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Murderous Minds – Stories of Real Life Murderers (Vol 2)

By weaving a tale in which Dark Fantasies Turned Reality, this book invites you to see life from a perspective few ever witness— that of the killer.

The following are the first 2 chapters from the book “Murderous Minds: Stories of Real Life Murderers That Escaped the Headlines (Vol 2)”

Edward Charles Allaway

He felt it was the only way; it was the next necessary step.

On July 12, 1976, shortly before 9:00 a.m., Edward Charles Allaway entered the Hilton Hotel in Anaheim, California. He picked up a phone and called 911. “I went berserk at Cal State Fullerton, and I committed some terrible acts. I’d appreciate it if you people would come down and pick me up. I’m unarmed, and I’m giving myself up to you,” he told the 911 operator. He hung up the phone and entered the hotel’s banquet room, where he somberly waited for the police to arrive.

Within minutes, he could hear the sound of sirens approaching. He could also hear his heart beating as he waited; yet, a strange feeling of relief descended upon him. He heard a loud noise. Out of nowhere, a SWAT team stormed the banquet room and took him down. Meanwhile, the bodies of seven of his co-workers lay dead in the library at Cal State. The 37-year-old Allaway, a custodian at the California State University at Fullerton, had just committed the worst mass murder in the history of Orange County, as of that date.

Paranoia Unleashed

Allaway was born in 1939, in Royal Oak Michigan, a suburb of Detroit. His family was poor and lived in a small apartment above a grocery store. He had an alcoholic father, and one sibling, a sister. When he grew older, Allaway joined the Marines, but his service was brief as he was dishonorably discharged. Due to his oppositional nature, he spent many years bouncing from job to job. He was continuously getting fired for fighting with his co-workers.

Murderous Mind Volume 2 Book Cover By Ryan Becker

Growing up, his parents noticed him engaging in odd behaviors but never addressed it. The person who did confront him about these behaviors was his first wife Carol. Allaway acted in a paranoid manner and repeatedly accused her of sleeping with other men and posing for pornographic movies. He assaulted her and threatened her with a knife, telling her that he would cut her up if she ever left him. Carol convinced him to seek help, which he did. He spent a month in a mental institution in Dearborn, where he underwent electric shock therapy.

In 1973, Carol left him. A few days later, he moved to Orange County, in Southern California. His sister lived there and worked as a secretary in the sociology department at California State Fullerton. Only a few months after arriving in Orange County, Allaway married Bonnie, his second wife. Allaway and his new wife spent the next two years traveling around the country, supporting themselves by doing odd jobs as they traveled. However, their dream of traveling around the country did not work out as they could not support themselves, which frustrated Allaway. A loner at heart, he did not want to deal with co-workers. They returned to Orange County and Bonnie got a job working at the Hilton Hotel, in Anaheim, while Allaway’s sister got him a job as a custodian at the university’s library in 1975. Though he had left Michigan, Allaway’s demons did not remain there; they followed him to Orange County and reappeared with a vengeance.

Allaway’s Meltdown

Allaway was extremely jealous, and as with his first wife, he accused Bonnie of cheating on him. He also threatened her with a knife, telling her that he would cut up her face if she ever cheated on him. At work, his co-workers found him to be irritable whenever they interacted with him. This was especially true with minorities. Allaway was a racist and resented blacks and Hispanics. It bothered him when his co-workers offered suggestions on how to approach a task, especially if they were not Caucasian. He was upset when the university hired a Mexican-American from outside the University for the position of lead custodian, particularly when a white co-worker had applied for the same position.

In the basement of the library was a room called the Instructional Media Center. Some of the janitors would bring pornographic movies from home and view them there during off hours. Allaway did not realize he had paranoid schizophrenia; this diagnosis would only be determined after the massacre. His hallucinations led him to believe not only were his co-workers forcing Bonnie to perform in pornographic films, but also they were after him. His paranoia at work was exasperated when Bonnie left him on Memorial Day in 1976. She could not take Allaway’s abuse any longer. Allaway became sullen, his anger hitting a threshold. He went to K-Mart, in Buena Park, and purchased a .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle and an ample amount of ammunition. In his mind, there was only one thing that he could do about the situation.

