THE TOWER
EVENTS, MOVIES, MUSIC AND SERIAL KILLERS OF THE 1960's
Edited By
S.D. GRIPTON
© Sally Dillon-Snape and Dennis Snape
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INTRODUCTION
While millions of people in the Western World, male and female, were taking advantage of the introduction of the Pill in the early 1960's, when a sexual revolution was taking place; at a time when The Beatles, The Stones, The Beach Boys, and hundreds of other groups were leading a revolution in music; when hippies were growing in prominence and drugs were sneaking their way into society; when some great movies were made; and genuine revolution was in the air and on everyone's lips; a certain number of people took very little part in the joy or the excitement of the decade.
These were the Serial Killers of the 1960's.
There have always been Serial Killers, of course, almost since the beginning of time; King Herod (who murdered babies in an effort to extinguish Jesus); Genghis Khan (who lived around 1162), and who suddenly took against half the known world and set out to exterminate it; Vlad The Impaler (died 1476), upon whom the Dracula legend is based, but during the 1960's there was a certain redefining of the art, the crimes seemingly more cruel, like the ones committed by the detestable Richard Speck, or ones that were uniquely random, like those of Charles J. Whitman. It was during these years that the Boston Strangler, Albert De Salvo, rode the range, when the Zodiac Killer was never found, and Charles Manson was instructing his girls in the art of killing. It was when Peter Tobin, Bible John, began a murderous quest that is still being investigated today, with information being sought into any number of murders. It was the time of William MacDonald, Australia's first genuine serial killer and of Gilbert Paul Jordan of Canada.
The world saw an explosion of these types of killers during the 1960's, when they became unforgettable, many of them having movies made about their lives and their killings, or TV plays, or theatrical plays, artistic depictions; these killers were fawned upon, made heroes. Like the English Moors Murderers, Ian Brady and Mira Hindley, child killers both, each blaming the other. How many of today's killers are just copycats? How many have tried to emulate Whitman, the first University killer, or killer on any educational campus? How many have followed him? How many have tried not to be detected, like the Zodiac Killer? Lots of them. In fact, many of them have succeeded.
So, while the World in general was having fun, drinking too much, making love too often, meddling with drugs while listening to some of the greatest music ever recorded, watching great movies and marching on endless protests, certain people were only interested in the deaths of others.
I give you a selection of the events, the music, the movies and the killers of the decade, but please don't think I have any admiration for any of them. In the main, they were despicable people, none more so that Richard Speck, a person who never did an honorable deed in his whole life and who should never have been allowed to join the Human Race.
If I have allowed my personal feelings to seep into some of my comments, I have to say that it is not what I am thinking. What I am thinking would be unprintable.
S.D. GRIPTON.
CHAPTER ONE
August 1966
Cultural Revolution in China.
Mao Zedong began a cultural revolution in China in May of 1966, with the stated aims of enforcing socialism in the country by removing capitalist, traditional and cultural elements from Chinese society. Fanatical youths formed the Red Guard and persecuted, tortured, raped and disgraced many millions of people. It lasted ten years.
Out Of Time (Jagger/Richards). Chris Farlow. UK # 1
This was Chris Farlowe's only Number One. The song was released on 12th July 1966, recorded at the Olympic Studios, London, England, released on Immediate Records and was produced by Mick Jagger.
Wild Thing (Chip Taylor). The Troggs. US # 1
The song was written by New Yorker Chip Taylor and was originally recorded in 1965 by The Wild Ones. The Troggs version was to conquer the world, reaching Number One on the Billboard Chart in July 1966. It was released on Fontana in the US and was produced by Larry Page.
Fantastic Voyage. Released August 1966
This was a sci-fi movie about miniaturization, when a submarine full of people, Stephen Boyd, Raquel Welch, Edmond O'Brien and Donald Pleasance were injected into a human body. The screenplay was by Harry Kleiner, from a story by Jerome Bixby and Otto Klement. It was produced by Saul David, and directed by Richard Fleischer.
Charles Whitman carries out a murderous assault from the Tower of Texas University in Austin.
THE TOWER
'I don't think the poor woman has ever enjoyed life as she is entitled to. She was a simple woman who married a possessive and dominating man.'
I have absolutely no idea why I killed the woman.
