“All right, Toby.” I scooted my chair farther away from the bed. “I’m going to move over here. I’d like you to focus straight ahead, or close your eyes, or do whatever you need to relax. We’re going to work together to do the best we can. But I want you to know that composites are not photographs, so don’t be disappointed if the drawing doesn’t look perfect to you. A composite is an investigative tool. It can be a lot of help to law enforcement even if it doesn’t look like a portrait.”
“Okay.”
I smiled at him and positioned the drawing pad. Lord, give me the ability to hear, to interpret. Help me draw an effective composite. “Toby, we’re going to focus on the facial description of the man who shot you rather than all the details of what happened.”
“You mean I don’t have to tell that story for the millionth time?”
“That’s right.”
He sighed. “Good.”
In a purely cognitive interview it would have been necessary for Toby to recount everything, and through his remembering events, I would have extracted memories of the assailant’s face. But over the past year I’d settled into using a different technique — the composite-specific interview. As Toby recalled facial features, I would sketch the proportions first, then fine-tune the drawing with the help of photographs from the FBI Facial Identification Catalog.
“Okay, Toby. Tell me what you remember about the man who shot you.”
Toby began talking and I listened, jotting notes. This was a crucial time in the interview, a time for free recall with no distraction. When Toby fell silent, I waited until he was ready to continue. A general image formed. A man perhaps in his early thirties, around six feet tall . . . Dark hair, short and combed back with no part . . . A squared face, protruding brown eyes . . . Prominent chin . . .
I began to sketch.
Time fell away. Noises of the hospital — voices, footsteps, a cart rattling by — faded into the background, a wash of gray on canvas. My concentration honed, my senses alert to Toby’s every word. The familiar scent of lead and eraser, the scratches of pencil against paper, absorbed me. I registered every sniff that Toby made, the rustle of sheets when he paused to shift position. I could practically hear his mind churning, churning to remember more. Come on, Toby, you can do it. It was like this in every interview — my words and thoughts, the fibers of my being, straining to connect with the person, to shape the shifting sands of memory.
The killer’s face began to emerge. But I would need a better sense of its proportions.
In time, Toby’s words ran out. “I can’t — I don’t know any more.” He lifted a hand off the sheet, let it fall.
“All right, you’re doing great.” I perused my sketch, deciding what to ask first. “You said he had a square face. Just how wide would you say his jaw was in comparison to the cheekbones?”
Toby thought for a moment, then described as best he could.
I nodded. “Good. And tell me about his eyes. How far apart were they?”
We continued back and forth, the image refining. I switched from more open-ended questions to those with dual-choice answers. Were the lips thinner or fuller? Was the nose more pointed or flatter? Then I began to select pages in the Facial Identification Catalog for Toby to review. One showed various pictures of protruding eyes; another, selections of jutting chins. I changed pencils, erased, concentrated, listened, and drew. Toby became more animated with the process, his eyes widening at flash memories of certain features.
Not once did I look at my watch. An hour had passed, perhaps. Maybe longer.
“Ready to look at the refined drawing, Toby? It’s not final yet but I think we’re getting closer.”
“I’m ready.” Toby’s mouth hung open, forming a little O. He lifted his head off the pillows, winced, then laid it back down.
“You all right?”
“Yeah. Just moved my leg enough to remind me why I’m here.” He swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. I want to see the drawing.”
“Here goes.” I turned the pad around and held it up.
Toby’s eyes roved over the page. “Wow. Yeah. That’s him . . .” He frowned. “I mean, it is, but there’s something . . . It’s not quite right yet. I’m not sure why.”
“That’s okay; it’s what I expected.” I moved my chair closer to his bed. “Let’s go over the composite point by point now. It’s never too late to make changes. You still have the energy to do that?”
He nodded.
We started at the top and worked down. The eyes had a little less upturn at the outer corners, the cheeks a little more fullness. Toby stared at the drawing. “And the mouth looked harder somehow. Maybe less curve at the top. He just looked . . . I mean, everything about him was so cold.”
