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such an individual die
needlessly and without mercy at his hands.
    Dayton Leroy Rogers, thirty-three, fearsomely
known to many of Portland's prostitutes as "Steve the gambler," has
been afflicted by bloodlust since his late teens, perhaps longer.
It usually materialized in the form of a headache, inflicting on
him a splitting, blinding white pain, and perhaps he was always
subconsciously aware that only the sight of another's pain, the
sounds of her anguish, or, ultimately, the spilling of her blood
would relieve his own suffering. When the headaches began, the only
way to make them go away was to let his dark side fully emerge.
    Dayton seemed personable enough on the
surface, as long as he wasn't in the midst of one of his mood
swings. He was well known in the small communities of Woodburn and
Canby, and people seemed to like him. A mechanic by trade, a skill
he had learned in prison, Dayton ran a small successful engine
repair business, was married, and had an eighteen-month-old boy who
was a mirror image of him. Few people saw the evil that lay beneath
the thin veneer, and many of those who were unlucky enough to
witness his dark side firsthand did not live to talk about it.
    Dayton's headaches seemed to worsen during
the summer of 1987 and for that reason he was away from home much
of the time. He claimed that he was working at his shop during his
absences, which ranged from a few hours to all night, and his wife,
Sherry, saw little reason, at first, to doubt him. When she would
call to check up on him in the early evening, he usually answered
the telephone. On the occasions that he didn't, he always had an
excuse. He would explain that he had been in the middle of a
project and hadn't wanted to leave it to pick up the phone. Or,
more commonly, he would tell Sherry that he had gone out to get
coffee, perhaps a bite to eat, anything that would convince her he
was only taking a break to get away from the shop for a while.
Often, however, he waited until it was very late, until he was
certain that Sherry was in bed and fast asleep, before beginning
the prowl. Soon his working late became routine, a way of life, and
Sherry's phone calls became less frequent. Although she began to
hear stories about him frequenting the local taverns and bars, she
tried very hard to maintain the faith she had always had in him.
She might have become suspicious of his activities sooner if only
she had taken the trouble to check the mileage on his pickup. But
she hadn't, and he put more miles on the truck in a single week
than most people drive in a month.
    August 6, a Thursday, started out for the
Rogers family like most other days. Dayton got up early, showered
and shaved, had a light breakfast, and drove to his small engine
repair shop in Woodburn before 8 A.M. Outwardly, he seemed happy.
Business had picked up during the summer to the point where he had
to hire a man to help him, and several new repair orders were
coming in every day. Soon, however, he began to feel the pressures
of the backlog despite the new help, and his headaches became more
frequent, as did his nocturnal outings. At times Sherry found
herself wondering what had come over him, seeing him sitting
quietly and staring into space, but she never said anything. Even
though she had heard rumors about him carousing the night spots and
secretly feared that he may have been seeing other women, she
somehow convinced herself that the pressures from his business had
become too great, and she didn't want to do or say anything that
might add to his troubles.
    It wasn't until later that afternoon that the
pounding inside Dayton's head became more than he could bear. He
had to do something to stop the headache. He left his assistant in
charge of the shop and drove to the liquor store at the North Park
Plaza in Woodburn, where he purchased a ten-pack of Smirnoff vodka
miniatures to replace the depleted stock he normally kept behind
the seat of his pickup. He also purchased a couple of