“Sounds okay to me,” the man said flatly. Instinctively, she was still wary, as she glanced sideways at the man, only half hearing the music from his car radio as she tried to scope him out.
This latest in a series of strangers who passed through her life had a pasty color to his face. He had a stale, boozy smell about him.
They pulled into the motel parking lot. The outside was painted a garish purple, and the flickering neon light on the front sign gave off an eerie glow from the vivid hue. The unlikely couple went inside room 4. It was typical of the small, cheap motels that were tucked into the narrowest strips of land. It was the kind of place where cockroaches made slithery paths up the wall when light invaded their dark haven.
For Donna, it was home. She had a few personal belongings, and the double bed with the rumpled spread was, in a sense, her office.
She peeled off her jeans and T-shirt after discarding her jacket. Turning his back to her, the stranger followed suit, stripping off his undershirt and socks.
His quiet, deliberate manner was a little disturbing to her. Some men had a forced sense of gaiety about these encounters, but not this guy. It seemed to be strictly a business proposition for him.
Predictably, the sex was quick, a meeting of thrusting hips that held little emotion for either party. Despite the chilly dampness of the room, the stranger had sprouted a mustache of perspiration. She sat on the side of the bed and began to pull on her jeans, letting out an involuntary shudder in the cool room.
She hoped he would hurry up and leave. She was starting to get a dull headache, a sign she needed something from the stash in her purse, the small supply of drugs she worked hard, on her back and on her knees, to replenish.
He gave her a twenty-dollar bill, and as she took it, her hands felt unclean, slightly greasy. She assumed he probably worked at some fast-food joint. Maybe he had had a bad day flipping burgers.
Suddenly, the quiet, sullen stranger became agitated, then enraged. “I hate hookers!” he railed. “They’re the scum of the earth!”
His shouting became more intense, his breath coming in short gasps. Methodically, he began to ransack the tiny hotel room, pulling out dresser drawers and scattering clothing on the floor. That was the least of Donna’s troubles. Nothing in the room was worth a damn.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that now he was wearing gloves. Grunting, he moved toward her, then shoved her to the floor. “You’re going to get it now,” he screamed, his voice strangely high-pitched.
In his rampage through the room, he had amassed an arsenal of weapons, small things really, but sharp enough to inflict pain.
Swinging blindly, he lashed out at her with one of the objects—she couldn’t tell what. Her throat seemed to freeze as she dodged his lunges. She fumbled to get out of his way.
Quickly, he found his mark. Long and angry-looking scrapes raked her arms. Her breasts bore further evidence of his murderous assault, cuts not deep enough to require stitches but enough to leave bright red rivulets of blood. He managed to stab her five or six times in the right thigh. A later report recorded the damage as having been inflicted with “a can opener and a knife.”
12
Finally, even he had had enough. “I’m taking my money back,” he shouted. “This was a rip-off!” Still panting from the frenzied struggle, he rifled through her purse, retrieving the twenty-dollar bill he had given her and taking an extra thirty dollars she had tucked inside of the small handbag.
She thought that was getting off cheaply enough; now if only he would leave.
Donna watched as he headed to the tiny kitchenette and returned with a gallon of muriatic acid that was kept in the unit, a chemical so strong it ate away stains ground into concrete driveways from years of leaking automobile engines.
“I’ m not through with you yet,” he roared, advancing toward her and splashing the liquid around like some deranged arsonist.
She prayed silently as she struggled to get to her feet. She ran out the back door of the motel room, her screams attracting the attention of other tenants. She could feel blood streaming down her legs. It was nearly 5:00 a.m., less than an hour since she had climbed into the little red car. Her attacker got back into his car and drove away before the responding ambulance and police units arrived.
Donna stumbled to the hotel’s main office, where the startled clerk called for an ambulance. Routinely, the ambulance dispatcher notified the police department of any call that could involve a crime, so police arrived on scene shortly thereafter.
