🩸 LIFE WITHOUT: The “Deadpool Killer” & the Women Who Deserved to Live
By RICHIE D. MOWREY for Dicking Around With Richie: A True Crime Feed – a Sassy Gazette investigation
☠️ A Killer’s Birth & the Brains That Broke
Wade Steven Wilson wasn’t born a monster. That’s the unsettling part. He was adopted by a loving family churchgoing, by-the-book parents who tried to give him a better shot at life than his 13- and 14-year-old biological parents ever could. But somewhere between the car crashes, concussions, and chaotic spiral into drugs and violence, something short-circuited. MRI scans later revealed damage to his frontal lobe ground zero for impulse control and morality. His mind, a festering mix of untreated mental illness and meth-induced delusions, became a powder keg of chaos waiting for ignition. But were his demons born or built? That’s the question experts and jurors would spend years untangling.
By the time Wade turned 20, he wasn’t just slipping through the cracks he was punching holes in every system meant to contain him. Burglaries, fights, domestic assaults. An ex-girlfriend accused him of kidnapping and sexual assault. While he skated free from those charges, the red flags had turned into bonafide sirens. He wasn’t just a man unraveling he was sharpening into something meaner. Something predatory.
🧠 Madman or Murderer: The Psychological War in Court
By the time trial rolled around, Wade’s defense team had painted him as a broken man mentally ill, brain-damaged, and incapable of forming intent. They pulled out MRI scans like receipts, pointing to damage that could explain away the brutality. Psychologists tossed around diagnoses like schizoaffective disorder, bipolar depression, and drug-induced psychosis. But the prosecution wasn’t buying the insanity plea. They called it what they saw: manipulation. A man who liked the power. Who fed on fear. Who knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t give a damn about who he crushed underfoot.
They pointed to jailhouse phone calls where he casually admitted to running over one of his victims with a car "like a hundred times," he said, as if confessing to spilling a drink. His cold courtroom smirk didn’t help. Nor did the swastika tattoo inked beneath his eye post-arrest. This wasn’t someone spiraling. This was someone stewing. And that chilling confession? “I just wanted to do it.” No rage. No justification. Just... want.
🕊️ Kristine & Diane: Two Women the System Couldn’t Protect
Kristine Melton was just 35. A kind-hearted woman who’d invited Wilson back to her Cape Coral home after meeting him at a bar. Maybe she saw the lost boy under the bravado. Maybe she thought he just needed kindness. Instead, she was strangled in her sleep, her body left cold in her bed while he took her car and fled the scene. But Wade wasn’t finished not even close.
Diane Ruiz, 43, was walking to her job at a hair salon when Wade lured her over under the pretense of needing directions. A complete stranger. No connection. Just a target. He strangled her on the spot, then ran her over with Kristine’s stolen car again and again—leaving her in a suburban nightmare of blood and broken bones. The depravity was staggering. One was an intimate betrayal. The other was pure thrill kill. Together, they painted the portrait of a man untethered from any human restraint.
🔒 Death Row and the Question That Lingers
Wade Wilson now sits on death row at Union Correctional Institution, awaiting execution under Florida’s newly reinstated non-unanimous death sentence law. Ten jurors voted for death for Diane’s murder. Nine for Kristine. That was enough. But for the families, and for justice itself, that number still leaves a bitter taste. Why wasn’t it unanimous? What sliver of doubt remains?
Wilson’s case is a storm cloud of “what ifs.” What if his brain trauma had been treated? What if his ex’s cries for help in February 2019 hadn’t been ignored? What if the system had stopped giving this man second, third, and fourth chances? Instead, it took two women dead in a single October morning for the alarms to finally ring loud enough. But by then, the damage was done. Wade Wilson may have worn the name “Deadpool Killer,” but there was no anti-hero here just a deeply dangerous man left unchecked for far too long.
Sorry, but let’s get one thing straight truly innocent men don’t pick up the jailhouse phone and tell their fathers, “Yeah, Dad… it was bad. I ran her over with a fucking car a hundred times.” That’s not the voice of a framed man. That’s not the sound of someone being set up. That’s the sound of guilt bleeding through the phone line cold, casual, and chillingly proud of the carnage left behind.
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