Zodiac Killer: Newly Discovered Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by Holy Ghost Writer

  The pair had nice neighbors who largely minded their own business, and both Holmes and Watson enjoyed their lives in San Francisco. Holmes could walk to many places, which suited him just fine. He drove only when he had to and preferred his chauffeur to take him longer distances. They had a housekeeper, Mrs. Merritt, who made sure their meals were cooked and their house was clean. She thought Holmes was a retired doctor and called him Doc, as did many of his acquaintances.

  As Holmes arrived at his door, Mrs. Merritt greeted him. “I heard the town car pulling up. Good afternoon, Doc.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Merritt. I hope you have had a good day,” he said to the attractive middle-aged woman. She always found his way of speaking to be so dignified, like an old-fashioned gentleman.

  “It has been fine. I have prepared a roast with new potatoes and carrots…your favorite. The rice is still hot, and all you have to do is spoon your meat and vegetables over it. I even baked a chocolate pie for desert. Mr. Watson has had a good day too, but he has been waiting for you. He is in the den. Also, Lydia called and wanted you to get in touch with her as soon as you can.”

  “Oh, my mouth is watering,” Holmes told her as he sniffed the air. Mrs. Merritt was such a good cook. “Thank you,” he said as he started for the den.

  Watson was sitting in his favorite easy chair, smoking a cigar. The smoke hung in the air, and it made Holmes miss his cozy study in the house on Baker Street.

  “Hello, my dear Watson.”

  “Hello, Holmes. Did you have a good golf game?”

  “No, actually something came up, and I did not play. I am going to tell you about it as soon as I call Lydia,” Holmes said as he reached for the phone. No matter how many years passed, Holmes still remained amazed that he could pick up that odd device called the telephone and speak to almost anyone in the world.

  After a few rings, Lydia answered. She sounded a little out of breath.

  “Hello, Lydia,” Holmes began. “Are you and Mark all right?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’m sorry it took me a minute to get to the phone. I was upstairs.” She then related to Holmes the story about the newspaper article and the marking in red. Holmes felt a flash of panic. If Jack truly wanted to toy with him, the natural first target would be his family.

  “I need to come and get that newspaper. Please do not leave the house until I get there,” Holmes told Lydia. He hung up without saying good-bye. Though he was impeccably mannered in person, he didn’t always grasp the nuances of social rules as they applied to technology.

  “Watson, I will return shortly, and then I will tell you what is going on. Why don’t you go on and have your supper? I will eat mine when I return.”

  “All right,” said Watson. “Hurry back, though. You know I hate being left out of the loop.” Though he would never admit it, Watson had times when he wished that he had stopped his aging process a little sooner; it was hard to see Holmes so vibrant and robust when he himself ached in the morning and occasionally walked with a cane. As he continued to take the astralagus, though, he felt his pains slowly fading—even if his wrinkles were irreversible.

  Lydia’s house was a brisk walk away, and within half an hour, Holmes arrived. He hurried to the door, which Lydia had painted a cheery shade of blue, and was surprised when Mark answered on the first knock.

  “Grandpa! Mom told me you were coming,” said Mark. “I have some questions for you.”

  “I am very glad to see you, my boy,” Holmes said. “But I’m afraid your questions will have to wait. Your mother has told me something quite alarming.”

  “We received a newspaper with a headline circled in red. We think it might be blood. Come look,” Mark said excitedly, forgetting his questions in the face of something so thrillingly dangerous.

  “Hello, Lydia,” Holmes said as he hugged her. “What’s going on?”

  “Did you see the headlines about the Zodiac?”

  “Yes, I did. That’s why I felt the need to make sure you and Mark were safe. I’m puzzled that someone would leave the newspaper for you like this—unless they suspect your connection to me. We perhaps haven’t been as careful about that as we should have been. I will take the paper and have it tested to see if the ink is indeed blood. It seems someone might be wanting to catch my attention,” Holmes told her. “I will be following this case now, and I want to make sure you both stay out of harm’s way.”

