Body Hunter (13 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is it?” Wardrip asked.

“Your wife.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Seventeen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

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

“That's why we're here,” Smith said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do,” Wardrip said solemnly, but he had no intention of stopping the proceedings. His mind was made up. He would tell Little and Smith everything they wanted to know. The life Wardrip had dreamed of was gone. He knew he couldn't get it back. It was time to confess.

“Faryion, what I would like to do is just kind of go back to the beginning in your own words and start with the events surrounding December 21, 1984, if you would. This would be in reference to the death of Terry Sims,” Little prompted.

“I don't recall the dates to be exact. I do know, at that time I was under heavy drugs. Intravenous drugs caused a lot of dysfunctional activities in my life. All it did was create hate in my heart. I was out walking, actually walking home. I had been in a fight with my ex-wife. Drugs had just totally taken control of my life and as I was walking, she [Sims] was at her door. I went up to the door and forced my way in. Well, I just ransacked her, just slung her all over the house in a violent rage. Stripped her down and murdered her,” Wardrip said, his voice trailing off as he lowered his head.

“Where were you living at this time, Mr. Wardrip?” Little asked.

“About four blocks up from where the incident happened,” Wardrip answered.

“Where were you working at that time?” Little asked.

“I don't think I was working,” Wardrip said.

“Can you describe to me how you killed Ms. Sims?” Little asked.

“I think she was stabbed,” Wardrip said with a puzzled look on his face. “It is hard to remember, but she was stabbed. It was such a violent rage I don't recall all the details, but I know I'm responsible for it.”

“Do you remember what you did immediately after you committed the crime?” Little asked.

“Walked. Just walked until I finally ended up back at the house. I remember walking. It was raining. I just walked all hours and then somehow I ended up back at the apartment,” Wardrip said.

“Who was living at the apartment with you?” Little asked.

“My ex-wife. Johnna. That's the only name I know. She has remarried and moved. I don't know where,” Wardrip said.

“Did you have any conversation with Ms. Sims beforehand?” Little asked.

“No.”

“Did you know her in any way beforehand?”

“No.”

“So you just were walking in the neighborhood and saw her standing there at her door going in,” Little stated.

“Yes.”

“Did you knock on the door?” Little asked.

Wardrip contemplated the question for a moment, then spoke. “I don't recall. I don't recall.”

“Did you have sex with her?”

Wardrip looked surprised. “No, I don't think I had sex. I'm almost pretty sure that I didn't have sex with her. I do remember stripping her down out of anger, but I don't recall having sex with her.”

Had Wardrip forgotten the violent sexual assault on Terry Sims, or was he cunning enough to know rape coupled with murder made for a capital offense punishable by death?

“Do you recall what the house looked like that she lived in?” Little asked.

“No, it was dark. But I think it was white. If I'm going to guess, I'll say white. But all I know is that I was just walking and it was raining and I was so mad at the world. I saw two or three people that evening and I just wanted to just lash out. As I came upon Sims, I just lashed out,” Wardrip said.

“Do you recall what you did with the knife that was used?” Little asked.

“No,” Wardrip said, looking at Little questioningly. “It could be laying anywhere. I'm surprised it wasn't there.”

“You didn't bring the knife with you?” Little asked.

“I—I can't remember if I had a knife or not. I don't think I did,” Wardrip said, somewhat confused.

“Did you ever own a black-handled hunting knife?” Little asked.

“No, I never was a hunter or nothing.”

“Did you ever carry a boot knife?”

“No, not that I recall. I never did carry a boot knife,” Wardrip said.

Wardrip either failed to remember or deliberately chose not to tell Little and Smith about giving his brother Bryce a broken-handled, lock-blade knife as his brother and parents were leaving for a trip to the races in Altus, Oklahoma.

“I want to give you this,” Wardrip had told Bryce. “A friend lost it out of his back pocket.”

Bryce had taken the knife from his older brother, but lost it himself on the Oklahoma trip.

“Okay, that's fine,” Wardrip had told Bryce when he told him about the missing six-inch knife.

“You spoke of a rage that was building up. What was causing the rage?” Little asked as he and Smith continued their questioning of Wardrip.

“Just all the things that go on in life. I thought my family hated me. I hated them. My wife kept coming in and out of my life. She'd come to me when times were good and then when times got hard, she'd leave and I just kept turning towards drugs. I thought everybody was out to get me. The drugs made me paranoid. And I guess the way I grew up with drugs when I was a kid, the drinking, it made me have violent outbursts. It just kept with me and I kept turning to drugs and drinking to cover it up. Thinking it would go away and it never did. I would just reach a boiling point. But the crazy thing about it was, I was so mad at my wife, but I never done anything to her. But I was just so mad and so angered. Satan had a firm hold on me, boy, he had a firm hold,” Wardrip said, the emotion rising and falling in his voice.

