Body Hunter

by Patricia Springer

  It was hard for Dillard to recognize the man the investigators described. Wardrip had been a model parolee since his release from prison two years earlier. Wardrip and Dillard had worked out a schedule every week and Wardrip had not strayed from the plan. In addition, Dillard had made surprise visits to check on Wardrip’s whereabouts and his activities at work and home.

  Wardrip had attended mandatory anger-management classes, Alcoholics Anonymous, and Narcotics Anonymous. He’d even attended meetings for longer than the state required.

  “John, I’ve done everything the state has asked me to do. Can I get the electronic monitor off?” Wardrip had asked Dillard more than once in the two years they had been meeting.

  “No, Faryion,” Dillard had replied. He knew that it was futile for Wardrip to ask. No one had been released early from the monitoring system since the program had started in 1997. Faryion had to be monitored for the full two years the state had ordered. Oddly, Wardrip’s time was now up. The monitor was scheduled to be removed that very day. The day he would be arrested for Sims’s murder.

  As usual, Wardrip arrived at Dillard’s office right on time. He had been punctual for two years; there had been no reason to believe that he would be late that day.

  Wardrip’s face registered slight confusion as he walked into Dillard’s office and saw Little and Smith rising to their feet.

  Little and Smith introduced themselves, identifying their positions with their respective district attorneys’ offices. Wardrip, substantially taller than the investigators, watched the men closely.

  “We want to talk to you about a few things,” Smith said. “Let’s go up to the DA’s office.”

  Wardrip’s heart sank. This was to have been the beginning of his freedom. He had done everything he could to make things perfect for him and Glenda. He had made more money in the last year than he had any year of his life. His sixteen-thousand-dollar income, added to Glenda’s pay, totaled thirty-seven thousand dollars. It was not a lot of money to some people, but to Wardrip it was a great sum. He had even been able to trade in his old beat-up, cream-colored Pontiac for a new car.

  Having given his life to God, Faryion believed he was living a blessed life. Nothing could go wrong now. He was so close to the elusive happiness he had sought for years. As soon as the leg monitor was removed, he would have the perfect life he had dreamed of and worked for.

  Wardrip sat uncomfortably in the chair in the DA’s office. The interview began with the standard reading of the Miranda Warning.

  Considered a cornerstone of our civil liberties, the Miranda Warning is named for Ernesto Miranda, an eighth-grade dropout with a criminal record. Miranda had been arrested for raping and kidnapping a mildly retarded eighteen-year-old woman in Phoenix, Arizona. After a two-hour police interrogation, Miranda had signed a written confession. He was never told he had the right to remain silent, to have a lawyer present, or to be protected against self-incrimination. Miranda’s sentence was overturned three years later, in 1966, by the Supreme Court. By their ruling, the court established that an accused person has the right to remain silent and that prosecutors may not use statements made by defendants while in custody unless they have been advised of their rights.

  Miranda’s reprieve was short-lived. He was convicted in a second trial and served eleven years. He was arrested and sent to prison several more times before being fatally stabbed in a barroom fight. His suspected killer was released, ironically having exercised his Miranda Right to remain silent.

  Wardrip was familiar with the Miranda Warning, having been read the same rights after his 1986 arrest. But unlike his previous capture, Wardrip was determined to remain silent. He had no intentions of talking to police about Sims, Gibbs, Blau, or Taylor. This time he had too much to lose. He had Glenda. Their life together. His family. His friends. His job.

  “Did you know Ellen Blau?” one of the investigators asked.

  “No,” Wardrip lied.

  Little and Smith had agreed they would begin the questioning with the Ellen Blau case. They had the DNA evidence for Sims and Gibbs, but they lacked the physical evidence they needed to connect Wardrip with Blau’s death.

  “Did you have anything to do with Ellen Blau’s death?”

  “No,” Wardrip answered emphatically.

