By Encarnacion PyleTHE COLUMBUS DISPATCH

Matt Morgan invites friends over af-ter work for chicken casserole and spa-ghetti dinners.

He and his girlfriend curl up on thecouch to watch Days of Our Lives.

He goes to dollar-movie theaters,plays Scrabble and sings karaoke.

This is his life, one so ordinary it’s in-distinguishable in his working-classneighborhood on the Far West Side,where everyone knows everyone elseby name. But his life defies his history,the dark times that his neighborscouldn’t imagine.

They don’t know that schizophrenicvisions and voices once controlled him.They don’t know he spent nine years in

a state psychiatric hospital. They don’tknow what he’s done and how hard he’sworked the past 14 years to becomeordinary.

They don’t know he killed hisparents.

“I’ve been to hell and back,’’ saidMatt, now 38, “and I still don’t knowhow I survived.’’

It started near the end of highschool. Matt began hallucinating, hear-ing voices and thinking everyone,

including friends and family, wanted tokill him.

He became homeless, drifted acrossthe country and tried to hang himself.

Then, he learned he had schizoph-renia. He received treatment and medi-cation at a mental hospital in Pennsyl-vania but was weaned off the drugsonce he returned home to FairfieldCounty. His parents tried to get him

A SECTION, PAGE A111/27 A SECTION, PAGE A1

INDEX | Books ................G7Business ..............F

Classified ..............IEditorials ...........B4

Home & Garden ....IHoroscope .........H2

Lottery ...............D2Movies...............G6

Obituaries..........D8Puzzles ..............H6

Stocks ............F3-9Vitals .................D9

Speed Read, a recap oftoday’s top stories, is on A2.

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2005

Matt Morgan looks at a collection of certificates he’s earned since he was found not guilty by reason of insanity in his parents’ 1991 killing. Morgan isn’t proud of them, referring to the display as his “wall of shame.’’

In shadowof tragedy, normal life takes root Man who killed parentsoptimistic despite illness

See LIFE Page A4

Jim Augenstein, left, and guide James ‘‘Hoss’’ Hoskinson watch for deer from a hunting platform near McConnelsville.

NEAL C. LAURON | DISPATCH

cCONNELSVILLE, Ohio — Here comes the deer,wandering through the woods of Morgan County,his slow steps cracking twigs and leaves.

The man leans forward in the wheelchair and watchesthe young buck down in the gully.

The deer stops 30 yards in front of him.The man’s heart thumps. He raises the rifle and looks

through the scope.The deer looks directly at him.There is one bullet in the man’s .50-caliber Hawken muz-

zleloader.All you need, hunters say, is one shot.In life, however, you sometimes need more.

See HUNTER Page A6

BACK IN THE HUNTDisabled vet finds peace in the woods

Story by Todd Jones | Photos by Eric AlbrechtTHE COLUMBUS DISPATCH

Augensteinserved twotours of dutyas a Marinein Vietnam.

4 facepenaltiesfor bodyburningsU.S. troops to be reprimanded,not prosecuted, in cremations

By Daniel CooneyASSOCIATED PRESS

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan — The two dead Ta-liban fighters lie side by side on a bonfire.Flames lick their bodies as U.S. soldiers watch.

Voices with American accents taunt the Tali-ban, calling them “cowardly dogs’’ and saying:“You allowed your fighters to be laid down facingwest and burned. You aretoo scared to come downand retrieve their bodies.’’

The event — captured onvideotape by a freelancejournalist — sparked outragein this Muslim nation, wherecremation violates theteachings of Islam and thefaithful face west, towardMecca, when they pray.

It also led to a U.S. militaryinvestigation. The resultswere announced yesterday:Four U.S. soldiers face disci-plinary action for burningthe bodies and using theincident to try to provokeinsurgents thought to be hid-ing in a nearby village.

None of the men will beprosecuted for the cremations because theywere motivated by hygienic concerns.

