NOTE: 1ACR has been assisting Glenn & Kathy Wilburn with their private investigation of the Oklahoma City bombing and the search for ALL of the killers of their two grandchildren and 166 other Americans. The analysis below is my own, and it should be made clear that I do not presume to speak for the Wilburns. The Wilburns are two very courageous Americans who have suffered much in their search for the truth. Other Oklahoma City victims have criticized the Wilburns for seeking to get McVeigh off the hook. Nothing could be further from the truth. None of the information that they or their many volunteer helpers have discovered (of which I am but one) exculpates Timothy McVeigh. McVeigh was the truck driver, and a key player in the plot. What we are after is the rest of the bombers and the murdering bastards that sent them and sheltered them after the fact.



5 July 1996


Michael Brescia played in a band, Philadelphia sources tell us. Also in the band was Scott Stedeford. Brescia is not named in the Phildelphia Inquirer story below, but is referred to as "the mystery man." Just why Brescia was not named in this story is a little unclear, but sources at the paper confirm that the "Mystery man" is Michael Brescia. There are other Phildelphia links to the Oklahoma City conspiracy, but for now let us ask another question:


Does Robert Millar know? Does Kirk Lyons know? Does Andy Strassmeir know? Does Louis Beam know? Does Dennis Mahon know? Does Tom Metzger know? Does Mark Thomas know? Does Richard Butler know?



Robberies hit 7 states, but their aim may have been bigger. A confession led authorities to Philadelphia.

By Mark Fazlollah, Michael Matza, Maureen Graham and Larry King, Inquirer Staff Writers.

The young man in jeans walked onto the used-car lot in Des Moines, pointed at the white 1979 Buick LeSabre, and bought it for $750 cash. "He didn't test drive it, didn't even start it up," remembers Jay Helton, manager of Mr. Lee's Auto-land. "He asked me if the thing ran, and I said: "It's a good ol' car."

Something about the buyer made Helton queasy. So he photocopied the man's Alabama driver's license that balmy March afternoon in 1995. Helton still had the copy a year later, when the FBI agents came.

The Iowa car dealer's instincts were right. The man wasn't from Alabama. He was from Ardmore, Pennsylvania -- Haverford High, Class of '86. The FBI said he and his friend, a Bustleton teenager, had fallen in with two older men from the Midwest and joined in a bank-robbery spree fueled by the antigovernment gospel of white power. Between Thanksgiving, 1992 and last Christmas, the ring hit 22 banks in seven states.

Federal court documents portray a strange, latter-day James Gang, that roamed the Midwest in harrowing style -- and may have been bankrolling the nation's white supremacist fringe. The robbers took at least a quarter of a million dollars -- none of which has been recovered. They left unexploded bombs behind in banks and getaway cars. They spoke to one another in gibberish. They wore hard hats, Bill Clinton masks, even Santa Claus hats.

They tweaked their pursuers with mocking cartoons and letters to newspapers. They lived in motels and rode in used cars, such as the LeSabre, sometimes purchased in the names of retired FBI agents. They packed automatic weapons -- and Aryan Nations literature.

The trail of the suspects lives stretches from eastern Oklahoma, where a man called "Grandpa" heads an armed Christian sect, to an Upper Darby music studio, a Camden rowhouse, and the Wildwood boardwalk, where teenagers with shaved skulls wear black and camouflage.

Scott Anthony Stedeford, 27, engineer's son, commercial artist, rock musician, Haverford High grad, is one of four men charged. So is his former roommate, an orphaned Bustleton teen named Kevin McCarthy. He turned 19 last week. Both said they were not guilty.

At a hearing last month in Des Moines, a federal prosecutor said the gang called itself the Aryan Republican Army, espoused the overthrow of the government, and planned to use the bank-booty to finance white-supremacist groups. One suspect, Richard Lee Guthrie, Jr., 38, has confessed. He said the gang gave money to unnamed far-right causes.

FBI agents in Cincinnati arrested Guthrie in January after a car chase. Two days later, Peter K. Langan, 37, was nabbed after a shootout with the FBI in Columbus, Ohio. In the murky world of white supremacist groups, the accused men have crossed paths with some notorious people.

