Archive for the ‘True Crime’ Category

Underdog ( Prison Killers Book 4 ), by Glenn Langohr

Underdog ( Prison Killers Book 4 ), by Glenn Langohr

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Description: “With lazer-like precision Glenn Langohr lays bare the festering under-belly of our criminal justice system in a driving, graphic narrative that somehow finds the humanity in this most inhuman setting.” Phillip Doran, T.V. Producer and Author

“Ex-con Langohr can describe the hell of life inside better than any other writer. His vivid passages on just surviving in prison describe a nightmare we’d rather not know about.
He compares the plight of abandoned dogs, locked and horribly mistreated in rows of cages in animal shelters, to California prison inmates, locked and abused in the same cages. Not a book for the faint of heart. We who sleep peacefully in our beds at night, unaware of the savagery going on behind prison walls, can only thankfully say: ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I’.” John South American Media

The California Prison System houses a mixture of Mexican cartel members, Mexican mafia, Bloods, Crips, and thousands of other street gangs fighting for control and the author turns this story into a pulp thriller of true crime.

Glenn Langohr takes you on a journey back into prison as he remembers a prison war with the Mexican Mafia before his release date. Days later, he got released. His friend he was in the deadly riot with didn’t. He went to Pelican Bay’s Super Max.

The story follows Glenn Langohr years later as he visits his friend in Pelican Bay during a prisoner developed hunger strike against sadistic and cruel guards who get off on their isolation and enjoy adding violence to their torture.


We walked another 500 yards and passed two more prison yards before reaching our destination. The Hole, Administrative Segregation, was behind the last yard in an isolated compound and we circled it. On the way that eerie feeling magnified with the noise. Men were training their bodies in a choreographed and precise manner. One leader was barking orders with the rest of the group responding, followed by the sounds of bodies exercising and grunting. I began to make out the cadence, “Surenos!! Raza!! Estamos listos? Vamanos!” I knew enough Spanish prison slang to understand the cadence was being applied to the southern California Mexicans and the Mexicans originally from Mexico, the race, according to them and always at the ready to go. Around the corner the building opened up enough to peer in at the portion the prisoners were allowed to use for yard for 2 hours every other day. Instead of a regular prison yard, the prisoners were confined to kennels. Row after row of fenced in rectangular dog runs allowed two prisoners per cage 6 feet of width to pace 10 feet back and forth or work out like they were now. I realized something monumental. I had to find “L’il Bird” and “Boxer”, the two Mexicans labeled Mexican Mafia who were removed from the yard before the ensuing power struggle. I needed to communicate to them that the policy we had ironed out together hadn’t been respected by Stranger who stepped up to fill their void. Now that Stranger was gone from the yard, now in line with us to get processed into Administrative Segregation, the yard we just vacated was void of leadership again. Both “L’il Bird” and “Boxer” had the influence and reach to send word to that yard to keep the peace. We turned the corner of the building again and were able to see the yard through the fence. I zeroed in on “L’il Bird” and “Boxer”. Their sturdy, older bodies stood out amongst the younger, less seasoned Mexicans. Both of their sweat glistened bodies were covered by tattoos blasted in aged ink from decades ago and fading. Both had collogues of Aztec war scenes and I was hoping their power to command wasn’t fading like the ink. I searched out the rest of the kennels and in the sea of Mexicans found 4 White men. The 4 White men were distinguishable from the rest of the prisoners by their sheer size.

All 4 men had large bald heads and only 1 of them didn’t have his scalp covered in tattoo ink to the forehead. That behemoth was the largest at 6’7 and at least 280 lbs of iron clad frame. He was scrutinizing us with so much energy I couldn’t look away. The eerie feeling magnified even more as I watched him focus on ascertaining why we were in line to get housed in Administrative Segregation with him, apparently his spot. He used his fingers for sign language and introduced his name, “Bam Bam”, his counterpart’s name in the kennel with him, “Blitz”, along with “Sinner” and “Traveler” in the next kennel. Next he used his fingers to ask us questions. “What prison yard had we just come from?” With our hands cuffed behind our backs in zip ties we had to communicate by nodding our heads or shaking them. He finger questioned, A yard? We shook our head no until he got to D yard. Then, he finger questioned, What happened with the Mexicans? His fingers were taking too long to go letter by letter so he resorted to mimicking possibilities that started with lifting a drink to his mouth to see if we had been drunk? We shook our heads no. He nailed it with his next one. He mimicked the act of registering a needle and shooting dope into his arm. We nodded our head vigorously that he was so warm he was in the oven with us. Next he lifted his hand and ran his fingers together in the universal sign for money and then used his hand to slide by his throat to say the money hadn’t made it. We nodded our heads that he understood our problem. He then used his hand to make it look like he had a knife in it and jabbed it into his other hand repeatedly to ask if weapons were used. We shook our heads no. Then he used both of his fist to fire straight punches and we nodded our heads yes. He went back to using his fingers to sign letter by letter and asked if the drug user that caused the problem was still on the yard. Even though “Lefty” had overdosed we nodded our heads that he was technically right. Time ran out to communicate because prison guards from the building walked into the yard and stopped next to Bam Bam’s kennel. He didn’t seem to mind the intrusion and finger signed to us that we were going to be housed in B-Pod.

Everyone heard a prison guard from the gun tower inside the building announce through a speaker, “Yard recall! Your 2 hours in the kennels are up! Kennels A and B, stand by for an escort to your cells.”

For the next half hour we watched the kennels empty. One prisoner after another backed up and stuck both hands through a slot where a guard applied handcuffs to wrists. From there, we couldn’t see the prisoners enter the building from our vantage point but heard a thick steel vestibule door creaking as it slid open. It closed with the last of the prisoners with a resounding thud.

