Tonight, Pasadena police tell us an 83y old man is being charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. That’s after he allegedly walked into Memorial High School during a drum line event and opened fire. February 1st, 2025. What began as a lively drumline competition at Pasadena Memorial High School turned into chaos when an 83-year-old man quietly slipped through a back door and opened fire.
These are 10 of the oldest school shooters of all time. shot Steve several times. Department chairman, right, uh, came tried to wrestle the rifle away from him and was beaten and shot several times. July 12th, 1976, the calm morning at California State University in Fullerton was shattered when a custodian named Edward Charles Aloway snapped.
He walked into the university library with a 22 caliber semi-automatic rifle, forever changing the lives of everyone inside. Aloway was 37 years old, recently divorced for the second time, and battling deep mental health issues. He’d been showing signs of instability for years, including multiple suicide attempts, a month-long stay in a mental institution, and a growing web of paranoid delusions.
His reality had become a nightmare fueled by untreated schizophrenia and relentless hallucinations. That morning, Aloway entered through the library’s west side, heading straight for the basement’s instructional media center. It was about 8:30 a.m. when the first shots rang out. He targeted the secretary’s office, killing photographer Paul Herdsburg and equipment technician Bruce Jacobson.
Miraculously, the secretary, Karen Dwinnel, survived unharmed. But Aloway wasn’t done. He moved methodically, entering the graphics department at the opposite end of the hall. There, he shot Professor Ammeritus, Seth Fessendon, and fatally wounded graphic artist Frank Tlansky. The violence continued as he encountered custodians Donald Karis and Deborah Pollson, both familiar faces who were gunned down without hesitation.
The chaos spread to the first floor lobby where Aloway used the service elevator to hunt for more victims. He encountered custodial supervisor Maynard Hoffman shooting him as he tried to escape into an elevator. As Aloway attempted to finish Hoffman, assistant librarian Steven Becker and library supervisor Donald Karen intervened.
Becker struck Aloway with a metal plate while Kieran tried to wrestle away the rifle. Both men were wounded in the struggle, but their bravery likely saved additional lives. Aloway fled through an emergency exit into the courtyard. Becker, not realizing his own injuries, gave chase, only to be fatally shot in the chest as Aloway turned and fired.
The rampage lasted less than 5 minutes, but left seven dead and two seriously wounded. Aloway then drove to the Anaheim Hilton Inn, where his ex-wife, Bonnie, worked. there. He calmly called the police, telling them, “I went berserk at Cal State Fullerton and I committed some terrible act. I’d appreciate it if you people would come down and pick me up.
I’m unarmed and I’m giving myself up to you.” When police arrived, they found Aloway waiting to surrender peacefully. He offered no resistance as officers took him into custody. The investigation would reveal a horrifying pattern. Aloway had been spiraling for months. his untreated mental illness warping reality beyond recognition.
Aloway’s trial revealed the full extent of his mental collapse. Five different mental health professionals diagnosed him with paranoid schizophrenia. The court found him guilty of six counts of first-degree murder and one count of secondderee murder. But during the sanity phase, the jury deadlocked.
A judge ultimately declared Aloway insane, committing him to the California State Mental Hospital System. He would spend decades in institutions beginning at Atascadero State Hospital and later moving to Patton State Hospital. Even as late as 2016, Aloway, then 77 years old, was transferred to Napa State Hospital. Despite multiple requests for release and periods of apparent stability, he remained institutionalized.
His petitions for freedom repeatedly denied. The next case also unfolded at a university where a PhD student developed a deep grudge against his professors. One that ended in tragedy. Police swarming the UCLA campus. A gunman opening fire in the engineering building. Gunn down inside his fourth floor office.
UCLA professor William Clug. His killer his former student. Bar June 1st 2016. UCLA’s engineering building erupted in chaos. 38-year-old Mayok Sar, a former doctoral student, stormed the fourth floor and fatally shot his former adviser, Professor William Clug. But this wasn’t a random act of violence. It was the end of a calculated cross-country killing spree that had begun days earlier.