I loved her, but I'd just choked her until she was unconscious then stabbed her through the heart. I don't think she suffered. I didn't want her to suffer. I tried to do it as mercifully as possible.
Her name was Margaret Frances and I cannot relate to you just how much I loved her, but she hadn't had much of a life, she hadn't had the happiness she was entitled to, she never fulfilled her potential, was never given the chance. Just about every week of her married life she was beaten, sometimes more than once a week, she was a punchbag for her husband, a wicked non-person, she was someone who gave birth to three children as if that was all that was required of her.
She was my mother.
A sweet woman, and I'd just stabbed her in the heart and killed her.
As well as not wanting her to suffer any further, I didn't want to cause her any embarrassment, I didn't want her to be alive when I do what I am going to do, she wouldn't have liked it, wouldn't have understood it.
I don't understand it myself. I am twenty-five years old and supposed to be an averagely reasonable individual, intelligent. At the age of six, back in Florida, I was tested and it showed I had an IQ of 138. That's damned clever, hey? Damned clever. And yet...
...my life never turned out the way it was supposed to. Much like my mother, I never reached my potential either, never came anywhere near to it, never achieved what I felt I could have achieved if only I'd given life my full attention. But stuff always got in the way.
My father for a start.
He got in the way a lot.
I absolutely hate him, hate him with every corpuscle of my being. He is a hateful man, a bully, a coward, a despot and, really, I should have driven to Florida and killed him rather than my mother. His name was Charles Adolphus, though I think he changed his middle name from Adolph when it became unpopular due to the happenings of the War, and he was a real Adolph, Hitler would have been proud to share his name with such a man.
When I say he beat my mother every week, I mean it, sometimes he would beat her more often, and I never worked out what his problem was. I suppose he couldn't have helped being an orphan, not knowing anything of his past history, at least he didn't know enough about it to tell us kids, me, or my brothers Patrick and John.
He was a driven man, successful in his way, owning a plumbing and sewerage business out in Lake Worth, Florida, and he must have thought he'd come a very long way indeed from being a boy at the Bethesda School For Boys, in Savannah, Georgia. He must have had nothing then, nothing at all, so to grow rich, to have the finest house on the street, all smiles and bonhomie in sight of neighbors, well thought of by them all, but inside, behind drawn curtains and closed doors, a different world. A world where my father's word was law. We all did as he ordered us to do. He often reminded us that without him we would have nothing, we would be nobody. He drove us all like slaves, we were not allowed to let him down in any way. We had to be the best at everything we did, top of the class in all subjects, if we weren't, we got beaten to remind us that we had to try harder.
He wanted me to begin piano studies when I was six or seven and I practiced for five years until I achieved a level of excellence my father approved of. I also became an Altar Boy at the Sacred Heart Roman Catholic Church, even though my father had no religious leanings whatsoever.
My mother, God bless her, was a Catholic. My father met her, and married, in Savannah and after several moves of home, ended up in Lake Worth, where he started up his business. I also became a Scout, where Joseph Leduc, a seminary from the Church was my Scout Leader. He was a good man, Joseph, he would complete his seminary and serve as the priest of Sacred Heart for one month. He was a family friend, a friend of mine particularly, and often went hunting with father and me. I achieved Eagle Scout in only just over a year of joining the movement, the youngest in the history of Florida to do it, some say I was the youngest Scout ever to achieve it, but I doubt that.
So, in the early years, I could do what my father couldn't, what he never had the chance to do, I could outshine him, better him, set my own standards, achieve my own goals. My brothers, in their younger years, were also outshining him. But as you grow so those kinds of opportunities fall to you less and less, and my father had over-achieved, he'd had too much success. He never failed to tell us as we grew into our teenage years, when it became more difficult to match him, to better him, because things got in our way. Girls, sport, school, drinking, having a good time. I don't believe my father ever believed in having a good time, not for himself, nor for anyone else in his family. He just liked to show off, let people think he was richer than he was. I think he felt a good time was what losers wanted and had, what Chancers dreamed of, all women thought about. I think he believed all women wanted was to have a good time, so he saw himself as being in the right every time he beat her. He was teaching her a lesson. One cannot live for a good time alone, one had to work, one couldn't just play. Work, work, work. Toil and more toil. Count the dimes and the dollars will look after themselves. Check on the workers, check the books, check your stores, check, check, check. Be successful, do it. He did it, of course, from nothing, he was proud of it, I just wished he could have relaxed a little bit, had some fun, used his money for entertainment instead of always showing off to the neighbors. The biggest house, the first Bar-B-Q, the first this and that. We had a pool. A pool, back then, when most homes still don't have them today. Anything to impress the neighbors. Then he would be take us inside and beat us.
