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Edward Charles ALLAWAY





Classification: Homicide
Characteristics: Revenge - Cal-State University shooting
Number of victims: 7
Date of murders: July 12, 1976
Date of arrest: Same day (surrenders)
Date of birth: 1939
Victims profile: Seth Fessenden; Stephen L. Becker, 32; Paul F. Herzberg; Bruce A. Jacobson; Donald Aarges, 41, and Frank Teplansky, 51 (employees of the college)
Method of murder: Shooting (.22-caliber rifle)
Location: Fullerton, California, USA
Status: Found not guilty by reason of insanity. Confined State Hospital 1977

In 1976 Ed shot nine people, seven fatally, in a homicidal rampage at the library at Cal State Fullerton where he worked as a janitor. Not a marksman, Eddie used a .22-caliber rifle to shoot his victims at close range. Found not guilty by reason of insanity, the killer has been confined to the Atascadero State Hospital.

In 1992 he was transferred to the less restrictive Napa State Hospital and has been deemed well enough to be released into the community. Dr. Paul Blair, a state psychiatrist and UC Irvine professor said that Allaway's psychopathic behavior appears "to be in full remission."

If released maybe Dr. Blair could give him some work in the UC Irvine campus. However, he should stay clear of the library.


Seven killed, two injured as gunman sprays shots at college in California

The New York Times

13 July 1976

LOS ANGELES, July 12 - Seven persons were killed and two were seriously injured today when a 37-yeadr-old janitor entered the basement of a college library and, methodically going from room to room, opened fire with a .22-caliber automatic rifle, the police said.

The shooting occurred on the Fullerton campus of California State University, a modern, 225-acre college lined with trees 25 miles south of Los Angeles.

Shortly after the shooting, policemen went to a Hilton Inn Hotel not far from the college and arrested Edward C. Alloway of Anaheim, a college employee. friends described him as a likable man, a "loner" who had been brooding during the last few days because of difficulties with his wife. He was held on a murder charge at the Fullerton jail.

All of those killed were employees of the college. They were Seth Fessenden, professor emeritus of speech; Stephen L. Becker, 32, a son of the college's director of placement, who was employed at the school; Paul F. Herzberg, a college photographer; Bruce A. Jacobson, an audio-visual technician; Donald Aarges, 41, a custodian; and Frank Teplansky, 51, a graphics department employee.

About 5,000 students are attending summer sessions at the college but relatively few people were in the basement of the six-story library when the shots rang out this morning.

According to witnesses, a man carrying a rifle suddenly appeared in the basement shortly before 7 A.M., in an area of special-purpose activity rooms, containing audiovisual aids and special library facilities.

The assailant, said the witnesses, then went from room to room, loading his rifle as he went along, apparently firing indiscriminately, although it was not immediately established whether the gunman had in fact consciously selected his victims beforehand.

Some witnesses said the rapid fire of the weapon reminded them of a machine gun in a war movie, although others reported hearing only a "popping" noise that did not alarm them.

"Nobody believed they were gunshots," said Demetra Bailey, a 14-year-old Fullerton girl who was on the campus to attend an Upward Bound summer training program. "We all thought it was firecrackers."

Richard Corona, who was a coordinator of this program, said that when he heard the initial shots, he went into a hallway to investigate.

He said that a short, stocky man, whom he described as "looking like an all-American boy," brushed past him from a room where Mr. Corona could see .22 caliber cartridges strewn about the floor.

Mr. Corona said the man said: "He doesn't belong here; he doesn't belong here." Then, he said, the man aimed a rifle at Mr. Carona and another Upward Bound counselor, Marcie Martinez, who had gone into the hall.

A moment passed. Then, without saying anything, the man lowered his gun and ran in the opposite direction. Soon, Mr. Corona said, firing started again. "There was one bullet after another," he said.

Mr. Corona said he went into a library room where 15 students were working and shouted: "Everybody has to get out of here; there's a crazy guy loose with a gun." But, he said, "Nobody would listen to me."

Meanwhile, people who had been walking quietly in the warren of basement rooms or were walking along corridors were cut down by fire. Two of the victims staggered outside of the building, but died there; the others lay inside the library.

