The Crime
April 12, 2017 — 9:43 p.m.
The call came into Salt Lake County dispatch from a gas station on Redwood Road. The clerk’s voice cracked over the line: “Shots fired. Somebody’s down.”
When patrol units arrived minutes later, they found a scene of panic. A silver sedan sat crooked across the pump lane, hazard lights still blinking. Behind the counter, 22-year-old cashier Michael Reyes lay on the tile floor, two bullets in his chest. A pool of blood spread toward the candy rack.
Surveillance footage told the story in brutal clarity. At 9:38 p.m., a man in a black hoodie entered the store. He demanded the register be opened, stuffed the bills into his pocket — and then, even after Reyes raised his hands, fired three rounds. One shot shattered the glass door of the cooler. Another ricocheted into a metal sign. The third found its mark in the clerk’s chest.
Witnesses outside were frozen in shock. A young mother who had been buckling her child into a car seat told officers she saw the man sprint across the parking lot and vanish into a darkened alley. “He didn’t even look back,” she said.
By midnight, the crime scene was sealed with yellow tape and news crews were broadcasting live. “Gas Station Execution in Salt Lake,” one station’s chyron read.
For the city, it was the latest in a string of violent robberies — but this one was different. This one would ignite a manhunt that would end not only with an arrest, but eventually with the most controversial execution in Utah’s modern history.
The Short Bio
His name was Daniel Harker, born March 4, 1979, in Ogden, Utah. By the time his mugshot hit the evening news in 2002, most of the public saw him only as the “gas station killer.” But his story — like most — had roots long before the crime.
Harker grew up the middle child of three, in a small clapboard house near the rail yards. His father, a heavy equipment operator, spent more time chasing work than raising his kids. His mother battled alcoholism and depression, cycling through stints in rehab that never stuck. Teachers remembered Daniel as a boy with two gears: quiet and withdrawn, or explosive and violent. By ninth grade, he’d dropped out of school, spending more time in pool halls than classrooms.
At 18, seeking escape, he enlisted in the U.S. Army. For a time, he thrived in the structure. Basic training smoothed out his edges, and he shipped out to Iraq in the spring of 2003 with the 4th Infantry Division. Fellow soldiers later described him as a competent marksman but deeply unstable, prone to sudden rages and bouts of silence that stretched for days. When his enlistment ended, he returned to Utah with no degree, no steady job, and nightmares he refused to talk about.
Through the late 1990s and early 2000s, Harker bounced between warehouse shifts, bar fights, and short stints in county jail. He was arrested twice for burglary, once for assault, and picked up on suspicion of weapons possession in 2001. None of the charges held him long. His neighbors described him in those years as “wired tight,” a man who never stayed in one place, never trusted anyone, and always seemed one drink away from snapping.
By the fall of 2002, Harker was 23, broke, and spending most nights drifting between cheap motels and the couches of friends already tired of him. It was in that downward spiral — jobless, angry, and armed — that he walked into the Chevron station on October 21 and crossed a line from troubled man to condemned killer.
The Trial
July 14, 2003 — Salt Lake County Courthouse
Nine months after the Chevron shooting, Daniel Harker sat at the defense table, clean-shaven in a wrinkled gray suit, his wrists shackled beneath the wood. The trial of State of Utah v. Harker drew crowds that spilled into the hallway, a mix of reporters, grieving family, and curious onlookers.
The prosecution opened with the footage. Jurors watched in grim silence as the grainy black-and-white tape replayed the events of October 21, 2002: Harker entering, demanding money, turning to leave — then spinning back to fire three rounds. Prosecutor Linda Vasquez let the silence linger after the last muzzle flash before she spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this was not desperation. This was execution.”
Over the next two weeks, the state presented a lockstep case:
- Ballistics matched the shell casings at the scene to a 9mm pistol recovered from Harker’s duffel during his arrest.
- Gunshot residue was found on his jacket.
- A neighbor testified that Harker bragged days later, saying, “That clerk didn’t even see it coming.”
- Military records underscored his weapons training, painting him as both capable and deliberate.
