The Big House

by James H. Bruton

  His statement was bloodcurdling. The mere thought of releasing Gray into an unsuspecting community made me shudder.

  I have heard many merciless comments from inmates, but none stay with me like Gray’s. None have the magnitude of his statement. Gray was in a category by himself.

  The panel did not struggle with long deliberations or conflicting opinions. Releasing Gray was out of the question. His sentence was continued for ten years with no consideration for release. I wonder what he will say at his next parole hearing.

  Gray is not the only lifer who has amazed me with his comments. What particularly shocks me are the rationalizations killers use to justify what they have done. The coldness of their remarks reminds me why they are incarcerated.

  One murderer concluded the detailed description of his executions by saying, “You know what happens when you get pissed off.” He actually thought the parole board would identify with the murderous anger that led him to kill five people, three of them children. He thought we would understand–he was just “pissed off.”

  Lifer Roger Brooks was another inmate with a twisted sense of reason. He thought nothing of approaching a group of minority offenders and calling them every racial slur in the book. As a result, he spent the majority of his time in protective custody. Brooks also practiced self-mutilation and routinely cut open his arms and legs. Once, he got hold of a razor blade, slashed deep cuts in his thighs, then stuck pencils and paperclips in the wounds.

  Brooks, who was serving time for armed robbery, argued to the parole board that his sentence should have been mitigated because he had carried the gun while his accomplice went unarmed and got a lighter sentence. Brooks said he didn’t want the gun in the hands of his accomplice because he was “nuts.”

  Brooks also argued that he had “saved the life” of his robbery victim. When I asked him to explain, he said that when he ran out of the store, the store owner chased him; by virtue of the fact that he decided not to shoot the man, he saved his life. I suppose that is one way of looking at it. The parole board didn’t see it that way.

  Another man told me the murder of his wife should have been ruled a suicide. Since he admitted he shot and killed her, I asked him to explain his logic. His reason was simple. “Any woman,” he said, “that would deliberately get her husband so angry that he would choose to take a shotgun and kill her, would have known what she was doing, and how her husband would respond.” Therefore, he argued, she had angered him deliberately to the point that her life was in danger, and the murder should have been ruled a suicide.

  Like I said, lifers are different. They commit, for the most part, unusual crimes, often without prior criminal history. Their logic can be skewed.

  During a parole hearing a few years ago, a serial murderer with a bloody trail of victims across several states made a comment I will always remember. It wasn’t gruesome or horrific. It was simply a comment that, for me, separated this individual from the majority of us who do our best to live within the rules of society.

  If you or I find a parking ticket on our car window, we read the ticket to see what the violation is. We check the amount of the fine and when it has to be paid. We send in the fine before the deadline to prevent it from doubling or a warrant being issued.

  The serial killer at the hearing didn’t do any of those things. He told us while detailing his cross-country killing spree that he left a motel one morning and discovered a parking ticket on his vehicle. He said, “I took the ticket off the window, threw it away, and drove off.” I thought how unusual this was. He threw the ticket away. He didn’t look at it. He didn’t see how much he owed or when it was due. He simply threw it away.

  The ticket might sound insignificant. And it is, compared to the senseless deaths of his innocent victims. Still, his comment illuminated for me the difference between the mind of a criminal and that of a law-abiding citizen. That simple act–tossing away the parking ticket–underscored my belief that the criminal mind works in a different way.

  Serial killers are a distinct subset within the lifer population. I have known many of them, and they tend to be model inmates. You wouldn’t know who he was just by speaking with him. Many serial killers are friendly, outgoing, and look like a next-door neighbor. It’s what’s inside them–the horror and depravity they are capable of–that separates them from the next person.

  The parole decision for serial killers is easy. Most have committed so many horrific acts that they will never be considered for release. They will never serve enough time for what they have done.

  Some recognize who they are and, privately, admit they should never be released. They realize they must be confined forever. They know that they would continue to kill if given the freedom.

  And then there are others who have committed a single murder yet their only crime is so freakish and grisly that release is never a consideration. I recall reviewing such a case when I was a member of the State Parole Board. His name was Howard Abbott, and he had committed his crime many years before I evaluated the case. I am sure, however, that anyone who ever came in contact with Abbott’s file never forgot what he did.

  Abbott was serving time for the murder of his roommate, Nelson Gibbs. They had been homosexual lovers but something went wrong with their relationship. Abbott decided murder was the solution and went about it in an unusually horrifying manner.

  He held his former lover captive for several days while he meticulously cut him up and tortured him in the most despicable ways. He carefully went about this grotesque act, making sure the victim was conscious as he chopped, severed, slashed, and sliced away at Gibbs’s helpless body. When the torment reached Abbott’s satisfaction point, he reached into Gibbs’s mangled torso and ended his life by crushing and twisting and wringing his heart it until it stopped beating. He then methodically dismembered the victim’s body until he was able to place the bones, flesh, and organs in several small boxes. Finally, he hid the miniature coffins containing his former roommate in the basement.

