In this video, we will look at every person executed in the United States during the month of May. We’ll walk through the crimes that put them on death row, the final words they spoke, and the last meals they requested before facing execution. But before we start, let us know in the comments where you were watching this from.
On May 1st, 2025, after spending more than 20 years on death row, Jeffrey Glenn Hutchinson was executed by lethal injection in Florida. But to understand what got him on death row in the first place, we need to go back to the night of September 11th, 1998 to a quiet neighborhood in Crest View, Florida, where four lives were wiped out in a single night.
Inside a small house, a woman and her three children were shot execution style in the head. No mercy, no chance to run. And the killer, it wasn’t a stranger. It was someone they knew, someone they trusted, someone who lived under the same roof. The man was Jeffrey Hutchinson, a former Army Ranger who had once fought in the Gulf War.
At the time, he was living with his girlfriend, Renee Fleherty, and her three children, Jeffrey, Amanda, and Logan. From the outside, their home seemed peaceful. Jeffrey and Renee had what looked like a good relationship. He cared about the kids, treated them like they were his own. He played with them, helped raise them, and was a part of their everyday lives. He loved the kids.
He loved Renee. At least that’s what everyone thought. There weren’t obvious red flags and no major fights that friends or family talked about. If something darker was brewing inside Jeffrey, he never let it show. Not until that night. Around 700 p.m. Renee made a casual call to a friend. The call started out normal and Renee sounded happy. Jeffrey was in the house, too.
At one point, her friend even heard Jeffrey in the background sounding cheerful. Hey, Cindy. How are you? Everything seemed fine. But by 7:30 p.m., everything changed. Renee called another friend, and this time her voice cracked the second she spoke. We had a fight, she said. When her friend asked what happened, Renee admitted it was bad.
Really bad. They had a big fight. And Jeffrey had packed up some clothes, grabbed his guns, and stormed out. “He’s gone,” Renee said. She thought it was over. She thought the worst had already passed, but it hadn’t. After storming out, Jeffrey didn’t go far. He ended up at a local bar, a place where he and Renee were regular faces.
But this time he drank hard and vented to anyone who would listen. He told the bartender, someone who knew them both, that Renee was pissed off and they just needed time to cool down. But he wasn’t cooling down, not even close. Instead, he got back into his truck, a Mossberg 12- gauge shotgun sitting beside him, and drove home.
Less than an hour after storming out, he walked back in and opened fire. Inside that small, quiet house, Jeffrey shot Renee first, once in the head. Then he moved from room to room, hunting down the children he had once tucked into bed. He found Jeffrey first, the oldest at just 9 years old. Jeffrey shot him in the chest. But the boy didn’t die right away.
So Jeffrey stood over him and fired again. This time a bullet to the head. Amanda, 7 years old, and Logan, only four, never stood a chance. Each of them was killed with a single shotgun blast, ending their lives in an instant. After it was over, Jeffrey picked up the phone and called 911. 911. What’s your emergency? Yes, ma’am. Ma’am. Yes.
I just shot my family. Okay, sir. Stay in line with me. Sir, I love my What’s your I love my family. When officers arrived at the house, they found him sitting in the garage with a phone in his hand, still connected to the 911 operator. He didn’t resist. He didn’t run. He just stood up and let them take him in.
Inside, the horror waited. Renee and her youngest two, Amanda and Logan, were found together in the bedroom. Jeffrey’s body lay in the living room alone. At first, Jeffrey told a strange story. He claimed two men wearing ski masks had broken in, killed everyone, and ran off. But the evidence told a different story.
Police found gunshot residue on Jeffrey’s hands. They also found shotgun shells on the kitchen counter and tissue from Jeffrey’s body was found on his leg. There were no signs of forced entry. No evidence of anyone else stepping inside that night. Everything pointed to one person, Jeffrey Hutchinson. But who exactly was Jeffrey? He was born on November 6th, 1962 and grew up in Florida in a big noisy house full of brothers and sisters.
Life at home wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t the kind of place anyone would have called dangerous either. He was diagnosed with ADHD as a kid, but people who knew Jeffrey back then said he had a pretty normal childhood. After high school, he bounced between jobs. He worked as a mechanic for a while, then picked up shifts as a security guard.
His bosses didn’t complain. He showed up on time, did what was asked, and kept his head down. He was the kind of employee you didn’t have to worry about. Then he joined the military. Jeffrey trained as a paratrooper and later earned a spot as an Army Ranger. He fought overseas during the Gulf War, including in Operation Desert Storm in 1991.
But when he came back home, something had changed. His family saw it before he even said a word. He was angrier now, quieter. He couldn’t sleep. And when sleep wouldn’t come, the drinking did. The army honorably discharged him. But civilian life didn’t heal anything. His first marriage ended in divorce, and his second marriage didn’t last long either.
Whatever demons he brought back from the war, he never shook them off. And over time, it only got worse. Then he met Renee Fleerty, a 32-year-old single mother, doing her best to build a good life for her kids. She worked hard and kept her life steady. And after some time together, they packed up and moved from Washington to Florida.
For about a year and a half, everything seemed to be going great. But under the surface, something inside Jeffrey was cracking. And on that night in September, it snapped. After the murders, Jeffrey’s story kept changing. At first, he said he’d been drunk and blacked out. Later, he claimed it was a crime of passion, not something he had planned.
