Today, I have Bobbye Terry as a guest blogger. She graduated from Randolph Macon Woman’s College in Lynchburg, Virginia. (I’ll talk about this college in another blog.) This murder took place while she was a student there.
It’s not perfect writing, folks, as it has been many years since the event happened and I first wrote about it. This depicts the events of that evening according to the research I did at City Hall. Interestingly enough, Douglas Wilder, later elected first African American governor of Virginia, was a defense attorney in this case.
Being a student on the campus at the time, I can tell you we were scared, especially since many of us had metal fire ladders up to our windows. We liked to think of the landings as balconies. But, with the advent of a murder, not so much. As for what we felt like, we were scared for a nanosecond. At that age, fear doesn’t last long.
It’s not perfect writing, folks, as it has been many years since written, but it depicts the events from that evening. Please note conclusions of what was going through Standaly’s mind were interjected by the press and court testimony, and then interpreted by me. Here is the account:
It happened in early spring, the actual murder occurring just inside the brick walls of what was then Randolph-Macon Woman’s College. Cynthia Hellman, the daughter of the Hellman Mayonnaise millionaire, was found dead with her face up against a steam pipe outside the science building. Many years ago, I wrote a partial write-up of the events pieced from court documents. At that time, I was allowed in the back to review the records including some extremely gruesome photos of the victim.
Stan stood on his front porch and stared into space. Nothing had worked out the way he planned. His wife and kids were in New Jersey, and he was here. The job at the Post Office hadn’t worked out. He had kept the job at Vaughan’s Chevrolet longer. But, after all, he had been a Machinist in the Air Force. Even when he tried to go back to school, they had discriminated against him. He knew he deserved better grades than they had given him.
Now, standing on the porch, he knew it wasn’t his fault. It was all of those narrow-minded small-town middle-class Southern Baptist bigots that had caused everything. He needed a way to get his vengeance. Even his own family didn’t understand him. They had signed involuntary committal papers twice, sending him away to Central State for evaluation. Thank God, the professionals realized the truth—he wasn’t crazy.
No one spent enough time to try to get to know him. His religion was all he had. That, and the little voice that had begun to come to him at dusk. “Go, ahead. Do it. Show her. Show them. You owe it to yourself.” The time would come soon. He could feel it.
He had known it the minute he saw her. She was one of those bitches! A girl with long auburn curls, clad simply in her red and black shirt, slacks, and clogs, enter the 7-11. They were always on his street laughing, running around in sheets, going to the Dahlia for their stupid initiations. They were always making fun of him, telling him not to go into the Cellar or some redneck would beat him up! He was 6’ 4”, a sturdy 198 pounds, a lean, mean fighting machine! He had nicknamed himself “Big Stan,” and sooner or later he’d enter the Dahlia and show those assholes just who they were dealing with.
But first, he had to stop the pointing fingers, the laughs, the stuck-up, rich Randy-Mac bitches. He had tried once up at old Ruffner School. Another blond-haired wench was trying to do her duty by helping out the “poor little black kids.” She didn’t know anything about his people. She didn’t know anything about his street. Why couldn’t they all stay away? If that damn Dahlia weren’t there, they wouldn’t be infringing on his territory.
The Dahlia didn’t even encourage men of his color to come in anymore the way he used to when he was 18. The new owner was catering to the college kids, setting up a band downstairs every Wednesday night, Wonderful Wednesday for the Randy-Mac girls and also on weekends.
Well, he had spotted the little red-headed high-and-mighty, and this one was going to pay!
Standaly decided the best way to follow her was to go behind the 7-11, walk down Cleveland Avenue, and wait for her next to the Lexington Apartments. She wouldn’t make it past Randee’s Restaurant! Then he would show her how strong he was–prove to her that he couldn’t be laughed at! The rest of them would leave him and Bedford Avenue alone. He would see to it.
Poised at the top of Elmwood Avenue, Standaly looked up at the tower of St. John’s Church. Cars were milling around this Sunday evening, but no one really noticed him. He felt secure, as he blended with the twilight. But the bitch stood out like a neon light with her long auburn hair. He saw her round the corner from Bedford Avenue and approach his hiding place.
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Cynthia walked slowly around the corner of Bedford. The air was slightly cool and clean, the promise of spring on its breath. The day had been beautiful, and she really didn’t mind walking all the way down to the 7-11. King’s Grocery Store always closed early on Sunday evenings, so if she wanted some munchies, she had to walk. All was very quiet, except for a few strains of organ music from the church down the block. All of the stores were closed on the Avenue on Sundays. After all, she was in the middle of the Bible Belt! It seemed like another planet compared to her hometown of Houston, Texas.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a large fleeting shadow. She increased her step, but the clogs were cumbersome for fast walking–or running. She knew someone was watching her. But where? As she crossed to the parking lot next to Pearson’s Drug, she saw a black man cross from the bushes. She was sure she was being followed.