The building in front of us was a pre-fabricated made tan color. A thick steel green vestibule door creaked and grinded open as it slid on rollers. Above, a black tinted bullet proof window filled up with 2 prison gunners holding rifles. Right next to the window in red capital block letters read: WARNING! NO WARNING SHOTS FIRED- C-6 ADMINISTRATIVE SEGREGATION.

The procession of prisoners proceeded in front of us and we shuffle stepped forward inch by inch. Being the last in line it took 2 hours to get to the vestibule door and inside the building. As we made it I looked up and saw the 2 prison gunners pointing their rifles at us as if we could get out from our cuffs and become a threat. Shuffling through the vestibule door I kept looking up. We could see the gunners in the tower through a bullet proof plexiglass they walked on. A 4 foot by 8 foot square of plexiglass was constructed with a perforated opening to drop tear gas and fire the rifles through at us below. I heard the vestibule door behind us creak and slide shut and it felt like we were vacuumed into a dank and dark, all metal chamber of penal hell. I knew that a percentage of the prisoners living in these concrete corridors had been here for years and thought of Bam Bam and wondered if he was one of them. We’d find out how things operated over here soon enough.

I looked back up at the tower through the plexiglass. From up there, the gunners had a vantage point that allowed access to each row of cell pods and I counted 3 rows facing west, 3 facing east and 3 facing north. The south quadrant covered the yard the prisoners had just come from. Each quadrant had a thick steel green vestibule door. Above each vestibule red block letters signified the location. I found A through C pod stamped over the west side quadrant and watched one of the tower gunners hit a switch on a command table and the vestibule opened.

From the gun tower we heard a guard yell out our names and which cells we were to be housed in.

“B Pod cell 123!”

“B Pod cell 122!”

I was glad to hear that Damon and I were in the same cell and that Blockhead and Jason were in the cell next to us. On the way there I noticed our bedrolls and new prison garb all wrapped up in a bundle with a couple of plastic spoons and cups parked in front of our cells.

The guard in the tower spoke instructions over the microphone, “When we take off the zip ties strip out of your clothes!”

We passed the first cell, a 6 foot wide by 10 foot long chamber of concrete. The cell door was made out of steel with perforated holes from top to bottom inches away from each other making it hard to see in or out clearly. The cell door looked like honey comb. Inside the cell 2 black prisoners exercised and their silhouettes rose and fell as they took turns doing pushups. I looked at the cell across from them and the same thing was happening with 2 more Black inmates. I assumed the Black and Asian inmates were getting their every other day yard tomorrow and were doing their exercises in the cell. We passed a few more cells and stopped at ours.

One of the 4 prison guards behind us said, “After we take the cuffs off strip down and let us search you. You know the drill.”

I went first and got naked and waited for the instructions.

“Arms out wide…Arms up…Lift up your testicles…Turn around…Lift one foot and wiggle your toes…The other foot…Bend over and grab your ass cheeks and spread them…Now cough three times…”

Done with our strip search and locked up tight in our cell Damon let me take a bird bath first since I had more pepper spray on me. I filled up the sink attached to the toilet with water, then sat on the toilet facing the sink and splashed the water over my head with my cup. The water reignited the pepper spray and my eyes watered to ease the burning and I felt it in my lungs and started coughing.

Next to me in the cell Damon was taking one of his two pairs of boxer shorts apart. In the waist band of the boxers after he pulled out the elastic there was plenty of thread to weave together to turn it into a fishing line. He hooked three strands of thread to the cell door using the ventilated honey comb and went to the back of the cell and began weaving the thread into one line.

From outside our cell, on the tier about 4 cells down, we heard a prisoner yell, “Cell 122 and cell 123! This is Traveler in cell 118! I’m sending my line!”

While continuing my bird bath I watched Damon fastening together a small piece of soap into a piece of plastic until he had it attached to his newly woven fishing line. He crouched down on all fours and looked out the side of our cell and yelled, “Shoot it!”

A few minutes of successful fishing later he pulled in a written note from Traveler and read it to me.

Greetings brothers: Welcome to the catacombs. We saw you communicate with big Bam Bam and know you were involved in a riot with the Mexicans. Glad to see you’re alright! I’m in the last cell in our B-Pod so I can get word to C-Pod when the prison guards open the door when they do the head count or pass out mail. I need you to send your paperwork as soon as possible to check you off the Roll Call list. Also, Bam Bam wants to know who ran up the drug debt? We get yard one day and showers the next with a day of zero program on Wednesday. On Wednesday the prison administration runs hearings. Speaking of hearings, that’s when you will get checked to see how long you will be confined in here. For a riot they usually keep you for a couple of months if they have you involved in it in their reports. As soon as I get your paperwork I have a care package for you.

Damon scribbled off a note to let Traveler know what happened on our yard along with how “Lefty” had taken a back door exit by overdosing on heroin.

The next morning 4 prison guards arrived at our cell for an interview…

The first guard, a very large and dark Black man who had an experienced face with kind eyes, had a nameplate on his chest that read: Jackson. Jackson seemed to be the leader of the four and I realized he was a Lieutenant.

The other prison guard standing at the cell was of Mexican descent and a little younger. He wore an expression of impatience, nameplate: Torrez.

Jackson scrunched up close to the honeycomb cell door and said, “Inmate Smith and Johnson, also known as B.J, here is your paperwork for the riot. Now time to ask you some questions…”

We accepted the paperwork through the side of the cell door, and each of us took our time to read it. The top of the page had the form number, 114-D and next to it- Lock Up Order For Administrative Segregation. Underneath it started with the reason: Violation of rule 123 “Group Melee”

The report went on to read that the incident was a serious rule violation and for the safety and security of the prison we were deemed enemy combatants. The next paragraph had reports from prison guards who witnessed the riot from a gun tower and on the ground. I was glad to see that not one of the prison guards wrote who started the fight, just some of the inmates who were involved. It appeared that only 14 inmates had pepper spray administered to their wardrobe. They were the only inmates considered, “Involved in the melee”. It looked like the other 36 inmates would get a reprieve and get “Kicked out” of Administrative Segregation and return to 1 of the other 3 prison yards soon.

