Episode 69 | AMERICA'S FIRST MASS SHOOTING | 1966 Austin, Texas

In 1966 Texas learned the true fury of firearms when its capital, Austin, became the home of America’s first mass shooting. At the time, the concept that anyone anywhere could be randomly gunned down by a stranger was unheard of. No one saw it coming. That fateful day former marine and trained sniper, Charles Whitman, climbed up the stairs of the University of Texas clock tower and open-fired on those below. It was the catalyst that coined the term ‘mass shooting’. It sparked debates about gun laws and diminished responsibility and paved the way for the shooters that sadly to this day, continue to follow in his footsteps. ★Enjoy!

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Transcript

Case: The Texas Tower Sniper—Charles Joseph Whitman

Today, you’ll be joining me on a journey down memory lane to the home of country music, blue jean cowboys, and true Southern hospitality: Austin, Texas. We’re riding back in time to the good ol’ 1960s when folks were doing ‘the twist’ and color TV rocked the nation. The 60s transformed traditional America. The black power movement was replacing racism, women were joining the workforce, and flower-powered hippies were making love, not war. But it wasn’t all sunshine and tie-dyed rainbows.

Counterculture protests were met with brutal police force and gun violence was on the rise. Unfortunately, Texas learned the true fury of firearms in 1966 when its capital, Austin, became the home of America’s first mass shooting too. At the time, the concept that anyone anywhere could be randomly gunned down by a stranger was unheard of. This was before 9/11 and Columbine, you see. No one saw it coming. The day that ex-sniper, Charles Whitman, climbed up the stairs of the University of Texas clock tower and open-fired on those below was the catalyst that coined the term ‘mass shooting’. It sparked debates about gun laws and diminished responsibility and paved the way for the shooters that continue to follow in his footsteps. So, turn on, tune in, and drop out—you’re in for one wild ride, folks.

Charles Whitman stared out the window of his mother’s Austin apartment. The streets were quiet this time of night, giving him the silence he needed to ruminate on where it all went wrong. Margaret, his mother, had finally left his abusive father but she was no spring chicken. At 43-years-old, she’d suffered decades of beatings at his old man’s hands. It had aged her. He gazed at her beautiful, weathered face. It was peppered with laugh lines and scars, dredging up the sweet ‘n sour memories that tormented him. Whitman’s nostalgia for his mother’s homemade pecan pies was tainted by black eyes and broken noses. He turned away, looking at his watch instead. It was almost 1:00 am on August 1st, 1966—a Monday. Soon, students like him would be crawling out of bed and heading to the University of Texas campus for summer classes. He turned back to his mother, gently closed her eyes, and covered her bloodied body with her bed sheets before heading out.

As he drove home, he felt the familiar, throbbing pain surge through his head again. No matter how many different meds the docs pumped into him, it never left. Neither did the thoughts. They infiltrated Whitman’s mind and flooded it with overwhelming rage and visions of violence. He tried so hard to resist them, even seeing the campus shrink back in March. He’d exposed the darkest corners of his mind to the man, telling Dr. Heatly how he fantasized about unleashing his fury from the top of the university tower. Heatly didn’t take him seriously—no one did.

Whitman pulled into the driveway of his two-bedroom home and walked to the front door. He quietly crept into the bedroom to avoid waking his wife, Kathleen. He sat beside her, watching her as she dreamt. Their fourth anniversary was coming up but his love for her had never faltered over the years. Whitman tucked a lock of hair behind Kathy’s ear, letting his fingers linger on her freckled cheek. Then, he raised the knife still sticky with his mother’s blood, and plunged it into her heart again and again and again. He held her body tight, crying silently as he felt it twitch. He’d saved her from the embarrassment of who he had become—but couldn’t save her from himself. Just like his mother, he closed Kathy’s eyes and covered her corpse with their sheets. The worst part was over, now it was time to pack his things for the day ahead. 