It was a totally awful life.
I phone mother's place of work and tell them that's she's ill and can't come to work tomorrow. I tell the janitor of her building that she's resting and doesn't want to be disturbed. As I sit by her bedside, I am overwhelmed by the desire to right a note. Something to explain.
'To Whom It May Concern
I have just taken my mother's life. I am very upset over having done it. However, I feel that if there is a heaven she is definitely there now. And if there is no life after, I have relieved her of her suffering here on earth. The intense hatred I feel for my father is beyond description. My mother gave that man the 25 best years of her life and because she finally took enough of his beatings, humiliation and degradation and tribulations that I am sure no one but she and he will ever know; to leave him. He has chosen to treat her like a slut that you would bed down with, accept her favors and then throw a pittance in return.
I am truly sorry that this is the only way I could see to relieve her sufferings but I think it was best.
Let there be no doubt in your mind I loved that woman with all my heart.
If there exists a God let him understand my actions and judge me accordingly'.
That should do it.
That explains everything.
I'll miss her, she really was a sweet lady. Tried her best to please a monster, but never achieved it, never came anywhere near. Neither did I, nor my brothers. Such a shame, for all of us.
I wrote the note at 12.30 am on August 1st 1966.
I wouldn't sleep anytime during this night.
And I'd already written another note, at 6.45 pm, the day before, July 31st.
I remembered everything I wrote.
'I don't quite understand what it is that compels me to type this letter. Perhaps it is to leave some vague reason for the actions I have recently performed. I don't really understand myself these days, I am supposed to be an average reasonable and intelligent young man. However, lately (I can't recall when it started) I have been a victim of many unusual and irrational thoughts. Those thoughts constantly recur, and it requires a tremendous mental effort to concentrate on useful and progressive tasks. In March when my parents made a physical break I noticed a great deal of stress. I consulted a Dr. Gochrum at the University Health Center and asked him to recommend someone that I could consult with about some psychiatric disorders I felt I had. I talked with a Doctor once for about two hours and tried to convey to him my fears that I felt some overwhelming violent impulses. After one session I never saw the Doctor again, and since then I have been fighting my mental turmoil alone, and seemingly to no avail. After my death I wish that an autopsy would be performed on me to see if there is any visible physical disorder. I have had some tremendous headaches in the past and have consumed two large bottles of Excedrin in the past three months.'
This isn't the whole of the letter, but I want to stop it here to talk about the headaches. They are awfully painful, head-splitting. I sometimes grab my head with the pain of it all, my vision blurs, I can't believe there's nothing wrong with me. The headaches are changing me, I think, or the medicines are. I take Excedrin, Dexedrine, Librium to sleep, Valium to keep me awake during the day, medicines all day long and I take them in handfuls. It's the only way I can cope. Like I said, I can't concentrate on anything for very long, not like I used to be able to, I feel emotionless, like a zombie, if such things exist. I rarely sleep well. I'll be sleeping barely at all tonight, for example. Nothing left to sleep for, nothing to live for. That's another thought that's constantly in my head. Life is just not worth living, the world is such a terrible place. I didn't want my mother living in such a place.
I pull the covers up on her bed, stare down at her. She looks at peace, which was what I wanted for her. She's gone, now, and won't have to share the pain for what I'm going to do. I don't want my wife suffering any pain either, and I don't want her living in this terrible world. I'm going to lock up my mother's apartment now...
...and I am going home to kill my wife.
* * * * * *
I love her dearly, and she has been as fine a wife to me as any man could ever hope to have. I cannot rationally pinpoint any specific reason for doing this.
I married Kathleen Frances Leissner in August of 1962 in her home town of Needville, Texas. The ceremony was conducted by my old friend Fr. Joseph G. Leduc. She was, and remains, a very beautiful and intelligent woman who, for some reason, loves me as much as I love her.
