into California and then start looking for another child to kidnap, rape, and murder. Even though rape and murder are clearly very emotionally motivated crimes, and NOT “cold-blooded” the way they are so commonly portrayed and promoted, the rationale I invented at the time to justify my intent (everything had to be “rational” and “make sense” to me, just like most people) was that if I was going to have to go back to prison, possibly for the rest of my life (if I ever got found out for killing those two girls in Seattle), then I wanted it to be for something “worth” going to prison for.

On the deeper emotional level I just wanted revenge. I needed to take power back from those who had taken power (over my own life) away from me. When we take power back from someone who took power away from us in a socially acceptable way, we call it “justice”. But because what I was doing was against society, even though it's the same thing, we call it “vengence”, and “criminal”.

The next couple of nights I slept in the car in order to be as incognito as possible as I hunted for a child to kidnap. The sex and age of the child was not nearly as important as the mere vulnerability of the victim. I wanted the crime to be shocking and bold in order to show the desperation I felt. So I targeted almost every child I spotted out in the open, and passed over many after stalking them briefly when I determined they were not quite vulnerable enough, because there were too many people around, too many threats, or just too difficult for me to get control over them.

I spotted the group of boys that Anthony was with in an alley that ran behind several lower-middle class houses on a residential block in Beaumont, California. I circled the block then drove into the alley from the other side. I saw four or five boys, aged maybe seven to ten, talking to two girls over a low chain link fence. The girls were “safe” in their own backyard, but the boys were exposed and very vulnerable.

I stopped near them and asked from the car if any of them had seen my cat, proffering a photo of one of my pet cats that I had left behind in Seattle to lure the boys closer. I suppose they may have wanted to appear brave in front of the girls, but for whatever reason, at least two of the boys approached in order to look at the picture, while both girls quickly vanished into the house.

The boys seemed wary and cautious, and I sensed that if I so much as tried to get out of the car, much less get them in, they'd run away. So I thanked them cordially and asked them to keep an eye out for my lost cat. Then I drove out of the alley.

I drove around the immediate neighborhood to get a better “feel” for the area and to devise a strategy to get the boys --- or at least one of them --- in my car and under my control (“control” was very important). I decided to drive back into the alley, this time from the direction I had left the first time. The boys were still there, but no longer were the girls. I stopped a “safe” (non-threatening) distance away from them then got out of the car and began pretending to look around for my cat in the bushes and such. I used this ruse to move a little toward the boys, but they kept their distance. So I hollered over to them and pleaded that if they just helped me look I'd pay them each a dollar, and I pulled out my wallet to produce the cash to show them. They agreed to look, but still kept their distance. Then after they looked around a bit (less than a minute later) I thanked them and held out the cash for them to come collect. This was my move. I gave two of the boys a dollar to get the rest as close and together as possible, and then I pulled a folding knife from my shirt pocket, opened it, and told them to do what I said or I'd stab them!

I expected them to freeze with fright, but instead they scattered. I made a grab for the youngest and most vulnerable one, but Anthony stepped in between us and pushed the younger boy away. I did not realize it at the time, but he was protecting the smaller boy, who happened to be his brother. So, I grabbed Anthony instead, and quickly pushed him into the backseat of the car, hitting him once on the back of the head and telling him to stay down on the floor or I'd kill him. Then I looked around hoping to maybe chase down and grab another boy, but they were gone. So I got in the car, backed quickly out of the alley, spraying gravel, and sped off with my prize.

I drove straight to the interstate and headed South again, speeding at close to a hundred as I went. I figured, correctly as it turned out, that I'd be pulled over if I was spotted whether I was speeding or not. So the best strategy was to get as far away, and out of sight completely, as quickly as possible.

I estimated I had less than an hour before the police would have enough information to begin any kind of organized search. So after about 40 minutes or so of flying down the interstate I decided to pull off and get out of sight.

My first stop was a shopping center parking lot, where I could blend in with all the other parked cars while I took inventory of the situation. I spoke to Anthony only periodically, to threaten him and keep him scared and under control. In the parking lot I pulled out my beard trimmers and shaved off the rest of my beard and mustache, and doffed the hat. Then I drove off, away from the freeway and other traffic to look for a secluded spot. Instinct led me out to a desert ravine road that used to be an access road to a national park, but was now out of service and washed out in spots. I got around the washed out areas with some difficulty, and drove until the road itself could no longer be traveled at all. Then I puled off and slightly up into a side gully where I could park and be out of sight.

It turned out to be the perfect place to hide out for the night and take my vengeance upon the boy. The police, I learned much later, convinced themselves that the man who kidnapped Anthony had to be from the local area because only a local could have known about that ravine. We were hidden not only from sight, but also sound. If the boy screamed, and he did, no one would hear.

I made the boy undress in the front seat and fondled him while I waited for night to come, which it did shortly. I spent the night in the ravine having my way with Anthony, orally, anally, and otherwise. I did things to deliberately humiliate him, like telling him to stand in front of the car in the cold desert night, naked in the beams of the headlights, while I sat in the warm car and masturbated. I also took some pictures of him in various states of undress with the Polaroid camera I had bought just for that purpose. Between episodes I talked with him. I told him that I had to kill him because if I didn't then I'd go to prison for the rest of my life, or worse. He told me he loved Jesus, so he'd go to heaven. He also told me that his only regret would be not being able to say goodbye to his mother. He seemed more worried for her than he was for himself.

