He would use the same dump site repeatedly before moving; so when remains were found, bunches of remains were found. His dump sites were so secluded, however, that those remains were usually skeletal by the time they were discovered. The victims were left naked and sometimes posed in positions designed to degrade them further.
Because of Ridgway’s venue, the Great Northwest, some of the detectives working his case had also been involved in the search for Ted Bundy. In fact, after Bundy was captured, detectives interviewed him in hopes he might be able to shed some light on the Green River case. Bundy gave it the old college try, but his expertise was unhelpful.
During the long investigation, Ridgway was arrested twice, both times on prostitution-related charges. Following his first arrest, he was considered a suspect in the Green River killings, but he was crossed off the list after passing a polygraph examination with flying colors. Murderers with severe personality disorders, police had learned, sometimes could fool a lie detector because they lacked shame and guilt, and didn’t feel the normal stress when lying.
In 1987, police took hair and saliva samples from Ridgway; so, when DNA technology developed, these samples were used to match Ridgway with semen found on Green River victims. He was arrested in 2001 and, at first, charged with twenty killings. By the time he was convicted in court, twenty-eight more victims had been added to his kill list.
Stephen Stanko was a straight guy, but his all-time favorite serial killer was gay: Jeffrey Dahmer. Maybe the gay aspect enhanced the grisliness of Dahmer’s tale for Stanko, but maybe not. Maybe it was just the fact that Dahmer was so completely sick in so many ways, he was number one, the ultimate nightmare.
And he did it in Milwaukee, Wisconsin—the most normal of cities.
On the night of May 27, 1991, in Milwaukee, a naked fourteen-year-old Asian boy burst out through the front door of a house and began to scream in the street. In quick pursuit was a blond young man named Dahmer.
The cops showed up, and the frightened teenager said the man was trying to kill him. The blond man told the police that he was sorry for the fuss, but this was just a “lovers’ quarrel.”
The cops sided with the older man, and the boy was dragged back inside the house. Cops reported the incident as Intoxicated Asian, naked male. Was returned to his sober boyfriend. When cops did see the fourteen-year-old again, he had been dissected, his severed skull on display in Dahmer’s home.
Dahmer was caught. His home was searched by the crime lab. The discovered evidence thrust Dahmer to the top of the all-time greatest serial killer list.
They found evidence of cannibalism. He stored parts of his victims in vats. There wasn’t just a homosexual angle, but a racial angle as well, with the great majority of the white killer’s victims being poor and members of a minority.
He was saving parts. Who knew what all Dahmer was doing with those body parts? Eating some, sure—but the guy was probably playful, too.
The arrest came down on July 22, 1991. Dahmer was tried and convicted, and sentenced to almost one thousand years in prison. He didn’t serve nearly that many, however, as he was killed by a fellow inmate in November 1994.
When Stephen Stanko wasn’t researching other criminals, he enjoyed getting access to the library computer and looking up himself. He was listed as an author, and people anywhere could order his book online.
Very cool. While Googling himself, he learned that he was not the only famous Steve Stanko. There was a muscle-bound guy who had been Mr. Universe in 1947. He was, in fact, a legend of bodybuilding’s “golden era.”
Somewhere along the line, as Stephen Stanko learned about Zodiac and Son of Sam, BTK and Bundy, Ridgway, Dahlia and Dahmer—all for the book he was going to write, of course—his interest shifted.
According to the Georgetown County Sheriff, A. Lane Cribb, who later read Stanko’s serial killer notes, there came a time when Stanko no longer focused on what serial killers were like. He began to wonder what it would be like to be a serial killer. He’d already had some experience. Like BTK, he knew how good it felt to tie up a woman. But he’d yet to cross that line between here and the beyond. Cribb came to believe Stanko had feverishly pondered becoming a sex killer, a destroyer of innocence, a sadistic betrayer of everything vulnerable, a breaker of the ultimate taboo—he had pondered becoming a child-raping, knife-across-the-throat snuff artist.
