Just In: Christopher Wilkins Executed After 9 Years on Death Row | The Texas Fort Worth Double murde

On January 11th, 2017, after spending more than 9 years on death row, Christopher Chubasco Wilkins was executed by lethal injection at the Huntsville Unit in Texas. He was 48 years old. In this video, we will talk about what happened, his last words, and his last meal. But to uncover the events of that fateful week and why Christopher ended up being executed, we have to go back to a violent October in 2005 and three murders in three days that would terrorize Fort Worth, Texas.

Christopher Chubasco Wilkins was born on September 29th, 1968. And from the very beginning, his life was headed in one direction. Violence, crime, prison, death. By the time Wilkins was in his 30s, he had been in and out of jails and prisons for years on weapons and drug convictions. He had served time in California.

 He had a federal gun possession conviction. And in early October 2005, after completing his sentence for that federal conviction, Wilkins was released to a halfway house in Houston, Texas. The halfway house was supposed to be a transition period, a chance for Wilkins to reintegrate into society under supervision. But Christopher Wilkins had no interest in reintegrating.

 He had no interest in following rules. He had one interest and one interest only, doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, no matter who got hurt. Within days of arriving at the halfway house, Wilkins left. He stole a truck and drove to Fort Worth. He had no plan, no job waiting for him, no family to reunite with. He just drove, aimless and dangerous, looking for trouble.

 And in Fort Worth, he found it. Christopher Wilkins was a heavily tattooed man, he his body covered in symbols that told you everything you needed to know about him. Pentagrams, Satanist imagery, white supremacist symbols. He was the kind of man you crossed the street to avoid. Prosecutors would later describe him as the classic outlaw in the model of Billy the Kid.

An old West style outlaw who lived by his own rules and had no regard for human life. Wilkins himself would admit during his trial that he had been trying to get himself killed since he was 12 or 13 years old. He didn’t care about consequences. He didn’t care about right or wrong. He only cared about living fast and dying young, and he didn’t care who he took with him along the way.

In October 2005, Wilkins encountered a man named Willie Freeman. Freeman was 40 years old, homeless, and made money dealing drugs on the streets of Fort Worth. He Freeman saw Wilkins as an easy mark, a guy fresh out of prison with cash in his pocket and a need to get high. Freeman approached Wilkins and offered to sell him crack cocaine.

Wilkins handed over $20. Freeman gave him a rock. Wilkins walked away, excited to get high, ready to light up the pipe. But when Wilkins examined what Freeman had sold him, he realized it wasn’t crack cocaine. It was a piece of gravel. Freeman had tricked him, stolen his money, and laughed at him. Freeman and his supplier, a man named Mike Silva, thought it was hilarious.

They had scammed some dumb ex-con and gotten away with it. But Christopher Wilkins didn’t forget. Over the next few weeks, Wilkins ran into Freeman again. They smoked drugs together. Freeman apologized for ripping him off. He even gave Wilkins real drugs to make up for it, uh trying to smooth things over, trying to turn the scam into water under the bridge.

Freeman thought they were cool. He thought Wilkins had let it go. He was wrong. Wilkins would later testify in court that by that point, he had already decided he was going to kill Willie Freeman. It didn’t matter that had apologized. It didn’t matter that he had made it right. Freeman had laughed at him. Freeman had made him look like a fool.

And in Christopher Wilkins world, that was a death sentence. But before Wilkins killed Freeman, he killed someone else. On October 26th, 2005, just one day before the double murder that would send him to death row, Christopher Wilkins shot and killed a 47-year-old man named Gilbert Vallejo outside a bar in South Fort Worth.

The motive was absurd. Wilkins was using a payphone. Vallejo was nearby. And according to Wilkins, Vallejo was disturbing him and cursing at him in Spanish. That was it. That was the entire reason. Wilkins pulled out a gun and shot Gilbert Vallejo dead. Vallejo’s body was found outside the bar, another victim of a man who killed over nothing.

Wilkins would later confess to this murder, but prosecutors decided not to charge him for it. They didn’t need to. They already had him dead to rights on two other murders, and those were more than enough to send him to death row. Gilbert Vallejo’s murder would remain uncharged, a footnote in a case already overflowing with violence.

