Missouri is about to execute Dennis Skillicorn. The state’s death penalty may not outlive him very long.

At 49 years old, Dennis Skillicorn no longer looks like the picture on the ID clipped to his starchy, prison-issued shirt. His mustache and hair have gone from brown to gray. Blurry tattoos set into his arms have faded to the same slate blue as the eyes magnified behind his glasses.

Skillicorn lives on death row at Potosi Correctional Center, a maximum-security prison near rural Mineral Point, Missouri. He is scheduled to die just days from now, on May 20.

Skillicorn believes he's going to heaven.

"Absolutely, I do," he says. "Yes. Thanks to Jesus Christ, and only because of Jesus Christ, can I go to heaven." Of his execution by lethal injection, he says, "I believe that it's just a doorway. It's not an end."

In 1996, Skillicorn was convicted of murdering Richard Drummond, an AT&T supervisor who pulled over to help Skillicorn and two other men whose car had broken down near Kingdom City, Missouri. Skillicorn, Allen Nicklasson and Tim DeGraffenreid became known as "the Good Samaritan Killers." Nicklasson also received a death sentence.

Skillicorn, Nicklasson and their 48 fellow death-row inmates live at Potosi until 30 days before their execution dates, when they're transferred to the Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Bonne Terre, Missouri. In 2005, Stanley Hall, Donald Jones, Vernon Brown, Timothy Johnston and Marlin Gray took the eight-mile trip from Potosi to Bonne Terre and were executed.

Since that busy year, Missouri's death chamber has been quiet. In 2006, U.S. District Judge Fernando Gaitan Jr. halted all executions after a review of the state's protocol unearthed disturbing facts. Dr. Alan Doerhoff, the Jefferson City doctor who injected the lethal drugs into 54 of Missouri's death-row inmates, admitted that because of his dyslexia, he often wasn't sure whether he had correctly measured the amounts of each of the three drugs. A mistake could cause an inmate excruciating pain, indiscernible to onlookers because of the paralyzing agent used in the mixture. Gaitan ruled that Missouri's method of lethal injection posed an "unreasonable risk of cruel and unusual punishment." Arguments on the constitutionality of lethal injection stalled executions in other states as well.

For death-row residents, the reprieve was short-lived. Gaitan's decision was reversed in June 2007 by the 8th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. Then, last May, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld Kentucky's use of a three-drug mixture for lethal injection, opening the door for a resumption of executions nationwide.

But across the country, the appetite for eye-for-an-eye justice appears to be waning. High-profile exonerations have weakened some states' resolve to carry out the death penalty. Lawmakers, forced by the recession to make deep budget cuts, are passing bills that ask for reconsideration of capital punishment for monetary reasons: Studies have shown that the cost of seeking death is higher than keeping an inmate imprisoned for life.

In 2007, Gov. Jon Corzine of New Jersey signed a law that abolished "state-endorsed killing." Gov. Bill Richardson of New Mexico signed the repeal of his state's death penalty in March of this year. That same month, lawmakers in Maryland voted to limit the use of capital punishment to cases supported by conclusive DNA or videotaped evidence. A bill to repeal the death penalty and use the money saved for investigating cold cases just passed Colorado's House. Repeal bills have been introduced in Connecticut, New Hampshire and Montana.

Skillicorn's days are numbered, but Missouri's death penalty might not outlive him by much: Two bills in Missouri's Legislature have proposed a moratorium on the death penalty and a review board to examine issues such as cost, fairness and the risk of wrongful execution.

Skillicorn could be the last criminal put to death in Missouri, which is ranked fifth in the country for most executions per capita. His execution could also be the state's most regrettable.

Past Potosi's thick, mechanized metal doors, an interview with Skillicorn takes place without barriers — no glass wall, just two plastic chairs and a table in a small white room. The guard admitting a reporter says, "He's not anyone you need to worry about."

Potosi's death-row inmates aren't separated from the general prison population. Skillicorn lives in the honor wing, where monastic adherence to the rules earns an inmate certain freedoms.

"If a guy wants to come in here and be a hardhead, if he wants to have bad behavior, they got a place for him," Skillicorn explains. "It's not a pleasant place. They got a place that's literally spending your days in a cage, no comforts whatsoever. It might be a consolation to some people on the street to picture that. But people who do want to be well-behaved, there are things available to them, too."

Skillicorn's certainty in his heavenly reward is based on his good works at Potosi. In order to sit in this open area, Skillicorn had to take a break from his job with Set Free Ministries, a Christian ministry outreach program with an office at Potosi. He's on-call for the prison's hospice, where inmates comfort and care for terminally ill inmates. Hospice at Potosi was in its infancy when Skillicorn arrived in 1996; under his watch, it has blossomed into a nationally recognized program. He is the editor of Compassion, a bimonthly magazine sent to death-row inmates and 4,500 readers around the country. The money collected from subscriptions funds scholarships for college-bound kids who have lost family members to violent crime. The magazine has awarded $36,000 in scholarships since 2001.