First demonstration, and more to come.

Ever since I was a toddler, my passion has been to become an artist. In my earliest years, you’d catch me sketching out my dreams, completely lost in my own world. I’d draw Superman soaring through the sky, vintage locomotive engines chugging along, majestic sailing ships cutting through the waves, galloping horses—anything that sparked my excitement found its way onto the page. I had a sharp eye for detail, more so than any of my childhood friends, and my teachers always praised me as the standout artist in class.

My father, too, had a natural artistic flair and worked hard to establish himself as a self-employed artist after earning a four-year college degree in Art. But then World War II disrupted his plans. Physically unfit for military service, he pivoted to the aircraft industry, where he found work as a technical illustrator. Over time, though, his career took an unexpected turn, and he ended up estimating production costs for airplanes—a far cry from his artistic roots. I suppose, through some twist of heredity, a piece of his creative talent trickled down to me.

I followed a similar path and enrolled in college to train as a technical illustrator, making it through most of the program—until the Vietnam War threw everything off course.

I enlisted in the United States Air Force for a four-year stint, initially slated to work as an electrical technician. But once my commanders caught wind of my artistic talent, they shifted my duties to artwork instead of repairing and calibrating test equipment, which I’d been trained for at the start. It was my habit of always carrying a sketch pad that kept my skills sharp and growing as a sketch artist. I got lucky with a two-year assignment in Hawaii, where I befriended musicians and sketched them in the thick of their performances. I learned to capture people in motion—working, playing, never standing still. That’s the real test of a sketch artist: life doesn’t pause to make your job easier, and you’ve got to keep up.

After my time in the USAF, I returned to my parents’ place in San Fernando, California, for a short spell. Things weren’t the same—my grandfather had claimed my old bedroom, leaving me to crash on the couch, and most of my friends had relocated to Sacramento. Feeling the pull for a fresh start, I figured I’d join them. So I left San Fernando, my hometown, behind and headed to Sacramento, where my story took a new turn. There, I set out to become a self-employed artist and kicked off a fascinating career in police art.

In this recounting, I am attempting to capture every detail while they're still fresh in my memory—a crucial step if one's aim is to eventually pen a book.
When I met my wife, I was living close to the Capitol in Sacramento, at 17th and P.

Before living in the North Area, I moved to 17th Street because it was near my friend Cathy. She was beautiful, and although we were never romantically involved, we were as close as siblings. From our school days, I knew her well enough to have refrigerator privileges at her place. Once, while she was with one of her partners in her bedroom, I casually walked through to get to the fridge. On my way back, she asked if I'd seen the chocolate chip cookies on the counter; I had already grabbed a couple. I thanked her and exited through the porch door connecting our apartments. In the photo on the left, although it's a bit dark, you can see a tree twisting up right in front of the porch, where there was an outdoor swinging couch.

Even though I owned a 1966 Bonneville, my bicycle was my preferred mode of transport; I'd ride as far as Folsom when the mood struck. I was in great shape back then. Oh, how I wish I could be young again! It felt like I'd never age. I had endless energy for my art, working long hours, and still had plenty left to enjoy some fun.

Then, in 1977, I met Suzie. Soon after, we were sharing an apartment near Fulton and El Camino. The place was modern but lacked charm, so there's no photo to share. Suzie started thinking about kids, and I was all for it, smitten as I was, eager to make her happy. It was there, after hooking up with Suzie, that I began my career in police art.

Though I thrived in my business and built an impressive track record as a police artist, I stumbled into some messy politics. I’d stepped in to replace the department’s artist because the detectives were frustrated with the sheriff’s department’s work. I hadn’t meant to stir anything up—just wanted to do a solid job. The newspaper ran a piece about how the composites were cracking cases, but they conveniently left out that it was my work behind it all. Instead, they let the public assume the department artist had suddenly gotten better. When I pressed the detectives about it, they admitted they feared backlash if they set the record straight with the paper. Feeling shortchanged, I decided it was time to pack up and leave Sacramento.
Susan and I contemplated moving to Canada, so we visited the Canadian Consulate in San Francisco. We learned we needed letters from the police of every town we'd lived in, had to join a waiting list, and be interviewed at the consulate. We also needed a sponsor, and my brother Lauren was perfect for that role. In 1978, we traveled to Powell River, Canada, to explore our prospects and to get married.

My brother Lauren was a school principal and was well-known, with many friends. He had a joke for every letter of the alphabet and could speak a bit of French, German, and Russian. When he took the SAT in 1958, he scored the highest in the San Fernando Valley. So, what did Mom say? She loved bragging about her boys. Lauren was also the Cadet Commander, sporting Captain's bars. What a twist, he was a draft dodger! But I love him! Mom held that against him, though she kept it to herself. She was from the Greatest Generation, full of patriotism.

During our trip, we visited the RCMP identification branch in Victoria. There, I met an artist who was retiring and planning to start a deep-sea fishing tour business. He reviewed my letter of recommendation and my impressive samples but cautioned that he couldn't make any guarantees, though he did say he would recommend me. However, there was an issue because I was a landed immigrant, not a citizen.

After getting married, we returned to Sacramento to wait. In 1979, in Canada, an election was called, and fortunately for me, my brother had connections with a Member of Parliament. This influence helped us gain entry just before his party was voted out of power. I don't recall all the specifics.

I packed a U-Haul, and with my father's help, we moved in July. We crossed the Channel from Port Angeles, Washington, amidst a storm with heavy waves and rain. I was wearing my down jacket. That year was notably stormy. We settled in a small town about 25 miles north of Victoria on the West Coast, which was very beautiful. Soon after, I got a work license in Victoria and started working on the Causeway beneath the Empress Hotel in Victoria Harbour.

I had to find a way to bring in some income, so I drove to Victoria six days a week, parking near the causeway. I'd haul a cart loaded with my work easel, two display easels, and all my necessary supplies. Just thinking about it now makes me feel exhausted, but it was what I needed to keep us afloat.

The ferry from Port Angeles arrived around 9 AM daily, and there was no guarantee anyone would have cash for a portrait. Some days, I'd leave without making a single sale; other days, I'd earn two or three hundred dollars. Despite the uncertainty, it was enjoyable, and during slow times, I'd paint watercolors or sketch the boats and harbor.

I've been trying to find those portrait sketches and paintings from then, but haven't had any luck. I know they're tucked away on one of my hard drives. Recently, I received an email from someone named McCloud, who sent me a photo of an oil painting he inherited from his grandfather. I can't locate that painting either, but I'm sure it's on one of my backup disks.

Capturing images of artwork was much more challenging in the 80s and 90s with those primitive film cameras.

One day, a 140-foot Baltic Trader with a barkantine rig docked at the government pier. This ship was originally a schooner, and its owner was an Englishman who had previously served as the captain of the King of Saudi Arabia's yacht, which resembled a small passenger liner. With his earnings, he purchased the Baltic schooner hull in Finland and transformed it into a barkantine, featuring three masts with the foremast equipped with a main yard sail, topsail, royal, and sometimes a skysail, much like the image above.

