What if the most dangerous killer Texas ever freed looked death in the eye… and demanded to be “released” one last time? 😱

Kenneth Allen McDuff — the “Broomstick Murderer” who dodged the chair once, got paroled, then unleashed hell on more innocent lives — sat strapped to the gurney in Huntsville. No tears. No apologies. No regrets.

His final meal? Two massive well-done T-bone steaks with all the fixings: potatoes, salad, bread — like a king savoring his last taste of the outside world he terrorized.

Then came the moment everyone waited for: his last words.

Cold. Chilling. Defiant.

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On November 17, 1998, Kenneth Allen McDuff, one of the most notorious serial killers in Texas history, was executed by lethal injection at the Walls Unit in Huntsville. The 52-year-old inmate, convicted of capital murder in the 1992 abduction, rape, and strangulation of 22-year-old Melissa Ann Northrup, had spent decades cycling through the justice system in a case that exposed deep flaws in Texas parole policies and left a trail of victims in its wake.

McDuff’s execution came after years of appeals and marked the end of a criminal saga that began in the 1960s. Official records from the Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) confirm the procedural details of his final day, including his last meal request and final statement – elements that continue to fuel discussion among true crime observers and those who followed the case closely.

The Road to Death Row – Twice

McDuff first gained infamy in 1966 when he and an accomplice kidnapped three teenagers from a rural road near Rosebud, Texas. The victims – 16-year-old Edna Sullivan, her boyfriend Robert Brand, 17, and Brand’s cousin Mark Dunnam, 15 – were abducted, raped, and murdered. Sullivan was strangled with a broomstick handle, earning McDuff the grim nickname “The Broomstick Murderer.” He was convicted and sentenced to death, one of three capital sentences he received for the crimes.

However, McDuff avoided execution when the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the death penalty in Furman v. Georgia (1972), commuting his sentence to life imprisonment. In a decision that later drew widespread criticism, Texas parole officials released him in 1989 amid prison overcrowding concerns. Within days of his release, a new wave of violence began. Authorities link McDuff to at least six additional murders between 1989 and 1992, including the abductions and killings of women in Central Texas. He was suspected in up to 14 slayings overall.

McDuff was rearrested in 1992 after a nationwide search aided by tips to America’s Most Wanted. He was convicted of Northrup’s murder – she was abducted from her job at a Waco convenience store while pregnant with her third child – and returned to death row. His case prompted sweeping parole reforms in Texas, often referred to as the “McDuff Laws,” which tightened eligibility for early release.

The Final Hours on Death Row

In the days leading up to November 17, 1998, McDuff was held in a single cell at the Huntsville Unit, the state’s primary execution facility. Death row protocol called for strict isolation: 23 hours a day confined, with one hour of supervised recreation in a caged area. Lights remained on constantly, and meals arrived through a slot in the door.

Texas prisons allow condemned inmates to request a last meal, though there is a $100 limit and no alcohol or tobacco permitted. McDuff requested two well-done T-bone steaks “with all the fixings,” including potatoes, salad, and bread, according to contemporary reports from UPI and other outlets covering the execution. Prison officials prepared and served the meal in the hours before the procedure. Witnesses and records indicate he ate calmly, a detail that contrasted sharply with the brutality of his crimes.

As the execution time approached – 6 p.m. CST – McDuff was moved to the death chamber. He was strapped to the gurney, intravenous lines inserted into his arms for the three-drug lethal injection protocol then in use: sodium thiopental to induce unconsciousness, pancuronium bromide to paralyze muscles, and potassium chloride to stop the heart.

Warden Jim Willett asked if McDuff had any final statement. His response was brief and delivered without visible emotion: “I’m ready to be released. Release me.”

No apology. No expression of remorse. No mention of victims or families. He gasped several times as the drugs took effect, then exhaled and slipped into unconsciousness. He was pronounced dead at 6:26 p.m.

Reactions from Victims’ Families and Officials

Family members of McDuff’s victims watched from behind a glass partition. Brenda Solomon, mother of Melissa Northrup, told reporters afterward, “I’m glad this is over. My children are going to rest in peace now.” Another relative described seeing “the devil in him,” while McLennan County Sheriff P. McNamara, involved in the 1992 capture, said bluntly, “Thank God he’s gone. This man is more evil than the devil himself.”

Prosecutors and law enforcement had long labeled McDuff “the monster who comes out of the dark,” a phrase repeated in coverage of his execution. His parole in 1989 became a symbol of systemic failure, contributing to public outrage and legislative changes that made Texas parole far more restrictive.

Lingering Questions and Legacy

McDuff’s final words – “I’m ready to be released. Release me.” – have puzzled observers for years. Some interpret them as a cold, ironic reference to his 1989 parole that allowed more killings. Others see a defiant demand for freedom even in death. He made no effort to explain or elaborate.

His body was never claimed by family and was buried in a prison cemetery. The execution closed one chapter but left open wounds for survivors. McDuff’s case remains a stark reminder of the consequences of parole decisions and the challenges of managing high-risk offenders.

Today, more than 25 years later, discussions of McDuff often resurface in true crime forums, documentaries, and analyses of Texas justice. His story underscores the tension between rehabilitation efforts, prison overcrowding pressures, and public safety – a debate that continues in criminal justice circles.

The TDCJ’s official inmate records, including the last statement page, preserve the facts plainly: Date of execution, November 17, 1998. Inmate number 999055. Last words: “I’m ready to be released. Release me.”

For the families who waited decades for justice, those words offered no closure – only confirmation that the man who once walked free to kill again had finally met his end.