The Last Executioner (17 page)

Chapter 14

One of the most difficult aspects of facing an execution is the waiting. It must be torture for most of the condemned; knowing they will soon die, but not knowing exactly when. Their fate looms over them like a shadow of death, and their every waking moment must be filled with anxiety. The waiting must seem to go on forever, but will never last long enough, before, with a sudden burst of fire, it is all over.

It is something removed from normal life, where the killing of another person is never set to strict rules and protocol. From the cases that I have seen, and the people I have put to death, I have learned that in the world at large, someone’s life can be taken away so suddenly, without warning, or ceremony. This is a disturbing thought.

One case in particular, later in my career, highlighted this fact to me and showed just how quickly death can come.

***

At around 4am on the morning of 18 August 1998, Athip Ingaew and his wife Ganya were already at work, collecting latex from the trees on a rubber farm. The early morning is the best time to collect the rubber because the temperature is much more suitable. The rubber trees will release white latex then, which is considered the best quality rubber of all. The husband and wife were working on separate rows, scraping each tree and attaching a little cup to the trunk to collect the precious commodity. The farm belonged to another couple, Niyom and Pen Kongtago, and was situated in the province of Chumporn. In the twilight Ganya heard a sound and looked up in surprise. She could just make out the approaching figure of a man. He was nearer to Athip and she quietly called to her husband. When he turned around to face the man the visitor produced a gun and aimed it at Athip. Before the couple could respond, Ganya watched her husband fall to his knees as a single shot rang out, sounding vulgar in an otherwise peaceful scene. Forgetting herself, Ganya screamed out and ran to her husband who had crumpled down to the ground and was now motionless. The assailant was about three metres away as Ganya reached Athip and she found herself peering at him against her better judgement. The sun had not risen yet but she could make out his face in the light from the small lamp attached to her helmet.

With her husband’s head in her lap she recoiled in horror from the monster with the gun—a monster that she knew well. It was Sudjai, her step-father. Sudjai, the bastard who had raped her over a period of five years. Sudjai, the father of her aborted child. He had made her life a misery and it was Athip who had rescued her from the abuse. He held the gun rigidly by his side and stared coldly at her.

‘If you tell the police I will come back and kill you.’

Then he ran off in the direction he had come. Ganya tried to drag her badly wounded husband to the Kongtago house but his weight was too much for her. She didn’t know at the time that the shot, at such close range, had killed him, and she frantically tried to rouse him to consciousness, refusing to consider the obvious. She eventually left him to run to the farm owners for help. They called the police and Athip’s parents.

Athip’s mother reached her first and spent a distressing hour with her sobbing daughter-in-law. At that stage Ganya did not identify her husband’s killer, which caused complications later. She just described how her husband had been shot by a man, both to the Kontagos and her mother-in-law. There were a couple of discrepancies, it was later argued, between what she said happened now and what she later said to the police. She said that she saw a man approaching from ten metres away and could not make out his face as it was too dark. She also said that she was collecting latex at the second row of trees while her husband was working at the first row, right next to the mangosteen farm. She insisted that she saw the man coming from the direction of the mangosteen farm, but how could she be sure if she couldn’t see that far? The farm was more than 15 metres away from where she was working.

Later that day Ganya was interviewed at the police station and confirmed that the killer was her step-father. The police applied for a search warrant from Langusan Provincial Court, which was quickly issued. They rushed to Sudjai’s house that same day but he wasn’t there. His wife informed them that he was away working in the district of Langsuan. A warrant was issued for his arrest and six days later they finally caught up with him. He was hiding on a farm in the small village of Pato, and was duly arrested. He denied the two charges put to him, that of cold-blooded murder and being in possession if an illegal firearm.

He also told police: ‘I didn’t rape the girl. Some guy kills her husband and I’m just the scapegoat.’ But then again, raping your step-daughter is hardly something a man is going to admit to.

