9

It wasn’t just Union’s black community that was bothered by that composite of the alleged assailant. When cognitive graphic artist Jeanne Boylan first saw the crude image distributed by the SLED investigators she knew at once that if Susan Smith really had been carjacked a far more detailed drawing of the suspect would be key to apprehending a suspect.

For the past seventeen years, Jeanne has worked more than 7,000 cases, sketching the faces of child abductors and killers for law-enforcement officials around the country. In one of her most prominent cases, Jeanne sketched the drawing of Richard Allen Davis, the man ultimately accused of the kidnapping and murder of twelve-year-old Polly Klaas of Petaluma, California.

In the early weeks of Polly’s abduction, detectives had met with Polly’s two friends, also twelve years old, and produced a crudely drawn image of the man they said had walked into the house and carried Polly off.

The drawing was so unlike Davis that police who had encountered him the night of Polly’s kidnapping insisted the man in the drawing could not be the man they saw. After Jeanne was called to help, she met with Polly’s friends and sketched a strikingly detailed portrait of the young girl’s abductor. When Richard Allen Davis was finally caught nine weeks after Polly disappeared, the accuracy of Jeanne’s drawing was astounding.

In the past year, Jeanne stayed in touch with Polly’s father, Marc Klaas. Since the murder of his only child Marc has given up his job as owner of a Hertz dealership in San Francisco to work full-time as an advocate for children. For a time, he served as a board member for the Polly Klaas Foundation, the child advocacy group organized in honor of his daughter.

Then, about a year after Polly’s death, Marc formed his own organization, The Marc Klaas Foundation for Children, to lobby for stronger laws to protect kids and keep violent, repeat offenders behind bars. He also meets with families who are suffering through the disappearance of a child.

When the Susan Smith case broke, Marc and Jeanne teamed up again.

Marc learned of the case first. He got a call from producers at the syndicated news magazine show American Journal. Previously, Marc had reported three stories on missing children for the program. Now, producers hoped he would go to Union and report on Susan Smith and her missing babies. They sent him newspaper articles about the case, and a copy of the composite of the suspect.

Marc agreed to go. He then suggested they bring Jeanne Boylan in as well.

“Jeanne will be able to put a face on the guy,” he told them. “She can really help.”

The American Journal producers were enthusiastic about Marc’s suggestion, and Marc quickly put in a call to Jeanne. The forty-one-year-old Boylan had just returned from working on a case in Wisconsin in which a twelve-year-old girl, Cora Jones, had been murdered by a serial killer.

That Thursday afternoon, October 27, when Jeanne picked up the phone at her house in Bend, Oregon, Marc didn’t waste any time.

“Jeanne, it’s Marc. What are you doing right now?” he said.

Jeanne sighed. “Marc, I’m having one of the worst days of my life,” she responded.

Marc barely heard her. “We’ve got a case,” he said, his voice serious. He went on to tell Jeanne what he knew about Susan Smith and the carjacking. He told her the composite drawing done by SLED agents didn’t look very promising.

Jeanne said she’d get back to him quickly. She quickly called the Columbia, South Carolina, office of the FBI. She found out the name of the head of the operation and faxed him a copy of her bio, listing the various cases she’d worked on.

Jeanne had worked with the FBI numerous times before and agents there were familiar with her work. But she was careful to follow protocol. She told the agent on the phone that she would not go to South Carolina without the FBI’s knowledge and approval. She knew that despite her good intentions, it was important not to step on any toes.

In a few minutes, she had her answer: The FBI has been trying to contact her. Charlie Shepard, who handled press relations for Jim Oppy, the FBI Special Agent in Charge for South Carolina, had put in a call to the agency’s San Francisco office, trying to locate Jeanne’s phone number in Bend, Oregon.

Still, Shepard warned Jeanne Boylan that she might want to hold off coming to Union until police had checked out a lead from North Carolina. Reports had just surfaced that a black man driving a car with South Carolina plates had robbed a convenience store in North Carolina. Authorities were checking to see if there was any connection to the Smith carjacking.

“It might be premature,” Shepard told Jeanne. “We’ve got a lead we’re working on. You might want to wait until morning.”

Jeanne hesitated for a moment. She glanced at the clock. If she rushed, she might just make the last flight out of Redmond Airport, a 5:10 flight that connected to a red-eye from Portland to Charlotte, North Carolina. The airport was about thirty-five minutes from her home, and she needed to shower and pack.

“I think I can make that last flight,” Jeanne said. “I’d rather be there, in case you’re lead doesn’t turn out to be anything.” She hung up and hurried to pack. The phone rang again almost immediately.

“Are you going?” Marc Klaas asked her anxiously.

She told him she was. They agreed to meet at the Charlotte Airport. Her flight from Oregon got in at 7:15 A.M.; his, at 7:30 A.M.