“Our investigation found there was no intentto desecrate the remains but only to dispose ofthem for hygienic reasons,’’ said the U.S.-ledcoalition’s operational commander, Maj. Gen.Jason Kamiya.

The videotape of the burning last month wasbroadcast in the West but not in Afghanistan.Furious Afghans compared the incident to pho-tographs of U.S. troops abusing prisoners atIraq’s Abu Ghraib prison, and Islamic clericscondemned yesterday’s announcement.

“These soldiers should be severely punished,’’said Khair Mohammed, a senior cleric in Kanda-har. “Foreign soldiers in Afghanistan must re-spect our religion. If they continue to do thingslike this, every Muslim will be against them.’’

See BURNINGS Page A4

City offered little help,some flood victims say

By Debbie GebolysTHE COLUMBUS DISPATCH

Marc and Cindy Tayner didn’t havemuch, but they were getting by.

They owned their Stimmel Roadmobile home, and he was gettingready to come out of bankruptcy.

Then came the flood of January2004, a calamity that washed themand hundreds of others from theirmobile homes, apartments and busi-nesses. Nearly two years later, theTayners still haven’t moved to a per-manent, new home.

“I’m a 40-year-old man living withmy stepdaughter,’’ Mr. Tayner said.

The Tayners are among more than60 families and business owners whofiled claims with the city after a pumpbroke, causing 87 million gallons ofstorm water and untreated sewage toback up and shoot out of manholesalong Harmon Avenue and other parts

of Franklinton and the South Side. City workers overlooked the broken

pump for 29 hours during the heightof a five-day rainstorm, leading to thearea’s worst flooding in decades. May-or Michael B. Coleman vowed that thecity would pay for the damage.

But some say the city mishandledclaims and made it nearly impossiblefor people to get any money.

“I expected that, since it was theirfault what happened to all of us, thatthey would make good,’’ Mrs. Taynersaid. Instead, “We battled and battledand battled and battled. I feel like wedidn’t get treated the proper way.’’

So far, the city has paid more than$530,000 for 62 flood claims. Resi-dents of the Caravan Village mobile-home park received 45 settlementsworth more than $242,000. Four otherclaims from Caravan Village, in-cluding one for $67,300 from the parkowners, are pending.

Angie Courtright, who handled allthe claims as an investigator in thecity attorney’s office, said the resi-dents hurt by the flood were among

See CITY Page A8

Mobile-home residentscomplain that paymentswere too little, too late

‘‘Ourinvestigationfound therewas no intentto desecratethe remains.’’

MAJ. GEN.JASONKAMIYAOperationalcommander forU.S.-led coalitionin Afghanistan

Military unlikely to changepolicy on gays | INSIGHT, B1

Musical goes for human story‘LITTLE WOMEN’High 59 | Low 51

Details D12

H O M E F I N A L ∑

$1.75THE ARTS, G1

BLUE JACKETS 4, BLUES 3SPORTS, C1

AFGHANISTAN

∑ ∑ ∑

He woke up three hours ago, before therooster crowed and hints of light fell on frost-covered grass.

Jim Augenstein, 58, stares at the television.Gary Cooper is walking alone in the classicWestern movie High Noon.

‘‘I bet I was up 25 times last night looking atthe clock,’’ Jim says.

He’s anxious to return to the woods. He’spacked and unpacked his bag for three days.Checked his rifle and ammunition. Dreamedof this day.

His wife, Royetta — Roy to everyone — fixesbreakfast in their dimly lit 40-year-old trailer inWaterford, on the banks of the MuskingumRiver.

She had gone out two months earlier to buybeer on a hot August day and saw an advertis-ing flier on the counter of the corner store innearby Beverly.

The Ohio 4th annual Wheelin’ SportsmenUltimate Team-Up hunt would be held up theroad in McConnelsville, about 75 miles south-east of Columbus.

