Twenty-five years is a long time. People forget names. They forget the details of old local tragedies unless they were there. But for the family of Gladys and David Larke, the clock basically stopped on April 27, 2001. You might have seen their names pop up in the news again recently because of a legal milestone involving a firing squad. Honestly, it’s one of those stories that stays under the skin of South Carolina history because it hits every fear people have about domestic fallout.
David was 62. Gladys was 59. They lived in a trailer on East Darby Road in Greenville County. By all accounts, they were the "rock" of their family—the kind of parents who stepped in when things got messy. And things had gotten very messy for their daughter, Rebecca "Becky" Barbare.
The Breaking Point on East Darby Road
Becky had been in a relationship with a man named Brad Keith Sigmon for about three years. They lived in a trailer right next door to her parents. But things soured. She wanted out.
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When a relationship ends like that, there’s usually a cooling-off period. That didn't happen here. Instead, Sigmon became obsessed. David Larke did what any protective father would do: he served Sigmon with eviction papers. He told him he had two weeks to pack up and get off the property.
That was the trigger.
On the morning of April 27, Sigmon didn't go to work. He waited. He watched Becky leave to take her kids to school. Once the coast was clear, he grabbed a baseball bat from under his trailer and walked over to the home of Gladys and David Larke.
It wasn't a quick or "clean" crime. David saw him coming and yelled for Gladys to bring him his gun. He never got it. Sigmon hit him with the bat, then chased Gladys into the living room. The medical records from the trial are pretty stomach-turning. Both victims had nearly a dozen head wounds. They fought back—defensive wounds on their arms proved that—but a baseball bat against an unsuspecting couple in their sixties isn't much of a fight.
The Aftermath and the Manhunt
Sigmon didn't just leave after the murders. He stayed. He took David’s gun and waited for Becky to get home. When she pulled into the driveway, he kidnapped her.
What followed was a terrifying sequence where Becky actually managed to jump out of a moving car to escape him. He shot at her as she ran, but she survived. Sigmon took off, sparking a multi-state manhunt that eventually ended in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
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The police caught him after he called his own mother.
In his confession, he was chillingly honest. He basically said that if he couldn't have Becky, no one would. He planned to kill her parents, kill her, and then kill himself. He only failed at the last two parts.
Why the Case Returned to the Headlines
For decades, this was just another tragic entry in South Carolina’s criminal justice system. Then came the "first in 15 years" headlines.
South Carolina has struggled for a long time to get the drugs needed for lethal injections. Because of that, the state's execution schedule stalled for over a decade. To fix the "problem," the state legislature updated the law to allow for the electric chair or a firing squad as primary methods if drugs weren't available.
In early 2025, Brad Keith Sigmon became the first person in South Carolina's modern history to be executed by a firing squad.
It was a media circus. Protesters gathered. Faith groups, including the Catholic Mobilizing Network, begged Governor Henry McMaster for clemency. They argued Sigmon was a "changed man" after 20 years on death row. But the Larke family remained firm. For them, the execution wasn't about the politics of the firing squad; it was about the two people who never got to meet their great-grandchildren.
Remembering Gladys and David Larke
When a crime is this violent, the victims often get overshadowed by the perpetrator and the legal debates. We talk about the "firing squad" or the "baseball bat," and we lose the people.
Gladys and David Larke were more than just names on a docket.
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- They were parents to five children.
- They were grandparents who were actively involved in their grandkids' lives.
- They were described as the kind of neighbors who kept to themselves but helped when asked.
Becky Barbare told reporters that her parents would have done anything for their family. That's ultimately why they died—they were standing between their daughter and a man who refused to let her go.
It’s easy to get caught up in the "true crime" of it all. But honestly, the Larke case is a reminder of the real-world stakes of domestic violence. It doesn't just affect the couple; it radiates outward, often hitting the people trying the hardest to help.
Actionable Insights and Moving Forward
If you are looking into this case for research or because you are following South Carolina's legal shifts, here is what actually matters for the public record:
Check the Legal Precedents
The Sigmon execution (relating to the Larkes) set a major precedent for South Carolina’s "Shield Law," which keeps the identity of execution teams and drug suppliers secret. If you're studying capital punishment, look into the 2024 S.C. Supreme Court ruling that cleared the way for this.
Domestic Violence Resources
The Larke tragedy started with a breakup and an obsession. If you or someone you know is dealing with a partner who refuses to respect boundaries or "eviction" from a relationship, don't handle it alone.
- The National Domestic Violence Hotline is available 24/7 at 800-799-7233.
- In South Carolina, SCCADVASA (South Carolina Coalition Against Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault) provides local resources for families in crisis.
Support for Victims' Families
The Larke children had to wait 24 years for what the state called "justice." Organizations like Parents of Murdered Children (POMC) provide specific support groups for people dealing with the long-term trauma of losing family members to violent crime.
The story of Gladys and David Larke isn't just a footnote in a law book about firing squads. It’s a story about a family that was "the rock" and what happens when that rock is forcibly removed. It serves as a stark, albeit grim, piece of South Carolina's history that continues to influence how the state handles its most severe criminal penalties today.