It’s quite an unusual event, something most people have never even seen at all let alone experienced: I was in my final moments of life in Florida State Prison, sitting in my cell on death watch, waiting to be taken to Ol’ Sparky, the three-legged oak chair that was crudely constructed by other inmates. At only forty-two I had not fully accepted my fate, and dying was the very last thing I wanted to do. I should have had a lot of life left: I was technically middle-aged but thanks to an active, healthy lifestyle it was a young 42. A small part of me was holding onto hope that something would happen to delay the inevitable; a phone call would from Governor Martinez would be the only thing that would do it, but considering it was an election year and he was trying his hardest to appear “tough on crime,” I already knew that call wasn’t coming.

                Despite obsessing over the thought of dying every single minute of every single day since July 1979, the past ten years didn’t do much to prepare me for this moment. In fact, I spent most of that time in denial, and I never thought it would ever happen and I was largely confidant I would live out the rest of my days incarcerated until I was a feeble old man.  

The interview I did earlier with Dr. James Dobson with ‘Focus on the Family’ was absolute bullshit. It was my final ‘Hail Mary” attempt to save my life, and I could tell about halfway through that it wasn’t going to work.

                I wonder what the future holds for my sweet daughter, and her mother. Carole was a fighter and had a deep passion for standing up for the things she believed in, that’s what attracted her to me in the first place. Will Rosa be a doctor, like Sue Rancourt dreamed about becoming one day? Or maybe she’ll find a good man and get married young but still be an educated career woman, like Jan Ott. Or maybe she’ll have a job in the arts, like Donna Manson was working towards. The mere thought of someone doing to my six-year-old little girl what I have done to so many young women across multiple states made me weak in the knees, and almost physically ill.

                I still have so many things that I wanted to do with my life: graduate from law school, have a family with a dog and white picket fence that overlooks Puget Sound. Because of my criminal history I wouldn’t have been able to work as a lawyer, but there were other things I could do with a law degree, like teach at a university or be a compliance officer.

I won’t be able to take care of my parents when they grow old and drive them to Doctors appointments or sit with them in the hospital after they have surgery. I won’t see Rosa grow up, help her through her first heartbreak and teach her how to drive.

                I also think about what I took from the world: the little girl I picked up in Idaho in early September 1974 (I never did catch her name).  Even though she was a transient she still had people that miss her, who will never know what happened to her because her body has been long lost, picked apart by turkey vultures and wolves. I threw away her items slowly across the rest of my journey to SLC: her backpack went in a dumpster in Pocatello, her clothing in some brush in Logan, her body in the Snake River…

Carol and Rosa didn’t come to visit with me in my final few days of life, neither did Mom or Johnnie, or any of my brothers and sisters. I mean, when you finally admit to all of the dastardly deeds you’ve just spent the last almost fifteen years swearing up and down that you didn’t do… people seem to want to stay away.

I called my mother twice in the last few hours and spoke with her briefly each time; I told her how sorry I was that I caused her so much grief and it was as if there was a part of me that was hidden from the world all the time. She told me she would love me until the end, and that I will ”always be her precious son.

But, there was no goodbye between Daddy and Rosa. When I started confessing Carole got angry, FAR angrier than I’ve ever seen her before, and I was not allowed to speak to my little girl one last time.

                The world was robbed of so many bright young women because of the things I did, and my sickness: because of my actions, Georgann Hawkins will never graduate from The University of Washington (which I was able to do two years before I killed her). Her dad will never get to walk her down the aisle and tearfully give her a kiss as he gives her away. She won’t grow old with her husband, and welcome grandchildren into the world with him.

Lynda Healy will never be a special-ed teacher or go on to marry her boyfriend and start a family. She has always stuck out to me because of how much time I spent with her before I took her life that last day of January 1974: I was with her while she shopped at Safeway, buying ingredients for a family dinner she planned on making that her mom called ‘company casserole,’ and I was behind her while she cashed a check shortly after; she had no idea I was there, watching her. She caught my attention after I saw her around the psychology department a few times, and I always made a point of listening to her early morning ski report.