She had never heard of an event for disabledhunters. She took the flier home, gave it to Jimand told him to read it.

He hasn’t been hunting in 13 months, sincehis legs were amputated just below the hipsbecause of artery disease.

Now it’s 8 a.m. on the event’s first day, andJim fidgets in his wheelchair. He turns andlooks at the calendar on the trailer’s wood-paneled wall.

‘‘Today is Veterans Day,’’ says Jim, wearing ared 3rd Marine Division hat. ‘‘I forgot all aboutthat. That’s something else, too.’’

He takes a draw on his cigarette and glancesat the television. No one steps forward to helpGary Cooper confront an outlaw gang.

‘‘Normally, if I was hunting, I’d already beout in the woods sitting.’’

∑ ∑ ∑

His father takes him to the creek near theirfarm in Lowell to check on a muskrat trap. Jimis 7 or 8, and immediately hooked on thewoods.

Nature offers a place of peace, an escape.Usually, he goes there to hunt or trap. Some-times he goes just to think.

Morning is the best time, when the sunbreaks through the trees and anything seemspossible.

He hunts deer with others until one day 20years ago when some damn fool in his partyfires a shot at a woodpecker. That’s it; he huntsalone after that. Alone, he doesn’t have to trustanyone else.

He calls the forest his church. There, he talksto God.

∑ ∑ ∑

This isn’t Jim’s type of place. There are toomany people, more than 100, in the cinder-block auditorium at the National Guard’sClarence E. Miller Armory.

Fifty-six hunters and their volunteer guidesare checking in for a controlled deer hunt withguns, sponsored by American Electric Power,the Morgan County Wolf Creek Chapter of theNational Wild Turkey Federation and the OhioDepartment of Natural Resources Division ofWildlife.

Jim and Roy sit alone at a table. They lookuncomfortable.

‘‘I’d rather be sitting out there waiting’’ inthe woods, Jim says.

Mike Francis, a Marine with a cane, noticesJim’s military cap and introduces himself. Twoother Marines, both in wheelchairs, greet Jim.

Another stranger walks up and extends hishand.

‘‘How you doing? I’m James. Just call meHoss,’’ he says.

James Hoskinson of McConnelsville will beJim’s hunting guide for the next three days. At26, he wasn’t even born when Jim served inVietnam.

As they trade hunting stories, Jim’s icydemeanor thaws.

The room quiets for instructions and open-ing ceremonies. Everyone recites the Pledge ofAllegiance. A woman sings the nationalanthem.

Jim cries.He’s thinking of Vietnam, those men he

knew who never came home.The war taught him not to get too close to

anyone. Friendship only leads to pain and loss.Funny, then, how he’s mingling with

strangers.‘‘This is going to do him more good than he

realizes,’’ Roy says, watching her husband from

across the room. ‘‘He spends too much time athome.’’

∑ ∑ ∑

Mortar shells and firefights are daily eventsduring his two tours of Vietnam, near the DMZ.Even the wild monkeys in the jungle throwrocks at him.

The place is crazy, but Jim loves the rush.He’s a teenager, gung-ho, a tank mechanic

running on adrenaline. He enjoys being in Viet-nam, a place he had never heard of when he

THE COLUMBUS DISPATCH | News | SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2005A6 ∑

11/27 A SECTION, PAGE A6

HUNTERXXX FROM PAGE A1 XXX

To find a better hunting spot, Hoskinson helps Augenstein from his wheelchair onto a four-wheeler.

ABOVE: Augenstein gets a kiss from his wife,Royetta, before heading to the woods.

LEFT: ‘‘Whew. I’m soaking wet,’’ Augenstein saysafter moving to the back of the four-wheeler.

Augenstein fires one shot during the weekend hunt, hitting a buck.

“This is going to do him more good than he realizes. He spends too much time at home.”ROYETTA AUGENSTEIN | Jim’s wife

dropped out of high school before hissenior year and joined the MarineCorps in 1965.