The trial began in early 2001, and his defense team tried everything they had. Gulf War trauma, his alcohol abuse, mental illness. They brought in experts who said Jeffree was bipolar, that his mind wasn’t right, and that he wasn’t fully in control when he pulled the trigger. But the jury didn’t buy it. The judge later wrote that there had been no correlation between the murders of these victims and the defendant’s diagnosis of Gulf War illness.
Whatever Jeffrey had been through, it didn’t explain what he did to Renee and her children. And after 9 days of testimony, they found him guilty of all four murders. At sentencing, the judge gave him life in prison for killing Renee. He said Jeffrey’s military service and lack of a criminal record weighed in his favor, at least a little.
But when it came to the children, the judge didn’t hold back. Because of how young and helpless they were, the punishment had to match the horror. Jeffrey got three death sentences, one for each child he murdered. He was moved to Florida’s death row where he stayed year after year appeal after appeal. Jeffrey argued that he hadn’t gotten a fair trial, that the death penalty was wrong in his case, that his mental health hadn’t been fully considered.
But every court that reviewed his case said the same thing. He deserved to die for what he did. He spent 26 years on death row. Jeffrey’s execution was scheduled for May 1st, 2025. For his final meal, he requested salmon, mahi mahi, asparagus, baked potato, and iced tea. He had three visitors that day, including his sister and a spiritual adviser.
That evening, he was led into the death chamber and strapped to the gurnie. When asked if he had any final words, he said nothing. But as the process began, witnesses saw his lips move, soft, almost inaudible, as if he were talking to himself or whispering a prayer. The state chose lethal injection as the method to execute him.
His legs shook sporadically, and he seemed to have body spasms for several minutes before falling still. The process took a little more than 15 minutes. He was declared dead at 8:15 p.m. Jeffrey Hutchinson was 62 years old. 2 weeks later, the next scheduled execution drew far more attention. This time, it was in Florida, and the man at the center of it was serial killer Glenn Rogers.
Glenn had many names. To some, he was the Kasanova killer. To others, the cross-country killer. He wasn’t just another name on death row. He once claimed to have committed more than 70 murders, but long before courtrooms and mugsh shots, Glenn was just a kid from Hamilton, Ohio. And that’s where the story began.
Born on July 15th, 1962, Glenn was one of seven siblings raised in a home that could barely contain the chaos. His father worked at a paper mill, and his red-haired mother ruled the house with a heavy hand. Glenn was smart in his own way, but never seemed to settle. He was expelled from school by 16.
And at the age of 17, he was already married to a 14-year-old girl who he got pregnant. They got two kids together, but the marriage didn’t last. His wife accused him of abuse and filed for divorce. From there, things got worse. Glenn drifted. He drank, he fought, and he stole. By the early 90s, he had already developed a reputation as a manipulator.
He was charming to strangers, but dangerous to anyone who got too close. In 1993, he drifted back into town, low on money and out of options. But his mother wouldn’t take him in. Instead, Mark Peters did. A 71-year-old Air Force veteran, retired electrician, and family friend, Mark offered Glenn a room and a second chance.
He trusted him, but that cost him his life. Not long after Glenn moved in, Mark disappeared. At first, there wasn’t much to go on. His car was gone. His guns, his coin collection also gone, and so was Glenn. Police spent months trying to piece together what happened, but they came up empty. Then, in January 1994, a tip came from inside Glenn’s own family.
His brother pointed detectives to an old hunting cabin across the state line in Kentucky. Inside they found a chair buried under furniture and tied to it were the decaying remains of Mark Peters. The scene told its own story. Mark hadn’t left. He’d been bound, hidden, and left to rot by the man he once trusted enough to share his home with. But Glenn wasn’t done.
And that was just the beginning of his killing spree. On the night of September 28th, 1995 in Vanise, California, Glenn crossed paths with Sandra Gallagher at a bar. She was 33, a mother of three, lucky, and ready to celebrate a $1,250 lottery win. But from across the room, Glenn wasn’t celebrating. He was watching her.
Glenn always watched, not for beauty, but for weakness. He studied body language, searching for cracks. A woman who held herself with confidence, he’d pass. But someone with softer shoulders, a tired smile, maybe a little too trusting. That’s who he was waiting for. And Sandra didn’t see it coming. By the time she stepped onto the dance floor, Glenn had already made his choice.
They left together, and just hours later, her body was found inside her burning truck. She had been raped and strangled to death, and the fire was only set to cover up the crime. But by the time Sandra Gallagher’s body was found, Glenn was already in Jackson, Mississippi. He kept a low profile, avoided using his real name, and skipped bars where he might be recognized.
A federal warrant was already out for him, but he didn’t know it yet. In Jackson, Glenn drifted from one cheap motel to the next. And in early October, just weeks after Sandra’s murder, Glenn showed up at the Mississippi State Fair. And that’s where he met Linda Price. Linda was 34, a single mother of two teenage children, and a rough history when it came to men.
But Glenn didn’t look like trouble, at least not at first. He was charming, easy to talk to, and knew exactly what to say. Within days of meeting, he moved in with her. Then on November 3rd, everything went silent. Linda’s family started to worry. She hadn’t called, hadn’t visited, and wasn’t answering the phone. And when they couldn’t reach her, they called the police and asked for a welfare check.
