From the one-story house Lindsey Roeder once shared in this Kansas City suburb with her former husband, now suspected in the death of a doctor who performed late-term abortions, Roeder recalled on Monday how he seemed to undergo a drastic personality shift more than a decade ago. 'The man I married disappeared into this other person years ago,' Roeder, shaken and puffy eyed, said of Scott Roeder, who was being held in a Wichita jail in the death of Dr. George Tiller, who was fatally shot at his Wichita church on Sunday. The authorities said charges were expected soon against Roeder. 'He wanted a scapegoat,' Lindsey Roeder said. 'First it was taxes, he stopped paying, then he turned to the church and got involved in anti-abortion.' But Scott Roeder, 51, had not been among the people considered most worrisome to abortion rights groups, some of which keep a close eye on anti-abortion groups and their Web sites to monitor what they consider threats, some leaders here said. 'Nobody recognizes his name,' said Marla Patrick, a state coordinator for the National Organization for Women in Kansas. Law enforcement officials here and in Wichita, a conservative town that has for years been a focal point of tense abortion debate in large part because of Tiller's clinic, gave little sense of whether they had previously viewed Roeder as a concern. After he was taken into custody, though, they indicated that they were only beginning to delve into his past and his associations. Still, as Roeder's relatives and others who had come into contact with him over the years began looking backward, they said they now saw some signs that might have hinted at more serious trouble ahead. Over a period of more than 10 years, Roeder had been linked, at various times and in varyingly degrees, to the Freemen, a group that rejected federal authority and the banking system, and to people who believe that the killing of abortion providers could be justified by the abortions it prevented. In 2007, someone identifying himself as Scott Roeder posted a message on the Web site of Operation Rescue, an anti-abortion group based in Wichita that had devoted much of its effort to blocking Tiller from performing abortions late in pregnancy. The posting read, in part: 'Tiller is the concentration camp 'Mengele' of our day and needs to be stopped before he and those who protect him bring judgment upon our nation.' The leader of Operation Rescue, who denounced the shooting of Tiller, said he never met Roeder, who was not a contributor, volunteer or regular member, and the head of the Kansas Coalition for Life, whose volunteers spent hours outside Tiller's clinic each week trying to sway patients from abortions, said he had never met Roeder, though he recalled receiving three phone calls out of the blue from him last August. Years earlier, Roeder had been a member of a Kansas group known as the Patriot Movement, a citizens' militia which, according to a fellow member, Morris Wilson, 70, aimed to 'kick Uncle Sam in the shins' by bucking rules like mounting license plates on cars. 'He didn't like taxation and overregulation,' Wilson recalled, adding that Roeder had outspoken views against abortion. 'He was trying to get people aware of what was going on, and put these guys out of business,' he said. 'But I never seen a temper.' Roeder had also encountered Dave Leach, an anti-abortion activist from Des Moines whose publication, Prayer and Action News, had received articles from Roeder. Leach said Roeder had presented strong anti-government views (he believed the government could track money, Leach recalled, and offered his own method to 'remove the magnetic strip from a five-dollar bill') and views similar to Leach's own on abortion. 'To call this a crime is too simplistic,' Leach said of Tiller's death. As admirers of Tiller mourned his death on Monday, his clinic, in a beige, squat building on an otherwise quiet street in Wichita, was closed. Clusters of flowers had been left on a wall outside, and police monitored the facility. The future of the center, one of about three in the country to provide abortions to women late in their second trimesters and into their third trimesters of pregnancy, appeared uncertain. Some representatives of Tiller said they did not know if the clinic would reopen at all, given the technical skills required and the safety issues now clear. But a Nebraska doctor, who had worked with Tiller at his clinic, told a local newspaper that the place would reopen for patients on Monday -- a notion anti-abortion forces said they were already preparing for with the usual protesters. At some other clinics around the country, federal authorities ordered increased security from the U.S. Marshals Service, which had provided protection for Tiller in 1991, 1994 and 2001. 'In each instance the protective details ended once a decision had been made that the threat had been mitigated or was no longer present,' a spokesman for the Marshals Service said. Tiller, who had previously been shot in both arms and had seen the clinic bombed and vandalized, was known for taking security precautions, his friends said Monday. At times, he wore a bulletproof vest and traveled with a burly private guard. (During a trial this year in which Tiller was acquitted of violating state abortion laws, the guard carried a holstered pistol.) As recently as May, Tiller reported to the FBI that wires had been cut to surveillance cameras at the clinic and that a hole had been sliced in the roof. The FBI said Monday that the case was unsolved. Still, Tiller had never been cowed by threats, said Lee Thompson, a lawyer who represented him. He never left the house without a pin that read, 'Attitude Is Everything,' Thompson said. In Overland Park, Lindsey Roeder, a teacher, said that Scott Roeder had seemed ambivalent on matters of abortion, politics and religion when they first met and married in 1986. He had worked a steady manufacturing job at an envelope company, she said, until he seemed unable to pay the bills. 'The stress of everyday life,' she said, seemed to overwhelm him and turn him toward thoughts of not paying taxes, and other, suddenly strong views. David Roeder, Scott Roeder's brother, issued a statement on behalf of the family expressing shock and sadness over Tiller's death, and suggesting that Scott Roeder had 'suffered from mental illness at various times in his life.' In 1996, the Roeders divorced, and Scott Roeder worked odd jobs, moving from place to place and living most recently in Kansas City, Mo. In April 1996, Roeder was stopped near Topeka on a routine traffic violation. The authorities said they found a pound of gunpowder with a homemade fuse in the car, according to published reports at the time. A deputy noted in court that Roeder's license plate read: 'Sovereign Private Property. Immunity Declared at Law. Non-Commercial American.' Roeder was found guilty of charges including one connected to the explosives, and was sentenced to 16 months in jail. At his sentencing, Judge James Buchele of Shawnee County District Court said Roeder presented a 'threat of danger to the public,' The Topeka Capital-Journal reported. An appeals court dismissed the explosives conviction in March 1999, after Roeder's lawyers argued that the search of his car was improper. Roeder's 22-year-old son has been tormented, his mother said, by all that has occurred. 'He keeps asking, 'Could I have seen something, stopped something?' 