Read A Sniper in the Tower Online

Authors: Gary M. Lavergne

Tags: #History, #United States, #General, #State & Local, #Southwest (AZ; NM; OK; TX), #True Crime, #Murder, #test

A Sniper in the Tower (85 page)

 
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Epilogue
The Writer From Austin
The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.
Marc Antony
in William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Act I II, Scene II.
Austin, Texas
Thirty years after the Tower incident, people on the Austin Police Force still think of Charles Whitman, and they still get angry At APD headquarters, a typical government building, visitors walk into the lobby through front doors facing the access road of Interstate Highway 35, where Houston McCoy sped toward the Tower from
 
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Holly Street. A sign tells visitors to walk around to the back of a large circular desk for assistance. A trophy case on the left commemorates victories by Austin Police teams at shooting contests. Some of the trophies are old and tarnished, as are some of the frames which hold pictures of APD officers killed in the line of duty. Uniformed officers work the reception area near the elevators, which visitors cannot board without a numbered sticker identifying the floor to which the visitor has been given access. A large matted frame near the elevator holds a black and white picture of Billy Paul Speed. He looks his agetwenty-three. Few know that at the time of his death he was ready to quit police work and go back to school.
Austin and the University of Texas have more than doubled in size since Charles Whitman was a resident. Both have prospered and grown even more diverse. Nineteenth Street is now Martin Luther King Boulevard; First Street is now Cesar Chavez Street. Residents celebrate June 19th as a significant holiday called ''Juneteenth" to commemorate the date in 1865 when Texas slaves learned they were free. Comparing Austin to the rest of Texas uncovers about as many similarities as comparing the equally Greek cities of Athens and Sparta. Austin is still different.
Charles Whitman assaulted not only individuals, he also assaulted Austin. And in many ways he continues to fire from the deck. Virtually all who were on the campus on that damn hot day in August still look at the Tower and see the face of Charles Whitman. Many still hear the shots and feel the terror. Whatever good Whitman may have done in his life is buried with him in West Palm Beach, Florida; his evil continues to live in Austin, Texas. He attacked youth and promise when he gunned down Mark Gabour, Alex Hernandez, Karen Griffith and the others who had not yet celebrated their eighteenth birthdays. He attacked love itself when he put bullets into lovers holding hands: Adrian and Brenda Littlefield, Paul Sonntag and Claudia Rutt, and Claire Wilson and Thomas Eckman.
In some ways Charles Whitman inhabits the Tower. It has a "bad karma." That curse reaches all those Whitman hurt, even those he did not shoot. In the early 1980s, Patrick Whitman, while on a trip through Texas, found himself attracted to the University of Texas. He told the
Austin American-Statesman
, "For some unknown reason, if I had gone to Austin and if the Tower was reopened, I would have
 
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gone. I don't know why. It's just like a driving force." Patrick's daughter talked him out of making the trip.
1
Tragically, that driving force has attracted others. During the first thirty years of its history, a total of three people committed suicide from the Tower; in a six-year period from 1968 to its reclosing in 1974, four more people chose to end their troubled lives there.
2
In 1967, the University of Texas spent $5,000 repairing the bullet holes on the exterior walls of the building,
3
and in February of 1976, the University of Texas Regents permanently closed the observation deck,
4
but repairing the image and easing the pain will require much more than official closings and money.
The University of Texas demonstrated, immediately following the Whitman tragedy, the value of revealing controversial facts rather than hiding them. It must have been tempting to hide the fact of Whitman's visit to Dr. Heatly and to shred the report about Whitman's urge to "go to the Tower and shoot people," but UT did not. Public institutions faced with similar situations today should take note.
The university also wisely avoided making Charles Whitman an obsession. As soon as possible, teachers returned to teaching and students returned to class. The South Mall holds no memorial to the many who died, and perhaps that is best.
C. A. Whitman
In Lantana, Florida, in an area where wooded tracts were being thinned out to provide for a new neighborhood, the traffic slowed where the road had been torn up. Near the center of activity an old man sat on a green golf cart. I recognized him right away, even though all of the pictures I had seen of him were from 1966. He did not have the look of someone who might be the only person Charles Whitman hated, or of someone a police department and a grand jury would seal documents in order to protect. He looked like what he was, a plumbing contractor, and one in the process of building. Where the road's shoulder had been dug out it looked like a large dry moat that could swallow my small rental car. C. A. Whitman motioned for a small bulldozer to move gravel and crushed stone
 
