Execution's Odyssey

Acknowledgements

Law

Bill Fazio former capital case prosecutor now

criminal defense attorney

Joe Long San Francisco district attorney

investigator

Tony Serra criminal defense attorney

Russell Vorpagel FBI profiler, psychologist and lawyer

admitted to practice before the United

States Supreme Court

Diarmund Philpott S.F. deputy police chief

Kevin Mullen S.F. deputy police chief

Irene Brunn policewoman missing persons

Tom Eisenmann S.F. sergeant sex crimes

James Connolly S.F. captain, homicide

Joseph Lordan S.F. deputy chief of inspectors

Order

Terence Hallinan former San Francisco district attorney,

now defense attorney

Paul Cummins S.F. assistant district attorney

Daniel Vasquez warden San Quentin Prison

Dr. Boyd Stephens S.F. chief medical examiner

The two executioners, Mike and Zeke, are composites of many prison guards and officials, all of whom wished to remain anonymous.

Author’s Note

The ubiquitous reporter, Thomasina Boyd Clancy, and her boss Rebecca Miller, are composite characters inspired by journalists, lawyers and others involved in this case. Some of Clancy’s adventures while covering the execution are fact-based characterizations, with the privacy of some key sources protected, but the events involving this odyssey are all too real.

Thanks to the following people who helped me with things like networking, editing, criticisms, research and suggestions:

Dave Craigen

Moses Doyle

Jack and Patti Foster

Jim and Christine Sullivan

Robert and Virginia Nurisso

Barney and Patricia Snyder

Greg and Bonnie Semans

Bill and Diane Rossman,

Kathy Junget

Christine Sherick

Don Baumgart

Alicia Diaz

Richie Costello

Erin and Paddy Healy

Stephen Flaherty

and Trevor Hardwick.

Special thanks to Tom Durkin and Steve Cottrell who, in their own different ways, have their fingerprints all over the effort.

Prologue

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Mount Davidson, dawn, highest point in San Francisco

Beautiful morning for a funeral, the man said as he wiped raindrops from his Ben Franklin spectacles, what with the weather so ugly.

No day’s beautiful if there’s a funeral, she said.

Their raincoats were black—his an old mountaineer, hers a new fisherman’s rain slicker. Both had their hoods up, protecting them from the lashing rain.

The concrete cross in front of them was 103 feet tall, built as a memorial to the genocide of Armenians by the Turks during the Great War. 

With the exception of one hauntingly dead tree, all about this massive cement symbolic remembrance of a long-ago crucifixion was life: healthy trees, fall flowers, birds in nests using wings to shield their young from the pelting rain, and sopping wet arboreal squirrels huddled high in the branches.

The man handed her a single long-stemmed red rose.

The rain abruptly stopped and mist began to ooze through the surrounding trees, hovering over them in a gray shroud-like veil.

The woman tossed back her rain hood, revealing white hair with hints of a once lustrous crimson mane, now mere traces of faded dull pink.

She was diminutive, with the posture and toned body of a ballerina.

The man also flipped back his monk-like hoods. He was bald, with a well-trimmed Van Dyke, a mixture of splotched white and gray.

His baseball cap was black and embroidered with the red Gothic lettering Executioner bracketed by gold zigzagging lightning bolts.

He removed a small entrenching tool from a suitcase.

A breeze gusted, gaining force and causing the nearby trees’ green leaves to flutter like thin, trembling, veined hands.

What word describes this wind? she asked. Blustery? Crying? Sloughing? Sobbing? Rustling? Keening?

Irritating. Let’s do this before the invited guests arrive. And why did you pick the same day to bury him and invite a bunch of rich people to hear a speech?

Having the speech here forced me to return. 

The mist turned to a drizzle.

She looked skyward, letting the drops splash on her face. So many years since he died, but seems like only a week. I miss him everyday.

So do I.

I’m still tormented by images of what happened here.

I forget their names.

Who?

The guys who murdered him.

God murdered him. 

I meant your father, not your lover.

Dad was torched by Rick and Mel. What they did, she said as she clenched her eyes lids shut, is emblazoned in my brain and to close my eyes at this sacred place causes it to all return.

* * *

Two transparent figures dragged a bound figure by the feet across the meadow. The helpless man’s head bounced as his ghostly kidnappers marched up the seven steps leading to the huge monument of Christ’s cross.

They tossed him against the base of the gigantic cross, poured a can of gasoline over him and lit a wooden match.

The eerie darkness of that evening was illuminated as the huddled shape turned into a pyre of erupting flames and billowing smoke.