It was just after 11:00 am and temperatures were already rising. Heavily pregnant and uncomfortably hot, Claire Wilson fanned herself. Her boyfriend, Thomas Eckman, was chatting with their friends about the particularly stressful anthropology test they’d just taken. She looked enviously at his half-finished cigarette. Tom noticed the longing in her eyes and playfully pestered her about being healthier for the baby that wasn’t even his. With only one month to go before her baby came into the world, she knew he was right. She rolled her eyes anyway, catching a glimpse of the main building’s clock tower eclipsing the sun as she did. Claire admired its beauty as halos of light surrounded it—but there was nothing angelic about the tower that day. Thankfully, they had to leave early to put another nickel in the parking meter. They left the Student Union building hand-in-hand, walking away from temptation and towards the South Mall.

Whitman looked at his watch. It was already 11:35 am. He showed his fake research assistant ID card to the uninterested security guard who gestured for him to pass. He wheeled his footlocker through the campus grounds where he’d first met his now deceased wife Kathy, across the South Mall, and into the entrance of the main building. As he struggled with the elevator buttons, a woman who worked there switched it on for him. He smiled and said, “Thank you ma’am, you don’t know how happy that makes me,” before getting in. The nerve of this guy! Anyway, he exited the elevator on the 27th floor and hauled his footlocker up the flight of stairs leading to the 28th and final floor. Whitman entered the reception area of the tower’s observation deck and took two rifles out of his locker just in case he bumped into someone. Unfortunately, he did. The receptionist, Edna Townsley, turned the corner and looked at him questioningly. He froze, suddenly feeling nervous. She opened her mouth to speak but Whitman let instinct take over before she could. He struck her in the face with the butt of his rifle, knocking her down. He raised the rifle again and brought it down onto the back of her head, splitting her skull. Whitman then dragged the barely breathing 51-year-old behind a couch, staining the carpet with her blood.

Meanwhile, Don Walden, a student at the University of Texas, had just finished showing Cheryl Botts the view from the tower. The teenager was from a small farm town and eager to see the sweeping city. Plus, she was pretty. They left the observation deck and noticed that the receptionist was gone. Don stepped over a reddish-brown stain that hadn’t been there earlier. She must be fetching a janitor. Oh boy, nothing slips past this guy. All of a sudden, a surprised young man with military-styled blonde hair popped up from behind the couch. He wore blue overalls with an ID card pinned on. Strangely, he also had a rifle in his hand. The brawny man greeted them politely before rummaging through a locker on the floor. Don stopped for a moment, then shook his head. Must be the janitor, he thought. Probably been shooting pigeons out on the deck. Really, Don?! Don and Cheryl walked through the door, into the stairwell, and down one floor to the elevators. They had no idea that they’d just come within seconds of losing their lives—or that Whitman, the man they presumed was the janitor, had barricaded the door behind them. As one elevator took them down to safety, the other brought Whitman’s next victims up to him.

The Gabour family was in Austin that week visiting Michael’s sister and her husband, Marguerite and William Lamport. Michael and Mary thought they’d make a family holiday of it, bringing their two sons, Mike and Martin, with them too. They decided to see the sights that day, starting with the clock tower at the local university. The group chattered amongst themselves as they walked up the stairs from the 27th floor to the door of the reception area. Oddly, it was blocked by a desk. 19-year-old Mike volunteered to check if the observation deck was closed. His younger brother, Martin, followed close behind. Just as Mike tried to squeeze past the desk, he looked up into the barrel of a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun. His brain tried to process what he saw while his body instinctively turned to run. Mike only managed a few strides before Whitman pulled the trigger. The pellets spread through the air, hitting Mike in the left shoulder and 16-year-old Martin in the head—killing him instantly. Whitman fired more shots down the stairs at the stunned family, paralyzing and blinding the boys’ mother, Mary, and killing their aunt, 45-year-old Marguerite. Mike shouted to his father and uncle to run for help. Reluctantly, they did, knowing it would be faster without dead weight. 

Whitman knew there was no turning back now—he’d sealed his fate. He shot the receptionist once in the head, sealing hers too, before barricading himself on the observation deck of the tower. He peered down at the South Mall 300 feet below. His marine sharpshooter training took over. He no longer saw a tower with rain spouts protruding from its walls. He saw a fortress armed with turrets. Whitman began unpacking his footlocker, laying each item neatly on the floor. First, his guns. Three rifles, two pistols, a revolver, and his shotgun. Next, his supplies. A telescope, binoculars, matches, lighter fluid, a machete, water, canned spam, toilet paper, a razor, a transistor radio, and 700 rounds of ammunition. Satisfied, 25-year-old Charles Whitman mounted his scope on one of the rifles, loaded it, and took aim.

