Edward Wayne Edwards vol. 2: Build a fire in the person and not under them

 

Edward Wayne Edwards vol_2: Build a fire in the person and not under them

The Voice Before the Page: From Vinyl to Print to Broadcast

Before there was Metamorphosis of a Criminal on bookstore shelves, there was a record spinning at 33⅓ rpm — a portable sermon pressed onto vinyl, sold or donated to churches, schools, and civic clubs [1]. This was not simply a motivational recording; it was a prototype, the first rehearsal of a public persona that would later be fixed in print and projected on television.

In the record’s monologue, the speaker experiments with tone and tempo [2],[3]: the compassionate baritone of a man reborn, the pacing of a practiced radio announcer, the rhythmic repetition of slogans designed to stick. The message was simple, nearly scriptural — that every sinner can change, that one must “build a fire in the person and not under them.” But beneath that homiletic simplicity lay the mechanics of performance. The vinyl Edwards learned what cadence elicited sympathy, what turns of phrase sounded penitential, and which anecdotes drew applause. He was manufacturing identity.

When Metamorphosis appeared in print one year later, the language of the record was transposed almost verbatim. The “fire” imagery, the appeals to youth, the selective confessions — all were now frozen in text, their improvisations converted into testimony. The book was not a new confession; it was an edited transcript of the old act. And when, in October 1972, he appeared on national television, he merely completed the circuit: from voice, to page, to image — each medium amplifying the illusion of reform, each one expanding the reach of the same controlled narrative.

The vinyl recording thus functions as both artifact and algorithm. It captures the moment when Edwards discovered that sound — the very vibration of his own contrition — could be used as an instrument of persuasion. In the grooves of that record, one hears the birth of a strategy: the moral message as marketing, the sinner’s story as commodity, and redemption as a performative brand.

Transcript of Side A

Hello, listeners and members of the club WWTH. It is with pleasure that I come into your home today, for I know those listening to me now are interested in helping people. If this were not true, you would not be listening. Let me take this opportunity to thank the many thousands who have been writing to me. I love to receive your letters, so when you have something, or even if you don't have something to say, still feel free to write because I'll answer every letter.

Many people have asked me what I mean when I say, "Build a fire in a person and not under him." My life has certainly been anything but good. Exciting? Yes. Dangerous? Yes. Honest? No. Rewarding? Well, you might say yes and no to that question. But then, it is through the grace of God that I am able to talk to you about the fire which was built in me.

In 1962, about six months after I had been sentenced to Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary for 16 years, Mr. John Alexander, the guard who was in charge of me, working on construction, said to me one day, "Ed, there are a few things I would like to talk to you about, a few things I would like to point out to you. You seem like a very reasonable person, and you are a likable guy. You certainly seem to be intelligent, so will you listen to what I have to say?" I said, "Yes, sir."

He said, "I have read your record in the administration building, and it seems that you were not, or had not been participating in crime for money, but you were participating in crime mainly for the recognition. If this is the case, what do you have to gain by continuing your life of crime? You have been on the FBI's 10 Most Wanted List and have committed almost every crime imaginable, other than crimes of violence and crimes of sex. You are certainly most fortunate to be alive today, for most people with your background, at one time or another, usually end up getting shot and killed. If you continue in crime now, or upon your release from prison, then the only thing that you will gain is six feet of ground over your head or spending the rest of your life in a penitentiary. This certainly would not be the workings of a smart man. While you were out running around the country and committing crimes, you told people many lies. Lies such as you had a college education and that you were a criminologist, a sociologist, a psychologist, and a psychiatrist. It seems that you were telling these lies because this is what you really wanted out of life, to have an education and to be a criminologist, or to be able to participate or deal with crime in some way. If this is the case, why not take advantage of your time here at Leavenworth? Let time serve you instead of you serving time. Why not start back to school and get an education and learn a trade so that when you are released from the penitentiary, you will have a job, you will have an education, so that when you are released from the penitentiary, you will have the job and the education you were telling people about? You could have a job and know a trade so that you could work and live a free life and be a free man and not have to worry about the penitentiary food or the penitentiary procedures. Think about these things, and let me know if this is what you want. If it is, I will do everything possible to get you started on the right foot."

 I decided that I certainly had nothing to lose by doing it, and if I liked it, I would have everything to gain. Mr. Alexander was certainly a likable guy. He seemed to always be on the level and trying to help people. If you had something to ask this man or if you just wanted to talk to him, it seemed that he always had time to listen, even when it seemed apparent that he was in a hurry.

