January 18th, 1991. Fort Pierce Police Sergeant Danny Parish was working a late shift. His wife, 27-year-old dispatcher Myrtle Busbin, had just talked to him. There was a struggle when Officer Parish attempted to arrest this man for having no license and giving false names. Officer Parish pulled Koresh over for driving the wrong way down a one-way street.

 When Parish tried to arrest Koresh for not having a license, Koresh got a hold of Parish’s gun and shot him repeatedly. Governor Ron DeSantis signed the death warrant yesterday. The Parish family has endured more than three decades waiting for justice, and officials hope the family can finally find peace after this long legal battle. A man is dead.

 Not the man you’re thinking of. That happened 35 years ago. The man who died on March 3rd, 2026 had been waiting for it longer than most people wait for anything. 53 years old. More of his life spent inside a prison cell than outside one. The state of Florida called it justice. 17 appeals said otherwise. The United States Supreme Court rejected the final one without comment hours before the needle went in.

 But here’s what nobody leads with. The night this all started, January 18th, 1991, he wasn’t running from anything. He wasn’t armed. He wasn’t looking for trouble. He was 18 years old. 84 days past his birthday. Driving to pick up a pizza. Sergeant Danny Thomas Parish was 29. Three years on the force. Late shift. Quiet road. Routine stop.

 Neither of them went home that night the way they expected to. One of them never went home at all. What happened in the minutes between that traffic stop and that pizza, and what happened in the 35 years after, is one of the most complicated stories I’ve ever tried to tell. So, stay with me. If you leave now, you’ll never know what the victim’s own widow did that shocked everyone, including the people who wanted him dead.

Danny Thomas Parish was born October 4th, 1961 in Fort Pierce, Florida. He graduated from Fort Pierce Central High School in 1980, enlisted in the United States Navy, served 3 years, came home. He joined the Florida National Guard, the Army Reserve, too. He didn’t always plan on being a police officer.

 What changed him was 1987. Two of his close friends were killed in a drug raid shootout in White City. After that, Danny Parish made a decision. His mother told a reporter years later, “We didn’t want him to be a policeman. He thought he could work narcotics, help keep kids off drugs.” Auxiliary officer in 1987, full-time in 1989, honor guard, SWAT team, right-hand man.

The kind of officer you looked up to before you even decided to. He was expecting a promotion to detective, had already bought the clothes. A closet full of shirts, pants, and ties, store tags still on every single one. He was married to Martha Busbin. No children. His half-brother was a police officer, too.

 Jim Tedder was the lead homicide investigator that night. He is 75 now. He says he still relives it every single day. In 2022, a life-size bronze statue of Danny Parish was erected in front of the Fort Pierce Police Department. It stands there today. Nearly every officer in that department, along with their spouses, lined the hallway of Lawnwood Hospital the night he was shot, waiting.

This is the story of what they were waiting for and everything that came after. January 18th, 1991. Fort Pierce, Florida. Just after 8:00 in the evening, Billy Cursey was 18 years old. He was driving to pick up a pizza. His car was smoking, one headlight out, and somewhere along the way he turned onto a one-way street going the wrong direction.

 Sergeant Danny Parrish was on duty. He spotted the car. He pulled it over. Standard procedure. Cursey couldn’t produce a valid driver’s license. When Parrish pressed him for his name, he gave a false one. Then another, multiple aliases. Something wasn’t adding up. Parrish ordered him out of the vehicle. He told Cursey to put his hands on top of the car and reached for his handcuffs.

 That is when everything broke down. A struggle began. According to court records, Parrish hit Cursey in the eye during the confrontation. What happened in the seconds that followed would define the next 35 years for everyone involved. Cursey grabbed Parrish’s service weapon from his belt. What followed was not one shot fired in panic, not two, 14.

 And here is the detail that doesn’t make the headlines enough. Court documents show Cursey fired in groups. Between those groups, Danny Parrish begged for his life. Nine rounds struck his body directly. Four more hit his body armor. The vest stopped those four, could not stop the other nine.

