Zodiac Unmasked (49 page)

Zodiac took credit for it.” A police report confirmed Spinel i and Al en had had fights in the past.

After a long discussion, Spinel i agreed to give Zodiac’s true name to his lawyer, Craig Kennedy, a deputy public defender of Santa Clara

County. Throughout the remainder of the month, several meetings were held between Kennedy and his immediate boss, Bryan Schechmeister. The

upshot was that no further information would be divulged without a definite deal given to their client. This Conway and Bawart stil refused to do.

They could play hardbal too. It would be interesting to see who blinked first.

Thursday, January 31, 1991

Conway received a
cal from Kennedy. “I can give you the name that Spinel i has,” he said. The other side had caved.

Conway waited silently, although he already thought he knew the answer.

“It’s Leigh Al en. Arthur Leigh Al en.”

Conway let out a slow breath. He already knew al about Lee Al en. He got Bawart on the phone immediately. “LEE” was in the Zodiac cipher. It

was the name Al en had worn on his smock at Ace Hardware. Conway contacted Inspector Armstrong in San Francisco. “Yes,” Armstrong said,

“one of the primary suspects back in the early 1970s was Arthur Leigh Al en.” He also verified that Al en’s name had never been published in any

media to his knowledge. The only persons knowing his name were law enforcement people and only those involved in the actual Zodiac

investigation, or someone Al en might have bragged to such as medical personnel at Atascadero and some coworkers at an auto parts store in

Sonoma.

“Arthur Leigh Al en and Spinel i were acquaintances way back when,” Bawart told me later, “and he [Al en] approached him and told him he

wanted to be an enforcer for him. The guy [Spinel i] owned a topless bar. He admitted he was the Zodiac, said Spinel i, and said, ‘To show you, I’m

going to go to San Francisco and kil a guy.’ That was shortly before the Stine kil ing. Then he supposedly came back and said, ‘I’m responsible for

the Stine kil ing.’ I know this guy Spinel i fairly wel from his criminal past. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.”

Spinel i might have invented his story and been trying to win favor. Even if what he said was true, it was not solid supporting evidence that would

hold up in court. It was fruit from a tainted tree. But how had Spinel i known to come up with the name Leigh Al en in the first place?

Wednesday, February 6, 1991

Conway and Bawart
drove to the State Department of Justice, Sacramento Homicide Unit, to see Agent Fred Shirisago. This branch was

currently the repository for al the Zodiac cases in the multitude of jurisdictions where the kil er had struck. A constant refrain from amateur sleuths

regarding the state DOJ was that some at the top level were not always responsive to their information and theories. “They don’t always take my

information seriously,” one told me. “Further one guy claimed that the Riverside kil ing invalidated my material and he had proof Zodiac did not kil

Cheri Jo Bates. He claimed the information provided by Pam, Darlene’s sister, was not valid as it was too old. The handprinting I provided by my

expert was that ‘it looked similar,’ but after a kil ing in Martinez, they said it was not Zodiac’s. Yet he refused to al ow the other expert, Mr. Morril , a

chance to examine said handprinting.”

This was not Toschi’s approach. “Just let people know you appreciate getting their clues on how to catch Zodiac,” he told me. “I always

acknowledge receipt of a person’s letter, especial y if it appears to have some substance or is sincere. I never know when I’l get a letter that wil

make or break the case.” Shirisago gave Conway al the reports pertaining to the investigation of Arthur Leigh Al en, records that demonstrated

San Francisco detectives, specifical y Armstrong and Toschi, had conducted the primary investigation on Al en. They spoke with Armstrong, then

Conway contacted Mel Nicolai, now retired. Nicolai agreed with Armstrong that the media had never revealed the name of Lee Al en as a suspect

in the Zodiac investigation. Bawart fol owed the local papers devotedly. He too knew Al en’s name had never been linked publicly with Zodiac.

Spinel i had to have had personal contact with Lee Al en or with a close friend of his. In no other way could he have come up with the name.

“Were there any reasons for Spinel i to lie about the information?” I asked Bawart. “A grudge? A lighter sentence of some sort?”

