Zodiac Unmasked (27 page)

It contained hints of a depression that “frequently overtakes him. . . . It is not entirely unlikely that in one of these virulent depressions, such

individuals could commit suicide.” Possibly, the suicide Zodiac references is “the symbolic death of Zodiac . . . the sociopathic personality

eventual y ‘burns out’ . . . as he ages.”

“I would agree,” wrote FBI profiler Douglas, “that the Zodiac might eventual y commit suicide, but I also believe that, even in a depressed state,

the Zodiac wrote letters with the goal of manipulating, dominating, and control ing their recipients and the larger audience he knew they would

reach.”

Once a paranoid schizophrenic is into his mid-thirties (if he does not kil himself), the rage may burn itself out or go into remission. If Zodiac had

symbolical y died, then the kil er might lead the rest of his life uneventful y. He might not recal he had once been Zodiac. Miron believed the kil er to

be a Caucasian, unmarried male . . . “isolated, withdrawn and unrelated in his habits, quiet and prepossessing in disposition.” He thought Zodiac

had “good uncorrected eyesight because of the use of minute distinguishers for the differing code symbols.”

Police had once studied surveil ance photos of the Bates burial. Many kil ers were unable to stay away from their victim’s funeral. For that same

reason the
Chronicle
snapped pictures of the extended lines curling around the Northpoint Theater and stretching up Powel between Bay and

Francisco Streets. Photos were taken each night on the chance Zodiac would see
The Exorcist
again. Perhaps he would wave to the camera.

The
Exorcist
letter carried only a single eight-cent Eisenhower stamp. Zodiac usual y doubled, tripled, even quadrupled postage. A similar

sociopath, the Unabomber, who came after Zodiac, stockpiled large quantities of symbolic stamps long before he began posting his heavy mail

bombs. For the bomber, Eugene O’Neil stamps signified a hidden message. Maybe O’Neil’s plays were a grim comment on the Unabomber’s

troubled family life. Other stamps indicated the strength of the infernal device or target selected—specific or non-specific. Only the bomber knew

what each symbolized.

Zodiac’s paired stamps of presidents—Lincoln, Eisenhower, and FDR—might be equal y symbolic—al had served as wartime presidents.

Lincoln stamps might indicate someone named Green (Lincoln Green), Ford (Ford’s Theatre), or Booth (the assassin Booth or any actor for that

matter). FDR stamps might stand for Delano, a county abutting Deer Lodge, Montana, a spot linked to Zodiac by his own words during a

conversation with a surviving victim. This time Zodiac had decorated the lower right-hand corner of his envelope with gummed labels. Running

vertical y were these instructions:

“Stamps in this book have been gummed with a matte finish adhesive which permits the elimination of the separation tissues. This book

contains 25—8 cent stamps—four on this pane and seven each on three additional panes. Sel ing price $2.00.” In the upper right corner were

the gummed stamps “MAIL EARLY IN THE DAY” [showing clock hands] and “Use ZIP code.”

Did zip
code
somehow match up with one of Zodiac’s numerical codes as a key? The
Exorcist
letter re-energized the case. “Since the latest

Zodiac letter was published,” Toschi said, “I’ve had fifty people in my office! Each claims he knows Zodiac personal y. Bil and I have probably

fol owed up a thousand leads in this case and heard a lot of weird stories. People tel us they’re sure it’s their neighbor because he looks like the

drawing and walks around with a knife in a scabbard. . . . There are times when you’re listening to this and it’s hard to keep a straight face. But I feel

I’ve got to listen to everyone, no matter how outlandish their story is.”

Thursday, January 31, 1974

“Are you aware
of a rumor going around concerning a possible link between Zodiac and the San Francisco choral group the ‘Lamplighters’?” a

woman informed Avery on Thursday morning. “A girl I heard talking about it used to belong to the group and thought one of the men in the group fit

the description of Zodiac. She was reluctant to go to the police much as we tried to persuade her. Then it was dropped and I’m not sure what

became of her. In any case, did the police check out that group? Zodiac (who’s probably Mr. Ordinary Guy Leading Typical Life who also happens

to be a psychopath)—obviously listens to Gilbert and Sul ivan. I would have written this directly to the police but what with giving parking tickets and

busting pot rings, I know they are too busy to fight crime. Al us ordinary citizen taxpayers are imprisoned within the wal s of our homes because

murderers, rapists and burglars who are free to roam can’t seem to get caught until they cal in from a phone booth with their exact longitude and

latitude.”