When she arrived in Charlotte, Jeanne slipped into the ladies’ room at the airport and changed into a Christian Dior black suit. It was her standard outfit for meeting with the FBI; she called it her “every-press-conference boring suit.”

Jeanne hadn’t quite worked out a good compromise on attire. She knew she had to present herself as a professional to the FBI agents; at the same time, in a crisis situation she always felt it was less threatening if she dressed more casually for the family.

When Marc’s flight arrived, the two hugged at the gate. Jeanne worried about Marc—he looked exhausted. Dressed in an old purple sweatsuit, he had dark circles under his eyes. She knew what a difficult year it had been for him, first losing his daughter and then throwing himself on the front lines of the battle to keep repeat offenders behind bars, fighting politicians, other lobbies.

In recent months, he’d even found himself at odds with the other members of the board of directors of the Polly Klaas Foundation over his aggressive direction. As word of the internal squabbling had leaked out, Marc had taken a beating in the press. Some thought he was too much a showman, that perhaps his motives were less than genuine.

Jeanne knew differently. Seeing him at the gate, she felt a strong bond with him. She thought about how emotionally charged a missing-child case is, and how friendships that develop in the midst of one are so strong and so pure.

For the next hour and a half, as their chauffered towncar headed south to Union, Marc and Jeanne caught up on each other’s lives. Jeanne told Marc about the Cora Jones case in Wisconsin and he listened sympathetically. It reminded Jeanne of the time when she and Marc learned of a twelve-year-old Midwestern girl who had been found murdered right around the time Polly was taken from her home. Jeanne remembered how Marc had reacted, slamming his hand against the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” he exploded. “Twelve years old is such a dangerous age in this country.”

Marc told Jeanne about his campaign for a revised version of California’s Three-Strikes-And-You’re-Out law. He told her that he had originally backed the bill because he was led to believe it would put violent, three-time felons in jail for life. But, Marc told Jeanne, the bill signed by Governor Pete Wilson targeted three-time felons regardless of whether their crimes were violent or not.

It wasn’t what was needed, Marc complained. It would only overflow the prison population and cost taxpayers astronomic sums.

As they approached Union, they began to discuss the Susan Smith case. By now, Jeanne had seen the composite drawing of the alleged suspect in the carjacking. She could hardly believe how crudely it would be drawn.

“The single most important thing is that image has got to be right,” she told Marc, who nodded emphatically. “The investigators have limited resources. This composite looks as if it’s somebody under a dim street light from fifty feet away. There’s no detail at all. You could say this is a man sitting very passively as if he’s on a Greyhound bus trip. No detail. It’s a smudge with a hat on it.”

Marc and Jeanne arrived in Union about 9:30 Friday morning. Satellite trucks were lined up in front of City Hall but only a few reporters lingered on the steps that early in the day.

Marc went inside to change out of his sweatsuit while Jeanne waited outside. She stood by the steps holding her art case and feeling uncomfortable. She worried that the cameraman would begin to question who she was. She knew that almost anything could be a story on a slow news day. Already word was out that a well-known artist was on her way to Union, and Jeanne didn’t want anything to disrupt her chances of meeting with Susan Smith.

When Marc returned, they asked directions to the Russell house, where Susan was staying. When they arrived, they walked past surprised news crews and proceeded up the driveway.

They didn’t get far. Margaret Gregory bounded out of the house and sternly told them to leave.

“Susan’s not going to see you,” she said, her voice flat. “She has no interest in seeing you.”

Marc and Jeanne almost laughed. They tried to walk by Margaret. She stepped in front of them again.

“She’s not going to see you,” Margaret said, her eyes cold.

Jeanne couldn’t understand it. In the more than 7,000 cases she’d worked she felt she had a sense of what was typical behavior and what wasn’t. More than family, clergy, or counselors, a person in a situation like Susan Smith’s would want to see a person who knows what she’s going through. That person was Marc Klaas.

“Does she know who we are, and why we’re here?” Marc asked.

“She’s not seeing anyone right now,” responded Margaret.

Jeanne pulled out some newspaper articles about her work sketching suspects and a copy of her resume. She included a copy of the People magazine cover story on Polly Klaas. In it, the story mentioned the accuracy of her sketch of Polly’s killer.

“Please pass this to Susan,” she said. “Marc is here to be a comfort to her and I’m here to put a face on this man and help get those children back.”

Margaret Gregory took the papers wordlessly. Jeanne tried again.

“This really is a very, very gentle process,” she said. “For most victims it’s actually very cathartic to get that image out. It’s like speaking a foreign language and getting someone who can understand you. To get this image down, a physical, tangible placement of that image.”

Again, Margaret Gregory said nothing.

It’s like talking to someone with no ears, Jeanne thought. She says, “Susan’s not seeing anyone,” no matter what you say, even if it’s not an appropriate response.