Down on the South Mall, Claire and Tom walked in the shadow of the tower, still holding hands. Unknowingly, the couple was being watched from above. Out in the open and oblivious to the danger, they were easy pickings. As the tower clock chimed noon, Claire suddenly and violently jerked forward. The 18-year-old mother-to-be fell face-first onto the concrete, rolling onto her back with the momentum. Tom ran to her, not registering the loud crack that followed. In the same stride, his body lurched forward and tumbled head-over-heels, coming to rest in a crumpled heap. A passerby gawked at them, shaking his head as he crossed the Mall. Claire didn’t know what happened or why it hurt to move. What she did know was that her baby had stopped moving. She felt a warm, wet sensation. She turned to see a pool of blood slowly oozing from underneath her, bubbling on the searing concrete. Claire called out weakly to her boyfriend but 18-year-old Thomas Eckman would never speak again. Hell rained down from above. Birds scattered from trees. Concrete exploded around them. Finally, people began to notice. But only when the next body hit the ground did the true, raw panic set in. Some froze like deer in headlights. Others dived behind anything large enough. Those who were hit played dead.

On the western edge of campus, 18-year-olds Claudia Rutt and Paul Sonntagwere walking down the Drag, a portion of Guadalupe Street. The couple was on their way to get Claudia a polio vaccination for her upcoming freshman year, hoping to stop at the University Co-Op on the way. Paul put his arm around his fiance’s tiny shoulders, looking down at her animated face as she spoke of the year ahead. Just as they got in view of the tower, they bumped into 18-year-old Carla Wheeler. Claudia went to hug her friend but froze as bullets tore through the air just above their heads. Paul, an avid hunter, was no stranger to gunfire. He grabbed both girls by their outstretched arms and pulled them roughly behind a construction barrier, screaming at them to lay low. People were running in all directions. A man nearby was thrown forward suddenly, as if he’d been hit by a truck that no one could see. He didn’t even try to break the fall as his body hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. He never got up. Claudia began to tremble violently as terror and confusion set in. Paul wrapped his arms around her, begging her to stay calm. Carla crouched down as close to the piping hot tar as she could. Paul surveyed the street, looking for the gunman. Instead, he saw an elderly woman standing in the open, eyes wide with fear. In a split second, he stood and made a beeline for the woman, ignoring his fiance’s pleading screams.

Whitman watched the chaos unfold from the tower above. He had never shot a human being before today but he had hunted deer—and this was eerily similar. He hated that he could look at people like he did animals. He hated himself. But he couldn’t help it, today was inevitable—and people should’ve damn well seen it coming. Whitman looked through the scope of his Remington 700 6mm bolt-action rifle, locked the crosshairs onto his next target, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

Just as quickly as Paul had sprung to his feet, he collapsed with his arms and legs splayed out unnaturally. His head was turned towards Claudia and Carla, displaying a gaping bloody hole where his mouth had been. A loud crack followed seconds after, like thunder following a lightning strike. Carla watched in horror, unable to look away from the gruesome sight of his twitching corpse. Claudia’s hysterical wails brought her back to reality, just in time to see her friend jump up to run to her fiance’s lifeless body. Carla grabbed her wrist, unwilling to watch another friend die but it was too late. Her hand flung backward, bursting apart as it did. She ignored the searing pain that shot up her arm and looked over the barrier for her friend. What she saw would haunt her for decades. Claudia lay face down only inches from her dead fiance. A deep crimson began spreading across her yellow babydoll dress. She was killed by the same bullet that had destroyed Carla’s hand. A thick pool of blood seeped onto the street from her chest, swallowing up Paul’s ring on the chain around her neck.