But it established a pattern. Christopher Wilkins was on a killing spree, and he wasn’t going to stop until someone stopped him. October 27th, 2005, the day before the murders that would define this case. Or Christopher Wilkins reached out to Willie Freeman and told him he had some guns and drugs stashed on the west side of Fort Worth.

He said he needed a ride to go pick them up. Freeman believed him. He contacted his supplier, Mike Silver, and asked if Silver would drive them. Silver was 33 years old, a drug dealer trying to make money in a dangerous business. He agreed to drive. The plan was simple. Silver would drive. Freeman would sit in the front passenger seat.

Wilkins would sit in the back. They would drive to the west side of Fort Worth, pick up the guns and drugs Wilkins claimed to have hidden there, and everyone would go their separate ways. But there were no guns. There were no drugs. It was a setup. Christopher Wilkins was luring them to a deserted location so he could kill them both.

On the morning of October 28th, 2005, Silva picked up Freeman and Wilkins. Freeman climbed into the front passenger seat. Wilkins climbed into the back. Silva started driving following Wilkins’ directions toward the west side of Fort Worth. They drove through neighborhoods, past businesses, onto quieter roads.

Wilkins sat in the back seat, calm, silent, waiting for the right moment. Freeman sat in the front, oblivious, probably thinking about the money he would make once they sold whatever Wilkins had stashed. Silva focused on the road, driving wherever Wilkins told him to go. None of them knew that in a few minutes, two of them would be dead.

Wilkins directed Silva to a deserted stretch of road on the west side of Fort Worth. There were no houses, no businesses, no witnesses, just empty land and a lonely road. This was the place. Wilkins pulled out a gun. While Silva was still driving, while the vehicle was still moving forward, Christopher Wilkins raised the gun, aimed at the back of Willie Freeman’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening inside the vehicle. Blood and brain matter exploded forward, splattering across the windshield and dashboard. Freeman’s body slumped forward in the seat. He was dead before he even knew what had happened. Silva slammed on the brakes. The vehicle screeched to a halt. Silva turned around, terrified, and saw Wilkins with the gun.

 He tried to unbuckle his seatbelt, tried to escape, but the seatbelt jammed. Silva was trapped. He fumbled with the buckle, his hands shaking, his heart pounding, knowing he had seconds to live. Wilkins didn’t hesitate. He fired once, hitting Silva in the neck. Silva gasped, choking on his own blood. Then Wilkins fired again, this time hitting Silva in the head.

 Then he fired a third time, another shot to the head. Mike Silva’s body went limp. Blood poured from his wounds. He was dead. Two men executed in the front seat of a vehicle on a deserted road in Fort Worth. Christopher Wilkins climbed over the seat, pushed Silva’s body aside, and took control of the vehicle. He started driving with Mike Silva’s body still hanging partially out of the vehicle, caught in the seatbelt.

Wilkins pulled out a knife and cut the seatbelt, freeing Silva’s body. He dragged both bodies out of the vehicle and dumped them in a ditch on the side of the road like garbage. Willie Freeman and Mike Silva lay dead in that ditch, their blood soaking into the Texas dirt. But Christopher Wilkins wasn’t done.

Before he drove away, he did something that would become one of the most chilling pieces of evidence in the case. Wilkins walked to the front of Mike Silva’s SUV and pulled out his knife. He carved the numbers 666 into the hood of the vehicle. Then he carved a pentagram, a five-pointed star inside a circle, matching one of the numerous Satanist tattoos covering his own body.

It was a signature, a mark, a statement. Christopher Wilkins wanted everyone to know who had done this. He climbed back into the driver’s seat of Silva’s wrecked SUV, his hands covered in blood, his clothes splattered with gore, and he drove away. His fingerprints were all over the vehicle. His DNA was everywhere.

But Wilkins didn’t care. He had never cared about getting caught. In fact, part of him wanted to get caught. I He had told people for years that he was trying to get himself killed. He had a death wish and he was doing everything he could to make it come true. Over the next few hours, Wilkins drove Silver’s SUV through Fort Worth looking for his next victim, his next crime, his next moment of violence.

About a week before the murders, Wilkins had stolen a Ford Explorer during a home burglary. He had switched the license plates to match a similar make and model. He picked up a prostitute and drove her around Fort Worth. At some point during the drive, Wilkins became convinced that someone had taken his sunglasses.

