First a Loner, Then a Separatist

In school, Buford Oneal Furrow Jr. was nicknamed “Neal-Synephrine” after the nasal spray because he always sniffled.

But his classmates barely remember him and, later, co-workers paid him little heed. He could not hold a job and his marriage to the widow of a neo-Nazi “martyr” did not last. Here was a guy who went to Hollywood with a pocketful of cash looking for a prostitute--and could not find one.

Furrow, 37, was a frequently inept and mentally unstable bumbler, colleagues, neighbors and former classmates say. He was also a reticent, isolated man whose rage would periodically consume him, cast him spinning like a wheel dislodged from a speeding car.

On Aug. 10, Furrow, a man most remembered for being unmemorable, finally got everyone’s attention. The world watched in horror as reports emerged of Furrow allegedly shooting a receptionist, a teenage counselor and three children at the North Valley Jewish Community Center, where he apparently fired 70 rounds in less than 30 seconds.

Furrow then held a Korean woman at gunpoint before commandeering her green Toyota Corolla. He drove around and allegedly killed a Filipino American postman. Twenty-two hours later, after he paid a Los Angeles cabby $800 to drive him to Las Vegas, he calmly walked into an FBI office and gave up.

Last week, a federal grand jury indicted Furrow in the letter carrier’s slaying--a charge that could bring the death penalty. The Los Angeles County district attorney also plans to prosecute Furrow, whom police believe acted alone.

Furrow targeted the postman because he was a government employee and nonwhite, he told authorities. His rampage, he told the FBI, was “a wake-up call to America to kill Jews.”

His message, however, may not be the one he intended. Instead, he may become known as the poster boy for the lone misfits who prowl in and out of the neo-Nazi fringe.

It also raised questions: Was this part of a new campaign formulated by white supremacist theorists, who urge individuals, rather than groups, to wage hate war? Why did Furrow drive 1,000 miles from his home in rural Washington to target victims in Southern California? How did such an apparent loser amass more than $5,000 in cash and enough weaponry to start a small war?

Most of those who knew him said it was difficult to fathom the burly, balding man committing such heinous acts. He had always been so polite, they said, he always smiled and waved. He would help neighbors mow the lawn or chop wood. Here was a guy who usually wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked like 20 other guys in town.

But there was an ominous side too--racist incidents took place that merely caused people in the overwhelmingly white Pacific Northwest to raise their eyebrows and silently wonder. That’s the way in small communities, where uninvited attention is meddling.

In Metaline Falls, neighbor Monte Rice saw Furrow with his wife and stepson kicking a black doll as if it were a soccer ball. The family built a small fire and roasted the doll, he said. It seemed to Rice that they sure were having fun.

Another time, a Latino contractor working for Rice got drunk and accidentally knocked down the basketball hoop in Furrow’s yard. The next day, Furrow firmly told Rice he did not want “that kind” on his property.

“Looking back, he just fit the criteria of the [person] who these groups like to get hold of,” said Loni Merrill, a neighbor and former schoolmate. “Low self-esteem, feeling like he didn’t really fit in and all of a sudden, he’s somebody.”

When Merrill saw the widely published picture of Furrow in the uniform of a white supremacist group, she sighed.

“He has that look on his face: ‘Look at me, I’m somebody now.’ ”

A Life Shuffling Back and Forth

Furrow is the only child of an Air Force family, Buford Furrow Sr., and his wife, Monnie, both now 66. With his father, a chief master sergeant, assigned to a communications squadron at nearby McChord Air Force Base, the boy spent years of his childhood and adolescence in a cream-colored, double-wide mobile home in the predominantly white Nisqually Valley, just north of Olympia, Wash.

Obscured by Douglas firs and other pines, the home sat at the end of a long gravel road. One neighbor, a man named Boots, kept hogs in his yard, but the Furrows had a small apple orchard, blueberry bushes and a huge well-tended garden with neat rows of corn and tomatoes.

In junior high school, young Furrow was chubby and awkward. He wore Coke-bottle glasses and usually toted a stack of books. He hated the name Buford and wanted to be called Neal. During one bus ride, classmates taunted him so mercilessly that Loni Merrill, a year younger, shouted at them to stop and Neal bolted when the bus halted.

Afterward, it seemed to Merrill that Neal Furrow was even more withdrawn, walking the hallways alone and scarcely speaking. He addressed adults with a ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He liked to hunt and fish.

“He was just a shadow passing through,” said Merrill, 37, a medical insurance biller.

It was the same in North Las Vegas when Furrow’s father was temporarily assigned to Nellis Air Force Base and Furrow attended Rancho High School as a freshman and sophomore. Mario Monaco, then-principal, said Furrow never got into trouble or distinguished himself among the 500 members of his grade, about half of whom were members of minority groups.

