Faces of Evil Read online

  Of course I was way too proud and independent to take him up on that offer, but I knew from that point on that this was a man who knew how to love—unconditionally.

  The youngest of seven children, Sid grew up with four older sisters and it gave him a perspective on life that was unique among men I’d encountered. He knew how to talk to a woman, how to treat her, how to care for her. Though a man’s man in every way, Sid was a nurturer.

  I’d been working so hard, being so independent and brave, that I didn’t realize how much I needed nurturing. In relationships, I tend to be the giver and so many men I’d known had been only too happy to be takers. Sid knew how to take love but he also knew how to give it.

  Almost as impressive to me as his ability to love unconditionally was that he had worked hard to build a career in construction plumbing, he was proud of what he did and not the least bit pretentious. (The muscles came from hard work, not from some elite fitness club.) I was so used to dating guys who lied about their incomes and tried other tactics to impress me that I fell in love with Sid’s honesty and genuineness as much as anything.

  When we first started dating, Sid was living with a lovely young couple named James and Diane Denton. Diane was a stay-home mom, taking care of their first baby and Sid helped out with the rent and household expenses. Sid has always loved kids and he was terrific with their daughter, Amy—an energetic one-year-old—and it made me joyful, watching him with her. The four of us got along wonderfully well and when I was over at their house, I felt at home.

  Let down my guard a bit more.

  It was nice, not feeling so alone for a change. Feeling like part of a family. Being in love with a gorgeous guy. Within three weeks we knew we would be married. In fact, there wasn’t even a romantic proposal. It was just a fact that we accepted almost from the beginning.

  I had found the love of my life and I was looking forward to happiness with him…but it was complicated. There were still all those demons to contend with.

  With Sid, I lowered my shield a little and let myself be vulnerable. That’s when the demons get you.

  Everything was just fine until the day Diane turned on the evening news.

  I never watched the evening news. Never. Of course, I know now that this is one way in which some victims of violent crime deal with their attacks—they avoid news of anyone else’s violent attacks. And that’s all the local evening news is—murders, rapes, fires, violence.

  I had found that watching the evening news and hearing about those violent crimes triggered all sorts of uncomfortable feelings I did not want to deal with, so I just avoided the subject altogether…until the day Diane turned on the television and I was trapped into watching with her.

  That’s when I heard that a dance instructor had been raped at gunpoint in front of her students—little girls, eleven and twelve years old.

  Suddenly, as if some underground cave deep inside me yawned open, out swarmed clouds of bat-like demons, driving me to an almost unrecognizable rage. All my carefully-controlled emotions burst loose in a torrent of outrage and pain and I didn’t know what to do except scream at the television.

  I wanted to chase that animal down and run him over with my car. I wanted to parade him in front of that poor woman and those traumatized little girls and say, “See this? They’re gonna put him in jail, in a cage like the animal he is!”

  Diane kept her composure, but she must have wondered what in the world was going on. I hadn’t been dating Sid all that long at that point, but long enough for her to know that this was just not like me.

  I didn’t know, of course, that everything I was feeling was completely normal, that in fact, it was long overdue. This kind of white-hot anger is necessary for the healing process, or else it will fester inside a victim like pus in an infected sore and, like an untreated infection, can poison over time. I wasn’t just filled with rage for this poor dance instructor, I was filled with rage for me, for anyone who was forced to suffer unjustly because of another.

  The announcer was droning on with a generic description of the attacker: “male, 5′10″, brown hair, brown eyes.”

  At that, I found myself giggling, but it was mirthless, cynical laughter. “That’s just laughable!” I cried, almost hysterical. “They’re describing half the men in Houston—you’re talking a million guys.”

  They’ll never find justice for her, I anguished. She’ll be alone and afraid and lost just like…

  Just like me.

  I felt something building inside my chest, a physical burning, a sickness just like what I had felt that day years before after I had been raped.

  Remember that Bible story about how the blind apostle Paul was walking along on the road to Damascus, when suddenly, “the scales fell away from his eyes” and he could see—not just literally, but also figuratively?

  That’s what happened to me, in a manner of speaking.

  I knew, just like that.

  It was as if all that tumultuous, chaotic energy that was colliding within my heart and mind had suddenly focused itself with all the concentrated power of a laser beam.

  All the scattergun restlessness that had driven me from city to city and job to job and man to man since the rape, the force that had pushed me almost over the brink of sanity, that had pressured me until my chest turned purple from the pain…all that energy suddenly compressed itself into one powerful lightning bolt: a knowing.

  Whirling toward Diane, I said, “I could sketch that guy.”

  Although I had never done a sketch of anyone based on descriptions alone, I had done thousands of portraits and I knew—almost without hesitation—I knew I could do it.

  If Diane was having trouble keeping up with the thunderstorm of emotions she was observing passing over me, she kept it to herself. I still had not told her about the rape, nor was I ready to discuss the attack I had suffered at this point. But Diane seemed to accept what I was saying at face value and said, “Okay, call the police. Tell them you can do a sketch of the guy.”