STAND-UP
Ah, but that was the serious side of the man. That was only one facet of Stanko’s personality. He could write anything. Even humor. He spent a lot of time while in prison thinking about what a funny guy he was. He knew it was a tough row to hoe, but he thought he might take a crack at being a stand-up comic. He would be the ex-con comic. Tim Allen had pulled it off, and Stanko figured himself funnier than that guy. He would be the first to expose the outside world to some real prison humor! There was nothing like a long stretch behind bars to bring out the yuks.
Now, out and about, he kept a separate notebook—separate from the serial killer stuff—that consisted of his “comedy routine.” When he thought of a joke, he’d put it in there. The routine got out of order after a while, and the pages were filled with arrows and inserts scribbled up and down the margins.
He could hear himself doing it, hear roaring laughter from a packed house. . . .
[Reacting to applause] Thank you, thank you. Okay, my name is Steve Stanko [pause] and before you begin making fun of my name, let me say that I was recently released from an eight-and-a-half-year stint in prison, and this is kind of therapy for me.
Thinking twice now about poking fun at “Stanko” now, aren’t you?
It’s always funny, when I make that announcement, to watch the reactions in the audience. The men that think they are tough sit up and poke their chest out. The less aggressive seem to get shorter. I wasn’t sure at first what that was from. And then, one club-owner told me that they had to pop one guy off his seat [make an oral popping noise] like a plunger.
And, of course, gay men smile, and their faces light up. Sorry guys [turn around, shake butt and wag finger] this is an exit hole only! See me after the show, though, and I will give you some names and inmate numbers that you can write.
The women, on the other hand, are another story. That all depends on the man they are with. The proper woman will cower closer to their date . . . spouse . . . escort. No, just kidding. But they still look me up and down with that questioning face. [Wiggle eyebrows, give audience a wicked smile.]
Rougher, country, “red neck” women usually start calling me forward or winking. After going out with a few of them, I realized that all they wanted was information about their families and exes. “Did you know my daddy? . . . brother? God-damn husband? Is he okay? Queer? . . . Dead?”
No, really, none of you have anything to be afraid of. I didn’t kill, rape, attack, mutilate or do any of the really “cool” crimes. I was one of those [dripping with sarcasm] really bad guys: Breach of trust with fraudulent intent . . . 673 counts, of course.
If any of my victims are in the audience, this gig doesn’t pay squat, so leave me alone after the show. Ten years for that—go figure, ha ha.
Prison is strange. It is and it’s not what the media makes it out to be. It can be tough. I mean, the first day I was given a total body shave, a delousing, a wire-brush scrub, stuck with two needles and told I would probably get a rectal exam.
Yeah, at the end of the day I just looked at my cell-mate and said, “Do you think they will let me out of the cell tomorrow?” He just kinda smiled and said, “I hope not!”
The first thing I had to do once in prison was learn the language of the convicts. Everyone knows what a rat or a snitch is, and of course shanks and shivs are homemade—excuse me, cellmade—weapons.
But there is also the “deck”, a pack of cigarettes, “buck” which is inmate-made wine. Oh yeah, good stuff, not Dom Perignon but Dumb Parthenon, when it hits you will buck like an idiot in a Roman arena.
One of
my favorite prison slang words is “sack,” a quantity of marijuana so small that it is folded and folded into a piece of one-inch square paper until it is about the size of a pinkie nail. Costs five bucks.
And then there’s the “sit-up.” No, that is not how you trick inmates into indecent carnal acts....
And on and on it went. Stanko thought he was a riot. When he wasn’t studying serial killers, he was watching stand-up comedy on TV, checking out the tricks they used, the timing of it. He was so going to be a star.
Then the unexpected happened. He got a real job. During the first months of 2005, Stanko worked as a salesman at Stucco Supply in Myrtle Beach.
But the job didn’t last. He was fired on April Fools’ Day by the general manager, Jeff Kendall. Stanko was hired to be a salesman, but he didn’t make enough sales—so he was served the pink slip.
