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Florida Woman Arrested for Selling Human Remains on Facebook Marketplace

Florida Woman Arrested for Selling Human Remains on Facebook Marketplace

Yahoo20-04-2025

Down in the wild and wonderful world of Florida, the owner of an oddities shop has been arrested for selling human remains on Facebook Marketplace.
As USA Today reports, 52-year-old Kymberlee Schopper has been charged with the illegal purchase and sale of human bones on Zuckerberg's commerce platform.
At the end of 2023, police in the Daytona Beach suburb of Orange City received a tip that Wicked Wonderland, Schopper's shop that also advertises pet taxidermy and animal "mummification" on its website, was selling various human bones and skeletal fragments.
From a $35 human rib to a $600 partial human skull, the store's wares were valued at $850 in the tip authorities received. When they spoke with Schopper's daughter and co-owner, 33-year-old Ashley Lelesi, the proprietress copped to the sale without hesitation. According to the affidavit viewed by USA Today, the mother-daughter team was unaware that selling bones was illegal in the state of Florida — one of only eight American states that broadly bans the practice, though dozens of other states have conditional prohibitions on it.
Lelesi told the cops that she and Schopper had purchased the bone lot from various private sellers. She provided police with five of the six specimens and told them the shop had already sold a piece of skull fragment for $50, even providing receipts for the purchase and sale of all the bones in question.
Later, both mother and daughter met with police and had, at that point, changed their tune. According to the affidavit, Schopper told authorities that the bones were "educational models," which would place them in a legal loophole within the state's ban on the sale of human remains.
Apparently, the cops didn't buy it, and Schopper was charged with purchasing or selling human organs and tissue, a second-degree felony that can carry up to a 15-year prison sentence and a $10,000 fine. It does not appear that Lelesi was charged with any crime, and the mother posted her $7,500 bail following her arrest.
Nine years ago and 650 miles away, a similar debacle unfolded in New Orleans after Ender Darling, a member of a Facebook group called "Queer Witch Collective," told their fellow magic practitioners that they had some local bones for sale. Per their initial post, Darling had taken to procuring bones from a "poor man's graveyard" near their house that would rise to the surface during rainstorms in the notoriously stormy city — and would happily sell them to their fellow witches for the cost of shipping.
The Queer Witch Collective exploded in fury at Darling for not only collecting bones without consent from the families of the deceased, but also turning a profit off them. Though Darling's ethnic background remains something of a mystery, they are decidedly not Black, and as speculation raged about which graveyard they got the bones from, many commentators on the increasingly-fiery — and now mythical — thread pointed out that the majority of people buried in a New Orleans potter's field would be Black.
After this "bones discourse" spread to Tumblr and became a meme, people in power caught wind of the "Boneghazi" debacle. After being tailed by police, Darling was arrested in Florida — where else? — and charged with burglary and trafficking human remains, though those charges were minimized after they pleaded guilty.
As the investigation unfolded, Louisiana enacted its Human Remains Protection and Control Act, which called for harsher punishment for the trafficking of bones and other body parts and brought it into the fold of states that criminalize the practice.
Though it's entirely plausible that the owners of Wicked Wonderland were unaware that selling bones is illegal in Florida, they could have done a quick Google search about what happened to the last person who got caught doing it — and saved themselves a world of trouble.
More on selling parts: Shop Scrutinized for Selling Human Bodies Out of a Strip Mall

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'Call Her Daddy' host Alex Cooper recalls 'psychotic game' of sexual harassment
'Call Her Daddy' host Alex Cooper recalls 'psychotic game' of sexual harassment

