tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33224538525244150462024-02-07T04:37:29.841-08:00The Fifth Nail Exposed: ConfessionsThe history of our world is infinitely more important to the understanding of why I did what I did than my personal history will ever be. That being said, I present here as much of my past as I honestly can, to be taken in proper context, so that perhaps we might someday be able to stop repeating our histories, together.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-35686727331385323392020-08-17T13:14:00.000-07:002020-08-17T13:14:25.753-07:00Run For The Border II: Canada<p>After parting ways with my father on our two car road trip in Colorado, I headed North, driving non-stop through Denver then into Wyoming. I didn't stop until I had reached Casper, where I found a public library so I could check the Web for news about the boy (Anthony) I had kidnapped, raped, and murdered in Southern California in early April, several weeks before. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't a named suspect. I wasn't. Then I gassed up --- I spent the night in a mostly empty park near Casper, sleeping in the car, the same car I had used to kidnap Anthony in plain sight of numerous witnesses, mostly children though --- and continued on my trek North for the border. I had told my father I planned to get a new identity in Canada, then find a job and live my life in peace there.</p><p>I left the freeway after Missoula and continued North on a State highway that connected several small towns like pearls on a string all the way to a remote border station Northwestern Montana. A state trooper flashed its light and siren behind me at one point, which made me think I was busted. But, when I obediently slowed and pulled to the side of the road he just sped past me, apparently on his way to some other emergency.</p><p>At the border I told the Canadian border guard that I was sight-seeing on my way to Seattle. I did not expect any more problem getting into Canada than I had driving into Mexico several months before. But the border guard got suspicious and told me to pull into the inspection station.</p><p>For the second time that day I though I was busted. When they searched the car they found several IDs that belonged to other people, camping gear, extra food and clothes that made it obvious I was living in the car, and a book on how to create a false identity in Canada. On top of all that I had given them my real name and driver's license, and the car wasn't registered in my name. (It belonged to a friend of mine who lived in Seattle.)</p><p>Obviously they weren't going to let me enter Canada. So after enough time waiting for them to contact the U.S. authorities, on the other side of this border crossing, they showed me what they found in my car, returned it to me (technically, nothing was illegal), then told me I was denied entry an let me return to the U.S..</p><p>Of course, the U.S. border guard was waiting for me. He came out of his booth, and seemed about to tell me something, but then the phone rang in his booth and he returned there to answer. After a brief conversation he steppe back out of the booth only to wave me on my way. No questions, no inspection, just, "go!"</p><p>So, I went. Fast! As soon as I was out of sight of the border station I floored it. I figured that the border station ha called the police in the nearest town, which was about nine or ten miles from the border crossing, with no turn offs. So the town had to be a trap. Maybe if I got there fast enough, I could take them by surprise, instead of the other way around. So, I drove at over a hundred (MPH) until I reached the first turn off the outskirts of town. The turn off was just one block before the only signal light, which I could see was red, and waiting for me. There was no other road through town, but the turn off gave me access to an alley that ran behind the houses on the main street.</p><p>I followed the alley at a crawl until I reached the cross street for the traffic signal. There was no traffic, but I reasoned that if there were a trap, it would be at either the entrance, the light, or the exit to the town. I already skirted the entrance, so now I drove across the road and into another alley, this time running behind a handful of stores that lined main-street. And sure enough, as I drove through the alley I spotted a solitary police cruiser parked between two of the buildings, facing the main intersection, no doubt waiting for me. </p><p>I just kept driving slowly right behind the cruiser, literally less than 50 feet away. He didn't see me. Then I came out at the end of the alley into the town's one and only gas station, which sat right at the edge of town. Because a curve in the road at this juncture, I was able to continue out of town without being seen, by simply driving through the gas station, past the pumps, and then out onto the highway headed South again into the forests.</p><p>But now it would be another 20 miles or so until the next town, again with no turn offs, and this time the town was much larger with presumable many more police waiting for me. There seemed no escape. Then worse, I spotted an official Forest Service vehicle apparently coming from the Forest Service Station a few miles South of town on the same road. I watched the driver as she passed, and noticed it was indeed a Forest Service Ranger, mot likely on her way to provide backup for the sole police officer in town, still waiting to make a felony fugitive arrest at the red light.</p><p>The Ranger seemed preoccupied with her thoughts as we drove past each other on the highway. But then, at the last moment as our vehicles passed, I saw her do a double take and look right at me, and her jaw dropped. I guessed that she had already been informed of the "suspect and vehicle description", so when she saw me she realized I must have slipped past the trap.</p><p>That meant I had only seconds to make my escape good. So, I sped up again, then pulled off the road into the first clearing I came to, and headed for the trees, which happened to line the ridge o a small hill that the car ('87 Cadillac New Yorker) could climb easily enough, even off road through wild grass. I almost didn't slow down when I reached the ridge, but at the last moment I decided it probably wasn't a good idea to go flying over a ridge not knowing what lay on the other side. And that caution saved my life, because there was nothing on the other side but air!</p><p>It was a sheer cliff carved out of the hill for a railroad pass. it was a good thing I slowed to look first. I had to back the car back down the hill, and with nowhere else to hide, I got back on the road and sped South again.</p><p>Luckily I came to a dirt road turn off with a sign that read, "Public Picnic Area". I slowed and took the turn being careful not to stir up too much dust or leave any skid marks at the entrance. I hoped that with only one car in pursuit I'd have a little time to find some concealment before they could check the side roads like this one.</p><p>The dirt road continued for about a half mile until it came to a clearing in the trees by a lake, but I pulled off the dirt road and behind some trees before that. I had only managed to drive the car off road and about 60 feet into the forest. But, the cover was good, and after using a hatchet to make even more cover, and then using dark colored clothes, a sleeping bag, and anything else I could find to cover the white paint on the car, I was sure I was "invisible". So I waited.</p><p>After about an hour I heard a small helicopter in the distance, but I ha anticipate that also (I could not be seen from the road or the sky). I heard the chopper pass nearby. It sounded like it was following the highway, once in each direction. Then that was all.</p><p>No cars at all came down the dirt road, so after it started getting dark I walked out to the highway and deliberately let myself be seen by a few passing cars. I reasoned that if there was a roadblock then the drivers would probably report seeing me on foot and they'd send a car to look for me. So I scurried up a forested hill on the other side of the highway, and watched the traffic from a safe position. I saw no police or forest service vehicles go by. I reasoned that they must not be looking for me very hard. That didn't mean they wouldn't have another trap waiting at the next town. So I needed to find some other way out of the area, and out of Montana altogether if possible.</p><p>I returned to the car and pulled out my maps. One of the maps showed a single line (undeveloped road) that left the small one cap town North of me (where I had eluded the trap before). The line on the map meandered through nothingness (forest) for about 40 miles until it joined up with another highway heading West from the larger town down South where I was sure they'd be waiting for me. I decided the obscure line was my best, if not only, option.</p><p>I waited until near midnight before I uncovered the car and returned to the road. I drove cautiously with lights off back North, and found the turn off across from the gas station at the edge of town. I was never certain if I was on the right road or not. It ended up being a graveled road at least. But there were several turn off and intersections that my map didn't show. So I took a compass bearing and used the moon to help decide my way (keeping it in sight and to my right as much as I could).</p><p>After what seemed like several hours I came out onto a paved highway running East and West, perfect! I headed West, and came to an all-night gas station at the edge of a mid-sized town. There was a cop car parked near the gas station and facing the road I had just drove in on. But I didn't see the cop car until after I had already pulled into the station for much needed gas. I controlled the impulse to continue driving, and hope I'd be less suspicious if I just stopped for gas right in front of the cop. This must have worked, since I was able to gas up, buy some food, and even another map, before continuing on my way unmolested by the police.</p><p>I drove off aways and safely out of town before I stopped to check the new map. As it turned out I was already in Idaho! An not far from the interstate (I-90). I drove on into Coeur d'Alene, the same Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, where I was fated to be arrested eight years later, for the crimes I'm on death row for now. But this time I just drove past the city and stopped at a large rest area near the Washington/Idaho state border, where I parked and slept, relatively safe and sound.</p><p>The next day I drove into Spokane, Washington, and called Dee, the owner of the car I was driving, and asked her if she could drive my car (an '87 Buick Skylark) which I'd left in Seattle with her, across the state and meet me in Spokane to swap cars, which she agreed to do. I met her at the bus station in Spokane, then we drove to a cheap motel and spent the night together.</p><p>The next day, after transferring all my stuff over to my own car, which was now less "hot" than Dee's car after the incident at the Border, we said our good-byes and I headed directly South from Spokane, taking highways down the "back" of Washington state and then Oregon and into Northern California, farm country. It was Mother's Day, 1997, and I remember crying for miles while I thought about my mom.</p><p>Anyway, I stuck to the back roads and highways in California as well, and made my way down to Death Valley, then drove East to Pahrump, Nevada. Not for the brothers, but because that's where my father lived. Since my plan to become a Canadian was bust, I decided to visit my dad while I figured out what to do next.</p><p style="text-align: right;"><b>[J.D. July 28, 2020] </b> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-14304871077058895292020-01-07T13:36:00.001-08:002020-01-07T13:36:29.703-08:00Sister Sister IAfter escaping the pervasive criminal element of Texas, I drove North. I remember being so tired that I must have fallen asleep at the wheel. I saw a large green highway information sign that simply vanished when I got close enough and tried to read it. So I pulled over at the next gas station I saw and feel asleep in the parking lot along the side near the bathrooms without even getting out of the driver's seat.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I spent the last of my money gassing up and to get something to eat at the same station, then continued North until I came to a small town. I found the local Western Union office, then called my dad in Pahrump, Nevada, and asked him to wire me some money. He agreed to do so on the condition that I drive to my stepsister's house in Warsaw, Missouri.<br />
<br />
My stepsister, Jenny, had visited me several times while I was in prison in Washington state before she moved to Missouri, so we weren't strangers. But, I had never met her three sons, who were teens at this time (13, 15, and 16, if I remember correctly). But the boys knew they had an "Uncle Jet" who had absconded and was wanted. So my stepsister insisted that if I came to her house, I had to use a different name. So, I became "the other uncle", Joshua, or just "Uncle Josh".<br />
<br />
The agreement was that I would sleep on her sofa until my dad and stepmother could drive there from Pahrump, and then we'd "figure out" what I should do next. In the meantime I helped out as I could around the house and ended up spending a lot of time with her boys. I helped settle disputes, taught one how to "keep his eye on the ball" so he could bat with confidence, and another how to clean and prepare some fish we caught at the nearby lake. I also did repairs and ran errands.<br />
<br />
The stress of having a fugitive living in her house took its toll on my sister. She kept insisting that everything was okay, but it wasn't. One day this stress clashed with the already ongoing stress of raising three teen boys on her own. The boys were fighting and I stepped in to break it up, which I managed to do easily enough. I not only broke up the fight, but I counselled the boys separately afterwards and managed to help them resolve their differences to the point that they were amiable again the next day. Jenny did not even learn about the fight until the next day, and when she did, she became very upset and started yelling at her boys.<br />
<br />
At this point I stupidly told her how yelling at them was not necessary because they had already resolved their differences and learned a valuable lesson at the same time. She quieted down, thanked me for helping, then retreated to her bedroom and closed the door.<br />
<br />
Later that evening, all three boys came to me and told me they were worried about their mother. They explained to me that she only locks herself in her room when she becomes too upset to deal with things. They said she had threatened suicide in the past under such conditions, and now things seemed worse because he wasn't responding to their knocks and pleas at her door.<br />
<br />
So I knocked on her door also, to which I heard her reply sobbingly, "Just leave me alone, I'm having a migraine." (It seems that migraines are something that run in my step family, so I took it as a further sign of stress.) The boys wanted me to kick in her door to make sure she was not trying to harm herself. (They explained that she may be overdosing on sleeping medicine.) So, after several more failed attempts to get her to talk to me, I decided to call the Warsaw police and ask them to intervene. I remember being afraid that if the local police were aware that her stepbrother (me) was a wanted fugitive, then my presence at her house could trigger some alarms and end with my arrest. But, I was genuinely concerned for my sister's well-being and decided it would be selfish of me not to take the risk. As irrational as that may seem for someone who had just kidnapped, then raped and murdered a ten-year-old boy just weeks before might seem, it is what I actually thought. By way of explanation I might point out that I considered her and her boys to be family, and... well, it is what it was... I'm just not sure what it was. But, the risk of getting discovered and arrested at my stepsister's house seemed worth taking after all she had done to help me.<br />
<br />
So, one officer arrived forty minutes later and after I explained the situation to him, he took charge of the situation and convinced my sister to let him in the room just to talk. He spoke to her privately for several minutes (would she tell him the truth?) and then emerged and assured me and the boys that she just wanted to rest and that she was not going to hurt herself. Then he left and the next day things returned to relative normalcy, Jenny even thanking me for being concerned enough to call the police.<br />
<br />
My father arrived with my stepmother, Rea, and Rea's mother (my step grandmother), Bubbie. Bubbie also used to come visit me often in prison, but now she had advanced Alzheimer's and couldn't even recognize her own daughter, much less me. Rea and my dad preferred caring for themselves rather than leaving her in a nursing home. So I helped look after her as well while we stayed at my stepsister's house (my father, Rea, and Bubble all shared one of the boy's rooms while he doubled up with another brother). I also ended up helping to look after even more children after my other stepsister, Tammy, showed up with her two grade school children (a boy and girl ages seven and eight), and the frequent visits from a close family friend and young couple with three preschool girls (one, three, and four) who lived nearby. Once, while I was watching Bubbie alone, I got a call from the young mother. She was in a panic over a bees nest (hive) she had just discovered under the trailer the young family had just moved into. Her husband was at work and unreachable, so she called Jenny for help, but I was the only one home. So, I put Bubbie in the car (the same car I used weeks before in California to kidnap ten-year-old Anthony Martinez) and drove over to "rescue" her and her girls by bringing them back to Jenny's until her husband got home from work (this was the days before everyone had cell phones, of course, so we left notes to communicate).<br />
<br />
After Tammy showed up with her kids it seemed like I had my pick of almost any age or sex of children I wanted to spend time with. And I ended up spending a lot of alone time with all of them, even baby sitting for hours alone. But, as much as I craved otherwise, I never actually "abused" any of them. I felt trusted and responsible. I even often went out of my way to protect them and keep them safe and healthy, as any "uncle" should. I honestly think I enjoyed playing --- and being accepted as --- the "good uncle" more than I would have enjoyed any sexual pleasure I may have gotten from taking advantage of the circumstances. Not that I didn't think about it or wasn't tempted. I did and I was, a lot! But, I kept my dick in my pants as they say, and my thoughts in check. I felt a genuine emotional need to protect the children at all cost, even if that meant surrendering myself to the police, which I eventually more or less did a few months later. But that's another episode.<br />
<br />
In retrospect it seems to me that the desire to be perceived and accepted as a "good person" (whatever that is) by the people I cared about (especially family) was stronger than any sexual interests or desires I had for the children that I had contact with and opportunity to abuse. But, my desire for vengeance (a.k.a. "justice") against society was much stronger than both. I'm not saying this is "right", nor is it some sort of justification for my crimes. It simply is what it was, and that's what we all need to sort out; not just me. I can't do it by myself, which is ultimately the reason for this blog.<br />
<br />
After Tammy showed up with her kids, she volunteered to pay everyone's way for a trip to a Christian show in Branson, Missouri. I rode in the back of the family van with her children. I didn't like to be so far away from my own car for this trip, but again I chose family over the risk.<br />
<br />
After several weeks in Warsaw, and well after my father's arrival, they found the body of the child I had kidnapped in California and left in a secluded ravine, and it made National news again. I was up late by myself watching T.V. when I first saw the story. Of course the police claimed they were "closing in" on the suspect, and I got so scared that I left the house in the middle of the night and spent hours in the dark hiding on a nearby covered boat dock where I could see and keep an eye on my stepsister's house in case the police showed up.<br />
<br />
My step-family heard the news also, but pretended to not pay it much attention (as I did also). But, I could tell they were absorbing and processing every detail they could and comparing it to every little clue they got from me. They'd ask nonchalantly if the car I was driving (a Chevy New Yorker) was considered a "compact", for example. I had seen the news report, so I knew that the police had determined from the tire marks left behind that the kidnapper's car was a "compact" model. Actually, the police made a lot of little mistakes like that, which ultimately led all suspicion away from me as far as my family was concerned, and later even the police themselves let me slip through their fingers, almost literally, when they arrested me months later in Kansas City and took "major case" prints in order to compare my prints with the partial print they found at the crime scene (on a roll of duct tape) after someone in my step-family told them I might have been the Martinez kidnapper. But, apparently, they did not take me seriously as a suspect and no match was made between my prints and the one found.<br />
<br />
In the meantime I discussed with my father and step-family what I would do next. I couldn't stay at my stepsister's house indefinitely, so I convinced them that I could drive into Canada, find a job and create a new life and identity there. I even ordered a book from a magazine on exactly how to do that (i.e. create a new identity in Canada). So after several weeks when it was time for my father and Rea to head back to Pahrump, I followed them in the New Yorker to Colorado, then parted ways with a few hundred in cash from my father as I headed North and they South on their way home.<br />
<br />
I was on the run my own again and headed for the Great White North exactly as planned. But, I didn't get far. In fact I never even made it into Canada. They stopped me at the border, but I still managed to elude them before they caught me. But that's another part of the story I'll tell another time.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>[J.D. Dec. 17, 2019]</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-86352558211946367272019-07-16T18:07:00.001-07:002019-07-16T18:07:56.904-07:00Texas Or BustAfter 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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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").<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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".<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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".<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>[J.D. June 26, 2019] </b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-22170134486430886862019-03-15T13:46:00.001-07:002019-07-16T18:09:01.955-07:00Run For The BorderAfter 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>[J.D. February 20, 2019]</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<h4>
(Next post in this series: <a href="https://5nconfessions.blogspot.com/2019/07/texas-or-bust.html" target="_blank">"Texas Or Bust"</a>)</h4>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-36108456846069147622019-01-23T11:32:00.000-08:002019-01-23T11:32:34.778-08:00April Fools, CaliforniaWhen 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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”.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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<br />
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 <u>California</u> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
“An Ode To The Killer”</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know the reason why.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know the reason for your hate.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And, I know the reason for your pain.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know the reason for my love.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And, I know the reason we're not the same.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
God's Love.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
God's Love is the reason.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And, God's Love will bring you down.</div>
<br />
<br />
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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-81187064006734650412018-08-30T15:45:00.001-07:002018-09-24T12:27:00.562-07:00Earliest Memories: Ft. Ord, California (1967-1968)I remember living in a house with a hill in the backyard that had curved sidewalk that disappeared up over the crest. I remember always wondering where the sidewalk went. I was only four or five at the time, so the yard itself was the extent of my world, or at least the world I was able to explore by myself.<br />
<br />
I remember feeling alone in my world, even though I know now that I had three older sisters and a younger brother, all roughly two years apart in age. I have few early memories of my siblings. I later --- much later --- came to realize that my older sisters never liked me because of how my mother, who dominated my family, favored and doted on me. As I grew older, they resorted to doing everything they could to make me look "bad", and even convinced me I was "bad", either intentionally or unintentionally. I grew up believing I was "ugly" (I wasn't), "stupid" (not at all), and "worthless" (you be the judge, if you like), because of the way my older sisters treated me.<br />
<br />
I don't blame them, though, nor ever did. My mother desperately wanted another boy after she lost her first in a mid-term abortion that was induced when my father hit her in the stomach in anger over her pregnancy (i.e. he essentially "murdered" my older brother pre-naturally, and lived his life as a result in a state of perpetual guilt that my mother constantly lorded over him and used to keep him submissive to her). She and my father were both still in high school at the time.<br />
<br />
So my sisters were only reacting naturally to the very palpable emotional neglect that they themselves experienced as a result of being unwanted girls by my mother, and impositions upon my father, who escaped the family as much as he could through an NCO military career.<br />
<br />
I don't blame my mother or father either. They were just kids themselves, struggling to adapt to a completely new and fast-changing post World War world where television ruled moral conduct with falsely composed images of perfect American families that were, and are, impossible to attain. My mother desperately wanted such a family, so desperately that she shunned even her own thoughts, and children, when they did not conform. I think my father just wanted to stay out of prison, and then, later, out of hell. (And then, later still, out of prison again; but that's a different story.)<br />
<br />
If I were to blame anyone, for my loneliness and such, it would be society itself for the way it held up such impossible idealistic familial images that even the most staunch advocates could not attain in the end (as history shows). And I did blame society for the longest time years later, after all the fear, confusion, and loneliness I experienced as a child lead me to behave against love and human connection itself and landed me in prison before I even understood what it was I was rebelling against.<br />
<br />
But, I can't blame society anymore. Like my sisters, like my parents, and like everyone else, including me, society was just a "victim" of its own ignorance and historical circumstance. The disease, if you can call it that, that causes all such fear, confusion, and suffering (loneliness) is ignorance itself. And I have since come to understand that even ignorance has its place and purpose. So in the end, I no longer blame anyone or anything. It just is what it is.<br />
<br />
So, my earliest memories excuse nothing. Though they could help explain everything, if considered without an eye on blame, or fault, but instead with an open heart and mind that might allow one to see how WE are all responsible for what our children do (and become), as I hope the fact of my earliest memories as a child help to set forth here. I became a "serial killer", and "child rapist/murderer", even "the most hated man in Idaho" (according to the popular newspapers). But, what I became was the result of who and what we all are together, not just who or what I am alone. Just as it takes a village to raise a child, so it takes a society to create a "monster". My hope is only that someday WE will realize this, and stop blaming everything on the "monsters" that we create, which only propagates the ignorance, and the "monstrous" behavior itself.<br />
<br />
I remember puppies in a flimsy pen made from chicken-wire erected in the backyard. These were from our family dog's first and only litter. Her name was Gigi, a black and white mixed spaniel. She had eight puppies, which we gave away quickly. I don't remember their birth, or anything else. Just the puppies in a pen on the grass.<br />
<br />
I remember being so desperate for attention from my older sisters that one day as they walked me home from school (half-day kindergarten for me), I told them I knew where there was some "human poop" behind a bush along the way. When they asked how I knew it was human, I said because it looked human. I couldn't tell them the truth, that it was my own poop which I had deposited earlier as I walked to school by myself (during their lunch time). I had to poop and there was no bathroom near enough, so I dropped my pants and took care of business behind the bush. I don't know why I'd remember such a thing, and it's a rather embarrassing memory even now. But it shows how desperate I was for any attention I could get from my older sisters, a desperation that permeated my childhood and even carried over into my adult life. I've always felt unloved and unwanted by my sisters, even if I don't understand why.<br />
<br />
I was a very curious boy, even as a small child. I loved exploring, and poking things. I remember riding over a bumble-bee I saw on the sidewalk with the front wheel of my tricycle. And then, after I thought it was dead, I tried to pick it up to look at it more closely. It stung me, and I ran to my mother crying. When I was stung again years later, I had a bad allergic reaction, which makes me wonder how much the allergy has to do with this early experience (i.e. could it have been psychosomatic?).<br />
<br />
I have "picture memories" of kindergarten. I remember the classroom, the playground, and the walk to school each day at lunch. But I don't remember any other children (peers) or teachers, though my mother says I was the teacher's "pet" in kindergarten (or so the teacher, Mrs. Hall, told her how impressed she was by my manners and intelligence). I don't actually remember Mrs. Hall, or what I actually did in kindergarten at all. I just remember the place, not what happened there.<br />
<br />
I remember one day taking my father's army trench-shovel to a nearby play-area with another boy who had brought his father's trench-shovel also. These shovels were common objects in the army, and they could be fixed so that the shovel-head extended at a ninety degree angle and used like a pick-shovel. The other boy and I configured our shovels in this way, then sat opposite each other on the ground and began digging a hole to China (in our imaginations) by taking turns swinging the shovels and scooping out the dirt. I ended up getting hit in the crown of my head by the pointed edge of the other boy's shovel when he swung out of turn, and again ran to my mom crying, this time covered with blood. The wound required stitches at the hospital, but I don't remember that part.<br />
<br />
My mother tells me that around this same time, some other children in the neighborhood propped me up on another child's bicycle that was much too large for me so I could not reach the peddles and hence brake. They then pushed me down a hill near our house and I managed to keep upright until reaching an intersection at the bottom of the hill where I was nearly hit by a car that had to swerve to avoid me. My mother said she heard the screech of tires and horn and ran out to investigate, and when she asked what happened, the driver, who had stopped and gotten out of his car to make sure I was okay, told her what happened and that after I subsequently crashed the bike on a nearby lawn, I got up and ran. They found me hiding in some bushes, uninjured, but terrified because of the "trouble" I though I was in. My mother was just happy that I was uninjured.<br />
<br />
These are all my earliest memories. I have no memories this early of anything sexual or abusive. I just remember being alone a lot, and feeling alone, though I did not feel sad. Feeling alone just felt "normal" to me. I did not know it was possible to feel otherwise.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>[J.D. August 18, 2018]</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-87912258820661028052018-07-09T15:21:00.000-07:002018-08-07T15:31:11.245-07:00Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": My Demise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHADgj02Hstz4201r542mzyClfq-KQybrLWfZaEvbP1bx1SVv1Wp98ue92Y40SloEiad5hAtWMzzhMIj0NirGdV9UMEd_c3tklJaxYK9CdPuRc-5Ox5lp1Sox7KYzJJo8KxesVuddMO1k/s1600/one+way.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="620" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHADgj02Hstz4201r542mzyClfq-KQybrLWfZaEvbP1bx1SVv1Wp98ue92Y40SloEiad5hAtWMzzhMIj0NirGdV9UMEd_c3tklJaxYK9CdPuRc-5Ox5lp1Sox7KYzJJo8KxesVuddMO1k/s400/one+way.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In order to understand the
impact that the Sexual Psychopath (SP) so-called «Treatment»
program had on me, it is crucial to realize that it was my initiation
into the adult world – and the only initiation I ever got.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was a 16-year-old
sub-urbanized military brat with no street smarts and very little
sexual experience or information at all when I was first arrested and
charged with «raping» a 14-year-old boy (for pointing an empty gun
at him and making him «blow» on my dick, then masturbating into his
mouth). I was barely nineteen when I was «voted out» of the SP
«Treatment» program and sent to prison for seventeen and a half
years (on a 20-year-sentence) for the same crime. So the SP program
was not just my initiation into the adult world, it was also the only
source of information I had about sex, relationships, social
experience, and everything else that most teens get to learn from
their friends and family. And what I «learned» really confused me
for a very long time; I'm still struggling to sort it out all these
years later!</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The worst part was all the
mixed messages I got in the program. The treatment model was based on
very strict rules for conduct and self-examination that all SPs
(Sexual Psychopaths) were required to adhere to under harsh penalty.
An innocent white lie, intended merely to flatter someone could be,
and often was, interpreted as «manipulation» and punished with
anything from a «sub-group» treatment session (a meeting with two
or more other group members to discuss the «treatment issue» and
come up with a «treatment plan» to prevent future relapse) to the
loss of an entire «step» in the program (there were ten steps
required to complete the program, so a lost step could mean several
more months in the program).</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And yet the therapists and
other administrative staff who ran the program were not subject to
the rules of conduct and often engaged in behavior that would get any
SP instantly and automatically expelled from the program, which
usually meant being sent to prison.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For example, one day the
therapist for the group I was in («Aquarius» group), Gary Michael
Shepherd, whom insisted everyone call him «Mike», interrupted our
meeting to inform the group that one of the «OBS» (Observation
Status) members who had been «voted out» (i.e. «not treatable»)
had subpoenaed group records and notes which were kept on file for
every meeting. Mike told the group that if anyone asked, the records
were lost in a «fire» (which of course they weren't). And even
though this amounted to the therapist telling the entire group to be
complicit in a criminal act with him, which would result in automatic
expulsion for anyone in the group, everyone just nodded ad “ahemmed”
their agreeance.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
(If anyone is interested
in fact-checking this, the man who subpoenaed the group records was
named Lotis Cassidy. He claimed that he did not «abuse» his own
children, but was only teaching them about sex. So, of course the
group said he was in «denial» and found him «not amenable to
treatment».)</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I also heard about a
therapist from before I got to the program who was in the «habit»
of picking up young G.I.s hitch-hiking from the nearby military
bases, then forcing them into the woods at gunpoint where he'd tie
them up and rape them anally. I don't know how true this is though,
but I heard it from reliable sources (i.e. my attorneys, who were
investigating the «mitigating» impact that the program might have
had on my recent death penalty trials).</div>
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<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The worst thing that
«Mike» Shepherd did though was very personal to me, and directly
lead to my «quitting» the program (though technically I was, of
course, found «not amenable to treatment», thus «voted out» and
sent to prison). He contacted my mother and offered to «comfort»
her if she needed it. He ended up inviting himself over to her house
and making very lewd and lascivious sexual advances toward her. When
my mother refused his advances, he made implied threats about my (her
son) «advancement» in treatment, and told her that if she did what
he wanted her to do (have sex with him) that he'd help her son move
quickly through the «steps» in the program, etc.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My mother still refused
and forcefully told him to leave. (She has since told investigators
working for my «death penalty» defense team that to this day she
still feels «guilty» for not giving in to Shepherd's demands and
causing her son (me) to be kicked out of the program and sent to
prison.)</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next day she came to
visit me at the program and in tears told me what happened. After
this visit I in turn told the group in the meeting that same evening.
The next day «Mike» Shepherd read the group meeting notes, then
called the «senior leaders» into his office and told them my mother
was lying. Then he called me into his office and with the group
leaders still present he denied making any sexual advances toward my
mother (though he admitted to being at her house to «counsel» her
at her request). I told him I believed my mother, not him. Then he
told me I could believe what I want, but I was not to bring up the
accusations «in group» again (where they'd be documented) and he
told the leaders to make sure I didn't.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As it turned out, Gary
«Mike» Shepherd has a long history of sexually abusive behavior
toward «vulnerable» women, and using his «authority» to take
advantage of them. Later lawsuits brought by women who were raped by
a serial rapist (named Timothy Anderson) while the rapist was on
«work release» under Shepherd's charge, claimed that several other
women related to men in the program (usually wives, and girlfriends)
had also been manipulated for sex by Shepherd, including Tim
Anderson's wife. In exchange for sex with Anderson's wife, Shepherd
had advanced him (the rapist) quickly through the program and AGAINST
the recommendations of the treatment group itself. Thus, Anderson was
raping women while still in the program and living on the treatment
«ward». This lawsuit was settled by the state out of court, and
never received any public attention. The program was shut down
(possibly as part of the «agreement»), but since the allegations
against Gary Shepherd were never proven, he was re-assigned to
another «therapist» position within the same psychiatric hospital
(Western State Hospital) and remained a DSHS (Department of Social
Health Services) employee. (When I was representing myself in this
more recent death penalty case I saw documents stamped «confidential»
all over them that showed several female employees (nursing staff)
who worked with Shepherd in the years since also formally complained
about being harassed and threatened by Shepherd for sexual favors.
The last I heard he was still employed by DSHS though, and had
refused to meet or speak with my «defense team» investigators. He
should be retired by now though.)</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Needless to say, the
impact this «assault» against my mother had on me was tremendous.
According to SP program standards, what «Mike» did was «attempted
rape» (i.e. using threats to force a vulnerable person to have sex).
Prior to this incident I was doing very well in the program on my own
(without his «help») and even looked up to «Mike» as a fatherly
figure (which is how he liked to present himself). But now...? Well,
I was crushed, confused, and left with no support or course of
redress for the source of my confusion because of the way Shepherd
forbade me from discussing it with other group members.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I eventually, over the
course of a few weeks, realized I could no longer stay in the
program. I decided to risk prison, which from my perspective at the
time suddenly didn't seem so bad. To understand this decision you
have to realize what the program meant to me. It was my «salvation».
For the first time in my life I felt like I was getting the «help»
and information I needed in order to sort through all the confusing
and hypocritical messages I kept getting from everyone else –
teachers, parents, older siblings, friends, etc.. I realized later in
life that the hypocritical messages I got as a child are «standard»
(i.e. everyone gets them). But most people find something to «hold
onto» (rationally) in order to fair the confusion. They find some
belief or other that becomes their «religion» in some sense
(literally or figuratively) that they cling to no matter what other
messages they receive. This makes them feel safe and secure, thus
providing a sense of salvation and purpose in life. The SP treatment
program was my «religion» in this sense, and Shepherd was my
«priest» (religious leader). That's how it really felt to me. So
when Shepherd did what he did with my mother I lost my «religion»,
and anyone who has ever lost their «religion» like that knows how
devastating it can be, and would instantly understand why prison
suddenly seemed preferable to remaining in the «treatment» program.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But, I had just recently
been approved for a special «cottage visit» with my family. This
was a special privilege only for members in the program who had
reached step five or above. It was an entire weekend visiting in one
of the hospital's cottages with no security. The only restriction was
that you could not leave the hospital grounds. But I could walk
around the hospital with my family and cook meals with them in the
cottage. For men with wives this was a conjugal visit. But for me,
since my parents were divorced, I had arranged to spend the first day
(and night) with my mother, and the second with my father. I was very
excited about the visit, so I decided to wait until after the visit
before I told the group I was done with the program and wanted to do
my time in prison.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
During the cottage visit I
had an extremely emotional encounter with my mother that confused me
even more at the time, but I have since come to understand it was
deeply related to the confusion that lead me to think that forcing
someone to have sex with me would help me find some resolution and
understanding. It's far too complex for me to attempt explaining
here, so I'll just say that I realized that my mother had feelings
for me that I could not understand at the time. Not necessarily
«sexual» feelings, but not quite «motherly» either. I was her
«religion» in the same sense I've mentioned above. She clung to me
for a sense of sanity in an insane world. There are a lot of complex
emotional reasons behind this, that go back to her having lost her
first child, a boy, in a late term miscarriage at a very young age.