He invited me to join him, his family, and a group of Girl Scouts for a sail to Port Townsend to attend the Wooden Boat Festival. I stowed my easel, supplies, and sleeping bag and jumped aboard. Unfortunately, we encountered a calm sea with no wind forcing us to use the engine, but we met up with another Baltic Trader topsail schooner owned by Neil Young. Neil wasn't aboard but was expected to join later in Townsend. The captain knew Neil's crew, who came over to visit.

Upon arrival in Port Townsend, we moored without docking, which meant a fun little sail in a dinghy to get ashore. The dinghy was small, fitting just a couple of people with one sail, and one of the crew taught me how to tack back and forth in a light wind. This lesson proved useful later when I piloted a thirty-foot sloop. Sailing was indeed a tranquil pleasure.

At the festival, I did some portraits. On Saturday, after finishing my last portrait, I saw both ships racing in the channel. I regretted missing the experience, but Sunday offered another opportunity. Watching the skilled sailors work the winches, turning the yards, and tacking the ship was educational and inspiring for my art.

Now, I'm in Redding, far from any ocean, wishing my mother had moved north to be closer. If she had, I might have been a marine artist thriving in Seattle or Vancouver galleries. Instead, I've become a portrait and notable police artist, with interests leaning more towards crime-solving than maritime dreams.
 

My wife Susan and I had our first child, Misty Dawn, and were expecting another, Crystal Brooke. We were living in Sooke, BC, in a new duplex that needed some work like lawn installation and painting. Initially, the developers wanted me to sign a lease, but I postponed until we were more settled. A month later, we decided it was the right move, so I returned to the development office. Only the secretary was there this time, and I signed the lease without any further ado.
Over the year, I installed a front lawn and painted the finished living area on the top floor of our house. The bottom floor was left unfinished since it lacked complete flooring and walls.

You should understand that Suzie was incredibly meticulous; everything had to be centered and perfectly clean. In every place we rented, we always asked for a reference letter when we moved out. This shows I haven't always been the way you might see me now, struggling with time and money to achieve the level of perfection I once did with Suzie. However, I'm still capable of keeping things running. For instance, when we lived 50 miles up the coast from Victoria, our dishwasher started leaking. I grabbed my tools and got to work. But when I reached a point where I was hesitant to use my screwdriver on a bushing, I thought better of it. It wasn't my dishwasher, after all, and I didn't want to mess up. So, I called a repairman. He arrived, looked at it, used his screwdriver to fix the issue, laugh out loud; but I was relieved and didn't have to reassemble it.

Now, about the place further out... This might surprise you. When Reagan was elected, even in Canada, the housing market got a boost. After I had fixed up our duplex to look great, the Ocean Village Condo management sold it right out from under us. They even tried to evict us! But they didn't realize I had a signed lease. I showed it to the rental manager and was granted three more months. Thank God for that small victory. So, we placed an ad in the local Sooke newspaper, mentioning our two letters of recommendation. Yes, I made them write one so we could move out sooner, and yes, they had to accept it.

Not long after the ad was published, we got a call from Mrs. Packem, a retired nurse who owned a popular tea house, ‘Point No Point’, 30 miles up the coast. She wanted us to check out a house owned by Dr. Linge, a brain surgeon from Los Gatos, CA. He needed someone to take over from an elderly couple who had to move out due to health issues. We took a scenic drive along the coast to see what this new opportunity looked like.

Eventually, I had to relocate due to a change in my workplace, but during my time there, I cherished the sight of my own Bald Eagle family. They would often perch on a small tree right in front of our house. One eagle would wait while the other went fishing, and once they returned, they would play over the sea. Just 50 yards off the rocks, we had two gray whales that seemed to rest during the summer, swimming back and forth between Point No Point and Mrs. Packem's tea house, two miles to the east, presumably feeding. I believe they stayed because navigating north from there was challenging. We were situated on the southernmost coast of Vancouver Island, facing the Juan de Fuca Strait, where the beaches resembled those of Oregon, full of large, sometimes moss-covered rocks. I captured this scene in a pastel painting of the beach next to, left of our house.

It was just a minute or two walk to reach this beach. In my opinion, the coastline where I lived was more beautiful and less crowded than Oregon's. I often think back to an encounter with a bear at Mystic Beach, about 15 miles up the coast. To get there, you had to trek down a trail for about 20 minutes. It was June 1980, the weather was warming up, and my dad, who was visiting and enjoyed photography, joined us to explore some Canadian scenery. We sat on one of the many logs scattered by the tide on the beach, where beachcombers often collected logs that had escaped from log booms towed by tugs to coastal mills.

While we were sitting there, a young black bear suddenly emerged from the bushes. He acted almost like a dog, approaching us playfully. We were paralyzed with fear as he sniffed around, even coming close to Misty, who was in Suzie's arms. Fortunately, he was in a good mood and soon darted back into the bushes. We were lucky not to have been attacked.

I wish I had taken more photographs of that coast. Later, with my girlfriend Marianne, we would visit the beautiful Pacific Rim National Park to paint, capturing the essence of that magnificent landscape.
Marianne had a talent for creating an artist's environment. Unlike Susie, who favored symmetry, Marianne embraced a rustic, artistic approach in decorating our home or homes, and she was also an excellent cook. Cooking together was one of the joys of our relationship. I would occasionally organize dinner parties, bringing to the table a few dishes I was decent at, like Chicken Cordon Bleu, various Salmon dishes, Chili Stew, and enchiladas. My enchiladas are especially authentic, thanks to a family recipe handed down through generations from New Mexico. Making them involves a labor-intensive process; removing the seeds and skin from the chilies to achieve the mild, true New Mexico Chili flavor, without any olives which are not traditional in these dishes.

I also whip up a remarkable Caesar salad from scratch, Marianne’s receipy using raw eggs for authenticity, and Eggs Benedict, which I once prepared for a crowd of 25. Cooking was always a collaborative and fun activity between Marianne and me. However, problems in our relationship drove us apart.
On a positive note, I've managed to keep good relationships with all the women I’ve loved, but it’s hard to be happy so many miles apart. Here in Redding, everything is going well for me, but Marianne refuses to move from Canada due to family ties, even though she has been estranged from them for opposing the vaccine. I share her skepticism about taking an experimental vaccine when one isn't ill; I've personally known people who died shortly after getting vaccinated. While opinions on this vary, that's where Marianne and I stand.
To return to the story, earlier in Victoria, I worked in front of the Empress Hotel on the causeway, a small promenade encircling the harbor. I sketched many portraits for locals who often requested framing. In search of a framing solution, I found a shop named U-Frame-it on the north side of Victoria, a city larger than Redding but not as vast as San Francisco. The shop was managed by two men who were thrilled to meet me, as they had already been framing my work brought in by customers. They proposed an incentive for me to continue directing clients their way, offering to frame some of my pieces for free if I handed out their business cards. This arrangement was beneficial; I could sell my framed artwork, and they gained new customers.

