Tillman: The Face of Evil

By Tom Owen

Tillman explores the psychopathy of serial murderers. Abused early on, the killer shoots his maternal grandparents in cold blood. Later arrested and tried, hes found insane and committed to a mental institution. Deemed cured, the killers released and returns to his mothers house. There, he transfers his boiling rage at his mother to nave coeds who he strangles in a bizarre ritual. The killer looks normal, but just below the surface lurks a sexual sadist who shows no remorse or empathy for his victims. At first the police are baffled by the discovery of two female torsos, but soon begin to connect the dots and zero in on a suspect already known to the police. Fearing capture, the killer decapitates his mother and her best friend then makes his escape to a remote mountain cabin where the end comes in a hail of gunfire and smoke.

A faceless serial killer from an Alfred Hitchcock movie, dismembers his victims after first strangling them in a demonic ritual that borders on the macabre. As body parts begin to pile up across two states, detectives begin tracking down their killer who transfers his rage at his mother to innocent coed hitchhikers. Trolling for victims in a modified van, the killer plies his trade in the dark of night only to be tripped up by an overdue parking ticket. As the police close in on their person of interest, they find hes disappeared only to reappear in a remote mountain cabin. What happens next is straight out of todays headlines.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496957603

Tom Owen

The author is a retired military officer and former educator who holds advanced degrees in education and public administration. While on active duty, he flew the HC-130 combat rescue/special operations aircraft. As an educator, he spent 19 years teaching military science to high school students. In his spare time, he enjoys writing murder mysteries and visiting military battlefields He and his wife currently live in central Virginia.

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Chapter One

U NION COLONEL ROBERT THOMAS CLAYTON established the City of Clayton, Oregon, in 1868. Born March 14, 1826, in St. Charles, Illinois, Clayton was the third son of Lucius Abel Clayton and Mary Elizabeth Thomas. A graduate of West Point, Class of 1848, Clayton gained fame as a cavalry officer during the Civil War, where he distinguished himself as a regimental commander in the 8th Illinois Cavalry.

At Gettysburg, Clayton’s regiment was deployed on the high ground south of town. Here his troopers fought a spirited defensive action against Confederate General Henry Heth’s advancing infantry. Holding the ridge until relieved by the Army of the Potomac’s Second Corps, Clayton’s leadership contributed significantly to delaying the Confederate advance into Gettysburg for 24 hours.

Clayton later provided valuable service during Grant’s Overland Campaign in the summer of 1864. Shot off his horse five times, wounded three times; Clayton resigned his commission in May 1866, venturing west, founding the city of Clayton, Oregon, two years later.

Only 35-miles south of the Washington State border, Clayton is located on the south bank of the Wenatchee River. The town once noted for logging and timber interests is nestled in the Williams Valley and surrounded by lush green mountains to the north. Bisected by a major railroad and several state highways, downtown Clayton is home to the University of Oregon—Clayton Campus. Founded in 1961, UOC was built to accommodate the Baby Boomer Generation’s coming of age, and now plays host to over 25,000 students.

Demographically, the university is 52 percent female and 48 percent male. Students who enroll in UOC do so for many reasons, not the least being the university’s world-class reputation as a center for the study of global commerce.

From the perspective of the police, UOC was both a blessing and a curse for the community. It generates massive amounts of tax revenue that help fund city and county services, but also results in considerable police activity.

There’s an old saying that says when a university is out of session, the surrounding community’s IQ drops 20 points. Whether or not this is true in Clayton’s case is problematical at best, and belies a well-educated workforce with a strong work ethic.

The university is the city’s largest employer and many who work there do so for a number of reasons. One in particular, Ester Tillman, works as a secretary in one of the dean’s offices. A reliable and trustworthy employee, Mrs. Tillman is a 20-year veteran of the university. She’s also the single mother of one son.

The world wouldn’t know her son’s name until after his killing spree ended. He was average looking and often wore blue-collar work clothes. To someone looking in, he was just another faceless person. Yet underneath his calm demeanor lurked a serial killer whose extreme sexual sadism would shock the world.

When he spoke, he did so with a preciseness that belied his formal education. Yet there was something missing that bothered some people. At first, his doctors were puzzled, but after further examination, concluded that he was an extreme narcissist who exhibited a borderline personality tinged by paranoia and anti-social behavior. That deadly mix produced a serial killer who practiced his craft with a dedication that bordered on the maniacal.

His victims varied, yet they all had the same things in common. They were young coeds, naïve, and easy to manipulate. He would troll for them in his late model Ford van, secretly configured to trap his victims in a web of lies and deceit that ultimately led to their deaths.

On a superficial level, he wondered what drove him to commit murder. Yet on a subconscious level, he knew the reason—he hated his mother. Why that woman invaded his daily thoughts was difficult to understand. Yet there she was.