 One of Cursey’s own companions later testified that Cursey pulled that trigger because his probation had been suspended, and police were already looking for him. A taxi driver nearby heard the shots. He grabbed Parrish’s radio and called for help. Cursey got back into his dark blue 1979 Monte Carlo and drove away. He hid the gun.

 Parrish was rushed to Lawnwood Hospital. He did not survive. 29 years old. Before the stop, Parrish had called in the license plate. Police traced it to a home belonging to a man named Derek Dickerson, where Cursed was temporarily staying. He was arrested that same night. Two rounds from Parrish’s own revolver were found in Cursed’s front pocket.

 He waived his right to remain silent. He confessed. The crime itself was never in question. But to understand how an 18-year-old arrived at that moment, and what the 35 years that followed looked like, you have to go back much further than January of 1991. To understand what happened on that road, you have to go back to the beginning. Not 1991.

Further. Billy Leon Cursed was born on October 26th, 1972. His mother was a teenager. His father left when Billy was 2 years old and never came back. She drank throughout her pregnancy. What that does to a developing brain, the neurological damage, the cognitive delays, the impaired impulse control, would become a central argument for his defense decades later.

 Neuropsychological evaluations would eventually identify organic brain dysfunction and indicators consistent with fetal alcohol effect. Billy suffered a head injury as a toddler. He was placed in special education programs for emotionally handicapped and severely disturbed children. School records show he was in those programs from 1982 to 1987.

Experts at trial testified he functioned academically at a third-grade level. He dropped out at 15. Teachers described him as frequently hungry, poorly clothed, absent. He ran away repeatedly. When authorities caught him, he told them he felt safer in detention than at home.

 At least there he had somewhere to sleep. His first police encounter was in 1981. He was 8 years old. The charge was being beyond control. He was already begging officers to take him to jail so he would have a roof over his head for the night. 8 years old. His juvenile record was built almost entirely on non-violent property offenses.

 Burglary, theft, trespassing, criminal mischief, auto theft. Several cases were dismissed. At least six were handled through Florida’s Department of Health and Rehabilitative Services rather than incarceration. A system that kept encountering this child and choosing paperwork over help. October 1989, arrested for burglary of a car and possession of burglary tools.

February 1990, sentenced to 4 years in prison followed by probation. He had recently been released the night Danny Parrish pulled him over. 84 days past his 18th birthday. None of this is presented here as an excuse. It was never presented as one by his defense either. The argument was always something more specific.

 That the jury in 1991 was not given the full picture of who Billy Corsey was when they decided how he should die. That gap is what drove the next 35 years. Does a childhood like this change how you see what happened on that road? Drop your answer below. I want to know where you land on this. The trial moved fast.

 Billy Corsey was charged with first-degree murder, possession of a firearm by a convicted felon, and armed robbery. Veteran attorney Robert Udell was appointed to defend him. Jury selection began October 14th, 1991. The trial moved to Vero Beach because of the publicity in Fort Pierce. The courtroom was packed with law enforcement officers from across the state every single day.

 October 22nd, guilty on all counts. November 8th, 1991, Circuit Judge Mark Ceyanka sentenced Billy Leon Corsey to death in the electric chair. 11 to 1. Four aggravating circumstances. Murder during a robbery committed to avoid arrest, victim was a law enforcement officer, and the killing was heinous, atrocious, and cruel.

 May God have mercy on your soul.” Governor Lawton Chiles attended Danny Parrish’s funeral. Flags flew at half-mast, but something happened at that sentencing that nobody forgot. When Cresse was given a chance to speak, he turned toward Myra Buzbee, Danny Parrish’s 25-year-old widow, and he smiled. Then he winked.

 That was the moment she made her decision. She would see his execution through to the very end. No matter how long it took. No matter how many courtrooms. 35 years. 11 trials. 17 appeals. Because of that wink. 911 dispatcher Carla Cassenelli said what many were thinking. He should not have been allowed 17 appeals.