40-year-old Allen Crum, the floor manager of the University Co-Op, stared at the scared boy lying on the pavement in disbelief. What he thought had been a punchup across from the store had been an unprovoked attack. As he watched the boy being loaded into an ambulance, he heard fearful murmurs of a madman in the tower from bystanders surrounding the scene. His disbelief quickly turned into cold certainty as bullets ripped through the bustling strip from the direction of the tower. More gunshots spattered around them as the ambulance sped off. Allen took cover behind a nearby hedge, knowing he wouldn’t make it back across the street alive. He thought of his wife and the people back at the store. He had to warn them—he had to find a phone. The sweat that coated his body from the sweltering heat became ice-cold as he was hit with a frightening realization. His best bet was the tower. He sat back on his hunches as more gunshots rang out, breathing deeply to steady his nerves. Allen waited for a gap and bolted towards the main building on the South Mall. He took shelter under the roofed entrance of the closest building to his destination. His white button-up shirt was drenched with sweat, sticking to his body like glue. He grabbed the nearest pillar for support as he caught his breath. Allen felt a deep rage boiling within him and—without thinking—leaned around the pillar and flipped the Italian digit up at the tower ahead. Now that’s what I’m talking about! He was met with shattered limestone as a bullet hit the pillar above him. But he wasn’t deterred. Allen waited until the shooter started firing from the east side of the tower and made a run for it, crossing the street to the main building. He tried to call the store and his wife using the telephone in the lower reception area but the lines were jammed. As he slammed the handset down, he saw a lone police officer walking toward him. Allen offered to help the man whose name was Jerry Day. Officer Day handed him a rifle and they headed for the elevators. Once inside, Day pushed the button for the 27th floor.

Claire felt like she was melting as she lay at the mercy of the scorching sun on the South Mall. Temperatures had risen to 100° and her skin was blistering on the scalding concrete but she couldn’t move—she knew he was watching. The blood that hadn’t seeped into the porous ground had congealed. Flies began to buzz around her. Claire knew she was surrounded by people, even though she couldn’t see them. But the stillness in her belly made her feel completely alone. She hoped that someone brave enough would save her but no one dared step out into the open. Her breathing had become labored and a strange, seductive exhaustion swept over her. She knew she was dying and almost welcomed death at that point. Then, she saw a flash of bright red, like the smoldering coals of a campfire. A girl with blazing red hair, probably about her age, was standing over her. She looked conflicted. Gunshots pierced through the moment, punching into the concrete nearby. Claire pleaded with her to run—but she didn’t. She chose to lay on the white-hot concrete beside her instead. The girl asked for Claire’s name in return for her own—Rita. Rita asked question after question, hell-bent on keeping Claire awake and alive. Every time she drifted into unconsciousness, Rita’s voice dragged her back.

John Fox and his friend, James Love, were walking through campus towards the tower. They’d heard over the radio that there was a man making a scene with an air rifle. People were running past them in the opposite direction as if something were chasing them. One man stopped, staring at them incredulously. He shouted at the boys to get out of the street before running off. Just then, they heard a distant but distinct popping sound. That was no air rifle. John and James sprinted to a hedge at the foot of the stairs behind the bronze statue of Jefferson Davis where a handful of people hid. The boys listened intently to their frightened whispers. Some mentioned a sniper, others blamed a revolution. John felt like he was choking on the thick, hot air as a wave of nausea washed over him. The cicada’s cacophony of buzzing and clicking suddenly became deafening. He crawled under the hedge, finding sanctuary in its shade. He had to get his sh*t together. He heard James mention saving a pregnant woman. Someone shot back that they had to help those who still had hope. John was shocked. Kids were choosing who would live or die. It didn’t sit well with him. Someone had to go out there and get ‘em—even if that someone was him. He emerged from the hedge and gave James a knowing look. James nodded. The boys surveyed the scene before running up the stairs toward the South Mall. Two others had followed them to the bleeding pregnant woman. One pulled a redheaded girl off the floor, taking her to the trees nearby. James took the woman’s ankles and John took her wrists, picking her up off the hot ground. They ran her back down the stairs, saving her life, while the final rescuer followed slowly behind, carrying a dead man in his arms.