McCarthy stayed for a time in the same Oklahoma compound that has been mentioned in the Oklahoma City bombing investigation. Guthrie told the FBI that he met Stedeford through a Berks County right-wing leader named Mark Thomas.

Thomas, 44, who faces no criminal charges, has been to the Idaho right-wing compound once frequented by Randy Weaver, the key figure in the 1992 Ruby Ridge standoff. Stedeford and McCarthy had no criminal record. The two older defendants in the bank robberies had previous felony convictions.

Langan, born in the Mariana Islands, is the son of a CIA employee who ran away from home at 16. guthrie tried to join the elite Navy Seals underwater squad -- but left after being courtmartialed in 1983. In court documents, federal investigators said a search of the robbers' "safe house" in Columbus yielded pipe bombs, guns, bullets, extremist literature, FBI hats, fake IDs, and bomb-making tools.

FBI agents found similar items in a storage locker the group had rented in Shawnee, Kan. Included was a copy of Hitler's Mein Kampf. Guthrie's confession -- and a trail of documents, including the bogus Alabama driver's license-- led investigators to Philadelphia. On May 22, FBI agents arrested Stedeford at Sound Under, the Upper Darby recording studio where he had worked as a guitarist.

Two days later -- as McCarthy was being arrested in the Bustleton section of Philadelphia -- federal agents searched a Camden apartment where Stedeford had lived since December. There, they confiscated more of the same: a Ruger handgun, a shotgun, automatic-rifle ammunition, a police scanner, false Social Security cards, blank birth and death certificates, supremacist literature, a walkie talkie, T-shirts with law enforcement insignia -- and a stack of CDs recorded by Stedeford's band, Cyanide.

Any link between Stedeford and hate-inspired bank robberies baffles his old friends in Delaware County. "He was just the guy next door, a nice guy," said Haverford classmate Timothy Walsh, who had known Stedeford since kindergarten days at St. Denis' Parish. "I've never heard him get in an argument or a fight. I never heard him use any racial slurs." But friends also have described Stedeford as easily led and quick to embrace new friends and ideas.

Guthrie has told authorities that he was introduced to Stedeford by Thomas, the middle-aged white supremacist who lives in a ramshackle farmhouse in Berks County and spreads his beliefs on the Internet. Young people "talk about him (Thomas) as someone they would follow," said Ann Van Dyke, on official with the State Human Relations Commission who monitors hate group activity across Pennsylvania. "He has become a father figure to many of them."

Thomas also has ties to Elohim City, the compound in Oklahoma. In an interview last week, Elohim City founder Robert G. Millar said Thomas sent Kevin McCarthy to study there. Elohim City -- described by Millar as a spiritual place where every family "has a weapon...and most of them are crack shots" -- has been in the news before. Timothy McVeigh, the accused Oklahoma City bomber, placed a call to Elohim City before last year's explosion, federal investigators said.

Then there is the mystery man. Investigators still want to talk to one more Philadelphia man, a law enforcement official said last week. He declined to say why. The man, in his 20s, is acquainted with Stedeford and Mccarthy. In Camden, Stedeford's friend asked her about the same man. And in Oklahoma, Millar said the same young man had lived at Elohim City for about two years.

Experts say hate groups often reach out to the young. "They have methodically looked for young people to draw into the movement," said one expert who has advised government agencies. "They cannot be underestimated." Floyd Cochran, an upstate Pennsylvania man who left the white power movement and now lectures on its dangers, describes the phenomenon this way: "You take a 15-,16-year-old, a young kid, and pump into their head that if you rob a bank, burn a church, you assault the enemy, that you are a warrior of God, a hero of your race."

Scott Stedeford's roots lie in a largely Italian-American neighborhood of modest, gray-stone-and-brick twins in Ardmore. His father, a retired quality control engineer, and mother, who stayed home to rear four children, still live there. Acquaintances describe them as kind and generous. As a teen, Stedeford immersed himself in drawing and music, friends said. He played drums in a rock band, took commercial art classes, and delighted in airbrushing images of his favorite band, Van Halen, on friend's jackets.

After graduation he let his hair grow long and worked as a silk-screen artist for a Bromall firm, where, coworkers said, he played acoustic guitar for them on his lunch breaks. He also led a band called Cyanide, which played loud, "speed-metal" music. A friend and former coworker recalled Stedeford as a soft-spoken, impressionable "follower" who plunged headlong into new friendships and interests. "I've seen him meet people, become their friends, and then take on the way they talk and behave," said the friend Pat Clinton. "It seemed like he was looking for something to latch on to, something to belong to."

