Michael Benson's True Crime Bundle

by Michael Benson

  It was the same old thing out of her mouth. She said he didn’t care for her. She said he had to leave. She spewed the “usual hateful comments and threatened to call the police. A couple of times, I had to physically move her to get her out of my face,” Stanko told the cop.

  He said he went into the sunroom, and she followed him in there. She punched him, then kicked him. She threw various objects at him. “Finally we both ignored each other and went to sleep,” he explained.

  When he woke he packed his belongings into a couple of suitcases. She wanted him gone, he was leaving. But despite his compliance, the bickering continued.

  His brain was swirling. All he could think of was keeping her from fighting so he could finish packing and get the hell out of the house. He put a combination of Clorox and 409 on a hand towel. He thought this would knock her out, and get her out of his hair.

  “Never believe the movies,” he said to Lewis.

  The chemicals didn’t render her unconscious, so he told her he was going to tie her up to keep her from attacking him. He would release her before he left.

  “I never wanted to hurt her in any way,” Stanko said. “In the past ten years, she is the only person I have truly loved, and who has shown me love. I love her, and I just can’t go on hurting her. Or anyone else.”

  While he was shaving, and she sat bound on the floor, he remembered he tried to comfort her. His attempt to soothe his bound girlfriend continued as she sat on the toilet during his shower and then as he was dressing.

  He untied her about ten minutes before he left, just as he had promised he would. He was nothing if not a man of his word. She cried and waved good-bye to him as he drove off. Stanko drove up Route 176 to Columbia, then took I-26 to Spartanburg to Greenville, where he checked into a Days Inn. Twice he called Detective Lewis, and police came and picked him up at the hotel.

  No, he had no sexual relations while at the Days Inn. No, he carried no weapon. No, he didn’t rob anyone. He felt better, now that he’d gotten it all off his chest, and was certain it wouldn’t happen again.

  That concluded the interview. A written statement was prepared and Stanko signed every page. He was returned to his cell and never again heard anyone mention helping him.

  With Stephen’s arrest, William Stanko turned his back on his son for good. The two would never speak again.

  THORNWALD AND CRENSHAW

  Later, on February 22, 1996, after statements were taken from Liz McLendon and Stephen Stanko, the Berkeley County Sheriff’s Office expanded their investigation, interviewing a couple of Stanko’s secondary victims.

  By 6:30 P.M., Chuck Thornwald, who’d been mentioned by both Stanko and McLendon during their interrogations, sat in the sheriff’s station, ready to tell everything he knew about Stanko. His questioner was the BCSO’s Beverly Johnson. Thornwald was just a kid. A female questioner seemed like a good fit.

  Thornwald told Johnson that his full name was Charles K. Thornwald, and he was nineteen years old. He was a high-school graduate and lived in an apartment building on Dorchester Road in Archdale, South Carolina.

  No one told Thornwald that Stanko had called him a “borderline criminal.”

  “You are here in regard to a stolen vehicle, is that correct?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes,” Thornwald replied.

  He said he’d gone to a used-car joint called McElveen Pontiac at the beginning of December 2005. He wandered among the cars for a moment before, as anticipated, a salesperson approached him and asked if he was in need of assistance. It was Stanko.

  He said he was looking for a Trans Sport, and everything went swimmingly, until the subject of money came up. He was too young to be financed, so Thornwald left, feeling irritated. The trip to McElveen appeared to be a complete waste of time.

  Not so fast. About a month later, just after the new year, Stanko called him and said, in essence, “Psst, have I got a deal for you.” He said he was opening up his own used-car dealership, and he had a business partner named Ray Crenshaw.

  The dealership he worked for might not give teenagers financing, but he would. Thornwald was all ears.

  “I’ve got an S10 pickup that I could let you have for only nine grand,” Stanko said. Thornwald wasn’t completely green, and asked where the car came from. “It was bought from a government auction,” the salesman assured him.

  Stanko invited him to come look at the truck. Thornwald did—and he liked it. Stanko said it would be ten grand altogether—after financing.