The circumstances under which she lost her first son only made the
experience all the more traumatic and confusing for her. And when I
was born I instantly became her «salvation», and her «religion»,
ultimately to my own demise.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, long story short, that
first night in the cottage, after my mother had gone to bed, I sat
out on the porch and pondered the meaning of life, and whether it was
even worth living. I had lost my «father» and my «mother»,
emotionally, within a matter of weeks. It felt exactly like my world
had ended, and I knew prison was the only avenue left for me. So I
decided to make my decision irreversible, and I got up and walked off
the porch, across a field, and over the low stone wall that marked
the boundary of the hospital grounds. In effect, I «escaped», which
I knew was the «ultimate» unforgivable violation possible for
someone in the program and guaranteed a ticket to prison.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't go very far,
since my intent was only to commit myself to prison and nothing more.
I walked to a nearby residential street, looked at the houses (i.e.
«freedom»), then returned to the hospital cottage and went to bed
without disturbing my mother in the other bedroom.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next morning two
work-release members from the group showed up unexpectedly and told
me they were there to escort me back to the ward. It turned out that
two other members in the group got caught having sex in the shower
together. So the group was «grounded» (no one except work-release
members were allowed off ward). We would sit in meeting all day every
day, often into the wee hours of the morning, until the group came up
with a «treatment plan» solution for the entire group. I was a
newly elected «Junior leader» at the time, but because of the
«seriousness» of the problem (sex in the program was second only to
escape as far as seriousness goes, and the only thing worse than
these was an actual sex crime, such as exposing yourself to a visitor
or something), the first thing the group did was elect a more
«experienced» Junior leader to replace me. In the very next meeting
I dropped my own bombshell on the group by telling them –
completely out of the blue – that I did not want to be in the
program any more and had left the hospital grounds («escaped»)
while at the cottage the night before. The group pelted me with
questions, but I clammed up and just kept repeating, «vote me out»
and «send me to prison». That was the most I could say with all the
emotions I was feeling at the time (I was crying like a baby).</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The group put me on
«double buddy» watch (so two other members in the group would have
to follow me everywhere, even to the bath room) and then decided to
wait and see what «Mike» would say on Monday.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Monday, on Mike's
orders, the group leaders called a «marathon line of therapy» on
me. This was an outdated practice in the program that had to be
explained to everyone in the group. It essentially meant that I would
be forced to remained in the group-room, against my will, until I
started answering questions. Other members of the group were allowed
to leave in pairs in order to use the bathroom and/or take a smoke
break. But I was forced, physically, to remain in the group room by
two of the largest members in the group (Tabor Guard and Jessie
Littleton) who sat by the door. I actually got up to try to leave
several times, and even complained that I had to use the bathroom,
but on every occasion I was physically stopped from leaving by Tabor
and Jessie.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After what seemed like a
very long time (one or two hours, maybe?) I started telling them what
I thought they wanted to hear. I tried telling them the truth at
first, that I left the hospital grounds only to make sure I'd be
voted out because of what «Mike» Shepherd did with my mother. But
they called that bullshit and demanded to know the «real reason»,
which according to them was that I wanted to rape another child.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So after several hours of
this I started just agreeing with everything they «imagined» I had
«really» done while at the cottage with my mother. I told them that
I made a «rape kit» consisting of an electric cord and such to tie
up my victim with and took it with me when I «escaped». I even told
them that I spied on a girl doing homework by peeking through a
window. None of this made sense, but it seemed to satisfy them and so
they ended the «line of therapy» once they had the «confession»
that Shepherd ordered them to get from me.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
«Mike» Shepherd then
used this «confession» in his official report to the court after I
was voted out of the program. And this report went into my official
file, and eventually became the primary reason I ended up serving
over 14 years in prison. «Mike» claimed in his report that I was
delusional, manipulative, and so obsessed with raping children that I
left the hospital grounds even while still in the program to do
exactly that. I had no idea that his report would plague me like it
did (and still does) for the rest of my life. I tried to challenge it
many years later, but even though «Mike» Shepherd was the one who
wrote the report it was signed off by at least one W.S.H doctor, who
I did not know and never met, and whose credentials I could not
challenge.
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Even though Shepherd's
report caused me to serve an exceptionally long prison sentence, and
also caused me to later be classified as a «level three» (worst of
the worst) sex offender after I got out of prison and finished my
sentence, I never blame Shepherd for what he did. I kept an affinity
for him that I couldn't betray. He was, after all, just another «sex
offender» like me. So if I blamed him I'd have to blame myself also.
Instead I sought to blame those who gave him the authority that he
used to hurt me and my mother. Ultimately I blamed the System as I
came to recognize it as a living, breathing, and FEEDING organism
with a will and intent all its own. I directed all my rage for these
injustices toward the ones who ignorantly propagated the System and
allowed it to prosper, that being society itself. And as I sit now on
Federal death row as a result, I blame no one any more, not even
myself.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b>[J.D. June 20, 2018]</b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-33348260524882549182018-05-14T16:05:00.000-07:002018-07-09T10:04:01.801-07:00The GroenesWhat follows is a description, according to the best of my memory, of what happened on the night (and night before) the Groene family was killed in their home and the two youngest children, Dylan (9) and Shasta (8) were kidnapped. It is essentially the same information that I provided to the FBI and other police investigators, and which they confirmed in court was "unusually consistent" with all of the evidence gathered. It will be graphic, and possibly disturbing if you are inexperienced with raw human nature. But it is also honest, and the truth (as best as I can recall), and therefore critical that it be generally known if there is going to be any hope of our working through this insanity.<br />
<br />
I had left Fargo a couple of months before (March 2005) with $10 000 cash, money I had borrowed from a friend in order to pay for an attorney to defend me against the child molesting charges in Detroit Lakes, MN. Instead of paying the attorney I got scared (of having to spend the rest of my life in prison because I touched a boy's penis on a playground essentially) and ran, with vengeance on my mind.<br />
<br />
My intention was to kidnap, rape and murder as many children as I could before getting caught. If I was going to be punished for something, I wanted to make sure it was something worth getting punished for. I wanted to punish society for punishing me. I still believed at that time in the social lie called "justice", and I used this false belief in order to justify my wrath and vengeance. I honestly believed I had every "right" to do what I wanted to do, and to do what I did.<br />
<br />
I first drove to Minneapolis, where I rented a Jeep Cherokee and ditched my older Pontiac Grand Am. I wanted a more reliable vehicle, one that I could drive off road if necessary, and one that would be "invisible" to ordinary police suspicion. Then I began my trek for revenge, my so-called "rampage".<br />
<br />
By the time I had reached the outskirts of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, where I first spotted Shasta in a bikini bathing suit sunning with her mother out in front of their house and in full view of the I-90 freeway, I had already stocked up on enough camping supplies and food to last several weeks. I turned around at the next exit and drove back for another look. Shasta and her mother, Brenda, seemed to enjoy displaying themselves for all the cars driving by on I-90. I, for one, certainly appreciated the view. After driving by a couple of times, sticking to the interstate so as not to draw any suspicion or let anyone "I.D." me or the Jeep later, I decided to return after dark to case the house.<br />
<br />
I spent the rest of the day in nearby Spokane, Washington, where I used the public city-wide free Wi-Fi to get on the Web and post <a href="http://fifthnail.blogspot.no/" target="_blank">one final blog entry</a> on the original "Fifth Nail" blog (i.e. "Blogging The Fifth Nail"). Then, later in the day, I drove back to Idaho and scouted around the surrounding public forest dirt roads until I found a suitable spot to sleep a few hours undisturbed.<br />
<br />
At around 1 a.m., I drove back on I-90 to the Groene's exit, and found an old campground that was chained off. I used a hacksaw to cut the chain, drove the Jeep in to a well concealed location behind some trees and overgrowth, then replaced the cut chain using a zip tie to hold it in place so no one driving by would see that the chain was down.<br />
<br />
I then walked about a mile or two in order to reach the Groene home following the frontage road. There was no traffic, so no one saw me.<br />
<br />
When I got to the house, which was secluded by a closed campground on one side and open field on the other, I walked right up their dirt drive-way stepping carefully to not make obvious noises (footfalls). I approached the front door and noted a sign over the door that read, "We have guns. Intruders will be shot." (or something like that). It may as well have been an invitation as far as I was concerned.<br />
<br />
I had not brought the sawed off shotgun with me for this survey mission, but the sign let me know how I should load the shotgun when I returned the next night. Slugs (for maximum "stopping" power). Guns can't "protect" you against another gun unless you get "the drop". And I knew I would have the drop, so I wasn't worried. The sign just let me know they felt "safe", when they weren't.<br />
<br />
I also noted several dog dishes and a heavy dog chain and other signs of more than one large dog. But, no barking, which told me the dogs were probably inside with the family; more false security, and good for me.<br />
<br />
I snuck up to a nearby window that had only some torn plastic over it. It was a warm night, so I knew there might be someone sleeping in that room. I decided to try to see who (if anyone) was in the room, since it would be easy to see in without the glass reflecting back. I expected children.<br />
<br />
I stepped up carefully and quietly on a broken lawn-chair outside of the window and peered in. I saw two beds, and clearly two children, sound asleep. I admired the scene for a moment. They were obviously very "poor". Mostly dirty clothes scattered about, and few toys. The door to the room was open. Suddenly I saw a large dog walk quietly into the room. It was moving its head around, clearly following an "odd" scent. It smelled me through the window. I froze, hoping it would go away. Instead it looked right at me, but it still couldn't see me, until I blinked. Then it barked several times and I jumped down off the chair and ran around to the other side of the house and took cover behind some low bushes.<br />
<br />
I waited about ten minutes. All was quiet. Nobody appeared to come investigate. I knew that the dogs had probably barked at raccoons and such in the middle of the night before. So, as long as the barking did not continue, it would not likely raise any alarms.<br />
<br />
After enough time I decided to look for a place to hide where I could watch the house. I ended up crossing the interstate and climbing up a steep heavily wooded hill on the other side. I found a position where I could see the house clearly without being seen. I had a backpack with me with some food, binoculars, night-vision monocular, a waterproof tarp and everything I thought I'd need, including pen and paper to make notes about what I saw. I settled in.<br />
<br />
Almost as soon as the sun came up, I saw a young boy (Dylan) out and about with a toy gun (BB-gun) shooting at small birds around the house. He pointed the gun in my direction more than once, but did not seem to see me (the tarp I covered myself with was also green and brown camouflage). Soon after that, I saw his older brother, Slade (13), outside also, just sort of poking around aimlessly with the two dogs. A little later, the woman (Brenda) came outside, and I saw and heard her arguing with a man, her live-in boyfriend (I found out later), who I assumed was her husband.<br />
<br />
They were clearly accustomed to "living" outside of their house as much as inside. They all moved in and out of the house often, as if the yard was just another room in the house. The only one I didn't see come out very often was Shasta, the youngest. But even she came out later, to take a walk with what I found out later was the drug dealer's girlfriend and another child who had arrived in a car. While the dealer was inside conducting business with Mark and Brenda, the dealer's girlfriend took the children for a walk, just up the frontage road a short distance.<br />
<br />
After the drug dealer left, I decided I had seen enough. So I packed up and worked my way west until I came to a pasture, which I followed all the way back to where I had hidden the Jeep. I then drove back to the temporary camping spot in the public forests, and spent the rest of the day preparing "mentally" for what was to come that night. I remember screaming a lot, at the top of my lungs, challenging God Himself to stop me from what I was about to do, daring him to "reveal" himself, and calling him a "fake" and a "coward" if he didn't stop me. I had every intention at this point of killing everyone in the house and kidnapping the two youngest children for my sexual pleasure. In my mind, this was the "worst" thing I could do, which was exactly why I <u>had</u> to do it. To "teach society a lesson".<br />
<br />
That night I waited until about 2 a.m. before driving back to the Groene exit. This time, I drove directly down the frontage road toward the Groene home (since I knew there'd be no one to see me) and parked the Jeep only a hundred yards away or so, near a neighbor's barn. Then, using a small red-LED light to find my way, I approached the Groene home from behind. I had to jump a creek that ran through their backyard, but other than that (and getting my feet wet in the process), I had no trouble approaching the house.<br />
<br />
This time my daypack contained several heavy-duty zip ties, duct-tape, gloves, night-vision scope, extra ammo for the shotgun, and a ski mask. I was wearing gloves and had wiped everything I brought down for prints. I was also wearing old Salvation Army clothes and shoes that I would dispose of later.<br />
<br />
I entered the home through the back-door, which was unlocked (I found out later that the lock on this door had been broken for some time before and never repaired). I remember thinking that if the door was locked, then I would abort, because if I could not get into the house quietly so I could get the drop on the man with the guns, then I would not have the advantage. That would have been a "sign from God" that He did not want me to continue. But, when the doorknob turned easily in my hand, and the door opened quietly without trouble, I took that as "permission" to proceed as planned.<br />
<br />
I calculated two main "threats". The biggest threat was the man with the guns. But, the immediate threat was the dogs. So I had loaded the shotgun, which only held two rounds with birdshot in the chamber, and a slug in the clip. The birdshot was for the dogs, the "immediate" threat. I knew untrained dogs would never challenge a man with a gun (dogs are naturally terrified of loud noises and must be trained to not run from the blast of a gun). So the first round was to scare the dogs off, not hurt them. And the second round was, of course, my "back up", in case I needed to use the gun against the man (or any other serious threat). I ended up using neither round, or firing the shotgun at all.<br />
<br />
I crept into the house through the kitchen. My first objective was to try to locate the man and subdue him, preferably before arousing the dogs. So I headed for the hall from the kitchen that lead to the bedrooms. But as I walked past the living room into the hallway, I noticed a table lamp was on near the sofa, and there I saw Brenda, fully clothed, sleeping on the couch. I froze and watched her breathing for a moment. Her breathing was slow, deep, and regular... sound asleep. So I continued quietly into the hall, still determined to find the man first.<br />
<br />
In the hall there were two doors, opened on dark rooms on my left, and one door further back on my right. I thought the door on the right would be the "master bedroom", so that's where I headed, very slow and quiet, still trying not to arouse the dogs, wherever they might be.<br />
<br />
But then, suddenly, I heard barking and claws scuffling on hardwood floors. I saw two shadows charging me from the first open doorway. I turned the gun in that direction, but before I fired, I heard a very distinct sound that dogs make in submission, a kind of short whimper, and then I heard and saw nothing. That was not what I expected. But, in hindsight, it made sense that untrained dogs who had been around guns would be terrified at the mere presence of one. And the shotgun I had was freshly oiled. So, I'm fairly certain that when they smelled the gun oil and saw me turn to confront them, rather than hesitate or turn away from their initial charge, they realized instantly that they were in danger... and quickly changed their minds.<br />
<br />
I immediately dismissed the dogs as a threat and turned my attention to Brenda, who was now awake and looking right at me. But, I was still in a crouched position in a dark hallway, and with the light from the lamp in her eyes, it was clear that she could not see me, or if she did, she could not tell what she was seeing. Then she reached up and turned off the lamp. I realized when her eyes adjusted she'd be able to see me plainly, so I had to make a move, and did.<br />
<br />
I stood up and walked directly to Brenda and into her full view. I told her in a hushed but demanding voice to turn the light back on, which she did. I wanted her to see me and the gun clearly, so she'd understand the threat and danger she was in and be more likely to comply with my demands. I was also ready to shoot her if necessary.<br />
<br />
I asked, "Where's your husband?"<br />
<br />
But, judging by the confused response I got, I realized that I had assumed incorrectly that the man I had seen her arguing with in the yard earlier was her husband. So I restated the question.<br />
<br />
"Where's the man!?"<br />
<br />
"Uh... upstairs?" she said, still seeming a bit unsure about what I was asking.<br />
<br />
"Take me, now... Let's go!" I said.<br />
<br />
She got up quickly and darted off through the kitchen toward the stairs I had seen earlier near the back entrance where I came in. I followed her up the stairs. She turned on a light at the top of the stairs that illuminated a king-sized mattress upon which was a large man in boxers and tank-top still asleep.<br />
<br />
I told her to wake him up, which she did. She told him that there was a "man here, with a gun", indicating me standing at the head of the bed, still by the stairs.<br />
<br />
The man sat up and looked at me, but said nothing (still half-asleep and trying to decide if he was dreaming, I suppose). I produced one of the sets of looped together zip-ties and tossed them on the bed and told the woman (Brenda, I'm only referring to her impersonally as "the woman", and Mark as "the man", etc. because that's all they were to me at the time... it would feel "dishonest" for me to refer to them by name in this context, even though I do think of them by name now when I remember what happened) to bind his wrists, which she did with no objection from him.<br />
<br />
The man seemed bigger than I expected, so I tossed a second set of prepared zip ties onto the bed and told her to put them on his ankles, which she also did without complaint. Then I told them both to go back downstairs. The woman darted off down the stairs quickly, but the man struggled to just stand up from the bed, restrained as he was. He managed to stand and hobble over to the stairs. I realized he couldn't go down the stairs without help, so I told the woman to help him. But then the man himself said, "Wait, I'll do it..." and he sat down and lowered himself down the stairs by sitting on each step as he went down so he needed no help. I learned later that the reason he was so eager to get down the stairs was because if I had just turned on more lights upstairs and looked around I would have seen his prized arsenal of guns, knives, and other weapons (bows, etc.). He was leading me away from his "treasure trove".<br />
<br />
I took them into the living room and told the man to lay on his stomach. Then I told the woman to wake up her children and tell them to come to the living room also. She went first into the room the dogs had come out of (the dogs themselves were nowhere to be seen). This was her 13-year-old son's room (Slade). She woke him up and told him to come to the living room. He mouthed off back at her and told her to leave him alone and get out of his room. She retorted in a stern voice, "Do as I say, now!" To which he finally responded when he saw me with the gun standing behind her. In the living room, I told the teenager to lie down on the floor, then had his mother bind his wrists with a single zip tie. Then I sent her back to get the younger children.<br />
<br />
Dylan and Shasta were also still asleep. She woke them and told them to come to the living room. Unlike Slade and Mark, who were both wearing just boxer shorts and tank-tops, both children were fully dressed as they slept (except for shoes): They followed their mother's directions without question and, in the living room, I had them all lie down on their stomachs. And then I secured the woman's wrists behind her back with the last zip tie (it seems I dropped one of the prepared zip ties upstairs, which I found out from the police reports) and bound her feet with the duct tape. Then I used the duct tape to bind the children's hands and feet.<br />
<br />
During all this time I had been assuring both the man and the woman that all I wanted was some cash and a vehicle. This, of course, was a lie to get them to co-operate. But, as a result, I found out that the pick-up in the driveway could be started without a key, which was information that came in handy a bit later.<br />
<br />
After securing the residence, I stepped outside to make sure everything was quiet. Then I did a quick look around the downstairs part of the house. I discovered that the last door in the hall - where I thought the master bedroom would be - was only a bathroom being used as a storage room (I learned later from the children that the plumbing did not work at all in the bathroom).<br />
<br />
Then I returned to the living room and told the teenage boy (Slade) to get up and come with me. I helped him to his feet and lead him outside through the back-door and then to the backside of the house... out of earshot from the others.<br />
<br />
[WARNING: This is where this narrative turns extremely violent and graphic. Do not read further unless you are sure you want to know what "really" happened.]<br />
<br />
While I was making sure everything was quiet outside a moment before I had put away the sawed off shotgun and retrieved the framer's hammer I had purchased for this purpose a few weeks before. I now used the hammer to kill Slade. I struck him with no warning and with full force on the crown of his head. He dropped to his knees. Then I struck him again with full force on the side of his head. He fell forward on his face and did not move. I assumed as I intended that he was dead or at least unconscious and soon would be dead.<br />
<br />
I could not have been more wrong. I did not realize that such blunt force to the brain does not kill instantly, which was the reason I chose to kill with a hammer. My thinking was that it would render the person unconscious immediately, and then dead painlessly. I was sorely mistaken.<br />
<br />
I left the teenager face down in the grass, and returned to the living room, where I picked up the little girl and carried her outside and put her in the yard behind the house but away from where I had left her older brother for dead. I told her, "Stay here, and don't move!"<br />
<br />
I then went back inside and got the young boy, and likewise carried him outside to the same local as his sister. I was only inside long enough to grab the boy, but when I came back out, the girl, Shasta, was sitting up in defiance already of my demand that she not move. I put her older brother next to her then pushed her back down and told her in an even more forceful voice, "Don't move again, or I'll hit you!"<br />
<br />
Shasta explained to me later that the reason she was sitting up was because she had seen Slade, the boy I had just left for dead. He was on his feet and beckoning for her to come untie his hands, apparently not only not dead or knocked out, but fully conscious and trying to escape. It gets worse...<br />
<br />
Unaware yet of Slade's revival, I returned to the house to get the woman and kill her next. She was lying on the floor half in the living room and half in the kitchen (there had been no more room in the living room before for her to lie down). I told her to stand up, which she did with my help. Because I needed her to be able to walk, I tried to rip off the duct-tape using the claw of the hammer. But when I pulled hard, the tape did not give in, and I ended up pulling her feet out from under her and, with her hands still bound behind her back, she hit the floor hard on one shoulder.<br />
<br />
She cried out in pain, and that made me panic a little. I honestly did not want to hurt anyone, just kill them painlessly and mercifully (the same way the System does... and for the same delusional reason: to avoid so-called "guilt").<br />
<br />
So I told her, "Sorry! Here, this will help..." And then I struck her in the head several times, each time from a different angle and in a different location on the skull in order to inflict as much damage to the brain as quickly (and "mercifully") as possible.<br />
<br />
I had told her, "this will help" only because I did not want the man to realize what I was doing when he heard the blows. If he thought I was trying to help her then he would not figure out what the blows were. But I knew it was only a short-term ruse. So, as soon as I thought the woman was dead, I stepped over to the man, said something to him in order to waylay his suspicion as I moved into position to kill him also (though I no longer recall what I said anymore). Then I struck him several times, also from different angles, though I remember striking a couple of times in the same location on his skull, more so than any of the others, which the police later told me made them think the killer (or killers) had some sort of vendetta against him personally. But the truth is that I only struck him more times because he was bigger, and it just seemed like it should take more to kill him quickly and, of course, "mercifully".<br />
<br />
Well, it seems Mark, the man, did not die right away either, though by all rights he certainly should have. I remember seeing the dogs again only once before I left. They were sniffing around the man's head (their former "master"?) at all the blood that had quickly puddled there, which I was careful to step around as I made one last walk through the house before leaving with my prize: the two youngest children. But the crime scene photos showed Mark lying in a different position than the way I remember leaving him. It appears as though he regained consciousness at some point, and tried to get up from the floor, but couldn't because of the zip ties still on his hands and feet. It appeared from the photo that he fell back down onto the glass coffee table he was lying next to and smashed it in the process. Only his blood was found mixed with the glass, so no one else could have broken it - and by "no one else" I mean Slade, who actually survived long enough to re-enter the house after I left. But now I'm getting a little ahead of myself.<br />
<br />
After I though I had killed everyone I meant to kill, I returned outside to check on the children. They were both sitting up now, and clearly talking to someone in the direction of the side of the house where I had left the oldest boy for dead. When I got out the door and looked in the direction they were talking, I saw no one. But when I looked back at the children, I could see that they both had that terrified "I'm caught"-look on their face, which told me all I needed to figure out someone - though I still did not expect the other boy was still alive - <u>had</u> been there. So I ran quickly around the backside of the house, expecting to find some other unaccounted for person. And instead I found the older boy's body missing. That explained everything. (Actually, I still thought maybe the "mystery" person had moved the body, but that thought didn't last long...)<br />
<br />
I continued running around to the front of the house, hoping to catch whoever the children had been talking to. That's when I saw the boy I had left for dead standing now in the front yard. He was cognizant enough to realize the danger he was in, but when he saw me, he just froze in sheer terror. The look on his face haunts me to this day, which is why I don't like even thinking about it, much less writing about it. But, I feel I must. Even though this boy, Slade Groene, was such a bully in school that it is certain many other kids were relieved when they heard they would never see him again, in the end, when all his fears came true, and all his hopes were crushed, all he wanted was to "go home", back to where he felt safe, to be with his mother. In the end, he was the terrified child that he spent most of his life picking on and tormenting, and THAT is really all this blog, and life itself, is about - how we all become the very thing we fear and hate the most, the thing we judge and condemn, the thing we crucify by driving our nails into its heart. The "Fifth Nail" is the one that we drive into our own soul; it is the nail that destroys us, and causes us to be reborn at the same time. It is the apex of the cycle of life and death, judgment and condemnation. And here, this boy, Slade, was me. But, all I knew then was that he had to die, and die quickly.<br />
<br />
I stopped running when I saw him, but, without hesitation, I walked quickly to where he stood, and hit him with the hammer again several times in the head. But this time I hit him as he faced me, so he saw every blow coming. I felt I had no choice. He fell again, and this time I thought he was dead for certain. But he wasn't. Yet.<br />
<br />
I returned my attention to the younger children and walked quickly back to the other side of the house, the "backyard" proper, where I had left them. I picked up the girl first and carried her around the other side of the house to the dirt driveway where the pick-up was parked. I set her down on her feet next to the truck, and as I headed back to get the boy, I noticed her staring at something in the front yard. When I looked, I saw the teenage boy, Slade, once more on his feet. But, this time just staring at his little sister, eyes locked with hers, and not paying attention to me at all. I remember thinking he was dead but just didn't know it yet, so I continued on to the backyard to get the younger boy.<br />
<br />
I returned with the boy to the front yard and put both children, still bound hand and foot, in the bed of the truck. Then I got in, turned the ignition with no key, and the truck started. I drove out of the driveway and then around the field next to the Groene home and to the place where I had parked the Jeep. I then tore the duct-tape off the children and put them in the Jeep, down on the floor of the passenger seat area, and covered them with a blanket I had already prepared. Then I backed the Jeep out onto the paved road and, as one last measure, I got out and scraped away the Jeep's tire tracks from the dirt road.<br />
<br />
In the end I made a completely "clean" getaway, and I knew it. I wore gloves the entire time, and left no prints on anything, not even the zip-ties or duct-tape. No one saw me or the Jeep at anytime near the Groene home, and nobody knew I was even in that part of the country. I drove the children to a secluded location more than a hundred miles away and in another state (which is why I am currently on Federal death row), and enjoyed their company, sexually and otherwise, for a full seven weeks before I decided to take the girl back to Coeur d'Alene and turn myself in after I had already killed her brother. But that's another story, and one that also needs to be told someday.<br />
<br />
After my arrest, I found out that Slade, the boy left for dead in the front yard, had managed to find his way back inside the house. Blood smears on the front door showed he tried that first, but it was locked. Then he found his way to the back door and went first to his room where he apparently climbed into bed (his bed was found covered with his blood) and then back out to the living room where he placed a blanket under his mother's head and then died next to her.<br />
<br />
I don't feel bad about killing anyone. But that doesn't mean I don't feel bad about the way they died. I would gladly die the way Slade, or any of the people I killed died. But doing so wouldn't change anything, and it wouldn't stop it from happening again. The only thing that can stop this insanity is for all of us to realize what the Fifth Nail is, and stop judging and condemning ourselves so senselessly (by judging and condemning each other).<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>The only cure for crime is love.</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><i>Everything else is just more crime.</i></b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
[J.D. April 15, 2018] </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-88319750983846438342017-11-13T08:57:00.002-08:002018-01-02T16:20:43.615-08:00Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": WTMI!After being accepted into the Western State (Mental) Hospital "SP" (sexual psychopath) treatment program at the age of seventeen (the first "juvenile" ever admitted to the "adult" sex offender program), Duncan was given regular member status and limited privileges, such as being able to walk around the ward alone (and hence shower and shit alone as well for the first time in months). More privileges were to be earned with each "step" completed, all the way up to step 10, which was "outpatient" status (step 9 was "work release", step 8 allowed you to walk the hospital grounds alone, step 4 is "escort" status where you could assume "security" and "leadership" responsibilities, and step 5 was "senior member" status, etc. etc.). The first four steps took the longest and were by far the most difficult to accomplish. The highest step Duncan achieved before he "refused treatment" and was sent to prison was step 5 ("senior member" status). He was nineteen when that happened.<br />
<br />
Newly accepted member were expected to apply for step 1 after they came back from court. Each "step" requires a group vote and therapist's approval. The first step required members to demonstrate "responsible" sexual behavior patterns, be able to identity and begin circumventing "outlet" behavior and thinking patterns, and to write a detailed "sexual autobiography". (Remember, a regular autobiography was completed and voted on by the group as part of the three-month (OBS" evaluation period before being accepted into the program. The "sexual AB" focused exclusively on all sexual behavior, from earliest childhood memories up to and through the "outlet" (crime) behavior that landed the "SP" in "treatment").<br />
<br />
The sexual AB would then be expanded upon and analyzed over the course of the next several steps in the program. Personal behavior and thought patterns would be teased out with the group's help, and then a system of "stop signs and controls" would be developed and implemented as a means of controlling one's "deviant" sexual behavior. (The idea was to be able to recognize personal "stop sign" behavior and thoughts, and then "control" one's behavior long before "outlet" is even considered; that's the "idea".) This mean that the "SP" (Espease) spent a lot of time in group meetings listening to and discussing each other's "deviant" sexual behavior in great detail. This was the primary mode of "treatment".<br />
<br />
For Duncan, having almost no sexual experience to speak of (or write about for the program), this meant exposure to more sexual exploits than even the most randy and precocious teenager could even imagine. On a daily basis he was saturated (usually under significant psychological stress caused by lack of sleep and intense peer pressure to behave and even <u>think</u> "responsibly" according to strict rules and codes of conduct that would put most "boot camps" to shame) with constant sexual scenarios from simple fleeting voyeurism to violent and even homicidal rape. Duncan thus became very familiar with not only his own sexual thoughts and behavior, but everyone else's as well, which was required and expected so each member in the program could "police" the others and make sure "controls" were being constantly applied, and "confronting" anyone's behavior that even hinted at "uncontrolled" thought.<br />
<br />
Here is a taste of what Duncan learned in "treatment". Lonnie liked little girls. He was a quiet but friendly "Teddy-bear" of a man who repeatedly "molested" his step-daughter (from age eight to eleven perhaps), and her friends on occasion. He would pretend to be passed out drunk on the couch when she had friends over and then his step-daughter, per his prior instructions, would get her friends to fondle and masturbate him while he pretended to remain comatose. One of her friend's spilled the beans and Lonnie was arrested for daring to have his pleasure with little girls.<br />
<br />
Robin was a rapist, technically; though he never quite fit in with the "rapist clique". He was a small dark-haired man with a very weak-chin that he kept self-consciously hidden behind a thick black goatee and heavy mustache (at least he did until one day the group demanded that he "quit hiding" and shave; he walked away - or "escaped" - from the program shortly after that). He once super-glued a woman's hands to the floor in a dry-cleaner's business he robbed, and then raped her doggy-style while she was thus immobilized, as an after thought.<br />
<br />
James was the next youngest member in the group after Duncan, about five years older. He was a high-school track star; popular, athletic, and good-looking, and a vanilla rapist. He got caught and made an example of for raping a girl who tried to steal him away from his girlfriend. These days it's called "date rape", but that term didn't exist yet back then, so James was just a 22-year-old who'd now be a "sexual psychopath" for the rest of his life for just trying to be "cool".<br />
<br />
Mike liked little babies. Or at least that's what he was in the "SP" program for. His girlfriend caught him masturbating naked on the floor while performing cunnilingus on her one-year-old. You'd never guess this if you met him. He was a tall and "ruggedly handsome" cowboy type. He was the only "child molester" who hung out with the "rapist clique" in the group.<br />
<br />
Rick was your garden variety twinky lover. He was one of the very few "patients" in the program who did not have a prison sentence hanging over his head. His "outlet" was consensual sex with an under-aged (15-year-old) boy. He was charged with something like indecent exposure, so all he got was jail time that he had already served. So if he didn't complete the program he'd go back to jail, but only long enough to see a judge, then he'd be released on probation. And that's presumably what happened after he got caught in the shower having sex with Don.<br />
<br />
Don "raped" his younger sister; at least that's what he was charged with. Actually it too was consensual, but because he was over 18, and she was only 14, it was legally considered child rape. Don was no rapist, but he did enjoy sex just about any way he could get it, including with his own horse (he grew up on a farm and had his own mare). Unlike Rick, Don went to prison for over ten years, for having sex in the shower with Rick. After Don got out of prison, he contracted AIDS and died relatively young.<br />
<br />
Dave was at step 10 ("outpatient" status) when I arrived at the program, so I only met him a few times when he came in for his final discharge meetings. He was "high up" in the Roman Catholic church, and was an extremely arrogant homosexual pedophile who got caught molesting church boys (of course). And get this, after he completed the program, he went right back to serving the Catholic church and boasted at his last treatment group meeting that he was even to be promoted to some sort of regional "archdeacon" or something. Duncan was the only member in the group who voted "no" on Dave's final discharge request, not that anyone cared because he was only an OBS at the time. But he voted no because he felt Dave was the phoniest person he'd ever met and couldn't believe how blinded the rest of the group was by his religious clout; Duncan was not impressed.<br />
<br />
Duncan was more impressed by the one "serial killer" in his treatment group named Jim. Jim killed for the first time when he was still a preteen (eleven or twelve, maybe). He killed a much younger neighbor girl because she irritated him by asking him to play with her all the time. Jim had been badly scarred as a young child when his mother either spilled or threw boiling water in his face. His mother lost custody, and Jim was being raised by his adult older sister at the time he took the neighbor girl into the woods and stabbed her repeatedly with a fillet knife. His sister found his bloody clothes in the dirty clothes hamper and turned him in to the police after the girl's body was found.<br />
<br />
Because of his age Jim could only be held until he turned 21 by the juvenile system. At that time he was actively recruited by the Army, and received special training (that he was not permitted to disclose, not even in "treatment") on how to kill people in all sorts of ways, including his bare hands. He later used this training in a series of rapes, where he would subdue the female victim. Because of the level of violence involved with Jim's "outlet" (crimes) only "senior members" were permitted to attend meetings where he "disclosed" or otherwise discussed his crimes. And because Duncan was only a senior member for a short time before he ultimately refused treatment he only sat in on one or two such "senior member only" meetings for Jim's layouts. In one of these meetings Jim disclosed a murder he had committed but never got caught for where he literally snapped a man's neck just so he could grab and rape the man's bikini clad girlfriend. Jim was a very intense man, short but stalky with blond hair and piercing blue eyes that made the burn scar that covered one whole side of his face all the more stark. He was one of the SP program's big "success" stories (yes, a known serial killer who never got "caught" for murder, but did get "caught" and "successfully treated" for rape). Jim received his final discharge and successful completion of his "treatment" around the time Duncan was getting repeatedly raped in prison for having refused any further "treatment". Duncan spent over seventeen and a half years lock up for making another boy suck his dick in the woods, while Jim spent less than four years getting away with murder.<br />
<br />
"I don't hate Jim," Duncan says. "I hate the system, that convicted me for rape, and then sent me to prison to be raped after filling my head with so much confusing garbage."<br />
<br />
It took Duncan decades to even begin to sort out the madness he was subjected to in the name of "Justice" and "rehabilitation" while he was still just a "kid" himself. To this very day he is still trying to figure it out, but given his current predicament --- that is being on death row for numerous sex murders --- he's not holding out much hope for coming to any real understanding soon.<br />
<br />