USA Today

time38 minutes ago

  • USA Today

'Call Her Daddy' host Alex Cooper recalls 'psychotic game' of sexual harassment

'Call Her Daddy' host Alex Cooper recalls 'psychotic game' of sexual harassment Show Caption Hide Caption Need a show to binge? These are the must watch shows this summer USA TODAY's TV critic Kelly Lawler breaks down the best TV shows you don't to want to miss this summer Alex Cooper, celebrated for her let's-go-there honesty on her chart-topping podcast "Call Her Daddy," is pulling back the curtain even further. The two-part Hulu docuseries 'Call Her Alex' (streaming June 10) captures the relentless drive that led Cooper, 30, to land a lucrative SiriusXM deal (reportedly worth up to $125 million). But it also reveals the low points of her life. Growing up, boys taunted Cooper, a natural redhead. Cruel kids made fun of her hair and thin frame. 'You're disgusting,' she says they taunted her. 'No one wants to touch you.' 'I hated myself,' Cooper adds. School 'was such hell,' but at home she poured her creativity into skits that she starred in, filmed and edited. Cooper started "Call Her Daddy" in 2018 with her then-roommate Sofia Franklyn, who left the podcast in 2020. 'People genuinely believed we were like sisters," Cooper said. "But our relationship was so awful.' Cooper also addresses a subject she rarely has: Claims of being sexually harassed by Boston University soccer coach Nancy Feldman as a member of the team in college. Boston University has not respond to USA TODAY's request for comment. Feldman could not be reached, and the documentary, directed by Ry Russo-Young, did not include a statement from the university or its former coach. No charges were ever filed. Alex Cooper remembers Boston University soccer coach Nancy Feldman 'really starting to fixate on me' Cooper, who loved playing soccer, was on the collegiate team at Boston University. She says she attended the school on a full scholarship to play for Feldman. Cooper says during her sophomore year, she noticed Feldman 'really starting to fixate on me, way more than any other teammate of mine. And it was confusing,' Cooper says, as 'it was all based in her wanting to know who I was dating, her making comments about my body and her always wanting to be alone with me.' Feldman would comment on her legs, Cooper says in the docuseries, and would put her hand on her thigh. Cooper says that once, Feldman found out she had been brought to campus by someone she was seeing. The coach asked her during a private meeting if she had had sex the previous night, and discouraged Cooper from sleeping off campus. 'I didn't know what to do,' Cooper says, 'and every time I tried to resist her, she would say there could be consequences, and there were.' 'It was this psychotic game of, 'You want to play? Tell me about your sex life,'' Cooper alleges. ''I have to drive you to your night class. Get in the car with me alone.'' Alex Cooper says sexual harassment claims were 'entirely dismissed' without an investigation Cooper says she confided in her mother, Laurie Cooper, who took notes on their conversations about the coach's behavior. Laurie, interviewed for the docuseries, says lawyers identified Feldman's behavior as sexual harassment. Alex Cooper says she and her parents met with the dean of athletics, whom her parents told that Cooper had been sexually harassed by Feldman for three years on campus. Cooper says she was then asked by staff, 'What do you want?' They wouldn't even look at Laurie's collection of Cooper's complaints. Cooper says the university refused to fire Feldman, but told Cooper she could keep her scholarship. There was 'no investigation,' Cooper says. 'Within five minutes, they had entirely dismissed everything I had been through. I got into the car with my parents and when the door shut, I immediately broke down and I just started sobbing.' (Feldman retired from BU in 2022.) Cooper returned to Boston University for the first time for 'Call Her Alex.' She said she cried as she looked at the field and reflected on what had been stripped from her. 'When I look back at that time in my life, I was scared, hopeless,' Cooper says. 'I had no resources and no options, and the minute I left that campus I was so determined to find a way where no one could ever silence me again.'

City dismantled Black community for urban renewal. Decades later, it still hasn't happened
City dismantled Black community for urban renewal. Decades later, it still hasn't happened

Indianapolis Star

timean hour ago

  • Indianapolis Star

City dismantled Black community for urban renewal. Decades later, it still hasn't happened

