David Livingston Funchess was born on March 16, 1947, in Jacksonville, Florida, into a poor and abusive household. His father, Venis (or Wenis) Funchess, worked operating tractors at a fertilizer plant, and David was one of several children in the family. His early years were marked by physical abuse and poverty, growing up under the oppressive conditions of the Jim Crow era in the American South. According to his sister Mary, punishments in their household were brutal — children were beaten with fists, sticks, extension cords, or hoses, often without explanation. Despite this difficult upbringing, those who knew Funchess in his youth described him as a quiet, intelligent, and compassionate individual who was not on a path toward criminal behavior. He had no criminal record and did not use drugs prior to military service.

Funchess graduated near the top of his high school class in 1965 and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps two years later. In 1967, he was deployed with the 3rd Marine Division to Vietnam during one of the most intense phases of the conflict. His service exposed him to the horrors of war: he witnessed fellow soldiers killed in gruesome ways, participated in the killing of unarmed civilians — including elderly people and children — and endured traumatic injuries, including severe leg and ankle wounds from a land mine. He was hospitalized in Japan and later in Virginia, where he was placed in a psychiatric ward with a diagnosis of “Psychoneurotic Depressive Reaction,” an early term for what would later be recognized as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Funchess’s life unraveled after his return from Vietnam. A dishonorable discharge — following periods of being absent without leave — barred him from receiving veterans’ benefits. He developed a heroin addiction while taking painkillers for his injuries and began displaying erratic, disturbed behavior. Family members described him as “shellshocked,” suffering from nightmares, crying spells, and flashbacks. He would dig foxholes beneath his mother’s house and sleep in them, lock himself in his room for days, and experience dissociative episodes. In 1972, Funchess survived a shooting incident after walking toward an armed man without fear, an act that witnesses believed indicated suicidal intent.

His descent into instability was compounded by repeated minor arrests, unemployment, and homelessness. He was convicted of breaching the peace and grand larceny in 1973 and was later arrested for loitering, public intoxication, and obstructing traffic. Despite these struggles, he had no history of violent crime until the murders that would ultimately lead to his execution. His defense attorneys and mental health advocates would later argue that his deteriorating mental state — likely stemming from untreated PTSD — and drug addiction significantly impaired his judgment and responsibility.

On December 16, 1974, David Funchess committed one of the most brutal crimes in Jacksonville’s history. Approximately a year earlier, he had worked as a porter at the Avondale Liquor Store, a lounge in Jacksonville, but had been fired on suspicion of theft. On the morning of the murders, around 9:15 a.m., Funchess returned to the lounge armed and intent on robbery. Inside were three people: 52-year-old employee Anna Waldrop, 62-year-old employee Bertha McLeod, and 56-year-old customer Clayton Keaton Ragan.

Funchess attacked all three, beating and stabbing them repeatedly and slashing their throats with a grapefruit knife. Police later found Waldrop and McLeod lying in a pool of blood behind the bar, “head to head.” A blood trail led officers to Ragan’s body near the rear door, suggesting he had attempted to flee before collapsing. Funchess stole between $5,500 and $6,500 — mostly in canceled checks — and fled the scene. McLeod was found alive but gravely wounded. She remained in a coma until July 10, 1977, when she died of her injuries. However, Funchess was never tried or convicted in connection with her death.

Following the murders, Funchess shared some of the stolen money with two women he had just met and used some of it to travel by taxi to Ocala, Florida. Witnesses reported seeing multiple men leaving the lounge, initially leading investigators to believe more than one person was involved. Funchess was identified as a person of interest and was arrested approximately two months later. Initially claiming memory loss, he eventually confessed. Under narcosynthesis with a “truth serum,” he admitted to having used heroin on the morning of the murders before committing the killings.

At trial, prosecutors described Funchess as an “animal.” Psychiatrist Dr. Ernest Miller labeled him a sociopath who posed a severe danger to society. The jury voted 10–2 in favor of the death penalty for the murders of Waldrop and Ragan, and Circuit Judge Gordon A. Duncan imposed the sentence on July 18, 1975, calling the killings “some of the most senseless, heinous, and horrible murders that have ever taken place in Jacksonville.” Funchess was transferred to death row on July 29, 1975.

Funchess’s legal journey was complex. His death sentence was upheld by the Florida Supreme Court in December 1976, but the U.S. Supreme Court vacated it in 1979 after ruling that confidential information unavailable to the defense had influenced the sentencing decision. A new hearing was ordered, and in December 1979, Judge Duncan again sentenced Funchess to death. The U.S. Supreme Court declined to review the case in October 1981.

While on death row, Funchess was described as a model prisoner, receiving only one disciplinary infraction. He wrote poetry and turned to religion to cope with his mental anguish. In 1982, he was formally diagnosed with PTSD — a condition not yet recognized at the time of his trial. His legal team argued that this diagnosis should have been considered a mitigating factor and sought clemency on those grounds. However, Governor Bob Graham repeatedly denied clemency, citing the defense’s failure to raise PTSD during the original trial.

Despite public campaigns by veterans’ groups, mental health advocates, and anti-death penalty activists, the courts and state officials remained unmoved. Critics argued that Funchess’s case highlighted systemic failures in addressing veterans’ mental health and that his service and trauma should have mitigated his sentence. Nonetheless, his appeals were exhausted.

On April 22, 1986, David Livingston Funchess was executed in Florida, becoming the first Vietnam War veteran put to death in the United States. His case remains significant in the history of American criminal justice as a pivotal example of how evolving understandings of PTSD and combat trauma intersect with capital punishment. It also sparked broader discussions about veterans’ mental health care, criminal culpability, and the justice system’s responsibility toward those psychologically scarred by war.