Police quickly discovered a chilling note at the scene. It led them to Sarcar’s home in St. Paul, Minnesota, where they found a kill list with three names. Clug, another UCLA professor, and a woman in nearby Brooklyn Park. That woman was Ashley Hasty, Sarcar’s aranged wife. Investigators find her shot dead in her Minnesota home, marking the beginning of the tragic timeline.
Sarkar had killed her days before driving 2,000 m to Los Angeles. A list was located that had uh Professor Clug’s name on it, another UCLA’s uh professor’s name on it, and the name of the female victim. The kill list also named another UCLA professor who survived simply because they weren’t on campus that day.
Sarcar’s alleged motive was that he believed Professor Klug had stolen his computer code and given it to another student, but UCLA officials and people close to Clug insist this was pure delusion. an invention of Sarcar’s deteriorating mental state. Back in India, Sarar’s former teachers were stunned. He’d once been a gifted, respectful student, nothing like the man who would later plan and carry out a calculated murder spree across states.
He had earned his undergraduate degree from India’s prestigious IIT Karagpur, then a master’s from Stanford. At UCLA, he completed his PhD in solid mechanics with Clug as his adviser, a relationship that began warmly but soured over time until it exploded. Investigators soon pieced together the timeline.
After killing Hasty in Minnesota, Sarcar armed himself with two legally purchased handguns, extra magazines, and drove to Los Angeles. He parked his car 6 milesi from UCLA near his old apartment, then took a familiar bus route to campus. Inside UCLA’s engineering building, Professor Clug’s office became the tragic scene where Sarkar shot his former mentor, then turned the gun on himself.
The investigation uncovered more disturbing evidence. At Sarcar’s Minnesota apartment, police found more ammunition and a ballistic vest. His car, discovered days later in Culver City, contained gasoline containers used to refuel during his cross-country drive and another handgun. Ashley Hasty’s story added another layer of tragedy.
She was a promising medical student at the University of Minnesota, working toward her degree since 2012. Their relationship had ended, but Sarcar’s obsession clearly hadn’t. Professor Klug was also a beloved father of two and a respected mechanical engineering professor who was remembered by his students for his humility and dedication.
The case reignited debates about campus security, mental health, and the warning signs of academic violence. The campus lockdown during the shooting ended up exposing security flaws. Many doors lacked locks, forcing students to improvise barricades using their own belts. In the aftermath, UCLA immediately reviewed its active shooter protocols and within a week launched a task force to examine campus security.
The next case also proves that sometimes even something as ordinary as failing a test can spiral into unthinkable tragedy, leaving four people dead. October 28th, 2002, the University of Arizona’s College of Nursing became the scene of a calculated attack that would leave the campus and its community forever scarred.
The morning started like any other with midterm exams on the schedule. But by 8:30 a.m., everything changed. Robert Stewart Flores Jr., A 41-year-old Gulf War veteran and nursing student entered the building with five handguns and more than 200 rounds of ammunition. He wasn’t there to take an exam, but to settle what he called a reckoning.
Flores was failing out of the nursing program. He’d already failed a pediatric nursing class and was doing poorly in his critical care course. But his academic troubles were only part of a much darker picture that had been forming for months. His first target was Robin Rogers, a 50-year-old assistant professor.
Flores went straight to her second floor office and shot her multiple times. Rogers had previously expressed fear about Flores, even asking her church congregation to pray for her protection from him the Saturday before the attack. After killing Rogers, Flores moved to the fourth floor where nearly 50 students were taking a midterm. Witnesses would later describe him as calm and clean shaven with a backpack slung over one shoulder and his gun drawn.
He entered the classroom and confronted Cheryl McGaffis, another assistant professor. Flores called out, “Cheryl McGaff, I’m going to give you a lesson in spirituality.” He then shot her twice in the chest. After she fell, he straddled her body and fired another round into her chest. And again, McGafix, 44, had expressed fear of Flores to her husband, saying he was arrogant, intimidating, and often made rude interruptions in class.