* * *

When I remember my mind fills with an assault from my senses, she said as she opened her eyes. I taste bile rising from my stomach; I smell rancid fumes of cooking flesh; I hear screams of Hell’s own nightmare; I see nothing but horror.

I dig, you pour, he said as he held up the entrenching tool. 

She cradled the urn like a football and watched as he scraped away dirt next to the bottom step leading up to the massive cross looming above them.

I had to do this before, she said.

I was here.

Worst week of my life.

Bull, back then you witnessed an execution, a crime reporter’s ultimate assignment. What a coup.

Before the event, not after.

Let’s get this over with. People will be arriving soon.

She handed the silver urn to him.

As the man shook the contents from the urn, she knelt and pulled petals from the rose, letting each flutter into the tiny grave, their crimson in stark contrast to the muddy earth and grayish-white of the ashes. 

Making a Sign of the Cross, she stood. 

He filled the shallow hole, patted the earth with the miniature shovel and scrambled upright.

In the distance a long line of people appeared at the crest of the trail and headed towards them.

How many did you invite? he asked.

Two hundred and fifty.

How many RSVPs?

One hundred and three.

In this weather you’ll be lucky to get half that.

I’ll settle for fifty. I invited the most important members of the financial community in the Bay Area.

What pitch did you use to get them here?

How to save a billion dollars.

That hook might get more than fifty, even with lousy weather.

How are you going to introduce me?

He handed her a slip of paper.

She read:

Your host is a crime reporter for the S.F. Chronicle and has written about some of the biggest and most horrific murders in this town. In doing so she has won many awards.

Very nice.

Not finished. Turn the paper over and read the rest.

Clancy turned the paper over and read:

I know first hand she is outrageously opinionated, loyal, stubborn, lovable, and, as her grandpa used to fondly call her, a pig-headed jackass.

Kind of rough, she said as she grinned, yet accurate.

How are you starting your speech?

When we first met. On Death Row.

Holy Thursday

April 16, 1992

Chapter 1

Holy Thursday morning, San Quentin State Prison

Lookin’ good, the executioner named Zeke said as he patted the side of the gas chamber. He sprayed Windex onto one of five windows that allowed spectators to view the inside of the eight-sided room. He rubbed vigorously with a paper towel, breathed hot air onto the thick glass and a fog appeared.

Compared to most of the men who guarded death row inmates in San Quentin, Zeke was short. At only five feet, seven inches, the other guards loomed over him. But he received no flack from his fellow workers. He was a captain, having risen quickly in the ranks by joining the execution squad early in his career. His reputation was secure as he had pushed the lever on such notable inmates as Ma Duncan.

He was wiry, had well-toned muscles, with a head of slightly graying hair trimmed in a buzz cut. He whistled a tuneless dirge as he vigorously washed another gas chamber window.

Zeke was with the prison’s youngest executioner.

Mike was typical in size to the other guards, six foot two, 240 pounds. He could easily bench press his own weight multiple times. He had blonde hair, shaped by a crew cut and sideburns sliced to the top of the ear.

Mike was on his knees, using a paintbrush, cutting a line between the steel wall and the concrete floor. He was painting the exterior walls of the octagon-shaped metal chamber; the faded green slowly being reborn with a new, lustrous vitality.

The two guards worked on the five sides of the chamber facing the spectators’ area. Each steel section held a viewing window. The other three sides of the 7-1/2-foot wide room contained the hatch-like entrance to the gas chamber, bracketed by two more windows.

I told you to use masking tape, Zeke said.

I’ve a steady hand, Mike answered. Look at my cut line—perfect. No bleeding onto the floor.

You mean not yet. At least use a drop cloth.

Mike went to the storeroom, got a canvas splattered with paint, returned and tossed it on the floor.

Zeke went through a steel door that provided access to the working side of the chamber. On the far wall was a row of phones. He answered the one with the blinking red light, listened and then replaced the receiver.

The warden’s headed down here with a reporter, Zeke said.

Should I put away the painting stuff?

Just get rid of that beat-up drop cloth.

A reporter hasn’t come round during the few years I’ve been here, Mike said as he gathered up the canvas drop cloth. Why today?

No executions for twenty-five years. Tomorrow will bring more reporters. They’re flocking in from all over the country, even Europe, Asia, Australia. Death attracts.

Mike carried the drop cloth to the storage room, returned and joined Zeke by the bank of phones.

Why does this reporter get special treatment? Mike asked. Why not come with the others tomorrow?

She’s a witness to the execution.

Who is she?

Thomasina Boyd Clancy. Met her seven years ago when she interviewed the warden. She took a tour of Death Row.

A woman visiting Death Row? Must be ugly.

