Victims and Vultures

Copyright 2011, 2015 Will Kalinke.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-5244-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-5245-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-5246-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010918813

Trafford rev. 01/02/2015

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CONTENTS

Victims And Vultures Foreword

About Me

Introduction And Plot

Appreciation And Dedication

Setting The Stage

One: What Began As A Lazy Fall Day

Two: A Perfect Start

Three: Nightmare

Four: Wake Up

Five: Get Acquainted

Six: Panic

Seven: Shopping Excursion

Eight: From The Beginning

Nine: Stategic Planning

Ten: More On Tim

Eleven: Putting Pieces Together

Twelve: Manhunt Starts

Thirteen: Typical Day

Fourteen: Twist Of Events

Fifteen: Promise Of Help

Sixteen: Noose Tightens

Seventeen: Planning Ahead

Eighteen: A Glimpse Of The Future

Nineteen: Motel Turned Transition House

Twenty: Reflection And Retirement

Synergism

Companion Books

Metamorphosis Of Life

THIS IS ONE OF FIVE BOOKS TO HELP YOU LEAVE TREASURES FOR OTHERS

SENIORS/GRANDPARENTS/SIGNIFICANT OTHERS: You read Memorabilia and Memories Shared. You wrote your companion book of memories shared. You gathered family historical documents and took up the challenge to write about ‘gems’ of your history as I did in Stoneboat Journey. You dabbled a bit with leaving behind a crossroad fantasyland of what your life might have been, had you followed a different path, as I wrote in Mark and the Mystic Marble. Now, you are ready to ‘try your hand’ at writing either a murder mystery as I’ve done in Grandma was a Saint or a ‘chiller’ as I’ve done in Victims and Vultures. You lean back and reflect on episodes in your past in which you had some close ‘calls’, where a knife meant for another whizzed by your ear. You remember the friend whose body a passing tourist found in the bay or desert. You never told even your closest friends about the time … . This is the time! Rather than leave them guessing what happened that dark and dreary night when you ‘temporarily dropped out of sight’, share the facts as you remember them, with a few editorial tweaks. Don’t leave them ‘second guessing’. Although you may have been the victim, let your imaginary friend take that role. Unshackle your mind. There’s always a hero! Let that be you! I had some close ‘calls’ in my 82+ years. I’m willing to share, with a few tweaks. Are you? Consider sharing in a Heritage Club for writing an exciting legacy. Seek the outer limits of your imagination. (No, I wasn’t the vulture.)

SYNOPSIS: It was difficult to separate Paul’s dreams of horror from the reality of repeated rape and physical abuse, as Paul and I raced from a sadistic human hunter, and ultimately gained greater understanding of victims and the villains who prey on them.

KEY DESCRIPTORS: Mystery – fiction – chiller - murder – killer - rape – abuse – dropout – rejected - molester – sadistic human hunter - hope – despair – single parent - grandparents – teamwork – diversity – gay - synergism – sheriff – determination - school social worker – Paul’s transformational arc from insecure, scared, timid youth to a determined, self-assured dynamic leader, who served as bait for his sadistic would-be killer, and achieved his career dream.

Order books through your local bookstore or direct from Trafford Publishing. Toll free 1.888.232.4444. www.trafford.com. info@trafford.com. 1663 Liberty Drive, Bloomington Indiana 47403.

VICTIMS AND VULTURES

FOREWORD

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether alive or dead, is strictly coincidental. The cities chosen do not necessarily reflect actual circumstances, which are quite generic in their occurrence.

My sincere appreciation goes to William Evan Whiting for his input with ideas and computer technology, to Berryman Pillow for his confidence, and to Dickie Lee for his insights from inside a prison. This story is possible through experiences shared by many people. I did not share the names of victims or vultures for our mutual protection, except for those whose identities had past public recognition.

I wrote this book on behalf of those victims whose lives are often doomed by the twisted, warped, and depraved minds of human vultures, who stalk, rape, and capture them for their sadistic purposes, both in and out of home and family situations. I journeyed with many of these runaway, homeless youth, and others coast to coast in back alleys, dives, stark rooms, and on dark streets prior to a presentation to the 1989 ACRES/NRSSC national conference. Refer to ERIC Web Site #ED315208 Symposium RC017 257.

The writing of this book evolved from my personal experiences that preceded and followed that 1989 presentation. The lack of challenging material for involved professionals, victimized youth, parents, and extended family in the educational, political, criminal, and social justice systems provided my motivation. In this book, I invite you to vicariously live and ponder the life of a sexually abused dropout/runaway, the victim of a sadistic rapist.