At that time, I had approximately a seventh grade education. I went on to complete my elementary and high school education and two years of college. I received my associate in arts degree from Highland Junior College, completed three courses in Dale Carnegie, completed five years of vocational training in the building trades, three courses in first aid, including the instructor's course, and three courses in civil defense, which also included the instructor's course.

A lot of people have asked me how it is possible to get a college education while in the penitentiary. In Leavenworth, it came about in the following way. The state legislature passed a bill which enabled Highland Junior College to expand their campus. Highland Junior College was about 15 or 20 miles down the road. This expansion took in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. This is one reason that I can tell people that I was honestly on campus and not in the penitentiary.

Once this expansion was completed, Highland Junior College then worked out a program with the University of Kansas so that the professors from both of these schools would come into Leavenworth and teach the same college courses that they taught outside. To attend college, you had to have a high school education and take an entrance examination. I managed to stay in Leavenworth for five years without one disciplinary report of any kind.

This is what I mean when I say, "Build a fire in a person and not under him." If you build a fire in a person, all he is going to do is move to another spot where it isn't quite as hot or quite as troublesome. If you build a fire in that person and get him interested in himself, then he sets his own goals and he knows where he is going.

In this case, it was Mr. John Alexander who put the skates on my shoes and gave me a shove. It was then up to me to keep that momentum going and to set my goals. He took the time to read my record and to observe me. He wanted to help me, and he most certainly did. He is directly responsible, through the grace of God, for my being a free man today. And he is responsible for my being able to come into your home and talk to you today.

As I said, I was at Leavenworth for five years, and not once while I was at that penitentiary did I have any kind of a disciplinary report against me. This in itself is a very, very difficult thing to do, especially when you start on a rehabilitation program as I did, for you always have those fellas around you who are jealous and those fellas who feel that there is some scheme to your new program. They wonder whose toes you might be stepping on, who are you squealing on, and things of this nature. So consequently, they agitate you. Guys who know that you can knock them down come up to you and smart off, hoping that maybe you will knock them down. In doing so, you will naturally be getting in trouble, and you would then have a black mark on your record, and this individual could then take the credit for this. So many times in those five years, I turned my back and I ate my pride, but the fire in me was awful great and awful hot, and I decided that I would put every effort into my rehabilitation program that I had put previously into my career of crime. If I could keep this up, there isn't anyone who can change me or get me away from my rehabilitation program.

After spending five years at Leavenworth, I transferred to the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, because Lewisburg was closer to my home in Akron, Ohio, and I had a good record, and they no longer considered me an escape risk or a bad criminal. All men are put into quarantine when they arrive at one of the penitentiaries, whether or not they have just been transferred. After I was released from quarantine, I started a first aid program and a civil defense program at Lewisburg. Here, they trusted me and even gave me a job working outside of the walls during the day and sleeping behind the walls at night. I worked hard, but I loved it. Just the fact they trusted me for the achievements which I had made at Leavenworth restored my faith in mankind and reassured me that there were a lot of people besides Mr. Alexander who wanted to help me and others. Before you can take advantage of this help, you have to know who you are and where you are going. You have to be interested in yourself and be willing to try to do the right thing. It will be hard work, and it will always be hard work, but then I think that you will find your reward in the end.

Upon my arrival at Lewisburg, I knew that I would be going up for parole in about six months. I also knew I was going to need a parole plan, so I started working on one. First, I needed a job. I wrote better than 100 letters to different people about getting a job around the Akron area. Only two people took the time to write back. One letter was from a rubber company stating that the only way they could hire me was for me to come there, take the test, fill out the application, and meet them. (Phone ringing) Of course, this was impossible at that time. The second letter was from a man who had a heating establishment in Akron. He wrote to me three or four times. He wanted to help me, but he couldn't because he was having problems of his own.

After I found that I was unable to get a job by writing to the many employers around Akron, I wrote a letter to the Honorable Judge Victor in Akron, Ohio. I told him what my problem was, that I needed a job as well as a place to live. I asked him if he knew of anyone who might be interested in helping an ex-convict such as myself. He forward my letter to Reverends Bill Denton and his son Bob of the Denton House, which is a halfway house in Akron, Ohio. Here, the reverends try to help men being released from penitentiaries. If these men need a job, they will try to find them one. If they need a place to stay, they will let them come into their house and live. If they had some money or if they had a job, then they were asked to pay $40 a month for their keep. For this 40, they received food, a very clean room, and nice quarters to live in. If they did not have the money, then they were not expected to pay anything. The advantages of going to the Denton House were that it gave you an opportunity to become familiar with the city, to go out and look around and to find out what part of the city you would like to live in. It gave you an opportunity to look for a job in the type of work that you would want. I received a letter from Reverend Bill Denton stating that if I needed a job, that he would find me one and that I was welcome to live in the Denton House when I was released from prison. This was very encouraging, for I knew now that there were also people on the outside who were willing to go to bat for me, people who were interested enough to want to help, such as Judge Victor and Reverends Bill and Bob Denton. I appeared before the parole board in July of 1967. Two weeks later, I found out that my parole had been granted and would be effective as of September of 1967. I was a very happy person.

