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The FBI investigation yielded no helpful DNA, not from the demolished house or garage or mailbox. Pretty thorough, the forensics officer muttered, the bastards even thought to wipe down their mailbox. And he was right. With time on their hands after attacking the embassy, Stickman and Maple tried to wipe down everything they might have touched, mailbox included. And unlike the city and its environs, their neighborhood was devoid of surveillance cameras.
But there were the neighbors. Willie and his honey and perhaps a dozen others recalled having limited contact with the two men, some just recently and others over several years. Predictably, descriptions varied, sometimes dramatically.
As they came in, Special Agent Cecille Hudson started doing averages – of height and weight and body type, complexion and color of eyes and hair and how it was cut, how they dressed, and distinguishing marks. The space provided for distinguishing marks was usually empty. No known tattoos or body piercings. Two of the neighbors said the slimmer of the two may have a faint scar on his chin. A convenience store clerk thought the blockier man had a facial mole. Are these guys boring or what? Hudson wondered. But no, she reminded herself, they are very good at murder.
Late in the day, Hudson finally had her averages. Five people generally agreed on height and weight so she’d go with those numbers. More important, three of those five and another three were close on complexion, body types, hair style and color. Her artist, Aaron Wayne, would work with those six on composite sketches of the suspects.
Teams of officers were dispatched to bring the six to Wayne. Dinners were interrupted and children’s performances were missed. Romance was delayed. Hudson, who could turn on “I feel your pain” as easily as she could “I don’t give a shit,” apologized and explained the obvious, why descriptions of the killers were needed as quickly as possible. She even gave ready Willie’s right forearm a flirtatious little squeeze.
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Accompanied by Aaron Wayne and his composite sketches, Hudson felt guilty about the late hour as she knocked at a two-story colonial, not far from National Cathedral. She felt much more guilt about why she was there.
A male nurse answered. “Come in. Thanks for calling ahead. Nadia hasn’t been trying to sleep until I give her a sedative at midnight.”
The small woman from the National Cathedral’s finance office had been in an ill-defined level of shock since her quiet life had been violently upended. She no longer spoke, except for a whispered yes or no. She trembled without warning. Tears suddenly flowed, but she only cried out when asleep. She ate little and spent most of her time looking at, but not seeing, the television. The nurses always kept it tuned to comedy reruns, absolutely never the news.
Nadia’s sister, also single, and her doctors had earlier allowed Aaron Wayne to visit. They monitored him at first, while he explained to Nadia why he was there. He did that on each of his handful of visits, waiting in vain for her to respond, never pressing her for a description of the man responsible for her fear. Very patient, he sat with her and tried to make small talk. She did not say one word to him.
The nurse led the way to the living room and, at Hudson’s request, turned the lights up enough for Nadia to see Wayne’s sketches. Calmly and gently, Hudson explained who she was and why they were there. She asked Nadia if she understood, but got no response.
Hudson said Wayne would show her drawings of four men. On the TV tray in front of her, he placed a sketch of a man irrelevant to the case. Nadia looked at it and then away.
“Have you ever seen this man or anyone resembling him?” Hudson asked softly. Nadia said nothing.
Wayne showed her a sketch of the spotter. Again, she looked away and said nothing.
Wayne placed the sketch of the shooter before her. Hudson saw her back straighten slightly and an eyebrow shoot up.
“Have you ever seen this man or anyone resembling him?” Nadia stared hard at the sketch and then away, saying nothing.
Hudson inhaled and nodded at Wayne. He placed the fourth sketch on the TV tray. The shooter wearing a dark baseball cap stared out at Nadia. Her mouth fell slack and her eyes opened wide. Frantic, she released a low scream unlike anything Hudson had ever heard and slammed the TV tray to one side, arms and legs flailing uncontrollably.
As Hudson and Wayne reached to console her she struck out at them. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” They backed off. The nurse stepped in, barely touching her at one elbow to guide her sobbing from the room.
Wayne, face white, began picking up the scattered sketches. They shook in his hand. “Was it worth it?” he asked, mostly to himself.
“Don’t know,” Hudson muttered, “but we got our answer.”
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Late that night sketches and descriptions of the two men were released to the public:
Suspect #1: White, light complexion; 5’11”, 165 lbs.; late-30s; lean but muscular; brown hair starting to thin, combed straight back; light eyes; thin face; well-dressed, whether wearing casual clothes or coat and tie, sometimes with broad-brimmed felt hat. No facial hair. No known tattoos or body piercings, but suspect may have a faint v-shaped scar on his chin.
Suspect #2: White, medium complexion, perhaps tan from being outside; 5’9”, 190 lbs.; mid-30s; stocky and muscular; dark hair, parted on left side, with lock falling to right; wears casual or blue-collar workman’s clothes, often with a baseball-type cap and sunglasses. No facial hair, though often has stubble of beard. No known tattoos, body piercings or scars, but may have a mole the size of a dime below suspect’s right front hairline.
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Days before the descriptions went public, Maple and Stickman started altering their appearances. With help from a gel, Stickman trained his hair to comb over and grew stylishly trimmed short facial hair. Maple let his hair grow longer and a heavy beard started coming in, growing as it would. Both had worked on tans under sunlamps at home. Breaking from their previous dress, they wore plaid shirts and camouflage pants popular with fishermen. Before the attack they purchased the best quality temporary tattoos they could find. LOVE inscribed Maple’s right hand knuckles and a discrete half-moon was on the left side of his neck, above his shirt collar. Stickman had a small American flag on his left wrist. Following Maple’s lead, he bought a good pair of sunglasses.
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Anticipating the fugitives would change their appearance, Special Agent Hudson asked artist Aaron Wayne to do a second sketch of both men, showing how they might look with beards and moustaches. In an unusual move, a third sketch of Suspect #2 was released, after simply adding a dark baseball cap.
The sketches and descriptions were immediately ubiquitous – on every television and website, in every newspaper and magazine. They were the stars of Post Offices across the country, and public buildings of allies around the globe. Businesses – from super markets to barber shops and movie theaters – found space to tack up their mugshots. Overnight, putting a face to a heinous crime – even an artist’s rendering based on shaky and conflicting memories – turned a shocked and fearful populace into vigilantes with a cause.
Though not identifying them by name, the FBI declared that Stickman and Maple were Public Enemy No. 1 and raised the reward for each man to ten million dollars. The reward should be multiples of that, thought Special Agent Hudson, but if turning them in is a matter of money, ten million should still do the trick.