January 10, 1990
Elias Pratt stood tall and straight, hands clasped around the metal bars of his cell, reflecting on what would become the last moments of his life. Earlier in the day, he’d been told the execution team, the “strap-down people” as they were called, had completed their series of pre-death rehearsals. The oak chair known as Gruesome Gertie had been tested on several occasions by a man similar to Elias’s height and weight. The man had sat in the chair, checked the straps, ensured the seat was sturdy—solid enough to perform its duty that night without fail.
What sparse belongings Elias had were boxed up and labeled for shipment to his mother. His head had been shaved, and an adult diaper secured, hidden beneath his pants.
Whether or not he feared what was about to come next, it didn’t matter; the hour was at hand. Now, moments away from being escorted to the execution chamber, he felt no differently than he had the night he’d crouched over Sandra Hamilton’s body, waiting to be picked up by the police. It was a kind of numb resignation. The very same resignation he’d felt his entire life. Admitting it to himself now, he felt lighter, like a bar of truth had been lifted. Life. Death. It didn’t matter. Aging only put off the inevitable death all people experienced in the end. Only his end would have nothing to do with old age.
During his time in prison, Elias had tried reaching out to Sandra through letters. He wanted to explain what happened the night she found her parents on the kitchen floor, to make her understand the motive behind their murders, behind why both of her parents died by his own hand. Contrary to his other murders, theirs had nothing to do with a robbery or because of a desire to kill. But he imagined she knew already.
He’d loved her.
At least, he’d thought he loved her at the time.
Now he was certain his skewed idea of love was much different than the feelings most men and women had for each other.
Still, he’d been smitten ever since the first time he saw her step out of Toby Fink’s car at the drive-in, ratted hair pulled back in a pink and white polka-dot scrunchy, acid-washed jeans so tight they looked like they were painted on. Elias wanted to touch her, to be near her, to learn everything about her. And he had.
The good.
The bad.
The secret so revolting his blood sizzled like water boiling over on a stove when he learned it.
His thoughts turned to Paula. If he had been capable of love, true love, he now knew it would have been for her. While plain and simple, the kind of girl most men never gave a second glance at, she was more devoted to him than any woman had ever been. So devoted, she had killed because of her love for him. He only wished he’d realized his true feelings for her before he’d crouched over Sandra, sacrificing his life for hers when he could have turned and fled. Fled and never looked back. Now he realized why Paula did what she did afterward, and why she told everyone she’d been raped. She’d killed for him, and still, he’d given up his life over Sandra.
Two officers approached Elias’s cell. The taller one muttered, “It’s time.” He didn’t look Elias in the eye when he said it. The other officer shouted for Elias’s cell to be opened. As the cell gate parted in front of him, Elias couldn’t help but wish it could remain shut.
Officers positioned themselves on both sides. He was then escorted into a room built with cinderblocks. The blocks were painted a dingy shade of white, which perfectly matched the tone of the room and what it was used for sometimes. Gruesome Gertie was in the center of the room, unoccupied and alone, her appearance so frightening he took two steps back when he saw her. The shorter of the two guards shoved him forward, and in one swift, surreal moment, Elias was stuffed into the chair. In seconds the leather straps were secured. One under the chin. One across the chest. One around his waist. Two over his wrists and elbows. A tight mask was positioned on his head, waiting to be pulled over his face when the time was right.
The warden, coroner, and physician were all in place, eyes shiny, seeming almost too eager for the show to begin. Through the two-way glass in front of him, he scanned left to right, recognizing many faces in attendance. There were a few witnesses from prior victims’ families, at least two members of the news media, his mother, and one of his brothers.
No Sandra and no Paula—only a faithful Alexa Weston sitting in the middle of the second row. Her face was stern, emotionless. In the company of everyone else, Elias figured she had no choice but to be impartial. To the world, she was supposed to see him the way they all did, as nothing more than a ruthless killer. He supposed it was true. No matter what spin she spun in her book to make him seem humane, he wasn’t. He smiled, recalling the past, knowing how proficiently he’d worked her over. He was sure she loved him, in her way, and she probably thought he felt the same, even though he didn’t.
Sitting here now, watching her smooth a hand over her abdomen, over his baby, his unborn seed, he was filled with satisfaction.
My legacy will live on.
A man placed a microphone in front of Elias’s face. “Do you have a final statement?”
He leaned forward, eyed Alexa for the last time, and spoke the words of investigative journalist I.F. Stone. “Every emancipation has in it the seeds of a new slavery, and every truth easily becomes a lie.”
The headpiece was slipped over his face, and as the first round of electrical currents was administered and his body strained against the straps, he laughed and laughed and laughed, knowing no witness in the room, save one, would ever understand the last thing he had to say.