I was chosen for this job not just because my composite drawings had proven highly accurate or because the witness wanted an artist who could add color to the Unabomber’s hair, but primarily because the Unabomber’s first victim, Hugh Scrutton—a computer store owner in Sacramento’s North Area near Arden Fair Blvd.—was killed in my local area. As a portrait artist by profession, painting a composite in color was well within my skill set. I regularly created family portraits using pastel, watercolor, and occasionally oil paints. In that work, I often faced trickier challenges, like working from faded old photos—some torn or incomplete—requiring me to consult a family member’s memory to verify details. It’s a process not so different from being a composite artist.

I get why some investigators might doubt the value of police composite art, but I’d argue they’ve just never had a skilled enough artist to show them otherwise. Before we dive into the Unabom confusion, let me first convince you that composites can be incredibly effective. When you’ve got a talented artist and a reliable witness, and time is critical, a solid composite can literally save lives. Take, for example, a case from Sacramento in 1978 involving the Dracula Killer.

The Dracula Killer, Richard Chase, was a man with a history of mental hospital stays before he went on his deadly spree. The investigation kicked off with the stabbing of a pregnant woman at her doorstep on a Monday. Sacramento Sheriff’s deputies quickly mobilized, scouring the area around the crime scene. Ray Biondi, the county’s top homicide investigator, was a firm believer in leveraging public help. I’d met Biondi a couple of months earlier and had only worked on a few cases, but I’d already proven my worth by delivering a spot-on composite that cracked a case involving forty-five counts of armed robbery. That job was a breeze—the robber looked so much like a well-known celebrity that it was almost too easy. After the composite aired on the news, we got just 28 calls from its appearances in newspapers and TV broadcasts, including three from the robber’s own family. The arrest came within a day of the composite’s release. So, by the time the Chase murders began, I was already a known asset to the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department.

Returning to Richard Chase, the Dracula Killer: Ray Biondi had urged the public to report anything unusual. Three days after the first murder, on Thursday, a woman came forward. She said a man carrying a gunny sack had knocked on her door. Fortunately, her husband was nearby and chased him off, likely saving her life. That night, she described the man to me, recalling what she saw through her screen door. Timing is critical in cases like Chase’s—by the following weekend, he broke into a home, killed four more people, and abducted a baby. The composite I created proved vital when someone living near Chase spotted it face-up in a Sheriff’s vehicle and soon alerted the authorities. Still, within a short span, six lives were lost. If you’re inclined to critique the Chase composite, note that the mug shots predated the sighting—he didn’t have a goatee when seen through the screen. Composites contend with variables like lighting, obstacles, distance, and the witness’s eyesight and memory. By the time Chase was arrested, he’d cut his hair to alter his appearance, but the composite still did its job—he was identified via earlier mug shots. It took 11 days to apprehend him. Ray Biondi later wrote a book about the Dracula Killer.

Back in 1978, I had long hair myself. I was—and still am—a freelancer, hired for composite work the same way I’d be commissioned for a private portrait. Truth be told, the Sheriff’s deputies weren’t too fond of me with my hippy look. But I was passionate about art. I’d served in the USAF as a technician—a sergeant working on test equipment—and after an honorable discharge, I settled in Sacramento. To make ends meet, I picked up some illustration jobs with the newspapers alongside my portrait art. It was an exciting time when I was young. What I’m leading up to is another story that still frustrates me, one I think matters. It’s about how politics worms its way into our system in ways it shouldn’t.

I didn’t offer my services as a police artist because I was desperate for cash—it was because I knew I could outshine the department’s artist. The sketches coming out of the Sheriff’s department were so rudimentary that they could fit almost anyone’s face. A personal grudge could easily turn someone into the composite’s subject. That kind of vagueness generates false leads—wasting precious investigative time. I can see why some investigators grow frustrated with shoddy composites. When I approached Ray Biondi, he reviewed my technical drawing skills and decided to bring me on alongside the department artist. It was a smart move. If you look at my case resolution rate, you’d see that with my artistic ability, a solid witness was all it took to produce a likeness sharp enough to cut down investigation time. Sure, even rough sketches can give a good detective enough physical traits to crack a case, but the better the artist, the better the result. That means solving cases faster—potentially fast enough to stop a killer before they strike again.

