Did John Norman Collins Work Alone?

Boarding house where Collins, Davis, and Manuel lived.

A nagging question people familiar with the Washtenaw County serial killings ask is, "Did John Norman Collins have any accomplices? And if so, are they still at large in the area?"

It is known that Collins was not alone when he picked up the second victim, Joan Schell, on the evening of June 30th, 1968. She was hitchhiking to Ann Arbor from McKenny Union on Eastern Michigan University's campus in Ypsilanti.

Miss Schell was picked up by three young men in a red vehicle with a black convertible top thought to be a Chevy. Along with Collins, who was wearing a green EMU tee-shirt, was Arnold Davis, a close friend, and an unidentified third person who the other men refused or were unable to identify.

John Norman Collins and Arnie Davis - EMU Ski Club - 1967.

Soon, Collins offered Joan a ride to Ann Arbor in his car, and the two other guys were sent on their way. This information was discovered in a police interrogation of Arnie Davis after Collins was arrested for the murder of Karen Sue Beineman a year later.

Arnie, who lived in a second floor room across the landing from John Norman Collins, said that in the early morning hours of July 1st, Collins returned to the house with Joan's red shoulder bag. Arnie asked him about it and he replied, "She ran from my car and left her purse behind." 

Davis reported that Collins rifled through her wallet and examined her driver's license and exclaimed, "The bitch lied to me. She told me she was married."

Joan Schell's nude body was found a week later on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. At the very least, Arnie Davis had information which could have prevented the slayings of five other women if only he had come forward with what he knew. Strictly speaking, Arnie Davis was not legally obligated to contact the police, but he was morally obligated, and he made the conscious decision to conceal what he knew.

Of the seven victims that comprise the cases against Collins, it is certain that other people knew or suspected Collins early on. But either out of misplaced loyalty, fear of Collins, or out of their own complicity on some level, several key players remain silent. 

Fearing an arrest on burglary charges and other unspecified charges against him, Arnie Davis was given full immunity by the Collins' prosecutors on the condition that he testify against his friend in open court. With great reluctance, Davis testified in the Karen Sue Beineman case but was prevented from making any statements regarding any of the other cases, lest there be a mistrial called. He was extensively interviewed by police about the Joan Schell case also.

***

In the most obscure of the Collins' cases, there was undoubtedly some collusion by another of Collins' housemates, one Andrew Manuel, a petty career criminal from Salinas, California. He came to Michigan to work in an auto plant but eventually lost his job. He found another factory job at Motor Wheel Corporation making wheel housing components. That's where he met John Norman Collins.

Andy was two years older than Collins and worked the night shift full time. Collins went to school during the day and worked a four hour part time night shift. The young men worked together and became friends. 

Despite being married and renting an apartment with his wife on Ypsilanti's east side, Andy Manuel also rented a room at the Emmet St. boarding house along with Arnie Davis and Collins. The young men became friends and soon formed a burglary crew.

In June of 1969, Collins and Manuel decided to leave Ypsilanti for about a month. Between March and June, four local women were slain and deposited around Washtenaw County and every policeman available was working the case. 

These two young men also had been busy breaking into homes, burglarizing cars, and stealing anything of value they could carry off and fence later. They left town hoping for the local heat to die down.

Collins and Manuel went to Hendrickson's Trailer Sales and Rentals on East Michigan Ave. They placed a $25 cash deposit down for the rental of a seventeen foot long house trailer. The following day, they paid for the rest of the rental with a stolen check and false ID. Collins told the rental people they were going fishing in Canada for a week. After the trailer was hitched to Collins' Oldsmobile Cutlass, they headed west on Interstate-94 for California.

Andy Manuel was from Salinas, California, and once they arrived there, they parked the trailer behind his grandparents' house. Within a week, Roxie Ann Phillips from Milwaulkie, Oregon, was visiting family friends and crossed Collins' path. She went missing on June 30th, 1969, and her nude body was found two weeks later on July 13 at the bottom of Pescadero Canyon, north of Carmel Valley in Monterey County.

Salinas police investigators discovered that on July 3rd, 1969, Collins went to the Tolan-Cadillac-Oldsmobile dealership to have repairs made on his car and to have a trailer hitch removed. Then the pair returned unexpectedly early to Ypsilanti. 