The defense leaned heavily on his past. Attorney Michael Renfro described a man scarred by childhood neglect and worsened by PTSD after Iraq. A psychologist testified that Harker lived in “a state of hyper-vigilance, unable to distinguish threat from safety.” Renfro argued it was an impulsive act of a broken mind, not premeditated murder.
But the jury wasn’t swayed. On August 1, 2003, after less than six hours of deliberation, the foreman stood and delivered the verdict: “Guilty of aggravated murder.”
The sentencing phase followed. Under Utah law at the time, Harker was given a rare choice: lethal injection or firing squad. In a hushed courtroom, he leaned toward the microphone and said firmly:
“Firing squad.”
Gasps rippled through the gallery. For many, it felt like an archaic echo of the Old West. For Harker, it was a statement — defiant, final.
The Volley
June 18, 2017 — Utah State Prison, Draper
Fourteen years had passed since the trial, years consumed by appeals, petitions, and headlines that flared up every time Harker’s name reappeared on the docket. By the spring of 2017, his final appeal had been denied by the Tenth Circuit, and the Supreme Court declined to hear his case. The date was set.
That Sunday morning, the prison was locked down. Roads leading in were sealed by state troopers. Beyond the razor wire, a throng of reporters and protesters gathered — some holding signs that read “Justice for Brian”, others with banners declaring “Stop State Killings.”
At 11:40 a.m., Harker was escorted into the execution chamber. He wore a simple white shirt and gray trousers, his wrists cuffed as guards guided him to the steel chair bolted to the floor. Witnesses later said he looked thinner than the man they remembered from mugshots, his hair gone gray at the temples. Still, there was no tremor in his voice when the warden asked if he had final words.
He paused, then spoke just three:
“Do it clean.”
The straps were fastened across his arms, chest, and ankles. A square of white cloth was pinned above his heart. The hood was lowered over his head.
Behind a wooden partition, five correctional officers raised .30-caliber rifles, each trained through a narrow slit at the same spot on Harker’s chest. Four rifles carried live rounds. One carried a blank. None of the men knew which they held.
“Squad, ready.”
“Squad, aim.”
The warden gave the signal.
At 11:58 a.m., the volley cracked through the chamber, five shots in unison that echoed down the sterile hallway. Witnesses saw Harker’s body jolt forward against the restraints, then sag. The hood darkened as blood spread across his chest. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the air system.
The prison doctor approached, stethoscope in hand. He touched two fingers to the side of Harker’s neck, leaned in close, and froze. The room waited for the expected declaration. Instead, the doctor’s voice faltered.
“He’s still breathing.”
The Medical Scramble & Courtroom Storm
June 18, 2017 — 12:02 p.m.
The chamber erupted in confusion. Guards stared at the warden, unsure whether to restrain, release, or reload. The doctor repeated himself louder this time, his voice tight:
“He’s alive. He’s breathing.”
Two correctional officers rushed in with a gurney. Harker’s head slumped as straps were cut away, his chest rising in shallow, ragged gasps. Blood pooled beneath the chair, dripping onto the sterile floor in uneven rhythms. “Jesus Christ,” one officer muttered, “he should be gone.”
12:07 p.m.
They wheeled him down the hall to the prison’s medical bay. A nurse pressed gauze against his chest wounds, another worked an oxygen mask over his face. IV lines were run, vitals checked. The doctor barked, “Keep pressure here!” The sound of suction tubes and heart monitors filled the room — a jarring clash against the silence of what was supposed to be an ending.
12:15 p.m.
The warden was on the phone with the Governor’s legal team:
“The protocol doesn’t cover this. We need direction now.”
Outside the prison, word had already leaked. A reporter posted a single line on Twitter: “Witnesses say Harker is still alive after firing squad.” Within minutes, the story exploded across national outlets.
By 5:00 p.m., emergency motions were filed in Salt Lake’s federal court. Harker’s attorneys argued that a second attempt would be nothing short of torture. They cited the 1947 Supreme Court case Francis v. Resweber, but insisted this was different — Resweber involved a malfunctioning electric chair, not a man torn open by rifle fire and still clinging to life.