"The world is insane, not me," Duncan says. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-44818669646726400012017-06-11T10:07:00.002-07:002017-06-11T10:07:48.885-07:00Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": OBS Status<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8NdTWSP4OJtgz3i89dLDq_RTPrpWzdRyflVnE0jM5socvBN8l5s2WP85GAVwuFaXe_hSlr8oqCCBzEkqTq52EJ8Bf1tlkL7VaxpQfurzxXQsYCmo-EB6xjXJSjxLamgRdXu2C3fDy0Q/s1600/WSH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="986" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8NdTWSP4OJtgz3i89dLDq_RTPrpWzdRyflVnE0jM5socvBN8l5s2WP85GAVwuFaXe_hSlr8oqCCBzEkqTq52EJ8Bf1tlkL7VaxpQfurzxXQsYCmo-EB6xjXJSjxLamgRdXu2C3fDy0Q/s320/WSH.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When I first arrived at the Western State (mental) Hospital (WSH) Sexual (SP) "Treatment" program in the summer of 1980, I was hopeful, but not scared. I had no reason to be scared. The ward where they took me was clean and "mental-hospital-pleasant". There were other "patients" (SPs) wandering about busily, but only a couple of nurses. Everyone seemed friendly and welcoming. Even the head nurse, an obese, very business-like, middle-aged woman, took a liking to me right off because of my age. I was just a "kid" (freshly 17), literally the first and only juvenile ever admitted into the program, which was only several years old itself at the time: a new program based on an experimental treatment model that was still in the process of being expanded and adapted to the needs of the state (i.e. "institutionalized").<br />
<br />
I was eager to get the "help" I needed to "get better", which all the adults in my life had been promising me was what was going to happen, and this was where. I still felt like a "kid", though, and most of the people I met still treated me like a kid (no doubt because of the way I looked and acted, insecure and still submissive to the "authority" of adulthood). It wasn't until I got to prison a few years later that I finally started accepting the other adults around me as my peers, and they were all prisoners and convicted criminals, of course.<br />
<br />
The adults here at WSH were also convicted criminals, but preferred to call themselves "patients", or just "SPs". As soon as I arrived (directly from jail) and the police escort removed the cuffs I was paired up with two other SPs from the treatment group that I had been assigned to ("Aquarius Group"). There were two groups on the ward I was on (the "basement ward", which sat "in" the ground several feet but not quite beneath it), and then three more groups on a ward above us (the main "SP" ward), then two more in the "attic ward". Each group consisted of about 20 SPs (no women) and one "therapist". The therapist in my group was Gary "Mike" Shepherd, a hairy, fat man with thick-framed glasses, black hair, and beard. I met him on the first day, too, in his office, alone, where he presented himself in a very father "I'm-here-to-help-you-so-you-can-trust-me"-sort of way. I drank it all down eagerly, exactly as told, and believed it would all be "good for me". Why wouldn't I? I still had a lot of very hard lessons to learn, and "Mike" ended up being one of the hardest.<br />
<br />
I was told that I had yet to be "accepted" for treatment. First, I had to undergo a three-month "OBS"-period. "OBS" was short for "observation". Everyone who came into the program began as an "OBS", and then progressed from step 1 to step 10, with each step granting more and more privileges (from being able to walk around the ward without being escorted - step 1 - to living and working back in the community - step 10), and denoted another "step" in treatment progress. And an SP could move forward and backwards in steps, as determined by group-votes and therapist-approval. It was even possible for a senior member (step 5 or above) to be denoted back to "OBS" status if they exhibited behavior that brought their "amenability to treatment" into question.<br />
<br />
There were two questions that had to be affirmed before I could be "accepted for treatment": Was I a "Sexual Psychopath?" And: Was I "amenable to treatment?" The first question was a given, since everyone who came to the program was there for committing a sex crime that automatically made them a "sexual psychopath". But, for the court record, the program had a small set of criteria that it used to legally establish that a person was a "psychopath" and therefor subject to "treatment" rather than "punishment" (incarceration). The primary part of the criteria was the sex crime, but another important piece was an "established deviant sexual behavior pattern". So every OBS patient was required to write a detailed 50+ page autobiography that emphasized the sexual relationships/behavior in their life. The entire group (each member) was then required to read and comment on the "AB", and vote on whether or not it was an acceptable effort.<br />
<br />
My AB was initially rejected because several members of the group felt that it did not talk enough about my sexual experiences. In essence, there was no clear "deviant sexual behavior pattern". My "crime" was not the culmination of a clearly evolving pattern of behavior that all "SPs" exhibited. Instead, it was a sporadic event, among other sporadic sexual events, that did not seem to relate to or derive from earlier events (see notes). In other words, they could not find a pattern to my sexual behavior, and therefor, according to program logic, I must be being dishonest and insincere about my desire to receive "treatment" for my problem.<br />
<br />
This was the first time, and certainly not the last, that I experienced an intense fear of not being accepted by the program and consequently sent to prison where I would be repeatedly beaten and raped (as I was so often told would happen and in fact eventually DID happen 😕). So I re-wrote my AB with more sexual details, some of which I actually embellished (without being completely dishonest), according to what I was told would be "acceptable". I admitted, for example, that when I was six, and the older girls took me beneath the stairs and made me kiss their "pee-pees", that I got a "thrill" from the experience. And this the "beginning" of my "sexual deviancy" was made "clear" (for the official report to the court).<br />
<br />
At the time, I was too naïve to even understand what a facade was, but if I had, then I would have realized that the entire "pleasant-and-friendly" demeanor of the program was just a viciously enforced front that concealed a kind of "quiet desperation" that made Henry David Thoreau's aphorism (~ "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song still inside them.") seem benign by comparison. Every member of the program feared going to prison, and that fear was compelled onto every other member through a formal system of "confrontations" that would have made the Nazis proud. Every SP was required to carry a pad and pencil on them at all times, so that if anyone (another SP, staff, or even a visitor) "confronted" them, they could - and were required to - write it down so it could be "addressed in group" at the next meeting. Every meeting we had as a group took time to address everyone's confrontations. OBS-members invariably had the most (several per day), whereas senior members commonly could go for months with none.<br />
<br />
A typical "confrontation" might be for "manipulating" or "minimizing". For example, if I asked someone in the T.V. room (where we could take our smoke breaks during a typical meeting), "Can you spare a smoke?" - the response would most likely be, "I'm confronting you for manipulating." And then you were expected to write down what you did and who "confronted" you, in your notebook, and then tell the group about it the next chance you got. The group would then explain to you that by asking if they could "spare a smoke", instead of asking for what you really wanted directly (i.e. "Can I have one of your cigarettes="), you were attempting to manipulate them in order to get what you really wanted. This, accordingly, was dishonest and an early step in the process of manipulation that ultimately lead to "outlet" behavior (i.e. sex crimes). The idea of "treatment" was to learn to recognize such manipulations (of self and others) as "stop signs" that could then be used to circumvent the deviant behavior pattern (i.e. "control" it). And if you insisted that you were "just asking for a smoke!" or you had more than one confrontation for the same thing, then a "treatment program" would be dictated and voted on by the group.<br />
<br />
These "treatment programs" could be literally anything the group thought would help you understand and "control" the problem-behavior. I once recommended that a man in our group carry a pillow with him at all times, and every time someone confronted him for "anger" (which happened for him several times a day), he was required to scream as loud as he could into the pillow. The group liked the suggestion and approved it (something that rarely happened for OBS members who made "treatment" suggestions). And it worked! The man told the group a few days later that he felt foolish for having to carry the pillow, the foolishness he felt by doing so made him realize just how foolish his anger was, and he rarely got confronted for his anger again after that. Usually, though, the "treatments" consisted of "sub-meetings" on the problem-behavior.<br />
<br />
A "sub-meeting" was a group of three or four group members (or sometimes members from other groups) that would meet during precious "free time" (thus serving as a deterrent as well) to discuss the problem-behavior. Then the SP would report back to the group on what he learned. Most "Treatment Plans" involved one sub-group, but could entail as many sub-groups on as many subjects as the group felt was necessary.<br />
<br />
Treatment plans voted on by the group could also entail losing steps, or privileges, and of course even being placed back on OBS-status, so the man would have to prove all over from the start that he was "amenable", and then work his way up through each step all over again. The only thing worse than getting put back on OBS-status again was getting found "not amenable" and hence voted out of the program. Less than half of the OBS' who came to be evaluated, were initially accepted (found "amenable"), and then less than half of those who were initially accepted actually made it all the way to step 10 ("out patient" status) and completed the program. So there was constant pressure on everyone to "behave correctly" and not get "confronted" because that was the only way to prove that you were exercising your knowledge of "stop signs" and "controls" and hence progress through the program. At least, that was the theory.<br />
<br />
In reality, it all became a manipulative game of the sort that would make the Devil himself blush (with pride, I suppose). Since there was never any real way to NOT manipulate other people (even simply asking for a cigarette at all could be declared "manipulative") in just ordinary social interaction, it became a game where, if you wanted to advance (to the next step), then you had to earn what was currently considered "manipulation" by the group - and in particular the most "respected" members in the group, who were those favored by the therapist (for manipulative reasons all his own that I hope to be able to explain in a coming post for this blog) - and try to convince everyone that you were not "manipulative".<br />
<br />
And I took this game very seriously. In fact, for me (and most other SPs in the program), it wasn't a game at all. I sincerely became convinced that certain things were "manipulative" while others weren't. In other words, I learned the "rules", even when they made absolutely no sense to me at all, and honestly believed that by doing so, I was "getting better" (i.e. "treatment"). A good example of how I helped them twist up my own mind so much that it took years for me to even realize how twisted it was (and I'm still trying to UN-twist it to this day!) was the time I got confronted in group (called "a line of concern") for "sniffing butane" from a lighter. The SP who called the "line" (for short) was the same one who confronted me some time later because I playfully kissed his hand (pretending to be a mermaid - see: <a href="http://5nconfessions.blogspot.com/2010/09/mermaid-sex-offender.html?zx=44f90156c770c25e" target="_blank">"The Mermaid Sex Offender"</a>) in the hospital's swimming pool. He watched me constantly, and saw me holding the lighter to my nose and clicking the gas valve over and over. He thought I was trying to get high (which is impossible with butane), but all I was doing was absentmindedly "puffing" the butane onto the skin of my nose between the nostrils where the skin was sensitive enough to feel the small cool puff of gas each time I pressed the lever. I was amusing myself by the novelty of the fact that each time I pressed the lever, there was a burst of gas strong enough to actually feel on my skin. When the "line" got called on me, and the other SP (who was in the program for having sex with under-aged "twinks" like me) explained what the line of concern was for, I relaxed, because I thought, "No problem, I'll just explain what I was doing." But, when I tried to explain I TOLD that I was "romanticizing drugs", and fantasizing about getting high. At first I denied it, and insisted that I wasn't romanticizing anything (since I wasn't even "thinking about" what I was doing) and I wasn't fantasizing about getting high because I had never snorted or "huffed" drugs to get high before, so I wouldn't even know how to "fantasize" doing so. But the group insisted, and predictably implied that if I remained "in denial" (unable to accept <u>their</u> version of what was going on in <u>my</u> mind), then that would mean I was not amenable to treatment. And since I was still on OBS status at the time, this was a very serious threat. But I couldn't just lie and tell them what they wanted to hear either. I had to be able to regurgitate the garbage they wanted me to believe in a way that convinced them that that was what I really believed. And the only way a naïve 17-year-old could do that, in a room full of expert and seasoned manipulators, was to actually convince myself that they were "right", and I was "wrong". And so I learned how to manipulate myself into believing almost anything, no matter how badly it contradicted what I directly experienced. And the way I did that was by convincing myself - at the behest of the group itself - that there were "unconscious" realms in my mind where anything can be true. And so, indeed, I <u>was</u> "romanticizing drugs" and fantasizing about getting high (unconsciously); and later on I <u>DID</u> in fact try to "molest" that twinky-loving pedophile in the swimming pool (only pretending consciously to be a mermaid while, unconsciously, my mind was working furiously to manipulate that poor man into having sexual desires for me). And thus my "treatment" commenced.<br />
<br />
I was found to be a "sexual psychopath", and "amenable to treatment" at the end of the initial three-month OBS-period. So, after a brief return to jail, to be formally "sentenced" to the program, I was accepted as a regular group member, all the while still relatively excited about finally getting the "help" I needed. I was actually pretty happy there, despite the strange games and intense pressure to remain "amenable". For the first time in my life, I had "friends" whom I could confide in about anything! So I had access to more information than I ever thought I would ever need. In fact, quite literally, it was too much information - WTMI! (<u>Way</u> Too Much Information!), which I will try to explain in the next post I write for this blog ("Confessions"):<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>--- Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": WTMI! ---</b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
[J.D. May 21, 2017]</div>
<br />
<br />
Notes:<br />
(I) Many years later, I learned that juvenile "sex offenders" in fact do not exhibit the expected "pattern" of deviant sexual behavior found in all adult offenders. Their "offenses" are almost universally the result of poor judgement and misinformation. As a result, juvenile "sex offender" are far less likely to "re-offend" even with the most rudimentary "treatment", with the exception of juveniles that are incarcerated for their crime. Incarcerated juveniles show the same recidivism rates as adult "sex offenders". This is based on numerous studies, and to me it is a clear indication that far more "juveniles" commit "sex crimes" than our system currently assumes. But, the vast majority of these "offenders" never get "caught" and end up "adjusting" their behavior before they become "repeat offenders" and thus establishing the typical "adult deviant sexual behavior pattern" that most psych doctors like to ignorantly boast is the "identifying characteristic" of adult sex offenders. That's like saying that all strong men exhibit a pattern of weight lifting; it's just rhetorical nonsense. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-26384720136859533992017-03-23T15:32:00.001-07:002017-03-24T22:18:22.027-07:00Ward "W" - An Intro To Madness<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu372s_N3e_RHsYn5Nt4DofBFYG9v0BUgO49rHL2s06E3tDZaaby9cBwgUl9fD-2veDekvUrCl8PGKaq9mnkvh1-rU2km2us2tlXHIoSgMydDlC1hnc-JvXYOMyt8Ov4jZTDR0QAa8UqE/s1600/Skriket%252C+Edvard+Munch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu372s_N3e_RHsYn5Nt4DofBFYG9v0BUgO49rHL2s06E3tDZaaby9cBwgUl9fD-2veDekvUrCl8PGKaq9mnkvh1-rU2km2us2tlXHIoSgMydDlC1hnc-JvXYOMyt8Ov4jZTDR0QAa8UqE/s320/Skriket%252C+Edvard+Munch.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Skrik" (Edvard Munch, 1893)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After several months in juvenile detention, and a psych evaluation meant to determine how "mature" I was, I was "declined" to "adult status" and transferred to the Pierce County Jail in downtown Tacoma, WA. At the very fresh age of 17, I would now face criminal charges as an adult for rape, burglary, kidnapping, and assault.<br />
<br />
In jail, they kept me in a cell by myself, isolated from other prisoners, and with a big sign on the door that read, "Juvenile / No Tobacco". Shortly after I got there, I started banging on my cell door and yelling at the guards to let me use a phone to call my mom. When a guard came and opened the cell door, I thought he was going to talk to me. Instead, he promptly smacked me (open-handed) so hard in the face that the blow literally knocked me on my ass. He then yelled, "You ain't in 'juvie' no more, punk! Stop banging on the door!" I was dumbfounded, but remained quiet from then on.<br />
<br />
My father came to visit and asked me if I wanted him to bail me out or hire a lawyer - he couldn't afford both. Actually, he couldn't afford either, and ended up filing bankruptcy, so he never paid the lawyer he hired, John Ladenburg; a name I still strangely enough remember since I only met him once outside of a few very short court hearings. He was later elected District Attorney, so maybe that's why I remember him.<br />
<br />
Ladenburg came to see me once at the jail. He asked me one question: "Did you do it?" I told him I did, and that I had confessed. He then put the papers he had with him back into an expensive-looking briefcase (which I also clearly remember, along with his expensive-looking suit), told me he'd be in touch, and left.<br />
<br />
The next time I saw him was in court for a hearing to order a mental evaluation at "WSH" (Western State Mental Hospital).<br />
<br />
A few days after the hearing, I was transported in the back of a van with one other prisoner to WSH. The other prisoner was going "home", as he put it, back to one of the "wards" for non-violent criminally insane. He seemed pretty "normal" to me, and after I bummed a cigarette from him, a "Kool" as I clearly remember, he even gave me the remaining nearly full pack to take with me, because he could easily get more once he got "back home", which he seemed very happy about.<br />
<br />
In hindsight, I can understand easily why he might have been so happy to be going back to the hospital. WSH was a very pleasant place to live. Even Ward "W", the "Intake and Observation Ward", where I was taken for the court-ordered psych evaluation, was very "nice" by any standard of incarceration. It was on the top floor of a five story old red-brick building at the back of the sprawling hospital campus. It was one of the few "closed" wards at the hospital, which only meant that the single entrance door was kept locked and none of the patients were allowed to leave (unless discharged).<br />
<br />
I was escorted inside and told to sit in a chair against a wall of the main entrance hall after the handcuffs were removed. I was left alone there until one of the nurses had time to come process me in.<br />
<br />
As I sat there, taking in my surroundings, a young and fairly attractive female patient shuffled down the hall towards me from the main day-room area. She suddenly stopped directly in front of me and turned to face me, then asked me in a distinctly sing-song voice, "Can I have a cigarette?"<br />
<br />
She had seen the pack of "Kool" I was holding, that the other prisoner/patient had just given me. I said, "Sure", and gave her one, lit it for her, and then, without another word, she shuffled off back towards the day-room. I soon learned the hospital parlance for the way she walked, by shuffling her feet, was called the "Thorazine shuffle". Like many of the patients on Ward "W", she was heavily sedated at all times. I also learned that she had killed her "boyfriend" by stabbing him more than fifty times with a steak knife. I consequently did not seek out her company or conversation the rest of the time I was there.<br />
<br />
The person who "educated" me about her was another patient a few years older than myself. We were the youngest ones there. He had been admitted for evaluation by his parents for possible admission (permanently) to the hospital because of the constant hallucinations he "suffered". I don't remember his name, but I do remember that he always called me "Mr. V." from the first day we met. When I asked him why, he acted surprised. "Don't you know?" he said. Then he explained that I was plainly (to him) a "vampire". He said he could see my fangs and, at night, he watched me change into a bat and fly out of the window to go meet with other vampires. He also told me, in the same conversation, about a "magic wand" that was attached to his belly that made him do things, sometimes "bad" things. So, I didn't give much credence to the whole "vampire" thing. Years later, though, I came to realize that, somehow, he was able to "see" truths" <b>visually </b>that most people couldn't even comprehend <b>mentally</b>. I have long since had genuine respect for so-called "schizophrenics".<br />
<br />
I spent most of the two weeks I spent there hanging out with him, playing chess in the day-room, or watching T.V. in the T.V.-room, or sometimes playing ping-pong in the game-room. The ward had its own small chow-hall where pretty darn good food was served off special hot-serving carts that came from the main kitchen. The overall atmosphere on the ward was airy and pleasant. It was co-ed (obviously), but most of the male patients ranged from completely catatonic to, well... We slept in dorms; one large main dorm for the males, and another smaller down for the females (except one woman, whose bed was in the day-room, so she couldn't kill herself).<br />
<br />
One day, while my schizo-friend and I were in the game-room looking out the windows at the parks and trees and going-ons below (another favorite pastime), one of the "shufflers" came shuffling in, which caught both me and my friend's attention, because we were used to seeing this one just going in circles around the day-room. It was very odd to see him venture so far from his normal route, and he seemed to be on a mission as well.<br />
<br />
And it turned out that he was on a mission. As he shuffled past the ping-pong-table, he picked up a paddle without even seeming to notice he had done so, and then he continued directly to a nearby window (three of the walls in the game-room were all windows, making it very sunny during the day) and nonchalantly broke one of the panes with the handle of the ping-pong-paddle, again barely seeming to even notice what he was doing and not even pausing or anything to contemplate what was happening.<br />
<br />
He continued past the window, and then around the other side of the ping-pong-table, replacing the paddle on the table again as he passed, and then proceeded back out of the game-room. Out of curiosity, I decided to follow him - at a "safe distance, of course - to see what else "interesting" he might do. He made a shuffling bee-line to the nurse's station in the day-room, and I overheard him tell the nurse simply and with no inflection, "I broke a window in the game-room." I saw the nurse come out of the nurse's station and head towards the game-room, presumably to inspect the damage. But, I didn't want to risk getting involved, as a "witness" or otherwise, so I continued on my own to the T.V. room - which was in the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
A little while later, when I ventured back through the day-room, I noticed the window-breaker doing his usual shuffle around in circles in the day-room, clearly in a deep stupor again. It seemed his "mission" (to get more Thorazine) was a success.<br />
<br />
The only other patient I spoke to on occasion was an older (middle-aged) black man. We played chess sometimes in the day-room. He told me plainly that he was "scamming" the system to get out of prison. But, even then, I wondered if his "scam" was just part of his delusional thinking. He didn't seem very "rational" to me. One day in the T.V.-room, he pulled out his dick and asked me if I wanted to suck it. I didn't want to, but, just to be "nice", I pulled out my dick and offered it to him in kind. This made him instantly enraged. He said, "I ain't no fucking fag!", which only confused me. If he wasn't a fag, then why did he want me to suck his dick? I had lots to learn!<br />
<br />
I remember waking up in the dorm sometime later that same night - with him on top of me, and on top of the blankets, dry-humping my butt. He wasn't hurting me, or making me uncomfortable, so I let him do his thing and then, after he finished, I just went back to sleep and thought nothing of it. I was more than used to that sort of behavior at this point in my life.<br />
<br />
I met a couple of times with a doctor ("shrink") in one of the small offices there on the ward. I don't remember the conversations, though. But the "psych evaluation" was completed and I was returned to the juvenile isolation cell back at the old Pierce County Jail (I mention that this was the "old" jail, because the entire jail was <u>in</u> the city-county building, occupying only a few floors. They have long since built an entirely new jail in its own building next to the city-county building.). I even got "molested" while I was there, by a man in the cell next to mine, who liked reaching around to feel my ass through the bars at the back of the cell - yet, again, this was "normal" for me.<br />
<br />
Ladenburg used the "psych evaluation" to convince a judge that I was "mature" enough to be evaluated for treatment at the "Sexual Psychopath Treatment Program" ("SP program"), also at WSH. So, I was returned to the hospital several weeks later for the SP program's "observation" for three months, to determine if I was "treatable". If Ward "W" was my intro to madness, then the SP program was the core curriculum, and then some!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">[J.D. March 16, 2017] </span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-80881024078947367942017-02-07T15:09:00.000-08:002017-04-01T15:42:45.759-07:00Juvenile Incarceration – The Training BeginsAfter I was arrested, at the age of 15, for failure to appear in court after stealing a car and running from the police, I was taken to «Raymann Hall» (Juvenile Detention Center) in Tacoma, WA. There I was placed in the downstairs «general population» area with other boys, and girls (the girls slept in a separate dorm but mingled with the boys in the common areas during the day).<br />
<br />
My first night was spent in segregation, though, because of a book of matches they found in the coin pocket of my pants after a visit with my mom. I honestly did not know the matches were even there (they returned my clothes to me without searching them very well after I was admitted). As I laid down contemplating the unfairness of it all, the bunk I was lying on started thumping a half inch or so up and down. It seemed the boy in the cell next door was jumping up and down on his bunk, which was bolted to my bunk through the wall. So I stood on my bunk and looked through a crack between the cells where the wall met the windows, and I could see him bouncing in the window.<br />
<br />
I asked him what he was doing and he told me he was putting on a «show» for the girls in the dorm across the court yard out the window. When I looked I saw several girls crowded in one of the large dorm-room windows in the wing across the way. They were taking turns lifting their shirts and exposing their breasts. The boy next to me was exposing an erection in turn.<br />
<br />
I don't remember if I exposed myself as well, but I probably did (it would have been the «natural» thing to do). I also don't recall if I could actually see the boy next to me through the crack exposing himself to the girls, the whole experience was brand new for me, and strangely liberating. I did not know such behavior could be accepted (among kids), and of course it thrilled me.<br />
<br />
The next day I was put back in regular population and spent my days interacting with the other boys mostly (for the most part, the girls hung out together, as did they boys, much like high school), and at night we showered together and slept in dorm rooms with about five to ten other boys each. Other than the «exposing» incident on my first night, there were no other «sexual» situations that I recall. I got along okay with the other boys and «fit in» without trouble.<br />
<br />
I was charged with numerous criminal traffic violations, failure to appear, and «assault with a deadly weapon on an officer of the law» in the first degree. The assault charge was obviously the most serious, and surprising. I didn't «assault» anyone! But, the police claimed that I tried to run over the state trooper when I ran the road block, and that the car I was driving was the «deadly weapon».<br />
<br />
Of course the real reason for such a serious charge was to justify in their sacred record the fact that the state trooper tried to kill me, and very nearly did, when he fired his 12-gauge point blank at my head (and only missed by inches because I was moving about 40 mph when he fired!)<br />
<br />
The court appointed lawyer made a plea deal to drop all charges except the assault, and reducing the assault to «second degree». This got me a suspended sentence with probation on the grounds that I be placed in a «group home» for «delinquent» boys (this was back before they started using the term «at risk» like they do today, but it was the same concept).<br />
<br />
I was sent to Dyslin's Boys Ranch, in a semi-rural district near Tacoma. They raised cows there (mostly) and a few other farm animals on several fenced-in acres. The ranch was divided into two parts where the kids lived. The main part was called the «Front Ranch». That was where I went first. It was primarily for boys under 14 or 15 years old (pre-high-school).<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Jessie Dyslin Boys' Ranch, Tacoma, WA.</span></h3>
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The main building was just an ordinary single-story «ranch house», but with extra large common areas (kitchen, dining, living and bathroom) and a long hall/wing of bedrooms for the boys, two boys to each room, about 18 boys total. I was give one of the rooms at the far end of the hall. I don't recall if I had a room mate or not. I do remember clearly that even though I was in very intimate proximity for extended periods with a lot of younger boys, I had no sexual desires or interests in them. This is significant because, less than a year later, I «raped» a boy two years younger than me, and in «treatment» for that rape I was convinced (brainwashed, literally) into believing that my «sexual deviancy» was long-lived. The «treatment» program ignored the significance of my non-sexual proclivities while I was at the boys' ranch, and instead focused on the much earlier incidents of childhood sexual curiosity as «evidence» of my prolonged «deviance». So, it wasn't until many years later, after spending years in prison for the so-called «rape» (I made the younger boy take his clothes off and put my dick in his mouth for a few seconds, but did not even know how to tell him to pleasure me; I was still «experimenting» sexually).<br />
<br />
There was one incident that occurred while I was at Dyslin's that had a major impact on my sexual behavior after I went back home to live with my mother. But that did not occur until I got to the «Back Ranch» where the older high-school-aged boys stayed, and it did not involve anyone actually at the ranch, boys or staff. But, I'll get to that in a moment.<br />
<br />
I learned after my arrest in 2005 (25 years later) that there actually was a lot of «sexual abuse» going on at the «Front Ranch» while I was there. The mitigation investigators for my death penalty cases uncovered numerous criminal and civil law cases against ranch staff for abuses that occurred there for many years, around the time I was there. My lawyers tried to get me to «admit» to any abuse I suffered while I was there, but I honestly never witnessed or even suspected such abuse. But then, I was still very naïve back then, so I would have had no reason to suspect anything even if I did see something «suspicious».<br />
<br />
The important thing for me, in hindsight, was that I clearly remember no sexual interest in «abusing» anyone myself while I was there. This became a kind of «touchstone» memory for me that helped me come to understand many year later how the System brainwashed me into believing I was «sick», «dangerous», and «deviant», when the truth was I was only confused by the many mixed signals I got from our very confused social system and culture (which I have since come to refer to as the «insanity» that <u>infected</u> me).<br />
<br />
I was only at the Front Ranch until there was an opening at the Back Ranch. The Back Ranch consisted of a main house (original old farm house) and two «cottages» where the boys slept. There were only four boys in each cottage, and each cottage had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and living area. It was actually a very comfortable arrangement. Two staff members, a married couple, lived in the main house were we went for meals. We even had an old outboard motorboat that we could take to a lake (with staff), and that was how I first learned to water-ski.<br />
<br />
I was required to attend summer «interim» classes at the local high school. I took, «chess». So, walked about a mile and a half to the school each weekday to play chess. Fun.<br />
<br />
We had a considerable amount of freedom. If we wanted to go someplace we were only required to get permission at the time, or basically just notify the live in staff, then go. There was an «Indian Smoke Shop» (Native American-owned and operated store that sold tax-free cigarettes for $4.50 a carton) about three or four miles up a nearby road (a straight shot), and since we were allowed to smoke (even though it was technically illegal for anyone under 18) the «Smoke Shop» was a frequent destination. But, since it was so far, we always hitchhiked once we got to the road that went there. The staff condoned the hitchhiking as well. And because we were kids, we never had a problem getting a ride.<br />
<br />
One day, on the way to the Smoke Shop, my room mate and I got a ride in the back of a canopied Chevy Luv pick-up truck. I remember this clearly because it ended up becoming much more than just a ride for cigarettes. The man driving the truck already had two boys around our age sitting in the front with him, which is why he told us to climb in the back. He drove us to the Smoke Shop, then offered us a ride back to the ranch even (he said he was familiar with the ranch and knew some of the other boys there). Of course we accepted and on the way back he offered us both money to come work at his gas station. My room mate became suspicious, but he didn't tell me why he was wary, so I accepted the offer and agreed to meet him the next day out on the road (away from the ranch) so he could take me to work.<br />
<br />
I told the staff the next day simply that I had a work for money offer and they did not pry. The man in his Chevy Luv met me on the road as promised and drove me to a gas station in Tacoma, about ten miles away. I remember it was a full service station, and he pulled his truck into one of the service bays and closed the garage door. All of the «attendants» at the station were boys my age or a little older. The man told me to put on some overalls so I wouldn't soil my clothes while I changed oil in his car. He insisted that I remove my clothes in the stead of the overalls, so I did. He didn't stick around to watch me change, so I honestly (innocently) assumed it was all for legitimate reasons. But in hindsight I can only assume he went somewhere where he could watch me change without being seen, because he came back as soon as I'd finished changing, and instead of having me change the oil on his pick-up --- which I assured him I did not know how to do --- he changed it himself, to «show me how».<br />
<br />
Then he said that since there wasn't much for me to do at the gas station he wanted me to come to his house and mow his lawn instead. He must have liked what he saw from wherever he was hiding when I stripped down to my underpants to put on the overalls. Anyway, I again innocently agreed. Though I was getting a little suspicious, I never felt scared or even worried.<br />
<br />
We drove about 15 miles to his, uh, «house» in a suburban residential area, only it wasn't a house at all, it was a large trailer-home. And his yard wasn't a lawn either. It was a dirt lot with nothing but rocks and weeds. So as soon as we pulled up I asked, «How can I mow this?» and he said, «Oh, I meant 'use the weed-whacker' on it.» But, he wanted me to come inside first for a «refreshment», ... of course.<br />
<br />
Inside he made me a cold drink, then asked if I wanted to play chess (I probably told him about my «interim» chess class, which is why he asked me to play a game with him). He set the board up on an ottoman and I sat on the floor on one side while he sat in a large leather lounge chair on the other. During the game, which it was clear to me at this point he had no interest in, he «suggested» that I might be more comfortable if I took my pants off. So I did. And yes, I realized what his real interests were by now also, but I didn't mind. People had been expressing this sort of «interest» in me all my life, so it was nothing new and certainly no surprise. So when he further suggested that I take off my underpants as well, I did not even hesitate. I just took them off, then went back to figuring out my next move on the chess board, boner and all.<br />
<br />
He didn't «molest» me right away. Instead he just talked about all sorts of strange and confusing things I'd never heard of before. He talked about how «lucky» I was that I met him instead of someone else who liked to «abuse» boys like me by burning them with cigarettes and such. He also told me he collected pictures of kids like me and asked if I'd mind if he took my picture. Of course I didn't. So he brought out a Polaroid camera and snapped a couple of pictures of me positioned on his sofa. And then he said he wanted to take more pictures in the woods. So we got back in the Chevy Luv and drove to a secluded area in some nearby woods. There, he told me to take off all my clothes and took several pictures of me with my arms above my head and stomach sucked in like he wanted.<br />
<br />
He «finished» by lying down on his back and having me bite his nipples, «harder, harder! Harder!» Then I felt something warm and wet against the side of my chest, and that was it. I got dressed, he drove me back to the road near the ranch, and most importantly --- to me at the time --- he paid me in cash for a full day's work, even though I was only with him for a few hours at the most. I was very pleased with myself.<br />
<br />
The encounter «woke up» or perhaps «placed» ideas into my head that in less than a year would violently and extremely effect the rest of my life. I have never blamed this man or what he did to me for my crimes; but there is an undeniable connection between what he did to me --- especially the «strange» things he said to me --- and what I ended up doing only six months later. It's hard to explain this connection, except to say that my experience with this man raised a lot of questions in me regarding human sexuality --- and MY sexuality. They were questions that I only knew one way to answer: experimentation. And that is exactly what my so-called early «crimes» were; an attempt to find answers to questions that I did not even know how to ask!<br />
<br />
As you might surmise, my experience at the Boys' ranch was teaching me that there were no real consequences for breaking the rules, or laws.<br />
<br />
The Smoke Shop also sold illegal fireworks in the parking lot for the Fourth of July. (It was legal for them to be sold on «Indian» property, but illegal to take them off property. So sometimes the cops would park just off property and ticket anyone they caught leaving with illegal fireworks --- and they were all illegal because they were sold without permits.) One day, a group of us boys from the Back Ranch (all four kids from our cottage) found ourselves at the Smoke Shop after dark and after the fireworks stands were closed up for the night. We took note of the guard as we left to head back to the ranch, but then we noticed a weakness in their security. The shacks with all the fireworks were built on loose dirt. So we snuck up behind the stand furthest away from the guard, who never left his chair, and dug a hole underneath the back plywood wall. Because I was the skinniest of the four of us I got elected to climb through and into the shack. Once inside I started grabbing hand fulls of the «best stuff» and tossing them into the hole. I also tossed out several paper bags so the boys on the other side could bag up what I threw into the hole for them to grab.<br />
<br />
We got away «clean» with several hundred dollars worth of fireworks, a bag load for each of us. We took the «back way» back to the ranch instead of hitchhiking, and when we got there we hid the fireworks... or, <u>I</u> hid the fireworks, again because I was the skinniest, underneath the cottage in the crawlspace. We ended up getting «busted» for having the fireworks, but by the time we got busted, there wasn't a lot left, and the staff had no idea it was actually stolen. They only admonished us for having «illegal Indian fireworks», which were against the rules at the ranch. But then they let us set off all we had left, under their «supervision» on the Fourth of July anyway.<br />
<br />
And this was all my «punishment» for stealing a car and running from the police (and supposedly «assaulting» an officer of the law with a «deadly weapon»). I was having a blast at the Ranch. I had never felt more «accepted» anywhere before. Now, I was not only accepted, but even appreciated! The ranch even got us summer jobs that paid minimum wage (about $5 per hour) after the «interim» classes were over (the jobs were part of a «Youth Summer Employment» initiative that was paid for with State funds, so the jobs were mostly «invented» since the «employer» didn't have to pay for them). My job was supposed to be washing dishes at the Madigan Army Medical Center (MAMC), the same hospital where I had been taken and stayed for a week after crashing that stolen car! But, the other workers there liked me, especially the cooks. So I got «promoted» on my first day to a «Cook V» («Cook Five»), or basically a cook-trainee.<br />
<br />
I really liked the job. Again, it made me feel very accepted and appreciated. I worked hard and I learned a lot. Of course I was the only «kid» working there. All the other employees were mostly retired military, and old women who couldn't get a job anywhere else. They all loved me, which I liked, even if I didn't understand why at the time (in hindsight, I'd guess it was because I was very respectful of my elders, and eager to learn; I also «soaked up» all the attention they gave me, which was more attention than I'd gotten anywhere before).<br />
<br />
There was only one other «Cook V». He was a mentally retarded man who lived with his mother. I even got along with him, though the «serving ladies» (older women) warned me to stay away from him. When I asked why (like they obviously wanted me to), they said, using a conspiratorial whisper, «Because he likes to let women pee on him!»<br />
<br />