On the surface, one might think Stanko a natural at sales. Instead, he daydreamed, perhaps plotting the future, not maximizing the present.
Perhaps Stanko’s preoccupation with manipulating people proved to be a detriment. That was counterintuitive, but maybe Stanko actually found himself unable, or just unwilling, to work for a living; so hungry was he to scam and to con, to exploit the fact that others had consciences.
According to one “dear friend” of Laura Ling’s, it was that first week in April, after Stephen Stanko lost his job, that Stanko “totally took over” the Socastee library. She said he turned the place into his own personal office, where he pretended to be a lawyer and conned old ladies out of their money. She spoke to Laura about it, told her there was something dead about Stanko’s eyes that gave her the chills. Laura said, “Mind your own business”—and she did.
For Laura, Stanko was now a liability both at work and at home. He was spending her money faster than she could make it. She was a librarian, not an heiress, and on the verge of receiving an eviction notice. Something had to give. It was time she read Stanko the riot act.
BOILING OVER: APRIL 8, 2005
Stephen Stanko’s own urge to kill, and kill again, boiled over on Friday, April 8, 2005, sometime after midnight. He’d completed his self-taught course in serial killers and he’d given himself a grade of A. Now, with his real job kaput, his obsession with murder blended with a growing rage. His rickety dam of self-control cracked, then gave way, releasing a torrent of turpitude.
He stressed badly. He needed money. Being fired turned out to be a greater blow to his ego than he would have expected. Rejection of any kind pumped up Stanko’s pressure cooker.
According to his story, Stanko and Laura Ling had an argument. She slapped him and a lit cigarette in his mouth flew between his glasses and his face, burning him.
That was it. Mr. Hyde, come on down! Let the bondage begin. Stanko bound Ling’s wrists together behind her back. He was too jacked and did a sloppy job.
BTK would have laughed.
Stephen Stanko then turned his attention to Ling’s teenage daughter, who was in her room asleep in bed. When he entered her bedroom, he flicked on the lights. Penny woke up.
Penny’s mind tried to register what she was seeing. At first, it simply didn’t compute. Stephen was in her room, with a knife in his hand. He’d gotten home about nine o’clock that night and everything was normal. She’d gone to sleep at about eleven-fifteen, and all was still peaceful. Now it was an hour and a quarter later, and Stephen was next to her bed with a knife in his hand. At first, he just stared at her, and she hoped it was a dream. It didn’t register. Maybe he had secretly called a fire drill or something.
After a couple of seconds, Stanko said, “Scream, and I will kill you both.”
He was referring to her mom. Mom was in trouble. She had to get to her. Stanko produced more neckties and was about to bind her wrists at the small of her back when she wriggled free.
Penny ran down the hall and looked in her mother’s room. Mom was on the bed, moaning and kicking.
That was the last thing the daughter remembered for a while, as Stanko hit her over the head with a blunt object and knocked her out. When she woke up, she saw him beating her mother. The punches became frenzied. Stanko dished out a vicious beating that continued until his hand was bleeding and he couldn’t punch anymore.
Stanko refocused his attention on Penny. He ripped off Penny’s clothes and got on top of her. She tried to struggle, but there would be no more escaping.
The blow to the head sapped her will and he was too strong. She felt the blade of the knife upon her neck. As she was raped, she heard her mother beside them moaning.
When the act was complete, he positioned the daughter so she could watch as he returned his attention to Laura Ling. Stanko still kept his weight on Penny so she couldn’t move. He flipped Laura onto her stomach and, with Penny watching in horror, choked Laura until she was dead. She fought hard. She heard her mother making choking noises. Then the noises stopped, and that was it.
Penny forced herself to look away. She closed her eyes really tight and tried to make it go away. She didn’t want this to be the last image she had of her mom.
She tried to replace the nightmare with pleasant memories of her mom. How beautiful she was—how smart and funny. She was a warm and inviting person, the kind of person everyone wanted to be friends with. She was—oh God, now she was gone.