Now all I could do was sit back and anticipate what would happen when I was released. I would go to the Denton House to live, but Reverend Denton wouldn't have to find me a job because about a week before I went before the parole board, I met a fellow in the institution who was able to arrange to get me a job. This fellow was another inmate and a friend of mine who happened to know a couple people who did a lot of hiring, so he went to bat for me. I received a telegram from Akron, Ohio shortly afterward stating that upon my release from prison, I would have a job.

Summary of Side A content

Edwards begins with a smooth radio-announcer voice, addressing “listeners and members of the club WWTH.” The tone is promotional and intimate—an invitation to write to him personally. He frames himself as a rehabilitated felon and moral instructor, describing his 1962–1967 imprisonment at Leavenworth and Lewisburg and the “fire” of reform supposedly built in him by a benevolent guard, John Alexander.

He lists achievements: high-school and college completion, Dale Carnegie courses, vocational and first-aid instructor certificates, and his later association with halfway-house reverends who helped him re-enter society. The story culminates in the parole of September 1967.

Every anecdote reinforces the theme “Build a fire in the person, not under them”—the record’s slogan.

 

Transcript of Side B

<Repetition of ending section of Side A>

When I was released, I went to the Denton House to live. I went to work as a dock man for Mr. Harold Shantz of Shantz Cartage in Akron, Ohio. Mr. Schantz is probably one of the most wonderful people I have ever met. He gave me a good-paying job and loaned me money when I needed it. He even arranged for me to get a car. He helped in every way possible. To this day, I still work for him, although at the present time I am off work because I injured my back and my neck in April of 1970 when I fell approximately 25 feet from a part of the building in which I was living. By the grace of God, I was able to live through that fall.

While riding the bus back and forth to work, I met a young lady who was going to the University of Akron studying to become a school teacher. I got to know her quite well. After two weeks of riding the bus with her, I bought an automobile and started taking her to school every morning on my way to work. In late September of 1967, I met this young lady, and in December of 1967, I gave her an engagement ring. I told her all about myself before we were engaged, but not before she had the chance to know me. I did not tell her about my past right away because she may have had a tendency to prejudge me like so many other people prejudge others. We were married in July of 1968. At this time, we have two children, a daughter, two years old, and a son, one year old. I love my wife and children dearly. My wife, through the grace of God, is really responsible for my being able to remain a free man and to be able to do the right thing, for it is she who is there at my every turn and step. I love my children very much. I tell them every day that I love them, and I take the time every day to play with them. Things in our home are never taken for granted.

One day in 1969, because of my past record, I was approached by an associate professor affiliated with the University of Akron and asked if I would be interested in addressing a group, a committee known as the Betterment for the Ohio Penitentiary. I told him that I would be glad to, although I didn't know what I could do for them. After this meeting, I met a doctor of sociology. He started talking about writing books, for he is the author of a textbook being used at the University of Akron where he teaches. So again, I had found somebody building a fire in me and getting me interested in doing something. He pointed out that if I wrote a book, I might be able to help other people and be able to point out the pitfalls in life and the consequences of committing crimes and how easy it is to get into reformatories and penitentiaries and how hard it is to get out once you get in and what the conditions inside the penitentiaries are like. He also pointed out that I could talk to people, parents around the country, about the lack of communication between the parent and the child.

After I started writing this book, I became more involved in community affairs. I started teaching first aid for the American Red Cross and lecturing to various junior and senior high schools about crime. I then got the idea of forming the club known as the WWTH, which means We Want To Help. The reason for this club is to help others. I have a post office box where people may write to me about their problems or to express their feelings about what I have to say. For someone to write to me, they first must be interested and have the time. If they can give me their time and that much interest, then the least I can do is answer their letter. WWTH is a nonprofit organization intended to do just what it says, help others. If people are interested enough to write to me about my program, then I know these same people are interested in helping others. It's not hard to find someone who has a problem and needs some advice. Even the Boy Scouts are taught to do a good deed every day.