“Al en had gotten in a fight with Spinel i,” he told me. “Showed up at his house and kicked in the door and beat him up. And yes, he provided the

information in exchange for a lighter sentence.”

Through Sacramento, Conway requested the FBI Director’s aid, Teletyping the fol owing:

“The latent fingerprint section is requested to provide Sacramento with photographs of al latent fingerprints developed during the Zodiac

investigation, Latent Case No A-10042. The latent fingerprint section is further requested to search the latent fingerprints developed in the

Zodiac case through the Automated Identification System and the Automated Latent Systems Model and National Unidentified Latent File.

Sacramento is not aware of the requested search as previously being conducted. The photographs of latent prints on file with the Identification

Division are being sought at the request of the Val ejo California Police Department, who intends to run the prints, search through the

California Department of Justice Automated Latent Prints System [ALPS].”

Compared against
every
suspect in the Zodiac case, prisoners and military personnel, there was no match. How had Zodiac done it?

Thursday, February 7, 1991

Bawart contacted Larry
Ankron, a psychologist for VICAP at Quantico. Ankron knew al about Zodiac. Bawart told him al Armstrong, Toschi, and

Mulanax had learned back in 1971, then gave him the information that Spinel i had provided—the name of Arthur Leigh Al en. The bureau, as it

turned out, already had a file (their largest single file in the Zodiac case) on this individual. In Ankron’s estimation, Zodiac got as much pleasure

from taunting the police and reliving his murders through souvenirs he kept as from the violent acts themselves. “My studies,” he said, “show that

persons who commit these types of crimes many times keep souvenirs or trophies from these criminal acts. They wil take some type of article from

their victims such as identification, pieces of clothing, and so on. This is so they can keep these in a hidden place and relive the incident many

times over. They wil keep journals and newspaper clippings of the crimes themselves. Those who keep these souvenirs have ingenious hiding

places within their residences such as false wal s, hidden safes, and so on. Many times these individuals wil have a storage place at another

location where they keep their souvenirs.”

Possibly Zodiac’s trophies were underwater at a site such as Lake Berryessa or in the wal s of a trailer. Ankron believed the kil ings were stil

going on, or had gone on until recently. After al , Zodiac said he wasn’t going to write anymore and would make his kil ings appear as accidents.

“The only reason I can think of that the murders had stopped,” he said, “is that the man responsible had moved away [although the Zodiac crimes

committed elsewhere would be readily identifiable because of his wel -known M.O.]. He might have died. Or the police had come very close to

apprehending him.” Many who had seen Zodiac or been part of Leigh Al en’s alibi had died mysteriously. A caretaker’s daughter saw Zodiac

speeding away from Blue Rock Springs, and died several years after in a car accident. A landlady who could have provided Al en with an alibi

perished from a heart attack. Mr. Wil iam White, a neighbor [whose son joined the Val ejo force], had seen Al en return home on the day of the Lake

Berryessa murder, and died shortly afterward. Frank Gasser, the raccoon hunter who had peered in the white Impala on Lake Herman Road the

night of the murders, perished in a freak accident, dying suddenly two years later when he struck his head on a coffee table.

“You know,” Bawart told me, “when you investigate so many cases you get to be jaded to the degree that you have so many coincidences you just

don’t believe in coincidences after a while. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” He visited Ace Hardware, where Al en had once worked, and

contacted Leigh’s coworker George Hieb. An ex-city employee, Hieb had worked at the Corporation Yard for many years. In his retirement he was

working at Ace Hardware.

“Do you know Arthur Leigh Al en?” asked Bawart.

“I know him quite wel ,” said Hieb. “I visit his home almost on a weekly basis.” Though Leigh’s mother had died, he stil kept to his basement

bedroom, though he could have control of the entire house. Hieb too had seen Al en’s guns. “A number of revolvers—I think they’re .22-caliber, and

at least one semiautomatic pistol, but I don’t know the caliber.” Because Al en had been arrested by the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department for

molesting a smal boy, the suspect was a felon. Consequently, he was not al owed by law to own any of the weapons Hieb had seen. But in the

decade that Hieb had known Al en, he had never discussed the Zodiac case with him. That was puzzling. Leigh had discussed it with others, even

led people to think in that particular direction. Bawart cautioned Hieb not to mention the visit, then re-interviewed a number of people who had

information about Al en. As much current information about the suspect as possible had to be gathered before they confronted him.

