This man was strapped into the electric chair, leather restraints across his chest, conductive gel glistening on his shaved scalp. His hands gripped the armrests. His eyes moved around the room, taking in the faces staring back at him. 12 witnesses sat in silence. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the ventilation system and the distant rattle of a steel door closing somewhere deep in the corridor.

 For years, this man had performed for audiences just like this one. He had smirked at cameras. He had joked with reporters the night before his death. He had written to a national newspaper demanding that the state of Florida kill him on schedule. He had told the world repeatedly and publicly that he felt absolutely nothing. And then in front of every witness in that room, he fell apart.

 Not quietly, not privately, [music] completely. What broke him was not the chair. It was not the straps. It was not the 2,000 volts waiting on the other side of a single switch. It was a phone call. And the story of that phone call and everything that led to it begins not in a prison, but on an ordinary street on an ordinary [music] morning when a child left home and never came back.

Welcome back to Red Mark Files. If you’re new here, hit that subscribe button. We cover the cases that stay with you. Now, let’s go back to 1976. Before we talk about the man who did this, we talk about the boys because that is where this story truly begins. Jason Verdau, Cape Coral, Florida. In 1976, Cape Coral was a quiet, fast growing town on Florida’s southwest coast.

 Families moved there for exactly the kind of life it offered. Safe streets, good neighborhoods, children who could walk to their bus stops alone without anyone worrying. On the morning of March 5th, 1976, Jason Verdau did exactly that. He left home. He walked toward his school bus. It was a normal Tuesday morning, the kind every child has hundreds of times growing up.

 Jason never made it to school. He never came home. Kenneth Dawson, Falls Church, Virginia. Weeks after Jason disappeared in Florida, Kenneth was taken from a bus stop in Virginia. He had done nothing wrong. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, which in this case meant being near Arthur Good. Kenneth did not survive.

 Billy Arthus, Baltimore, Maryland. Billy was abducted alongside Kenneth. He was held. He was present when the worst happened. But Billy came home physically unharmed, though no one could measure what he carried inside after what he witnessed in those Virginia woods. It was Billy’s face, recognized by a sharp-eyed woman who had seen news coverage of his disappearance, that finally brought law enforcement to Good’s door.

 These three boys had never met Arthur Good before he chose them. They were not targeted because of anything they did or anyone they knew. They were children. That was enough for him. Three boys, two states, one survived. And what that surviving child witnessed in those woods is something that should never be read aloud, but a court forced it into the record.

 Anyway, Arthur Frederick Good III was born on March 28th, 1954 in Baltimore, Maryland. From early on, it was clear something was deeply wrong. Good was identified as borderline intellectually disabled. His cognitive limitations were documented, known, acknowledged by courts, by medical professionals, and by his own family.

 His father did not mince words when asked about his son. He said plainly that Arthur was crazier than hell and dumber than a box of rocks. That quote was never spoken in a courtroom, but it was said, and it captured what those closest to him already knew. By his teenage years, Good was not just showing troubling behavior. He was committing offenses against children.

 Documented offenses, not rumors, not suspicions. Each time he was arrested, his parents posted bail. Each time he walked free, the cycle repeated. Arrest, bail, release with no lasting consequence and no meaningful intervention. By mid 1975, court records confirmed the pattern had reached a point that could no longer be dismissed. Good had molested two boys in two separate incidents.

 A court responded by placing him on 5 years of probation and ordering mandatory psychological treatment at Spring Grove Hospital Center in Baltimore. He checked himself in. He stayed 4 days, then he walked out. No alarm was raised. No warrant was issued. No officer went looking. Good simply left and traveled to Cape Coral, Florida, where his parents had relocated.

 The probation order followed him on paper only. Once in Florida, Good did not lay low. He wrote letters to school teachers requesting that students be assigned to him as pen pals. Court records and press interviews later confirmed he held a fixation on child actor Ricky Schroeder, a boy who at the time was a child celebrity. When interviewers later asked him about his crimes, Good described himself not as a criminal, but as a protester, someone society had pushed into murder by refusing to understand him.

