The Mary Vincent Case — and the “Sweet Grandpa” Who Became One of America’s Most Feared Predators

THE GIRL ON THE ROAD

She looked like any other runaway drifting along a California highway—tired, sunburned, hopeful enough to keep walking, scared enough to keep looking back.

Fifteen-year-old Mary Vincent had no way of knowing that the next car to slow beside her would belong to a man the world would one day call The Mad Chopper.

No one could have predicted that what happened next would become one of the most shocking survival stories in American history.

And even fewer knew that the case—still whispered about decades later—would expose gaping holes in the justice system, reshape state sentencing laws, and give rise to a survivor who refused to disappear quietly.

This is the story of Mary Vincent—told with clarity, restraint, and respect—edited for safety, and built entirely from the narrative you provided.

THE MAKING OF A RUNAWAY

Mary Vincent had grown up in the flashing neon shadow of Las Vegas casinos—her father a military mechanic, her mother a blackjack dealer, both working long hours under bright lights and constant noise.

Seven children shared one roof. Strict parents. Chaotic surroundings. A city built on temptation and neon illusions.

By 15, Mary had begun drifting toward trouble—skipping class, falling in with older kids, wearing heavy makeup her parents hated. Home felt like battle lines. Her parents’ marriage was collapsing, fast and messy.

So she ran.

California offered escape. Sunshine. A boyfriend with a car. Freedom.

Until the boyfriend was arrested.

And freedom evaporated.

Mary bounced between relatives, surviving on instinct. But she wanted something steadier—her grandfather’s home in Corona, forty minutes east of Los Angeles.

She just had to get there.

But the road has a way of testing the desperate.

On September 29, 1978, Mary started walking—backpack light, hope heavy.

And when the sun dropped and her legs burned, she did the thing millions did confidently in the ’70s:

She stuck out her thumb.

THE MAN IN THE VAN

A large, battered van slowed beside her. Inside: a grandfatherly figure—gray hair, lined face, soft voice.

His name was Lawrence Singleton, a 50-year-old father and merchant seaman.

He smiled warmly.

He said he had a daughter her age.

He said she reminded him of her.

He said she could trust him.

Other hitchhikers reportedly turned down his offer—according to one source, warning Mary that something felt wrong.

But Mary, exhausted and needing to reach family, climbed in.

She thought she’d met a kind stranger.

She had not.

THE DETOUR

For the first few miles, the ride felt harmless enough.

He talked gently. He offered to help with laundry. He checked her forehead when she sneezed, the way a grandfather might.

Mary had no reason yet to fear him.

But fear has a way of sneaking in slowly—first as a doubt, then as a certainty.

She fell asleep.

And when she woke, the road sign outside the window didn’t match the route to Corona.

They were headed the wrong way.

Panic rose.

Mary grabbed a pointed stick—a makeshift weapon—and told him to turn around.

Lawrence apologized. Said he’d made an “honest mistake.” Turned the van around.

Calm. Pleasant. Cooperative.

Too cooperative.

Something was off.

Then came the dirt road.

THE HILL, THE NIGHT, THE MONSTER

The sun dipped behind the canyon as Lawrence pulled onto a secluded turnoff.

He said he needed to use the bathroom.

Mary stepped out to stretch.

That was the moment he struck her, hard enough to send stars ripping through her vision. He dragged her to the back of the van and tied her up.

What followed—summarized safely—was a violent attack no child should endure.

When he was done, he drove deeper into the canyon.

Then he stopped.

Again.

He told her to get out.

Mary, terrified and disoriented, obeyed.

Singleton rummaged in the van, searching for something.

He returned holding a hatchet.

And the world went dark.

(The brutal assault that followed is described in public record, but all graphic details are omitted here for safety and respect.)

He believed she would never get up again.

He pushed her down a steep embankment.

He hid her in a drainage pipe.

He drove away.

He thought he had ended her story.

He was wrong.

THE IMPOSSIBLE SURVIVAL

Mary woke in the dirt.

In shock but conscious.

Bleeding but alive.

Her will to survive was immediate and ferocious. She packed her wounds with mud, using instinct and intelligence far beyond her years. She held her arms upward to slow the blood loss.

Then she did the impossible:

She began climbing.

Three miles.

Barefoot.

In the cold.

Up a cliff.

At fifteen years old.

And when she reached the highway, she did the bravest thing imaginable:

She walked.

Stumbling. Weak. Barely upright.

But she walked.

A car passed—slowed—then sped away in fear.

A second car, a couple on their honeymoon, stopped.

They wrapped her. Comforted her. Raced her to help.

Mary survived because she refused to stop moving.

THE HUNT FOR THE MONSTER

At the hospital, before slipping into surgery, Mary demanded to speak to a forensic sketch artist.

She refused to sleep until the drawing was perfect.

That sketch identified Lawrence Singleton within hours.

Police arrested him quickly.

His defense?

He blamed Mary.

Claimed she was rebellious, threatening, dangerous.

No one believed him.

Mary testified in court. Calm. Clear. Brave.

As she stepped away, he hissed at her:

“I’ll finish this job if it takes me the rest of my life.”

The courtroom froze.

The judge delivered the maximum sentence allowed at the time:

14 years.

Fourteen years for a crime that nearly ended a child’s life.

California law wouldn’t permit more.

He served eight.

Eight years.

Then he walked out.

And communities across America panicked.

Town after town protested his arrival. No place would allow him to settle.

Authorities housed him in a trailer on prison grounds until his parole expired.

Even free, he was a prisoner of public outrage.

But outrage wasn’t protection.

THE SECOND VICTIM

Years later, after moving to Florida, Singleton struck again.

The details of the second killing—of 31-year-old Roxanne Hayes—were devastating, but again omitted here for safety.

A house painter saw the attack through a window and called police.

They arrived too late to save Roxanne, but not too late to arrest him.

Singleton claimed she harmed herself.

But witnesses told the truth.

This time, the judge issued the harshest sentence allowed.

But cancer claimed him before the justice system did.

Singleton died behind bars.

Mary Vincent—who had lived decades in quiet terror—finally breathed without fear.

THE LONG SHADOW

Survival was not an ending for Mary.

It was a lifelong fight.

She battled night terrors, anxiety, grief, depression. She lived years feeling fractured, unsafe, invisible.

She struggled with work, relationships, and the heavy silence of trauma.

But she kept going.

She learned art. Built her own prosthetics. Taught herself to paint and draw with a precision that stunned therapists.

She became a mother. A teacher. A quiet advocate.

She founded a nonprofit to help survivors.

She rebuilt a world from nothing.

Her strength forced California lawmakers to change sentencing laws, creating harsher penalties for crimes like Singleton’s so that no violent offender could walk free so quickly again.

Her story helped rewrite history.

THE CASE THAT STILL HAUNTS AMERICA

The Mary Vincent case endures because it represents three things Americans cannot look away from:

The capacity for evil hidden behind an ordinary face.

The breathtaking will of a child to survive the unsurvivable.

A justice system that failed catastrophically—twice.

Her story sits alongside the most notorious survival accounts in U.S. history—not for shock value, but for what it reveals about resilience.

Mary did not just survive a crime.

She survived the years after.

And she did so with dignity, grit, and a determination that shaped state law.