At one point lights from another vehicle flashed over us as we sat in the car. I panicked thinking it was police spotlight. But it turned out to be just some men in an off-road pick up equip with lots of bright lights. I didn't know if they'd spotted my car or not, but they drove a little ways off and began firing guns at targets they set up in their lights. After a short time they left the way they came.

At sunrise I drove back down the ravine a ways looking for a place to kill the boy and then hide his body. I settled on a location near the ravine wall, where there was a rock slide that I could use to help cover his body. I told Anthony to take all his clothes off again, and used duct tape to bind his hands and feet, with a piece of tape over his mouth as well. Then I made him kneel, and began throwing large rocks aimed at the back of the head (I threw rocks in order to avoid getting blood splashed back on myself). He fell over as I continued throwing rocks until I thought he was dead, all of them aimed at his head. Then I positioned his body at the base of the ravine wall under the rock slide, and began pushing rocks from the slide down on top of him. As I did so I noticed his eyes were open and tracking me, watching me. I was being methodical and not enjoying the chore. I said, sardonically, “Aren't you dead yet?” Then I picked up in even larger rock and threw it down on his head, and finished burying him convinced he was dead at least, so could no longer feel any pain.

But he still wasn't dead. After I left he managed to unbury himself and somehow pull the tape down off his mouth, but that was all. He died some time later. At least that's how it appeared in the “crime scene” photos I was shown years later after I had confessed.

Before leaving the ravine after I tried to hide Anthony's body I had also hidden a small “souvenir” package that contained the Polaroid pictures I took of Anthony, his jockey underpants, and the folding knife I used to threaten the boys with in Beaumont, all wrapped in a plastic bag and then with duct tape. I placed it under some rocks away from the washed out road near the entrance to the ravine. The police never found it, not even after they discovered Anthony's body a couple of weeks later. So I went back and retrieved it a couple of months later after I had switched cars again with Dee in Spokane.

I then drove back toward the freeway and the small city (Indio, it would seem) where I had pulled off the night before to get out of sight. I knew I was still well within the police “search” area, so I needed to find some place to hole up during the day (I reasoned I could be too easily spotted from the air during the day if I stayed in the ravine, not to mention by more off-road traffic). I stopped at the first cheap motel I came to, and after parking the car out of sight, I registered under a made up name for a room, telling the clerk that my I.D. was in my luggage and I'd bring it by the office after I got settled; which, of course, I never did.

When I got to my room I turned on the T.V. and saw reports on several channels about the kidnapping, complete with a preliminary sketch of the suspect, which fortunately did not look anything like me. They described the car as a white sedan with California plates. Again a stroke of luck; I had Washington plates. Anthony himself told me he had noticed my plates were from Washington, which worried me. But now it seemed he was the only one that noticed the out of state plates.

I slept the day away at the motel. I hung a suit jacket and shirt on the clothes hanger hook in the car in plain sight so it'd look like I was travelling on business. I don't know if any of my many little ruses like that worked or not, but I did see a very suspicious car behind the motel with two white men in it... extremely unusual. Might they have been plain clothed cops checking out a “supicious person” call from the motel clerk? Perhaps, but I'll never know.

At dusk I left the motel without checking out and drove further South on local roads in order to avoid the interstate around a heavily populated area, which I knew would be under the watch and eye of local police. Along the way I discarded the rest of Anthony's clothes and other potential evidence in a dumpster behind a fast food restaurant. I eventually re-entered the interstate and continued South, this time obeying the speed limit. At one point I spotted a state trooper who appeared to be watching the South bound lanes from a “trap” position in an old abandoned gas station. It was night now, and this stretch of the freeway was lit up by the lights from the station so he could see the cars passing more clearly. It was a good “choke point” for traffic leaving the Riverside valley where the kidnapping took place. After I passed I saw the cruiser pull out toward the freeway entrance where he could enter the freeway and get behind me easily. So I pulled off the freeway directly in front of him; another ruse. I was hoping to appear like “local traffic” to the cop. I then turned North and followed a frontage road back in the opposite direction, which I knew the cop could also see and perhaps not bother pursuing me since it would no longer appear as though I was trying to “leave the area” like a “fleeing suspect”. It must have worked because I saw the cop turn around and (presumably) return to his “trap” position.

After consulting my map, which wasn't detailed enough to show local roads, I realized that I couldn't get past the cop without risking getting lost and possibly potted on the local roads. So I waited for a truck going South (of which there are many at night) then drove next to it in the passing lane past the “check point” so the cop couldn't see me. It worked like a charm, I got past the cop and continued on out of the state and into Arizona.

During this drive, on my way out of California and to “freedom” beyond, I remember a poem coming to me almost entirely in one piece. I called it “An Ode To The Killer”. I had little trouble remembering it, and even wrote it down in a little black book I had with me. I did not realize until after my arrest many years later, in 2005, how deep and prophetic it was.

“An Ode To The Killer”

I know the reason why.

I know the reason for your hate.

And, I know the reason for your pain.

I know the reason for my love.

And, I know the reason we're not the same.

God's Love.

God's Love is the reason.

And, God's Love will bring you down.

Note: Even back then I understood “God's Love” as a reference to the Universal Will and Intelligence behind everything we experience. Since then I have further realized that the word “God” is nothing more than a metaphor for something far greater, and loving, than any “God” of religious imagination ever was or will ever be.