By Gary LavergneAnyone who writes non-fiction, especially true crime, knows that once something you’ve written is released you need to brace yourself for the “crazies” that come out. They make it difficult for us to live with what we’ve written; they are “kooks.” They are very few in number, but they make more noise and waste a lot of my energy.
Some of them need to get a life.
A former librarian and archivist of the Austin History Center, a warm and delightful person I knew and assisted in the processing and cataloging of the Austin Police Department’s Charles Whitman file, discovered this group after the Center opened the files to the public. As I had warned her, she received a number of odd inquiries, and like me, she has had to deal with individuals who have an unhealthy obsession with Charles Whitman. One person, a complete stranger to me, told her that he was my close friend and had helped me write A Sniper in the Tower. Another person, who apparently took some offense at something in my book, spoke about me with such acidity that it “creeped her out.”
Still another openly spoke about how his obsession with Whitman ruined his marriage and cost him his job. On other occasions, major news organizations, like the New York Times, thought it best to alert me to callers they have had who bitterly resented the exposure I’ve received.
Some other instances are tragically amusing. During the 1997 Texas Book Festival, a complete stranger came to me, and without introduction said, “Did you know Charles Whitman had a blood clot removed from one of his testicles? Do you think that might have had something to do with what he did?”
Persons masquerading as authors, attorneys, screenwriters, and producers (including one who claimed to me and others to be all of the above at one time or another) have been trying to get my attention since 1996. I won’t give it to them.
I’ve had a Ph.D. candidate ask me if she could adapt presentations I’ve made on Whitman into a dramatic performance. And almost every semester since Sniper was released, a Radio, Television and Film major at UT Austin has chosen Whitman for their documentary or film project. (I have a copy of each one I’ve appeared in and some are really quite good.)
My favorite encounter involving the Charles Whitman story occurred immediately after I appeared in a news program with Neal Spelce on KEYE-TV in Austin. Immediately after the piece aired the station’s receptionist came to the set and said, “Mr. Lavergne, you have an urgent call. I’ll transfer it to a phone in the kitchen.” So, I immediately went to the kitchen. This is my best recollection of what was said:
“Mr. Lavergne, my name is - - - - and I am a psychic. I thought you should know that your book is not the whole story.”
“Really,” I said.
“You see, Charles Whitman called me on the morning of August 1st, and I wasn’t home to answer the phone and talk to him. I know that if I had been there to answer the phone I could have prevented him from going to the Tower.”
Not knowing how to respond, I said, “Did the person who took the message think Whitman sounded upset or distraught?”
“Oh, no. No one was home,” she said.
“Telephones didn’t have answering machines back in 1966—did they? How do you know he called?”
“I told you! I’m a psychic !” she said with great indignation.
One of my other books, Bad Boy From Rosebud, actually sold far more copies than Sniper. But I never had to live with the Bad Boy (Kenneth Allen McDuff) like I’ve had to live with Charles Whitman.
Some other instances are tragically amusing. During the 1997 Texas Book Festival, a complete stranger came to me, and without introduction said, “Did you know Charles Whitman had a blood clot removed from one of his testicles? Do you think that might have had something to do with what he did?”
Persons masquerading as authors, attorneys, screenwriters, and producers (including one who claimed to me and others to be all of the above at one time or another) have been trying to get my attention since 1996. I won’t give it to them.
I’ve had a Ph.D. candidate ask me if she could adapt presentations I’ve made on Whitman into a dramatic performance. And almost every semester since Sniper was released, a Radio, Television and Film major at UT Austin has chosen Whitman for their documentary or film project. (I have a copy of each one I’ve appeared in and some are really quite good.)
My favorite encounter involving the Charles Whitman story occurred immediately after I appeared in a news program with Neal Spelce on KEYE-TV in Austin. Immediately after the piece aired the station’s receptionist came to the set and said, “Mr. Lavergne, you have an urgent call. I’ll transfer it to a phone in the kitchen.” So, I immediately went to the kitchen. This is my best recollection of what was said:
“Mr. Lavergne, my name is - - - - and I am a psychic. I thought you should know that your book is not the whole story.”
“Really,” I said.
“You see, Charles Whitman called me on the morning of August 1st, and I wasn’t home to answer the phone and talk to him. I know that if I had been there to answer the phone I could have prevented him from going to the Tower.”
Not knowing how to respond, I said, “Did the person who took the message think Whitman sounded upset or distraught?”
“Oh, no. No one was home,” she said.
“Telephones didn’t have answering machines back in 1966—did they? How do you know he called?”
“I told you! I’m a psychic !” she said with great indignation.
One of my other books, Bad Boy From Rosebud, actually sold far more copies than Sniper. But I never had to live with the Bad Boy (Kenneth Allen McDuff) like I’ve had to live with Charles Whitman.
It is too much to call Whitman apologists a cult, but he has a following; I cannot understand why.
Before I give any lecture or make any appearance, I remind myself that this man murdered seventeen people and wounded another thirty-one. He devastated or ruined the lives of the loved ones of his victims. Those people were not murdered by the legend of a “crew-cut blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American boy.”