Well, that was certainly strange, and of course it made no «sense» to my young ears. So, the first chance I got, I had to ask him. I got my chance quickly enough, while he and I were alone working together preparing Rubin sandwiches for the grill (or something). I just came right out and asked, «Do you like getting peed on?» And his eyes lit up with unrestrained excitement and he spoke with great pleasure in his voice, «Oh, yes! I love it!» But, he didn't explain, so I pried further, and he lit up my ears by happily explaining how he saved his money to pay women (he didn't call them prostitutes, though I'm sure that's what he meant) to pee on him. He had the body of a man, but the mind (mentality) of a nine-year-old, and it was enlightening, to say the least, to hear this boy-man speak so excitedly about getting peed on, and even paying women to do it!<br />
<br />
Sometimes, when we finished serving lunch and cleaning up early, I'd have an hour or so to kill before the ranch van came to pick me up and take me back to the ranch with the rest of the boys. So, I'd walk around the hospital, which was rather large and had its own PX (store), public pool and gym, and even a park and picnic area. It was at this park that my first real attempted «sex crime» occurred.<br />
<br />
I was relaxing at the park with time to kill one day when a young boy, maybe seven, approached me (I did not approach him or had any ideas about approaching him when I first saw him, which is important to note since it indicates how such ideas must «evolve» and do not just arise out of nowhere, or «someplace evil»). In those days (remember, this is the summer of 1979), it was not uncommon for a curious child, especially a boy, to be seen wandering around alone. There wasn't any less «stranger danger», as there is today, perhaps even more; but people just weren't as concerned about «perverts» back then as they are today, and if a little boy did get touched or kissed on his penis, it was no big deal, for the boy or the parents. So, when the boy approached me, he was just looking for someone to play with him, and because I was the only other «kid» around, he chose me.<br />
<br />
At first, I was distinctly disinterested in him. There was a girl my own age in the park also, and I had been talking to her. But she said she had to go home (there was a military housing area next to the hospital). So I was still thinking about her when the boy approached. And, somehow, my mind made a connection with girl-sex-man (from gas station)-boy, and I decided to lure the boy into the bushes, so I could pull his pants down and «experiment».<br />
<br />
I got the boy in the bushes, and tried to threaten him with the cook's utility knife I carried in my shirt pocket for work. But as soon as I pulled out the knife, the boy bolted, which I did not expect. And he also started yelling, «Help!» So I bolted, too, in the opposite direction. I ended up being a few minutes late in meeting the van to take me back to the ranch for which I was again admonished; but that was the only consequence for this first attempted «kidnap and rape» (which is what it would have been if I so much as put my penis in the boy's mouth or a finger in his butt).<br />
<br />
After spending such a summer at the ranch, my probation officer decided that I had learned my «lesson» and allowed me to return home to live with my mother. Oh, yeah... another important event that occurred while I was at the ranch was my parents getting «separated», and consequently divorced while I was there. Of course I blamed myself, even though I came to realize many years too late that I had nothing to do with it. But, when I went home to live with my mom, my younger brother moved out to go live with my father. So now my mother and I lived alone in the same house where our entire family once lived just a couple of years before (my three older sisters had also moved out by this time, the youngest off to college, and the oldest just married off and living with their new families). The guilty sense of having «destroyed my family» was prevailing for me, though I never spoke of it.<br />
<br />
When the school year started that fall, I went back to my old high school, but had to start the tenth grade all over again because of all the school I missed over the last year. That only fed my already huge «sense of failure». This, combined with my newly learned «immunity from consequence», was a good recipe for what happened next (though certainly not the only recipe for such). I began seeking opportunities to «experiment» and learn what I could about myself sexually and otherwise. I played «hookie» (skipped school) and hid in the girls' bathroom at an elementary school once and almost got caught, but got away (again by running away, or «bolting», which always seemed to work well for me). I also threatened an entire group of five younger boys I found playing in the woods once with an ax (which I had taken from the boys themselves as they were playing with it) and made them all take their clothes off and touch each other while I touched them and masturbated. I also «molested» some even younger children that I babysat for a friend of my mother's, one even in diapers, but all I did was, again, look and touch while I masturbated. I was never inclined to do anything «violent» or «cruel» (causing pain or injury) until the fateful night that I found myself in possession of several handguns and got the idea that I could force a girl to let me have sex with her.<br />
<br />
But, when I went looking for a girl, all I found was a boy. I literally passed him by at first. But when I saw him again a bit later, I decided to try my «experiments» on him. I threatened him with an empty gun (I had stolen ammunition, but did not bring it explicitly because I did not want to «accidentally» hurt anyone) and made him take off his clothes. I then took off my clothes and straddled his chest and put my penis in his mouth. This «experiment» did not produce «pleasure», so I masturbated as I straddled him and then ejaculated in the dirt next to his head. After getting dressed, I meant to let him go, but decided instead to «try something else» (another experiment).<br />
<br />
I made him walk to an even more secluded location in some woods that were actually a part of the Ft. Lewis («North») military base (which is what made it so «secluded» --- we had to breech a security fence to even get into the woods, which we did by simply following a back road onto the base that had no «security gate»).<br />
<br />
Once we were in the woods, walking on a dirt access road, I told the other boy to take off his clothes again and then leave them by the road as we kept walking. Remember here that I was «experimenting», looking for things that would give me pleasure. So telling him to walk with no clothes was an attempt to get pleasure from control and humiliation. I did not think this at the time, though. Instead, my only actual thoughts were few and «serviceable». I only thought things like, «What can I do next?» or «That wasn't any fun...» As for feelings, I wasn't scared or nervous; nor was I very excited or anxious. I just felt «normal», like this was all just an encounter with a new friend or something. I had no concern at all for any consequences, other than the embarrassment I might feel if I got found out. In my mind at the time, stealing cars and running from the police was far worse than what I was doing with that 14-year-old boy.<br />
<br />
We eventually left the road and into the trees. I wondered, «What now?» and decided to see if hitting the boy with a fern branch would arouse any interest. It didn't. Then I lit a cigarette, and remembered what the gas station man told me about men who like burning boys with their cigarettes. So I tried that, too (by touching the cherry of my cigarette to the boy's butt only long enough to make him flinch --- i.e. I didn't hold it on his skin or take pleasure in the act at all the way I've been often accused). That didn't «make any sense» either, so I did not repeat it. In fact, I didn't repeat anything I did, because I was, remember, «experimenting».<br />
<br />
I then told the boy to lie down and this time I straddled his face and told him to lick my butt (experimenting with humiliation and control again, which seemed to «do something» for me). Then I masturbated again and, this time, ejaculated in the boy's mouth.<br />
<br />
After all this, I got dressed and told the boy to wait there until I was gone. But he complained that he did not know where his clothes were or even how to get out of the woods. So I led him back to his clothes and out of the woods, then again told him to wait until I was gone.<br />
<br />
As an adult, some 30 years later, this «boy» testified at my death penalty sentencing trial that this was by far the most painful and terrifying experience of his life. At the time, I thought I was being «nice» to him, and maybe even teaching him «fun» things. Even now I can't help but wonder what sort of «sheltered life» he must have had if this was the «worst thing» that ever happened to him! If the exact same thing happened to me, I would have considered it a walk in the park and thought nothing of it. Many worse things had happened to me before then, and far, FAR worse things since. If I could have spoken my mind to him at the death penalty trial, I would have liked to say how «charmed» his life must have been. I wouldn't call it «lucky», though. I can't imagine living how in such ignorance could ever be called «lucky».<br />
<br />
On the way home, I saw a police car parked in front of the house where I had stolen the guns and ammunition from earlier that night. So I threw the gun I was carrying, unloaded and with no clip, into some bushes before continuing the rest of the way home. And that's exactly how the police found it (unloaded and with no clip) when I showed them where to look after my arrest.<br />
<br />
They arrested me at my house about a half hour after I got home. It turned out that the boy «recognized» my voice. It was the voice of a well-known bully who picked on him a lot (because he was smaller than most boys their age) at school. Except it wasn't my voice he recognized; it was my brother's. I had never met the boy before, but it seems my brother knew him well, and used to pick on him a lot in school (they were the same age). But, when the police came to arrest my brother, they found me instead. And, when they got me to the police station, all they had to do was promise me some «help» with my «confusion» and I broke down crying and told them everything I just relayed here (except the part about making the boy lick my ass, for some reason that was too embarrassing, even for me). As a result, they charged me with two counts of first degree burglary (because I told them I went back to the house after I stole the guns to steal more stuff, in particularly ammunition), two counts first degree rape (because I admitted to putting my dick int he boy's mouth twice), two counts of assault (one «simply» because I admitted to hitting the boy with a fern, which left no marks, and one «second degree» for burning him with a cigarette, which left a small red mark), and two counts first degree kidnapping (because I forced the boy at gunpoint to go to two different locations). I spent several months in Raymann Hall (Juvenile Detention) before they «declined» me to «adult status». My father hired a lawyer this time, John Laddenburg (who was later elected District Attorney, or some such thing) who met with me once briefly at the Pierce County Jail (where I was kept separated from the other prisoners and not allowed to smoke because I was a juvenile) and then worked out a plea agreement where I would plead guilty to one count of first degree rape, in exchange for a 20-year-sentence that would be suspended pending successful completion of a «Sexual Psychopath» Treatment Program at the state mental hospital near Tacoma (Western State Hospital).<br />
<br />
And so began a nightmare that was far FAR worse than any I had ever even imagined before... a nightmare filled with extreme violence, perversion, isolation, sleep deprivation, stress so severe that it literally caused partial blindness, rape, and fear so great that it has brought me to my knees more than once. A nightmare that continues to this day, and from which the only real hope I have ever had has been the hope that I might wake up some day. It is this hope that I cling to even now, as I await my execution, to «set me free», at last. As much as I abhor ignorance, honesty forces me to admit that it certainly has its appeal! And yet, I would still not trade my life for the life of the boy I raped when I was 16, not even if he had never been raped. Perhaps ESPECIALLY not if he had never been raped. Such a life could never touch the «truths» I have come to know and cherish; «truths» that so few in this «charmed» land will ever come to even suspect! «Truths» that the pharisees of our day work so hard to hide, with their pretend-laws, and pretend-truths. Laws and truths that only crumble in the face of real fear, and real suffering, and real life. In the end, I have come to realize that these are the very answers I sought all along. Answers that «they» tried to hide, and still hide. Answers that destroy their illusion of «law and order» and restore natural law and order instead. Those who have truly suffered, know what I mean. Those who have not, never will. Because to know the Truth, is to suffer; and to suffer, is to know the Truth. I am only saying in my own way what has been said by all the great sages, from Christ to the Buddha. Not because I am such a sage, but only because I have suffered. And I am thankful for it.<br />
<br />
Since I've already went and turned this «confession» into a personal rant, I may as well go ahead and say what I really think. But, before I do, I should also say, for the sake of anyone reading this with a critical bent (and I hope you are), or even those reading it with extreme prejudice (that's okay, too, and expected), that what I'm about to say is said strictly as my own honest thoughts. I do NOT think I am an «expert» or that, for any other reason, other people should think the same way I do. But, that being said, I must also assert that everything I write is what I believe to be true and real, and that is based upon careful consideration and deep contemplation upon my own experience, thoughts, and feelings in the relevant regards. I don't «know» if any of it is «true», or «false» either. But, if I ever encounter any evidence that contradicts what I say, then I will careful consider it, and its source (as I sincerely hope you are doing now), and change the way I think and/or what I believe accordingly. Now, let's get on with it...<br />
<br />
I should start by pointing out that I don't really believe that the boy I write about raping here, nor the man he has become, has in any factual sense lived a «charmed» life. According to the Buddha, «All life is suffering.» If you understand this «truth», then you also understand that nobody lives a «charmed» life; it simply is an impossibility.<br />
<br />
But, most people spend the vast majority of their life's energy (in the literal sense, not mystical; but, mystical, too, if you understand such things as well, or however you understand such things...) attempting to live the «charmed» life by avoiding «suffering». There are a million and more ways to do so. Many are considered «healthy», even «productive». And many more are called «addictions», or perhaps (in some cases) even «insanity» (though, in this case, that would be a tragic and misleading misnomer, even though it is what the so-called «experts» call it --- a clear and relevant example of this is the type of «insanity» that «experts» call «psychopathy» or even «sociopathy» --- but, that's beside the point).<br />
<br />
What I think, and remember, I claim to be no «expert», nor do I presume to know the boy, or man that I «raped» as a boy, well enough to assume what I'm about to say is true. But, based on what I do know about him, and about myself, and about humans in general, it seems to me that all he is really doing by claiming that what I did to him was the «worst» and most «terrifying» experience in his life, is projecting all (or nearly all) of the suffering he has experienced throughout the course of his life (and especially his childhood, remembering how he was a small boy and frequently bullied and picked on by larger boys like my brother) onto this one «terrible» and «worst» memory. And by doing so, he has (unconsciously) made it genuinely SEEM like his worst experience. And he does this (again unconsciously) because that is what he was literally taught to do by all the «adults» in his life who saw it (unconsciously for them also) as a way to create and sustain the illusion of an OTHERWISE «charmed life».<br />
<br />
These «adults» probably (most likely) told him repeatedly how terrible what happened to him was (how would they know if they weren't there?). And if the «post-rape» boy ever mentioned the suffering or humiliation he experienced from being picked on in school, these same adults would no doubt quickly remind him of how «terrible» a bully the boy who «raped you» was, thus shunting all that pain into an already painful memory.<br />
<br />
I have witnessed this sort of «conditioning» so often and seen its effect play out so many times that there is little doubt in my mind that I am mistaken about it (though ready to admit if I am, in an instant, should I ever see evidence to the contrary, or better yet, stumble upon a better explanation for all the evidence I have already seen and continue to see regularly all around me!). Even at my own death sentence trial, I watched a video recording of a specially trained police «forensic» child interview expert tell Shasta (my last surviving «victim») how «terrible» what happened to her was BEFORE he even asked her what had happened! (Seriously, if you can, check the record and you'll see for yourself!)<br />
<br />
And, after my arrest in 2005, a man in Seattle went to an address he found on the Internet for two «registered sex offenders» living together in the same house, and shot them both dead. In the police interviews afterwards, he said he did it after he read about «Joseph Duncan» (me) in the news. He said he hated «bullies», and «sex offenders» are the worst «bullies» of all. I can't help but wonder who «put» such ideas into his head, and why. (Actually, I do «wonder», but only in so much as to retain a «healthy» amount of doubt and questions about what I assume to be the «answer» --- i.e. «they» did, the «adults» and «experts» I mentioned a moment ago.)<br />
<br />
So, that's what I think, for whatever it's worth. I don't put a lot of stock in it myself (if I did, then it would become too «burdened» by the «investment», making it to «unwieldy» for the way I like to think --- i.e. I like finding out I'm «wrong» about things so I can make «corrections», but an «unwieldy» thought is the one that is most difficult to «correct», because of my investment in it! I seriously don't like such thoughts, and fortunately, this is <u>not</u> one of them --- which is why I'm spending so much time disclaiming it, so I don't become «invested», by writing it down!). But, I do hope it makes someone else think about their own thoughts and ideas about such things, and maybe even question the validity in the face of this «evidence». And what I really hope is that someone, anyone, reads this, then finds a way to let me know I'm «wrong», about all of it, or just some parts. That would be the real «reward» for me, personally. Either way, there it is, no offense (I hope, also).<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>[J.D. January 21, 2017] </b></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-33862617500731657522017-01-24T09:03:00.002-08:002017-02-27T12:17:44.222-08:00First Arrest (1979)In January 1979, I was 15 years old. I wasn't a «street kid», nor was I very «street smart». But, neither did I respect the law, or try to stay out of trouble. I routinely trespassed through people's yards by climbing fences as though they were made to be climbed. And if I found something I wanted when nobody was watching, I'd take it. I had a paper-route and earned about $100 a month delivering about 70 papers every day. Sometimes I would break into the houses on my route and steal nick-nacks that caught my eye.<br />
<br />
I had gotten my driver's learning permit and knew how to drive better than most (it seemed to come natural). So if I found the keys in a car when no one was around, I'd take it for a little «joy ride», but always returned it no worse for wear minus a little gas. At least until one day in late January.<br />
<br />
There was a couple of cars that some nearby homeowner parked in the back of a utility office parking lot where my paper-route drop-box was located. I found out they had the keys in them, so I started «borrowing» them for fun sometimes before or after delivering my papers, but never for more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time, and I always returned them as close to the way I found them each time. Until one time I didn't.<br />
<br />
I had gotten into an argument with my mom and left the house with my empty paper-bags (cloth bags that I used to carry the papers over my shoulders with large pouches in the front and back) so my mom would think I was going to go deliver papers. It was late in the evening, but she didn't know my schedule, so this ruse worked.<br />
<br />
I was on foot (I don't remember why) and I had no papers to deliver or anything to do. So, I walked to a new friend's house (from school). Nobody was home, so I broke in, naturally, and put anything I found that looked «interesting» inside the paper-bags. I remember taking a large bottle of Seagram's Seven (alcohol) and a stash of about $20 in quarters that I found.<br />
<br />
Then I walked to the «Tom Boy» (convenience store) near my paper-box and bought some candy. I knew the owner's grown son, who worked at the store as a clerk, and lived in the house that his father also owned just behind the store. Since he wasn't working that night I figured he must be home, so I decided to see if he'd let me in for a few hours to kill some time.<br />
<br />
He was home, but when he opened the door, his large long-haired setter came rushing at me and chased me off the porch barking and nipping at me. The store owner's son told me someone had recently broken into his house while the dog was home alone, and he thought by the dog's reaction that it was probably me (it was – I broke in and stole several pot plants that were growing under lights in the basement; the dog didn't bother me then though, not like it was now).<br />
<br />
So I left, and walked to the paper-box more out of habit than anything else. Then I remembered the cars parked nearby and took one.<br />
<br />
I drove about three miles toward my high school (Lakes High), and stopped at a 7-eleven store about a block away from my school and bought a burrito and a Big Gulp. While I was there some «friends» (kids I knew) from school saw me and asked where I got the car. They were «hoods» («stoners» who were known for getting in trouble) whom I normally never associated with. In order to impress them, I told them the truth; I stole it. Three of the four, boys my age, decided to go joyriding with me. The fourth said he was on probation and could not risk the trouble. So we left him at the store.<br />
<br />
We drove around, taking turns behind the wheel, running over mailboxes and stop signs for fun. We did this for about an hour, until someone ran over some large rocks that we didn't see hidden in the shrubs around the base of one of the mailboxes we ran over. I could have been the one driving, but I honestly don't remember. But the car started lurching up and down as though the axle had been badly bent. So we parked it in an empty church parking lot, wiped it down for «prints», then walked to a nearby duplex where two of the boys I was with lived. We sat in the living room and smoked some pot as I recall, but before long the boys who lived there said they were going to bed so me and the other boy had to go.<br />
<br />
I left, and parted ways with the other boy who I think must have gone home. I walked to the same 7-eleven where I had picked up the other kids, but there was no on else there at this hour (about five or six a.m.) except the clerk. I was very tired (sleepy) and had no place to go. I was several miles from home and didn't feel like walking so far while I was so tired. So I walked back to the duplex where the brothers lived, hoping they'd let me sleep on their couch (there were no «adults» in the house at the time) at least. But, when I knocked, nobody answered.<br />
<br />
So I walked back to the 7-eleven (only a few minutes away on foot) and on the way this time I saw a Ford Pinto (seriously!) running with nobody in it as it sat in an apartment parking space; apparently warming up (it was a frosty morning). I looked around and couldn't see anyone watching the car as I walked by. But I kept walking to the 7-eleven, which was just next to the apartments where the Pinto was parked.<br />
<br />
From the 7-eleven I watched the car for a few minutes, then decided to go for it. It would be an easy ride home. I'd only have the car for a few minutes, then I'd ditch it long before the police came looking. That was the plan.<br />
<br />
I walked over, got in, and just as I was backing out I saw the curtains part in the window for the apartment directly in front of the car. It seems someone was paying attention and heard me get in and start to pull away. But it didn't matter, my plan was only to have the car a few minutes. I'd be home and in bed before the police even finished taking the report.<br />
<br />
And in fact I did make it home as planned. I ditched the car next to the elementary school a block from my house. Then I walked home. But as I tried to sneak in quietly so as not to wake my mom, the «plan» suddenly went South.<br />
<br />
My mother wasn't asleep. She had been up all night waiting for me so she could finish the «lecture» I had run away from in the first place. But now she was even more heated than ever after my long unexcused absence. In hindsight, I understand how worried she must have been. She had even been out driving around for hours looking for me. But at the time all I understood was her fury; and she terrified me.<br />
<br />
So, before the front door even closed behind me I was back outside and running away, again, quite literally. I ran back to the Pinto, got in and drove off toward the freeway (I-5).<br />
<br />
I got on I-5 North. My childish inclination was to drive up to Canada, where I'd heard kids like me could live on the streets unmolested by the police. (I honestly was not worried about any other sort of «molesters», and would have even welcomed such, if I had even known they existed. It would have been far preferable to the «hell» I called home.) But, before I even got to the next exit I noticed the fuel gauge was on «empty». So I pulled off to get some gas with the remaining quarters I had stolen earlier.<br />
<br />
I pulled into a gas station just off the freeway, and got out to pump the gas. But, in those days you had to choose «leaded» or «unleaded», and I wasn't sure which type of gas the Pinto took. So rather than asking, or otherwise looking like I didn't know what I was doing, I got back in the car and drove off. My intention was to park someplace nearby and try to figure out what kind of gas I needed.<br />
<br />
I drove up the road about a quarter of a mile then into a mostly empty Fred Meyer department store parking lot. The sun had just come up, so it was light enough for me to get out and look for a sticker or something that said «leaded» or «unleaded». Then as soon as I got out to look I remembered my Dad telling me that all small cars take unleaded gas. So I decided it must be unleaded. But, as I turned to get back in I saw a police cruiser driving past the parking lot, and the cop riding shotgun was pointing at me!<br />
<br />
I learned later that the gas station attendant had a police scanner, and had heard the report of a stolen Pinto. So when he saw me pull in then pull out again he called the police. It took no time at all then for a nearby cruiser to find me by simply driving in the direction that the attendant said he saw me go.<br />
<br />
I got in the Pinto and drove toward the lot exit away from the cruiser which had pulled into the lot and then got behind me and flashed its lights. As I exited the lot I hit the gas. I have no idea what I was thinking. I doubt if any «thoughts» would have made any difference at this point. My «instinct» was to run away from «danger». And cops were very dangerous!<br />
<br />
So, I «floored it», as they say. But, in a Pinto that basically meant making a lot of engine noise (whine) but not going anywhere very fast. I still clearly remember topping out at around 80 mph, and desperately straining with my will to make the car go faster even though it felt lie the car itself was going to shutter to pieces at the speed I was already going.<br />
<br />
I could see the cops directly on my tail in the rear-view mirror. They seemed calm and relaxed. I often imagine that they were discussing their wives or something during the chase. I was just another joyriding punk to them, and I wasn't going anywhere.<br />
<br />
This continued for only a couple of minutes, if that. I ran one red-light, which they made a big deal out of in their police reports later. (They seemed more concerned about charging me with traffic violations than they were about the stolen car --- in fact, I was never charged with stealing the car at all because the guy I stole it from, the same guy who saw me drive off from his apartment window, did not want to press charges because I was «just a kid».) I drove straight, running on pure instinct, go go go! Run run run! I didn't realize until much later that I was instinctively heading for «home».<br />
<br />
They stayed on my tail while they radioed ahead for a road block. I didn't see the other cruiser (a «State Trooper» if I recall correctly) until he crested the top of the train overpass and pulled his car across both lanes to block the top of the bridge. It was already too late for me to turn; there weren't any turn-offs, and the cruiser behind me made sure I couldn't turn around. But I spotted an opening between the guardrail of the bridge and the front of the Trooper's car, the service lane, and it was just enough for the Pinto to squeeze through.<br />
<br />
As I approached the road block I saw the Trooper get out of his car brandishing a shotgun, and take up a position behind the front hood pointing the gun in my direction. I did have a thought at this point, and I remember the thought. I thought, «He won't shoot because I'm unarmed.» I learned that from T.V..<br />
<br />
But, he did shoot, at nearly point-blank range as I drove directly in front of his cruiser to get past him. And he was aiming for my head! I remember hearing a loud «bang»! And then the side driver's window next to my head was just gone and there was broken safety glass all over the dash and in my lap. I couldn't believe he just shot at me! That was the second thought I remember having during the entire chase, «He shot at me!»<br />
<br />
I continued though. The other cruiser was too wide to fit through the opening as I had, so there was a few seconds of reprieve while the trooper got back in his car to back it up so the city cruiser could continue the chase. But I didn't get any further than the next intersection, where I wrapped the Pinto around a utility pole, and my face around the steering wheel. I was unconscious when they caught up to me and called an ambulance. I remember having one more thought, though, just before I passed out and went into shock from the injuries (carved in right cheek and half my face-flesh torn off --- I still have the scars, of course, but they're not that bad considering) I didn't realize I was even injured at all. I just remember looking at the hood of the Pinto crumple against the utility pole and thinking, «I'm caught!» It was a very instinctual kind of thought; something like a gazelle might think, if it could, after being tripped by a leopard and feeling its fangs sinking into its neck. There was no more fear. And no more thoughts, though the police reported that I told them my name, address, and even what hospital I wanted to go to (the Army hospital, since my dad was still active in the service at the time). I don't remember telling them anything.<br />
<br />
I do remember being put in the ambulance, and I remember them cutting off my clothes. But, I was in shock, so these were kind of weird, detached experiences. It was like watching it happen to someone else, only from inside that person's body. I didn't come out of shock --- i.e. I didn't feel any pain --- until the doctor started cauterizing my face wound closed to stop the bleeding. That woke me up!<br />
<br />
I was in the hospital for a week, and then released on a «medical»-PR (so I never actually got arrested or had to go to jail). While I was on medical-PR, after a month or so, after I had gone back to the hospital to have the tubes and balloons removed from my face (that were holding my face bones in place as they mended), I took my parents' station wagon without permission, and crashed it too, while playing hooky from school with my future brother-in-law's younger brother, Craig, who was my age. I ran away again, and hung out with Craig (who was also a «run-away»), until the night police showed up at Craig's girlfriend's house while we were there, invited by her father to watch a brand-new program on T.V. for the first time called «Scared Straight».<br />
<br />
I was arrested for «failure to appear» and taken to the juvenile detention center, where all the kids were required to watch «Scared Straight» (a program that despite its popularity has been shown to consistently <u>increase</u> recidivism rates for those kids who participate!).<br />
<br />
On my second day of detention they gave me my «street clothes» back and moved me to the «downstairs» (minimum security) section. My mother came to visit, and after the visit they found a book of matches in the coin pocket of my jeans that I honestly did not realize was there. I got put in «segregation» because of the matches, and thus my experience with «criminal justice» began, and has long since continued to be all about «misperception».<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">[J.D. Jan 15, 2015] </span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-58069984680043846662016-02-14T08:55:00.000-08:002016-03-03T13:58:52.802-08:00First OrgasmMost boys figure out what their penis is for well before they turn thirteen, but not me. I had «experimented» of course, but didn't manage to put the pieces of the puzzle together all the way (i.e. realizing that it was necessary to inset the penis inside a woman's vagina and ejaculate in order to make babies) until around fourteen. In fact, I still remember that great «aha!»-moment clearly after one of my sisters --- still piecing together a puzzle of her own no doubt --- had asked me to insert my penis into her vagina. At the time, I had no idea why she would want me to do so; and yes, I was fourteen, as I already said.<br />
<br />
I had managed by that age to figure out a way to make myself orgasm, but because of the way I figured it out I never made the connection between ejaculating and sex. But, when I put my penis inside my sister, and quickly ejaculated as a result, that was when the «aha!» hit me. (Consequently, when I told her I had come inside her, she turned white, and that was to become the first and last such «experiment», with her at least.)<br />
<br />
My first orgasm came at the hands of a military pediatrician, in an examination room at Madigan Army Medical Center (Ft. Lewis, Washington). As I mentioned, I was thirteen. But, even though I had been taught the hard way that hard-ons are «bad bad bad», I had yet to discover how «good good good» they could make you feel, for a few heavenly but fleeting seconds, at least. It seems this doctor decided to remedy my ignorance directly, though I'm still not sure to this day if I was being willingly molested, or medically examined; not that knowing would make any difference now. (But knowing back then would have made all the difference in the world! If someone --- the doctor, I suppose --- had explained to me what had actually happened, then it would have saved a lot of painful confusion for me; confusion that carried over into the rest of my adult life, and into a lot of other people's lives as well!) <br />
<br />
My mother had dutifully taken me in for a full medical examination after a counselor at school had suggested she (my mother) do so because she (the counselor) thought I might be having some «developmental issues». If I'm remembering correctly, this was right after I had attacked an older and larger boy in the hall at school because he accused me of writing down his locker combination after he had shouted it to a friend so everyone could hear --- which I had, even though I denied it to avoid the shame of being called a thief. After he had shamed me and made the mistake of turning his back to me as he walked away, I pounced on him. Long story short; we wrestled for a few minutes until a teacher came and broke it up, and we were both taken to the «principle's office», which of course was really the «school counselor's office» in those days, and, well, the rest is history as they say.<br />
<br />
The «history» goes like this: My mother scheduled an appointment for a full medical exam to determine if there were any medical issues that might have caused the «outburst». Of course, if there were no medical problems (and the doctor reported none), then it could be safely assumed that I was having psychological «development issues» which would be addressed according to the standard practice of the day (which happened to be «youth counseling», where I met other «delinquents» for the first time and quickly identified with them --- what other choice did I have? After all, if the adult «experts» said something was wrong, well, then something must have been wrong; right?).<br />
<br />
In hindsight, after all those painful years of confusion I mentioned a moment ago, I eventually came to realize that there was nothing «wrong» with me at all, physically or psychologically (or neurologically either). But that's an arguable point that only I will ever really know the answer to, so lets move on with what actually happened in that doctor's office. <br />
<br />
Being still very much the child, I was simply there doing what I was told. The doctor asked my mother to wait outside in the hall before he began his exam. He then went through the normal procedures, looking in my ears, at my eyes, down my throat. He hammered my knees with his funny little triangle mallet, then asked me to lay down on the padded paper-covered exam table. I don't recall if he had me pull my own pants down mid-thigh, or if he pulled them down himself --- but they definitely ended up down, and I ended up uncomfortable «exposed», as he fondled my genitals ostensibly as part of his exam. <br />
<br />
I remembered this next part very clearly, because it ended up becoming my «masturbation fantasy» for many months after (I fantasized about everything the doctor did to me because that was the only way I could make the «feeling» happen again later --- classic circumstantial association, which for most boys involved something inanimate like a picture, other boys, or if they are lucky an actual girl; for me it was this completely anonymous doctor).<br />
<br />
He instructed me to keep my eyes on a piece of paper that was taped to the ceiling over the exam table with a black (or red?) dot drawn in the middle of it. Perhaps this was so I wouldn't see what he was doing. He could have had his own dick out for all I knew at this point. All I know is that I was concentrating really heard on not getting a boner as he kept fondling me. I didn't know what boners were for, or why I got them in situations like this, but I knew well that it was shameful to let anyone see you with one. So, I tried hard to not get hard, but that was a mental skill that I wasn't even close to mastering yet.<br />
<br />
The doctor wasn't helping me at all, which in hindsight was clearly his intention for whatever reason. He put two fingers (or so it felt) on one hand beneath my scrotum and told me to, «squeeze again...» and, «relax...». He repeated these instructions a few times so I would get the idea, and then just told me to keep doing it on my own... squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, etc...<br />
<br />
I don't know if it is what he intended, but I was concentrating so hard on remembering to look at the dot on the ceiling, squeezing and relaxing, and all the while trying to not get an embarrassing boner, that I was totally unprepared for what happened next. He began stroking my penis between the thumb and two fingers with his free hand (or so it felt) while still feeling my «contractions» with his other hand beneath my balls. Of course I came, and I came hard! It was my first and to this day i believe best orgasm ever. I suddenly felt like I was floating on a river of ecstatic pleasure eminating from his hands into my body through my groin! I had no idea I was ejaculating all over myself, nor even of what was happening, or even if the doctor had any idea about the pleasure he was giving me.<br />
<br />
The doctor didn't say a word. He simply stopped masturbating me, removed a glass slide (for a microscope?) from a nearby shelf and seemed to collect a sample directly from the head of my semen-wet penis. After that he whipped up the rest of the mess, mostly all over my stomach and groin, with a paper towel, and then he told me he was finished and I could get dressed (i.e. pull up my pants). <br />
<br />
That was that. No explanation, no clue whatsoever from him, my mom, or anyone about what had just happened. As I said, I repeated everything he did, while laying in the tub naked at home that night, and fantasizing that my hands, and fingers, were the doctor's, even staring straight up at the ceiling as I did so, and whoa! I discovered the greatest secret pleasure known to boykind. The only problem was that I still had no idea what it was I had discovered. I only knew that it felt really good, and that I felt ashamed for doing it (thanks to our culture, not the act itself).<br />
<br />
Over the next several weeks and months my «fantasy» of being fondled by the doctor slowly morphed into almost predictable variations. I still remember these very early fantasies as they evolved on their own according to the basic laws of evolution. I, of course, associated the shame with the pleasure, so early adaptions to the basic fantasy invariably involved more shame. I remember clearly fantasizing even about being masturbated by the same doctor as I lay completely naked on an exam table in the school gym with the entire school (Mann Jr. High School --- which is how I know this didn't happen until I was at least 13, since I didn't attend Mann Jr. High until the eighth grade) watching me ejaculate. It was extremely humiliating, and of course pleasureable at the same time. That's what the doctor taught me, whatever his intentions were.<br />
<br />
To this day I still get pleasure from humiliation, though I've learned to conceal this fact (most of the time at least) since the humiliation can be very inconvenient when I'm not thinking about sex (which, despite what some would like you to believe, is not all the time, nor even most of it; though I admit it is more than most people seem to think about sex, but not much more). I'm not trying to suggest that this doctor is to blame for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for anything. It simply doesn't matter why he did what he did. What does matter, as a lesson to be learned from circumstances like this by all of us (so we can avoid tragedies like the ones I'm on death row for now) is that I only became confused, and acted out of my confusion, because our culture does not allow open communication with childrne about sex. If someone, anyone, would have explained to me that there was no reason for me to feel ashamed about what happened, that it was in fact a natural milestone, then my sex life, and my entire life would have turned out completely different. Yes, in many cases, children usually figure such things out by piecing together the clues, from T.V., books, sex-ed, and other children. But, in some cases, an alarming and unnecessarily large number of cases, such as my case, that doesn't happen. If our culture didn't make it so necessary that sex be a puzzle for children to solve however they can, then cases like mine wouldn't happen. And that's the only reason I write about it, so we all can learn «what went wrong», or more correctly, «what wasn't allowed to go right». It's not about blame --- blame can't stop ignorance, and never will --- it's about understanding.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<b>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">[J.D. February 2, 2016]</span></b></div>
<br />
<b>P.S. </b>For more on how our culture ends up doing more harm than good by suppressing open communication with children about sex, see Judith Levine's 2002 landmark book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Harmful-To-Minors-Protecting-Children/dp/0816640068" target="_blank">Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children From Sex</a>, which, of course, has been lambasted by the same kind of ignorant people who lambast this blog without ever reading it (or, if they do read it, they do so only to cherry-pick the parks --- invariably taken out of context --- that they can use to support their own emotionally charged but intellectually empty views). Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-27939589362119881602015-09-02T12:52:00.003-07:002015-09-02T12:52:48.707-07:00Curious George
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">When I was around
ten or eleven, my “best friend” was a “fat boy” named David.
