Michael Benson's True Crime Bundle
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Turner’s home was on a cul-de-sac within Coastal Village Mobile Home Park in Conway, South Carolina. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
Turner’s home was only a few feet away from neighbors, but no one heard the shots. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
Behind Turner’s home, only a few feet from his body, was a Starcraft pop-up camper. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
One of the first discoveries police made after entering the home was a hole in a wall separating a bedroom from a bath. There was no blood or body nearby, however. Police later theorized that this was a test shot, fired by the killer to gauge if he’d adequately muffled the sound of the gun.
(Courtesy Horry County Police)
One of Turner’s last sights was of this sink. He was shaving and apparently using the sink as an ashtray when he was shot. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
A six-pack of Yuengling Lager with two bottles missing was found on the counter next to Turner’s kitchen sink. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
A copy of Playboy rested on the tank of the guest toilet, on the opposite end of the home from where Turner’s corpse was found.
(Courtesy Horry County Police)
Turner’s bachelor pad, with pool table, cable, easy chairs and a kitchen area. When the first responding officer passed through the doorway at the rear and looked left, he saw Turner’s body sprawled on the floor.
(Courtesy Horry County Police)
Henry Lee Turner’s body was found face down on the floor of the bedroom, with his feet just inside the bathroom. He was wearing blue jeans and a purple shirt, and had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
Blood later verified as Turner’s was found splattered on the side of the tub. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
Police got a better understanding of what happened after discovering this pillow with bullet holes in it. That explained why neighbors heard nothing. The pillow had been used as a silencer. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
The police photographer at the Turner murder scene was Sergeant Jeff Gause of the Horry County Police Department. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
After photographing Turner’s home in detail Sergeant Gause drew a schematic of the layout, including the position of the body, to help investigators put the photos in context. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
X-rays of Turner’s upper body taken during his remains’ post-mortem procedure vividly confirmed that there were still two slugs in him.
(Courtesy Horry County Police)
Dust patterns on the carpet indicated that one of Turner’s longarms was missing. (Courtesy Horry County Police)
Stanko had such a baby face. One of the reasons he was a successful con man was that strangers couldn’t imagine him doing anything bad.
(Photo by Elizabeth McLendon Buckner)
Elizabeth McLendon Buckner as she appears today. (Courtesy Rick Buckner)
Stanko, here looking contemplative over Thanksgiving dinner, had a neatly trimmed beard for a while during his time with Liz McLendon. (Photo by Elizabeth McLendon Buckner)
The first victim of Stephen Stanko’s violence was his longtime girlfriend and fellow Goose Creek resident, the beautiful Elizabeth McLendon. (Courtesy Sharon McAlister)
A KILLER’S TOUCH
MICHAEL BENSON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some of my sources for this book have asked to remain anonymous, and so I can only thank them privately. The others I would like to gratefully acknowledge here. Thanks to Assistant State Attorneys Lon Arend, Karen Fraivillig, and Suzanne O’Donnell; Tekla Benson; the Honorable Deno G. Economou; Laura Forti at Turner Broadcasting; Rick and Sue Goff; Jane Kowalski; James D. Martin, assistant general counsel, Florida Department of Law Enforcement; Trooper Edward Pope and Lieutenant Patrick Riordan, of the Florida Highway Patrol; Wendy Rose, community affairs manager for the Sarasota County Sheriff’s Office; Alfred L. Thompson, correctional services assistant, Florida Department of Corrections; Tami Treadway, Saratoga County Animal Services supervisor; and Cortnie Watts, criminalistics specialist for the North Port Police Department.
Also, special thanks to my agent, Jake Elwell at Harold Ober Associates, super editor and man of ideas Gary Goldstein—and, as always, to my wife, my world, Lisa Grasso.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Violent crimes exact their toll on cops and bequeath a painful residue—something akin to post-traumatic stress syndrome. Peace officers are a courageous and stubborn lot, proud by nature, and not many would admit to weakness of any sort—but this one did.
“I’m not going to be able to give you an interview,” he said, a veteran of ten-plus years on the force.
“Why not?” the writer asked.
“I get nightmares. I don’t ... I don’t want to relive this again. I want to get my point across about this—but I can’t. I still get nightmares.”
In all of the cases he’d handled, all of those crime scenes, two still stuck in his psyche and probably would never let go. One was the very first unnatural-death scene he saw, a suicide by hanging. The other was the murder of Denise Amber Lee.
At night, he would close his eyes and return to that dungeon, that rape dungeon. Creepy wasn’t the word for it. Evil was the word. There was evil there. His hands shook the entire time he was there. His hands began shaking now, just from thinking about it....
The author has used a novelist’s methods but not his license. Although this is a true story, some names will be changed to protect the privacy of the innocent. Pseudonyms will be noted upon their first usage. When possible, the spoken word has been quoted verbatim. However, when that is not possible, conversations have been reconstructed as closely as possible to reality based on the recollections of those who spoke and heard the words. In places, there has been a slight editing of spoken words, but only to improve readability. The denotations and connotations of the words remain unaltered. In some cases, witnesses are credited with verbal quotes that in reality only occurred in written form. Some characters may be composites.