ELKHART, Ind. — The red brick pavers covered by overgrown weeds near South 6th Street and Dr. MLK Jr. Drive are some of the last remnants of a community that once thrived in this part of Elkhart. This area, called Benham West, was the civic, cultural and commercial hub for Black residents who settled south of the train tracks, the dividing line that separated them from the rest of the city even decades after desegregation. Residents called this area the "Village" because, literally and figuratively, this was their community at a time when many of the Northern Indiana city's predominantly White residents were hostile to the color of their skin. But the tight-knit community is long gone. The city incrementally and systematically bulldozed the neighborhood over more than two decades of aggressive urban renewal. The work uprooted families. Lifelong business owners lost their livelihoods. Homeowners were forced to move to other parts of the city where they were not welcome. Older residents found themselves starting anew, burdened with heftier mortgages they had little time left to pay off, said Steve Millsaps, who grew up in the neighborhood and whose relatives owned homes and businesses there. Officials spent millions of dollars in city and federal funds to buy and raze properties. When residents lost their homes and businesses, they also lost a level of self-sufficiency and assets they could've passed on to their descendants, said Nekeisha Alayna, an Elkhart resident who helped create a documentary about the neighborhood's history. After people dispersed, the neighborhood's community leaders also left, creating a "big vacuum," she said. After all of that, the promised urban revitalization never happened. Politics, the economy and, some argued, bigotry got in the way. "They just screwed us out of our land," Millsaps said. The historical dismantling of neighborhoods is not exclusive to Elkhart or any one city. Urban renewal projects cleared low and middle-income housing in cities nationwide, including Indianapolis, beginning in the 1950s, often targeting neighborhoods where Black residents built their own communities because discriminatory practices of the era kept them from buying or building homes elsewhere. In Elkhart, a manufacturing hub 160 miles north, Benham West became one of the city's most underdeveloped and impoverished neighborhoods after years of disinvestment. Some see the dismantling of Benham West as part of the city's ugly history with racism. The neighborhood and its surrounding areas were also plagued with troubling policing practices by a group of rogue officers known as the Wolverines, who systematically targeted Black citizens for harassment and false arrests. "Benham West and what occurred in Benham West was a failure on multiple levels," said Rod Roberson, who grew up near the neighborhood and was elected the city's first Black mayor in 2019. "But it also failed an entire city and community as well." Roberson said the city now has a long-term plan to revitalize Benham West and surrounding areas, launched a few years ago with the opening of a large community center just outside the neighborhood. But the 55-acre swatch of Benham West still remains a patchwork of empty and overgrown lots, dotted with vacant buildings, a smattering of businesses, a thrift store that also provides beds for the unhoused, a church and some housing. On 6th Street and Dr. MLK Jr. Drive — the old neighborhood's main thoroughfare where homes and businesses once stood — is an auto body shop. Across the street is a big empty lot that was recently remediated to get rid of contaminants. In its heyday, Benham West was a community of single-family homes with well-maintained yards on walkable streets where children played. Businesses, including restaurants, bars, barbershops and barbecue joints, were beloved because they were owned by families and friends. A neighborhood church and a community center — originally called the Colored Community Center and later renamed after Booker T. Washington — helped families raise children. On holidays, residents traded cakes and pies. That's how Jackie Small, who grew up in Benham West, remembers the neighborhood. "I tell my grandchildren," she said, "'I wish you could've lived in the era that I lived in.'" But the community also seemed excluded from the rest of the city. Roberson, whose family was among those that migrated from the South in the 1950s, recalled riding his bicycle out of Benham West and to a sporting goods store downtown when he was 10 years old. Once he passed the underpass beneath the train tracks, he knew he was not welcome. "There were a couple of teenagers who were a little bit older than I was and let me know that I wasn't in the right place," Roberson said. "And so you realize that you're outside of your community." By the 1960s, Benham West had become a priority for urban renewal. City officials sought federal financing and allotted local dollars to buy and demolish properties they believed were substandard. Residents initially resisted because they did not want to lose the bonds of their community and their only church. As the Black population was pushed out of Benham West, "one can easily observe 'for sale' signs on the lawns of white homeowners," according to a 1965 article that cited a report by the Elkhart Urban League. Jamie Pitts, a professor at the Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary who studied the neighborhood's history, said fears that the redevelopment would entail moving Black residents into White neighborhoods prompted city officials to essentially push Benham West residents into another concentrated area even further south of the train tracks. Some did move north of the tracks — and some of them were met with trepidation and threats. Plez and Brenda Lovelady left Benham West in the 1970s and moved to a house a few miles north, where residents were predominantly White. One day, they found a cross burning in their yard. Many of the houses in Benham West had been razed by then. In their place was a public housing complex the city built a few years earlier for low-income residents. Crime, a problem that older residents said was not a huge problem before all the houses were torn down, plagued the "virtually deserted" area, according to a 1974 newspaper article. By the 1980s, the Washington Gardens public housing complex was one of the most heavily policed parts of the city. The Wolverines, former officers said, used it as their playground. A