Officer Sue Cunningham arrived, her dark hair tucked back neatly under a uniform hat in a businesslike, almost prim manner. She looked like Mary Steenburgen, attractive in a homespun sort of way, with the trim body of an athlete. Unlike most of her colleagues, she had a college degree, but her quiet demeanor underplayed the academic prowess she held over other police officers. Still, nothing in any of the books prepared her for the grim scenes of life on the street.
Officer Cunningham tried to calm Donna. “It’s okay; it’s okay,” she told the hysterical woman. “We’re going to take you to the hospital, where they’ll take care of you,” she murmured, trying to sound reassuring.
From the back of the ambulance in the reflection of the flashing red lights, Donna gulped in the cool night air and tried to tell the young officer what had happened.
“It was horrible, just horrible,” she sobbed. “He went nuts in there!”
In her heart, Donna knew she was lucky. She was still alive.
In the small, cramped offices of the Records Bureau of the Daytona Beach Police Department, far behind many others in terms of state-of-the-art equipment, each case was assigned a number. It made no difference whether it was a neighbor’s dog barking all night, a stolen child’s bicycle, or, as in Donna’s case, assault and battery.
She was now a victim on paper. Her name was recorded in police jargon, as a complainant on an “A&B-knife” report, the shortened term for assault and battery with a knife. Her complaint became case number 80-03-10349. There it was, in black and white, what Gerald Stano had done to her—the puncture wounds, the lacerations. In his rage, he had used a can opener, a nail file, a knife with a black handle, even scissors. As he thrashed around, pulling out drawers from the dresser, he grabbed a gallon of acid that was in the apartment and started trying to splash her with that as well.
Routinely, the serious crimes were assigned to detectives for follow-up. The investigator on Donna Marie Hensley’s case was Detective Jim Gadberry, a serious, deeply religious man whose rapidly receding hairline belied his young age. Later, he would leave the department to become a youth minister, only to return to police work after becoming disenchanted with organized religion.
As a criminal investigator, Gadberry had to depend on street people for information. They lived on the margins of the criminal underworld but often had invaluable information through their contacts and savored their roles as “double agents.” Often, they gave police officers tips about crimes as their way of staying “in” with the cops.
In major cases, like murders, palms might be crossed with money that came from an informant fund, but the information had to be very reliable and result in an arrest that would hold up later in court.
“I found somebody who knows where the guy lives that drives the red car,” Gadberry told a colleague.
The detective went to the apartment complex where he had been told the owner of the car lived. “No, he doesn’t live here any more, but I can tell you who he is,” the manager told him. Indeed, that modest sedan of which Stano was so proud would eventually trip him up because its distinctive license plate set it apart.
Armed with Gerald Stano’s name, Gadberry used a crime computer to check the suspect’s driver’s license, and the cop learned that the red Gremlin was indeed registered to him. Stano, it seemed, was a familiar figure to prostitutes around town, especially those on the beachside area. The detective then proceeded to interview some of them.
“Yeah, we know him,” one of the young women said. “He’s weird, kinda spooky.”
The driver with the thick, dark-rimmed glasses frequently picked up prostitutes and female hitchhikers. Several weeks before the attack on Donna, he had picked up Sandra Washington, twenty, a young black woman with a figure as firm as her attitude. Her story was hauntingly similar to Donna’s. Stano had engaged in sex with her, and then paid her.
“And then?” Gadberry asked, trying to establish a pattern. “Then he got mad!” she blurted, reliving the unsettling incident. “He wanted his money back. Maybe he didn’t think he got his money’s worth?”
Then she let out a disparaging laugh. “I wasn’t about to give up twenty bucks that easy.” She had struggled, trying to ward off a barrage of flying fists. The crazed stranger kicked her, pushing her from the car.
Gadberry wondered why she hadn’t filed a police report.
“I just knew I wanted to get the hell out of there,” she said. Scrambling to her feet, she had run for her life.
Pop
, she heard as she quickened her pace. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the man leaning out of the car window and aiming a gun at her. It was a sight she wouldn’t soon forget.
