Zodiac Killer:
Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
Holy Ghost Writer
Copyright © 2015 Holy Ghost Writer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1505352150
ISBN-13: 978-1505352153
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922233
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, North Charleston, SC
To all those, past and present, who tirelessly pursue justice and protect the innocent
Contents
Acknowledgments I
1 The Fog Came Rolling In 1
2 Following 9
3 Getting Help 11
4 1963—The First 16
5 Cheri Jo 18
6 The Wait 20
7 American Dream 25
8 Letters 28
9 Unknown Victim 32
10 High School 35
11 Vallejo 39
12 Bryan Hartnell 43
13 Mark 45
14 Itch for Blood 49
15 Another Murder 51
16 Maps 54
17 The Search 57
18 Pull Over 61
19 Ready to Run 65
20 The Bank 69
21 The Flight 72
22 Where Is Cooper? 76
23 Finding Cooper 79
Epilogue 84
About the Author 85
Acknowledgments
Without the many fans of the Count of Monte Cristo tales as written by the Holy Ghost Writer, Sherlock Holmes would not live once again on the page in these new adventures. Thank you for being an involved and eager audience.
Chapter 1
The Fog Came Rolling In
June 1969
As the thick fog rolled in, Mark Thomas turned his small face to his mother, Lydia.
“Tell me again, Mom. Why is this part of California so foggy?” His tone was a little skeptical, as if he wanted a different answer than the one Lydia had given countless times before.
“Why, you still don’t believe that your forefather, Sherlock Holmes, brought the London fog with him when he first visited your great-grandmother Black Beauty? He came right here to Monterey when he learned she had given birth to his only son!”
“I love the story,” Mark said earnestly, “but I’m not a baby anymore! Grandpa told me it was true, but that twinkle in his eye made me think he was just telling me another one of his tall tales. And when he said Sherlock Holmes visits now and then and never ages, I knew the story had to be some old family joke.”
“It isn’t a joke, Mark! Listen to me. One day you might walk by him and think he’s just a stranger passing you in the street or on the fishing dock. Even so, he may be watching over you like a hawk. He will never abandon his family, no matter how many generations pass.”
Mark was far more intelligent than the average eight-year-old, and he wondered where the strange story had come from. He had already read several of the Sherlock Holmes stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and while he wanted the great detective to somehow be his relation, he couldn’t quite believe it. He said, “I remember hearing Grandpa say that Black Beauty was the most beautiful slave in the South, and that is why the Count of Monte Cristo took her to his plantation. Grandpa also told me Sherlock Holmes was the Count’s student and didn’t even know that Black Beauty’s baby was his. How could the world’s smartest detective not know he had a child?”
“Everyone was young once, my son. Even Sherlock Holmes was a little naïve before he went off to school at Yale, and by the time he met Black Beauty again, enough time had passed for him not to put two and two together. Many years later, it came to him in a dream, and he used his extraordinary investigative powers to track Black Beauty to Monterey, where he finally got to know his son, Jacob. Of course, Jacob was a grown man by that time.”
“But how can it be true that Grandpa was born before the Civil War? He would have to have been over one hundred years old when I was born! None of our family stories make sense, Mom.”
Lydia had been waiting for the day when Mark would begin to ask her hard questions, and she had hoped she would have had a few more years. She was grateful Mark was such a bright child, but it did pose problems when the boy figured out things before she was ready to talk about them.
“Well, Son, I suppose if you’re old enough to ask the question, you’re old enough to hear the answer. Keep an open mind; what I’m about to tell you is even more unbelievable than the fact that Sherlock Holmes is, indeed, your ancestor. And he is more than a legendary detective; he also passed on to us a powerful herb called astralagus, which are the plants growing in the backyard that I squeeze oil from. You remember I told you not to play with those? When people ingest the oil, they stop aging and find themselves in perfect health. That’s why I don’t age, but you do, and why somewhere out in the city, Sherlock Holmes still roams the street.”
Mark looked at his mother in disbelief, temporarily robbed of the power of speech. Has my mother gone crazy? he asked himself.
“It may take you a while to accept the secrets of our family,” Lydia said. “When I was a young girl, I didn’t believe your grandfather. I cried and told him he was insane. Eventually, though, I came to see that he was telling the truth. You mustn’t tell anyone, and in time, you will come to believe.”
“No one would believe me even if I said anything,” said Mark. “So you don’t have to worry about me sharing our secrets. I don’t want my friends to think I’m a liar.”
Just then, the two heard a knock at the door. Mark opened it but didn’t see anyone, just the usual view of their street—cars parked parallel to the curb and bright flower beds as far as the eye could see. Mark looked down and noticed the daily newspaper at his feet. In thick black letters, the headline screamed, “Zodiac Killer Strikes Again!” The headline was circled in red ink, as if to make sure any potential readers didn’t miss the most important story of the day.