When the family returned to the Nisqually Valley, Furrow graduated from Timberline High School and later joined the Army. But after two months of active duty, he was discharged in October 1980 because of a knee injury.

His life became peripatetic: He attended several community colleges before graduating from Western Washington University in 1986 with a degree in manufacturing engineering technology. There too he made little impression.

“He’d just sort of sit through class, get through it,” said Dave Werstler, a professor who was Furrow’s academic advisor during his final year. Furrow scarcely participated or talked with others, Werstler recalled.

Professionally, Furrow shuffled from one job to another. Co-workers say that he did not socialize and often ate lunch at his desk. He worked for three years as a clerical employee at Boeing Co.’s Puget Sound facility and then for three years as a mechanical engineer at Northrop Grumman’s Palmdale facility, where the B-2 project was underway. Company officials declined to say why he quit. After Northrop, Furrow worked at small outfits.

In the late 1980s or early ‘90s--the precise date is unclear--Furrow seemed to find a community willing to receive him. According to the Spokane Spokesman-Review, Furrow attended the 1989 Aryan World Congress in nearby Hayden Lake, Idaho. The Aryan Nations compound is a haven for adherents of the so-called Christian Identity movement, which promotes white supremacy and anti-Semitism.

Dan Villers, Furrow’s former boss at LaDuke & Fogel Equipment, an auto shop in Colville, Wash., recalled that Furrow eagerly discussed two topics: guns and Aryan Nations. On one occasion, Furrow became particularly animated describing bullets that exploded on impact. Anything related to the supremacist group seemed to inspire Furrow’s awe, Villers said.

“He really worshiped the Aryan Nations,” Villers said. “I could tell he wanted to do something that would let him move up the ranks.”

Furrow showed up at the Aryan Nations compound in northern Idaho out of the blue in 1992 or 1993, recalled one member who was there at the time.

“He already was well-versed in the basic identity message,” recalled the Aryan Nations member, who spoke on condition of anonymity. “He just seemed to fit right in.”

“More than anything,” the Aryan Nations member said, Furrow was seeking “the fellowship of like-minded people.” He complained to his friend that he had been dissatisfied with not fitting in.

Furrow volunteered for guard duty at the compound. He bought a uniform from a store and purchased patches from Aryan Nations’ catalog, said Richard Butler, head of the group. Furrow took his job seriously, kept his uniform neat and was always punctual, the Aryan Nations member said. He would take time off to listen to Richard Butler or Neuman Britton, the group’s national pastor and Butler’s apparent heir of Aryan Nations. He avoided listening to the “nut cases,” this friend said.

Finding a Place With Aryan Nations

Once, in 1995, the Michael Moore television show “TV Nation” hired black female singers to serenade the compound with the Supremes’ “Stop! In the Name of Love.” While some of the Aryan Nations members wanted to jump the crew, Furrow kept them in line, the friend said.

When one guard cracked jokes about sending the media to “the ovens” like Jews during the Holocaust, “[Furrow] was really chewing on that guy for being out of line,” said the friend.

Butler described Furrow as “a pleasant, polite man” who started attending religious services in 1994 at the 20-acre compound in the mountains above the town of Hayden Lake. Butler remembered seeing Furrow mostly at Sunday services. He said he only recalled one conversation with him, a discussion about engineering work in California. Butler, a former aerospace engineer in Palmdale, said engineering intrigued Furrow because of its focus on repairing errors.

It was not just camaraderie that drew Furrow to the supremacist group. At the Aryan Nations compound during the 1995 World Congress, where he once again served as a guard, he met and became involved with Debra Mathews, widow of Robert Mathews, founder of the Order, a neo-Nazi splinter group. Mathews was slain in a shootout with authorities in 1984 after a robbery and murder rampage.

Within days of their meeting, Furrow had moved his trailer to Debra Mathews’ property near Metaline Falls, 75 miles away. “It was almost like, ‘That’s Debbie, I want her and we’re going to live together happily ever after,’ ” the friend said. “He loved her. Good God, it sounded like something out of some romance novel.”

Furrow wanted to marry her right away, but Mathews waited for about nine months, a neighbor said. They married in March 1996. Butler presided over their ceremony, which filled the Aryan Nations church with about 80 friends and relatives. Furrow seemed delighted. The parents of both bride and groom attended, Butler recalled.

The couple honeymooned in Las Vegas, then drove a trailer back up through California, said Meda VanDyke, a neighbor. Upon the couple’s return, Mathews was initially enthusiastic about Furrow, VanDyke said. They apparently enjoyed taking trips together, traveling to Canada numerous times. Furrow would also take Clint, Mathews’ teenage adopted son, hunting in the hills around Metaline Falls, home to whitetail deer, elk and bear.