 Danny didn’t get 17 extra minutes to live. Then came the legal error that unraveled everything. The Florida Supreme Court found the trial court had failed to properly instruct the jury on aggravating circumstances. June 22nd, 1995, conviction upheld, death sentence vacated. New resentencing ordered. December 1996, a second jury unanimously recommended death again.

 March 24th, 1997, Judge C. Pfeiffer Trowbridge formally resentenced Cresse to death. But that 1997 resentencing carried a problem that would surface decades later. A juror publicly wrote on social media that the courtroom was filled every day with uniformed law enforcement officers from across the state. She said she would never forget it.

 That detail became a central argument in the appeals that followed. The second death sentence was handed down. But the fight was nowhere near over. The appeals did not stop. January 1999, Cresse appeals to the Florida Supreme Court arguing he does not deserve to die. June 2000, dismissed. August 2007, another appeal rejected.

 August 2018, appeal for resentencing denied. By that point, he was one of 347 inmates on Florida’s death row. Then 2002 changed everything. The United States Supreme Court ruled in Atkins versus Virginia executing a person with an intellectual disability is cruel and unusual punishment under the Eighth Amendment. Unconstitutional.

Cruse’s defense seized on it immediately. They commissioned IQ testing and extensive evaluations. The results fell within the intellectually disabled range. A neuropsychologist concluded in early 2026 that Cruse unequivocally suffered from lifelong diminished intelligence. Impairments present since childhood.

 The same expert noted a healthy brain does not fully mature until ages 23 to 25. At 18, Cruse was neurodevelopmentally immature, particularly in impulse control, judgment, and reasoning. Three of seven Florida Supreme Court justices had already agreed. They wrote that the killing resulted from the impulsive act of an 18-year-old functioning at a low average borderline intelligence level with no evidence he set out that night intending to commit any crime. The state never moved.

Evaluations insufficient. Threshold not met. Courts had reviewed these claims repeatedly. Former Chief Justice Barbara Pariente, 77 years old by 2026, had been one of those three dissenting justices. She continued working against the execution after retiring from the court in 2019. She had participated in more execution cases than any other justice during her tenure. Then came the 33 days.

 January 29th, 2026, Governor Ron DeSantis signed the death warrant. Execution set for March 3rd. Third Florida execution of 2026 following Ronald Palmer Heath and Melvin Trotter. Curse’s lead attorney of nearly 20 years was not in a courtroom when that window opened. He was at a hospital discussing hospice care for his dying father.

His father died during the proceedings. The defense continued anyway. February 16th, 2026, one final appeal filed. Rejected. State Attorney Thomas Bakkedahl stood before reporters. “This is a guilty man who has had due process on steroids. There is nothing left to talk about.” Now, here is the detail almost nobody covered.

 In late 2025, Myrtice Buzbee, Danny Parrish’s widow, wrote letters to Governor DeSantis pushing for the death warrant to be signed. Those letters, she said, helped make it happen. But separately, former Justice Harry Anstead co-signed a letter arguing Curse deserved leniency. DeSantis signed the warrant anyway.

 Before I show you the last 24 hours, I need to tell you what Myrtice Buzbee said the night after the execution because nobody is talking about it. 35 years is a long time to be anywhere. Billy Curse spent all of it inside a concrete cell at Florida State Prison. He arrived in 1991 as an 18-year-old who functioned academically at a third-grade level, who had spent his childhood begging police officers to take him to jail so he would have somewhere to sleep.

 Somewhere inside those 35 years, he became an artist. He painted scenes filled with color, vivid, layered, alive. He did it with limited materials inside a cell the size of a bathroom. He did it largely from verbal descriptions. Someone would describe a place, a landscape, a moment, and he would translate those words into color onto a canvas. He loved to paint.

 He loved to dance. He had built an art show. A personal goal he pursued over years supported by pen pals from around the world who wrote to him, described things to him, believed in him. That show was scheduled to open the Friday after his execution. Three days after he died. His brushes will sit still now.

