First a Loner, Then a Separatist -- Profile: Suspect Buford Furrow Jr.
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First a Loner, Then a Separatist
Profile: Suspect Buford Furrow Jr.
found camaraderie with a white supremacist group.
This Story Was Reported by Josh Meyer,
Nicholas Riccardi and T. Christian Miller and Written
by Nora Zamichow
In school, Buford Oneal Furrow Jr. was
nicknamed "Neal-Synephrine" after the nasal
spray because he always sniffled. But his classmates
barely remember him and, later, co-workers paid him
little heed. He could not hold a job and his marriage
to the widow of a neo-Nazi "martyr" did not
last. Here was a guy who went to Hollywood with a
pocketful of cash looking for a prostitute--and could
not find one.
Furrow, 37, was a frequently inept and
mentally unstable bumbler, colleagues, neighbors and
former classmates say. He was also a reticent, isolated
man whose rage would periodically consume him, cast him
spinning like a wheel dislodged from a speeding car.
On Aug. 10, Furrow, a man most remembered for
being unmemorable, finally got everyone's
attention. The world watched in horror as reports
emerged of Furrow allegedly shooting a receptionist, a
teenage counselor and three children at the North
Valley Jewish Community Center, where he
apparently fired 70 rounds in less than 30 seconds.
Furrow then held a Korean woman at gunpoint
before commandeering her green Toyota
Corolla. He drove around and allegedly killed a
Filipino American postman. Twenty-two hours later,
after he paid a Los Angeles cabby $800 to drive him to
Las Vegas, he calmly walked into an FBI office and
gave up.
Last week, a federal grand jury indicted Furrow in the
letter carrier's slaying--a charge that could bring the
death penalty. The Los Angeles County district attorney
also plans to prosecute Furrow, whom police believe
acted alone.
Furrow targeted the postman because he was a
government employee and nonwhite, he told authorities.
His rampage, he told the FBI, was "a wake-up call to
America to kill Jews."
His message, however, may not be the one he
intended. Instead, he may become known as the poster
boy for the lone misfits who prowl in and out of the
neo-Nazi fringe. It also raised questions: Was
this part of a new campaign formulated by white
supremacist theorists, who urge individuals, rather
than groups, to wage hate war?
Why did Furrow drive 1,000 miles from his home in rural
Washington to target victims in Southern California?
How did such an apparent loser amass more than $5,000
in cash and enough weaponry to start a small war?
Most of those who knew him said it was
difficult to fathom the burly, balding man committing
such heinous acts. He had always been so polite, they
said, he always smiled and waved. He would help
neighbors mow the lawn or chop wood. Here was
a guy who usually wore jeans and a T-shirt and
looked like 20 other guys in town.
But there was an ominous side too--racist
incidents took place that merely caused people in the
overwhelmingly white Pacific Northwest to raise their
eyebrows and silently wonder. That's the way in small
communities, where uninvited attention is meddling. In
Metaline Falls, neighbor Monte Rice saw Furrow with his
wife and stepson kicking a black doll as if it were a
soccer ball. The family built a small fire and roasted
the doll, he said. It seemed to Rice that they sure
were having fun.
Another time, a Latino contractor working for
Rice got drunk and accidentally knocked down the
basketball hoop in Furrow's yard. The next day, Furrow
firmly told Rice he did not want "that kind" on his
property.
"Looking back, he just fit the criteria of
the [person] who these groups like to get hold of,"
said Loni Merrill, a neighbor and former schoolmate.
"Low self-esteem, feeling like he didn't really fit in
and all of a sudden, he's somebody." When Merrill saw
the widely published picture of Furrow in the uniform
of a white supremacist group, she sighed.
"He has that look on his face: 'Look at me, I'm
somebody now.' "
A Life Shuffling Back and Forth Furrow is the
only child of an Air Force family, Buford Furrow Sr.,
and his wife, Monnie, both now 66. With his father, a
chief master sergeant, assigned to a communications
squadron at nearby McChord Air Force Base, the boy
spent years of his childhood and adolescence in a
cream-colored, double-wide mobile home in the
predominantly white Nisqually Valley, just north
of Olympia, Wash.
Obscured by Douglas firs and other pines, the
home sat at the end of a long gravel road. One
neighbor, a man named Boots, kept hogs in his yard, but
the Furrows had a small apple orchard, blueberry bushes
and a huge well-tended garden with neat rows of corn
and tomatoes.