By the early 1990s, Stedeford had latched onto the trappings of the skinhead world. Clinton described running into his old friend in early 1994 at the Cellblock, a Bensalem club. Stedeford was passing out leaflets from a white supremacist group, he said. "He cam up and said, 'Yo,' and I didn't even recognize him," Clinton recalled. "He had his head shaved, with the combat boots and flight jacket and camouflage pants. I said, 'What? Are you into this stuff?' He said, 'I think you'd really like it. You ought to check it out.'" Clinton said Stedeford introduced him to a friend who was similarly attired. His name: Kevin McCarthy.

He was smart but unruly, disruptive yet likable, resourceful but easily led. To many who knew him, Kevin Mccarthy was potential unfulfilled. "To tell you the truth, I enjoyed Kevin. I got along with him very well," said Arthur N. Romanelli, the principal at Greenberg Elementary School in the Northeast, where McCarthy attended eighth grade. On the other hand, Romanelli said, "he was a disruptive kid. He settled down for a while, but anytime we had a substitute teacher, it was kind of a free day for him."

Unlike Stedeford, McCarthy seemed to have discipline problems throughout his youth. His mother died when he was small. His father, who was seldom around, died later. For most of his life, McCarthy lived with his grandmother. "He's a very ambitious boy," said his grandmother, who asked not to be named. "That's why it's so heartbreaking for something like this to come up."

When McCarthy was on the cusp of adolescence, his grandmother and her husband moved to the Jersey shore. It was there, against a Wildwood backdrop of Ferris wheels and taffy shops, that he began associating with skinheads, said sean McCoy, who met McCarthy when the boy was 12 or 13. "He started hanging out with these guys he met up on the boardwalk, and it seemed like he got into all this radical stuff," McCoy said. "Any time I'd see him around, he'd be dressed in these weird clothes and Army boots."

At the time, McCarthy's grandmother was married to Edward J. O'Neill. According to his son, Tim O'Neill of Philadelphia, the stepfather tried in vain to rein in the boy before the couple divorced a few years ago.

In the early 1990s, the grandmother returned to Philadelphia. Around that time, McCarthy became acquainted with Mark Thomas and lived for several months on Thomas' Berks County property.

In an interview Friday, Thomas initially said he could not talk about Mccarthy because he was the young man's minister, requiring confidentiality. "I love him," Thomas said, tears welling up in his eyes. "I mention his name every night in prayers." Thomas said he could not remember how McCarthy came to live with him.

According to the grandmother, it was Thomas who helped the boy gain entry to what she described as a Christian academy in Oklahoma. Thomas denied this. He said he "tried for more than a year" to enroll McCarthy in a local high school, only to be rebuffed by local officials. But he insisted he had no role in sending the youth to Elohim City. "I don't know how he got there," Thomas said. "He went on his own initiative."

Whatever the impetus, the move was disastrous for McCarthy, Tim O'Neill said. "I think that was the downfall of everything," O'Neill said.

In the rolling, wooded hills near the Oklahoma-Arkansas border, between hardwood forests and fields speckled with bales of hay, small churches dot the landscape. But Elohim City, the 1000-acre Christian Identity compound founded 24 years ago by itinerant pastor Robert Millar, is a place apart -- eight miles from the nearest paved road. "We came here to be able to control the environment," explained Millar, 70, who leads a community of about 100 adherents who live in a cluster of 10 to 20 mobile homes and rough-hewn buildings.

The Canadian-born Millar, a small, white-haired man known to his followers as "Grandpa," sat Friday inside a chapel built of stone, wood and hardened foam. Three flags -- the American, the Confederate, and the banner of the Church of Jesus Christ -- sprouted from poles above the entry. He said that he remembered Kevin McCarthy fondly and that Mark Thomas arranged McCarthy's stay of several months at Elohim City. But Millar said their was no link between his community and the bank robberies. "If what they allege is true, I wonder who on earth could have influenced a nice boy like that to get involved in such things, he said of McCarthy. He was a nice, quiet, cooperative, intelligent person. Law enforcement will have our complete coop