few businessowners stood firm against the city's urban renewal plans. They had sunk their life savings into their businesses and wanted to be paid a fair price. "You're talking about taking away a livelihood and a community," said Charles Walker, who grew up in Benham West. "And you can't repay that." One of those businessowners was Millsaps' uncle, Marion "Monk" Scott, who operated Monk's Bar on Benham West's main thoroughfare for decades. It was one of the last businesses the city bought because Scott refused to give it up. He rebuilt his business a few blocks south, Millsaps said. Another businessowner was Small's father, Henry Otterbridge, who owned Henry's Pool Hall where, as she put it, "everybody gathered, good or bad." In the late 1980s, when much of the old neighborhood had been demolished, the city sued Otterbridge to force him to sell his property. Otterbridge ultimately sold his business to the city, but he was required to split the money with the previous owner of of the property, which used to be a car service station before it became a pool hall, Small explained. Then, city officials later told her father he had to pay to remove gas tanks that had sat underground for years, she said. After everything, Otterbridge was left with only $35,000 to start anew. "That broke my dad," Small said. Otterbridge opened another business further south, Henry's Grocery Store, but business was slow and people kept owing him money, Small said. In the early 1990s, somebody ransacked the store and set it on fire. "After that," she said, "my dad just said, 'I tried to do what I could do, but I can't do it no more.'" The city did intend to redevelop Benham West. In fact, there were many proposals. A green space. A park. A playground. A mix of residential, industrial and commercial developments. Consultants were hired. Studies were conducted. Sketches were drawn. Thousands of dollars were spent. Promises were made. But Benham West residents felt left out of the decision-making process. In the 1980s, then-Elkhart Mayor Eleanor Kesim proposed a 23-acre park, citing the urgency to fulfill the decades-long promise. But some City Council members preferred selling chunks of Benham West to industrial developers and were concerned that building a park would indefinitely lock the city into paying for maintenance costs. A years-long impasse over whether a predominantly Black neighborhood deserved a park consumed much of Kesim's time as mayor. "My belief in our responsibility to develop Benham West after the drastic urban renewal of the 1970s dismantled whole neighborhoods has not diminished nor has my concern about the not so veiled bigotry of some citizens of this community," Kesim said in 1982, when she proposed a cheaper park the City Council rejected. "Such bigotry is childish, pathetic and indicative of minds crippled by hatred." That same year, the City Council approved a spending plan that did not include the park. Benham West residents showed up in protest. One was quoted in the paper saying, "You are against our black skins." More ideas, like building a mini-college campus, were thrown around. Kesim's successor, Mayor James Perron, reached out to a few schools, but no one committed. It also became apparent that few industrial or commercial developers wanted to build in the neighborhood. The lack of progress became a joke. The first sentence of a 1987 newspaper story read: "Being an Elkhart city official hoping for the redevelopment of the Benham West property is like being a Chicago Cubs fun. You're always waiting for next year." Perron did make some progress, but almost none of those redevelopments lasted. A museum that opened with much fanfare later moved to a different location. A Veterans of Foreign Wars post also opened, but it later shut down and became an Ivy Tech facility. That too later closed, and the building is now empty. Right next to it is a vacant site with a "For Sale" sign. "You get politicians paying lip-service to the idea of redevelopment every 5 to 10 years without much follow through," said Pitts, the Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary professor. "Around 2000, a city redevelopment official was quoted in the paper saying, more or less, 'I guess it wasn't enough to just tear things down, there should have been a plan.'" The city's poor track record has led to deep skepticism for some that Elkhart will ever fulfill its promise of revitalizing the area. "One of the bigger problems we have in this city is we have meetings, and at the end of the meetings, you know what we have?" asked former Benham West resident Plez Lovelady. "Nothing but a bunch of dirty coffee cups." When he was elected mayor six years ago, Roberson found there were comprehensive development plans for several areas of Elkhart. But there still was none for Benham West. "The lack of being able to provide a comprehensive plan in order to grow that area and to do the right things in that area is political failure," he said. "It's also the failure of a community to be engaged in the process as well. It's important that I'm held accountable to do what I should be doing in those areas. But it's also important for us to be able to give the community something that it can rally around." The city now has a long-term redevelopment plan in which stakeholders have a say in what they want their neighborhood to become, Roberson said. It involves creating community assets, both in Benham West and in the surrounding neighborhood south of the tracks, that would help raise property values and draw developers to the area. One of those assets is a new 30,000-square-foot center named after two Black community leaders. The Tolson Center for Community Excellence is equipped with two gyms, a dance and exercise room, a computer and arcade room, an art center, a cafeteria with an industrial kitchen and other venues that host various programs for children. There's ongoing construction outside for a soccer field, playground, and basketball and pickleball courts. About a mile south is another recently opened center that helps adults earn a high school diploma and provides job training. Next door is the neighborhood's new and only health center. The two facilities are located in a large shopping mall the city hopes to turn into a commercial and residential area. Rebuilding the area will be a long, "tedious process," Roberson said. "But it's one with a plan," he said. "And it's one that we're going to continue to stay with as long as I'm here."