It was a minor thing, the kind of annoyance most people would shrug off. But Christopher Wilkins didn’t shrug things off. And he used the stolen Ford Explorer to try to run down two people because he believed one of them had taken his sunglasses. He drove onto the sidewalk on East Lancaster Avenue and ran over several individuals.

The prostitute in the passenger seat became terrified. She convinced Wilkins to stop at a convenience store and as soon as the vehicle stopped, she jumped out and called 911. Fort Worth police officer J. Parsons and Sergeant Weber responded to the 911 call. When they arrived, they saw Christopher Wilkins behind the wheel of the stolen SUV.

Wilkins saw the police and hit the gas. What followed were two high-speed chases through Fort Worth and into Haltom City. Wilkins weaved through traffic, ran red lights, drove on the wrong side of the road. Police pursued him with sirens blaring trying to stop him before he killed someone else.

 And eventually, Wilkins lost control of the vehicle and crashed. The SUV slammed into a barrier and came to a stop, smoke pouring from the engine. Wilkins kicked open the door and fled on foot. Police officers chased him down on foot, tackled him, and wrestled him to the ground. Wilkins fought back, screaming at the officers, “Kill me. Just kill me.

” He wanted them to shoot him. He wanted them to end it right there on the street. But, the officers didn’t shoot. They handcuffed him, dragged him to his feet, and took him into custody. When police searched the wrecked vehicle, they found methamphetamine and stolen property inside. They ran Wilkins’ name and discovered he was a fugitive from the Houston halfway house.

But, they had no idea yet that he had just committed three murders in three days. That revelation would come soon enough. Christopher Wilkins was taken to the Fort Worth Police Department and placed in an interrogation room. Detectives sat across from him and started asking questions. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why did you run from police?” And then, in a move that shocked even seasoned investigators, Wilkins confessed.

He told them about Willie Freeman and Mike Silva. He described how he had shot them in the vehicle, how he had dumped their bodies in a ditch, how he had carved 666 and a pentagram into the hood of the SUV. He told them about Gilbert Vallejo, the man he had shot outside the bar the day before. He didn’t hesitate.

 He didn’t ask for a lawyer. He just confessed to everything, almost proud of what he had done. But, Wilkins didn’t stop there. He also confessed to other murders and crimes in several states. And detectives scrambled to verify these confessions, contacting law enforcement agencies across the country, trying to match Wilkins’ claims to unsolved cases.

But, many of these confessions couldn’t be matched to any reported offenses. Wilkins was either lying, exaggerating, or confessing to crimes that had never been discovered. Defense attorneys would later argue that these false confessions weakened the credibility of his real confessions. That if Wilkins was willing to lie about some murders, maybe he was lying about all of them.

But the evidence didn’t lie. Wilkins’ fingerprints were all over Mike Silver’s SUV. The bodies of Freeman and Silver were found exactly where Wilkins said they would be. The 666 and pentagram carved into the hood matched his tattoos. This wasn’t a false confession. This was the real thing. And Christopher Wilkins had killed three people in three days.

 And he had just admitted it to police. While Wilkins sat in jail awaiting trial, he made it clear he had no intention of going quietly. He plotted an escape. He swallowed a handcuff key, hiding it inside his body, planning to retrieve it later and use it to free himself. He made a makeshift knife out of materials he found in his cell.

Jail staff discovered the weapons before Wilkins could use them, but the message was clear. Christopher Wilkins was dangerous even behind bars. He would hurt anyone, anytime, if given the chance. Wilkins’ trial began in March 2008, nearly 2 and 1/2 years after the murders. He was charged with capital murder for the deaths of Willie Freeman and Mike Silver.

Prosecutors decided not to charge him with Gilbert Vallejo’s murder. And but they introduced evidence of that killing to show Wilkins’ pattern of violence. The trial was held in Tarrant County, and the lead prosecutor was Assistant District Attorney Kevin Rousseau. Rousseau had no doubts about what kind of man Christopher Wilkins was.

He called him a lifelong criminal and an outlaw in the classic sense of the word. Rousseau painted a picture of a man who had spent his entire life breaking laws, hurting people, and reveling in chaos. The defense was led by attorney Wes Ball, who faced an almost impossible task. His client had confessed. The evidence was overwhelming.

