Faces of Evil Page 24

  I had worked hard to make my office as welcoming and inviting as I could. I wanted my witnesses to feel like they had entered a special place that did not have the institutional feel of a police department, so it could help them relax.

  Painted a soft pale gray with deep green carpeting, the office is small but cozy. Since I do most of my work at my easel, my gray metal desk is usually neat. The focal point of the room is a big, extra-wide reclining easy chair that is covered in navy blue fabric. This is for the witnesses, to make them as comfortable as possible, and is the first thing I asked the department for when they created my fulltime position. Within reach of the easy chair is a box of tissues, should one be needed.

  In one corner of the room I keep a cheerful red basket full of toys, plastic dinosaurs and fuzzy bears, because so many of my witnesses are children. I also keep candies in a little dish; this helps to make people feel at ease but also aids people whose mouths have gone so dry they can barely speak.

  On the walls of my office hang various serene paintings I’ve made—landscapes, sunsets and a peculiar form where I paint a tree or a segment of countryside and suspend it in the clouds, like a dream. These are designed to ease tensions in the witnesses and give them something lovely to look at during a time when all they can see in their mind’s-eye is horror.

  I also have a couple of portraits I did of my husband and children. Those are for me, I guess, to ease my tensions.

  With the smell of fresh coffee percolating down the hall wafting through my door, I called Sgt. Belk and asked him to please send the witness so that I could start the sketch right away. By this time, it was close to 4:30 in the morning, and I knew that child had to be practically numb. Billy was kind enough to send Annie to me even though he hadn’t yet concluded his own interview with her.

  Sherrie Anderson, a nine-year veteran of juvenile sex crimes, a pretty woman in her early thirties with waist-length hair the color of honey, now an investigator in robbery, brought Annie to me.

  Seeing Annie for the first time, I thought how tiny she was, even for a nine-year-old. She was pretty, dressed in neat, clean jeans and a bright-colored blouse. Her hair was tied back in a smooth ponytail.

  Something most people don’t realize about children who’ve been through terrible trauma is that they are nearly always remarkably calm—almost relaxed. Of course, they are experiencing deep shock and that’s part of it, but it’s more than that. It’s also an attitude that they’ve just lived through the worst thing that could have ever happened to them and that now, people are here to take care of them.

  Annie was like that, but as Sherrie picked her up and put her into the big blue chair, she seemed somehow royal to me, diplomatic, like an emissary from a country that’s been ravaged by war and now has found peace amidst great sadness.

  “Annie,” I said in as soft and non-threatening a voice as I could, “I am so glad you came down to see me this morning. Your blouse is so pretty.”

  “Thank you,” she said shyly.

  “Now, I want you to understand that we are going to draw a picture of the bad man who hurt you but it’s going to be very easy. Do you know why?”

  Wide-eyed, she shook her head.

  “Because little girls like you see and remember things so much better than grown-ups do.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “I just need a few ideas from you so I can get started,” I said, “and then, when I get my rough sketch finished, I’ll turn it around and show it to you. Then I’ll change anything you want in any way you want so the sketch will look as much like him as possible. After that we’ll be done.”

  I was acting as if this whole thing would be effortless, but in my mind I was telling myself, Draw as fast as you can! I knew exhaustion would soon take over and we would not be able to keep Annie awake for long.

  Although investigators almost never sit in on sketch sessions, Sherrie pulled up an extra chair and sat down next to me. Since she had already bonded with Annie, I was glad to have her there. I asked Annie if the man was fat, skinny or average.

  “Average,” she said, in her small, even voice. “But I didn’t see his face well enough, so I don’t think I can draw him.”

  This did not bother me. By this time I’d learned that with just the right kind of coaxing, even the most reluctant and doubt-filled witness can give remarkable descriptions.

  I reassured Annie that she wouldn’t have to draw, that I would do all the work and I casually tossed in a question about his hair. “What kind of hair did he have?”

  “Real short.”

  I started drawing furiously, without letting on that I was rushing.