In junior high school, young Furrow was chubby
and awkward. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and
usually toted a stack of books. He hated the name
Buford and wanted to be called Neal. During one bus
ride, classmates taunted him so mercilessly that Loni
Merrill, a year younger, shouted at them to stop and
Neal bolted when the bus halted.
Afterward, it seemed to Merrill that Neal Furrow
was even more withdrawn, walking the hallways
alone and scarcely speaking. He addressed adults with a
'Yes, sir,' or 'Yes, ma'am.' He liked to hunt and fish.
"He was just a shadow passing through," said Merrill,
37, a medical insurance biller.
It was the same in North Las Vegas when
Furrow's father was temporarily assigned to Nellis Air
Force Base and Furrow attended Rancho High School as a
freshman and sophomore. Mario Monaco, then-principal,
said Furrow never got into trouble or distinguished
himself among the 500 members of his
grade, about half of whom were members of minority
groups.
When the family returned to the Nisqually Valley,
Furrow graduated from Timberline High School
and later joined the Army. But after two months of
active duty, he was discharged in October 1980 because
of a knee injury. His life became peripatetic: He
attended several community colleges before graduating
from Western Washington University in 1986 with a
degree in manufacturing engineering technology. There
too he made little impression.
"He'd just sort of sit through class, get through
it," said Dave Werstler, a professor who was Furrow's
academic advisor during his final year. Furrow scarcely
participated or talked with others, Werstler recalled.
Professionally, Furrow shuffled from one job to
another. Co-workers say that he did not socialize and
often ate lunch at his desk. He worked for three years
as a clerical employee at Boeing Co.'s Puget Sound
facility and then for three years as a mechanical
engineer at Northrop Grumman's Palmdale facility,
where the B-2 project was underway. Company
officials declined to say why he quit. After Northrop,
Furrow worked at small outfits. In the late 1980s or
early '90s--the precise date is unclear--Furrow seemed
to find a community willing to receive him.
According to the Spokane Spokesman-Review, Furrow
attended the 1989 Aryan World Congress in nearby Hayden
Lake, Idaho.
The Aryan Nations compound is a haven for adherents
of the so-called Christian Identity movement, which
promotes white supremacy and anti-Semitism. Dan
Villers, Furrow's former boss at LaDuke & Fogel
Equipment, an auto shop in Colville, Wash., recalled
that Furrow eagerly discussed two topics: guns and
Aryan Nations. On one occasion, Furrow became
particularly animated describing bullets that exploded
on impact. Anything related to the supremacist group
seemed to inspire Furrow's awe, Villers said.
"He really worshiped the Aryan Nations," Villers
said. "I could tell he wanted to do something that
would let him move up the ranks." Furrow showed up at
the Aryan Nations compound in northern Idaho out of the
blue in 1992 or 1993, recalled one member who was there
at the time.
"He already was well-versed in the basic identity
message," recalled the Aryan Nations member, who
spoke on condition of anonymity. "He just seemed to fit
right in." "More than anything," the Aryan Nations
member said, Furrow was seeking "the fellowship of
like-minded people." He complained to his friend that
he had been dissatisfied with not fitting in.
Furrow volunteered for guard duty at the compound.
He bought a uniform from a store and purchased patches
from Aryan Nations' catalog, said Richard Butler, head
of the group. Furrow took his job seriously, kept his
uniform neat and was always punctual, the Aryan Nations
member said. He would take time off to listen to
Richard Butler or Neuman Britton, the group's
national pastor and Butler's apparent heir of Aryan
Nations. He avoided listening to the "nut cases," this
friend said.
Finding a Place With Aryan Nations Once, in 1995,
the Michael Moore television show "TV Nation" hired
black female singers to serenade the compound with the
Supremes' "Stop! In the Name of Love." While some
of the Aryan Nations members wanted to jump the
crew, Furrow kept them in line, the friend said. When
one guard cracked jokes about sending the media to "the
ovens" like Jews during the Holocaust, "[Furrow] was
really chewing on that guy for being out of line," said
the friend.
Butler described Furrow as "a pleasant,
polite man" who started attending religious services in
1994 at the 20-acre compound in the mountains above the
town of Hayden Lake. Butler remembered seeing Furrow
mostly at Sunday services. He said he only recalled one
conversation with him, a discussion about engineering
work in California. Butler, a former aerospace engineer
in Palmdale, said engineering intrigued Furrow because
of its focus on repairing errors.