The Attack

At 7:00 a.m., on July 12th, Allaway drove his beige Dodge on to the California State Fullerton campus, pulling into the parking lot on the west side of the library. He grabbed the rifle and ammunition, walking casually toward the library. Few people were in the library at the time, and he entered unnoticed. He took the stairwell to the basement and headed for the Instructional Media Center.

The Media Center was located adjacent to the stairwell. The secretary, Karen Dwindell, was just inside the door, sitting behind her desk. Thirty-year-old photographer Paul Herzberg was sitting on top of a table as he conversed with 32-year-old, Bruce Jacobsen, an assistant at the media center. Allaway stepped into the office when Dwinell heard what she thought were firecrackers. Looking at Dwinell with a blank stare, Allaway raised his gun and pointed it at her. Herzberg bolted toward Dwinell in an attempt to protect her, when he felt himself getting shot in the chest. The second bullet entered his head. With a metal statue in his hand, Jacobson lunged toward Allaway. Allaway shot him in the chest. Despite being shot, Jacobson was able to run out of the office into the hallway. As he ran away, Allaway stepped into the hallway and shot Jacobsen a second time, killing him. Dwinell watched helplessly. She was also hit, but survived her injuries.

Allaway continued down the hallway and headed for the graphics department, also located in the basement. Seth Fessenden, professor emeritus, was discussing a project with 50-year-old graphic artist, Frank Teplanksy. Allaway started firing immediately upon entering the department, shooting both men. Fessenden was killed instantly; Teplanksy died in the hospital several hours later, from a gunshot to the head.

Twenty-five-year-old, Debbie Paulsen, a custodian at the university, also working on her Master’s degree in American Studies, and a co-worker, 41-year-old, Donald Karges, heard gunshots and went to investigate. As they headed down the hallway, they saw Allaway at the other end. Recognizing the danger, they turned and ran, Allaway chasing after them.

Another secretary, Jenny Galvan, was sitting at her desk when she heard screams from the hallway and footsteps of someone running. Looking through a small window in the door, she saw Paulsen collapse to the floor as if in slow motion. Galvan could see Paulsen had blood on her blouse and arms. She was gasping, and her eyes were barely open. She stopped moving. If Galvan had left her office, she would have seen Karges’s body lying in a pool of blood further down the hall.

Richard Corona, coordinator of the university’s summer program known as Upward Bound, also heard the gunfire and went to investigate. As he turned the corner, Allaway rushed by him making his way toward the stairwell. Allaway raised his gun to Corona, who was frozen on the spot. Allaway kept his gun pointed at Corona for a few seconds and then lowered it, choosing to run away instead.

Allaway returned to the stairwell, where he reloaded and proceeded to the first floor. Sixty-four-year-old Maynard Hoffman, supervisor of the custodial crew for the morning shift, was walking down the hallway on the first floor when Allaway appeared from the stairwell. Hoffman saw that he was armed and ran toward the elevator. As soon as the doors opened, he jumped inside. But before the elevator doors could close, Allaway emptied several rounds into it, with one bullet entering Hoffman’s chest. He crumpled inside the bullet-ridden elevator. Allaway stared down at him and asked him how it felt to be shot. Someone snuck up from behind Allaway and hit him over the head with a large earthenware plate. The plate shattered over Allaway’s head, as a second person, 32-year-old library technician, Steven Becker, attempted to wrestle Allaway’s rifle from him.

As the struggled ensued, Becker was shot when the rifle went off. The wounded Becker ran away when library supervisor, 51-year-old, Don Keran, appeared out of nowhere. He had heard the commotion and attempted to restrain Allaway in a bear hug. Each man struggled to gain control of the other as they crashed into tables and chairs. Allaway pushed Keran against a wall, but Keran shoved him back. The pushing match continued until Keran fell backward. Allaway stood over him and pointed his rifle at him. When Keran struggled to get back on his feet, Allaway shot him. As Allaway left the scene, Keran made it to a phone and called 911. He asked the 911 operator to send an ambulance and was told there were no ambulances available, as all ambulances had already been dispatched to the scene.