Here’s what happened: the newspaper caught wind that composites from the sheriff’s department were cracking cases. Unfortunately, the elected sheriff steered the reporter toward the department artist instead of me. The artist didn’t outright claim my work as his own, but he let the public assume he’d done it. That backstabbing still stings, and it soured my goodwill toward the department. So, I decided to leave Sacramento and join my brother on Vancouver Island, Canada. The place was stunning, and I wanted to paint the ocean.

In July 1979, I made the move to Vancouver Island, BC, carrying a letter of commendation from Ray Biondi that credited me for my police artwork. It’s a rare thing—an official letter stating your composites nearly single-handedly solved crimes. But do you think the RCMP cared? I suppose I still looked too much like a hippy to them. Honestly, though, if I’m selling art, shouldn’t I look the part? That’s just life. Even Canada’s top RCMP artist in Ottawa, Sgt. Dunleavy—inventor of the Identikit and author of a letter urging BC Identification headquarters to hire me—couldn’t sway them. (You can see his letter.) The RCMP never took me on, except for one minor case with a local detachment that fizzled out due to lack of priority. Eventually, though, I got a shot to outshine the RCMP by reworking a composite for a major nationwide murder case in Abbotsford, BC—the “Abbotsford Murder Case.” It grabbed headlines in both the US and Canada.

The incident took place in 1995, involving two young girls walking home from a party late at night. One was abducted, while the other escaped to a hospital just 100 yards away. The murder investigation had been underway for weeks when I noticed the RCMP composite in the Vancouver newspaper. It struck me as overly simplistic and anatomically off. This time, the case was handled by the Abbotsford Police, not the RCMP, so I decided to reach out. I called and spoke with Inspector Rod Gehl, who was heading the task force. He was intrigued enough to verify my credentials with Sacramento. After a callback, he invited me to assist. I was back in the game, but this case took an odd turn. It was solved—not through the composite’s accuracy, but in a way that still highlighted my edge over the RCMP artist. It turned out the young witness had fabricated the suspect’s description. She was a child and likely believed her own story, but both composites—mine and the RCMP’s—were so far off that the killer grew bold, taunting the police with phone calls. Those calls gave the police a voice recording that the public recognized, leading to his arrest. When his photo hit the press, it bore no resemblance to either composite—not even close.

During the investigation, the press interviewed me several times, curious about the investigation. After the arrest, the public aware of the composite's inaccuracy, the Vancouver Sun reached out for an interview, but I turned them down. I didn’t want to cause further harm to my witness—a 15 year old girl—so I called Rod Gehl for advice. He offered to designate me a material witness, which would shield me from media pressure. Why would I risk an interview that could hurt her more? Witnesses offer more than just visual accounts, and she’d already been through enough. Meanwhile, the RCMP artist took a different tack, granting a newspaper interview where he called the girl “delirious.” To me, staying silent is just common sense. I never trained at the FBI Academy—though I’m referenced in their textbooks—but I know as an artist you don’t sway a witness. That’s tampering. The RCMP artist not only produced a weak composite but also undermined his witness’s credibility to prop up his own ego. My issue lies solely with the BC RCMP Identification Department.

In Nanaimo, a small city 70 miles north of Victoria, I built a solid portrait business with the public—not with the police. Whenever local constables wanted to hire me, the RCMP’s Identification Branch headquarters consistently denied approval. I often wonder how many lives were lost due to what seems like a job-protection mindset. I first reached out to the BC RCMP ID Department in Victoria during the time serial killer Clifford Olson was targeting children. The commanding inspector assured me I’d be called upon when their artist was unavailable. Not long after, a constable tried to enlist me for an ID in the Olson murder case, but the ID department forced the witness to wait nine days until their artist returned from mid-province to sketch the composite. I’ll let you decide why they delayed. This was in 1980.

You might be curious how, after leaving Sacramento in 1979, I ended up contributing to the I-5 Murders, the Green River Task Force, and the Unabom Task Force. It’s straightforward: after I left, Sacramento struggled to replace me with someone of equal skill. Early in 1982, I relocated to Salem, Oregon, feeling that Canada might not be the right fit for me. In the early 1980s, loan interest rates were climbing, and I worried the local Canadian economy couldn’t sustain me. Before that move, from May 1980 to February 1982, I worked at U-Frame-It, a franchise picture-framing shop in a mall. The owners positioned me out front, sketching, to attract customers.