When he comes home in the fall of1968, all seems well. He gets off theplane and kisses the ground. Roy iswaiting for him at the airport.

The high-school sweetheartsmarry by year’s end and later have ason, James.

They also have problems. Jim with-draws into himself and his angersimmers, sometimes boiling over.

Their marriage ends in divorcewithin four years. Jim’s nightmares goon for more than a decade.

He dreams of Viet Cong bountyhunters searching for him, and hesees Marines standing in his bedroomevery night.

‘‘Help us,’’ they cry out, theirwounds bleeding.

One is the dead man whose bodyhad jerked upright next to Jimbecause of rigor mortis.

One Marine named Brace is theone whose head had been torn off byshrapnel, his blood pouring into Jim’stank.

Jim can feel flesh and guts on hisarms.

∑ ∑ ∑

Hoss pulls Jim and his wheelchairup onto a camouflage wooden plat-form in the Morgan County woods.

They squint into the afternoonsun, peering at the land below, bait-ed with corn to attract deer.

Jim loads the homemade bulletinto the rifle he made from a kit. Heremoves his Marine hat and slips onan orange cap and vest.

He’s hunting once again, thesilence just the same as in his recentdreams, the ones in which he’shunting with someone he can’tidentify.

‘‘It’s called the waiting game,’’ saysHoss, who spits tobacco into thegrass.

Jim sits still in his chair, his eyesdarting back and forth, scanning thebrown brush in the valley below.

A shotgun blast in the distanceshatters the quiet. Then anothershot rings out, and a third.

‘‘It only takes one,’’ Jim says.One shot — his motto for all those

years hunting alone.A couple of hours pass, and the

breeze dies. Jim still stares.He spots two deer, but they’re on

the hill across the road. Earlier, adeer ran on that road in front of himwhile he was still in Hoss’s truck.Now two bucks escape without ashot fired.

The moon shines in the late-after-noon sky when Hoss begins packingup their gear.

No deer killed today, but Jim istracking something else: brother-hood.

His eyes blaze back at the armory,which is buzzing with excitement ashunters and guides swap tales.

‘‘I’ve never experienced anythinglike this,’’ Jim says. ‘‘I used to shyaway from people. This has mademe feel more relaxed.’’

The night air fills with the aromaof more than 100 grilled steaks. Noone eats alone.

∑ ∑ ∑

He leaves Roy, leaves his job at thesteel mill, leaves Ohio and heads toOklahoma to work on an oil drillrig. Similar work lands him inMichigan, still alone, except for thenightmares.

Jim goes into the woods one day inthe late 1980s. He doesn’t have aweapon, just a 12-pack of beer. Hesits on a tree stump.

‘‘What the hell is wrong with me?’’he asks himself.

He wonders aloud why he’s drink-ing so much, why he’s going intobars and starting fights for no reason.

It dawns on him that he wasn’tthis way before Vietnam.

Determined to change, Jim goes toVeterans Affairs meetings for the firsttime. He listens to Vietnam vets telltheir own horror stories and realizeshe’s not alone in his suffering.

The VA diagnoses post-traumaticstress disorder in Jim. He seeks outsocial workers and psychiatrists. Hewrites a letter to Roy.

They haven’t been in touch formore than 20 years, even though Royforgave him for everything long ago.

Roy visits Jim in Michigan. Lovesparks once again. They remarry in1993 and move back to southeasternOhio in April 1996.

A month later, Jim’s legs beginhurting.

∑ ∑ ∑

‘‘You’re in the woods now, buddy,’’Hoss says on the second day of thehunt.

Jim sits on the back of his guide’sbrown Polaris ATV four-wheeler. Henods and gives a thumbs-up toHoss.

Hoss drives the vehicle up a grass-and-dirt road on the forested hill —with the gun, supplies and wheel-chair strapped to the front. Jimhangs onto the back bars, his grip sotight that sweat appears on his brow.

