“It won’t be a problem,” Diogenes said, careful to sound the correct note of grim resolution, to keep any hint of eagerness from his voice. He placed his medical bag on a nearby table. “Justice must be served. And we all know how much the governor likes his executions to proceed on time. It would be inhumane — for everybody concerned — to reschedule.”
“My thoughts exactly.” The warden nodded. “If you’re ready, then, we can proceed.”
Diogenes glanced at his watch: eight thirty precisely. “I’m ready.”
The warden turned and signaled to the guards, who exited the room. They were going, Diogenes knew, to collect Lucius Garey and bring him into the execution chamber.
39
Five minutes later, Garey was wheeled into the chamber by the guards. A spiritual adviser dressed in black, of generic affiliation, followed. The subject lay on a heavy stainless-steel gurney, restrained by wrist and ankle straps of thick leather. The heart monitor, Diogenes noticed, was already connected.
“You want a flunky to do the venipuncture?” Dr. LeBronk asked.
Diogenes shook his head. “Might as well go soup to nuts.”
He stepped through the door into the execution chamber. The far wall was obscured by curtains. Garey craned his thick neck around to get a look at the agent of his impending death. He was a big bull of a man, his skull shaven, denim eyes small and pale and nearly expressionless, the skin of his arms, neck, and chest a mass of blurry blue prison tats. It was hard to tell what emotions he was experiencing: fear, anger, disbelief seemed to play across his face, one after the other.
Diogenes glanced around, refamiliarizing himself with the room, going through the upcoming procedure in his head. Reaching for a jar of cotton balls, he swabbed the inside of the man’s right arm with alcohol.
The IV line ran from the drug administration room onto a rack that stood by the gurney. Diogenes tied a tourniquet, flicked the back of a fingernail against Garey’s skin to get a good cubital vein. He had some difficulty due to needle scarring, but in short time found the vein and slid the IV needle home. Then he snapped off the tourniquet.
Garey watched the procedure without curiosity.
Diogenes went through the final preliminary steps, then withdrew from the gurney into the doorway of the drug administration room. Once he was out of sight, a modesty sheet was placed over Garey’s gown and legs, extending as high as his midriff. Then the curtains on the far wall drew back with a faint whirring sound, exposing two large panels of one-way glass. Garey couldn’t see the witnesses beyond, but they could see him.
There was a faint rasp over the loudspeaker system. “Silence in the witness area, please,” came the voice of the warden. A brief pause. “Does the condemned have any last words?”
“Fuck you,” said Garey. There was now nothing left on his face but anger. He spat in the direction of the one-way glass.
In the drug administration room, Diogenes signed paperwork handed him by the warden. He then checked the drug delivery apparatus, which consisted of a number of syringes, already prepped and loaded by trained prison flunkies. Instead of the usual two sets, tonight there was only one. Along with several other states, Florida used a combination of three drugs: a controversial cocktail that underwent frequent updating, based on the availability of the drugs. The intended result, however, never varied. The first drug would induce unconsciousness; the second would cause paralysis, halting respiration; and the third would stop the heart. They were always introduced serially.
Diogenes examined the drugs and dosages in the delivery system: one hundred milligrams of midazolam hydrochloride, followed by equally LD-excessive doses of vecuronium bromide and potassium chloride. He picked up the bulky, state-mandated execution forms and filled out the first of two sections, including his name, the name of the subject, his physician number, execution license serial number, and drugs to be administered.
“Five minutes,” the warden said.
Diogenes broke the paper seals around the syringes, then fitted the syringes tightly into the three IV lines, one after the other. In the execution chamber, Garey was beginning to shout now: angry outbursts, mostly incoherent save for curses. Diogenes paid no attention as he turned on the cardiac monitor in order to observe the subject’s heart rhythm. It was considerably elevated — as might be expected.
A death house guard stepped into the room.
“Final statement?” the warden asked wearily, going through the standard checklist.
“If you want to call it that, yes, sir,” the guard answered.
“Governor’s office?”
“Green light.”
All was silent in the room save for Garey’s expletives, louder now, filtering through the partially open door. The warden watched the wall clock tick slowly through one minute, then two. And then he turned to Diogenes. “The execution may commence,” he said.
Diogenes nodded. Turning toward the first syringe, he injected the midazolam. The colorless liquid went down the IV tube, which snaked — along with several other tubes — through a small circular hole into the execution chamber.
“Constance,” he whispered to himself, almost reverently.
At first, Garey’s loud, harsh vocalizing remained unchanged. Then it grew slow and garbled. Within thirty seconds it was little more than a sporadic, incoherent mutter.
Diogenes depressed the second syringe, introducing the paralytic.
All eyes in the room were trained either on the partially open door to the execution chamber, or on the small observation window set into the nearby wall. Nobody noticed as Diogenes slipped one hand into the pocket of his lab coat, palmed another syringe he had already taken out of his medical bag and placed there, inserted its needle into the injection valve of the third catheter, and introduced its contents into the IV tube. Just as quickly, he replaced the now-empty syringe in his pocket.
This fourth, secret part of the lethal cocktail was one of Diogenes’s own devising: a combination of sodium benzoate and ammonium sulfate, preservatives used — among other things — to keep meat fresh.
A moment later there were gasps in the room, followed by a series of murmurings.
“Look at him,” said the death house guard. “He’s flopping around like a fish. Never seen that before.”
“It’s almost as if he’s in severe pain,” said Dr. LeBronk, his voice strained.
“How’s that possible?” The warden swore under his breath. Then he turned to Diogenes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing at my end. Everything’s in order. I’m about to introduce the potassium chloride.”
“Hurry,” said the warden.
Slowly and carefully, Diogenes depressed the plunger of the third syringe, the contents of which would induce cardiac arrest and cause death. Given the unsanctioned chemicals introduced into his veins, the murderer was perhaps suffering more than was normally the case. Far more than normal, most likely. However, it was important that his harvest be as fresh as possible.
The plunger reached the hilt. Now it was just a matter of time. Diogenes watched the heart monitor begin to slow inexorably as, in the execution chamber, Lucius Garey struggled feebly, gargling and gasping for air, in evident torment despite the sedative and paralytic. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. He took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed the Old Voice down. It took a full twelve minutes for cardiac activity to cease completely.