I’m comfortable with people peering over my shoulder as I draw portraits, and the folks in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, had warmed to me. After relocating to Salem, Oregon, in 1982, though, I struggled to get a business off the ground. I’d set up in an old theater turned into a walk-through mall, but foot traffic was scarce. Three months in, the manager from U-Frame-It in Nanaimo started calling, saying work was waiting if I’d return. Seeing that building a clientele in Salem would take much longer, I decided to head back to Vancouver Island. I packed up my car, rented a U-Haul truck, and settled in Gabriola Island, a stunning little community near Nanaimo. The economy was picking up, and things started looking up.

In November 1982, I finally got a call from Sacramento. A high-profile case was on the table, and they’d fly me down if I was available. It’d been three years since I’d left, and it seemed I’d proven my worth to the detectives. They hadn’t found anyone to replace me. When I arrived, an investigator showed me a long list of artists they’d considered—I came out on top. Better yet, they were willing to bring me in from Canada for the job. Part of the deal, though, was doing 20-minute interviews with all the local news anchors, who gave me props for my past police artwork. What a ride!

It was my first time being flown from Canada for a case, and it wasn’t just the Sheriff’s Department footing the bill. Ray Biondi had a knack for rallying support—he got a travel agency to cover my flight and a hotel to donate my room. That week, I was the buzz of Sacramento, but the spotlight came with pressure to crack the case. It was a story that had gripped the news for weeks: a 10-year-old girl, left nearly dead by a rapist, had been in a coma for 2½ weeks. She’d since woken up with a clear memory of her attacker. It took me two interviews to complete the composite. Newspaper article

It was in the paper the next day, but it took 6 weeks to get results. Here we get political again, and this is really what it's like for people in my shoes. Finally after six weeks, a man comes forward and tells investigators that he reluctantly thinks it's his son. Yes the investigators had looked high and low for someone who looked like the composite; but no one in Sacramento looked close to the composite, and after six weeks a man comes in and says it's his son. He told them that his son lived with his mom in San Diego and was up visiting the week of the incident. The father was apparently able to make a plea bargain with the district attorney, and Walla! the knowledge of the plea bargain is to be hidden from the press, and the man's son was to be put under observation. Also this decision was made to keep the little girl from going through a difficult trial. So in other words, I don't get public credit for my part in solving the case; and this was really a big solve for me. Of course I am famous with the little circle of investigators, but the people of Sacramento have no idea that I succeeded. Through the 1980's I was used on a handful of cases as well as Green River and Unabom, so I stay self employed mainly as a portrait artist working in a mall to feed my family. It was not an easy life.

In 1987, I traveled to Norco Prison for the I-5 murder case—an intriguing tale and the only time I ever testified in court. I was brought in to confirm whether a Sacramento witness, jailed at Norco for drug charges, could reliably identify the suspect, Roger Kibbe, who was nearing release. The Sacramento Sheriff’s Department Homicide team had already shown the witness two photo lineups, but they weren’t confident enough in his ID to charge Kibbe without a solid physical lineup. They hired me to draw a composite based on the witness’s memory of the killer, whom he and his girlfriend had encountered when picked up by Kibbe. If my sketch closely matched Kibbe, they’d make the arrest. I deliberately avoided seeing Kibbe’s face—no mugshots or photos—to keep my work unbiased. The resulting composite was so spot-on that, three years later, I testified to confirm I hadn’t seen Kibbe or his image beforehand. I built the sketch using feature album images and color mugshots of men in his age group, none of them Kibbe.

2 mug-shots of Roger Kibbe with waterclor composite in the center.

What’s fascinating—and frustrating—is that a Forensic Files episode on this case credits forensic evidence for Kibbe’s arrest, implying it did my job. But from what I know, the lab results weren’t back in time, which is exactly why I was called in. Hollywood loves to twist things, sidelining struggling artists like me for their narrative. Trust me, if forensic evidence had been ready, I wouldn’t have been needed. This is just another case of the media downplaying my role. Don’t buy everything you see on Forensic Files—or read elsewhere. Take it from me, an artist with little clout but a real stake in the truth.

