Joseph Paul Franklin: Racist with a Rifle

In Episode 81 of the podcast, we take a look at the three-year racially motivated killing spree that covered at least 11 different states. From 1977 to 1980, Joseph Paul Franklin killed an estimated twenty-one people while injuring scores of others and creating an unease that spread throughout the country. What fueled his hatred towards blacks and Jews and how was he finally brought to justice?

Transcript

I’m not a person who likes to get into political debates, especially nowadays. I stay on top of the news and I have my beliefs but I try not to shove them down anyone’s throats. The chances of me swaying someone with opposite views from mine are slim to none. Most people have their minds made up.

It’s uncomfortable for me to be in discussions about politics… it always has been. The times I watched grown up friends or family members go at each other over Presidents or policies are not great memories for me. It brings out the ugly in people. Again… especially nowadays. 

I believe in equality and fairness. I fancy myself a right fighter. I’ve voted for people on both sides of the aisle. I have fond memories of George W leading us through 9/11, Clinton playing the saxophone and the inauguration of Barack Obama. 

In recent years I have mostly bad feelings and memories that are anything but fond. The world is falling apart at a rapid rate and everyday there is news that borders on the insane. And people… well people aren’t that great anymore. Social Media has given us all a bullhorn to say what we want, when we want. Politics is no longer something discussed at a dinner party. It’s shoved down our throats 24/7. Opinions, as they say, are like elbows, and everyone has them. 

The good in it all, I guess, is that it is now much easier to see people for who they are. Not just on the surface but deep down in their souls. A lot of times it can be surprising at best, ugly at worst. 

It feels like it’s acceptable to hate. Evil doesn’t have to hide anymore. It’s able to be displayed right out in the open for the world to see. It’s almost encouraged. Today’s episode is about a man that learned to hate at a very young age and while he ruined the lives of dozens of families, he did it all very quietly. As far as serial killers go he’s one of the worst, but people still today don’t really discuss him too much. His crimes weren’t ‘sexy’ in people’s eyes. They weren’t scandalous or disgusting in the sense of a Bundy or Dahmer. They were just mean and random and racist.   

Welcome to the Curator 135 Podcast, my name is Nathan Olli and this is Episode 81 - Joseph Paul Franklin The Racist with a Rifle

A man walks into a convenience store in Florida, a drifter with piercing blue eyes and a quiet demeanor. He’s been on the run for years, slipping through the cracks, leaving bodies in his wake. This man isn’t just a criminal—he’s a white supremacist, a domestic terrorist, and one of the most elusive serial killers of the late 20th century. His name is Joseph Paul Franklin, and his murder spree would leave a nation in fear. But unlike most serial killers, Franklin wasn’t killing for thrill or personal gain. He was on a self-declared 'mission'—a one-man race war.

By the time the FBI finally caught him in 1980, Franklin had left a trail of bodies across the country—murdering mixed-race couples, Black men, Jewish citizens, and anyone he deemed ‘unworthy’ of existence. He saw himself as a soldier for a cause, but in reality, he was nothing more than a racist with a rifle, fueled by hate and a dangerously twisted ideology. His case forces us to ask: What drives a man to such extremes? And how did he evade capture for so long?

To understand Joseph Paul Franklin, we have to go back to the beginning. How does a boy from Mobile, Alabama, grow into a murderer fueled by hate? What led him down the path of extremism? Stay with us as we uncover the origins of a killer.

Before he became Joseph Paul Franklin, the racist serial killer, he was James Clayton Vaughn Jr. Born in 1950 in Mobile, Alabama, Franklin’s childhood was a blueprint for dysfunction. The South in the 1950s was steeped in segregation—a place where racism was woven into the fabric of daily life. But for young James, hatred began at home.

His mother, a strict and abusive woman, ruled the household with an iron fist. Physical punishment was routine, and affection was scarce. Franklin’s father, on the other hand, was an alcoholic, drifting in and out of the family’s life with little interest in his children. This emotional and physical neglect left deep scars. The Vaughn children—Franklin and his siblings—were often left to fend for themselves, growing up in a world where love was conditional and fear was constant.