The next victim was Barbara Monroe, 45, who tried to crawl away and hide under a desk. Flores asked her if she remembered the last thing she said to him. She replied, “No.” He then asked if she was ready to meet her maker. After she answered yes, he shot her three times. As the classroom fell silent, Flores called out for two students, Jules and Lisa, to stand and leave.
He then told the remaining students to get the hell out. Once the classroom was empty, Flores used one of his guns to end his own life. The attack was meticulously planned. Flores mailed a 22page art suicide, our letter to the Arizona Daily Star that began with greetings from the dead. In it, he described the shootings not as revenge, but as a settling of accounts.
The letter detailed his failed marriage, poor health, and grievances with the nursing school, which he claimed treated male students as tokens. Flor’s troubles had been noticed before the attack. In April 2001, two professors filed a report with campus police after Flores said he thought about ending it all and might put something under the college.
While police attempted to contact him, no follow-up action was taken. Students who knew Flores described him as aggressive and mean with a lot of anger issues. He often bragged about having a concealed weapons permit and seemed to enjoy challenging instructors. Despite these warning signs, no one expected violence of this magnitude.
But he wasn’t the only student whose academic failure turned deadly. At a law school, another man’s rage over being expelled would end with three lives lost. A former student opened fire at Appalachin School of Law in Southwest Virginia. Three people were killed and three others were injured in that shooting.
January 16th, 2002, inside the Appalachin School of Law in Grundy, Virginia. The day that began like any other, but it was about to turn into a nightmare. Peter Adagazua, a 43-year-old Nigerian immigrant and former law student, entered the school premises with a loaded 380 ACP semi-automatic handgun and a deadly intent.
Years earlier, Adagiswa had moved to the United States with dreams of building a better life. But those dreams crumbled under the weight of academic failure and personal turmoil. After flunking out of law school for the second time and months after his wife and children left him, he found himself alone and desperate.
That afternoon, Odazua first sought out his professor, Dale Rubin, reportedly asking him to pray for him. Then, just after 100 p.m., he made his way to the offices of Dean Anthony Sutin and Professor Thomas Blackwell. Without warning, he opened fire at pointlank range, killing both men instantly. The county coroner would later confirm the execution style killings with powder burns indicating the close-range shots.
But his rampage didn’t end there. Odiswa proceeded downstairs to the school lounge where students Angela Dales, Rebecca Brown, and Meline Short were gathered. He opened fire again, killing Dales and wounding Brown and Short. As panic spread through the building, two students, Tracy Bridges and Michel Gross, ran to their vehicles to retrieve their personal firearms.
Gross, a police officer from Griffin, North Carolina, returned with a 9mm pistol and body armor. Bridges, a county sheriff’s deputy from Asheville, North Carolina, grabbed his .357 Magnum. They approached Odiswa from different angles with Bridges shouting for him to drop his weapon. There’s some disagreement about what happened next, but according to some witnesses, Oda Gazua had already set down his gun and raised his arms in a mocking gesture before seeing the armed students.
Ted Bon, a Marine veteran and former Wilmington police officer, engaged Odizua in a physical confrontation, eventually knocking him to the ground. Bridges and Gross arrived with their weapons drawn just as Bon and other students subdued the gunman. Once Odigizua was secured, Gross retrieved handcuffs from his vehicle to detain him until police arrived.
Most sources, including Virginia State Police spokesman Mike Stater, stated that the gun was empty when Augizwa dropped it, though some reports suggested there were still three rounds left in the magazine. In 2002, Adigazua was initially found incompetent to stand trial and was referred for psychiatric treatment. After three years of treatment and monitoring, he was found mentally competent and finally pleaded guilty to the murders to avoid the death penalty.
He received six life sentences plus an additional 28 years without the possibility of parole. Today, he serves his sentence at Red Onion State Prison. The aftermath of the tragedy left deep scars on the community. Students and faculty planted trees in memory of the victims on the school’s front lawn. The student services office and scholarship program were named for Angela Dales while faculty fellowships were created in honor of Sutin and Blackwell.
