Delivered from Evil: True Stories of Ordinary People Who Faced Monstrous Mass Killers and Survived by Ron Franscell Page B
Authors: Ron Franscell
Tags: True Crime
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he crowed.
Unfortunately, the neat little Massillon house sold at a $69,000 loss, but in October 1983, they moved to the grubby little Mexican border townanyway. James, the Rust Belt refugee, hated it. It was polluted, and the cops often stopped him on his motorcycle. Distrusting Mexican schools, they drove the girls across the border every day to a San Ysidro school. It was too much. Within three months, he uprooted the family again and moved across the border to a $610-a-month, two-bedroom apartment, where the Hubertys were the only Anglos in a mostly Latino complex. And they were running out of cash quickly.
Then James saw an ad for a program that trained low-income, unemployed men to be security guards. He ranked near the top of his twenty-seven-student class but made no real impression on his trainers. In April 1984, he got his license, and a few months later, since he had no serious crimes on his record and a check of his FBI fingerprints didn’t raise any red flags, he received a gun permit that let him carry a loaded .38 or .44 Magnum pistol on duty.
But the voices in James Huberty’s head grew louder and his delusions more twisted. Once, he approached a police cruiser on foot and surrendered himself as a war criminal. An FBI check showed nothing, so he was simply told to go home.
The voices in James Huberty’s head grew
louder and his delusions more twisted. Once,
he approached a police cruiser on foot and
surrendered himself as a war criminal.
In June, the Hubertys moved again, this time to Averil Villas, a dowdy, stuccoed apartment building a block off San Ysidro Boulevard, a stone’s throw away from the McDonald’s.
A month later, on July 10, he was fired from his job as a security guard because his bosses were troubled by his skittishness and odd behavior. James was again crippled by his disappointment at yet another failure in his life. On July 17, Etna finally convinced him to call a mental health clinic, but because of a clerical error, his message was never delivered.
The next day—the last day of his life—James Huberty took his wife and daughters to breakfast before appearing in traffic court on a routine citation. Afterward, they ate lunch at a McDonald’s in San Diego and visited the zoo. They came home in the early afternoon and James took a nap.
Etna grumbled that the mental health clinic hadn’t called back, but James shrugged her off.
“Well, society had their chance,” he said.
Before 4 p.m., the forty-one-year-old unemployed security guard got up, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, black combat boots, and a maroon T-shirt, then kissed Etna good-bye.
She asked where he was going.
“Hunting,” he said. “Hunting humans.”
The ominous comment didn’t faze Etna. James was always saying weird things. He could have walked to the McDonald’s in less than a minute—it was that close. But Huberty got in his black Mercury Marquis and drove. In his duffel bag were his Browning P-35 Hi-Power 9 mm pistol, a Winchester 1200 pump-action 12-gauge shotgun, and a semiautomatic Uzi, all legal weapons, all legally purchased. He also had more than five hundred cartridges and shells.
Slowly, the missed signs began to emerge.
After the massacre, Etna told a reporter that she regretted thwarting her husband’s futile suicide attempt a year before. Or wished that she had killed him herself, which she tried to do during one of their many arguments thirteen years prior, but her gun jammed.
Neighbors and coworkers remembered moments that, in light of the killings, took on new, ominous meaning.
“He always did comment on how he wanted to go through a lot of people,” his ex-foreman at the plant told the Canton paper the day after the rampage. “He had a lot of guns in his house, and he always said he wanted to kill a lot of people. We watched him a lot. We believed him. It was just a question of when.”
An autopsy found no drugs or alcohol in Huberty’s corpse but did discover elevated
Unfortunately, the neat little Massillon house sold at a $69,000 loss, but in October 1983, they moved to the grubby little Mexican border townanyway. James, the Rust Belt refugee, hated it. It was polluted, and the cops often stopped him on his motorcycle. Distrusting Mexican schools, they drove the girls across the border every day to a San Ysidro school. It was too much. Within three months, he uprooted the family again and moved across the border to a $610-a-month, two-bedroom apartment, where the Hubertys were the only Anglos in a mostly Latino complex. And they were running out of cash quickly.
Then James saw an ad for a program that trained low-income, unemployed men to be security guards. He ranked near the top of his twenty-seven-student class but made no real impression on his trainers. In April 1984, he got his license, and a few months later, since he had no serious crimes on his record and a check of his FBI fingerprints didn’t raise any red flags, he received a gun permit that let him carry a loaded .38 or .44 Magnum pistol on duty.
But the voices in James Huberty’s head grew louder and his delusions more twisted. Once, he approached a police cruiser on foot and surrendered himself as a war criminal. An FBI check showed nothing, so he was simply told to go home.
The voices in James Huberty’s head grew
louder and his delusions more twisted. Once,
he approached a police cruiser on foot and
surrendered himself as a war criminal.
In June, the Hubertys moved again, this time to Averil Villas, a dowdy, stuccoed apartment building a block off San Ysidro Boulevard, a stone’s throw away from the McDonald’s.
A month later, on July 10, he was fired from his job as a security guard because his bosses were troubled by his skittishness and odd behavior. James was again crippled by his disappointment at yet another failure in his life. On July 17, Etna finally convinced him to call a mental health clinic, but because of a clerical error, his message was never delivered.
The next day—the last day of his life—James Huberty took his wife and daughters to breakfast before appearing in traffic court on a routine citation. Afterward, they ate lunch at a McDonald’s in San Diego and visited the zoo. They came home in the early afternoon and James took a nap.
Etna grumbled that the mental health clinic hadn’t called back, but James shrugged her off.
“Well, society had their chance,” he said.
Before 4 p.m., the forty-one-year-old unemployed security guard got up, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, black combat boots, and a maroon T-shirt, then kissed Etna good-bye.
She asked where he was going.
“Hunting,” he said. “Hunting humans.”
The ominous comment didn’t faze Etna. James was always saying weird things. He could have walked to the McDonald’s in less than a minute—it was that close. But Huberty got in his black Mercury Marquis and drove. In his duffel bag were his Browning P-35 Hi-Power 9 mm pistol, a Winchester 1200 pump-action 12-gauge shotgun, and a semiautomatic Uzi, all legal weapons, all legally purchased. He also had more than five hundred cartridges and shells.
Slowly, the missed signs began to emerge.
After the massacre, Etna told a reporter that she regretted thwarting her husband’s futile suicide attempt a year before. Or wished that she had killed him herself, which she tried to do during one of their many arguments thirteen years prior, but her gun jammed.
Neighbors and coworkers remembered moments that, in light of the killings, took on new, ominous meaning.
“He always did comment on how he wanted to go through a lot of people,” his ex-foreman at the plant told the Canton paper the day after the rampage. “He had a lot of guns in his house, and he always said he wanted to kill a lot of people. We watched him a lot. We believed him. It was just a question of when.”
An autopsy found no drugs or alcohol in Huberty’s corpse but did discover elevated
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