A viewing of the movie "The Woodsman" with Kevin Bacon woke up thoughts of the recent string of abductions and ultimate killings of children in Florida, and once again left me marked with an indefinable feeling. Despite the disturbing realism of the film, many viewers may find a semblance of sympathy for the main character - a former sex offender trying to adapt to a new life.
The reason for the possible, if not probable sympathy is because it is a movie, and you can't always fully get beyond Bacon's (or any actor's) star status regardless of the character they may portray. But beyond the screen, I can only ask: Who are these sick people? These cowardly bastards?
Let's bring this all closer to home. Just in zip code 89701 in Carson City, there are 22 registered sex offenders. Twenty-two. Isn't that cozy? Yup, 22 of these weak, worthless creeps living in one small zip code of 9,304 households and 23,307 residents. In all of Carson City, there are 38 registered sex offenders.
Most of these junkyard rodents targeted little girls. And forget about the classification tiers of these offenders. High risk, low risk ... To me, they are all a risk. There is no clinical or long-term medical cure. So why even classify 'em? I've seen cleaner slime in broken subway toilet bowls.
There are 5,131 active cases of sex offenses in Nevada. Aside from that hair-raising total (and I have no hair, so my bald spots crinkled), 561 offenders have not complied to code 179D.460, which is the registry of sex offenders' residency. That means that 561 sex offenders in Nevada have not registered and may be passing through ... umm ... Carson City soon. Those who have not complied with the annual reverification process, who are known to live in Nevada, is 1,958. More of them just passing through. More assuring news. At a Nevada Day parade, they can have a feast.
Now I want you to think. Think hard. Think of how it must feel to be a mom or dad who has just been told that their child has died, particularly a sudden death. An auto accident, a drowning, an inescapable fire. Now imagine, just for one painful moment, the jolting impact felt when first hearing of your own child's death. A death you never saw coming.
When a child dies of any cause, I have yet to see the parents recover. Not fully. Never. Behind every forced and contorted smile lies a lost and shattered soul. Inside each laugh are the tears of a swollen aqueduct ready to spill over its locks. But an abduction and killing of a child stays with you. It stays with you in an entirely different way. It penetrates deeply into every thought with unbearable suffering, holding no prejudice of wakeful or sleeping hours. Its torment is relentless.
And you can't help but wonder what a parent, what a child, could have done in their life to justify being the victim of such a sinful, agonizing crime.
The only way to really understand what it may be like is to recognize the raw, animalistic brutality of what these sex offenders are capable of doing to our children. Just think about little Jessica Lunsford, a 9-year-old who was forcibly taken from her own bed in Homossassa, Fla., and then killed like a small animal. Same thing with 13-year-old Sarah Lunde.
Imagine either one being your child. A wondrous, innocent child with an angelic, rosy face so helpless, so young, so unassuming. She might have just had a little glass of milk, maybe a cookie, said her prayers as she knelt at her bedside, and thought about playing with her friends the next day, or thinking about her next sleepover. And then this despicable, mind-fallen creature that Satan himself would cast from Hell steals her. Steals her of innocence. Steals her of life.
Think how you would feel. First as the child, then as the parent. Think of the child's gentle little face twisted into a mess of wet torment with soaked screeching fear as her violated body writhes uncontrollably against the spineless beast who grabbed her from her bed and now ... unspeakably ... sodomizes her.
I will not even pretend to lie in the face of all that is human, and all that is real, by believing or even thinking that a death sentence as prescribed by our judicial system is acceptable. Death sentence? Means nothing. The sentence is too long and the death is too quick.
Life sentence? Two, three, four consecutive life sentences? No way. Three hot meals a day for torturing and killing a child. And don't tell me that the killer will know the payment of justice while he becomes some queenie punk for a shower full of cell kings. Not unless it happens often, several times a day, as he relives every painful moment of his own crime.
The common cry of when people hear or read of such atrocities is "He oughtta be shot!" Shot? Nope. I say shooting is too damn good for 'em. Slow, brutal torture. Now we're talking. Think I'm nuts? Sure I am. Nuts about my daughter. My family. I'm also no phony. I don't lie to myself, and anyone who tries to tell me that thinking like this is off-center, then I guess you couldn't care less about your family to begin with.
You know what I say? (And, yes, I know this is a post-vigilant wish that could not come true.) I say the parents of the tortured and murdered children should legally call the punishment for the crime. Give the father or a close friend of the mother, maybe even the brother of the child the key to the cell for an hour. And then, let the fun begin.
Again, think I'm nuts? Think I'm crazy? Why? Because I am saying what you would be thinking if this happened to you? You need to be aware. Think hard. Were the parents of many raped and murdered children aware of the scabby freaks in their neighborhood?
You need to be aware. It's OK to be cautious. It's OK to be watchful. It's OK to protect your child. It's OK to be aware.
n John DiMambro is publisher of the Nevada Appeal. Write to him at jdimambro@nevada appeal.com.