Through this book, and others, I attempt to provide an unusual perspective, through a novel approach, on youth and dysfunctional situations with a dream of reducing the preponderance of school dropouts, youth runaways, sexually abused, suicides, homicides, and mentally/emotionally dysfunctional youth. My approach would reduce the number of vultures, their victims, and the frustrations of

Do you have a cause for social justice? Have you or a loved one suffered an injustice? Do you know of a victim pursued by a relentless vulture? Consider sharing the story. Form or join a Heritage Club with others who have similar stories to share. You will find them at Senior Centers, Retirement Villas, Bed & Breakfast Inns, Cruises or Tours, Health Care Clinics, and Camping Resorts. Sharing provides synergistic energy for increased happiness as you write. Leave an unforgettable legacy! Join me in a review of my life and that of my ancestors, as you review yours.

ABOUT ME

Born July 28, l928 on a Wisconsin farm, I lived through the Great Depression of the l930s and became a teacher in a one-room rural school in 1947 at the age of nineteen. I remained in line or leadership roles in regular and special education where my roles encompassed Wisconsin, and touched Minnesota, until 1991 when I bought a ‘ma and pa’ motel in central Florida, which served as an initial base for much of my writing. Ideas generated there with prison parolees, many juvenile sex offenders, along with a lifetime interest in understanding the real American family, the family behind closed doors - the family with many dark secrets, led to the development of this book. I put on a backpack and took to the streets and back alleys, to live with those who escaped cruel realities not believed by parents, guardians, social workers, or others responsible for their well-being. The truth is often stranger than fiction, and far less acceptable. Truth is often fiction – fiction is often truth. Paths often mingle and become inseparable.

This story has suspense, love, fear, rage, and mystery, as it happened in the real world, fictionalized in part to protect those involved. These realities are not for the weak of heart.

On April 30, 2004, I bought PRIDE MANOR of Tomahawk, Wisconsin, original home of Ansil Pride, founder of the paper mill industry in Tomahawk at the close of the nineteenth century. The Pride Manor history since 1895, as told by descendants of early settlers, provided further stimulation into a mix of fact and fiction, and a retreat for writing from experiences and imagination.

On September 24, 2007, I added the Guest House and the Studio to give guests opportunities to enjoy the Grave Yard Fright Night experiences by sleeping where ghosts and goblins provide realistic haunting challenges. The Guest House borders a vacated railroad line, which brought logs, wealth, entertainment, liquor, runaways, lonely hearts, and endless stories, some true and some questionable. The most questionable stories are likely the most real.

Tomahawk is five miles south of Highway 8. Rhinelander and Crandon are to the east. Antigo is south of Rhinelander. Ladysmith and Rice Lake are to the northwest. Hudson, St. Paul, and Minneapolis are to the west. Eau Claire is to the southwest. River Falls is farther southwest. Green Bay is to the southeast. Merrill, Wausau, Stevens Point, Wisconsin Rapids, and Madison are to the south off Highway 51/39. Ashland is to the far north central in Wisconsin. Thus, Tomahawk is a natural ‘crossroads’ location for an exchange of stories. I’m told that native American Indians, French trappers and traders, and loggers often met in Frenchtown on the southeast banks of the present day Lake Mohawksin and exchanged hides, whiskey, beads, and stories while they drank and smoked around a campfire.

Since I’ve lived part of the history of Frenchtown, south of the tracks, and now live in Pride Manor, north of the tracks, my head is over-flowing with fact and fantasy. This was a rough and tough area of the north. Some say that it retains much of that appeal, especially when around 40,000 cyclists descend every fall for the Harley-Davidson MDA weekend.

INTRODUCTION AND PLOT

It was a beautiful day in the fall of the year in northern Wisconsin, when I saw Paul, age seventeen, lying in the fetal position on the side of Highway 8. I stopped to investigate, little knowing that I would soon be deeply involved in earth-shattering nightmares and attempts at my own life by a sadistic human hunter.

Paul was only twelve when his grandparents took in a roomer, Tim. They didn’t know Tim personally but knew of his father. Tim had the upstairs bedroom across the short hallway from Paul. Tim wanted an inexpensive room with basic meals. The grandparents wanted extra cash, a handy man, and a ‘baby sitter’.