 Those are his exact words. Every warning sign was visible. Every institution had a chance to act. None did. In mid 1975, Arthur Good walked out of Spring Grove Hospital Center after 4 days. No one came after him. No officer was dispatched. No probation officer made contact. The court order requiring 5 years of psychological treatment became in practice a piece of paper with no one enforcing it.

 Good traveled to Cape Coral, Florida, where his parents had already settled. He moved in. He was free. and he was not quiet about it. He continued writing letters to school teachers requesting access to children as pen pals. He moved through public spaces. He had access to neighborhoods, school routes, and community areas with nothing stopping him.

 No monitoring, no check-ins, no conditions being enforced on the ground. His parents were aware of his history. Court records and later accounts confirmed they had posted bail for him repeatedly over the years. They believed and continued to argue that his mental condition should protect him from serious legal consequences.

 Whether out of love or denial, they advocated for a man the courts had already flagged as a danger to children. During those months in Cape Coral, Good’s behavior did not slow down. His letters became more frequent. His time near children more deliberate. The fixation that had driven every prior offense was still there, unchecked, unsupervised, and growing.

Between his last documented offense in Baltimore and the morning of March 5th, 1976, approximately eight months passed. Eight months of freedom, eight months of letters, of access, of no one watching. And then one Tuesday morning in March, a boy walked toward his school bus and never came back.

 Arthur Good worked alone. There were no accompllices, no one he coordinated with, no network behind him. He used public transportation, public spaces, and the simple trust that children are taught to extend to adults until they learn otherwise. His pattern was consistent across every case. He approached children in open, ordinary places, bus stops, public roots.

 He offered conversation, company. Children who had no reason yet to distrust a grown man had no defense against it. After killing Jason Verdau in Cape Coral on March 5th, 1976, Good did not panic. He did not run. Court records show he traveled back to Baltimore, returning to the city he knew, where he encountered Billy Arthy’s and abducted him.

 From Baltimore, he moved to Washington DC. There he came across Kenneth Allen Dawson. He took both boys, Billy and Kenneth, onto a public bus headed to Falls Church, Virginia. two abducted children, a public bus, multiple stops across state lines, no alarm raised. There was no pre-sourced weapon, no elaborate preparation documented in court records.

What made good dangerous had nothing to do with sophistication. It had everything to do with the fact that nobody was watching him. No supervision, no tracking, no system in place to flag that a man with a documented history of child molestation was moving freely across three states with two missing boys.

 A single civilian, a woman who recognized Billy Arthy’s from news coverage, finally made the call that stopped him. If this case is already getting to you, and it should, drop a comment below, tell me, where did the system fail these boys? We’ll get into that. But first, the night everything ended for Kenneth Dawson. Cape Coral, Florida, March 5th, 1976.

Morning. Jason Verdau left his home that morning the same way he had countless times before. He was headed to his school bus. His neighborhood in Cape Coral was the kind of place where that felt completely safe. Parents did not stand at the door and watch. There was no reason to. Arthur Good was already outside.

 He encountered Jason along the route. He lured him away from the road and into a wooded area nearby. What happened in those woods was later entered into court records, not by prosecutors, but by Good himself. During his Florida trial, he chose to represent himself. He provided the graphic details voluntarily. Court records confirm repeated sexual abuse followed by strangulation.

 Jason Verdau was only a child. He never came home from school that day. His family reported him missing. A search began. But by the time anyone started looking, Good was already gone, traveling north, back toward Baltimore as if nothing had happened. Baltimore, Maryland. Days later, Good returned to familiar territory. There he encountered Billy Arthus.

 He abducted him. Billy’s family reported him missing immediately. A second search began in a second city. Good kept moving. He took Billy to Washington, DC. Washington, DC. Shortly after in Washington, Good came across Kenneth Allen Dawson. He now had two boys with him. He put both of them, Billy and Kenneth, on a public bus headed to Falls Church, Virginia.