Like all married couples, we've had our ups and downs and during the summer of 1965, when I was working away in Houston, working for NASA, Kathy returned to Austin and told some friends of ours, John and Fran Morgan, who live in the same apartment complex, that she was filing for divorce. The problem was that I was such a perfectionist, always demanding the best of both myself and of her. That's my god-damned father again, his influence on me, be the best you can, do the best you can, never settle for second best, drive, drive, drive. I hate him so much. I cannot express that hatred in words alone.
But we worked it out, Kathy and me, and we're still together this day, August 1st 1966.
My life never used to be this complicated, especially after I left home when I was eighteen. I'd gone out for a few drinks with my buddies and returned home drunk. My father beat me senseless and threw me in the pool and I almost drowned. That was it for me. Enough was enough. I joined the Marines, even though he tried to call the Federal Agencies to stop me, even while I was on a train on my way to camp. I'd been around rifles all my life, knew all about them, how to maintain and clean them, how to shoot, so the Marines was a natural progression for me. This was before I married Kathy, of course, July 6th 1959.
As soon as I got there, the disciplined way my father had brought me up stood me in good stead. I just went from one disciplinarian to another. No amount of shouting and screaming could possibly be worse than my father. I tested well in shooting, scoring 215 points out of 250, with the instructor pointing out that I was particularly good against moving targets. Everything was meant to be, even today. Good with moving targets, that was the way it would end. I did well as a Marine, was posted to Guantanamo, in Cuba, and on September 15th 1961, after taking all kinds of oral and writing tests, I was given a scholarship by the Marines to study mechanical engineering at the University of Texas in Austin.
I was thrilled. It proved to me that I could still be clever, I wasn't simply a jug-head, I still had my brain and I was using it. I wondered what my dad would think of me now, his clever son, in the Marines, being a great shot, achieving, being given a scholarship to attend University, something he had never done.
I had troubles though. Suddenly, when I arrived at University, all the discipline went out of my life in one go. For the first time I could do what I wanted, go where I wanted, meet who I wanted, drink, get drunk, be wild. I had never been given that opportunity before, not at home, not on the bases in the Marines. I had freedom. I didn't handle it well. I had hobbies, of course, and they helped, karate and scuba diving, but it was the hunting that would get me into trouble.
By this time, I'd met the beautiful Kathy and married her in 1962, I loved her and got on with her parents just great. It was the best thing that happened to me during my first time in Austin. I loved her then as I love her now. All that has changed is the world. It is not a nice place in which to live any more. I just can't let her live in it alone.
Anyway, my grades started to fall away at University, then there was the incident with the deer, which I killed during a hunting expedition, but which I dragged back to my dormitory and skinned in the shower. The University authorities looked upon it as a bad thing, though I didn't think it was. What harm could skinning a deer do? The Marines canceled my scholarship in 1963 and I was recalled to active duty, posted to the Corps Base Camp at Lejeune, North Carolina. But I'd lost the disciplined way of my life. University had killed it dead, I had tasted freedom and I didn't seem to fit any longer. I was promoted to Lance Corporal though, so my face still seemed to fit, although I was getting very good at having several faces for whatever circumstance I found myself in. I rolled a Jeep over an embankment and had to rescue another Marine, I was hospitalized for four days, then I was Court-Martialed for gambling, for having a non-military firearm on base and for charging someone $15 dollars on a $30 dollar loan. My father again. Make the most of your money, do not waste it, keep it close, make it work for you. Once again, I didn't think I'd done anything wrong, but I was given 30 days confinement and 90 days of hard labor. I was demoted back to Private. I thought it was all wrong. I hadn't done anything wrong.
I stuck it out though, I didn't let it break me. The hard work put discipline back into me, made me concentrate, put my mind back on track, made we well as if I'd been ill. I saw out my time and was honorably discharged in December of 1964. I'd done it, I'd proved to my father that I could see something through and do it with some success. Sure there were failures, but you know, my shooting was praised, I was a good Marine, I took my punishment when it came and I did so without complaint, even though I thought it was wrong.