 The only real question was whether Wilkins would get life in prison or the death penalty. Ball decided on a risky strategy. He put Christopher Wilkins on the witness stand and let him testify. Wilkins took the stand and spoke for hours. He was candid to a degree you don’t see, Ball later said. Wilkins didn’t try to sugarcoat what he had done.

He didn’t claim self-defense or temporary insanity. He admitted everything. Yes, he had killed Willie Freeman and Mike Silva. Yes, he had shot them because they laughed at him after tricking him out of $20. Yes, he had carved 666 and a pentagram into the SUV. Yes, he had killed Gilbert Vallejo over a dispute at a payphone.

Wilkins told the jury, “I know they are bad decisions. I make them anyway.” He described himself as someone with a short fuse, someone who didn’t think about what he was doing when he got wound up. And then he said something that stunned the courtroom. “When I get wound up, I have a fuse that is short. I don’t think about what I am doing.

” Wilkins also admitted that he didn’t care if he was sentenced to death. When the jury sent him a written question asking what sentence he wanted, Wilkins responded, “You tell the judge get a rope or not.” He told the jurors he was undecided on whether they should put him to the needle or send him to prison for life.

It was a shocking display of indifference, a man sitting in a courtroom facing execution and acting like he didn’t care one way or another. Wes Ball, Wilkins’ defense attorney, hoped that this brutal honesty would somehow make the jury like him or at least see him as a broken man rather than a monster. But the jury didn’t see a broken man.

They saw exactly what the prosecutor said they would see, a lifelong criminal, an outlaw, a man who killed over petty disputes and had no remorse. On March 12th, 2008, the jury found Christopher Wilkins guilty of capital murder. The sentencing phase began immediately. Prosecutors presented aggravating factors.

 Wilkins had a long criminal history. He had committed multiple murders. He had shown no remorse. He had attacked jail staff while awaiting trial. He was a danger to everyone around him, even behind bars. The defense presented mitigating factors. They talked about Wilkins’ troubled childhood, his lack of education, his drug addiction, but none of it mattered.

The jury deliberated for just 90 minutes, one of the fastest death penalty deliberations on record, and returned with their decision. Death. Christopher Wilkins was sentenced to die by lethal injection. He showed no visible reaction when the sentence was read. No tears, no anger, just the same cold indifference he had shown throughout the trial.

Wilkins was transported to the Polunsky Unit in Livingston, Texas, where death row inmates are housed. He would spend the next 9 years there, waiting for his execution date. And during those 9 years, Christopher Wilkins proved over and over again that he was exactly the kind of man the jury thought he was. He attacked staff numerous times.

 He threw bodily fluids at officers. He used homemade weapons on officers. Texas Department of Criminal Justice spokesman Jason Clark confirmed that Wilkins had a pattern of violent behavior on death row. He was a problem inmate who made life hell for everyone around him. Wilkins’ case went through the standard appeals process, but his appeals were plagued by a conflict of interest so egregious, it shocked even seasoned legal observers.

Wilkins’ state post-conviction lawyer was a man named Jack Strickland. While still representing Wilkins, Strickland accepted a position with the Tarrant County District Attorney’s Office. The very office that had prosecuted Wilkins and was fighting to uphold his death sentence. It was an astonishing conflict of interest.

Strickland was supposed to be fighting for Wilkins’ life, but he had taken a job with the people trying to execute him. Strickland filed a habeas application on Wilkins’ behalf, but the application only presented claims that were procedurally barred or not reviewable. It was, in the words of Texas Court of Criminal Appeals Judge Elsa Alcala, “a petition that appears to have wholly failed to act as counsel.

” Wilkins repeatedly tried to fire Strickland, but the state court refused to appoint new counsel. The state court dismissed Wilkins’ habeas petition. When the case moved to federal court, Wilkins’ new lawyer faced additional obstacles. The federal district court judge refused to provide funding to investigate Wilkins’ case.

The lawyer was given only 45 days to prepare a federal habeas petition, an absurdly short amount of time for a capital case. When the lawyer filed the petition, the court denied it because Wilkins had not presented evidence that an investigation would have developed. It was a catch-22. Wilkins couldn’t get funding for an investigation, and then his petition was denied because he didn’t have the evidence an investigation would have found.