I met David in the boyscouts, and since he and I were the only boys
in Troup 462 who had non-commissioned fathers (sergeants' sons), we
naturally became friends (464 was the regular NCO troup).</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">David had an older
brother named George. George wasn't fat like David, but he was just
as much a “geek”. He was several years older than David and I,
and ended up earning his “Eagle” patch (the highest rank in
boyscouts) while David and I were still friends. George was also a
“child molester”, by most people's definition, or at least a
perversely curious teen, according to my own understanding of such
behavior.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">George once tried to
convince me to pump air into my ass in order to make “farts”
using a bicycle pump. He happily demonstrated the technique while I
was visiting David at their house on Davis Hill (a base housing area
for NCO families). I declined, and that was the only time George
tried to get me to drop my pants. He was more interested, it seems,
in my younger brother, who was around 8 years old, while George was
15 or 16.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">Because of our age
disparity, George and I didn't interact (a.k.a. “play” together)
very often. But, once there was a new dental clinic being built near
David Hill, and after all the new equipment had been installed there
was a “mountain” of large (refrigerator-sized) cardboard boxes
left out in the parking lot to await disposal. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">This mountain of
cardboard was, of course, a magnet for all the kids who lived nearby,
far more fun than any playground, and David, George, me, and my
brother were all there with several other kids; some we knew and some
we didn't. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">The cardboard boxes
were perferct for making “forts”, and this, of course, lead to
the familiar game of forming rival “clubs”. Everyone wantd to be
in George's club because he was by far the oldest boy there, and had
built the best “fort”. But, for some reason (guess), George only
let a select few younger children into his “club” and into his
“fort”. My brother was one of the “lucky” ones.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">I remember it
seeming strange to me that George would take one of the kids in his
club into a separately closed off box in his fort while he told the
other kids in his club to “keep guard” and not let anyone in
(i.e. the other kids who weren't in his “club”, like me and
David). I also noticed that my brother, Bruce, was one of the kids
invited into George's box.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">Afterwards, on the
walk home, I asked Bruce what they did in George's box, but my
brother said he didn't know. But, he “didn't know” only meant
that he didn't know what to call it. So I asked him to describe what
happened, and Bruce told me that George pulled down his pants and
made my brother touch his “weener”. I again remember thinking how
strange this was, but dismissed it because it didn't make much sense,
to me or my brother.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">My brother and I
both instinctively steered clear of George after that. But, we never
told anyone about George's “strange” behavior because that's all
it was to us: just strange. And, like I mentioned, George ended up
becoming an Eagle scout, and the last I heard (from the defense team
investigators on my death penalty case), he had joined the Navy and
was a commissioned officer stationed in Hawaii. It is unlikely that
George went on to become a “pedophile”, since he never got
“caught”, and hence never got labelled. Also, I know from
personal experience </span><span lang="en-US"><b>(I)</b></span><span lang="en-US">
that it is extremely common for teenage boys to take advantage of
younger children to explore their sexual feelings as they develop. In
most cases, this exploration is harmless and soon forgotten by botth
teen and child. So, I wouldn't be too surprised if George today
adamently denied anything like this ever happened, and he might even
actually believe that it never did. But, I remember, and I know that
it did happen. And, more importantly, I know what it means. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">It means that the
only difference between a “pedophile sex offender” and a
“commissioned Navy officer” is in the label, not the person. I
wish George all the best on his Navy career, and only hope he
remembers me, and my brother, Bruce. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="en-US">[J.D. August 26,
2015]</span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span lang="en-US">Notes:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><span lang="en-US">(I) </span></b><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Many
men, some in very “highly respectable” positions in their
communities, have confessed to me various degrees and forms of such
youthful sexual curiousity; and none of them ever consider themselves
“sex offenders” or even “sexually deviant”. I have also been
the “target” of such curiosity on numerous occassions as a young
child, from several different older children, not just a rare one or
two. (As an adult, I have come to attribute this high frequency of
being a “target” to the fact that I was both beautiful and
submissive as a child - an “easy target”, as they say.)</span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-78642049216265318402015-08-28T06:25:00.000-07:002015-09-18T09:09:08.101-07:00Welcome To My Nightmare: My "First Rape"<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I was arrested, at
the age of 16, for making another boy (two years younger than myself)
take off his clothes and put my dick in his mouth, I was charged with
first degree rape and second degree assault (for touching him on the
butt with a lit cigarette that left a slight red mark), and sent to
the “Sexual Psychopath” treatment program for adults at the state
mental hospital. As a “patient” there, one of the first things I
was required to do was write an autobiography that detailed all my
sexual experiences up until that point in my life. Of course, for me
there wasn't much to write about. Most of it was situations where I
“let” other (older) children satisfy their curiosity with me. And
because the program was so focused on “taking responsibility for
all sexual behavior in your past”, I ended up being convinced that
I was a “Sexual Psychopath” (or “S.P.” for short) practically
from the day I was born, and certainly from my earliest sexual
experience.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I was six, some
slightly older neighbor girls took me below the stairs in the
basement of our apartment building, and compelled me to pull down my
pants, amongst other things. During my “treatment” as an “S.P.”,
I was forced to admit that I took some perverse pleasure from this,
and had to acknowledge my “role”, and my “responsibility” for
what happened. For years I genuinely believe that I somehow seduced
those girls into doing what they did to me, because of what I was
taught in the “S.P.” treatment program (and as a consequence of
this, the official report that later followed me to prison from this
program stated that I exhibited “interest in sexually deviant
behavior” as early as age six (thus supporting the “born a
psychopath” concept deviancy that the program was based on).</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The truth is that I never
actually initiated sexual contact with anyone at all, that I can
remember, until I had reached the age of eleven (though I still
didn't have my first orgasm until I was fourteen, when I ejaculated
all over myself as I lay on a paper covered exam table in a military
doctor's office while the doctor was stroking my penis between his
fingers with one hand and holding my balls with the other... I had no
idea I was being “molested”, and actually enjoyed the whole thing,
embarrassment and all!). At the age of eleven, I played often in the
woods near our house (on the military base, Ft. Lewis, near Tacoma,
WA) with other children of all ages.</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In those days it was
common for children, even very young children, to run around the
neighborhood, or even in the woods, unescorted by adults. Oh sure,
bad things happened, but the chance of someone kidnapping or
otherwise harming a child was far far less (as it is today) than a
child dying from some illness or ordinary accident. Less than a
hundred children a year a kidnapped and killed, while several
thousand are killed in car accidents alone. (In those days people
seemed more aware of the real dangers and less worried about the
extremely unlikely ones. Everyone probably realized that it was much
safer to let your children run around by themselves than taking them
with you in the car everywhere you went, which is just as true
today.)
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, one day I was out
playing in the woods with my younger brother, Bruce, and older
sister, Teena, along with some other children around my sister's age
(thirteen, and girls, I think). I don't recall specifically how the
game went that we were “playing”, bt it had something to do with
being in “the club” or not being in “the club”. (If I
remember right, Teena, and the other older children, were “in the
club” and would not let me or my brother “join”. In those days,
children formed “clubs” all the time; but, unlike the <span class="st"><em>He</em>-<em>Man</em> Women Haters Club</span>
on <i>The Little Rascals</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, our
clubs rarely lasted more than a day's playtime.)</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Consequently,
my brother and I decided to form our own “club”. So, we left the
older children to stake out our own territory in the woods for our
“club”, and we also started making up the “rules” (i.e.
bylaws) at the same time. As we did this we came across our
next-door-neighbor, apparently playing by himself in the woods and
looking for other children to play with. He was only five, so my
brother and I didn't usually play with him. But, when he asked what
we were doing we promptly told him we were forming a club. So, of
course he asked if he could be in it, and we said, no! And then we
headed off into another area of the woods still looking for a
suitable territory to claim.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
the boy persisted, and followed us anyway (as I remember), and that
was when I had my not-so-bright idea. I told him he could be in our
club, but only if he passed the “initiation” (which any kid in
those days knew was how the “club” game went). He eagerly agreed,
and (to avoid being accused of “romanticizing child sex fantasies”)
let me just say that my brother and I both put our penises in the
younger boy's mouth and told him to “blow”, amongst other things.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">That
was basically it, and probably would never have even become a memory
in my life, except that just as I was having this boy give me a
“blowjob” (or, what I thought was a blowjob), my sister appeared
from the woods and screamed, “Oh my god! What are you doing! I'm
gonna tell!” Which was exactly what she did.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">She
literally ran home and told my mom.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
don't remember going home myself. But, I do clearly remember being
yelled at, slapped repeatedly, stripped naked in the bathroom, then
yelled at and slapped some more when my mother found pieces of dried
leaves in my underpants (evidence that I had pulled my pants down in
the woods). I also remember being spanked while I was still naked,
and generally humiliated before being sent to my room. A little later
that same day, my mother made me go next door and apologize to the
boy's mother. I didn't even know what exactly I was apologizing for,
but I do remember that the boy's mother was far more understanding
about the whole thing than my mother was. In hindsight it seems as
though the boy's mother must have realized that what happened was
nothing more than childish sex play, and was not offended or
concerned in the least. She seemed more concerned about my mother's
reaction than she was about the effect it had on her own son.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">In
the “S.P.” program, of course, this incident was considered my
“first rape”. And I believed that myself for many years. But,
after I got to prison and started educating myself on human sexual
behavior, I learned that what I had done that day was well within the
range of normal childhood curiosity, and/or “sex play”. After I
learned this truth it angered me more and more every time the “fact”
that I had “raped a five-year-old boy when I was eleven” was used
against me by the system to justify everything from extending my time
in prison (more than ten years over normal “range” for first
degree rape, in those days) to repeatedly denying perfectly good
parole plans.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
got angry at “the System” (and “society”, for so ignorantly
supporting the system), but I never blamed my mom for what she did
that day. I blamed “society” for her behavior as well. In my
efforts to genuinely understand why I did what I did (after I got to
prison and was denied any formal “treatment”, even though I
requested it many times while I still suffered from the deception
that the “system” would “help me”, as I was explicitly
promised it would after I was arrested), I had educated myself on the
basic principles of sociology as well, and learned a lot about how
social influences can effect, and even DRIVE a person's behavior. I
hence came to understand that my mother was only reacting out of fear
that her son was a “pervert”. And, for lack of a better social
moral structure, that should have let her know that her son's
behavior was normal, and an opportunity to discuss sex with him so he
could learn himself what “appropriate sexual behavior” was, my
mother did what she truly believed she had to. She was trying to curb
her son's “perversion” the only way she knew how... the way her
culture had taught her to do it; with shame, pain, and humiliation.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Of
course, as I learned years later, all she really did was teach me
that “sex is bad”, and that I was “perverted”, which ended up
being a lesson that, from that point on, all three of my older
sisters never let me forget, even as they continued their own “sexual
experiments” at my expense. (And no, I don't blame my sisters for
what they did either --- again, they were only doing what “society”
had taught me to do. And, incidentally, I don't blame “society”
anymore either; at least, not since Shasta showed me the meaning, and
power, of true forgiveness --- the kind that doesn't blame anyone but
“God”, and then thanks Him instead!)</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">[J.D.
August 14, 2015]</span></span></b></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Note:
In case you are wondering why my brother, Bruce, didn't get in
trouble along with me for “having sex” with the neighbor boy, I
honestly don't remember why not. I do remember discussing this
incident with Bruce years later, as adults, while I was on parole in
Seattle, and he did not deny that he received a “blowjob” from the
boy also. But, he did insist that the fact that he did not get caught
somehow exonerated him from all consequences. I also vaguely remember
him being with my sister when she caught me, so maybe he actually
went and told her what I was doing, and that's how I got caught and
not him. (But, of course, I would never blame my brother either.)</span>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-44159558803693133042015-05-30T14:59:00.002-07:002015-05-30T15:12:04.098-07:00What Happened In Prison – Part VII: The Last Laugh<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I pick up and finish off this summary
of my first (20-year) prison experience after I was arrested again in
Kansas City, MO at my step-sister's townhouse apartment, where I was
living with her and her two beautiful young children (never molested,
by me at least). If you remember, I had absconded while on parole in
Seattle, WA and a few days later kidnapped, raped, and murdered a
ten-year-old boy in California. Then I spent the next few months
driving around the country staying with friends and family and
eventually ending up in Kansas City with my step-sister. (Oh, and for
all those people who «don't understand» how I can talk about such
things so «casually»; yes, I feel bad, but I'm not looking for
sympathy --- not much point there --- I'm focused solely on
presenting the truth, as it happened; my present thoughts and
feelings about all this are irrelevant.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My step-sister, Tammy, had arranged the
arrest with the police in Kansas City, but only after she had been
contacted by them (i.e. she didn't turn exactly turn me in). I was
arrested without incident at her front door, which I had just
answered when the bell rang. I was held for a week or so in the KC
jail, then picked up and escorted in cuffs back to Washington state
by two Department of Corrections officers via commercial jet (from KC
to Minneapolis, and then from there on to SeaTac). They then drove me
in their state Crown-Vic («The last rear-wheel drive sedan made in
America», one of the transport guards proudly told me) back down to
the Shelton receiving center, processed me through the front entrance
after hours, and put me in a cell.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I sat in «R-3», population for about
two months (if I recall) until I scared a big black snitch into
telling the guards that I was pressuring him for sex. Seriously! He
must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds, at least! But, one day I
told him, «Look, your breath stinks up this entire cell. So, please,
brush your teeth or we're going to fight; because I'd rather get my
ass kicked than put up with your stinkin' breath.» That's honestly
all I told him. I figured he was big enough to kick my ass if he
wanted, but I also guessed that he was a punk, more scared of me than
i was of him. I didn't expect him to squeal like a pig though.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The guards took me to the hole and
wrote me up for pressuring that fat ass rat for sex. When the FBI
contacted him after my most recent arrest in order to get him to
testify how I «pressured him for sex» (to convince the jury that I
should be killed and not sent to prison), he admitted that he made it
up in order to get me out of the cell. A lot of good that did me back
then. I sat in the hole for another three months or so before finally
getting sent to Twin Rivers Correctional Center (TRCC) in Monroe, WA.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But, before the transfer I had a few
visits from my physician friend, whom I had met in a «coffee shop»
in San Francisco (we really met in a gay bar on Polk Street, but he
told the Parole Board that we met in a coffee shop and that his
interest in me was purely altruistic, yeah, right). Rich used his
doctor credentials to arrange a private one-on-one «contact visit»
(i.e. no glass between us) in a conference room in the administration
building. He also arranged for another «sex offender» specialist,
Dr. White, to do a private evaluation of me, with polygraph exam and
the whole nine.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't pass the polygraph exam, but I
didn't fail either. The results were «non-conclusive» on two
questions («Have you ever committed any sex crimes?» and «Are you
attempting to deceive this examiner?», if I recall). Dr. White
concluded that I was nervous, but being remarkably honest. He wrote
the report that my physician friend, Rich, paid him well to write,
but it didn't impress the Parole Board, so they «maxed me out» when
I saw them (i.e. set my release date equal to the maximum, which was
20 years minus my time on the lamb). They even refused to give me
credit for the time I spent in juvenile before I was declined to
adult status merely because the juvenile facility where I had been
held had lost their records in a fire (something that happens an
awfully lot in government offices).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
TRCC was the state's sex offender
prison. Not everyone there was a sex offender, though. Only one of
the four main housing units was used for the SOTP (Sex Offender
Treatment Program). I was housed in the unit furthest away from that
one. I was known throughout the Washington state prison system as
«Jazzi Jet» (or just «Jazzi», mostly), Big Al's Girl. So there
were plenty of prisoners even at TRCC who knew me, some personally,
but mostly by reputation. The amazing thing was that nobody knew I
was a sex offender! Or, at least nobody ever told me they knew, even
if they suspected otherwise.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As was my habit, the first place I
visited after arriving at TRCC was the education department. I
inquired about what classes they had available, but all their classes
had long waiting lists. So, not one to be deterred by rules, or
waiting lists, I just started going each day to the computer lab,
blending in with the other students, and began insinuating myself
with the instructor, Mr. Gillis, and his T.A. inmates. They figured
out pretty quick that I had «skills» that they could use, of
course, and put me to work, off the record. I ended up developing a
computer-based course on basic programming that was so automated that
Mr. Gillis told me he was still using it years later after I got out
of prison (I had contacted him as a reference). (By «automated» I
mean that all the lessons and tests were done online by the students
over the intranet in the computer lab, and at the end of each
quarter the program would generate a report showing all the students
grades and scores so Mr. Gillis could just plug them into his own
reports.) It was a very popular course with the other prisoners.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I got in one fight while at TRCC. I got
celled with a young Native American kid with a chip on his shoulder
for all «white men». He tried to tell me how to do my time (a
well-known prison taboo – you never tell someone else how to do
their time, unless they're your punk, of course) by telling me that I
had to take two showers a day (he was a clean-freak). He even tried
to tell me when I had to take my showers. I told him to fuck off, of
course, and, well, to make a long story short, one day I deliberately
walked on the cell floor he had just freshly mopped, and he got mad
and punched me in the face. I didn't hit him back, though. His punch
was weak and ineffective (i.e. it didn't hurt or daze me at all). So
I actually just stood there and let him punch me (ineffectively)
again. And then I walked down to the guard station and told them,
«Something's wrong with my celly, he's freakin' out in the cell.»</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I didn't hit
him, but I did throw a cup of hot coffee on him that I had been
holding when he hit me the first time. So, anyway, when the guards
went to go «check» on my celly, he thought I had ratted on him
(which I hadn't, at least, not technically). So when they asked him
what was the matter, he blurted out, «He threw coffee on me, so I
hit him!»</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Essentially I had tricked him into
ratting on himself. But, the guards interpreted it as a «fight»,
so we both went to the hole for fighting. After I got out of the hole
I saw him in the gym (they'd moved him to another housing unit but
left me in the same one), and he just nodded to me respectfully. (It
couldn't have been too hard for him to figure out that he ratted
himself off, and me, at the same time from the guard's reports of
what he said and what I said. So, I assume he was just letting me
know, «You got me», with his respectful nod --- but I could just
be stroking myself, since we never actually spoke after.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Rich helped me request my transcripts
from Walla Walla Community College, where I was just one course shy
of finishing my A.A. degree (the degree that the parole board
prevented me from finishing by sending me to camp before I was
released on parole several years earlier). He then paid for a
correspondence course (on writing) that gave me the credits I needed
for the degree in General Studies (my second A.A. degree earned in
prison). (I ended up writing a research paper on the decline of
prison education programs and how numerous studies concur that such
decline only increases recidivism rates far beyond the cost of the
programs that were being cut, supposedly to save money!)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then, after a couple of years, and less
than a year shy of my max-out release date, they told me it was time
for me to enter the Sex Offender Treatment Program. I refused,
because I knew a bureaucratic trap when I saw one. If I entered the
program and co-operated, by admitting my sexual desire for children,
they'd use that against me for civil commitment (to keep me locked up
as a dangerous sex offender). And if I entered the program but
refused to admit my desire for children, the «doctors» would claim
this made me even more dangerous, and I'd still be civilly committed.
But, if I refused the program then the doctors couldn't say anything,
except what was already on record. And because I was only 16 years
old, and my victim was 14 years old, they could not legally call me a
pedophile. So, as long as I stayed out of the SOTP, I could not be
civilly committed. In other words – the system was designed so I
could only get released if I didn't get «treatment». Go figure!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Because I refused treatment they
transferred me to the Correction Center in Spokane, WA. That's where
Big Al was! I hadn't seen him in years, since before my parole in '94
(it was now '99). Also, in Spokane (I don't recall the name of this
CC), there was a special software development program in the
education department that had ties with the computer lav at TRCC.
When I told the inmates in this program that I knew their
counterparts from Twin Rivers, they weren't very impressed. But, they
let me take a skill test anyway. The next day they hired me (I only
missed one question on their test, and nobody else had ever come
close to even passing it before, not even the other inmates who were
in the special program). The project was funded by a grant (from the
DOE, if I recall) and consisted of a team of prisoners who planned
and developed a «Competency Based Training» computer program that
would supposedly be used in institutional education programs to help
track and facilitate the idea of inmates training inmates. I was put
in charge (officially) of «Quality Control», but that basically
meant that I would work with the other prisoners to help them do
their part of the coding, which in most cases they couldn't do by
themselves.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, I spent all my time there working
happily on that project, and visiting with Big Al when I could in the
chapel (because we were housed in separated units the only way we
could visit was in the chapel). I also was required to take a «drug
class» that I thought was a huge waste of time, but they threatened
to remove me from the programming team if I didn't attend. So, of
course, I did.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then one day I got called back to
my housing unit unexpectedly, and told to pack up my stuff, I was
being released on a court order. Rich had hired a lawyer who filed a
«Personal Restraint Petition» so I could get those six months of
lost juvenile time served credit. That put me well past my max-out
date, so the judge ordered that I be released immediately.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I was actually carrying my box of
stuff to «Receiving» to be processed out, I saw Big Al on the
walkway and ran over to tell him the news and give him a big hug
goodbye. It was extremely surreal, to say the least. In all the years
I'd been in prison in Washington state, I was in a total of no less
than four different prisons with Big Al, and in three of those we
were cellmates! And now, I get to hug him goodbye, by some «chance»
on the very last day, and my very last minutes, of all those years!
Totally bizarre! (And judging by the way he kept looking at me, with
total disbelief as well, I'd say he felt the same way.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They gave me $20 cash, and a check for
$80 more, plus a bus ticket from Spokane to Tacoma, with a stop in
Seattle. Then two guards gave me ride downtown (in another Crown Vic,
no less!) and dropped me off at the bus station. My bus wasn't
scheduled to depart for several hours, so I walked over to a
shopping mall where I called my mom and told her I was on my way
«home», and got something to eat. I didn't get to Tacoma until late
that night, then paid a taxi to take me to my mom's tiny apartment. I
stayed with her for a couple of weeks, while I renewed my driver's
license and squared away a few other affairs. Then Rich paid for a
one-way plane ticket to Fargo, ND. And the best years of my life
began. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>[J.D. May 14, 2015]</b></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-24365764256639327392015-05-28T10:02:00.002-07:002015-05-28T14:40:29.367-07:00Welcome To My Nightmare: First Kiss<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
I was six, I lived on an Army base near Mannheim, Germany. My father
was a sergeant in the motor-pool (methinks), so our «housing» was
military lower class «projects» type housing. The neighborhood, if you could call it that, was a collection of dozens of large
apartment-buildings, four of five stories high with central
stairwells and basements where the boiler rooms were with long halls
of doors on either side going to storage rooms for the apartments
above. This was where I kissed a girl for the first time, other than
my mother or sisters; and I kissed her on her vulva.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She
made me do it. She was older and bigger. The same age as my sister
Teena, eight years old. I don't remember her name, but I remember
she had long black hair and hairy arms (for a girl). With the help of
my sister, yes, Teena, this girl and a few other younger friends of
hers (i.e. the «girls» from the playground) lured me down into the
basement and then told me I was their «prisoner» and forced me into
a small room beneath the stairs. I started crying and pleading, but
they wouldn't let me leave. Then they started telling me to do stuff,
like pull down my pants and put dirt in my mouth.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My
sister at some point told them to stop, but the hairy-armed girl was
bigger, and was having too much fun it seemed. So my sister left, and
I still remember to this day thinking that she was abandoning me to
the whims of this pack of crazy girls bent on making me do things I
was certain in my childish mind were going to kill me. But, she had
only gone, running actually, to get my mom.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">«Mom!
Mom! Jet's being attacked in the basement!» she yelled when she got
upstairs to the apartment (as my mother herself remembers it). <b>(I)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But,
before any rescue came the hairy girl and told me I had to touch her
«pee pee» (or, whatever she called it) and she pulled down her
panties and then pulled up her dress. It was the first time I ever
saw «girl parts» and it terrified me! Mostly because of the way it
was being shown to me (i.e. under duress). I told her, crying but too
scared yet to scream, that I didn't want to touch it, but she grabbed
my hand and made me do it. Then she said, «Kiss it!»</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
started crying harder than ever. I must have thought that if I kissed
it I would get some horrible disease for sure, like cooties. I
resisted more than ever when she grabbed me to try to force my head
down to her crotch, so she changed tactics.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She
suddenly let me go and I coward away from her, still crying but
relieved of the immedate danger, into the back of the little room.
She said, «All you have to do is kiss it, then we'll let you go.»</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">«Promise?»
I pleaded.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">«Cross
my heart and hope to die!» she said (or something to that effect at
least; I don't remember exactly, of course.)</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
prospect of freedom overcame my fear, and I agreed to her terms. I
bent over and gave her a quick peck where she wanted.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then
she said, «Now you have to kiss her too!» pointing to one of her
friends.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
realized I had been betrayed and begged for mercy, «Nooo! (sob) You
said I could gooo! (sob sob)»</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just
then my mother came tromping down the stairs. The girl quickly
adjusted her panties and dress, and even tried to get my pants back
up but couldn't before my mom homed in on my sobbing and came into
view. As soon as I saw her I let out a loud scream of relief and
terror all at once. I was relieved to be rescued from certain death,
but now terrified of the trouble I was in with my mom!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
don't have any memories of what happened next. But, in my «psych'
reports» years later, this incident was counted as one of «numerous»
incidents where I had «sex with children». It didn't matter that I
was the younger child, only that the other children were children,
and I was a «sex offender». (<a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-upli-WOj20I/VWeKJ8FHtDI/AAAAAAAAARk/6-Ys4SRPuwI/w400-h230-no/cur59_image1.jpg" target="_blank">This is the reason I created the picture of me at this very age, six, with the words «sex offender» branded on my forehead.</a>) The reports typically read, «Mr. Duncan
began having sex with other children at the age of six.» Or,
something like that. None of the reports (or newspapers that got a hold of the reports) ever said that I was «attacked» and
«molested» by older children from the age of six. But, they do
sometimes make a big deal out of the first time I fondled a younger
boy when I was twelve, Go figure.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><b>[J.D.
May 12, 2015]</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Notes:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>(I)</b>
This housing area had a reputation for being the «Bronx» of Army
bases. Fights and «attacks» happened literally every day. My mother
was even attacked once when she tried to confront another child's
mother whose girl had squirted ink in my older sister's mouth on the
«monkey bus» - which is what the kids called the school bus,
because the driver just drove the bus and ignored the fights and
mayhem that regularly occurred on the bus. It was far safer to walk
the two miles or so in order to get to school.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-73360956184056234402015-04-23T13:43:00.004-07:002015-06-08T11:24:18.730-07:00Anonymous Sex In The Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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</div>
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<br />
The only thing I ever
really learned from all the «sex offender» treatment programs I've
been in was all about different kinds of deviant sex. I honestly had
no idea, for example, that anonymous sex in the park was a «thing»
until I heard another man in a «sex offender» group-meeting telling
the group all about how he went to parks at night for sex. He was
very specific about what parks, and how he let the other men
«cruising» the park know what he wanted. He even explained how he
avoided undercover cops. This was all part of the required «sex
offender» treatment that was one of the conditions of my parole to
Seattle in 1994.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Fortunately, my first
parole officer let me switch to one-on-one counseling with a
therapist/counselor who specialized in counseling homosexuals (not
«sex offenders»). I believe this move kept me from «re-offending»
a lot sooner than I did, if for no other reason than the fact that
Glen, the homo-counselor, never put any «ideas» into my head, while
he effectively shunted many «deviant» ideas that were already
there. He helped me feel a lot more «normal» (and hence helped me
behave a lot more «normal») and acceptable for who I was. But, I
never told Glen what I had learned about anonymous park-sex, because
I wanted to find out more about that for myself. It was a seed well
planted.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">So, one day after work,
instead of catching the usual bus home, I took a bus that passed by
Volunteer Park instead (one of the best known «cruising» parks in
Seattle, I soon discovered!). It was already after dark by the time I
got to the park. I had actually «cruised» the park a few nights ago
before this visit, and had a bit of a scare that caused me to
literally flee the park and go home before anything happened (sex,
that is). I had entered the park fully expecting --- according to
what I had heard in that group meeting --- to see men «all over the
place» having sex. But, I didn't see anyone. The park seemed empty.
I was sure I had the right day, and time of day, for ample activity,
but it seem my information had been wrong. At least, until I ventured
off the main road and into the shadows of a stand of trees that was
laced with trails.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I stepped into a kind of
tunnel formed by some bushes and tree branches, and had to wait a few
seconds for my eyes, and my mind, to adjust to what seemed (at the
time) like a scene literally out of a really creepy horror movie.