When the Salinas Police discovered the trailer abandoned behind Manuel's grandparents' home, the forensic crime lab checked it out from top to bottom. They discovered that the trailer had been wiped clean inside and out. Not a single fingerprint could be found. That in itself pointed the finger of suspicion at the two absent men.

I find it unbelievable that Manuel did not know that Collins had killed Roxie Ann Phillips. Whether Andy had anything to do with Roxie's murder or not is unknown. The evidence suggests that Collins acted alone, but where was Manuel at the time? Surely, he helped Collins wipe the trailer clean of fingerprints and any other collateral evidence. 

I wonder what their conversation was about on their way back to Michigan. Shortly after they returned to their boarding house, Manuel gathered up his belongings and left the state again unannounced. He had to know what had happened in California and wanted to distance himself from Collins and the law.

Andrew Manuel in FBI custody.

After a nationwide manhunt, the FBI arrested Andrew Manuel in Phoenix, Arizona. He was hiding out at his sister-in-law's house. At the very least, Andrew Manuel was an accessory after the fact and withheld information from the police investigators. But when he was interrogated by the police and prosecutors, he passed several polygraph (lie detector) tests. Manuel was given a clean bill of health from the authorities.

Andrew Manuel had been given a deal. Prosecutor Booker T. Williams went out on a limb for him. Williams said at the close of Manuel's fraud case for stealing the trailer, that Mr. Manuel had no involvement in any of the murders. He was given a $100 fine and one year's probation. 

As soon as he could, Manuel violated his probation and fled again but was soon captured to serve out his sentence in the Washtenaw County Jail. When he was called to testify in the Karen Sue Beineman case, Andy played the village idiot and didn't cooperate with the prosecution in any significant way.

***

Whether either of these guys was directly involved with any of the Washtenaw County murders hasn't been firmly established. It is known that Arnie Davis and Andrew Manuel were involved with Collins in other illegal activities, and they prowled the Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti streets together.

The theory that Collins did not always act alone is persistent. Several people have come forward recently saying that they escaped the clutches of Collins and Manuel and lived to tell their stories. Sometimes, a simple ruse was all that was needed to lure a person in, but other people report struggling to escape from them.

As soon as they could after the Collins trial, Arnie Davis and Andy Manuel left Michigan. These men now live on opposite ends of the country. It should also be noted that after the arrest of John Norman Collins, the two year nightmare of sex-slayings of young women in Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor ended. But worries that Collins did not act alone and that his accomplices are still lurking in the area are persistent concerns held by many people today.

My Personal Motivation For Writing About John Norman Collins

The events detailed in this post happened in Ypsilanti, Michigan, just two blocks beyond the green lights of this photograph.

Last winter, I was asked by a Detroit News reporter if writing about John Norman Collins and the Washtenaw County killings of the late Sixties was personal for me. Without missing a beat, my answer was "Hell yes, it's personal!"

When a community is held hostage by their fear of an unknown serial killer in their midst for two years, suddenly it becomes very personal for everyone.

Murder is the greatest violation of an individual and almost every culture has strictures against it because it strikes at the heart and well-being of society. What is most difficult for people to understand is how someone can murder impersonally without provocation or conscience.

***

Throughout John Norman Collins' reign of terror, I lived at 127 College Place, a block up the street from the boarding house on Emmet St. where Collins rented a second story room. Like many other people coming and going to classes at Eastern Michigan University, I walked passed that house twice a day. 

It was only after the two year ordeal, when Collins was arrested and the murders stopped, that people were able to contextualize their experiences. Like so many other people in Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor, I saw his photograph on the front pages of The Ypsilanti Press and The Detroit Free Press. I recognized him immediately though I didn't know his name until I read it.

John Norman Collins' Perp Walk at Arraignment in Ypsilanti

***

My first encounter with Collins happened on Sunday, July 30th, 1968. It was after 9:00 PM. I was walking home on Emmet St. with my girlfriend, Kristi Kurtz, after going to the party store on W. Cross St. for some groceries. 