  Questioning continued for some time concerning Wardrip’s connection to Blau. The suspect remained defiant in his contention that he had nothing to do with Blau’s murder. Then the interview turned to the Sims’s and Gibbs’s murders.

  Just as he had done when asked about Ellen Blau, Wardrip denied knowing anything about the other two young Wichita Falls women.

  “We have DNA evidence linking you to Terry Sims,” Little said, watching Wardrip closely for any reaction. But the pronouncement didn’t alter Wardrip’s denial of knowing Terry Sims or killing her. Finally, Little and Smith decided to forgo any further questioning.

  “Am I free to go?” Wardrip asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Little said, disappointed that they hadn’t gotten any information linking Wardrip to Blau.

  “Faryion Wardrip, you are under arrest for the capital murder of Terry Sims,” Little informed Wardrip. The investigators decided to let the suspect sit in jail and stew about the capital murder charge. The next step was to get blood samples and fingerprints. With that evidence in hand, the investigators would have the leverage they needed to put pressure on Wardrip and get the confession they wanted.

  Wardrip was taken from the third-floor DA’s office to the first-floor booking area of the Wichita County Jail. There the sheriff’s deputy took first his right hand, then his left, and carefully rolled each of the tips of his long, lean fingers in the black ink, then rolled them on the clean, white fingerprint card.

  Wardrip couldn’t believe what was happening. He was supposed to be on his way home, free of the remembrances of prison. He had managed to shove the crimes of the past so far back in the recesses of his mind that he hadn’t even thought of them since arriving in Olney. It was as though they never existed. He and Glenda had made plans. How could he tell her what was happening? How he could tell her now about the death of Tina Kimbrew? How could he explain why he’d lied? Would she leave him? And what would the news of his arrest do to his family, his ailing father in particular? His breathing became rapid. His hands shook as the deputy handed him a paper towel to wipe the black smudges from his fingertips.

  “There’s some mistake,” Wardrip insisted. “I didn’t do what they said.”

  His statements were ignored.

  Wardrip was whisked into a waiting sheriff’s car and transported to the hospital where a blood sample was drawn. The blood was then transferred to Judy Floyd at Gene Screen for evaluation and comparison with evidence found at the crime scenes of Sims and Gibbs.

  In the confines of his jail cell, Wardrip finally relinquished control of his fear. He jumped up and down on the hard floor of the cell and he screamed to anyone that could hear.

  “You people are crazy!” he yelled, pulling on the steel bars of the cell. “I didn’t do this thing! I have a good job, a good wife. I’m doing great. I’m not doing anything wrong.” Tears streamed down his face.

  Wardrip was enraged that after two years of restricted movement and on the very day he would be unbound forever, he had again lost his freedom. He couldn’t tell his parents he had again been arrested for murder. He decided to call Bryce.

  “Bryce?” Wardrip said into the jail phone. “I’ve been arrested. I need you to call Mom and Dad.”

  Bryce Wardrip stared at his wife sitting at the kitchen table. He didn’t say a word for several moments. Tina watched the color drain from her husband’s face. Finally, he said, “I’ll give you the number.” His words were edged with bitterness.

  “I don’t have anything to write with but toothpaste,” Wardrip said. “I need you to call them, then call me back later.”

  Anger began to fester in Bryce. Why did he have to always tell their folks b
ad news? he asked himself.

  As disgusted as Bryce was with Faryion, he believed his brother was telling the truth when he said he hadn’t killed the Wichita Falls women.

  “I stand behind my brother,” Bryce later told the press, his expression solemn. He was obviously distraught over the allegations made against his brother.

  The following morning, it was Faryion Wardrip’s duty to read the scriptures and serve communion to the members of the Hamilton Street Church of Christ. Some members knew why Wardrip was absent; others learned the news from parishioners as they gathered in small groups, speaking in muffled tones. Reverend Clark took over the leadership of the class that Faryion and Glenda Wardrip had been team teaching for several weeks. The Wardrips had been an effective duo. Faryion told their students horror stories of life on the streets as a sinner, while Glenda tempered his stories with her knowledge of the Bible and God’s salvation.

