Rage rose across Umatilla County as word spread of a brutal nighttime attack on a 79-year-old widow in her farmhouse.

As Joyce Key lay dying in a hospital in February 2013, 250 people gathered in the Milton-Freewater community hall demanding to know: Where were the police?

Their anger over inadequate protection had been building for a year, ever since plumber Rob Carter had been gunned down as he sat in his rural shop outside town.

"They didn't want to hear a bunch of excuses," said Doug Boedigheimer, Milton-Freewater police chief.

As evening wore on, Sheriff Terry Rowan explained he was short of deputies. District Attorney Dan Primus said drug dealers cycled in and out of jail because he was short of prosecutors. And the local legislator, Rep. Greg Smith, R-Heppner, said to expect little help from the cash-starved state.

An investigation by The Oregonian found the criminal justice system in many areas unable to effectively chase, charge and contain criminals. Law enforcement agencies have shrunk, whittled down by lost revenue, outdated tax bases and poor political decisions.

The virtual end of federal logging is the main culprit. As loggers and mills disappeared, so did timber taxes. Congress tried to help with special payments, but those have steadily declined.

Matters worsened under a recession that proved especially crushing in rural Oregon. Thousands of jobs and their incomes were eliminated, leaving some to resort to crime as a way to survive. Rural Oregon has yet to recover, making it challenging to boost local taxes.

Interactive graphic

Oregon is seeing wide variations among the counties on crucial measures of public safety. See maps showing the change in various crime indices since 2007.

"The situation is perilous," said Attorney General Ellen Rosenblum. "We're at risk of crossing the tipping point into lawlessness in some of our rural areas."

The risk exists for nearly all Oregonians, whether a resident or a traveler to rural areas.

In half a dozen counties, one sheriff after another has ended around-the-clock patrols. Polk County is down to a single daytime shift to protect one of the state's most populous counties. Nighttime emergencies mean dragging a deputy out of bed.

Jail beds go unused, not because there aren't suspects to fill them but because there aren't enough guards. Convicts and parolees, who otherwise would be in custody, remain free to menace the public.Next month, Josephine County faces the loss of a special payment from the city of Grants Pass that kept 30 jail beds open the past year.

District attorneys must let certain criminals escape without prosecution because they can't take on more cases without jeopardizing justice. In 2012, Lane County prosecutors turned away 1,281 cases, including felonies.

Parole officers carrying heavy case loads instruct some offenders to report in by mail. Juvenile authorities limit their supervision of young criminals, freeing time to focus on the worst. In Josephine County, four counselors manage 415 children without a juvenile hall, shuttered two years ago for budget reasons.

Law enforcement officials are accused of using "scare tactics" when they warn about ending patrols, closing jails, or dropping criminal charges. But they fear withering blame if they are too quiet about the risks, the public remains immobilized, and a horrible crime occurs.

That fear reaches all the way to Gov. John Kitzhaber. Select staffers now meet biweekly to keep tabs on rural safety.

"Because of the lack of funding, there is likely to be a major event that is going to be catastrophic," said Heidi Moawad, the governor's public safety policy adviser. "That is the big concern. I think it's more a question of when, not if."

That possibility haunts Polk County Sheriff Bob Wolfe, in office since 1999. He often wakes at night in his Independence home, sleepless with worry. He has cut patrols three times this year.

"Polk County is going to be in the headlines one day. Something horrific is going to happen," Wolfe said. "This could cost people their lives."

In Eugene, suspects whose guilt appears certain nonetheless escape justice on a daily basis. In 2013:

* Joshua Penrod, 35, was caught in the act burglarizing post office boxes at the Florence post office in the middle of the night. He was arrested on 41 counts of mail theft, but never faced prosecution. He walked free.

* Mairely A. Favela admitted she forged her cousin's identity to steal $5,000 worth of medical care. She was arrested on felony theft charges but never faced prosecution. She walked free.

*April J. Warden admitted that she made more than $5,000 on Ebay by selling computers she stole from her employer. She was arrested on felony theft charges. She, too, walked free.

They walked because budget cuts have left Lane County District Attorney Alex Gardner short staffed. Their files close because no one is available to prosecute anything but the most serious crimes.

Such erosions are emboldening criminals, law enforcement officials say. As the chances of getting caught, jailed and prosecuted are going down, criminals feel less restrained. Thefts and burglaries are rising sharply in some rural communities, reversing a decade-long trend down. Law enforcement officials put the blame squarely on the weakening public safety system.

That surge is turning more citizens into victims, but they're finding less solace than ever when they call 911. Often, they're asked to file a report. If they see an officer at all, it often takes days and then only to learn that no one will investigate.

In St. Helens, citizens angered by such responses when they call 911 are shuffled to a recording to vent. Columbia County Sheriff Jeff Dickerson and his staff retrieve the recordings, return calls, and bear the onslaught. Dickerson devised a system that eventually gets a deputy in touch with most callers, but it's more a courtesy.