In front of the Arm of Honor frat house, a convertible with three guys in it pulled up along side us. The driver who was wearing an EMU shirt asked Kristi if she would like to hang out with some real men.

With a full bag of groceries in my arms, I spoke up, "Hey, guys. She's with me." Then I was crudely threatened with an impromptu ass kicking. I saw for the first time what many people have since described to me as "the (Collins) look."

Kristi was having none of it. She burst forth verbally and impugned their manhood with a string of well-chosen profanities. The driver, who I didn't know but got to see his face, hit the gas pedal and peeled away screeching his tires in frustration. (See the link below for more details.)

It was over a year later when I connected that incident with the disappearance of Joan Schell. Later the same night, Collins and his two buddies picked up Joan hitchhiking in front of McKenny Union on the campus of Eastern Michigan University. She was reported missing the next day - August 1st.

Incidentally, Miss Schell shared a rented apartment on Emmet St. with a girlfriend, directly across College Place St. from the room Collins rented at the boarding house. He could look out his window directly at Schell's apartment house.

The same evening Miss Schell disappeared, three witnesses saw Collins and Schell cross College Place at about 11:30 PM, and one of the young men in the car that picked up Miss Schell testified in open court that he was in the car with Collins that fateful night when they gave Joan a ride.

***

Some time later on another occasion in the early evening, I was waiting for a pizza at Fazi's shop on College Place St. a half block from the EMU campus. It was the local hangout in our neighborhood with a couple of pinball machines that could be set for free plays, so people liked to hang out there.

It was warm in the shop, so I went outside. Around the side of the building, I saw two guys trying to break into a car that was parked there. They tried the doors, they tried the trunk, they tried to pop the hood. What struck me most about them was that they did this with impunity. They vaguely noticed me watching but studiously ignored me.

I went into the pizza shop and asked if the car parked next to the building belonged to anyone there. It didn't. I walked out of the shop and saw the two guys walking shoulder to shoulder towards where I was standing. One of them was a lean six feet tall and the other guy was taller, heavier, and Hispanic looking.

When they were about to pass me, the lanky one raised his stiffened right arm and tried to clothesline me in the face. I dunked and swung around in a defensive position expecting a tussle. But the two of them walked on like nothing had happened. 

I watched them walk half a block up College Place and then crossover to the corner house on Emmet St. I didn't connect the two experiences yet, but I saw where they went. Collins' face was now familiar to me, but I still didn't know his name.

I was pissed and went into the shop to get my pizza. A friend of mine asked what had just happened?

"Some guy just took a swing at me."

"I know. I just saw. Why?"

"They were trying to break into the car parked outside and I saw them. Do you know who they are?"

"Not really, they're just a couple of assholes who live in the neighborhood."

Great, I thought. I walk passed that house at least twice a day to get to classes. Swell!

***

My attic apartment at 127 College Place St.

My final encounter with John Norman Collins occurred in a most unlikely place, my third story attic apartment. The large house I lived in was built in the late nineteenth century and had been subdivided into five apartments sometime over the years. It was a broken down hovel, centrally located in what we called the student ghetto. It was affordable and it was home.

Late one Saturday night, my roommate and I came home and walked up the narrow staircase leading to our attic apartment. We noticed something peculiar. Our door was locked. 

Most of the people who lived in the house were freaks (hippies) and had lived there for a couple of years. Everyone knew everyone else and got along well, so there was a communal atmosphere of trust in the house. But recently, some new people had moved into the large ground floor apartment.

I fumbled in my pocket for my key and unlocked the door. I flipped on the light in the efficiency kitchen and heard some rustling in our darkened attic apartment. My twin bed was wedged inside a small alcove to the left of the main living space. 

A person several inches taller than me suddenly blocked the doorway putting on his sports coat and shielding the young woman he was with. She hastily straightened up her disheveled clothing. When his jacket was on, he stepped towards me and we were face to face. Once again, I saw "the look." 

It was the same guy who took a swing at me in front of Fazi's pizza shop. He stopped in his tracks when he finally saw my roommate who was six feet, three inches tall, and very powerfully built. He was a highway construction worker.

To defuse the situation, I apologized for disturbing them and explained that this was a private apartment. All he said was "sorry" as he and the embarrassed girl carrying her purse slinked out. It was suddenly clear what had happened. 