Regarding my interaction with the RCMP, I visited them upon arriving in Canada, meeting with Inspector Gardner, head of Identification. I came with recommendations from Sergeant Brian Dunlovey from Ottawa, known for his artistic contributions to identification kits. Although I never saw his work, he vouched for me through multiple letters, urging British Columbia to utilize my services. I also presented a letter from Sacramento Sheriff’s detectives, which you might have seen on my website. I offered my services as a gift, but the RCMP insisted on payment, suggesting I could assist when their artist was unavailable, though this opportunity never materialized.
I provide my services because I am effective. I always felt that my inactivity is allowing criminals to get away. I have discussed with the local sheriff about creating an online platform in collaboration with all sheriff's departments. However, I lack the skill to promote it. I'm unsure if this will come to fruition.
Back, when living on Vancouver Island, I know that might sound arrogant, but it’s my results, the effectiveness of my police sketches that drove me to offer my involvement. However, what was really going on with the RCMP is that you can see in the picture of me with a customer, that at that time I had long hair, wear jeans, and I can out draw their man. I could only assume that they would rather let someone die than to reveal the embarrassing facts to society. Actually, a constable told me this theory. They, (investigators) really wanted to use me.
 

Around the time Suzie gave birth to our second daughter, Crystal Brooke, I was still residing on the West Coast in that stunning house. The owners of U-Frame-it offered me a position in a new mall, located 70 miles north up the East Vancouver Island coast, in a town similar in size to Redding, called Nanaimo. In the indigenous language, Nanaimo means "the meeting place." Originally, it was a hub for coal miners and one of many bustling lumber ports. Today, the coal mines are no longer active; they've been closed and sealed, though occasionally they still collapse. The town literally rests atop these old mines, and there was an incident where a house's owner's bedroom floor suddenly opened into a vertical mine shaft. However, the lumber industry remains robust. Interestingly, environmentalists haven't managed to shut it down there. I often see lumber shipments coming from Canada on the Southern Pacific Railroad, while the trains heading north return empty.

So, I accepted their offer and set up shop in the mall. I was renting a house not too far from the gallery. Things seemed to be going well; there was no business rent, and the local community appreciated my artwork. The business was expanding, though perhaps not as quickly as I hoped.

Everything was fine until a minor housing market dip in late 1981. At that point, I got nervous about staying there and managed to convince Suzie we should move back to the U.S. I wasn't about to give up my U.S. citizenship, but I also enjoyed living in beautiful places. We still wanted to be close to the ocean, so we chose Salem.

Salem proved to be a challenge for me. I had left a burgeoning business in Nanaimo behind. The town was pleasant, but the economy was still sluggish. Despite this, I had some interesting experiences there, including creating a couple of composites for the local police. They were fine with my appearance; however, I didn't handle any significant cases before I decided to return to Canada.

As an avid bicyclist, I used to ride before work with a new friend who was a jeweler. His shop was in a converted opera house that had become a mall. I explored this mall, but it didn't live up to the charm of Nanaimo. I also ventured into the commercial art scene, attending seminars on new products and the role of art in advertising. However, finding work in Salem proved to be incredibly challenging; I was just scraping by.

Unexpectedly, I got calls from the gallery back in Nanaimo. The manager was desperate for me to return, citing a demand for my work. I made several trips back and forth to fulfill orders. Recognizing my error, we decided to pack up and move back to Nanaimo.

Writing this brings back so many memories. I'm hopeful I'll find some photos or pieces of artwork to jog my memory further. I really hope I haven't lost too much.

My parents wanted to help, so they drove up in their 1969 Ford F250, which I still own, towing a 30-foot Airstream trailer. I also rented a sizable U-Haul, and together we headed back. I had secured a rental house on the far side of Gabriola Island in Degnan Bay, just off Nanaimo, BC. The house was about 8 kilometers from the ferry that services the island. It was originally built by a captain using bricks he'd scavenged from Brickyard Beach, back before it was illegal to take them. The house was a quaint, L-shaped, rustic rancher with an eastern view across the channel towards Vancouver. It offered the most spectacular view and the purest water one could taste, with no sounds of civilization at night. Let me check this out: Here's a short video of the waterfront just below the house.

"The second segment of this brief video was filmed from the government dock directly across from the house. In the image below, the house is hidden among the trees and not visible. It had an above-ground well pump that occasionally stopped working, requiring me to re-prime it.The well had the best water I ever tasted.

Living there was wonderful. Each morning, I'd rise early, jump on my bicycle, and ride across the island. The ferry offered reasonable fares for cars, but biking was both cheaper and a good workout for me. Once on the other side, I’d ride another 7 kilometers to Rutherford Mall. My memory is returning; I even remember Inspector Gardner now. Gabriola is such a beautiful place, one I'll always cherish and plan to revisit.

While on Gabriola, I received my first call back to Sacramento for a high-profile case involving a ten-year-old girl who was raped, beaten with a 2x4, and left for dead. It had been three years since I left Sacramento, and this was the first sign that I was missed.

In November 1982, I was flown back for a composite interview. It was quite an experience to simply give my name at the airline counter and find tickets waiting for me. I landed in San Francisco, where I was met by two female detectives—one from homicide, whom I'd worked with before, and the other from the sex crimes unit. On the 90-mile drive to Sacramento, they hinted at a surprise: every major TV station was there to interview me. I recall giving about twenty-minute interviews to each of ABC, NBC, and CBS, discussing my past work with the Sheriff's department and the cases I'd been involved in. It felt like a kind of recognition, but the story doesn't end on such a high note; there was a little setback.

That night, after the interviews, I found myself out on the town with Suzie's brother, Steve. Naturally, I had to go out and celebrate. It was surreal sitting in a bar, only to look up and see myself on a TV mounted on the wall, being interviewed as an expert to crack a significant case in the news.

I used to dismiss conspiracy theories as nonsense, especially those aired on George Noory's Coast to Coast. However, recent years have shown me that many of our political and government officials seem more focused on personal gain than on serving with integrity. I could delve into this issue further, but I hope we can find a way to navigate these troubled waters.

I began my story without mentioning my school days, which were quite interesting. I was a scholar, surrounded by like-minded friends, living in Sylmar, near San Fernando in the San Fernando Valley.

In 1962, when I was 12, my parents had just reconciled after two years apart. That's when I met Rick Sandstrom. He was the youngest of four, living with his widowed mother, who had lost her husband during the Korean War. She was the epitome of what welfare was meant to support. Rick lived with one brother and a sister; his oldest brother had just passed away at Fort Ord, the 16th victim of spinal meningitis.

His mother was strict, and Rick was deeply loyal to her, understanding the challenges she faced raising four children on a limited income. We became close friends for several years, bonded by our love for hiking and creative projects. One memorable project involved buying several hundred feet of insulated copper wire from a hardware store. We used it to create a makeshift telephone line between our houses by stringing the wire across backyard fences, connecting it to a 3-volt lantern battery, and using a simple transducer microphone with headphones. The sound quality was rudimentary, reminiscent of what Alexander Graham Bell might have experienced with his first telephone.

Every summer, we would go camping, fishing, and hiking. Just a semester before his high school graduation, he received the Los Angeles Physics Award. This guy was a brainiac. After I had gone my separate way, he enrolled at San Diego State College to study laser science. Remarkably, by 1969, he had already constructed his own laser in his garage before even starting college.

Following his education, he worked on Reagan's Star Wars project. He then founded a company that specializes in lithographing circuitry to microscopic scales. Yes, he invented a device to make circuitry microscopic, truly changing the world. That was my best friend from the 1960s. As for me, I catch criminals for a living. His achievements still amaze me, but I prefer being an artist; I'm not cut out for wearing a lab smock.