All went well, at first, as Paul and Tim became acquainted, even to the point of playing games together like checkers, chess, dominoes, horseshoes, and darts. Paul’s grandparents liked the arrangement. They now had time and a few extra dollars to enjoy life. When Paul first started saying negative things about Tim, they brushed it aside. Tim became an invaluable helper around the house, so much that, when Paul complained, they wouldn’t believe him.

Paul, a rejected slender young man, was lying on the right shoulder of Highway 8 when I saw him as I was driving home after a long day of work. It was a chance meeting, which turned into a nightmare for me. Little did I know what Paul had been through and little did I know what I would be going through when I offered Paul a ride and an overnight stay out of an impending life-threatening storm. That was just the beginning!

The very first night, I woke up to a blood-curdling series of screams that were just the beginning of events that would forever change the lives of two men, one seventeen and one fifty-eight, as together we faced the threat of the sadistic rapist turned hunter; together we struggled to develop a brighter future for Paul and others like him.

That search for a better life for Paul began another search, a search for greater knowledge about those who would sexually molest youth, those like Tim, before he turned sadistic hunter after Paul and me. With the assistance of others, an old motel became a safe-haven parolee transition house for sex offenders, while the parolees faced the challenges of rehabilitation, employment, and an acceptable return to social interaction outside of prison. Nearly fifteen years of experience operating the transition house, revealed some very interesting and surprising intervention answers to help sex victims, sex vultures, and society.

APPRECIATION AND DEDICATION

May this book, and others to follow, be a permanent Memoriam to all those dedicated persons with whom I worked, especially to those who have since died. May their memories, and that of the youth they served, be preserved - forever. They were the best.

Thanks to those who allowed me to enter their lives and who shared of their stories. I trust Gary and the many others like him found happiness and success. I’m sorry for Jeff Dahmer, and his victims, who did not.

I offer special recognition to Nic Dibble, Consultant, School Social Work Services, Wisconsin Department of Public Instruction, Madison, Wisconsin, who through his actions, taught the indispensible value of a school social worker. He and his co-workers nationwide are involved in a broad spectrum of services which often ‘make or break’ living and learning situations for youth. They are involved in suicide prevention, child abuse, domestic violence, dating violence, homebound instruction, child welfare, school age parents, interagency communication, intra-agency communication, confidential consultations, and student records and confidentiality. They are critical to the survival and ultimate development of youth, like Paul, and to their immediate and extended family. They focus on early identification of socially dysfunctional situations and the prevention of social maladjustment, with resulting correctional functions, like prisons. Social justice demands equal opportunities for all.

Please join me in a tribute to those special leaders, like Cousin Clara (Kramer) Pagel, who traveled the world, witnessed the coming of World War II in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and the Orient, and broke artificial occupational and social barriers. Following her travels, Clara enrolled in the University of Chicago where she earned a degree in business administration and entered a world of finance dominated by men in the thirties and forties.

It is from a young grandfather on a street near downtown Chicago that I first heard the wish he expressed for his grandchildren: A World without Bias. Our conversation left a lasting impression on me. I am forever grateful.

Finally, thanks to William Whiting, my computer mentor, and Berryman Pillow, the ‘Warden’, for their assistance in operating the Sunset Motel, a safe-haven transition house for juvenile sex offender parolees, unlike Tim who did not have their benefit of early intervention. Lastly, thanks to Dickie Lee for another perspective.