What officers found inside was horrific. Linda was lying face down in the bathtub, naked and submerged in shallow water. Her body showed four deep stab wounds, two in the chest, two in the back, and her throat had been slashed. Her red dots and pickup was gone, and so were her purse, jewelry, and the man she’d been living with.
The scene was cold and methodical. Whoever killed her had tried to clean up. A bloody mop sat in the kitchen sink. Crumpled, blood soaked paper towels filled the trash, and on the floor, smeared streaks told the story of someone who had started to clean, but quickly realized the mess was more than they could hide.
And one detail stood out. On the bathroom mirror written in lipstick was a message. Glenn, we found you. On the surface, it looked like someone had come looking for Glenn, found Linda instead, and killed her as a warning. At least that’s what the killer wanted it to look like. But detectives weren’t buying it. The message felt staged, sloppy, a poor attempt to send them in the wrong direction.
And it didn’t work. But once again, Glenn was on the move. After Linda’s murder, he vanished again. This time boarding a bus headed west. He ended up in Bossier City, Louisiana, a quiet suburb outside Shrivefeport. There, in a local bar, he struck up a conversation with 37year-old Andy Sutton.
They talked, hit it off, and by the end of the night, she invited him home. But just like that, he left, and no one knows why. Glenn boarded another bus and headed south to Florida. In Tampa, he checked into a room at the Tampa 8 Inn and paid for three nights in cash. On November 5th, he walked into a bar called Showtown USA.
Four women were sitting together after their shifts, laughing and letting the night wind down. Glenn spotted one of them almost immediately. Tina Marie Cribs. She was 34, a mother of two, and worked as a maid at an inn in Apollo Beach. He turned on the charm. Glenn was fit, confident, and quick with stories. He danced, he bought drinks, and he made sure everyone noticed him.
“He was picking us out like oranges,” one of the women later said. “And she was right in more ways than one. Every woman Glenn had targeted so far had something in common. They all had red hair, just like his mother.” Before the night ended, he asked Tina for a ride back to his motel, and she agreed. Maybe she trusted him.
Maybe she just didn’t want to be rude. She ordered one last drink, turned to her friends, and said she’d be back in 10 minutes. But she never returned. 2 days after Tina vanished, police found her body in room 119 of the Tampa 8 Inn. She lay face down in the bathtub. Blood splattered across the tile.
Someone had stabbed her multiple times, both front and back. Like the others, her body had been rinsed clean and her purse, diamond ring, and gold watch were gone. Witnesses remembered seeing her with a man, Glenn Rogers. And one clerk said Glenn walked out of the room alone, told them not to clean just yet, and left the do not disturb sign hanging on the knob.
Then he vanished in Tina’s white Ford Festiva. But Glenn’s trail wasn’t as clean as he thought. Investigators in several states began connecting the dots. California, Mississippi, and now Florida. The same pattern, the same man. America’s Most Wanted aired a segment featuring his face, and newspapers across the country picked up the story.
Detectives canvased carnival sites around Tampa, hoping one of the workers might have seen him. But for a while, Glenn stayed ahead. He circled back to Louisiana, back to Andy Sutton. She had missed him, and when he showed up again, she welcomed him without hesitation. They went out drinking, going from one bar to another, laughing like nothing had changed.
People remembered how well he treated her. He smiled, joked, and fit in so easily. No one suspected what was coming. That changed on the morning of November 9th when Andy’s roommate came home to a nightmare. Andy was lying across a leaking water bed, blood soaking into the mattress. The wounds were brutal. Her chest had been torn open with a large blade, and the autopsy later found six more stab wounds in her back. And once again, Glenn was gone.
He had waited until the roommate fell asleep on the couch before making his move. She didn’t hear a thing, only noticed her purse missing when she woke. But outside, neighbors spotted Glenn loading up a car, the same one he had stolen from his last victim in Florida. And within hours, Louisiana added its name to the growing list of states searching for Glenn Rogers.
That same day, November 9th, 1995, police finally caught up with him in Kentucky. He was still behind the wheel of Tina’s White Ford Festiva, probably trying to hunt down his next victim. But when the police attempted to pull him over, he took off. What followed was a 13-mi chase across the highway until a trooper finally rammed his vehicle off the road.
Glenn was dragged from the car and arrested. His run was over. In 1997, he stood trial for Tina’s murder in Florida and was sentenced to death. Two years later, California put him on trial for the murder of Sandra. The result was the same. another death sentence. And with that, Glenn Rogers became one of the few men in US history facing execution in two different states.
But there’s more to Glenn’s story, at least according to him. In 2012, a documentary aired on cable TV. In it, Glenn claimed he was the one behind the 1994 murders of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman. He said OJ Simpson had hired him to break into Nicole’s home and steal jewelry. According to Glenn, OJ told him, “You may have to kill.
” Glenn’s brother, Clay, backed up parts of the story, saying that Glenn had talked about working for Nicole in 1994. He also claimed that Glenn threatened her and that he later confessed to killing her. But the police didn’t buy it. The LAPD stood firm, issuing a statement that they were confident in the case they built years ago.
Ron Goldman’s father echoed that response. The overwhelming evidence proved that one and only one person murdered Nicole and Ron. That person is OJ Simpson. As for Glenn, the truth is hard to pin down. He has claimed to have killed more than 70 people. But how much of that is real and how much is for attention remains unknown. But one thing was certain.