Her constant harping, his clumsy ways, and gangly features all received ridicule. Her degrading words, directed more at her failures as a mother and divorcée, had the desired effect. His rage, building with each syllable, only served to harden his resolve that some day he would get even. When that day happened, it would trigger an overriding desire to kill.

Buried deep within each of her words was an indescribable hurt that went beyond mere annoyance. It was degrading and struck at the very heart of who he was.

He had an almost genius IQ, and that made him deadly. He was not only cunning, but also devious, his lies so clever and opaque that he looked harmless. He wasn’t born evil, but that bitch made him a walking time bomb, set to explode when his blood was up.

A board of psychiatrists convened by state authorities would later try to untangle his murderous impulses, but would be conned just like the rest. He would tell them what they wanted to hear and that would lead to his release from a state mental institution.

John Hunter Tillman didn’t look like a monster and that was chilling. For Tillman, killing became natural. His facade, which he presented to world, hid his true persona. The doctors at Westwood correctly diagnosed him as a paranoid schizophrenic who also harbored anti-social tendencies. His warped personality, crafted by years of emotional and sexual abuse, now drove his actions. He held extreme sexual fantasies buttressed by savage narcissism, which fueled an incredibly grandiose sense of self-esteem.

He called it Factor W, a bat-like demon that lived in the inner reaches of his mind. Driven by his deeply flawed relationship with his mother and his sexual fantasies, Factor W provided a ready means to rationalize his murderous behavior.

Tillman liked to watch his victims suffer, either masturbating on or having sex with their corpse. The fact that he strangled his victims to near unconsciousness, and then let go of his grip, only to do it over again, often led to uncontrolled sexual release.

From outward appearances, his childhood was unremarkable; he was the only son of a Vietnam War veteran, who abandoned him and his mother when he was seven-years-old. The absence of a male figurehead in his life would result in a deadly mix of low self-esteem and a cruel self-hatred directed at both himself and his mother. That coupled with a murderous impulse would baffle the police and lead to one of the largest manhunts in state history.

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Chapter Two

T HE CITIZENS OF CLAYTON, OREGON, first read about Tillman’s murder spree when they opened their Sunday paper. Shocked by the headlines, many put down their morning coffee and began reading the front-page article. The article, written by crime reporter Tad Lewis, said that a local trucker found the butchered body of a young woman submerged in two-feet of water in Little Rainy Creek.

The lead detective on the case was Mike Duggan, a 15-year veteran of the Itasca County Sheriff’s Department. Duggan had seen dismembered bodies before, and this one seemed no different than all the others. Little did Duggan know that this case would soon go viral, thrusting him center stage into an ongoing murder investigation involving multiple victims.

The killer’s first victim was 19-year-old Victoria Vicki Lee, a raven-haired athletic young woman, who was a second-year student at UOC. Her friends said she was a vivacious, but easily manipulated young woman, who lived in the local area with her parents.

Vicki, let’s go get a pizza.

No thanks, Jeff, I have to get back home. My parents went to a movie and want me to feed the animals and take them for a walk. How about later, say tomorrow? My parents said I could stay after class.

Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, do you need a lift home?

No, no thanks. I’m going to hitchhike home.

Vicki, I don’t think you should. It could be dangerous.

No, don’t bother. It’s only a 20-minute ride home. Hey, I have to go. See you later.

Yeah, bye Vicki. See you in class tomorrow.

The killer looked normal, as if a serial killer somehow looks different from other people. He could be your next-door neighbor—polite, well mannered, and respectful. Yet his outward demeanor hid a simmering hatred towards women.

His neatly combed hair and dark-rimmed glasses suggested a much older man. Despite a high IQ, he never graduated high school. Often bored with classroom routines, the killer was shy and socially awkward, and spent little time in class, dropping out in the ninth grade. He painfully tried making friends, hoping their friendship would somehow protect his fragile ego from his mother’s hurtful and belittling words.

Tillman’s mother worked full-time as an administrative assistant to the dean of students in the college of education. She did the best she could, but a single-mother can only do so much when her husband walks out on her. In her desire to strike back at all men, she cared little about her son, providing little supervision as he grew into adulthood.

The killer’s disordered; sometimes-tumultuous relationship with his mother often resulted in violent verbal confrontations. The neighbors called the police, but nothing ever came of it. In fact, the police knew John Tillman and considered him a friend, someone who often rubbed elbows with detectives at a local bar called The Cell Block. Well-known as a place where cops and lawyers swapped stories and made deals, the bar was only three blocks from the courthouse complex.

Hey, you want a ride?

Yeah. Where are you going? I live just a couple miles down the road.

I’m heading that way. I can take you home.

Thanks, mister. What’s your name?

My name’s John. What’s yours?

Nice to meet you, John. My name’s Vicki.

All right, Vicki, hop in.

Vicki Lee hitchhiked frequently and nothing told her to fear the driver of the white van. There were no warning signs; no external signals that she was going to die that night.

