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"What should be most difficult to stomach is what I've done, yet somehow that part is still palatable." Lately, he added, when he looked in the mirror, he was "beginning to see a monster." He'd determined that the best solution was to give away his organs and "end on a good note."First, he needed a favor. He asked if I'd be willing to help him formulate a plan to donate his body parts.

Inside one was the naked body of Longo's thirty-four-year-old wife, Mary Jane.

The woman thought she was sleeping with a fellow journalist — a writer who just happened to need a photographer for an article about Mayan ruins. And he told everyone he met that he was a writer for The New York Times. At the same time I learned that Longo had become Michael Finkel of The New York Times — I mean the exact day — I was officially no longer Michael Finkel of The New York Times.

Longo had always dreamed of becoming a roving journalist, and while in Mexico he attempted to fulfill that fantasy. I'd been fired by the paper because I fabricated an article I wrote about child labor in West Africa, combining quotations from several individual laborers into one fictitious composite character.

So he was dropping his appeals, he told me, and would likely be executed, by lethal injection, in a matter of months.

Why he was calling me — and why I wanted to watch him die — was not so simple.

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