His time eventually ran out. On May 15th, 2025, after spending 28 years on death row, Glenn Rogers was executed. That morning, Glenn woke up at 3:45 a.m. For his final meal, he requested a pizza, chocolate cake, and a soda. He also had one last visit from his wife. I have looked into this, but further details about his wife and their relationship aren’t available in any public records.
Later that day, he was strapped to the gurnie. When asked for any last words, Glenn looked toward the witnesses and spoke directly to those he loved. His wife, his brothers, his sons, his grandchildren, and a close friend who had helped with his final appeals. Then turning to the victim’s families, he said, “I know there’s a lot of questions that you need answers to.
I promise you in the near future the questions will be answered, and I hope in some way we’ll bring you closure.” He said, “President Trump, keep making America great. I’m ready to go. Then the drugs began to flow. Glenn lay still as the lethal injection started. Within 2 minutes, his eyes closed and his mouth fell open.
As the process continued, his face slowly turned pale. At one point, a staff member grasped him by the shoulders, shook him, and yelled, “Rogers! Rogers!” checking for any sign of consciousness. There was none. Glenn Rogers was pronounced dead at 6:16 p.m. He was 62 years old. Just 5 days later, another execution followed, this time in Indiana.
After nearly 23 years on death row, Benjamin Donnie Richie faced the same fate. But to understand what got him on death row in the first place, we need to go back to where it all started. It was September 29th, 2000 in Beach Grove, Indiana. That evening, a white van had just been reported stolen from a nearby gas station.
And not long after, at the scene of an unrelated traffic incident, officer Matthew Hickeyi spotted the van driving by with three men inside. He ran the plates, confirmed it was the stolen vehicle, and called it in. The chase was on. Two more officers joined the pursuit, Robert Mercury and William Bill Tony. But the van didn’t make it far.
After a short chase, it crashed off the road and into the yard of a quiet neighborhood home. The doors flew open and two of the men bolted. Officer Hickey quickly caught one of them, Michael Greer. But the second man, 20-year-old Benjamin Richie, ran hard. Officer Bill Tony took off after him, chasing him through backyards, over fences, past sheds, and dodging swing sets.
Then suddenly, Benjamin reached for something. He turned, pulled a 9mm Glock, and fired five times. Bill was wearing his bulletproof vest, but one bullet hit just above it, striking him in the upper chest. He managed to fire back once, but then his legs gave out. He collapsed in the grass, his service weapon slipping from his hand.
Officer William Bill Tony died right there in that backyard just one day before his 32nd birthday. He left behind a wife and two young daughters. And he’d only been a police officer for 2 years. For reasons no one fully understood, Benjamin Richie had been carrying a wig that night. Maybe it was part of a plan. Maybe just paranoia. Either way, after the shooting, he tossed both the wig and the gun into a patch of thick brush and disappeared into the dark.
Somehow, he slipped past the perimeter and made it to a friend’s house, still free, at least for the moment. Over a 100 officers, SWAT teams, deputies, and investigators launched a manhunt that stretched through the night. Roads were blocked, neighborhoods locked down. The search for Benjamin Richie was urgent, and no one was going home until he was found.
Hours passed, then the break came. Someone made a call, an anonymous tip that led them straight to a house. And when officers arrived that morning, Benjamin was inside. This time, he didn’t run. He didn’t resist. And they took him into custody without a fight. The house belonged to Michael Moody, the third man from the stolen van, and they arrested him, too.
The manhunt was over, but the real fight inside the courtroom was just beginning. In there, it became clear who Benjamin Richie really was. Born on May 30th, 1980, Benjamin came into a world already stacked against him. He never knew who his real father was, and his mother, Marian Martin, struggled with alcohol and drugs, even while pregnant with him.
She worked as a stripper, moving from place to place, unstable and unreliable. And by the time Benjamin was just 3 years old, she had already abandoned him twice. By the time he started school, the damage was already showing. He acted out, fell behind, and by 9th grade, he dropped out completely. Then at age 10, he landed in a psychiatric hospital where doctors diagnosed him with bipolar disorder and other cognitive problems they believed were rooted in the chaos of his early childhood.
He needed help, but the system didn’t have much to give. In August 1998, just after his 18th birthday, Benjamin was arrested for burglary and sent to prison. By 2000, he was back out, but not free. He was still on probation, still drifting, and his life was far from stable. His troubled life wasn’t behind him. It was just waiting for another chance to catch up.
And on September 29th, 2000, that’s exactly what happened. After his arrest for the shooting of officer Bill Tony, prosecutors wasted no time. And within weeks, Marian County announced they’d be seeking the death penalty. But this wasn’t going to be a quiet case. Benjamin had already given an interview from jail, insisting the shooting was an accident.
He claimed the gun slipped from his hand and that he heard it go off several times by itself as he was running away. One of his friends backed him up. He said Benjamin never meant to pull the trigger, that it all happened too fast. According to him, Benjamin panicked during the chase. He was already on probation, and another arrest could have sent him back to prison for eight more years.
That fear, he said, is what pushed Benjamin over the edge. But the damage was done, and whether anyone believed his version or not, a police officer was dead. On August 10th, the jury came back with their decision. guilty on all counts. Murder, autotheft, possession of an unlicensed firearm, and resisting arrest.