This is the whole function of the club, WWTH. Get involved. Look around you. Look for people who you can help. Naturally, there isn't much recognition for doing this, but then you are being watched, and you will gain some recognition because it is a fact that God's watching you. Get involved. Become a member. Look around and help others. This is what is meant when I say, "Build a fire in a person and not under him."

We taxpayers should start building a fire in a lot of people and not under them. The people I'm speaking of right now are those responsible for our prison reform. We, as taxpayers, have to support prisoners, whether it is their first or 50th time in the penitentiary. If this is the case, why not put our money to work for those in the penitentiary? I'm not talking about giving them wall-to-wall carpeting. Since we have to pay to keep them there, why not use our money for such things as getting trained personnel in the penitentiary and putting in a rehabilitation program? Then the inmates can get an education and learn a trade such as barbering, radio and television repair, typewriter repair, shoemaking, tailoring, drafting, construction work, and other similar trades. If we get interested enough to find out where our money is going, then I'm quite sure that in the long run, we will have men and women coming out of the penitentiary who will have an education and know a trade. Therefore, they will be able to go to work and help relieve us of the burden of supporting the men and women in the penitentiary.

We must also be willing to give ex-cons a chance to prove themselves. Don't prejudge them just because you happen to know someone who was a victim of a theft or a burglar. Give them a chance. After all, we are paying the taxes to keep him in there, and it certainly doesn't make much sense to pay to educate them and get them out and then turn around and try to put them back in because we don't trust them, because we want to prejudge them. People who prejudge ex-convicts are responsible in a lot of cases for them returning to the penitentiary. It is a proven fact that more state prisoners return to penitentiaries than federal prisoners, because in your state penitentiaries, there are not any rehabilitation programs to speak of. Prisoners make license plates, but if they get out of the penitentiary and start making them, they will be taken to court, tried and convicted, and sent back to the penitentiary. This is not the type of rehabilitation that I am talking about.

 On the state level, most of the men hired as guards are of very little use to anyone. It is the only type of work they could find. It was their last resort. A lot of them do not have a high school education, and a few of them do not have an elementary education. To them, being a prison guard means working eight hours a day, making sure that you do not escape, making sure you do not smoke when they are not supposed to smoke, and making sure you do not talk when you are not supposed to. They look forward to only two things: the hour when they will go home and the day they will get paid.

It is much different in your federal penitentiaries. Here, rehabilitation is the program of the day. When a guard goes to work in one of the federal penitentiaries, he first must have a high school education, and many of them must have a college education. All the time they are working for the Federal Bureau of Prisons, they stay on one job only three months and then rotate to another job. This enables them to get to know all the jobs within the institution and the men and women in the penitentiary. These guards are instructed to go to the administration office and read various men's records so that they might find out something about the person, such as: what type of personality does he have, what kind of a home background does he have, and what types of crimes has he committed? By reading these records, the guards are able many times to spot a man's problem and to help him.  In your federal institutions, there is also a lot of incentive for the guards. For every warden of a federal penitentiary, including the Director of the Bureau of Prisons was at one time a guard who had to work his way up. Again, it boils down to what I have been saying: build a fire in a person and not under him.

How can you help the man when he is released from the penitentiary? As I said, do not prejudge him. Give him a chance. Should you see him doing something that you feel is wrong, it's not really necessary that you call up the man's parole officer to report every minor infraction.

Let me tell you what happened to me not too long ago. I was supposed to lecture at a nearby college, and a young lady was supposed to call me to set a time for this lecture. The day she called, I was out of town and my wife answered the phone. There was a lot of static and crackling noise on our end of the phone, and all my wife managed to hear was that this young lady was a college student and that she wanted to talk to me. My wife can remember the girl asking, "What is all that noise?" And then the phones went dead. What actually happened was our area telephones were out of order because men were working on the cables. I was told about the call and just assumed that it was the girl who was supposed to contact me in regards to my lecturing at her college, and I figured she would call back.

About two days later, after I got back in town, I called a friend of mine and found out that my parole officer had been trying to get in touch with me, so I called him. He told me that a young lady had called his office and said she felt her voice was being recorded over my telephone, so she was not going to call me again in regards to the lecture. Here is what could have happened. When I found out that my parole officer wanted to talk to me, I could have become quite worried whether I did something wrong or not. The fear of maybe doing or saying something wrong and the fear of returning to a penitentiary could have been so great that I could have exaggerated things so much that I could have packed up my clothes and left.

In doing so, I would have violated my parole and later be caught and returned to the penitentiary. But why? Because someone out there felt that it was necessary to harass me by calling my parole officer, or maybe my wife, and telling them things that were thought to be true.