 That phrase came from a statement released by death penalty advocates the night of his execution. It was simple. Carried everything. In his final hours, Curse sent a message to the people who loved him on the outside. He did not ask them to be angry. He asked them to choose love and to extend that love even toward those who had supported his execution and who might celebrate his death.

 That was his last request. On the morning of March 3rd, 2026, he woke up at 6:30 in the morning knowing it was his last day. He had one visitor, a spiritual advisor. Corrections officials described him as calm and in good spirits. He declined his last meal. Whether any of that changes how you feel about what he did on that road in 1991 is entirely up to you. This is not an argument.

 It is not a plea. It is part of the record. And a complete account of this case requires you to know it. The United States Supreme Court rejected his final petition that morning. No comment. No dissent. Just silence and a closed door. The Florida Supreme Court had already denied his appeals earlier the same day. Every door was shut.

 Billy Leon Curse spent his last hours at Florida State Prison with one visitor, a spiritual advisor. Corrections officials said he was calm, in good spirits. He declined his last meal. And before they came for him, he sent one final message to the people who loved him. Choose love, not anger, even toward the people who wanted this.

 That was the last thing he asked of them. The witness chamber filled just after 6:00 in the evening. More than a dozen family members and fellow officers of Danny Parish gathered behind the glass. Myrtha Busbin was there. 35 years of courtrooms and hearings and appeals had led to this room. Outside the prison walls, a small group held vigil. A bell tolled.

 Curse was brought in on a gurney. White sheet, tubes in his arms. Witnesses described a small white room, mirrors, brown curtains. The warden asked if he had final words. He looked toward the Parish family and said, “To his family, I sincerely apologize for what I have done. There is no way I can ever repay that. And in turn, I pray my father would give me the strength to ask for their forgiveness, to give you peace and resolve.

” The three drug injection was administered. He twitched briefly. He stopped moving. 22 minutes later, a medic entered the room. 6:24 p.m., Billy Leon Curse was pronounced dead. Florida’s 22nd execution in just over a year. Outside, Myrtha Busbin stood before reporters, crying. She said it had been a long, long 35 years.

That they didn’t win anything. That they lost another life. But that they got justice. She hadn’t expected him to apologize, but he did. And she said she could forgive him. “I can move on. It was the right thing to do.” Danny Parish’s father, Marion, had died in October 2013. Alzheimer’s.

 His mother, Faye, died in October 2018. Dementia. Neither of them lived to see March 3rd, 2026. They waited. They just didn’t wait long enough. This case did not end the conversation. It reopened it. Those who believe justice was served point to Danny Parish, 29 years old, 3 years on the force, a routine traffic stop. He never went home.

 “35 years is a long time to wait, they said. But the process ran its course. Those who opposed it point to something else entirely. 33 days between the death warrant and the needle. An attorney whose father was dying during the final appeals. Intellectual disability claims that three justices had already found credible. A system moving so fast that Maria De Liberato of Floridians for Alternatives to the death penalty said this time in Florida’s history will be remembered as disgusting, as dark, as shameful.

 Time will tell that this is just cruel. Cures’ execution was Florida’s 22nd in just over a year. Two more were already scheduled for that same month. A pace that shattered every modern state record. Danny Thomas Parish was 29 years old. Three years on the force. A routine traffic stop. Never went home. That has been true since January 18th, 1991.

Will always be true. Billy Leon Cures was 18 when he pulled that trigger. 53 when Florida carried out his sentence. And the widow of the man he killed, the woman who spent 35 years pursuing that sentence, wrote a letter asking that it not be carried out. Then watched it happen anyway.

 I don’t know what justice looks like in a case like this. I’m not sure it has a clean shape. But those are the facts. What they mean is something you’re going to have to decide for yourself. If this is the kind of story you come here for, cases where the facts are clear, but the questions aren’t, make sure you’re subscribed. Drop your take in the comments.

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