  “Here’s a book that will help you remember.” I handed Annie the FBI Facial Identification Catalogue. I set her to work selecting a pair of eyes from the catalogue. “Try to find the eyes that are as close to his as possible,” I explained, “It won’t be perfect, but try to get as close as you can.”

  In less than thirty seconds, Annie pointed to a set of eyes and said, “That looks like his eyebrows and his hair too.” This was typical of most children, who tend to pick out features from the catalogue five or ten times faster than adults. Adults always second-guess themselves. Children usually don’t.

  I guess Investigator Anderson—Sherrie—didn’t realize this fact about children, because she reacted as most adults would, by turning page after page even after Annie had made her selection, saying, “Are you sure?”

  I knew Sherrie meant well, but the truth is that during a sketch session, you should never disturb the witness or question their choices. I wanted to tell Sherrie that we needed to let Annie tell us what she’d seen alone, but I kept quiet. The mood in the room was peaceful and I didn’t want to introduce any negativity.

  The little juice box I’d brought from home was sweating with cold condensation. I picked it up and offered it to Annie, who gladly took the box and made a lot of noise sucking the juice down while I continued to sketch as fast as possible. This early in the morning, I noticed that I was definitely not warmed up.

  I offered Annie an apple. Shaking her head, she showed me her little bottom biter tooth. The killer had hit her so hard he’d knocked it loose. For a moment, rage at the man who had destroyed this family and shredded this child’s innocence boiled up inside me so dark it clouded my vision and I had to sit for a second or two and collect myself.

  These are the moments when it’s really hard.

  After Annie had selected a nose and a pair of lips, she fell asleep in her chair. I let her sleep as long as possible, maybe twenty minutes, until I was almost done. Then, Sherrie and I gently woke her.

  “Just one more question, Annie. What kind of shirt did he have on?”

  Blinking, she answered, “No shirt. He was naked-chested.”

  Three years of drawing nude models at the University of Texas in Austin meant this would be very easy to draw—easier, even, than if I’d had to reproduce a shirt. By laying the pastels on their sides, I shaded the areas of light and dark in quick movements, and was done in less than two minutes.

  Turning the easel around, I showed Annie the sketch.

  Without hesitating, she said, “He had shorter hair.”

  The paper I use contains a high cotton rag content that is made in France. I use the color “felt gray,” so that I’m able to take an identical color pastel and cover over mistakes or make changes without having to erase. It’s quick and easy.

  I corrected the sketch, showed it to her and she nodded. “That’s good.”

  Sherrie asked Annie if the eyebrows and eyes and nose were right and Annie paused for a moment.

  I bit my lip in frustration. I never ask those things. I want the witness to be the complete source of any comments. Otherwise, you’re skating perilously close to “leading the witness.”

  I know that, especially with young witnesses, if something doesn’t look right, they’ll blurt it out immediately. There was no need to ask.

  The seconds ti
cked by and I began to relax.

  Then Annie crossed her arms over her chest and said, her voice firm, “He looks too much like a girl!”

  My mind scrambled in all directions. Then I realized what was going on.

  When a crime victim is being attacked or they are witnessing some horrible act, the bad guy doesn’t carry the same bland expression on his face that you’re likely to see in a mug shot or a forensic sketch. During the attack, his face will be twisted, his eyes terrifying.

  That look of murderous rage just can’t be duplicated.

  What Annie was remembering was that she’d drifted off to sleep in her peaceful bed in the house with the matching salt and pepper shakers, and was wrenched awake to watch in horror the monstrous, contorted face of a murderer who tortured her mother and then came for her. The face I was presenting to Annie stared out at her from the drawing board with a calm, steady, somewhat handsome gaze. That was not the face she thought she remembered.

  Still, I asked her if all the shapes were correct, my way of checking to make sure the bone structure I’d drawn was right. She said yes but still insisted, “He looks like a girl.”