  Another parole board member told me of his experience when first reading this horrendous case. This man was six feet, five inches tall and weighed about 350 pounds. He was not the type to be easily intimidated. He said he read the case one evening alone in his home. As he reached the details of the murder, it was getting dark outside. Halfway through the crime, he got up, locked all the doors, and pulled all the shades and curtains. This was an especially horrible and chilling homicide.

  For his sadistic crime, Abbott received a life sentence, which he served at the state maximum-security mental hospital in St. Peter. Between the murder sentence and a civil commitment as a mentally ill and dangerous offender, he was going nowhere.

  Over the years, Abbott gained the unlikely reputation of a kindly old man. That’s why it was surprising to hear, some years before I was appointed to the Parole Board, that he had become upset during one of his parole hearings. He directed his frustrations at Parole Board Chairman Richard Mulcrone.

  “Mr. Mulcrone,” Abbott complained, “every year you people come down here and review my case, and every year you leave and give me a continuance for further review. I’m getting tired of this. I just want you to tell me when I’m going home. Even if my release is going to be many years away, just tell me, when am I going to be able to go home?”

  Chairman Mulcrone looked at Abbott, quietly folded up the file in front of him, placed his pen in his shirt pocket, and told him in a gentle yet professional way that he would be serving the rest of his life sentence. Mulcrone said in as kind a voice as he could, “Mr. Abbott, you are home.”

  No other Minnesota murder lingers in public memory like the assassination of Carol Ann Thompson. Her brutal murder in 1963 was profiled by newspapers all over the world, and author Donald John Giese wrote a book, The Carol Thompson Murder Case (1969), about the sensational trial. The story broke when I was in high school, and I certainly didn’t know I would someday travel to a federal prison to interview the murderer.

/>   Three people were tried in the case. First, there was T. Eugene Thompson, a prominent Twin Cities lawyer accused of putting a hit on his wife, Carol, so that he could collect her $1 million life insurance policy. Second, there was Norman Mastrian, a middle man allegedly paid to hire the assassin. And then there was the killer, Dick W. C. Anderson.

  At the trial, Thompson and Mastrian denied their involvement in the murder, but Anderson testified he was hired by them to fake a robbery in the Thompson household located in the affluent Highland Park neighborhood of St. Paul. The killing was supposed to look unintentional, but Anderson botched the plan. The murder scene was brutal and heartless. Carol Thompson’s long, horrific death included multiple stab wounds and her vain effort to escape to a neighbor’s home, leaving a bloody trail through the snow.

  In the end, all three men were convicted in the murder of Carol Thompson. And all three received life sentences.

  Although Anderson cooperated with authorities, he never received much in return other than an equal life sentence. His cooperation placed his life in danger within the prison system, forcing authorities to move him from prison to prison over the years.

  In 1980, all three convicts became eligible for parole under Minnesota law. As a representative of the State Parole Board, I was sent to interview Anderson, who was being housed in the federal prison in Ashland, Kentucky. Shortly before I left for the interview, a college professor advised the Board that the entire case was a government conspiracy against Thompson, who has maintained his innocence to this day. The professor said Anderson had not served a single day in prison; instead, he had been moved from hotel to hotel across the country for the past seventeen years. The professor claimed that Anderson would be brought from a Holiday Inn, shuttled through the prison’s front door, and right out the back door.

  These astonishing claims simply enhanced the suspense and mystery that followed this case for so many years. Here I was right in the middle of one of the most prominent murder cases in Minnesota history. I was going to interview the killer of Carol Thompson–the most infamous murderer in state history. I was excited and nervous. After all, I was seventeen when the crime occurred. I had heard about it for most of my college and professional career. I didn’t want to foul up a case of this magnitude.

  When I arrived in Ashland, I reviewed Anderson’s file. His photograph depicted a tough-looking young man, with glassy eyes and a hardened face bearing a sneering look of hatred mixed with despair. But then mug shots usually look that way, not something to frame for the desktop.

  I still remember my apprehension and exhilaration as I sat in a small office in the back of a cellblock waiting for Anderson to arrive. When they ushered him in, he wasn’t at all what I had expected. Standing before me was a beleaguered-looking little old man. All the years shuffling between prisons with his life in danger had taken a toll on Anderson. He looked worn out and sad–and many years past his true age. The disturbing level to which the case had been glamorized made my first impressions disappointing. This man hardly seemed a killer.

  Anderson was cooperative during the interview, which went like hundreds of other parole interviews. Afterwards, I packed up the tape recorder and left.

  But there was just one thing I still needed to do. I needed to know if a Holiday Inn played a role in all of this. I waited for a decent amount of time to pass. Then, when I was almost out the front door, I requested one more word with Anderson at his work site. I figured if he was on his way to a hotel that would not be possible.

  I found Anderson working in the prison’s wood shop. He clearly was not heading off to any Holiday Inn.

  Anderson received parole a few years later and never returned to prison. He died several years later.

  Generally, lifers are some of the best parole risks. Many are incarcerated for their only crime and, if released, rarely offend again.