Allaway proceeded to run toward the emergency exit as Becker, though injured, gave chase. Allaway stopped in his tracks, turned around, and shot Becker a final time. Becker continued to struggle. He made it as far as the outside of the building, where he collapsed on the southeast side. Both Keran and Hoffman survived the attack; Becker was not as lucky, dying en route to the hospital. At the end of the five-minute rampage, seven people lost their lives, with another two suffering major injuries.

The Aftermath

Allaway got in his car and took off, eluding university police. He made his way to the Anaheim Hilton. After he was taken into custody, Fullerton police brought Allaway to the local jail. He was charged with six counts of first-degree murder, one count of second-degree murder, and two counts of assault with a deadly weapon. At the end of his trial, he was ruled not guilty by reason of insanity and imprisoned at Atascadero State Hospital, then transferred to Patton State Hospital. Patton State Hospital was just 50 miles from the university.

Later, Patton State Hospital transferred Allaway to Napa State Hospital, a low-security hospital. It was a move that was highly criticized. None of the victims’ families had been consulted about the move.

Allaway’s second wife filed for divorce shortly after the shooting.

Allaway’s sister committed suicide by shooting herself.

The following is an encounter Patricia Almazan, daughter of Frank G. Teplanksy, had with Allaway while he was in prison. She met with him on March 21, 2006.

Almazan (showing a picture of her father being taken away on a stretcher to an ambulance): “This is my father, after you shot him,” she said.

Allaway: “Very friendly, very friendly.” (Allaway was recollecting the times her father had greeted him when he arrived at work.)

Almazan: “What would you prefer I call you?”

Allaway: “Ed would be fine.”

Almazan: “I’m Pat. I’m sure you know. Did you know my father, like you, was a Marine?”

Allaway: “No, I had no background on any.”

Almazan: “That he fought in World War II and the Korean War? And that you gunned him down?”

Allaway: “Yes.”

Almazan: “You shot him three times in the back and the back of the head. And I wonder why you had to be so determined that he was dead. If I had believed that you were just a crazy person that you just happened on campus and started indiscriminately shooting, I could have laid my father to rest 30 years ago. But that’s not the case. I really, honestly, have to get at the truth for me to rest. And in order…For my father’s soul to get where it has to get. Tell me the truth. I’m in prison for as long as you are.”

Allaway: “You’re right. I really don’t have a whole lot of answers I was insane at the time, and when you’re insane, there’s just not a good reason or rhyme how things work out.”

Almazan: “These were people that you worked with, that you knew, that you sat and spoke with many times.”

Allaway: “Absolutely. And I kidded with them, laughed with them, worked with them; I ate lunch with them.”

Almazan: “Why did you shoot my dad three times in the back?”

Allaway: “I have no idea. I don’t think it’s a good thing for me to not be able to remember, but…I don’t remember hurting those people — killing them.”

Almazan: “I know you’re not going to tell me the truth,” she said. “I know that now. I knew from the onset.”

Allaway: “No. I think you’re finding that I don’t really have all the answers.”

Almazan: (Referring to her father’s eight grand-children): “You killed a part of every one of us.”

Allaway: “Very true. You’re right.”

Almazan: “I loved my father very much, and you just have no idea how much I miss him. I’m 60. You think I’d be over it by now. But I’m not. You had no right to do what you did.”

Allaway: “Absolutely. Your father didn’t deserve what happened. I didn’t do it because he was your father. I didn’t do it because he was an evil person. I didn’t do it because I knew him. It’s a hell of a word to say, but I was totally insane. That’s all I can say. Honestly. If I knew it was your father who was standing in front of me that morning, he’d be alive today. And so would the rest of them.”

