His gaze narrowed momentarily. A moment ago, Bondi’s simmering rage had been concealed by a rare smile; now, for the first time, that mask of sanity had fallen, and the fire of homicidal insanity flared in his eyes as he battled to control the murderous emotions bubbling inside of him. There was a dead silence in the interview room. Only the ragged gasp of his labored breathing could be heard amid their stunned silence, the sound of his own heart pounding loud and frantic through his chest and head. His fingers curled into tight fists, the knuckles turning white with strain. Finally, she had met the sadosexual serial killer she had been writing about in the papers for years. And now she was here, in this little room with him. She understood that they were sitting across from the Death Chamber, where he would be brought in a few days to deal with the consequences of his sadism. And now his eyes were fixated on her with undisguised murder, an emotion burning so hot and bright in his dark brown orbs that she could almost feel it searing right through her skin like flames. Her breath caught in her throat. Having only ever seen his deep blue eyes on TV, she was unable to take her eyes off of him now that they were so close. They were intense, dark, terrifyingly intelligent, and filled with such malice that any normal person would run screaming and faint at the sight of them; but not her. Not her, who knew the truth behind what lay beneath that cool, collected facade, even though it frightened the hell out of her. He stared so intensely at her, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from his—until suddenly, he blinked. It took everything inside of her not to flinch back, not because she was afraid of him—no, she wasn’t afraid. She found herself fascinated, captivated by the way his eyes softened for a split second before going cold again—a coldness she could see reflected on his features as well. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh hysterically, scream hysterically, or throw up—but then again, she hadn’t thrown up since she was a kid, so maybe throwing up wouldn’t exactly be the correct response anyway. And there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, the situation needs serious attention. So, instead, she smiled softly back at him, letting some warmth fill her face, hoping that it made it seem less creepy and more friendly and inviting. “My name is Diana Mubendi, Mr. Bondi.” His stare intensified as he studied her closely— scrutinizing her, weighing her words and intentions, perhaps? But whatever was going on behind those unnaturally opaque eyes remained hidden, and he gave no indication that he heard anything she said. Recalling that she had only scheduled this one interview day with him before his imminent execution the following week, she shuddered. She had to get this right. He looked like a ticking bomb that she’d been warned not to touch. He certainly seemed dangerous, but then, why else would he be a serial killer? That was just how killers were described in the media and online; it was probably what his fans believed too. And his fans weren’t entirely wrong; he was dangerous. Very dangerous. Even for someone like her, who didn’t believe in violence, he was very dangerous. She tried not to let her fear show through on her face – although she was quite sure that he noticed. He continued to stare at her intently, searching for something, some reason, to dislike her. She held her chin high and stared back at him defiantly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. This wasn’t the time for cowering, this wasn’t even the time for showing weakness. No matter what he was capable of doing to her, no matter what sort of psychopathic personality he possessed, she refused to show fear or capitulate to him in any way, shape, or form. She had been prepared for this meeting for weeks; she was ready. The last few months of waiting training and preparation for this day had taught her the importance of having a plan and being able to move forward. Nothing was going to keep her from accomplishing this interview. She had nothing to lose anymore. So, as his gaze continued to bore into her, she steeled herself against it. Whatever thoughts were swimming behind those eyes, if any at all, he kept them to himself. He leaned back in his chair and adjusted his shackled legs underneath the table, briefly breaking the silence between them. “Why did you come to interview me?” His voice was surprisingly soft and much calmer than she would have expected; she wondered if that was deliberate. After all, he was a sociopath, a killer, a sadist