JUST IN: Florida Electrocutes Child Killer Who Mocked His Victims | Last Words & Last Meal
So, this execution took place in Florida State Prison, Starke. A man is about to be electrocuted. The switch will soon be turned on. His name is Arthur Frederick Goode III, 30 years old, strapped into Florida’s electric chair.
Convicted of murdering children—boys aged 9, 10, and 11 across two states. Three victims. Three families destroyed. It was a case so disturbing that even hardened killers on death row had signed a petition demanding he be moved away from them.
For years, this man had felt nothing. He wrote cruel letters to the grieving parents of his victims—not apologies, but taunts. He sat in front of reporters the night before his execution, cracking jokes and grinning. He told the world he had no remorse, not one drop. But then, something happened in that execution chamber that nobody saw coming. Seconds before 2,000 volts tore through his body, the man who had laughed in the face of justice broke down and wept.
What he said in those final seconds, after years of showing absolutely no remorse, is something no one in that room expected. His case didn’t just shock the public; it went all the way to the United States Supreme Court. He argued that mental illness should have kept him off death row. The court said no.
This is the story of Arthur Frederick Goode III. From the first warning signs no one acted on, to the electric chair.
Before we get into this story, if you are new here, welcome. In this channel, we cover real cases, real people, and real failures that the world needs to talk about. Hit that like button and subscribe to this channel so you never miss a new case. And if you have been here before, you already know what we do. Let’s get into it.
The First Victim: Jason Verdow
Cape Coral, Florida, 1976. A quiet town built for families, tree-lined streets, children playing outside, and parents who felt safe letting their kids walk to the bus stop. Jason Verdow was 9 years old.
On the morning of March 5th, 1976, Jason left home like any other day. An ordinary boy in an ordinary neighborhood. The kind of morning where nothing is supposed to go wrong. He never came back.
Court records confirm that Arthur Frederick Goode III encountered Jason near his home, lured him into the woods, sexually assaulted him, and strangled him to death. His parents waited for a son who would never walk through their front door again. The horror of learning what happened to their little boy in those woods is something no parent should ever have to carry.
A Trail of Horror Across State Lines
But Goode did not stop there. He traveled back to Baltimore, Maryland. There, he abducted 10-year-old Billy Arthurs. Then, in Washington, D.C., he encountered 11-year-old Kenneth Dawson. He took both boys with him on a bus to Falls Church, Virginia.
Kenneth Dawson had no connection to Goode, no warning, and no chance. He was murdered in Falls Church, with Billy Arthurs standing right there, forced to watch.
Billy Arthurs survived. He was physically unharmed when police found him. But what he witnessed that day in Virginia—the murder of Kenneth Dawson—is something no 10-year-old should ever see. It was Billy’s survival that broke the case open. A woman recognized him from a missing person’s report and contacted police immediately. That one moment changed everything.
One father of a victim later asked the state for a front-row seat at Goode’s execution. The state said no.
These were not targeted victims. Goode did not know these boys. There was no personal connection, no prior relationship. These were stranger abductions driven purely by predatory fixation. And that, more than anything, is what makes this case so deeply chilling.
Warning Signs and System Failures
Arthur Frederick Goode III was born on March 28th, 1954, in Hyattsville, Maryland. From the outside, there was nothing remarkable about him. But behind closed doors, the warning signs started early, and they never stopped.
Courts and prison officials later described Goode as borderline intellectually disabled. His own father did not sugarcoat it. His exact words about his son were, “Crazier than hell and dumber than a box of rocks.” That is not just a colorful quote; it is the assessment of a father who watched his son deteriorate for years and could not stop it.
By his teenage years, Goode was already displaying behavior consistent with pedophilia. It escalated. He was arrested more than once. Each time, his parents posted bail. Each time, he was cycled back into the community, back near children, with no meaningful intervention. The charges mounted. Court records document multiple child abuse incidents before 1976. He molested a 9-year-old boy and an 11-year-old boy, both on record.
In 1975, the courts finally acted—or tried to. Goode was sentenced to 5 years of probation on the condition that he receive psychological treatment at Spring Grove Hospital Center in Baltimore. It was the system’s final attempt to intervene. He admitted himself. Then, after only a few days, he simply walked out.
Nobody stopped him. Nobody tracked him. No alarm was raised, no officer was dispatched, and no one followed up on his probation conditions. There was no enforcement mechanism in place to bring him back. He simply left and traveled south to Cape Coral, Florida, where his parents had recently relocated. That move gave him a destination, a roof over his head, and a fresh community of unsuspecting families.