 Two abducted children, a public bus, multiple passengers. No one intervened. No one called for help. The bus reached its destination. Falls Church, Virginia. The Woods. Court records confirm that what happened next stands among the most disturbing events documented in Virginia criminal history during that period.

Good took Kenneth Dawson into the woods. Kenneth was molested. Then he was killed. Billy Arthy’s was present. He was only a child. He was forced to witness everything. Kenneth Dawson was just a child. He did not survive. When Good was later arrested, Billy Arthy’s was found physically unharmed. That detail alone told investigators everything they needed to know about what Billy had endured as a witness the break.

 A woman, her name does not appear in most press accounts, but her actions are confirmed in court records recognized Billy Arthy’s. She had seen news coverage of his disappearance. She made the call. Officers responded quickly. Good was arrested without significant resistance. The first words out of his mouth, documented in court records the moment handcuffs went on, were these, “You can’t do nothing to me.

I’m sick.” Those six words spoken the moment he was put in handcuffs would follow Arthur Good through every courtroom, every appeal, all the way to the electric chair. And what he said at his trial makes those words look almost mild. Arthur Good did not panic after his arrest. He did not deny what he had done.

 He did not try to build a story or point fingers elsewhere. He acknowledged the acts almost immediately and showed no distress about doing so. That alone told investigators what kind of person they were dealing with. In the Virginia court proceedings, Good did not sit quietly and let lawyers speak for him. He had things to say directly to the judge.

 On the record, he stated, “If I ever get my hands on another boy, especially a sexy little boy, he will never make it home. Those words were not an outburst. They were not spoken in confusion. Good was deliberate, composed. He knew exactly what he was saying and exactly where he was saying it. He also had an explanation for his crimes, one he offered without being asked.

 He told the court that what he had done was a protest against society. In his view, the prejudice against pedophilia had forced him into murder. He was not arguing that he did not know what he did. He was arguing that society was to blame for it. The Virginia jury heard all of it. They found him sane. They found him guilty of murder.

 He was sentenced to life in prison. For the families of Jason Verdau and Kenneth Dawson, there was no apology, no acknowledgement, nothing that came close to remorse. What they received instead in the months and years that followed were letters written by Good from his prison cell, not expressing sorrow, [music] boasting, describing in detail what he had done to their sons.

 Those letters were not slipped through quietly. They were deliberate targeted. Prison officials eventually intervened, cutting off goods direct mail access to the victim’s families after it became undeniable that he was using correspondence as a way to continue inflicting pain. Billy Arthy’s, a child, the only boy who came home, cooperated with police and helped confirm the facts of Kenneth Dawson’s murder.

 Court records do not publicly document what became of Billy in the years that followed. His name appears in the case file and then it disappears. Both families were left to carry their grief alone without closure, without apology, and with the knowledge that the man responsible felt absolutely nothing. Virginia had convicted Arthur Good of murder and sentenced him to life in prison.

 But Florida was not finished with him. Good still had to answer for what he had done to Jason Verdau, the 9-year-old boy he had killed in Cape Coral. On March 5th, 1976, Florida moved to prosecute him separately for that murder. Then came a decision that drew considerable attention at the time. Good was permitted to conduct his own defense at the Florida trial.

 He did not use that opportunity to argue his innocence. He did not challenge the evidence or question the witnesses. Instead, he stood in open court and voluntarily described in graphic detail what he had done to Jason Verdau, the repeated sexual abuse, the strangulation. He offered these details himself without being pressed, without appearing to understand or care what it would cost him.

 Court records from the Florida proceedings confirm everything he said in that courtroom. On March 21st, 1977, the Florida court sentenced Arthur Frederick Good III to death. His reaction was consistent with everything that had come before it. No visible remorse, no retraction, no change in posture. He continued to insist that he was sick and that being sick placed him beyond consequence.