Give the people who are being released from the penitentiary a halfway chance to at least prove themselves. Now, I am not saying that every person released from the penitentiary is going to remain a free man or a free woman. What I am saying is that if you are willing to give this person a chance in life, if you are willing to step forward and offer this person assistance, to show this person that you sincerely care, not only will you find another friend and be helping someone who is down on their luck and doesn't really know which way to turn, but you will also find that by building a fire in that person and not under him, that you will be able to look at yourself in a mirror at night and like what you see. When you go to bed at night, you will be able to get a good night's sleep without being perturbed at yourself for the little wrong incidents that day. Why not be one of God's helpers and help those around you who are in need of your help? You'll never be sorry for it, and the reward will be tremendous.

There is an old saying which goes like this: Don't throw stones if you live in a glass house. One day, you may need help. Should this be the case, do you know where it will come from? Have you helped others? Give what I have just said a try, won't you please? I am sure that if you will, you will love it. Thank you very much.

And this is Ed Edwards.

Summary of Side B content

Edwards presents himself as the model rehabilitated ex-offender: working man, husband, father, taxpayer, and moral educator.

He recounts his 1967–68 personal life and marriage, fatherhood, steady employment with Shantz Cartage, and injury in April 1970.

He then claims to have begun public lectures, written a manuscript (Metamorphosis of a Criminal), taught first aid, and founded a civic club called WWTH – We Want To Help, a mail-based self-help “organization.”

The second half turns into a populist sermon on prison reform: federal vs. state prisons, education for inmates, taxpayers’ responsibility, and tolerance for ex-convicts.

He ends with a sentimental plea for compassion and the proverb “Don’t throw stones if you live in a glass house.”

 

Rhetorical and psychological features

1. Narrative framing – evangelism through narcissism

He begins as a preacher (“It is with pleasure that I come into your home”), blurs into a celebrity host (“I love to receive your letters”), and then into the heroic convert. The grammar of gratitude (“through the grace of God …”) masks self-worship; the story’s true savior is his own will.

2. Myth of the mentor

“Mr. John Alexander” functions as the providential redeemer figure. Whether real or embellished, the guard’s lecture gives Edwards a stage on which to dramatize repentance. The dialogue is written like theater—he quotes Alexander at length, word-perfect, which is impossible from memory after a decade. This stylization signals authorship, not reportage.

3. Catalog of credentials

The avalanche of courses and certificates builds a counterfeit academic identity (“associate in arts,” “five years of vocational training,” “civil-defense instructor”). In linguistic terms it’s compensatory boasting: he replaces the shame of low education with an over-enumerated résumé. Later letters and interviews recycle the same phrasing almost verbatim—his stock script.

4. Moral inversion and projection

The phrase “build a fire in a person” is a striking self-reveal. His crimes will do exactly that—ignite people from within by terror, not inspiration. He is describing his compulsion in moral vocabulary.

5. Appeal to legitimacy through institutions

Repeated references to Leavenworth, Highland College, Dale Carnegie, the Denton House, and judges are designed to wrap him in borrowed authority. It’s a linguistic camouflage pattern: every institutional noun is a shield against the audience’s instinctive mistrust.

6. Absence of empathy

Not one sentence acknowledges victims or personal responsibility. The only emotion described is pride in his self-control under provocation—narcissistic injury managed by superiority. Even “grace of God” functions as stage lighting, not contrition.

7. Self-canonization

He replaces accountability with sainthood. Every character who enters his story—the guard, employer, professor, reverends—is a supporting actor in The Redemption of Ed Edwards. The closing “thank you very much, and this is Ed Edwards” is a broadcast sign-off, not a confession.

8. Performative humility  

The script feigns modesty (“I didn’t know what I could do for them”) while repeating the achievements list from Side A. It’s a humility loop designed to provoke admiration.

9. Social mimicry

The club WWTH and the letter-answering service reproduce the structure of fan correspondence and church ministries, not rehabilitation programs. He converts intimacy into control, again staging himself as intermediary between God and audience.

10. Projection of persecution anxiety

The long story about the misheard phone call is psychologically revealing. It externalizes his fear of exposure and re-incarceration. The “noise on the line” becomes metaphor for conscience: interference, static, guilt. He blames others’ suspicion rather than his own deception.

11. Rhetorical self-absolution

Ending with “Don’t throw stones…” shifts responsibility to listeners: if they judge him, they are the sinners. Classic inversion—he becomes judge and redeemer in one voice.