And while in court, things heated up. Officer William Tony’s widow, DD, sat through it all. And later, she told reporters exactly what she wanted, for Benjamin to be executed. Nothing else, she said, would be justice. But Benjamin showed her no respect. During the proceedings, he interrupted her repeatedly, laughed in court, and when she called him a coward, he looked her in the eye and called her the b- word.
There was no remorse, not once. At sentencing, Richie’s lawyers tried to save him. They said he had suffered brain damage, that his mother had used drugs while pregnant, and that he grew up in chaos and never had a chance. They painted a picture of a broken boy who grew into a broken man, but the jury didn’t agree.
They didn’t see a victim. They saw a killer. The prosecution told the jury that suffering doesn’t excuse murder. That plenty of people grow up in chaos and don’t become killers. And in this case, a man had gunned down a police officer in cold blood. Then came the detail that sealed it. Tattooed on Benjamin’s neck was a number 37.
And it wasn’t random. That was Officer Tony’s unit number, a permanent trophy inked into his skin. a reminder he intended to brag about for the rest of his life in prison. But he wouldn’t get that chance. On August 14th, the jury came back with their decision. After just 3 hours of deliberation, the verdict was unanimous.
Benjamin would be sentenced to death. He was transferred to Indiana’s death row. And for most, that would be the end of the story. But for Benjamin, it wasn’t. At least not yet. Thousands of miles away in Sweden, a woman named Ivana watched a documentary about death row inmates.
And something about Benjamin caught her attention. She couldn’t explain it, just that it stayed with her. So, she reached out and her letters turned into conversations. Before long, Ivana flew across the ocean to meet him in person. And there, separated by prison glass, they somehow fell in love. For nearly four years, Ivana returned again and again.
And Indiana’s Department of Correction allowed it, even for a man awaiting execution. And in case you’re wondering, yes, Indiana’s death row is a little different. As you can see here, Benjamin had a real cat walking inside his cell. And that’s not a figure of speech. Death row inmates in Indiana are actually allowed to keep cats as pets.
Why? It’s part of a program aimed at reducing isolation and improving behavior. Anyway, for years, Benjamin appealed again and again, but no one wanted to hear what he said. And then came the date, May 20th, 2025, nearly 23 years after he first entered death row. In his final weeks, Benjamin asked for mercy. He filed for clemency, telling the parole board he was sorry, that he wasn’t the same man who pulled the trigger in 2000, that he still had something left to give, something good.
But no chances were left. At 44 years old, Benjamin Donnie Richie was executed by lethal injection in Indiana. For his last meal, Benjamin chose the tour of Italy from Olive Garden, a plate of chicken parigana, lasagna, and fetuccini alfredo. Just after midnight, the execution process began.
His final words were simple. I love my family, my friends, and all the support I’ve gotten. I hope they all find peace. At 12:46 a.m., Benjamin was pronounced dead. On the same day, May 20th, 2025, Matthew Lee Johnson was executed by lethal injection exactly 13 years after he committed a brutal crime. But what did he do to end up on death row? It was just after 7:00 a.m.
on May 20th, 2012 in Garland, Texas. Nancy Harris had just opened the Whip-in Convenience Store like she’d done countless times before. She was 76 years old, working the early shift, mopping the floor in the quiet morning hours. She was alone when the door swung open and Matthew Johnson walked in. But he wasn’t there to shop.
He was there to rob. In his hand, he carried a plastic bottle filled with lighter fluid and a cigarette lighter in his pocket. He walked past the counter, ignoring the familiar setup of snacks and soft drinks, heading straight for the register. Nancy followed him, telling him he wasn’t allowed back there. She didn’t yell, just firm, like someone used to handling trouble with words.
But Matthew didn’t stop. Instead, he raised the bottle and poured the fluid over her head. He told her to open the cash register. While she did what he asked, he grabbed cigarettes and cash. And the surveillance video also showed him taking her ring, though he later claimed he didn’t remember doing that.
But even after he had what he came for, he didn’t leave. Standing just inches from her, still holding the lighter, Matthew flicked it once, trying, he said, to scare her into backing away. But she didn’t, so he flicked it again and again. The third time, the flame caught. And since her clothes were soaked, she instantly burst into flames.
Matthew didn’t try to put it out. He didn’t even look back. He walked out calmly, paused long enough to grab a piece of candy near the exit, and vanished into the day, leaving Nancy burning behind the counter. Nancy tried to put the flames out herself. She leaned over the sink, splashing water on her burning clothes, desperate to stop the fire, but it wasn’t working.
Her shirt kept burning. So, she tore it off and dropped it to the floor, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t. The flame spread fast and her bra was still on fire. And when she leaned over the sink again, the smoldering shirt on the floor caught her pants leg. Now her lower body was burning too.
Still on fire, Nancy stumbled toward the front of the store. She shoved the doors open and made it outside, screaming for help as smoke poured behind her. Two nearby police officers, Billy Coffee and Anthony Simon, had already seen movement and smoke through the windows of the whip-in. And as they pulled into the parking lot, Nancy came bursting through the doors, engulfed in flames. Officer Coffee didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed a fire extinguisher from his cruiser and ran to her, spraying her down as fast as he could. He fought the fire, clinging to her body while Officer Simon tried to keep her conscious. And when the flames were finally out, she was still alive, barely. In pain, but still speaking, Nancy told them everything.
