Faces of Evil Read online

  Copyright © 2005 Lois Gibson and Deanie Francis Mills

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, including electronic, mechanical or any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to:

  New Horizon Press

  P.O. Box 669

  Far Hills, NJ 07931

  Gibson, Lois and Deanie Francis Mills

  Faces of Evil:

  Kidnappers, Murderers, Rapists and the Forensic Artist Who

  Puts Them Behind Bars

  Cover Design: Robert Aulicino

  Interior Design: Susan M. Sanderson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2004108083

  Hardcover edition, 2005

  Mass market paperback edition, 2007

  Tradepaper edition

  eBook edition ISBN-13: 978-0-88282-523-6

  New Horizon Press

  201918171612345

  This book is dedicated to the survivors

  of violent crime everywhere.

  May you find sweet justice

  and, at last, may you know peace.

  “…it is a rare and shattering experience…to gaze into the face of absolute evil.”

  Carl Jung

  Phenomenology of the Self

  “One picture is worth ten thousand words.”

  Anonymous

  Table of Contents

  Authors’ Note

  Acknowledgements

  Preface

  Part I: My Life

  Chapter 1Angel Doe

  Chapter 2“We’ll Have to Date Again”

  Chapter 3“If I Can Just Get off That L.A. Freeway without Getting Killed or Caught”

  Chapter 4“Total Failure”

  Chapter 5Breaking and Entering

  Chapter 6WANTED: Dead or Alive

  Chapter 7Blind Justice

  Chapter 8Portrait of a Serial Killer

  Chapter 9“Some People Just Need Killin’”

  Chapter 10Tricky Drawings, Successful Endings

  Chapter 11“Look Mommy! It’s a Picture of Daddy!”

  Chapter 12A Look of Murderous Rage

  Chapter 13Catching KAOS

  Part II: My Mission

  Chapter 14Making the Case for Forensic Art

  Chapter 15What You Need to Know to Become a Forensic Artist

  Epilogue

  Update

  Resources

  Authors’ Note

  This book is based on the experiences of Lois Gibson and reflects her perceptions of the past, present and future. The personalities, events, actions and conversations portrayed within the story have been taken from her memories, court documents, interviews, testimony, research, letters, personal papers, press accounts and the memories of some participants.

  Although all the crimes depicted in this book are a matter of public record, the names and a few identifying characteristics of the victims have, in most cases, been changed in order to protect their privacy. Events involving the characters happened as described. Only minor details have been altered.

  Acknowledgements

  To my husband Sid and children Brent and Tiffany; you are my life.

  Lieutenant Don McWilliams, Diane Denton, Captain Bobby Adams, Sergeant Douglas Osterberg, Chief Jerrie Stewart, Lee P. Brown, Judge Sam Nuchia, Captain Richard D. Williams, Lieutenant Thomas C. Jennings, Captain Dale Brown, Deborah Goldman, Marsha Johnson, Dr. Sheryl Green, Dr. Sharon Garner-Brown, Pam Holak, Lizzy and Tom Hargrove, Skip Haynes, Mark Vabulas, Priscilla and Angela, Liz Scardino, Christa Hardin, Lin Mills, Adonna, Laura, Mark, Brent and all the detectives with whom I’ve worked a case that you solved.

  Lastly, to the savage criminal who attacked me, know that you didn’t destroy me. In fact, you helped transform me into an artistic dynamo whose sketches have taken down over a thousand evil creatures like you and given the means to their victims to gain justice.

  Preface

  People often ask me if I have nightmares.

  They wonder how I can possibly sit through the constant parade of murderers, rapists, robbers, pedophiles and swindlers who march across my drawing board each day without being haunted by their faces in the depths of night.

  Of course, I don’t just see evil faces. I also see the carnage their evil leaves behind, on the faces of their victims, in their eyes and on their bodies. Those of us who work in law enforcement often become what I call “secondary victims” of the violence we see each and every day of our lives.

  And I see more than most.

  As the only forensic artist for more than twenty-one years in one of the largest police forces in America—the Houston, Texas Police Department—I get the worst of cases—mutilations, murder, rape—an endless stream of misery that flows like tears through the various divisions of the department and pools at the door of my office.

  Whereas a homicide detective may juggle three murder cases in a given week, I sometimes see that many in a day. I schedule them in with rapes, muggings, robberies and emergency cases that yank me out of bed in the middle of the night.

  But when people ask me if I have nightmares, I say no. Not usually, anyway. The dead-eyed mug-shot stares of the killers and criminals whose faces I draw don’t stalk my dreams, because I know that, as the Apostle Paul put it, “faith is the evidence of things unseen.”

  I’ve worked with the victims of those criminals and together we’ve taken something unseen—their tortured memories—and created evidence: a likeness of their attacker. I have faith, then, that law enforcement officers can take that likeness and use it to track down the bad guys. When they do, then I have empowered those victims and helped them to become something they never thought they would be: survivors.

