“The Man Who Chose Death: Why Gary Gilmore Insisted on His Own Execution”
The summer of 1976 was one of terror for Utah County, Utah. Two young Mormon men were senselessly gunned down in back-to-back robberies, leaving the community in shock. But what followed was even more startling—just hours after the second murder, police had their killer. And what unfolded next turned a tragic crime into a spectacle that gripped the nation.
Gary Gilmore, the man behind the murders, did something no one expected: he confessed. Not only that, he actively fought against efforts to spare his life. The 35-year-old, a hardened criminal with a troubled past, became the first person executed in the United States after the death penalty was reinstated in 1976. And his method of choice? A firing squad.
On January 17, 1977, as protestors gathered outside Utah State Prison, Gilmore sat strapped into a chair, facing five riflemen behind a screen. His final words were chillingly simple: “Let’s do it.”
The Making of a Killer
“My father was the first person I ever wanted to murder.”
Those haunting words from Gilmore, as quoted in his younger brother Mikal Gilmore’s memoir Shot in the Heart, paint the picture of a childhood marred by violence. Their father, an alcoholic and serial conman, used a razor strap to brutally beat his two eldest sons. The more they cried, the harder he swung.
Despite his harsh upbringing, Gilmore showed early promise as an artist and had an impressively high IQ. But by his teenage years, his talent had been swallowed by self-destruction. He began stealing cars, riding freight trains for kicks, and embracing a life of crime.
By 15, he was sent to reform school. By 22, he was in prison for armed robbery and assault. His years behind bars were filled with violent outbursts and multiple suicide attempts. When he was finally paroled in 1976, it was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it was the beginning of his downfall.
Murder for No Reason
Gilmore’s uncle had arranged for him to work in Provo, Utah. He even found love, falling fast for 19-year-old Nicole Barrett, a twice-divorced mother of two. But the relationship unraveled quickly as Gilmore’s violent tendencies resurfaced. When Barrett left him, his rage exploded.
On July 19, 1976, Brigham Young University student Max Jensen lost a coin flip at work and ended up taking the late shift at the gas station. It would cost him his life.
That night, Gilmore walked in, pulled out a gun, and ordered Jensen to lie face down. Without hesitation, he shot him in the head. “This one is for me,” he said. Then another shot—“This one is for Nicole.”
The next night, Gilmore walked into a motel and executed 25-year-old Bennie Bushnell in the same cold manner. Neither of the victims had resisted. Neither had a chance.
When asked why he did it, Gilmore’s response was chilling in its simplicity: “I don’t know. I don’t have a reason.”
A Death Wish in the Courtroom
Gilmore’s capture was swift—he had shot himself in the hand during a failed getaway, leaving behind a blood trail leading straight to him. His trial was equally quick. When given the chance to plead his case, he refused.
“I want to plead guilty,” he insisted to his defense attorneys, who were baffled by his complete lack of self-preservation.
In court, rather than showing remorse, Gilmore appeared indifferent. Blowing kisses at Nicole Barrett when she sat in the audience, he seemed more preoccupied with getting her attention than saving his own life.
The jury had no difficulty convicting him of first-degree murder. When given the choice between hanging and firing squad, Gilmore smirked. “I’d rather be shot.”
The Fight to Stop His Execution—And His Fight to Die
Despite his eagerness to accept his fate, Gilmore’s case became a battleground for opponents of the death penalty. The American Civil Liberties Union, his mother, and even President Jimmy Carter attempted to intervene. Yet Gilmore fought them at every turn. He fired his legal team, rejected appeals, and made it clear—he wanted to die.
From prison, he wrote impassioned love letters to Nicole Barrett, and the two made a suicide pact. She smuggled pills into his cell, and both overdosed within days of each other. They survived, but the attempt only solidified his resolve.
At his final hearing, he made his stance unmistakable: “I do not care to languish in prison for another day.”
The Execution That Restarted Capital Punishment
Gilmore’s choice of execution was strategic—he wanted control, even in death. Firing squad, he believed, was a man’s way to go. Hanging, he thought, was for cowards.
In the early hours of January 17, 1977, he was strapped into a chair in a drab prison room. Sandbags were piled behind him to absorb the bullets. A target was pinned over his heart.
Five riflemen raised their guns. Only four of them had live rounds—one contained a blank so no one would know who fired the fatal shot.
As they took aim, Gilmore’s last words rang out: “Let’s do it.”
Four bullets tore through his chest.
The Legacy of a Killer Who Wanted to Die
Gilmore’s execution marked the first in the U.S. since the Supreme Court reinstated the death penalty. It also set a precedent—since his death, more than 1,500 people have been executed in America.
But perhaps the most unexpected part of his story is the cultural legacy he left behind. His last words, “Let’s do it,” later inspired one of the most iconic slogans in history. When advertising executive Dan Wieden was brainstorming ideas for Nike’s first major campaign, he recalled Gilmore’s words. With a small tweak, they became the foundation of the brand’s ethos: Just do it.
For a man who wanted to be remembered, Gary Gilmore succeeded—but not in the way he may have imagined. Instead of being known as just another killer, he became the face of a new era in capital punishment. And, unknowingly, the inspiration behind a slogan that would define a generation.
