Brad Sigmon was executed by firing squad Friday evening at Broad River Correctional Institution in Columbia, South Carolina, marking the first such execution in the United States in 15 years and the oldest person ever put to death in the state.
The 67-year-old died at 6:08 p. m.
on March 7, 2025, just three minutes after three volunteer executioners fired . 308-caliber rifles at a white target placed over his heart. All three bullets struck the target nearly simultaneously.
Sigmon had spent 23 years on death row for the brutal 2001 murders of David and Gladys Larke, an elderly couple bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat in their Taylors, South Carolina, home. Each victim was struck nine times in the head.
The crime unfolded on the morning of April 27, 2001.
Sigmon, then 29 and consumed by rage after a breakup with the Larke’s daughter, broke into their home and beat the couple methodically. Prosecutors called the deaths the most horrific they had ever seen.
When the Larke’s daughter arrived home, she discovered her parents’ bodies and was taken hostage at gunpoint by Sigmon.
She escaped by jumping from a moving car. Sigmon fired shots at her as she fled, but she survived to identify him.
Sigmon fled to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, where police captured him after an 11-day manhunt.
At his trial in July 2002, he admitted guilt. The jury unanimously sentenced him to death for both murders, plus 30 years for burglary, delivering a clear message of justice.
For nearly a quarter-century, Sigmon remained on death row while filing a relentless series of appeals.
Every court, from state to federal to the U. S. Supreme Court, rejected his challenges.
The legal road came to a definitive end on January 11, 2021.
But South Carolina faced a problem: a shortage of lethal injection drugs. The state reauthorized older methods, including the electric chair and firing squad.
In July 2024, the state Supreme Court ruled the firing squad constitutional, clearing the way for Sigmon’s execution.
Sigmon had to choose his method. He said he feared the electric chair would “cook him alive” and lethal injection would make him feel like he was drowning.
He selected the firing squad, hoping the three shots would bring a quick death.
The night before his execution, Sigmon was served his last meal. He ordered four pieces of fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes with gravy, buttery biscuits, a slice of cheesecake, and sweet tea—a hearty Southern spread that comforted him in his final hours.
On Friday afternoon, at 6:00 p. m. , Sigmon was led into the death chamber.
Guards strapped him to a wooden chair designed for firing squad executions. A small white target was placed over his heart. A prison employee then placed a hood over his head.
Before the hood went on, Sigmon’s attorney read his final statement. Instead of apologizing to the Larke family or expressing remorse, Sigmon used his last words to call for an end to the death penalty, quoting Bible verses and urging fellow Christians to oppose capital punishment.
He said, “I want my closing statement to be one of love and a calling to my fellow Christians to help us end the death penalty.”
He cited Matthew 5:38-39 and Romans 6:14, arguing that the New Testament does not give man authority to 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁.
Witnesses in the room noted the stark irony: a man who showed no mercy to his victims was now pleading for mercy from the state. His victims, David and Gladys Larke, had no chance to forgive him.
Their daughter, who survived his attack, still bears the trauma.
At 6:05 p. m.
, behind a curtain, three volunteer executioners aimed their rifles. The order was given, and three shots rang out almost simultaneously. Sigmon’s body jerked from the impact.
A doctor examined him and pronounced him dead three minutes later.
The execution made history. It was the first firing squad execution in the United States since Ronnie Lee Gardner in Utah in 2010.
It was the first time South Carolina had ever used this method. At 67, Sigmon became the oldest person executed in state history.
The case had spanned nearly 24 years.
From the brutal double murder, through the trial, through endless appeals, through changing laws and a 13-year execution moratorium, the wheels of justice finally stopped for Brad Sigmon inside that death chamber.
For the Larke family, there is no real closure. David, 62, and Gladys, 59, are forever gone.
Their daughter, who jumped from a moving car to escape, still lives with the horror of discovering her parents’ bodies. No execution can undo that pain.
Sigmon’s execution raises profound questions about justice, mercy, and the death penalty itself.
Some see it as a necessary reckoning for one of the most heinous crimes in South Carolina history. Others question whether the state should take a life at all.
What remains indisputable is that on April 27, 2001, two innocent people were murdered in their own home for no reason other than a broken heart.
And on March 7, 2025, the man who killed them faced the ultimate consequence laid down by law.
The scene in Taylors that morning 24 years ago was one of unimaginable horror. A quiet suburban neighborhood, where retirees tended their gardens, became the site of a crime so vicious that even seasoned prosecutors were shaken to their core.
Sigmon did not knock. He did not ring the doorbell. He broke in carrying a baseball bat—a simple piece of sports equipment that became a weapon of mass destruction.
The violence was methodical, prolonged, and deeply personal.
David Larke was beaten nine times. Gladys Larke was beaten nine times.
Each blow crushed skulls, ending lives instantaneously. The crime scene photos were so graphic that they were only shown to the jury in a sealed envelope, forever scarring those who viewed them.
But Sigmon was not satisfied with murder.
He waited for the couple’s daughter to arrive, then forced her at gunpoint into her own vehicle. That split-second decision to jump from the moving car likely saved her life, but the psychological scars will never fade.
After his capture, Sigmon showed no remorse during his trial.