In 1987, I aided in solving a case where a mechanic was killed for a stash of cash he kept at home. Distrustful of banks, he’d hoarded around $40,000 at his residence. I painted that composite just before heading to Salt Lake City to assist the UNABOM Task Force. Looking at it now, it shows how close you can get in this line of work. The Unabom composite isn’t my finest, but like other investigations, its story is compelling. I hold myself accountable for not doing better—I know I presented the witness with chin options similar to Ted Kaczynski’s. They also asked me to remove the sunglasses from the composite, if possible. Back then, I dismissed that as impractical and unwise, so I kept them on. Still, you can trace Ted’s nose, mouth, and facial symmetry in the sketch’s outline. I should’ve pushed for more time with the witness. You don’t want to pressure them too much—the goal is to recreate what they saw, factoring in lighting and perspective, without skewing or damaging their memory. That sounds reasonable, but if a witness is so fragile that you risk influencing or harming them, imagine what a defense attorney would do. If they’re that vulnerable, you don’t really have a witness. The same applies when they’re selecting features for a composite: if they’re easily confused, they’re not a witness. Honestly, if a witness is confident they can ID the subject, then you’ve got a solid one, and they should be able to pick features and build a strong likeness.

Over the years, I’ve created a fair number of composites, but nowhere near 75 or 100. You might assume I churned them out constantly, but as a freelancer, I only work when contracted. My success rate is strong, and that’s because I truly listen to my witnesses and know how to let them guide my pencil. I can draw a long nose without turning it into something cartoonish. Subtle differences shift everything—you need a solid grasp of human proportions to interpret a description accurately. Logic is key. For instance, when gauging a suspect’s age, I ask the witness to point out someone who looks similar in age. If they reject a facial feature, that tells me what it isn’t, and bit by bit, I zero in on what it is. That’s the process. Oh, and you’ve got to be quick and skilled at sketching. I honed this by always carrying a sketchbook—I’ve done thousands of portraits (not police composites). It baffles me when I hear a department’s “best doodler” gets sent for training in this field. A smart boss would scout for a real artist who’s already adept at drawing. No offense to those picked as the department’s finest, but this job can be a matter of life and death. Go find a true artist. I’ve earned the right to call this out, and I’ll be damned if someone argues just to protect their job.

The initial UNABOM composite was created in February 1987 by an artist from the FBI department. SEE THE FBI Bulletin This wasn’t a nationwide release—actually, the witness asked the task force to bring in someone who could work in color. I landed the job largely because of Ray Biondi’s influence on the Unabom Task Force. The first victim, Hugh Scrutton, was killed—blown apart—in Sacramento, right in Ray’s jurisdiction. By then, Ray was regularly flying me down from Canada for big cases. Thanks to him, I got to outdo the FBI artist, which was a genuine honor. Sadly, neither my composite nor the ATF’s forensic efforts brought the Unabomber down. What finally worked was publishing his manifesto, which tipped off his brother and his wife. But that breakthrough came eight years and two more deaths after his Salt Lake City sighting.
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After the sighting, there was a six-year lull, followed by two bombs mailed to targets on opposite coasts via the U.S. Postal Service. These 1993 bombings prompted the FBI to take over from the ATF and Postal Investigators. The earlier Unabom Task Force had mostly consisted of postal agents, ATF personnel, and a few FBI agents, but the Unabomber’s resurgence reignited national urgency. My biggest gripe? No one in the revamped FBI Unabom Task Force realized I’d done the first composite. Apparently, I wasn’t worth tracking down for questions, even though I held key details about the Salt Lake City sighting. For example, one of the two female witnesses—who watched Ted cross the parking lot—noted he had a “nice bum” and walked with a hop, springing forward on his toes. Pairing that verbal description with a solid composite could’ve tightened the search. Another source of frustration was a glaring mix-up: the new composite resembled me in a hooded sweatshirt more than the original description. My own mother called from California to say she’d seen my face on the cover of Newsweek.