Public officials say such reduced service, coupled with publicity about cuts, makes residents anxious about their safety.

"The feeling of safety has been compromised," said Stephen Campbell, Josephine County district attorney.

His county is the canary in the coal mine of Oregon public safety. Campbell himself watched his office get whittled away in 2012 when federal money didn't show up. With four of his nine prosecutors gone, Campbell warned local police what to expect. He would limit the prosecution of major property crimes, treat misdemeanors as violations, and limit drug cases.

"We will prosecute very few, if any, marijuana cases," Campbell said.

Since then, Campbell has nearly rebuilt his staff with a new round of federal money, but he's had to take young lawyers with little to no experience as prosecutors.

Jim Goodwin, director of the Josephine County Juvenile Justice Department, hasn't been so lucky.

The series

This is the first part of a three-part series on policing in rural Oregon:

Crime rises as county sheriff patrols decline across rural Oregon.

(Coming Wednesday) Sheriff deputies patrol alone, often with no real hope of backup.

(Coming Thursday) It comes down to taxes, who ends up paying and at what price.

When that federal money disappeared in 2012, Goodwin lost three of his six counselors. Worse, he lost all staff of the juvenile hall, capable of holding 26. He closed its doors two years ago, the last one out a young girl taken into protective custody from an abusive family. She moved to a foster home.

Goodwin now rents three beds in Medford, 30 miles to the south. That makes it a pain for arranging court appearances, family visits and counseling.

He's managed, he said, because the caseload dropped. Why? Because the sheriff's office doesn't have as many deputies on patrol making arrests, not because juvenile crime has ebbed.

"The general public to this day doesn't seem to get the full impact" of the reductions, Goodwin said. County voters last week rejected a tax levy that would have given Goodwin the money to staff up and open the juvenile hall.

He said his worry meantime that he could one day be presented with four juveniles charged with violent Measure 11 crimes that he ordinarily wouldn't release.

"I only have room for three," Goodwin said. "Who do I turn loose?"

Joyce Key's murder stirs that lurking fear in all of us about a stranger at the door to harm us.

She was a pillar in her community, respected for work in schools and civic groups. Since her husband died in 2009, she had lived alone in their one-story home tucked beneath towering trees on a gravel road outside Umapine.

On the evening of Jan. 29, 2013, two men forced their way in, binding her to a kitchen chair with duct tape. They taped a towel over her head because one of the men was slightly acquainted with her and didn't want her identifying him.

When they didn't find the money they expected, one of the men grabbed a rolling pin off the counter and repeatedly clubbed the helpless widow.

One of her sons found her the next morning on his usual check. As she was rushed to the hospital, word spread rapidly in the farm country via tweets, posts and emails.

Document: Police affidavit

McKenzie Marly, a 35-year-old mother of three, was especially jolted. She was still dealing with the death of her father, the plumber shot to death the year before.

Upset and angry, Marly helped mobilize the community. People wanted to do something, she said. They were angry. They blamed police.

She arranged the town meeting and took the lead in organizing a new Neighborhood Watch. She set up "Taking Back Our Little Town of M-F" on Facebook. It has since turned into a sort of citizen dispatch center, sizzling with citizen remarks: "Does anyone know about a shooting at the skate park? Three males chasing another male bleeding from his side?? "

Help setting up the watch group came from sheriff's Sgt. Greg Hodgen, who recognized an urgent need to channel the citizen outrage.

He was most concerned about a citizens' group that formed in Umapine, assigning itself the task of patrolling for suspects in Key's murder. Hodges took reports the citizen patrols were stopping cars as if they were sworn officers.

The group has since faded, and Marly's has grown to nearly 100 members.

Josephine County witnessed something similar after three murders in Cave Junction. Citizens there formed armed patrols, but Sheriff Gil Gilbertson has kept them at arm's length, troubled by the sense of vigilantism. He also said criminals seem to be taking advantage of the gap.

"There are armed groups out there pretending to be law enforcement," Gilbertson said.

Gilbertson channels willing citizens into Neighborhood Watch groups that he said can be effective as a "protective perimeter" of watchfulness. He's also forming a volunteer crime scene team to gather evidence, supervised by a retired Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office veteran.

In remote Grant County, Sheriff Glenn Palmer has taken a similar tack to get more eyes in the huge national forest there. He has gone a step beyond most agencies though, in deciding to deputize the volunteers.

No one is surprised that citizens want to protect themselves in the face of real or perceived danger.

Last March, a Columbia County homeowner caught a thief in his garage, holding him at the point of a shotgun. The homeowner told a dispatcher that he would shoot the suspect's car tires or the suspect himself if he tried to leave.

But untrained citizens risk harming an innocent person, a possibility troubling to Earl Fisher, a Columbia County commissioner and president of the Association of Oregon Counties.

"More and more are getting guns. They're going to protect themselves," Fisher said. "They're going to make mistakes."

-- Les Zaitz