Four executions are scheduled in four states over four days this week. Here's what we know
Four executions are scheduled in four states over four days this week. Here's what we know

Yahoo

timean hour ago

  • Yahoo

Four executions are scheduled in four states over four days this week. Here's what we know

Over the next four days, four inmates in four different states are scheduled to be put to death – a cluster that, while not abnormal, comes amid a national uptick in executions while President Donald Trump calls for the death penalty's expansion. A cluster of executions is 'not that unusual,' according to Robert Dunham, director of the Death Penalty Policy Project. 'But it's become increasingly rare as use of the death penalty has diminished.' Indeed, the number of executions each year remains far lower than its peak in 1999, when nearly 100 people were put to death nationwide. That figure steadily decreased until the Covid-19 pandemic, when it reached historic lows, Dunham said. But executions are up in the first half of 2025 compared to recent years. In addition to this week's, two more are scheduled later in June. If all six proceed as planned, it would mark 25 executions this year to date, matching the total number of executions carried out in 2024, according to data from the Death Penalty Information Center. That would be the highest number of executions carried out through June since 2011. One reason for the rise is the renewed interest in executions in states that have not carried them out for years, experts said. Arizona, Louisiana and Tennessee have all resumed executions in 2025 after hiatuses. South Carolina and Indiana did the same in 2024. The states are acting independently. But their moves come as Trump has signaled a desire to see capital punishment used more often at the federal level, saying he wants to deter criminals and protect the American people. While his day one executive order, 'Restoring the Death Penalty and Protecting Public Safety,' does not apply to the states, experts said the message it sends could encourage state officials who want to align themselves with the president. 'If a state is inclined to conduct executions anyway, Trump's rhetoric would be the wind behind them pushing them to do that,' said Corinna Lain, a University of Richmond law professor and author of 'Secrets of the Killing State: The Untold Story of Lethal Injection.' The executive order also has an overt connection to a case this week: an Oklahoma execution is moving forward because Attorney General Pam Bondi, citing Trump's executive order, approved a transfer of the inmate from federal custody to the state – a request the Biden administration previously denied. CNN has reached out to the White House for comment. Matt Wells, deputy director of Reprieve US, an organization that opposes the death penalty, called this a 'dark time in US capital punishment.' Aside from the resumption of executions in some states, he pointed to states' issues with lethal injection and the advent of alternative execution methods, like nitrogen gas, and the resumption of executions in states that have not put anyone to death in years. 'Yet through his executive order on the death penalty,' Wells said, 'President Trump has sent a strong signal to states to push forward with executions.' Here's what we know about the four inmates facing execution this week: Alabama inmate Gregory Hunt has been on death row for more than 30 years. On Tuesday, he is expected to be executed via nitrogen hypoxia. Alabama became the first state to ever use the method in the execution of Kenneth Smith, which took about 15 minutes to complete. Hunt's execution would be the fifth by nitrogen hypoxia in the state, and the second execution by nitrogen hypoxia this year, according to a spokesperson for Gov. Kay Ivey's office. Hunt – one of the 156 people on death row in the state – killed Karen Lane in the early hours of August 2, 1988, according to court documents. The two had been dating for about a month prior to her death. Lane was found with 60 injuries to her body, including lacerations and bruises to her head, body and organs, documents say. She also had a dozen fractured ribs, a fractured breastbone and evidence suggested she had been sexually assaulted. Hunt is representing himself in court, according to a spokesperson with the Alabama Attorney General's office. Florida inmate Anthony Wainwright has been on death row for roughly 30 years for killing a woman after he and another man escaped from prison in 1994 in Newport, North Carolina. The two escapees stole a green Cadillac and burglarized weapons from a home before driving to Lake City, Florida, according to court documents. While in Lake City, the pair stole another car because the Cadillac was starting to overheat, documents say. The pair drove into a supermarket parking lot and spotted Carmen Gayheart, who was loading groceries into a Ford Bronco. They decided to take her car – first forcing her to get inside it at gunpoint – and drove to a wooded area where they 'raped, strangled, and executed' her with one of the stolen guns, court documents say. CNN has reached out to an attorney for Wainwright for comment. Wainwright's co-conspirator died in 2023, according to The Florida Department of Corrections. Wainwright is expected to be executed via lethal injection Tuesday. Gayheart's sister, Maria David, who attended every day of Wainwright's original trial, said the victim was a devoted mother of two who was beautiful inside and out. 