Drop-dead gorgeous, about five foot, a hundred and ten pounds, with scarlet hair cascadin’ over ivory shoulders. She’s forty or so, too old for a twenty-eight-year-old like you, but she still has a pulse-raisin’ figure and a playful, flirtin’ smile.

She flirted with an old guy like you?

Someday you’ll realize that fifty-one’s not old. Besides, with her sexual luminescence, she doesn’t have to flirt.

The door to the spectators’ area opened and Warden Daniel Vasquez entered with a woman who carried a reporter’s notebook. She wore gray sweatpants, white tennis shoes and a faded blue windbreaker with an American flag patch on her shoulder.

What a looker, Mike said as he stared at her through the gas chamber’s windows.

She’s dressed like a slob.

Think I care?

The two guards entered the spectator’s area.

This is Ms. Clancy, the warden said. Give her any assistance or information she requires. Clancy, these gentlemen are Captain—

No formalities needed in a place like this, the older guard said. I’m Zeke and this is Mike.

I have to go, the warden said, but Clancy, if you’d like to have lunch when you’re done here...

I’d love to, Clancy said, but I have to hustle to Sacramento for the clemency hearing this afternoon.

The warden told Mike he needed assistance back in his office. The two men left.

Clancy went to the guardrail that kept spectators from getting too near the glass panes. A sign, lettered in black, under the center window read: Keep outside the railing at all times.

Do angry people actually obey this sign? she asked. If it was me, and I lost a loved one, I’d hop over the railing, bang on the glass and give the bastard the finger.

People have done exactly that, which is why the sign was hung, Zeke said. Aren’t you going to take notes?

In a bit, first background, she said as she pointed at the gas chamber. Who picked this color? It’s ghastly. It is making me absolutely nauseous.

The Department of Corrections chooses—

Looks like something a sick cat upchucked, a horrid green.

The Department of Corrections chooses—

How often is this thing painted?

Before each execution.

Why not let the condemned choose the color? If it was me, I’d pick flames belching out of the bottom of the chamber, maybe a few volcanoes puffing toxic gases.

Never happen.

You let an inmate choose his last meal, why not the color of the paint for the chamber he’s going to die in?

Never happen.

What about music? Shouldn’t the prisoner be allowed to choose what he will hear for the last time?

The Department of Corrections has decided—

"If it were me, I’d pick something appropriate but annoying, like Berliotz’s Requiem. Having to listen to a hundred divas for hours would make me want to push the lever myself."

The Department of Corrections has decided—

Or Night on Bald Mountain" from Disney’s Fantasia. That sure made Mussorgsky’s music symbolic of Satan, what with his evilness coming out of the top of a mountain dripping flames."

Didn’t dawn on me at first, Zeke said, but just realized. You’re Frank Clancy’s granddaughter.

Yep, Sarge is my kin. How did you know?

Besides your last name, your use of sarcasm.

Chapter 2

Holy Thursday, corner of Castro and Market streets

Frank Sarge Clancy was old, but had the posture of a seasoned Marine drill sergeant. The only signs that told the truth about his age were the mane of white hair and wrinkles deep, like crevices on the worn face of a granite mountain.

He wore a black T-shirt with small white lettering on the front: Born 1907 / S.F. Seals 14 yrs as player and coach / 101st Airborne 6 yrs / SFPD 32 yrs / retired 15 yrs / Golden years my Irish ass.

Sarge wore cowboy boots, a Pendleton shirt and a buckskin jacket. Arm patches on the shoulders of the jacket appeared at first as those of the 101st Airborne: the white feathers on the eagle, the gold of the open beak, the black orb of the predator’s eye. But there was splattered blood on the white, crimson blood dripping from the beak and a flaming red diamond in the eye. On the jacket’s left pocket was the fighting symbol of the 101st: The black and white death skull shaped like the ace of spades.

Sarge reached the corner, waved at a beat cop across the street, who, using his baton, waved back.

The Castro District is known worldwide as the center of gay society in San Francisco. The epicenter of that district was the intersection of Market and Castro streets.

Sarge entered the Twin Peaks Tavern.

The bar was known as The Glass Coffin not only because huge windows faced the street, but because of the age of most of its patrons. It was the first pub in the country to come out of the closet by installing immense plate glass windows that allowed a customer to stare out and a passers-by to stare in.

The interior was old-fashioned: no gaudy lights, no loud music, no ferns. Wooden tables were scattered about, with a long mahogany bar facing the windows.

The establishment catered to an older set of men. Younger gays had many other nearby options like the Elephant Walk and the Missouri Mule.

Sarge took a corner barstool, which offered a view of the entire room.