I returned to the Texas University in Austin and enrolled on an architectural engineering program. During this time I worked as a bill collector for Standard Finance Company, and believe me, you didn't want me showing up on your doorstep. I am a big guy, wide across the shoulders and the chest. I am a typical Marine, built up after all that marching, the physical exercise, that 90 days of hard labor. I had good thick arms, big hands, and just by standing on a doorstep I could get people to pay what they owed. I also worked as a teller at Austin National Bank, anything to keep the money coming in, a little here, a little there, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never match what Kathy earned. She taught biology at Lanier High School, worked in the telephone exchange in the evenings, brought home a good salary, much more than I could match. In January of 1965 I worked a temporary job with Central Freight Lines and worked as a traffic surveyor for the Texas Highway Department. Still toiling, still following father's diktat, still following his rules. Toil and toil. The only way you got anything done. I also volunteered to be a Scoutmaster for Austin Scout Troop 5. I had been a Scout, of course, and a good one, way back when I was 12 or 13, and I'd been a good Scout. I could show these kids how to do it, I could. They were my charges and it was my responsibility to look after them and to teach them, which I did.
It was May of 1966 when things took a turn for the worse.
My mother called and asked me to come get her, she was leaving my father. I couldn't believe it. She was leaving him after all this time? It was so brave of her. What had he done that had finally driven her away? I bet she had taken some hell of a beating. I drove from Austin to Lake Worth and picked her up at the old house. My father was ranting and raving, of course, but I was far too big for him to beat any more. If he'd raised a hand to me, God only knows what I would have done to him. I had hated him for so long, I possibly would have pulled him limb from limb. I took Mom back to Austin. My brother John followed a couple of days later.
Almost immediately upon our arrival back in Austin, my father began calling me, asking me to get my mother to go back. He called every day, or every other day. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, he wanted her to go back because he couldn't survive without her. He promised the earth to her, but he'd taken all that away years earlier, besides which, who did he have to punch now? He couldn't got to a bar and punch another man, good God no, far too cowardly for that, start an argument with a neighbor, God forbid. The sheer cowardliness of the man was laid open for anyone to see once my mother left, though my other brother, Patrick, did choose to stay with my father, to help him run the business, maybe to inherit it when he died. I wished death on my father.
He harangued me relentlessly. My headaches got worse, my stress levels rose dramatically, thoughts of killing him were constantly in my mind, then thoughts of killing other people swept over me. I think that's when all these crazy thoughts began. When I went to see the psychiatrist at the University, I told him about my growing hostility towards people, about the kill fantasies I had, especially the one about climbing the Tower at the University and shooting people. He didn't take me seriously, at least I felt he didn't, he didn't give me any medication or any real advice on how to handle the thoughts I was having. It was a waste of time, really. It was too little, too late.
I arrive home.
Kathy is asleep in bed.
I think it is only right that I now put down the other half of the letter I am going to leave.
'It was after much thought that I decided to kill my wife, Kathy, tonight after I pick her up from work at the telephone company. I love her deeply, and she has been as fine a wife to me as any man could ever hope to have. I cannot rationally pinpoint any specific reason for doing this. I don't know whether it is selfishness, or if I don't want her to have to face the embarrassment my actions would surely cause her. At this time, though, the prominent reason in my mind is that I truly do not consider this world worth living in, and am prepared to die, and I do not want to leave her to suffer alone in it. I intend to kill her as painlessly as possible.
Similar reasons provoked me to take my mother's life also. I don't think the poor woman has ever enjoyed life as she is entitled to. She was a simple young woman who married a very possessive and dominating man. All my life as a boy until I ran away from home to join the Marine Corps…'
I'm sorry, I can't go on at the moment. I feel very upset at what I have done to my mother and what I intend to do to my lovely, intelligent wife, Kathy. I need a moment on my own, a real moment. These are terrible things I am doing, and more terrible things are planned. I am planning to do something that has never been done before in the history of America, at least I don't think anything like it has ever been done.
I am going to climb the Tower...
...and shoot people.
* * * * * *
'Give our dog to my in-laws, please. Tell them Kathy loved “Schooie” very much. If you can find it in your way to grant my last wish. Cremate me after the autopsy.'
It's 3 a.m.
I have made a note in the margin of my letter.
'Both dead'.
