April Fools, California

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An Ode To The Killer”

I know the reason why.

I know the reason for your hate.

And, I know the reason for your pain.

I know the reason for my love.

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

God's Love.

God's Love is the reason.

And, God's Love will bring you down.

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

Earliest 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?).

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.

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.

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.

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.

[J.D. August 18, 2018]

Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": My Demise

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.

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!

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).

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.

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.

(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».)

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).

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

«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.

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.

[J.D. June 20, 2018]

The Groenes

What 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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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 one final blog entry 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 had to do it. To "teach society a lesson".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I asked, "Where's your husband?"

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.

"Where's the man!?"

"Uh... upstairs?" she said, still seeming a bit unsure about what I was asking.

"Take me, now... Let's go!" I said.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

[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.]

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.

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.

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!"

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!"

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...

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.

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").

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.

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".

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.

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 - had 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...)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

The only cure for crime is love.

Everything else is just more crime.

[J.D. April 15, 2018]   

Sexual 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.

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").

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".

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 think "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.

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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"The world is insane, not me," Duncan says. 

Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": OBS Status

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").

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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".

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: "The Mermaid Sex Offender") 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 their version of what was going on in my 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 was "romanticizing drugs" and fantasizing about getting high (unconsciously); and later on I DID 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.

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! (Way Too Much Information!), which I will try to explain in the next post I write for this blog ("Confessions"):

--- Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": WTMI! ---

[J.D. May 21, 2017]

Notes:
(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.