Body Hunter (12 page)

The laundry kept Little warm, as well as gave him a great observation point from which to watch the suspect. He stood near the window and waited. Hoping for an opportunity to gather his evidence.

The suspect went in and out of the factory yard, drove a forklift, and loaded a trailer. Then he disappeared into the factory's main building. Little stared at the door the man had entered. Would he be inside the remainder of the day? Had this been just another wasted day of observation? Little shifted uneasily.

In five minutes, the man emerged from the same door he had entered earlier. It was nine o'clock.

The now familiar blue Honda pulled into the factory parking area and stopped just west of the double fence gates. Within seconds, the warm exhaust smoke that had penetrated the cool crisp morning air vanished.

The tall, lanky figure of a man emerged from the building.
He's taking his coffee break,
Little thought to himself as he watched the familiar figure put a package of crackers in his mouth as he opened the gate, then closed it behind him. He sat in the passenger-side seat of the Honda.

A smile of satisfaction crossed Little's handsome face as he watched his man open the package of cellophane-wrapped cheese crackers and drink from his paper cup. The man seemed at ease. He talked casually with his wife and the small child she was baby-sitting in the backseat of the vehicle, unaware of the probing dark eyes that watched his every move from across the four-lane street.

The cup,
Little thought.
He can't leave it in the car.
At one point, he even toyed with the idea of running across the street, reaching through the window to grab the cup, and taking off with it. But Little waited patiently.

After fifteen minutes, the man climbed out of the Civic, said something in parting to his wife, and closed the passenger-side door. Little's eyes were fixed on the tall figure standing by the car. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He stared at the suspect as he set the coffee cup on the car, opened one side of the double gate, leaving the other side open. He took the cup from the hood of the car, and walked back into the yard. Only when the man tossed his crumpled cellophane wrapper and used coffee cup in the blue, fifty-five-gallon barrel inside the gated fence did Little's face register a small but satisfied grin.

Little continued to wait. He watched patiently as the woman drove away in the Honda and her husband climbed aboard a forklift inside the factory gates. For a few minutes, he moved metal poles from the yard into the building at the rear of the compound known as “the pole barn.”

It was time for Little to make his move. He walked past the yellow painted sign that read
LAUNDRY
and strolled casually across Olney's four-lane Main Street dividing the factory from the laundromat, then through the fence gates. He coolly sauntered toward the blue trash barrel.

The suspect, seeing Little inside the yard, climbed down from the forklift.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I just need to get a spit cup,” Little said, looking up at the man who stood more than four inches taller than him and pointing to the bulge of tobacco in his right cheek.

“A spit cup? Sure, help yourself,” he said.

Little's eyes immediately settled on the small, eight-ounce paper cup with the words
WILDCARD POKER
in red and black lettering on it. The cup still held traces of the cheese crackers his man had been eating only minutes earlier.

The detective discreetly reached into the barrel and lifted the cup, careful not to touch the rim where the suspect's saliva might be present.

Got it,
Little thought.
Now all I have to do is get this to Gene Screen for the DNA testing.

Nodding toward his benefactor in a symbolic gesture of thanks, Little left the factory yard with his evidence in hand.

In a matter of days, Faryion Wardrip would either be completely cleared of any suspicion in the murders of Terry Sims and Toni Gibbs, or he would be charged with capital murder.

Chapter Sixteen

“John, this is Judy Floyd with Gene Screen. I was able to collect a saliva sample from the cup you sent me. I'll be able to make a comparison,” the DNA expert told Little, indicating there had been enough of the salivary excretion to perform the test.

“The only way there won't be a match is if I somehow picked up the wrong cup out of that barrel,” Little said confidently. Instinctually, the investigator knew Faryion Wardrip was his man. He only needed the technological evidence to prove it.

Little, Smith, and the district attorneys of both Wichita and Archer Counties waited anxiously for the results of the testing. For fifteen years, they had longed for a break in the case, but the next few days of waiting for the test results would be excruciating.

The cases of Sims and Gibbs had been dormant for years. An occasional lead that landed in the DAs' offices would be followed up, but for the most part, the cold cases had remained a mystery.