There were several men in there, just standing quietly in the
shadows, clearly waiting for something. At the time I had no idea
what they were actually waiting for. But, I learned later that they
were waiting to see who I was; that is... they were waiting to see
what I did next. My behavior upon first entering this «underworld»
was critical. It would tell them what I wanted, or even whether or
not I was likely a cop. I figured all that out later (again, largely
by reflecting on what I heard in that «sex offender» group and
relating it to what I actually experienced in the park). But at the
time I was completely «freaked out» by all those men just standing
quietly in the shadows; so I turned around and left, using all my
courage to not run, but I left the park on that first visit much more
quickly and more directly than I had entered it, that's for certain.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
Once I was out safe, I
started thinking about what had happened. Nobody chased me, or even
followed me. So, it wasn't quite the threatening situation that it
first seemed. Then over the next few days I managed to piece together
what had happened, and decided to return for another «look» (in all
honesty, curiosity was probably a much stronger motive for me than
sex at this point). And thus the alternate bus route home a few days
later. On this trip I was less afraid while in the park, but realized
I had more to be afraid of afterwards!<br />
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Again, the park seemed
empty as I entered this time from a completely different direction
(from the north, instead of the south like last time). I headed for
the same clump of trees though, and entered the shadows from a
slightly more open (and lit) entrance. But this time the trails that
crisscrossed throughout the trees and bushes were nearly deserted. I
spotted two men almost right away, but they didn't seem interested in
me at all, so I wandered around a bit looking for more, and better,
prospects.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I didn't find any. This
time it appeared the park really was empty, except for those first
two men... ALL except those first two men. That alone --- even though
this was next to my very first time really cruising a park for sex
--- was «suspicious» to me. Something didn't feel right. But, in
new situations like this a feeling like that is easy to dismiss. So,
I didn't run out of the park like last time. But, I didn't leave
either. Instead I returned to the slightly better lit area where I
first saw the other two men.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">They were still there. In
fact, they were still standing in the exact same positions doing the
exact same thing (i.e. looking disinterested). I said, «Hello.» One
of them said «hello» in return. I remember acting nervous and
uncertain (because I was). I tried to start up a conversation with
the man who spoke, the closest one to me (only a few feet away, with
the other man a bit further, about 15 feet or so, but close enough to
hear everything being said though he remained silent the entire
time). The man who spoke was a middle-aged white man. I couldn't tell
how old his silent partner was, but he seemed younger. I told the man
who spoke that I had «heard» that men come to parks like this, at night, to have sex. I remember him asking where I heard that; and me
telling him that I saw it on the news (lying, of course). After a few
more failed attempts to get these men interested, I began to realize
that something was definitely wrong about this whole situation, and
started calculating a «best exit» strategy. Running away is a good
last resort, but seldom a good first choice since nearly all
«predators» expect their prey to run. So, running away flags you as
prey. It's much smarter to leave a dangerous animal situation as
calmly as possible, and it was clear to me that these men were
«dangerous animals» of some sort.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But, before I could make
my own move they made theirs. The first man gave some sort of signal
to the man standing further away. They approached each other, and
whispered something between them. At this point I was thinking it was
time to run, and if both men would have turned one step in my
direction I would have. But, the second man turned away from me and
walked off into the trees. The first man turned toward me, and
instead of approaching he just said, «Come on..», and walked off
into an open field.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik7-qHVmSwpFC4wzFRrdBFrP6ELohCs4Ohv_kaMwt_XquMMlj37czlqduW2FCDot0MmrTxE0kHXZJLl965tUZtOK70KhPOPmvHFu-E75MmMSNk5UYrwOARwNip5oMuA8LnKhZkFSbMUE/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjik7-qHVmSwpFC4wzFRrdBFrP6ELohCs4Ohv_kaMwt_XquMMlj37czlqduW2FCDot0MmrTxE0kHXZJLl965tUZtOK70KhPOPmvHFu-E75MmMSNk5UYrwOARwNip5oMuA8LnKhZkFSbMUE/s400/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">That was a relatively
«safe» direction, so I just followed him. He lead me out of the
park and back to the main road. Once we got there, he said, «Go
home, the park is not a good place for you to be.» And, I did
exactly what he said, not even yet realizing what had just happened,
and just glad once more that I was «out safe» again.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It didn't take me long to
realize that these two men were undercover police officers;
«dangerous animals» indeed! <b>(I)</b>
Over the years I became much better at spotting the police. Sometimes
I even taunted them (by making them think I was going to take the
«bait» and then just walking away). I also took the time to learn
the legal «hooks» they used (i.e. behavioral boundaries that had to
be crossed before they could make an arrest). I learned the REAL
«hooks», by reading police manuals and case law, not the fake
«hooks» that the police themselves circulate on the streets in
order to cover the «scent» of their real «hooks».</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But,
undercover cops weren't the only danger in the parks. There were all
sorts of «dangerous animals» prowling around in those parks bushes
at night, and over the years I encountered almost every kind. But, I
never again felt as afraid as I was that first night, or even the
second. Because, I prepared myself just as meticulously for all of
them (i.e. by educating myself --- information is always the best weapon, and the best defense). I never took risks with diseases (by
knowing what «signs» to look for and always using a rubber to be
safe). And I learned the «patterns» of behavior to watch for so I
could spot a «mugger» as quick as a cop (the «muggers» in the
parks will pretend to be interested in sex, but since they're usually
more into drugs than sex it's not hard to weed them out, and I
«escaped» several in my time (and not all just in the parks). I
even averted a «rapist» once, who tried to force me to have sex
after I was finished and no longer interested. I simply told him in a
very calm and serious voice that if he didn't let go of me I was
going to break his neck. He let go, but I sometimes wonder if it
might have been more fun to just let him have his way (as long as he
used a condom, of course).</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCf4lujf1nAap0JNOnf3a9u8hjvXg-Qlzqo_wTn6BMgUr0Ap8Wm10kPy-7XWL7tK_UDMCBDUIXuT9_d5khrsqgYU6PGOP25RnFy45OnWghxqot6CX2Sdc8-KxQr6h4CNUVLlMvW_-vPE/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCf4lujf1nAap0JNOnf3a9u8hjvXg-Qlzqo_wTn6BMgUr0Ap8Wm10kPy-7XWL7tK_UDMCBDUIXuT9_d5khrsqgYU6PGOP25RnFy45OnWghxqot6CX2Sdc8-KxQr6h4CNUVLlMvW_-vPE/s320/6.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
I
actually ended up having a lot of interesting experiences over my
years in the «real world» while pursuing anonymous sex in parks
(not to mention, sex clubs and porn theaters). At first I would go on
the busiest nights and at the busiest times, and I'd take part in
some pretty strange «orgies» with more than a dozen men at a time
surging through the park having sex sporadically. In Seattle I was
young enough and good-looking enough to always have my pick and my
way, which gave me a wonderful sense of power and control over the
men I let use me (something I learned to enjoy after getting raped so
much in prison). I'd often let several men use me at the same time,
filling my «holes» at both ends, and both hands, all at once, while
someone «pleasured» me too. Over time though I started going on
less busy nights, because it just felt more comfortable for me to not
have so much going on at one time... probably safer too.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">On
one of the busy nights I met an older Chinese man and we ended up
becoming friends, even though his English wasn't very good. I only
mention him because he was the only man I ever kissed passionately in
a park during anonymous sex. He was completely naked when I first saw
him, and he was standing near an orgy of about a half dozen men or so
that was taking place in the middle of a grass field at Volunteer
Park. Nobody seemed to be paying him much attention, but I was
fixated as soon as I saw him. In the dark he looked a lot like a
young boy. He was short, with a slender and hairless body. When I got
up close I could tell he was older than I had hoped, but it wasn't
hard for me to imagine that he was much younger, which is exactly
what I did as I started touching him all over and molesting his butt
and undersized penis (where he had some hair, but not a lot, and it
was soft... uh, the hair, not the penis!). He responded so eagerly to
my fondling that I couldn't help but kiss him passionately on the
mouth. I climaxed almost immediately, without ever even attempting
any kind of intercourse. And then, as was my habit, I found my own
clothes in some bushes where I had hidden them, got dressed, and left
the park to go home satisfied. Only this time I had some company.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The
little Chinese man had followed me like a lost puppy that had just
gotten a scrap of food from a stranger. I didn't actually realize I
was even being followed until I got out of the park and he called to
get my attention. Using a combination of gestures and broken English
(badly «broken» English at that) he managed to let me know that he
had a car and offered to drive me home. He was so cute, and seemed
completely harmless, and I was pretty tired, and it was at least a
couple of miles to my apartment near downtown, so I accepted.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">He
drove a large older American muscle car (like a 70's Charger or
something similar), which was a bit strange for such a small Chinese
man. When we got to my apartment I invited him in, and even though it
was much harder to imagine he was a boy in the light of my apartment,
we made love again, but with him it was never much more than fondling
and mutual masturbation, and he loved sucking my dick too.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMnLOpxfhTfBAfx8rLEh3eUjIyHJQioIUtQ4IjYDWfU5cTenfDaGxGyulSWesMan9U3hQ6EJLY5CYtgo6Y39b_f5tYXNz8LW8Mhl7EKlu_umNHeNlbu-jycns1-PUzUe60dmi_47slOI/s1600/springtimebreeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMnLOpxfhTfBAfx8rLEh3eUjIyHJQioIUtQ4IjYDWfU5cTenfDaGxGyulSWesMan9U3hQ6EJLY5CYtgo6Y39b_f5tYXNz8LW8Mhl7EKlu_umNHeNlbu-jycns1-PUzUe60dmi_47slOI/s320/springtimebreeding.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">As
it turned out, he was «sprung» on me because of the way I so
passionately kissed him in the park, and because he thought my cock
was «huge» (for him, it was!). He started showing up at my
apartment unannounced looking for sex (I'd have to buzz him in from
the security entrance, so I didn't mind) about once a week or so, and
that's how we became friends. He would bring little gifts for me, but
nothing expensive or of any real value. Once he brought me a leather
«cock ring», but I thought it was a bracelet and put it on my wrist
instead of on my cock. He didn't correct my error though for some
reason (and I didn't figure out what a «cock ring» was until many
years later). I think he was being polite about my ignorance.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I
only «brought home» one other man from a park for sex besides my
little Chinese friend. Nearer to my apartment was another less
popular cruising park called «Freeway Park» (because it literally
was built over top of the Interstate-5 freeway). I went there often
looking for sex at night because it was less than a few blocks (five
minute walk) from my place. But, the «pickings» there were fewer
and much less «desirable» (lots of drug addicts and homeless men).
And, because there was less traffic, and the park was so much closer
to downtown, it was also more dangerous. (This was the park where a
man once grabbed me and tried to force me to continue having sex with
him after I had finished). I met a tall passive homeless black man
here, and after letting him fuck my ass in the park (with a condom,
of course; always with a condom), I asked him if he wanted to fuck me
some more back at my apartment. I could tell he was more scared of me
than I was of him (he was apparently mentally handicapped, which is
common for homeless people, and the reason I felt safe inviting him
back to my apartment for sex). But, the only reason I wanted him to
come back with me to my apartment was because I had a camera hidden
in a speaker that was focused on my hide-a-bed. When we got back to
my apartment I was able to secretly turn on the camera and record
myself getting butt-fucked by a big black homeless man as I lay naked
and spread-eagle on my bed. I loved that recording (it was the only
«hidden camera» recording I ever made) and I masturbated to it a
lot (saving myself a lot of trips to the parks in the process). I
eventually destroyed the tape though, by «nuking» it in my
microwave oven, along with some other tapes that I couldn't risk
keeping when I moved in with Joe and Ed in North Seattle. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">All-in-all,
I never regretted my trips to the parks for sex. And, to this day I
frequently masturbate to my memories of those experiences, and often
imagine new ways that I could have enjoyed anonymous sex even more,
such as shaving my legs, wearing a wig, and dressing like a whore.
That would have been a lot of fun!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>(J.D.
April 10, 2015)</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Notes:
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>(I)</b>
I presume that the reason the undercover cop escorted me out of the
park and told me to go home was because I did not do anything «rude»
or «obscene» to spring their trap. They probably decided I was
clearly inexperienced, and essentially «too small a fish to fry».
So they «threw me back» and no doubt reset their hooks after I was
gone. </span>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-39308087799133463612015-03-17T16:14:00.000-07:002015-03-17T16:14:16.038-07:00Home Invasion<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In 1997, after I had already sexually
assaulted and murdered two homeless Native American half-sisters (age
9 and 11), and after I had been sent back to prison for one month to
await a parole hearing on a technical parole violation (I held my
brother's handgun when he was showing it to me for a moment, which I
only found out later counts as «possession of a firearm»), and
after I was released back on parole to Seattle, Washington, I invaded
a family home one evening with every intention of raping and
murdering the two very young boys that lived there. Fortunately for
that family the man of the house came home and walked in the front
door just as I was about to kill the boy's mother by crushing her
skull with a hammer. What follows is a detailed confession of this
crime, and it's not for the faint of heart. If you're looking for a
reason to hate me, then you'll no doubt find plenty of reasons here.
But, I'm not writing this to appeal to some deep need to be hated.
Nor am I writing this as some futile plea to be «understood». I'm
only conveying this experience as a matter of truth, and as an
expression of the darker aspects of being human, which if ignored (or
worse, condemned) will only find far more detrimental ways of
expressing itself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I first spotted the boys in a Target
store that I had gone to only in order to close out a Target credit
card account that I no longer wanted (for some reason I needed to
visit the store in person to do this, but I don't recall why). I saw
the boys with their mother in one of the checkout lines and they
immediately caught my attention. I didn't stare at them though, even
«discreetly» from behind a display case or something, with drooling
eyes the way «sexually predators» are usually depicted in most
fantasy crime dramas (a.k.a. «cop shows»). Instead I just acted
normal, very nonchalant; if someone were watching me at the time ---
and I always assumed that someone was --- they would not have thought
I had noticed the boys at all. But, in my mind I was thrilled by
every glance I could afford. The boys were perfect little cuties,
slender bodies, blond hair, beautiful eyes; any pedophile's dream. I
was ahead of them in another line, or maybe I was just leaving the
store without checking out or purchasing anything, I don't remember.
But I do remember waiting in my car in the parking lot before
leaving, hoping for one more glimpse of the boys.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't have to wait long. They came
out of the store with their mother and to my delight got into a
minivan that was directly in my line of sight. I realized immediately
that it would be almost too easy to follow them. The mother, like
most women, was clearly oblivious to what was happening around her,
perpetually distracted by whatever thoughts seemed more important to
her than her surroundings (I later made the mistake once of trying to
trail a man with his children in the same way I trailed this woman
home, only to be lead almost directly to a police station parking lot
--- clearly the man had realized he was being trailed almost as soon
as I spotted him --- I got away with no trouble, but so did he). To
make a long trek short, I followed the minivan for about 20 miles,
mostly on the I-5 freeway. They made a stop at a McDonald's that had
a «playland», where I just waited outside (and out of sight, i.e.
not in the McDonald's parking lot) until they came out again, then
followed them the rest of their way home.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I lost them briefly after they turned
onto a residential street, because I didn't want to risk raising any
suspicions by making the same turn behind her. But, it was a simple
matter of driving around the neighborhood after that until I spotted
the same minivan parked in front of a house on a dead-end street.
Bingo!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I pulled around a corner and parked in
a place that seemed out of sight from any houses nearby, and then I
got out of my car and approached the house with the minivan
cautiously. My plan was to make a fast survey of the house and its
neighbors, so if anyone spotted me I'd be gone before the police even
showed up.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The house had an open yard, but all
their neighbors' houses had fences. I made my way to the backyard,
which was unlit and dark. Toys and bikes were strewn around, which
made it clear that the yard was the de facto abode of children, and
no doubt an annoyance to be ignored by the neighbors, which the tall
wooden fences and hedges seemed to confirm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I felt completely invisible as I crept
up behind the house and approached the only lit window I could see.
The window turned out to be open, and as I crouched beneath it I
could hear the woman inside talking on the phone. It seemed to me
that she was talking to her lover, which I took to mean that she
lived alone with her boys in the house. I had all the information I
needed. I quickly returned to my car, watching carefully for any
lights coming on, or sounds that might indicate I had been seen along
the way; there was none. I then drove back to Joe and Ed's house,
where I was living at the time, and went to bed; I was up past my
bedtime and had to work the next day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I don't remember how long it was before
I returned with a «rape kit» that I put together just for the
occasion, but it wasn't more than a week. I brought duct-tape, rope,
camcorder and lotion, amongst other things that I thought might come
in handy, and put all this in a school backpack for easy carrying.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This time I parked about a block away
and avoided driving down the dead-end street where the house was lest
someone remember seeing my car. Instead I walked past the house to
make sure everything was nice and quiet, then around a corner where
the street turned just before it ended. I decided to stash the
backpack in some bushes so I would be unencumbered while I approached
the house, in case I had to run.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I walked casually through the front and
sideyard of the house and into the backyard, reasoning that if a
neighbor saw me they'd think I belonged there only if I wasn't
creeping around. But, as soon as I was out of sight in the backyard I
crouched down low next to the house and crept up to the sliding glass
backdoor, which was partly open.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I was just about to enter when I heard
the boys inside roughhousing. They ran right past the open door, the
older boy (about seven years old) chasing the younger (about five)
then tackling him onto a couch and wrestling the way brothers do
laughing and squealing with complete abandon. The couch they landed
on was practically right under my nose, and I could watch them
playing just feet away as I remained completely unobserved in the
shadows of night outside the window.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Shortly I heard their mother call them
and they both got up and ran off to another part of the house,
leaving me and the open door all to ourselves. I entered the house,
still only intending to scout the territory, and thinking I should go
get the backpack but not wanting to «spoil the opportunity» (i.e. I
knew this part of the house was presently unoccupied).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Just inside the glass door was a
laundry area, with piles of clean and dirty clothes strewn about. I
picked up a pair of a little boy's underpants and put them on over my
head and face, but I could still see out through the leg holes. I
thought this was practical and ironic at the same time. I stupidly
left the mask I had brought with me in the backpack, as well as a
knife I had intended to use as a weapon.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I walked through the laundry area and
into the kitchen. There I found an old rusty hammer lying on the
counter. Obviously I was being provided for, so I took the hammer as
a weapon and proceeded cautiously further into the house.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Most of the lights inside the house
were turned off, which made it easy for me to move around secure in
the shadows. From the kitchen and past the main (front) entrance
there was a central hallway. Down this hall I could see several open
doors, but only one with the light on inside. From that door I could
also hear a T.V. playing, and the boys and their mother occasionally
commenting about what was on the T.V. as they watched.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wanted to go back and get the
backpack, but I clearly remember thinking that if I backed out of the
house now I probably would not be able to muster the emotional energy
it took to go back in (i.e. So-called «courage» --- but, I would no
longer call it that). It was «now or never»; and I knew it; so I
made it «now».
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I simply stood up from the crouched
position I was in at the entrance to the hallway, and walked boldly
into the lit room, which turned out to be the master bedroom, with
the hammer raised menacingly over my head ready to strike. The mother
was lying on the bed with her head propped up on pillows to watch
T.V. with both boys on the other side of the bed in odd positions as
children do. When she saw me she screamed immediately, but then just
as suddenly fell compliant and silent as I commanded her to be quiet,
«or else!» It was a good thing she fell silent on her own because I
had every intention of silencing her with the hammer if she hadn't.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I told her that I only wanted her car
as I threw a blanket completely over the boys and told them not to
move while I dealt with the mother. I ordered her out of the bedroom
and back out into the living room, where I told her to get on her
knees bent over the same couch I saw the boys wrestling on earlier. I
used a piece of string, a shoelace I think, to then tie her hands
loosely behind her back. I intended to kill her quickly, so I didn't
spend a lot of time securing her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Once she was tied I told her to not
move, «or else», and then I returned to the bedroom to make sure
the boys were still under the blanket. I told them, in a voice loud
enough for the mother to hear in the living room, to stay under the
blanket until their mother told them it was okay to come out from
under it. And then I uncovered the younger (and prettier) boy and
shushed him silently by putting my finger to my lips. I picked him up
and laid him on the floor, unable to resist a quick look at my prize.
I pulled down his pants and pulled up his shirt to expose his body
quickly; I couldn't believe how gorgeous he was naked, and again, I'm
not saying this to arouse myself, I'm only conveying the experience
as it happened, and my reaction to it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I fondled the boy briefly, which he
seemed to oddly enjoy. I expected him to be afraid, and maybe he was,
but I couldn't tell. Maybe he wasn't quite old enough to understand
the threat I represented. Or, maybe he was used to being «abused».
I don't know; all I know is that when I pulled down his pants and
fondled him he was smiling up at me like it was some sort of game. I
didn't linger though. I probably spent less than a minute total
«checking» the boys. Then I covered the younger boy with another
blanket, leaving his pants down for later, and returned to the living
room to «finish» with the mother.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In the process of leading ehr from the
bedroom to the living room she had told me that her «husband» would
be back soon. I dismissed her claim as an attempt to scare me off,
and ignored it. But she was telling the truth!
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I stood over her, hammer in hand,
mustering my so-called «courage» to kill her (and perhaps also
quickly calculating what would happen when I started hitting her in
the head with the hammer) suddenly the front door behind me opened as
someone with keys still jingling came in!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Without even turning to see who it was
I just bolted for the backdoor, across the backyard, and in less than
a minute (or so it seemed) I was at the end of the block, hiding in a
shadowy flowerbed nect to another house, and watching to see if I had
been seen, or followed. My car was parked just across the street from
where I lay hidden, but I waited to make sure no one saw me getting
in it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
After about another minute I heard a
man's scream coming from the direction of the boy's house. It wasn't
coherent at all, just a cathartic burst of raw emotion, no doubt
frustration and powerlessness over being so violated. I assume that
as soon as the man realized what was happening he must have grabbed
some weapon and ran after me. But, as soon as he got outside and
found that I was nowhere in sight, and having no idea which direction
I could have gone, he just screamed to let me know he was there or
something. I'm just supposing all this of course, but when I heard
the scream I knew I had gotten away, and I remember thinking, «Now
you know how it feels!» Then I got in my car and drove away with
forced calmness.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I was leaving the neighborhood I
actually pulled over at one point to let a police car pass in the
opposite direction with siren and lights blaring. Then after he
passed me I turned immediately onto a residential street so it would
look like I was «returning home» (i.e. like a local resident) and
not «leaving» and parked there briefly. I still had the boys
underpants that I had worn to hide my face, so I got out of the car
and threw them into a dumpster behind the church. Then I got back in
my car and drove home (to Joe and Ed's house).
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next day there was nothing in the
news at all about the home invasion. In fact, there was never
anything in the news about it at all, not even under «crime watch»
in the local papers --- I checked. After my arrest in 2005 (for my
current crimes) I told the FBI all about this crime (amongst every
other crime I ever committed) and though they told me they «knew
about it» already (I suspect they might have just said so in order
to make it appear as though they knew more than they did, a common
«police tactic») it for some reason never made it into the popular
media reports that detailed every other crime I ever committed except
this one. Because of this strange «silence» in this case I strongly
suspect that the man I heard screaming that night was (or is) most
likely somehow directly associated with «law enforcement». He was
probably a cop, and cops know that the worst part about being a victim
of a «major crime» is the media coverage. So, they routinely keep
crimes like this against cops «off the public radar» to protect
themselves, and their families, from the broader and more painful
damage caused by the «fallout». It's one of the unspoken privileges
of being a cop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I returned to get my backpack the next
night. It was very risky, I knew, but I had to get the pack before
someone else found it, by accident or otherwise. I knew police
procedure would be to patrol the neighborhood for a few days keeping
an eye out for anyone matching the suspect's description --- in this
case, white male, six foot, slender build and «on foot», which I
figured they would assume since I told the boy's mother that I
«needed» her car. So, instead of driving straight back to the
house, I drove to a local all-night grocery store and parked amongst
the other cars there. Then I crouched low in my seat and waited as I
listened to a police scanner that I had «borrowed» (without them
knowing) from Joe and Ed (they kept the scanner on the mantel of the
fireplace in their living room, and only turned it on while they were
getting high, which they did often).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It didn't take long before I heard what
sounded like references to «possible suspects» matching «my»
description. So I knew even more so that I was taking a big risk by
just being in the neighborhood. But, I had to get that bag. I didn't
think there was anything in it that could identify me, but it most
certainly had my prints all over it and on the items inside.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I expected to see a patrol car before
too long and I did. It came from the direction of the boy's house, so
I was pretty sure why it was there (i.e. Looking for me). It drove
around a corner and then passed in front of the grocery store where I
was parked. Then it actually pulled into the parking lot at the last
entrance, but the speed and «mode» in which it was moving (i.e. I
could tell it was in «patrol mode» not «investigation mode», in
other words, he was driving slow, but not «cautiously» the way cops
do when approaching a possible «situation») told me that I had not
been spotted. So, I watched him drive toward the front of the store,
and could see that the driver's attention was on the store, not the
parking lot, which appeared empty (of people). He actually drove
right next to me, but by then I was crouched all the way down and
completely out of sight, watching his progress in the reflection of
the inside of my windshield.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He didn't stop. He just drove through
the front of the parking lot and then back out onto the street and
continued in the direction he had been going, away from the boy's
house. I knew then that I had at least fifteen minutes (probably
plenty more than that) to go get the bag before he, or anyone else,
would be back. So I did exactly that. I didn't pussy-foot around
about it either. I just drove directly to the house, parked in the
shadow of the same hedges I had parked near on the very first night I
had found the house. Got out, got the backpack, and then got the hell
out of there following a route that took me away from the direction
I'd seen the cop car go.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Mission accomplished.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Like I mentioned already, the home
invasion was never reported in the news. Nor was I ever a suspect, as
far as I know, probably not until I told the FBI about the crime (and
showed them on a map where the house was). Other than the crime I am
in prison for now, this was the only other «home invasion» or even
«burglary» that I did after my release from prison the first time
(in 1994). It was a classic «criminal learning experience» and I
saw it as exactly that from the start to finish (i.e. I consciously
intended to learn from it and knew I would make mistakes all along,
which I carefully watched for). My biggest mistake was leaving that
bag behind in the bushes. But my next biggest mistake was not
surveying the house better and determining how many people would be
there. There were many other lesser mistakes that I learned from, not
to mention more «contingencies» that I prepared for. I read police
investigation tactics, crime scene procedures, and even «Amber
Alert» procedures. That's how I knew that I had gotten away with it
and would never be a suspect --- as long as I killed both the
children. Killing them, and their family, was never something I
wanted to do; it was something I HAD to do, in order to not get
caught. And not getting caught was the hard lesson I learned after
being sent to prison the first time (that's the one lesson that
prison always teaches, unlike what the Pharisees would have you
believe).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">[J.D. December 23, 2014]</span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>P.S.
</i>I wrote this confession several months ago, but did not send
it to my friends to be published because something felt «wrong»
about it. I knew where it felt that way, but I couldn't put my
fingers on why. It was the part where I describe molesting the
younger boy in the bedroom. Something about that scene bothered me,
but I couldn't say what it was.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Usually when this happens it is because
something not quite honest has unconsciously slipped into what I have
written. Because it is unintentional it sometimes takes me a few days
to realize where the dishonesty is that is causing the uneasy
feeling. In this case though, even after months, I could find nothing
dishonest.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But, the feeling persisted. Until just
the other day when my girlfriend asked me this question concerning
another Fifth Nail confession: Do you write these confessions in
order to re-live the crime through someone else's eyes?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I knew the short answer right away,
«no». But, the question made me think (my girlfriend's questions
often make me think, which is one of the reasons I love her). Why
wouldn't I want to re-live my crimes by writing about them? Many sex
criminals enjoy re-living their crimes, so why shouldn't I?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The truth is, I do. But, I do it
privately and I am extremely sensitive about never letting someone
else «see» me doing so. This is why I don't collect pictures of
children that arouse my sexual interest (despite recent accusations
claiming otherwise). It also explains my uneasy feeling about this
confession.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The scene with the boy aroused me as I
wrote it. And, that's why it felt «wrong». In this I wasn't being
dishonest, but I was being too honest. I was «exposing» a part of
myself that I don't like to expose. I don't mind telling people that
I still fantasize about raping children, but I do mind making the
fantasies themselves public. So, to answer my girlfriend's question
more specifically, no, I do not write about my crimes in order to
re-live them through someone else's eyes; and, in fact, the thought
of doing so makes me uncomfortable on many levels.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now that I understand why I felt
uncomfortable about this confession I can let it go (to be published).
I did not let it go now then I would not be honest (it would cross
the line from not «exposing» something I feel should be private, to
deliberately concealing the truth). So, I must let it go, no matter
how «wrong» it feels. Being honest doesn't always mean being
«right»!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">[J.D. March 8, 2015]</span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-43769169064919116542015-02-28T09:56:00.001-08:002015-02-28T09:57:12.608-08:00Bicycle Ticket<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">While
on parole in Seattle and living near downtown on Seneca street, I
bought an inexpensive mountain bike off the shelf at Sears. My plan
was to save a little money on my daily commute to the North end of
Lake Union where I worked as a telemarketer six days a week near
Gasworks park. Monthly bus passes where about $55, so the bike could
pay for itself in just over a few months if I rode to work every day
instead of taking the bus. It seemed like a pretty good plan since
the trip to work was nearly all downhill, about seven miles, if I
remember right, from my apartment. So, I'd arrive at work fresh and
ready for the day, and then get a good work out on my way home each
night. And the plan worked well for several months, up until the day
I found the lock cut and my bike missing from the locked basement of
the building I lived in (I reported the theft to the police, and
never found out who took it; though I suspect the manager stole it
simply because he didn't like the daily traffic up and down the stars
to the basement just below his apartment).</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
ride the bike everywhere and enjoyed it a lot, despite Seattle's
hilly location. I didn't mind the slow low-gear trod up all the hills
because for me the downhill sprints were always worth it. But, it
wasn't all smooth sailing, as they say, and a couple of incidents
stand out aside from the bike being stolen.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">On
my way home from work one day, on the front one mile stretch down
Broadway Avenue after a trudguous two-plus mile hill climb, I had
taken my hands off the handlebars so I could sit up and relaz a
little on the flat part of my trip. Like any regular cyclist knows,
riding without hands might be showing off for a child, but after a
while it becomes so easy that you end up doing it without much
thought and at times when you really shouldn't, like on a busy street
with a lot of traffic and parked cars as obstacles. </span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This
was one of those times. I don't remember exactly why, but for some
really dumb reason I reached down and attempted to grab the LEFT
handle, and apply the break, with my RIGHT hand! Well, as you can
imagine this didn't work out so well for me. I immediately lost
control of the bike and crashed into a parked car (in order to avoid
crashing into the street and a moving car). I was unhurt, except
maybe for a few scratches. But, the car I hit --- an unrestored
“classic” (i.e. older car) of some sort from the 60s --- was
scratched and now had a busted sideview mirror.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
thought about just riding off, but there were a lot of people on the
sidewalk and they clearly saw what had happened. So I deicded to
leave a note. But, as I was writing it the owner of the car came out
of a nearby establishment and asked me what I was doing (I think
someone told her that her car had just been hit). I admitted to what
I had done and offered to pay for the damage, which in hindsight was
even stupider than the stunt that caused the accident in the first
place. She ended up bilking me for about $500, which is what she
claimed it cost to fix the damage. And to make things worse, I found
out later that my renter's insurance would have covered the accident
with only a $100 deductable payment.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Well,
the real reason I'm relaying all this now is not about the accident
at all, but because of the ticket I ended up getting as an indirect
consequence. Here's how it happened...</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">After
that accident I started riding my bike to and from work on side
streets, with far less traffic so I didn't have to ride so close to
the parked cars all the time to make room for the traffic to pass.
This worked well, until one day, on my way to work, I got pulled over
by a motorcycle cop and ticketed for riding my bike straight, through
a “right-turn only” intersection.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The
bizarre thing was that it was a side street, and there was no traffic
at all. The cop had been parked out of sight, apparently just waiting
for a victim to come “violate” the barely visible traffic sign
marking the intersection as “right-turn only”. If I had been
driving a car I probably would have observed and obeyed the sign, as
I consider myself a good, and lawful, driver. But, on my bike, and
with no traffic, on a side street, I honestly wasn't even paying any
attention to the traffic signs. So you can imagine my surprise when I
heard the police siren “bloop” and looked over my shoulder to see
the cop on my tail!</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
pulled aside, to let him pass, as if he really needed the room, but
then he parked behind me and swaggered, literally swaggered like some
T.V. motorcycle cop, wearing the tight riding pants and apparently
obligatory sunglasses under his helmet.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
thought it was a joke, even though he wasn't smiling... at all! Dead
serious, he asked for my license, which I produced and handed him
after asking a couple of times if he was serious. He assured me as
often as I asked that he was serious (and he WAS), and then proceeded
to write me a ticket for a “moving violation”, insisting that
because I was riding my bike on the street I was subject to the same
rules and laws as any car. I could tell he hated his job, and later I
came to realize that the only reason he ticketed me was probably
because he was behind on his quota, and hadn't had anyone else to
pick on all morning.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Well,
against the advice of several friends, who all told me to just pay
the ticket, I took the ticket to a judge, if for no other reason than
the principle of it. I was just an honest Joe trying to ride my bike
to work and not causing anyone any trouble. I thought the ticket was
nuts! Apparently so did the judge, he not only threw it out, but
deleted the record of it on the computer right in front of me. He
said he deleted it so it wouldn't effect my driving record (it was
the only ticket I had ever gotten), but even then I knew the record
he was really concerned about was the city's record, and the cop's
(percentage of “bad tickets” is supposed to be tracked and used
to gauge performance; so by deleteing the ticket he kept it from
being recorded as a “bad ticket”). But, at least I didn't have to
pay for the ticket!</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">[J.D.
February 9, 2015] </span></b>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-30976273347040034262015-02-24T06:25:00.002-08:002015-02-24T06:28:18.020-08:00Necro-Sex<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">When
I was still a very impressionable teen in a very unimpressionable
adult prison, I heard about an inmate, in the PC (protective custody)
unit of that particular prison, who had infamously kidnapped, raped,
and then murdered a young prepubescent girl. But, that alone was not
what made him so infamous, nor was it what made a big impression on
my very impressionable mind. No. What made him famous, and
“impressed” me, was the fact that he returned to where he had
dumped the girl's body, and had intercourse with her again. Not just
once, but, according to the other prisner who pointed him out to me
and provided these details, he returned several times, over the
course of several days, until he actually got caught after the girl's
naked and mutilated body had been found, because he had apparently
returned for one final go.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He
had supposedly admitted all this to the police when he confessed to
them what he had done. I don't know how much of this story was, or
is, true, but I do know that it was the most bizarre thing I had ever
heard at the time, and consequently it stuck in my head, complete
with detailed re-constructed images of this fat slobbering man
humping the little girl's rotting lifeless body. And, I can tell you
that for a yung teen who had just spent two years (from the age of
seventeen) in an adult “sexual psychopath treatment program”
(located in a state mental hospital no less) being told and
forcefully convinced that I was a “sexual deviant” who could not
control my own sexual behavior, these images in my mind weren't
eactly “healthy” or going to help me get better!</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No,
they weren't going to do anything but make me wojnder, what could
possibly be so gratifying about having sex with a dead child's body
that would compell someone to return not just once, but over-and-over
until he got caught? Incidentally this was the exact same kind of
morbid curiousity that had gotten me sent to prison (and that
so-called “treatment” program) in the first place. As a
fifteen-year-old I had been sent to another state institution for
delinquents (after stealing a car and trying to run from the police
in it --- the way they did all the time in movies back then) called
Dyslin's Boys Ranch. While there, a man I had met while hitch-hiking
told me how lucky I was to not have been picked up by all the
“freaks” out there who like to burn boys like me with cigarettes.