‘‘Whew. I’m soaking wet,’’ he says.Frustrated, too. Fallen trees block

the path to an expected open ridge-line. The men consider their options

and drive back down the hill, stop-ping 300 yards from the main road.

Hoss cuts the engine and placesJim back into his wheelchair,perched on the edge of a gully, treesall around.

‘‘I like this spot because you canhear them coming for miles,’’ Jimsays.

Jim loads his muzzleloader. Twoprescription bottles are near thewheels of his chair. One has bulletsin it; the other, potassium chloridepills, for his heart.

∑ ∑ ∑

The first blood clot is found in1996 in his right leg, behind the knee.Two months later, an artery bursts inJim’s leg and he bleeds all over thetrailer. He undergoes surgery thatnight.

Jim develops peripheral artery dis-ease in each leg, which he blames onbeing sprayed with the herbicideAgent Orange in Vietnam. The VAdisagrees, blaming heredity.

Nothing seems to help. The pain inJim’s legs is often so great that hebangs his feet on the ground andbawls like a baby. He undergoes morethan 20 total surgeries on both legsin nine years.

Dr. Daniel McGraw amputatesJim’s left foot in October 2004. Gan-grene sets into the stump, forcing theamputation of the rest of his leg acouple of weeks later.

McGraw discovers a lump in Jim’sright leg in March of this year. Anoth-er aneurysm means another ampu-tation.

He hasn’t once regretted losing hislegs because his pain is gone.

Still, he must take 20 pills a day forhis diabetes, high blood pressure,and heart and kidney trouble.

∑ ∑ ∑

The muzzleloader blast soundslike cannon fire. Smoke rises in thewarm afternoon air.

‘‘I shot him right there andknocked him over the creek,’’ Jimsays.

The deer staggers upright, crossesthe water and heads up the oppositehill. Hoss jumps on the four-wheeler,heads down the bank and flips thevehicle.

‘‘Jesus Criminy,’’ Jim yells.Hoss is OK. He sets off on foot in

search of the deer. Jim sits in hischair, the sunlight streamingthrough the trees.

‘‘This is what I miss, not havingany legs,’’ he says. ‘‘I’d be down therefollowing his blood trail.’’

Jim is worried. He knows it’s not agood sign that the deer headeduphill. The mortally wounded onesusually head down toward water.

Hoss returns 30 minutes later, outof breath.

‘‘I found a couple of piles of bloodthe size of a teacup,’’ he says.

‘‘That’s good,’’ Jim says. ‘‘With that.50-caliber, I’ve never had (a bullet)stop inside one. I bet it went clearthrough him, and that’s good. And ifyou found a blood trail, that’s good.He’s probably lying out there some-where.’’

Hoss drives his truck onto themain road and enlists the help oftwo other guides. They follow ablood trail for 300 yards, throughbramble and thicket, but can’t findthe deer.

Everyone is frowning.‘‘I look at it this way: You still got

tomorrow, and at least you shotone,’’ Hoss says.

‘‘I’m just sorry we didn’t get him,’’Jim says.

A return trip to the spot where Jimshot the deer ends with Hoss’s truckstuck in two deep ruts. Someonecomes to help get him out.

‘‘Let’s just go back before we getinto more trouble,’’ Hoss says.

On the way back to the armory,Hoss stops by to visit his mother,Debbie, and his stepfather, DaveSmith.

Jim joins in the recounting of theafternoon’s wild affair.

‘‘We’ve had a lot of fun.’’

∑ ∑ ∑

Jim doesn’t attend his father’s funer-al in 1993. He saw too many bodies inVietnam and doesn’t want to seeanother one.

His six younger siblings take hisabsence as a slight. He hasn’t spoken tothem since, reinforcing his belief thathis tactless attitude has always madehim the family’s black sheep.

