Bad Moon Rising: The Prom Night Murders Memoir

By Ed Morrison and Mindy Morrison

Ed Morrison's brother, Michael, and his spunky girlfriend, Debra Means, never made it home from the Mascoutah Community High School prom held on May 3, 1969. Two days later, their bodies were discovered near an abandoned strip mine on the outskirts of town. After taking his victims at gunpoint, Marshall Wayne Stauffer raped and strangled fifteen-year-old Debbie and dispatched eighteen-year-old Mike with three shots to the back of his head.

In this true crime memoir, Ed Morrison chronicles his journey nearly fifty years after that fateful night to learn the truth of what happened, illuminate the evil within a murderer, and find resolution. Gathering insight from interviews with former police investigators, attorneys, judges, a survivor of a similar attack, and prison personnel, Morrison exposes the raw emotions that accompanied the senseless killings. He traces the murderer throughout his life, uncovering facts and unknown stories about his cross-country crime spree, imprisonment, and eventual death.

Bad Moon Rising is the gripping true story of one man's quest to uncover the truth fifty years after his brother and his brother’s girlfriend were murdered on prom night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480878259

Ed Morrison

Ed Morrison was born in Newfoundland and proudly calls himself an Air Force brat. He and his wife, Mindy, and their sons, Nate and Drew, moved from Illinois to live for seven years in Germany, where they traveled Europe and hammered on the Berlin Wall. Ed and Mindy have safaried in Kenya, kayaked in New Zealand, and chilled in Iceland. Now retired, they make their home in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley.

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Copyright © 2019 Ed Morrison with Mindy Morrison.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7826-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7827-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-7825-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906572

Archway Publishing rev. date: 8/29/2019

CONTENTS

Dedicated To

Authors’ Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

39MapofMascoutahareaandsignificantlocations.psd

Mascoutah and surrounding area.

Map designed by Suzanne Wade, assisted by Nate Morrison. Map tiles by Stamen Design.

DEDICATED TO

My two surviving siblings, Cecilia and Joe, and my two sons, Nate and Drew. With their support and encouragement, I persisted. My intent was to document the tragedy for family posterity. However, as the discovery of facts and events evolved, the content far exceeded my original understanding.

My wife, Mindy, collaborated with me. In May of 1969, she never imagined, while following this story in the daily newspaper at breakfast with her father in Du Quoin, Illinois, she would one day help write the account of the murders and the killer. I could uncover the truth and disclose what happened, but I lacked the ability to bring the reader along on the journey. Painful as the truth often was, with Mindy at my side, I continued. Although Mindy wrote numerous chapters on her own, her fingerprints are all over this book. I could not have completed this project without her, my rock and the love of my life.

Ed Morrison

AUTHORS’ NOTE

Hopefully, those individuals depicted in this book will find their account to be fair and accurate. The facts are derived from official reports and records, newspaper articles, direct dialogue, telephone conversations, and written correspondence with individuals who had first-hand knowledge. Dates, times, direct quotations, and recreation of events was done as accurately as possible.

The comments and opinions expressed are those of the authors only and may not reflect the perception of those in this book, the editors, or the publisher.

ONE

MAY 2-3, 1969

M y eighteen-year-old brother Mike stayed home sick on Friday. He rarely missed school, but it was the end of his senior year, and as a straight A student, he could afford to miss a day. Sitting in his basement bedroom, an old coal bin he and I painted together, he wrote a letter to Dad, a Chief Master Sergeant in the Air Force serving in Thailand during the Vietnam War, assuring him all was well on the home front.

"Hope you are doing alright over at Korat. We really miss you around here and I’m anxious to greet your slim (?) body at the airport. Mom says you’re down to 208. I bet you feel better, not having the extra weight.

I stayed home from school today. Right now, I have a little sore throat, but I’m sneezing and coughing a lot. I slept till noon and, now at 3:30, I feel 100% better. Of course, how could I go out tonight if I didn’t. No, I’ll stay home tonight too. Mom’s orders. Of course, he went out but not for too long. Mom was a pushover compared to Dad.

"The prom is tomorrow. I have $14, and my bank account says $ .15, so Mom is going to help me out and loan me some, I think. I’m working tomorrow at the commissary, so maybe I can make a couple of fives. I’m taking Deb and we’re eating at The Carriage House with ten other couples in our own private dining room. It should be fun.

Hah, Dad, I read one of your letters that said ‘Tell Mike not to feel bad about Deb and him breaking up, there are plenty of other girls.’ Well, I never felt bad at all when I broke up with her and really felt a lot better that we were busted up. I ain’t gonna get emotional about any girls yet.