It was not just camaraderie that drew Furrow
to the supremacist group. At the Aryan Nations compound
during the 1995 World Congress, where he once again
served as a guard, he met and became involved with
Debra Mathews, widow of Robert Mathews, founder of the
Order, a neo-Nazi splinter group. Mathews was slain in
a shootout with authorities in 1984 after a robbery and
murder rampage.
Within days of their meeting, Furrow had moved
his trailer to Debra Mathews' property near Metaline
Falls, 75 miles away. "It was almost like, 'That's
Debbie, I want her and we're going to live together
happily ever after,' " the friend said. "He loved her.
Good God, it sounded like something out of
some romance novel."
Furrow wanted to marry her right away, but
Mathews waited for about nine months, a neighbor
said. They married in March 1996. Butler presided over
their ceremony, which filled the Aryan Nations church
with about 80 friends and relatives. Furrow seemed
delighted. The parents of both bride and groom
attended, Butler recalled.
The couple honeymooned in Las Vegas, then
drove a trailer back up through California, said Meda
VanDyke, a neighbor. Upon the couple's return, Mathews
was initially enthusiastic about Furrow, VanDyke said.
They apparently enjoyed taking trips together,
traveling to Canada numerous times. Furrow would also
take Clint, Mathews' teenage adopted son, hunting
in the hills around Metaline Falls, home to
whitetail deer, elk and bear.
But Furrow became depressed about his
inability to hold a regular job and provide for his
family, the Aryan Nations member said. He would wave
off anyone who tried to comfort him and sit alone. He
believed one reason he could not keep a job was his
beliefs, the friend said.
"He had a family, he had friends he believed
in, then here he was losing his means to take care of
it all because [of] who his friends were," the Aryan
Nations member said.
The Marriage Falls Apart
The few times the couple appeared in town,
they seemed normal and quiet, residents said. Monte
Rice, however, had a different view. He rented a
trailer from Mathews on her large property off a dirt
road and frequently heard Mathews and Furrow
shouting at each other.
Gradually, Mathews began complaining to
VanDyke about the troubled marriage. "I have to be
completely submissive to him," Mathews told VanDyke.
Furrow ordered her to take Clint out of home-schooling
and send him to the local high school, which Mathews
did. He continually tried to get her to sell her land
and move to Washington's coast with him.
They quarreled over Furrow's fondness for loud
heavy metal music and his insistence on keeping Mathews
confined to the bedroom for long stretches of time,
VanDyke said. He particularly wanted control
of Mathews' money. Most of all, VanDyke said,
Mathews complained about Furrow's temper, rarely
exhibited in public but often in private.
Mathews told her she had tried to get Furrow into
counseling or anger management sessions, but he
continually dropped out. Mathews recounted that Furrow
preferred the idea of simply checking into a hospital,
VanDyke said. At the compound, Furrow stopped
speaking about Mathews.
Then he stopped showing up, and
word spread that the marriage, after about one year,
was over. In April 1997, Furrow drove his 28-foot
trailer 17 miles north of Seattle to suburban Lynnwood.
He rented a spot at the Martha Lake Mobile Manor, an
upscale mobile home park. He kept his shades drawn and
his doors shut--unlike the other residents, said Helga
Halverson, the park's manager. "He didn't want nobody
around him and he didn't want to be around nobody,"
said the park's handyman. During the next 18 months,
Furrow was an ideal tenant. He paid his rent on time.
He kept to himself. He had an occasional visit from
Mathews.
Furrow's mental health began
to rapidly deteriorate, according to friends and court
documents. He tried to kill himself. He had a chilling
fantasy of carrying out a mass shooting in a mall. And
he served a six-month jail term for assault. Sheriff's
officials and prosecutors described Furrow as a time
bomb, pleading for high bail in the case.
Neighbors said Furrow's father came and packed up his
son's trailer in December.
The elder Furrow "said [his son] was in the
hospital, that he had a terminal disease and that he
wouldn't be coming back," Halverson said.
The same month, Furrow's public defender
indicated that his client would plead not guilty by
reason of insanity. Instead, Furrow returned to jail
and pleaded guilty in April to an assault charge. He
was released May 21.
His time in jail was uneventful, although he
was given psychiatric medication while in custody. Jail
officials declined to elaborate further on Furrow's
mental state. Three months later, on Aug. 7, about 2
p.m., Furrow rented a storage locker. As he was
leaving, clerk Margie Ashe pointed out that Furrow's
application lacked an emergency contact number of a
friend or relative.