Jackson started reading from the report…

“Inmate Smith and Johnson, you were both seen by tower guard Abadaco and building 5 prison guard Jimenez as combatants involved in the riot and in their words ‘Punching both fist repeatedly hundreds of times during the altercation hitting inmates Guerra, Alejandra, Sanchez, Lopez, Cordoba, Marquez, and inmate Delgado repeatedly’. The report goes on to say you were both pepper sprayed. This is the proof needed that you were both involved in the riot so you don’t have much of a chance of beating the prison violations. Since weapons weren’t used I don’t think you have to worry about added charges with the District Attorney but these reports combined with your statements will be sent to them to see if the County wants to pick up additional charges. I don’t think they will. None of the inmates had to get stitched up and there wasn’t any great bodily injury other than some swelling and bruises and a little blood.”

I stared at Lieutenant Jackson and appreciated his honesty. He was letting us in on the full impact and ramifications of the situation rather than letting us sweat out those pertinent details relating to the potential of outside charges with the District Attorney. He was also coaching us in that whatever we said would be used against us in reports. His Mexican partner Torrez, who I realized was a Sergeant, scared the shit out of us.

“We’ve looked at the video footage of the incident and it shows you as the aggressor B.J…If you don’t cooperate with us we might have to write up the report to show that you instigated the riot. That will probably get the D.A. to pick up charges, plus we can raise the in prison violation to a level A charge…”

I knew the current charge we had read, “Group Melee”, was a level D charge in the California Prison Guide, also known as the “Title 15”. The most it carried as in prison punishment was up to 9 months in Administrative Segregation as a S.H.U. term. Sergeant Torrez was referring to a level A charge usually reserved for Murder, Mayhem, Extortion, or a much more grey area, labeling a prisoner responsible for calling those shots by exerting pressure.

Both Damon and I stood there with stoic expressions on our faces waiting…

Lieutenant Jackson started the questions. “What started the riot? We only want to know to see how long to keep the yard it happened on locked down.”

Neither Damon nor I spoke a word. We couldn’t, the unwritten code of silence.”

Lieutenant Jackson nodded his head that he understood our predicament and wrote down and said, “No comment.”

Sergeant Torrez looked angry. His face contorted into that impatient frustrated look he brought originally. He said, “We know it was over dope. Did your race or you B.J. do more dope than you could pay for and then decide the best way out was to get in a fight to get off the yard?”

I knew he was baiting me and it almost worked. I wanted to tell them that yeah it was over dope. “Lefty” saw half the Mexicans on the yard nodding off and scratching their bodies, high as fuck on heroin, and his drug addicted diseased mind was jealous and the desire to use that heroin and get as fucked up as half the Mexicans pushed him past the point. Not that I was excusing his actions. But I was questioning how Termite was smuggling enough heroin into our prison to get 200 Mexicans so high that they were throwing up all over the yard. Was a prison guard helping him smuggle it? I couldn’t imagine how through monitored visits with cameras everywhere, that much heroin could slip through. Usually, smaller amounts made it by the visitor kissing a small balloon of packaged drugs across with it being swallowed by the prisoner and thrown up later…

I finally responded, “It was no big deal. That was a cheer leader fight. All we did is wave some pom-poms around. You can open the yard back up over there…”

I knew they wouldn’t open up the yard for a minimum of two weeks. They would follow protocol and sweep the yard for weapons and a few other things first. I’d have time to contact “L’il Bird” and “Boxer” and restore peace…Hopefully.

Sergeant Torrez scribbled in his report with an angry face and I looked at Lieutenant Jackson. He noticed my worried expression and shook his head as if to say, everything will be alright.

Sergeant Torrez looked like he was trying to scrunch his face up into something intimidating. He looked at me as hard as he could and said, “B.J. you’re parole date is tomorrow. Why in the fuck did you get involved in this? Now you might not go home, unless you tell me what I need to know! What exactly happened over there so we can investigate the riot properly?

I looked at the Sergeant for a while and finally said, “No comment.”

I wanted to tell him that if I helped him by talking he would have to write it in a report that would then come back to us that we would then have to carry with us and pass along to other prisoners. That would be another security threat because we weren’t supposed to talk about those kinds of things. Just because my parole date was set for tomorrow it wasn’t time to become a rat.

The Sergeant said, “Last chance to work with me and possibly go home tomorrow…”

“No comment.”

Lieutenant Jackson smiled at us like we did what we were supposed to do. He knew the program and was just doing his job. He said, “We’re going to run showers for the Whites and Mexicans after we release the Blacks and Asians to the yard kennels. After that we have to take you two out of the cell for some pictures and some more questions about gang affiliation.”

Damon and I both said in unison, “No comment.”

A half hour later we heard cell doors pop open. We looked out the cell and saw Traveler and Sinner come out of their cell with towels and shower supplies. They came right to our cell and filled us in.

Traveler was as tall as Damon at 6’3, with a shredded bullet proof build. He said, “We heard that interview, good job with the no comment. B.J. if your parole date is tomorrow you might have to stay a few extra days but you will go home. Take this Title 15 and read it. The state can’t keep you indefinitely for a riot unless there is good cause for the District Attorney to charge you with a new beef. Since weapons weren’t used you’re out of here. “L’il Bird” and “Boxer” are already on top of things and they got at us to tell you they send their respects and regards and to not worry about the yard you just left. They’re sending Cyclone back to take control of the yard for the Mexicans and the policy you guys already had in place is going to stay the same. The only thing they want is for “Lefty” to get dealt with…”

The first thing I thought was that it was a good thing I spoke loud enough to Stranger for Cyclone and Termite to hear before the riot. They must have heard, or already knew, the drug policy we had worked out was being violated. The second thing I thought, thank God they were handling their business so honorably.