  By this time, I knew that even with the most reluctant witnesses, I could tell by the way they had selected the features or the way a face took shape, when we were on the right track and when we weren’t.

  The way I think of it is simply to trust the gift. For whatever reason, I’ve been given this talent, and I know when to trust it.

  And in this case, I knew that my sketch was as close as we were likely to get, so I turned the easel around and said gently, “We’ve done as good as we can. The sketch isn’t perfect, but we’re done.”

  In her eyes I saw the pain I knew so well and I knew it didn’t have anything to do with the sketch. “Honey,” I said, “You are still beautiful. What that awful man did can’t change that.” I leaned forward. “When I was a young girl, the same thing happened to me and as you can see, you can still go on and lead a wonderful life.”

  Her eyes glistened, and she turned her little face to me and said, “Did they kill your mommy, too?”

  My heart stopped. It was all I could do not to cry. I got up, leaned over and pressed my forehead against hers. “No, that didn’t happen to me,” I whispered. “But you should know that there are so many people who love you and want to take care of you.”

  With a somber nod she said, “Yeah, my aunties love me a lot.”

  I sat down again. “I’ll bet you have cousins you can play with, too.”

  She grinned and nodded. On that note, Sherrie took Annie back to homicide.

  After they left I felt like I couldn’t stand Annie’s pain. I had to make sure for myself that this precious child would be all right. I went to homicide, to the large waiting area with a glass wall two stories high through which the sunrise was just beginning to peep beneath dark Gulf clouds. I saw a handsome, well-dressed family, who were sitting on one of the heavy wooden church pews placed there for such agonizing vigils.

  A bit timid as I approached them, I said quietly, “Are you Annie’s kin?”

  They gave me their instant attention and all spoke at once, saying, “Yes, yes.”

  I said, “I’m the sketch artist, and we got a good sketch of the criminal from her.”

  They had all gotten to their feet by then, and smiling kindly at me, said, “That’s wonderful.”

  I blurted out, “Will she be taken care of?” I couldn’t help it. I was feeling weepy and tired now. I’d done my job, and I just had to know that that sweet child was going to be all right.

  Women I assumed were Annie’s aunts said, “Oh Lord yes! We’re fighting over her right now. She won’t lack for a thing.”

  Uncles, aunts, and cousins all introduced themselves, and I took each of their hands in my own.

  We were all warmed by the meeting and I went back to my office, sprayed fixatif on the sketch and turned my attention to the obligatory paper work: date of offense, time (in military hours), witness(es) name, address of offense, case or “incident” number, forensic sketch number highlighted in yellow, the beat and district, the detective assigned to the case and the date he gives it, race and gender of the person sketched and so on. After that I made a good copy of the sketch and put the picture in its own folder to keep on file, as I always do.

  I hand-delivered the sketch to Billy Belk in homicide. Billy eventually went on to get his law school degree and pass the bar exam while continuing to work fulltime as a homicide investigator. But on this exhausting morning, his wavy brown hair was a bit mussed and there were dark circles under his large brown eyes. He motioned me over to a desk, where he had arranged a group of photographs and asked if the man I had sketched resembled any of the men in the photos.

  They were snapshots that had been taken at a party. Annie’s murdered mother was smiling, happy and surrounded by a large group of smiling, happy friends. Some of the photos had more than a dozen faces. Staring at the pictures, I realized for the first time just how worn out I was. I could barely comprehend what I was looking at.

  “I can’t tell,” I said. “All these people are grinning.”

  Billy looked at me, his face drawn and unsmiling. “Lois, I have to tell you…” He glanced away. “I don’t know if I’m going to use the sketch. I asked Annie about it and she said the sketch wasn’t any good. She said it looked too much like a girl.”

  I felt my face flush hot and the breath whoosh out of me.

  How could I explain what I knew, that from the way Annie had chosen the features for the sketch, she knew how to pick the right ones. We had the right facial structure.

  I couldn’t find words to describe what I knew witnesses couldn’t explain: that look of murderous rage; it wasn’t going to be captured, not in any forensic sketch.