Near the detached garage on the northeast side of 32 Fresno Street sat a broken-down blue “General Motors-type” auto. According to Hieb’s

information, Al en owned an older black G.M. vehicle. In the driveway were an older-model white Mercedes-Benz and light-blue Volkswagen

Karmann Ghia. Al en possessed a white Buick, and Darlene Ferrin had been fol owed by an American-made white sedan. A silver or ice-blue ’66

Chevy with California plates had been seen at Lake Berryessa the day of the attack.

To get the lay of the land, Bawart drove over to 1545 Broadway, where Al en kept a boat and trailer. The location was a single-story residence on

the west side of Broadway. To the north of the building stood a detached double-car garage packed with household goods. There were storage

areas—places where Al en might squirrel away items—a large lean-to-type storage shed forty feet long and twenty feet deep, and a second

storage area at the rear. George got out. Behind the garage, wind whipped grass in a vacant field. The scent of the Bay was in the air. In the center

of the field stretched a twenty-two-foot-long blue and white sailboat on a trailer, partial y draped by a blue tarp. Bawart surreptitiously lifted the tarp

and saw a California license number, NE3725. The boat had sleeping quarters on board, which would al ow a person to stay at sea for many days

at a time. Bawart also observed an open sailboat some ten feet long. “It looked more like a rowboat,” he said. Bawart jotted down that license

number too—9127F. Both were registered to Leigh. His mother had bought him the boats, spoiling him just as his sister-in-law had said. “Al en’s

been unemployed and living on general assistance for some time,” Conway had told him. “He goes diving and races Hobie Cat sailboats.” Bawart

decided that in addition to a search warrant for 32 Fresno, the police should at least search the sailboat. But the evidence they sought might be

sunken somewhere off the coast, beneath blue lake waters, or under the turgid waters of the Delta.

Tuesday, February 12, 1991

When Conway filed
an affidavit for a search warrant, he was looking for evidence kept at the Fresno Street home that might show that Al en had

committed a felony. Possibly, they were already too late to find physical evidence. However, an explanation why the murders had stopped seemed

revealed. Al en was now legal y blind. “He was a very il man,” Conway said, “he was fifty-one or fifty-two. . . . He was extremely il and he’d had that

il ness for some time. Even though he could stil get around he was not very mobile, and there was a lot of focus on him as a suspect. Being a

suspect, being il , and losing interest—al adds up to the explanation as to why.” The
why
in this case was why Zodiac ceased kil ing and writing.

“We figured he wasn’t a danger to anyone,” George Bawart told me.

On Attachment IV, Conway listed the items they were searching for. Any .22-caliber semiautomatic pistols or any .22-caliber ammo, live or

expended, that may have been cycled through an automatic pistol and could be linked to the death of the Lake Herman Road victims, Betty Lou

Jensen and David Faraday. Any personal effects linked to victims Jensen and Farraday, Darlene Ferrin or Michael Mageau, Cecelia Shepard or

Brian Hartnel . They were also seeking the black Wing Walker-type boots, size 10½ R, Zodiac wore at Lake Berryessa during the attack there. The

upper portion of these shoes was manufactured by the Weinbrenner Shoe Company, the “SUPERWEAR” soles by the Avon Company of Avon,

Massachusetts. Both the Air Force and Navy issued them. Authorities were specifical y looking for any portions existing of Paul Stine’s gray-and-

white-striped sports shirt. In al likelihood it would be stained with blood. Stine’s wal et and I.D. and Yel ow Cab’s keys had also been taken by

Zodiac on Cherry Street that Columbus Day. Serial kil ers had a predilection for keeping souvenirs of their crimes so that they might relive the

moment.

Conway and Bawart needed any firearm that might show evidence of having had a flashlight attached to it; any 9-mm automatic pistols or 9-mm