The Fi Alpha Delta chapter at the school now bears Sutin’s name and the Fi Delta FI chapter is named for Blackwell. And despite the darkness of that day, some light emerged from the aftermath. Otiswa’s sons, OA and Osa, went on to build successful careers in the NFL, choosing a very different path from their father and finding purpose through sports.
But not all school attacks are driven by grades or revenge. Sometimes they spill out of a much larger storm of rage and chaos, like the one that shook a quiet California community in 2017. shooter going on the rampage, killing at least four people, opening fire at seven different locations, including an elementary school.
November 13th, 2017 started like any other quiet morning in Rancho Tahama, a small country community in California. But as the sun rose, 44year-old Kevin Jansen Neil went on a 25-minute rampage that would leave six people dead, including himself, and 18 others injured across eight separate crime scenes. The day before the massacre, Neil killed his wife, Barbara Glisten, at their home on Bobcat Lane.
He then hid her body under the floorboards. Investigators later found evidence suggesting Barbara was killed late Monday night, setting the stage for the chaos that would unfold just hours later. By 7:54 a.m. on November 14th, the first 911 calls came in. Neil was already on the move. His homemade AR-15 style rifle and illegally obtained handguns and tow.
His first victims were his neighbors, Danny Elliot and Diana Steele, with whom he’d had ongoing disputes. Paranoia and accusations of drug manufacturing had plagued Neil for months, leading to restraining orders and multiple police visits. But this morning, he took matters into his own hands, ending their lives before stealing their truck.
Neil’s next target was random. He fired at passing vehicles and pedestrians. At one intersection, he ambushed a woman and her three sons, riddling their car with bullets. The mother was shot five times, four near her heart, while her sons suffered injuries from both gunfire and shattered glass.
Despite her wounds, she managed to shield her youngest son, and after being passed up by four motorists, finally received help from a deputy sheriff. But Neil wasn’t finished. His next stop was Rancho Tahama Elementary School. Secretary Sarah Lobell, hearing gunfire nearby, quickly ordered a lockdown. Teachers and staff sprang into action, securing nearly 100 students just as Neil crashed the stolen truck through the front gates.
Frustrated by locked doors, he fired nearly 100 rounds into the school’s walls and windows. Two students were hit. One was hiding under a classroom desk and was injured by a bullet that penetrated a wall. And another was shot in the chest. A woman trying to distract Neil from the school was also wounded. Neil’s apparent target was the son of the neighbor he had already killed.
Unable to breach the classrooms, he retreated after firing into the air in frustration. Neil continued down the road. He crashed the truck again, this time attacking the occupants of another vehicle, killing a woman and wounding her husband whom Neil had spared. After he pleaded for his life, a passer by, unaware of the shootings, stopped to help, but was shot and carjacked.
Neil’s final victim was killed before law enforcement closed in. The pursuit ended when officers rammed Neil’s stolen vehicle. He fired at them, hitting their car five times before turning the gun on himself. At 8:19 a.m., the chaos was finally over. The aftermath revealed a community in shock. 11 people were wounded by bullets, including five.
Seven more suffered injuries from flying glass. The youngest victim, Alejandro Hernandez, was shot in the chest and leg, requiring multiple surgeries. Victim’s family struggled with mounting medical bills and had to turn to online fundraisers for help. But what about Neil himself? Well, his background painted a picture of escalating instability.
A history of mental illness, anger issues, and conspiracy theories plagued him. Just months before, he was arrested for assaulting neighbors, but released after his mother posted a $160,000 bail. And despite a restraining order requiring him to surrender his firearms, Neil managed to manufacture his own guns. As a result, the Tahama shootings sparked national debate about homemade guns and gun control.
Governor Jerry Brown offered condolences, noting the tragedy’s impact on the students of the school. The community closed the school early for Thanksgiving, reopening two weeks later. Yet, despite criticism, the local sheriff was reelected the following year. In the end, Neil’s 25-minute rampage left a permanent scar on Rancho Tahama, a stark reminder of how quickly violence can erupt, even in the most peaceful communities.