12. Commercial and show-business frame

The production itself—cut on vinyl, distributed through a “club,” recorded above the Cleveland Agora rock venue—places him in the late-’60s world of self-help and entertainment. He’s converting his criminal past into an audio product, literally pressing his myth into plastic.

Table 1. Psycho-linguistic analysis (Case Study: Side B)

Segment	Function	Emotional register
1. Domestic bliss narrative (marriage, children)	Builds credibility, “proof” of reform	Warm, sentimental
2. Professional success & injury	Invokes sympathy, portrays hardship overcome	Stoic
3. Civic engagement (lectures, book, club)	Self-promotion, preacher persona	Inspirational
4. Prison-reform policy talk	Claims expertise, moral authority	Didactic
5. Anecdote about telephone misunderstanding	Illustrates paranoia & injustice toward ex-cons	Defensive
6. Sermon on forgiveness	Reasserts spiritual superiority	Paternal

 

 

Analytic takeaway

The record is the sonic equivalent of the Zodiac letters: polished, self-quoting, pedagogical, morally inverted. Its structure—public sermon concealing private triumph—matches the behavioral pattern of the Zodiac correspondences.

Where the Zodiac letters use fear to demand attention, the Edwards record uses virtue to do the same. Both depend on an audience; both make language itself the crime scene.

Side B perfects the dual-persona architecture already visible in Side A:

• Day persona – the righteous family man and reformer speaking in daylight.
• Night persona – the unacknowledged manipulator who feeds on control and adulation.

The “fire” metaphor unites both: warmth and destruction in a single image.

Listening to the record with hindsight, the cadence, diction, and moralizing rhythm are eerily parallel to the Zodiac letters: same didactic monologue, same craving for recognition, same effort to dictate the moral frame of his own crimes. The end-goal: control of the narrative. This is the gratification itself.

 

Cultural frame

Recorded at the Agency Recording Studios [4] above the Cleveland Agora [5], then a hub for rock and counter-culture acts, the project sits at the intersection of evangelical media and 1970s celebrity confessionals.

Edwards transforms the criminal biography into infotainment, using the same medium (vinyl) and tone as motivational records sold by Dale Carnegie or Norman Vincent Peale.

This blurs the boundary between repentance and performance: it’s less testimony than brand building.

Figure 1. The Aesthetics of a “Winning Story”: Ed Edwards Vinyl cover [1]

 

“Put a Fire in the person”: Slogan, Mask, Modus

Edwards’ traveling-evangelist persona distilled itself into a simple promise: to “build a fire in the person.” Contemporary notices of his school, church, and Rotary bookings repeat the phrase as his guiding philosophy, a motivational tag line meant to signal uplift and reform.

Read against his own record, the slogan doubles as a macabre inversion. In Metamorphosis, Edwards narrates formative episodes of fire-setting and fire theater—vivid, self-congratulatory descriptions of igniting a rival’s dry-cleaning truck (see Appendix: “engulfed in a brilliant ball of flames”) while taking care to be seen at a safe remove with his grandmother. The scene is staged, the risk instrumentalized, the reaction part of the gratification loop. In later years he graduates to alarm pulling and police diversion via false alarms; press clippings reproduced in the book describe the black-light powder sting that left him “covered from head to toe” (note: Portland arrest, December 10, 1960) and his own text recounts using fire calls tactically—an operational skill, not a childish prank.

Three things follow:

1. Rhetorical inversion. “Put a fire in people” sells warmth, urgency, mission. The biographical substrate is literal ignition—first as spectacle, later as a problem-solving tool (diversion, control, power over tempo and attention). The slogan is not an accident of phrasing; it is a laundering of biography.
2. Criminological through-line. Early reinforcement (thrill, status, manipulation of emergency response) evolves into a patterned repertoire: create a stimulus, manage the crowd, direct the narrative. Fire—whether physical or metaphorical—becomes Edwards’ reliable way to move other people’s feet.
3. Performance and cover. The vinyl monologue and the school-circuit talks package that same kinetic language as moral heat: “spark,” “light,” “turn your life around.” The packaging recruits audiences into the dramaturgy of ignition, while the man behind the microphone already knows exactly how crowds and first responders move when the alarm bell rings.

The Gospel of the Arsonist

Edwards’ chosen slogan, repeated throughout his vinyl recording and lectures — “Build a fire in the person and not under them” — reads on the surface as an appeal to inspiration: a civic exhortation to motivate rather than punish. Yet for anyone tracing his full history, the phrase operates as a double exposure. In later years, the same man who preached “inner fire” would be imprisoned (1982 – 1986) for arson, having literally set the kind of fires he once claimed to transform into moral energy.