The South’s racial tensions were a backdrop to Franklin’s formative years. Schools were segregated, lynchings were still a dark reality, and organizations like the Ku Klux Klan wielded power. In this environment, Franklin found his ideology. He dropped out of high school, unable to fit in or find a path forward. Instead, he turned to extremist literature—pamphlets from the Klan, Nazi propaganda, and the deeply racist writings of George Lincoln Rockwell, founder of the American Nazi Party.

It wasn’t long before James Vaughn Jr. became Joseph Paul Franklin—renaming himself in honor of Nazi leader Paul Joseph Goebbels and one of the founding fathers of the United States, Benjamin Franklin. This was more than a name change—it was a transformation. He saw himself as a soldier, a crusader for white supremacy, and soon, he would act on these beliefs with violence.

To understand Franklin’s radicalization, we need to step back and look at Alabama in the 1950s. This was the era of Jim Crow laws, where African Americans faced daily discrimination and violence. The Civil Rights Movement was beginning to take shape, challenging the deep-seated racism of the South. For some, this was a time of hope and change—for others, like Franklin, it was a time to dig in and resist that change, often violently.

Imagine growing up in a place where hatred is not just taught but institutionalized. A place where the color of your skin determines your worth in the eyes of society. For a young, impressionable boy like Franklin, already bruised by family abuse and seeking a sense of power, the white supremacist ideology was seductive. It gave him an identity, a cause, and soon, a justification for murder.

By the time Joseph Paul Franklin began his killing spree in the late 1970s, America had changed—but not enough. The Civil Rights Act had been passed, schools were being desegregated, and opportunities for Black Americans had expanded. But just because the laws changed didn’t mean hearts and minds had followed. Racism wasn’t dead—it was adapting, shifting, and in some cases, growing more violent.

This was an era of contradictions. Black musicians, athletes, and activists were breaking barriers, yet white flight was reshaping American cities as suburbs became segregated by design. Affirmative action policies sought to correct past injustices, but they also fueled resentment among white conservatives who saw them as ‘reverse discrimination.’ The Ku Klux Klan, though no longer the powerful force it once was, was experiencing a resurgence, capitalizing on this backlash."

The 1970s saw the birth and expansion of several white supremacist and neo-Nazi movements. Groups like the National Socialist White People's Party, the Aryan Nations, and the Christian Identity movement grew in influence. These organizations were built on the belief that America was under attack from minorities, Jews, and leftists—and that violence was the only solution.

It was in this environment that Joseph Paul Franklin found his calling. He wasn’t content with just reading racist propaganda—he wanted to act. His goal was simple but terrifying: to start a race war, one bullet at a time.

Racially motivated violence wasn’t just coming from extremists—it was also happening within law enforcement and mainstream society. Police brutality remained rampant, with cases like the killing of Black Panther Party leader Fred Hampton in 1969 still fresh in people’s minds. In 1979, just before Franklin was caught, the Greensboro Massacre took place—where members of the Ku Klux Klan and the American Nazi Party opened fire on a group of anti-racist protesters in North Carolina, killing five people in broad daylight.

Franklin saw these moments not as atrocities, but as inspiration. He believed he could push America toward a full-scale race war, targeting those he considered ‘enemies’—Black men, Jewish citizens, interracial couples. Unlike many white supremacists who hid behind organizations, Franklin worked alone. A one-man terrorist. A drifter with a sniper rifle and a mission soaked in blood.

By the mid-1970s, Joseph Paul Franklin wasn’t just reading white supremacist propaganda—he was producing it. He began printing and distributing racist flyers across the South, leaving them on car windshields and stuffing them into mailboxes. But Franklin wasn’t interested in simply recruiting followers. He wanted action. And soon, words wouldn’t be enough. The FBI would later uncover hundreds of pieces of white supremacist literature linked to Franklin, filled with conspiracy theories, violent rhetoric, and Nazi symbolism

In 1977, Franklin took his first known step into terrorism. His target? A synagogue in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

On July 29, 1977, Franklin planted a bomb outside the Beth Shalom Synagogue in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The device was crude but powerful, designed to send a message of hate. It exploded in the early hours of the morning, damaging the building, sending debris throughout the block. Miraculously no one was injured. Investigators found remnants of an improvised explosive device, including extension cords that ran to a nearby motel but with no immediate suspects, the case went cold.