The new tenants in the ground floor apartment were some fraternity guys having a house warming party. At some point after they had a couple of drinks, Collins searched for a quiet spot to take this young woman, and he settled into my vacant apartment uninvited. He locked the door for privacy. 

By now, I knew this guy by sight. Several months later, like so many other people in the area, I saw his picture on the front page and finally learned his name. Little did I imagine that over forty years later, I would be writing about John Norman Collins and those frightening days.

http://fornology.blogspot.com/2013/10/facing-down-john-norman-collins-kristi.html 

Why I Chose To Write About John Norman Collins

Even though it has been almost fifty years since the Washtenaw County murder cases, more than once I've been asked what my personal connection is to them and John Norman Collins. Why do I feel the need to disturb the ghosts of the past and resurrect the pain of the living? To that, I say that the seven innocent victims were real people who deserve to be remembered. 

I believe Elie Wiesel's quote from his Holocaust memoir, Night, is fitting because it addresses this attitude: "To forget them - would be like killing them twice." We don't get to choose our history, and it is up to the living to speak for those who can no longer speak for themselves.

These 1967-1969 serial murders terrorized the college towns of Ypsilanti and Ann Arbor, Michigan, directly affecting the lives of thousands of Washtenaw County residents. What most people remember about those times is based on the hasty novelization by Edward Keyes, The Michigan Murders.

Besides changing the names of the victims, the witnesses, and their presumed murderer which obscured their real identities, assumptions were made about the backstory to these ugly slayings without contacting people associated with these cases. 

What Keyes should be given credit for is keeping the essential facts and circumstances of these cases intact. Were it not for his novelization, this dark chapter of Michigan history would have vanished with time.

But his work came out only six years after these things happened. He relied heavily on official reports and the copious notes of Eastern Michigan University English Professor Paul McGlynn, who attended all of the court sessions.

Decades of hindsight combined with new living history accounts makes it possible to create a more accurate picture of those times and circumstances and place those events in some meaningful historical context.

Over the years, because of ambiguities in the novel and the absence of factual information about these cases, an urban legend has grown up around John Norman Collins making him a folk hero in some circles. People who were not even born then or old enough to know any better believe the Karen Sue Beineman trial was a travesty of justice.

They show up on the internet comment threads talking about how Collins was hounded by desperate police, persecuted by vengeful prosecutors, and brought low by unfair media coverage. They contend that circumstantial evidence doesn't prove anything and that the Michigan Department of Corrections uses Collins as their poster boy for crime in Michigan. Rather than imprison an innocent man, the mantra goes, the police should be out there looking for the real murderer.

Each of these talking points comes directly from the John Norman Collins Playbook, a product of Collins' many attempts to manipulate the media and mold public opinion from behind bars. Unbelievably after forty-five years, Collins still has the power to cast an evil aura and infect people's minds.

For the above reasons, I was drawn to this subject matter. There is a vacuum in the historical record that needs to be filled. But I have other reasons for writing The Rainy Day Murders, personal reasons.

The Rainy Day Murders Progress Report

On Monday, I completed the first full draft of The Rainy Day Murders (RDM) about John Norman Collins (JNC) and the Washtenaw County sex slayings of seven defenseless young women in the late 1960s.

The dark shadow of time has obscured the facts of this once prominent case that History seems to have unwittingly forgotten. Institutional neglect has taken its toll on the truth story of this case also. The trial transcripts have been purged, and no microfilm, microfiche, or digital files were made of these Washtenaw County court documents. It is tough for me to understand that.

Invoking The Freedom of Information Act (FOIA), my researcher and I requested and received many documents from the Ann Arbor City Attorney's office, the Michigan State Police, the Michigan Department of Corrections (MDOC), and several other governmental agencies. 

Not honoring our FOIA requests at all were the State of California and the Ypsilanti City Attorney's Office. Their refusal to comply, for whatever reasons, forced us to seek information from other sources.

Lucky for us, the Ypsilanti Historical Society, the Halle Library on the campus of Eastern Michigan University, and the Ypsilanti Public Library archives were all open and available for our use. We have carefully gleaned facts and quotes from news clippings from across the state of Michigan to faithfully reconstitute the court proceedings.

