The most wanted man of Death Row inmates

His daughter is a woman now. She no longer lives at home. Her bed is still in her old room, though. The bed is covered by unopened letters. Letters written by murderers and rapists and men who are both murderers and rapists. Not a single letter is addressed to her, though. Her bed serves only as a convenient drop for her father. Every letter is addressed to him. The father. Bill Kimberlin. The killers send him poetry and art, too. He has thousands of pieces. He may just be the most wanted man of death row inmates. Kimberlin walks into the open space. It's washed in white. The walls. There are two tiers. Steel doors and cages are the cells that line the space, up and down. The cell cages are empty. The windows on the upper level are open. Birds can fly in. The birds are free to come and go. The man sitting at the picnic table in the middle of the room is not free to go. He will leave one day. When he is put to death. The man waiting for death is wearing prison-issued pants. They are white, sometimes blue. He wears a white T-shirt and Nike shoes. Sometimes Adidas. He appears well-kept. Clean. He is not clean though. The man Kimberlin is here to meet is not clean. The man wears no chains, no shackles or handcuffs. A guard stands, but he is not near. The guard is at the end of the open space. Kimberlin sits with the man who is free, but only in the moment. "They are so dangerously normal," Kimberlin said. William Kimberlin is a clinical psychologist. He studies death row inmates. "They could be your co-worker or neighbor. It's not like they have 'serial killer' or 'mass-murderer' tattooed on their forehead. They are horrible, horrible people who — when you talk to them — you sometimes forget are monsters." "That makes it even more frightening, doesn't it?" I ask. "It does," he answered. "It does." The wanted man The classroom was full of students. The study? Psychopaths and sociopaths. Questions came as the eager arms of students filled the air. Death row? Death penalty? Kimberlin stood in the front. "I knew I had to be a firsthand witness to have an educated opinion. I, like everybody else, thought death row was a dark and dismal place," he said. "A prison within a prison. A place where people were forgotten and left to die. I didn't realize how structured it really was." Kimberlin crosses his arms and tells what it's like on death row. In the last 20 years, he has communicated with 200 inmates on death row. At present, he has 30 active interviews. "I sought the first couple out, but now I'm getting mail from inmates across the country all the time." There are ground rules for his interviews with men waiting for death. "No. 1, I won't sit down with them unless they have admitted that they committed the crime. Two, there are no boundaries. I can ask them anything I want. Three, they can ask me anything they want, and I will answer their questions," he said. "I tell them I am here to learn as much as I can about them and their life on death row, and I'm here to watch them." You let them ask you anything? I said. Kimberlin adjusts his seat and looks at me. "I learned never to lie to anybody on death row because they have a way of finding out. They know everything about you anyway. They have you checked out. Anthony Sowell wrote to me and said he heard on death row that I was a stand-up guy." "He was so clean cut. He was very soft-spoken and quiet. You would never guess." Anthony Edward Sowell was a serial rapist and killer. He was convicted in 2011 for the murder of 11 women. He received the death penalty. He died in prison. He sent you a letter? I asked. "Yes. I interviewed him several times on death row. In fact, he stated I was the first person to ever interview him in person." The P.O. Box Kimberlin has a P.O. Box for location discretion. But …. "Inmates have sent stuff to my house. They know where my wife works. They knew where my kids went to school. By the time I sat down to talk to them, they knew everything about me and I had never told them anything." "Does that make you nervous?" "It used to," he answered. He has been invited by a killer to be the last visitor before execution. The man who had murdered and raped was due to be executed in seven days. "I stayed six hours with him," Kimberlin said. They walked around the room. Up and down the steps and around the tiers of empty cells. They ordered $80 worth of Italian food and had it delivered. "He started thinking out loud as we walked," Kimberlin said. "If I killed another person right now," the man about to die said to Kimberlin, "They'd have to try me and not execute me next week. They couldn't kill me next week. Right?" "Oh yeah, he looked at me when he said that. I was the only one in the space with him." There are no handcuffs and there are no shackles on the death row men that meet with Kimberlin. "I never talk to the guards," he said to me. "The inmates don't trust the guards and if they think you have a connection to a guard, it's not good. Once, a killer I met told me — the guards will let anyone in