The deer were a problem, no denying that. But what Roger O’Liney of 53 Lemon St. did to those poor animals boggles the mind.
I can still picture that 10-point buck’s bloodied head (and worse, those of the doe and fawn) spiked upon the electric, wrought-iron gate leading to his stately home. Truly a sight good honest people should never have had to experience. Not Sergio Bessiterri and his wife on 111 Crow Canyon Ct., not Sandra Huntington and her trio of boys on 341 Mountain View Ln., nor anyone in my family, on 19 Fleischhacker Dr., especially my precious Abigail.
Little Abby was adding new words to her toddler’s vocabulary when we motored down Lemon that day. “Stop…car,” she said as we passed in front of the O’Lineys’ place, and I hit the brakes. The shock and terror soon etched on Abby’s face was something I thought appeared only in horror films, or video games.
I was wrong.
Roger O’Liney is locked up now on charges including neighborhood “terrorism,” thanks largely to my role as chief witness for the prosecution. Fuckhead though he is, Roger is a powerful figure, both in physique and social standing. He’s not one to be messed with and I took a chance in acceding to the DA’s wishes to testify. But, far as I’m concerned, he can rot in Hell and have his body dumped in the River Styx. His sentence is only three to five years and he’ll return with a vengeance, for sure. So I’m already bulking up for when he gets out. I now bench forty percent more than six months ago, squat an additional thirty. Plus, I’ve invested in a drawerful of Glocks and Berettas. I’ll be ready!
I mean, the guy’s loco, bloody trophy heads or not. Everyone in our semi-affluent neighborhood has a multiple acre lot, we’ve all got lawns and gardens. We’re civilized people. Our trees are protected with wire or net, Irish Spring soap hung at deer-eye level. We don’t grab a 30.06 from under our bed and start pumping rounds into defenseless creatures as casually as clipping toenails. And then skewering those heads in barbaric fashion? Such behavior is the mark of a psychopath.
Abby’s doing okay these days, her preschool teacher, pediatrician, and child therapist all swear. Still, I figure she’ll have scars from cutting by her mid-teens, a nervous breakdown not much later. The educators and docs (not to mention my wife) have shot down any suggestions to share my prescriptions with her. Never, ever! they say. But I can’t help but wonder if a little Xanax or Valium or Klonopin from my medicine cabinet might suit her. At least it might forestall the inevitable.
I tried explaining O’Liney’s actions to little Abby recently, tried to put things in context. Such a conversation was something I dreaded yet there was no question it had to be done, her mother’s protestations notwithstanding. Somehow our daughter couldn’t recall the original incident, but then I grabbed her by her shoulders and reminded her, over and over, of the gruesome, gut-wrenching images she’d seen that day. Eventually it all came back to her, poor sweetie. It seems what she once witnessed at 53 Lemon St. is something Abby may never forget.