At some point, he pushed Laura off the bed and she lay still on the floor between the bed and the wall. Stanko got up and looked down at his lifeless girlfriend. He then looked down at Penny; his eyes still filled with raging ire, he said something truly bizarre.
“Look what you did to her!” he screamed at the girl. “And I loved her!”
The killer flipped the teenager over, forcing her into a prostrate position. He lifted Penny’s head, and, producing a knife, twice slit her throat.
Stephen Stanko took a shower, and when he re-dressed, he felt in vain for a pulse in Laura Ling and her daughter. He later claimed he felt suicidal at that moment, but his actions suggest he was a man with plans for a future.
Believing Laura and Penny dead, he tarried: calmly removing a gold bracelet from Ling’s lifeless wrist, then packing a bag. He emptied out her purse and pocketed her car keys. He went into her wallet and took all of the cash and her ATM card. Only then did he leave the house.
As was true of many famous murderers, Stanko had turned violent, not under a full moon, but under the slenderest silvery sliver—on the eve of the new moon. Those were the darkest nights of the month, and killers on the run liked their nights dark.
His first stop was Ling’s bank, where he used her card to empty her account of seven hundred dollars. A surveillance camera captured him, his face composed, as he made the transaction at the drive-through machine.
Penny was not dead, however. Why Stanko couldn’t find her pulse is one of the mysteries—and miracles—of this story. She regained consciousness and even made it to a phone. Bound, with blood still flowing from her neck wounds, Penny called 911.
She later explained that she had no idea how she had the strength to get to the phone or how she dialed the three numbers and hit send. Next thing she knew, there was an operator talking into her ear and she was explaining that she had just been raped and she feared her mother was dead.
“When he left, he took my mom’s car keys,” Penny said.
“What kind of car does your mother drive?”
“It’s a red Mustang.” She further ID’d the car for police, so the manhunt could start immediately. The conversation between Penny and dispatch lasted for sixteen minutes, until first responders arrived at the scene on Murrells Inlet Road, at about 3:00 A.M.
They found a scene of unspeakable horror, the teenager beaten and bleeding from her neck. Blood spattered on the wall. Laura Ling, still in her red plaid pajamas, on the bedroom floor, her body facedown and wedged between the bed and the dresser.
Her hands were bound behind her back with a gray-and-black necktie, so tightly that the medical examiner later discovered li
gature marks where the silk dug into the flesh.
As Penny had feared, Laura Ling was dead. The men asked Penny about the man who killed her. She told them everything she knew. It was Stephen Stanko, the author, the ex-con, her mom’s live-in boyfriend.
He was an out-of-work writer working on a book. He was an ex-con who wrote a book about prison. He always seemed like a nice guy, and he just snapped. Penny had no idea why.
The wounds to Penny’s neck were serious but not life-threatening. He had slit her throat, just as she said, twice, one above the other. The deepest cut came at the insert point of the bottom slash, where his knife caused a puncture wound that resembled a horizontal tracheotomy incision.
In Penny’s room, on the bed on its side, next to a stuffed toy zebra, was a white lacey purse on its side. Beside it was a pile of its contents. The purse was Laura’s. The killer had spilled it out, looking for the keys to the Mustang.
When the ambulance arrived, Penny was taken away. Her mother was left behind. Laura’s body needed to be photographed and examined thoroughly by detectives before it could be removed to the morgue for autopsy.
At the hospital, after her neck was stitched up, Penny was visited by a female cop, with a rape kit. Penny said she was pretty sure she remembered exactly what Stanko did and didn’t do to her, but oral and anal swabs were taken, nonetheless, in addition to the vaginal swabs.
Penny closed her eyes and endured the procedure, hoping beyond hope that she was allowing the cop to gather DNA evidence that would put her attacker away.
Georgetown County sheriff A. Lane Cribb had been in law enforcement since 1973, thirty-two years. He attended Horry-Georgetown Technical College, Limestone College, and the University of Alabama, where he received a bachelor’s degree in business administration. His first job as an officer of public safety was with the South Carolina Alcoholic Beverage Control bureau.
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