I was offered a final meal, which would have consisted of whatever food I wanted, but nothing sounded appealing, so I refused, and as a result I was served a standard, traditional “last meal:” steak (medium-rare), eggs (over-easy), hash browns, and toast.

All food tasted gritty, and despite being hungry I couldn’t eat; everything tastes like sand, and I can’t force it down. The meal sits untouched in the corner of my cell. My stomach rumbles. My head has been shaved along with my right leg (this was so the electrode attachments would have someplace to stick to), and so many people have come and gone I lost track of who I talked to. 

I cry.

I think about Liz, and Molly, and I mourn the life we once had together. Those lazy summer afternoons we spent rafting were some of my favorite memories. We were a family, or the closet thing I’ll ever have to one of my own. And yes, Carole was my wife (even though she divorced me in 1986), and Rosa is my daughter… but the time I spent with Liz was different. I loved her so much at times it was destabilizing, and it hurt to breathe.

I also think of my mother. She did the best she could with me with the resources she had at the time. It wasn’t her fault that I turned out the way I did: there was something wrong with me.

Liz and Molly were such a huge part of my world for a long time until suddenly they weren’t. Many years ago, shortly after my final arrest in 1978, she made it very clear that she moved on from “us” and our relationship. I was hoping I would get to speak to her one last time, and I’m not going to lie, it did hurt that she never replied to the most recent letter I sent asking for forgiveness.

I’ve been praying a lot with a Methodist Pastor named Fred Lawrence, talking about what is waiting for me on the other side after my date with destiny. We talked about faith and he read some Bible passages…. it was refreshing in a way to finally be myself and let my guard down a bit. We talked about the concept of death, and divine forgiveness, and if it would apply to someone like me, and he assured that all Gods creatures are “eligible” to receive this type of love, and that brought me some peace.

I pause for a moment and think back to the dozens of conversations I’ve had over the past few days; names I hadn’t thought about in many years were brought up, like Susan Curtis from Brigham Young University and Laura Ann Aime from Lehi. But I had to stop and pause at some of the ones that I didn’t recognize: in 1971 a young schoolteacher in Vermont named Rita Curran was killed in her bedroom after her roommates decided to go out for a bite to eat. Considering I wasn’t in that area at the time I can say for certain that wasn’t me. Then another one: Janice Louise Taylor from NH. Sometimes the booze, Valium, and weed made things a little fuzzy, but considering I only stopped to get gas in New Hampshire one time around 1969, I knew I was in the clear.

And suddenly, Warden Dugger was standing in front of my cell, and it was time. I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was a little after 7 AM. I got up, and two corrections officers escorted me into the “Q Wing” death chamber.

As we made our way down the hall it suddenly hit me where we were going, and it was as if I had the wind knocked out of me and I sunk down to my knees. But I wasn’t down for long, and the guards stood next to me on both sides, helping me stand back up so we can continue to make our way to my final destination.

An entire life’s worth of memories began to flood my brain… suddenly I was a little boy again, helping my Grandpa Cowell plant flowers for his nursery business, digging in the dirt without a care in the world. Then I was at my mom and Johnnie’s wedding, stuffing my hands in the cake then eating the frosting off my fingers. I also remember the babies, my two little brothers and two little sisters. Then, I was transported to the first time I saw Liz at The Sandpiper that cool September evening in 1969… she was so young, and beautiful.  

Reality broke through my memory filled haze as I was being led to the chair, and as I was being strapped in someone asked if I had any last words I’d like to share; I thought only briefly and said, looking at my lawyer, “Jim [Coleman] and Fred, I’d like you to give my love to my family and friends.’ As the cap was tightened onto my skull, and the hood was slipped over my head, I glanced at my executioner: their face was completely covered by a hood of their own, except for two holes to look out of, and I was shocked at what I saw looking back at me: soft blue eyes framed by mascara coated lashes and bright green eyeshadow. A woman?

I couldn’t help but be slightly amused by the irony of this: I took the lives of countless women, so many in fact that I lost count of them all. And now, it will be a woman that will be ending my life.