On April 11th, 2025, at exactly 6:01 in the evening, inside the Broad River Correctional Institution in Columbia, South Carolina, a hood was placed over a man’s head. Three volunteers, corrections officers, stood behind a wall, rifles loaded, each one aimed at a small white target pinned directly over the man’s heart.
30 seconds passed, then the shots rang out. The man cried out. His arms flexed. He groaned. And for the next 80 seconds, the room watched in silence as his chest continued to rise and fall. At 6:05 p.m., a doctor stepped forward and confirmed what the witnesses already suspected. Mikael Deen Mutti was dead. He was 42 years old.
He had been on death row for 19 years. He had been convicted of one of the most brutal, calculated murders in South Carolina’s modern history. The ambush and killing of an off-duty police captain, whose body was then set on fire. In this video, we’re going to walk through everything. His last meal, his final words, his crimes, his trial, and the disturbing controversy that erupted after his execution was over.
Stay with me because this story is not a simple one. Before we get to what Mikael Mutti did, you need to understand where he came from. Not to excuse anything, not even close, but because the full picture matters. Mikael Deen Mutti was born on March 20th, 1983, in Virginia. He grew up in Lawrenceville, a small, quiet town where not much happened, and where Mutti’s life was anything but quiet.
His father, who had converted to Islam and changed his name to Sharif, came from a broken home himself. A history of alcoholism ran through the family. Sharif never finished high school. He joined the Marines, got out honorably, and then at 27 years old married a 16-year-old girl from Richmond. They had two sons, Saleem >> [music] >> and then McCau.
By 1986, when McCau was just 3 years old, his mother was gone. She left and his father, struggling un stable, barely holding things together, told McCau that she had abandoned him, that she had died. The truth, whatever version of it existed, was kept from the boy entirely. By 1991, when McCau was 8 years old, his father couldn’t manage anymore. He split the brothers up.
Saleem went to an aunt in Texas. McCau was sent to live with a paternal uncle and aunt [music] in Maryland. In Baltimore, McCau enrolled at Scotts Branch Elementary School. He was described as active, engaged even, but the reports from his teachers told a different story underneath. Low self-esteem, difficulty with authority, reading and writing well below grade level, trouble forming real relationships with other kids.
He dropped out in the third grade. Now, here’s what’s complicated about McCau Matty. Despite all of that, despite a child childhood that was fractured from the very beginning, by the time he was 21, he had earned his GED and completed community college coursework. He didn’t give up entirely on himself, at least not at first.
But in 2001, at the age of 18, he attacked a police officer in Virginia. He was convicted and sentenced to 93 months in prison. He was also handed 15 years of probation. He was released in May of 2004. Two months later, three people were dead. What Mcall Matty did between July 14th and July 18th of 2004 is what earned him a seat on death row.
And when you lay it out in sequence, the deliberateness of it, the coldness is what stays with you. This wasn’t one moment of rage. This was a progression. Each day things escalated. Each day someone else paid the price. Day one, Virginia. Sometime on or around July 14th, 2004, Matty allegedly killed a man near his home in Brunswick County, Virginia.
It happened during a drug deal that went wrong. Matty confessed to this killing, but because of what came next and the convictions that followed, he was never formally tried for this murder. It remained largely unknown to the public for over two decades. It was only in 2025, the year of his execution, that this third murder was confirmed and made public. He stole a gun. He stole a car.
And he ran. Day two, North Carolina. July 15th, 2004. Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Matty walked into a convenience store armed and apparently needed money. The clerk on duty that day was a 29-year-old man named Christopher Jason Boggs. Just a regular guy doing his job. He was checking Matty’s ID, a routine, ordinary moment when Matty pulled the trigger.
He shot Christopher Boggs in the head twice. Boggs died. Matty walked out and kept moving. Day three, South Carolina. July 17th, 2004. Columbia, South Carolina. Mott carjacked a man at an intersection in the city. He now had a new vehicle, new momentum, and was moving deeper into South Carolina. He stopped for gas off Interstate 26 in Calhoun County.