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along the edge of the road so that I could drive through. The men moved quickly; C. A. Whitman is still tough.
Now approaching his late seventies, he wears glasses and his hair is gray and longer than it had been when he came to Austin in 1966. "I am the writer from Austin who spoke to you earlier this week, Mr. Whitman. It is a pleasure to meet you," I said. The old man smiled and extended his left hand. He asked that I park up the driveway a bit and wait just a few minutes to allow him to conduct a little business. From a distance I positioned the car in order to watch the old plumber from my rear view mirror. Mr. Whitman did all the talking. The large, burly construction workers stood silently and nodded their heads. They listened intently, in spite of the sounds of hammers and heavy equipment. The air smelled of fresh dirt. Soon the green golf cart pulled up beside the car. "Follow me."
The long white driveway led to a modest home nearly surrounded by a large nursery The hissing of sprinklers replaced the sounds of construction, and the scent of wet plants and cool, oxygen-rich air overpowered the smell of dirt. C. A. Whitman escorted me to his home. Near the living room door an antique milk jug held a number of walking canes. Sofa pillows depicted horses, and equestrian photographs were everywhere. A horseshoe was nailed to the kitchen door frame and to the left hung a large circular thermometer decorated with paintings of ducks. In the center of the room an old coffee table covered with magazines was topped with a license plate that read, "Love Thy Neighbor, But Don't Get Caught."
The elder Whitman sat and talked graciously. His belt, a wide leather strap with a large buckle in the shape of a German Luger pistol, distracted me. After all that has happened to this man, why on earth would he wear a buckle in the shape of a gun? But then I have to remember, I am here to talk to him about things that happened nearly thirty years ago.
C. A. Whitman began the questioning. "So what do you propose to do?" He gradually began to repeat the same story he has told a million times. No wonder it sounded so matter-of-fact, so cold. "I had three sons and they are all dead," he said to me. Patrick, he revealed, had died of AIDS several years earlier. Of the three surviving Whitmans, Patrick was most affected by the Tower tragedy, which Mr. Whitman called "the accident."
5
I recall reading that
 
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Patrick used to go to Mass each August 1st, but later he despaired, saying "I don't think I know what happiness is."
6
Oddly, C. A. Whitman spoke more about Johnnie Mike than about his more infamous eldest son. But I already knew that by 1971 John Michael Whitman had straightened himself out and returned to work with his father. Before then, however, he had led a troubled life which included several arrests for offenses ranging from speeding to breaking and entering. He once told West Palm Beach deputies, "You've heard of my brother, well, you haven't seen any reputation yet."
7
On 4 July 1973, Johnnie Mike, by then a husband and father, decided to take a break from his studies by taking his wife out for a drink. Inside "Big Daddy's Lounge" an argument broke out that moved outside to the parking lot, where someone shot John in the stomach. He died in an ambulance en route to the hospital. Later that night C. A. Whitman identified the body of his youngest son. Lake Worth Police Sergeant Bill Openshaw later shared with reporters that the elder Whitman was grief-stricken.
8
In 1995, C. A. Whitman recalled, "He was killed on a Friday outside of Big Daddy's. He was gonna take his plumber's exam on Saturday."
9
In a telephone conversation only a few days before my trip to Florida, I had awkwardly introduced myself as a writer from Austin. C. A. agreed to sit and talk with me. But during my visit the old plumber did not say much, merely repeating the same facts that a high school student could easily find out doing research for a term paper. Suddenly I found out the reason for his reticence; he told me he wanted to make "financial arrangements." It would not have been inconsistent with my temperament to get a little angry at that point, but I did not do so and I do not know why. As politely as I could I said, "Mr. Whitman, I need to make clear to you that I do not intend to pay you anything for this interview." He looked surprised. He told me of others who had paid him for his time and pictures. Shortly, I began to pack my case. It was enough, I decided, just to meet this most remarkable man and say, "Hello."
Just before I left we shook hands and exchanged business cards. The old plumbing contractor walked away and went back to work. He has been in business since 1940 and has earned the right to rest, but he is still driven; he is still tough.
 
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Larry Fuess
Like Austin, the town of Dallas has grown dramatically since 1966. It is still the hometown of Lawrence A. Fuess, who is now the President of L. A. Fuess Partners Engineers, a business housed in the Oak Lawn section. He was once described as one of the brightest engineering students at the University of Texas, a superlative that was easy to believe after entering his suite of offices. The jewel tones of the carpet and furniture were fashionable, consistent with the style, dress and dignity of the man who emerged from the back offices into the anteroom saying: "Gary, I'm Larry Fuess."
As we came to the front desk, Mr. Fuess stopped and asked about the lunch he had requested for us. Because of a mixup it had not been ordered. He sent someone out to get it, and it arrived in minutes. We talked and ate. Larry Fuess was an extraordinarily personable man. "I cannot imagine or conjure up a reason
that would satisfy me
," was his reply to an invitation to muse about why, in 1966, his best friend became America's deadliest mass murderer. The mystery, however, has not changed his feelings. "Charlie" was his friend.
This was the first interview Larry Fuess has granted on the Whitman saga in nearly thirty years, but he says he still remembers everything. When asked about his visit to Jewell Street on 31 July 1966, Fuess recalled it as:
one of the more pleasant times we had with him in the preceding couple of months. We were with him, he had the whole plan in mind. He was writing the letter as calm as could be; he was funny; he was engaging. He was calmer than he had been in weeks, maybe even months before that. . . . He seemed so together and calm that night.
Every now and then, Fuess says, something happens to make him think of Charlie. He does not feel betrayed. Larry said the sign on the wall of Charlie's study summed up his friend's problem: "Strength has no quarter." Charlie wouldn't ask for help.
10

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