She said a man had robbed her and poured something on her. He was heavy set African-Amean, wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the hunt. Inside the store, officers found the cash register drawer emptied. It didn’t hold much. About $80 in bills and coins, according to the store manager. That’s what Matthew traded a life for.
A handful of cash, a pack of cigarettes, and some candy. Firefighter and paramedic William Cruz arrived on scene soon after. A police officer waved him over urgently, pointing to the woman lying on the pavement outside the store. William didn’t need to ask what happened. It was obvious.
NY’s face, shoulders, arms, stomach, and legs were covered in burns. Some so deep they destroyed all layers of her skin. She was still conscious, but barely holding on. As he treated her, she kept whispering the same words, barely louder than a breath. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” Then again, “Help me! Help me! Please!” There was panic in her voice, not just fear, but understanding.
Nancy knew exactly how bad it was. At the same time, Matthew was still on the run. He jumped fences, tossed his shirt in a trash can, stole a bicycle off someone’s porch, and disappeared into the neighborhood. Along the way, he smoked another stolen cigarette, hid in bushes, and fought with a man who tried to stop him.
About an hour after the incident, he was spotted by an officer. And after a short-foot chase, he was finally arrested. In his pockets, they found NY’s ring and approximately $76 in bills. Back at the station, Matthew confessed. He admitted everything, robbing the store, taking the cigarettes, setting the fire, but he claimed it was all a mistake.
Said he was high, confused, and that lighting the flame was just a scare tactic, that he never meant for Nancy to get hurt. But no one believed that. The injuries Nancy suffered were horrific. Dr. John Hunt, one of the burn specialists at Parkland Hospital, testified that she had sustained burns over more than 40% of her body with the burns to her upper body ranging second to fourth degree in severity.
Though she couldn’t speak because of the breathing tube in her throat, she was conscious and alert. Nurses said she spelled out words with her fingers, asking questions the best she could. At one point, she asked her nurse if she was going to die. Doctors explained the treatments they were trying.
Skin grafts, medications, supportive care. But when she heard all of that, Nancy shook her head. She didn’t want to fight anymore. Her family respected her wishes and followed what she’d written in her living will. They stopped treatment and 5 days after the attack, Nancy Harris passed away from her burns. She had worked at the convenience store for more than 10 years, living only about a block and a half away.
She had four sons, 11 grandchildren, and seven great-g grandandchildren. At that moment, Matthew was charged with capital murder. And this wasn’t a case where the prosecution had to rely on speculation. The surveillance footage was clear. The bottle of lighter fluid was found, and he had confessed to pouring it over her. He had a lighter in hand.
He robbed her and then set her on fire. And in court, he didn’t deny any of it. He even explained where he’d been the night before. He said he’d gone to a wedding reception at his brother’s house, not far from the whip in store. There, he drank heavily, and by the time the party ended, he admitted he was drunk. Around midnight, a family member gave him $30.
The money was supposed to go toward fixing his car, but Matthew had other plans. He walked a few blocks, found a dealer, and spent it all on crack cocaine. He smoked some of it right away, then sold a portion so he could buy more. By 4:00 a.m., he said he had already gone through 10 rocks of crack. Some
where between 4 and 5:00 a.m., he took a Xanax. Claimed it was to calm himself down before heading home to watch his daughter, but instead of going home, he drifted back to his brother’s place around 6:00 a.m. On the patio, he found a bottle of wine, sat down, and drank the whole thing. And that’s when the craving came back. He wanted more crack, and he didn’t have the money to get it.
So, he made a choice. He grabbed a plastic bottle, filled it with lighter fluid, and took a cigarette lighter. His plan, he later said, wasn’t to hurt anyone. He just wanted to scare someone, pour a little fluid, wave the flame, make them nervous enough to hand over the cash, then leave. At trial, Matthew took the stand.
He didn’t sugarcoat anything and called himself scum. In front of the jury, he said he deserved to die for what he did to Nancy Harris. He even told them he should be set on fire just like her. But in the same breath, he asked them for mercy. Not for himself, he said, but for his daughters.
He had three young girls, and as broken as he was, he didn’t want them growing up knowing their father had been executed. He asked the jury to spare his life for them, but it didn’t work. On December 10th, 2013, the jury found him guilty and sentenced him to death. But their decision wasn’t based on just one act of violence.
They had seen a long and troubling history, a pattern that told them this wasn’t a man who made one mistake. Matthew had been convicted before for robbery, assault, and violating protective orders. He had carjacked a woman, threatened to grab a police officer’s gun, set his girlfriend’s rug on fire, and even exposed himself to a hotel mate while grabbing her hand.
And prison didn’t change him either. If anything, it proved the jury right. He attacked his cellmate so badly the man needed nine staples in his head. And on another occasion, he stood naked in his cell doorway, mating while staring at a female guard. To the jury, Matthew wasn’t just violent. He was dangerous and he always would be.
His lawyers tried everything they could after the trial. They argued he’d been abused as a child, that drug addiction had wrecked his thinking, that he was so high that morning he didn’t fully understand what he was doing. But appeal after appeal failed. Nothing changed the outcome. And then came the date. May 20th, 2025.
