The infamous Ted Bundy, known as the charismatic killer who had America gripped, faced his final moments with a sombre resignation that stood in stark contrast to the swagger he was infamous for. Led into a room with ‘Old Sparky’—Florida’s dreaded electric chair—he had seemingly come to accept his grim fate of death.

Where once there was a brashness, only solemnity could be seen in Bundy’s demeanour as he approached the execution chamber, a noticeable shift from his usual arrogance.

It was reported by The LA Times that Bundy had spent his last night in tears and prayers, a far cry from the confident man the public was accustomed to.

His charm fascinated many across America, with many viewing Bundy as an enigmatic figure, while his biographer Ann Rule, a former police officer herself, unmasked him as a “sadistic sociopath” who relished others’ pain.

Yet Ann Rule, working alongside Bundy at the Seattle’s Suicide Hotline Crisis Center back in 1971, did not perceive the imminent threat; it was several years later before his arrest illuminated the malevolent nature beneath the charm, reports <a href=”https://www.themirror.com/news/us-news/ted-bundys-chilling-12-final-1217230″ rel=”Follow” target=”_self”>the Mirror US</a>.

In a chilling paradox, detailed in her book ‘The Stranger Beside Me’, Rule’s personal experiences with Bundy painted him as “kind, solicitous, and empathetic”.

Such traits hardly reconcile with the Bundy who mercilessly committed femicide and the courtroom theatrics that revealed Bundy’s masterful disguise.

Throughout his life, Bundy was handed three death sentences. He managed to postpone the inevitable through a series of cunning tactics over this extended period, including a successful escape and some sturdy legal manoeuvring.

Bundy utilised various strategies that led to prolonged proceedings, and the prosecution, initially willing to remove the death penalty in exchange for a lengthy sentence, grew weary of his tactics.

By the time he reached his final trial in 1980, prosecutors were determined that Bundy should face their state’s most lethal chair.

In many respects, the trial was groundbreaking, with coverage from 250 journalists from five continents, marking it as the first televised trial in the United States. There was a palpable sense of anticipation, as if justice was finally about to be served on Bundy.

Despite having five court-appointed lawyers, Bundy conducted much of his own defence, seizing the opportunity to grandstand before the cameras.

At times, the courtroom drama resembled a soap opera more than a criminal trial involving a defendant facing the death penalty. Bundy was highly intelligent, but his showboating, delusions of grandeur, and constant desire to maintain control ultimately worked against him.

Ted Bundy exploited courtroom theatrics, taking advantage of an obscure Florida statute by proposing to his girlfriend Carole Ann Boone, who was a witness at the time, resulting in a surprise court-declared marriage.

This peculiar Florida legislation stated that a declaration of marriage in court, before a judge, was enough to legally bind a couple.

Upon Boone’s acceptance, Bundy declared they were wed on the spot, turning his trial into a circus.

As his sentence was delivered, Bundy is said to have defiantly yelled out to the court, “tell the jury they were wrong!”.

Bundy’s enigmatic character fascinated the masses, drawing approximately 500 individuals outside the north Florida jail to learn of his fate on January 24, 1989, with hordes more anticipating the news from broadcasters.

Opting to forgo his final meal, Bundy was led to the electric chair, where 42 onlookers awaited as he commenced his final moments.

In the lead-up to his lethal appointment at around 7.15pm, Superintendent Tom Barton sought Bundy’s last declaration.

During the execution’s final preparatory steps, Bundy addressed his lawyer, Jim Coleman, and Fred Lawrence, the Methodist minister, who had accompanied him in prayer previously.

With some reluctance, Bundy conferred his parting wish: “I’d like you to give my love to my family and friends.”

A thick strap was then secured over Bundy’s mouth and chin, followed by the tightening of the chair’s metal skullcap. It held a heavy, black veil that obscured his face from onlookers.

Barton signalled, and an unseen executioner pressed the button, sending two thousand volts surging through the wires.

Bundy’s body tensed with the electric charge, his fists clenched as a wisp of smoke rose from his right leg.

After a minute, the current ceased, and Bundy’s frame slumped. A paramedic unbuttoned his blue shirt to check for a heartbeat while another man shone a light into his eyes.

At 7.16am, the official word came out: Ted Bundy was dead, prompting cheers from outside the prison. Witnesses emerged from the facility, their demeanour sombre amidst the unexpected celebrations in the brisk morning air.

“Regardless of what Bundy did, he was still a human being,” remarked Jim Sewell, Gulfport’s police chief and one of the witnesses, despite admitting a profound sense of relief at Bundy’s death. This feeling resonated nationwide, particularly among women who now had one fewer ruthless predator to fear in their everyday lives.