We handed our Lock Up Order 114-D paperwork to Traveler to follow protocol and he slid us a sack of goodies that included some prison store food, toiletries and some writing paper and stamped envelopes. Sinner had a handful of books for us to read to help kill the time stuck in our cell almost 24-7 in slow motion. I had to ask, “How long have you guys been here?”

Traveler said, “Bam Bam has been here the longest at 2 years and 2 months. They’re determining if he’s going to Pelican Bay as a validated mobster. He wanted us to warn you that this prison seems to want these cells in Administrative Segregation filled. They’re on a fishing expedition to validate as many prisoners as shot callers as possible. My cellie and I have been here for a year and a half for defending ourselves in a riot outnumbered 20 to us 2. With such bad odds we both had weapons in our hands. The weapons have us screwed. What did they want us to do, just let them kill us?”

We watched Traveler and Sinner leave our cell and heard their cell door shut. A couple of minutes later we heard the vestibule open and we got some more visitors.

Sergeant Torrez crowded our cell door with a smirk on his face with six I.G.I. Gooners behind him. We called the Inmate Gang Investigators Gooners because they wore similar uniforms to the regular prison guards but had additional black stitching on their shoulders and chest that resembled tattoos to signify they were in charge of deciphering who the gangsters were, usually based on their tattoos.

We backed up to the cell door one at a time and stuck our wrists through the slot to accept the handcuffs. After we backed out of the cell we had one I.G.I. Gooner on each side of us holding our shoulders to steer our direction. Sergeant Torrez led the way and just as we got to Traveler and Sinner’s cell he said, “Time to take some pictures of you to add to the gang file and have an interview out of hearing so you can really open up to us.”

I knew he was trying to stir the pot and make it look like we might yap our gums and talk. They were always trying to play the divide and conquer game to keep the prisoners fighting each other instead of uniting for a common cause, like finding a new life away from prison walls…

We stopped at an office and there were 2 other I.G.I. Gooners inside with cameras and a table full of files next to them.

Sergeant Torrez grabbed our files off the desk and handed them over. I read the nameplate from the first Gooner’s shoulder to receive our files, Valazquez, and noticed he was listed as a Lieutenant. The other Gooner to get our files was Perez, another Lieutenant.

Sergeant Torrez looked at us like a bully and said, “Strip down to nothing. It’s time to take some pictures to beef up your files. Let’s see those tattoos.”

I knew I would disappoint this branch of fault finders. I didn’t have any tattoos. Damon on the other hand was a sculpted banner of ink. They were going to have a field day with him.

I stripped down and stared at Sergeant Torrez. He looked even more frustrated. He said, “Turn around B.J.”

I turned around and heard him say, “Not one tattoo B.J? What’s wrong with you? Every other prisoner has tattoos. How do you have so much influence without them?”

I responded, “Who said I have influence? If I have any it’s because I’m not trendy.”

I heard Sergeant Torrez whistle and say, “Look at all that ink on Smith. We should be able to label some of that ink as gang affiliated.”

“Turn around Smith”

Damon turned around and looked at me with a sour expression on his face and I whispered, “Don’t say anything.”

We heard Sergeant Torrez pull one of the Inmate Gang Investigators aside and close the office door behind them. We listened and barely heard the Sergeant say, “We can put everything on Smith and write it up that he was the shot caller that provoked the riot…”

We heard the I.G.I. Gooner respond, “Yeah, I like that. With all of those prison tattoos we can write it up that he’s part of a prison gang and a leader. We should be able to keep him housed in Administrative Segregation until the Pelican Bay S.H.U. has an opening…”

The door opened and they walked back inside.

“Turn around.”

We turned around and I studied Sergeant Torrez. I was starting to hate him. He was a power tripper who was willing to do whatever it took to screw people like us. He grabbed one of the cameras and got close enough to Damon’s naked body for it to feel weird. The feeling intensified because his face took on a glow, like he was getting off on the process. With his face 6 inches away from Damon’s stomach he asked, “What does Rott stand for? Is that you’re A.K.A?”

Damon didn’t say anything…

“What about that banner of ink flowing across your chest with the Ace of Spades flying off the table with the dice? Does that mean you control the gambling in here?”

Damon remained silent…

“What about the 737 on your shoulder, what does that stand for?”

Lieutenant Inmate Gang Investigator Perez came closer with an excited look on his face. “That’s a gang tattoo! I know I have it in my files somewhere.”

The energy increased with Perez’s excitement and the questions came in rapid fire.

“What do they call you besides B.J?”

“What do they call you Smith?”

“Who do you run with?”

“What gang are you from?”

“What neighborhood do you represent?”

“Are you affiliated with the Aryan Brotherhood?”

“How about the Nazi Low Riders?”

“Are you Skin Heads? Are you Peckerwoods? Come on I know you’re someone!”

The feeling of doom intensified as the reports were scribbled faster along with the flashing lights from the cameras. It felt like we were on an out of control train about to get derailed.

Inmate Gang Investigator Torrez flipped the pages in his gang file and with excitement that bordered on glee, said, “See, right here! Look at the tattoo on this inmate… He has the number 737 tattooed on his shoulder also. When we interrogated him he admitted his A.K.A. is Casper and also admitted his gang affiliation as O.C.S, short for Orange County Skin Head. He also told us the structure of White gang leadership in prison starts with the Aryan Brotherhood dominating the Nazi Low Riders, who dominate the Skin Head gangs. He said a Roll Call list is taken on every prison yard in California to organize the power structure…”

On the walk back to our cells we passed Traveler and Sinner standing at their cell door watching. I remembered Traveler’s warning about the fishing expedition. It felt like we’d just been hooked and thrown all over the place. But where were we going to land? It felt hard to breath, like a fish out of water…

The next morning started with Sergeant Torrez. He stood in front of the cell smiling at us looking smug, like he had won the war. He had some papers in his hand and said, “Here’s some more paperwork related to the riot you caused Smith, or should I call you by your A.K.A, Rott?”