“Who is it?” Lydia called.
“No one,” Mark answered, “but someone left this on our doorstep.” He showed the paper to his mom, and she unfolded it to see the full story; her eyes skimmed quickly over the text.
“This is creepy, Mom. Who would knock on our door, leave this story marked, and run away?”
“It could be a prankster trying to scare people,” answered Lydia. “Some people love to stir up fear as a joke, and you know the whole city is already on edge with these murders. Or it could be a message from your great-grandfather Sherlock, warning us.”
“Why would he warn us about the Zodiac Killer?”
Lydia’s eyes jumped to a quote attributed to the Zodiac Killer. She read the words from the paper to her son.
This is the Zodiac I have seen the Post and you say
The note Sent to the Post not to any of
The San Francisco Zodiac letters you are
Wrong the handwriting look different it is
One of the same Zodiac one Zodiac
In San Franscisco killed a man in the park with
a
gun and killed a woman with a knife and killed
a man in the taxi cab with a gun.
Lydia paused for a moment and then said, almost to herself, “Grandpa told me that Sherlock Holmes is the one who solved the Jack the Ripper case, but then he didn’t want anyone to know who did it. He sealed the killer’s true identity in an envelope that has been lost to time. This reminds me of that case.”
“Jack the Ripper?” Mark asked. “Who is that?”
“He was a killer in Victorian London,” Lydia answered, “bu
t the story of that monster isn’t appropriate for a little boy. When you’re older, we’ll get you a book from the library, and you can read all about the Ripper. We can even ask Grandpa if he knows any other secrets about that case.”
As Lydia sat the paper down on the end table, her palm brushed across the red ink, leaving a gummy smear down the page.
“Mom,” Mark said, gasping, “is that ink—or is it blood?”
Unbeknown to young Mark or Lydia, who had now enjoyed the trim figure of a woman in her thirties for several decades, the man who had left the newspaper with the headline circled in red was neither friend nor relative, though he had known their family for a long, long time.
Chapter 2
Following
Not far away, at the Del Monte Golf Pavilion, Sherlock Holmes sat sipping a cappuccino and nibbling on a piece of bittersweet dark chocolate. Holmes had founded the now-famous Pebble Beach golf course with Charles Maud way back at the end of the 1800s, and he loved how it had been so elegantly transformed into a place where the richest men and women in America came to idle their days away. Indeed, it was one of his favorite places.
Holmes himself was also transformed—now nearly two centuries old but looking like a robust man in his early sixties. He had impeccably cut silvery-gray hair and sported a neatly trimmed goatee. He was reading the headline about the Zodiac Killer, as was much of San Francisco that morning. The headline upset him because San Francisco was too beautiful a city to be threatened by evil. He thought to himself that someone must do something to stop it. As he pondered the situation, he pulled the day’s mail from where he had tucked it into his satchel and began to go through it when his attention was caught by a letter addressed to him in bold, large letters. What was inside shocked him.
I guess you thot you were done with me. I was far smarter than you thot in London. I found out about the poshun the Count made for you and had that idiot morgue assistant take a few plants from your garden. He wasn’t good for much, but he was a good theif. Did you think nobody would figure out the secret of your immortality? I have been drinking the oil of that strange weed from your garden the same as you, but you might not even recognize me. I’m a modern man now, and my looks have changed. Of course, a person never really changes on the inside, and I am back doing what I love to do. The police still have no clue. You are the only person who might be able to catch me. Are you up for the game? I thought you might ketch on before now, but maybe you have lost a bit of your edge. Read up on my other murders and see if you can stop me from taking any more of those innocent lives a gentleman such as yourself holds so dear. Good luck!
Zodiac/Jack
Holmes was startled out of his shocked thoughts by an approaching caddy. “Hello, Dr. Greystone. Your cart is waiting. Will you golf alone today?”
“I’m sorry, my dear boy. Something has developed that puts me in the eye of a nasty storm, but here’s something for your trouble,” Holmes answered, slipping the young caddy a generous tip.
Dr. Edward Greystone, as Holmes was now known, tucked the newspaper under his arm, smoothed his exquisitely cut gray-and-white-pinstriped three-piece suit, and headed to his classic silver Rolls Royce while signaling his chauffeur to quickly depart.
“James, take us to eight fifty Bryant Street.”
Chapter 3
Getting Help
The limo pulled up to the San Francisco Police Department. Holmes got out and went in through the double doors. He asked for his friend Detective Davis and sat down to wait. Davis had his hand outstretched as he approached his old acquaintance.