I killed my wife Kathy with a knife to her heart. She died instantly, I think, just gave a little grunt and was gone. As painlessly as possible, that's what I wanted and that's what I achieved. I stabbed her two or three times more, just to make sure, but I got her with the first stroke. She died in her sleep, never woke up, never guessed what I had planned for her, never knew who killed her. She would have been ashamed of me if she'd known I'd killed my mother. After Kathy's death there was no going back. Can you imagine how much her father, Raymond, and his wife and their sons, Nelson, Ray and Adam will feel when they find out what I have done. The only girl in the family and I killed her, for no reason, really, other than to stop her from any more suffering. Now I have to die, my plan has to be seen through from that moment on.
I leave a note for my brother Patrick and my brother John.
'Pat,
You are so so wrong about Mom. Maybe some day you will understand why she left Daddy. Pat, Mom didn't have any desire to harm Daddy whatsoever she just wanted what she had worked for. She really needed that $40.00. Thanks for sending it. She'll never know about that.'
'Dear Johnnie
Kathy and I enjoyed your visit. I am terribly sorry to have let you down. Please try to do better than I have. That won't be hard. Johnnie, Mom loved you very very much.'
I feel very upset.
I am still wide awake, popping tablets, the headache still pounding away in my head, taking something called amphetamines, they're good for me, they give me energy. I'll need lots of it today, I have a lot to do.
I have rented a hand truck from Austin Rental Company and cashed $250 dollars worth of useless checks at the bank. Foolish people. That's another thing I hate about my father. He has always kept me financially reliant on him. No matter how hard I tried, how hard me and Kathy tried, we always had to ask him for money. And he loves it. He tells me over and over that I didn't make a go of it, that I disappoint him, that I should never have joined the Marines, that I should have stayed with him, learned to manage the company, made some money that way. But I couldn't have stayed, couldn't have taken the beatings any longer, couldn't have watched him beat up my mother, couldn't do with his rules, his regulations, his uneducated, overbearing personality. I don't know how Patrick puts up with it. He should be living in Texas too, not wasting his time with father. Patrick should have supported his mother, like John, he should not have stayed in Florida. Still, life is what it is.
I added a hand-written piece to the last letter, and it comes back to me now.
'…and I was witness to her being beat at least once a week. I imagine it appears that I brutally killed both of my loved ones. I was only trying to do a quick and thorough job. If my life insurance policy is valid please see that the worthless checks I'll create this weekend are made good. Please pay off all my debts. I am a 25 year old and have never been financially independent. Donate the rest anonymously to a mental health foundation. Maybe research can prevent further tragedies of this type.'
Anyway, I have rented a hand truck with useless checks and taken money out of the bank and gone to Davis' Hardware and purchased an M1 carbine, explaining that I wanted to go hog-hunting. Buying the gun proved not to be a problem. I also went to Sears and purchased a shotgun and a green rifle case. I sawed the barrel off while I was chatting with my postman, Chester Arrington, who didn't think it was at all strange. Sawn-off shotguns are two-a-penny in Texas. He is a nice guy, Chester and I think he likes me.
I pack the M1 and the shotgun along with a Remington 700 6mm bolt-action hunting rifle, with a 4xLeupold Scope, which is some rifle. They go neatly into my old Marines foot-locker along with a Remington .35 caliber pump-action rifle and some other stuff. I also put a .357 Magnum revolver, a 9mm Luger pistol and carry another pistol on my person. When they are all in place, I am ready to go. I put the foot-locker on the hand truck and drive it towards the University. No one gives me a second look but, God, it's hot. It is really going to be a hot one today, the thermometer must be climbing close to a hundred. It is very hot.
I am dressed in jeans and shirt, with overalls over them, and a white sweatband tucked into a pocket, and if it stays this hot I am going to need it. I meet with security guard Jack Rodman and get a parking pass. He doesn't ask what I am carrying, he doesn't look, if he feels an urge to pry, I will probably shoot him. My mind is set upon what I have to do. Rodman doesn't search me, not after I present him with a card identifying me as a Research Assistant for the school. Security hasn't been seen as a thing of particular importance at the University up until now. I guess I am going to change all that. It will take years, I guess, for people even to be let into the Tower.