The Attorney General’s office countered: “The sentence has not been completed. Utah law authorizes firing squad as a lawful method. A second attempt is permissible.”
That night, cable networks ran split-screen debates: one side replaying the crime footage from 2002, the other showing protestors outside Draper chanting “Still Breathing, Still Human.”
For the victim’s family, the day reopened old wounds. “We thought it was over,” said Brian Atwood’s sister, standing before cameras. “Now we’re dragged back into the nightmare again.”
By dawn, the world knew what Utah correctional officers had seen with their own eyes: the firing squad had fired, the bullets had landed, and yet somehow, the condemned man lived.
The Survivor & The Aftermath
June 19, 2017 — University of Utah Hospital
Daniel Harker was listed in critical but stable condition. Surgeons worked through the night to repair torn lung tissue and shattered ribs. One bullet had nicked his pulmonary artery, another collapsed his left lung, and fragments lodged perilously close to his spine. The fact that he was alive at all left doctors shaking their heads.
Summer 2017 — The Court Battles
Within weeks, Harker’s survival ignited a firestorm of legal battles. His attorneys filed motions in federal court, arguing a second execution attempt would violate the Eighth Amendment. The state, citing Francis v. Resweber (1947), argued otherwise: “The law allows us to complete the sentence.”
The nation was transfixed. Editorials filled front pages. Protesters clashed outside the Utah Capitol — some waving signs demanding “Justice for Brian,” others carrying placards reading “Stop the Torture.”
Cable news panels replayed the story night after night. One chyron read:
“Botched Execution: Utah Inmate Still Alive After Firing Squad.”
December 2017 — The Ruling
After months of hearings, the federal appeals court issued its decision: no second attempt. In a sharply worded opinion, the judges ruled that while the state had acted within the law, forcing Harker to endure another execution — especially after surviving the first — would “cross the boundary from punishment into cruelty.”
Governor’s aides confirmed the next morning that Harker’s sentence was commuted to life without parole.
2018–2022 — Life Behind Bars
Confined to the prison infirmary, Harker lived out his days in a wheelchair, lungs scarred, body weakened. He rarely spoke, except to nurses, and never granted interviews. To some, he was a symbol of resilience — the man who defied death. To others, he was the face of failed justice, a killer who cheated his victims twice.
Legacy
By the mid-2020s, Utah lawmakers debated ending the firing squad option entirely, citing Harker’s case as proof the method had no place in modern justice. Opponents countered that his survival was a fluke, not a flaw.
Yet the story endured. In classrooms, on podcasts, and in court briefs, the phrase that echoed from that chamber on June 18, 2017, remained unforgettable:
“He’s still breathing.”
The Final Chapter
November 3, 2022 — Utah State Prison Infirmary
Two decades after the crime that defined his name, Daniel Harker’s story ended quietly, far from the cameras and headlines that had once followed him. At 3:42 a.m., nurses on the overnight shift found him unresponsive in his bed. Despite resuscitation efforts, he was pronounced dead minutes later.
The official cause of death was listed as respiratory failure due to complications from prior gunshot trauma. His scarred lungs, damaged during the botched firing squad five years earlier, had never fully healed. Each year since 2017, his breathing grew weaker, his hospital visits more frequent. By the fall of 2022, doctors privately admitted his body was failing.
News of his death broke that morning in a two-paragraph press release from the Department of Corrections. There were no vigils, no protests — just a brief statement noting that the man once known nationwide as “the Utah firing squad survivor” had died in custody at the age of 43.
For the Atwood family, the clerk’s relatives, the announcement brought a muted closure. “It doesn’t change what we lost,” Brian’s sister said when reached by phone, “but maybe now we can stop seeing his name in the paper.”
For historians of capital punishment, Harker’s name would remain infamous. He was the man who lived through Utah’s firing squad, who forced the courts to grapple with a question no one thought they’d face in the 21st century. His survival had changed state policy, sparked national debate, and haunted a justice system that prided itself on finality.
And in the end, it wasn’t the law, or the rifles, or the appeals that claimed him — it was his own body, carrying the damage of five bullets until it could carry no more.