SCENES

SETTING THE STAGE

ONE: WHAT BEGAN AS A LAZY FALL DAY ended as anything but that

TWO: A PERFECT START to a day that ends in a storm

THREE: NIGHTMARE describes the worst blood-curdling yells

FOUR: WAKE UP and help clean up the battered room

FIVE: GET ACQUAINTED with two most unlikely characters

SIX: PANIC with the realization of a sadistic killer on the prowl

SEVEN: SHOPPING EXCURSION in preparation for changes

EIGHT: FROM THE BEGINNING he told the story of repeated rape

NINE: STRATEGIC PLANNING to survive and overcome

TEN: MORE ON TIM the sadistic rapist gone hunter

ELEVEN: PUTTING PIECES TOGETHER for team protection

TWELVE: MANHUNT STARTS to get the killer before he kills either or both

THIRTEEN: TYPICAL DAY when all is well without a Jeff Dahmer murderer

FOURTEEN: TWIST OF EVENTS as best of plans go astray

FIFTEEN: PROMISE OF HELP as Sheriff Maggie and deputies get involved

SIXTEEN: NOOSE TIGHTENS as team gets into action

SEVENTEEN: PLANNING AHEAD for survival and a brighter future

EIGHTEEN: A GLIMPSE OF THE FUTURE for survivor and ‘mad’ hunter

NINETEEN: MOTEL TURNED TRANSITION HOUSE for juvenile sex-offenders

TWENTY: REFLECTION AND RETIREMENT with hope for a better future

SYNERGISM the ultimate in teamwork

COMPANION BOOKS

METAMORPHOSIS OF LIFE from death to life in poetry

CHARACTERS

Principal

Paul, the victim

Supporting

Tim, sadistic rapist/killer in hot pursuit

Will, challenged

Maggie, County Sherriff

Sonny, as Warden

Shadows

Mom, remarried in Oregon

Stepfather, problem resolved

Grandpa, retired mechanic

Grandma, retired from school cafeteria

Deputies James, Waters, Ben

School Social Worker

Miss Evans, School Superintendent

Miss Jane, School Secretary/Receptionist

Lil, teaches self-defense

Jack, hunting friend of Tim

Clerk, the leak

Jeffrey Dahmer and John Gacy

Matthew Sheppard

Liberace

Parolees

Bill

SETTING THE STAGE

Although I’ve often felt sorry for myself, in retrospect I’m grateful for having lived through the Great Depression as the son of a Town of Easton, Marathon County, elected official, who had the challenging task of helping those less fortunate than we with boxes of groceries and employment opportunities with the township to keep them from starving. I became acquainted with hardships, poverty, illness, and death without medical intervention early in life. That may have shaped my concerns for youth from dysfunctional families and youth less fortunate than me, who had handicapping conditions and other special needs.

With that beginning in life, I continued goals of my father and other ancestors in searching for those in need, and lending a helping hand. That often took me on journeys that may have been dangerous or questionable, but very interesting, colorful, and beneficial. I couldn’t help myself. I escaped to live to share my stories. Ancestors, who left family and friends in Germany years before to explore a new world, set the pace and led the way. If I am ‘nuts’, I have no choice, as my ancestors programmed me genetically.

Emelie and Wilhelm Klueckmann with two small children and Johanna Kramer, with her son Ernst, sailed the stormy north Atlantic for nearly three winter months from Poznan or Posen on the German-Polish border. Their son Robert became my grandpa. Wilhelmine and Samuel Ashbrenner, grandparents to my grandma Bertha who married Robert, lived their first winter with their six children and a foster child in Marathon County in a cave dug out of a hillside near Little Chicago in north central, Wisconsin. The Kalinke family left relatives and friends behind in German settlements, such as at New Lubza, Bernstadt, Lauben, and Sadewitz. With the help of others, especially the Wright Lumber Company, they started a logging settlement east of Wausau identified on the Wisconsin map in the early and mid 1900s as Kalinke or Kalinkeville, on the Kalinke Road east of the Nutterville Road, which became Highway 52 east from Wausau. Clara (Kramer) Pagel, cousin of my grandpa Robert Klueckmann, (her mom was sister to Emelie, mom to Robert), left home in Wausau in late 1936 with Erna Flatter, later a fellow teacher of mine at Grant School on Fourth Avenue, Wausau. They traveled in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, China, and the Philippines to look for heritage ‘roots’ and promote the YWCA, only to discover signs of World War II everywhere they traveled.

Now, those were the daring ones as Clara was later so aptly described in an article of the Wausau Daily Record Herald. Clara never returned to Wausau with Erna, but studied at the University of Chicago where she earned a master’s degree in business administration, which led to employment in the Federal Reserve Bank in New York and a role in the Coast Guard Academy in New London, Connecticut. She died in St. Petersburg, Florida in 1955 at age 59. She never got to Argentina to explore possible heritage there. Since Clara and Aunt Olga Klueckmann Block lived within several city blocks of each other near Grant School in Wausau, and were only a few years apart in age, they corresponded after Clara and Erna left Wausau. Erna and I taught in adjoining rooms at Grant School in the nineteen fifties.

At age twenty-eight, I married Connie Bickman Hubbard, mother to both of my sons, who thought she was marrying a stable husband and teacher. She thought her first marriage wasn’t very stable, since her first husband went off to World War II shortly after their marriage. When he returned, it was to a hospital in Georgia where he died. I met Connie as the parent of a fifth and sixth grade student, Laurie James Hubbard, at Grant School. He introduced me to his mom. I married her. After she died, I adopted him. He and Judy have two children, Michelle and Christopher.