  “Oh, we will be fine. Two policemen live next door, and you can talk with them if you want. They’ll keep an eye on us. Mark and I have survived for this long alone.”

  “Well, we will see,” Holmes answered. “You’ve never been truly alone because I have always watched over you. And if I feel the danger is too great, you will both have to move into my apartment. I am sorry I cannot stay, but I need to get to work on this case. I will call you tomorrow, and of course, I’ll let you know what the lab says about the newspaper.”

  “Wait Grandpa,” Mark said. “I have one more question! Why do the police call him the Zodiac killer?”

  “I’m not sure if he started calling himself that first, or the police did,” Holmes mused. “But it’s because sometimes he writes in cipher from something called the Zodiac alphabet—I think it’s his way of making sure he gets credit for his murders. Now, my dear boy, I must go.”

  They all hugged good-bye, and Holmes took his leave. He headed for the San Francisco Police Department, where he left the paper to be analyzed. He slipped the technician a handful of bills to keep the results a secret; he didn’t want Davis prying into why relatives of Holmes—or Dr. Greystone, rather—were receiving bloody newspapers.

  Holmes then returned home for the second time, hoping he would finally get his meal.

  4

  1963—The First

  Looking back, the man now known as the Zodiac Killer took pride in his deviant accomplishments—his life’s work. No, he was not sorry for the murders he had committed in his past life as well as in this one. They were a joy to him. He loved seeing the essence seep out of someone who, only minutes before, had been so fiercely alive. If the Zodiac was honest with himself, he would have to admit that he thought Holmes would have caught up with him before now. But the murders themselves had lost their thrill as the Zodiac realized the cops were not even close to apprehending him. Now the Zodiac knew the detective would be hot on his trail, and he liked it that way.

  Yes, he had promised to come to America and stop the murders—but only as Jack the Ripper. He had adhered to the agreement for a while, trying to be the gentleman Victorian society had raised him to be, but he eventually decided that if he changed the method of murder, he wasn’t technically breaking his promise.

  He had also changed his appearance drastically, going from a clean-shaven, thin young man to a stocky, beard-stubbled man in his thirties—and there he had paused time by using the youth potion the silly morgue assistant had stolen from Holmes’s backyard garden. As a man who had once run in literary circles, the Zodiac had, of course, heard the rumors of that miracle oil that came from the Count of Monte Cristo—a rare bit of gossip that had turned out to be wholly based on fact.

  After several decades in America, building a new life and being on his very best behavior, the Zodiac had also started to miss the thrill of toying with the great Sherlock Holmes. His surprise at this was outweighed only by his pleasure when he learned that the man’s descendants—as well as the man himself—had settled in San Francisco.

  What a merry adventure I have before me—what fun I will have doing what comes naturally to me, the Zodiac thought. He would continue to baffle the smartest detective in the world even if they both lived to be a thousand years old—and with the astralagus, both the Zodiac and Holmes might just hit that milestone.

  The Zodiac Killer had committed even more murders than the police had given him credit for. Maybe one day, he would get his due for all of them if he were ever caught. He found himself remembering his first murder back in 1963. Oh, the memories…
he looked back on it like a movie, almost as if he hadn’t been involved at all.

  Robert Domingos, aged eighteen, and his fiancée, Linda Edwards, aged seventeen, were students at Lompoc High School and were excited to carry out the tradition of “Senior Ditch Day.” They decided not to join their other classmates and instead went somewhere alone. They found a lonely beach where they could sunbathe. They were totally absorbed with one another and didn’t notice as a stranger approached.

  Even as the man stood a few feet from them, they, at first, assumed he was just a stranger out for a stroll, enjoying the fine weather like they were. It was only when Linda caught a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye that she saw the gun and screamed.

  The Zodiac Killer, though that was not yet his name, threw a rope at Linda’s feet. “Tie him up,” he commanded.