Almazan: “Okay. I’ve done what I can do this far. I wanted to see my father’s murderer, and I’m going to move on now.”

Allaway: “Good.”

Almazan: “But, if you ever — make no mistake — ever try to get out, I will be there, every single day until I die, to see that you don’t. Because you took a lot of people’s freedom.”

Stephen Wayne Anderson

Earth, was a source of amazement for even the most hardened guards. Nor did this fact prevent him from enjoying his last meal: an elaborate feast of two grilled cheese sandwiches with radishes, cottage cheese, a mixture of corn and hominy, a slice of peach pie, and a pint of chocolate chip ice cream.

Anderson fully accepted he would be executed on this day. The Death Row poet and writer even managed to complete writing a short story titled, Laughing Waters, just a few days earlier. Dubbed as, “poet laureate of America’s damned,” the forty-eight-year-old Anderson watched as the guards approached his cell. It was 12:05 a.m. Time for him to be to be transported to San Quentin’s death chamber. Outside the prison walls, two hundred and thirty people continued their vigil, protesting the death penalty.

The only observers in attendance were Anderson’s two attorneys and the psychologist, who had testified in his defense. He had few relatives or friends, and while he did have two sons, he hardly knew them. Even during his time in prison, he did not have visitors. The guards had never met anyone so alone.

He was emotionless and did not say a word as the guards securely strapped his arms and legs to the padded gurney in the apple green death chamber. He was asked if he had any final words. Anderson remained silent until one of his attorneys, Margo Rocconi, mouthed the words, “I love you.” Anderson stared at her. She mouthed the words two more times. In response, Anderson blinked as his right foot twitched. He then said his final words, “Thank you”. 

Murderous Mind Volume 2 Book Cover By Ryan Becker

A guard announced, “The execution shall now proceed.”

The guards placed a box of newly prepared syringes on the gurney, near Anderson’s feet. They set up an intravenous line that ran to his tattooed covered arms. As the lethal chemicals were released into his body, the guards left the room and locked the door behind them. Staring at the ceiling of the 7-foot-wide room, his breathing became heavy and strained. His chest heaved with a morbid rhythm every five seconds. The blood drained from his face as his head rolled to the right, his body motionless.

He was pronounced dead at 12:30 a.m., on July 29, 2002.

Unwanted

Just as he was alone before his death, Anderson was alone at birth. The eldest of two sons, Anderson was born in 1953, in St. Louis, Missouri, to an alcoholic father, and a mother devoid of any love for her children. She would frequently tell her children she “dreaded the day” they had been born. Anderson repeatedly attempted to protect his younger brother from the wrath of his parents’ beatings and abusive behavior.

The family moved to New Mexico when Anderson turned 14-years-old. It was at this time his parents kicked him out of the house. He took off for the hills, where he lived in the outdoors, on his own, for most of his teen years. Anderson resorted to stealing to survive. Had his home life been more stable, he would have most likely been in school, setting an entirely different trajectory for his life.

Around the age of 18, Anderson moved to Utah. It was there that his criminal behavior first caught up with him. He was convicted of one count of aggravated burglary. In 1973, he was incarcerated a second time, when he was found guilty on three counts of aggravated burglary. It was during this prison term that Anderson committed his first murder. In 1977, he fatally stabbed Robert Blundell, a fellow inmate, while the two were working in the kitchen. Anderson thought Blundell was a snitch, and stabbed him to death with a kitchen knife. Due to a lack of evidence, Anderson was never charged for the murder. He later assaulted another inmate and a correctional officer.

On November 24, 1979, Anderson escaped from prison. Again, just like when he was a teen, he found himself hiding in the wilderness, this time in the mountains of Utah. But unlike when he was a teen, he no longer relied on stealing to support himself. This time around, he got involved with drug traffickers.

Ace Fairbanks was involved in drug trafficking in Utah. On February 23, 1980, an acquaintance of Fairbanks told him of a potential buyer, 29-year-old, Timothy Glashien, a resident of Bountiful. Glashien contacted Fairbanks looking to purchase several pounds of marijuana. Fairbanks became suspicious of Glashien, asking to buy such a significant amount. Fairbanks came to believe Glashien was an undercover agent. Fairbanks, who knew Anderson from prison, hired him to kill Glashien.