Thursday, February 14, 1974

Carol opened the
morning mail and got a second shock—the flood-gates had truly been opened:

“Dear Mr. Editor: Did you know that the initials SLA [Symbionese Liberation Army] spel ‘SLA’ an old Norse word meaning ‘kil .’ [signed] a

friend.”

Though the hand-lettered postcard was of doubtful authenticity, she alerted the FBI. They included it in their inventory of valid Zodiac letters.

Almost three months passed. The next communication would be real—Zodiac was growing bolder again—restless, the old passions rising to the

surface.

Monday, April 15, 1974

Leigh had been
let go from Union Richfield. Adrift again he ceased attending Sonoma State University and began work at the Sonoma Auto Parts

Store at 248 West Napa in Sonoma. Financial y, his next job was a step down, but he knew and liked engines. He had gained expertise at

Wogan’s Service Station before being fired. On a brighter note, Leigh was working with Jim, a friend he could confide in. “I’m almost through with

al my academic requirements at Sonoma State,” he told Jim, although he would not receive his degree for another eight years. He told Jim other

things too, unsettling hints about a secret life. Perhaps, now that Leigh’s professional student days were ending, good things would begin to happen

for him. At age forty-one, he was about to go out into the world. The fires were cooling. Zodiac was, for al purposes, dead and Leigh Al en had a

friend to confide in.

Wednesday, May 8, 1974

Every homicide Bill
Armstrong investigated impacted him as hard as his first. The cold, dreadful finality of the deed always brought him up short.

“Probably a .38,” said Armstrong at a crime scene. “Looks like the slug stopped here, behind the forehead.” He pointed to a swol en bulge just

above the victim’s eye, then stood, shaking his head. “We’re real y just information gatherers,” he said. “We put each case together the best we can

and lay it on the table for the courts to decide.”

Meanwhile, Zodiac was writing yet again. As with
The Exorcist,
he had returned to being a defender of public morals:

“Sirs—I would like to express my consternation concerning your poor taste & lack of sympathy for the public, as evidenced by your running of

ads for the movie ‘Badlands’ featuring the blurb ‘In 1959 most people were kil ing time. Kit & Hol y were kil ing people.’ In light of recent events,

this kind of murder-glorification can only be deplorable at best (not that glorification of violence was ever justifiable) why don’t you show some

concern for the public sensibilities & cut the ad? [signed] A citizen.”

Constantly suspicious, Zodiac drove to Alameda County to mail his latest letter. But as days passed, he scanned the front pages and grew

furious. He had warned them before how much he hated to be ignored and what he would do if they showed him no respect.

Monday, July 8, 1974

Fuming after a
ful month’s rejection, Zodiac puzzled why his tongue-in-cheek
Badlands
letter had not been printed. Over the years the publicity-

mad kil er had tried to sneak letters into print under pseudonyms, mailing them from everywhere except where he real y lived. Al because the police

had gotten too close to him; it was dangerous to mail any letter signed “Zodiac.” Because the
Chronicle
might be testing him, he prepared a

second letter, a swipe at at a
Chronicle
columnist, and signed it, “A citizen.” He raced to San Rafael, deposited it in the first post box he reached,

then rushed home to worry.

Wednesday, July 10, 1974

Zodiac had no
way of knowing his first letter hadn’t reached the
Chronicle
until June 4 and they
really
were testing him. Although he had not signed it “Zodiac,” Carol recognized his handprinting. “He’s not fooling anybody—no matter what his game is,” said Toschi as he scanned the

postcard. “There’s no doubt in my mind about either one . . . he’s trying to slip letters and cards into the
Chronicle
without being detected.” They

also recognized a letter mailed two days ago as a Zodiac communication. The kil er wrote about
Chronicle
columnist Count Marco this time. The

former hairdresser was “The man women love to hate,” or as
Time
put it, “The voice from the sewer.”

