Larry Jensen

By Larry N. Jensen


    I knew Benny Bushnell; not well, but I knew him. His name is a footnote now and his killer is famous. Benny was murdered by Gary Gilmore, and Gilmore was executed for the crime in 1977.
    This execution ended a 10-year moratorium on executions in the United States. Books have since been written about Gilmore that explore his persona, but I didn't want to know anything about him. Knowing him, I might find a reason to pity and forgive him. To me, Gilmore was a lifeless, mean killer who was without remorse for his crimes. He deserved to die and Utah justice demanded it.
    That was all I wanted to know.
    Benny was a nice kid with a pregnant wife, a child and a future full of hope. He was a student at Brigham Young University and was working his way through school as a motel manager in Provo. On that August night in 1976, Gilmore entered the motel office, ordered Benny to lie on the floor and then shot him in the back of the head before walking out with a few dollars from the till. Benny's pregnant wife was in the next room -- the job provided living quarters -- heard the shot, investigated and found her husband dead on the floor. She has never recovered from the shock of that night.
    Benny was dead and Gilmore was guilty. In a 4th District courtroom, he glared menacingly at the jurors as they announced their guilty verdict. He was sentenced to die and, in a show of defiance, chose the firing squad over lethal injection.
    Soon after, Gilmore grabbed worldwide notoriety by denying all legal appeals that would have delayed his execution for many years. So his date with the firing squad came quickly. In January, less than six months after his crimes, the U.S. Supreme Court lifted its stay on executions. Gilmore was to die for his crimes, the first of many hundreds to follow.
    I followed the case with interest. The newspapers were full of reports every day for months leading up to the execution, detailing how it would be carried out. It would take place in a storage shed at the prison that was partially filled with sandbags to receive the spent bullets. Gilmore would be seated on an ordinary wooden chair. A temporary wall several feet in front of him would have five holes for the riflemen to shoot through. Their weapons would be 30-30 Winchester Model 94 carbines, a rifle I had used for hunting deer. Four of the rifles would be chambered with live rounds, the fifth with a blank.
    On the morning of the execution, Gilmore was seated and tied to the chair and a physician affixed a white patch to his shirt over his heart. At the appointed hour, aim was taken, the order was given to fire, shots rang out and Gilmore died.
    Justice satisfied, I thought. But what followed for me was profound and most curious.
    The moment Gilmore's death was announced, I felt physically ill. I was nauseous and my legs went weak. I tried to dismiss my feelings but I could not shake them. I soon recognized, without any doubt, that my role in the execution was troubling me, but why?
    The physical symptoms passed within a few hours, but my troubled feelings remained for weeks as I struggled to put them into some context I could understand. I was startled to realize that I, personally, could not have been the executioner; I could not have pulled a trigger in that shed on that day.
    I was experiencing an epiphany of some sort, something beyond knowledge and truth, something higher. I had participated in the execution in a very real sense, if only virtually. Relief came after admitting the hard truth that I had executed Gilmore in thought. I did not feel guilt or shame for my virtual act, but a sublime and profound sadness, as if I had disappointed someone important to me.
    Through the years since, I have tried to verbally convey this experience to others but words fail the experience. What happened to me was profound beyond words. The best I can do is to admit I executed Gilmore that day on a plane that transcends ordinary existence, a plane beyond competing ideas.
    I had violated a universal moral law, "Thou shall not kill," even if only in the realm of thought. I cannot deny this and I shall never forget it. Capital punishment is wrong. I know that now, but not from a legalistic point of view. It's more personal. Executions are carried out in the name of the people. That a surrogate stands willing in my place to do the killing is abhorrent to me. If I cannot stand in the firing squad and do the deed, then no one should.
    The executioner's act will always be mine, and I have killed before and know the profound sadness of it. As to Gilmore, I don't hate him but loathe him still. His mindless, senseless killing of Benny will always be beyond reason. It is Gilmore's evil and unforgiven legacy.
    -----
    Larry N. Jensen is a retired school district superintendent living in Farmington, where he writes, gardens and chases grandkids.