  Heart pounding, Robert jumped to his feet and pulled Linda along with him, taking off across the beach. Their feet dug into the sand, which caused them to slip, and the Zodiac Killer shot them in their backs several times, without a trace of emotion on his face. Then the killer dragged the bodies about thirty feet to an abandoned shack. He arranged Linda faceup on Robert’s body, with the top of her bathing suit cut open, showing her breasts. He didn’t touch her sexually; he felt no illicit excitement in looking at her naked body.

  As a final touch, he decided to burn down the shack, but despite going through almost an entire pack of matches, he was unable to get the damp, rotting wood to light.

  The police later found an empty ammunition box in the shack, which told them the killer had stopped to reload.

  A young couple, isolated, shot or stabbed…the killings all had the same earmarks as the current murders, if only the authorities would connect the dots. The Zodiac Killer doubted that they ever would, and that was why he had sent the letter to his old enemy, Sherlock Holmes.

  Across town, Holmes sat with his chin in his hand, thinking. Yes, it all started back in 1963, he told himself. As he looked at other similar killings in the area, Holmes realized he had a time line now and would do his best to stop the maniac before he could take any more innocent lives.

  “Watson, have you noticed there is a jump from 1963 to 1968?” he asked, but it was a rhetorical question—both of their minds were already whirring with questions and possibilities.

  One of the victims in that odd gap, who didn’t fit the Zodiac’s usual profile, was a young girl named Cheri Jo…

  Chapter 5

  Cheri Jo

  October 30, 1966

  Cheri Jo Bates was an eighteen-year-old college student. She had been studying in the library at Riverside City College and was walking to her car. The Zodiac Killer had watched her arrive and had disabled her Volkswagen Bug; he then waited for her to return to it. The parking lot was empty, and no one had given him a second glance.

  When Cheri Jo tried to start her car, the engine wouldn’t turn over. She hit the wheel in frustration and looked around, hopeful she would catch the eye of a fellow student who could help.

  That’s when the Zodiac Killer made his move. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be having car trouble. Is there some way I can help? Do you need a jump or a ride?”

  “Oh, thank you very much,” the pretty girl replied. “I don’t know what’s wrong with this hunk of junk.”

  The Zodiac opened the hood and pretended to fiddle with the engine but seemed to have no luck. After a few moments, he stood up and shrugged his shoulders. “You’ll have to call a mechanic,” he said. “Here, come look. This wire is frayed, see?”

  She leaned over and peered in, but it was too dark to see much in the interior of the hood. “I guess I’ll have to go find a pay phone,” she said. “This isn’t how I planned on spending my night.” She thought to herself that the man looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place where she had seen him before.

  “Are you sure you don’t need a ride?” the Zodiac Killer asked again. “You could always send a tow truck to get the car later. You really shouldn’t be waiting in a dark parking lot by yourself.”

  As she turned to answer him, he viciously slashed out with the knife he had kept tucked in his sleeve. He stabbed her three times in the chest, once in the back as she fell away from him, and then seven times across the throat.

  Using a knife again gave him a sick, exhilarating thrill—how he had missed this! Time seemed to slow as he watched the life seep out of her, and every minute stayed crystal clear in his memory.

  It wasn’t until later that he noticed his watch was missing; it must have fallen off as he attacked Cheri Jo. You must be more careful, he told himself in anger. You’ve lost your edge after so long living as a normal man, a man who doesn’t give in to his darker urges. He had had that watch for years, and his wrist felt strange without it; he found himself frequently rubbing the skin it used to cover.

  Nobody noticed Cheri Jo’s car sitting in the parking lot all night. A groundskeeper discovered her body the next morning in an alley, and the police found the watch near the car. They would later trace it back to a military post in England and determine the owner had a seven-inch wrist.

  They also found skin under the girl’s fingernails—she must have scratched the killer as she fell to the ground. The skin cells belonged to a Caucasian male, but the police couldn’t gather any information beyond that.