who delighted in tormenting his victims. Surely, he knew how to mask his true feelings. But then again, it was also possible that he was simply hiding his true feelings from the outside world; she hoped that that was the case, anyway. If she could find something that could trigger his killing instinct in her, something to motivate her, then maybe, just maybe, she could make this interview work. “It’s hardly appropriate for one reporter to interview another journalist, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth, but she could tell that he was annoyed, almost offended. “And besides…you’re already aware of my true nature.” “True nature?” She echoed, trying to hide her surprise at how little information she had gleaned from this interview alone. “How can I possibly know your true nature when you haven’t told me any?” She waited patiently, watching him try to process her question, and for several tense minutes, his eyes narrowed, scanning his surroundings as if he were seeking an answer. At last, though, after seemingly giving up on finding a solution, he sighed quietly and spoke in a tone of resigned resignation: “Ms. Mubande, you want the truth?” he leaned forward to ask. He spoke in the same hushed tone he usually reserved for interviews. “And I shall give it to you willingly.” She saw her opportunity to gain something useful from this interview, and nodded once, urging him to continue. “My true nature is the opposite of what you might expect. It is violent and bloodthirsty. I am a murderer and a kidnapper, both of which are crimes punishable by death.” Now that he had begun to explain himself, his face hardened, and he became angry again, eyes flashing with the familiar flash of madness. “As you should know by now.” He fell silent after that, seeming to consider his words carefully, and she let him think. For a while, she thought that perhaps, for a man as strong-willed as he appeared to be, she should have asked something more difficult: How do you kill people without killing yourself? or do you enjoy committing murders? Instead, she sat there calmly, studying his expression. There was still a hint of anger lurking around the corner of his lips and jaw, but it seemed to have dulled with time and experience to a simmer, simmering barely perceptible underneath the surface. And yet, for some reason, she suspected that this was only the beginning of his wrath. Finally, after what must have been several excruciating minutes, he spoke again. “If you ask me, my ‘true nature’ has always been somewhat problematic, and the past twenty years have done nothing but reinforce those beliefs of mine.” His face contorted with rage as he finished speaking, clearly disgusted. He seemed unable to hold back what he felt any longer, his shoulders tensing slightly as his whole frame practically bristled with tension. Finally, he stopped talking, and the moment hung heavy around them, thick with tension. Diana swallowed hard and nodded slightly in acknowledgment, allowing him to take a breath. Smiling just a little bit, he glanced back over his shoulder at her as he turned to face the small window across from him, which let a few rays of sunlight in to help with the oppressive, depressing darkness that had descended upon the room. “But, I suppose you wouldn’t understand.” The smirk widened, and the corner of his lips curled upwards. “No one does.” His gaze drifted towards his hands once again, whereupon he started rubbing his thumb across the backs of his fingers absentmindedly, watching the slow movement carefully and deliberately. Her mind began to race frantically as she struggled to decipher what he was implying, what he could mean by saying that. She wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what he meant. As far as she was concerned, however, his words were nothing more than a veiled threat. A warning if she continues to ask her stupid questions about this subject, or if she continues to push him to say things he doesn’t necessarily want to say, things that most likely would cause him to lash out. Either way, it wasn’t going to happen. The mere idea of him harming a single hair on her head sent chills down her spine, and she shuddered involuntarily at the thought, unconsciously gripping the edge of the table tightly as she stared back at him defiantly, willing him not to hurt her even though the two hard-faced prisons were standing behind him, ready to prevent him from acting upon his desire to inflict pain upon her. She knew that she didn’t stand a chance at surviving this encounter unscathed – but she also knew that she had to play the game as best she could.