  When being considered for parole, most lifers strive to make a good impression. They do everything in their capacity to convince the decision-makers they do not represent a risk to the community. They usually prepare in advance for their parole hearing, at which they provide documented evidence of their positive behavior in the institution and their support systems on the outside. Most rehearse their speeches, dress neatly, sit up straight, and speak articulately.

  A lifer parole hearing is also a place where strange things happen. I imagine the strain of prison life, along with the pressure of appearing before a parole board, fuel these unusual occurrences. I have seen many odd things.

  When Minnesota had a full-time parole board, the law required the unanimous vote of all five members before a lifer could be released. I found this law to be difficult, considering the five parole board members rarely agreed on where to eat lunch, let alone paroling a first degree murderer. Nevertheless, the law was there and the process required it.

  Some years back, we conducted a hearing to consider the release of lifer Leonard Kramer. He had been convicted of murdering a police officer during a robbery of a Minneapolis grocery store. An ideal inmate for twenty-five years, Kramer was being housed in the Lino Lakes medium-security facility. He had been considered for parole several times before but always failed to receive a unanimous vote.

  At this hearing, Kramer was clearly upset. He presented a parole plan to live in Oregon, but remarked several times that the hearing was wasting his time. He pointed out that this particular board included two former police officers, and he saw little hope of receiving the vote. He was agitated and angry, believing this hearing was unfair and a waste of everyone’s time.

  After Kramer’s confrontational presentation, we took a recess to deliberate. Much to my surprise, Kramer did receive all five votes. After all those years spent in prison and all those previous denials, he had finally gotten his parole. The hearing reconvened and Kramer was brought back into the room. He sat directly across the table from the panel and watched as each parole board member cast their vote in the affirmative.

  When the final vote was given, Kramer sat stunned. He actually trembled. He obviously could not believe what he had heard. After almost twenty-five years of incarceration, he had regained his freedom. It was too much for him to grasp.

  The chairman asked Kramer if he had any questions, and his response was one for the books. It was just about the last question anyone would ever ask a parole panel that had just granted a parole. In thirty-five years of communicating with criminals, I have never been as surprised as I was that day.

  “Yes,” he said, “I would like to ask a question. If the board had denied my parole today, what would the reasons have been?”

  The room fell into silent disbelief, broken only when Kramer’s caseworker leaned over and said, “Shut up! You don’t want to hear their answer. They might change their minds! You got your parole. Don’t say another word!”

  We did not change our minds, and Kramer’s release was scheduled to take place within the next couple months. In the meantime, he was transferred to the prison’s minimum-security unit, where staff counseled him on his parole supervision. They also helped him obtain a driver’s license and purchase a vehicle for the drive to Oregon. He practiced driving, and within two months, everything was in order for his release.

  On the day Kramer was scheduled to be paroled, I received a call from Lino Lakes Associate Warden Bert Mohs. He advised me of a problem with the release. As staff escorted Kramer through the final steps of his departure, they made a disturbing discovery in Kramer’s pickup truck. Kramer had stolen, in the associate warden’s words, “practically everything that had not been bolted to the floor.” He had jammed furniture and other state-issue items into his pickup. There is no question Kramer knew staff would discover this accumulation of stolen property before he left, so why did he do it? It wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t stuffed under the seats or covered by blankets. The property was in plain sight.

  The reason soon became obvious. Leonard Kramer didn’t want to leave. He was afraid of what was ahead in a
world that he knew nothing about. After almost twenty-five years of incarceration, the outside world was new and strange for this convict.

  Leonard Kramer did not leave Lino Lakes that day. It was several months before another release was attempted–this time successfully. He traveled to Oregon and has adjusted well over the past twenty-five years. According to his annual reviews from the Oregon parole authorities, his progress and behavior have been exemplary. It just took him time to adjust to leaving a place that had been home for the majority of his life.

  It’s not unusual for lifers to exhibit this odd behavior. After many years behind bars, they fear leaving the security of prison and entering the unknowns of the free world.

  Lifer Bill Plant had been committed for first degree murder and locked away from society for close to thirty-five years. He actually had signed parole papers in his file but refused to leave prison. Plant was content to stay right where he was. Prison was his life. A nice, clean place to sleep at night. Three decent meals every day. His friends, his books, his television–what more could he ask for in life? He was not going to leave this familiar place for somewhere he knew nothing about.

  One morning, in an effort to help graduate Plant into the free world, his caseworker called Plant into his office. The caseworker suggested he and Plant meet the next day for lunch in the minimum-security unit. They could tour the area and see how he would like living in a less-confining atmosphere.

  The plan didn’t work. Plant caught on to what was happening. He stood up and said angrily, “I know what you’re up to! You’ll get me out the front door and then you won’t let me back in.”

  He abruptly left the office and hurried back to his cell.

  In some cases, it’s not just a matter of getting paroled lifers out the front door. A friend of mine, a parole officer, told me of a particularly sad visit with an old parolee, Russell Johnson. The former lifer had been locked up for close to forty years. Johnson served the last few years of his sentence at the Stillwater prison farm, which was then the minimum-security unit. He was now outside, living and working on a farm near the prison.