Like all serial killers, once he had his victim isolated and alone with their guard down, he sprung his trap. This time it was the passenger door that couldn’t be opened from inside.

Factor W ruled his life. He had little empathy for others, no remorse for his actions, and lacked compassion for anyone but himself. To get what he wanted, he relied on his victim’s naiveté and helplessness. Tillman’s plan was precise and well organized, having worked out the details long before he ever met Vicki Lee.

His facial expression unchanged, the killer floored the white van, and sped past the girl’s house.

Hey, John, you drove right past my house.

Shut the hell up, bitch. Tonight, you don’t go home!

Come on John, you’re kidding. Stop and let me out!

Forget it, bitch! Tonight you die!

Vicki unbuckled her seatbelt and began struggling against the man who sat next to her. Tillman, using his brute strength, swung wildly with the back of his right hand, smashing the girl across the face. Momentarily stunned, Vicki slumped forward, her head in her hands, and began to sob. Pleading with her antagonist, she began screaming. Tillman, now more agitated than ever, turned and looked into her eyes.

One more outburst like that and I’ll blow your fucking head off. Do you hear me?!

Yes, yes! Don’t hurt me, please. Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t hurt me!

Tillman, now heading north, continued for another 10 miles before stopping at a gravel turnout. It was located next to a large wooded area, heavily populated with scrub brush, tangled pines, and impenetrable briars. The turnout led to a hidden passageway and lake a quarter-mile away. He already surveilled the area and knew it was a perfect kill site: quite, isolated, and far enough off the road that no one would hear her screams.

Shifting the van into park, Tillman doused the headlights and turned off the ignition. The van was quiet inside except for his victim’s sobbing. The killer turned his head and looked into Vicki Lee’s eyes. As he did, the killer heard a reassuring thunk reverberate throughout the van as a small electric motor unlocked the doors.

Before getting out of the van, the killer took one last look in the rearview mirror for approaching traffic, and then opened the driver’s door. Casually he walked around the front of the van and got ready to open the passenger door. As he placed his hand on the door handle, he saw a car speeding towards him.

Now less than 100-yards away, the driver flashed his headlights, forcing the killer to duck behind the now open passenger door. Damn, Tillman muttered, just what I need!

The cloud of dust trailing the approaching vehicle obscured his vision and enveloped the van. Tillman waited until the air cleared before dragging Vicki Lee from the front seat. Still sobbing uncontrollably, Lee stood motionless next to the van as Tillman reached into his back pocket and took out a long white nylon zip tie. Tillman spun her around, forcing both of her arms behind her back. Grabbing her by the hair, he growled, Don’t move bitch, keep your hands together. This won’t hurt.

Slipping the zip tie around her wrists, he cinched it taut, gave a loud grunt, and slung the teenager’s body over his right shoulder. Now steadying himself on the sloping gravel shoulder, he adjusted the girl’s body weight, regained his balance, and began walking north. Reaching the pathway, he slipped into the darkness that led to Lake Ripley.

The killer, already familiar with the tangled path that led from the road to the swampy lake beyond, used a flashlight to navigate his way through the dense underbrush. On reaching the edge of the lake, the killer unceremoniously dropped the girl’s body on the ground. The sudden jolt drew a loud yelp.

Vicki Lee looked into the eyes of her tormentor and what she saw frightened her. Although there was no moon, the look on the killer’s face was visible, his hatred palpable. The killer’s expression, moments ago calm, now changed. His eyes fully dilated, burned with an intensity only seen by his mother.

The killer began to laugh as he bent over the body of the 19-year-old. How satisfying he thought; he was now ready to release his pent up rage against a hapless coed who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her name didn’t matter; he was striking back at his mother.

Tillman dispensed with a ligature, his large hands fully encircling the girl’s slender neck. Bending over, he put his full weight over his muscled forearms, pressing down until he felt the girl’s body go limp. He then released his grip. The girl, gasping for breath, tried to struggle free. Again, he bore down on the girl with his full weight, releasing his grip a second time. Seeing no movement, he pressed down with all of his strength until he could no longer feel sensation in his hands. Getting to his feet, he vigorously shook his hands trying to get feeling back into them.

In the darkness of the swamp, the girl looked peaceful. Vicki Lee was the first to feel his wrath and experience his full hate. There would be many more to follow, but this one would always be special.

His mother was always the intended target, yet he couldn’t explain why he just didn’t kill her outright. No doubt, he harbored a love-hate relationship with her, but why he couldn’t pull the trigger was frustrating. In the back of his mind, he always knew that someday there would be a tipping point.

The killer looked down at the dead girl’s body. He killed his first coed and the act was sexually stimulating. Now in an emotional frenzy, he tore off her skintight jeans and thong panties, then viciously spread her legs.

The naked girl was now spread eagle in front