Here is the part that is hardest to accept: Authorities in Maryland, Florida, and Virginia were not effectively communicating with each other. Goode crossed state lines freely. His history in Maryland did not follow him to Florida in any meaningful way. No one in Cape Coral knew what he had done. No one was watching him. By early 1976, Goode was living in Cape Coral, unsupervised, untreated, and carrying a documented history of child predation.
A year later, three children crossed his path.
The Modus Operandi
There were no accomplices in this case, no co-conspirators, and no one who helped plan, fund, or carry out the crimes. Arthur Frederick Goode III acted entirely alone. But that does not mean there was no pattern. There was, and understanding that pattern is key to understanding how he was able to do what he did.
Goode targeted strangers, specifically young boys. He did not hunt people he knew. He approached children in public spaces and used manipulation to gain their trust and their proximity. Court records confirm that luring was his method. He did not use a weapon he had sourced in advance. In Jason Verdow’s case, strangulation was the cause of death—opportunistic, hands-on, requiring nothing but physical access to the child.
His movement was deliberate. After each crime, he fled, crossing state lines, putting distance between himself and the investigation. Court records document him traveling with Billy Arthurs and Kenneth Dawson by bus from Washington, D.C., to Falls Church, Virginia. Think about that for a moment. A man with a documented history of child abuse traveling openly on public transportation with two abducted boys beside him. No one stopped him. No one raised an alarm.
His pattern was consistent: Abuse, flee, abduct again. A cycle made possible by weak supervision and poor communication between state authorities. Even his letter-writing behavior fits this pattern. While on death row, Goode wrote to schoolteachers seeking child pen pals. He was, in every sense, always searching for access—before the crimes and after them.
Billy Arthurs, the 10-year-old who survived, was never part of any plan. But his survival became the one thing Goode could not control, and it cost him everything.
Arrest and Arrogance
When officers arrested him, he did not cry. He did not deny anything. He looked at them and said, “You can’t do nothing to me. I’m sick.”
That one sentence tells you everything about how Arthur Frederick Goode III saw himself. Not as a murderer, not as a predator, but as someone the system could not touch. He was wrong. Goode was in custody. Two boys were dead. One had survived.
The families of Jason Verdow and Kenneth Dawson were now learning the full details of what had happened to their sons. Not just that they were gone, but how. The specifics—the woods, the bus ride, the things done to their children before the end. That kind of knowledge does not leave a parent, ever.
Goode showed no remorse—not in the moment of arrest, not in the hours that followed. He repeated the same line he had given arresting officers: “You can’t do nothing to me. I’m sick.” Not as an admission of guilt, but as a calculated shield. His parents were notified. Almost immediately, they began building a mental illness defense. They believed his condition should protect him from the harshest consequences.
There was no financial motive in this case, no insurance, no personal grudge. What followed his arrest was defined entirely by grief, legal proceedings, and Goode’s deeply disturbing indifference.
From inside prison, he began writing letters. Not to apologize—he wrote to the families of Jason Verdow and Kenneth Dawson, boasting about what he had done, reopening wounds that had barely begun to close. Prison officials eventually cut off his contact with the victims’ families, but the damage had already been done.
The Trials: Sane and Guilty
Two states, two dead children, two separate investigations. In Florida, Cape Coral police and state prosecutors began building their case around the murder of 9-year-old Jason Verdow. In Virginia, Fairfax County authorities handled the murder of 11-year-old Kenneth Dawson independently. The cases moved on parallel tracks—same perpetrator, different jurisdictions, different courts.
Goode did not make the investigation difficult. He had no alibi to offer and made no serious attempt to deny what he had done. His strategy was not innocence; it was mental illness. He leaned on his diagnosis—borderline intellectual disability—as the reason he should not face the full weight of the law.
Virginia moved first. The jury heard the mental illness argument. They rejected it. They found Goode sane, and they found him guilty. He was sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of Kenneth Dawson. That “sane” finding mattered enormously. It was a direct rejection of the mental illness shield his parents had fought to build around him.
Florida came next. The state pursued the death penalty for the murder of Jason Verdow. In a move that still stands out in this case, Goode was permitted to represent himself at trial. No attorney spoke for him. He stood in that courtroom and conducted his own defense—a decision that reflected both his arrogance and the legal system’s obligation to honor a defendant’s right to self-representation. It did not help him.
On March 21st, 1977, Arthur Frederick Goode III was sentenced to death.
The courts had heard the mental illness argument twice. They had rejected it twice. His borderline intellectual disability was acknowledged, but it was not considered sufficient grounds to exempt him from capital punishment. He began appealing immediately. That legal battle would stretch on for seven long years.
His case eventually reached the United States Supreme Court in a landmark appeal known as Wainwright v. Goode. The appeal argued that an aggravating factor used in his sentencing was inconsistent with the applicable statute. A federal circuit court in Atlanta agreed and initially overturned the Florida death sentence, sending it back to a United States District Court in Florida. After further proceedings, the death sentence was reinstated.