  Thornwald paused, and Stanko quickly threw in that he would finish making the payments on the teenager’s current car. Thornwald again paused, and Stanko said, “Wait.” He produced all of the legal forms necessary to make the transaction legal.

  That did it. Thornwald said it was a deal, they shook hands, and the teenager drove the truck home.

  “When did you first suspect that everything was not on the up-and-up?” Johnson asked.

  “When I tried to switch my insurance. The company said that the lien holder had no information on me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I called Steve,” Thornwald replied. Stanko told him, in effect, that he’d had trouble getting financing for Thornwald, but—since he was nothing if not a man of his word—he was going to finance the teenager “in house.”

  Thornwald said that was fine. Stanko told him it meant some more paperwork, and the next Saturday, the pair re-signed a bill of sale that changed the lien holder.

  “The following Tuesday, Detective Lewis informed me the truck was stolen, and I returned it,” Thornwald said, and that concluded the interview.

  At 8:30 P.M., Detective Darrell Lewis took an oral statement from Delray Crenshaw, who said he was thirty-four years old, had an associate’s degree, and the crime he was reporting was “breach of trust.”

  The respondent knew Stephen Stanko because Steve and Elizabeth were his next-door neighbors. That was no exaggeration, either. Crenshaw and his wife shared a fence with them. He and Stanko hit it off and had talked for a while. They discussed going into business together, specifically about opening up their own used-car dealership.

  It was the day after Christmas, 1995, when Stanko called him and asked if he was still interested in doing that thing. Crenshaw said sure, so Stanko told him to drive over to McElveen. There was something he needed to tell him in person.

  This part of Ray Crenshaw’s story synched up with Stanko’s version pretty well, Detective Lewis thought.

  Crenshaw’s story jibed surprisingly well with Stanko’s, although their money figures differed. Crenshaw said Stanko told him that McElveen’s used-car manager, a guy named Ricky Davis, was going to an auction and for about $4,500 he could purchase some used cars for them to sell. Crenshaw asked how much he needed.

  “Just eighteen hundred dollars, and I’ll put in the rest,” Stanko said. Crenshaw gave him the money, but Stanko later explained that they could get a better price per car if they bought more cars, and Crenshaw contributed again to the used-car kitty.

  At first, Stanko said the cars would arrive at Ricky Davis’s warehouse in a week or so. Then he explained there was a delay. That guy Davis wanted in on the deal. That was the delay.

  Then came more delays, and more excuses. On January 25, 1996, Ray Crenshaw visited Stephen Stanko to find out what was up, and Stanko said that for $2,080 he could get Crenshaw a Yukon for Crenshaw to drive. Stanko said that the Yukon could be delivered directly to them, rather than to Davis, because he had gotten them their “wholesaler’s license.”

  A few days after that, Stanko said the cars had arrived and were parked on McElveen’s lot. They picked up a 1994 Sonoma. Around that time, Stanko told Crenshaw that they’d made their first sale, selling a 1994 Escort to a kid named Thornwald.

  That car, Stanko said, “was still in the shop.” A day or so later, Stanko told Crenshaw that Thornwald had his car, and a second car, a 1995 green-and-silver Sonoma pickup, had been sold to a fellow named R. C. Crisw
ell.

  Stanko said that he had picked up a number of checks in payment and gave Crenshaw some cash to keep him happy. Crenshaw suggested that those checks be deposited in the bank account he’d opened for the business, so that there could be money for repairs and other overhead.

  Stanko said he couldn’t do that. He’d already made arrangements for the checks. No, he hadn’t taken them to the bank himself. Instead, he said, he’d given them to a coworker whose wife was the branch manager at a local bank.

  Later, Stanko explained that those checks were slow to clear because that same wife was suspicious that one of the checks wasn’t good. Stanko said that relations between him and the guy Davis were not good. Stanko asked Crenshaw to help him move cars from McElveen’s lot to their own so that Davis wouldn’t be able to put them in his warehouse, where Stanko feared they would never see them again. Together, they moved two 1995 Centuries. On his own, Stanko moved another Century and a 1993 Firebird.

