They are then escorted into the gas chamber, often under heavy security, and secured to a chair with restraints around their wrists, ankles, waist, and chest to prevent movement. A stethoscope or other monitoring device is typically attached to their chest, extending outside the chamber so a physician can listen for the cessation of heartbeat or breathing, which signals death. Once the convict is secured, the chamber is sealed shut, creating an airtight environment. The execution team, located in a separate control room, activates the mechanism to initiate the gas. In the classic cyanide gas method, a container of sulfuric acid is placed beneath the chair, and a lever is pulled or a switch flipped to drop cyanide pellets or crystals into the acid. This chemical reaction produces hydrogen cyanide gas, a colorless, odorless, and highly toxic substance that interferes with the body’s ability to use oxygen, binding to hemoglobin and preventing it from carrying oxygen to tissues and organs.

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Tsutomu Miyazaki liked to taunt the parents of his victims with chillingly silent phone calls or postcards containing gloating messages. He left a box on the doorstep of the parents of his first victim, four-year-old Mari Konno. Inside were fragments of charred bone, ten baby teeth and photographs of the clothes their daughter had been wearing the day she disappeared. Typed on a single piece of paper were the chilling words ‘Mari. Bones. Cremated. Investigate. Prove’. He was taunting those searching for him and shattering the lives of those left behind to mourn

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Mullin didn’t fit the killer mold. This clean-cut ex-flower-child looked more like he’d stumble over a peace rally than a murder scene. Cops might’ve sneered at hippies, but they didn’t peg them—or guys like Mullin—for bloody rampages. At first, his calm vibe seemed like he’d play ball. They figured prying answers out of him about that day’s madness would be a breeze. That illusion shattered fast. Mullin bolted up from his chair, barking “Silence!” like some deranged king. It actually worked—the detective froze long enough for Mullin to tilt his head and listen to whatever ghost was whispering in his ear. Inside, Mullin was a mess, a tangle of broken wires and crossed signals. He’d shown a itch to spill his guts before, like when he’d bent Father Henri Tomei’s ear, but it was a messy urge, full of knots. On some faint, flickering level of sense—if you could call it that—he knew he’d been caught with blood on his hands. Jail loomed, and he got that much.

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