Sometimes at this point in an interview, when a vague “something” is still missing, I’ve needed to lead the witness through a context reinstatement, asking the person to close his eyes and replay all the events. Almost always, something new about the features comes up. But it’s an emotional and frightening experience, and I only do it if the person is able and willing. I could see Toby was tiring. I didn’t want to put him through that ordeal.
Please, God, let this be right.
I held up the pad. “Okay, Toby, look at the face as a whole now. See anything else that needs to be fixed?”
He stared, frowning. His lips tightened, fingers hooking into the sheets. “No, nothing. That’s . . . You got it.”
“You sure?”
He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, then nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Thank You, God. I put down the pad. Already his expression was flattening with fatigue. “You did a great job, Toby. Thank you. Hope you’ll get some rest now.”
He gave me that victim’s smile I’ve come to know — one of pained and weary gratitude. My heart swelled at the sight. I squeezed his shoulder, uttering a silent prayer for him, and said good-bye.
When I slid into my car, the clock read three thirty. Dave would have picked up the girls at school by now. They were probably already home. I pulled out of the medical center parking lot and headed toward the Redding Police Station to log in the composite. From there it would be sent immediately to law enforcement agencies in surrounding towns, to the Record Searchlight, and local TV. My work on the case was nearly over.
So why did I feel uneasy?
The tape of Chelsea Adams’s voice whirred a rewind in my head. Click. Press play. “God sent me a vision. I have to admit it was terrifying. Then when it faded, I saw a face . . .”
Whir. Rewind. The tape played again.
My fingers drummed the steering wheel. Jenna was right. Why did Chelsea call me? I should at least have asked what her vision was about. How unthinking of me! Now my overactive brain, fueled with adrenaline from the task I’d just completed, projected wild explanations. What if the vision she saw was about this shooting? Maybe the face she saw was the one I’d just drawn. Or another person who was somehow involved.
More conjectures flowed. What if Chelsea envisioned someone in my family being hurt? What if it was one of my children? Or Erin, or Dave?
Oh, God, please don’t let it be that!
Only by sheer will did I rein in the disturbing thoughts. By the time I reached the police station, I’d forced myself into calmness. But I realized one thing. I could not refuse Chelsea Adams based on the scant information I knew.
Lord, why did You tell her to call me?
Chapter 8
The minute I entered the Redding Police Station, sketchpad in hand, I found myself hustled toward Tim Blanche’s office.
“You got the drawing? Good, we’ve been waiting for you.” Rod Houp, a thin, hunched officer with a face like Mr. Burns on The Simpsons, prodded me down the hall. He bristled with the energy I’d become all too familiar with — the adrenaline rush of chasing a killer. “We’ve just gotten some ID leads on the suspect. Here’s hoping the composite is a match.” He pulled up short outside the detective
’s office. The door was slightly ajar, voices filtering through — Blanche’s, and a young woman’s, fraught with tension. “Hang on just a minute.” Rod rapped on the door, then stuck his head inside. “Annie’s here.”
“Great, send her in.”
Rod stepped aside, a brisk wave of his hand ushering me inside the office. He dogged my heels into the cramped quarters and closed the door. Tim rose from behind his battered desk, already reaching for the drawing. “Composite done?”
“Yes, but it’s still on the sketchpad. I thought I’d prepare it for you here.”
“Yeah, fine. Let’s see what you got.”
My gaze fell on a figure perched in a chair before Tim’s desk. She looked to be in her early twenties. Long dark hair with red-pink streaks. Black liner smudged beneath frightened, chocolate eyes. She took one look at me and pulled in her shoulders, arms cradling her chest. I gave her a tentative smile as I flipped back the cover of the sketchpad and held it out to Blanche. The young woman did not respond, her eyes following the drawing as if it were fire in my hand.
Blanche grabbed the sketchpad and stared at the drawing. Plucked a piece of paper from his desk and compared the two. Back and forth, back and forth jerked his eyes. I watched his face as jagged lines smoothed from his forehead. He gave a quick sigh, aimed a meaningful look at me. “Dayna.” He spoke to the young woman. “Is this the guy you’re talking about?” He turned the sketchpad toward her.
Dayna’s eyes widened. She pulled in a breath, held it. Went very still, as if a wall of immobility might defend her against a knowledge she couldn’t deny. Then she nodded and her face crumpled. She dropped her head in both hands and sobbed.