29-year-old Officer Ramiro Martinez ran past the statue of Jefferson Davis as he headed for the tower. He saw students desperately dragging survivors—or bodies—off of the South Mall but he didn’t stop. The only way to end the bloodshed was to reach its source—and his revolver wouldn’t help from down here. Martinez moved quickly but strategically. He knew that if he could see the top of the tower, the sniper could see him. He passed several bodies as he ran around the back of the main building, shocked at the terrifying accuracy of the shots that killed them as far as 500 yards away. He entered the building and took an elevator to the 27th floor where he bumped into Officer Day and a plainclothes man holding a rifle - the manager of the co-op, Allen Crum. Must be an off-duty cop from another agency. Day went to find a phone to call reinforcements, leaving the two men at the foot of the stairs to the 28th floor. Officer Martinez couldn’t wait for backup after what he’d seen outside. He started up the stairs, Allen following close behind. The metallic smell of blood hit them just before they reached the gruesome scene on the landing. A boy was slumped against the wall, injured and cradling a woman who was barely breathing. Silently, the boy pointed towards the blocked entrance to the reception. Martinez and Allen stepped over an obviously dead kid and around the desk, guns raised and ready. They passed another lifeless body, before stopping at the door to the observation deck. Ramirez kicked the barricaded door open, telling Allen to cover the right corner while he took the left. Allen looked at him solemnly and asked the officer to deputize him. Ramirez was speechless. Allen was no cop—he was a civilian. “Consider yourself deputized,” he said.

Allen watched Officer Ramirez disappear around the left corner. Moments later, another policeman with a shotgun, Officer Houston McCoy, walked onto the observation deck. Allen told McCoy to cover his fellow officer, gesturing left as he did. Ramirez jumped when he heard footsteps behind him but felt instantly relieved when he saw McCoy. The men nodded knowingly before dropping low as bullets hit the tower walls above them. The civilians below had started fighting back in true cowboy fashion. It was Texas, after all. Back at the observation deck entrance, Allen heard the shooter getting closer and accidentally fired his rifle as he fumbled with it. Luckily, this distracted the shooter who was looking south for the source of the shot when Officers Martinez and McCoy rounded the northeastern corner. In the blink of an eye, Martinez emptied his revolver into Whitman while McCoy blasted his shotgun from behind. Martinez then reached back and took the shotgun from McCoy’s hands and delivered one final blow. It was more symbolic than necessary. At around 1:24 pm on August 1st, 1966, Charles Whitman died like his victims. While the officers took a moment to recover from the adrenaline making their knees weak, Allen waved his white handkerchief over the tower walls to stop civilians from firing and signal the end of Whitman’s 96-minute reign of terror. A strange stillness replaced the palpable fear that had filled the air that day. It felt as if the entire university town of Austin, Texas breathed a collective sigh of relief. People began emerging from nooks and crannies across campus grounds, drawn to the tower. What started as a trickle of dazed survivors became a torrent of deadpan people filling the South Mall beneath it. Aimless, speechless, and emotionless, they stood around stunned by the suffering they’d witnessed. 

Charles Whitman had taken the lives of 14 innocents and wounded over 30 others. One of the injured passed away one week later in hospital while another died decades later from complications. For weeks following the tragedy, experts deliberated over what had turned the poster child for the ‘all-American boy’ stereotype into a mass murderer. Was it his abusive father? Or the anger Whitman felt after losing his Marine Corps scholarship to his plummeting academic performance? In pursuit of an answer to their question and a motive for his madness, an autopsy was performed on Whitman’s corpse—something he’d requested for the same reason in a suicide note found on his mother’s body. Surprisingly, the county coroner found a pecan-sized brain tumor. It was pressing against the amygdala, an area of the brain thought to be responsible for regulating emotional responses like fear and aggression. Neuropsychologists still disagree over the role the tumor may have played in the events of that day. A few saw Whitman as a slave to the growing mass of cells in his brain. Most laid the blame entirely on his competent shoulders. What about you, dear listeners? What do you think? From my research, it seems that the tumor probably contributed to his inability to control his emotions and actions but it couldn’t have caused them. Whitman consciously made calculated decisions to accomplish several goals on August 1st, 1966 with no inclination of ever stopping by choice. However, he wasn’t the only one responsible for what happened. Our society was—and still is—sick. Cries for mental health support are ignored. Warning signs aren't taken seriously. 18-year-old Americans can buy guns before they can buy beers for crying out loud! 

The story of the Texas Tower Sniper should have been a tragic lesson that changed society for good—but it didn’t. America is still plagued by mass shootings to this day, with 692 in 2021 alone and 219 in the first few months of this year. Until our politicians and the people they govern wake up and address the root causes of this epidemic, it will keep happening.