 Behind bars, his behavior became its own documented record. He wrote an estimated 10 to 15 letters every single day to teachers, to journalists, to public officials, to anyone he believed should be made to hear from him. He also wrote to the parents of Jason Verdau and Kenneth Dawson, not with apology, but with detailed descriptions of his crimes until prison officials intervened and cut off that access entirely.

 The men who shared Florida’s death row with him, men convicted of capital crimes themselves, signed a petition demanding he be removed from their wing. That petition worked. Good was transferred to Q-wing and held in isolation, separated from the general death row population. Even among the condemned, Arthur Good was in a category of his own.

 A death sentence is not the end of a legal fight. It is the beginning of a different one. Between 1977 and 1984, Good’s legal team filed multiple appeals challenging his death sentence on constitutional grounds. They argued that his rights had been violated during the Florida trial. They pushed every available avenue, state courts, federal courts, appeal after appeal.

 The Florida Supreme Court reviewed the case. It refused to intervene. A federal judge in Tampa reviewed the case. He also refused to intervene. The case then moved to Atlanta. A three judge panel of the United States Court of Appeals for the 11th Circuit took a closer look. Just 2 days before a scheduled execution date, that panel granted a temporary stay.

 No date was set for a hearing, but for a brief moment, the execution was paused. That stay was later lifted. No court at any level ultimately found sufficient grounds to reverse the Florida sentence. Governor Bob Graham signed Good’s death warrant. He did not intervene. Every legal avenue had been explored.

 Every door had been pushed. Every one of them closed. Then came something no legal team had prepared for. Approximately one week before April 5th, 1984, Good sent a letter to the Washington Post. In it, he stated clearly that he wanted the state of Florida to carry out his death sentence on schedule.

 He was not asking for mercy. He was demanding his own execution. He told the press he felt no remorse. He said it in interviews. He repeated it as a matter of public record. He made it his position openly, deliberately, and without hesitation. One month before his execution, filmmaker and journalist John Waters visited Good and conducted an interview for the Baltimore City paper.

 It became one of the most documented pre-execution interviews on record. Good admitted to both killings. He identified himself as a pedophile. He described the murders as a protest. He told Waters that if society punished pedophiles less harshly, they would not need to kill their victims to avoid being caught. The interview was published.

 It entered the permanent public record alongside every court document that had come before it. Every judge had said no. Every appeal had failed. and the man at the center of it all was asking them to hurry up. By the time Arthur Good sat in a Florida courtroom in 1977, he had already been convicted once.

 The Virginia trial came first. A jury heard the evidence. They heard his words. They considered the argument that his intellectual limitations made him less responsible for what he had done. They rejected it. The jury found Arthur Frederick Good III sane and guilty of the murder of Kenneth Dawson. He was sentenced to life in prison.

 No appeal ever reversed that finding. Florida then conducted its own separate trial focused entirely on the murder of Jason Verdau. Good represented himself. The sentence came down on March 21st, 1977. Death, two trials, two states, two convictions, one life sentence, one death sentence. What followed was 7 years of legal appeals.

 Goods legal team argued that his constitutional rights had been violated during the Florida trial. They took that argument to every available court. The Florida Supreme Court reviewed the matter. It denied intervention. A federal judge in the District Court in Tampa reviewed the matter. He also denied intervention. The case was then brought before the United States Court of Appeals for the 11th Circuit in Atlanta.

 A three judge panel granted a temporary stay of execution issued just 2 days before a scheduled execution date. No hearing date was set. The stay gave the legal process room to breathe. That room did not last. The stay was subsequently lifted. The 11th Circuit, like every court before it, found no constitutional violation sufficient to vacate the Florida death sentence.

 Every court that looked at this case, reached the same conclusion. Throughout the entire appeals process, Good’s own behavior consistently worked against any argument for clemency. His public statements about what he would do to children if released, his letters to the families of his victims, his press interviews, and his written demand that the state proceed with his execution.