But Furrow became depressed about his inability to hold a regular job and provide for his family, the Aryan Nations member said. He would wave off anyone who tried to comfort him and sit alone. He believed one reason he could not keep a job was his beliefs, the friend said.

“He had a family, he had friends he believed in, then here he was losing his means to take care of it all because [of] who his friends were,” the Aryan Nations member said.

The Marriage Falls Apart

The few times the couple appeared in town, they seemed normal and quiet, residents said. Monte Rice, however, had a different view. He rented a trailer from Mathews on her large property off a dirt road and frequently heard Mathews and Furrow shouting at each other.

Gradually, Mathews began complaining to VanDyke about the troubled marriage. “I have to be completely submissive to him,” Mathews told VanDyke. Furrow ordered her to take Clint out of home-schooling and send him to the local high school, which Mathews did. He continually tried to get her to sell her land and move to Washington’s coast with him. They quarreled over Furrow’s fondness for loud heavy metal music and his insistence on keeping Mathews confined to the bedroom for long stretches of time, VanDyke said. He particularly wanted control of Mathews’ money.

Most of all, VanDyke said, Mathews complained about Furrow’s temper, rarely exhibited in public but often in private. Mathews told her she had tried to get Furrow into counseling or anger management sessions, but he continually dropped out. Mathews recounted that Furrow preferred the idea of simply checking into a hospital, VanDyke said.

At the compound, Furrow stopped speaking about Mathews. Then he stopped showing up, and word spread that the marriage, after about one year, was over.

In April 1997, Furrow drove his 28-foot trailer 17 miles north of Seattle to suburban Lynnwood. He rented a spot at the Martha Lake Mobile Manor, an upscale mobile home park. He kept his shades drawn and his doors shut--unlike the other residents, said Helga Halverson, the park’s manager.

“He didn’t want nobody around him and he didn’t want to be around nobody,” said the park’s handyman.

During the next 18 months, Furrow was an ideal tenant. He paid his rent on time. He kept to himself. He had an occasional visit from Mathews.

Furrow’s mental health began to rapidly deteriorate, according to friends and court documents. He tried to kill himself. He had a chilling fantasy of carrying out a mass shooting in a mall. And he served a six-month jail term for assault.

Sheriff’s officials and prosecutors described Furrow as a time bomb, pleading for high bail in the case. Neighbors said Furrow’s father came and packed up his son’s trailer in December.

The elder Furrow “said [his son] was in the hospital, that he had a terminal disease and that he wouldn’t be coming back,” Halverson said.

The same month, Furrow’s public defender indicated that his client would plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Instead, Furrow returned to jail and pleaded guilty in April to an assault charge. He was released May 21.

His time in jail was uneventful, although he was given psychiatric medication while in custody. Jail officials declined to elaborate further on Furrow’s mental state.

Three months later, on Aug. 7, about 2 p.m., Furrow rented a storage locker. As he was leaving, clerk Margie Ashe pointed out that Furrow’s application lacked an emergency contact number of a friend or relative.

“I don’t have anybody,” Furrow responded. “I’m alone.”

Two hours later, Furrow drove his white pickup into the Tacoma Kar Korner used car lot. Business manager Duane Stone was alone.

Furrow was specific and abrupt. He wanted a full-size van, with a V-8 engine and a rear seat that turned into a bed. Stone showed him a red and silver 1986 GMC Vandura.

Furrow took a 10-minute test drive and worked out a deal. The final price: $4,002.95, paid in cash. The whole transaction took less than 40 minutes.

The two shook hands. Stone noticed Furrow’s palm was cold and clammy. Then Furrow drove off, pointing the van toward Interstate 5, in the direction of Los Angeles.

A Day of Violence in Los Angeles

One day later, sometime after 8 p.m. Sunday, Furrow walked through the swinging wooden doors of a Chatsworth honky-tonk. He attracted little notice in the crowded bar, where patrons danced beneath a Confederate flag. He ordered a beer and heard singer Lisa Jones. He left, apparently without speaking to anyone, said bar owner Bob Rustigian.

His whereabouts Monday remain a mystery. But by Tuesday morning, Furrow was back on the freeway. Furrow told police he pulled off for gas, then saw the North Valley Jewish Community Center on Rinaldi Street. Just before 10:49 a.m., police said, Furrow walked through the front door with an imitation Uzi. Without a word, Furrow sprayed bullets from left to right. He reloaded at least once, police said. Then he fled.

Isabelle Shalometh, a 68-year-old receptionist, was hit twice. Six-year-old James Zidell was shot once in the heel while getting a drink of water. Mindy Finkelstein, a 16-year-old camp counselor storing sports equipment from a game, was hit in the thigh. Also caught in the gunfire: Joshua Stepakoff, 6, and the most gravely wounded, Benjamin Kadish, 5.