The employees who were injured were Maynard Hoffman, 65, a custodial supervisor and Donald Karar, an associate librarian.

Mr. Alloway, who had worked for the college since May, 1975, was arrested at a hotel where his wife was employed, and one police official said he believed that he had been pleading with her for a reconciliation.

Amol Navarro, chief custodian at the university, said that Mr. Alloway was "a quiet type; whenever he went on a break, he would go alone and he never seemed to eat lunch with anyone but he did his work and he had a good attendance record. He's clean cut, and you never heard him cuss, or blame something that was wrong on someone else," Mr. Navarro said.

He said that Mr. Alloway had seemed depressed the last few days. "He had a problem," he said. "He told me he had a family problem, and the last two days he worked, he was awful hard to get along with."


Mass slayer seeks release from mental facility

Ed Allaway killed seven in 1976. Hospital officials back his request. Victims' relatives object.

Los Angeles Times

Monday May 25, 1998

When janitor Ed Allaway stormed into the library at Cal State Fullerton 22 years ago and gunned down seven people, the worst mass killing in Orange County's history, some believed he should pay with his life. But an Orange County Superior Court judge instead ruled that Allaway was insane and therefore innocent, and he was committed to a mental institution.

Next month, the 59-year-old Allaway will argue for his freedom. And he has a chance of getting it. Backed by a panel of psychiatrists, Allaway will ask a judge to transfer him to an outpatient program, which essentially releases him to society, with some supervision. Allaway has made this request before, but this is the first time hospital officials are recommending his transfer to a group home.

"He's doing well, well enough for the hospital to recommend outpatient," said attorney John Bovee, who has represented Allaway since 1992. "And it's a safe bet that the hospital treated this case more critically because of the political ramifications."

But several relatives of those who died in the barrage of bullets on July 12, 1976, said they are appalled and painted a picture of Allaway as a sociopath who got away with murder and is still a danger to the public.

"I don't want my father's death to have been in vain," said Pat Almazan of Upland, daughter of Frank Teplansky, a graphic artist who was killed. "As long as there's a chance that he'll be released - and I feel that he's very close to that - there will not be closure there for me." Allaway also killed two other custodians, a photographer, a retired professor, a library assistant and an audio technician. Two others were wounded.

At the edge of campus, a memorial still reminds passersby of that fateful summer morning when Allaway, toting a .22-caliber rifle, entered the library through a side door, descended a flight of stairs to the basement and walked from office to office, shooting some people and sparing others, witnesses testified at his trial. He chased two custodians, Debbie Paulsen and Donald Karges, down the hall and shot them. Bruce Jacobson, the audio technician, was shot at point-blank range after hitting Allaway on the head with a metal statue.

Allaway then gunned down professor emeritus Seth Fessenden and photographer Paul F. Herzberg. After taking a service elevator to the first floor, he shot Teplansky and Stephen Becker, a library assistant and the son of Ernest A. Becker, one of the university's founders. By the time Almazan got to the hospital, her father was unconscious. He had been shot three times in the back, with one bullet striking his head.

"I remember putting my hand in his, and he squeezed my hand," she said. "He died holding my hand. I can never forget that scene, ever." Allaway, in previous interviews, has said that although he knows that the shooting spree occurred, he can't remember pulling the trigger. A former Baptist Sunday school teacher, Allaway said he went crazy because co-workers had taunted him about pornographic movies that, they erroneously told him, featured his then-22-year-old wife. Allaway also said he was deeply offended by the obscene graffiti and homosexual activities he encountered in a men's restroom, he said.

"I would walk in to clean, and the men would say, 'Let's make it a threesome' or something, and I would say, 'Gosh no, I'm trying to make a buck, leave me alone,' " he recalled in a 1987 interview.

His attorney, Bovee, contends Allaway is ready for a normal life outside the barbed-wire fence of Patton State Hospital in San Bernardino, where he has lived since 1995. The attorney said Allaway is "cautiously optimistic" about the hearing June 15 before Judge Richard L. Weatherspoon in Orange County Superior Court.

If Allaway succeeds, the county's correctional mental health officials will determine which group home he will move to and the extent of supervision he will have. In any case, the move would allow Allaway to hold a job in the community. The next step after the outpatient program is full release, a move that even Allaway's attorney deemed extremely difficult to achieve.

