Heart of Darkness

Curtis Allgier always has something to say, even when it's not his turn to talk.  As a lawyer with the Salt Lake District attorney's office argues some arcane rule of law in front of Judge Paul Maughan,  Allgier shows his disgust, leans in heavy to his own attorney, and frantically and angrily grumbles his disapproval.  Allgier seems to be at odds with even the most mundane details that leaves the judges mouth, or formulates in the mind of the District Attorney.

Curtis Allgier

As I sit in court I can tell Allgier's attorney is exasperated, every couple of minutes, the tattooed white supremacist  is peppering his left ear with angry, yet muffled proclamations.  The attorney seldom acknowledged his agitating client, as he tries to listens intently to the words of the judge.

Allgier murdered Utah State Corrections officer Stephen Anderson, when the prisoner was being escorted from his cell to the University of Utah Medical Center for an MRI in 2007.  Anderson, who had a reputation as a compassionate guard, who showed kindness to even the most despicable of criminals, was shot twice by Allgier after a brief struggle between the two.

You have likely seen Allgier on television.  His face is littered with prison tattoos, crude graffiti  carved into his skin proclaiming his admiration for Hitler, Nazi's and skin heads.  Every inch of his face is covered with grey ink, likely pumped into his face by himself or an equally "tatted" fellow prisoner.  As I look at him spewing silently into his lawyers brain, it's difficult to even recognize a human underneath  the angry scrawling  the boorish scratches, and vulgar proclamations.

I try to imagine Allgier as a little, toe-headed boy, skipping rocks across a pond, giggling in the school yard with he fellow kindergartners  or snuggling under his mother's arm after a scary nightmare, but I just can't conjure the idea.  To me, Allgier seems as if he just manifested on earth, as a hulking ball of rage, born in orange prison jump suit, and talking, always talking.

Stephen Anderson

He has been talking for the five and a half years since he killed Anderson.  Phoning reporters to do interviews, blurting out invectives to the judge in court, and finally, on the day of his sentencing, he has his grand stage, something he has been seeking since he was jailed after pulling the trigger and killing the father of five.

He talks for 35 excruciating minutes, at times he is tearful and apologetic, at others he is defiant and angry and often punctuates his speech with "s#!+ and "F*(# while the judge patiently allows hims to rant.

I get the sense that he has this grand idea of himself, as if he believes he lives by a special code of honor that the rest of us puny mortals can't even comprehend.  He talks about how he takes care of younger prisoners behind bars, giving advice to the "weak" ones.  He gnaws and snarls about his treatment in jail by guards, then chokes up with tears as he laments over how "great" a man he believes the now deceased Anderson is.

Allgier once wrote me a letter after a story I did about a woman he scammed into putting hundreds of dollars into his prison bank account.  The diatribe was scribbled in black ink on ruled paper, in the hand of a boy.  He punctuated his "S's" with lightening bolts often seen on the collars of officers in  the Nazi Shutzstaffel.  I could see he would go to great lengths to use words that ended in two "S's" for the ultimate affect.

Neo-Nazi Symbol

His long form complaint goes on for pages, and is filled with narcissistic rants about, his "honor," and his "strength."  He even claims his affiliation with the skin heads, isn't about racial hatred but pride in his own heritage, "I have friends of all races," he says.

As he waxes about Anderson, claiming he didn't want "that guy," to die, the judge finally tries to reign in the bluster, and with 10 armed guards surrounding him, the judge in a bureaucratic monotone that is a stark contrast to Allgier's bombast, calmly tells the murderer he will die in jail, Allgier sits, for the first time all afternoon in silence, as the judge has the final word, telling the loud man to be quiet and go to jail forever.

Oh, the places we will go.

"Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar! Gimme a dollar!"  The little man in the dirty green sweatpants barks incessantly, almost manically, as we quickly disengage and turn back to our news truck.  Just a few seconds before I am rapping on the front door of what is the last known address of the mother of Curtis Allgier, Maxine McNeeley.  Allgier, who is about as despicable a human being as you might ever imagine, has just plead guilty to gunning down a Utah corrections officer, and we hope to get a comment from the woman who likely knows Allgier best.

I track down the address using old court records, and photographer Mike "D" and I find ourselves rolling into a neighborhood, inhabited by worn and weary apartment buildings near the end of a dead end street.  McNeeley's unit is #1.  The black entrance is framed by a wooden storm door  with three panels of mesh.  The top quadrant is torn and tattered, the second panel remains somewhat intact and the third has been kicked or stripped out years ago leaving a jagged, border of steel.

The access to the apartment is shrouded in an uncomfortable touch of claustrophobia,  The unit is planted to the right of a narrow, crumbling sidewalk, straddled to the left by a tattered, weather-worn wooden planked fence that lilts and leans, and strains to stay standing. As I knock on the door, that fencing to my back seems just a bit too close, like a customer pressing near you in the grocery store line, who lingers a little too long in your personal space as you finger the minty gums and magazines at the checkout.

The paint chipped awning overhead seems to press down on my head, as I wait for some response.  I can hear the muffled tones of the TV blaring inside, and with each pop on the door with my knuckles, I hear the shrieking bark of what is sure to be a tiny little pooch.

To my left are yards of used, but for some time, underutilized building supplies, old mops, ladders, buckets, and a pile of rags, tarps and towels, long discarded, and colonized by ants and rats and Box Elder Bugs, years ago.

The close proximity of the tri-plex to the fence makes for a spider web wonderland, as clear strands of silk criss-cross back and forth from the tattered, uneven boards of the listing fence to the broken rain gutter that jogs jaggedly across the eave of the home.

Somebody nearby has, or had a cat, and never fully potty trained the feline, because with each breath the slight scent of ammonia from cat urine lofts occasionally and uncomfortably into you olfactory.

The old man inside jerks, turns and pops the tired old medal door knob, and lifts, wrestles and jams the door open, but instead of standing inside his threshold waiting for my question, he darts onto his front stoop, and I find him quickly within inches of my face.  His grey mane of hair is wild and wispy, his beard is long and untamed, I can tell he is a smoker, his mustache is stained with a sickly yellow glaze of nicotine   His top is clad in a faint grey sweatshirt that was, years ago, a potent black.  He's been wearing it for a while, as evidenced by what appears to be the dribble from a meal enjoyed days ago.  His green sweatpants hike up high on his left leg exposing his hairy calf, and rides low on his right leg, the dirty, tattered hemline having been dragged under his right heel for days.

"I'm looking for Maxine McNeeley?"  I ask doubtfully, assuming now that she must have moved some time ago.  "McNeeley, McNeely, I don't know any McNeeley," he says moving in to me even closer, "Well ok," I turn to see Mike 'D' has received the hint seconds earlier and is already strolling back to the truck with his camera in tow.

"Well, wait, wait," the man says eagerly, and begins "hey, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar," He chants as I speed up my gate, "gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar,"  I've got to laugh as I wonder how long he will continue to holler these three words after we roll away.  Then I find, not too long as he changes tactics, noticing the camera slung over Mike's shoulder, "take my picture, take my picture, take my picture, take my picture, take my picture!"  As I glance back, I see he has choreographed a little dance to accompany his monotonous, monotone tune.  His hands are propped next to his shoulders, palms towards his audience, and he is hoping from one foot to the other, with each bark of the phrase, Take my picture," now to the right, "Take my picture," now to the left...

I was a bit taken aback by the whole scene, the oppressive surroundings, the manic chant and dance, Mike sees it a bit differently, as he hops in the truck, turns the key to crank the engine, he proclaims calmly, "that was awesome."