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Edward Charles ALLAWAY
Same day (surrenders)
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.
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."
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."
DINNER PLANS
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.
FACE TO FACE
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?"
"Yes."
"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.
"Absolutely."
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.
ONE STEP CLOSER
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.