'She loved those kids like nothing else, devoted wife. She was going to be an incredible nurse had she been left to live for the rest of her life,' David said. David, who also runs a Facebook page in her sister's honor, said she will be in attendance for Wainwright's execution, as will other family members. 'This is just going to be closure for the legal aspect of Carmen's case,' David said. 'It doesn't bring closure for me, and I don't think any member of my family, by any means, because we're always going to live with the loss of Carmen.' Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis has signed seven death warrants in the first half of 2025, according to his office – if the two executions scheduled for June go forward, that would be just one short of the state's record of eight executions in a single year since the reinstatement of the death penalty in 1976. John Hanson faces execution Thursday for the fatal shooting of Mary Bowles in August 1999, according to an Oklahoma Court of Criminal Appeals opinion outlining the case. According to prosecutors, Hanson and his co-defendant, Victor Miller, carjacked and kidnapped Bowles at a Tulsa mall, then drove her to a 'dirt pit' outside the city. There, prosecutors say, Hanson's co-defendant shot the man who owned the pit, Jerald Thurman, and Hanson fatally shot the 77-year-old woman. Hanson's attorneys contest this: They say there is evidence Miller was Bowles' true killer, having confessed to pulling the trigger while in prison. Additionally, Miller is now serving a life sentence after his death sentence was overturned – a glaring sentencing disparity given he is, according to Hanson's attorneys, more culpable than their client. They also argue that federal law was misinterpreted to facilitate Hanson's execution. While he has a death sentence in Oklahoma, Hanson has also been serving a federal life sentence for a robbery. Three years ago, Oklahoma officials asked the Bureau of Prisons to transfer Hanson to state custody so his execution could be carried out. The agency – then under the stewardship of the Biden administration – said no; it would not be in the 'public interest' because he hadn't completed his federal sentence. Oklahoma officials made the request again earlier this year, three days after Trump took office. This time, the administration – specifically Attorney General Pam Bondi – said yes, court records show. The transfer, she found, would comply with the executive order Trump signed on his first day in office, 'Restoring the Death Penalty and Protecting Public Safety,' and promote 'state and federal cooperation on capital crimes.' Hanson is scheduled to be put to death by lethal injection, a spokesperson for the Oklahoma Department of Corrections told CNN. Bowles' family has voiced support for the execution to move forward. Her niece, Sara Parker Mooney, remembered her aunt, a lifelong Tulsa resident, as an active member of her community and a mentor to professional women: 'She was the matriarch of our family. She was truly beloved.' 'Mary's murder was indescribably difficult then, and it still is now,' she wrote. 'We have been worn out by the multiple trials, re-trials, and appeals. We find ourselves disappointed and angry with the machinations of the judicial system and the political aspects of the last years. We are ready to be done with this matter.' Stephen Stanko faces execution Friday for the 2005 murder of Henry Lee Turner, though he also has a second death sentence for the murder of Laura Ling. Stanko's execution warrant is tied to Turner's murder, because the inmate had exhausted his appeals in that case, the South Carolina Department of Corrections said in a notice announcing his execution date. On April 7, 2005, Stanko murdered Ling, his girlfriend, the notice says. He also raped her daughter, who was at a minor at the time, and slit her throat – though she survived. Afterwards, Stanko went to Turner's home, where he shot and killed the 74-year-old before stealing his truck and fleeing. Stanko was arrested days later. Henry Turner's son remembered his father as a 'helper,' who was willing to lend a hand to anyone, including the man who killed him. 'He was my best friend,' said Roger Turner. While Roger supports Stanko's execution, he told CNN he had forgiven the inmate for murdering his father. But he wishes the execution had taken place sooner, lamenting the two-decade cycle of appeals that would periodically reignite interest in Stanko's case – and force him to revisit his father's killing time and again. 'Here it is, 20 years later, and I'm still reliving it. I'm still hearing the guy's name,' said Roger Turner. He intends to attend the execution. Should it move ahead, Stanko will be executed by lethal injection, a spokesperson for the South Carolina Department of Corrections told CNN. South Carolina inmates can choose their method of execution, with the electric chair and the firing squad as the other available options. CNN has reached out to Ling's daughter and Stanko's attorney for comment.

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