This wasn’t just an attack on a building—it was a declaration of war. Franklin saw Jewish people as the masterminds behind what he called the ‘destruction of the white race.’ In his twisted mind, targeting a synagogue was just the beginning.

After the synagogue bombing, Franklin’s thirst for destruction grew stronger. He started experimenting with sniper attacks, testing his ability to kill from a distance without being caught. He became more methodical, choosing his victims carefully—Black men, interracial couples, and anyone who didn’t fit his white supremacist vision. The country had no idea what was coming.

On August 7th, 1977, a little over a week after the synagogue bombing, Franklin drove to Madison, Wisconsin, where he took his first lives. Alphonce Manning Jr. and Toni Schwenn were both 23-years-old and a mixed race couple. Franklin exited his Chevy Impala and approached the couple who had just returned to their car in the East Towne Mall parking lot outside of Penny’s Department Store. 

Franklin first shot Manning Jr. through the car window, then he hit Toni Schwenn as she tried to escape from the car. Before anyone could flag down a police officer, Franklin jumped back into his car and sped off. Schwenn died at the scene, Manning Jr. died an hour or so later. 

By October of 1977 Joseph Paul Franklin had moved on to Missouri. It was here where he would shoot and kill one man at long range while wounding two others. The shooting occurred as people were leaving the local synagogue where a young boy's bar mitzvah had just ended. 

He laid low throughout the rest of 1977 before landing in Georgia in the early part of 1978. On February 12th, Franklin found a secure spot and waited for his victims to approach. He didn’t know these people personally but he knew what he was looking for. He watched through his scope as a black man and a white woman walked along the streets of northeast Atlanta. 22-year-old Johnny Brookshire and his common-law wife, 23-year-old Joy Williams were both hit with bullets. Johnny in the neck and Joy in the back. Johnny died almost immediately, while miraculously, Joy (who was eight months pregnant at the time) lived. 

Just days later she delivered a healthy baby.

His next victim would be one of the most controversial men in America: Larry Flynt, the publisher of Hustler magazine.

By the late 1970s, Larry Flynt was a household name. The founder of Hustler, he had built an empire on explicit, often shocking adult content, pushing the boundaries of what was considered acceptable in American media. But Flynt wasn’t just a pornographer—he was a provocateur. He used Hustler to mock politicians, challenge conservative values, and attack religious hypocrisy.

And in the March 1978 issue of Hustler, Flynt did something that sealed his fate in Franklin’s eyes. He published a spread featuring an interracial couple in a sexually explicit scene. To Franklin, this was more than offensive—it was fuel for his hate. He believed that images like these were part of a Jewish-led conspiracy to corrupt white America, and in his mind, Flynt had to pay for it.

On March 6, 1978, Flynt and his lawyer, Gene Reeves Jr., walked out of a courthouse in Lawrenceville, Georgia. Flynt was in the middle of an obscenity trial—a battle he had fought many times before. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the street was quiet. No obvious threats. No warning signs.

And then—two gunshots rang out.

A bullet tore through Flynt’s abdomen, another through his spine. He collapsed onto the pavement, blood pooling around him. Reeves was also hit, but it was Flynt who took the worst of it. The damage was catastrophic. He would survive, but he would never walk again.

The shooter? Nowhere to be found. Joseph Paul Franklin had done what he did best—struck from a distance, then vanished into the wind.

Larry Flynt spent weeks in critical condition, enduring multiple surgeries. The attack left him permanently paralyzed from the waist down. But if Franklin had hoped to silence him, he had failed. Flynt would go on to become even more defiant—turning his wheelchair into a symbol of resistance, taking his battles over free speech all the way to the Supreme Court.