Part one of The Rainy Day Murders will discuss the facts of each of the young women's cases including new living history accounts seasoned with forty-five years of hindsight. Part two of this book will be the restored court proceedings of these murders from 1969-1970. Part three of RDM will cover an area never before written about to any great extent, JNC's prison years.

The prison years tells of Collins life and times behind bars and his attempts to legally and illegally get out of serving his full life sentence in Michigan prisons. This section also goes into his attempts to manipulate the media and shape public opinion. To round out the prison years, we have come into possession of twenty recent JNC prison letters which will add new information to the canon of this case.

At this writing, I plan to end the book with JNC's alibi defense claiming to his Canadian cousin that Collins was innocent of the murder of Karen Sue Beineman. He names the person who testified against him in court as her murderer and implicates this same person in two other murders. 

This makes for fascinating reading but my treatment of this case will be a true crime account; Collins' elaborate fantasy defense is clearly fiction. So this book will have something for everyone.

From the facts and circumstances presented, I leave it up to the reader to decide the guilt or innocence of JNC. The other six cases will never be formally brought against Collins. What's the use? He is locked down and his days are numbered.

San Diego State University Writers' Conference

This past weekend, January 25-26th, I went to the "2014" San Diego State University Writer's Conference to shop The Rainy Day Murders around and see if I could generate some professional interest in it. 

This annual event matches writers with editors and agents, not so much to provide an active marketplace, but more to educate writers about the very complicated and evolving book business. It's impossible to be successful in publishing if you don't understand the rules of the business.

At one time, new authors could directly approach a publishing house with an unsolicited manuscript. In today's market, without the help of a literary agent, that door is closed to all but a few proven cash cows. Now, writers must query agents and/or editors to inspire them enough to take a chance on you. 

That's not as easy as it sounds because they all seem to be "Looking for the next new thing." Agents don't get paid by the writer; they work on a 15% book contract commission, so the competition is cutthroat.

I signed up for two Advanced Readings of the first ten pages of my newly completed manuscript in its first full, unedited form. One of the readings was with an editor and the other with an agent. 

The agent suggested that I redo my beginning to strengthen my personal connection to the John Norman Collins story. This was counter-intuitive to me as non-fiction should strive to be as objective as possible. "Not necessarily anymore," she said. After I gave her remark further thought, she may have helped me solve a narrative problem that's been troubling me.

My second reading was with an editor who was more positive and encouraging. Of all the submissions he reviewed over the weekend, he said he liked mine the best and recommended me for an editor's "Choice" award. The award is not meant to be a publishing offer of any kind; it is meant to encourage writers to stick with it.

After I make a complete revision and edit, I look forward to entering the marketplace and attracting some professional interest in The Rainy Day Murders. 

If I am unsuccessful in attracting a publisher, my true crime book will see the light of day, even if I have to self-publish it. This is a story that has waited a long time to be told. Too long!

Guest Post - John Philip Chapman - John Norman Collins' Canadian Cousin

University of Toronto graduate, John Philip Chapman

Finally, I've finished the first complete draft of The Rainy Day Murders, my true crime treatment of the Washtenaw County Murders. In the coming weeks, I need to revise and finish the supplemental material and take it to the marketplace. 

Once I get an agent and a publisher, I'll have a better idea of a publication date. My grateful thanks to those many people who helped me tell the most complete account of these cases to date. You know who you are.

John Norman Collins' Canadian cousin, John Philip Chapman wanted to explain his involvement with this project in a guest post. Here it what he had to say.

*** 

My name is John Philip Chapman, and I live in Mississauga, Ontario, Canada.  I am now 41 years old, an only child and the Canadian cousin of John Norman Collins.  Thirty-two years ago, I was introduced to my cousin – John Norman Collins for the first time.  

It was in early March of 1982, just a week before my 10^th birthday.  At the time and because of my age – my parents only told me that I had a cousin who was in prison and that he wanted to correspond with me.  Given my young age and inability to comprehend the nature of his crimes, I was never told what they were nor the details of his actions.  Some would say that ignorance is bliss.  At this point, nothing was further from the truth.  

