9 An Infinite Number of Animals

Now that he had transportation of his own, Keith was able to vent some of his darker impulses in private. He would drive a few miles to the Wenas Valley and plink animals with his twenty-two. “I’d pretty much got rid of the stray cats in our neighborhood, but out in the sagebrush there were still plenty of targets—rats, rabbits, deer, coyotes, the odd dog or cat. I shot everything that moved. I liked watching their guts trail behind as they tried to run away. I perfected my shooting eye by knocking out a leg first, then the next leg. Or I’d shoot ’em in the balls or up the ass. A rabbit will scream and so will a deer. The will to survive is great even in the little sage rats. There was an infinity of dumb animals out there. I would sit behind a rock and look down my telescopic sight, and sometimes it would take three or four rounds to finish one off.

“Playing sniper was fun. My dad was a hunter and I knew he would approve. Higher in the mountains I found new targets—rattlesnakes and squirrels and chipmunks, rockchucks, porcupines. I killed sixty-eight snakes one day while out fishing in a little creek between Ellensburg and Selah. The next week I killed twelve. I didn’t feel guilty. It was the all-American pastime to go out in the country and blast away. I shot a cow, watched it fall and listened to it bawl for help. I exploded gopher mounds with long, accurate shots and pretended I was firing mortar shells.

“When no one was home, I experimented with dampening the noise of gunfire. Sometimes I’d fire a couple of rounds out our windows and see who jumped. I set up a target and a bullet ricocheted off a piece of steel and caught me in the meat part of the thigh. I could see the end of the slug, and I dug it out with a pocketknife so Dad wouldn’t punish me for being careless with weapons.

“I experimented with pipe bombs and cannons, machined the shells on Dad’s lathe in the basement and filled them with Red Dot smokeless powder that I bought by the pound. I would drive six or eight miles into the country for firing tests. One of my projectiles carried to a house. The owner chased me down, confiscated my cannon and told me if he ever saw me around again, he’d call the sheriff. Luckily he didn’t tell Dad.”

 

The boy’s passion for high-speed driving soon brought him to the edge of a manslaughter charge. “On one of our trips back to Chilliwack, I took Brad and Jill and two other kids to a drive-in movie in Dad’s 1969 Chevrolet three-quarterton pickup. They sat in the truck bed to keep away from me. I paid for the movie because they said Dad forgot to leave them any money. They had to have pop and popcorn, and I had to buy that, too. I thought they’d pay me back later. I was so furious, I could barely see the screen.

“When the show ended, the brats insisted that I take them to the A&W drive-in, where they ran up a big bill with food and shakes. Paying for their food was the last straw, and I decided to get even. With the five of them in the back of the pickup, I drove all over the road, jerked the wheel, floored the gas and hit the brakes till I could hear them rattling around and yelling.

“Just before the Keith Wilson crossroad there were some elevated railroad tracks. With Iron Butterfly at full volume on the radio, I crossed the track at top speed. The pickup flew through the air and landed hard. There was dead silence in the back. They were all scared shitless. A few minutes later I pulled into the lodge parking lot and got out.

“The truck bed was empty. My heart began to pound. In my mind I saw four bodies laying by the road. I was a mass murderer! I wanted to shake the brats up, but I never dreamed they’d go airborne.

“I drove to the track to search for bodies. Everything was quiet. No blood, no patrol cars, no ambulances, nothing. I got back to the lodge just as Dad and Mom and their friends pulled in. They’d been drinking and wanted to know where their kids were. I couldn’t say I’d lost them. I couldn’t say I flipped them into outer space. I didn’t know what to say. Then two police cruisers pulled into the parking area with the kids in back, yelling and crying, and the cops explained what they’d just been told about the mad driver, Keith Jesperson.

“Turned out that the kids had jumped out of the pickup at a stop sign two blocks before the railroad crossing. They were already terrified about my driving. The cops had picked them up for curfew violation.

“Dad sobered up fast. The cops wanted to book me for reckless driving and endangerment, but Dad told them that he was a former Chilliwack council member and he could handle the problem himself. That was me: the Problem. His son. The cops read me the riot act and left.

“I tried to explain, but whatever I said, Dad called me a liar. He clenched his fists and said he intended to teach me a lesson right there in the parking lot. I was two inches taller, but I could never swing on him, so I kept backing up till I came to a steel pole under an awning. He took a wild swing and ping! He hit the pole. He cussed, and I ran for the cedar groves and hid behind a log.⁵

“I woke up around 9:00 A.M., snuck down to the lot next to the lodge and waited for everyone to go out boating for the day. Then I grabbed my bag and stuffed it with my clothes. I was sixteen and it was time to leave for good, but I didn’t have the guts. Just then I saw Mom and learned that the kids had had plenty of money the night before. They just wanted to pull my chain. Nothing was said about it again. That was the last time Dad ever tried to hit me.”