It was there, at a local farm, that everything reached its most brutal point. The property belonged to a man named James Myers. James Myers was 56 years old. He was a captain with the Orangeburg Department of Public Safety. A career that had started in 1974, when he first joined as a firefighter. Over 30 years, he had worked his way up, earned his rank, and earned the respect of everyone around him.
His colleagues described him as a man of quiet leadership. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice. He had purchased this piece of land in Calhoun County just before his 53rd birthday. He loved the outdoors. He loved what the land represented, something to build a life on. He had even gotten married on that property less than 2 years before Mott arrived.
On July 18th, 2004, Captain Myers had spent the day with his wife, his sister, and his daughter. A birthday celebration, a good day by all accounts. He came home that evening not knowing that a 21-year-old man from Virginia had broken into the shed on his property and was waiting for him in the dark. Mott ambushed him.
He shot James Myers nine times. Nine shots, including twice in the head after Myers had already fallen to the ground. Then Mott doused Myers’ body in diesel fuel, and he set it on fire. He took Myers’ unmarked police truck. He took his weapons, and he drove south toward Florida. When Amy Tripmire, James Myers’ wife, came home that evening, she found her husband’s body in the shed where they had been married.
“I found the love of my life,” she would later say in court, “lifeless, lying in a pool of blood.” The investigation moved quickly. Matia tried to use a stolen credit card at a gas station near the farm, the same gas station where he had abandoned the carjacked vehicle from Columbia. Investigators connected the dots. They had a name. They had a direction.
Matia had driven Myers’ unmarked police truck all the way to Florida. He had been on the run for 4 days. On July 21st, 2004, just 4 days after he killed Captain Myers, Matia was arrested in Florida. He was still driving the dead officer’s truck. After his arrest, Matia wrote a letter.
And in it, he said this, “I’m guilty as hell. What I’ve done is irredeemable.” He knew exactly what he had done. He said so himself. Matia was extradited back to South Carolina to face charges for the murder of Captain James Myers. Two years passed. In 2006, as jury selection for his trial had just begun, Matia made a decision that surprised many in the courtroom.
He pleaded guilty. No jury would decide his fate. That responsibility fell entirely on one man, Judge Clifton Newman. Now, here is something worth noting about Judge Newman. He was not a man who took the death penalty lightly. By his own admission, in later years, he described himself as someone who opposed capital punishment.
This was not a judge eager to send someone to their death. He spent significant time wrestling with the decision. But when he looked at McCall Moudy, at the totality of what he had done, at the coldness and the calculation behind three killings in three states over three days, he came to a conclusion. At sentencing, Judge Newman addressed Moudy directly.
He said, “My challenge and my commitment throughout my judicial career have been to temper justice with mercy and to seek to find the humanity in every defendant that I sentence. That sense of humanity seems not to exist in McCall Dean Moudy.” And then he sentenced Moudy to death. In addition to the death sentence, Moudy received 15 years for second-degree burglary and 10 years for grand larceny to be served consecutively.
At 23 years old, McCall Moudy became the youngest person on death row in South Carolina. In 2011, after being extradited to North Carolina to stand trial for the murder of Christopher Boggs, Moudy again pleaded guilty. He was sentenced to life in prison without parole for that killing. Two guilty pleas, two trials, one death sentence, one life sentence, and the first murder, the one in Virginia, was never formally charged at all.
McCall Moudy did not go quietly into his time on death row. During his trial, before sentencing, he had smuggled a handmade key for his handcuffs into the courthouse, hidden in his mouth. He was caught before he could use it, but the intent was clear. In 2009, Moudy and another inmate, Quincy Allen, attacked a detention officer named Nathan Sasser. They stabbed him.
Sasser survived, but years later, he spoke publicly about the lasting damage that attack had done to his life, his ability to work, to socialize, to simply enjoy ordinary moments. The kind of damage that doesn’t show up in a medical report. Mardi’s prison record lists three attempted escapes following his 2006 sentencing.
Numerous other infractions documented over the years. This was not a man who sat still on death row and quietly reflected. At least not in the early years. But, his attorneys told a different story about who he had become closer to his execution. They said he had become an avid reader. That he had developed a deep interest in history.