Table of Contents
Title Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
CHAPTER 1 - A DRIZZLY DAY
CHAPTER 2 - THE ARREST
CHAPTER 3 - JANUARY 18, 2008
CHAPTER 4 - CANINE SEKOU
CHAPTER 5 - THE DISTURBED EARTH
CHAPTER 6 - JANUARY 19, 2008
CHAPTER 7 - JANUARY 20, 2008
CHAPTER 8 - THE VICTIM’S CLOTHES
CHAPTER 9 - FUNERAL
CHAPTER 10 - THE PROSECUTORS
CHAPTER 11 - INTERNAL AFFAIRS INVESTIGATION
CHAPTER 12 - CRIMINOLOGISTS’ REPORTS
CHAPTER 13 - PRELIMINARY HEARINGS
CHAPTER 14 - KING’S WOMEN
CHAPTER 15 - THE TRIAL
CHAPTER 16 - DAY TWO
CHAPTER 17 - DAY THREE
CHAPTER 18 - DAY FOUR
CHAPTER 19 - DAY FIVE
CHAPTER 20 - SEPTEMBER 1, 2009
CHAPTER 21 - SEPTEMBER 2, 2009
CHAPTER 22 - SEPTEMBER 4, 2009
CHAPTER 23 - SEPTEMBER 4, 2009
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
A DRIZZLY DAY
Latour Avenue, like so many streets across America, had been whacked by the economy. In the town of North Port, Florida, the street boasted spread-out single-level stucco houses with two-car garages. When the homes were built, only a few years before, the plan was for this street, and many of the other streets in surrounding North Port Estates, to be a safe enclave for young families raising small children.
Stats told the story. In 2006, 4,321 new houses were built in North Port. In 2007, only 380 of them were purchased. Hundreds of homes were unfinished. Hundreds were in foreclosure. As the money left town, loc
als (most of them newcomers, strangers in town) lost their jobs, and crime seeped in. On Latour Avenue, there had been burglaries. Car break-ins. Vandalism. Crimes that would have been unthinkable only a few years before.
More stats: there were 130 burglaries in North Port in 2001. By 2007, that number had risen to 466.
Violent crime came to North Port in 2006 when a six-year-old girl was abducted and found murdered a few blocks from her home. For many months, that crime remained unsolved.
The community didn’t feel like a community anymore. Longtime residents felt hopelessly outnumbered by strangers. There was a time when people knew their neighbors. There was a time when people in North Port trusted each other. No more. And it was even worse during the winter when the town’s population was inflated by snowbirds, Northerners who migrated to the South to keep the chill of winter out of their bones.
Now the people on Latour, as well as the rest of the city, locked their doors—not just at night but during the daytime as well....
Thursday, January 17, 2008, 2:30 P.M.
On Latour Avenue, twenty-three-year-old Jenifer-Marie Eckert was unemployed and temporarily staying with relatives. She’d only been living in that house for two weeks. At that moment, she was home alone, watching the living-room television and waiting for her boyfriend, Charles, who was late. Normally, she would have had the blinds closed, but she needed to simultaneously watch TV and look out the window.
Jenifer-Marie saw a green Camaro crawling down the street at pedestrian speed, like drivers do when they’re lost or trying to read house numbers. It was a late-nineties model; she couldn’t tell specifically what year. There was a white male driving, no passengers.
The car went up the street, used a driveway to turn around, and then drove back just as slowly. What the heck is this guy up to? Jenifer-Marie thought. Four or five times the guy passed by, always going slowest right past her house.
She’d never seen him before, but he looked normal enough. If he was really lost, she should help the guy out, give him directions. She went outside on the walkway a few steps from her front door and briefly made eye contact with the driver while he was still on the road.
As the Camaro slithered into the Lees’ driveway next door, Jenifer-Marie could see the man had light hair. She never saw him standing, but she thought he was tall. The top of his head was almost to the ceiling of the car.
Later she would try hard to remember the car in greater detail. She didn’t notice any dents or bumper stickers, but she was pretty sure it had one of those black things on the front that covered the snout.
The Lees’ home next door was much like the four others on the street—three-bedroom, two-bathroom, single-story, two-car garage—except there was a pillared overhang above the front entrance. This way, the young couple and their sons could sit or play outside the front door without being exposed to the strong Florida sun or equally harsh rain. A curving sidewalk led from the small front patio to the driveway. Since it was the corner house, it had kempt lawns on three sides. At the back of the house was a screened-in patio from which the occupants could gaze at the thick woods beyond their lawn.
The car usurped the spot in the Lees’ driveway usually occupied by the husband’s car. For a moment, Jenifer-Marie made eye contact. The last she saw of him he seemed to be fumbling around with something in the front seat. She thought the man had located his destination, so she went back in her house. As she was reentering the house, she heard the car door slam, indicating the driver had gotten out.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later—her boyfriend really late now—she went outside again and stood in her driveway, just in time to see the car leave the Lees’ house—in a hurry. She knew he’d gotten out of the car and then back in again, but she only saw him in the car. As far as she could tell, when the guy left, he was alone. The big difference between his arrival and departure was urgency. He crawled in—but he peeled out.
