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Inside one was the naked body of Longo's thirty-four-year-old wife, Mary Jane.
When Christian Longo asked if I wanted to watch him die, I told him I did.
"The only way that we could get them all to look at the camera at the same time was to have me behind it playacting a Barney phrase, 'Super-dee-duper! "I'm not really feeling what everyone else feel's," he wrote, tossing in, as he often does, an extra apostrophe.
"What should be most difficult to stomach is what I've done, yet somehow that part is still palatable." Lately, he added, when he looked in the mirror, he was "beginning to see a monster." He'd determined that the best solution was to give away his organs and "end on a good note."First, he needed a favor. He asked if I'd be willing to help him formulate a plan to donate his body parts.
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"I'm not going to make it to my thirty-sixth birthday," he announced. He saw it on the seven-inch flat-screen TV he keeps in his cell, a picture called Seven Pounds, about a guy who's so distraught after killing his fiancée and six others in a car accident that he decides to commit suicide and donate his organs to people in need. He'd give away his heart and lungs and liver and corneas and bone marrow and whatever else could be salvaged. It was a studio shot, one I'd seen at his trial, the three kids gazing smiley and wide-eyed into the camera, heartbreakingly cute."Every time I turned around or rolled over, there they were staring at me," Longo wrote in a letter he mailed me on May 8, 2009, nine weeks after the call.
The movie, Longo said, felt like a punch in the gut. For years, he said, he'd sat in jail wondering how he could do anything worthwhile, anything at all to help even one person, rather than just rot away on death row. He had vivid recollections of the moment the picture was taken.In the second suitcase was the youngest member of Longo's family, his two-year-old daughter, Madison. By deftly exploiting flaws in an online travel site, he'd purchased a plane ticket to Cancún, Mexico, using a stolen credit-card number.The FBI distributed wanted posters around Cancún, and a tour guide who'd led Longo on a snorkeling trip spotted one.I was drawn into Longo's life through the most improbable of circumstances — after the murders, while on the lam in Mexico, he took on my identity, even though we'd never met.Starting from this bizarre connection, using charm and guile and a steady stoking of my journalist's natural curiosity (he was innocent, he was framed, he had proof, he would show me), he soon became deeply enmeshed in my own life.After half a decade spent sealed inside a white concrete box for more than twenty-one hours a day, with only other murderers as neighbors and with no hope of ever again seeing the outside world, he'd had enough.