  Yet the Zodiac Killer didn’t get much satisfaction out of the murder of Cheri Jo—one solitary woman was no longer enough of a challenge. Perhaps he would kill two people at the same time again, which he had found to be singularly thrilling. In fact, he was toying with the idea of making that his new signature.

  Chapter 6

  The Wait

  June 1969

  Holmes had explained the letter to Watson, and Watson sat silently while he read it over and over. He was having trouble believing it.

  “What made the fellow wait until 1968 to start murdering again? How did he fight his urge to kill for the years in between?” Watson asked. “And if this truly is Jack the Ripper—which is a horrifying thought—how did he master his murderous instinct for so long?”

  “Well, who’s to say he hasn’t committed many murders over the years? Perhaps the bodies have not been found, or perhaps he even traveled the country to find his victims—if that is true, then the cases would be open in other towns, and the San Francisco authorities would have no idea. Or maybe he was really trying to go honest for a while. I do not know, my friend,” Holmes said, shaking his head.

  “Do you think Lydia and Mark are safe after receiving that newspaper?”

  “I’ve given that a lot of thought today,” Holmes said. “At first, I was very worried. But the paper came back from the lab, and it was just red paint, not blood. And to tell you the truth, I do not think he will go for someone close to me. I don’t get the impression he wants to torture me, though that is more of a gut feeling than one based on fact. He just wants to get my attention, but if I feel uneasy at all, I will move them in with us for a while.”

  “Well, we have plenty of room. Whatever you think is best is what we shall do.”

  “I need to go over these files first. It looks like it will be an all-nighter for me tonight, old friend,” Holmes told him.

  “I will stay up with you as long as I can keep these old eyes open.”

  “Good, I was hoping you would say that. I need to get the police file, as well as the information I gathered today at the library, organized and in chronological order. But first, a piece of pie.”

  Watson laughed—no matter how many decades passed, Holmes always worked best on a satisfied stomach.

  It took Holmes an hour to organize the reports and articles he’d gathered. Some of the murders were not definitively tied to the Zodiac Killer, but if they were unsolved and if even a tenuous connection could be found, the police had conscientiously included them in the file.

  As Holmes flipped through the miscellaneous papers, he ran acros
s a letter to the Riverside Police Department dated November 29, 1966. He inserted it after the reports of the murder of Cheri Jo Bates. It caught his attention and stood out from the other documents. It read as follows:

  The Confession

  By____________________________

  She was young and beautiful but now she is battered and dead. She is not the first and she will not be the last I lay awake nights thinking about my next victim. Maybe she will be the beautiful blonde that babysits near the little store and walks down the dark alley each evening about seven. Or maybe she will be the shapely blue eyed brownett that said no when I asked her for a date in high school. But maybe it will not be either. But I shall cut off her female parts and deposit them for the whole city to see. So don’t make it to easy for me. Keep your sisters, daughters, and wives off the streets and alleys. Miss Bates was stupid. She went to the slaughter like a lamb. She did not put up a struggle. But I did. It was a ball. I first pulled the middle wire from the distributor. Then I waited for her in the library and followed her out after about two minuts. The battery must have been about dead by then. I then offered to help. She was then very willing to talk to me. I told her that my car was down the street and that I would give her a lift home. When we were away from the library walking, I said it was about time. She asked me, “About time for what?” I said it was about time for her to die. I grabbed her around the neck with my hand over her mouth and my other hand with a small knife at her throat. She went very willingly. Her breast felt very warm and firm under my hands, but only one thing was on my mind. Making her pay for the brush offs that she had given me during the years prior. She died hard. She squirmed and shook as I chocked her, and her lips twiched. She let out a scream once and I kicked her head to shut her up. I plunged the knife into her and it broke. I then finished the job by cutting her throat. I am not sick. I am insane. But that will not stop the game. This letter should be published for all to read it. It just might save that girl in the alley. But that's up to you. It will be on your conscience. Not mine.