His defense team tried to humanize him, citing 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 problems and heartbreak. But the jury saw the evidence: nine blows to each victim. The death sentence was delivered in 2002 without hesitation.
On death row, Sigmon filed appeal after appeal. In 2005, 2013, 2018, 2020—each denial brought him closer to the moment he faced Friday. He exhausted every legal avenue, and the U.
S. Supreme Court refused to hear his case. The end was inevitable.
The state’s inability to obtain lethal injection drugs created a unique delay. South Carolina had not executed anyone since 2011. To resolve the logjam, lawmakers revived the electric chair and the firing squad—methods that seemed relics of a bygone era.
Sigmon sued, arguing that the firing squad was cruel and unusual punishment. But in July 2024, the South Carolina Supreme Court ruled it constitutional. The moratorium had ended, and Sigmon’s name was the next on the list.
His date was set.
In his final statement, Sigmon quoted the Bible and called for the abolition of capital punishment. He urged his fellow Christians to oppose the death penalty, citing teachings of forgiveness.
He did not mention David and Gladys Larke by name, nor did he apologize.
The execution chamber was small and specially designed. Witnesses included state officials, media representatives, and likely members of the Larke family.
They watched as Sigmon was strapped to the chair, a white target over his heart, a hood over his head.
The three volunteer executioners were ordinary citizens who had undergone training for this grim duty. They stood behind a curtain, rifles loaded.
The order came, and they fired. The shots were nearly simultaneous, hitting the target dead center. It was over in seconds.
Sigmon’s death was quick, as he had hoped. He had wanted to avoid the slow agony of the electric chair or the chemical drowning sensation of lethal injection. But for his victims, there was no such mercy.
They suffered brutal, prolonged violence.
The case raises difficult questions about the death penalty’s morality and effectiveness. Supporters say it provides justice for the worst crimes.
Opponents argue it is state-sanctioned killing that risks executing the innocent and fails to deter violence.
What cannot be debated is the impact on the Larke family. They have waited 24 years for this day.
The daughter who escaped has lived with the memory of her parents’ murders and the man who killed them. No execution can bring back the lost years.
South Carolina officials stated that the execution was carried out in accordance with state law.
The three rifles were . 308 caliber, a powerful hunting round. The white target ensured accuracy.
The procedure was designed to be as humane as possible under the circumstances.
National and international attention focused on the event. Human rights groups condemned the use of the firing squad, calling it a return to barbaric methods.
Families of victims in other capital cases watched closely, hoping for their own closure one day.
Sigmon’s age also drew comment. At 67, he had spent more than half his life on death row.
The average age of an executed inmate in the United States is around 50. He was frail, gray-haired, a shadow of the 29-year-old who committed the crimes.
The execution brought an end to a saga that many had forgotten.
For younger generations, the name Brad Sigmon meant little. But for the residents of Taylors, the town never fully recovered. The Larke home stood empty for years, a silent reminder of that spring morning.
In his final meal, Sigmon chose comfort: fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes, green beans, cheesecake, sweet tea. It was a meal that spoke of home, of the South, of simpler times. He ate it at 6:00 p.
m. on March 5, two days before his death.
The executioner’s rifles are now secured.
The death chamber was cleaned. Brad Sigmon’s body was taken to the coroner’s office for an autopsy, as required by law. His legal battle is over.
His life is over. But the debate over capital punishment continues.
Supporters of the death penalty argue that some crimes are so heinous that only the ultimate punishment suffices.
The beating of two elderly people with a baseball bat, the hostage-taking, the lack of remorse—these are precisely the cases where execution is justified.
Opponents counter that the state should not stoop to the level of a killer. That executing a man, even a man like Sigmon, devalues human life.
That the firing squad, with its echoes of vigilante justice, undermines the legitimacy of the legal system.
Both sides have passionate arguments. What is clear is that the Larke family has endured a long, painful wait for justice.
The daughter who jumped from a moving car has lived with nightmares. She testified at trial, facing the monster who killed her parents.
Sigmon’s final statement was a political sermon, not a confession.
He quoted Romans 6:14: “For sin shall no longer be your master, because you are not under the law, but under grace.” He asked the world for the grace he never offered to David and Gladys.
The execution was the culmination of a legal odyssey that spanned five governors.
South Carolina’s laws evolved, its methods changed, and its death row population diminished. Brad Sigmon was one of the last men standing, and now he is gone.
Across the nation, other death row inmates are watching the outcome of this case.
Legal challenges to firing squads and electric chairs continue. The debate over lethal injection 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 shortages persists. Sigmon’s case may become a precedent, for better or worse.
For now, the story of Brad Sigmon is complete. He was a man who let a breakup consume him, who committed an unimaginable act of violence, who spent 23 years fighting for his life, and who died by three bullets to the chest on a Friday evening in March.
His crime remains a stain on the quiet town of Taylors.
The Larke family never fully healed. The daughter who survived carries a weight that will never lift. And the state of South Carolina has once again wielded its ultimate power, for the first time by firing squad.
At 6:08 p. m. , the doctor pronounced Brad Sigmon dead.
The death warrant was fulfilled. The witnesses filed out. The cameras stopped rolling.
And outside Broad River Correctional Institution, the world moved on, as it always does, while a few hearts remained broken.