He and Debbie Means, a mature, spunky, fifteen-year-old sophomore, had dated for a year. Both of them strong-willed and stubborn, she and Mike often quarreled, but were back together on good terms. Her Valentine’s card and other notes revealed how much she loved him, and I believe he really cared for her. Mike and I had always been close, but we didn’t discuss our girlfriends with each other. Spring baseball occupied much of Mike’s extracurricular activity along with his job bagging groceries at the Scott Air Base commissary, leaving little time for Debbie. School had always been his top priority and he expected to be co-valedictorian at graduation.

His letter continued, Our baseball team is doing terrible (4-8). We have no hitting, and to prove it, guess who’s batting clean-up – Mike! I’m 8-39 at the plate .205, and that is second highest on the team."

Recently, I shared the letter with John Bubby Hinkle, a former Air Force and airline pilot, and Mascoutah High School math teacher. Bubby was one of Mike’s best buddies and a teammate on the field.

We were good athletes, but more concerned with how we looked, Bubby said. We had fun even while losing. If a player struck out, as he walked back to the bench, dejected, with his head down, a teammate would yell, ‘Loser!’ and the team would crack up laughing. Coach Harrison Fuller took the joking in stride and let them have fun.

In his letter, Mike spoke of Bubby attending the Air Force Academy. Who knows, maybe I’ll go next year, he added. He knew Dad would eat that up. Bubby said he and Mike never discussed Mike attending the Academy, and he doesn’t think he was serious. Mike was unaware of Dad questioning the United States’ commitment in Vietnam. My father later said he hoped I could avoid serving in the military even though he cherished his service to the Air Force. It’s not the same as when I joined, he told me.

Mike’s letter continued. Dad, Mom sent you a picture of me receiving a math award. We had a little squabble about whether we should send it or not because of my hair. That isn’t a mustache I have. It’s a spot on the paper, and they had just pulled me out of P.E., and I was in bare feet and gym shorts when it was taken. Anyway, I wanted you to see it. It was on the front of the County Journal and that paper goes to sixteen towns in the area, and yesterday people I’d never even seen before came up and congratulated me and the librarian at the base, and customers at the commissary. I wish you were here. I’d love to have you here because I want to please you so much and things like that will let me see you pleased by my actions.

The timing of this letter amuses me because I know the real reason he wrote it: Mike was trying to cover his ass. That’s the Mike I knew, the brother I grew up with. The newspaper photograph Mom sent revealed his hair falling on his forehead, which Dad hated. He wanted our hair short and Brylcreamed back. His sideburns were long and scruffy, and Mike had grown a little fuzz above his upper lip, which Dad would not have approved. My father was tough on us and when he was displeased, there was hell to pay.

Mike finished the letter, writing, Oh yeah, we got a new pipe put on the car leading to the muffler. The other one broke or rusted out. The family has only put 7,300 miles on the car since you left, he wrote. However, the pipe didn’t fix the muffler problem. Mike failed to disclose that he unhooked the odometer and we were driving the shit out if it.

Love Always, Mike

Mike prepared the envelope to send to Dad’s military address and affixed a preprinted label with my parents’ names and home address in the left-hand corner. He included a post script under the label, No. 1 Son. The letter was postmarked May 3, 1969. Dad received the letter a few weeks later when it was forwarded back to the States.

Earlier in the week, I purchased a white surfer shirt with cool rainbow colors of the ocean. When I got home from school Friday afternoon, I threw it in the dryer to freshen it up and get out the wrinkles. I scrambled down to the basement to retrieve it, but Mike had it on. An unspoken rule was whoever bought a shirt got to wear it first. We shared clothes, even though he was a little taller and more muscled. The Junior class prom committee was meeting at the high school to decorate the girls’ gym and I planned to wear my new shirt. Mike was beginning a weight lifting routine when I confronted him.

Take it off! I demanded.

Make me!

I said take it off!

He popped me upside the head. Man, that sucker hurt, but I didn’t want Mike to know. The general rule in the household was whoever struck first is in trouble. I beelined it up the winding stairs to Mom.

Mike hit me! I told her.

What do you want me to do?

Isn’t he in trouble? If he’s not in trouble, then neither am I!

Bounding down the stairs, I caught Mike by surprise. With both his hands gripping the barbell, I grabbed him by the mop of his hair and pounded his head with my fist. I hit him so hard, I splintered a bone. To this day, I have the remnants of that fight visible on the top of my right hand. It looks like a small cyst, but it’s a piece of that bone, my daily reminder of our last confrontation.

I was getting the best of him, but not for long. Next thing I knew Mike was on top of me, bouncing my head like a basketball on the concrete floor. Burying my fingers into the left side of his face, I dug in. Mom rushed down the stairs, fainting right in front of us. We jumped up and rushed over, and carried her back upstairs. In later years, she confessed she faked it, because it was the only way to make us stop. It worked.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of you with your dad gone, she said, as she lay back in a chair. Mike took off my shirt and threw it at me, without saying a word. Bruised with a bump on the back of my head and a throbbing hand, I headed to my bedroom to change clothes and put on my hard-won surfer shirt. Mike retreated to his basement bedroom, bruised with scratches on the left side of his face. The fight did not define my relationship with my older brother, but it will forever haunt me.