His company is Cymer, Inc., located in San Diego. On their leadership team page, you can find Rick listed at the bottom. He prefers to stay in the lab while his partner Robert handles the business side. We've drifted apart, living in different worlds now. He looks much the same, except for the beard.

It feels like a small world to me, where I've seen almost everything and could almost believe anything.
 

One of my earliest oil paintings captures a balloon launch from my time in Sylmar, near San Fernando. It was inspired by a junior high project called BLOV, dreamed up by our science teacher, Elwood Hale. He designed it to teach us how to track objects with theodolites using triangulation. My buddies—Rick Sandstrom, Steve White, Patrick Riley, Rick Sandstrom (again), and I—were the core group of teens involved. The project grabbed citywide attention, making headlines and sparking curiosity in young minds like ours.
 

Back to Nanaimo...
 

I can't recall exactly how many houses Suzie and I viewed, but we caught a break because the housing market had slowed down, making it a buyer's market. We stumbled upon this charming old house, not particularly large but with a certain elegance. Originally owned by a coal mine foreman, it sat on what was once 5 acres but by 1983 had been subdivided into a housing district. Built in 1891, it retained its vintage appeal with high ceilings and an old-world charm. The interior had been updated with insulation, an expanded kitchen, and an additional upstairs bathroom. Some lovely plaster decorations around the chandeliers were preserved, and there was an archway connecting the kitchen to the dining room. The house featured a grand stairway leading to three dormer bedrooms, with two French doors opening into the living room. It was clad in whitewashed lath and plaster on the outside. The price was $50,000, and we managed to put down a quarter as a deposit.

However, Suzie was feeling the strain of being mostly homebound while I worked long hours at the U-Frame-it shop at the mall. My proficiency in portrait work had me penciled into every family's Christmas list, but summers were slow, and I was swamped during the holiday season. It was challenging to drum up business in the off-season, even with price cuts. Financial difficulties were a constant for many, including us.

To ease Suzie's loneliness, I agreed when she wanted a cat, and later, we got Skipper, our Sheltie. The real stressor for Suzie, though, was my decision to buy into the U-Frame-it franchise. She had envisioned running a home gallery business, but that dream was hard to realize. The U-Frame-it shop was struggling; malls are tough for small businesses, especially without the leverage of a large chain to negotiate lower rents. The franchise, still quite small with only a few stores, was burdened with high rent, inflexible store hours, and the maintenance of neon signs. Despite these challenges, I bought into it hoping to secure a space for my portrait work to thrive.

It was Christmas of 1985, and while visiting my brother in Powell River, Susie fell ill. Every Christmas Eve, I would be wrapping up the last portrait of my season's work, feeling the pressure of deadlines. That year, Susie and I were set to drive 70 miles up the island to Comox to catch the last ferry to Powell River, where my brother lived. He was a teacher, principal, and sometimes taught computers in public schools. He resided in a spacious A-frame house with no interior walls except for a large bathroom, and a loft encircling the living area where Lauren would set up an enormous Christmas tree, probably 12 to 15 feet tall.

Suzie had fallen sick; she had severe morning sickness during both pregnancies, which led to hospital stays due to anemia and other health issues. Even now, she struggles with her health. At the time, she was experimenting with vegetarianism, influenced by her dislike of harming animals, a choice I passively supported, more focused on my art than on dietary debates. However, this diet appeared to exacerbate her iron deficiency. That Christmas, our family doctor admitted her to the hospital for depression.

This period was tough for me. Suzie had joined a study group led by Sheila Conway, which delved into Pacific religions, mainly Huna. While I was at work, this group visited her daily in the hospital, subtly influencing her to join them, which I later realized was more like a cult. I sent our girls to live with my brother because I couldn't manage their needs alone while Susie was sick.

The following year was tumultuous. Susie chose to live separately, leaving me to juggle work and motherhood. I managed to teach our daughters to read before kindergarten by using "Wonder Books", focusing on adjectives, then whole words, and finally, the complexities of English spelling. My girls became avid readers, though only Misty graduated high school; Crystal ran away, too bright for her own good, according to her teacher. Her disappearance seemed linked to my move to Redding and care for my mother, and she only sporadically kept in touch after an unfortunate accident.

When Susie decided to live alone, she moved into a small cabin in Cedar near Nanaimo for the summer to reflect. I had no choice but to ask my brother to look after the children while I worked to keep our finances afloat. Oddly, Susie showed little interest in contacting our daughters for two months until my brother prompted her. When she eventually returned, it was clear she had neglected our children, and her interest in them seemed to reignite only after learning she needed custody for social services support.

I didn't amass a fortune, so it was clear to Suzie that I couldn't provide her with the financial support she seemed to expect. The hardest part was her constant talk of leaving to, as she put it, "strive out for self". I suspect this was influenced by her cult-like friends. She claimed to still love me in her own way, but even after we separated, she'd call me to fix things around her place, which often caused friction with my girlfriend Marianne, with whom I had lived for years and bought a house.

The old friend who helped Suzie with the cabin owned 90 acres in Cedar. I met him when I first moved to Nanaimo and started tutoring his wife in art, who unfortunately passed away from cancer a couple of years later. He also loaned me money to start my U-Frame-it franchise and gallery. I could sense he was interested in Suzie; she was beautiful, and I saw the way he looked at her. But I'm not the jealous type. Love, to me, is about giving, not owning. Since our separation, my feelings for Suzie have faded, allowing me to move on. My relationship with Art was more paternal, especially towards his grandfather image to my daughters. He was a good man, just lonely. However, loaning money to Suzie made my life more complicated.

Before Suzie got sick, we renovated our house, taking out a second mortgage for a heat pump, and fixed up the garage and back porch. I loved that old house, sitting majestically on a hill, overlooking unique neighboring homes.

Then comes more police art:

Then, out of the blue, a Seattle detective from the Green River Task Force called. I was recommended as a police artist from Sacramento. This led to four trips to Seattle. The most memorable part was my travel arrangement; instead of the usual airport hassle, I flew out of Victoria Harbor on small pontoon planes like Beavers and Cessnas, seating up to six. On one trip, I even got to fly the plane but didn't land it - good thing, since I've never learned how. Maybe one day? Another time, we landed in Port Townsend to pick up a passenger in waders, stepping into the plane from knee-deep water. Landing at Lake Union was equally unique, where a customs officer in a white shirt and tie would clear me swiftly, with a detective ready to whisk me to the investigation headquarters.

These investigators consistently tried to make an impression on me, perhaps because of my (apparently) stellar reputation. Once, while transporting a witness, we decided to stop at a Denny's restaurant. The investigator drove the wrong way on a one-way street and, instead of turning around, he continued up the sidewalk. It was quite the spectacle.

A few years ago, there was an arrest in the Green River Case, and I believe we have the main perpetrator in custody, but I'm convinced there were copycats who evaded capture. One such possible copycat was a man who was terminally ill with cancer. His brother, who believed in his guilt, ran a website for years urging investigators to scrutinize him more closely. This man owned vehicles very similar to those described in the investigation, including a Ford pickup and a modified police car kept in his garage. My suspicion was heightened after interviewing a witness who saw a girl he knew, later identified as a victim, in a Ford pickup. She didn't respond to his wave, and although he didn't get a clear look at the driver, the description matched the brother but seemed younger. This composite sketch is featured in Ann Rule’s book on the murders. The witness noted the victim had an odd expression, her mouth open, as he tried to get her attention.