~
The date was September 23, 2015. Everything that smelled of the mountains and the soil of Butula village had been enveloped in a gloomy night like a shroud of darkness; it was a stark contrast to the warm weather of the day before, being dark, chilly, desolate, and lifeless. The village was quiet except for the low sound of the wind whistling through the trees that surrounded it, and the occasional barking of a dog. In contrast to the darkness and loneliness surrounding the village, inside the house, everything was illuminated brightly with the flickering light of candles in the living room, illuminating the faces and hearts of those who dwell within it. The candlelight flickered back some small light into the souls of many families that had experienced the sting of sadness and the emotional cruelty of losing family members in an unexplained way. That light served as a reminder, if nothing else, that the human predator responsible for the deaths of their children and other village residents would eventually face justice. The rightful response to such heinous, indescribable, and aggressive deeds was for the authorities to execute the predator. Easy. Other than death, there was no other kind of justice that could satisfy them. They believe that whoever was responsible for each murder enjoyed chaos because it had been a long time since such a crime was committed on their territory. His brutality toward people, ranging from children to adults, demonstrated a complete lack of empathy. The local authorities stepped up their security and search efforts after the killing spree episodes got worse. They looked everywhere for hints that would point them in the direction of the murderer, but they found none. They found it annoying since they thought they had let everyone down. Fortunately, their predator was more cunning and had moved ahead of them. Chief Investigator Ben Kurgat of the Butula PD, however, knew they would have their suspect soon. Indeed, since he had solved other crimes before. On September 23rd, Bondi’s father, Mzee Bea, a city civil servant, made it clear that his son had turned into a sucker. A violent sucker who was prepared to murder him without showing any remorse. The frequency and intensity of his altercations with his father were increasing. His mother and father got into an argument that evening. To settle the score, Bondi went to his room, retrieved a 12-gauge shotgun, loaded a shell into the chamber, and dashed downstairs to the fight scene. He pointed the barrel at his father’s face and yelled, “Leave that woman alone,” without pausing to ask the two participants to end the argument. “I am going to murder you, chubby jerk. It is over now.” He squeezed the trigger, but for some reason, the gun did not go off. Mzee Bea froze in his spot and watched in horrified dismay as his son put down the gun and merely left the room, showing no remorse for nearly killing his father. Although the specific altercation had ended, Bondi’s behavior hinted at the aggression he would shortly inflict not only on his father but also on his whole family. Mzee Bea never went back to his home. After two weeks, every time Bondi was about to take the lives of his captured victims, he permitted a meek smile to flicker on his icy face. This happened in the shadows and nights that many feared. It was those nights he enjoyed, and he felt like a god without limits. On November 10, of that same year, Bea and many of his coworkers were working in Koa City early in the morning. The city, teeming with activity, was illuminated by the rising sun. While driving along 041 E 38th Street, Ben and his colleague Kirui noticed a 1968 black-over-pea-green Chevrolet Caprice. It was parked in front of a diner across the street. Kurgat slowly circled the block as his partner looked over the details of the police bulletin that had been sent out the day before. ”That’s it,’ said Kirui. “That looks like the car. All we are going to do is find the driver. He is a large man with what appears to be a gorilla-like build. The two officers examined the inside of the Caprice by peering through the window. It turned out that the bible, pornographic magazines, and red plaid car rug were all there. They saw multiple packs of Marlborough cigarettes by the gearshift; everything they saw had been described by one of the men the police were looking for his past rape victims. As Kirui was calling his precinct for help, Ben happened to walk into the diner and asked the proprietor if he knew who had been driving the car. “Yes, without a doubt,” was the dubious response. “He quickly ran out back after seeing you guys.” He was halted, briefly questioned, and then taken into custody a short while after. Following his downtown arrest, he was charged with rape and homicide, after being informed of his Miranda rights. One of the most ruthless serial killers in the city, who had killed up to twenty people and committed six serious sexual offenses, some involving minors, would never again use his method on anyone.
~
Diana was going to do whatever she had to do to survive this interview, and then leave without looking back.