  On hearing the news of their teacher’s arrest, the junior high kids wanted to talk about Wardrip and what he had been accused of doing. Typically, the kids recoiled. They were numbed by the news, not unlike their parents.

  Clark spoke to the leaders of the church just prior to the morning worship service, warning them that a reporter from the Wichita Falls newspaper had requested to attend their morning worship service. The reporter, like any other visitor, was welcomed by Clark to worship with his congregation. But the elders were nervous about the visitor’s intrusion on their private quandary.

  “The reporter’s out there from the newspaper. What are you going to do?” one of the elders asked anxiously just prior to entering the sanctuary.

  “Let God work,” the young minister replied calmly.

  Clark knew he had to address Wardrip’s arrest up front. As he looked out upon his congregation, a woman slipped into a pew and whispered to her friend, “Did you see the newspaper? I just can’t believe it. I just can’t put him [Wardrip] together with what they say he’s done.”

  Clark’s congregation waited silently in the pews for him to tell them what to do amidst all the flurry. In their hands, they held the morning service’s bulletin, where Faryion Wardrip’s name appeared as a participant in the morning worship. He was to read the scriptures as the elders passed out the communion Eucharist.

  Moments after Clark took his place at the front of the church, he began to speak. “We’ve got some business to conduct. If you haven’t heard from the media, if you haven’t read the newspaper yet, Faryion Wardrip’s been arrested for some old murders in Wichita Falls. We need to talk about this.”

  Clark read prayer requests from Wardrip’s family, then asked his congregation to rise up, seize the opportunity, and use it for the church’s advantage. “Folks, this is a wide-open opportunity to show everyone what we’re made of,” Clark said.

  Clark had to reaffirm the people’s place as a church.

  “We are here to offer the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the grace of God and His forgiveness. That is who we are. That is what we do. That’s what we’ve done. We have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to hide. That you are here is a testimony to that.

  “We are going to put this in God’s hands and we’re going to pray for this family. And pray for Faryion,” Clark said.

  “First of all, we’re in the business of loving people.. . . All we can offer, all we have to comfort them is the love we have for him and his family.” Clark’s words brought a resounding “amen” from several churchgoers.

  “Each of you will have to make up your own mind,” Clark continued. “Don’t judge him too harshly.”

  Clark reminded the people that under our justice system a man, even a once-convicted murderer, is innocent until proven guilty.

  “Wait until you hear all the facts before you decide what you think,” Clark counseled. “Remember what you know about this man. And let’s show everyone how God’s family can respond to a crisis like this.”

  As his fellow church members weighed the impact of his arrest on their congregation, Wardrip was transferred from his jail cell back to the booking area of the jail.

  “We need to reprint you, Wardrip,” the deputy explained.

  The first set of fingerprints taken the previous day were not of the quality needed for comparison. Wardrip couldn’t be ruled out as the person who had left a bloody thumbprint on the tennis shoe of Terry Sims, but a clearer print was needed for a positive identification.

  As soon as Wardrip’s prints had been registered on the new print card, they were sent to the Department of Public Safety’s crime lab in Austin to be compared with the print on Sims’s shoe.

  Wardrip remained in jail while Little and Smith continued their work, shoring up the case against him. The investigators filed a probable cause affidavit with the court. The document consisted of facts and circumstances sufficient to warrant belief that Faryion Wardrip had been responsible for the death of Terry Sims. The record revealed DNA evidence linking Wardrip to Sims. Little then released the affidavit to the press.

  The headline of the Wichita Falls Times Record News closely resembled one that spanned the front page of the daily paper more than thirteen years earlier. Faryion Wardrip had been arrested for murder.

  The newspaper cited the DNA evidence collected from the suspect, which matched the semen found in the bodies of Sims and Gibbs.