Judge Elsa Alcala, a known death penalty critic on the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, dissented from the decision to deny Wilkins relief. She wrote that the defective petition Jack Strickland had filed should be considered a nullity, meaning it should be treated as if it had never been filed at all. She argued that Wilkins never got his fair shot at a habeas appeal, and that the execution should be delayed to allow a proper review of his case.

But Alcala was outvoted. The majority of the court upheld the conviction and death sentence. Wilkins’ current lawyer, Hillary Sheard, argued that Wilkins suffered from significant cognitive deficits that had never been fully examined due to the lack of funding. She filed a petition with the US Supreme Court arguing that federal law entitled Wilkins to investigative and expert services that are reasonably necessary for his defense and that the Texas federal court’s rulings denying that assistance were out of step with other

federal circuits. But the Supreme Court was not interested. Wilkins’ first execution date was set for October 28th, 2015, exactly 10 years to the day after his arrest. But just before that execution could be carried out, it was stayed at the request of Tarrant County prosecutors. The Texas Forensic Science Commission had raised concerns about DNA statistics and the interpretation of mixed DNA evidence in several cases.

Prosecutors wanted more time to review the evidence before proceeding with the execution. Wilkins’ execution was rescheduled to January 11th, 2017. That date would stick. On January 11th, 2017, Christopher Wilkins woke knowing it was his last day on Earth. He had spent most of the previous days visiting with about 10 friends he had met since entering prison in 2008.

These were not childhood friends or family members. They were people he had bonded with behind bars, other inmates who had gotten to know the man behind the tattoos and the violence. Attorney Hillary Sheard issued a statement saying she was saddened and troubled by the court’s denials of relief. She believed Wilkins had not received a fair shake in the legal system, that the conflict of interest with Jack Strickland and the lack of funding for an investigation had denied him due process.

But the courts had made their decision. The execution would proceed. There is no public record of what Christopher Wilkins ate for his last meal. In 2011, and Texas stopped releasing information about condemned inmates final meals after a controversy involving Lawrence Russell Brewer, who requested an enormous last meal and then refused to eat any of it.

Since then, the Texas Department of Criminal Justice has kept last meal requests private. Whatever Wilkins ate that day, he ate alone in his cell, knowing it was the last food he would ever taste. Shortly after 6:00 p.m., Wilkins was escorted from his holding cell to the execution chamber at the Huntsville Unit, also known as the Walls Unit.

The walk was short, just a few steps, but for Wilkins, it must have felt surreal. He had told people for decades that he had been trying to get himself killed since he was 12 or 13 years old. Now, after years of violent crime, multiple murders, a death sentence, and 9 years on death row, his death wish was finally about to be granted.

 Two relatives of one of the murder victims were present in the witness room to watch Wilkins die. No one attended the execution on Wilkins’ behalf. He would die alone, just as he had lived much of his life. Wilkins was strapped to a gurney, his arms extended, IV lines inserted into his veins. The drug that would kill him was pentobarbital, a barbiturate that acts as a sedative.

 In high doses, it renders the condemned unconscious, stops their breathing, and stops their heart. Before the injection began, Warden Gary Gibson asked Wilkins if he had any final words. Wilkins turned his head toward the witness window, where the two relatives of the victims sat watching. He did not speak. Instead, he mouthed two words twice.

“I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry.” It was the closest thing to remorse Wilkins had ever shown. He had spent his entire trial acting indifferent, telling the jury to get a rope or not, admitting he didn’t care if he lived or died. But now, strapped to a gurney with minutes left to live, Christopher Wilkins mouthed an apology to the people whose loved one he had murdered.

Whether it was genuine remorse or a final performance, only Wilkins knew. The warden asked again if Wilkins wanted to make a formal oral statement. Wilkins declined. Those two mouthed apologies were all he would give. At approximately 6:16 p.m., the lethal injection of pentobarbital began flowing into Christopher Wilkins’ veins.

The drug worked quickly. Wilkins’ eyes closed, his breathing slowed, his body went still. At 6:29 p.m., 13 minutes after the injection began, and Christopher Chubasco Wilkins was pronounced dead. He was 48 years old. He had spent 9 years on death row for murders he committed over $20 and a payphone dispute. Christopher Wilkins became the first person executed in the United States in 2017.

