In the old days, those in my profession wore a mask. Some say that it’s so no one comes for revenge. Others say that it was so God doesn’t recognize it as a sin. Still, I have heard that it is so Death doesn’t come for the wrong killer.
Long gone are the days of axes, and it has been almost 50 years since even France used a guillotine. Instead, in my home state, we prefer the electric chair. And I am the hand that pulls the lever. A modern day executioner.
What they don’t report on killing criminals, is the tow that is inflicted on those who sentenced him there. The lawyers, the judge, the jury, and none more so than the one who pulls the lever. There’s the guilt for some executioners. The toiling abyss, and uncertainty that plague some cases. And even the most die hard amongst us, never know when something will trigger our subconscious.
I once met a colleague who pulled the big one over a mother who killed her two sons. She claimed they were demons. Because she only prayed for daughters. And pulling the lever on someone like that normally didn’t keep any of us awake.
But my colleague told me, it was what the woman said while she was sitting there screaming as a hundred thousand jolts lit her nervous system up like a Christmas tree, that got him.
“It smells like cheeseburgers,” he told me. “Before her body went limp. And sure. You know. There’s a little smoke. But I thought that was that. Until a couple days later. My wife and kids come home with McDonalds. And I was fine when I ate a fry. Even had a bit of their milkshake. But when I started unwrapping one of the cheeseburgers. I suddenly smelled it. Of that that woman cooking. It crawled out of some recess in my brain, and out of my nose. I could even taste it in my mouth.” He shakes his head, “I haven’t been able to touch the stuff since.”
Then there were the conferences. It started as a kind of support group. After Leslie McNeal passed away. Those who knew her, said she wasn’t the same after bringing it down on this Satanist in the tri-state area.
Eddie who was in the room at the time, as an alternate, confirmed that it was true. That the Satanist cursed Leslie as he died. But it was after the fact, that caused outrage from our community. When she went to stop the juice, the electricity jumped and the amps became unstable.
See, there’s a safety feature on the newer models. A light that warns the executioner if the leads are hot, meaning that the system’s been overcharged and has caused the lever to be live. But most states still got them rinky dink ones built in the late 1800s, without any of the fail safes.
Hell, “Old Sparky” down in Kentucky is over a hundred years old and still active.
And so we originally gathered to levy our grievances. To get those in charge to make a much needed change. But most of our push back came in the form of threats. That they’d tear the entire program down and switch to lethal injections. Put us all out of work, as none of us were qualified medical professionals. So we kept our mouths shut publicly, in want of a $3.29 cent part I see often at hardware stores.
Well, the lack of that part sent Leslie to the hospital. Put her out for weeks. And she lost her right arm because of it. From near the elbow, down.
And I’ve personally never met her. But I suppose what she said after the accident, is why people believe she was cursed.
It was Eddie Croquette and then committee leader Jo Jones who heard it from her own lips.
“I can feel it,” she kept screaming. “Oh God. Jo. It’s so scared!”
“What is,” Jo demanded. Eddie said the two were nearly shouting at this time because Leslie was screaming and moaning, groaning about the pain.
“My hand! My HAND,” she shouted. “It keeps signing, from my hand!”
H.
E.
L.
L.
”
H.E.L.L. H.E.L.L. H.E.L.L.
Wild theories after that. A lot of at home accidents from fanatic groups, as electricity use in occults started to resurge.
And I sometimes wondered about the mysticism of it myself. It’s difficult not to have some sort of obsession with volts and amps, or Tesla coils while in this field. For instance, when electric cars were commercialized, I embraced them. Watches. Books on my kindle. It seems like such an odd thing to say for someone in such an archaic profession, but it is true.
That was until it happened to me.
What was the biggest criminal case of my life, turned into one of pure terror. But I suppose I can’t properly tell that story. Not really. Not without telling the accounts of Jennifer Tooley. As the story of the Body Count murderer and hers intertwine. Although, I don’t know where the truth begins and the lies end.
After her death, Jennifer Tooley’s live stream went viral. She was a budding journalist on this side of the Sierra Nevada. An all valley kind of girl. Beautiful, young, and full of Po. Ten. Tail. The uncouth internet dubbed her, due to her smash or pass rate.
(And the media asks us if we’re going to hell for killing God’s children)
So the live stream follows her to a lake, but it was the posts before it all that started the trouble.
She captioned: Tonight I met a man. Though he claimed to be something more. But isn’t that what they all say?
And the photo she posted with it reached over a million likes before the sensitivity panel on the social media platform took it down. I’m sure it can still be found through other avenues, such as thewaybackmachine or 4Chan or something. Perhaps on Reddit.
But that photo became famous because it was the only clear picture of the murderer before his incarceration. It were as if before the photo, the man never even existed. We couldn’t find him in any of our records. And no one came forth then or since, to claim him as kin.