My buddy, Bruce Juenger, picked me up that evening and we drove to the high school to help decorate the gym for prom. He was a local Mascoutah kid, with his dad Floyd in the oil business. Bruce worked part-time at a family-owned Shell gas station. He had invited Barb Lowe to the prom, although they had never dated. She was a close friend and classmate of Debbie Means, who encouraged Barb to go. Debbie knew Bruce was a good guy and thought they’d have fun together. Later, Bruce and Barb would provide a valuable clue in the investigation.

It was the responsibility of the Junior class to host the prom and create a beautiful ballroom out of the Girls’ Gym, with the theme, Moonlight and Roses. Lynette Welch Hinkle remembered we disguised the ceiling and walls by suspending a gossamer fabric, although mostly we used tissue paper and crepe paper. The girls spent weeks before the prom making hundreds of roses from crepe paper streamers. The roses covered a chicken-wire arch as a backdrop for photographs. Cafeteria tables and chairs were pulled into the gym, with the tables covered with white cloth. The handmade roses topped each table. The moon was a cage ball, four feet in diameter, used during P.E. classes to play crab soccer. It was covered with aluminum foil and suspended from the ceiling. When blue spotlights shone on it, it looked like a beautiful full moon. A stage for the Prom Court was built on platform risers with pulpit chairs borrowed from a local church for the King and Queen.

Saturday morning, I picked up my sister Mary’s car for prom since Mike called dibs on the family car first. After spending half the day slicking up her trashed-out vehicle, I had it looking spanking new with a fresh wax job, the inside looking and smelling like freshly trimmed pine. I forget the make and model of her car, but it was a bright metallic blue with a lot of chrome. It was the finest and cleanest it had been since it rolled off the assembly line.

My girlfriend, Alana Vette, got herself slicked up too, spending part of the day getting her hair done, perfecting her makeup, and stepping into a floor-length, lavender gown her mom picked out. The Mascoutah High School Prom was a big deal, and we wanted to look and act grown up. Mike and I wore similar outfits, powder blue tuxedo jackets with black slacks. The lapels of our jackets were trimmed in black.

Mike arrived home from bagging groceries at the commissary around 5:30. He was still a little short on cash for the night, so Mom lent him some money. I doubt the loan was intended to be paid back. Cramped for time, he cleaned up and got ready to face the evening. Mike and I avoided each other, neither one of us willing to apologize. Humming his favorite song Bad Moon Rising, Mike departed for the base to pick up Debbie, leaving Creedence Clearwater Revivals’ recent Billboard hit on his record player.

"Don’t go ‘round tonight

It’s bound to take your life

There’s a bad moon on the rise."

When we arrived for the big night, the gym was dimly lit to resemble twilight, and our cage-ball moon looked amazing. Alana and I found our friends and we all sat together. We posed for pictures with our dates, drank punch, and ate chips and little triangle sandwiches. At first, everyone was shy, giddy, and uncomfortable without our normal bell-bottom jeans and t-shirts. As the music cranked up, so did we. We rocked to the Beatles, the Doors, and the Stones. We did the Tighten Up and twisted to Chubby Checker. Slow dancing was one long hug while we shuffled and swayed. Most of us prepared for the dance by practicing the latest moves on American Bandstand and the St. Louis Hop, a local teen dance show. I caught a glimpse of Mike and Debbie dancing, but he was with his senior friends, who called themselves The Love Brothers.

As a result of our fight the night before, Mike and I ignored each other. My hand throbbed all evening long, as Alana and I kept with our group of classmates, and Mike stuck with his.

When the dance ended around 10:00, Alana and I, along with several other couples, drove to The Carriage House Restaurant in Belleville, Illinois, twenty minutes away, to meet friends for a late-night dinner. It was one of the classiest restaurants in the area. Today, it’s a popular pizzeria with live music featuring local talent, including some of my old schoolmates.

The Carriage House Restaurant, its Victorian white marble fireplace glowing from the chandelier, was filled with excited teenagers, crushed corsages, blistered feet, and laughter. With relaxed curfews, we expected more fun into the wee hours of morning.

Mike and his friends had reserved a private dining room for ten couples. They could goof around and get as loud as they wanted, without bothering the other guests.

However, Mike and Debbie were late arriving at the restaurant. While leaving the high school, and buzzing from the beers he had slipped into the dance along with a bottle of sloe gin for Debbie, Mike peeled out, turning doughnuts in the gravel parking lot. A cop watching nearby, pulled him over for a ticket. I’m sure Mike scrambled to stash the contraband beer cans and sloe gin bottle under the seat. The officer probably didn’t smell beer on Mike’s breath because he always kept a small bottle of Binaca mouthwash handy, emitting the fresh scent of peppermint.