  Not anywhere.

  That did not mean that the drawing did not look like the killer.

  Finally, I found my voice. “Billy, use the sketch,” I insisted. “It’s as good as I’ve done.” Then, my tone sharp with frustration and fatigue, I said, “Trust me.”

  Then I wearily left. It was past eight in the morning by then and the sore throat I’d started with at 3:30 when I first got the call was now so inflamed I could barely talk. I was sick and tired.

  Yeah, I was sick and tired all right—sick and tired of detectives questioning my value or showing reluctance to trust the work I’d been doing year in and year out. After more than a dozen years, I was still having to prove myself.

  Muttering under my breath, I drove home, where Sid had already gotten the kids up, fed and off to school. The house was empty and I made myself a cup of tea with honey and lemon, then dragged off to bed. For a while, all the images I’d forced from my mind while working with Annie bubbled to the surface of my fevered brain, how she’d described the burners on the electric stove turned up so high they glowed red-hot while the man tried to burn her mama…how she’d stood over her mama’s tortured body…how she’d fought the man when he climbed on top of her, fought so hard that he punched her to make her stop, loosening her little tooth…

  The face of evil, I feel, really looks like someone you might pass on the street without a second thought, like someone you might marry, like someone you might befriend. Sometimes it’s twisted and monstrous and sometimes it’s so handsome that it looks like a girl.

  As I drifted off into a daytime dream-tossed fluish sleep, Billy Belk and Tom McCorvey were still working the streets. Unknown to me at the time, Billy had decided to trust me, after all. He started using the sketch right away.

  Chief McClelland told me later that the sketch turned out to be so good that, “we began to get an immediate response, people offering names of who it was.”

  When the sketch was shown on television news programs, the police department was flooded with calls—people who’d seen him hanging around Cynthia Tyson’s apartment complex, people who’d seen the killer (and this is unbelievable to me) pull up to his girlfriend’s apartment
in Cynthia Tyson’s stolen car, unload items stolen from her apartment and take them into his own. When Belk and McCorvey showed my sketch to the security guard at the man’s apartment, he said, “Oh yeah. That looks like Jeff Williams.”

  He pointed out the correct apartment and when Belk and McCorvey knocked on the door, a man answered—at least, a guy who looked just like my sketch. They asked his name and he said, “Jeff Williams.”

  Jeff Williams. He might have had a pretty face, but he was no sweetheart. At twenty-two years of age, he’d already been arrested by the Houston police six times and convicted four out of five times for charges ranging from auto theft to aggravated assault. His most recent arrest had been only a few months earlier, in June, when a warrant was issued to revoke his parole. He’d spent a month in jail and was ordered by the state Board of Pardons and Paroles to wear an electronic monitor.

  He never received that monitor. Had he been wearing it, an alarm would have notified authorities that he was not where he was supposed to be after 10 P.M. when he broke into Cynthia Tyson’s apartment on that terrible night.

  Twenty-four hours after I handed my sketch to Billy, he and McCorvey had obtained an arrest and search warrant for the apartment of Williams’s girlfriend, where they found items stolen from Cynthia during her murder. They arrested Williams on the spot.

  Later that day, I’m told, Billy showed Annie a photo lineup which included Williams and she immediately picked him out. “That’s him,” she said. “That’s the man who killed my mama.”

  I’d roused myself from a restless sleep while all this was going on and shuffled into the kitchen. I was eating a bowl of soup and watching the evening news when I saw my sketch followed by film footage of Billy and Tom escorting a young baby-faced man in handcuffs into the police department.

  With a rousing cheer, I yelled, “How do you like it?” as if the killer could somehow hear me and the triumph in my voice that we got him.

  We won.

  And then, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears.

  There are plenty of times that I do my best work in a sketch and we still don’t catch the guy. I don’t have the time or the luxury—and neither do the investigators—to obsess over the cases we don’t solve. We all push past it and move on to the next case.