The live stream was mostly blurry footage as Jennifer Tooley swam. And it’s worth mentioning that Tooley was a swimmer at the collegiate level. But it wasn’t important because the video shows her screaming and splashing, horror stuck in her throat as she struggled to breathe after every stroke. She was far from shore, and everything was shaking. But there are a few glimpses of her looking back, and seeing the man she was with. The one who claimed to be otherworldly. He was standing near the beach house at first. But then he began walking. On top of the water after her. She turns again, screaming. Swimming. And looks back one more time. As he comes to stand next to her. Crouches. And says, “Do not be afraid.”
Then nothing. That was it. A manhunt ensued but no other signs or traces could be found.
That was when the public really started exploding. It’s that way for many cases I’ve witnessed. Once the truth runs out, and the straws are being grasped, is when criminals turn from murderers into household names.
It started with a few frat boys out in Davis, said they recognized him at one of their parties. They couldn’t provide any proof, and after some digging it seemed they were trying to ruin the good Bruin name, as a football rivalry began to churn between the two schools. None of it mattered. As it didn’t stop people from booing in the stadiums, even going far as to say they’d withdraw their kid if they were attending UCLA.
Rumors swirled. He was spotted at an ice cream parlor here. Or a restaurant there. That it was all fake news and propaganda to distract the public from a larger issue with our economy.
So that by the time he came up for trial. Everything was up in the air. No one could get a good grasp of the situation, as even hardcore zeitgeists claimed that this man, the murderer, was the new prophet. Some even going as far to call him Jesus, stating that this was the coming foretold.
The evidence that weren’t released to the public, stopped all of that. Quelled the noise. What he did to that poor girl. Holding her under the water. Dragging her back to shore. The pictures of her chopped up, hanging on a hook in that old cabin, the look of life still in her eyes as he made her smile for the camera. It was too much.
The state sentenced the man without a name, to death by electric chair.
And in October I was called in. I knew it was coming. So I had been eating well, getting a lot of sleep, and trying my best to stay in a good head space, as I was asked to pull the lever on this monster. I agreed, only if Eddie could be my alternate. They agreed and that was that, until the coming day.
That day, didn’t go as planned. Usually the officials and invited guests, family of the victim and the convicted are brought into the room first. Then the executioner. There’s limited face to face between us and the condemned to lessen any psychological impacts. But this wasn’t the case. Somehow the duties got mixed up and the Priest was running late. And I was left in the holding hall with the murderer. Alone.
“Do you know what my last meal was,” he asked. “Bread, and water.” He chuckled, “Of course I turned it into water.”
I tried to ignore him.
“Say, do you know what happened when they caught me? I was drinking wine-“
“Shut up,” I rapped the wheelchair they had strapped him to.
“But they said it wasn’t wine.”
The reports said it was blood.
He laughed again as if he could hear inside of my head.
By the time we had gotten everything sorted out, all the people and paper work. It was already an hour past noon. We were running late, and from experience I knew that the governor or some other would start to get cold feet. Call it off. An act of God. To postpone for a review and pen in another date.
But I knew that if I were called to service again, that I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to stand the man a second time. So when they were all gathered properly I pushed forward before anyone could get in a word.
In less than 15 minutes, we had him strapped up and the machine was primed. The phone was still on the hook and all last rites and goodbyes were said, the prisoner opted to keep silent. And I was given the nod to send justice straight through his brain down to his shoes.
I pulled the lever.
His body contorted and snapped, shivering. His mouth opened, and I looked inside, to see the deep dark hole, as blue and white lightning flashed from within. And for once I kept my hand on the lever, until his hair stood on end.
When the Chief nodded to me, I let it go. Eddie looked at me, his eyes wide and telling, for he knew better than most what I was feeling. That feeling of a murderer. Even in the end, a killer only spreads his killing, as if the madness can jump from one to the other.
But before anyone could move.
The man opened his eyes and smiled.
No one knew what to do.
“What the fuck happened,” the Chief yelled at me. “Was it primed?”
I nodded, and Eddie agreed. “I checked it myself,” Eddie told them.
“What should we do,” someone asked.
One of the men in the plastic seats got up angrily. From the papers I knew him to be Jennifer Tooley’s brother. He was full of anger. Rushing forward as two officers detained him. The man in the electric chair only laughed.
“The governor says do it again,” said one of his representatives.
The Chief nodded, “Alright. Everyone. All clear.” He looked at the Priest. “I say we can skip the rites this time.” I believe the Priest agreed because I got a look to pull it again.
I pulled down the lever and this time I stepped back and watched.
It went on for 5 more minutes before I was told to turn it off.
This time, the man was surely dead. For he didn’t move. And no one wanted to touch him but somehow Eddie was goaded into approaching the chair. In an instant, blood spurted everywhere. Eddie howled and grabbed at his hand as the man, the murderer, was grinning from ear to ear with a finger in his mouth.
I could hear a few of the women screaming. Some were hurriedly trying to leave. I stood there in shock as I didn’t know what to do. And after nearly an hour of commotion, the coroner was forcibly coerced into writing down a time of death. And the man without a name was strapped back into his wheelchair. And I have never heard of him again.