Jim and his mother don’t see eachother for more than a decade.

Something happens to Jim’s outlookon life during one of those amputationsurgeries.

During follow-up visits, the nursessit him outside so he can stare into thewoods.

One day this year, Jim decides to callhis mom. They’ve been talking since.

∑ ∑ ∑

The final day of the hunt begins indarkness with the unexpectedexchange of gifts between two menwho have known each other for twodays.

Jim gives Hoss a knife he made.Hoss gives Jim a gun case.

They return to the spot where Jimshot the deer, at the gully, the veryscene come to life from Jim’s recentdreams.

A drizzle begins to fall, makingmusic in the barren tree limbs.

Jim loved when it rained in Viet-nam because you could then makemore noise without fear of being

detected. You were safer.The two men sit for four hours,

joined as one in their silence. Not oneshot is fired, and it doesn’t matter.

‘‘This is the only day we haven’tseen one,’’ Jim says.

‘‘It’s been a blast, though,’’ Hossreplies.

‘‘Yes,’’ Jim says to his companion.‘‘If I hadn’t even seen one, I wouldhave had a blast just getting out andlooking at this. That’s what I love.’’

∑ ∑ ∑

He’s alone, as usual, on this firstday of bow season, Oct. 1, 2004. Jim isin Coal Run, trudging through the500 acres of land owned by his uncleand cousin. Only Jim has a permit tohunt here.

Jim’s left leg begins to hurt about 4p.m., and he decides to walk back tohis truck and head home early.

Suddenly, pain from a blood clotin his left foot knocks him down.

Jim lies there, alone, 15 miles fromhome.

A doe in the nearby holler snorts athim.

He crawls back to his truck, some-how drives home, and is hospitalizedthe next day.

Amputation is the only answer.He’ll never again be able to go into

the woods alone.

∑ ∑ ∑

Jim is back at the armory, without adeer, but smiling anyway as the eventdraws to a close.

‘‘These have been the best days ofmy life,’’ he says. ‘‘Mostly because it’sthe first time I’ve been able to associ-ate with a bunch of people like this.Before, even if I had been here, Iwouldn’t have talked to anybody or, ifthey tried to talk to me, I’d movedaway. But I’ve enjoyed talking to thesepeople.’’

Mike Francis, the Marine, walksover to Jim, just as he did that firstmorning.

‘‘Have any luck today, Jim?’’‘‘No.’’‘‘Don’t feel bad. Neither did I. Think

you’ll come back next year?’’‘‘Yes, sir.’’‘‘Well, I’ll see you again. Semper Fi,

Mac.’’‘‘Semper Fi.’’They smile and shake hands.A preacher offers prayers on this

Sunday morning. He reads from thebook of Matthew, the parable about ashepherd rejoicing over bringing a lostsheep back into the flock.

Jim stares in the crowd.Hoss and Jim thank each other for

the shared experience. They tradetelephone numbers. Hoss plans tovisit next week.

Roy looks at her husband andsmiles.

Jim Augenstein looks so alive.tjones@dispatch.com

ealbrecht@dispatch.com

THE COLUMBUS DISPATCH | News | SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 2005 π ∑ A7

11/27 A SECTION, PAGE A7 M1.0

SEASON OPENER

Ohio’s deer-gun season opensstatewide Monday and runs throughnext Sunday. The state Division ofWildlife expects up to 130,000 deerto be killed during the weeklong hunt.More information is available online atwww.dnr.ohio.gov/wildlife/hunting/deer/deergunopener.htm.

As darkness falls, Augenstein excitedly describes the day’s hunting adventure.

Augenstein asks one of the hunting event’s organizers, Shane McGrew, for permission to move to a better spot toboost his chances of bagging a deer.

With help from his wife and a pull-rope, Augenstein makes his way into histrailer home in Waterford.

Columbus

W.VA.

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WASHINGTONCOUNTY

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Waterford

McConnelsville

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