In our first ten years of marriage, we moved eight times. Connie was a hearty soul to make the moves in hope that each would be the final one, although she drew the line on offers to move to Sierra Leone or Harvard. I had already turned down an offer to Seoul, as I didn’t like the idea of being caught in a cross fire. It was a time when North Koreans were still taking pot shots at anything that moved south of the cease-fire line.

The move to Ettrick had already tested her heartiness, when she opened the cellar trap door in the floor of the kitchen of the farmhouse we rented, to see a maze of spider webs with giant-sized black spiders. It was a busy old farmhouse. It was home to many creatures that lived there long before we moved in. One day, Connie encountered a bird trying to get out of the cold space heater. It had fallen down the chimney and found the pipe that led into the heater.

The house had tall ceilings, thus, a tall natural tree seemed the right thing to have for the holiday season. After Connie decorated it with some of our lovely old ornaments, she reached out to a gold colored farm cat that ‘meowed’ to come in out of the cold. Its first act of gratitude was to climb the lace curtains in the living room. When that didn’t meet Connie’s approval, the cat jumped to reach a glittering ornament on the tree that caught her eye. The tree crashed, until I raised and wired it in place, after I came home from work. The final ‘straw that broke the camel’s back’, in Connie’s strong fortitude, occurred when Connie parked our car at a stop sign after taking me to work, and a high school student, possibly late for school, lightly clipped her driver’s side head light as he swung around the corner. That did it. She gave me her set of keys, content to have me assume all the risks. Somehow, she seemed to have the idea that I was a risk-taker, or that I led a charmed life. At the time, I was too busy to give it much thought. In retrospect, I think it was self-confidence. I regarded myself as an unscathed survivor.

In the pursuit of answers to life, living, sharing, and caring through education and experience, I changed jobs so frequently that a college counselor suggested that I would have a difficult time finding employment, if I didn’t settle down. I guess, both Connie and Dr. Ray Gotham of UW-Stevens Point thought teachers/educators should be stable. They may have had a good point. However, I thought every new job was a step upward and outward like a tornado picking up new knowledge and experience to enrich self to share with others in an ever-widening reach. In the process, I never had a heart attack or ulcers. I’m still alive seeking new adventures, while most of my colleagues are a long time gone, rest their souls. I did have prostate cancer as a short skirmish, but that didn’t kill me. Eighty-one radioactive seeds did the trick in controlling the cancer.

Now, that I am far past the age of worrying about the sharing of my adventures of my past, or seeking other employment, at age eighty-two going on three, I’ve decided to do my autobiography in bits and pieces. Like an enriched historical novel, this is one piece of my story, with some modification of certain bits to avoid identification of other characters, and to keep the story ‘acceptable’, within limits of discretion.

While some ‘shady’ characters in my life encouraged the sharing of their stories, I preferred to avoid their identification, especially when they walked on the edge of discretion or laws. They knew the language of switchblades and hard knuckles. I didn’t.

Paul, by another name and some slight modifications on exact locations, was one of those characters. He entered my life with a ‘bang’ after Connie’s sudden death and my second retirement, or was it my third. That snapped me out of any self-pity that I was beginning to feel following her sudden death. When she died, I lost both my best friend and my wife. Although I had five offers of marriage or companionships after she died, my heart wasn’t in it – or did I prefer self-pity – whatever!

I offer no moral to this story. Decide for yourself, if you feel the need. Otherwise, just enjoy reading as I enjoyed living and writing. My first gut reaction to the thought of Paul and Tim was to think of a ‘roadside-kill’ victim lying on the side of the road, and of massive vultures circling overhead awaiting the moment for their prey to stop breathing to begin their descent to start picking the carcass clean.

ONE: WHAT BEGAN AS A LAZY FALL DAY

Breathtakingly beautiful and gorgeous - I can’t think of any other words to better describe the day. It was one of those soothing, mesmerizing, days. This day gently took me drifting back to childhood memories. I grew up on a farm in the days of cows, horses, sheep, ducks, chickens, and turkeys sharing one farm and often sharing one barn and oats from the same bin. This was a lazy day, a truly lazy, lazy day. On those childhood days, after I had completed assigned chores, such as bringing kitchen wood to the wood box or fetching a pail of water from the well, I would take a walk down to a nearby stream to watch and listen to the water ripple over a rocky bed. If I had enough time