That he was, in their words, a fundamentally different person from the 21-year-old who committed those crimes. His fifth grade teacher, a woman named Carol Wilson, submitted a statement on his behalf. “I know there’s good in him,” she wrote. “I saw it when he was a boy. If McCall is allowed to live, I truly believe he can and will become a better person.
” His family described him as quiet, affectionate, thoughtful, and creative. >> [music] >> His legal team was careful to draw a line. “We don’t want anybody to think that our advocacy is meant to minimize what McCall did. We know that his crimes were terrible. We’re not excusing them. We’re not minimizing them.
What we do want people to know is that McCall is such a different person today than he was when these crimes were committed.” The courts were not persuaded. As his execution date approached, Mardi’s legal team made one last push. They argued that his original sentencing hearing had been inadequate.
That Judge Newman had heard less than 30 minutes of testimony about Machelle traumatic childhood before imposing the death sentence. They argued that the years of solitary confinement Machelle experienced as a juvenile had altered his developing brain. That the evidence of trauma, of neglect, of abandonment had never been properly presented.
The South Carolina Supreme Court had previously considered similar arguments and rejected them. On the morning of April 11th, 2025, the United States Supreme Court declined to halt the execution. Machelle had one final hope, Governor Henry McMaster, who had the power to grant clemency and reduce the sentence to life without parole. McMaster declined.
No South Carolina governor had offered clemency in the 47 executions that had taken place in the state since the death penalty resumed in 1976. That record held. In the hours before his execution, Machelle Machelle made his final choices as a living man. For his last meal, he requested ribeye steak cooked medium, mushroom risotto, broccoli, collard greens, cheesecake, sweet tea.
He had three methods of execution to choose from, lethal injection, the electric chair, or the firing squad. His attorney, David Weiss, explained the decision. Faced with barbaric and inhumane choices, Machelle Machelle has chosen the lesser of three evils. Machelle chose the firing squad instead of being burned and mutilated in the electric chair, or suffering a lingering death on the lethal injection gurney.
South Carolina had experienced serious problems with lethal injection in recent years. Autopsies of previously executed inmates showed that the process had taken over 10 minutes in some cases, that prisoners lungs had filled with fluid in what doctors compared to a sensation of drowning. The electric chair carried its own grim history. Motes chose the bullets.
April 11th, 2025, Broad River Correctional Institution, Columbia, South Carolina. The witness chamber held nine people behind bulletproof glass. Among them, an unnamed member of Captain James Myers’ family, the Calhoun County Sheriff, a man who had been in his first term of office when Myers was killed, who had described Motes simply as evil.
[music] A representative from the solicitor’s office that had prosecuted him, and one of Motes’ own lawyers. Outside the gates of the prison, approximately 25 protesters had gathered. Anti-death penalty advocates, members of the Catholic Diocese of Charleston, law students, people who believed, for various reasons, that what was about to happen was wrong. Inside it was quiet.
At just before 6:00 p.m., the curtain between the witness chamber and the execution chamber was pulled back. Motes was already seated in a metal chair 15 ft from a wall with three small rectangular openings, the positions behind which the three volunteer shooters were positioned. He did not look toward the witnesses, not once.
At 6:01 p.m., a prison guard placed a black hood over Motes’ head. The guard then crossed the room and lifted the shade blocking the openings in the wall. 30 seconds passed. The shooters fired. The white target, a small cloth marked with a red bull’s-eye pinned directly over Motes’ heart, was pushed inward by the impact. Moad cried out loudly.
His arms flexed outward. Witnesses saw little blood on his black jumpsuit. He groaned. Then, again, about 45 seconds later, softer groans. Then, a low moan. For roughly 80 seconds, his chest continued to rise and fall. Then, one final gasp. A doctor stepped forward and checked him for just over a mi
nute. At 6:05 p.m., Moad Dean Moad was pronounced dead. He gave no final statement. No last words. Nothing. He arrived at his execution in silence, and he left in silence. Here is where the story takes a deeply unsettling turn. On May 8th, 2025, less than a month after Moad’s execution, his attorneys filed a document with the South Carolina Supreme Court.