My feet carried me to her, one of my hands resting on her shoulder. I focused questioning eyes on Tim. Satisfaction played across his features. The very air around him crackled with sudden energy. He didn’t so much as glance at Dayna. With a flick of his wrist, he motioned to Rod to whisk the girl away. “Show her where the bathroom is, will you? Then have her wait in the lobby until I can talk to her a little more. I’ve got an arrest warrant to issue.”
Without a word Rod complied. Dayna’s sobs bounced off the walls as he led her away.
Indignation stiffened my back. Break in the case or not, Blanche had no right to be so insensitive. “We should call Gerri Carson.” I kept my voice level. “Whatever’s happened here, Dayna could obviously use some help.”
Blanche sank into his chair, eyes riveted on the drawing. “Yeah, sure, I’ll call her.” His tone edged with derision.
My jaw clenched. Okay, so Blanche thought Christian ity was for the weak and foolish, that much he’d made clear. A comment here and there, particularly after I’d spoken out during the Poison Killer case, and I knew where he stood. He could think less of me if he wanted. Gerri was another matter. Yes, she was “one of those Christians.” She also happened to be a very experienced and caring law enforcement chaplain, and right now an apparent key witness needed help.
“Maybe you’ll forget, Tim, with all that’s on your mind.” Despite my efforts, the words sounded judgmental. I worked to soften them. “How about if I call her for you?”
Blanche’s eyes rose to mine, one side of his mouth twisting into the familiar curl. “Fine. Whatever.” He regarded me for a moment, then flexed his shoulders, as if to say he was a big enough man to shake aside our differences. “Annie, I got a lot to do, but before you make that phone call, let me tell you what I’ve learned about this guy. Take it as a warning to be careful while he’s on the loose. Sounds like we’re dealing with a real sicko.” He pointed his finger at me. “But I’ll get him.”
The detective’s emphasis suddenly clarified everything. His meaning knifed right through me. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Blanche’s I didn’t mean himself over others in law enforcement. It meant himself versus me. I’d led authorities to the Poison Killer. I had helped in the case against Bill Bland. And I’d stopped Lisa Willit’s murderer from going free.
Blanche’s attitude toward me, his cynicism against my faith, was all tied to one thing: jealousy.
I stared at him, hoping against hope that he didn’t see the stunning realization on my face. And the anger. How could anyone be jealous of me, after what I endured? Who could possibly wish that on himself? I’d gladly, a million times over, have handed the breaking of the serial killer case to Blanche, if he’d wanted to be in my shoes. If he’d wanted to nearly die.
I swallowed, feeling the heightened rise and fall of my chest. An awkward pause prickled the air.
“All right. Tell me what you know.” I remained standing.
Blanche pierced me with a look, then blinked away. A little too forcefully, he smacked my sketchpad down on his desk. Handed me the piece of paper that he’d compared to my drawing. My eyes fell on a printout of a driver’s license. Orwin Robert Neese. Age thirty-two. Five feet, eleven inches tall. Brown hair and eyes. That face — by now I knew all its contours, its proportions. I had just drawn it. God, thank You for helping me do it right! I gave the paper back to Tim and waited.
Blanche jerked his chin toward the chair in which Dayna had sat. “This gal, Dayna Edwington, was one of three people who called today. Said she heard on the TV last evening that Mike Winger had been shot. Wednesday night, she was at a birthday party for some friend. One of those parties where there’s too much booze and drugs, people with defenses down and tempers waiting to fly. This Orwin Neese was there. A real hotshot. Has quite a bit of money, apparently through a large inheritance, and flaunts it. According to Dayna, the guy’s heartless, paranoid, and has a mean streak. She couldn’t see what her roommate — named Amy Flyte — saw in him. Maybe the flamboyance and money. Whatever. Amy told Dayna that Orwin made her feel special. Protected. But then he starts showing real jealousy, surprise, surprise. It gets extreme. She can’t talk to another guy, barely look one in the eye. That’s the context you’ve got when Mike Winger arrives at the party and starts showing attention to Amy.”