  In my mind flashed an image of what the police would have to say about some artist approaching them out of the blue with such a suggestion and I shook my head. “No. I’m not ready. I have to practice first.”

  She nodded. “All right, then. Let me describe my mother to you and you can draw her.”

  “No.” Pacing the floor, I said, “You know her face too intimately. I need to do a sketch of someone who’s a stranger to you.”

  At this point, the energy was burning a hole right through my chest, or at least it felt like it. I knew that I would do anything to make this work. Instinctively I knew that if I could use my gifts and talents to help other people get justice, it would also soothe my own pain.

  “Go pick out someone, anyone,” I instructed a bemused Diane. “A gas station attendant. Anyone. I’ll stay here with the baby. You come back and tell me what the guy looks like and I’ll see if I can do a sketch.”

  Though she did comment that the idea was “weird,” Diane was nothing if not game. She gathered up her purse, car keys and left.

  Almost immediately, I burst into tears.

  I’d never seen anyone do anything like what I was proposing before. I had no idea how it was done or even where to begin.

  Why did I let myself get into this? I agonized for a few moments. Why did I let these demons loose?

  However, though I couldn’t articulate it at the time—not even to myself—somehow I knew that if I was able to do the sketch, it would heal me.

  But if I didn’t…it would destroy me.

  If I can’t do it, I found myself thinking, I really don’t want to live anymore. All of a sudden, no other job in the world seemed as worthwhile to me. I began to grieve in advance, knowing that a failure at this point would make me feel worthless.

  At that point, as I continued to agonize, Diane’s baby started to get fussy. I struggled to pull myself together before Diane returned. That little ten-minute trip of hers felt as if it took an hour. When
she got back, I went to fetch my drawing materials, which I always kept in the trunk of my car, and returned, sitting down at the kitchen table.

  “Okay,” said Diane, clearly into what was for her a cool game. “I saw a black guy. He had a round face.”

  I stared at the blank sketchpad I’d laid flat on the table—which I soon figured out was a mistake—and I couldn’t visualize what she was saying.

  How do you start? Where?

  Eyes blurred with tears, I shoved back from the table. “I can’t do it,” I said. “This is too hard. It’s impossible.”

  But Diane knew how to get things done. She was relentless. She simply would not let me quit. She bossed, pushed and would not take no for an answer. “You can do it,” she insisted. “Keep working. It’ll come to you.”

  I’ll always be grateful to her for that.

  She described the guy’s hair and eyes, nose and ears, constantly making me rework and make changes. By the time I’d worked my way down to the mouth, I was completely drained.

  “He’s the kind of guy who never stops grinning,” she said.

  “Mouth open or closed?”

  “Open.”

  “Does he show his upper teeth and his lower teeth?”

  Surprised, she said, “Yeah!”

  For the first time, I felt a smile creep across my face. The eighteen months I’d spent in dental school were going to come in useful after all. One of the things we’d had to do was memorize the placement of teeth.

  I drew the grinning mouth, even showing a touch of tongue behind the teeth.

  Diane threw up her hands and said, “That looks like him! That’s him!”

  My heart was beginning a slow thud in my chest. “Don’t say it looks like him if it doesn’t,” I said solemnly. “I mean, don’t flatter me. This is too important.” She had no idea the emotional investment I had in this one drawing.

  “No! I’m not just saying it. It really looks like the man at the gas station.” She grabbed up her car keys and the baby. “C’mon, let’s go down to the gas station and I’ll show you.”

  It was three blocks from Diane’s house to the station and I turned my face to the passenger-side window, eyes squeezed shut, willing myself not to cry. The short trip was almost unbearable.

  We drove up and got out of the car. I pulled out the 18” by 24” piece of drawing paper on which I’d drawn the portrait. The attendant walked out of the little office.

  A total match.

  It looked as if he had posed for the portrait.

  Handing the picture to Diane, I placed my hands on the top of the gas pump, hung my head between my shoulder blades and sobbed, wailed, in joyous relief.

  While my tears poured out and Diane stood, dumbstruck, I stared at the oily concrete of the gas station tarmac and saw my whole future laid out for me.

  I will catch them, I realized. All the killers and rapists and thieves and haters like the one who attacked me and the one who assaulted that dance teacher. I will give crime victims back their lives and, in so doing, they will give me back mine.

  At this realization, I laughed a little and looked up to see the gas station attendant, staring at the drawing. He recognized Diane from her earlier visit and asked, “Did you do that?”

  Grinning, Diane shook her head and pointed at me. “She did it.”

  He glanced from me to the drawing. At first, his expression was one of disbelief and then, amazement, followed by genuine anxiety. He said, “But you weren’t here!”

  I could see that he was spooked. In fact, he began to inch backwards away from me, holding up his hands as if to fend off a curse. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Why would you want to do that?”

  I couldn’t begin to imagine how weird this whole thing must have seemed to this man, if for no other reason than because of my own behavior, which must have seemed bizarre to him. But I could also understand how it would worry him that someone he’d never seen before could appear out of nowhere with a dead-on drawing of his face.