Above: American Journal segment about the composite mix-up 1995

Check out the newspaper photo of me holding the Newsweek magazine: the composite sports a long, narrow nose, much like mine. Six years earlier, my nose was even slimmer, and in this shot—taken across a restaurant table with a slight fisheye distortion—I look even closer to the magazine image than the photo suggests. The composite also features a taller upper lip above a wider mouth with fuller lips, all resembling me rather than the original 1987 sketch. It was almost comical, but the real tragedy was the FBI’s carelessness. Movies paint the FBI as meticulous with evidence, yet they didn’t bother contacting me. If they had, I could’ve worked with their new artist to avoid these pitfalls. I didn’t mind them using someone else—what stung was their sloppy decision to overhaul the composite without consulting me or analyzing the changes. It’s another case of investigators dismissing composites as useless. But the first sketch had some dead-on features that could’ve been refined. In my professional view, we could’ve nailed a near-perfect likeness—I even got the eyes right a year and a half before Ted Kaczynski’s arrest. Aligning the composite with the witness should’ve been straightforward, but I didn’t have access to her. I can show how certain features were spot-on, and I knew the hair and chin were slightly off because the witness hinted at it, even when she said she couldn’t recall more. They even flew me back from Canada to tweak the hair before the initial release. Six years later, they reused the witness, but instead of asking me about my interviews or insights, they acted like a new artist could magically whip something up from scratch. I’ll give them this: the new composite’s squarer chin was the one change I thought made sense. Every other feature took a hit. Hover your mouse over the image below to see how close we could’ve gotten—just by adjusting the eyes, nose, and mouth in my 1994 composite, done without the witness. My 1994 version mirrors the 1987 one (minus sunglasses) but exposes his eyes. If we’d nailed the Popeye chin, lowered the hairline, and noted his hopping walk, I bet folks in Montana would’ve tipped off the FBI.

I’ve faced flak for removing the sunglasses, but let me explain why I thought it mattered for the Unabom case—and to be fair to my critics, I told investigators back in 1987 it wasn’t ethical. When crafting a composite, your job is to capture the witness’s visual testimony exactly as they describe it, nothing more. That’s the standard: it should purely reflect their account. But when a witness describes a man in a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses, you’ve got to consider that such a vague look would be easy for any defense to challenge. Strategically, exposing the eyes makes sense—a composite with dark sunglasses could match too many faces. Of course, you never show this altered version to the witness. In fact, I always instruct them not to look at the final sketch. I do this in every interview to prevent them from latching onto any errors I might’ve made. Protecting the integrity of their memory is crucial.

You might wonder how I chose the eyes. It was straightforward: I studied the 1987 composite alongside thousands of mugshots I had access to, focusing on the bone structure around the eye sockets. I narrowed it down to 127 mugshots where the eye shapes were nearly identical. As you can see in the comparison below, I nailed it.

Exter appears on Worst Case Scenario

This case is definitely worth examining. The idea that the witness might have blended my face into her memory of the sighting is wild—it’s the kind of thing that could fuel a fascinating psychological study. Ask a random person on the street for the time, and most wouldn’t be engaged enough to recall a useful description of you later. But if you’re being robbed, that robber’s face could stick with you for years. That’s how our brains work: the more intense the experience, the sharper the memory. Higher stimulation leads to better recall.

The modest credit I can take is that I was the artist behind the 1987 composite. On April 26, 1997, while watching Larry King Live—with Arthur Kent filling in for Larry—Tony Muljat, the lead U.S. Postal Inspector on the Task Force, paid me a kind compliment. Here’s the excerpt from the show’s transcript:

ARTHUR KENT: But the- the complexity - for instance, only one eyewitness in the entire 17 year train of events, and 16 bombings, only one eyewitness way back in 1987 in Salt Lake City.

TONY MULJAT: Mm-hm.

ARTHUR KENT: And then a six year- six year pause.

TONY MULJAT: Mm-hm.

ARTHUR KENT: Did it frighten you? The complexity and success with which this Unabomber was acting?

TONY MULJAT: Well, when we were fortunate to have a witness in Salt Lake in 1987, at that time, again, we didn't know if we were dealing with a male, female, a white male, black male - or whatever it was and- and that was a significant break for us at that time and then the composite that was provided by the eyewitness, in my opinion, was a strong likeness to the suspect and I think that drove him down under, I really do. You know, it-
 

TRANSCRIPT FROM LEXIS-NEXIS - LARRY KING LIVE - DECEMBER 9, 1997