As I walk towards the Tower, I wonder if what I am planning has ever been done before, by anyone? I can't recall it happening in peacetime, there were massacres during war, of course, bad things happened then, but during a hot August day in Austin, Texas? Had anyone ever done what I am planning to do before? I feel like a history maker.
I am not angry, you understand, not raging angry, only sad. Life in this world is just not worth living, there is nothing here for anyone. I feel sad for feeling that, just as I feel great sadness over the death of my lovely wife and my sweet mother. But it had to be done, just as I have to do what I am going to do. There is an inevitability about it all. I feel as if my whole life has brought me to here today, to do what I am going to do.
As I approach I look up at the Tower, and I know quite a bit about it. It was built in 1930's, in a Spanish colonial style. It replaced the old Victorian Gothic Main Building, the cornerstone of which is sited near the entrance and which is the oldest architectural artifact on the Campus. It is 93 meters or so high, 70 meters to the observation tower, where I am heading. It has 29 floors above ground, was originally supposed to be a library, but holds offices and classrooms. The clock faces, four of them, are 12 feet in diameter and the clock mechanism was installed by The International Company. It is one of the most famous buildings in the whole of Texas, people come to see it and climb it every day. Just like I am going to climb it in a few moments.
I enter the Tower just before 11.30 a.m. pulling and pushing the dolly upon which sits my old foot-locker with most of my weapons in it. I can't get the god-damned lift to work. I am trying my best, I'm hot, bothered and the lift won't work. A woman comes over to me, Vera Palmer is her name, and she informs me that the elevator hasn't been powered up. I stare at her, she turns on the power for me and I thank her. How close she came. She will never know, or maybe she will. I ride the elevator to the 27th floor. Nothing happens on the way up, no one gets in, I simply glide up towards my destiny. Towards my own death.
I lug the dolly up one long flight of stairs to a hallway that leads to a dog-leg stairway that goes up to the rooms within the observation deck area. I take a rifle out of my foot-locker, hold it in my right hand. I know there is a receptionist up here and when I step into her area, she asks if I have my University work identification. I step away from the dolly and hit her with the butt of the rifle. She goes down, I drag her behind a couch to hide her, though I don't know if she's dead or alive and I don't really care.
Just in time I get her behind the couch before two people come down from the observation deck, a girl and a boy. They have been sightseeing. When they appear I am holding a rifle in each hand. They don't seem surprised by this, they stare around the reception area, possibly see the blood on the floor from the receptionist, but we chat amicably before they leave to catch the elevator down. More people who will never know how lucky they are.
Once they leave, I use the dolly, desks and stuff to barricade the stairs. I am ready to go.
And then someone else comes up the staircase. God-damn it, can't I be left to get on with what I want to do? There are a lot of them, one of whom, a man, is trying to get round the barricade.
I pull out the shotgun and shoot him. He goes over the railings and lands on the families. I aim down the stairs and fire again, once, twice, don't know how many times, but some go down as they try to scamper back down the staircase. Well, I've allowed too many people to live today. The woman at the elevator downstairs, the couple who just left. I can't be expected to let everyone live. I have a task, something I must do.
I carry my foot-locker up on to the outer deck and take out and lay out all my weapons and other stuff. All I want is to be left alone to get on with it. I cannot tell you why I want to do it, it has just been inside my head for some time, I even told the psychiatrist it was there, but he didn't seem to take any notice. I won't be keeping any more appointments with him.
I pull the sweatband over my head. It is really hot, already I'm sweating, though it is a little cooler up here in the Tower. Okay, I'm ready. I lay down, get comfortable, bring the scope of the Remington to my eye, sight down it, scan.
There.
There is my first hit. Guadalupe Street.
God, she's pregnant. Two in one. What a great start.
I pull the trigger and watch as she goes down.
Her boyfriend turns, stares. He doesn't know what's happened to her, he's staring down at her, he sees the blood. He's going to be no good without her and his child. I shoot him in the back. He goes down on top of her.
And it has begun.
Bang, another one goes down. This is easy, like a turkey-shoot. They don't know what is happening, people are staring, looking around, this way and that, down at the dead. I think everyone I shoot is dead. Bang, bang.