  Stanko sold a car to Crenshaw’s cousin. Crenshaw, who was beginning to get suspicious, thought this was a safe purchase. He knew his cousin had the same insurance as his parents had, and the insurance company would check the car’s VIN number, which would tell them if the car was stolen.

  Crenshaw was no longer easily placated. He hadn’t received his Yukon. The original cars from the Davis auction had never shown up. Crenshaw threatened to rat Stanko out at McElveen’s, but Stanko begged him not to, saying he would lose his job.

  As for those original cars that Crenshaw had helped purchase, Stanko said Davis had moved them from his warehouse to another lot called Blue & Gold. Crenshaw went to that lot and asked about the cars. Nobody there knew anything about them. To that, Stanko said that the cars weren’t at Blue & Gold anymore and had been transported to an illegal chop shop on Old Back River Road in Goose Creek.

  A couple of times, Crenshaw recalled, he and Stanko had driven together to the chop shop. On those occasions, an African-American gentleman came out and talked to Stanko, but Crenshaw could not hear the conversations. Stanko told Crenshaw that “these people were dangerous,” but he still assured him that they would get their cars.

  Crenshaw had had enough. He talked to a friend of his who was a policeman. The cop said there were two Berkeley County deputies who could help him. Then he mentioned the police involvement to Stanko, and Stanko called him off. He said he knew someone who knew the captain, and they’d get better results from a higher-up. Stanko’s lies began to involve law enforcement. He told Crenshaw he couldn’t have his cars because “the chief” had them.

  When Crenshaw expressed anxiety over where his money ended up, Stanko maintained that his own stress level was sky-high over the whole mess also.

  Stanko told Crenshaw the stress was getting to him. He passed out—boom, completely lost consciousness—on one occasion after talking with Ricky Davis.

  On February 19, Crenshaw visited a friend, Special Agent Aldo Bassi, who visited Stanko and interrogated him at length. Afterward, Bassi told Crenshaw that he suspected Stanko himself was the crook, not the people he’d been dealing with.

  There was another full day of running around, going from place to place where the cars were supposed to be, but weren’t. For part of the time, Crenshaw’s cousin and another guy were with them, and Stanko always moved the adventure to a new location with a fresh lie.

  Crenshaw called Stanko at eight o’clock, Tuesday morning, and Stanko agreed to meet him at McElveen. Crenshaw went there, but Stanko did not. At half past nine, Stanko called Crenshaw collect. Crenshaw accepted the charges.

  Stanko had given up on the scam. Crenshaw confronted Stanko directly, and Stanko admitted to him that there was no Ricky Davis involved, or the chop shop, or anybody else. It was just him, just Stanko. Crenshaw asked where the cars that had arrived had come from, and Stanko admitted that they were stolen. In fact, he had stolen them. Now he could only think about one thing—getting away. Running away.

  “Where’s the money?” Crenshaw asked.

  “There is no money,” Stanko replied, adding that he had no intention of going back to jail. He said he was leaving, and he instructed Crenshaw to “help Elizabeth,” because she knew nothing of his scheme and was completely innocent.

  Crenshaw first called Bassi, who was busy and said he’d call him back; then he called Elizabeth, who was “very upset and crying and saying that Steve attacked her.

  “My wife, Natalie, called 911 and then went next door to be with Elizabeth to wait for the police,” Crenshaw told Detective Lewis.

  “CERTAIN IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN”

  The day after giving his statement to Detective Darrell Lewis, Stephen Stanko was taken out of isolation and had his first taste of what it was like living among “murderers, rapists, and thieves.”

  At six-three, 200 pounds, Stanko had size going for him, but that lent him no security. He still felt like easy prey to the vultures he was in with.

  He was terrified, and the other inmates lacked fear. He liked to think he was a civilized man, and they were ruthless. To put it in his own dramatic and romanticized terms, for the next six months, he spent part of his time fighting a judicial battle, and the remainder fighting a social one.