“Editor—Put Marco back in the hel -hole from whence it came—he has a serious psychological disorder—always needs to feel superior. I

suggest you refer him to a shrink. Meanwhile, cancel the column. Since the Count can write anonymously, so can I. The Red Phantom (red with

rage).”

Why had Zodiac singled out the Count, an anti-feminist, national y syndicated radio commentator whose real name was Marco Spinel i? Did

another Spinel i somehow figure in his past and was this threat, in Zodiac’s maddening indirect way, actual y meant for him? The Count was almost

as colorful as Mel Bel i.

Count Marco’s business cards carried a royal crest. He lived in a fourteen-room apartment at the Stanford Court and wore a watch with sixty

diamonds surrounding its face. He owned three Rol s-Royces, each with a chauffeur and footman. One Rol s was painted with twenty coats of silver

to match Marco’s hair. He reserved the second for hauling his considerable luggage. The third belonged to his dachshund, and she was driven

about attired in a diamond and emerald tail ring, crocheted hat, dark glasses, and a white mink stole. Her fur was dyed to match the Rol s.

More than three years previously, the Count had received another anonymous letter. “Dear Morning Star,” the January 11, 1971 letter read. “Don’t

you worry, Don’t you fear, Tea-time comes but once a year. . . . To lift thy spirits columnist Three bags of Tea within to twist Those drops of lemon

(aromist), Also enclosed a few biscuits, Approved and used by 12 fair fists—Faithful Savant. Have a nice day!” Count Marco had joined the

Chronicle
in 1959, the same time as Avery, but had had enough of such unsigned love letters. He left to divide his time a bit more securely between

Hawaii and Palm Springs.

Friday, September 27, 1974

Sporting his Zodiac
watch and ring, Al en, now weighing 240 pounds, spent the morning in his trailer, puttering about. An hour later, his world

col apsed. The crunch of boots on the gravel had already alerted him, so he didn’t jump when there came a furious thumping on his trailer door.

“Open up!”

“Who’s there?”

“Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department!”

Deputy Haas’s arrival was not total y unexpected. Events had been set in motion on September 23 when a complaint was lodged against Al en.

Yesterday the Sheriff’s Department had filed against him in Central Municipal Court. “You’re under arrest,” Haas said. “The charge is PC 288, 288a

—child molesting and exciting the lust of a minor under fourteen years old.” Between July 11 and July 25, Al en had enticed two boys into his trailer

bedroom. Afterward, he had pressed money, two quarters, into their hands.

“I know you don’t like it,” Al en told the deputy, “but I’m just a nasty man.”

“It was one of the oddest remarks I had ever heard under the circumstances,” recal ed the officer.

As soon as he was arrested, Leigh wanted a pencil and piece of paper so he could work out his thoughts on paper. He was trying to decide if he

should plead guilty or not. He drew a line down the middle of the paper. On one side he wrote “guilty” and on the other “public defender,” then listed

the pros and cons of each. He began to sob.

The next day, Al en was released on $5,000 bail for each count of felony child molesting. However, back in Val ejo, he told friends he had been

arrested because he “was the Zodiac.”

“In 1974 Leigh Al en molested a nine-year-old boy from the Fremont Elementary School in his trailer.” A Santa Rosa police sergeant elaborated.

“Another eight-year-old was there too. Leigh had lured them inside to see some chipmunks and committed lewd acts involving oral copulation upon

the two children. The file says he worked part-time at Yaeger and Kirk’s Lumber Yard. And we have his traffic ticket here. He has a ‘D file.’ On the

file is a notation that I’ve never seen before: ‘RS-6,’ [a CI&I high priority code] and this notation is marked ‘yes.’” The daughter of a woman Al en had

known for years related, “As I understand his incarceration at Atascadero, it was for molesting the son of a female friend of his. The boy was maybe

anywhere from eight to thirteen years old. The version he told my mother was the woman was just jealous of his relationship with her son. I believe

he was dating the woman. He said that was why she had turned him in—jealousy.” This turned out not to be true. Their relationship had never been