The bells in the Tower ring but I barely hear them, so concentrated am I. Bang, bang, down they go, men, women, old, young. I am showing them all how great a shot I am, 215 out of 250 all those years ago, a terrific shot against moving targets. Never a truer word spoken. People start to run and hide. At last they've realized. I'll bet someone has called the cops by now, I'll hear sirens any time. Bang. Got you. Bang. Bang. Still they go down. Some hide, but they can't resist looking to see. Bang. Don't look, fool. There, behind that column, a man's back. How much room do you think, to hit him? Six inches? Bang. Got him. Down he goes. Bang. Bang. Reload. Bang. Going like clockwork.
What's that?
It's a small plane, flying over the tower. I smile. What do they think they are doing? I roll over on my back and wait for it to appear. Bang. Direct hit. The plane backs off, goes further away. Serves them right if it crashes. I retake my position.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
God-damn, the citizens are shooting back at me. Big caliber guns, too.
Thump. Thump.
I lie lower down. I am protected by the balustrade, they'll never be able to hit me from down there. I slide the rifle into the waterspout and continue what I am doing.
Bang. Bang.
They still go down.
I am living my dream. Doing what I wanted to do, what I had to do. Now you understand why I had to kill my mother and my wife. How would they have coped with this? They would have been ashamed enough to die. They could not have lived with this hanging over their heads, they would have been ostracized, would have been spat at for years to come. My mother may have even had to go back to my father to escape it all. What would my poor wife have done? She was a Texan born and bred. Thank God I had the strength to do what I did.
Bang. Bang.
I can hear people in the reception area. They are supposed to be moving quietly, but they can't move without me hearing them. Sounds like quite a crowd. Cops, I expect.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They are still trying to get me, the citizens of Austin, blasting away. They need to be above me, really, but as I am on the highest building for miles around, they can't accomplish that. They could send another plane, but next time I will shoot it down.
What?
Someone is shooting at me from behind.
I try to turn, to bring my rifle up.
I am Charles Joseph Whitman.
Killer.
* * * * * *
Whitman's deadly rampage lasted 96 minutes from 11.48 a.m. when he fired his first shot. He was killed by Austin Police Department Officer Houston McCoy with the help of APD Officer Ramiro Martinez. They were first on the observation deck, followed closely by APD Officer Jerry Day and a civilian, Allen Crum. One pair circled the deck in one direction, the other two in the other. Martinez and McCoy were the first to Whitman. Martinez jumped round the corner and fired all six rounds in his .38 police revolver, but as he did so, McCoy jumped to the right of him and blasted Whitman with fatal shots of double-ought buck from his 12-gauge shotgun. He hit Whitman in the neck, head, face and the left side. After firing his six shots, Martinez grabbed McCoy's shotgun and ran towards Whitman firing at point blank range into the upper left arm. When Martinez threw down the shotgun, he began to shout, “I got him.” He continued to shout it as he ran through the reception area, where other Officers were gathered, but it was McCoy who killed him.
Whitman's autopsy revealed injuries between the eyes, across the nose, where there were three entry holes of pellets. There were two more around the left eye and three in the left temporal region.
There were four more on the left side of the neck, around the collar-bone area. One was in the left of the intercostal area of the sternum bone and four more in the let axillary region. One more was found under the arm, but this was of a larger diameter.
Around the shoulder there were about a dozen grazing or penetrating injuries. The humerus was severely shortened by several large caliber penetrations, which was swollen and deformed.
The rest of the autopsy produced some surprises.
Whitman's skull was unusually thin. In the middle part of the brain, above the red nucleus, in the white matter below the gray center thalamus, they found a fairly well outlined glioblastoma tumor about 2x1 x 5x1 cm, which pressed on the nearby amygdala.
Experts have never been able to agree on what part the tumor played in Whitman's killing spree. Some say that it changed his personality and gave him the headaches about which he complained so much. Others say that it was too small to be of any consequence. The arguments will go on forever.
* * * * * *
In truth, the first victim of Whitman's shooting spree from the Tower was the unborn baby of Claire Wilson. She was eight months pregnant and the first person Whitman shot. The bullet hit her hip-bone and deflected through her stomach, killing her baby. Claire Wilson wasn't killed but could never again have children.
The list of those killed is as follows:-
MARGARET E. WHITMAN
mother of Whitman