The Most Hated Man on Death Row
Arthur Frederick Goode III spent 7 years on Florida’s death row. And in that time, he managed to become the most hated man in the entire institution. That is not a small statement. Florida’s death row housed some of the most dangerous criminals in American history. But even among them, even among convicted killers, Goode was despised.
Fellow inmates signed a petition demanding he be removed from their section. Prison officials moved him to Q-wing in isolation. At one point, his cell neighbor was Ted Bundy. That detail alone tells you everything about the kind of company kept on Florida’s death row.
Throughout all of it, Goode kept writing letters, giving interviews, and making statements that destroyed any remaining public sympathy. From inside his cell, Goode wrote every single day—10 to 15 letters at a time to schoolteachers, journalists, and public officials, always searching for access to children through correspondence. The abuse did not stop with the crimes; he found ways to continue it from behind bars.
In 1984, just 1 month before his execution, he sat for an interview with filmmaker John Waters for the Baltimore City Paper. He did not express guilt. Instead, he described his crimes as a “protest against society.” Whatever sympathy existed vanished.
In the days leading up to April 5th, 1984, Goode’s lawyers filed in every court still available to them. Goode himself wrote a letter to the Washington Post demanding the execution proceed on schedule—a remarkable act from a man whose own lawyers were fighting to save his life. No judge stopped it. No governor stepped in. No court granted a final stay. Governor Bob Graham reviewed clemency; he declined to intervene. The sentence stood.
The Final 24 Hours
The night before his execution, prison officials did something rare: they granted media access. Goode held what was essentially a press conference. He joked with reporters. He laughed. He showed no remorse, none at all. He looked into the cameras and said, “If I ever got out, I would go after as many children as I could.” When asked if he had a final request, he smiled and said, “I want Ricky Schroder to sit on my lap when I’m strapped in.”
Then came the phone call. His parents called to say goodbye, and something in Goode shifted. Prison officials noticed it immediately. The jokes stopped. The bravado drained out of him. He became anxious, somber. He did not sleep that night.
At 4:45 in the morning on April 5th, 1984, his last meal arrived: Steak, a baked potato, cauliflower, broccoli, half a gallon of ice cream, and a dozen chocolate chip cookies. A prison spokesman later said he ate with gusto. Father Joseph Menard John visited before dawn. According to the chaplain, Goode said he was ready to die.
Then a shower, clean clothes, and the uniform he would die in.
At 6:55 in the morning, he was brought into the execution chamber. Head shaved, conductive gel applied to his scalp, leather straps cinched tight across his chest. Twelve witnesses seated and waiting.
The man who had laughed with reporters less than 12 hours earlier was pale, nervous, and shaking. He asked the warden quietly, “Will it hurt?”
The warden asked if he had any final words. At first, nothing came. Then his voice broke. “I’m very upset. I don’t know what to say, really.” A pause. “I want to apologize to my parents.” Then, softer still, “I have remorse for the two boys. It’s difficult for me to show it.”
2,000 Volts. At 7:08 in the morning on April 5th, 1984, Arthur Frederick Goode III was pronounced dead.
The Aftermath
Years later, Warden Richard Dugger was asked to reflect on the execution. His words were simple and direct: “Arthur Goode was the hardest. I had some real reservations about that one. Let’s face it, he was a nut.”
When it was over, the families were left to pick up the pieces. Jason Verdow’s father had asked the state for one thing: a front-row seat at the execution, a chance to witness justice with his own eyes. The state said no. Even in death, the system made decisions about how his family was allowed to grieve.
Billy Arthurs, the 10-year-old boy who survived, never asked to be part of the story. But his survival changed everything. One woman recognized his face on a street. That moment ended Goode’s trail of destruction. What Billy’s life looked like after Falls Church, Virginia, in 1976 is not part of the public record, but what he carried from that day forward is not difficult to imagine.
The legal legacy of this case lives on. Wainwright v. Goode is still cited in death penalty case law today. A convicted child murderer’s name permanently embedded in American constitutional history.
And then there is the prevention failure. Goode had been arrested, convicted, and sent to treatment. He walked out after a few days. Nobody stopped him. Three boys paid for that failure with their lives. The man who told arresting officers, “You can’t do nothing to me,” the man who believed his illness made him untouchable, sat in a chair, shook, wept, and apologized to his parents.
In the end, something could be done. The real question is not whether justice was served; it is whether we learned anything. Because the system failed long before those murders happened, and systems like that still exist today.
What moment in the story hit you hardest? Was it the failures before the murders, or those final seconds in the execution chamber? Tell me in the comments below. And if this story made you think, like, subscribe, and hit the bell. New cases drop every week.