For Franklin, though, it was just another successful hit. He wouldn’t be linked to the shooting for decades. In 1978, police had no suspects, no leads—just two bullets and a man fighting for his life.

And Franklin wasn’t done. His bloodlust was only growing.

Over the next two years, Franklin would roam the country, killing at will. From synagogue shootings to sniper attacks, his reign of terror was far from over. But with every bullet, law enforcement got one step closer.

In July of ‘78 he killed a man and wounded a woman outside of a Pizza Hut in Tennessee. A year later he was back in Georgia where he took the life of a young black man who had been the manager of a Taco Bell. He killed the man while he was inside working, shooting through the glass from a great distance away. Three weeks later, in August of ‘79 he killed the manager of a Burger King in Virginia in the same fashion. Another young black man killed by a silent assassin that no one saw. 

Before the year was over Franklin took the lives of an inter-racial couple at a supermarket in Oklahoma, killing the pair in the front seat of their car. Their three children, who were in the backseat at the time, all lived. In December, back in Georgia once again, he shot and killed a 15-year-old prostitute who admitted to sleeping with black men. His death toll was at 10 now with a number of physically and mentally wounded people to go along with that total. 

By May of 1980 he’d struck three times in Indiana and once more in Wisconsin. May 29th would mark his second high-profile hit. 

Unlike most serial killers, Franklin wasn’t killing at random—he was targeting people he saw as symbols of a changing America. And in May of 1980, he set his sights on one of the most prominent Black civil rights leaders in the country: Vernon Jordan.

To understand why Franklin chose Vernon Jordan, we need to understand the man himself. Jordan wasn’t just an activist—he was one of the most influential Black leaders of his time. A towering figure in the civil rights movement, he had served as an advisor to presidents, fought for desegregation, and led the National Urban League, a powerful organization focused on economic and social justice for Black Americans.

Jordan had spent his career dismantling the very systems of oppression that Franklin believed in. To Franklin, he was more than just a man—he was the embodiment of everything Franklin hated. A successful, powerful Black man who refused to back down.

On the evening of May 29th, 1980, Vernon Jordan had just finished speaking at a National Urban League conference in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He was returning to the Marriott Inn with a white woman—Martha Coleman, a colleague from the Urban League. The two weren’t romantically involved, but that didn’t matter to Franklin. In his twisted worldview, the sight of a Black man and a white woman together was reason enough to kill.

As Jordan and Coleman walked toward the hotel, Franklin was waiting in the shadows. A sniper rifle in his hands. His heartbeat steady. His target clear.

The bullet struck Jordan in the back, tearing through his body. He collapsed, bleeding out on the pavement as Coleman screamed for help. Franklin didn’t wait to see if Jordan was dead—he had done this before. One shot, then disappear into the night.

Vernon Jordan was rushed to the hospital in critical condition. The bullet had shattered his spine, punctured his intestines, and left him fighting for his life. For days, America held its breath—had one of its most prominent civil rights leaders been assassinated? But Jordan, ever the fighter, survived.

After multiple surgeries and months of recovery, Jordan not only lived, but came back stronger. He continued his work, advising presidents, shaping policy, and proving that even a sniper’s bullet couldn’t silence him.

As for Franklin? He had once again vanished. There were no immediate leads, no solid suspects. But law enforcement was getting closer. Franklin’s pattern was becoming clear, and his days as a free man were numbered.

Joseph Paul Franklin had evaded capture for years, but the walls were closing in. Soon, a single mistake would bring his killing spree to an end.

In June of 1980, Franklin took the lives of six more people. In Ohio he murdered two black teenage cousins out playing in the street. In Pennsylvania he gunned down a young, attractive, interracial couple out for a midday stroll. And in West Virginia he killed two young hippies on their way to join a meeting of the Rainbow Family. They were white but he’d overhead one of them talking about their black boyfriend. 