Ganya told the police everything. She shared a house with her mother and Sudjai for 15 years. After ten years had elapsed Sudjai returned home drunk one day. His wife had gone to Bangkok to do some shopping so he raped his 15-year-old step-daughter instead. After doing it once he found it easier to do it again, and again, and again. She got pregnant and at her mother’s instigation she had an abortion. Her step-father resumed raping her after the abortion. Then in April 1997 she fled her home to marry Athip, without her step-father’s approval.

She claimed that the light on her helmet allowed her to see 15 metres in front of her. When she saw the killer’s face he was only three metres away from her so she was 100 % sure it was Sudjai. He spoke to her and threatened to kill her if she didn’t keep her mouth shut.

Aside from the whole matter of how many metres she could see ahead of her in the twilight the police pondered about some other little matters. It was thought to be strange behaviour that she had run to her husband after he had been shot, despite the killer only being three metres away. People believed that had they been in her shoes they would have run to save themselves first. But the way I saw it was that she loved her husband, so it was a natural reaction to forget herself and run to him when he fell. If Tew or any of my kids were attacked in that way I would not run off for cover and leave them lying on the ground behind me, and if it was me that fell they probably wouldn’t leave me either. So I was never convinced that this was a controversial matter. And there was another case where a father out walking with his daughter was shot by an assassin, his daughter clung to him and refused to run and consequently was also shot.

They also could not understand why she didn’t identify the killer immediately. It was over an hour before the police reached the farm and that is when she used Sudjai’s name for the first time. I don’t see anything strange in this. Athip was probably the only person that knew what Ganya had been subjected to by her step-dad. How was she to tell her shocked and severely distraught mother-in-law that she was indirectly the cause of her son’s death? That her step-father had raped her for five years when she was a teenager and was so obsessed with her that he sought her out to kill her son in jealousy. She was still in shock herself and would have been trying to digest the fact that her own mother’s husband had just killed the one person in the world that truly cared about her. She was right to wait for the objectivity and professional calm of the police.

Ganya claimed that Sudjai was mad at her for marrying Athip, but if that was the case why did it take him a year to do something? So what? He didn’t think about murdering someone immediately—instead he took a year out to brood and nurture his wicked obsession to the point where he could pick up a gun and hunt out Ganya’s young husband to terminate his life. He wasn’t a natural born killer; he had to work himself up to it. When I saw photographs of him later he looked like a mad man, very emaciated with a head of short grey hair. His life had probably just consisted of tedious hard labour and hard drinking to make him forget how miserable his life was. He obviously didn’t care for his wife so the only other thing is his life was Ganya and he had become fixated on her and never got over her running away from his forced embrace to marry and sleep with another man.

There was also a bit of a problem over the fact that the police searched his house and failed to find the gun or bullets, but why would the guy bring the gun back to his home and risk incriminating himself? Surely he would have gotten rid of the gun following the shooting; he would have been stupid to have done otherwise.

His wife was interviewed by a social worker afterwards for the official report. The day before the murder Sudjai told her that he was going away for a while to work on a farm. That would have been completely normal as he had to travel to where the work was. She was only too aware that her husband was still bitter over Ganya’s marriage but how could she have foreseen that he would kill? She explained that he was the family’s only bread-winner and therefore she needed him or they might have starved. She was scared of him, but she couldn’t see that she had any other choice in life. This same attitude of not rocking the boat prevailed when Ganya became pregnant. Abortion is illegal in Thailand but there are always means and ways, especially in rural villages. An illegal abortion was easier to deal with and worth the risks involved, than the neighbours finding out what was going on.

I only read up about the case after the execution. It was one of my rules not to research the execution cases until afterwards, preventing me from investing any emotion in the shooting. In Sudjai’s case, had I known that he had raped his step-daughter I might have taken pleasure, as a father with a daughter, in killing him which would not be good for my heart or soul. It worked the other way too; I couldn’t shoot someone if I doubted their guilt so it was better to know nothing about the circumstances of the person I was to execute. It is beyond my imagination how a grown man could rape a teenager; a 15-year-old is still a child in my eyes and I will never understand men being sexually aroused by children.