All of it became part of the public record. All of it reinforced what every court was already seeing on paper. His parents, Arthur and Mildred Good, never stopped fighting for him. They maintained through every appeal that their son’s mental limitations should have kept him off death row. The courts consistently disagreed.

 Years later, Warden Richard Duggar, the man who oversaw the execution, was asked to reflect on his experience. He said, “Arthur Good was the hardest. I had some real reservations about that one. Let’s face it, he was a nut.” That statement came from a man whose profession required him to carry out state-ordered executions.

 If even he struggled with this one, that tells you something about how complicated this case truly was. Arthur Good spent his final years on Q-wing, isolated from the general death row population at Florida State Prison. The men condemned alongside him had signed a petition demanding his removal. Even on a wing where every man had been convicted of a capital crime, Good was too hated to keep nearby.

 At one point, his cell neighbor on the row was Ted Bundy. That detail requires no embellishment. In his final week, Good kept up the performance, defiant, unapologetic, writing letters, repeating publicly that he wanted the state to proceed with his execution on schedule. The night before he was set to die, prison officials granted media access, a rare move.

 Good sat in front of reporters and joked. He stated he felt no remorse. When asked if he had a final request, he answered with a grin. I want Ricky Schroeder to sit on my lap when I’m strapped in. Ricky Schroeder was only a child. Prison officials allowed Good one final phone call. He called his parents, Arthur and Mildred Good.

 They had fought for him through every appeal. They had argued repeatedly that his mental condition should have kept him off death row. Some part of him and of them had held on to the belief that something might still change. Hearing them say goodbye ended that. Prison officials noticed the shift the moment the call was over. The taunt stopped.

The performance dropped. For the first time, Good appeared to fully understand what was coming. He did not sleep that night. He sat awake until morning in silence as the hours ran out. April 5th, 1984. Execution morning. At 4:45 in the morning, his last meal arrived. steak, a baked potato, cauliflower and broccoli, half a gallon of ice cream, a dozen chocolate chip cookies.

 A prison spokesman later said he ate with gusto. Father Joseph Manangjen, a priest, came to visit. The chaplain later said that good told him he was ready to die. Whatever had carried him through the years before had gone. He showered. He dressed in clean clothes, the clothes he would die in.

 At 6:55 in the morning, 12 witnesses took their seats. media officials. No family members of the victims were present. One father had asked for a front row seat. The state said no. Good was brought into the chamber. Head shaved clean. Conductive gel applied to his scalp. Leather straps pulled tight across his chest. Witnesses said he looked pale and nervous.

 Nothing like the man who had grinned at reporters the night before. He turned to the warden and asked quietly, “Will it hurt?” His final words came slowly, voice breaking, tears running down his face. I want to apologize to my parents. I have remorse for the two boys I murdered, but it’s hard for me to show it.

 The man who had mocked grieving families for years, who had laughed through press conferences, who had felt nothing, was crying. The hood dropped. The switch was thrown. 2,000 volts. At 7:08 in the morning on April 5th, 1984, Arthur Frederick Good III was pronounced dead. He became the 18th person executed in the United States since the Supreme Court reinstated capital punishment in 1976. Jason Verdau was a child.

 He left for his school bus on an ordinary Tuesday morning in March 1976 and never came home. He never got the chance to grow up. Kenneth Dawson was 11. He was killed in the woods of Falls Church, Virginia in front of a 10-year-old boy who had no way to stop what was happening. Billy Arthy’s came home physically unharmed.

 Court records do not track what became of him after that. He simply returned to an ordinary life, one that could never truly be ordinary again. Arthur Good spent his last breath apologizing to his parents, not to the families of the boys he had killed. His parents, warden Richard Duggar, a man who had overseen multiple executions, said this one was the hardest he ever carried out.

 And the system that could have stopped Arthur Good before March 5th, 1976, did not. That is the fact that does not go away. Tell me in the comments what moment in this case hit you hardest. Was it the boys, the system that let him walk, or that final phone call with his parents? I read every comment. And if you’re new here, subscribe.

 These are the stories that need to be told.