Of course, he told me about “all those other men” after he had
already talked me into taking my clothes off so he could take some
pictures, and then “other things”.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">That
image, of “so many” other men getting enjoyment from burning a
boy's naked body with cigarettes is what prompted me to touch a lit
cigarette to the butt of the boy I supposedly “raped” (because I
put my dick in his mouth at one point – even though I didn't even
understand at the time what “oral sex” was – but, I put my dick
in the boy's mouth, so that was “rape”, in the first degree no
less). I made the boy flinch, but that was all. I didn't see what was
so “pleasureable” about it that “so many” men liked to do it.
In fact, I'd heard that getting your dick sucked was pleasurable too,
which is the only reason my dick ended up in that boy's mouth at all.
I was just trying to figure out what sex was based on the “best”
information I had – which, thanks to our Christian moral's culture,
wasn't very good information at all, obviously.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">So,
now, a few years later, after having been confused more than most
people can even imagine from two years of being surrounded and
inundated with nothing but deviant sex (and still never told what
“healthy sex” was all about beyond “consenting adult”), I was
still trying to figure out what sex was when I'd heard about
necrophilia for the first time, and rather explicitly. In hindsight
then, it seems no surprise at all that the first chance I got to find
out what having sex with a dead child was like, I did it. </span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
didn't kidnap and murder my first two victims (girls, aged nine and
eleven) so I could have sex with their bodies. In fact, I hardly had
sex with them at all (the sex was auxiliary to my “revenge against
society” motive). But, when I returned to bury (for concealment)
the bodies on the day after I murdered them, I remembered that PC
inmate, and decided to find out what it would be like. </span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
had already dug the obligatory “shallow grave” and put the older
child's body in it before I thought about having sex with them. I had
dismembered the older girl's body to fit more compactly in the grave.
So, that left the younger girl for my “experiment”. I don't
actually remember many details about what I did at that point, except
I think I took off all my clothes (the girls were both already nude)
and mounted the child's body in the grass “missionary style”. I
didn't get any more imaginative about it than that, but I remember
that it was difficult for me to stay hard, and even though I
eventually achieved an orgasm, it wasn't enhanced at all by the fact
that my “lover” was a dead little girl. It was difficult, but I
was determined.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I
kidnapped, raped, and murdered several more children after that, but
I never had sex with their dead bodies, nor ever wanted to (though I
did use the fact that I had had sex with a dead child to invoke fear
in the other child victims by threatening to do the same to them –
and I did get some pleasure from that). I don't know exactly why I
feel compelled to share this information, I certainly take no
pleasure in doing so. But, I just sense that it is important that
people realize that even something as perverted and deviant as having
sex with a dead child's body can be understood; and if it can be
understood, and yet perfectly acceptable to ignite impressionable and
vulnerable minds with ideas about rape, murder, and sex with dead
bodies, the way the media does every day? If I had never heard of
rape as a child, I doubt if I ever would have become a rapist, much
less a “serial killer”.</span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">[J.D. February 12, 2015] </span></b></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-61928457253683981522015-01-20T16:20:00.002-08:002015-01-20T10:34:12.092-08:00Casper's Insanity<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P5tIdTVfwtm80KfCp9qR8CMGKORq5QABtAegYndIrQn4uOJmXlrBwa00I4bVGD2XLL4BrjAbwOuLggT4Gx5ikjNGn3EJQwEUEC9MbbceX47QD1Q4E_JeAEVfUgg60VwigO3rrXGz2Zs/s1600/Gotcha!!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_P5tIdTVfwtm80KfCp9qR8CMGKORq5QABtAegYndIrQn4uOJmXlrBwa00I4bVGD2XLL4BrjAbwOuLggT4Gx5ikjNGn3EJQwEUEC9MbbceX47QD1Q4E_JeAEVfUgg60VwigO3rrXGz2Zs/s1600/Gotcha!!.jpg" height="212" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shortly
after I was released from prison on parole in Seattle in 1994 I got a
job working as a telephone sales rep (telemarketer) for Time Life
Libraries, Inc. (or TLLI, pronounced «Tilly» for short). The
workplace, a large central room with rows of five foot high
partitioned booths each with a phone and computer terminal (actual
terminals, not real computers like nowadays), was a rumormill. So, as
soon as I was hired everyone there knew that I was a «registered sex
offender» and on parole. But, I didn't know that everyone knew (I
certainly didn't tell anyone except the person who interviewed me for
the job, I guess that was enough), and I certainly didn't understand
back then the effect such information has on the type of friends I
would meet. Nobody wants to be a «sex offender's» friend for the
sake of friendship alone; everyone who spoke to me at work did so
because they had to (as part of the job) or because they wanted
something, usually sex (of the three men and four women I met at TLLI
who were willing to associate with me outside of work, all but one
man and one woman wanted sex), including Casper. But, the kind of sex
that Casper wanted she never got; at least, not from me. Casper
wanted to be raped. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
didn't tell me this herself. In fact, I didn't find out that this was
the real (and only) reason she befriended me at all until long after
she physically attacked me in my own apartment one day after which I
stopped associating with her. I found out about her true motices from
another friend I met at TLLI named Dee (who initially befriended me
because she wanted to get pregnant, so we had lots of sex, but ended
up becoming good friend, too). I thought Casper was just a naive
young girl who needed a mature friend to help her along in the world,
so that's what I tried to be for her. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">To
be honest, that wasn't all I tried to do. Casper was not only young
(22 years when we met) and pretty, she was also very innocent looking
and spoke with such a soft unassuming voice that it made her terrible
at selling books and CDs over the phone, but excellent at seducing
men, which she admitted to me on several occasson that she did
frequently. So naturally I wanted to have sex with her. And I thought
I might actually have a chance if I was patient enough. And yet, I
was perfectly willing to accept our friendship as platonic, if that's
what she wanted. And according to her, it was. At least, that's what
she kept insisting when the subject came up, and somehow it came up
at alot --- more than I should have expected if I had been only a
little wiser. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
first day we met she had invited me to accompany her to her bus stop
downtown after work, which was no trouble for me since I lived within
a ten or fifteen minute walk from there and her stop was not out of
my way at all. Besides, I didn't know that she knew I was a «sex
offender» (i.e. I hadn't told her, yet), so I thought I was making
her feel safe by seeing her onto the bus that would take her out of
the city safely to a residential neighborhood in Bellevue (if I
remember correctly) where she lived with room and board in exchange
for chores and babysitting services for a family there (according to
her). But, when her bus came she suddenly started screaming and
hitting herself on her head with her fists for no apparent reason. As
I got to know her better I learned that this was basically how she
reacts when she's not getting waht she wants, or things otherwise
aren't going her way, a classic tantrum, only bizarre for the fact
that she was twenty-two, not three. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At
the time, though, I didn't know what to think. I stayed with her
though and smiled reassuringly at all the people around to let them
know everything was okay while Casper calmed herself down. I could
tell this was not new behavior for her (it was clearly something
practiced) so I was careful not to respond with alarm or judgement.
Instead, as soon as she appeared coherent again I simply asked if she
was okay. She claimed that it was an «attack» she has sometimes and
has no control over when it happens. I asked if there was anything I
could do to help, and she suggested innocently that if I accompanied
her home on the bus it would make her feel much better. So I did. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
had to wait for the next bus though because her «tantrum» had
caused her to conveniently miss the one that had already come. I rode
with her to her stop in Bellevue, then got off the bus and walked her
to the house she was staying at. It was well after dark, and the
route she took me on to the house followed many dark streets, an
abandoned playground, and even a short stretch of trail through some
woods. When we got to the house she assured me she could let herself
in but didn't want the family to see me so I should go, which I did.
I killed a little time wandering around the neighborhood while I
waited for the return bus and found an easier (and better lit) route
back to the stop, where I eventually boarded the bus and went back to
Seattle and home to my own apartment, much much later than usual, but
feeling like I had done a good deed and maybe even made a new friend.
Boy, was I naive. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After
that first time I ended up walking with Casper to her bus stop many
times, often making deturs to shop, or get something to eat, and lots
of conversation. I soon learned that she had come to Seattle from
some small mid-Western city against her parents wishes in order to
pursue a «relationship» with the drummer of Nirvana (the popular
rock band based in Seattle) who she had «made love to» after a
concert near her own home town. The only problem was that the drummer
apparently wasn't interested in a «relationship» at all. She was
convinced that she could find a way to change his heart and make him
fall in love with her, if she could just get his attention somehow.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So,
many of our walks together ended up being expeditions to various
locations related to her Nirvana quest. She gad read that they
rehersed in a private studio that overlooked Lake Union (the TLLI
offices also overlooked Lake Union at the time, just above Gasworks
park, though they've since been moved to a new highrise downtown). So
some of our earliest walks together were around Lake Union in search
of the Nirvana studio. One time she took me into an alley behind the
offices of the record company that produced Nirvana's albums while
she climbed on top of a dumpster to look through the windows. The
significance of the fact that she often lead me to secluded locations
that were near places where her beloved drummer might be, or at least
had been, was lost to me. In hindsight I came to realize that she
probably thought that if she got raped near a Nirvana «hotspot»
that word of the rape would reach the drummer and she'd win his
sympathy and attention that way, or maybe «guilt» him into at least
acknowledging their «relationship». But, at the time, I just
thought it was like a hobby for her to track down the drummer, so I
ignorantly went with her anywhere she asked.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
remember once I even rented a car and paid for a fairy trip across
the sound with her and to a rural residence where she said the
drummer's parents lived (and where he grew up). It was after dark
when we got to the property and watched as she climbed a low fence
and disappeared into a field by herself (she insisted on going
alone). She was gone for about thirty or forty minutes, which seemed
like a really long time as I waited in the car parked by the side of
a secluded and unlit road. When she finally came back she was out of
breath and seemed exasperated. I asked her what happened but she
didn't say much except, “He's not here,” implying that there was
no reason for us to stick around, so we left.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One
day she called me and said she had found the studio where Nirvana
rehersed. She was very excited and wanted me to come with her to
«check it out». She said she had learned from a music magazine
interview that the studio was in an old real-estate office. So she
went to the library and asked for old phone books from the reference
desk and looked for real-estate offices that overlooked Lake Union.
She found one, and quickly confirmed that it was no longer a
real-estate office by checking an updated phone book.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was doubtful that she had really found their private studio, but went
along just to spend time with her, which I always enjoyed doing. When
we got to the location (by bys) she lead me into some bushes (unkept
hedges) next to a small fenced-off residence-like office building
that appeared abandoned, especially if you were just driving by. But,
I could clearly see a sophisticated alarm panel through the glass
next to the main entrance with flashing LEDs indicating something
important was being protected. Casper was 100% certain that this was
Nirvana's secret recording studio, but I wasn't convinced yet.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
told her to wait there (in the bushes) while I looked closer. I
approached the chainlink fence, which was almost brand new, and
followed it along the North side of the building to a point where it,
and the building, stopped at the edge of a cliff. I could see from
there that on the side of the building face out over the ciff (and
looking over Lake Union) was a large picture window. Because of the
cliff I was able to lean out and look up into this window.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was mostly dark inside, but in the back I saw a light on, and a man
sitting in front of a computer and lots of other electronic
equipment. I also saw other band quipment, like microphones and
instruments. This was definitely a music studio! I was shocked, and
excitedly returned to Casper's hiding place and told her what I saw,
with new respect for her sleuthing abilities.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
were no cars parked near the building, so Casper wanted to hang out
for a while to see if anyone showed up. But no one ever came or went,
so we eventually left. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Once,
I asked Casper if she'd like to come with me fo ra drive (in a rental
car) up to Snoqualmie Falls to see the waterfall at night when it is
romantically lit by large spotlights. To my delight she agreed to
come, but when we actually got on the road (it was about a forty
minute drive to the feet of the Cascade mountain. Northeast of
Seattle, if I remember right) she began acting strangely.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
said she wanted to go with me to the falls, but in the car she kept
saying things like, «I'm not sure this is a good idea...» and, «I'm
not comfortable with this...». Then when we actually got to the town
of Snoqualmie, just a few miles shy of the falls, she suddenly said
she was about to have an «attack», and asked me to stop, so I did.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
pulled into a marked parking space along the main street. It was a
well lit shopping area with modest traffic. I asked her if she wanted
me to drive her back, but she said no. Then I asked if she still
wanted to see the falls, and she said yes, but quietly and
uncertainly. So, I suggested that we continue on then, assuring her
that the falls were very close, but she said, no, again!</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">After
several more minutes of this confusing and indecisive behavior I made
the decision for her, and without announcing my intentions I simply
put the car in gear and pulled back out onto the road heading toward
the falls. I remember thinking that once we got ther eand she saw how
beautiful the falls were (and, perhaps, that they really existed) she
would feel better. She didn't seem to resist my decision at all; if
she had I would have turned around and driven her home. So we drove
the rest of the way to the falls as I reassured her that soon she
would be happy she came when she saw the falls.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">When
we got there we got out and walked part of the way along the well lit
scenic path that lead to several semi-private alcoves with views of
the falls. She seemed a little impressed and less anxious when she
saw other people around. But she was still unusually nervous for some
reason that she still wouldn't divulge, and before long she said she
was ready to go. She seemed eager to get home, so I suggested we take
the less scenic freeway back to Seattle, which was much quicker than
the route we had taken to get there. When she didn't argue I assumed
that was what she wanted, but after we got back in the car and I
headed off further into the hills away from Snoqualmie, which was
necessary to get to the I-90 freeway, she started acting even
stranger than before.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
started asking a bunch of nervous questions that to me made little
sense; things like (but not exactly this, because my memory isn't
THAT good)...</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«Where
are you going?»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
… <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«I
told you, to the freeway, it's quicker.»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«Why
are we driving into the woods?»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
… <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«This
is the way to the freeway.»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«Are
you sure?»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
… <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">«Yes,
I've been here before.»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
again offered to turn around, sensing she didn't trust me as she
proclaimed, but she still refused to make any kind of clear decision,
so I just drove on.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
was about ten minutes through the wooded hills on an unlit and
twisting road to the freeway, and Casper seemed on the verge of
completely freaking out the entire way. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">From
the freeway it was a twenty-minute shot to Seattle (or fifteen to
Bellevue) and as soon as we got on it and headed west she got very
quiet. But as soon as the freeway windened to five lanes in order to
accommodate city traffic she suddenly had one of her «attacks»
right there in the car (i.e. she decided to throw a tantrum). Of
course, in hindsight it seems clear that the tantrum was because she
once more wasn't getting what she so desperately (and secretly)
wanted; to be raped in order to get sympathy (not just from the
Nirvana drummer, but also from her parents, who refused to support
her financially when she left home chasing after him). But, at the
time I just thought it was strange.. and dangerous. It clearly wasn't
safe to be driving on a busy freeway with her freaking out like that
in the seat right next to me. So, I pulled over to the emergency lane
and turned on the blinkers.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Apparently
that wasn't the reaction she expected. Her «attack» suddenly ended
and she asked, «Why did you pull over?» I told her that it was
unsafe for me to drive while she was freaking out like that, not only
because of the obvious distraction, but she could also easily crash
the car if she panicked and grabbed the wheel, or me for that matter.
She seemed to concede my point ad told me she was okay so we could
continue, which I did.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
remained quiet for the rest of the way «home». Wherever that was I
don't recall --- she never lived in any one place for very long. She
was kicked out by the family she was staying with for reasons I can
only guess, though it'd probably be a good guess to say it was
somehow related to her «insane» behavior. She bounced around a lot,
staying with various «friends». And, twice while I knew her, she
actually rented her own apartment, but then lost them the first time
rent came due.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
frequently encouraged her to find her «passion in life» and had
hopes she would when she once invited me to go with her as moral
support to an interview with an enrollment counselor at the Seattle
Art Institute. I sat and listened as she was told in no uncertain
terms that she could start classes almost immediately and the school
would make all the financial arrangements (i.e. loans and grants).
But, she never returned to the school; so I'm not even sure why she
went to the interview in the first place, or asked me to come along.
Perhaps it was merely to appease me (I don't think she expected to be
accepted so easily).</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
was a terrible telephone sales rep, so couldn't make much more than
minimum wage at TLLI. So, I also encouraged her to find a job that
paid better (non-commission), and she did get hired to work at a
small futon sales store. I helped her «move» (if you can count two
suitcases and a small box of stuff as «moving») to an apartment
near the store that she «rented» somehow. It was a potentially
sustainable arrangement for her (i.e. she should have been able to
make rent and support herself easily if she kept the job) so I once
more had hope. But, the first day that she was supposed to open the
store for business (they only had a handful of employees and each
apparently took their turn opening the shop throughout the week) she
failed to show up and consequently got fired. I remember this clearly
because for some reason (guess) she made sure I knew she was supposed
to open the store and would be «all alone» there for several hours
until the other employees arrived. She even pointed out how easy it
would be for someone to take her into the back of the store and rape
her, and asked if I would come help her on that day to open up (the
store). I assured her that her «fears» were completely irrational,
and told her I had other obligations, which I did (I had gotten a new
job myself in Bothel by this time and was no longer working at TLLI
either). So, I didn't show up to «help» open, and she for some
reason decided not to show up either.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
soon lost the apartment and was once more looking for a place to
crash. It seems the hospitality of her «friends» (whom she never
once introduced me to) had worn thin, so she asked if she could stay
with me, «for a few days». Of course I said, Yes! I thought that
maybe she was finally learning that she could trust me, as a friend.
But, the more likely truth is that moving in with me was just her
final desperate attempt to get me to rape her. It didn't work any
better than any of her other attempts, though it did finally end up
ending our friendship, and breaking my heart in the process.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She
only brought one suitcase with her. The rest of her stuff was stashed
at one of her «friend's» house. Our first and last night together
started out peaceably enough, she seemed happy to have someplace to
stay, and I did everything I could to make her feel comfortable and
safe. My apartment was only a studio though, so I offered her the
queen-size hide-a-bed and told her I'd be perfectly comfortable
sleeping on the floor using the sofa cushions for a bed. But she
insisted that the bed was big enough for both of us. I stammered, of
course, if only out of propriety. It didn't take much for her to
convince me though.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Was
it possible that she wanted to have sex? The possibility excited me,
even though she had told me over and over that she was not interested
in having sex with me, and she even reaffirmed this before she came
to my apartment. But, maybe having sex with me was her way of showing
her appreciation; I certainly saw nothing wrong with that! And then
when she stripped down to only a T-shirt and panties (or maybe bra
and panties, I don't remember exactly, except she definitely took her
pants off) and climbed under the covers I thought for sure, «this is
it!»</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But,
of course, it wasn't. With Casper I had learned that I could never be
sure about anything, especially sex. So, after I took my own pants
off, and keeping my underpants on, I climbed into bed on my side and
waited for her to make her move. I don't remember exactly what
happened next anymore --- whether or not she asked me to «hold her»,
or if I asked her and she merely consented, for example --- but I do
remember that even though she consented to spooning, in our
underwear, she still insisted that she was not interested in having
sex with her. Needless to say (I hope), I was more confused about sex
at that moment than I had ever been in my life (and I served an extra
seven years in prison because the parole board thought I was
«confused» about sex!). Rape was the last thing on my mind though.
In fact, the entire time I knew Casper I never once thought about
raping her. I mostly just wanted to be her friend, even more than I
wanted to have sex with her. So her «consent» was the most
important thing to me at that moment, and I couldn't tell what she
wanted at all.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So,
after several minutes, after she seemed to have fallen asleep, I got
out of bed quietly, put on my pants, then sat silently in my favorite
reading chair which I also used to meditate (remember, there was no
other room for me to go to, or I would have). I put on the pants
simply because it was more comfortable for me to be dressed, and I
sat in the chair because I needed to sort out my feelings about what
was happening (i.e. meditate).</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">But,
a moment later my respite was interrupted when Casper woke up for no
apparent reason (she didn't stir when I got out of bed and got
dressed, and when she seemed to wake up I was just sitting quietly
with my eyes closed --- perhaps the silence is what woke her up).
With a practiced soft and innocent voice she asked me if something
was wrong; why was I just sitting there?</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
remembr considering my answer for several seconds, then deciding to
just tell her how I honestly felt; which was completely confused by
her seemingly seductive behavior and contradictory intentions.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
don't remember exactly what I said, but I clearly remember that she
did not respond well. She jumped out of bed, still half-dressed, and
started yelling and screaming about how all men are only interested
in the same thing; namely sex. I was hurt by her accusation,
especially after putting so much effort over the entire time I had
known her into assuring her that her friendship --- even if it
remained completely platonic --- was the most important thing to me.
But, I kept quiet and let her vent her feelings, which I thought was
better for her than beating herself in the head with her fists.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At
some point I must have moved from the chair to sit on the floor. I
don't remember why (possibly to be less threatening), but that's
where I was (sitting on the floor) when she tried to kick me. But,
before she did that she had flipped over my coffee table, almost
breaking its glass top against the metal frame of the hide-a-bed. It
seemed she was doing all this to get some kind of reaction from me,
but I wasn't reacting, at least not until she actually tred to hurt
me physically.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
loved her enough to let her hurt my feelings; enough to let her
accuse me of only caring about sex; enough to let her totally
embarrass me in earshot of all my neighbors; and even enough to not
get mad when she tried to break my furniture; but I guess I didn't
love her enough to let her kick me in the fact while I sat and did
nothing. I wasn't afraid of her hurting me --- if she did so
accidentally I would have instantly forgiven her. But, it was the
deliberate attempt to cause physical harm at which I drew the line
with anyone.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was able to deflect the kick with little effort. It wasn't very
powerful, but it was enough to get me to react. I got up and grabbed
both of her wrists so she couldn't try to hit me, then I pushed her
down to the floor, still holding her wrists, and held her there. She
suddenly got quiet and became completely submissive; she must have
thought I was finally going to rape her. But, instead I just told her
--- with as much ice in my voice as I could muster over my emotions
--- «Get your stuff and get out!» (And I do remember those words
clearly, because it hurt a lot for em to say them.) </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It
must have taken a moment for my words to sink in, but eventually I
could tell that she understood, and seemed willing to comply. So, I
let go of her wrists and let her get up. I don't remember if either
of us said anything as she got dressed and gathered her things. But
she did just that and then left my apartment without further
incident.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was instantly worried about her safety at that time of night in the
middle of the city. So, a few minutes after she left I left too, and
followed her without letting her see me for several blocks. She made
a beeline for downtown, the least safe direction she could have
chosen. I soon lost sight of her and returned to my apartment. I then
became more and more worried, especially by the direction she took.
Seattle is a city that sleeps at night, so the streets downtown are
mostly deserted and relatively unsafe, especially for a young and
attractive woman. Maybe she was still hoping to get raped, if not by
me then by some stranger. I don't know, but I was sincerely concerned
about her, so I called 911 and tried to ask for the police to make
sure she got someplace safe.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
police came to my apartment building instead, so I met them out front
in order to avoid bothering my neighbors. I told them there had been
an altercation, but no one was hurt. But when they questioned why I
had called the police if no crime had occurred I started to cry and
it became hard for me to speak without choking on my words. I just
wanted them to make sure Casper was safe, because I couldn't protect
her myself any more. But they started treating me like a suspect,
especially after I started crying. When I realized that they thought
I had hurt her and were now trying to solicit a street confession I
told them that I had nothing else to say and returned to my
apartment, where I probably cried myself to sleep with a badly broken
heart. </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
didn't see or hear anything about Casper again after that until more
than a year later when I returned to TLLI part-time for extra money
after I was released back on parole after a completely unrelated
parole violation. She had gone back to work ther ealso, and one of
the floor managers told me that when she saw me being interviewed she
threatened to quit if I were hired. Well, I was hired, but she
didn't quit. But, neither did I pay her any attention. I spent most
of my breaks with my lady friend, Dee, who had become a good friend
by then. When I told Dee about Casper she told me what she heard
about Casper's ploys to get raped. Casper herself had apparently told
several people that she wanted to get raped when they tried to warn
her away from me because I was a sex offender. But nobody ever tried
to warn me about her!</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
was lucky that Casper never realized how easy it would have been to
just falsely accuse me of raping her. Such false accusations are far
more common than the System would have you think, because it
completely undermines their whole, «we protect the innocent»
facade. And for a «sex offender» on parole, like me at the time,
the words, «innocent until proven guilty» are completely
meaningless. I would have been arrested and returned to prison
without even a trial. And even if she recanted her accusation I still
would have been found guilty of some parole violation just to prevent
me from filing a civil action. That's just how the «System» works,
and anyone who thinks not is plainly ignorant.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: right;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">[J.D.
January 3, 2015] </span></b>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-40889214720661456592014-09-20T06:53:00.003-07:002015-05-28T10:12:05.818-07:00Sex With Gigi<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The oldest of my three older sisters once “caught” me
trying to have sex with our family dog, Gigi, in the bathroom. The truth is
that I didn’t even know what “sex” was at the time. I was thirteen years old,
but because of what that doctor did to me during his “medical examination” I
thought that my penis got hard so I could pleasure myself, not to have
intercourse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In other words, yes, I had my pants off in the
bathroom, with Gigi between my legs. But, I wasn’t trying to have intercourse
with her; I didn’t even know what intercourse was (and even if I did know what
it was then, I realize now that it physically wouldn’t have been possible
because Gigi was too small of a dog for that). All I was doing was
masturbating, the same way the doctor had masturbated me just months before,
introducing me to the perverse world of deviant sexual pleasure; this world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My sister, of course, assumed otherwise. I had no idea
at the time what she must have thought I was trying to do to Gigi. She hollered
and screamed about me “trying to have sex with Gigi!” But, the word “sex”
itself was still pretty much a mystery to me. I knew it meant something
shameful, and that it involved the penis. Other than that I basically had no
clue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Most children know more about sex at age eight than I did
at thirteen. They learn it from other (usually older) children, and combine
that with what they hear from adults, see on T.V., and learn in school. But,
this culture of sexual mystery doesn’t always result in adequate education for
all children (in fact, studies have shown consistently that it rarely results
in adequate education at all). In some cases, by mere chance, a child is left
so confused about sex that masturbating on the back of a dog seems like a
reasonable thing to do. And then when an older sister comes along and
physically attacks such a boy for “hurting” the animal, the confusion only
becomes worse, exacerbated to the point of desperation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I’m writing this now in order to offer a glimpse into
the confusing world of my youthful experiences that ultimately lead to my
seeking “sex” with other children against their will. To call it “evidence” of “early
sexual deviancy” is like calling a sweet tooth evidence of “latent obese
tendencies”. It’s just silly. Except in this case it is a silliness that eventually
ended up getting seven people murdered, when just a little understanding (i.e.
non-silliness) could have so easily prevented the cycle of ignorance from
coming full circle to its inevitable violent outcome. (see note).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">[J.D. September 12, 2014]</span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">(Note: If someone had taken the time to just talk
openly with me about sex, and taught me what I wanted so desperately to know, I
would have never felt the need to impose my confusing onto other children. Where
were all the loving pedophiles when I needed one?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3322453852524415046.post-23468768330918638142014-09-19T23:59:00.000-07:002014-09-20T04:08:30.749-07:00What Happened In Prison – Part VI: The Streets<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After over 15 years of imprisonment and psychological
torment for doing to a younger boy the same thing that older boys and men had
done to me all my adolescent life, I was paroled at last. But, I wasn’t free,
and knew I never would be. My rage was my prison. It took a lot of effort to
keep it hidden. But, I’d been practicing for several years, preparing
explicitly for this very opportunity. Soon I would make society pay for what it
did to me, but first I had to make sure I could hit them without getting hit
back. I had to make them unwary of my intentions, and I knew exactly how.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I was the model parolee. I got my first job within
days of my release, as a telemarketer for Time Life Libraries, Inc. I never missed
a rent payment for my room at the Interaction Transition (I.T.) House in
Seattle, and even saved up enough money within just three or four months for
first, last, and deposit on an apartment of my own near downtown in a newly
renovated complex, called the Tuscany, with all brand new appliances,
carpeting, and bathroom fixtures. I especially liked the large mirrored closet
doors that made my new studio apartment look twice as big as it really was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I registered as a “sex offender” on my first day in Seattle,
right after my older homosexual friend --- and soon to be lover --- Dave,
picked me up at the Sea-Tac Airport. My mother was with him, and after a quick
stop at the City-County building downtown (so I could register), we all three
went to the Seattle Centre to celebrate my release. Nothing could have been
more surreal than that day, especially looking up at the Space Needle with my
mom by my side --- as I once did as a child only 17 years hence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, the unrealness of it all didn’t distract me for a
moment. Most of my life had been one unreal/unbelievable moment after another.
So the surrealness of my first day on parole was taken in stride. I hit the
ground running without even giving any of it a second thought. I had a clear
goal in front of me, and until I reached it little else mattered to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of course I couldn’t let the obsession show, so on the
outside, for my mother’s sake and for Dave’s sake, I was like a kid on his
first visit to a Toys-R-Us store. Not that I didn’t feel the excitement that I
projected --- feeling it was part of the art --- but deep inside, in the part
of myself that I ended up referring to as “the dungeon”, I sat coldly watching
myself pretending on the surface, knowing it was all just for show; knowing
nothing was real, not my mom, not Dave, not my excitement, not even the city.
Only one thing was real: my rage. It was the only thing in my life that never
changed; the one constant that kept my head above water, and the only part of
my reality that made any sense to me. It was my raison d’etre, and my love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Everything went as I planned. I avoided all the traps
and pitfalls layed out by the system to keep people recycling through the
system once they are caught up in it; like the narc dressed like a hippie on
the busride to work one day who asked me where he could buy some weed. If I had
so much as just mentioned the part of town he should go look in then I would
have violated my parole. So I said, honestly as it turned out at the time, “I
have no idea, sorry I can’t help you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Traps like that are what account for the extremely
high recidivism rates for parolees, not actual crime. Not that I didn’t commit
a crime or two while I was on parole. I just never did anything “stupid”, like
buying drugs from someone I didn’t know, or dropping my pants in front of
someone in the park who wasn’t already hard and waiting for me to do so. Once I
went so far as to steal a boy’s underpants out of an unlocked locker at a
public swimpool, but I never said as much as “hi” to the boy himself, nor did I
let him see me checking him out as he dressed into his swim trunks. In fact, I
was always extra careful around children at all times. Aside from the
underpants, which I only kept for a few days before I got rid of them as “too
risky”, I never did or kept anything questionable in that regard. Unlike
“stupid” pedophiles, I kept my obsession hidden deep in my dungeon, and very
very rarely ever let it manifest on the surface of my reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">That’s why I never got caught. People who “knew” me
“knew” that I was not a pedophile, or otherwise sexually interested in
children. I never sought children out in parks, or stores, not even just to
look. I did not keep child related items or pictures in my apartment (again,
with rare and extremely limited exceptions, like those underpants).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once I was using the men’s room at the Jack In The Box
restaurant on Broadway and a gorgeous little boy, no more than six years old,
came in all by himself. I could have easily pretended to wash my hands while I
checked him out and no one would have been the wiser. But instead I did what
most men would do; I hurried up and got out of there before anyone thought it
was even a little strange that I didn’t hurry up and got out of there. As it
turned out the boy’s mother was waiting just outside the door, and she actually
smiled at me when she saw me rushing out just seconds after her boy went in. I
understood “the cod” of “expected behavior” around children the way most
pedophiles never do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I later reported this “incident” to my parole officer,
who in turn reported it to the polygraph examiner, who in turn included it in
my bi-annual parolee polygraph exam; I passed with flying colors when he asked,
“Did you attempt to peep on a boy in a public restroom?” (or something like
that). It was because of this nearly complete detachment of my “dungeon” from
my surface reality that allowed me to convince so many people, including my
parole officers, and psychologists, that I was not interested in children for
sex at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In fact, I even started to fool myself, in a sense
(actually, I had to fool myself first if I really wanted to fool anyone else).
Only by fooling myself could I fool others without even thinking about it. But
there still had to be at least a thin thread of truth that ran up from my
“dungeon” or else I wasn’t fooling anybody. Without that thread of malice then
I would have nothing to hide, and I would have been exactly what I pretended to
be; an honest to God repentant rapist who never wanted to hurt anyone. But my
act was so good that after a while I started to question my need for that
thread. And that question ended up becoming a major source of stress and
internal conflict for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Did I really need vengeance? Could I not live out my
life without ever again thinking about all “they” took from me, and all the
pain they cause me and my family? Couldn’t I just become the content, if not
happy, person I pretended to be? Must I rape and kill, as I had for so long
planned, in order to avenge my years of degradation, humiliation, pain, and
fear?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I asked these same questions over and over so often
that it became almost a melody of desperation in my mind. I honestly did not
want to rape or kill anyone. I was searching for the way to an answer that
would let me out of my real prison; my “dungeon”, as it were. But no amount of
pleading, or rationalizing, or even good reasons could dissuade me from the one
answer that overcame all attempts to change the course I was on. That one
answer was simple and pure: I swore to myself that I would have my revenge,
that I would make “them” pay for what they so ignorantly and so callously had
done to me. It was that oath that gave me the will to live, and the desire to
prosper, just so I could hurt those who hurt me, and my family. Justice is a
cruel and demanding god, and one that is impossible to reason with. No real
evil is ever done in the name of evil.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I was doing so well. I was honored as Rookie of the
Year at Time Life Libraries. It seems I had a real knack for salesmanship. I
averaged over $12 an hour with commissions, which was pretty good for someone
fresh out of prison and no job history to speak of.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I also applied for a job with a Temp agency, and
eventually got placed doing tech support for Microsoft’s Flight Simulator over
the Christmas rush. My employer reports were so positive from that job that I
got placed again almost immediately doing inside sales support for a medium
sized software company in Brothel (just North of Seattle). They hired three
temps to help with a new version release of their “Laplink” software, but they
kept me on and even assigned me to a cubicle in with the regular sales staff
after they let the other temps go. Amongst other things, I became the technical
liaison between the sales staff and the new company-wide database technician.