“Hello, my friend,” Davis said as he shook Holmes’s hand. “It’s been a long time. What can I do for you, or better yet, what can you do for me?”
“I have a lot to discuss with you,” said Holmes, “but first I’d like to offer my congratulations! Was it a boy or a girl?”
“What?” asked Davis, amazed. “How did you know? We haven’t spoken in quite some time!”
“How did I know you recently welcomed a child?” asked Holmes, smiling. “Quite simple. You usually have a faint whiff about you of fine tobacco and shaving cream, but you haven’t shaved in a few days, I’d guess, and I smelled baby powder as soon as I shook your hand. You may also have a bit on your jacket.” Davis looked embarrassed and brushed at his shoulder.
“You look exhausted but also very happy. And through the door into your office, I can see a large bouquet of flowers. When I put all of these clues together, it’s clear to me you’ve had a child. Again, congratulations!”
Davis shook his head. “Your mind misses nothing,” he said. “Thank you for congratulations—my wife and I are the proud parents of a little girl now. She’s about a month old. But now that you’ve reminded me of your excellent deductive skills, let’s chat about why you’re here.”
They went into the detective’s office, and Holmes handed over the newspaper, which he knew Davis had already seen. Davis prided himself on knowing every crime that happened in his city, no matter how small. Holmes had already decided to keep the letter to himself for the time being—handing it over would result in hard questions he wasn’t ready to answer. He needed to decide whether he really could believe the Ripper was still alive, though he wondered who else living, besides Watson, could have known his connection to that infamous killer other than the Ripper himself?
“I would really like to try to solve this Zodiac case. I have been keeping up with it in the newspapers, but I need more detailed information to start my own investigation. After all, the killer has been getting away with his heinous crimes for six years already, and while I know your men do their best, your precinct’s resources only go so far. Besides, I have a certain level of expertise in this matter—from a past life, you might say.”
Davis leaned back in his chair, looking pensive. Dr. Greystone had helped on a consultant basis before and had helped the department solve some exceptionally tricky cases, but he had never asked for straight access to confidential files.
“I suppose we can make an exception this time,” Davis said, “as long as you understand that what you will read and see is strictly confidential. If anyone finds out you are assisting with the case, we’ll have the FBI, the CIA, and who knows who else breathing down our necks for breach of protocol, so you must be discreet while you investigate. What exactly do you need? Anything I can do to help, you know I will.”
“I need all your records on the murders, starting in 1963. Though I know the papers haven’t confirmed those earlier murders as the definite work of the Zodiac Killer, there are enough similarities that I believe him to be the most likely culprit.”
“Of course,” Davis answered. “I’ll have my secretary run copies of the files. What do you intend to do as your next step? And how can I assist you? It goes without saying that I will want to be privy to any discoveries you make.”
Holmes smiled; he knew that he would have been just as possessive back in his days as a young detective with Scotland Yard. “Let me read through everything, and then I’m sure I will know exactly what I need from your department. I have to get a good hold on this. This killer is clearly a smart man, nothing impulsive about him, and everything he does will have been well thought-out. If he isn’t caught soon, he will easily become the second most notorious serial killer in history—if he’s not already. The first being Jack the Ripper, as you well know.”
A grim look settled over Davis’s face. “The difference is that Jack the Ripper evaded the police. We will catch the Zodiac and bring him to justice. Modern science has made us better equipped to track these monsters down.”
Holmes nodded in agreement, trying not to seem smug—of course, he himself had apprehended Jack the Ripper with very little help. Before reading the letter, Holmes had wondered if this killer could be a distant relative of Jack, who should be dead by now. Evil, like greatness, can be passed down through generations.
“Well, if anyone can catch him, it would be you…descendant of the great
detective Sherlock Holmes. I know you must be proud to have his blood coursing through your veins,” Davis continued.
“Yes, I am. Having such an illustrious man in my family tree has been a source of inspiration and motivation to me. You might even say that without Sherlock, I would not be who I am today. By the way, if you have a suspect list, that would also be helpful to me as I review the files.”
“Of course. I am giving you all we have, interviews and all. The investigations have gone cold until now.”
Holmes collected his information and had James drive him home. Holmes lived in a large apartment downtown that he shared with his long-time friend Dr. John Watson. Watson had chosen to age along with his wife and had not started taking the astralagus until she passed away—in fact, it had been a hard decision for him to take it at all. It was only his desire to stay by his friend’s side and his knowledge that he could stop taking the potion and eventually join his wife in death that swayed him. As a result, he appeared to be ninety years old; he was wrinkled and stooped, though his brain was still as sharp as a young man’s. Often, he posed as Holmes’s father.
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