STARKE, Fla. — The heavy steel door clanged shut for the final time at 6:55 p. m., and with it, the state of Florida closed a chapter of terror that had haunted the Tampa Bay area for nearly four decades. Bobby Joe Long, one of the most prolific serial killers in Florida history, was pronounced dead, executed by lethal injection for the 1984 murder of 20-year-old Michelle Simms. The procedure took less than twelve minutes, a swift and clinical end to a life that had spent over half its duration on death row, waiting for this very moment.
The final hours of Bobby Joe Long unfolded behind the fortified walls of Florida State Prison, a place that had become his home for 34 years. Heavily guarded and escorted by correctional officers, Long was moved from his general population cell to a stark holding cell situated just steps away from the execution chamber. This physical relocation was the first tangible sign that the legal marathon had finally reached its concluding lap, setting the stage for a reckoning that had been delayed for decades.
He walked the corridor with a demeanor that officials described as cool and unshaken, his face betraying no visible emotion.
For the condemned man, the walk to the holding cell was a journey into a familiar domain. He had inhabited the confines of Florida’s death row since September of 1986, a tenure so lengthy that his original death warrant, signed by a previous governor, called for “Death by electrocution,” a method the state had retired twenty years prior. His longevity on death row was staggering, outlasting the lives of his victims and, in some cases, the patience of their families.
At 34 years, he stood as one of the longest-serving death row inmates in American history, a living symbol of a justice system that often creeps at a glacial pace.
This period of waiting was not one of passive acceptance; it was a decade-spanning war of attrition fought in courtrooms across the state. Long’s legal team launched a relentless series of challenges to both his conviction and his sentence. They filed technical objections, presented new witness statements, and submitted motions for reconsideration, often focusing on the validity of forensic evidence and the quality of his initial defense.
Yet, the outcome remained frustratingly consistent for the defense: denial. As the years rolled on, the courts’ patience wore thin, and the procedural doors began to close.
The political landscape shifted decisively in January of 2019 when Ron DeSantis assumed the role of Governor of Florida. With a mandate to uphold the rule of law, Governor DeSantis took the extraordinary step of signing Long’s death warrant on April 23rd, marking his first as governor. The act signaled a definitive end to the delays.
“It’s time for this sentence to be carried out for the victims and for the rule of law,” DeSantis stated, cutting through the years of legal noise to deliver a simple, forceful message that justice delayed would no longer be tolerated.
Undaunted, Long’s attorneys regrouped, pivoting their legal strategy away from questions of guilt and innocence toward the method of execution itself. In a desperate, 81-page petition for a writ of habeas corpus, they listed nine separate grounds for judicial intervention, arguing that the state’s protocol was not only flawed but morally reprehensible. This final assault on the execution process was bolstered by an unlikely ally: the Catholic Church.
In a direct letter to the governor, the Florida Conference of Catholic Bishops pleaded for clemency, arguing that society was already safe from Long and that his execution would “perpetuate the cycle of violence.”
The criticisms were pointed and specific, focusing on the potential for extreme pain and suffering. At the heart of their argument was the use of etomidate, the first 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 in Florida’s three-𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 lethal injection cocktail. The defense claimed that for someone with Long’s history of epilepsy, the 𝒹𝓇𝓊𝑔 could trigger violent seizures before the subsequent sedatives took full effect.
“It’s ridiculous that I’m expected to come in there and say, ‘Here’s a better way to 𝓀𝒾𝓁𝓁 my client,'” one attorney lamented, highlighting the impossible ethical position of having to argue for a less painful method of death for a man they had long defended.
The legal maneuvering continued right up to the final hours, but one by one, the appeals were denied, dismissed, or ignored. The final thread was cut just an hour before the scheduled execution when the Federal Court of Appeals rejected a last-ditch plea. With the clock ticking down, Long was given his final meal around 9:30 a.
m. on Thursday morning, a standard early procedure to align staff schedules and mitigate the medical risks of administering drugs to a man with a full stomach. The condemned man’s last request was simple: a roast beef sandwich, bacon, fries, and a soft drink.
As the afternoon wore on, a tense silence hung over the prison. The U. S.
Supreme Court had not yet ruled on the final appeals, and the execution process remained on hold. Long, in his solitude, stared at the ceiling of his holding cell, his sleep fragmented and restless. While he lay in that state, his legal team worked through the night, preparing a final appeal to the highest court in the land.
They cited a 1980 Veterans Administration diagnosis of traumatic brain disease, arguing that injuries sustained during his military service had left him unable to control impulses, a factor they believed mitigated his responsibility.
As the 6:00 p. m. hour approached, the witness room began to fill.
The atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Among the 24 relatives of victims present was Lisa Noland, the 17-year-old girl who had escaped Long’s clutches years earlier. Her testimony and forensic evidence had been instrumental in his capture.
She took her seat in the center of the front row, having sworn to be present at this moment. “I wanted to look him in the eye,” she later told reporters. “I wanted to be the first person he saw.”
Unfortunately, he did not open his eyes, but for her, it was comforting to know this was actually happening.
At 6:43 p. m. , with the Supreme Court having officially denied the final appeals, the procedure began.
The warden asked Long if he had any final words; he responded with a single, quiet word: “No.” Within seconds of the drugs entering his system, his breathing became shallow, his mouth twisted, and his fingers twitched before falling still. The room held its breath.
At 6:55 p. m. , Bobby Joe Long was pronounced dead.
The entire process had taken less than twelve minutes, showing none of the suffering his lawyers had predicted. As the curtain drew closed, there were quiet sobs and faint smiles of relief among the victims’ families. Lisa Noland cried as she left the room.
“The peace that came over me is a remarkable feeling,” she said, finally closing the book on a nightmare that had gripped her life for 35 years.