Sudjai maintained his innocence and because of the little ambiguities that I referred to earlier he won his case in the Court of Appeal. However, the decision was reversed by the Supreme (or Dika) Court and he was sentenced to death. I imagine that they took the years of raping the girl into consideration and not letting her go, even after she had left to marry because it was a little surprising that he got the death penalty. He only shot Athip once and it was out of jealousy. He didn’t try to cut up or hide the body and he had not got a criminal record.

His was my last execution and I thoroughly resented having to do it. I knew that the advent of lethal injection in Bang Kwang was just around the corner, plus it had been a year since the last execution. So I thought I was in the clear, and that shooting people was behind me now. I was very disappointed when I was told to prepare for this one. I had hoped there would be some kind of amnesty, anything that might prevent this shooting from taking place. But nothing happened. I was now beginning to tire of people introducing me to strangers as ‘the executioner’. I was also tiring of inappropriate reactions like, ‘Hey, so this is what a legal killer looks like!’ Did they honestly think I was going to laugh at that?

There was nothing remarkable about my last execution. I didn’t speak with the prisoner and there were no scenes of terror or regret from him. For the last time I retrieved the gun and bullets from the armoury. I cleaned them thoroughly and then checked the box of bullets. Each shell had to be inspected for cracks. When I was satisfied I brought them to my office in the Foreign Affairs Section and locked them into my desk drawer. Then I signed off and headed home, as usual, for a bath and a nap. Tew was the only one who understood how I was feeling; she had also believed that I had executed my last criminal a year ago.

I returned to the prison a couple of hours later and took the guns down to the execution room where I set them up on their stands and waited glumly. I saw Sudjai on my way in when he was getting his photograph and fingerprints taken. His sullen face didn’t betray any emotion as he complied with his escorts’ directions. Well, that made it a little easier for me. He wrote his will when he was offered a pen and paper and he was either flat broke or really had no feelings for his miserable wife because he wrote in big capital letters that he wished his personal belongings to be left to NO ONE. He arrived at the execution room just after 5pm and was tied to the cross at 5.15pm. At 5.21pm on 11 December 2002 I fired eight bullets, killing him instantly.

***

DOC’s Director General Natee Chitsawang, speaking to
The Taipei Times
in 2003, said of the lethal injection that it was a more humane way to execute someone than by firing squad. He even went as far as saying that bringing in this new process might prove to be a stepping stone to abolishing the death penalty altogether. There was a religious ceremony at Bang Kwang when the injection was brought in, officially legalised on 19 October 2003. Monks sprinkled holy water on the machine guns and 319 balloons, representing the spirits of all those shot over the past 71 years, were released. It was hoped that their spirits would go to Heaven. The guns were removed to the museum at the Department of Corrections.

I was very relieved when lethal injection was brought in. It was against my religion to kill another human being, or anything at all. The laymen Buddhist has five commandments to follow: Thou shalt not kill, steal, commit adultery, lie or get drunk. I couldn’t really stop after the first execution. There was a large turnover of Superintendents and all of them would have queried why I was refusing to execute people for them when I had already done it for someone else. I could not afford to lose my job. The farang press constantly asked me why I did it. I had to feed and clothe my family. I was only the last piece in the puzzle that is the Thai justice system. I took the opportunity to end my career as executioner when lethal injection was brought in to replace the gun. Mr Chitsawang agreed, saying that I had done enough over such a long period, so it would be better to stop now. I was glad to be finished with executing. I could now talk about it and write about it. It would not have been appropriate to do so while I was still executioner in case it looked like I was enjoying it. Plus, who would believe me if I spoke about my depression over killing criminals while continuing to do it?