It was now apparent to Gadberry that Stano’s penchant for violence had become somewhat legendary on the Boardwalk. Another hooker, known only as Kim, remembered him well.
“Man, he was a real nut case, a wacko,” she told the detective. After sex, he seemed to boil with rage, trying to grab her neck with his two hands, determined to choke her. She, too, had managed to escape.
Researching the files at the police department, Gadberry learned Stano had a previous arrest record for writing worthless checks. That meant his picture must be on file. Sure enough, it was, a round-faced man wearing glasses, with a somewhat bookish appearance.
Gadberry told Sergeant Paul Crow, “This has to be the right guy. He’s got it in for hookers; they really tick him off.”
For Crow, this meant a possible lead in a homicide investigation.
Gadberry set about putting together a photo lineup. Court restrictions being what they were, the seasoned cop knew he had to be careful.
“I have to get them all looking pretty close to one another,” Gadberry instructed Donna. “Do any of these look like the man who cut you up?”
Donna’s heart began to pound a little as she stared at the photographs. The memories of that awful night came flooding back, washing over her like the surf on the oceanfront. Without hesitation, she pointed out her attacker.
It was Gerald Stano.
Inwardly, Gadberry heaved a sigh of relief. The positive identification would make his job a lot easier.
Gadberry drove out Orange Avenue from the police station to the office of Circuit Judge Michael Hutcheson in the Courthouse Annex overlooking the Halifax River. He signed the affidavit charging Gerald Eugene Stano with aggravated assault in the stabbing of Donna Marie Hensley.
From there, he headed back across town to the restaurant where Stano worked as a short-order cook. It was April Fools’ Day 1980.
Gadberry eased his unmarked police car into the parking lot, looking for the red Gremlin to make sure Stano was working. Sure enough, there it was, the red car with black stripes on the side, chrome luggage rack, and a trailer hitch on the rear bumper.
Inside, the detective made his way into the kitchen. He was alone, but he didn’t expect any trouble. His trouser leg brushed against the gun and holster he wore on the inside of his ankle just in case there was.
In the kitchen, huge pressure cookers made a sizzling noise as they steamed with frying chicken, the little family-owned eatery’s specialty.
Behind the counter stood Gerald Stano, wearing a white apron to keep the chicken blood and flour coating from splattering all over his trousers. “Are you Gerald Stano?” Gadberry asked.
“Yes I am,” Stano stated, trying to sound matter-of-fact as he tried to figure out the stranger’s identity.
“I have a warrant for your arrest for aggravated assault,” Gadberry said, before reciting Stano’s Miranda rights, advising his suspect he had the right to remain silent and consult with an attorney.
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the cuffed, pudgy guy muttered, glancing around the room to meet the stares of his fellow workers as they paused from their jobs to take in what was happening. “I don’t even know that broad.”
“The courts will decide that,” Gadberry said, motioning Stano to accompany him outside. Using his portable police radio, Gadberry summoned a marked patrol car with a cage unit, since the car he was driving had no facilities for holding prisoners. After all, Stano was charged with a felony; no sense in taking any chances.
As Stano was led outside, other employees stopped to watch, curious about what was happening with the quiet, moody cook, a relative newcomer to the staff.
Back at the police station, Sergeant Paul Crow sat in his tiny cubicle of an office with no windows, not knowing that the troubled young man he would soon meet would change his own life as much as he would alter the course of Stano’s future.
For six weeks, Crow had been doggedly working a murder case. On February 17, 1980, he had been called in on his day off to view the body of a young woman found stabbed to death off Bellevue Avenue. Her killer had been brutal and exact, covering her body with branches after carefully placing the corpse on the ground.
She, too, had been stabbed in the thigh, just like Donna, the prostitute.
“He’s really starting to look good for this,” Crow thought to himself. The sergeant was anxious to talk to Stano, but he was careful not to appear too eager. A compulsively neat person himself, he glanced around his small quarters, absentmindedly straightening a few papers and flicking away small particles of dust.