But if you thought this story was harrowing, the next case reveals how far a man went because he was angry at the world. We have chilling new details about the mass shooting that killed seven people at University, a religious college in Oakland, California. April 2nd, 2012, just after 10:30 a.m.
, a nursing class was disrupted by the unthinkable at a small Christian college in Oakland, California. A former student, 43-year-old 1LG go, entered oos university, armed with a 45 caliber handgun and four fully loaded magazines. In mere minutes, he unleashed a wave of violence that would mark the deadliest massacre in Oakland’s history.
Go ordered his classmates to line up against the wall, reportedly shouting, “Get in line. I’m going to kill you all.” Before opening fire, six students and a receptionist were killed while three others sustained critical injuries. The attacker then fled the scene, driving away in a car belonging to one of his victims. The manhunt for Go was swift.
Within hours, he surrendered to authorities at a grocery store just 5 miles from the crime scene. What emerged in the investigation was a portrait of a deeply troubled individual whose life had been unraveling for years before the shooting. 1968 1L Go was born Tsunam Co. in South Korea.
He immigrated to the United States as a child following his parents and two older brothers. Go first settled in Virginia before moving to the San Francisco Bay area. By 2002, he legally changed his name, reportedly because he felt his birth name sounded like a girl’s name. While attending OOS University, Go demonstrated a pattern of disciplinary issues.
He was asked to leave the school a few months before the attack after consistent problems. His grievances extended beyond academic struggles, like demanding a $6,000 tuition refund that was denied. More disturbingly, he developed elaborate delusions, including beliefs that school staff had installed surveillance cameras in his home and planted a GPS device in his car.
Psychiatric evaluations later revealed that Go had been suffering from paranoid schizophrenia for at least 15 years. He experienced auditory and visual hallucinations, and his grasp on reality was tenuous at best. What’s more, the stress of personal tragedies, including the deaths of his brother and mother within months of each other, further destabilized his mental health.
Go’s actions on that April morning were not random. He initially entered the campus seeking a specific administrator who wasn’t present. When he couldn’t find her, his rage turned indiscriminately toward the innocent. Wernern. Among the deceased were Chering Renzing Budya, Doris Chabuko, Sonum Chutin, Grace, Eune, Kim, Catleen Ping, Judith Seymour, and Lydia Sim.
Six of the seven fatalities were women, and each left behind families and communities shattered by senseless violence. The legal proceedings against Go were complicated by his mental state. Multiple psychiatric evaluations deemed him incompetent to stand trial. Initially, he spent years in a state psychiatric facility being forcibly medicated in an attempt to restore his competency.
During this period, Go expressed conflicting emotions. He reportedly welcomed the death penalty but denied responsibility for the killings, insisting he only intended to harm faculty members. It wasn’t until May 2017, 5 years after the shooting, that Go finally pleaded no contest to seven counts of murder and three counts of attempted murder.
2 months later, he received seven consecutive life sentences plus 271 years with no possibility of parole. But the story doesn’t end there. On March 20th, 2019, at the age of 50, 1LGO died in Folsam State Prison. The exact cause of death remains undisclosed, leaving a final layer of mystery to an already complex and tragic case.
But such violent acts aren’t limited to angry students fueled by resentment or academic failure. A few years earlier, a Harvard educated biologist turned her fury on her own colleagues after being denied tenure. Professor Amy Bishop opened fire inside a faculty meeting, killing three Alabama colleagues. A string of unsettling episodes has emerged in her past.
February 12th, 2010, a routine faculty meeting at the University of Alabama in Huntsville transformed into a nightmare. 44year-old Professor Amy Bishop sat silent for nearly an hour, then stood, drew a 9mm Ruger, and began shooting her colleagues. The room erupted in chaos. Yet, what follows revealed a far more twisted legacy of violence than anyone could imagine.
1965, Amy Bishop was born and grew up in Massachusetts as the daughter of an art professor. Her early years showed promise. She played the violin, excelled in school, and later earned a PhD in genetics from Harvard. However, beneath the surface, her life was marked by instability and hidden secrets. The first dark chapter began in December 1986 when 21-year-old Amy fatally shot her younger brother Seth in their family home.