Exactly 13 years to the day since Nancy Harris was set on fire. After more than a decade on death row, Matthew’s time ran out. Under Texas law, inmates can no longer request a special last meal. So, Matthew was served the same standard tray as everyone else. When asked if he had any last words, Matthew turned to the victim’s family and spoke. “To Mrs.
Harris’s family, as I look at each and every one of you, I see her on that day,” he said. I just please ask for y’all’s forgiveness. I never meant to hurt her. I pray that she’s the first person that I see when I open my eyes and I will spend eternity with her.” He continued, “Praised God and thanked him for the life he has given me.
” Then he addressed the men he had spent years with on death row, calling them brothers and told them he loved them. He also thanked the prison staff for treating him with dignity, for giving him, in his words, the opportunity to get in right standings with my lord. Then came his apology to his wife and daughters.
Just know that it’s nothing that y’all did. I made wrong choices. I’ve made wrong decisions. And now I pay the consequences. He ended with a prayer of gratitude. I thank the Lord for the last 13 years. He has given me the opportunity to ask for his forgiveness and I thank him for his redemption. He said, “Welcome me, father.
Thank each and every one of you for being here. I’m done. Warden Matthew received a lethal injection shortly after 6:00 p.m. inside the Huntsville unit. He gasped several times, then began making low snoring-like sounds. Within a minute, all movement stopped. He was pronounced dead at 6:53 p.m. Matthew Lee Johnson was 49 years old.
The next execution was set for just 2 days later. This time in Tennessee. Let’s go back and look at how this case unfolded. It was just after 11:20 p.m. on Sunday, October 1st, 1989, when a 911 call came into the Metropolitan Nashville Police Department. [Music] The voice on the line was young and terrified. Help me, cried a boy, later identified as 13-year-old Jason Bernett.
In the background, the voice of his older brother, Chad, screamed out in panic. Frank, no. God, help me. Then came silence. Jason managed to say one last thing before the line went dead. 324 Ludy Street. Then the call was cut off. Officers were dispatched immediately and just 5 minutes later they drove into the quiet Woodbine neighborhood.
But when they knocked at the door of number 324, no one answered. From the outside, nothing looked out of place. The lights were off and everything seemed still. So they left again, assuming it was a false alarm. But inside that house, horror was waiting, and it wouldn’t be discovered until the next afternoon. At 300 p.m.
the following day, officers returned after a call from a neighbor. And this time, they went inside. What they found was devastating. Three bodies, Judy Robert Smith and her two sons, 16-year-old Chad Bernett and 13-year-old Jason Bernett. The scene in the kitchen was complete chaos. Furniture had been overturned, and blood was smeared across the floor and walls.
Chad’s body lay face up on the tile. The telephone had been ripped off the wall, explaining why the 911 call had cut off so suddenly. Nearby, investigators found an all, a sharp metal tool normally used for punching holes in leather or wood. That tool had been turned into a weapon. Chad had been shot three times, once in the shoulder, once in the chest, and once just above his left eye.
The last two were fired at pointlank range, and those were the ones that killed him. But that wasn’t all. His body showed signs of a brutal struggle. He’d been stabbed multiple times in the chest, the back, and the abdomen. His neck had been slashed, and his hands were torn with defensive wounds.
He fought back, but it wasn’t enough. In the front bedroom, Judy was found on her back with blood spattered across the wall. She’d been shot, too, in the arm and the neck. That second shot was fired from close range just 2 ft away and it shattered her spine. She was paralyzed instantly and death came soon after. But the killer wasn’t finished.
Her neck had been slashed as well. And just like Chad, she’d been stabbed multiple times with a knife and what appeared to be the same alllike weapon. Jason’s body was found near the foot of the bed. He hadn’t been shot, but the injuries were just as brutal. Defensive cuts covered his hands, his neck was slashed, and he’d been stabbed in the chest and stomach.
Two of those wounds had pierced major veins, and he was found with his hands on his small intestine, which was sticking out of his abdomen. According to the medical examiner, Jason bled out slowly, and it took minutes for him to die. By the time police returned to the house, all three victims had been dead for at least 12 hours, and the scene inside was pure devastation.
There were no signs of forced entry, but the back door had been left open. Inside the house, a kitchen table leg had been snapped clean off, and a 22 caliber shell casing was found in the den. There were bullet holes in the walls of both the bedroom and the den. And ballistic experts later confirmed the bullets pulled from Judy and Chad came from the same gun.
A trail of blood led from the den down the hallway into the kitchen. But what made it even more disturbing was what was left behind and what wasn’t. The gun and knife were gone, but in the bedroom they found a different weapon. A bloodcovered all left behind in the bedroom. And then there was the bloody palm print on the bed sheet next to Judy’s body.
What caught their attention most wasn’t just the blood. It was the shape. The print was missing two fingers. And that detail pointed them in one direction. Oscar Franklin Smith, Judy’s estranged husband, a man who had lost those same two fingers years earlier in a work accident. But who exactly was the man known as Frank? And why would he do this? Frank was one of seven children born in Ohio to Oscar Earl and Florence Smith.
And at some point during his early years, the family packed up and moved south to Robertson County, just 30 miles north of Nashville. It wasn’t anything glamorous, but he eventually found steady work with a maintenance company in Leverne. That’s where his life crossed paths with Judith Lynn Robberts, a waitress at a Waffle House with two sons from a previous marriage, Chad and Jason. Frank had kids of his own, too.