By the summer of 1980, Joseph Paul Franklin was a fugitive in every sense of the word. For three years, he had drifted across the United States, leaving bodies in his wake—murdering interracial couples, Black men, Jewish citizens, and anyone he saw as a ‘threat’ to his racist vision of America. But as August arrived, Franklin found himself in a place few would expect—a quiet suburb in Utah.

And there, he would kill for the last time.

Salt Lake City, Utah. Mountains loomed in the distance, and in the peaceful suburb of Liberty Park, two young Black men—Ted Fields and David Martin—were out for an evening jog. Friends since childhood, the two were simply enjoying their time together, unaware that they were being watched.

Joseph Paul Franklin had been in Utah for weeks, blending into the community as he always did—changing his appearance, using fake names, keeping his head down. But when he saw Fields and Martin jogging, his instincts took over. In Franklin’s mind, these weren’t just two men enjoying a run—they were targets.

Franklin followed them, stalking them like prey. Then, from a concealed position, he raised his rifle and opened fire.

Bullets tore through the air. Fields and Martin tried to flee, but they didn’t stand a chance. Both were killed instantly. Franklin, as always, didn’t linger. He left no clues, no trace of his identity—just two more lives stolen by his hatred.

By now, law enforcement agencies across multiple states were beginning to piece together Franklin’s crimes. A pattern was forming—sniper-style attacks, racially motivated murders, a drifter with no clear home base. The FBI had begun tracking white supremacist violence more aggressively, and Franklin’s name was starting to surface. But they still didn’t know exactly where he was.

Franklin, however, knew his time was running out. He left Utah, heading east, trying to disappear once again. But he was about to make a critical mistake.

A month after the Utah murders, Franklin arrived in Florence, Kentucky. He was low on money, running out of places to hide. Desperate, he walked into a local blood bank—an easy way to make some cash and stay under the radar. But Franklin had no idea that this decision would lead to his capture.

As he filled out his paperwork, a staff member at the blood bank noticed something odd. Franklin closely resembled a suspect sketch that had been circulating in connection with a series of racially motivated killings. The staff member called the police. And just like that—Joseph Paul Franklin was in custody.

It seemed like his reign of terror was finally over.

While in custody in Kentucky, Franklin did what he always did best—he adapted. He convinced officers that he was no threat, acting calm, cooperative, and harmless. He had been on the run for years, and he knew how to manipulate people. And then, in an incredible lapse of security, Franklin escaped.

He overpowered a guard, broke free from his restraints, and vanished once again. Just like that, Franklin was back on the streets, and the nationwide manhunt kicked into high gear.

Franklin’s escape terrified law enforcement—because they knew he wouldn’t stop killing. Now, it was a race against time to capture America’s most dangerous racist serial killer before he struck again. And this time, they wouldn’t let him go.

For three years, Joseph Paul Franklin had been America’s invisible killer—traveling from state to state, leaving bodies behind and slipping away before anyone knew his name. He had murdered at least 18 people, by my count it was at least 21. He wounded countless others, and evaded capture with a mix of cunning, deception, and sheer luck.

But by October of 1980, his luck was running out. After his escape from custody in Kentucky, Franklin was on borrowed time. The FBI, the ATF, and local law enforcement were on high alert, tracking his movements, tightening the net. And then, in the unlikeliest of places, they found him.

After escaping custody, Franklin needed to disappear fast. He drifted south, eventually landing in Lakeland, Florida—a quiet town, far from the cities where he had spilled blood. He changed his appearance once again—shaving his head, growing a mustache, wearing glasses. He checked into cheap motels, paid in cash, and tried to blend in.

For weeks, Franklin lived in the shadows, using the same tricks that had kept him free for years. But there was one problem—he was again running out of money. And desperate for cash, he made the same mistake he had in Kentucky: he went to sell blood.

On October 28th, 1980, Franklin walked into a blood bank in Lakeland, Florida. Just like before, he filled out paperwork, had his blood drawn, and collected his payment. But something felt off. A staff member at the clinic took a closer look at him—he looked familiar.