but we decide if that person gets to go home." "I've never forgotten that comment. I'm not nervous but always aware because they have nothing to lose and are capable of killing at any time." The background Kimberlin was an adult probation officer before he "got tired of chasing the bad guys" and went to school to study the mind. He has a bachelor's degree in criminal justice and sociology. He has a master's degree in counseling and a doctorate in clinical psychology. He is also a master's certified addiction professional. He is a forensic therapist. He works with adults in the criminal justice system to help them regain competency to stand trial in capital punishment cases. He is an author. He has written two books: "Watch Me Die'' and "Watch Me Die: Last Words from Death Row.'' "I am mentally exhausted when I am done interviewing on death row," he said to me. One hundred percent of the people on death row have been convicted of murder. As of late 2025, there are 113 people on death row in Ohio. Inmates spend an average of 21 years on death row. "The majority of them," he continued, "are murderers and rapists both." Kimberlin wears jeans and a shirt when he goes to an interview on death row. "I started with a suit and tie and they viewed me as too professional to open up to. I wear a suit and tie when I witness them get executed." The execution In Ohio, executions are carried out in the death chamber of Lucasville. Ohio is on a stay of executions with the last being in July of 2018. Kimberlin has interviewed on death row at Ross Correctional Institution in Ohio, at the Florida State Penitentiary and San Quentin in California. He has been invited to witness the execution of a man on death row in Arkansas this year. Nine inmates have invited Kimberlin to witness their execution. He has seen three die by lethal injection. There are seven more inmates who have invited him to watch them die. You have to be asked by the defendant to witness his execution. Not just anyone can be in the death house. There are three witnesses allowed representing the defendant's side and three for the state. In Kimberlin's experience, he has been in the defendant group with an attorney and a member of the clergy. The attorney is present for the defendant in case of a last-minute stay. There is a phone that hangs on the wall of the death chamber, in case a 'stay' is granted. The phone is beige. "It just blends in," he said. "I thought it would be red." On the day I talked to Kimberlin, he and I were standing in a control room that looked out over a television studio. There are glass windows that look out into the softly lit studio. "It looks a lot like this setting," he said, describing the death house. "Two people you never get to see are the doctor and the executioner. They are never identified." What you do see is a bed fixed to the floor and the inmate walking into the room and lying down on the bed. There is a clock on the wall above the bed. Intravenous lines that carry death are put into both arms of the inmate. "The cue, for death to be administered, is when the warden buttons the top button on his suit coat," said Kimmerlin. "You can actually see the drugs coming through the lines." Kimberlin is silent now. He stands staring out through the glass windows of the television studio. "This view really does remind me of it. I can literally picture the bed right there." The inmate is offered an opportunity to speak into a microphone if he chooses. "As far as remorse, not too much is truthful," he said. "If they even show any." The arms of the man about to die are stretched out away from his body. He is strapped. One arm is almost pointing in the direction of those watching. I wondered if any of the inmates he had spent so much time interviewing ever looked at him as they were receiving the injection that would end their life? "Yep. I had one wave at me. He looked over and half-smiled at me. I didn't wave back," he said. "I just sit there with my notepad. I consider them a subject. Not a friend at all. I am disconnected. It's a study for me. When the execution is over, the file gets closed. "Regardless of your thoughts on the death penalty, you've just witnessed a human life being taken in front of you. I see no reason to witness any more executions. At what point does it stop becoming educational and more of an obsession? But as a psychologist, there is always something valuable to learn in the study of inmates." In the end The letters, the poetry, and art sent to Kimberlin have increased. Inmates even send him death row uniforms and shoes. He has received a shrunken head formed from dry fruit. They don't just cover his daughter's bed. They fill cabinets in his office. "What's in it for the inmates?" I asked. "What they fear most," he answered, "is that they'll be forgotten. They are not afraid to die. They are afraid to be forgotten." Is he providing the attention they crave? "It's a constant inner battle for me," he said. "I do it, though, because there is so much to learn from them." Contact Ron Jantz at rjantz@chroniclet.com.