Word got out about Leon Colbeth, and suddenly he was the man nobody wanted in town.

So yesterday morning, Colbeth took his two dark garbage bags of clothes, his broken briefcase holding court documents and a carton of Rizla cigarette papers, and his bottle of Mountain Dew, and he got a ride to the Vermont State Police barracks in Royalton.

There, he slouched in a lobby chair while the police tried to figure out what to do with him. The shelters they called did not want him or could not take him. Churches weren't answering. Halfway houses were full. His mother said she couldn't take him.

It was almost 5 p.m., and this guy had been sitting there all day, with no money, he said, except 73 cents left on a welfare debit card and no food except the troopers' leftover Chinese takeout for lunch.

What do you do with an untreated, "high-risk" sex offender, who is free to live where he wants to — if he wasn't so unwanted?

"We're running out of options here," Lt. Ray Keefe told Colbeth. "We're in a not-in-my-back-yard situation. This is a fairly liberal state, and they want you to do well as long as you're not in my back yard."

Colbeth, 33, adjusted the bill of his ballcap and nodded as Keefe went back to make more calls. "Like Lt. Ray said, we've been here trying all day, and been hitting a brick wall," he said. "I paid my debt to society, and I just want to prove myself."

To prove himself, he said, he needed to start with a place to live, and that seemed nearly impossible yesterday after Randolph residents learned from a newspaper article that he was staying in the trailer a cousin rents just south of Vermont Technical College.

Colbeth had moved to Randolph on April 7, not long after his release from prison following a 13-year incarceration for sexually assaulting a minor under 16, aggravated assault and lewd and lascivious conduct. In an interview, Colbeth said his victims in the two sex crimes were children he knew through family relationships.

He was designated as a high-risk offender by the Department of Corrections based on probability tests that look at factors like the number of convictions. He also did not receive treatment while in prison — Colbeth said he applied to the treatment program but was denied entry because of his temper and his poor attitude — and so was forced to serve his entire sentence.

The general store printed out his picture from the state's Internet sex offender registry and put it near the cash register. His cousin's landlord found out from Keefe about Colbeth's status and told him that he could not stay there. Thus, the police barracks.

Colbeth, who is originally from East Hardwick, Vt., said he didn't know where else to turn.

Keefe told Colbeth that because of his high-risk status, he was a "hot potato."

"I didn't know I was on the grill," said Colbeth.

"You put yourself there," said Keefe, and Colbeth nodded.

For his part, Keefe said he wasn't helping him out just to be a nice guy. Homeless, Colbeth might find himself in a stressful, and desperate, situation. "I'm concerned about him being on the streets, for obvious reasons," said Keefe.

Colbeth said he needs to stay in the area because he's got a chance at a $9-an-hour job maintaining graveyards in a couple of weeks. He does not drive, but he suspects his cousin or friends will be able to give him a ride.

"Should be a good job," said Colbeth, cheerfully. "Got Memorial Day around the corner."

Around midday, Windsor County Sen. John Campbell showed up at the barracks to share some political news with Keefe. Learning of the situation with Colbeth, Campbell also hit the phones.

One consequence of sharing information about criminals deemed high risk can indeed be this: a man looking for housing in places where nobody wants him. Thomas Pellerin, another high-risk sex offender who was released on Thursday from Southern State Correctional Facility in Springfield, Vt., had planned to move to Weathersfield, but as of late Thursday officials did not know if he had found a place in town to stay.

"You always have to err on the side of caution, of public safety," said Campbell, a Senate judiciary member who has worked on sex crime legislation. But without a place for offenders like Colbeth to go, "this is a terrible quagmire."

As he sat in the lobby and waited for some clue about his geographic destiny, Colbeth spoke about learning disabilities that made in-prison counseling programs difficult, causing him to drop out of one aimed at changing his thought patterns.

He spoke about learning in his short time participating in that course that he needed to control his temper because it was "anger and rage" that resulted in his aggravated assault conviction.

"I just walk away" when he gets angry now, he said.

He spoke about not understanding what caused him to commit sex crimes and trying to make a point of avoiding youth now. "I can be in a shopping mall of kids, and I just keep trucking," he said, demonstrating a fast walk in the lobby. "My stupidity is what got me where I'm at."

He said he had spent his two weeks in Randolph doing little other than washing the dishes, watching movies on television, playing X-Box and "feeding the canine." He had stayed with his mother in Lyndonville, Vt., right after his release, he said, but the landlord learned about his history and told her that either he left or they both had to. "My mom and her boyfriend didn't want to lose the apartment," he said.

He keeps a photograph of his mother in his briefcase but said he still feels hurt that she asked him to leave. Now, he's pinned his hopes on his cousin, Ricky, who he said will buy a piece of land and put up a house where he can also live once he pays off his Ford Ranger.

He went outside the barracks around 5 p.m. to smoke a cigarette. Campbell came out and said he hadn't found anything. "Leon, I think it's important to realize you're under a stressful situation," he said.

"I know that, chief," said Colbeth.

"You're going to face this in whatever community you go to," said Campbell, who suggested he find a therapist in the community, which might help alleviate people's fears.

Colbeth said he knew that, but started talking about past problems he's had with therapists. Besides, he told Campbell, he was done with prison and wouldn't do anything to end up there again. The memories of his time there, he said, are enough to keep him on a straight path.

"You ever seen those Westerns where they brand the cows? (The memories) are right here," Colbeth said, pointing to his head. "Branded."

Campbell left and about 20 minutes later, Keefe came out with some potentially good news: There was a shelter in Barre, Vt., that could take him. It opened at 7 p.m., and Keefe said he had somebody to drive him there. The lieutenant said he thought it was the best plan.

"How will I get back here for my job?" said Colbeth.

Colbeth was starting to hesitate. Keefe said he'd give him a few minutes and then he was leaving for the day.

"Decisions, decisions," said Colbeth, looking out at the traffic passing on Route 107.

The dilemma, as he saw it, was this: Choose between having a place to stay for the night that was 30 minutes by car away from his prospective job and his cousin and friends, or staying in the area but possibly as a homeless man.

He stared at the distance. He took his cap off and rubbed his eyes and put his cap back on.

Suddenly, he saw something he seemed to take as a sign: "There he goes," he said, "speak of the devil." It was his cousin, driving by on his way to the late-shift at a Bethel business.

Colbeth went back inside, and Keefe came to the counter.

"Where we at?" Keefe asked.

"I'm staying put, boss," Colbeth said.

Colbeth placed one of his bags in a storage unit at the barracks and promised to pick it up on Tuesday. He took a look at a palm pilot-type device that held phone numbers, including that of the Vermont Crime Information Center, which he must notify by law within 72 hours of a change of address.

He put on a camouflage jacket with a hood and slung the other bag over his shoulder. He said he didn't know where for sure he was headed; he would see if he could walk to his cousin's workplace. Maybe see if he could find some friends, whose phone numbers he could not remember. At the least, he said, he'd try to find a bridge to sleep under.