"I don't have anybody," Furrow responded.
"I'm alone." Two hours later, Furrow drove his
white pickup into the Tacoma Kar Korner used car lot.
Business manager Duane Stone was alone.
Furrow was specific and abrupt. He wanted a
full-size van, with a V-8 engine and a rear seat that
turned into a bed. Stone showed him a red and silver
1986 GMC Vandura. Furrow took a 10-minute test
drive and worked out a deal. The final price:
$4,002.95, paid in cash. The whole transaction took
less than 40 minutes.
The two shook hands. Stone noticed Furrow's
palm was cold and clammy. Then Furrow drove off,
pointing the van toward Interstate 5, in the direction
of Los Angeles.
A Day of Violence in Los Angeles
One day later, sometime after 8 p.m. Sunday,
Furrow walked through the swinging wooden doors of a
Chatsworth honky-tonk. He attracted little notice in
the crowded bar, where patrons danced beneath a
Confederate flag. He ordered a beer and heard singer
Lisa Jones. He left, apparently without speaking
to anyone, said bar owner Bob Rustigian.
His whereabouts Monday remain a mystery. But
by Tuesday morning, Furrow was back on the
freeway. Furrow told police he pulled off for gas, then
saw the North Valley Jewish Community Center on Rinaldi
Street. Just before 10:49 a.m., police said, Furrow
walked through the front door with an imitation Uzi.
Without a word, Furrow sprayed bullets from left
to right. He reloaded at least once, police said.
Then he fled. Isabelle Shalometh, a 68-year-old
receptionist, was hit twice. Six-year-old James Zidell
was shot once in the heel while getting a drink of
water. Mindy Finkelstein, a 16-year-old camp counselor
storing sports equipment from a game, was hit in
the thigh. Also caught in the gunfire: Joshua
Stepakoff, 6, and the most gravely wounded, Benjamin
Kadish, 5. Police arrived in four minutes. Up until the
shooting, Furrow's actions had been precise and
purposeful. But afterward, his plans seemed to crumble
into a chaos of indecision.
First, he abandoned his van and stole a car
belonging to Jenny Youngsun Choi, 23, police said. She
sat frozen in fear in her car, watching Furrow move
belongings from his van to the car, according to Choi's
boss, shop owner Dong Yoon Park.
Furrow drove the Toyota east nine miles,
where he encountered mailman Joseph Santos Ileto.
Furrow told authorities he shot Ileto nine times with a
9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.
A woman and her 9-year-old son saw Ileto
fall. The woman, who spoke on condition of anonymity,
said her son has nightmares now and will only sleep
with the light on.
Furrow fled, abandoning the Toyota in the
parking lot of a Chatsworth hotel. He got a haircut,
bought a shirt at a nearby Mexican restaurant, then
took a cab to Hollywood.
At 2:26 p.m., he checked in at the Days Inn
near La Brea Avenue and Sunset Boulevard, about
eight hours before police would release Furrow's
identity. He paid $250.80 in cash for two nights for a
suite, one with a Jacuzzi.
At 2:50 p.m., he entered his room with a
six-pack of low-calorie beer. He drank three. At 8
p.m., he decided to abandon his prepaid room, hailing a
cab from a 7-Eleven parking lot two blocks away. Cabby
Hovik Garibyan was drinking a bottle of cranberry juice
in the parking lot when Buford approached and
asked to go to the airport. Then, Furrow changed his
mind again and opted for Vegas.
The next morning, he walked into the FBI
office and confessed to the shootings. Then, according
to police sources, he explained the reason for his
surrender. "I made my point," Furrow said.
* * *
Times staff writers Daniel Yi, Solomon Moore,
Andrew Blankstein and Hilary Mac Gregor
contributed to this story.
* * *
ORANGE COUNTY GUN SHOW
Many attendees at this weekend's Orange
County gun show say they feel under siege. B1
* BATTLE IS BREWING
L.A. County officials are seeking a gun show
ban on county land. Promoters hint at court fight. B1.
* POSTMAN REMEMBERED
Joseph Ileto's family is given $5,000 and letters of
support at a Chatsworth breakfast. B3
This story was reported by Josh Meyer,
Nicholas Riccardi and T. Christian Miller and written
by Nora Zamichow.
Copyright 1999 Los Angeles Times.
All Rights Reserved
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