From Day One, both my cousin and I had informally adopted the “Don’t Ask..Don’t Tell” policy concerning the crime for which he was accused and found guilty of.  I was curious to know the truth, but, yet afraid of what I might find out.  

At the beginning, through our letters and phone calls back and forth, I came to know this man as a kind, considerate and thoughtful person who dispensed great advice and was very understanding of the trials and tribulations that come with being a teenager and with all the new discoveries that come with that right of passage.  

A whole new world of opportunities was opening up for me – first job, first girlfriend, first examinations, first drink, first attempt at driving. However, with all these opportunities, I found myself being comforted in talking about these things with someone who regarded me as his proverbial “little brother” and who imparted on me words of wisdom and many comical anecdotes.  As a teenager, this was someone that I respected and cared for – he was family.  

In the years that followed, however, things began to change and something seemed “off” where my cousin was concerned, but I made the mistake of ignoring those warning signs and I continued to communicate with him – if anything because I felt a familial obligation to do so, and partially because I was an introverted person with no siblings. My cousin “appeared” to be understanding and compassionate.  I would soon come to realize that my suspicions were well founded

In May of 2013, as I casually browsed through the internet, I was overcome with the innate curiosity to look up my cousin’s name via Google and see what I could discover.  After all, what harm could that do? Looking back on that day, I could not, at the time, have ever imagined what I would find.  I spent the next four hours reading information and articles concerning my cousin – nicknamed “The Co-Ed Killer”.  

However, I had come across the name of a gentleman who was writing a book called “The Rainy Day Murders” and who was looking for information concerning my cousin.  Because I was confused and perplexed with what I had read about him, I decided to send this person an e-mail; then, we decided to meet in person.

In meeting with Greg Fournier and his associate, Ryan Place, I was convinced that their work was an honorable thing to do in paying not only tribute to those women who lost their lives but to those who remained behind – those mothers and fathers, brothers, sisters, and relatives and friends who were left to pick up the pieces after their traumatic losses. 

The book they are just finishing promises to be the most accurate, detailed, and honest account concerning the circumstances surrounding the deaths of seven young women and the life of John Norman Collins. Over the next several months, I continued to write my cousin and correspond via e-mail with him in an attempt to obtain his side of the Karen Sue Beineman issue and to gain perspective into the mind of John Norman Collins – all for the benefit of this book. What I found was truly disturbing on so many levels.

Over the next several months, I learned a great deal about the crime that my cousin was charged with and found guilty of.  Never in my wildest imagination could I have ever thought that such violent, horrendous, and despicable actions could possibly be committed by someone I am related to.  Over these months, I came to understand the delusional reality that my cousin lives in and thrives on daily. 

I saw, for the first time in thirty years, that my cousin was and still is a master manipulator – a true Machiavellian in every sense of the term.  As long as the end justifies the means for John – he does it.  His attitude today towards women and womanhood are absolutely misogynistic, despicable, and clearly the words of someone who still has a great deal of anger towards women in general.  

John looks out for one person and that is himself, and he routinely uses emotional blackmail to obtain his desired result.  John shows zero remorse towards the lives of these young women and for his part in these crimes. He shows a callous disregard for his participation in these events.  

For my cousin John to admit any guilt and/or accept any responsibility for his actions would be a sign of weakness to him.  My cousin has a typical alpha-male personality that clearly shows through his many letters and e-mails over the past year.

With that in mind, I want to take this opportunity to thank both Greg Fournier and Ryan Place for helping me to realize and come to terms with the monster that is my cousin, John Norman Collins. 

The disgust and contempt that I felt for my cousin was not enough to dissuade me from communicating with him because I knew in the end that any information I would obtain, would only benefit "The Rainy Day Murders”.  

Helping them turned out to be a real pleasure for me and an experience that I feel very proud to have been a part of.  In the end, I lost a cousin but gained two friends who have shown a great deal of integrity in dealing with the sensitive nature of this book.  It is to them and this book that I wish all the best for. 

For the families of the seven young women, whose lives ended far too soon – I can only express my sincere and heartfelt sympathy and apologies for what happened to your daughters, sisters, and nieces. These women had their whole lives ahead of them, and bright futures – sadly futures that would never come to be – all because of the violent madman that is my cousin – John Norman Collins.  

