The cold dawn of January 5, 1993, broke over Eastern Washington, a bitter morning that would witness the first execution in the state in nearly three decades. Inside the walls of the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, a man counted his final hours not with dread but with a twisted sense of purpose. Westley Allan Dodd, a serial killer and child molester, had demanded his own death.
He had waived every appeal, fought for the noose, and now, at 31, he would get exactly what he wanted.
Dodd was not merely a condemned man resigned to his fate; he was an eager volunteer, the first in Washington history to explicitly seek execution. In interviews, he was chillingly candid. “I have to be.
And I will 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 again,” he said when asked why he wanted to die. That stark admission fueled a legal and moral firestorm that consumed the state in the 48 hours before his hanging. The question was no longer whether he deserved to die, but whether the state should grant a killer his preferred method of death.
The spectacle began far from the execution chamber. In the weeks prior, Dodd’s case became a lightning rod for debate about capital punishment, mental illness, and the ultimate power of the state. Psychologists described him as a classic narcissist, a man who fed on attention and fear.
They argued that his demand to be executed was his final act of control, a way to ensure he remained the center of the story. And he did. One abolitionist group labeled him an “evil celebrity,” noting that his name would be remembered long after his victims were forgotten.
As one expert put it, “Everyone will remember him, not his victims. Just as he intended.”
Dodd’s crimes were unspeakably brutal. He had confessed to molesting and murdering three young boys, two brothers and another child, and had admitted to a long history of predatory urges that began in his teens. He kept a diary chronicling his “incidents,” logging times and locations like a hunter tracking prey.
The final entry read simply: “5:25 p. m. Now going to CAS, we’ll check out local parks before movie.”
That was November 13, 1989, the day he attempted to abduct a child from a theater restroom. The boy escaped, and Dodd was arrested a few blocks away. This time, the system did not let him walk free.
The road to January 5 was paved with failure. Dodd had been arrested multiple times before for 𝒔𝒆𝒙 offenses, yet he rarely served more than a few months. He told authorities his urges were escalating, but the courts released him anyway.
His case became a grim blueprint of the system’s inability to handle violent predators, and it helped change Washington’s civil commitment laws. But for the families of William and Cole Near and Lee Iseli, the changes came too late.
In his final hours, Dodd received no visitors from family. His mother and sister had written letters, expressing love while not excusing his actions. “I still love you.
I always will. I’ll remember the good times,” his mother wrote. His sister Cathy added, “You’ll always be my brother.”
She later wondered if more affection could have changed him, but conceded, “I think Wes had some kind of brain problem. He’s just not all there.”
The legal battle in the hours before the execution was frantic. The ACLU, representing 26 Washington taxpayers, filed a last-minute appeal arguing that hanging was cruel and unusual punishment. The state Supreme Court denied it 7 to 1, with only Justice Robert Utter dissenting, calling the method “gruesome and inhumane.”
Dodd had been offered a choice between lethal injection and hanging. He chose the noose without hesitation. “I don’t think I deserve a neat, clean, painless little death,” he said.
“Hang me.” His attorney added a practical argument: lethal injection could be botched, with missed veins and prolonged agony. Dodd wanted certainty.
As the clock ticked toward midnight, the scene outside the prison turned surreal. A crowd gathered in the frozen darkness, split by ideology. On one side, candlelit protesters sang hymns and prayed for mercy.
On the other, supporters cheered, waved signs, and set off fireworks. The pro-execution crowd outnumbered the abolitionists four to one. Police kept the lines tight.
Satellite trucks lined the streets, reporters flown in from across the country jostled for position.
Inside, prison officials followed a meticulous manual. The rope, manila hemp 1. 25 inches thick, had been boiled, stretched, waxed, and oiled to ensure the knot slid clean.
The execution chamber, a half-century-old room that had not been used since 1965, was freshly painted. Everything was tested twice: weight, drop, and distance. At 4 p.
m. , Dodd ate his final meal: broiled salmon, scalloped potatoes, mixed vegetables, and coleslaw. He ate without complaint.
Witnesses were selected by lottery from a pool of journalists and officials. Only 12 made the cut. They were patted down, issued badges, and led through a maze of reinforced doors to a viewing room behind glass.
Just after midnight, Dodd was marched into the upper level of the chamber. He stepped onto the trapdoor. His first words were barely audible due to a failed sound system.
Witnesses later reconstructed his statement: “I was once asked by somebody, I don’t remember who, if there was any way offenders could be stopped. I said, ‘No, I was wrong.’ There is hope.
There is peace. I found both in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
The father of one victim shook his head in anger. The noose, calculated to a length of 7 feet 1 inch based on Dodd’s 139-pound frame, was positioned behind his left ear. A black hood was pulled over his head.
His wrists and ankles were strapped. At the signal, the executioner pulled the lever. With a heavy crack, Dodd fell through the floor.
There was no struggle, no movement. The witnesses saw only stillness. The screen closed after one minute.
At 12:09 a. m. , Westley Allan Dodd was pronounced dead.
The execution was quiet, controlled, and final. For the state of Washington, it was a grim milestone, the first hanging in decades and the culmination of a case that laid bare the failures of the justice system to stop a predator before he killed. For Dodd, it was the end he had engineered.
For the families, it was a closure that could never bring back the children. And for the nation, it was a stark reminder of the lengths to which evil can go, and the difficult choices a society must make in response.