Laura, 18, and Merl, 15, both living with his parents nearby in Pleasant View. Frank and Judy married in 1985 and a year later they welcomed twin boys together, Chris and Casey. It looked like a fresh start, a blended family trying to make it work. But whatever peace they had was short-lived because just a few years later, that same home on Ludy Street would become the scene of one of the most brutal crimes in Nashville’s history.
By June of 1989, the marriage had fallen apart. A divorce was in motion and the fight over the twins had turned bitter. Judy had been granted temporary custody while Frank saw the boys every other weekend. But behind the paperwork and legal filings, something darker was brewing. Judy, Chad, and Jason had all confided in others that they were afraid of Frank, and they had every reason to be. That summer, the danger became real.
During a visit to Frank’s trailer on his family’s land in Pleasant View, things turned violent. He bit Jason on the back and held a gun to his head. Then he kicked Judy and the older boys out, threatening her. Don’t touch the car. Don’t take the twins. And don’t call the police. Or he’d kill her.
But it didn’t stop there. In August, when Judy came back to collect her things, Frank attacked again. He tied her up, raped her, held a knife to her throat, and told her she was going to die. By the time of the murders, warrants for aggravated assault had already been filed. But the violence didn’t slow down. It escalated.
He began calling her constantly at home and at work, and her co-workers overheard the threats. One of them remembered it clearly. Frank said he’d shoot her. He said he’d stab her. And he said he’d kill Chad and Jason, too. because in his eyes, she treated them better than his own sons. In the final weeks before the murders, the threats turned even colder.
While picking up the twins, Frank looked Judy’s father in the eye and said, “You tell Judy, I’ve been playing with her with kid gloves, but now the gloves are coming off,” and he meant it. Another time, he made it even clearer. If she ever left him, he’d kill her. Then, investigators discovered something else.
Frank had taken out life insurance policies on Judy and on her two older sons, and the picture started to come together. From the beginning, the evidence pointed straight at Frank. But at trial, it was the bloody palm print that prosecutors leaned on most. Crime scene investigators testified it matched Frank’s hand exactly, especially since two fingers were missing, just like the print at the scene.
But years later, a fingerprint expert hired by Frank’s legal team challenged it. He said the original analysis was flawed, rushed, and in his opinion, there was no way to say for sure that print belonged to Frank. Still, the jury didn’t need long. On July 26th, 1990, Oscar Franklin Smith was found guilty of capital murder, and 2 days later, they sentenced him to death.
His first execution date was set for December 3rd, 1990, but appeals kicked in quickly and put everything on hold. Since then, Frank has spent decades on death row at Riverbend Maximum Security Institution, and his legal team never stopped fighting. For years, they filed motions, challenged evidence, and pleaded for more time. But in the end, every request was denied.
A new execution date was set, April 21st, 2022. As the execution date approached, Frank chose not to select a method of execution. Tennessee law allows inmates sentenced before 1999 to pick between the electric chair and lethal injection. If they don’t choose, the state goes with lethal injection by default.
For what he believed would be his final meal, Frank requested a double bacon cheeseburger, deep dish apple pie, and vanilla bean ice cream. He enjoyed every bite of it, like a man making peace with his end. But just hours before the execution, everything changed. Governor Bill Lee issued a lastminute reprieve.
He announced that a critical error had been discovered in the lethal injection protocol. The chemicals hadn’t been properly tested for endotoxins, a step required to ensure they were safe to use. And because of that, Frank’s execution was called off. Not just his, but every scheduled execution in Tennessee for the rest of the year.
For the next two years, the Department of Correction tore the system apart and rebuilt it, eventually settling on a new method, a single drug protocol using pentobarbatl. And that change reopened the door for executions to resume. For the fourth time in 35 years, Frank faced an execution date. This time it was set for May 22nd, 2025.
And once again, just like in 2022, he was allowed to choose a final meal. This time, Frank requested hot dogs, tater tots, and apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Under the state’s updated protocol, the meal was delivered the night before the execution and had to be finished by midnight. On the morning of his execution, Frank lay strapped to the gurnie, his hands still and eyes open.
His spiritual adviser stood nearby, softly praying and singing the hymn, I’ll fly away. At 10:32 a.m., the curtain separating the execution chamber from the witness room was drawn back. In those final moments, Frank spoke quietly with the adviser. “I didn’t kill her,” he said.
Two IV lines had been placed in Frank’s right arm. When asked for his final words, he took his time speaking for nearly 3 minutes. “Somebody needs to tell the governor the justice system doesn’t work.” He said, “He’s the last word, the last person to give justice where justice is needed. Too many innocent people are being killed.” His tone hardened. “He needs to quit.
Get a backbone,” he said. “Our justice system is broken, and he has the power to stop this.” He looked out toward the witnesses. “We have more men waiting to die at Riverbend. I won’t be the first, and I won’t be the last.” As the pentobarbatl began flowing through the IV lines, Frank kept speaking, but his voice grew weaker. By 10:38 a.m.
, he was struggling to form words, then stopped speaking altogether. His stomach was rising and falling slowly, and it looked like he fell asleep. At 10:47 a.m., he was declared dead. Oscar Franklin Smith was 75 years old. That concludes all executions carried out in May 2025. If you like this video, make sure to check out the next one because just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, well, it can.
And the next cases are even more disturbing.