Cynthia tried to run, but the shoes wouldn’t let her. She slipped them off and tucked them under her arm, trying to hold onto her bag in the other hand. He was gaining on her. She began to sprint in her stocking-feet. Maybe the barber was in his shop around the corner. The campus was so close! Surely she could make it.
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Charlie walked through the fragrant early evening dew around the corner of East Hall and started down the path to construction site for the new Physical Education Building. The air was humid, but cooling down after another record-breaking day of Lynchburg weather. Charlie took his job with the Pinkerton Agency very seriously. Sometimes it was fun. All of the college students had adopted him. He was the campus Teddy Bear, kind of chubby, but still very competent. They called all of the guards Pinkies, but he was different. Of course, he stretched the rules for some of them, helping them back into the dorms after closing hours, holding them up as they weaved back from the Pines after an evening of over-imbibing an yet another UVA fraternity party. He’d waited for more than one student while she puked her brains out, and then guided her back to the entrance of her dorm.
Tonight was a typical quiet Sunday evening. Most of the girls had returned from their roll down the road to the University of Virginia or to Washington & Lee. His walkie-talkie went off, paging him that there was a reported scream from down in the general vicinity of Martin Science Building. Charlie retraced his steps from behind East and crossed between the overhead trolley that held East and Main together.
As he walked down the hill next to the well-manicured lawn of front campus, he heard nothing but a still calm. The enveloping heavy fog enshrouded the overhead lights, creating an aurora of color above. The warm spring day became eerie night.
As he approached Martin, he felt an involuntary shiver shoot up his spine. He had never been afraid of exploring this campus before. How silly! He walked in front of the building, circling its right border into the naturally wooded area next to the school’s brick wall that bordered Norfolk Avenue.
The air began to fall heavier around his shoulders. He felt like a dead weight, an unwelcome demon, had settled upon him. Still no noises confronted him as made his way behind the science building. He thought he saw a figure across the wall. But the wall was too high to view the facing street.
Charlie continued toward the pride and joy of Martin, the botanical portion complete with a cross-section of flora and fauna inside its protective greenhouse. Still there were no signs of trouble. He stepped next to the greenhouse, just avoiding a small foot, partially obscured by the greenery. Her body was small as well, the stockings obliterated at the toes, almost flapping on the ankles. The leg showed signs of beatings, bruises, and mud up the slightly hiked pants leg.
Charlie ran to her head, and grabbed for a pulse. Could he save her? Was she okay? He prepared to undertake CPR. Grabbing her head, he pulled her toward him. Her head—her face—had been pressed against to the steam pipe leading from the greenhouse. She—didn’t have a face!
Charlie fell to his knees and wept.
Afterward: Standaly was found not guilty by reason of insanity and was confined at the Finley-Gayle Maximum Security Unit at Southwestern State Hospital then located in Marion, Virginia.
Bobbye Terry is the multi-published writer of romantic comedy, suspense and fantasy. She also writes under the pseudonyms Daryn Cross and Terry Campbell and has books out or slated for publication through Black Opal Books, Crescent Moon Press, Eternal Press, L&L Dreamspell and Turquoise Morning Press. Her most recent novel release co-written as Terry Campbell is the novel, Craigs’ Legacy, Black Opal Books. Her first mystery novella, Buried in Briny Bay, debuts on March 14. For more information, check out her online headquarters: http://BobbyeTerry.Blogspot.com
One reason for fiction writers to read true crime is to get ideas for their short stories and novels.
coming in May: THE TRUTH SLEUTH–a factional mystery novel
So true, Jacquie. Your book sounds fascinating, BTW.
I can’t wait to interview you and have you tell us all about your book. It sounds fascinating.
Bobbye,
This is a sad story. Stories like these do inspire our imaginations, but it’s too bad we live in a world where people commit crimes like these. Fascinating account, even so.
Thanks for sharing the story!
Thanks, Tracy. Agreed, but this was a real case of mental illness, I think.
It also still haunts Lynchburg.
Fascinating, but I never should have read this–it’ll give me nightmares! When I was a newspaper reporter, the local sheriff’s deputies would let me read their reports for my stories, and it got so I dreaded that part of the job. Fiction works so much better for me!
Best of luck with your upcoming release.
Kate
There was another murder in Lynchburg a couple of years after this one, and it would also make a good story.
A woman who was related to one of the prominent Lynchburg shoe factory families, hired a very young neighbor child as a babysitter. She told the girl the baby was sleeping, and would not need any attention at all. Then she and her husband went out to dinner.
When they returned, the mother claimed the baby was dead in it’s crib. The couple called the police, the babysitter (who was about 11 years old) was taken in custody.
The poor child was demonized by the general public, and the press. It eventually became evident that the child was framed.
The mother was then arrested. During the trial, the bite expert who helped to convict Ted Bundy was called to testify, and stated that there were bite marks on the dead baby were from the mother, and other injuries showing a history of abuse.
