Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

He walked past the two open doors of the witness observation area — the relatives representing the victims had a separate viewing room from the relatives of the condemned — and he noticed that, while the victims’ room already held half a dozen people, the condemned man’s viewing room was empty.

He stepped past a partition into a small room, the space from which the lethal injections were prepared. At the far end was a door leading into the execution chamber itself. The warden, two guards, some prison flunkies assigned to executions, and the prison doctor, LeBronk, were in the close, ill-smelling room.

The warden nodded at Diogenes. “Thank you for coming on short notice, Dr. Leyland.”

Diogenes shook his hand. “Just doing my duty.”

Dr. LeBronk mopped his perspiring brow with a handkerchief, then shook Diogenes’s hand in turn. Like most in the Florida penal system, LeBronk believed in the death penalty with every fiber of his being. When it came to actually helping carry out the act, however, the man was wilting like a hothouse lily exposed to the sun.

“Most irregular,” LeBronk said. “Our having no execution team available, I mean.”

“Is the subject prepped?” Diogenes asked as he took a white lab coat from a row of pegs and slipped into it. From the moment the condemned prisoner left his cell for the last time, he or she became known as “the subject” for the rest of the proceedings.

LeBronk nodded.

“We don’t normally allow executions to proceed with only a single team member,” the warden said. “That’s for the peace of mind of the execution team, you understand — not out of any consideration for the subject. But Dr. LeBronk, here, doesn’t feel up to the task. I hope you won’t find this to be too… inconvenient,” he continued, with a withering glance at the prison doctor.

Diogenes understood the subtext of this. It was protocol for two executioners to be on hand, each of whom would inject a deadly mixture of drugs into an IV tube. Only one of those tubes went into the veins of the condemned, however; the other went into a disposable bag. This way, those tasked with the execution could console themselves that they may not have actually killed another human being. It was the psychology of the firing squad: one shooter would be given a blank, the rest live ammunition.

“It won’t be a problem,” Diogenes said, careful to sound the correct note of grim resolution, to keep any hint of eagerness from his voice. He placed his medical bag on a nearby table. “Justice must be served. And we all know how much the governor likes his executions to proceed on time. It would be inhumane — for everybody concerned — to reschedule.”

“My thoughts exactly.” The warden nodded. “If you’re ready, then, we can proceed.”

Diogenes glanced at his watch: eight thirty precisely. “I’m ready.”

The warden turned and signaled to the guards, who exited the room. They were going, Diogenes knew, to collect Lucius Garey and bring him into the execution chamber.

Five minutes later, Garey was wheeled into the chamber by the guards. A spiritual adviser dressed in black, of generic affiliation, followed. The subject lay on a heavy stainless-steel gurney, restrained by wrist and ankle straps of thick leather. The heart monitor, Diogenes noticed, was already connected.

“You want a flunky to do the venipuncture?” Dr. LeBronk asked.

Diogenes shook his head. “Might as well go soup to nuts.”

He stepped through the door into the execution chamber. The far wall was obscured by curtains. Garey craned his thick neck around to get a look at the agent of his impending death. He was a big bull of a man, his skull shaven, denim eyes small and pale and nearly expressionless, the skin of his arms, neck, and chest a mass of blurry blue prison tats. It was hard to tell what emotions he was experiencing: fear, anger, disbelief seemed to play across his face, one after the other.

Diogenes glanced around, refamiliarizing himself with the room, going through the upcoming procedure in his head. Reaching for a jar of cotton balls, he swabbed the inside of the man’s right arm with alcohol.

The IV line ran from the drug administration room onto a rack that stood by the gurney. Diogenes tied a tourniquet, flicked the back of a fingernail against Garey’s skin to get a good cubital vein. He had some difficulty due to needle scarring, but in short time found the vein and slid the IV needle home. Then he snapped off the tourniquet.

Garey watched the procedure without curiosity.

Diogenes went through the final preliminary steps, then withdrew from the gurney into the doorway of the drug administration room. Once he was out of sight, a modesty sheet was placed over Garey’s gown and legs, extending as high as his midriff. Then the curtains on the far wall drew back with a faint whirring sound, exposing two large panels of one-way glass. Garey couldn’t see the witnesses beyond, but they could see him.

There was a faint rasp over the loudspeaker system. “Silence in the witness area, please,” came the voice of the warden. A brief pause. “Does the condemned have any last words?”

“Fuck you,” said Garey. There was now nothing left on his face but anger. He spat in the direction of the one-way glass.

In the drug administration room, Diogenes signed paperwork handed him by the warden. He then checked the drug delivery apparatus, which consisted of a number of syringes, already prepped and loaded by trained prison flunkies. Instead of the usual two sets, tonight there was only one. Along with several other states, Florida used a combination of three drugs: a controversial cocktail that underwent frequent updating, based on the availability of the drugs. The intended result, however, never varied. The first drug would induce unconsciousness; the second would cause paralysis, halting respiration; and the third would stop the heart. They were always introduced serially.

Diogenes examined the drugs and dosages in the delivery system: one hundred milligrams of midazolam hydrochloride, followed by equally LD-excessive doses of vecuronium bromide and potassium chloride. He picked up the bulky, state-mandated execution forms and filled out the first of two sections, including his name, the name of the subject, his physician number, execution license serial number, and drugs to be administered.

“Five minutes,” the warden said.

Diogenes broke the paper seals around the syringes, then fitted the syringes tightly into the three IV lines, one after the other. In the execution chamber, Garey was beginning to shout now: angry outbursts, mostly incoherent save for curses. Diogenes paid no attention as he turned on the cardiac monitor in order to observe the subject’s heart rhythm. It was considerably elevated — as might be expected.

A death house guard stepped into the room.

“Final statement?” the warden asked wearily, going through the standard checklist.

“If you want to call it that, yes, sir,” the guard answered.

“Governor’s office?”

“Green light.”

All was silent in the room save for Garey’s expletives, louder now, filtering through the partially open door. The warden watched the wall clock tick slowly through one minute, then two. And then he turned to Diogenes. “The execution may commence,” he said.

Diogenes nodded. Turning toward the first syringe, he injected the midazolam. The colorless liquid went down the IV tube, which snaked — along with several other tubes — through a small circular hole into the execution chamber.

“ Constance ,” he whispered to himself, almost reverently.

At first, Garey’s loud, harsh vocalizing remained unchanged. Then it grew slow and garbled. Within thirty seconds it was little more than a sporadic, incoherent mutter.