  “Tests revealed that his DNA was a one-in-sixteen-million match with semen found in Sims’s body,” the Olney Enterprise, Wardrip’s hometown newspaper, stated in their cover story.

  Faryion Wardrip sat despondently on his jail bunk, tears falling on the newspaper resting on his knees.

  “Wardrip, you have a visitor,” the jailer announced.

  “Who is it?” Wardrip asked.

  “Your wife.”

  Wardrip longed to see Glenda, to hold her, and at the same time he dreaded facing her. What was he going to tell her? How would he explain the crimes or the fact that he had never bothered to mention them before now? He entered the visiting area filled with apprehension.

  Glenda Wardrip’s eyes were red from too many tears and too little sleep. She stared at her husband through the glass barrier. Her pale face, reddened eyes, and impassive expression told Wardrip she was in shock.

  “Glenda, I’m so sorry,” Wardrip said. “I should have told you everything.”

  Glenda gently shook her head, her brown hair softly swinging from side to side. “No,” she said, “I don’t want to talk about the past.”

  As Glenda left the visitor’s area, Wardrip thought, It’s all over. His years of trying to rehabilitate himself. His relationship with his family. The job he loved. Marriage to the woman he adored. All gone. Convinced there was nothing left for him to salvage, Faryion Wardrip called out for a deputy.

  “Tell John, that DA guy, I want to talk to him,” Faryion said. “And tell him he better get out here before I change my mind.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  John Little was at his desk reviewing the DNA test forwarded to him by Judy Floyd when the phone rang.

  “This is Captain Foster at the jail annex,” Foster told Little. “A couple of my jailers have advised me that when they were escorting Faryion Wardrip to his cell, he told them he wanted to speak to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll be out there shortly,” Little said.

  “Wardrip said you better get out here before he changes his mind,” Foster said.

  Little immediately contacted Paul Smith to meet him at the jail annex in the southern portion of Wichita Falls, then grabbed a tape recorder and writing pad and headed for the door.

  Perhaps the newspaper article had done the trick, Little thought. Possibly Wardrip realized they had enough evidence to convict him. Conceivably he could confess.

  Little knew better than to get excited about an inmate sending word that he wanted to talk. He would just have to wait and find out what Wardrip had on his mind.

  Little and Smith were already in the jail library/study room when Wardrip was escorted in by gu
ards. Wardrip, pale faced and wearing a white jail uniform, was restrained in handcuffs and leg irons. Wardrip appeared depressed and withdrawn, nothing like the confidant person Little had confronted previously. His hair was a mess and his shoulders stooped. He spoke in hushed tones rather than the brash timber of their previous meeting.

  “I want to talk,” Wardrip said as he sat across from the investigators.

  Little nodded to the guard, who unlocked the handcuffs. The prisoner’s legs remained shackled.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Smith said.

  “I visited with my wife this morning. Now I want to talk,” Wardrip said.

  “On Saturday you advised us that you wanted an attorney,” Little said. “We can’t speak to you unless you waive your rights.”

  “I’ll waive them,” Wardrip responded. He looked tired, defeated.

  Once again, Wardrip was given the Miranda Warning, advising him that he was entitled to an attorney and that statements he made could (would) be used against him in a court of law.

  Wardrip agreed to the provisions and formally waived his rights. Little started the taperecorder.

  “Test, one, two, three, test, one, two, three. Today’s date is February the sixteenth, 1999. The time is 10:28 A.M. We are at the Wichita County Sheriff’s Office Detention Center at the annex. Present in the room is myself, John Little, I’m an investigator for the DA’s office in Wichita County; Paul Smith, investigator for the DA’s office in Montague County; and Faryion Edward Wardrip.”

  Little instructed Wardrip to identify himself on the tape; then the investigator stated their purpose.

  “We are here today to talk to Mr. Wardrip about some unsolved cases from 1984 through 1985,” Little said. “You have the right to terminate the interview at any time. Do you understand that?”