FORT MYERS, Fla. — In the age of true-crime streaming, few stories have fused monstrous brutality with viral celebrity quite like that of Wade Steven Wilson. A man from Fort Myers, Florida, Wilson—better known as the “ᴅᴇᴀᴅpool Killer” for sharing a name with the Marvel anti-hero—brutally murdered two women in a single day in October 2019. His smirking mugsH๏τ, distinctive Joker-like facial tattoos, and chilling confessions have since spawned documentaries, a dedicated online following of women who call themselves “Wade’s Wives,” and uncomfortable questions about society’s fascination with charismatic killers.

Wilson, now 32, was sentenced to death in August 2024 after a Lee County jury convicted him of two counts of first-degree murder and recommended the ultimate punishment in non-unanimous votes of 9-3 and 10-2. Judge Nicholas Thompson described the crimes as “heinous, atrocious, and cruel.” As of July 2026, he resides on death row at Union Correctional Insтιтution in Raiford, Florida, with appeals still working their way through the courts. No execution date has been set.3)

The facts of the case remain as horrifying today as they were when Wilson was arrested. On October 7, 2019, Wilson, then 25, met Kristine Melton, 35, and her friend at Buddha Live, a Fort Myers bar. He went home with Melton to her Cape Coral residence. While she slept, he strangled her to death. He then stole her car and drove off. Hours later, he encountered Diane Ruiz, 43, who was walking to work in Cape Coral. Wilson lured her into the vehicle under false pretenses, then strangled and beat her before running over her body multiple times with the stolen car. In a recorded phone call to his biological father, Steven Testasecca, Wilson confessed without remorse, describing Ruiz’s remains in grotesque detail: she “looked like spaghetti.” He reportedly told his father, “I’m a killer. I killed two women today.” Testasecca contacted police, aiding Wilson’s capture the next day at a burglarized home.

Forensic evidence, phone records, Wilson’s own words, and witness testimony painted an ironclad picture. The jury needed little time to convict him on all counts, including grand theft, battery, and burglary. His criminal history—prior convictions for burglary, grand theft, firearm theft, and battery—only underscored a pattern of escalating violence. Raised in Tallahᴀssee after being adopted as an infant by Steve and Candace Wilson, the defendant had long been described as troubled, with substance issues and run-ins with the law.

Yet it is not merely the savagery that has kept Wilson in headlines. His post-arrest notoriety exploded because of his appearance and apparent charm. The mugsH๏τ—tattoos framing his face, a slight smirk—went viral. What followed was a disturbing phenomenon documented in 2026 releases: Paramount+’s three-part Handsome Devil: Charming Killer (January) and Netflix’s Worst Ex Ever Season 2 episode “Dating the ᴅᴇᴀᴅpool Killer” (May). These productions reveal how thousands of women flooded him with letters—over 3,900 in a single month at one point—professing love, offering marriage, or even begging him to father their children through prison arrangements. Some sent money at his request. Prison calls reportedly turned explicit, with admirers claiming they could “fix” him or that he was “misunderstood.”

This is where the story turns sharply uncomfortable. Wilson’s case exemplifies hybristophilia—Sєxual attraction to violent criminals—amplified by social media and the true-crime boom. While victims’ families grieve, a subset of the public treats the killer like a rock star. The documentaries do not shy away from this: they interview letter-writers who fell “in love,” explore Wilson’s continued manipulation from behind bars, and contrast it with raw testimony from those who lost Melton and Ruiz. One ex-girlfriend narrowly escaped violence. Ruiz’s body was discovered days later, circled by vultures in a field. The contrast between Wilson’s calculated charm and his sadistic actions could not be starker.

Critics argue this media cycle revictimizes families and glamorizes evil. Wilson’s biological father testified that his son showed no remorse during that fateful call. The jury heard it all. Sentencing Wilson, the judge left no doubt: these were not impulsive acts but deliberate, degrading killings. Wilson’s legal team pursued appeals, including challenges related to Florida’s death-penalty procedures heard by the state Supreme Court in early 2026, but the sentences stand for now. He previously faced additional jail charges for conspiring to traffic methamphetamine and an attempted escape, pleading no contest in 2024 and receiving concurrent time.

Wilson’s story is a mirror held up to contemporary culture. In an era where serial killers get Netflix specials and murderers trend on TikTok, his tale warns of the dangers of superficial attraction and the internet’s ability to manufacture celebrity from atrocity. A man who reduced a human being to “spaghetti” with a car now fields marriage proposals. The victims—working women with families and futures—risk being footnotes in their own tragedy while the perpetrator becomes the main character.

As streaming platforms profit and fan mail continues, Melton and Ruiz’s loved ones have vowed to witness any eventual execution. Their pain is not content. It is permanent. Wilson’s name may evoke a fictional mercenary who cannot die, but in Fort Myers and Cape Coral, two real families live every day with the irreversible consequences of his choices. The latest documentaries ensure the world keeps watching—but whether it learns the right lesson remains to be seen.

Sources drawn from court records, trial coverage, official documentaries, and updates through mid-2026.