Fairbanks and Anderson picked up Glashien and told him they were taking him to where the transaction would be made. Instead, they took him to a canyon near Salt Lake City, where Anderson shot him twice in the head and twice in the torso at close range. Glashien’s body was discovered the next day by someone collecting aluminum cans. Though authorities believed that Anderson committed the killing, they had no evidence.

Anderson left Utah and headed to Nevada, where he worked as a contract killer. He would later confess to killing six people while living there. Again, authorities could not connect him to the murders. It would be the final murder he committed, once he moved to California that would lead to his ultimate downfall.

The Bloomington Murder

Bloomington, California, in San Bernardino County, was Anderson’s next stop in his transient life. It was midnight May 26, 1980, and Anderson was off to commit another burglary. For a few days, Anderson had staked out the house of 81-year-old, Elizabeth Lyman, a retired piano teacher. Lyman lived by herself, so Anderson felt she would be the perfect target.

Under the cover of darkness, he snuck on to her property and cut the phone line with a knife. Then, Anderson headed to the French doors, removing a single pane of glass and unlocking the door from inside. He proceeded from room to room, checking to see if there was anyone in the home. He made his way down the dark hall and into the bedroom, where he came upon Lyman, who sat up from her bed and screamed. Anderson pointed his .45 caliber handgun at her. With the gun less than 20 inches from her face, he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit her just under her left eye.

Anderson covered her body with a sheet as blood poured out, forming a crimson halo as it flowed over her pillow. He picked up the expelled casing lying on the floor, and proceeded to ransack the house, searching for money and other valuables. He found $112. While most criminals would have taken off to avoid being detected, Anderson decided to help himself to the comforts of Lyman’s home. He went to the kitchen, prepared himself a bowl of noodles, and sat down to watch television.

Lyman’s neighbor was awakened by barking dogs and got out of bed to investigate. Looking over at Lyman’s house, she could see Anderson through the window and called the Sheriff’s office. At 3:47 a.m., deputies arrived and arrested him. Anderson was taken to the San Bernardino Sheriff’s substation in Fontana.

Homicide detectives at the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department interviewed Anderson, who freely confessed to Lyman’s murder. A psychiatrist also interviewed him, and determined Anderson was sane and sober at the time of the killing.

He was arraigned on May 29, 1980.

On July 24, 1981, Anderson was convicted of the murder of Lyman, and sentenced to death.

Though he confessed to other murders, there was not enough evidence to convict him for those.

The Poet Laureate of Death Row

Anderson was sentenced to death row, but the death penalty in California was repealed before his execution date. When the death penalty was reestablished, his execution date was reset for January 29, 2002. While on death row, he became depressed. Instead of giving in to the depression, he found a way to get out of it, by taking up writing.

For the next 20 years, the vicious killer with an IQ of 136, wrote extensively. He began writing poems and short stories about his experience on death row. He also became involved with the prison’s chapter of the Poets, Essayist, and Novelists, a writing group he joined in 1998. Professor Bell Gale Chevigny, who chaired the prison chapter, was very impressed by Anderson’s writings. His work earned him several prestigious literary prizes and numerous other awards. One of his works, Conversations with the Dead, won him critical acclaim. Chevigny became an important advocate for petitioning to commute Anderson’s sentence to life in prison. Chevigny wrote the following letter to argue against Anderson’s execution:

My argument for Anderson’s life springs from personal experience. Like other writers on the prison committee of the PEN (Poets, Essayists, and Novelists) American Center, I know how dramatically many prisoners grow while behind bars. From the hundreds of manuscripts submitted to our contest every year, we get a privileged glimpse of some of the most serious writing in the country. Editing a collection of the best work of 51 PEN prison-writing contest winners, I asked the authors what motivates them. Fiction writer Susan Rosenberg replied, “Writing forces me to remain conscious of the suffering around me and to resist getting numb to it. I write to keep my heart open, to keep pumping fresh red blood.”