To those who were left behind, I wish that I could  take away your pain and suffering, but sadly I am not able to do that.  However, my heart goes out to you all for your courage and strength in dealing with the loss of your loved ones.  It's impossible to get over such a deep loss, especially under these circumstances. It is my hope that this book will offer you some measure of peace.

Neither myself or any member of my family has ever condoned the actions of my cousin and we do not support him in any way, shape, or form.  

Speaking for myself, my cousin is a disgusting, psychologically disturbed pervert that I am, in no way, afraid of.  To be afraid of him would be to allow him to have that kind of power over me, and I simply refuse to allow that to happen.  

John Norman Collins is a monster - straight up!  Because of this, I have taken every legal avenue at my disposal to ensure that my cousin never ever will be able to transfer to a Canadian prison and thus ensure an early release.  

As of January 10, 2014, I am proud and happy to say that after three months of addressing and taking care of this important legal matter (at some personal expense to myself) the case is now closed and John Norman Collins WILL spend the rest of his natural life in Marquette Branch Prison where he belongs.  If anything, I hope this fact will offer people out there some added measure of comfort and security.

John Norman Collins on the Prowl

The court of public opinion has long held that John Norman Collins (JNC) is culpable in the murders of seven young women in Washtenaw County, Michigan from 1967-1969. 

To be precise, six of the girls were from Michigan and one was from Milwaukie, Oregon. Roxie Ann Phillips was visiting a family friend in California when she crossed paths with JNC. One of the original seven victims, Jane Mixer, was found in 2005 to have been murdered by someone else, Gary Earl Leiterman.

It is well-known and documented that JNC prowled the streets of Ypsilanti. Five women testified that he tried to pick them up, all within a forty-five minute window before he picked up Karen Sue Beineman. Collins gave her a ride to a wig shop before he brutally killed her in his uncle's basement. So said The People of Washtenaw County.

But did JNC ever pose the same threat to young men? Although that isn't the subject of The Rainy Day Murders, several men have come forward with stories about their brushes with Collins. Without corroboration, their anecdotes have no evidentiary value, yet that doesn't mean that their stories are untrue. To date, it is unknown if JNC had any young male victims.

One of the men who contacted me was clearly more disturbed about his brush with Collins than the others. I placed a call to this person who went by the handle of Atlanta Tom. He didn't want to reveal his true identity to me at first. His memory of the incident stills haunts him after forty-four years, and he had difficulty telling his story.

When JNC was arrested and his perp walk photograph appeared all over the television news and front page reports, Tom finally knew the name of the man who tried to assault him five months earlier.

I was skeptical at first because he couldn't express his story and his feelings coherently. We were both getting frustrated, but I could sense he was uncomfortable and having trouble collecting his thoughts. 

Then we began talking about Eastern Michigan University's 
campus during the late Sixties and discovered that we had mutual acquaintances and ran in the same circle of people we loosely called "freaks." I was a few years ahead if him at Eastern.

When Atlanta Tom finally settled down, I asked him to tell his story again from the beginning. Now, I was able to stitch my initial notes together and discover his story. 

In a subsequent phone call interview, he allowed me to tell his story though he confessed he was uncomfortable about it. He always felt "guilty" because he didn't report the incident to the police. In the month after his incident, another young women was brutally slaughtered in the area. By July, four more had lost their lives.

"You were young and afraid," I reassured him. "Maybe you could have changed history and saved those girls, maybe not. Besides, you couldn't identify him by name at the time."

"That's not all," he said. "My name is Tom Zarski. I'm the guy who called 'Uncle Russ' on the radio with the 'Is Paul (McCartney) Dead?' story, which quickly became the 'Paul Is Dead!' story. That was in February of 1969. I didn't think anyone would believe me after that."

Here is Tom's story as told to me. Believe it or not!

***

"While hitchhiking home to Bloomfield Hills from EMU on a late Friday afternoon in February, I was picked up by a person who told me to get in, and then he asked me for my name. 'Tom,' I said, hopping into his car with my laundry bag in tow.