From a linguistic standpoint, the slogan is an inversion of culpability. The evangelist uses the language of combustion — ignition, heat, spark — as metaphor for renewal, while the criminal later enacts the same semantics as destruction. What was once symbolic becomes literal; what was once “saving” becomes consuming. The continuity lies not in repentance but in control: the impulse to ignite, to direct the spread of heat, to dictate what burns and what survives.

Psychologically, this duality reveals the narcissistic appropriation of moral imagery. By turning an act of violence into a rhetorical virtue, Edwards rehearsed the same mechanism that defined his entire public life: linguistic laundering. The arson record does not contradict the vinyl sermon — it fulfills it. “Fire,” in both settings, is agency; it is the instrument by which he reasserts mastery over circumstance. When the crowd applauded the slogan, they unwittingly applauded the code of his compulsion.

Seen through this lens, the 1982 – 1986 conviction does not represent a relapse but the reversion of metaphor to matter. The man who promised to set souls aflame could not exist without the literal act of ignition. His theology of rehabilitation and his practice of combustion are two movements of the same choreography: a choreography of domination disguised as redemption.

The Preacher and the Police: March 1971

On February 24, 1971, the Logan Daily News references the motto in an Ed Edwards piece about an upcoming speech, sponsored by the Chief Logan Lodge No. 124, Fraternal Order of Police, to be held on March 11, 1971 [6]. This was no small honor. By March 1971, “Edward Wayne Edwards” had successfully transformed himself into a public emblem of rehabilitation — a redeemed felon who preached obedience to law before the very fraternity that once hunted his kind. A second Logan Daily News piece on March 9, 1971, heralds the event [7].  The vinyl record had already circulated among civic groups; by then, the message was polished, practiced, and perfectly tuned to the expectations of a sympathetic audience.

Yet this public embrace completes the paradox. The man addressing law enforcement about moral fire and redemption was, by every available indicator, still performing control theatre — the same behavioral architecture that governed his earlier deceptions. The vinyl sermon and the Zodiac communications share not a provenance but a psychological engine:

• Both depend on language as manipulation, not confession.
• Both stage moral authority as a form of dominance.
• Both invert punishment into performance — the sinner as teacher, the criminal as narrator.

In the record’s cadence one hears not repentance but orchestration: pauses, emphatic stress on agency, the use of “I” as center of the universe. His “evangelism” was dramaturgy — the spectacle of persuasion that gave him the same psychic reward as the crimes once had.

It is important to note that on the same date of February 24, 1971, another Ohio newspaper announces, for the first time, “Metamorphosis of a Criminal”, as a tentative title for the upcoming book [8].

Figure 2. The Logan Daily News, Tue, Mar 09, 1971 ·Page 8 [7]

From Vinyl to Print: The Deer Lodge piece as intermediary step

Ten days after the Logan Lodge event, an item appeared in the Akron Beacon (March 21, 1971). It featured an interview of “two anonymous sources”, probably recorded over the previous days. It cited an anonymous “ex-convict” who claimed to know that the Zodiac killer was a former Montana inmate named Richard. The phrasing is curious: deferential to law enforcement, confident in tone, yet opaque in substance. The voice presents itself not as a criminal boasting of guilt, but as a reformed insider — a man whose proximity to darkness grants him credibility. In 2010, John Cameron and Tim Spencer identified this “insider” as “Edward Wayne Edwards”.

Here, the “reformed prisoner” of the vinyl sermon undergoes a subtle inversion. The public evangelist must now become the anonymous informant — still instructing the police, still addressing the public through the press, but now cloaked once again in the moral ambiguity of his old role. He does not speak as the saved sinner; he speaks as the sinner who claims to have seen salvation from within the walls. The metamorphosis folds back on itself: the preacher and the tipster share one rhetorical anatomy, differing only in costume.

This is why the Deer Lodge communiqué reads less like revelation and more like continuation. The pattern of self-presentation remains identical — a man of supposed experience, appealing to official authority, performing repentance through control of information.

In one, the evangelist sermonizes to policemen about moral rescue; in the other, an “ex-convict” guides detectives toward enlightenment. Each uses the press as pulpit. Each frames itself as indispensable interpreter of the mystery.

Thus, between the vinyl record and the printed memoir stands this transitional voice — the anonymous counselor, the penitent informant, the shadow that teaches. It completes the triad of the performance: the spoken confession (vinyl), the mediated whisper (Deer Lodge), and the written gospel (Metamorphosis).