In addition to the reckless driving, Mike was cited for the faulty muffler we never replaced. Our friends told us they could hear our ‘63 Plymouth Belvedere roaring a block away. I don’t know why we didn’t get it replaced. It didn’t bother me though; I thought it sounded like a muscle car. The more we drove it, the louder it got.

Debbie was probably not too thrilled with Mike spinning the tires and throwing gravel, but she tolerated his shenanigans. Debbie was the whole package, said Barb Lowe Sample, her friend who went with Bruce Juenger to prom. Deb was a petite, pretty brunette with a feisty, fun personality. Debbie and Mike were a great match. At 6’3" and a muscular 195 pounds, he was blond with blue eyes and a movie star smile. That evening, Debbie was determined to have a good time, staying out late well into the next morning. This was their second prom together. Her mom and dad had wanted her home early last year because she was only a fourteen-year-old freshman, but this year, she had no curfew. Her father, an Air Force Master Sergeant, trusted her and Mike.

Alana and I gathered with my group of junior classmates in the main dining area of the Carriage House, oblivious to the party in the secluded section where Mike entertained his peers. As we left, I stuck my head in to say Hi since I knew all of his friends. Mike and Debbie sat at the first table near the door, late to the party.

Make him stop, Eddie! one of the Love Brothers pleaded as Mike, seated by the light switch, flicked the chandelier lights off and on, off and on. They were a bit exasperated with his drunken silliness that he, and only he, thought was funny.

Tell Mom you got the ticket, Mike slurred.

What ticket? I asked.

Just take it! He pulled the citation out of his wallet and handed it to me.

That’s your baby, I said, tossing the ticket back at him. It was the first time we’d spoken since our brawl the night before. I think that was his way of smoothing things over, without an actual apology. We were only fifteen months apart in age, and through all our family moves from one military base to another, we were still each other’s best friends. Last night’s fight was our biggest battle ever. Even so, we always moved on from our arguments and forgot what was bugging us.

Mike had a magnetic personality; people, old and young, were drawn to him. He possessed the rare combination of intellect and athleticism. In a few weeks, he would graduate as co-valedictorian and looked forward to playing football at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. Coach Dick Towers was happy to recruit Mike because he had earned several academic scholarships, saving football scholarships for others. The coach promised to send him a training packet to prepare him for the first practice in August. I was proud of Mike, but not envious. I was a good student too, and I enjoyed seeing him do well.

When Alana and I left the restaurant, I had no idea Mike and I would never speak again.

After dinner, the Love Brothers and their dates returned to Mascoutah to Barbara Meinecke’s house. All the senior girls planned to change into more comfortable clothing for the remainder of the evening.

Mike’s crew of senior boys, all serious students who loved to joke around and have a good time, tagged themselves the Love Brothers. Jim Anderson told me they were being sarcastic. Rob Barnard thinks the name was derived from the soft rock group, The Youngbloods, who came out with a big hit, Get Together, with the catchy chorus:

"Come on people now

Smile on your brother

Everybody get together

Try to love one another right now"

Mascoutah High School students were forbidden to wear blue jeans, and girls were only allowed to wear dresses, or conservative blouses with skirts no more than 2 inches above their knee. Teenagers across the country were pushing against these outdated dress codes. In defiance, the Love Brothers declared Fat Legger Day every so often to stick it to school administrators and would wear oversized, pleated dress pants complete with cuffs like their grandfathers, purchased at a thrift store. Teachers and administrators didn’t appreciate their impudence but there was no rule against it.

Over the years, I have stayed in touch with some of Mike’s friends, and we have often spoken about this night, combing over every minute detail of the evening, trying to make sense of it. Denise Cummins was part of this crowd and she was there with the Love Brothers at the prom and Carriage House. After dinner, she remembered they all stopped at Barb Meinecke’s so the girls could change clothes before going out to the strip cuts. I spoke with Barbara Meinecke Koetting, tracking her down through her husband’s insurance business in Germantown, Illinois. I noticed her short biography and married name in a thirtieth reunion printing of the Class of 1969’s Where Are They Now booklet.

Barb was surprised to hear from me. I remembered her as a tall, slender, and pretty gal with short blond hair. I didn’t know her well, and I still pictured her as an intimidating senior girl, since I was then a lowly junior. Would she remember me and be willing to talk about her memory of that evening? My calls and contacts with Mike’s old classmates stirred emotions, mine as well. Inevitably, when I spoke with them, voices would catch and tears would flow.

Hi, Eddie! How are you? Barb asked.

"I’m good. What have you been up to the last fifty