“You’re a smart girl,” he commented idly. She scowled back at his pointless compliment and said, “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself, either, though. But you’re just a psychopath, Bondi. You can’t claim any other qualities beyond that. Your real self may be hidden deep inside, but it’s still present. I’m sure of that.” A look of confusion suddenly flickered behind his eyes, causing her pulse to quicken slightly, anticipating his next words. “Do you think so? Do you know me that well?” He smirked, leaning forward once again to examine her, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. She could feel their gazes burning into her skin, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. “I have had many encounters with murderers, and for my TV show, I have conducted in-depth interviews with many of them. And I can assure you—I know them inside and out. You’re not very special.” His grin grew wider, “Now, what exactly do you hope to get out of this conversation? Because as far as I’m concerned, the only thing you’ll end up getting out of me is a headache, a bad temper, and maybe a broken nose…,” He grinned again, and this time it became downright evil, sending shivers of fear down her spine. After a few moments, he broke off his stare and watched her closely again. “Are we through?” His words weren’t threatening, they held none of the malice and cruelty that he had shown before despite his obvious amusement at her apparent discomfort. “So, what will it be? Are you ready for me to tell you my true identity? Or, will you keep asking me silly questions like these until someone gets fed up and tells you?” His tone changed abruptly, becoming mocking, and cold. This sudden change left her momentarily speechless, and she couldn’t believe how swiftly his personality shifted. It took all of her effort to maintain a composed demeanor, but she forced herself to remain stoic, not wanting to give him any sort of satisfaction. Her breathing was steady and controlled, her heart rate remained constant, and she fought the urge to visibly tremble. It wasn’t a struggle she needed to fight anymore, anyway. Not anymore. “Answer me.” His tone was sharp, and yet, strangely devoid of hostility. Despite that, she didn’t respond. After a brief pause, he laughed lightly, “I guess that makes sense, then. Diana, you are aware that since I was sentenced here, I have killed a great deal of people. But I did it all because I had no choice. And I have never regretted anything – except perhaps my first attempt at escape when I failed. But you’ve probably forgotten, having witnessed the events of that terrible day so many years ago. But then again, if you remember, you didn’t see much at all, did you?” His voice sounded bitter, and suddenly it struck her that she didn’t know what kind of person he was. Was he a criminal, a terrorist, a lunatic? Did he want to harm her? Had he intended to harm her? Her mind raced, trying to come up with an answer. Before she could find the right response, however, he continued his rant. “I did it because I had to do it. I did what I had to do… And, if you want to know who I am, or if you want to know why I had to do it, why I ended up here in this damned place, you have to accept that the only way I can ever move on from all that happened is by doing it again, in another form.”
The silence stretched, filled with tension and anxiety as neither said a word. After less than a minute, another guard came in to tell Diana that her time with him was over and they wanted to take him straight back to his cell. Pulling herself to her feet, she took her laptop and backpack and moved to stand behind them. Once again, Bondi looked back at her before they dragged him out of the room, a strange expression passing across his features; she couldn’t quite read it though. When he was gone, she returned to the chair and leaned back, thinking hard. So what, exactly, had been the point of that little conversation? Sure, she was curious; that she had no doubt. But the truth of the matter was that she didn’t care enough to pry any further. She would have liked to try to make him talk, maybe even learn more about him, but he had already made his decision, and it would be pointless for her to continue pushing him like this. At least, she hoped that was the case—but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that the answers she sought were not there. She shook her head quickly, banishing the unsettling thoughts away as she headed outside once again and headed back towards the parking lot. She was pretty certain that their interview was over, and she would not see him again because he was going to be executed the following week, even though she had not been able to see even a glimpse of his true identity. That made matters infinitely better, and she sighed softly as she finally arrived back at her hotel room, closing the door gently behind her as she walked inside to prepare for bed. She had spent nearly three hours trapped with a sociopath, and her sleep-deprived body desperately needed rest.
