Of course the sketch was going to look like me. This is a middle-class neighborhood, sustained by an IT industry, with two malls and fast-food outlet on nearly every block. Of course my wife was killed by a pasty-white fat-ass, school-smart enough to cover his tracks but not street-smart enough to avoid being seen by an anonymous witness across the street.
The military haircut on the penciled mug might be a problem. Being an Iraq veteran makes me part of in a smaller community. But I'm certainly not the only one with demons. In fact, my demons might be crucial for arguing my innocence once I inevitably get hauled in.
I wasn't a bubbling mess when I called 911 and told them my wife had been shot multiple times? Sure. But then again, I wasn't a bubbling mess when my entire unit was wiped off the map by an IED while I was in the bushes taking the leak. The military trained me not to be a bubbling mess in any situation. My demons, the boom, the fire, the screaming, the ash, galvanized that training.
The detective leading my wife's case will listen. I know him. He served. He understands.
Anyway, it's probably for the best that the sketch looks like me. The husband always ends up being a suspect. I'll merely be eliminated a little earlier than usual. There's nothing solid pointing to me. There can't be.
All they have is this sketch, and to be honest, a police sketch is worth jack squat. Seen the Unabomber's? All they're good for, really, is convincing the public that the cops have something to go on. I should know, I've been a police sketch artist for five years.
My work colleague knows too. I can see him arguing with the detectives now. One of them has his hand on the cuffs, a regular by-the-book brown-noser that I detest, mutually. But I can see even he knows that my colleague has a point. The witness' description was extremely vague. It doesn't have much of a face, just the haircut and the fat head. He was way across the street, and, although the cops don't know this yet, stoned as a parrot.
They probably need to find out. I'll sure of it. An anonymous tip, point them to the witness' little plantation in the backyard. Better he's discredited before he's interviewed by a prosecutor. Who knows how low a prosecutor will go to get a conviction in a case like this? I might even end up going to jail for something I did on false evidence. The devil would find that one amusing.