John David Battaglia, the smiling monster who murdered his own little girls while forcing their mother to listen to every gunshot, is dead.

At exactly 6:26 p.m. tonight, the former Dallas accountant turned child-killer was strapped to the death-chamber gurney inside the Walls Unit. Twenty-two minutes later, after a single dose of pentobarbital coursed through his veins, the man who once laughed while executing his daughters took two shallow gasps, asked “Am I still alive?” – and was gone.

But in those final minutes, Battaglia saved his cruelest performance for the woman he hated most: Mary Jean Pearle, the mother of the children he slaughtered.

Strapped down and staring through the glass, he spotted her in the viewing room. A grin spread across his face.

“Well, hi, Mary Jean,” he called out, voice dripping with mockery. “See y’all later. Go ahead please.”

Then, as the lethal drug began to burn, he taunted one last time: “Am I still alive?”

He was. For another thirty seconds. Then he snorted twice, like a man drifting off to sleep, and never woke up.

Seventeen years earlier, on the night of May 2, 2001, those same walls of his upscale Deep Ellum loft had echoed with a far more innocent plea.

Faith Marie Battaglia, age 9, curly-haired and wearing her favorite purple nightgown, begged for her life.

“No, Daddy, please don’t… don’t do it!”

The gunshot cut her off mid-sob.

Seconds later, six-year-old Liberty – the little sister who idolized Faith – screamed, “No, Daddy! No!”

Another gunshot.

Their mother, Mary Jean Pearle, heard every second of it on the phone. Battaglia had called her that evening, knowing she was with Dallas police reporting yet another violation of the protective order. He put the phone on speaker and made her listen as he executed their daughters one by one, taunting between shots: “Merry f***ing Christmas!”

Then he hung up, walked out of the blood-soaked apartment, and went bar-hopping with his new girlfriend.

He was arrested two days later at a tattoo parlor in Garland, laughing while an artist inked two red roses on his left bicep – one for Faith, one for Liberty.

The trial was a formality. Prosecutors played the 911 recording of the murders. Jurors wept openly. It took them just 19 minutes to return a guilty verdict for capital murder in 2002.

For the next 16 years, Battaglia’s lawyers fought to save him, claiming he suffered from bipolar disorder and delusional beliefs – including that he was in a cosmic war with Mary Jean and that his daughters were now “in a better place with God.” Psychiatrists hired by the state disagreed: he was manipulative, narcissistic, and fully aware of what he had done.

Every appeal failed. The U.S. Supreme Court refused to intervene. Texas set the date.

Tonight, as the execution hour approached, Faith and Liberty’s grandmother held a small vigil outside the prison with a single sign: “Faith and Liberty deserved to grow up.”

Inside the death chamber, John Battaglia showed zero remorse.

He waved at the witnesses, winked at reporters, and saved his final smirk for the woman whose life he had destroyed.

Mary Jean Pearle did not flinch. She stared straight back until the light left his eyes.

Afterward, she released a brief statement through the prosecutor’s office:

“Tonight, the man who murdered my babies finally faced justice. Faith and Liberty were the light of my world. No needle can ever bring them back, but I hope they are at peace now. I stood there and watched him die because they couldn’t. I did it for them.”

John David Battaglia was 62 years old.

Faith would have been 26 tonight.

Liberty would have turned 23 last month.

Instead, two little girls remain forever frozen in time – purple nightgowns, rose tattoos, and the sound of a father’s laughter echoing over gunshots.

The State of Texas closed the book on Case F-01-00396 tonight.

But for Mary Jean Pearle, the nightmare that began with a phone call seventeen years ago will never truly end.

Rest in peace, Faith and Liberty. Your mother never stopped fighting for you. And tonight, she finally got to watch the monster take his last breath.