He was also the first person executed in Texas in 2017. His execution came at a time when the use of the death penalty nationwide was declining. Only 20 executions had been carried out in 2016. The lowest number since the early 1980s. Texas, which had once executed dozens of inmates per year, had carried out only seven executions in 2016.

The fewest since 1996. But Wilkins was among nine Texas inmates scheduled to die in early 2017. And Tarrant County alone had three other executions scheduled through April. The most of any county in the state. And Tarrant County has executed 39 people since the death penalty was reinstated in 1976. Making it the fourth most active county in Texas for executions.

 Only Harris County, which includes Houston, has executed more with 126 executions, more than any state outside of Texas. After the execution, prosecutor Kevin Rousseau spoke to the media. He had no doubts about the verdict or the sentence. “This guy was a lifelong criminal,” Rousseau said. “He was just an outlaw in the classic sense of the word.

” Rousseau believed Wilkins was an all-around bad guy who had earned his place on death row. The families of Willie Freeman and Mike Silva, who had waited more than 11 years for justice, finally had closure. Two relatives who attended the execution left without speaking to reporters. But the case of Christopher Wilkins raises questions that have no easy answers.

 Was Wilkins a product of a broken system? A man with cognitive deficits and a troubled childhood who never received the help he needed? Or was he simply evil? A man who chose violence over and over again because he enjoyed it? His own words suggest the latter. “I know they are bad decisions. I make them anyway.” Wilkins was not someone who lacked self-awareness.

 He knew what he was doing was wrong. He just didn’t care. He killed Willie Freeman because Freeman laughed at him. He killed Mike Silva because Silva was there. He killed Gilbert Vallejo because Vallejo annoyed him at a payphone. These were not crimes of passion or desperation. These were cold, calculated murders committed by a man who valued human life at exactly zero.

And yet, the legal system’s handling of Wilkins’s appeals was deeply flawed. The conflict of interest with Jack Strickland, his post-conviction attorney who took a job with the district attorney’s office while still representing Wilkins, was an egregious violation of legal ethics. The refusal to provide funding for an investigation into Wilkins’ cognitive deficits denied him the opportunity to present a complete defense.

Judge Elsa Alcala was right to dissent. Wilkins may have deserved to die for his crimes, but he also deserved a fair process. The fact that he didn’t get one is a stain on the Texas justice system. What is clear is that three people are dead because of Christopher Wilkins. Willie Freeman, a 40-year-old homeless man who made a living dealing drugs, was shot in the back of the head while sitting in the front seat of a car.

Mike Silva, a 33-year-old drug supplier, was shot three times while trying to escape. His body dumped in a ditch on the side of the road. Gilbert Vallejo, a 47-year-old man who made the mistake of annoying Christopher Wilkins at a payphone, was shot and killed outside a bar. None of these men were innocent.

 They were involved in drugs, in crime, in a dangerous lifestyle. But none of them deserved to die the way they did. And the families they left behind, families who mourned them and waited more than a decade for justice, deserved better than to watch a flawed legal process play out over 9 years of appeals. Christopher Wilkins told jurors during his trial that he had been trying to get himself killed since he was 12 or 13 years old.

 For decades, he lived recklessly, violently, carelessly, as if daring the universe to end his life. And he committed crimes. He attacked people. He murdered three men in 3 days. He carved 666 and a pentagram into a car hood. He fought with police. He told them to kill him. And when he finally stood trial for murder, he told the jury to get a rope or not.

It was a lifelong death wish, and on January 11th, 2017, that wish was finally granted. The case of Christopher Chubasco Wilkins is now closed. A lifelong criminal who killed three Scott to death. Nine years on death row marked by violence and appeals plagued by conflicts of interest. And finally on a cold January evening in 2017, a needle in the arm and two mouthed words, “I’m sorry.

” Christopher Wilkins became the first execution of 2017 and a grim milestone that reminded the nation that even as the death penalty declines, Texas continues to carry out the ultimate punishment. Whether Wilkins deserved to die is not a question with much debate. He killed three people. He showed no remorse.

 He was violent even on death row. But whether the system that condemned him was fair, whether the legal process that led to his execution met the standards of justice is a question that Judge Elsa Alcala and others continue to wrestle with. For the families of Willie Freeman, Mike Silver, and Gilbert Vallejo, the only thing that matters is that Christopher Wilkins is gone.

He can never hurt anyone again. Justice, such as it is, was served.