Scorned Ex-Convict Is Forced to Camp Out

Behind the county jail, in the farthest corner of a gravel lot, sits a small dome tent. It is bright blue and, from a distance, stands out like an ornament in a field of gray dust. The tent is sweltering in the afternoon sun.

Out steps a small, wiry man in black polyester pants and sleeveless shirt. His name is Bruce Scott Erbs, 58, a paranoid schizophrenic and convicted arsonist and sexual predator. He’s best known around town as the man who torched St. Mary’s Church, a historic landmark, 14 years ago.

Erbs lives in the tent because no one wants him.

Since his release from prison on Christmas Eve, Linn County officials have searched in vain for transitional housing for him: No shelter or halfway house in this town of 40,000 would accept him. This is the first time it has happened in this mostly rural community in the Willamette Valley, Linn County Sheriff David Burright said, and it underscores the growing problem of housing ex-convicts -- particularly registered sex offenders -- once they’re released.

Communities throughout Oregon and Washington wrestle with the issue, and tents in some areas have become a last-ditch, if unofficial, solution.

For six months in neighboring Polk County, commissioners arranged for a half-dozen parolees, five of them sex offenders, to camp in a parking garage. Protests forced the camp to be disbanded in July, but officials said they would reestablish the setup once they find a more remote location.

In Shelton, Wash., this year, transportation workers stumbled upon an encampment of registered sex offenders off of a busy highway. Local police knew about the camp and monitored it, but the camp was legal under Washington law.

Washington state Department of Corrections spokesman Veltry Johnson said sex offenders commonly live in encampments along the Interstate 5 corridor, often because they have no place else to go. Sex offenders are among the least-tolerated and most vilified of criminals, and few communities want to take chances with them.

That’s been the case with Erbs.

Most Oregon counties and most states offer some kind of transitional housing for even the most dangerous ex-convicts. In Oregon, carrying out parole policies is the responsibility of each county.

When Erbs was first paroled he was housed at the county jail. The Sheriff’s Department moved him into the tent at the beginning of August. The Parole Board gave him 60 days to find other accommodations. If he doesn’t, neither he nor Sheriff Burright knows where he will go.

“He’s a predatory sex offender, he’s been a fire-setter since he was a juvenile, and, on top of that, he’s mentally ill,” Burright said, explaining the difficulty in placing Erbs.

Burright’s office contacted all the usual transitional places in the area, including homeless shelters, motels and low-income apartments and trailer parks, but once the operators were informed of Erbs’ history, they refused.

And Burright doesn’t blame them.

In fact, Burright admits he feels better that Erbs is in a controlled environment where he’s closely watched. “If we didn’t provide housing, he’d go live under a bridge or in a park where we couldn’t watch him,” he said.

The sheriff, with obvious disdain in his voice, said he believes Erbs’ freedom is a reflection of the failure of the state’s mental health system. Too many dangerous people like Erbs, he said, “fly under the radar” of the system.

“There’s no doubt in my mind this man should be institutionalized,” he said.

Under conditions approved by the Parole Board, Erbs must follow a strict curfew: He’s free to leave the prison grounds after 7 a.m. but must be back in his tent by 8:30 p.m. Burright said he bought him a watch so Erbs wouldn’t have an excuse to be late.

Erbs must check in with his parole officer twice a day. Mental health workers make sure he takes his medications, and he’s tested daily for alcohol consumption. Most important, he’s not allowed to make any contact with juveniles. Any violation of these conditions could send him back to prison.

His tent is monitored by a surveillance camera around the clock, and at night a prison guard checks on him every hour. Such vigilance is deemed necessary for a man who has shown a lifelong proclivity to hurt people and burn down buildings.

Burright said Erbs, a drifter whose life is mostly a mystery except for his crimes, has been in and out of prison since he was a young man. As a youth, he once tried to burn down his family’s house. He seems to have no family left, or at least anyone who wants anything to do with him, Burright said.

His first felony was in 1971, near Portland, when he was convicted of attempting to rape an 11-year-old girl. He was convicted again in 1976 for sodomizing an 8-year-old girl. Erbs was suspected, but never convicted, of a rape in the town of St. Helens, where he lived for a time.

His last prison stint ended in December, after he had served 13 years of a 20-year sentence for burning down St. Mary’s Church in downtown Albany. He was living in a shelter at the time and used to eat meals at the church.

“I still don’t know why I did it,” said Erbs in a brief interview. He was walking aimlessly down a street near the county jail, holding a grocery bag containing plastic bottles of soda. He has long, gray hair but is bald on top. He has green eyes. A tattoo of a dagger marks the upper part of his left arm. His voice is unexpectedly high, and he speaks timidly.

He said he made mistakes when he was younger.

“But I’m done with all that. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore,” he said. “The past is the past, but everyone keeps bringing it up. How’s anyone supposed to move on? I did the crime, I did my time; I just want to move on.”

He spends his days walking around town. He’s supposed to be looking for work and another place to live, but, according to jail workers, Erbs often returns to his tent during the day. The sheriff’s office bought the $45 tent for him. It sits on a sheet of plywood.

To get there from the outside, he walks to the very end of the jail property, near a railroad yard, where he can be seen on a video monitor and is let in through a remote-controlled gate.

The tent is at the end of a wide gravel road that expands into a wide gravel lot. It’s set back against a chain-link fence topped by razor wire. A portable toilet and sink stand nearby. A hose provides water. Inside the tent is an army cot, along with white slippers, reading glasses, various canned foods stacked neatly to one side and two containers of Folger’s coffee.

Burright says that, under the current arrangement, Erbs has until the end of September to live in the tent. After that, something will have to change. With a tone of anxiety in his voice, Burright said he believed sooner or later Erbs would end up in prison again. “In my view, based on his history, it’s only a matter of time,” he said. “I just want to make sure no innocent person is hurt until that happens.”