Just at that moment, another neighbor, Yvonne Parrish, a thirty-six-year-old mother of five who lived two houses from the Lees, looked out the window and saw the Camaro speed by.
“It looked like he was trying to get away from something,” she later said.
At just after two-thirty, thirty-nine-year-old Dale Wagler was leaving a friend’s house in the drizzle, on his way to the brand-new Walgreens to pick up a couple of prescriptions. He was about to pull his white Dodge onto Cranberry Boulevard in North Port when he saw a dark Camaro with a black “bra” on the front coming around the curve, weaving all over the road.
“No directional signal or nothin’,” Dale later said.
The Camaro slowed down, like the driver was looking for a street to turn off on. The car swerved right in front of Dale, cutting him off. Dale looked at the guy, a blond, and the guy looked back.
“Gave this evil look, a don’t-mess-with-me look,” Dale said, “and then he floored it. Stomped on it.”
Normally, Dale Wagler would have been provoked, might’ve followed a guy like that, might’ve flipped him off—but not this guy, not after that look. That was a look that said, “Follow me and I’ll kill ya.”
After the car zipped by, Dale saw hands in the back window. He thought they were waving around, but he couldn’t be sure because of the rain.
At the time, all he could think was “There’s a couple of drunks.”
Dale was heading in the opposite direction on Cranberry, but he continued to watch the swerving car in his rearview mirror. The car was all over the road, crossing the white line and the yellow line.
He thought: “Now there’s some people that are going to get pulled over.” Later he’d realize the importance of what he’d seen, but at the time, “it just didn’t soak in enough.”
The first indication to law enforcement that something was desperately wrong came at 3:29 P.M. when the local 911 center received a call from Nathaniel “Nate” Alan Lee.
Operator: “North Port Emergency.”
Nate Lee: “Uh, yes, I’m at **** Latour Avenue. I just got home from work and my wife ... I can’t find her. My kids were in the house and I don’t know where she is. I’ve looked everyplace.”
He’d come home from his job as a meter reader for the electric company to find his two sons—a two-year-old and a six-month-old—in the crib together, but their mother was gone. She would never leave them home alone, no matter what.
There was the usual disarray that comes with having small children. Toys were everywhere. On the floor, on the furniture, in the tub. One closet was filled to capacity with nothing but disposable diapers.
Nate said there was no sign of theft, no sign of forced entry, but Denise’s keys were on the couch, another indication that she had left the house under duress.
She left her purse behind—with her cell phone on. Women never leave their purse behind. That meant she either left on foot, or was in a car with someone else.
“The only thing that isn’t normal is she isn’t here,” Lee said. He thought about the ease with which his wife could be overpowered. She only weighed 102 pounds.
Lee also told the operator that the missing woman was the daughter of Rick Goff, of the Charlotte County Sheriff’s Office (CCSO).
After hanging up on the 911 operator, Nate called his father-in-law. Rick had called Denise’s cell just minutes before and had gotten no answer. He wanted to invite “the kids” over for dinner that night. When he saw Nate was calling him, he assumed that it was in response to the invitation.
Rick answered with, “Hey, you guys want to come over and eat?”
“I can’t. Denise is missing,” Nate replied.
“Nate, you’ve got to explain what you mean by that.”
“I’m telling you. She’s missing.”
“I’ll be right there,” Rick said.
If Denise had been stolen by someone hoping no one would notice, he couldn’t have chosen a worse victim. Denise Lee was a member of the Goff family—a family to be reckoned with. They had been the first settle
rs of Englewood, Florida, in 1887. Denise’s father had been with the CCSO since September 1982. He started in corrections, spent two years there, then three on road patrol, and fifteen years undercover. Since then, he’d been in charge of the Marshal’s Fugitive Task Force, tracking wanted suspects. Denise’s mom, Susan, had been the supervisor in the Tax Collector’s Office in Englewood, where they lived, for more than twenty years. Rick and Sue were married in January 1983 and had three children: Denise, born in 1986, Amanda—who, contrary to her dad’s advice, wanted to be a cop working with children—born in 1989, and Tyler, a promising baseball player, born in 1991.
While on his way to the Lee house, Rick Goff called his sheriff’s department. He knew that reports of missing spouses tended to be handled with nonchalance by police because so frequently the spouse returned on his or her own and their partner had been quick to panic. Goff wanted to make sure that no one took that attitude in this case. He told his people he wanted dogs, and he wanted helicopters. This was not a domestic squabble that would work itself out. This was a genuine emergency. He wanted immediate action. As is true when police feel one of their own is in trouble, the call to action went out without hesitation.
“Anything you need,” Goff was told.
Rick Goff, like Nate before him, ran through the possibilities in his head, and didn’t like the conclusions he was coming to.