  Through my gifts and my labors, these survivors find, to their surprise, that they have been able to think what had been—up until then—the unthinkable and to take control of what had been uncontrollable. And when news comes that we’ve caught the bad guy, believe me, I sleep like the proverbial baby.

  I haven’t just done my job; I’ve fulfilled my calling.

  However, there is one aspect of my work that does haunt me sometimes, especially when the job involves a child.

  Sometimes, I am called upon to help identify a murder victim.

  And there’s only one way I can help with that task.

  Many times, over the years, I’ve been asked to go down to the medical examiner’s office—which is just a euphemism for a morgue—and do a portrait of an unidentified murder victim. Over time, I’ve grown strong when asked to do this, because the way I see it, this is my way to help someone who can no longer speak or even cry out.

  In many cases, I’ve learned that if the unidentified victim is an adult or a juvenile, then they were probably murdered by an enemy.

  If that victim is a nameless child and none of the available databases turns up anyone missing who fits that general description, then most likely this child was killed by someone he or she loved, someone the child trusted to take care of him or her, someone who betrayed that trust. And when you see what has been done to the bodies during their brief, tormented little lives, then you know that death has often come as a relief.

  They bring me photographs.

  Big, strong detectives looking sad and depressed bring me color crime-scene photographs of tiny children they have found brutalized unto death and thrown out like so much trash on the side of the road, in a ditch or mud puddle or crammed in a dumpster. Sometimes the bodies have been exposed to the elements and it has become almost impossible to make out a face.

  They bring me photographs. They ask if I can use the pictures as references, and t
ransform them into a portrait of a child, smiling.

  “If the victim’s smiling,” they say, “then maybe somebody, somewhere will recognize your portrait and help us figure out who this child is and who did this terrible thing to them.”

  And so they bring me their grotesque crime-scene photographs and when it’s a child, well, I’ve never yet seen a detective who could hand them over without tears welling up.

  You ask me if my job gives me nightmares.

  The British poet, Dylan Thomas, wrote a poem after the horrors of the blitzkrieg bombing of London during World War II called “A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London.” In it, he eloquently told how overwrought outpourings of sentiment at such tragedies sometimes worked the opposite of what was intended, only cheapening the stark power of the event, which should stand alone.

  Wordless, for there are no words.

  He said, “After the first death, there is no other.”

  I know what he means. Every time I hold in my hands a sacred photograph of the remains of another mangled little life and the sweet young voice cries out to me from dumpster or ditch or whatever else passes for a grave, then I know it is not the time for tears and mourning. Not yet.

  “Never until…” writes Dylan Thomas, “…the still hour is come…Shall I pray the shadow of a sound…”

  Never until the ghastly photograph in my hand has been transformed into a portrait of a smiling child on my drawing board and from there into someone’s heart, motivating them to go straight to their photo album, and from there to the police department… never until what’s left of a body becomes a once-breathing child who loved and was loved… never until then do I let myself mourn.

  Never until then do I let myself weep.

  Part One:

  My Life

  Chapter One:

  Angel Doe

  I braced myself early one morning when a rookie homicide detective, Darcus Shorten, came to my office and asked if I could do a reconstruction of a little girl who had been found half-submerged in a watery ditch, her body wrapped in a blue fleece blanket decorated with happy little polar bears and reindeer.

  Darcus, a young, vibrant African-American woman, had been teamed up on this case with Clarence Douglas, a seasoned veteran homicide investigator. Sergeant Douglas was the best partner a young detective could have. Kind and caring, with an intelligent, calm manner, he hadn’t let the cynicism of the job creep in over the years the way some police officers do. I knew he would never quit until this child could find her name and be laid to peaceful rest.

  Still, I ached for Darcus, whose initiation into working on crime cases would be so gruesome. Some investigators go their entire careers without ever having to gaze upon the horrors she and Sgt. Douglas came upon in the ditch that day. It was a trial by fire, but I knew she was strong. She could and would handle it.

  “Some kids found her,” Darcus told me. “And the patrol officers who responded to the scene figured she was about four years old, because she was so small. She only weighs forty-seven pounds and is less than four feet tall.”

  “But?” I prompted, though I knew what Darcus was going to say.

  “Clarence thinks she may be older than that, but that she was starved.”

  “To death?” I asked.

  “No.” She shook her head and I could see the weariness this job can give reflected in her young eyes. “Medical Examiner says she was hit in the head with something that probably caused her death,” she continued and after a short pause, added, “but you can tell from the bruises and cigarette burns and other old injuries all over her body that she suffered for a long time before she died.” Darcus struggled hard to blink back the tears.

  “I’m sorry you have to face such a tough case so early in your career,” I said soberly. She nodded and left without saying another word.

  I didn’t tear right into the envelope containing the hellish photographs. For a while, I busied myself with other tasks. They needed to be done, but mostly, I was working up my courage.