When the mother was found guilty, she received a very light sentence. The judge was rumored to be an old friend of some members of the mother’s prominent family, although not of the mother.
When the sentence was questioned for not being suitable, considering the two victims – baby and young babysitter- the judge said that the mother had already suffered so much by losing her only child.
My mother was witness to this murder over 30 some years ago and had to go testify if I remember correctly. My brother and I were just kids and we were in the car that night but my brother was sleeping and I was looking out the passenger side window not facing Rivermont shops on Rivermont Ave.
The “real” story is that the girl was running up Rivermont Ave in front of the shops and was trying to get away from this man. She was pulling away from him and she got away then moved toward the campus of Randolph Macon. My mother watch this happen as we were sitting at the stop light to change. The next morning, it was reported that she was killed. My mother called into the police station and reported what she had seen. A statement was taken but I don’t remember if she had to go to court during the man’s trail. The girl and the murder is now known as a famous haunting. When I read this story on the Va ghost haunting site, chills went up my spine knowing that my mother was witness to that murder. Just thought you folks would like to know that someone did witness the event first hand.
That you’re mother witnessed send chills up my spine. After reading your story, I can’t help but think how differently it would have turned out if we’d had cell phones back then.
Alyssa – Out of the blue this afternoon, I decided I wanted to see the painting, “Red Umbrella” that was donated to Randolph-Macon in memory of my friend, Cindy Hellman. Don’t know why the thought crossed into my consciousness amidst the purchase agreements and other legal documents I was contemplating. But there it was, full blown. I was searching the internet and was quite shocked when your story about Cindy popped up in my search results. Cindy and I grew up together in Houston, along with in the midst of a large cadre of great friends – we went from 1st grade through high school together. While most of the group trekked off only as far as Austin to attend the University of Texas, Cindy was one of the few to stretch her wings and venture away from the comfort of family and friends to create her own new world. I was not surprized. Cindy was one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing; that’s beautiful inside and out. I always thought she was wise beyond her years, more mature than the rest of us, perhaps an old soul. To this day I remember getting the news that Cindy had been murdered – there had been car accidents before or someone’s grandmother had died, but murder was not even part of our though process. She was so young, as we all were. Cindy’s “story” could have been anyone’s because she had done none of the litany of things our mothers had warned us could be dangerous. She was the object of someone’s irrational hate. If he had only known what a gentle soul she was, if he had ever felt the warmth of her gaze, or heard the joy in her laughter, perhaps it would have melted the rage he had planned to direct towards her. Who among us hasn’t thought of the terror she must have felt being pursued – do you know from the start you are running for your life? What confusion she must have felt underneath the terror – she didn’t know or recognize him. Did she call out for of her mother and father even though they were hundreds of miles away. I have never been able to imagine what they and Cindy’s sister, Cathy, must have gone through. And her parents, like her, were two of the warmest, loviliest people you would ever want to know. And Cathy, bright and carefree, losing her big sister. My gut still wrenches at the thought. But I still, from time to time, go back to the painting that was given in Cindy’s memory that hangs at Randolph Macon. The woman with the red hat, watching in the field. I hope Cindy is watching over us, still.
Melissa, thank you for letting us have this honor of seeing Cindy through your eyes. I can’t help but think how much she would have contributed to our world and how many lives she would have touched had a sick man not killed her.
I never expected to see a comment from someone I knew from grade school through half of my college years, but much like you, my mind wandered back to Cindy this afternoon. I corroborate everything Melissa has said, but want to emphasize how gorgeous Cindy really was. Just a natural beauty without make-up. I recently found a poem that she and another friend had written during a slumber party at my house. Even Cindy’s handwriting was more mature than the rest of us. It was very singularly Cindy’s. Cindy’s entire family was charming. It was a horrible thing to happen to a family that loving towards everyone. I recall hearing that her father had flown to Virginia to identify the body. That dear, dear man had to see his beautiful daughter with her face melted and identified her by some piece of jewelry she always wore. (A small ring, as I recall.) That was when I broke and just couldn’t handle this wicked story anymore. My best friend had also gone to RM and she quickly transferred to UT. It scared the hell out of all of us because Cindy was one of the least likely to have anything like this occur to her. I can’t even imagine her having one too many. She was in love with a young man at Rice University, so I can’t even see her going to UVA parties. She just wasn’t a party girl, but she was no self-righteous puritan either. She was much more mature than most and her murder disspelled any notions that anyone had about murder or mayhem not happening to them. I don’t recall hearing the outcome, but I certainly didn’t think the guy got off by reason of “insanity”.
Hollie, thank you for letting me and my readers see what a wonderful person the world lost. Bobbye Terry who wrote the article published here was attending RMWC at the time of the murder. Like you, I would like to think the killer didn’t get off with an insanity plea.