~
It was his last day, March 24, 2024, as it happened. His first view of the death house was sobering, even for a cold-blooded killer such as him. The truck that had driven him to his destination finally stopped in front of a set of razor-sharp wire-topped wire gates that gleamed in the sunlight. He was led through two steel doors while shackled. He was assigned to the second cell in a row that had a bed, a small table, and a chair as its only furnishings. The row of cells was to his left. The walls painted a creamy color, and the bed linens were immaculate. There was a “strictly no contact” cell next to his cell. There was a black-painted fine steel mesh screen covering the door. Another wooden table and two chairs were to his right in the hallway. Two things caught his eye: a phone and a bible. There was no ashtray because smoking was not permitted. Mzee Bea had arrived too late to see her son on his last day. Other than having a choice of what to eat for his last meal—two T-bone steaks, five fried eggs, vegetables, French fries, coconut pie, and a single Coca-Cola—he was not granted any special treatment. When he finished his meal, he thought that the end would not hurt. However, he was unaware that the end would involve an injection of three different drugs, all of which were acidic and had a pH value higher than six. The injections would burn so badly that it would feel like he was getting a fire. The witnesses began arriving through the main prison gate to be escorted to the Death House at 5:58 p.m. when the warden received word that Bondi’s last-minute request for a stay of execution had been denied by the Supreme Court. One could have observed that the hearse, which was prepared to receive the body, was concealed by the sheeting that was now covering the steel gates. They were taken to the viewing room, which was divided from the gurney by a window and closed curtains, after undergoing a body search to look for hidden cameras or weapons. The pre-injection of 8cc of 2% sodium pentothal was administered to the murderer at 5:44 p.m. The cell extraction team was there, waiting quietly in a nearby room. Equipped with Mace gas to subdue Bondi should he cause any trouble; they were dressed in protective gear. He was invited out of his cell at 6:08 p.m. He consented, and as he descended the short flight of stairs to the chamber door, which opened in front of him, no guard touched him. He froze for a moment upon seeing the gurney with its white cover sheet and padding. He observed that two arm supports had been removed and that there was an officer by each of the loose brown hide straps. At 7:08 p.m., Bondi was restrained, and the paramedics placed catheters and two 16-gauge needles into each of his arms. These were linked, through pliable tubes, to the hidden location of the executioner. Additionally, the prostrate man had a stethoscope and cardiac monitor affixed to his chest by the doctor. As the curtains were drawn back, Warden Salim Tembea asked him, speaking into the microphone above his head, if he had any final words. He merely said, “I am ready to be released,” in response. ‘‘Release me.’’ Pamela put her hand softly on her 74-year-old husband’s shoulder, Natale, inside the witness section.
“I have been anticipating this for a decade,” he declared. Robert, his son, was one of the people Bondi killed in the first few months of 2014.
“Are you all right?” Pamela asked quietly.
“It feels like ten years have been taken off my life,” Natale remarked. In the next ten seconds, Bondi received an injection of sodium thiopental, a fast-acting anesthetic that started to work in about ten. Bondi appeared scared during this time. His arm began to hurt as he felt a tiny pressure. Then he started to feel dizzy. This was followed by 15cc of normal saline to facilitate the passage of 50mg/50cc of pancuronium bromide after a one-minute break. A pressure built up in his chest. He repeatedly gasped for air as a result of the oppressive feeling. His heart was racing as a result of an attack on his entire nervous system, and he was lightheaded and hyperventilating. He choked to death as the poison spread throughout his body. After examining him for two minutes, the doctors declared him dead. The body was visible to the witnesses through the open curtains. Movingly, Mrs. Brenda, the mother of one of killer’s victims, remarked, “He looked like the Devil. He’s going where he needs to go. I feel happy … I feel wonderful.”
Maxwell Kamau
Maxwell Kamau, a 23-year-old wordsmith from Nairobi, Kenya, is pursuing BSc in Communication and Journalism at Rongo University. He has contributed to major publications in Kenya, including Daily Nation, The Standard, and The Star. He is a master writer in practically all genres. Additionally, he is a graduate of Alison's English Language and Literature Diploma Program. His accomplishments in the literary world can be ascribed to the deep impact that Czech novelist and writer Franz Kafka had on his ambition to write. When he is not writing, he enjoys pop music and binge-watching crime thrillers.