It contained the findings of an autopsy. And what that autopsy showed raised serious questions. The execution protocol called for three shooters, each firing one bullet, aimed directly at the heart. The expectation was three entry wounds, one destroyed heart, near instant unconsciousness, and a rapid death.
The autopsy showed two wounds, not three. Neither bullet had struck the heart directly. Instead, both shots had entered just above Moad’s abdomen. They shattered into metal splinters. They destroyed his liver. They damaged his pancreas. But, they largely missed his heart. His heart kept beating. And according to a forensic pathologist who reviewed the report, Moad likely experienced what they described as excruciating conscious pain and suffering for somewhere between 30 and 60 seconds after the shots were fired.
Remember, witnesses said he cried out immediately when the shots hit. That he groaned repeatedly. That it took nearly a minute and a half for him to stop breathing. The state pushed back. South Carolina’s Department of Corrections maintained that three bullets had struck Money.
And that two had simply passed through one entry point. Through the same wound. They said the execution had proceeded correctly. Independent pathologists commissioned by Money’s attorneys expressed serious doubt about that explanation. They said the wound configurations and the internal injury patterns were inconsistent with two bullets traveling through precisely the same small hole.
Money’s lawyers wrote in their filing. A massive botched is exactly what happened to Michael Money. They pointed to a previous South Carolina Supreme Court opinion. One that had stated executions by firing squad would be constitutional unless there was a massive botched in which the firing squad simply missed the inmate’s described exactly what happened on April 11th.
South Carolina’s shield law, passed in 2023, means the identities of the execution team members cannot be disclosed. The specific training protocols, the qualifications of the shooters, the details of how they were positioned. All of it is protected from public view. For now, the question of what exactly happened behind that wall remains unanswered.
Money’s execution was the second time South Carolina had used the firing squad. The first was Brad Sigmon, executed on March 7th, 2025, just 5 weeks before Money. Sigmon’s autopsy told a very different story. Three clear wounds, a heart described as completely fragmented, a death that was, by comparison, swift and targeted. The contrast between the two executions has become a focal point for death penalty opponents and legal scholars alike.
If the firing squad is going to be used, they argue, if the state is going to deploy it as a humane alternative to lethal injection or the electric chair, then it must be carried out with precision. The Madi autopsy suggests that precision may not always be guaranteed. As of April 11th, 2025, Madi was the fifth person in the United States to be executed by firing squad since 1976.
Following his death, South Carolina had 26 inmates remaining on death row. Only one of them had been sentenced to death in the past decade. Captain James Myers, the man at the center of all of this, would have been in his late 70s today. Instead, his widow found him burned and bleeding in the shed where they had gotten married.
His daughter has spent more than two decades carrying the weight of what happened on that farm in Calhoun County. “I feel at peace about all of it,” Meredith Barnett said ahead of the execution. “It’s difficult to talk about taking someone else’s life, but I do feel like that’s justice. Whether justice was fully served or whether it was served cleanly may be a question that lingers far longer than the execution itself.
Mcal Madi was born into chaos. He was abandoned young. He was failed by the systems that were supposed to catch kids like him. And then, at 21 years old, he made choices that ended three lives and destroyed countless others. He confessed. He said himself, “What I’ve done is irredeemable.” The judge who sentenced him said he couldn’t find the humanity in him.
His fifth-grade teacher said the humanity was there. She saw it when he was a boy. The truth is probably somewhere in the space between those two statements. And the truth is also that James Myers will never get to be old. Christopher Boggs will never get to be 30. And whatever unnamed man died in Brunswick County, Virginia, during a drug deal gone wrong, he’s gone, too.
Three people, three lives, three families who will never be the same. And one man, hooded, seated in a metal chair, who left this world without saying a single word. Here is the question I want to leave you with today. When a state carries out an execution and the autopsy later suggests the condemned man suffered in ways that weren’t intended, in ways the protocol was specifically designed to prevent, does that change anything for you? Does it matter how someone dies if we’ve already decided they deserve to die?
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