The incident was quickly ruled an accident officially. But decades later, evidence would reveal a tangled web of police favoritism, missing reports, and a possible cover up involving the local police chief who was a family friend. However, after the university shooting, the case would be reopened. But before that, Bishop managed to move forward with her life, if not exactly upward.
She married James Anderson, started a family, and pursued an academic career. But her professional trajectory was rocky. By 2003, she landed a faculty position at the University of Alabama in Huntsville, focusing on neuroscience research. Her tenure battle began almost immediately, marked by complaints from students, frequent conflicts with colleagues, and a publication record that favored patents over peer-reviewed papers.
When her tenure was officially denied in 2009, it wasn’t just a career setback. It felt like the end of everything she had worked for. Years earlier, Bishop had written unpublished novels that now seemed hauntingly prophetic. They were about a scientist on the brink, facing professional collapse and consumed by violent thoughts. But that’s not all.
In real life, the warning signs had always been clear as well. Colleagues described her as strange and out of touch with reality. Students petitioned for her removal. She also once assaulted a woman in a restaurant over a booster seat, screaming, “I am Dr. Amy Bishop.” But the charges were dropped and the anger continued to simmer beneath the surface.
Her marriage too showed cracks. Bishop and her husband were suspected, though never charged, in a 1993 pipe bomb incident targeting her former lab supervisor. Their collaborative research projects often seemed more about keeping up appearances than advancing science. By February 2010, the pressure cooker exploded.
Bishop taught her anatomy class that morning where students described her as perfectly normal. But during the faculty meeting, she waited nearly an hour before beginning her deadly rampage. Witnesses described the shooting as execution style. She methodically targeted colleagues on one side of the table, killing three and wounding another three before her gun jammed.
Deborah Morarity, a biochemistry professor, became an unlikely hero when Bishop’s gun jammed while pointed at her. Morarity and others managed to push her out of the room and barricade the door. Bishop fled, but was quickly arrested. In custody, she denied everything, insisting, “It didn’t happen. There’s no way.” The aftermath revealed the tangled legacy of violence and privilege that defined Bishop’s life.
Her brother’s case was reopened, exposing the small town politics that had protected her decades earlier. Colleagues and students recounted years of erratic behavior, professional misconduct, and escalating threats. Bishop’s trial revealed little remorse. She initially pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity, but later changed her plea to avoid the death penalty.
The court sentenced her to life without parole. She now resides in the Julia Tutweiler Prison for Women. Her academic ambitions reduced to prison walls. Amy Bishop’s story isn’t just about one horrific act. It’s a cautionary tale of unchecked privilege, institutional failure, and the dangerous consequences of looking the other way.
Her case forced institutions to re-examine how they handle threats and violence. But it was too late for those who paid the ultimate price. Well, but if you think Bishop’s story was shocking, the next case takes it to another level. A man who unleashed his rage on an elementary school simply because his wife left him.
That tragic shooting at an elementary school in California. Here is what we know. The shooter targeted his aranged wife, a teacher at the school, killing her before turning the gun on himself. April 10th, 2017. The tranquility of North Park Elementary School in San Bernardino, California, was shattered just before 10:30 a.m.
when Cedric Anderson, a 53-year-old man with a hidden history of violence, walked through the school’s main entrance. He claimed he needed to drop something off for his wife, Karen Elaine Smith, a special education teacher in classroom B1. The security measures designed to keep out strangers failed in this moment because Anderson was a familiar face.
Staff recognized him, but no one knew about the recent separation or the dark history behind their seemingly happy social media posts. Without any visible signs of agitation, Anderson walked through the halls, his concealed Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum revolver hidden from sight. When he entered classroom B1, there were 15 students.
between first and fourth grade along with two teachers aids. Karen Smith stood in the middle of the room about 10 to 15 ft from the door. Anderson didn’t say a word. He pulled out the revolver and fired 10 rounds, reloading once before turning the weapon on himself. Smith and Anderson both died instantly. Two students standing behind their teacher were caught in the crossfire.