An alignment of Method and Time

March 22, 1971: The following day after the publication of the Deer Lodge piece, the now-famous Pines Card was intercepted in San Francisco. The proximity is notable: two communications, two masks, one method — each exploiting authority and attention as interchangeable currencies. Both communications operate through staged revelation: a deliberately anonymous voice that utilizes the corridors of public perception (media) while tightening its grip on the narrative.

It would be irresponsible to assert identical authorship without further, conclusive and final proof. This is not the point made here.

What can be said, and must be said, is that the pattern of timing and technique converges. The alignment of method is now an alignment of timeline.

Timeline

Thursday March 11, 1971: "Edward Wayne Edwards" speaks at Logan, Hocking County, Ohio, sponsored by Chief Logan Lodge No. 124, Fraternal Order of Police.

Saturday March 13, 1971: "Zodiac" LA Times letter ("AIR Mail") postmarked at Pleasanton, Alameda County, CA. One year after the abduction of Marie-Antoinette Anstey (nee Romo). Content interjects into Cheri-Jo Bates murder case (geo-code: "riverside activity").

Sunday March 21, 1971: Publication of "Deer lodge piece", Akron Beacon, Akron, Summit County, Ohio. "Anonymous ex-convict" accompanied by "retired Army Captain" provide tips for the "Last 18" of Z408 cipher. "Anonymous ex-convict" identified the Zodiac sketch as "Richard, ex-Deer Lodge convict". "Anonymous ex-convict" paints a sympathetic portrait of Richard and defends the murders. "Anonymous ex-convict" confirmed in 2010 by Cameron - Spencer to be "Edward Wayne Edwards".

Monday March 22, 1971: "Zodiac" Pines Card postcard intercepted in San Francisco. One year after the abduction of Kathleen Johns. Content interjects into Donna Lass missing person's case (geo-code: "Lake Tahoe areas").

The sequence above forms more than a coincidence of dates; it reveals a gradual shift from temporal convergence to temporal alignment with spatial transposition between two hemispheres of the same method. Within eleven days, the public preacher addressing the Fraternal Order of Police in Ohio, the anonymous “ex-convict” lecturing investigators through the Akron Beacon, and the self-styled “Zodiac” mailing from California each perform identical acts of narrative control. 

The rhetorical engine remains intact: authority is courted, deceived, and finally appropriated. In this rhythm, space itself becomes a cipher—Ohio and California functioning as mirror panels of  performance, where geography substitutes the shape of authorship. The convergence and eventual alignment of March 1971 is therefore not merely temporal; it is methodological. 

That is the closing geometry of this volume — the moment when the rhetoric of redemption and the rhetoric of terror become indistinguishable in form, tone, and synchronization. Whether on vinyl or on stationery, the performance is identical: a sermon to authority delivered by the hand that opposes it.

Closing note

Every mask he wore learned from the one before it.

The sermon became the script.

The script became the signal, and the echo was always his own voice returning.

March 1971 marked the moment when distance itself became a cipher — Ohio preaching and informing, California taunting —  both Deer Lodge-affiliated masked entities ("who knew each other") reach out synchronized across space to keep control of a narrative.

SDS

November 5, 2025

 

References

[1] https://www.discogs.com/release/30635302-Ed-Edwards-Says-Build-A-Fire-In-The-Person-And-Not-Under-Them

[2] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOyzS4yzlko&t=293s

[3] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2lrFAo3z3c&t=225s

[4] https://www.discogs.com/label/697782-Agency-Recording-Studios

[5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agora_Theatre_and_Ballroom

[6] The Logan Daily News, Wed, Feb 24, 1971 ·Page 2.

[7] The Logan Daily News, Tue, Mar 09, 1971 ·Page 8.

[8] Springfield News-Sun, Wed, Feb 24, 1971 ·Page 4.

 [9] The Akron Beacon Journal, Sun, Mar 21, 1971 ·Page 4

Editorial Note for Researchers

• Genre: hybrid motivational sermon / autobiographical monologue, produced as self-promotion for lectures and the forthcoming Metamorphosis of a Criminal manuscript.
• Tone: equal parts evangelical, self-help, and broadcast performance.
• Analytic relevance: exemplifies the “day-persona” rhetoric—didactic, narcissistic, self-authoring—mirroring the style of the anonymous Zodiac letters in structure and cadence.
• Provenance: vinyl reportedly recorded 1970, above the Cleveland Agora Club, issued privately to subscribers of WWTH (“We Want To Help”). Rediscovered by John Cameron and Tim Spencer; digitized by John Cameron on his Youtube account (c. 2010).

 

 APPENDIX – First arson described in “Metamorphosis of a criminal”