Floyd sat at her lab table at the Gene Screen facility in Dallas. She carefully took the biological material from the paper cup supplied by John Little and mixed it with chemicals that would break down other cellular materials. She only needed a tiny sample of the DNA, just one hundred to two hundred cells.

The DNA molecules consisted of paired filaments that interlocked like zippers. Each filament, made up of chemical bases, aligned in unique sequences. The DNA was amplified by separating paired filaments and mixing them with short fragments known as primers. When a primer locked on to a particular site on a sample DNA molecule, it triggered production of a longer fragment that matched a piece of the sample. A sample mixed with thirteen primers multiplied into millions of distinctive molecules. Exposed to an electrical current, the molecules sorted into color-coded bands on a gel.

Floyd then began to compare the crime-scene sample taken from the corpse of Terry Sims with Faryion Wardrip's sample. As an expert in the DNA field, Floyd knew it was virtually impossible for an unrelated person to match up perfectly on thirteen different levels. If Wardrip's sample matched, the odds of him being the perpetrator would be overwhelming.

Floyd bent over her microscope to make the comparison.

 

 

On February 12, 1999, the fax machine in the Wichita County District Attorney's office screeched the arrival of an incoming fax. The header at the top of the page announced that the communication was from Gene Screen.

More than two dozen suspects had been tested for a DNA match. Some had volunteered and others, like Wardrip, had their DNA collected secretly. Several men identified by the six police agencies who had worked the Sims, Gibbs, and Blau cases were immediately eliminated. Little and Smith waited impatiently to see if Wardrip would be among those whose semen didn't match Sims or Gibbs.

“The individual whose saliva was deposited on the cup cannot be excluded as a contributor in the sperm DNA found on Terry Sims' oral swab. The frequency of occurrence of the genetic profile found in this individual is as follows, 1 in 16,310,932 (Caucasians),” the communication read.

Little grinned with recognition. Recent breakthroughs in DNA testing had set many men free, exonerating them from violent crimes, but the tests had worked in his favor. The results confirmed Wardrip was their man. Little expected to narrow the DNA numbers down with further testing, but they had enough to request a warrant for Wardrip's arrest.

District Attorney Barry Macha was elated with the news that technology had made it possible to identify a killer that had been at large for more than fifteen years, but he knew old-fashioned gumshoe investigative work had come up with Wardrip as a possible suspect. Macha immediately gave credit to his investigator and Paul Smith, the Archer County investigator, for their work. He couldn't have been more pleased with the marriage of proven investigative techniques and recent technological advances.

Little and Smith rushed to get an arrest warrant authorizing the apprehension of Faryion Wardrip for the capital murder of Terry Sims. A separate warrant would have to be obtained for Wardrip's blood sample and fingerprints. They would be compared with crime-scene evidence once the arrest had been made. The investigators wanted Wardrip in custody as soon as possible. The arrest warrant was issued within hours.

Saturday morning, February 13, 1999, Faryion Wardrip prepared to report to his parole officer in Wichita Falls. This would be the last day he would be encumbered by the surveillance device on his ankle. He had done his time and adhered to the rules of his release for two years. Finally, he would be free—released from the constant reminder of his violent indiscretion and free from the confinement of the device he had come to think of as a ball and chain. Faryion had arranged to take the following week off from work. Now he and Glenda could take the honeymoon they had postponed for nearly four months.

“I'll be back in a couple of hours,” Faryion told Glenda as he took the car keys and headed for the door of their apartment. “Then our honeymoon will begin.” The newlyweds smiled at one another, kissed; then Faryion was gone.

 

 

John Little and Paul Smith talked with probation officer John Dillard in his office in the Wichita County courthouse. Smith occasionally eyed the manila folder he had placed on the desk that separated the probation officer and the investigators. All three men anxiously awaited the arrival of Wardrip: Dillard, for Wardrip's regularly scheduled parole check-in; Smith and Little to make an arrest for the murder of Terry Sims.

Dillard listened as Little and Smith explained the arrest warrant, which included an abundance of circumstantial evidence, such as the fact that Wardrip had lived two blocks from where Sims's body was found, one mile from where Gibbs's car was abandoned, and across the hall from one of Blau's close friends. He'd worked as an orderly in the same hospital as Gibbs, and later two businesses away from where Blau served fast-food on Burkburnett Road.

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.