“Did you go into the bedroom with Ms. Sims?” Little asked.

“Probably. I think we were in all different parts of the house, I think,” Wardrip said.

“Do you remember anything about the bedroom you were in?” Little asked.

“No, I barely remember the house,” Wardrip said.

“Did you tie Ms. Sims's hands behind her back?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“Rope. I believe it was a rope,” Wardrip said.

“Could it have been an electrical cord?” Little asked.

“It could have been,” Wardrip said. “I don't remember, but I remember tying her hands behind her back.”

“Do you remember where you left her at when you left the house? What room?” Little asked.

“Boy, I've blocked this out of my memory for so long,” Wardrip said, shaking his head slightly. “Maybe the bathroom, maybe the kitchen, maybe the bathroom.”

Wardrip paused momentarily.

“Maybe the bathroom,” he repeated.

“Okay, I would like to move on now, at this point to approximately a month later, January 19, 1985. Mr. Smith would like to ask you some questions about a case he is investigating,” Little said.

Paul Smith moved in a little closer to his suspect.

“We are referring to a nurse that worked at the General Hospital, Toni Jean Gibbs. Do you recall that?” Smith asked.

“Yeah,” Wardrip said, taking a deep breath. “Again, I was out walking. Been out walking all night. Somehow I was downtown. It was about six o'clock in the morning. Just walking. And I started walking home. It was starting to get daylight and, uh, I was walking up towards the hospital. Toni knew me and she asked me if I wanted a ride and I said, ‘Yeah,' and so we got in the car and she gave me a ride. I started basically in on her. I started seeing images of anger and hate, and it just clicked off and I told her to drive out the road there. I don't remember which direction we were going, I just told her to drive. We drove out the road and I just grabbed her and started trying to sling her around the car and she swerved off the side of the road and we ended up on the side of the road and she turned down a dirt road and I still had her by her jacket and I was just slinging her, trying to sling her and I was screaming as loud as I can at her. I told her to stop and she stopped. I did the same thing. I took off her clothes and I stabbed her.”

“Can you describe the location where this happened?” Smith asked.

“Just a dirt road in a field.” Faryion shrugged.

“Was there some kind of a structure out there in the field?” Smith asked.

“Maybe trees. Trees, that is the only thing I can think of, would be trees,” Wardrip said.

“What did you do with the clothing?” Smith asked, trying to get their suspect to remember the burned-out bus where Gibbs's clothing was found.

“They should still be right there. I don't remember doing anything with the clothing,” Wardrip said.

“Do you remember the weather that day?” Smith asked.

“It was cold,” Wardrip said.

“Do you recall if there was some kind of an old bus body or trolley car body or something there?” Smith finally asked directly.

“No, I just . . . some of it,” Wardrip said, apparently confused. “It took me a long time to remember a lot of different stuff because when I was in those rages, I just blacked out. I just don't remember. I don't remember that.”

“Do you recall what you did with the knife in that case?” Smith asked.

“Probably it stayed right there. I don't remember doing anything with the knife, anything specific. It probably stayed right there,” Wardrip said.

“How was Toni dressed?” Smith asked.

“Uh—” Wardrip hesitated, his eyes shifting to the left as he thought. “She was in her nurse's uniform.”

“What color was this leather jacket? Do you remember?” Smith asked, pointing to a photo.

Wardrip took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily. “Brown maybe. Black. Black. I tried my best to envision it.”

“How did you strip her clothes off?” Smith asked.

“I guess in the car, just pulling on her. Yeah, just wantin' to sling her around,” Wardrip said.

“Do you remember where you were at, at that point?”

“We started at the car. I think she got away from me and got out the door, I'm not sure. Started to run, that's how we got in the field. I'm not sure,” Wardrip said, shaking his head in puzzlement.

“What kind of car was Toni driving?” Smith asked.

“A white car. I think it was a Camaro.”

“What happened to the car?”

“I drove it down the freeway and just parked it. Got out and started walking,” Wardrip said.

“Where did you park it?”

“Oh, I can't remember the name of the street. I just remember coming off the freeway and just pulling up and stopping somewhere off the side of the freeway,” Wardrip said.

“Was it close to where you were living?”

“Oh, it could have been,” Wardrip said. “I think it was close to that McDonald's there at the end of the freeway. I think it was somewhere around there, around McDonald's,” Wardrip said with more clarity.