Tom described himself as very unsure of himself and a very immature eighteen year old freshman, both physically and socially. He didn't feel comfortable at EMU and spent as much time home as he could.

Tom Zarski related to me that the person who picked him up in front of the Ypsilanti Police Department on Michigan Avenue looked three or four years older than he was. The driver's upper body build made him look like a college quarterback type with clean cut short haircut which wasn't popular in 1969. He looked out of place for the times. What Zarski remembered most about his benefactor was that he looked like a fraternity guy.

But something bothered him from the start. The driver "eyeballed" him and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Then, when the driver started to speak, he was a quick talker and very slick. 

Tom remembered being offered a free ticket to a Bob Seger concert at Eastern Michigan's Bowen Field House if he wanted to go. The guy said he had an extra ticket and would fix the shy freshman up with his sister who liked young guys. 

I was at this concert that night.

This was all too much and too fast for the socially immature young man to process. "Why is this guy bothering with me, a scrawny, immature kid? All I could think of was that he wanted something. I told him that my father was waiting for me to come home for the weekend, and I couldn't change my plans. But thanks anyway."

"Within ten minutes of being picked up, his friendly attitude abruptly changed as he slammed on the brakes before dumping me off on the shoulder of Interstate 94 east, just before the Rawsonville exit. 'Go ahead! Get out!' he commanded as he spun his wheels leaving me in a cloud of blue exhaust.

"He took off and I stuck out my thumb trying to get a ride hitchhiking, walking backwards towards Detroit's Metropolitan Airport. When I got there, I thought, I would call my father and tell him I'd be late. Then I could catch an airport shuttle to Bloomfield Hills. That was my plan.

"As I continued to walk east, I heard someone yelling my name from an overpass. 'Tom! Tom! Tom!' By now, it was dark and I couldn't make out who it was. But nobody knew me around there, and it struck me that I had told the guy who picked me up my name. 'What's he want now?' I thought. Trying not to panic, I ignored him and kept walking with my thumb out having no success getting a ride. 

"As I approached the next freeway exit, I noticed a car was parked with it's headlights on and pulled over on the exit's right shoulder. The car's trunk was open, but the high beams were so bright that I couldn't recognize the car or anything else in the darkness.

"The next thing I knew, I heard the trunk slam and a lanky figure began running me down swinging a tire iron at me. It was the same guy who was now trying to attack me. I saw a panel truck pull over about fifty yards up the freeway from where I had just come. Fueled by fear, I outran my stalker. 

Three farm workers hauling potatoes had stopped and congregated around the truck's front right tire to take a bathroom break so they wouldn't be seen by oncoming traffic.

"I ran up to them with my laundry bag slung over my shoulder and asked if I could have a ride. Someone was trying to attack me. They looked and saw a shadowy figure walking towards the freeway entrance ahead.There is safety in numbers and they said 'Sure.' All four of us squeezed onto the front bench seat. 

"Clinging to my laundry bag, I saw the guy standing on the shoulder as we went by giving me a crazed look and shaking his head slowly with his arms crossed over his chest. The crow bar must have been hidden behind his back.

"My rescuers dropped me off at Merriman Rd., and I walked the rest of the way to Metro Airport looking over my shoulder the whole way scared to death. By the time I made it home, I was a nervous wreck. Shaking, I told my father, 'Someone tried to kill me tonight.'

"Two days later on the following Monday, I was hanging out in the McKenny Union snack bar, a recent addition to the newly remodeled Student Union building. It had large, modern window panels on three sides of the addition for natural lighting. A sidewalk ran between these large windows and Welch Hall next door that formed a bottleneck for students walking during class change.

"I saw some sort of fraternity demonstration going on outside, so I went up to the large window to get a better look. Much to my stark terror, there he was, the same guy who tried to attack me Friday night. He was leading the parade, cavorting, and goosestepping in rubber boots.

"He looked into the snack bar window and our eyes locked. I saw an expression of horror on his face. He recognized me right away and did a 180 degree turn and ran towards W. Cross St. He was probably afraid I would call the police on the spot."

"Why didn't you?" I prompted.

"My father wanted me to make out a police report, but I let my friend talk me out of it. She told me, 'Why get further involved?' Now, I wish I had."