  I didn’t know how to answer him without going into the criminal angle of the whole thing, so I just said, “C’mon Diane; let’s go.”

  It was a profound, powerful, energizing moment in my life. All I had to do now was contact the police.

  When I realized that I could draw people’s faces without looking at them, from descriptions alone, I guess I thought the hard part was over.

  Little did I know that it was only just beginning.

  Chapter Four:

  “Total Failure”

  “Houston Police Department. How may I direct your call?”

  “Um…hi. My name is Lois Gibson. I’m an artist, and I can draw faces really well, just from descriptions, and I was wondering…”

  “You need to call the television stations. They set up courtroom artists.”

  “No, no. I’m not a courtroom artist. I mean…I’m offering to draw faces of suspects from witness descriptions.”

  “You need another department. Why don’t you try Homicide? Their number is…”

  “Thank you.”

  “Homicide.”

  “Hi. My name is Lois Gibson. I’m an artist and I can draw faces really well, just from descriptions and I was wondering…”

  “Well…hmmm…I’m not sure who you should speak with about that. Have you tried Robbery?”

  “Okay. Would you mind giving me the number?”

  “Sure. It’s…”

  “Thanks.”

  “Robbery.”

  “Um, hello. My name is Lois Gibson and I’m an artist who can draw faces really well. I could do drawings of suspects from witness descrip—”

  “You need to call Homicide.”

  And so it went. Basically, nobody seemed to know what to do with me and so everyone wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible. Most said they had never heard of using an artist. One detective with whom I spoke said they did use an artist but couldn’t describe what he or she did and didn’t want to let me speak to the person. The thought of spending money on anything that they did not regard as essential was considered a ridiculous waste of scarce and valuable resources.

  And hiring some flaky woman artist to come draw criminals was, to their way of thinking, absolutely not essential.

  I was sure they were missing out. Following my emotional meltdown in my friend Diane’s house and my drawing of the gas station attendant, I was glued to the evening news, night after night.

  Rapes, murders, kidnappings, robberies and assaults flashed across my television screen with nauseating repetition. Houston was now one of the most crime-ridden cities in the nation. There were more homicides than there were days in that year. Every night I watched and waited to see if any of the news outlets would display a forensic sketch of the suspect, but they never did.

  Over and over again, monotone-voiced newscasters reeled off what sounded like the same description of the same criminal: white male, 5′9″ or 5′10″ tall, brown hair, brown eyes…or black male, 5′10″ or 5′11″ tall, black hair, brown eyes…blah, blah, blah.

  It blew my mind, the sheer number of crimes that were committed in full view of horrified witnesses who, no doubt, got a clear view of the suspect—not to mention rape victims who, more often than not, certainly saw the guys who were raping them.

  If the police would only let me speak to the victims, I could draw those creeps—I knew it!

  It was all I could do not to scream at the television—this time in sheer frustration—as I had done at Diane’s that day.

  Meanwhile, one upbeat thing occurred. I moved into a one hundred-year-old duplex with sixty-foot pecan trees domed over the back yard, ceilings ten feet high, tall windows and a cast-iron bathtub with claw feet. The wood frame house was set up on blocks, like all the houses in that neighborhood, to protect it from hurricane-driven floods. Behind the house was a three-car garage that had a great little apartment upstairs.

  The plumbing in the old house was state-of-the art—thirty years earlier.
I’ll never forget the first fight Sid and I had. He slammed out the front door and I went to bed fuming. Early the next morning, there was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” I grumbled.

  “It’s me.”

  Growling under my breath that he would have the nerve to wake me up so early when he knew good and well I was mad at him, I flung back the front door and there he stood, a big old grin on his handsome face, clutching in his arms…a brand-new, snowy-white toilet! He had it installed in about twenty minutes, like some kind of voodoo magic, and his ploy worked like a charm on me.

  From that point on, whenever Sid and I had a fight, he fixed something. Once he installed a shower over the old claw-foot tub, complete with a ring to hold the shower curtain. The next fight we had, I wound up with a garbage disposal in the kitchen sink.

  Soon we got married.

  I had never told Sid of my seething passion to break into the world of forensic sketching that lurked just beneath the surface. Of course I had told him, eventually, about the rape, but unfortunately, the poor guy reacted as most men in the early eighties would: he asked me what I had been wearing. He didn’t even understand his insinuation that I might have provoked the attack. He didn’t realize he was trying to “blame the victim.”

  And as I said earlier, though my husband was usually sensitive, those were the prevailing attitudes at that time. Sometimes, even today, crime victims are subjected to these kinds of questions. People forget that a predator watches for an opportunity to strike at his prey and it doesn’t matter how the prey is dressed.

  A predator is like a hunter, sitting up in a deer blind, seeing a doe stray into his line of fire; he doesn’t stop to think how beautiful her big brown eyes are or how gracefully she stands: he just aims his weapon and fires.

  It’s the same way with predatory criminals. They’re just looking for an opportunity to strike.

  When Sid asked me what I had been wearing that terrible day of my attack, I screamed at him.