Another significant sighting involved a taxi driver I interviewed, who once was under suspicion himself during the investigation (it’s common for investigators to check on those providing tips). He was driving near Sea-Tac Airport on a road that cut through an unpopulated wilderness area late at night when he encountered a parked pickup truck. The passenger door was ajar, illuminating the interior. He observed a woman in the passenger seat, motionless, with her mouth open. Before he could see more, a thin, muscular man emerged from the bushes, slammed the door, and extinguished the light. The taxi driver reported this to the sheriff’s department, but at the time, there were no known murder cases linked to the area. This sighting became significant only after two bodies were later discovered in that exact location.

I suppose the murderer would drive around with the victims even after strangling them. It's chilling to think about how many people might be capable of such horrific acts.

I spoke with one survivor who verified that her attack was perpetrated by a copycat rapist. I produced the composite sketch in Seattle, even though the assault took place outside Portland. She was a very young runaway who was picked up by what she believed to be a taxi and was then driven out of town. There, she was raped, strangled twice, stabbed twice, and had to play dead to survive. I was certain that the composite sketch accurately represented the assailant. However, when there was a chance to showcase it on a TV show dedicated to the case, it was not broadcast. The reasons are unclear, but it might have been due to the victim's parents wishing to avoid further publicity. A few years back, an article in the Record Searchlight detailed a similar incident in Siskiyou County, where the suspect's depiction looked remarkably similar, though much older. This piqued my interest since he is now incarcerated for murder. Believing it could aid in resolving the old case, I contacted Sheriff Lopey in Siskiyou County, who then referred the matter to his detectives. I also reached out to the Oregon State detectives. I have posted the following page on my website:

https://policecompositeartist.com/oregon

It reads as follows:

The following pages are dedicated to addressing individuals or concerned investigators regarding the widely publicized 1985 Green River copycat rape case in the Portland, Oregon area.

In 1985, I was commissioned to provide a description related to the Green River Murder investigation, a major news event in Seattle. This particular incident was suspected to be a copycat murder attempt near Portland, but I took the description in Seattle after the witness had recovered from her attack. At that time, I was living on Vancouver Island, which is close to Seattle. My successful work with the Sacramento Sheriff's Department, particularly with Lt. Ray Biondi, led to my recommendation to the Green River Task Force.

The victim was a teenager who had survived being stabbed and strangled in an attack that took place inside a vehicle equipped with a taxi toll meter. She had spent enough time with her attacker to form a clear impression of his features, and I believed her account was both truthful and decisive. My experience suggested that she could still identify her attacker even years later.

Keith Hunter Jesperson's facial features and expressions match the description I captured. Given the natural aging process, aspects like skull fullness and eyelid sagging would have altered his appearance over the years. If one trusts the accuracy of this composite, it would show what Jesperson might have looked like 25 years prior to his arrest. Images of Jesperson at the time of his arrest show him older, wearing glasses, possibly for vision correction, and his head position does not facilitate a direct comparison to the composite. Unfortunately, I have no photographs of him from the time of the attack.

Although the case might have been closed, I was never informed. A few years ago, when I contacted the Oregon State Police, I was told there were no new developments. Given that Jesperson is imprisoned for murder, there's a strong possibility he was the assailant in this case.

It costs money to re-open an investigation, and that may be the reason this case will never have an answer.

Jesperson appears older and is seen wearing eyeglasses, possibly for prescription use. The witness mentioned he has blue eyes. The shape of his skull resembles the composite image. However, he isn't holding his head in a way that allows for an accurate comparison. I do not have any photographs of him from the time of the attack.

The only question in the description is that Jesperson is 6' 6". but in the vehicle it would be hard to determine a person's exact height.

* Please note that the case information should be obtained through the Oregon State Police.

I conducted an interview in Seattle regarding a case where a young runaway was assaulted outside Portland. She was picked up by a taxi and taken out of town, where she was raped, strangled twice, stabbed twice, but survived by playing dead. When I created the composite sketch, I was confident it was an accurate representation of the suspect. However, when there was an opportunity to showcase the composite on a TV show focused on the case, it was not used. Perhaps the victim's parents wanted to avoid further distress; I'll never know for sure. A few years ago, I came across a similar incident reported in the Record Searchlight from Siskiyou County. The suspect looked strikingly similar, albeit much older, which caught my attention. He is currently in prison for murder, and I thought this might help in closing the old case. I contacted Lopey about it, and he passed it to his detectives. I also reached out to the Oregon State detectives.

My significant cases occurred while I was with Marianne. Our relationship was tumultuous, outlasting my decade-long marriage. I won't delve into details, but the instability made me eager for my annual escapes. Each year, I planned solo bike trips down the coast to join my parents, helping them drive their Ford pickup with a 30-foot Airstream trailer back to Canada. Yet, every departure was preceded by a heated argument with Marianne, who seemed reluctant to let me go despite agreeing beforehand. By the time I returned to Nanaimo with my parents, peace would be restored. I'll always cherish the love I had for Marianne; we shared many good times, though our personal issues are not for public discussion..

I love reminiscing about my bicycling trips along the West Coast. My vacations typically started in Nanaimo, where I'd set off at 5 AM, pedaling the 70 miles (112 kilometers) to Victoria. By 10:30 AM, I'd reach the Port Angeles ferry terminal, ready to cross over to the U.S. Once in Port Angeles, I'd cycle westward around the Olympic Peninsula, passing Crystal Lake, and on exceptional days, I'd make it as far as Kalaloch Lodge, marking my longest single-day ride at 176 miles.

On the second day, I'd cycle to the border near Astoria. By the third day, I'd push through Tillamook, ending in Coos Bay. Those first three days were my peak, each covering 176 miles. On the fourth day, with a slight headwind, I managed 130 miles. The fifth day involved some hill climbing, ending at 110 miles when I met up with my parents. In total, I covered 768 miles in just five days. My personal best for a single day was 187 miles, according to my odometer, although I've never done a double century. Back then, in my late thirties and forties, I was at my cycling best. Nowadays, I'm more likely to manage about 100 miles in a day, and let's not forget, there's always a Lexus waiting to drive me if needed.

I had to share my cycling passion, which really took off after my time in Hawaii. Biking has been my key to staying fit over the years. Exercise is crucial for health, and it shows - whenever I give blood, the phlebotomist is always surprised by my low blood pressure. Having the blood pressure of an athlete, I've always been inclined towards cycling rather than driving. Even when I owned a car, it was unusual for me to use it much, especially during my 16 years in Canada where I cycled everywhere. I often biked to visit my brother in Powell River, a 70-mile journey which I could complete in just 4 hours. After moving to Redding, I continued this habit, regularly cycling to places like Cottonwood, Anderson, Palo Cedro, or Shasta Dam, all between 10 to 20 miles away from home. However, breaking my arm in 2003 slowed me down somewhat. Now, at 75, I've naturally reduced my pace, and my Lexus has become my new mode of transport.