As they left, Marc and Jeanne shared their disbelief at their rejection at the Russell house. Jeanne tried to give Margaret Gregory the benefit of the doubt.

“Maybe she really doesn’t know,” said Jeanne. “We’re presuming she’s heard of Polly’s case.”

Still, it was very strange. “She’s so unemotional, so one-dimensional,” she said.

“Like a little bulldog,” added Marc. “She doesn’t understand. She does not get it.”

They talked about Susan. They wondered if Margaret Gregory would really relay their messages. Jeanne wondered if Susan was too frightened to try to conjure up the image of the carjacker again.

Marc thought about calling David Smith’s grandfather, James Martin, in California. He’d spoken with him several days earlier, and Martin had seemed enthusiastic that Marc had planned to make the trip to Union.

While Marc stayed behind at the Russell house with the press, Jeanne headed back to downtown and made her way to Sheriff Wells’s office. There she met Carol Allison, an FBI agent. Jeanne was pleased to see that the bureau had a female agent on the case. When Jeanne introduced herself, Allison said they had been expecting her.

She showed Jeanne the faxes that had come in to the sheriff’s office from various citizens, stories about Jeanne Boylan and the work she did with victims.

Allison explained that they wanted to include Jeanne Boylan in a high-level meeting with the FBI agents, SLED, and Sheriff Wells, but first it needed to be cleared through the bureau’s San Francisco office. As Jeanne waited she told Allison about her work.

As she spoke, Jeanne occasionally peered out from the small office where she sat with Allison and watched the chaos in the office of the sheriff. SLED agents in camoflouge walked in and out, half-eaten sandwiches lay strewn on desks. Four secretaries answered constantly ringing phones.

To almost every caller, they said the same words: “Thank you very much, but there’s nothing we have for you to do.”

Jeanne was amazed.

This is crazy, she thought. In Polly’s case, volunteers were so important.

She figured SLED had its own methods for searching, but certainly there were things for volunteers to do—passing out flyers, sending mailings.

FBI Agent Allison interrupted her musings. She had just received the call authorizing them to include Jeanne Boylan in their strategy meeting. She motioned for Jeanne to follow her next door. Sheriff Wells was on the telephone. He looked up and nodded hello to Jeanne Boylan.

Moments later, nine FBI and SLED agents joined them. Allison closed the door to the sheriff’s office.

“Now,” said Allison. “Tell them what you told me.”

Boylan told them about memory, and how a traumatized individual stores the image of a face. She told them how susceptible that image is to change. Now and then she glanced at Carol Allison, thinking, Is this what you want?

Apparently, it was. The law enforcement officials listened in rapt attention.

Jeanne explained her criticism of the original drawing of the suspect. “It’s situationally inappropriate for a person entering a vehicle,” she told them. “The positioning is wrong. He’s void of emotion. There are a number of red flags in it. It’s the drawing of someone very passive.”

She talked about the Polly Klaas case, how early on detectives were frustrated by interviews with Polly’s two friends, the only witnesses to her kidnapping. The two girls had seen the man for several minutes—he’d bound and gagged them, before grabbing Polly—but their descriptions of the kidnapper varied dramatically.

The differences were normal, Jeanne insisted. If they had been the same, that would have been odd.

She told them a little about how a traumatized mind digests an image, and about compulsive repetition, when the mind goes over and over the same event.

“Nothing impacts recall more than emotion,” she said. “That’s what happens under trauma. Your mind is trying to move that memory and gain mastery over it. The mind is so powerful it tries to protect you. It tries to feed new information into that memory that is more emotionally palatable.”

At one point, Jeanne wondered if the FBI and SLED agents really understood her focus on memory, emotion, and perception. Those were very abstract terms, she knew, for men used to dealing with the details of police work.

She gave them an example about a murder weapon, a gun or a knife. If at first it has on it a single set of fingerprints, and then it is passed down through a dozen people, each holding it, touching it, by the time it is inspected, the weapon is covered with fingerprints, she said. It is no longer the same weapon it was at the beginning.

She explained that the traditional FBI method of analyzing an image from a victim’s memory is much the same. The method, created in the 1940s, requires the victim to look through mug shots, a total of 960 full-facial photographs. The agents place little pieces of paper over various parts of the face—the mouth, nose, eyes.

“The actual image,” Jeanne Boylan told them, “begins to distort with exposure to as few as twelve photographs. It’s an archaic method. And once that information is gone, it’s gone.”

SLED Chief Robert Stewart listened carefully. “Well, I don’t think our person uses that technique,” he said, reaching for the phone.

He called a subordinate and spoke for a few minutes. “They use the FBI Facial Identification Catalogue,” he said.

Jeanne rolled her eyes, exasperated. That was just what she’d been talking about.