"It is my belief, or opinion, that Ed could look forward to most and maybe all of his life under community supervision," Bovee said.


Killer denied parole

Community relieved that Allaway not likely to seek hearing.

Thursday, september 18, 2003

Doctors at Patton State Mental Hospital are not recommending release for Edward Allaway who, in 1976, walked into the Cal State Fullerton Library basement and shot nine people, killing seven.

Allaway, a CSUF custodian at the time of the killings, was found guilty by reason of insanity in 1977 and has spent the past 27 years in mental institutions.

As required by law, treating physicians must submit a progress report to the court every six months. The most recent recommendation to “retain and treat” Allaway was submitted in July.

In 2001 a report provided by treating clinicians recommended his release and with that support Allaway sought a “restoration of sanity” hearing. His release was denied.

According to a 2001 Daily Titan article, a Santa Ana Superior Court Judge ruled that Allaway “could still be a danger to society and denied his petition for conditional outpatient release.”

Now, without a favorable recommendation from treating physicians, it is unlikely that Allaway will seek a hearing, which he is entitled to annually.

John Bovee, the Deputy Public Defender who has represented Allaway for the past 10 years, said, “I have not heard from Ed and, although he has a right to seek a hearing, I assume he will not.”

Bovee said that the doctors’ recommendation was based on recent personal losses experienced by Allaway.

“I believe he had a death in the family and that a fellow patient that he was close to had died. They want him to work through the emotional impact of those losses,” Bovee said.

District Attorney Tony Rackauckas said, “In general, the report says that they are not able to say that he does not represent a general risk to the public.”

“I certainly am relieved that we don’t have to go through the emotional turmoil of a hearing at this time,” said Paul Paulsen, brother of Deborah Paulsen, who was one of Allaway’s coworkers and a graduate student who was killed.

Frustrated at his limited role at the hearings, Paulson said, “Unlike a parole hearing, you cannot say anything about how this massacre - and it was a massacre - has changed our lives.”

He said that it is not fair that the suffering of the victims’ family members bear no weight on whether or not Allaway is released.

Rackauckas said, “Although we have seen an increase in the role of victims in court over the years, that is not the case in these sanity hearings. When you are sentenced to prison it is a matter of punishment and here it is about present sanity.”

Whether a positive recommendation from clinicians would result in future hearings is not known.

Rackauckas said his office would be more than willing to commit necessary resources to oppose Allaway’s release at future hearings. He estimates that it costs the community approximately $100,000 each time a hearing is conducted.

The four hearings that Allaway has requested over the years are not only costly but take a toll on the victims’ family members.

“It is very difficult for my mother, who is 83. I watch her become depressed and her pain in reliving the murder of her only daughter over and over again,” Paulsen said.

Rackauckas said he would favor legislature that would extend the length of time between hearings.

Paulsen does not believe that doctors will ever be able to know if Allaway is a threat to the community. “I believe he is institutionally insane. If you were to remove him from his very sheltered world, it would be very dangerous for anyone he came into contact with.”

Paulsen said that Allaway’s behavior inside a very protective world is not indicative of what could happen if he were to deal with the “stressors” of the real world like being cut-off while driving on the freeway or being reprimanded by an employer.

“The only reason there has not been another episode of violence is because Allaway has been locked up for 27 years,” Paulsen said.

Rackauckas said, “This was a horrendous case were seven people were killed. I hope he is never released.”

“To his credit, Ed has been stable since he has been hospitalized,” Bovee said. He believes Allaway is unique because he has never needed any kind of anti-psychotic medication for stability.

Bovee said most people who are released into the community are required to take an anti-psychotic medication.

“Ed does not need that, but it would be available to whatever community clinician was assigned to him. That is another protection that the community has.”

Bovee said if Allaway was released, a community clinician would constantly supervise him and if he showed signs of any unstable behavior he would be hospitalized immediately. Hospitalization would not require any kind of formal process.

A hearing would take place after he was hospitalized.

Of the community’s outrage if he were released, Bovee said “life might not be very pleasant for Ed for a while.”