So, let me return to what I should be writing about. It was during my years with Marianne that I produced my most notable police artwork. In late March 1987, I received a call from Sacramento detectives asking if I could catch a flight that very day. The urgency made me feel important, so I agreed, saying, "Yes, I could."

Upon arriving at the Sacramento Sheriff's Department, I learned my task was to sketch based on an interview with a deputy sheriff about a young man he had pulled over. At that point, there was no mention of a murder; the young man had simply claimed he was driving a friend's car. The deputy let him go, only to later discover the car was stolen. This turned out to be a homicide case involving a mechanic who distrusted banks and kept all his money at home. Someone had found out about this, leading to his murder. The deputy's description was so precise that it felt like he was sitting right next to me while I drew.

A year later, I had to retrieve this composite from an investigator because the detectives didn’t routinely share the outcomes of my work unless I specifically requested them. I'm curious to sift through their files to see in which other cases my sketches might be hidden. I'm sure I would find more examples there.

My summons to Sacramento wasn't primarily about the reason you might expect. Hugh Scrutton, an owner of a computer store on Alta Arden Boulevard in Sacramento, was the first murder victim of Theodore Kaczynski, and this incident fell under the jurisdiction of Ray Biondi. It had been a year since the bombing when I interviewed a deputy, while Ray was in Salt Lake City. My next destination was Salt Lake City.

Upon arriving in Salt Lake City, a detective picked me up from the airport and took me to the Embassy Suites Hotel, where all the investigators were staying. They enjoyed the hotel because it offered free drinks during happy hour. There, I joined a poker game with two ATF agents and a U.S. Postal Inspector named Tony Muljat, who was the lead spokesperson for the UNABOM investigation. I don't recall who lost at poker, but it wasn't me. This was my introduction to the UNABOM Task Force, which at that time was mainly composed of ATF agents and U.S. Postal Inspectors, with only three FBI agents present. The FBI rookies were assigned less critical tasks.

Ray Biondi, having influence within the task force, had persuaded the FBI to allow me to enhance the sketches made by their artists, particularly because I could work in color, which was specifically requested by the witness.

I visited the witness at her home in the lower section of a house in East Salt Lake City, where she resided in a basement suite. She had already been interviewed by an FBI sketch artist but was dissatisfied with the resulting black and white composite sketch. She had expressed a preference for an artist who could produce a sketch in color.

Upon entering her kitchen, I noticed the FBI's black and white sketch pinned to her refrigerator door. I suggested she remove it, advising that keeping the sketch visible could bias her memory, which was critical for ensuring her testimony would not be questioned in court for being influenced by prior visual cues.

From my experience, a credible witness should not be easily influenced; any sign of confusion could undermine their reliability in court. The FBI sketch, while not perfect, had some useful elements. If I had included the chin from their sketch, my own work would have been improved. From the mouth up to Ted's eyes, my sketch was accurate, and these features were distinctly recognizable.

I spent several days with the witness who had observed the scene through the blinds. To ensure accuracy, I had a detective, who had a physique similar to the Unabomber's, pose in place. He wore a similar sweatshirt and aviator sunglasses, and we photographed him under the same lighting conditions and at the exact spot where the Unabomber was seen setting the bomb.

Unfortunately, I didn't capture the right chin, hair, or hairline in the initial sketches. However, I did manage to accurately depict the eyes, about a year and a half before Ted Kaczynski's capture. During this period, I was frustrated with the investigation. My mother called me, pointing out that the second composite looked strikingly like me. I hadn't seen the news, but upon checking, I understood her observation.

The new composite bore a closer resemblance to me than the first one did. Moreover, no one from the investigation team contacted me to discuss my interviews with the witness. In such a significant case, one would expect the FBI to be thorough. I possess crucial information that could have helped verify the findings.

After a six-year hiatus in the bombings, two more bombs were mailed to high-profile individuals, one on each coast. The change in delivery method to packaged mail was notable. When the FBI took over the case, I felt they mishandled it. Thorough investigation requires examining all available information. Although they supposedly knew how to reach me, I was never called. They decided a new composite was necessary without revisiting all the facts and testimonies.

Here's what could have been learned with just a phone call: There were two witnesses involved - the computer shop owner and her secretary. The secretary saw the bomb being placed through the Venetian blinds, and both she and the owner watched the suspect, Ted Kaczynski, walk through the private rear parking lot, noting his distinctive walk with a slight hop and commenting on his physique. I just felt that the new FBI The investigation at that time was notably sloppy. It's crucial to be meticulous when altering or updating composite sketches, as changes can significantly impact the outcome. If you look at the example images comparing me and Ted to the composites, you'll see that I resemble the second sketch quite closely. When I contacted the newly established FBI office in San Francisco in 1994 to share my observations, the agent I spoke with was unaware that there were two different sketch artists involved. This clearly shows a lack of diligence.

In 1987, in Salt Lake City, I regret not staying longer; perhaps I could have found that distinctive "Popeye chin" example which might have jogged the witness's memory. When you're nearing the truth, it's like piecing together clues in a game of Jeopardy — everything starts to fit together.
 

I need to demonstrate how close I got to capturing his eye shape. I used a collection of discarded mug shots to create my own composite feature kit. There were thousands of photos, categorized by race and gender: white males, black males, Hispanic males, and females. I sifted through them all, focusing on the cranial shape around the eyes, specifically the bone structure and mid-skull shape. I narrowed it down to about 130 similar skulls, all sharing the same eye shape. The bomber was described as having fair skin with reddish or blond hair, so I chose to depict blue eyes.
 

Here's an example to illustrate my point. On the left, you see my composite sketch focusing on the eyes. The issues with this sketch are the hairline, which is too high, and the chin, which isn't quite accurate. However, the facial symmetry resembles Ted.

I argued that the second composite resembled me, suggesting that the witness might have confused her sighting of the bomber with her interview with me. I felt that this new composite had a long nose and a greater distance between the nose and lips, features that closely matched my own. I even had psychologists supporting my theory in scientific journals.

My prediction of Ted's eyes 1 1/2 years before Ted Kaczynski was found.

	Just glide your mouse over or tap your finger on the Newsweek Magazine.

"As you can see, this image accurately represents me, in contrast to Jeanne Boylan’s composite remake. It was alarming to discover that the FBI hadn't communicated with me, assuming there was no link between the pause in bombing and this issue. This reflects poorly on their teamwork, not mine. While my responsibility is to share information with them, they made no attempt to do the same."

Jeanne Boylan was visibly upset by the criticism of her work on the Unabomber sketch. Subsequently, she was involved in creating the composite of John Doe No. 2 in the Oklahoma City bombing case. During her testimony, she claimed to have "psyched" her witnesses, which suggested she might have influenced their recollections. I possess transcripts of this testimony, which I believe was a critical error because it implied witness manipulation. As a result, the FBI did not employ Boylan for further cases. In 2005, while watching CNN, I heard a psychologist argue that the FBI's method of showing witnesses numerous images could lead to confusion. However, I challenge this notion; if everyday encounters with various people don't confuse individuals, then presenting images shouldn't either. My point is clear: if the method confuses the witness, then that witness's testimony becomes unreliable.