Just a few weeks earlier, Franklin’s mugshot and description had been sent to law enforcement agencies nationwide. His name was now public enemy number one. The staff member, suspicious, alerted the authorities.

Moments later, police arrived at the blood bank. Franklin, realizing he had been spotted, made a break for it—but this time, there was no escape. Officers surrounded him, weapons drawn, blocking every possible exit.

And just like that—after three years, Joseph Paul Franklin was finally in custody.

Franklin didn’t resist. He didn’t fight, didn’t lash out. Instead, he went quiet—his mind already working, calculating his next move. But there was nothing left to plan. Law enforcement had him, and this time, they weren’t letting go.

Within hours, Franklin was being transferred to a secure facility, under heavy guard. Federal agents and homicide detectives from across the country were descending upon Florida, eager to question the man who had terrorized the nation.

But no one was prepared for what would happen next.

Once behind bars, Joseph Paul Franklin did something shocking—he started talking. In chilling detail, he confessed to murder after murder after murder, linking himself to crimes across the country. Franklin didn’t deny a thing. In fact, he bragged. He wanted people to know what he had done, what he believed in, and why he had killed.

In a series of interviews with the FBI, local police, and journalists, Franklin confessed to at least 20 murders—but claimed responsibility for up to 22.

He gave detailed accounts of his sniper attacks, his chosen victims, and his obsession with ‘cleansing’ America through violence. He described his hatred of Black men, Jewish people, and interracial couples with no remorse.

One of his most infamous admissions? The shooting of Larry Flynt. For years, Flynt’s case had gone unsolved, but Franklin proudly took credit, saying he attacked Flynt for publishing interracial pornography. It was only after this confession—decades later—that Flynt called for Franklin’s sentence to be commuted to life in prison. Flynt, a staunch opponent of the death penalty, believed even a man like Franklin shouldn’t be executed.

But while Flynt opposed Franklin’s execution, many others saw only one path forward—justice.

With so many crimes across so many states, Franklin’s legal battles stretched for years. He faced multiple trials for murder, attempted murder, and hate crimes. One by one, the convictions piled up.

Among the most significant: 

In 1982 he was Convicted in Utah for the murders of Ted Fields and David Martin.

In 1983 he was sentenced to life without parole in multiple states.

In 1997 after admitting to the murder of Gerald Gordon in 1977, he was sentenced to death in Missouri. His honesty would seal his fate. 

By the early 2000s, Franklin was on death row. He spent the next decade on death row, appealing his case, trying to escape the inevitable. But nothing worked. And in 2013, Missouri scheduled his execution. In interviews he showed regret, never really apologizing but admitting that he’d made mistakes. He’d come to like the black men that he served time with. This was perhaps aided by the 15 stab wounds he received in the 1980s from one of those fellow inmates. 

On November 20th, 2013, after 33 years in prison, Joseph Paul Franklin was led into the execution chamber at Bonne Terre, Missouri. There would be no more escapes, no more sniper attacks, no more racist manifestos. His time was up.

As he lay on the gurney, Franklin refused a final meal. He had no last words. He simply closed his eyes as the lethal injection entered his veins.

At 6:17 AM, Joseph Paul Franklin was declared dead. The drifter. The killer. The white supremacist terrorist—gone.

The story of Joseph Paul Franklin is a chilling reminder of what happens when hatred becomes action. He wasn’t a criminal mastermind. He wasn’t a genius. He was just a man with a rifle and a belief system poisoned by racism and extremism. And yet—he managed to kill nearly two dozen people before being stopped.

But Franklin’s story is also a warning. Because the ideology that fueled him? It still exists. It didn’t die with him. Extremism, domestic terrorism, white supremacist violence—these threats remain, they grow, they once lurked in the shadows, just as Franklin once did, but now they’re more out in the open.

The best way to fight hate? To remember its victims. To honor those who were stolen too soon.

To make sure that voices like Franklin’s are drowned out by those who stand for justice, equality, and truth.

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