Jonathan Martinez, who suffered from Williams syndrome, was severely wounded and later died at the hospital. Another student, Nolan Brandy, was hit in the upper body but survived. Before that fatal day, Anderson’s facade of a loving husband had been carefully crafted on social media. He posted about date nights and called Smith his wonderful little wife.
But beneath the surface, he was a man with a long history of violence. Court documents revealed a pattern of abuse spanning decades, restraining orders from an ex-wife and a former girlfriend, both claiming Anderson had threatened and physically assaulted them. His criminal record also included weapons charges and domestic violence, though none resulted in convictions.
Smith’s mother later recalled, “We thought he was a fine person until they were married and then he showed the other side of himself, which we had never seen before. We were shocked. The couple had only been married since January, but had separated within weeks. Smith’s son described Anderson as paranoid and possessive, leading to the end of their brief marriage.
Despite these warning signs, Anderson was able to enter the school easily. He had already tried to contact Smith before the shooting, making threats that weren’t taken seriously. She had even started staying with relatives to hide from him. In the aftermath, the investigation revealed Anderson’s carefully concealed spiral.
Police found a handwritten note at his home referencing needing closure and feeling disrespected and dishonored. It wasn’t a suicide uh note in the traditional sense, but clear evidence of his deteriorating mental state. Yet, his social media posts in the month before the attack painted a picture of a loving relationship masking the reality of his violent tendencies.
This tragedy led to immediate changes in school security. North Park Elementary implemented stricter visitor policies, allowing only fingerprinted volunteers on campus. The district began reviewing broader security measures, as the case had been a stark reminder of how quickly violence can infiltrate even the most familiar settings.
The story itself also serves as a grim reminder of the hidden dangers behind domestic violence and the importance of recognizing warning signs even when they’re carefully masked behind social media smiles. But if you think this is the darkest chapter in our look at the oldest school shooters, wait until you see what’s next. September 27th, 2006, Plat Canyon High School in Bailey, Colorado, was about to become the site of one of America’s most shocking school hostage crises.
At 11:40 a.m., a 53-year-old drifter named Dwayne Roger Morrison entered the school carrying two firearms, a Glock 22 semi-automatic pistol, and a 357 caliber revolver, and a backpack he falsely claimed contained 3 lb of C4 explosives. What followed was a nightmare beyond anyone’s worst imagination. Morrison was hardly a stranger to trouble.
His criminal record stretched back to 1973 when he was arrested for lararseny and possession of marijuana. More recently, in July 2006, he had been charged with obstructing police in Littleton, Colorado, but nothing in his past hinted at the evil he was about to unleash. That morning, Morrison’s yellow Jeep had been spotted multiple times in the school parking lot.
At around 10:45 a.m., witnesses saw him sitting inside, looking out at the students as classes changed. Security footage later revealed he had mingled with students for at least 20 minutes before the attack began. He was believed to be living out of that Jeep camping near Bailey. Just before noon, Morrison walked into a second floor classroom where teacher Sandra Smith was conducting an honors English class.
He fired a shot into the air and ordered all the male students and several girls to leave. Keeping seven girls as hostages, Smith initially refused to abandon her students, but when Morrison threatened violence and claimed to have explosives, she complied. What happened next was unspeakable. Morrison lined the girls up against the chalkboard and sexually assaulted them one by one.
He held his gun to their heads, threatened to kill anyone who resisted, and periodically erupted in fits of rage. The details of these assaults remain sealed under Colorado privacy laws, but Sheriff Fred Wagner, later described them as pretty horrific. Hostage Lena Long, a sophomore, later recounted hearing the rustling of clothes and elastic being snapped and zippers being opened and closed, all clear evidence of what was happening to her and her classmates.
Meanwhile, the school’s emergency plan went into effect. A codewide alert sounded over the intercom, locking down the building while deputies rushed to the scene. Negotiations began, but Morrison quickly refused to speak directly with officials, forcing the hostages to relay his messages. All he wanted was for the police to back away.