Anderson said the same, although the threat of death puts the task of remaining human to the harshest test. He wrote me about the more than 500 men awaiting court decisions on California’s Death Row: “We carry imminent destruction with us constantly. We eat, sleep, and breathe death.” But writing, he said another time, offers the experience of “coming out of an emotional desert into an exciting whirlwind of expression and release.” And, again, “A sentence of death made me realize the value of life, and of living.” After a period of despair, Anderson undertook to educate himself. He read everything he could and even studied Latin. Now, he writes; his thirst to read is so great that, “I even dream of libraries.”

Living on Death Row for 20 years, Anderson had seen men released, and others walked to their death. He was a connoisseur of despair, the poet laureate of America was damned. He longed for an anthology of condemned prisoners’ writings. His own gift of compassion may have been the greatest reward for his personal transformation. In a poem, he wrote: “Over these incarcerated years, I have heard men wail in the night, mourning misplaced lives and lost souls…” The poem concludes, “Nothing seems as forlorn as the profound crying, of an unseen man weeping in solitude.”

Even the family of his victims were against his receiving the death sentence. His lawyers argued that Anderson’s original attorney had been derelict in his responsibilities, and never brought up the mitigating factors in Anderson’s case, including his abusive childhood. They further noted that several clients of this lawyer had had their cases overturned due to his incompetence. Despite the efforts of those against his death sentence, Anderson was executed on January 29, 2002.

For those who were his advocate, he left his legacy in the written word, including the following poems:

Conversations with the Dead

These are the graves of the executed ones

he announced with a somber, indifferent kind of respect

and yet later, in quiet reflection, I understood his tone

came out of that secret reservoir of the soul which knows

I, too, could end up as forgotten dust

I, too, might die for nothing.

Often now I think back upon my journey

through that phantom land: a land caught

like evening haze at dusk, soon to perish

into the gathering darkness of night

but, for one brief moment, beyond time.

I recall those I, too, have slain

those by my wrath seized, stolen from life

becoming but candles lit by children

who became adults before childhood lived.

These are the executed ones eyes

small sparks, and then was gone

dissolving into the umbra arts of night

leaving but those sparks which smolder in my soul

like candles surrounding the powerless

and charred Virgin’s image in a chapel.

These are the executed ones

studying a horizon of tombstones.

Pray for them and for those to come.

I miss them all

I miss leaves whispering

softly through the evening haze

little conversations upon the breeze

rustling giggles and hush, child, hush.

I miss fresh cut summer grass

turned wet and vibrant green, ah, yes

I miss those bugs annoying my nose, my eyes, my ears

I miss cursing at their taunts.

I miss catching scent of honeysuckle

lifted warm on gentlest breeze

and the sound of distant children playing at dusk

called for supper but reluctant to go.

I miss the harsh bite of wood smoke

drifting through the heavy autumn air

and the scent of dead things burned against obscure horizons

rising upwards into a thousand sunset colors.

I miss listening to the sounds of night

crickets chirping and birds calling each other

I miss watching life unfold and hearing echoes

continuing through winter’s cold.

I miss so much living behind these walls

cloistered away from the world beyond

but sometimes I hear the rain across the roof

and smell it upon the sidewalks cleaned.

I miss the sensation of all things purified

of life free of all its burdens

and I miss just living for sunsets and the moon

and those things lost, hush…child, hush.

For My Memory

August-September 1990

Light a candle for my memory

in a quiet chapel by the sea

as day drifts into dusky night

cup it in your hands and hold me tight

as the stars begin to softly shine

blow out the flame as you call it mine

I am gone, but in your heart I remain

as long as you whisper gently my name.

So light a chapel’s candle by the sea

hold it out as a guide for my memory.

Explore The Rest Of “Murderous Minds Volume 2” Stories on Amazon

Murderous Mind Volume 2 Book Cover By Ryan Becker

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