My job was to train the sales staff on how to use the new database software,
and also relay the sales staff requests for changes and updates to the I.T.
staff. This, and other aspects of my job, required me to communicate frequently
with people from several different departments, including the CEO on at least
one occasion. I was even invited once to a sales staff meeting in hopes that I
could provide some “fresh input” of ideas (I didn’t), which really made me feel
out of place, though honored at the same time. I never got invited again after
that, but I did get invited to join the company softball team, which I did, and
played several games that summer as a fielder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because of the increased income from the inside sales
job (I never did any actual sales, I was more like support for the sales
staff), I was able to afford a car. I bought a used (’87) Buick Skylark at a
big used car sales event at the Northgate mall. Of course I did it by taking
out a high-interest auto-loan, but I had a car! My first! (A week later I got a
notice from the bank demanding a larger down-payment; money I didn’t have, and
I almost died from the heartbreak of it. But my friend Dave bailed me out, not
by loaning me the money for the larger down-payment, but instead by co-signing
for the car, which satisfied the bank with his credit. Of course Dave got
burned when I absconded with the car about a year later, but he was able to
save his credit by just paying off the loan, and I eventually, though slowly,
paid him back after I got out of prison and moved to Fargo.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I loved my car, it had power everything, A/C, and the
larger six-cylinder engine. The previous owner, literally a little old lady,
who I met when she handed me complete service records from the day she bought
it brand new, right down to every scheduled oil change and tired rotation.
There was a design flaw in the engine mounts that caused the larger engine to
vibrate the car at certain speeds, but other than that the car was in perfect
condition. It was also the last piece of my plan that I needed to enact my
revenge against society, and as such marked the beginning of the end of my
parole. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With a car I had the mobility I needed to carry out my
plan. And my plan was to establish a base of circumstances that would allow me
to seek out and take advantage of any stray child I came across. This “stray
child” strategy is a classic in the annals of nature making it a tried and true
technique. I knew from studying police tactics and procedures that it is also
almost impossible to get caught so long as you maintain stealth and distance
(i.e. lack of connection to the “crime scene” and/or victim). The police rely
on pure chance to solve crimes of opportunity like this. So, my plan was to
reduce the odds; and a car was a huge odds reducer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Another part of my plan was to act as soon as
practical. I knew that the odds of completing my parole successfully were
already against me. Being a model parolee helped reduce the odds of my being
violated, but those odds were still high and against me. So, I knew I had to
act quick, or lose my chance, possibly forever (note: I am relaying the frame
of mind I was in at the time; the truth of all this is only relevant in so far
as it is what I believed at the time – even though my current beliefs and understanding
are quite different).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Interesting enough, though my focus back then was
clearly on enacting my revenge much of the time, I still had a very active and
sophisticated life in many other regards. Dave and I joined a club of gay
couples that met monthly for social functions. I visited my mother in Tacoma
often, and my sister in Poulsbo a little less often. I sometimes attended
parties where I was invited by co-workers (at Time Life Libraries), and even
got involved with a couple different women and lots of different men on
occasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One of my parole conditions was that I enroll in an
outpatient sex offender treatment program. At first I attended some weekly
meetings held by a company that was founded by an x-con who got a doctorate
degree in psychology and then started his company catering to sex offenders who
were required (like me) to receive “sex offender treatment” as a
parole/probation condition or court order. It quickly became clear to me that
this was just another scam designed to get money for simply writing meaningless
reports; in this case the reports were “treatment” reports to the
parole/probation officers or court judges.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I never actually met the x-con himself. Even though he
signed off on all the reports, they were actually written by one of several
“therapists” who worked (or rather, did all the work) for him. In my case the
therapist was an extremely manipulative and domineering woman with (to me at
least) very obvious dominance issues over men. She ran the group meeting like a
psychological dominatrix, controlling every aspect, and even steering the
conversations with obvious manipulative tactics in order to get the men to say
what she needed them to say for her reports. If anyone failed to cooperate,
like me for instance, she would stir the group into a frenzied and practiced
attack on that person’s position, whatever it might be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I couldn’t believe the kind of garbage therapy she was
dishing out for those men. Just for example, I remember one man disclosing to
her (in group) that he had had anonymous sex with men in a public park. Her
advice was to seek anonymous sex at a sex club instead. She referred to this as
a “responsible alternative”. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At the time I had never heard of either (public sex or
sex clubs; yes, I was that naïve; remember, I had been incarcerated since I was
16, and a very inexperienced 16 at that). So for me it was all food for my own
perversions (i.e. it made me “sicker”).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I ended up getting permission from my parole officer
to change to a private therapist who specialized in therapy for gay men, not
sex offenders. His rates were a bit higher, but the sessions were one-on-one,
much closer to where I lived (the previous meetings were in Bellevue, a long
bus ride at the time for me, and late in the evening so if I missed my bus I
wouldn’t be able to get home), and less frequent (monthly instead of weekly).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Most parole officers would never have approved such a
change. But my first parole officer in Seattle was close to retirement and more
interested in treating his charges like human beings than x-cons. I really
respected him for this. I had to switch to a downtown parole officer when I
moved out of the I.T. House into the Tuscany apartment, so I only had him for
short time. But I honestly believe that he was the one who really made me
question my need for revenge against society. Not that I ever spoke to him
about it, but the way he spoke to me, and treated me, made me feel welcomed and
wanted. I really think that if I could have kept him as my parole officer that
I might have actually successfully completed my parole (i.e. gave up my desire
for revenge and become a “responsible” member of society). I make this claim
based on the fact that every time I chose the path of revenge (or, “justice” as
it is often called from the other side of the fence) I did so as a direct
consequence of some major rejection. So, feeling wanted and accepted,
especially by an official officer of society, really made a big difference in
how I felt in general, the choices I made, and in my overall reaction to any
rejections I experienced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The subsequent parole officers I was assigned to
treated me like an x-con, always with suspicion and cold detachment. Shortly
after my move to the Tuscany and getting a new parole officer (my first parole
officer actually vouched for me so I could get into the Tuscany, and the
manager --- a restricted marine who, along with his wife, became my friends and
invited me over for dinner on occasion --- told me later that when he found out
I was a sex offender he was going to reject my application, until my parole
officer convinced him to give me a chance; any other parole officer would have
remained “neutral” in a situation like that and I would have been rejected once
again) I was soon visiting public parks at night looking for some anonymous
“acceptance” that I desperately needed just to feel “normal”. I did this, of
course, without telling anyone, not even my lover, Dave. I always used
“protection” at least, and the cops, undercover or not, were always so obvious
I could avoid them easily. The only real threat was getting mugged or otherwise
assaulted, but that was a threat no matter what I was doing (and it only
happened once, when a man decided he wasn’t finished pleasuring himself after I
was, so he grabbed my privates to prevent me from leaving and I just coldly
told him, “If you don’t let go, in three seconds I’m going to break your neck.”
He calculated the threat for two seconds, then let go, and that was that). I
never took risks with STDs, by not using a condom for example, and I always
made sure there was enough light so I could inspect the bodies I had sex with
before doing so. And I never caught so much as crabs or anything else, which I
admit was some luck, but mostly caution (you might be surprised to learn how
cautious most other men were as well, the in-cautious ones don’t last long by
virtue of simple natural selection at work).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I got along so well with the “gay therapist” that he
invited me to attend an annual retreat that he held for select clients, all
expenses paid! This was shortly after I had bought my car, but still living in
the Tuscany apartment. The therapist convinced me to leave my car in the garage
(a small parking space that cost me an additional $120 a month in the basement
of the Tuscany) and car pool with another one of his clients, Dave “Wingy”
Wingert, who turned out to be a popular day-time radio show host for one of the
biggest stations in Seattle. I had never heard of him before (I wasn’t much
into day-time radio) but he was nice and we got along famously (get it?
“famously”?). He had just bought a “pre-owned” Lexus, and was happy to take it
out for a stretch, and “share the wealth”, so to speak, with someone less
fortunate. (Actually, for what he told me he paid for the only slightly used
Lexus I wasn’t very impressed. It seemed to me that the main “feature” of the
car was the name, “Lexus”. My Buick Skylark had everything his Lexus had,
except the price tag and the name brand.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The retreat was on the Eastern slopes of the Cascade
mountain range, in a modern cabin next to a stream set in the forest, but with
several other similar cabins all neatly lined up in a row along the stream;
extremely bourgeois. We slept in our own sleeping bags (one of the “must bring”
items) on narrow bunks that seemed to occupy odd places throughout the cabin
(like along the stairs, and in the upstairs foyer). There were about ten or
eleven other “clients” in attendance, and the activities as I recall centered
around group meetings in the cabin dayroom (though instead of sitting around in
chairs arranged in a circle like some typical therapy group we sat on far more
comfortable cabin furniture arrange haphazardly).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Aside from “Wingy” and the therapist (whose name I
just remembered was Glen), there were only two other men at this retreat who
stand out in my memory. The first was the top psychiatrist from the University
of Washington’s psychological trauma research center, who despite the retreat
“rule” of no sex, screwed my brains out several times over that weekend (when I
tried to apologize to Glen later about so flagrantly break the rules he said,
“No problem”. The other retreat members, who couldn’t avoid knowing that we
were having sex every chance we got, thought it was “very romantic”. Glen was referring
to the fact that on the second night of the retreat, the professor and I shared
the same sleeping bag outside on the back porch, “under the stars”. Of course
the real reason we slept “under the stars” was so we could have a little
privacy to do, you know what!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It seems I have a thing for successful doctors, as
I’ve had flings with several over the years. Or, maybe it's they who have a
“thing” for me; I don’t know. All I know is that when someone tells me they’re
a doctor I become like putty for them to do with what they like. (I wonder now
how much that has to do with the fact that my very first orgasm, at the age of
thirteen, was at the hands of a doctors as I lay with my pants down on his
examining table while he masturbated me. When it happened I had no idea what an
orgasm was, so I had no idea I was technically being “molested”: all I knew was
that it felt good; very, very good.) Needless to say, I didn’t initiate
anything with the doctor at this retreat, I just went along with whatever he
wanted, and that seemed to turn him on more than anything. I admit though, I
was certainly turned on as well. Not only because he was a successful doctor,
but also because he was tall (taller than me by several inches; hence over
6’3”), muscular, and good-looking, which made him practically irresistible to
my libido (which he seemed to know well). I saw him a couple of times more
after the retreat, but as it turned out our personalities clashed (we were both
sexual narcissists), so it never went any further than that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The other man that I remember from this retreat was a
short overweight balding man. He was also, I found out later, the wealthiest
man there. I was told that he was the owner and CEO of a mid-sized
manufacturing company in Seattle with over a thousand employees. But that’s not
the reason I remember him (money has never impressed me much, especially not at
that point in my life). What I remember about him is what he said to me during
a trust-building exercise that Glen asked us to do as part of the retreat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It was in the afternoon of the second day (a
Saturday), before the doctor and I had had a chance to get really steamy (that
happened Saturday evening). Glen had asked everyone to pair off in twos, and I
was approached by this fat bald guy and asked I I’d be his partner for the
exercise. I agreed for no particular reason, and then Glen instructed everybody
to find a private space to talk, and to share a secret with each other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My “partner” and I headed out back down toward the
stream. I honestly don’t remember what “secret” I shared with him (though it
certainly wasn’t anything about the contents of my “dungeon”) but his “secret”
stands as one of the many shocking revelations I received relatively late in my
life. This man, this multi-millionaire and CEO of his own successful company,
told me, the x-con/sex offender (by this time I had already voluntarily
disclosed that information), that he secretly wished he could be a popular and
likeable person, like me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Like me?! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I was flabbergasted! Everyone else at this retreat
were very successful gay members of society. I was a social outcast invited on
a whim by a therapist who probably just wanted to fill an empty bunk (that’s
what I thought at the time, but I realized later that Glen genuinely respected
me as a person and knew I would be accepted by these men for who I was, which
he thought would be “therapeutic” for me; Glen was one of those rare souls who
understood naturally what a person needs to “heal”). Once more I was learning
that the negative way in which I saw myself wasn’t how other people saw me. I
grew up believing I was an ugly child, but all my childhood pictures show a
genuinely beautiful and healthy boy! I thought I was stupid too, and a slow
learner. But even though I had only completed the ninth-grade when I got to
prison all the academic level tests showed me to be at college levels for all
categories! And now, after believing all my life that I was an unlikeable
“dork”, I was being told by a man with no ulterior motives that I was popular,
and likeable! Wow!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I actually ended up consoling this guy with platitudes
that emphasized the fact that I did not see myself as popular at all, and if I
were, then there was certainly nothing to be desired about it since I could
perceive no benefits from being so. But his “secret” stuck with me, and has
helped open my eyes to how I so often deceive myself, both positively and
negatively, ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I already mentioned, throughout all my adventures
on parole in Seattle I was constantly struggling with the “monster” that lurked
menacingly in the dungeon of my mind. I had never anticipated such a struggle
to ensue and was quite unprepared for it. The question remained: Should I
compromise my private principles by breaking such a sacred promise to myself;
the promise that “kept me alive” all those years of unjust torment, the promise
to get even? Or, should I take my revenge as planned, without remorse, and with
clear conscience? There were a couple of incidents that finally pushed me over
the ledge of retribution, but in hindsight I was destined to be pushed over
that ledge one way or another by sheer proximity alone. It’s one thing to visit
the edge, look down, then back away. It’s completely another to just stand
there, looking both ways over and over, trying to decide whether or not to
jump, until it’s too late.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well, not surprisingly, I didn’t jump. I got pushed.
And one of the people who pushed me was the new polygraph examiner. He was an
x-cop, and unlike the previous examiner, who seemed to actually want to help a
parolee pass their routine exams, this pig clearly brought his “good guy, bad
guy” attitude with him into the exam room, and all x-cons --- as far as he was
concerned --- were the bad guys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I only ended up being examined by him twice, and both
times he pushed and pushed and pushed, until he had what he wanted; proof that
I was a “bad guy”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The first time he examined me caught me completely off
guard. Though I had been struggling with my conscience, I had not yet done
anything that could seriously be considered a real violation of my parole. This
x-cop decided otherwise. During the pre-exam interview I disclosed to him
(thinking he’d be on my side) that I had accidently picked up my brother’s
handgun, which he had removed from his belt and set next to the computer in my
apartment during a visit. I explained that the holster it was in looked like a
triangular wallet, and completely concealed the weapon inside. I told the
examiner that I didn’t realize it was my brother’s gun (which I knew he was
licensed to carry concealed) until I felt the weight of it in my hand, at which
time I scolded my brother for even having it in my apartment, and asked him to
take it out and lock it in his car.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now, I’m tempted here to leave my story about “the gun
incident” just as I told that x-cop examiner. But, the truth is that in an
effort to befriend my brother during the visit I had expressed an interest in
his gun, that I knew he was very proud of and always had on him. I asked him to
show it to me, at which point he removed it from the holster, ejected the clip,
insured the champer was empty, then handed it to me unloaded. I feigned
fascination for his sake, then handed it back. I then explained to my brother
that even being near a gun could potentially get me in trouble, and asked him
not to bring it, or at least not mention it, when he visits. The only reason I
told the polygraph examiner anything was to avoid a “fail” on a question like,
“Have you touched a gun or any other weapon in violation of your parole?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well, I actually passed that particular polygraph
exam, but that oinker filed a report about the “gun incident”, calling it a
“parole violation” and possible criminal offense. The exam was on a Friday
evening, so I had to go the entire weekend thinking I would be arrested on the
violation on Monday, as soon as my parole officer saw the report. That was all
the “push” I needed. Even though on Monday, when I called my P.O. to get the
bad news, she told me not to worry about it. She said she had to submit the
report to the parole board, but that she was recommending no violation. I
thought I “skated” on that one, but the close call only reminded me of how
terribly easy it would be for me to get violated for some completely stupid and
unexpected reason at any time, in spite of all my efforts to be a model
parolee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When the parole board saw the report they ordered that
I be arrested and held for a violation hearing. But, that was many months (as I
recall) later. In the meantime I had gotten the push I needed to step up my
plans for personal justice before I lost my chance, possibly forever. (A
“deadly weapon” possession charge could send me back to prison for at least ten
years, or more, and Washington state was notorious for taking criminal charges
to the extreme limits. They once convicted a man for manslaughter after he was
arrested for eluding the police, because one of the “investigating officers” at
the arrest scene walked off a cliff in the dark and fell to his death, while
the suspect sat handcuffed in the back of a squad car! And that’s just one
example of the state’s insane lust for what I calls “justice”. So in my mind I
had good reason to fear being arrested at any time for almost anything, just
because in the state’s mind I was a “criminal” and therefor fair game).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Consequently I redoubled my efforts to find a
vulnerable child to kidnap, rape, and murder (because that’s exactly what I
felt was “expected” from me, or at least “feared”; thus making it the most
potent “punishment” I could invoke personally against my most feared and hated
enemy, the “faceless” society that condemned me as a child and took my life
away before I even understood what life was) as my “poetic” revenge. Any
question of ever being able to forgive “them” and move on with my life was
answered by that x-cop polygraph examiner’s accusations: NO! He made it
imminently clear that I could never have my life back, that I would never be
accepted by society no matter how hard I tried to be “normal”. And worst of
all, that I would always be forced to live in fear of my prison nightmare happening
all over again, at any time, for any reason. That “pig” being the pig he was,
accomplished exactly what he wanted, to make me feel HIS power and control over
my life, and my lack of power and control over my own life. That’s what pigs
do, ignorantly believing that their imposed dominance will somehow make things
better, and completely ignoring the so very obvious fact that it consistently
only makes things worse. (My first parole officer was no such pig. More people
like him in positions of “authority” in this world would make for far fewer
people like me.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">(I should emphasize again, that I am relaying my
thinking at that time as best as I can, and that this is not necessarily my
thinking now; i.e. I have since broadened my understanding, to say least.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I got my chance on July 5<sup>th</sup>, 1996. It was
just a week before I was planning to move in with a couple of gay meth-heads,
paying them $250 a month for an extra room in the house they rented together
right on the North Seattle city limit line. The move was meant to save money.
Rent had gone up at the Tuscany, and the expense of a parking space, not to
mention the car itself, was a little more than I could afford; I had bit off
more than I could chew, and this move was my first step backward from all the
progress I had been making until then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Joe and Ed tried real hard to be accepted as a regular
gay couple. My friend, Dave, had met them, apparently the same way he met me,
through a personal ad in the Seattle Gay News (I don’t remember ever asking
whose ad it was, but I’m sure it was Dave’s). I never used meth with them, and
they kept their meth use to themselves. But we smoked a lot of pot together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, before I moved in I was in their neighborhood
visiting my lady-friend, Dee. I picked her up at her home, took her to a Dairy
Queen restaurant, and bought enough ice cream for her and her family (two young
girls and estranged husband, who stayed home) and a sundae for myself. When I
dropped her off back at her house (she lived about five blocks west of Joe and
Ed’s house just across Aurora Avenue) her husband, Lee, came outside and
started yelling at me for taking Dee away from her family obligations. Instead
of just driving away, as Dee tried to get me to do, I rolled down my window and
invited him to say his piece.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Apparently he, Dee, and the girls, had planned to
watch a rented movie together as a family when I showed up “out of the blue”;
and ran off with the children’s mother. I listened to his complaint patiently,
but instead of defending myself, or Dee, I simply told him that his was a grown
woman responsible for her own choices, and if he had any issues with her
decisions then he needed to talk to her, not me. I have to give the man some
respect though, because as clearly offended as he rightfully was, he was still
able to see the logic in my reasoning, and promptly aborted his verbal assault
on me and went inside, presumably to finish the conversation with Dee. (I
actually spoke to Dee about this whole incident later, and told her that I had
to take sides against her in that case: she should have put her family ahead of
me, and I made sure she understood that in the future I hoped she would.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So anyway, after dropping Dee off I drove onto Aurora
Avenue, but instead of heading home downtown I decided to find someplace to
pull over so I could eat my ice cream before it melted. I spotted some children
out in front of a motel at the same time and decided to park across the Avenue in
an empty parking lot from where I could see the motel as I ate my ice cream. By
the time I had parked in a secluded enough spot I could no longer see any
children at the motel, but the main reason I stopped was to enjoy my sundae, so
that’s what I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What happened next was a point of no return in the
tragic course of my life. My struggle to decide if I would take revenge, and
become the child rapist/killer that society feared and expected at the same
time, seemed to finally resolve itself (though, as I have admitted many times
since, I actually made the decision long before it became evident to me).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">As I sat quietly enjoying my ice cream, I saw two
young girls suddenly appear out of nowhere and dart across the five lanes of
Aurora Avenue almost directly in front of me. They crossed the road coming in
my direction, but then quickly passed out of my view to my right because I was
parked right next to a building (to be in its shadow). But, it was clear to me
that they were unescorted and up to some sort of mischief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I remember clearly the thought that went thought my
head at that very moment: “You stupid little girls!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I opened my door and dropped the remains of the sundae
on the concrete, then started the car and pulled onto Aurora in their
direction. I saw them walking hurriedly on the shoulder and then as I drove
past they veered off the road completely and into the shadows between two
closed business buildings. I knew if I could catch them there they’d be mine,
free and clear; nobody would see anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Everything seemed to just fall into place for me to
kidnap those girls. I pulled around the block and parked in the shadows of some
tall bushes on a side street behind the businesses where I saw the girls
disappear. Then I got out and walked half a block to where I thought they’d be.
But, when I got there the girls were nowhere in sight. So I quickly gave up and
headed back for my car, and that was when I spotted them climbing over a low
concrete wall coming out from behind another closed business. They were
directly in front of me and I had caught them in the act of trespassing; stupid
little girls indeed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">No planned kidnapping could ever have worked out so
perfectly. I had only tell the girls that I owned the property that they were
just caught trespassing on, and that gave me all the “authority” I needed to
accost and question them. I ordered them back behind the building that they had
just come from, under the pretense that I wanted to see what they were doing
back there. Then I asked several questions to determine exactly how vulnerable
they were: Where do you live? At the motel across the avenue. Why are you here?
Our brother sent us out to buy cigarettes from the vending machine in the
lobby, but we wanted to explore. Where is your mother? She’s playing bingo.
What are your names? I’m Carmen, she’s Sammiejo. We’re half-sisters (though
Carmen was clearly the younger of the two, she was the dominant and assertive
one). How old are you? I’m nine; I’m eleven. Do you realize how much trouble
you are in right now? No answer, just wide eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It so happened that I had parked my car directly next
to the place where the narrow alley behind the building (where the girls were)
came out to the side street, and in a shadow, so it was easy to get the girls
into my car with no chance of anyone seeing anything. I told the girls I was
only going to teach them a lesson, but I already knew by this point that I was
going to rape and kill them both, all according to plan. Justice was to be had
after all!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I drove the girls --- both crouched on the floor of
the car --- out to a location in Bothell near to where I worked for the
software company. It was an abandoned farm house that I’d found on a lunch
break once while driving around for the fun of it. I parked behind the house,
then told the girls they could get up off the floor. Sammiejo sat up front with
me and Carmen was in the backseat. I remember there was a full moon that night
and as I sat waiting to make sure all was quiet (and that I hadn’t been
followed by the cop car I saw a few moments before), Sammiejoe asked some
childish question about the moon and I answered as if she were a niece and we
were just spending some family time together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">At one point Sammiejo insisted that she saw someone,
“or maybe a ghost” in a darkened window of the house out in front of the car. I
thought it was just her childish imagination at the time and completely
dismissed the notion that we weren’t alone. I found out years later that there
was in fact a homeless woman in the house at the time, and she saw me in the
car but thought only that we were young lovers looking for privacy from our parents.
She gave the police a very vague description of me and my car when she came
forward after seeing the publicity about the bodies being found in a shallow
grave over a year later by a construction crew that was clearing the land for a
new office building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">After I tried (and failed) to rape the girls inside
the abandoned house (still oblivious to the woman inside also), I masturbated
to achieve climax, then took the girls into a patch of trees next to the house
and killed them as quickly and cleanly as I could. Then I hid their bodies in
some berry briars, wrapped the VHS-C tape I had made in an oily rag and hid it
in the engine compartment under the hood (in case I got pulled over on the way
home – a pretty stupid thing to do I realize now), then drove back to my
apartment at the Tuscany. (I hid the video tape under a false step in my
apartment, but only kept it a few days before I destroyed it in the microwave
and threw it away). I didn’t keep any other souvenirs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The next day was a Saturday. I drove back out to
Bothell to make sure there was nothing happening around the abandoned farm
house. Then I stopped at a Home Depot and bought and pick and shovel (again,
stupidly). Then I drove home and waited until the wee hours of the next morning
(2 or 3 a.m.) before driving back to the farm house, and burying the girls
beneath a pile of old rotting wood. (I used the pile of wood to cover any signs
of that something had been buried there.) Then I hid the shovel and pick in the
abandoned barn that stood about 50 yards from the house, and went home again,
exhausted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The missing girls were in the news, but there was a
lot of speculation that they had run away. That week my parole officer came to
see me at work (something she had never done before) and she brought a “trainee”
with her for the interview. We met at a cafeteria near the officer where I
worked and she asked me a bunch of questions about why I had asked permission
to visit my father in Nevada on short notice. I told her that my grandmother
had fallen ill (she had) and I wanted to offer help and support during the
crisis. Of course the real reason I wanted to go was to get as far away from
the crime scene as possible (another stupid move), which I knew she suspected.
I also knew that the man with her was no trainee. He sat quietly the whole
time, clearly paying careful attention to me, but not acting nervous or
apologetic the way a normal trainee would. Besides, I had never heard of parole
officer trainees, and doubted if there even was such a thing. Of course he was
a detective, and they we rechecking me out as a possible suspect. I’m sure that
if they knew how close we were to those little girls’ bodies as we ate lunch
that day I would have been more than a casual suspect. But, they didn’t know,
and my nonchalance about the whole meeting seemed to put them both at ease. I
know now, from Federal court proceedings more than ten years later, that I
never became a serious suspect in this case, not even after the bodies were
found (at which time I was in the King County jail, in Seattle, for absconding
parole, and they “investigated” me again as a possible suspect, again under a
transparent “cover”, (i.e. pretending to be another inmate that I could tell
was a cop almost as soon as I saw him because of the way he acted all wrong),
and I again played it off nonchalantly and this never became a serious
suspect).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A couple of weeks later I moved in with Joe and Ed and
gave up my Tuscany studio. This was a definite step backwards that totally
disrupted all the progress I had been making before. I started getting high
with my new roommates almost every day, which of course resulted in my getting
a “dirty U.A.” (urine analysis) for cannabis (I’ve never used meth in my life,
despite what some of my “official” records assume), which in itself is not
enough to get my parole revoked, but the gun incident with my brother was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Joe and Ed, as I have already mentioned, were a gay
couple. I’m not really sure about what that means though. I only actually had
sex with them once, upon Joe’s invitation. But, I’m not really sure if I’d call
what we did “sex”. They were into weird stuff that I’d only read a little about
in novels once in a while, but never took an active interest in myself. They
must have sensed my disinterest, because I never got invited to have “sex” with
them again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because I now lived about 20 miles from downtown, and
away from all of my favorite anonymous sex parks, I started frequenting a
nearby park, that was usually completely deserted at night when I liked to go.
I would park in a secluded location then go into the woods and take off my
clothes then run around naked and masturbate to fantasies of letting men I meet
use me for sex. It remained a mere fantasy, for that particular park at least,
but it was more than enough to keep me sexually satisfied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">On Halloween my “girlfriend” Dee stopped by Joe and Ed’s
house so she and her girls could show off their costumes. They came inside and
visited for less than ten minutes in the living room only. Apparently because I
stayed (and didn’t run out the back door or something) after the children
arrived I had violated another condition of my parole (i.e. no contact with
minors without prior approval). Actually, the violation hinged on the fact that
I greeted them and complimented them on their costumes. My parole officer had
told me previously that some brief contact with minors was okay, as long as I did
not initiate it or prolong it. I felt well within those limitations during this
visit, but that pig polygraph examiner apparently felt otherwise and put it
down as another violation in his report.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So, one day I got a call at work from my parole
officer asking me to come to her office that afternoon. I had to leave work
early to make the unusual appointment, which I did. And when I arrived at her
office two policemen were waiting to arrest me for violating parole. My parole
officer apologized for the arrest explaining she got orders from the parole
board against her recommendations, to have me arrested. She said I would be held
until I could have a parole hearing (about a month), and she assured me that
she was on my side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I was held in the King County Jail for one day, and
then, to my great surprise, and horror, I was unceremoniously transported on
the prison bus to the Receiving Center in Shelton, Washington. That was the
place where the nightmare of my incarceration really began, where I was beat up
and repeatedly raped as a kid, and where I first discovered the true meaning of
despair. It was the place where the very foundation of my rage was laid, and
returning me there now was like pouring gas on an ember that I had hoped to let
die after I’d killed those girls and vented the bulk of my rage against
society. It seems now, in hindsight, as though some sinister plan had been laid
and my rage was intentionally refueled by sending me to Shelton for that month
to await my fate once more before the parole board. Being there made me feel
like the nightmare was starting all over against from the beginning, and that
it would never truly end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, I kept calm, and stayed out of trouble, even
passing up a pinner (marijuana joint) that someone offered me out of sheer
respect for the queen they knew me to be (I wasn’t being flamboyant at this point,
nor even looking for sex, but I was well known throughout the state prisons as “Jazzi”
and my reputation apparently carried in my absence).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">They moved a man into my cell the first week I was
there whom I knew to be an informant from my connections in the past. But, he
didn’t know that I knew, so when he started pumping me for information about my
activities on the streets I kept the information I gave him on the up-and-up,
and “confessed” to things that weren’t really illegal in order to make him
think he had my confidence. I’m not sure, but there’s a good chance that the whole
“violation” arrest was a ploy on part of the police and parole office just to
get me in a cell with this rat so he could feel me out on the two girls who
were still missing. He was obviously pumping me for information, and the story
he gave for why he himself was violated was obviously contrived (I didn’t ask,
but he insisted on telling me, a sure sign that he was on the make).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, I was well aware of such tricks, and whether he
was on an assignment specifically aimed at me, or just pumping me for info on
G.P., didn’t matter because I didn’t tell him anything genuinely incriminating.
And when I saw the parole board after one month they reinstated my parole, with
some superficial new conditions (to make it look good I suppose) and let me go.
The only problem was now I was so angry, and terrified at the same time, that
there was no chance in hell I was gonna finish my parole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">From the very moment I walked out of that jail (they’d
brought me back to Seattle for the parole hearing, so I was released from the
County Jail immediately, after the hearing) I knew I wasn’t going to stick
around, and I knew that another serving of “justice” was in order. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Because of the parole violation I lost my job as an
Inside Sales Rep Liaison at the software company. But the Temp agency quickly
placed me with another Web-based software company called iCat (which has since
gone defunct and now a new and completely different company has that same name)
located on two floors of the Seattle City Centre Building downtown, one of the
most beautiful office buildings in the city! The new job didn’t pay as much,
but I was very proud to work in that building. I was hired to process data from
customers that the company collected from their Website, and to call and
interview customers about their use and satisfaction with the company’s
flagship product (Internet Catalog software, thus the name iCat, pronounced “eye-cat”).
I was actually given responsibility for the entire interview process, including
what questions to ask. I used my telemarketing skills to develop a fixed script
that I typed up and submitted to my supervisor. They were so impressed by the
job I did, and the results I was getting (i.e. useful customer feedback), that
they brought in two more temps from the temp agency and put me in charge of
them. I trained them, much as I had been trained at Time Life Libraries, and
supervised their calls fulltime (i.e. I no longer made customer calls myself)
and collated the data they generated. I was also given more responsibility for generating
other reports from the web data that went straight to the sales V.P., which I handed
to him personally once a week. I actually improved the report in ways that got
me some kudos from the V.P. himself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, the job still didn’t pay much (only about ten
dollars an hour if I remember right), so I decided to go back to Time Life
Libraries part time as well, so I’d have enough income to build the capital I needed
to abscond (I figured I needed at least a few thousand dollars if I wanted to
make a good run for it, i.e. last long enough to complete my revenge!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of course, I was still getting high (marijuana only)
almost every day with Joe and Ed, even though one of the new conditions of my
parole said that if I got another dirty urine test I would be automatically
violated. But, I had no intention of sticking around long enough to get another
piss test. But my parole officer must have sensed my skittishness --- it couldn’t
have been too hard for her to miss --- and she ordered another U.A. sooner than
I expected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I had only been back out for a couple of months and
had only saved up just under two-thousand dollars from working two jobs. I pissed
dirty on a Friday, and by the time my parole officer showed up at Joe and Ed’s
house with two cops to have me arrested on Monday morning I was no longer even
in the state of Washington.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Once I left the state without permission I was
officially an escape and no longer considered to be in custody. So everything
that happened next, including the kidnap, rape, and murder of a ten-year-old
Southern California boy named Anthony, won’t be included in this “What Happened
In Prison”-series. Instead, I’ll pick up again, with Part VII – The Last Laugh,
when I am arrested again in Missouri and taken back to prison in Washington to
skip through the last three years of my 20-year-sentence, and “maxing out” to
be released with no more parole. I call it “The Last Laugh” because I knew I had
taken my revenge and killed three innocent children, and yet I was released
after just three years with no parole!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Even one day of freedom after the crimes I had
committed would have been enough to make me laugh victoriously; I had almost
five years of underserved freedom before the system once more reminded me that
laughing was not allowed for people like me, and I lashed out once more…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But, that’s another confession altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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