Police arrived in four minutes. Up until the shooting, Furrow’s actions had been precise and purposeful. But afterward, his plans seemed to crumble into a chaos of indecision.

First, he abandoned his van and stole a car belonging to Jenny Youngsun Choi, 23, police said. She sat frozen in fear in her car, watching Furrow move belongings from his van to the car, according to Choi’s boss, shop owner Dong Yoon Park.

Furrow drove the Toyota east nine miles, where he encountered mailman Joseph Santos Ileto. Furrow told authorities he shot Ileto nine times with a 9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.

A woman and her 9-year-old son saw Ileto fall. The woman, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said her son has nightmares now and will only sleep with the light on.

Furrow fled, abandoning the Toyota in the parking lot of a Chatsworth hotel. He got a haircut, bought a shirt at a nearby Mexican restaurant, then took a cab to Hollywood.

At 2:26 p.m., he checked in at the Days Inn near La Brea Avenue and Sunset Boulevard, about eight hours before police would release Furrow’s identity. He paid $250.80 in cash for two nights for a suite, one with a Jacuzzi.

At 2:50 p.m., he entered his room with a six-pack of low-calorie beer. He drank three. At 8 p.m., he decided to abandon his prepaid room, hailing a cab from a 7-Eleven parking lot two blocks away.

Cabby Hovik Garibyan was drinking a bottle of cranberry juice in the parking lot when Buford approached and asked to go to the airport. Then, Furrow changed his mind again and opted for Vegas.

The next morning, he walked into the FBI office and confessed to the shootings. Then, according to police sources, he explained the reason for his surrender.

“I made my point,” Furrow said.

*

Times staff writers Daniel Yi, Solomon Moore, Andrew Blankstein and Hilary Mac Gregor contributed to this story.

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX / INFOGRAPHIC)

A Troubled Path

1961-75: Buford Oneal Furrow is born to Buford Furrow Sr., a career Air Force member, and his wife, Monnie. Goes to middle school in Olympia, Wash., where Furrow Sr. works at McChord Air Force Base. Briefly attends high school in Las Vegas, graduates from Timberline High School near Olympia in 1979. Few remember him, except to say he was an awkward loner who was good in math and liked engineering.

*

February-October 1980: Furrow enlists in Army, reportedly repairs helicopters at Ft. McClellan in Anniston, Ala. Knee injury forces him to leave, friends say.

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1980-December 1986: Furrow attends several community colleges before graduating from Western Washington University in Bellingham in December 1986.

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January 1987 to May 1990: Works as clerical employee for Boeing Co. in Puget Sound facility. Resigns.

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1989: Furrow reportedly attends Aryan World Congress in Hayden Lake, Idaho.

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1990-93: Works for Northrop Grumman Corp. at its B-2 Stealth bomber facility in Palmdale. Lives in Rosamond in Kern County.

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1993-95: Moves near Aryan Nations compound in Idaho and volunteers for guard duty.

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Summer 1995-early 1997: Meets Debra Mathews, widow of white supremacist leader killed in shootout with authorities. Moves to Metaline Falls, Wash. Marries her at compound. Stormy marriage quickly deteriorates and he is last seen in the area in early 1997.

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April 1997: Moves to Olympia-area trailer park to be closer to a new job.

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March-October 1998: Employed at Northwest Gears Inc. in Everett, Wash., as an engineer.

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October 1998: At Kings County, Wash., psychiatric facility. Released in mid-October.

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Oct. 28, 1998: Goes to private psychiatric facility and tries to commit himself. He argues with staff, threatens them with a knife. He is arrested and tells police he is a white separatist.

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October-May 1999: Sent to a state psychiatric facility. Returned to jail to await trial. Pleads guilty to assault with a deadly weapon. Receives almost six-month sentence, but is released in May after getting time off for good behavior. Moves in with parents in Olympia.

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June-August 1999: Routine meetings with probation officer.

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Aug. 7, 1999: Gets a storage locker, then trades in his pickup truck for a 1986 GMC Vandura.

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Aug. 10, 1999: Allegedly enters North Valley Jewish Community Center in Granada Hills and begins shooting. Allegedly kills postal worker Joseph Ileto in Chatsworth.

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ORANGE COUNTY GUN SHOW

Many attendees at this weekend’s Orange County gun show say they feel under siege. B1

* BATTLE IS BREWING

L.A. County officials are seeking a gun show ban on county land. Promoters hint at court fight. B1

* POSTMAN REMEMBERED

Joseph Ileto’s family is given $5,000 and letters of support at a Chatsworth breakfast. B3

This story was reported by Josh Meyer, Nicholas Riccardi and T. Christian Miller and written by Nora Zamichow.