  Ask any cop or emergency worker and they will all tell you that when it comes to child victims, it’s tough. Most of us have children of our own and it’s impossible to gaze at a murdered child without thinking of your own precious ones at home.

  But we steel ourselves to do what has to be done.

  After a few moments to collect myself, I reached for the envelope, pulled out the photos and looked at them.

  I gasped. I’d never seen anything more horrible.

  The child had lain, partially submerged in fetid water, her little face upturned to the elements, in the Houston heat and humidity, for more than two days. Animals and the ravages of exposure had peeled away the skin from her face. Her eyeballs were missing, as well as eyebrows. Most of her nose had been eaten off. Her lips were pulled back in a grotesque death-grin. Several of her front teeth were missing and her tongue protruded, swollen, from what remained of her lips.

  From the black, curly hair on her head, the parts of her neck and head that had not been submerged in the water and what remained of the skin on her body, I could see that she was African American. From additional photographs taken at the autopsy, I could also see the starvation, the bruising, the burns… the torture.

  It was so overwhelming that for a long moment, I feared that I would not be able to go on.

  But I had to. She needed me. She was depending on me.

  Numbly, I pinned the ghastly photos onto the right-hand side of my drawing board, which rests on my aluminum Stanrite 500 easel.

  The human brain, I have learned, has a powerful ability to block out things it’s not prepared to handle. In some cases, this can be a blessed coping ability, but I knew I didn’t have that luxury. I have to be able not just to see the grisly scene set before me, but to look past it, so that I can create something beautiful out of something horrific.

  I have to do it. They’re counting on me, those lost little souls.

  And so are the detectives.

  Through the years, I’ve developed certain techniques to enable me to handle the stresses and strains of my job. If I have to do a post-mortem drawing of an unidentified victim, especially one found exposed to the elements and particularly a child victim, then I turn on a television set and place the screen to my left as I face the paper with the gruesome photographs arranged to the right of it.

  I try to find a compelling news program of some kind—not a tacky soap opera-esque talk show or one of those screaming cockfights between extreme points of view—but a reasoned, thought-provoking and informative debate on some issue or other that can hold my attention for at least a few minutes.

  This serves as a distraction, a protection from the jarring emotional jolts that come with staring for a long time at faces brutalized beyond recognition.

  I keep a small television set in my office. Normally in the mornings, even at home, I don’t watch television. I prefer to eat my simple breakfast of fruit and juice in peaceful silence while I gear myself up for the day’s stresses. (Just driving in Houston is stressful enough.) On that particular morning, I hadn’t even listened to the radio in the car. I’d plugged in a Diana Krall CD and listened to her sweet, mellow tones instead.

  Now that I had pinned the photographs to my drawing board, I reached for the TV set as if I were treading water in heavy seas and it was a lifeline tossed to me from a boat. Positioning it to the left of my drawing board, I glanced at my desk calendar and watch to remind myself the day of the week and thereby remember what program might be on television at this time.

  The date was Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

  Everyone remembers where they were on 9-11 when they first heard the news, when they first saw the awful, terrible images over and over, the planes crashing into the Twin Towers in screaming fireballs, people running, bodies falling from the sky.

  I was transfixed in horror, not believing what I was seeing. I wished I could look at the images without seeing them or otherwise somehow wi
ll them to go away, to stop, to turn back the clock, to make it not happen.

  People were dying in front of my very eyes and there was nothing, nothing, nothing I could do about it. Like many other Americans and people the world over, I prayed. At least, as best I could, not even knowing how to pray about the things I was seeing or what to say, how to form words out of the unspeakable.

  I stared at the massive horror unfolding on the TV screen until I couldn’t bear it any more. Then I forced myself to turn and face the smaller horror staring back at me from my drawing board.

  This time, I wept.

  As time passed, I sobbed awhile, prayed awhile, watched TV awhile, tried to concentrate on how I would do the sketch, watched some more TV, cried some more…

  Then from a place so deep within me that it had no name, a still, small voice seemed to say, You can’t help them. You can pray for them, but you can’t help them. But you CAN help her. You can bring her back home. You can give her a name. You can help her restless little soul find peace.

  It was a strange sort of comfort—for lack of a better word—that I just can’t explain. The unbearable images coming at me from the television screen somehow enabled me to bear the ghastly image pinned to my drawing board.

  On that terrible day in September, I realized that I had to take the negative energy that was unleashed in me as I watched the violent attack on our citizens and use it as a force of good. I could take all the power and majesty of my own grief, fear, rage and horror and USE it. I could funnel it into the task before me.

  And so I did.

  Cried awhile, prayed awhile, tried to draw awhile.

  While black plumes of smoke from the north and south towers of the World Trade Center billowed skyward and news anchors scrambled to their desks, I tore myself away from the sight and studied the photos of the little girl whose tiny life had been so violently snuffed out.