As Blanche talked, my thoughts turned from him to the shooting scene. The film in my mind whirred. I remembered staring in my rearview mirror, seeing the pointed gun jerking up and down in the bearer’s murderous dash. Jealous. Heartless, with a mean streak. Yes. A man like that could kill in broad daylight.
How close he had come to me and Jenna with a loaded weapon. I shuddered. God, thank You for Your protection.
Blanche’s gaze fell to the composite and he sniffed. “So Orwin and Mike get in a violent argument. Orwin spouts off about how Mike’s the second guy that day who’s hit on Amy, and both of these men are going to pay. So will Amy. Orwin says he’ll kill all three of them, and they’d better believe him ’cause he’s done it before.” Blanche lifted his eyebrows and paused, emphasizing the information. “Dayna and Amy hightail it away from the party, along with Mike. Which only makes Orwin madder.
“Then, of course, yesterday Mike Winger was shot. This morning Amy leaves the apartment but doesn’t show at work. Dayna gets a call around noon — nobody can find the girl. Dayna calls Trend Gear Stereo Systems, which Orwin owns. He hasn’t shown up there either. Dayna’s terrified that Orwin killed Mike and now her best friend. So she came in to tell us her story.”
I stared at a deep scratch on the top of Blanche’s desk, assimilating the information, imagining Dayna’s fear. I hoped Blanche did find this murderer. Tim could have all the glory he wanted. Just get this guy off the streets. “Dayna looked pretty scared. Any chance Neese would go after her, if he knew how much information she was giving?”
Blanche’s mouth flattened. “Oh yeah, don’t think she hasn’t thought of that. We’ll have to keep a real eye on her.”
Oh, Dayna. I knew the fear all too well.
“What about this third guy?” I asked. “The other one Orwin said he would kill. Anyone know who he is?”
“None so far. Orwin named no names.”
A chill blew down my neck. I clenched my upper arms. “So we could have two people missing
? Up to three people dead? And we have no idea where Orwin Neese is.”
Blanche rubbed a hand down his face. “That’s about the long and short of it.” He pushed to his feet. “Okay. You go make your phone call to that chaplain. I got more important things to do. I am going to find Orwin Neese. Before he kills anybody else.”
Help him do it, God, I prayed as I walked from his office. Help him do it soon.
Before I left the police station, I called Gerri Carson and told her about Dayna. Gerri said she would come right away, and she’d ask another chaplain to follow up with Dayna during the next few days. Gerri was leaving the following day for a much-anticipated Hawaiian vacation with her husband.
“I know you need the rest, Gerri,” I told her. “Thanks for doing this while you’re trying to pack.”
As Dayna and I waited in the reception area, I assured her that the police were doing all they could to find her roommate, that even now they were issuing an arrest warrant for Orwin Neese. No doubt they would also obtain a search warrant for his home, seeking evidence such as a gun that would match the bullets removed from Mike Winger and Toby Brown.
Dayna sat with fidgeting hands in her lap, eyes downcast, as she talked to me about Amy and their friendship. Her voice shook, and after a short while she could speak no more. She took to rubbing her thumb hard over the back of her hand, watching the skin crinkle over her knuckles. I could do little but silently pray for her. And Amy.
“It’s my fault.” She whispered the words so softly that I almost wasn’t sure I’d heard them at all.
I focused on her profile, the curve of her shoulders. “Why would you say that?”
Her throat convulsed. “I’m the one who wanted to go to that party. Amy wanted to break up with Orwin because of . . . the way he is, and she knew he’d be there. But I convinced her to go anyway.”
Her final words tilted upward, and another sob rattled her chest.
“Dayna.” I laid a hand on her bent neck. The bones of her spine jutted into my palm. That physical sense of her framework jolted me, a reminder of the even greater frailty of her soul. Words of solace evaporated from my tongue. Who was I to tell her not to feel responsible, when my own guilt still plagued me? Guilt over my failure to keep Vic, my ex-husband, from straying. Or to keep Stephen away from drugs. The guilt I’d once felt over Lisa Willit’s death. Again and again people had told me these things weren’t my fault. My head knew they were right. But my heart didn’t want to let go.
Web of Lies Page 5