Between 12:15 p.m. and 1:45 p.m., Morrison released five of the hostages, one at a time. each told a similar story of repeated sexual assaults and Morrison’s unpredictable violence. As the hours ticked by, the situation grew more desperate. At 3:30 p.m., Morrison told negotiators the crisis would end at Ford’s p.m.
, but refused to explain what that meant. Sheriff Wagner, whose own son was in the building during the siege, faced an impossible decision. SWAT officers had witnessed Morrison assaulting the girls and he had set a clear deadline. He later said, “My decision was either wait and have the possibility of having two dead hostages or act and try to save what I feared he would do to them because I’d want whoever was in my position to do the same thing, and that is to save lives.
” At 3:45 p.m., SWAT team members blasted open the classroom door, using diversionary explosives to charge inside. Morrison had barricaded himself at the far wall, using the two remaining hostages as human shields. He fired at the officers, then turned his gun on Emily Keys, who was trying to escape. Morrison shot her in the head before turning the gun on himself.
He died at the scene from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, though he had also been shot three times by SWAT officers. Emily was rushed to St. Anony’s Hospital in Denver, but was pronounced dead at 4:32 p.m. The other surviving hostage escaped physical harm, but the psychological scars would last a lifetime. In Morrison’s backpack, investigators found duct tape, handcuffs, knives, a stun gun, rope, scissors, massage oil, stex toys, and numerous rounds of ammunition, but no explosives.
In his 14-page suicide note, Morrison claimed years of mental and physical abuse by his father and said he’d struggled with suicidal thoughts since age 21. But he did not explain his actions that day, leaving his true motives forever a mystery. Morrison’s story may be disturbing enough, but imagine an 83year-old man walking into a high school and opening fire.
For the first time, we are seeing and hearing from the 83year-old accused of shooting up a drumline competition at Pasadena Memorial High School. February 1st, 2025. The bustling energy of the Texas Color Guard Circuit Drumline Competition at Pasadena Memorial High School was suddenly shattered. Dennis Irwin Brle Jr.
, an 83-year-old man from Spring, Texas, entered the school through a back door. What he did next would shock everyone present and make headlines across the nation. Randall, who claimed he was being chased and feared for his and his wife’s lives, carried a small caliber weapon into the school. He slipped inside quietly, blending with the crowd as parents, students, and staff attended the competition.
For about 2 minutes, he hid behind a pillar, watching and waiting. Suddenly, Brle emerged and fired, at least one shot, striking a 26-year-old technical consultant for the high school drum line. The victim, fortunately, survived with a fractured bone, and was later released from the hospital. As panic swept through the building, six parents, many with military backgrounds and one a sergeant in the Houston Police Department, sprang into action. They didn’t hesitate.
One parent, who preferred to remain anonymous, but later revealed he was an educator, tackled Br. The others quickly followed, working together to subdue the elderly gunman. Adam Trevino, one of the parents involved, later recalled, “It felt like an eternity, but I think it was like a minute or so.
” Joe Sanchez, the Houston police sergeant, added, “I grabbed his arms while Adam took the gun out. We had no handcuffs, so I took my belt and made handcuffs.” Their combined quick thinking and bravery undoubtedly prevented what could have been a devastating tragedy. The school was immediately placed on lockdown and the competition was cancelled.
VOR and Bridge City High School band students who were participating in the event had fortunately left for dinner or were already on their way home when the shooting occurred. In the aftermath, Brle faced charges of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon and was taken into custody and held without bond. His mental state became a central question in the investigation as he continued to claim he was being pursued and feared for his life.
The incident raised concerns about mental health and gun access among the elderly. Randall’s health deteriorated rapidly after his arrest. He suffered a medical emergency and was transferred to Bentab Hospital for treatment. The Harris County District Attorney’s Office eventually requested to dismiss the charges be dismissed due to his declining health.
He was released into medical care and died shortly after. This incident involving the oldest known school shooter in American history serves as a stark reminder of the unpredictable nature of violence and the critical importance of community vigilance. The quick response of the parents at Pasadena Memorial High School undoubtedly saved lives and prevented a much greater tragedy.