The UNABOM case is notably documented in the book "Unabomber, A Desire to Kill," which reads like a novel. Interestingly, I am mentioned in the index of this book, with several pages dedicated to my involvement. On the other hand, "Trace Evidence" by Bruce Henderson, About the serial killer Roger Kibbe, only references me indirectly through a mention of a composite, which I believe is portrayed in an unusual and perhaps fictional manner. However, my role was crucial in the arrest of Roger Kibbe for murder.

Contrary to what was portrayed by "Forensic Files," which credited the identification of Kibbe solely to forensic evidence, my contributions were significant. I was dispatched to San Bernardino to interview a man named Driggers at Norco Prison, who was serving time for drug possession. Driggers had once been given a ride by Kibbe, now convicted for life on two out of an alleged forty-eight counts of murder. During a meeting in the El Dorado County DA's office, I was informed that the consistent method of cutting victims' underwear into tassel-like patterns linked Kibbe to these crimes. However, due to financial constraints and the need for federal assistance, which precluded the death penalty, he was only tried on two counts.

The Details of My Involvement:

I was flown to Sacramento and then instructed to take a flight to San Bernardino, followed by a taxi ride to Norco Prison. I arrived wearing only Levi jeans and a Levi shirt, which initially led me to the back entrance by mistake before I was corrected and directed to the front. Norco Prison, ironically located in a picturesque 1920s estate, contrasted starkly with its function as a drug prison. The estate featured military-style tents alongside a grand, white California mansion now used as the administrative center.

While waiting in the lobby, I was greeted by a large, jovial black detective who, in good humor, advised me to stay close to him, warning that if I wandered off among the similarly dressed inmates, I might inadvertently remain there for a couple of months.

My witness, Driggers, had been cooperative and seemed likeable. He had been interviewed twice before my arrival and shown a photo lineup. The detectives needed to determine if he could be transported to Sacramento for a physical identification of the man who allegedly drove during the kidnapping of his girlfriend. However, Driggers had been uncertain in his previous identifications, described as "wishy-washy," with several weeks having passed since the last attempt.

Now, it was my turn to interview him. Roger Kibbe was in custody for assaulting a prostitute and was due for release on Monday, which posed a risk of him leaving the state if not detained further. It was Sunday, and time was critical. The detectives needed to confirm Driggers' description to see if it matched Kibbe's appearance for evidential support in a physical lineup. If the composite sketch resembled Kibbe, it would provide the necessary evidence.

Driggers proved to be one of my most valuable witnesses. His description seemed to blend elements from the two photographs used in the photo lineup. I was informed beforehand that he had only seen the suspect from the side while seated in a car's passenger seat. At the time, I was working with colored images and had begun using full faces to develop my sketches. I requested several hundred mug shots of men around the same age as the suspect. To avoid any bias, I ensured I hadn't seen the suspect's photo and asked that his mug shot not be included in the lineup. This way, I could work without any prior influence to prevent any claims of manipulation. The physical lineup happened and Driggers identified Kibbe. Roger Kibbe now was charged for murder on 9 counts, However he didn’t have to stand trial after his conviction on two counts. If Eldorado wasn’t successful he would be tried for seven more in Sacramento.

The true reason for Kibbe's arrest for murder was more complex than what's typically portrayed. Politics often influences narratives, and the TV show Forensic Files chose to omit my involvement, focusing instead on forensic evidence as the sole reason for his conviction. However, in 1987, forensic analysis was centralized in one lab in Chicago, and processing evidence could take between 6 to 8 weeks. If forensic evidence had been immediately conclusive, my role would not have been necessary. Nonetheless, it was indeed forensic evidence that ultimately convicted him. This reflects my experience of dealing with influential figures who manipulate the truth.

One of the most intriguing cases for me was the Abbotsford murder in 1995, when I was still living in Nanaimo and working out of Rutherford Mall. However, my former business partner, who had bought my share of U-Frame-It, had decided to downsize and relocate just across from our original prime location at the mall. It's surprising how moving just a short distance can make a business nearly invisible. I disagreed with Dale Claughton's decision, and it wasn't just the relocation; there were other aspects of his business practices that I found troubling, which partly motivated my exit from the partnership. His move also affected my situation since I no longer had a guaranteed workspace, making it harder to attract new customers as business conditions became increasingly challenging.

News reports mentioned a killer at large in Abbotsford, BC, east of Vancouver. The RCMP had released a composite sketch, which, as usual, bore little resemblance to an actual human face due to its poor anatomical proportions. It seems the RCMP hasn't yet mastered the art of selecting competent sketch artists.

I believe some investigators simply don't value composite sketches, and if you don't employ a skilled artist, the results will predictably be substandard. Therefore, these investigators might be right in saying composites don't work when done by non-artist RCMP officers. Deciding to take action, I called Abbotsford to offer my services.

To my surprise, Abbotsford doesn't rely on the RCMP for local law enforcement but has its own city police department. I spoke with Inspector Rod Gehl about the composite sketch's anatomical inaccuracies and mentioned my experience with high-profile cases where my work had been effective. After checking with Sacramento, he quickly got back to me, urging me to catch the next ferry to the mainland.

Abbotsford, located about 60 miles east of Vancouver near the US border, was where I found myself the following day, meeting with the witness Misty Cockerill. Coincidentally, she shared the first two names, "Misty Dawn," with my daughter.

Misty had been walking home late one night from a party with her friend Tanya. Although not officially reported, I'm fairly certain they had been drinking, which can alter a witness's perception. Fear can also distort reality. All witnesses have some credibility, and part of my job involves assessing the witness to ensure they remain capable of testifying. This analysis helps me advise the investigation on the reliability of the witness, based on insights from my previous cases. When there's more than one witness, I must determine which one's testimony is more dependable or how to best utilize each account.

Misty was walking with her friend Tanya Smith when a man in a van approached them. He abducted Tanya, and while he was dragging her away, Misty escaped and ran to a nearby hospital for safety. At the hospital, Misty was found without any clothes on. Sadly, Tanya was later found strangled and dead in a farming aqueduct.

My attempt at creating a composite sketch of the suspect was one of my least successful, possibly because Misty was deeply traumatized by the event, and her state was compounded by alcohol use. She might have been trying to piece together a face from her nightmares rather than from clear memory.

The investigation dragged on for months, and because the sketches were so off, the perpetrator began taunting the police with phone calls and even desecrated Tanya's grave. In the book, it seems the police were already using these phone calls to trace the killer, but I recall suggesting to Rod, a colleague, that the voice from the calls could be used for identification. I'm not certain if my suggestion prompted this action or if the police were already on it, but I remember making the recommendation without any prior indication from Rod that they were already doing so.
 

Rod Gehl has become one of my closest friends in the police force, occasionally emailing me, and he's even written a book where I'm mentioned several times. I have a signed copy which I'm happy to lend out. Despite a mismatch between the composite sketch and the suspect, Terry Driver, who had a full head of hair, Rod's professional opinion of me remained strong. After Terry's arrest, the Vancouver Sun called me, curious about the discrepancy in the composite image. Fortunately, I didn't answer the phone, and upon learning who was calling, I instructed to inform the newspaper that I was unavailable for the evening. I then called Rod to alert him that the media was attempting to undermine the witness's credibility. He appreciated the heads-up and made me a material witness for my protection from further press inquiries.