I pulled the reports through the side of the cell and realized what was happening. They’d decided to focus on Damon because they didn’t have time to focus on me since the D.A. wouldn’t pick up the charges and keep me from making my parole date. I’d be going home within 5 days according to the Title 15. With me gone, I wouldn’t be able to be a witness for Damon that he didn’t coerce me into doing what I did…

Sergeant Torrez took one last parting shot with, “If you would have cooperated with me you wouldn’t be in this mess. I could have saved your ass from living in solitary. It still might not be too late… If you give me enough good information about the gangs in here, I still might be able to help you avoid this hole for the rest of your life.”

I knew I was going home and leaving Damon to this fate. He still had 3 years left on his sentence and it looked like it might be spent in isolation. I looked at him and watched him say, “No comment.”

A couple hours later Lieutenant Jackson showed up. He also had reports. He handed them through the side of the cell. We took our time reading them and found the Lieutenant had investigated more thoroughly and found the truth and it defended us, somewhat. We listened to him say the same thing that we were reading…

“I pretty much know with certainty what happened over there to cause that riot. The Mexicans were without any leadership and there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Also, somehow, there was enough heroin on the yard to kill 100 people. From there it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the White inmate who overdosed ran up a drug debt. I also know that a year ago on the same yard the White prisoners were attacked in a riot that sent 16 White inmates to the infirmary on stretchers. It was over a drug debt. You guys were probably just protecting yourselves the best you knew how. I’ve been around these California prison corridors for 30 years and I know it’s just a system of warehouses filled with mostly drug addicts and alcoholics. I don’t like what Sergeant Torrez is doing to you Smith. He wants to become an Inmate Gang Investigator and his passion to do so pushes him too far.”

It was nice to hear but was it and the report enough to help Damon? Probably not.

Lieutenant Jackson shook his head and kept being honest. “B.J. you’re going home tomorrow. Smith you’re going to be stuck in this cell, in isolation for at least 3 months while the investigation proceeds. You will probably do the rest of your sentence in here and Pelican Bay while the Administration decides if they can validate you as a prison gang leader. Make the best of it and good luck.

Underdog ( Prison Killers Book 4 ), by Glenn Langohr

Available at:

Women Who Kill - The Bitches From Hell Serial Killers, by RJ Parker

Women Who Kill - The Bitches From Hell Serial Killers, by RJ Parker

Women Who Kill – The Bitches From Hell Serial Killers, by RJ Parker
Available at:

Description: When we hear about a Serial Killer, we never consider the sex, we would immediately assume a man…right? but that’s not always the case! Females are for the most part, the loving and caring protectors of our species and the ones that are more susceptible to danger. However, they are in fact the most dangerous because they are the least suspected of the Serial Killers. Like their male counterparts, they show no remorse and have no mercy for their victims. Should we still call them the weaker sex?

My second Serial Killer book, Women Who Kill – The Bitches from Hell, explains and defines the various types of Female Serial Killers and contains over twenty criminal dossiers.


Female serial killers often remain unobserved, hiding in the background, masked by her male equal. Her acts are unusual and uncommon, but never fail. She behaves in a more delicate and precise manner, and is deadly and merciless. The most common of her monstrous crimes have not yet been comprehended. The theory of the female serial killer herself still lies within the specialty of uncertainty. It is time, however, to capture this hushed serial killer and bring her crimes to our attention.

What is the difference between a serial murderer from any other murderer? A murderer is usually defined as someone who takes the life of another person. A serial murderer usually murders more than three people.

Although the time phase within which the killer is performing may be the subject of debate, criminologists and researchers usually agree on a definition of serial murderer as a person who engages in the murdering of three or more people in a period of thirty days or more.

Although this definition is adequate in the identification of a serial murderer, it does not differentiate between male and female perpetrators. There are however, differences between the sexes. The average period of vigorous killing for females is eight years. For males, it is only about four years. Female serial killers seldom torture their victims or commit any violence on their victims’ bodies. Female killers prefer weapons that are difficult to distinguish, such as poison, fatal injections, and induced accidents.

The sort of victims chosen by female serial killers further reveal a dissimilar typology from male serial murders. Male killers, usually acting as sexual predators, tend to mark adult female victims. Female killers, however, seldom choose their prey based on sex, and usually attack victims that are familiar to her, such as children, relatives, and spouses. Sometimes, if she does turn against a stranger, it is usually one who can be conquered easily, such as an older person under her care or even a child.

The average age of the female serial killer’s first victim is fourteen to sixty-four. The typical female serial murderer commences killing after the age of twenty-five. The female serial killer is more multifaceted than the male and is often harder to catch. Since the definition of the serial killer is insufficient in explaining this quiet female killer, classifying her becomes a requirement in fully comprehending both her and the temperament of her crimes.

According to FBI Profiler, Robert K. Ressler, both male and female serial killers may be classified in one of two groupings: the ‘organized’ and the ‘disorganized.’ The organized killer usually exhibits qualities of high intelligence and sociability, a stable employment history, normal sexual functioning, and an outstanding ability of controlling her emotions during the act of murder. On the contrary, the disorganized killer has average intelligence, underdeveloped social skills, a turbulent employment history, and sexual dysfunction.

Although this evaluation might be helpful, it still sheds very little light towards understanding female serial killers. As female and male serial killers have very little in common, making classifications that apply to both sexes rather futile.

Female serial killers usually come under any one of the following categories: Black Widow, Angel of Death, Sexual Predator, Revenge, Profit, Team Killer, Question of Sanity, or Unexplained and Unsolved.