  Stanko was assigned a court-appointed attorney. His meetings with her were weekly, fifteen minutes long, and always discouraging. No one with a public defender ever pleaded not guilty.

  The first thing she ever said to him was “It doesn’t look good. You gave a complete statement. There’s not much I can do.”

  The second meeting was no better. His lawyer told him he was facing eighty-five years, and that was after they dropped the assault charge from “intent to kill” to “high and aggravated.”

  According to Stanko, Liz McLendon was on his side and joined his campaign to have the charges against him lessened. Stanko told his lawyer that he had doubts if the fifteen-page statement he gave was legal. He’d been duped into giving it. But his lawyer ignored him. She was convinced that his fate was “cast in stone” and the only effective strategy would be to emphasize the “first-time violent” nature of his offenses in order to work out less jail time.

  Looking back on it, Stanko realized that his lawyer’s tunnel vision when it came to plea bargaining didn’t mean she was a bad lawyer. That was simply the way the game was played. Public defenders were so overloaded with cases that fighting for a client was out of the question. They bargained for the best deal and moved on to the next case.

  One thing his lawyer did do for him, however, was arrange for examinations at a local mental hospital by a pair of psychologists. Those exams yielded a “borderline narcissistic” diagnosis, but nothing that called in to question his competency to stand trial. His choice was simple: ten years or eighty-five years.

  In April 1996, the Berkeley County grand jury indicted Stephen Stanko for kidnapping; assault and battery, with intent to kill; nine counts of breach of trust, with fraudulent intent for stealing cars; and two counts of obtaining property by false pretenses.

  His court hearing was held on a Monday morning. The solicitor gave the judge the gruesome details of his crimes against Liz—chemicals, attempted asphyxiation, bondage, and terror—while Stanko’s lawyer emphasized his education and work history.

  Victims were given a chance to make a statement—Liz and two others. Stanko was given an opportunity to speak in his own defense, and he made a plea for mercy, noting that his “assault” and “kidnapping” had resulted in no blood and no broken bones, and no weapons were used. (This ignored the fact that a rag soaked in toxic chemicals pressed over a person’s face could easily be construed as a weapon.) He apologized to Liz for the violence, and to the other two victims for the cars he stole. He still lied. He always lied. All of their property had been returned, he later claimed, so no harm done. “I spoke honestly and calmly as possible,” he recalled. Except for the part when he lied. Ask Ray Crenshaw if there was “no harm done.” He was still out thousands of dollars.


  Stanko pleaded guilty, as per his lawyer’s instructions, and received a ten-year sentence. That worked out to ten years for the kidnapping and assault, and three to five years running concurrent for the nonviolent crimes (“breach of trust,” “obtaining property”). He had been expecting three to five years for the violent, and ten for the nonviolent, but they’d been reversed by the court. When Stanko agreed to the plea deal, he understood that he’d serve between three and five years, but due to a new “truth in sentencing” law, and the fact that kidnapping was a no-parole offense in South Carolina, he had to serve at least 85 percent of his sentence—eight and a half years—before he could be released. That time would be spent in the MacDougall Correctional Institution.

  Stanko would have thought that his transfer from the detention center to the penitentiary would have been immediate. Not the case. Some say the most effective part of any punishment is the dread that precedes it. If that’s the case, then Stanko got four days’ worth, stewing some more, wondering about the hell they called MacDougall and the next decade of his loser life.

  When the time to transfer did come he wasn’t alone. He was shackled at the ankles and belly to the prisoner in front and behind him, two feet of chain between men, and led with an impatient push or two by guards into a caged van.

  Stephen Stanko’s first stop at MacDougall was the Reception and Evaluation Center, where he was stripped naked, thrown into a shower, shaved bald, and deloused.

  There was a comprehensive and invasive medical examination. Bystanders—the audience!—were allowed to suggest what parts should next be examined.

  Forms were filled out.

  Stanko understood immediately that he was going to have to reevaluate his sense of privacy in order to survive in his new environment. There was no dignity—only humiliation that set in right away, and threatened never to let up.