By Michael Benson
<center>Case Featured On 20/20
Anti-Freeze For A Husband</center>
It gave the look of a suicide. A man's corpse at the toilet floor--next to a half-empty glass of anti-freeze. yet fingerprints at the glass belonged to the deceased's spouse, Stacey Castor. And a turkey baster within the rubbish had police puzzling over if she force-fed the poisonous fluid down her husband's throat.
<center>Pills For A Daughter</center>
In desperation, Stacey concocted a devious plan. She combined a perilous cocktail of vodka and capsules, then served it to her twenty-year-old daughter Ashley. The experts could locate Ashley with a suicide be aware, confessing to the anti-freeze homicide. yet Stacey's plan backfired--because Ashley refused to die. . .
<center>A Killer For A Mother</center>
Charged with murdering her moment husband--and trying to kill her oldest daughter--Stacey Castor sparked a media...
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Extra resources for Mommy Deadliest
David and I watched the 48 Hours about a year ago where a woman killed two husbands by putting antifreeze in green Jell-O,” she said. “I think this show was on again about a month or two ago, because David and I watched it a second time,” she added. Detective Leshinski asked all of the questions, but the interview of Stacey was observed by Detective Dominick Spinelli, who was destined to become the case’s lead investigator. Spinelli, born and raised in New York City, was a well-conditioned man, his thickly muscled body the product of the modern gym workout; yet he had a surprisingly youthful face, a face that hadn’t changed very much at all since he was a little boy.
I pounded on the door, but I got no response,” she explained. His name: David Castor. The caller ID’d herself as his wife, Stacey. She repeated the address in the town of Clay—which, with a population of sixty thousand, was Syracuse’s largest suburb. It lay north of the city, bordered on the west by the Seneca River and on the east by Route 81. Although the town had gone through the normal American construction of tract housing during the second half of the twentieth century, there were still rural sections of Clay, with crops and cows and barns, which—if you ignored the highways with their speeding automobiles—looked much as it had one hundred years before.
Well, she was away all day Sunday. Doing what? She spent a lot of time in Wal-Mart, shopping. Could she prove it? There was a receipt. No, she didn’t remember what she did with it, probably threw it out. Now Willoughby had a new instruction: be on the lookout for a Wal-Mart receipt. Just routine, to corroborate Mrs. Castor’s story. Willoughby searched the kitchen wastebasket. There were a few papers on top of the trash, so he picked them up, one by one, and examined them, checking efficiently to see if they were the receipt he’d been ordered to look for.
Mommy Deadliest by Michael Benson