The Black Widow is one of the most lethal female serial killers, very organized and successful in her killings. A Black Widow is defined as a woman who systematically murders a number of spouses, family members, children, or individuals outside the family with whom she has established a close relationship. She commonly begins her deadly career in her late twenties and may be active for a whole decade before giving rise to any suspicions.

Her crimes are revealed only after the increasing number of deaths around her may no longer be discarded as coincidences. The victims of the Black Widow usually number between six and ten; their ages and sex are generally unimportant. Her methodology ranges between poison, suffocation, strangulation, and shooting, though poison is the most favored of her methods, used 87% of the time.

The Black Widow kills for two motives. The first: profit. In fact, the overwhelming majority of Black Widows are lured into murder by the proceeds of life insurance or the assets of the victim. Usually, a monetary windfall will eventually fall into the possession of the perpetrator after the victim’s death. In fact, it is not uncommon for these women to insure the victims themselves shortly before they execute a crime, thus giving substantial proof of how calculating, methodical, and devious, a female serial killer can be.

Belle Gunness is probably one of the earliest and most notorious Black Widows. Gunness was born in 1859 in Norway as Brynhild Paulsdatter Storset. At the age of twenty-one, already showing signs of her ambitions, she immigrated to the United States and changed her name to Bella.

In 1884, she met Mads Sorenson who was also a Norwegian immigrant. Marrying a year later, Gunness settled into what could be considered an uneventful decade until her love for money – and the lack of it – drove her to extremes in 1896. In that year, she and her husband opened a confectionery shop which was mysteriously destroyed by a fire caused by a kerosene lamp – a lamp that was inexplicably never found. Around that same time, their oldest child, Caroline, suddenly died of what medical personnel believed to be acute colitis.

Insurance profits from both incidents proved sufficient to alleviate the pain of the grieving mother, who used the money to buy a new house. Surprisingly enough, the new house also burned down in 1898, a misfortune that was soon followed by the death of another child, Alex. Gunness received yet another insurance settlement and this time, too, she used the money to buy a new house. In 1900, Mads Sorenson suddenly died of an undiagnosed ailment that exhibited the symptoms of strychnine poisoning.

This unexplained death also passed unobserved, and Gunness used the money from the insurance to buy a farm for her and her three surviving children. Two years later, in 1902, Gunness married another Norwegian immigrant named Peter Gunness. The marriage was short lived; in 1903 Gunness would be a widow again. Peter died when a sausage grinder happened to fall from a shelf and strike him on the head as he was passing underneath.

Shortly after this tragic event, Gunness began to hire local laborers to help her with the farm. Unfortunately, most of them disappeared mysteriously. In 1906, Gunness’ stepdaughter, Jennie Olsen, also disappeared. She was allegedly sent to a school in California. In 1908, the Gunness’ farmhouse was destroyed by a fire of, again, unexplained origin. Investigators searching the house for signs of arson found the bodies of three children and an adult female in the basement. Oddly enough, the woman’s body was decapitated and investigators could not locate the head.

The remains of other mutilated bodies were found throughout the farm. Ray Lamphere, who had worked on the Gunness’ farm, was arrested and charged with arson and murder. Even though the exact number of victims was never identified, it is believed to have numbered anywhere between sixteen and twenty-eight. Lamphere argued that Gunness was the one who had set the fire and that she was the person responsible for forty-nine murders.

According to his testimony, Gunness was alive; he had helped her escape. He further argued that the decapitated body belonged to an unfortunate woman who had been lured to the farm with money. To this day, we do not know whether Gunness died in the fire or whether she had managed to commit the perfect crime and elude being apprehended.

Even though the Black Widow, murdering for profit, might appear to be unparalleled by any other serial killer, the type of Black Widow that murders out of jealousy and rejection is equally merciless. This type of Black Widow is epitomized in the person of Vera Renczi.

Vera Renczi was born in 1903 in Hungary. She suffered from a pathological fear of rejection that eventually led to a series of murders that lasted throughout her adult life. She murdered thirty-five individuals, including her husbands, lovers, and son. By the age of sixteen, she had run away with several local men considerably her senior.

Like all her relationships, Renczi’s marriage to a local executive did not last more than a brief period. Her pathological jealousy found expression in frequent and violent fits of anger against her mate, and soon her husband disappeared mysteriously. Renczi remarried shortly afterwards, but her new husband disappeared as well after Renczi convinced herself of his infidelity.

Throughout the following years, Renczi acquired a number of lovers – thirty-two to be exact – all of whom mysteriously disappeared from her life. The vicious Black Widow became so obsessed that she did not hesitate to take the life of her own son once he had discovered the truth about her vanishing lovers and husbands.

The fact that her own son had dared to blackmail her marked the ultimate form of treachery in Renczi’s eyes. After murdering thirty-five victims, Renczi was finally discovered when the wife of one of her lovers became suspicious and called the police when her husband failed to return home. Renczi admitted to lifelong deadly practices and led the police to the basement of her home where the remains of thirty-five men were preserved in lavish zinc coffins. Each one of the victims was poisoned by lethal doses of arsenic.


The Angels of Death are the lethal caretakers who match, by all standards, the Black Widows in their viciousness. These are the women from whom the elderly seek support, and to whom parents trust their children. Because these women usually act in places where death is a common occurrence, such as hospitals, they not only pass unobserved, but it is often very hard to determine the exact number of victims.

One thing, however, is certain, the Angel of Death targets victims who are unable to shield or defend themselves, and who are, in her own eyes, already condemned to die. The Angel of Death, like the Black Widow, uses a weapon that is delicate and hard to detect. When the victim is an adult, she uses deadly injections of chemicals such as potassium, which will cause a heart attack. When the victims are young children, she resorts to suffocation, usually with a pillow.