Prior to being employed at CSUF, Allaway had a history of paranoid behavior. Paulsen said that at the time his sister was killed he was angry that a background check was not conducted. He believes that may have saved Deborah.

“Today, I do not harbor any resentment toward CSUF. I believe they have a new policy regarding background checks,” he said.

Maria Plimpton, an employment manager for Human Resources, said that currently CSUF does not hire staff, including custodians, without a thorough background check. The check includes verification of previous employment.

She said that although there are companies that have policies to provide limited information in order to protect themselves from lawsuits, they would be negligent not to supply information about an employee’s unstable or violent acts in the work environment.


Shootings recall CSUF ordeal 31 years ago

Questions for a Killer: A slain man's daughter confronts a campus shooter.

By Greg Hardesty - The Orange County Register

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Patricia Almazan reached across the table and gently nudged the black-and-white photo into the killer's hands.

"This is my father, after you shot him," she said.

Edward Charles Allaway briefly studied the bloody image of Frank G. Teplansky dying on an ambulance stretcher.

He said nothing, slowly chewing gum, his mouth shut.

She handed him another picture of her father as a Marine staff sergeant, and another of him smiling at his desk at Cal State Fullerton, where he worked for 11 years as a graphic artist in the campus media center.

Allaway knew the face well.

"Very friendly, very friendly," the former custodian recalled of the man who used to wave at him and say hello - the man he shot three times in the back and head.

Teplansky, 51, died at a hospital squeezing his only daughter's hand.

Almost 30 years after Allaway carried out Orange County's single worst killing spree - seven dead and two wounded - Almazan was ready to talk to the killer, face to face.

She wanted to try to put to rest questions that have been tormenting her since the 1976 massacre.

Why did you kill my father?

That was at the top of her list.

Allaway agreed to his first-ever meeting earlier this month with a relative of a victim out of a sense of duty, he said.

"It's the least I can do for her."


On the morning of July 12, 1976, Allaway prowled the hallways of the campus library with a rifle he had purchased three days earlier at a Kmart.

At his trial, he said he remembered nothing except cowering in a stairwell, afraid and unarmed – as if someone were hunting him.

The onetime Baptist Sunday-school teacher with a history of mental illness testified that a group of homosexual men in a bathroom he cleaned were plotting to kill him, and that his wife had been recruited to appear in pornographic movies being shown in the library basement.

A judge found Allaway not guilty by reason of insanity.

Almazan is convinced Allaway knew what he was doing.

She feels he should be in prison instead of a mental hospital, where he can work outdoors in a vegetable garden, browse in a 10,000-title library, play tennis, swim in a pool – even have a girlfriend, while her father lies underground at Holy Sepulcher Cemetery in Orange, under a tree.

"He loved trees," she said.

Almazan always was close to him, despite being separated from him for long periods by her parents' divorce and remarriages.

The week Allaway killed him, Almazan was planning to have her father over for dinner at her home in Cerritos. He loved her spaghetti.

Her children, then 10 and 7, probably would have begged him to pull quarters from behind their ears and perform other magic.

Almazan would have talked to him about how things were going at her secretarial job at a firefighters union.

Maybe Teplansky would have sat down and played the piano. He could play everything from "Chopsticks" to Chopin.

The last time Almazan and her father spoke to each other – he called her "Patsy" – was three days before he died.

"He took the time to be a good parent," Almazan said of the former amateur boxer from New York who taught her how to spar.

She was the oldest of his four children by her mother.

Daddy's girl.


Almazan and her husband, Joe, passed through the 14-foot fence topped with razor wire that surrounds Patton State Hospital in San Bernardino County – Allaway's home since 1995, after stretches at mental institutions in Atascadero and Napa.

They walked past three police guards into a conference room.

Allaway sat in a chair. He wore a freshly pressed uniform of long khaki pants and matching short-sleeve shirt. He looked much younger than his 67 years.

His close-cropped, mostly gray hair framed a smooth face that bore a wispy gray moustache that drooped to his chin.

He briefly stood. The Almazans sat without shaking his hand.

Pat Almazan took off her sunglasses.

She placed a 3-inch-thick binder of papers, photos and notes on the table.

