By day, Dennis Raider was a balding, bespectacled family man loading his kids into the car

for school and kissing his wife Paula goodbye on his way to work.

Neighbors saw him as a normal, church-going father, a Cubscout leader and president of the

local Lutheran Church Council, always ready with a friendly wave.

At City Hall in Park City, Raider donned his uniform as a compliance

officer, zealously patrolling for stray dogs and unkempt lawns. He took his job seriously.

Residents often spotted him pacing off property lines with measuring tape, checking grass height,

and writing up code violations. To some, he seemed helpful and diligent.

To others, his badge came with a bullying streak. He wore a badge and would swagger around the street

like he was above the law. I always considered him a bully, recalled one neighbor who bristled

at Raiders' stern enforcement of city rules. Still, nothing about Dennis Raider stood

out as necessarily alarming. He blended in perfectly amid church potlucks and scout camping trips,

doting on his wife and children in public. Women at church even admired how attentive he was,

always holding the door for Paula and helping her with her coat. In all respects, Dennis

Raider projected the image of a polite, reliable middle-class father. Each week followed a

comfortable routine. Sunday mornings, the Raider family filled a pew at Christ Lutheran Church.

Dennis sang hymns, passed the collection plate, and chatted easily with fellow parishioners

over coffee after the service. Weekday evenings, he was home by dinner time, grilling burgers

in the backyard, were helping his son with his Boy Scout merit badges. He volunteered at

scout meetings and led camping excursions, teaching knots and survival skills to wide-eyed boys.

Around neighbors, he spoke warmly of family values and community safety.

By the mid-1990s, Raiders' two children were growing up, and he delighted in ordinary

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