She usually starts killing in her twenties, making bold decisions over who is to live and who is to die, and just might maintain this habit over a long period in her life. A classic Angel of Death exhibits two characteristics that usually make her apprehension a little easier. The first is that she is obsessive in her need to kill, and she kills repetitively within her own area of responsibility – such as a nurse or caretaker.

The second is that the Angel of Death often enjoys talking about her crimes in an attempt to gloss them over as acts of mercy, and often tries to depict herself as a heroine and caring benefactor. Angels of Death are usually highly regarded by their co-workers, supervisors, and even their own victims’ relatives.

Even though numerous Angels of Death are responsible for taking the lives of hundreds of innocent children and helpless elderly people throughout the last quarter of the century, very few of them have actually been apprehended.

One of the most villainous Angels of Death was Genene Jones, an American nurse born in 1951. She was actively criminal between the ages of twenty-seven to thirty-one, and was responsible for the death of at least eleven children, all of them injected with lethal chemicals. It was suspected that she might have been involved in the deaths of as many as forty-six children.

Having changed jobs from the Bexar County Medical Center in San Antonio, Texas, to the Kerr County clinic, and then to the Sip Peterson Hospital, she allowed suspicions to rise as the numbers of infant deaths in each hospital frighteningly increased while she worked there. Unfortunately, changing location also provided her with ample time to carry out the killings that satisfied her perverted need for power, control, and recognition. She was finally caught and brought before justice in 1984. She received a sentence of ninety-nine years in prison. The exact number of her victims is still unknown to this day.

Women Who Kill – The Bitches From Hell Serial Killers, by RJ Parker
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Driven to Kill, by Gary C. King

Posted: August 24, 2011 by Admin in Gary King, True Crime
Driven to Kill, by Gary C. King

Driven to Kill, by Gary C. King

Driven to Kill, by Gary C. King
Now available at:
Amazon, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble


The true story of sex killer Westley Allan Dodd–his victims were too small to fight…and too young to die! Includes eyewitness execution report.

By all appearances, twenty-nine-year-old Westley Allan Dodd was the perfect all-American boy—model high school student, camp counselor and U.S. Navy enlistee. But behind his mask of normalcy lurked a predatory sex fiend with a seventeen-year history of appalling acts of molestation and violence. Children were his victims and the parks of the Pacific Northwest his personal hunting grounds.

On September 4, 1989, his unnatural desires had driven him past simple satisfaction to abduct, torture, and kill two young boys in Vancouver, Washington. Undetected despite his record, Dodd killed a third innocent victim only weeks later near Portland, Oregon. But only when he was caught trying to kidnap a child from a local movie theater was he finally taken into custody by police. Confessing to this heinous murders, he was convicted on all three counts and sentenced to death.

Based on exclusive access to police files and riveting trial testimony, personal interviews with Dodd himself and excerpts from his chilling “diary of death,” Driven to Kill dramatically recounts a hideous spree of death and horror that brought every parent’s worst nightmare frighteningly to life!


The ugliest of trades have their moments of pleasure. Now, if I were a gravedigger, or even a hangman, there are some people I could work for with a great deal of enjoyment.

-Douglas Jerrold, 1803-1857, Ugly Trades

Life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound,
stripe for stripe.

-Exodus, XXI, 23


It was in the late summer of 1989 that a young man named Westley Allan Dodd trespassed into thousands of lives, and before it was over his rampage of unleashed savagery would make it perhaps the most hideously unforgettable summer on record in the Pacific Northwest. The horror he created that summer would, albeit unintentionally on Dodd’s part, forever change the way that citizens and lawmakers alike in the states of Washington and Oregon viewed virtually all classes of sex offenders, especially child molesters and child killers.

Dodd, at the time of his arrest, had not yet developed into a full-blown “bona fide” serial killer as set forth in FBI standards, which states in part that for a killer to be classified a serial murderer he must claim three or more victims in at least three separate “incidents.” But for all intents and purposes he was a serial killer all right. Dodd fit the mold in that he had claimed two victims in one incident, another in a second incident, and would have committed his fourth murder in a third episode if he hadn’t been stopped by a screaming child and alert bystanders while he was attempting to carry out the crime.

Although Dodd had not murdered anyone until late that summer, at least not as far as the authorities knew, it would later become crystal clear that this seemingly near-perfect ail-American “boy” turned adult had been, in reality, inextricably enmeshed in an extended fantasy state during that period and had been trolling for victims for at least several months before the first murders. He had been gradually working up his nerve to begin the atrocities that would first unbalance the Pacific Northwest, and then ultimately shock the rest of the nation.

Powerless, as most serial killers are, in the day-to-day relationships with those whom he closely associated, Dodd had begun searching for someone, not just anyone, but someone special to play out his ultimate power trips on, lurking in the shadows of Portland, Oregon, and Vancouver, Washington, and waiting until the moment to strike was just right. Many people, including psychiatric professionals and police officials, knew about this sex fiend’s long history of indecent exposure, child molestation, and violence, but because of the constraints of the system in which they worked they were powerless to stop him from commencing his killing spree.

In many ways, upon retrospect, he was like the monsters that had come before him, killers like Ted Bundy, Jerome Brudos, Dayton Leroy Rogers, the Green River killer, and a seemingly endless slew of other cold-blooded serial murderers who had learned how to manipulate the system. Like his murderous predecessors he sought out complete strangers as his victims. Instead of women, however, the victims of choice of most such murderers, Dodd always preyed upon helpless little children, young boys whose trust he managed to gain with promises of friendship, money, candy, and toys. When it was all over, few could argue that his malignant deeds, perhaps because children were involved, proved more feral and emotionally painful in the eyes of law officers and the disconcerted public than those of his notorious predecessors.