She had seen Allaway countless times from the courtroom gallery. Now, he was less about three feet away.

She looked at him, then down. She cleared her throat.

"What would you prefer I call you?" said Almazan, a single gold cross hanging from her neck.

"Ed would be fine."

"I'm Pat. I'm sure you know."

Joe Almazan, a retired firefighter, sat next to his wife of 42 years, his right arm resting on her back.

"Did you know that my father, like you, was a Marine?"

"No," Allaway said. "I had no background on any "

"That he fought in World War II and the Korean War? And that you gunned him down?"


"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."

Almazan closed her eyes, as if to collect her thoughts. Her arms were folded on the table, her legs crossed at the ankles.

Two Patton officials, including Allaway's social worker, watched silently in the small, unadorned conference room.

Almazan told Allaway that he must have known what he was doing.

"If I had believed that you were just a crazy person, that you just happened on campus and just started indiscriminately shooting, I could have laid my father to rest 30 years ago," she said. "But that's not the case."

She took her time searching her thoughts, ignoring the materials she had brought.

"I really, honestly have to get at the truth in order for me to rest," she said "And in order ..."

Her voice broke. Allaway asked if she would like some water. She waved him off.

"In order for my father's soul to get where it has to get."

Tell me the truth, Almazan said, adding: "I'm in prison for as long as you are."

"You're right," Allaway said.

Allaway, in a mild-mannered voice, said: "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 asked him about conditions at work. She asked why he gunned down people he knew and liked – why he stopped to reload.

"These were people that you worked with, that you knew, that you sat and spoke with many times," she said.

"Absolutely. And I kidded with them, laughed with them, worked with them; I ate lunch with them."

"Why did you shoot my dad three times in the back?"

"I have no idea," Allaway said. "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 was frustrated. But she remained composed.

"I know you're not going to tell me the truth," she said. "I know that now. I knew from the onset."

"No," Allaway said. "I think you're finding that I don't really have all the answers."

She told Allaway about her father's eight grandchildren.

"You killed a part of every one of us," Almazan said.

"Very true. You're right."

Almazan said, "I loved my father very much, and you just have no idea how much I miss him."

Her voice breaking, she added: "I'm 60. You think I'd be over it by now. But I'm not."

She said she prays nothing like this will ever happen again.

She questioned why Allaway didn't turn the rifle on himself.

"You had no right to do what you did," Almazan said.


She asked him if he had any questions. He thanked her and her husband for coming, and said: "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."

Almazan stared into his green eyes, trying to see into his soul.

"It's a hell of a word to say, but I was totally insane," he said. "That's all I can say. Honestly."

He added: "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."

"OK," Almazan said.

Then she showed him the pictures of her father.

She pleaded with Allaway to stop petitioning the courts to get out of Patton. It's emotional torture for all the victims' families.

"I've done what I can do this far," Almazan said. "I wanted to see my father's murderer, and I'm going to move on now."

"Good," Allaway said.

"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."

Almazan and her husband then got up and left.


Almazan met with Allaway to get some answers. After 31 minutes of talking with him, she realized that sometimes, there aren't any answers.

"Just by being able to ask the man who took my father's life why he did it gave me some modicum of relief, and put me one step closer to closure," she said.

Said Allaway, after the meeting: "In my heart and my mind, I really would like to be able to do something to show my sorrow for the sorrow I brought to these people. You can all punish me, but you can't come close to what's already there," he said, pointing at his heart.

"I punish myself every day. Every day, I know why I'm here. I couldn't put it across the table to (Almazan), but I wish I could."

Allaway knows he never will escape the judgment of the people whose lives he shattered.

"As far as God judging me, I know it will be fair and honest," he said. "And that's where I leave it. I'm going to let him call the cards."

Almazan said she never will forgive Allaway.

"I looked into his eyes,'' she said, "and there was no soul there."

She often thinks of her gregarious father, who always took the time to say hello to the janitor who killed him.

She has a favorite picture.

In the photo, a 6-year-old Almazan and her 5-year-old brother are dressed for church.

Their father is standing between them, smiling, his arms around them.

All of them together – under a tree.




Edward Charles Allaway


Edward Charles Allaway



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