It's intriguing to me how naturally I've adapted to investigative work. My decision to avoid the interview wasn't driven by fear of my own failure but rather concern for the witness. She had concocted parts of her memory in an attempt to assist the police, thinking she had seen her description of the killer. I can understand and forgive a child in such a traumatic situation. My role isn't to psychoanalyze but to translate verbal and visual descriptions into a sketch that resembles the perpetrator.

My method involves showing the witness multiple examples, using a process of elimination where they choose features from a book containing various noses, eyes, mouths, and head shapes. I let them sift through mug shots for similarities, discussing their choices to compose a final image.

I believe you can't truly damage a good witness, but it's crucial never to lead them by suggesting which features might look more like the suspect. If Misty thought she saw a bald man, it was likely her state of mind at the time. I drew according to her descriptions; she wasn't lying, just reconstructing her memory under stress, especially since she had to flee for her life while her friend did not survive. It's quite telling how eager a newspaper was to discredit a child, potentially damaging her credibility for a story. Despite this, the vehicle sketches were useful for identification, though this case remains my least successful composite.

My significant advantage in this case was that the RCMP's forensic artist gave an interview to the Vancouver Sun, which inadvertently discredited a key witness. This blunder essentially proved that I outperformed the RCMP, highlighting their artist's inability to perform their duties effectively.

However, none of these details are included in the book, likely due to what you might call political correctness. Rod personally told me he reprimanded the RCMP artist for speaking to the media. So, it's wise not to always trust what you read, even in the nonfiction true crime genre. I'd be willing to lend you the book if you're interested.

This might intrigue you: back in 2003, I was invited to appear on TV. Unfortunately, although I had the sketch that supported the witness's testimony (and I believe the show was designed to discredit the eyewitness), my participation disrupted their plans. I was the only one without subtitles during the broadcast. In the video, you can see me completing the drawing that demonstrated the accuracy of one witness's observations. I advised the lead investigator, who was an LAPD officer on loan, that this particular witness was reliable for facial descriptions due to her detail-oriented nature. I also pointed out that another witness, mocked for misidentifying someone, had only seen the suspect running away but had accurately described a backpack in detail.

When I first arrived and spoke with the producer in my room, I asked about the methods they would use to create a 'visual imprint' for the witnesses. The producer had no such plans, which surprised me because memory isn't typically reliable without a significant, impact event. I managed to convince him to have the man yell at the witnesses, countering what I believed was an attempt to undermine the eyewitness's credibility. As for the other artist involved, I was unaware of her work, but from what I saw, I would say she lacks the skill to earn a living doing portraits.

Here's the episode if you want to see it for yourself: [Worst Case Scenario

One last thing about the production of ‘Worst Case Scenario’
In real police work, you don't have an audience in a physical lineup. It's one witness at a time, with separate lineups for each witness. Democracy doesn't work in lineups.

Also, I had to wait a couple of months just to see what happened, at home. On my TV, like everyone else.
 

My more recent work

My life shifted when Marianne and I chose to part ways. The atmosphere around my portrait business had soured, partly because I didn’t have a proper workspace and partly because I wasn’t great at promoting myself, leaving me stuck in a strange limbo. Honestly, I didn’t even think I was that good—I just wanted to keep drawing.

My dad passed away in 1992, leaving my mom on her own in Redding, California. My brother Lauren and I talked it over and came to a deal: I’d relocate to Redding to look after her, and in return, I’d inherit the house. It wasn’t a simple choice—British Columbia was stunning, and I loved it there. But the RCMP had no use for me, and I’d been mulling over an idea to improve how witness descriptions are taken.
If you are law enforcement and are interested in a less expensive way to have top experts in the cognitive identification assist investigations, please visit https://policecompositeartist.com 
 

My first attempt at forensic art.

In 1999, I contracted some composite work with Kern County investigators. One time I remember well was a sketch of a rapist. However it didn’t turn out so well for the investigator. I started interviewing the witness and she said to me: I think we should ask the bartender, he knows him.. LOL I could just hear the investigator slapping himself.

That was the most humorous case I ever ran into. However, Kern County borders on Nevada, and it is so large that it’s very hard to investigate potential murder cases. The desert towards Nevada unfortunately is a preferred dumping ground for the criminal element in Las Vegas.

The Kern County morgue has its share of unidentified skeletal remains, and pinning down an identity from just bones can get pricey. Betty Finch, my connection and the head of the Technical Investigations branch at the Kern County Sheriff’s Department, reached out to see if I’d be up for creating a forensic illustration based on a skull.

Let me rewind a little. Back in 1984, I got an unexpected visit from Dr. Papworth, who at the time was working on identifying victims of the Green River murders. He was on a skiing trip to Vancouver Island and had heard about my abilities through the investigation. So, he decided to stop by and offer me a shot at putting my skills to forensic use. He brought along a binder packed with anatomy info to hand over and shared some insights he’d picked up about skeletal details. I was completely caught off guard—I had no clue a visit like this was coming. It sounded like an incredible challenge, though! Still, I never ended up applying my skills to any of the unidentified Green River victims.

Intrigued by the idea, I tracked down Professor Mark Skinner, an archaeologist based at Simon Fraser University in Vancouver, BC. He was incredibly supportive and provided me with some native skulls to practice on. Naturally, since the skulls were ancient, there was no way to check on the accuracy of my work, and no photographs existed of the people they once belonged to.

While hunting for a law enforcement agency willing to test my online witness interview program, I got an email from Betty Finch, head of the Kern County Sheriff’s Technical Investigations Department. She mentioned she’d taken the cognitive composite interview course at the FBI Academy in Quantico but wasn’t exactly loving the gig. She was open to giving my idea a shot and, on top of that, asked if I’d be interested in tackling some forensic cold cases by putting faces to them. Bakersfield’s 435 miles from Redding, so we’d rely on the internet to collaborate.

Soon, we were hashing out a plan over the phone. She’d photograph each skull from five angles—left and right profiles, left and right three-quarter views, and a frontal shot. This was 1999, and digital cameras back then weren’t as sharp as today’s; hers was probably between 1 and 5 mega pixels. I also asked her to measure the eye socket depth by photographing a profile with a ruler inserted, which would help me position the eyeballs accurately.

She emailed me the images of the first skull, and I dove in, producing a drawing. I could tell it was a young adult, around 20, likely Black. I scanned my rough sketch, added my notes on age and race, and sent it to Betty. She called back, impressed, saying I’d nailed it—and that it had taken an anthropologist two weeks to reach the same conclusion. That kicked off my work on two approaches to present the drawings publicly.

My plan was to build a website for the case, featuring options like adjustable skin thickness and hair variations to help someone recognize the person. For the first skull, I created a drawing where viewers could tweak the face, hair, and weight. For the second, I made multiple images with different facial hair styles, body builds (fat or thin), eyebrows, and so on.

Plasticine modeling, by contrast, limits you to one version of a person’s weight—you can change hair or makeup, but that’s it. Drawings offer more flexibility, letting you depict someone as fat or thin, and they’re quicker to produce. My forensic website is https://missingjohndoe.com .
It took a couple of years to crack the second cold case. The Black woman’s identity might be resolved—I’m not sure, since confirming it would mean a trip to Bakersfield, and that’s not on my radar right now.
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-----------------to be continued.
 

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