Dodd knew early on that he liked molesting young children, and in his mind the dictum was “the younger the better.” He also did what he had to do to avoid jail time, and would play the “game” of the system so that he could continue to molest kids and expose himself. He learned early in his life how to effectively manipulate the system so that he could slip quietly, almost unnoticed, through its cracks. Despite his extensive criminal record as a sex offender in cities and towns throughout the Pacific Northwest, the authorities always seemed to forget about him when he dropped out of a treatment program and moved on to another locale. Because he had been successful at avoiding prosecution for so many of his earlier crimes, Dodd, even at the time of his final arrest, had not significantly changed his modus operandi. Under a more sophisticated and more communicative law enforcement system, Dodd’s continued criminal activities could have caught the attention of authorities early on and saved the lives of his innocent victims. But the system, even when functioning at its best, had its pitfalls. Thankfully, in response to citizen outrage over his crimes, a superior although controversial system requiring convicted sex offenders to register for the rest of their lives with police agencies is now in place in the states of Washington and Oregon.

If it can be said that anything good came out of this case besides instituting a more efficient system for reporting and keeping track of sex offenders, it is only that this sexual sociopath, clearly a livid monster hiding inside a human shell with an insatiable appetite for violent and bloody death, was stopped before he could put his nightmarish fantasies into full play and snuff out even more young lives. Despite the efforts of four police agencies and numerous detectives to thwart his perverted activities, however, he had committed murder with calculated cold-bloodedness, terrorized entire communities, and virtually turned the populace of two states upside down before being stopped.

There have been few crimes that have instilled such a high degree of fear in a populace as those committed by this killer, mainly because he struck out at pure innocence and left everyone wondering who and where he would strike next. In part by his own design and in part by the laws governing sex offenders that were in place at the time, Dodd ultimately was driven to kill.


A hushed silence fell over the long, rectangular courtroom when Westley Allan Dodd, flanked by armed sheriff’s deputies, appeared through a side door, hands cuffed securely behind his back. After a deputy removed the restraints that held his thin wrists together, the convicted child sex killer took a seat at the defense table next to his attorney. Clad in a light blue, short-sleeved pullover shirt, pre-washed faded blue denim jeans, and a pair of sneakers, Dodd uneasily faced the judge, his back to the families of the victims he’d kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. Their eyes were upon the dark-haired young man, just as they had been throughout the month-long guilt or innocence phase of the trial. They had heard startling, shocking testimony about child molestations, violent depraved sex, torture, and necrophilia.

The courtroom was packed to capacity, and many of the spectators who had sat through portions of the trial had to be turned away at the door. Those who managed to get in were required to pass through a metal detector, just as they had been required to do on all previous days. Everyone present that day, Thursday, July 26, 1990, was there to hear Clark County Superior Court Judge Robert Harris pass sentence on the “normal-looking” pedophile turned child murderer. First, however, Harris had decided to allow members of the victims’ families to make public statements.

Karen Osborne, an aunt of four-year-old victim Lee Joseph Iseli, nervously shuffled a sheet of paper as she faced the judge. She was going to read a handwritten statement by Jewel Cornell, the boy’s grief-stricken mother. She swallowed hard, looked directly at Dodd for a moment, and then began to read from the paper she held with trembling hands in front of her.

“You have taken my whole world apart —my family’s world apart,” read Osborne from Cornell’s emotionally charged statement. “You are the scum of the Earth. You get on the news and the radio and tell everyone how you felt when you did these unspeakable crimes . . . and you get a high just by talking and going over what you did. You make me sick. I hate your guts . . . you are a sick, cruel and ugly person … I will never rest until the day your life is taken … I hope you rot in hell.” If Dodd felt anything as a result of Cornell’s statement, he didn’t let it show.

Robert Iseli, Lee’s father, next stood in front of the courtroom. Brushing back an occasional tear he turned toward Dodd, angrily facing the man who had confessed to brutally raping and murdering his little boy.

“How did we allow this,” he said, gesturing toward Dodd, “to end up where he is today? It is sad to take a life. . . . Taking a life, any life, even this man’s, is never right. It is a grave decision that the state has to make…So do we blame ourselves for this death? No. We are left with no choice.”

Relatives of the other murder victims—Cole Neer, eleven, and his brother, Billy Neer, ten—declined to make a public statement.

“Do you have a statement to make before this court, Mr. Dodd?” asked Judge Harris.

“Yes, your honor,” said Dodd as he stood up at the defense table. “I didn’t offer any mitigating evidence during the penalty phase because, in my mind, that’s just an excuse. And I don’t want to make any excuses.”

Dodd occasionally looked up at the judge and stoically reiterated how he had been arrested numerous times over the course of his life for sex crimes against children, and stated matter-of- factly how the criminal justice system had failed him and his victims.

“I do not blame the criminal justice system for anything…but the system does not work and I can tell them why….It doesn’t really matter why the crimes happened. I should be punished to the full extent of the law, as should all sex offenders and murderers…I can accept a death sentence, and I don’t want to see any delays in carrying it out….If my death will bring peace to the people I’ve hurt so bad, then it’s time for me to die.”

“Amen,” said someone from the gallery of spectators.

When Dodd finished, Roger Bennett, deputy prosecuting attorney, stepped forward and submitted a legal document to the court that would, if signed by Dodd, allow Dodd to waive his rights to appeal. Bennett fervently recommended that the judge allow Dodd to sign the document.

“I like what Mr. Bennett is saying,” Dodd offered. “I don’t want this thing tied up in the courts for years.” He added that he didn’t want the mandatory review of his case by the Washington Supreme Court, and insisted that he did not want anyone filing any appeals on his behalf. He said he would instruct his lawyer to sue anyone who tried to intervene.

“You have an ongoing, depraved, sadistic desire to hurt, injure, and maim others,” Harris told Dodd as he looked him square in the eye. “To you, it is clear that murder is the ultimate goal —the ultimate satisfaction…I am able to sign your death decree without looking back….”

Driven to Kill, by Gary C. King
Now available at:
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