Without waiting for an order, the barkeep, wearing the name tag: Gay Bartender, placed a pint of ale in front of Sarge and handed him the S.F. Chronicle’s Sporting Green section.

Sarge, your team lost again, he said, three in a row.

Decades before the New York Giants moved west, my team was the Seals. This back when baseball big-shots thought there was nothing west of Saint Louis but prairie dogs.

Are you betting today?

Talk about a rhetorical question. Of course I’m betting.

I was talking about the execution. Odds are four-to-one Robert Alton Harris doesn’t gulp gas.

I’ll take those odds, Sarge said as he placed a twenty on the bar. I long for the days when we actually held an execution.

Been twenty-five years since the last one, the bartender said as his eyes motioned toward the front entrance. Danger headed your way.

Framed in the open swinging doors was a tall and lean old woman. Her hair was sparse—just tufts of scraggly white that she covered up with a red and gold bandana. Liver spots dotted the back of her hands like large, misshapen freckles.

The pallor of her face matched her hair. Her lips were almost nonexistent; two thin lines of flesh bulked up by lipstick. The only thing about her that didn’t seem dead was her eyes. They shone with intenseness and darted with inquisitiveness.

She wore a colorful, red Hawaiian Mumu covered with white orchids, with long sleeves trimmed at the wrists in lace. Her footwear was brown sandals.

She took the barstool next to Sarge.

Good morning Miss Miller, Sarge said, how are you today?

Cut the crap, she snarled as she held up two fingers with one hand while waving at the bartender with the other.

Anything else, Becky? the bartender asked as he delivered two pints of ale.

Yes, there’s a couple of things else, she said as she gave him the finger. My name is Rebecca. I hate Becky and you know it. There goes your tip! And you know I only drink white wine.

Only time you buy is when you want something, Sarge said as he slid her beer in front of his.

The bartender placed a glass of white wine in front of Rebecca.

Kind of light on the pour, the old lady said as she held the glass up in front of her eyes.

Kind of early for—

Take it to an AA meeting! she snapped as she turned to Sarge. I assigned Tom Boy a job. She’s balking.

My granddaughter’s balking at an assignment? Subject must piss her off.

The subject is crime and punishment.

That’s what her column’s about. What’s the problem?

The couple bent close to each other for a full minute, engaged in animated conversation.

It’s embarrassing, Sarge said. "I don’t blame her for saying no."

I hired her as a favor to you, Rebecca whispered as she tapped her wine glass against his beer mug. Payback time. Will you help?

Tom Boy won’t do it and I don’t blame her.

I pick her assignments.

You want her to open an old and painful wound just to sell a few extra papers?

She’s a pro.

No one wants to expose a huge and, Sarge said as he raised his voice, "humiliating failure to the world."

That story makes a big point about the death penalty.

Which is?

Her screw-up involved a crime so revoltingly odious that it’s the perfect example of why the time between sentencing and execution must be shortened. One appeal for incompetence then gas the bastard.

Where’s Tom Boy?

Death Row—talking to your old executioner pal Zeke.

Chapter 3

Holy Thursday morning, San Quentin Prison

I know your grandfather and have for decades, Zeke said.

How? Clancy asked. He’s a retired cop, you’re—

Occasionally, your granddad would transport a condemned back here from the courthouse, after attending an appeal. Are you conducting an interview or not?

What were you doing before I arrived?

Cleanin’ the windows and a paintin’ the chamber, Zeke answered. Lookin’ good, real good.

Why so happy? she asked.

Because it’s lookin’ good; can’t disappoint you spectators.

"But why happy?"

Because the murdering prick’s finally a gettin’ his.

Do you have to enjoy what you’re doing?

Depends. I’ve worked here since nineteen sixty. Some of those men knew how to die. No fear. Took it like a man.

Clancy glanced at the two metal chairs inside the chamber, each fitted with chest, arm and leg restraints. Heart-monitor wire connectors dangled down on the wall beside each chair.

Like a man? she asked.

You bet, but some made me sick, the cowards.

An example?

The last time this thing was used, the man was pathetic. He screamed for an hour before his time came. Couldn’t even order a decent last meal. You can order anything you want and he orders fried chicken and French bread. What a waste.

"Maybe that’s what he wanted?"

No mashed potatoes, no salad, no corn on the cob? How can you eat fried chicken without the extras?

Maybe he wasn’t hungry?

For that I gave thanks.

Because he ate fried chicken?

"For not eatin’ a big meal. Some of them order two or three entrees. We had one guy—God what a tub of lard—who ordered filet mignon, swordfish steak, and Cornish game hen. Ate red potatoes, baked potato, and rice pilaf—all smothered with butter and sour cream. Had an artichoke, asparagus tips, and broccoli—all